Ditching Ada Strange was easy. All it took was tripping a kid with his leg in a cast— and making her think she was at fault. While Ada was busy helping the kid up, sputtering excuses, he casually took a left.

By the time she looked back up, he'd vanished into the crowd.

He walked two blocks before figuring getting a ride would be kinder on his injury. Luckily, Mariposa was rife with yellow taxi's eager to take their passenger to one of the nicest parts in town.

It was only as he stood in front of his door that he remembered something crucial about owning an apartment. 

He patted his pockets. "...Motherfucker." Keys. He didn't have his keys. Either Betty the Nurse had forgotten to put it with the clothes and medicine—unlikely—or he didn't have them on him when he got shot—very likely. Nevermind, he'd found a hairpin. 

He crouched down, mindful not to put any considerable weight on his injured leg, and began to fiddle with the lock.

"What the fuck do ya think yer doin'?" A gruff voice asked. 

Leo looked to his right. Standing a few feet away was a tall, buff man. He looked like a particularly mean bouncer with a shaved head, bulging muscles underneath his skin-tight black shirt, and a permanent scowl. Although, that last might've been 

The man’s most impressive feature was his cleft chin.

The chin was familiar and tickled something in Leo's brain. Where had he seen that impressive monstrosity before? 

A bony hand slid a picture across the table. Mama Fran looked at him with solemn eyes. "Ama Lorde forgive us," she said, "for what we're about to do."

Leo avoided meeting her eyes, not because he feared her, no, but because he was sure he'd laugh if he caught the gravity in them. She loved invoking the Lord when asking for the deaths, rapes, mutilations and other god-awful things of her enemies. He'd never understood why, except that Families worked on a basis of religious faith.

He knew how members were sworn in even though it was supposed to be a Family secret. Leo wasn't Family. He worked mainly on the periphery, less a distant cousin and more a live-in neighbor. He'd assisted to exactly one swearing ceremony in his life.

They made the newly sworn ins hold a melting wax figurine of Ama Lorde and put it on an Altar after reciting a bunch of vows. Then they cut their thumbs and smear their Name—the one they wished to be called by from then on–on a slab of stone.

That was how one became Family. Blood and the smell of melting wax under the eyes of the Lord.

All very symbolic, Leo was sure. 

It gave him the shivers.

Leo examined the man in the picture. A shaved head, a mean face. Defining features: the scar cutting over his nose and a heavy cleft chin.

"Do you want them to think it's from you?" He asked.

Her eyes glinted by the candlelight. "No, I want them to know it's you."

Leo blinked rapidly.

In summary, Leo had given the taxi driver the wrong adress and instead of realizing it when he'd arrived at the unfamiliar lobby of the apartment block, he'd just... continued. Of course. It seemed that Leo had been on autopilot, finishing a job subconsciously. Because of fucking course he'd done that.

It didn't reek of "Leonardo Tigra, go find a fucking hobby, this is starting to get embarassing." Or anything, really.

"Well, shit." Leo continued fiddling with the lock. Roll with the punches. Roll with the fucking punches, aye. "You John Will?"

The man scowled. "I'm his brother." A twin? Or was the guy lying?

"Alright." What had Mama Fran told him? No witnesses. The lock finally clicked. He stood up swiftly to hide the fact he was injured. No need to show any weaknesses. "Alright. Well, I'm Tigra."

"The fuck do I care? Scram or I'm calling the cops!" Maybe, in any other city it might've been seen as strange that a heavy-weight like Cleft Chin seemed wary of resolving this matter in the classical way—that is to say, with fists and spit—but not here. Not in Mariposa City, where people on the sidewalk were more likely to gut you than say hello back.

Leo snorted. "Go on. Call the pigs. By the time they're here, I'll be far, far away, five times richer." And then for good measure, “Bet they won't catch me even with my limp leg.”

Exposing a weakness grated, but he had to get them both in the apartment, out of sight.

He opened the door. "Alright. Let's do this quickly. See ya, fuck-o!" Leo said and slipped in.

The front door immediately gave way into the living room. Leo had a split second to take in everything in it. It was split in two parts, a sitting lounge and an eating area. The owner had gone for a black and red theme that was nicely complimented by the grey ceramic tile flooring.

Leo's mind raced. Kicks were out of the question, which left his hands. Except that he was reluctant to get close to the guy. One successful grab and he'd break him like a toothpick. Distance. He needed distance.

Leo pivoted on his heel—on his good leg—when he neared the other side and was pleased to see that Cleft Chin had followed him in.

Dumbass, you're going to die.

Cleft Chin dashed forward with alarming speed. Leo wasn’t about to meet him head on. He vaulted over the couch, narrowly evading a swipe from Cleft Chin, and darted around the table—which had some vase decorations. Interesting—successfully creating a barrier between them.

He grabbed a vase and flung it, not at Cleft Chin, but in front of the man's feet. It shattered on the floor, water spreading everywhere. 

"Missed!" Cleft Chin grinned meanly.

"You have a butt for a chin," Leo supplied before flinging another decanter. This one hit the man straight on the chest, knocking the breath out of him.

Cleft Chin coughed out breathless curses, stumbling back before taking an enraged step forward to... what? Lunge at him over the table? Leo would never know because at that moment Cleft Chin's foot hit the wet tile and he slipped. The big man actually slipped and fell, his head hitting the edge of the wooden table with a thundering crack.

Cleft Chin went down with noise, like a boulder falling.

Leo paused, a third vase still hell at the ready. Was it over already? The silence suggested an affirmation. 

Well, that seemed anticlimactic. 

He set the vase down and quickly rounded the corner. Cleft Chin laid sprawled where he'd fallen on his front, blood quickly forming a pool around his head. His face was turned to the side, facing him. 

Seriously anticlimactic. Leo went to the front door and closed it before returning to the diner area.

Leo squatted next to Cleft Chin's head, mindful not to step in the blood. Leo leaned closer. The man's blue eyes were half-open, but only the white could be seen, and he was foaming at the mouth. He knew from experience—thankfully not personal—that the man was unconscious, but on the edge of waking up. If the wound was grave, seizures would soon set in. 

Leo wasn't keen on finding out if his guess was right.

He punched and punched and punched again. Cleft Chin gave a choked moan, but didn't move. 

Finish it. Leo didn't bother turning him over. He wrapped his hands around the meaty neck and started squeezing.

There were a lot of ways to describe murder. Carefully executed, well timed, thoughtfully planned, inventive, elegant. A hundred flowery words to smooth over Cain's vilest act.

But the act of killing in itself was brutal. That was all there was to it.

Minutes passed and when he was done, he leaned back and surveyed his work. Cleft Chin looked awful.

He also looked very, very dead. Good.

He stood up but didn't relax instantly, stopping instead to listen. No police sirens, no screaming neighbors, and the only breathing to be heard was his—heavy from exertion.

He pulled out a chair and let himself slump in it, stretching out his bad leg with a hiss, careful to avoid both the blood and the water. The pain meds had worn off. He could feel every stitch.

"I'm losing my touch," he muttered.

.

Leo was eating the last of his cereal when he came across the ad in the paper.

He was still in John Will's apartment.

A quick glance at the clock on the wall had told him it was late, much too late for someone like him to wander the streets injured, unprotected and woozy-feeled. So he'd raided the kitchen for a midnight snack, found whiskey to wash it down, drank two painkillers and jammed a chair under the door before collapsing on the couch. He was out before his head had hit the pillow.

Lingering in the place of your crime was rookie mistake but Leo figured that this far into his career, what were mistakes for mayflies were moments of indulgence for veterans like him.

Cleft chin's cooling body had started to give a malodorous during the warm night, so Leo had cranked the windows open, letting in a fresh summer breeze.

His leg had bled a bit during the night so he'd wrapped it with some clean bandages he'd found in a cabinet under the bathroom sink. He also cleaned himself up a bit, making sure there was no trace of blood on him and giving his gloves a thorough scrub.

That done and feeling refreshed, he had made his way to the kitchen and fabricated himself a delicious sandwich.

The newspaper was two days old but Leo didn't mind.

WANTED: Barista. 'We are searching for an engaging, courteous Barista who is passionate about food and beverage preparation and education. Duties include: greet customers, answer their questions, take orders and accept payments, and prepare and serve food and drinks.'

Now, there was nothing suspicious about a job ad, and certainly nothing about this one that warranted a closer look than the others it was printed out with.

Nothing eye-catching at all, except for the thought that crossed his mind when he read it.

I could do that.

He'd served drinks before. Laced with cyanide. He knew to take orders with a smile, how to mix, how to present and how to get the hell out of dodge when the target started turning purple.

Best of all it didn't ask for credentials. Those could, of course, be easily forged but running around with fake skills tied to his face always left him bitter. 

He'd never done school. The orphanage had barely taught him his letters before he'd escaped it and then he'd been too busy surviving the streets of Mariposa. When Mama Fran had taken him in, she'd taught him maths so he could help with the bookkeeping. And then she'd sold him off to Tedd Hyde, who'd taught him everything he knew now.

Then he became a killer for hire and got shot on a Thursday morning.

Leo frowned at his sandwich. Right, the sniper, the bullet, and Ada's set-up… He began thinking about what Rafik had told him.

Don Fella was, to many, the culmination of all that Mariposa had to fear: a businessman, a spicerunner, and a godfather.

Not only was he the youngest godfather the city had ever had, he had also managed to secure complete monopoly over the Eastern and Northern spice trade of the city. And that in the first term of his newly minted career, something that was completely unheard of in their world.

Was it a turf war? A warning? A fucking taunt? What would bring such a powerful and busy man to have it out for Mama Fran? Because yes, the sniper had had orders to whack some man, but it was the owner of the turf—in this case, Mama Fran—that took the slight. Very personally.

Attack someone on their turf—worse, in front of their headquarters—and it was as good as barging in the middle of the night waving guns around and screaming bloody murder. In other words, fucking annoying.

Most importantly who was the real target? And what had the poor fucker done to warrant Don 'I have a torture room I frequently use' Fella starting a war with Mama 'I had a whole family executed because the father embezzled a bank tied to my business' Fran.

Leo promptly decided this was none of his business and stood up. He washed his plate, put it on the rack, drank two painkillers and exited John Will's apartment without a backwards glance at the corpse.

A surprise was waiting for him.

In front of the doors of the lobby stood Ada Strange with crossed arms, looking summarily unimpressed.

It took everything in him not to throw his head back and groan in pure exasperation. 

But he was a professional, so what he did was throw his head back and groan, "It's too early for this."

"Start walking, Tigra." Her scowl could rival Medusa's head. His fingers twitched. He always felt safer with a weapon, his knife or a gun, and all he had were his hands. "Before I bring out the manacles."

Well, Leo was more than happy to move away from his most recent crime scene. "How did you find me?" He asked as he pushed open the doorway and stepped on the vacant street.

It was very early in the morning. He turned at the corner of the block and crossed the street.

Ada Strange walked next to him. She said nothing at first, but moved her arm, a practiced motion that made her vest ride up. Her police badge flashed. "I'm a cop."

As if that answered his question. Leo rolled his eyes. Pigs.

She glanced around them, the quiet, neat streets, the fancy family-sized cars. "I'm guessing this isn't where you live."

"Oh, what gave you that idea?"

"Too...homely." She gave him a sarcastic glance. "Figured men like you lived in the sewers. Right where you belong."

Leo fell silent. He didn't know what to say to that, except maybe, "Fuck you." Or, "I live in a nice apartment uptown and I pay the rent with the paychecks I get from killing people." Or, "I used to sleep in a cardboard box, you bitch. Anything's better than my first home."

But that would bring down the mood, so they kept walking in silence. The cloudless sky promised a beautiful September day, the birds singing loud and sweet.

"Did you kill someone last night?" She asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

Leo put on his best scandalized face. "I did not."

They could both hear the lie in his words.

Ada Strange huffed a gruff laugh. "You're an awful liar," she said but kept her hand close to her gun after that.

Leo wondered why she still feared him. Sure, he was a killer for hire, very dangerous, but he only killed when he got paid to do it. He wasn't a murderer, it wasn't like he did this because he liked it. Besides, there were three people Leo would never kill, not for money, not for loyalty, not for his life, and Ada was one of them.

After all, it was Ada Strange who'd taught him how to read.

.