Keats walked out of Dexter's HQ and quickly hailed a cab. So much to do. It was time to start building up a crew of his own from scratch. It would take a concerted effort, but Keats quieted his many thoughts as he reclined in the back seat. One thing at a time. He wanted to build something that would last- something that would be his legacy. It would have to happen brick by brick, one day at a time. And he might never see it finished. He knew for a long time that he wouldn't die of old age, after all. But there was the future popping up again to distract him- he had to focus on the present.

The first step was finding someone to work with him. The things he had to do couldn't be done alone. He needed a partner- a right hand. There were many people in his life worthy of the position, and he considered several-but one person in particular stood out. She had a spark- someone that he clicked with. They'd worked several jobs together since their prosperous initial meeting and he trusted her. She was charismatic... if a little rough around the edges. She also managed to treat him with a healthy balance of deference and insolence. He needed someone who would always speak their mind. Yes, she would fit the job nicely.

The cab pulled up on the curb in front of a Brooklyn brownstone townhouse. Keats had the driver wait as he exited and descended a few steps toward a door leading to a basement apartment. Knocking briskly, he spoke quickly as Kizzy answered the door.

"C'mon. We've got things to talk about."

Kizzy raised an eyebrow as she gave Keats a once-over. He was the same middle-aged mobster she’d met a few months ago—pressed, dapper suit, graying hair, and grim lines etched between his eyes. Still, his shoulders were a little straighter than usual, and his hat was at an almost jaunty angle. Maybe he had a new job for them? With a shrug, she nodded and grabbed her cloche hat off the rack beside her. She was still pulling it tight around her ears as she led the way up the steps. He opened the cab door with a practiced, fluid movement and slid into the seat next to her once she had gotten settled. She gave him a sidelong glance as he told the cabbie to take them to a favorite bar of his, then sat back and started to whistle something—Beethoven, maybe?

“You seem real happy about whatever this is we need to talk about.” She laughed and nudged his side. “You ain’t having me wacked, are you?”

Keats chuckled as his arm rested on the back on the seat. His reverie- Beethoven's 9th was stuck in his head- was interrupted by Kizzy, but he didn't mind. He was too deep in the zone. 

"Kizzy, I appreciate beauty far too much to ever remove you from the world."

A memory flashed in his mind, quickly chased away by a glance out the window and an easy smile replaced the nanosecond of pain. Couldn't let himself get distracted.

"Tonight is a night with many exciting possibilities. I'd like to check out a new business. It's a popular nightclub downtown, but the owner owes me quite a bit of money. I may be taking it over as payment for his debts, but I want to give it a good look first. The guy- Henry Viaretto- doesn't actually know what I look like. So we'll be making an incognito evaluation. For tonight, for a few hours at least, I am John Blake. I don't suppose you'll object to an evening of drinks, discussion, dancing, and musical entertainment? All in the name of business, of course."

“Nah, not at all Keatsy. ‘Specially not if you keep flattery like that comin’ my way.” Kizzy laughed and leaned her head lightly on Keats’ shoulder. As many young women as she knew he’d taken out “in the name of business” before, she knew he actually meant what he said with her. He was, truly, all business with her. She frowned slightly and sat up at the thought. From where she had been, the smell of his cologne was nearly too potent. They would have a great time, she was sure, and get the information they needed, but she would, as usual, be riding home alone. She couldn’t blame him, really—besides professional considerations, he had a daughter her age. Then there were always those little flashes—she could see things in his face sometimes that he didn’t want to talk about. Things he’s seen and done in this line of work. Really, there would always be a huge gap of experience between herself and Keats. It was sometimes nice when they were working—she would think of fresh ideas, he would bolster them with advice and knowledge that would help them pull it off. They did make a nice team. Maybe that’s all it was—they made good partners in crime, and any of those odd fluttering feelings were just…confusion.

The cab pulled to a stop outside of the nightclub. She let herself out, touching her hand to her hat briefly as she gained her balance on the sidewalk.

“Nice place. Could use some sprucing up, but still…” Kizzy held out her elbow for Keats to take. “Shall we make our entrance?”

Keats blew slightly, moving a strand of red hair away from his face, and smiled.

"Not Keatsy or Keats tonight. John will be fine, even if it does sound a bit odd. And it's not flattery if it's true- for the record."

He lightly drummed his fingers on the back of the seat until they arrived. Emerging from the cab, he fixed his green tie, which matched his eyes, and offered his arm to Kizzy as they walked past people waiting outside and entered the bar. It was larger- much bigger than it looked from the simple door wooden door and overhang outside. To the right there was an expansive lounge area with a spread of booths, couches, tall stools, and tables for drinks. To the left was a stage; a jazz band was playing lively music, accompanied by a singer, although at this early point in the evening there were only a few enthusiastic dancers- and they seemed in various stages of intoxication. The singer was an attractive blond, whose long hair nearly reached her waist, where the belt of her red dress hung on her hips. Keats scanned the crowd, listening to her sing "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes". In between the stage on the left and the lounge on the right, there were more traditional dining tables in the center with waiters gliding through them as the evening rush began. 

Keats led Kizzy through the club, following the host to one of the better tables- though not the ones in the most exclusive private section. Settling into the table, Keats ordered a whiskey, dropped his hat to the side, and exhaled.

"So. Heard anything from your father recently? He seems to be amenable from my end- he's certainly benefiting from our partnership as much as we are."

She fixed the waitress with a brief, tired gaze. “A Daisy, please. Light on the grenadine, heavy on the rum.” Once the waitress jotted down the order and clicked off to the bar, Kizzy began to examine her nails.

“Actually, I haven’t. Mr. Blake.” She pursed her lips, meeting Keats’ gaze meaningfully, and shook her head slightly. “If he’s decided I’m good for something after all, he hasn’t called to let me know. But I’m glad to know that he’s cooperating.” She cleared her throat and quickly turned her attention to the returning waitress. “It’s fine, though. Not like I really want to talk to him.” She accepted the drink graciously and took a long sip.

“What about Katie? How’s she doing?”

Keats settled into his chair and scanned the bar, evaluating both the building and people inside it. He liked it. Some things needed updating... but there was definite potential here. Although not nearly as much potential as Kizzy possessed; Keats watched her process his question about her father and adroitly move on. He sipped the whiskey he'd received from the waitress, alternately rotating his gaze between Kizzy and the room.

"Katie is doing well. She's... learning. There was some trouble a couple weeks ago when we visited a cafe, but it's a long story. How are you two getting along so far? I know you've crossed paths a couple times."

Kizzy chewed her tongue, trying not to make it look like she was. If she were honest, Katie was kind of a sty in her eye. The two had met up in the course of working a few times, and each time Katie’s doe-eyed ingénue act rubbed her the wrong way. Christ, apparently the girl couldn’t even keep out of trouble in a café.

“Katie’s…quite a girl. Lotsa potential, but…eh, she needs to toughen up. You probably knew that already, though.” She buried her nose in her drink for a moment, not wanting to see the reaction on her face. All fathers had a bit of a blind spot where their daughters were concerned. Sometimes that blind spot blocked out the whole daughter. She cautiously lowered her drink to study his face.

He had frozen with a drink halfway to his mouth, a protest clouding his brow. After a moment, however, he set his glass down, the faint clink ringing with a small resignation. “You’re right, of course,” he murmured, raising an eyebrow. Thankfully, it was not the dangerous murmur that sent fearful shivers down her spine. Still, there was a firmness to it that made her lean back in her chair, listening readily. “But she’s getting there. She’s been training, and showing me a lot more lately.” Kizzy nodded slowly, but shrugged.

“I’ll believe you. But I still gotta see it for myself.” She rose to her feet, stretching her arms slightly. “I’m going to take a tour around the place, maybe powder my nose.” At Keats’ nod, she strode away from the table and began to make a circuit of the room. Although she flashed her smile to a few men who looked up to watch her walk by, her gaze was largely focused on taking in the minutiae of the place. The crown molding was beautiful, but chipped—would have to be replastered. The bar was a very nice feature—clearly had been newly installed, with a broad, shiny counter made of granite. Fully stocked. That alone might be enough to pay Keats back, as long as it didn’t get messed up in the…transition of ownership. Yes, the whole place seemed like a good acquisition—from the front end. The kitchen and bathrooms could be real money sinks, though. She’d need to get a good look into those. Thankfully, the bathrooms were quite open, and she slipped into the ladies’ room with a flourish.

Keats polished off his whiskey as Kizzy went to scout out some less conspicuous areas of the lounge. He ambled over to the bar and leaned on it, drawing the attention of the young woman serving drinks. She seemed to be in her mid to late twenties. A businessman was busy shouting at her, complaining, until Keats tapped him on the shoulder. When the man turned around, Keats leaned in until his face was just a few inches away and he spoke with a quiet strength.

"Shut. Up. And go away."

The businessman looked at Keats for a second. For an exciting moment, Keats thought the man might actually take a swing at him. But perhaps the man noticed the light in his eye or the coldness of his smile- for whatever reason, he turned tail and left. Sighing dramatically, as if he'd just missed his lost love, Keats leaned against the bar and grinned at the bartender.

"Thank ya, sir. He's bin causin' me trouble all night. Goddam' suits gettin' like they own me. Uh- no offense, sir."

"None taken. Besides, my suit's better than his. Hardly fair to lump us in the same category, no?

She laughed and made her way over to him. She had light brown hair, fair skin, and a slight lilt in her melodic voice. Keats scrutinized her.

"Irish?"

"Aye, sir. I'm Mary Connors. Thanks again for help."

She extended a hand to shake with a smile, and Keats took her hand and turned it in his, placing his other hand on top of it. He dropped his voice to a soft murmur, just loud enough for her to hear.

"Mary, my name's John K- Blake. I need your help with something. Two things, actually. First, I need you to tell me everything you know about this bar. The owners. The customers. The entertainment. Everything. Then, I need you to get me a glass of your finest Irish whiskey. And don't worry about your other customers. I'll make it worth your while."

Hesitant it first, Mary was soon engaged in a hushed conversation as Keats began mentally sorting the information he was getting about the bar. For the moment, his whiskey was forgotten.

As Kizzy stepped out of the ladies’ room, satisfied with her inspection, she glanced over to the bar—and her heart stopped. Keats was chatting up the brunette bartender. The two were leaning into one another intimately. Kizzy swallowed and bit her lip. He was just getting information out of her, right? That’s all there was to it. Keats had so many women to give the business to—um, that is, to do business with. She began to stride toward them, but hesitated. The hand-holding, the close whispers…clearly, whatever information Keats was getting was because of this flirty rapport he’d built. A jealous partner would only muddle things up. She sighed and turned away from the bar, trailing back toward their table.

Then a door opened to her right.

It was a cleverly-designed door that seemed part of the paneling until you looked closely. The man that stepped out was dressed in a surprisingly stylish zoot suit and so full of swagger that it could only be the owner—Henry Viaretto. His bright black eyes swept over the room in a cool assessment for a moment before they met Kizzy’s. Almost instinctively, Kizzy fluttered her eyelashes and met his gaze boldly. The faint lines of fear that had crinkled around Viaretto's eyes smoothed, and a wide, gold-and-silver-filled smile cracked his face open. He stepped close to her, and she had to tilt her head up to keep eye contact.

“Heya, Red, what brings you to my club?”

“Oh, I just came with a friend—but he seems to be busy with the bartender.” Kizzy glanced over to Keats and shrugged. “It’s fine. I think I’d rather spend the night with someone like you anyway—you said this is your club?” She grinned and placed her hand on his arm with an expertly delicate touch. Henry looked for a moment like he wanted to harangue the bartender for neglecting her duties, but swiftly decided that he had more pressing matters at hand.

“Yeah—here, come with me, I’ll show you where the real entertainment’s at, hon.”

Kizzy returned his wink with a smirk and allowed him to wrap an arm around her waist to steer her into the back room—the VIP lounge. A burly man nodded to Henry as he pushed aside the velvet curtain separating the rooms. Kizzy’s eyebrows raised as she took in her surroundings. Clearly, this was where the money had gone. Everything was dark wood, maroon velvet, and gold filigree. Honestly, its opulence bordered on tacky—and stepped firmly across that border with the huge, ornately-carved billiards table that dominated the room. Still, she held her tongue about the décor and merely gave a vaguely impressed sound. Henry pointed her to a shady booth at the back and muttered something about coming back with drinks.

Keats only stumbled momentarily in his conversation with Mary as he saw Kizzy walk by the owner. She certainly didn't mess around. Excusing himself from the bartender, having learned everything he needed, Keats made his way over to where Kizzy was waiting in a private area. He was stopped by a couple large wise guys from entering himself, but she got the message and walked over to meet him. The owner, Viaretto, was at the bar now. Hopefully Mary wasn't in trouble, but no time for that. Keats led Kizzy to the dance floor, where they were able to blend in with the dozens of dancing couples- the band was now in full swing.

He moved lithely- not a practiced dancer, but with an acquired grace from years of training his body. Kizzy still hadn't said anything to him. Curious. They moved together, following the music. As the band switched to a slower number, Keats pulled Kizzy close to him with a strong hand at the small of her back. He dropped his head so his lips were nearly brushing her earlobe, his voice a sonorous level just above a whisper. 

"We're going to take the place tonight. Viaretto is up to his eyes in debt- although he doesn't know that most of it of it is to me. If something happens to him, my connections downtown will ensure that his businesses quickly make their way to my hands. Particularly this bar. Which I'm going to need... I just received word earlier today... Dexter and PaulHeyman want me to start a crew of my own...

Keats felt Kizzy flex in his arms.

... and I want you to be my right hand. To become a full member of this thing of ours...

At this point, Keats made sure that Kizzy couldn't see his eyes at all, not wanting her to see how much it pained the small, quiet part deep within him to ask her to do this. The part that had still never been entirely silenced after decades of corruption and death. He dropped his voice to a barely audible whisper.

.... when you kill Viaretto tonight. 

He paused for a moment.

I could get to him, but it would cause a scene. He might get away in the time it takes me to handle his goons, and I can't use this place as my HQ if he's on the run. Get him up the stairs to the office he's using. It's the last one at the end of the hall.  Do it there. Then head back the way you came in. The big office you can see from down here- the main office, my future office- that's your way out. They're remodeling it right now and there's a bunch of scaffolding connected to the balcony that should get you to the street.  I'll be waiting for you at the bottom.

He stopped short, almost apologizing to her. Instead, he finally pulled back enough where she could see into his eyes and he quieted the voice within him as he looked at her steadily. 

I know you can do this. Now slap me, make it look like I'm harassing you, and storm back to Viaretto. 

Or walk away. Find a better life for yourself... get married, live in the suburbs. But he couldn't say it. People had to make their own choices. God knows he'd made his.

Kizzy tensed in Keats’ arms, and she nearly stumbled into him. He was…getting his own crew? And wanted her for his right hand? And she had to…kill someone. She didn’t know what to say. She barely knew what to think. She opened her mouth, and whispered the first thing that came to mind:

“If I get blood on my dress, you’re paying for the dry cleaning bills.” Her kneejerk reaction had always been a smartass comment. In a swift movement, she followed his first instructions and smacked him across the face with her palm.

“Dontchoo dare talk to me like that, John! You think I didn’t see you with that bartender? Let go of me right now!” She was surprised to feel her palm stinging with the viciousness she’d imbued into the slap. Well, it was pretty rude to spring this on her, she supposed as she huffed away. That didn’t keep a dribble of guilt from being poured into the cauldron of confused emotions bubbling in her gut. She swallowed. It didn’t help. Her eyes caught Henry Viaretto’s from across the room. He was hurrying over, his fists clenched.

“Your friend causin’ you trouble, Red?”

“No—I mean, he was, but he ain’t gonna no more.” She tugged on his arm as he searched the crowd for Keats. “Really, leave him alone—he’s not worth it. I’d rather have a good time with you than worry about some jerk like him for the rest of the night.” A simpering smile, a flutter of the eyelashes—and he was down for the count. He shrugged, motioned for a waitress to follow him with his drinks, and hurried Kizzy off to the back room once more.

She knew that she should make it quick, like pulling off a band-aid. She just needed to come on strong, get him up to his office with the promise of getting off, and…well, off him. But from the way Henry’s eyes continued to skim his surroundings and kept his back to the wall, she knew the dance of seduction would have to be relatively slow. He couldn’t get suspicious of her. She forced herself to keep a bright smile on and laugh at his jokes. Actually, the laughter wasn’t forced—he was a funny guy. Seemed nice, too—wasn’t going to be earning any boy scout badges, but he seemed like an all right guy who was excite to have finally achieved his dream of owning a nightclub. He just didn’t know when to stop spending the mob’s money.

“What’s wrong, Red?” He still hadn’t gotten her real name after an hour of talking, but Kizzy didn’t mind. It was for the best. She shook herself and turned a small smile up to Henry.

“Ah, it’s nothing. Well, I guess I’m getting a little tired of all the noise here—you got somewhere more private we can go?”

Henry smiled and nodded. He led her through the club again, to that secret panel in the wall. It led to a flight of stairs (rickety, would need to be replaced) that ended at a long hallway filled with polished wooden doors. He let her into the last office in the hall with a wink, and once she stepped in, she could feel Henry sidle up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin gently on her shoulder.

“It’s a shame you gotta see this one—my usual office is getting renovated.”

“It’s fine, hon.” She swallowed and gently extricated herself from Viaretto’s arms. “You, uh, got a place I can spruce up in?” He nodded and pointed to a nondescript door tucked away in a corner. Kizzy excused herself into the small bathroom, locking the door quietly behind her. She opened her purse and glanced inside—there, nestled among the compacts and crumpled banknotes was the only concession she’d ever made to the violence inherent to her line of work—a small Colt with a pearl-inlaid handle. She’d bought it more for show than an ability or willingness to use it. She opened the barrel and slid a single bullet in, but hesitated to close it again.

Kizzy was often confused about what she was—sometimes, she liked to imagine herself a hardened criminal, but working under the cold stares of truly hardened criminals always made her feel a little uneasy. Sometimes, she was sure that she was the ideal of a delightful girlish whirlwind, all sequined dresses and Charleston steps. But then she remembered that most girls her age weren’t packing heat, and very few of them had to turn their faces away from cops as they approached.

There was one thing that Kizzy knew she wasn’t, though—a killer. She stole, cheated, swindled, manipulated, seduced both men and women—but she had known early on that murder was not on the table for her. Victimless crimes—or crimes that capitalized on schlubs who had it coming anyway—were her bag. Now, she was loading up a gun to kill a guy who…mismanaged his money?

She was about to unload her gun when she looked up into the mirror. Her hazel eyes were shining. Doe-like. Like Katie’s. Goddammit, she wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“You need to toughen up,” she muttered to her reflection. In response, her face hardened, her full lips forming into a firm line and her eyes glinting fiercely. If she left now, she would be giving up too much—money, glamor, opportunity…Keats. She couldn’t let him down. Whatever more she wanted from him, the truth was that he’d treated her well, and didn’t ask for much in return. She couldn’t let that go unpaid. The gun’s barrel clicked shut in her hands.

Her next moves seemed simple. She smoothed down her hair, hid the gun in her garter, and stepped out of the bathroom. Viaretto was waiting there with a pair of drinks in his hands. She grinned a little shakily and sidled up to him, pressing her body against his.

“Hey, I gotta tell you something,” she whispered, her chin tilted up winningly. Henry stooped his head down, smiling. He kept his lips a few inches away from Kizzy’s.

“What is it, Red?”

“Keats sends his regards.” The realization was still registering on his face when the gun fired into his chest. Blood seeped through his suit. The glasses fell to the floor, shattering.

Kizzy could never remember taking the scaffolding down afterward, but she must have managed to navigate the shaky platforms—in heels, nonetheless. She only remembered stepping into the edge of the pool of light from the streetlamp that Keats was casually leaning against. Their eyes met for a moment before he glanced down to see the blood spattered across her stomach and chest.

“Heh, looks like you’ve got a…a dry cleaning bill.” She tried to laugh, but it choked in her throat and brought tears to her eyes. She turned her face away, forcing a grimace onto her face. She was tough. The toughest mobster to ever…mob in…Mobbington. Her shoulders crumpled and she bit her lip, half furious at the tears cascading freely down her cheeks. Keats’ cologne stung her nostrils as he stepped close.

“Is it like this…every time?” She murmured, digging the heel of her hand into her eye, streaking her face with mascara.

The slap stung, but it didn't hurt as much as the knowledge of what he was asking Kizzy to do. He remembered his first. Jeff Todd, affable postal worker from Detroit, had gone missing. Keats had killed him to cover up a lucrative jewelry robbery. It had devastated him at the time, killing a friend like that. It had been thirty years and he still heard Jeff's death rattle in his nightmares. Keats stalked off the dance floor, not noticing that Mary was calling out to him. Goddamn it. He could still call it off. Keats spent several minutes pacing around the edge of the club, trying to find an alternative. But if she was going to get Made... to really be a part of a family... then this had to happen sooner or later. And Keats needed her now.

But that didn't mean he liked it. Damn it.

He returned to the bar and threw back two shots of whiskey, ignoring Mary's smalltalk as he watch Kizzy ascend the stairs with Viaretto. He walked quickly out of the club and to the parking lot, promising he'd be ready to help her when she was done. He slipped the valet more money than the poor sap would make in 3 months and received the keys to a nice, boring older Ford. Starting up the car, he spun it out of the parking lot and drove around until he was parked under the balcony of Viaretto's room. Turning the car off, he pocketed the key and leaned against the lamppost, looking up at the window. 

If she didn't do it, he'd forgive her. He couldn't make her RHM, but he'd find something for her to do on the side. A comfortable life. Maybe get her out of the business entirely. He heard the gunshot and dropped his head. But only for a second. He forced himself to look at her steadily as she descended the scaffolding and walked slowly toward him with tears in her eyes and blood on her dress. He made himself look. It was his responsibility. The worst thing was the way she tried to joke. Without saying anything, he took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling it tight so there was no blood visible. Guiding her to the passenger seat, he tossed his hat in the back and got behind the wheel. He wasn't really concerned at this point- most of the cops in the city were well paid, and whatever goons Viaretto had hired would disperse quickly when they discovered the body. But he needed to get her somewhere safe where she could try to process this.

He spoke as he drove, focusing on the road. His voice was a little softer than usual, a little quieter and more reflective. He knew what she was going through, although sometimes he wished he'd never learned these lessons.

"It gets easier."

He paused for a long while, wondering if that statement was comforting or tragic. 

"You're... you're going to feel horrible. Tonight, tomorrow. For a while. I'll tell you something nobody living knows. After my first one, I almost killed myself standing in the shower, rinsing the blood off my knife. Almost jumped off a bridge later that night. I might have done it, if it wasn't for the people I cared about- the people who cared about me."

Of course, they're all dead and gone now... but no need to mention that at the moment.

"My first one was a friend of mine. Jeff. He was standing in between me and a job for my boss at the time, back when I was in Detroit. I offered to cut him into a huge payday, one of the most perfect diamonds in the world. And he turned me down, wanted me to go to the cops. I killed him with a knife. This knife."

There was no way to smoothly reach behind your back when you're driving, so Keats pulled over and parked for a second. He quickly unlooped the sheath from his belt, replaced his belt on his pants, and continued driving again as he lay the worn leather knife sheath on Kizzy's lap. 

"I've had that knife for longer than you've been alive. I've lost dozens of guns, but that knife was the first weapon I ever had. Back when I wasn't even able to hold a gun straight. That knife became a symbol for me. I started out raw, blunt, vulnerable. I've been through a lot. Grew up in an orphanage, right here in New York. I killed a friend. I killed the woman I loved. I killed until it became automatic. The only family I ever knew were killed in a war; now I'm the only one left. I've seen so much death.  I've done things and I've seen things that I couldn't imagine when I bought that knife when I was 17. But all the shit I've had to deal with- it made me sharper and more dangerous. Just like that knife there."

"I've been wearing that knife every day for three decades now. Just about every friend I had when I was your age has been killed. Most of them a long time ago. I'm not willing to call myself old- but it's a young man's game and I don't see too many other grey hairs out there. I've taken a lot of people out of the world. I like to think that most of them are bad people. And you lose something, when you take a life. And every time you do it, you lose a little less. Eventually you get kind of numb, except to the really tough ones. But that's a part of our business. Viaretto knew I was coming for him. If he had balls and half a brain he would tried to get to me first, except he didn't have the muscle for it. The way I see it, he eventually would have come for me; I just got to him first. The people we deal with aren't saints or boy scouts. Based on what I heard before, and especially tonight, Viaretto was a scumbag."

He paused. He was rambling, and he knew it. She did too, if she was able to listen. Hopefully even if he wasn't quite conveying the content he wanted to, she at least heard the fact that he was talking so much. Maybe it'd help.

"It's not always bad guys. I.

He paused, questioning whether he should share before speaking. He owed her, even if no one else knew.

"I was engaged once. That woman I loved I mentioned before. A long time ago. Head over heels. She knew everything about me. We robbed a bank together, and I was going to quit the life. Go live on a beach somewhere with her 'til we died of old age. Raise a family."

He saw her in his mind and blinked, his voice didn't break, but if Kizzy was aware she could hear the slightest strain.

"I had to shoot her. She was turning me in to the cops. She knew who I was, knew who my boss was, the RHM, everyone. I was stupid, and I told her enough to sink the whole crew. I chose my family- this life- over her life. I guess what I'm trying to say here is that most people sleeping in these houses have no idea how you feel right now. But I know how you feel. And I know how you're going to feel tomorrow."

"I'm going to take you back to my place. You can get cleaned up. And we'll ride this out together. Lay low. You can get drunk, yell at me, whatever you need to do."

"And if at the end of it, if you just want to quit.... I understand. I'll give you a bank account and a plane ticket and you can go. Or you can stick around and help me try to build up this crew. But it's your decision."

Pulling the car into a driveway, the moon revealed an almost suburban neighborhood. Must be outside of the city. 

"A safe house. Somewhere for me to hole up in emergencies..."

Gently, he opened her door. 

Kizzy had listened. By the end, she felt vaguely like she should regret listening to Keats’ stories. But she didn’t. They would have been gruesome at any moment before this—maybe would have even sent her running home. But he wouldn’t have told her any other time. She may not have even listened any other time. Although she had spent most of the ride shaking like a leaf, the whole time the world around her felt like it was settling into ancient grooves she had never noticed until just now. This was the way things had to be.

She still felt terrible, of course.

When he opened the door for her, she stepped outside, his jacket still wrapped around her and his knife in her hands. She paused before walking past him, then pressed the sheath into his hands.

“I, uh, think you’d better hold on to that.” She shook her head and shrugged. “I’d really hate for that thing to become my…” She made a vague motion across her throat. “…bridge.” She trailed into the house after him. The interior of the townhouse looked as average as the exterior—except, perhaps, for the fully-stocked bar nestled into the living room wall, as welcoming as a crackling fire.

Despite her shaking hands, Kizzy managed to pour herself a hefty glass of brandy before slumping onto the settee. Keats settled into an overstuffed armchair with his usual whiskey and watched her. She didn’t speak again until she had polished off her drink.

“Your fiancée—I’m sorry you had to do that. I guess it makes it hard to…uh.” She sighed and stared down into her empty glass. The alcohol was already loosening her mind and warming her body. It felt good. “And, uh, thank you. For this. All…this.” She swayed her glass in the air by means of explanation. Her head lolled against the back of the sofa. She felt tears welling in her eyes again.

“And sorry. For being so…for trying to fool you with my tough girl act. I guess it was always gonna come to this—me sobbing to you and staining your furniture with my makeup.” Her tongue darted between her lips. She wasn’t sure she was making sense, but she continued. “I’ve always talked a bigger game than I played, huh? I did a good job of covering it up, though. ‘Til now.” She reached for the bottle of brandy that Keats had thoughtfully left on the coffee table and swigged straight from the bottle. Already, the sight of Viaretto’s sputtering final breath was fading from her mind. This brandy was really good.

“Now you know my deepest secret, Keatsy.” She squeezed her eyes shut before whispering, “I’m scared. Ever since I stepped on that train to Boston with a guy I barely knew.” One eye cracked open. “Fear’s good fuel to keep you going, you know. Running from place to place." The other eye opened. “But I’m not running anymore. I got to help you run this club now. And this crew! We’re gonna be running a crew, Keatsy.” She sloshed some brandy into her glass and raised it in a toast.

Keats poured himself a glass of whiskey and kept the bottle of brandy on the small table next to Kizzy. He sat on the couch across the room and listened to her. He was tense for a little while. He'd rambled in the car- actually opened up a bit and told her things. It felt weird to tell anyone that much about his personal life. No one knew that stuff- no one alive, anyways. Maybe she'd forget about it, if she had enough to drink. He wasn't sure if he wanted her to remember or not. People not knowing things like that made it easier, but he couldn't deny that it was nice to actually have someone know these things. She'd know everything, if she still wanted to be RHM. He poured another glass of whiskey and tried to relax.

"It's okay to be scared. Normal. The only times I haven't been afraid is when I didn't care if I died, and that's no way to go through life."

“No, it’s not. I do know one thing now—I’ve got to keep living for as long as I can. Even if I am scared every second of it.” She looked down at her front, where blood and spilled brandy had dried on the once-glittering beading of her dress. She downed her glass and dropped it onto the carpet before getting to her feet. She reached behind her and undid the back of her dress, heedlessly ripping off a few buttons in the process. Kizzy dropped the dress on the floor, then quickly picked it up and tossed it into the empty fireplace. Now dressed in only her slip, she realized that she didn’t mind being nearly naked in front of Keats—physical nudity seemed pale in comparison to what he’d shown her already.

“I am a 35-32-38. Not an easy size to find, trust me, I know. But I’d appreciate it if you could scare me up a dress that doesn’t make me look like I shop at an awning store.” She reached down to grab hold of the bottle of brandy before announcing that she would be taking a bath. Somehow, she found the tub and managed not to drown herself, although she stayed in the water until her fingers and toes had pruned almost unrecognizably.

Kizzy barely remembered those few days in the safehouse. Mostly, she remembered waking up in strange places—once, she found herself curled under the desk in an office, nestled among a few open leatherbound volumes, the delicate onionskin pages stuck to her face with drool. She always crawled back to the bar and treated her pounding head with another glass of spirits. When the memory of why she was at the safehouse to begin with came back, she found a new place to drink and fall asleep in. The whole time, Keats seemed to skirt around her, cleaning up her spilled glasses and shoving plates of takeout into her lap, sometimes draping blankets across her prone form.

They talked, sometimes. She told him about how in high school she had started up a bar for her fellow students using her parents’ store of wine in the cellar. He told her about the grimy orphanage he grew up in. She laid upside-down on the couch while she mumbled about how her mother locked her up for months after catching her with her first girlfriend. He was sprawled next to her (right-side-up) while he regaled her with the story of how he’d proposed to his fiancée. She cooed at all the right romantic spots and took a drink to drown each pang of jealousy.

Then he told her that they could go home. She managed to wean herself into sobriety, for the most part. On the morning that they left, she put on the dress that Keats’ bodyguards had found her (a navy blue dress with a neat white Peter Pan collar) and stared out of the second-floor window, a glass full of the last bit of rum resting in her hand. She watched families trail down the street together, all in their nicest clothes. They all waved to one another, tossing greetings up and down the street.

“It’s Sunday,” Keats explained as he held out her hat. “And we’re going for a Sunday drive.” She took the cloche and jammed it back on her head, then tipped her drink back, feeling it burn a clear path down her throat.

“All right. Let’s go.” She held out her elbow, and Keats took hold of it. A cab was waiting outside of the townhouse. Kizzy felt a vague sense of déjà vu as Keats opened the door for her, whistling a few bars of Beethoven. She sighed and slid into the seat. Keats sat next to her, and she leaned comfortably against him as he gave the address to her house.

It was obviously horrible, seeing Kizzy having to grapple with what she'd been through. But Keats would be lying if he didn't admit that a part of him enjoyed those few days. He hadn't talked like that to someone in a long time. Via. Luciana. Maria. Cerise. All gone. Katherine, somewhat, when they first realized their connection. But not to this extent. He'd told Kizzy things he had never told anyone. It was... nice. But it was time to get back to reality.

He'd needed to lay low anyways, wait for the paperwork to get processed. The new deed for the bar- about to become The Nightingale Lounge- had been mailed to his attorney and everything was in order. He had so much to do, getting this new operation up and running. But- there was time for one last thing.

***

The next day, the doorbell rang at Kizzy's house. It took a few rings before she answered, understandably hesistant. The messenger gave her a small parcel and a letter that was written in a bold, flowing script.

Kizzy,

You should know that the paperwork has been processed, thanks to our connections at city hall, and our headquarters building, The Nightingale Lounge, will be opening soon. Meet me there tomorrow; we have a lot of work to do.

I expect that the idea of guns may be distasteful to you, and so I want you to have this. I haven't used it in a long time, and I hope it will serve you well. But there's no obligation. Keep it in a safe. Wear it. Stash it in your purse. Sell it. Burn it. Whatever you want; it's yours now.

Yours,

John

 She opened the parcel and removed a familiar looking knife. Its sheath, still worn, now contained an ornate design of a bird with outstretched wings. Gripping the handle and pulling slightly, it slid smoothly out to reveal a freshly polished blade, gleaming in the New York sunlight shining in through the window.