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Il Favore di Finale; NEW TV 58
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Topic Started: Feb 6 2013, 04:09 AM (142 Views)
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Paolo Greco
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Feb 6 2013, 04:09 AM
Post #1
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- Posts:
- 13
- Group:
- Members
- Member
- #475
- Joined:
- December 2, 2012
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The black-swathed form of Paolo Greco stands with his back to us, broad shoulders set and a sort of tension to his posture that denoted impatience and irritation in kind. The young Italian had an iPhone 5 held in his black-gloved hand, his grip upon it firm. The matching hand was set upon a large, round table in front of him, his body mostly obscuring the antique vase filled with lilies atop the polished surface as he speaks in a low, controlled tone. Such a note to his voice indicates barely-restrained control to those who know Paolo well, but to anyone else he’s as calm as can be. And you know what they say about storms and calm…
”Reciting the terms of our deal to me is wasting our collective time. It has been several weeks now, yet my brother and I still want for your payment. That isn’t good business.”
Paolo turns slightly, his profile strong in the dimmed lights of this large room. A hearth stands within the far wall, the mantle above it and the wall itself laden down with pictures arranged upon the branches of a tree painted there. Two shelves filled to the brim with books and trinkets alike, some looking as if they’re older than Paolo by several times over, border this painted surface. Handmade of solid oak, they too are aged but very well kept. As he listens to the person on the other end of the phone, Demone Nero starts to pace back and forth before the round table.
”No, YOU listen to ME.”
We can actually hear the sharp exclamation on the other end of the phone before Paolo cuts that person off.
”This is the last favor my brother and I will do on good faith. Then one of two things will happen: either you come through on your end of the deal…or else.”
A smirk forms on Paolo’s features as he listens for a moment, this time waiting until the other person has finished their tirade before continuing.
”There is no ‘if’ in either case. We have accomplished every task set before us with aplomb up to this point. NEW TV will be no different. And then your time is up. We’ll be in touch.”
Sweeping his thumb across the ‘End’ button, Paolo pockets the phone and takes a slow breath, shaking his head.
” Non si può insegnare un uomo nulla; si può solo aiutarlo a scoprire in se stesso. ”
Muttering something to himself in Italian, Paolo’s attention is taken from his brief moment of solitude as a single, sharp knock sounds on a door nearby. He turns to look past us and responds in Italian, subtitles letting us in on what’s being said.
”<Come in.>”
A half-dozen men enter the room, each one greeting Paolo as they walk past, each taking a spot around the table’s circumference. He waits until they are in position, so to speak, before walking around to the head of the table. He looks between all six men, each dressed in a suit or at least something classy, and nods once. Each one reaches toward some point on their person, be it within a jacket or a concealed holster, producing pistols: Desert Eagle Mark XIX .44 Magnums in brushed chrome, each engraved with the Greco seal on the grips and an intricate ivy design along the barrels. Each piece fits into a pre-made slot on the table. Paolo’s eyes move over each weapon before he draws his own, a chrome-plated, pearl-handled Mark XIX .50 caliber, which likewise settles into a slot on the table. Each of the men nod in unison as Paolo starts to address them.
”<Gentlemen, it is good to see you all here on such short notice. Aldo, we’ll start with you. Tell me the situation back home.>”
It is notable that each man is wearing gloves similar to Paolo’s: leather, form-fitting. Aldo, the man second from Paolo’s left, has a dozen eyes upon him as he turns his green eyes upon the Demone Nero, adjusting his black suit jacket and speaking in a soft tenor.
”<Our best soldiers, bottom to top, are scouring the island for the Pascuzzos and their people. We also have a few investigators on retainer who are doing their part lawfully. You did say that you wanted everyone on the payroll who could be spared on this matter.>”
”<I remember perfectly what I said, Aldo, as do you apparently, which is refreshing. What of the people making the trip over after you?>”
”<They’ll arrive by Friday. There were a few small…er…security issues that had to be hammered out, you see…>”
Every man in the room tensed as Aldo mentioned ‘security issues’. Paolo’s own brows lifted for a moment, then knitted together as his stare became sharper and narrower. If he could have stared a hole through a man, Aldo would have a gaping maw in his chest a horse could jump through.
”<There should have been no issues whatsoever. Enlighten me as to why there were, Aldo.>”
The guy’s tense, his voice showing that no matter how he tried to downplay it. But Aldo kept his eyes on Paolo as he explained the situation.
”<Word reached the authorities about what happened to Don Greco as well as Michel and his men…>”
”<…and?>”
”<…and they’re lockin’ things up tight, boss. We had to set up several packages to make sure the boys got what they needed once they were across the pond. Still expectin’ a week before their shit arrives.>”
An Italian curse is muttered by Paolo, causing the rest of the men at the table to show distinct signs of nervousness. After a few pregnant moments, Paolo sighs and his head stays lowered as he speaks.
”<And you made Johnathan aware of this?>”
”<The moment we sniffed trouble we gave him the heads-up that bullshit might go down. It’s only cause of him that things are as smooth as they are.>”
”<All right. You did good, Aldo. If things change, let me know. Now…>”
Relief seems to ripple through the rest as Aldo straightens his tie and turns to the man three along the line from his right side, a man who looked like a tower in a turtleneck but who had a baby face…cheeks no grandmother could resist pinching.
”<…Maurizio. We set yours to the task of setting up space over here in the states to keep things running on both sides of the pond. What do you have for me?>”
Maurizio, the mountain in black, cleared his throat and spoke in an impressively-deep voice, something that just didn’t fit that face of his. Like Darth Vader with an Italian accent, just half a note higher.
”<Cleveland, Baltimore and Manhattan are the prime spots right now. We got guys headin’ to each area with resources an’ back-up, boss. Soon as the packages Aldo was tellin’ ya ‘bout hit town, they’ll be ready to move. Some of ‘em are concerned ‘bout what L’Ascia thinks o’ all this, though.>”
L’Ascia…Italian for “the Axe”…the nickname of Paolo and Johnathan’s paternal grandfather, manager and the current don of the Greco Family, Alphonso. At the mere mention of his name, done with the utmost reverence, you can hear the collective gulp of all present. All, that is, except for Paolo.
”<Then tell them that Alphonso supports what my brother and I are doing.>”
The massive Maurizio takes a deep breath and carries on.
”<Boss, they wanna hear it from him. Not me…not even you.>”
”<So what we have here is a lack of trust and devotion. Is that what you’re telling me, Maurizio?>”
”<Ain’t sayin’ that at all, boss. I’m with ya till my last breath. Some o’ these fellas are new, though. They ain’t aware of some extenuatin’ circumstances, y’get what I’m sayin’?>”
”<They ought to at least be aware that what they’re demanding is an insult. And I’m sure you’ve told them that. Right?>”
It hardly sounds like a question at all. Unlike Aldo or some of the rest in the circle, looking as though they’re expecting a bomb to go off, Maurizio doesn’t turn a hair. He keeps eye contact with Paolo and doesn’t dick around with his explanations.
”<I told ‘em. Tryin’ to give ‘em leeway since they’re fresh fish an’ all that. But they need a message sent, boss. I can…handle that…if it’s to your likin’.>”
”<Good man, Maurizio. You do that. Do it until their tone changes. Clear?>”
Maruizio nods once and leaves it at that. Paolo nods in response then turns to the rest. Some of the tension is gone now as Paolo directs his attention to the man directly to his right, a salt-and-peppered gentleman in a tailored suit who has the look of a soldier who’s seen more wars than anyone else at the table.
”<Ranieri.>”
The older man turns Paolo’s way and takes from his suit jacket an envelope which he holds out to the elder Greco brother. Accepting it, the green-eye heir opened the paper pocket and took out the pictures, business card and folded paper within. He perused them without removing them fully from the envelope, then nudged them back in and put it into his breast pocket inside his jacket.
”<Obliged. Gentlemen, unless there’s other business…>”
A few heads shake and each man takes up his weapon, including Paolo, as the scene fades to black. When it returns, Paolo is seated in a high-backed leather chair before the same fireplace that was in the ‘tree room’ earlier. It was out of sight earlier, as was the desk it sat behind. But now, with his hands folded upon the desk surface, Paolo stared straight ahead in that very spot. With family business apparently dealt with for the night, it was time to speak to a couple unfortunate souls directly.
”Bombtrack, Holiday, the time has come to put our business with one another at an end. The only difference between Secret Santa 2, NEW TV 56 and now is that our fight will be official and not at the whim of an independent power broker. And a fight this will be, be assured of that. Not a match. Not a battle of wills or a contest of skill. A fight. If history is any indicator in its outcome, which it will be, neither of you will come out well in the end.”
A thin smile curls the Italian’s lips.
”Due deference is given to your accolades and the strong bond between the two of you both as opponents and also as teacher and student. That wasn’t shown when we were putting you through tables or smearing you across the ring after Project Revolution had its way with you in separate encounters, but it exists. Johnathan and I are businessmen and we look at every angle. The reason you’re being treated as you are by us in the here and now centers around the lack of credence your abilities have given your illustrious histories the last two times we’ve crossed paths. You haven’t looked like former champions nor worthy of being champions again. You haven’t been impressive physically or mentally. Instead you were as we were told you’d be: easy prey.
People don’t like you two around here. They think you, Bombtrack, make a mockery of wrestling every time you step into the ring or stand in front of a camera making cutesy jokes. And you, Doc Holiday, aren’t much better. White hat or not, you’re arrogant without right to be. If you think I’m wrong, try opening your ears. Holiday has nothing to offer anyone, unable to even save his vaunted mentor from an assault by the World Heavyweight Champion or himself from a psychopath like Nightmare. And Bombtrack, the people that cozy up to you backstage and in numerous promos only do so because they think you have something to offer…the benefit of experience, backstage stroke…whatever. Look how far Eric Donavan has progressed after beating you or how much attention Tombstone gets since you snapped his streak. You’re being used.”
The chair gives a small creak in protest as Paolo reclines in it slightly, hands going to rest leisurely on the arms of it.
”At least my brother and I have been honest where you two are concerned. You’re our targets and we’ve dealt with you as requested by someone who has something we require. No, we haven’t done you the honor of attacking you from the front or giving you a chance to fight back, but any wrestler, even a rookie, knows to keep their head on a swivel. There’s always going to be someone lurking about looking for a weak moment to capitalize on. But in our case, it’s just business. A favor for someone who now owes us considerably. Someone who will pay up before my brother and I are forced to rectify their reticence in a very convincing fashion.”
In another tone of voice, that could have been a joke or at least something said for exaggerated humor. There’s no such look in Paolo’s eye. Whomever tasked him and his brother with their larcenous actions was on thin ice.
”You have only yourselves to blame. Do you think you’re without enemies? That there aren’t those in the locker room who’d delight in seeing you suffer and retire ignobly if only to pave the way for their own success? You should consider yourselves lucky that you’re dealing with men of honor like the Grecos instead of their type. From the start, everyone has known exactly what we were all about. No smoke, mirrors or misdirection necessary. We arrive, pound our opponents or targets into a hell of a state and leave. While Sin Inc. adheres to stalking and mind games, we lay it all on the table. While Midnight Heat chases ass and ill humor, we deliver lasting messages. While the tag team champions continue with their syrupy soap opera, personal lives laid bare for the world to see, we go out and get the job done without a lick of drama to be seen. Do you get it yet?”
Leaning forward smoothly but insistently, Paolo taps his index finger on the desk firmly, emphasizing his points.
”Business is paramount. It’s what makes contenders into champions and titleholders into legends. While it’s true that my brother and I have other motives beyond mere success in the ring, it is that in-ring success that will see those goals reached. Everything in its place, gentlemen , and in its own proper time. Personal matters should be left off-camera, out of sight, unless they serve a purpose. I cannot fathom what places the aforementioned belong in but it sure as hell isn’t the wrestling ring. It’s all moot, though. I could lecture you and the rest until the proverbial cows come home but nothing about that tirade would change that at NEW TV there will be pain and suffering for you both.
As I told our would-be benefactor: when we have a job to do, we get it done one way or the other. Even if the two of you prove us wrong and take the win, the fact remains that you won’t be leaving that ring healthy. Strength, intensity and camaraderie aren’t going to be enough. Thirst for revenge which no doubt has you salivating will only render you deaf and blind to this truth. You will make this personal. That’s how your kind operates. The good guys seeking to do justice. You’re always the first to plot and pursue vengeance, never seeing how it defies the white you wear.”
Paolo turns the chair to the side a bit, his profile once again the only thing visible.
”But there’s no revenge in business, at least not through any avenue open to you two. If this were personal, if you truly had a gripe, then perhaps things would be different. But it never has been. You were on the wrong end of a contract then, same as now. It just means more at this juncture. It means a boost through the ranks for the Untouchables once we put away the two of you instead of other, shall we say, prizes. It means one more step toward BrAndy and the gold they carry. For the two of you, it’s another few steps down the ladder. Eventually you’ll be sharing time with ilk the likes of the Worleys, reminiscing about the good old days.
And after what you’ve shown lately, that’s more than you deserve. Doc, you’re ineffectual at best. And Bombtrack, you’ve already lost whatever shine you got by beating Tombstone, something you couldn’t even do on NEW turf. That’s called taking the backdoor to success. It’s a shortcut you’ll never see Johnathan and I take. And we’ll prove that Sunday night when we come at you head on, no excuses and no peripheral motivation. Just a straight-up fight that will see the brothers Greco continue their dominance. Accept this outcome like men and you might come out of this better than you came in.”
The chair turns fully to face the fire, Paolo now out of sight but still clearly heard.
”Or…you make it personal. Go that road at your own risk, gentlemen, for there’s no turning back once you do.”
Fade to black.
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