[u][b]New York
March, 26th, 2005
9AM
[/b][/u]

Fiore Buccieri wasn't any man’s idea of a coward. Fiore's favorite pass-time was base jumping, he had been a junior state champion in judo, and he was currently organizing a expedition to climb Mt Everest to raise money for charity. Ever since he'd been lumbered with the nickname [i]'Fi-Fi'[/i] back in school, something he blamed entirely on his parents - after all, what kind of sadists name their son Fiore – he'd gone out of his way to prove his manly credentials.  

Though looking back, that really hadn't done him any favors, not in the long run. It was trying to show how much of a tough guy he was – by getting in a fist-fight with a couple of mouthy paddies - which had first caused him to catch the eye of Victor Moretti. Moretti had offered him a job as a loan shark, and Fiore, keen for everyone to know that he wasn't the sorta guy to be fucked with, gleefully accepted. It wasn't long until Fi-Fi worked his way up in Victor's organisation, quickly becoming the right hand of the main man, handling the day to day stuff that Moretti felt was beneath him.

It had been a sweet gig, full of perks and benefits. Women, money, drugs, and best of all people were quick to show Fiore the respect he felt he deserved. Or at least it had been, up until the last week when his luck had turned so sour that he was starting to suspect he was cursed. Some unknown dickhead had sailed into town and seemingly declared all-out-war on Moretti and all his soldiers, systematically taking apart all of the bosses biggest earners. Whoever it was hadn't identified themselves, and even more strangely hadn't killed anyone, just beat them real bad before getting the cops involved, though making scarce long before the law arrived.

Whoever it was had started with that scrawny meth-peddlar, Campagna, before moving onto three other dealers, and one enforcement racket. On their own all those setbacks would be troubling, though not exactly unheard of. The ever shifting nature of New Yorks Underworld hierachy meant there was quite often [i]incidents[/i] of a similar nature, and contingencies where made for them. But when all these setbacks were taken together, well it was starting to really wrack up. Moretti's profits were starting to seriously dip. And if there was one thing Moretti hated it was dipping profits.

Fiore was the lucky man that had to tell him.

Palm's greasy with sweat gripped an office door handle, over-taxed mind desperately trying to come up with some kind of excuse to get him out of a meeting it knows it can't put off any longer. With a sigh that ranked somewhere between despondent resignation and utter terror, Fiore stepped into Victor's office.

Limewood flooring stretched between pristine white walls, so bright that it was almost headache inducing. A large, leather topped, rosewood desk took up pride of place in the center of the room, surface marred by neither computer or papers. The desk was at odds with the floors and walls, but Victor liked it for the apparent opulence it represented. A plush leather chair was placed behind the desk, two smaller, less ostentatious seats in front of it. Victor was in the big chair, his short, portly frame swallowed up by the upholstery. By the look on his flabby face he wasn't happy.

“This better not be bad news Fi-fi. I've had my Goddamn fill of bad news today.” Victor spat, a big vein in his round forehead throbbing. The effect could have been comical if not in small part for Victor's reputation, and in larger part the mountain of meat stuffed into a leisure suit looming at his shoulder. Angelo [i]"The Buffalo"[/i] Bufalino was Moretti's personal muscle, and functioned much like a second shadow. The rumor wentthat he didn't even leave Victor's side when the boss went to the shitter, even going so far as to folding the toilet paper for him. While Fi-fi knew it wasn't true, it didn't diminish the Buffalo's reputation as the kind of hard nut you just didn't cross, and him being present always added a little more menace to any meeting with Moretti. 

Like it needed any more of that. Moretti was a born psychopath, violence always just bubbling under the surface of his skin, like a dog that had started to get a taste for human flesh. He could, and probably would, snap at any moment. An old friend of Moretti's had once joked that it was probably a really severe case of small man syndrome. It had been a stupid joke, told during a friendly poker game. Everyone had laughed, including Victor himself, up until the moment that Victor filled his hand with pocket change and caved his old friends face in. After that Moretti had sat back down at the table and continued playing his hand.

“I'm afraid. . ,” stammered Fiore, voice little more than an undignified squeak. Victor's sharp gaze developed even more of an edge at that, as he deplored weakness of any kind in his men. Felt it reflected badly on him. With a cough to clear his throat Fiore started over.

"I'm afraid it [b]is [/b]bad news boss. We got hit again last night. Old Tombstone Taylor, got taken down about two in the morning, there or there abouts. Same as the others, beat half to death and left out for the cops." Fiore resisted the urge to flinch back from the inevitable backlash, though couldn't help squinting in anticipation. Victor's face flushed redder than bad blood, while his fists clenched so tight that Fiore fancied he could hear the knuckles pop, though when his boss finally spoke it was with a remarkable, and quite out of character, amount of restraint. 

"I want this guy dead. I want him tortured. I want him crucified. I want him hurt so fucking bad that the only time people can even bear to talk about the bloody, dirty, ugly mess we made of him it's to say 'Jesus, I better not fuck with Victor Moretti, otherwise he'll make a bloody, dirty, ugly fuck of me, just like he did to that cock stain that thought it was alright to mess with him last time!' The only thing that's gonna be left of him when we're done is a fucking cautionary tale!" As Victor spoke he got louder and louder, until he was screaming like a new born. That's the lack of restraint he was so well known for. 

"Just let me out boss," Intoned Buffalo, "I'll deal with him." The big man thumped one ham-like fist into an equally meaty palm, as if his point needed any more emphasis. Victor flashed a quick, vapid smile at his heavy, the sort of smile a parent would bestow upon a slow kid. 

"We've been through this already, the Volpe's have been getting uppity recently and I need you here in case they try anything stupid." Buffalo seemed to deflate in on himself. Fiore imagined the only time he got out of the no-doubt tiresome job of being Moretti's shadow was when he was breaking somebody into little chunks. Finding out he was getting to do that was probably like hearing Santa Claus had just cancelled Christmas for him.

"No," Continued Victor, "This has gone on too long. We need a quick and definitive end, before anyone else starts to think that I've gone soft. Fiore, get me a specialist, a professional. Spend all the money you have to. We're sending a message here, it'll be worth the cost. Do it quick. I want to hear this has all been dealt with by the weekend." Victor turned away from him then, a dismissal. 

Fiore couldn't believe his luck, though hardly waited around to tempt it. Without another word he turned on his heel and was heading back out the door. He'd almost made it to salvation when Victor spoke up.

"Do this right Fi-fi, or you'll become the cautionary tale, one about what happens to guys who fail me. It'll be particularly grizzly, if it comes to that."