the type of protection that mr. castiglione provides for his tenants holds the same code that the streets do--silent, lethal. cheap rent and protection from whatever outsiders try to damage the apartments or threaten their lives, that’s what he provides, at any cost. they understand that as much as he does, and his shadowy presence in the building is as much of a comfort as it is intimidating. they bring him baked goods sometimes, sometimes dinner, and frank tries not to make too many connections with the people here despite his intentions being nothing but good. not objectively good, but as good as a man like him can get.
it’s become a routine, really. he hears a disturbance down the hall, gets a report from one of the neighbors--and he leaves his unit with a gun or a blunt weapon in hand. usually, threats work after they see what he can do. usually. tonight, he expects his .380 to work as he treks down the hallway to the sound of the commotion, quick and brutal, and kicks open the door with one foot.
when he points the gun, he doesn’t expect to find a black masked man fighting another, and he can’t make a clear shot like this, especially not with the tenant and her child running past him and into the hallway. he looks at them, then back at the fighting duo, finds that the fight ends quickly with one of them laid flat on their back where the coffee table used to be, unconscious.
frank looks at the other masked man, a smirk tugging at his features because he knows. he knows. he almost calls him by the nickname he’s grown so accustomed to using, but realizes quickly that it wouldn’t be appropriate, not with the all-black attire he wears now.
“matt?” he says, breath labored, tucking the gun back into his pants. “you call the police yet? i know sarah didn’t.”
@gaisgeach / plotted starter.
