Few know his name. Only those from whom he takes orders. Everyone else just calls him 'The Boss'.
When word reaches him through well-greased channels of the situation surrounding The Fury, he doesn't rant and rave. It's not his style. Instead, he sits at his desk, chair tilted back, legs propped on the desk - crossed at the ankle - and fingers steepled and tapping his lips as his brain races, exploring all possibilities. Don't be fooled by the pose, though. Many people have mistaken the pose for true relaxation. Those people are dead.
Reaching a conclusion, he drops his feet to the floor and snaps his fingers for one of his minions to step closer. Quickly writing on a slip of paper, he folds it in half and hands it to the boy in front of him - with instructions to deliver it to Mr. Olivander and no one else.
There are only two words written on that paper.
Giuseppe Vitale
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The relief in the air is palpable as the last of the fuzz exit the joint, swells bringing up the rear as a bouncer, Rob, follows them to lock up and return, awaiting further instructions.
The joint's a mess. Busted up chairs, overturned tables, and candles litter the dance floor. It's a wonder the place didn't catch fire in the chaos. The stage curtain's ripped off its rails, drooping like a plastered piker, and the floor's sticky with drying booze.
So much to be done, but the first thing is to get word to Scott about what's gone down. Then the clean up can begin.
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Good news travels fast. Bad news travels faster. Word of the raid on The Fury hits the streets running.
It reaches James just as Stellan reports that all bodies have been 'disposed of' and he turns his attention to his two prisoners, bound and gagged in the back of one of the trucks, unmindful of their wounds.
A few quiet words to Stellan, and their trucks have new drivers as they head away from the pier in opposite directions. One to a safe holding area where the booze can be stored until delivery is approved, and the other to a place few know of. A place where James can do what's necessary to get some answers.
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Just a normal Friday night in The Fury. The band's playing, the dancefloor's jumping, the hooch is flowing. Cards are shuffled, dealt, exchanged, laid down as challenges met and lost.
Katherine's on stage singing, Nathan's behind the bar, Scott's in his office. Brendon's act is due on as soon as Katherine's set finishes, and John's disappeared somewhere backstage with one of the patron's - that ain't exactly unusual.
What's unusual is the commotion working its way along the corridor to the top of the stairs to end as cops pouring through the doorway and down into the club. On duty cops.
The Fury pays its fees, and pays them well. Trouble is, this time, it looks like someone else has paid them better.
Half the crowd's ossified already, takes a while for them to work out what's happening. The cops in there to drink turn their coats fast enough, forming up with the squad and turning guns on their tablemates, dance partners, whoever's close by. Tables break, Janes are screaming, bullets fly. There's a crowd at the back of the stage seeking another way out. Any way out.
Too many people, there's no way clear, no clear view. People sheltering behind the bar, behind downed tables. Broken glass and booze spilling across the floor from shattered bottles, and it's fast. Within minutes, the club's empty of anyone but cops and the few unfortunates they've managed to pinch.
Among them: Brendon. Katherine. Nathan.
Holed up securely backstage: Scott. John and his guest.
Anyone else? Take a wild guess. There's enough chaos that no one's quite sure where anyone is, and most of The Fury's firepower's down at the docks.
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The docks are dark, deserted, lit by nothing but a half-clouded moon. It's why it's useful for the kind of deliveries that the customs officials shouldn't know about - or can be bribed to pretend not to know about.
It also means that every delivery's vulnerable.
Daniel's usual team wait for the ship to come in, hidden in shadows, James, Stellan and reinforcements behind them closer to the shore, by the warehouse as the trucks pull up, engines loud in the silence. The ships arrive without fanfare, gliding silent and unlit through dark waters, and all proceeds as it should. Smooth and efficient, crates swung down the side of the ship and stacked into the back of trucks.
And that's when they strike.
Swarming from the shore, not to the men, not to the ships, not to the supplies - to the trucks, ready loaded. This time, Daniel's men aren't caught by surprise. This time, they're ready, this time, blades catch moonlight and Daniel's warnings take second place to securing the shipment.
Blood stains the pier, and men fall on both sides, curses hissed under breath, in faces, into the water as feet slip, tangle in ropes, catch. Eternity in a few vicious minutes until the strangers break, run, melt back into shadows. All that remains is the shipment loaded into two trucks, two drivers with slit throats, slumped over steering wheels. Three unidentified bodies, a couple of men injured too badly to run - and James and his men to clear up the mess.
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