Double Agent

○ twenty four ○

Ezra flicks a knife open and shut, tossing it to me when we get out of the car. I catch it with one hand, shoving it into my waistband.

I walk forward, "Want the gun?"

I don't really wait for his reply, tossing it behind. When it doesn't clatter to the floor, I know he's caught it, but he catches everything anyway. He reloads, flicking the safety off before clicking it back. Then he catches up to me, and I catch sight of it tucked in his own waistband.

He wears a black shirt this time, rolled to perfection against his arms, his hair perfectly messy. Something is slipped into my cleavage and I peer down at the tracking device he engineered. I nod at him and he nods at me, and we climb the ladder down a hole small enough to be a manhole cover.

There's neon everywhere, from the geometric designs fixed at the top of to the stone ceilings to the walls and the signs. People jump up and down, half of the den filled to the brim with gyrating bodies.

The other half of it has been converted into some sort of boxing ring, and a crowd of people have gathered to watch two people tough it out, no safety or protection or anything. I worm around people, thrashing my way to the neon lighted stairs leading to the upper level. The smell of shisha fills my nostrils, and people sit on carpets a few ways away from the crowd, inhaling slowly and laughing eerily. Ezra places his warm hand on my back, probably so he doesn't lose me, but I feel it burn right through the flesh.

He's freaking out about being unable to think when I'm around, but I can't breathe when he touches me.

A tall burly guy sizes Ezra up, before staring down at me.

"This is not a fuck club," he murmers snidely.

"We're here to see him," I stand up straighter, staring right at him.

He narrows his eyes for a second.

"Let's see if he wants to see you."

"Be my guest," I stretch my hand out towards the door.

He comes back a few seconds later, reluctantly opening the door for us. I walk through, coming face to face with a private lounge. Red couches trail around like snake lines, smoke trays and candles everywhere. A smattering of men lounge against them as women drape and coo over them.

One of them turn to admire Ezra with a gleam in her eye. I don't even think Ezra's eyes are turned towards them. His head is turned in another direction, probably searching for the infamous Italian.

A man sits at the farthest corner, in a large couch just for himself. The music from the club drums low in the room. His eyes are sharp, staring at me face for a few moments, before nodding.

Come here, he seems to say.

I stalk forward, coming to stand right in front of him.

"Little speranza," he tastes the words on his tongue, before bowing slightly.

My eyes widen.

"It's been a long time."

"D'Angelo," I keep my cool, even thought I have no goddamned clue who this man is and why he just bowed for me.

"He kept saying only the Speranza can help us now. It is an honour to finally meet you."

"Why did he ask me to come see you."

"I've known your father for a very long time, longer than he's even know your mother. It was conveyed to me," he takes a puff of his pipe, the smoke creating rivulets around his face, "that should anything happen, I was to tell you everything. Tell me, little speranza, would you like to know everything?"