A/N: This took me foreeever to write. So sorry. Stupid hurricane made me lose my mojo.

Cathedral Carver is the greatest person in the world, and the sole reason you're seeing this today.

This is either the last chapter, or second-to-last. The ending is unresolved, which makes my spine clench, so I may do an epilogue at some point to tie up loose ends.

It isn't what I expected, visiting San Quentin. I guess I envisioned some sort of mash-up of all the prison movies I've ever seen – having to endure the indignity of a body cavity search by the door, being paraded down a long hallway, flanked by cells of yelling, jeering inmates – but when we enter the prison, it just feels like a building.

A building with barbed-wire fences and armed guards, but still, a building.

Scott leads me silently through a side door, where a heavy-set security guard is sitting behind a desk. Scott signs us in and surrenders his weapon before we step through a metal detector. Then, there's a lot of paperwork, and a lot of waiting. We sit side by side, not talking, staring straight ahead.

It occurs to me, suddenly, how much I wish that Kurt were here right now. My first instinct had been to leave him behind for his own safety, but I'd forgotten how desperately I need him when I'm afraid. I wish I could hold his hand, feel his reassuring warmth beside me. He would know what to say to set my nerves at ease. I'm sitting tensely, trying to shore up the courage to face my demon – literally – and all of my courage is sitting in a safehouse back in Kentucky.

A blank-faced woman in a dark suit approaches at a quick pace, her heels clacking loudly on the concrete floor. "Marshal Scott Ward?" she asks as she reaches us.

Scott stands up. "Yes. That's me."

"I'm Janine Giordano, Mr. Castellano's attorney." She doesn't even glance at me as they shake hands stiffly.

"Thank you for agreeing to this," Scott begins. "We–"

"Thank my client," she interrupts. "He's meeting with your witness against advice of counsel. And there are stipulations to the meeting."

"What kind of stipulations?" he asks warily.

"First, Mr. Castellano will only meet with Mr. Sanders in private. You are not allowed to be present for the meeting. Nor am I, for that matter."

Scott's jaw tightens in displeasure. "Why?"

"Because that's how he wants it," she replies flatly. "Remember, he's under no obligation to meet with your witness. Those are his conditions; take them or leave them."

"Well..." He swallows, looking at me. "I guess as long as there are guards there in case something goes wrong–"

"Private means private, Marshal. My client will only meet with Mr. Sanders if they are completely alone together."

There's a sudden, sharp pain in my shoulder as Scott grabs my upper arm and yanks me roughly to my feet. "You know what? This is bullshit. We're leaving," he growls through gritted teeth, glaring at the lawyer. "I should have known this was a mistake–"

"As I said, take them or–"

"Lady, if you think I'm going to leave my witness in a room with that crazy–"

"Scott, stop," I say firmly, twisting my arm out of his grasp. "I need to meet with him."

"He killed two men point-blank, Perfecto. And dozens more–"

"And we're in a maximum security prison. I assume Mr. Castellano will be handcuffed, right?" I ask Ms. Giordano, who nods.

"Can you give us a minute?" Scott asks tightly. She looks annoyed, but wanders down the hallway away from us. "Listen," he says to me urgently, his voice fading down to a whisper. "I don't like this. Something's not right here."

"Yeah, I'm about to have a meeting with a Mafia godfather. That's never going to feel right."

"I know you hate me. Hell, I hate you back half the time. But don't do this just because you're pissed at me. I can't protect you like this."

"I don't hate you," I tell him. "And I'm not doing this to spite you."

"Let's just leave," he pleads. "We can forget this ever happened. I'll find another place to hide you and Kurt. Somewhere more isolated, where you won't have to worry–"

"Don't you get it?" I interject. "I always have to worry. It's all I do anymore. I worry about whether Kurt will still be there when I get back. I worry that my parents' cover has been blown. I worry that Burt's heart won't be able to take the stress of going into hiding. I haven't had a good night's sleep since I was twelve, Scott. I can't walk down the street without listening for footsteps behind me, or watching for people lurking in the shadows. I just want to be able to live a normal life again. I want my family to be able to live normal lives, too. And the only way I can make that happen is by meeting with Marco Castellano, here and now."

"Still..." Scott looks torn.

"It's a power play," I insist. "He's stuck in prison for the rest of his life, unable to make any decisions of his own, and then he hears that I want to meet with him. So he makes some ridiculous demands just to feel like he still has some power. Let him stay deluded, as long as I get to meet with him."

A prison official and two guards approach us, and Scott finally nods reluctantly to me in accession. He sits back down, Ms. Giordano coming back to stand near him. I know he's watching as I follow the official down the hallway.

We don't see any inmates on the way, but with the two guards right on my heels, I can't help feeling like I'm a prisoner. "Now, you're only permitted to meet with Mr. Castellano for ten minutes," the official says to me briskly as we walk. "His hands and feet will be cuffed. Do not approach the prisoner at any time. Knock twice on the door if you want to leave the room before the ten minutes have elapsed. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

I imagined one of those little two-way telephone booths when I pictured our meeting, but Castellano is waiting in a regular conference room, already seated at a long table. There's a small black box sitting on the table in front of him, and I recognize it as a device to keep recorders from working in the vicinity. Must have been another one of his conditions. Taking a deep breath, I enter the room, trying not to flinch when I hear the door close behind me with a click.

He looks older and thinner than the last time I saw him. His face looks wearier. His eyes are just as sharp, though, and they watch me closely.

"Long time no see, boy."

I pull out a chair and sit down, maintaining a healthy distance. My heart is racing, to the point where my chest is starting to hurt. "Yeah, I've been too busy to visit, sorry."

"So I hear." He is indeed cuffed, to my relief, but I'm still nervous. There are plenty of things he could do to me without the use of his hands. I'm starting to understand why Scott didn't want me in here alone. "Tell me, how's New York this time of year?"

"Cold. Windy."

"Windy, yeah. I hear your bathroom window had quite a draft. You should really talk to your super about that. George, isn't it?"

He's trying to frighten me, trying to get the upper hand. I force myself to meet his gaze with a bravado I don't feel. "How about your cell? Nice and toasty?"

"I'm comfortable. Unlike you right now. "

"I'm perfectly comfortable," I shoot back. "And when I'm done, I can walk right out that door a free man. Unlike you."

"A free man." Castellano smiles, slowly. "Yes, that's right. You've got to get back to Kentucky, don't you?" I can feel my blood run cold as he speaks. "Maybe your Marshal will let you call your folks in Florida on the way back. Though their phone service has been pretty spotty lately, from what I've heard. But yes, you've got to hurry back to Kentucky. Fast as you can."

It's taking every bit of my self-control not to bolt from the room. "You don't scare me," I claim.

"Oh, I terrify you," he corrects me. "And you don't even have any idea how much I already know. About where you are, and who's with you." He leans back a little, smirking. "I have to say, I was surprised. I mean, I knew you were a queer, we all did, but I didn't know you would... go that extreme. If he were any girlier, he'd be a girl."

"Don't talk about him."

"Who, Kurt?" He runs his tongue over his yellowed teeth. "Pretty little Kurt, all alone and defenseless?"

"He's not alone. Or defenseless."

"Right, right. He's got a U.S. Marshal with him." Castellano says with a smirk. "You think I don't have U.S. Marshals in my pocket, kid? How do you you think you ended up with Scott Ward, of all people? You think that was a coincidence?"

I keep my face carefully blank. "Scott's not in your pocket."

He throws back his head and laughs, loud and long. "That's hilarious. Not in my pocket. Oh, that's rich."

"He's not."

"Well, of course he's not, you moron. The Marshals on my payroll are actually competent."

"He–"

"You ended up with Scott Ward," he interrupts, "because I made it happen. He's the embarrassment of the entire Marshal Service." He looks me right in the eye, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "The organization used to brag about their success rate. Plastered it all over the place; No witness security program participant, who followed security guidelines, has been harmed while under the active protection of the U.S. Marshals. I memorized it, Perfecto. Want to know why?" He grins. "Because they don't get to say it anymore."

"If you think I don't already know about Billy Rice, you're wrong."

"I'm sure you do know. It was big news back then. The ten-year-old son of a federal witness, gunned down by–"

"I said I know."

Castellano nods. "Marshal Ward slipped up. He got sloppy, and disgraced the entire organization. So when it came time for my contacts to choose your Marshal, I made sure that you were paired with him. I made sure you got the worst possible agent."

"If that's true, then you made a mistake," I tell him, folding my hands on the table in front of me. "Because you paired me with the one Marshal with something to prove. The one Marshal who'd do anything to try and keep me safe. The one Marshal who'd actually put up with my demands and–"

"Why are you here?" he hisses. "Is it to flaunt the fact that you're still alive? Because believe me, boy, one snap of my fingers and–"

"Notice you haven't, though. You know where I am, you know where my parents are, and yet you've never snapped those fingers. Why is that?" He just stares at me, so I continue. "You must have known that we were vulnerable. You must have known that you could've had us by the throats and squeezed until we cried uncle–"

"I knew it." He spits to the side. "Fuck. I knew that's what this was about."

"What did you think, that we didn't see? That we wouldn't tell?" I shake my head. "We've got leverage, Marco. You know it, and I know it."

Castellano watches me appraisingly. "You've got nothing. Unless you got something on film – which we both know you didn't – there's no proof."

"Legally? Yeah, you're right. That's one of the reasons my dad and I never brought it up at the trial. We didn't have any proof, and we'd be painting an even bigger target on our backs if we testified that a U.S. Senator was on the yacht with you that day. But you and I both know that your nephew was there. He stood and watched while you murdered those men. And while he didn't pull the trigger, he didn't report it, either. And that makes him an accessory to murder."

"Which you can't prove," he says again.

I smile humorlessly. "But I don't have to prove it. All I have to do is call up the New York Times and tell them what I saw. What my dad and I both saw. And it will be all be over for your nephew. The race for governor, the Senate seat, all of it."

"Are you really trying to threaten me? You're out of your element, Perfecto."

"You may know where I am, and where my family is, but you can't touch us. Because if you do, we've made arrangements for recorded statements of what really happened to be mailed to all major media outlets. And if you think it will hurt your nephew's political career for this to surface now, imagine how the public will react if it comes out after we're dead." I raise both eyebrows. "You're so close to having a West Coast Mafia member as governor. You really want to jeopardize that?"

Castellano sneers at me. "Is that what you think? That Victor's in the Mafia?"

"He was there, on the–"

"I know he was there. But he's not a member."

I shake my head. "It's all the same–"

"It's not, though. He was there that day because we were trying to entice him to join. All Victor had to do was shoot the two snitches." He sighs. "He wouldn't do it, though. Said it went against his morals. He tried to get me not to do it, but... well... let's just say I don't have a problem with morals. That was the day Victor broke ties with the Castellano family for good."

"So why do you care what happens to him, then? Why are you protecting him?"

"He's family," Castellano says slowly, as if I'm stupid. "He's my blood, and he's a senator. And he'll be governor one day."

"You're proud," I realize. "You're proud that he's legit."

He glares at the table sullenly. "It's hard to shake our family reputation. But Victor is a good man. The only time he's ever broken the law is when he didn't report me for the hits. I don't want to see him sunk by the choices I've made."

"Then let's make a deal today, Marco. Let's protect Victor together. I want my family's safety, and Kurt's family's safety, in exchange for our silence."

This makes him pause, and blink at me. "Wait... that's what you're here for?"

"Yes. That's all I want."

He looks bewildered, like he expected me to ask for more. Maybe he's used to wild demands for cash or favors. But money and power don't interest me; that's the biggest difference between me and Marco Castellano. "The hit orders are already out there," he says. "The West Coast Mafia doesn't just reverse a hit. It doesn't work like that."

"Who says you have to reverse it? You put out a new photo with the hit order, and a couple of days later, spread the word that the hit has been carried out. You claim you awarded someone the million-dollar bounty – someone you trust, someone whose silence you can buy. And once people think the hit's been made, they'll stop looking for us."

He cocks his head and squints at me, thinking. "Even if that did work, even if did call off the search dogs... no one's ever really safe. You could get mugged walking down the street in New York. Your fairy friend–"

"Husband."

"Your husband could get sideswiped by a car. There are a million different ways someone could accidentally be killed."

"And you'd better pray none of them happen to any of us. Or my husband's family. Because I'll assume it's you, even if it's not."

He's silent for a long time. I'm holding my breath, hoping against hope that he's actually considering it. "So all you want is for the hit orders to be removed. That's it."

"That's it."

"And you and your father won't tell anyone about Victor."

I nod firmly. It's not a deal that my conscience is fully comfortable with, but it keeps our families safe – something mine hasn't been in thirteen years. "You're a smart man, Marco. You know that the media is going to focus in on the West Coast Mafia's connection to Victor, now that his run for governor has begun in earnest. And if there's still a hit out on a witness who testified at the age of twelve, it doesn't look good for your nephew. No matter how much he tries to distance himself from you."

It's clear from his face that he's been thinking the same thing. "This still doesn't get me vengeance, though," he says, wavering. "For what you did to me."

"No," I agree. "But we've suffered. My family, and Kurt, and his family too. We've paid a price."

He blows out a long breath. "Fine... fine, you've got a deal."

My pulse is racing out of control, and I struggle to stay calm. "How long till you can get the wheels in motion? Pay someone off and get the word out that the hit's been filled?"

"A day, maybe two." I guess my surprise shows, because he adds, "Don't forget who I am. I can make anything happen."

"I know." I get to my feet and look at him. He seems smaller, suddenly. "Thank you, Marco."

He nods stiffly. "I have to say, you've changed a lot. You remind me of someone else at your age."

"Please don't say it's you."

"No, actually. You remind me of Victor."

I don't have a response for that, so I cross over to the door, knocking twice loudly. A guard opens it to let me out, and I set off down the hallway. Two quick turns and I reach Scott, running past him as he rises to his feet. Through the metal detectors, and out the door, and I'm outside. Outside and free. I take a deep breath of fresh air, and think about Kurt, and New York, and Milan, and possibilities.