manhattan, new york
december, 1925

-

They were very, very drunk. And it was very, very late. 

Sabine struggled with opening her front door, jamming it anywhere but the keyhole with a look of frustration on her face as everyone looked on blearily, laughing, clamouring. 

Usually, at the end of of night such as this, Gianna was completely clear-headed. Her back would be straight, a cigarette balanced between her lips, and her clothes and hair would be impeccable. Being completely in control of her mind and body, she would come to the rescue and gently take the key out of Sabine's fumbling hands, unlock the door with ease, and usher her tipsy friends inside.

But, that night, Gianna could barely think straight. Her head felt too heavy on her shoulders, her hair a frizzy mess, and her hands felt inexplicably dysfunctional. She couldn't have struck a match to light a cig, let alone unlock the door for her friend. She could only watch, somehow unable to reach out and feel.

Eventually, Sabine cracked the door open, and stepped out of the way for everyone to enter. She gave them all an urgent look as they spilled in, giggling, willing them to be silent. And they complied, squeezing their mouths shut. 

No-one really wanted to awaken Mrs Nikola. 

With no-one to guide them, it took what felt like forever for the girls to stumble up the stairs and into Sabine's room. And when they eventually reached the safety of the pastel, musky smelling bedroom, most had barely reached the mats that had been laid out earlier that night before passing out, arms and legs bent at odd angles. 

Most of them.

After crumpling to the floor beside her friends, Gianna Changretta lay awake, thinking. As she did most nights, in fact. And despite the depressants in her system, her brain felt like a live wire in her heavy head, as if fluorescent lights flashing and whirling. 

She let out a heavy sigh, and dragged a hand down her face, smudging her eye makeup. God, that had been a stupid move.

Gianna never drank over her limits for a reason. 

Not only did too much alcohol make her mind spin and flash, it collapsed those walls that kept away those bad thoughts. And those bad thoughts would spin and flash amongst the rest.  

She lay, quite still, on the floor, staring at the ceiling, as her mind flashed with images and words.

Her father. Her family. Her dead grandfather and uncle. Her wasted adolescence. 

Leon.

-

Only when she was five streets away from Sabine's house did Gianna realise that she had managed to remember her gun and holster, but had somehow left her beautiful warm coat and scarf at the end of her friend's bed. She cursed under her breath, drawing her arms around her slim frame. The shivering made sense now.

Normally, she would have headed back, fetched her coat, and carried on her way. But, she couldn't. She didn't know why, but she had to go there at that very moment, or she was going to break.

Every step she took was an effort. Her head was pounding, her body both light and heavy at the same time. She wanted nothing more than to go straight home, crawl under her soft, warm covers, and go back to sleep.

But she continued to put one foot in front of the other, slowly making her way down the empty street, shivering in the icy morning air. 

She had to see him.

As Gianna turned up the ginnel, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, her eye fell upon a bushel of pale yellow flowers. 

It crossed her mind that she hadn't thought to bring flowers.

Pausing in her tracks, she examined them through narrowed eyes. It was December. No flowers could survive these temperatures. She had no doubt that the sickly smelling blooms were weeds. 

But, they were pretty enough. They'd do.

So, crouching, Gianna pulled up a handful of the flowers, and continued on her way. 

Eventually, she reached the familiar gate. With cold, trembling hands, she pushed it open, wincing as the hinges let out a harsh, metallic shriek. 

She barely had to look where she was going as she made her way towards him. She caressed the thickly-stalked flowers in her grasp as she walked, weaving and dodging about the field. The grass was damp with dew and made the slightest crunching sound underfoot. 

After a moment, she found the one she was looking for.

And even as she was crossing herself with her cold, nimble hands, Gianna could feel a thick, constricting barrier begin to build up in her chest, her throat. The tears hadn't started yet, but she knew they would.

Then, she knelt. She felt the damp from the grass seep through her trousers into her skin as she placed her hands onto the cold stone, head bowed.

Normally, she would say it in her head, but there was no-one around to hear her at this time in the morning.

"Hey," she said throatily. "Sorry to... uh... come at this hour without warning."

Her voice sounded oddly loud in the silence, even though she was speaking quietly. 

"I got... way too drunk last night," she continued, subconsciously lowering her voice. "So I woke up early. And all I wanted to do when I woke up was see you. So... here I am."

Despite her urgency to get there just minutes ago, for a while, Gianna couldn't think of anything more to say. She merely knelt there, flowers still in her hand, listening to the wind rustle the trees, feeling it feather her hair across her face.

Then, she lifted her head, and took in the sight which tore her body with agony.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF LEON FARLEY 
FEBRURARY 20TH 1905 - OCTOBER 2ND 1924
LOVING SON, FRIEND, AND PARTNER.

-

"Are you Gianna?"

"Sorry? The music's so loud in here."

"Are you Gianna?"

"...yes."

"Oh, good. I wasn't supposed to say anything, but I think your friend is trying to set us up."

"Fucking hell. Well, are you interested in being set up?"

"Sure. I mean, I'm pretty drunk, but you're beautiful."

"That's a bit rude, buddy."

"I'm joking, I'm joking."

"... well... I'm not trying to scare you off, but... you know who my dad is, right?"

"Yeah."

"... if you were to go along with this setting up business, would you be able to handle it?"

"... I would certainly try."

-

The first tear fell, and Gia bowed her head as her face contorted in agony. 

"Dio..." she groaned. "Mi manchi. Mi manchi tanto." <I miss you. I miss you so much.>

She hadn't cried in a long time. He had never said it out loud, but her father hated seeing people cry. Whenever she felt her eyes pricking at home, she made quick work of excusing herself and hurrying to her room.

But as she knelt there, alone in the graveyard, just a few inches of soil above the lifeless body of the only boy she'd ever come close to loving, she could cry unchecked. 

-

It had taken Gia almost half an hour just to regain herself, and even longer to force herself to stand, to walk away from him. The flowers she had left on his grave suddenly weren't pretty enough, but she couldn't bring herself to leave nothing. 

The walk home was long and painful; not just because of the ache in her chest, but the pounding in her head and the stiffness of her joints from sleeping on the floor. 

And then, there was something else.

A sense of foreboding. Something that made her want to stay far away from home. 

But, she couldn't quite place it. So she merely continued on her way, hobbling down the still-empty streets with her stiff legs. Her mind was filled with thoughts of Leon, and a few meagre attempts to distract herself from said thoughts, such as when she would retrieve her coat, what Nico or Audrey would say when she returned home. You're back early. Do you need an aspirin? That sort of thing. 

Things that her father would never say when she returned home from a night out. He would merely glance at her, greet her, and go back to whatever he was doing. 

Gia couldn't imagine her father doing most of the things that Nico had done for her. The post-bender coddling was just one of them; she couldn't count the number of times her uncle had picked her up in the middle of the night, mostly when she had first started drinking, and a few times when she had needed a swift getaway when doing business. 

Nico also half-tolerated her smoking habit, let her talk about shit bothering her, and even helped her with her coursework every so often. Her father wouldn't let her near the tobacco counter, let alone listen to her problems. And Gianna couldn't remember the last time her father had helped her with her work. 

Her uncle's only flaw was his adamant approach to herself and her dad's relationship. He insisted he knew what was best for her - and while he usually did, Gianna couldn't help but think that in that particular area, he was wrong. 

Eventually, she turned down her street. The Changretta mansion stood out amongst the other houses. While it wasn't the biggest, the impenetrable security and multiple guards posted at the gate was what caught the eye. 

Gianna nodded to the Sicilians as she reached the gate, greeting them in Italian. They responded mildly as the gate buzzed and slid open, and Gianna half-limped along the drive and up the stairs to the front door.

And even before she had laid her hand on the doorknob, she knew that her odd feeling had been justified. 

Drawing a sharp breath, she stepped through the door. Almost instantly, Nico was before her, throwing his arms around her and squeezing tight. Surprised, Gianna hesitantly put her arms around her uncle, frowning slightly.

"Happy birthday, Gianna," Nico said into her hair, kissing her cheek. 

The slightest of scoffs came from her mouth. Of course. It was December 18th. She had completely forgotten it was her own birthday.

 "Thank you," she said, baffled.

She hoped that this was what she had had a weird feeling about. She had turned twenty without even knowing it.

But, when Nico drew away from her, a hand still cupping her shoulder, and she saw his face, she felt something deflate in her.

"Mi dispiace," he said.

Then, he handed her the paper.

Gianna knew what it said before she even read it. But, still, she scanned her gaze over the page, feeling a knot grow in her stomach.

 RELEASE PERMIT
INMATE: LUCA CHANGRETTA
DATE OF RELEASE: DECEMBER 19TH 1925

There was more, but Gianna's hands were shaking too much to steady the paper. 

Nico was watching her carefully. "Your father's coming home," he said lowly.