Chapter 9: Addio, Fratelli

The door flung open and Antonio burst in with his crew in tow.

"Don Amerigo!" he sputtered frantically. "We have a situation."

"You think I don't know that?" the leader of La Famiglia asked. Currently, he had his back against the far wall and his silver M1911A with a pearl grip was in his hand. He frequently glanced outside the window, slightly drawing back the curtain and taking a peek outside. The others in the room all held Thompson submachineguns and had several tables and chairs upturned to act as shields should anyone invade their dwelling. The rest of the building had been completely emptied and La Famiglia's enforcers were being stationed near the headquarters of Hotel Moscow and the Triad in case things turned sour. And from what Don Amerigo had been hearing, that was inevitable.

"Giovanna radioed ahead. We've been made, boys, seriously fucking made. Balalaika knows what we're up to."

"That's not all," Antonio said, swallowing hard in preparation for his boss's reaction to even more bad news. "Fritz tried to take out the gunslinger, but she ain't dead. They've been tearing the Yellowflag to pieces for almost an hour, now."

"That dumb fucking Nazi!" Amerigo spat. "All he had to do was take the bitch out. How fucking hard was that?!"

"She won't go down easy, boss," Antonio explained. "She's Lagoon Company's gunslinger. Two-Hands, they call her."

"I don't care if they call her Annie-fucking-Oakley!" Amerigo screamed. "One bullet is all that bald freak needed to end this. But it's too late, now. Thanks to the African and his spies, the Russians will be coming for us sooner or later. Goddammit!" The Italian balled his empty hand into a fist and drove it into the wall, leaving a noticeable mark. The plan they had in place was coming undone and eventually La Famiglia would be forced to fight or flee. Don Amerigo was not one to back down from a confrontation, but even he had to admit they would be outnumbered when confronted by Hotel Moscow. Given enough time, Fritz could have whittled down their numbers enough so that Balalaika would be exposed, but there was no time for that now. They needed to make a move.

"I have other contacts I could call on," Enzo suggested, eager to help now that he was officially a member of the family.

"You've done enough!" Amerigo roared, pointing his finger accusingly at the boy. "If Fritz had done his fucking job like he was supposed to, we wouldn't be in this mess!"

"What do we do, Don Amerigo?" asked Antonio. "We could hole up here and funnel them through the door, but I don't know how long we could last."

"Not very fucking long," Amerigo admitted. "We need to move, Antonio. Call on your people and have them pull up outside. We'll have to head for the countryside." There was silence in the room and all eyes fell on the leader of La Famiglia.

"Boss…we're leaving? For real?"

"Yes, we're leaving!" Amerigo told him hysterically. "Haven't you been listening?! Fry-Face is coming for us, Antonio. When she does, you can be sure she won't leave one person alive. Our only option is to leave." He looked around at them all, noticing their disappointed faces. They had been hopeful that La Famiglia could make a life for themselves here and operate like their ancestors back home, with an iron grip on their underlings and respect from every other crime family. But if there was anything to learn from recent events, it was that Roanapur was not the place to do that. It was perfect, in a way, and it would be a shame to abandon it. But there were much more vicious dogs that called these streets their hunting grounds and La Famiglia were far too small and unestablished to have any hope of competing. Plus, they had officially made enemies of the ruling factions the first time Fritz laid his hands on one of Balalaika's people.

"Worry not, brothers," Amerigo addressed the room. Antonio went to call in an evacuation as his boss continued. "We could have had a great thing in this city, an empire of our very own. But it was not to be. Perhaps one day we can return when our enemies will not expect us, and on that day Roanapur will be ours. But our families have a history of migration. Whenever danger threatens us, we move and survive somewhere else. For the family. La Famiglia prima de tutto!" The others in the room repeated the Italian phrase, invigorated by their leader's words. They would abandon their hopes and dreams if it meant the survival of La Famiglia, and survival was something they would seize at any cost. Antonio re-entered the room.

"Car's outside, boss," he said. "We should get moving."

"Alright," Amerigo concurred. "Let's go, gentlemen." As they all walked towards the door and attempted to leave, they heard some kind of commotion outside. It was all too late when Amerigo spotted the two men rappelling down the side of the building with Kalashnikovs in hand. He didn't even get the chance to order his men to drop to the ground before the Russians emptied their clips, mowing down almost everyone in the room. Amerigo was quick enough to drop to his stomach and avoid the gunfire, but his people were dead. Only Enzo and two others remained alive, and the boy who had introduced La Famiglia to Fritz was badly wounded. Blood poured from his mouth and he clutched at the bullet holes in his chest and side manically. He gurgled something at Don Amerigo, a cry of help, perhaps, but La Famiglia's leader ignored his pleas and scarpered out the door by himself. The sound of gunfire behind him as he legged it down the corridor told him the surviving men had now been killed, too.

Amerigo hoofed it down the stairs and ran outside, almost falling over himself as he approached the grey sedan that was parked by the roadside. His fingers fumbled with the handle clumsily, finally grasping it with vigour and pulling open the door. As he began to step into the car, the sight within made him sick to his stomach. Balalaika held up the Makarov pistol in her hand and shot the Italian man in the chest once, knocking him to the ground. She then sent another round into his leg, crippling him further. He wriggled on the ground like an earthworm as his lifeblood oozed from his body and drenched the concrete below. Balalaika neatly tucked the Makarov back into her suit jacket and exited the vehicle. A firm hand grasped the fabric of Amerigo's jacket and Hotel Moscow's leader started dragging him along the ground back into the building as he moaned and whimpered in pain. Another man, with a large scar across his face, exited the sedan as well and snatched up the M1911A the Italian had dropped upon being shot. He followed his superior closely. Balalaika did not falter, pulling Amerigo's gradually weakening body up the stairs, along the corridor, and finally back into the room where several dead members of La Famiglia lay. The two soldiers who had rappelled down the building now stood sentinel either side of the window, with a chair propped up between them. Balalaika lifted the Italian mafia boss from the ground and threw him down into the chair.

"You must be this 'Don Amerigo' I've heard so much about," she said in her high, melodic voice. Despite her tone and forced civility, she was clearly very anger. Every word she spoke dripped with venom. "I must say, I'm not impressed. All it took was two of my soldiers to wipe out every one of your trusted brothers. Sloppy work, Mister Camerino."

"You know…who I am?" Amerigo asked, his voice hoarse and scratchy. His vision was becoming blurry and soon death would take him like it had taken Hotel Moscow's people.

"Don't be stupid," Balalaika hissed quietly. "Do you even know who you're dealing with? You should have done your research, Don Amerigo. Hotel Moscow is in charge of this city and we have eyes and ears everywhere. I wanted to make sure I knew every little thing I could about you before grinding your pathetic little roundup into dust."

"Fuck…you," Amerigo managed weakly. "La Famiglia…will live on. We…will always…endure…"

"Nonsense," Balalaika said dismissively. "Look at you, Amerigo. Your brothers are lying in pools of their own blood and it won't be long before you follow suit. Face it, your little 'family' is finished."

"My brothers…I miei fratelli…you will pay…for this." Balalaika laughed in his face.

"The only one who is going to pay here is that warped little degenerate you sent after my people." Balalaika bent over and glared at Amerigo, her face inches from his own. "I don't know where you found him, but I assure you, he will die this night the same as you. And any of your laughable enforcers remaining in my city will go the same way. Nobody will even know the name La Famiglia after tonight." Amerigo growled like a dog in the chair as his blood dribbled down and soaked into the wood he was sitting on.

"I hope…your men…died slowly," he slighted Hotel Moscow's leader. He could almost feel the rage and bloodlust from the Russians beside him. The scarred man, too, took on an aggressive expression, as if he was holding himself back. "I hope…Fritz gutted them…like fish. Slaughtered…like the filthy…Russian dogs…they are." Balalaika's eyes widened ever so slightly, her gaze piercing the Italian like a harpoon. She continued to watch him for a few moments as those word sunk in. Then, she completely lost it. She reached into her jacket and produced the Makarov again, but she did not fire it on Amerigo. She held it by the barrel and used the handle like a club, beating the leader of La Famiglia within an inch of his life. After that, she continued to beat him until he was dead. And even lifeless in the chair, Hotel Moscow's leader was not satisfied. Her attacks went on and the bloodied gun crunched into the man's skull over and over as the others in the room looked on with equal horror and satisfaction.