"I missed you," Marco said, his voice low and heavy with sincerity, as he glanced away for a brief second, his grip tightening around my hand. "I really missed you, Kitten."

Kitten. That word hit me like a wave crashing over an already fragile shore. I didn't think you could envy the way someone says something, but here I was, drowning in it. Every syllable, every nuance in his tone sent a flood of memories rushing back—ones I hadn't dared to revisit. Suddenly, all the pain, the distance, the months of suffering felt... worth it. Just to hear him say that.

A lump formed in my throat. "I know," I whispered, my voice betraying me as I struggled to keep my composure. The words felt too small, too weak for what I was feeling. But they were all I could muster.

Marco, standing apart from all the self-absorbed egos and empty words of the world, was still the same—his cynicism anchored in a quiet realism that never quite fit anywhere. 

I wanted to speak—to say something—but nothing felt right. How do you even start a conversation after six months of silence?

I just needed him to keep talking.

And he did.

"A damn long time," Marco said, cutting through the awkward silence with a small smile, as though he knew exactly what I was thinking. "I tried visiting once, but dad told me they put you in the pit. Was that true?"

The pit? I froze for a moment. I guess hell did have a name.

I nodded, just slightly, hoping he wouldn't notice the flash of vulnerability that crossed my face. But of course, he did. His gaze sharpened, and I could feel his eyes on me, sensing something more than I was ready to share.

Admitting to myself that it felt good to be cared for again—humanely, for the first time in so long—made the lump in my throat even harder to swallow. But I couldn't escape the truth: I wasn't prepared for this. For him. For the flood of emotions crashing into me with such raw intensity, just when I thought I had locked them all away.

The countdowns, the yelling, the endless sleepless nights... All I ever dreamed of was freedom, but now that it was in front of me, it felt like a strange, foreign thing. His family. Mine. A tangled mess of loyalty and betrayal. A modern-day version of Shakespeare's tragedy, where death was on vacation, but the scars were still very much real.

I couldn't shake the thought: It was a miracle I hadn't died.

I pulled my hand away as we stopped at a red-light intersection, the tension between us thick enough to cut with a knife.

"People knew who I was," I said, my voice hesitant, as if the words had been locked away for too long. "Your father's friends... they started helping me out." I felt the need to explain, to let him know the strange, uneasy kindness I'd received. "You know, an extra roll of toilet paper here, a notebook there. But then, a crowd of folks my father imprisoned caught wind of it all..."

The words felt heavy, almost like a confession. The truth was ugly, tangled in the past, and yet here I was, spilling it out, as though it would somehow make me feel less exposed.

A pause lingered, thick with unspoken tension, as I watched the bright look on Marco's face fade into quiet realization. He wore long black sweats and a V-neck Lacoste shirt, his beard a few days grown and his thick dark brown hair pointing in every direction like he hadn't bothered to tame it. His brown eyes, tired and sleepless, seemed to tell their own story. Yet even through that exhaustion, the concern he felt for me remained unmistakable.

"Toward the beginning of my second month," I forced myself to continue, the words feeling like stones in my mouth. "Fights started breaking out nearly every day between the two groups. Several of them ended up in the infirmary from it. I think one person died... But for the most part, I held my own."

I took a breath, trying to steady myself. The past was so much heavier than I was ready for. "The guards placed me in solitary," I added, my voice tinged with bitterness. "Not because I did anything wrong, but for the protection of the other inmates... or at least that's what they told me."

They. The word felt hollow, empty—just my assumptions, my intuition. I never got an explanation. But Marco didn't need to know that. No one did.

"Those motherf—" Marco spat, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel, his anger seething through every word. "They knew it—" He stopped himself, clenching his jaw as he corrected, "They knew this was gonna happen, and they let it happen anyway."

I took a breath, trying to steady myself. The anger Marco was radiating didn't hit me as hard as it should have. I'd long accepted this fate, even if I couldn't bring myself to admit it to him. Shooting two cops... that was always going to have its repercussions, no matter what the case was or the fact that I was allegedly working for the FBI.

I exhaled slowly, my voice quiet but heavy with the weight of the truth. "I killed them."

"What you did was within self-defense, they were dirty fucking pigs." Marco's expressions seemed too keen on the subject as if he had already begun spiraling up a revenge plot of some sort, "Fuck, you shouldn't have been there in the first place. If it wasn't for-"

"Hey," I cut in, already knowing where his frustration was headed. "Look, I'm here now. Can we just not talk about it, please?"

I wasn't in the mood for rehashing what could've been or should've happened. My mind was set on the future—on my second chance. "I need something... uplifting. Something to look forward to. Did I miss anything big? What's the outside world like?"

"The outside world?" His tone made it sound like he was describing something from a Stephen King novel—rare, but with an unsettling edge.

"Yeah."

"Well..." It took him a moment to recollect a few months' worth of events. "That cock-sucker father of yours has been under a magnifying glass since your hearing. I mean, the press and mayor are hounding his ass every day. It's quite funny really. The Tribune's calling him Clusterfuck Caruso."

"C'mon." I gave an eruptive exhale while shaking my head, "I said something more uplifting. I don't wanna hear about that either—not today, at least."

"Sorry, Kitten. That news was real uplifting," Marco said with a dry chuckle. "Well, for us, at least."

"Us?" I take it the Montanari's were enjoying the momentary lapse of no longer receiving the brunt end of the media. How does that saying go: No press is good press?

But I couldn't help but feel a bit of guilt for Robert. "Well I'm glad you're happy about Bobby's demise, but..." I was still conflicted about how to approach the situation but decided now to avoid it altogether. "I was thinking about your family, how's everyone, anything new going about?"

"Nothing too major there," he noted. "Everyone's pretty much the same. Mina's already tired of motherhood, Camilla decided to move back from Jersey, Mom's working on an erotic novel, and Dad's got me handling a bit of management."

"Really?" Were the only words I was able to form. Not that the information regarding his two older sisters and mother were irrelevant and least important but handling the management side of the family business was a big promotion from being the lazy, drunk, playboy son of a mafia boss. "I dunno Marco, but that sounds like pretty major news to me. I mean it's great and all, but...wow."

"I know, right? Explains why I look like shit."

"Pfshh," I exhaled, rolling my eyes.

"What?" Marco asked, genuinely confused.

"At least you weren't limited to weekly three-minute showers," I shot back. "If you think you look like shit, then I must be the walking definition of Taco Tuesday."

"What are you talking about, Kitten? You're still as alluring as when we first met."

"Alluring?" I raised an eyebrow, playing along. "Did the language revert to 1920s slang while I was gone?"

"I've only had a couple of hours of rest," he said, rubbing his face. "I'm not exactly picking my words right now." He gave me a sheepish smile, but his eyes softened. "But I mean it."

I forced a tight smile before quickly shifting the subject. "So, you've been that busy?"

Was I okay with Marco being involved in his father's business? Not in the slightest.

To the people of the city, Marco's father was a divine angel. To his enemies, he was the fallen one, the devil incarnate. To my father and the rest of the Chicago Police Department, Angelo Montanari was...a complicated commitment.

Since the early 1980's Angelo has been in the legal system with file cabinets full of missing persons, drugs, weapons, prostitution, and countless other charges. Individually, they all appear to be seemingly harmless; but, in this city, one person controlling everything creates down-right absolutism. Hence the whole power struggle between gangs, police, and the good people of Chicago.

"The coc- look, your old man's doing his best to keep his job, so there's been a lot of crackdowns lately," Marco explained with slight melancholy as his eyes focused on the winding interstate road. "A lot of unnecessary violence. A lot of blood."

Without asking the original question I had in mind, I placed my hands timidly between my thighs. Marco's initial appearance confirmed my suspicion, things have gone to hell. The real question is: How bad has the raging war truly gotten?

Then again, who am I to interfere with a family business; I already suffered from it once. My dues are paid, and I don't plan on going back to that place ever again. "No wonder you were glad Robert was under investigation."

It was in my nature to begin deducing, to dig deeper—something more so was bothering Marco, part of me wanted to know why but the other half was exhausted from doing so. I've risked so much already, walking on this thread of a moral line. I didn't even know where or how to begin living normally anymore.

"Uh-huh," he quickly noted.

"Wait," I watched as we merged from one highway onto another. Letting my mind trail to the unfamiliarity of Interstate-94. "Where are we going?"

"I hoped you asked." He took a moment to maneuver the SUV around a branded semi-truck, "I bought a condo in downtown Evanston a few months back. I got a heck of a price on it."

"Really?" Located on the lake, Evanston was half college town and half filthy rich yuppies. Filled with a wide variety of cafes, local shops, and a bunch of restaurants ranging from the local fast-food joints to the extravagant. "Why?"

"Nothing like a quiet small town outside the city for a fresh start, yeah?" He continued, "Besides, I figured you needed a place to stay, considering...well, you know."

"Apart from the obvious," couldn't argue with him there. Besides, it wasn't like I would be accepted back home, or so I assumed. Not sure if it was even worth a try.

"I bought it with you in mind, I hope you love it," he continued with great enthusiasm. "It's completely furnished, you got a view of the entire lakefront. Quiet and serene in every way."

"I don't know what to say."

"No need to say anything. For what you did, Kitten, my family's indebted to you. As am I."

"It..." My voice trailed off, nearly replying to his comment with 'it was no problem,' but it was one hell of a ride. I gave up everything to save him. "I was just making sure you guys got out before the crew swarmed in. Honestly, the adrenaline was the only thing that kept me going."

"I should have stayed," he said, his voice rough, as the soft, haunting notes of Prince's When Doves Cry filled the air. "I was a wreck until I heard they brought you through. I thought... I thought I lost you that day."

"But you didn't," I replied, my voice steady, though I could feel the weight of the past pressing down. I knew, deep down, I was alive and well now—but back then, I'd felt the shadow of death close enough to touch. "I've got nine lives, remember?" I tried to lighten the moment, using the pet name he'd always teased me with.

"Might as well be one or two left." Marco quickly changed our speaking topic just as the song ended, "You got a new name now, you know that?"

"What new name?" I honestly didn't know what to think, or who the hell would have given me one. At least I wasn't the "Cocksucker Caruso" everyone was talking about.

"Robocop."

"You're fucking with me, right?" I exhaled a slight chuckle, picturing nothing but the cheesy 1987 video effects and acting quality from the movie. "Who in God's name came up with that?"

"Don't look at me," he answered with a smirk that somewhat indicated his guilt. "It appeared on an online CNN article and caught on. Besides, how many people do you know can take three far-shots to the chest and still be up-n-walking?"

"Eh, at least we're not in Detroit," I grimly remarked. "I would've gotten ten and death at that."

"Nah, Chi's where it's at," He joked around. "A perfect limbo."

"Or hell, depending on who you ask."

"At least in Evanston, we can finally have some peaceful time to ourselves. Our version of heaven," he noted with a quick eyebrow jolt.

I gave a quick smirk in return while looking over at the dashboard clock, it was only 8:03 AM. A speculated thought crept up against my brain—Marco was always one for immediate satisfaction.

"The peace won't last long though," he interrupted my outgoing thoughts by sliding his hand down and grabbing my own. We interlaced again. "The fam misses you, I told them we'd stop by later tonight."

"Tonight?" I felt a knot in my stomach start to form as numerous counterproductive thoughts ran through my brain. "I'm not sure if that's a good idea. I mean it's a nice gesture...I just... I dunno Marco, I'm not sure I'm ready for such a crowd? Besides, what happened to no distractions?"

The dashboard navigation displayed a large green telephone icon followed by the name Jemal as if God himself was eavesdropping on our pending conversation.

Marco gave me a quick look as I responded with a nod. He unlatched his hand and answered the call with the press of a button on his steering wheel, "I'm driving, Jim. You're on speaker."

"I don't give a shit," the person responded in a gravelly tone.

This was none of the three Jimmys I knew of, let alone a Jemal. This was someone new.

"We've got a major issue here, Mark, " he added. "The damn national guard is on our asses."

Marco threw another look at me.

"Give me a sec," he replied to Jim, slipping the phone out of his pocket. He mouthed 'sorry' as he activated the call, and the dashboard returned to displaying the GPS map.

"What's happening?" he asked, his tone flat and business-like.

Funny how things can shift in just a few months. Marco, once an open book, now felt more distant than ever.

The conversation continued as we drove past the green-labeled East Willow Road highway exit. "I dunno, Jim. What the fuck do you expect me to do?"

The radio was just loud enough for me to hear the ramblings of a panicked man, but not enough to hear the clarity of the conversation.

"I'm driving on the other side of town. Can't you handle it?" The persistence in his voice increased, Marco wanted the conversation to end.

"Fuck! What about..." he gave a quick sincere look at me before finishing his sentence, "tonight?"

"Yeah, fine. That works." He concluded, "Fuck." Just like that, Marco threw his phone into one of the two cup holders in the middle console.

"You good," I wondered, "that sounded pretty intense."

"No... sorry," he muttered, exhaling again, as if struggling to find the right words. "Uhm... unfortunately, there's gonna be a big change of plans, Kitten. They... the cops think I murdered Rafael."

"What?" My heart skipped a beat. The look on his face—distant, almost haunted—told me everything. "My brother?"