Within the side room being used as temporary refuge, one of the Triggerman's finest and most certainly one of the grumpiest stands guard with his back against the wall, his hands wrapped around his SMG, and his ear trained on any activity happening only two rooms away, which at this point is practically non-existent.

"It's too fucking quiet out there," Frankie finally breaks the momentary silence, which didn't last as long as it felt, but he's anxious. There's not much of a distance between him and whatever the hell is going on in the lobby, so he ought to be hearing something, anything.

Maybe his age is starting to show, he can certainly feel it in his joints in the morning.

Frankie turns his head to look at his entourage, which less than an hour ago was only him and Miss. Carolyn, now it's more like a dick measuring contest between him and the only actual dick in the entire Vault. Of course ole' Nicky Valentine had to show up right on time to show off and make him look like a total ass in the process.

Valentine is half sitting on a metal crate next to Miss. Carolyn, sticking close like he's weary of whether or not the old Triggerman would pull something, which, by all means Nicky, be as paranoid as you want. You're the one who got hold up in that office for two solid weeks because of the fatso who just got his brains blown out by the only john he knows that has balls bigger than his biceps. Fuck, what a hell of a sight.

The dick must have felt Frankie staring him down waiting for some idle agreement to his comment, because he glances up at him from just under the rim of his fedora, his bright yellow peepers looking downright disturbing in the dark, like the glowing eyes of some feral or wild animal. In any case, he returns Frankie's glare without much regard and doesn't say anything in response.

Frankie finds himself getting antsy, and he motions out the door with the barrel of his SMG, "You heard all that gunfire, right?" His tone is edging towards something more confrontational in order to illicit some kind of response, "Something must've gone down."

Valentine just blinks at him, "You don't sound so sure about this Boss of yours."

Frankie grits his teeth, yeah sure, he was hoping that Hank would come home and fix this colossal shit-storm that that asshole Malone riled up, but he also hoped it would happen immediately and he wouldn't need to sit around here with his thumb up his ass wondering.

"Fuck it," He growls, cocking the chamber of his SMG like he was switching himself on in the process, "I'm gonna go check it out, make sure all of our guys aren't dead in a hole while we're on standby."

"Look pal, staying put was your idea, remember?" Valentine snaps, suddenly very concerned with what Frankie has to say, "What the hell are we supposed to do if you bite the bullet?"

"You got a gun, don'cha?" Frankie's too high on the rush of anxiousness to consider that staying put is most certainly the best course of action, but his curiosity, among other things, is getting the best of him, "Just head back to the construction zone and stay out of sight, plenty of holes to crawl around in."

Valentine doesn't clap back; instead he looks completely exasperated and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, "Christ…"

Ultimately satisfied, Frankie rounds the corner and heads into the adjacent room. Tony asked him to keep an eye on the dame, but he isn't a babysitter, besides it's not like he's planned on running right into the lobby yelling and firing into the air. He'll just have a look; see if it looks like good or bad news, and then sneak back to figure out their next move. He just wants to make sure there's no assault waiting on the very small likelihood that his Boss wasn't able to pick up all the pieces.

With the swing of his focus into the dark, he almost fires his SMG into the wall when he runs into a familiar brick wall of a man; Tony is not a few steps from the door to the lobby when they run into each other.

"Jesus, Tone!" Frankie snaps in a hushed voice, backing off with his hands far from the trigger given that he might fire off a few rounds out of indignation, though his attitude changes remarkably when he can see the silhouette of Tony's expression from the light streaming in through the barred windows.

He looks ashen, gaunt, his eyes wide and afraid as he harbours the appearance of something almost spectral, a dead man walking. Frankie reels back as his brother is suddenly so unrecognizable to him but at the same time unmistakable. For a moment he has the likeness of their father, a man that looked plastic and fake as he lie dead in his bed after a heart attack took him out while he slept.

Frankie's voice shakes as he speaks, "Tone?"

"Is Miss. Carolyn with you?" Tony asks like he can't see the fear in his eyes.

"Y-yeah, man, but-"

"What about Nick, is he still in the overseer's office?"

"Valentine? No," He motions over his shoulder, "No… he's back there with Miss. Carolyn, he came outta pretty much nowhere-"

Tony levels himself down to make sure he's looking him in the eye, his large hands grab both of Frankie's shoulders with a force that could crush a glass bottle, "Shut up, Frank, listen to me. We need both of 'em out there ASAP."

"Man, what the fuck is going on?" Frankie demands, he's already stiff with fear but Tony calling him anything but his nickname makes his heart start to thunder.

"I don't got time to explain, do you trust me?"

Frankie nods immediately, but it's out of panic and instinct rather than affirmation.

"Alright," Tony presses his mouth flat, as if in consideration, and then lets him go, "get out there and blend in with the others, I'll take care of the rest."

Frankie staggers back, letting his brother pass him in the room, and then does as he's told.

Frankie's gone before Nick can argue; the knucklehead is acting rash and might do a fine job of stepping on that proverbial landmine rather than do any actual good. However, with him gone for the moment, he has the opportunity to speak to their collective damsel without Frankie breathing down his neck. Mostly he needs to make sure that she's going to be able to move quickly if the gunfire resumes.

"Alright," Nick stands up, giving his leg a light bend to test that the joint isn't going to pop open if he tries to walk on it again, "We might need to get a move on if our friend doesn't come back."

The woman is still, sitting on the crate with her head tucked down, and staring at the handkerchief he'd given her as she winds it slowly around her fingers. She hasn't said a word since siding with Frankie about staying put, he gets her reasoning, seeming it's based on knowing more about these types of people than he might have originally considered, but the triggerman might be on his way to making sure it's all redundant.

Nick steps over to her and leans down to try and get a better look at her face, her eyes are glazed, she looks miles away, "Hey, you okay?"

She pulls her head up at blinks slowly at him, exhaustion is lined on her face, through the dirt and grime on her complexion she's looking really pallid, assuming that isn't natural for her, but he can see sweat beading on her hairline, and the bruise on her forehead is more swollen than before.

"Um," She closes her eyes again and reaches up to press the back of her hand to her forehead, her fair coloured brows pinched together in pain, headache more n' likely, "I'm fine."

Nick can feel the anxiousness in his chest grow, she needs a doctor, and the only one he knows of close by is sitting on the other side of a group of angry mobsters. Maybe they could've gotten out if she'd taken his side, but if she can't see straight, it wouldn't have done them much good out in the Commons. Getting out of the Vault and back to the surface is one thing, but getting back to Diamond City is a whole other ball game.

No pun intended.

"Alright, how 'bout we get you to your feet first off," He offers, to which she nods mildly and takes his arm as he hold it out to her. He's trying to be as gentle as he can given that he's not flesh and blood, but the second she's vertical, all of the effort she had put into standing suddenly collapses against him.

Instinctually, Nick grabs her around her waist, struggling to keep her upright as he backs into one of the crates with her against him. He has to fight a sudden choking sensation in his throat like someone had their entire hand around his phantom windpipe, "Whoa-Hey, hey, hey-stay with me!"

"Can't..." She breathes out, "I can't..."

Nick grits his jaw and, somehow, using his body as leverage, manages to sit her back down onto the crate without unceremoniously dropping her right on her hind quarters, not that she would have noticed at this point, but it leaves his knees practically on fire, and he can feel his coolant rushing through his body to cool his circuits, but the sensation of the hand around his throat is immediately gone.

Christ, what the hell was that.

Nick kneels down in front of her, reaching out to prop her shoulders up as she teeters, threatening to fall face first and right on top of him, "Hey, don't give up on me yet. We still have to get you home, remember?"

Her expression is neutral and exhausted as she shakes her head, "It doesn't matter..."

"Of course it does," Nick argues firmly, "You weren't brought here because they asked you nice."

"I don't have anywhere to go..."

Valentine glances up to the injury on her forehead again, "You're not thinking straight, you need someone to look at that crack on your noggin', we'll get you right and rain and we can figure it out from there."

"I don't know what I was thinking," She doesn't seem to hear him, instead murmuring as though to herself, "I don't have anyone waiting for me out there, I don't have..."

Nick opens his mouth to repeat with insistence that she's not thinking right, but then she looks up at him with some kind of sudden recollection that makes his voice fall short, and she smiles bitterly to herself when he doesn't speak.

"You're a nice man," She says, "You must have a family, a home out there. People you care about and who care about you, you... shouldn't be worrying over me, I don't have... anything out there that I'm in a huge rush to get to, so... if you think that you should go, then go... I'm sure Frankie, or Tony, will help me like they said they would."

Nick stares at her, studying the air of reminiscence in her voice, and after a brief moment of deliberation he leans back to pull his trench coat from his shoulders, shrugging it off and straightening up so he can gently wrap it around her, she flinches, and then looks up at his hands as they adjust the collar around her.

"Sorry, doll," He smiles crookedly, "That ain't my MO."

When she lifts her gaze to him, he shifts the coat and retrieves his screwdriver which had been recently used outside of its intended purpose and still has a bit of color on the metal to show for it. He gives it a quick wipe on his slacks, reaches out to gently grab her wrist from her lap, and then firmly places the handle in the palm of her hand so the long shaft is pointed outwards.

"Alright, we don't know what kind of mess we're going to be in, so I want you to take this, hide it in the sleeve of your suit," Nick instructs, "It's no gun, but it's useful in a pinch."

Her gaze flashes to the screwdriver, suddenly her brow furrows and she focuses back on him, cutting through the haze, it's the same look that made his gears go stiff back in the Overseers office, there's something in her expression that looks too familiar for him to ignore, he can't pass it off as some kind of issue with his processor, somehow... he knows her. He has to.

Problem is he can't remember when, or where, he's met her before and it's frustrating the hell out of him, because it means he can't put the right wires in place to figure it out in this broken mind of his. He's a detective; things like this are part of his job description.

Could be that her face is somewhere within those fleeting images forever seared into his noggin, scrambled and sometimes so confusing and without context that it leaves him with those helpless moments of anxiety and fear that he can't do anything about.

Ah, hell...

Suddenly Valentine perks up to the sound of heavy and hurried footsteps coming from the room where Frankie disappeared. He half expects the mobster to come scrambling back in all alarmed and flustered out of his wits, but Nick is genuinely surprised to see Tony when he turns around. Relieved more like, he seems to be the only john in this joint that knows what the hell is going on.

His relief is fairly brief when he spots the look of blanched horror on Tony's face, however.

"We got a situation," He explains quickly, "I need the two of you out in the lobby, immediately."

Valentine eases himself back to his feet, "What kind of situation are we talkin' about, here?"

"I don't got time to explain," Tony responds steely, "But I'm going to ask you both to trust me."

Nick can see the sincerity in his face even though he can't hear it in his voice. He likes Tony, and so far he's been pretty morally high considering most mobster standards, so trusting him at this point wouldn't go against a lot of his instincts, at least much less than trusting Frankie.

Still... he has an awful bad feeling that he's about to find out about what's making the lot of them so scared stiff.

Without waiting for a positive affirmation from either of them, Tony approaches and Nick takes a step back as the large man kneels in front of their damsel, much like Nick had earlier, and he can tell by the look on her face that she's happy to see him.

Nick's slowly folds his arms behind him, out of sight as the two are preoccupied, and his hands press together at the small of his back and quickly search for Vinny's revolver, finding it still tucked into the belt of his slacks and against his hind. He hopes he doesn't have to use it.

"Are you alright?" Tony asks her.

She nods weakly, "I'm okay."

"Okay," He repeats, and then reaches out to touch her arm, "Look; I need to ask you something... you're from a Vault, right?"

Her expression turns suddenly hesitant, confused, and she nods again after a brief pause.

"When you got out," Tony speaks slowly as if he wants to be perfectly understood, "did anyone else make it out with you?"

The woman opens her mouth more so in surprise rather than to answer, but then her eyes trail down and Nick can see a sudden painful recollection in them, images that flash across her mind like an old pre-war film. She shakes her head and doesn't say anything, but Nick can see her tense up, her hand now balled like a fist around her soiled handkerchief.

Tony nods sympathetically, "Don't worry," He assures her, "You're going to be okay, Carolyn."

The sharp iron stench of blood and gunpowder is heavy in the air and it hits Carolyn like a punch the moment she steps out into the Vault Lobby. To her horror, it's immediate and clear what's causing it. The bodies of triggermen lie scattered around the feet of those still standing, what looks like two dozen suits splashed haphazardly with buckets of maroon paint. Tony is at her side helping her along, and his large body blocks most of the broad view, but it doesn't stop her from seeing enough to be certain. She lifts a hand to her mouth to stop from making a sound to betray her revulsion, she looks away, but their faces don't disappear. Faces that resemble the images of the assembly plant, the look of the bodies outside the Vault. They're all different, in death and life, but the appearance is the same, that dead plastic stare that makes them look like they were never humans at all.

Carolyn keeps her gaze low, watching her path as she has to ease herself over the feet of an unidentified body in her way. When she does finally lift her gaze, she's suddenly catches the eye of the true Boss of the Triggermen.

Giovanni...

Carolyn stares into his face as they approach, his eyes dark and intense, trying to burning a hole right through her. Though she's visibly shaking and nauseous, she finds she's able to return his gaze steadily. God, he looks so uncanny, even up close, it's like she's looking into the eyes of the old Giovanni himself, a man she had considered a close friend in her other life. She searches his face for some indication that he might know who she is, something to give her a hint that it might, in some impossible way, be the real Giovanni DiAngelo.

But Giovanni's hair was silver; his facial hair reduced to nothing but a shadow, across his left cheekbone, a large gouged scar he'd gotten from an angry card shark, laugh lines that stretched around his mouth, moles and liver spots on his temples. This man isn't Giovanni, clearly he isn't but...

His face softens a little, returning her gaze which to him must look more like awe than fear, and then without saying a word, he looks to his left.

Carolyn follows his gaze without much thought to it, looking over to suddenly see two men standing on the grated metal walkway leading out of the Vault. Two people in what looks like to be the other side of a stand-off, only the one in the most immediate view is being held at gunpoint by the other.

He's a tall, willowy man, with large glasses and messy brown hair, and he looks absolutely terrified, sweating profusely, his hands are raised and she can see him trembling. He's in a stained white lab coat covered with a short leather jacket. From behind him, pressing the handgun to the back of his head is the second man whose sudden stark appearance causes Carolyn's world to come to a shuttering halt.

His black eyes are wide as their gazes lock; he looks filthy, ragged, exhausted, and ill. His jacket is hanging limply over his frame, he's in a Vault suit stained dark with something that turns the fabric an almost purple-brown hue. He looks just as bad as she's sure she looks right at this very moment, but despite all of that, there's no doubt in her mind of who it is. Carolyn feels her eyes flood with new, steady tears. She takes a step forward, all of the ache in her body stopping for just a moment to perceive something impossible, she's seeing someone she thought had died, in fact, someone who had been fatally shot right before her eyes and left for dead.

"Don?" Her voice is barely a whisper, shaky.

There's no mistaking his fond and cheeky smirk, even through the grime, "Hey, Carol..." He whispers back.

She lets a sob slip, reaching up to cover it with her hand. Oh god, she never thought she'd hear his voice again.

"So," Giovanni steps up beside Carolyn, his presence looming and engrossed with authority, "Looks like you two know each other after all."

Don's expression goes tense, and it's then that Carolyn processes the situation. Don's holding this man at gunpoint in a vault he couldn't have known she'd been in, what's he doing? What's he doing here?

Oh god, what's going on?!

Don looks back over to Giovanni and smiles, "As it turns out, this is embarrassing, I came here to get that detective right there to help me find my friend, who also happens to be here, like wow, how about that, small world right?"

Giovanni folds his arms, neutral but clearly unimpressed, "Small world."

The detective, Carolyn glances back to where Valentine had followed behind her and Tony. She finds the eyes of the metal man standing a few feet back, bracing himself against the cracked foundation of a support pillar. He returns her gaze, but his face betrays very little.

"So," Don pulls his aim away, and gives his hostage a light nudge. The willowy man staggers and braces on the rail to anxiously gain distance, Don, with his hand raised, then holsters his weapon, "No harm, no foul right?"

Giovanni nods, "No harm, no foul."

"Great," Don grins, glancing over at Carolyn with no mask hiding the anxiety in his eyes, and then holds out his hand stiffly, offering the giant a handshake, "So, whatd'ya say we put that whole nasty bit behind us? You let my friends walk out with me, and we gently part ways?"

Giovanni unfolds his arms, walking up past the man who had been a hostage, and slowly approaches Don, every step causing him to increasingly tower above him, Don pulls his hand back as it risks touching the giant's stomach, but he doesn't avert his eyes even as they stand less than a meter apart.

Don does, however, swallow very visibly, "Doooo we have a deal?"

WUMP.

Carolyn lets out a startled cry as Giovanni's heavy fist craters Don's stomach; she reaches out to him but Tony firmly grabs her shoulder to stop her from doing anything but watch as Don buckles inwards, the impact knocking all the air from his lungs. He staggers back a few steps, his body convulsing as he struggles to breathe through deep and ragged gasps... but he doesn't fall, he manages to stay perched on his feet.

"Y'know," Giovanni sighs, glancing down and inspecting his knuckles, which appear to be smeared in whatever stained Don's suit, "If you'd asked first, I would've given them to you without all the fuss, but you decided that you needed to go and threaten my family and... I don't tolerate that kind of coercion."

After a moment, Don manages to arch his head up, his face is flushed red, there's sweat beading on his brow, and a thin trail of saliva is running down to his chin from the corner of his mouth.

Giovanni cocks his head at him, and then his fist targets Don's jaw, landing with a hard slap of skin and the hollow echo of colliding bone, the smaller man is sent down to one knee.

Tony tightens his grip on Carolyn as she flinches under his grasp.

"It's okay," She hears him mutter, "He'll be okay, this needs to happen."

Carolyn begs without a sound, Oh god, please no.

"You're tough," Giovanni continues, nodding down at Don after studying his resilience, "Most johns are out after the first hit, but you... you must've been through some hard times to still be half on your feet like that."

Don coughs then, it's wet and hoarse, but it almost sounds like laughter. Giovanni reaches down to grab a fist full of Don's hair laying like a limp black mop on his head, pulling it back to reveal her friends grinning face.

Don then wheezes, a fresh stream of bright red blood running to his chin from a swollen and purplish gash on his lip, where, Carolyn realizes, he'd been hit by the butt of a rifle back in Sanctuary not a few days ago. A cut violently reopened by the impact of Giovanni's fist.

"Maybe you're just having an off day." Don rasps.

Giovanni hums, as if momentarily thoughtful, and then as quick as a gunshot, he yanks Don's head forward, slamming his knee into the center of his face.

Carolyn smothers a horrified wail in her hands, but it comes out too much like another sob; she can feel the force of the impact reverberate directly into her stomach, winding it tight in dismay and threatening to buckle her knees, watching as Don instinctively grabs the rail at his side to stop from plummeting onto his back. He halfway curls against the rail with a hard gasp.

Giovanni only waits for him to take a few breaths, before his boot lifts and he riles a kick into Don's side. The same heavy boot that crushed a woman's leg with nothing but weight, and Carolyn waits to hear the sound of breaking bones once more, but Don only lets out a throaty bellow, a forceful exhale of air that sounds too much like a moan of agony.

But he doesn't let the rail go, so Giovanni kicks him again, the dull impact of his boot echoing through Don's lungs and into his throat once more.

Carolyn wants to close her eyes, but she can't. She can't look away from the scene happening in front of her like a display, because she knows, she knew before Tony told her, that if Giovanni wanted him dead, he would have just shot him.

No, he's making an example of him.

'Sorry you had to see that, Carrie.' She can hear his voice, but all she can see is the man tied to the chair in the center of the room, blood dripping from his swollen face, his white dress shirt stained with fresh crimson blood like an ornate floral pattern. She whimsies for just a moment that it might be just that, a strange yet intricate pattern that he was sporting, but she knows better, god, she knows so much better. Giovanni is wiping his fingers clean, the damp washcloth stained with the alarming contrast of red on white, he turns to her with an pleasant hospitable smirk across his face like she just walked into his kitchen while he was cooking, in that moment she can't remember what she had to see him for.

She didn't ask what that man had done to deserve the beating, and she never did find out.

There's a clatter of something hard and metal against the platform floor, and suddenly Don is lying on his side, his arms shaking, his body jerking with coughs, blood splatter spills from his lips and down his face.

That's when Giovanni finally stops.

The Boss looms over Don for a moment before crouching down to speak directly to him, "Don't get me wrong, I respect that you did what you did in order to save your friend, but I don't let anyone threaten my family without consequence."

Don can't even speak, his eyes are bulging as he tries to breathe, but just when it looks like Giovanni is about to stand and leave him to bleed on the ground, he leans over and murmurs something completely inaudible in his ear. Don's expression slowly grounds, focuses, his brows lower, and the mobster pulls back and gives him a lit pat on his shoulder.

Giovanni, with his final word, stands and leaves him lying on the grate as he makes his way back towards his following.

Carolyn expects Tony to let her go, she expects Giovanni to pass the two of them with wordless allowance to let her run to her friends side, to drop to her knees in terror and try to determine if he's okay, if he's going to be okay, if he's able to catch his breath through all the blood coming from his mouth, but Giovanni walks past and grabs her instead.

He grabs her without a word, without looking at her, and pulls her backwards into the Vault by her upper arm without a hitch in his step. The alarm that suddenly floods her is enough to invoke a struggle, she reaches up and tries to pry his hand off, trying to get free while she calls after Don, but her voice sounds so broken and desperate that she can't recognize it. The giant doesn't let her go, and it takes only a moment for her to be ushered into the next room and for Don to be completely out of sight.