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Sunday, Bloody Sunday Started by: Adonis on Sep 24, '18 05:55

Today seemed like any other. Sundays were to some a day to relax, to take in the week before and to ease off the gas a little. To others, it was a day to celebrate, to remember the Father, the Son and the Holy ghost. To repent, and to take the sacrament. Maybe both. As not everyone was what they seemed to be. Some sinned when they believed themselves to be doing good, and some sinners were actually do-gooder's robed in white. Who was who, was hard to tell some days. And on Sunday, this bloody Sunday, those lines would criss-cross and further blur the truth.

The Church seemed like any other. Smallish building on a larger than needed block of land. Low gated only on account of keeping wayward souls out, the wandering drunkards and kids wanting to get into mischief. The roof, pointed like it had been recently sharpened with an axe. Or, a finger pointing to the stars above, giving thanks to thy Lord and savior. It was the Church's day of mass. Sunday, mass. One where you'd come to take up a friendly guiding hand to bring you home. But, where home exactly was, and what the idea actually came out as, was another thing.

The Street seemed like any other. Housed, with the odd small business slotted in to make it more or less a neighborhood worth living in. It wasn't a rich area, nor a poor one. The street had a mixture of the working, middle and lower class. All had their share of cookies in Jar Street. And because of it, there always seemed to be something brewing. Like ingredients that weren't made to be mixed and sooner or later, it had to come to a head. Jar Street had been slowly bubbling for weeks now. Something had to give. It had to blow at some point.

The cars parked down Jar Street, focused on the Church, on Sunday, weren't like any other. Outwardly, of course. Even the flashiest cars were still people movers. It was the bodies seated within them that made all the difference. Just as meat suits all looked alike, the character that lugged it around made it what it was. And inside these vehicles, these gangsters were what would bring the street to its knees, the Church to crises, and make today be remembered as Sunday, Bloody Sunday.

...

Marmon V-16. Adonis was seated in the back. He chose to be a little more practical with his dress sense today, being Sunday. He hated looking like shit, unless he actually looked like shit on account of still being caught up in some shit. Today was a simple day. The task, simple too. So he kept with the theme and wore all black. He even had a matching fedora on his dome, pulled down slightly at the front. You never did know who was watching, and what would transpire wasn't going to be one you'd want your mug attached to.

Ray was driving. Which was unusual. Del Rossi usually did. He always did. But after a little trouble on Race Street, he showed himself worthy of sitting with a weapon at the ready, next to Adonis.

Both had their own brand of 'let's fuck shit up' shotguns. More notably, Adonis had a pump action Winchester 97. It was his lucky charm. Sort of. Whenever he'd been in a gun fight with it, he'd survived. The only thing that may make it seem not so lucky, was he'd get shot. Survived, though. And that was something to Joe Adonis. He'd happily take the lumps and suck down the blackened coffee if it kept him lively.

Joe flicked open his pocket watch and checked the time. Seven more minutes.

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It was a day, Flexx had on his all black suit, with grey pinstripes, a pair of stacy’s and a dark grey fedora. Him and a few of his close guards met at the back of Mitchell estates before they would head out to their destination. Flexx greeted his crew and then they hopped into the Lincoln KA Victoria Coupe, all black with fresh white walls. It was Flexx, Slipp, Taga and Matua. Sunday was... so they called a peaceful moment in the week, but this Sunday had a different vibe. Do you live for the moment, or do you go ahead and just snatch the opportunity before it can reach you? Flexx sat in the back, just behind the front passenger. Matua was in the driver seat. There were two Ithica’s under the back seat loaded with extra rounds available. Flexx tucked his 9 mm Browning in his inner coat pocket. As Matua heads out Flexx fires up a blunt and takes a long drag. You could see the change in seasons. The feel was something you couldn’t miss. Flexx passes the blunt over to Taga as he stares outside the window looking at the hustle. One that never stopped and kept moving on the daily. Sunday, yea it was a day, specially in this life. They slowly approach the block, and can see the vehicles parked in line as if it was a formation.

“Hit the block once or twice let’s see what it looks like out here”

Flexx says as Taga passes him the blunt back. Matua nods and slowly creeps around the block as they stay on the swivel checking the area. The results of a long night, with the makings of a new day. Sunday. Flexx pulls his pocket watch out and takes a look.

He takes another drag of his blunt

“Six more minutes.”

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The wind composing sonnets against R2D2s skin felt decadent enough to be a sin. 
The windows of her Cadillac V116 were rolled just far enough down to feel the breeze against her skin. The streets were lined with empty cars, many of their owners inside the very church she was parked outside of asking God to absolve them of the sordid and disgusting things they'd done all week long, seeking penance for their sins. 
R2D2 never understood the concept of not sinning, when all she did was do exactly that, but she guessed, we all needed someone to tell us that we aren't as bad as we believe, and that it was going to be okay. R2D2 smiled slowly at that thought. Her bold red lips and brown skin striking against her red dress.

She crossed her legs and leaned back fingering her Colt M1911
There was a stillness upon the air, almost peaceful in it's tranquility. The air hummed with awareness as life itself seemed to stop to tune in. It felt as though this moment was predestined, preordained by God himself. She'd bought a special red dress for today, it was a sinners dress, because there would be nothing Holy about this day besides it being on a Sunday. 

Five more minutes.

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Artie sat silently in his Chevrolet Cabriolet.as he cleared his head a few blocks away.  Focus was the key in all aspects of the more businesslike activities he took part in.  The engine was switched off as he gathered his thoughts.  He had always hated going to church; as a child he found it boring as he fidgeted on the hard pews, as a teenager he found it hard to reconcile the idea that those being feted as upstanding members of the community were the ones keeping the priest busy with funerals and now as one of those helping keep the priest busy he objected to the judgement coming forth from those who asked for his help.


He wore the most nondescript of plain suits.  Anyone with a description could only say 5 foot something, plain black suit and black shoes.  Even his watch was the simplest he could find.  The distinguishing features he had, remained invisible to almost everyone in this life.  He had already checked his pockets but checked again; no identification in his suit, nothing that could be fall out, nothing that could inadvertently be left behind.  Finally, he put his Luger P-08 into the inside pocket of the suit.  He checked the ammunition one last time.

He started the engine, slowly pulled away and glanced at his watch as he turned the car into the street.  Four minutes to go.

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After another long and exhausting week, shuttling back and forth between NY and CH, Tibbigs finally managed to find some time to take refuge in his good old 1930 Ford Model A and not to dwell on anything. A boring guy Tibbigs was, straight as an arrow, always has been. He has been living a humble life, far away from luxuries and privileges.

He was humming a tune by Louis Armstrong while he was staring absently at the church that stood at the other side of the street, contemplating on mobster life. He has never been a religious guy, he always thought people should lead a virtuous life because they want to, not because someone or something tells them to do so. He turned his eyes down to Winchester 1984 and sighed inwardly thinking to himself "Live by the gun, die by the gun. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow." 

He looked at his car's clock and thought; "Only three minutes more..."

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The engine was running on his Auburn 851 Speedster as he sat outside the church.

A row of authentic vehicles lined up as he sat, checking the time over and over. The past few days had been well spent but this was a moment that needed his undivided attention. The Church was beginning to fill up now and he knew that he would soon need to leave his vehicle.

Leaning back, he rested one arm across the headrest on the seat beside him as his second hand reached down to collect his Dual Steyr-Hahn Pistol's from the floor. He knew the plan, he knew the desire result, he was prepared and would ensure everything flowed to absolute perfection. The sun was blazing overhead as his saw the final pieces of the puzzle come into view. Looking around, he knew he wasn't the only one preparing for this moment.

As he checked his watch one final time, he begun the countdown in his head, two minutes remaining.

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Even in a moment like this William couldn't help frowning at the scuffs on his Bugatti Type 57. He'd thought that all of them had been buffed out after its recent use in a race while he was away. The marks probably weren't even noticeable to someone who wasn't so fond of the thing, but they bothered him.

He pulled himself back to the moment. This wasn't the sort of time a man should be distracted. Not when his sawed-off Remington Model 11 was lying in wait to be used. It had seen him through some dangerous times, but when bullets start flying a distracted man is a dead man and Don Bowden had far too much to live for. The cars parked all down the street bore witness to the fact that this would be a complicated day with dozens of ways to go wrong.

A slip of the hand into the pocket of his fresh, new black suit produced a cigarette from the pack nestled into an inner pocket alongside a pile of shells. He lit up the smoke and puffed heavily trying to calm his wandering mind and remember the last time he'd been to church. "Not the time," He thought to himself as he saw other familiar vehicles among the crowd lining the drive.

Almost as an afterthought, William slid the sleeve of his suit jacket back to check his watch. He'd lost track of time and rushed another deep breath of smoke before flicking the half-stick that remained out his window.

They were at the cusp. Only one minute left.

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In most of the communities across the States, hell, across many different countries, Sundays were Church days. Well-dressed families would line the pews and sing and pray and pretend all was well in their world. They would thank God for whatever was positive in their life, and they would pray that he would send them whatever they felt they needed or wanted. The children would sit through the church service, fidgeting and getting a stern “be quiet” look from their parents. When the service was over the family would head home for Sunday dinners spent with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.

Madeline found the whole concept ridiculous. She had never attended church as a child, and the idea that some mystical figure in the sky would grant her wishes was utterly absurd. If God was real, where was he when terrible things were happening to people? No, Madeline made it a point never to attend church services. Unless she was there for ulterior reasons, like the reason, she sat outside this particular church in her black 1931 Lincoln Model K 202A. Nikolas was driving, as he often did, and together they sat in silence, waiting for the time to pass.

Most days Madeline was wearing a dress, but it didn’t seem practical this morning when she studied her closet. Instead, she’d picked out black slacks and a lilac-colored blouse. Her hair was tied up to keep it out of the way. Her focus now was on her weapon, a Walther PP she’d picked up recently from one of her corrupt agents. Having handled guns since she was a child, she knew the seven shot magazine would be put to good use, but just in case she’d kept extra clips tucked into her back pockets.

Nikolas pulled out his pocket watch and showed it Madeline. A knowing smile showed on her face - it was go time. Zero minutes left.

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Isabella fumed as she threw Cadillac 60 into park.  She was late.  She hated being late, it was the height of rudeness and in this case, it's how folks working with her might be hurt.  Sadly it couldn't have been avoided as her original car had a faulty starter and wouldn't turn over!  She'd had to steal a car just to get here in a reasonable amount of time.

Reaching across the seat she grabbed her Beretta 38A.  It was a newer weapon her father had given to her when she left Detroit.  This was, so far as she knew, it's first official outing.  Opening the bolt, and then pushing the handle forward she patted the stock and looked at the Church. 

So, this is it?  Damn. 

The Catholic part of her was was pretty confident that the sorry sons of bitches inside were all bound for hell, never having taken true holy sacraments, but right now she couldn't do more than kiss her rosary and silently say a prayer for their souls.  Checking her watch she was just under one minute behind.  She couldn't wait any longer, it was time to act.

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Sunday was the only day Ilaria really had "off," as the clinic was closed. Thus, it was the best day for her to get things done. The sun was high in the sky, and Ilaria carried a parasol resting on her shoulder. The parasol had been a gift from her Uncle Carlo when he had visited Japan many years ago. 

A smile sat on her face as she walked, reflecting a contentment she felt inside. Things had been going so well, even more than she could have imagined. Thanks to Tara, she now had a real shot at reaching her life-long goal of becoming a doctor. 

The huge catholic church appeared on her right. She was not unfamiliar with them, having grown up a devout Catholic, but the detail in the architecture never ceased to amaze her. Ilaria stopped and gazed up at the massive doors of the church, admiring the intricate carvings of saints and angels. 

Somewhere nearby, a loud, deep bark rang out, echoing off the cement. The sound caused Ilaria to jump, startled out of her musing. 

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The refreshing smell of daisies hung in the air while Luna stepped down from the front porch of her apartment.

She closed her eyes, stuck her nose in the air and took a big whiff of the delightful scents of plants and flowers that were being exposed to her. Even the plain grass had a distinct smell, which she found oddly satisfying. While it was still pretty early in the morning to be heading out, today was the day she would be doing her usual routine of arriving to the church for Sunday mass. On other days, she would be wearing her favourite sweater - although that would be too inappropriate for a 'holy event' so she settled for a floral print dress. On it, there were many colours and she would probably stand out from the crowd. Her eyes flickered open and she looked out to the streets in front of her.

She contemplated taking a taxi to the church building, but figured why be inside when she can enjoy the cool breeze outside?

The weather was very much to her liking, and she would rather walk and admire the sun just starting to rise above her and the birds that would fly overhead.

"Eh, okay. I'll walk." She said to herself, taking a deep breath as she turned to her right and headed in the direction of that familiar building where saints would come and go.

Besides planning to bring her good will and christian faith to her destination, Luna brought along her favourite necklace. She never left her house without it - reason being, it was the only thing that reminded her of her mother. Luna never had the chance to meet her as she died when Luna was still at a very young age, but that silver heart necklace was passed down to her by her father, who had also passed. 

As she continued to walk, she held onto the necklace with a strong grip. She whispered to herself the things her father would say to her just before she would go to sleep.

"I might not be here in the morning, but just know - I love you very very very much," he would say with such conviction and sweetness that a tear would fall down her cheek, but only letting it fall when he walked out of the bedroom.

He was a gambler and an avid drinker who would leave most nights, and come back in the morning with maybe a black eye or a couple bruises resting upon his thigh. Thus, Luna had to take care of herself most of the time. You could say she didn't have the guidance she was supposed to have, but her childhood wasn't all like that. Not at all.

As her eyes scanned the familiar street that would be very close to the church, Luna took notice of a little girl dressed in a warm, red coat, being kissed on the cheek by someone who looked like they would be the father of the child. The father held her, his arms supporting the little girl's weight. His loving gesture earned a giggle from the young, adorable girl - and Luna's heart softened at the sight. The sentimental fool she was made her think back to the times her father would lift her up like that and try to make her laugh with his funny faces. A tear was threatening to fall from the corner of her eyes, but she held back the urge and cleared her throat before continuing to walk along the pathway.

Her hand was still holding onto that memorable piece of jewellery hanging around her neck, but she took it away from there to pat down some strands of her hair that began to stick up from the wind, which grew stronger. 

It wasn't long before she could see the church. Luna walked closer to the entrance and the frown on her face immediately turned into a soft smile at the thought that when those white double doors would push open so she can finally be at a peace of mind. Other people were already heading inside, some just standing before the main church doors like Luna. Usually the outside area would be packed, but this time - Luna noticed that her surroundings was quiet. If she was to hear something, besides it being the wind, it would only be a faint whisper. It was like no one wanted anyone else to know that they were talking.

As the wind continued to push hair in front of her face, she raised both of her hands behind her to hold onto her brunette locks before setting it all to one side. It wasn't this windy when she had walked out of her apartment, but she shrugged and maintained a soft smile so that anyone would pass by her would smile as well. Luna always thought to herself that smiles so powerful, and so contagious. You don't even have to say a word, and it can make someone's day.

But she knew of someone else who was having a particularly bad day... 

In the corner of her eye, she noticed a large, black cat with neon green looking eyes - and he was only anticipating one thing. But it seemed to be looking..

... her way?

Luna looked around her in a confused manner, but she suddenly let out a squeal as she felt something hairy against her foot. A mouse! She took a sudden step back, and returned her attention to the cat who was already crawling its way over to her. Hungry for a mouse? She snickered to herself and walked away from the mouse that was about to embark on a chase. Luna caught a few looks as she was still quite shaken from the mouse who she thought was going to jump into her face, but a few minutes passed and she finally recovered from the shock. She patted down her hair once more and pursed her lips in a shy manner as she looked down at the ground, trying not to look anyone in the eyes.

"Gosh, well that was embarrassing." 

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It has been a while since Lo has left her house, early Sunday morning to go to mass. She had a Catholic upbringing, but since her family died she hasn’t been able to step foot inside a church. She was mad at God because of what He did, but as she was about to get married soon, she decided this was the best time to try and make peace with the Almighty.

She was wearing green, to make sure her read hair popped. It’s been one of her favorite dresses lately and she found it appropriate for church. She locked her door after she checked herself in the mirror before leaving the house. The day was warm so Lo didn’t bother to grab a coat. Her pearl necklace was on her, along with the gold delicate one with a silver ring in it. She kept that one under her clothing. On her hand, her new, shiny engagement ring shone brightly that almost made it look like the angels were calling her name because they knew she was sinning.

Her small purse was growing heavier with each step she took. She could lie and say she wasn’t carrying anything new, but she wouldn’t. Regarding recent events Lo decided to get herself a gun: the Colt .38 snub-nose. She had never fired one, but she felt safer with it, so she carried it around, just in case.

As the girl walked she remembered that going to mass was a joyful occasion to her family. She was taught that God was patient and kind. She never thought about that much, but she believed love to be all that.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

Even if she was angry at God, this was what kept her going. She believed in the good of everyone and she was ready to make her marriage be the best she could muster. Lo was going into this with an open heart and a happy soul. It surprised her the amount of people she found outside of church, she didn’t remember seeing so many even during Easter or Christmas. She didn’t wonder why, she just smiled and she took the stairs one by one. The front doors didn’t look so scary this time around, Lo was more mature, less intimidated and more herself. She straightened her dress, held her purse close and decided: she would not fail this time.

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Out of the car and into the street, Joe's outstretched right leg forced his slacks to ride up a little, revealing a snub-nosed revolver strapped to his ankle. He gained his footing before sliding the rest of himself out. The buttoning up of his jacket next was necessary. He was a little vain. A little self obsessed. His mirror maybe had a little too much attention. If he were of the opposite sex, maybe lipstick smudges. But that was Joe.

With a ready set of hands, Joe caught the shotgun that Ray tossed in his direction. He hadn't cared to look around before the fact. He was a gangster. Who the fuck would question him? With a smirk, he let Ray know he'd only be a moment. But a moment in this life could last forever. Death had a steady hand in things, practically had its translucent paws on the shoulders of all that entered it. Whether innocent or not, it wasn't a matter of why, but just a matter of when. It was a knowing smirk. One that let his driver, his friend, his comrade know, he might not be back.

Joe turned and began his approach. It felt like he'd been here before. He got that sense as he stepped his oxfords casually, almost lightly, against the paved road. And as he continued his forward movements towards the church grounds, a shocking experience flashed in his minds eye. Maybe a warning. Or maybe just another nightmare he'd not been able to drink to a complete silence.

Both hands were on both pockets, hoping he'd keep the score as he paced away from the scene of the crime. As the sirens drew near and the flashing lights splashed off the buildings of the neighborhood he was pacing through, the Ford was his only option. A do-or-die elbow to the window and a quick flick and jiggle and he was in. The car in motion before he could care to look at the damage to his upper arm.

The road was wet. Rain pelted down on the Ford Model A Rumbleseat Coupe. Stolen, in a needy exhibition of his quickly developing skills. After another showing of what he'd come to know as a way of life. A stolen watch in his right pocket. His other, filled with spoils from the man's wallet.

With blood dripping onto the seat, he picked up speed as the car bounced over a crescent and down into the start of a dip. His foot was planted flat. There was no going back. He couldn't get caught. Tomorrows food for himself and his junkie girlfriend depended on it. The Ford picked up more speed than the manufacturer allowed. The needle, bouncing against the limit, but the car continuing to pick up its pace.

It zoomed down the wet asphalt, the hill taking it for a ride. Joe's eyes wide, his heart pumping. Sirens behind him weren't visible, not since he took an ambitious turn down an alleyway earlier. The trail of destruction noticeable, the right front headlight no longer helping to keep the road lit as the car continued to careen towards the bottom of the slope.

His hands were gripped tight against the wheel. The cut on his arm barely noticeable. The sting taken as a sign he was tense. His top and bottom teeth clenched hard against the other. He felt like this would be it. The section of road that would allow him to escape and disappear into the dead of the night.

Suddenly a figure appeared on the road in front of him. The car too fast to stop, yet his foot hit the brakes upon instinct. His breath ceased as the people mover smashed straight into the boy, who had his hands out in front of him, as if they would lessen the impact. They didn't. Into a ditch they both went. The body air born long enough he had time to watch it, the kid tumbling ferociously through the air, before blackness.

He didn't know how long. But he was out for a period of time. Upon coming to, his left hand immediately reached for his bloodied head. The deep cut to his right upper-arm no longer an immediate issue, his left shoulder the focus, knocked out of its socket. Out of the steaming car he forced a slide with the door already partly opened. A quick look around preceded a slow but steady galloping getaway.

With shotgun in hand, Joe shook off the memory and stepped lively to the front of the church. He gave his lucky weapon a quick pump before kicking the door in and entering.

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“Time!!”

Flexx says, Matua looks back and as they bend the next corner he parks.They all exit. You could hear the stacy adams scrap across the asphalt. You could smell the herb, and you can feel the tense in the air. That’s right tense, because it was so thick, tunnel vision was all you could see, your mission, and any obstacles in the way. As Flexx steps out of the vehicle he takes a look around as he hits the blunt as he was in a moment of silence. He looks back at his guards and begins to walk towards the church. While crossing the street a red ball bounce in front of the mobsters, never blinking an eye to the air filled rubber devise bouncing in front of them. Flexx for just a second, is lured by the bouncing ball. Just for a moment……  

A moment flashed before his eyes as him and he crew approached. The day was Sunday, and the location was completely familiar.

“Flexx! come on boy!!”

His mother says to him, as he hurries across the street to catch up with his family. A young kid, maybe ten years old. Him and his family going to church. A tradition that has been followed for years. One of the safest they say. Flexx walks, and skips across the street. As he approaches his family, he could see his father talking with someone, or arguing. His father stood there but had his hands up. Flexx could see the man had a gun pointed to him. Startled, but with the moment at a climax, the only thing young Flexx could do is react. Being a youngster, the man never saw him. Young Flexx moved slightly behind his father and retrieved the nine millimeter tucked in the small of his back. Never has he pulled the trigger, but this time there was a feeling of numbness. Young Flexx removes the safety and moves from behind his father surprising the man, and he shoots him. Some would say a lucky shot, or some would say the kid had a future in running these streets. His father looked back as the man dropped to his knees. Young Flexx held the gat steady as if he was ready for more.

“Hey!.. Pass that Boss!’

Slipp says as he taps Flexx on the soldier. Flexx pass the blunt over to Slipp as he grabs his nine out of his pocket and takes it off safety. Almost a b line to the front door, his guards were behind him as he led the way.

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Kissing her Saint Kateri medal she dropped it once more so that it lay safely tucked into her cleavage. Bianca slid out of the car and onto the street. Her heels clicked audibly along the concrete as she walked towards the church doors, a sliver of foreboding shuddered through her causing her to shiver. It felt as though someone had walked on her grave. She had only felt this way only once before, right before she committed the first stain against her soul. Patricide. 

“Do not walk away from me when I am talking to you mijito.” My fathers hand shot out before I could leave the room. Pushing me against the wall his breath hotly scorched my face, “You will do as I command. If I tell you to spread your legs, you will damn well do it. I own you, do you not get that? You are a girl, and as such you are my property!” He screamed into my face, but I didn’t flinch learning long ago that the monster didn’t care if I were scared or not, he only wanted my swift obedience in whatever way he could get it. I didn’t have to look to know that my mother was in the kitchen doing what women did there and I knew that she would never protect me. I almost laughed, hell she couldn’t protect herself. This mansion that held all of our family’s wealth was little more than a gilded prison. Trapping the women that dwelled within into a hell like no other. The anger inside of me began to boil like lava. I’d never felt this tremendous pressure. It felt as though my blood was on fire, burning me from the inside out, and I was sure that I would explode.

My fingers landed on my fathers most prized possession, Tete de femme (Dora Maar). As my fingers grazed the sculptures neck, I listened to my fathers’ angry words and felt nothing. I smiled, finding peace as everything came into focus and seeing that smile my father back handed me. My smile didn’t lessen, nor did I feel the blow that landed on my cheek as I gripped the handle of the statue tighter.

My father didn’t see my first blow, but he felt it as he stumbled into his desk. His head leaking as he looked up at me. Sensing that I was no longer the brow beaten daughter he once had his eyes rounded in fear. I didn’t give him enough time to reach I swung the statue with seventeen years’ worth of rage spilling forth at his head. Watching my father go down I went over to him, “We will no longer be your tools to use, and I don’t have to do a God damn thing. Fuck you.” I swung the statue at his head until he ceased to exist, blood and brain matter stained the walls. I stopped swinging the statue once my arm could move no longer. I licked my lips tasting metallic and copper. Stumbling back the shock of what I’d done clear as day. I had murdered the head of la familia. My gaze locked with my mothers and she said, “It is done, you are now the head of la familia.”

Coming out of the memory as her footsteps hit the churches front steps Bianca could swear that she could still taste the metallic of her fathers’ blood. Bianca smiled with her gun at ready she entered the church.

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Slipping the car into park, Artie switched the engine off causing the car to shudder to a standstill.  As he opened the car door, the cry of a baby caused his head to spin round.  It was just a mother talking her child out for a walk but he took a second to sit back down and let his heart rate return to normal.  It was the cry though.  That unknowing wail at anything abnormal hit him hard and it took him a second to think why.

The wail took him back twenty years to his years as a kitchen hand in Hoboken.  To the kitchen of his mentor Guiseppe Carlo.  To the 17th of November and the end of service when the recently fired waiting staff were arguing with Guiseppe.

Leave!  You will not rip me or my customers off again.

There had been thefts from the cloakroom and no-one had owned up…
There was a scuffle between Guiseppe and Carlo the loudest of them all...
Artie had pulled them apart and suddenly Carlo came at him..
A knife was pulled and Carlo lunged at Artie...
Carlo had Artie against the work counter and no-one tried to help...
Carlo had the knife against Artie’s throat and Artie was pushing hard against it...
A woman’s voice…

Carlo!

A child’s scream

Artie kept pushing just as Carlo released his grasp and in the midst of all of that it took a second for Artie to realise in the confusion the knife had sliced through Carlo’s jugular vein and he was now covered in blood...

As Carlo grabbed his neck he slumped to the floor all it took was a couple of seconds for Artie to watch the life flow out of Carlo…literally on to the floor in front of him.

Artie snapped back to the here and now.  That seemed like a lifetime ago.  He rested his head briefly on the steering wheel.  This sort of thing never got any easier.

He sighed, checked the safety and the ammunition again and got out of the car.

Mr Joe Average walked into the church like he belonged…

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Tibbigs was sitting in his car, enjoying the silence. "Silence", an interesting word it was. For some it meant nothing but discomfort, whereas for men like Tibbigs it was sweet music to ears. For minds like his, that are unable to find peace and quiet even in sleep, silence was invaluable. It has been almost 13 years since the war ended but everything was still so clear to him. As he sat in his car, enjoying the silence, he took a stroll down memory lane...

"He was just a 17-year-old-boy when the President Wilson called for war declaration. It was just one day after his birthday. He remembered The New York Times' April 3rd caption like yesterday: "PRESIDENT CALLS FOR WAR DECLARATION, STRONGER NAVY, NEW ARMY OF 500,000 MEN..."

Quite naturally, army was in need of volunteers. As a footloose, unemployed, penniless young man after NCO health school, Tibbigs had compulsorily and reluctantly enlisted in the army. Because of his aptitude and his incompetence in handling firearms, he was inducted as a battalion surgeon for AEF among many others. War-weary allied forces in France were desperately in need of support and US was already deploying soldiers at the rate of 10,000 a day. In spring of 1918, Tibbigs found himself in France, operating on wounded and patching up injured before he even knew it. Losses were heavy and rivers were running red. A man, in a war-torn world, was trying to stand against death but his efforts were in vain. One night, he was trying to patch up a mortally wounded soldier on the battlefield. The man needed immediate attention and had to be taken to a field hospital as quickly as possible, however, the enemy had different plans. A surprise attack had forced them to attach to a cover and the wounded soldier was in the throes of death. Tibbigs and another one of his comrades was trying to keep the wounded soldier alive while only a handful men were trying to repel the surprise attack of enemy forces. Because chaos was running rampant and death was all around, nobody had noticed the enemy soldier sneaking up. After the first gunshot, Tibbigs saw his fellow medic fall flat on the ground. On the spur of the moment Tibbigs, blinded by his anger, hurled himself on the enemy soldier and sliced his carotid artery with the very scalpel he used just a moment ago. That was the first and the last time Tibbigs ever claimed a life."

People called him a pacifist, a peace lover because of his antiwar attitude, he didn't care. He knew for a fact that war was never a solution. He knew that an open mind was infinitely more powerful than a closed fist. Tibbigs bounced back to reality and tried to clear his mind. He picked up his Winchester and loaded it. He got out of his car, made himself presentable and walked into the church holding his Winchester.

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The time had arrived.

Opening the door of his motor, he stepped out, adjusting his suit as his eyes stayed focused on the clear pathway leading to the church entrance. His hat was tilted enough to cover his face as he began to walk, one step at a time, slow and meaningful.

The wind blowing caused his suit jacket to sway slowly in the gust, both of his Steyr-Hahn Pistol's clearly visable in the band of his waist.

Thoughts flowed through his mind as he used this moment to say a silent prayer. To any on-lookers, it would have just seemed like he was mumbling but this was his ritual. Deep in thought, he continued his approach, his mind re-living all the past times he had seen the tides of war and bloodshed. The first would always be the one that had the most impact on him though.

He was only 20 years old at the time, a situation which had caught him a little by surprise. He was always involved in 'the business' but the trust that had been invested in him caused a desire to see him grow up a little quicker than normal. It was an operation that should have been easy, a simple collection from known connected people who had been trusted before. It quickly became apparent though that the local gang had other ideas, other ambitions of grandeur, a need to rebel against the hand that fed them. A small argument, a quick escalation, then it was over. He had looked down to see the gang boss laying on the floor motionless, blood covering his hands as they were shaking still from the single shot which had been used to finish the discussion for good. It would forever be in his memories but he was a different man now and his body had learnt to adjust to the emotions. Fear had been replaced with pride. Sorrow had been replaced with the prayer for his actions.

Everyone learns, everyone grows, that was his evolution.

As he reached the entrance, he raised his arms and placed one hand on each of the large wooden doors, pushing them open as the creaking wood made people turn around, his head finally lifting to meet the eyes of those present inside.

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William's hands moved quickly between pocket and shotgun as he left his beloved car and moved towards the church. Loading the weapon gave him something to keep his focus from where he was going.

One. Two. Three. Four. Chamber. Five.

It was a familiar gesture, and one that unfortunately accomplished precisely what he'd been using it to shield against. He'd remembered that it was how his last time at church had begun.

He looked up from the weapon and there was his father and the priest. Smiling and chatting as they always had. The two were fast friends, his father being a good catholic, and Father Moore seeing in the man the exemplar of what he preached. Never mind that the man was without anything resembling a heart for his family. William's father had threatened him into bringing a rifle to clear some pests out of the belfry of the church as a favor to the priest. He supposed his father thought he was saving his son's soul, but he was sure that no one ever crossed the pearly gates by shooting pigeons. Or by threatening women as his father did.

The man had long since realized that threatening Will would accomplish nothing. He'd take his lumps and not budge. So instead today he'd taken a new tactic. He'd threatened Kinzie knowing full well that William would buckle under the pressure. The young man had seen what his father had done to his own wife and knew that his own love for the girl would hold the man back no better.

Father Moore saw his approach and a distasteful expression wrenched up his face. "The prodigal son himself. Perhaps honest work will help you see the shame you bring to your parents with your foolishness. Your father has the patience of a saint to be trying to bring you back to the lord boy, and you'd do well to recognize it." His father beamed with pride as the priest focused his attention on the young man. That smug smile raised the flame of anger that Will had been feeding and stoking all morning in a way that nothing else could. He'd meant to make him pay today for his acts to ensure that he'd never raise a hand to Kinzie and this began to push William over the edge. Before his mind could even catch up his mouth had opened and his grip tightened on the rifle.

"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled." The words flooded out like a prayer as his hands slipped to the safety and pushed it off. A part of him was screaming out against his instinct, telling him that to do this here would be a step too far.

"What are you on about boy? You're making a fool of yourself!" His father's confusion was obvious. His sidelong glances to the priest showed his true concern. That he cared more for his own shame was no surprise, but that he'd missed the imminent threat was.

Father Moore seemed no more aware of what was about to happen. "You've remembered something from the sermons. Maybe you've not been a total waste then lad. But the devil twists the words of God against us, and I'll not be taken in by a ruffian doing his work. Be silenced until you understand what it is you say."

It was only as the rifle raised that the two men realized in horror what William was doing. As the barrel pointed to his father's heart William could only hear their words repeat in his mind, egging him on. Fool. Ruffian. Devil. If that was what he was to them then he'd EARN it. He squeezed the trigger as he spoke again.

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God."

The crack of the rifle split the air. One. Two. Three. Four. Five times. All in rapid succession without the barest hint of sight through the red haze that had enveloped him.

For a moment all was still. He stood staring at his father, the both of them stunned by the act that had just occurred. For the first time, William saw his father regard him with fear, but the triumph of that was lost in the sight of Father Moore.

He'd jumped in front of William's father to protect him and sunk to the ground, the bullets having found purchase in the wrong heart.

The old man, now terrified of the son he'd held under his fist for so many years, turned and ran. He hadn't even tried to help the priest.

He'd never be able to go back to Kinzie. It would just tie her and Connor into all this and they didn't deserve that. He'd have to run. Somewhere far away where this would never catch him. They'd forgive him someday. At least he hoped they would.

William shook his head and realized that his hand had crept to the trigger in the cloud of memory. He took a ragged breath and eased it back away as he looked at the tall wooden doors before him. He'd left God behind that day, but somehow he always ended up skirting the edges of the church whether he wanted to or not.

Well today wouldn't be the day for redemption. Not with what he'd come here to do. A deep breath and a push of the doors with his head bowed in respect for the place, if not  those within it, and William Bowden crossed the threshold.

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Madeline climbed out of the vehicle with a natural elegance, her feet hitting the ground with purpose. Nikolas exited as well, walking behind her to the right. She was focused on the building in front of her, the church she was going to enter that day. She wondered what kind of church it was and if it was anything like the Baptist church back home that she had been in a handful of times over the course of her marriage. Her mind flashed back to that small Texas town and the one little church that stood in the center of it; she could hear the church bells ringing although if it was in her memory or the present day, she couldn't tell. 

She had gotten married in that church, the same church where her parents had been married and where she had been baptized. And then she hadn't gone back, not until that Sunday morning after he had hit her for the first time. 

“This is my house, and you will do as I say, do you understand? You would be nothing without me. Trash living in a field. Filthy and uneducated.” 

She could still hear his words ringing in her head as if he was right there next to her. Nothing. No one. She had prayed to God the very next day, sitting in the back pew. She prayed that Vernon would never lay a hand on her again, but it had done nothing. He'd continued to hit her almost every night, and it only got worse. It was then that she had lost her faith for good; no, no magical figure in the sky was going to save her from the horror at home. She'd had to do that for herself.

Madeline - or Jenny, at that time, had planned for weeks how to do it. She'd found the perfect poison, something that would mimic a heart attack, but every time she had the chance she would chicken out. Until the day he had hurt Sadie. The Bluetick Coonhound had been her best friend from childhood. That day, standing in their living room, Vernon had tried to hit her for bringing the dog home. But when he did, Sadie lept to defend her, sinking her teeth into Vernon's flesh. Vernon had one of his men drag her outside. She could still feel the way she struggled against them while Vernon loaded his shotgun and aimed it at Sadie. She had sobbed and pleaded, but there was no hesitation - Vernon killed the dog right in front of her. Jenny had crawled over to Sadie and held her well past dark. The dog had been the one thing in Jenny’s life that had truly made her happy, who had truly loved her. And now she was gone, and it was all Jenny’s fault.

So the next day, when Vernon had come home from work, Jenny watched as he came out from his office sipping his usual drink - Tennesse Whiskey on the rocks. She'd already poured enough poison into the whiskey that by the next morning, Vernon would be dead. For hours Madeline would watch as the man suffered stomach cramps, vomiting, nausea, and diarrhea. He would beg her for help, tell her to call for the doctor. But instead, she would tuck him into bed and make sure he never made it to the phone. She would even take time to clean the room before she called for the doctors, which she only did once she was sure Vernon was dead and beyond saving. 

She'd gone to that church one more time, for the funeral, the damn church bells ringing for what felt like hours as they carried his casket out to the waiting hearse. Watching a man suffer in that way, for hours, it changed a person. Jenny had not just taken a human life, she had tortured them - and she had enjoyed every moment of it.

Nikolas' cleared his throat behind her, bringing her back to the present. He had seen Madeline get lost in memories before and could recognize the look that would appear on her face when it was happening. She turned to smile at him softly, indicating that she was fine. Madeline was not the weak woman who had been beaten by her husband. No, she was a force to be reckoned with now. 

There was a sly smile on her face as she pushed the doors opened and walked into the church, a firm grip on her weapon. Let the chaos begin.

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