𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 𝗔𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗞 𝗔𝗦 𝗪𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗥 ⚔︎

28

it wasn't until mid october when the FBI began to look into marc's disappearance. in fact, they had barely any time to look at all. their hands were full with matters from the five families: eddie was still being indicted, which was only going to get worse with the current affair at hand, and still, nobody had found the person who killed william turner.

it had been a month and they still had no leads. over the past few weeks, samuel ashkenazy had never stopped; there had even been nights when he had slept in his office, much to the annoyance of his wife. the poor man was living off of black coffee and prescription adderall — and on the morning of the 13th, he arrived at the office forty minutes late with a hangover and a severely sore throat. nobody had noticed his tardiness, except of course for one.

as soon as he saw him through the window, sitting hunched over his desk, agent jack rye sprang from his cubicle and ran to greet him. he carried a stack of files and loose paper, some stained by rings from mugs and rain water from when he had moved them to and from his car. he straightened his tie and knocked quickly on the door of his boss' office.

"mr ashkenazy, sir?"

at the sound of his name, the senior groaned. "what."

"may i come in?"

another groan, which became a sigh. "yes."

rye walked into the office, the files almost piled up to his chin. his fair ginger hair was gelled down like a tamed fire. at the sight of the papers, mr ashkenazy closed his eyes and opened them again.

"what is it, jack?" the older asked, already fed-up and ready to go home. "what's all this shit for?"

"we have three problems, now, right?" rye said, partially out of breath. "we have edward lavigne, we have will's murder—"

mr ashkenazy put his hands flat on his desk and looked up at him. "three? three problems?"

rye fell silent. "oh, um... you don't know?"

"know what?"

"i mean— it's been in all of the newspapers..." he murmured, trailing off. "marc?"

ashkenazy frowned. "marc who?"

"marc costello? as in, the don marc costello?" rye wiped a single bead of sweat from his forehead. "he's gone missing. presumed dead by his associates and friends."

"oh— oh..." mr ashkenazy said, his gruff voice accentuating his vowels. "what the fuck? when did this happen?"

"he disappeared october 2nd. his underboss was one of the last people to see him alive," he said. "i'm afraid it's a bloodbath, sir. brothers turning on brothers; they're all pointin' fingers. some of 'em have even left the damn country."

"left the country?!" mr ashkenazy gawked. he rubbed his hand over his face. "oh my god."

rye nodded in a sympathetic manner. "i know..." he suddenly snapped back into detective mode. "but— agent denham and i, we've been working together to find some leads. if you look at my files, you'll see—"

his boss slammed his fist down onto the table in a display of immense fury. "how dare you?!" ashkenazy yelled. "one of our men is dead — murdered in cold blood. that should be at the top of your radar, not some goddamn french mob lowlife who's been missing for a week!" he stood up, his face as red as a beetroot. "william's killer is still out there, jack, roaming the streets! we need to be on constant alert. do you understand me? who knows who could be next?!"

rye bowed his head both in acceptance and shame. "i'm sorry, sir. i just... i thought their deaths might link, is all."

mr ashkenazy sat back down in his chair. "link how?"