GRAND THEFT AUTO: BAD TO THE BONE
A/N: To Rockstar Games which produced this great series, when are we going to get a GTA set in CHICAGO? We've had both New York and Miami featured twice each, L.A. and Las Vegas in San Andreas, and now we're back in New York for IV. For the readers, I'm using Central City as the default for the Windy City but I'm too lazy to come up with a gazillion names for locations. Same with cars, guns, etc. Otherwise, enjoy the story and please submit a review, ok?
Disclaimer: Again to Rockstar Games, please don't sue me over this fanfic. First, thanks to this crappy economy, I'm broke. Second, all characters and situations I borrowed from previous games in the series are your intellectual property. So, please, if you're going to sic your lawyers on anyone it should be code monkeys who illegally produce mods on your licensed products. 'Nuff said.
Louie Forelli finished off his second helping of spaghetti and meatballs. Life was good, his crews were profitable, and the FBI was more concerned with taking down terrorists than busting made men of respect. He remembered last night's score. They jacked a diamond exchange in the Loop, a haul of twenty million in ice, and giving a smack down on an uppity cur in the process. The stupid sonuvabitch never saw it coming. A smile creased his face. The Outfit always got its slice of the cheddar and the size of that slice is non-negotiable. Dumping that jerk-off in O'Hare's long-term parking was a pleasure. No one dictated terms to the Forellis. Not that prick Mayor Dooley, not Commissioner Summerdale of the Central City Police Dept., and certainly not some cheap-ass street hood. If you wanted respect, you didn't roll over for nobody.
"Hey, paisan! How about another round of Nardini, eh?" shouted Louie as he waved around an empty fluted glass.
While the don of the Forelli family waited for another bottle of grappa to be delivered to his table, he looked around the private dining room. Seated with him were his consigliere, Matteo Russo, and his sotto capo Gaetano Greco. The don was comfortably attired in a Sergio Tacchini tracksuit and black loafers.
Matteo wore an Armani grey pinstriped suit with a lavender tie and matching pocket square. Gaetano was also smartly dressed in an Ozwald Boateng charcoal suit and light blue tie. Both men had cups of steaming espresso before them. Only Don Forelli was eating lunch. They would eat when the don left to see his mistress. At the entrance of the private dining area were two other men. They were uniform in appearance with their off-the-rack suits, wraparound sunglasses, and the obvious bulges of their shoulder holsters. Both guards had scowls on their faces. They were counting down the minutes to 2PM; that's when they would leave the 200 East Supper Club and take the boss to his favorite mistress in Lincoln Park.
As the senior leaders of the Forelli family ate and discussed business, a discreet knock was heard at the door. The guards grimaced at this; it was understood by the club's staff that the don didn't want any interruptions when he took his lunch. When they opened the door, a FedEx delivery man stood before them with a package in his hand. The delivery man stood six feet, two inches tall. His face was obscured by the hat and the Ray-Bans he wore. The guards noted that the package was medium-sized, had the correct labels consistent with the FedEx shipping company, and didn't make any ticking noises. The delivery man held out a clipboard and a pen.
"Is this where Mr. Greco is? His secretary told me he'd be here. If he's busy, could one of you gentlemen sign for this?"
The guard glared at the FedEx driver. The FedEx driver shrugged in a 'what can I say' gesture. On the wall, the clock read 1:55 PM. After taking the clipboard, the guard scrawled his signature, accepted the package, and returned the clipboard to the driver. The guard nodded his head towards the door in a dismissive gesture.
"Ok, you're finished. Aren't you on a schedule or something?" asked the guard.
"Something like that. Have a nice day." The FedEx driver exited the dining room.
The guard instructed his partner to watch the door while he took the package to the sotto capo. Probably his monthly shipment of Viagra, the goon thought to himself. When he approached the table, the senior leaders of the Forelli family were laughing at one of the don's jokes. Don Forelli made a come hither gesture with his hand to see what the man needed.
"Gino, what's this?" asked the Don.
"FedEx just delivered this. It's addressed to Mr. Greco."
Gaetano made a sour face. He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and finished the last of his espresso.
"Don't worry, Louie. It's probably those dossiers I asked for on those jurors. I left instructions for Eileen to forward those to me here."
The don nodded his head and made a mental note to invite his consigliere's secretary to dinner. He has his eye on the twenty something redhead for awhile now. Gaetano wouldn't mind. They had shared women before. It's just that the don didn't need Viagra to rise to the occasion.
Gaetano accepted the package from the guard and proceeded to open it. When the strip was completely torn off, a pop was heard. The consigliere looked up, horrified. That's when all hell broke loose.
The M84 Stun Grenade exploded with a brilliant white flash that streamed forth and blinded everyone inside the dining room, including the guards.
At the same time the grenade's explosion deafened everyone with 180 decibels of white noise that disoriented the Forelli men. Blood oozed from noses and ears. One of the guards tore off his sunglasses and fumbled with his 9mm Glock 17 handgun. The mirrors and all the glass within the private dining area had shattered. There were screams and the sound of wailing sirens could barely be heard. Then the sound of heavy boots crunching on broken glass.
"Remember me, punks?"
The man who pretended to be a FedEx driver had returned. He had changed from his uniform into olive-drab fatigues. He wore a Torq 61 armored vest, carried a Knight's Armament Company 6.5mm Personal Defense Weapon that looked like a cut-down M16, several 30-round magazines, and a AMT AutoMag IV chambered for .45 Winchester Magnum seated in a thigh holster. His face was hidden by a black hockey mask.
The first guard tried to shoot the intruder with his Glock 17 but wasn't fast enough. The OD-clad intruder flicked the selector switch to 3-shot burst and squeezed the trigger twice. The 6.5mm jacketed hollow-points tore through the man's chest and head. The guard's body jerked and twitched then fell mercifully to floor.
"Miller, is that you?" The don's voice trembled. His pants were now soaked with urine and pooled around his feet.
Miller slung the PDW over his shoulder and flicked open a Microtech HALO III switchblade. The second guard charged at him; Miller side-stepped to the left of the goon and fired off a vicious side kick to the man's knee. The goon's blood curdling scream could be heard all the way outside on Chestnut Street. His knee shattered, the goon collapsed onto his back. In a single motion Miller drew his AutoMag, fired twice, and re-holstered his sidearm.
"Miller, please, it was all just a misunderstanding." This from Matteo Russo whose suit was now blackened and in tatters. He was shaking uncontrollably. They had underestimated this man. Now they had to reason with him.
The black mask turned his way. "Sorry, Russo. Unlike the governor, I still practice the death penalty. You're overruled, counselor. Now accept your sentence, you prick rat bastard."
Matteo futilely tried to crawl away from this angel of death. He only made it a few feet before Miller smashed his boot onto the consigliere's back. Matteo screamed even louder as Miller plunged the tanto-shaped blade into the man's skull. Matteo's eyes went wide then became lifeless.
Don Forelli was curled up in a fetal position. Tears were now streaming down his eyes. Mewling noises issued forth from his mouth. The stink of feces and piss in the ruined dining area was overpowering. Miller retrieved his knife, wiped it on Matteo's expensive suit, and advanced towards the helpless don.
Gaetano Greco had sufficiently recovered to brush the dust off his suit and comb back his hair. Both Miller and Gaetano looked at each other. Then Gaetano nodded his head once. Miller nodded back then took out a squeeze bottle full of kerosene. The black masked killer popped the cap and dumped the contents all over the don's shaking body. Dropping the canister, he pulled a chromed Zippo from his pants. Miller flicked the Zippo once and tossed it onto the now sobbing Don Forelli. The fire totally consumed his flesh. Don Forelli was now just a part of Central City's bloody past.
"All right, Gaetano. You got Forelli's empire. I want my money. Don't give me any bullshit about shares in a property in Florida. That scam's for the dipshits coming out of Fox River. Hand it over or I'll make you extra crispy."
The new leader just smiled confidently at Miller. Gaetano reached underneath the table and removed a Zero Halliburton briefcase. The gangster flicked open the locks and revealed the twenty million in diamonds inside. Miller gestured for Gaetano to move away from the briefcase. Gaetano merely grinned at his associate's caution.
"We have an agreement, Miller. I trust that you are satisfied."
Miller grunted in agreement. He secured the locks on the case and lifted it from the table. He started to walk away from Gaetano then stopped. Miller turned back to the other man. Gaetano looked confused. Their business was concluded.
"I almost forgot, Gaetano. You slapped around a young girl working at the Four Dragons Casino a couple of years ago. It wasn't enough of a turn-on. So you sodomized her too."
Gaetano's eyes widened with fear. His palms got sweaty. His started hammering in his chest. Dear God, no…
"She might have been serving cocktails that night, douchebag, but she was one of Woozie's girls. His youngest daughter in fact."
Miller rammed his re-opened Microtech switchblade and disemboweled the older man. The look of shock on the older man's face was priceless. This job was getting more satisfying every day. After taking a special 'trophy' for Woozie, Miller wiped the blade down and locked it back closed. Then he took out his Nokia and speed-dialed a number.
"Honored Uncle, the Forellis have been sent to the Seven Hells. The city is ours."
The cackling laughter of the Lucky Mole warmed the black masked killer's heart. This was just the opening round.