Thread: Why Does the Caged Bird Sing? (Nevermore and Xana)

The first thing Nino discovered when he hit the proper outskirts of the city was that territory had changed rapidly from when he remembered it last. There had been a time when the Irish mob didn't dare show its face anywhere west of Losee Road or south of East Washburn - a nice little cut of the northeast part of the city where a man could find some of the few cops not on Vinnie's payroll. Of course that's because their second paycheck was coming from the man everybody lovingly knew as 'Big Ox'. They didn't mess around with the flesh trade so the cops didn't have to worry about another red light district because the Irish mob made their money on liquor and gambling - which just so happened to be the same markets that Vinnie had come to the City of Sin for. But now here they were spreading across half the city. Maybe it was some old racism from his days hunting them down on Vinnie's coin, but Nino didn't remember there being quite so many flat-caps walking around the eastern half of Las Vegas. Had they broke a deal with Vinnie? Pushed him back? Nino had more questions the further he drove into the city. And he knew where he could hope to find answers. The 'Bleeding Virgin' was an old bar on the southeast outskirts of the city. It had been just on the edge of Vinnie's territory back in the day, and he had always chosen it as his favorite watering hole because it was far enough away from the Gilded Cage to avoid getting pulled into talking shop with whatever members of Vinnie's 'family' wanted his business whenever he just wanted to quench his thirst. Plus the bartender, another fellow by the name of Vinnie, knew how to pour a clean glass of whiskey that seemed to go down better than any other place Nino could think of. So he made his way down those old familiar streets in his dark blue Chevrolet - a Bel Air convertible that the Sicilian assassin had bought down in Austin a few months back when he was in need of a new ride. He found the Bleeding Virgin sitting seemingly unchanged at its old street corner and he found a parking spot in its mostly empty lot. The doors were quickly locked and he made his way to the door. He wasn't two steps through the door before he saw it. More flat-caps. Day labourers and muscle-bound tough-guys. And too many eyes watching him over their mugs for his liking. But he was committed and didn't want to stand in the doorway like an asshole. Nino made his way to the bar and scanned the room with those cold green eyes. He hadn't made it three feet past the door and he could see a gun tucked on the ankle of a scrawny fellow leaning near the door to the men's room. A shotgun over the bar that didn't use to be there. A shillelagh beneath that that definitely hadn't been there before. The Sicilian approached the bar and made himself comfortable on one of the stools and had just leaned on the bar when the bartender drew close. Muscle-bound with a fat gut and shock-red hair with a beard down to his chin. It didn't take a genius to realize that his favorite bartender wasn't working there any longer. Green eyes met green eyes and for a moment the two men watched each other. Both were starting to turn gray at their temples and chin from stress beyond their years. One look and he could tell that the man in front of him remembered Vinnie's rise to power if he'd been around Las Vegas for it. The bartender looked just past him without saying a word. He just gave a subtle nod. Nino had just jumped from the bench when a baton met the back of his shoulder. He screamed and fell to a knee, but still tried to twist around at the waist and fight back. Then a hand grabbed him by his close-cropped black hair and slammed his face against the bar hard enough to daze him. A second time, hard enough to make him see stars. And he wasn't even aware of the third time before he was passed out on the floor. There was a commotion as old souls who recognized the ink on the back of his hands and the now bloodied face rushed over to drag off the assassin. While at the same time the workers and common joes stared into their beers and tried to pretend they hadn't seen anything just in case the police came by on a noise complaint. Though he'd be passed out for most all of it, inside the hour Nino would be stripped down to just his slacks, tied up to a chair, with a hood over his head, and waiting in the backroom of one of the Big Ox's clubs closer to the heart of Las Vegas - his 'headquarters' in the 'Tr na ng' . He was waiting tied up while the mob's fabled figurehead worked out business. After all, finding his son's killer after so long hearing nothing was big, but apparently the Italian powerhouse was rather busy with other matters . . .