A/N: Yay! I had time to post! This is a long one, but don't give up on it! There's a good reason why I wanted to post so badly!

"He's got Spot's eyes," said Sarah Jacobs. "There's not doubt about that."

Gabby smiled faintly to herself as she watched Noah play with Sarah's delicate fingers. No matter how angry she was with Spot, a piece of her couldn't help but smile when she looked at her son's eyes.

She noticed how Sarah Jacobs looked happy. Sarah Jacobs wore a smile that concealed anything out of place in her life. Sarah Jacobs was good at being and pretending. Noah sat in Sarah's lap as her chocolate brown eyes danced with delight at the joy an infant brought to her. Something deep within Gabby wanted to cry as she watched.

"He's well-behaved," Sarah told Gabby, turning towards her. "He hasn't made a fuss all night, even at dinner."

"Yeah" was all Gabby could say in reply. It was Thanksgiving, she should be thankful at least. The Jacobs were kind enough to invite Spot, Gabby, and Noah to dinner at their new apartment. Hell, they practically begged them to come over; David had come home for a visit from Pennsylvania and they wanted a celebratory get-together.

Aside from the feeling of being useless in terms of providing her own dinner, Gabby was feeling so thankful that it made her jealous. She envied the care the Jacobs had given their family and how well they kept everything together. Even if something bad beneath the surface had happened, they had everybody fooled. Gabby felt bare and vulnerable and desperate.

Not far from the couch, Meyer and Esther Jacobs sat at the wooden table of the kitchen with Spot, Jack, Les Jacobs, and David. The eldest son talked in great-length about the opportunities his Uncle William had given him. He was studying business in Pennsylvania. But Esther and Meyer were not jealous of William, Esther's successful brother; instead, they were bursting with pride, and it baffled Gabby. Even Spot and Jack had the same looks on their faces. Spot. He refused not to bow down to the great David, though, Gabby could tell. He subtly acted superior to him even if it was not all too visible. Gabby was disgusted.

Sarah rubbed her pure index finger over Noah's soft cheek. The baby giggled, causing more happiness from Sarah. A sudden surge of emotion surfaced with Gabby and she found her eyes to be drowning. Quickly she stood up and grabbed her coat.

"I'm going to get some fresh air," she said hastily.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

The balcony was a convenient escape. It was high enough to hear yourself think but low enough to keep you grounded. Gabby's tears flooded down her cheeks and she couldn't help but be embarrassed in her loneliness.

What is this? thought Gabby. I never used to cry like this. The biting, November breeze wiped any trace of tears from her cheeks, and as the minutes passed she seemed to pull herself together bit by bit. The window from inside opened carefully and Jack Kelly climbed onto the small, iron balcony.

"Takin' a break?"

Gabby sighed. "Yeah, I suppose you could say that."

Jack joined her as he imitated her elbows placed dependently on the rail. He pulled out a cigarette. "We all need some 'a those once in a while."

"Too right you are," replied Gabby in a helpless tone.

"You feelin' okay?" inquired Jack worriedly.

"Yes, I'm fine."

"I think ya're lyin' to me." Jack stuck the cigarette between his lips and cupped his hand so the wind wouldn't blow out the match. "Ya're not one 'a those people that can hide things real easy, I'se noticed."

Gabby was unsure of how to respond. Yes, she knew that. What was he trying to say to her?

"I'm dealin' with a lot right now, okay?" Gabby could feel the desperation slowly seeping out. She didn't want to stop it but there it was.

"I understand. Spot said you two are goin' through a rough patch right now."

"Did he, now?" Gabby quirked an eyebrow and brought it back down again. "What exactly does he tell you guys? I mean, you probably know more about our relationship than I do."

Jack pressed his lips together and Gabby could tell that she had put him in an awkward position. "Sorry."

"That makes two of us," muttered Gabby beneath her breath. Her hands reached her face and she held them there, rubbing her temples. Her eyes felt puffy and rubbed raw. She was in that naked state of emotion again in front of Spot's best friend.

Jack wrapped his arm around Gabby's shoulder and rubbed her arm gently. The touch was not at all breaching the bounds of friendship for it brought her comfort. A simple act of somehow saying "it's going to be okay" was something she needed at the time. She felt a little better about herself. Until…

"Somethin' goin' on out here?"

Jack and Gabby turned around and saw Spot standing in the window frame. His hands gripped the window sill and the muscles in his forearms were visible. A puzzled stare, masked by suspicion, took his face and made a shudder rake through Gabby's body.

"Hey…" said Jack awkwardly. "Just, uh, smokin' a cig real quick."

Spot glared at Gabby while he spoke.

"Well," Spot turned his gaze to Jack, "we're leavin' soon."

Jack nodded and climbed back into the window. Gabby hesitated a moment and followed suit. As if seven nights of the week were not enough, the boys were going out again. "It's to celebrate Dave bein' home," Spot had told her a few nights ago.

Gabby joined Sarah at the couch while everyone else said goodbye for the night. Noah was still cradled in Sarah's arms and she still wore an expression of absolute glee. It was going to be a long night.

"Fuck!" shouted Racetrack over the deafening noises. "Ya see that?"

The boys' necks craned from the bar over the sea of suited and sweaty men. The prize fight in the center O'Reilly's Social Club had delivered a powerful uproar as the burly German man clobbered the short American.

"Smashed the guy's head right into ground!" Racetrack stood on his toes to catch a better view. "Ya guys're missin' the best fight 'a the night!"

Skittery threw his head back into a shot of strong vodka and grabbed David by the back of his collar. The two made an attempt to work through the crowd of greedy, crude spectators. The men ranged from twenty to seventy, clutching money in their hands and bellowing their voices in a mist of liquor and alcohol.

Spot cringed in tasteless pleasure as the American threw an unexpected clout to the German's bare back. The larger man stumbled to his knee, fighting to get back up again, though the stout American took full advantage of the man's position. Spot set down his mug of beer as the sound of three crisp claps against the wooden floor rang out and the American raised his arm in triumph. He let out a congratulatory holler and brought his hands together in a round of claps amidst the cheering and booing of the men.

"Man, do I love my job!" laughed Racetrack. "Still wanna go back to school, Davey?"

David ambled back towards the bar where Racetrack, Jack, Spot, and Skittery sat in a row. He answered in chuckle, "Not really! You can't get that shit in Pennsylvania."

The group turned their attention, much like the rest of the room, towards the meager stage near the back of the open-spaced building. A piano began its jolly tune and a line of scantily-clad young women emerged from behind the green velvet curtain. Delighted cheers arose from the room as the tassels of their corset costumes shook and wiggled to the beat of the music.

"Or that," finished David once he turned his head to see the show. He hopped up on a barstool next to Racetrack and let out a contented sigh. "When's the next fight gonna start?"

"Cool it, kid, give 'em time fer a breather." Racetrack had an air of superiority that he held over those who did not have the pleasure of working at such an exciting Club.

Spot tapped his fingers along the edge of the bar and watched the stage. It was far away but he could still imagine the girls to be somewhat like Kat. Eager and willing. Given the atmosphere about him, with all the makings of underworld society, he wanted to see her. No, he wanted to kiss her and have his way with her because someone else wasn't going to let him. It made him angry—furious—that he couldn't be close to Gabby anymore; at least somebody showed an interest in him. He hadn't slept with Kat yet, but as God as his witness he was going to. In his mind, it just had to be done.

"I don't think the American's comin' back to fight," said Jack.. "Or the German fella."

"Well, who in the hell's gonna provide the entertainment now?" reacted David in a tone fit for a toddler. He slammed a dollar bill onto the bar. "I need fight!"

"I agree," added Spot. "Haven't soaked anyone good in forever. Musta been Tyce and I think we all know how that ended."

"Yeah," laughed Jack. "Same heah, I think mine was Jumper from Harlem. Didn't quite finish him off, but we roughed 'im up pretty good. Hope I nevah see that piece 'a shit again as long as I live."

"I paid my money, now I wanna see a fight!" yelled David.

"Well said, junior!" interrupted the bartender of fifty years. He let out a raspy laugh and served him another glass of whiskey. He walked out from behind the counter and yelled to the room, "Hey! Can we see some skull-bashin' around heah?"

Spot flipped a coin in his hand while the old man began bribing customers right in front of him, screaming "free drinks to the winna, c'mon, c'mon, don't be shy, boys! This is a Social Club, we gotta get some excitement goin' on!" Spot laughed to himself.

A few men rose from their seats, forming a large circle and looking around to scope out any candidates. Spot's coin flipped into the air and back down again, falling to the floor. He hopped down from his barstool, a dizzier feeling washing over him much more so than he expected, and bent down to find it.

"C'mon…whoa, wait here fellas!" shouted the bartender. "This one heah's itchin' to knock a few out!"

Spot felt around the wooden floor looking for his priceless coin. Where was that damn thing? He knocked into feet and legs hoping to feel it under his hand. Suddenly he felt something grab the back of his collar and he was hoisted up onto his feet.

"We got one!"

"What?" asked Spot, utterly confused.

"Don't be shy, son, go on out there!"

Spot's eyes darted from side to side and noticed a bunch of men patting him on the back, grabbing at his jacket to get it off. He looked back at his friends in bewilderment and saw that they simply went along with the rest, cheering on Spot to prize fight.

He had to laugh for a moment, for he soon found himself in the middle of the room surrounded by the men that, not long ago, were rooting for the best man to win. He removed his jacket and shirt, throwing them back behind him. He was about to fight somebody any minute now and he felt a rush; it had been a while since he beat the shit out of someone.

After Queens, Spot was prepared to fight anyone from any territory, no matter what their relationship to Brooklyn was. Harlem, mostly, because that Jumper character made him want to kill something, not to mention the fact that Jumper was on the side of Queens during the war. The Bronx leader, Tommy Timms always rubbed him the wrong way. Midtown's Woodson Adams was always too cocky for him. Even Manhattan's Jack Kelly pissed him off sometimes; tonight catching him with Gabby was no exception.

"All right, all right!" Shane O'Reilly held up his hands to ease the wild crowd. "You're forgettin', boys, we need another person in this fight! Is there anyone who wants to fight—" He turned his head to Spot, "What's yer name, kid?"

"Conlon."

"You an Irish?" mumbled O'Reilly.

Spot glared at him. O'Reilly turned to the crowd again.

"Irish! I got one fresh off the boat, men, and I need someone to take 'im on!" He turned to Spot again who had a questioning stare. "They get more fired up if you're an immigrant. More excitement, more money fer me."

Spot was offended that anyone would think him a boat-ridden potato boy from Ireland. "I was born heah, O'Reilly."

"And you'll die here, too, don't make any difference to me or the rest 'a these guys. Irish, Italian, German…it's all the same." O'Reilly circled the room. "Anyone, anyone at all lookin' to clobber this Irish fella I got heah!"

"I'll do it!"

A strong, fierce voice parted the room from the entrance. All eyes searched around the room in the same direction. The only thing Spot could see was the divide of the mass of men in which his opponent was creating a path.

"At least look intimidating, boy!" whispered O'Reilly loudly to Spot.

Regretting that he had been drinking, Spot turned around so that his back was facing his challenger. He raised his arms up with the Conlon smirk spread across his face and the men in his favor began applauding and shouting rowdily in support. He noticed Racetrack, Jack, Skittery, and David had made their way to the front. Racetrack stepped into the circle and yanked Spot's arm above him as if he had already won.

"Who is this guy comin' up?" asked Spot.

"Don't know."

After a minute of pumping the crowd up to his liking, O'Reilly brought the men to a hush as best as he could. They turned around and waited in anticipation for the opponent's introduction.

"Gentlemen, it is my pleasure," started O'Reilly, "to give another immigrant for Irish to fight!"

A massive uproar erupted throughout the room.

"Not just another immigrant, but an Italian!"

Even louder cheering. People love pure hatred that takes the form of a fight, and even though everyone hated the Irish, they also hated Italians just the same.

"I give you, Mr. Ireland, Johnny Salvini!"

O'Reilly moved out of the way so that the start of the Italy train was revealed. The guy had his hat tipped below his eyes, but it was evident that he was Spot's age. His skin was light and fair, and his hair was dark, much like Racetrack.

Spot marched up to the center of the circle to wait impatiently for this guy. As the Italian took his time unbuttoning his shirt, something inside him made his stomach drop.

"Hey Race, is that…"

Italy took his hat off.

"No…"

Conlon's speeding pulse. O'Reilly's customers going crazy.

Italy smirked. And Ireland stood there in disbelief.

"Jumper."