Chapter Text
No.
No no no!
This single word was repeating in Victor’s head over and over. Only after getting into the car did he consider that it was stupid to go alone, but it was too late; his foot was already on the gas, his hand frantically swerving the wheel, tires screeching, motor roaring. No. No, he had to go. Now. He had to make it right. He fucked up and he had to make it right!
He did everything to get there, ignoring traffic lights and the blaring of car horns. They were all a blur compared to the storm raging in his mind. No! How could this have happened? Fuck. No use in asking that question. Victor knew the answer already, and it drove him mad with rage. Why had Vince trusted that man? Why, indeed. Because Victor had. They had both been duped, and it was Victor’s fault, fuck, it was his fault, all of it, fuck! He felt an urgent need for pain, to slam his head into the steering wheel, but instead held onto it so hard his knuckles turned white. No. He could feel sorry about himself later. After he made it right.
He only noticed how battered the car became when it was difficult to kick the front door open due to how dented it was. He might have attracted cops with his careless driving. Who gave a fuck. It was ruined, all ruined, what did it matter? The only thing that mattered…!
There was shooting coming from the warehouse ahead. Shit was going south. Fuck! Victor broke out sprinting, adjusting his brass knuckles into place as he ran, his eyes fixed on the wide-open warehouse gates. He rarely hoped to hear more shooting, but right then, he did. That meant that it wasn’t over yet, that someone was still standing, that he wasn’t too late.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed figures rushing towards him from where the back entrance of the warehouse might have been. Victor stopped, fists clenched, expecting hostiles, but upon seeing friendly faces instead, he could have sobbed.
“Ada…!”
With torn skirts and blood in her hair came Ada De Marco, gathering her strength to run to Victor all the faster, tears running down her stained cheeks. Alberto was with her, presumably there to try and protect the Signora, but from how badly he was beaten up, it almost looked like it was Ada who was helping him along instead, her arm around his back soaked with his blood. The poor man barely noticed Victor in front of him, but Ada immediately pulled him into a shaky hug with her free arm.
“Victor, thank God…!” she sobbed into his shirt.
Victor embraced her tightly for a brief moment, before gently holding her face and shoulder, looking her over. “Ada, are you hurt?” Victor would never forgive himself for the slightest scratch upon her body. As the boss’s wife, she had been targeted and kidnapped, put in harm’s way, and it was his fault, all his fault…
“I’m fine,” Ada nodded in reassurance. “Berto needs urgent care, he took… so many shots,” she squeezed out. It was apparent from the way she said it that Alberto had indeed been shielding her from harm.
“Take the car,” Victor urged, nodding towards where he had left it. When he thought of reaching for the key did he realize he had left it in the ignition in his hurry. “Berto,” he turned to the man, trying to steady him. “You know the usual place, tell her where to go and get in the car, hurry! Don’t give up now!”
There was recognition in Alberto’s eyes, and he nodded, steeling himself. He even clapped Victor on the shoulder weakly. “I’ll leave this mess to you,” he said, coughing.
“Victor!” Ada clutched his shirt, drawing his attention back to her. “I’ll take care of this, you go! Vince…! He’s still in there!” she said, as if knowing exactly what Victor was about to ask.
“No…!”
There were gunshots, but they were in his head, from long ago, muffled by the walls of trenches and ears buzzing from explosions. Reality began to warp, but in it, the warehouse fell silent. Horror crept up Victor’s spine.
“Go, please, hurry!” Ada shook him out of his shock, all but pushing him towards the building. “Take the back door! That was Vince’s plan, but they intercepted him outside, and then…!”
“My gun…” Alberto offered, baring the weapon on his belt under his jacket.
“No need. Go!” Victor said curtly, nodded to Ada, then ran.
Alberto had done his job well. There were two bodies near the back entrance when Victor got there, out of breath. No, wrong. One bastard was still moving on the ground, but he was quickly met by Victor’s heel to his back, then a brass fist to his head, and then he moved no more. The back door was ajar, and Victor wasted not a second more to slip through.
Victor hated sneaking; it dug up too many unsavoury memories. But right then, he was a one-man ambush, and he needed to make it count if he wanted to succeed. If he wanted to clean up his own fucking mess.
The warehouse was not fully unloaded yet, which left him space to hide behind crates and containers. The closer he got, the clearer he could hear them: three men, jeering, laughing. And Vince De Marco, screaming.
As long as he had a voice to scream with, he would be fine, he would be alive, he would stay alive, Victor would make sure of it, he had to, fuck, he had to, he had to…!
Victor’s hands gripped the edge of a container tight, surveying the scene with gritted teeth. Two of the bastards held Vince up, while the third kept punching him in the gut, over and over and over. Then he cracked a right-hook to Vince’s face and he fell to the ground, coughing up red, as red as his shirt that had been white just that morning, while his arms with which he tried to push himself up again threatened to buckle. Victor waited in agony, praying to some kind of power he had never believed in. He begged for Vince not to give up, to have enough of his famous spite in him to give Victor just that one second, just one perfect opening, please, Victor would make it up to him for as many nights he wanted, he’d do anything if only…!
Vince grunted with effort, moving to stand, but one of the assholes kicked him back down again. But there was that spite Victor so loved about him—he reached for a gun discarded on the floor, still fighting like the stubborn motherfucker he was. Another put a heel into the back of his hand, there was a crack, and he screamed again. The third went to kick his side, making him roll over onto his back, wheezing. Their backs were to Victor. That was it. His moment.
Back Trampler was closest, so he was Victor’s first target. He tackled him to the ground as quickly and wildly as at not even his best boxing matches in the ring, smashing his head to the ground instantly. Hand Stomper took out his gun, but Victor straight up grabbed it and yanked it from his hand, throwing the damn thing to clang on some faraway container, while his brass knuckles met a pair of glasses in a smattering of broken lenses and teeth as he punched that bastard in the face. Back Trampler stirred behind him, and Victor used the asshole’s upward momentum to yank him fully up off the ground with one hand to shield himself from Side Kicker’s shot, before he hurled Back Trampler against Side Kicker with brutal force. Side Kicker remained standing, but his second shot only went through Victor’s thigh instead of somewhere vital—he was distracted, and that was enough for Victor to leap in and twist the gun out of his hand, too, directing a third shot towards the ground, then to hook his fingers into the asshole’s nose and shoot his brains out through his mouth with the fourth bullet. Victor shot Back Trampler on the ground in his back like he deserved, then once more for good measure, then turned to Hand Stomper groaning behind him, pulled the trigger, but only heard the empty barrel click, so he discarded the confiscated gun, leapt on the man, straddled him with his knees and punched him in the face, again, again and again until there was no face to speak of, only gore and blood and bone.
Victor only noticed he had been screaming bloody murder the whole time when the warehouse suddenly fell silent except for his wild, raspy panting. No. No no no, that was bad, very bad, silence was bad. He whipped his head towards Vince, who was supposed to scream, groan, breathe, but instead he was lying there, unmoving.
“No!”
Victor scrambled through slick polls of blood to Vince’s side, shaking his shoulders, slapping his face, screaming for him to open his eyes in words he couldn’t even be sure were English, then taking his hand to look for a pulse, but struggling to feel it from the pounding of his own heart. No, Vince couldn’t die, he couldn’t die, he would not allow it. Even though he had imagined it a thousand times, that it would have to come to something like this in the end, but Victor had always thought he would be the one leaving, not the other way around…!
“Vince, please, no, no, please, Vince…!”
Victor hadn’t cried in years, but there he was, bawling like a pitiful child, clutching at Vince’s limp, cooling hand in his. No! It wasn’t supposed to go like this, it wasn’t supposed to end like this! He was too late! Too late…!
In the next split second, there was a scream behind him. A woman’s voice, familiar. Ada? What was she still doing there, dammit? He also heard tires screech. More cars. Theirs? The enemy’s? Police? If Ada was there, it must have meant they were friendlies. Then there was a shot, and by the time Victor could turn around and see the fourth guy that had come up behind him, the bullet had already passed him by, barely grazing his cheek. Ada was there, too, her gun clattering to the ground after she had thrown it to the asshole’s head. She must have run out of bullets, too… Then there was another shot, closer, but instead of feeling the expected stinging pain, Victor saw the other guy fall to the ground. The bullet had shot him clear through the head, in one temple and out the other, leaving him to lie in his own blood and brains, face to the floor. And next to Victor, Vince groaned as his outheld arm buckled and fell, the gun he had finally managed to grab clattering to the ground, the barrel still smoking.
“Vince!”
Victor took his hand, the one Vince was such an excellent shot with even on the verge of death, and squeezed it, his tears flowing again as he received the slightest squeeze back. Vince’s other hand was still limp in his hold. It must have been broken.
“We… have to stop… meeting… like this…” Vince groaned, but forced a pained, stupid grin for his sake, and Victor’s heart swelled, for never before had he felt so—
“You are so damn corny, idiot…” He managed, hating how small his voice sounded as he pathetically swallowed back his tears.
“Says… who…” Vince choked out, brushing a thumb over Victor’s hand, too weak to reach for his face to wipe the tears from his eyes.
Then, ever to the point, Ada rushed in to be at her husband’s side, and more familiar faces appeared in the warehouse, yelling at Victor for not waiting for them and just driving over there alone like a fucking idiot, but also in relief as they still found Boss De Marco breathing.
Everything else thereafter was a blur. A carrier out of the back of a car. Sirens blaring as the cops indeed arrived. Frenzied driving in getaway cars… But the only thing Victor cared about was Vince’s pulse, weakly but steadily beating through his hand in Victor’s, which Victor had foolishly vowed in his heart that day to never let go.