Hanging Gardens (CVnU Gothic Gangland; Under Construction)

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Armani Street, Gothic City.

Some say there was a place here that offered sanctuary to the broken masses, using its global library of culturally exquisite attractions to draw in the rich and famous. From all over the world, they could come here at the edge of society - to see the veritable 'antithesis of civilization'. That was quite a while ago, however. Last time a place sprang up like that, in a place like Gothic, it was shot down. Literally. The wars it set itself apart from eventually consumed it, leaving it a derelict much like any other former skyscraper or hulking wreck around it.

The jump-start to Gothic's economy crumbled just like many who warned its proprietor had predicted. Its owner seemed to fall off the face of the Earth as well, the shady 'Mr. Harvey' disappearing into the breeze. His associates were either killed or deemed missing. The Patio faded into modern memory, a sudden impact to a dream about flying above the clouds.

But the dream did not die there.

Mr. Harvey returned, though it was with his real name and identity in tow. He had been purged of many things - his money, many of his hardest-hitting allies, but most of all he was relieved of his sense of fear. Gothic had been a proving ground. Not for his enemies, but for himself. He had to tame his own little corner of Gothic and start all over. It would be a quiet campaign, but perhaps not one that would be ignored for long.

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Despite many remembering his former Patio location as a financial and almost fatal disaster, the fact that Antonio Roman now owns Armani Street as a property is more than substantial to the survival of his new business venture into Gothic City. The purchase itself came down to stiff negotiations between Mr. Roman and the proprietors of the street, the remnants of his old gangs all vying for control of the old Patio building.

It was almost a grievous offense against their old employer, but the gangsters had all been left for dead in the aftermath of the attack on the Patio. Even then, the replacement management had seemingly went off to their own tasks and ventures in different areas of the city - or state entirely. It left the Patio hollow, misshapen, and forgotten. Mr. Roman fought tooth and nail with his own employees, setting up a meeting with all of them and their representatives. Astoundingly, they all came to an agreed price of 104.6 million per block, amounting to a healthy 313.8 million plus property taxes and the like. The city's managerial services, or what was left of them at this point, were in on the deal as well, taking the lion's share of the profits while also allowing Mr. Roman a business license for operations within Gothic. This came at a further steep price, but one that is best left to the documentations of the city's banks.

Oddly, those rival gangs inhabiting Armani Street were instantly liquidated upon Mr. Roman's official arrival. They either joined back up with their former employer or simply moved on. In some, more extreme cases, the police force lost track of them entirely.

When the checks finally cleared, it seemed that Mr. Roman had not lost any money at all. The city officials responsible for bringing him his papers were properly thanked and paid, leaving him an official business owner in the city with his own street to run whatever business he wanted - so long as it followed the guidelines of the boundaries he paid for.

So, in other words, as long as he kept it under wraps or kept the police on his payroll.

Money, after all, is more powerful than any kind of ink.

But that is not the purpose of his new location, his Hanging Garden. It is a much more resilient message to the world around him, the world he chose for himself. The criminal underground had relentlessly mocked him for his failed venture into Gothic once before. When he dug out the Lion's Den with his bare hands, the laughter slowly simmered down into a rustle of jeers and complaints. You never got a foothold in Gothic, they told him. The Mecca of Crime stopped you.

He refused to let those taunts break him. So, in retaliation, he used the money gained from his lucrative gamble in South Africa and accomplished what would be the final scratch on the tombstone of his insecurities and doubts. Gothic would be his, one block at a time. He raked in the profits from his assimilated gangs, and stood on the corpses of their leaders, leaders who built themselves out of the shadows of his coattails all those years ago. Armani Street was his, and he didn't lose a dime.

It was time to take back what was his.

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The Hanging Gardens, contrary to what the Patio represented, would be a three-block-long stretch of buildings owned and operated by Antonio Roman and his associates. Big or small, they all would have a part to play. No small surprise, then, that the majority of business went into the gambling dens popularized by Silas Tomassetti's 'Serra del Mondo', the 'Greenhouse of the World'. By Mr. Roman's generous donations, it would be Tomassetti's dreamlike vision of all the globe under one roof that would inspire the 'Las Vegas of the East Coast' motif.

Miniaturized sculptures of famous world monuments shaped in immaculate detail, immortalized for all to see, formed Tomassetti's crown jewel. Not because of some childish fantasy, but of the material and care they were constructed with. Pure Italian statuario marble, chiseled down to the smallest and most perfect square micrometer using scopes and handheld laser tools. The Eiffel Tower model alone cost over a million dollars to make, and its illuminated shadow hangs over the lobby to the French-styled gambling wing in a noble affair.

It cannot be understated how well-fortified the Serra del Mondo is, as it functions as both a gambling den and the closest thing to a bank that is on Armani Street. Not a single personal cent of Mr. Roman's is in circulation through the Gothic City banks unless it is already deposited through the police officers he has bargained with. He keeps the vast majority of his wealth on American soil inside the secret vaults of the Serra del Mondo, trusting Tomassetti with but a fraction of the combination needed to open the lock.

The Serra del Mondo contains practically every form of popularized gambling from around the world, although the house favorites are perpetually the slot machines and the card tables. Dealers are free to choose from any game they know, and are encouraged to learn the rules to those that they don't.

Drinks are free from 2100 to 0300.

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Saladino Dorsa runs 'La Cucina', the Kitchen, as part of Armani Street's many businesses. As far as they go, Dorsa's is perhaps the cleanest and most vanilla of them all - but that doesn't mean it still has its fair share of criminal elements. The food is to die for, after all.

La Cucina has a reputation for serving amazing meals, and the family signature Sicilian Roast is undoubtedly the most popular item on the list - with steaks edging out second place.

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Costanzo Padalino has sway over the nightclub, 'Mezzanotte'. He has very few restrictions, serves drinks all night, but everything under his roof is a show.

Don't touch anything, or you lose fingers.

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The centerpiece of Armani Street is the 'Giardini Pensili', the eponymous Hanging Gardens. Here is where the beating heart and living brain of the criminal organization dominating the three block district operates. Any and all business operations go through Antonio Roman, or not at all. His iron grip on Armani Street is cemented in that he has bought out or erased any and all gang activity on its streets other than his own. Mutant bruisers, metahuman fighters of all walks of life, they're all on his payroll.

He often has a lot of time on his hands, and thus makes his rounds throughout his small empire. He runs his criminal outlet like a family, as all hot-blooded Italians do. It isn't so much a matter of trust that builds his allies as it is absolute loyalty. Blood relatives through the bloodshed of the family's enemies, so on and so forth. Money is merely a means to an end that facilitates the family's growth and prosperity.

Therefore, the Black Masks are a solid core of hardened gangsters and thugs practically designed with a purpose in mind - of enforcement and brutality. A clever nod to his own favorite facial gear, as well as his former operations in America. Now, he has his eyes set on making a name out of the Masquerade instead. It is all an expertly-executed routine, a red dance in the dusk before night turns into day at the flip of a switch.

LOVE ITTTTTTTT~ MORE MORE MORE!

Let's explore Gothic City more, because there was little infrastructure and districts detail, that it become hard to canon its legitimacy.

@angela_lee:

I'm thinking maybe a month or so in the future. Buy up some property. Sign some papers.

If that's okay with the COE after all.

Just to make it clear, I don't want an invasion. Just some legal documentation hinted at in the OP of a completely fair and legal thread.

@yazhun_sanvun:

It's about time we discussed business.

@noah_wyatt:

Haven't heard of your name.

If you're going to go for that, it might be helpful to be transparent about your thread in the title as opposed to a "ha! Tricked ya," for visibility's sake. Tagging members (myself, Nordok, and Paragon) is also helpful.

And to have a bit of clarity. What exactly are you asking about the "legality" of? A base? A few blocks of land? A "claim" for what?

@rosso:

Come on now, it's not one of my threads if I didn't do something wrong.

The three blocks that - in theory - is Armani Street. I don't own any threads regarding the infrastructure of Gothic, so I don't want to say anything to the effect of "oh this is real now and I want to claim it".

Besides it won't be an RP unless someone makes a lawyer to try and dispute the purchase of the street itself. That would be sort of interesting. There isn't going to be an invasion at all, just property claims and purchases along with the construction of the "Hanging Gardens", to to say. It would be like the hotel and resort I have in South Africa.

@killer_instinct: Yeah, this isn't something that'd really be classified under "land claim." A non-issue, as it were.

At ease.

@rosso:

No landmines this time, good news.

Alright, since that's out the way... I don't need a month heh.

Open for business.

★·.·´¯`·.·★ Ⓛⓐ Ⓒⓤⓒⓘⓝⓐ ★·.·´¯`·.·★

@killer_instinct:

It was beautiful. Like a MLB pitching rotation Gothic's radical and ever changing political, economical, and social hierarchy had seemingly swung back in favor of the organized crime elements of old. For awhile a new era of vigilant city based protectors had dramatically altered the balance, shifted the scales back to a normal sense of security and safety. In truth however, Gothic was never more prosperous then when in the loving embrace of its home grown cultural corruption. The city's financial forecast was looking greener by the day. As such it was the perfect time for the San'Vun's to come and visit. Word had spreed. The La Cucina of the Hanging Garden's had the finest culinary artists anywhere in the World. Resent events having drawn the Voice's attention to his own chef's inadequate embarrassment. Light fragrances and cultured scents swirled around the table of international privilege. Foreign labeled designer attire and dresses standing out among the elite of the East Coast. An entourage fit for a king, or a syndicated Shogun as it were, laughed and enjoyed the familiar atmosphere of money and power. It was the Trifecta who spoke first as their waitress prepared to take down their orders. "Wagyu beef with grilled matsutake." they giggled. Bringing a smile to everyone at the table. An inside joke that would be lost to anyone else, but was of particular amusement to the Shado-Shogun. "No no we're sorry. We kid. Kobe beef with Soy Butter sauce and mushrooms. Please" they corrected with Cheshire cat grins. Yazhun had always allowed for an extended application of social freedom while traveling abroad. And his orator's restrained mischievous behavior was always on full display as a result.

@killer_instinct:

@yazhun_sanvun:

"Triplets, huh?" Saladino muttered from the open grill. The heavy, yet masterfully-executed, chopping motions of the metal spatula smote the mushrooms asunder, yet in just enough of a shape to be used in the basis of the sautee. They wouldn't be used in the end of the dish, more a foundation for a more earthy flavor in the meat itself along with the hand-churned butter and aged soy sauce combination. Nothing artificial at all, nothing generic.

Only the finest, for the best patrons in the world.

"Yeah, Mr. Dorsa. They were sitting next to a guy with white hair," the waitress whispered.

Saladino didn't stop in his artful display of smoking the mushrooms with a sudden splash of alcohol, unlocking the potential in their layered flesh. The sautee was going to be perfect, and then the minced matter would be discarded for fresher slices for another short series of grilling motions. Once the mushrooms were digested wholly by the meat, barely even seared at this point, he began to wash it with the soy butter. Over and over again, a tidal splashing motion of juices so that nothing was locked out of the final experience.

"White hair, triplets. That sounds like a certain somebody Mr. Roman's been meaning to talk to for a while. Seems things are lining up,"

"M-Mr. Roman?" the waitress stuttered.

"Ain't nothing to worry yourself over, just leave their table to me now. Tip is still yours, I'm taking care of 'em now,"

She nodded, saying nothing as Saladino expertly repeated the process several more times now, basting each and every serving so it would stay warm and succulent. When all was said and done, he motioned for a courier to follow him out with the trays.

"Buonasera!" he said with his humble and boisterous voice, a third courier setting down mobile stands so that the trays could be set down, and the meals given. Steam rose from each plate, the garnishes of freshly grilled mushrooms that simmered in the same soy butter - the roux based in the diced mushrooms from before - staring into the hungry eyes of those who looked upon them.

Each plate, different, but uniform in their complete and undeniable appetizing appeal. He had placed significant effort into each dish, regardless of it were the beef or not.

"My name is Saladino Dorsa, a piacere to serve you this evening," he began. He saw the strange inverted colors of the head of the table's suit, and instantly recognized him - one of the fastest-growing criminal masterminds of the new century. But, the dinner table was no place to discuss business. It was to enjoy oneself, Dorsa's Italian blood understood that more than anyone.

"Anything else I can do before you start your meals, would be no trouble at all."

@rosso:

@killer_instinct:

@rosso:

@killer_instinct:

@rosso:

Oh, don't give me that face.

@killer_instinct:

With a mouth full of appetizer the Voice Unheard stood up, stylishly dabbed the edges of his mouth, and brought his hand across his body for a proper introduction. To offer his hand, in certain circles, was considered a significant sign of honor and mutual respect. What Saladino Dorsa had accomplished, reclaimed and rebuilt, was worthy of such a greeting.

"Mr. San'Vun would like to express his most sincere gratitude." Briefly reverting to their customary display of grace, the triplets gracefully spoke for the Voice Unheard as he returned to a seated state of relaxation. "Perhaps later you would do him the honor of joining him for a night cap to discuss possible future endeavors. Yes?"

@yazhun_sanvun:

Saladino's large hand wrapped around his guest's in a customary handshake, then pressed his forehead against the knuckles. It was a gesture of good faith in the Voice's presence and his beliefs, but ultimately submissive in nature. Mr. Roman, after all, was making his rounds towards the table.

"Got your message, Sal," he mentioned, slapping the heavier man on the shoulder.

"Antonio!" without skipping a beat, Saladino raised his Don's hand towards his lips and kissed the ring.

Mr. Roman clasped his other hand around Sal's carotid, shaking his neck with a joyous emphaticness before abruptly letting go. His hazel eyes, behind that black mask, turned towards the shogun before he had a chance to sit down. He took his hand as well, though this time a far more equalized stance. Straight down the middle, not upturned or overbearing. This was the moment, after all, that both of them had looked forward to.

The Shogun took his seat again, and Mr. Roman was wordlessly handed the reins to the table. "Mr. San'vun; I'm Antonio Roman. If I had known you were gonna be here, I would have met you at the door," a smile, concealed behind his mask, but his eyes were sharp.

"Sal is a good man," he continued, the weight of his words dominating the air. "You'll understand if he's busy this evening,"

He looked out towards the small ocean of patrons, practically every seat occupied.

"But, dinner is no place for business talk. Enjoy your meals. I'll be having a meeting here, shouldn't be too long. But let me know when you're done! Night is still young."

With a gesture of utmost respect towards the Shogun, that being a bow of his head, Mr. Roman excused himself from the table. He had some... wrinkles to iron out.

Ooops. Stumbled on that one. My perfect record is broken

@yazhun_sanvun:

@killer_instinct:

Greetings, introductions, they came and went. Respect was shown. Social graces exchanged. So now it was time to cut loose. Yazhun threw back another shot. It was clear. It was strong, and tasted absolutely horrible. He loved it. The partying platoon was in full effect now with several members inebriated beyond the point of self-control. Hell, beyond the point of maintained balance. With one individual out right collapsing out of his chair and onto the floor.

The remaining entourage erupted into cheers and laughter. Several rising to their feet for a standing ovation. Even the Voice had stood to applaud the unsavory scene, before starting to shimmy and shake to the music in the background. The Trifecta wasted little time in joining in, trying, unsuccessfully, to teach their benefactor the Backpack kid dance.

Instead Yazhun's compromised balance gave way and he himself stumbled backwards, narrowly caught by his own chair. His mouth was open, lips curled to a grin, but he remained silent. Cognitive of the devastating vocal ability he held caged within. One slip and countless patrons would die instantly.

"Lets go spend some money!" the Trifecta jeered. "Kanpai!!!!" the remaining entourage jeered with drinks held high and spilling everywhere. "TO THE SERRA DEL MONDO!!!!"

@yazhun_sanvun:

Silas Tomassetti was called ahead of time, so the staff would know that the Don had guests. Several of them, in fact. Their entourage arrived at the Serra del Mondo with just a short walk from La Cucina, Antonio heading the train inside. Silas kissed his hand, as was tradition, and could smell the alcohol on Mr. Roman's breath. But, strangely, he didn't seem all that drunk. Usually he was loud, but this was perhaps a special kind of inebriated.

"Silas, put all the drinks on my tab,"

"My Don, they're out of their minds already,"

"Sal gave 'em enough bread to pack boxes with. Your carpet is gonna be fine. Ey! Yazzy! We got a table over in the suite. You know how to play Gilet? Not the shaving razor, the card game,"

With one arm guiding his guests towards the aforementioned 'suite' and the other darting into a pocket to fish out a lighter and some smokes, he gave Silas a sideways glance.

"Had to teach some of Sal's punks to call me when there's business guests," he muttered as the rest were out of earshot. "Almost missed this,"

"Shame." Silas smirked.

"They'll learn though. They're good kids. They'll learn."

Clicking the firestarter at the tip of one of his cigarettes, Antonio guided it into one of the slits on his mask and puffed. With a similar motion he extinguished the flame without another word.

"Gentlemen, ladies," he nodded towards his guests.

Associates of his, a skilled card dealer, and several other men and women tasked and entrusted with providing the optimal casino experience, were already standing throughout the suite. Without delay, Mr. Roman motioned towards the table, and the dealer nodded his head in response.

"That's Silvano Apuzzo,"

Aside from that one table, there were many others beside that each with their own individual dealers, so that the entourage had enough room to spread out to different games or all use the chairs to crowd around one table. Slot machines, the authentic imported ones, stood lining walls parallel to each other with an open bar practically bursting with product.

"We'll start at his table, see where we end up. Yazhun, feelin' lucky?"

@killer_instinct:

The ruckus collection marched through the Serra del Mondo. Loud and charmingly obnoxious. Mingling, tipping with extravagant generosity, socializing with the other patrons turning the entire atmosphere into one of equal celebrity. Impulsively breaking into sporadic rhythmic sways and unrehearsed dance moves. Shouting from one end of the trailing entourage up to the other, and back again with roaring cheers and intoxicated theatrics.

What they broke, they instantly bought. Flashing cash as if they were accompanied by their own private minting machine. Making it rain and taking a shot every-time a member of the San'Vun clan tripped, stumbled, or fell due to their inability to handle their liqueur. Their own improvised drinking game. With added benefits for anyone passing by at the moment.

Yazhun was fully lit by the time they reached the designated table. Slipping his designer jacket off and swinging it around the shoulders of a passing hostess with utter disregard for if he'd ever see it, or what was in its pockets, again. He flashed a cinematic look of amused confusing, signing; *WTF this?* clowning on the outdated card game. Never the less, he was down.

Cultivating a standing crowd, he dexterously anted up while simultaneously floating a gold coin back and forth along his fingers. He was ready to win, or go out with an expensive bang. The Trifecta flirtatiously hung off the combined shoulders of both the Roman Empire, and the Voice Unheard as the game began. Cheering for them both in an unlikely, but surprisingly welcomed showcase of shared affection. A friendship was undeniably in the making and they not only recognized it, they were determined to help foster it.

@yazhun_sanvun:

"Bah, it's easy, Yazzy,"

Words he soon came to regret.

Antonio won the first hand dealt, but didn't win another until the last. They played five, and what started out as a modest pot of 50k ended up with him paying Yazhun over half a million. All in the name of fun, though, and it brokered a continuing sense of kinship between the two. Money, power, and alcohol. Lots of it. Antonio playfully called one of the Trifecta 'lucky', and insisted she stay after the first round of Gilet.

After about the third time he was smacked down by the Shogun, he didn't believe in that kind of luck anymore.

The night continued until it all just got progressively blurrier and blurrier. Last thing Antonio remembered was ribbing Yazhun about losing most of the money he won from him at cards on the slot machines. They had some kind of secondary wager going that if he doubled the profits in five spins, Antonio would buy him some kind of foreign car.

But, even that was iffy. At least, until the morning.

Sunlight pierced his eyes. At least he was inside. Alone. He reached over and called down to the desk, his mask staring at him from across the room. The glass door on the closet was broken again.

"Flux,"

"Mr. Roman?" it was Silas. "Goddamn, we practically had to drag you up to your room,"

"Si, I broke the mirror again,"

"Bed?"

"Bed,"

"I can call maintenance for ya,"

"Where's San'vun?"

"Last I saw they were heading up to their rooms, no better than you were. Drunk off their asses,"

"Rooms? Right, I gave 'em top floor suites,"

"Next to yours, if I remember correctly,"

"Thanks Si."

"No prob, Don."

He clicked the receiver down, and got an eyeful of why he threw the mask in the first place. He usually had self-control when he wasn't under like that. Kept tabs on his temper. He ruffled the good side of his hair, and stood up. The door was on a hinge that he thought he might as well take it off of. Broken glass on the stylized Italian flooring, he watched his footing.

More shattered when he moved the door, clattering into a heap.

"Fluxing, Goddamn it!" he almost threw the thing into a wall, but collected himself at the last second and just leaned it against the bed.

Bathroom, get cleaned up. Even now, at this point, he didn't want to admit that he was weak. Weaker than ever. Weaker than when he got his ass beat at the Patio, when he had no money and no gang to back him up. It took everything he had to just stay afloat, and even more to start all over in South Africa. Now that he was back here, where he lost everything to his name and more, he couldn't help but feel a bit apprehensive.

Especially with the results of that exchange constantly staring back at him in the mirror. Sure, he could get cosmetic surgery. But that much would subtract from who he was, who he built himself up to be. It would be worse than having fully half of his face being made up of that thick, gnarled scar tissue.

It would be half-fake. Half-artificial.

That's why he had the mask. It was both his signature motif and his escape from prying eyes. No one would suspect Big Bad Antonio to be a deformed freak if he just kept wearing the mask in public, and just continued to come to terms with himself behind closed doors.

It wasn't a judging contest. It wasn't self-loathing or anything inane like that. He was too proud for any of that. Looks mean shit to him, so long as the person behind the skin could get a job done. And damn, did he get a job done when he put his mind to it. It was just taking longer than usual to get used to the sneer, the pockmarked skin, and the ugly duality of it all.

"Pft," he spat. "Fluxing Shakespeare over here, thinkin' all that crap."

After brushing his teeth, he walked back over to his mask and snapped it on before getting the rest of the way ready for what would be a business day. A meeting, scheduled assumedly sometime last night in their more sober moments before the inevitable crash. Noon, in the Sunset Boardroom, facing West of course. Fresh coffee and breakfast.

@killer_instinct: Rumors on Armani Street, whispers of the Black Mask's return. A man seizing the face of a former friend. A man he had thought dead long ago.

It was an insult to his memory, to allow an upstart to take the place of the Lance Harvey.

So it was that the White Fang came once again to Gothic City, to Armani Street, to the remains of The Patio. To his surprise, those remains had been swept away, and in their place was the sprawling excess that made the Hanging Gardens. The lights were blinding, the noise of slots and thumping music seeming to escape from every edifice.

Marco bit back the bile rising in his throat. This empire, it belonged to the great man who had seized his corner of chaos from Gothic and crushed it into civilization, and here was a pretender to steal the glory of the Black Masks. He moved into the nearest building, the blood and adrenaline pumping into his veins despite his near perfect control of his body. It had been long indeed since anger seized the Aurelius' soul, and now it took hold near completely.

His fingers gripped the hilt of his blade with barely contained rage as he entered La Cucina, the knuckles as as white as the thin cloth gloves that covered them. He passed it through to the coat check where it would wait until the moment he was ready to rend the imitator's head from his neck. He lit one of the cheap cigarettes he constantly carried and directed the hostess to the seat he'd be taking rather than follow her to one prescribed to him. From his seat in the more dimply lit portion of the crowded restaurant he took in the view his seat offered: a decorated wall to his back, and the open restaurant splayed out before him. He could see all who entered and left through the entrance. The entire affair contrasted sharply with his last visit to Armani Street, when he had last seen the real Black Mask. Delving into once sweet but since bittered memories, he placed the first of many orders.

Yes, it was here he would wait. Wait for the man who would seize the fame of a fallen friend, and snuff him out.

It was the perfect place to set his ambush. Everyone had to eat, after all, and what man could resist a Sicilian Roast?

@marco_aurelius:

Mr. Roman made his usual rounds, flanked today by his trusted 'enforcer' Vito Carcione. His cold eyes looked here and there, glancing for his Don's well-being in all directions. The shadow of La Cucina overtook them as Mr. Roman entered without a second thought. Saladino had top-notch product after all.

"Roast, duck today," he muttered as he passed the hostess, handing her a Benjamin. "Want anything Vito?"

"Nah boss," Vito's sharp glance went unnoticed as it floated from her across the main dining hall.

Though the dull orange of the lamps kept most faces obscured, corners were especially dark - mood lighting. Easy on the eyes, made drinks taste better and smokes last longer. Even Vito barely noticed the figure practically hiding at one of these tables. Once he did, however, the intentions of merely watching over Mr. Roman quickly shifted. It was a Cold War of murderous auras, the brutal efficiency of the Grim Reaper - Vito Carcione - and this 'new' guy. Vito could swear, though, he recognized him on principle. Mr. Roman would sometimes open up about his old clique. Only once did Vito look over though, to decapitate suspicion.

"Bad news,"

"Hm?"

"412, don't look,"

"I'll look if I want to. Better yet,"

Vito rolled his eyes, and moved something to his coat pocket. He knew what this meant. Mr. Roman turned on his heels and headed towards the aforementioned fourth dining hall, first column, second row. A table for four, so it accommodated them nicely. A click of his fingers, and Mr. Roman stood at the edge of the table. A waiter came and tried to introduce himself, but saw the palpable tension. Even if he did speak, Mr. Roman would have cut him off.

"Waters, three, I told the hostess what I wanted to eat. How about you?" he nodded towards the man who had already sat down.

Regardless of his answer, the waiter would leave to get their drinks, and a refill for the original occupier of the table. Mr. Roman, with his black mask firmly in place, glared into the man's eyes in front of him.

"How's life, Marco?"

Vito didn't blink, but cast a glance at Mr. Roman. He didn't expect him to actually know this guy.

"What's the matter, too good to give me a hug now? Come on, get up - get up."

He opened his arms, and Vito was still at the ready but showed no signs of aggressive behavior. It was at this cusp of normalcy and violence, right before the lights went dim and the air went quiet, that he was at his quickest draw time anyway.

@killer_instinct:

In came the impostor. As the man in the midnight mask entered Marco dropped his steak knife into his palm, secreting it beneath the table. It was an almost entirely ineffective weapon, but that was the point. It would allow him to relish in the man's pain, the small, serrated saw powered by his inhuman strength would shear flesh painfully. His death would be slow, excruciating.

The escort he did not concern himself with. Most men could not harm him given an arsenal and hours to implement it. What could this man do alone?

Then came the unexpected. A glance from the bodyguard, a terse conversation, and the rising of his target. His hand gripped harder around the mahogany handle of the steak knife, a finger tracing its way around the cold steel as he attempted to appear nonchalant, unperturbed by their keen sense for bloodlust.

And then he spoke.

The sound of his voice, the all-too familiar voice of his near-forgotten friend rang clear in his mind, distorted even as it was by metal and mangled flesh. The words had no meaning, only the sound carried significance, a howl heard long ago by a wolf before it had lost its pack.

How's life, Marco?

The sound of his name shook the Aurelius back to his senses. The knife clattered to the ground unceremoniously as he stood, dropping from his hand along with whatever thoughts twisted vengeance he had come to inflict.

"You bastard! I thought you fracking died!"

He pulled away from the embrace, already embarrassed that he had broken from his usually unshakable stoicism, and in front of others no less. He brushed himself off as he retreated, regaining his composure as he blinked away what few tears stained his vision.

"But what did you ask? Food? I ordered already, yes." Marco smiled, the first genuine smile he had mustered in years, the warmth spreading from his core finally making itself known on his face. It was a passing sensation. "How is life?" He had never reflected on the question, had made every attempt not to.

He had watched his family's fall from a distance, their fade into obscurity, the deaths that always came for the Aurelius. He had believed himself invulnerable to the final fate of his family members, but as he sat back down in the presence of this man he knew as a brother, the only man he had ever had the courage to be himself around, the reality of their deaths, of their failures, finally brought its weight down upon his shoulders. He sighed, the force shaking his shoulders.

"Life... has been hard, old friend. Very hard..." His gaze carried him far away, long into the past. His words came flowing with his thoughts.

Marco went silent. He could continue no further. These thoughts had been pushed to the corners of his mind for so long that retrieving them drained him of his mental fortitude. He found he was unbearably weary, suddenly tired from a journey without distance. He had no desire to continue exploring the errors of his kin, nor his own sins.

He seized the bottle of gin, pouring himself another shot, and then another.

"But never mind me, Harvey. This place... it's not as fantastical as your previous pursuits, but the soul is there. How has your life treated you?"

His smirk returned, weary but still wry. "And how the hell did you survive?"

@marco_aurelius:

"There he is, theeeeere he is, fratello mio, vita mia!" Mr. Roman grabbed Marco by the carotid, though it was a familial gesture. One seeded in Sicilian culture, one that meant deep kinship and comrardery.

Drinks, the subsequent order for something stronger, and they all sat down. Vito was tasked with watching over the casino for right now, and left the two separated brothers to their talk.

Throughout Marco's explanation of his family troubles, how his bloodline suffered, Mr. Roman stayed silent out of the utmost respect. He would nod, give a casual gesture of understanding and interest, but that was the extent of it. A break came when the waiter dropped off his roasted duck, but Antonio didn't touch it until Marco was finished.

It was rude to eat while someone else was expressing business, and on Armani Street - family was more important than even that. So, the reverence he held for Marco's pain was only magnified.

At length, he himself spoke.

"You're here now, Marco. You're alive now. You have a purpose, and don't let any of your other family members be the ruler you dictate yourself by. You're part of the Black Mask family, and that means we ain't goin' nowhere anymore. That little hiccup a couple years ago?"

He unbuttoned his face gear, knowing Marco was the furthest from squeamish in the room. Setting it aside, he looked up. Fully half of his face, disfigured and burned down to the bone in some places. His lidless eye flashed over Marco.

"They couldn't kill me if they wanted to, Marco. Big Tony, Giuseppe, Giovanni... they're all gone though. We are both wolves without packs, fratello. And wolves gotta eat,"

He stabbed into his meal with his knife.

"You ought to see the Lion's Den if you want quality. It's in South Africa. This place, it's gonna see a bright future. Sank a ton of cash in this street, and it's turning a bastard of a profit. Few years, and you're gonna see a new Roman Empire,"

A half-smile, the best he could muster.

"After my mother died, I couldn't keep away from my family name. Lance Harvey was something I made for myself in Cali. Antonio Roman is the man I was always meant to be, Marco. I couldn't run from that anymore than you could. It's ugly, but it's the truth. That's why I bought this street, too. Honest living done honestly. Swimming lessons in the Atlantic really turns your life around, but I wouldn't suggest it. Not without someone to pull you out and take the bullets out of your head."

@killer_instinct:

The revelation of Harvey's--no, Roman's-- face, with its damaged lumps of scar tissue and exposed bone, its sharp divide contrasting against the near perfect facsimile of the charming man he once knew, was sickening to Marco, though not for its appearance. He had taken on visages far worse than this mask of pain. No, he was disgusted by the act that had left him scarred such, and by its perpetrators, but he held his tongue. He listened as the story of Antonio Roman, the man formerly known as Lance Harvey, unfolded before him. He winced at the names of the dead, three more added to the long list of lost family. Another drink. He nodded sympathetically as he spoke of his dead mother, of taking up the burden of his own name.

When he had finished speaking, but before he could look back to his roast duck, Marco peeled away the snow white glove from his hand and reached out to touch the twisted scars adorning the face of his closest friend, to turn his chin and see the full extent of the damage, ample gin already dulling his sense of propriety.

"They certainly did a number on you, Harv-- no, sorry, Roman, right?" He looked his friend over again and again, taking in the scars from every angle. Whistling at his torn asunder cheek. "Well at least they fixed that stupid dimple of yours. You should be thanking them." Marco smiled, good-natured humor in his eyes. It was an attempt to pacify any self consciousness Antonio might experience from revealing his true face. Sensitivity between the two would imply that the damage was indeed dire, the ribbing meant to assure him that nothing had really changed, nothing of significance, at least. "And now you have an excuse to run around like it's Halloween all the time, Harv, and I'm sure your dentist loves it." For the first time in the entirety of his life Marco snickered. "You need to floss more, by the way."

Marco dug into the roast, fully comfortable now. It was exquisite, the flavors of home drumming up memories of every other encounter shared between the two men. Even as he stared into the eerie lidless eye across from him, nothing felt different at all between the pair.

"Honest living done honestly, was it? In Gothic City?" Marco chuckled, the gin finally making a positive impact on his mood. He bit into the Sicilian roast with relish, his mind finally floating from the past into the present. "You are as ambitious as ever, Harvey. And don't worry about all that." he said, gesturing with the replaced steak knife at his own face "Women love scars."

He swallowed another drink of the fire water at the table, throwing out his last statement as casually as he had his meal order.

"And it will make a great last sight for the dead men who did it to you."

@marco_aurelius:

"Hey hey, watch the goods. Need ta keep what I can take,"

With the proximity of the pseudo-inspection, Antonio rolled his fists up into knuckled balls and started impromptu jabs towards Marco.

"1955, the Rock from Brockton vs Archie Moore. Went for nine rounds, the bastards,"

Throwing playful punches at his brother, Antonio gave a display of the fight he memorized as a kid. His dad, Mexico-born, didn't miss a fight and had them all on tape.

At length he stopped, most of all due to the 'dimple' comment.

"Hey, the ladies liked it. Now I just got a bigger one, heh. Only thing I'm handing out for Halloween is some of the ol' prosciutto,"

The raunchy comment sparked a deep laugh from the mob boss as he shook his head back and forth, emphasizing his own laid back nature buried somewhere beneath all the money and violence.

Marco continued to rib him a bit more, but Antonio just sliced off a piece of the duck and chewed on the right side of his mouth. The prospect of hunting down the Tierra Mia gang sparked something of an interest in him, and he shifted in his seat. This wasn't dinner, after all, so business was up in the air to be discussed at leisure.

"Which side, eh?" another joke.

"Probably get a good look at both, bleedin' out on the floor."

@killer_instinct:

Marco mimicked the correct responses to the exact fight playing through the mind of the now unmasked marauder, ducking and weaving the easy punches at the speed expected of the over-drunk, but amicable interaction. When his half-faced friend laughed, Marco roared, the laughter coming in peals of genuine merriment. When it stopped, and the topic returned halfway to the business of revenge, his giddiness remained still at levels higher than he'd known in ages.

"Both sides, eh? Yeah, best not deny them that chance. Let them see who's coming for them," he said, gesturing with the knife toward the unscarred equivalent on his own face. "let them see the shit you can live through," the knife traced what would be his marked side "and let them see that nothing can touch this saccharine Sicilian, huh?" Marco's free hand slapped the maskless man's good cheek playfully, the smiles coming almost too easily now.

Somehow, Lance, or Antonio, or whatever his name might be this week or the next always had a way of breaking down the walls the Aurelius had put up all his life, and at that moment Antonio Roman had taken a fleet of wrecking balls covered in over-expensive gin and went to town on any and all barriers between the two. Marco could only grin, his much wounded heart mended in part by the simple presence of the man who was now the only one he could truly call his brother.

@marco_aurelius:

The two brothers, bound by a bond stronger than blood, passed the afternoon and evening in much the same way. Their collective experiences shared, knowledge thought lost to the years between their separation and reunion rediscovered. Marco was gifted a room in the Hanging Gardens, top floor, with a suit dry-cleaned and shoes waxed for what would be a meeting at the Sunset Boardroom the next day.

He wasn't told what it was about. Antonio wanted it to be a surprise.

Vito Carcione, the bodyguard from the previous day, flanked by Silas - the caretaker of the Serra casino down the street - stood at Marco's door and knocked. Upon opening, Marco would be greeted with hugs and pats on the back from both of them. Vito, especially, seemed to have peeled away his cold exterior from before. He was as warm as an oven, smiling with his pearly whites and flashing his blue eyes only once or twice as opposed to the constant leering he would do while on the prowl for people to curbstomp.

"Big Bad Marco, buongiorno! How'd ya sleep? You look good in that suit, need to keep it on ya," he would rib.

"Boss is waitin' at the Sunset, he's got somethin' planned for ya," Silas interjected. Rotund, compared to Vito, and shorter by a full head. He made up for it somewhat with the silvery-black hair tufted up into a version of the Fonz's signature style.

Without delaying too long, Vito and Silas led the way towards the Sunset. The more athletic Vito, tense with lithe muscle, inhaled through a cigarette as he moved. They didn't say much, mostly because the Sunset was on the same floor as they were. It faced West, hence the name, but they were scheduled to be there late morning.

Vito was the one to open the door going in, where they were greeted with an enormous wall of smells - smoked meats and fresh breads. All over the first table stood a national arrangement of pastries. A chef on standby waved at the trio as they walked in, his portable gas grill sizzling with bacon and eggs - an omelette. He was preparing for the entire crew, assembled at the table further beyond him, down some stairs and surrounded by bulletproof windows.

"Your seat is to the right of the head," Silas gestured, standing behind the second seat next to where he pointed. Vito took a similar position on the third seat, to the left. "Don't sit yet, mingle,"

The assembly held a large number of people already there, some were faces Marco would easily recognize - old members of the Black Mask family. These would greet him with kisses on the cheek and powerful hugs, especially Bruce Denton. He was a little-known facet of the Patio, operating as Antonio's primary runner and informant. But now he walked with a cane, one of his legs permanently paralyzed by a bullet near his femoral artery in the last attack. He almost completely bled out, but lasted long enough to be here today. He gave Marco a one-armed hug, having to use the other one for balance.

"Mio fratello," he muttered through tears.

Lorenzo Floresta, an old man from the homeland, walked over towards Marco and Bruce, pulling both of the knuckleheads into a hug. "Big guy," he said in broken English. "Big guys! My guys, mia famiglia!"

Antonio was the last to arrive. With a characteristic demeanor demonstrative of his great faith in family, he took each of the members of that family who approached him into a hefty embrace of the throat and chest. That seizing of the carotid, meant that he held their lives in his hands and would do so as long as he was alive and able. The niceties became a hearty breakfast, as they were all seated after Antonio himself took his chair. When all the plates were cleared, he began in earnest by removing the entirety of his mask as opposed to simply placing the lower faceplate back on. His lidless eye was facing Lorenzo, his left-hand man and granduncle. Marco would be on his right.

"Buongiorno," he said, and the room echoed back.

"I would like to begin by thanking the representatives of the Calamonaci, Montedoro, Milo, Sperlinga, Antillo, Floresta, Frazzano, Gallodoro, Roccavaldina, Scillato, Bagni, Cassaro, and Reitano families for coming on such short notice,"

They all nodded in accordance to them being recognized. Having been there for Antonio's mother's funeral, they wouldn't miss this meeting for the world.

"The Black Mask family has suffered. The Roman family has suffered. My mother, Sofia Reitano, was as strong as they come. Went into World War II as La Montagna, the Mountain, and came back out ready to bust heads and reorganize Italy. But she needed money. That's why she went to California, and met my father,"

He motioned towards the man seated second on the left. "Miguel 'Angel' Roman. Good man, better hustler,"

A slow laugh from the aforementioned 'Angel'.

"Taught me a lot of good things, but he himself admitted he didn't want to lead in Sofia's absence. Hence why I'm sitting here. Now, this is all old news. But recently, the Black Mask family has seen good fortune. Marco Aurelius has come back," he stood and motioned for Marco to do the same, his name already known to most of those assembled here.

"He is now my underboss, my second-in-command, the secondo capo of this organization. He is in Big Tony's seat, one that commands respect from all of you,"

With an enormous hug, the room gave a round of applause. When the two sat back down, Antonio would continue.

"Now, any questions, or concerns?"

Silvano Calamonaci looked at Lancilotto Montedoro, Aldo Milo to Raniero Sperlinga, Melezzio Antillo to Lorenzo Floresta, Nico Frazzano to Ezio Gallodoro, Alvaro Roccavaldina to Pusicio Scillato, Fortunato Bagni to Duccio Cassaro, and Volfango Reitano - Antonio's uncle - to Marco Aurelius. He raised his glass, and then they all did.

"To the new capo."

"Cheers!"

@killer_instinct:Marco had never like suits or polished shoes. They reeked of funerals and impassivity, items worn to funerals or amongst the lethargic business class the world around. Had anyone else offered the clothing to the Aurelius, in any other setting, he would have rejected them outright. But it was not anyone else, and he stood where men of action wore them by tradition, a signal of their legitimacy, of their power. He would not embarrass Antonio by rejecting this gift.

As soon as he had finished buttoning up the suit, impressed by the fine Italian craftsmanship (a rare occurrence), there was a knocking at his door. He slipped on the shoes, the discomfort of funeral wear forgotten for the moment, and opened the portal to the rest of the Hanging Gardens. Instantly he was met with embraces of camaraderie. His shoulders tensed, and tersely he took in their signs of good will and friendship. It had been some time since he had been welcomed by so many in such a short span of time. His instincts told him this was a ploy to defeat his guard, get the Aurelius to lower his usually keen defenses, but he shook the thought as soon as it surfaced. These were Roman's men, and if he deemed them worthy of his friendship then they would be his own allies as well.

The large one, the bruiser from the night before, had taken on an air of familiarity rather than the cold, stand-offish energy from the night before, complimenting his suit and gently teasing. Again alarm bells sounded, again they were silenced. Marco nodded almost absently, answering his question but remaining relatively silent otherwise. He was still awkward in his new surroundings, amongst his new allies. He knew Antonio as a good friend, but adjusting to the respect and affection of his other associates was proving to be a challenge.

He followed them without incident, the scent of smoke prompting him to light his own cigarette as he followed along. They moved to this "Sunset" room, the ominous omens growing in number.

There, in the lavishly adorned room, was an essential banquet of breakfast foods and savory meats. A last meal? He shook the thought again, though with some effort. his nerves began to crawl, at least until Silas spoke again.

"Your seat is to the right of the head."

There was shock, surprise, but only for a moment. It was a profound honor, one not doled out to dead men. He nodded, a slight bow of acknowledgement, of respect for the honor bestowed upon him, and then he did as he was told and began making his rounds.

He acclimated quickly to the room. It came easily, for he found that almost half the procession he could identify as former members of the Black Mask, their presence easing his nerves. Bruce Denton in particular, the old runner, had struck a chord with Marco. He had been retained despite his inability to perform his past duties, as was only right. It was a welcome meeting. Marco embraced him fully, patting his back as his tearful former partner in crime came to meet him. There were bonds present in the room Marco had thought severed a lifetime ago, though walking about it felt as though they had only been dormant, waiting for him to reawaken them. Hugs and appreciative greetings were exchanged, each one allowing Marco to slip more easily into the skinship of the Italian exchanges.

Finally, the main man himself entered the room, and all quieted and settled. Antonio Roman offered his life's turbulent history, his own origin, and When called upon, Marco stood with a bow, an old habit paying homage to all in the room, and, with the sincerity with which it was delivered, conveying his deep appreciation for them all.

And then came the announcement itself. Marco Aurelius, an underboss. Pride flushed his cheeks red, a phenomena he masked by bringing the toast high. As he drank, his eyes wandered over his adopted family. He could think of only one thing to say:

"Finalmente, sono a casa."

Soon that flush of embarrassed pride would go redder in the influence of alcohol, each drink another tie weaving together their fates. He would recall that event fondly, even to the end of his days he would always cherish the day he was rebaptized in wine, blessed by the Father of the Black Masks.

@killer_instinct: