Title: The Devil We Know
Summary: Christine Daae is the daughter of a recently deceased mafia boss. Suddenly, she finds herself toted as an up and coming gang leader, learning from the Phantom, a man who is feared by even the most powerful in the field as a notorious hit man. Will Christine find the strength to carve her own path, disregarding both darkness and light? Raoul's in it too. I guess.
Disclaimer: Phantom isn't copywritten any more, is it? I don't know. But the book belongs to Leroux and the musical belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber. Regardless, Erik, Christine, and Raoul aren't my original characters.
Author's Note: Ah… I didn't mention that this is set in modern America? Well, there it is. Sorry for the confusion.
PS- I love semi-automatic pistols… Erik's is a Glock 17, 9 MM black pistol with a silencer equipped that he made himself. That's why Christine couldn't hear the shot from the kitchen. Another option, apparently, is to hold a pistol behind a pillow and fire that way. Insta-silencer!
Chapter Two: Beneath the Opera House
The Opera House was an immense, brick building situated between the theater district and residential area of downtown. Its name was slightly deceiving, as it was a fine, upscale restaurant that provided its patrons with singing and short plays on its modest stage in the dining area.
Erik bypassed the parking lot, circling around the building to a small, dark space in the shadows behind the restaurant. He parked the car, removed the keys and swiftly got out. Christine hurried to follow, but before she could open her door, he was there holding it open with his hand out politely. She placed her hand on his, the slick, black material of his gloves and odd substitute for flesh.
He had her standing in an instant, her arm looped pleasantly around his crooked elbow as if he were her date escorting her to a play. They started toward the front of the building, before taking a sharp turn down an outside stairway leaning into the building's basement. Christine followed him hesitantly, their arms still locked together. "Shouldn't we go in through the front?"
"No. There are plenty of patrons up in the dining area who shouldn't know you're under my care." Fishing around in his pant's pockets, Erik produced a ring of keys and flicked through a few until he found the one he wanted and unlocked the door at the bottom of the stairs. He threw open the door and walked in, letting her arm go as he did. She entered slowly, shutting the door behind her.
The basement had been converted into a one room studio apartment. The walls were made of cement and stone built from the foundations of the building and the floor was cold stone with various rugs scattered around for padding. An antique, wood desk sat near one wall with a black leather office chair that swiveled on wheels with a back that would make any villain envious.
A single person bed was opposite the room from the desk hidden behind a large, foldable rice paper screen. There were no windows in the room and the only source of light was a standing lamp near the desk and cabinet area. Shadows from the stone texture fell across the walls, making the room haggard and pockmarked.
Erik jerked loose the dark red tie around his neck as he walked straight to the desk where a small pile of paper waited. Without looking up, he commanded, "Lock the door then come sit."
Christine made a face while she clicked the lock into place before hurrying over to the smaller chair on the other side of the side for company. Before she could sit, he held out an envelope for her. She took it and stared at the name written in a familiar hand on the cream colored envelope. Christine, written with that absurdly curly C. Her father's writing.
Glancing up sharply, she glared at Erik. "Where did you get this?"
Erik shrugged as he removed his overcoat to drape over the tall back of his chair. "Your father. I assure you, I haven't read it. Tampering with mail is too petty a crime for me."
She opened the envelope carefully, wanting to savor the feeling of nearness to her father the letter provided. It was as though he had just written it and was still alive for her to send a reply. It took all her courage not to start crying again as she unfolded the clean white paper and began to read.
My little Christine,
If you are reading this, then I've probably been murdered. Erik wouldn't have sought you out if he didn't believe there to be a real danger to your life. I was most likely killed by a rival leader. Times are changing too fast in this world and I'm too tired to keep up. In this underworld, Christine, if you show weakness you're as good as dead.
Your mother and I hoped to keep you from this way of life. We planned to tell you eventually, but once Elizabeth was killed, I vowed never to give you the chance to follow in our footsteps. The things we've done, little Christine… you would surely hate the both of us if you knew. And you must know now, you must know everyone for who they truly are. Erik will help as much as possible with whichever path you choose to take.
Be true to yourself, little bird.
Love,
Your Father
Just as Christine finished reading the letter, a gloved hand thrust a slip of cloth at her. She glanced up in confusion and saw Erik's taut, pained expression peering down at her as he offered her a handkerchief. She took the cloth and realized she must be crying again. Folding the letter back into the envelope, Christine wiped at her eyes, trying to keep the sobs from forming in her mouth.
"I don't know what he said in that letter, but your father was a good man. The best in this line of work. He never killed anyone who didn't deserve it." Erik stated, voice gruff as he sat on the edge of the desk in front of her.
Choking on a sudden laugh, Christine continued to blot her eyes as she asked, "Are you trying to make me feel better?"
"I couldn't say, I've never tried to make anyone stop crying before. In fact, I'm usually doing the opposite."
Shaking her head, Christine looked up at him and jolted in her seat. His shirt was partially unbuttoned and the bottom was pulled free from the waist of his pants. The vest he wore was open, completely unbuttoned, and his tie hung uneven from his now upturned collar. The state of undress showed a generous amount of his neck and collarbone, but something was wrong.
"You're still wearing your mask and gloves," she squinted up at his exposed skin. Trailing the right side of his neck, skin looked warped and scarred as if horribly burned. The veins and tendons twisted just beneath the irritated, red skin. Leaping up from her chair, she advanced on him, her hands flying to his face to angle his head so she could look at the skin on his neck. "You're hurt! Who did this?!"
He was so shocked by her sudden movement that he barely managed to skitter backward on the desktop before she could knock the mask off his face. He fell over the other side of the desk in his frantic attempt to escape from her hands.
Christine watched him tumble back and disappear behind the desk. "Erik, are you okay?"
She started forward, but halted when Erik ordered, "STOP! Don't come over here!"
There was the sound of hands pawing along the cold floor in search of something and then he sighed in relief. A moment later, he stood up, mask in a slightly different position on his face. "Did your mask fall off?"
He narrowed on her as he fiddled with his collar, trying to hide the marred few inches of skin on the right side of his neck. "Yes, no thanks to you. I'm lucky I didn't land on my gun and blow my ass off."
"I'm sorry, I just… the skin on your neck… I thought you were hurt." She offered lamely, backing up until the chair nudged into her calf.
"I'm not hurt, so don't touch me." He snapped, removing the gun holster from around his torso and placing it on the desk. "What did your father have to say?"
"Oh," Christine had almost forgotten the letter in the rush. "I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do. He said that he was murdered by a rival leader."
Erik nodded, sitting in his chair behind the desk, grateful for the distance between them. That was the first time a woman so boldly touched him. In the circles he frequented, the women and men were all afraid of him. "Sounds about right. I have some ideas on that, but I'll have to investigate further before I know anything for sure."
"Did you work under my father?"
"I don't work for anyone," he replied quickly. His shoulders were tense again, Christine noted with curiosity. Why would such a simple question raise his hackles? A slow, sadistic smile curled the left half of his lips. "In fact, even the leaders of the mafia know not to bother me."
"Then why are you helping me?"
He eyed her for a long moment, tapping his fingers against the wood of the desk. "Because I owed your mother a great deal of favors before she died. That debt switched to your father upon her death and now it goes to you. I believe in returning what is owed, by any means necessary."
At her puzzled expression, he sighed, eyes drifting to a spot on the wall. "I forget how young you were when Elizabeth died. Your memory of her must be faded. She was… a strong woman, capable of anything. Her beauty was whispered about by all in this field."
"Did you love her?" Christine asked, taken back by the airy tone in his voice.
His gaze returned to her face, sharply. The nostalgic tone was gone, he was all seriousness again. He spoke as if he had something to prove. "No. I admired her spirit. She was capable of balancing kindness and strength in a world that only values power. However, I believe you might surpass her."
"Wait, what?" Christine demanded, leaning forward in her seat. "Surpass her?"
"If you want, I can teach you how to thrive in this dark, underworld your parents lived in." He paused. "Or I can try to arrange a safe house for you to hide from the truth of your parent's lives. Those are your options."
He turned his attention to the gun in the holster in front of him. He removed the gun and took out a small kit, lovingly taking apart the gun and placing the pieces in order on a cloth. He was apparently done talking to her for awhile, she crossed her arms huffily as she grumbled, "So, now what?"
Erik continued to clean the bits of metal without pause. "You'll stay here for tonight. Tomorrow, we go to meet an old friend of your mother, Madame Giry. She'll help with your introduction into our pleasant society, if you so choose."
"Won't the police come looking for you once someone describes Buquet's murderer? There were plenty of witnesses at the reception." She stated. He sent her a blank look, so she sighed and explained, "How many men run around the city in half masks toting guns? I know I can only think of one at the moment."
Erik smirked, enjoying the scenario in his mind for a moment before shaking his head. "You don't know of my reputation among the other criminals. Needless to say, no one will identify me to the police."
Christine shivered in her seat as the sadistic smirk gradually died from his lips. "They called you a phantom."
"People come up with names for those they fear. It's flattering, really. They obviously fear me more than they fear sounding like idiots, yelling names like Phantom and Angel of death." He eyed her for a second before turning his attention back to his gun. "Maybe you'll get your own little codename one day if you break enough skulls."
The idea of being able to walk into a room and kill a man without batting an eye made Christine's stomach flip. She swallowed back her disgust and slumped in her seat a little. "I'll pass."
Standing up to stretch, she surveyed the room. The bed was tiny. She would be surprised if his feet didn't hang over the edge while he slept. A beat up, two person couch was located in the corner perpendicular to the office wall. Christine addressed him over her shoulder. "So, where do I sleep? You only have one bed and that God awful sofa. Where did you find that anyway? A curb-side pickup."
Rolling his eyes, Erik mimicked her under his breath so that she couldn't hear, before stating, "I'm sure we can come up with some sort of arrangement. Perhaps we could share the bed."
His tone was a strange mix of amusement and seriousness that made Christine pause mid-step and spin around to face him. He was standing, having left his precious gun in pieces on the desk, and was gazing at her with a look of longing that surprised her. He treated her like a spoiled child, and yet, there were times when his expressions made her skin tingle instantly.
She reacted to him without a word or touch.
Crossing her arms over her chest, her skin flecked with goosebumps, Christine shuddered. Her reaction to him brought him to his sense and he abruptly cut across the room to grab a pillow and extra blanket.
He tossed the items on to the couch with added force. "I'll be sleeping on the couch like a damned gentleman."
Irritated at how easily he caved under the pressure of her large, brown eyes, Erik gestured her toward the bed with a mock bow. "It's all yours, Princess. I do hope it is to your liking."
Without rising from his bow, Erik waited as Christine stomped passed him toward the bed. She paused for a moment near him to brush a hand along his left cheek. "Thank you. I don't mean to impose."
Great, he thought as he straightened from his waist bow. Now he felt like an ass. Christine did not turn back around as she disappeared behind the thin, paper curtain.
Rubbing his fingers against the furrow between his brow, Erik glanced back to the pieces of the gun that waited eagerly for him. Sighing, he dutifully returned to his chair and quickly finished reassembling the weapon. That woman took the fun out of everything.