Chapter 6
The large, black leather throne sat vacant. The Roman stood over his large oak desk, white knuckled with anger. His immediate circle always knew he was at his boiling point whenever he stood in his office. Carmine Falcone was known for his calm, cool demeanor, a true gentleman gangster. His silver hair was as slick and smoothed as his expensive black Italian suit. His sharp grey eyes, piercing like a blade were heavily bagged. His broad, towering form complimented his graceful yet powerful movements, but held a weight of intimidation to his underlings.
"Tell me again, one more time, just so I know that there hasn't been any mistake," he said with an aged gravelly voice that contradicted his smooth exterior. The two men wearing suits, stood in front of his desk with their hands clasped in front and heads low, neither daring to look the Roman in the eye. One of them gulped, attracting the steel knives of Falcone's glare.
"The truck carrying in the South end shipment was hit. This effectively cuts off our narcotic distribution in Burnley." Falcone nodded slowly as he rounded the corner of his desk, his feet falling silently on the maroon carpet of his office.
"That's what I thought you said. And with our dealers in Park Row and the Narrows all bought out, dead or neutered, you're telling me that we just lost eighty seven percent of drug trade in Gotham." He eyed them both as they exchanged downwards glances at each other. In the rear of the room, a third man lounged on a leather couch, watching with a smug smirk on his grim face. "Let me pose a question, and feel free for either of you to answer this," Falcone snarled. "How is it this, this two-bit wacko, this 'Mask' fellow was able to hit us six times in the last past month? No, no, let me ask an even better question, how was he ever able to hit us once!" he yelled, slamming his fist onto his desk. The two men before him flinched as the third on the couch chuckled to himself. A moment of silence filled the warmly lit office as the Roman fumed to himself. "I want him dead," he finally said. "His family, dead. His friends, dead. His Father, dead. His Mother, dead! Even his frickin dog, dead! I want that mask that he wears hung up on my wall, you got that?" he growled. Again the two men exchanged bashful glances, feeling the pressure of the Roman's glare. The man in the rear stood up from the couch, adjusting the jacket of his grey suit.
"Don Falcone," Maroni said. "This task is obviously a very sensitive matter. You need someone you can trust to get it done," he said, setting up his proposal with masterful tact.
"Someone I can trust huh?" Falcone echoed back with a heavy tone.
"Let me find this 'Black Mask.' I'll destroy his world and bring back that trophy just like you said," he said smoothly. The eyes of the two men lifted from their feet and watched the exchange between the two mobsters. Falcone's gaze drifted their way and for a split second, fatal eye contact was made.
"What are you two standing around for?" he growled. "Get outa my sight! You two should consider yourselves lucky, were this Rome and I was Caesar, you'd be disemboweled and hung by your own entrails! Now scram!" With a final jump of fright, the two men turned and hurried out the door, letting it close behind them with a soft click.
"Don Falcone," Maroni pleaded, attracting the Roman's attention again. "Let me hunt down the son of a b- for you." Slowly, Falcone's head bobbed in agreement.
"Alright, Sally," he said with a crusty voice. "I know you won't let me down." A sneering smile of gapped yellowed teeth cracked on Maroni's grim face.
"You can bank on it." For the next hour, the two men of power lounged in the office to fine Cuban cigars, musing themselves with imaginative methods to torture Black Mask.