A/N:

It's been far too long, I know. It's coming up on a year since I've published chapter 1. Very sad. Well, I'm back for the summer, and I'll try and get this ball rolling again. I have a plot lined out and I will definitely try to update in shorter increments from now on. All and any explanations should be given in the next chapter if you're confused. I give you chapter 3. :)

Aoife walked down the Boston street, knee-high black boots clicking, with her mind and heart racing. Sure, it was fucking idiotic what she did. Walking up to a Russian with absolutely no weapons wielded whatsoever, and demanding where the head boss was. She could have easily died, leaving her father forever wondering what happened, their master plan ruined, her body to be disposed of in some horrific way. It's not as if she was ungrateful, of course she was thankful for the fortunate turn of events. But, if anything, she hated being a damsel in distress. She despised the entire concept of some knight in shining armor coming and saving some stupid girl in a magical castle.

"I must've sounded like a stupid fucking pansy in that alley," she thought to herself, shaking off all of the bad events she was trying to repress in her memory.

Even then, still hovering in her conscience were the men that saved her. Irish, gun-wielding, and friendly, considering the circumstances they had met under. She figured they couldn't have been more than coincidental; men walking by who just so happened to be quick and skillful with a few pistols. It was naïve to be thinking that way, but it didn't matter. She quickly cast the thought away and continued walking.

The usual ten-minute walk easily turned into five minutes or less with a rapid pace. Once she arrived, she quietly stepped in the dark doorway of the seemingly abandoned warehouse, her footsteps echoed as she approached the iron-wrought stairs. She stood on the balls of her feet even more, so she could sprint up them without her three-inch heel getting stuck…again. She found it ironic that she still managed to keep some rather ungraceful tendencies despite everything she was doing on the side.

Aoife took out the key chain she had in her pocket and unlocked the door with one of her three keys, revealing the everyday site of her five thousand square foot warehouse loft. Her father came around the corner, obviously anticipating her arrival and embraced her in a warm hug.

"Salut…"she said, finally taking in the first sigh of relief of the day. She walked over to the large sofa, and took off her trench coat with her pistols and laid them aside, as if they were common things, like a purse or a top hat. "So? How did things go?" asked her father casually. "How about I just say they went well, and leave no questions asked?"

"You know that's not going to slide, Aoife," her father said with crossed arms and a smirk.

"Alright, fine. The Russian peons? Well, they provided hardly any useful information, as expected. And yes, they're dead. But the complication comes in when I say…I didn't kill them," she said with a sigh before she began to pace back and forth.

"You're right, I shouldn't have asked. But one more thing, you're okay, right?" he said.

"Yes, I'm fine. Really," she said with a small smile.

"Well, why don't you just sit and relax for a bit, we'll see what we can do tomorrow," he said, squeezing her shoulder and walking up to the second floor of the loft.

Aoife flipped on the television, hoping it would provide substantial background noise for her to doze off to. She channel surfed for a few minutes when she decided that the news would be mundane enough, it was just a re-run of the earlier six 'o clock news anyway. She half-listened to the head anchor drone on about the inflating gas prices and rising crime rate, same old song and story. She closed her eyes and listened, hoping to be asleep within a few minutes.

"And now we return to local news. Earlier today, Mafia Don Giuseppe Yakavetta was executed during his court trial by three mysterious men who have been dubbed by the media as 'The Saints.' They are the targets of the largest manhunt in Boston history. Their location is unknown. The little information we do have states that they are armed and dangerous, all approximately six feet tall. Here are some artist sketches that resemble the men."

Aoife slightly opened her eyes with vague interest.

Three pictures of the "killers" appeared on the screen, with a phone number to call if any information was known.

The first was of an old man with an abundance of facial hair. He looked almost religiously symbolic in the way the artist portrayed him.

The second was of a man who was significantly younger than the first. He had light and spiked hair with a dark brow line.

The third caricature was the most amusing to Aoife. She chuckled at just how inaccurate the drawing probably was if it was ever to be compared to the actual man. His hair was dark and slicked forward, his jaw was profoundly square, and his entire face just seemed a little "off."

She looked closely again just before shutting her eyes.

"No…fucking…way," she whispered in disbelief. She shot up from the couch in pure shock.

"Dad!" she shouted.

He quickly walked out of his room and leaned over the banister.

"Yes?" he said with exaggerated question.

"The Saints. Those were the men in the alley…they shot those peons. What should we do?" she asked, frantically pointing at the television.

" It's absolutely imperative that we find them. If they get caught, we're potentially exposed. If they say a word about us, and then our entire goal here is shot to shambles. Can you find them again?" he said.

"For God's sakes, I honestly don't know. They could be on a damn boat right now fleeing far away from here."

"I know you, you can find a needle in a haystack," he said walking down the stairs, putting on a light black jacket. "Let's go."

A/N:

Please review! They make me happy and help me update faster. Hope you liked it!