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PostPosted: Mon Apr 17, 2006 12:36 am 

Joined: Sat Feb 11, 2006 10:21 pm
Posts: 54
OOC NOTE: Due to the fact that I can start my defense at any point of the hit, I've underlined the parts that apply to where I begin.

Part One

Vincent Pizzo wrote:
The Easter Day Massacre[size=9]
Ordered By: Mike LaMare
Permissions: Head Admins. Brandie and Jackal
Requesting:The Deaths of Don Vincent Barzini and Carlo Scivoli


Vince and Antonio look at each other as Antonio drove feverishly down the streets of New York City in their brand new 2005 Mercedes-Benz G-Class G55 AMG. Both of the Twin brothers were preparing for a hit and quite frankly both were a little nervous as neither of which had done a hit on this particular scale before. Vincent did not know the particulars, but he did not need to. All he knew was that he had a job to do and what was that.

As they neared their destination Vincent threw his hand against the steering wheel. he had forgotten something.

"What is it?"

"Eh', we need to make some Molotov’s"Vince said.

"I don't know how to make Molotov’s."Antonio replied.

"I do. We'll stop over here."

The two kept on driving down the road until they came to a liquor store. ABC liqour it was titled. Vincent parked the vehicle and opened the door.

"Wait here."

Vincent walked across the parking lot soundly, his shoes making a loud noise on the cement as he did so. He had that feeling in his stomach, the feeling you get before a big football game, or something of that nature. He opened the glass door to the liquor store and walked inside. His visit at the establishment was a brief one. Immediately he selected two off brand bottles of liquor. No need to pay for expensive liquor this time. He carried the two bottles to the front desk.

Hanging as a side item he saw some wine trays and dish towels. He selected two of the soft, small towels and placed them on the counter with his wine.

Will that be it sir?"

Vincent nodded and retrieved his wallet, paying the thirty dollars or so that he was charged and took the bag where his items were placed. He took the bag and walked back outside, got in his vehicle started it back up, putting it in drive and heading to the destination.

Finally he reached it, a block away from the bar. He took out the two cocktails and began preparing them. he took the cloths and ripped them into strips which he soaked int he alcohol, then let dry. Once the were dry and placed on end in to the liqour and left the other end of the strips sticking out of the top. When he was done he smiled and turned to Antonio.

"Eh', where did ya' put da' guns, Tony?"Vincent asked his twin brother.

"They're in the back."Antonio Replied.

"What guns you get?"Vince asked curiously.

"I got two AK-47's, and two Sig Sauer's."Tony replied.

"And you got the masks right?"Vince asked.

"Yes, I got ya' fuckin' ski masks, no will ya' stop bustin my balls."Antonio said.

"Hey, pull over right here, this is where we are supposed to meet." Vince said pointing to the side walk.

Antonio nodded and parked the car, they were about a block away from their target. Antonio got out of the passenger's seat and walks behind the car and opens up the trunk, he grabs both Ak-47's and pushes them into the back seat. With this done he backs away and closes the trunk door and walks back to the front.


Secret RP #1 (Approved by Jacob)

Right in the middle of my motherfucking beauty sleep, I get a call. From who you ask? From the ol' boss telling me some feelings were hurt, tensions were high, and his fat ass still wasn't hitting the 24 Hour Fitness. Alright fine, he didn't say that last part, but he should've. Anyway, apperently some fags from Detroit had insulted him, and he expected to be hit sometime soon. This applies to me how boss? Oh right, I'm supposed to protect you. Do I mind? No, no...I love playing human shield. Asshole. Eh, hanging up the phone I got dressed pretty damn quickly. No matter how much he irritates me, the Don has always been like a father to me, and I sure as fuck wouldn't let these Detroit homos get to him. After getting dressed and whatnot, I made sure my Desert Eagle was fully loaded, and shoved a bit of extra ammunition into my pockets, before grabbing my keys, and heading to my car. Within moments, I was driving towards a dark deserted Little Italy alely.

'Rob, why go to a dark Little Italy alley?'. Well George Steponapolus, it's because as I was driving towards the HQ I felt like I wasn't armed enough. Anyway, a few moments later I had arrived in this dark alley, and my amico Alex still hadn't arrived. I looked around a bit for some hookers, you know, figuring maybe I could get some head while I wait. Nothing. Anyway, Alex pulled up a little while later, and brought with him a black duffel bag. He asked me if I had the money, I told him no, I just carried this fucking black briefcase full of cash to look pretty for the ladies. He flicked me off, we exchanged bags, and before I knew it I was in my car unzipping the bag he had given me. Perfect. One AK-47 with five spare magazines. Oh yes, I'd be going Tony Montana on some bitches tonight. Well not exactly Tony Montana, I'd end up living at the end. Seriously, whatsup with Scarface? How does Pacino die at the end? Ah well we'll save that discussion for another day. Meanwhile, I pulled out of the alley, and headed towards the HQ.

I ended up parking across the street from the Headquarters, about a block off, looking as inconspicious as Big Daddy Spanky at a fat people's anonymous meeting. Realizing it'd best to be prepared should shit hit the fan, I once again unzipped my bag and loaded up the AK. Covering it up by the duffel bag, I lay my head back in my seat and waited for anyone or anything out of the ordinary.


-To purchase on AK 47+Magazines which I'll pay for
-To be considered staking out the Barzini Family HQ

Secret RP #2 (Approved by Admins)

Don Vincent Barzini wrote:
The endless grind of pissy, italian-american, middle aged men settling their differences with a pistol; does anyone really like it? I've done this shit for more than forty years and still no respect. The Don of the Milazzo family was supposed to send some to me to talk about patching things up, business, but seconds after he arrives the gavone begins insulting my territory, my bar. These Milazzo punks either have a death wish or had something in the works. The arrangement was for them to bring the money but they had shown up empty handed. Stepping away from my office with the shotgun in hand I walked up the steps to the main bar then out to the 67 Chevelle SS dropped off for me earlier. Making note that no one saw step into the dark tinted Chevelle I dropped the shotgun onto the seat next to me and waited a moment. I drove the car around the block and came back to park at the opposite end of the street, looking at the bar from a distance. I had my trusted associate, Roberto Mancini, stakeout the other end so I was confident the bar was safe.

-For me to be parked away from the bar a bit in my Chevelle (tinted windows)

Secret RP #3 (Approved by Admins)

Don Vincent Barzini wrote:
ooc: Heres mine, a little rushed but I've got to go to an easter family thing. You should just quote it then post it with yours. I'm posting all of our secret rps now.

A Don would have to be a hopeless, abysmal failure to walk into this one. LaMare played this like a fool. Well you can’t help those, the ones who grasp at power but can’t handle it. If the commission was active these days the Milazzos would be crucified by every family from here to Los Angeles. Things change though; old friends alliances had been forgotten as the Feds began cracking down, you can’t even walk out your front door without a news camera in your face. The golden days of the mafia had left us, only to be consoled by vicious street gangs and dim-witted vendettas from every prick with a vowel at the end of his name. Yes, it was true the old days and old rules were over but I was not left in the dust. Having dispatched my most loyal and trusted associate to protect the bar my only concern was a young man still inside.

Sitting in the vehicle I slid a cigarette into my mouth, put the lighter up to my mouth, and then heard it start. Gunfire sounded wildly into the blank night sky in the direction I had dispatched Roberto. How the fuck? Those Milazzo thugs must have drove non stop from there and back to get here so soon. I thought we had more time but no worry everything is sa........[i]Carlo
! Picking up the Mossberg AOW 590 I span my head around to check for any assassins nearby, then made a break for the bar. A million thoughts hounded me. Were they close? They could be right outside and Roberto sleeping with the fishes, then I’d truly need to worry. Entering the eerily quiet bar Tomassino the bartender was shocked at the shotgun in my hand, making haste to grab his own. I jogged through the bar with my weight finally beginning to slow me down, stopping at the top of the stairs to look towards Tomassino. His usually calming olive skin had been stomped into a pale, white fear as he no doubt had heard the gun play.
“Tomassino pull around the Chevelle,”
Tossing the keys onto the bar counter,
“It’s down the street, wait until you see us before you start the engine.”

Now I had little time to waste. Carlo couldn’t have heard the bullets being fired due to the soundproofing between floors, and who knew how close they were. My office door was shut and upon opening it I discovered Carlo in the same spot, flipping through the folder about his next assignment. My own face had the expression of anxiety and anger melded into a single stare.
“Carlo lets go. The bar is under assault, bring the folder.”
Making my way up the first few steps I abruptly changed directions, going back to pick up the duffel Roberto had left. No sense in letting good money burn, but I have a feeling the Guilded Lion would survive. Carlo was nearly out of the door when I reappeared from the basement but was returned with a boisterous shout. Poking my eyes between the blinds on the windows out front I had no one in my view, nothing at all. Pushing the door open I practically drug Carlo out by the scuff of his neck, but by now the adrenaline had taken over. The purr of an engine starting was couple with Tomassino nearly wrecking the car with his hot dog maneuver. The Chevelle pulled a 180 with the aid of the e-brake and had stopped in front of me and Carlo. Running around to the other side I relieved Tomassino as driver and got in. Shoving the 67’ Chevelle SS into first then second gear we were out the vicinity of the bar then out of the area. Ending up in Chinatown, which these days threatened to swallow Little Italy up, we walked into one of those 24 hour Chinese food restaurants and sat in the back. A Don has to eat.[/i]

Secret RP #4 (Approved by Jacob)

Now listen, it's not that I'm not confident in my own abilities. I swear, that's not why I called for help. Why'd I call for help then? Ah...I ah...was lonely sitting in my car? Wow, that was the gayest thing I've ever said in my life. Screw it. I wasn't confident in my own abilities. Listen, if this was some nobody who just happen to be in the family, hell if it was even two nobodies that were in this family, I would've done my stakeout alone. However, I wasn't prepared to gamble with the Don's life. If that makes me any less of a man (It dosn't, I'm more man than any of you. I can take the pants off and prove it.) then so be it. A few minutes into my stakeout, I withdrew the ol' cellphone and dialed up a number I hated dialing.


James: "What?"

"You know who this is?"

James: "Some faggot?"

"No...it's Rob..."

James: "Hmm...hit the nail on the head on my first guess..."

After exchanging more compliments of that nature, I told him what I was calling about. When I told him I needed help, he said no. When I told him my life depended on it, he said no. When I told him the Don's life depended on it, he said hell no. Only after I promised him a few grand as a thank you did he finally agree. He lived two blocks away, so me having to get him a ride wasn't a problem. He had a nice little uzi he saved for birthday's and Barmitzvah's, so loading him up wasn't a problem, the only problem would be not killing him myself from getting on my nerves. He told me he'd be at my car in a few minutes, and I hung up on him as he was getting that last word out.

I guess I better give you the lowdown on James. James (Yes he he told me he had no last name) was a guy I worked with when I was a teenager pulling petty jobs. People told us we had a similiar sense of humor...I have no idea why. Personally I don't think he's funny at all. Bitch ass people who get their laughs at other's people expense, I'm definately nothing like James. Anyway, despite our constant arguing, he and I had deveoped a strange love/hate bond that we carried on to this very day. James's build was nothing out of the ordinary...he was just your average guy. Only thing that seperated him from your average mobster was that he was smart, he was half male, and he was Irish. His weapon of choice was a Beretta 92FS, but he had somehow purchased an Uzi a while back. As much as I hated to admit it, I trusted him more than anyone else in this world with the exception of the Boss.


Before I could go any further down memory lane, dipshit knocks on the window of my passenger's side door. After I let him inside, we exchanged our usually greetings.

"You bring your Uzi?"

James: "No asshole, when you told me there was going to be a gunfight I brought my Gandhi book so that we could reason with the assassins. Of course I brought my fucking Uzi.."

"A simple yes would've done it...prick. You bring the Beretta?"

James: "No, the bulge in my pants is me being happy to see you.."

I let things drop at that. I was about to let things drop, when a disturbing thought hit me. Shit. Shit Shit. How did I not think of this. I could only hope I wasn't too late. Turning to James, I instructed him to go to the back of the bar and patrol there. Seeing the tension on my face, he didn't even bother a smart ass comment. Once he was gone, I called him up, and he told me he'd be hiding right by a dumpster near the back entrance. Thanking him geniunely, I told him to call me if anything changed. Flipping the phone shut, I shoved it in my pocket, and waited alert as ever.

-One Class A Gunman-James
-[1x] Uzi and [1x] Beretta
-For James to be concealed by a dumpster right by the back enterance

Defense #1

Thank god they showed up. I was really, really feeling like I had missed something before these douchebags walked right into my hands. I guess I oughta fill you in on what's been going on. Well for the past three or so hours, James and I had been calling each other back and forth, alert as fuck, waiting for anything out of the ordinary. With every passing minute, I was feeling like I must've missed something. Maybe they got to the Don already. Maybe he was dead. Maybe Jessica didn't really have to wash her hair, and she was actually just avoiding me. Nah that couldn't be it. Anyway, the first two could've actually happened, so I was forcing myself like hell to not get out of that car, run up to where the Don was staying, and check on him. Chances are I would've probably done it, had this completely out of the ordinary moron not stopped, like two parked cars away from me. Now because I was in stakeout mode and all that good shit, I had been kind of slouched in my car seat, that must've been what contributed to these idiots not seeing me when they pulled up. Of course they may have seen me and just been too stupid to understand that I was going to blow their fucking brains out. Ah well.

Anyway, after the car came to a stop, one of the two morons got out of the what I had to admit was a pretty fucking nice car, and popped the trunk open. As he was ruffling around in there and whatnot, I saw my oppertunity to strike. There was no need to waste anything from the AK on this shmuck, this bitch was about to get backhanded by my Desert Eagle. Removing the fine handgun from my shoulder holster, I gripped it tightly, and reached for my cellphone with the other hand. After dialing James's number, I dropped the phone onto my seat. He'd answer it, see the call was from me, and know something was up. After tossing the phone aside, I used my free hand to pop the door open. Because the streets were so quiet and silent and shit, I knew I had to be quick with it. The guy at the trunk may have heard me opening my door, but it was too late. I came out blazing. Firing a shot straight at his neck, I saw by the light of the moon that I had missed my intended target. I didn't hit the back of the neck. I hit the back of the head. Shucks. I was already in Rambo mode adrenaline high or whatnot. As moron by the trunk collapsed to the ground I was still in motion and now running past him. The idiot who remained in the car HAD to have heard my gunshots, but it was too late to turn around now. I was running faster than I had at football practice as a kid (which probably contributed to me getting hit in the head so much, hence my current intelligence) and the advantage of surprise I had on this clown was too much. Before the moron behind the wheel could do anything, I was only a few feet away from the driver's seat window. My gun had stay aimed up from when I had shot the first guy, so I wasted no time with that. Continuing to keep the gun aimed, I let a shot fire through the glass into the soon to be deceased. I wasn't sure where it had hit him, but I didn't want to stop now. Coming to a complete stop right by the driver's window, I let another two full blasts come from my Desert Eagle. After finally looking at the driver's seat window, I let out a deep breath. Lowering my gun, I continued to stare at the dead fucker who was going to kill my boss. By now James was running from around the bar and towards me, but he had missed all the excitement. The entire thing happened in a matter of seconds.

"I guess...we should get rid of them..." I said nodding towards the dead body that lay beside the back of the Mercedes, and the dead body that was now in the driver's seat.

James: "No..."


James: "Lets leave them here...in case they were expecting company.."

I nodded that he had in fact come up with a good idea, but the fact that the driver's seat window was shattered would scare off any potential allies of these morons. After a bitch of searching on the corpses, we found the car keys. We popped the trunk open, and removed the ammo off the AKs, and tossed it aside. We decided to leave the AKs themselves in the car though. We also shoved the dead body of Antonio into the trunk, it'd be a real space saver. Back inside the car, we pushed Vince to the passenger's seat for a second, and did a U-Turn with the car, pulling it to the other side of the road. What's the point of this you ask? Well Timmy, when the moron allies come up, they won't be able to spot the shattered window from a mile away. They'll have to actually come up real close to the car to see it, and by the time they realize what had happen, we'll be pumping them full of lead. Before running back to my DeVille, we made sure everything was in place. Vincent's dead corpse rested bleeding ands hit in the driver's seat. His dead twin brother lay in the trunk, we had loaded their Molotov Cocktails and lighters into our own car, and were now prepared to seriously fuck somebody up.

Back in the car, I looked at James who was now clutching his Uzi tightly.

"We'll wait four hours or so, that's how long we have until it gets really light out. If nobody shows, we'll bury these fucks. If their friends do come, we'll light 'em up..."

James didn't have a smart reply to that, he just remained silent. And so we waited, on the hunch that more shmucks would show up.

Part Two

Mike LaMare wrote:
Paulie threw down his cigarette in a wet puddle by the street curb as he looked out upon the Detroit city skyline. The sun was going down and the day was losing it’s brightness. Paulie stood by the driver’s side door of the Benz – G Class, which looked so much like a box; Vincent had outright refused to drive the vehicle, which left Paulie to pilot the box all the way to New York. Paulie looked over to Vincent who was finishing packing in the weapons with the guys from the Detroit warehouse.

”Hurry it up would ya? We gotta get goin’ here.”

Vincent just scowled at him and stuck his middle finger high in the air, waving git around so he made sure Paulie could see it. The Crew, which consisted of Paulie, Vincent, Frank, Nino and Sal, would drive through the night in what Vincent liked to call “the box” all the way to New York City, hopefully arriving there just before sunrise, which would be totally feasible if they did not stop. Vincent and the crew loaded the rest of the weapons and munitions and closed the back of the truck up. The walked back around and piled in the vehicle, Vincent taking the passenger seat, his road map tightly in hand.

As quickly as the doors were shut, the vehicle had departed, working steadily towards it’s destination that was o so far away. Soft classical Italian and a mixture between static country stations and classic rock drifted throughout the speakers of the Benz. The wiseguys sat peacefully in the box with wheels, despite what they knew they were going to do. Some even slept, knowing they were going for one specific purpose, to end the lives of others. Their own lives were even at risk, yet still, they could sleep soundly.

Paulie eased onto the on ramp, taking the turn into the Interstate that would lead him down through Michigan and then onto New York City. If all went well, the crew would be meeting Vincent Pizzo and the rest in Little Italy before sunrise. Paulie looked in the rear view mirror. The sun had just fallen beneath the skyline of the large city. The night had begun.

The Benz G Class cruised solely through the near empty streets of Little Italy. It was that one part of the morning, the twighlight hour in which the world seemed to stop spinning, where the streets were empty and movement itself had seemed to ceased. Joe was now driving, sipping a cup of espresso in one hand. He had stopped just outside the city to get the cup of coffee, knowing he was not supposed to. The crew had taken turns driving, one hour shifts so they all would be rested upon arrival. Banners of Italian pride and colors hung throughout the streets of Little Italy. Not much had changed in a long time. The old neighborhood still had it’s old time feel.

As Nino began to get confused to which road he was supposed to turn on, he immediately woke Vincent up. Nino pulled off to the side of the road and with a grumble, he and Vincent switched places. Vincent had been to the bar before, he knew the layout. He knew there was a basement where the boss’s office was located, where craps was held during the evenings. He also knew the place would not be too crowded, just a local hang out it seemed, for the few Barzini guys. Vincent, especially, hate that old bastard. There was just something about him, the way he talked down to Vincent when he was there, that sent him over the edge, Vincent took a left down the next street. He slowed the speed of the vehicle now, leaning up on the steering wheel and peering into the early morning darkness, trying to find a vehicle identical to the one he was driving. Finally he spotted it, Vincent Pizzo’s vehicle, about a block away from where the bar was located.

Vincent eased the box like vehicle over to the side of the road where Pizzo’s twin vehicle was located. Vincent placed the truck in park and stepped outside into the chilly New York weather. He was dressed in relatively all black leather, like a typical gangster from one of those old mob hits. Vincent made his way over to Pizzo’s car window and tapped on it twice.
With a startle, whoever was inside had jumped back into reality and rolled down the window. Vincent peeked his head in.

”You guy’s fuckin’ ready or what?”

Pizzo nodded and began finishing his own preparations. Meanwhile Vincent walked back over to his own vehicle. He popped the trunk and lifted it up, sliding the boxes out. Opening one of them he retrieved the ski masks and Kevlar vests, courtesy of the Detroit Weapons Warehouse. He handed them on, one by one, until each man had a ski mask and a Kevlar vest. As soon as everyone had their base equipment, Vincent slid on his own vest and ski mask. After that came the weaponry. He slid out another box, revealing four pistols, which he handed out accordingly. Nino and Sal got the .44 Desert Eagles, while Vincent and Paul got the Glock 17’s. They fixed their pistols in their belts as best they could.

Vincent then retrieved one last box, with the big guns in it. He retrieved two Benelli M4 shotguns, which he distributed to Paul and Nino, then he pulled out two Thompson’s, sub machine guns, which were for himself and Sal. They loaded their weapons with the extra ammo that had been brought with them all the way from Detroit, then packed a few extra rounds, just in case they were needed. The Motor City Crew locked and loaded their firearms, and mentally prepared themselves for what had to be done. Mike LaMare, had given them orders, orders which without question, had to be carried out.

”Hey Pizzo? You ready over there?”

Vincent shouted over to Pizzo and his look alike brother. Pizzo shook his head as he had his materials ready with him. Pizzo also had rigged up some Molotov cocktails, which would come quite in handy. Vincent motioned for Pizzo to hand over the Molotov cocktails to Paul and Nino. Vincent, all of a sudden, sprang into his crouch position, like he was sneaking up on something. The others followed his example and they moved, quietly upon the bar. As they approached closer to the establishment, Vincent could see the two lower level windows he remembered from his last visit to the shit heap they called a bar.

He used his hand gestures to motion Paul and Nino over to the first window. Paul, the only smoker of the crew, always carried a lighter with him. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a lighter, decorated in the colors of the Italian flag; green, white, and red. He lit the tip of the cloth to his Molotv, igniting it in a slow blaze, the trial moving down inside the bottle. Quickly he moved the lighter over to Nino’s bottle, where he lit the tip of Nino’s cloth.

Saland Nino sprang into action, running about seven yards down the front of the building to where the second window was located. Nearly simultaneously, Vincent and Sal broke the windows, using the tough butts of their guns, creating a shatter of glass inside the bar. Less than seconds later, the Moltovs came flying in to the main floor of the bar, thrown by Paul and Nino. Any that were caught in the fiery inferno of the initial explosion of the Moltov’s were caught and taken by utter surprise.

It was show time. Vincent and Pizzo led the attack through the front door, busting it open like in the movies. Pizzo held the Ak-74 at his waist tightly. Vincent held his Thompson at hi shoulder, scanning the floor area quickly, in one crossed glance. Paul, Nino, Sal and Pizzo’s man, Antonio, filed in directly behind the two lead men. Time seemed to freeze, sound ceased. All that could be heard was the soft music of some Italian singer playing softly at the other end of the bar. Seconds seemed like minutes as the small initial blaze of the Moltov’s fizzled out and turned into nothing more than a few small fires amidst the bar’s main floor.

Then the calmness ended. Bodies scrambled to get up everywhere, all throughout the bar. Pizzo pulled back hard on his trigger, sending the Automatic weapon springing into action. Bullets spit out from the rifle in all directions, tearing apart anything they hit. Vincent immediately snapped out of his trance, as well as Sal. Their Thompson’s erupting into an onslaught of bullets, reigning down on all who were in the bar. A few innocent patrons tried to make a stumbling, off balance try for the door but were cut down in their efforts by sub machine gun fire coming from the Motor City crew.

Everything was happening so fast, those inside the bar, who were not already wounded, were too shaken up to know what was going on.


Vincent scanned the floor quickly, watching for any living members still in the bar. He peered through the clearing smoke, cocking his head forward a little.

Meanwhile Paul and Nino moved inside with their Benelli shotguns held at their waist. Nino adjusted his pistol sticking out of his belt line as they did so. Nino’s eyes squinted through the holes in the ski mask, seeking out any remaining people on the bar floor. The smoke had lifted now and the bar was nearly all clear. A loud spurt came over form the juke box as it died and sparks flew out accordingly. Nino jumped back at it and looked over near the bar, where he saw a man getting up from the explosion. He was obviously wounded and having some trouble moving.

Carlo Scivoli wrote:
"Hey, you're Carlo aren't you?" the bartender asked, offering his hand. Carlo accepted.
"I'm Tommassino the bartender here. The Don said you could either get started on a job for us now, or wait till he's out of the meeting. What'll be kid?"
Scivoli smiled. The kiddo thing meant he was yet to gain his respects but welcomed to do so. He was glad the word of him spread so far to get recognised.
"I'd like to meet the Don first, if he's got time."
He saw three men come in and heard someone greeting them. Turning on the stool he noticed Don Barzini sitting at the corner. He bowed his head in respect and returned to Tommassino.
"I'll wait" he said lifting his glass from the counter.

Carlo Scivoli wrote:
Carlo weighed both the envelopes. He wasn't going to check them in front of the Don so he just put them into his pockets. Funny. He has just left Sicily for New York and now he was getting back there. Maybe this was the reason he was taken for the job.

"Will you call me back or do you want me to watch the ground in Palermo for longer, Signore Barzini?"

Paul and Nino each took three steps nearer to the wounded man, Nino raising his large shotgun to his shoulder and bracing for the impact. He pulled back the trigger, sending a harsh shock through the barrel of the gun, up to the butt and onto his shoulder. The blast from the gun send a Benelli M2 shotgun round into the man’s chest. It went right in and out the other side, splattering his remains all over the front of the bar.

Now there was movement behind the bar. Quickly Nino braced himself for another shot. But Paul was already on it. He leapt up onto the bar stool and pointed his shotgun barrel over the bar at what ever was moving. It was the bartender, undoubtedly shaken up, cowering on fear for his life. Paulie did not histate, he let two rounds from his shotgun blast into the man’s skull and lower parts of his neck, turning anything from his chest up into a bloody mess of skull fragments and hamburger like substance.

”And that’s that.” Nino exclaimed.

Vincent and Sal stood at the far side of the bar, near a door.

” There may be more in the basement. The boss’s office is down there.”

Vincent had been in the bar before, he and Paul. But only Vincent had been down in the basement where Vincent Barzini’s sorry excuse for an office was located. Maybe if Barzini had acted differently, in a more hospitable manner towards Vincent, this would not be happening. Maybe is he would not have been such a greedy bastard, Mike LaMare would have let him live. But now it was too late. Death was coming for him and it was right upstairs.

Pizzo and his brother Antonio waited upstairs, watching the door and the bar’s main floor. Vincent and the three others crowded around the door leading to the basement. Sweat poured down Vincent’s face underneath the ski mask. The leather he was wearing was exceptionally hot and now that he was stopped, out of the midst of the action, he could feel it more than ever. He took off his ski mask and adjusted his Kevlar vest, trying to find a way too cool off a bit. Taking a deep breath, he looked over to the rest of the guys.


With that one word, the crew leapt into action. The gung ho Nino thrust his leg, knee high, into the door, causing it to violently swing open. The men clattered down the cold, dark stairwell, single file, their guns pointed to the floor as they moved. A single bulb lit the stairwell as it hung from a small wire overhead. They reached the end of the stairs and came to a small hallway, which ended with a door. Just as Vincent remembered, this was Barzini’s office. The Motor City Crew’s pace slowed a little as they approached the door.

Vincent recollected his thoughts, thinking back to how the office was laid out. He remembered the desk just a few feet in front of the door when you opened it. He also remembered that Barzini had threatened him with a shotgun, so undoubtedly he was armed. Close quarter fighting would be extremely hard with the big weapons the crew carried. Vincent took a few seconds to think. Finally he snapped out of his trance and spoke up

Don Vincent Barzini wrote:
Just like near every other young mafioso in cosa nostra today, the kid was a loudmouth. He was the kind of person that didn't have the patience for instant coffee, a real gavone. I looked at him getting worked up over this and I chuckled a bit. The respect on this kid, fugetaboutit.
"Three hundred thousand, now, and you walk out the door free of any buckshot."
In an instance I flipped the shotgun in his direction, any pull of the trigger and he'd be a pasta stain on the wall.
"Your the Milazzo rep? Who the fuck comes onto my turf and starts talking shit, huh? Not you if you keep on doing it."

”Okay, here’s the plan.”

Everyone but Sal dropped their large weapons at the end of the hallway. Sal positioned himself in the middle of the small hallway, just in front of the door, bracing himself with his Thompson. The three others held their pistols in hand. Sal gave a nod over to Vincent and the other, then let out an entire magazine of rounds into the door of the office. Most of the bullets went through, tearing through the old wooden door and hitting somewhere inside the office. Within less then five seconds, the magazine was out and Vincent, Paul and Nino rushed the door. Paul was first, kicking what was left of the frail, torn apart door, open and hanging on one of its hinges. As soon as it was open, the bullets began flying. The old man, gripping his shotgun tightly, sent a blast at Paulie as he entered the door. It was buckshot, the wall just near the door taking most of the impact, the rest hitting Paulie in the chest, right in his Kevlar, knocking him on his ass.

The remaining members of the crew came in shooting, Nino’s large .44 Desert Eagle, blasting holes in everything near Barzini. Vincent took more precise aim and with less than four shots from his Glock he had hit the ageing, fat Don and sent him flying back in his seat, wounded in the upper abdomen. Blood spewed out from the large wound. Barzini coughed and spat up blood as he looked out to his attackers. Vincent leaned across the desk, to get closer to Barzini’s face.

”You remember me you piece of shit? You stupid fucking cunt.”

Vincent took the Glock he held in his right hand and pointed it in Barzini’s face, the barrel nearly touching the middle of his forehead. Barzini’s eyes just stared at him blankly. Sal was helping Paul up who was out of breath and nearly had been knocked out by the half of the buck shot that hit him. Vincent stared into the eyes of the old man. Then Bam. Just like that, the old Don was dead, his body slumped down his his big leather chair. Brain and blood spattered against the top of his chair.

”Dumb fuck.”

Vincent put the pistol back in his pant line and exited the room. The crew grabbed their rifles and shotgun at the end of the small hallway. Paul could walk on his own now and they slowly made it back up the stairs. Coming back onto the floor Pizzo and Antonio stood near the door, watching it closely.

”It’s done?”[/n]

Vincent just nodded. Blood, smoke, glass and pieces of everything lay about the now destroyed bar. At least now it looked as bad on the inside as it did on the outside Vincent thought. The walked outside quickly, then down the block or so where their vehicles were parked. The sun was just coming up now over the New York skyline. Vincent popped the trunk and the four men threw their weapons inside the back. Pizzo and his brother entered their own vehicle and headed off down the street. Seconds later, the rest of the Motor City Crew was inside the Benz G Class and heading off in the other direction where they would hop on the Interstate and head back to Detroit.

Defense #2

Good. It just isn't a good night when you can't blast a car full of idiots coming to kill the fat fuck who was like a father to you. If anyone was going to kill Don Barzini, it'd most definitely be me. I mean I take so much crap from that guy, that he's lucky I haven't shoved a Glock up his fat ass yet. As a matter of fact, why am I even saving this clown? Oh right...loyalty. Damn my good heart. And my good looks. And my remarkable physique. And my...I was interrupted midway through my self-compliments by a nudge courtesy of James. He nodded to a car coming across the street, and what do you know? It was a Mercedes just like the first one. I guess the morons behind the wheel spotted the first Mercedes, because they too came to a halt, and one of the idiots was actually starting to get out of the car. Keep in mind, at this time James and I were parked across the street from where we had left the first Mercedes, and we were just waiting like fisherman for the dumbest fish in the sea to take the bait. Well, looks like we found Nemo.

Anyway, as the moron started getting out of his Mercedes, we burst onto the scene. I threw my door open, and took as good aim as I could. Pulling down on the trigger of my AK-47, I proceeded to rush at the second Mercedes. At the same time, James had jumped out of the Deville from the passenger's side, and was traveling behind me by a few feet, releasing fire from his Uzi. For some reason or other, I was the one who connected with the guy who was getting out of the car. After that, it was impossible to tell who did the most damage. Uzi and AK fire sprayed simultaneously, shattering the windows of the Mercedes, putting holes in the doors, and most likely killing anyone inside. Keep in mind, this all happened within seconds. Both James and I quickly ran out of ammunition, but we were too close to the Mercedes to run back for cover. James dropped his Uzi to the ground, and pulled his fully loaded Beretta from his waistband. Opening up fire on the back and front seats to cover me, gave me the opportunity to reload my AK. Now with a fresh magazine in, I let instinct take over. Instead of firing where James was firing, I ran around the Mercedes to the passengers side. What do you know? A few of the bleeding morons had managed to fall out of the other side. Before they could even reach their guns, I ended their pathetic "We'd be virgins if our cousins hadn't take us to prom" lives. Although I knew it wasn't smart to just stand there in the middle of the road, I had to pause a bit. James on the other end was already reloading his Beretta, and reshoving it into his waistband. In the midst of my frozen stage, he also managed to reload his Uzi.

I finally snapped back to reality, and ran over back to the DeVille along with James. We dropped our machine guns in the trunk, and proceeded to try to think of a gameplan. It took a while, but we finally decided on it. Running back over to the Mercedes, we popped open the trunk. We then went back around, and gathered all of the dead bleeding bodies. Once we picked them up, we shoved them all into the trunk. James got into the drivers seat, and twisted the keys which had remained in the ignition. Firing it up, we agreed on a meeting point, and before I knew it, he had already pulled away. I meanwhile, ran back to the DeVille and loaded out a few Molotovs with the lighter. Running back across the street, I tossed them in the back seat of the first Mercedes, and headed for the driver's seat. After shoving Pizzo aside, I got into the driver's seat. Shoving the key into the ignition, I didn't even bother letting the engine warm up. Showing no further hesitation, I switched gears, and pulled away from the curb.

We met up at the meeting point fifteen minutes later. James was waiting outside his Mercedes, leaning up against the driver's side door. I pulled up right beside him, and we exchanged no words. Instead, we popped open both trunks. Loading the Molotovs and the lighter out, we lit up the little rags or whatever the fuck lights up on those bitches, and tossed them into both trunks. We then proceeded to toss the remaining Molotovs into the cars themselves, leaving the burning chunks of metal in the middle of the deserted alley. The walk back to the HQ was a long one. James and I didn't really have much conversation, 'cuz we weren't really in a funny mood. When we got back to the DeVille, I got into the drivers seat and drove him to his place. He grabbed his Uzi and his duffel bag, and headed inside his building while I just sat there and stared, going over the events of the night in my mind. Finally, continuing to sit outside James's apartment building, I picked up my phone, and dialed the Don's number.

"It's done..."


OOC Notes:

In case we stumble upon someone who skims these heists for length, rather than reading them, let me add this bit. My parts are much shorter, because my secret RPs prevented most of what they did from ever happening. I also spared the admins of filler BS, which I could've tossed in to lengthen my heist. Bottom line is that my heist picked up their weakest point, and blew them away.

OOC Requests:

-The Death of Vince and Antonio Pizzo
-The Death of all of the NPCs controlled by LaMare
-Destruction of both Mercedes
-Safety of everyone in Barzini
-For the Milazzo attacks to be considered thwarted before they even began
-For Don Barzini to be happily enjoying some Kon Pao Chicken

Roberto Mancini
Associate of the Barzini Family

-Desert Eagle [Shoulder Holster]
-AK-47 [In Car]
-2006 Caddy DeVille
Real Estate:
-Apartment 1C [Little Italy]
-James [Armed with a Beretta 92FS and Uzi]
-Anthony 'Tony Guns' Giuliani [Armed with Dual Glock 19s]

 Post subject:
PostPosted: Mon Apr 17, 2006 4:09 am 

Joined: Tue Jan 24, 2006 8:36 am
Posts: 514
This was posted 09:36, my time.
Counter defences have a time frame of twelve hours.

Professional RPing eh? Try pretentious, boring, and snobbish.
When a staffer says your piece looks great- don't believe them. They're pulling your leg, trying to get you to stay here. The real critics are long gone and stabbed.

 Post subject:
PostPosted: Mon Apr 17, 2006 10:11 pm 

Joined: Fri Jan 20, 2006 12:59 am
Posts: 430
I'm marking this for the Elite Archive.


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