FicWad

First of the Gang to Die
Dodici
We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful


One Month Later
December 1933

Gerard stared in the mirror and fixed his tie, adjusting the small knot resting along his collarbone. When it was done it was accurate and neat. Being in organized crime for twelve years teaches you some things.

The last few weeks, with exception of the previous one, had flown by without question or qualm. He and Frank lived peacefully together in their home, a glorious nineteenth century manor that looked out over several empty plains of field and occasional pond.To own such a fine amount of land in the city of Los Angeles was most impressive. It had four floors, six master bedrooms, eight bathrooms (three en suite), a library, a living area and kitchenette, a studio and a basement, complete with a room he had been forbidden to enter. Everything, from the fridge to the window frames to the roses adorning the gates, was black. They even had a television, a remarkable invention created only seven years before. On the mailbox, a swirled italic W greeted visitors. The back French doors led out to a spacious, well-kept garden and a six-car garage.

Gerard and Frank had decided on their wedding date; the fifteenth of January of the coming year. Rumours were circulating that Germany would soon invade Russia or the bordering former Astro-Hungarian empire. If that was the case, America could be targeted by the Russians, who would inevitably pick the west coast. They wanted to do it as soon as possible, in order to avoid matrimony in blackout time. Frank had also mumbled about wanting to be Gerard's husband as soon as possible. The gangster had grinned at this, not to mention having agreed.

Frank had been eating regularly, and he had put on some weight. He still flinched slightly whenever sudden movements were committed but overall he was much better. Even his bruises were mostly gone, except for a few particularly bad yellow sores along his waist that might never heal. Gerard had had him seen by the family physician who had determined Frank was not suffering from any long-term effects, such as internal bleeding or BPS.

Gerard had also killed thirty four people in the last month, both as contract killings and sporadic attacks. And at one hundred grand a head, he made more in one month than some people could make in a lifetime. The money had safely been stored in his private safe, along with every other profit Gerard had made. (This was located in his bedroom, under his original of Matisse's Luxembourg Gardens; the combination was his mother's birthday.) Michael and his older brother had frequently discussed finance up until Gerard's promotion to Don. Gerard wasn't sure how much Michael earned; of course less, as Gerard was head of the Family, which had always been a point of friction between the brothers since.

That’s the trouble with the mafia life. It turns you against your family, places distrust between you and whatever stands in front of your blood money. However, fairly early on in the game (shortly after making his bones at sixteen) Gerard had come to accept this culture of money-worshiping. After all, he wanted to be able to afford his Zegna shirts, his Rolex Chronograph watches and his seven homes, didn't he? And, without trying to be sardonic, but love and trust don't pay for them, now do they?

Over the last twelve years of being involved in gang warfare, Gerard had become a multi-millionaire. It was only a matter of time before his younger brother discovered Gerard had over two hundred million dollars in the safe, and a personal net worth of nearly half a billion dollars. When that time came, someone’s man would be jumped.

And that man certainly wouldn’t be Gerard. Hell no. Twelve years in the business meant you became one hardcore motherfucker; you don’t surrender for nothing or nobody.

Except Frank.

Well, yes. Gerard graced with content acceptance that he would happily die for Frank.

The last few weeks had been very good to Gerard and the Way family, Frank included. But in the last week things had taken an unruly turn of events.

The first had been that Raymond had rang early Tuesday morning saying that his younger brother had been badly beaten during a night out with friends. He would never be able to walk again and his spleen had been ruptured; Gerard had felt bad then. Kid was only sixteen years old.

The second was that there was an increasing amount of police investigation in the area. Before, in the calm upper class neighbourhood Gerard and Frank resided in, there was hardly any activity associated with the unlawful taking place. Their estate was full of well-to-do doctors, real-estate agents, doting housewives, (vicious, homosexual gangsters, seemingly) and even the occasional movie star. Now, suddenly there were pricks from the cop shop hunting around every day, sticking their noses in other people’s business. Gerard’s door had been knocked upon several times and his knowledge in certain areas required, only for Gerard to mutter some pleasantries and the harassment to cease.

The police were afraid of him. He just, frankly, found them irritating.

The last, and most shaking of all, was the death of Alicia Way. She had been shot thirty one times in the head on Sunday morning; ten times, Frank had sullenly pointed out, in excess of her age. Gerard had also felt pity in that situation; she was a young, pretty girl with a bleak future in the Brigatta. She hadn’t deserved to die in the way she did, in a hail of bullets when emerging from her vehicle, her child in her arms, but Gerard did come to the conclusion that she had loved the gang life with a blood lust, and had become head of the Brigatta when she was sixteen. She would have wanted to die that all-guns-blazing, heart clutching, Star-Spangled Banner death. And she did.

But now he was torn between emotions towards Michael. He felt bad for the man now that his beloved wife was now dead, but Gerard knew for a fact that he had been leaking information to the police, and he also couldn’t forget the day when he had heard Michael coming on to Frank. His blood still raged when he thought about it, goddammit; no one talked to the kid like that except him. The only option, when a man betrays his family and his post, is death.

An execution is the official term. The Don always does it. Slow, excruciating torture that is infamous to all those in organized crime, a warning to those who think of betraying the omerta, the oath one takes when being initiated into the Cosa. Michael would be beaten, shot, kneecapped, sodomized and dumped in Bell Creek, just ten miles away. No expense would be spared even if the perpetrator was his older brother.

But there lied the problem. Because Gerard was not only brother to Michael, but the Don. He controlled this; he made this gang into an organized, well-knit group of capable and intellectual individuals that it was today-it had been a bunch of retards with grenades when his father had passed on the torch, as it were. He hadn't become the most notorious criminal in the country, his name a favourite of all the newspapers, for nothing. He had put in time and effort and his own blood. If someone betrayed the Family he deserved to rid of them.

And now he had to tell his brother he was doing that very thing in four days time. Today, of all days, on the day of his beloved’s funeral, Gerard would have to stare him straight in the eye. He would have to hand over a brief letter of execution to his little brother, the boy he had first taught to read, to write, to walk...

...to hold a gun.

It has to be done, Gerard told himself for the hundredth time that day.. He betrayed the Famiglia, Gerard, he told the Feds everything. That's booking on what, like, six hundred deaths? You could get the gallows for this, and then where does your future with Frank go? Down the proverbial shitter. Kid needs to die. What are you sulking about? You don't even like Michael.

Gerard was still in the mirror, staring back at the man who would kill his brother in four days. He looked like what he felt like; complete shit. His hair was messy, his face was drawn, there were bags under his eyes and his suit was becoming too small for him.

Great. He’s not just a cold-blooded murderer. He’s a fat cold-blooded murderer. He tried to suck his stomach in, but that just highlighted his puffed out being. God, his blazer was tight, when was the last time he wore this thing?

"Ugh, fuck," he muttered, sighing, tucking the fateful letter into his pocket.

Ordering the guarded execution of one Michael James Way, born September tenth nineteen-oh-eight, to die December eighth nineteen-thirty-three. To be carried out by Gerard Arthur Way, born April ninth nineteen-oh-five...

He saw the bottle of whiskey sitting on the dresser, and his hand wavered toward it, before finally grabbing a glass and watching the amber liquid float like ribbon into the glass, each drop sparkling like thousands and thousands of diamonds. He downed it in one shot, the warm fluid scorching his throat in a weirdly pleasant way, leaving him to gasp afterward. The familiar taste came rushing back to him in a flood of memories.

"Gerard?"

Way quickly wiped the back of his mouth with his sleeve and slammed the glass on the desk. Frank was lingering by the doorway, hands knitted behind him.

"Hey honey," Gerard replied, hoping the slur wasn’t overwhelmingly obvious, wrapping his arms around Frank’s waist. "You nearly ready?"

Gerard actually liked it when Frank wore suits; it was weird, because he saw men wear the damn things every day. They weren’t particularly exciting, usually just a coat, tie, waistcoat and dress trousers. They were expensive and tedious mostly, men like Gerard mainly wearing them due to the wealth and good etiquette they exuded. Frank, in Gerard’s opinion, looked mind-blowing in the suit and tie, the tight undercoat gripping his tiny waist and flattering his torso. Gerard was engaged to someone with a slim, girlish figure and the tux seemed to highlight this.

"Yeah,"answered Frank, nuzzling into Gerard’s shoulder, inhaling his sweet and somehow masculine scent. Today it was mixed with something bittersweet, something thick. "Gerard?"

"Mmmm?" Gerard hummed into Frank’s hair.

"Why were you drinking?"

Gerard froze. He had been caught.

Well, he had done a fairly poor job at hiding it. The bottle cap was lying next to the bottle and the glass had fallen over, tipping the last few drops of Jack onto the table. Kid isn't blind, yanno.

Frank sensed he had shocked or even angered his fiancé, and quickly tried to take back his words.

"I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, it’s none of my business, I just-"

"Frank." Gerard sighed and buried his face in the shorter’s hair. "Go pour it down the sink, please."

Frank was released from Gerard’s grasp and fetched the bottle, hurrying off with it. As Gerard kneaded his eyes with his hands he heard the chugging of liquid down a faucet. Frank returned, waiting outside the door in case of belated retaliation.

"Thanks baby," Gerard murmured, kissing him on the forehead. His fiancé smiled shyly. "Shall we go?"

xxx

They arrived late. The black Rolls Royce pulled up to the church at seven o’ clock, an hour tardy. The coffin was being carried out when they came; Gerard winced inwardly when he saw that the casket was closed. The box in which the girl was contained was also black, with red roses lilting on the covered window. A black crucifix swung from the handles, which were gripped by six men, all sniffing and red-eyed.

Michael, Gerard took in, was not one of them, but following the procession. The twenty five year old's face was stiff and emotionless. The older Way brother pulled on black leather gloves and made his way to his younger sibling, instructing Frank to stay in the guarded vehicle.

"My brother," Gerard muttered softly, gripping Michael’s shoulder. "I am so sorry. You know she is now in a world so much better than this one ever could be."

Michael jerked his head, tight-lipped. Then, to Gerard’s utter surprise:

"Come on. Give me the damn thing. I don’t have anything to live for now, Gerard."

Gerard had been rendered speechless for one of the first times in his life, standing there next to his little brother, his death sentence stored safely in his shirt pocket. He hadn’t thought Michael would be this willing. His brother had literally asked for death.

Michael was staring at him now, his brown eyes piercing the lighter pair with fiery intensity, daring him to carry out the task.

Gerard dipped his hand inside his pocket and brought out the small slip of paper, handing it to his younger counterpart. He quietly nodded to two henchmen in the background, Rafielli and de Mayo, two brawny men of giant-like stature, who seized Michael’s wrists and clasped the cuffs around them.

"You bastard," Michael petitioned, "you’re my fucking brother."

Gerard cleared his throat and shifted uneasily, thankful that Frank was waiting in the car, and wouldn’t have to see this. He noticed with regret that all the mourners had swerved around to see the deceased’s husband be arrested by his own goddamn blood. Even the poll-bearers and the priest had stopped, the padre halting mid-prayer.

Never mind, Gerard's subconscious sniffed. It's not like we haven't had an audience before.

"Well? Not gonna fucking answer me, are you?"

Gerard shifted again.

Don’t you dare fucking go easy on him now, Gerard. Deliver the little speech and then leave. Easy.

It wasn’t, though. It wasn’t easy. This man, whether Gerard liked it or not, was his little brother. Only twenty-five. And his wife, just freshly killed, was resting in a box, atop six men's shoulders, just steps away.

"You betrayed your family," Gerard finally boomed, wearing that signature take-no-prisoners face. "You have leaked information about the duration and purpose of the Famiglia to the federal government."

Gasps of surprised disappointment were exhaled from the women of the procession, most noticeably members of the Brigatta. Leather-gloved hands rose to cover lipstick'd mouths. Men simply raised eyebrows and sucked at cheeks. Hands were shoved in pockets and feet began to tap, shiny patent shoes slapping the wet ground of the path.

"And you have been doing so..." Gerard continued coolly,"...for over a year."

Gerard looked to the crowd for a reaction. There were more angry sighs now, and men were clicking knives from sock-garters, advancing.

"Stop," ordered Gerard curtly, holding a palm of authority in front of them. "He will meet his comeuppance this coming Saturday."

Murmurs of acceptance welcomed this.

"I hate you," spat Michael, kicking Gerard hard in the leg. One of Gerard's bodyguards rushed forward to aid his Don. "I fucking hate you."

That had caught Gerard off guard for the second time that day, after Frank had caught him drinking. Swift, uncontainable pain surged through his lower leg, settling in between his calf and his shin. He wanted to strangle the fucker here and now for doing that; Michael knew exactly where Gerard had been shot six years ago, and he had just knocked the wooden replacement out of its socket.

Gerard breathed a deep growl of despise and leaned onto his stick momentarily, nearly slipping on the ground as he did.

"Can’t say I’m too fucking fond of you myself," Gerard shot back, thrusting the pointed end of the stick into the younger’s foot to steady himself. Michael whined and grimaced, blood spurting from his shoes, soon shoving his brother from him. "Which is why I will be carrying out all the torture and death management on Saturday."

More impressed, slightly taken aback mutterings.

Then the old man tried to intervene, fucking fool.

"Sir, please!" squeaked the Father. "We are in the Garden of God, the Place of Eternal Rest. This man is a fellow Child of the Lord-"

Gerard squeezed the trigger without even considering the movement, snorting. The holy man’s body fell to the ground in a heap of bloody robes.

"Child of the Lord!" laughed Gerard, stowing the gun back his belt. When he spoke, his voice was true with genuine humour. "Child of the Lord. What type of God-fearing man tries to fucking steal someone else’s betrothed?"

Now people were just stunned. Stunned that someone had even dared to talk to Frank without Gerard’s spoken, written and clearly expressed permission, let alone do the unthinkable. Many on-lookers now thought going to the execution on Saturday would be far too grizzly for even the most bloodthirsty of gangsters.

"That’s right," snarled Gerard, furious now. "Perfect Michael Way wasn’t so damn perfect after all."

Then Gerard pulled out his weapon and struck Michael with it, the sound of metal clashing against bone ringing within the cemetery. Several teeth joined the blood on the grass nearby. Alicia's coffin had been placed on the grass whilst the Way brothers clashed.

"I have always been the fucking better one," was the next addition to the rant. "And you couldn't stand that I became Don...you could barely hold a gun. You have always resented me for being superior to you." A pause and a sneer. "You're pathetic."

"You’re gonna go to Hell," Michael panted. "You’re gonna go to Hell for all the bullshit you’ve ever done. You’ve probably killed more people than any of us put together."

Gerard sighed and waved his hand flippantly, giving his brother a withering look. "It must be hard, really, suffering from such a severe case of inferiority complex..."

Michael Way seethed before being pulled back by the two footsoldiers. "Oh, fuck off. Everyone, including you, thinks you’re so fucking smart because you use long words and you dress in fancy clothes, but you’re not. You’re actually a complete idiot who deserves to rot in the fourth circle of Hell." He spat on the ground.

"Excuse me; I happen to be extremely intelligent and well-mannered; I just happen to be related to creatures like you. And do not spit on me," he grabbed his throat, squeezing with little strength, "don’t you know any fucking manners?"

Gerard withdrew his hand and flexed his fingers. "Take him to the basement. There will be twenty-four hour watch on him until Saturday evening. Make sure he does not harm or kill himself. He will be stood against a wall, legs spread apart until the date of death. Any guard who feeds him or attends to his needs will be shot point blank." He thought for a moment. "Perhaps it would be a good idea if his arms were strung from above. Yes, I like that."

It was now beginning to rain. He looked to the small group of shocked mourners.

"Let this be a warning to all other informers and traitors who may be within the vicinity," Gerard declared, clasping his hands together, "that if you betray your post and your friends that you will suffer the same fate as he will. Of course, all other member’s families will be killed in conclusion," he wore a slightly amused grin, "but it looks like this would be unsuitable in this circumstance."

"You’re my family," came the barely audible whisper from the lowered head of Michael James Way. He sniveled. "We’re brothers."

"We may share relations and blood types," Gerard admitted coldly. "But you are no brother of mine."

He turned to the crowd again, smiling, and tipped his fedora. One of his men lit up a cigar for him.

"And may God bless you all."

His smile evaporated and Gerard Way returned to his car.