There was that damn dripping again, but this time, it was different. It was
more rapid, more water falling at a faster pace. It was because of this
change that Vincent Vercetti came to realize that he was not longer in the
holding cell, and that the events he though he had dreamed had actually
happened. But then again, realizations were a bitch. Everything hurt, damn,
it even hurt to breathe. He wondered, for a moment, when he had fallen
unconscious. What did they do...beat him with a baseball bat? That wouldn't
be a first.
At least...he didn't think so. Nothing like a heavy hitter with a stick to make you lose consciousness. But Vince decided that he hadn't been the homerun ball as things started to come back to him. Good, at least he wasn't in that despicable jail cell any longer. That would have most certainly been the death of him. He didn't know what had happened after he had blacked out, but he assumed it had been something good.
Gingerly, he felt the bandage that wrapped around the circumference of his head, pulling some of the stray hair in front out over it so that he looked more like he should be exercising than bedridden. His movements attracted the attention of Maria, who until she had spotted him, had been sitting on the couch near the back of what appeared to be a large warehouse.
"Stay still, Vince. I have no doubts that the bump on your head hurts like a bitch," she told him, coming to his side.
Vince wasn't one to follow the doctors orders, so he took the opportunity to take a look around. Big mistake. His vision blurred and he had to shut his eyes to ward of the wave of dizziness that hit him like a full out typhoon. He exhaled.
"What did I tell you? Don't you listen? We're in one of 8-Ball's garages. You remember 8-Ball right? We're safe for the time being, so don't worry too much. Tommy's kind of hot right now, and I'm not entirely sure why, but he keep muttering to himself. We're all sort of steering clear of him right now," Maria said, her eyes narrowing as she glanced over her shoulder.
"Is he awake," came Vercetti's voice from somewhere else in the large room. He's tall shadow appeared, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "What the hell do you have to say for yourself, little brother?" The last words were spat out like raw anger, and Vercetti's eyes seemed to light up in the dark. "You tell the FBI Brigade where we were going to be? You have that whole thing planned out since they pulled you out at the fucking sinkhole of a city you live in? Get close to Tommy Vercetti and then open fire? Hm? Get yourself caught and strike a deal, is that it?" He nudged Vince in the side with his foot. "Is that it?!"
"Jesus Christ, Tommy, back off," Maria protested. "There's no way Vince talked to the cops! Don't you get it yet? Vince doesn't talk, and for good reason, so get away from him. Don't you dare kick him again." She grabbed hold of Vercetti's arm, attempting to pull him away.
Vercetti's hard gaze never left his brother. For a moment, it looked like he might lay off and slink back into a corner to stew in his own misguided anger. Instead he pushed past Maria and stooped down to pick up Vince by the lapels of his blood soaked jacket. "Great act, you little bastard. Get it all hot and bothered by being called a traitor." He slammed Vince against the wall. "There's ways of making you talk, friend, and if you know what's good for you, you'd best use all the breath you have left after I kill you to do so!"
Vince winced, all the air in this lungs leaving him as he hit the wall. It felt as if his head exploded, and it was all he could to not to pass out. His eyes met Vercetti's, a deep hate burning deep behind the dark brown irises. How could the man jump to conclusion like that? Was he that stupid? Hadn't he seen all the signs? Didn't he know his own blood better than that? Next to his hate, he felt hurt.
He didn't have much strength in him to fight, but Vince summoned what he had and broke Vercetti's grip, his eyes flashing with a mixture of loathing and pain. Vercetti made a move to grab him again, but Mercedes appeared from the other side of the room, jostled out of the sleep she had fallen into the moment she had hit the floor of the van. She saw what was happening and was at Vercetti's side before anyone saw her move.
"Get a hold of yourself, you overgrown wheelman!" She growled, latching onto his arm. He looked at her, and from the intense look of his face, it appeared he was about to strike her. Nevertheless, she held her ground, peering at him with equal passion. "Don't you get it? Vincent's not the man you're looking for. It's Lance! Can't you add up the clues? Lance is never anywhere to be found when things happen. I mean, you didn't bust him out of jail with us, now did you?!"
"How the hell can I trust you, Mercedes? You were in the same cell as Vince. How do I know you're not in on some stupid deal to have me strung up in front of the supreme court? I've known Lance for a long time, sister, and I've never had reason to-"
Mercedes cut him off. "Just stop being so fucking blind for one freaking second here, Tommy!"
Vercetti sighed. "All right. I get it, okay? Vince, I-"
Vince shook his head, not wanting to hear false sentiments from a guy who would throw his family to the dogs before he's even consider a 'friend' as shark bait. He leaned there against the wall for a long moment, refusing to meet Vercetti's gaze. Finally, he raised his middle finger and walked away, finding the door and slamming it behind him.
"Frankly," Maria said, "I think that was really low, Tommy. Didn't anyone every teach you 'family first'? If you can't trust your own brother, who can you trust?" That said, she moved out of his line of sight and disappeared out the door.
She found Vince sitting against the wall in the alleyway, just to the left of the stairs leading into 8-Ball's lair. He picked up a lone stone and tossed across the narrow opening, watching it clink unhappily against the steel door of one of the garages lining the opposite wall. He didn't acknowledge her presences, nor her newfound stance, with her arms folded over her chest.
She regarded him candidly for a long moment before sighing at his miserable state. He looked like a lost child, for crying out loud. "Why don't you ever talk to me, huh?"
Vince gave her a strange look, almost as if he didn't quite understand the question. Why didn't he talk to her? That wasn't an inquiry that came up fleetingly. In fact, it almost never came up at all. He had always told himself there was a valid reason for his vow of silence. He didn't figure it was causing anyone any harm. Plus, it made the job easier. If a man doesn't talk at all, he won't talk when things get rough. He'd stayed true to that motto, and as a result, had gained his reputation of the Silent Killer.
It wasn't all business that kept his lips sewn shut, however. He guessed he had just assumed everyone around him knew why the vow was made in the first place. He had assumed Maria knew. And those who didn't know really didn't need to. He shrugged, expectedly at a loss for words as Maria approached him. To really figure out why he didn't speak was to go back and dig up a part of his past that he'd just as soon bury.
If anyone were to want to make Vincent Vercetti wince without throwing a single punch, all he or she would have to do is mention a single name. A single, detestable name.
Catalina.
She had been the source of all his problems, right from the start. He had met her on a heist being pulled for an underground automobile syndicate he'd found work for when he turned twenty-one. They'd sort of bonded, getting to know more about each other as time went on, and soon, it escalated to something beyond work hours. Vince wasn't a talker by nature, but with Catalina, he felt like he could say what little there was to say to her. He was comfortable around her.
But then, as with all relationships, tragedy struck. Things that seem too good to be true usually are. Catalina talked him to pulling a robbery at some back downtown, and after it was all over, she had shot him down. Literally. The bullet nearly killed him, and he went up the river while she ran free with millions in cash.
It was tremendous blow, and Vince decided it was best not to think too much about it. Before he mentally blocked it from his mind, he decided that his mouth would stay shut. Speech was a sign of trust. If you got into a conversation with someone, that someone was liable to think you had entrusted them with a part of yourself, whether you had or not. It was a way of opening doors to yourself that weren't intentionally unlocked. With those doors ajar, opportunity arose to exploit them. Catalina had gained Vince's trust, even got him out into talking again, and then she had used him a sponge in her escape from the bank. He had gone to prison for her concocted plan.
Of course, he had taken care of Catalina. She wouldn't ever be back to harm anyone ever again. He had made sure of that, standing there on the Cochrane Dam, looking through the scope of a class A rocket launcher. It had only taken one well aimed shot, and then it was raining fire. Yeah. He had taken care of Catalina. That bitch.
People were like that, Vince had decided. They were capable of taking a man and his misplaced trust in speech and throw them right out the window like a sack of potatoes. Vince wasn't about to make that fall again. It was a lonely life to live, especially since he was quite fond of a few people he could name. Maria was one. Mercedes was another. But to speak to them was to open himself up to deceit and betrayal again. He couldn't have that. He wouldn't have that.
Looking at Maria's curious gaze was enough to give her a discontented sigh, but he shook his head, his shoulders jumping in a small shrug. She came to sit beside him, a smile playing on her lips.
"That's okay, Vin. You don't have to talk if you don't want to."
He didn't say anything.
"You're out of your mind," Graydon Creed told his partner with proper conviction. "You think we can just walk into Forelli territory, no I take that back, right into the presence of Santino Forelli himself and then live to see the next three seconds? I think you have finally lost it." He sat back, still shaking his head in disbelief as the rented car moved through traffic in Shoreside Vale.
"My, aren't you the ray of optimism I've been looking for all my life," Patrick Ford answered sarcastically. "Look kid, we're not going into there with guns blazing. We're asking for his help, and if he gives us requested help, there's stuff in it for him. Believe these mafia goons love a good deal. Anything that will make them richer than they already are. They're greedy bastards. And anyway, we're just two guys. It's not like we have a SWAT team to back us up." He squinted at the street signs. "Is this our exit."
"No, it's the next one, and of course we're only two guys. That'll make our bodies easier to hide. It's less limbs to hack off. And how do they know we don't have a SWAT team hiding somewhere? It's not like it's stapled to our foreheads or something. This plan is lunacy, and you know it. I'm not going in there just be stuffed into to the trunk of some guy's car."
"You've been watching too much TV," Ford decided. "Now listen up. It's not going to be as bad as all that. You've just got to keep your cool and promise you won't freak out. These people might be known killers, but they're just people, and if there's something in it for them, I promise they'll be all ears. And anyway, Vercetti's got to be as big a thorn in their sides as he is in ours."
"Pray you're right, Pat," Creed growled.
Twenty minutes and three wrong turns later, Ford pulled the rented car up in front of Marco's Bistro. It looked quaint from the outside, like a nice family establishment, but the two FBI agents that emerged from the vehicle knew better. They bypassed the front door and traveled around the back to a partially hidden back door. Ford took in a deep breath and raised a hand to knock. It sounded like three heavy gun shots.
Almost immediately, a tall man with wide shoulders and an equally wide body appeared in the door way, pushing the door aside like a piece of misplaced chicken wire. His cold eyes flickered across the two men standing there, and his bushy eyebrows seemed to shallow up his face has he narrowed his eyes at them. He didn't say anything for a minute, which to Creed and Ford seemed like hours, and then he huffed.
In a thick Italian-Bronx accent he said, "What the hell are you doing here. No one called for you."
"Ah," Ford articulated. "We're here to discuss business with Sonny Forelli." Ford's eyes sized this man up, and he was quite impressed. The man was the size of a redwood, with a neck as thick as a tree trunk. He didn't look like someone Ford would want to tangle with. He breathed deep, hoping he wouldn't say the wrong thing and get everyone mad at him. Next to him, Creed remained silent.
"Gustav," came a voice from somewhere inside. "Who's at the damn door? What are you doing just standing there and letting all the outside air in here."
Instantly, "Gustav's" demeanor changed. He looked a little skittish all of a sudden. "I-I uh, sorry Mr. Forelli. There's some guy here to see you. Do you want me to let them in?"
"Who are they? Check them out, will ya? Outside preferably, and close the door," Sonny answered, still unseen. He sounded different than Ford had imagined him to sound, but he sounded Mafioso enough to do some major damage if someone were to step out of line.
Gustav stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him. "I've never seen you guys around here before. You new in town. You want jobs, is that it?" He leaned real close to Creed, who took an involuntary step backward. "You got any form of it on you?" Ford gulped.
Before Creed or his partner had any idea what was happening, they were being led into the back room of bistro, Gustav behind them with a gun in each hand. The muzzles of said guns where pressed rather harshly into the back of each other FBI agents' heads, respectively. They had their hands in front of their bodies, palms out as they had been instructed to do so somewhere along the way. They stumbled down a tight hallway and into a large room with dim lighting.
Forelli and some of his henchmen were in the middle of a high stakes game of poker, and the wide round table was weighted down with rolls of bills, coins, cards, papers, and pocket watches. Forelli himself was seated to the rear of the room, turned halfway in his chair, looking comfortable and relaxed within his kingdom. A hand of five cards was held loosely in his hand, the glint of the jeweled rings encircling his fingers reflecting in the light. He glanced up when Gustav shoved Creed and Ford into the room.
He raised his hands in inquiry. "What's this, Gustav?" He had a burning cigar clamped tightly in his teeth, the smoke curling up and finding no good source of ventilation in the room. It then settled over everything, blurring Forelli's image as he sat there in his light blue suit, the sleeves rolled up to mid forearm.
Gustav relinquished one gun, the one pressed to Ford's head to pull two black identification wallets out of his breast pocket. He opened them and tossed them onto the table. Then, he went back to aiming his firearm at the back of Ford's skull. "Got trouble right here, boss," he said, the smile audible in his words.
Forelli leaned forward to get a better look. He leaned back, deep in the throes of laughter. "Oh! FBI, eh?! That's rich." He took a few breaths in between guffaws. "You two have got to be pulling my leg. Really now, who put you up to this? Which crew? The only Leone gang? What is this?"
Ford tried to sputter a response, but Gustav pushed the gun harder against his head, cutting him off. Obviously, it was not polite to talk when the boss was having such a good time at one's expense.
"Look at these badges. They seem pretty real to me, don't they Jimmy?" Forelli asked the man next to him. He tapped him on the shoulder with the back of his hand. "Take a real good look at those."
Jimmy grinned and said, "Yeah, Sonny. Those look pretty damn real to me."
Forelli sighed, shaking his head. He put down his cards and stood up. "What makes you cops thing you can come in here, by yourselves no less, and expect to take me and my boys down? Hm? I can see you're out of words. Perhaps you'd like to be more comfortable." He rubbed the back of his head. "I know how much those things can hurt when pushed up against the back of your noodle like that." He waved at Gustav, and the pressure of the guns left the two agents.
Before either of them could sigh in relief, all other seven men in the room pulled guns and aimed them directly at them. Creed inhaled sharply.
"Now," Forelli said, coming around the table to face Ford and Creed at an arm's length. "that wasn't very smart, now was it?"
"But we're not here to arrest you!" Creed blurted. Seven clicks sounded off as seven hammers were pulled back and locked into place. Seven gun points hovered nearby, itching to expel some real fire. Forelli looked vaguely intrigued. "Oh? Then what? Looking to give up your lives as caped avengers and join Darth Vader on his side of the tracks? Or are you just looking to be added to the Dark Side's long payroll list?" This extracted a few laughs from some of the henchmen, which made the agents nervous, as fingers were still very close to triggers.
"No," Ford answered. "We're here to make you a deal."
Forelli smiled. "Really now. Well boys, I'm listening."
A/N: I'm ALIVE!!!! Hi guys, so sorry for the lack of updates. I've had all the problems in the world over here. Barring more poor health and other setbacks, chapter should come up much faster from now on. This one's a little shorter than the rest, and for that I'm sorry. You'll just have to deal. Anyway, your reviews are appreciated, as always, and please accept my deepest apologies for my neglect to this work.
At least...he didn't think so. Nothing like a heavy hitter with a stick to make you lose consciousness. But Vince decided that he hadn't been the homerun ball as things started to come back to him. Good, at least he wasn't in that despicable jail cell any longer. That would have most certainly been the death of him. He didn't know what had happened after he had blacked out, but he assumed it had been something good.
Gingerly, he felt the bandage that wrapped around the circumference of his head, pulling some of the stray hair in front out over it so that he looked more like he should be exercising than bedridden. His movements attracted the attention of Maria, who until she had spotted him, had been sitting on the couch near the back of what appeared to be a large warehouse.
"Stay still, Vince. I have no doubts that the bump on your head hurts like a bitch," she told him, coming to his side.
Vince wasn't one to follow the doctors orders, so he took the opportunity to take a look around. Big mistake. His vision blurred and he had to shut his eyes to ward of the wave of dizziness that hit him like a full out typhoon. He exhaled.
"What did I tell you? Don't you listen? We're in one of 8-Ball's garages. You remember 8-Ball right? We're safe for the time being, so don't worry too much. Tommy's kind of hot right now, and I'm not entirely sure why, but he keep muttering to himself. We're all sort of steering clear of him right now," Maria said, her eyes narrowing as she glanced over her shoulder.
"Is he awake," came Vercetti's voice from somewhere else in the large room. He's tall shadow appeared, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "What the hell do you have to say for yourself, little brother?" The last words were spat out like raw anger, and Vercetti's eyes seemed to light up in the dark. "You tell the FBI Brigade where we were going to be? You have that whole thing planned out since they pulled you out at the fucking sinkhole of a city you live in? Get close to Tommy Vercetti and then open fire? Hm? Get yourself caught and strike a deal, is that it?" He nudged Vince in the side with his foot. "Is that it?!"
"Jesus Christ, Tommy, back off," Maria protested. "There's no way Vince talked to the cops! Don't you get it yet? Vince doesn't talk, and for good reason, so get away from him. Don't you dare kick him again." She grabbed hold of Vercetti's arm, attempting to pull him away.
Vercetti's hard gaze never left his brother. For a moment, it looked like he might lay off and slink back into a corner to stew in his own misguided anger. Instead he pushed past Maria and stooped down to pick up Vince by the lapels of his blood soaked jacket. "Great act, you little bastard. Get it all hot and bothered by being called a traitor." He slammed Vince against the wall. "There's ways of making you talk, friend, and if you know what's good for you, you'd best use all the breath you have left after I kill you to do so!"
Vince winced, all the air in this lungs leaving him as he hit the wall. It felt as if his head exploded, and it was all he could to not to pass out. His eyes met Vercetti's, a deep hate burning deep behind the dark brown irises. How could the man jump to conclusion like that? Was he that stupid? Hadn't he seen all the signs? Didn't he know his own blood better than that? Next to his hate, he felt hurt.
He didn't have much strength in him to fight, but Vince summoned what he had and broke Vercetti's grip, his eyes flashing with a mixture of loathing and pain. Vercetti made a move to grab him again, but Mercedes appeared from the other side of the room, jostled out of the sleep she had fallen into the moment she had hit the floor of the van. She saw what was happening and was at Vercetti's side before anyone saw her move.
"Get a hold of yourself, you overgrown wheelman!" She growled, latching onto his arm. He looked at her, and from the intense look of his face, it appeared he was about to strike her. Nevertheless, she held her ground, peering at him with equal passion. "Don't you get it? Vincent's not the man you're looking for. It's Lance! Can't you add up the clues? Lance is never anywhere to be found when things happen. I mean, you didn't bust him out of jail with us, now did you?!"
"How the hell can I trust you, Mercedes? You were in the same cell as Vince. How do I know you're not in on some stupid deal to have me strung up in front of the supreme court? I've known Lance for a long time, sister, and I've never had reason to-"
Mercedes cut him off. "Just stop being so fucking blind for one freaking second here, Tommy!"
Vercetti sighed. "All right. I get it, okay? Vince, I-"
Vince shook his head, not wanting to hear false sentiments from a guy who would throw his family to the dogs before he's even consider a 'friend' as shark bait. He leaned there against the wall for a long moment, refusing to meet Vercetti's gaze. Finally, he raised his middle finger and walked away, finding the door and slamming it behind him.
"Frankly," Maria said, "I think that was really low, Tommy. Didn't anyone every teach you 'family first'? If you can't trust your own brother, who can you trust?" That said, she moved out of his line of sight and disappeared out the door.
She found Vince sitting against the wall in the alleyway, just to the left of the stairs leading into 8-Ball's lair. He picked up a lone stone and tossed across the narrow opening, watching it clink unhappily against the steel door of one of the garages lining the opposite wall. He didn't acknowledge her presences, nor her newfound stance, with her arms folded over her chest.
She regarded him candidly for a long moment before sighing at his miserable state. He looked like a lost child, for crying out loud. "Why don't you ever talk to me, huh?"
Vince gave her a strange look, almost as if he didn't quite understand the question. Why didn't he talk to her? That wasn't an inquiry that came up fleetingly. In fact, it almost never came up at all. He had always told himself there was a valid reason for his vow of silence. He didn't figure it was causing anyone any harm. Plus, it made the job easier. If a man doesn't talk at all, he won't talk when things get rough. He'd stayed true to that motto, and as a result, had gained his reputation of the Silent Killer.
It wasn't all business that kept his lips sewn shut, however. He guessed he had just assumed everyone around him knew why the vow was made in the first place. He had assumed Maria knew. And those who didn't know really didn't need to. He shrugged, expectedly at a loss for words as Maria approached him. To really figure out why he didn't speak was to go back and dig up a part of his past that he'd just as soon bury.
If anyone were to want to make Vincent Vercetti wince without throwing a single punch, all he or she would have to do is mention a single name. A single, detestable name.
Catalina.
She had been the source of all his problems, right from the start. He had met her on a heist being pulled for an underground automobile syndicate he'd found work for when he turned twenty-one. They'd sort of bonded, getting to know more about each other as time went on, and soon, it escalated to something beyond work hours. Vince wasn't a talker by nature, but with Catalina, he felt like he could say what little there was to say to her. He was comfortable around her.
But then, as with all relationships, tragedy struck. Things that seem too good to be true usually are. Catalina talked him to pulling a robbery at some back downtown, and after it was all over, she had shot him down. Literally. The bullet nearly killed him, and he went up the river while she ran free with millions in cash.
It was tremendous blow, and Vince decided it was best not to think too much about it. Before he mentally blocked it from his mind, he decided that his mouth would stay shut. Speech was a sign of trust. If you got into a conversation with someone, that someone was liable to think you had entrusted them with a part of yourself, whether you had or not. It was a way of opening doors to yourself that weren't intentionally unlocked. With those doors ajar, opportunity arose to exploit them. Catalina had gained Vince's trust, even got him out into talking again, and then she had used him a sponge in her escape from the bank. He had gone to prison for her concocted plan.
Of course, he had taken care of Catalina. She wouldn't ever be back to harm anyone ever again. He had made sure of that, standing there on the Cochrane Dam, looking through the scope of a class A rocket launcher. It had only taken one well aimed shot, and then it was raining fire. Yeah. He had taken care of Catalina. That bitch.
People were like that, Vince had decided. They were capable of taking a man and his misplaced trust in speech and throw them right out the window like a sack of potatoes. Vince wasn't about to make that fall again. It was a lonely life to live, especially since he was quite fond of a few people he could name. Maria was one. Mercedes was another. But to speak to them was to open himself up to deceit and betrayal again. He couldn't have that. He wouldn't have that.
Looking at Maria's curious gaze was enough to give her a discontented sigh, but he shook his head, his shoulders jumping in a small shrug. She came to sit beside him, a smile playing on her lips.
"That's okay, Vin. You don't have to talk if you don't want to."
He didn't say anything.
"You're out of your mind," Graydon Creed told his partner with proper conviction. "You think we can just walk into Forelli territory, no I take that back, right into the presence of Santino Forelli himself and then live to see the next three seconds? I think you have finally lost it." He sat back, still shaking his head in disbelief as the rented car moved through traffic in Shoreside Vale.
"My, aren't you the ray of optimism I've been looking for all my life," Patrick Ford answered sarcastically. "Look kid, we're not going into there with guns blazing. We're asking for his help, and if he gives us requested help, there's stuff in it for him. Believe these mafia goons love a good deal. Anything that will make them richer than they already are. They're greedy bastards. And anyway, we're just two guys. It's not like we have a SWAT team to back us up." He squinted at the street signs. "Is this our exit."
"No, it's the next one, and of course we're only two guys. That'll make our bodies easier to hide. It's less limbs to hack off. And how do they know we don't have a SWAT team hiding somewhere? It's not like it's stapled to our foreheads or something. This plan is lunacy, and you know it. I'm not going in there just be stuffed into to the trunk of some guy's car."
"You've been watching too much TV," Ford decided. "Now listen up. It's not going to be as bad as all that. You've just got to keep your cool and promise you won't freak out. These people might be known killers, but they're just people, and if there's something in it for them, I promise they'll be all ears. And anyway, Vercetti's got to be as big a thorn in their sides as he is in ours."
"Pray you're right, Pat," Creed growled.
Twenty minutes and three wrong turns later, Ford pulled the rented car up in front of Marco's Bistro. It looked quaint from the outside, like a nice family establishment, but the two FBI agents that emerged from the vehicle knew better. They bypassed the front door and traveled around the back to a partially hidden back door. Ford took in a deep breath and raised a hand to knock. It sounded like three heavy gun shots.
Almost immediately, a tall man with wide shoulders and an equally wide body appeared in the door way, pushing the door aside like a piece of misplaced chicken wire. His cold eyes flickered across the two men standing there, and his bushy eyebrows seemed to shallow up his face has he narrowed his eyes at them. He didn't say anything for a minute, which to Creed and Ford seemed like hours, and then he huffed.
In a thick Italian-Bronx accent he said, "What the hell are you doing here. No one called for you."
"Ah," Ford articulated. "We're here to discuss business with Sonny Forelli." Ford's eyes sized this man up, and he was quite impressed. The man was the size of a redwood, with a neck as thick as a tree trunk. He didn't look like someone Ford would want to tangle with. He breathed deep, hoping he wouldn't say the wrong thing and get everyone mad at him. Next to him, Creed remained silent.
"Gustav," came a voice from somewhere inside. "Who's at the damn door? What are you doing just standing there and letting all the outside air in here."
Instantly, "Gustav's" demeanor changed. He looked a little skittish all of a sudden. "I-I uh, sorry Mr. Forelli. There's some guy here to see you. Do you want me to let them in?"
"Who are they? Check them out, will ya? Outside preferably, and close the door," Sonny answered, still unseen. He sounded different than Ford had imagined him to sound, but he sounded Mafioso enough to do some major damage if someone were to step out of line.
Gustav stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him. "I've never seen you guys around here before. You new in town. You want jobs, is that it?" He leaned real close to Creed, who took an involuntary step backward. "You got any form of it on you?" Ford gulped.
Before Creed or his partner had any idea what was happening, they were being led into the back room of bistro, Gustav behind them with a gun in each hand. The muzzles of said guns where pressed rather harshly into the back of each other FBI agents' heads, respectively. They had their hands in front of their bodies, palms out as they had been instructed to do so somewhere along the way. They stumbled down a tight hallway and into a large room with dim lighting.
Forelli and some of his henchmen were in the middle of a high stakes game of poker, and the wide round table was weighted down with rolls of bills, coins, cards, papers, and pocket watches. Forelli himself was seated to the rear of the room, turned halfway in his chair, looking comfortable and relaxed within his kingdom. A hand of five cards was held loosely in his hand, the glint of the jeweled rings encircling his fingers reflecting in the light. He glanced up when Gustav shoved Creed and Ford into the room.
He raised his hands in inquiry. "What's this, Gustav?" He had a burning cigar clamped tightly in his teeth, the smoke curling up and finding no good source of ventilation in the room. It then settled over everything, blurring Forelli's image as he sat there in his light blue suit, the sleeves rolled up to mid forearm.
Gustav relinquished one gun, the one pressed to Ford's head to pull two black identification wallets out of his breast pocket. He opened them and tossed them onto the table. Then, he went back to aiming his firearm at the back of Ford's skull. "Got trouble right here, boss," he said, the smile audible in his words.
Forelli leaned forward to get a better look. He leaned back, deep in the throes of laughter. "Oh! FBI, eh?! That's rich." He took a few breaths in between guffaws. "You two have got to be pulling my leg. Really now, who put you up to this? Which crew? The only Leone gang? What is this?"
Ford tried to sputter a response, but Gustav pushed the gun harder against his head, cutting him off. Obviously, it was not polite to talk when the boss was having such a good time at one's expense.
"Look at these badges. They seem pretty real to me, don't they Jimmy?" Forelli asked the man next to him. He tapped him on the shoulder with the back of his hand. "Take a real good look at those."
Jimmy grinned and said, "Yeah, Sonny. Those look pretty damn real to me."
Forelli sighed, shaking his head. He put down his cards and stood up. "What makes you cops thing you can come in here, by yourselves no less, and expect to take me and my boys down? Hm? I can see you're out of words. Perhaps you'd like to be more comfortable." He rubbed the back of his head. "I know how much those things can hurt when pushed up against the back of your noodle like that." He waved at Gustav, and the pressure of the guns left the two agents.
Before either of them could sigh in relief, all other seven men in the room pulled guns and aimed them directly at them. Creed inhaled sharply.
"Now," Forelli said, coming around the table to face Ford and Creed at an arm's length. "that wasn't very smart, now was it?"
"But we're not here to arrest you!" Creed blurted. Seven clicks sounded off as seven hammers were pulled back and locked into place. Seven gun points hovered nearby, itching to expel some real fire. Forelli looked vaguely intrigued. "Oh? Then what? Looking to give up your lives as caped avengers and join Darth Vader on his side of the tracks? Or are you just looking to be added to the Dark Side's long payroll list?" This extracted a few laughs from some of the henchmen, which made the agents nervous, as fingers were still very close to triggers.
"No," Ford answered. "We're here to make you a deal."
Forelli smiled. "Really now. Well boys, I'm listening."
A/N: I'm ALIVE!!!! Hi guys, so sorry for the lack of updates. I've had all the problems in the world over here. Barring more poor health and other setbacks, chapter should come up much faster from now on. This one's a little shorter than the rest, and for that I'm sorry. You'll just have to deal. Anyway, your reviews are appreciated, as always, and please accept my deepest apologies for my neglect to this work.