The business card was simple enough - A white, crisp card with The Continental seal imprinted, and just the simplest of statements printed innocuously along the bottom edge.

[i]No business may be conducted on Continental premises.[/i]

Aiden Mallory chuckled as he tossed the card aside, before pouring himself a Rusty Nail on the rocks. Heavy Scotch, only a splash of Drambuie. As he lowered the half-full tumbler from his lips, he let the burn settle into his throat with an appreciative smirk.

The night was quiet in New York.

Mallory looked out over his balcony at the bustling movement below, but knew that he was far too far above it all, his grey eyes scanning over the star-spatted skyline with a regal regard.

It'd been only seven years since he was last here, and even now, he could feel the old game calling him back again. It was the start of something grand, he knew, and he wasn't about to let this new opportunity slip through his fingers without him gripping it for all it was worth.

[i]The Continental[/i], he mused. [i][b]My[/b] Continental.[/i]

He was well aware of the stories that had been told about him. About his corruption, about his expulsion. Many within the business even thought that he had actually been killed outright, to never be seen again.

His growing influence in Philly had certainly quelched that idea.

He sipped his Nail again. The burn seemed a little less real, but no less potent.

It had taken six years to piece together what he wanted to accomplish. To lay the plans, and design the strategy. The bait was in play, and now all he needed to do was set the traps and wait for things to lock in place.

[i]They have no idea what's coming.[/i] Mallory smirked to himself, lifting the glass to his lips again, this time draining the glass entirely before planting it onto the railing, ice rattling within.

Mallory's organization was ready to go, and up to now, mostly out of sight. For most in the business, he was still but a ghost, a wraith used to tell scary stories and to set an example. This was the way that The Management had chosen to put these events into their history.

[i]But history,[/i], thought Mallory, stepping away from the balcony. [i]Is doomed to be repeated.[/i]

His phone chirped softly, and he tapped it open.

"Go," he said simply.

"Stage One is in play," said the voice on the line. Mallory smirked at the pseudo-efficiency of the name.

"Good. Back off, and let's see where that takes us." He ended the call.

Twelve marks for twelve mercs. That had been the first call. He'd placed a $200,000 bounty on each of the second-in-commands of every major family in New York City. High enough to cause significant alarm. But not quite a bullet to the brain.

[i]At least, not yet.[/i]

Instead, he wanted the kings to the table. Honor of kings still in command of their kingdoms was much more malleable than those of mere princes.

That kind of money, though, was sure to draw in quite the incentive. Surely, the ensuing influx of "conversation" would garner some attention.

Mallory certainly hoped so. He poured himself another, but this time, just Scotch.

The night was quiet in New York.

[i]It certainly was.[/i] He drained the glass with one gulp.