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If one were to talk to Vito Cohen, he would tell you the underground workings of East City to be, in a word, intricate.
At least, that’s what his father had always said. Hundreds of secret lines running against each other, competing for property, prestige, and control. But it was home to Vito. The striking of a match, the sharp scent of booze, the quiet click of a gun—the sensation of it all brought him more comfort than anything else.
It was all a simple game to him. As long as everyone played by the rules, no one had to get hurt. No blood needed to be spilt upon the unwritten lines of the mafia.
But oh, how easy it was to cross those very lines…
It was a messy business, but it had a certain charm. In a world where riches only came by way of military and alchemic brilliance, a small life of crime didn’t seem so bad after all.
“And even if that damn military does manage to pull out one of our seams,” His father would say as he made his son shoot rounds well until dawn. “We’ll just keep digging deeper. It’s hard to smother something that’s already extended into the cracks of society’s foundation.”
Vito wasn’t “in charge,” as some might put it. He was just a capo, various amounts of soldiers under his will and pleasure to command. He reported to the underboss twice a week, and the rest of the earnings were his for the taking. No one of real importance.
But being him had its benefits, or course. The devilishly handsome, dark-haired Mr. Cohen, with a strong jaw and broad shoulders that could intimidate any man or seduce any woman. He took nothing but the best, and left the remainder for dead. Yes, perhaps he did have a slight problem of wanting too much—silken Aerugian suits and white marbled staircases tended to lean on the expensive—but it was a price he was willing to kill for.
“Life is a game of chess,” Vito had heard many a time by some of the higher-ranking members of East City. The game seemed to be the pinnacle of high society, the ultimate achievement of a man wealthy in mind, body, and soul. Vito owned a very fine set back in his manor, an ivory collection from Creta. He had never played the game itself, but he loved keeping it on display right in the front room. It became a bit of an obsession for him, the pieces staring down at each other across the battlefield.
The idea was simple enough—all one needed to do was to become the strongest piece on the board, and victory was yours. And the way things were going, it was only a matter of time before he scored it off as the King.
Vito walked past 5th Avenue, trailing his gun lazily along the cracked facades of the alleyway. There were a few places he could go tonight to unravel—brothels and speakeasies crammed behind hidden doorways and secret passageways. But even those seemed more scarce than usual. Something about the growing presence of the military.
The darkened street he had wandered off into was entirely deserted, the ground still damp from that afternoon’s rainstorm. Vito cursed as the muck slogged onto his brand-new shoes. He was already in a foul mood from earlier as the military had busted one of his prostitute rings again. It was getting harder and harder to remove any evidence of himself from the crime scenes. All he wanted now was a hard shot of liquor, and perhaps a pair of lips he could convince to stay the night.
He had only reached the end of the street when Vito found himself being thrown quite literally against the side of the wall, his back slamming into the cold brick behind him. He immediately reached for his gun, intending to shoot whatever imbecile had the nerve to attack him on his own turf.
He was met with not the tip of a gun, but fingers poised to snap just below his neck.
The man took advantage of Vito’s surprise, and the gun was forced from his fingers in a matter of seconds. It fell to the ground with a dull clatter, the sound ringing throughout the alley before his attacker finally spoke.
“You put a hit out on my Lieutenant?”
It took a moment for Vito to realize who this man even was. Military, of course—there was no mistaking that navy uniform. Long black hair creeping into even darker eyes, complexion slightly more eastern than the typical Amestrian. But the sight of stark white gloves with that blood-red symbol gave Vito every answer he ever needed.
“Mustang.” He growled.
The Colonel smiled. “That’s right.”
The Flame Alchemist. A minor nuisance, at least on paper. One of those “idealist” officers who couldn’t be bribed or scared off. But one would run into trouble if you pushed too far—he had a nasty habit of setting things on fire.
Mustang’s free hand found Vito’s collar, pushing him firmly against the wall. “I believe I asked you a question. Did you or did you not put out a hit out on Lieutenant Hawkeye?”
Vito’s mind reeled. Hawkeye? Why did that sound familiar? It wasn’t like he could remember every person he put a hit on. As long as the job was done, the boss had no reason to complain. Besides, what was another soldier to them, anyway?
Vito tried to regain his composure (not an easy thing to do when pinned the way he was). “I have no idea what you’re even talking about. But I hope ya know that the last person who threatened me ended up at the bottom of the river.”
The grip on his collar only tightened. “I suggest you try a little harder to remember.”
Vito kept his eyes trained on Mustang’s fingers—still and silent, never shaking. He swallowed. He had never liked fire. It was wild, ruthless even. Something that couldn’t be controlled or predicted. And it burned all too easily. His heart pounded a little faster in his chest.
“Look ‘em in the eyes, son. Never let them see that they get to you.”
Vito tried to control his breathing. This was just a game. A game he was familiar with, one which he knew how to win. He lifted his gaze to Mustang’s hardened eyes—black as coal, barely containing the rage within.
Vito clenched his jaw. All men feared something—surely Mustang did as well.
Hawkeye. The name rattled inside his head once again, this time giving clearer memories that began to form. Lieutenant Hawkeye. Yes, that’s right—the sniper who had incapacitated five of his men in under a minute. They had run into Mustang’s unit about a week ago, right in the middle of an important drug transfer. An easy-enough job for five soldiers on the ground, even with Mustang’s blasted alchemy. But they hadn’t accounted for the one stationed on the roof.
Vito jutted out his chin with a smirk. “You’ve got one hell of a sharpshooter, for sure. But your girl’s gotta pay for what she did.”
Evidently, this was the wrong thing to say. Mustang’s eyes narrowed into slits, and suddenly Vito felt his head slam into the wall. Stars spun before his eyes, a piercing ringing resounding in his ears. Anger immediately flooded into his veins.
“You bastard! I swear I’ll kill you, you motherfu—”
“Now you’re going to listen me to very carefully.” Mustang’s voice remained strangely calm, his gloves still gripping the sides of Vito’s collar. “If you want to come after me, fine. That’s your decision. But you don’t touch my men, especially not her.”
Vito spat in Mustang’s face, only to receive a punch to the gut in return. “Some hell of a way for a military man to act—”
“I didn’t say anything about the military.” Mustang was breathing hard now, every word carefully controlled and deliberate. “This…this is between me and you. Nobody sees, nobody knows.”
Vito glared at Mustang. Never once in his life had he been threatened like this. Since the time he was seven, he could walk into a room and command absolute respect. Anyone who dared to think otherwise met the end of his barrel in a matter of seconds.
“You think you can order me around, Mustang? I own this damn city! I’ll do with your Lieutenant whatever the hell I wan—”
But Vito suddenly found himself choking, rasping slightly. Eyes bulging, he turned with horror towards Mustang, who was watching Vito like he was suddenly a very interesting specimen.
“What…what are you…”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret.” Mustang said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Do you want to know how I’m able to create fire? It’s simple, really. I just manipulate the oxygen already in the air. Quite useful for flame alchemy, but it does have…other uses.”
Vito’s windpipe felt like it was squeezing in on itself, his chest screaming beneath him. Strange, gurgling noises escaped from his lips beyond his own control.
Mustang retained his grip on Vito, his tone void of any emotion. “I imagine it becomes quite difficult to breath when all the oxygen in your bloodstream is rendered useless.”
“Please…” Vito managed to gasp out. He clawed desperately at his throat. Black spots danced before his eyes.
“That depends entirely on you.”
I don’t want to die—what a childish request. And yet, it screamed through every part of Vito. He had seen the fear in his victim’s eyes as they pleaded and begged during their final moments of life. Some had shrieked uncontrollably, others had whimpered pitifully. And still there were those who stared straight at him with defiance until the very end.
Everyone had something to lose: money, power, loved ones waiting for them back home. But Vito thought of none of these things as invisible fingers seemed to wrench out the very breath inside of him. All he could see was his ivory king, fallen and defeated.
Finally, Vito let out a single nod. There was an immediate snap, and his lungs were instantly filled with fresh, clean air once again. Vito fell to his knees, coughing and spluttering uncontrollably.
A spark ignited right above him, and Vito looked up to see Mustang standing over him with a solitary flame dancing in the palm of his gloved hand. The Flame Alchemist stared down at him with contempt, dark eyes empty of any light.
“It’s a rather simple game you play, Mr. Cohen.” He said softly. “You make it your life’s mission to rise above the rest, caring nothing about the lives you destroy along the way. Those who fly too close to the sun are sure to fall in the end.”
Mustang then knelt to Vito’s level, the flame in his hand lighting the Colonel’s face in a ghostly luster.
“You’ve threatened what’s most precious to me. It’s only fair that I do the same to you.”
Vito’s gaze never left the fire. He said nothing, only watching the flame burst and pop in an effort to escape the confines that Mustang had set. He had no desire to add to that fuel.
“You will remove the hit on Lieutenant Hawkeye by tomorrow morning.” Mustang snarled as he stood again and turned away from Vito. “And I swear to you, if anything happens to her, I will find you and I will kill you in the most excruciating way I know how.”
As Mustang walked away, Vito closed his eyes, savoring the still-beating rhythm of his heart. It thumped in an irregular pattern, continuously trying to recover from almost being suffocated.
There was a sudden drizzle coming from above, and Vito looked upwards to see droplets of rain pouring from the heavens. Thunder rumbled softly from farther away. Vito focused on the retreating back of the Flame Alchemist.
“Are you afraid of dying, Colonel Mustang?” Vito found himself blurting out.
Mustang stopped dead in his tracks, the rain soaking through his hair and black overcoat. He didn’t look back.
“No.”
-
The scent of lilacs still lingered about her.
She must have showered just a few hours ago, though the smell of her shampoo didn’t quite mask the ever-present company of gunpowder. Her uniform was pressed and clean, blonde hair pinned neatly in her usual hairstyle, lips forming words he was only half-hearing.
“—seems the Luciano Syndicate has quieted down. There’s even been rumors of Vito Cohen hiding down in the South.”
Lieutenant Hawkeye stood before him, reading him a stack of reports like she did every morning. At his silence, her eyes flickered to his, specks of gold blending into the amber surrounding them. Roy resisted the urge to brush the bangs away from her face.
It had been two weeks since his little midnight excursion in the alleyway. Vito Cohen had delivered a final parting gift on his desk the following morning—a .38 caliber revolver with the bullets missing. Handcrafted from Drachma, very fine workmanship. Roy had closed his eyes and let out a quiet sob he’d been carrying since Breda had pulled him aside with Cohen’s hit on his breath.
He never told Hawkeye about any of it.
She would not appreciate the sentiment of his actions. Not in the slightest. Especially if it meant someone getting hurt on her account, no matter how despicable that someone happened to be.
His Lieutenant was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. He knew that better than anyone. Hell, she was his bodyguard for crying out loud. But her life wasn’t something he was willing to gamble with.
Let me pretend, Lieutenant. At least for now. Let me pretend that I can give you more than just pain at my hands.
“Sir?” Hawkeye’s voice pulled him back to the present. “Are you alright?”
Roy glanced at her, noting the crease at her forehead, the slight frown of her mouth. How he yearned to make his Lieutenant smile again.
He waved her off with feigned impatience. “It’s nothing, Lieutenant. Don’t worry about it.”
Hawkeye narrowed her eyes, but said nothing more of the matter as she continued through the reports. Roy stared at the floor, not meeting her eyes.
She’d find out eventually—she knew him too well to think otherwise. And he already knew the pain and worry and concern she would express over it. Roy was well aware of the trouble his temper could get him into. But whenever she was involved…all logic seemed to flee when her life was on the line.
Do you fear death, Colonel Mustang?
No, he thought solemnly as his Lieutenant walked a half step behind him as they headed out a few hours later on yet another drug bust. Hawkeye cocked her handgun, standing at his side. She was his strength, his protector, his queen.
No, he didn’t fear his death.
He feared a life without Riza Hawkeye.