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Requiem For A Conqueror

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Requiem For A Conqueror

Post by Guest on Wed Jul 04, 2012 6:11 pm

"So, ya' see, it just ain't fukken' fair! The way things are going, the way he's treatin' me - like shit! Like absolute shit, Don Falzone! And there ain't nothin I can do!" Marco Falzone nodded calmly. The pale sunlight of the Cerisian afternoon pierced the tinted glass windows and allowed a humble illumination, shadowing the form of Antonio, the black-suited bodyguard standing, arms behind his back, in front of the left window.

The office was lavish. Marco ran his hands, one of them clutching a light-brown cloth, along the rail and frame of Hawk, his Luger, as vigorously as he could. Beneath his single eyeglass, a look of determination fathomed the pistol; the sunlight was glinting off of the golden frame and the embedded diamond inlays. There had been a little of a rough noise in the barrel, the last time he'd fired - a collection of gunpowder residue, as expected.

The desk was mahogany, and behind it was a comfortable-looking black leather chair, suited to Marco's slender frame. Over its back hung a simple black trench-coat, and, behind him, on a varnished hat-rack, sat four fedoras, on a total of four pegs, encompassing a monochromatic colour spectrum; white, grey, charcoal, and black. The Don himself was only wearing a simple black waistcoat and tie, over a white shirt, with gold cuffs, and black dress slacks. His shoes were the same as always; simple loafers, only worth a few hundred dollars. Comfortable and tailored exactly to the size of his feet.

Click. The cleaned rail slid back into the Luger with a satisfying noise. Marco made a pleased smile, as if to say 'good enough', and then drew back the pistol's slide. A second, resounding click ran through the room, and a moment later, a third, as he slid a full clip of copper-jacketed .32 ACP rounds into the pistol, and held it limp at his hand. The man opposite Marco, sitting in the centre of three humble chairs upon an artistic, Ishvallan rug, eyed the pistol cautiously for a moment, before reminding himself of Don Falzone's fairness, alleviating all his fears. Marco opened one of countless draws with a light, humming tone upon his closed lips, not bothering to grace the man with eye contact just yet, and grasped the cleaner and rag, setting them down gently inside the desk, before shutting it, and placing both hands on the table. "So," Marco said lightly. He looked from the drawer, to Antonio, at his side, and, then, finally, back to the man opposite.

There was an uneasy silence as a telltale smile slipped onto Marco's face. What was the man asking him to do? Actually, that was a good question. "What do you want me to do?" He rose his hands momentarily, before letting them fall slack with a gentle chuckle. What could he do? "I mean, Jimmy, he's my son," Marco pointed his hands, and, along with them, the Luger, inwards at his chest, momentarily. "What do you want me to do, whack him?"

The man began to mutter as Marco's laughter finished, placing his hands down on the table. "Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad fukken' idea..." Marco's face froze in shocking retort. It wasn't obvious; his mouth wasn't agape, and his eyes not opened wide with entire disbelief, but at least the message was clear: bad move. All-too-quickly, Jimmy realised what he'd said wrong, and rose his hands in apology, the colour of his skin quickly turning to a hot, burning red. "I'm sorry, Don Falzone, I didn't mean it, I really didn't-"

CRACK.


The Luger had been raised to Marco's chest. Without a speck of remorse on that face of his, he'd fired a single round. It had pierced the simple button-up shirt of the rotund man with ease, and the force of the bullet knocked Jimmy's fat body reeling, sending both him and the chair backwards. The Luger rounds were notoriously useful, especially here; the way the bullets mushroomed on impact meant that there would be no blood splatter whatsoever, and whilst the round had penetrated flesh, vein, bone, and sinew entirely in unison, it had stopped before exiting straight out, and possibly soaking the chair with blood.

Silence save for the echo of the gunshot hang on the room. Marco set the Luger down with a sigh, and leant back on the chair, smiling with relief. He gestured up to his side, and almost immediately, Antonio moved over to Jimmy, behind him, and picked up the slovenly-looking, fallen, bloodied body, still already warm. "Whatcha' want me ta' do with him, boss?" Marco shrugged, reaching for a matchbox and flipping open a case of Esparian cigars, propping one to his slender lips with a smile, and lighting a match. Pre-cut, of course. He didn't enjoy using a cigar chopper.

"I don't mind," Marco spoke, truly indifferent in his tones of voice, as the phosphorus flame caught the match. He rose a thin, gloved hand to his mouth, rolling the cigar and torching the edge of it as he gently chomped on the thin clump of dried tobacco within. This continued for a good few seconds until the edge of the cigar was entirely singed, and the strong, evident, dry smell of the humidified tobacco leaf smoke filled the room with thick, grey smoke. Marco breathed out, finally, and finished his sentence, extinguishing the match with a flick of his wrist, shutting the case, and making adequate hand movements as he drew in the smoke, satisfied, leaning back once more. "Just get him outta' here before he starts to stink, will you?"

Antonio nodded humbly, and obliged him, shutting the door behind him as he moved. The room was silent as the handle clicked into place once more, save for the crisp sound of the cigar's length burning. Marco dropped the used match into a bin, and sighed once more, running his free hand beneath the length of his hair. The corridors outside his office were, too, silent; no-one in this building, no-one in the Underworld, no-one in Napoli asked questions when one of Marco's men dragged a gunshot wound victim along the corridor, ready to lug him along and dispose of him. His word was final; his law and rule absolute. He smiled, and removed the cigar from his mouth, smiling at it. Jimmy was another loose end tied up. The man had been a thorn in his side for months; and he was only an associate, but, their parents had been friends. The man was an asshole, however - Marco had needed a reason to get rid of him for a long time.

In a few minutes' time, Antonio appeared in the doorway, smiling curtly and dusting off his washed hands. The room was thick still with the smell of cigar smoke, though most of the smoke itself had ascended to the higher reaches of the office, and dissipated. As Antonio went to enter once more, Marco again held up his hands, exhaled the current mouthful, and spoke coolly. "If you could get someone to fetch Dimitri, Massino, and my son, for me," The Don asked; Antonio nodded his head humbly, and obliged, darting back out to the end of the corridor to rope some poor soldier together to take care of it for him. All three of them were likely on the estate. He looked back to the cigar in the moment's silence he had, sitting alone in his office.

Marco sighed, smiling gently to himself, before muttering an idle, egotistic phrase. "It's good to be king,"

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Re: Requiem For A Conqueror

Post by Guest on Wed Jul 04, 2012 11:21 pm

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The antique cuckoo clock's second hands made their rounds, anticipation building to when it would finally make its chime. One that never came through. Below it was a lavish, gold laced king-size bed, curtains drawn around it except for one which hung sloppily, having been knocked down. Movement could soon be seen under the blankets, until finally a blonde head of hair, messy from sleep, popped out from the corner. Next a hand, firmly grasping a bottle of red wine, sluggishly found its way out from underneath the golden oasis in the center of the dark room.

Light shone through the lone window there, bouncing off of the end table and dotting the room with a calming glow. Finally the man pulled himself up with a grunt, grabbing his boxers from the floor and sliding them on before grabbing his head. Taking a few steps towards the window, he then closed the curtains and turned back around.

"What the hell happened last night...?" the man managed to say, pinching the end of his pipe and lifting it from the nightstand. All he could remember was being at this fancy restaurant, and then... nothing really. Lighting the pipe, he puffed what was left of the tobacco until all that remained was ash. Exhaling, he dumped the contents into the glass ashtray on the stand.

Hearing movement from within the bed, his ears perked up. Looking around, he noticed that for some reason his rifle, Giada as she liked to be called, was already pieced together and in the corner. Slowly he walked to her, attempting to make no sound at all. Click. The only sound that seemed to last a lifetime came as he picked up his lovely firearm. That's when he made his move back towards the bed.

One... Easing closer, he could hear breathing. This could be bad.

Two... Closer still. More movement under the blankets.

"Three!" Using the barrel of the rifle, he jerked up the sheets, revealing three beautiful mounds of flesh, all turning seductively, still half-asleep. False alarm. Just the usual in the life of Massino Vecchi.

Lowering his baby along with the covers, and nibbling on the end of his pipe, Masi released a drawn out sigh before making his way to the closet. He was already late for the meeting, and if his hunch was right, one of the boys would be over to get him soon. Or, more appropriately, one of their boys would be.

Grabbing a pair of military style pants first, he slid them on. The a light-blue shirt, almost a tight fit, but flexible. Socks, boots, scarf, jacket, and he was ready to go. Slowly he stumbled back over to the bed, almost losing his pipe, but he saved it with a mid-air chomp.

"Ladies, Masi needs to be on his way..." He then slowly pulled the blankets up, the girls looking at him lovingly. "You probably should be too." A jerk, and the girls were left to their own warmth. The Don probably wouldn't like it if he found out he had a woman with him in here, let alone three.

Ignoring their squabbling, the sniper quickly disassembled Giada, putting her back in the already open violin case, and slid his knife, his darling Natalia, into his inner jacket pocket. Soon an all too familiar sound came upon his door. Knocking.

"Massino? You awake yet?" Masi didn't recognize the voice. Must have been one of the mooks that hung around here as help, if you could even call them that. They were pretty worthless in the Omicida's eyes, but every man did have a purpose. Even if it was to brown nose and kiss asses.

"Yeah, let me get my dick out of your mother before you come bargin' in here, eh?" The knocks only grew louder, until Masi opened the door. The man standing below him, at least six inches shorter than him, had the reddest face he believed he'd ever seen on a human. Hell, even a lobster.

"The Don wants..."

"To see me? Yeah. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, short-stack. Go clean your face off, you look like the devil used you for asswhipe duty." Turning down the hallway, Masi left the runt to his business, trying harder to remember everything he did last night than care about one of the many subordinates around this place. Eventually he just dropped the thought altogether, simply hoping it was something Marco wouldn't be pissed about if he knew.

A few halls and doors later, and he finally found himself in front of the meeting room. Marco's personal 'Get-In-Here-Discuss-Things-If-You-Piss-Me-Off-You're-Probably-Dead' room. From the smell of things, literally, he could tell something had already went down here. Blood, sweat, and fear was radiating off just the double doors. Giving another one of his long sighs, the man finally pushed his way in in a respectful manner, taking off his scarf and laying it on the coat rack, along with his trench coat. Finally he rested Giada's case at the wall.

"Don Falzone..." He greeted himself, giving a polite nod towards his boss, kissing his cheek in greeting as Marco stood in return, before they both took their respective seats. His eyes never met Marco's. There was a higher order to be respected and upheld here. He would not make another move, say another word, or even smoke from the pipe now hanging from his teeth until everyone had arrived. Massino Vecchi may have been a dick to most people, and probably deserved a lot less than he got from this family, but if there was one person he would always hand over his power and life to, it was The Don.

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Re: Requiem For A Conqueror

Post by Guest on Wed Jul 11, 2012 7:54 pm

"No, no, no and yet again no!!" Dimitri couldn't help but shake his head and let out an exasperated sighs as he listened to the fool on the other end of the line."But Mr.Amato I- Now Dimitri knew he should have listened to the poor mans excuses but in all honesty once you've heard one man plead his case, you've heard them all. The only thing that changed where the circumstance, and he was more then intimately with this particular set of circumstance."I can understand what your saying Carlo, That still doesn't change the fact that you BROKE the law! And whats more you let someone see you do it" He moved his hand to the bridge of his nose and rubbed, letting his eyes drift closed he leaned back in his fine leather chair."Now im good, but even i cant get you out of this with a reliable eye witness testifying against you. Now if said witness was no longer a problem well im sure i could work something out, but she isn't likely to up and vanish now is she?" He paused for a second hoping what he said would actually manage to sink in. IT seemed like it had."Of course not sir, Thank you."

His eyes snapped open and a small smile came to his mouth as he gazed around his small office if homey office. Everything from his window drapes to his seats and desk coverings where done in white with purple and gold trim and highlights."No need to thank me Carlo i haven't done anything." He hung up his phone and set it on his desk then gazed out his window at the clear blue sky."Youd think blackmailing witnesses would be an old trick by now..." Ahh well if people knew all the answers he would be out of a job.

It was at times like this that Dimitri liked to mull over the coming day and the business he would have to attend to. Soon he knew Marco would call for him as he did most mornings to go over the days agenda, after that well...Today was mostly free baring any unforeseen circumstances. What to do...what to do?

He glanced up at his old fashioned cuckoo clock just as the little bird peeped out from behind its wooden shutters and smiled. It always brought back good memory's and that was the main reason he kept the obtrusive thing around. One must always find some reason to smile at work sonny boy was one of the many old sayings his father had drilled into him, along with anything worth doing is worth doing right or never trust a skinny bartender. That last one turned out to be true."She was such a pretty gal..." and she had been, long legs, pale smooth skin, soft hair and an ass that you could just die for....But the knife had kinda ruined it for him.

Knock, knock,knock

With a small laugh he stood straitened his tie and patted his hat into place. He glanced his coat hook and contemplated for about a second then decided against taking it.

Knock, knock,knock!

This time the knocking was more persistent and Dimitri couldn't help but sigh.Im coming, im coming." He opens the door and nods to the man waiting outside for him."Dimitri the Boss wants to see ya." He only nods before striding from his office, the much taller man having to hurry a little to keep up with Dimitris short quick strides."So hows your family doing? Good i hope?" He really didn't pay attention to what the other man had to say after that, just made the nods and sounds of appreciation and asked a question or two but everything else was in one ear and out the other.

He neared the Dons door and slowed a little and nodded his thanks to his escort. before knocking lightly and opening the door. He glanced around the room and nodded to both men that currently occupied it."Marco, Masi" He takes a seat infront of Marcos desk and removes his hat."Whats on todays docket gentlemen? Or are we waiting on your son boss?"

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Re: Requiem For A Conqueror

Post by Guest on Wed Jul 18, 2012 6:30 pm

"He killed another one, didn't he." It wasn't a question; it was a rhetorical statement infused with a slurry of discomfort. Santino Falzone whirled around from his desk in a spin chair with a rather distinct look. This look meant business. "Was it Jimmy?" The solemn man standing in the doorway nodded, playing with his waistband that was obviously too tight. Weight. Gaining weight. The entire situation had gained so much weight that a man was now dead because of it. If only treadmills could slim down occasions such as these. Santy sighed, waving the man in. His name was Barboa Moretti, honorary family member since the dawn of time--well, his own time that is. He was also 240 pounds and counting considering the burger in his left hand accompanied with a bag from a fast food joint down the street. The young man rolled his eyes and shook away a band of blond hair from his inquisitive stare. "Hold on." Followed by a pointer finger and a turn of the hips. Santy was back facing the papers on his desk, pushing up his thick rimmed glasses to better see the scrawl of various formulas on the page. "Needta figure this out real fast."

"The Don asked ya ta go see'im now thagh," Barb replied quickly, running a hand through his greasy, mouse brown hair. "'an't let down Antonio." The dialogue was met with unsteady silence, Santy muttering incoherently to himself while biting a pencil and pointing at things as if an invisible friend were sitting beside him and he was explaining the definition of existence to 'im. Well, sorta. It was more along the lines of inventing a new kind of alkahestry that not necessarily healed, but more along the lines of fooled. A callus smirk slid across his lips and he raised his bronze eyes once more to meet Barb's stormy grey.

"I got it, I got it. Just gimme a sec." He turned to pour back over the stacks of notes, writing random bits of information in the margins of the notebook paper riddled with sporadic numbers, letters, and weird designs of muscles. It was so he didn't forget. On the next page, was a sketch of the entire blood system of the human body, showing veins transgressing into other veins, branching out like trees and leading to the heart. Barb took a step back, itching to eat his burger, but knowing if he failed his task, he'd end up like Jimmy...or worse. Barb was a lame sorta guy, the type that Santy wanted to beat into shape--like an egg just cracked. He wanted to whip it and cook it into something worthwhile, but Barb wasn't the heat-on-a-frying pan kinda guy either. It was a shame, really, but in the end, he'd die of cholesterol anyway regardless of what the blond-haired son of the Don would say. Situations like these--no, people like Barb depressed Santy, shrouding any hope that a person could change...given they wanted to. But he was stuck in his way--an old man on the precipice of his life. Someone like Barboa was the complete opposite of Jimmy.

Jimmy was...let's say he was a man of greed. His eyes were at the pockets of other people, and he had three gold teeth to boot. Santy hated him. Santy hated him, but didn't hate anyone. That was saying something. The man every single time overcharged him money for ammunition. It wasn't even ammunition for his own gun, but for various men in the Family whom entrusted him to purchase it for them. ...But Jimmy didn't know that. Jimmy didn't need to know that. Jimmy also didn't deserve to die, but his father was a protective man regardless of who Santy came from. Therefore, Jimmy died. Santy couldn't tell whether or not that bothered him, but he knew he was ruffled--ruffled enough to zone out about it. It had been a mutual hatred between the two of them, mainly dealing with the fact that Jimmy hated him just because he was...unexpected. Santino wasn't the typical famiglia; he was out there, raised from seven to a strange new world in which Jimmy thought he did not belong. But it was okay--it was okay that he thought that and that he hated Santy. That wasn't the reason why the blond despised him; there was an entirely different reason. You see, Jimmy was a villain--a scoundrel who pick-pocketed the poor and disposed of their identities. He was a foul human being that associated to the Falzone through quality ammunition he stole off transport boats. That information was newly acquired by Santy's quick eyes and an iPhone left on a bar table for a fast piss. No one else knew about it. Even not knowing, the Don of the Falzone family had a woman's intuition. Haha.

Okay done. He stood up, depositing his fancy lead pencil on the desk in a perfect line. "Thanks for waiting~" Ear to ear grin, then straight face. He turned to his reflection in a stand up mirror on his walk-in closet and straightened his pinstripe vest, rolling down the sleeves of his white dress shirt, and brushing out the wrinkles. He folded his glasses, set them where they belonged on the dresser, and turned to Barb with eyes that could kill. "Alrighty. Let's jam."

Barb led him down the maze of a hallway (which was really just a direct path) down to his father's lavish office. The exterior was simple--like a business man's, but the inside would give a business man a boner. Twin stained glass windows, Ishvallan rug, bookcases of various things lining the walls--you know, the whole shazam. They entered, Santy perusing at Barb's side like a motorcycle side cart in bliss. He flung open the door with a cheery smile on his lips. "Mm, smells like blood in here. Someone get the Febreze." Death irked him.

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Re: Requiem For A Conqueror

Post by Guest on Wed Jul 18, 2012 10:32 pm

The door opened for the first of three times, and, immediately, Marco's eyes flicked to the archway as the first of the three he'd asked for entered. He froze, immediately; and a blonde man with a scarf and a sniper rifle entered. A few would have perhaps arched eyebrows at this, but, alas, it was Massino's nature. For a moment, the Don himself was frozen in his stare, like a hawk, the only thing moving the trails of smoke ascending from the half a cigar remaining, but as his Omicida entered proper, the black-haired man rose to his feet and let his comrade speak. "Don Falzone..." A gentle, subtle smile, and Massino kissed him on both cheeks, a sign of respect, before they finally both took their seats.

"A cent'anni," Came the regular chant, and Marco propped the cigar back up to his lips and took another long drag. "It's good to see you, Massino," That same subtle smile stretched ever wider. The Don knew extensively of this man's nicknames, but didn't bother to address him by them. Your parents give you a full name, you're addressed by it. Except in his case, and his wife's. Only Santino and Constanza knew his full first name. To others, he was just Marco, Mr. Falzone, Sir, or Don Falzone. Any of the four were adequate.

The silence between the two wasn't uneasy by any means, but it was clear the two of them were waiting. Marco wasn't one to go into things half-cocked, or speed ahead without the full crowd there. He'd held buses behind before waiting for family or friends; nobody minded, everyone was ready to make sacrifices for their safety. The door opened another time, and Antonio and Dimitri spilled in, his bodyguard and his Consigliere. "Marco, Masi." A gentle inclination of the head; Marco didn't bother standing up for Dimitri. The two of them were good enough friends. "What's on today's docket gentlemen? Or are we waiting on your son, boss?" Another nod, and Marco spun around the box of cigars, flipping it open and pushing it towards the two.

"Good morning, Dimitri," He gestured to the box before glossing onto the matter of his advisor's menial question. Dimitri knew the importance of waiting, knowing his way around the courtroom and lawbooks as he did. "Take one if you'd like. New batch of Esparians I got in today," After the pair had finished their perusing, Marco turned and rose the box to Antonio, who declined. As he did, every time. But it was courtesy, still.

And to this day, that's what people still don't get about the Family. The reason that all these years, things have held together so well, is courtesy. You scratch the Family's back, they scratch yours in return. It's such a simple system of reciprocating what you're given; it's not hard to understand. And when it comes into more serious matters? Theft? Arson? Murder? The same principle always applies. Courtesy and tribute, and you're in the clear, no matter what. But when you drop your end of the deal? The Family drops theirs. And they drop it hard.

"To answer your question, yes, we're waiting on Santino for the moment," Marco leant back in the swivel-chair and propped the cigar onto his mouth, taking Hawk and sheathing the golden, adorned pistol in his leathered waist-holster, visible as the Don unbuttoned his waistcoat and hung it up behind him, now only wearing a shirt and the over-shoulder gunbelt. He was among friends. Old friends. There was no need for a pistol here. "Business as usual, gentlemen. Nothing to be worried about," He remarked robotically, with a sigh that showed a hint of near-boredom. As old as he was getting... Marco still loved the excitement.

The door opened and shut one final time, and there was his son. Standing there, illuminated by the yellow light of the doorway, leaving Barboa behind as Marco beckoned him further inwards. "Mm, smells like blood in here. Someone get the Febreze." The boy had always had an adept sense of smell; Marco shrugged, knowing he couldn't blame the kid for being aware. He was the first of the three who'd been bold enough to say anything about it; Marco didn't care, and promptly gestured to the seat.

"It was about time fat Jimmy went, either way," Marco spoke, looking at the last remaining quarter of the cigar as the dry, exquisite, and yet so noxious fumes drifted into his mouth. "But that situation's all done with, so, take a seat, Santino," He bucked forwards, the leather swivel chair creaking courtesy of the motion, brushing it aside with his hands and pulling open another draw, only to remove a manilla envelope and shut it moments later. "This, however, is a matter that requires our attention, gentlemen,"

Marco tore open the packet in a single sweep with his fingers, and squeezed it, drawing three black-and-white surveillance photographs from within, dropping them on the table and fanning them out, Antonio cycling around and shutting the cigar box, moving it to the side, ever the loyal manservant. In each photograph, a white Cerisian man of over sixty with thinning hair was circled with red marker, the images taken at the infamous 'Napoli Harbour Diner'. The man wore a black suit with a turtleneck sweater instead of a shirt-and-tie in each; the first, he was eating dinner. The second, outside, having a cigarette. The third, talking to two goons on either side that he was flanked by. The muscle.

"This," Marco spun the centre photograph around and tapped the circled man's face twice with an outstretched finger. "Is Federico Zuzzi," Marco leant back in the chair, and interlocked his fingers, puffing once more with the cigar, before pulling it out with one hand and removing his eyeglass with the other. "This guy was before your time, all of you, and mine too," Promptly, the mafia boss stubbed out the last of the cigar in a nearby ashtray, and gently set the eyeglass on the table, looking to each of them in turn, sweeping through in an arc. "In the seventies, he was one of Albert Scirocco's capos." Marco exhaled the last of the smoke with a grim look upon his face. "You all know the story of the Sciroccos. My father, Santino's grandfather, killed them and took control. It's a shame he didn't do business, but Albert Scirocco was a moron who wronged too many and killed too few," Marco only paused for a moment.

"Zuzzi got away before the worst of it, and stayed in Vegas for thirty years, and we didn't want shit to do with him. He wasn't a bad guy, and he left us to ourselves, and we respected that, even after my dad died and I took control," Marco glumly knew he'd omit the section of the story concerning his late brother Gabriel, and his late sister Gianna. Too much tragedy for one day; Dimitri definitely already knew, but Massino and Santino were still in the dark. "But the fact he's here shows that he thinks he's got the balls to try and take us out," Marco shook his head with a look of ultimate decision upon his face. "And we can't take the chance of leaving him be."

Gruffly, Marco scratched at his stubble, before collecting the three photographs and slipping them back into the envelope, finally tossing them into Santino's lap with a single throw. "Zuzzi set up a meeting with one of our guys who told me about it. It's in a fishing warehouse on the edge of the city. Dimitri knows the one I'm talking about." He gestured appropriately to the lawyer, before turning to Masi. "Massino. About a half-mile away from the warehouse on the edge of town is an old belltower. When Zuzzi comes in, our guys aren't going to be sitting there." Marco finally flashed them a grin. "It's going to be me, instead." Another smile. "I want his bodyguards whistling through holes in their heads by the time he can even get close. A capisce?"

He didn't leave Masi enough time to answer, before glossing onto Dimitri. "He probably brought over a few more guys, and he'll probably have some more ready or staking out the place, at least a sniper. Dimitri, the meet's in an hour. On the way there, make some calls, see if you can find a few little birdies ready to let loose on their back-up." Then, finally, he turned to the centre, where his son was sitting. "Santino. You're going to wait in the car with Dimitri when they get there, keep the gas running, and shoot anything that moves that isn't me. After I get out, we're going to chase down whatever sorry motherfuckers are left, and lead them up to the cliffs by the belltower, so Massino can get a clean shot." With that, he stretched his arms out, and opened another drawer. "Before I forget," And then, he drew out weaponry. No discreet briefcase, no box, no nothing. Just a sawn-off 10" barrel pump-action tube-mag Mossberg shotgun, which he threw towards his son, and a compact 9mm that he tossed towards Dimitri. "And I mean anything that moves."

With that, he stood to his feet, showing the remainder of his arsenal, grasping his trenchcoat, pulling his gloves from the pockets, and slipping them on, wires and all still attached to their cords, wound around each finger. Vulture and Eagle, the twin Amestrian PPK pistols, were holstered at his waist, and Falcon and Crow in the appropriate shoulder-holsters. It was a heavy load, but not one that Marco wasn't used to. Enough pistols to take on the world. Leaving the waistcoat and grabbing a black fedora, Marco finally buttoned up his trenchcoat, slipping two cigars and a box of matched into another pocket, before looking, face devoid of all emotion, down towards them. "Car's outside. Journey's about forty-five minutes. Any questions?"

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Re: Requiem For A Conqueror

Post by Guest on Mon Jul 23, 2012 7:00 am

The man gave a nod to Dimitri as he entered. It pained him the way the attorney was allowed to act so casual in front of their boss, but that was the higher order here. No words were ever spoken against this. The Omicida held no standing in comparison.

Pocketing his pipe, Massino allowed himself a cigar, thanking The Don for it before breaking off the end and lighting it. The tobacco was exquisite, and the man took long drags as he savored the magnificent taste. Always the best when you worked for the Falzone family.

Soon Santino had arrived, and the group was down to business as usual. A few words on the offing of Jimmy were spoken, but quickly the matter was thrown aside. Once a man was done, he was done, that's all there was to it. Personally, Masi didn't think either way about the dealer, but Marco's word was law. Next the matter of a Mr. Zuzzi. Once a member of the former family of power, etc, etc, he needed to be dealt with.

"He thinks he can show his face around 'ere and try to pull a fast one on us? Not even close to happenin', Mr. Falzone." He then stood up, and gave a grin. "You don't have t'worry, boss, nobody gets out'a my sights once I've tapped onto 'em. And from that position? I've got the whole area under watch, piece'a cake." A bit of a dramatic act came from him as he mimicked a rifle shot with his hands. He then gave a nod before moving back to the coat rack. Scarf, jacket, and then he picked up his girl. This job might as well have been done already.

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Re: Requiem For A Conqueror

Post by Guest on Mon Jul 30, 2012 2:55 am

He kept his eyes on The Don as he politely declined the cigar with a shake of his head and glanced out the window and let his mind wonder for just a little while. Nothing important would happen tell Santy arrived and who know how long that could be- The door opened and shut and it may have startled Dimitri just a tiny bit, not that he let it show!"Mm, smells like blood in here. Someone get the Febreze." Well that caused the Elf to blink. Blood? Dante didn't smell any blood... He looked of at Santy then back at The Don and let a small chuckle pass his lips. It seemed that Marco had taken out some sort of trash... Well wasn't that just peachy?"It was about time fat Jimmy went, either way," Ahh yes that made more then a little sense, the guy had been nothing but trouble and was more then a small liability. Lucky for him one did not just kill a made man, one did just not murder family. Unfortunately Jimmy seemed to have made a mistake today, and that was just one mistake to many when The Don was looking for a reason to kill you. "But that situation's all done with, so, take a seat, Santino,This, however, is a matter that requires our attention, gentlemen,"

Dimitri looked closely as Marco ripped the top off the folder and slide three photos out, they showed a man, some where in his sixty's with a rather distinguished look to him. He was a man who looked like he knew how to make a "marinara"... With out a doubt this man was one who knew his way around the kitchen. Most couldn't tell much about a person when the glanced at at a photograph, but with eyes that where trained to catch every nuance of a person, a photograph was indeed worth a thousand words."This,Is Federico Zuzzi," He didn't recognize the name but he filed it away for future reference, and as Marco explained who and what he was, the wold could only nod. It was no wonder this guy had never shown up on any of his radars.

"Zuzzi set up a meeting with one of our guys who told me about it. It's in a fishing warehouse on the edge of the city. Dimitri knows the one I'm talking about." Heh that he did, the place well used and well loved. Ever since they had managed to procure it well business had been just a tad bit better. Plus they could always get all the fresh sea food they wanted at drastically reduced prices. It was one of his smarter buys."That i do Boss, that i do."

He smiled as Marco told them his plans and could only chuckle a little, he could have sat back and let his men take care of this problem, hell that would have been safer. But that just wasn't Marcos way, he lead from the front and by example and his men respected him for it. Its what made his organization so powerful, Marcos men where willing to fight and die for him, just because he made sure to ask nothing of them that he wouldn't ask of him self. It was a simple powerful thing. He checked the gun that was passed to him then nodded and holstered it. "Ill be sure to shot any rat i happen to see then, that way no one can say i never did anything to clean up our town." He took out his phone and quickly scrolled threw a few numbers before nodding and looking up."And yes i do, did you want free lance muscle or family in on this? Or should i just surprise you?"




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Re: Requiem For A Conqueror

Post by Guest on Tue Jul 31, 2012 1:02 am

A faint chuckle--the dying edge of humor pulled taught. Simmering amber dragged towards the familiar face of his mentor, a callus smile growing forlornly against his lips. Please tell me you didn't kill him, Santino whispered inside his head, not averting his eyes from the cool caress of an eternal brown. Nothing was exchanged between them, but a glance. That was enough to know Dimitri's trigger was innocent. This was the very trigger that taught him how to pull it--the man who, by all rights, was a brother to him. They say all mafias are like families, but the word itself cannot nearly express something like this. "It was about time fat Jimmy went, either way." The realization hit the lawyer's face, causing Santy to finally look away, drifting his gaze to Antonio still standing in their shadow. The door shut upon Barb's exit, but neither of them turned to look. With a quick flick of his hand, the manservant they all so adored whisked out a small can of Febreze, tinkling a couple spritzes before drawing it back to a hidden place in his overcoat. Surprised, Santy lifted an eyebrow, patting the guy on the shoulder and waving off the laughter that would have normally come had not someone died over his cause this morning. He gave a teethy grin instead, pulling out a lavish chair in which to park himself. As he did so, his father's endearing voice sparked up. "But that situation's all done with, so, take a seat, Santino." Right, it was all done with. He sat down.

However, there were Esparians on the table, a fresh box in which the lax Massino Vecchi helped himself to, breaking off the discarded top. Santy watched where it lay on the table, feeling much like that cigar top, useless. There were ways he could have prevented today. Despite Jimmy's foul ways and backhanded maneuvers to be rid of him, there were always different solutions that didn't involve buying expensive cans of Febreze that disguise the rancid odor of death with flowery overlayings. Like, say, if he just had a chance to reason with the hardy bastard, this wouldn't have happened. Wasted bullet, wasted life. They could have used him yet. Santy raised his eyes, meeting his father's directly with a shielded look of disapproval. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it: the drawer was open. Just slightly, it was open. Casually, he leaned back in his chair as if he were as lazy as the Massi guy who looked like he had spent his night with woman and something stronger than wine, pushing back until the legs were off the ground. With a bare foot, he applied just enough pressure to close the drawer, letting his chair slam discreetly back onto the ground, evening his weight once more. That settled, he was ready to listen to the real reason why he was called into appointment.

"This, however, is a matter that requires our attention, gentlemen." The blonde leaned forward, watching as his father tore open a manila envelope with presumably details inside. Why it was sealed in the first place remained a mystery. Had he not looked at the images himself first to confirm they were legitimate? Suspicion hit him at once, his elbow hitting his lanky knee and his palm hitting his chin. Hm. Marco placed the photographs on the table where all three could gander, but as he spoke, giving the man's name as Federico Zuzzi, his finger tapped down over Zuzzi's face, obscuring the details. Tap, tap. Santy leaned to the side to try and get a better view, waiting until his father's hand stopped covering it so he could get a good look. He was definitely supposed to be in a retirement home, that guy. He had to be seventy or something--the kinda guy you hated to use the urinal after. But that sharpness in his eye as he leaned over his two goons, flanking him like hyenas with an unorthodox laugh, was something of another tier altogether. He looked vaguely familiar--the kind of familiar that came even when you'd never met the guy: connection. It was a vibrant bond, surging with a surreal foresight he'd only realize in another couple minutes. "This guy was before your time, all of you, and mine too." Not yet. Almost there. "In the seventies, he was one of Albert Scirocco's capos." Capos. Santino's blood ran cold, his eyes meeting Marco's like the floor was beginning to fall out from under him: the slow decent. He was in that man's position right now, who was to say he wouldn't be facing the same situation Zuzzi was in now? His teeth grit together, eyes obstinately livid. "Zuzzi got away before the worst of it, and stayed in Vegas for thirty years, and we didn't want shit to do with him. He wasn't a bad guy, and he left us to ourselves, and we respected that, even after my dad died and I took control." So why? Why Zuzzi--why now? Santy inspected the photographs for clues into the 2D man's psyche, finding nothing but the curl of smoke, the cackle in his eye, and--and... He was wearing a turtleneck under his suit. It was a laid back, casual sort of fancy, lacking the tie and the dress shirt. Lazy in his old age, huh? Or had he wanted to appear that way--defenseless, unaware. This wasn't Las Vegas; he knew there were eyes.

Something hidden flashed over the Don's eyes, but not hidden enough for the boy since seven to catch something else there that he chose to omit. Santy tapped his chin with his pointer finger and crossed his legs. It was something to do with family--not the family, but their family. Cousins, Uncles, whomever it was, wasn't spoken, thus left in the dark for him to inquire about later. "But the fact he's here shows that he thinks he's got the balls to try and take us out." Or he missed the place. He shrugged, trying to see past the turtleneck into the homely girth of the man's ashy chest where something may beat. No, his eyes were wrong--they were the eyes of knowing, masked only with the elderly air of someone... Did he want to die? The misdeeds of his maker were a responsibility on his fleeing shoulders. It could most definitely be the case. The twenty-four-year-old turned to look his father directly in the eyes, trying to see if maybe he came to the same conclusion. "And we can't take the chance of leaving him be."

"Like a rabid dog that was once a pet." He smiled. Marco set about collecting the pictures, staking them back into whence they came, but that wasn't it. He handed them over with a throw to his lap, giving Santy a solid reply if not with actions alone.

"Zuzzi set up a meeting with one of our guys who told me about it. It's in a fishing warehouse on the edge of the city. Dimitri knows the one I'm talking about."

"That i do Boss, that i do."

"It's a shame all the seafood will be ruined." Details flew past, Santy stared avidly at the picture in his hands, occasionally looking over the top to engage with the directions of the others in case he needed to know.

"Santino." Don't wear it out. "You're going to wait in the car with Dimitri when they get there, keep the gas running, and shoot anything that moves that isn't me. After I get out, we're going to chase down whatever sorry motherfuckers are left, and lead them up to the cliffs by the belltower, so Massino can get a clean shot."

"I'll bring a book." He sat up straight and placed the envelope back on the table, having memorized nearly every detail. So his job was to wait in the car. Depending on where it was parked, he wouldn't see much of anything regarding this exchange. The tables were flipped, the cards out in the open; this was no ordinary run. No, Marco wanted to kill Zuzzi himself. Why. There was an underlying message residing deep within this scheme, something he was sure his father intended him to notice. Why was he in the car? Backup. Simple as that. Marco could be full of bullet holes running towards the car; Zuzzi wasn't an idiot: he knew they were watching. So. So, what. What was with this? Revenge--tactics of the blind avenger? Santy sealed his mouth shut, satisfied with his placement in the field. He wasn't just watching the car; he was there to keep his father from planting himself in a graveyard. Hell, if he wasn't going to-- "And I mean anything that moves." ...did birds count? He caught the sawn-off ten-inch barrel pump-action tube-mag Mossberg shotgun with one hand and inspected it. Hello there.

Father and son stood up practically at the same time, turning towards the exit. As he watched him assemble, Santy realized one thing: he needed shoes. Looking back up, he saw him throw on a trench coat, hardly the outerwear for summer. How someone was capable of adorning such heavy fabric in high temperatures would forever be beyond him considering he wanted very badly to roll up his sleeves again. And they were just sleeves.

"Car's outside. Journey's about forty-five minutes. Any questions?"

"Yeah, who's paying for the gas?"

"And yes i do, did you want free lance muscle or family in on this? Or should i just surprise you?" Santy frowned.

[This is totally Antonio:]
Spoiler:

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Re: Requiem For A Conqueror

Post by Guest on Fri Aug 03, 2012 2:19 pm

"You don't have t'worry, boss, nobody gets out'a my sights once I've tapped onto 'em. And from that position? I've got the whole area under watch, piece'a cake." Marco nodded, smiling. From Massino, he'd expected nothing less; and it seemed the man was ready and able to deliver, rifle in hand as he broke the end off of his cigar and began to light up. From there, the Don looked to his advisor, his Consigliere, awaiting Dimitri's feedback.

"And yes i do, did you want free lance muscle or family in on this? Or should i just surprise you?" Marco's smirk widened quickly into a grin. It was rare to see the man, usually reserved, quiet, and calm, displaying such emotion, such primal happiness beyond a simple, fleeting smile. Here, Marco stood to attention and sighed, tilting his hat and quickly responding.

"For today, Dimitri," Marco spoke softly with an undercurrent of vigour and real conviction. "It will be just the four of us." Most of the other men would have considered this suicide with four men against a force of going on twenty, possibly more. But those twenty were half-assed goombahs who didn't know the Cerisian way, or the Falzone way. Three of the four in the room had the powers of science or the ability to manipulate the Dragon's Pulse, and the only one that couldn't was renowned for a whole other ability in itself: he could talk his way out of any situation.

Finally, Marco turned to his son, Santino, and smiled whilst listening as intently as he could. "Yeah, who's paying for the gas?" Slowly, a gentle, croaking laugh rose from the Don's throat. His son never failed to deliver, add a gentle speck of humour into any situation, dire or not. Here they were, ready enough to thwart the only significant possible uprising of the past three years, and his son was concerned about a trivial fifty-dollar tank of gasoline. Most officious leaders would have long since ironed out this behaviour. Marco was far too kindly to deprive his only son of his fleeting laughs - and simply humoured the boy.

But here, keeping up appearances were just as necessary. Killing two birds with one stone, Don Falzone spoke. "We'll take the money from Zuzzi's wallet." A grin; briskly, Antonio tended to the door and opened it, bowing his head in silence and respect as he stood on the other side. Marco gestured to the exit, and, before long, the room was empty once more, with nothing but the faint, intermingling stench of cigar smoke and death.

The descent to the Range Rover was simple enough; before long, they all filed into the car, with Marco taking the passenger seat and indicating for Dimitri to drive. And within moments, it was barely a blip on the back-roads of La Cerise, quaint and quiet, their progress towards the Napoli coast beset with no obstacles as petty as traffic. It was eventful and for the most part, silent. And, sure enough, twenty minutes before Zuzzi was scheduled to show up, the car stopped once to let Massino out at the belltower, with ample time to climb up to the top and set himself up, before the behemoth continued sloping down into the fishery.

It was mainly abandoned, and the Range Rover, engine thrumming, skulked alongside warehouses and quickly enough found the site for the meet. The place was abandoned with only the smell of dead fish and rusting machinery to accompany the sombre tones and the dull squawkings of flocks of blackbirds amidst the piercing July sun. Marco swiftly exited from the car and uttered brief words of warning towards the pair remaining inside before making his steady walk towards the warehouse with a smile of determination upon his face.

"Zuzzi's men should start turning up in ten minutes or so. Wait for Massino to take out the bodyguards; I'll take care of the bastard and be back as soon as I can." Marco tightened the wires around his knuckles and sighed, his breathing haggard and jagged. Even in his age, Marco felt like a seven-year-old at the top of a pulley-launch rollercoaster on days like these. Days like these, where the only thing that mattered was who fired the first bullet. "As soon as the gunfire starts, kill everyone you can see who isn't me or Massino. And, Santino?" Marco peered through the window directly towards his son. "Don't shoot any birds."

With that, he turned on his heel and made his way into the warehouse, within which, at the open room's very centre, sat a small, humble rosewood desk, a grandiose-looking wooden chair, and dozens of large, imposing hooks for various uses hanging from chains. Marco pulled down a rusty lever with a creak, and the warehouse lit up with pale halogen bar lights. Then, Don Falzone took his seat, smiled, lit a cigar, placed his hand on his pistol at his waist, and waited for Federico Zuzzi, a man he hadn't seen in decades.

((Okay, directions here; Kenny, have Masi set up and then bunny a couple of cars parking in the fishery and Zuzzi and his bodyguards walking towards the warehouse. Masi's been instructed to take them out. Bronze and Aki: general chaos should ensue afterwards with a nice firefight and in my next post we can start a badass little car chase. 8D Oh, and for anyone wondering what Antonio actually looks like:))

ANTONIO DELORIA:

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Re: Requiem For A Conqueror

Post by Guest on Wed Aug 15, 2012 2:53 pm

As the car pulled up to Massino's drop point, he placed a single earpiece in Marco's lap. Nodding, he then opened the car door, gave a sigh before hefting himself up, and grabbed the violin case from the back. His precious little lady was getting fidgety, he could feel it. She was ready to kill, as was he, and there wasn't much time left. They had to be at the top of the tower now, and they were behind already. He then shut the door with a slight wave, before stepping forward and taking a look at the building before stepping to the side of it.

Pulling at the iron door, the assassin slipped inside, shut the door quietly behind him, and began to march up the spiraling staircase. Every few steps he'd take a puff from his pipe, the smoke trailing behind him, and eventually he reached the top. The windows were set up perfectly at the top floor, giving him an overall view of the area below, but also allowing him space for cover if necessary. Crouching down and laying the case in front of him, the man removed his pipe from his mouth and pocketed it yet again, unsnapping the metal hinges that held his weapon within.

"Oh, my love. My sweet Giada... Let's make this moment a beautiful one." He said, pulling the parts from their padded cells, piecing the rifle together as quickly as possible. "25.4 seconds." Masi whispered to himself as he screwed in the final pieces of the stand. The sniper had made a habit of keeping track of how quickly he could set up.

Peering through his scope, Massino made sure everything was ready. The cars lined up one by one, a single car placing itself at the opposite end of the warehouse. Quite the strategic placement, but they'd never expect to be preyed upon from such a location. Marco always planned these things brilliantly. Perfectly.

Touching a finger to his own earpiece, eye still on the scope, the man spoke as clearly as possible, "Five cars close to yours, boss, one car parked on the front end of the warehouse. This guy was prepared. Ready for the sparks to fly."

Finger putting just a bit of pressure to the trigger, he didn't dare move after steadying his aim and making a firm grasp. He watched as Zuzzi stepped out of his car, two body guards following suit. As they stepped inside the warehouse, Masi waited patiently for the best possible time to fire, swinging his gun around to face the windows of the other building. A bead of sweat crept down his cheek, as he watched the two heads break into conversation. The guards seemed shocked by something, and Masi wished to chuckle. That would have been the most humorous time to fire, but not the safest. Not just yet. One more second... Just a fraction now.

BANG.

He quickly cocked the rifle again, pushing it a fraction to the side.

BANG.

Both guards were left whistling through the new holes in their head.

"Showtime."

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Re: Requiem For A Conqueror

Post by Guest on Thu Aug 23, 2012 8:23 pm

Since time out of mind the wolf has been a symbol of everything humanity has feared about the night. As their howls filled the night, the hearts of humanity where filled with dread. What was out there? Beyond the light of their fire, what watched us from out side our windows? Humanity fears the dark, and whats more they fear the unknown. So as Dimitri watched a wall be painted red with the blood and brain matter of two suddenly dead men a smile came to his face. Men feared the unknown, and nothing could send men running like sudden and unknowable death. "And now they scatter..." The smile flattered as panic failed to take the remaining guards, it seemed like Zuzzi had brought professionals. With out any sort of hiccup they drew their weapons and stepped out from their cars taking cover from the only possible direction of the snipers fire."Santy... I hope your father was correct when he said we four would be enough." His tone was dry enough that if the Sahara was given voice,form and emotion, she would have been jealous of how parched he sounded and would have asked for pointers.

Even as he spoke the fifteen or so men that had gotten out of their cars had turned their attention upon their not so humble ride. Could they see them threw the blacked out windows? The answer was swiftly found out as two of the men raised their rather large(Where they compensating for something?) guns and opened fire on them. Luckily of Dimitri and Santy, Marco was rather safety oriented, and not only did the car they where riding in have air bags and a five star safety rating, but it had also been upgraded for situations just like this."Well...This seems to have been a good investment." If he was worried about the men closing in on the car, or those that had started in on the warehouse it just didn't show, and even as he spoke he reached into his coat and pulled out the gun Marco had handed him earlier and turned the safety off before cocking the gun."Santy could you do me a favor and get behind the wheel? I feel like we are just a tad bit out gunned right now and a few tons of steel may help with that." He smiled a little and his chuckle was almost lost behind the sound of automatic weapons fire."Id do it my self, but i cant reach the peddles."

It wasn't that he didn't like uneven odds, he was a gambler after all and when you played against the house you where always a little behind. But he did enjoy evening them in what ever way he could and he felt like a tank of a car against who knew how many guys was just about as even as he could get in this situation. Now if only The Don kept an RPG in his car at all times... That would put today's little game squarely in their hands.

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Re: Requiem For A Conqueror

Post by Guest on Fri Sep 07, 2012 3:07 pm

The bullfrog laugh that rolled slowly out like booming thunder brought a mirrored smile onto the younger man's face. He did not laugh himself, but instead looked on his father's amusement with a cinch of his own. Even if that was all his worth was, to him, it was meaningful. Through the hardship of standing back and pulling the trigger, there were times when one gets so involved they lose themselves. Santino Falzone was not prepared to lose anything more. Growing up as he did, he was able to pave through the nightmares of his own hands snapping flames across his childhood. It brought him here, sitting before a Don, capable of not only making him laugh, but pulling the trigger himself. Sometimes he wondered about what he had become, but mostly he liked listening to the responses he got. "We'll take the money from Zuzzi's wallet." A soft 'hahah' erupted from Santy's lips accompanied with the mental image of Marco stooping over the old man's dead corpse to pull out the hundreds from his overpriced leather wallet he most likely received as a gift from one of his manslaves. It was funny enough to make him laugh, but the slew of blood leaking out from the multiple gunshots in his chest were enough to stunt the humor.

A gesture was made towards the exit, the blonde rising upon request, heading for the door. Behind them was the lingering essence of a man that once lived--a man whose simple desire was to run a bar--dashed with a tint of Mango air freshener. If he hadn't turned his ways, he could have vouched for Jimmy--saved his petty life from the vices of lead searing with human greed. The heavy office door thumped shut, footsteps clacking down the vast array of hallway. The illegitimate son of the Don followed, though lagged behind, eyes on the ceiling as if he could see through it to the sky. The parking garage shed no further clarity past the globs of cement covering their heads. A incognito Range Rover parked in shade. Dimitri slunk into the driver's seat, Santy not hesitating to sit behind him. His bare feet tickled on the immaculate floor mat, hands folded neatly over his chest. Then Barboa was there uncharacteristically, holding out a pair of shiny dress shoes. Bronze eyes turned with surprise. But how did he know? "These were dropped off by the shoe cleaners yesterday morning. Forgot to tell you." Irony. Without replying, he took them, meeting the man's eyes with a mixture of response. What could he say to that? Barb would never know; she shouldn't ever know. It was so unlike him to be helpful or show up in the nick of time. However, shoes or not, it hardly mattered. It all depended on how much of a mess his father was planning on making and whether or not he wanted to walk through it in bare feet. Garfish and guts, glass and gunfire? Maybe. The glass might hurt.

Barboa Moretti took the Capobastone's silence as thanks, turning with a wave to go back whence he came, (which more than likely resulted in fast food and an episode of Prison Break). Just the four of them, huh? Made things interesting, though it was a bit unnerving to go against twenty-some guys especially when he was just backup--the insurance twiddling his thumbs. He could light the entire warehouse aflame and smoke everyone who lived out himself, but a bullet to him was the same as it was to anyone. That's what made the game fun. People died even if he wanted to avoid it; that was the disclaimer to joining the mafia. So he'd say all well, and shrug. Save the nightmares for later. It was more important to him that his father live; family was everything...even if they weren't all blood-related. This was where he belonged...even if his morals didn't. The car started, jostling him out of his dank thoughts and back to the soon-coming reality of the fishery ambush. They pulled away, Dimitri skilled at the wheel, dropping off Massino, and heading further into the lion's den. Clouds of blackbirds called crookedly in the mulling blue sky, swooping low to swipe a rancid fish head off the docks where more heads would roll. Santy crossed his legs, leaning back with a silent sigh. He guessed they could play 'I Spy' while they waited.

"As soon as the gunfire starts, kill everyone you can see who isn't me or Massino. And, Santino?" He turned, meeting the dark eyes of Marcolo Falzone. Yes? "Don't shoot any birds." Now he was changing his story? Didn't he say anything that moved? He nodded forlornly, fun all but drained entirely out of the equation. 'Be careful,' he mouthed through the glass, eyes masked by the sheen separating father from son. The moment he was out of sight, Santy resituated himself in the back, laying the shotgun over his lap like a cat in sunshine. From his back pocket he pulled out a Nintendo DS equip with Pokemon Soul Silver, flicking it on and muting the volume. The moment the screen came to life, two loud shots crackled through the sky, echoing distantly like ripples in the bay. He was battling Super Nerd Cary who magically had all Magicarps and had somehow made it through the fray of wild pokemon. What, had Splash made them all flee?

"And now they scatter..." A pause. He could hear the smile. "Santy... I hope your father was correct when he said we four would be enough."

"Hm?" He murmured, glancing up from the end of his second battle.

"Well...This seems to have been a good investment."

"Does this count as the gunfire starting?" He slapped the DS closed, having saved, and traded its spot with the shotgun. Loading it onto his shoulder, he ducked from bullets and rolled down the window. Funny, how fellow mafiosos had somehow also gained superpowers to see through tinted windows. Only difference was they had cover and the fifteen so other guys were sitting ducks, playing a first person shooter with no Phoenix Downs in sight. Sucks. He aimed and pulled the trigger on the closest guy. "One."

"Santy could you do me a favor and get behind the wheel? I feel like we are just a tad bit out-gunned right now and a few tons of steel may help with that," his teacher chuckled, "I'd do it my self, but I can't reach the peddles."

"What are you worried about?" Santy asked with a drawl, while he winked one eye and aimed at the next poor soul. He fired and recoil slammed into him. "Two." That's going to be a bruise. Fire was itching at his fingertips, but he didn't want to use it--hardly ever used it because seeing a human body twist and writhe from something not solid would always be horrifying to him. But it was his sin he carried, and the sin luckily didn't require use. He reloaded, cocked it, aimed, fired. "Three." This was getting redundant.

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Re: Requiem For A Conqueror

Post by Guest on Fri Sep 07, 2012 4:02 pm

"Five cars close to yours, boss, one car parked on the front end of the warehouse. This guy was prepared. Ready for the sparks to fly." Marco nodded and uttered a quiet sound of approval, settling back in the chair, with Hawk sitting dead on the table. The golden Luger seemed to beckon for his grip; temptation called him to pick up the beautiful, diamond-studded, ancient pistol and fool with it, but common sense clapped his hand and told him that he knew better. Instead, the man's pale-red eyes simply focused dead on the door, and the crisp sound of burning, dried tobacco filled the room with the deep stench of cigar smoke a comforting accompaniment.

Everything was silent but for a moment. The shuffle of feet like a penguin's flippers outside the door. A familiar, wheezing cough. A hissed order to his twin bodyguards in Cerisian. "If this son of a bitch ain't gonna' play nice, ya' know tha' drill, boys." Slowly, Marco snapped the switch on his earpiece off and removed it. The tap of a button outside. Mechanical clunking. Rays of light pierced into the room and Don Falzone could see three pairs of grimy shoes as, slowly, the warehouse door began to rise.

A faint whistle grew louder. A sickening crack coupled with a wet squelch, then finally, a dull thud. The same noises, in the same order, just from a few metres right. Before Federico Zuzzi could even fathom the concept of mayhem, splattered on both sides with the blood of his bodyguards, the halogen bar lights snapped on and the door slid into place with a loud click. Marco rose the golden Luger in his grip and smiled, the pistol already aimed dead-on at the old caporegime's chest as he spluttered for breath, facts finally processing.

Zuzzi looked from one side - one dead bodyguard - to the other. Then, finally, horrified eyes fell upon Marco. How? HOW?! How had he done this? How had the eldest son of Aldiro Falzone, a man they'd not even considered a threat before he tore apart their estate, done this?!

And the answer was simple. Planning.

"Don Falzone, I... I-" The man was far older than Marco remembered him, well into his early eighties, with a flat-cap and a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, alongside a considerably larger pot belly. The man was almost comical. To think he'd come to mount a resistance with twenty - now eighteen - men, and a single M1911 at his waist... the Don immediately cut him off, Hawk locked and loaded.

"Federico Zuzzi." The man spoke softly in but a whisper. "You have come here to mount a rebellion against me." He made no signal. No trembling attempt to reach for his pistol. He held his hands at his side, and did naught but listen. "You have come here to betray the only law that even your old don instilled in all your family, a creed even Albert Scirocco held dear." Clap. Clap. Clap. The soles of his expensive loafers beat against the ground.

And then he was only three metres from Zuzzi. He could see the turmoil in the man's eyes, the despair. The one chance he had to make things right again: and Marco Falzone had fucked it all up before it had even begun. "The strongest man rules."

[INITIATE BATTLE THEME]


Silence rocked back and forth beneath the pair for a single, simple moment. Beads of sweat formed on Zuzzi's hairline and began to gently trickle down. Then, in a single motion, as fast as Marco had ever seen the overweight man move in all the time he'd known him, Federico Zuzzi pivoted on his heel, and rose his hands, waving and screaming to his men at the top of his voice. "SHOOT 'EM! SHOOT 'EM ALL-"

CRACK.

Just as he'd begun to bolt into a sprint back towards the nearest piece of cover, Don Marco pulled the trigger. That empty oil drum may as well have been miles away; there was no way a fat piece of shit like Federico Zuzzi was going to outrun an entire clipful of Luger rounds - and even then, it had only taken one to put him down.

All chaos broke loose as Santino and Dimitri opened fire from the car. Massino, in the belltower, was silent for a few minutes, but as Marco took a look out into the sunlight, he saw the glare on the man's rifle scope, and offered him a smirk and a salute. His Omicida had not disappointed.

The round had spun straight through flesh and bone and embedded itself firmly in Zuzzi's midriff. The man had fallen straight to the ground with a thud and began crawling along the ground with a bloody smear, hoping, just hoping that he could somehow avoid death. His vision was fading, delirium was taking hold, and his face was pale and clammy, not to mention the feeling of a hot lump of metal still tearing through skin and sinew further with every movement. The man groaned and grunted as trembling fingers moved to pull himself further.

As the crossfire occupied the others, and a nearby tower of pallets gave Marco relative safety from the angle he was at, the Don stepped out, the fat cigar sitting comfortably between his lips. The barrel of Hawk was still smoking; the black-haired Cerisian slowly lowered the golden Luger and smirked, raising his free, gloved hand to remove the cigar, looking down to Zuzzi through his eyeglass, shaking his head, and exhaling the thick, grey-white smog down upon the man.

"You..." Marco sighed, placing one boot upon the man's arm and rolling him over with a grunt. Zuzzi was a heavy fucker, and in as much agony as he was, all his convulsing wasn't making the mass of flesh he already was any easier to shift. Eventually, though, his fearful, reddened, blood-stained, sweaty face stared straight up into Don Falzone's eyes, spluttering the unintelligible pieces of an apology. "Federico... you should have known better." The black-haired man made a sarcastic tut.

A look of pained regret washed over Marco. As much as this needed to be done, this man had once been something respectable, reduced to a spluttering, bloody wreck. The same way so many others had gone out before. He flicked the remnants of the cigar downwards to burn a hole into the hurriedly and erratically rising-and-falling stomach of the larger man, the sizzle of flesh and fabric filling the air before he raised the Luger once more. "Tonight, Federico Zuzzi..." A long, drawn-out stare upon the horizon, the stench of old fish filling his nostrils. "Tonight, you sleep with the fishes." CRACK.

A single pull of the trigger and Federico Zuzzi's head was reduced to naught but a bloody stump and a red splatter upon the ground. Marco lowered Hawk back to the holster at his waistband and sighed once more, shaking his head. They would have to give the man a dignified burial later. Bullets had long-since begun flying, and the Range Rover was not far away. The crackle of machine gun rounds coming his way and drumming against the corrugated wall behind him forced the Don swiftly back into cover with a thrumming snarl, immediately drawing a fresh pair of weapons from a gunbelt with twin holsters at either side. Vulture and Eagle. Walther PPK handguns, the sunlight glancing from the golden sheen that the frames each possessed, minuscule Amestrian engravings that he couldn't read intricately carved into each weapon.

At least a half-dozen men clutching automatics or pistols were opening fire indiscriminately on both the Don and his son and consigliere. The Range Rover was a relative safe haven considering some of the aftermarket "upgrades" that Marco had purchased, just for these little scenarios; but as nine-millimetre rounds smacked the belly out of the air and the sawdust out of the wood above his head... the black-haired kingpin swiftly realised that the fifteen metres between him and the car was fifteen metres in which he was a very open target.

With a pistol in each hand, Marco sprung out of cover first and launched off two rounds from each gun, seeing two of the six men fall alone. His aim was good, but not that good, and the dull clang of a pistol round against the oil drum where his head had been situated a few moments ago was less-than-reassuring. Mortality was looming overhead, and not a concept that the Don particularly wished to come to terms with yet.

The gunfire lowered and Marco waited for a lapse. A lapse that never truly came, for the numbers were too great for synchronised breaks to be made properly, but as soon as the Don heard the click noises of two separate weapons, his pale-red eyes narrowed, and he knew that this was the only opportunity he'd get. With a coy smile, the Cerisian said his prayers, hurriedly. "A cent'anni." He breathed, before tossing himself straight into the crossfire.

Sprinting and blindly firing his weaponry yielded enough of a result coupled with the element of surprise and his son and advisor's cover fire that he knew before he'd even ran five metres that he would make it to the Range Rover alive. Unscathed, however, was another thing entirely. A bullet carved through the air beside him just as he swept up to the driver-side, precisely as he reached out to grasp the driver door's handle, and slashed along the thin fabric of his suit at his torso with ease, just glancing his side with a searing hiss. Marco grunted but conceded no ground, yanking the door open and firing from the other side. Another distant shout gave way that he'd felled a third, with the rate of automatic fire having been diminished considerably.

Silently, Marco gestured for Dimitri to move over into the passenger seat; after he'd done so, the Don swiftly wrenched a spare headset from the dashboard and wound down the window, half-crouching and half-aiming as he flicked the headphones on with a snarl, feeling the blood seep from what little area of flesh the round hadn't cauterised. "Massino!" The Cerisian growled and yanked the handbrake upwards, before sticking his foot down into the accelerator. The thrums of distant Cadillac engines had long-since become ambience; and there was no way the Don was going to let even one of these cars get away.

"Leave the three on foot for us. Try and shoot out the tyres of one of the cars, I make two moving. Quick!" The Don hissed, before gesturing for Dimitri to mop up, holstering Vulture and Eagle as he began to pull the Range Rover into the fishery's exit. "Dimitri. Take care of those three." The order was short, snappy, and simple, requiring obedience within a time-frame. But it didn't matter; hierarchy was all, sure, but Marco was the only one who knew what the fuck was going on. It took a special eye for mayhem, and an even more special one to formulate a plan. And only Marco could know what Marco was doing, save for those mystical psychics he had doubts in from day one.

Don Marco Falzone's eyes narrowed thinner than they had before that day with conviction upon his face and fire raging in his eyes. It was time to clean up shop.

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Re: Requiem For A Conqueror

Post by Csilla Angelis on Sun Sep 23, 2012 1:11 pm

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