| Hostile Takeover |
[18 Feb 2008|10:14pm] |
Cal Petrenko was a very wealthy man.
Six years after retiring from the ring, where he'd been a heavweight boxer, he had his fingers in a lot of pies. He started out predictably enough. He married his manager, a hell cat named Carlotta who had him by the purse strings and the balls. She was a shrewd businesswoman, and before long Cal's money was invested in a casino, a topless bar, and a string of high-profile prize fights. When the money started pouring in, Cal decided it was time to branch out and run a small fight circuit of their own. Not just any fight circuit. They went a step past knock-outs; they went to the death. They went a step past amateur boxers; they used demons, and Carlotta knew how to find them because she was a half-breed. They kidnapped humans and hedged their lives on the outcomes of the fights. It was a modern-day Roman Coliseum with a twist, operating right beneath the noses of authorities.
One year later, the Ring's reputation had grown. Hundreds of people showed up to watch the gruesome matches. Carlotta ran the money behind the scenes, and Cal took on the revered (if unpopular) role of the Overseer, his true identity mostly unknown. He hired security to guard him and his wife full-time, in order to prevent retaliations and keep public events under control.
Lucky for Darian, security could be bought.
The Dealmaker stood behind the small restaurant, waiting impatiently for things to get underway. The Petrenkos were over an hour late getting to dinner, a matter of serious annoyance. Once Cal and his wife were seated, a member of their security detail was supposed to step out back to meet him. If Darian delivered the right sum of money, security would conveniently leave the couple vulnerable to attack. So far, no security.
He fiddled with his shirt collar and paced behind the kitchen.
Grace wanted to tell Darian to stand still, that his pacing was nudging her towards a full-on bad mood, but instead she kept her mouth shut and checked her shotgun for the fourth - fifth? - time to make sure it was loaded. Let the Dealmaker stew; if it made things go quicker once they got underway, so much the better. Meanwhile, she'd bide her time.
She'd been very quiet for most of the night, a hard knot of tension in the small of her back. If the demon noticed it, she had no idea, and less inclination to discuss it. She liked Darian as much as she was capable of liking someone, but some things no one but another vampire would understand. Her mood was going to expedite things once they finally got rolling, though, because she really wanted to kill something. Someone. Anyone.
The kitchen door creaked open approximately three inches, then swung open more fully. Grace half-pointed her weapon in that direction, then made a reasonably coherent noise that comprised Darian's name. It looked like their number was up.
Until a dishwasher came out with a trashbag. The kid looked about nineteen. His apron was covered in spaghetti sauce. "Um... can I help--?"
"No, you can't." Darian had stepped into the young man's line of sight, effectively blocking the view of Grace's shotgun. Now taking the dishwasher by the shoulders, he steered him in a half-circle and nudged him towards the door. "We came out here for some privacy," he hinted, figuring it was a reasonable excuse for being behind a restaurant, if you were a nineteen year old employee who probably took smoke breaks back there and god knew what else.
"But what about the trash?"
"I'll take it." Darian commandeered the bag, only to unceremoniously drop it the instant the door closed. "Let's hope he keeps his mouth shut." Turning more fully towards Grace, he eyed the firearm. "Do you really need to stand there with it locked and loaded? We're not shooting security unless we have to."
( Waste of Bullets )
( Ready If You Are )
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