Right, I'm once again starting a new story instead of updating the ones I already have. I'm awful, I know, but I promised Newt. Newt, this is for you. This story contains borrowed OCs, whose creators will be credited as their characters are introduced.

Chapter 1- Joe McDonnell

Peninsular Point, Virginia, was a city on par with San Diego, California, in size: about a million inhabitants. It boasted a bustling seaport and a college campus of some repute, as well as thriving Irish, Chinese, Italian, German, and Russian communities,

However, the city's ethnic diversity also gave rise to each major group running an organized crime syndicate to further their own interests. The police tried their best to control the situation, but with little success.

At the Peninsular Point Police Department on C Street, the new commissioner, David Gilman, was looking intently at a grainy photo of a tall, sandy-haired man with dark blue eyes. There was a hand-written note on the back of the photo- 'Irish mob leader- Michael Davitt. Alias?' It had been taken two years previous by a plainclothes police officer, and was the only known picture of the man who called himself Michael Davitt. Gilman also considered it worth noting that the photographer had disappeared after taking the picture, and found two weeks later, floating in Chesapeake Bay with a bullet in his head.

Gilman put the photo back into a manila folder labeled 'Irish Mob, Peninsular Point- Highly Dangerous.' He then stood and walked out of his office.

There was only one officer at his desk when Gilman looked over- 22-year-old Jordan O'Malley, who, despite having grown up in the Northeast Corner (a region very much under the control of the Irish mob), was a loyal and conscientious officer.

"O'Malley," the commissioner said, "how long have you been in here?"

"Uh… 'bout foive hours, boss…" Jordan frowned. "'M Oi in trouble, Mr. Gilman?"

"No, no… far from it. In fact, I wish we had more like you."

"Ah, Oi ain't all Oi'm made out ta be, boss." O'Malley stood. "Walk ye to yer car, sir?"

"No need, it's only a few hundred feet. Go back to work, O'Malley." Gilman put on his overcoat and walked out to the lot, where he saw two men standing by his car, almost as though f they were waiting for him.

"Can I help you?"

"Aye, Mr. Gilman, Oi think ye can," the shorter of the two said. There was something about his manner which threw Gilman off, and the feeling was only made worse when he drew a 9mm Glock out of his coat and aimed it at the police commissioner. "Unlock yer car," the man ordered.

Gilman reached for his service pistol, but the taller man said, "I really wouldn't do that, sir. My friend here has a very nervous trigger finger."

Gilman looked from the man's pistol to his car, then pulled out his keys.

"Good man," the taller one said. "Let him past, John."

"Piss off," John said, but did as he was told. "Unlock the car an' git in the passenger's seat," he ordered. "'F Oi need ter tell ye twoice, yer kneecap'll make a new friend."

Gilman did as he was told and the two men got in with him; John in the back, and the other man driving.

They took him from the lot to the intersection of 12th and B, where he saw a small building called McSweeney's with Irish flags hanging over the doors.

"Get out here," the taller man said, "and we'll park your car. The keys'll be with the man at the door when you leave."

John's message was a bit more direct. "Move yer goddam arse."

The commissioner got out and walked into the building. There was a young man inside, who looked very similar to the man John in the car, albeit an inch or so shorter.

"Dia duit, Mr. Gilman," he said. "Yer expected in the proivate room in the back. Bit Oi'll have ter take yer pistol." He held out his hand for the weapon, and Gilman handed it over resignedly.

"Alroight, head on back."

Gilman did so, finding the door labeled 'Private Room: Keep Out,' as well as 'Seomra Príobháideacha: Coinnigh Amach,' which was presumably the same message. The police commissioner pushed the door open and walked in.

Sitting at the table was a man of about 50 years and six feet tall. He held up a hand in greeting.

"Come set yerself down, Mr. Gilman."

"Who are you?" the policeman demanded.

"Joe McDonnell. Oi'm a… representative, ye could say, o' the man ye know as Mick Davitt."

"Is that your real name?"

The man smiled. "No, it isn'. Set yerself down."

Gilman sat, and McDonnell said, "Mr. Gilman, there're two paths on which we stand on the doivergence. On one path, we kin be good friends, an' we'll give ye no trouble. On the other, Mick Davitt will bring the full force'f his organoization against ye." McDonnell smiled slightly. "Which kin on'y end badly. Fer ye, that is."

"Are you threatening me?" Gilman asked, rising angrily.

"No, Oi'm simply appraisin' ye'f the facts. Look the other way an' let us go abirt our business, an' yer men'll all make't home safe each noight. Or test us, an' we'll make this city Hell on Earth."

Gilman looked down at McDonnell, who was sitting calmly at the table. "I don't take well to blackmail, Mr. McDonnell, or whoever you are. And I don't make deals with criminals." He turned to leave, but heard the other man's voice turn cold.

"Alroight, Mr. Gilman, how's this fer a threat: 172 J Street, room 421. We know where yer son goes ta school, where yer house is, where yer woife works- everythin'. Think on tha' before ye try us, Mr. Gilman." He raised his voice. "Clarke! Show Mr. Gilman to 'is car!"

The man came in and led the commissioner from the pub, then gave him his gun and keys.

David Gilman got in and drove off angrily. Michael Davitt and Joe McDonnell, he thought. Now he had some names.

OCs from other people in this chapter:

The Unnamed Man belongs to Greygreenwolf, and his name and other information will be revealed in Chapter 2.