Lying here in the darkness
I hear the sirens wail
Somebody going to emergency
Somebody's going to jail
If you find somebody to love in this world
You better hand on tooth and nail
The wolf is always at the door
In a New York Minute
Everything can change
In a New York Minute
Things can get a little strange
In a New York Minute
Everything can change
In a New York Minute
And in these days
When darkness falls early
And people rush home
To the ones they love
You better take a fool's advice
And take care of your own
One day they're here;
Next day they're gone
-Eagles, New York Minute
Chapter 11: Home
Race didn't feel or think or see for a total of... he didn't know how many minutes, because it was like he couldn't count either.
Then a man he knew (Mario--his godfather) was shaking his shoulder, yelling at him to snap out of it. Race's vision was blurred, but he could still see that Mario wasn't fazed about anyone dying. Because he killed people every day.
"Shut up, Tony..." Mario growled. "Come on, Racetrack, ya gotta shut up."
"Is...where..." Race darted his head around. His father was leaning on a huge man to his right, and Spot was...Spot was being helped up by his Uncle Maurice.
"Holy fucking mother of Jesus..." Race shuddered. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck..."
"Yeah yeah, but no one died." Mario gave his shoulder a pat.
"He did!"
"Caesar? Eh, he doesn't matter, he was a shit head anyway."
Race started to answer but couldn't, and Mario produced a knife and severed the ropes on his ankles and wrists, and half-dragged him to his feet.
"Get him out," his father said, his voice sounding stronger than it should have.
Mario nodded and shoved Race towards the door, but stepped in front of him with his gun out. Race hesitated and threw a look towards his father. "Dad--" he started.
"Go," his father hissed. "Now." And then he groaned and looked like he might pass out, and Race followed Mario less because his father had told him to and more because he was terrified that if he didn't leave, he'd see his father die in front of him.
He glanced behind him, and soon Spot was being semi-hoisted out of the room by Uncle Maurice. Spot looked a little worse for wear.
"Look at this," Maurice said to Mario, and he poked at Spot's rib. Spot swore loudly. "They did a number on the poor shit, didn't they?"
"That fucking hurt," Spot snapped, and Maurice laughed.
"Quite a mouth on him, hmmm, Mario?"
"This isn't the TIME to joke around, you fucking moron," Mario snapped and looked down at Race. "They kick you around some?"
"Just Sean."
Mario craned his neck. "You dead?"
Spot groaned. "I fucking wish."
"He does got a mouth on him..."
"Hey, if you keep complaining, I WILL kill you, shrimp," Maurice snapped.
"Let's go," Mario said.
"But--Dad--" Race started.
"We'll get him help. But we gotta get out now before anyone else shows up here."
"But--"
Mario stopped walking and turned around. "Look, Racetrack. Your dad was hit and we'll make sure he doesn't get forgotten, but we were here to get you out, so if the worst happens but you don't get out it'll have been a waste. And I'm not willing to waste your dad's life, so let's go."
They started walking again, but only for a minute, because someone shot at them. Race dove for the floor without needing instruction, and so did Spot, and Mario and Maurice fired back in the direction of the shot, and there was a gurgle of pain from somewhere Race couldn't see in the dimly lit hallway. Mario paused to reload his gun, and then they started walking.
They made it all the way outside, and someone else in a gray suit and sunglasses was waiting, and waved them over to where two vans were parked, still turned on. Mario spoke to whoever it was for a few seconds, and then the back of one of the vans was opened and the guy gestured towards it.
Race got in; Spot and the suit followed, the door was slammed shut after them. The mafia man banged on the wall that connected to the front, and the van started moving.
"So, you're okay." The man smiled and reached up to take off his sunglasses, and Race was almost stunned.
"Marco?" he asked.
Marco was only ten years older than he was. And he had no idea Marco was involved in the family business. Because Marco wasÉ Marco, just his vaguely incompetent cousin. Marco tripped over his own feet, so the thought that he carried a gun just didn't compute.
"Hey Race." Marco grinned, and even took the liberty of ruffling Race's hair. Race also couldn't help but notice Spot giving Marco the once over; people often gave Marco the once over. Race's family was attractive as a whole, but Marco was downright stunning.
"When the hell did YOU start doing this?" Race asked, then his eyes widened. "Holy shit, dad got you involved."
"Other way around, actually, sorta," Marco said, digging into his pocket and pulling out a packet of cigarettes. "You want?"
Race shook his head, but Spot eagerly took the cancer stick. "No wait, what does that mean?" Race asked.
"It means..." Marco paused as he lit Spot's cigarette up. "Jesus, Racetrack, your dad didn't start until he met your mom, when he talked to my dad. You know that."
Race stared.
"You didn't know that?"
Race shook his head.
"Oh... oops."
"Wait, what the hell?"
Marco laughed. "Okay, well, no reason for you not to know now that you're involved. As for you," he turned towards Spot, then shrugged, "I've got no fucking clue what we're gonna do about you, Dad doesn't like loose ends. But anyway..."
He cleared his throat, then said, "Your dad's new."
"How new?"
"Like... Well, about the time he and your mom got married."
"...They've been married for twenty-five years."
"For someone who wasn't born into it, that is new."
"But I thought Dad..."
"Grew up with it? AhÉ no. Uncle Paulo didn't have any sort of connection until my dad introduced him to your mother. And your dad fell for her, but he wasn't exactly her type."
"What does that mean?"
Marco shrugged. "She was rich. He, uh, really wasn't."
Race just stared, and Marco laughed again.
"But it's a cute love story, really, and eventually your dad went to our grandfather and asked what he could possibly do to become acceptable enough to marry your mother. So Granddad started giving him a few jobs, and he turned out to be really good at them.
"Twenty five years later, he's really about the best there is at what he does." He shrugged. "But didn't you ever wonder why you don't hear much from the rest of your dad's side of the family?"
"...No," Race said. "I never even thought about it. My mother is so..."
"Sweet? Innocent? Yeah, like your sisters. Totally born into it. But you'd never guess that."
"Wow."
"Yeah." Marco observed Spot. "Are you a chain smoker?"
"My dad was," Spot supplied. Race had to hand it to his boyfriend; Mario, Maurice AND Marco already seemed fascinated by him.
"So then... Dad is just some normal... Italian guy. Was."
"That's right." Marco nodded. "But he ended up pissing off a few of the other Families. Like, obviously, the Paperellis, the Magleanos..."
"But why?"
"'Cause he won't have anything to do with drugs." Marco waved his cigarette around as he spoke. "Weed, hash, crack..." Race winced. "Won't touch the stuff. We'd been trying to get him into it for years. It's where all the money is." He looked over at Spot again. "It'd be great if you were deaf."
Spot shrugged.
"What do you mean trying to..."
"Yeah, if you didn't even know your dad was new, you wouldn't know about that. Racetrack, your dad hates drugs. A lot."
"Tell me something I don't know."
Marco half-laughed, opened the small van window and chucked the remainder of his cigarette out. He fished out and lit another one for Spot, who accepted it gratefully. Or as close to grateful as Spot got, but considering there was an addiction involved, it was still pretty clear. It occurred to Race he could really, really use a line himself, but he certainly wasn't going to mention that.
"Yeah, I know. You'd have worked that out all on your own, cuz. He's always hated them; had a friend who OD'd in college or something. And we'd finally, finally gotten him to help us out, and five years later you ended up in the hospital.
"Jesus, the shit hit the fan that night."
Race actually gaped. "What?" he finally managed.
"Oh, yeah. Your dad freaked on us. I've never seen anyone yell that much at a Family meeting, ever. It's a damn good thing he's so good at what he does because otherwise he'd never have gotten away with it."
"Gotten away with what?"
"With quitting on us. Walking out." Marco shook his head a little. "The Family hates it when people do that."
"He quit!?"
"He tried to quit," Marco corrected. "Well, we all tracked him down, had another meeting...in which the big boys yelled a lot and screamed a lot and little Paperelli got shot, which is why BIG Paperelli hates Uncle Paulo--"
Race was getting confused.
"--And so your dad agreed to come back in on the condition that his part of the Family didn't have to touch any drugs. Not just didn't have to. Wouldn't. Ever."
Race stared. "Then this is my fault."
"Yeah, pretty much," Marco said cheerfully. "But not really; Paperelli always hated your dad."
"Why?"
"For being good at what he did." He shrugged. "Before Paperelli got promoted, he'd been a hitman like your dad, and your dad is way better at it. Never misses a mark. And Paperelli was born into this shit, and really hated that some new guy came along and was so good at it."
"I don't know if you should be proud or frightened, Tony," Spot spoke up.
Race stared at him for a second, dazed, he'd almost forgotten Spot was there. Marco started to respond, then stopped, and then laughed again. Marco laughed a lot; he was a surprisingly cheerful person. He'd always been Race's favorite at family parties, as he was young enough to actually be fun.
"But Dad really... I mean, he quit?"
"Tried to."
"Because of me?"
"Anthony, almost everything your dad does is for you. 'Cause you know, if you hadn't fucked up so badly with the cocaine, you'd have been in the running to inherit this whole thing."
"WHAT?"
"Well, it's kinda hereditary, and your mom is older than my dad, but she couldn't get it because she's a woman and your dad is an outsider. So it would go to her son. But my dad was, well, male, and I'm his son, so... you or me, cuz."
"Oh, Jesus."
"Yeah, you don't have to worry too much, though. The Family is really pretty pissed at you for screwing us on drugs."
"...great."
"Hey, don't blame me. You're the addict."
Suddenly, Race liked Marco a lot less.
"Well, it's not his fault you're all a freaking bunch of walking Robert DeNiro's," Spot snapped. Race kicked him and Spot swore. "Ow! I was defending you, fucker!"
"I like you," Marco mused, pointing lazily at Spot. "What's your name?"
"Sean."
Race was about to glare at Spot again for giving his name, but then he remembered his father knew it anyway; it would've gotten around by now.
"Sean..."
Spot gave Race a look and Race shrugged. "Conlon."
"Well, I'll be gunning for them NOT to shoot you off." Marco gave Spot's knee a pat. "Mind you keep that mouth shut. Probably a bit too much to hope for though. You're not a cocaine addict, are you?"
"No."
"Interesting..."
"Don't even think about it," Race snapped.
"Kidding, Fante," Marco promised. "So was he one of the guys who was there when you fucked up last weekend?"
"Why do you know about that?"
"Oh, I had fun with that." Marco grinned. "Y'know, you wouldn't think Judge Robinson would be so scared of someone half his age."
"What?"
"I'm still too young to really go around shooting people, or so Dad decided; hence me waiting outside with the van when he and Uncle Paulo and Mario went inside to find you. But I do get to help with the intimidation racket. I'm great at that."
"Okaaaaay."
"Robinson owed us a favor and didn't want to do it, I just convinced him, was all."
"Thanks."
"Hey, you paid for it." He considered. "A lot. Your dad is gonna go nuts again, I bet you anything. Seriously, the fact that someone dared touch you..." He shook his head. "Paperelli is gonna pay."
Race swallowed hard, but had to ask. "What... what if my dad... Dies?"
Marco winced. "You've got other people looking out for you, Fante," he finally said. "Things will be okay. But your dad will pull through. He's too damn stubborn not to."
"But what if--"
"Fante, please. It--It happens sometimes, in this business. And I love your dad too and I don't really want to think about it. I mean, hey, if something can happen to your dad that means that something could happen to mine and I couldn't deal with that." He gave Race a wry smile. "So let's just assume for now that Uncle Paulo will be around to throw another screaming fit."
"So..." Race mused as the van drove on. "What are we supposed to do now?"
"You," Marco pointed at Race, "You will be going home and awaiting Uncle Paulo's arrival, so he can chew your head off. Or hug you."
"Pfft."
"Yeah, that probably won't happen," Marco agreed. "And you," he pointed at Spot, "will wait with Racetrack so you can find out what Uncle Paulo is gonna have done to you. Because not many people are pleased about you existing at the moment."
Spot paled.
"Oh you should see your face."
"Marco," Race warned, and his cousin grinned.
"Anyway, I'll be in the house when he's doing it, so don't be too scared." He slapped Race's shoulder. "You okay?"
"Yeah..." Race shrugged. "I'm... not... bad. Just..." He looked at Spot, and then at Marco. "He won't--"
"I honestly don't know what'll happen to him," Marco replied. Spot was doing his best to pretend he couldn't hear anything. Race knew how scared he must have been.
Race was lucky; he was guaranteed to get out of this scott-free...well, as scott-free as his life could get. But Spot wasn't in the Family. His father didn't even like Spot. Spot could be killed off and it wouldn't matter to them.
"Oh, Christ..." Race murmured. "Oh, God. Marco, Dad can't--he can't--"
"Tony," Marco said quietly. "I don't want him to; I'm not so squeamish when it comes to random guys in suits getting weighted down and dropped in a river, but when it's someone totally unrelated to us... I mean, I'll ask Dad to talk to Uncle Paulo, but... Hell, the only one in the Family whose word carries less weight than mine is you, and given the current situation even you probably have more influence." He kicked Race's leg. "Bastard."
"Hey!"
"...I'll ask. But I don't know what good it'll do. 'Cause... Yeah, people who we can't trust are... You know, bad for us."
"But we can trust him!"
"Sure; I believe that. He seems nice enough." Race didn't even have time to wonder how Spot had managed to make good impression for once in his life before Marco continued, "But somehow, my vague impression and your promise don't seem like they'll be terribly convincing."
"I can keep secrets," Spot said quietly. "I'm fucking fantastic at not talking about things."
"Yeah, sure."
"He is," Race said.
"Sure, but this isn't like your usual middle school, 'guess who has a crush on you' secret, Fante. This is our lives and our safety at stake."
"I can keep a goddamn secret," Spot snapped again.
"You'd have to be able to prove that."
"I can."
"Yeah?" Marco sounded interested. "How?"
"You know, somehow I'm not that interested in explaining to the most junior member of your family, seeing as how your word has no weight whatsoever." He rolled his eyes. "Just let me talk to someone before they shoot me, okay?"
"I'll see if I can arrange that."
"Thanks," Spot muttered, and rubbed his stomach where he'd been kicked. It still hurt.
"Yeah, you're a little guy," Marco noted, wincing as Spot rubbed his ribs, which were clearly visible in his t-shirt; it was one of his smaller ones, the green Che shirt he'd worn the night Dutchy had OD'd. "Look at you, you're--"
"Leave him alone, he has a temper," Race broke in. "And he doesn't have a leash on today."
Spot kicked him. For some reason, Spot didn't feel too scared at the moment, even though he knew he should have. He didn't see Race's dad killing him off; and if they were going to, he'd make sure it didn't happen. Spot didn't feel like dying, goddamnit, so it wasn't about to happen.
"We're coming up close to your place, Race," Marco commented, looking out the window. "Yaaay, home sweet home."
"Why the fuck do people call you Racetrack?" Spot asked Race. Race ducked his head, and then Spot turned to Marco for the answer.
"Marco, don't--"
"It's just adorable, really." Marco smiled, exaggerating the fondness in his actions by putting a hand to his chin. Spot chuckled a bit. "It was just some stupid manly outing that Dad and Uncle Paulo and Mario took us to. I was like...fourteen. So Race was four or five, and he was like, the fucking most hilarious little kid in the world, he rocked." Marco held up his hand. "He was like...not even up to my knee."
"I was so!"
"I'M telling the story," Marco snapped, then continued. "So these three big mafia men take us out for the day, showing me the ropes and...well, showing Race the ropes too, I guess. And we went to all these secret hit places. Including this horse racing joint down in Chicago. Gorgeous place, and we got in for free, won everything without trying, you get it..."
Race was grumbling. Spot was fascinated.
"So, Race falls in love with this place, we went there for every one of his birthdays until he turned... six, I think, when we all moved to New YorkÉ And you'll note, if you find his old stuffed animals in the attic, each of them is named 'Racetrack', in neatly printed marker on their labels. I would know, I wrote it for him."
Spot gave Race a simpery look. "Racetrack."
"Fuck you."
Spot started laughing.
"You know, I could just ask them to please kill you," Race muttered.
"Uh huh." Spot was somehow not afraid.
"I could."
"But you wouldn't, Racetrack."
"Shut! Up!" He could feel that his face was bright red.
"Oh, don't get me wrong," Marco said. "That's what it came from, butÉ mobsters have a tendency to give each other nicknames and I think his father was hoping that when Tony got involved with the business, that would be his. Probably he'd work with fixing a numbers racket or something."
"Yeah, so what's your nickname?" Spot asked.
Marco sighed and said nothing. And Race smirked.
"One word, Tony, and I'll hurt you."
"Would I say anything," Race asked innocently, "Junior?"
"Yeah, that's one beating coming up."
"Uh huh."
"Hey. I do a great intimidation number."
"Yeah, and I'd believe that if you weren't terrified of Isabella," Race answered.
"Tony, everyone is terrified of Isabella. She should do extortion. She's frightening."
Spot bit back a laugh, as he knew first hand that Marco was right. And Race snorted and added, "And she'd kick your ass for touching me, Junior."
"You don't fucking get to call me that, you're ten years younger than I am!"
"Whatever." Race twisted to glance in the window and recognized his own street. "We're here." And the van pulled to a stop.
"Okaaayyy..." Marco slapped one hand on each of their shoulders. "Here's the thing--Tony." Marco look seriously at Race. "You make sure he keeps his mouth shut."
Spot sneered.
"I'm not kidding, if you want him to live, you make sure he doesn't talk. I'll be downstairs--I'm gonna make Sophie bake me cheese cake."
"Ass," Race spat.
"I know." He sat up, looked out the window, and sighed before looking back at the boys. "Good luck, okay?"
He opened the door the van and let out Race and Spot, followed them up to the house. Race glanced back and saw the van already driving off, and then let himself in.
He was greeted by his mother and all three sisters, which was a little overwhelming. There was a lot of thanking god, and a lot of being told how much he was loved, and how worried they were, and almost all of it was in Italian.
Marco cleared his throat loudly.
"What, no love for the incredibly heroic cousin who brought him home?" he demanded.
"I already started the cheesecake, you ass," Sophia answered. Marco laughed and kissed her forehead, then let himself into the house to go eat their food and probably watch television until Paulo came home. Or someone came home with news.
For all he'd be in trouble, Race sincerely hoped it would be his father coming home.
"I'm fine," he assured his family. "Seriously; I'm fine. It was Spot who--"
"Sean!" Isabella interrupted, and grabbed Spot's wrist, pulled him in from the doorway. "Please excuse our lack of hospitality, we were pleasantly startled to find out Tony hadn't gotten himself killed."
"I love you too, Izzy."
She ignored him and continued, "Please, come in; make yourself at home. Do you need a doctor?"
"No, I'mÉ fine."
"But hungry," Race added. "I don't know what time it is, but we're both starving."
"Covered," Sophia promised. "Already cooking."
"Thanks."
Isabella wrapped him in another protective hug. "Thank God you're okay," she said again. "Now, where's Dad?"
"Uh..." Race felt a breath catch in his throat. "Dad...is..."
"Going to be fine!" Marco interrupted, his mouth full of left over linguini from the night before, as he stepped back into the hall. "Hey, Race, you and Sean go on upstairs, eh? Uncle Paulo's got some stuff to take care of, he'll be back when he can."
Isabella glared. "Marco."
"Veryimportantstuffcan'tbebothered!" Marco said very quickly, then shot his glance to Race. "GO Tony! Run fast, run far!"
Race, deciding to take his cousin's advice, hurried past Spot and snapped at him to hurry up the stairs with him.
"Is your cousin gonna tell them about your dad?" Spot asked, as Race dragged him up the two flights of stairs to his room.
"Probably not with Maria right there," Race answered and made his way into his room. Spot followed, and shut the door behind them; Race leaned past him and locked it.
"I guess I hope he's okay--" Spot started to say, but was interrupted.
Race had just about cracked under the stress, and now safe in his room with neither one of them in danger for the moment, and there was a locking door, he wasn't going to waste another second. He practically threw himself forward at Spot, pinning Spot to the door with his body, and pressing his lips to Spot's.
Spot didn't objected, and a minute later they tumbled onto Race's bed, not separating more than strictly necessary during the intervening space. Race kissed him hungrily, hardly believing he could have gone so long without it and then marveling at how much he felt like he needed it in the first place.
"My dad..." Race panted pulling away from Spot a few seconds as Spot kissed his neck. "My dad, he'll...be okay. Marco said...he would..." He was panting. Trying not to think about it. Because his head was clouded. And he needed Spot.
"It'll be fine," Spot mumbled against his neck, and then they were kissing again.
Everything had to be fine. Spot loved him. He'd discovered his father cared more than he let on, Marco had promised that he'd be alright...
And he believed it.
If he didn't have Spot with him right now, he didn't know how exactly he could cope with anything. Maybe he wouldn't be able to cope at all.
He wondered what that meant, but he didn't have to wonder, really, because he knew. He pulled away from Spot and murmured half into the comforter, "You know, I love you too." And he started kissing Spot again before Spot could say anything about it.
Spot pulled away. "What?" he demanded.
"I--I'd be a total nervous wreck right now and probably trying to find a way to get high without you, you make me calm and centered and I'm happiest when I'm with you, and as far as I can tell, that's the same as loving you," Race said quickly. "And--and when that guy had a gun to your head and I couldn't do anything--it was like watching a movie, but god, it was real and you might have gotten killed and it would've been my fault and I... I love you. Just believe me, okay?"
"I do," Spot answered. "And I hope your dad's okay. I really do."
"He will be." Race was certain of it. He was certain because he was alive, and because he had Spot with him, and Marco had said so. And Marco had explained to him that for all he and his father couldn't stand each other, his father really did care about him. And he wasn't willing to accept his father's possible death after finally learning that. "He was still conscious when we left, that was a good sign, right?"
"Yeah," Spot agreed, though he had no idea.
"Yeah. He'll be fine."
They stared at each other, both thinking about everything that had been said in the past forty seconds. Race didn't know how to respond, or how to start kissing him again, so he left it up to Spot because oddly enough, Spot always did something.
"This is weird; I'm always on top." Spot wrinkled his nose, and shoved at Race's chest. "You're too fucking short to be the dominant one."
"Shut up." Race rolled his eyes, and kissed Spot again, only this time it was sweet, and he could feel Spot's fingers gently grazing back and forth against the small of his back.
Race slid off of Spot, snuggling more into his shoulder, holding on to him.
There was a very loud, intrusive knock on the door. Race sat bolt upright.
"Yeah, just a sec," he called, and scurried over to the door, unlocked it, checked to make sure Spot was sitting up, and opened it. Isabella stood outside, holding a tray of something that smelled delicious.
"Your sisters love you. Eat up." She paused. "And brush your hair before someone figures out how it got messed up."
Race grinned at her, glad that someone in his family was in on the secret. "Thanks, Izzy." He paused. "Marco told you about--"
"Yeah," she interrupted.
"He'll be fine."
"...Yeah." She shrugged. "When we have word, I'll let you know, Fante."
He nodded, and she glanced at him, threw a wave at Spot behind him, and shut the door again. She didn't bother to wait and hear the lock click shut again before walking downstairs to question Marco about what had happened some more.
"Oh my GOD is that fucking lasagna!?" Spot exclaimed as Race set the tray on the desk. "Holy Jesus CHRIST."
"Look, they made plates for BOTH of us." Race said, grinning. "And mine is bigger. Oh they know me so well."
Immediately, they dug in, Race skeptical that Spot would eat the whole thing, but alas, he did, with a ravenous look on his face. Granted, he didn't eat anything after that, while Race continued to eat up the bread and cookies as well.
After, he dug into his desk drawer and pulled out his Skittles stash. "Skittles?" He asked.
"No...thanks..."
"I call it, the Drug-Free Way To Taste a Rainbow." Race gave a cheesy grin and Spot smirked.
"I could use a shower, though," Spot noted, and finally glanced at Race's clock, and gaped for a second. It was almost three in the afternoon. Apparently, they'd been unconscious for a lot longer than he'd thought, and talked for longer as well. Because it hadn't even been six yet when they'd been grabbed.
"Yeah, okay. I'll get you a towel and stuff." Race sat down the bag of Skittles and kissed Spot quickly, his mouth sweet from the sugar, then lead him to the nearest bathroom and dug into an adjoined linen closet. "Don't use up all the hot water; I feel gross."
"You could always join me." Spot smirked.
"Yeah, we both wish." Race shot back a grin before leaving Spot to himself, and for the first time that day, having a minute alone to think.
He popped some more Skittles into his mouth, and let the idea of Spot in the shower linger in his head a moment, before moving on to feeling slightly, and stupidly giddy.
He was in love.
That had never happened to him before. Ever. He was finally in love, finally knew what it really felt like. And as clichŽ as it sounded, it was like everyone said it was, but sort of not. If someone had told Race months ago he was going to fall in love with Spot Conlon, needless to say, he would not only have been skeptical, but he would have gone off on one of his infamous asshole rants about being straight.
How could one person change so much about everything?
But his thoughts couldn't stay on Spot; he wished they could but... He'd realized he loved Spot because Spot's life had been in danger; Spot's life had been in danger because of him. A week ago, he'd thought he'd finished his job for the family and was done and out of it, but now that clearly had changed.
He didn't like that.
He closed his eyes and saw Caesar's corpse, saw his father take a bullet. He remembered Marco speaking casually about not minding when the other side got killed. He'd been shot at, he'd been locked in a basement, he'd almost died and had nearly gotten his boyfriend and his father killed.
If Maria had to grow up with no father, it was his fault.
If some mobster blew Spot's brains out for knowing too much, it was his fault.
And he really no longer had a choice when it came to involvement; he knew too much, he'd experienced too much, and, as Marco had succinctly put it, the Family hated it when people quit. He was stuck with it.
Maybe with inheriting it.
No, that would be Marco. The option who wasn't addicted to cocaine, and Race had never been glad to be a drug addict before in his life.
Even though he was still stuck in the Family.
And how the hell was it his mother, not his father, who'd gotten his family involved? And why the hell had his father freaked out at the family when Race had almost died, and not at Race himself? Or rather, not more at Race himself than he did...?
He couldn't think anymore. He popped another skittle into his mouth and collapsed onto his bed, and all of the stress of the day came back in the form of exhaustion.
*
B: At long last, we give you the origins of Race's nickname! I'm sure you're all excited.
F: Well, I wanted to have the whole mafia show down thing go further, because I'm on a HUGE Al Pacino kick. It's unhealthy, and really, mafia!Race is a fabulous type of thing.
B: He really is. But no worries, it's not like the mafia thing doesn't come BACK. As it is, sort of, what the story's about and all...
F: No spoilers. Except for random orgies and a brothel full of scantily clad whores...that's all I can say!!
B: Bwahahahaha. Short chapter this time... Shortest one in awhile. But at least it wasn't a month between updates, right? Of course right. But with the semester starting up and all... You know the drill. Groan.
F: B here says she won't be as available. I'm so depressed I can hardly speak.
B: ...I'm sorry. Stupid semester. If anyone would like to sit in on my American Health Care System class and take notes for me, that would be a help. Come on, it's only two hours long.
F: Also? We're both stressed and I'm currently dealing with lame people. SO I'll vent my anger into fic, because fic = yum
B: It does indeed. So, until next time everyone, stay safe and stay WARM! Damn northeast winters. -shudder-
This chapter celebrated with hot cocoa, to ward off the "negative three degrees, negative twenty-seven with windchill" weather.