A/N: A bit of backstory for the masses. Here is your reason for Genny's leaving New York.

Disclaimer: I own Genny, Michael Gibson, and no diamonds what-so-ever.

The next morning, I woke up with a one pound block of cold dread settled in my stomach. I couldn't figure out where the feeling was coming from but my reporter's intuition was telling me it wasn't good. I didn't get out of bed for a good twenty minutes. Instead, I just laid there and tried to melt the block of ice in my abdomen.

Last night, when I got home and settled, after the most embarrassing adventure of my life, I'd decided I was going to do some fieldwork today. I needed to figure out who the guys that kept showing up around me were. There were more options than I wanted to consider. It wasn't that I went about asking for trouble; the trouble just sort of found me.

Fieldwork, at least at this stage, consisted of calling my old acquaintances to see if anything had come up. The first person I thought to call was my old partner in New York. He'd been right beside me when I'd almost been shot, twice. He was there when I was told to move to London too. If this problem had anything to do with what had happened in New York nearly a year ago, Max would know.

I sat down on the couch with a strong cup of black coffee, a knot in my throat, and my old address book in my hands. I hadn't spoken to any of these people since I'd left. The police, and my boss, had told me it would be a better idea to just let things cool off for a while. So I did as I was told and left my old life behind.

The whole problem had started about two years ago, all because I was so interested in the old Hell's Kitchen neighborhood and the gang that resided there. Alright, so gang is a little bit of an understatement; more like the mob. I'd always thought about myself as less of a reporter and more of an investigator. I was thrilled when I received the title of "investigative reporter", in fact. Anyway, I wasn't at all afraid to do a little dirty work and mosey into the neighborhood myself, uninvited as I was.

Back then, you could still find people who called the place "Hell's Kitchen", though it was renamed to Clinton by then. Clinton made it sound cozy and suburban, but the reputation remained. However, people were starting to let their guard down. The Westies, the part of the Irish Mob who ran the place, had all but disappeared and, though people were still getting shot, the mob boss was gone.

Bosco "The Yugo" something or other, was the old boss back then. Still is, probably, though he's been arrested now. Part of that is thanks to me, but my name won't be cropping up anywhere in that story. At least, not the name the British know me by. My own family isn't allowed to call me by that name anymore, though I don't have enough family to have to worry about that. Not as though I have a worried mother calling me at all hours.

Anyway, back to Bosco and his gang. In the nineties, the Irish-Americans were being pushed out of the neighborhood by the African-Americans and the Hispanics. No one really had a problem with that, except for the Westies. Of course they'd have a problem, they're the mob. The mob always has a problem. The Westies were still stealing all manner of things and they were enlisting the aid of anyone they could convince to help; African-Americans and Hispanics included.

I came in after a lot of money and a lot of rocks went missing. Not just any money, Michael Gibson's money. Mr. Gibson was the richest man in New York – possibly the western hemisphere – at the time and he had anyone and everyone he could find working on his case. The cops and I didn't know that it was all just a set up. While we were busy looking for magic money, they were off doing bigger things. You know, murder and that.

The major problem lies in the rocks I found that I wasn't supposed to find. Not your average rocks, of course. I'm sure Mr. Gibson wouldn't care if I took some pieces of sandstone off his front lawn. These were diamonds – blood diamonds if you're interested – and I found them by accident, of course.

I turned them over to the authorities, absolutely. After all, I was already getting a huge chunk of change for uncovering that Michael Gibson was a member of the Irish Mob and that Bosco was still in New York. Nothing much came out of the court cases but I had my money and I was happy. At least, until people started showing up at my apartment with guns and angry looks on their faces. What they were angry about, I didn't really know. Honestly, I didn't really care. I just wanted them off my doorstep and in a jail cell.

I couldn't shake them, the cops couldn't find them, and even if they could they couldn't charge them with anything because it was all hearsay anyway. I was up the river without a paddle and I needed a quick way out. So, I got a new name, a new social security number, a new lease on life, and an apartment an ocean away from New York.

If this really was the Westies – if Bosco "The Yugo" has come back to haunt me – lets just say, things were going to get complicated.

My phone rang sometime between my reminiscences and I looked down at it, thinking how odd it would be if Max were calling me. It wasn't Max though, and something about that comforted me.

"Genny, is this a bad time?" He sounded a little flustered and a lot nervous and I thought that was probably normal for him.

"No, it's alright, Jonathan. I was just doing some research for work. What's going on?" I put on my nice girl voice and tried to care about what he was saying.

"There's something going on here that I think you'd be interested to know about." Okay, now I cared. How would he know what I was interested in?

"Oh, really?" I didn't have to try to sound intrigued this time. I honestly was.

"Yes, there are some people here asking about you. They look rather familiar. They don't seem to know your name though." He paused, as if he was waiting for a response, and then said, rather hurriedly, "Oh, I have to go. Is it alright if I stop by tonight?"

I couldn't imagine why he would want to get his nose stuck in this nasty business, couldn't he tell that this was out of control already?

"Yeah, alright. I'll be here. What time?"

"About nine or so. We have a show tonight but I should be able to dash out just after." I heard him cover the mouthpiece and say something to someone rather angrily but I couldn't understand it, "Got to go. See you tonight."

He hung up before I could say bye and I was left wondering who those men down there were. It certainly couldn't be good.