Nicholas: Here you are, loves. Marco had depth. I bet you didn't know it, but I did! Hah! I know something you don't know!!!

As Marco was dressing himself in a black T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans, he found himself wondering just how Angie had gotten his sizes right for them to fit this well. Less importantly, he considered asking how much she paid, but that might give her the idea that he planned to pay her back, so he strayed from that venture. He kept his mouth firmly shut and tugged, stretched and tested the material as much as his limited movement range would allow. The pants were obviously worn in already and the shirt smelled faintly of pickle juice, so these couldn't have been very expensive. Somebody went thrift store shopping.

He looked up quickly when Ange came back into the room, but didn't speak to her. He noticed that she'd changed clothes form a nice-casual work suit to what looked like an exercising outfit. She walked straight past his gaze into the kitchen and he immediately looked away the moment he noticed that she was wearing all black.

There was a familiar plastic rustling from the kitchen counter and without seeing it, he could tell that she was going through the stuff in the shopping bags. "I'm going for a walk and I want you to come with me," she told him, extracting a pair of black sneakers and a 3-pack of socks. "In light of recent events, I don't feel comfortable leaving you alone in my apartment. Before you give me that look: I think I can borrow a crutch from the people upstairs. They're son just healed a broken leg. So you'll be fine walking, and if not…we can always come back."

With a scoff, he met her eyes—she had come over to the couch to give him the shoes and socks. It was only after that that she realized he couldn't put them on his right foot. "Somebody die, or something? You're in all black." Marco's voice sounded less unpleasant than she had expected.

"Yes," she replied simply, "but I'm not going to Leon's funeral." Silence followed during which she knelt down and ripped open the package to take out a pair of socks. Taking hold of the foot of his bad leg, she slid the sock over his toes. She did her best to keep her head low and avoid his eyes.

"What did you say?" His voice was dangerously low and his hands had gripped the edge of the cushion in apprehsion.

"Leon is dead, Marco. He was shot three times in the chest on his doorstep. As I hear it, his Ma nearly had a heart attack." Angela's voice remained low and level—feeling awkward that she was giving this news to the man who'd just the other day tried to kill the recently deceased—but Marco noticed the nervous trembling in her hands while she tied the laces of his shoe. "Father Alfie is having the service as soon as possible so that Leon's brother, Bobby, can go before he leaves Brooklyn with his new girl." Just to keep herself busy, she worked at dressing his other foot as well.

For a moment, the only reaction that Marco could muster was to reach up and rub down the hairs on the back of his neck that had stood at attention at this revelation. The chill almost make him shiver, but he stubbornly forced back that urge. That this was suddenly the reality—Leon's death—filled the man with ambivalent emotions that succeeded in driving him almost mad. "Mother fucker," he muttered loathingly; all of his muscles seemed to twitch in turn.

Slightly startled, she looked up at him, finishing off the knot for his shoe. "What?" she asked, only remembering a few beats later that he hates repeating himself.

"Nothing," he snapped sharply. He leaned back into the cushion, arms crossed over his chest and body still as a statue. His mind wandered wildly against the choice of believing this and accepting it. Leon can't be dead, he thought stubbornly, How could someone like Leon die because of one of Fritzy's fucking peons. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that it was Fritzy. Only that cowardly bastard would bring a gun to a knife fight. "What's wrong?" Angie risked another question. Something was definitely amiss with how silent he was being. He didn't even give a snide remark about her putting his shoes on for him. "I thought you wanted him dead. This should be good news for you, right?"

"You gonna get a crutch or something?" I was obvious that he was annoyed and more obvious that he didn't want to talk about it. Irritation oozed out of every pore of his body, freezing the air so much that she shivered in icy fear. This felt worse than that heart-stopping glare he would give her.

Clearing her throat awkwardly, she stood. "Yes, I'll be right back." She left in flurry of discomfort.

As soon as the front door to the apartment closed, Marco lost it. He couldn't find a way to express his fury. He hit himself repeatedly on the head, yanked at his hair, slammed his fist over and over again into the couch, and even picked up the closest pillow to him and launched it across the room hoping it would hit and knock something breakable to the ground. Nothing helped and he quickly found himself leaning his head in his hands, fingers locked tightly and unforgiving-ly in his the locks of ebony on his scalp. Every inch of his body quaked in some twisted, metamorphic cross between rage and despair. Not an ounce of joy graced his mind at the thought of his arch nemesis lying cold and lifeless in a coffin. How fucking dare the bastard get offed like that?

After all of that, three years with nothing better to do in hell than plot how wonderful revenge would be and it had to fucking end like this. What the hell was wrong with the world? Even after how hard Marco tried to give this fucked-up-fairytale of theirs an honorable ending, it all just came screeching to a halt like this. Leon didn't deserve a cheap-ass, trigged-happy, single-minded pride to do that to him. Leon didn't deserve a surprise attack like that.

His palms dug harshly into against his forehead as his body tensed tight as a bowstring ready to snap. Not fair, not fair. the voice in his head sounded like a spoiled, snot-nosed child. Murder wasn't something that made Marco nervous. Hell, his father had killed his mother in front of him at twelve-years-old; he was well exposed to this. Even at that age, he'd retained a cool, apathetic composure. Now shouldn't have been any different, but that didn't change the fact that it was. It didn't stop the violent hurricane of nauseating fury that stormed through his entire being. His heart was beating so hard that it hurt. His whole body started to ache and he started to add anger with himself to this pot of malcontent that was his gut. Unexpectedly, his eyes felt like he'd been stabbed in the lacrimal. A small, thin stroke of moisture dripped out and slid down his wrist. He swore to himself that he would never show this to anyone. Before God Himself saw him like this, he'd kill himself and play cards with Satan.

They walked together down the street, Marco moving exceedingly awkwardly with a crutch under his arm helping keep his weight on his good leg. She kept her distance, making sure not to offer help unless by some off chance he asked for it. After a few blocks, he seemed to get comfortable with the trial of hobbling along on one leg and a stick. Angie tried not to watch, but after giving up on walking ahead of him from how many times he sped up to catch her, she found it difficult to keep her eyes forward. It was obviously uncomfortable to step on that leg at all, even with the crutch, but he was a stubborn ass and didn't complain. Must have been a blessing in disguise. He seemed like the kind to whine just to be annoying.

"Where are we going?" he asked quietly, the slightest evidence of strain in his voice.

At first, she wasn't sure if he'd said something. She was so focused on both him and their destination that she wasn't paying attention. When his voice caught her ear, she looked up and consequently tripped over the sidewalk. She ignored his blatant snicker. "The cemetery." After recovery, she continued walking, barely aware that he had slowed down.

"I thought you weren't going to Leon's…funeral." That word was increasingly awkward whatever way he used it.

"I'm not. Sure, I knew the guy and more than a few times I talked with him, but I don't want to go to see him put in the ground. I mean, what's the point? I'll just take up space where his many family members and friends belong. It's not my business that he's dead at all. Besides, if I'm dragging you along, I think it'd start a riot if Marco Vindetti randomly came back from the dead to attend the funeral of the man he hates."

I don't hate him, he argued silently. The thought was stupid to bring up since he was certain she wouldn't understand. This was something in his mind that he would deal with by himself. "So why are we going?"

"To visit an older grave."

"…who?" God, it was hell getting any useful answer out of this woman.

Apparently he'd forgotten that he didn't want to be walking behind her because he was staring at her back again. Fuck it, he thought dismally. Trying to compete with her was hell on his leg right now, so he'd save it for later. Instead, he watched the change in her pace from contemplating steps to a more determined, brisk speed. "My mother," she stated.

"Hm…"

"What?" She glanced over her shoulder at that thoughtful hum of his. "Something you'd like to say?"

Watch your fucking tone or I'll knock your head in with this fucking crutch. He ignored the comment as it tugged his tongue, nagging him to just say it. Angie just had such a rude mouth sometimes that he was a bit threatened by it. He preferred to be uncouth, boorish type of person. "You seem like an orphan," he commented, "You're too unconnected with the things around you to have a family."

"I am an orphan."

The grass always seemed damp and grey at the cemetery. It made for a perfect frame to the stone teeth that jutted up from the jaw of death. A cool breeze lapped away at the lawn and combed the trees. Angie's hair struggled in the collection of bobby pins that held it up and a few strands strayed loose to hold the sides of her face as she looked down at her respective marker. It said "Ruby Majestic b. 1902 d. 1948, RIP."

"Adopted mother?" Marco asked quietly. Even he felt the solemn power of this hallowed place that he gave a somber respect to the dead. "And this was your adopted father?" He pointed to the other half of the stone that read "Jonathan Michael Majestic b. 1893."

"Yeah, he's not dead yet, but he reserved the plot next to hers just to be prepared."

With a wry smirk, Marco noted that she said "yet" as though she not only expected but awaited the man's eminent death. He made no other comment on that, however. He was too busy wondering what ways he could probably get into her head. She obviously had some sort of deep feelings for Mrs. Majestic or she wouldn't have come visit her grave. "How did she die, then?" he asked casually.

"Aneurysm." Angie began to sound as though she was having a hard time breathing, just with that one word. The cool was being forced in an out of tight lungs by the mechanical up and down movement of her ribs, not her free will at all. "At the base of her neck…it burst one night and I got to sit with her while she died."

"That sucks," he commented.

Angie didn't bother to look at him. Like he cares, she thought ironically, I save his ass from prison and he has to be a prick, doesn't he? With a sigh, she tried to control her breathing. At the moment, she was thinking about Ruby and how nice the woman had been to her for the better part of her fucked up childhood. There was so many good times to look back on, which just made it worse for her try to get over the fact that she was gone. Every time she visited this site, she cried, but that was not going to happen because of Marco's asshole nature. "She was a great woman," she stated with a smile, "strong and wise. I like to think that she made me that way."

"Wise-ass is more like it," Marco insisted. He didn't like that. She turned it into something to be happy about. What the fuck? Death wasn't something to be happy about. It occurred to him that maybe she was just faking it to piss him off, so he went with that. "Did she teach you to be a persistent head-case as well?"

Then, she faced him. She remembered that she wasn't going to give in to his bullshit and reminded herself of that determination she'd felt in the thrift shop. "I doubt you'd understand. I wouldn't believe it if you tried to tell me that someone loved you…or even that you loved someone."

For the first time, his face wasn't harsh, or mean, or even cool. He was blatantly thoughtful, just for a moment. It was all she could do not to assume that she'd caught him off-guard, being that she knew it was impossible. At all possibility, he was calculating his next move, where to put his next chess piece to win. Then again, he was taking a long time about. Angie found herself staring at him during his hesitation, once more taking into consideration that he was a nice looking man and that it made him seem more like a prick. "Do you have any family members here?" she asked, just to break his trace.

Suddenly, he was limping across the grass like a specter risen from the soil to spook and haunt. It sent chills down her spine, even if the crutch slightly took away from the illusion. The point was that he looked like he fit in perfectly in the surroundings: a mourner among lost souls. Just the way he carefully avoided touching or coming into contact with any of the stones made her think that he was afraid. No, I know better, she thought firmly, He'd scare his soul from the Grim Reaper if push came to shove. Gathering her strength, she followed him.

For a while, he just wandered the tombstone, not even reading the endless names and dates and meaningless titles given to long-gone people. He knew where his feet were taking him, even though he hadn't been there in years now. It was a lonely corner of the property hidden by trees filled with markers that were so badly worn some were illegible. He didn't need to read them. Automatically, his body stopped at the end of the field in front of a stone that stood by itself, almost unnoticed among the others.

Being sure that she kept her distance, she peeked over his shoulder at the marker. "What does it say?" she asked carefully. The words had not only been worn, but they seemed like someone had carved large gashes through them to be sure that no one could ever read them again.

At first, he didn't reply. His eyes were locked firmly on the cold, gray granite. He didn't even shiver from the cold wearing just a T-shirt and jeans. Everything about him gave off the image of a statue or monument weathering away but trying to stay strong long enough to see the sun on last time. Then he looked over his shoulder at her and shattered the illusion with frozen eyes and a wry smile. "Maria and Mariangela Vindetti," he stated flatly. "I haven't been here in a while."

"Who…?"

"My mom and little sister. They died on the same day."

So there is a heart under all that jackass, Angie thought. She couldn't bring herself to smile. Half of this was a wonderful step to seeing what Marco really was, and the other was that he had been through tragedy in his life. She knew how that felt, but to be perfectly honest, she was amazed to see something less sour in his mood. "How did they die?"

He scoffed and lowered his gaze back to the stone. Why the fuck do you need to know? He was about to ask that. What business was it of hers? She probably wanted him to open up and reveal that he was just like everyone else, that he had weakness. Fuck that. "That's none of your god damned concern," he snapped angrily. Adjusting to shift his weight off that damn crutch, he wondered how stupid he looked standing in front of an unreadable tombstone with a pouting, asinine woman behind him glaring a hole into his back.

"Did you scratch off the names?" "Shut up," he growled.

Angie stepped back a bit. He was scary right then. All of the sudden, he'd dropped what could have been vulnerability or depth to replace it with a stone cold barrier. "That's my past. Fuck off!" With that, he turned and hobbled past her. It was hard for him to use that crutch, she saw that. When he just dropped it and continued walking, Angie began to get an idea of him. There was something in his nature that deserved pity or sympathy and for a moment, she gave that to him.

Then, she noticed how easy it was for him to balance and walk when he was damned determined to. Scramble in a random direction when the past rears its ugly head, good job, boy. Despite her sudden epiphany, she knew that it didn't make up for the fact that he was a douche and wouldn't change. So she called after him. "Where are you going, Marco?" When he didn't respond, she picked up the crutch and went after him, intent on beating him with the damned thing if her hurt himself. "Hey, I don't know where you're planning to go, genius. Every police officer in Brooklyn knows your face by now."

It hurt really badly, every step that he took adding more pressure on his wounded leg. He was too stubborn to wince at the pain, even though it was his own anal fury that made it so terrible. He found it increasingly uncomfortable to storm off with a bad leg, but he did it anyway just in spite of himself. Sometimes he was a fucking masochist, so self inflicted pain was hardly new to him. He ignored the pointlessness and the fact that he had no idea where he might be headed. Sure, he could go back to Philly Bates' house, but since his cousin was dead, he did not doubt that the Law didn't need a warrant to search. It was probably crawling with cops. It would be best to lay low for a while, so once again Angie was right. That fact alone made him more loathe to stay with her. He pulled his aching, limping leg along with him.

"You're going to hurt yourself," she shouted after him in warning.

Yeah, he probably was. It was her stupid idea to drag him along. She must really hate me… he thought, there is no other excuse…well, fuck her! And then he fell.

Angie smiled wryly. She saw it coming when he passed that mud puddle. Suddenly, his foot sank in a patch of soft dirt and his knees buckled. He ended up on his hands and knees. "Oh, for Pete's sake!" she snapped dismally. As quickly as she could without slipping on the moist grass, she hurried to him and jabbed him in the side with the end of the crutch. "You idiot! I got you this stupid thing for a reason. Stop being suicidal."

After he'd successfully cringed away from the blunt object assaulting his mid-section, he glared up at her, hatred oozing from his pupils. She overlooked that to grab his arm and help him get on his feet again. "Stop helping me!" he shoved her away. "Fucken stop it!"

It was hard not to hit him on the head. Maybe she could knock some sense into that think skill of his if she wacked him hard enough. Something told her that it was the right thing to do, but she would never hit a child, not matter how obstinate. I hope God never curses me with an Italian son. No self-respecting four-year-old girl was this incorrigible, but she had to keep reminding herself to get past that not matter what. There was a beating heart somewhere in his fucked up temperament. She'd rise to this silly, trivial challenge of his and come up fighting. "So, do you want to just sit there, then?" she asked calmly, taking a step back to give him enough room for his big head. "I can wait. I don't have to go back to work today."