Ok, a little note here. I just want Black Cat Running to know that I took the liberty of giving Vina a song to sing in this chapter. If you don't like it, just let me know and I'll replace it with the original version. XD;I tried to make it childish, so I hope I did. lol

-1944-

Graham Specter sat waiting on a park bench, tightening his empty hands and wishing his wrench was with him, but understanding the consequences of bringing it. It would give him away immediately. He needed a shade on his identity for now; he wanted no one discovering him. He felt outlandish in his khaki pants, his white beret and the large brown over coat. Under normal circumstances he wouldn't be caught dead in those clothes, but they were required for his temporary guise. In the few years that had wafted past him, Graham had changed very little. Aside from gaining an inch in height, and allowing his light hair to extend past his shoulders, he was essentially the same man. But there was something darker in him now. Something angry.

He had kept his wrench from that night, dislodging it from Ladd's back as the sirens approached. He fled not out of fear, but out of shame and purpose. He died that night with his brother. Ladd Russo lived of course, behind bars, in a wheelchair, but he was wasting away. The urge to break in Graham was the strongest it had ever been that early dawn, crouching in his garage among the inner workings of the cars. The following had broken up. Some had died in Vino's slaughter, some fled. Graham was alone now. The duty of Ladd's revenge fell upon his lonely shoulders, and he would carry it out dutifully as a last request. Graham had come to learn that a physical confrontation with Vino would be foolish. It was cunning, and strategy, that Graham needed to succeed.

Ever since that night, Graham had been careful to watch the notorious Claire Stanfield, and monitor his daily life. Graham, while bent on vengeance and slightly eccentric, was clever and intuitive. Huddled in the corner of a hospital waiting room, staring at the tile, he had been present for the birth of Vino's first child. He had observed from afar as Chane bloomed in the sewing industry, branching from hats to dresses. He would sit quietly in the alley next to the apartment, on the fire escape stairs near their floor, and listen to Chane's silence when her husband was away on another train ride. He was the shadow of the Walken family, and aspired to be their invisible spirit, their haunting. He was always there.

So naturally, Graham knew that she would be here. The Walken daughter. The daughter of an assassin, and she didn't even know it. Graham hunched over on the bench, elbows to his knees, listening for her. His eyes stayed focused on the ground. He would hear the little urchin. And lo and behold, not a moment too soon, her little black shoes with the strap over the top came clicking down the sidewalk. He heard her fresh voice, the voice of only a child, white and thin upon the air. She was obnoxious and free, like her father, the brat.

When night falls upon the tracks

Everyone has to watch their backs

For everyone will disappear

When the Rail Tracer comes near

Rail Tracer, Rail Tracer, he will come find you

Just believe, just believe and he won't make you his food

The girl sung it quietly to herself, a song that told a story that her father had been telling her since she was born.

Graham looked up and spotted her, a skip in her step every few feet, marching down the sidewalk a couple yards off. She resembled her father so much that it hurt Graham not to seize her in his arms and break her, rip her in half until she didn't work anymore. Her fine hair hung at her cheeks like red string, like dripping blood, her nose was in the shape after Vino's, her neck and mouth modeled after his own, and her hands could match the assassin strength, should they train themselves to reach it. She was a flawless replica, with only the shape and color of her eyes betraying her. They buzzed with the gold of her mother's. The girl was in a silky pink dress, pleated, dotted with flowers. Chane being a clothing designer, of course her daughter got the best garments available. As she passed him, Graham spoke out.

"Hello," he said. He knew she would reply, and he was right. Her personality, that he had come to understand as deeply as her parents did, dictated that she speak to strangers. It was the aloof fearlessness in her. A gift from her father.

Vino's daughter stopped, spacious eyes snapping to Graham. She smiled, and bowed to him. Her mother had schooled her well in manners, but the girl lived in her own special world. She was unconventional. Her mind was different from the others. She had the mind of her father.

"Hello!" she replied. Graham patted the bench seat next to him, and she sat down without an ounce of hesitation. "What's your name?"

"I don't have one. But your name is Vina, am I right?"

"Vina. Vina LaForet Walken!" she told him. Her French pronunciation was flawless and proper. Chane, while not able to speak herself, had made sure that her daughter's strong heritage was preserved. Vina knew French nearly as well as she knew English, thanks to lessons from tapes and books. "How did you know it?"

Graham grinned, leaning back, so his heavy bangs fell back from his eyes. He stared into the sky. She was five years old, but hardly shallow or shy. She would be a force to be reckoned with in the future, no matter what field she went into. "I'm magic," he said quietly, as though it were a secret for her to tuck away. "I knew it was you the moment I saw you."

"Like a wizard?" she asked him. Vina was a child born into reality that dabbled in fantasy. Her mind functioned in the realm of the impossible, the improbable. She saw the world as fantastical and full of power. "I've never met a wizard before."

"You can't say that anymore, can you?" Graham looked down at her, his eyes boring into her own. The shape of her face, and the caked, hallucinogenic malice behind her smile made him wish for his wrench again. She looked so much like him, it was sick. He wanted to break her, screw her head until it came off, like a bolt to a car. He would take every bone apart, put her in a bag, and present her to Vino. Reaching out, his hand stroked her cheek. "Where are your parents, Vina?"

Vina felt no threat, no fear as Graham touched her. She was pure and clean, unknowing of death and suffering. How Ladd would pine away to have her in his hands. The daughter of his sworn adversary, so oblivious of death like her father. It would be harmony, to kill them together. A lovely duet to the finale of their symphony. The sound would be marvelous, to Ladd. Even to Graham, now that he shared that desire to kill them both. Vina's hand took Graham's and she looked it over, tracing lines of his palm. "Mommy is at work across the street, and Daddy is away."

"Does she know you are here?"

"No. She sent me to play out behind the store," said Vina, her eyes surveying the gardens beyond them, "but I wanted to see the flowers. I had to come."

"How far away is he?"

"Daddy is far, far away." Vina's eyes dropped to the pavement. "He always leaves me." Her soft thumb moved over Graham's palm and he shuddered. Children were such innocent things, and infuriating in that regard. This one, as if to annoy him further, was abnormal. Curse her beautiful face. Her father's face.

"You do miss him, then?"

Vina did not answer, but she pressed her face to Graham's palm, his hand swallowing up her small eyes, nose and mouth. All he would have to do was squeeze, and maybe her head would pop. "Oui," she told him in French. "Oui, je ne. Yes, I do."

He was struggling now. She was tempting him on purpose, he just knew it. Could she feel his want to kill? Graham's hand went to her head, smoothing her hair, as a father would. As Vino would, perhaps. "Why does he leave you behind?"

She only shrugged, kicking her legs as they hung off the bench. She started humming to herself, and Graham had to close his eyes and adjust himself, repressing the urge to strangle the music away.

"You know," he said as he draped an arm around her shoulder, "there are ways to make him stay. You see, his mind right now is all jumbled up and he can't see straight, and he doesn't know where to go, so he goes everywhere. He has no sense of direction, so he can't stay in one place. Not only that, but he gets lost too much, and ends up farther away than he wants to be, so then he tries to come back home, but can't find the right way. Guys like your dad are constantly getting themselves stuck in familiar places, wondering how they could look back and still see something different. Every time he steps into another train station, he sees the same thing over and over, and remembers all the times he's done it before, and he thinks that if he keeps going, everything will change and become new. But he just can't see. It must mean he's blind."

"Blind? Like no eyes?" Vina asked him.

"Broken eyes," Graham said with a smile. "Eyes that have to be fixed."

"I can fix them," she said. "I can fix Daddy's eyes, so he can see me and Mommy again."

"You need magic," he told her. He reached into his coat, pulling out a plastic vial. It was shaped like a tube, with a screw top, and the plastic was opaque so the liquid was not visible. He presented it to her. "This is a magic tonic. If you pour it in your father's drink at dinner, and he drinks it all, it can heal his eyes. He will see again."

The gentleness in which she took it from him was unmatched by other children. She wanted so desperately not to lose it, or break it. It was her father's eyes. It was his medicine. To lose it, to misuse it, was to cast away all chances of his attention. In her tiny, pale hands, the vial rested, and she clenched it to her. Graham held up a finger, one translucent eye glaring into her twin golden ones.

"But there is a warning. If you let him see you pour it in his drink, or if your mother sees or if anyone sees, it won't work. This magic tonic is special, and very shy. If someone catches you with it, or watches you pour it in his drink, it will stop working. You can't let anyone know about it, okay?" He raised the finger to his lips, pressing it there. "Secret."

She pantomimed his example, face grave. Finger to her lips. "Secret," she agreed. She slipped the vial carefully into her pocket. She would hide it from everyone. No one would know it was there. In the distance, a shrill whistle stabbed the air.

"Mommy!" Vina squeaked, and she slid off the bench. "Goodbye, wizard," she said as she bowed a farewell. "Thank you for Daddy's eyes! I know he will be glad to have them back. Au revoir!" And with that, she turned and fled towards the sound of the whistle. Chane did not have a voice to shout for her daughter, should Vina disappear in a crowd. In order to protect their most precious item when Felix was away, Chane had a whistle that Vina was meant to recognize as her mother's beckoning, panicked call. Graham stood up as he watched the waning sun spread orange light across the sky. What a useful girl. She would administer the final breath of life to her father, the fatal blow to his heart.

Magic tonic, indeed. More accurately, a strong pesticide. It would surely kill him, the scum. Vino was harsh in a physical fight, but he was no match against the facts of chemical laws. He would die a painful death within the day of ingestion. Graham only wished that he could be there to watch it, that Ladd could have been the one to force it down Vino's throat as blood trickled from all areas of Vino's body. It was shame that it had to be this way. But at least it would be over. It would finally be over.