Author's note: there is the mention of some OCs from my previous DN stories. They shouldn't hinder the reader's comprehension too much, though, if you haven't read those. Just throwin' that out there.

Chapter 2: Roulette Wheels

"One day I'll get to you, and teach you how to get to purest hell" - from "Just" by Radiohead

Matt

"I was starting to get concerned," said Ross. "You skipped Houston." His glasses flashed electric underneath the bleach of the casino lights. His voice was colored with a sympathy that seemed real, that seemed genuine, only-

-there was still that cold-blooded, calculating look in his eyes that set emergency sirens to screaming inside Matt's head.

"Well, sometimes a guy needs a holiday," replied Mello casually, taking a seat in a tall leather swivel chair across from Ross's entourage. Matt noted Mello's shift in demeanor, how perfectly in control he seemed, so different from earlier. If he lacked any kind of confidence, he certainly wasn't letting it show. He looked as solid as a rock, and Matt couldn't help but admire him. Matt found himself slipping quietly into the seat behind Mello, playing close attention to the party across from him.

"I'm sorry about that thing with the brass knuckles," said the woman with the purple hair, addressing Mello.

"No harm, Gretchen," said Mello. "As you can see, my face has recovered just fine. And that was more than two years ago." Matt watched the woman named Gretchen smile broadly, and it was obvious to him-much like with Ross-that, despite her words, she was not one damn bit sorry.

"What can I say, a girl loves showing off her jewelry."

"Gretchen's impulsive," interjected Ross. "But has my best interests at heart. She's a good guard dog. My little Eliza Doolittle of pain." And the two shared a look-a smile-of collusion, of sociopathic solidarity. Again, Matt felt his stomach do flip flops.

"But we're getting off topic here with this jaunt down memory lane," said Ross firmly, swiveling his chair back around to face Mello. "Let's talk business. Things on offer."

"Offer?" asked Mello. "What, you want to offer me another job?"

Ross laughed gaily at this. "No, no, mon ami-not this time. I'm way past that. And I don't take rejection well. Do I, kids?"

Muttered affirmations came from all around the table.

"No, let's talk, instead, about what your former boss has offered me," said Ross, his tone suddenly serious. "Our dear Lady Z from London. She warned me of your approach days ago. Seems like you've been a rather...disloyal subordinate? And disloyalty is not something to be tolerated-"

"-she tried to off me first. Hence the retaliation," gritted Mello.

"-oh, you British. Always eating your own. Like a serpent swallowing its tail-a never-ending cycle of dog-eat-dog. No wonder you lost your empire."

"-I had no choice!"

"-Of course not. You would have ended up the same way as the rest of your former associates. Like Puck, Hector. Where are they now? Oh, that's right. Dead. The Lady Z had them killed off ages ago."

"-That has nothing to do with me!"

"Your boss doesn't understand the kind of currency it takes to buy loyalty. Look before you. I have the same crew I had two years ago. I understand the different kinds of currency. Your boss does not-hence this problem with insubordination."

"What do you want?"

"Ha-now we're talking currency!" exclaimed Ross, a manic sheen glazing over his eyes. Matt watched the volley of statements fire back and forth like mis-aimed rounds of shrapnel. He realized that he really didn't understand what Mello's life had been like during his four year sojourn within London's criminal underworld. He had probably learned more about it in the last two minutes than during his whole year of background research. The many subtleties, the shifting loyalties. Following the conversation was like trying to follow a winding river, filled with twists and turns, and jarring rapids.

"I'm thinking," said Ross, steepling his fingers together beneath his chin in a parody of deep thought, "that you want to barter using that bag of stolen ice you're carrying. Worth about two million pounds-yes?"

Mello merely glared.

"Thought so. Which would be fine for anyone else here in America. We're generally a very ethnocentric bunch, Americans. Most bosses don't give a shit about what goes on beyond the continent. However...I'm not 'most bosses.'" Ross's gaze turned icy. "I have 'friends' in a lot of places. England, specifically-"

"-So what did she offer you?" Mello cut in.

Ross kicked off the base of the roulette wheel with his sneaker, sending his chair into a spin. He seemed to be speaking to the ceiling, as it revolved. "You have a nice fat bounty on your head. Not nearly as fat as that bag of ice, though. Which your former boss would like to have back. To the point of offering me a piece of it if I just ship you right back to England-"

Matt watched Mello go completely still at Ross's words. Again, there was that sinking feeling in the pit of Matt's stomach...

Trust that I know what I'm doing...

Ross's chair slowed to a halt. His gaze leveled on Mello. "But, I have my own forms of currency, you see. Which, of course, is a completely foreign concept to your lovely Zelda. So I told her I'd think about it. What I would actually like to do is play a different kind of game entirely...so, you like roulette?" And here, for the first time, Ross's eyes alighted on Matt. And stayed. And burrowed. And Matt, valiantly, tried not to react-

DO NOT react...

-But he couldn't stop his own returning glare, or the fear quaking at his knuckles. And slowly, ever so slowly, Ross's lips curved up into an unpleasant smile. Then his eyes flicked to Mello, and Ross said softly, ominously:

"He's afraid for you, you know. Which is going to make the little wager I'm going to offer you ten times more fun than it would be otherwise..."

About 2 years earlier...

Mello traversed the corridors of the large English estate in complete awe. Wammy's House had certainly been impressive, but seemed like nothing compared to the sheer wealth and volume of antiques and pieces of art currently taking up space in the broad hallways of Thadeus Winchester's country abode. The place had wings, for god's sake. Like freakin' Buckingham Palace. Mello was currently in what was snottily referred to as the 'southern wing' of the house. A few minutes earlier, Hector had shoved a briefcase into his hands with the order to take it to someone called Roland Ross. And getting to Ross's room had required actual written directions. When Mello had grumbled about going, Hector had said, "Low man on the totem pole gets the delivery boy jobs." He had then slammed the door in Mello's face.

Well, he wasn't going to be the low man on the totem pole for long...

Mello stopped before a door with a brass plaque on it which read "Ivy Room." Only houses with wings had rooms with names. Mello pounded on the door. After a few seconds, the door was opened by a guy with horn-rimmed glasses and a skinny tie and sneakers who looked like he should have been working tech support. "I've got a present for your boss," said Mello.

The guy in the glasses raked Mello from head to foot before saying, "Are you the present?"

Mello glared and hoisted the briefcase, "No, this is. Where's your boss?" Mello was seriously starting to feel pissed off.

The guy in the glasses raised an eyebrow, but didn't move. From behind him appeared a young woman with electric blue hair, in an off-the-shoulder, fuchsia dress and heavy Doc Martens. "Are you the delivery boy?" she said, "Why don't you bring that case inside?" Mello hesitated. The two people in front of him gave him a bad vibe. But, orders were orders. So...

...Mello stepped inside the room.

Inside was a spacious sitting room. Like the rest of the rooms on the estate, it was overflowing with fancy antiques. There were two other men in the room, seated around a low coffee table. One sat on the couch, the other on the floor. The one on the floor was a thin lanky guy with a pony tail, who was currently engrossed in an electronic device that he had laid out in pieces on the table. "This is too cool, man. I love military proto-types. Your other job is the best, boss." The kid didn't look up as he spoke.

Mello assumed that he'd been speaking to the big guy in the suit who was sitting on the couch. Mello walked forward and dumped the briefcase on the cushion next to the man, and said, "I was told to give this to you by Zelda."

Sudden laughter cut across the room.

"And what the hell is so funny?" asked Mello. The big guy in the suit just held out his hands and shrugged. Suddenly, Mello felt a presence behind him, and a hand reached out and pushed him down to a seated position on the couch. He felt his anger coiling like a snake. Then Tech Support was there, leaning across the back of the couch, staring him in the face.

"What's your name kid?" said Tech Support.

"Mello."

"Hello, Mello. I'm Roland Ross," said Tech Support, and held out his hand for a shake. More cackling laughter erupted inside the room. Mello realized he had made a serious error in judgement. He then shook Ross's hand. When he tried to pull back, Ross didn't let go.

"Tell me, Mello. Have you ever considered a change in careers?" Ross's appraising gaze slid across Mello. A gaze which made him feel rather...uneasy. Like he was a prime cut of beef on display at a butcher's market. And Ross still hadn't released his hand. Mello suddenly wished he had worn his gloves.

"Why? Are you offering me some sort of job?"

"Why not?" said Ross, tilting his head coyly to one side, "I like to think that I know raw talent when I see it. And I could use someone like you on my...staff."

"Oh, yey?" said Mello, eyes turning flinty as he suddenly got the gist of Ross's sentence. "Listen buddy, I'm not going anywhere near your 'staff.'" And with that, Mello yanked his hand away, which started a whole domino effect of violent reactions-

-Ross got flipped over the couch...

-and Mello felt something hard hit him in the face, hard enough to make him see stars. And send him sprawling down to the floor...

Mello was dazed, but still in control enough to yank out one of his knives. He then felt a heavy boot in the middle of his chest. There was the feel of a blade being pushed up against his throat. "You wanna have a knife fight with me, Pretty Boy? Well c'mon then, let's go!" The voice belonged to the woman with the blue hair.

"Heel, Gretchen!"

"C'mon, boss," whined Gretchen. "Let me take him. It's soooo boring out here in the country."

"No, he's not part of the game-"

"-get off of me you crazy bitch!" yelled Mello.

"-Boss!"

"WILL EVERYONE JUST CALM DOWN AND HAVE A NICE CUP OF SHUT-THE-FUCK-UP!" Ross yelled across the din. Everyone in the room suddenly froze, including Mello. Ross then grabbed a deadly looking assault rifle from behind one of the antique vases. "We are here to have a nice, civilized shooting party in the English countryside, people. Granted, we're doing it "Most Dangerous Game" style, but he's not the quarry. Some traitorous Irish shithead is. So Gretchen-let the kid up. We want to keep relations with Lady Z all nice and cozy, yes?" Ross brandished the rifle threateningly.

Gretchen reluctantly backed away. Mello saw that, in one hand, she held a slim, curved Spanish blade. A blade which she expertly spun and flicked closed. In her other hand, she held a pair of nasty brass knuckles. The thing that had connected with his face. Mello realized he had made another serious error in judgement. The guy in the suit was obviously not the 'heavy' around here.

Mello jumped up and backed his way to the door. Ross and Gretchen glared, while the other two men simply continued on chatting amongst themselves as if nothing had ever happened. "I'm just...gonna go now," said Mello weakly.

"Yes, I think that would be best," said Ross icily.

Mello nodded and grasped the door handle. Before he'd gotten through it, though, he heard Ross say:

"I hope we meet again sometime, Mello. Under more pleasant circumstances, of course." He could hear Gretchen snickering somewhere behind him.

Mello felt a knot in his stomach form at those words. He closed the door behind him and all but fled down the hall, like a pack of wolves was chasing after him. He felt slimy-a feeling that he was unused to experiencing. It made him feel queasy. He subconsciously rubbed the hand that Ross had been holding against his pant's leg, as if trying to rub off the other man's unwanted touch...

Mello

"You know, there is a slight difference between European roulette wheels and American roulette wheels. American wheels have extra zeroes on them," explained Ross casually, as if they were simply carrying on a normal, every day conversation. "It gives the house an extra advantage, though. Tilts the percentage in my favor. But, since I'm such a nice guy and a good sport, let's just call red and black, shall we?"

"What are we playing for?" Mello cut in.

The calculating look was back on Ross's face. "You shouldn't have come here, you know. You should have went straight to L.A. To my dear older brother-"

"-who says I want to go to L.A.?"

Ross laughed mirthlessly. "I had a long chat with your former boss about you. You're a very ambitious sort. Even I can see that. And my dimwitted older brother would make an admirable puppet..."

Mello snorted at this assessment. "What of it?"

"I'm not my dimwitted older brother," said Ross, frowning. "Numbers or no numbers, I only make bets that favor me. I play to win. Now, what kind of options do I offer, kids?"

"Bad and Worse," the party at the table chanted, as if this were an oft-repeated mantra.

"That's what you get when you play with me. So let's talk about options. However, which one's 'bad' and which one's 'worse' will depend entirely upon your point of view. So, one: I ship you back to Zelda, like she asks, where she'll no doubt dunk you sunny-side up in the Thames a few times before pumping a couple of slugs into your brain for your blatant disloyalty-"

Mello could feel Matt shifting in the chair behind him. Could feel his tenseness. Mello refused to look at him. He had to keep his focus on Ross, and Ross alone. And pray that Matt wouldn't react, as he had directed him.

"However, diamonds aren't really my kind of currency," said Ross. "Really. That option, to me, falls under the heading of 'things done out of interests of international cooperation,' more than anything. Very boring. Which brings us to option two: You come upstairs with me, of your own volition, and give me that good time that I wanted two years ago-"

"-the fuck he will!"

Mello closed his eyes. Why, Matt, why? Why can't you ever just listen to me? Mello willed Matt to be silent. But, as fate would have it, his will was being totally ignored...

Ross's deviant smile slid into place. "You have an objection to that, Ginger? Oh, but I'm not done with my terms yet. The very best part." His eyes were on Mello, but his finger pointed at Matt. "I also want him to come with-"

"-no fucking way," Now it was Mello's turn to object.

"Oh, but I insist."

"No. Fucking. Way." Mello repeated firmly. His safety-his dignity-was one thing, but Matt's was a whole other matter. And he hadn't foreseen Ross throwing Matt into the pot.

He had fucked this up royally...

Mello and Ross were stuck in a glare-off. And Ross's glare was unrelenting. It was obvious he would not change his terms. Mello's brain scrambled to come up with a suitable solution. Which lead him to say what he said next:

"Fine, but you don't lay a finger on him."

"WHAT THE FUCK?!"

Matt had jumped up from his chair and was violently shaking Mello's shoulder, "Mello, you don't really mean that-"

"SIT DOWN MATT," And, without making eye contact, Mello reached out and shoved Matt back down in the chair.

He hated this moment. Absolutely hated it.

"Calm down, Ginger. It's not a bad offer, really," said Ross, smiling maliciously. "And I'm willing to let your friend go on to L.A. after this. On to play with my idiot older brother. After I'm done playing with him, of course." Ross's eyes latched hungrily onto Mello.

He heard Matt whisper beseechingly behind him:

"Please don't do this..."

But all Mello said was:

"Spin the wheel."

Matt

Matt couldn't believe his fucking ears. Had Mello just gone completely insane? They were playing for those two options? Two options, the terms of which did not make Matt one least bit happy. In fact, right now Matt was the exact opposite of happy. He was enraged. He was infuriated. He wanted to strangle Ross. He wanted to strangle Mello for playing along with Ross. He was grasping the arms of the chair he was sitting in hard enough to put dents in the upholstery. He was just one short comment away from going completely ballistic-

"Call it," said Ross.

"Black for upstairs."

"How sweet. Maybe you don't dislike me so much after all? It's your favorite color-yes?" Ross's eyes slid over Mello's outfit in close, intimate appraisal.

You-lay-one-slimy-finger-on-him-and-I-will-personally-make-sure-you-die-the-most-horrible-painful-excruciating-death-possible, thought Matt.

"Red for jolly ol' England, then," said Ross. "McKinnley, do the honors."

The wheel clicked into motion...

All around Matt swarmed the constant buzz and hum of the inner-workings of the casino: the metallic clack of slot machines, shouts for drink orders, hoots of victory, and the low wails denoting devastating monetary loss. All of these things faded off into background, though, as the little silver ball traversed the gutter of red-and-black squares. A preternatural stillness overtook the table as the wheel clicked round and round...

Round and round...

Matt held his breath. He watched Mello, whose expression remained as calm as the untouched ocean. What the hell are you thinking about over there? thought Matt. Why are you playing this game? Mello's words from earlier came back to him, like a long forgotten echo: Trust that I know what I'm doing here.

Yes, but just what was he doing here?

Surely Mello wouldn't just let himself be carted back off to England without a fight. And surely he just wouldn't go upstairs with Ross for some quick fuck before heading off on his merry way to Los Angelos?

Would he?

The thought that he would do that, with Matt there, made his stomach lurch and his heart ache...

The whole table watched as the little silver ball bounced and careened into a slow, fitful crawl.

Clink.

Red.

Clack.

Black.

Clink.

Red again.

The silver ball surged forward, gave one final, half-hearted lurch...

...and finally settled on...

Black.

End Chapter 2.

2nd Author's Note: I'm going to wait and put up chapter 3 on either Thursday or Friday, because I'd like to take a shot at rewriting it before posting, and maybe give it a bit of a tastier end (if you know what I mean).