Oscuro Signore alla Donna Luce
Eight men.
A muffled thud and blood drooled briefly out of a perfectly circular hole in his forehead. His body slumped back down behind the crate, his gun still fully loaded.
Seven men.
"The Lord speaks in the book of Zephaniah, 'In the same day also will I punish all those that leap on the threshold, which fill their masters' houses with violence and deceit.' I beg of you all, look to the Lord God in heaven for your salvation!" He stood simply in the middle of the room, holding only a well-worn bible. A single light-bulb was suspended above him, a dirty ethereal light, hovering behind his head, casting deep shadows on his face.
Across the room, a shot rang out, ricocheting off of the ceiling, the body falling over a low cabinet. A gun skidded across the room, the preacher stopping it under his foot without looking up from his bible. Two more thuds of falling bodies followed in quick succession.
Four men.
He opened his hands to the dark, lifting his face toward the light-bulb, the shadows disappearing. "Please, all I want is a little information. There is no need for this violence," a shot rang out and his shoulder flew back, seemingly unharmed his voice darkened," However, in the book of Matthew, 'Think not that I am come to send peace on earth; I came not to send peace but a sword.'" Two more dull thumps, two more guns rattled to the floor.
A skinny man suddenly leapt out. He bolted for the door but ran solid into a lithe, but immovable set of suit lapels. With a crack to the side of his head, he was down.
The preacher raised his eyebrow at his dark partner, the one holding the gun, silently questioning why this one was to be left alive.
He reloaded his black pistol, a .45 caliber Glock with a heavy silencer, metallic clicks echoing menacingly around the stacked crates. Without looking back he tipped the edge of his fedora down, if possible making the shadows over his eyes even darker, and took three steps backward, pointing his gun directly between two crates.
"Out. Now."
He came out with his hands up, a pistol held loosely in one hand, "…merde." he cursed, but trying not to be defeated already. Clicking the safety on, he dropped it to the ground.
"Names, you have them, on the Capicelli Affair." He shifted his weight to the other foot confidently leaning forward. Then, with a half smile, "Also, a message for your boss."
"Anche se ti ho ditto," he spat, "non si riusciva a capirmi."
The dark man leaned forward and pressed his gun to his temple, barrel still hot, searing a perfect circle into his skin.
"I can understand, and yes, you will."
The man cowered, shivering violently and flinching to cover his head. The gun followed the same spot on his forehead, even as he ended up kneeling on the floor.
The preacher stepped forward, nearly stumbling on the gun he forgot was under his foot, "Now, there's no need for this. From what I hear, the Boss just doesn't like how you handled the Capicelli Affair." He paused, inhaling gently, "You should have known better." He shook his head sadly.
"Rule seven, wives must be respected." His voice growled out, cocking the gun, "and you know what they say about the number seven."
A tear fell down the preacher's cheek, a single look at his face could tell how completely genuine the show of emotion was. He held a recorder out and clicked a button. His other hand massaged his shoulder, still holding his bible, the cloth moving away to reveal the body armor that had undoubtedly saved his life.
The man had wilted, already on the ground, his shoulders sagged as he started listing. Names, dates, locations, cargo, and anything else he could think of.
The man on the ground let loose a low groan. His limbs twitched and his head shot up. He grabbed for his gun.
The bible fell to the floor, a gunshot echoed into the recorder. The man in black smirked as his eye flicked down to his now empty second holster.
"And I thought preachers didn't kill people."
A low whimper breathed out as the preacher looked up, "The bible is a bit grey on circumstances regarding people's shins."
The smirk never faltered. "Good to know." He turned back and flicked the gun away from the man who had been recorded. "Take your man."
Stumbling forward, both men turned their backs to head for the door.
"Your message, women and children are to be left out of man's affairs. Especially," They pushed open the door, halfway turning toward him, "civilians. There are to be no exceptions." A curt nod and it was over.
Two knocks on hard mahogany and he stepped inside without a word. Bowing his head he waited for his boss to acknowledge him.
"Ah, mio Fidelio, Reborn. Please come in. Lay your report on the desk please." A low woman's voice spoke quietly from the bed. The thin manila folder spun part-way around on the desk as the man turned away from it.
"No leaving, you were not excused yet."
"Yes, boss. It is as you say." He bent one knee to the ground, still facing away from her.
"That is not what I require of my right hand, Reborn." The order sounded out; though he thought he heard a smile.
He stood beside the bed, awaiting orders. "How many dead this time?"
"Six."
"See to it their families have adequate protection."
"Yes, boss. Is there anything else?"
She leaned back against one of the embroidered cushions, rubbing her swollen midriff.
"Gelato," She tapped her chin, "This demanding child needs to try spumoni gelato." She smiled warmly at her favorite subordinate. "Is there anything that you need?"
"You could talk to Knuckle, he still refuses to cover his head, body armor isn't enough for what he does." His lips pressed together firmly. "He was shot again."
"The Lord will protect his head. He believes it, and it will be so."