Al Fine [boyxboy]

Pietro Cavalcante relaxes into the warm, velvet upholstery of his booth, thick, well-tanned fingers swirling his expensive wine absently. He tilts his head to the right, scanning the hazy, smoke filled speakeasy as he brings the rim of his glass to his lips. He nurses his wine slowly, inhaling through his nose. The wine's bitter scent lingers as it slides past his tongue, the taste amicable enough. Jazz plays softly in the background, the sound melancholic. The showgirl of the night's voice is deep and raspy, adding a darker, more tempting edge to the club's ambiance.

The Dove's Wing is a known haunt for the Cavalcante family. It's a classy little joint, one of Pietro's favorites, really; the owner is discreet, which is as convenient as it is valuable. If he also so happens to be one of the Cavalcante Family's biggest buyers of bootleg alcohol then, well, what's friends amongst business partners? Pietro allows himself another sip of wine before he sets the glass down on the mahogany tabletop. It's exactly eleven o'clock, which means who he's expecting should be arriving soon. He glances to the club's back entrance and smiles, pleased when he sees three soldati and his favorite capo—his cousin, Sergio—have finally deigned to show themselves.

Pietro beckons them over. "Buona sera, Sergio," Pietro greets, tone sanguine as he gestures for his cousin to sit across from him. "Please, sit. I assume you have good news for me?"

Sergio smirks, the handsome quirk of lips accenting the angular shape of his jaw. He slides into the booth as soon as Pietro gestures for him to do so. "Yeah, Boss," he says, "I got good news for ya."

"Well?" Pietro asks with a cocked brow.

Sergio leans back, demeanor casual. "Found that porco cane, the filthy little rat, before his nice police friends could cart him off to some sort of safe house," he says, crooked smile a trite too cocky.

"Hmm," Pietro hums, appearing thoughtful. "And where is he now?"

Sergio gestures over his shoulder. "Out back," he says. "We already did a number on 'im, but if you wanna go at 'im yourself, just say the word, Boss."

Pietro considers that. The kid's only eighteen. Stupid, perhaps, but he broke the sacred omertà, the code of silence. To Pietro, acting head of the Cavalcante Family, that's an unforgivable crime. Family above all, that's what his family is taught from childhood; what Mario should have stood for. Kid or not, he has desecrated all that the Cavalcante name stands for. Death is a befitting punishment.

Pietro stands suddenly, fixing the lapels on his jacket and brushing back a loose strand of his coffee colored hair. He fixes a sharp, painfully bright green gaze on Sergio. "Take me to him," he orders.

Sergio nods, grinning. "Sure thing, Boss," he whistles, getting to his feet easily. "This way." He leads Pietro across the low lighted club and out the back entrance, into the grimy back alley. Two more soldati are waiting for them there, a pathetic lump held between them.

Mario's a mess, his face beaten black and blue; he's obviously suffered several broken bones as well, but he's still breathing. Pietro methodically takes off his white gloves and shoves them into his jacket pocket. He then crouches down in front of Mario, expression calm and considering. "Do you know why we call your kind rats?" Pietro inquires, reaching forward to roughly grasp Mario's chin. "Because you belong in the gutter, just like all other vermin." He tilts Mario's chin up, forcing the teen to look Pietro dead in the eye. "I gave you a family, a home. Did I not take care of you? Feed you? Give you work? And yet you repay me by running to the policia with your tail tucked between your legs?"

"I… m… sor… ry," Mario sobs, blood coating his lips as he coughs, struggling to breathe.

Pietro's face remains devoid of emotion as he stands, feet pivoting nosily against the gravel as he turns to Sergio and says, "Put him on ice for a while, and then burn him."