Disclaimer: My name is not Eric Kripke; therefore I do not own Supernatural. If I did, Dean would find a way to lose his shirt in every episode.
Summary: When an enforcer breaks the rules and takes the St. Louis Mafia over by force, a mercenary is contracted to solve the problem.
The St. Louis Agenda
Wednesday – August 8, 2007
St. Louis, MO
Nicholas Rossetti nervously fixed his tie and squared his shoulders before one of his men pushed open the heavy oak door to the Holiday Inn conference room. Rossetti shoved away his minute annoyance at not being the one to pick the meeting location, but that was the way the system worked. His right-hand man, Thomas "Tommy Guns" Donato, followed him in, and two more men brought up the rear.
Rossetti lowered himself into the plush leather chair, Donato at his right. The three men he had brought settled for standing behind them, covering their backs. He glanced at Donato and nodded. His second put the silver briefcase he had carried on the table and opened it. He twisted it around to show the person on the other side of the table what was in it.
$100,000 for calling a meeting, cash.
Rossetti held his breath as the briefcase was pulled away and checked for any tricks. When it closed with an audible click and set down on the ground, he let it out. He then snapped his fingers for the other briefcase and they went through the same thing. This time it was for being present at the meeting. The amount in the case was $500,000.
At a nod, giving him the go ahead, Rossetti began the meeting. "I would first like to say that I have heard good things about you, which is why I asked for this opportunity to speak with you. I've heard you are the best. I've heard you are a professional, and above all, you get the job done. Second, I thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I am sure you are in much demand with your many accomplishments. Our reason for meeting you is great, as normally we would resolve to take care of this ourselves and keep this in the family, but as the saying goes, we gotta do what we gotta do. There has been an insurrection among the outfit in St. Louis in the past week."
He paused for effect, but his ears caught a small sound, something that was very familiar to him. Rossetti swallowed, but before he could inquire as to what the sound was, the mercenary asked a question. "Let me guess, you want me to take them out, right?"
Rossetti felt a trickle of sweat make a path down the side of his face. He bobbed his head nervously. "The leader is an enforcer by the name of Jimmy Valenti. He killed the Capos and the Underboss before trying for the Boss. Luckily, his Consigliere, Paul Carolla, took the shot for him in the shoulder. They sent word to me down in New Orleans as Paul's my cousin. All attempts to suppress this violation have failed.
"Now this has to be taken care of now before it gets out of control and some other wise guy tries to make a repeat of this elsewhere, God forbid. We have Valenti's headquarters pinpointed and thus far he has stayed there. We just need Valenti taken care of. The soldiers that were under the Capos are good men, but how many of them are still loyal remains to be seen until we can get back in there."
He shifted in his chair. The room was air conditioned, but it felt like it wasn't even on. "Now, should you agree to this contract, we have the information needed for a hit, including location, floor plans, guard changes."
"Then why do you need me? I am sure you have guys more suited to this task than bringing in an outsider."
He let out a breath. "It is true that most would keep this in the family, but it must be said that Valenti is no ordinary made man. He is well versed in defending himself as well as going on the offensive. Carolla has indicated that Valenti has taken several martial arts classes and is very good. My men are not suited to such a task and my father did not raise a fool. If we want this done quickly, outside assistance is needed." Rossetti added in a savage tone, "Valenti must be made an example of, an example no one will wish to follow."
The room fell silent as his plea—no, offer—was debated. Rossetti shared a glance with Donato. The last bit will alter the way he'd gone about things, but it had to be done. Valenti will pay for what he done.
There was a single shrug of the shoulders. "Very well. I will take it."
Rossetti snapped his fingers again and yet another briefcase was placed on the table. He himself opened it and pushed it across the table. "$2,000,000." He hesitated, but added, "I know it is a pretty low offer, but—"
"That is satisfactory. I haven't taken a contract in a while. I could use the time to brush up on my techniques."
"We could add another 50 grand."
"No, not necessary. If it makes you feel better, think of it like this: what you don't pay me, I'll take out of his flesh." The briefcase was closed. "Information?"
Donato signaled he had it. He reached into his jacket and found himself on the business end of a black Glock 22, standard of the United States law enforcement. The three clicks he heard behind him meant their men also drew their guns.
Rossetti scarcely breathed. The heat in the room just went up another couple degrees. The situation had suddenly gotten out of control. He slowly raised his hands. "Wait. It is just a misunderstanding." He waved his hand at his men. "Put them away."
They did as they were told and the Glock's barrel moved to the side of Donato. "Bring it out slowly. I see stock and you'll get a bullet in your third eye, pal. Hey, maybe that way you'll have two eyebrows instead of one, Lurch."
Face dark as a storm cloud, his second slowly withdrew his hand, fingers closed around a flash drive. He pushed it across the table and a hand slapped down on top of it.
The Glock disappeared. "Very well. A pleasure doing business with you gentlemen. Give it two days and you'll hear from me. Have the rest of my money ready for me then."
Donato spoke, his heavy brows drawing together. "The rest of your money? You have more than two million right there! How much more can you possibly want?"
"Mission expenses and mission completion fees," was the reply. "Hey, if you do not like it, I'll refund $1,000,000 back to you. We all walk away and you find yourself another contractor. Good luck containing St. Louis. I give y'all two weeks before the entire organization explodes."
Rossetti stood and waved a hand. "That is not necessary."
Donato shook his head and glanced at him. "Nicky, don't do this. We can't trust—"
"Are you serious? Where'd you find this Godfather reject, Rossetti?"
A look at Donato's face told him to contain this or St. Louis would go to hell. "Enough.
You have agreed to the contract and we will honor your requirements. You have my word."
He put a hand on Donato's shoulder to restrain his words. Rossetti withstood the keen scrutiny and received a nod. "I will hold you to that, and I also hope you have not lied to me. If you had gotten my contact number, you must have been told my rules."
"Yes, everything I have said is truth." Rossetti shook the extended hand. "Is that all you need?"
"Yes. If I need more information I will contact you."
A soldier led the way to the car outside the hotel. Rossetti tried to scrape up what patience he had for the conversation Donato was fuming for.
They left the hotel parking lot and merged onto the busy street.
Donato asked, "Why did we go there? We had other associates to choose from. This is not how things are done, Nicky. Why did you choose that disrespectful piece of trash?"
Rossetti closed his eyes. "This is a violent time, Tommy. We have to be careful in taking care of this St. Louis business. Paul is family to me, my cousin on my mother's side. His arm had to be chopped off because of that river shit Valenti. No telling who is on whose side in this mess. That one is the only one we can trust to not take a side, and Paul is the one who gave me the contact number."
" 'That one' is a woman!"
The screen was bright as a green dinosaur in a go-cart careened down the straightaway, a red shell appearing behind him. Pressing the L button, the shell barreled forth like a heat-seeking missile to take out the pink princess in front of him.
"Take that, you prissy little bitch." The words were muttered in the near empty conference room.
Passing the princess, the dinosaur tried to bump the mushroom kid in first place out of the way, but he swerved to avoid a yellow banana peel the kid left behind. A second later, a blue spiked shell zoomed past him and eliminated the kid. Yoshi the Dinosaur crossed the black and white checkered finish line, taking first.
"Yes! You the man, Yoshi." The lap times listed and then the points were added. Yoshi's character racked 36 altogether, allowing him to take the gold cup. The race results were saved and the Game Boy Advance was clicked off.
A quick sweep of the room made sure nothing was left behind. Making a quick call to the front desk let them know business in the conference room was concluded, allowing a quick escape from the hotel.
In the parking lot, a dark-haired woman walked to the only motorcycle parked there. The engine started up with a low menacing growl. The powerful vibrations coming from the sleek machine underneath her danced up her spine with familiarity.
She caressed the low-rise handlebars as she settled more in her seat. She knew without glancing behind her that her money was secured to the seat.
Kicking up the kickstand, she shifted and left the parking lot like a bat out of hell, going east on Wilson Avenue.
The whistling air, muffled by her helmet, did not bother her. The road flew beneath her wheels. The honks and curses from her road-sharing peers only increased her amusement. They merely wished they had the freedom to do as they like.
A sneer crossed her face. Most of them were stuck in dead end jobs, unhappy with their lot in life. Many did not have the balls to take what they wanted, what they needed.
Pussies.
She maneuvered through traffic like a pro on her Night Rod. The sunlight caught the ghost flame paint job, black on black metallic. She shifted to another lane and the flames disappeared.
That's what she loved most about the Harley-Davidson. Not the powerful engine, the wheels, or the freedom metaphor, but the paint job. It wasn't exactly unique, being one of many custom paint jobs for the company, but it suited her. Like the flames, she could appear and disappear at will.
No, she didn't have any X-Men superpowers, though she thought it would be cool to have a power like Pyro. It was more or less being able to blend into a crowd or the shadows. That was a true power. As handy as disappearing into thin air was, disappearing into a crowd was more challenging, more appealing.
Besides it gave the enemy someone else to shoot at. Mario Go-Kart was a prime example of a free-for-all.
Spying a red Ninja ahead, she grinned as she revved up the engine and roared past it. A glance into her side mirror told her the Ninja had answered her challenge.
Friday – August 10, 2007
When Jimmy Valenti started awake, he knew he was in trouble. The memory of his murdered father faded into the fog of his pounding head. When he dreamed of his father being shot, he knew trouble wouldn't be too far behind.
He shook his head and winced. God, his head hurt! The clock ticking somewhere in the background was not helping.
Jimmy went to touch his temples and panicked when he couldn't move his arms and legs. He stopped his struggles when a bright light clicked on, blinding him, adding to the pain.
Bewildered, Jimmy racked his brain to figure out how he got into this mess. One minute he's on top of the world, satisfied with his little coup. The next, he's tied to a chair with a splitting headache the size of Mars.
Squinting against the light, he called out. "Hello?" Jimmy nearly winced at his croak of a voice. He cleared his throat. "Hello? You better have an army if you think you can pull this off. Do you know who I am?"
Jimmy looked down and blinked a couple times, trying to get used to the light. Then he recognized the arms of the chair he was in. Just yesterday, he had watched Dominic Carolla, a cousin of Paul Carolla, die in this chair. Dread curled into a tight ball in his chest.
A chuckle came from behind the light, throwing him off. A chuckle in and of its self normally would not bother him—if it were a guy. No, this one had the high teasing tones of a broad enjoying herself.
"You men," a low voice spat. "Always so presumptuous, thinking it has to be a man to get one over you."
In another time, another place, the husky timbre of her voice might have instilled a little desire for her, but not now. Not while he was tied up and she was free to move.
Jimmy scowled in the direction of her voice, squinting against the light. He mustered up all the anger he had. "Listen here, bitch. Do you have any idea who I am? Do you know what playground you're in? You better let me go if you don't want a world of hurt to come down on your pretty little head. Wouldn't want to mess that pretty face up."
"Oh, I'm terrified," she taunted. "Please don't."
The slap came out of nowhere, from the left. The resounding smack echoed in the empty room. His face throbbed.
He heard another teasing laugh. "I'm a big girl, Jimmy Valenti. I can take care of myself." Fear went up his spine at his name, causing goose bumps to pop up as it did. Her voice continued to wash over him. "Thanks for the touching concern, but you might want to keep it for yourself, though. You'll need it."
Jimmy shivered. She talked to him like he was an afterthought, like he was already dead. He began to pull at the ropes securing his arms and wrists. A grunt escaped his lips, drawing her attention.
"Are they too loose?" she asked, her voice coming from behind him.
He froze. How did she get there? Wasn't she in front of him?
She tugged at his bindings. "I better tighten them. Can't have you running out on our date. I spent hours getting ready." The ropes moved roughly against his arms, pulling at his skin as they tightened. Laughing, she added, "Wouldn't want you to bleed out on me either. It's no fun when the game ends before it really starts."
The hunger he heard in her voice curdled his blood, twisted his stomach into knots until he felt like throwing up. His mother had told him once if he continued to disregard the people he had in his life, hell would come for him. She had been right.
"Who are you?" he whispered hoarsely, acceptance crept into his heart.
She patted him on the head. "Names aren't important, Jimmsy." He closed his eyes at his father's nickname for him. He broke out into a cold sweat despite the sweltering heat. "In fact, you aren't going to be important at all after today. Lucky you."
Jimmy took a deep breath, holding back the sob that threatened to come out. "You aren't going to get away with this. I've got men—"
"Really, where?" The question cut him off. "Because those girls I had to go through to get you were barely worth my time."
He felt like the rug had been pulled out from under him. "A-all of them?"
Something unzipped behind him and he heard the scrape of fabric, canvas maybe. "Total score was eleven." He exhaled harshly. The sounds paused. "Was that all of them?" He didn't answer. "I guess so then."
Jimmy kept silent. Something was placed on something hard, most likely the table, and more fabric grazing. There was something else among the sounds that made his spine tingle, the feeling concentrating between his shoulder blades before spreading throughout his body. Dread gave way to horror.
She continued to talk. "I was told you were a smart guy, Jimmsy." She laughed again. "But you had only eleven guys watching your back. Come on, I've seen movies where a single guy takes out twenty with a machine gun. The fact that you even made it alive this long shocks me. Whether or not you have a brain, I'll find out in, oh, about an hour after I've had some fun with you. The Egyptians had some really nifty ideas about removing body parts."
Jimmy flinched. He had seen that movie about the Mummy coming to life after some librarian chick read from a black book. He remembered her talking about the brain removal. Behind him, he heard the small clinks of metallic something or others. He cringed. Tools? Probably.
Suddenly he couldn't hear anything else behind him. No more sounds. There was only the harsh sound of his breathing and his rapidly beating heart. He was going to die and no one was going to help him. He felt more alone than he'd felt in his entire life, even more so than the time his uncle had locked him in his closet all day when he was young.
The tears burned in his eyes, leaving trails of fire down his cheeks. Ashamed, he heard himself ask, "Why me? Why are you doing this to me?"
The words were desolate, heartfelt, ripped from his soul. He felt naked and exposed to hear himself talk like that, but he had to make her see. He had to make her understand that he didn't deserve this.
Warm air ghosted over his right ear. "That's just the way it is, Jimbo. You played the game and you just happened to land on the loser's square. Could happen to any of us."
Jimmy choked out the words past his sobs. "But why?"
She chuckled, the sound jarring in the scheme of things. "Again with the obvious questions. Did you really think you could take over the St. Louis outfit and not suffer the consequences, especially when you didn't follow the rules like everyone else?"
The faint hope vanished completely. If she was contracted to take him out, his pleas would go unanswered. He didn't know if she knew what he did, but Jimmy knew what he had done was wrong, out of order. He knew this was coming, though he had hoped it wouldn't be for a few more years. He had only done it for his father.
"You've been a bad boy, Jimmsy. They want an example made of you."
"No, please. I'll give you anything, anything you want." Jimmy pulled at his ropes. "And I'll go away. You won't ever hear of me again."
She took a long moment. Her question was tentative. "Promise to leave the country?"
Hope bloomed. "Yes! I will leave the country! I'll even give you money! Will you let me go?"
He heard her breathe in, senses strained to take in anything she did. "Nah, I filled my mercy quota for the year with the last guy." Jimmy sagged in his chair, the last chair he'll ever sit in. The ropes dug into his arms even more as he wasn't hold his own weight up. "You really thought you'd get out of here?" she scoffed. "Don't make me laugh. When I take a job, I get the job done."
Something flashed in the lamplight on his right, making him blink. He glanced down.
"Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod," the words spilled out of his mouth, running together.
The scalpel tapped against the back of his hand, gleaming silver bright. "You know, at this point I usually say something like 'Be a man' or 'Die with some fucking dignity,' but that's not going to happen with you. Know why?" He sensed it was rhetorical and didn't answer. "Because this isn't just another job. This is personal for me. One of the guys you shot is family."
Jimmy couldn't breathe. His worst nightmare was going to come true. One in which someone whose family he hurt came looking for him to make him pay in the most painful ways. It was one every made man had, even if they didn't know it.
The scalpel drew a thin line of red across his wrist, drawing a hiss from him. "Death isn't going to come quick or easy for you, Jimmsy." She chuckled a bit, sending his heart into palpitations. "I'm going to make you feel every single thing I'm going to do. You can scream all you want. I put my earplugs in."
He followed the slender hand up to her arm, past her lush lips and straight nose to the shuttered blue eyes framed by black lashes. Blank and lifeless, he thought they were like those of the sharks at the aquarium. Only hers were blue and not black, which, along with her striking looks, made the comparison even more disturbing.
Something wet touched his finger. His eyes widened.
"NOOOOOOOOOO!!"
Saturday – August 11, 2007
Tommy Donato gazed at what was once Jimmy 'Two-Fist' Valenti before turning away.
He had seen a lot of things in his days. He had done a lot of things that most required a strong constitution for, but this took the fucking cake. He barely kept his stomach contents down as it was and he gagged a lot.
It was a fucking mess. The corpse was just piece of ruined flesh and bone. There was blood everywhere. Donato looked out the window and stopped cold.
Holy Mother of God! He crossed himself, muttering, "That bitch is sick."
On the windowsill, lined up pretty as you please, were ten severed fingers. All of them had their nails painted baby blue.
He crossed himself again.
Donato left the room, making an effort to appear unruffled. To the two men standing outside the door, he said, "Get rid of that piece of shit and the rest. If you need more men, then you call them. I don't care how many of you it takes."
The soldiers looked at each other uneasily.
He was counting on their reaction to his order, which is what Nicholas wanted. His boss wanted a lot of witnesses. He wanted people to see what happened when someone didn't follow the rules, rules that had been in place for over a hundred years.
Donato left the building, sliding into the backseat of the black Cadillac. He pulled a cell phone out of his inside jacket pocket and called Nicholas.
The line rang twice before his boss answered. "Rossetti."
"It's done." He suppressed the urge to gag at the memory and covered with a small cough.
Nicholas paused. "Did you find anyone else?"
"There were only a few who agreed with him and those that didn't were found in a holding not far." His mind's eye saw the group of twenty men squeezed into a small room, the smell overpowering. "We got them help. Those against us got their reward."
"And the contract?"
"Completed. I doubt there will be any more trouble once it gets out."
"That bad?"
Donato shivered in his black suit. "Makes a demon look like a saint."
"Excellent. Anything else to report?"
"Yeah, whatever you do, don't get on her bad side." Donato was poised to hang up, but stopped. He added, "Tell her I apologize for my previous objections."
Nicholas responded slowly. "Okay. I will pass the message along."
Donato closed the phone with a snap once Nicholas disconnected. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it. "God, I hope to never cross her path again."
She received another 500 large for mission completion and fees. Total pay equaled $3.1 million.
It was a relatively small haul for a contract, even though contracts were not her usual paychecks. She actually preferred the trade commerce, but when in Rome… Normally, she would have charged much more for a contract, rare as they were, but these guys weren't the typical customers she dealt with.
She knew Paul Carolla. It was the main factor in why she charged so little and also why Nicholas Rossetti came to her instead of someone else, though he didn't know her. Paul's mother made sure he did.
Her father had saved his uncle, Joseph Belluchi, from a cop in Chicago during the '70s and they became friends until Joseph's death in 1984. Joseph's sister remained close with her family. Paul was like a close cousin, maybe even a brother, despite the fact he had several years on her, and his mother Lena an aunt.
Her cell phone blared the Eagles. "Life in the fast lane / Surely make you lose your mind / Life in the fast lane…"
She answered it. The voice trembled on the other end. Not out of fear, but out of anger. "You make him pay?"
"I made him scream." Knowing it would be appreciated, she added, "Painfully."
Lena Carolla disconnected.
Tuesday – August 14, 2007
Creede, Colorado
The front page of the St. Louis Tribune read Mutilated Body Found in the Mississippi River, Brains Missing! three days later.
At least that's what she heard. The cops couldn't identify the body as the fingers were all severed and every single tooth was missing. The man's face was a ruin. There was no way to get a picture of what he might have looked like, though the lead detective of the case theorized that it could have been the doings of the Mafia organization as there had been a power play a couple weeks ago.
Laid out on the sofa of her living room, she sighed into her book as she turned a page. The guy had it coming anyway, so she didn't lose any sleep over it. Not that she did in any of her jobs.
There are rules in everything. Some you know, some you don't, but follow anyway. Valenti broke the rules and that week it was her job to correct that error and make sure no one else did it either.
Briefly, she wondered if that made her a bad person before dismissing that naive concern. She did what she had to do. There was nothing more to it than that. Business is business and morality is relative.
She turned her wandering attention back to the novel she was reading. On the cover, a young dark-haired woman clung suggestively to a strong jawed man, her face sweeping up to meet his. It was getting to the good part of the masquerade ball. James Edgeworth, Viscount Rawlings, had just snatched Miss Carolina Barrister into the library for something sinful.
Another page turned and she grinned. Sinful indeed!
The fax machine suddenly roared to life. She jumped, the book falling from her fingers. Using her momentum, she turned, a Colt Defender appearing in hand. By the time the trashy novel hit the floor a second later, she had already taken cover with the hammer pulled back and a finger on the trigger.
Relaxing, she laughed softly at her jumpiness. Easing the hammer back down, she slid the lightweight handgun back under the sofa pillows. She picked up her book and wandered over to the corner of the room.
The silver printer/scanner/fax machine beeped at her after it belched out two pages, signaling it was done.
She took note of the number on the cover page and laid it on the table. The next page immediately caught her interest.
APPOINTMENT OPEN.
TALENT NEEDED TO RETRIEVE FAMILY HEIRLOOM.
SKY PAYMENT. NEGOTIABLE.
OFFER OPEN TWO DAYS.
FIRST COME, FIRST SERVED.
DETAILS UPON ACCEPTANCE.
NO CLEANERS.
– GEL
The third line held her attention. That was a lot of money and it was negotiable. Pay coded sky, or blue, was the range of $100 to $500 million.
"How curious," she mused aloud. Whoever put this up wanted that heirloom badly. It was probably some kind of toy that fell apart at the first touch. It wasn't the first time that happened to a client of hers.
Her cell rang, AC/DC playing. "Honey, what do you do for money / Where do you get your kicks / You're lovin' on the take and you're always on the make / Squeezin' all the blood outta men—"
She answered it with "You're pulling my chain."
"I swear on my wife's head—"
Snorting, she interrupted him. "You don't have a wife, Chick."
Jerry Lombardi was like her agent. He fielded her assignments and made sure things ran smoothly. His boyish looks led to her calling him Jailbait that became Jailbird before evolving to Chick. The 'Gel' from the fax was his initials J.L.
He laughed. "Okay, on my life, which I value more than yours by the way, I swear this is genuine. You interested?"
She glanced down at the paper. It was sky marked and freaking wide open as hell. There had to be something more to it. Stalling for time, she said, "It says no cleaners. So why did you send this to me? What's the catch?"
Cleaners, or—depending on who you were talking to—contractors, were those of the assassination profession, something she rarely did. Appointments consisted of other things, mostly search-and-obtain stuff. Sometimes they were clean deals, and other times one had to slit a few throats to get what the client wanted.
Charm rolled off his tongue. "You're my girl, B. I'm just looking out for you is all." Chick paused. "You don't clean full time, so you are in the clear."
Moving into the kitchen, she rolled her eyes. "You're avoiding my other question, chickadee. What's the catch? Because God knows you could have passed this along to everyone else on your list."
The refrigerator was practically bare. She needed to go grocery shopping. Her stomach growling, she slammed it shut and moved to the cabinets.
"Nah, the advertiser wants a professional with the right attitude and skills. There are only two on my list and one of them is you, Beautiful. The other is Green."
The Hamburger Helper box slipped in her hand. She tightened her grip at the last second and left it on the counter. Adopting a nonchalant tone, she asked about him. "So what's the problem? Did he pick up on it?"
He sounded puzzled. "No, actually he passed. Said he had something else lined up. Kind of like you."
The tone of his voice told her what he meant. She focused on that rather than what ol' Green Eyes was up to. "You're not sore at me, are you? It was a family thing, Chick. I still charged. Just not as much."
Chick grunted. "You handling your own payments makes me a little uneasy."
She grinned. "Only because you weren't able to get a cut of the money, right?"
He cleared his throat, signaling a subject change. "I saw your handiwork in the paper. What did he do?"
Switching her cell to her other ear, she said, "Sorry, that's classified."
"Uh-huh, sure. I'll find out. Anyway, so how about it?"
She thought about it for a second. "Yeah. I'll take it. Send me what you got."
Disconnecting, she heard the fax machine starting up again. She went back into the other room and looked at the pages. The first couple of pages were articles about a large crystal, 10 inches in diameter that the owner carved into a skull in 1903.
Bela Chase raised an eyebrow at that. This could be very interesting.
Okay, so obviously I wrote this in regards to the one of the two new female characters Supernatural is introducing this upcoming Season Three. Out of the two of them, I think Bela's character stands a better chance of being more developed. From what I read about Ruby, her character pales in comparison. She just seems to be there for one thing: sexual tension.
I have no idea what Bela's last name will be, but I'll change it when they announce it, and I mean no disrespect to the Italian organization.
Reviews are love.
- TG