Why Does the Caged Bird Sing? (Corsair and Xana)

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Xanaphia

Xanaphia

Biblically Accurate Bitch
Joined
Sep 28, 2013
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I ain’t never crossed a man who didn’t deserve it.​

The lounge of the Gilded Cage Hotel and Casino was packed this evening, as it was most evenings. Men in sharp suits and women in elegant dresses, the seats were filled with bodies, and their hands with filled with drinks. Cigarette smoke made up the hazy atmosphere, obscuring things beyond the low lighting. Conversations were scattered and light, as everyone awaited the start of the show.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome to stage, the Gilded Cage’s own Mercedes Morello!”

The spot light opened, focusing its brilliance on the young woman. Light clapping and a few scattered wolf whistles could be heard as the band started up. The jazz singer positively glowed in her tight, floor length silver dress, with soft chestnut curls cascading down her shoulders. Warm brown eyes lit up with her smile, as rich and earthy as her voice, as scarlet lips opens to let out the long, low note. “Ooooooohhhhh.” Slender fingers slide down the microphone stand, and then back up as she moved up the scale, following the rhythm set by the piano player.

For over an hour, Mercedes’ songs enraptured her audience, like the sirens of myth. Her voice was smooth and dark, the kind of voice to lure numerous young men to their deaths. Not that she had ever killed a man, or even raised her fist to one, but more than a few had come up with a broken heart, alongside broken bones, at the hands of her husband’s men. Some at her husband’s hands himself, mob boss Vinnie Morello. He owned the joint, and half the city’s liquors connections. Chicago had been good the couple, even under the sweltering heat of August.

Her set ended, and conversation returned to the lounge. Men drank, women laughed, and Vinnie enticed the police commissioner with a hefty briefcase filled with a thousand reasons to look the other way. Mercedes sipped at her own gin and juice backstage, soothing her throat after the show she put on.

“You came in early on Me and My Gin,” she teased Tom, the trumpet player, poking him in the chest. The musician merely smirked at her claim, his teeth starkly white against his dark skin.

“So you listenin’ for me then, Miss Mercedes?”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I?”

“I just figure ain’t no one listenin’ to me, when they could be listenin’ to you.” Mercedes and Tom laughed in harmony, until Mercedes reached for her drink. In the span of of a blink, Vinnie had appeared.

“You talkin' to my girl?” Vinnie barked, getting in Tom’s space.

“Naw, sir. Nuthin’ like that.”

“Stop it Vinnie. It don’t mean nothing. Just talking ‘bout the music.” She grabbed her husband’s arm, urging him away from Tom. Vinnie’s eyes filled with barely contained rage as he half turned to look at her, tugging his arm from her grasp.

“You ain’t gonna like it, if I see you talking to my wife again. Understood?” Vinnie’s words barely held on to the semblance of control.

“Understood, Mr. Morello.”

“Come on, Mercedes. You need to be getting to bed. Rest your pipes, and such,” Vince insisted, bruising fingers digging into her arms as he longed her along.
 
"Champagne, sir?"

William Stone glaned up at the waiter. "Of course not," he said with mock severity, humor dancing in his grey eyes. "That would be illegal." The waiter chuckled dutifly, the sound of a man who'd heard the same joke more times than he cared to think. William glanced back at the menu. "But seriously, no thank you. I'll have the prime rib, with water and coffee."

"Very good, sir." William noted the slight sound of disappointment, but chose not to remark on it as the waiter collected the menu. The man made his living from tips after all, and drinkers usually tipped better. So he signaled to a cigarette girl and purchased a pack of Lucky Strikes, then lit up and waited.

Both Emmett and Marilyn had, independently encouraged him to come to the Gildded Cage, for different reasons. Emmett had raved about the 'talent', implying that some of the girls didn't mind supplementing their income. Marilyn, for her part, had encouraged him to get out for an evening. To enjoy himself, and to check out Vincent Morello's club.

"Ladies and gentlemen, olease wekcome to the stage, the Gilded Cage's own Mercedes Morello!"

Mercedes Morello, he decided as the spotlight snapped on, was probably the reason the Gilded Cage did so well. She seemed to glow on the stage, lights gleaming on her bare arms and shoulders, and shining on the silver gown that hugged her curves. She'd be worth coming to see, even if she couldn't sing.

And then she sang.

Whoever said a good man was hard to find, 
Positively, absolutely sure was blind...

Her voice was... magic. Despite himself he listened, enthralled as song after song washed over him . Somewhere during the performance his meal was served. Somewhere, he ate it. But listening to Mercedes sing, sing in a low, intimate voice that felt as if she were singing just to him, he never noticed.

The set ended, and the spell was broken by thunderous applause. Slowly, life returned to normal. William toyed with his silverware, and drank his coffee, and for the first time in a year he considered taking the evening off. Considered enjoying himself. But then he saw Vincent Morello, laughing and talking to Chief Detective Michael Hughes.

Expression hardening, he tossed a twenty on the table and rose. Enough playing. He had work to do.
 
Vinnie didn’t speak the entire ride home, just drank and glared, oozing with rage just under the surface. On one hand, Mercedes appreciated that he didn’t intend to publically humiliate her, but on the other, she feared for what he might do, whatever he was waiting for the privacy of closed door to inflict upon her. He reeked of whiskey. It seeped from his pores, mingling with his perspiration and indignation. Maybe he’d drink himself into a stupor, and pass out. Still, Mercedes’ heart beat reached a crescendo as the car rolled to a stop, and Vinnie ushered her out of the car. It pounded against her chest as the car sped away, leaving her alone with her husband.

“Inside.” It was the first thing he had said since they left the club. She just nodded and bit her lip, hoping it was still possible to avoid an argument. But as the door shook and slammed behind her, Mercedes knew she had to change her approach. Avoiding an argument was no longer an option, her best bet was to mitigate it as much as possible.

“Vinnie, you are making a big deal outta nuthin’” She started, making her way through the house in a subtle effort to put distance between them.

Vinnie was having none of it, though, grabbing her wrist to turn her to face him before shoving her into the hallway wall. “You don’t ever, ever, disrespect me in public again. You hear me?” he roared in her face, spittle striking her. She nodded but he slammed her again, “Are you fucking him?”

“Tom? Why do you think I am fucking him?” Mercedes argued back, even knowing it wasn’t smart to back talk him.

“I saw you flirting with him! How long you two been fuckin’?” His fingers fisted in her dress, causing slits to appear in the fragile material.

“Vinnie stop!, We aren’t! Vinnie, you’re ripping my dress!” She grabbed at her husband’s hands, trying to pry them loose. This seemed to further infuriate him, until he spun her around and dragged her into the dining room. With a thud, she was smashed into the wooden table.

“I bought this for you!” He bellowed, ripping the satin dress from her skin. Cloth shrieked as it tore, leaving her in only under garments. Her bra and garter belt were left unmolested, but her panties were ripped off as well, as he held her down against the table.

“You wanna be a whore? You think I won’t turn this ass out if I didn’t love you so much? Don’t play me Mercie. Nobody plays me.” Fat fingers dug into the back of her head, pressing her face down into the hard wood surface of the table. She struggled and squirmed as she felt his rub his erection against her lips, unaroused and unyielding to his approach. He lifts her upper body just a few inches before slamming her down again, knocking the air from her lungs with the impact. As she gasped to refilled her lungs, he thrust into her, half his length ripping open her delicate womanhood.

“Vinnie!” She screamed out, her voice cracking under the vicious pounding of her sex, his meat cruelly splitting apart her tight walls, “Stop! You hurting me!”

“Good. Maybe you’ll learn something this time. Remember who you belong to.” His fingers tightened in her hair, pulling from the base and threatening to rip out thick sections. Her one mercy was that it didn’t last long, though the pain made everything happen in slow motion. One last stroke, banging against her cervix, and she was flooded by his climax, dripping from her violated hole as he pulled out of her. “Clean yourself off,” he snarled before turning to head into the bedroom, leaving his wife defiled against the table.



The hot water had run out, and taking a cold shower didn’t sit with Mercedes’ mood, so she trudged out from the stall. She still didn’t feel clean, not ever after an hour. She wondered if she would ever feel clean again. If she would ever feel whole, and not used, and dirty, and violated. If there was such a thing to wash Vinnie’s taint from her skin.

In the bedroom, she could hear Vinnie snoring. Her rapist. Her husband. He didn’t even care how much he hurt her. Didn’t lose any sleep over her tears or her agony or her shame. That bastard! She had looked the other way on so many things. The other women, cheating on her, while demanding that she not even so much as talk to another man. Even taking another woman down to Mexico, for “vacation.” Admittedly she didn’t know if procuring an illegal abortion for his mistress was better or worse than coming home with a bastard, but that fact that he was in the situation to begin with was an affront to her. To their marriage. And now this…

No! He doesn’t get to go on, like nothing happened. He doesn’t get to sleep in their marriage bed after treating her like a whore.

There was a gun in the closet. A Smith and Wesson .357 revolver. Loaded. Vinnie had bought it for her, in case anyone ever tried to attack her, to hurt her husband. Even taken her to the gun range a few times, to teach her how to shoot it. Mercedes knew what she had to do. Gripping it in shaky hands, she moved towards her husband. Standing beside him as he slept.

She wasn’t a whore. She wasn’t some floozy to be used and discarded. She wouldn’t let him get away with treating her like that. She couldn’t. Raising the gun to his head, she looked down at him. Squeeze the trigger, and end it. End it, end him, and his bullshit.

And where would that leave her? Vinnie would be dead, and someone would have to pay for that. He would be dead, and she would be arrested. No judge or jury would hear out her case. It’s wasn’t rape when it was her husband. It was just her wifely duties, her own fault for not just giving him what he wanted. His suffering would be over and done, and she’d spend the rest of her life in prison. Even if she did avoid a conviction, Vinnie was a made man, and she’d never be safe from the mob.

Exploding into a torrent of sobs, she collapsed onto the bed. She couldn’t kill him, and she couldn’t let him live. Couldn’t leave, and couldn’t stay here with not. Not anymore. There had to be another way, a way to hurt him, as badly as he hurt her. Worse, even. Take everything from him, until his empire was dust beneath her feet.

If it took the rest of her life, Mercedes Morello was sure she’d make him pay. Make him suffer. Make his wish he had never laid a hand on her.
 
"Gin," crowed 'Nickels' Rossi, laying down his cards. Everyone else at the table frowned and swore and threw their hands down as he raked in the pot.

"Fuck this," grumbled Jimmy Rizzo as he stood up.

"Hey," Nickels laughed. "Don't be a sore looser!"

"Yeah, yeah, fuck You too," Jimmy replied without any real heat. "I'mna go take a smoke, check the warehouse while I'm up." He lit up, then sauntered off.

"You all hear the latest about Capone's boys?" Nickels asked, gathering up the cards. "Word is, the Raven..."

"Ain't no fuckin' Raven," spat Pat Malone, a cauliflower-eared mock who'd signed up with Malone a couple of years back. "He's some hop-head's..."

"He shot up one of Capone's deliveries," Nickels protested.

"Fuck that," Pat grunted. "Capone's got enemies. They're just..."

Everyone jerked as a gunshot echoed through the warehouse, and then another, and then another. Game forgotten, the seated gangsters erupted to their feet with revolvers and automatics in hand. "Jimmy?" Pat shouted. "Jimmy!"

The only response was a clattering sound as a canister bounced and rolled across the floor. They had an instant to register it before it erupted, spewing an orange-tinted smoke into the air. Choking and gasping, eyes watering, none of them heard the approaching footsteps until a shape kept onto the table.

Nickels had a confused impression of a black shape, something in a black coat and black hat with a black, blank face and huge, in winking white eyes. And then a tongue of flame roared from its hand and Pat went down in a spray of blood. The figure spun, gunning down the other gangsters in turn, and suddenly Nickles was staring to not a smoking muzzle.

He twitched.

The gun roared.

Nickels screamed as his leg gave way. The dark form dropped from the table, booted heel grinding into his hand as he clutched at his ruined knee. Then the dark shape grabbed his lapels, jerking him ip to stare closely at him with those huge, dead white eyes.

"You'll live," it said, placing a hand over Nickels' face. "And you'll take a message to Vincent Morello."

"What..." Nickels scrabbled, trying to pull himself away with a broken hand and a shattered knee. "What... message...?"

Something brushed against Nickels' forehead, and he screamed again as searing pain burned into his skull. Distantly, he felt the figure release him, felt himself drop to the floor.

"Nevermore."



Flame erupted into the Chicago sky, great hours of blue flame fueled by wooden barrels and hundreds of gallons of bootleg alcohol. Two shapes emerged from the blazing warehouse, one dragging the other. The standing shape stood for a moment, watching the dance of the flames, and then turned to walk towards a nearby alley.

And then it stopped.

The figure's blank face turned slowly, huge white eyes like diagonal slashes reflecting the flames. It raised a pistol in a gloved hand, aiming into the darkness. "Come out. Slowly."
 
There hadn’t been much thought put into this plan. In the wake of her husband’s assault, all Mercedes knew was that she wanted to hurt the bastard, and hitting him in the wallet would hurt the most. So, she donned slacks and a button up shirt, tied her hair back in a handkerchief and tied another over her face, just below her eyes. In the dark of night, it would hopefully convince any witnesses that a man committed the crime. Let Vinnie think a rival gang attacked him. Let him go to war over nothing.

She loaded up the Cadillac with a couple jars of kerosene, a box of matches and her gun. She knew where the liquor warehouses were. If she left now, she could move about with a chaperone, and could hit one or two of them. But when she arrived, she heard gunfire, and saw smoke. Was someone already hitting Vinnie? There was a moment of fear before her resolved hardened. No, this was perfect. Let this other person caught the blame for her arson. It would muddy up the issue, and leave suspicion off her long enough to exact her revenge.

She retrieved a grease rag from the truck of the car and tied it around the kerosene bottle. The rag caught on fire easily, and she tossed it through a window on the south side of the building, hoping striking some of the barrels containing liquor. She prepared another kerosene bomb as she made her way to the north side of the build, where it seemed the shooting had stopped. She still had her revolver in her belt, ready to deal with any survivors who might try to stop her. Through the northside window, she could see two figures, talking, before one was dropped. And then dragged out, as the fire spread from her first strike. She lit and threw the second improvised bomb before dashing for a nearby alley, hoping to evade the survivors.

Shit, she cursed, as the alley closed in brick and mortar. Maybe she hadn’t been seen, as she stood flat again the wall, in the shadow of the moon. Holding her breath, praying she’d still live long enough to get her revenge on her husband.

"Come out. Slowly."

Mercedes swallowed hard. Fuck that! She wasn’t going to roll over and die. Not for anyone. Never again. So she pulled out her own revolver, aiming toward the figure at the mouth of the alley. “I don’t know who you are, but I ain’t got beef with you.” she called, trying to make her voice sound deeper, like a man’s. “So why don’t you go your way and I go mine, and ain’t neither of us seen nothing.”
 
The masked woman - and in the firelight, it was obvious that she was a woman despite how she was dressed - responded by drawing a revolver. “I don’t know who you are, but I ain’t got beef with you.” she replied, trying to make her voice sound gruff. Despite the bravado, her weapon trembled a little in her grip. “So why don’t you go your way and I go mine, and ain’t neither of us seen nothing.”

The Raven stood like a rock, the blue steel of his automatic glinting in the flames. "You're not one of Morello's boys," he said slowly, head shifting a little as he looked over her. "Not one of any of the gangs, from what I can see." The mask crinkled a little, as if the face inside were amused. "Nice look, but you'd be better off with a balaclava - it hides the features better. And baggier clothing, maybe with a coat." He paused for effect. "Unless you aren't actually trying to pass for a man, that is."

Sirens could be head in the distance. "I've done what I came here to do," he stated, voice flat. "I just wish I could see the bastard's face in the morning, when he reads about it. What about you?" The muzzle of the automatic shifted a little, aiming right at her heart. "Because I don't plan to be here when the cops arrive. And while I don't ordinarily hurt women, I don't plan to let you turn me in for bruning down one of the Enforcer's warehouses. So decide."
 
"I just wish I could see the bastard's face in the morning, when he reads about it.”

“If we run into each other again, maybe I’ll tell ya all about it.” Mercedes smirked, dropping the deeper voice. It didn’t seem like he was going to shoot her, especially not after he remarked about not hurting women, but she still didn’t like having a gun pulled on her. Still, he seemed to hate her husband as much as she did, and could be a useful ally.

“I don’t want to get pinched any more than you do, and I’d be gone already if you didn’t have a gun pointed at me first. Seems like we both hate that rat bastard, and it seems to me that we could get a lot more done together than we could pointin’ guns at each other.”

Sirens grew louder, more urgent, and they’d have to move if they wanted to avoid trouble. She lowered the gun, not daring to put it away while his still aimed at her. But it was an act of goodwill, an act she hoped he’d reciprocate. “My car’s around the southside, if you need a clean getaway.”
 
The woman lowered her gun. "My car’s around the southside, if you need a clean getaway.”

The Raven seemed to consider that for a moment, then lowered his own automatic and tucked it into a battered black holster. "I have one just over there," he replied, nodding down the street. "So I suggest we both leave now, by different routes."

He started to walk away, seemingly unconcerned by the revolver she still held. "If you want to hurt Enforcer Morello, though, I suggest you contact the editor of the Daily News. He doesn't believe I exist, but he's the loudest anti-mob voice in the city. I'm sure he'll talk to you."

Then he turned, white eyes crimson in the firelight. "And you may want to work on disguising your voice better, if you're going to wear a mask. You have a lovely and distinctive voice, Mrs. Mercedes Morello."

Smoke erupted around his feet, billowing like swirling ink into the night. When it cleared, he was gone.


The office of the Chicago Daily News
The next morning

"You look like something the cat dragged in, Bill! Late night?"

"Morning, Emmett," William grunted, sipping his coffee. No need to look up. Emmett Harris was the only person in the history of ever that called him 'Bill'. "Yeah, a bit of one."

Emmett dropped his sticky frame into a chair, and tossed a paper on his desk. "MORELLO WAREHOUSE TORCHED!" screamed the headline. Grinning like the cat that ate the proverbial canary, he leaned back and twirled his mustache. "Thought you'd get a kick outta that."

"Good headline," William agreed, scanning the accompanying article. "Jimmy got this one?"

"Yep. Crazy guy rode along with the hook and ladder trucks. See that bit about the dead guys?" Emmett looked smug. "We scooped everyone with that! Every other paper in the city thinks it was an accident, but we got the goods on it being a gangland killing."

The office door opened. "Actually," declared a tall woman with dark hair cut in a fashionable bob, "it wasn't." She took a seat across from Emmett. "It was the Raven."

William sighed. "This 'Raven' is a myth, Marilyn. He..."

Marilyn Stone smiled sweetly. "He burned a stylized crow onto the face of..." she consulted a stenographers notebook she retrieved from her purse, "Nicholas Rossi, a racketeer and pimp associated with Vincent Morello."

"And how did you find that out?" Emmett demanded, impressed.

Marilyn lit a slim cigarette, and took a drag. "I saw the ambulance, and spent some time flirting with Detective Sean Mallory, CPD." She took another puff, and looked smug. "He's one of the officers watching him at the hospital right now. Figure I can get a column out of it."

"Oh, God," William groaned. "I'm not running a yellow press rag here."

"But it is news," Emmett insisted. "Even if you don't believe in this ghost, something burned his face."

Before William could reply, his door opened a crack. "Boss?" said his secretary. "There's a lady here to see you..."
 
He knew who I was.

The thought consumed Mercedes mind as she sat in the waiting room of the Chicago Daily News. It had consumed her last night, as she drove away from the burning warehouse, evading the red and blue flashing lights. As she lied in bed beside her husband, and rapist, struggling for sleep. As she awoke early the next morning, hearing Vinnie’s tirade as he learned the details of what had happened. She slipped out then, while he was so focused on the hit to pay her much attention. Because there was no way Vinnie’d approve of this meeting.

Vinnie was not a fan of the Chicago Daily News, certainly not a fan of the hard-hitting stories it ran, painting him and his dealing in a bad light. She might as well have gone to visit Al Capone, as bad as this meeting would look, if it got out. Which was why she had disguised herself again, hopefully a bit better this time. Long hair pinned in tight curls behind her ears, covered with a scarf. Wide brimmed circular sunglasses covered her eyes, and she looked to the world just a high class, respectable woman, running her errands for the day. Blending into a crowd, instead of standing out as she did on stage.

Mercedes always did have a good ear. It was half the reason music came so naturally to her. And it how she survived the past eight years of marriage to a mob boss, listening to conversations through the walls, and keep abreast of her husband’s dealings. And now, she could hear the group talking in the office. About the fire, about the killings. About the Raven. That must have been the man she met, last night. The one who knew who she was…

“Mr. Stone will see you now,” His secretary invited, ushering her in. Inside she, she met the eyes of the thin man and the tall woman, before fixing her gaze on the man behind the desk. William Stone. Had she seen him before?

“I appreciate you meeting me like this,” She acknowledged, offering her gloved hand in a hearty shake, “Is there…is there any way we could be alone?” The man and the woman studied her, before exchanging curious glances.

“Right,” Marilyn nodded, standing up to offer her chair, “Let me get working on that column. Should have it ready to go with the evening edition.” She and Emmett left the office, door closing behind them with a soft click. Mercedes took the seat Marilyn had sat in, removing her glasses and scarf to reveal herself to Will, hoping he understood the need for pretense.

“It’s not exactly safe for me to be seen here, like this,” Mercedes started, “But I wasn’t sure where else to turn. Half the cops in the city are on my husband’s payroll, and even if they weren’t, I doubt many would give a good goddamn to my domestic woes. Truthfully, I don’t even know how you can help me, really. It’s not like ‘Mob Boss Beats Wife’ would be news to anyone.” She sighed, realizing she was rambling, wondering if this whole thing wasn’t a huge mistake. Fidgeting with her sunglasses, she remembered what The Raven had told her.

“The thing is, I know things. Vinnie don’t think so, but I do. I know things, but I don’t know who to tell. I don’t know who’d listen to me, and all the things I’d have to say. Maybe…Maybe it can help you out. Or you can pass it along to someone else who might be interested. I just don’t know who to trust, who isn’t going to turn around tell my husband I blabbed about him.”
 
William sat and listened as Mercedes spoke. He didn't interrupt, although his expression hardened at her humorless joke about having been beaten. By the time she finished, journalistic instincts were warring with chivalrous ones. "I'm sorry for what you've been through, Mrs. Morello," he finally said. "But... are you sure you want to come to us? The Feds would love the same sort of information, after all, and the Fifth Amendment doesn't apply if you voluntarily testify."

Not that he thought she would. If she turned states evidence, the Feds would still need more evidence. And trials could take a long time, during which she'd probably meet a terrible accident. But he felt it was necessary to say it.

"But if you want to funnel the information to us, there's ways we can use it without naming you as a source." He pursed his lips in thought. "Clearly we can't just run aan interview with you, but your tips can drive investigations. Tell me where to send reporters. Splash his dirty dealing right across the front page in 48 point font."

He was up and pacing now, prowling his office like a panther as he spoke. "You understand that it will be cangerous for you, right? Enforcer Mirello's a dangerous man, after all. So, the least I can do is..." He stopped at his desk, scrawling something on a notepad. "Here." He handed her the note. "My address, and home and direct office number. I suggest memorizing them, but this way you don't have to go through the switchboard. The fewer people who know about this, the safer you'll be."
 
“It’s not enough to get Vinnie arrested. Someone else will just end up as the boss, and they’ll come after me, to send a message,” Mercedes countered, as William suggested she go to the Feds. “I won’t be safe until I’ve torn everything he’s built to the ground. And that mean putting everything out in the open, where it can’t hide in the shadows. If no one is willing to work with him, then he won’t be able to work.”

William then outlined how he could use her tips, and she nodded along, hopeful. Watching him as he paced the room, overwhelmed by energy and a need to do something. She could appreciate that, appreciating his firm figure under the well-tailored suit. Vinnie used to look like that, before he got complacent with his life.

"You understand that it will be dangerous for you, right? Enforcer Morello’s a dangerous man, after all.

“It’s always been dangerous, and staying quiet hasn’t saved my ass so far,” she challenged, “At least now perhaps I can make up for my years of silence.” He was writing something on a notepad, something he handed to her.

"My address, and home and direct office number. I suggest memorizing them, but this way you don't have to go through the switchboard. The fewer people who know about this, the safer you'll be."

“Thanks, that’s awful sweet of ya,” she noted, folding the paper and slipping it into her purse. Then she put her scarf and sunglasses back on, standing to leave. “I’ll be in touch, when I have something you can use. And I hope to see you in the audience again, sometime soon.” She gave him a wink on that one, before turning to leave. She couldn’t stay long, if she wanted to avoid suspicion, and there was still she needed to do while she was alone.

"Nice look, but you'd be better off with a balaclava - it hides the features better. And baggier clothing, maybe with a coat. Unless you aren't actually trying to pass for a man, that is.”

The Raven knew who she was, figured it out despite her attempts to conceal herself. What if it had been one of Vinnie’s boys instead? She couldn’t take the risk, and at the same time, she couldn’t stand on the sidelines anymore either. So, she’d need a better disguise, and his words returned to her as she browsed for clothing. She picked out a few pairs of pants, a few shirts and a coat. All black, all quite loose on her. She even managed to find a balaclava, despite it being late summer, with just a thin slit for her eyes. Tonight, she’d be ready to hit another warehouse. And maybe she’d even see him again.
 
Thanks, that’s awful sweet of ya,” she noted, folding the paper and slipping it into her purse.

William laughed at that. "Sweet? Are you certain I'm not just ensuring my paper can get the scoop of the decade?" he said with a genuine smile. Then he leaned back in his chair, watching her don her scarf and sunglasses. She was dressed in a much more conservative style than she'd worn on the stage, but even in a tea dress she was worth watching.

The realization surprised him. He hadn't really looked at a woman in that fashion in years. Not since Sandy... not since Sandy had died. Had been murdered. He'd never expected to, not again. Certainly not at a married woman, especially the wife of Tony Morello.

"I’ll be in touch, when I have something you can use. And I hope to see you in the audience again, sometime soon," she said with a wink.

"I'll be looking forward to it," he replied, watching her leave. When the door closed behind her, he let out a long, low whistle and shook his head.

The door swung back open. Marilyn stalked in, planting herself in the seat Mercedes had just vacated. "Spill it," she demanded, resting her elbow on the desk and her cheek on her fist. "That was Mercedes Morello. What did she want?"

William stared past her, as if trying to look through the frosted glass of the door. "Revenge. She wanted revenge."

Marilyn nodded understanding. "Well. Isn't that just the bee's knees. So," she added brightly, "that mean you're catching her show again tonight? You need to get out more anyway..."

"Maybe," he replied. "I have another appointment, but it might wrap up early. You could go."

"Nope." Marilyn's grin was impish. "Got a hot date tonight."
 
It was noon by the time she returned home, and not surprising to find Vinnie waiting for her. “Where’d you go?”

“Just went to get my dress fixed,” Mercedes explained, holding up the mended garment. He looked her up and down, before nodding.

“Looks like you ain’t too sore about last night,” he remarked, running fingers down her arm.

“Course not,” she cooed, planting a preemptive kiss on his cheek. When he pulled her close for another, she let him see the flinch in her body. Turning rage into a display of dread. For Vinnie, fear and respect were the same thing, and if he thought she feared him, he’d be satisfied. “Maybe a little tender,” she murmured, hoping that would be enough.

“Guess you don’t like it as rough as we used to, huh?” Vinnie teased, sliding his hand down her hip.

“Guess not,” she answered with a forced laugh. It was difficult to stifle the relieved sigh when he finally let up.

“Doubt you heard yet, but some fucking joker is targeting me and my boys. Afraid he might target you too, to hurt me. Going keep some boys around you, doll, keep you safe, so I can work on bumping off this Raven punk,” he explained, cupping her chin to force her to look at him. She smiled, letting him think it was because she appreciated the protection.

“You’re always looking out for me,” she laughed, “But I should be getting ready to perform tonight.”

Finally, he let her go, “That’s my little canary.” She flashed him a playful smile before escaping into the sanctuary of the bedroom, braced against the day as silent tears streamed down her cheeks. This was going to be harder than she thought.



Mercy wore a black sequined dress that evening, with a carefully placed black feather boa to cover the bruises Vinnie had left on her arms the night before. Sipping her gin and juice, she glanced out into the crowd, looking to see who was out there. The Raven had to have been a fan of hers, to recognize her voice, hadn’t he? Was he here tonight? Or maybe William Stone?
 
"Hey! Aren't you Mercedes Morello?"

The speaker was slim, dark-haired woman with large eyes accented by dark eyeliner. She wore a white, fringed dress and matching gloves, and a white clouche hat with a black silk ribbon. She gaped, awestruck for a moment, then awkwardly offered her hand. "Oh, where are my manners? I'm Marilyn Stone. I've been coming here since the Gilded Cage opened and, well, I never thought..."

Awkwardly, she withdrew her hand and laughed nervously. "I'm sorry. I just, well, you have such s gorgeous voice, and..."

"Mrs. Morello?" the stage manager called. "Your set starts in five."

Marilyn's expression settled a little, becoming more confident. "I'm a reporter as well. For the Daily News. Could I interview you, after the show? Do a little profile, get you and the club some free publicity?"

Waiting for an answer, she signaled the bartender. "South Side Fizz, please," she said with a smile.
 
The person who approached her was neither William nor a possible candidate for the Raven, which was probably why she caught her off guard. A familiar face from just this morning, posing as a fan. Oh, she was good, this Marilyn Stone. Mercedes figured she could learn a thing or two from her, about portraying herself as something she wasn’t.

“I can certainly make time for a fan,” She offered with a knowing smile, “Always good to know someone’s listen’.” Finishing her drink, she stood, “Stick around afterwards, and we’ll chat.”

Her mind went back to William, noting his absence at the show. Clearly sending Marilyn in his place was to keep his distance from her, and keep her safe. What else did it mean, though? And…Marilyn Stone. Did that mean she was his wife? She was gorgeous, so it wouldn’t be surprising. Did husband and wife often work together like that? Well, she did work alongside side Vinnie, technically. Maybe she was his sister. Hopefully she was his sister.

Why did it matter? She was married. To a no-good lying, cheating, rapist, perhaps, but married all the same. Besides, her mind needed to be on bringing down that bastard, not the concerned look on a handsome stranger’s face. A look that likely meant nothing more.

So, taking a cue from Marilyn, and her clever subterfuge, Mercedes sang cheerful songs about love, making sure to make eyes at Vinnie throughout her set. Putting on act of having forgiven and forgotten, having learned her lesson for being anything less than devoted to him. All the sweeter when he realized she ruined him. It was easier to pretend, up on that stage, with the lights and the music and the distance. By the time was she done, she could really go for a drink, and was pleased to discover Daily News’ intrepid reporter had one had one waiting for her.

“How has the Windy City treated you?” Marilyn asked, eyes on her while her pen was on paper. Half the paper was covered in incomprehensible scribble already.

“Truthfully, I have had a lot of success here in Chicago,” Mercedes remarked, running her finger around the rim of the glass. “why, just the last week we had the mayor in here, watching me perform. Pity he wasn’t able to stay long. Just visited with my Vinnie for the span of one song and left. We’ve seen city council member hers, the Police commissioner, head of the teamsters union. Why, it’s enough to make a girl think she’s big star. But I try to stay modest.”

Marilyn wore a half smile as she jotted down those notes, before meeting Mercedes eyes again, “So what’s next for you?”

“I’d love to branch out. Maybe acting, though I am sure I’d need to put in some work to get good at it. Maybe bigger venue, so more people can watch me perform. I know I am ready for bigger, and better things, and I hope those things are ready for me.”

“Ambitious, I like that,” Marilyn laughed, jotting down her notes.

“Is it hard to be taken seriously, as a lady reporter?” Mercedes found herself asking, turning the interview upon the interviewer.

“Sometimes. Some people, I let them underestimate me. I’ve proven myself to those that matter.” Marilyn explained, scanning her notes. “Think I got what I need. You’re a doll for making time for me.”

“God forbid I get so big I step on those who held me up,” Mercy said. Holding up a half empty glass in salute, she smiled, “Next time, drinks are on me. “

“I’ll hold you to that,” Marilyn laughed as their glasses clinked.
 
It looked like the information was correct.

The Raven watched from a rooftop across the street, peering through a pair of compact opera glasses at the figures on the docks below. Most of them lazed about, chatting and watching the dark waters of Lake Michigan, while a few watched the approach to the docks. The cargo that was coming on the midnight run was worth a small fortune, and the North Side Gang wasn't taking any chances with it. Not after what happened to the Outfit warehouse controlled by Enforcer Morello. Hymie Weiss wasn't taking any chances.

At least, that was what Nick Jantz had said. The Raven saw no reason to doubt him, either - the small-time actor and two-bit hood had been liquored up and shooting his mouth off in an effort to impress a skirt with how important he was. And the timing fit - Weiss would be a fool not to capitalize on the Outfit's losses.

The Raven smiled mirthlessly, the expression creasing the canvas mask slightly. All the gangs needed to be stamped out, not just Morello's piece of the Outfit, and hitting their supply was just one part of that.

Keeping low, the Raven moved across the rooftop and down a fire escape, keeping to the shadows. Watching the guards for a moment, he shot across the street as their attention was drawn by the sound of a distant motor. Then he hunkered down in a narrow alley, loading a round into the breech of the bulky rifle he unslung from beneath his long coat. Then he settled down to wait.

The boat would be here soon.
 
“Alright, I am heading off to bed,” Mercedes announced with an exaggerated yawn, “Lock up behind ya.”

“Vinnie said to keep an eye on you,” Paulie countered. He was tall and gangly, the sort that could only manage intimidating with a gun in his hand.

“You think he wants you to watch me sleep?” she challenged, gazing up at him with narrowed eyes. “Or are you tryin’ to get fresh with me?”

His eyes went wide at that, “Nah, Missus Morello. It ain’t like that–”

“Leave me then,” she snapped, shutting down his babbling excuses, “And maybe I won’t feel a need to tell Vinnie nothin’”

Paulie hesitated for a moment before turning to leave. Clearly he was having trouble figuring out which bad situation would turn out worse for him, and for a moment, she made a better case.

Overall, Mercy had gotten lucky. There were a handful of Vinnie’s boys that wouldn’t have worked on, but they were all going to be busy tonight. A little tidbit she had caught on to as she finished a drink in the back office of the club. Vinnie was talking about making up for the liquor that (she) burned. Talking about a shipment coming in for Weiss, over on Lake Michigan. Talking about showing up, packing heat, and taking all of it. And there was no way Mercy wanted to miss that.

Her husband wouldn’t be there, of course. He wouldn’t get his hands dirty. Instead, Vinnie was off with his mistress this evening. Once, she would have been annoyed and jealous. Tonight, however, Mercedes was relieved. As much as she was willing to pretend to love Vinnie while she systematically destroyed him, she couldn’t stomach the thought of being with him tonight. And the amount of alcohol she would have need to forced herself would have left her unconscious.

So once Paulie was safely out of site, she changed into the uniform she bought for herself. It certainly concealed her identity better than the one she threw together last night, to the point she might be able to pass for a man. So she put together the same supplies she brought with her the night before. She still wasn’t sure what she was going to do, her plan boiled down to “get as many people killed as possible.” Let Vinnie’s greed cost him some good men, and the rest won’t be so loyal.

She drove up to the lake, parking about a hundred yards before the docks, walking the rest of the way. Hiding the in shadows as she approached, she lurked around the next dock over, waiting for the prime moment to fuel chaos among the gangs.
 
The Raven smiled humorously behind his mask, and raised the stubby barrel of his rifle. The ship had arrived. Workmen were swarming it, unloading crate after crate of bootleg whiskey and beer and hustling to fill trucks as hard-eyed North Side brunos split their attention between the docks and the road. Nobody was giving the narrow gap between the two warehouses a second thought. And soon, they'd be far too busy to think about it at all. And so, still smiling, he angled the broad barrel upwards and squeezed the trigger. There was a dull report as it kicked against his shoulder, and then he was cracking open the breech to eject the spent shell and load the next.

Several brunos jerked their heads towards the alley as he fired again. But then the first shell impacted, spewing orange-black smoke into the harsh illumination of the dockside arc lights. Men caught in the smoke began coughing and retching, and the Raven fired again, and again, and again. Confusion reigned as the smoke obscured vision and sent men gasping and stumbling for air. Moving quickly, the Raven slung his stubby rifle beneath his coat, ignoring the uncomfortable heat of the barrel as he drew his automatic. Comfort wasn't important, after all. Just his mission.

He erupted from the alley at a sprint, mask protecting him from the worst effects of the tear gas. One gunsel, tougher and further from the center of a shell, spotted him and shouted something as he raised his Tommy gun. The Raven was faster and a tongue of flame roared from the barrel of his blued .45, dropping the gunman in his tracks. Alive? Dead? It hardly mattered at this moment. He wasn't shooting, and that was all that mattered to the Raven as he reached the first truck.

Crouching low, he crept along the side of the truck. Metal scraped as he opened the cap that covered the gas tank, and there was a hissing and a flare of crimson light as he ignited his first flare. Chuckling, he shoved it flame first into the opening and ran towards the next truck. A longshoreman stumbled into him, tears streaming from his eyes as he took a wild swing. "Who... what are you?"

Behind him the truck erupted into flame, casting the smoke with the reds of burning gasoline and wood and the blues of burning alcohol. The Raven ducked the wild swing, then danced back from the next. "Nevermore," he replied in a harsh rasp, stepping forward and lashing out with a kick to the solar plexus. The longshoreman folded around his boot, then went down as the Raven smashed his pistol into the side of his head. "Nevermore."
 
Mercedes hadn’t been watching the lake, because she was waiting on the arrival of Vinnie’s men, who would have come by car. That proved to be a mistake, as smoke erupted around the incoming ship. Had she missed something?

The Raven, she realized, after several more shells were shot off. It was the same scent she smelled when she had pulled up to the warehouse the night before. Then she was in awe, watching him move through the smoke like a phantom, dispatching thugs swiftly. Incredible. She took note of his strategy of creating a literal smokescreen to disorient his targets, and then pick them off, one at a time.

This time she was enthralled by the Raven’s methods, she wasn’t watching the road. Not until Vinnie’s goons pulled right up, three cars worth. Shit, she had to do something.

“The fuck happened here?”

“Did someone already hit them?”

“They burnt the fucking booze.”

She’d lost sight of Raven when the cars pulled up, and she hoped he had found a good place to hide. He was skilled at moving the shadows, from what she could tell, but even he’d be hard pressed to hid with a dozen men scouring the docks to find him. So, taking a page form his playbook, Mercedes tied a rag around a jar of kerosene and tossed it, hitting the nearest car. Before any of the men could begin a search for the guilt party, the car was aflame, one man desperately shedding a burning jacket.

Mercy moved through the shadows, preparing another improvised explosive. If she learned anything this night, her best bet was to keep moving. Half were distracted by the blazing car, trying to put it out while the rest looked her survivors from the north side gang. They found the man Raven had left alive, and ended him with a single gunshot.

Behind them now, Mercy figured she must have been near the alley where Raven started in, when he first attacked, if not in it. She tossed a second light kerosene bomb, hitting another car and splashing searing liquid on a nearby Bruno. His screams pierced the night, as several of his companions tried to put him out.

Mercy hoped this would prove distracting enough to given Raven an opening.
 
Chaos reigned.

Normally, that was entirely acceptable to the Raven. It was, after all, how he managed to take on large groups of gangsters. See confusion, and hit and run in the chaos. But that only worked well if the chaos was his doing. And things had spiraled rapidly out of control. He hadn't anticipated that the Outfit would hit this shipment hard and in force. Not with the number of men that North Side would surely have guarding it. But they were here, risking a war to get their hands in the bootleg hooch. Which could work. A war would breed more chaos and drive public opinion against the mobs and their violence.

Of course, he had to survive the next few minutes first.

Diving for cover, the Raven fired his automatic. The Bruno in front of him cried out as the bullet smashed his thigh, then juddered and danced as a burst from a Tommy gun tore into him. The Raven rolled, twisting out of the path of the falling corpse and the spraying blood, then brought up his gun and fired again. This time, the chopper-man went down. Rolling again, the Raven pulled his grenade launcher out and fired his last shell. Orange smoke and tear gas erupted, disorienting the combatants of both sides. Then he scrambled beneath a still-intact truck and peered around, only to blink in surprise as a car out on the road burst into flames. Men scattered as the driver, now wreathed in flames and screaming, accidentally gunned the engine and crashed into another car. Thick black smoke reflected the bloody light of the burning vehicles.

It was a chance. Dragging himself from cover, the Raven sprinted towards the narrow alleyway as another car erupted into flames. A few bullets whined past, and one tugged at the hem of his long coat, but he made it otherwise unscathed. Movement at the far end made him snap his pistol up, though. There was someone else, a figure dressed all in black that left the eyes exposed. "So," he said in a raspy voice, "I assume I have you to think for this?". The words were casual, but his gun was ready to fire.
 
Having a gun pulled on her didn’t bother Mercedes as much tonight as it had yesterday. Not because the Raven wasn’t fearsome with his piece. Clearly, he was, enough so that if he wanted her dead, she knew she’d already be dead. “That’s right. And you can start thanking me by pointin’ that gun elsewhere.” She didn’t bother disguising her voice this time, just pitching it for his ears. He already figured who she was last night, but she didn’t want anyone else nearby hearing her.

“We oughta make a break for it now, while the gangs are busy killing each other. Because despite the way you act, you ain’t bullet proof.” The fighting was dying down, the rhythm of gunfire slowing to a crawl. If they didn’t move now, there was a real risk of getting caught, and get caught by Vinnie’s boys would never end well for her. Nor him, she mused, considering the damage he’d already done. So she grabbed his hand, heedless of the gun her still held, pulling him through the alley.

Exiting out the back of the passage, they were behind the warehouses now. Safer, but not safe yet. “My car is on the other side of the docks. I’ll have to make a wide circle to avoid bein’ seen. Unless you got another idea.”
 
So Mercedes Morello had decided that providing evidence to the newspapers wasn't enough, had she? Interesting. But not anything to dwell on at the moment. Instead, the Raven squinted in an effort to see the scurrying figures behind the burning cars. "Another idea?" he repeated in his raspy voice. "I believe I have one, yes. We'll need to cross the street first, though.". Holstering his pistol, he pointed at an angle away from the burning cars and towards another narrow alley between two low store fronts. "There."

Turning his attention to the chaos by the burning cars, he pursed his lips in thought. Then he made up his mind. "Let's go," he declared, grabbing her wrist and launching into a sprint. Suddenly, as the alley fell away, he felt extremely vulnerable. Mrs Morello was right, after all. He wasn't bulletproof, and his spine crawled with the vague expectation of getting shot as his boots hammered the asphalt beneath his feet. But then he was in the alley, pulling Mercedes in next to him, and the only gunfire was being exchanged by the gangs.

"I was watching from up there," he rasped, gesturing upwards with his thumb, "before they arrived. My bike's around back. I can get you to your car with it.". His mask creased with the suggestion of a grin. "Should be faster than circling around on foot.". Glancing back out of the alley to check they weren't being followed, he turned and trotted towards the back of the building. "You handled yourself pretty well out there," he commented, squeezing around a line of trash cans. "I had no idea you were there, and I'd bet they didn't either. Not until that car blew up, at least."

The far end of the alley opened into a courtyard of sorts - an empty space surrounded by brick walls and delivery entrances. The Raven glanced out, then headed towards a low, dark-red motorcycle parked against one wall. Straddling it, he kicked the engine to life and glanced over his shoulder. "Coming?"
 
"You handled yourself pretty well out there," he commented, squeezing around a line of trash cans. "I had no idea you were there, and I'd bet they didn't either. Not until that car blew up, at least."

Mercedes was grateful for the mask she wore, hiding her blush at his compliment. “I watched you, and how you worked them over. Strike from the shadows, until the darkness is no sanctuary for their dirty deeds.” She eyed the motorcycle with a moment’s hesitation before climbing on behind him. The seat wasn’t very big, forcing them very close together. Her arms wrapped his chest and her chest flatten again his back. Hot damn, he was strong under his trench coat. Firm. Nearly enough to distract her from task at hand.

“Turn here, my car is around back,” she pointed out, lips close to his ear. Or at least she figured it was his ear. Between her balaclava and his mask, it was hard to tell. The black Cadillac emerged from the darkness as the headlight centered on it. Gunfire was distant now, and sporadic. It seems that, for the time being, they were safe. “Thanks,” was all she could manage, clamping her mouth before her fantasy request could escape. Whisk me away. Take me away from the husband who see me as nothing but a trophy he’s won, a precious pet bird he’s acquired.

It was craziness. She didn’t even know who he was, not really. How could she trust him? The only thing she knew was that he hated the gangs, enough to launch a one man killing spree against them. That made him one of the few she could trust in her own campaign of vengeance.

Even if she could trust him, and even if he were willing to help her, she wouldn’t be safe. In the short term, perhaps, but Vinnie would tear apart the city to get her back. Not out of concern or love, but because she was his, and losing what was his made him look weak. Vinnie would never stand for looking weak. They’d be constantly hiding or on the run. She’d never be safe until Vinnie was powerless. It didn’t matter what she might want. She had a job to do first.

Still, with a mischievous smile hidden under her mask, she turned towards him. On her toes, she reached up to plant a kiss on his cheek. At least, she hoped it was his cheek. The masks got in the way, but she was sure he’d understand the sentiment. Maybe even appreciate it. “Until next time, Raven.” She left without another word, without another look. She’d lose her resolve otherwise.

Vinnie was still gone when she got home, which she had hoped for. He didn’t usually leave his mistress in the middle of the night to sleep at home. Tonight, that thought was a relief, as she threw herself into their bed. Letting thoughts of the Raven lull her to sleep.
 
The kiss on the cheek was... unexpected, and he felt the softness of her lips even through the stiff leather of the mask. Coming on the tail of her having ridden behind him, arms around his waist and body pressed into his mask, hit brought ideas to mind. Not unwelcome, but distracting. He couldn't afford entanglements. Not now, and certainly not with the wife of Vincent "the Enforcer" Morello. The fact that she had every bit as much reason to hate her husband as he did made no difference. Neither did the fact that she was taking up a similar vigilante role. In fact, that made it even more important to stay away - the more people who k ew a secret, the less secure that secret was.

"Until next time, Raven," she said, turning. He didn't respond, and she didn't speak further. He simply watched as the Cadillac coughed into life and rumbled away. Then he revved his engine and spun his bike in a tight circle, rearing up on one wheel as he screamed away in the opposite direction. "Until next time, Nightengale," he murmured, hoping there would be a next time. Hoping there wouldn't be a next time. Then, frowning at himself, he opened the throttle and roared faster along the dark road.



"Morning," Marilyn yawned, gripping her cup of coffee like a lifeline as she pushed the door open. Her hair was rumpled, and she wore the same dress she'd worn the previous night when she'd visited the Gilded Cage. "How was your night?"

William sipped his own coffee, and stifled the yawn she'd triggered. "Long. I had a meeting, and then Emmett called me with some cock and bull story about the Raven shooting up a bootleg run.". He grimaced, then sipped more coffee. "Bullshit - pardon my French - but North Side and the Outfit went at it hammer and tongs, and I was up editing and running the pressed. You?"

"Well, I had a date with several of Chicago's finest, real hot and heavy," Marilyn replied with a sleepy, satisfied grin. "Interviewing them at the docks where it all went down, then writing it up.". She frowned. "You didn't notice?"

He shrugged. "I noticed I had to do extra editing...". He laughed as she stuck her tongue out. "And you turned in the piece on the Gilded Cage, too. Impressive."

She shrugged. "I had it, and the caffiene was still working. So why not?". Smothering another yawn, she pushed herself to her feet. "And now I'm gonna call a cab and head home. I don't know how you keep these hours."

"Clean living, sis," he replied, draining his mug. "Clean living, and imagining the look on Enforcer Morello's face when he gets word of this."

Marilyn sniggered nastily. "Maybe he'll do us a favor, and die of apoplexy."

"Your lips to God's ears, sis.". William yawned again. "Go on. Scram."
 
The sound of running water woke Mercedes from her pleasant dreams of the Raven. Somewhere, William had gotten mixed up in them, and even that striking reporter of his. Marilyn Stone. Damn, she had to figure out if she was his wife or what. But once the drowsy gaze faded, she figured it was Vinnie in the bathroom, cleaning off his whore’s stench. Why he couldn’t do that at her place, Mercedes didn’t know but she didn’t feel a need to ask. Instead, she got up and made them both a cup of coffee.

When she returned, Vinnie was rifling through her closet. Her disguise was hidden in a box on the floor, under a couple of shoe boxes, but still, Mercedes was terrified he’d notice it. Find it. Put the facts together and figure out who had been hitting him. She cleared her throat, and Vinnie half turned toward her with a nod. “I want you to wear something nice tonight.”

“Don’t I always?” She purred, pulling Vinnie away from the closet. Her body was pressed up against his back and her hands roamed his chest. She remembered the Raven, and how he felt beneath her fingertips. Imagined him, as she brushed lips against her husband’s cheek. Vinnie didn’t move from the open closet door but stopped looking through it at least. “What’s the occasion?”

“Mayor Thompson wants to come by the club. Wants to see you sing, and I want you to look good doing it.” Vinnie explained. Something about that made her freeze, remembering Vinnie’s words the night he violated her. You think I won’t turn this ass out if I didn’t love you so much?

“Just sing, right?” she asked, not bothering to hide the obvious discomfort in her voice.

Vinnie turned towards her now, cupping her chin. “Shit doll, he’s just a mayor,” Vinnie laughed, laughing at her. Because she would know he could do it if he wanted. He knew he could do whatever he wanted to her. She was just his little canary, after all. “Now, if it were a nosy Fed, on the other hand…”

Vinnie darted into kiss her then, and she let him. Just like she let him hurt her the other night. Because he was bigger and stronger, and even if she could fight him off, he had too many allies for her to get far. Just as his trailed down her shoulder, and she was fighting every urge to flinch or slap it away, there was a pounding at the front door. Urgent and loud, it gave her an excuse to jump out of Vinne’s arms. Vinnie held up a finger, “Be right back,” before pushing into the hallway and the foyer.

Once Vinnie was safely out of the room, Mercy let herself shudder, fighting the rising bile in her stomach. Tearing open the top drawer of her dresser, she found a bottle of whiskey hidden under her unmentionables. She took a healthy swig, and then another, washing Vinnie’s taste from her mouth and his touch from her skin. Scrubbing the lingering droplets from her lips, she put the bottle away. Everything felt a little fuzzier now, a little more distant, and she thought she might be able to endure her husband’s attention, now.

But there was no need. Not as Vinnie’s angry roar carried through the house. Bed pressed up against the door, she listened, only catching bits and pieces.

“–How’d they mess up a sure thing?”
“–Unexpected resistance–“
“–Three fucking cars–“
“–The Raven–“
“–and maybe another–“

That last line made blood warmed from alcohol run cold. Had someone seen her? Had she left a clue? No, it wasn’t possible. The Raven had said she’s done well. He hadn’t even known she was there. Vinnie’s guys sounded unsure, anyway. Still, she let herself fall back on the bed, replaying the night in her head, wondering if she had made some mistake. Vinnie burst into the room again, and the thoughts swirling in her mind made her tense, with a guilty look on her mind.

Vinnie didn’t notice. He was in his closet, pulling out a fresh suit and a couple pieces. “Listen, doll, I got some business to take care of. You don’t forget what I told you though. Dress nice, so all your audience is jealous of me, capiche?”

“Of course. See you tonight, then?” She asked, hiding her guilt in a casual lean back onto the bed.

“Yeah, tonight,” Vinnie repeated, placing an absent kiss on her forehead. He left and the sound of the front door slamming followed close behind. From the bedroom window, she could see Vinnie and his men get into his Cadillac and peel off. Releasing a slow exhale, Mercy looked for her purse and retrieved the paper William Stone had given her. He’d probably like to know about Mayor Thompson’s attendance this evening.

Dialing carefully, Mercedes called his office.
 
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