NICCOLÒ

42. Fine

Leonardo Fiero turned up the collar of his coat against the freezing rain and biting wind; battling the elements, he ducked his head against the wind and fought on, heading towards the familiar dark, dingy looking pub.

The establishment had been running for decades, a home for the weary or the desperate for a few hours - and Leo had spent a considerable amount of time there after the death of his parents and youngest sister: the bar tenders, college kids with bad acne and a lack of confidence, all knew him by name. A whiskey for Leo, they'd say awkwardly, sliding it over.

Leo stamped his feet in the entrance, shaking off rainwater as his eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior - god, he hated it here. The bar reeked of poor decisions and a stench of depression; no one came to The Black Dog for a good time.

Glowering, he made for the bar. Alcohol never took away your problems for good, but whiskey could steal them away for a split second, whispering sweet nothings in your ear until you fell, dizzy and confused, to the bathroom floor with the taste of vomit in your mouth. And that's exactly what he needed.

Leo hunched over the bar, avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone - why should they get to live, he thought bitterly, when Cee doesn't.

"Two whiskeys." The Fiero stiffened, refusing to turn around. The voice was familiar - everyone knew the Romano Don's voice - but Leo wasn't ready. How could he face the man that sent his sister to her grave?

The bastard hadn't had the decency to pay his respects at the funeral - no flowers, no note, no appearance from the great Niccolò. Perhaps it had been guilt, Leo mused briefly: guilt that he'd sent yet another innocent to die in his place.

The funeral had been crap anyway. Leo didn't recognise half the people that showed up - some girl with her leg in a cast took one look at the casket and started sobbing, before being led away by another Romano scumbag.

The flowers hadn't been right, it was a grey, miserable morning - and then there was him. Leo Fiero, the last of his kind, searching the room desperately for a friendly face he recognised before he started his speech.

But there had been no one. The Fiero family was all dead and buried, besides the one who was in the process of having her funeral, and "work colleagues" (if they could be called that) were only interested in striking a bargain with the Fiero, desperate to take advantage of a brief moment of vulnerability.

Leo had almost fled the scene, like it had been a crime to mourn in front of so many strangers, to stutter over her ambitions and swallow tears when discussing her spirit.

But at least Leo had shown up. At least he'd been at the funeral, even if he had been the reason she was dead.

"Get out," Leo hissed, unable to face him. It was bad enough that one of her murderers was drinking away his guilt, let alone both.

The Romano didn't respond, instead sliding out a bar stool and taking a seat. Leo took a sideways glance, scowling, taking in his profile - he clearly hadn't shaved recently, or slept.

For a second, Leo wondered angrily about what his sister ever saw in him.

Leo downed the whiskey as soon as it arrived, ignoring the curious looks from the college undergrad - he'd never visited the bar with anyone else before - but he was sure as hell leaving like he always did: alone.

His stool screeched as he stood up abruptly, slamming down the glass, and made to leave, but the stranger caught his arm and attention.

"Leonardo."

"Niccolò." Leo shook him off angrily, making it clear that it was time for one of them to leave, and he personally didn't mind who walked out the door.