Chapter One

**Six Weeks Ago**

Nathaniel stands in the dark of the early morning, staring up at the building. It's thoroughly average-looking and there's no sign above the door, nothing to indicate what it is, but he's spent his life learning to avoid the law. He knows how to recognize the vague air of institutional inefficiency, how to watch the people come and go at regular intervals, how to run the license plates in the parking lot and listen in on the conversations held over smoke breaks.

So he has determined exactly what this place is; he has no doubt that he's standing five feet outside of the Kansas City field office for the US Marshals Service. And those few feet of broken pavement between the scuffed toes of his sensible dress shoes and the front door are the last he will ever walk with even the barest hint of safety.

He shifts his gaze to the glass door, poorly tinted with air bubbles trapped between the glass and the purple film. He takes a deep breath; it smells like night and car exhaust and something heavy, so thick he can almost feel it on the back of his tongue.

And then he frowns and curls his fingers into a tight fist, feeling his nails push tiny half-moon imprints into his calloused palms, seriously considering turning around and forgetting all of this insane plan. Just going back to his fucked-up life with his brothers and sisters and cousins, falling in line and taking orders from his father and step-mother like a good little mafioso.

That would be his only chance to live another year. Because if he goes through with this plan, if he turns himself in and testifies against his family, they will hunt him down and kill him. And Nathaniel is good, he's very good, but it won't matter. They will win in the end.

They always do.

He reaches up to self-consciously adjust the tie around his neck; the motion makes blood drip, thick and dark, from his saturated shirtsleeve. Nathaniel watches it splatter onto the asphalt, remembering how it felt when his knife scraped against the inside of Samuel's ribcage, how he held his cousin in his arms and watched the last of the light leave his eyes, Nathaniel's own tears swirling into the blood staining his shirt as the guilt and grief wracked him.

And he crosses to the door in two quick strides.

*******

Reid is beginning to suspect that his entire existence is fucked up beyond all recognition.

He's barely awake, his hair is still damp from his morning shower, and he's jonesing for some shitty break room coffee when he walks into his office and freezes.

There's a man sitting at Reid's desk. He's perched on the edge of the rolling chair, bent over and scribbling furiously, his thick, messy black hair sticking up everywhere. One dark blue eye is rapidly swelling shut and there's dried blood on his chin from a nasty cut on his full, chapped lips. And his clothes aren't in much better shape - his dark suit is wrinkled and torn, his blue tie tightly knotted but hanging crooked, the cuffs of his white dress shirt soaked with not-quite-dry blood.

Reid's cop brain catalogs all this in a second, along with the man's average height and muscular build, sharp jawline, and watch that retails for more than Reid's annual salary.

Reid hovers on the far side of the desk for a long moment before clearing his throat loudly, unsure if the man even knows - or cares - that Reid's there.

The noise makes him frown, the motion threatening to make his split bottom lip bleed again, and he flicks his eyes up to Reid's for a fraction of a second. He seems almost irritated by the interruption, but he sets down the pen and stands, somehow utterly composed despite his disheveled state. He pulls a phone from his pocket and his long fingers fly gracefully over the screen for a few seconds before a digitized voice says, "Hello. I'd like to turn myself in. I'm Nathaniel Angelev."

Angelev. Angelev?!

Reid's sure that it's a joke. That his partner, Ben, or their supervisor, Andy, has hired this dude to screw with him, because there is just no way that the beloved youngest son and heir apparent of the most powerful crime family America has ever seen has just walked into the station in the middle of the night, chosen a desk at random - which just so happens to be Reid's - and started writing out a detailed confession.

But Nathaniel doesn't laugh or say "Just kidding!" Instead, he sits back down and returns his attention to the stack of paper before him. It's covered in small, even handwriting that looks like it should belong to a mild-mannered tax accountant instead of a high-ranking member of the mafia. Reid's gaze skims across words like larceny and extortion and murder, but he can't really focus on anything except the long smears of blood staining the edge of the paper where Nathaniel's cuff has brushed against it.

That's real blood. Which means this isn't a joke.

And just when Reid doesn't think shit could get any weirder, Nathaniel puts the pen down again and types out something even more unbelievable on his type-to-talk app - that he isn't content just to take himself out of the picture, temporarily messing up the Angelev succession plan.

He wants to burn the entire organization to the ground.

Those blue eyes are wide and unwavering, fixed on Reid's like he could burn a hole straight into his soul. "I'm going to shut it down, shut it all down."

Reid has to hold onto the edge of his desk for support. He hasn't even had his coffee yet, for fuck's sake, and he's beginning to seriously consider drinking the cup of yesterday's cold and congealed sludge that sits half-empty and forgotten at the edge of his desk. He needs something to get him through this hallucination or nightmare or whatever-the-fuck is happening to him.

Because this can't be real. It just can't be. And why doesn't this guy, whoever he really is, talk?

Wait, Nathaniel? Isn't that the one who-

With one shaking hand, Reid tentatively reaches toward Nathaniel's neck, hesitating just before he touches his silk tie. Nathaniel jumps at the contact, knocking Reid's hand away and glaring for half a second before realizing what Reid must have been after. Then he sighs and rolls his eyes, resignedly loosening his tie and pulling his shirt collar open. It exposes a jagged white scar ringing his throat, his blue eyes burning defiantly as Reid leans down to study it.

"So the rumors are true," he breathes. "The upcoming leader of the Angelevs had his vocal cords severed."

Nate's gaze narrows to two blue slits as he types. "I assure you, I am in no need of pity."

"No, I can see that." Reid's finger cautiously traces the bumps of scar tissue crossing his windpipe and carotid; he doesn't notice how the touch raises goosebumps on Nathaniel's skin. "Whatever motherfucker did this meant to kill you."

"He failed. Spectacularly."

Reid meets his gaze and grins - even with the monotone of the app's digital voice, Nathaniel sounds strong. Defiant.

Reid likes him already.

"Okay, so let me get this straight. You, the mute Angelev, want to volunteer to speak out and testify against your entire family, put every last Angelev in prison, and end the whole operation."

"That is correct."

"Okay. Prove it." Reid slides a fresh piece of paper in front of Nathaniel and sets a pen on top of it. "Draw me an organizational chart. I want names and titles, the whole hierarchy."

He expects Nathaniel to waver, to hold something back or balk at the reality of actually turning traitor against his own family. But he doesn't; he starts scrawling immediately.

Charles and Naomi are the two names at the top, followed by his own.  And then the crazy branching starts - lines stretching from Charles and filling in the width of the paper with Nathaniel's own siblings. And good Lord, are there siblings. Apparently Charles had wanted to ensure that he had a good half-dozen spare heirs to his criminal empire. Devon, Elsa, Grant, Stefan, Victoria, and Maxim - with Nathaniel, they form the notorious Angelev Seven. And beyond that, there are aunts and uncles and cousins - Reid is beginning to suspect that Nathaniel is going to run out of paper before names to write.

Before this moment, law enforcement had only known the identities of two of them - and didn't have confirmation of either of those. Just sketchy details from equally sketchy sources. So this? This is huge. This is once in a lifetime, career-making kind of intel.

If it's legit.

"Okay," Reid asks, trying not to get too excited. "So to take it all apart we need to take out-"

Nathaniel circles the two names at the top.

"Your parents?" Reid asks.

He writes "stepmother" next to Naomi.

"So where does your mom fit in?"

Nathaniel slashes a finger across his throat.

"My condolences," Reid says.

Nathaniel raises a skeptical eyebrow.

"No, really. Everybody loves their mom. Even mafia princes."

Nathaniel nods, oddly touched. And then he circles all of his siblings' names except for Grant.

"He's not a threat?" Reid asks.

Nathaniel types into his phone again. "Only to the world's supply of vodka and his own liver. He's in the business in name only."

Reid takes a deep breath and rubs at the vein that's beginning to pound in his forehead. He's pretty sure this morning has given him a small stroke. "Well, you're going to have to give us something on each of them. Something that will stick."

"You're holding it; everything you need is in my confession."

Reid drags Ben's rickety desk chair over and sits down to look Nathaniel in the eye. "Don't you want to hold onto this until you've got a deal for immunity from prosecution? I'm sure your testimony is going to incriminate you, too - and you don't want to go through all this only to end up in prison yourself."

Nathaniel's jaw clenches. "It won't matter."

Reid understands the unspoken statement - the one that says Nathaniel will never survive that long. "That's the other thing I wanted to talk to you about, man." Reid knows he shouldn't be saying this; his loyalty is to the state, not the murderer in front of him, but he can't seem to help himself. This surly man in the ugly suit is starting to look like a mistake Reid just can't wait to make. "I'm gonna be straight with you, because if you go through with this, it's going to be up to me to protect you. And I'll do everything I can, but going up against the entire Angelev organization...it's going to be damn near impossible."

And that's when Reid realizes that Nathaniel is actually serious about this, that he really thinks he can do it. Every muscle in his body tenses, hardened with steely resolve, and his lips press together in irritation.

"I thought it was your job to keep people like myself breathing. Are you telling me you're so unsure of your competence that you're giving up before we even try?"

"Didn't I just say that I'd do everything I can? Are you deaf, too?"

"I'd tell you not to be rude but I can already tell that's beyond the capabilities of your limited social skills."

"And what do you call your personality? Charming and affable?"

Nathaniel shakes his head, small and nearly imperceptible, and Reid knows it's crazy but he swears he can hear the tone of the digital voice soften as he types his reply.

"Look, I'm well aware that I'll most likely wind up chopped into tiny pieces and fed down a garbage disposal long before I can get to the witness stand. But I've recently come to the realization that I have to be the kind of person who will at least try to do the right thing, even if I die in the process."

Reid can't decide if this is the best day of his career or the worst.

*******

Nathaniel watches him closely, reading the flickers of indecision on his features from across the expanse of the desk. Reid is actually somewhat of a study in contradictions, like the greenish brown eyes and close-cropped dirty blond hair, neither of which can seem to definitively choose what color they are, and the strong nose with the faint dusting of freckles across it.

Nathaniel hadn't chosen this seat because of Reid - it was totally random, and he's actually fairly certain he's never seen the man before - but he hasn't been shot or cuffed or thrown in prison yet, so he's thinking it was a fairly decent choice. Also, he likes the way Reid carries himself. He's solid, but in an old-fashioned sort of way, as if he was built by steak and beer and the physical rigors of his job rather than mindless hours toiling in a gym. Nathaniel likes that; it makes him seem capable and strong and exactly what Nate's going to need.

Reid finally takes a deep breath, lets it out in one short, humorless chuckle, and looks back up at Nathaniel.

"Alright, then, let's do this. You've got brass ones, dude. I'll give you that."

And Nathaniel grins so broadly that it makes his busted lip start bleeding again.