FicWad

Don't mean to brag, but the chapter after this is like my area of expertise. I mean, seriously, I rip up this gangland shit.

Oh yeah, the guys' wives will feature in the story, apart from Lindsey and Jamia, obviously. So, Alicia (Mikey's wife), Christa (Ray's wife) and Katlyn, who was/is Bob's girlfriend or wife.

Oh yeah, and Mikey is meant to be a total dick in this, just so it's clear.

xo lorna

First Of The Gang To Die
Cinque
Ouija Board, Ouija Board



Frank stirred in his sleep, tossing and turning. He was just about to settle back down to relaxation when he felt something lightly jiggle his arm. He mewled quietly and tried to pry his eyelids open.

"Frank?" The smooth, low baritone was like sweet music to the boy's ears. "Honey, it's time to get up."

"Huh?" He rubbed his eyes and yawned. Gerard struggled not to smile. Large brown globes flickered open and regarded the gangster. "What time is it?"

He now saw Gerard leaning over him, his face less than three inches from Frank's. He was wearing a different suit today; a white shirt,a black tie and a black waistcoat. No trace of red. His long raven locks were touselled and his tanned complexionstood out brilliantly against the white shirt. The flower was still there, though.The flower never left.

"It's eight, baby," he purred into the shell of the younger's ear. "We gotta go to Church today."

Frank, after several years of dating a gangster, knew two main facts about a Sunday in mobster termage. One was that no violence of any sort commenced or took place on the Sabbath. It was simply unheard of to partake in feuding on Sunday. The second was that Church was always attended, come hell or high water. There were three Churches in the area: St.Joseph's Church, the establishment attended mostly by the Irish-Americans of the neighborhood. The Apostolic Church of Saints, meanwhile, wasattended by Protestants, and Maria Madre di Dio provided services for Los Angeles' Italian-American population.

"Doesn't Mass start at twelve?"

"Yes, but I need to get you to a tailor's," the Don said, settling on the edge of the bed. "We're also going to meet my brother, and his family."

"Isn't your brother my age?" He remembered now; the tall, lanky boy with the light brown hair, with glasses propped on his nose.

"He's twenty-five. His wife is twenty one and their daughter is five." He rested a hand on Frank's cheek. "Don't worry, they're lovely people. They'll be very kind to you."

"Is his wife in the mafia?"

"Alicia?" He shook his head. "Women aren't allowed in the Famiglia directly. Not sexism, but protectionism. However, Alicia Simmons-Way is head of the Brigata Delle Donne of the Way family." He grinned ruefully. "Don't get on the bad side of her."

"Why? What's that?"

"The women's branch of the mafia." Another grin. "Most wives, sisters and some mothers are involved."

Frank was shocked. Mothers?

"Was your mother?" He blurted out before he could stop himself.

Gerard cleared his throat and stood back up, shoving his hands in his pockets. Frank immediately regretted his question.

"I'm sorry, Gerard." He got up and wrapped his arms around Way's neck, relishing the warmth and comfort the embrace supplied him with. "Sorry, that was a mean thing to say."

Gerard relaxed, placing his hand in the soft of Frank's side. Up at a close proximity, his eyes seemed youthful and playful, like that of a child's.

"It's fine," he said smoothly, leaning down to lightly brsh his lips to Frank's. "Forgive me, I was over-dramatic. Come. You must get dressed."

"Why aren't you wearing your normal suit?" Frank asked, hoping this reaction wouldn't be as fatal as the last had been.

"Because it's Sunday," he replied simply, opening his closet. "Everyone gets dressed up on Sunday."

Frank sighed a breath of relief. No killing or altercations for him to experience today.

"Until you get a suit, there's really point in dressing you up so fancily. Just wear a shirt and trousers." He smirked slightly. "I'll be waiting downstairs as so not to invade your privacy."

It struck Frank how respectful and formal this made man was, despite being a killer and all. He thought it funny how religion can do that to the most irrational of people, a mafia boss crazed by power.

Frank began to undress, exposing his thin frame, his gaunt figure. He took his white shirt and grey trousers. He found his own pair of sneakers (a battered pair of black Converse) and threw them on.

When he descended the stairs ,Gerard was on the house phone, speaking in rapid Italian. He turned slowly around, sucking on a cigar. He spotted Frank and smiled.

"Si. Si,va bene. No, dodici. Stiamo andando da qualche parte prima, Michael." He rolled his eyes and drummed his fingers impatiently. "Si. Bene. Arrivederci."

He placed it back in the receiver and looked to Frank. The boy smiled shyly, nibbling his lip.

"Shall we leave?" He questioned, donning his trilby hat, shrugging on a long trench coat. He smiled blithely and slipped his hand into the shorter's. "You're so beautiful."





An hour and a half later, Frank was sitting inside the changing room of the tailor's. The drive had been long and intricate-Gerard had spent most of the time talking to the driver in Italian, which Frank presumed had been surrounding the death of Romano and his associates. Gerard had snarled and cussed several times in the foreign tongue; he had also let his had rest on his thigh the entire time. Frank had gingerly leant against the gangster during the journey; the made man had not protested.

Frank was slightly surprised and disturbed by his casual response to James' death. He had seen him been shot dead last night, and on the same day had basically agreed to marry the man who had assasinated him. Here he was, utterly apathetic. And yet...there was a sense of relief, of easy mind now that James was gone and Frank was with Gerard.

It was as if Frank didn't realize he didn't love him until he had been killed. Not to mention the idiotic grin he wore and the flipping stomach sensation he often got whilst in contact with Gerard.

Frank shrugged it off as Gerard tapped on the large wooden door. He swept his hands up and down his slim waistline along the pin striped material clothing him. He looked like a child dressing in his father's clothes.

"Frank?" The husky voice made his knees quiver. "Are you decent?"

"Yes," he squeaked, afraid Gerard wouldn't like it.

Gerard opened the door and stepped in, holding a thick, smoking cigar in between his ringed fingers. He smiled broadly and shut the door.

"My, my," he muttered, "doesn't someone look ravishing."

Maybe it was the fact that Frank had rarely been complimented in the past; the fact that Gerard's slow, thick drawl made the word "ravishing" sound so seductive and enthralling. Maybe the fact that Frank was just turned on by guys who smoke, as many people are, but he flushed a deep pink and squeaked, "really?"

"Oh yes," was the reply, whose bearer linked his arms around Frank's waist, "I've never seen someone who can make pin stripes look so sexy."

Frank giggled. Pin stripes are just so damn erotic.

"Frank," he whispered into his ear, "are you going to tell me why you're so skinny?"

Frank froze in Gerard's arms. Gerard felt the tense of worry, and kissed the top of his head.

"I'm not mad." A pause. Then: "At you, anyway. I'd just like to know why your waistline is thinner than a woman's."

Iero bit his lip. "I'm just...naturally skinny, that's all." He lowered his voice. "And I...I'm vegetarian."

"Frank, please don't lie to me," Gerard said, easing himself down on a bench and resting the stick against the ledge. "I just want to know." He placed a hand on the back of Frank's leg, pulling him close, so that their knees and shins touched. "I want to help you, baby. Make you feel better."

Frank trembled slightly. Gerard simply waited, his Cuban smoldering in the dim.

"James. He told me I was fat." Gerard's grip on his leg tightened. "And I needed to lose weight."

Gerard nodded, though his jaw had contracted from it's original loose form.

"And...so I did." He was shaking now,his face ashen and drawn. "But not...by dieting." He shivered and looked to the corner of the room, eyes bubbling with tears.

Gerard sighed and rested his head against Frank's barely existent-stomach and moved his hand up his leg, just below his ass. The ashes of the cigar ,which had been forgotten about, piled on the top and fell to the floor.

"Do you starve yourself?" His words were so quiet that they seemed to simply hum into Frank's ears. "You are anorexic?"

Frank flinched at the words and drew a nervous breath. He shook his head slowly.

"No...bulimic. I make myself throw up after I eat." He felt like puking right now. "And I don't eat much anyway. He'd hit me if I did." He looked down to his feet. "He'd hit me all the time."

Frank realized this time that he probably said too much-this wasn't the time nor the place to discuss your eating disorder of the last few years. But he supposed none of this was really normal-you don't fall in love with your ex's enemy. He also realized he'd told of James' horrific physical and verbal abuse.

"If you would not mind," Gerard said, standing up now, "you might undress for me." He brushed a hand by Frank's stomach. "I mean no disrespect, baby. I just want to see how hurt you are."

Frank slowly began to remove his unbutton his shirt and jacket, unhooking the tie from his neck and setting them all down carefully. He then pushed his trousers down his legs, feeling naked in nothing but his boxer shorts.

This was the first time in years that Frank had fully ever looked at himself in a full-length mirror before. The slight curve of his calf and the dip of his collarbone were gone; all he could see from this reflection was bone with a bit of skin. His stomach sucked inwards. His wrists looked like they could snap any second. His knees curved outward from the leg and stuck out awkwardly. His eyeballs bulged within his sunken face. His hipbones stood out prominently in his thorax.

"There," Gerard whispered, wrapping his arms around Frank again, pressing his hands to the shorter's abdomen. "Do you think you look fat now? Like you should lose weight?"

"I don't know," Frank had admitted, sucking his lip. He noted that the boss' hand was between his legs and felt warmth flitter down south. "My thighs still look fat."

Gerard kissed his bare shoulder, sucking the soft alabaster skin between his lips. "You're imagining things, baby." He slid a hand down Frank's aforementioned upper leg. "Your thighs are skinnier than then the tops of my arms. And I'm not fat." He smiled. "Well, maybe I am, but you certainly are not."

Gerard pressed his lips behind Frank's ear. "When we go home tonight, you are going to eat.I will set the plate in front of you and watch you myself." He saw with slight worry tears rolling down Frank's sparse cheekbones, and bit his lip, fearing he had been too harsh. "I'm so sorry you had to be with that bastard, and go through what you did.You're amazing, honey bunch. That cunt Romano should have thanked God he was with you."

Frank blinked,and rubbed his eyes. "Thank you."

"I mean it," Gerard continued, lacing his and Frank's fingers together. "You're just so perfect, too goddamn good for that sonuvabitch..." he slowly sucked on Frank's earlobe,taking in the boy's sweet scent." You're too good for me, babe, miles too good. Don't ever put yourself through that for me. I don't care what some dead fucker in a grey suit thinks-you are so beautiful, Frankie."

Frank was crying again, from joy. Water spilled down his face as he listened to Gerard. This feeling was so entirely alien to him.






"Michael, this is Frank." Gerard gestured to the slim brunette man. "Frank, my brother Michael. His wife, Alicia, and his daughter Luciana."

Frank regarded the family. Their house was not as large and luxurious as Gerard's but was beatific all the same. Michael himself was brown-haired, with typical Italian features of sharp bone structure and sunkissed skin. He stood in a black shirt and pin-striped trousers, braces holding them up. His wife was very pale with pitch-black tresses; a beautiful twenty-one year old who defied her southern roots in the heart of Missouri. The girl, clad in a black dress and chocolate brown curls. Such an aesthetically pleasing family was a shock to Frank.

Michael walked forward and took Frank's hand in his. He raised it to his lips before Gerard spat:

"Don't. You shake his hand, like everyone else." His tone was rough; Alicia bit her lip. "No fucking respect," Gerard snarled quietly so neither girl could hear.

Michael, feeling Gerard had over compensated for protection, grasped Frank's hand and shook it, smiling. He felt it a pity the boy would get so fucked up in this-he looked young, innocent, naive. He was very cute, with large doleful eyes and the deep chestnut hair, together with the short stature made him look about sixteen. He briefly remembered that Gerard had mentioned he was nearly twenty-three.

"Lovely to meet you, Frank." His voice was light and friendly, a contradiction to his brother's thick drawl. "Welcome to our family."

The boy smiled at the younger Way, in turn with his wife and child. Frank learned later on that Alicia had had Lucianna at the age of sixteen, after joining the Brigata and marrying Michael a year previously. Frank felt it so strange that someone younger than him had already married, had children and killed people-he would find out later on from Raymond that she had killed more than three hundred people in the space of five years. She, apparently, was very respected in the underground crime world.

"So nice to finally met you," Frank gushed back. "Gerard speaks a lot about you."

"Hardly complimentary, I'd say!" Alicia laughed, sneaking an arm around her husband of six years.

"Alicia, you give me so little credit," Gerard smiled back. "It's not like I took out six men because of their accents."

Michael had chuckled and Alicia stuck out her tongue.

"What can I say? They said they'd pay me a grand per guy, so I did." She smirked. "Plus, their accents were pretty annoying."

"What?" Frank whispered in Gerard's ear, the made man smiling openly at his sister-in-law.

"Later," he shrugged. "Well, it's nearly ten of twelve now, should we go ahead?"

"Yes," nodded Michael. "Christa said she and Ray would meet us there."

"I know that," the Don snapped, irritated. "I already arranged it with them and Robert and Katlyn." He glanced at his watch. "I might quickly avail of the restroom, if tolerable?"

"Sure," Alicia said. "It's upsatirs, third on the left. I just need to get my beads, promised Chris I'd give em to her for her mom."

Alicia walked out to the main hall, her daughter following her dutifully, and Frank heard her scrabbling around for something. Gerard's heavy footsteps flooded the house.

Meanwhile, Michael had made his way closer to Frank. He raised an eyebrow.

"I hope my brother is treating you well, Frank." His face was dangerously near. "I trust he is not harming you."

"No, he's very kind," Frank said. "He treats me really good. I love him."

The words had come out of their own accord and neither Frank nor Michael saw them coming-it shocked them both.

Ultimately,it was the truth.

"Mmm,"Michael breathed,leaning closer to Frank,"clearly he cares a lot about you. But be careful of him," he murmured. "He's not to be trifled with."

"What do you-"

Michael cupped Iero's cheek in his hand, and Frank nearly pissed himself when:

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Michael stepped back, trembling slighly. "Nothing, Don Gerardo, I was just talking to your ragazzo-"

Gerard strode toward Michael and grabbed him by the collar.

"Listen, I don't give a fuck about the fact that we're related, I will fucking blow a hole in your head if you fucking touch him again," he breathed lethally. His gun stuck into Michael's back as Gerard snapped his wrist. The younger gasped in shock and pain. "He is fucking mine."

He turned around to face an alarmed Alicia and a terrified Frank.

"Right. Anyone for Church?"