movement / private

[BUBONICPLAGUE]

[align=center][div style="width: 600px; padding: 10px; height: auto; overflow: auto;"][div style="width: 550px; padding: 0px; line-height: 13px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9pt;"]In a world so cruel and full of vices, things like drug cartels and mafias were nothing strange. He lived in the criminal underworld; grown up in it, raised as royalty or the closest thing to it. It was his home, his business, the only thing that brought him anything close to joy. An underboss to his father at fifteen and seventeen he took over. Not only from pure obligation, but the boy had always had a particular interest in what it would be like to control one of the most powerful mafia gangs to date. It did not take him long to adjust to the power. After all, he had always been fit for it.

In his world, rival gangs were relatively easy to deal with. Through compromise or destruction, he always got his way, and his troubles were gone within days of them showing up. Though as of late there seemed to be another nuisance. One he couldn't get rid of so easily. This new rival of his had gained power in his city rather quick; obviously lead by someone much more seasoned than the children he dealt with near daily. It was always an inconvenience to learn that a trade had fallen through due to stolen business. He thought by now he would have at least had some sort of meeting with the leader of this rival gang to talk business, but as it turned out, perhaps this one was smarter than that.

How troublesome.

Several failed attempts on the other's life lead him to this decision. A heavy smack befalling an already beaten bloody man, and a thud as he fell to his knees. Bo curled his lip and straightened his suit, fixed his gun in its holster, and roughly nudged the kneeling man to the side. "I'll do it myself."

He slipped his long arms into his trenchcoat and pulled on his gloves, and with a scoff at his crew's incompetence, he left. Walked briskly down the streets he knew so well without a single person blocking his path, all quickly stepping sideways at the sight of the obviously angered man. It didn't take long to find the hideout; he knew this city better than any seeing man could, and with the additional intel from the men that managed to make it back alive, it was about as easy as it could be. The man was only deterred by the guards now pointing guns at his chest.

Bo lifted a gloved hand to scratch idly at his jaw, his sightless eyes wandering over the two standing before him. Some moments of tense silence passed before he finally decided to speak, cutting one of them off before the words even left the kid's mouth. "I think you know why I'm here." His voice rumbled as he spoke, and while he was fully willing to play dumb with them, he simply did not have the time for it. No exchange of questions or answers until they inevitably tried to put a bullet in him. No, the only one getting a bullet today was the man stealing his business.

The man cracked his knuckles. "Take me to him, hm? We've business to discuss. The quicker you comply the less of a chance there is that I shoot both of you and let myself in." He took a step forward. A brow raised as he waited, then finally, the sound of a door creaking open reached his ears. One reached for his gun, met with a painfully firm grip around his wrist for an agonizing moment before released. "That's not how this works. Walk." Some hesitance, and what he assumed was a glance exchanged, and finally they began moving. Bo only paid attention to their footsteps and the sound of his blood pulsing in his ears. Be it excitement or anxiety, perhaps just the thrill of finally being face to face with the prick, he was ready.

[member=66]PINCHER[/member]

[PINCHER]

There was always drama. He called attempted assassinations and death threats drama because frankly, Pincher did not fear death. Like many other "tough gangster men", he didn't find any sort of dread of dying. He had seen plenty of it growing up, enlisting and fighting in a war for his damned country and coming back as a hollow bullet with no more gunpowder, just empty deadly space. So when he came back, he didn't just stick to thieving and his simpler business in offering security but decided to spread like a disease, a virus. Crawling into the backs of other stronger mafia groups that were in his way to success, he became a force to be reckoned with. Or so he had been told. He caught the glares that were locked onto him when he walked by but he would only allow a light tweak of a smile to flicker with cocky air as he knew that they hated him but were too frightened to say it to his face. He was attacking a new group since he had decided that his little town was too stuffy for him. He had arrived to the new place with a calm steady ambition that grew like a vine, twisting and curling around the ones he tried to influence. Soft low whispers warned him that the one he was threatening would not go so gentle onto a good night like the others did when Pincher would slice their necks in the dead of the night.

He could hear the commotion and he simply sat there, staring down at the end of his crystalline gold laced whiskey glass, watching the warm dark honey brown liquid mix with the ice cubs while he waited. He wondered if this was the threat he was warned about and his cool arctic blue eyes flickered towards the stiffened musicians that were on the stage of the hidden bar that Pincher liked to stay in without anyone bothering. "Play something nice, won't ya? I really don't want to hear the sound of bones crunching, it'll ruin my appetite." The head of the Roux family murmured while he straightened his muscular form in his simple grey suit while turning to face the door that was opened and he caught the ashamed faces of his little henchmen. He didn't appear mad, no...just disappointed. A simple death for both he thought to himself for future reference before his cool magnetic frost blue gaze flickered up to look at the taller figure behind them. "Welcome. Care for a drink?" He greeted with his low rumbling voice as an eyebrow quirked up as he heard the musicians nervously begin some quiet yet low relaxing music as if this was just a visit of an old friend.

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© MADI

[BUBONICPLAGUE]

[align=center][div style="width: 600px; padding: 10px; height: auto; overflow: auto;"][div style="width: 550px; padding: 0px; line-height: 13px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9pt;"]The life of a gangster was one filled to the brim with drama. Shoot outs, deals gone bad, backstabbers. There had been assassination attempts on his own life several times before. Like this man, Bo did not fear death, not in the slightest. He'd lived under the threat of it since the day of his birth. He'd shaken hands with it before, danced with it, flirted, but he did not ever allow himself to fall into its grasp. For as many times as he had been shot, stabbed, beat until he was teetering on the edge of consciousness, he didn't seem to have any problem with walking into traps or obvious negotiations that would end in someone dead on the floor.

Call him foolish or egotistical; he was always significantly confident in himself. With how often he seemed to cheat death, it was hard not to think so highly of himself, when in his crew's eyes he was a reaper and in his own he was a god. Indeed, he was a force to be reckoned with, and the reckoning had finally come. He knew this was more than likely a death trap for him, but he'd be damned if he didn't drag his rival to hell with him. Bo would not go gently. One way or another, he would get what he wanted here.

His blind gaze kept on forward as he entered the building behind the guards. He took a moment to pause and breathe in the bittersweet scent of liquor, and let the sound of the musicians' song dance in his ears. A man of class; funny how similar tastes they had, and a shame he was not here under different circumstances. Bo idly adjusted his gloves before he strode forward, setting a hand on one henchman's shoulder and moving him to the side as he stepped past. He combed his fingers through his glossy black hair and was quick to sit himself down across from Pincher, taking his welcome as an invitation. "Whiskey. Neat." Bo leaned back in his seat and propped long legs up on the table, clasping his fists together in his lap. His milky brown eyes settled on the man. Cold and calculating, despite his inability to perceive him.

He lightly held a hand out to his side, fingers curling around the glass brought to him, and brought it up to his lips. A quick swig before the glass was set on the table, and he resumed his position with his hands resting in his lap. "Mr. Roux," The man rumbled finally. "Pincher, hm? I believe you know my intentions here today. A shame, really, you seem like a sensible man. Good at what you do, but you understand my position here, yes?" Bo lifted a hand to scratch beneath his chin as if to think about his next words. "My business is very important to me. This little shtick of yours... I'm losing good money. Good trade partners. Essential parts of my business, you see, and I have spent every day since my seventeenth birthday forming these bonds and working with the scum of the criminal underworld to get where I am today."

Bo set his feet back on the ground, leaned in closer. "My business is my life, Mr. Roux, and I'll not let you take that from me. I'm not here to strike a deal or anything of the sort, no." A moment passed. He finished his drink and stood, jaw clenched, and pulled his gun from its holster.

"I'm here to kill you."