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;"]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."