Smoke and Mirrors

by Amazing_Grace, FriendlyGrey

Summary:

1940's Brooklyn isn't kind on the best of days.

In the hazy streets, in the cold brick buildings of the bustling downtown, a mystery is brewing that entangles the citizens of the city in a web of lies and subterfuge. Crime runs rampant, investigations dig deeper than they ever should, and one way or another, this world is going to change.

[Detective Noir AU primarily focused on the Voices in a human form!! everyone has names this time because this is meant to be at least somewhat realistic 1940's New York
FriendlyGrey has been MONUMENTAL in the worldbuilding of this universe and has pretty much exclusively developed the vessels, and she may post some works in this same world featuring them!! I could not do this without her and this world is just as much hers as it is mine <3 Go check out her fic Rough Tear if you're a fan of Slay The Princess, it's great!!]

Notes:

Names so you can keep track of who's who!!
Nathaniel Gambino=The Narrator
Clara Bates=Voice of the Cold
Scott Doyle=Voice of the Skeptic
Sammy Harris=Voice of the Smitten
Peter Garner=Voice of the Paranoid
Charlie Russo=Voice of the Cheated
Steven Battaglia=Voice of the Stubborn
Oscar Elliott=Voice of the Opportunist
Henry Allen=Voice of the Hero
Connie Argenti=Voice of the Contrarian
Benjamin "Benny" Brown=Voice of the Broken
Hazel Piselli=Voice of the Hunted

Rachel Sharpe=Razor

I'll add the Vessels' names as they appear in canon!!

Chapter 1: Let The Clouds Roll By [Femme Fatale]

Chapter by Amazing_Grace

    The room was hazy with smoke and smelled of whiskey and cigars. A crowd of police officers checked around the room, gloved hands of forensics officers carefully checking beneath the desk.

    Clara sat on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed, a cigar pinched in her fingers. She watched the crowd of officers explore her bedroom, her face a perfect mask of calm.

    The detective following the officers flipped open to a new page in his notebook, walking closer to Clara. “Miss Gambino?”

    Clara’s eyes flicked to him. “Just Clara is fine.”

    “Clara,” the detective corrected gruffly, writing something in his notes. It was almost cute how he felt the need to write down her preferred name. “You said you were…downtown when your husband was murdered?”

    “I was at the jazz club,” Clara confirmed, leaning back and blowing her smoke into the air. The detective waved it away from his face without looking up from his notes. “You can ask the bartender.”

    The officers around began whispering to each other, casting looks in Clara’s direction. She met their eyes, a bit pleased by how they winced upon noticing they’d been caught.

    “You think I killed my husband.” It wasn’t a question, and Clara had a feeling the detective knew it.

    “You’d have an awful lot of incentive,” the detective said. “More motive than anyone else.”

    “Anyone else is a tall claim, Detective…”

    “Doyle,” the detective said.

    “Doyle. I’m surprised you would look to me before the Russo family.”

    Detective Doyle wrote in his little notebook as if Clara had said something revolutionary. She inhaled smoke from her cigar, her eyes drifting closed. This was boring. She had a family to run. How much longer were they going to insist she had murdered Nathaniel Gambino?

    She had, of course. Very easily. A single shot to the back of the head and he was gone. But she had no intention of letting anyone find that out, least of all this adorable detective who insisted on writing every tiny detail in his little book.

    He stared at her, his deep brown eyes boring a hole in her head. She met his gaze with a perfect poker face. Clara prided herself on her lack of emotion; it would only get in the way when she took over the family.

    “...Forensics is going to be matching the bullet to the gun used for the murder,” Detective Doyle said. “You know anything about what kind of gun may have been used?”

    “How could I?” Clara asked. “I’m a simple woman, Detective Doyle. I never participated in the affairs of the family. The man you’re looking for is his brother and enforcer.”

    “I’m sure your husband wanted you to know how to defend yourself,” Detective Doyle said. “He didn’t give you any firearms for protection?”

    Clara cocked her head, uncrossing her legs to cross them the other way. She was a bit disappointed that Detective Doyle’s eyes never traveled down to her exposed thigh; it would have made this interrogation so much easier.

    “Protection from what?” she asked coolly. “We all know the rules, Detective. Wives are off limits. The Russos wouldn’t have dared to hurt me.”

    “You seem awfully unbothered by your husband’s unfortunate passing,” Detective Doyle said, continuing to take notes. Clara saw the other officers dropping the bullet that had killed Nathaniel into a small plastic bag. “Why is that?”

    Clara tilted her head, her eyes drifting back to Detective Doyle’s face. Her expression hadn’t changed once, but just to help her story, she allowed a bit of bitterness into her voice. “Am I expected to mourn the loss of such a horrible man? Would you like me to cry now that the person who made my life so miserable is gone? Shall I pour out a drink for my abusive husband?”

    If Detective Doyle was moved by her response, he didn’t show it. He was almost as hard to read as Clara herself. A piece of her respected him.

    “But you wouldn’t have shot him,” he said.

    Clara breathed out a new plume of smoke. Her cigar was just about done; she would have to light another once the police left her room.

    “Of course I wouldn’t have shot him,” she said. “I’m a very patient woman, Detective. I only had to wait until the Russos took him out. I’m good at waiting.”

    “And why would you leave his fate in someone else’s hands when you could take him out yourself?”

    Clara blew her next cloud of smoke directly into Detective Doyle’s face just to see if she could get a reaction out of him. “Because I don’t want to go to prison, Detective.”

    Detective Doyle’s face scrunched. He coughed into his shoulder, waving the smoke away from his face with a scowl. Clara smiled slightly; so he could break character. “If you don’t want to be arrested, you shouldn’t have gotten involved with the mob.”

    “I know my rights. You can’t arrest me just for being married to a criminal,” Clara corrected. “One you can’t prove was a criminal, I may add. If you could have taken care of Nathaniel, I have no doubts you boys would have removed him from the streets years ago. Am I wrong?”

    Detective Doyle hesitated. He sighed, finally tucking his pencil behind his ear. “...Which jazz club did you say you were in? And when did you arrive? When did you leave?”

    “‘The Long Quiet.’ I arrived at five in the evening and left at ten at night.”

    “Awfully late night, Clara,” Detective Doyle muttered. “What kept you out so long?”

    “I like to take my time returning home,” Clara said. “The longer I stay out, the longer I can be away from Nate. …Or, could, rather.”

    “Doyle,” one of the officers called, “we’re done here. You got everything you need from the widow?”

    Detective Doyle glanced back at them, frowned, and regarded Clara again, his curious gaze searching for any sign of something being off with her. She didn’t give him any.

    “...You’ll forgive me if I come back to talk with you again, Clara,” he said at last. “We’ll figure out who did this. Sorry for your loss.”

    “It wasn’t much of one,” Clara said simply. Her cigar was finally done; she stood from the bed to put out the fire in the nearby ashtray, leaving the stub of her cigar on top. “I hope I answered your questions satisfactorily, Detective. Do come again.”

    “...You have an odd way of grieving, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Detective Doyle observed. “Surely you should feel something about this loss.”

    Clara smiled thinly, turning around to face Detective Doyle and leaning into the side table where her ashtray sat. “Would you like me to break down in sobs, Detective? Will that make my story more believable?”

    Detective Doyle frowned at her, narrowing his eyes.

    “You can ask anyone you like,” Clara said. “They’ll tell you I am always like this. I don’t like to waste my energy with petty things like ‘feelings.'”

    Detective Doyle raised an eyebrow. “I would hardly call feelings petty.”

    “You and I come from different worlds,” Clara said simply, crossing the room to stand just in front of the detective. She patted his chest with a hand, peering up at him past her eyelashes. “The one I inhabit doesn’t look kindly on gals who cry.”

     There was the slight twitch of his eyebrows. He cleared his throat, taking Clara’s wrist and removing her hand from his chest. “Right. Sure. …I’ll return after I have a chance to follow up on your alibi. Enjoy the rest of your day, Clara.”

    Clara hummed, waving to the officers as they began to clear out of the room. Two of them loaded Nathaniel Gambino’s body into a body bag, hoisting his corpse off the hardwood floor and carting it out of the bedroom. Clara’s cold blue eyes fell on the splatter of blood his wound had left, the hint of amusement she had felt at the detective’s attention fading to her usual icy stare as the room cleared of other entrants.

     Good riddance. She stepped over to the splatter and crouched down by it, dragging her fingertip along the dried stain. Rot in hell, bastard.

    Now was almost time for the fun part. She would probably have to let Nathaniel’s brother handle the actual business of the family until the cops stopped poking their noses in her business, but as soon as it was safe…finally, she would be where she belonged. In charge of this foolish family that had wasted so much time on petty feuds and murders of women Nathaniel had a personal grudge against. She had been waiting for a chance to do something interesting with all the power the Gambinos have; now, the vast resources of the family were at her disposal.

    She made sure of that before Nathaniel died. A bit of whiskey, a bit of flirting, a lawyer she charmed to her side, and his will was all settled to bequeath everything he owned to his adoring wife.

    The room was thick with the smoke of her cigars. She went to the window, cracking it open to allow the haze to clear and flicking on the ceiling fan. It felt…empty.

    She briefly considered leaving the house to return to The Long Quiet and meet with the cute lounge singer, but a wave of exhaustion stalled that thought. Her feet ached from the heels she had been wearing all day, her mind heavy with curiosity. Was she safe? The bartender at The Long Quiet would confirm her alibi, she was certain of that, but that Detective Doyle seemed sharp. He was a new face on the force, too, not someone she and Nathaniel had already sunk their claws into.

    Clara smiled to herself as she walked towards the bathroom to take a shower. Well, that was fine. It just meant she had a fun new game to play; being secure in her place in the hierarchy would get boring.

    Time would tell whether she was the cat or the mouse in this little game.

Chapter 2: Seek Through The Haze [Detective]

    There was something about that widow that just wasn’t right.

    Detective Scott Doyle sighed to himself, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel of his Fleetline. The officers in charge of investigating Nathaniel Gambino’s murder had collected his testimony and dismissed him from the case before he even had a chance to check Clara’s alibi. What was the point of even hiring a private investigator if they weren’t going to actually use him for anything?

    Had it been a warning? A chance for him to peek into the world of mob wars and realize that continuing to dig would only get him in trouble? Or had the force initially planned to dig deeper, only for someone to pull their strings and keep them from prying?

    Something was fishy about the whole thing. Scott decided he was going to get to the bottom of this whole mess whether the police wanted him to or not.

    He pulled into a parking space down the street from The Long Quiet, the jazz club Clara had claimed to frequent. Tugging his hat further down on his head, he set off to investigate her alibi.

    The Long Quiet was only one of those things.

    The room was expansive, with room for many tables, a sizable stage with a four-piece band and a singer, and a bar counter along the entire right edge stocked with any alcohol you could ever want. Two bartenders were staffed, one of which was busily wiping glasses while the other chatted with a couple of customers. A few men looked over at Scott as he entered, seemingly confused at why a man who looked so put-together was entering their little den of debauchery.

    Or perhaps they were staring at his trench coat. That could have also been it.

    He ignored them regardless, grabbing a seat by the bartender that wasn’t already talking with anyone. “Whiskey on the rocks.”

    The bartender looked up at him, raising an eyebrow, then sighed and put his towel down. “That’s seventy-five cents for a full glass. We got Four Roses and Blended Scotch.”

    “I’ll take the Blended Scotch.” Scott fished his wallet from his pocket, leaving a dollar on the counter. After a moment, he added a second. “...I don’t suppose you might also be willing to answer a few questions for me.”

    The bartender glanced over his shoulder, noticing the second dollar on the counter. “...You with the feds or somethin’?”

    “Not anymore. This is a private investigation.”

    “Listen, everything we sell here is completely above board,” the bartender insisted.

    “I don’t care about that,” Scott insisted. “I want to know about Clara Gambino.”

    The bartender froze mid-pour, raising an eyebrow at Scott. “Clara? What’s your business with her?”

    “Do you know her?”

    The bartender chuckled, grinning as he finished pouring Scott’s drink. He brought it over, setting it on the counter and swiping up the two dollars. “Oh, do I. I dare say most men this side o’ the room know Clara.”

    So she was a frequent customer. Scott flipped open his notebook to write a few things. “And was she here on the night of the 18th?”

    “The 18th? Yeah, she was here.” The bartender thought for a moment, then went to his ledger book to check something. “Ordered a martini and a daiquiri and nursed ‘em for hours. Why?”

    “What time did she arrive?” Scott asked. “When did she leave?”

    “Came by in the evening…I think she stayed until almost closing time.” The bartender slowly closed his book. “...Why are you askin’?”

    The band had just finished their latest number. Raucous applause of drunk patrons filled the large room, hoots of joy and a few wolf whistles making themselves heard above the din. Scott was temporarily distracted and glanced at the stage; the band was chatting with each other for a moment before the singer made his way off the stage for a break. 

    “...I think she may have been…involved in something,” Scott muttered, looking back at the bartender. “She gave me an alibi and I’d like to be sure it’s accurate.”

    The bartender frowned. He opened his ledger again and flipped it around so Scott could read it. Sure enough, under the heading for the 18th, a “C. Bates” was marked as ordering a martini and a daiquiri, worth a dollar-fifty total.

    “...‘Bates?’” Scott pressed. “Her last name is Gambino.”

    “Not when she’s here, it ain’t,” the bartender said with a chuckle, snapping his ledger closed. “She prefers her maiden name. Don’t like being wrapped up in the boss’s business when she’s havin’ a drink.”

    Scott frowned, returning to his notes. So Clara liked to ignore her husband while she visited the bar. And judging by the bartender’s earlier comments…had she been having an affair? Multiple affairs, even?

    He heard a heavy sigh and turned to see the singer had collapsed into the stool beside him. The bartender brightened, leaving Scott to chat with the singer instead.

    “Sammy, darlin’! What can I get for you?”

    “Just a water,” the singer replied smoothly. “My throat is parched. I must make sure I stay at my best for the second half of the night!”

    Scott examined him, wondering if he might know anything else about Clara Bates. Was this the jazz club’s regular singer, or was he standing in? He seemed to be on familiar terms with the bartender, at least, which indicated he was probably on staff more often than not.

    The singer noticed him staring after a moment and flashed a charming smile. “I’ll let you buy me a drink later, if you ask nicely.”

    “What?” Scott shook his head, suddenly realizing just how long he had been watching the singer. “Oh, no, sorry…I was just lost in thought.”

    The singer laughed lightly, nodding. “Not a problem, my dear! Are you a new customer? I thought I knew all of the regulars by now.”

    So he was their usual singer. It was worth asking him a few questions.

    The singer offered his hand to Scott. “Sammy Harris, the one and only. You can call me Sam. And you are…?”

    Scott shook his hand briefly. “Scott Doyle. Just Scott is fine. Are you the only singer at this establishment?”

    Sammy chuckled, pushing all of his curly blonde hair to one side. “Oh, no…I could never handle all of the demands of the club by myself. We have a few sweet girls on backup for when I must take a day off.”

    “But it’s mostly you,” Scott pressed.

    The bartender returned with a tall glass of water, placing it down in front of Sammy. “There you are, sweetheart. Don’t chug it all down at once.”

    “Thank you, James,” Sammy said sincerely, picking up the glass with a warm smile. “You’re a doll. One moment…”

    He drank down about a quarter of the glass before putting it back down. Seeing someone else drink reminded Scott he hadn’t touched his whiskey yet; he took a sip while Sammy was distracted. It was smooth, a hint of graininess that made Scott wish he had just ordered straight scotch instead of the blended kind.

    When Sammy put his glass down, Scott watched him attentively, pencil at the ready. “Yes, it is mostly me. Why do you ask? Have you been enjoying the music? The band does such a wonderful job. I’m honored to work with them.”

     Perfect. Another witness for his case. “And were you on shift on the night of the 18th?”

    Sammy thought for a moment, flashing Scott a quizzical look as he sipped his water again. “...Yes, I was. Are…we in trouble?”

    “No, no,” Scott insisted.

    “He’s a gumshoe, Sammy,” the bartender (James, if Sammy was to be believed) called. “Lookin’ into something about Clara Bates.”

    Sammy’s expression soured the second Clara’s name was mentioned. Scott perked up.

    “Oh. That vixen,” Sammy muttered. “What has she done this time?”

    “Was she here on the 18th?” Scott asked quickly.

    “She was after the second set, at least,” Sammy sighed, swirling the water in his glass. “I remember because she placed her adulterous hands all over me. I have told that hussy countless times not to include me in her affairs.”

     Got her. Scott couldn’t help a smile as he frantically wrote in his notebook. Clara had definitely been cheating on her husband. Did that give her more motive to kill him? Or had she perhaps charmed someone else into the deed?

    This at least ruled Sammy out of any suspicions. “Then, did everyone know Miss Bates was married?”

    “She never even bothered to remove the symbol of love that sat on her finger,” Sammy huffed in disgust. “Once you make a commitment, your heart should belong to the person you chose. She couldn’t even do her poor husband the common decency to divorce him before she went throwing herself at the feet of our clientele!”

    “Hey, c’mon, don’t be so hard on her,” James urged, a bit more gently. “She had a rough life with that bastard.”

    Scott recalled Clara’s explanations for why she was so unbothered by her husband’s death. “Would you like me to cry now that the person who made my life so miserable is gone? Shall I pour out a drink for my abusive husband?”

    …It complicated things, in a way Scott didn’t entirely like.

    “What has she done that has you investigating her?” Sammy asked. “Are the officers finally going to punish her for her adultery?”

    “No, I’m…not an officer,” Scott said. “This is just for me. Something happened to Nathaniel Gambino, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”

    Sammy’s eyes lit up. He leaned towards Scott, curiosity dancing across his face. “Something happened to the Gambinos? Serves them right, frankly. But you believe Clara has something to do with it?”

    “Yes, well…” Scott knew he should have kept his investigation quiet, but he couldn’t deny feeling a little bit excited about his efforts. And who knew if Sammy might have some information to help him get Clara behind bars? 

    He fought back a smile, leaning in to whisper to Sammy. “I believe Miss Bates may have been responsible for her husband’s murder. But I can’t be sure yet. I’m in the midst of confirming her alibi.”

    Sammy pulled away from him with a scandalized gasp. “You believe she may have stooped that low?” he asked, mercifully quietly.

    James watched the pair out of the corner of his eyes while he wiped out glasses, seemingly curious.

    “I can’t be sure,” Scott murmured. “You and…James, is it? You’ve confirmed her alibi. But I’m starting to wonder if she may have somehow manipulated someone into doing the murder on her behalf.”

    Sammy scoffed, frowning. “That sounds like exactly the sort of trick that she-devil would play.”

    “You seem to really dislike her,” Scott mused.

    Sammy nodded fervently. “Of course! She spits in the face of all I believe in. Love should be sacred!”

    “Don’t mind Sammy, he’s a little overeager,” James said with a chuckle. “But he knows everything about everyone. Helps to be a pretty thing sometimes.”

    Sammy giggled, twirling his hair in his finger. “You flatter me, darling. But he’s not wrong! I have a bit of a…reputation here in the club. If you ever need some information for your search…let me know. I would be more than happy to aid your investigation.”

    Scott’s eyes lit up. “Really? That’s perfect, Sam. Do you happen to have any evidence of Clara’s infidelity?”

    “I may not, but…” Sammy spun around in his stool and surveyed the patrons of the club. He pointed out one man in particular, who was happily chatting away with a group of men over cigars. “That there is Robert Bailey. He’s a factory worker at the Ford down the street. He and Clara spend hours together flirting in the corner during the shows. He’ll probably be easy to crack if you approach him now.”

    Scott grinned, patting Sammy on the shoulder gratefully. He took his glass of whiskey from the counter, walking towards the table of workers Sammy had pointed out.

    They looked over as he approached, their faces falling. The one called Robert revived a small, hazy grin; he was clearly hammered. Perfect.

    “Robert Bailey?” Scott asked.

    Robert dipped his head. “The one an’ only!”

    “I’ve been told you’re close with Clara Bates,” Scott said. 

    Robert laughed, nudging one of his friends with an elbow. “Ohhh, we’re close a’right. Why you askin’?”

    “Did you and Miss Bates ever…” Scott trailed off, waving his hand in the air as he tried to think of a…slightly more tactful way to ask this question. “...make love?”

    Robert snorted, chuckling. “Don’t be shy about it. ‘Course I banged that broad. Half the town’s been with her by now.”

    Scott smiled slightly. “I see. Didn’t much like her husband, did she?”

    “Not far as I can tell,” Robert said.

    “And did you happen to see her on the 18th?”

    Robert squinted, then scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I’m way too sloshed for this right now, buddy. Ask me again later.”

    So this was a dead end for now. Scott sighed, nodding. “Of course. Thank you for your time.”

    “Sure thing, boss!”

    Scott left Robert behind, downing a good half of his drink on his way back to the bar counter. This was useful information. He would have to come back some time before Robert started drinking for more info on Clara, but at least now he had more of a lead. Clara clearly couldn’t stand Nathaniel; Scott just had to get concrete evidence of her affairs so he could convince the police force she had a sufficient motive.

    Why did he even care so much about this case? Nathaniel Gambino was objectively a bad person. The world was better off now that he was gone. If Clara had murdered him, it was for the best.

    But that wasn’t justice. Someone had to be held accountable for taking a life, even if that life was Nathaniel’s. It felt wrong to not dig into this case.

    And besides, something about Clara intrigued him. Her flat affect, her flirtatious behavior, her frustratingly rigid insistence on her innocence…she was dangerous, but she was also broken.

    “Well?” Sammy prompted as Scott approached, taking his seat again. “Did he help you get any further information?”

    “Some, but I think he’s a bit too out of it to help much,” Scott said gruffly.

    “He’s always here on Fridays, right after work,” Sammy said. “You can find him again then.”

    “Thank you,” Scott said sincerely. “If I can get enough evidence towards her motive, I may be able to steer the police towards her again. You’ve been a big help.”

    Sammy beamed, gently laying a hand over Scott’s. “Any time, my dear. You’re doing a good thing.”

    Scott really hoped so. He had a duty to uphold the law of the land, even if he was the only person alive who cared to.

    He finished his drink in between a more casual talk with Sammy and James, and lingered in the club long enough to hear Sammy sing. His voice was smooth and silky, floating perfectly between notes; Scott was starting to see why he was so popular among the crowd.

    Writing a few more tidbits in his notebook, he said goodbye to James with an extra quarter for his troubles, gathering his things to leave the club.

    He didn’t notice the subtle change in James’s expression as he scooped up the quarter, smirking as he tucked it into his pocket.

Chapter 3: Wading Through An Endless Fog [Mob Doctor]

    Peter Garner wrung his hands together as he passed through the crowded city streets, muttering to himself and constantly checking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He must have looked crazy.

     Good. Maybe it would make sure everyone left him alone. The last thing he needed right now was any eyes on him.

    He pushed through a group of customers waiting to enter a department store, slunk through the countless alleyways that made up their city, and finally arrived at a broken down door leading into an abandoned warehouse on the fringes of town. Anxious, he knocked firmly on the door and stuffed his hands under his arms, alert for any signs of anyone else watching him.

    There was a pause that felt like years. “What’s the passwo--”

    “It’s Peter,” Peter hissed before the voice could finish. “I-I have to talk to him. Now. It’s urgent.”

    The voice hesitated. “Who’s ‘him?’”

    “Do not play dumb with me right now, Steven!” Peter snapped quietly. “It was you, wasn’t it…?! You tactless brute, of course it was you! What were you thinking?!”

    “The hell are you talking about?” the voice nearly growled. In any other circumstances, the mob enforcer’s gravelly tone would have absolutely petrified Peter.

    “Open the damn door!” Peter demanded.

    An agonizingly long pause. And then, finally, the door slid open.

    Peter paid no mind to the heavily scarred, muscular man scowling at him on the other side. He pushed through and beelined for the main room where Charlie Russo ran his operations, only barely processing Steven Battaglia’s barbaric footsteps behind him.

    “Hey. Doc,” Steven called. “You better start explainin’ yourself. Charlie didn’t call for you.”

    Peter ignored him, which in hindsight was a bad idea. He didn’t think about it until Steven caught the back of his neck and yanked him backwards, shoving him against the nearest wall with a fiery glare.

    “Start talkin’, Doc.”

    Terror made Peter speak without thinking. “Nathaniel Gambino is fucking dead. You start talking!”

    Steven’s eyes widened in shock. He released Peter’s shoulders, stepping away from the wall. “Since when?!”

    “Since yesterday! I overheard some cops discussing the case and raced over here as soon as I could! What did you do?!”

    “Nothing!” Steven insisted. “I didn’t kill the bastard! And no one dies under Char’s watch unless I’m the one beating ‘em to a bloody pulp!”

    “Well, the cops don’t know that!” Peter snapped, resuming his trek to the main room now that Steven wasn’t boxing him in. “And you know they’re sitting pretty in the Gambinos’ pocket! If they pull together a conviction, we’re ruined!”

    Steven cursed under his breath, punching a small dent in the nearest wall. Peter jumped, skittering as far away from him as he could get.

    “Well, we just gotta get the buttons in our pocket!” Steven insisted. “We’ve got resources!”

    “Not as many as the Gambinos!” Peter retorted. “It wouldn’t take much to pull some strings and--”

    The door to the main room flung open and Peter jumped again, inadvertently racing back across the room to hide behind Steven. Steven let him.

    Charlie Russo stepped into the hallway, frazzled, a firm grip on his cane. He was even more heavily scarred than Steven, a particularly nasty one across his face that narrowly missed both eyes. It somehow simultaneously made him more intimidating and more pitiable to Peter. “What the hell are you two screamin’ about?! I’m trying to work in here!”

    “Big Nate’s dead,” Steven said. Peter nodded frantically.

    Charlie’s eyes widened. “...Oh, shit!”

    “What did you do?!” Peter demanded.

    “What? Nothing!” Charlie insisted. “It wasn’t us! Hang on, why’re you freaking out so much? Ain’t this a good thing? Those bastards are gonna be running around like chickens with their heads cut off, this is the perfect chance for us to swoop in and take back some of our territory!”

    Peter gaped at him. Did he not understand how devastating this was? Was he not in the least bit concerned about how this would impact their reputation? About how it would impact Peter? He didn’t even have the benefit of being officially brought into the family; they called him “their doctor,” but they’d never initiated him. He didn’t have any official sway with Charlie if things went south.

    Steven’s eyes lit up. “Hey, now, there’s an idea! Ha! What were you so worried about, Doc? I told you we didn’t do nothin’! Pigs can’t take us in on a false conviction and I’m sure they’ll come to their senses before they try any arrests!”

    Charlie scoffed. “Is that what you were screaming about? You think we’re gonna get arrested? We’re above the police! They can’t touch us if they tried!”

    “Not nearly as high above them as the Gambinos!” Peter hissed, his racing heartbeat only further contributing to his nerves. “All those--th-those monsters need is a single reason to accuse you and they can take the whole operation down! Why are you not worried…?! Why am I the only one who knows how…h-how…”

    Oh, great. He was hyperventilating again.

    Steven groaned. “There he goes again.”

    In contrast, Charlie’s eyes softened. He waved Steven away from Peter, walking over to stand in front of him. “Lay off, Stevie. Hey, Doc. It’s alright! Nothing’s gonna happen to you so long as we’re around. You’re still new to this whole thing, you haven’t seen us in action long enough. Trust me, this whole deal is gonna blow over and we’ll be fine in the aftermath. Promise!”

    A rival mob boss was dead and they were entirely unconcerned. Peter worked under sociopaths.

    He probably should have realized that a long time ago. They were mobsters, after all.

    “A-are you not the slightest bit concerned a-about all this?!” Peter wheezed, gripping his arms as he tried to calm himself down. “I-if they--catch me…!”

    “No one’s gonna catch you, Doc,” Charlie soothed gently. “‘Sides, even if they do, you’ve done nothing wrong! You’re just helping a friend with his constant medical dilemmas. They can’t even lump you in with us because we haven’t made anything official. And that’s for your own safety!”

    Peter stared at him like he was insane. No, he was insane. They were all insane. Peter was insane for ever agreeing to any of this in the first place.

    “...Does beg the question of who took out Big Nate, though,” Charlie mused. “If it wasn’t us…did some other, smaller family step in and make a big play? Starting with Nate, though? They’d be putting a huge target on their backs.”

    “Unless they framed us,” Steven muttered.

    “Exactly!” Peter cried, releasing his own arms just to grab Charlie’s shoulders and shake him incredulously. “Th-this isn’t even just about the cops! W-what if the Gambinos blame you and we go to war?! I’m one man! I can’t fix a whole family after a turf war!”

    “Calm down, calm down!” Charlie insisted, though Peter heard the panic starting to rise in his voice. “...Okay, shit. Shit! Shit, shit, shit…”

    “Maybe we should hit first. Teach ‘em a lesson or two about messing with us!” Steven suggested, sporting a toothy grin that reminded Peter once again that his employers were patently insane.

    “Hold your horses, Stevie, that’s the last thing we wanna do!” Charlie replied. “We just gotta…reach out to ‘em. Make sure they know this wasn’t our doing. Who do you think’s in charge now…? It’s gotta be Stan, right? He was Nate’s righthand man!”

    “So we kill him--”

    “We talk to him, dumbass!” Charlie interrupted. “We just gotta send someone to meet with him and smooth this whole thing over! Someone who won’t seem threatening! Someone who won’t try to kill him!”

    Peter felt Charlie’s eyes on him before they landed. He stepped backwards, frantically shaking his head.

    “No,” he said firmly. “No, no, no, no, no! Absolutely not! You’re completely off your rocker!”

    “Come on, you’re a fine gent!” Charlie insisted pleasantly. “You’re a good talker! You can explain this whole mess!”

    “ Y-you’re going to kill me!” Peter cried. “I’m going to say something c-cockeyed and he’ll shoot me between the eyes! You go!”

    “I dunno…Stan and I don’t exactly have a good history together,” Charlie admitted. “But he’d like you! You’re exactly his kinda guy.”

    Peter went pale. “That is not comforting!”

    Steven snorted. Peter punched him on the arm despite knowing it wouldn’t do anything.

    “Careful, Doc,” Steven growled. “If I didn’t like you, I’d snap your skinny little arm for that shit.”

    Peter shuddered, gesturing largely at him. “Do you see?! Even Steven doesn’t like me!”

    “He just said he does like you!” Charlie corrected, reaching out to grasp Peter’s shoulder again. Peter squirmed out of his grip. “Pete, relax. I wouldn’t ask you to handle this if I didn’t think you could. I’m not gonna get the only quack I trust murdered!”

    “I’m not a quack,” Peter hissed. “Why me?! You have hundreds of soldiers you could send instead!”

    “It’ll seem insincere from them!” Charlie insisted. “Like some attempt to pass off blame. But from a third party…”

    “Then he’ll know I’m with you!”

    “Well, it’s that, or we go to war!” Charlie exclaimed. “Ace is in your hand, Petey!”

    Peter spluttered, indignant. He puzzled through at least thirty different reasons why this was a horrible, horrible idea: he was going to have a panic attack, Stanley Gambino would get angry and shoot him, he would accidentally insult Stan’s spouse and be thrown out of the mansion, he would knock over an expensive vase with all his fidgeting and be forced to work off his debt as a pet for whoever ran the place…

    And Charlie was right. He was somehow safer than any actual, initiated members of the family.

     His interference was protected a bit better. The law would have to intervene if Stanley shot him, a bystander, right? Even if he was technically employed by a don, he wasn’t involved. He just took their money and kept Steven from dying of blood loss or Charlie from passing out from pain.

    That would…be enough to protect him, right?

    He groaned, running his hands through his hair. “...You’re loony. You know that, right?”

    “I’ll have Stevie follow you and make sure you get out safe,” Charlie assured. “I can give the Gambinos a ring and schedule a meeting.”

    Peter sighed heavily, acutely aware of how much he was trembling. “You are going to send me to an early grave, Charlie Russo.”

    “I’d never,” Charlie assured. “...Hey, Doc. How ‘bout you stay over with me for a while? If you’re worried about people going after you.”

    Peter’s shoulders visibly sank. “...You don’t mind?”

    “Not at all,” Charlie assured. “Stick with me until this all blows over. We don’t mind. Right, Stevie?”

    Steven sighed. “If he has to. But he better not try to stop me from leaving for errands.”

    “Errands? What kinds of errands are you running that I would try to keep you from?” Peter asked.

    “Nothing you gotta worry about,” Charlie insisted lightly. “Now! Was that all the news you have for me? Can I get back to work now?”

    Peter frowned, staring at him. Was this really all they had to discuss? If they didn’t murder Nathaniel, who did? That question had faded into the background, but it was an important one to ask.

    They had nothing to go on. All Peter had overheard while lingering by the police station was that “someone finally got Big Nate.” He had no context for how or why. Did Stanley know? Could he find out if they met? Would Stanley even be willing to talk to a random back alley doctor working out of a run-down apartment?

    “...C-can I stay here?” he asked, a bit meekly, as he wrung his fingers together. “I…don’t want to walk home alone.”

    “Stay as long as you like,” Charlie invited. “You can come home with Stevie and I tonight.”

    Peter sighed heavily in relief. At least Charlie seemed willing to protect him for now.

    Would he stick his neck out when the chips were down? Time would tell, but…

    The warm smile he flashed as Peter followed him to the main room of the warehouse was promising.

Chapter 4: In The Cover Of Night, Beneath A Blanket Of Stars [Gentleman Thief]

    The city was never quiet. It was almost comforting, really; Oscar Elliott couldn’t feel alone if he tried.

    It did, of course, make his thieving a bit difficult. Distant sirens warned of approaching police, streetlights illuminated corners of busy streets, and drunks swayed on the sidewalks into the wee hours of the morning. There were plenty of chances for him to get caught.

    Luckily for him, the Gambino family mansion was relatively isolated, on a hill outside of downtown that overlooked the city they ran. It was a perfect target if you knew the patterns of the soldiers that watched the grounds…which, of course, Oscar did. He’d once been one of them, after all.

    He waited for a gap in the patrol to scale the fence, slinking through the shadows and pressing his back against the wall of the mansion. Carefully, quietly, he slid along the wall and ducked behind a pillar to wait for the next patrol to pass by, eyeing the fence of the balcony just outside Clara Bates’ bedroom.

     Five, four, three, two… The perfect gap. Spinning his grappling hook in one hand, he tossed it in a perfect arc up to the banister, pulling himself up the wall and swinging onto the balcony. The curtains were drawn; Clara was fast asleep. Perfect.

    She wouldn’t miss a few pieces of jewelry. The Gambinos were filthy rich from all their protection work.

    He pulled up the rope and left it in a pile just inside the balcony fence, pulling a small toolkit from his belt as he crept to the door. A few passes with his lockpick, and… bingo. He was in.

    Quiet now, slowly, listening for Clara’s steady breathing…he clicked on his night vision goggles, gently moving the curtain aside to scan the inside of the room. Clara was a lump of blankets in her king-sized bed, alone.

    Oh, Oscar couldn’t have planned this better if he tried.

    Silently, he squeezed inside past the small gap in the curtain he’d already made, sliding the door closed behind him. Watching the floor for anything he might trip on, he snuck to Clara’s elaborate jewelry box, slowly lifting the lid to peruse the wares inside.

    Gorgeous diamond necklaces, pure gold bracelets adorned with countless stones, earrings made with real emerald…Clara’s collection was a treasure trove. A surprisingly dusty one, at that. She wasn’t even wearing these pieces; she definitely wouldn’t miss this gaudy necklace.

    A gun clicked behind him.

    Oscar froze. Necklace still in his fist, he slowly raised his hands, a thin smile on his face.

    “...Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

    “Drop the jewelry, Ozzy,” Clara’s voice responded evenly. She sounded tired; Oscar couldn’t tell if he’d somehow woken her, or she merely hadn’t slept all night.

    He chuckled, slowly looking over his shoulder at her. “Now, now, dollface. I think I deserve a little reward for all the help I’ve given you.”

    “I already gave you your reward. Drop it.”

    Still just as slowly, Oscar turned around to face her, hands still in the air. “You wouldn’t shoot me, Clair.”

    Her expression was familiarly blank as she took a single step closer, leveling her pistol at his empty hand. “I don’t think you want to take that risk, Oz.”

    Oscar’s gaze flickered; he was grateful Clara couldn’t see him in the dark.

    They shared a moment of silence for at least a minute. Finally, with a resigned sigh, Oscar released the necklace and let it fall to the floor.

    “How are you the only dame that can catch me?”

    “Perhaps you aren’t as good of a thief as you think.” Clara jerked her head at his hands. “Empty your sleeves.”

    Oscar hesitated.

    “The second I pull this trigger, everyone in this house comes running. I doubt you want that to happen, Ozzy.”

    Oscar sighed. “You know, I’m starting to think you might not even like me. And here I was coming to give you some useful information on your little murder coverup.”

     That got Clara’s attention. It was only a tiny shift in her eyebrows that gave it away, but it was enough.

    “Your sleeves, Oscar,” she repeated.

    Oscar chuckled at her. “Alright, alright. Fine.”

    He pulled on the ends of his sleeves, shaking his arms out. The left was empty. An aquamarine bracelet fell out of the right.

    “Satisfied?”

    “Pockets.”

    “You don’t trust me? After all we’ve been through?”

    He saw Clara pull the trigger and jumped. Thankfully, it seemed safety had been on.

    Clara flicked it off while he watched. “That was your warning. Pockets.”

    Oscar smirked. He upturned all four pockets in his jacket and pants to show Clara they were empty.

    “Are we done now?”

    “What did you want to tell me?”

    There. They were finished.

    “I don’t know…maybe I could share this very useful info if you promised me a little treat,” Oscar hummed. “You could at least let me keep the bracelet, couldn’t you?”

    “I could shoot you between the eyes,” Clara responded coolly.

    Oscar sucked in through his teeth. “Ouch. You wound me, Clair. Right in the cavity where my heart would be if I had one.”

    “I’m getting bored, Oz.”

    “You’re being investigated.”

    Clara rolled her eyes. “I know that already. That’s why I asked you to confirm my alibi.”

    “And I did! Forged ledger and everything,” Oscar assured, hand over his heart. “It worked for the buttons. Less so for the gumshoe that followed up afterwards.”

    Clara was surprised; he could see it in the widening of her eyes and knitting together of her brows.

    That was a rare expression. Oscar logged it in his memory just for fun.

    “The name ‘Scott Doyle’ ring any bells?” Oscar asked.

    Clara frowned. “...He was the detective who questioned me at the scene. I told him what I told you.”

    “And I told him what you told me. But he didn’t seem completely sold. Said he wasn’t with the force. I think he’s doing all this on his own.”

    Clara’s frown twisted into a scowl. She sighed, finally lowering her pistol. Oscar felt himself relax.

    “Does he not believe you?” Clara asked. “I thought you were a good liar.”

    “I am, cookie,” Oscar assured. “The best, even! You can blame sweet little Sammy Harris for this one.”

    Clara’s lips twitched. Oscar couldn’t tell if they were fighting to frown deeper or smile.

    “He always has something to say about me,” she muttered. “It’s almost as if he’s obsessed with me. What did I ever do to him, I wonder…?”

    “I dunno, spat in the face of his morals?” Oscar guessed teasingly. “He pointed the gumshoe at one of your regulars. Souse was too hammered to give him much, but now he knows you’ve been dancing the devil’s tango with a few lucky guys.”

    “What, is he going to lock me away for adultery?” Clara asked.

    “Who knows? Maybe he’s just switching gears. Wondering if you mighta charmed some poor fella into doing your dirty work.” Oscar shrugged. “He didn’t say! Not loud enough for me to hear, at least. But I’ll keep my ears open and see if Sammy might have an idea on where he’s directing his attention. Just thought you might like to know you ain’t out of the woods yet.”

    Clara pursed her lips, flicking the safety back on her pistol and stowing it in her holster. “...Can you get closer to the detective? See if you can steer him away from me, perhaps.”

    “Sure I can, for the right price,” Oscar replied.

    Clara huffed. She stared at him for a moment, her head tilting to the side inquisitively, then strode across the room to stand just in front of him. Their eyes met; she gently took Oscar’s face in her hands, her fingers touching the bottom of his goggles.

    “Seems a bit unfair for only one of us to see,” she murmured.

    Oscar smiled warmly, laying his right hand over hers. “You seem to have found me just fine, darling.”

    Clara smiled slightly, and for once Oscar felt it may have been genuine. She pushed his goggles up off of his face, then leaned in for a kiss.

    Well, it wasn’t anything with monetary value, but Oscar wasn’t about to turn down a chance to kiss his favorite broad. He leaned into the kiss for as long as Clara remained, holding her against his chest.

    She withdrew slightly after a minute. “...And is that enough payment?”

    “...You know I can’t say no to you,” Oscar murmured, chuckling. “Alright, fine. Since you asked so nicely, I’ll keep an eye on the gumshoe for you. But next time I break into your home, consider leaving out a gift basket as thanks for my extremely useful information.”

    “I’ll think about it.” Clara pulled his goggles back down and Oscar was disappointed to see her expression had faded back to its usual neutral. “You should leave before someone notices you’re here.”

    “The great Clara Bates, worried about little old me?” Oscar teased. “I’m flattered. I guess you still love me after all.”

    “Who said I ever stopped?” Clara replied simply.

    Oscar was glad Clara couldn’t make out the details of his expression. He would hate for her to catch him blushing over such an obvious ploy to keep him wrapped around her finger.

    Still, it was sort of nice having someone in this corrupt world that knew him. He had initially only infiltrated the Gambino family to secretly steal money and valuables and abscond in the middle of the night, but leaving Clara behind had been unexpectedly difficult.

    He wondered if anyone else knew her. It was sort of…special, to think he was the only person she had opened up to about the special kind of hell Nathaniel had trapped her in. Did anyone else know how much she’d despised being locked up in this opulent manor? How much she hated being used only to help take out Nathaniel’s enemies with little thought as to how much that kind of life would break her? How much she longed for something, anything, to break her out of the humdrum of her day-to-day life while she was kept on a shelf under Nathaniel’s watchful eye?

    “...I’m glad he’s gone now,” Oscar whispered sincerely. “You’re free, little bird.”

    Clara’s eyes flickered.

    “Free as I can be,” she sighed, stepping back. “...I just have to wait for all of this to settle down so I can finally get control. Stanley should be easy enough to convince. I think he’d rather spend his days working on that story of his than running the mob, anyway.”

    “Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you.” Oscar squeezed her hand once as he backed towards the balcony. “...I won’t keep you. And maybe next time, I’ll consider visiting during the day and using the door like a normal person.”

    “Or you could use the window and expect to stay the night,” Clara responded, in her usual nonplussed tone. At first, Oscar couldn’t tell if she was serious or just trying to get a reaction from him, but the way her eyes lingered on him as he pulled the curtains open and slipped out the balcony door convinced him it was the former.

    “We’ll see,” he said cryptically, stepping back against the banister. Clara watched him, curious; he smirked, fidgeting with his left palm. “...One more thing, Clair. Next time you want to search me for stolen goods, you might want to check the gloves.”

    Clara’s eyes widened slightly as her discarded wedding ring slipped out of his left glove and settled on his pinky. He lifted his goggles just enough to wink at her, kicking the rope of his grappling hook over the balcony’s edge again. As Clara scrambled to get her pistol from the holster on her leg, Oscar laughed lightly, leaning backwards and flipping over the waist-high fence. He caught the rope as he fell, gripping it tight to slow his descent to the ground below. A flick of the rope jostled the hook from the fence, and Oscar caught it from the air before ducking behind a nearby pillar again.

    The patrol passed harmlessly. Clara raced to the balcony, searching for where Oscar might have gone, but the moon wasn’t bright enough for her to make out his shape. Oscar waited until she gave up and returned inside to sneak back to the biggest blind spot of the patrols so he could scale the fence again.

    He didn’t slow until he was safely outside the property line of the Gambino Manor. So today’s haul had only been a single diamond ring, but at least it was a gaudy one. Perhaps he could sneak off with the necklace next time if he successfully diverted the prying eyes of the detective away from her.

    And knowing he still had a hold on Clara’s heart was a decent consolation prize.

Chapter 5: Halfway Shrouded In A Fabricated Mist [Rookie Cop]

    What an exciting first major case. Henry Allen had been waiting for a chance to prove his worth to the sergeants of the force, and if he cracked the case of Clara Gambino’s missing wedding ring, he would shoot up the ranks right away!

    “Can I get you anything, officer?” Clara asked behind him, as he looked around her jewelry case for any sort of clue as to who had broken in.

    “Oh, no, thank you!” Henry exclaimed. “I’ll let you know if I have any questions. You said it happened overnight?”

    “It must have. I put it away before I went to sleep, and when I woke up, it was gone,” Clara said. “That ring is the last memory I have of my late husband. I would like it returned to me.”

    “Of course, ma’am,” Henry said. “I’ll make sure it finds its way back.”

    The other officers were out checking the grounds and the doors on the first floor. Initially, Henry was meant to follow his senior officers around the patio, but he had begged for a chance to check where the ring had been taken from. There had to be something he could use here, right? Some manner of clue as to how the thief had managed to sneak the ring away.

    If only Clara didn’t smoke so much. She was on her second cigar already, and the smoke was beginning to build. It stung Henry’s eyes, making it harder to see what he was doing.

    “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Gambino,” he said sincerely as he crouched down to check indents in the rug. “Of your husband, I mean. And your ring. Both losses.”

    Oh, he was doing terribly at carrying a conversation. Clara was intimidatingly beautiful, a certain danger in her eyes and an allure about her that made her impossible to ignore. It was like her very presence made it harder to function.

    He risked checking over his shoulder to see if his condolences had seemed sincere, and was quick to realize she had gotten closer. It was hard not to notice when he was now at eye level with the lace garter on her bare thigh.

    Henry cleared his throat, quickly looking up at Clara’s face. He didn’t want her to think he was ogling the poor widow. What kind of man would do that? Certainly not a man like Henry. A chance to meet with Clara had only been a small motivator for his desire to check the crime scene.

    She was staring at him over her nose, a small, amused smile on her face. Clara looked at Henry like he was a misbehaving puppy she couldn’t help but find cute; it was patronizing, but oddly sweet, too.

    “Thank you for your kind words, officer…?”

    Henry realized she was asking his name after a second of staring. “A-Allen, ma’am! Henry Allen.”

    “Henry,” Clara settled on. Sufficiently embarrassed, Henry looked back at the rug, trying to ignore the honey-sweet way she’d said his name. “Thank you, Officer Henry. The other men on the force have been so distant with me. It’s nice to know some of you still care about doing the right thing.”

    “Of course,” Henry insisted. “That’s why I joined the police! I want to do the right thing. I want to help people.”

    “...A noble goal,” Clara murmured, and something about the way she said that felt…bitter. Like she didn’t actually believe the words she said.

    Henry quietly combed through the fibers of the rug with his fingers, curious. Just as he was standing, satisfied with his search, someone new entered the room.

    “Miss Clara, someone is here to see you,” a voice announced.

    “Oh…?” Clara murmured. “Alright. Please excuse me, Officer Henry.”

    “Of course!” Henry nodded to her, eyes drifting towards the balcony. For some reason, he felt like it held a clue to their investigation. “If you don’t mind, I’ll check the balcony and then join the others.”

    “Feel free,” Clara assured. Henry heard the click of her heels as she followed the soldier out of the room.

    He waited a moment before walking out to the balcony. It was a pretty, marble embellishment, the smooth stone also making up the fence and banister. At first glance, everything looked normal…but then Henry noticed the specks of mud left on the marble floor.

    They were spread around widely, not quite in the shape of a footprint but close enough to one that Henry could tell they weren’t left by Clara. Frowning, he crouched down to pinch a clump of mud in his fingers, trying to identify where the dirt was from. It was dirt. Probably tracked in from the grounds of the mansion.

    Next, Henry tried checking the banister, running his hand over the stone. Everything looked normal, no signs of…wait.

    A scratch. A tiny one, but a scratch nonetheless. As if something sharp had dug into the marble and scraped it on the way off. What kind of tool could have led to something like this? Any sort of blade would have left some other evidence, right?

    Maybe one of the other officers would have an idea. Henry logged the appearance of the scratch in his mind and went back into the room, locking the balcony door as he left. It felt like he had found the point of entry, but it would be difficult to prove without more clues. He needed support.

    Leaving the bedroom behind, Henry jogged towards the front door to meet up with his senior officers. Would this be enough to get him some more important cases? Had he done well? Was this useful infor--

    “You took over?!”

    Henry skidded to a stop as he passed an ornate wooden door. The voice wasn’t one he recognized; it sounded scratchy, frantic, as if the speaker was always moments from panic.

    …Who took over what?

    Curiosity drove him to the door. He pressed his ear into the wood, listening carefully.

    “...really prefer if this was all kept under wraps,” a familiar voice sighed. Was that Clara? “Now that that is established. What business do the Russos have with me?”

     The Russos? Was this a meeting between mob families? Why was Clara the one holding it? Hadn’t control of the family gone to Nathaniel’s brother Stanley?

    “I…” The other voice trailed off, then cleared his throat. “...R-right. Okay. Of course. Charlie just…wanted to make sure you knew that he had nothing to do with your husband’s death.”

    Clara was silent. So the Russos hadn’t taken out Nathaniel Gambino. Unless this was a lie they told to protect themselves.

    “...Is…a-are we in trouble?” the other voice asked meekly. “Please, I don’t--I have very little to do with all of this, so…”

    “You aren’t in trouble,” Clara assured soothingly. “...I think I’ll let you go home. I would like for you to take a message back to little Charlie.”

    Henry pressed his cheek even further into the wood, trying to keep his breathing as silent as possible so he could make out every word.

    “...O…okay,” the other voice replied.

    The click of Clara’s heels. Her voice was quieter; Henry strained to hear every word.

    “Tell Charlie Russo that I know he and his goons didn’t kill my husband,” Clara said smoothly. “Because I did.”

    Henry’s eyes widened.

     Clara Gambino killed her husband?

    The other voice was silent. Clara’s heels clicked against the floor again.

    “...Oh my God,” the other voice uttered shakily. “You. It was all you.”

     Clara Gambino killed her husband.

    Henry almost couldn’t hear what was happening behind the door with how loud his heartbeat had gotten. She had killed Nathaniel? How? Why? Was she in charge of the Gambino family now? What had she done to convince Stanley Gambino to allow that?

    “And I have no plans on stopping should anyone push me too far.” Clara’s voice sounded different now. Closer.

     Closer. Closer. Closer.

    Henry jolted away from the door just as it swung open.

    “...I’m sure we will…” Clara’s eyes landed on Henry as she stepped out of the room, widening slightly. Henry froze, a million options racing through his head at once. “...Oh. Officer.”

    The man in the room behind her went pale. His eyes practically screamed for Henry to run.

    Clara sighed in disappointment, all emotion dropping from her face. Her eyes were freezing as she lifted a pistol Henry hadn’t noticed in her left hand. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

     RUN.

    So Henry did. He took off down the hallway in a panic, fleeing from Clara’s dead eyes and that pistol he knew once took down a mob boss. Nearly tripping down the staircase, he caught himself at the last second on the handrail, skidding down a few steps. Behind him, a woman screamed ; several soldiers and officers beelined for the sound, a few of them bumping against Henry as he fled the house.

    She was going to kill him. She was going to kill him, and she had an entire mafia under her command to carry it out. She’d screamed, she was going to pin something awful on him, he knew too much and now he couldn’t be allowed to live.

    Where could he go? If he told the rest of the department the truth, they would believe him, wouldn’t they? Or would they sweep the whole thing under the rug like they had with Nathaniel’s murder?

    They knew already, didn’t they? The officers who had taken on the case already knew Clara was a murderess and they didn’t care. That’s why they’d taken that private detective off the case; he was digging too deep.

    He had to run. He had to get as far from all of this as he possibly could. He couldn’t go to the other officers, they were going to be looking for him…

    Henry wasn’t entirely sure where his feet were carrying him until he was already there. Thank God for Scott Doyle’s conspicuous advertising; the location of his office had subconsciously imprinted itself in Henry’s brain.

    He threw the door open and raced inside, panting with exhaustion. The girl who worked the desk looked up from a magazine, raising an eyebrow.

    “Can I help you?” she asked.

    Henry took a moment to catch his breath, his lungs and legs aching. “Need… Detective…Doyle …”

    The receptionist frowned at him. “...He’s busy right now.”

    “Please!” Henry begged, wheezing.

    The receptionist scowled. “I can’t make him stop being busy. You can wait.”

    The door behind her swung open. Detective Scott Doyle emerged, a pipe between his lips and expression curious. “What’s with the ruckus?”

    “Someone wants to see you,” the receptionist said. “I told him you’re busy.”

    Scott examined Henry carefully, his eyes visibly lingering on the crooked badge on Henry’s uniform. He frowned. “...I thought you boys fired me.”

    “I need your help,” Henry blurted. “I--I’m sorry, I don’t know where else to turn, I’m in big trouble…”

    Scott’s eyes softened. He stared a moment longer…then sighed, gesturing for Henry to follow him. “Come into my office. Tell me what happened.”

    Henry heaved a sigh, relieved, and hurried after Scott into the room behind the desk. Scott leaned against the wall next to the open window, puffing a cloud of smoke outside before he closed it. 

    “...Okay. What’s got you so worked up, kid?” he asked.

    Henry wasn’t even sure where to start. The words tumbled out: “Clara--I wasn’t supposed to hear her, I never should have stayed so long, and she--she wants me dead, but I ran and she screamed--they’re all going to think I did something but I would never--”

    “Breathe, boy,” Scott interrupted. “Start from the beginning. What happened?”

    “R…right…” Henry took a few controlled, deep breaths, waiting until his heart had stopped racing quite as fast to speak again. “I--I overheard Clara Gambino confess to killing her husband. She’s in charge now, she said. I wasn’t supposed to hear it, she caught me and now she knows I know too much, and she was gonna shoot me so I ran…and she screamed, screamed like I’d just done somethin’ awful to her and that’s why I ran, and I just got this gut feeling she’s gonna turn the whole force against me, and I didn’t know where else to go but I know where your office is because I walk by it on my way to work every morning, and…and…”

    “Keep breathing,” Scott instructed, his eyes hard. He cracked the window open just enough to let another puff of smoke out, then put his pipe aside and shut the window tight. “...I knew it. I knew there was something about that broad that didn’t line up. I hate to tell you this, kid, but I think your boys are in on it.”

    “They knew,” Henry agreed breathlessly, taking a moment to breathe deeply again. He began pacing the office, nervous. “I--I don’t know what I’m gonna do, Detective. I don’t even know why I came, I just thought maybe you can help me…”

    “I’m gonna help you, kid,” Scott assured. “It’s okay. …What’s your name?”

    “H-Henry, sir. Henry Allen.”

    “Henry.” Scott offered a handshake. “Just call me Scott. I’m on your side, but if we’re gonna make it out of this mess, we gotta work together. Okay? Can I count on your help?”

    Henry took one more deep breath, nodding. He took Scott’s hand, gripping it firmly. “...Yeah. Okay. You can count on me, sir.”

    “Good.” Scott smiled reassuringly, releasing Henry and picking his notebook up off the desk. “Did you happen to notice who she was meeting with?”

    “Someone from the Russo family. I didn’t recognize his face.”

    “May be one of the higher ranks who doesn’t get his hands dirty,” Scott muttered, writing in his book. “Or someone who owes them a favor. Why were they meeting?”

    “The Russos wanted the Gambinos to know they hadn’t shot Nathaniel. Th-that was when Clara confirmed she did.”

    Scott nodded slowly. “...Cops aren’t gonna help us, Henry. We’re gonna have to dismantle this whole thing ourselves.”

    Henry hesitated. “...You don’t mean you intend to completely take down the mafia, do you, sir…?”

    “Sure I do.” Scott finished writing and set his notebook down again. “Those lowlifes have been getting away with running the underbelly for too long. Someone’s got to restore justice in this damn town. Looks like it’s gotta be us.”

    Henry hesitated. Of course he wanted to eliminate the mob and clean up the streets as much as Scott did--that was why he joined the police, after all--but was such a thing even possible? Was Clara right to have been so bitter about his goal?

    …He couldn’t give up before they even tried. That wasn’t in Henry’s nature. If Scott thought they could dismantle the mob, he was willing to try.

    “You shouldn’t go home yet,” Scott said suddenly. “I’ve got a place off the maps that no one else knows about. You can stay there with me while we wait for this to blow over.”

    Henry smiled slightly, admittedly relieved. He felt much safer staying with Scott instead of living alone in his very public apartment. 

    “...I may know some friends on the force who will help us,” he said. “Or, well…a friend on the force, and a friend who…is no longer with the force. B-but that just means he’s more likely to help, probably! He hates the mob too.”

    “...‘Broken’ Benny Brown,” Scott guessed. “You knew him?”

    Henry blinked. “Oh…! Yeah, he, uh…he was one of my mentors on the force when I first joined. Before he…y’know, got broken. You know him?”

    “I know of him. I read the paper,” Scott said. “He got arrested, didn’t he? His trial made the front page.”

    “Yeah…” Henry shifted, frowning. “...He’s a good man. He didn’t deserve any of this.”

    “You won’t be able to talk to him in the prison now that they’re after you,” Scott muttered. “But I definitely think we’ll want him on our side. Which means we’re gonna have to get creative. Can you contact your friend still on the force without getting caught?”

    “So she can talk to Benny for us?” Henry guessed.

    “Sort of,” Scott said.

    “I…I know her landline number,” Henry admitted. “I can probably contact her that way. Why…?”

    “We’re gonna need help on the inside to pull this off,” Scott said.

    Henry had a sinking feeling he knew what Scott was hinting at before he even said it. Just to be sure, he repeated, “Why?”

    Scott smirked, picking up his pipe again. “We’re gonna do a jailbreak.”

Chapter 6: Trails Of Smoke Into The Night [Mob Doctor]

    Peter slammed the door to Charlie’s home shut, trembling. He leaned back against the wall, clutching his heart through his shirt. That was too close. Clara could have slaughtered him at the slightest provocation. Who knows what could have happened if that cop hadn’t interrupted? 

    What happened to that cop, anyway? Did he recognize Peter? Would he recognize Peter if they met again? Would he take Peter into the big house for questioning, or release him as thanks for silently cuing him to run?

    “Doc?” Charlie called, his worried expression appearing at the top of the stairs. He hurried down to meet Peter, taking one of his hands with the one that didn't hold his cane. “Hey, what’s going on with you? What happened?”

     Safe. Something about Charlie’s concerned brown eyes made Peter’s heart slow; he pulled his employer into a tight hug, taking deep breaths to calm himself down.

    Charlie hesitated, leaning his cane against the wall before hugging Peter back. “...Okay, what went wrong? And where’s Stevie?”

    Peter waited until he was sure he could speak without stammering to respond. “...Steven is at the Gambino house. I told him not to go in there and he didn’t listen to me. He never listens to me…!”

    “Why?” Charlie asked gravely.

    “Clara,” Peter blurted. “C-Clara’s in charge now. Clara killed Nathaniel. Clara’s behind all of it.”

    He felt Charlie’s arms tighten around him, his whole body going stiff.

    “...Shit,” Charlie whispered. “Shit, shit, shit! What the hell was he thinking?! Wait--okay, how did you find that out? Did she hurt you?! Are you okay?!”

    “I--I-I’m okay,” Peter assured, suddenly feeling guilty about how much he had been panicking. It wasn’t like Clara had outright threatened him. “She told me. I-I met with her, not Stan. She told me she’d shot Nathaniel and she sent me to tell you she won’t hesitate to do it…again…”

    He hadn’t even finished speaking before Charlie had released him to race for the phone, abandoning his cane by the door. Hissing profanities, Charlie frantically spun the rotary dial, holding the earpiece against his face. Wanting to try and thank him for his comfort, Peter shuffled closer, absently rubbing Charlie’s back.

    Charlie was shaking too, now. Wincing, Peter gently took his free hand.

    The phone rang for what must have felt like hours. Peter knew the other line answered when Charlie straightened up, eyes hard.

    “Where the fuck’s Stevie, Stan?!” he demanded. “You lay a single fuckin’ finger on that bastard and I swear to God, I will not let your people rest until they sit in a grave!”

    Peter jumped. Was outright declaring war on the other major family really a good idea? “Ch-Charlie, you’re going to make him angry!”

    Charlie squeezed his hand, visibly fighting to keep composure. It didn’t last. “Like hell you dunno! I know the bitch is runnin’ the place now, but I am not a fuckin’ idiot, Stanley! You know what goes down in that fuckin’ house! Send Stevie home in one piece or there’s gonna be consequences !”

    Peter frantically shook his arm. “Charlie! Language!”

    Charlie shook his arm free, pacing in a circle around the phone with the slightest limp. “Well, find out, dammit! I’m not gonna repeat myself, Stanley! That boy don’t get home by morning, your whole fuckin’ family is toast!”

    “He doesn’t mean that!” Peter tried to yell, desperate not to escalate the situation to full-blown war just yet. “H-he’s just emotional!”

    “Oh, I’m emotional if the emotion is rage!” Charlie confirmed with a laugh. “I will come get him myself if you make me! And you do not want me marchin’ on your pretty little hilltop mansion, Stanley, I will not leave it so pretty!”

    Peter hissed in his ear, trying to get the phone out of his hand. “Are you insane?! Are you a lunatic?! You’re going to get us all killed!”

    “Everything will be sunshine and daisies so long as my boy gets home!” Charlie corrected. “Your job is just to make sure that happens! We clear, Gambino?!”

    Peter could just barely make out the exasperated responses of the man on the other line as he wrapped both arms around Charlie, trying his best to shove the earpiece away from his face.

    “Great! We’ll talk tomorrow!” Charlie slammed the earpiece back onto the phone, burying his face in his hands. "Like hell he ‘doesn’t know…’”

    “Are you mad?!” Peter cried, shaking Charlie’s shoulders. “You just essentially declared war on the other major crime family! You think they’re going to let that slide?! You called Clara Gambino a bitch!”

    Charlie scoffed. “He knows he’s fine! So long as they don’t mess with Stevie!”

    “Steven’s going to mess with them! Of course they’re going to defend themselves!” Peter finally left Charlie’s side to pace around the room, groaning. “Y-you’re going to get me killed!”

    “Oh, relax, you’ll be fine! You’re not even involved in all this!” Charlie insisted.

    “I slept in your fucking bed last night, genius! I’m officially involved!”

    “They don’t know that!” Charlie soothed. “They just know you were our representative!”

    “And now they probably know I told you Steven stormed inside! Oh, God, I’m a rat!” Peter realized. He began pacing even faster, burying his fingers in his scalp and tugging at his hair. “W-what am I going to do, Charlie…?! They’re going to kill me! Worse than kill me! Clara’s going to storm this place with a gun and take me alive so she can torture more information out of me, and that's if she doesn't send Rachel Sharpe my way! I’m screwed, Charlie!”

    “Pete, just…oi, Doc!” Charlie grabbed Peter’s hands and pulled them from his hair, frowning. “Breathe, okay?”

    Peter shook his head, feeling his chest heave faster. Maybe Charlie had been right and he just hadn’t been around this business long enough. Maybe everything really would be fine and there wouldn’t be any lasting consequences for directly threatening the previous boss’s brother. And maybe his panic was entirely justified and they were days away from a hail of bullets tearing his new sanctuary to shreds.

    “...Peter,” Charlie said, so softly Peter briefly doubted it was even him. “Listen to me. I am not lettin’ you get hurt in all this. I promise, okay? But I can’t let those bastards think there won’t be consequences for messin’ with my boys. That includes you.”

    Knowing that Charlie would charge into a gunfight for him, too, was…oddly comforting. Peter felt his face warming as he squeezed Charlie’s hands, taking deep breaths to calm himself down.

    “There you are, Doc,” Charlie murmured, gently rubbing Peter’s hands with his thumbs. “I’m not lettin’ anything happen to you. You’re safe here. Just stick with me and everything’ll be alright. And…and hopefully Stevie’s alright, too.”

    Peter sighed shakily, leaning into Charlie’s shoulder and slowly wrapping his arms around him. Charlie hugged him back, murmuring reassurances into his temple.

    “...I’m sorry,” Peter finally muttered. “That…Steven stormed in. That I couldn’t stop him.”

    Charlie chuckled. “No one can stop that asshole once he decides to do something. Stubborn bastard…”

    He paused. “You don’t gotta be sorry. You’re okay. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

    “...We’re okay,” Peter repeated quietly. “You’re okay.”

    “I’m okay.” Charlie withdrew enough to flash Peter a crooked, dazzling smile. He kissed Peter’s cheek, pulling him towards the stairs. “This is a hell of a lot better than the last time someone was after us. If I survived Rachel Sharpe, Stevie can survive Clara Gambino. He’s tougher than I am.”

    Ignoring the heat in his face, Peter squeezed Charlie’s hand. “...I-I dare say you’re a lot tougher than you think.”

    “I got the best doc in town keepin’ tabs on me,” Charlie said cheerfully. “You hungry, Doc? I was just havin’ lunch. …Thanks for comin’ home safe. I’ll…yell at Stevie when he gets home.”

    “I’ll yell with you,” Peter muttered. “...I-I am rather hungry.”

    Steven would come home. He had to come home. He would waltz right through the front door any second now like nothing was wrong.

    He had to, because Peter wasn’t sure he could keep Charlie safe by himself. And at that moment, there was nothing else he wanted more.