Pete’s sitting in a car parked in front of the very same coffee shop he visited a little while back. He decided to show up a little later than he normally would, just to make them think he forgot or that they were off the hook. He wanted them to be on their toes when he decided to show them his true face. He invested quite a pretty penny into them and their craft and now it was time for him to collect his fee.

“I help your business get off the ground and all ya gotta do is pay me back on time. Simple, right?”

All he did for them and this is what they do to repay him? Go behind his back and ask for protection from the very same man who got them to where they are in this world. It’s never wise to bite the hand that feeds you, he thought. In fact, it was the only reason he helped them; because he knew Blurryface had been trying to get the Way’s for months and Pete enjoys getting under the skin of the people he despises.

A group of uncoordinated, cruel delinquents resided in the south end of Chicago. Blurryface Boulevard wasn’t a kind place and the gang that lived there was no different - relentless and messy is their way of conducting business and all it does is make Pete and his guys look bad. Everything Blurryface does, Pete’s the one always getting blamed for it by the media and police. The only thing they were ever good at was staying out of the spotlight and allowing everyone to think they were a harmless joke. But Pete knew better than to believe that.

“What’s the street lookin’ like?” Pete asks as his driver, too busy with his current task of loading his gun to look for himself. This night was going to go one of two ways: either Pete gets paid or it’s so long and goodnight for the Way Brothers.

“Empty.” Gabe answers, still scanning the street and the building of interest across from them. Most of the lights were off but a couple of figures could still be seen inside. “No cops, no civils. I think you’re in the clear.”

Pete didn’t dress up tonight, there was no need to ruin a perfectly good suit for this. Instead he just pulled a black outfit from his wardrobe, dark enough to conceal his identity and to possibly be mistaken for a shadow.

“I’ll send Trav in if things get sticky.” The driver assures, giving him a nod through the rearview. Travis was set with their finest Typewriter - a Tommygun that most of the gang referred to as ‘Dale’. Pete had his reasons, but no one else bothered to question the name. Travis is one of the only people he allows to even touch it, let alone squeeze the trigger.

Pete opens his passenger door and exits the car, tucking his piece into the waist of his slacks. “Won’t be long.” He says just before slamming the door shut and making his way across the street to get what he came for.

The door to the shop is locked but he knows the Way’s had to be expecting him. He knocks politely on the glass and smiles in a friendly manner when Gerard spots him at the front entrance. Pete can tell he’s a little hesitant to let him in, but it’s not like there’s much of a choice anyway. He comes over and unlocks it, smiling back at the other man and doing a damn good job of pretending this is just a nice visit among friends.

“Nice night, huh?” Pete says casually as soon as Gerard gets the door open.

“Sure is.” He purses his lips in an attempt to keep his smile from looking too fake. Pete was unpredictable, he wasn’t going to take a chance in getting shot for making the wrong facial expression. “Come on in.” Then he’s holding the door open for the other man, allowing him to walk through before closing and relocking it behind him. “Want anything? Coffee? Scones?”

“Nah,” Pete takes a seat at a small table in the back corner of the shop, motioning for Gerard to join him in the opposite seat so he could try to act civilized once again. Maybe this one will be more honest than his brother. “I’m not gonna dance ‘round with you, Gee, I’m sure ya know why I’m here at this time of night.” He continues once he gets a nod and is sure he has the other’s undivided attention. “Then ya know how this should go, right? I get my money and I walk outta here without havin’ to blow one down in this motherfucker.”

Gerard takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself and preparing to speak. He doesn’t want to risk a trembling voice and give Pete the fear that he wants. “I know what you’re here for,” He admits. “But if you could hear me out for just a few minutes, maybe we could come to another solution.”

“Hm,” There’s not a lot of thought that goes into Gerard’s suggestion, Pete’s had nothing but a ‘money or death’ mindset since before he left his car. He legitimately tries to consider an alternate solution, but the cold part of him doesn’t give a shit about it. He gave them more than enough time and on top of that they asked his enemy and competition for help. There wasn’t a drop of mercy left in him. “If we ain’t discussin’ money, I don’t wanna hear about it.”

“But what if we-”

“No.” The smile he had is long gone, his politeness was only meant for those who he believed deserved it and these fools definitely did not. He tried to be nice before, but all they did was piss him off. “If this was your first offence I woulda considered it. But it’s not. Bottom line is you either pay up or you’re goin’ home in a goddamn box. So what’s it gonna be, huh?”

It’s dead silent for only a few seconds but it felt so much longer. Hours --maybe even dare to say days-- is how it seemed. Gerard was losing his composure, his fear beginning to shine through the cracks of his broken demeanor. He couldn’t worm their way out of this, he thought he could talk to Pete and get him to lighten up about the payment but it was too late to even try. He told Mikey they shouldn’t have asked the Mafia for help, they should have just left well enough alone.

“We don’t have it.” He rubs his face, scratches nervously at the stubble on his cheek, barely speaks above a whisper. He was afraid and Pete could tell.

“Speak up.” He demands, giving the yellow haired man a frigid stare.

Gerard sighs and repeats himself a bit louder, placing his hands in his lap. “We… we don’t have it.”

“Yeah,” He nods, mostly to himself. “That's what I thought you said.” Then he's jumping up out of his seat, the chair tipping backwards and falling to the floor with an ear piercing clash. He lashes out, reaching over and snatching a handful of lemon hair, yanking and pulling Gerard from his seat as he kicks and struggles in the process.

“Outside, motherfucker! Let's go!” He continues to drag him along, through the kitchen and out the back door leading to the dark alley behind the building.

“Please, don't do this!” The yellow haired man begs as he's thrown onto the concrete, putting his hands up in a weak attempt to reflect whatever damage that's to come.  “Pete, please, don't do this!” He cries again, his voice cracking harshly from the strain. “W-We can get your money, I swear!”

“I shoulda had it on the first of the month, Lemon. Month's over.” He pulls his gun from the waist of his slacks, hammer cocked back and immediately taking aim at the crying man before him. There's a small sliver in his soul that actually wants to feel bad for doing this, but the rules were clear from the beginning. “And the cherry on top, you invited those Blurryface bastards to a closed fuckin' party. And what'd I tell you, huh?”

“Please, don't…” He whimpered, vocal cords worn out from the frantic cries and pleas. His shoulders shook as the sobs wracked his body, hesitantly locking eyes with who he knew was going to be his grim reaper. He saw nothing but emptiness, colder than his frigid heart.

“No uninvited guests.”

It was then that Gerard squeezed his eyes shut.

Bang! Bang!

A shot between the eyes and another to the chest. A collapsing body on the concrete, blood spilled and tinting the man's citrus locks into a deep red, a crimson puddle beneath him and on the verge of sticking to the soles of Pete's oxford boots. His hand is still, not a hint of remorse to be found. Maybe Blurryface will see this as a warning and finally back off of Mafia territory. Or better yet, a threat.

A gasp and a strangled sob brings Pete back to the situation at hand, turning toward the door to find the other Way standing in grief at what Pete had done to his brother. He has a hand pressed over his mouth, both from shock and to silence his cries. But he won't be hurting for much longer. “Dear god…” He whimpers, it's all he could say yet it spoke a thousand words.

‘Why? How could you? We're sorry. All of this over money?’

“Ya shoulda just paid, Mikey.” And without a single thought he raises his gun back up. Mikey attempts to escape but he doesn't get very far from the door before he's gunned down in the kitchen - it took twice as many bullets this time, somehow after the first two he still had air in his lungs and a thump in his heart.

Once again the night is silent. No cops or civilians, just crickets and the wind. Pete lets out a breath as he takes his handkerchief from his back pocket, unfolding it and using it to wipe any trace of him from the gun in his hand. Once he feels satisfied he drops it on the ground, right next to Gerard's paling corpse. Maybe the law will think someone else was the culprit.

He goes back to the car across the street, sliding into the passenger seat and saying a simple, “Let's go home.” No one asks how it went, no one says a word, they don't think it would have been necessary. Gabriel just starts the car and pulls off in the direction of the mansion, leaving behind a mess of broken glass and bloody corpses for some other poor soul to find.