Realistic or Modern Syndicated Revived - An Organized Crime RP (IC)

[CoachA]

❝MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL, KILL THEM.❞

❝ RULES. ❞

1. All RPN rules and guidelines apply.

2. The minimum requirement for each post is 2 paragraphs, and at least one post a week is expected for each character you have in the RP (of course if something comes up and you won't be able to post exceptions will be made). After 2 weeks of not posting your character(s) will be sidelined until your return, however if necessary your character may be taken over by the GM until your return.

3. No fighting. If you are having issues with another player you should talk it out with them either OOC or in PMs to come to a solution. Of course if the problem persists you can always bring it to me and I will do my best to help you. Overall, I ask that everyone be mature.

Warning! This RP while likely get a bit dark at times. While it certainly won't be constant, if you cannot handle violence, torture, murder, drugs, or alcohol I would encourage you to not persue this RP.

❝ SYNDICATED.❞

—PREMISE.
If you stay here long enough, you start to realize this city's got a distinctive smell. Like rainwater, gunpowder, bile and cheap perfume. The smell permeates everything- your thoughts, your clothes, your life-, and after a while you start to worry that you can't ever get away from it; it won't ever wash out.

That's the point where you know the city's swallowed you for good, and you ain't never getting out.

Me, I've been here for so long I don't even notice the smell anymore. It's part of me now, just like I'm part of it- just one more sorry sob who thought he was gonna get rich quick and was too dumb to realize when he got in too deep.

Some people come here with big dreams, too. Great plans and grand ambitions and fabulous schemes, aiming to make their mark on the world. Then they get dragged down into the muck and can't find their way back. At that point, there's only two ways to survive: adapt, and become part of the filth, or be broken. Most don't make it- I'm one of the ones who did.

And trust me when I tell you: that ain't a good thing.

The city has me now, and once it has you, there's only one way you're ever getting out again, and that's in a shiny black bag.

Now I'm living my sorry life day by day, hour by hour, and waiting for that sweet moment of release when I finally get mine.

----
Hello everyone, and welcome to Syndicated - Revived! This will be a RP all about mafia families, action, and drama just as it was originally.

Setting-wise this RP will be modern-ish, with cellphones but no smart phones. Staying with the RP's original noir flair, the location will be a nameless city ('The City' if you will) without too many details given up-front. Of course, any questions you may have will be answered.

Story-wise this RP is very simple; four different groups are trying to come out on top. The groups fight over money, territory, resourses all while the police and regular people try to go on about their own lives.

There will be four different groups:
-The Antonelllis (Italian Mafia)
-The O'Hallorans (Irish Mob)
-The Higashi-Gumi (Yakuza)
-The Iron Tundra (Russian Mafia)

—ROLES.
LEADER The leader is in charge of the entire group. There will be one leader for each group and you must apply for this role, and I will choose whichever applicant I feel will fit best. I ask that anyone chosen for this role be fairly active.

LIEUTENANT The lieutenant is the leader's second in command. They assist, advise, and take charge if the boss is unable. There will be one lieutenant for each group and you must apply for this role, and I will choose whichever applicant I feel will fit best. I ask that anyone chosen for this role be fairly active.

COP Just what it says on the tin! Any kind of police officer, be it a detective, a beat cop, forensics, you name it. This can truly be one of the 'good guys', or an officer paid off by a group. This role is free to anyone and will be first-come, first serve. For the sake of keeping a managable cast there can be up to four cops for this RP.

CIVILIAN Civilians are just how they sound, normal people not involved with any group. Perhaps they are a student, or a business owner who knows about, trades with, or is under the protection of a group. This role is free to anyone and will be first-come, first serve. For the sake of keeping a managable cast there can be up to four civilians for this RP.

OTHER Others can be muscle, bodyguards, informers, drug dealers belonging to a certain group. The possibilities are endless! Guns-for-hire would also fall into this role even though they would not necessarily belong to any group. This role is free to anyone and will be first-come, first serve. For the sake of keeping a managable cast there can be up to three 'others' for each group. Meaning three for the Irish, three for the Russians etc.

&&— ❝ welcome back. ❞​

N P C s​

-Dante Belmonte: Chief of police [friend/employee of the Antonellis]
Tall and grizzled, 'The City's Hero' earned his reputation and current station by putting away a lot of high-profile criminals in a very short time. In truth, 'The Goodfella' is the ultimate corrupt cop, getting in deep with the Antonelli leadership from the ground floor and reaping the rewards of a mutually beneficial agreement.

-Matthew Axford: District Attorney [blackmailed by the Antonellis]
A middle aged, balding, and slightly overweight man, 'The Axe' was once a revered crusader for justice. A slew of bad decisions and poorer habits lead to a swift and decisive downfall, however, and landed him squarely in the Antonellis' pockets. Now, he does what he's told in order to survive.

-Antonio 'Flatfoot' Carosi: Corrupt cop [bribed by the Antonellis]
Greasy, unkempt, and generally unpleasant, Antonio was essentially made to be a dirty cop. He was only on the force for a couple years before realizing it's not that exciting or rewarding, there's basically no glory or admiration to be had, the pay is terrible, and the gang members outnumber you ten-to-one anyway and make twice what you do with half the effort- it's a thankless job. Since he has no honor and cares only for what benefits him, he reached out to the Antonellis and has been working for them since.

-Noah 'Snake Eyes' Lansky: Corrupt cop [blackmailed by the Antonellis]
A lanky guy with the appearance of being permanently underfed, he's a twitchy individual with already thinning sandy brown hair and watery blue eyes. Notoriously unlucky, he has an unfortunate penchant for gambling and a tendency to lose- big-, which is how he ended up in debt to the Antonellis.

-Gabrielle 'Elle' Duranceau ('The Panther'): Manager of The Vault [owned by the Antonellis]
Gabrielle is a tall, ash blonde, incredibly gorgeous woman who dresses with alluring lines and impeccable taste. Hired by the Antonellis for her sharp intelligence and savage style, she runs the nightclub with an iron hand.

-Vincent Marcelo ('The Gent'): Manager of Giorno's Gems and Jewelry [owned by the Antonellis]
A young, tall man of medium build, native to the city but with clear Italian heritage, Vincent manages the Antonelli store with competence and skill. His specialty is appraisal, curating and crafting, but he's reasonably gifted with management and sales, and discreetly handles more delicate matters, such as processing illiegal merchandise, making shady deals with shadier individuals, and assisting in the store's money-laundering functions for the group.

-Harada 'Gi-san' Giichi ('The Mountain'): Supervisor of The Sōko [owned by the Higashi-Gumi]
Harada Giichi is a large, well-built man on the wrong side of forty. He's been working for the Higashi-Gumi most of his life, like his father before him. There's a relationship of great respect there, and the group put him in charge of the warehouse complex because of his work ethic, his honesty, and the trust they have in him.

-Rowena 'Red' O'Halloran: Runs the O'Halloran household [traditional matriarch]
'Ma O'Halloran is a woman of modest height, with brilliant curls of red hair, bright green eyes, and the curvaceous figure of a working mother. Paired with her singularly unique shout, it's no wonder she's commonly called 'The Fox' on this side of the pond. A thoroughbred Dubliner Irish with the temperament to match, she runs the household affairs of the O'Halloran home with an iron fist. Having grown up and cut her teeth with the IRA, she's no stranger to the family business, and insists on having their 'family meetings' at the dinner table.

-Ihsan 'Sırtlan' Karmazin: Owner of Döner - Dürüm [pays protection to the Iron Tundra]
Ihsan likes to say he's a hardworking immigrant, coming up from nothing, which is partly true, but he did get some help from his rich and mob-connected cousin. He's a relatively short, dark-haired and dark-skinned man, always laughing and making terrible jokes (though he thinks he's hilarious). How good his food is, though, is no joke.

-Efrayim 'Avi' Gildner: Owner of The Gatted Goy [neutral territory]
Avi emigrated to the States from England sometime in his twenties. A tall, broad man with twinkling eyes and a generous beard, he's now pushing fifty. He turned the Gat from a tiny little hole-in-the-wall into a sprawling pub with good beer and good food. He welcomes most everyone there- as long as they don't cause trouble. Just don't insult or damage his establishment- otherwise you'll get to see first-hand exactly why the place is always full of mobsters but no fight ever breaks out; the Wolverine is terrifying when provoked.

-Calloway 'Keys' Kerrigan: Night manager of The Autumn Leaves [emcee/musician/poet]
Calloway is a mellow sort fellow in his mid-twenties, with dark, creamy skin and a deep, soothing voice. He emcees poetry readings and jazz nights at the Leaves, accompanying the musicians with his smooth piano playing.

-Rose 'Harridan' Felderman: Owner of The Autumn Leaves [mundane territory]
The epitome of the crabby old lady- to hear Rose tell it, organized crime is the root of all evil in this world. She really hates them. It's not quite clear why though, since she lies a lot and tells a different story every time she's asked. Sometimes it sounds like they killed or destroyed her whole family, and at others it's simply that they're all delinquents and hoodlums. Whatever the case, she prefers the company of books and a cup of tea over people, and hates it when gang members from any of the groups come into her shop.

-Father Vittorio: Priest at the 'Pine of Sanctuary' church
Vittorio is an older, balding man of apparently average weight. Wearing glasses and at only 5'4, he doesn't exactly cut an imposing figure- especially with that slow, limping gait. Content to look after the church, he is kind, trusting, and forgiving- even towards those who might not be deserving of such forgiveness.

THE STORY SO FAR​

Current state of things: In recent history, violence between the gangs has been re-escalating. Catalysts for this include: the Highashi-Gumi trying to encroach everywhere and take over everything and generally making themselves a nuisance, and the arrival of the Iron Tundra. The Antonellis, Higashi-Gumi, and O'Hallorans have been around for long enough that most of the old rivalries have died down. That being said, though the O'Hallorans get along with the Antonellis quite well, the same cannot really be said of them and the yakuza. The Iron Tundra, meanwhile, is neutral and intelligent enough to get along relatively well with everyone at this point. The cops, on the other hand, are extremely divided. Most feel overwhelmed by the groups, considering the extreme extent of their power and influence throughout the city, but while some are hellbent on erasing them from existence altogether, about half the force has long-since given in, and is currently in the employ of one or more gangs (most often, the Antonellis).

Recent events: Following an anonymous tip, the police recently conducted a raid on a couple of warehouses owned by the Higashi-Gumi. Tensions are running high.
There's been a rumor floating around, heard by gang members and police officers alike, that the Iron Tundra has been trafficking drugs in Higashi-Gumi territory, threatening the two groups' fragile peace.
Two days ago, a low-level runner working for the Antonellis was found dead in the alley behind the Wolfhound Gym, owned by Declan O'Halloran. This presents a major problem, given the groups' longstanding friendship.

LOCATIONS​

The Antonelli Palazzo: A giant, palatial mansion up on a hill overlooking the rest of the town.
Corner of Heaven: A booming area for local business in the Antonelli-controlled part of town.
Giorno's Gems: A jewelry store and money-laundering front for the Antonellis.
The Vault: A nightclub downtown, owned by the Antonellis. Has a backroom, of course, with drugs, gambling- probably a few hookers-, and poor saps coming in to pay protection fees or beg for extensions on money they borrowed.
The Higashi Compound: A sprawling complex on the East edge of town, past Higashi-owned buildings and businesses.
The Sōko: A complex of warehouses owned by the Higashi-Gumi, down near the water in the warehouse district. They use it to store and move product, as well as for meetings and unpleasant conversations.
The Homestead: The O'Hallorans' large and comfortable (if a little cramped) family home.
The Clinic: Chop shop and mechanic owned by the O'Hallorans (adjacent to the Homestead).
The Setter: Connor O'Halloran's boxing gym- large and well-known.
The Wolfhound: Declan's O'Halloran's boxing gym- smaller and newer.
The Iron Tundra Main Office: A towering, sparkling, sterile high-rise over on the newly-developed West side of town, across the river. It's where the group conducts most of its business.
Döner - Dürüm: A Turkish restaurant owned, managed by, and very popular among the Iron Tundra- close to the main office.
'Pine of Sanctuary' Church: Located at the northeast end of town, this older church and former monastery has been a pillar of the community for generations. It has a large vineyard in the back, and mercenary assassin headquarters in the basement.
The Pigsty: The city's police station, not-so-affectionately referred to as 'The Sty' or 'The Pigsty' by the various groups.
The Gatted Goy: Popular bar, neutrally located in the center of town, frequented by policemen and mobsters alike. Slightly on the older, dingier side, but large and comfortable. Usually referred to as 'The Gat' or 'The Goy'.
The Autumn Leaves: Bookstore and tearoom by day, absolutely neutral. Often hosting poetry readings and the like. Turns into a small and relatively well-known jazz club at night.

 

[CoachA]

Here is the code I will be using for my posts, though you are not required to use it

Spoiler: code

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---IMAGE HERE--- code by LEVIATHAN.

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[b][size=5][color=#910415]【[/color]mood[color=#910415]】[/color][/size][/b]— info.
[b][size=5][color=#910415]【[/color]location[color=#910415]】[/color][/size][/b]— info.
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[/justify][/size][/font][/centerblock][/color][/scroll][color=#fff][font=times new roman][RIGHT][B][FONT=times new roman][SIZE=7][COLOR=#910415]&&[/COLOR]— ❝ the [COLOR=#910415]role[/COLOR]. ❞[/SIZE][/FONT][/B][/RIGHT][/font][/COLOR][/bg][/bg]
[/SPOILER]

 

[Sicarius]

Mood

Depressed

Location

Gatted Goy

Tags

None

“Damn. This is disgusting.”

Atlas' face grimaced after taking his fourth shot of the day. He slammed the small glass down hard onto the counter, causing for a few other patrons near him to subtly flinch before regaining their composure. Atlas was a well known and frequent customer of The Gatted Goy, so his abrupt and abrasive outbursts were becoming a normalcy to most. If there was a world where Atlas wasn't miserable, then that same world would have to have flying cars and the cure for cancer. Not to say that any of those things were impossible; but rather that they were a bit too far out of reach. Either way, no one was caught off guard by the continual barrage of verbal assault and disruption coming from the former investigator.

"Hey Gildner, you going to give me something that ain't shit?" Atlas goaded the bartender with glassy eyes, forearm leaning on the counter.

The towering grizzly old Efrayim casually made his way toward the private eye. His neck was glossed in sweat, beard matted and apron grungy while having a rag in hand. The gentle giant made no effort to refill Atlas' glass, but instead cleaned up a few spots in his vicinity; wiping the rag across the wooden counter top.

"If you don't like it, you can leave Atlas." Efrayim spoke nonchalantly.

Atlas tilted his head to the side, eyebrow raised. He stared at the Jewish man; as if silently challenging him. Efrayim showed no signs of wavering, but instead locked eyes with him. There was a brief moment of silence between the two as their gaze intensified, hoping one would be fazed by the other. Eventually, Atlas folded and pushed his shot glass forward as his eyes averted.

"Give me another shot." Atlas asked, slightly miffed.

Efrayim chuckled. "Of course." He replied before grabbing a nearby bottle and pouring the liquid into the cup.

Atlas raised the cup in front of him and nodded at Efrayim in thanks. He stared straight at the wall across from him, hesitating before eventually downing the next shot. He sighed, closing his eyes as he let the burn of the alcohol travel down his throat. Thoughts began to stir within him, visualizations of events progressing through his head at a rapid pace. His mind swam through a dense mixture of feelings and emotions like a slideshow of his life that mercilessly played without ceasing. Finally, a single scene remain frozen in his memory. The silent scream of pain and horror that escaped the cold, chapped lips of his beloved. His Alexandra. The blood which flowed endlessly from the bullet wounds that stippled her chest. The blood that came from the heart that had once beat and belonged to him and him alone. A heart... viciously stolen by the dastardly, abhorrent claws of death. The syndicate, damn them, being death's ambassador.

"Fucking hell!" Atlas yelled as he fervently slammed his shot glass down once more.

He dropped his head, hair concealing his face as it dangled close to the bar.

*drip* *drip*

A few small drops of tears escaped his eyes as a solemn expression made its way onto Atlas' face. No one dared to stare at him; nor did they even attempt to say anything. Efrayim quietly exhaled, looking down at the floor before slowly walking away from Atlas.

*drip* *drip*

*drip* *drip*

*patter* *patter* *patter*

Rain began to fall lightly against the windows of the dark and dreary pub. Only a few lights were on, while the clouds and fog caused for both the inside and outside to be dim. No matter where one turned, the day- no, the city itself... was bleak. The temperature began to drop, while the oxygen felt thin. The air was cool, wet, and ultimately depressing. It was if the world itself spun on an axis of irony. The aura surrounding the place trampled on any feelings of hope or happiness; sapping any positivity that managed to somehow make its way into a bar.

After all, who really drank in place like The Gat when they were all chirpy anyway?

Gradually, Atlas stood up from the bar-stool. He pushed it back in, with the sound of the its legs scuffing the floor reverberating throughout the building. He fumbled through his pockets before locating his wallet; grabbing several dollar bills and placing them on the counter-top. He put away his wallet afterward, buttoning up his overcoat before placing one hand in each of its pockets. Keeping his head down, he made his way toward the exit doors.

It was damp. Not surprising. Atlas had nowhere in particular to go with no goal in mind. He took a few steps forward down the stairs, making his way onto the sidewalk. He began to stroll along, taking a few uncoordinated steps before falling on down. Somehow he managed to break his fall with his arms, hands pressed against the rough concrete. His knees hurt as a result of the fall, but he was too depressed to care.

Atlas' raised his head to the sky as rain fell onto his face. The water mixed in with his tears, masking some of the sadness from his visage. After a few minutes, Atlas flipped himself over and scooted backwards until his spine rested against one of the walls of the pub. Part of the roof hung over his body, shielding him from the light downpour. He brought his knees close to his face, placing his hands on top of them. Eventually, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat as well as a match. Seconds later, he had the cigarette lit and in his mouth.

Atlas took a few hits, letting out puffs of smoke; watching it disintegrate into the rain. He held the cigarette in between his fingers in front of him, taking a short break before taking another hit. He tightened his lips, securing the cigarette before letting his hand fall to the side.

Damn it all... Atlas thought to himself.

Atlas

code: @s e v e n​

 

[Prizzy Kriyze]

❝ Zhou Shui. ❞​

"Who pissed in your margarine, you off-brand bitch?"​

【location】— Higashi Compound

"Yep, yep. No I ain't got a lot to say about it, man." The large Yakuza man kicked the van door shut as Shui continued, "It's a lot of dope though. Deffo from us, the odd woodchip in there is really the dead giveaway you know." The Yakuza man turned and met Shui's smile with a confounded grimace, then broke out into chuckling. "I do not understand what it is you think is okay about telling everyone about the flaws of your product, Koi, but you're certainly turning me away from ever trying it." The cigarette in Shui's mouth bent as his teeth clenched together when he smile even wider. "That's the point, tomo. I wouldn't give this to my worst enemy, but the brainless masses? It's their own fault."

Shui leaned down and brought the switchblade in his hand from shoulder to shoulder on the man tied and leaning against the side of the van. Through the duct tape covering his mouth nothing was heard, but the gurgling sound from the newly made hole in his neck made a couple of the other Yakuza turn away to collect themselves. "These guys aren't even one of the big four though, unless they're way far undercover. Antonelli, maybe? Looked kinda Italian to me." Shui spoke, as he wiped his knife off on the corpse. The large Yakuza man shrugged and lit a cigarette of his own. "Yeah, you're right," Shui continued. "Probably just another start up that spent all of his granny's retirement fund on our stuff. Sha bi." Shui kicked the wannabe drug dealer, who'd already turn white and silent from blood loss.

The day had turned gray. Shui, or the Koi as he was more commonly known, had woken up quite early. You didn't need to snort a line to get out of bed when the first thing you heard was that some little asshole had decided to peddle goods on your turf. To be honest, Shui was pissed. If it wasn't for these fucking mongrels imposing on his shit, he could've done absolutely nothing for the past year and still be richer than he was now. The whole thing smelled of bullshit. That's why he was suspicious of the Iron Tundra. It'd be just like them to fuck with another gang for no fucking reason. Pay off some hobo to buy some product and start obstructing, y'know? They could probably afford it.

"Honestly though. I've been killing off dealers on the weekly for a year. Fuck it, whatever. Here're the keys." The large Yakuza expertly caught the ring of keys that Shui sent flying through the air, like he'd been expecting them. "You can bring that shit back to the Sōko and hand it over to Gi-san. He knows what to do." The cigarette in Koi's mouth sizzled and died when a particularly large rain drop hit it, and with a scoff he tossed it aside. "What'll you do, then?" The large Yakuza asked. "Oh, you know."

"Order take out."

_______________________

Twenty pieces of Nigiri. Probably enough to grab his attention. It was a little weird to Shui, how having a boss that was so similar to himself could sometimes be an obstacle. Like, he didn't keep track of things too great, or something? They had great times partying together though, nobody could deny that. Since his - well, sheltered may not be the right word, but he was certainly kept to some sort of cultural standard - upbringing, he'd never quite had a friend he could have fun like that with, but currently he wasn't picking up his phone it seemed. Shui spoke into the answering tone "Hey, I'm right outside your window out of the Higashi compound. I got shrimp sushi, I got salmon sushi, I got that disgusting miso soup shit and I got soy sauce that tastes like heaven. Pick up your phone and let me in here, I'm starving and waitin' for ya. Love, koi-boy."

.V1LLAINISM._

&&— ❝ the Dealer. ❞​

 

[StaidFoal]

Authors: StaidFoal (Viktor) RottenVale (Lev)

The Döner - Dürüm
12:05PM​

The Döner was a welcome break from the late-autumn wind.

Lev had been frequenting the establishment for weeks. He had a rhythm down - come in for lunch or dinner, sit alone, but close enough to the action to be able to eavesdrop. It was only one of the many methods he used to gather information - and all of them required him to be inconspicuous. He was crashing on a friend’s couch, and that friend was getting sick of him, but he was sure a breakthrough would come soon.

He really needed to get a hold of his cousin.

The bar was somehow dingy despite seeming well-lit. The chandeliers cast long shadows over the rows of wooden tables, and the pictures on the walls were cluttered, almost claustrophobic in their sheer magnitude. He loitered by the entrance, puffing on a cigarette, and watching the patrons come in.

And there he was, walking along, face covered by a scarf and a winter hat hiding his hair. Nobody with him this time - an opportunity. As Lev got closer, he noted makeup on the man’s face, and his eyes lingered on the very slightest indent of a scar.

You can always tell that a car has been dented, even after some body work and a coat of paint.

Dropping his cigarette, the man butted it with his heel, striding toward the front of the line where his cousin waiting for a table. His hair was tied back into a long, ragged ponytail; he’d worn his normal attire of stained jeans, a t-shirt, and a leather coat. “How many are in your party,” the server asked, and from a few feet back he replied - straightening his collar with stiff fingers.

“Just two. My cousin and I have been planning to have a talk.”

What? Viktor raised an eye at the stranger. Didn’t look like anyone he knew, much less a cousin of his. A simple mistake, he presumed. “You have the wrong person, sir.” He turned back to the server. “It’s just me.”

“No, no, I’m quite sure,” Lev insisted, hand slipping to his back. “We’ve been estranged.”

Viktor rolled his eyes. “Estranged, you say?” he asked, fully turning to face the man. He was about to chew him out, but the looney didn’t look so crazy as he did the first time Vik peeked at him. He looked confident, in fact. Viktor’s gaze softened. Was it possible that someone had looked into the case of Viktor Kuznetsov? Someone who knew more than the authorities cared to investigate and knew better than to assume him dead? Probably not. It’s bad to hope like that. “I’ll hear you out at the very least,” he muttered, just loud enough for Lev to hear. He looked back at the server. “Forget what I said. Make it a table for two.”

He merely nodded before leading the two over to a table. Once they seated themselves and the server left, Viktor would speak first. “Well? Explain to me what you know of this cousin of yours.” He poured some creamer into his coffee, gently stirring. He wanted to get this meeting between himself and this supposedly mistaken man over with. A body double could only have so much free time, after all.

“My father’s name was Kosma - Kosma Yenin.” His voice softened on the last two words, lowering, discouraging anyone who might be listening in. “An uncle of yours, Aleksy. Moved to the city after knocking up an O’Halleran lass and kissed his home country goodbye.” He leaned forward on his elbows, chin resting solidly on his clenched hands, and tilted his head towards the table. “I’ve done a lot of things in my life. Good and evil both. And though I know of your hatred for nepotism - the red hatred - I would like to work for you. To protect you as family.” His speech was cold, smooth - rehearsed.

Viktor fought the urge to spit out his coffee. Aleksy? The boss!? Was I not blended enough? Agh, so he wasn’t mistaken—but he is! Okay, okay, calm yourself, Viktor. He gently placed the cup down, leaning his chin on his hand. Perhaps I should come clean… and risk exposing myself to eavesdroppers? He’d shoot me for… Молчи! “Kosma…” He nodded slightly. “I vaguely remember the name.” Viktor looked at one ring on his finger, adjusting it while feigning disinterest. “So, a distant cousin of mine; at least, you claim to be.” He crossed his arms, twisting his face into that of Aleksy’s sinister scowl. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? It’s not hard to dig up names from my past. It wouldn’t be surprising if you held more… malicious intents. Surely you can agree?”

A soft tch escaped Lev’s lips. They were playing games already, it seemed, but it wouldn’t phase him. He was sure about this - surer than he’d been about anything - somehow more certain about this particular well-researched curiosity than his career path or ideal marital status. His lips relaxed into a calm smile, and he shrugged, turning his elbows to rest his hands flat on the table. “I’d hardly call a first cousin distant. What, do you want to see my driver’s license? One of your mother’s heirloom rings sourced from her grave itself? Maybe you want me to talk about my father for a while, although we never spoke much..” he let himself trail off, and his face moved, catching the other man in an even stare. “Look. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have come armed. I’ve got protection outside. One of the kids my mom forced me to go to the birthday parties for as a wee one, an O’Halleran, but she ent causing any trouble. In fact -- I’ll call her right now, tell her to go on her way, that all’s well with us and you’re not looking to shoot me for knowing too much.” A slow, steady breath. “That’s your call, kuzen.”

What was it the Americans said? Digging your own grave? Something like that. Viktor silently waved for the server to take his cup away; he was no longer in the mood for coffee. If this cousin wasn’t true to his word, it’d have been the best acting he’d seen. “There’s no need for any of that,” he ensured. Conversing with this man under false pretenses was no longer something he wanted to continue.

Viktor placed some money on the table for the server. “Wait in here until I signal for you to follow. I have an important call to make.” With that, he led himself out the door.

Now alone, he took a breath. “Ah, shit!” he muttered, leaning on his knees. His breath’s pace picked up, and he hit his chest in response to the abnormal thumps resounding from his heart and to where he could feel it. I go out for one cup of coffee and this happens! After mostly cooling himself down, Viktor took out his flip phone. “Boss, it’s me. Somebody saw through my disguise. Thing is, they think I’m you. He says he’s your cousin; his father, Kosma. I pushed him a little, but it doesn’t look like an act. I’m bringing him to the offices. You can be the judge.” Voice message sent.

He opened the door to the Döner - Dürüm, waving for Lev to follow. The man had neither touched his phone nor moved - he could feel the pulse in his throat - but with a dip of the head he moved quickly from the building. Once the pair was back outside, Viktor continued. “This is hardly the place for business, and I’m not the one you should be speaking to.” He looked towards the road to the Iron Tundra offices. It’d take a short walk for them to get there. “I’ll take you to our office building. Throw in all your effort there.” He took the lead, pushing away his uncertain countenance.

Lev pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket - taking one for himself, lighting it, and offering the pack to the other man. "Sure, sure. But if I was wrong - you got a name?"

Viktor gave a smile of feigned warmth. “If you’re wrong, you can pretend you never met me.”

Prizzy Kriyze

 

[CoachA]

❝ Ada O'Halloran. ❞​

"Ignorance kills. You should have been dead by now."​

【mood】— Angry
【location】— The Homestead
【tags】— N/A

Ada huffed as she slammed her car door closed, rain pelting down and soaking the box she carried in her arms. She had done fairly well throughout the day at moving her essentials back into her childhood bedroom without being caught by her family. Her parents were nowhere to be seen, Ma likely busy about the house and Da almost certainly dealing with the Antonelli situation, with Declan either helping their father or at the Wolfhound.

Hurrying through the front door and shutting it behind her with a kick, she took a quick glance into the kitchen before passing through the hallway and up the stairs. She didn't bother looking into the dining room, not expecting anyone to be sat down for lunch given how busy the day was for everyone. Heading up the stairs as quickly as she could without tripping, Ada made it to her room in no time and set the box down on her freshly made bed. She laid down with a heavy sigh, legs hanging off the side of the bed with her feet barely resting on the floor.

With her very fresh breakup and the situation with the dead Antonelli runner, saying that Ada was overwhelmed would have been an understatement. She had been on the brink of a panic attack since yesterday, and of course her fiancee had to go and make it a million times worse.So there she lay, fuming and tired next to a box of toiletries and an odd bottle of whiskey she had meant to give to Declan a few weeks ago.

After a moment of gathering her thoughts Ada sat up and removed her engagement ring, tossing it onto her nightstand. She pushed herself up off the bed and turned to the box, taking out the bottle of whiskey and leaving the rest to unpack later. Ada opened the bottle and took a quick drink as she left her room, taking a few steps down the hall toward Declan's room. She closed the bottle up tight as she opened the door, stepping inside just enough to gently toss the bottle onto her brother's bed before stepping out again and heading for the stairs. He'd find the whiskey eventually.

Once she made it downstairs Ada rounded the corner into the kitchen to find something to eat. Ma always kept the cupboards well stocked so the only issue was finding something that sounded good at the moment.

&&— ❝ the spy master. ❞​

 

[StaidFoal]

❝ Ada O'Halloran. ❞​

"If you wanted a peak, you could've just asked."​

【mood】— bored

【location】— Antonelli Palazzo

【tags】— CoachA

Gloria flashed her charming smile as the eager paparazzi, and press swarmed around her. They shouted her name, trying to get their masterful scoop or a perfect shot. They moved as she moved and stopped as she stopped. The flashing cameras blotted out the surrounding noise as she struck a pose for a few seconds, feeding the photographers their fill. Gloria was on her way to her vehicle when the mob gathered around. She figured word of Gloria Goldie's appearance in town spread from person to person, and the press wasted no time in tracking her down.

"Gloria! Is it true that there is a relationship between you and Duane Stuyvesant?"

"No, he doesn't even like my hobbies!"

"Ms. Gloria! What kind of routine do you have to look so dashing?"

"If I told you that, this sort of look wouldn't be as special, now would it?"

"Ms. Goldie!" The reporter had shoved himself through the swarm, ready to write whatever words she spoke. "Do you have anything to say about the rumors of your supposed connections to one of the crime syndicates?"

Gloria smiled warmly at the man. "Sorry, but I prefer honorable men, not those rotten kidnappers and ruthless killers."

They then barraged her with several more questions about her personal life and whatnot; all merging with each other's words to create an unfathomable cacophony. She simply continued walking to her car. The paparazzi followed until she ducked into the backseat, repeatedly yelling her name like a broken record. Some more desperate ones knocked on the car itself, much to her amusement. Eventually, the car started, and the paparazzi reluctantly withdrew with what pictures they had taken.

Gloria's talent agent, Duane Stuyvesant, stared at her from the driver's seat—with disapproval rather than desire. "I'm tired of watching you answer those types of questions. One wrong word, and the entire press will be up your ass! You'll lose everything, Lori!"

She laughed. "I know, I know!" She met his half-concerned, half-annoyed glare. "But you will manage that. Right, Duane? "

He let off a sigh. "It's what I'm paid for... So, you goin' to them again?"

Gloria's mood noticeably soured underneath her smile. "Of course. It's even worse that none of my sources can give me any solid info on our dead runner. This is something we can only discuss in person." She looked at her colored nails in disinterest. "You aren't going to lecture me about 'staying on the right path' again, are you?"

Duane shook his head, stepping on the gas pedal. "I can't stop you from meeting them. I gave a hell of an effort before, but that evidently led nowhere. Oh, by the by, your ex-husband—er, the second one—called earlier."

Gloria leaned her head on her hand, glaring out the window. "And?"

"One day, you'll need to tell me what you're doing with the guy. He sounded so desperate to see you again that I can't help but pity him."

She giggled. "What can I say? Men are so easy like that. You give them a taste, and they never forget it."

If he didn't need to focus on the road, Duane would have rolled his eyes. The rest of the ride was silent, with only the pattering rain to fill the void. She was pretty sure she saw a drunkard lying on the sidewalk. Soon, her talent agent turned into the Palazzo after checking if anyone had followed them. He gave Gloria her incognito outfit: a hat, sunglasses, scarf, and coat. The same old routine he's done for the past five years when she felt like visiting. Now, it looked as if she'd be staying in the City for a while.

Gloria opened her umbrella and walked to the Antonelli Palazzo. When was the last time an emergency called for her presence here? The news of a dead runner in supposedly friendly territory forced the photoshoot to be delayed, much to Duane's annoyance. She cited a family emergency, which was technically the truth, even if it only added to her agent's headache.

Entering the Palazzo, she glady folded her umbrella and hung her incognito wear. The age-old smell of the place hasn't changed since the first time she arrived. Gloria stretched her arms, walking further into the building. "Vincenzo, darling?" The old coot was probably elsewhere in the place, she figured. "I mustn't need to remind you of the Micks and our dead man in their territory, do I?." She took to pouring herself a cup; a bottle of wine left out. Left by either the Don or some bored lackey in the mafia.

Gloria crossed her legs as she sat. The wine snapped at her tongue, but she had a feeling she'd need it for the long day ahead.

&&— ❝ the icon and the aide. ❞ ​

​

 

[Soviet Panda]

Connor sat in the back seat of the car, on his phone, trying his best to not enter into a shouting match with the person on the other end of the line. "You listen here you rat bastard, you figure out what the McKinley brood saw or I'll do it myself, and we both don't want that... I said figure it out, I got two people whose job it is to get information... You better watch what you're going to say next, one of those 'bitches' is my daughter... I expect to hear something from you soon, Colonel... Yes I'm still coming over for poker night, Susan makes amazing boxty... Yeah... Uh-huh... I'll hear from you soon." And with that, he hung up.

Looking out the window at his goliath of a son, who he had instructed to step out in case he did get into a shouting match, and tapped on the window to signal for him to get back in. "The Colonel is going to be interrogating his brood about the incident. There's so many of those rats running around, you'd think one of them saw something." As he filled Declan in on what was happening, he was needlessly straightening his coat and flattening his pantlegs. Even if the weather wasn't so dreary, his ever present flat cap would be worn as well. That was spared from Connor's straightening simply because he forgot he was wearing it.

"To the Goy," he instructed simply, once he was satisfied with how he looked.
StormWolf

 

[StormWolf]

Declan wasn’t sure how to take the dismissal his father had given, but being the good soldier and the dutiful son, he obeyed without question on instinct and principle alone. Once outside, lit by the glowing cherry of a fresh cigarette, was when Declan got to thinking, and that very rarely ended well. A drag on the cigarette lit up Declan’s eyes like a tropical shallows.

If Connor O’Halloran was a soft man, or an overly protective one, he may wish to spare a child a glimpse at wrath or coarse language, but Declan’s father was not soft. Connor O’Halloran has always been an oak, and never spared a hard lesson when someone needed it. He was the Bull and the Boss for a reason. If not a sense of misplaced parental protectiveness, then the only thing Declan could conjure up was a break in the trust between them. Could it be that Connor held him accountable for the stiff at the Wolfhound?

A rapping from the inside of the window broke Declan out of that gradual spiral of introspection. Blowing out a puff of smoke through his nostrils, he snuffed the cigarette under a shoe. Ducking into the driver’s seat, Declan took the car out of park and flashed a glance into the rear-view mirror as his father spoke.

”Mm-hrm,” Declan grunted gruffly, “Throw a few rats into a box together. Before long, they’ll start eating each other, sir,” Declan said, nodding at his father’s command as he set his jaw. The engine revved pleasantly, the powerful machine purring through the pedals and steel frame as Declan deftly commanded it through the unique brand of traffic that rears its head at the full moon and when the weather goes south.

The Goy was a known entity among... just about anyone who was someone In the city. A perpetual soirée with some of the finest choices of liquid vice outside the O’Halloran cellars, made better by the energy and air of the place. It was popular for a a reason among all sides of the law and everyone in between. The bar in question rolled into view through the misty grey curtains of rain after a thankfully brief drive.

Declan popped open the glove compartment, drawing out his massive 1911 long slide, clipping the gun and holster onto his belt before stepping out into the rain and opening the door for Connor. The stage had been set. Connor was Declan’s boss today before he was his father.

Soviet Panda

 

[Unzath]

"Damnit."

The soft curse escaped Micky as he stared at the ripples in his glass of water. With a deep frown he slowly put down the glass next to the sink overflowing with dishes. Slowly but carefully he moved his hand in front of his eyes unable to stop the trembling. His gaze slid over the aged kitchen cupboards to the one at the end. Eyes lingering there, he slowly ran his tongue over his lip. A shuffling behind him broke the tempting thought. He turned around and casually leaned against the counter, shaking hand held still against the edge of it's scratched surface.

"Morning, mom."

She faced him bleary eyed, her robe slightly dishevelled, as she barely managed to stifle a yawn. Her look of sleepy confusion turned more sharp in the literal blink of an eye and she looked him over carefully. With a single step forward Patricia straightened her son's jacket in well practiced manner.

"You're up early."

Micky sensed the intensity of her attention and knew he would have to give her something. With a practiced smile, that utterly failed to convince Patricia, he moved away from the counter and towards the door.

"Yeah, I've gotta go downtown. Work...you know."

Instantly regretting the word 'work', Micky winced and looked away. Her look went from worried to forlorn, the countless arguments between the two remaining unspoken in the air. Another repetition of that cycle of disagreements unnecessary to convey the feelings that accompanied them. Hers: angry for him at following in both his father's and brother's footsteps, worried that his fate might follow Pete's. His: guilt in his heart for hurting his mother, but in his mind certainty, even eagerness, that this was the way forward for him.

The hands that had just straightened his jacket falling listlessly to her side, Patricia moved to the sink to start her morning routine. Her eyes went over to Micky one more time.

"Stay safe, Micky."

With a glance back up Micky saw the last glimpses of hurt from her expression, before it was hidden by the harsh acceptance of facing another day.

"I love you too, mom."

A little over an hour later one of the City's non descript grey busses stopped, it's automatic doors sliding open. As Micky stepped out, he straightened his leather jacket, unconsciously checking the holstered gun beneath by sliding his hand over the grip. Tommy had sounded like there was some serious stuff about to go down, a meet of some sort involving the Don himself. Micky looked up the road to the Palazzo towering over the rest of the City below. His mother needed the car for work, so for now he was stuck walking from bus stops like this. With a shake of his head, he started walking up the hill towards the impressive mansion.

As a car approached on the other side of the road, a smile slowly spread across Micky's face. He found the veer in his step once more, as his glumness made place for optimism. Whatever else this day might bring, it also brought opportunities. Opportunities that Micky would make his.

CoachA

 

[Soviet Panda]

"And when you have the largest rat there is, you tend to bet on him." Connor told his son before hurriedly putting a hand on his shoulder and continuing. "That stays between you and me. We don't want Ma hearing us bad mouth one of her IRA compatriots." With that said, he leaned back into the seat and enjoyed the ride to the Goy. As much as one could with the morons that came out when it rained.

Upon arriving, Connor did much the same as Declan, though he took more care in concealing his revolver with a chest holster underneath his coat. Getting out after his son opened the door, he muttered softly "Remember the rules of the Goy," before entering the famed establishment. The Goy had seen better days, but it had earned the fame amongst the mobsters by Avi's strict following of his rules. Speaking of, the owner of this fine establishment was standing behind the bar and polishing it's already spotless surface to a shine.

"Avi!" Connor shouted, holding his arms out as if expecting a hug.

"Connor!" Avi responded much the same, though the two dropped their arms once the greetings were done with. "So what brings you to the Goy? I doubt it's for pleasure, you have a woman of your own for that, and booze to."

"You're right, Avi, it's all business. I'll be sitting at the usual spot for these things."

"Vincenzo?"

"Vincenzo." Connor didn't like why he had to talk to the Antonelli boss, but due to recent events he had to. And judging by the look on Efrayim's face, he wanted to have a fly at the booth to figure things out for himself. But that was another reason why everyone gathered at the Goy, he knew to stay out of their business, it was better for his if he did.

Taking a seat at the booth with his back to the wall and eyes on the door, Connor settled in to wait for the Bear. He took the small victory in arriving at the meeting first, but now he had to wait.

 

[Worthlessplebian]

Martin Klint, Police Officer, Serial Killer

Location: The 'Sty, Mood: Same as Ever,
Mentions/Interactions: N/A

Another day, another beat to run, at least the rain makes up for it. Officer Klint thought as he walked the cracked pavement of the City with the rain showering his hat and coat. This was routine for him, he has been a law enforcer for years now yet there is no vertical mobility for this good officer, not in a city with this much corruption in its' veins. But to Klint, this was how he preferred it, he'd rather stay a lowly, grunt than climb up the police hierarchy with blood money in his pocket and the devils at his ears. He wished he could pull out his cigs and take a big huff but he makes it a point to not smoke while on duty.

His beat was coming to an end, just a few more blocks left. As the Officer turned the corner, he began to plan his... nocturnal activities. That was only thing that gave him joy these past few years. Looking into a dirtbag's face and watch as it fills with fear, their battered and slashed muscles squirming, trying to escape their fate. He's been more active these recent months but it doesn't mean that he's become reckless. Each kill, he approaches with the same level of care and precaution. However there was a recent kill that was not his, the dead runner at the O'Halloran Gym, the Wolfhound. Klint overheard some of his fellow officers describing the case.Whoever killed the poor schmuck was obviously an amateur and the corpse placement makes too obvious that the perp wants the gangs to fight but the higher-ups would most likely see through this immediately. Which means this is a quick distraction for someone else to complete their goals OR there isn't a deeper motive behind this and someone simply wanted to kill someone to get their jollies...


His train of thought was interrupted when an elderly's voice called out to him."G'd day, Clint!" He could recognize the voice from a mile away."Oh, good ol' Ricci, how are ya?" He smiled, knew this old coot from when he still played ball in the streets. "Ya know, same old, same old and me being old too." Ricci chuckled a little. "Anyway, why are you out here in the rain? Don't tell me, the chief has you running beats." Klint couldn't help but smirk slightly at Ricci's conclusion. He adjusted his police cap then answered. "Someone has to do this, Ricci, might as well be me." The old man couldn't help but form a frown on his wrinkled face. "Tell that old windbag to shove it, courtesy of Ol' Rich." Now Klint chuckled."Sure thing." They smiled and waved then went their own ways.

Eventually, Klint returned to the 'Sty, wet from head to toe. The receptionist immediately waved for him to come over, he happily obliged. "Hey Clint, the chief's got some paperwork for you to look over, desk duty as usual." "Doesn't he always." Klint rolls his eyes."Drop'em off and I'll get to them in a moment." The receptionist nodded. He stepped away and went to the lockers to store his wet, police raincoat and cap. When he arrived at his desk, he was greeted with a mountain of paperwork, as per usual. He sighed and sat down on the worn-out chair."Let it not be said that I don't do the most paperwork in this station." He mumbled to himself as he pulled out his cigs, Raptors, crappy cig brand but it was his favorite. Another day, another mountain.

 

[StormWolf]

Declan dipped his head in a nod to his father, doing his best to not look like he was looking down at the man. Though Declan had several inches and change on his father, there was a certain gravitas to Connor that commanded space in a room better than Declan's shoulders could ever hope. Still, there was the briefest flicker of a smile at the corner of one lip and a hint of a dimple winking upon his freckled cheek.

"Of course, sir," he said with the kind of deference that can only be found in a dutiful son. Connor O'Halloran may run the family in terms of criminal enterprises, but Rowena ran the family side of the family, and only a foolish man would invite Rowena's ire, even at the best of times. When Connor muttered his dire reminder, Declan once again dropped his chin to his chest in a nod, this one considerably less chipper,

"Yes, sir. Ma didn't raise a fool and I weren't born in a barn," Declan said from his position behind Connor, shadowing him to the right as they passed through the threshold – or rather ducked, in Declan's case – and replaced the soft pattering of rain for the velvet tunes and wood-varnish smell of the Goy. It was a familiar hole in the wall, and while it wasn't particularly comforting, the warm lighting and the smell of woodsmoke and whiskey from the kitchen had a homey appeal. While a place like the Gatted Goy was never really quiet, it was a bit before their usual rush, and the too-loud thud of Declan's footsteps made him feel like an exposed nerve.

Declan stood by as silently as he could while Connor and the proprietor exchanged pleasantries, taking count of current patrons and making sure that the usual points of ingress and egress remained unchanged. Declan knew they would be, lest the Goy ruffle the feathers of some particularly nasty customers, but Declan had one job, and by God, he was going to make sure he did it well.

With the Boss in his seat, Declan set himself down facing the front door. The leather cushions of the lounge, polished by countless asses over the years, creaked as Declan settled himself in, elbows resting on the table's edge with ringed fingers knit neatly together over his placemat. The poor waiter, likely no older than Declan's sister, set glasses of water down shakily.

"Coffee, black, when you have the chance," Declan said slowly, offering a thin smile that likely only served to make the request come across as a demand. Seeing the waiter pale, nod jerkily, and speed off like a spooked sparrow, Declan clicked his tongue. If the little shit was scared now, he'd have another thing coming if he spilled hot coffee in Declan's lap due to shaky hands.

"I presume you're to do all the talking, sir?" It wasn't much of a question, even in the asking. Connor hadn't spoken to Declan about what the objectives of this meeting were. Yes, peace was the goal, but something like this, especially with the Italians, was a negotiation. What was the bottom line? How far could they push? Was Declan just supposed to sit pretty and smile until he got the signal to make a mess? Probably. If that was the case, he'd hope that this little sit-down would be like the Patty's Day dinners when he was a kid; he'd be seen, but not heard.

Soviet Panda

 

[Pilgrim59]

S. Sommerfeld
"the Bartender"
T.C.P.D
Office, The 'Sty
Worthlessplebian
​

The morning light dawned upon Fifty-Ninth Street, piercing through the translucent veils of navy curtains. A certain blonde figure covered by a mere towel dragged themselves across the room, with their set of clothes in tow. Upon their bed resided a pair of t-batons, a forty-five revolver with complements of speed-loaders, alongside matching holsters. A jaded, but ever glowing badge became a daily reminder to the young crusader of justice. The daily line-up for the dogged bluecoat. With their attires donned, and their equipment in tow, alongside a duffel bag filled with personal belongings, the woman fixed her hair promptly as they took a brief glance at the picture frame atop their desk. The picture was that of a tall man with a ruffled white shirt, and a strikingly familiar apparition that sat upon his shoulders.

It was a new day for Satorie. Having concluded her tactical courses a few days prior, she was transferred over to the 'Sty. In the public eyes, it was a seemingly tactful maneuver to complement the constabulary with a just figure. But to Satorie, she was simply being pulled from the line to ease up tensions following the recent incidents revolving the big players of The City. A not-so-subtle way of telling Satorie to get out of the way. Surely, she was upset about the whole ordeal, but inadvertently, her efforts had great effects of inspiration for others. She kept her head high, taking a deep breath before pushing the front door in. The old bloods, however, were less keen on accepting a greenie with an itchy trigger finger into their fray. Who was to say she would not set the entire city ablaze by breaking the mundane norms? The only question that mattered was who was going to bear the responsibility of babysitting this self-righteous, justice-driven crusader in blues? Ultimately, Satorie had made up her mind to follow suit with her transfer, in hopes of learning more from a more-experienced veteran of The City's finest.

Before long, Satorie made it past the front desk, touring the 'Sty with the desk sergeant's help. After a roundabout turn past the bullpens and administrative offices, the young corporal found herself in front of a certain man's desk. The lines on his face, accompanied by his stern but astute eyes across the piles of paperwork, demanded a certain explanation as to how Satorie found herself before him. Briefing through the piece of paper on her hand, then glancing at the man at his desk, she finally spoke up.

"Ya must be sergeant Klint! Corporal Sommerfeld, Special Response Team Baker. It says here I'm your new charge? I've never had a direct senior handler before, but I'll do my best!" she introduced herself, unfurling the transfer note towards the man, all the while donning a bright and energetic expression. Her form was as ardent as her impetuous self, as she dropped her duffel bag and stood straight with her arms by her side, and her feet locked.

 

[Worthlessplebian]

Martin Klint, Police Officer, Serial Killer

Location: The 'Sty, Mood: Same as Ever,
Mentions/Interactions: Pilgrim59

The diligent officer went to work immediately, scanning every piece of paper, the reports that never seem to end. The officer's pen was quick and sharp like a blade, making corrections to otherwise laughable mistakes. At certain intervals, he would question himself where did the rest of the officers learn how to write a report. The only thing keeping him sane in this sea of bureaucracy and documentation was the frequent puffs of his crappy cigarette brand. One of these days, I'll French kiss a shotgun. He thought, having seemingly reached the threshold of these worthless papers, half of them could be falsified just to keep someone busy.

Klint might have gotten too focused on his work as he failed to notice the short and pale officer making her way towards him. Her accent and tone caught his attention and the contents of her words surprised him partially. The officer looked over the transfer paper that was handed to him by the newbie with the duffel bag. He distanced the paper slightly as he could not believe his eyes. So the Dept. finally wants to straddle him with a rook? He shrugged his shoulders."At ease, Sommerfeld." The officer spoke with a calm yet assured tone, the odd thing about the transfer was the bizarre relocation of fine talent. The officer looked up from the document."Been a long time since the brass decided to shoot a partner my way, especially someone of your talents." The grizzled officer pulled out the last cigarette from the carton then sighed slightly."Well... As you can see.." He gestured with the unlit cig at the stack of papers that were neatly ordered."I've got desk duty today, like every other day since I think about 17% of the current police roster can't write an eligible report or hell, what is this." The officer pulled out a piece of paper then analyzed it briefly."A report about a recent investigation anddd... Two people are missing from the chain of custody aka Who came into contact with the evidence. Wanna know how I know? Because I was there and the two officers couldn't even bother to write their names on the report, waste of good trees if you ask me." The disappointed officer dropped the paper in front of him and rubbed his temples with his now free hand."Well, once I'm done with desk duty, I'll fill you in on what we'll be doing or if you want you can stay here and watch me correct this garbage, you might learn a thing or two."

 

[Prizzy Kriyze]

❝ Aleksy Yenin. ❞​

❝Beautiful, the sunset. A stark reminder of the passing of time, wouldn't you agree, rodnoy brat? A year ago, this building - this view - did not exist. Oh, don't cry. It is not the time for sentimentality, dull your tears. You are not that special. Like the sun, all of us must eventually slip below ground.❞​

【location】— His Office
【tags】— RottenVale CoachA kath1515 St. Boethius StaidFoal

Like a thin veil of glamour clinging to a lake of shit, the Iron Tundra Main Office building - or the Shtab-kvartira, as it was sometimes known - stood, casting a monolithic shadow over the acrid shifting mass beneath it. Certainly in the Dirizher's mind, total annihilation of the city he viewed through huge windowpanes, bulletproof and glimmering, was the most reasonable and humane action. Half of them unaware of their guinea pig status, blissfully ignorant of the weak and helpless existence they led. The cold of this vast universe would at best observe this piece of existence with indifference, and the Dirizher wouldn't live under the pretense that any of them mattered more to him than the water droplets collecting against the glass. Unfortunately, their benefactors had more malignant intentions, and so Aleksy had not the freedom to be a merciful God and wash them all away.

Still, as he stood there, observing the city with his hands folded behind his back, surrounded by burgundy velvet upholstery, mahogany furniture and the soft light of a light-bulb-laden chandelier, none of this pleasant philosophizing passed through his head.

There were too many issues at hand. The dead Antonelli found by the O'Halloran gym. Aleksy wouldn't be surprised if the village idiots in that incestuous family had accidentally popped someone dead over some emotional feud, but it sounded terribly similar to what one of his own might recklessly do if they started getting foolishly ambitious. The trail of nobodies being thrown to the wolves by selling drugs in Higashi territories. It was his executive order to shake their market before taking it over with higher quality russian product, but they'd been getting killed too quickly to really have a chance of even making a dent. Still, stealing chinese products and offering it to junkies for money had kept being profitable, so why would they stop?

His train of thought was interrupted by a loud beep from the answering machine behind him. His gaze shifted over his shoulder and watched the little red light as a voice oh so reminiscent of his own spoke aloud.

“Boss, it’s me. Somebody saw through my disguise. Thing is, they think I’m you. He says he’s your cousin; his father, Kosma. I pushed him a little, but it doesn’t look like an act. I’m bringing him to the offices. You can be the judge.”

That was Mr Kuznetsov, no question. It seemed the Dirizher might have overestimated his body double's adaptability, perhaps a restriction on his freedom outside of headquarters was in place... Or maybe this cousin person was especially perceptive. Except, they wouldn't have been.

Aleksy's eyebrows furrowed, but more with curiosity than worry. Kosma was the last name he'd expected to come haunting after him. Something like the black sheep of the family, he was never brought up in anything other but the family tree. It seemed the living relatives collectively rolled their eyes every time his name was brought up. Interesting.

He sat down behind his desk, lifted the handset and pressed in a series of numbers with one hand whilst the other scribbled down a few quick notes on a small notebook. A couple of long rings passed before a raspy, dark voice spoke through the line.

"You hardly call anymore, Dirizher. I hope you're not wasting time."

❝Don't flatter me, dyadya. I call about uncle Kosma.❞

There was a brief pause, before a harsh tone came across the line. "He's dead."

❝Did you kill him?❞

"I tried, but before I had the chance he'd gotten himself killed by some yakuza on a fluke."

❝Higashi-gumi?❞

"That the one in your city? Then probably."

❝And his son?❞

There was another long silence. Aleksy took the moment to pull a box of cigars from within his coat and placing it on the desk before him, before producing an ash tray from one of the desk's drawers. "... so that's why he went."

Through the phone the noise of liquid stirring ice inside a glass was heard. ❝So you didn't know about him.❞ Aleks claimed.

"No. Kosma was caught to be fraternizing with the O'Hallorans and excommunicated. That was all, then he went missing."

That explains the rolling of eyes. Aleks thought. By far the most serious and stupefying action a Yenin could do was show disloyalty when leadership was strong, and his grandfather's iron grip had been supreme.

❝O'Halloran and Yenin blood mixed in one.❞ Aleks noted.

"I would imagine." Sasha replied. "I'll be enjoying retirement now, and staying away from such repulsive topics of conversation." Aleksy knew the line would soon go silent, so he did not bother replying. Just before cutting out, a distant toast sounded through the phone. Then, silence.

O'Halloran and Yenin blood in his cousin.

That's an angle.

Aleksy didn't waste any time. He entered another series of numbers and put it on speaker. "Yes, Mr. Yenin?" His secretary replied.

Aleksy sliced the cap from his cigar and put it to his mouth. ❝Anne, lyubov moya, be a darling and use an outside line for me. Call Havel for me, and tell him, word for word - that means write this down, please - 'Within the coming fifteen minutes there will be a man accompanying Mr. Kuznetsov coming into the reception area of the offices. Tell him he wishes to meet the Dirizher in his office before sending Mr. Kuznetsov ahead. Then pat that man down. Scare him, like you do so well. Make him understand whose game he's playing. Get his name, pass it on to me silently, then send him up here. Thank you.' And I assume you understand you're to make the gentleman wait if Havel does not get here before him, Anne?❞

"Yes sir. I will make the call immediately."

❝You're a sweetheart.❞ Click.

An ornate brass lighter flicked open in Aleksy's hand and a low glow caused embers to form at the end of his cigar. He leaned back into his chair. Regardless what this cousin of his wanted, this could be a chance at bridging a relationship with the O'Hallorans. The worrying part was that he'd never once, in his years in the City, heard of this alleged cousin. That could mean trouble.

Or it could mean he's an excommunicated disgrace, just like his father.

Suddenly Aleksy remembered. He had a meeting booked with the young Miss Veronica regarding their potential partnering with her family's company. Her father was a local politician and a CEO of a certain security firm, and a joint political effort would be mutually benifical. Manpower, murderers and subterfuge from the Iron Tundra, fake certifications, badges and weapons from the security firm. It was an excellent deal in theory, but he'd yet to meet them. Normally Aleksy would be insulted by the use of an intermediary like Veronica, but agreeing to Warren Rothchilde in this scenario might just have him underestimating how far the Iron Tundra's influence truly reaches; and that would most certainly be to their advantage.

Smoke flowed towards the ceiling as Aleksy reached out to the telephone a third time, and pressed the line leading directly to his lieutenant's office. He didn't have to wait for a signal, as the wire immediately broadcasted his voice through Nicholai's speaker phone.

❝Mr. Milkovich. Young miss Veronica will be expecting to see me soon. I've become otherwise preoccupied for a time. Please recieve her and give her a tour of our facilities, maybe keep her engaged with whatever luxurities you see fit. I will call for you when I'm ready to recieve you. Ponyal?❞

Letting his finger off the button and offering Nicholai a chance to reply, Aleks leaned forward on his elbows. Those were a few things set in motion, and he was certainly curious to see what results they would yield.

&&— ❝ the Leader. ❞​

 

[Pilgrim59]

S. Sommerfeld
"the Bartender"
T.C.P.D
Office, The 'Sty
Worthlessplebian
​

Satorie found the man well-spoken, albeit coarse on the edges. If anything, she was glad he was not the type to beat around the bush, or worse - pulling ranks and privileges. If anything, she was not going to take any of that, even if the brass seated her down. But as professional standards and courteous etiquettes dictate, Satorie could perhaps learn much from Klint. While she did not admit it, she was the type to discern paperworks, deferring to hands-on assignments rather than sitting around. Klint's statement about one of the happenings made her drew a long face.

Being one of the gunslinger type in her unit, Satorie never made or attempted to gun for a leadership role. She knew what she signed up for, and stuck with just that and nothing more. She took for granted being under someone's charge, with little care for responsibilities aside from keeping her partner alive.

"It don't hurt none to stick around, although I must profess, I'm more of a field person. Not much of an organizer. But, I do like a challenge." she claimed, pulling a chair over, alongside her duffel bag.

The young corporal sifted through the pile of paperwork, putting them in order of minor lacernies, batteries, aggrevated assaults, then the more serious non-misdemeanors. As Satory sorted out the stacks, she turned to Klint every now and then. She studied his eyes, all the way down to the folds in his shirt. Obviously, he was not the white-collar type, but a dogged soldier, who happens to be given a desk job. For whatever reasons the precinct Captain deemed it necessarily so.

"Hey, sarge. You obviously don't strike me as the type to usually scrib and nib away at parchments. Any exciting case you been put on?" Satorie spoke, breaking the studious atmosphere.

"Oh! I heard about this one vigilante that goes around the city, breaking bones and taking names. Quite a badass, if ya ask me. Never bound by the law, only by what principles of justice." she went on.

"You reckon we'll get some balls-to-the-wall action later today? Maybe take out a couple of armed street thugs and telling them to 'Git'. Poetic to the bard's strings!" Satorie said, with a manly-toned emphasis on the word 'git', all the while punching the air - illustrating the scenario in her head quite vividly in real time.

She then leaned her right elbow on Klint's shoulder, closing their distance, as if taking the rein over the man. Her other hand brushes over the empty space before them.

"Klint and Sommerfeld. The City's Crusaders. Coming Soon." Satorie exclaimed, emulating a narrator's voice as best she could, accompanied by a confident grin on her face that had 'ambitious schemes' written all over it.

 

[St. Boethius]

Havel squints as his wandering eyes happen to drift from the paperwork in front of him and to the large window that allowed natural light into his office. As the sun rise blinds him Havel is shocked as he realizes that he had accidentally spent his entire evening coming through the financial records of his beloved casino, The Tsar’s Palace. It’s often said that any criminal who is good at their job is paranoid about their own speciality. Those who rig explosives always check their personal things for ‘presents’ and in Havel’s case he wanted to make sure he knew exactly where ‘his’ money was flowing in from and going to. As the Derzhatel obschaka of the Bratva Iron Tundra Havel is a specialist when is come to moving money around. This is why Pakhan Yenin, or the Conductor as he prefers to be addressed as, trusts him to manage the cultivation and cleaning of all the money the Iron Tundra brings in with its various enterprises.

Havel really loves his job, and prides himself on being extremely through. For every illicit enterprise that the iron tundra is involved in, be it anything from a chop shop to robbery, Havel sets up a perfectly legal enterprise to explain and clean that money so that it can be used to further the Pakhan’s goals for their Bratva. Not to mention that by greasing the wheels of the state by donating to certain charities and political PACs Havel makes sure that they’re largely ignored by the authorities. After all its bad for business if the local politician’s largest donor were to be connected with criminal activity. Through a dizzying amount of shell companies Havel was secure in the fact that nothing short of a Federal investigation could find all the accounts Havel used for the money.

Turning back to mountain of paperwork Havel couldn’t help give a frustrated sigh as he tossed his glasses onto his desk. The biggest problem that Havel faced was his own paranoia. In his efforts to make sure that their money was ready to use and constantly growing he had to use a ridiculous amount of shell companies, fake companies whose only purpose is to move money from one bank account to another, in order to clean that money before sending it out to pay the bribes of officials, salaries of civilians who unwittingly worked for them, investments to grow money, etc, etc. Havel was passionate about his work, but after so many hours of staring at paper words and numbers begin to lose all sense of meaning.
It was times like these that Havel indulged himself to refocus his mind. Getting up from his desk Havel involuntarily stretched himself as he felt the blood returning to parts of his body he didn’t realize had fallen asleep due to how long he had been sitting. Going over to his window he unlocked and opened it up before leaning out of it to enjoy the view of the city. Havel took a moment to enjoy the sunrise before fishing around in his coat pocket for his carton of cigarettes and lighting one up. As the nicotine rush set inHavel closed his tired eyes and he slowly savored what would be the first of his many cigarettes of the day. Havel took his time with his smoke break to get himself in order and prepare for his day.
As a rare sense of peace washed over Havel his office phone rang dragging him back to reality. Take one last, but long drag Havel snuffed out his cigarette in the ash tray he kept on the windowsill. He was starting to have quite a collection of butts, he could need to clean it out soon.
Havel closed and locked his window before walking over and answering the phone:
“ Hello?” Havel asked in his usually monotone manner.
“Good morning Anne, how can I help you today?”
As Anne delivered Pakhan Yenin’s rather distinct instructions a rare smile flashed across Havel’s face.
“Yes Ma’am, 15 minutes. I’ll be there. Thank you. You as well. Good bye.”
Havel was passionate about his work when it came to money, but there was something special about the other aspect of his job. The thrill that comes from being directly involved is something he he had always enjoyed.
as Havel prepared to leave his office he dug out his conceal carry pistol and after chambering a round made sure it found its place in his side holster. Once he was sure he didn’t leave behind his knife or reloads for his gun Havel took a moment to button up his jacket so as to hide his weapon and make sure his tie was straight before leaving his civilian self behind and returning back to who he truly was.
The Tsar’s Palace would be about a 20 minute drive through the densely populated city, but about a 10-15 minute walk. Havel took the opportunity to smoke another cigarette before he made it to the Main office. Now it was just a matter of waiting.
Prizzy Kriyze