Chapter Two: The Italian Mob Boss

Anthony Marconi grumbled to himself as he approached the apartment complex his boss lived in. Well over a year after being hired and this was the first time he was even meeting the man. Dark eyes lurked under faint eyebrows, separated from each other by a sharply angled nose that was as thin as it was long; black hair was close cut and styled to flip up above his forehead, setting off the Italian's clean shaven jaw. A scar ran from the outside corner of his right eye, curving in a 'C' shape down his cheek, and the experienced criminal walked with a slight hunch, huddling into his dark leather jacket despite the pleasant weather. One hand ghosted near his weapon, only to firmly pull away. No one knew he was here, no one was expecting him…except his boss.

He entered the complex, breezing past the elevators – too easy to get pinned down in those things, so he always took the stairs. The man jogged upwards, digging a ragged note out of his left jacket pocket. Apartment 221; internally he snickered, wondering if his boss had read just a bit too much Sherlock Holmes. On the second floor, he turned, wandering down the hallway and skimming the numbers. When he reached the apartment, he eyed the plain tan mat outside the door; no decoration, no adornment, not even the standard 'Welcome'. Then Anthony shrugged and knocked.

A minute later, he heard the sound of a chain being released on the opposite side of the door and it opened. Brown eyes raked him, sheltered behind wire frames. "Anthony Marconi." Not the question he'd expected.

"You're Carl Elias?" Anthony blurted, taken aback. For, aside from those shrewd brown eyes, Elias hardly looked the part of a dangerous mob boss. He looked more like a gentle schoolteacher, approachable and affectionate. Partially bald and wearing a light blue button down shirt over a casual pair of blue jeans, he was unremarkable. Placid and defenseless.

Those brown eyes darkened, then Elias turned away, heading back into his apartment with an unspoken expectation that Anthony would follow. Anthony sneered to himself; he could deal with the man and take over even more easily than he'd thought! Elias didn't even have any guards. The mobster stepped inside the apartment, closing the door behind him.

"Nice place," he remarked, glancing around at the plain, but comfortable surroundings.

"It will do for now. Have you had breakfast yet, Anthony?"

Caught off guard, Anthony trailed after his boss towards the tiny kitchen. "What'd you have in mind, Boss?"

"Scrambled eggs and sausage."

There were far more sausages than eggs, but Anthony wasn't about to pass up a free meal; with a shrug, he sat at the open place, Elias taking the other side. For several minutes, the men occupied themselves with the meal, though Anthony also kept a portion of his attention on his boss. In his experience, 'free' often came with enough strings attached to choke a horse. Elias didn't seem to notice the scrutiny, casually browsing through the morning paper without a flicker of concern for the armed, wary man at his table.

Despite the lack of obvious attention, as soon as Anthony finished his portion, Elias looked up, nodding approval at the empty plate. "Take those to the sink, would you, Anthony?"

"Sure thing, Boss," Anthony agreed, concealing sardonic amusement with the ease of long practice. After all, the plates were hardly going to be used again. Even so, the mobster carefully stacked them in the sink, noting the partially filled dishwasher with another flicker of internal glee.

Once he was done, he turned back, vaguely disappointed that Elias had already left the kitchen. Pity; the living room rug was really quite nice. He strode out of the kitchen, reaching for his gun as he scanned for his boss.

The chop to his wrist drew a yelp and sent his half-drawn gun flying. Without missing a beat, Elias slammed him into the wall, growling as he lifted Anthony up off the floor with one hand. Anthony coughed, struggling to breathe; the hand was around his throat and his feet were only just brushing the ground.

The world darkened, then came back with a gasp as Anthony found himself on the ground, fingers automatically reaching for his throat and lungs greedily sucking in oxygen. He glanced sideways; a fist smashed into him, lifting him off the ground and sending him tumbling to the floor in a sprawling roll. Before he could recover, Elias was on top of him, a ruthless gleam in those brown eyes behind wire rims. The mob boss's forearm pressed against his throat, cutting off his air once more.

"Let us get one thing straight between us at once, Anthony," Elias remarked, as polite, level, and unruffled as if the pair were simply talking over the breakfast they'd just had. "I am neither stupid nor defenseless. I will pardon your actions this once, but if you attack me again, I shall introduce you to an ancient tradition."

The forearm pulled back; Anthony rasped and coughed for several seconds before he could ask, "Ancient tradition?"

Brown turned indulgent. "Yes, Anthony. The ancient practice of being drawn and quartered. Do you know what that is?"

Terrified, Anthony shook his head.

The gentle, patient smile was even more terrifying. "Well, Anthony, there are actually several ways to draw and quarter a person, but I rather favor tying a malefactor's limbs to four horses and spurring them in different directions. Slowly."

Part of Anthony wanted to say that no one would be so cruel, but the gleam in Elias's eyes silenced him. Glee shone and avarice. Trembling, he held still, submitting to his boss's hold.

"Very good, Anthony; I like a man who learns quickly." With that, Elias rose back to his feet, offering his subordinate a hand up as if he hadn't just thrashed the man. "Now then, we have much to do, Anthony, and not much time to do it in. Come along."

Rubbing his throat, Anthony retrieved his gun, careful not to point it at his boss. Then he followed the mob boss out of the small, immaculate apartment.

Carl Elias smiled to himself as his cowed second in command hung back, unwilling to challenge his boss again as the pair strode into the vacant building. The building itself was not for sale; he'd purchased it a day ago for his…business. The location was exquisite and the slightly rundown nature of the old building perfect for his needs.

"Come along, Anthony, no need to cower behind me."

"Yes, sir," Anthony replied, rubbing absently at his throat, but obediently speeding up.

Hmmm…he would have to do something about that… Slowing a touch, Elias flicked a concerned look at his second. "Still hurting?"

The hand was snatched away. "No, Boss."

Elias tisked disapproval. "Don't lie to me, Anthony; you've been rubbing at your neck since we left my apartment." Brown eyes scanned the room they were moving through. "I believe there's a first aid kit in here; I left strict instructions."

Happily, the first aid kit was precisely where he expected it to be, though Anthony was too wary to allow his boss access to his throat. Well, it would come. Elias allowed not a shred of displeasure to show, purposely softening his expression when Anthony flicked a fearful look in his direction.

First aid attended to, Elias located the other thing he'd arranged. A large detailed map of Toronto that spread out over an old round table. Several locations were marked on the map; Anthony joined him, a touch of awe as he took in the map. "Where did you get that, Boss?"

"Connections, Anthony. Connections that are most useful when it comes to our line of work." Elias frowned thoughtfully. "Now then, you were saying about our dealers?"

Anthony cleared his throat. "Yes, Boss, some of our dealers have reported increased patrols in their assigned neighborhoods. I've got a group that's going to handle our troublemakers and that should…"

"Recall them, Anthony."

Anthony blinked. "Boss?"

A severe expression turned towards him. "Recall them and instruct our dealers not to antagonize the locals."

"But…" Anthony froze, terror glistening.

Elias clicked his tongue and shook his head. "I will not punish you for speaking out of turn, Anthony," he chided. "Only for attacking me."

"Yes, sir." Despite the words, the younger man trembled.

Internally, Elias sighed. He hadn't been that bad – being drawn and quartered was a tame threat, at least from him. "Anthony." The mob boss waited for Anthony to look at him. "Our neighbors are one of our most valuable protections against the authorities." Despite himself, his lip curled in disgust. "If we squander that goodwill, we deserve precisely what we get." Turning back to the map, he nodded to himself. "Now then, I need one man from each neighborhood to cease his usual activities; have them trade off so that each neighborhood is unfamiliar with our men."

"What are they going to do, Boss?"

Brown eyes warmed. "They are going to endear us to the neighbors. Any elderly in need of having their grass cut or their trash taken out, they will do it. If a young mother is overwhelmed with her offspring, they will step in and help around the house. Instruct our dealers that the neighbors come first. If an old lady needs to cross the road, they escort her and even put her groceries in the trunk. If a young child's ball rolls into the street, they retrieve the ball and return it, all the while keeping the youngster well away from peril."

"Won't…" Anthony choked off.

Elias turned, one eyebrow cocking. "Won't?" He frowned when Anthony averted his gaze. "Anthony…"

The dark-haired man trembled. "Won't that cut into our profits?"

"It will," Elias conceded. "But the goodwill of the neighborhood is priceless, Anthony." He paused, then his tone turned intense. "Anthony. Do you know why cops are highly regarded?" Without waiting for a reply, he continued, "It is because they are always seen helping. They are seen as selfless protectors of the innocent because that is the image they've cultivated. Why should we not appropriate some of that for ourselves? Assist the neighborhood, present an image of impeccable professionalism and they will be our character witnesses. They will send the police on their way, willingly." An implacable glimmer appeared. "There is one other thing, Anthony, that we must be sure to do."

"What's that, Boss?" The fear still shone, but a touch of interest shone, too.

Elias's voice turned harsh, angry. "We must be the protectors, Anthony. Any robberies, any petty vandalism, we stop it. We prevent it and we punish the perpetrators. Even if they are one of ours. Especially if they are one of ours; I will allow a grace period, but after that…" Brown narrowed. "I will consider such acts as having broken faith with us, with me." The mob boss straightened from the map and shifted to face his second. "It will take time to rebuild the goodwill we have carelessly tossed aside, but if we succeed…"

Understanding broke through and the raven nodded, finishing his boss's thought. "We earn their loyalty and get them to look to us instead of the cops."

"Precisely." Elias examined his map once more. "Let us begin there, Anthony. Once we have won the goodwill of our neighbors, we can expand our enterprise into other areas of our fine city."

Anthony snickered.

Brown flicked to him, a warning note ringing. "You do not think our city is a fine one, Anthony?"

The gangster backed away, fear reappearing. "Sorry, Boss; it's a great city, Boss."

Internally, Elias sighed. While a cowed, fearful second-in-command wouldn't attack him, a definite plus, apparently, he'd frightened the man a bit too much. Bother. Now he had to gain Anthony's trust – while still keeping him under control. The mob boss considered, then a gleam appeared.

Perfect…

"Tell me, Anthony. How experienced are you in hand-to-hand fighting?" Elias beamed at the startled, wary, suspicious look, brown eyes twinkling behind the wire frames. "I could use a new sparring partner…"

As if one crime lord stirring up trouble wasn't enough, the rumblings about Castor Troy were soon joined by rumors about one Carl Elias, Italian mob boss. Ed rubbed his bald palate, wishing, yet again, for Greg; his former boss would've been able to help him brainstorm and figure out what he was missing. Wordy tried, but he was wired a bit differently than Greg; Ed was used to brainstorming with Greg and brainstorming with Wordy just…it wasn't the same. The give and take felt wrong; it felt like he was hurting one best friend and betraying another.

It didn't help that both criminals had managed – in only a few weeks – to deeply entrench themselves in Toronto's underworld. The SRU was being run ragged executing warrants, but it wasn't making so much as a dent in the city's skyrocketing crime rate. Troy – living up to his reputation in spades – was worse by far than Elias; his people didn't care about collateral damage, often using it as a weapon against the cops trying to catch them. Elias's people weren't saints, but they also tended to rely more on speed, stealth, and the goodwill they'd built up in their neighborhoods to escape. It was unfortunate that they usually did disappear, but at least they weren't killing their way free.

The two gangs had yet to cross paths, but Ed had little doubt that it would happen; both crime lords seemed to have their eye on having Toronto all to themselves. That couldn't happen unless they dealt with the competition, so to speak.

Even worse, Greg wasn't getting any better and most of Team One had given up on calling him. The drunken slurring had been replaced with a plethora of derisive adjectives and creative snide remarks. Ed was the only holdout and he was getting very sick of Greg's attitude. Even so, he refused to give up; he'd promised himself, the kids, and Greg that he wouldn't. Sighing inwardly, the Sergeant pushed aside his thoughts about his former boss to focus on the shift. Given how dangerous Toronto's streets were becoming, he needed all his attention on his job.

"How fare our friends?" Elias sneered.

Anthony smirked. "Worked just like you said it would, Boss. One call in and the cops were swarming all over. They got Gillsby, I saw 'em."

"Excellent," Elias purred. "Take note, Anthony; if a tool is suited to the task at hand, ignore any thoughts of dishonor. Dishonor is losing when you could have won."

"Yes, Boss," Anthony agreed. He watched the mob boss pace away, pleased all over again. When he'd first met Carl Elias, he'd been convinced he could take over effortlessly; then Elias had thrashed him without half-trying and scared him within a inch of his life.

And then had come the sparring…

"Come now, Anthony," Elias chided. "No one ever won a fight with defensive fighting."

"Yes, Boss," Anthony acknowledged; he knew he wasn't trying, but he could still feel Elias's hand on his neck, dangling him off the ground and cutting off his air. He had no interest in relieving that moment in real life.

Elias seemed to know it, too; only a week earlier, Anthony would've mistaken that particular twist to the other man's mouth and darkening of his eyes as anger, but now he knew it was sorrow. Abruptly, Elias lowered his hands, letting his arms hang at his sides. "All right, Anthony, come at me. I won't fight back this time."

For a long moment, Anthony held still, waiting for the trap, but the other man merely waited, one eyebrow rising in a mocking fashion. Then the mobster lunged, swinging a haymaker at Elias's jaw; his target disappeared, twisting to the side and fairly dancing out of range. Anthony whirled, bewilderment and outrage warring.

"What happened to not fighting back?" he hissed.

Elias smiled, a taunting, superior smile. "I never said I wouldn't dodge, Anthony."

Fury boiled up, overriding his fear. The gangster roared, launching himself with a bellow and swinging wildly. Elias ducked, rolling neatly past him and back to his feet before Anthony could turn. This time, however, Anthony refused to give up, closing with his boss and lashing out. One hand clamped down on Elias's arm; Elias's hands moved, grabbing onto his arm for an instant, then the mob boss let go. Anthony launched a haymaker, but missed as, even with his arm in his opponent's grasp, Elias managed to dodge. Growling, Anthony wound up for another blow, but lost his grip; a split second later, Elias wriggled free, laughing as a swift shoulder tuck and roll took him out of range yet again.

Half an hour later, Anthony admitted defeat; even without fighting back, Elias was just too fast for him. The mobster slumped to the mat, panting for breath and wondering why Elias even needed a sparring partner.

A water bottle materialized in front of his nose. Anthony seized the offering, twisting the bottle open and gulping down the cool water within as quickly as possible.

The bottle was snatched away. "Easy, Anthony, don't make yourself sick," Elias chided, crouching down to meet his eyes.

After a moment, Elias gave the bottle back – Anthony was careful to only sip instead of gulp, keeping one wary eye on his boss. Slowly, the adrenaline faded, along with the parched inside of his mouth. "Why?" Anthony finally rasped.

Elias chuckled softly, somehow divining the real question. "Even the best of us still needs to practice, Anthony. Unfortunately, my former sparring partner isn't an option." Honest regret shone, then the stocky man turned back to Anthony. "You've got potential, Anthony. I wouldn't have even bothered asking if I didn't think so."

Anthony dropped his gaze, fear ghosting through him. But despite everything, it was less. And he couldn't deny that a part of him had warmed at the praise from his boss. For now, he knew he was utterly outmatched. Still…that could change…

And maybe hell could freeze over.

"Was there something else, Anthony?"

How did he do that? "Nothing important."

Brown swung around, focusing on him. "Anthony," Elias chided. "My people, my problem."

Anthony bobbed his head, knowing better than to argue any further. "Three of the local chiefs don't like that you took their girls away."

Brown eyes darkened dangerously. "Is that so?" Fury rang beneath the veneer of politeness. "Extend an invitation, then, Anthony. If they can beat me in a fight, I will return their…women…to them."

"I'll tell them," Anthony promised.

"And Anthony?"

About to leave, the mobster turned back, arching a brow.

Elias smiled thinly. "Make sure we have an audience for this. But no recordings."

"Yes, sir."

Anthony ignored the sneering from the three fools as he led them to the makeshift arena beneath the unassuming building his boss had purchased the day before they'd first met.

"Is he gonna have you fight us, Scarface?" the lead punk sneered.

Without turning, the mobster countered, "Elias fights his own battles. He's agreed to take all of you on at once."

Behind him, he heard the goons start whispering to each other and smiled. They had no idea what they were up against. Truthfully, Scarface suspected that his boss had opted for the three on one fight for two reasons. One, to prove to his men that he was no pushover, no weakling, and to oppose him was the worst idea in history. And two, to have some fun. For Elias, fighting one on one was boring and he almost always won. Even when he lost, Scarface knew it was because he'd held back. Sparring was no contest, not unless Elias wished it to be; Anthony had lost count of how many times he'd ended up on his back, flat on the mat with Elias looming over him and a hand to his throat.

Ignoring the sting against his pride at the memory, Scarface stepped aside with a flourish, gesturing the new arrivals to the arena. "Gentlemen," he announced, a sneer behind the word. "Welcome to headquarters."

Elias was waiting, a gleam in his eyes and most of his upper ranks in the rough stands around the ring. He was, as always, dressed in a plain, button down shirt, this one pink. A deliberate jab, Anthony knew. One guaranteed to incite his opponents and make them even more foolish than usual. Guaranteed to send them into a froth and give their audience quite the show as Elias thrashed all three of them – without breaking a sweat.

The crime lord smiled thinly as Anthony led his three opponents into the ring. His blood warmed, scenting a challenge. Still, Elias waited, patient and calm. Once all four new arrivals were in the center, he gestured to his second, keeping his eyes on his opponents.

Anthony stalked away, getting clear of the immediate fighting area. "As all of you know, the Boss has been changing the way things work around here," he called, lifting his voice enough that everyone in the stands could hear him. "Some of our chiefs are objecting to these changes." One side of his mouth curved in a sneer. "They seem to think it's perfectly all right to beat a woman for wanting an hour a day to herself."

Jeers and boos rose from the stands, mostly directed at the three troublemakers; all of them scowled at Anthony's back. Elias's eyes narrowed; for them to disrespect his second – it would not do. Patience, he chided himself, letting his shoulders relax and his stance shift.

"So for this week only, the Boss is welcoming all comers!" Anthony roared. "Anyone who thinks he's off his rocker, come at him and he'll take you on! You win, you get his spot." Cruelty shone. "You lose, you shut up unless you want him to skin you alive and feed what's left of you to the fish."

Savage approval echoed off the walls; Elias smiled, expression serene. He tuned out the rest of Anthony's speech, focusing on his unnerved opponents. Behind wire frames, his eyes remained unconcerned, though a twinkle flashed when the audience roared even louder in approval at Anthony's second threat – a prolonged death in an Iron Maiden (1). The final threat, of course, was the same threat he'd used on Anthony – being drawn and quartered…slowly.

The troublemakers jostled together, almost more afraid of Elias's inhuman calm than Anthony's threats. Their leader pushed to the front, outrage overriding the fear. "You took my girl!"

One eyebrow hiked. "I merely gave her an opportunity to dictate her own life instead of kowtowing to you." An insinuating leer crossed the crime lord's face. "She was most…appreciative."

The man bellowed and launched forward, his minions following. Pitiful. Elias twisted sideways, dodging under and around the flailing limbs in a smooth roll that took him behind his opponents. Then he struck, grabbing the rearmost man by one arm and wrenching it. The other howled as his shoulder popped and the arm went askew, bent in a direction it had never been intended to go. Elias sneered, landing a kick to the goon's knee, forcing him down on the same side as the dislocated shoulder. More wails rose as he deliberately pressed the arm to the man's back, eyes alight with glee and a smile on his face.

The other two men attacked from either side; Elias shoved his captive at one, letting the captive absorb the punishing blows from the right attacker while he leapt sideways into another dodge. The left assailant turned, angling a kick at his grounded target; Elias caught the boot only an inch from his face, smirking as he twisted. The boot – and the foot attached to it – rolled, hauling its owner to the ground with an aborted yelp. Elias's third opponent, swooping in for another attack, tripped over his confederate, leaving both groaning on the ground.

Elias slowed his movement, nonchalantly rising to his feet and brushing his hands off. Reaching down, he grabbed the upper man by his dreadlocks and dragged him up, beaming at the pained cry. Once the man was on his knees, Elias landed a haymaker to the jaw, smile growing; his grip on the other's hair ensured his victim could not fall. A second blow struck the eye socket and Elias stopped, holding the dazed, semiconscious man up by his hair. Free shoulder lifting in a shrug, Elias landed one more punch to his opponent's chin and let him fall.

"I give," his only conscious foe cried, lifting his hands. "I give!"

But mercy was not on the crime lord's agenda; he flipped the final man over and slammed his boot down on the man's left shoulder. His victim howled as bone audibly fractured, then he froze as Elias swooped down, slamming his face into the mat from behind, forearm pressing against the fallen man's spine, right at the base of the neck.

Elias hovered a moment, then drew back, climbing back to his feet. He stepped over his fallen opponents and strolled to Anthony's side. One hand adjusted his glasses, then he straightened his shirt, ensuring the buttons were perfectly aligned. "Patch them up, Anthony," he ordered.

"Yes, Boss," Anthony acknowledged, gesturing to several men; they hurried into the ring to help remove the three fools.

The mob boss ignored the activity in favor of pulling off his glasses and polishing a smudge he'd noticed at the base of one rim. He inspected the lens, then placed them back on his face. "Are there any other management concerns I should be aware of?"

Though he'd spoken at a casual, indoor tone, his voice carried to all corners of the stands. Not a single reply was heard in the ghost silent arena.

"Excellent." Elias let that hang a moment, then hardened his gaze. "I do not tolerate domestic abuse, in any form." Brown swept the stands, noting those who looked uneasy, then he smiled. "But let us move on from such troubles. You've done well in these past few weeks; I understand only the most recalcitrant locals still trouble the police," his lip curled, "with our doings. Extend my congratulations to all your people." His smile grew. "Now that we have established a solid base of operations, we can begin to expand. For now, avoid the upstart's people, but do not hesitate to resist if they should target us."

Murmurs ran around the stands, but no one argued. Not after seeing their mild-mannered boss thrash three of his best street chiefs.

To their collective surprise, however, Elias shook his head. "This will not do," he scolded. "Your fellows challenged my authority; so long as you do not imitate them, you have nothing to fear from me." He glanced over, nodding approval as his second joined him. "Please, if any of you have concerns, approach either myself or Anthony. Our business is only successful if we make it so; I have no intentions of shooting the messenger."

Had the group heard such soft talk before Elias's display, he likely would have had a mutiny on his hands. But the mob boss had chosen his lesson well; not a single one of his subordinates even breathed the word 'soft', for fear of crossing him. Nor would they cross his second-in-command; Scarface was a veteran of the streets and he had seen many gangs come and go. That he stood beside Elias was proof enough that he believed in the man – either that or he was too cowed to go against the crime lord.

Elias stood still a moment, waiting for any comments. When none came, he tilted his chin down and turned away, motioning Anthony close. "Gather up four of the most discrete; I have a special assignment for them."

"Yes, Boss."

The mob boss surveyed the four men waiting nervously in his penthouse, not speaking as he waited for his second to join them. When Anthony finally arrived, one eyebrow arched behind wire rims at the tired expression on the lean man's face.

"Not that I'm complaining, Boss, but did you really have to break bones?" Anthony asked.

Brown narrowed. "I did nothing to them that they hadn't already done," Elias hissed. "If not to their girlfriends, then to their helpless offspring."

Anthony froze, rage and hate twisting his expression; the other men growled, fists clenching and anger glowing. "Those…"

"Stop."

All five turned to their leader.

"I have dealt with the matter," Elias pronounced, tone firm. "If they re-offend, inform me at once and I will deal with them." He swept the group with his eyes. "Spread the word; no one is to take justice into their own hands. If there is a problem, bring it to me and I will settle it." He paused, considering. "If it is a simple matter of discipline, then you may deal with it – I will not usurp your positions of leadership." Glancing up to his second, Elias added, "The only exception to this is Anthony. If something must be dealt with at once, he may act in my stead." Fixing his gaze on the lean raven, the mob boss murmured, "Do not abuse this privilege, Anthony."

"I won't, Boss," Anthony promised.

"Excellent." Striding forward, Elias moved to the table in the center of the room. "I have considered our next move, gentlemen."

"The upstart?"

Brown flicked in the scarred man's direction. "A good guess, Anthony, but no. We have solidified our position within our current domain, but as yet we lack the manpower to expand further." The crime lord swept his hand over his map of Toronto. "I propose a three part plan. First, as I'm sure you've already guessed, we step up our recruitment."

The other men nodded, expressions thoughtful as they regarded the map.

Elias rapped his knuckles against the portions of the map delineating the upstart's territory. "In addition to the recruitment, we need to start training. Weapons training, hand-to-hand combat, escape and evasion. Anthony, I want you in charge of both."

"Yes, Boss," Anthony acknowledged.

"We'll discuss a few other issues later," Elias murmured, gaze intent on his second. The others stiffened at the implied distrust, but didn't dare argue. "Gentlemen," Elias rebuked. "This is not a matter of trust, but of priorities. Your task will be just as important as Anthony's." So saying, he indicated the open portions of the map, unmarked by either crime lord's territory. "The third part of my plan is crucial; the upstart has already acquired a number of allies within the ranks of our fine city's police department. Much as it pains me, we must do likewise."

Anthony jerked. "You want cops on our side?" he blurted.

Elias tisked. "Come now, Anthony, surely you were thinking the same."

"Well, yeah," the scarred man admitted, shuffling. "It's just…"

He trailed off, but all the others understood. They had only heard the rumors, but Anthony had been there…

Scarface frowned to himself, guiding one of his chiefs' newest recruits to Elias. His boss had taken one look at the man's photo and barked a demand, one Scarface dared not disobey.

"So you gonna tell me what the big boss wants from me?" the recruit asked, a sharp look in dark eyes.

"You'll find out when you get there," Anthony retorted. "Pipe down and keep moving."

The black man pulled a face, but didn't argue further, though his expression spoke volumes. Frankly, Scarface had no idea what his boss wanted with a street-level thug, but he knew better than to disobey. His throat still ached at odd moments.

When they arrived at his boss's penthouse in the old, outwardly ramshackle building, Scarface waved the recruit to a halt and called his boss. "We're here," he announced.

"Bring him in." There was no emotion in Elias's voice, the calm utterly inhuman; Anthony shuddered inwardly. The mobster opened the penthouse door and pointed; scowling, the recruit walked in first.

Two steps in, Elias pounced; the recruit was slammed to the ground, then hefted into the nearest wall. Scarface cringed, hearing the rasp as the recruit struggled to breathe. Leaning into the man's face, Elias hissed, "Cop."

Gasp. "I'm not." Rasp. "I swear to… Ulp."

Elias's grip tightened, cutting off the words. "Don't lie to me, you sniveling little coward." Sneering, he turned, hurling the cop to the ground; the man lay where he'd fallen, nearly choking on the air flooding his lungs. The mob boss moved, slamming the cop into the floor and hefting him upwards once more; the cop desperately struggled to protect his neck from the enraged crime lord. Contemptuous, Elias flicked aside the feeble attempt, kneeing the cop in the gut and punching him in the eye before pinning him against the wall once more.

Terror shone in the cop's eyes; he stared between his two captors, gulping in as much air as possible. Then confusion peeked through, his mouth moving, lips forming a silent word.

Elias snarled and pulled the cop forward before smashing his head against the wall. Then he turned, shoving the injured man into Anthony's grip. "Take this trash and dump it on some precinct's front steps." Hate blazed. "Don't kill him, Anthony; I want him to give them a message."

"What message?" the cop rasped; he yelped when Elias yanked his head back by its hair.

"The next time, I won't be so merciful, cop. Send someone undercover in my organization again and I'll send their head back to your superiors and dump what's left in the harbor." A knife slipped free of its sheath and Elias ran it across the cop's jugular, smirking at the way his victim blanched. "Understand?"

The cop swallowed, but didn't respond; Scarface smirked and hauled the cop away once his boss removed the knife. He knew just the precinct…

Elias shook his head. "It's true, Anthony, I loathe cops. I despise them, but I refuse to allow this upstart the advantage. If we permit him to retain this advantage, his allies will be able to paint us as the greater threat, forcing us to wage war on two fronts." Turning to the others, the mob boss laid out his plan. "Start with brand-new recruits. Have them wriggle their way into the cops' good graces. Tell them to listen and start to paint a picture of who might be amenable to our…donations."

Anthony snickered, earning a brief, but not serious, glare.

"Take it slow," Elias instructed. "Make no moves you aren't completely sure of. The first will undoubtedly take the longest. Once you've hooked him, you will have our in. Use him to recruit others, but maintain patience and caution. Even the most crooked cop is still a cop and not to be trusted. Keep them separate from our organization and permit them no information beyond that which they need."

The four men nodded, to their boss and each other. Glee was beginning to appear, the glee of turning cops into informants and 'allies'. The glee of pulling the cops down to their level.

"Once you've turned them, bring me their names and everything you know about them," Elias ordered. "We'll start small, but eventually I want our allies investigating the upstart's allies. After all, once we know who they are, we can use them." An evil smile crossed the mob boss's face, one his men shared.

By the time they were done, the upstart and the cops wouldn't know what hit them.

[1] A medieval torture device.