The harsh, overbearing, LED ceiling lights within the facility elevator illuminated every little bit of disgusting detail within this tiny space-a red greased up number-six floor button, cobwebs floating amidst the digital panel screen, and scattered panko crumbs on the floor, you can still smell the lingering Chinese takeout within the space. It was the prior excitement of getting out of prison and seeing Marco again that distracted me from this obvious filth.

It's quite ironic. Just a few hours ago I was fully determined that my father would accept me, bring me back into his life, and work together to solve Rafie's murder. When in reality—he meant every godforsaken word, he said.

Someone killed Rafael, that same someone is framing Marco.

I pushed one of the large crumbs off and away from the proximity of my body using my bare toe.

"Where are your clogs?" Camilla questioned as I was distracted with the contents of my mind.

"Oh," I noted while wiggling and checking my other toes for stability. "They weren't practical for running."

"And where does Chis stand in all this? " I painfully re-adjusted my stance once more, trying to hide the grimace from my face.

"What's his angle?" Rekindlement can't just be the only reason? It must be something more—there must be.

"Damn," she exasperated as she unzipped her large designer handbag, hanging against her inner elbow. "That kind of day?"

My fuel of adrenaline had worn off throughout the remainder of the car ride. Even though there was still a lot to do, my body yearned for a good, recharging, nap.

"Yup." I replied, now even too exhausted to use 'big words.'

"I gotta ask?"

I veered my head as she posed the question. She quickly swung her loose strands behind her left shoulder; her natural ombre blond locks displayed more sheen in this lighting—as if she had just walked out of a shampoo commercial.

"How do you do it? How do you manage to get back up, especially after all the shit you go through? I mean, one thing after another, and another...and another." Camilla exaggerated as she slapped the back of her hand repetitively against her palm. "It's like you truly are the fucking Robocop."

" I hate that name," I shook my head with despair. "Do you have any idea who started it?"

"I dunno, I heard it on Fox News one day," giving a slight shrug. "It surprisingly fits you well, though."

"The thing is, I'm not invincible" I continued as I watched her rummage through the handbag. I saw as her fist tightened, grabbing something from within her bag. "But I guess, in reality, I'm just too damn stubborn to walk away, to let things happen."

"You protect your people. The loyal ones, I mean. That's a very rare trait to have, Becca—Even in the line of work my family grew up in." Camilla pulled out a silver Glock 17 from her bag. "You're a highly respectable woman, and I truly envy you. No one else would have fought so hard for my brother."

"Woah," I instantly gasped while taking a step backward. "You had that with you this whole time?"

"What? It's like you've never seen a gun before," she jokingly interjected with slight confusion. Camilla grabbed my wrist forward and placed the gun in my hand. "You've been through hell and back—and yet, you're willing to still get up and fight—don't ever lose that quality, Becca. It's your fire."

She let my wrist go, leaving the gun. My gut instantly tightened as my fist clenched the item-reminiscing about the occurrences of earlier today and those of before my conviction. The last three times I held a gun, I killed.

"I'm not one for weapons, but" she continued, "I want you to burn the son-of-a-bitch who destroyed your family. Make him fucking suffer."

She's the second Monarti family member to suggest murder, today. My public reputation as an ex-cop turned murderer is haunting, and I'm not too keen on the whole idea. "Cam, I can't... I'm not a killer."

"Neither are lions, but they do what they must to survive." She then proceeded to twist my words, "You did say 'you're not one to let things happen', well then, take some fucking action and between us two," she suggested as she zipped her bag. "That ex-boyfriend of yours is some piece of work. Can't be sure these days"

"Why would you say that?" I proposed while accessing the weight of the gun. It seemed a bit off-balance, more top-heavy than usual, but it could have been the prolonged tiredness that made me question its instability in the first place.

"In all those Unsolved Mystery shows and Lifetime movies," Camilla smiled at her remark as the elevator pinged and the doors opened to our floor, "It's always the closest male-figure, the most trusted ones who do the crimes."

I casually lowered the gun, keeping it in the downward hold as we walked through the quiet hallway. It still felt more hulking amid my grasps.

Chris would have been on the bottom of my suspect list. There's no motive for him to kill my brother; besides a guy like him wouldn't risk his career-killing a federal agent. Unless there's something I'm missing....

"He was going to propose to you tonight, you know?" Camilla quickly added as we walked past other apartment doors.

"Come again?" Questioning my hearing abilities as I altered my focus.

"Marco," she declared as she maneuvered to my side. "He was going to propose tonight, in front of the whole family," she whispered into my ear moments before repetitively knocking on the apartment door. "Hence, me mostly blaming the Ex. Don't tell him I told you though—it'll ruin the surprise."

My eyes widened. There it was a plausible motive. But was it viable enough?

The door swung open as Marco, now completely changed and ready to go wearing a black North Face windbreaker with navy dress pants, stood beside it. "About damn time." He remarked.

"Well, hello to you too," Camilla pushed right through him saying as she instantly entered the apartment.

I just stood there, in the hallway. Numbed to my bones the plausibility of Chris being crazy enough to kill my brother.

"Kitten, you alright there?" Marco's voice projected.

I mean, the thought of me marrying someone else must have crossed his mind at some point. We weren't the ideal couple; we both knew that.

"Kitten?"

But then again, he also knew my position on marriage altogether. I would have said 'no' to any proposal, no matter who gave it. Don't give me wrong, I love Marco, but... "Did you want to get married?" I said out loud.

"What?" He profoundly questioned as he stepped forward, standing closer toward me.

"Camilla said you asked for permission," I whispered back. "Why would you do that? I thought—we agreed on—"

"Wait, what?" He stopped me mid-sentence. Marco looked back and quickly moved the apartment door ajar. He turned around, now facing me, with his blue eyes dropping with a sense of disappointment. "What did Camilla say exactly?"

I took a deep breath before briefly explaining myself, "She said you asked my brother permission for marriage after my conviction, and that you were going to propose tonight during the family dinner."

"Why would she say that?" He openly questioned before looking up at me. "Yes, I met with Rafael after your conviction, but that was to make sure your safety and privacy were guaranteed at the prison-yard. We killed the press and processed a restraining order on all tabloids while you were in there."

"What about last night?" I wondered, especially because Chris insinuated malice.

"Throughout the whole day, yesterday—including last night," he added. "We were meeting with the warden to schedule an early release on your behalf."

"One month early," I recalled from earlier today.

"Your brother and I were busy filing late motions and tedious paperwork—no lawyer wanted to take your case, so we had to take matters into our own hands. We were at the Golden Nugget on Lawrence Ave. until about midnight—I left him there to get some rest for today. " Marco continued as he placed both of his hands on my upper arms, "I had nothing but respect for your brother. He was remorseful for what he did to you. It overflowed his guilt. "

Rafael did care. In a way, his last dying action was to see me. To save me. Shit. "So...," I cleared my throat while refocusing my mind. "If that's what happened—"

"Why would Camilla lie? Yeah," he noted as his hands dropped down. " I get why the CPD wants me, but my sister? I never told anyone about our meetings. How did she even know about them?"

I brought the gun up, settling it on my palm. The reflectively of the hallway lights above us made the weapon look seemingly flawless. But something wasn't right.

"Where did you get that piece of shit from?" Marco quickly insinuated.

"Cam," I replied as I kept on observing the item. Maneuvering it within my clutch, attempting to pinpoint where the issue lay. "But there's something wrong with it. It's too heavy."

Being once part of the police force, I've held my fair share of weapons-one could argue that it's been a while since I held a gun... But I just had one in my hands only a mere few hours ago. Camilla didn't know that.

"Any leads on the assassins?" I nonchalantly asked Marco who was just standing there observing me. I popped out the magazine tube, finding it filled with the standard twelve rounds—but the rest of it was still heavy.

"Surprisingly, it only took a pair of pliers and some tongue scraping, but we got something." I handed Marco the tube as he spoke. "A private, one-million-dollar hit was sent out by someone named Antiguo. A fucking ghost couldn't find the person at all. Same said about the silencers, nothing."

I flipped the gun around and peeked into the barrel with my right eye. With a clean, empty, barrel you should be able to resonate the front end of the striker—a sliver-like coil before the bullet chamber, but I couldn't see it.

"So then one of my guys realized that it wasn't a person we were looking for, but possibly a meaning."

There was something else blocking the barrel.

"You see," he continued. "Antiguo is Spanish for 'Older.'"

I brought the gun down and flipped it upright, slapping the barrel downward against my palm, hoping that whatever was in there would pop right out. "So, what does that mean? You think it's someone who's been here longer than your family. Someone with deep roots in this city."

"We were only able to make a few calls, but the last time I checked, ain't nobody been here longer than my fam—even the ancestors of the others are on good terms with us. The hoods are good, the dealers are quiet, and the ship workers don't even think about talking shit."

After several hard taps, pieces of steel wool and gunpowder began dropping out.

"The fuck?" Marco remarked as he grabbed a silver thread-like piece from my palm. It took several more taps until the rest came out—it was a good amount. Just enough to cause a dangerous backfire, if triggered.

We both looked wide-eyed at each other, wondering at, very well, the same thought, "Why would Camilla jam the gun?"