Chapter Text
One Of Those Days…
It was a spy’s job to know what was going on. One very well couldn’t make special, “under-the-counter” trades with people who would be otherwise declared enemies of the state without knowing what was going on. Of course, spies can’t account for everything. Like a burn notice in the middle of a job by one’s own country. Or the fact one’s mother now won’t leave you alone because she wants some mother-son bonding time—though when you’re stuck in the same city for undisclosed, extended period of time it was bound to come up sooner rather than later. Or the best one yet, the guy you shot happened to be a part of one of the oldest, most powerful Mafia familgia in the world.
“Wait, Fi.” Sam waved his arms, gesturing to the body sprawled out in the middle of Michael’s loft. “You’re saying this guy; this guy right here is part of the Italian Mafia?”
Fiona sighed and plopped down on the mattress, pulling her hair back from her face. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.” Her voice lilted, her accent slipping through as she nudged the body with her toe.
Michael stepped over the body and made his way to the refrigerator. It had to get complicated. It just had to. He had thought he was getting close to finding out who burned him but now he was stuck with another speed bump because that was about all the body was good for now. Sticking a spoon in his mouth, he opened the fridge and pulled out a yogurt.
“Michael, you have a pro—”
Michael cut Fiona off before she could finish. “I know. But it’s not like I didn’t have problems before. I’ll deal with it.” He sucked the spoon clean. “Besides, are you sure that he was from—”
“Michael.” She gave him a look and he held up his hands in surrender, the spoon dangling from his mouth.
“We’re quite sure where he’s from, Mikey.” Sam stood up from where he was kneeling down by the body and pulled out a match case from the inside pocket of the black suit jacket. He tossed it over the counter and Michael plucked it out of the air.
Flipping it around with a small toss, he cursed around spoon. He set his yogurt on the bar and stuck the spoon in it and ran his hands over the case, checking over every centimeter to make sure of its authenticity. “Damn.”
“I’d say we only have a few hours before they send someone. If they haven’t already.” Sam scratched the back of his head. “I guess we can only pray that it won’t be their assassination squad.” He glanced around the loft, eyes glancing over the windows and doors. “I have a friend who might be able to help or at least get us in touch with the Family. But it’s been awhile since I’ve dealt with anything Mafia related.”
“The last thing I heard was some sort of internal fighting three years back before everything went quiet,” Michael admitted. He threw the spoon into the sink with the others and dropped the half-eaten yogurt into the trash. He hated to waste it but it reminded him too much of what he heard the Family did to their enemies back in the day.
Fiona leaned over her crossed legs, placing an elbow on her knee before cradling her chin with her hand. She tapped a slender finger against her cheek. “I could,” she paused, “make a call.” Before either Michael or Sam could say anything, she kicked her leg over and slapped her knees, bouncing to her feet. “Well, boys, I got business to attend to, make sure you stay alive.” Adjusting the purse on her shoulder, she strolled out of the loft and let the door slam behind her.
“I wonder who she has to call.” Sam shrugged. “Well, I should probably get to work on contacting my friend.” He glanced over at Michael.
“There are three beers left in the fridge.” Michael holstered his gun and threw his own suit jacket over his shoulders. He strolled past Sam and the body.
“Thanks, Mikey,” Sam laughed, despite the seriousness of the situation.
Michael gave him an annoyed glare before heading out of the loft. His mother had called earlier and he needed to make sure she was safe.
One of the benefits of being a spy was the job description really left no room for things like family reunions or gatherings. If a person had a strong bond or tie with his or her family than they wouldn’t have been cut out for the job. Michael had been happier traveling the world, risking his life for his country, happier than the time he had spent at home. It didn’t mean he didn’t love his mom; his love just grew that much more by the miles that separated him and his family.
Now with him stuck in Miami, it made things difficult.
With a promise to bring Fiona over for dinner on Friday, he was able to escape. At least he knew she was safe and hadn’t noticed anyone lurking around. If there was one thing his mother excelled at, it was knowing if something was off in the neighborhood. Driving out of the subdivision his mom lived in, his cell phone went off. “Yeah, Sam,” he answered.
“Do you want the good news or bad news first?”
Michael glanced upward and bit back a sigh. “How bad?”
“The Mafia put a hit out on you.”
“Great, just great.” Michael’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Not only do I have to deal with finding out who burned me, I have to do it while avoiding the Mafia, gr-eat.” He turned off down a sideroad, noticing the distinct lack of any traffic along the river.
“Oh, it gets better.” Sam coughed. “Or, in this case, worse.”
“How worse, Sam?” Michael almost didn’t want to hear the answer, already having a feeling where it was heading. Spies always knew what the worst case scenarios were in any situation.
“The assassination squad is already here.”
“Shit.” Michael slammed on the brakes, the Charger squealing to a stop.
“Mikey, you okay?”
“For right now, yes.” Michael reached under the passenger seat and pulled out the sawed-off shotgun Fiona had left for him. “Just tell me the good news.”
“Fi got a hold of her contact in the Mafia. Hopefully we can avoid the hit squad long enough for her to straightened things out.”
Michael wanted to laugh but figured it could wait. He needed to survive first. “About the avoiding part; not happening.” He cocked the shotgun.
The action must have been audible over the cell phone. “Woah, woah, woah! What’s happening, Mike?”
Michael could hear the clattering of glass as he guessed Sam dropped one of his beer bottles. “They found me, Sam. Talk to you later.” He hung up and tossed phone into the passenger seat. Opening the door, he climbed out of the car, the shotgun cradled in his hands.
The three standing before him were the some of the strangest people he had ever seen and, considering he had traveled the world, it was saying a lot. They were wearing the same type of leather trenchcoat, reaching down to about their knees. There was a red emblem on the left sleeve and breast of a design Michael couldn’t quite make out.
One of the three looked no older than eighteen, his blonde hair hanging in his eyes while his grin seemed to take up most of his face. He had a small crown that hung lopsided on his head. “Shishishi, is this the guy who took out our man?” His strange laugh caused Michael’s hands to tighten, his finger curving around the trigger. The kid made a quick movement and Michael reacted, ducking back behind his door as three silver daggers embedded themselves into the frame.
“The boss wants him alive,” the tallest said. His dark hair was unruly and his sideburns cut a jagged edge down to the corner of his lips. A piercing in his left eyebrow was connected by a thin chain to the piercing in his lip. It was the first thing Michael thought to go for in case things got bad enough to end up as a hand-to-hand fight. He had a number of what looked like canes strapped across his back. Michael didn’t want to risk finding out what they were for exactly.
“I don’t understand why, though,” the third remarked as he brought the back of his hand up to his mouth, partially covering it while his pinky finger extended out like a prominent flag. His coat was slightly different from the rest, with the red-feathered collar. His head was mostly shaved except for the green section of hair that flopped off to the side in a manner that could almost be a mohawk. His dark sunglasses kept Michael from being able to see his eyes. “Though this one is certainly a cute thing!”
“I don’t really appreciate the knives in my car, just so you know,” Michael said as he crouched by the door, lining up the shot with the shotgun.
“Maybe they would be better in you!” The blonde laughed and pulled out more knives from inside his jacket, holding them out in a fan. Before he could do anything, Michael took a shot, aiming for the kid’s leg. He didn’t want to ruin Fiona’s negotiations by adding another death.
The blonde was fast, but not fast enough as the bullet managed to tear through the side of his thigh. He crumpled to the ground, falling backwards as his fingers loosened their grip on the knives.
Michael was already moving before the first bullet even connected. He fired another shot aiming for the tallest one. He didn’t know if his second shot managed to hit its target because he already had his hands full as the remaining of the group was already directly in front of him. He rolled away from the downward kick, trying to climb back to his feet. The assassin met him at the end of every dodge, not giving Michael the chance to come up with any chance to counter. An elbow struck him across the jaw and sent him sprawling across the gravel as the shotgun slipped from his grip.
As Michael reached behind his back and prepared for the follow-up that never came, he barely had enough time to spread his legs apart as one of the canes landed between them.
He allowed himself a small “Huh,” as he realized that the canes really weren’t canes but actually parabolas as it flared open. One of the spines the fabric was stretched across caught his chin and knocked him back against the ground.
“Levi, you should be more careful,” the fighter whined. “You could have ruined him. If he is to die by the boss’s hands I want him in the best condition I can get him.”
“He won’t be in any condition once the boss is through with him.”
“Shishishishi.”
Michael groaned as he glanced around the legs of the one who elbowed him and saw the kid sitting up. He was looking at his hands that were covered in the blood from his wound, laughing his strange laugh.
“Blood, royal blood has been spilt. Shishishishi, blood, blood, blood!”
The guy crouched down in front of Michael, blocking his line of sight. “You shouldn’t have shot Bel, y’know?” He gave a dramatic sigh and cupped his cheek in his hand. “Now he’ll be a hassle to manage now that he’s Prince the Ripper, oh dear.” He leaned in closer and grabbed Michael by the collar of his shirt, giving him a leer. “But you really shouldn’t have killed our guy in the first place.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” Michael gritted out. He fired off a round from the small pistol he had kept in a holster at the small of his back. He had a direct shot at the guy’s knee and was surprised when the bullet ricocheted back.
“Ooh, he still has some fight left. I like him even more.” The gun was ripped from Michael’s grasp as he tried to get one more shot off.
“He’s mine now, Lussuria, shishishi, mine.” Bel was on his feet, swaying slightly, but still smiling and holding on to a ridiculous amount of knives. “Because I’m a prince.” He threw the knives and somehow they managed to spread in a long line, circling around Michael and Lussuria.
“What the hell?” Michael gasped and assumed the feat could only be a trick or some sort of illusion. He was pulled to his feet and held out at arm’s length, the toes of his shoes just brushing the ground.
The prince laughed at Lussuria who was complaining that he was in the crossfire as the knives circled. Michael wrapped his hands around his captor’s wrist, looking for a way to avoid getting snagged again and to escape from the looming knives. Before he could attempt anything, something unexpected happened.
“VOOOIII!”
It was turning into one of those days.