Chapter Warnings: Mild language, mild sexual references, violence, and dark themes
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"Nothing we say is gonna save us from the fallout…"
—Breathe by Taylor Swift
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After almost two hours stuck in the backseat with Maria, Tony could only classify the experience as surreal.
Riding in a car with both Macaluso and Maria was like a particularly bad parody of a family vacation. Maria bounced around excitedly, pointing the sights with the almost childlike persona to which she reverted in her cousin's presence. Whether the attitude was affected deliberately—an attempt to project the image of the childhood friend Macaluso saw her as—or unconsciously, it was disconcerting. Especially given that Tony himself had somehow absorbed her quiet steadiness.
Or at least the appearance of it.
"Look—llamas!" Maria squeezed his arm, pointing. Macaluso chuckled tolerantly, eyes on the road. Tony forced a matching laugh, then looked at her face, and was startled into another. She was excited, a sparkle captive in her dark eyes. Still smiling, he tightened his arm around her shoulder, feeling a surge of satisfaction that certainly had nothing to do with the way his nerves tingled at the contact.
They were escaping Philly. Even he was willing to celebrate that.
"Ten minutes and we will be in Baltimore," Macaluso intoned, eyes meeting Tony's in the rearview mirror. The skin around them crinkled, inviting him to share in the older man's good humor. "There is a notable lack of llamas, but they do have some very fine crabs."
Maria giggled, managing somehow to squeeze closer to Tony, until her hips and thighs were flush against his.
He'd seldom felt quite so aware of his outer leg.
"Well, good," Maria quipped, leaning her head back and letting her eyes fall closed. Lashes, distractingly long, curled up to shield her golden lids. "I'm hungry."
His arm pinned, Tony scrutinized her, brow raised. A smile, a little too pleased, was hovering in the corners of her lips. She looked…smug?
Fidgeting, Maria twisted sideways, until her ankle oh-so-slowly brushed his.
Definitely smug.
Well. He had his pride.
And two could play that game.
A wisp of hair, coiling out of her tightly twisted bun, dangled to her cheekbone. Blue-green eyes glinting, Tony used his free hand to tuck it behind her ear, deliberately letting his fingertips trail along her jaw. Maria shivered. Smirking, Tony leaned in until his lips were a scant inch from her ear. "Cold?"
Maria twitched, eyes fluttering open. Sultrily. "Mmm, maybe." Turning sideways, she draped one leg over his lap, and snuggled closer.
"Enough," Macaluso said loudly. "Any more of this in the back seat and I will be forced to find you…how does one put it…alternative transportation."
Maria giggled again. "Such as?" Tone airy, she brought the second leg to join the first. Rolling his eyes, the detective traced a design on her calf, ending at the most sensitive patch of skin behind her knee. Uttering a squeak, Maria returned her limbs to their proper position, scowling at Tony playfully.
"Such as walking," the Mafia boss interjected in his dry way. "Topolina, there are things I have no desire to see. When—"
The loud, jarring ring of a phone sliced through his words.
Instantly, Tony's body went electric. Somehow, he managed to keep his breathing even. Grimacing apologetically at the Mafia boss, who waved it off, Tony flipped the cell open. His heartbeat seemed to have a mind of its own. So soon…it couldn't possibly be Watson. But if it was…
"Hello?"
"Tony?"
Not Watson. But startlingly familiar all the same.
Steve?
Tony choked.
What the hell? "Who is this?" The detective managed, shock clipping his words short. Kurt? It made no sense, no sense at all. He'd never given Steve this number, never given him anything but the most basic of information about the operation. Surely…surely…Watson wouldn't have asked Kurt to relay information at all, much less a message so crucial.
"There's something you need to know."
Alarm, now tinged with panic. Tony could feel Macaluso's gaze boring into him. "No, this isn't Sam Walsh's number," Tony said loudly, eyes darting to meet Maria's. He smiled, shaking his head.
There was a pause, a whisper. "I'll call later. Just…be careful. If something seems like it's going wrong, just get out, alright?"
"No, don't try again later," Tony retorted, mind whirling. The urgency in Kraut's voice was unmistakable, but what he was getting at, the detective could only guess. Had there been a break in the case? "He doesn't live here. Wrong number, pal."
Tony hit the end call button, and tucked the phone back into his jeans, rolling his eyes. "Sorry about that. I think he was drunk."
Macaluso's eyes held his for a long moment.
"That is odd," the older man said calmly. "I also had a particularly determined caller this morning. Give me your phone. I want to be certain that the numbers were not the same."
A trickle of sweat dampened the collar of Tony's shirt. "Sure," the detective managed, fishing up his cell.
Macaluso opened it; scanned it impartially. "Ah. Good. It is different. My apologies, Tony. One can't be too careful. If we were being monitored—" Macaluso shrugged, handing it back.
"No problem." Tony smiled, the expression not reaching his eyes. The detective leaned back against the seat, forcing himself to relax, and replaced his phone with hands that trembled faintly with relief. As unsettling as Steve's call had been, at least it hadn't alarmed Macaluso.
Everything was fine.
The detective glanced forward, only to find Macaluso's gaze pinned on his.
Disquieted, Tony turned to stare out the window with eyes that took in nothing.
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As the hours stretched on, however, Tony's sense of unease began to dissipate. It was there, as it always was in Macaluso's presence—lingering, pulsing, waiting to be disturbed. Still, it was hard to muster up any real sense of urgency while sitting in a cozy booth watching a Mafia boss eat a hamburger.
Surreal, it seemed, was the order of the day.
Macaluso meticulously removed the pickles from his bun, looking faintly stormy. "I told them not to give me these…things. They affect the taste."
Maria, curled up in the corner with her feet on the seat, giggled. "Give them to Tony," she suggested, shoving the detective's thigh with the tip of her foot. "He's always hungry."
Tony made a face, grabbing for the offending foot, but it was tucked away before he could.
"Be glad of it." Macaluso's voice, grimly good-natured, cut into their roughhousing. "You are young. Someday you will not be able to consume everything in sight."
Tony grinned, a shark's smile. "Well, then I guess I'd better eat everything I can now." Carefully, he snitched a pickle off the plate, more to see if Macaluso would let him than anything.
He did. Shrugging inwardly, Tony popped the pickle into his mouth, and choked. "That is disgusting."
"I did warn you, Florentino." Macaluso shoved his hamburger away, looking thoroughly vexed. "I cannot put this thing into my body. I will be back."
Maria raised an eyebrow, stealing a pickle. "It can't be that bad."
"Oh, yeah. Yeah, it can, actually," Tony retorted darkly, his eyes and his attention shifting to Macaluso.
The Mafia boss paused, not at the counter but in a small alcove, and pulled out his cell.
"I think it's delicious," Maria said delicately, her eyes flickering to note both Macaluso and Tony's response.
Tony smirked. "Sure you do."
In the background, Macaluso gestured wildly.
"It is actually possible for someone to have different opinion than you, you know," Maria retorted archly, raising an eyebrow in silent question. What's with the call?
"Sure," Tony agreed easily. "But there's opinion and then," he leaned in, smirking, "there's fact." Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head. No idea.
Macaluso pivoted to face the other direction, head lowered. Tony grimaced inwardly.
Something Macaluso wanted to be secretive about. That boded ill on any day.
"Maybe yours isn't the fact."
It was automatic, by this point, to banter with her, paying but half an ear to practiced barbs. "Maybe. But it doesn't seem very likely." He tilted his head, mockingly.
She sputtered, with semi-genuine outrage. Over her shoulder, Macaluso hung up. It was a moment before he turned around.
"Are you insulting my taste in food, Mr. Florentino?"
Tony looked away. "Oh, I'd never dream up such a thing," he said absently, fiercely conscious of Macaluso's approach. The detective braced himself for the inevitable touch—ever since his arrest, he'd been jumpy; longer, if he wanted to be honest with himself—and Macaluso relished sneaking up on him.
But it didn't come. Instead, the Mafia Boss leaned casually against the opposite booth, gracing them both with a meaningless smile.
"This thing has taken away my appetite," Macaluso said lightly. "But I took the time to confirm our dinner reservations. Do you know, they tried to tell me that I hadn't asked for a table? The incompetence is maddening. But the food is world class, so let us abandon this, and enjoy the sights until later."
Tony helped himself to two fries at once and rose, feeling a chill start up his spine. The story sounded quite sincere, and yet…
Macaluso was a good liar.
"Sounds like a plan." Tony smiled widely, and offered Maria his hand with a flourish as she clambered out of the booth.
He held on to it as they vacated into the sunshine—just for appearances, of course. It certainly wasn't as though her touch was comforting.
For all of that, when Maria's fingers laced through his, paired with a glowing smile, it felt like a punch to the gut.
Guilt.
He was leading her on, effortlessly—without thinking, without planning—bruising her with every casual touch. Every warm smile, every quick retort softened by affection…
Some day, she would hate him for this.
The thought stung more than he'd like. Avoiding her eyes, Tony slipped his hand away, feeling the lack of her warmth immediately.
"Giordano, Bianchi!" Macaluso's voice carried across the parking lot in greeting.
In spite of himself, Tony stiffened. He'd known Macaluso's thugs were coming—known even a Mafia boss playing lawful citizen in the daylight would want protection.
It didn't mean he had to like it.
"I did not expect to see you today. Do you have news?"
Tony frowned. That sounded…odd. False.
The detective sharpened his hearing, smiling banally at the two men who'd beaten the crap out of him at their last meeting. "Hi, there." Go to hell, you bastards.
Bianchi gave him an ice-cold stare in return, leaning in to whisper in his boss's ear. To Tony's amusement, Macaluso had to stoop slightly.
Bianchi might be brawny, but he hadn't won the height lottery.
Macaluso listened attentively, eyebrows raising, then straightened "Really. Well, Maria, I'm afraid I must ask your forgiveness. We have a change of plans."
"But—" Maria's voice rose in protest.
"Mi dispiace," Macaluso countered smoothly, sparing her a smile. "There is a small business matter we must attend to."
Excitement mingled with a fierce anxiety in Tony's stomach. Business in Baltimore? This was the first Macaluso had mentioned of it. If he showed him something—if Tony could get so much as a hint of something connected to the Petty Officer—
It could be another nail in the case against Macaluso.
Maria, however, looked as though she was inclined to protest again. Hurriedly, Tony pressed a kiss to her forehead, catching her hands in his. "Don't argue," he murmured, iron lacing his voice. It turned the casual command into a military order. You made me keep you as my cover. You made me bring you here. But this time…
This time, she would follow his lead.
She hesitated, hand stiffening in his, then met his eyes. Whatever she saw there, it was enough. Maria slumped. "Alright, you two attend to your business." To her credit, though Tony had felt her heart rate double, she sounded merely faintly annoyed—only appropriate, for a woman promised a vacation day, only to have it snatched away.
"Take my car, go to the hotel," Macaluso suggested. "Unpack your pretty dresses, perhaps. We'll be back soon enough."
Maria sighed. "Alright." She reached up, letting fingers trail down Tony's cheekbone. "Until later."
Tony watched her as she walked away, feeling relief only when she vanished around the corner.
A hand dropped on his shoulder, heavy but not—quite—painful.
To his frustration, he couldn't suppress a sizeable flinch at the touch.
"Let's go for a walk," Macaluso suggested, face close enough that his breath tickled Tony's ear. "There is a small matter we need to discuss out of the range of prying ears."
The hairs on the detective's neck rose. "Alright. Business. I'm always ready to talk about business."
"Yes, you are quite diligent," Macaluso countered wryly, turning them from the tiny fast food parking loot into a grungier street. His two men followed, like mismatched pillars. "Particularly when it comes to flirting."
"Yeah, well. " Tony grinned sheepishly, trying to burn the route into his memory, just in case. "Maria's pretty special. So, where are we going?"
Macaluso tugged him into another side street, smaller and even more run down. "Yes, she is," he said softly, letting the question go unanswered.
The tone felt wrong. Tony's pulse picked up, beating a rapid tattoo against his throat. "Is this where your front is? I've got to say, I figured you ran something glitzier." He darted a sideways glance, noting an alleyway littered with crates.
If he had to run, his agility would give him the advantage there.
Macaluso laughed, a long husky sound. "Your instincts are, as usual, quite good. This is not my business, just a place I…like to visit."
They turned again, into a narrow alley like the one they'd just passed. Tony halted automatically, grimacing as the smell of vomit tickled his nostrils. "Very homey. What did you say we were doing here, again?"
"Tony, Tony," Macaluso chided, eyes expressionless. "One would think you didn't trust me."
A flood of fear, cold as melted snow, crashed through him. This isn't right.
Tony laughed, edging almost imperceptibly backwards despite Macaluso's arm on his shoulder, instincts screaming. You can't blow your cover, you can't blow your cover…
But if it was already blown?
"Didn't trust you?" Tony shook his head, smiling. "After all this time, that would be ridiculous."
To his ears, the response sounded ridiculous. But Macaluso simply laughed in return.
"Relax, Florentino. I am only joking. I thought you liked jokes."
"Love 'em," Tony agreed easily.
"Perhaps you will like this one, then." Letting go of Tony's shoulder, Macaluso slung his arm over Tony's shoulder, and began to walk, steering the younger man with him. "It is very simple, so listen carefully. What goes squeak, squeak, bang?"
"Never been too good at guessing," Tony said slowly. A cold sweat began to trickle down his collar, despite the cold wind.
"A rat in a minefield." Abruptly, they halted, Macaluso moving to stand in front of him.
A rat…
He was frozen with dread. Tony's eyes flew up to meet Macaluso's.
The Mafia boss smiled, reaching into his pocket.
"Have you looked where you are walking lately?"
Tony laughed.
And ran.
The wind whistled past his ear as he dodged Bianchi. Behind him, Macaluso shouted, and Tony ducked automatically, but no bullet came whistling over his ear, and there was no time to wonder why—
Tony threw himself down a side street. Behind him, Bianchi panted, but he sounded close—too close. This was madness. He was as good as dead—and where was Giordano? Panicked, Tony vaulted a crate, landing smoothly on the other side. Bianchi cursed, and the sound of clattering echoed through the alley. The detective pelted on, ignoring the way pain rippled through his side. He'd always been good at running—always been athletic—the one thing his father had always approved of in him—
It might save his life, now.
A crack rang out. The crate nearest Tony splintered, spraying shards of wood. He leapt over the next, but his shoe caught, and he went flying.
Tony slammed down onto broken concrete, crying out as still bruised ribs flared in agony. Sheer determination brought him to his feet and pulled him, stumbling, into a run.
But it was too late. A large body crashed into him from the front, hurling him off his feet.
Giordano.
Dazed, Tony dragged himself to his knees, and spun with a punch as the man lunged forward. Giordano snarled, dodging the blow, but the distraction wasn't enough; from behind, a panting Bianchi wrapped an arm around Tony's throat.
All logical thought fled. Ignoring pulses of pain, Tony threw himself into battle, kicking, scratching, attempting a blow. But his arms couldn't move—and his vision was fading—and it was over, it was over, it was over.
All he had left was darkness.
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It was the hardest phone call he'd had to make in a very long time.
Macaluso leaned against the concrete wall, rage building with every breath.
He didn't wanted to tell her. She was so pure, his Maria, a bright, sunshine-lit iris. This would crush her.
Florentino was going to break her heart, after all.
The sound of an engine broke into his thoughts. His Jaguar pulled onto the gravel, looking absurdly out of place in this no man's land of concrete. He should have just gone to the hotel, Macaluso realized belatedly, but it paid to be careful, even now.
Especially now.
Maria stepped out, a willowy figure all in white. "Michael?"
He waved.
Slowly, she made her way over, teetering in her heels on the loose stones. Her face was a mask of concern. "What's the matter? Did—did something happen to Tony?"
"There is something I must tell you," Macaluso said, almost gently. Her dark eyes, so like his own, grew wide with alarm.
"Tony Florentino is not your friend."
She stumbled; Macaluso caught her arm just in time to steady her. "What do you mean?"
The sheer fright in the whisper made him pause. Curse Florentino to hell and back.
"The phone call he received this morning. I traced the number."
"I…I don't—" Her golden skin took on a grey tinge.
"Topolina. The call was made from the Philadelphia police station. He is either a cop, or he is an informant."
Maria swayed dangerously on her heels, shaking her head almost frantically. "That's…no, that's not—"
Macaluso wrapped his arms around her, holding her small form upright against him.
Maria shuddered in his grasp, an aspen leaf trembling in the winds of the ultimate betrayal. Rage built in his chest.
She should never have had to face this.
"I am so sorry, Maria," he whispered, pressing his face against her silky hair. "He will pay for this with every ounce of blood."
She went rigid in his grasp.
"No."
The word was tiny, barely a breath.
Macaluso stroked her head, fingers snagging. "It will be alright, Topolina." His voice gentled even as his fury kindled hotter. Tony would scream for this—scream until he choked on his own blood. Such a death was all he deserved.
"No."
Maria pulled away abruptly, taking a step back. Her chest heaved, eyes gone curiously wild.
"You can't hurt him."
Somewhere, far away, his heart ached. She was so gentle—so pure, in spite of it all. "I must," he answered gently, reaching out to brush her arm. "He betrayed you. He betrayed us."
She twitched away, dodging his comforting gesture. "No." Maria took another step back. Her voice shook. "You can't hurt him, because he didn't betray you."
Denial. He closed his eyes. "He has been contacting the police, Maria—"
"I did."
The world tilted strangely. "I beg your pardon."
Her eyes were wide, glittering strangely. "I'm the one contacting the police."
There was no breath left in him.
"I used his phone a few days ago. That's how they had his number. He's innocent."
"What are you saying?" Macaluso whispered, stepping back. It was a joke—or he was dreaming…
But her eyes were twin sparks, singing him with their intensity. "The truth. I turned on you. I went to the police. I have been reporting on reporting on you!"
"That…cannot be true."
It came as barely more than a whisper, but Maria kept speaking, her voice rising, filled with some fierce emotion.
Anger?
Like it, but deeper.
Loathing.
"Oh, but it is. Tony is loyal to the business, and he's a good man." She bit down on her words, every syllable coated with fury. "I won't let you destroy him for my error. He's what we all need—he's what you're supposed to be—before brother turned on brother, before you forgot what the Famiglia meant!"
"You lie!" It was a roar—tearing from his throat, echoing off the concrete wall. "It was Florentino—it was always Florentino—"
"No. I betrayed you. I, I, I!" She was transformed, hair coiling haphazardly out of her once perfect bun; skirts billowed wildly in the wind. Her beautiful face was twisted with a savagery that made a mockery of his loving cousin.
His little mouse, turned into a raging beast, a snake in his hand with fangs lowered and jaw open wide…
"You lie." He said woodenly. It was not true…it could not be true…
She stilled, face blazing. A smile flickered, lighting her dark eyes with a foreign glint. "No, I don't lie, Michael. I've told you this a thousand times. Don't you remember?"
She took a tiny step forward, smile vanishing.
"I hate you."
The calm certainty cut through him like a shard of glass.
"You cannot." The world was spinning—nothing was as it should be— "I—it was always you and I—"
"You…killed…Alano." Each word snapped out like the lash of a whip, stinging. Vindictive. "You killed him, and you destroyed the Famiglia."
"He betrayed me!" He spun forward, gripping her arm with crushing fingers. "You understood that—you said—you said—"
Maria tried to wrench her arm away and failed, eyes boring into his. Suddenly, he couldn't look away. "Alano didn't betray you," she whispered. "He made a mistake, and you wouldn't believe him. And you've been trying to justify his death with every man you kill."
He still could not turn his head. "No," and his voice cracked, and it was his turn to shake. She was wrong—she lied—
"Alano was competition," Maria breathed, lips twisting, words dripping venom. "He was competition, and you waited for an excuse, and you killed him—put him down like a dog—"
Rage was blinding. "Sta zitto," Macaluso snarled. "Shut up, shut up—"
"No, no, I've had my years of silence—you killed him; he was your cousin, and you killed him! He was my brother—"
Without thought, his hand lashed out, smashing into her face.
With a cry, she fell silent, head bowed.
"Back up," Macaluso ordered, feeling like stone.
Slowly, very slowly, she rose. Blood trickled from her nose, staining her lips and chin. She looked…so unlike herself.
"Back up," Macaluso repeated. Slowly, he reached to his side. Familiar cold metal met his fingers.
Her eyes were huge, but she had not moved.
The mafia boss pulled the gun free. It felt so very natural, in his hand, so obvious to flick off the safety.
"Back. Up."
A drop of blood fell from her chin, dripping on the snowy white blouse. Soiled. Slowly, she stepped away, moved backwards.
"Turn around."
Maria stared. A tear trickled down her face, followed by another.
"So you'll murder me too, Michael?"
"Turn around."
A tiny, bitter smile curved her lips, even as tears began to stream down her face. "I wonder where he went," Maria said, seemingly to herself.
"Who?"
She closed her eyes, smile vanishing. Her lips began to tremble in earnest.
"Who?" He shouted, raising the gun. She had no right to look like this—so wretched—so alone—a devil in the guise of a Madonna—
"No one," she whispered finally, dark lashes curled, as always, against her golden lids. "Just a little boy I thought I knew."
Head bowed, she turned on the spot.
The words felt like a dagger. He could see her in his mind, fighting with him over the syrup, teasing, hugging, taunting, laughing—hand trembling, Macaluso lifted the gun, but he did not pull the trigger.
Maria. His lips tried, but failed, to form the sound, the cry strangled in his throat. She had lied, she had lied…and yet…
I hate you.
So be it.
Shaking, Macaluso squeezed. The crack echoed off the warehouse walls, and he bolted, racing for his car like a man possessed. Somehow he kept a hold on the weapon he would have to destroy, somehow he knew to keep moving. Someone could come—someone might have heard—someone might have seen—
But one thought pressed on him like a gong, reverberating through his skull until every fiber of his being ached.
She'd been so pure.
Florentino could never bleed enough for this.
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Chapter Notes: Hello, everyone! For the record, you are all….truly…awesome. In my painfully long hiatus, I did not get one single flame, just hopeful and slightly mournful reviews that—finally—spurred me back into action. You all have been remarkably patient; I will do my best to never let there be such a long gap again. At least it's a nice long chapter, right? Exciting, too, I hope.
And, um, right. Really, really nasty cliffy. Two, actually. Don't hate me! And please let me know what you think!