So update. Yay! It's been awhile guys but I think this chapter more than makes up for the wait. Or maybe not and you'll all hate me for it. Either way, we're getting at some of the deeper plot points and hinting at some of the larger archs of the story. Hope you enjoy. Remember, I don't own Baccano or Supernatural and never will!
As Claire slipped out the window and started walking away from the motel, knowing that neither of the boys would bother trying to follow him, he smirked to himself thinking the day must have been a success. Sure, he hadn't managed to actually kill them, but he sure scared the life out of them. As he started down the busy street toward where he'd parked his car, a familiar set of footsteps sounded behind him. His smirk widened as he walked into a nearby alley, and leaned against the wall, waiting for them to catch up.
Sure enough, a few moments later, a black clad figure stepped into the alley way. The glint of a knife caught his attention as the blade was raised to his throat, quick as lightening and a beautiful pair of eyes bore into his. The assassin crossed his arms, playful expression on his face for a second before he leans forward against the knife slightly, knowing full well that the owner would never actually hurt him, or even try.
"Hey, what's the matter, Chane…? You're obviously mad about something," he said, smirk intensifying as she pressed the knife closer to his throat. She just glared at him with angry eyes, mouth pulled back in a scowl. "Come on, love, it's not like they could have actually hurt me. I was in complete control the whole time, I promise. You really shouldn't worry about me so much."
She suddenly lowered the knife in one swift motion and used her empty hand to push him back against the wall. Standing on her toes, she glared deeply in his eyes, causing the smirk to fall off his face. He loved teasing the girl but sometimes she did seriously do something to insinuate she cared about him and he was thrown back again by how much he actually cared for her. Chane then did something entirely unexpected as she leaned in and kissed him lightly.
He responded to the surprising display of affection, of course, and gave her a goofy grin when she pulled away. Her glare returned full force, however, which made him sigh and frown slightly. "Did Luck call to say I was on some "dangerous mission" or something," he asked, using air quotes and a roll of his eyes to enunciate how ridiculous he thought it was. She nodded, which only made him sigh again. "Look, Chane, I'm fine. I know you don't like it when I do work for my brother's but you have to realize, I can't die. Nothing's going to actually hurt me. Same for you. Luck got you some of that magic elixir, remember?" He slowly stepped forward as she dropped her arm.
"Don't you love me, Chane?"
She nodded, glare softening a bit.
"Then shouldn't you trust me a little more?"
She nodded again, glancing away. He gently grabbed her chin and turned her face up toward his.
"And shouldn't you stop attacking me in alleyways every time I do something you don't necessarily like?"
She frowned at this and shook her head, making sure he saw the knife in her hand again. He chuckled slightly and held his arms outstretched, inviting her into a hug.
"Alright, I admit that I like it a little bit…"
She lowered the knife again and stepped into his embrace, letting him hold her against his lean, muscular chest for a few moments. He pulled her tightly against him, a rush of happiness spreading through every limb of his body. Every time he held her he felt some sort of fire running through his veins, igniting passions that no one else had ever even touched. The fact that his mind was able to create such a perfect person was astounding to him. Eventually, she pulled away and tucked the knife into the holster on her hip, then took his hand and led him home.
Dean woke up, a pounding on the door making him sit up, immediately on high alert. A glance to his left revealed Sam in a similar state on the other bed. Dean quickly stood up and walked to the door, picking up a sliver knife off the table as he went. He hid the knife behind his back as he swung open the door. A man in a nice, tailored suit met his gaze evenly before extending his hand which held a small slip of paper.
"My boss would like to meet with you and your…partner. He knows that you're not with the Feds and would like to know what you're doing in the city," the man said, as Dean took the paper warily. "That's the address he would like to meet at today at 3:00 p.m. sharp. If you wish to resolve this, please come meet with him. He promises that no harm will come to you if you should be respectful. No weapons allowed."
Dean looked up at him, glaring slightly. "But, I'm sure that he'll have plenty of armed guards like you around," he said, glancing into the man's open jacket at his gun in the holster. "Tell him we'll only go if he makes sure that the murderer that was on the transcontinental train is there. We want him handed over to us."
"I highly doubt that will happen," the man said, expression never changing from the hard, emotionless blank slate. "There's a number there where you can reach someone in his office to agree to the meeting. If you haven't called by 2:00 you can forget any chance at peace."
"What will happen then?" Sam asked as he walked up behind Dean, glaring at the man, just as wary as his older brother.
"Then, he'll pass down the order to have you killed." The man looked between the brothers for a moment before tipping his hat to them and turning and walking away. The boys watched him go, both a little dumbfounded before Dean slammed the door closed and looked down at the paper as Sam walked around, turning on the small motel lamps placed randomly in the room. Sure enough, in small, cursive scrawl was an address a phone number.
"Well, are we going to go?" Sam asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I mean, if that monster isn't there than what would even be the point? I'm assuming the "boss" is that guy we had to call last night, right?"
"You're probably right," Dean said, setting the paper on the table beside their assortment of weapons. "I don't know if we should go. I know we shouldn't go if they won't let us arm ourselves. But, we could get some questions answered at least…" The man sighed, crossing his arms. "I don't know, Sammy. We could be walking straight into a trap."
"Well, we can't just leave!" Sam stood up, frowning. "That monster, these monsters, however many there are, they could kill so many more people. What if they start killing innocents? What if they already have? I think that we have an obligation to go. This is our job."
"You're right, Sammy…" Dean muttered to himself a moment before pulling a gun out of his bag, checking to make sure it was loaded before tucking it in the back of his jeans. Pulling out another, he handed it to Sam, a severe look on his face.
Sam took it uncertainly. "But, that man said no weapons."
"I don't give a shit," Dean said, gruffly. "If we're going in there, we're going with weapons. I'm not having us walk up to some...monster mafia man unprepared. I'm just going on the assumption that they're all just like that character that broke in here last night."
"I would guess the same," Sam said, looking down at the gun now in his hand, then stands and tucks it into his jeans as well. "Alright, I'll make the call. Set up the meeting and we'll just see what happens."
"No, we're not going to see what happens," Dean said. "We're going to get some answers. And if we have to do it with guns blazing, then that's what we'll do."
Berga, sitting in the spacious office that Luck had given him, was staring blankly at the wall. A stack of paperwork sat ignored. He knew eventually Keith would come and do it for him, so why would he bother? He was waiting for a phone call that would guarantee him a showdown. Over the past two or three decades, Berga had become the true muscle for the family. He was in charge of anything involving violence, whether that be torturing someone for information or just beating up a guy cause he snitched to the cops. All the paperwork and money handling that his brother did had become absolutely boring and monotonous for him. He felt cooped up inside the office and wished that he could be back on the mean streets of New York City, like the old days.
What he really didn't want to do was sit and wait for a phone call. Luck had told him if by two o' clock he hadn't heard anything, he could go do whatever he wanted for the rest of the day. The idea was appealing, but now that he was sitting with nothing to do but wait for the familiar ring, the large Mafioso was regretting his decision. With a sigh, he stood up and walked to the bookshelf, a bored look in his eyes, eyes scanning the spines for something interesting but finding nothing as usual. Suddenly, the phone behind him let out a shrill ring and raced toward it, excitement building in his heart and pumping out through his veins. "Hello," he shouted into the receiver, much too loud for the poor person on the other end of the line.
"Um…" the voice said, obviously belonging to that of a young man. "I was… We were given this number to call if we wanted to meet up? Well, we accept your terms and would like to do so. Maybe answer some confusion for both our sakes."
"I'll pass the information along," he said, voice gruff and superior. "You have the address. Be there on time." He slammed the phone down and quickly took off as fast as his large body could and jogged over to Luck's office. Without even announcing himself, as per usual, he burst in and shouted his news. "Those fake Feds just called me and agreed to the meeting. Should I get the squad together?" The squad, as Berga had taken to calling it, was a group of men who worked under Berga as the muscle for the Family. They were the ones sent to beat people up and cut fingers off if a debt wasn't repaid. They were ruthless and bloody and Berga could sense his brother's tension with just the mention of them.
"No, no," Luck said, shaking his head. "This needs to be handled with more finesse and less skull pounding violence. "Get Claire on the phone. Tell him he has a chance to redeem himself for last night's blunder. Have him wait outside in case I need him, but I honestly don't think that will be necessary. As you and I both know, Berga, I'm not exactly a vulnerable man..."
It was very hard for Berga to hide his disappointment, and he was never completely sure he managed to do it all the way, but he nodded his head in agreement anyway. "So, I take it you're going in alone then?"
"Not entirely," Luck said, standing up and straightening his tie. "I've gotten Firo to agree to accompany me. He's just as curious about the whole situation as I am. And these "Feds" have crossed into Martillo terf already, and quite a few people are on high alert because of it."
"Alright…" the elder brother said, scratching his head. "But I thought you might want to rough these boys up and send them packing back to where they came from? Seems like it would be a lot more simple than having a cute little meeting."
"Diplomacy is the virtue of any great leader," Luck murmured under his breath. "Trust me on this, Berga. I'm going to take care of everything and protect this Family. But until we know who they are and how many more of them there are, we can't just kill them. We just don't know what the unforeseen consequences could be, and we don't want any unnecessary attention."
Berga knew his younger brother was right. But he didn't like it. He expressed this discontent with a heavy sigh, then nodded and turned to leave the room. Luck might be the youngest of the Gandor brothers, but he was certainly the smartest. There was a good reason why Father had left him the position of Don and why neither Keith nor Berga minded. They both knew they would never be able to do a better job than the reigning Don of the Gandor Family.
Dean looked at the small, unimpressive building from across the street, umbrella held over his head as the pitter patter of raindrops hit against it. Beside him, Sam stood in a similar position, also contemplating the building in front of them. The one they were supposed to meet up with a genuine mafia man that neither knew anything about. With a deep sigh, Dean motioned for his brother to cross the street when the traffic lulled a bit, and they both jogged across and closed their umbrellas as they stepped into the warmth and dryness of the building.
The smell of old books assaulted them as they looked around at the many rows of shelves. Each held many tomes of different shapes, sizes, and thickness. Wanting to lighten the mood, Dean jabbed Sam in the ribs and whispered jokingly, "Now don't come in your pants or anything. I know you like books, but let's be professional about this." He smirked up at his younger brother and was met with a disapproving frown. Dean coughed, letting the smirk slide from his face as he straightened up and looked around the shop suspiciously. There didn't seem to be any sign of life in the whole place.
"Maybe this is the wrong address," Sam said, shrugging.
"No," Dean insisted. "This is the place, I swear. I triple checked. I'm getting an uneasy feeling about this… But we should at least look around…"
"Alright," Sam agreed, then slowly made his way toward the left side of the store while Dean quietly made his way to the right.
Dean maneuvered his way through the bookcases, heavy feet trodding silently over the wooden floor. He continuously glanced around him, always on high alert, and not ready to be surprised by anything or anyone he might find hidden among the dusty old books. It was when he had reached the farthest shelf that he peered around and the breath caught in his throat.
A man, young and handsome, leaned back against the shelf, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and two of the buttons of his shirt undone. His light brown hair was slicked back, a single lock hanging in front of his forehead tantalizingly. In his hands was a red bound book that could have at least been a century old by the looks of it. Dean felt his mouth go dry, the feeling far too familiar to him. As he leaned around the bookshelf to get a better look, his foot hit a squeaky floorboard and his cover was suddenly blown. The man looked up at him, surprise in his golden eyes as he looked him over, and Dean couldn't help but feel slightly judged by him.
Sam came soon enough, the sound having alerted him even from across the bookshop. He took a defensive stance behind Dean, glaring at the man who was studying his brother, paying no mind to the larger man behind him. Finally, a throat clearing broke the tense silence as another, smaller figure walked over, a green fedora perched on his head casting his boyish face into shadow.
Dean snapped out of his trance, turning his eyes away from the beautiful man, that's the only way he could think to describe him. Instead, he focused on the shorter one, a familiar feeling tugging at his brain as if he'd seen this one before somewhere. He pushed the thought away as the man with the enchantingly golden eyes begin to speak, rooting him to the spot and mesmerizing him. His voice flowed from his lips like honey, the distinctive Brooklyn accent only making Dean's heart hammer in his chest.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, crossing his arms with a slightly smug smirk. One that only a man that knew he held the trump card could give. "Why don't we get this meeting started, hmm?"
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