And we finally get an update! Sorry for the wait guys, real life can really cut into fic writing time, but I'm excited about this chapter. A lot of people left awesome reviews for the last chapter, and I really appreciate it! And for those of you who wanted more interaction between the two, do not fear. This chapter is almost all interaction instead of introspection (although a little bit slipped in there anyway. I can't help it!)

A few random notes: A couple reviewers have mentioned that my description of mafia life is interesting. Just to be clear, I know NOTHING about how the mafia actually works. All of this is just made up for this story universe.

Also, I'm sorry if you're getting sick of the word razor. I know I am. I feel like I'm playing "Who has the razor now?" every time I write. But it's the only thing they managed to smuggle in, so you're just going to have to put up with my overuse of razors as the only weapon.

Alright, please enjoy this update, and if you enjoy, please review!

Antonio woke to a razor at his throat and an Italian on his chest, a situation which was quickly becoming tiresome.

Romano smirked as he watched the Spaniard rouse himself as quickly as he could, mild fogginess combining with instinctual confusion and anger.

"The fuck, Romano?"

Romano chuckled. It really would've been a lot more intimidating if the man's voice wasn't still groggy from sleep.

"Fight me."

"What?" Confusion flickered across Antonio's face as he mumbled his inquiry.

"Fight. Me. It's not that hard to understand." Romano rolled his eyes and repeated himself, enunciating each word clearly.

Antonio still seemed dazed.

"What time is it?"

"Figure it out, bastard. We both know that you have an internal clock going by now."

Antonio glared half-heartedly before scrunching his forehead in thought. The situation was completely ridiculous, the ease of the banter completely incongruous with the reality of the razor at his throat.

"Romano. Why the hell did you wake me up to fight you at 2 in the fucking morning?"

Antonio had finally shaken most of the sleep from his expression, replacing the dazedness with palpable annoyance bordering on outright anger. Romano, on the other hand, appeared to be enjoying himself immensely, which only angered the Spaniard further.

"Really? I have to explain it to you?" Antonio glared. Romano met his gaze and continued, albeit a little less smugly. "We have to stay sharp. By the time we get out of here, everything's going to be shot to hell. I doubt our second in commands can keep control. I predict various injuries, at least two deaths in each of the gangs, and either a revolt or a power vacuum when we return. If we're not in shape, then we're dead. Luckily, we're the two strongest anyway, so if we fight each other we'll stay strong enough to take back our positions. Do you get it now, or should I speak more slowly?"

Antonio's expression looked as if he was holding back a snarl, but the residual fatigue was still evident, tempering the obvious rage.

"Fine. We'll fight." He spit out.

Romano stared at him incredulously for a moment.

"What did you do to get in here? You obviously worked with a group, because you're not used to getting up quickly to be ready for any attacks or surprises. I would have guessed thief, but this prison isn't the place for cat burglars. And you obviously didn't work alone, but then why isn't anyone in here with you?"

Romano seemed to be halfway speaking to himself, but Antonio answered anyway.

"If you win, I'll tell you."

Romano began to smile as Antonio continued.

"But put away the damn razor. Honor among thieves and all that. Besides, if the point is to get stronger, weapons defeat the purpose."

As soon as he said it, the razor disappeared.

"Well, we will need some scars eventually, for appearances and all that, but I suppose that can wait till later." Romano used the same tone of voice one would use when making a shopping list. "Shall we start now?"

Rather than answering Antonio lunged forward, putting Romano on the defensive. Romano's weirdly cheerful attitude was confusing and fighting was straightforward. Attack, defend, counter. No games, nothing he didn't understand.

Romano was enjoying the fighting as well. Although he felt phantom bruising he was sure would become real later as he slammed into the wall, he felt invigorated. Senses heightened, he could feel Antonio, both his body which was twisted up with Romano's as they rolled across the floor, and his movements as he lunged and retreated, dodged and attacked. Fighting was a relief. It was not about politics, but simply how the players chose to act and react. Planning was useless when you didn't know what the other person was going to do. This was not a matter of strategizing, but of pure strength and reflex.

Or at least it should be. That was the fighting that Romano liked, because it was a break from the constant calculations which he faced in order to stay high enough in the power structure. In a complex world, whether it was his Mafia past or his present in prison, pure mindless physicality like sex or violence was a relief.

But here, there was no one day a week allocated to vice. Here, he could not dominate a pretty young tourist sexually one night and go back to his work the next. In prison, politics were constant, and things which on the outside would be purely physical became strategic within these walls. Every act of lust, every fight was part of an agenda, and if it were not, it would undermine whatever cause you were trying to protect, whether it was your own power or simply your own survival.

Romano knew this, and he had come into this fight with a strategy. He allowed himself to revel in a few more moments of mindless grappling before putting his plan into action, pulling out his razor in one quick motion and slashing the part of Antonio which was closest-his upper arm, as it turned out. This unexpected pain, a cut caused by something sharper than fingernails in a fight supposedly without weapons, shocked him for a second. That second was enough for Romano to use his weight as leverage and push Antonio down, and for the second time that day, the Spaniard had an Italian on his chest and a razor to his throat.

Romano met the flashing eyes of the other man boldly, smiling with a vengeful kind of mirth.

"You must not be a murderer, because if you were, you would know that there is no such thing as honor among murderers."

The pressure on the razor increased, adding what was sure to be another small scar to the junction of Antonio's chin and throat. Romano punctuated the action with a hiss of "I win."

Romano could feel Antonio shake with rage, and then felt his anger subside, to be replaced with a cool and dangerous control, far from the defeat that he's hoped to incur.

Suddenly the positions were switched. Romano became the one with a razor to the throat, although his own was still in his hand, which was now bloody from clenching the blade as he fell. One of Antonio's hands was pinning Romano's wrist, rendering the hand that held the razor immobile, while the other was currently tracing light patterns onto the skin of the Italian's collarbone with the tip of his own blade.

Antonio leaned down, leveling his mouth to the ear of the other man.

"And you must not be a thief, because if you were you were know that honor among thieves is a pretty little lie."

Antonio raised his head and increased the pressure on his knife, carving a crude C into Romano's clavicle.

"I suppose we're even now, for that little stunt you pulled while I was sleeping. You did say we needed scars, right?"

Antonio looked positively gleeful, deriving sadistic enjoyment at Romano's pain and outrage. He traced the new wound with his index finger, wiping up the blood and tapped the Italian's nose like one would do to a child, only with the suggestion of the potential for brute force accompanying the bloody finger.

"Oh, and by the way." Antonio smirked. " I win."