A/N: Well, after a long, long debate, I decided to continue this oneshot. Unfortunately, the time frame between chapters will probably be pretty big because I'm about to go back to school. I'll try my best to update regularly, though. And without further ado, here's chapter two!

"I don't see why I have to be dragged into this. Those Bolshevik blokes make me nervous."

Alfred rolled his eyes as his platinum blonde partner struck a match across the bottom of his dress shoe. "C'mon now, don't be such a killjoy, limey. This'll just be a little gab between the big cheese of these Russians 'n me. No need to get all uptight about it." he said loudly, placing his hands behind his head casually as if the whole thing was no big deal.

"Says you." the Brit replied, his voice muffled by the cigarette he held between his teeth, "If you ask me, this is practically a recipe for disaster."

Alfred didn't say a word to deny this statement, instead choosing to dawn a knowing smile that practically stretched from ear to ear. "You know Vargas..." he pointed out, as if the one statement explained the entire situation.

The British gangster gave a low growl, finally choosing to light his cigarette before snuffing the small match out with a flick of his wrist. He unlocked the back door of the car, taking a peek inside before tilting his head upwards and letting out a groan of exasperation. "You git, what in the hell did Lovino order you to do?" he sighed.

"That's for me to know and you to find out, limey~!"

The first thing that Alfred was greeted by when he was finally allowed into the Russian mafia boss's office was a pair of violet eyes.

These eyes, however, were unique. The emotion they displayed was one unlike any Alfred had seen before. In fact, it was so unique that it was pretty much impossible to read. The American couldn't quite tell if it was anger that resided behind the mask of the purple irises, or a pain hidden deep inside. Then again, annoyance found its way into his gaze, as well, along with a splash of confidence. And despite all of these emotions that ran together so messily, he seemed so...composed. As if his business wasn't crumbling out from under him, or his assassination attempt on the American smuggler hadn't utterly failed.

The Russian - his name was Ivan or some kinda generic name, wasn't it - gave a toothy, almost childish grin to the rival mafia associate. "You are Alfred Jones, Да?" he asked, tilting his head to the side in curiosity.

Alfred tipped his non-existent fedora to the man, silently regretting that he hadn't brought one. Wouldn't it have looked damn spiffy if he had? "That would be me, Mr. Russian!" he replied with a brief wink.

Although the last gesture Alfred made was meant to infuriate the Russian, it only caused him to smile wider. "How gutsy of you, Mr. Jones! I would have never expected one of our top targets to simply waltz into our den. I must say that this is a...surprise." Alfred immediately noted the omission of the word "pleasant" in the boss's phrase as the creamy-haired man folded his hands in front of his mouth.

Alfred, however, was intent on keeping the atmosphere loose as he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Ah, sorry, fella. 'Fraid I ain't zozzled enough that I'd come here for a little friendly visit. Not yet, anyways." He let out one of his famously raucous laughs. The immigrant before him, however, kept the very same smiling expression, not bothering to break it for even so much as a giggle. Alfred sighed, realizing there was no screwing around here. This boss, much like Lovino, wanted to get straight to the point. Beating around the bush only pissed him off. "Vargas ain't too happy about what went on a couple a' nights back."

The Russian raised an eyebrow, as if he was confused as to why the Italian mafia leader would be unhappy with his actions. "Oh, is that so?" was all he replied before lapsing back into silence.

"Ab-so-lute-ly so. Sending two hitmen after two of his crucial connections in one night? Christ, I had never heard him curse so much when I was in his office!" Alfred exclaimed, trying not to snicker childishly at the thought of Lovino's blood-red face as a colorful mix of Italian, Spanish, and broken English spewed from his lips. "Although I appreciate that ya' sent quite the dame after me instead of a big ol' bimbo, that doesn't change the fact that ya' tried to bump off the boss's smuggler and the boss's adopted father."

"What was that, you pig?"

Alfred sucked in a deep breath as he felt the edge of a blade press firmly against his throat. A grin worked its way up onto his face as he raised his hands on either side of his head. "Well hello there, kitten. Been workin' on those two left feet of yours lately?"

Although he could only see a few strands of her platinum hair, accompanied by a sliver of the long black dress she wore, he could practically feel her disapproving gaze and disgusted scowl boring into the back of his skull. "Заткнись." she replied harshly.

"Now, then, Mr. Jones. I'm not quite sure you understand the severity of your situation." Ivan began, speaking slowly as if he was lecturing a child. He leaned back in his extravagant chair as the light taps of dress shoes and the clicks of several guns (most likely now aimed at Alfed's skull) resounded through the room. "You see, although I somewhat admire your blatant stupidity and the execution of your boss's ludicrous orders, I find it highly insulting that you, a person who currently has the best members of my organization trained directly on him, think you can just waltz into my office unannounced and most definitely uninvited." He seethed the last word to fully express his irritation, although the ever stoic expression on his face remained the same. "And the fact that you have the gall to lecture me about your boss's anger." The Russian sucked in a deep breath, trying his hardest to maintain his intimidating composure. "It's highly irritating."

"Oh, my apologies, Mr. Russian!" Alfred exclaimed, his eyes wide in pseudo-surprise, "I didn't realize that you don't accept visitors without an appointment! Should I leave and come back at another time?"

The Russian glared at him, folding his arms in front of his chest. "Mr. Jones," he began with a forced smile, "you are trying my patience. You are treading on very thin ice at the moment." He snapped, and Natalia's knife edged closer to the American's throat, drawing out a steady trickle of blood.

Alfred bit his lip, shaking his head while still keeping his grin. "I get it, I get it. Now isn't a good time to bother you." The Russian mafia boss grit his teeth and began to stand up. In that split second, Alfred swung his fist backwards, nailing Natalia in some part of the face or throat. He couldn't quite tell, but as soon as she let out a pained cry, he stepped backwards into her, snatching the knife as soon as it was a good inch or so away from his neck. As the guards behind him came into view, with several of their guns raised and raising, the American slipped his hand to his belt and swiftly drew his gun. Before any of the rival mafia could make a move, he had their best assassin in a choke hold around the neck with the barrel of his gun pressed to her temple. Her knife fell to the floor, abandoned.

The rage in Ivan's eyes was blatantly apparent at this point. He scowled, finally losing his calm expression in turn to reveal an unrivaled hatred. He raised his hand, as if threatening to do something, and the shaky grin on Alfred's face grew wider.

"Hey, bohunk!" the American shouted, using the ethnic slur unmercifully. Several of the guards grimaced, and Ivan's eyes actually narrowed. Alfred snickered. "God bless America!"

Immediately he forced himself and Natalia onto the floor, spreading his aviator's jacket over her. Just in time. As soon as he did so, the windows of the office shattered, giving way to a rain of bullets that showered the entire office. Ivan and a few of his men had been intelligent enough to get down as quick as they could, only suffering minor wounds. Others, however, took a moment or two to process the situation, leaving just enough time for them to become riddled with bullets.

When the steam of lead ceased briefly, Alfred pressed the gun to Natalia's head once more, breathing into her ear, "Let's ankle, kitten!" She gave what he translated to be an obsence growl in her native language, but chose to obediently follow him as he pulled her to tumble out of the broken window, still holding fragments of the glass. She landed on top of him with a barely audible squeak before he shoved her to the side, hiding her with his jacket again as another wave of bullets came. Then, he sprang to his feet, dragging her to his car and quickly fumbling open the trunk.

She gave him a death glare, struggling as if to show she was adamant about not residing in the most inglorious seat of the vehicle. But he American just shrugged it off, as if saying there was nothing he could do, and forced her into it at gunpoint before slamming it shut. He rolled over the closed trunk of the car, thudding into the concrete once more and hopping up beside his cover, which consisted of Arthur wielding two Thompson machine guns. A man's head popped up in the office window, and Alfred fired his pistol, nailing him in between the eyes.

"Time to go, limey! We're not exactly welcome anymore!" Alfred exclaimed, slapping his friend's shoulder before sprinting to the driver's seat of the car and climbing in. The vehicle roared to life and the American revved the motor anxiously.

It took a few moments, but when the Brit had the rival mafia completely pinned down, he dove into the backseat, punching his partner's shoulder as revenge for earlier. "I swear to God, between Lovino's plans and your crazy execution of them, I'm going to get killed someday!" he yelled over the roar of the engine.

Alfred cackled as he flipped the vehicle into gear and slammed his foot into the gas pedal. "C'mon now, you know this is much more fun than burning down the house with your tea and crumpets!"

"ALFRED!"

Another laugh.