New job, new story :)
This is something I've wanted to do for a while, and I'm not sure it'll work out but there's only one way to find out! Basically, it's going to flash backwards and forwards in time, charting three different stories that all interlock in past and present. Some details are linked to canon plots, others are made up by myself. I will put headings in bold to explain where and when each bit is taking place, so hopefully it will make sense. If there's no heading, it's present tense (circa season 4).
Also, as I am learning Italian, there will be some Italian dialogue. I will put the English translation in [italics] next to it, to make things simpler to understand.
Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, the characters or the mafia. Obviously.
"Non abbiamo mai pianificato in questo modo." [We never planned it that way]
He took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled slowly. In her binding chains, she could only turn her head away from the cloud of smoke that billowed over her. "Ma a volte in questo modo le carte cadono."[But sometimes that's the way the cards fall]
"Perche?" [Why?] She queried hoarsely, shifting her weight and wincing at the shot of pain that ran through her wrists at the meagre action. "Perche non si dice nulla?" [Why didn't you say anything?]
He emitted a dark chuckle and sat forwards, the smell of stale smoke and whiskey encircling her like a thick, impenetrable fog.
"Perche..." [Because...] he answered cryptically, coughing out a sigh. "Perche non e come il gioco viene giocato." [Because that's not how the game is played]
August 2nd, 1958 - - The Sands Hotel and Casino; The Copa Room
The scent of sweat and perfume and sickly sweet alcohol sweeps around the room in dizzying musk.
Sammy Davis Junior has just left the stage into the throng of sharp-suited guys and sparkling dolls gathered at the bottom of the steps. Now, as the house lights dip and a gentle cheer meanders around the room, the stage is filled with the striking figure of Lois O'Neill in all her glory; flanked by the eternally beautiful Copa Girls.
The man sitting at Angelo's side was fixated on the girl to the far left of the stage – a stunning red-head by the name of Lily. She caught him staring and flashed a knowing grin, her perfectly coiffed curls bouncing off her glittering sequined shoulders.
"Ahem." Angelo coughed, dragging the man's attention back from the dancer. Sam turned languidly to face him, his blue eyes practically alight against his midnight black hair and lightly tanned face. "Can we start?"
His accent was thick and un-Americanised, not unlike most of his current company.
"Of course." Sam cleared his throat, seeking a glimpse of the man sat directly opposite him in the discreet booth. He had been silent since their arrival, stirring his drink rhythmically as he eyed his companions with unadulterated suspicion. Sam had no doubt that he had purposefully chosen the seat that was the most shrouded in shadow. Concealment – the first sign that a man was not to be trusted.
The fourth and final member of their little group, a tall Sicilian with striking features and a volatile temper to rival that of his reputation, had been observing them each in turn through narrowed almost-black eyes. Now, he sat forward and pushed his glass aside with the back of a bejewelled hand.
"Gentlemen." He began, his voice low and unexpectedly husky. "You all know what's going to happen soon. Momo is on a slippery slope – he's bringing in too much heat and Tony Accardo isn't going to stand for it too much longer."
"You know something that we don't?" Sam queried, taking a slow sip of his own drink. He had been sceptical when the man had summoned them all to this exclusive little meeting and that uncertainty had continued to plague him the longer they sat in brooding silence.
"What, do you want proof?" The man shot back sarcastically. "It's the business. It happened to Bugsy and Capone, it'll happen to Giancana. Soon."
"Okay." Angelo also leant forwards, folding his hands on the table and glancing around the room edgily. It wasn't that he was nervous, per se, but talking about well known mobsters in the open like this tended to set his teeth on edge; especially in light of current events in Cuba and the CIA's growing interest in the mafia's involvement. "What exactly does that have to do with us?"
"When Giancana bites it, it's going to leave quite the hole in the business." The man explained. "I'm proposing that we fill that hole."
"I'm not sure Accardo will go for that." Sam half-joked, his glass clinking off his rings as he passed it idly between his hands.
"Accardo won't get a say in it." The man hissed, as if that was obvious. "Because we're going to remove him from the equation."
"Whoa." Angelo nearly choked on his brandy. "You're not saying we take out Tony?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying." There was a cool evenness to his response that was deeply unsettling. He was cocky, confident; and for a man with such an unstable personality, that was rarely a precursor to success.
"What about Ricca?" The man in the shadows asked at last, his eyes remaining shielded by the protective shadow of the curtain hanging around their booth.
"You let me deal with Ricca." The man insisted with a dismissive flick of the wrist.
"I don't know about this." Angelo shifted. "I mean, I'm all for moving up in the business, but taking over the Outfit? That's some big bones we're messing with."
"He's right." Sam agreed. "Accardo's a good man. What makes you think you can do better?"
"I know I can do better." He snapped back insolently. "I've got plans for this town – big plans. Accardo, he's a Chicago man. He doesn't know this city the way I do – the way we do!"
"We've all got plans for this town." Sam interjected sternly. "But that doesn't give us or anyone else the right to mess with the system. You go after a mark as big as Accardo, you're only going to start a war."
"A war means the feds." Angelo pointed out. "And I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't want to see out my days on Alcatraz."
The man swung his gaze rapidly from one face to the other in sullen silence for an agonizingly long two minutes.
Then, without warning, he slammed his empty glass onto the table and rocked to his feet, glowering down at them all as if challenging them in turn to stand up and meet him at eye-level.
"Vivere per pentito di questo decisione." He spat in disgust when none of them moved. "I won't forget this."
A few people at nearby tables turned towards the outburst, but most carried on their celebrations regardless as he forced his wide frame out from behind the booth, snatching his hat from the edge of the table as he went, and tore through the dancers and the drinkers towards the little-known rear entrance behind the bar.
The music continued in the wake of his departure, bright and lively and distinctly American; in stark contrast to the mood at the table where three men now sat in contemplative muteness.
"Well." Shadow-man stated after the long silence became too much. He downed the last of his drink, stood up and addressed his comrades directly for the first time. "Gentlemen." He tipped his hat, which, unlike the others, had never left his head throughout the meeting. Then, after tossing a few notes onto the table - enough to cover his own drinks and then some - he stuffed his hands into his pockets and mooched towards the exit.
Angelo and Sam both watched in mutual awe as he cut an imposing figure, coursing through the crowd like a silhouette. Impressive and threatening, but easily forgotten, Nino Carmine was the perfect mobster.
They would sit there a few minutes more, sipping their drinks in silence, before following suit; Angelo first, slipping through the intoxicated revelers unnoticed and out into the warm summer night breeze. He would hail a cab and then think better of it and walk back to his hotel room in a vain attempt to clear the nagging concerns swirling around his alcohol-fuddled mind.
Sam would wait longer, until Lily Flynn had finished her shift. And then, like a gentlemen, he would escort her home, down the increasingly illuminated street of Las Vegas rapidly coming to be known as 'The Strip'.