The Auburn Public Museum was a very modernly built building; the inside was composed primarily of over polished cherrywood walls and massive, over-sized sunset windows. To underground artists trying to make it big or simply establish themselves as true connoisseurs of the arts, this was the place to show off. A woman stood inside, surrounded by suave looking men; she was tall and and exotic looking with intense, ginger-ale colored eyes and luscious, soft looking lips. She was the artist known as Johnta Romaine, a brilliant artisan and 'professional idealist'. "So you painted this?" one of the men inquired, sipping gingerly at his wine. The black-haired woman that boasted a wondrous lion's mane batted her illustrious eyelashes and redirected her gaze towards the canvas.
It was an extremely detailed depiction of a terrarium of exotic flowers. Johnta merely nodded and said nothing else, perched proud aside her painting to pinpoint it as her own. That evening she had adorned a metallic copper dress with thick straps crisscrossed around her neck and supported her plump, full bust. Paired with her smoky make-up and proper silver hoops, she was quite the foreign delicacy. The city, lately, had been griping for some new, original artists. Ever since a big-shot painter by the name of Johnathan Coruthers had his coke addiction exposed, top spot was once again available and Johnta, being ambitious and quick witted as she was, wouldn't let it slip through her fingertips. She made a promise to herself that she would crush any other artists that tried to leap ahead in this race.
"Miss Romaine? May I speak with your privately for a moment?"
Johnta politely excused herself then glided down the hallway, her strappy black stilettos clicking and clacking along the way. Her stride was both casual and proud, and with that short dress complimenting her long, well sculpted legs, she couldn't necessarily go wrong. A short-haired blond had approached the Caribbean woman suddenly; Johnta didn't seemed phased, though she realized she had to meet the curator who was beckoning her forth. He could wait. "So, you're new, huh?" The blond chortled, placing her hands on her hips. Johnta truly had not acknowledged the woman. She kept her green eyes forward, examining the crowd from beyond a large black curtain. "I think I should tell you now, newbie. I'm the top bitch in this world." Johnta raised one of her defined, plucked eyebrows quizzically, swiveling her gaze to watch the woman. "If you were then you wouldn't be in this building annoying the fuck out of me."
Her voice was soft and sweet like honey; nonchalant and complaisant, but it was so dark and malicious that it had even startled the blond. Just before the blond could retort a man beckoned her forth again. He was one of the men contributing to the show, Matthias Redstone, an art collector of sorts. He gazed at the roguish looking woman with fatigued eyes, intrigued to hear about the inspiration for her art. "I heard about your brother," the elderly man whispered apologetically, "it's a tragic loss, to both your family and our world of art. He was an amazing writer ... and I'm sure, a better brother." Estelle's eyes reflected her disinterest in the topic. "I understand." The man took a step back; his eyes went wide, suddenly, as well as Estelle's. A large bang resounded through the museum's walls. Women yelped and screeched, others fled the scene. Matthias faltered for a moment. He staggered backward and dropped towards the ground without any warning. Johnta gazed downward. There in the dead center of his forehead was a bullet wedged deep within his skull.
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With eyes as bright, beautiful beige candles, a young, very suave looking man hauled into the extravagant, artsy museum adorning a dark, expensive Armani tuxedo and expensive looking shades. He was handsome, almost too handsome. As he passed a throng of ostentatious looking women, they all gawked at him with unrequited lust. The man's goal wasn't to break any hearts or get fucked by the prettiest exotic doll this evening. He wanted to taste the sweet, tart flavor or revenge. After nearly being busted with kilos amongst kilos of mountain-pure cocaine, he was left broke, flustered and above all, enraged. Several of his best men were disdained in the slammer - for God knew how along - and years of well planned trafficking. All for what? To have the snowy powder stripped away from as well as riches, glory ... and even his cherished street credit. However, Dante was no fool. He knew just how to reestablish his honorific empire. Though he may not have been fingered as much of a threat on the streets now, he could easily use that to his advantage. The streets were like putty in his hands; malleable like damn near every peon that snooped around it. He'd hold the crown once more. He knew it.
Luckily for him, a precious belonging to the man who made his kingdom crumble would help him in the rebuilding of the empire.
The heavily tattooed giant strolled through one of the porcelain corridors, warily striding past massive, decorative pillars and artists who were skillfully displaying their works. Obviously his appearance made him stand out a bit amongst the male revelers. Not only was he tall - averaging at nearly six and a half inches - but he was broad. His chest and shoulders were both broad and sturdy; his chocolate brown eyes simmered gloriously through his immensely extravagant sun-glasses. Amongst his many tattoos were piercings, as well - tiny plugs that graced his ear lobe and a small, metal band that curved around his lower lip. He flashed a group of ladies a very winsome grin then proceeded into the foyer which was draped ostentatiously in mahogany colored tapestries and tables of glorious food. Dante gently ran his tattooed fingers through his rugged, roguish hair. Each of his unwaveringly wavy curls were tamed this evening thanks to a straightener he 'borrowed' from one of his skater friends down the street from the Square.
Dante merely wanted to kick back and recline. He knew that his presence here was based off of 'business' but could he not relax and enjoy the art? He did want to admit, the tasty looking morsels laid out neatly on the tables looked fairly tantalizing (more then he had to say about the women around). He veered over and once more, brushed his soft, quaffed bangs from his milk chocolate view, catching glimpse of a suspicious looking young man off in a mirror to his far right. He immediately stuffed two bite-sized chocolate truffles into his mouth hungrily, redirecting his pertinent gaze towards the odd character. It didn't take long for Dante to note the revolver discreetly hidden within the man's hands. He sighed.
I thought this night would go smoothly as planned. Nonetheless ... no sign of that little girl. Where is she? [/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u]
Such a place, was not for such a man. Places as such gave the darkly dressed man shivers. People with too much money looking for a place to waste it. He wanted to shout, 'give it to me you dumb fucks!' But his long years of training kept him under control. The sound of idle chatter, little debates and the clicks of expensive heels and fancy shoes were driving him mad. Sure he dressed the part, but this wasn't him. The man, best friend of a late writer with a terrible temper... and an amazing aim with any small hand gun. His skin was lightly tanned, nothing too special, only natural looking. Accompanied by the most stunning hazel eyes many had ever seen. A spot of caramel touched his left eye. His face was ruggedly cut, but smoothly shaven. His dirty hair hung over his eyes.
That didn't keep him from seeing the shining piece on the guys backside. Though looking up the also darkly clad man, it was one of his own. One of his best... other than the late leader and himself, of course. His tall and slender form allowed him to see over the heads of the art lovers. He himself cared no mind to paint on some paper. Art was more... physical to this stunning young man. Thin, starved fingers rushed through the ragged hair on his scalp, pushing it back from his eyes. It was his signal. Gerrit Lobdale had a plan. He always had a plan.
There! He saw her. They had the same skin, the same eyes, hell, the same walk almost, other than the smooth and graceful step of her, compared to that of her brother. His people saw the sign, knew he found her. They could almost hear his sickeningly smooth voice whispering in their ears. Let the Chaos being. He nearly groaned hearing the sound of the gunfire. He lived for the fight. His mens' weapons were drawn and going off. Woman were screaming, bringing a twisted grin to his face. He twirled a hand, and a man rushed the tall woman, he did not hesitate to pull the rough sack from his coat. Getting behind her, he placed it over her face, his large dark hand covering where her mouth would be, trying to lessen her fighting...
"Got her? Get out." His voice was a mere whisper, as he stepped over the body of the man, the blood oozing from his skull making his heel squish against the ground.
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Like many at the party, many who weren't there for the art, per-say. The young woman was bored. Bored out of her damned skull. If another man walked up to her and tried to compare her to one of the masterpieces... she just may step her heel though his foot. The thought of it brought the corner of her full, painted and luscious lips into a smile. Her mere smile turned heads, bringing the attention to her round face, with high cheek bones, dimples and brown and orange speckles covering the flawless ivory skin. She brushed a slender hand over her blushing face, caressing her own baby smooth skin with a long finger. She closed her long, darkened lashes over her sparkling baby blues. The blue so intense, some felt as if they were drowning in her eyes.
Pretending to be interested in art -some of which isn't even good at her own standards- got boring quickly. Spinning away from yet another 'angry painting', she stepped towards one of the most up and coming artist's work. A smile was brought to her innocent looking face, framed in strawberry blond locks, so long that when unleashed from the tight bun, pinned to the back of her head, it hung past her waist. The strands, curled into ringlets on either side of her face bounced as she walked. The heels of her own stilettos clicked as she walked. Her hands were brushing against the blue dress she wore, the same vibrant blue of her waterfall eyes. It clasped around her neck, and covered no shoulders, not even her back. The back of the dress squared at the small of her back, one side ended at her thigh, the other her knee. There was a black, Chinese design that came up, around and to her large bust, cupping one perky breast in what looked like a dragon's maw.
"See, I like this one." She sweetly interrupted a debate between to older men, both wrinkled and smelled... bad.. to her. Too much cologne. "It doesn't need to express the feelings she had at the time. You can just tell by looking at it, it's sadness.. and anger, probably from the death of her infamous brother, I'd assume. Look how the water ripped into red and back into blue? Like it's bleeding out. Maybe something a bit deeper than that... who knows..." Emily Madeleine Rolet, one of the most well known young woman in this bustling city. She was the adventurous daughter of the richest, most powerful and well-known men.. maybe even in the entire country! Her swagger was one of a casual person, formal and very well educated. No one would know her hobbies consisted mostly of the video game systems that littered her basement floor.
At least she'd ended the annoying squabble of the two men..
Emily pouted, sticking out the crimson lower lip as she looked around, "How come none of these men are young and striking? All old, smelly or perverted." A soft sigh left her. Her reasons for coming to this thing was her own, perhaps to find another attractive and educated male for a fun evening? No. A conversation would be nice. She thanked the young man whom passed by with glasses of wine. Taking a small sip of the glass she'd taken from his tray, she sighed once more.
That's when gun shots went off. Of everything she'd learned, playing gamed like Resident Evil, Left 4 Dead among others, one stood out more than anything. Do. Not. Scream. Attention, it was the last thing you wanted. As women rushed around screamed, and men hollered, whipping out their own firearms and returning fire. She did what she was taught. Get low, and get hidden. Emily quickly made her way across the marble floor, slipping and sliding herself under a couch. A ricochet from the wall struck her in the ankle. A pain laced scream left her. She was still thinking clearly though, quickly she grasped her ankle, placing pressure on the wound that was gushing blood, staining the floors. "Fuck!" She muttered, swearing to help ease the pain... [/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u]
Of all places for gang violence to occur, it had to at her sanctuary. This museum for many years had been her chapel. Through the tragic losses adversities Johnta had faced over a course of nearly ten years, this haven was the safest place she had ever come across. For those who wanted to deface a place of peace and creativity, they were made. Johnta instinctively shielded her visage with her hands as a group of men swerved by. She staggered backward, busily smacking away the stagnant, salty taste in her mouth. As nonchalant as she was, she was in no position to hand over her life to random gang violence.
Johnta was startled by a calloused, right hand gripping her bicep. "Come with me," a malicious male's voice sneered. She gazed upward into a pair of snake-like brown eyes which were filled to the brim with murderous intent. The man was throw aback by Johnta's strength as she jerked her arm back from his grasp. Another man approached, and with a furled fist, lobbed it at Johnta's assailant. With the two men writhing and bickering on the floor, the Caribbean woman cautiously strafed backwards, the souls of her expensive heals coated in the curator's blood. What came next, unfortunately, was a bit more of a shock.
She let forth a muffled howl after the cloth graced her maw.
With florescent green eyes wide, Johnta raised her flawless hands around the man's wrists, prying, digging her manicured nails into his flesh, but to no avail. His grip was a death grip; he wasn't letting go.
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"Alas ... the delicate little lamb is injured." Dante reached down underneath the decorative black leather sofa, plucking his target upward by her dainty wrist with virtually no strength whatsoever. "Does that mean she's tainted? Or just easier to catch? Personally, my dear ... I enjoy the hunt with some difficulty to it. But, I won't complain if there's a bit of a handicap." The man grinned a sadistic, forbearing grin, skillfully plucking a baretta from his pocket. "Alright, Ms. Rolet. I'm going to have to ask you to come with me." His breath was hot on her neck; he locked his arm around her neck while the other hand occupying the fire-arm was aimed towards her skull. The cool metal of the gun parted her thin, ginger bangs, finding the flesh of her scalp. He chuckled a low, grand chuckle, then jerked her in the direction towards the fire-exit.
In no way was Dante gentle or forgiving, he was a relentless gang-banger and notorious drug trafficer. There was honor amongst thieves, but there was amongst gang members ... for the most part.
With the frigid barrel still pressed to her temple Dante led her out into the dank alleyway. It was hazy and wreaked of sewage and rotting garbage. "Move it!" he sneered, caressing the hammer of the gun with his thumb. He reached into his pocket and unfolded a napkin; inside were two small pills that seemed fragile enough to melt upon contact with any moisture. He placed the napkin over her mouth, forcing the pills into her maw. Within seconds - if the pills worked correctly, which they would - she'd be out cold ... and malleable. He'd be able to transport her much easier to his hovel.
Gerrit watched the girl squirm under the man's iron grip. Waving a hand, he motioned for her to be whisked away. He kept his weapon hidden in it's leather case on the inside of his pants. He looked around, it was slowly starting to clear. He notes relatively plainly. Rubbing his temples with his long fingers he sighed. "Make sure no one sees us exit." He said, grasping the woman they'd captured by her arm. "Hurry up." He said, yanking her after them. The woman's assailant kept his hand over her mouth. Not even disturbed at how her nails ripped the skin through his layered clothing.
"She is her brother's sister, huh?" His laughter was hoarse, perhaps naturally that way, or because of the debris and smoke filling the art hall.
"Just shut up and get her out of here." Gerrit rolled his hazel eyes. Brushing the dirty blond bangs back from his eyes. Reaching deep into his slick black dress pants, he produced a pack of cigarettes. He sighed gratefully as he lit one up, striking the match and bringing it to the cancer stick in his lips. Inhaling the tar as it lit itself. He shook out the match, and tossed it onto the scummy ground. The night sky was overcast, a light mist of rain was coming down on them. He watched carelessly as the match stick floated in a tiny stream into the gutters. Casually, he unlocked the doors of an SUV, the plates were stolen, the stickers peeled from another vehicle. Hell, it wasn't even licensed. "Get her in.. She knocked out yet?" He asked, kicking her in the hip with a blood stained shoe, not hard enough to leave a mark, just a little test. "Ah fuck it. She seems pretty out of it."
Without speaking anymore, the four men piled into the SUV. Gerrit in the drivers seat. "Keep her down, and keep her quiet." He said, rolling down the window to puff out some smoke as he kicked in the clutch, placed the car into first gear and head out. Down towards an old worn out building, once a warehouse. A fire burned it down, and this particular gang bought the place.. they weren't short on funds.
----------------------------
"Shove it up your ass." Emily spat back at him, she was terrified of course, but her outward appearance would never suggest that. She yelped as she was picked off the floor by him, she saw no effort in that at all. He was.. a behemoth, larger than any man she'd ever seen outside of the UFC heavy weight division. She was lost in the way he spoke, and the pain in her ankle eased... for a moment. Until she placed her weight on it.. then she howled in pain. Her life fluid was oozing from her at an alarming rate. Her skin was pale and clammy and she felt light headed and short of breath. "Hunt? This is a game to you, you sick bastard!" She thrashed in his hold, until he wrapped his arm around her neck. She then went very still. The cold metal of the gun weighed against her skull, her head was pounding as hard as the blood was pouring from her wound. Emily closed her eyes tightly, she was going to die. She realized. She was being captured, she was bleeding to death, and she was going to die. It felt inevitable to her at the moment.
Emily hobbled as she was pushed, barely able to stand, mostly on her wounded leg. She limped like an old cripple, her heeled shoes not helping her advances at all. "I'm going as fast as I can.. I'm a hemophiliac bleeding to death from my ankle. How fast do you think I can move?" She growled back at him. Now that she had realized her death that was impending, she felt she had nothing to fear, nothing but the pain of death. Perhaps if she pushed him enough he'd shoot her dead there, kill her in the spot and save her from her misery.
That was not the case it seemed.
She felt something warm from being so close to a body for so very long touch her face, and her bloodied hands reached up to pull his hand away. The joke among her friends rung in her mind. "Hey, what does this napkin smell like?" But it was no time for these thoughts. She clawed at his hands, before reaching up to claw at his face, not succeeding before the pills rolled onto her tongue, her hands merely left smears of her own blood on his cheeks. Her body slumped into his arms, her body going as limp as a puppet without any strings of a puppet master.[/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u]
"Come on man! Keep her head down!" One of Gerrit's goons commanded, forcefully shoving the woman's neck downward. After feeling her assailant nick her in the side, Johnta promised herself - amongst her fatigue and grogginess - that she'd get him back for that. It was low, devious and plain old rotten. Unfortunately for her, the narcotic the men force-fed her was working all but too swiftly. Her eyelids felt heavier then sinking stones; thick, unruly eyelashes tangled together in a struggle to stay awake, but to no avail.
Still, being as defiant as her body allowed her, Johnta swatted one of the men in the face with her palm. The man cried forth, clearly unamused with their their prizes' whimsical outbursts. "Cunt!" he chirped, striking Johnta's roguish, beautiful face with the hilt of his firearm. The metal ripped open the flesh upon her lip, causing a medium sized slit. That was what truly put her out like a busted light. "Fuck ... that bitch hits hard," the dark-haired man complained, gently massaging his cheek, "Watch your ass, Gerrit. I don't think she's a pushover."
The other man perched in the back seat snickered.
"So what are you going to do with her? Get her home, woo her after kidnapping her and fuck her? Brilliant plan, boss."
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Before Emily had the privilege to pass out, Dante took charge. He grasped her by had mandible, tilting her head upward to meet his murderous gaze. "Listen little girl," he growled, "I don't have time for your bullshit. If you want to be cheeky then maybe I should just cut off your tongue and watch you choke on your own blood. Do you have any idea how fun that would be for me to watch?" He licked his angelic, thin lips, watching with immense pleasure as his prize lost consciousness and slipped through his grasp.
With the woman limp in his hands, he dragged her towards his rolls royce with relative ease, disdaining her curvaceous body in the back. He had no goons or men to help him operate - Dante "Domino" Cruz operated solely on his own, with the exception of one or two half-decent men. After securing her body in the back of the car, Dante hopped into the driver sit, plunging the keys into the ignition and ripping off out of the alleyway.
His home where he had been holed away was actually an extravagant condominium had decided to purchase 'briefly'.
When they arrived, he transported the unconcious woman into the building bridal style, careful to mask her wound with her dress. Dante, unfortunately, was greeted with a suave looking gentleman wearing a winsome looking beige suit by the elevator. He angrily punched in the floor of his suite, gazing towards the ceiling of the contraption. "Busy night, huh?" The man asked Dante. "Yeah," Dante grunted in return, anxiously gazing upward. "Too many drinks?"
"You could say that."
When his floor came, he rushed off towards his suite, shoving the door open and placing the woman on the king-sized bed in the master bedroom. I've gotten this far. It looks like I may have to remove the bullet and cauterize her wound ... wonder what daddy will think when he finds out his precious little girl has mysteriously disappeared.[/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u]
Gerrit laughed at the men struggling with the woman. "So amusing. Three grown men cannot hold down a woman who, even though her blood line is strong, but she should be getting close to being knocked out. Aren't you cutting off her oxygen?" He shook his head, making a sharp turn, down a thin street a backstreet to the warehouse. "Idiots. It's a good thing you amuse me so." His voice was oddly poetic for a thug.
"Watch my ass? Really boys, you thought that his sister was a pushover? Did your mother drop you on your head? Multiple times? Fucking retard. Of course not, but see. I know about her family life, I know things about her family that'll make her stay... And not say a word." His brushed his hair back as he slowed down before the large garage doors. Two men got out of the SUV, trucking their large, butch asses over to haul it upwards, Gerrit casually drove inside.
A laugh left his lips, moist with his saliva after licking them. The taste of the fancy wine, served at the art gallery was still on them, mmm... red berry wine. So appealing. "I do not fuck women, my young, fools. I make them beg for it." He rolled his eyes and waved a hand. "Make sure when she wakes up she's comfortable.. and that there is a pad-lock the size of your head on her door."
They had fixed up the place. It's offices now fancy bedrooms and... offices. The place looked quite luxurious, other than the rusting machinery in the center of the warehouse.. he'd fix that up.
Right now though, he needed to figure out, how exactly... he was going to get her to take her brothers spot.
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Her vibrant eyes had been fuzzy, hazy trying to focus on one thing at a time. His words eluded her before she slipped into a forced sleep. All she could focus on was the way his tongue had crossed his lips. Merely the colors of it kept her focus..
Until she passed out.
Subconsciously, she knew what was happening. Her baby blues were opened slightly, her lips parted and her hair tangled. Even all bruised and banged up, passed out on strong drugs, she looked gorgeous. Her innocence almost radiating from her ivory skin. When she was lifted from the car, her head rolled against his chest. Her long painted lashes brushing his chest as she breathed very shallow. Emily's mind was still relatively awake, her body was unable to move. The more he carried her, the more 'awake' she became. She went to jerk her arms, and tell him to put her down, but nothing happened. Her barely open eyes staring upwards into his face, smooth from a recent shaving.. though obvious it was used to stubble..
Why am I here? Why did he take me? Does this have to do with my father? Or is he just going to rape, kill or do something else just as disgusting with me? Oh god... this is really bad... am I still bleeding? She felt no pain, she didn't even feel the bed under her body. Her head sunk into the pillow, her body perfectly placed. She looked like a model, posing for a magazine for those who liked dead women... creepy.[/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u]
Sometimes a given few of Gerrit's men questioned his authority. He was a suave, articulate smooth talker. A man as slender and as roguishly handsome as himself seemed to thrive on the brawn of others. But, his men were hired guns, aside from the three perched in the back seat, Gill and Richard. Gill was a slender man like his boss but much more temperamental and a little slow in the head. Richard, on the other hand, was a brilliant Irish man with a rich accent and a very witty mode of thinking. The other young man was virtually nameless and a suspiciously quiet young man from the Bronx. All of them had their stories, though none were wiling to share them.
With Johnta now passed out positioned against his body, he laced his arm around her shoulder, playfully toying with her tamed black hair. While Richard and Jermaine was perfectly fine with their boss' rude comments, Gil was not. In fact, he truly never was. He didn't like being treated like an animal; he wanted to be treated like an equal. "Ugh ... shut up and just drive," he murmured darkly, gritting his teeth while redirecting his gaze towards the window pane where the blurry city lights rushed by. It was like a jumble of red and blue; a mesh of frothy hues. He watched with disinterest, awaiting their to arrive to their destination.
"So, Gerrit, if you don't mind me askin'," Richard whispered defensively, his Irish accent sweet and rustic, "What's your plan with the lass here? As pretty as she is ... people are going to find out that she's missing and the police are going to be searching for her, probably by tomorrow afternoon. We'll leave her in your hands as you've instructed and try to throw off the authorities but I have to admit ... this is a tricky job."
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The behemoth mean looked tired beyond compare. His chocolate brown eyes were dark and fatigued; his collar was popped from the removal of his tie, as well as of his jacket. He wasn't thrilled to have been babysitting this detective's daughter after the evening's tumultuous brawl. He was tired, grumpy, irritated and above all, hungry. Dante hadn't had a decent meal in days. He had been feasting on fast food for the past week which had made him extremely irritable and sluggish. He couldn't wait to get back to eating is big, hardy meals of typical steak, cheese and potatoes.
The now slovenly looking man had taken a perch upon a massive leather, black Lazy Boi chair near one of the grand sunset windows in the lounging portion of the suite. His dress top was lazily unbuttoned and he had a frothy, cold bear clutched tightly in his bear paws. Only a matter of time before he learns his daughter is missing. I'd love to see his face. He took a swig of his brew and chuckled lowly, quite pleased with the job he did on fixing his toy's wounds. He had removed the bullet with a pair of tweezers and cauterized it using knife he placed over the burner and some polysporin that was lying around in the hotel room's emergency medical kit. He wrapped it gingerly with guass and bandages and was even kind enough to leave a bottle of painkillers and a glass of ice water by the nightstand if she needed the narcotics.
I need a smoke.
With his bottle in tow he rolled over to the table in the lounging room. Near the couch was a small satchel which wreaked of weed, though he masked the scent with an opened cologne bottle. He pulled out one of his previously rolled cigarettes and placed it to his lips, skillfully lighting it with one of his treasured lighters. The pungent stench wafted through the lounge, but eased Dante's mind. Fuck that's good
. [/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u][/list:u]
As Gerrit was not the true brains of this operation, he was not surprised. Nor, did as they all assumed by his attitude, was he dumb. "See boys. Like it or not, I'm just following orders. As much as her brother hated his life from what it did to him, it also created them. She's got a shit ton of money waiting for her. But the catch is... she has to 'inherit' his job. And 'cause I was the second man as it was, I have to keep her in line until it gets up again." Gerrit fixed the mirror to look over to the three men in the back, "Don't fucking talk to me that way, swine." He spat, looking at them.
Gill never understood Gerrit, in fact, Gerrit's fast talking, smooth lips never really caught on with him. So they just avoided each other. Richard and Gerrit though.. they were close, when not in the 'boss and employee' mode. They both had the same type of humor, way of talking.. the works! Though Gerrit didn't like the youngest, the vile tongued one, he was rude, and didn't know his place in the world, or even in this gang. This gang employed the meanest, most vile, best gun slingers, and more cruel ... anything. They weren't too picky, they'd find you a spot somewhere. But their goal was not drugs like most would assume, not sex or prostitution as the other populace assumed.. but the reselling and distributing of fire arms. They sold their guns and ammunition to the Taliban and other such organizations. No, they were not warmongers, but in the words that Gerrit and the late founder agreed on All must be fair, in love and war. And without them.. there would be no fairness.
Men working for the U.S. government were also working for them, posing as business men with wives and children, which they did. But these wives worked for them too, all willingly. No one came without the want to, until now.
They needed her.
She was the key. She was what he had told them to replace him with on his death bed. Gerrit needed Johnta.
And he would have her.
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The father of the young woman on the bed was very powerful. His father's father's father had been the founder of a company. A very wealthy and powerful company, one that made lots of problems for gangs like Dante's. They were detectives. Ones who were trained rigorously along side the elite police. Ones who were usually... very intelligent. Though Emily never had anything to do with it, she was the only child of this man, though he'd only ever wanted a son. His wife died while Emily was being born, and had yet to find another woman to take his side and conceive him a son. Nor would he let his daughter, his baby, his angel ever take on this line of work. Her future had already been secured as an animator. And she wanted nothing less. Even though she was spoiled, Emily did her best to fit in, she went to public schools, she got her own job, she tried to convince her father to stop giving her money.. she only ever wanted to be normal. Then her father busted the largest drug scandal of the century. Dante's.
Now his baby was locked in this wreck. A groan left her soft but dry lips, her tongue rolled over them to moisten them back up. A hand rose to her forehead, brushing back her bangs. "Where... am I?" She asked aloud, blinking open her pretty blue eyes. That wasn't her ceiling. She tilted her head. That wasn't her bedding either. Emily sat up, looking down her body. Her dress was torn and dirty, her ankle wrapped precariously, though she could see the ooze from her wound. She winced as the pain from shifting it ran up her leg. A loud gasp left her, her fingers grasping the white supposedly romantic looking comforter.
Now she was terrified. Emily began to hyperventilate. Her long hair was falling loose of it's pins to her head, strands falling onto the bed, over her face and onto her breasts. Clenching her teeth to ignore the pain, she sat up further in the bed, her back against the pillows. She brought her good leg up to her chest, and clutched at herself. Tears began to well up her her eyes, threatening to spill over. She was confused, this was not her home, this was not her bed, this wasn't even on her part of the city by the looks out the window.
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