As a car rolled by, Nick was transfixed by the sound of wheels rolling through the odd leftover puddle from a dreary day. For his suspicious mind, the black Ford seemed to take forever to pass between the stretch of shops either side of the main strip. Some called him Saint Nick on account of the oddly lucky hands he'd been dealt from time to time, which he swore were life's little reminders maybe there was something more to things than met the eye. Other's that only knew of him started to use it sarcastically, as he had been growing a reputation in his local neighbourhood for someone you didn't want to cross for the wrong reason. And as the group he was with were all building in notoriety, naturally were his list of reasons.

Out of the foursome, Jerry was the least likely to stand behind Nick when he got that single minded and the two had already been jawing at one another even before they left Stalk's garage.

"There it is, our downfall." Jerry snarked, taking aim at Nick's earlier comments about something not feeling right, as he noticed the Scarfo's attention was fixated on the moving vehicle as it passed where they were parked.

The Model A eventually turned right at the end of the street and rolled out of sight but not before lingering a little. The car the two were sharing was filled with smoke from many a lucky strike cigarette, the brand the group swore by and had come to be named after. Whenever on a job they'd walked away from successfully, with that term usually meaning no jail time or loss of life, they'd always joked it was because they smoked the brand at some point during or before that escapade. It was even suggested that Paulie survived a gunshot wound because Nick sparked up on the way to the hospital and ever since, Nicholas Scarfo's pack a day habit turned into a pre-job ritual and the small time crooks had been on a clean run of jobs spanning three months and counting. But tonight, for Nick at least, something seemed off and he just wasn't able to shake that gut feeling.

"Leave it, Jerry. It's time. Let's get this done." Stalk cut in firmly before Nick could fire something back, although he was lost in his own thoughts to really care to.

The backdoor of the stolen ride opened as Stalk took one last puff of his cigarette. He then flicked the butt onto the paved sidewalk and stepped out into the cold and drizzly night, flipping up the collar on his coat as he did. Snow was still falling ever so faintly yet there seemed to be a slight lull with the elements, prompting Stalk to get things moving.

A moment passed before two more followed, Paulie the first out with a smirk at both the continued tension between his two comrades and because they were finally moving after an hour of sitting and waiting. He gently closed the front passenger door and dug his hands deep into his overcoat as he followed Stalk across the street.

Jerry muttered something under his breath as he took his leave but Nick wasn't biting, Jerry's words barely audible until the back car door being slammed snapped his attention back to the moment. The loud clanking of metal caused Paulie's smirk to vanish and Stalk's movements towards the opposite side of the street to cease, both now looking back at Jerry with daggers.

"The fucks wrong with you?!" Paulie huffed in a low tone, trying to keep quiet yet clearly unhappy with Jerry's actions. Stalk waived the two over, hurrying them along before all three moved together along the store fronts and eventually down a side alley that broke up a cluster of shops, fading into the shadows from Nick's view.

The group had hit two shops a month since the start of their current run and were now onto their sixth. They were quite a few neighbourhoods away from what they claimed as their own turf, the spot they all grew up in and had slowly gained a small but solid reputation for things nefarious. If easy money had something to do with it, they were interested, and these post offices were turning out to be a steady earner. Beyond roughing up locals for a cut in card games and pushing stolen medicinal liquor out of car boots, these jobs were their first real taste of being somewhat organised and moderately ambitious and apart from the mother of fuck ups of a failure on their first attempt, things were on the up and up. If this spot had what their tipper promised they'd be able to start their own string of home stills to sell in bulk at some of the lesser reputed speakeasies. Not the biggest players in the game, but as Stalk would always say, slow and steady was the best way if you didn't want too much heat.

Time started to drift as Nick shuffled in the drivers seat, constantly eyeing his surroundings for anything suspicious. Even though they'd hit a groove with their attempts recently, the waiting didn't get any easier for Scarfo. Nervously taking things in, the street looked pretty much dead. There were two other cars parked along the short strip, one a little ways in front and one behind which was the reason for their long wait to get going. They wanted to see if the vehicles would be moving at all. But they hadn't, so it was assumed they were a non issue. There was no foot traffic, not a soul out in these conditions although Nick found it to be quite soothing. He couldn't stand the hot weather and really enjoyed this time of year for it seemed to slow the rush of the daily grind down a little with the snowfall. Plus it was Christmas in a few days and although he didn't get into the spirit himself, he kind of liked how it made people nicer this time of year.

The shops looked just as lifeless as Nick scanned the ones nearest the post office on the opposite side of the road to where they had parked. The corner store looked new and had a poster for the smokes the crew had been devouring the past hour. Nick took a mental note that he should grab another packet and probably a few more things for his apartment he'd been neglecting. A barber shops red and white pole looked nice with the whitewash the snow gave the whole area. It seemed to match the season perfectly. He'd had his hair cut recently and it reminded him of Al, the owner of his local who always had a hard to believe story to tell. The flower shop seemed like the oldest building in the set but was still presentable, simple with it's big block lettering on the large windows either side of the single door entrance. Nick tried to make out the bouquets inside but it was too dark. On his side of the street he took a look at a park that stretched the length of the small business like district. He could see the beginnings of a path dimly lit by a lamp with a wooden seat right beneath it and a pond that stretched from them both along the path but quickly disappeared into the darkness.

Nick sighed a brief relief as he clasped the steering wheel and began to settle in. Sometimes these things took a little while. Breaking in was somewhat quick and easy, depending on the method. It was the rummaging about to find valuables that took the longest. But with the tip off, it should've been a little quicker than most, which is what Nick started thinking as his hands clasped the wheel tighter. This was actually taking too long. He scanned the rearview mirror, then the side mirrors, then the entrance to the alleyway the trio entered. Nothing. Come to think of it, he hadn't even heard a window break.

"Come on." Nick said aloud as his fingers began tapping the steering wheel, his nerves building. He glared again at the park to his right and then down the street to where the car turned out of sight just minutes earlier, then back to the store fronts and the alleyway. Still nothing. His breathing began to quicken as his senses perked. His stomach started knotting with the barrage of negative thoughts as his mind began racing. 'Maybe something happened to them. This is taking too long. It's never taken this long. The tip off said it would be near the back door waiting for them. Just get in, get out, nice and easy. So where the fuck are they. And that car earlier. The fuck was with that car. Something must be wrong. It never takes this long.'

Nick flicked down the glove compartment. A M1911 slid forward off of a well used yellow notepad. As he reached down to grab the gun a familiar voice drew his gaze. It was coming from the alleyway. It was Stalk.

"Scarfo." Stalk said aloud as he appeared from the shadows. He was a tall yet athletically built guy but they called him Stalk as he was a skinny kid and got teased about it a lot. He really stuck out with how long and lanky he looked and being the kind of self-respectable guy he was, he decided to join a boxing gym. It's where he met Nick, the two becoming close friends and inseparable ever since. And although the teasing stopped the nickname stuck. He was the leader of the group, the others all connected through him in some way or another and all happy to follow his lead no questions asked. He held that high of an opinion of himself and they did too, as he always tried to raise them to his level and always backed them, always. No matter what shit they got themselves into, he was there to lead them out of it.

Stalk edged forward as Nick scanned for the others who were usually not far behind. Then he noticed Stalk was limping and dragging his right leg. He almost fell and lost his balance multiple times before finally collapsing in the street just a few feet from the car.

"Stalk!" Nick quickly grabbed the gun and rushed from the car.

"You were right." Stalk said in a defeated tone as he looked up at Nick, kneeling before him. Nick dropped to his knees in a panic and immediately began checking for wounds, already fearing the worst, placing the gun on the road as he did.

"Are you shot?!"

Stalk slapped away Nick's hands. "Fuckin' Jerry, pal. He set us up."

"What?!"

Stalk shoved Nick back, gritting his teeth in frustration. "I would've fuckin' died for that piece of shit!"

"Paulie? Where the fuck is Paulie? Him too?"

"Paulie..."

Nick looked up towards the alleyway entrance as a calm yet strong voice drew his attention and cut short their conversation.

"Hands where we can see them."

Two men in suits stood firm with guns aimed at Nick and Stalk. Nick also noticed sirens were blaring in the distance. It sounded like multiple police cars.

With Stalk's back to the armed men, Nick was the only one able to see them, his eyes beaming in their direction.

"How many?"

"Two." Nick said without hesitating. His eyes were still on the gunmen, one who was voicing steady orders yet to Nick and Stalk it was just whitenoise as their attention narrowed on each other.

"You make him pay. Make them all pay."

Nick's eyes finally returned to Stalk.

"Don't be like me. You don't be like me, Nick. You hear me? Be fuckin' ruthless!"

Nick remembers parts of what happened next. Some say time slows in key moments, but they don't say how all else fades away in and around it. He doesn't remember being shoved back, twice, before Stalk grabbed the gun, turned and fired on the men. But he does remember the look in his friend's eyes before he did. He'll never forget that look. He doesn't remember two bullets missing him by inches as he shuffled backwards towards the car. He doesn't even remember getting back in, starting it and driving away. Nor the broken, shattered window from another bullet or cutting himself on the shards. But he does remember seeing Stalk take down one of the armed men before being shot and killed. He remembers the anguish of leaving Stalk behind, his brother, shot dead in the street like a dog. He remembers the anger. And that blood boiling rage that followed. He'll never forget that feeling. Ever.

There were sounds coming from another room. The conversation was inaudible yet began to get louder with each passing minute. Then there would be silence and a hope it would stay that way but sure enough the chattering would continue again. And again. And it would get louder and louder. 

If Nick cared to try and make out what was being discussed he'd probably be a little more sympathetic to the situation. But he only wanted peace. A good night's sleep might calm the perfect storm brewing inwardly. Stalk was gone. For good. That alone would haunt him for some days and nights. Paulie was God knows where. But Jerry, how the fuck could he. Stalk saved his incompetent behind on more than one occasion. He owed him more. He owed then all more.

A break in the chatter came once more. Nick was laying on the fold-out bed in his apartment, his black slacks and matching dark button-down shirt looking crumpled, stained and weathered. He hadn't cared to undress after arriving home beyond a blazer that he'd tossed upon entry as he collapsed onto the sofa. He'd been out scouring the local spots again for information as to where Jerry or Paulie might be. But another round of nothing had him back at his squalor and square squat.

Nick thought at one point he was onto something when he came across one guy he believed to be holding something back. After breaking Joey's nose against the edge of a pool table, Nick found out he was, but it had nothing to do with Jerry or Paulie. Joey's sister Sue had skipped town and asked her brother not to say anything to Nick. He'd slept with her cousin not knowing they were supposedly a thing. He figured maybe that's why she left, fresh starts and all that. Atleast he didn't have to buy that bouquet of flowers. At least there was that.

Otherwise, nobody seemed to know or want to cough up anything. Maybe they were just too scared. Nick may have been a little quick to act on his impulses but Jerry was downright wrong in the way he treated people. And not just those in and around their scene. He seemed to just hate on others, all types, even Stalk at times. He was cruel and intimidating if he knew he could get away with it. Nick never understood why and constantly called him out on it as disrespect in general really boiled his Italian blood.

Paulie though, he just didn't care either which way as long as the crew were making money and moving forward which had Nick on the fence about his involvement. He never spoke a bad word about Stalk and was always in high spirits. Even after getting shot, he was making jokes on the way to hospital. If he had something to do with Stalk's death though, Nick was going to bury him too. He had to. It was Stalk's last wish and what was now scorching through his mind on repeat as his eyelids started to get heavier.

'You make him pay. Make them all pay!'

Nick could still see Stalk's blazing eyes as if he was back there in the street. They looked as fiery as the anger that was seething within his chest and throat, a feeling like something was trying to burn its way out. Nick was always prone to acts of aggression in the heat of the moment yet little by little something was beginning to linger longer and longer. It didn't help he couldn't shake the constant visions.

BANG BANG BANG. The sound of arguing kicked off again but this time it was accompanied by banging on a door. The male voice was more clear now and it sounded like he was out in the hallway just a few rooms away.

"Open up you bitch!" BANG BANG BANG. There was a female voice present too but it was muffled.

'Don't be like me, Nick. You hear me? Be fuckin' ruthless!'

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG. "If you don't open this God damn door!"...

By the time Scarfo's breathing somewhat slowed and the rage began to subside he was already back in his apartment sitting on the edge of his bed. His vision wasn't completely lost to him in the moments prior yet he could only partially recall some things and in a distorted order. He remembers Stalk's final words echoing in his mind over and over and being engulfed by the feeling of righteous zeal. Then he remembers being in the hallway, grabbing an already bloodied and broken man by the hair and dragging him along the wooden floorboards. Flickers of memory have him straddling the same man and beating his head repeatedly against the same floor. Other shards have him throwing and shattering a clenched fist. Then throwing another punch. And another and another with nonstop fury. He could feel the breaking of bones in and by his money makers and yet being so consumed by an unquenched need to do damage and inflict pain and being fueled by something so dark and uncontrollable that he'd have to question if any of that was even him at all.

Nick looked down at his hands that were shaking and pulsing with each thumping heartbeat, then towards the kitchenette of his soon to be abandoned abode at a body that had blood steadily pooling around its head and onto black and white chequered vinyl tiles. Nick would pass the man and who he assumed was his wife in the run-down apartment complex from time to time. They seemed happy enough. Guilt could be a cruel mistress at the best of times and whatever Saint Nick was tapping into, if he kept at it, he'd be doing a little more than just flirting with the devil.

As the switchboard operator picked up, Nick could already see from the phone booth thick black smoke filling the afternoon sky over the rooftops of several streets of houses between a drug store he'd walked to and the apartment complex. It was an oddly soothing sight.

"Get me Spring 0255."

Click.

"DiCcio Funeral Home..."

"Angie, It's Nick. Stalk's dead. I need your help.."

Terror. It's what Nick remembers seeing in her eyes as he passed her in the hallway after leaving his apartment. Unbeknownst to her he'd just smashed a bottle with a lit rag next to the corpse of her husband before his exit, hoping to leave a gas soaked trail of destruction. He doesn't remember seeing her at all while he was in his fit of rage. But he only remembers snippets. She could've been there. Anybody could've, really.

'Three dead in Christmas blaze'. Nick scrunched up the newspaper with a deep sigh as he leaned against the wall outside Rhino's. It was a popular spot for local youth who had nothing better to do than waste their time beating the shit out of one another. But at least it was in a ring and not in the street. Angie's words, not Nick's, who'd been doing a lot more of the latter lately which contributed to the two not crossing paths for a couple of months.

"The golden boy himself." Angie said as he approached while rattling a set of keys, trying to find the one that fit the padlock on the roller shutter. The place had been locked up since the last time they saw each other. He noticed Nick as soon as he parked his car but was still deciding what to do. Stalk, dead. It made him sick to to his stomach to think another one went down that path. But if he didn't help Nick now, what he'd worked for his whole life just wouldn't make any sense.

"Help me get this open."

Nick folded the paper and stuck it into his back pocket then helped Angie open up. There was a silence that had to be broken yet the heaviness of the mood just seemed to prolong their lingering tension. The two were like chalk and cheese. Angie was a hard nosed, old school type. He believed in suffering making a man. If anything, Nick at least had that currently going for him.

After the two entered the gym, Angie flicked a switch and stood just inside the glass windowed door. They hadn't talked or seen each other since Nick hit him with a right hook. Ungloved. But not unprovoked. That moment changed a lot.

Angie sighed as he looked around the place. It was old and dirty. But that's how the coach liked it. It suited him. He never wore anything flashy. He never even owned a pocket watch. Or a belt. He still tied his pants up with a string and wore a singlet no matter what and a woollen grey cap as weathered and worn as the man himself. Yet he was fit. He ran ten miles a day. Every damn day. He demanded a lot from his kids but even more from himself and like others without proper guidance both Nick and Stalk always came back. Always. And so it was again.

"I remember first opening this place."

Angie folded his arms as Nick stepped to stand beside him. They both looked out into the gym. The light only lit up the entrance yet there were two windows towards the back that had the morning rays shining through, capturing dust particles floating in the air as they beamed down the long rectangular interior giving life to the ring in the center and the myriad of rafter hung heavy bags scattered throughout.

"My dad told me it was a waste of time. Told me I couldn't help those who didn't want to help themselves. And that I was just fuelling the fire by giving kids the tools to do harm."

Nick sensed another verbal lashing coming his way. He'd had a rough night and an even rougher one before that. All he wanted was help to see a better tomorrow. He didn't need this right now. He was tired. Exhausted. He barely slept in the snowy conditions, taking short respite in an abandoned and long time broken down car under a bridge. The homeless man didn't even put up a fight upon their confrontation. Something about how Nick looked must've given him the upper hand and his shelter. So Scarfo turned to begin making his exit.

"But, he was wrong."

Angie placed a hand on Nick's shoulder.

"Come, let's talk."

Nick sat down at a table near the entrance, relieved and surprised as Angelo DiCcio set about getting them both a drink.

"Stalk was a good kid."

Angie opened a bottle of whisky that he'd hid under the ring and joined him, handing it to Nick as he sat across from him at the small wooden wobbly table. It was mostly used as a makeshift desk to sign papers like fight waivers and bout contracts. Most conversations usually happened with gloves and mitts on and during a technique session.

"I remember when you joined him here. You couldn't throw a punch. You couldn't even block."

As Nick took a swig from the bottle, Angie flicked the lid at his head. Nick's mind wasn't as alert given his past 48 hours and so it hit him in the forehead and dropped onto the table. It was something Angie liked to do from time to time, to test their reflexes, to which they got quite good at anticipating. But more so, they just got better at being alert and prepared for anything around him.

"Still can't." Angie said with a wry smirk to which Nick, for the first time in what seemed like forever, smirked too. He gulped down the warm and much needed mouthful of home made liquor, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand then passed the brown tinted bottle back.

"But you got better."

Angie took a swig himself, pausing first in a silent respectful moment for Stalk. He then slid the bottle into the center of the table.

"And that's the amazing thing." Angie continued. "Nobody tells you just what joys you will experience in life. I thought it would be putting my kids into big time fights that would do it for me. At the very least, changing their lives into something disciplined and character building. But it wasn't that at all."

"What was it?" Nick asked, finally breaking his silence as he grabbed the bottle.

"The little things. The improvements each week. Sometimes each day. Just those small, subtle, incremental improvements. They made me realise that hard work really does pay off. And without putting in the time, there's nothing that follows. But if you do, you can practically achieve anything."

Angie paused a moment and looked down at the table. 

"I didn't care what you kids were doing. I even respected you for it."

Angie then looked up at Nick with watery eyes.

"I just wanted you two to be better than when you first came through here."

Nick froze, the bottle at his lips and liquor in his mouth. He'd never seen Angie like this. Ever. He was the hardest nut you'd come across. He once beat him with the ring bell because he won a round by out striking a guy when he was told to out manoeuvre him by utilising his speed and footwork. He won the fight but also more roadwork than he could handle for the next week.

Angie removed an envelope from his waistband and placed it onto the table, tapping on it and nodding as he looked sternly at Nick.

"Go to Philly. Seek out Jack Mezzo's son. His father once run the best damn fights in the country. I can't change your fate for you, so if anything, you may as well work with the best."

Angie slid the gift towards Nick, who slowly placed the bottle back down and finally swallowed.

"There's also something in there to help with the other thing. As a coach, even as a fighter, we're better when we write things down. It might help."