Grand Theft Auto: Revenge
Chapter One: The Mighty Falls
"Right this way, gentlemen," the butler said to the two men representing the Forelli Family's interests in Vice City. "Don Vercetti has kindly agreed to speak with you. He is on his yacht at the moment, entertaining some guests. If you'd like, I can arrange for a car to talk you to the marina, or, if you prefer, you can take the helicopter you arrived in- the Mercedes has a helipad."
"We'll fly, thanks," the taller of the two said.
"Come, let me show you to the roof. Don Vercetti had it moved from your original landing spot."
The two men, both loyal 'made men' in the Forelli Family, shared a brief glance before following the butler out the door of the room Vercetti had given to them in his luxurious Hyman Condo (located in the most metropolitan, sophisticated area of Vice City) and down the hall to the elavator. The butler inserted a key into the wall panel, revealing two buttons that had previously been hidden- one labeled "roof" and the other, "sub-basement." The butler pressed a gloved finger against the "roof" button and waited patiently as they started to move, his hands behind his back.
"Roof, gentlemen. Your helicopter is prepped for flight."
Anthony Pinacelli, the taller Forelli rep, looked at Peter Barzini, his partner. "I didn't see him call anyone to prep the copter," he whispered.
"I took the liberty, sir, before I asked," the butler answered, even though the question hadn't really been addressed to him.
The two looked at each other again, much nonverbal communication passing between them. Without another word, they climbed into the helicopter, which rose and began making its way towards Ocean Beach Marina.
Tommy Vercetti laughed at the joke his latest business associate had just made and took another sip of his glass of wine. Like everything else he owned, it was the best. At two thousand dollars a bottle, the vintage he had been drinking for the last hour was among the most expensive on the market. Vercetti took another sip. It was worth every penny.
Life had treated Tommy Vercetti handsomely since he had been released from prison, twenty years ago yesterday. Sent to the exotic but unfamilar Vice City, Vercetti had risen from "new gun in town" to the mastermind behind all criminal activity in the corrupt tropical city. He had even been granted the right to a Family name by the other Mafia Families. Twenty years ago, he had nothing but an old (but beloved) Hawaian shirt and some jeans to his name. Now he owned muliple businesses, both legitimate and illegal, several beautiful properties throughout the city (from his large mansion in the richest section in town to his lucrative Hyman Condos in prime real estate Downtown), and, of course, the Mercedes, his wonderfully luxurious yacht that served as his main base of operation nowadays. Named for his late wife, it had been a gift from his father-in-law, Colonel Juan Garcia Cortez. His wife's death from cancer had been hard on Vercetti, but his son, his only child, had been there to greive and move on with him.
"So then- you'll love this, Don, you really will, this little Jap prick has the nerve to say to me, 'so you'll have the money by tomorrow?'" Douglas Love, nephew to the real estate mogul Donald Love, said, laughing uproariously at his own joke.
Vercetti laughed again, the squinted as he saw something on the horizon, coming closer. It was a helicopter, and one that Vercetti recognized. It had flown in this morning, piloted by two muscleheads from the Forelli Family. Apparently, the tattered remnants of the once-powerful Family in Liberty City had come to talk to Vercetti about expanding his empire northwards with their assistance. Obviously, they were trying to recoup their losses from when Vercetti had killed a powerful member of their organization twenty years ago.
The people at the party, who had been milling around the top deck, drinking and mingling, now noticed the helicopter as well. The helipad, which had been serving as a dance floor, was quickly evacuated to make room for the approaching vehicle. Vercetti quickly motioned for one his men to begin herding the guests belowdecks to the lounge. By the time the helicopter touched down, only he, his son, and his personal bodyguard/advisor remained on deck.
The helicopter touched down gracefully, barely bumping the boat. Vercetti looked at Ian Hughes, his boyguard and one of the few men he trusted and nodded. Both were good enough pilots to recognize a talenting landing when they saw one.
"Don Vercetti," one of the Forelli reps yelled as he climbed out of the helicopter, his unbuttoned suit jacket and tie flapping in the rush of wind caused by the helicopter's still moving rotor blades. "I am honored to be invited aboard your boat. My name is Anthony Pinacelli, and I'm here on behalf of Don Forelli."
Vercetti shook his hand, nearly crushing the smaller man's hand with his considerable grip. "Good to have you aboard, Anthony. It's getting dark, why don't we head belowdecks and speak where its comfortable. I'm sure your pilot would like to get out of that copter there and have a drink." It sounded polite enough, but the iron tone of command in Vercetti's voice was unmistakable. Pinacelli smiled easily.
"Sure, that'd be great."
The two followed Vercetti and his companions belowdecks, past the lounge, and into a comfortable appointed room in the stern of the ship. It was furnished with two large leather couches, a minibar, and French doors opened up to a small deck in back where Vercetti's personal boat, a souped-up Squalo, hung from a complex set of rigging. Vercetti poured the men drinks and the five sat for a few minutes, enjoying the liquor.
"Pardon me, I'm forgetting my manners," Vercetti said. "This is Ian Hughes, my bodyguard, and this is Michael Vercetti, my son," he motioned to the men in sequence.
"Like I said, I'm Anthony Pinacelli, and this is Peter Barzini," Pinacelli said. "And I hate to be rude, Don Vercetti, but we have an appointment in San Fierro tomorrow we cannot be late for. May we get down to business?" he asked.
"Sure," Vercetti answered. "Just why are you guys here any-"
"Ugh, excuse me," Barzini interjected suddenly, standing up. "Can I use your can?"
Vercetti looked at him, slightly put off by this break in etiquette. "Sure, its down the hall, first on your right." From the corner of his eye, he caught Hughes' glance. Something wasn't quite right. Hughes got up to fix himself another drink, but this time sat down where he'd have a clean line of fire at both Pinacelli and the door.
"As I was saying," Vercetti began again. "I was wondering why the Forelli Family decided to send you. Our relations have been . . .strained. . .at best since I took over here."
"Ah, that's the reason I'm here, Don." At once, the two stood up. "They'd like to change that. I have in my jacket pocket a letter from Don Forelli himself, asking you to meet with him in a neutral location. It is sealed, so I've not been able to read it myself, but I'd like to give it you. May I?" Obviously, he didn't want Vercetti to think he was reaching for a gun.
"Sure," Vercetti said cautiously. Something didn't seem right. As Pinacelli reached into his pocket, Vercetti called to his son. "Michael- why don't you go see if Peter is all right. It's been quite a while." His son met his cause for a moment, and understanding flashed between the two. Michael stood and left the room, pulling the well-oiled .45 semiautomatic pistol he kept on him at all times from his jacket pocket as soon as he was out the door.
"Don Vercetti?" Pinacelli asked, taking another step towards him. "I have your present here."
"I thought you said letter," Vercetti said, frowning slightly. Hughes' hand crept slowly towards the silenced .22 pistol he kept in a shoulder holster under his suit jacket.
"Did I? I'm sorry," Pinacelli said, his hand coming out from his jacket. It held not a letter or gift but a stolen police model .38 revolver with a snub-nose for easy concealment. "I meant I have a present from the Forelli Brothers, compliments of Sonny!" And with that, he began shooting at Vercetti, hitting him twice in the chest before Hughes got his gun clear. Hughes' more modern semiautomatic spat silenced fire four times, the first hitting Pinacelli's gun, the next two hitting his hand, the final striking the hitman in the shoulder, jerking him around. Vercetti collapsed with a groan, groping at something in his jacket.
Meanwhile, waiting in the hall, Michael heard a yell that was too muffled to make out the words followed by several loud gunshots. Without thinking, the nineteen year old kicked the door in and quickly assessed the situation.
Ian Hughes held his sleek little .22, aimed carefully. Anthony Pinacelli, the Forelli representative, was leaning heavily against a wall, clutching his left arm, which appeared to have been wounded several times. He was breathing heavily and eyeing a bloody revolver on the floor. And Michael's father-
Oh God.
Michael's father, the invincible Tommy Vercetti, had collapsed on the floor, bleeding heavily from his chest.
"Papa!" Michael yelled, breaking the stalement between Hughes and Pinacelli. The Forelli hitman dove for his gun at the same time Hughes fired. The two shots went wide over Pinacelli's head, but Michael added his own voice to the argument, scoring three hits along the diving man's leg. Pinacelli got the revolver, aimed it at Michael's head, who froze, mouth agape-
only to jump when a deafening boom echoed through the small room. The revolver snapped into two pieces, which both went flying and all three men snapped their heads around to the source of the gunfire.
Tommy Vercetti smiled at his son, holding his ever-faithful Colt Python. He then looked to Hughes and said, "Get him out of here." Then his eyes rolled until only whites showed and the most powerful crimelord in Vice City collapsed, dead.
"Papa!" Michael screamed again, unwilling to beleive it.
"He's dead," Pinacelli screamed in triumph, staggering to his feet; his injured leg barely supporting him. "He's dead, and you'll all be soon! Hope you'll have a blast!" And with that, laughing madly, Pinacelli emptied the revolver into the glass door at the other of the room. Hughes and Michael ducked instinctively at the noise, giving Pinacelli the oppurtunity he needed to sprint past them. He dove off the boat, seemingly into open waters, only to grab the landing skid of a helicopter right before he struck the water. Michael screamed in incorherent rage and emptied his gun's clip into the helicopter, hoping to get a lucky hit, but failing. Defeated, he sank to his knees, watching the helicopter, piloted by Barzini, grow smaller and smaller.
"C'mon, kid, on your feet," Hughes said, grabbing his shoulder. "This party ain't over." Michael looked at him, dazed and confuzed. "I'll bet anything Barzini went to the engine room and rigged this place to blow. C'mon!" he commanded, hauling Michael to his feet and half-dragging him across the room. Shoving the still-shocked Michael into Vercetti's Squalo, Hughes turned on the ignition (the keys were fortunately always left in, in case Vercetti needed to make a quick getaway) and pulled a knife from his jacket pocket and slashed at the ropes holding the boat. Eventually, the Squalodropped into the water and sped off across the waves, directed by Hughest to get as far away as fast as it could. Seconds later, Hughes was thrown forward against the steering wheel by the force of a huge explosion behind him. He didn't need to look behind him to know what had happened. Hughes knew if he did look, he'd see a burning, sinking hulk- all that remained of the headquarters of the Vercetti Empire.
Fin.