A/N: Thanks to GoddessLaughs for nursing me through the writer's block and for Chef Boy-are-MacManus! Also, to the other BDS writers out there, thanks for the inspiration this week, when my muse abandoned me! And, of course, the reviewers...y'all rock!
Italian: fica / cunt
Goomba / term of affection or respect
13
Punching his pillow into a ball, Connor tried again to get comfortable. His back was aching from the evening's altercation and he was too keyed up to sleep. In the hour since they came to bed, he had tried every method he knew to fall asleep, even the old childhood standby, to no avail.
It was one of the little secrets that belonged entirely to Connor, this trick to fall asleep. He shared everything with Murphy: a job, a faith, a calling, an apartment, everything. So, when it came to pass that he had some little thing to call his own, he clung to it. This was the first bit of himself that he could recall hiding from his twin.
Murphy never had a hard time sleeping, his snores coming moments after the lights were turned off. He on the other hand, would spend the nights tossing and turning, never quite able to surrender to sleep. After catching him awake for a week straight, Ma had sat on the edge of his bed, concern shining in her eyes.
"Connor, me lad, ye know the sheep that old man MacGregeor keeps out on the edge of town?"
Connor thought of the ewes with their wooly black coats and the dogs that guarded them, Shep and Sam. He and Murphy loved those dogs, looking for any excuse that would take them by the farm. Many a pair of pants had been ruined when Murphy would drop to his knees in the mud to receive the affectionate greeting they always offered. He nodded at her, not understanding where she was headed, but trusting her in the unconditional way that children do.
"Well, ye get ahold o' those sheep in yer mind and ye picture them jumping over the stone fence around the pasture. As they jump over, ye need to count 'em. I bet that ye won't even get ta one hundred afore ye're fast asleep." She smiled down at him, and ruffled his hair. "Will ye try for yer old ma?
He had nodded solemnly at her, before closing his eyes. A short time later, he had counted a hundred sheep and was no closer to sleep. Listening to his brother snoring softly in the little bed across the room, Connor began to count again. Instead of sheep, he counted the quiet exhalations of his brother.
Normal people counted sheep. Connor counted Murphy's breaths.
Growing up, this trick had served him well and when they had begun their work as Saints, it had taken on a whole new significance. Connor would lay awake listening, and counting, assuring himself with each quiet snuffle that they were still alive.
On this particular night, however, not even the familiar rhythm of his twin's breathing was working. Finally, after counting to one hundred twice, he resigned himself to wakefulness and silently rose from the bed. Padding down the hallway, he noticed the kitchen light was still on.
Reaching the doorway, he saw that Luciana wasn't having trouble finding dreamland. She was sprawled on the kitchen table, her hair fanned about around her head. Looking closer, he noticed the red blotches on her face. She had been crying again. This lifestyle of theirs was taking a toll on her.
Watching her, he wondered what Rocco would have thought about her being here. Considering Roc had never mentioned her, Connor could only assume that this probably wasn't how he had envisioned her future. Then again, Roc probably hadn't envisioned her life in Youngstown how it was either.
The more time Connor spent with her, the more he wanted her to stay. It was like having his family whole again. She could never replace Roc, no one could, but she filled a void. Her laugh came easily, just like Roc's had, and their smile's were the same. He and Murphy needed that, and the reassurance that came from being with someone who could care for you, despite the violence and death that was a part of them.
At the table, Luciana's hand twitched, the movement dragging him out of his reverie. Connor shook his head. Clearly, he was in desperate need of some rest. In his present state he was as sentimental as a teenage girl.
He approached the table and gave Luciana a gentle shake. She twitched again but showed no signs of waking. Well, he couldn't just leave her sleeping at the table.
He bent low and slid an arm under the crook of her knee, while the other went around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest. In one swift motion, he stood transferring her weight into his arms and her head onto his shoulder. He heard her mumble something indistinct before relaxing against him.
As he settled her into bed, he couldn't help but smile. She was a heavy sleeper; yet another trait she shared with Roc. He and Murphy had often found themselves in Roc's company after a night of drinking, and, when they would be rattling around in the morning, Roc would snore on totally oblivious to the noises around him. Connor pulled the threadbare comforter up to her chin and smoothed the hair away from her face.
Always the older brother, he reflected, no matter what Murphy said to the contrary. He had been tucking Murphy in for as long as he could remember. It seemed natural to add another body to the rotation.
He leaned over and placed a chaste kiss on Luciana's forehead. Now that the children were nestled all snug in their beds, he was going to watch some TV. Maybe the combination of Bushmills and Star Trek would do what breath counting would not.
"Beam me to the living room, Mr. Scott."
---
"Listen, for your own good, quit worrying about finding the stupid fica and get your ass back here pronto." Foreman said, his voice sounding muffled, no doubt because he was speaking around one of the knockoff Cuban cigars he so loved to chew into a pulp, in an attempt to emulate Carmine Profetti, the Capo di tutti capi of their family.
"Carmine will understand." Vic said, confidence dripping from every syllable. "I'm sure if you just talk to him for me…"
Forman cut him off. "No way, VickyBoy. This came straight from Bert. Carmine's got some work and he wants you to come in."
Vic flinched at the nickname, but refrained from correcting Foreman. No one called him VickyBoy except Carmine.
The last Capo who got cute and addressed Vic in that manner had spent seven weeks in traction; he still didn't have the feeling back in his face. Everyone got quite a kick out of watching him try to drink out of a straw these days.
Foreman got away with the nickname only because he had been with Vic from the beginning and then only when he was safely out of Vic's immediate reach.
Anthony "Foreman" Strega was Vic's oldest friend. They had risen through the ranks together, running numbers for Anthony's dad when they were still in grade school. They had come a long way since then; Vic was one of Carmine's most trusted confidantes and Foreman had finally been made a Capo.
"Fuck." Vic said, slightly deflated. "Tell Carmine I'll be back tomorrow. I'll catch the red eye out in the morning."
"You do that, Goomba." Foreman said, relief creeping into his attempt at nonchalance.
The sounds of yelling and breaking glass suddenly came crackling through the phone from Foreman's end. Vic's mind was already jumping to conclusions when he heard Foreman swearing in Italian. After a moment, he got back on the phone, sighing resignedly.
"God, those fuckin' kids." He said, not bothering to hide his exasperation.
"Which one was it and what did they do?" Vic asked, amused.
"Apparently, AJ and little Tony thought it would be a good idea to use the dog for a football." Foreman gave a long-suffering sigh. "Antonia caught them and threw a plate at AJ. She's such a sweet young lady."
Foreman was so called because he had named all three of his kids after himself a la George Foreman: Anthony Junior or AJ, Antonia, and Tony. Vic figured with an ego like that, he was getting what he deserved from the three hellions.
"She takes after her old man." Vic said, and snapped his cell phone shut. He didn't have time to listen to Foreman go on yet another hour-long lament about his disappointing brats.
The wind kicked up and Vic watched the leaves swirl around the tombstones, frustration threatening to overwhelm him.
He had spent the last four days ensconced in his rented Impala. It had taken visits to eight of Boston's cemeteries before he had discovered David Della Rocco's final resting place. The flowers leaning against the grave marker were just beginning to lose their petals. He didn't need his detective's badge to figure out that Luciana had been there recently.
The sentimental bitch would be back he knew. She'd always had a soft spot for her loser of a brother and, if he waited long enough, it would be her undoing.
Or it would have been, if I didn't have to go back to work, he thought sullenly.
Vic punched the steering wheel in frustration. When was something going to go his fucking way for a change? Then, as if by divine intervention (and Vic crossed himself, just in case), the groundskeeper cruised past the Impala in his golf cart.
Lips curving in a smile that didn't reach his cold eyes, Vic put the car in drive and followed the groundskeeper's cart to the maintenance shed, situated in the back corner of the cemetery property.
Exiting the car, Vic got a closer look at the groundskeeper. A kid, barely into his twenties with acne scars marking his cheeks, was giving him a rather surly look.
"Can I help you?" The kid asked, the tone of his voice suggesting he'd rather be buried alive in one of the graves he tended than offer any assistance, which Vic graciously chose to ignore.
"I hope so." He said, sliding a hand into his pocket. "I'm looking for someone."
"Check up at the front office." The kid said, turning his back to Vic and continuing to unload equipment from the cart. "They have maps showing whose plot is where."
Vic pulled his hand out of his pocket, making a show of removing the thick stack of bills from his money clip. "The lady I am looking for is very much alive." He pulled several bills out of the stack, replacing the rest in his pocket. "She comes here to visit her brother, God rest his soul, and I really need to get in touch with her."
Suddenly the kid was all smiles, his full attention on Vic.
"What is it I can do for you then, sir?"
"Well, since you ask, when she comes here again, I'd like for you to call me."
"That's it?" The kid asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Not exactly." Vic said, putting four hundred bucks into the kid's open palm and an arm around his shoulder. "Listen close because this is very, very important."
---
Luciana floated gently towards consciousness, buoyed by the delicious aroma that had drifted in underneath her door.
She opened her eyes, momentarily confused as to where she was. A quick glance told her she was in her own bed, in her own room, in an apartment that she was beginning to consider home. She couldn't recollect how she ended up there, but she was sleepy and warm and couldn't bring herself to care. No doubt some bit of MacManus magic had taken care of getting her to bed, like they seemed to take care of everything else.
The light was streaming into the bedroom despite the grime that coated the outside of the window. Rolling over, she eyed the alarm clock dubiously; one in the afternoon already. She stretched and yawned, enjoying the peaceful feeling that had followed her from slumber into wakefulness.
She took a deep breath, trying to detect what could possibly smell so good in this apartment. Neither twin had shown much inclination towards domestic activities, and yet she was sure she could smell cinnamon rolls.
I must be dreaming. I'm dreaming and I'm very hungry.
A knock on the bedroom door quickly disabused her of the notion.
"Come in." She said not moving from her comfortable spot in bed.
Murphy's grinning face appeared from behind the door. "Top 'o the mornin'!" He said in his thickest Irish accent, making the phrase sound ridiculous.
"Aren't you chipper this morning?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "How's your face? Does it hurt?"
"A bit." He said, his fingers picking at the tape holding the gauze in place over his wounded cheek.
"Yeah well, it's killing me." She said, her grin widening to match his.
"Hardy-har-har." He stepped into the room and waved a cup of coffee in front of her tantalizingly. "I came all the way here to offer ye a cuppa and see if ye'd join us for a bun, but after that I think ye can get your own coffee."
She giggled and he responded by turning on his heel and stomping back towards the kitchen.
Luciana stretched again and kicked the blankets off. The chilly air was an effective goad to get her moving. She realized she was still wearing the previous evenings clothes. She pulled the sweater off and grabbed a black turtleneck that she had purloined from Connor's wardrobe after doing laundry. It came almost to her knees and she cursed the family genetics that had made her so short.
Pushing the sleeves up past her elbows, she headed to the kitchen to see what kind of mischief they had gotten into.
When she saw Connor sitting at the table with icing all around his mouth and Murphy sporting a milk moustache, she just shook her head. It was amazing that less than twelve hours ago, they were a deadly whirl of fists and flying blood and now they looked like a couple of 10 year olds who found the freshly baked cookies they weren't supposed to see.
She looked around the kitchen and assumed a severe tone. "Where is she?"
Two sets of blue eyes widened in her direction. After a beat, Connor swallowed a mouthful of pastry and asked, "Who?"
"The woman, no make that the goddess, who came in here and baked cinnamon rolls and bought actual milk. I thought the only beverages allowed in this joint were beer and coffee."
"Don't forget whiskey!" Murphy said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
"I'll have ye know that I have been up for over an hour, slaving away over a hot stove, to make breakfast for ye and me ungrateful brother," Connor shook his head and looked wounded. "And ye mock me! For that, ye can't have any extra icing."
"I find it hard to believe that there is any icing left over, considering how much of it is on your face."
He had the good grace to blush as he swiped a hand across his mouth. Instead of cleaning the icing off his hand, he ran his fingers around this plate adding more his already frosted hand then he reached across the table and slapped his brother across the face, transferring the icing to Murphy's cheek. "Thanks for telling me, ye fucking retard."
Murphy ran a finger down his cheek, making a track through the icing. Holding the finger up to Luciana, he crooked it at her and said. "I've got yer extra icing right here, sweetheart."
"Swoon." She replied in a deadpan voice, rolling her eyes, which set Connor to laughing. Murphy ignored her and proceeded to suck the frosting from his finger.
She walked over to the counter and looked at the pan that still held four cinnamon rolls. She touched the top of the stove, and sure enough, it was warm to the touch.
"Do ye believe the nerve she's got, Murph?" Connor said, watching her. "She doesn't believe I can cook."
"He made 'em from scratch." Murphy said, coming to Connor's defense. "Used Ma's old recipe and everything."
She saw the amused glance Connor shot Murphy, but she didn't comment on it. She grabbed a plate from the cupboard and picked out a nice, gooey roll from the pan.
She joined them at the table and looked down at her plate, not moving to take a bite.
"What's the matter?" Connor asked.
"Well, I don't have any health insurance." She smiled at his puzzled expression, and continued. "So, I'm wondering if I should risk the potential food poisoning and try this."
Connor spluttered behind a mouthful of roll and attempted to grab her plate. Grabbing a fork, she jabbed at his hand. "I'm kidding! Kidding!"
Two sets of laughing blue eyes watched her cut into the bun and bring the fork to her lips. Her eyes widened as she tasted it. The spicy tang of the cinnamon combined with the sugary sweet icing was the perfect combination. She couldn't believe it. It was…delicious.
"I humbly apologize." She said to Connor. "You can make me breakfast anytime you want."
"Don't get used ta it. Tis hard work, baking is."
Murphy gave a chuckle then a grunt. He reached a hand under the table, rubbing vigorously at his shin.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Was that yer leg?" Connor asked innocently, not fooling anyone.
"Fuck you, Chef Boy-are-MacManus!" Murphy said, springing to his feet.
Wiping the remaining icing off his face, he slammed his hand down onto Connor's head and gleefully rubbed the icing into his hair. He was rewarded with a shoulder to the chest, as Connor stood up and tackled him.
Luciana scooted her chair away from the melee, taking her plate with her. The boys rolled on the floor, fists and curses flying freely. She contemplated intervening until they rolled into the garbage can, spilling its contents onto the floor. The remains of a cardboard tube rolled into her foot. Picking it up, she saw the Pilsbury Dough Boy waving jauntily at her, standing next to a strikingly familiar looking cinnamon roll.
"Lying Bastards!" She said, under her breath. She avoided the writhing mound of MacManus on the floor and made her way to the kitchen sink. She turned on the water and pulled the sprayer out as far as it would go.
Giving a rather self-satisfied smile, she pulled the trigger.