#mw-no.1

“What do I keep you around for, Beck?”

“To deliver messages and packages inside the Town Hall.” Beck swallowed nervously. Getting called in to speak with Pat in the back of the deli was never a good sign—they called him Pat the Butcher for a reason, after all.

“These messages, are they secret?”

“They are.”

Pat was a heavyset older man, thick black mustache bristling over thicker lips. His face boasted more hair than his head, which he had taken to shaving completely once it had gone from slightly balding to patchy at best. He nodded, and Beck could see the glint behind his dark and wily gaze. He was toying with a revolver as he talked, polishing it with a handkerchief.

“So you’re a secret messenger.”

Beck nodded.

“Tell me, Beck, what’s the point of a secret messenger who can’t keep a secret?”

The temperature in the room must have plummeted, as a shiver ran down Beck’s spine.

“Tony, James, all of you come in.”

A crowd of large men, each one taller and thicker than the previous, filed into the back of the store. Beck spotted Simon among them—his wiry frame and wavy black hair draped around his face set him apart from the crowd. He looked like he’d be right at home with a group of hippies out west, not in the middle of a crowd of the city’s most dangerous mobsters. And yet, this was almost more Simon’s world than Beck’s.

They avoided each other’s gazes.

“Well, Beck? Why keep you if you can’t keep secrets? That short angry lady who works for the DA, Clarisse, she knew some things she shouldn’t about Mad Dog.” The very same Mad Dog, otherwise known as State Representative Stewart Atlas, crossed his muscled arms in the throng.

“Boss, you know I’d never spill to Clarisse, or anyone. I’m as loyal to you as anyone, you know that.” Beck tried to keep his voice even—he ignored the sweat beading at the edge of his hairline.

“I want to think so, son, but Mad Dog coulda been in hot water because a secret I entrusted to you got out. I can’t ignore that.”

He hung his head, unable to meet the boss’s heavy stare.

“I’ll make it as fair as I can, since you’ve been so loyal before.”

Pat lifted the revolver he’d been holding. He opened it, showing the bullet settled in the chamber—only one. Slamming it shut, he spun, dizzyingly fast. Beck had no chance of knowing which chamber it was in, none at all. The older man held it, grip out, towards him. As Beck took it, Pat turned to address the other men.

“Young Beck here has always done good work for us, but a leak happened, and it can only be traced to him. To prove his loyalty, he’s going to do a task for me right now,” he announced. Turning back to Beck, he continued, “Son, you know the rules for Russian Roulette. One bullet, six chambers, gun to the temple. You squeeze five times, and if you live through all five, consider your record clean. If not, well, you know what that means.”

Over Pat’s shoulder, he could see Simon’s eyes flashing with anger. The tiniest shake of the head was all the rebuke he could give, all he could do to keep Simon quiet. Then he locked eyes with his boss, raised then gun to his temple, nodded once, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Beck flinched involuntarily. Despite the casual way he started, his heart thudded a little too heavily in his chest. That bead of sweat slid slowly down past his eyebrow, and a new one gathered in its place.

He closed his eyes for this one, sucked in a breath, and squeezed again.

Click.

Two down, he counted to himself. He was still alive, still feeling his legs start to go cold as the panic well and truly set in. Lying, espionage, sneaking around, that he could do. That he was good at. Gun to the head with confidence? That was more for the people watching him, people who did the dirty work for Pat.

His boss raised a brow—he needed to get on with it. Beck raised the weapon to his temple once again, resting the cold metal against his head. A lump gathered in his throat, and he pulled.

Click.

He sighed, silently, when he heard the sound. He took a second to steady himself—his knees were locked, whole body tense. Halfway, he was halfway through. Only two more chambers. He could make it.

His fingers were shaking as he lifted the gun to his head again. He screwed his eyes shut, stiffened his hand as much as possible, and squeezed.

Click.

His shoulders sagged. Breath coming in short gasps, sweat making slithering trails down the slopes of his face, it was obvious that Beck was scared.

He gulped, searching for the courage to lift the gun one more time. Instead, he met Simon’s sharp and worried eyes, trained on him, tracing him up and down. The black-haired man set his jaw, muscle jumping, and Beck frowned. Simon wanted to intercede—Beck needed him to hold back.

He raised the gun, fast, but not faster than Simon.

“Stop.”

Beck’s knees almost gave out in relief, but his furrowed brows never betrayed that secret.

Pat turned, eyes rolling beneath his fleshy lids, and faced his nephew.

“Simon, we’re in the middle of something.”

“Uncle, he’s already pulled four times, and you know he’s the most loyal messenger you’ve got. Just be done with it.” Simon’s voice was confident and smooth, the words of a man who grew up with this, who could talk his way out of a paper bag without touching the sides. Bending men like his uncle to his will was his specialty, and he was laying it on pretty thick. “Come on, how are you gonna get another in at the Mayor’s office? We were lucky Beck was so willing to sign on. Like that Bertinessi gig? That would’ve gone to hell if he hadn’t been involved. Or the Walker sting? If you kill him, it’s your loss. Think about the big picture.”

Unless you knew Simon really well (which Beck did), you’d never know he was nervous. Ending too many sentences as questions, that little flick of the chin he made at the end—he was just as scared, even if the gun wasn’t chilly in his palm or hard against his skull.

“You think I should just end it.”

“Yeah, if you care about the future of our business, you should.” No one else could talk to Pat like that, but coming from Simon, it was just within the limits of allowance.

“Fine.” He swung back around to Beck, frowning. “You’d better not let anything else slip or it’ll be six full chambers, son. Gimme the gun.”

Pat held out a meaty fist, and Beck deposited it carefully. He also nodded, calmly, with lots of eye contact, going the extra mile to show how grateful he was, how much he appreciated having his life spared.

He stepped back and watched Pat stand. The large man turned and left the room, the crowd parting for him like some criminal Moses’ Red Sea. The assembled men filed out, one after another, and one of them clapped a hand on Simon’s shoulder, guiding him out.

Beck turned instead to the back door, preferring to have a moment alone over a walk down the block with the guys. The hinges screeched as he forced them open, and again as they swung closed, but he still heard the snick of the door locking automatically behind him.

He leaned against the brick wall of the alley and sighed, tipping his head back. His breath billowed up in the crisply cool air and the sweat that had slithered across his body chilled on his skin. His cheeks, by contrast, felt feverish, blood rushing up to his face.

He almost died tonight.

He could have died right there.

And he didn’t.

Had the bullet been in chamber five or chamber six? Would Pat regret it all if he had died? Did the stunt Simon pulled put him in bad graces that would get him killed later?

Beck ran a hand through his limp curls, then grabbed one blonde lock at the back of his head. He tugged on it, hard enough to sting, then relaxed, then tugged. The rhythmic pulling was a tempo to breathe to, to think to, and after a minute, his hand slid away and he wasn’t shaking quite as hard and he could take hold of a thought in his brain to properly consider it.

Simon should have kept his mouth shut, because now Pat would have a close eye on them both. He put both of them in more danger.

The saying goes that if you speak of the devil, he appears. The same is often said of Simon Alexander. As soon as he crossed Beck’s mind, he turned the corner into the alley.

“Beck. Thought you’d be here.”

Simon’s voice came out as casual as always, and he walked with easy confidence, but his eyes gave him away. He looked Beck up and down, scanning, trying to read him—was Beck alright, or did Simon need to do something more?

Beck worked his tongue between his teeth, avoiding Simon gaze and question. His face was once more getting hot, though not with fear this time.

“Beck?”

“That was stupid.”

“Beck, that’s not fair. You could have—”

“The spilled secret was on me. Someone leaked it after I passed it along, that’s on me, and I needed to take the punishment due me. You interrupted, and now everyone will lose respect for me, and Pat will be keeping a much closer eye on us, so that means we’re totally fucked.”

“You could have died, Beck. Did you think I’d just stand and watch?”

“I had hoped you’d respect my wishes.”

“How was I supposed to know what—”

“You knew exactly what I wanted. Don’t play dumb, Simon, it really doesn’t suit you.”

Beck was facing Simon now, arms crossed over his chest, brows drawn together. The black-haired man was glaring right back, indignant, arms swung wide—Simon always talked with his hands when he got upset.

“I’m not apologizing for saving your life, Beck.”

“You don’t even know you did. What if it the bullet was in—”

“It was in the fifth. There’s a scratch on Uncle Pat’s revolver on the side of one of the chambers, which is the one he slotted the bullet into. After he spun it, the scratched chamber was number five.” Simon paused, letting the words hang between them. “If you had pulled the trigger again, you’d be dead.”

Beck felt the tips of his ears get hot, and tears prick against his eyelashes. He blinked them back and instead regarded Simon. Was he telling the truth or just covering his tracks?

The slight frown, head tilt, finger playing with a heavy gold ring on his finger—Simon’s body betrayed the honesty you could never quite trust his mouth for. That fifth chamber really held the end of Beck’s life, and Simon saved him.

Simon weighed the consequences, chose careful words, put himself right in the path of his uncle’s frustration, and that was the only reason Beck still had brains inside his skull and air in his lungs.

He couldn’t blink away the tears anymore.

They slid, one and another, down the curve of his cheek, as he chewed his lip and looked anywhere but at Simon. He wouldn’t let himself make sounds—the crying was bad enough, no need to escalate it any further than that.

He didn’t need to, as it turns out, because a warm hand settled on his shoulder, and he melted into the touch. Simon’s arms slid around him, pulling him close against a cologne-scented chest. Fingers rubbed up and down on his back, grounding him, holding him together. Beck was so grateful for the opportunity to cry over Simon’s shoulder, unseen, that he made no comment about how hard Simon was trembling.

“I wouldn’t let him kill you, Beck. I wouldn’t let him hurt you, not now and not ever. You’re mine, and you’re safe with me.”

“I know, babe.”

Beck pulled back, looked up at Simon’s somber face, and kissed him. Their bodies were tense, alert. If anyone saw them kissing—

For @amonthofwhump 's Mafia Week! Warnings: gun use, death

Click. 

Click. 

….Click. 

Tsk. Lucky today, aren't you. 

Lucky. 

The gun is heavy in their hand, its metal chilled against their skin. The bullet in their fingers is heavier. 

Esme's father watches from the side. His gaze is heaviest. 

The man sitting in the spindly chair, wrists cuffed to its back, sweat beading across his brow and soaking the neck of his shirt - his terrified gaze doesn't rest on them with any weight at all. Distantly, in a corner of their mind they rarely visit any more, they know his face should stick with them, should haunt their sleep in the months to come, but even as they look at him, they can't seem to commit his features to memory. He's already dead. Their future will be affected by the living, not by this man who thought he could count on state's justice, on law to protect him. 

They let the revolver magazine fall open and rotate the bullet in their grip, showing the man the letters tooled into the casing. 

Ben T. 

The man pales, jerking his wrists ineffectively in the cuffs. 

"I'm gonna miss your trims, Benny," Armani says, leaning conversationally on the back of the chair he straddles. "Really thought we had something special going, you know? Haven't I always treated you well?"

"Mr. D'Angelo, please," the man - Ben, Benny, Benjamin Tagliano - begs. "Please, it wasn't me, I know better-" 

The D'Angelo patriarch's raised hand cuts him off abruptly. "Don't insult us both by trying to fool me, Benny, I've got too much respect for you to end our friendship on a note like that." Another directing nod, and the bullet drops into its chamber. The revolver magazine spins, then clicks into place, and the cuffed man swallows heavily. 

"Because I had such high regard for you," Armani explains kindly, "You've got five possible chances to tell me exactly how much you squealed to the cops. If you cough up everything, well, we'll just put that bullet away and I'll let you leave my city. Deal?"

The man shakes his head, quick and desperate tears streaking his cheeks. "Please, please, don't do this Mr. D'Angelo, please don't, I’ll retract my testimony, I won’t go up on the stand, please, I’ll keep my head down and all-”

Armani jerks his chin, and the barrel of the gun presses against the man’s head. His voice dies, choked off by a hitching breath as his mouth and eyes snap shut. 

Click. 

"One," Armani D'Angelo says mildly. "What did you tell the police about me?" 

"I didn't, I didn't, Mr. D'Angelo, please," 

Nod. 

Click. 

The man sobs openly, curling away from the gun. It follows, keeping the circle of metal warmed against his skin. 

"Two. You're running out of luck, Benny." 

"I didn't-" he tries to squirm away from the gun once more, then resorts to throwing his head up, snarling as he tries to lunge for the D'Angelo patriarch. "Fuck you, fuck you, I didn't go to the police, I'm not stupid, I went to the feds, and I told them everything I've listened to from you over the years, I gave them anything I thought might help them take you down and I was glad to, you monst-"

Nod. 

Click. 

Benjamin Tagliano yells, screams terror and anger and hatred for the man overseeing his execution. The curses fly thick and fast enough that he doesn't notice the hammer pulling back a fourth time. 

The gunshot cuts him down, silencing the last of his defiance. Cyril steps back and unloads the casing, handing the named brass to Armani. He tilts it to the light, watching the carved lettering glint dully, then bends and places the brass on the slumped body in the chair. 

"Do you still want to be leaving calling cards like that?" Cyril ventures. 

Armani smiles. "Because he went to the feds? Definitely. I haven't had this much fun in years."