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wordywarriorwrites · 5 years ago

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Chapter 2: Nothing Personal

Masterlist: The Boss of Brooklyn A03 Link Author: @wordywarriorwrites Summary: When it comes to being The Boss, James Buchanan “JB” Barnes rules with an iron fist. For him, there’s no room for sentiment, and certainly no time for distraction, even if it is in the form of an old flame. Steve Rogers had bowed out of the life a long time ago, but a twist of fate brings him right back into the fold, and face-to-face with a man he once loved. When a game of cat and mouse turns into a matter of life and death, both will be forced to decide whether they’ll be loyal to the business, or faithful to each other. A/N: Bucky Barnes Mob Boss AU. Stucky. For: Star’s Multi-Fandom Follower Celebration & Sherry’s Fall Into You Challenge. Warnings: Language, violence, drug use, alcohol, smoking, explicit sexual content, illegal activities.

Steve watched with narrowed eyes as the woman behind the counter tongued a lollipop and denied knowing her boss’s whereabouts. He didn’t have time for bullshit, nor was he in the mood to be polite, and when she slurped and lied again, he snapped.

“Go back there and tell him Steve Rogers is here,” he ordered. “Do it, right fucking now, or I will make your death look like an unfortunate choking accident.”

The woman must’ve sensed it wasn’t an idle threat because she immediately dropped the candy into the trash and ran for the office door. Her rapid knocking resulted in her being told to “fuck off,” but the moment she stuttered his name, she was instructed to flip the sign, lock the front door, and get lost.

“Well, well, well,” Sam greeted. “Has the prodigal son finally returned?”

Steve unzipped his jacket, retrieved an envelope from the inner-pocket, and tossed it onto the counter. When Sam broke the seal, a lot of green was revealed, and he motioned for Steve to follow him.

As soon as the hidden panel in the back room slid open, a dark, twisted zing of excitement shot up his spine. This life and the behavior it evoked – it should’ve bothered him, but it didn’t. Like no time had passed at all, Sam followed him around the room, duffel bag at the ready, and packed up his selections. When asked what all the hardware was for, Steve said personal protection, and shoved another envelope of money into Sam’s hand.

“Steve, man, come on…”

“Take it. Call it an apology bonus.”

Sam handed over the bag and pocketed the cash, “He’s in charge now. You know that, right?”

Steve grunted in acknowledgement, but didn’t comment. He’d been in town less than a week and had already heard all about what the man had been up to over the last five years. When Steve had known him, he’d been Bucky, but now, he went by JB, and his former best friend was at the tippy-top of the proverbial food chain.

There were six Families – Barton, Maximoff, Odinson, Stark, Rogers, and Barnes – and all their ancestors had taken a turn at the helm at one time or another. He and Bucky had been raised from birth to own and run the city, but they hadn’t just grown up and come up together – they’d gone through everything together. Puberty; initiation; coming out of the closet; bad breakups; first jobs; high school; college.

They’d even buried their first dead body together.

After graduation, Steve had a position lined up at a lucrative art gallery ripe for money laundering and weapons trafficking. Bucky threw himself in with the politicians and socialites, which provided ample opportunity for extortion and bribery. For nearly a decade, it had been simple, and it had made sense. They’d excelled; honed their skills; brought in more than enough money to appease. It hadn’t been perfect and they’d fucked up a few times, but no matter what, they’d always had each other’s backs.

Then, one night, Bucky got hurt during what was supposed to have been a routine job, and for Steve, it had changed everything…

He’d met Derek at a gallery opening.

They’d hit it off instantly; exchanged numbers; texted for over a week before finally going on a date. Derek was smart, flirtatious, down-to-earth, and so damn good looking. After their second date, Steve agreed to a nightcap, and followed Derek back to his place. The invitation had been a ploy they’d both been in on and they’d barely made it past the threshold.

“I want you,” he panted as he reached for Steve’s belt.

Steve groaned into Derek’s mouth, “You know I have a minimum three-date rule.”

“Which you know I find archaically sexy.”

“I really should go.”

“I really don’t want you to.”

Self-restraint was all well and good, but after such a long dry spell, it was difficult to stick to principle. It also didn’t help that Derek’s hands had found their way beneath his shirt and his mouth had latched onto a particular spot on Steve’s neck that really drove him crazy. He’d been seconds away from asking where the bedroom was when his cellphone rang, and the sound of Bucky’s ringtone brought him up short.

He knew Steve was on a date, but if Bucky was calling, it was important, and that meant he needed to answer. He apologized to Derek and retrieved his phone from his pocket.

“My best friend – he’s just checking in on me,” Steve explained.

“I completely understand and will make myself scarce,” he replied. “Just be sure to tell him how hot you think I am and that I’m not a serial killer, alright?”

Steve just smirked, and as soon as Derek was out of sight and earshot, he accepted the call. He’d been poised to tell Bucky his timing, per usual, was terrible, but the strained voice that rattled out his name killed both his arousal and his humor. Something had gone wrong and he didn’t hesitate – didn’t even tell Derek he was leaving – he just ran out the door, and got into his car. Bucky only managed to give him a street name before he started wheezing.

“I’m on my way,” Steve told him. “Just hang on. I’m comin’ for you, Buck.”

He couldn’t quite recall where exactly where he’d found Bucky, but he distinctly remembered the blood, and how it had looked as it trickled down his chin and spread all over the pavement. His pale face and cold hands; the absolute terror Steve had felt when he couldn’t get his best friend to wake up; the rage, horror, and regret; the frantic drive to the hospital; the nerve-wracking wait.

The Families made a show of support, but their concern for Bucky’s actual well-being had been feigned at best. Bucky had become a popular man, was well-liked in the territories he ran, and was one of the biggest earners they had. If they lost him, business would suffer, and that’s all they cared about.

While they were preoccupied with appearances, retaliation, and continued cash flow, Steve was losing his mind, because the only man he’d ever loved was hanging on by a thread. When they weighed Bucky’s chances of survival against the consequences of retribution, he knew they had to get out.

Bucky lived and recovered; in fact, he’d bounced back faster and better than anyone expected him to, and the fact that he carried on like a good, little soldier had pissed Steve off. The awkward conversation they had about it turned into a heated argument, and it wasn’t until they’d exchanged blows and Bucky had put Steve in a chokehold that he broke.

He admitted how scared he’d been; that he was furious with the Families; he couldn’t stand the thought of him being hurt again; he’d been in love with him since they were kids; couldn’t imagine life without him. Like a sinner who confessed to a priest, the multitude of iniquities spilled and spilled, but he knew there’d be no absolution – not in this lifetime, at least.

Steve hadn’t just blurred the boundaries of their friendship; he’d completely crossed the line. It could’ve been his admission, Bucky’s brush with death, or the fact they were just two, fucked up men with a lot of baggage – whatever it was, it shifted things between them. Bucky hadn’t commented on anything Steve had told him, but he’d definitely reacted. Instead of being restrained with malice, Steve found himself trapped by passion, and no words had been needed for that.

It had meant something to Steve, but for Bucky, it had been nothing more than a pity fuck…

“You know you can’t hide from him.”

He tore himself away from the bitter musings and looked at Sam, “Who says I’m hiding?”

“He’ll go right for your throat.”

“Careful, Sam, or I’ll start to think you actually care what happens to me.”

“You know I always liked you best.”

Steve rolled his eyes and shouldered the bag, “And on that note.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam muttered as they exited the back room.

He took a different route back to the car, but with each step, the sensation of being followed intensified. When he reached the vehicle, he put the bag in the front passenger seat, shut the door, and slowly turned around. A few moments later, Natasha stepped into the alley, and her appearance meant there would be no meeting in Prospect Park.

“Rogers,” she greeted quietly.

“Romanoff,” he replied back.

Natasha took another step forward, “This isn’t personal.”

Steve nodded once, “I know.”

When presented with a difficult decision, the Families either discussed it, ignored it, or threw money at it. They hadn’t invited him for a sit-down, let alone attempted to bribe him, and he knew they wouldn’t have taken him down in public, which meant it wasn’t a fully planned, sanctioned hit.

Bucky would’ve backed down or at the very least done it himself.

JB had pulled rank and sent someone else to do his dirty work.

“Just make it quick,” he told her.

She placed a hand on his shoulder, “I will.”

Steve showed her his empty hands and it lulled her into a false sense of security. She reached for her weapon and he allowed her to. Then, without reluctance or mercy, used her own tactics against her.

An abrupt intake of breath; a sudden cough; a low groan of pain.

The retractable wrist blade had slipped right between her ribs and punctured a lung.

Steve withdrew the knife and watched as Natasha slowly fell to her knees on the dirty, wet pavement. He found her phone in her pocket, thought about using it to call her an ambulance, but reconsidered. Instead, he demanded she unlock it, and after she did, he brought up good ol’ JB’s number.

“Is it done?” he asked by way of greeting.

“No,” Steve answered coldly. “But if you hurry, she might live.”

Chapter 3: Sleight

Everything: @jennmurawski13 @nerdy-bookworm-1998

Steve Rogers: @patzammit @hearttoearth The Boss of Brooklyn: @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @jamesbarnesappreciationsociety @captain-rogers-beard @lilliannaansalla

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nofomoartworld · 8 years ago

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Hyperallergic: Required Reading

Magazines have been having a ball with Trump. These four covers from around the world ‘have dominated chatter about cover design all week. (via the internet)

That time Trump turned down Warhol prints of Trump Tower:

This could explain why he missed out on what would have been a great art deal in 1981, when he rejected Andy Warhol’s series of Trump Tower screen-prints the artist had made for him on spec (Warhol said: “Mr Trump was very upset that it wasn’t colour coordinated.”)

A Turkish mayor banned a Turkish movie directed by Kurdish cultural figure Mahsun Kırmızıgül, Vezir Parmağı (The Finger of the Vizier), claiming that the comedy runs against the national and spiritual values of the country and mocked their ancestor, the Ottoman Empire.

The New York Times‘ Lens blog looks at the history of women in American photojournalism:

Over the last five years, women have consistently accounted for about 15 percent of the entries to the prestigious World Press Photo awards, according to statistics provided by the organization. And the vast majority of photos in many major publications’ collections of the most significant images of 2016 overwhelmingly carried male photographer’s credits — ranging between 80 and 100 percent, a Times review shows.

Christopher Knight reviews Jimmie Durham at the Hammer Museum:

Durham essentially did what any traditional sculptor does, chipping away to give specific form to an existing mass. That he took aim at a household appliance designed to keep perishables from going bad is at once an artistically poetic act and a socially furious encounter. And throwing stones suggests desperation, employed when one has little else for self-defense against hostility or indifference.

Much of Durham’s work is like that, using found objects and simple actions to operate on multiple levels.

Martyrdom as a surprising theological undercurrent is played out in a video, “Stoning the Refrigerator,” which records the making of “St. Frigo.” The Gospel of John tells of Jesus exhorting the mob in defense of a prostitute who is about to be stoned to death: “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.”

Durham does. We’ve got it on tape. He humbly accepts the risk of hypocrisy.

President Barack Obama’s chief photographer Pete Souza has been posting some powerful images on Instagram to mark the end of the Obama presidency. This image was arguably the most powerful (it made me cry):

Remember Alex, the six-year-old boy who wrote President Obama a letter about the Syrian boy photographed in the ambulance. Alex visited the Oval Office with his family the day after the election. “Dear President Obama, Remember the boy who was picked up by the ambulance in Syria? Can you please go get him and bring him to [my home]? Park in the driveway or on the street and we will be waiting for you guys with flags, flowers, and balloons. We will give him a family and he will be our brother. Catherine, my little sister, will be collecting butterflies and fireflies for him. In my school, I have a friend from Syria, Omar, and I will introduce him to Omar. We can all play together. We can invite him to birthday parties and he will teach us another language. We can teach him English too, just like my friend Aoto from Japan. Please tell him that his brother will be Alex who is a very kind boy, just like him. Since he won’t bring toys and doesn’t have toys Catherine will share her big blue stripy white bunny. And I will share my bike and I will teach him how to ride it. I will teach him additions and subtractions in math. And he [can] smell Catherine’s lip gloss penguin which is green. She doesn’t let anyone touch it. Thank you very much! I can’t wait for you to come! Alex 6 years old “

A photo posted by Pete Souza (@petesouza) on Jan 30, 2017 at 2:37pm PST

T.J. Clark writes about artist Paul Nash at Tate Britain:

I came away from the Tate retrospective, as I often do from shows of English 20th-century art, thinking it sad that for so long – for most of the period between the wars – Nash’s gifts as a colourist were kept in a chokehold. I think I see why. The gifts, when the artist gave into them, were essentially for showmanship, for garish, acidic, factitious effects: impossible pinks, sinister yellows, Blake-type battles of sun and moon, the edges of everything sizzling with phosphorescence. But this wasn’t serious – that was its glory, when it came. It was a rush of vulgar desperation, with something of Bonnard’s or Nolde’s turning their backs on reality.

The full text of Bad Feminist author Roxane Gay’s WI12 speech:

Publishing has a diversity problem. This problem extends to absolutely every area of the industry. I mean, look at this room, where I can literally count the number of people of color among some 700 booksellers. There are not enough writers of color being published. When our books are published, we fight, even more than white writers, for publicity and reviews. People of color are underrepresented editorially, in book marketing, publicity, and as literary agents. People of color are underrepresented in bookselling. On and on it goes.

And, of course, it’s not as if there are no people of color who are eminently capable of participating in publishing. We are many but somehow, publishing can’t seem to find us unless we do the work of three or four writers and catch a few lucky breaks. This inability for publishing to find people of color is one of the great unsolved mysteries of our time, I suppose.

The state of digital in the world, 2017:

From Hootsuite’s digital presentation in Singapore (via LinkedIn)

The @BeyonceFan666 fan Twitter account seems to have a really good record predicting the future. It has so far predicted:

Brexit would pass

Trump would win

Beyoncé would be pregnant in Februrary 2017

A fascinating thread looking at the size of cities in ancient Roman empire:

'Ancient cities are TINY' – @gregwoolf on Wilson & Hansen @Clah_Mcr http://pic.twitter.com/U1mh90Bd1B

— Kate Cooper (@kateantiquity) February 1, 2017

McSweeney’s published Trump’s Black History Month transcript verbatim as a column in its humor section, and it works really well:

Last month, we celebrated the life of Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., whose incredible example is unique in American history. You read all about Dr. Martin Luther King a week ago when somebody said I took the statue out of my office. It turned out that that was fake news. Fake news. The statue is cherished, it’s one of the favorite things in the — and we have some good ones. We have Lincoln, and we have Jefferson, and we have Dr. Martin Luther King. But they said the statue, the bust of Martin Luther King, was taken out of the office. And it was never even touched. So I think it was a disgrace, but that’s the way the press is. Very unfortunate.

Required Reading is published every Sunday morning ET, and is comprised of a short list of art-related links to long-form articles, videos, blog posts, or photo essays worth a second look.

The post Required Reading appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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