Johnny "John-John" Moltisanti rapped his fingers against the granite island of his Boss' kitchen. The snow outside was getting heavier and heavier, and the Boss still hadn't texted him, requesting that the boys leave his penthouse so that he could spend some alone time with his girl. That lack of communication, coupled with the Boss' erratic behavior lately made Johnny...nervous.

The lights in the penthouse flickered, and Johnny watched the boys look up from their card game, annoyed. Sounds of the evening news played in the background.

Nikolai sat up, removing his dirty feet from the Boss' industrial coffee table. "Eh John-John, is Boss' girl?"

"What are you talking about, Russki?"

"On television. Also," Nikolai narrowed his eyes, "You know I am Serbian. Misha is Russki." Just as well; Johnny always had to clean up Nikolai's messes before the Boss arrived, or else the Boss would give him an earful about his once immaculately-clean home being dirty. That was never a fun time. Yeah: a little gentle ribbing was less than what Nikolai deserved.

Still, Johnny looked at the tv, his discomfort growing as the anchor described a scene of blood, and an injured Stella Porter. "Is lots of blood, no?"

Johnny squinted at the pool of red staining the ground behind the reporter. Yeah, it was definitely lots of blood. The amount you would see when a guy got whacked. He pursed his lips, checked his cell phone. Still nothing from the Boss.

Panic swept through him. Stella Porter, daughter of the DA was on her way to the hospital, after being found in a pool of blood that wasn't her own. No details on who made the call to EMS, and witnesses definitely heard gunshots, though they saw nothing. And still no word from the Boss. Did somebody whack him? Who would have the brass balls do try and do that?

Johnny ran through a list of possible assassins in his mind. Could've been a Commission hit. That was far-fetched, but possible: the heat in the city was turning up, and the last thing the five families of New York needed was the FBI blowing up their dealings in Empire City. Johnny knew they tolerated the Boss, but they never liked him: the guy was only half-Italian, on his crazyass father's side, and probably would've never been made in the first place, were it not for the fact that he was in the right place, at the right time, to save the Old Man.

Add to that, the fact he was relatively young for a captain, and then especially young for a boss, and his penchant for hiring lots of...non-Italians—Johnny scowled—the Boss had the reputation for being a maverick upstart. So, a Commission hit? Possible. Johnny nodded to himself, thinking, shit .

"Looks like someone got whacked," said Tommaso, who was a new member of Johnny's own crew. Young, bloodthirsty, Italian: just how Johnny liked his soldiers. "The Boss was going on a date with her tonight, wasn't he? You don't think—"

"Don't say another word," Johnny ordered. At the moment, he was the guy in charge. He liked the rush of power—he rarely got to flex it.

"Time now," Bobo said, and Johnny had to bite his lip in order to keep from jumping out of his seat at the sound of the guy's voice. Johnny's eyes darted to the big man, who was somehow even larger than the Boss, and who hardly ever spoke. A one-eyed ogre if he ever saw one. "What's up, Bobo?" Johnny asked, trying in vain to hide his obvious distaste for the Boss' favorite bodyguard.

"Door," Bobo said, pointing to the elegant entrance of the penthouse.

"Eh?" He heard the jostling of the door before he saw it. Something wasn't right. Reflexively, Johnny unholstered his glock, pointed it at the door, and the rest of the crew followed suit.

Once more Johnny had to bite his lip to keep from firing as his Boss walked in, a burning cigarette between the man's lips. The cigarette wasn't surprising, but the fact that his Boss was soaked in blood from head to toe? That definitely was, 'coz the Boss had had his share of killing, and these days wasn't usually quick to clip a guy, and especially not with his own hands. Though, there had been a few occasions…Johnny sucked in a breath, holstered his weapon.

The Boss walked right up to him, picked up his glass of untouched whiskey, and drank it down in one go. This close, Johnny could see how dark the stain of red was on his Boss' suit, and he started to worry his lip even more as it became apparent to him that the Boss was covered in his own blood, and not someone else's. Johnny swallowed. There was no way that could be possible. The stain was right in the middle of his chest! And yet...he gulped again, a hard lump in his throat threatening to choke him. "Boss?"

The Boss's cold, wintry eyes flicked to Johnny for half a second, before returning to observe the news about his girl on the television. He poured another shot of whiskey for himself, not taking his flinty eyes off the screen.

"Empire General," Bobo said, completely unprompted. The Boss nodded, drank down another glass of whiskey in one go, and walked into his bedroom without saying a word.

The crew looked at Johnny, each and every one of them slack-jawed. They continued to stare at each other, hearing their Boss rustle around in his bedroom, followed by the unmistakable sound of a shower jet turning on. "Lots of blood," Nikolai said after a moment. They all nodded.

"Only ever seen a guy covered in that much red when he's been whacked—"

"Shut up, Tommy. And don't be talking about how much blood a guy leaves after he's whacked, like you popped your cherry and know something. Pfft."

"You know it's true!" Tommaso argued.

"Look like walking corpse," Misha piped up, in his annoying, broken English, and Nikolai nodded in agreement. "Veles," the Serbian said. The two Slavs chatted to each other in what Johnny thought was probably Russian, but he couldn't be sure. He picked out what sounded like names, Veles and Morozko, and the two sounded like they were starting to argue.

"Neither," Bobo said, and the Slavs looked at the big ogre in unison. "He is Hades. But they are kin."

Johnny chuckled nervously. "Bobo, I think that's the longest sentence your dumbass has ever said. Didn't realize you had two brain cells to rub together and were capable of actual conversation." Nobody laughed. The Slavs shook their heads.

"Brothers," said Misha.

Nikolai scratched his beard. "Or maybe cousins."

Bobo nodded. "Of a kind."

"Eh?" Johnny asked. He looked at Tommaso for answers, but the kid looked just as confused as he felt. "Stupid," Bobo said, nodding towards him, and the two Slavs laughed.

Whatever was happening here, Johnny didn't understand any of it. "Yeah, well, fuck you guys too, then," he muttered, making to stand and pouring himself another shot glass of whiskey.

Bobo cleared his throat. "Finished," he said, and involuntarily Johnny gulped, turning his head towards his Boss' bedroom. The man stepped out in a new suit, walking with no limp, and with a look of determination and fury in his eyes that made Johnny's blood run cold. "Boss?"

He noticed the two Slavs lowering their heads at his entrance, like they were bowing; Bobo was bending his enormous body completely at the waist. Nervously, Tommaso followed their example, but Johnny stood there frozen, unsure of what to do. "My lord," Bobo said. The fuck? Johnny thought. Johnny's nervous eyes darted back to his Boss, who nodded curtly in acknowledgement of his crew's solemn deference while adjusting his tie.

"Boss?" Johnny asked again, instantly wishing that he hadn't, because the Boss' laser-focused attention was on him now, and locking eyes with the man made Johnny feel like he couldn't fucking breathe. The Boss strode up to him, graceful and predatory, and Johnny's throat went dry. Once more, he took the glass of whiskey that Johnny had poured for himself and drank it in one go. Johnny looked away; he dared not meet the Boss' eyes. The Boss had always been a mean son of a bitch, but something about him had changed, and Johnny felt like he was on the verge of pissing himself from fear.

Stretching his neck, the Boss moved towards the threshold of his penthouse, and said: "Johnny."

Johnny shivered. From the corner of his eye, Johnny could see that the Boss had his back towards him, and he breathed a quick sigh of relief. "Yeah, Boss?"

"Make sure this place is spotless before I return."

"Of course, Bo—"

The man walked out and shut the door before Johnny could finish his sentence.


Elena Castellanos eyed the clock on her computer screen: 7:50pm. Just ten more minutes before she could clock out and watch the latest episode of The Bachelor. She had avoided watching the show for most of her adult life, but now she was divorced and semi-retired, and "trash tv," as her daughter called it, was more entertaining than it had any right to be.

"Whew, Twitter is really popping off about the DA's kid being here." That was Sam, her technology-savvy coworker. The lights flickered for a moment, and Elena threw an uneasy look towards the hospital's entrance. "I'm more concerned about driving back home in this storm, to be honest," she said. "What's the word on that?"

"Lots of doomsdayers. End is nigh bullcrap. You'd think these people had never experienced a nor'easter before."

Elena stared at the clock again: 7:52. She sighed. "Bomb cyclone of the century. It came out of nowhere." She sniffed, smelling smoke. The sliding glass doors of the hospital opened and a man walked in with a cigarette in his mouth, casual and cool, like the biggest storm of the year wasn't knocking at their doorstep.

He stood in front of the reception desk. "I'm looking for my wife's room." His voice was rich and deep, conjuring up images of dark caverns with veins of gold. "Stella Porter."

"Visiting hours end in eight minutes, sir," Elena said, staring at the strange man in front of her. "And…" she cocked her head to the side, taking in his odd appearance. Certainly, he looked wealthy: his suit was well-tailored, and the rings on his fingers—a platinum wedding band, inlaid with some kind of inscription, and a...sigil?—were well-made. She was pretty sure that his cufflinks were made out of diamonds, too.

"And?" He had just questioned her in Greek. Elena swallowed. She hadn't heard anyone speak Greek since her childhood. "You can't smoke in here," she responded in kind.

"Ah, I see," he said, his words becoming more difficult to understand, sounding not only formal but...ancient. "My apologies," he continued, putting the butt of the cigarette out on his tongue. He was frightening. Again, she observed the inscription on his wedding band, recognizing the letters as ancient symbols. Elena's skin started to tingle. She did not look into his eyes; instinct told her not to.

"Hey, buddy," Sam said, completely oblivious to the danger of the man standing in front of them. "Visiting hours are over."

"Are you afraid?" His voice wrapped around her, a blanket of smoke and darkness, and she shuddered.

"Yes."

He hummed, sounding pleased. "Do you know who I am?"

A myth. A story, told to her by her parents, and then told to her in school. A legend—an ancient, dour king. Elena kept her eyes glued to his chest and the ringed hand he had placed on the reception desk. "Yes."

"Sir, I'm calling security if you don't leave." Elena could already hear Sam dialing. She saw a flash of movement from him, probably a wave of his hand, and heard the electric hum of a dead dial tone.

"Fuck this," Sam said, slamming the useless headset down. "Security! Security!"

"Elena," he said, ignoring the calls from two approaching security officers. He tapped his fingers in a one-two rhythm atop the desk. "Tell me what my wife's room number is."

The officers were behind him now, taser guns out. "Elenaaaa," he repeated, elongating her name with what sounded vaguely like mirth. "I am waiting."

"Sir, if you do not leave, we will be forced to taze you. You have five seconds to comply. One, two—"

He tapped his index finger against the desk, and at the moment of contact, the two men collapsed behind him. Elena's heart raced; she could hear their cries of madness-induced agony as they writhed on the ground, just as clearly as she could see Sam cowering behind the desk and crossing herself. "I will not ask again."

Elena swallowed. She wasn't trying to antagonize the death god; she was just frozen with fear. "Forgive me, Rich One," she sputtered, not daring to utter his name. She was trying, couldn't he see? Her fingers shook.

A colder presence joined him, and Elena felt herself struggling to keep her composure. "Death approaches," he said. "Do not keep me waiting any longer, Elena Castellanos."

Another moment passed. Coldness gripped her, and she gasped. "She can see me?"

"No, my friend." Against her better judgement, she looked up at his face, and saw that he was smiling. Her fear amused him; she felt sick. She did not look into his eyes. "But she can certainly hear and feel you—is that not right, Elena?"

"Yes, Rich One." Elena was trembling. Distantly, she could hear Sam crying. She gazed at her clock: 7:55. How had only three minutes passed? She typed the name, 'Stella Porter,' into the hospital registry, and realized with a new, potent wave of fear who the woman must be, and found her voice cracking when she told him the room number.

"Thank you kindly," he said, switching back to English. She nodded stiffly. He left four coins on the desk, and her stomach dropped when she realized what they were for. "Don't forget," he said, barking a deep and menacing laugh that made her want to curl into a ball and hide. She looked at the clock again: 7:57. She tore her eyes from his back as he walked to the elevator and stepped in, choosing instead to look again at the snowstorm that raged outside. She copied Sam's gesture and crossed herself, though she knew it would do nothing.

"Elena," Sam cried, shivering. "Who was he?"

Elena shuddered, moving to hold her coworker. The security officers were still groaning, and Elena did not know what to do for them—or if she could do anything for them. She wrapped her arms around Sam, and the two women cradled each other. "King of the Dead," Elena said. "And he brings Death with him."


Dr. Jennifer Murphy kissed her mother goodnight, and worried. The woman had taken a spill in the shower earlier that day, breaking her hip in the process. Dr. Murphy worried because her mother was in her eighties, and hip fractures were especially difficult for such elderly patients. Her mother was in good hands, though; Dr. Murphy's husband was Empire General's best orthopedic surgeon, and Dr. Murphy knew he had taken good care of her mother's injury. Still, anxiety plagued her: during the surgery on her mother, her husband had discovered a highly aggressive orthopedic cancer. The initial news of this diagnosis was devastating, and after speaking with the oncologist, Dr. Murphy had determined that the prognosis for her mother was grim. Six months, at best—the most of which her mother would spend in pain and recovery from surgery.

So, ever the dutiful daughter, Dr. Murphy had stayed late visiting and speaking with her mom, telling her that she loved her, until finally the nurse came in to inform them that visiting hours would soon be over. Dr. Murphy gathered up her purse, kissed her sweet mother on the cheek, and only slightly startled when the lights went out. There was commotion outside her mother's room: voices of panicked doctors asking about the back-up generators, and why they weren't already powering the building. She paused in the doorway, torn between staying with her mother and trying to help find a solution.

"Dr. Murphy." That voice was familiar...though it was not one she would ever expect to hear outside of her job. She faced him, turning on the flashlight function of her phone. "Mr. Black?"

Amusement tugged at his lips, like she had said a joke. When she had met him for the first time, she found him fascinating: a gangster suffering from complete hallucinations, and the son of Horatio Astarita, who was infamous enough on his own—well, that was the kind of delicious case she had dreamed about treating since medical school. At the time, she did not fear him. She could not say the same thing now.

"In the flesh."

"What are you doing here?" she stammered. The lights turned back on, though that did not bring her any comfort, as they were the only two people left in the hallway. She got the distinct and disturbing feeling that he was toying with her, somehow, and she stepped into the doorway of her mother's room, as if to defend her.

"Retrieving my wife, who happens to be in that room behind you, good doctor."

"Your wife?" Dr. Murphy let herself sneak a quick glance into the room, spying on her mother's young roommate, just returned from surgery. Dark skin, auburn curls—Cassandra Porter's daughter! She put the pieces together, feeling her resolve to stand in the doorway grow as she realized that the woman he'd been thinking of as his Persephone was Stella Porter. "Mr. Black, you are in the middle of a hallucination. That's not your wife; you're not even married."

His smile grew wider, and Dr. Murphy only grew more afraid because she knew that he was, above all, a killer like his father; he wouldn't hesitate to hurt her if she continued to stand in his way. "Dr. Murphy, you have been kind to me, and I would like to repay that kindness when I am able. But—" he stepped closer now, menacing, "you are correct in your assessment of me. Move, or I will make you move."

She laughed, but it was the kind of delirious laugh one makes when one has no other recourse. "What exactly do you think is going to happen here, Logan? You can't just...you can't just kidnap this girl out of her hospital bed!"

"Dr. Murphy," he said, waving his hand to the left; with a sudden, incredible impact, Dr. Jennifer Murphy felt herself snatched from the doorway and pressed into the wall, the wind knocked out of her completely. She wheezed, feeling a dense pressure on her chest. He stood in front of her, gently replacing the glasses that had fallen from her face. "I think you will find that I can."

If she could nod, she would; if she could suck in enough air, she would scream. But she could do neither of these things. The lights of the hospital went out again, and she stayed pinned against the wall of the hallway, struggling to take a proper breath, and completely unable to speak. Don't hurt my mother, she wanted to say. Please, just spare her. And then, more desperate: Just a few more years. Please...Hades. Dr. Murphy shut her eyes and began to pray to him, begging that he wouldn't touch her mother, not yet. She was not sure how many minutes she spent there, pinned against the wall by an invisible, oppressive force, but when she saw him emerge from the room, he had an unconscious Stella Porter in his arms.

With a flick of his wrist, Dr. Murphy fell forward, released from her prison against the wall, and she would have collapsed completely had he not caught her. His right hand was on her shoulder, supporting her weight; the other held his bride, and she marveled at his strength. "I've not been prayed to in many years, Dr. Murphy. Indeed, very few would even dare to invoke my name." His eyes were hard when he looked at her, and even harder under the fluorescent lights of the hospital, which had flickered back to life. She backed away from him, trembling.

She didn't know what to say. Had she been rude? This entire experience contradicted everything she believed about the world—about religion, about science—and maybe, maybe, she was the one hallucinating all along. That would be the only credible explanation. And yet—"I'm sorry," she stammered, "I didn't know how to—what else to say—"

His ruthless expression softened, and he readjusted her glasses with an easy smile. The contact surprised her; she held in a skittish peel of laughter that threatened to bubble out. "Your mother has a few years yet, and they will not be spent in misery. Save your prayers for when you need them, and I will do my best to...indulge your request. Take care, Doctor."

And with that, he walked away from her, a slumbering Stella Porter in his arms. "Jennie, Jennie is that you?"

Dr. Murphy blinked, realizing that she had been crying. "Yes, Ma." She went into her mother's room, sat down by her, and held her hand. She would stay with her mother tonight, she decided. "Jennie, did you see those two handsome men?"

Dr. Murphy swallowed hard. "There was only one man, Ma."

Her mother laughed, squeezing her hand with affection. "No, no, there were two. The younger one said he'd be back to visit me in a few years. Can you believe that? Said he couldn't wait to see me when I reached one hundred. I said, sonny, I don't think I'll make it there, but if I get to see your handsome face again, I'll try, ha ha ha!"

Dr. Murphy laughed, tears in her eyes. One hundred. Fifteen more years. She kissed her mother on the cheek and closed her eyes, silently thanking her patient. Fifteen more years. He had given her that, and that would be enough.