CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The faint whispers of pale gold sunlight able to filter in through the rotted planks of wood caught the sequins of the dress, causing them to shine like burnished gold. The wearer of the garment stretched out on the rotten mattress with cat-like grace, turning the rosary over in her hands, viewing it with an afar curiosity.
She had never truly belonged to any religion, ever. She merely fancied that her parents had been concerned with far greater things-such as having food on the table each night-than so instill the notions of God and His ways into their children's heads.
Angel wound the beaded rosary about her index fingers, a sad, melancholy smirk adorning her lips. Perhaps if Julia and Anthony Haddox had made the proper introductions to Jesus and Hel and Ollie before hand, then they would still be alive.
A sharp, abrupt series of raps to her door shattered her train of thought, and she slowly raised her head to view the shuttering plank of wood across the room. She sequentially ignored it, choosing instead to focus on the intricate delicacy of the rosary.
I wonder where it originated from, she asked herself. After a brief intermittence, the raps began once more, this time accompanied by the brisk, oleaginous voice of Nero Night.
"Hey, Haddox, open up in there. I ain't got all day long. Oliver wants you to go check in on our little prisoner."
Fuck you, Night, she thought lightly. Don't you mean your little prisoner?
There came an impatient settling of weight from outside her door, followed by a deafening ringing out of knocks. "Come on, Haddox, I know you're in there so don't fuck around with me. I ain't got all day, you know, so hurry the fuck up!"
Angel was apt to ignore Night once more, yet the infernal raps continued with such a vengeance that she forced herself, with great reluctance nonetheless, to rise to her feet. She shot a lethal gaze towards the door, her blood burning. Yet she limited herself to murmuring blue obscenities under her breath at the damned Italian, as with a careless motion, she shrugged off the straps of the gold sequined dress of the prior night. The glittering garment fell to her feet in a careless pile, revealing a totally bare, womanly body warmed and colored golden in the breathless sun that filtered in through the window. She stepped out of it, Night's audible knocks filling her ears, and elicited an exhausted sigh, flipping her tangles of flaxen hair over her shoulders, and padded barefoot over to her singular warped bureau.
She opened a random drawer and began blindly rummaging through it, allowing her gaze to wander out the window and to the mid-summer bathed Midtown that loomed before her. Her pupils constricted harshly in the bright sunshine.
"Come on, Angel!" Night breathed impatiently from outside the door. "What the hell are ya doing? I ain't got all mother fu-"
She respectfully drowned out his voice as her hand finally grasped around the black velvet ribbon. Plucking it up and banging the drawer shut with a swish of the hip, she gathered her shimmering hair atop her pate and messily secured it with the ribbon. She then drew her eyes away from the scene outside of the switch fight and the one wire-thin boy bleeding profusely, to fall to her haunches and quickly retrieve a pair of trousers ripped down the side and thick with grime and dried blood. She aimlessly pulled them on, leaving the suspenders lax at her side. Her gaze was once more directed towards the scene outside.
She recognized the group of oafish, heavily muscled group of Midtowners as Thor, Bull, and Bones something-or-other that had surrounded a minuscule boy less than half of their age. She realized the obese form of Hal Halloran that had stepped in to fend for the child. The three larger ones had drawn their switchblades on him and had him backed against the façade of a vacant building. Even from the distance, she could smell the fear and see the dark stain of urine that had formed on his trousers.
As she watched, she lazily pulled on a sullied white collared shirt and buttoned it three quarters of the way up, fastening the wrong buttons to the wrong holders.
Halloran was trembling. The switch blades were glimmering in the sun. Night was pounding on the door. Angel silently cocked a brow and walked the few paces to her mattress, scooping up the glittering ebony revolver in her grasp. She returned to the window and nimbly unlatched it, raising it and opening it so that the hot summer air hit her like a blast of foul smelling breath. Closing on eye tightly, she aligned the revolver with the middle one's head. Bull. She cocked the trigger.
I would have been with you on that one. I wouldn't mind that bitch bein' dead. Tried to get some once, but the bitch pulled that revolver-
Alas, a second notion crept into the back of her brain, and she begrudgingly inched the revolver to the left more, missing the son of a bitch's skull. Thor had the side of his switch's blade pressed against Halloran's thick neck. Angel pulled the trigger without thinking twice. The noise was deafening, the shot ringing out in the hot, summer-squelched world. The offending three instinctively ducked, Thor releasing Halloran momentarily, giving him just enough leeway to sidle away, terror etched into his face, before he broke into a full-fledge run in the direction of the Hideaway.
Angel shut the window with a hearty slam, silencing the hulking trio's obscene curses that would make any mother roll-over in her grave. She padded over to her mattress once more, sliding her feet into her battered shoes without reason to unlace them and carefully placed the revolver into the tattered pants waistband. She then made way to the door that shuddered under Night's weight and curses, disheveled, shirt only partially tucked, and not giving a damn.
She opened it with an abrupt gesture, catching Night poised with his glittering dagger poised over his head and ready to be driven into the door. His curly ebony hair was thoroughly greased and slicked back from his brow. His tanned skin was slicked with perspiration and his round, plump face was as red as a rose in full bloom. The sleeves of his dark blue shirt were rolled up to the elbow and dampened with sweat. His chest rising and falling with labored breathing, his small mouth fell open at the sight of her sudden appearance.
Angel crossed her arms across her chest and regarded him with unabashed scorn, her lips curling into a dark sneer. "Is it not enough that that you're going to kill Conlon, but you had to come after me also, Night?"
Night lowered his weapon, his breathing leveling out. Perspiration liberally sliding down his visage as though his flesh was weeping, his mask of shock was soon replaced by the usual insolent sneer that haunted his features. "Awh, Angel baby, if you're asking, I'm willing. But don't forget, peach, that it's you that Oliver's giving the honors to."
Angel's countenance suddenly darkened, her face contorting into disgusted rage. "Oliver's only giving me the honors, you stupid, fat, greasy, boy kissing fuck, because he's too much of a fucking pansy to do it himself. And so are you."
She pushed forcefully past him, slamming her door with such a passion behind her that the rotted plank quivered on its hinges. She had only gotten but a few paces, white hot rage radiating off her like the Hell fires, when she felt her back being stalwartly slammed into the wall of the corridor. Night. He had cunningly pressed his sweaty chest to hers, pinning her against the wall. One of his thick knees was positioned quite uncomfortably between her legs. His left hand was positioned so tightly about her neck that he was on the verge of asphyxiating her. He unthinkingly drew his glistening dagger and positioned it vertically down the bridge of her nose, the blade glittering as furiously as his dark eyes.
"I told you last night, you goddamned Midtown whore, you don't want to fuck with me. I was the one who got Conlon, not your little slut ass-"
Angel bucked feverishly under his stranglehold. "Yeah, you fucking Italian, only because I was the one who risked my ass to go to Brooklyn and get him before he committed suicide. I had him! I had him! As long as you could come intercept with your thugs and play kiss-ass to my brother you were fine with it-"
A bizarre smile alighted across Night's parched lips. "Yes, but who got the glory, peach? Is sure as hell wasn't you! You, along with the rest of Midtown, know that you're already out of favor with Oliver after that little comment that you said to him. What was is? That you fucked Conlon? Was it, Angel?"
Angel's face twisted into complete and utter rage and she was unable to respond. Night released a wild, oleaginous laugh, his dark eyes shining. "I told you long ago, Haddox, that I would be Oliver's new assassin, no if, ands, or butts. You, my dear bitch, like Conlon are over. Over. Tomorrow morning there will be no more Brooklyn. And tomorrow morning there will be no more Angel Haddox."
To conclude him ominous words, Night slammed her head against the wall, causing her vision to blur and cream-colored stars to appear. He smirked, a proud smirk. "Now go, you inglorious assassin, and see what the prisoner wants. Just no one would get the job, mind you. Only the dirtiest, most disgraced whore in Midtown."
The air purloined from her lungs, Angel slid down the wall, collapsing. She watched Night proudly sashay down the hallway through tear-stained vision. "Fuck you, Nero!" she croaked, in a cracked voice. Night erupted into a wild string of laughter, not giving her the honor of looking at her over his shoulder. "Good one, Angel of Death, good one. Tell that to Conlon and I'm sure he'll have no qualms whatsoever about taking a stupid slut like you into his keep-for one night anyway!"
She reached for the glittering revolver that was in her waistband, yet it was in vain. Night had disappeared around the corner and down the stairs. Inhaling a deep breath as much to save her soul as so halt the tears from flowing, Angel slumped against the wall and allowed the revolver to lie still at her side.
I told you long ago, Haddox, that I would be Oliver's new assassin, no if, ands, or butts. You, my dear bitch, like Conlon are over. Over. Tomorrow morning there will be no more Brooklyn. And tomorrow morning there will be no more Angel Haddox.
What had happened last night that was of so much damned significance that her reign as the Angel of Death was to be over? Under normal circumstances, she would have rather reasoned her trust in Nero Night's prattles to that of the venomous asp. Yet, she had always believed that the hatred between Midtown and Brooklyn would terminate in a glorious fight, with both leaders taking one another's lives. Night had said differently. He said that Midtown would reign supreme always and Brooklyn would crumble like a mound of sand against the tide.
The thought chilled her, after all, that Nero Night might be correct for once. It did indeed appear that Midtown would reign supreme over Brooklyn in the end.
After all, Spot Conlon was bound and gagged in the basement of the warehouse, slated to be executed tomorrow by the hand of none other than the Angel of Death herself.
***
The basement of the warehouse hadn't been used in years. As soon as Angel stood on the platform of the stairs, the sickening stench of rotten mold that smelt of decayed flesh washed over her completely and nearly made her disgorge her stomach. She carefully descended the flight of decrepit, antediluvian stairs that threatened to give way under her light weight. Though, most surprisingly, they did not, and she reached the atrocious room without much difficulty.
Save for the slight sliver of sunlight that was ushered in thanks to the dusty, cob-web laced window, a stale, murky darkness loomed in the expansive basement. Molding crates, rusted sheets of metal, broken shards of glass, and fallen rafters littered the room, along with an assortment of rubbish. The putrid odor incremented sharply in repugnance, and Angel was forced to switch the dirty mug of water to her left hand, pulling her shirt over her nose with the right.
Allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness, Angel departed the stairs and carefully made her way towards the only source of light that glowed like a beacon, stepping gingerly over crates and brushing the spider-webs away with her free hand. Striding round a squared support column worn by age and stepping into the light, she cast her eyes down and saw him. Her breath bated painfully in her throat.
He was seated on the cold, smooth cement floor; his legs spread straight out in front of him and slightly spread. His lean, lithe arms were bound behind him to the column, tied cruelly together with a band of fringed, rough rope that dug into his wrists, causing small rivulets of blood to drip to the ground. His back was against the column and his shoulders hunched. His head lolled and hung shamefully down. A slovenly red bandaged covered his eyes, covered the welts and lacerations that adorned his face filthy face.
He had been in the same position ever since last night. Ever since he had been captured by Night and his thugs and handed over to Oliver as though he was a prized stag of some sort. He did not move.
Angel quickly averted her eyes from Conlon and fell to her haunches before his upturned, shoeless feet. As she set the dirty tin cup of water down-
There's still time.
-she realized that her hands were shaking violently. In turn, she slammed it against the concrete floor, eliciting a sharp tinny noise. Angel heard a slight groan permeate the air, though she did not dare raise her head. She merely placed the stale slice of bread atop the mug and rose to her feet, not meeting his gaze, and spun about, pretending to study the sunlight that filtered in through the window.
Because I can see it I can see it in your eyes I saw it in your eyes today I saw fear in your eyes you're nor one of them you want more but your scared shitless scared shitless you want to die in this life you created for yourself you don't know who the hell you've become but you don't want to die because you think somehow you can always go back to the past and the future will be brighter-
Conlon was stirring. He uttered a few syllables from his parched lips, yet she could not discern what they were. She simply kept her eyes to the filtered sunlight as though her life depended upon it.
I cry for him for our love and for the war who ever said all is fair in love and war has never experienced love and war for love and war are never fair-
Conlon was groaning. "Who-who's there?" His voice was weak, strained. He had used every last remnant of his commanding voice last night, as they were binding him, as he howled for help through the entire goddamned night.
There's still time-
"Please," Conlon's raw, infinitesimal voice pleaded. Angel inhaled painfully and held the breath in her lungs. She could begin to discern the faint tears laced within the supplication. "Please, please, if somebody is there, please help me. Untie me, please, oh God please untie me-" His voice was faltering. Yet he did not collapse into tears. She guessed that he had cried his last available tear during the long, eternal span of the night.
Angel slowly turned her head over her shoulder, her body following in a singular fluid motion until she stood facing Conlon. He had raised his head. She now could see the shattered, bloody nose; the rims of swollen black eyes hidden by the dirt encrusted bandage; the splices to the lips that had kissed so many; the bruises and lacerations that covered to much of his body; the filthy dirty blonde hair that was matted to his brow; the clothing that was ripped to shreds; and superlative above all the inflected bullet hole on the left shoulder where she had struck him with Oliver's pistol a few days prior. The bandaging had been ripped off, allowing thick, crimson blood to ooze slowly out.
He was Spot Conlon, the Fearless Leader of Brooklyn.
"Why pray to God?" she said tonelessly. "He does not exist. If you want to pray to someone, pray to Oliver Haddox. He is your God now. He is the one who holds your life in his hands."
Conlon jerked his head around weakly, the gesture causing the gun-wound to exert more dark claret. "Who's there?" he whispered hoarsely.
Angel smiled in spite of herself, padding over to him and falling to her haunches before him. "Fearless leader of Brooklyn, aye? I could have slit your throat right then and there. Though, I thought I would have the honor of killing the fearless leader of Brooklyn. Not some quivering mess on the verge of tears."
Conlon was silent for a moment. She could just as well discern those stunningly piercing blue eyes burning her soul from even under the blindfold. A mere piece of cloth could not keep that captured. "You," he whispered, "you." He paused, his ragged breathing encapsulating the putrid air. "But look here. I can shoot your brains out right here and now. Though, I thought I would have the honor of killing Oliver Haddox's most prized assassin. Not some quivering mess on the verge of tears."
He fell silent, though she could easily discern that he waited for her to reply to his challenging statement. She did not though; only reached for the bread and water with a somber countenance and held them slightly under his nose. She allowed him to capture the aroma that was a wonderful release from the putrid smell of the decaying basement. "Then why did you not?" she asked softly, simply, as she brought the tin cup to his lips and tilting it. The water cascaded out and onto Conlon's cracked lips. He immediately opened his mouth wide and greedily lapped at the water as though it were some type of sweet ambrosia of the gods.
He pulled back, allowing minuscule streams of water to run down his battered, smooth chin and onto his tattered shirt. "Knowing you, the damned water's most likely poisoned."
Angel raised a brow, breaking into a smile in spite of herself, and crouched beside him, as she brushed away a cockroach that had scurried over the tip of her slovenly shoe. She regarded his comely, yet hideous face in excruciating thoughtfulness. She quickly patted her pocket for a cigarette, found one, and fished it out. Placing it to her lips, she produced a match with a flourish and lit the cigarette, cupping her hands around it. She inhaled deeply. She did not even realize that she was smoking.
"No. Not poisoned. I would know. I poured it myself."
He snorted and raised his chin in pride so that his matted hair was pressed against the column. She knew those eyes were glaring at her darkly from behind the blindfold. "You are Midtown. I don't trust you as far as I can fucking spit. I would rather drink my own piss than your water."
Angel rose slowly to her feet, her joints cracking. She studied the impossibly arrogant Brooklyn leader with a hint of admiration as she inhaled on the cigarette. Even in such a squalid, degrading position, he kept his biting sense of superiority. "But I thought you were partial to water," she said lightly, clutching her hands behind her back. "Most notably the water underneath the Brooklyn Bridge?" She glanced back over her shoulder at him. She had struck the nerve. His body had gone rigid and his breathing ceased.
She continued. "I mean, is it just a discrimination against Midtown water? For you must like water if you were to choose it as your final resting place-or am I mistaking? You weren't really going to jump, were you? Or were you just looking over the railing at the sites below?"
He was silent for a few moments before he replied in a barely ineligible whisper laced with biting fury. "I know your brother. I've always known him. We are both leaders, only diverging on the aspect that he and his fucking Midtown are completely and utterly ruthless. I am just a simple newsboy trying to run a simple newsboy district. But your brother can't have that. He must eliminate the competition. Funny though, that there even should be any competition for has one Midtowner ever once sold a goddamned paper?" Angel did not reply. He continued, more venom pouring into his inflection, "I thought not. But he's going to kill me one way or another. You shot me-and I was in complete and utter agony; pain that was like thousands of swords. My pain and suffering would be over already if I had done it earlier. If you and that fucking grease ball hadn't been there to stop me, then this damnation that I live in would be over-"
He snorted. "I'm going to die, aren't I? How is it going to occur, Haddox, how? Please tell me that good old Oliver will at least be doing the honors himself!" He elicited a hoarse cackle that seemed to echo in the disgusting humidity of the basement. Angel's eyes were busily studying her lithe fingers. The weight of the revolver at against her side was staggering.
He slumped in his binding, his pate resting against the column that held him. Even with the heinous markings, the beauty of his face was disquieting in the pale sliver of sunlight that filtered through the dusty window. "Such an inglorious way to die. He won't even give himself, or myself, the honor of him doing it so he makes his sister do it-"
Angel's breath bated in shock, and she stood stiff in front of the window. "How did you-"
Conlon released a dry cackle, lowering his head so that she could feel those diamonds staring directly into her immortal soul. "Because, your brother's afraid to find any conflict on earth because if he were to die, he'd be too fucking frightened to find what is waiting for him at Judgment Day. Eternal fucking damnation. As I told you that night, I don't give a damn if I die, and to this day I truly don't. I've given up hope in this life that things can ever return to the way they were before I came to New York. When I was happy. I've accepted death. I've accepted that there is something far, far greater than this life. You, on the other hand, have not. You say you're afraid to die and contemplate every day committing suicide, but you can't because you know only this life and fear death and what will happen to you in the afterworld. Your parents. I remember them when your brother used to be a Brooklyn newsie. What are were their names?"
She did not realize that she had fallen to the smooth concrete beside him, cross legged. She stared at him with wide eyes brimming with tears. "Julia and Anthony. There names were Julia and Anthony."
"Your parents, no matter how brutal their slaying, have found peace. It is only the one that committed it that should fear dying, and that is your brother. You have done nothing. You are an innocent pawn and he knows this. Why else do you think that he had you commit all his shootings for him? He is afraid to do it himself for he fears what is going to occur to his soul after he dies. So he puts himself in situations where he cannot die and puts others in his place. You, on the other hand, have yourself convinced that you are an atrocity and that your soul will never be saved. Though you have nothing to fear, Angel Haddox. I told you that there's still time and I know there is.
"You only look at life as the only means of solution. That perhaps you can escape the life you've created for yourself and that you can go back to the past and that the future will be brighter. I've come to the conclusion that living on the streets means dying on the streets. You perhaps can escape them, but they will still always be a part of you. Death is the only way. No matter how hideous you sins, you can always confess them so that you may go to a better place. Even through this blindfold I can see it, for we are the same creatures, Angel Haddox. We are the same-"
"Please undo my blindfold." The amount of known failure in his voice was disquieting. "Please. If it has to end this way, then it has to end this way. I know it will end soon. If I am to be sacrificed then perhaps something good will come out of this whole thing. Perhaps this whole conflict will be resolved-" He issued forth a hoarse cough and his words slowly died.
There is still time Helena Haddox there is still time to save your soul-
With an excruciating slowness, Angel brought her hands behind Conlon's head, and as though he sensed it he bowed it. She twined her fingers through his slovenly hair as she carefully undid the bandana knot. The red piece of material fluttered and fell to his lap. Angel allowed her gaze to linger upon it, not wishing, not wanting with all her soul to raise her gaze to those impossible blue diamonds. Yet she felt them calling to her, burning into her soul, and she raised her eyes to his.
The eyes glowed brilliantly with their own intrinsic light, as though there was a radiant azure fire bound and captured behind those orbs, just as Conlon was bound and captured to Oliver Haddox, just as Conlon was bound and captured to her-
The eyes glowed through the matted strands of sullied brassy hair, through the swollen black bruised that rimmed and nearly encapsulated them. His eyes scanned hers desperately; feverishly; furiously. And a smile alighted upon his lips.
"I was taught to read, once, when I was younger. One play, mind you. And of the whole thing, I only remember one section. My grandfather taught it to me. 'Tis but they name that is my enemy/ Thou art thyself, though not a Montague/ What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot/ Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part/ Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!/ What's in a name? that which we call a rose/ By any other name would smell as sweet/ So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,/Retain that dear perfection which he owes/ Without any title. Romeo, doff they name,/ And for that name which is no part of thee/ Take all myself."
As he concluded the final word, her eyes immediately shut, for she could not control the wrenching, overpowering sobs that raked through her entire body and soul. She hunched before him, shoulder blades quaking and face buried in hands, while he remained erect and bound against the column. She did not fully comprehend all of what Spot Conlon had said, and she dare not believe the notion that, in all her years of utter inner turmoil, that something was so unabashedly pristine.
She dare not even begin to comprehend what her mind was so violently ushering her towards. For if it was true, for it if it had been true all along, then she was to utterly decimate all tomorrow when she executed him. She could not bear it.
"Spot Conlon," she said softly, leaning in close to him, and placing a hand to his fair cheek laced with contusions. "What is your name?"
His swelled eyes widened at the question and looked somewhat stunned, though they abruptly relaxed. He shifted, and a horrific grimace passed over his face. The ice diamonds opened once more and he inadvertently tilted his head, so that her slender hand cupped his lacerated face.
"Jonathan. Jonathan Conlon," he replied breathlessly, his voice constricted with agonizing pain.
Angel did not realize the tears that slid liberally down her cheeks and onto Conlon's face. Her blurred, steel-hued eyes upon his azure eyes, strands of bright hair falling in her eyes and impairing her vision, she blindly fished in her pocket for the rosary that she had remembered placing there. She carefully removed it, and brought the pious item forward, and placed it about his neck in place of the key that had been situated there for so many years.
She looked into his eyes. And she knew it was devastatingly true. When she looked in those eyes she knew she could see-
Because I can see it I can see it in your eyes I saw it in your eyes today I saw fear in your eyes you're not one of them you want more but your scared shitless scared shitless you want to die in this life you created for yourself you don't know who the hell you've become but you don't die because you think somehow you can always go back to the past that the future will be brighter-
"Pray with me, Benjamin James Conlon," she breathed, her voice not daring to rise barely above a whisper. She had moved her head so close as that the bridges of their noses were touching, and had tilted her head. The hand that had been on his cheek moved to the back of his head and the fingers were twining themselves in his matted hair, the nails digging into his scalp. The other clutched the rosary that hung round his neck. Though her eyes were closed as tightly as humanly possible, the tears still slid down freely, wetting his assaulted visage. The sobs raked her and her body convulsed, though for the life of her she could not begin to fathom why for all reasoning had become unfettered and left her mind.
Helena, what do you have-
"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want-"
Helena, you're shaking-
"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters-"
Flynn gave it to me-
"He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake-"
You can't, Helena-
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me-"
Don't tell me I can't, Ben, don't you dare tell me I-
"Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over-"
Goddamnit, no, Helena, you can't-
"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever-"
I can and I will because you are my soul, Benjamin Conlon-
"Amen."
At the finality of the prayer, she pressed her lips against his parched, splice ones. She pressed hungrily, greedily, the metallic blood tasting like copper. His lips pushed harder against hers, ravaged hers, wanted hers. The raw passion and want and desperation that surged through him was transferred to Angel, as she tasted the stale gin and dated nicotine that clung to his breath.
The tears came harder. She felt her soul within him. And she was going to execute him the following day.
From above, Angel heard Flynn calling. Heard Oliver calling. Heard Night calling. Blinded by tears, she released the captive leader and took the basement stairs three at a time, pushing violently past all of them, not stopping until she reached the third floor and was able to slam the door behind her and collapse on the mattress in a state of unbridled sobs.
Killing him, as much as she dare not think of the notion, would be like committing suicide-
Because I can see it. I can see it in your eyes. I saw it in your eyes today. I saw fear in your eyes. You're not one of them. You want more. But your scared shitless. Scared shitless. You want to die in this life you created for yourself, you don't know who the hell you've become. But you don't die because you think somehow you can always go back to the past, that the future will be brighter-
He had read her so immaculately. Had known all that she thought so flawlessly for the notion was not so incredulous: she and Conlon were alike. They shared a powerful reputation under a false appellation, their true name kept close to their hearts, unwilling to show their true nature. They had both created a façade, a façade that appeared crack-proof and faultless from an onlooker's perspective. They both were creatures of fear and blood, polar opposites in their allegiances-
He had read her soul and now she was to execute him for her brother, his corporeal foe-
She could not stand it. Could not bear it. Could not do it. Could not die without her soul.
The murderous bitch that was her revolver, the cold ebony assassin that she had signed her life away with in blood to care for, was mockingly heavy against her side.
If there were to be one last victim with it, then it would be her own life.
I cry for him, for our love, and for the war. Who ever said all is fair in love and war, has never experienced love and war, for love and war are never fair-
It was never fair. It would never be fair. And outside of Angel's room, after she finally allowed slumber to take her out of complete exhaustion, the sun was slowly dipping into the bloody western horizon, slowly ushering forth dawn-and slowly ushering forth the execution of a certain Brooklyn leader that would occur, that all of Midtown was already abuzz with.