A/N: The mature version of this story is posted here. Because I really would prefer not to get kicked off this site, the explicit version is over on Ao3 (see my profile). Considering this is my only story (so far) where I felt the need to separate the two…

Prologue: Right Hand

They hated him.

It wasn't simply resentment, envy, or a healthy amount of fear. No, Matthew was surrounded by people who wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire, who would happily put a bullet in his gut and watch him die a slow death.

He knew this well and took proper precautions. He had a personal guard that was unconnected to anyone he worked with and he had personally vetted them. He had done his best to erase his past from every electronic and paper database. He, of course, had an acceptable if unassuming public persona, but everyone did in this business. He had even erased his name.

Only Lovino Vargas knew and he could keep a secret. In normal conversation, Lovino referred to him as the name he had assumed years ago, Ghost. He was nothing, no one. He was a dead man that hell itself had kicked out, had been living as little more than a menacing creature in the dark for nearly seven years. They called him a monster, a demon Lovino had sold his soul to for all he had gained. They were half right.

If something needed to be done, he was called by his title, Right Hand. He was second in command to the heir of the Vargas crime family in Italy. If someone needed to be leaned on, if a shipment was late, if any upstart was eager to make a name, he was sent and the situation was dealt with. When Lovino Vargas called for his Right Hand, people within ear shot tensed and had a thrill of fear go through them. When the baby Boss called for his Right Hand, it usually meant someone was going to bleed.

Even when he let himself to get drunk, Lovino only called him an affectionate "bastard." Matthew allowed it because Lovino was his oldest and only friend. He owed him more than his life and he paid him back with a loyalty that made his world itself tremble.

He only called him by his given name once in the past seven years since he had risen to his position and it was because Matthew had needed to hear it. Lovino, even with all the schemes in his head and bodies on the ground, saw the moment that Matthew would have unraveled, lost his sense of self completely. They had been alone but for the dead (the only good kind of enemy) and he had breathed it into the air. He had pulled Matthew back from the abyss and that was the second he knew the decision to tie his life to Lovino's had not been folly. From then on, he stopped trying to erase his past and started living with it. He rarely thought of himself as simply "Ghost" anymore, which was progress.

Lovino was the only person who could count on him and everyone knew it. It meant that, if there was a plot to kill Lovino, they had to plan to take out Matthew, too. Because if Lovino was killed for someone else's ambition…

Matthew would burn the world to ash and salt what survived his fury.

So they hated him. Matthew just saw it as the truth it was and guarded his back like the devil herself was at his heels. Because the people who hated him were not his rivals, but his co-workers. The Family had a difficult time understanding how Lovino had promoted a blond, blue eyed American (he was Canadian but they could assume what they liked) above his own family members, above people who had been in the organization for decades. They had stopped questioning his place by his friend's side after the first faction had stepped a little too far out of line and disappeared, their assets suddenly in the wind.

The Family didn't question his power, but there constant whispers of his imagined past. How did this pasty-ass white boy become the most ruthless dog in the Vargas Family?

Good question.

Nine Years Ago

After all that he had done to scratch out this merge existence beyond subsistence, fighting impossible odds every damn day just to survive, Matthew might have finally found the one thing that would break him.

Alfred was dead.

Early that afternoon, he'd gotten a call from the administration, asking him to come to the assistant dean's office as soon as possible. Matthew, expecting that perhaps the school had finally figured out who exactly they'd paid to be a student at their oh-so-pristine institution, had planned his exit strategy by the time he walked into the room. All his plans crumbled when he saw a man in the dress blues of the marines stand upon his arrival, when he stopped being aware of the doors and windows, too focused on the folded up American flag in the man's gloved hands.

The words he had spoken then were, "There's no body."

The assistant dean was prattling something about mental health services and grief counseling, but the soldier clearly recognized the blank look in Matthew's eyes, the coldness of his expression and the natural stance his body had fallen into. "No," was all he said.

Matthew nodded and flicked his eyes to the cloth in the man's hands. He said, voice flat and as close as he had ever come to revealing what he truly was at school, "Keep the kindling."

He'd walked out, mind blank even as it subconsciously assessed every structure and person he passed. He walked out of the schools gates and turned north, further into the city. People usually looked past him on the street. Now, they glanced at him and looked away quickly. New Yorkers were good like that, at leaving people to their public privacy. So, he walked.

Alfred was dead.

He and Alfred had been orphaned at 10, twin boys with duel American and Canadian citizenship who were thrown into the American foster care system. Their mother had died due to complications of childbirth in Canada and their father had committed suicide after being told he was being investigated for fraud. Creditors took whatever fortune they had inherited and foster care…had been rough. Up until that point, they never had to fight for anything. But they were fast learners. Matthew was grateful to his father for the two lessons he had taught them: how to think and to rely on no one but each other.

Because the stupid system had fucked up their registration and given them two different last names instead of the hyphenated one they were both given at birth, they had to fight to stay together. It had helped that they were nearly identical in appearance but not much. The longest they had lived without the other was four months. Matthew had been with a family with twelve foster kids and had learned the value of fading into the background. Alfred had been in a worse situation, with physically and verbally abusive parents. By the time he was finally pulled out and the abusers were let off with only a warning, he had learned the value of taking a stand. Alfred came out of it wanting to be a hero and knowing that to do it, you had to get your hands dirty. Matthew came out of it with a keen sense of survival and an ability to read people that would save his life. The next time they were together, he suggested they run away. They had been fifteen.

On the streets, they learned harder lessons: what it meant to go without eating, how to hide bruises, how to make money under the table, how to avoid the cops at any and all costs. Matthew was perfect at identifying weakness in people, in understanding how interpersonal dynamics worked and how to best destabilize a system. Alfred was a genius at actually breaking people, of coming up with plans and strategies on the fly. They each shared with each other all they knew. It was a miracle they didn't have a rap sheet a mile long by the time they managed to afford a shitty apartment in a forgotten part of the city. They were almost seventeen then, and finally had to face the question of what they were going to do beyond tomorrow.

Matthew, disillusioned with the system but not knowing how to escape it, decided to get his GED and work his ass off to get a full ride into university. Alfred, who came to love the city and country with a devotion that Matthew could never understand, wanted to join the military at eighteen. He had joked about being part of something bigger and protecting freedom, but Matthew knew that a large part of it was the shelter, three meals a day, and steady pay. The military offered Alfred a home. Matthew just saw it as a cage.

So Matthew had filled out application fee waivers and applied to schools and as many scholarships as he thought he had a shot at. He studied university websites in the public library, looking between the words on the admission's site for how to become exactly what the schools wanted. Then he penned a sanitized version of his story that kept out the abuse and the crime and the blood on his hands for an awe-inspiring personal statement. Alfred got his GED just for something to do as he waited for their eighteenth birthday. Then he was at basic training within a matter of months.

The last time Matthew had seen him, Alfred was proudly wearing his camos, posture perfect and precise. He had smile on his face, eyes sparkling in a way Matthew hadn't seen for years as he babbled excitedly about his unit and how they were all friends and God, Mattie, but I wish you could meet them!

That had been a year and a half ago. They had written and Matthew could almost hear the cynicism creeping into his brother's words as time went on. He would talk about the people around him less and less, as more and more of them died and were replaced. The last letter he sent was about being pulled into some kind of special training. Must of died in a training accident, Matthew thought to himself. Then he started laughing because that was just too cliché to be his life.

But it was.

Because Alfred was dead.

It was quiet.

Matthew blinked, senses coming fully back online after being numbed by his shock and oh, he should not be here.

He was being watched. It was to be expected when he wanders into territory disputed by several fractions in the city. At least, it had been disputed when he had started school two years earlier. He'd been complacent and it might get him killed.

He kept his head down and kept walking, heading to the closest main street. His damn feet had put him on a side street and it was not as well-lit as was safe for someone who didn't belong to anyone. He wasn't even armed besides the pair of knives he kept on him like a security blanket and they would do jack shit if he was confronted with a gun.

Alfred liked guns.

Alfred had liked guns. He didn't anymore because he was dead and the dead don't like or care about shit.

Just like that, Matthew was angry.

He was also surrounded.

A voice called out in the dark, mocking and vicious in its heart-wrenchingly familiar Haitian-Creole, "Now what's a nice college boy like this doing on our side of town?"

He could speak the language well enough after his time on the street, but the bastardized Quebecois accent made it sound muddled in his mouth. So, rather than butcher the language, he answered in English, tone respectful but not cowed, mind spinning as he calculated his odds, "Blinded by grief. My brother is dead and I wandered where I shouldn't be. No disrespect meant."

"Do you think we pity you?"

"No. I just answered your question." He shouldn't have said that. He should have left his answer simple and he knew it as figures emerged from the shadows. Matthew halted, vowing to himself that, if he survived this, he wouldn't be this careless again. But since he already made the mistake and honestly was a little beyond giving a shit about what happened, he continued. "What do you want from me? I have little money, no jewelry or worthy identity to steal. My phone is disposable. If I go missing, I assure you my school photograph is endearing enough to cause the police to want to blame someone. If you're looking for a fight," a small smile fit on his mouth, "then all I can say is you may get more than what you were expecting."

He shifted easily into a loose stance, not the technically perfect one he learned as a kid, but the one he adapted on the street to survive. The people around him seemed to hesitate, looking past his unassuming face to glimpse at the monster he had kept leashed for three years. Now that it was needed, he slipped back into this hunter's mindset as easily as a well-worn glove. He was showing that this fight may cost more than what any of the Haitians were thinking to gain, but he knew the odds. Five on one, if the scuffs he'd heard were right and his invigorated instincts weren't failing him. Matthew wouldn't survive if they came at him with knives, but he could take a few of them out. If they had guns, he was already dead.

They probably had guns.

"I don't think that will be necessary," came a confident, amused voice that was vaguely familiar from Matthew's 7 o'clock. There was an accent to the English, but it wasn't Haitian. A possible ally then, making the odds much more in his favor. But Matthew didn't know this person, didn't know if they were a threat and kept his eyes towards the shadows where the first voice had emerged.

There was a moment of silence that felt stunned as they all waited for the first voice to speak again. Eventually it emerged in rolling English, "He's with the Italians."

"He is now." A person started walking from his 7 o'clock, a guy if he guessed the tenor correctly but it was a voice that could go either way. The gait was confident and Matthew didn't relax as a boy about his age came to stand next to him, just out of Matthew's reach. He'd chanced a look at him and it took every ounce of control to not let his surprise show on his face.

It was Lovino Vargas. As in the same Lovino Vargas that sat in the back row with him in criminal psychology. Matthew usually did a threat assessment of people whenever he walked into a room and Vargas had been the only person to raise flags the first day of the semester. He had been dressed in clothes that subtly whispered wealth, perfectly coiffed hair but for a stray curl that licked to the side and eyes that shifted between whiskey brown and olive in the light. He'd been handsome and from money, like a number of his classmates, but he'd had an air about him that said he knew where all the exits were, what your weaknesses were, and how best to destroy you…if you knew what you were looking for and Matthew did. But he had never expected this.

How could he have guessed that the sullen, dangerous boy in his psych class was somehow positioned well enough in the mafia to be recognized on sight alone by members of rival organizations? Sure, he had picked up over the years that the Vargas' Family branch in New York was not to be fucked with, but thousands of people had to have that last name. What were the odds?

Still, Matthew relaxed and tilted his head in deference to him, recognizing he'd saved his ass. He so was not stupid enough to refuse the offered assistance. Vargas smiled sharply at the gesture, something like triumph in his hazel eyes and the remaining figures melted back into the shadows.

Vargas didn't say anything to him as they walked to the end of the block and into a black town car that pulled up at the curb. Matthew waited until they were alone in the car before he looked at Vargas and said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Vargas smiled at him and shook his head. "What the fuck were you doing, walking around like that? Challenging the Haitians in their own territory?"

Matthew shrugged. "Wasn't actually thinking about it…You followed me."

"Yeah. You're usually aware of yourself but I got a call that something had gone wrong and you were headed into a hot zone."

Matthew blinked at him. He wasn't just followed today, but he was being followed. Apparently had been watched for some time. "Why?"

Vargas' eyes sharpened and his posture shifted from relaxed relief to sharp readiness. Matthew didn't bother tensing. If Vargas wanted him dead, he would have left him on that street. If he changed his mind and Matthew was still in the car, nothing he could do would stop him (or his family if he somehow managed to one-up him). Vargas smiled wide and dangerous as he took in Matthew. "Because you aren't surprised or intimidated at who I am. Because you have the face of an angel but the neutral eyes of a tiger. Because you don't irritate me like damn near everyone else I've come across. Because you seem listless and I need an ally who's outside the Family. Because neither of us have any friends and I think we can change that."

Matthew sat quietly as he processed the information. At length, he said, "So tonight is not a favor to be repaid later?"

"Tonight is an offer of friendship." The words were heavy with meaning and Matthew understood that it was also an invitation into a life that he hadn't been born into. Even before Alfred's death, he'd felt adrift at school, excelling in his classes because he had nothing else to do with his time, disconnected from his classmates because of his life experiences. The thought of a life of crime didn't bother him in the least, which perhaps would be concerning. But he had no real goals of his own, no family, no connections. This could be the purpose he started college to find. Especially with Alfred gone…he had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Matthew smiled at Vargas—Lovino. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Lovino."

He laughed. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." Matthew offered his hand and they shook.

Lovino shook his head but relaxed again. "We have a lot to talk about. First, my condolences if what you said about your brother is true…"

Matthew's jaw tightened but he didn't look away from him. "It is. Killed in action, my guess."

Lovino eyed him critically. "What do you need?"

Matthew thought about it. He thought about his past and present and had no idea what the hell would be his future. Maybe Matthew Williams didn't have a future. Maybe…it would be better that way, if Matthew Williams died with Alfred Jones. "I need to disappear, to erase this mess I've become."

"Literally or figuratively?"

"Why not both?"

Lovino studied him and Matthew did look away then. They were supposed to be friends now, but that relationship was minutes old. He wasn't ready for Lovino to see whatever emotions were on his face. After a moment he said, "Okay. I'll need a couple things from you, but I can make that happen."

Matthew looked back at him, astonished because he had never in his life asked for something then have someone actually offer to make that happen. "What things?"

"One: graduate with me. We need legitimate enough credentials to get into certain circles. Two: actually be my friend. Hang out with me and shit or whatever friends do. I haven't had one that wasn't paid to be there so I wouldn't know what's usually required."

Matthew smiled then, "Me neither. Or, at least, not since I was ten and not with anyone who wasn't—"

The silence following that choked cut off thought was deafening. Maybe this wasn't the time to make a decision like this. Oh, wait, Matthew didn't care.

"…Three: you have to learn Italian. As in pick up the major as soon as possible. I'm only here for university; I go back to Italy in two years."

Matthew forced his lips to curl. "Done. So…what do you like to do in your free time?"

Lovino laughed again and answered.

Present

Matthew was hated because the person he had become was a wild card. Ghost (the word spoken in English rather than the Italian fantasma) was a mysterious, murderous loose cannon that would not hesitate to follow Lovino's—and only Lovino's—orders. He had helped turn just another mafia prince into the most well-entrenched and feared member of the generation. He made sure Lovino had choices in what he specialized in because he had no choice when it came to his profession. He had no other weak points; he had no family to threaten, no civilian friends to kidnap, and (because of his personal preferences and limitations) took no lovers when he was in the country. Hell, he didn't even need glasses anymore thanks to Lovino's insistence on surgery before they'd left the States. He didn't smoke, only occasionally drank. It made people think he was sanctimonious, but Matthew was neither religious nor inclined to give a fuck. He was who he was. The only person's approval he needed gave it unconditionally.

It wasn't the intention Matthew had when he had taken Lovino's hand that day so many years ago, but the Italian filled the role of the brother he had lost with startling ease. He wasn't sure if what they had was love, but it was probably as close as he would ever get. He was Lovino's protector, confidant, friend, and enforcer. He was his Right Hand.

That was what he was doing now, sitting behind and to the right of Lovino's chair as he held informal court with his captains over drinks. He rarely spoke at these things, sitting away from the fray with his back to the wall, eyes watchful. He was immaculately dressed in a suit that cost more than he and Alfred had scraped together in a year on the street, courtesy of Lovino's insistence on maintaining appearances. Matthew thought that even their tailor hated him—it wasn't easy to craft a suit that could lie over body armor and a myriad of weapons and still look stylish. He only ever wore black-on-black; it was the best color for hiding blood stains.

Lovino's chosen specially was dealing in information, knowing everything about everyone and how best to use it against them. If someone in the Family needed to know how to approach something, they came to him. His own position afforded him some safeguards. People knew that if he suddenly disappeared, that a lot of their life-ruining secrets would be in the open. With Lovino alive and active, they were secure. It made smart people less likely to try to assassinate him and gave them a vested interest in Lovino's survival.

Most people, however, were idiots.

That was where Matthew came in. He and his network of contacts kept careful eyes on everything, wary of anyone thinking past their capacity and trying to go after Lovino directly. A lot of bullshit got stopped before it could even get off the ground because of him. If it didn't, well. Things happened. People died.

Matthew was the only general Lovino had and it made people dread reporting to him. It wasn't that he was rude or unpleasant, but he made no effort to charm or appease people within the organization itself. He wasn't interested in playing that game and the Family disliked dealing such an obvious outsider in what was supposed to be an inner sanctum of their organization.

Lovino's only equal in the Family hierarchy was his brother, Feliciano. He loved his older brother and happily followed his example. The younger man was their arms dealer, ruled that little corner of hell, and looked even more innocent at first glance than Matthew. It made people underestimate him, which was one of their biggest mistakes. Once, an ambitious cousin tried to convince Feliciano to kill his brother to take his place and power, thinking he would be easier to manipulate than Lovino.

They never did find all of him.

The door opened and Matthew's second walked in. Dressed in a black pantsuit and frankly threatening stilettos, Alicia was the first person Matthew considered a personal project. He didn't have many moral lines he wouldn't cross, but slavery was one of them. He made his position clear his first year in Italy, taking a risk to go in and systematically dismantle a sex trafficking ring in Florence. It had taken time that made Lovino twitchy, but the night he wiped it from the face of the earth, showing everyone just who the young Vargas had brought back with him from America, a teenage girl had watched him slaughter everyone in his path, black hair a mess but utterly unflinching. When he'd attempted to leave her for the police to find, she had followed him, saying with a strong voice and dead eyes that she owed him a life debt. He'd almost turned her down, but he had remembered the night he'd almost let himself be killed in the streets of New York. He knew what it was like to not have a purpose after something traumatic, though he had no idea what she had survived. He took her with him. Only Lovino knew her whole story, knew how Matthew had chosen his own prodigy to train and lead. Now, for hand to hand combat, the only one who could beat her was Matthew. Her true skills rested in knife work. She gave her loyalty to Matthew like Matthew gave his to Lovino and he trusted her with his life.

Only the grunts thought that she was his lover. In truth, she was a lesbian and encouraged the rumors about the two of them. As fucked as it was, if she was seen as belonging to Matthew it left her in a position to be mostly free of sexual harassment, though the younger set had stopped getting handsy with her when the last guy walked away missing a hand.

This was a room full of men and women savvy enough to lead in a criminal family. No one blinked as Alicia approached him with a manila envelope in hand, though some eyed them warily. Alicia had given him a daily report in his office hours ago. For her to come into the setting with information that had to be urgent, it was a red letter day.

She handed him the envelope and leaned in to whisper in his ear, "The invitation we've been expecting." Alicia touched his shoulder lightly, having some idea of how concerned he had been over receiving such a thing. It would have been untoward from anyone else, but he was the only person she touched like this, like it was casual and natural. Once she had learned to deal with her trauma in a productive if questionably healthy way, she was open and affectionate once her guard was down and it was hard to turn off once she trusted you. Matthew didn't protest though no one else had leave for even this briefest of touches except Lovino. It kept up the illusion there was something more than loyalty and a shared past between them. They weren't quite friends, the disparity in their power levels evident in a way it wasn't between him and Lovino in private. (Lovino never actually treated him as a subordinate unless it was for the pageantry of Family; anything else would have led to questions about what Matthew was to him and possibly war.) The only person he would burn the world for was Lovino, but that didn't mean the stars themselves wouldn't shudder if something happened to his second.

This was the problem of trusting so few people in their business; you tend to get attached. It was a damn good thing Alicia and Lovino could take care of themselves or Matthew might have gone grey with worry already.

Matthew simply nodded his thanks and dismissal to Alicia. Used to his countenance, she turned and stalked out the room without further ado.

Before the door had closed behind her, Matthew reached into the envelope and pulled out thick cardstock. He was no Sherlock Holmes, but he knew expensive stationary when he saw it. The calligraphy, no doubt inked by hand, was simple but elegant curling lines of black, inviting Lovino Vargas and his Right Hand to a meeting in neutral territory to discuss recent skirmishes between the lower levels of their groups and to a masked ball that followed. With their desired security, of course. The back was blank.

The neutral location? Monaco, with a temporary truce called between all attendees.

The hosts? The Horsemen.

It's not that he wasn't on some level relieved the invitation had come. Talking about skirmishes before they became territory disputes and all out wars was ideal. Additionally, word was being passed through appropriate channels that this party was happening and the up-and-coming of the criminal world were all invited to one place to build trade deals and end disputes. This was either the greatest idea or it would lead to everyone being arrested or killed. There was a reason their business was conducted in the dark, after all.

God, but he was not looking forward to this. On one hand, the libido he kept on the shortest leash possible had looked up in unquenchable interest in getting out of Italy and the chance to fucking indulge for once. On the other, he would be in a city full of criminal royalty. His face wasn't well known, but it still wouldn't be completely safe. He wouldn't even consider it but it had been three years since he'd had a social orgasm. No matter how easy it was to ignore this occasional need at home, he couldn't ignore it forever. It was past time and he knew it.

More importantly, he didn't know what to expect with the Horsemen. They were relatively new, rising in the past five years with a shockingly expansive network of contacts throughout the world, but their strongholds were in Western and Central Europe. He'd tried to gather what information he could, but their identities were closely guarded behind more firewalls and back channels than even his hackers could get through. Here's what he did know.

The group was led by the Four Horsemen, each going by a moniker that matched their area of expertise.

Famine was based in France, dealing vice with the expert hand of a hardened libertine. Luxury and pleasure enough to die for was their coin and they traded it liberally. What couldn't be bought with pleasure (or a deprivation of it) could be handled through blackmail.

Pestilence controlled drug production, transport, and distribution. As Matthew understood it, they also dabbled in terrifying chemical weapons, but preferred making sure those seeking a particular chemical got what they were looking for. They were based in Iberia, though he couldn't confirm which country.

War was a mercenary turned arms dealer, Feliciano's equivalent but apparently he looked and lived up to his name. War was the only one he had a confirmed gender for, a deep masculine laugh sounding before a deafening boom on a recording sending a thrill of interest down Matthew's spine when he had heard it. He controlled Central Europe with a ruthlessness that had an informant literally shaking, damn near begging to be put on a different assignment. (Matthew ordered them elsewhere; they did good work and there was no reason to break them as of yet. Plus, if you granted a few requests here and there, people were more likely to be loyal to you.)

Death was the most mysterious, with the least amount of information available about them. The best guess was that Death was based in the UK or Ireland, but that was mostly due to continued silence of the more historic groups in those countries. He could only confirm somewhere in northern Europe. Apparently they were not only an information broker, but also ran a somewhat legitimate security firm, with backing from several different organizations and governments. Death was the tipping point that made this group of four not only a possible threat but Matthew's number one concern outside of Italy.

If as many power players as he thought were going to be at this party, then he was not the only one with a wary eye on the new group.

Lovino would want to go. He liked to get a feel for situations in person, a character trait that was going to give Matthew a heart attack one of these days. Beyond that, he needed to go. The heir apparent to the Vargas Family couldn't not show up. Not only would it be a sign of weakness to every hungry group (Maybe they don't feel safe outside their territory? Maybe the territory is unstable enough that Vargas couldn't leave for a weekend?), but it would be a snub that they honestly couldn't afford to give to the Horsemen. One of the greatest strengths of being in a position of power was recognizing the limitations of your reach. Ambition is good, but blind ambition will get you killed. Anyone who didn't learn that early on didn't last.

Matthew debated giving Lovino the invitation now or in private, not entirely sure how much notice he wanted to give the others about his leaving. They only had a month to get everything in order. Lovino made the decision for him.

"Ghost, is that what I think it is?"

Wordlessly, Matthew stood and closed the distance between them. He offered the invitation to him almost absently, his main gun hand loose and ready at his side. He didn't think a threat was eminent from the people in this room per se, but it never hurt to be ready. Lovino hummed and Matthew knew without looking at him he was grinning. "We're going. Do what we need to get there a couple days early."

Matthew simply took the invitation back and settled once more in his seat, face impassive but internally sighing. He'd known that this was coming, but that didn't mean he had to be happy about it.

He glanced down at the invitation, allowing a small glower before putting back in the envelope. Trepidation flooded him for a moment but he pushed it away to begin planning their trip with half a mind. Matthew had a lot to do to get them and their security out of their territory without fucking things up or offending someone they couldn't just kill. And Lovino would probably want to meet with a couple other groups while he was there and those were negotiations that usually took months and…

Matthew allowed himself a small sigh. He had a bad feeling about this.

A/N: I'm having a shitty day. Have a new story (I swear I'll update Don't Get Cut soon). This fic is entirely self-indulgent.

If you don't know me, a lot of my stories are inspired by music I like to share with people. This story was inspired by the song "Dark Doo Wop" by MS MR and that is also where the title came from. The song for this chapter is "Monster (Acoustic Version)" by Ruelle.