Don't know if there'll be much lust, but I couldn't think of anything else to rhyme with mistrust. There should be plenty of the other 3 though.


Set your characters anywhere in Vegas for the time being. You'll be summoned to the Seven Veils after everyone establishes their presence, mkay?

Don't do anything rash, yet, eh?

Time: 2:32am[/b]

[i]Edwards lays in bed smoking a cigarette. He looks beside him at his latest conquest and smiles. "She was good," he thought, "I'll have to stay with her a few more weeks before I get tired of her. Besides, it helps with the image to make it look like you're thinking of going steady once in a while."

"Night Kitty."

Edwards turns the light off before falling asleep. He had already told Kitty that pillow talk had to be done before, not after. It always ruins the moment to have pillow talk after.

Las Vegas, another one of those cities which never sleeps.
Citres drove smoothly along the street in his polished black BMW. The car purred like a kitten as he pushed the gas pedal.

Marcello is sitting at large mahogony desk in a rather lavish office in the uppermost floor of the Seven Veils Casino. The room is dimly lit by an antique Tiffany lamp sitting on the edge of the desk. His head bent is over a leather-bound ledger in which he is dilligently making entries with a fine silver pen.

He runs a hand through his jet black hair, which is becoming slightly streaked with gray. Leaning back in his comfortable leather chair, he removes his reading glasses and tightly closes his eyes, as if trying to fight off a tension headache. With his eyes still closed, he reaches out and picks up his glass of scotch. Raising it to his lips, a scowl crosses his face as he realizes it has been watered down severely due to the melting of the ice cubes within.

Viktor steps out of the cockpit and walks off the plane with Maria by his side. He lets her know that he is sorry about the turbulence over the Rockies, and then puts his arm around her waist, walking towards the hanger.

ooc: Hey Kitsune, You werent around.. I hope this little bit is okay.

Gio looks up from cleaning under his fingernails to notice his boss scowling at his drink. "Need a refresh Mr. Sartiel?" Without waiting for an answer he stands up and grabs the bucket of ice and bottle of scotch off the bar, striding back to stand next to the desk, ready to make Marcello a fresh drink.

"Goddamned f*ckup," Marcello muttered. He opened his slightly and let the dim light of the room flood his irises. He noticed Gio looking at him curiously. He waved his hand at the man.

Not you... that idiot "Shifty" we have over in Chicago. Over a matter of $5,000 no less. Peanuts.

Marcello leaned back in his chair, not volunteering any more information. He spoke as if he expected Gio to know what he was talking about, even though the other man was not privy to the telephone conversation that had just concluded.

He took the freshened glass into his right hand took a sip. Giving an approving nod to his bodyguard, he reclaimed his glasses and went back to his ledger.

"We could have one of our men go...handle the situation Sir." He spoke while he made a trip back to the bar, setting the bucket of ice and scotch back on the bar, this time picking up the bowl of peanuts, placing them to Marcello's right. "If we had peace here between the Families and I was your age, I'd offer to go take care of the situation myself. But I can't trust these other gaurds you have. Too green."

OOC: Sorry guys, had an optical exam today, couldn't look at the computer screen for more than a few minutes a time. Go go super dilated pupils. Also, np Mikey.

IC:

Maria smiles wanely, just glad to be on the ground, and shudders. Ugh, planes. Give her a nice car anyday.

"It's no problem, dear. I'm just glad to have a chance to go visit Uncle Marchy. I haven't seen him in what, almost a year now? [if that's wrong someone poke me and I'll correct it.] I bet he'll be SO surprised! Now remember, let me go in there first. He...he's still a bit sore about you 'Stealing me away from the family'"

The last bit said in a fairly accurate mimic of Marcello.

"So are we getting a cab, or do you have a limo set up?"

Viktor smirks.
"A limousine of course. The taxis in this place are probably a far cry from the public transportation back in New York."

"Thats not saying much"

She chuckles, then walks with Vik towards the waiting limo.

"Maybe we can finally get Uncle Marchy to like you. I was thinking...maybe we could move back to Vegas? I...I miss my family...and also it'd be a way of proving yourself as part of the family. What do you think?"

She looks up at him hopefully, using her patented big brown puppy dog eyes face.

"Is it really what you want? There isnt really access to the stock market out here, and what would we do with the yacht? There isnt exactly an abundance of water around here. Besides, I am quite sure that your Uncle hates me."

Erathiol sits hunched over a small desk, looking over a few maps lying there, occasionally making each of the documents. For a moment, he uses the palms of his hands to hold his head up, staring blankly at the sheets before him. He mutters under his breath

"Goddamn assassins. They may be good at killing, but of course they can't actually plan out their own damn job. How come I always get the incompetent ones?"

He growls in frustration, then resumes working.

OOC: Changing Vincent a bit. Nothing major, just the property he owns.

P.S.: And no. Most of my posts won't be this long. I started writing, and ended up keeping writing. Wow, damn, ... long.


Five days ago.

"You know. Every year, its never easier. Harder, sometimes, but never easier."

A long period of silence elapsed, and then ...

Vincent Sartiel knelt at Vita Ancetti's grave, and placed a bouquet of flowers atop it - and then on top of the simple gravestone, he placed a single empty rifle casing.

"You deserved better, kiddo."

Vincent rose and slowly adjusted his tie, head bowed and hat held in one hand over his heart. He said a quiet prayed, and then set the fedora back on top of silvered hair. He slowly pulled sunglasses from his breast pocket and set them once more on top of his nose, before turning away. He was, at the moment, almost excruciatingly aware of the weight of the gun holstered in the back of his belt, under his jacket. It seemed to carry the weight of the earth, as hot as the sun.

The aging man shook his head and rubbed the barest trace of tears from his eyes before turning away. He strode slowly through the yard away from her grave, and through the wrought iron gates. Once outside the cemetary, he looked up towards the unrelenting sun, a single burning eye in a achingly blue clear sky.

"God, if you're not looking after her soul, I'll do you for free."


Two days ago

Vincent Sartiel was dressed again in his worn fedora, though the rest of his appearance was much more 'presentable', as Marcello had called it. His hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, worn-in clothes replaced with pressed slacks and an ironed shirt, both in deep black. He stood in the art gallery on the floor of the Seven Veils, before a small crowd of people who had recognized him. His hands gestured idly to this painting or that, critical of each - some with praise, a few with a bit of polite dislike. Marcello had chosen many of them, and he wasn't about to tear down his choices.

One member of the group was a scrawny and scruffy man dwarfed by his big coat, with a notepad and pen in hand. He peered at the paintings where many of the others just nodded with a glance. A college student in the midst of a bunch of older artists and critics. Vincent grinned to himself and paid more attention to the student as he continued to discuss several of the paintings, including a couple of his own that graced the gallery walls.

The lecture wasn't scheduled, but Vincent far from minded. He'd been intending to hit the poker tables for a thousand dollar or so game before dinner. He enjoyed cutting through the gallery on the way to the tables, and along the way, the scruffy student had started up some chatter, ending up with one of the older women asking - yes, he was the Vincent Sartiel, and no, he wouldn't mind a bit of a discussion. Smile, shake hands, and relax. The poker tables would always be there.


Yesterday

"No, no," Vincent sighed, shaking his head and rubbing the sweat from his brow. He was again under the unforgiving sun, harshly glaring down at him. This time, he was at home - a couple dozen acres an hour or so's drive from Vegas, outside the city and into the desert. Room enough to shoot on, and to shoot across. "Again, Marcus. You don't hold your breath and then pull the trigger. You exhale, and in that moment your lungs are held empty, shoot."

He knelt on the rocky sand with a rangefinder, looking at the man-shaped targets set up a couple hundred yards away. Near him as a man in a dirty shirt and dirtier pants, laying on his stomach with a rifle pressed to his shoulder. Vincent reached down, past his face and thumbed the saftey to on, before grabbing the rifle and pulling it up. He folded down the bipod legs and rested it across his shoulder.

"Get up, Marcus. Come back in a couple days. Look, I showed you some breathing exercises a few weeks ago. And I know you haven't been doing them."

The man, Marcus, pushed up and then rose quickly, standing up tall to look down at the smaller, older man, with the glare of a student who'se slacking and then slightly resenting his teacher chiding him for it. Vincent looked back with a deadpan face, his eyes saying "I know a dozen ways to kill you before you hit the ground, without drawing a gun. Why should I take you seriously?"

After a moment Marcus sighed and dusted off his clothes. Vincent stood there and watched him sulk off to his Mercades, and then drive off. As the dust was kicked up towards the main road, Vincent went back to the house maybe ten yards towards the sun. Opening the door, he set the rifle on a rack near the door, still loaded.

He went into the back, past the master bedroom open to the sun and with the windows open, the wind - shedding the dusty clothes and climbing into a shower hot enough to brew coffee and with enough pressure he felt it could almost scour him clean without soap.

After almost three quarters of an hour he shut off the water and toweld off, dressing in a new set of clean clothes and headed to the kitchen to cook dinner. Stopping in front of a small TV and bigger stereo, he put Led Zeppelin IV in and hit play. Into the kitchen, herbs and vegetables were pulled from fridge and the pantry. He drew a chef's knife from the block and began to cut, chopping and dicing without a moment's slip or hesitation.

Once they were all put into the broth to boil, he sat down at a workshop table the room over, pulling the Colt from his back holster and disassembling it. He had time to clean it before the soup cooked, and time to think about these youngins who kept coming to him, asking to be tought. He had the occasional bright student, but most were like Marco, and at times he wondered if he'd ever be able to fully retire, or if the next generation would be competent enough.

Maybe he was being too hard on Marcus, but - if he wasn't serious, he should find a new line of work, and if he didn't want excellence, he'd end up dead, and should find a new line of work.

After all, those were among the reasons he'd survived so long ...


Today

Vincent leaned back in the chair, gently swilling the warm glass of scotch in his hands. He brought it to his lips, letting more of the whiskey roll over his lips and over his tongue, savoring the taste before swallowing and letting the warmth creep through his chest.

Then he set the glass back down and picked up his cards again. King of clubs and the deuce of spades, and the flop was showing the king and jack of diamonds, along with a rather worthless four of clubs.

He set the cards back down, and checked. The other players did the same, and the dealer burned a card, flipping the next - ace of diamonds. Vincent didn't look at the card yet, instead watching the faces of the others. Looking down, he smiled faintly, stroking the stubble on his chin.

Tap tap tap, his figners on the cards, and then a sip of scotch.

As the warmth filled into his chest, he met and raised two hundred. The others followed suit, and the ace of hearts hit the table. The next round was followed by aggressive betting, and Vincent simply met each time. The ace of spades floated up the river, and someone blinked. Three aces and a potential straight flush?

Tap tap tap, his fingers on the cards, and then a sip of scotch.

"I raise two hundred." ... "I'll see your raise and raise you another two hundred." ... "well why not make it an even thousand I'm putting into the pot?"

By this time two of the other five at the table had folded. The next man around threw in his cards as well, leaving Vincent face to face with a young woman and an older man. The woman looked like she saw her fair share of practice, but he'd bet dollars to dumdums the man started playing after seeing too much World Poker Tour. The man grinned and pushed his whole pile towards the center.

The woman looked between them and folded as well, leaving just Vincent and the other man. Vincent looked at him deadpan, quietly intoning:

"Now, I know you're tryin' to make me think you've got the straight flush, 'cause I know you think I've got the ace. Four aces, and a king? Would be nice, but hey ... I've just got a pair of kings. And I can see already, see your face falling."

The man threw his cards across the table and roses from the table, draining the last of his vodka and sprite and stalked off. Vincent simply shrugged as he raked the chips towards himself.

"Some people shouldn't bluff."

Marcello nodded at Gio in agreement. Marcello had fondness for very few people on this earth, and it was a rare instance when such favor fell upon someone who wasn't of blood relation. His loyal bodyguard was one such person.

"Yeah," was his simple response.

He picked up the receiver of the phone residing on his desk and hit one of the speed dial buttons with sharp determination.

Hey, It's Marcello. I need a job done quickly.

Pauses.

"Old Shifty" Torelli. See if you can get him to talk first. I think he was planning something.

Without pleasantries, he places the receiver back into its place, ending the call.

Now I need a new guy in Chicago, he says to no one in particular.

It had been a rough week. A suit from the Nevada Gaming Commission had stopped by the Casino on Monday and Edwards had a little more trouble than usual getting rid of him. On Tuesday, Marcello recieved a call from Angelo Torelli, the leader of his Chicago loan sharking operation. Angelo, or "Old Shifty," as he was called, was one of the oldest men in the organization, brought on board even before Dominic became Don. He was very good at his business and, up until recently, had done nothing to jeopardize his tenure. Over the last few years, however, he had either begun making mistakes or was making a calculated power grab.

Shifty called up Marcello concerning a deliquent loan. He was vague on the details, but apparently a man named James Kupe had borrowed a sum of money from Shifty (whom he had dealt with in the past) and lost it in a Vegas casino. Seeing as how he lived in some god forsaken Nevada hick-town, Shifty felt that it should be Marcello's responsibility to collect. After a fair bit of sparring, Marcello finally agreed to collect on the debt, less a 40% collection fee. He sent out one of his best "financial adjusters," Elliott Larson, to take care of business.

On Wednesday, Marcello received another call. It was Larson, and he was pissed. Elliott was an arrogant bastard and strongly resented be sent on behalf of Chicago to collect "a piece of crap debt in a shit-kicker hick town." The whole situation went to holy hell from there. Elliott's damned swagger, which was very effective on collecting in Vegas, backfired on him. Instead of getting the money himself, he sent two of his operatives to do it for him. To make a long story short, a screw-up of epic nature ended up leaving Kupe floating in a creek and the money missing. That was the Thursday night call.

Everything else unraveled over the next three days. On Friday, the gaming commission, three suits this time, started hitting their books hard. Edwards never showed anything but grace under fire, but Marcello was sweating bullets. Things were pretty quiet on Saturday and Sunday, with no new news from Larson. The reason for that was made apparent tonight when he received one final call... Turns out a mob in the hick town lynched Larson and his two people up in revenge for Kupe's murder. Larson, having a feeling he wouldn't make it out of Dodge alive, left an audio tape implicating Shifty in whole matter. Elliott knew that would leave no choice but for the Sartelli's to eliminate Shifty in order to keep any loose ends from becoming liabilities. With the feds snapping up anything they could to try to bust the Sartelli organization, there is no way that liability could be absorbed, no matter how long Angelo had been in service to the family.

In the final analysis, he had lost his best adjuster, two lackies, and the leader of Chicago's sharking operation over a matter of five thousand dollars. Even if Larson hadn't signed Torelli's death warrent with the tape, something would have had to be done. The mere fact that Chicago didn't want to collect its own debt, and a tiny one at that, raised a lot of suspicion. There was something sinister there. Shifty must have known how the whole situation was going to go down... or generated the situation himself. Why would Chicago want to weaken Vegas? Was it trying to split off? The last thing Marcello needed was the Chicago operation breaking off on its own.

We may have to clean out the whole of Chicago. There is no way I'm losing the midwest to Shifty's boys.