Brittany made it down the stairs, walking as elegantly as if she were strolling down a hallway. No one could strut around in heels like Brittany could, the product of her mother having her practice since she was old enough to wear shoes. The curls framing her face bounced with each step, her jewelry making a soft clinking sound.

It was Brittany's own personal catch-22. She loved the extravagant life of a mobster's wife. She really loved her wife, and nothing made her happier than Santana, but looking beautiful was a close second.

And God, was she beautiful. Blue eyes; soft pale skin, lightly freckled; long, bright blond hair; a thin, muscular figure with supple breasts. Santana gave her whatever she wanted, too. Dresses, jewelry, make-up, shoes- anything. She had a closet bigger than most rooms in Vegas. And she celebrated everything that was hers.

But she hated the lifestyle Santana led. The crooked heists, the dirty meet-ups with shady figures, the constant danger they were both in from rivals. It wasn't a life she had ever imagined herself being a part of. But it was one she was now a part of, for better or worse.

Noah opened the door at the bottom of the stairwell, holding it open and gesturing into the room towards Brittany.

"Thank you, Noah," she said, giving him a small smile and stepping into the dank basement room.

It was dirty down here, smelly too. She hated to leave the luxury of her penthouse at Diamond Dreams, but she had always made it a point to be there for her wife. And a dirty basement wasn't nearly as bad as the night she spent at the slaughterhouse for a drug exchange a year and a half ago.

She took her spot in a dusty highback chair that someone had set in the corner of the room for her. Her back straight, her neck stretched, she sat like a princess, waiting patiently for her queen to arrive. Crossing her legs, she watched as Noah and his goons began to work on setting up the large metal contraption that would, as Santana put it, 'get them more money than they could ever need.' She didn't see how a machine could make them that rich, unless it made money.

"Ohhh," she said quietly to herself, suddenly realizing what this whole operation was about.

A few hours passed, and the machine was finally coming together. Brittany finished leafing through her third magazine, slipping it into her clutch and letting out a wide yawn.

"Noah, where is she? I'm tired of waiting, and watching you put together a hunk of metal is not an ideal night for me," she said in an annoyed tone.

Noah sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Sweetheart, I told you everything she told me. She was held up with some business, okay? When she's done there, she'll come right here," he said tiredly.

Brittany sighed, but accepted the truth. She didn't want to push Noah when he was stressed anyway. He was a good man. He'd been friends with Santana since childhood, and had even had a relationship with her in her younger days of sexual confusion and insecurity.

Nighttime arrived quickly, as the men in the basement began their final tweaks on the contraption in the center of the basement.

"This thing's ready to go, boss," said one of the newer members of the group, a dashing young man with gloss back hair, slicked back smoothly. Brittany never remembered names.

Noah gave his hair a pat, giving the crew a smirk. "Fire it up, ladies."

The second the machine whirred to life, a sharp crack and a slam boomed out as the door to the stairwell was kicked off of its hinges.

"Freeze! Las Vegas Police Department!"

Brittany let out a scream as she watched Noah and his crew pull out their weapons. She dove behind a crate and held her head between her hands, curling into a ball.

Shots rang out. Smoke filled the air. Men yelled as they were shot down where they stood, some silent and dead before they hit the ground. She could hear round after round being unloaded, crates being splintered by stray bullets.

She peeked through a gap between the crates at ground level, sobbing quietly. She saw a pair of blue slacked legs stop in front of the crates.

"We need reinforcements now!" screamed out the policeman, seconds before Brittany heard a grotesque squelching sound. She let out another scream as the body hit the ground, his face looking straight through the gap, the bullet wound through his forehead gaping and bloody.

The shootout couldn't have lasted more than forty seconds or so, but to Brittany it felt like hours. Once the noises had stopped and the smoke had begun to clear, she sat up slowly, pulling herself up using the crates as leverage.

When she saw the scene of the carnage, she placed a hand over her mouth and retched. Dozens of bodies littered the floor, pools of blood spreading quickly. She let out a small choked cry as she saw a few policemen standing around Noah's body, a sneer frozen on his lifeless face. Towards the door, another group of policemen were escorting the rest of the mobsters up the stairs in handcuffs.

Brittany tried to stay quiet, as none of the officers had seen her. She really tried. But she let out a choked sob as she scanned the faces of men that she hadn't particularly liked, but that had become a part of her life anyway. All of them dead.

At the sound of her cry, one of the officer's turned on his heel, searching for the source of the sound. His eyes scanned the stack of crates until his gaze met Brittany's tear stained face.

He held up his hand, pointing directly at Brittany. "Cuff her." /

Blaine opened his eyes, the sunlight streaming through his window. He stretched out his arms and yawned loudly. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he sat up, interested only in what he was going to make himself for breakfast.

At this point, the sleepy haze cleared from his head, and he realized the bars enclosing him. The ache in his back from the hard, dusty cot intensified as he sat up. He blinked hard a few times, trying to focus his eyes and acclimatize his vision to the dank prison and the dusty air.

Looking straight ahead at the bars that divided his cell and the cell next to his, he saw a pair of blue eyes staring back at him.

"Ms. Pierce? Is that... is that you?" he asked, slightly bewildered.

She nodded yes, the mascara staining her eyes and cheeks. "When the shooting started, I hid. They found me," she said, her voice hoarse and scared.

Blaine kneeled next to the bars, giving Brittany a sympathetic glance. He stuck his fingers between the metal, and she squeezed them gently.

"They're all dead, aren't they? It's just you and me?" she asked, a fresh tear forming in the corner of her eye.

Blaine looked away, unsure of how to tell her. "They took me, Tony, and Raul alive. We were the only ones. Raul died about an hour after we got here; he took a bullet to the stomach. Tony tried to make a run for it when they undid the cuffs and got shot down just outside the station." He sniffed lightly, his hands shaking against the bars. He hadn't realized just how shaken he was about the whole incident until he had recounted it.

Brittany wiped her eyes, letting out a shaky sigh. "Well, I didn't know you very well, but... I'm... I'm glad you made it out okay," she said, nodding.

He smiled, nodding back. "Me too."

The door at the end of the room opened and the warden and a few other officers entering briskly.

"Alright! Back of your cells, now! No touching anything!"

Blaine looked to Brittany and said quickly, "Look, just do exactly as they say and you'll be fine. We'll talk later."

They both stood up and took their places against the back wall of their cells. Blaine watched as the old, greying warden strode into the room, followed closely by two men, one a large burly man in uniform, and the other a much thinner man in a suit and coat.

The thin man gave Blaine a wide, toothy grin. "This guy. Take him to the interrogation room for a one-on-one."

The warden tapped the burly officer on the shoulder, who opened the cell and motioned for Blaine to exit. He cuffed him behind the back, and pushed him rather roughly out of the cell.

The warden turned, heading the procession out of the holding room and into the hallway.

Moments later, Blaine found himself sitting in a bland white room cuffed to a metal chair.

"Be sweet with him, Smythe. Understand me? I don't need any more trouble at this station," said the warden, closing the door as he walked out.

There was a tense moment of silence. Blaine looked at his hands, avoiding the gaze and sneer of this policeman.

"My name is Colton Turner," said the man lazily, gazing at Blaine almost seductively.

"The warden just called you Smythe," said Blaine, not looking up.

"And what does the warden know?"

"I'd assume he'd know the name of one of his peers."

Blaine looked up to Smythe/Turner, raising an eyebrow. He looked back at Blaine, smirking.

"An astute observation, Mr. Anderson. But I'm trying to be honest with you right now. Perhaps the warden and my constituents might know me as Smythe. But the more important fact... is that Santana Lopez knows me as Colton Turner."

That caught Blaine's attention. "You're... a mobster?" he asked, his mouth agape.

Smythe shrugged, his smile widening. "I've been Lopez' inside man for almost a year now. How do you think she's managed to stay out of the spotlight for so long?"

Blaine's expression darkened. "So what the hell happened last night?"

Smythe's grin turned to a grimace. "I slipped up. One of the subordinate officers took it upon himself to act on a hint he'd heard. I didn't hear a word about it until about an hour ago. I, um, I'm sorry. For whatever happened last night. I'm sorry I didn't stop it."

They were both quiet for a moment as Blaine allowed the information and the apology to sink in.

"Now, I need something from you Blaine. I can get you out of here, but it's going to take a few days to sort things out with the PD. In the meantime, there's a favor needs doing. For Lopez herself."

Blaine perked up, curious. "What could Lopez need from me?"

"Well, she asked me to take care of it, and it just so happens you can help me. She's had some suspicions for quite a while of a traitor. A traitor in her inner circle, if you will. And while she couldn't bring herself to face it, I had to give it to her straight: it's Brittany."

Blaine looked troubled, trying to absorb the information. Brittany was an informant for the police? Or a rival mob? The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He hadn't been with the Lopez mob for very long, but literally every time he'd seen Santana, Brittany had been by her side.

"What I need from you is simple. For the few days you and Ms. Pierce are going to be in our holding cells here, I need you to wear this microphone. Talk to her, see if she spills anything. When we get some evidence, Santana can start a rehaul of our organization, and I assure you you'll be quite a prominent part of it."

"But why would I do this for you? I don't even know who the fuck you are. I have no idea whether you're lying to me or not. As far as I know, you're just another fucking cop," said Blaine, twiddling his thumbs, unsure of what to do.

"Maybe I am. That's your call to make. But I'll tell you what," started Smythe, standing up and moving slowly over to where Blaine was sitting. He hovered over Blaine's seat, bending slightly and getting in close to him. Blaine was frozen, his breathing quickening as Smythe stopped an inch from his face. "I'm going to get you out of that prison cell either way. Whether you get the evidence Lopez needs or not, you'll be out of here in a matter of days. The least you can do is get wired. What have you got to lose?" Smythe closed the distance, locking his lips against Blaine's.

When he pulled away, Blaine gasped slightly.

"Think of it as an investment in your future," Smythe purred, unlocking Blaine from the chair.

Smythe left the room, only to have the warden enter the room a second later. He pulled Blaine from the chair and led him back to his cell in the holding pen.

Looking into Brittany's cell, he noticed she was in the corner, crying quietly. A smaller blond woman whom he hadn't noticed before was holding her closely, patting her hair and whispering assurances to her.

Blaine plopped down onto his cot. He listened carefully, waiting until the warden's footsteps had faded and he heard a door slam.

"Hello," Blaine said, looking to the blond woman holding Brittany.

She furrowed her brow, looking at him diminutively. "Hi," she replied flatly, obviously not interested in small talk.

"Um, thanks for taking care of her while I was with the cops," Blaine said, unsure of how to phrase a polite "go away" without being awkward.

The woman shot him a steely glance. "You also want to thank me for taking care of her while you were snoring?"

Blaine didn't know how to continue. "I'm Blaine. Thank you... for taking care of her while I was snoring."

The blond smirked. "The name's Quinn. Don't ask me what I'm in here for, because I won't tell you. Now, was there something you needed? Or would you kindly fuck off?"

Brittany sniffled, looking up at Quinn. "It's okay. He's... he's a friend."

Quinn shot him a withering look. "Whatever."

The rest of the day passed quietly, with Brittany crying quietly until she had no more tears left in her, Quinn consoling her, and Blaine sitting in his cell feeling the microphone Smythe had slipped into his pocket when he had kissed him.

Blaine got ready for bed thinking about that kiss. Night came and his lips still tingled from the friction of Smythe's. Right before he went to bed for the night, he made sure to place the receiving end of his microphone as close to the end of his bed as he could, tucking the recording device under his pillow. He did this in the hopes that Brittany would give herself away to Quinn sometime during the night.

"So tell me more about this girl in your life," he heard Quinn say. Blaine was facing towards the opposite wall, eager to pull the girls' attention away from him.

"She's amazing. She's beautiful, and strong, and powerful. I love her," Brittany replied, the adoration in her voice palpable.

"Sounds hot. How come she isn't down here now, bailing you out?"

"She's... she can't. It's kind of complicated."

"Ugh. I hate complicated relationships. It's so much easier when you keep things simple."

"I think she's worth it. Otherwise I never would have said yes."

"Are you... you're married? Bold move, but I guess no place better than Vegas to do it. So, she can't come down here to see you. Still worth it?"

They were both quiet for a moment.

"I really want to kiss you," came Quinn's voice after a few seconds.

"You're a lesbian?" Brittany sounded taken aback.

"You think this is my first rodeo? I was in the women's pen a few years back, did some time for theft. When a woman's only got other women around all the time, well... you learn to appreciate the finer things in life."

Blaine heard the bed creak slightly.

"Wait," Brittany said hesitantly. He heard the bed creak again. "Blaine?" she whispered towards his cell.

Blaine remained motionless, trying to keep his breathing calm.

"Blaine, are you awake?"

"He's out like a light, just like last night. When I took care of you," Quinn said in an accusing tone.

Brittany whimpered, but eventually spoke up. "Okay. You can kiss me."

Blaine heard the bed creak again, heard the soft, wet sounds of kissing. He continued to listen, quite unable to do anything else. After a few minutes, the bed creaked again. The sounds got... even wetter, and Brittany started to breathe harder and faster, giggling softly.

Gently stroking the recording box under his pillow, Blaine tuned out the sounds of the two women and instead turned to thoughts he could not control of Smythe and himself on his hard cot giggling the night away. /

Sebastian juggled the small recording cassette between his fingers. It had been almost too easy to con something useful out of that asshole Anderson. He had a way with the boys, same as the girls.

Sometimes, he felt just the slightest inkling of shame at the way he treated people, the way he used them. But the feeling never lasted longer than a few seconds before he pushed it into the back of his mind. Boys were too easy. If he spent time feeling bad about every person he'd ever taken advantage of, he'd have no time for anything else.

He smiled, thinking of the break he'd caught with this little piece of plastic. That idiot had managed to get a recording of Pierce and her little prison bitch Fabray spelunking until the sun came out. Lopez would love this little gift, courtesy of one of her own men.

The phone on Sebastian's desk rang. He answered, nestling the phone between his ear and shoulder as he continued to play with the tape.

"Sebastian Smythe, head investigator, LVPD."

"So this is how you're bringing down Lopez' organization? Jacking off all over yourself in your office?"

Sebastian's expression turned stony. "Hi Dad, good to talk to you too."

"Quit it with the sarcastic shit, Sebastian. If I don't have any kind of development in the Lopez case by tomorrow, I swear to God you are out of this town. It will not be pretty."

"Class A parenting there, you big cunt. I can promise you this though: something's going to happen tonight. Something big," said Sebastian, slamming the phone back onto the reciever.

He stood up from his chair, and set the tape into the cardboard box on his desk. Taping it up, he laughed to himself excitedly.

Something was happening tonight. Something big. /

Santana took another sip from her glass, the alcohol burning her throat pleasantly. She hoped the drink would clear her head enough to obscure reality.

She missed Brittany. But looking down at the cassette player on her desk that someone had left on her doorstep, she knew that she shouldn't. Brittany was apparently having the time of her life with some whore in the slammer.

Stepping closer to the open window, she ran her hands over her hips, feeling her own body. She was wearing Brittany's favorite dress, a hip-hugging strapless number that was a dark red, matching perfectly with her skin tone. Brittany called her a goddess every time she wore this dress.

She closed her eyes, tossing her hair back.

"You are the hole in my head; you are the space in my bed."

She sang quietly as she shuffled slowly in front of the window, swinging her hips and throwing her hair back and forth slowly.

"You are the silence in between what I thought and what I said. You are the nighttime fear, you are the morning when it's clear."

She kept her eyes closed, because every time they were open, she'd see a flash of blond hair, or the sparkle of blue eyes in the corner of her vision.

"When it's over, you're the start. You're my head and you're my heart."

The wind blew smoothly through the window, fluttering the drapes and bathing Santana in a cool breeze. She didn't even hear the click of the door opening.

"No light, no light in your bright blue eyes. I never knew daylight could be so violent. No revelation in the light of day; you can't choose what stays and what fades away," she sang quietly, a tear falling down her cheek.

"Shame about your wife. Don't feel too bad: lots of people are getting divorced these days," came a voice from behind her.

Her eyes shot open, and she turned slowly to face the intruder. It was a thin, wiry man with a toothy grin, looking at her like he'd just made the funniest joke in the world.

"Well, well. Sebastian Smythe, if I'm not mistaken? You know, your daddy's got it out for me pretty good. You here to be daddy's little tool, Sebby?" Santana teased viciously, letting every word drip with the acid of her anger. Her words were slightly slurred. She tried to hide it, not wanting to let him know she was on the way to being drunk.

Sebastian bit his lip, almost as if he were trying to keep himself from laughing. "No, honestly. I'm here for a more... personal venture," he said coyly.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" she snarled, tossing a file folder over the cassette player to hide it. It hadn't yet occured to her that Sebastian had been the one who had sent it.

"Well, it seems that you recently find yourself very single," he said, stepping closer to the desk. "I was thinking that maybe I could be a solution to that problem."

Santana smirked and took another swig from her glass. "Oh, please. Give it a break you little cocksucker. You think you could be a wild child and the son of a state's attorney and go unnoticed? I've got all kind of info on you. Like how as a younger man, you'd beat the girls off with a stick, but you'd beat the men off with a smile on your face." She gave him a wicked grin.

The smile fell from Smythe's face. He closed the distance between them and pushed Santana up against the desk.

"But you're such a pretty lady, Ms. Lopez. I love to have fun with pretty things, no matter how the plumbing's set up," he said, his mouth set in a snarl. He groped her breasts, holding her down against the desk with his body.

Santana yelled out, trying to break his grip on her. He lifted her and slammed her against the desk, forcing his lips up against hers.

She let out a muffled scream in protest against his lips, struggling wildly.

Sebastian let go of her arm for another grope, ripping her dress viciously at the bust. His hand traveled further down, his finger searching expectantly.

Santana finally managed to get an arm out, and she raked out with her nails violently. She made contact with his face, leaving two deep gashes on his cheek.

Sebastian roared out, letting go of her and cupping his hand over his eye.

Santana scrambled over the desk, trying to get over it and to the door. There had to be at least one of her men somewhere down the hallway. She had to get to them.

Sebastian wiped the blood from his face, teeth bared in fury. Santana was almost over the desk. He grabbed her by the shoulder, pulling her back towards him.

She lashed out again, but missed. Sebastian screamed through his teeth, his anger uncontrollable. He looked to the corner of the desk and snatched up the desk lamp sitting there.

Santana looked back to him in horror as she watched him raise it over his head.

His eyes met hers, and time seemed to freeze for a moment; the horror frozen on her face, the insane look of pleasure in Sebastian's smile, the adrenaline pumping through both of them.

"See you in hell, pretty boy," said Santana smoothly just before Sebastian brought the desk lamp down on her skull with all his might.