Apologies for the long wait. I got swamped with school and work. This is a long chapter, but it jumps a year. Consider it a transition chapter as we are edging closer and closer to the end of Part I! Enjoy!

Part I, Chapter IX

March 16, 1899

Brooklyn, New York

There was a strange warmth that spilled into Emma's bedroom that morning. She fluttered her eyes open and was greeted with a ray of sunshine on the door. There was a chill, yes, though slight and there was the warmth that made her comfortable. She turned over to her left and found what else made the morning so pleasant. Spot snoozed peacefully and soundly, his arm resting over her stomach.

Emma turned onto her side to face him. Her eyes scanned over the faint scar across his cheekbone. The light, barely visible line was a permanent reminder of his first trip to Thayer Street. She remembered the day he returned from his trip and he visited her with the fresh scrape on his face. Without a greeting, she had smacked his other cheek immediately and they never spoke of the trip again.

The memory of it made her smile bashfully. Presently she grabbed a few strands of her long, golden blonde hair and dangled them onto his face so that he twitched and swatted until he awoke. A mischievous giggle drew from her mouth as he opened his eyes and rolled onto his back.

"Goddamn, woman," he said in a groggy tone.

"Morning, sunshine."

She crawled closer and jumped onto his stomach playfully. Unprepared and still half asleep, Spot let out a groan as she made herself comfortable, using his abdomen as a pillow.

"You were sleep talking again," she told him. "I tried to have a conversation with you but I couldn't understand what you were sayin'."

"Hm." Spot threw his arm over his eyes tiredly and attempted to go back to sleep. A moment later, he sat up with a start and mumbled, "Wha time 'sit?"

"Come again?"

The sound of a door opening and footsteps on the floorboard in the rest of the apartment was heard. Cursing briefly, Emma jumped. She threw Spot his shoes from across the room and ushered him towards the window. Not to worry, she thought, he always gets out just in time. She shoved the window open with force.

"Shit, I think I'm late again," cursed Spot as he crawled effortlessly onto the shaky fire escape. Though the sunlight was warm, the late winter chill greeted Spot and his bare chest and arms harshly. Emma pecked him hastily on the lips and shut the window closed. Spot paused. "Em!"

She turned and he pointed to his naked chest, goosebumps rising on his skin. She looked down and stared at the navy blue button-down of his that she was wearing. Her bare legs shuddered and she opened the window again reluctantly, holding up a finger for him to wait. A smirk was written all over Spot's infamous face. Emma scoffed, disgusted by the expression, and hid behind her dresser. She threw off the shirt, poked only her head out from the dresser, and balled up his garment tightly. With a shake of her head, she hurled the shirt at Spot as he laughed, amused and arrogant.

"See ya later, sweetheart!" he called as he sprinted down the fire escape.

Emma rolled her eyes and jumped quickly into a dress in her closet. Carefully she opened the bedroom door, fearing her parents were standing just outside. Their faces would hold knowing expressions and their accusatory fingers would be pointed to fire at her like a shotgun. Whenever Spot had slept over, there was always the chance her parents would catch them. If that happened, she would never be able to see him again; it scared her half to death.

She strolled out of the room innocently and found her father already reading the paper at the kitchen table as he sipped his coffee. His dark brown eyes looked up at her through his glasses and he sighed. Emma looked down at her feet as she poured a glass of orange juice.

"Late start this morning?" inquired Mr. Corwell.

Emma gulped down the sour drink. "Little bit."

"Had to go out and get my own paper this morning…" he turned the page dramatically and slowly. "Didn't see Spot there either."

She looked up and said nothing. Her heart raced and her mind went blank.

"Then again, I did get up pretty early," he continued.

He knows, thought Emma, There's no way he can't know. Oh, god.

"Edward, Emma! Good, we're all in the same room…" interrupted Mrs. Corwell. She entered the kitchen, seemingly flushed and her hands full of papers. She set them down tiredly on the table and directed Emma to take a seat.

"We need to talk about Philadelphia."

Emma had been hearing the place tossed around in private conversation but she had no idea what the significance was. Immediately, though, a bad feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.

"Odds are two to one this wop's got it!" shouted Thompson into Spot's ear. "And five to one on the German bastard!"

Spot took a seat in the crowded basement of Sonny's restaurant. Two young men, no older than twenty, tackled and punched each other to the distasteful delight of a hoard of gin-soaked, cigar-smoking, half-drunk men and boys. During the daytime the restaurant was a quiet, family diner, but as soon as the clock struck ten o'clock the basement swarmed with criminals and night-crawlers determined to defy the law of prohibition.

"This guy's got more balls'n this entire room put together!" screamed Thompson pointing to the Italian boy in the middle of the circle; the fighter was only nineteen years old but looked barely fifteen, and he carried himself like a mob boss for all of Brooklyn.

Spot spread his lips proudly and nodded. He had an affinity for the Italian boxer. Nobody guessed his real age and he was so short in stature he was often mistaken for a boy. He was the underdog to everyone else but himself, and Spot responded to that loudly.

A waitress balancing a tray of shot glasses maneuvered her way through the hooting men and presented the drinks to Thompson and Spot. Her glazed eyes and cherry red lips smiled at Spot. She curled an arm around his shoulder and sat down on his leg. Spot smirked subtly and looked her directly in the eye, his hand holding onto the small of her back.

"I got some more stuff in the back, just got imported this mornin'," she told him, speaking easily into his ear. "Sonny ain't even opened it yet."

Spot breathed a laugh and wrapped his arm around her body. The waitress giggled and Spot released his embrace, coming back with a shot glass in his hand. He threw his head back and let the golden liquor burn all the way to the pit of his stomach. The girl, willing and overly eager, poured him another glass and held it close to her body, which was smashed onto his.

"You wanna take another one?" she inquired dreamily.

Before Spot could answer, a hand snatched the shot glass quickly from the waitress. Emma gripped Spot's shoulder as she tossed the drink down her throat. Effortlessly, she grabbed the waitress' arm and yanked her off Spot's lap. The girl tumbled onto the floor and composed herself quickly, embarrassed. Not looking back, Emma pulled up a chair to the table and turned in Spot's direction.

"What's that look for, doll?" he asked.

"Don't 'doll' me, Spot, why d'you do that?"

"Do what?"

"That!" She pointed to the waitress swimming back into the crowd. "That thing I just saw, what the hell was that?"

"Nah, she's just drunk." He leaned back and placed his arms behind his head with a sigh. "Can't help it if the ladies love me, Em."

"Yeah, sure." She leaned over the table and yanked his hat down over his eyes forcefully, his head snapping down quickly.

With an annoyed grumble, Spot jumped up from his seat and leapt toward Emma, grabbing her by the waist and hoisting her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She kicked wildly and beat her fist against his back wildly.

"Spot Conlon, you put me down right now, I mean it!"

"Can't heah ya, sweetheart!" He spun around the room and shoved his way through the people until he got to the steps.

"Ugh! I hate you sometimes!" pouted Emma once she was set down. She crossed her arms over her chest immaturely and turned her head away.

"Ah, no ya don't." He grabbed her chin and shifted it so she faced him. "You couldn't get enough 'a me if ya tried."

Emma made an attempt to smack him in the face when he stopped her hand in midair by grabbing her wrist.

"Don't hit me. How many times I gotta tell ya that?"

"How many times I gotta tell you not to be so cocky?"

Spot rolled his eyes and let go of her wrist. He took a few steps down and grabbed two glasses of whiskey floating on tray amongst the crowd. He told her to drink up to cool down and he had a seat next to her. The two said nothing for a while, as Spot watched the ongoing fight and Emma took swigs of her drink. The Italian boxer began delivering a round of harsh punches at his German opponent, so much that the other boxer fell to the ground and raised his arm in the air in defeat. Spot clapped at his boy's victory.

"You know it didn't mean nothin', right, Em?" he asked suddenly when the cheers quieted.

Emma gulped down the last of her whiskey. "Yeah. I guess."

He leaned over and kissed her lovingly on the cheek. "You want in on the next fight?"

"I'm broke. I lost all 'a my money last Thursday when you told me to bet big on that English fella. You got poor judgment sometimes, Spot."

"What? I didn't tell ya…" Spot stammered and shook his head. "'Snot true…"

Emma rolled her eyes tiredly. "Who's fighting next anyway?"

Bolt shoved his way through the mass of men and kneeled on the steps before them with excitement. He reeked of hard liquor and in his sweaty hands were crinkles of dollar bills and coins. A drunken smile took over his face and he nodded his head with excitement.

"Good night fer fightin', ain't it!"

"Yeah, Bolt, how much ya got there?"

The newsie shoved the money into his pockets and shrugged. "Conlon, tomorrow's St. Patty's…so, you'se fightin' next, a'right?"

Spot let out an exasperated laugh. "No thanks, bud. Maybe tomorrow instead."

"No, you gotta fight! Seriously, if you'se really my best friend, then you'll fight, a'right? So, do it!"

"What? How's that make sense?"

"'Cause I bet that guy ovah there I'd convince you ta do it! He got a lot money last time ya did it! It's just some otha street kid, scrawny, ain't big at all."

A round of cheering erupted from the center of the room and a large, meaty, tough-looking boy his age stepped into the circle. A mixture of applause and booing issued from the room.

"Scrawny, right, Bolt? Jesus…the kid'll probably eat you fer breakfast."

"Yeah, ya probably couldn't take 'im anyway…I mean, the guy I made a bet with bet you wouldn't anyway…"

Emma pressed her lips together and hid her face from laughter. Spot's jaw unhinged upon Bolt telling him this and immediately he was offended. With a round of curses, Spot stood straight up and yanked off his shirt. He chucked it in Bolt's face, threw his hat to the steps, and looped his key necklace around Emma.

"Wish me luck, baby."

He pecked her on the lips and took off into the crowd, his arm held high in the air by Bolt. Spot fed off the enthusiasm of the room and generated an ego so large it surpassed even his opponent. He strutted up to the fighter, his bare stomach barely touching his they were so close, and a smirk written all over his face. The opponent glared meanly into Spot's eyes, but Spot looked right back up at him with a cocky expression.

The bell dinged loudly. Spot squatted to dodge the first punch and immediately fired back with a round of clouts to the larger boy's stomach. The crowd whooped and hollered loudly, chanting in favor of their preferred fighter. Emma did not watch the fight and instead leaned back against the staircase. A waitress had brought around a full bottle of whiskey and Emma drank it down thirstily.

But while the room was alive with high spirits and energy, Emma cleared her mind to silence, recalling what her parents had talked to her about earlier that morning. She wrestled with the idea of discussing it with Spot yet. Philadelphia. No, it was too early to tell him that, she thought. Let him enjoy things while he can. Emma, the fighter, argued with the conscience she was fighting too hard. A tear came to her eye and refusing to acknowledge its presence, she knocked back a full glass of liquor. Her hand toyed with the key around her neck and though she ignored its presence as well, a knot lodged in her throat. It's just too early