Bridgewater was, exactly like how Nikita remembered it to be. She didn't remember much but she remembered making a promise to get out of this hole. Bridgewater was a unique New York neighborhood. Its crammed redbrick tenements were home to an uneasy alliance of working-class Irish, Italians, Puerto Ricans and Eastern Europeans. The men worked the docks or drove trucks, they cut and hauled loins of beef or wore construction hard hats, the fruits of their daily physical labor headlined by a steady union paycheck. Many of the men left for work in the wee hours of morning, leaving behind crowded apartments filled with sleeping wives and children huddled in rooms that were too hot in summer and too cold in winter. Nikita knew that for a fact, because she too was one of them.

Nikita walked a little faster and tried instead to concentrate on the information that was given by Madeline. Bridgewater was a neighborhood grounded in the traditions of its violent and isolationist past. Gangs controlled the neighborhood, and none were more prominent or powerful than the five-hundred-strong Gorpes, who were led by Bridgewater's deadliest man, Owney "Killer" Mardie. Mardie was a bootlegger with a banker's eye for investments. He held partnerships in a number of profitable dance halls, including Storm, as well as a piece of the eventual heavyweight champion of the world, Bruno Mardinsky. Some even say he owned a church. Strangers were never encouraged to walk its streets, while residents roamed outside its boarders only to attend weddings, funerals or baptisms. Street fights were the most acceptable way to solve a dispute, and they were never allowed to end until there was a clear victor. The men of the neighborhood were openly encouraged to fight, regardless of their age or size. Many nights, they would be caught in the middle of a street brawl, barely fending off a barrage of body blows, their face and hands soaked with their own spit and blood. There, in the middle of the gathered crowd, would be the trophy. A bartered wife or daughter. Nikita knew. On one such night, she was that trophy.

Nikita shook away the anger and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. That was when she realised that she had arrived at Storm. At the corner of her eyes, Nikita noticed that a Puerto Rican gang led by a small, heavy-muscled teenager arrived at the lot, the six members each checking out the surroundings, exchanging low fives and drinking cold beers half-hidden inside brown paper bags. An eight-member Irish gang waited by two open doors of a Chevy convertible, their arms crossed, the pockets of their jeans stuffed with makeshift weapons. Three members of the Hawks, a gun-dealing gang from the East Side, stood next to an open fire hydrant, silent and still. The Italian gang waited by a candy store, the five of them hand-checking the zip guns nestled under their belts, next to their spines. That was when Nikita saw Ryan Blackwood.

He waved to the Italians and then whirled in Nikita's direction. "Are you scared?" he shouted at her. Nikita slowly shook her head. Ryan took a long gulp from a five-gallon jug of homemade Italian wine and put the jug back near his right leg and reached one hand into the front left pocket of his blue jeans. Nikita tensed and her fingers automatically inched towards her nine-millimeter, but was relieved when Ryan pulled out a crushed pack of Pall Malls, squeezed a cigarette out and bummed a light from an over-weight teenager to his left. "Then scram," he said after he took a long drag and, clenching the cigarette with his teeth, let the smoke flow through his nose and mouth.

Nikita walked into Storm, fists clenched, the back of her turtleneck soaked with sweat. "You look a little lost." Nikita shifted her gaze and studied the woman who approached her with an easy smile. The woman was dressed in oversized overalls that made her look like a little girl playing grownup. Her reddish blond hair fell below her shoulders in a tangle of curls. She had delicate features, and she wore only a touch of makeup. Her eyes were blue, but as she squinted, they seem to change shades like the color of a lake on a day when the sun is contesting with the clouds. In those eyes Nikita saw fear, sadness, supplication, and hope. Nikita expected a bimbo, but she'd found a little girl.

"I hope not." Deciding a little agitation fit the role, Nikita shifted her shoulder bag and offered a nervous smile. "I'm CJ, I'm the new..."

"Yes, I know who you are. Ryan mentioned you'll be here. I'm Abbie." She offered a hand, and gave hers a quick squeeze. "The man told me to keep an eye out for you. I'll take you up."

"Thanks. Nice place," Nikita commented as she continued to eye Ryan.

"Yes, only when we do not question."

At that strange remark, Nikita turned to look at Abbie. This woman had a hard edge to her. Withered, but Nikita decided, was not beaten by the strain of her struggles. Nikita frowned but decided that it was best for her to keep her silence this time.

Abbie turned a corridor, then punched a code into a control panel. When a panel in the wall slid open, Nikita stepped in with her and watched her reenter the code. Noticing her stares, Abbie explained, "Any one of us who've got to do business on the second level gets a code. You don't have to worry about it."

The door opened again, directly into Ryan's office. It was a large space, split into business and pleasure with an area to one side devoted to a long leather sofa in his signature color, two-sink-into-me armchairs and a wide-screen TV. Nikita shifted her attention to the business area. It appeared to be as ruthlessly efficient as the rest of the room was indulgent. The workstation held a computer and phone. Across from it stood a monitor that showed the club area. The single window was shielded with blinds, and the blinds were tightly shut.

So much for a poor neighborhood, Nikita thinks to herself.

When the doors of the elevator shut, Nikita whirled around to discover that she was alone. Slowly she took stock and allowed her gaze to slide over and check for other surveillance cameras. Lightly running her fingers down the armchairs, Nikita visibly jumped when she heard a rustle of clothes behind her.

"Looking for something?" Ryan asked with narrowed eyes.

"Sorry I'm late. I'm CJ," Nikita quickly supplied as Ryan, picked up a remote, switched the angle of the cameras so the bar area popped on screen. She turned to the monitor giving him an opportunity to skim his gaze down her back, over those long legs. "It was really unavoidable," she added. Nikita glanced back over her shoulder. Ryan had changed into a suit-black and to her expert eye, of Italian cut.

"Next time, be punctual," he drawled and moved closer to Nikita. His hands came to her hips as he spoke, rode up to just under her breasts. Nikita's mouth went dry and the ache in her belly was a wide stretch of longing. Ryan skimmed his gaze down to her mouth and released her. "I'll take you down," he said and pushed the button for the elevator.

Whatever that spurt of lust inside her had come from, it would just have to go away again. Cool off, she ordered herself, but her heart was bumping madly against her rib cage. Cool off and focus on the job. With that, she steeped into the elevator with Ryan.