“Merciful mother of fuckers,” Fortunato swore, watching the events unfolding on his multiscreen array.
Fortunto’s plans were often little more than an awareness of the most probable possibilities and a list of options to execute should they arise. However, several less favorable possibilities had come to pass… including some he hadn’t been particularly prepared for… and his options seemed to be shrinking fast.
The Lead Soprano was apparently making his move, but he didn’t seem to be on anyone’s side. His own hand-picked security squadrons had done nothing but create a stalemate with those who weren’t on his payroll, a fact which vexed him considerably… not only had he selected the best troops money could buy, he’d effectively doubled their salary by giving them a second wage on top of what the gaming commission paid them.
Lilliana and her plucky band of idiots had set things in motion by surviving to show up and force his hand, but they could have been exactly the x-factor he needed to regain control of the game… if only she hadn’t provoked him into that deafening display.
Deprived of minions, allies, and tools, it seemed that Fortunato had very few options indeed for reclaiming what was his. In point of fact, he really only had one.
“That,” he reflected to himself out loud as he rose up from his chair, “simplifies things considerably.”
He raised his arms out over his head, stretching like a great dragon that had just awoken from eons of slumber, flexing his fingers as his arms returned to their normal level. He turned with deliberate grace… and found one of those confounded middle managers, flanked by a pair of Hospitality Ambassadors from the elite Privileged Persons, Interstellar Nabobs, and Extradimensional Sapient Species squadron.
“Fortunato,” the middle manager said. “By the power staked to me by the Fickle Finger Gaming Commission, I hereby order you to…”
Unless it was for him to drop dead and the fellow was simply being a bit more demonstrative than verbal, Fortunato never did find out what he was thereby ordered to do, for the little man and his goons expired with a single quiet round through the back of the head and a hail of armor piercing rounds in the back.
“Mr. Fortunato,” said an identical manager, this one flanked by a pair of burly men wearing well-cut suits and holding fully automatic barrel KEGs. “Pardon the interruption, but a mutual associate of ours has instructed us to take all steps to safeguard the well-being of his new business partner.”
“Whomsoever that may end up being?” Fortunato noted.
“Exactly,” the trojan manager said. “If I were you, I wouldn’t do anything stupid.”
Fortunato sighed with dramatic weariness, raising a hand up in front of his face as if to study it. He turned it over, inspecting his nails.
“Is that a fact?” Fortunato said in a bored tone. With a sudden twist of his wrist, his blade-like fingernails went flying into the throats of the three gangsters. As they dropped their weapons and clutched their necks on the way to the floor, Fortunato went over to an unremarkable panel of wall and pressed a fingertip to it. “Well, it seems like sound advice,” he said as a hidden compartment slid open, revealing an pistol-style weapon molded into the shape of a wyvern with its tail curved downward for the grip, and a long and deadly looking sword. “I’ll be sure to take it under advisement.”
A pair of black gloves sat at the bottom of the case. He put them on, then took up his weapons.
Only one option left… that did simplify things.
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