Thread: In Cold Blood [Mach & Merc]

Nicholas Occisor was not the stereotypical picture of a crime lord. Yes, he had expensive tastes, dressed nicely most times, and perhaps even had the sharp, penetrating gaze that shook people to their core. But he was also young, merely 28, having spent his entire adult life leading this circle of drug smugglers, thieves, conmen, and hitmen. They were the best of the best, pulling off heists unlike anything New York had experienced before, all while remaining untouchable by the authorities. He had the longest streak of all the members of the ring, with none of his men being convicted successfully for the last two years. It was a source of pride for the young mastermind. But, of course, such a thing came with a price, and here it was a more dangerous opponent. Nicholas had soon realized that he was drawing attention from larger authorities and more powerful organizations, and attention was the one thing that was most dangerous. He scaled back operations, sending many underground to operate in a more expensive, but most clandestine manner. After all, he still made profits, and that was what mattered in the long run. Still, numerous FBI agents had turned up in their organization's midst, leaving him no alternative but to eliminate them in a suitably horrible and terrible manner. Only to deter future operatives, of course. Nothing personal. On this particular evening, Nicholas sat in his personal office, the central room of a sprawling manor estate, with a wall of glass facing an azure pool and emerald lawn, sunlight streaming in behind him. Upon a flat monitor dominating the oak desk, a young woman, in only underwear and a tanktop, sat on a metal chair in a sparse room. It had been so long since he had seen her, and she had changed considerably. While others in their ring might harbor anger or hatred for this woman, he felt little along those lines. While her father had brought down the leadership of their ring, it was that upset that allowed him to take control of his organization. After all, if not for that, he would have been waiting for his own father to die before the power came into his hands, and that could have taken a long while. But her father had gotten them all locked away - something the other families harbored anger and hatred about to this day - and Nicholas had taken the reins to the organization at 18. Perhaps it was fate. That was a decade ago, and then suddenly Iris had reappeared after all that time, seemingly out of nowhere, in a jail cell with one of the ring's own operatives. Grand larceny. Drug dealing. Possession of stolen goods. What had she been doing? Where had she been? All of these questions rolled about in Nicholas's mind, all making him wildly uncomfortable. She was an unknown variable, and for a man who knew exactly the way he wanting things done, and exactly how things were supposed to go, that was unacceptable. But he couldn't have her turning up dead, however. He knew that another dead body would only draw more attention to their organization and their ring once more, and that was equally unacceptable. And so, before any of the other leaders had a chance to enact their revenge on her father using her as a proxy, he had her abducted and brought here, to his manor, a large, sandstone structure a short ways from New York City, the headquarters of his operations. It was underneath that building that she now paced, and he watched. Having seemingly made a decision, he stood, buttoning the front of his suitcoat and running his fingers through his hair as he stepped out of the office, at which point his assistant stood from her desk in the atrium. Mr. Occisor, Mr. DuPont just called. The Dali piece - 'Love's Promise' - just sold for 6,500. She said, passing a small slip of paper, which Nicholas caught between slim, dexterous fingers. Excellent. Have the money wired to the appropriate accounts and tell Mr. DuPont that he can expect his commission by this evening. I know his normal rate is five percent, but send him ten this time. I like him and don't want someone else stealing my best art dealer. Of course, sir. his assistant said, vanishing back behind her own glass desk and setting back to her computer. The tall, dangerous man continued on his way, down a set of side steps to the basement, a surprisingly clean concrete hallway, with multiple adjoining rooms, which served as storage areas. Or cells. Without a pause, Nicholas stepped through one door, letting it close behind him as he surveyed the woman from behind. She turned in her chair, locking her gaze with his. His pale green eyes looked straight through her. Miss Iris Hannigan. It's been a very long time. My, how you've changed. He said, his voice light and amused.