Revelations
"Breach!"
On either side of the battering ram, Dex and Ray surged forward. The large metal-cased tool slammed against cream-colored double doors, large and ornate in their decoration. Your tight hands clenched around the handle of your gun as the men pounded the doors a second time, this additional slam being enough to send a sparking crack through one door and knock the other clean off its hinges. The breached door fell into the space with a thud, and as the guys stepped aside with the ram, you strode forward - the rest of the team at your back.
The Velluchi entrance took your breath away, even shrouded in darkness. Sleep still enveloped the corners of your mind this early in the morning, but the adrenaline of a mission was always enough to wake you up - along with a coffee, of course.
Stalking forward on quiet feet, you examined the space around you as your eyes adjusted to the low morning light. A large crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, upon which carefully crafted skylights let in the growing light of dawn, drawing a dark blue hue through the room that would become lighter with every step you took into the house.
6am breach.
Certainly one way to be woken up in the morning.
It was early, sure, but based on the intel you'd gathered, this was the best possible time. Your primary targets were in town for what you assumed was a major conference between them and their allies, and all records and hints had led you to this - one of their many mansions scattered across the state.
Finely designed carpet was a welcome padding beneath your feet, and you paused, lifting a hand for the team to wait for Dex and Ray. They stepped up beside you in no time - Dex at your right, Ray at your left.
Ray turned toward the group, motioning for his half of the team to follow him up the wide, spiraling staircase ahead. Dex would take his group through the main level, and they started forward as Ray took his first step onto smooth mahogany. Though the place only had two main floors, it was expansive - and, if you couldn't find your desired targets, there was always a cellar and an attic to search.
But a mahogany staircase?
Ridiculous.
Ray's steps were swift and nearly silent - not that you had to be quiet. You had a warrant, and, odds are, the Velluchis knew you were coming sooner or later - if they hadn't already figured it out by the sound of their front door hitting the damn floor. Still, if they hadn't just taken some private jet to a remote location by now, your luck would be working overtime.
You followed Ray up the stairs with Indira and Murph in tow. The railing appeared smoother than any other wood carving you'd seen, ledged at the edges into a subtle pattern of what looked to be floral designs. Your gloves gripped onto your gun harder, and each breath - no matter how deep and calm it may technically have been - came shallow and constricted beneath your bulletproof vest, beneath your FBI jacket.
Just breathe.
You've got this.
Focus.
As Ray sped up, you did the same, flying up the staircase and onto the top floor. The ceilings here were more intricately designed than those in the entryway, full of carvings of clouds and starlight and whatever else rich people liked to look up at as they pondered the sheer amount of all their wealth.
Your eyes fell to the long, carpeted hall before you, and you sharpened your gaze, stilling all thoughts with a hard clench of your jaw.
Three likely targets.
Hector, Nina, and their father, Gio.
And a potential target:
Cruz.
Ray and Dex, as Level One leads, had determined that Hector and Gio were your primary targets. Dex's research and that of another agent revealed a cause for arrest - fraud and embezzlement, transactions signed off on by Gio Velluchi and his loyal son. It was connected to some local company, you were told. Something to do with ownership over funds in a subsidiary and those men taking more than they were owed.
And, once you had them in for questioning - that was your chance to begin unraveling the criminal web they'd spun.
Nina could also be taken in based on some conspiratorial evidence Ray had uncovered. You, however, hadn't given up on Cruz. Your research showed that he was in town around the time of Marcus' presumed murder, and although the others didn't think that meant enough for him to be connected to it - you knew he had to know something.
And it wasn't just a hunch.
After heading home with three of your four files, you breezed through the Fisk and Wesley information before starting on the thick pile for Confederated Global Investments. It took you hours of leafing and flipping and re-reading - admittedly, hours that should have been spent sleeping - but you found a signature that sent your bleary, sleep-deprived eyes wide, even as the one-in-the-morning grind had begun to take its toll on your ability to fight sleep's commanding pull.
You recognized one subsidiary of Confed Global, a political consulting firm by the name of Sonistrad. This was a firm you'd also seen in your deeper research of the Velluchis - and, God, it was hard to tweeze out that connection. It took you weeks to find the firm's name and longer still to get into information on Sonistrad itself. Seemed obvious that they'd put a great deal of work into ensuring that their work with Sonistrad was not obvious.
And that made sense, all things considered. It didn't appear to be the most forthcoming, honorable, honest organization. Plus, the fact that it was technically owned by Confed Global was enough to make your tired eyes bug out of your head.
What really made your jaw drop, though, was the signature on one of the transfer payments between Sonistrad and Confed Global.
None other than Carlos Velluchi, your man of the hour.
So - not only was Cruz a solid connection to the actual case, but he could potentially be a link to the heart of Confed Global - that of which is none other than Wilson fucking Fisk. Based on his past, the guy seemed like a loose enough cannon that he'd likely turn on his sadistic family. And, if not, you might just be able to spurn him on enough so that he'd blow up, leaving more puzzle pieces to your goals in the wake of such an explosion.
It would be easiest for you and your interests to get him to talk the old-fashioned way - through a good old arrest. You'd found a weak link between Cruz and Hector regarding the embezzlement, and Ray approved it, telling you that if he was found, you could take him in - but that doesn't mean he'll talk or that said weak link would hold up.
You didn't much care about Ray's concerns, though. All that mattered was getting his ass in.
A creak sounded out from one of the last rooms down the hall, and your heart jumped. Ray gave the group a wide-eyed look before waving you along as he soared ahead. You followed close behind, preparing your finger to fire.
Though you still felt a buzz of anxiety, this was your job. Guns weren't your favorite - many poor memories made sure of that. Those same memories, though, were what made you so very good with guns, or with any weaponry, for that matter.
In other words, goosebumps prickled your skin, but your trigger finger was strikingly steady.
"FBI!" Ray bellowed before slamming through the door. You saw him shoot his arms out, pistol in hand, and you stepped in beside him to do the same. Your tight breath released, and you dragged in another, gun still steady as you eyed the men in front of you.
Gotcha.
Hector and Gio Velluchi sat in two armchairs, the furniture forest green and lined with gold-toned trim. Hector, unbothered and still, only tilted his head at Ray while Gio took a deep drag of the cigar in his wrinkled, relaxed hand.
Gio's suit was clean and freshly pressed, his tie striped in shades of gold and periwinkle blue. His hair was thinning at the top, though it seemed to be gripping tightly to the last drops of its pitch-black hue, memories of youth clutched tightly against his aging skin. Hector's hair was longer than you'd thought, down to his collarbones and dark. In the last photo you had of him in your records, he sported a crew cut, a carefully carved goatee. Now, as he sat there in all his filthy, challenging glory, his hair fell loosely over his neck, his deeply-lined face cleanly shaven.
Of course, it seemed odd that these two significant figures in New York politics and its underground were seated in comfy chairs, awaiting their capture with total nonchalance. It could mean they knew they'd escape whatever punishment you had waiting for them - or they could be bluffing.
In any case, though, it was highly unlikely that they had no moves left to play.
You were still glad at such a quick success, though - all that hard work really did pay off - but something dropped within you at the sight of Hector and Gio being your only sitting ducks. Nina's not here, but she could be downstairs, and she's not the highest person of interest in the case.
Cruz wasn't there, either - but that's just this room.
You shifted your jaw.
Ray's intel showed Cruz traveling to the house with Gio and Hector last night, and surveillance didn't see anyone leave.
He must be here somewhere.
"Anything we can help you with?" Gio drawled, his crackling voice betraying the wear of his age.
"You're under arrest," Ray asserted, just as Indira and Murph stormed into the room, guns at the ready. In a display of nothing but scorn, Hector shrugged and got to his feet, his hands in the air.
"Couldn't have let us know sooner?" Hector smiled, his voice full of striking calm, even as the red crewneck he wore seemed to choke at his throat. As Indira wrenched his hands around his back, Hector grunted. "You know, the doorbell's an option," he hissed. "Or a phone call."
Your lip curled in disgust.
"Hector, please," Gio chided as if his son was of elementary-school age and not a full-grown, criminally-conspiring adult. The old man lifted himself onto his feet just as Murph wrenched his wrists into the click of silver cuffs. Gio's cigar fell to the ground almost soundlessly, and Murph crushed the tip of it beneath his boot, driving a stain of ash into the once-pristine carpet.
Gio's snakelike gaze shot to Murph, full of judging amusement.
"You could have smoked that yourself, you know. Hate to see such a fine product go to waste."
Murph laughed, throaty and low. "I don't need your leftovers."
You stepped aside as Indira and Murph drew the captors from the room and into the hallway, with you and Ray in tow after a quick glance over the room. You saw that Indira and Murph had checked all other rooms along this hall, each carefully-carved door left ajar, the lights on and blaring a warm tone that just seemed to scream money.
Dex flew up the stairs just ahead and his eyes widened at the sight of these powerful figures, now reduced to red-handed men in unforgiving cuffs, with the hands of the law cased tightly around the backs of their necks.
"Nina's in the squad car with Blake," Dex offered. Ray nodded.
"We'll get these guys in the van, then."
Hector scoffed. “I’ve got a limo if you need more room-“
Indira shoved the man forward before dragging him back toward her, and he grunted, almost whimpered. Nothing indecent, just enough to shut his entitled ass up.
“Thanks, but the van will suit you just fine,” Indira breathed.
Indira and Murph brought their catches down the stairs with Dex, toward the entrance and back outside. Ray did a quick sweep of the rest of the upper hall and, appearing satisfied, turned to step back down the stairs.
You moved to follow him, but as you took your first step, your eyes caught on another door - just to your left. It appeared to be just slightly ajar, as if it was checked, but no light gleamed out from behind it.
“Ray,” you whispered. He stopped, turning to face you.
“Job well done, right?” He smiled. You shook your head and nodded at the door, hands still gripping your gun.
“Don’t think they got that one.”
Ray sighed. “Selena, I know this was a quick raid, but we got what we needed-“
“We should check,” you insisted. “Just in case.”
Your gut was screaming at you to trust it, yelling out to you that something else was beyond that door.
And that something might just be Cruz.
Ray’s lips pressed into a firm line, and the slow close of his eyes was more than enough of an affirmation for you. You spun on your heel toward that door and tested the crystal knob, tugging the door open with little effort, to your surprise. Ahead lay a steep staircase, far less fancy than the other one but mahogany all the same.
Attic.
Your first step creaked, and your breath hitched, gloves fingers pulling tight against your weapon. With your ears dialled to their highest listening level, you waited - and another tiny creak from above was enough to send you soaring up those stairs.
The attic appeared much older than the rest of the house. Still-high ceilings were a touch lower, and simpler windows lined the walls, some covered with the thin fabric of sheer white curtain.
“FBI!” You announced, your tone strong, neck and shoulders tense as your eyes darted from window to window, wall to wall, your body turning as you surveyed the space, arms outstretched at attention. “Show yourself!”
The quiet sound of a glass settling on wood drew your focus to another one of those large armchairs - this one turned toward a window at the back of the space. Your eyes zeroed in on the edge of careful fingertips, releasing their hold on this glass in question - one of crystal, dulled by a thin line of dark liquor at the bottom.
Bit early, no?
The person stood, and as your eyes caught the buzzed curls woven tightly against his skull, adrenaline and satisfaction surged down your veins.
Knew it.
“Carlos Velluchi,” you bellowed, only a twinge of smugness lining your words, “you’re under arrest.”
The man laughed. It wasn’t a sorrowful sound, though - it was something more robust, something closer to arrogance. With a shrug, he turned, his hands lifted.
“Good morning to you, too,” Cruz hummed with an expressionless clench of his sharp jaw. You narrowed your eyes at him, his grey suit jacket and crisp white collar holding about as tight to his skin as the handcuffs soon would. He was around your age but just a bit older, about Matt’s height, with dark hair and darker, probing eyes.
You kept your gun trained on Cruz as you stepped toward him, moving one hand down to grab the cuffs hooked into your belt. The man scoffed, almost laughed.
“You know you’ve got me, right? The gun is a bit excessive. I’m not exactly going anywhere at this point.”
You pressed your lips together at his quip, stepping closer and around him with your weapon still outstretched. “For all I know, you have a weapon of your own. I think you’re well aware of the protocol by now.”
Cruz’s wrists went limp in your hands as you gripped them at his back, securing the cuffs with precision and no lack of rough handling. He winced, turning his head to face you.
“Usually, I don’t mind being cuffed, but maybe you could take it easy on me with that grip, beautiful? I am getting arrested here. Tough day for me already-“
“Shut up.”
Your gut twisted with his comments. Cruz was known for being a problematic, unserious, and inconsiderate prick - particularly with women. With his hands fastened together behind him, you gripped the back of his neck with one hand and placed the barrel of your gun at the center of his spine. Despite the man’s nonchalant exterior, he twitched.
“I know what you’re looking into,” Cruz breathed - low, shallow, rushed. “I’m telling you, I’m not the guy you want.”
You almost laughed. “Think you’re the first person who’s tried that?”
Cruz shifted his hands slightly and rolled his shoulders back. “You better be careful, agent.”
“Why exactly should I be careful?” You hissed, pressing your gun more firmly against Cruz’s back. With that threat-filled pressure so firmly against him, you were able to maneuver the man around the armchair before he continued.
“Some people carry heavy debts,” Cruz breathed, “debts you can’t always repay in cash and coins - or jail time, for that matter.”
You’d dealt with many different escape tactics, and although you surely weren’t taking this guy at his word, you were intrigued enough to keep listening.
“You’d better be careful with which debts you decide to put yourself in the middle of.”
You snorted at that comment. “Just doing my job, Velluchi. I don’t cherry-pick justice.”
The crane of Cruz’s neck was slow as he turned his head back toward you, his jaw jutting out as it clenched. “Might be time to start.”
A man in near captivity wasn’t someone to trust - especially not a man as notorious as this one. Still, though, his words caught your attention.
“And why exactly would you be telling me this?”
A split second passed, and releasing the tension in his jaw, Cruz dipped his head with a shake. A spitting grin filled his voice with vile spite.
“Hate to see something happen to a pretty bitch like you.”
There it is.
Shifting your jaw, you shoved your gun against Cruz. He swayed slightly but didn’t budge. Another shove forced a step out of him - not without resistance, though.
“Walk,” you commanded roughly.
Despite the attitude, the refusal, the warning overshadowed with biting, scornful disrespect - he did as he was told.
Ray reached the uppermost step just as you got the guy to the top of the staircase. His eyes widened at the sight of Cruz Velluchi at your mercy.
“You were right,” Ray nodded. Though the tension was strong - what with a potentially dangerous criminal in your literal hands - you smiled.
“Told you so.”
Cruz scoffed as you started him down the stairs. “What, so you were betting on my fuckin’ capture? Fuckin’ cops.”
Ray laughed bitterly. “Careful, man.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Cruz spat. “Anything I say can and will be held against me - whatever. Tough shit. Fuck all of you.”
You pushed your gun further against Cruz’s back, and he stiffened but was otherwise unfazed.
“Might as well just shoot me if you’re gonna keep busting my back with that gun, lady.”
You ignored him and shared a pained look with Ray.
“You are going to be so much fun to interrogate, aren’t you?” You breathed, shoving his sorry ass bitterly down the staircase. Cruz didn’t so much as look around the space as he was dragged from it, as if he was sure he’d be back in no time.
Either that, or he had too many mansions to give two shits about any particular one of them.
“You’re not getting shit from any of us, bitch,” Cruz hissed as you put in him the squad car alongside Nina. You gave him an exaggerated, fake gasp.
“Using our big boy words today, aren’t we?”
Shutting the door over Cruz’s seething face, you smiled to yourself at this win.
Not gonna get shit from you?
We’ll see about that.
“I don’t understand why-“
“We don’t have enough on him, and he’s not talking.”
“Then keep him longer. He’ll break eventually.”
“Selena, you know I trust you, but when there’s nothing there, there’s nothing there.”
You huffed at Ray, arms crossed over your chest, bulletproof vest and jacket traded in for a tight red blouse and a black blazer. Ray only shrugged.
“I’m sorry. There’s only so much I can do.”
Jaw shifting, you pursed your lips. “Maybe you can talk to Janelle. She listens to you.”
“No.” Ray asserted. The sound of it, cutting and curt, caught you by surprise. Ray sighed, leaning in and lowering his voice. “I’m not doing this, Selena. We have to let it be for now.”
You scoffed. “Yeah, and just let him go?”
“The second we get any worthy information on Cruz, he’s right back here in cuffs. Maybe even in his own cell. But, for now, we have to let him go.”
Fire sparked beneath your skin. “You and Dex seriously got nothing out of him? Nothing on him?”
Ray shook his head grimly. You shook yours in return, glancing to the floor and back again.
“I swear there’s shit he knows. If we just had more time, we could-“
“Hey, Selena!” Dex called out from around the corner, just down the gray-tiled hall. “We’re gonna be in with father and son for a little longer than expected. Mind grabbing some coffee?”
You ran your tongue along the inside of your cheek, barely covering the sarcasm in your voice. “Sure thing, Dex.”
He nodded with that lopsided grin and disappeared back around the corner. You looked back at Ray, who pressed his lips together, another shrug lifting his shoulders in near-helpless dejection.
“Sorry, Sel. There’s nothing else we can do right now.”
The air around you felt just a touch too cold, too air-conditioned, and yet heat seemed to be pooling beneath your blazer. You shook your head at Ray as you strode toward the elevator, only moderately pissed that Dex had put you on coffee duty. Ray couldn’t have told him off - after all, he was a team lead and had to be in the building for the interrogations. Hitting the down button, you turned back to him, hands resting surely on your hips.
“I’m telling you, Ray. We’ll be dragging his ass back sooner or later.”
Got Cruz, and now they’re letting him go.
Like he means fucking nothing.
The man was a wildcard, sure, but that was precisely what made him the type to throw a family member into the Hudson without a damn thought.
You had the strongest possible feeling he had something to do with Marcus’ death - and, even if he somehow didn’t, he absolutely knew more about it than those interrogations were showing.
Definitely Dex, not knowing what to fucking ask.
On top of your day job, you were meeting with Matt tonight to discuss his intel on Owlsley. The weekend passed without any calls between the two of you, but a text message last night let you know that he’d be trying to catch Owlsley at some point tonight and hopefully get something out of him. He told you to just come to his place at 9, and sure, it was technically work, technically a mission - but you couldn’t help but look forward to seeing him.
No mention had been made of Friday night - but you knew it was at the forefront of both your minds, gripping onto your focus as tightly as Matt had held you close.
And, maybe, you considered, absentmindedly biting the inside of your lip, maybe Foggy won’t show up unannounced this time.
The thought was fleeting, quick, but it kept coming back to you. You’d go two minutes without Matt on your mind, and all of a sudden, he’d be right back, the picture of his close lips and honeyed eyes drawing the memory of tender heat and touch right back over your shivering skin.
Maybe.
We’ve got priorities. Things to take care of.
But…
Maybe.
The door of this diner pushed open with a small ding, the bell above you gold and swinging. It was the closest spot to grab a few coffees, relative to the building you were working in today. Few patrons filled the booths, and most were elderly, sipping at coffees and teas like they had all the time in the world.
The host lady offered a warm but somewhat gruff smile as you placed your to-go order, and after you paid, you turned to look around the space.
Your eyes flitted to two older women, their hair gray with age but their smiles bright with the joy of good company. Another booth held a young girl and a man you assumed to be her grandfather. She giggled as he spoke to her, sipping on a strawberry milkshake, her rosy cheeks beaming in young, happy light.
Turning your head once more, you noticed a booth closer to the back, next to a window - where you glimpsed ringlets of flowy blonde hair, the face which they belonged to being mostly hidden behind the dark curls of her brunch partner.
Stepping to the side, you kept your eyes trained on the woman, honing your gaze as it narrowed.
Is that…
…Karen?
“Four coffees!” The desk lady all but shouted, jolting you from your investigative stupor. You turned to the woman and smiled with a thank-you, taking the tray from her hands - and shifted your eyes right back to that booth and its blonde-haired patron. Your feet moved before your thoughts did, and, with your focus entirely on what must be Karen, you finally caught her bright blue eyes - which widened as they met yours.
“Karen!” You smiled, though it was laced with a hint of suspicion. Her flash of surprise faded fast into a smile - although you couldn’t help but note how guilty of a look it had seemed, how nervous.
Deer caught in the headlights, doe-eyed and fully aware of what she’s done - whatever it may be.
That’s…
…weird.
Very weird.
“Selena, hi!” Karen grinned as you approached the table. The man across from her wore glasses, a gray-tinged beard surrounding his thin, closed-lipped smile.
“This is Ben,” she offered. The man tipped his head up to face you fully, and your eyes flashed with recognition.
You’d seen his photo before, read work he’d written on various crimes and events over the years. He was a talented writer and seemed to have a knack for uncovering detail and illuminating pristine truth.
“Urich?” you questioned. His eyes sparkled, though a part of that sparkle seemed guarded, even as he grinned up at you.
“That’s me.”
“You’re a journalist, right?” you queried, eyeing the hot coffee mug his fingers twitched against. “I read your piece on the incident. Your writing is spectacular.”
“Oh, just doing my job,” Ben offered with a wave. “But I appreciate it,” he smiled. You smiled back, curious to know what in the world the relationship between Karen Page and Ben Urich could be.
Before you could consider it further, Karen piped up.
“How’s work? I didn’t know you worked around here.”
Weird thing to point out.
“It’s good, it’s good,” you breathed, holding up the tray. “On coffee duty for now.”
She nodded with a small laugh. “I know how that is.”
You laughed back. A quick pause fell over the three of you as if there was some unspoken set of words between Karen and Ben that you weren’t quite privy to and weren’t about to be let in on.
As if they’re hiding something.
Suspicious.
You mentally nudged yourself, forcing down your investigator side.
Come on.
You just did a raid, for goodness’ sake. Of course you’re being hypervigilant.
This is just Karen.
Turn it off.
“Well, the office calls,” you hummed cheerfully, nodding at the door. Karen and Ben smiled warmly, and Ben let out a low laugh.
“See you later, Selena,” Karen hummed.
That bell dinged again as you left, its sparkling ring dancing through your ears.
Didn’t know Karen was friends with Ben Urich.
One of the top journalists at the Bulletin.
And, although you kept telling yourself you had nothing to investigate, no reason to see anything as suspicious - you couldn’t stop your thoughts as they grew and expanded into a twisting, smoking spiral.
Why would Karen be having coffee with a top Manhattan journalist?
As much as you willed it to help, the coffee did nothing to aid Dex and Ray through their final interrogation of Cruz. You considered asking Ray to let you in on it but thought better. Janelle was around, and with high-level persons of interest such as these, it was generally considered best practice to keep the interrogations to the Level Ones leading the case. Sometimes exceptions were made, but since your desire to interrogate wasn't based on anything you could actually explain, the odds of Janelle approving a Level Two interrogation of a technically innocent guy were not in your favor.
So, you suffered in silence as the time passed, with your coffee slowly draining - along with your will to live - as you watched Dex release Cruz. The man all but strutted out of the building, and within literally two minutes of a phone call, a sleek black limo arrived to whisk him away.
You watched with contempt, but also a comfortable sense of control - since, as an agent on the upper end of Level Two, it was part of your job to evaluate materials that were confiscated during and after the perpetrator’s arrest.
That included Cruz’s phone.
And, as the formidable hacker your alter ego was known to be, you’d prepared a tracking program that could be installed to his device with no proof of existence - aside from the map on your computer - following each and every step he took. If he was going to be released from FBI custody, released from the near custody of Selena O’Malley - well, that was what it was, and there was nothing you could do about it.
This way, though, the Nightingale could still pay him a visit.
Cold snapped through your gloves as you climbed down the steel ending ladder of a fire escape, the warmth of a long-set sun feeling kind and comforting in your memory. You had thirty or so minutes before you had to meet Matt - but even if you were a bit late, you were sure he’d understand.
Intel is intel, a lead is a lead - and mutually beneficial evidence is mutually beneficial evidence.
The location given was the basement of a less-than-stellar apartment building, one which was small and unkempt. Despite some cleverly-placed paint jobs, the structure’s dilapidation was given away by the crumble of brick on this exterior wall; drawing the edge of your glove over the side of it left traces of dust over your fingertips, peels of old white paint drifting emptily to the ground. Garbage bags and scattered needles lay adrift at the building’s edge, and you had to tread carefully so that needles and shards of broken beer bottles wouldn’t get stuck in your boots.
Not exactly five-star.
Uncharacteristic of a rich guy like him-
-but very characteristic of a guilty man on the run.
Through peering eyes, you searched the darkened corner of this alleyway for the window access point you’d found, thanks to a combination of your tracking software’s prowess and the beautiful work of Google Earth. It sat just atop the concrete, poorly concealed on the inside by broken, yellowed blinds. A small light shone out from within the space, and you breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of it, glad your tracking was a success.
And to think he said we’d get nothing out of him.
A hint of satisfaction graced your masked lips as you approached the window.
Fury and focus lined the inside of your stomach, flaming through your ribs and veins as you examined the window. Small and old, it seemed easy enough to break the latch and drive it open. Your theory was proven correct as you slammed your heel down on the side latch and leaned down to shove the outer pane to the side. Though the window was relatively small - compared to most of the Velluchis’ other mansion-style windows - it was large enough for you to fit through. You glanced through to see open floor space beneath the window and dipped down, slipping your feet past the glass and swinging yourself inside, your boots hitting the floor with a thud.
You glanced around the living room you’d entered. It felt just as small and unkempt as the building’s exteriors. Though the space was quite small, it felt cluttered, with various items of clothing and garbage littering the floor. To your right was a worn brown couch, next to a dim standing lamp in the corner, and in front of you was a coffee table covered in papers and empty drink cans and… goldfish?
You turned up your nose at the tiny orange fish crackers scattered over the coffee table - and over the couch. And the carpet.
And, yeah, sure, you could be messy sometimes, but at least you were clean.
Dude could at least eat them over the bag.
At that moment, Cruz turned the corner, a cigarette between his teeth. His eyes grew crazed and wide at the sight of some masked assailant in his makeshift living room. You wasted no time in storming forward, grabbing his wrists, and walking him back through the doorway he’d walked through to slam him against the back wall of the next room. It was nearly pitch black, the dim light of that lamp left behind.
“Fuck,” he grunted, wisps of smoke floating out from his dry, cracking lips. “You could have fucking knocked, bitch.”
You ignored his comment, although you were surprised at the lack of care in it. “I think you know why I’m here-“
“Yeah, yeah. Ask your goddamn questions. Slit my wrists and watch me bleed until I talk, or whatever it is that gets you off. Just don’t take too long. I’ve got a game to watch at 10.”
Cruz’s words stunned you into silence. Usually, when you had to pump people for information, they weren’t this… bold. People generally tended to fear a random attacker attacking them, as shocking as that may be.
Cruz Velluchi, though? He was the wildcard, after all.
Your mouth opened and closed beneath your mask, narrowed eyes catching on Cruz’s worn athletic shirt before shifting back up to meet his gaze - a gaze that constituted anger, tiredness, and a spark of amusement.
“What?” he spat. “You think I don’t know who you are?”
You scoffed, tightening your grip on his wrists, where you held them against the wall above his head. “I think it would serve you well to be respectful.”
Cruz laughed, the sound of it scornful, his body strangely relaxed under your threatening presence. After drifting his eyes to the ceiling, he looked back at you, twisting his cigarette between his teeth. You watched as he closed his lips around it and sucked in - before blowing a stream of smoke right into your face.
“How’s that for respect?” he taunted as you blinked away the burn of grey flame. Jaw seething, eyes burning, you pulled Cruz forward and spun him around, shoving his front side against the wall with a slam. His arms were pulled up into a painful hold between his shoulders, and as he winced, you hissed directly into the ear that wasn’t pressed up painfully against the wall.
“I’ll give you one chance to try that again, before I do that very thing you claim gets me off.”
Despite the pain you knew you were causing him, Cruz snickered.
“So, Nightingale wants to get herself off? Gotta be honest, I always pegged you for the frigid-bitch type-“
Your knee drove into his crotch from behind, and he yelped, his tough exterior shattering beneath that shrill expression of pain. After a beat, he sighed through gritted teeth.
“Yeah, you’re the fuckin’ Nightingale. You don’t think the damn mask gave you away? Or the fact that you broke into my fucking place?”
“People only know who I am when they’ve done something wrong,” you whispered, “something worthy of my involvement. So, Carlos, I need you to remind me of why I’m here, holding you against your will in, yes, your fucking place.”
“I told the fuckin’ FBI, I don’t know shit,” Cruz asserted, tipping his head up from against the wall. “I do some minor business with my family, but I’m out, man. Got away from them years ago.”
“Then what were you doing in the same house as them last night?”
“Family is family. Sometimes you just have to be there, no matter the past.”
You nodded. “And how has the past brought you back to them now?”
Cruz rolled his eyes. “I don’t know anything about Marcus.”
“Not why I’m here.”
“I don’t fucking care, anyway. Why don’t you break into Hector’s place-“
“Oh, I’ll talk to Hector. I need to talk to you about Sonistrad.”
At that, Cruz froze, lips locked on a part and eyes unblinking. The moment lasted only half a second, but it was enough to know that you were making progress. You smiled, venom twisting its way through your teeth.
“How about Confederated Global Investments? You wanna talk to me about that?”
He swallowed. You pressed him harder against the wall, voice growing stronger as adrenaline rose in your gut at the sight of him squirming in pain.
“We can stay here with my hands on you, or I can take up that other option you suggested. Just sharpened a few knives yesterday-“
“I got away from Confed Global,” Cruz snapped, nearly breathless at the ache in his shoulders, thanks to your unforgiving grip. “Gave away all my shares in Sonistrad to them. I’m out. I’ve been out.”
You swallowed. Cruz wasn’t lying. The paper he’d signed off on was a sale, a declaration that all his ownership of Sonistrad was gifted to Confed Global, leaving Sonistrad to become yet another subsidiary.
“Then, since you’re out,” you breathed, “you can tell me everything you’ve got on Confed Global’s centerpiece. You know, the great leader himself.”
Cruz scoffed, running his tongue over his teeth. “So you want me to commit suicide? No, thank you.”
“I want you to think about the position you’re in,” you hissed. “If you know who I am, you know what I’m capable of. I doubt you want to end up in a wheelchair.”
Cruz didn’t seem to care about your threat. “If I could help you, I would, believe me - but as far as I get away from everything else, his reach is something you just can’t fuck with.”
You released your grip on Cruz and spun him around, shoving his back into the wall. He grunted, but didn’t let up.
“You might put me in a wheelchair, but he’ll put me in the fucking ground.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What makes you so sure I wouldn’t do the same?”
Cruz eyed you for a moment and tilted his head to the side.
“Good point,” he breathed. “But you wouldn’t kill me with no information.”
You clenched your jaw.
Fucking hell.
“I’m fully aware of the sort of debts Fisk forces people into,” you spat. “I know all the money in the world won’t free you, but you have a chance to make shit right here. Especially if what you really want is to finally, finally leave it all behind.”
Cruz licked his lips in the dark. You leaned forward to say something else, but at that moment, a bright light shone through a window you hadn’t noticed in this room - a window reaching out toward the next street. It took you a minute to process, but it was nothing unique - just the bright headlights of a car speeding through the evening.
The light lit up the nerves hidden within Cruz’s stony expression, but it also lit up the flame in your own. After the day he’d had, getting arrested by a certain FBI agent, and now hearing your specific mention of debts, you were sure the sight of your narrowed, burning eyes would not be well received.
Shit.
Cruz’s eyes widened before narrowing sharply, instinctively, instantly - and regret surged through every one of your bones like a heavy sludge.
“Debts?” He hissed.
Your breathing picked up as your pulse did, your heart beating so hard you thought your ribs might fracture.
Bad choice of words.
Really, really bad choice of words.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Before Cruz could say anything else, before you could collect your thoughts, you slammed him back against the wall - once, twice, three times, skull crashing against the wall. His head lolled, and you drew up a fist to shove it clean across his nose. You released your clenching grip on him, and on uneven footing, Cruz slumped to the floor, blood seeping from his nose in a steady flow, streaming into the space between his lips. He tipped his head up just in time for your boot to drive into his jaw - and the man was out cold.
Heart beating out of your chest, you ran for the window, hoisting yourself up and outside on fear-induced adrenaline alone. You clamored up the fire escape as fast as your arms would take you, wishing you could take every second of that interaction back.
That’s what I get for chasing a lead too fast, too hard.
How could I be so thoughtless?
And, although your fear was real and valid, you steadied your breaths.
Nothing I can do about it now.
Let’s just hope I kicked the guy hard enough for his memory to break as cleanly as his nose did.
Anxiety surged through your feet with every step toward Matt’s apartment. You’d decided to just throw on some clothes over your suit, opting to stay a bit sweaty and cigarette-smelling instead of letting a shower make you any later than you already were.
Which wasn’t more than ten minutes. But still.
Your walk down the hall toward his door was one rife with energy despite the heavy drain of your day. Stray butterflies fluttered through your stomach, flapping their wings up through your chest to soar in circles around your mind.
You didn’t know what Matt wanted from you, and truthfully, you didn’t entirely know what you wanted from him. You did know, though, that there was a connection, palpable and impossible to ignore, tangible through every touch, every smile, each heartbeat that graced your chest and his. Not only was this connection there, but it had been recognized, acknowledged in words and touches and depths of feeling - hardly explored yet, but finally seeing a new, light-cased dawn.
It was dangerous; you couldn’t ignore that. You didn’t want to risk him, and he didn’t want to risk you.
But you also didn’t want to just be friends - and that was something that, now acknowledged, couldn’t just be left to collect dust beneath the memory of his hands on you in the warm, comfortable dark of his office.
A part of you still felt regret at that intimacy you’d shared. Getting close to people was hard enough, dangerous enough, and in so many cases, it had only ended in painful loss for you. It was sad to admit to yourself, but yes, you regretted it - for his sake and yours.
But maybe, if he can protect himself, and if things keep going the way they’re going - maybe I can learn to stop regretting.
Maybe I can learn to let myself…
Connect?
And be connected to?
Connect wasn’t quite the word you were thinking of. The real word you meant in your heart was too intense a concept for you to consider, too big of a statement for you to even spell it out in your mind, especially at this point. The regret still weighed heavy on your heart, as did the envy-twinged memories of the dinner, the snark and sarcasm and insults, and the simultaneous guilt you’d felt at both disrespecting Matt and disrespecting yourself.
And, you thought, just because we have the beginnings of a connection doesn’t mean it has to be some big, life-altering thing. It doesn’t really even have to mean anything - now, or down the road, or ever. Maybe it’ll be nice for a while, and maybe it’ll just fizzle out like nothing ever happened.
Your thoughts kept you safe, feelings of guilt and risk and caution keeping your heart in a viselike grip of protection. Plus - how would you even explain to Matt why you were like this? What had happened to you was genuinely incomprehensible, full of a strange terror spurned by even stranger, even more terrifying people, with their lofty goals of an almost supernatural nature catching you in a noose and pulling tight. Not a day went by when you didn’t feel the scraping grip of that unforgiving rope around your neck.
Whatever happens, you breathed, resigning yourself to acceptance as you reached Matt’s door, I will protect him. From the past, from the present - from me, if I have to.
And I’ll do what I have to do to protect myself.
You rapped your knuckles against the nicked exterior of Matt's door. Waiting a minute or so, you knocked again.
This wasn’t the first time Matt had been late coming to the door. Still, you double-checked your phone - no messages or missed calls.
Maybe the Owlsley interrogation went longer than expected?
Your breath caught in your throat just slightly, a whisper of worry about his safety crawling up your spine, but you shoved it down.
Matt’s fine.
With a twist of adrenaline curling in your gut, your worry getting the better of you, you tried his doorknob. To your surprise, it twisted easily, and you pushed the door open just a touch, your eyes catching on the wood-paneled floor of his darkened foyer. As you opened the door, you finally heard - whispers? Hushed voices - what sounded like… arguing?
What?
“Matt?” You called out, just as footsteps finally approached the door. Matt pulled it all the way open, your hand falling from the knob, and despite the crease between your brows, you smiled at him.
“Hey,” you offered, craning your head around the doorway to try and get some sense of what was going on. “Everything okay?”
Matt looked tired, to say the least. Mask off, his eyes glinted as they shifted over you, hair slightly ruffled. He was still wearing the rest of his suit, and the scent of damp concrete and smog twirled through his usual cinnamon.
He gave you a tight-lipped, tense smile.
“Hey. Everything’s okay, but… we might have to reschedule.”
Your eyes tipped down in concern, and you were about to pry, about to offer some words of comfort - when a gruff, aging voice, full of granular, grating apathy, let out a long, crackling laugh from within Matt’s apartment.
“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.”
That voice - that voice - it ignited the back of your brain, fired up memories and nightmares that you’d long tried to stamp away, even as you’d scoured New York for the very man who originated such a snarling, puncturing drag.
What...
What the hell?
Your eyes narrowed at Matt, heartbeat picking up quicker than you thought was possible, each pound in your chest something volatile.
No fucking way.
That… that doesn’t make any sense.
It couldn’t possibly be him.
“Matt,” you began, wary and cautious in your low tone. “Who’s that?”
He shook his head intensely, his voice carrying an insisting tone of it’s no one, it’s nothing, don’t-worry-don’t-worry-don’t-worry. “It’s not-“
“Oh, let her in,” the voice called out again, mocking and cut up with sawdust and scorn. “Don’t let me be a cockblock.”
Your lip curled in disgust, just as your jaw dropped, your adrenaline spiking.
No.
Fucking.
Way.
No way that the very man you’d been searching for, the man you’d enlisted Jessica’s help in locating, had ended up practically in plain sight - in Matt’s fucking living room?
No way this was real.
You had to see it for yourself.
Matt shook his head again, leaning toward you. “I’m sorry about him. I swear, it’s nothing, I just need to-“
Ignoring Matt’s effort to kindly get you the hell away from him and his house guest, you shoved past him, squeezing through the narrow opening in the doorway. Matt reached out to stop you, but you pushed his hand away just as it wrapped around your arm.
“Hey,” Matt called out from behind you, confused and frustrated, his footsteps following closely behind yours. You didn’t listen, didn’t stop, only stormed forward into the living room where you stopped, stunned, a phantom of the past looking down on you through sightless eyes.
And, really, your jaw might as well have released from your face and fallen onto the floor with a crack of bone, a splatter of detachment and repression spewing over your shoes.
He just stood there across from you, his once-intimidating stance of disinterest now reigniting a childhood rage you’d long pressed down. He wore dark clothes, a black jacket cloaked over the dark gray of a wrinkled, corduroy-looking button down, dark cargo pants rippling down his legs. Those gray, sightless eyes tracked over you with bitter, laughing scorn, narrowed and driving with the memory of what was past, chock-full of contempt.
His cracked lips opened in the ghost of a smirk, though his eyes remained narrowed, unamused, bitterly sharp - even as Matt stepped up at your side between you and the man, confused and concerned and wide-eyed as his mind seemed to work overtime to figure out what the hell was going on.
And your mind was doing the same - but you were too caught up in shock to focus on whatever his connection to Matt was - as utterly ridiculous as it was that, again, he was in Matt’s living room, of all places.
“Well,” the man scorned. “Thought Matty here would be burying his sorrows between the legs of a supermodel, at least. Gotta say, kid,” he shrugged, curling his lip as he turned to Matt. “You shouldn’t be wasting your time on any damn women, but you could at least get some good pussy.”
In spite of the tension, you laughed, not even registering Matt’s tell-off - only catching the edge of a what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you. Matt turned to you, now more intensely confused than concerned - but your eyes were trained forward, locked on your newest target, one of your oldest opponents.
The memory of his cane striking hard against your back lit up every nerve - as did the memory of your fist colliding with his deeply-wrinkled face, your success in finally drawing red from between his lips being an achievement you couldn’t possibly forget.
Maybe I’ll have a chance to break his fucking jaw this time.
Ignoring Matt’s step in your direction, your eyes zeroed in further on the figure of your attention, lips curling out into a seething, bleeding smile, finally brave enough to fully match his malice after all this time.
“Hi, Stick.”