"He's my brother." The picture went into his shirt pocket, a cigarette and lighter came out. He didn't look up for a while, occupied with lighting the aforementioned cigarette. "I guess it's the best picture they have." It was a playful quip, one he didn't feel bad about making. But a little suspiciously, blue eyes searched the other man's face. Who was that friend? And would that friend be after him in due time as well? And how long did he have to keep on running?
"I did nothing wrong." Hypothetically, of course. He'd stolen businesses, goods and killed the wrong people, which hadn't sat well with some of the rivaling gangs in Chicago. Judging from where they were, his best guess was that they'd roped in other mafia families in the search. Hesitation rang clear in his voice as he finally dared to say the words. "I shouldn't be asking you who your friend is." Truth was, he didn't want to know. "I filled the tank though. It's good to go."