NationStates Jolt Archive

The First Strike
The news hit the criminal underworld in Florida like a boxer's jab; Santo Tulisano, the long time mob lord of the Tulisano crime family and the kingpin of the drug trade in Tampa, had finally met his death.

His fate had been an ironic one, his death caused by a natural lapse of the heart rather than by one of the thousand enemies he'd made during his thirty-year reign as a mafia chieftain. He was only sixty-four-years-old at the time of his death, and in his expiration he'd left a wife and three children behind. After all the cocaine deals, and all the blood shed on account of his line of work, Santo had been granted a merciful death. To family, it eased the pain. To everyone else, especially the innocent people who'd been exposed to the violence and bloodshed of the mafia underworld, it was sickening that he was gifted with such a painless demise.

Still, the funeral processions went on regardless of the pain Tulisano had caused the Tampa residents. A grand motorcade escorted Santo's body through Tampa to his grave, where hundreds of made men, smack pushers, brutal killers, and loving family members watched the burial in humble silence. Hours later there were still crowds bustling around Tulisano's resting place, which was eventually covered from sight by wreaths of flowers and dozens onf lit candlesticks. It was said that even Tampa's mayor and the two National Council representatives of Hillsborough County paid their respects to the fallen mob boss, though what is fact and what is fiction is largely unknown. The newspress had a field day.

Yet the passing of Don Tulisano was hardly the end of the street crime, for with his death came a multitude of fresh problems. Of his three children, two were young, headstrong men of unimaginable rage and ambition. Both wanted to replace their father as head of the Tulisano family and both would exterminate their other sibling willingly for the chance. What had once been a notoriously strong crime unit was now a house divided quickly headed for disaster; with the two potential leaders at each other's throats, there was little doubt that past enemies of the Tulisanos would take this oppurtunity to strike. The question was when and how. Slowly but surely a tension built-up in the previous decade is coming to a head, and who will survive is anyone's guess.

* * * * * *

There was a brief period of silence within the filthy, cramped garages of Orange Plus Auto; the two men, both clad in street smart clothing, watched their boss intently as he analyzed the information they'd just communicated to him. And than the cursing began.

"That fuckin' cocksucker! He thinks he can pull that shit with me? Am I fuckin' stupid?"

Martin "Marty" Tulisano, the oldest son of the late Santo Tulisano at thirty-four-years-old, slammed his oil-stained fist onto a nearby tool cart, his anger clearly in control now. He ran a hand through the tangled mass of greasy black hair on his head as if he couldn't fathom the words of his associates, than quickly turned to one of the men, his bloodshot, baggy eyes ablaze with fury,

"Do I look stupid, Tony? Do I look like a fuckin' mook to you? My own god damn brother, Tony, my own flesh and blood!" There was a slight pause, followed by incoherent mumbling. Than a simple, " Jesus Christ."

There was little the henchmen could say or do to appease their headstrong leader. What was right was right; Paul "Paulie Popeyes" Tulisano had neglected to attend his own father's funeral just to spite his older brother's play for power. Rather than accept that Marty was now the rightful Don of the Tulisano empire, Paulie was going to contest that claim every bit of the way and collapse the very foundations of the family. To add insult to injury, it had just been relayed to Marty that his audacious younger brother had doubled security at the Pink Panther, as if to issue some challenge. There was little doubt in any of the three men's minds that Marty had every right to be steamed.

Pacing back and forth briefly in his gray, dirt-stained mechanic's suit, Marty mumbled silently to himself, trying to subdue his emotions and form a rational yet timely solution. The past couple nights had taken their toll on his mind and body; Paulie's failure to appear at their own father's funeral had the oldest Tulisano worried at first. But when word on the street came back that Paulie had named himself the heir to the Tulisano empire, and he refused to return any of his brother's calls, Marty hit the cocaine and alcohol like a sack of cement. Vibrant brown eyes were now shot and baggy; a once smooth and handsome face was buried beneath a thick sheet of black stubble. Curly black hair greasy from showerless days hung in Marty's face like thick tree branches obscuring his view considerably, and the jumpsuit he was wearing hadn't moved from his body since two days previous.

The two mob goons were concerned, but Marty could care less. A decision was needed; he had to make the first move, before Paulie took things too far. With a hint of exhaustion in his deep, nasally voice, Marty finally put forth an order.

"Get Johnny G. and Rica on the phone and tell them to meet me at the "First Watch" for breakfast. We gotta sort some shit out."

----when Gemma found out about the death of Don Santo she headed to tampa to see how things would sort out----

she walked along the streets of tampa she passed Oragnge plus auto
cars she thought horse are so much more practical
as she passed the garage door and heard a man yelling she stuck her head in the door
" hey you ok in there"



edit; i changed my mind

Bayfront Billiards was quieter than normal due to the passing of Santo Tulisano. The lights were dim and the air was smoky as a mournful song played from the jukebox. At the back pooltable Johnny G was playing pool with a man of about six feet.

"Fucking shame about Santo, you know. That man was the like a father to me... but at least he didn't go painfully. Its better that way, you know." Johnny held still for a moment lining up his shot, "Eight ball far corner pocket."

Johnny gave it the slightest tap and it rolled slowly past the yellow one ball and the red three ball. It stopped on the edge of the pocket momentarily and then fell in.

"Pay up. Fifty a ball with two balls remaining. Thats one hundred dollars." Johnny said as he straightened up.

"Yeh, yeh, yeh. Its coming."

The music stopped as a voice called from across the room, "Hey, Muscles. Marty is on the phone."

"One second let me get my money," now turning back to the man he was playing pool with, "Lets go, hurry up, I got Marty waiting on the phone."

"Its coming... 93, 98, 99, 100. Here you go ya prick."

Without saying a word, Johnny span around and hit the man with his poll stick acorss the face. The stick shattered as the man spat out blood onto Johnny's shirt. "Did you just fucking get blood on my shirt," and without waiting for a response he began beating the man until he was on the ground and incapable of moving.

Johnny walked across the room and picked up the phone, "Hey Mr. Tulisano. And to what do I owe this call?"

"Meet me at First Watch for breakfast. We gotta sort some shit out." said Martin Tulisano over the phone.

"No problem, I'll be there," but Marty had already hung up.

after geting no reply she walks into the shop
"any body home......hello?"

Nicholas Long was not a risk-taking man by nature, or as much as one could be in his profession. Running five chop shops in Tampa, and employing those who supplied them was a risk in itself, though a minor one in comparison to the idea which had crept into his head.
Consider. Fifty college-dropout mechanics, on twenty green an hour, thirty six hours a week. Fourteen kids with IQ's in double figures filching maybe twenty cars a day, total, at a hundred and twenty for anything on four wheels. That's fifty-two grand, eight hundred going out every week. The triads paid well for clean American cars, paying more for the plates than for the actual wheels. One thousand per car, and more for the pretty ones. With a hundred and forty cars a week going through the shop, Long made about a hundred grand a week after the grunts had been paid, and half of that had disappeared into Santo Tulisano's pockets. Fifty fucking grand. In two days, he should be walking into the Panther with fifty grand in a case.

"I'm not giving my money to a bloody corpse", mumbled Long.

Ricarda Tulisano, or Rica to some, was thinking of her father. She'd loved him dearly, even thought he'd tried conceal the Family Buisness. While she knew she'd miss him, she also knew that life goes on, and people must adjust.

Unfortunately, or perhaps more fortunately, as she was coming to see, her father had either forgotten, or could not choose an heir. While this was a bad thing, there were also positive aspects, as perhaps the reason for his lack of choice was his intended successor, was, generally social unacceptable to a Family.

As it was, she knew she'd have to be more cunning than a raccoon, more patient than a cat in a sun-beam, more ferocious than a wolverine, and more dedicated than a celibate monk at a strip-club. She also knew she'd have to work quite hard to keep Marty and Paulie from tearing down daddy's buisness.

All this she pondered while doing modeling for a new fashion line. As the shoot ended, one of the workers approached, with a phone.

"Hello Marty." She listened, "Alright, I'll meet you there soon."
She then headed down to the parking lot, gestured to her bodyguard, who'd been almost like a second father to her, and peeled out, heading to the First Watch.

Luigi Metafello, the so-called "first lieutenant" of the old Tulisiano, sat quietly in his private room, upstairs from the actual club. The place was Pink Panther, one of the most popular strip clubs in the city. It was also in the Luigi's main territory. One of his most important duties was to keep the place running. He didn't do all the management though, as that wasn't really what he was best at, but he still felt strongly that this house was his. It had been under his rule for years now, and he called it my club. Old Santo had allowed this, as he trusted Luigi like, or perhaps even more than, his sons. However, the old man was dead now.

"Dammit."

Luigi Metafello had seen much during his moth exotic journey in this violent world. He had been, and in many means still was, a soldier. He had been a hitman, and he had been a common criminal. He had seen the death or retirement of the old leader in many, many cases and places.

The procedure was almost always the same: the second strongest person took and gave a speech to the smaller factors in the community.

Like in Senegal, where the lieutenant of their platoon had received a burst into his head. First thing for the second lieutenant did was to call all the sergeants and explain the situation.

Luigi knew how this worked. Now, the thing was, his Nokia hadn't said anything. There it was, on top of the table in front of him, but gave no signs of ringing. He had heard nothing from the brothers after the funerals. Not a thing. This conserned him greatly, so much indeed that even the other men in the room, couple of his soldiers those were, noticed it.

It was rare for a stone faced, always calm and controlled man like the Crazy-Luigi (the name was given for his actions in a firefight, not for the behaviour of his). After cleaning his Colt Anaconda .45LC, checking every part and carefully loading it (for the third time during the last three hours) he sighed, and leaned backwards, litting up one of his Cubans.
His men quickly glanced eachother.

Minutes passed.

The phone remained silent.

Finally he stood up.
"Guys. Get your guns, make sure that we have more than 20 people here and prepare for trouble. I have a nasty feeling."

Men jumped up, nodded and left. No questions, no hesitation. "Almost like in the Legion", Luigi mumbled after the door had closed. He allowed himself something that could have been registered as a smile, but even that melt quickly as his eyes detected the phone again.

"Dammit."

OOC: Im not sure if this stands against what you had in mind... That it Luigi who has doubled the guard, without even telling it to Paulie but Marty doesn't know this. Just a hint and I'll change it.

Gio Partridge awoke to the appalling theme tune of the Floridian News on his radio, and lay there for some time listening to the top stories. Not much going on these days, he thought. Shootings in the southern area of Tampa, a missing person and car theft at a new high. Nothing remarkable going on here, but then he heard it. Santo Tulisano was dead, natural causes.

He got dressed, wearing a near-black suit and a red tie, a nice shirt with faint grey stripes with a CRISAT bulletproof vest underneath the shirt. Gio always dressed smart, but he would never sacrifice practicallity for looks. This whole outfit had been chosen because of the suits gortex content; allowing for freedom of movement and good durability. He picked up a silver diving watch from the bedside table and turned off the radio. Gio went into the cramped bathroom and wet his hair back, before returning to the bedroom and kneeling by the bed.

His hands slipped under, to return with an engraved wooden box. He undid the catch and opened it; revealing a customised Nighthawk Talon IV handgun. These things were high quality firearms; retailing for no less than $3,000 in these parts. He slid in a fourteen round staggered .45ACP magazine, cocked the gun and put the safety on before placing it and the silencer into the shoulder holster. Better safe than sorry.

Gio noticed the guy as soon as he stepped out of the twelth floor appartment, six foot something and standing by the stairs. One hand in his pocket and one in his jacket, the man was deliberately looking away from Gio. Gio walked purposefully into the elevator and the man stepped in beside him.

The man's hand was still inside his jacket, and Gio heard the audible click of a safety. In less than two seconds the gun had hit the ground and Gio had him pinned to the wall. Gio punched his assailant in the throat, and collected the man's gun as he was gasping for air. Better to let them think i was unarmed.

"Are you going to kill me here!?" Rasped the man, too disorientated to put up a fight.
"No", Gio replied, "Just make sure to tell your friends about me."

A knee rose into the man's abdomen, and several cracking sounds replied. His would-be assassin retched, and he slumped to the ground as a short jab to the right temple rendered him unconcious.

It was good to be home.

"Hey Jimmy! Load up the boys we going to meet with Martin at First Watch," yelled Johnny across the room.

"No problem, boss," Jimmy responded as he scampered up the stairs to the room above the pool hall. Inside were a dozen men doing various things from playing poker to smoking a cigar. "Lets go boy. Johnny is going to meat with Mr. Tulisano."

Slowly the men began getting up and gathering their stuff together. They concealed their pistols inside their jackets as they walked down the stairs. Three of the men ran out back and got into the driver’s seats of three identical looking SUVs. They pulled up to the front of the pool house where the other nine men, Jimmy, and Johnny G were waiting. They piled into the cars with Johnny taking shotgun in the second car and sped off to First Watch.

When they arrived Johnny’s car pulled up right in front of the restaurant, where Johnny opened the door and got out. The other four men in the car followed behind him as he walked into the restaurant and took a seat at a table next to the window.

One of the other cars parked across the street and another parked just around the corner on the same side of the street as First Watch. Three men got out of each of the two cars and stood around guarding the area.

As the waitress came over to take Johnny’s order, his men stepped in the way and stared her down. She looked nervously back and forth before Johnny said, "It’s ok. Let her through."

She walked by nervously as the men parted and asked, "So, wh-what will you be having."

"Just a water for now. You can take the rest of the order when my associates arrive."

It was a nice place, not too small as to be cramped yet not too big as to be impersonal. Gio ordered a drink and a light meal, and went to the restaurant bathroom. Locking the door to the cubicle, Gio Partridge attached silencer to gun and put the weapon back into his shoulder holster.

He sat back at his table and put on his sunglasses; nice looking ones with scratch-proof lenses and flexible frame. He took out a book and pretended to read, while actually observing the mobsters a few tables away. He wasnt here for business, but thought he'd check out what had changed around town when he walked into a restaurant with five criminals. Though seemingly civilian, his trained eye had no problem in telling that they were carrying.

A well trained eye, he thought, one of the many things his years in the police force had given him. An occupational hazard around here was making a lot of enemies; and Gio hadnt been one to keep his mouth shut. Almost five years since he left, and two weeks since he returned. Already someone was preparing to put a tick by his name on their hit-list.

If the local thugs were his real enemies around here, he knew he would sleep much easier at night. It was the cops that he was worried about, though the Triads didnt care for him much. Unless an awful lot had changed in the last half-decade, he would trust the criminals more than the police around here.

Gio was hardly one able to pass judgement on criminality though, long-time gunrunner and a "no questions asked" transporter; he had been on the shady side of the law the day after he lost his badge. "Demanded a Resignation" was the correct term, but he knew the truth. Corrupt cops were more common than those who would willingly protect and serve, and he'd been booted off the force because he was the only one not on the take. Hows that for justice.

His meal arrived and he put down his book. A simple plate of chips with a side order of onion rings would be enough for now; he could eat properly when five or more occupants of the room didnt have the potential to blow his head off his shoulders.

Gemma walked farther in to the shop and glanced at the cars sitting there
these guys must run some kind of shop, she thought as she eyed the hand full of jags, ferraris and a few other that she did not know,they were lined up around the shop, hoods up.
at the back of the shop an older suberban was parked dust covered and aparently forgoten. it reminded her of the first time she met the Don Santo...
it had been 9 years ago on one of her first trips to Tampa.
----
she had been walking down the side walk when a SUV drove by and almost hit her. she pulled a kinif and thrue it at the car and by some streak of luck it got stuck in the rear right tire and poped it. three men jumped out and grabed her and through her in to the back of the car and then they drove away. durring the car ride Santo ended up hireing her to run a load of mony back to cuba. over the next few years she had done him a few favors and had remained basicaly unknows to the rest of the family.
----

as a car drove buy she snaped back to reality and gave the shop one more glance and walked back out the door and down the street back toward the beach

*looks to see what happend*
:)
*bump*

((OOC: Oh man guys, I'm sorry but things have been hectic over here. In addition to me not being able to get on the boards (For whatever reason I've been having technical problems with NS) now there's a hurricane coming right up my ass. We've boarded up the windows, put all the lawn stuff in storage, had to sort things out at work...I hate to see this die. I'm going to post IC soon...hopefully you still want to keep this going.))

OOC: Hell yea.

OOC: Fo sh0 b4k4.