Hi everyone, apparently it's Fanfiction etiquette for an author to write a small foreword before their story. This is an opportunity for me to ramble on about blah, blah, blah.

Feel free to skip to the story.

I've done my best to tag this story as informatively as possible. However, many of the SG-canon characters that play an important role thus far – Irvin in specific – cannot be tagged purely because they are not listed as taggable characters in the Skullgirls category. Also, if you haven't read the character tags, be warned that there is an OC ahead.

On a general principle, I try to avoid pairing up characters, especially where OCs are involved. My apologies if that's what you're interested in.

Wrapping this up, let me say it's a pleasure to have you as a reader for at least some part of my story, and I hope it'll live up to your expectations.

Irvin's brow furrowed as he thumbed through a small notebook, trying to find the first blank page past all the inky scribbles, stammered witness statements, dead end leads, half-formed connection charts and up-in-the-air theories he had been working through for the better part of the day. The first blank he found was immediately marked with the title 'P.O.I: Nadia Fortune' in his chicken-scratch handwriting.

In the course of his investigation, the Private Detective had collected dozens of stories about the woman behind the quizzical name of 'Ms. Fortune'. The predominantly Dagonian population of Little Innsmouth named her thief, hero, vagrant, and mooch, amongst other titles. Regardless of the truth behind all this, she had agreed – insisted, rather - to help Irvin's investigation in any way possible. He looked at the lightly-built woman sitting across from him, and he supposed he could do worse. He cleared his throat.

"You said you were a close friend of Minette's. When was the last time you saw her? Was there anything out of the ordinary?"

"Now that you mention it…" She murmured, rubbing her jaw, "Yeah - there were these two creeps slinking around here the other day - trying to put moves on her."

Irvin nodded, expression grim, "Did she go with them?"

"Pfft, no. She's way too smart for that." Nadia snickered, "She brushes 'em off, then they start throwing their weight around, calling her names, all that - so I step in. I tell 'em to hit the road, then this big heavyweight takes out a machete. You should've seen the look on his face when I survived the first swing - purr-iceless. They took my advice and high-tailed it after that." She fell silent for a moment, her tone losing its mirth, "I'd bet my last meal those two were Medicis."

Irvin scribbled the information into his notebook. "We can work with this. Did you happen to hear anything that suggested a larger motive behind why they were so interested in Minette?"

"Not much..." Nadia murmured, her eyes twitched and she rubbed her jaw again, "Well, I heard one of them say something about a 'Vitale'. That mean anything?"

The private detective nodded sagely, the gentle scratch of pen on paper echoed again.

"That sounds like Vitale de' Medici: The heir-apparent of the Medici family's banking and investment firm." The private detective shifted his weight with a slight creak, "These two suspects... Could you provide a more detailed description of what they looked like?"

"Uh, yeah. The guy with the machete was about, I dunno… a little taller than me, without the ears. He was definitely on the pudgy side – too many trips to the dessert bar, y'know? Brown hair – a bit of a beard. The other one was a featherweight – kinda tall, lanky. He had a pencil mustache and one of those tufty-beard-thingies under his lip."

"A soul patch?"

"If that's what it's called, I guess?" she shrugged.

"Just keep it in mind." The investigator continued, "I've called up an inside contact from the mob. If there's a connection, he'll be able to I.D. them."

Nadia felt the hairs on her neck stand up. Her tail went rigid. Her brow creased.

"You're working with a Medici?"

"No." Irvin said.

"But you just said this buddy of yours was from the mob."

He closed his eyes and sighed, "Yes. Believe me, if there was a court in this city that wasn't rigged, or a jail cell brave enough to hold him for more than a day, I'd put him there."

"So you're working with him because…?"

"Same reason I'm working with you, Ms. Fortune." Irvin said, hoping the prolific cat thief was self-conscious enough to understand the parallel he was making, "Not much of a choice."

"Now doesn't that make me feel like something the cat dragged in." she mewed, glancing about, "What do you mean by no choice?"

"Think about what I do for a living." Irvin said, "You dig anywhere in this city, you'll find something leading back to the Medicis. When that happens, you either have to abandon the case entirely, or you risk thugs coming after you. Marco gives me an insider perspective of what each string connects to in the family. In return I slide him any information he could use as leverage against the other lieutenants or the family."

"Uh-huh." Ms Fortune raised an eyebrow, still not entirely convinced, "And you're bringing him here because…?"

"Believe me, he reacted in the same way," he said, "thanks to recent activity, Little Innsmouth isn't considered unsafe territory to most in the mafia. If he shows up, that means we can trust that he's committed to helping us, and we can guarantee he's coming alone."

"I... wait, how long did you say you'd been working with this guy? You're sure he's clean – you're paw-sitive about it?"

"I'm not asking for you to make friends." Irvin insisted. "I just need your tolerance."

She mumbled an 'okay', but her tense composure didn't shift. Irvin drummed his fingers on the table. In retrospect, he decided it would've been a better idea to ask her first.

"I've heard a bit about your… uncomfortable history with the mafia. If I'm not asking for something reasonable, we can take our chances."

The thief rolled her eyes, and her shoulders dropped, "Well it's... fine. Fine! I'll put up with it." She raised a gloved hand to the back of her neck, flattening the rigid hairs. Long nails picked at old scars, "When's this guy gonna show up?"

"Approximately ten minutes ago." Irvin said flatly, cocking an eyebrow at his wristwatch.

"'Dress casually' he said," He grumbled, "'you'll fit right in' he said."

The mob informant winced as another Dagonian passerby 'accidentally' elbowed him below the ribs, hard enough to make him wheeze. 'Out of place' was the mildest description for what the gangster felt as the bright summer sun cooked him alive inside of his business outfit. He kept drawing dirty looks from the crowds – he could tell they loathed his tailored clothes, his oiled hair – it was understandable, but he also guessed that his sympathy wasn't going to be of much use here.

He seized up as he stumbled into a burly Dagonian – a hammerhead shark, towering over him. Marco guessed that the Dagonian's lip-piercing, tight jeans, bulging pectorals and shoulder tattoos didn't speak of one prone to forgiveness. Passersby stopped and stared, eagerly anticipating a comeuppance.

"Hey, look, I uhh..." Marco stuttered as he backed up, showing his open palms in apology.

The hammerhead took a step towards him, less than amused, "You should watch where you're going. Someone could get hurt." The gangster felt cold sweat on his forehead and the crowd's eyes glaring knives into him; one misstep and he guessed that he'd be in for a lynching. He glanced over the guardrail – he had never learned to swim, but if they threw him off the walkway he briefly hoped that he could improvise.

He felt a hand grasp his shoulder, and he sure that he was done for. The hand wheeled him around.

"Marco, good to see you." Irvin hissed through a forced smile, adjusting his grip on Marco's sleeve, mechanically patting his shoulder, "I was worried about you."

The private detective turned back to the onlookers, his steely gaze making eye contact with several members of the crowd, challenging them to act or leave. Slowly the masses resumed flowing past the two without further interest. Marco sighed in relief, and Irvin slugged him angrily on the shoulder.

"What the hell was that?" Irvin demanded. "I told you to keep a low profile. What did you think you were doing, picking a fight like that?"

"'Hello' to you too, Vinnie." the informant mumbled, rubbing his shoulder, "Oh sure, sure – like they were all hugs-and-smiles right up until the point where I almost got rubbed into the deck right then and there."

Irvin gave a huff, and his expression softened, "Well, at least you tried. This way. You can hide behind me if you get frightened by any more big, scary men." A ghost of a smile tugged at the private investigator's lip as he said this, turning and heading down the catwalk.

"Furbacchione." Marco grumbled, catching up and falling into step. He glanced around, one could never be sure of who had their ears open, "So, um, I hear you're doing a bit of, uh, digging for a client around here?"

"In a sense," they turned a sharp corner and ascended a flight of wooden stairs leading back around a brick building and out to ground level. Irvin dug around in the pocket of his pants, fishing out a set of photographs and handing them to the mob lieutenant, "See any familiar faces in here?"

Marco's jaw shifted as they continued walking, he squinted as they turned another corner, putting them right in the direction of the sun.

"Nah, no," he shuffled through the photographs, "never seen her, nope, no, n- Wait, yeah. This one - she's familiar." Irvin turned to look at one of the photographs Marco was holding up from the stack, "Kind of a strange story – the Underboss had my boys do some recon work on this kid."

"What makes it strange?"

"Well, the job went off without a hitch – my boys did their sightseeing, kept their noses clean and then they came back – no clue why Vitale wanted it so much. Our crew spent the entire week on the mattresses expecting orders for a follow-up, but the Underboss hasn't brought it up again. Easiest job we've done since Bloody Marie stopped sniffing around the outfit, lemme tell ya'."

They jogged down another flight of stairs with red paper lanterns suspended above them. The mobster winced as one of the lanterns' steel frames bounced off his forehead, he cut himself off halfway through a slur.

"Jeez, Irvin - it's like this place has a grudge against me."

"Or maybe it's just karma?" Irvin said with a wry smile. The detective stopped at the bottom of the stairs so Marco could hand the photos back to him, "Was there anything else you remember that relates to these girls? Anything at all?"

"Wish there was," Marco shrugged, they kept walking. Now that the locals had reduced their overt hostilities, he could take in the locale: bright, peeling paint on cherry wood, steel support beams and plaster walls - the place had an old-world charm. He turned back to Irvin, "Lemme guess, somethin's happened to 'em?"

Irvin held up the pictures, "Missing persons reports, on all of them. As far as the evidence I've gathered, they all went missing on the same day."

"Wait, seriously?" Marco's brow furrowed, "There were a lot of photographs in that stack, Irvin – you're sure?"

"I've taken it with a grain of salt, too." He replied, "Some of the evidence I've gathered points to the mafia, but I wasn't under the impression that the family had enough manpower to conduct an operation of that scale so soon."

"Ain't that a fact," Marco huffed, "it's been a pretty steady beat up until recently: every time we'd try to do something, Bloody Marie'd find us halfway through and we'd lose a bunch of guys, we'd try something else, then Marie'd find us again. As for anyone in the business who'd be able to manage the groundwork on something like this… there's only a couple of names that come to mind."

"And those are?"

Marco shook his head, "…I'll put it this way, I wasn't exactly close with those sorts of guys while they were still around, but Bloody Marie's gone through the place and, heh, let's just say we ain't hearin' from them no more. So either we've got some new guy on the block who can operate a really convincing free candy truck, or..." They walked a few more paces, and Marco stopped short, "Wait. That figlio di puttana."

"What?"

"Vitale – yeah, before Bloody Marie happened, he was trying to set up a business deal with some hoosegow punks working out of Rommelgrad."

"Rommelgrad… a slaver cartel has its base of operations there, right?"

"So you've heard of 'em." Marco nodded, his eyes twitching as the gears in his head turned, "The slavers call 'emselves the 'Bratva.' If Vitale's dealing with him, we've been kept in the dark: last time he tried to make a pitch for the idea of workin' with 'em openly, it got pretty much panned."

"A hint of the 'old family honor' you keep telling me about?"

"Eh, I'll give it to you straight: nobody in this business of ours really cared that the Bratva were slavers. What the real issue was that the Mustache Petes and the capi didn't like Vitale inviting foreigners into our city—he wanted the Bratva in because they were willing to offer him a cut of their profits, we hated it because that's the sort of competition and trouble nobody wanted or needed."

"And what about you?" Irvin asked, regarding the gangster warily with a sideways glance, "Do you have a problem with 'foreigners'?"

"Would you give me a break, Vinnie?" Marco snapped, "It's more complicated than that. You know it's more complicated than that. The Old Families built this city—New Meridian is our birthright, it belongs to us." He spread his arms, gesturing to the exotic Dagonian architecture around him, "We have no problem with people moving in and settling down—hell, they're welcome to this little corner of the world we've carved out—just as long as they pay us proper respect and due tribute for the privilege of living here. It's not a lot to ask."

Irvin stopped, leaning in. His expression was grim, accusatory, "So are you saying the Dagonians here deserve what's happening to them?"

"That's not what I said, and you know it." Marco snapped. He pointed at the bundle of photos that Irvin was carrying, "If I have business that needs settling with someone, I take it up with them face-to-face, I don't go taking their kids away." Marco's expression became intense, "I didn't do this to them. It's not my fault this happened. Believe me, Vitale didn't do us any favors by choosing to attack a man's children: that's not the behavior of a man who expects people to trust his word, that's the behavior of a spineless coward. On the other hand, the River King was given an offer, and he turned it down. Considering this entire city is home turf for the family, refusing to have any dealings with us is the kind of thing we in the business call a 'dumb idea.' Vinnie, we may not see eye-to-eye, but I'm gonna warn you now: I don't know what sort of people the River King's got around here, but I've seen Lorenzo take down bigger and tougher outfits with just his own resources—and that's before the Medici had the whole city. I'm seeing this matchup now and, Vinnie, I hate to tell you this but I don't think the River King is a winning bet right now."

"I'm surprised you're worrying about my safety, considering you almost got sent for a swim."

"Yeah, and who's the genius who told me to come here in the first place, furbacchione?"

Irvin moved on, "So, where does this Bratva fit into all this? You think Vitale's been dealing with them behind the rest of the family's back?"

"Think so? Eh." Marco said, "What's the alternative? Say Marie did actually wipe out the whole Rommelgrad cartel. That leaves us with some sort of weird pied piper or candy truck as our last theory."

"The Bratva would explain the pattern of disappearances." Irvin said, a grim frown on his features, "The witness reports indicate the kidnappers used much more force taking the River King's daughters—knives and sledgehammers were brandished at bystanders, firebombs were thrown if bystanders tried to interfere. With the other abductions it seemed scattered, opportunistic. Maybe these slavers were picking up extra…" Irvin didn't want to finish out loud, but the idea haunted him, "If the Rommelgrad syndicate wanted to smuggle someone out of the city, how much time would we have before they were outside of city limits?"

"You know I've never done a trafficking racket, Irvin." Marco shook his head, "But knowing the reputation of those guys… Do you want me to give you the optimistic estimate or the realistic one? Because they both look pretty bad. I assume they're going to keep the River King's daughters together, if Vitale's actually the one who pulled the strings on that. As for the others… what I'm gonna say is that if you're planning on getting them all back, well: hope for the best, but expect the worst, and work quickly."

"Any idea what other rackets the Bratva might be involved in?" the click of their shoes on the wooden plank walkways continued its usual beat.

"Dirty money, I imagine: drugs, passports, guns. They don't really have a proper economy running over there in Rommelgrad so I don't imagine there's any openings for loansharking or organized gambling. Couldn't tell you any more than that, really. Now all we need is a positive lead or two."

"With luck, we'll have our first one by this afternoon," Irvin said, "I think we've kept Ms. Fortune waiting for long enough."

"Ms. Fortune?" Marco repeated, doing little to hide his skepticism.

"Her first name's Nadia."

"Nadia Fortune. That, uh," Marco cocked an eyebrow, "that's not a stage name, is it?"

"It's the name she gave when I asked," Irvin said, "I'm not going to double-guess her."

"I mean, you're sure she hasn't mistaken you for a client or anything?"

"Wha-? Oh. I – seriously?" Irvin glared, "Marco, get your mind out the gutter, would you? She isn't that type of a person."

"You're sure, Vinnie? What the hell kind of a last name is 'Fortune'?"

"I'm guessing it's self-bestowed," Irvin confessed, "she's a burglar, so I've heard – grew up in a street gang."

"She's a pavement punk, then?" Marco's expression turned from disbelief to self-righteousness. Mobsters always had a particular stigma against street gangs.

"Don't say that to her face, please."

"Lips're sealed, Vinnie. This punk's got a rage trigger, does she?"

"I wouldn't have put it like that – but as long as we're talking about it, I wouldn't bring up the fact that you helped Vitale perform reconnaissance services prior to the abductions, either."

"Any reason in particular?"

"She wouldn't understand. She's very... morally driven."

"Oh. The girl-scout mentality? This dame just keeps soundin' better and better."

"You haven't even met the woman yet, Marco. Personally, I think this city could use more people like her - more people with a moral compass."

"You've got a funny way of saying that more people should lend themselves to a mindset that'll end up getting them swindled, unhappy and leave them to die alone and in pain in some godforsaken gutter. This girl does have my interest, though." The green-and-white billboard for Yu-Wan's restaurant finally loomed into view, "Let's go meet this delusional-girl-scout-punk who can't hold her temper."

A small bell jingled on the restaurant's door as Irvin re-entered with his informant in tow. Looking around, Marco took in the lacquered wood flooring, and well-lit white plaster walls. A short, stout and muscular Dagonian cook sat hunched behind a flat-top grill, reading a newspaper, and a small radio puttered a tune on the counter. Recent events withstanding, the restaurant was almost empty. Save for one, all of the wooden tables had plastic chairs stacked on them, their pointed legs creating a tangled forest of shadows in the plaque-yellow morning light.

Marco followed Irvin over to a table occupied by a curvy feline feral with a dark tan and light hair. In any other part of the city, Marco thought there was a special word to describe women dressed as... liberally as she was. Yet, in context with the murderously high temperatures outside, her light clothing almost seemed practical. She mirrored his sneer with equal contempt.

"So, this is the friend of ours?" Marco quipped, his eyes swiveling towards Irvin.

"Yes, of course," Irvin said, pulling up a seat, "Nadia Fortune, meet Marco. He's be our inside contact."

"Piacere." The gangster bent slightly at the waist, offering an open hand to the feline. She slowly, cautiously reached out her own hand to grasp it. Her handshake had all the warmth and friendliness of a cold, dead fish - but the brooding resentment in her eyes was very genuine.

The gangster decided it would have to be good enough, pulling up his own chair. Before he could say anything, the feline piped up.

"Enlighten me, Medici, what makes a mobster like you suddenly decide to backstab your own friends?"

Marco gave her a blank expression. He huffed, leaning back in his chair and looking towards Irvin.

"If this girl's trying to make friends, she's got a funny way of doing it, Irvin."

"Excuse me?" Nadia's temper didn't do well with being ignored. The private detective gave a small groan and hid his face in his hands.

"Here, I'll cut you a deal," Marco said with feigned humor, looking back towards the lightly-dressed thief, "don't give me your attitude, and I won't give you mine. Sound fair, ragazza?"

"I think you haven't answered my question, Medici." Nadia hissed, spitting the last word like a curse.

"I'll take that as a 'no', then." He said with a shrug, leaning back and putting his polished black and white shoes up on the table, "I'm sorry Irvin, but if this dame wants me to play ball, she's gonna have to learn some table manners."

"I can't believe this." Irvin sighed, less than amused by his informant's hypocrisy "Marco, you're better than this. Come on."

The gangster rolled his jaw, seeming to weigh on it. "Yeah, fine." He turned to Nadia, "See? He asks nicely. I listen to him."

"And now you're just being obstinate." Irvin said.

"Okay, okay." The mobster leaned forward, putting his feet down and his elbows on the table, "Before I start, I'm gonna have to point out a few... fundamental errors in what you've asked me, Ms. Fortune. First off, not everyone in this business of mine is my 'friend'. Not that I want them all in the ground – a few of them wiseguys are even worth my respect - but you make it sound like it's a big, happy get-together. I know some people in the business would be happier seeing my name in the obituaries than in the bankbooks – and my sentiments back to them. Secondly, do not make the mistake of thinking that being part of the business means I'm a Medici—"

"There's a difference?" Nadia riposted, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yes, it's... a very long story."

She leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms over her chest.

"I've got time for it." The feline said.

Irvin sighed, rising from his chair with a creak. He guessed that Nadia would have to learn Marco's penchant for dodging around that question at some point or another.

"I'll grab lunch. We'll be here for a while."

Cosa Nostra: Translates to "Our Thing". One of many euphemisms for the mafia.

Bratva: "Brotherhood."

'Mustache Pete': Slang referring to the senior, traditionalist members of the mafia.

Capo (plural Capi): Short of 'Capodecina,' roughly translating to 'Captain of ten.' A lieutenant in the mob, usually granted a 'crew' of several lower-ranking mob members and tasked with managing a crime family's activities within a certain area.

Edit 23/08/2018: Yeesh. If writing a good first chapter is hard, then editing and revising a bad first chapter is even harder. It's been several years since I've started this—looking back on these early chapters, well, the best I can say is that I thank everyone for their patience in sticking with me all this time.