At the Farm, everyone was automatically awake before the sun rose, but time on the road and living in the streets and cities caused Desmond to wake up only at sunrise. The Farm's warm up — a list of push ups, sit ups, and lunges, among other things — became a morning ritual before breakfast, because he never knew when an Assassin would pop up to come (try) dragging him back to the Brotherhood.

During the day, Desmond would spend his hours ensuring that his cover identity was still solid, that no Assassins were on his trail, and, when he felt up to it, hanging at clubs or other bars; he tried having variety to avoid patterns in his daily schedule. Sometimes, visiting the clubs and bars was for recreational purposes. Other times, it was to keep updated to the movements and activities of the city, just in case.

When time for work came, Desmond was surprised to notice that Hernandez, Hall, and most of the other employees weren't around. Mary explained that mafiosi of the Ré Family had ordered for an employee from Bad Weather to serve them in a small, one-room bar they owned for that day and the next; they were comfortable with Bad Weather's staff due to its familiarity with serving a variety of customers, but they only wanted one employee for privacy purposes.

Due to everyone else already working double shifts, and to Desmond's behaviour to the slave traders the night before, the boss had assigned Hernandez to wait a table for the mafiosi, alone. It was risky for Hernandez's safety, but one of the mafiosi, a Benny, was said to tip in twenties, and Hernandez had insisted he would wait for them. Something had happened during Hernandez's solo task, however, and now Hernandez was at the back of the bar. Mary said she thought she saw the boss go back there with a first aid kit.

When Desmond walked in, a few employees were helping Hernandez sit with his leg raised a little off the ground as the boss tended to an obviously profusely bleeding foot. Desmond couldn't tell if it was a knife wound since it was mostly bandaged up, but he knew it must have felt extremely painful.

"What happened?" he asked. Hernandez was sweating from the pain; poor guy, who had probably never been caught in a bad fight before, was suffering from a (stab?) wound. "Benny got annoyed when I misheard his snack order," the Hispanic explained. "He fired shots at my feet to amuse himself." Even worse — a bullet wound. "And you didn't bother running?" Desmond asked in disbelief. "I jumped around, but the shots were at the ground — I thought he wasn't going to get me!" Hernandez wildly gestured, but he winced and immediately stopped.

The Hispanic must have had fallen and hit an edge or blunt object after he was shot in the foot, because the other employees were checking Hernandez's side and head with the delicacy and familiarity of having done so and found bruises. Hernandez would have great difficulty working properly with the injuries he sustained from a trigger-happy maniac, and Hernandez, like most of Bad Weather's workers, relied on attendance at work to earn enough money to get by. Desmond felt a sense of unfairness at the situation swell up in his throat. "I'm going with you the next time," Desmond stated with conviction.

Hernandez wasn't the only one whose eyes swivelled to Desmond in shock. "No, Dev — they were mafia! Ré Family, to boot!" one of the employees cautioned. The Ré Family was the strongest mafia Family of the five that were occupied in New York City. Desmond could care less. "I'm going," he insisted. Discouragements rose from the employees and Hernandez, and Desmond was ready to declare that he was going to go anyway, when a voice of authority cut them off.

"Miceli is going with you."

Everyone in the room looked at Hall in shock. The old man was finishing up with bandaging Hernandez's foot. "Thanks, boss," Desmond said as he helped the old man up. "This isn't for revenge or back-up, Miceli," the old man snapped at Desmond, startling him. "If I could have my way, neither of you would go, but you and Hernandez are the only ones free for the slot, and the mafiosi are going to have to accept two employees instead of one after shooting an employee of mine. Now, I don't want you causing any trouble, you got that?"

"But—"

"Miceli!"

Desmond frowned, but understood. "Fine."

Fingers immaculately guided a comb through wild brown hair to neatly fix them to the side, but a few stubborn strands leaned towards hanging over the face. The almost offensive slam of a drink on the bar counter shook a few strands to do just that. Lippi blew at them in exasperation and looked up to see a taut expression on his friend's face, whose eyes were intensely looking off somewhere.

"Rough day already?"

Devon's gaze refocused, and he looked at Lippi. "You better not be from the Ré Family." Lippi blinked. That wasn't what he had expected. Devon gestured something in the air before sighing, his arm flopping uselessly to his side as the other propped his head up on the counter he bent over. Lippi amusedly noted how his friend resembled a teenager stretched over a desk, hating the world, or at least homework.

Lippi sipped his Shirley Templar to occupy his lips from laughing, when Devon's clear brown eyes swivelled to pin him with a knowing look. Lippi wondered how, sometimes, his friend seemed to be able to see through souls milliseconds before he saw them. When Devon snorted, Lippi knew his friend was miffed at his humour, and Lippi felt himself relax. The potential for a chilling, unreadable stare lied in the few seconds Devon had looked at Lippi, and not for the first time, Lippi wondered who his friend was before New York knew him as a bartender.

"No, I'm not from the Ré Family. Ease up, Dev~" Lippi assured, smiling as he raised his glass to his lips again. He pushed back loose strands of hair with his comb when they fell out of place, and Devon automatically took in every micro movement with his hawk-like eyes like he always did, not a trace of his thoughts reflecting on his face except for the irritation at the Ré Family he had come to the bar with. Lippi knew, from his own time of secretly studying his friend, that Devon observed everyone he saw with the same, watchful gaze whose intensity was only dulled by Devon's disinterest in putting effort to do a thorough job. Such an instinct was learned; every good mafia don pushed his subordinates into trying situations to build it into them, and Lippi himself was forced to recognise the value of observation in his younger years.

Devon's degree of laziness and disinterest in power or crime proved him to be no threat so far as Lippi could see, but someone else had obviously had the integrity and seriousness to invest one's own, personal time in Devon. Looking at Devon slumped on the counter like a child, Lippi wondered how his friend had not seen any of it — not the dangers his caretaker was expecting to put Devon in, not the powerful man the caretaker foresaw in Devon's future under such tutelage — and didn't feel threatened from having run from such an individual. Lippi knew that someone who invested that much in a person would track down and erase a runaway investment that betrayed its master — the underground world was cold and cruel like that. What Lippi didn't know was that Desmond was aware that his "caretaker" was a man of integrity and seriousness, and that a certain twenty-one Brothers and one Assassin were proof that William Miles wanted his son back. Twenty-two mission failures were proof that Desmond didn't want to come back.

Devon got up from the counter to prepare and serve a drink for another customer, and he and Lippi shared small, comfortable talk as the latter absentmindedly stirred his glass, the clinking of ice attributing to the cozy white noise of a bar. Lippi amusedly noticed that as they spoke, Devon's irritation began evaporating, the bartender's familiar teen-like, approachable character easing back in. Devon readied another Shirley Templar when Lippi's was almost gone, and Lippi cooed at him as the mafioso combed back rebel loose strands.

"You're my little baby, Dev. I ask you to talk when I see you're feeling down, and all I ask in return is a Shirley Templar. Look at how he relaxes after I talk to him nice! That's my Dev, my little Baby." Devon rolled his eyes and ruffled Lippi's hair, earning him a squawk of protest. The two laughed. Lippi watched Devon give a toothy smile, and — as always — Lippi couldn't help smiling back. Devon was a long ways away from the nameless, lonely bartender Lippi had met three months ago. After cracking through the mysterious brunette's exterior with the classic Lippi charm, the mafioso discovered that Devon had an effect of his own that Lippi couldn't resist at times.

In the back of his mind, he admired how easily Devon could break him with the almost desperate way Lippi had emotionally attached himself to the mysterious bartender, whose small habits were potentially deadly and whose smile could make Lippi jump off a cliff for him. If Devon had finished whatever childhood someone set up for him, Devon with his charisma could have easily destroyed Lippi and his world, and make him tear down his Family to its foundations with glee, because it was for Devon. There was a perfect, not-mafia-politically-tied friend Lippi had always craved for and had found in Devon, and Lippi didn't feel like he'd ever let go. He wasn't sure if he should have felt scared at that. After all, he had a responsibility to his Family, and if anyone discovered that Devon — his precious Baby — was his soft spot, the Family could be torn to its foundations. Precious Baby didn't even know it.

He's going to be the death of me.

And Lippi thought this with a fond smile.

They're looking for us, my dad used to say, and they will not stop until every one of us is dead.

What is this war about? What are we fighting for? They never told me. Just enough. They kept things shrouded; an air of secrecy. For my own good, they said. What scared me was the training. Sweat, tears, bloody lip every once in a while.

Focus, Desmond! Focus! How far were they going to push me? Strength, speed, agility. No excuses.

I couldn't stand it! What was the point? For years and years I thought some major catastrophe was on the horizon.

One day you'll understand. You'll see. All this unease will be worth something. I promise.

If they'd been more open with me. If they'd shown me things, taken me places. Maybe it would have made more sense….