Title: Never Enough

Summary: A take on Romeo & Juliet. In 1921 New York, the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys ruled the city. After a brief war, there was peace but it was never enough to create trust. All it took was one night – and one gunshot – to shatter that illusion.

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, Johnny Conlon and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

Author's Note: Yeah, I'm going to just pretend that it hasn't been forever since I updated this story. Instead, I'm going to point out that, once again, I changed the summary of the story. If you go back and look at previous chapters, you can see what direction the story was going in and how it revised itself (Plot? Outline? What's that?) as time went on. But, now that this is about 80 percent or so done, I can definitely say I know how this will (eventually) end. This (should) be the last summary I have. But I like it. Just a note to the readers, though – this is not an exact rendition of Romeo and Juliet. This is, as you see, more of a 'star-crossed lover' thing, feuding families dealie. That's the cliché of the story. There are still many surprises left though so you should definitely keep reading. And me? I'll try to get this out on a timelier manner. Woot.

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Part XVIII

Not one of them knew how to answer Match's question. Frankie was still crying, Reagan was still wondering just when she would she would be able to put this behind her and go home, Whistler still had yet to say a word and Johnny… Johnny just stamped his foot in anger. "God damn it," he exploded, lifting his hand to his head and slicking his short sandy hair back.

Match lifted her eyebrow. "What was that, Conlon?"

"Mickey's dead, Match. That's what. Shit," the boy continued angrily, dropping his hand from his head and sticking it into the pocket of his trousers.

Frankie hiccupped as she sobbed, her shoulders shaking slightly as she grew even louder. The angrier that Johnny got, the more she continued to grow upset. It was hard to put forth the front that she was the infallible daughter of Jack Kelly; sometimes – especially under great stress – she cracked under the pressure and became inconsolable… like just then.

Johnny knew that and instantly regretted his outward show of anger. Adopting a calmer, though strangled, tone, he retook his seat next to Frankie and began to rub her back soothingly with his left hand. Her head was dropped into her hands, hiding her face from him. He used his right hand to pull her curls out of her face. "It's going to be alright, Frankie," he lied, trying to stop her crying. No matter what, he hated to see a girl cry. "I promise."

And it will be, Johnny thought to himself just as the answer came to him. A steely glint came to his blue-green eyes. He knew what he could do - what they would do. But it all depended on Frankie. Would she do it? He leaned forward and, using his hand to guide her face toward him, he looked down at her and began to wipe away at her tears.

The girl seemed to relax under his gentle touch. At the very least, her cries began to soften as she got herself under control. When she was finally able to speak, she looked up at Johnny, half of her face still damp with tears. "Are you sure, Johnny?"

He did not get to answer. Whistler did instead. His face was twisted into a morbidly amused expression as he snorted out loud. "Don't lie to her, Johnny. You know that something is going to go down now. Your Pop ain't gonna take to kindly to Kelly killing Mickey. You know it, I know it, Frankie knows it – that's why she's sobbing. Hell, even Blondie over here knows that there's trouble," he added, gesturing to where Reagan was currently sitting tensely on the edge of her seat. "She's been looking like she's about to bolt for the door ever since Frankie told us what happened."

Reagan felt her face grow hot and the heat had nothing to do with the additional two candles that Match had just lit up to further illuminate the small room. She had not known that her discomfort was so noticeable. As nonchalantly as she could, she leaned back into her seat and crossed her legs demurely.

Whistler made another noise of amusement before crossing his arms over his chest and nodding at his pal knowingly. "Come on, Johnny. Something's going to happen unless we do something about it. So, what do we do about it?"

There was another silence, as awkward as the one that followed Frankie's confession. Match, after placing one candle at the foot of Reagan's seat (the chair closest to the center of the room) and cradling the other in a holder, she sat down in the doorway to the other room. From the glow of the candle, Reagan could see that she was watching the pair, almost thoughtfully. However, after the blunt way in which Johnny told her of Mickey's death, she was staying just as quiet as Reagan.

"Don't worry, Whis," Johnny said, his eyes focused solely on Frankie's face though he spoke to Whistler. "I got a plan," he added, lowering his hand so that, once again, he was holding onto Frankie's. She gave him a weak squeeze in response.

"I figured you would. I just hope it ain't anything too stupid," Whistler offered, leaning to his left, away from the bobbing flame of the candle off to his right. He pretended not to hear Reagan's sigh of relief that he was much further away from her than before. When Johnny did not set his mind at ease, Whistler poked his back. "It ain't a dumb plan, is it?"

Johnny continued to ignore Whistler. Whistler, though it was hard to tell, went even paler than his already pasty white skin allowed as something he had thought of earlier that night came rushing back to him: Johnny Conlon did bad things when he was bored. He added to that thought just then: Johnny Conlon did bad things when he was bored – he did even worse things when he felt threatened. Normally Whistler had the Finn brothers to help him keep the Boss's son in line. But Mickey was dead and Matt, tragically unaware of his younger brother's fate, was waiting out back in Brooklyn. "Hey, Johnny?"

He did not remove his piercing gaze from Frankie; the way he was staring made the other three occupants of the room feel like they were hidden within the darkness of the room, forgotten. Frankie, no longer crying, was peering back at him, wordlessly questioning him. He seemed softer than before, though she could not deny that he was still furious and hurt at the news she had shared with him. "Johnny?" she whispered.

While the both of them were still sitting in their respective seats, they had swiveled their bodies so that they were facing each other. He did not answer her, either – at least, not with words. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. Then, with Match, Reagan and Whistler as an audience, he drew back slightly before placing a gentle kiss against her flesh.

Of them all, Frankie looked the most surprised at his actions. Though he would be the first to admit to the feelings he had for her, Johnny Conlon was not the type of boy who wore his heart on his sleeve; he was rarely affectionate with her in front of their friends. The sweetness of the gesture, though it was not its intent, pained the girl; she felt that his strange reaction was a result of being told the devastating news of Mickey's murder.

"Johnny… I'm so sor—" Frankie began when he pulled his lips away from her skin. There were tears welling up in her green eyes again; her heart was breaking. To the girl, she was feeling as though she was losing her two great loves: her father (what would happen when Spot Conlon heard of this war-worthy action?) and her lover (surely he can't stay with the girl whose father killed one of his closest friends…).

"Shh…" Johnny whispered, cutting her off. He stood up from his seat, pulling at something on his hand as he did so. Mickey was dead – he knew that and it did hurt. But Mickey was gone and Frankie was here. He was not going to lose her, too. There was only way that he could be sure of that, sure that neither his father nor hers could tear them apart. He cleared his throat and palmed the ring before repositioning it.

Reagan caught the action and her blue eyes widened; with the candle placed at her foot, she had seen the metallic band that Johnny was wearing on his right hand – the ring that he was now holding loosely between his thumb and pointer finger. In a moment of certainty, Reagan knew what Johnny Conlon was planning on doing. She knew what was coming next.

Match and Whistler, too, seemed to guess that something was up. At the very least, Whistler groaned but did not say another word just yet. Match made a noise that, to Reagan's ear, sounded very similar to the high-pitched cry her cat, Buttons, made when she accidentally trod on his tail. Reagan turned her head sharply when she heard the noise but Match was covering her mouth. The girl coughed twice and lowered her gaze. Whistler snorted at her actions.

And, as all this was happening, Johnny just stood there, watching Frankie. Under his scrutiny, she had not started to cry again. In a way, it seemed as if she had stopped breathing. Either that or time had stopped moving.

Then the moment was broken and Johnny bent down so that he was on one knee. Whistler groaned a second time and Match, rather than squeal again, took in a deep breath. Reagan just watched with an interested eye. As awkward and unstable as her entire evening had been, she had to admit that there was just something romantic about this whole scene. Even if it was dark and the whole occurrence followed the announcement that a young man had been murdered only a few hours prior…

Again, only Frankie seemed surprised at what was happening. Though, from what Reagan could see, she looked more confused than surprised. It was not until he lifted the ring, holding it before him so that it was guaranteed to glint off of the lamp behind the chairs, that Frankie understood what was happening. She started bobbing her head up and down before Johnny even said the words.

This does not mean, of course, that he was deprived of saying them. In the deepest voice the boy, trying to act as if he was older than his seventeen years, could muster, he proposed to her. "Francis Kelly, will you marry me? Will you be my bride?"

She continued to nod her head before realizing that all of them were waiting for her verbal affirmation. "Yes. Yes, Johnny!" she said, her voice, still thick from crying, intermingled with a laugh that sounded suspiciously like another sob. "Of course! I would love to be your wife!"

Johnny held the ring out to her. It was just a simple band, a golden trinket that he had worn on his ring finger on his right hand. He had bought it for a song and a dance from one of his father's associates. He had hoped that he could give it to Frankie as a promise ring but, with the way things were progressing that night, it only made sense that it become an engagement ring. And then her wedding band…

Maybe there won't be so much uproar between my Dad and Frankie's dad if they find out they're in-laws, he thought naively (and admittedly so) as he slipped the ring onto Frankie's extended left hand. Once it was secure, the pair embraced.

It was only then that Whistler exchanged his groans for words. Under his breath, Johnny distinctly heard him mutter.

"I knew it was going to be stupid."

With his face buried in the curve of Frankie's neck, Johnny could not be sure whether it was Match or Reagan who shushed Whistler first. He was just grateful for it. If he was going to pull this off, he was going to need all the support he could get.