After the great Mafia blitz in 1987, there were only two families left to
squabble over the pieces of Liberty City, New York. One was that of
Marcantonio Clericuzo, who was a man known for his ruthless brutality and
his empire built upon a river of blood. He was merciless, never letting the
smallest thing slip by him. He was always out for a kill, like a wolf
hunting prey. He was alert at all times, just waiting for someone somewhere
to mess something up. The other family that had managed to come out on top
was under the firm rule of Salvatore Leone, who was nearly equal in power,
but was a far inferior man. While he reigned over the streets of the
Portland district of Liberty City, Clericuzo had quickly executed the take-
over of the entire state. Leone was smaller and less respected, hence it
was easy for Clericuzo to absorb the Leone family and make it part of his
own. The mob empire of Liberty City was established quickly after that. It
wasn't until a young man who didn't care which side he played came along
that the well-established kingdom of Don Clericuzo finally began to
crumble.
"What is this?" Don Clericuzo sat in the office of his three story mansion and center station in Shoreside Vale, calmly puffing on a cigar, his eyes slowly perusing a piece of yellowed paper with very small type. The smoke from his charge curled lazily up to the ceiling and created a thick veil over the entire room. The office was dark; the only light came from a small lamp at the corner of the Don's desk. Through all the smoke, the tiny lamp only managed to cast a weak orange glow.
The Don was a tall man with masculine features and dark brown hair that was beginning to go gray at an accelerated pace with his age. He was approaching his mid fifties, but his intense brown eyes still glowered at the world from behind thin, wire-rimmed glasses with all the youthful ambition of a kid half his age. He always wore a neatly tailored suit in either black or charcoal along with a tie in either silver or black. His style almost never strayed from that. He was a well-manicured killer.
The small, fat man across the room shifted uncomfortably, measuring the Don's temper. He was a messenger whose name nobody ever remembered. Don Clericuzo continued to read the paper, leaning back in his chair like he was reading a good book. He put his cigar down in a glass ashtray on the desk and rubbed his chin.
"I knew this man had switched sides, but I didn't know he would have the balls to come back here and start ripping off my assets, my people, under the name of the Yakuza! What, is the boy crazy? After all Salvatore Leone did for him. After all I have done for him, he betrays me?" Don Clericuzo crumpled the paper up angrily and tossed it over his shoulder. Someone in a gray suit and tie jumped from a dark corner and picked it up, throwing it into the trashcan without so much as a word.
"Our boys down at the club said the kid was shooting from the rooftop of the building across the street. No one saw him until it was too late and Old Salvatore was watering the streets. They chased him once they saw him hit the street, but he jumped into a Yakuza car and was gone," Johnny Portella said from where he stood near the large oak door. He was a tall, wiry man wearing a brown suit and a blindingly white shirt. His hands were clasped in front of him, and he spoke in a quiet, reserved tone.
"If you want, I can send Jimmy to straighten the kid out," Cesare Portella asked. He was almost an exact copy of his twin brother Johnny. The only difference between them was their eye color. While Johnny's were green, Cesare's sparkled a bright blue. He watched the Don shake his head gravely. The Don picked up his cigar again and took a few thoughtful puffs from it. He smiled suddenly.
"No, I have decided what I want to do about this," he announced. "Bring me Nicky. Get Nicky in here." The room fell silent. No one had expected Don Clericuzo to bring in Nicky. Everyone thought that maybe he'd send out someone to persuade the Yakuza kid back into working for the Mafia again. After all, the boy was good, and all organizations could use a man like him. But bringing Nicky in meant that the Don wanted the kid dead, and Nicky against the kid was likely to turn into all out war.
Johnny Portella turned around and pushed open the office door without a word. He closed it behind him. Don Clericuzo crushed the end of the cigar out and steeped his fingers, awaiting the arrival of his best assassin. Nicky was known all over the city as the most efficient killer and wheelman to ever hit the streets. Commoners and Mafia enemies trembled at the sound of his name. But he was not only was he a cold-hearted murderer to took lives without remorse; he was also Don Clericuzo's only treasured son. The Don had every confidence that he would get the job done. He always did.
Johnny returned a moment later followed closely by a young man of about twenty-five years. This was, of course, Nikolas Valerius Clericuzo. He was a handsome kid with dark brown hair and fierce eyes. He wasn't particularly tall, but he was tall enough to be considered above average height. He was built like a boxer, showing the strength in his chiseled features. He wore a pair of faded black cargo pants and a white t-shirt. He smiled a little when he saw his father.
"What do you have for me today, Pop?" He slid his hands into the pockets of his pants and came to a halt just in front of his father's desk. He lowered the pair of dark sunglasses he wore so he could easily see over them. The smoke filled atmosphere of the office immediately impeded his sight, and he needed to wait for his eyes to adjust.
Don Clericuzo graced his son with a smile. "It's good to see you fairing well, Nikolas. We have a problem on our hands, and I believe you may be our only hope to solve it. Do you remember the man who worked as our wheelman and runner for a few months? The one who always wore a black leather jacket?"
Nick nodded. "You mean the guy who never really talked much?"
"That's right," Don Clericuzo confirmed. "Well it seems he has switched sides on us rather abruptly. He's working for the Yakuza, and he's been tearing up everything downtown. I've just gotten word that he gunned down Salvatore Leone last night. I can't have him running a muck out there anymore. Do you understand what I am asking you to do?"
Nick considered this for a long moment without saying anything. Yes, of course he understood the task he was being charged with, but it was something to consider very carefully. To kill the man his father spoke of was like trying to kill a lion. It would be difficult, and he doubted he would walk away unscathed. The man was the first person Nick had ever met who could rival his abilities. He had a sort of respect for him. But he couldn't let that get in the way, especially if his father wanted the guy dead.
"All right," he said at last. "No problem."
Christian Anthony Vercetti was a man that many feared. Some people even referred to him as a monster. But to Chris, it was just business. He was a trained killer, not a monster. His style was unique; laid back, but always alert. His deep brown eyes were dark, but instinctive, trained like those of a hawk. But tonight, he was tired; his sharp eyes were exhausted, almost like the intensity had been drained from them.
He pulled off the road into a little alley that was that led to his hideout. He pulled into his two-car garage and parked his red and white Stinger, a car that screamed the colors of the Yakuza. He turned off the engine and lazily got out of his car, moving slowly as if he had all the time in the world. He thought of the past events from that afternoon. Another hit for the Yakuza, another death for the Mafia. This time the unlucky prick had been Toni Cipriani, the Mafia's extortionist. Chris chuckled to himself as he recalled Toni's face as he looked down the barrel of the Deagle. Toni's face had been twisted with fear and anxiety. One shot between the eyes was all it took to bring down Salvatore's right-hand man
He stepped into the elevator and was taken up to his room. When the metal doors opened he was greeted with the warmth of his small apartment. The ceiling fan hummed quietly, casting a slight breeze. He stepped off the lift and on to the soft red carpet that occupied the entire floor. He kicked off his shoes and noticed something on the glass table in front of him that he hadn't seen when he came in. In a little black ashtray, a single cigarette burned, thin gray smoke rose lightly to the ceiling.
Chills ran down Chris's spine, and goose bumps began to surface on the back of his neck. Someone had been waiting for him. He heard the familiar sound of a hammer clicking back. All in one motion he spun around and knocked the gun from his assailant's hand. A white-knuckled fist connected with Chris' nose. He stumbled back and fell onto his sofa. He put a hand up to his face; it came away slippery with blood. He looked up and saw a familiar face.
"Nick," he mumbled angrily as he sat up. Jumping to his feet in one well practiced and fluid movement, he charged at the other man. Chris slammed Nick against the wall and then threw him to the ground.
"Out doing more chores for your daddy, Nicky," he yelled as he kicked the fallen man in the ribs. Chris walked over to the table to grab his gun. When he turned around, though, he was met with the barrel of a Colt Magnum. Without second thought he dove out of the way just as Nick pulled the trigger. A shot rang out in to the little room and a vase shattered to the floor.
"Dad," Chris yelled as ashes spread across the floorboards. His eyes flickered in anger as he stared coldly at Nick. He had been trusted with those ashes, and he had sworn to make sure they would be safe. Now they had been completely violated. He held up his own gun and fired a single round that hit Nick in the left shoulder. He yelped in pain as he grasped his shoulder fell to the ground. Chris walked slowly towards him; his gun out in front of him, trained at Nick's head
. "You thought you could kill me?" Chris said intensely.
"You betrayed my father, after all he's done for you!" Nick yelled as he tripped Chris with his right foot. He grabbed his Magnum and held it at Chris' face. Chris' anger turned to icy fear, his face very similar to that of Toni's before he had killed him. A grin surfaced across Nick's face as he shot every last bullet in his gun.
"What is this?" Don Clericuzo sat in the office of his three story mansion and center station in Shoreside Vale, calmly puffing on a cigar, his eyes slowly perusing a piece of yellowed paper with very small type. The smoke from his charge curled lazily up to the ceiling and created a thick veil over the entire room. The office was dark; the only light came from a small lamp at the corner of the Don's desk. Through all the smoke, the tiny lamp only managed to cast a weak orange glow.
The Don was a tall man with masculine features and dark brown hair that was beginning to go gray at an accelerated pace with his age. He was approaching his mid fifties, but his intense brown eyes still glowered at the world from behind thin, wire-rimmed glasses with all the youthful ambition of a kid half his age. He always wore a neatly tailored suit in either black or charcoal along with a tie in either silver or black. His style almost never strayed from that. He was a well-manicured killer.
The small, fat man across the room shifted uncomfortably, measuring the Don's temper. He was a messenger whose name nobody ever remembered. Don Clericuzo continued to read the paper, leaning back in his chair like he was reading a good book. He put his cigar down in a glass ashtray on the desk and rubbed his chin.
"I knew this man had switched sides, but I didn't know he would have the balls to come back here and start ripping off my assets, my people, under the name of the Yakuza! What, is the boy crazy? After all Salvatore Leone did for him. After all I have done for him, he betrays me?" Don Clericuzo crumpled the paper up angrily and tossed it over his shoulder. Someone in a gray suit and tie jumped from a dark corner and picked it up, throwing it into the trashcan without so much as a word.
"Our boys down at the club said the kid was shooting from the rooftop of the building across the street. No one saw him until it was too late and Old Salvatore was watering the streets. They chased him once they saw him hit the street, but he jumped into a Yakuza car and was gone," Johnny Portella said from where he stood near the large oak door. He was a tall, wiry man wearing a brown suit and a blindingly white shirt. His hands were clasped in front of him, and he spoke in a quiet, reserved tone.
"If you want, I can send Jimmy to straighten the kid out," Cesare Portella asked. He was almost an exact copy of his twin brother Johnny. The only difference between them was their eye color. While Johnny's were green, Cesare's sparkled a bright blue. He watched the Don shake his head gravely. The Don picked up his cigar again and took a few thoughtful puffs from it. He smiled suddenly.
"No, I have decided what I want to do about this," he announced. "Bring me Nicky. Get Nicky in here." The room fell silent. No one had expected Don Clericuzo to bring in Nicky. Everyone thought that maybe he'd send out someone to persuade the Yakuza kid back into working for the Mafia again. After all, the boy was good, and all organizations could use a man like him. But bringing Nicky in meant that the Don wanted the kid dead, and Nicky against the kid was likely to turn into all out war.
Johnny Portella turned around and pushed open the office door without a word. He closed it behind him. Don Clericuzo crushed the end of the cigar out and steeped his fingers, awaiting the arrival of his best assassin. Nicky was known all over the city as the most efficient killer and wheelman to ever hit the streets. Commoners and Mafia enemies trembled at the sound of his name. But he was not only was he a cold-hearted murderer to took lives without remorse; he was also Don Clericuzo's only treasured son. The Don had every confidence that he would get the job done. He always did.
Johnny returned a moment later followed closely by a young man of about twenty-five years. This was, of course, Nikolas Valerius Clericuzo. He was a handsome kid with dark brown hair and fierce eyes. He wasn't particularly tall, but he was tall enough to be considered above average height. He was built like a boxer, showing the strength in his chiseled features. He wore a pair of faded black cargo pants and a white t-shirt. He smiled a little when he saw his father.
"What do you have for me today, Pop?" He slid his hands into the pockets of his pants and came to a halt just in front of his father's desk. He lowered the pair of dark sunglasses he wore so he could easily see over them. The smoke filled atmosphere of the office immediately impeded his sight, and he needed to wait for his eyes to adjust.
Don Clericuzo graced his son with a smile. "It's good to see you fairing well, Nikolas. We have a problem on our hands, and I believe you may be our only hope to solve it. Do you remember the man who worked as our wheelman and runner for a few months? The one who always wore a black leather jacket?"
Nick nodded. "You mean the guy who never really talked much?"
"That's right," Don Clericuzo confirmed. "Well it seems he has switched sides on us rather abruptly. He's working for the Yakuza, and he's been tearing up everything downtown. I've just gotten word that he gunned down Salvatore Leone last night. I can't have him running a muck out there anymore. Do you understand what I am asking you to do?"
Nick considered this for a long moment without saying anything. Yes, of course he understood the task he was being charged with, but it was something to consider very carefully. To kill the man his father spoke of was like trying to kill a lion. It would be difficult, and he doubted he would walk away unscathed. The man was the first person Nick had ever met who could rival his abilities. He had a sort of respect for him. But he couldn't let that get in the way, especially if his father wanted the guy dead.
"All right," he said at last. "No problem."
Christian Anthony Vercetti was a man that many feared. Some people even referred to him as a monster. But to Chris, it was just business. He was a trained killer, not a monster. His style was unique; laid back, but always alert. His deep brown eyes were dark, but instinctive, trained like those of a hawk. But tonight, he was tired; his sharp eyes were exhausted, almost like the intensity had been drained from them.
He pulled off the road into a little alley that was that led to his hideout. He pulled into his two-car garage and parked his red and white Stinger, a car that screamed the colors of the Yakuza. He turned off the engine and lazily got out of his car, moving slowly as if he had all the time in the world. He thought of the past events from that afternoon. Another hit for the Yakuza, another death for the Mafia. This time the unlucky prick had been Toni Cipriani, the Mafia's extortionist. Chris chuckled to himself as he recalled Toni's face as he looked down the barrel of the Deagle. Toni's face had been twisted with fear and anxiety. One shot between the eyes was all it took to bring down Salvatore's right-hand man
He stepped into the elevator and was taken up to his room. When the metal doors opened he was greeted with the warmth of his small apartment. The ceiling fan hummed quietly, casting a slight breeze. He stepped off the lift and on to the soft red carpet that occupied the entire floor. He kicked off his shoes and noticed something on the glass table in front of him that he hadn't seen when he came in. In a little black ashtray, a single cigarette burned, thin gray smoke rose lightly to the ceiling.
Chills ran down Chris's spine, and goose bumps began to surface on the back of his neck. Someone had been waiting for him. He heard the familiar sound of a hammer clicking back. All in one motion he spun around and knocked the gun from his assailant's hand. A white-knuckled fist connected with Chris' nose. He stumbled back and fell onto his sofa. He put a hand up to his face; it came away slippery with blood. He looked up and saw a familiar face.
"Nick," he mumbled angrily as he sat up. Jumping to his feet in one well practiced and fluid movement, he charged at the other man. Chris slammed Nick against the wall and then threw him to the ground.
"Out doing more chores for your daddy, Nicky," he yelled as he kicked the fallen man in the ribs. Chris walked over to the table to grab his gun. When he turned around, though, he was met with the barrel of a Colt Magnum. Without second thought he dove out of the way just as Nick pulled the trigger. A shot rang out in to the little room and a vase shattered to the floor.
"Dad," Chris yelled as ashes spread across the floorboards. His eyes flickered in anger as he stared coldly at Nick. He had been trusted with those ashes, and he had sworn to make sure they would be safe. Now they had been completely violated. He held up his own gun and fired a single round that hit Nick in the left shoulder. He yelped in pain as he grasped his shoulder fell to the ground. Chris walked slowly towards him; his gun out in front of him, trained at Nick's head
. "You thought you could kill me?" Chris said intensely.
"You betrayed my father, after all he's done for you!" Nick yelled as he tripped Chris with his right foot. He grabbed his Magnum and held it at Chris' face. Chris' anger turned to icy fear, his face very similar to that of Toni's before he had killed him. A grin surfaced across Nick's face as he shot every last bullet in his gun.