Chapter Text
PART ONE.
LOS ANGELES
If it weren’t for the six o’clock news, he would have had no idea what time it was.
His windows were boarded up so he couldn’t see outside, and he had spent what felt like the past hour puking his guts out in his tiny little 38 sq ft bathroom, one hand gripping the toilet seat, the other hand gripping the lip of the bathtub, dried soapy grime rubbing against his palm because he hadn’t cleaned the place since he moved in.
He could only vaguely hear the TV outside as he not-so-dry heaved, splashing bile and water into the porcelain bowl beneath him. Something about the hijacked American Airlines plane again, SE something-or-other, some Japanese dude got dropped off — /b/ loved that guy. Media blackouts, something something. Kidnapping of some girl or whatever. Kira again, complete with the death roll-call as a woman’s voice read out every name that had been executed in the past twenty-four hours with as much vitality as a dry erase board.
Well, despite the emptying of his stomach contents, he was feeling pretty good. Whenever he threw up, that was when he knew Andre wasn’t ripping him off like those Ecuadorians back in Phoenix did. It meant that it had been so long since his body was spoiled by this potency that it had little choice but to spew chunks.
A pretty damned good thing, all things considered.
His body told him that that was enough now, and he leaned back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He flushed, reaching for toilet paper to wipe the taste of throw-up from his fingers and his lips, but the roll rattled emptily and all he felt was cardboard.
Whatever. He could do that later.
He sat back on his knees for a minute longer, gauging to see if the nausea was going to pass, and then feeling self-satisfied when it did. He pulled himself up against the bathtub, and then, suddenly, his phone was ringing. He tried to pull his cellphone out from his back pocket, but it wasn’t that one — the ringtone was muffled like it was coming through his room, an old Hatsune Miku song that came out a year ago.
Which meant his Blackbird phone.
But why? Most of the Blackbird guys were otherwise unreachable, and the two that still roamed the earth had him on ICQ, IRC, MSN, AIM, AOL, even Steam. Actually, the only time he’d ever even used his Blackbird Nokia was when he was dealing with clients, but that seemed unlikely, especially since he’d been MIA since the summer of 2008.
He scratched his head as he turned to leave the bathroom to investigate further, but spinning like that caused a new wave of vertigo to wash over him. He held onto his towel rack, sank back onto his knees and returned to the toilet bowl like an ex girlfriend, bowing his head towards the seat and gagging.
The ringtone stopped before it looped, cutting itself off like a crank call. And maybe that was all it was — he didn’t really care.
There it was, more bile and more frothy saliva. Jesus, any more and his throat was going to burn off. He coughed violently at his final heave into his hands, wiping his palms against his jeans when he was done.
Yep, he had to thank Andre next time. This shit was really fucking good.
Everybody knew Rod Ross. He was the kingpin of the California mob, royalty in Los Angeles county. He had every business owner in LA tucked into his pocket, every other mob boss around America bowing to his every word. Any joint in LA would shut its doors to the public for the night if it meant that Rod Ross was dining with them.
That was why Mello kept Rod as the face of his mafia, the de jure Don of la Casa Nostra.
Tonight, Rod cleared out his favorite bar lounge: a sleek place with black marble tables and long, zebra-print booths facing a panoramic view of Beverly Hills. Candles glowed in the middle of each table, casting flickering golden firelights in the reflection of the windows.
The sky was a deep indigo that night. The city of Los Angeles glittered beneath them, quiet through the thick glass.
Thirty seven storeys above, the lounge was bursting with noise.
The LA mafia consisted of only eleven men in the New Age, but they filled the corners of the lounge, strolling around on red carpeted floors with glasses of champagne in their hands. Rod had ordered a full feast: gold-flecked platters of caviar, silver plates stacked high with oysters, bottles of Dom Perignon filled up to the brim of their flutes, mirror-trays with infinite lines of cocaine.
Rod had even prepared a large sampling table of chocolate truffles, each a different flavor; all of them sat in front of Mello, covered by a heavy silver lid.
It was a celebration. Three days since their successful trade for the world’s most powerful weapon, sitting at Mello’s feet like a loyal pet. They’d been planning this heist for months, since Mello first joined the ranks; the hijacking, the missile, and the decoys had all gone smoothly, losing no more lives than had been necessary.
All of it had been for a notebook. Leather-bound, papers that smelled like cheap school stationery. Mello wouldn’t have believed it if he didn’t see it with his own eyes, or watched as his own men tested its powers.
He’d killed almost all of Near’s men. Taken down all the remaining rivals leftover still from Pavone’s day.
The same notebook that killed his childhood idol.
Mello didn’t feel much for the notebook other than spiteful duty. It was a tool, and he never touched it without his gloves on. His prize was Kira.
The Death Note was just the means to get to him.
It was a quarter past nine, and Mello heard hushed whispers beside him as Rod dismissed his whores to another booth. When they made eye contact, Rod flashed him a quick grin.
“Can I start, Boss?” he asked, gesturing towards the lights. Mello jerked his head in approval, and Rod nodded to himself, self-satisfied, snapping his fingers to alert the staff behind him.
The lights dimmed all around them on cue. Mello glanced back to see the rest of the men look up curiously at the ceiling, unsuspecting. Rod rose from his booth like a messiah, the sole candle on the table illuminating him like stage lights, gold necklace glinting, rings shining.
“Gentlemen,” Rod announced, his voice commanding as he stepped out of the booth towards the middle of the room. A respectful hush fell over the tables, men and their women twisting their bodies around to look over. The staff stood piously by the doors, locked from the inside out, their hands clasped at their fronts. “Let me make a toast.”
Glasses floated towards the ceilings, on command like a salute. Rod’s flute, pinched between his large fingers, bubbled in the candlelight. Mello rolled his head to the side, settling in for the show.
“Six years ago, Kira broke the Los Angeles family,” Rod started, spreading his arms as he spoke. “Our brothers dropped like flies. Men with no dignity, no self respect, no loyalty. Men who knew nothing about what it meant to be family. Men who'd betray us, who'd stab us in the back for a quick fix, for cash, for clout. These were the cocksuckers who could have never made it out alive. And thank God they never did.”
“That’s right,” Pedoro chimed, tilting his glass for emphasis. Murmurs of agreement filled the silence, and Rod nodded, his expression grave. A natural born actor.
“Five years later, when we were just days away from absorption by Pavone — Mello came to me, with the motherfucker's head in tow. And you know what the crazy bastard told me?” Rod paused for effect, holding up his fingers and looking around at the men. No one spoke. His eyes locked with Mello’s, a tinge of pride in his sharklike grin as he delivered the punchline. “’Here's a souvenir from New York, brother.’”
Laughter. The whores joined in, even though all Pavone was to them was a name. A story in the history books.
Rod continued when the laughter died, glancing sidelong at Mello. “We were powerful, but we didn’t have vision. Or drive. We wouldn’t be here without that head. We’re here tonight, good men, here in power, ‘cuz we didn’t back down. We didn’t leave when we were threatened. We set up new bases when they took our old ones. We spawned like cockroaches—“ Rod slapped the booth behind him for impact, and his gold knuckle rings rang against the dark mahogany, loud in the air, “—so many of us, 'til Kira couldn't get our names from our faces right. And we didn't stop, my brothers. We kept going.”
Mello leaned back in the booth, crossing his legs. Most of Rod’s men were from New Mexico, without a clue what it meant to be la famiglia the way Pavone led his men.
But what they lacked in loyalty, they made up in brute force. Pure, ruthless energy. Traditions had died in the New Age. On the run from Kira, nothing could survive except for power.
That was why he came to Rod when he was eighteen.
“This week, my men, we have made history.” Rod raised his glass, holding it up to the chandeliers, a wide grin plastered onto his face. “No other mob — not even in the Golden Days, not even in Dragna's time, God bless his soul — ever got the world to bow down like we do. We cleared out our enemies. Made them kiss our feet, suck our dicks. And now, we have a weapon of mass destruction.”
Rod paused, gesturing to the briefcase by the booth seats, and the men around the room looked fixated, their eyes glazed with wonderment. The energy radiating from them was thick.
“But we still got a ways to go. We’re not all safe here — we made sacrifices, we lost some of our soldiers. And we’ll lose some more. But tonight, my men.” Rod waved a hand, and the staff standing by the door stepped forward, dismantling more bottles of champagne from the open bar. “Tonight is our night. And tonight, my men, we don't have to work. Tonight, we drink.”
Applause, explosive and heavy, masked the sound of popping champagne bottles, clinking glasses, hoots and hollers. Mello felt himself swallowed by the noise — a sedate rock around which the typhoon orbited — and he swung his arm over the booth, lifting the champagne from the table to appease his Don.
“My men, a toast,” Rod called out over the burst of noise, his flute in the air, patting the scantily clad waitresses as they glided past with their hands clasped around the necks of the champagne bottles. “To the family — and to the man who'd given us this night to enjoy, our very own Underboss, Mello himself.”
Mello brought the glass to his lips, feeling the alcohol fizz against his skin. Champagne was never his drink of choice, but he knew better than to complain. The rest of the men tossed the drink back like it was a shot, the women gulping it down, their lipstick stains marring the sides of the glass. Drinks were rapidly refilled, trays of cocaine pulled into laps, hundred dollar bills pulled out of expensive wallets and rolled into makeshift straws.
The drinks had been served. The food was getting cold. The night had begun. Rod returned to the booth while the rest of the men busied themselves with their drinks, flashing a proud smile as he slid in. Mello had monopolized the space, chocolate truffles spread around the table like a game of checkers.
When Rod dropped himself down, he began to unbutton his dress shirt with one hand. “Enjoying yourself, Boss?” he asked, pulling his collar.
Mello slid a chocolate truffle into his mouth. “Of course.”
“Get a girl for the night, man. It’ll do ya good.”
Mello tilted his head in thought and then shrugged, taking a sip of his drink.
Rod quirked a brow but his grin stayed firmly on his face. “Suit yourself, Boss. More for me.” He cackled at his own joke, holding his hand out to grab at a whore walking by, pulling her down to his lap. She squirmed and giggled, kicking her stocking-clad legs, and Mello looked away, glancing around the room at the rest of his men.
They were spread out over the couches, each lounging in his own table, a whore on each arm. Pedoro. Eddie. Rashual. Glen. Jose. Roy. Skyer. Beck.
Snydar.
He was looking at him when Mello glanced over, their eyes meeting for one brief second before the man hurriedly looked away. He was one of Rod’s oldest colleagues, working under him since ’87, and now, the notebook’s primary writer. A rule claimed that the writer of the notebook died after thirteen days. If Mello were so lucky, Snydar would be dealt with in less than two weeks.
An act of divine intervention. Mello was no believer in God these days, especially after receiving a supernatural notebook in the post, but he still believed in pest extermination.
Mello took a sip of his champagne, putting his hand up in dismissal to the scantily-clad waitress who glided over to immediately give him more. Tonight was a celebration, but for Mello, there was no Sabbath yet. It was only days after they’d made their move on the board — far too early to see how Kira would react. Mello knew they had him solidly in check, but he couldn’t call his win until he’d taken the game.
He wanted to see Near dead. He wanted Kira’s head.
The end was nowhere in sight.
Besides, he had to find a new base still. He needed the President on their side. He needed to test the full capabilities of the notebook — mind control, causes of death. He needed protection from the SPK. Tomorrow morning, he needed to get back to work; reconnect with old contacts, establish some new ones.
It was a long war he was fighting, and he’d merely won a battle. He needed to watch himself more than ever now. A slip-up meant death.
Supper ended by midnight. The men came down in groups of four from the elevators, ushered individually into the armored vehicles lining the highrise like a fleet of tanks.
The rest of the men were slinking off to hotels with their favorite whore, or to another bar somewhere farther down the Valley where they’d continue the party in their own ways. The Sabbath went on even after the lounge shut their doors.
Mello still had business to attend to.
He strode towards the sole car from the back door, clutching the handle of the briefcase tightly. There was nobody around, only dumpsters and skunks. He and Rod never left through the front doors of any building; it was too risky.
He opened the door, sliding into the backseat. He held the briefcase at his lap, his hands firmly over the lid, keeping its dangers securely under wraps. The Don came to the car a little over a minute later, whiskey on his breath. He squeezed into the back of the Rolls Royce, narrowing his shoulders as he closed the door.
Neither of them greeted the other. The chauffeur eased out of the back alley, twisting through tight corners and graffiti-lined walls until they were back onto the main street. It was the middle of the night, yet Sunset Boulevard’s shining glass and tall skyscrapers still glittered as if it were noon. Mello kept his eyes trained at the window, watching as the buildings shrunk and widened into the jungles of Skid Row.
The engine filled the silence between them. Mello was never one to talk during car rides. Rod was drunk.
Mello sensed a watchful gaze and glanced over to see Rod looking over at him, his rings clinking against the windows of the Rolls Royce. “So Boss,” he began when their eyes made contact. “You got somewhere in mind?”
Mello eyed the glass separating the chauffeur and the back seats. Bulletproof and soundproof. Secure.
“We’re going to have to move bases again soon, in case we get stormed,” Mello responded.
Rod chuckled, turning away to look back at the window, just the curve of his jowls visible from the side. “No rest for the wicked, huh?”
“Only God can afford a Sabbath, Rod.”
“We’re all gods with the notebook, man,” Rod laughed. Mello didn’t respond, and at the rift in the conversation, Rod continued as if he hadn’t said anything. “Where we looking?”
“An old hideout further out east,” Mello replied nonchalantly.
“Barker’s old base?”
Sharp as always. Mello jerked his chin in affirmation, crossing his arms against the briefcase. “That’s the one.”
The tapping on the window didn’t stop. “You got it all set up?” Rod asked.
“I’m working on it.”
Rod nodded, satisfied, and looked back, his eyes darting towards his briefcase. “And Hoope?”
“We’ll do that when the dust settles. Go too fast, and we lose our footing.”
“Of course, man,” Rod said, nodding slowly. “We move on your word.”
It fell silent once more. The view outside faded into the industrial side of town, and Mello slid the briefcase from his lap, setting it on the seat in between them like a truce. “I’m going to need you to lock up tonight,” he said, resting his hand over the bulletproof leather like a caress. “I have to be somewhere early tomorrow morning.”
They had an underground bunker at their base, rigged with trip-wires, locked by key. Only he and Rod had access. Anybody else stupid enough to break in would be killed.
Even if he was drunk, Rod was never sloppy, especially not when it came to his toys. The Death Note was unattractive to the men, wrapped up with too many contractual obligations with none of the power the original Kira seemed to have, but it was still a weapon that both of them protected with their lives.
Rod took the briefcase easily with one hand, placing it onto the floor beside his feet. “Gotcha. You don’t wanna stop by for a drink at the base tonight?”
Mello shook his head. “We’re back on track tomorrow morning. We’re going to have to test out the full capabilities of the notebook starting tomorrow, too.”
Rod grinned. The idea of flexing his God-given supernatural power over his enemies and underlings must have brought him joy. “Thought you’d never ask,” he said, squinting an eye into a facsimile of a wink. “You got it, Boss.”
The next morning, Mello found himself in front of a small Italian bistro in Echo Park. It was a weekend brunch spot for families, operating in the broad daylight and closing before the criminals came out to play.
It wasn’t Mello’s first time there, nor his second. The minute he walked through the doors and triggered the wind-chimes, the heavyset woman mopping the floor pointed towards the back doors. “He is in back,” she said, a heavy Italian accent wrapping around her words.
The bistro was empty before their morning rush. Mello nodded his thanks and paced towards the back door down the stairs.
Mac Alistair was an old friend of Mello’s from New York; a Vietnam veteran with a knack for homemade explosives back in Pavone’s day. He had done time on unrelated drug charges back in 2006 when Mello was still a soldier. Two years later, on bail, he moved to LA with no money in his pocket, set on leaving the mob life behind him.
Mello knew the right people. That was why he was in the very restaurant he had a hand in investing in back when he was nineteen.
Finally, it was his turn to ask for a favor.
Alistair’s joint was a far cry from upscale, lacking proper ventilation and air conditioning. It was muggy in the October morning; sunny through the basement windows of his tiny office and humid with one weak ceiling fan.
Mello shrugged off his coat and draped it over the patio chair, giving Alistair a Sicilian greeting before sitting down.
“Good to see you again, son.” Alistair lowered himself slowly into his seat. “How’ve you been?”
“I’ve been good, Mac,” Mello replied smoothly, smiling. “I can tell that you’ve been as well.”
Alistair chuckled, and shook his head. “You want a drink? I’ll get Edna to fix us something.”
Mello was tight on time. His smile slackened, and he slid his sunglasses off of his face and placed them on the desk-table. “You know I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got to get going soon,” he responded, shaking his head.
“Of course, of course. You’re a busy man.” Alistair said this without heeding his response, picking up the phone by his desk to call one of the waitresses upstairs, telling them in Italian to bring sandwiches down.
Mello quirked a brow, imperceptible through his hair. The Italians were a traditional people, and the New York mafia was testament to this fact. In Pavone’s day, they couldn’t talk without food in front of them, without getting all the pleasantries out of the way first.
Nowadays, Mello had since become used to the lack of conventions that held Rod’s men together. He did what he needed, left when he could. As it should be.
He waited for Alistair to hang up before he caught his eye again, dropping the cordial smile. “I came to talk about a mansion in Soto Street Junction.”
Alistair raised his eyebrows, his hand still over the receiver. “A mansion?”
“Three storeys, a cellar and a separate basement.”
It was an old Victorian mansion that had become a squatter’s den after an old LA Capo had been knocked off years ago. It came prefurnished: ornate furniture, maroon carpets, and lush curtains.
Mello was in the process of redesigning it now, just waiting for a touch of napalm before his men formally moved in.
“Son…” Alistair looked at Mello steadily, trailing off as he waited for Mello to pick up on the meaning of his words. Mello stayed purposefully oblivious, draping his arm over the back of the hard lawn chair, his gaze unfaltering.
The elder man conceded first, shaking his head. He sighed. “You want a setup?”
“Exactly.”
He sighed again. “Mello… I haven’t done wiring in years.”
Mello tilted his head, leaning forward and uncrossing his legs. “You know I wouldn’t come to anybody unless I knew they were the best at what they did.”
“I know. And that’s why it’s so hard for me to say no.” Alistair cracked a small smile, rueful. “It’s the least I can do for you.”
A loan that was worth next to nothing in exchange for a man who felt indebted to him for life — that was Mello’s idea of a good trade-off. He linked his fingers together at his lap, bowing his head; a humble gesture. “I’m grateful, Mac.”
“What are we looking at?”
“A remote demolition. All rooms, front to back, down to the ground. No trace left but rubble.”
Alistair inhaled deeply. “That sounds dangerous.”
“I know. But I have no choice.”
With the Death Note in their possession, they had no choice but to completely eradicate all evidence immediately in the event that they were to be stormed. Mello was out of options if he wanted to keep the notebook away from the enemy.
Alistair looked at Mello with a paternal sense of concern, his mouth in a tight line. Mello suddenly recalled how Pavone used to frown — but it wasn’t Pavone’s face he had in his mind. It was an Englishman he was thinking of.
A memory he waved away as quickly as it came.
Alistair pulled out one of the drawers in his desk cabinet to retrieve a notepad and a pen. He scribbled a few names onto the paper and ripped it, handing it over. Mello took it and flipped it around: it contained a list of names and phone numbers, all beginning with a Los Angeles area code.
“These are some doctors off the books, in case anything goes awry,” Alistair said quietly and then slammed his cabinet back shut. “I won’t ask questions. I just hope you’ll be prepared in case you do have to detonate them.”
Mello nodded gratefully, pocketing the list in his jacket. He’d recognized some names himself. A few men who used to work in hospitals and now operated underground. “I appreciate it, Mac.”
“And do you have at least have backup?”
Mello cocked his head. “Backup?”
“As in—“ Allistair paused and sighed, as if reconsidering his words. “I’m not doubting your men. But this is a high risk situation you’re in now, and you’ll need someone to watch over you, too.”
Mello leaned back, crossing his arms. “My men are fine.”
Alistair shook his head. “In the New Age, the mafia isn’t what it used to be, like how you and I remember it back in New York. Men don’t have the same morals as they used to. Now, son, I don’t know what you’re rigging this base for, but I’m sure it’s something big, and you’ll need someone to watch your back, who isn’t gonna get you in trouble when you do blow it up. You get it?”
He got it, but he didn’t like it. “My men are fine,” he repeated, steely.
Alistair paused for a beat, and then looked away. “All right. Sorry, son. You know I don’t mean to say your men aren’t trustworthy.“
It was true that Rod’s men were nothing like Pavone’s fiends. He could count it as a blessing that the Death Note now had so many fickle rules, but even in New York, they’d had plenty of pigeons that ended up becoming the end of the East Coast family.
Mello would know: he was one himself.
But backup was unnecessary. Besides, he had nobody else to watch over him, nobody he could trust.
“I’ll have a full surveillance system, so we needn’t worry too much about my men,” Mello said, impassive. “But from you, Mac. I just need the rigs.”
Alistair sensed that he had overstepped his boundaries, and nodded to himself. “Right. Sorry.”
There was a rap on the door. Mello glanced back to see the heavyset woman from earlier, balancing a tray of San Pellegrino and two sandwiches on her arm to put on the desk in front of them. Mello thanked her in Italian, and she eased herself out without another word.
“I’ll give you some time to prepare,” Mello said when she was outside. “How long will it take?”
Alistair frowned. “Something like this, I’d give it at least a few days. Come back tomorrow and I’ll let you know something more definite.”
Mello nodded, standing up from the chair and lifting his sunglasses from the table. The leather of his vest peeled away audibly from the cheap plastic. “It was a pleasure, Mac.”
“Won’t you stay a bit longer? At least stay and eat your focaccia.”
The Italians and their food… Mello paused and sat back down, brushing his damp hair from the nape of his neck. “All right,” he conceded, taking a sandwich, keeping his gloves on.
The least he could do after so many demands was stay and eat some goddamned focaccia.