Chapter Text
Murphy Houses, Crotona Park East 4:13 AM
The flickering light in the dimly lit corridor does nothing to help the detectives currently squatting near the corpse that has bled out.
“Can we get those lights set up, please?” calls Detective Misty Knight as she squints to get a better look. The security cameras and overhead lights have been damaged, leaving the area darkened and the chance of catching the culprit that much more difficult.
A forensic technician brings a light fixed to a yellow stand and sets it up. Misty blinks a few times as her eyes adjust to the onslaught of brightness. She peers down at the body of the White male in his mid-sixties, a bullet wound to his chest; another between his eyes: A professional hit.
“Fuck,” she says, before standing back up.
“What is it?” asks her partner, Colleen Wing.
“Get Fury on the phone right now,” she says, trying to keep her composure. “Tell him someone’s assassinated Giorgiy Baranov. We’re about to have a gang war on our hands.”
xXxXx
Undisclosed Location, Grozny, Chechnya 3:00 PM
The subtle whirring of the tattoo gun is the only sound in the room. Bogdan Baranov, more commonly known as Bucky Barnes, sits quietly staring at the newsfeed on the small, muted television screen fixed to the wall. His left arm feels numb from not having moved it in the past hour, but the tattoo artist is almost finished filling the large five-pointed star with red ink. It looks vibrant against the rest of his sleeve: Gigeresque biomechanical patterns covering the expanse from his shoulder to his wrist.
“Sdelano,” says the artist, as she begins to clean and wrap his arm.
Baranov pays her without a word, pulls on his hoodie and leather jacket, and then leaves. He has a flight to catch and a funeral to attend.
xXxXx
Private Residence, Brooklyn 9:32 PM
The whiskey that slides down Bucky’s throat is harsh, yet calming, as he sits behind his father’s desk in his father’s study. He and his best friend, Steve Rogers, are catching up.
“This is good shit, Stevie.”
“Yeah, well I thought you’d be sick of vodka, Buck.”
He laughs dryly and says, “No one’s called me that for almost five years.”
Steve gives him a mournful smile and says, “Yeah, well, you’re home now.”
They clink their glasses together and drink more of the fiery liquid. Just then, there is a rapping at the door.
“Come in,” Bucky calls out, and a tall, muscular man with a stern face steps inside.
“Mr. Baranov,” he says, glancing between Steve and Bucky. “The Preacher is on the line for you.”
He holds a cordless house phone out to Bucky who gestures for him to bring it nearer. Bucky takes the phone, excuses the man, and mouths to Steve, “Sorry, I gotta take this.”
Steve nods and refills their glasses.
“Hello? Mr. Wilson?”
“Hello, Bucky,” says the man on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry to call so late. I heard you were back Stateside and wanted to offer my condolences before the funeral tomorrow. Your father was a great man and dear friend of mine.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wilson.”
“I want you to know anything you need, manpower or my connections, just say the word,” Paul Wilson says in earnest.
“I appreciate that,” says Bucky. “There is one thing you can do for me.”
“Anything.”
“Can you call the heads of the other outfits who we do business with and tell them to stick around after the funeral? I’m callin’ a meeting.”
“Of course,” says Paul. “Can I ask why, son?”
“Someone knows who killed my father,” says Bucky, as he takes another sip of his drink. “And I intend to find out. Thank you, Mr. Wilson. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
xXxXx
The service flies by quickly. Bucky only remembers holding his kid sister’s hand and his mother resting her hand on his back. He doesn’t cry. Didn’t when he received the news. Didn’t even when he was alone. He won’t, especially not in front of all of these people. People who got up and spoke about his father like he was a generous man. A cornerstone of the community. An immigrant who came to America and worked hard to build a good life for himself. A family man, who provided for his wife and two children.
They left out the parts where he came to the country already an Avtoritet answering to the Pakhan in the Old Country. He was sent to establish a new drug trade, human trafficking, and guns for hire. He built a reputation in organized crime circles, but saw bigger things than what the Pakhan back home saw. He branched out and formed alliances. He befriended arms dealer, Paul ‘The Preacher’ Wilson, and together they built an empire. They laundered money through a handful of nightclubs and eventually invested in and took over a construction company in an attempt to have a lucrative, legitimate business. It also helped to bury bodies in the foundations of buildings when you had your people pouring the concrete.
They left out the part where his wife Winnifred left him, taking her children with her. How Bucky had gotten into trouble and moved back with his father who vowed to straighten him out. How Bucky only ever wanted to prove himself and please his father. How he kicked Bucky’s ass and sent him off to Chechnya when he found out about him and some other boy fooling around together. How his son had only returned because this empire was his birthright and he still had something to prove.
…..
The rain pours down heavily from the grey, cloudy sky. Bucky holds the large, black umbrella over his mother and sister as he stands behind them and watches as his father’s coffin is lowered into the muddy earth. Bucky glances around at the so-called mourners. Heads of other crime outfits, or their representatives. He wonders to himself which one of his father’s allies and friends ordered the hit. It’s not so much about retribution, but the disrespect shown to his family that has Bucky fuming. Bucky has bled for his respect. He’s not going to let someone take it from him the way they snatched his father’s life away. There will be blood, he muses, and it will run through the streets of New York.
…..
“This is fucked up,” says Becca Baranov of the wake happening downstairs, as she takes a puff on the joint her older brother passes to her. “All of these fake ass people out here pretending that they loved Papa.”
“It’s about paying respects,” Bucky replies, his voice coming out strained and laced with a hint of an Eastern European accent.
“If anyone had respect anymore, we wouldn’t have buried him today,” she spits, handing the joint back to Bucky.
“C’mere,” he says, and holds his arms open for her; she falls into them and he hugs her tightly. “Stay up here and get some rest. I’m going into the meeting now. I’ll find out who killed Papa one way or another. I’ll handle it.”
Bucky presses a kiss to Becca’s forehead and then leaves her childhood bedroom. He makes his way down the stairs and into the common areas of their family home. People greet him and offer condolences as he passes. All he can think about is getting them out of there so that his mother will be able to rest.
He heads toward his father’s small meeting room and finds his best friend at the door. They shake hands and hug.
“Everyone in there?” asks Bucky.
“Yeah,” Steve replies.
“Alright,” Bucky offers as he straightens his tie. “Let’s get this over with.”
Steve opens the door and holds it as Bucky steps into the room. Everyone at the table stands as a show of respect. Bucky doesn’t regard any of them as he makes his way to the head of the table. He sits in the leather chair that used to be his father’s; Steve sits at his right and The Preacher at his left. Bucky’s a little startled to see Paul Wilson’s son, Sam, sitting next to him. He recovers quickly, and then addresses everyone.
“Thank you all for meeting with me today,” he starts, glancing around the room; his gaze meets Sam Wilson’s, and he holds it for a beat longer than he does with everyone else. “Let’s cut straight to the chase: My father was murdered. It was unauthorized. It was planned and it was professional.”
He looks around the table once more. Everyone is keeping a straight face. No one betrays what they are thinking in the moment, Bucky included.
“I’m here to step into my father’s place,” says Bucky, and a few people share unreadable looks with one another. “It’s my goddamn birthright. And as the head of this outfit, my first action is to stop the supply of product to everyone.”
“What? You can’t be serious,” says Alexander Pierce.
“Oh, I am dead serious, Mr. Pierce,” Bucky replies. “Someone murdered my father, and until I get some solid information on who that was, no one is getting anything from us. I’m not movin’ any weight until I find out who put the hit on my father.”
“Mr. Baranov, please, you have to see reason,” says Pierce. “We all have businesses to run. We have customers who we need to service. Cutting off our supply isn’t going to get you the answers you’re seeking.”
“Oh, but I think it will. And don’t bother trying to get another connect, word will get back to me, and there are still people out there who don’t want to step on my toes. There are still people who respect the laws that govern us. If I find out any of you have gone to any of my rivals, it’s not going to end well for you,” Bucky says as he stands; Steve stands next to him. “Now if you’d all please leave and don’t come to me unless you have information about my father’s murder.”
No one else says anything, but they all start to leave. The Preacher stays seated, but his son stands up.
“I’ll be out in a minute, Sam,” he says.
“Okay,” Sam replies, trying to keep his gaze averted even though he can feel Bucky’s eyes on him as he leaves.
“Well,” The Preacher starts. “That went better than I thought it would.”
“Yeah, but Pierce is gonna be a little bitch about it,” says Steve, as he pours some drinks for the three of them.
“He’s an entitled prick,” says Bucky as he takes the glass offered to him.
“We’ll need to watch him,” says The Preacher. “Can’t trust any information he gives us, either.”
They tap their glasses together as Bucky says, “Yeah, and I just need one reason to put a bullet in his head.”
…..
There is soft laughter coming from the kitchen as Bucky leans against the doorjamb. He watches as his mother and Sam Wilson wash dishes. Bucky lets his eyes roam over Sam’s form. He was a skinny kid the last time Bucky saw him. Kind of goofy. Now, it seems, he has filled out in all the right places. He is far from the bony teen whom Bucky used to play Mario Kart with to pass the time while their father’s made shady deals behind closed doors. Sam Wilson is all man now and Bucky can appreciate that.
He rolls up his sleeves and clears his throat. Sam turns, but his mother doesn’t.
“Mama, we’ve got staff to do that,” says Bucky as he approaches.
“I know, baby, but I feel like I have to do something,” Winnie replies.
Bucky moves closer and wraps his mother into a hug before kissing her hair and saying, “All you need to do is rest, Mama. Go on. We’ll finish up here.”
She dries her hands on a dishcloth, turns and cups her son’s face, before kissing his forehead.
“Okay,” says Winnie, before placing her hand to Sam’s arm and saying, “Thank you, Samuel. You’re a good boy.”
With that, she leaves the two young men standing side-by-side.
“You don’t have to do this,” says Sam, and his voice is deep and rich and rolls over Bucky like a caress. “I got it. You should rest, too.”
“It’s fine,” Bucky replies as he holds out his hand for Sam to pass a dish to him.
“Okay then,” says Sam, as he hands the dish over. “Hey, I just wanted to say I’m really sorry about your dad.”
His voice sounds earnest and it’s the sincerest offer of commiseration that Bucky has heard since he has returned, besides from his best friend. He turns to take in Sam’s profile. The other man busies himself with washing.
“Thank you,” says Bucky quietly.
Silence pervades a moment until Bucky speaks again.
“I was surprised to see you here today with your dad,” Bucky admits. “Didn’t think you were in with the family business.”
Sam shrugs and then proffers a crooked smile.
“I’m more into being the public face of the business,” he says, and Bucky can see why: He’s stunning up close. “Don’t usually get my hands dirty, but I won’t shy away from it if I need to.”
Now Bucky smiles.
“Is that so?” he asks, his voice low with a hint of teasing that is highly inappropriate for a wake.
Sam looks at him, nods his head, and then turns back to the task at hand. He finishes washing the dishes and Bucky finishes drying them. Bucky notices Sam dragging his gaze over Bucky’s tattoos; he hangs up the dishcloth and leans against the sink. Sam places his hands in his pockets. There’s a tension between them that is palpable.
“Your ink,” Sam finally says, gesturing to Bucky’s sleeve. “It’s pretty badass.”
“Thanks, man,” says Bucky as he tucks his hair behind his ear, and then, lower, “If you ever wanna get a closer look, you just let me know.”
Sam lets out a little huff of a laugh and dips his head, his smile is wide and pretty; Bucky keeps his eyes locked on him.
“Is this what I think it is?” asks Sam, looking up and staring into Bucky’s steely eyes.
“What d’ya think it is?” asks Bucky, while licking his lips.
“I think you’re flirting with me,” Sam replies in hushed tones.
“Is that a problem?”
Sam bites his bottom lip and says, “Not at all.”
Bucky smiles and then reaches into his pocket to retrieve his phone.
“Can I get your number?”
“For what?” Sam asks with a hint of teasing.
“Well, it’s been forever since I’ve been back in New York,” says Bucky, leaning in closer. “Maybe I need someone to show me around.”
“What about your boy, Rogers? Can’t he show you around?” asks Sam, trying to play hard to get with the guy who buried one of his parents a few hours ago.
Bucky laughs, dips his head, and then looks up at Sam through his dark lashes before saying, “The thing about Stevie is he ain’t half as pretty as you.”
Just then, The Preacher steps into the kitchen. He walks over to where Sam and Bucky are standing. Sam instinctively takes a step back, and the tension between him and Bucky fades away and disappointment, on both their parts, replaces it.
The Preacher places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and says, “You did well in there today. Let’s hope someone comes up with the information we need. We’re going to head out now. If you need anything, you let me know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wilson,” Bucky replies, as they shake hands and then hug. “I appreciate you being here with me today.”
“Don’t even mention it,” Paul replies with a comforting smile. “Get some rest. I’ll see you soon.”
The Preacher begins to walk away. Sam offers Bucky a small smile and holds his hand out. Bucky takes it but doesn’t give it a shake.
They hold one another’s gaze a moment before Bucky says, “It was good seein’ you again, Sam.”
“Yeah, it was good to see you, too,” Sam says in earnest. “All things considered. I mean, it’s a shitty situation. I really am sorry for your loss.”
Bucky nods his head, somewhat intrigued by the fact the boy he knew from his childhood seems to be more forlorn about the situation than he is, and it’s his father’s wake.
“Like my dad said,” Sam adds. “If you need anything, just ask.”
“Thank you,” says Bucky while holding out his phone. “So, can I get your number?”
Sam takes the device and types in his details. He passes it back to its owner and says, “Hope to hear from you soon.”
Bucky watches him walk away as he says, “Trust me, you will.”
xXxXx
Thrash Nightclub Meeting Room, Harlem 7:46 PM
“You’ve only been back and in charge for a month, Mr. Baranov,” says one of the men who was under his father’s command. “You sure this is the right call? We are already losing money because you cut off the drug supplies. Now you want to stop the pussy trade?”
“You said we.”
“Excuse me?”
“You said we,” Bucky repeats. “It’s not we, it’s me. I’m the one who has to worry about losses and what direction to take the business now that my father is gone. And it’s my choice. We’re not trading in human flesh anymore. The handlers and pimps, I want them wasted. Send in one of our female hitters, have her give the girls their IDs, and cut ‘em lose. Then we burn it all to the ground.”
“But Mr. Baranov –”
“Do you want to be burnt with the low life pimps?”
“No.”
“Then I suggest you shut the fuck up,” Bucky says as he leans back in his chair. “Dugan, give the order. Everyone else, leave.”
Dugan sees everyone out of the room, leaves Bucky alone, and makes the call. Bucky takes a sip from his whiskey and pulls out his personal phone. He scrolls until he finds the conversation thread with Sam Wilson. He opens it and begins to type out a message.
Bucky: Hey. I know you’re busy but what are your plans for tonight??
Seconds later, Sam replies.
Sam: I’m too busy to be your tour guide 😊
He’s such a little shit, Bucky muses before sending his reply.
Bucky: God you’re cute. That’s not what I’m texting you for. Was wondering if you wanted to come thru the club tonight?
Sam: Which club? You own a few these days, Big Boss Man.
Bucky: Haha. Whatever. I’m at Thrash. Official reopening.
Sam: Aww well that means you’ll be too busy to kick back with the likes of me.
Bucky: I’ll make time for you. Come on. Aren’t you tired of this back and forth?
Sam: IDK. I kinda like it. Are you tired of me?
Bucky: Never tired of you. Tired of texting. Just wanna see you again in the flesh where it aint my father’s funeral lmao
Sam: God you have a morbid sense of humor.
Bucky: Yeah but you like it.
Sam: True. I like you too.
Bucky: I like you more. But come on. You gonna come thru? Have a few drinks and shoot the shit with me?
Sam: That’s all you’re offering?
Bucky: Well what do you want? I’ll give you anything you want.
Sam: Anything?
Bucky: Yeah. Anything.
Sam: Okay. Drinks and maybe a dance. Send a car for me. I’m bringing friends so put us on the VIP list.
Bucky: OK. Done.
Sam: 😊 thank you, Bucky x
Bucky: You’re so welcome Pretty Boy. See you soon xx
xXxXx
Thrash Nightclub Garage, Harlem 11:42 PM
The bass from the music inside Thrash is vibrating through the garage space underneath. Bucky and Steve watch as the car reverses in and the roller door closes. Bucky removes his black tailored jacket and shirt, before pulling on a plastic coverall that zips in the front. He sips his hands into latex gloves and then takes a pistol fitted with a silencer from Steve. They both step toward the car as Bucky taps the butt of the pistol on the trunk. It pops open. There is a young man, around Bucky’s age, bound and gagged inside. There’s blood coming from a wound on his forehead. He is struggling against his ties. His eyes are wide with fear. A bag packed with bricks of cocaine lies next to him.
“Let him speak,” says Bucky, as Steve removes the gag.
He begins to beg for his life right away, breathing heavily and sobbing. Bucky stares down at him.
“Please, Mr. Baranov. It wasn’t my idea. It wasn’t my fault. I was just following orders. Please.”
“Whose orders?”
“Mr. Pierce’s orders. He sent me to the Albanians to re-up.”
“Tape his mouth,” Bucky says to Steve, and the man begins to beg once more as Steve silences him.
“That greedy motherfucker,” says Steve. “What’re we gonna do?”
Before Bucky answers, he points the gun at the man in the trunk and pulls the trigger. The bullet hits him between the eyes, killing him instantly.
“Take the body and the bag and dump them on the steps of the school Pierce’s kids go to,” says Bucky as he removes the coveralls and wraps the gun inside the plastic.
“Burn these and the car,” he adds, before moving his gloves and tossing them on the gun. “Text my burner when it’s done. I don’t want anyone interrupting me for the rest of the night. I got plans.”
xXxXx
The beat from the music can be heard down the block. Sam and his friends, Carol and Maria, are let in ahead of the line by a doorman holding a tablet. Bands are placed to their wrists once inside. The place is packed and it’s a little after midnight. Sam and his friends push their way through the crowd and head towards the VIP area. They show their wristbands and are let through. They find a seat on one of the modular sofas and a waitress comes over. They place their orders and Sam pulls out his phone.
Sam: We’re here in VIP. Where are you? Busy uh?
Bucky: I saw you come in. I’m in upstairs VIP. Leave your friends and come join me.
Sam: Okay. Meet me halfway.
…..
The two men stare at one another as the security guard lets Sam into the space just before the stairwell that leads to Bucky’s private VIP balcony. They share a smile as Bucky places two kisses to each side of Sam’s face in greeting; must be a European thing, Sam muses, even though his skin feels hot from the gesture.
“Hey,” says Sam.
“Hey,” Bucky replies, taking hold of his hand.
He goes to lead Sam up the stairs, but the other man stands in place. Bucky looks down at their hands, and then relinquishes his hold on Sam’s.
“Do you not want this, or?”
“No, I want this,” Sam replies, entwining his fingers with Bucky’s. “I just wanted to skip this part, where we shoot the shit.”
“Alright,” says Bucky, with a devilish grin on his handsome face. “What’d you wanna skip to?”
“How about we go back to my place and I show you?”
…..
The pair mostly keep their hands to themselves on the ride over to Sam’s place. Sam assumes Bucky must be kind of private when it comes to who he hooks up with, because all Sam has wanted to do since he laid eyes on him in the club was melt into him; press against him; be devoured by him, and all Bucky has done is hold his hand.
They ride mostly in companionable silence. Bucky checks his burner phone and is pleased when he is informed that the job has been done. Sam is texting his friends promising them he is okay and that he is on his way to an impromptu dick appointment.
“Sorry,” says Bucky, as he puts the phone away. “Work stuff.”
“It’s okay,” Sam replies, putting his phone in his pocket. “Had to convince my friends I was okay. They’re not impressed I ditched them.”
“Send this to them and tell ‘em their drinks are on me,” Bucky replies as he takes his personal phone out and sends a barcode to Sam, who blesses him with a wide smile.
…..
When they step out of the elevator, Sam switches on the lights and some music begins to play; he then kicks off his shoes. Bucky does the same, looks around the place, and then gives Sam a small grin.
“Grab a seat,” says Sam, pointing to the sofa. “I’ll fix us a drink.”
Bucky nods, removes his jacket, and rests it over the back of the couch. He takes a seat and watches as Sam grabs glasses and a bottle.
Sam brings their drinks, places them on the coffee table, and then takes a seat. There’s some space between him and Bucky, still, Bucky looks at him with a roguish glint in his eyes and says, “What’re you doin’ all the way over there? Come a little closer, baby.”
Sam bites back a smile and slides over nearer to Bucky. They are pressed against one another. Bucky reaches his hand up and runs his thumb over Sam’s cheek. His gaze falls from Sam’s eyes to his lips as he leans in close to Sam’s ear and whispers, “You’re so goddamn pretty. Can I kiss you?”
He draws back slightly to see Sam swallow hard, nod his head, and say, “Yes.”
Bucky smiles and runs his thumb over Sam’s lips before capturing them with his own. The kiss isn’t at all tentative or soft. It is claiming and passionate as Bucky licks into Sam’s mouth and laps at his tongue. Sam moans into Bucky’s mouth and grips at his shirt. Their kiss is searing and wet, desperate yet focused. Bucky reaches for Sam and drags him into his lap without breaking their kiss. He snakes his hand up underneath Sam’s shirt, hungry for the contact. His skin feels warm and Bucky wants to touch and kiss him all over.
They pull apart briefly and Bucky stares up into Sam’s eyes before he drags Sam’s shirt up and removes it from his body. He runs his hands up and down Sam’s back, and then up his sides, before palming at his chest. Bucky leans forward and presses a biting kiss to Sam’s pec, indenting his skin before licking his wet, pink tongue over where he has marked him. He brings his tongue to Sam’s nipple, lapping at him until he moans out loud. Bucky kisses his way up to Sam’s collarbone and then to his neck, sucking at the sensitive skin.
“Fuck,” says Sam as he grinds himself against Bucky’s stiffening cock. “We gotta take this to the bedroom.”
Weakly, Sam slides off of Bucky’s lap and takes hold of both of his hands. He drags him to his feet and then leads him to his room.
…..
Sam is sitting on the edge of his bed, stripped down to his briefs, as Bucky stands in front of him, holding his gaze while unbuttoning his shirt. Sam reaches for his belt and begins to undo it before unzipping his pants for him. The garment falls to the floor as Bucky steps out of his pants and kicks them away. He unbuttons his cuffs and removes his shirt. Sam’s eyes roam over his toned, muscular body, taking in the tattoos that adorn him, set striking against his pale skin. He reaches out a hand to press to Bucky’s chest, ghosting his fingers over the sacred heart tattoo. Sam then trails his hand down to the letters inked over Bucky’s abs that read: Sinner.
“They’re gorgeous,” Sam whispers, almost to himself.
Bucky places his hand under Sam’s chin and tilts his head up so that their eyes meet and says, “You’re gorgeous.”
He leans down to press a searing kiss to Sam’s lips. They draw apart and Bucky straightens his posture, still staring down at Sam as he slips Bucky’s boxer shorts from off his hips. His thick, stiff cock springs forward, so close to Sam’s face. Sam takes hold of Bucky’s hardness and gives him a few deft strokes before licking his tongue over the full length of Bucky’s dick. Bucky places his hand to the back of Sam’s head and rubs small circles with his thumb as Sam hollows his cheeks and sucks Bucky’s big hard cock into his warm wet mouth.
…..
Morning light creeps steadily into Sam’s bedroom windows as the owner of the room sleeps soundly on the bed, thoroughly sated after being fucked into oblivion by Bucky the night before. Bucky watches him, still finding it kind of unbelievable that the devastatingly beautiful man lying there is the same awkward, goofy boy who was his sort-of-but-not-really-friend from his youth. Their fathers were friends, they were just forced together when the occasion called for it. Their lives were kind of the same, Bucky supposes: Sons of criminals. Except, their lives aren’t really the same. Sam’s father used his money to send his son off to Harvard to get an MBA. Bucky’s father sent him to Chechnya to fight for his life and prove he could be ruthless.
Just then, Bucky is drawn from his musing by his burner phone buzzing on the nightstand next to him. He takes one more look at Sam Wilson, before rolling over, sitting up, and answering his phone quietly.
“Yeah?” he says in hushed tones.
“We got a lead,” says Steve on the other end. “Someone from Rumlow’s crew says they know who ordered the hit on your old man.”
“Who?”
“Listen, man, we gotta look into it and we don’t know if this motherfucker is tellin’ the truth –”
“Stevie,” Bucky says impatiently, but quietly so as not to rouse Sam from his slumber. “Fuckin’ tell me already.”
“They said it was The Preacher, Buck.”
“What?”
“They said it was Paul Wilson.”
Bucky makes no reply but ends the call. His head is spinning. This can’t be true. Paul Wilson and his father were friends and business partners. A dull aching sets in at Bucky’s temples as he processes this new information. Then he remembers where he is and who he is with.
He turns to look at a sleeping Sam before gathering his clothes up, dressing himself in the hallway, and slipping away. If The Preacher was responsible for his father’s murder, then Bucky has to retaliate. He knows this. It’s how things are done in their world. He knows what he must do: He has to hurt The Preacher where it counts. An eye for an eye. A loved one for a loved one. A son’s life for a father’s. If the rumor is true, he has to kill The Preacher’s only son, Sam Wilson.