1962. The air is hot and heavy-- a typical day in mid-summer New York City. A man walks down the street, two heavy-set men trailing behind him at a distance just a bit further than friends would walk. Thin but muscular, the man hides clever eyes underneath his dark hair. He looks around, glancing over his shoulder, scanning the streets. Despite his obvious paranoia, he keeps a smile on his face. He skips up the steps of Beachwood Estates, a local penthouse apartment complex. He raps on the heavy oak door twice - he knows it's oak. Afterall, he's had his hands on more wood than he can count.
An old woman answers the door. He can tell by her distinctly angular brows that she is part of the family. "Buona notte, Nonna Francesca," he says. "May I speak with Lazzaro?"
Francesca narrows her eyes at him, sizing him and his companions up. "What do you want from him?" she asks in a thick Sicilian accent.
"Just an answer to a question."
"Why does there need to be three of you to ask a question?"
"Every question has three parts," the man says with a grin. "The subject, the verb, and the compliment. Well, the Don is the subject, these are the compliments."
"And what is the verb?" she asks skeptically.
The man shrugs. "That all depends on what Lazzaro wants from me."
"I'm too old for this." says the woman, opening the door wide. "Go on ahead, but your friends will have to stay in the main room."
"They're not my friends," says the man quickly. "If you could, can you tell Lazzaro that Loczek is here to see him?"
Francesca rolls her eyes, but obliges. The three men file into the spacious room. Despite the unassuming exterior, the inside of Beechwood Estates is lavish, decorated with red sofas and gold trim. The two men with Loczek sit down awkwardly, like they have something bulky in their jackets and were not planning on relaxing that evening.
Francesca beckoned for Loczek to follow her up the spiral staircase. As he turned and was about to follow, one of the men tugged on his arm. "Will you be okay in there?" he asked gruffly. Not out of concern for Loczek, but out of concern for Loczek's wallet.
"Believe me," Loczek replied. "Gimme an hour with this guy and all of us will get...more than satisfactory results."
"See you in an hour from now, on the dot."
With that, Loczek headed up the stairs, trailing behind the impatient Fancesca. The goons downstairs kept their eyes on the clock.
At the top of the staircase was an imposing door, this one made out of mahogany. Francesca left without a word, leaving Loczek standing alone. He turned the golden knob and the door swung open silently. The Don was waiting for him.
Tall, with wide set shoulders and a dark Italian tan, the Don sat quietly behind a birch desk. He pushed back his slick black hair and looked up, his deep brown eyes burning with a ruthless fire.
"You should have knocked. Most people knock." He said with a growl.
"Well. I'm not most people." Loczek said, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smirk.
"By all accounts, you are. My files list you as one Mr. Antionio Loczek, a lowlife drug dealer from the Bronx. Now, I know we have had business in the past," his eyes flicker, betraying a hint of...yearning? Or perhaps that was Loczek's wishful thinking. "-but that means nothing now. Come, sit down." He gestured to a pine chair, noticeably less grand than the one he was currently sitting in. He moved only his hand, muscles rippling under his tight, expertly tailored black suit. Loczek sat. There was really nothing else he could do. He was powerless to resist the commands of the Don.
"Good morning, sir. How are you doing?" Loczek said, his smile unchanged.
"Cut the small talk. We both know why you're here."
Loczek looked up, a light twinkling in his eye. "Are you sure about that...sir?"
"Yes." The Don said, gruffly. "You want to keep selling my Family drugs." He leaned forward, piercing dark eyes staring directly into Loczek's bright blue ones. His tightly fitted shirt drooped down a bit, exposing the tip of his collarbone and the scar that remained of what must have been a grievous wound. Antonio caught a wiff of sweat and musk, mostly hidden under the scent of Lazzaro's cologne. Ah yes, Irish Spring.
"Drugs? No no no, not so crass," Antonio said, looking taken aback. "I want to sell you investments. Their forms don't matter. All that matters is, you can sell what I bring you and turn a profit."
"Son," began Lazzaro, "Let me give it to you straight." He laid a heavy hand on Loczek's shoulder, in a move that was probably meant to be paternal, but ended up just feeling controlling. "We run a... business. Now, in the business world, we are going through what many call downsizing. We're cutting our assets, reducing our partners, the whole shebang. Anything we can do, we will. The drugs you have sold our Family no longer can cut it. I'm afraid we'll need to end our... partnership."
"On the contrary," whispered Loczek. "I believe our partnership has only just begun." He looked deep into Lazzaro's dark eyes. Lazzaro held his gaze for a second, then broke away, averting his eyes. The Don let out a breath. Frustration, perhaps? But of what kind?
"You've interrupted my evening, Loczek." said Lazzaro, mild annoyance cutting into his voice. "I had plans. Nonna Francesca made a lovely dinner for me. Now, if you don't have any real reason for me to continue doing business with you, I suggest you take your leave."
Loczek sighed, his face falling, then leaned forward in his chair. His face was only inches from the Don's, but Lazzaro did not falter. The only sign of hesitation was in his eyes, which flickered down the Don's shirt. Loczek looked up, then smirked again.
"Tell me where you got that scar, Lazzaro," he murmured.
Lazzaro cocked one eyebrow. He knew a common business practice was to make the opponent uncomfortable; he would not fall for it. On the contrary, he was more comfortable in these situations than anywhere else.
"A former lover," he finally replied.
