Ciaran could still hear the gruff voice of his uncle outside the barn, the rough handle of a shovel thrust into his hand. His uncle, with a shock of blonde hair and eyes the color of the bright morning sky, spoke little to Ciaran save but for the reminders to do his chores, wash up for church, or to behave. 

"This isn't the city, don't put on such airs." 

It was one of his favorite things to say to Ciaran, as if the old man had any idea what the city was like. The closest they ever got to the city was a tiny town 15 miles down the road from their little farm. They would go there for animal feed, grocery shopping after church, or parts for their equipment. The town was little enough that everyone knew Cillian's name, though not many spoke to him. He just had an air about him that screamed unapproachable. Perhaps it was his silent nature, his pronounced limp, or his crippled hand that was gnarled from the arthritis. Whatever it was, there were few people who would offer him more than a terse greeting during their excursions.  

As a younger boy, a few ladies would cluck about him, taking pity on him as he dutifully followed his uncle around town. He had learned early to speak only when spoken to, to do as he was told, and to treat elders with respect by being seen and not heard. Every so often, however, one of the ladies would slip a few peppermints into his hand with a wink or ask to borrow him from his uncle, repaid for a few minutes labor with a few coins or, his favorite thing, books. He was an avid reader and as he got older, he read as many books as he could, stashing them in the hay pile or under the floorboards of the barn. 

He was sure his uncle knew of his penchant for reading though the only thing he ever said about it was to remind Ciaran, in his thick Irish accent, that they weren't fancy city folk and to keep his mind on his work first. Eighteen years went like that, quiet farm life removed from much of the rest of the world. He knew only of the outside from the church school and even then it was a strict parochial institution that discouraged sin and worldliness. 

If only they could see him now. A few months back his uncle had fallen ill and a visit from the doctor confirmed that it was consumption and his uncle had a few months at best. Everything had gone quickly from there and in a matter of weeks they had sold the farm and packed off for Michigan. His uncle made it a month in the city before the disease took him though days before his death he'd handed Ciaran a box full of things from his youthful days before turning into a sullen man haunted by his past. 

The box held letters, trinkets, photographs that were worn and faded. A locket, a glove, a group of young men and women who looked happy. On the back, much of the ink was smudged and unreadable except the name Jack who Ciaran assumed was the handsome fellow standing next to a much younger version of his uncle. At the bottom lay an old key and the name of the bank to which it belonged and upon opening it was like a treasure trove of information. In a way, he still couldn't believe that his mild mannered uncle had once been in one of the largest crime organizations in the world and had managed to escape with his life. He'd ordered Ciaran to get rid of it all, begging for it to die and be buried with him but the curiosity was too much. 

A week after the wake, paying his final respects in an empty church, Ciaran had met a man named Will and begun his own journey from country bumpkin to suave city man. It wasn't going as well as he would have liked and for all the "airs" he'd ever adopted in the country, none of them would have done him a lick of good in the big city. He stuck out noticeably and it was only under the careful watch of his sponsor that he had made any progress in fitting in. Keats had taken the backwards country boy under his wing, moving him to Chicago and their new home city to learn a few things about the way of their world. 

Stepping out of his small apartment, pulling on a pair of black gloves and donning an overcoat, he spoke quietly to himself, a wry smile on his face as he echoed the mirror of his uncle's familiar words. 

"This ain't the country, boy. Time to put on some airs." 

Keats, hands in his pockets, was standing at the bottom of the steps leading down from Ciaran's apartment.

Good morning, Ciaran. Now what's this job you asked me to give you a hand with?

Keats checks his watch.

You know it takes quite a bit to get me awake before noon.

Ciaran gave Keats an apologetic grin, pulling his cap off his head for a moment, clutching the tweed newsboy between his gloved hands. 

"It's not quite that simple, fact it's pretty complicated. Y'see, I'm not really sure how exactly to fit in to this thing of...can I say ours? It still feels so foreign really. Finding out my uncle had anything to do with this part of the world was more than a shock. I've been chasing down all the hidden assets he'd stashed over the years but it's not been easy. I was hoping you could help me go on a treasure hunt so to speak. My uncle didn't leave a map, more like a set of clues and one leads to another. I've managed to find the first few but the clues are getting harder and my knowledge of these parts are limited."

He shifted his weight and yanked the cap back on his head as he furrowed his brow. 

"I think the next stash is down south."

Keats raises an eyebrow.

Like, South South? Like the South of the United States? Or south from the city?

Keats slaps Ciaran on the back as they start walking down the sidewalk.

Don't worry about fitting in. Just keep working hard and you'll find your groove. You don't need to go treasure hunting to figure out what you should be. Not that I'd say no to treasure.

Tell me about your uncle and these clues.

What better way to start the morning than beating on the local fronts. There was still some remnants of the old operations trying to scrap a living out of this life across Chicago, Christian was going to clear them up a bit. He tossed the toothpick into the street and crossed, his suit jacket catching in the wind. 

"This windy old town..."

He flipped off a cab that had the audacity to blare his horn as Gato crossed, before spotting a familiar figure down the street. He buttoned up his jacket and called out.

"Hey! John! John Keats!"

"South, as in the deep south. A lot of the clues are leading me down to Florida and New Orleans." 

He winced slightly but smiled and ducked his head knowing the gesture was friendly in nature. His lip twisted in thought as another man stepped off the opposite curb and flagged Keats down. It was someone he didn't recognize but he seemed to know his mentor well and Ciaran hadn't quite learned to be so wary of everybody in the streets. He waited his turn to speak again as the other man broke into their conversation to tell Keats something important and once the gentleman was finished, he spoke again. 

"Honestly, I don't know where to begin with my uncle. I came to him when I was four years old, my mom and dad died in a car accident. Within a week we were in Snyder county in the middle of nowhere on a three acre farm with animals and vegetables and no one else nearby."

He paused and fiddled with the fob watch on his vest. 

"I was named for him you know? Never knew a thing about him, but we shared the same name. Anyway, he taught me how to farm and how to care for the animals. He let me use the machinery when it wasn't broken and taught me how to do it on my own when it was. He always had a tough time with manual labor though from an injury he'd gotten as a young kid. Broken hand, said he'd never gotten it fixed right and so it was always sort of twisted and useless. After reading his letters, I found out he'd had it broken when he tried to pinch a girls purse and it was that act that got him recruited into the, uh, family he was in. He had hundreds of letters stashed away, each one telling a different story to no one in particular, folded away and stuffed in an old wooden box. He could have written a book with all the stories he told in those letters that he folded up and put away like he wanted to hide them, but never really forget. I think he missed it, he missed his friends and the people who died but he knew he could never go back. He died an old man, wracked with consumption and regret that he never told the people he loved how he felt. I think that's why he gave me his things and as much as he said to destroy them, a greater part of me can't help but wonder if he wanted me to find out who he was all along." 

Keats walked with Ciaran, appraising his surroundings. Chicago- his new home. He was barely used to life here, trying to make an impression in a new organization, and now Ciaran wanted him to go jetting off somewhere else entirely. Youthful enthusiasm- something Keats no longer possessed in such abundance. Is that what turning 30 did to you? Quietly, another associate stepped up to Keats and spoke briefly to him. After a brief conversation, the man departed and Keats continued walking with Ciaran, listening to the young man's story. It was the most he'd ever said at one time, and Keats knew better than to interrupt someone when they get going. When Ciaran was done, Keats nodded slowly.

I think you've drawn the right conclusions here. This life can be horrible- but the camaraderie and power are hard to truly leave behind. I wouldn't be surprised if the old man didn't at least want to give you to opportunity to decide. So you have an old associate of his that you want to track down? What's the deal? And I've never been to New Orleans, but it sounds like it's my kind of city.

As Keats heard someone yell his name he instinctively stepped in front of Ciaran, his right hand gently moving toward his left shoulder. Recognizing the man that owner the voice, Keats nonchalantly cracked his shoulder as if it was sore and smirked at the newcomer.

Glad to see you're dodging cars now, Mr. Gato. I don't think we had much of a meeting before, although Mimzy and I were able to figure out your identity after we dropped you off.

Keats bowed his head respectfully.

Ciaran, this is Mr. Gato. Mr. Gato, Ciaran. It's nice to officially make your acquaintance. 

Ciaran paused mid step and pulled out a creased paper that was yellowed with age. The writing on it filled up both sides as he unfolded it and peered at the tiny script. 

"Not so much an associate, he said many of them were long gone or dead, but he left names here and there. Rebecca, Jack, Declan. That name's scratched out though so I'm not so sure about that but so many more. Seems he wrote things in chronological order so it starts with him and Jack though and goes from there. I'm not sure if this is a treasure hunt for possessions, or one for nostalgia but nevertheless it's worth a shot. I want to find out what was so appealing to him that he joined, and I want to know why he couldn't seem to let it go." 

Keats peers at the paper that Ciaran holds, nodding as the young man recites the names.

Well, I know you want to find out more about him- and the chance at treasure is a good enough motivator for me. 

Keats smiles at Christian.

So how's business, sir?

Brushing down his jacket, he nods in greeting to the two gentlemen and offers a firm handshake. 

"Piacere mio, Ciaran. And signore Keats, it's good to see you without a windscreen between us."

Activity on the street picks up as the market opens, the hollering, singing and bustling noises reminded Gato of the list of jobs he had to do that day. It wouldn't hurt to lean on the locals, either. Chicago was a developing city, business was growing in every industry, which meant so was Christian's. 

"I heard what happened in Detroit, I'm glad you're still part of this life though. How has Chicago been treating you?

Keats chuckles as Christian mentions windscreens, but his expression grew serious as the other man brought up Detroit. Keats nodded solemnly.  

"Chicago has been treating me well, thank you. It's a beautiful city. One that I hope to make my mark on. Perhaps by... oh, acquiring some treasure? Perhaps you'd be interested in joining us, Christian?

Keats turns back to Ciaran with a grin. 

"Where do we start?"