Despite not needing it in any capacity, Moxxie held on tightly to the slip of paper Huey had given him yesterday. He knew the address on it by heart long before he had ever looked at the paper.

667 3rd South Street, Wrath

As he turned the corner, his eyes landed on the exact building he was looking for. The only building that didn't have a streetlamp illuminating it. Three stories tall, broken and boarded up windows, crumbling bricks, and a fire escape that looks about as stable as a house of cards.

Home bitter home.

Apparently, the orphanage had gone out of business not long after Moxxie left it, and the Mafia swooped in to take the property. It wasn't really much of a shock to him. Towards the end of his years there, they just stopped feeding the kids, leaving them all to fend for themselves. Moxxie got by because of the money he made doing… Well, hit jobs. Small ones, sure, but hitjobs nonetheless.

He was paid decently enough for it, $100 per target. At eleven years old, it felt like a fortune. Then when he relied on it to eat, he realized how meager it really was. But, he was in no position to renegotiate with a member of the mafia. Somehow, Paulie thought himself generous, that Moxxie should've been grateful to learn a lesson from him. To never sell yourself short.

Unfortunately, options like that didn't exist. Moxxie wouldn't mind the insulting pay now if it at least meant he'd have the money left to buy himself real food. That's why he was coming here in the first place.

He went up to the door, but before he even had a chance to knock on it, a little peephole slid open on the door.

"You've got three seconds to get out of here."

"Wait! Uh, I'm looking for my Pa's dead canary!"

The pair of eyes squinted down at the imp before sliding the peephole shut. A moment later, and the sound of the door being unlocked was quickly followed by it being swung open.

"Get in, squirt."

Moxxie didn't waste any time shoving his way past the man at the door. Seems that despite the change in tenants, the hospitality in the building hadn't changed a bit.

He navigated the hallways without even looking at them, knowing the layout by memory alone. Nothing about that had changed, the only thing different was that Moxxie had gotten older. Only shame about that was they didn't exactly have much skill in the department of fixing up the place. It was certainly better than the outside, but still not good. His foot almost fell through one of the steps on his way up the stairs.

Reaching the office finally, Moxxie could hear muffled voices on the other side of the doors. One of them was rich with southern dialect, and lacking in their vocabulary. Huey. The other, deep and stern. No doubt, the Don.

They didn't seem to be just chatting though. Moxxie couldn't make out any of the words, but it sounded like Huey was being yelled at. He leaned closer to the door to try and make out what they were saying, but as soon as he did, he heard a single, painful shout.

After another moment, the talk quieted, and the doors opened. Huey greeted Moxxie quietly, with an unusual and unnerving conciseness for the lanky imp.

"Don's ready for you now."

Moxxie nodded, and entered the room. He forgot how big the Don's office was. The walls were lined with sleek black wooden bookshelves, each filled with trinkets from the past bosses, as well as a couple big hits they'd killed before. In the center of the room, was that same old desk he saw when he first came in here, to get kicked out of the orphanage.

And behind it, the Don. An imp. Moxxie had wondered about that, he presumed it would be a demon, a sinner from the overworld, who was in charge of everything. After all, the Mafia, or Yakuza, depending on your preference, only existed down here because of sinners. But, sinners were restricted to the Ring of Pride. It seemed that the maneuverability of going to any ring you want finally put a born and raised Hellspawn at the top.

One who looked like the most stereotypical caricature of a mafia boss you'd ever see regardless. Stereotypical, save for the red skin, massive underbite, and a mustache that completely hid his mouth.

"Max," the Don started, flicking his cigar above the ashtray on his desk.

Moxxie fought the urge to correct him, he wasn't about to get himself shot for "disrespecting" the boss. Whatever it was he heard through the door earlier, he could assume that the Don's patience was already wearing thin.

"Huey here tells me you were an orphan here some few years ago, before we had moved in."

Moxxie nodded, "That's correct sir."

"So then tell me, exactly how you of all people know anything about the upper echelon of hell, that we wouldn't already know. Are you involved with 'em?"

Moxxie pulled at his collar. "Well," he stammered, "I suppose I'm not involved with their class per say—"

"So you're useless to me then?" The Don gave Huey a condemning glance, "You're wasting my time with this runt? Is this a game to you?"

"Boss, if ya don't mind me saying," Huey started, not even daring to look up from the floor, "He ain't the greatest salesman. If ya ask him something about 'em though, I promise you'll see what I meant by how we need him."

The Don's glare at his hunched underling had grown to blatant disapproval, but he sighed and humored his suggestion with his last shred of patience. "Alright then Max," he began, speaking slowly, "I'm feeling generous today, and I'm offering you one more chance to show me your worth that Huey here keeps telling me about."

"Sir… one more chance?"

The Don flicked the ashes off his cigar, "This is a big job, Huey's already told you that. If I'm not hiring you, well… You can't honestly expect me to let you walk out of this room alive knowing what we're planning."

Moxxie's stomach dropped. All the pressure he felt weighing on his shoulders in this one little moment, he felt it like the smoke in the air. It was choking him, he'd begin tearing up any second now from the stinging in his eyes. He could see it in Huey's eyes too, ever so slightly bloodshot, gripping one hand in the other.

That's when he noticed the red spots on the floor, a tiny little trail of four individual drops. Blood, still wet, soaking into the wooden floorboards. A direct line between Huey, and the edge of the Don's desk, where a small knife laid. It had fresh blood on the blade, and a single severed finger beside it.

Moxxie tried not to look at it, keeping the digit at the edges of his vision. Instead, he opted to look at Huey. Not in the eyes, but instead at his hand clenched around the other, and the blood that leaked from between his knuckles.

The second Moxxie looked away, the Don locked eyes with him. His eyebrows rested the same as before and his expression was unchanged, but now, it terrified Moxxie.

"For a subordinate to share information like that, is disgraceful. To let a stranger? That'd be plain ineptitude. After all, loose lips sink ships. So yes, Max, one more chance. Your answer isn't for you alone."

"Understood, sir," Moxxie answered. His voice was tiny.

"Good. Now, here's my question for you; What do you know about the Goetia family?"

Hearing that name out the Don's mouth confirmed Moxxie's worst suspicions, that the target was a member of the Ars Goetia. Seventy-two of the most powerful demons in hell, right under the Seven Princes, and Lucifer himself.

Coming here was a really, really bad idea.

"The uh… The Ars Goetia, they're immortal, they command dozens of Hell's legions each. Most having something around thirty under their command—"

"I can get that from a pamphlet."

Moxxie flinched.

"What do you know about them that makes you worth keeping alive?"

Moxxie's mind raced trying to think of something niche, something impressive, anything outside of common knowledge—

Family drama, now there's an idea.

"Supposedly, there's a lot of tension between the Goetia families right now. Arranged marriages are being canceled, families dropping out of touch, plotting against each other. Political stuff like that."

That seemed to get the Don's attention. He raised a brow, leaning back in his chair. That was Moxxie's que to elaborate.

"There's been rumors that someone in their ranks is collecting Holy Weapons instead of destroying them. Now they're all picking their allies very carefully. Decisions aren't being made towards financial gain anymore so much as power."

"They're expecting trouble?" the Don asked. Moxxie took him asking questions as a good sign.

"Kind of, yes. Now that they know they can be killed, they're expecting others to have plans to usurp one another. They're paranoid."

"And rumors that someone is keeping ahold of these weapons is validating their paranoia."

"Yes, sir."

The Don was quiet for a moment, seemingly transfixed by his own cigar. "And how do you know all this?"

"I uhm… Technically, I don't know it—"

With a sigh, the Don glanced at Huey, "You weren't kidding about him being an awful salesman, huh."

"W-what I mean is I don't have concrete proof! It's all just deductions," Moxxie panicked, "I keep up to date on news about the Goetia. There's been rumors about someone collecting holy weapons. Then there was news about some arranged marriages going into question, which has never happened before. On top of all that, there was the news about how Aamon is hosting a ball soon, which he never does. But, Aamon has always been the one to settle arguments between the Goetia. The fact that he's hosting a ball means something big is going on between everybody. So that's why—"

"Enough kid, I get the idea. Gonna make my ear start bleeding with all your yapping."

"Sorry, sir."

The Don leaned back into his chair, taking his time finishing off the last of his cigar. Moxxie'd have wondered if he forget they were in the room if it wasn't for the glare he was getting from across the desk. After one minute of silence too long for Moxxie's comfort, the Don spoke again.

"Your hunch isn't very far off. Stella approached us a week ago, by proxy, but with plenty of evidence to confirm legitimacy."

Moxxie was dumbstruck, realizing this was the acknowledgement that he'd be part of the operation. His posture relaxed for a moment, barely. "Stella? The one engaged to Stolas?"

"Yes. They're supposed to get married next month. With all their upper-class drama they've got going on though, that arrangement is under risk. Stolas already didn't much care for her, but with the worries about holy weapons going around, now he's got grounds to call it off."

"Paimon wouldn't allow something like that if he couldn't line someone else up for marriage—"

"That's the thing. Little 'ol Stolas seems to have the hoots for Caim."

"Caim?" Moxxie asked, wondering if he had somehow misheard.

"The Raven Widow herself—"

"She's a Thrush, actually."

A stern glare from the Don shut Moxxie up.

Stolas and Caim being a pair was certainly strange, but someone hating Caim enough to want her dead? That was a complete shock. Moxxie never thought of her as the type of Goetia to be involved in any drama.

She was private, secluded, only ever visited for discussion or telling fortunes, seeing as she seemed to always have the answer to any question someone might have. Whether she was just that smart, or had a demonic power for divining the truth, not even Paimon knew. After all, she was married into the family by her late husband, and she all but vanished after he died.

Moxxie felt he could figure why. She was one of the very few Goetia who actually loved their spouse, and royals had little experience with grieving.

"Why her? I didn't think anyone even knew where she was."

"After her husband, Orias, died a few years back—one and only victim of the first Holy Weapon Incident—the two of them started talking. Guess she's got a thing for guys with power over the stars. Now, with all the drama, Stella's afraid Stolas will drop their marriage for Caim."

'Can't say I blame him,' Moxxie thought to himself. Stella was well-known for being quite… divisive amongst her peers. She was like a test for how moral or sane any member of the Goetia were. The more someone liked her, the less you should want to be involved with them. Unsurprisingly, more loved her than otherwise. It is Hell after all.

"So, there you have it. Caim is our target. Stella is the contractor. A single word of this to anyone outside this building, and you'll be dead in an instant."

Moxxie gulped and nodded. "Of course, sir. But, what's the plan?"

"That's where you'll be coming in, kid. We can't find out where the dame even lives, let alone how we'd get to her. Know anything that could draw her out of hiding?"

"Well, a party would probably do the trick," Moxxie muttered without thinking.

"A party?"

"Yes, like a ball, or some gathering. Royals always flock to those."

The Don looked down at Moxxie, "Stella's been throwing parties every other day, and Caim hasn't been to a single one."

"Well of course she hasn't, if Caim likes Stolas at all, she probably hates Stella."

"Think she's really the jealous type?"

"No. Stella's just—"

"Five feet up 'er own ass at all times." Huey interrupted.

The Don stared at him for a moment before he elaborated.

"Moxxie used to tell me 'bout em back in the day. I listened, sometimes."

"I didn't phrase it so crassly, but yes. She's… difficult."

"So then what, just get someone else to throw a party?"

Moxxie thought for a moment. No, no she wouldn't come out for just any party. They'd have to be the only person she was on good terms with anymore.

"She'd show herself if Stolas was there. In fact, I doubt she'd show herself for anyone else. But he's not really the type to go to parties…"

They seemed to believe him on that, a silent unanimous agreement passed between Huey and the Don before anyone spoke again.

"Then you'll convince him to," the Don said.

"I'll—I'm sorry, what?"

"You'll convince Stolas to go to Aamon's Ball. Goetia hire Imps for servants, we can sneak you in as one of his. Goetia probably don't even recognize their own servants' faces, you'll slip in completely unnoticed."

Moxxie froze, taking a moment to register what they said. "You're going to sneak me in… as their servant?"

"Was I not clear?"

"No sir—I mean, yes—"

"Good, then get out of my office."

Huey quickly shuffled out of the room, pushing Moxxie along with him. There wasn't time to ask any further questions, or clarify any details. Just him being left with the knowledge that, apparently, he was going to be a servant for Stolas in the coming weeks. Spy or not, the position was daunting all the same.

The doors to the office shut behind them, and they were on their own. Moxxie was visibly shaken from the whole experience, and Huey wasn't faring much better with the whole chopped-off-finger thing. The missing digit was only wrapped in a handkerchief, which was well stained in blood at this point.

Huey made some efforts to calm Moxxie down after they were on their own. Trying to talk about something else, or assure him the plan was going to go perfectly fine. Moxxie's reluctance to talk back to him though made it clear he wasn't hearing any of it.

"I've got an idea," Huey said,

"You have an idea?"

Huey nudged him, "I have my moments. C'mon, let's get ya a gun."

Moxxie's eyes seem to light up at that. He followed him through the hallways before an unmistakably familiar feeling overtook him.

"Wait, Huey, are we…"

"Yep. Imagine the chances that they store the guns in here," Huey said before opening the door to an all too familiar room.

Moxxie remembered it better than he realized, from the half-obscured window to the cramped space of it all. Where there had once been a bunk bed, there was now a gun rack, and instead of a desk, an ammo crate.

Their old bedroom.

Huey walked on in, wasting no time in opening the gun rack, giving Moxxie a view of the selection. It was a fair collection, not quite expansive, but a good selection. A bit tropey though. Snub-nose revolvers, Pocket Colts, sub-machine guns, of course Tommy Guns, and—

"Is that a Beretta?"

"I had a feeling you'd be eyein' that one." Huey chuckled, grabbing one off the rack and handing it to Moxxie. "87 Target, just like your first one. These aint' got any mods though, just plain old stock."

Moxxie ran a finger along the slide, eyeing the familiar iron sights and rail. "That doesn't matter, it's familiar enough."

Huey picked up one of the snub-nose revolvers, "Y'sure you don't wanna be grabbing something a little higher caliber? I mean, I get ya love that old piece, but .22 rounds ain't exactly impressive."

Moxxie deftly removed the magazine, taking a quick glance at the ammo. "Don't underestimate .22's. A bullet's a bullet, it'll kill. Besides, anything bigger would leave too much of a mess to clean up afterwards. I'm supposed to be undercover, aren't I?"

Huey shrugged, "Suit yerself."

Moxxie admired the firearm for a moment longer before glancing around the room. He spotted a holster, slotted his new weapon in it, and slipped it onto his belt.

As happy as he was to not only have a firearm again, but one as close to his old favorite as it was going to get, a concern nudged its way into his mind.

"Huey, a question."

"Yeah?"

"Why are you giving me a gun if the target is a Goetia? I can't kill Caim with this."

"It's for yer safety, not offing th' target. Killing her is… gonna be complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"Th' boss is still workin' on that part of the plan," Huey shrugged.

Moxxie wasn't sure like the sound of that. "The most important part of an assassination is knowing how you're going to kill the target. He's still working on that?"

"Yup."

Moxxie stared at him for a moment, bewildered by his blunt response. "Don't you think we should ask him?"

"All ya gotta worry about fer now is getting into that Stol-ass guy's house and convincing him to go to a rich-people party. You can leave the assassinatin' to us."

Moxxie didn't trust that. Not that he doubted his friend's honesty, but leaving the assassination to a group of people who, more and more, seemed to have very little idea what they were getting into didn't sit right with him.

He eyed Huey's wrapped up hand. All concerns aside, getting nosey clearly wasn't encouraged around here.

"Fine, it's not worth bothering your boss over anyways."

"Now yer gettin' it."

"So, what do I do now?"

"Chances are Boss'll send ya home fer now. They need time to figure shit out. Don't leave until someone else tells ya to though. I ain't so sure I wanna be assuming shit anymore."

Moxxie nodded. After that, the two of them didn't talk much more, a brief awkward silence shortly followed by Huey taking his leave. It was another thirty or forty minutes before one of the Don's men came to tell Moxxie exactly what Huey presumed earlier; That he should just go back to life as usual, and wait until he's contacted again. There was an additional warning about loose lips, and something about how they'll have eyes on him always.

Oddly enough, Moxxie didn't find himself too terrified by that last detail. Discomforted? Absolutely, but it was nothing compared to being stuck in that room with the Don earlier. He was glad to be out.

So, the target was Caim, and Moxxie would be undercover as one of Stolas' servants to get him to a party, in order to—hopefully—drag Caim out of hiding. Only after that could they kill her, and with no plan yet, and judging by their weapon stores, no Holy Weapon, they had no way to actually kill her.

'Yeah, there's no way this could possibly go wrong,' Moxxie thought as he rolled his eyes.

Unfortunately, he was in too deep to back out now.


AN: No, I'm not dead. Though with how much work I've been dealing with in my classes, I certainly wish I was. Just for a month or two. Then I could come back a zombie, or a demon, or something cool like that. Set a bunch of shit on fire. That'd be fun.

Anywho, I hope you liked the chapter! Took a while to write, my bad. Turns out, stories about assassinations? Harder than they seem.