Title: Never Enough

Summary: For every prohibition you create you also create an underground. SET IN 1921. The rivalry between the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys, between Kelly & Conlon, is legendary in this business. What happens when two girls dance up to the line and cross it while sticking their tongues out?

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the original Newsies characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

Author's Note: Thank you to the people who offered to be in this story. I should have those original characters begin to pop up in the next chapter. And, surprisingly, I know exactly where I'm going with this story. Think Romeo & Juliet mixed with any of the '30's Mob stories that you've ever heard. It should be interesting. The Romeo & Juliet thing (Manhattan vs. Brooklyn) was always my main goal – the introduction of Reagan Malloy is how we shall see the two boroughs intertwine. Woot. And I will still bring Les back. I haven't forgotten poor li'l Baby Jacobs.

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PART IX

Reagan was surprised to see how nicely furnished the small cove was; the office building was so dirty and worn on the outside, she had never suspected that the inside would be carpeted with a mahogany desk sitting inside. The room was small. There was enough space for the large desk and three seats right up front; a narrow hallow connected to the office. Briefly, Reagan wondered where the hallway led. She could already see the back of the young girl – Jack's daughter – heading down it.

Jack had taken his seat behind the large desk. Jess was perched elegantly on one of the chairs facing her husband while Blink was hesitantly standing against the wall. The man's head was turned away and all Reagan could see was the satin patch that covered his left eye.

As she walked into the office, she had paused just within the doorway. Now that the girl was outside of the office, the adults were obviously preparing to discuss matters. Probably me, Reagan realized and the discomfort that she felt near on tripled. She couldn't walk any further at that moment. Her legs were frozen.

She lowered her eyes so that they were focused on the beige carpeting that covered the floor. The shag was thick and she was envious – her apartment at home had a rough floor. She almost wished she could take off her heeled shoes and walk around the rich carpeting in her stocking feet. She was so preoccupied with the lavishness of Jack Kelly's hide-a-way office, Reagan almost forgot that she was in the presence of one of the most powerful men in New York.

When the man cleared his throat, loudly, in order to get her attention, reality was thrust back upon her. Her head snapped up and she was sure that the fear she felt was written across her face.

Jack was staring straight ahead at her, his hands crossed in front of him. He opened his mouth to say something to her but before he could, the girl, already on the edge of her nerves after such a strange night, flinched. The man shook his head and turned in his chair. "Precious?"

His daughter poked her head out into the hallway. "Yes, Daddy?"

"Can you take your mother's guest," Jack said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards Reagan; Jess rolled her eyes at his implication – just because it was smarter to bring the victim's girl back with them didn't necessarily make Reagan her guest – "into the backroom while the grownups talk?"

A look of pure annoyance crossed the girl's face but she kept her smile in place. She obviously resented being treated like a child but knew better to say anything at that moment. "Of course, Daddy," she answered and waved Reagan toward her. Reagan hesitated for a moment and 'Precious' laughed shortly. "Come on, girlie, I don't bite."

Reagan nodded and, stepping carefully, walked around Jack's wide desk, past the man's wife and associate, and padded down the small hallway until she had reached the girl. 'Precious' reached out and, with a tight grip, grabbed onto Reagan's bare arm; her yellow dress was sleeveless and, self-consciously she noticed, had a slight tear along the hem. I'm going to have to have Mama fix it, she started but quickly amended her thoughts to, if I ever get back to Brooklyn and see Mama again.

Almost under her breath, 'Precious' sighed, but it was sigh that was quickly covered up with a rather large smile. "Come on," she cooed, and the sarcasm was more overt this time, "the backroom is right this way."

Jack nodded approvingly towards his daughter while his wife was quietly accepting a cigarette from Blink. Just as 'Precious' and Frankie left the hallway and turned into the backroom, the girls could hear Jack's howl of outrage. "I told you not to smoke, Jess. And, Blink, what the hell are you doing?"

'Precious' shook her head and the phony smile she had worn to please her father disappeared. She rolled her eyes at her father's outburst and closed the wooden door that separated the backroom from the hallway. She flounced across the room and sat herself down in one of the cushy chairs that filled the space. There were two more chairs stored in the backroom as well as a bookshelf, an icebox, and a small table. Reagan's first impression of the backroom was that it was better furnished, with the exception of no carpet, than the front office.

Jack's daughter looked over Reagan with the same intensity that she had when they first met outside. Nodding as she did so, the girl seemed impressed with Reagan. "Take a seat," she said, pointing to one of the matching brown chairs, "and get comfortable."

Reagan was still on edge. She wasn't sure if the girl was saying this to be nice or just to lull her into a false sense of security. Briefly, she wished she had paid more attention to Mickey Finn when he boasted about his Mob connections; maybe she would have been more prepared for a situation like this if she had. Not having anything better to do, Reagan sat down in the chair as far away as possible from 'Precious'.

'Precious' stared at Reagan, daring her to speak. When the blonde girl kept quiet, 'Precious' reached under the padding of her chair and pulled out a freshly rolled cigarette and a box of matches. She placed the cigarette in her mouth, struck a match against the box and lit her smoke. She took a drag of smoke and blew it in the backroom, with a look of defiance on her face. Reagan couldn't blame her; she could still hear the fight between Jack and Jess Kelly going on in the office. "Wouldn't your father be upset if he saw you with that," Reagan squeaked out.

The girl smiled wryly before bringing the cigarette back to her lips. She breathed in the tobacco, waited a moment, and exhaled through her mouth. "Of course he would. My Dad is such a square."

Reagan nodded. She could relate. Her mother was as unhip as they came.

Keeping the cigarette rested between her fingers, 'Precious' kept her green eyes on Reagan. "So, what's your name?"

For a second, Reagan contemplated lying. But, before she told the girl a falsehood, she remembered that she had already confessed her true name to the girl's mother. "Reagan. Reagan Malloy."

Placing the cigarette back in her mouth, the Kelly girl leaned forward stuck out one of her manicured hands. Reagan tried not to be as jealous as before as she duplicated the gesture. After they had shook their hands, both girls sat back in their respective seats. "The name is Kelly. Frankie Kelly," 'Precious – er, Frankie – announced.

"Frankie?" Reagan echoed. She knew she had an odd name – her mother had named her after their ancestors from Ireland on her side: the Ó Ríagáin's or the descendants of Ríagáin. But Frankie?

Frankie seemed used to people questioning her name. "My grandfather's first name was Francis and Daddy promised him before he died that he would name his firstborn after him." She shrugged. "I guess they thought I'd be a boy or something. Besides, Ma had a rough time giving birth and they never had any other kids, so I got the name Francis. They used to call me Frannie," and here she pretended to gag momentarily before finishing her explanation, "but I couldn't handle that. So now I'm Frankie."

"Oh."

Frankie ashed her cigarette on the floor of the backroom and, with one of her decorated shoes, rubbed it into the floor until there was no sign of the burnt tobacco. "So, what brings you here? Ma doesn't usually bring girls home with her."

Reagan wondered how she was supposed to answer the question. "I sort of saw something I wasn't supposed to," she said finally.

Frankie quirked one of her thin eyebrows. "And you're still alive?" When Reagan flinched, Frankie knew that the girl had imagined she would have been dead already, too. "I mean, I'm sure you know what kind of people my parents are – they're good people, don't get me wrong, and I love them, but I'm surprised you're still here. Daddy doesn't like to leave loose ends."

Reagan lowered her head in order to whisper her response. "I'm surprised, too."

As tactless and assertive as Reagan assumed this girl to be, she was surprised when Frankie didn't ask any further questions along that vein; instead, she focused on learning more about her mother's 'save'. "So, where are you from?"

Now this question Reagan was prepared for; right after she agreed to accompany the Kelly's back to the office, she knew she would have to answer this question eventually. She also knew that she could never tell them that she was from Brooklyn. "Um, I'm…" She hesitated slightly. Her mind was drawing a huge blank at the moment.

Frankie began to laugh at Reagan's inability to answer such a simple question. "Come on, now, Reagan. It's not that hard of a question – well, as long as you ain't from Brooklyn or something, of course." Her laughter stopped almost at once, though. Reagan's pale skin had taken on almost a greenish twinge at Frankie's words. "Oh no, you are from Brooklyn."

Sadly, Reagan nodded.

Frankie waved her hand around before removing her cigarette again. "Well, that's alright. It's not like all of Brooklyn is bad. Or like you're somehow connected to those damn Brooklyn Boys, because then there might be a problem."

If possible, Reagan's face grew even greener. Frankie knew the truth almost at once.

And, quite like the reaction that Reagan expected, the Kelly girl dropped her cigarette to the ground and stood up from her seat. She used the heel of her shoe to put the end of the cigarette out and did not stop grinding away at the floor until all traced of the fiery embers were extinguished. Then she kicked the spent cigarette butt away from her chair and reached forward to Reagan. She grabbed the girls' arm again, her grip even stronger than before, and pulled her to her feet. "Come on, Reagan, we've got to go."

Reagan, reluctantly, let Frankie pull herself up. But, when Frankie, still holding onto Reagan, reached for the simple wooden door that led to Jack Kelly's, leader of the Manhattan Mob, front office, Reagan yanked her arm back. "Do you think we should interrupt your parents right now?" she asked hastily.

Frankie shook her head. "You don't understand, Reagan. I don't want to tell them about you."

Reagan was confused. "You don't? Then why?"

"Because I'm trying to get you out of here. We need to talk and this ain't the safest of places, you know," Frankie answered, reaching for Reagan's hand once more. This time Reagan, hoping that the trust she was placing into Frankie was well-founded, let her take it.