December 10, 1918

A young man made his way through one of the richest neighborhoods in Manhattan, clutching tightly to the hand of a little boy who stumbled to keep up. Richly-dressed men and their elegant companions jeered at him and his shabby suit as he passed. He ignored them, wrapping his scarf tighter around his neck.

"How-how much farther? I'm tired…" The boy's voice barely rose above a whimper.

His brother flashed him one of his rare smiles. "Not much longer, Marco. Just keep going."

They walked quickly until finally stopping outside of a huge building with ornate wooden double doors. There was a beefy man guarding it; he sneered at the young man. "There's nothing for you here, boy. Beat it!"

Although Marco flinched at his loud tone, his brother did not move. "My name is Cirillo Beretta. I'm a friend of the family; your boss will be expecting me."

The man grunted, "Password?"

Cirillo drew closer, lowering his voice. "What lies beyond the farthest reaches of the stars?"

The guard pulled out a key and unlocked the door, beckoning the two in. Cirillo squeezed Marco's hand tighter as they walked down darkened halls, listening to the sound of their shoes echoing on the marble tiles. An older man wearing the uniform of a servant motioned them over. "Follow me. The mistress wishes to see you."

Cirillo's eyes widened. "The mistress? But Mrs. Eraclea's been dead five years. Did Mr. Eraclea marry again?"

The butler shook his head sadly. "You must not have heard. Mr. Eraclea died last week; his daughter Delphine is our boss now. Come along."

They followed him up a long and winding flight of stairs; when Marco began to gasp with the effort, Cirillo grabbed him by the collar and hauled him the last few steps. The door at the top of the stairs was open; light flooded the room beyond. The butler stayed behind as the brothers crossed the threshold.

A young woman was seated at an imposingly large desk, shuffling papers. She smiled when they entered, but it was not a nice smile. "Cirillo and Marco Beretta. My father told me you would come. I understand you need my help?"

Cirillo bowed deeply. "Yes. Our parents recently passed away, and since my father was friends with yours..."

"You thought I would take care of you." She looked Cirillo over and smiled again. "Well, well, well. You certainly look strong enough. Can you fight?"

He nodded. "Equally well with knives and my bare hands, although I prefer guns."

"Have you ever killed anyone before?"

His face was blank. "Yes."

"Excellent. You'll make a wonderful bodyguard for me."

As she turned back to her papers, Cirillo spoke up. "What about my brother?"

She blinked at him, focusing on the boy beside him for the first time. "Ah, yes. How old is little Marco again?"

"Eight years old."

"Hmm." She inspected Marco closely. "He seems healthy enough. I'll have the butler take him to Dio; my brother has been begging me for a playmate lately. Oh, but we already have a Marco in service here. Would you like a new name? Let's see…" Her face lit up as though she had hit upon the best idea in the world; Cirillo took a step back. "Would you like my brother to give you one?"

Marco looked up at Cirillo with eyes full of fear; the young man squeezed his hand one last time before sending him out the door. "Go on, Marco. You'll be safe."

It would be the last time anyone would call the boy that name.

August 5, 1929

Ten years later

One of the residences owned by the Eraclea family was a sumptuous penthouse on the Upper East Side. (1.) Delphine had other, more lavish accommodations, so she gifted the apartment to her younger brother Dio. And where Dio went, Luciola Beretta followed.

It was a hot, muggy day, too hot for Luciola to exercise. Even Dio, usually rambunctious, was quiet, barely moving except to push his white-blond hair off his face. They were playing chess; Dio had to wave his hand in front of his face to get his attention. "Hey, Luce. It's your move."

Luciola blinked at the board. Oh. Right. I must have dozed off for a minute. "Knight takes rook."

Dio sighed and moved his piece off the board. "How are you playing so well? You were half-asleep a second ago."

He almost smiled, but that would have taken effort. "You wanted me to learn, remember? You wanted at least one person who could put up a fight."

"That's true. Bishop takes pawn."

A phone on a side table started to ring; Dio flopped back on the ornate couch, leaning over to pick it up. "Hello? Password? Cirillo, you know my voice by now! ...Oh. Okay, put her on, then." His voice trembled slightly; Luciola's fists clenched. "Hello, Delphine…Yes. What?" He nearly dropped the phone. "Yes, sister. I see. It'll be taken care of." He hung up.

"What is it?" His face is white; what did that woman tell him?

Dio shoved the small table that held their chessboard out of the way, not caring if the pieces scattered on the floor. Luciola stiffened with surprise as the younger boy hugged him fiercely. "Sir?"

His voice was very small. "She told me…now that I'm seventeen, I have to start helping her business. For my first job…you know the DiMarcos, right? They're muscling in on our speakeasies in Brooklyn. Delphine wants me to kill their consigliere, Giacomo DeNonno. She said…" He shuddered. "She can trust me, because I'm her brother."

Dio… Luciola sighed. "…What do you want to do?"

Dio pulled away. His eyes were cold. "I won't kill on my sister's orders. I'm not one of her hired thugs. She said DeNonno has to die by the end of the month; we can hide until then. We'll take whatever we can carry—cash, whatever we can pawn, everything—shove it in that crappy old car of yours, and find a place to stay."

Luciola thought for a moment before speaking. "Sir, if you do this…Delphine will come looking for us. Where will we go? Not even California is far enough away."

The younger boy started to grin. "So we won't go that far. We'll stay in the city. She's well aware that I'm scared of her; knowing that, the closest she'll look for us will be the suburbs. See? She'd never think we'd stay in Manhattan!"

There are so many ways this could go wrong, I can't even think of them all. But…if I don't go, Dio will go without me. I can't leave him alone. He groaned. "I'll go pack."

&

Even though every fiber of his being rebelled against moving, Dio helped Luciola load up the trunk of his car, an ancient Model T Ford. Although their luggage was mostly money and clothes, there were things Dio had decided he couldn't live without. The radio took up most of the trunk space by itself, along with a Thompson submachine gun safely tucked away in a violin case.

Their bags packed, Dio made to get in the driver's seat, only to be stopped by Luciola. "I'll drive."

Dio grumbled as he buckled himself into the passenger seat. "I'm a perfectly good driver."

The older boy raised one eyebrow. "Sir, you've been pulled over for speeding too many times. Besides, you don't even have a license anymore."

As they drove through narrow, twisting streets to the Lower East Side, Dio thumped the dashboard with his fist. (2.) The glove compartment flew open with a bang. "Luce, this thing is held together by spit and black shoe polish. It's so old, it deserves a medal for war service. My driving it can't possibly make it any worse—hey! There's a 'For Rent' sign in front of that brownstone."

"I see it." He kept driving.

Dio growled. "Well, why aren't you stopping, then? Wait, never mind—hey, that car just pulled out, there's your spot!"

He didn't hear Luciola's teeth grinding. "I know." He parked in one smooth motion, taking a spot that had just been vacated. It was a few doors down from the apartment with a sign in the window that Dio had pointed out, and he saw with relief that it did indeed say "For Rent—Inquire Within."

Dio bounded up the steps and knocked hard on the door. There was no answer. Okay, the sign says Mattina, so… He leaned on the labeled doorbell. "Hey, anybody home?"

They heard inarticulate grumbling and stomping from within, before a series of locks rattled on the other side and the door was pulled open to reveal a young man in a shabby suit. "Whaddaya want?"

Dio's eyes narrowed. The people down here are so rude! "Well, we were preparing to look at the rooms you have for rent, but if you're going to be so rude, my friend and I will go elsewhere."

Mattina took in the sight of the two men on his front stoop, both finely dressed and clean-shaven. "Oh, 'scuse me. Didn't know what you were here fer…I was afraid you'd come to sell magazines or something. Anyway, I'm the landlord of this place, name of Joe Mattina. What can I do fer youse two fine gentlemen?"

That's more like it. "What rooms do you have for rent?"

"Well, if you'll follow me upstairs…"

The rooms he showed them had plainly once belonged to a private investigator; his sign was still etched in the glass in the door. Mattina shrugged, embarrassed, when Dio pointed it out. "Yeah, the guy died recently. Ain't got the time to take the letters off." He unlocked the door, and they followed him in. "This here was his office, as you can see—still got the furniture and everything. Bathroom's through that door, kitchen and bedroom's over there. 'Fraid you'll have to share it."

Dio looked around curiously. There was wood paneling on the walls, several of the ceiling tiles were water stained, and the carpet under their feet was in need of cleaning. The desk and filing cabinet in the office were battered, as was the couch. A chair in the corner had duct tape on the leg. An inspection of the kitchen revealed that the edges of the linoleum were separating from the wall. He turned to Luciola. "What do you think?'"

He frowned. "Well, it's a bit dingy, but we can't afford to be picky. How much for three weeks?"

Mattina told them.

Dio sighed happily. "That's not much, right?"

The landlord continued. "And then of course there's the key money, and the electric bill, and the water bill, and the—"

Luciola cut him off. "We'll take it."

&

It took three hours and half a pack of cigarettes to move their things in and put everything in its proper place. Once he was done, Luciola sank onto the bed with a sigh. It's too hot for this.

Dio came in, yawning. "I'm exhausted. Time for bed."

Luciola checked the clock on the wall. I didn't realize it was so late; the sun's only just set. "Where did you put the case?"

"There's a safe under the desk. It's in there." Dio sat down on the bed next to him; the springs creaked loudly under his weight. He winced. "The guy before us didn't spend too much cash on this, huh? But it should still hold the both of us."

The older boy felt his face heat up. "I was going to sleep on the couch in the office…"

Dio grabbed his arm as he started to rise from his spot. "That couch is even older and crappier than this bed. Stay here tonight, okay?"

"Umm…" Sharing a bed? That's a little strange, isn't it? But…he does have a point; there are some very suspicious stains on that sofa. I suppose it can't hurt. "As you wish."

He folded his clothes neatly on the nightstand before crawling into bed, shaking his head in disgust at Dio's shirt, tie, and slacks flung haphazardly on the floor. "You could at least fold your shirt."

Dio shrugged. "What's the point? I won't be wearing the same one tomorrow, anyway."

Luciola sighed. He's such a slob. "Good night, sir."

"Night, Luce." Dio reached over and turned off the light.

He wasn't used to sharing a bed with anyone, but as Luciola listened to Dio's steady breathing, he thought he could get used to it.

&

Author's Notes

1. For non-New Yorkers, the Upper East Side of Manhattan was (and still is), the place where the obscenely wealthy had their apartments. Naturally, Delphine has multiple addresses in this area.

2. The Lower East Side, on the other hand, contained some of the worst neighborhoods in the city. Its gentrification only started recently, well after the events of this fic; it's still (as of the present day) not one of the best areas in town.