The sapphire blue eyes staring back at me were swarming with panic, and I knew that I had won. The anxiety that caused his eyes to flit and shift in every direction made it apparent that the boy knew his life was being held in my young, rough hand. The boy glanced carefully at the flash of metal being brought to the side of his face, and he shut his eyes firmly, praying it would be swift.

Control. Complete domination. I craved it as a vampire craves blood, or a bee craves honey. There was something about it that made it so powerful and addicting. It might have been the fact that I was good at it, or just knowing that with a flick of the wrist, the population of the world would be down by one.

"We told you to leave, and you didn't listen. Why?" My voice was calm and composed, and that scared the victim more than the cold blade that was pressed against his cheek. It was as if I could not register that I was in an alley with a knife at someone's throat. That was important, though, if you wanted to be in control of the situation. Do not let them know what you are thinking. The fact that I could not register this moment, probably made it seem that perhaps I would not even care if I left a lifeless body rotting in an alley, left only for the rats to fight over. That was important to make the victim believe that, true or not.

The blue-eyed boy swallowed as he felt the blade being shoved ever so slightly before it pierced through the skin of his cheek. "I-I don't know," he stammered as he felt a thin line of blood creating a trail slowly down his cheek. "Please, I'll leave. We won't come back."

Begging—it made the process that much more entertaining, and the adrenaline rushed through my veins, much like the blood rushed out of the veins of this boy in front of me. "And do you expect me to believe you?"

"I promise. We won't be back. You can have my word on that."

With a lift of my eyebrows, I took one step closer to my victim, which made the boy cower back and grimace as the thoughts of a painstakingly slow fatality crammed his mind. "That's a serious statement you just made," I told him gravely.

"It's true. You have my word." He opened his eyes once more and glanced into my cold emerald green pair staring back at him, holding no emotion or guilt whatsoever, ready to jab the knife further in at any sign of a lie.

I allowed the knife the run the rest of the way down the boy's cheek and jaw before holding the point to the pale skin of the throat. I stared at the boy, emotionless, while making sure my point was made, before replacing it in my pocket. "Let's make sure of that, shall we?"

The boy nodded, bringing a hand up to his cheek. He winced as his hand ran over the cut, the dirt mixing with the blood.

"Get that cleaned up," I suggested, as I shifted through my pockets and pulled a cigarette and match out. When I noticed the boy was not leaving, I looked at him as I lit the cigarette. "Leave." And the boy wasted no time to do as he was told, grateful to have his life.

Victory. Sweet, sweet victory.

When I entered the abandoned building I was staying at with the other members, I went straight to the back room to announce that I was back.

Nicolas Capritti was our valiant leader, and what a leader he was. He knew exactly what he was doing at all times, and he calculated needed attacks so precisely that it was hard for us to lose. He had stepped foot in America five years ago off the boat from Florence, and had decided that New York needed revamping. He took it upon himself to see that this happened. After joining a few gangs, he eventually ended up turning on the leaders, capturing the heart of followers, and formed his own group. Nicolas has a way of talking people into doing things that would benefit him. It's an important quality to have if you want to succeed in such a greedy country. He has been growing ever since, and has not let any small object slow him down. I believe he has the makings of a strong leader.

I first met Nicolas five months before he had created his own gang. He was taking a stroll with one of the newer members of the gang he was in, Derek. I hated Derek from the moment I saw him. I had been with Daemon, my brother, and obviously Derek had had a few spiffs with Daemon in the past that I was not aware of. Somewhere along the line, Derek had been told he could fight. When he challenged my brother and raised his fist back to offer a blow to him, I stepped in and stopped the brawl before it got any further. Daemon came out of the fight untouched, and I replaced Derek on Nicolas' stroll. I have been friends with him ever since. I have heard no word on Derek, or even if he is still breathing. He should pray that that is not the case, considering I certainly have not forgotten that he challenged my brother, nor will I ever forget.

I opened the door and closed it quietly after walking in. I stood by the door to wait to be addressed.

Nicolas looked over the top of his newspaper towards me and smiled. "So?"

"It's all taken care of."

"There will be no more problems?"

"No problems. There shouldn't be. He's aware of what will happen."

Nicolas nodded. "Wonderful. Thank you, Michel. I knew I could depend on you."

Compliments were rarely given in a gang of this size, so when the leader gave you one, it meant something. It also meant that if Nicolas could depend on you, you had better make sure he could always depend on you. If he had to second-guess his flattering remark, be sure that he would also second-guess your next breath.

I nodded once. "You can, Nicolas," I assured him. When he nodded his head, I left the room.

As I sat outside the neglected, vacant building, I looked out at the streets, letting the smoke from my cigarette form a shroud in front of my face. It resembled the same cloak that many of the inhabitants of this city wear in front of their face, making them feel that they are in the city of perfection, their government is superior in every aspect, and life is wonderful; nothing could go wrong.

Oh, pity fools, how wrong they are. There was no justice in this city, and life was far from perfect. This is where Nicolas comes in. His goal in life is to rise above others, and to be known as the one not afraid to take the law into his own hand. It is a rather large goal, I do admit that, but it can be done. Nicolas will be the one to bring justice to this corrupted city. When people are killed, the assassin will be dealt with, when people cheat their way through life, it will be handled in the in the appropriate ways. I plan to be right there beside him to watch this rise to power.

My thoughts were interrupted by a younger boy walked up to me, a grin plastered across his face. I said nothing, but waited as he sat next to him. I knew he had something to spill, and it was only a matter of time before he did so.

"Guess what."

"What?"

"Guess."

I looked over at the boy, a stern expression on my face. "I don't have time to play guessing games, Sam. What is it?"

"Nicolas is going to be thrilled at what I swiped today."

I simply nodded and looked away. "Wonderful."

Sam grinned and pulled my shirt to make me look over at him. I raised an eyebrow and was about to ask what he wanted when he pulled the treasure out of his jacket. The black, shiny revolver stood out in his pale, thin hands. "Look at that, Malice. Isn't that something? Gee, that sucker didn't even notice when I took it! It was too easy."

My eyes widen and I shoved Sam's jacket shut, looking around quickly for any spectators. "Damn, keep that to yourself, will you? You'll get arrested for waving that shit around like you're a nutcase."

"I was just showing you what I got. You think Nicolas will be proud? This will bring our total up to five."

"Yes, I'm aware. He'll be very happy. Now go show him, and get that thing out from the view of everyone in the city."

Sam nodded and went on his way inside, still grinning like a complete fool. That is the one thing about a group with small children; they get overly excited about things such as that. It draws attention, and Nicolas was aware of this problem. However, it looks obvious when you have an older boy picking pockets than it is to have a devious, sly, and wily seven year old do it. Besides, it was only until we had the money to do other things—bigger things.

I was aware of Nicolas' feelings of the measures we had to go to if we had the intention of making any money in this god-forsaken city. Pick pocketing is not the ideal way of reaching this goal; however, when one has no money to work with, one cannot get far with their goals. Once the younger boys had eliminated their use to the group, they would be cut loose to fend for themselves with Nicolas or the older boys. Of course, if anyone felt they would be of any use, as they grew older, we might make a few exceptions. Nicolas wanted to be respected by the New York underworld. It was his dream and his ambition. He wanted nothing more. When people needed a loan, he wanted to be the one they went to. Ultimately, when affairs and associates were more advanced and polished, he wanted to be the central provider of illegal substances the poor were addicted to. When loved ones were brutally murdered or robbed, Nicolas would jump in ahead of the law enforcement, or what the city considers law enforcement, and take of it himself. Retributions would be given for crimes that were committed. Some would argue that his actions were felonies in themselves, but, if your loved one, for example a brother or wife, was murdered in your home, would you, in actuality, have confidence in the New York police force to advocate true justice? Would you have the assurance that this criminal would not strike again? Nicolas is only cleaning the streets from the mold and scum. He hopes to begin doing this city a wonderful service soon.

Contrary to popular belief, he has a reason for his aspiration. At the young age of thirteen, Nicolas witnessed his mother and old brother viciously slaughtered late one night on the streets of Manhattan. Amidst the falling rain and streaks of bright lightening, lighting the streets for a random passerby, the heart of a child was hardening. While others hurried home to escape from the pounding rain, Nicolas stood there, watching two lives drain from stiffened bodies, letting the rain soak his skin and fall in streams trailing down the bridge of his nose. Nicolas had been a quiet boy, or so I have heard, so he had waited for the trail patiently, assured by the wonderful borough that the criminals would be brought to justice. However, the trial was excused, and the three men walked from the courthouse to freedom. Nicolas told me once that his father said something to him that will always remain with him. "This city doesn't give a shit about us Italians, boy. They don't care if these damn people kill us all. If you want anything done, you have to do it yourself. Don't depend on a judge to seek the right revenge. You have to do it yourself. Remember that, Nicolas. Always. When this happens, there are two things a man can do—nothing or something." Mr. Vincent Capritti taught his son a valuable lesson that day, and one can certainly trust that Nicolas was not going to do nothing. However, he did not get a chance to find the three men and torture them. Vincent Capritti was sure to do that himself; however, it landed him in jail on three counts of murder. That was when Nicolas joined a group and became determined to revamp New York's way of handling things.