Leslie Rhodes's Story

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Leslie woke up slowly, the way he usually did, and much like every other morning. The narcotic-induced sleep had held him in firm grasps, letting go of one little piece at a time. Little stirs at first, turning over, small moans. In the next few moments he was feeling it again, the shooting pain which bore through his tattered thigh muscle on the right. What a god-awful sensation, he couldn't help but think, though the thought often crossed his mind in the morning. Pointless to think, anyway, seeing as the pain was all too familiar. Lez let out a moan, one hand clutching where the scar rested on the leg, as if some amount of massaging would ease some of the pain, though he knew it as well to be completely pointless. His eyes opened last, but it in no way instigated movement from where he was lying. He shifted his head over to the side, gazing lazily at the alarm clock, merely a minute from the scheduled time it usually went off. This wasn't uncommon at all. He was so used to an early morning, after all, his body merely accustomed to forcing itself slowly awake before the sun had even arisen. After all, he'd need the extra time just to ready himself, there was no denying. Again, it was so much like any other day.

Except, not quite, he reminded himself while an early morning radio show started up. What played, however, he would have never been sure, seeing as he instantly shut the alarm back off, sitting up slowly and carefully, keeping himself upright with extended arms. There was the meeting, of course, and while heavy stress and a heavy aura hung around the event, Lez couldn't help but view it with little more enthusiasm than any other every day duty. While anything mob-related was a particular breath of fresh air from the mundane and sorting through of legal documents, he supposed there was a chance that simply not knowing what to think of the meeting itself limited his ability to either anticipate or dread it. In a way, and in his still rather exhausted, irritable state, he was just fine with that.

Slowly, finally, Lez swung his legs over the side of his bed, casting away the fresh bedding while he straightened up the rest of the way, eyeing the minute more that had passed on the clock before leaning over, reaching as far as he could forward. Not again, was the only thing he could think as he contorted, bent over in his place and trying to stretch his fingers as far as they could go. His middle finger brushed against the smooth black surface of his cane just barely, before he huffed, gripping his end table with his free hand for support while he attempted to lean more forward onto his good leg. He was almost there - the empty glass on the table tumbled down, hitting the wood floors with a cracking sound - his fingers made contact and he inched it closer - what a pain in the ass - he straightened up. A disgruntled moan escaped his lips as he gripped the silver handle of the walking stick and let the end thud against the ground. He rolled his eyes as he eased his way up, forcing the cane to take much of his weight which he could no longer support on his own. He took another minute, another breath, before sending his cane a step ahead of himself and shifting forward to meet it.

Lez hobbled from place to place in his apartment with a dull look spread on his face. Had the gaze ever fallen upon someone, it would have sent shivers down their spine, but at the same time, the look suited his steely, cold eyes far better than a kind smile had ever done. While a charming look had always suited his face, something about the harsh, cold block of ice in his chest always seemed to resonate through his eyes, a problem far more prominent post-injury. He did very much very quickly, despite the disability weighing him down. After all, he was used to working around it by now. By the time he sat in one of the neatly placed chairs beside an unused dining table, a mug of coffee sitting in his left hand, and his right hand rested leisurely on his cane, he'd accomplished plenty. What at once had been a mess of waves atop his head was now straight, orderly, pushed back. The shirtless ensemble of nothing but dark plaid pajama pants had been swapped for an orderly grey suit, accompanied accordingly with the proper tie and shoes. His breath was fresh, his face was washed, the glass that had fallen had been picked up, coffee for one had been brewed. It wasn't too much to manage, but the back and forth was often little more than aggravating.

He took another sip of coffee, a straight face despite hating the stuff. What was he supposed to do, anyway? He'd become all too dependent on the caffeine, especially after realizing just how dependent he'd become on sleeping pills just to get through the night. Just how much he was willing to put up with, he wasn't quite sure, staring down at the plain white mug in his hand and contemplating the pros and cons of tossing it immediately to the wall for the simple satisfaction of watching it shatter, watching something break under his force just because he wanted it to. His hand shook slightly, and he lowered the mug down to the table gently, connecting with the wooden surface with little more than a soft thud. After all, the only one who was going to be cleaning up any messes he made was himself. No one was going to deal with the aftermath for him.

Snatching his medication from where it sat on the table, he quickly put it to his mouth, downing the small pills easily, as he did so every day, before lifting his coffee cup once again and downing the remaining contents. The pills were nothing special, simply painkillers meant to help him get through the day as comfortably as possible. They didn't help much, but it was as best as he was going to get, what with his insistence on continuing to use a drastically injured leg. In such a sense, he himself didn't help much. Perhaps if he rested it more, perhaps if he were to keep his weight more completely off it, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Leslie didn't care enough to think about it any longer.

Lez put both hands to the hilt of his cane, leaning his weight forward against it as he pushed himself up from where he was seated. He took another moment to push his chair in and grab the empty mug, trailing back to the kitchen to place it by the sink before staggering back, heading for the front entrance of the apartment. His free hand hovered above the door knob while he took a deep breath, and then another. When he was sure, when he was absolutely positive, his composure was set, and his charm was on, he twisted the door handle and exited, his cane thudding against the ground as he departed, making way for the outside world and a short but painful walk to his destination.

He was sure he was on time, as he laid eyes on the familiar building of Santoro Inc. At the very least, he was not late, however, he had to admit that people often did not pay much mind to his delays in this crippled state of his. He hated to admit to using the thing he hated most as an excuse, but one does know better in certain situations to accept the last resort for excuses. He shuffled to push himself through the front door, taking in little of a small cluster of people that had formed just outside of it, and not caring much to pick through the faces partaking in small conversation. It hardly mattered at the exact moment, he told himself, hobbling from the doorway and letting it swing shut behind him, too busy just trying to maintain his balance to bother with easing the door to a quiet close.

Leslie's cane clacked against the floor, hitting in a sort of rhythm that offset the one of his footsteps, as he made way for the elevators. Shortly after hitting the button to call the elevator down to the first floor, he promptly leaned his free hand against a decorative table for a bit of support. His face showed no signs of strain, however, taking a seat was beginning to take priority in his mind. Who could blame him, after all. But he would be seated soon enough, and for who knew how long. Typical meetings were to the point, but who could say. For now, he simply waited, eyes watching as the number above the elevator slowly dropped, nearing closer to the ground floor.

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Leslie rode the elevator the whole way rested against the hand rail. The pain was beginning to grow irritating, and not necessarily in the usual way that it always was. There was nothing to do about it, but he traced through his actions of the previous night, recalling many of the details of the day which had put more stress on the limb and probably had caused the amplified ache. He sighed, tapping the end of his cane against the floor in aggravation. For the moment, his expression had dropped, but he quickly and effortlessly put a good face back on as he took note of the slowing elevator. Noise was welcoming him the moment the doors slid open and he made his way to the meeting room.

He took a deep breath, expression flinching to reveal his irritation for a mere second before composure had set back in, forced back on his face. He had managed to catch just about a second of the end of a spectacle; the overly-dramatized entrance of a tall beauty in blonde, and the interjection of Giovanni Santoro. A few large thugs shuffled about with odd objects, a few people weaved about them to get into the meeting room and get situated, and as Leslie drew closer, the tapping of his cane echoing audibly in the hall despite other noise clouding the space, he could see plenty of people were appropriately staying out of the matter, themselves. The idea seemed fair enough, no questions asked, as he paused by the door, leaning heavily on his cane and simply not having the energy to attempt to weave his already difficult to move body around some of the bodies that clung at the entrance with their odd objects and pointless duties.

One eyed him a mere moment before the concept to shuffle out of the way finally crossed him, and the unidentified man gave him just enough room to get through without hassle. Lez hobbled forward, slipping past without so much as a word. Perhaps on a better day he would have managed an 'excuse me' or even a sarcastic rendition of a 'thank you,' however, he found no ounce of remorse for saying nothing in his current state, only focusing on moving forward towards the closest available seat. While others were available in the room, it was an obvious choice to make as far as selecting one which required the least amount of effort to get to, after all.

"I apologize for the delay," He announced politely, directing at Mr. and Mrs. Santoro as he grabbed hold of the back of the chair for support, slowly lowering himself down to it. He suppressed an audible sign of the struggle by clenching his jaw when he let himself plop down, his bad leg outstretched in front of him for mere seconds before he brought it back to a normal position, letting his hand move from the back of the chair, the support no longer needed. He took a deep inhale, the hand with his cane still gripped firmly pressing against his thigh as if the pressure could help at least a little. He left the concept of further explanation hanging, but supposed it could not be helped much. Excuses were never his favorite activity, not unless one counted the lies he constantly told as a child. Now-a-days, he simply left people to speculate, and often it was far too easy for them to do so.

Leslie crossed his injured leg over the other, resting both hands on the silver hilt of his cane in front of him while he leaned back, letting his gaze circle around the room at the others who'd arrived before him. Just about everyone, actually, as far as he was sure, but he supposed it couldn't be helped. There was no going back around and taking a quicker, easier rout, waking up just a few minutes before the usual time. The point of dwelling on the situation was, however, nowhere in sight.

His eyes settled on a few people at a time; the Santoros, of course, along with Dickie Glenmore, Louis Cappola, Martin and Jude, Nico Kato, the list continued onward before Leslie decided to end his scan of the room. His gaze focused on the Santoros. After all, that was where the real point of the meeting was lying. Any simple person could detect the heaviness in the air, anyway, and it hardly took a rocket scientist to know who and where it was coming from. He let his quick glances fall upon one person at a time, before falling back to the Don, who seemed near plagued with the thought of the meeting ahead of him. No one could blame him, however, it was piquing Leslie's interest further into the event before him, to say the least. After all, it had seemed a bit more along the lines of mundane business at the start of the day, but the room was simply so... weighted. At the very least, Lez was sure that a show ensued.

Mary mother of Christ.

Such thoughts rarely left his mind and exited his mouth. This particular moment took a lot of restrain however. There were not enough antacids in all of Massachusetts to get through this morning comfortably for Lou Coppola. The purposefully annoying spectacle which followed in on his proverbial coat tails, caused him to spin a full 180° to look back with a flash of stone-like ire. Very few things annoyed Lou more than wasting time, but disrespect -- disrespect was certainly on the short list. As initial perceptions would have it, Lou found this display to be a combined disrespectful waste of time. He definitely needed a Seltzer.

Eleonora was family by blood. That was something that doesn't just go away. Louis operated under this knowledge. His mind never considered taking action against the girl directly. The rest of these sons of bitches however...they were not family in the slightest. He turned with a half raised brow to the Don; as if asking to carry out some sort of order within a second of its delivery. Lou followed orders when he wasn't the biggest name in the room -- he didn't act impulsively. To his disappointment, there seemed no suggestion for him to place a call to have the man escorted out.

As a silent sigh escaped through his clinched teeth, Lou took a seat at his usual end; placing the folder he carried on the table in front of him, and swiveled back against the chair.



He quickly surveyed the rest of the invited party that had gathered. Truth be told, he was rather apathetic towards the lot of them -- body guards, bar tenders, escorts. The rest of them, he had some professional dealings with, but very rarely on a daily basis. He was pleased to see the lawyer roll in. He liked doing things properly, and the sooner they could get down to official business the better. Looking around the room only reinforced a notion that had been a long time coming: Lou was the old hand. This young faced collection of the families second generation was the wave of the future. A sign of the changing seasons and the introduction of a new way of doing business. One thing was now a reality however: the old and the new could not exist without the other. Not yet anyway.

Lou leaned his head back and swiveled the chair slowly to face the door. With his arms crossed over his chest, he let his eyes land once again on Leo's performers.

"How many cocks you think you have to suck before taking a job as a flower girl?"

He made the statement quietly, and to no one in particular. But his unblinking, emotionless gaze stayed heavily glued on the meaty individual that now busied himself with the cleaning of petals off of the floor. It was only until Giovanni himself entered the room did Lou start looking elsewhere. He sat silently, trying to pick out the emotional cues among those at play on this high stakes game board. He smirked slightly, as the kid sarcastically began to spar at the girl. Lou knew one thing for sure at this point: he could really use that antacid.

Max had been hit in his life more times than he could count. He had the scars, bruises, and the occasional hospital records to prove it...He grew up on the streets, lived with a bunch of mobsters, and had a mouth on him that would cost him his teeth one day. Thing was, he always at least saw the first punch coming.

Not this one.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. One moment he was fine, the next there was a flash, and then pain was irrupting from the same damn area that always got him in trouble: his mouth. It fucking hurt. Knuckles slammed into lips, skin ripped from being forced between bone, his teeth rattled so damn hard he thought he might actually lose one or all of them.

Normally, Max even knew how to get hit – roll with the punches and it doesn't hurt as bad. This time the only reason he moved was because the hit literally took him off his goddamned feet. He smacked into concrete steps on his ass, new pain sliding up his spine, before he spit blood off to his left and glared up at the asscake that just messed up his face.

The other guy, Sexy McScruffy, was holding off said Asscake. He could hear words, though they bounced around in his head and didn't really make any sense whatsoever, but it was obvious Asscake was being talked down. Max felt his fists curling at his sides, blunt fingernails digging into his palms.

He didn't get up, though. Just stayed on the ground, eyes narrowed, willing his ears to stop ringing. It was really only then that he actually realized he no longer had his lollipop...Asscake stole it. And Dropped it. On the ground. Then stomped on it mother fucker.

“Fucking cockwad,” he grumbled under his breath, feeling skin break beneath his nails. He didn't get angry a lot...but what was he going to do? Jump up and get the ever loving shit beat out of him? Because Asscake was twice his size...and probably more than a little mentally unstable. He cursed again as the men moved passed him, going for the door, and it was only just before he rubbed his bloody palms down his pants that he realized Sexy McScruffy had turned back to him.

"Right. Well." the man was digging around for something, and Max arched an eyebrow as he finally raised one of his hands to cup under his jaw. He probably looked like shit, he could feel blood traveling down his chin and just didn't want it all over his shirt...a handkerchief. He was being handed a handkerchief. Both of Max's eyebrows were up now, but after a minute he slowly reached out with his free hand to take the offered cloth. He barely had it in his grip before both men were disappearing into the building.

He stayed there for a minute, blood filling up his mouth while he pretty much regretted every life decision he ever made, then he leaned to the left again to spit out another glob of red before finally climbing to his feet.

He still had a couple of minutes before he had to be anywhere, so he took the elevator up to the third floor, keeping his mouth covered and his head down as he slid into the cafeteria, lifting a bottle of water and a salt shaker then sliding down the hall and into the mens restroom.

The handkerchief was already stained red by the time he got to soak it under warm water, but he could still use it to wipe up the mess then swish a bit of saltwater to make the bleeding stop. It took a good five minutes or so, but then he could see the damage. It could have been a lot worse...His lips would probably swell, probably bruise, but he had all his teeth so that was good enough for him. His bottom lip was split wide open, and he kept having to fight the urge to suck it into his mouth or it'd start bleeding again.

With a sigh he shook his head, rung the water out of the ruined handkerchief before running it under a hand drier, and stuffed it in his back pocket as he jogged towards one of the elevators.

---

Giovanni lingered in the doorway for a moment after his sister addressed him. Nothing in his expression gave him away, it was only his hesitation that hinted what he was thinking about. The words used...the tone...the general way she regarded him made his heart tighten in his chest. He was glad, now, that he hadn’t hugged her like he so desperately wanted.

He didn't move until Jude and Martin were sliding in the room next to him, maneuvering their way around both twins. He stood up straight then, reaching behind him to take Aluara's hand again and pull her into the room, picking a spot to sit just in front of his parents. Though he stayed standing, hands resting on the back of his wives chair.

"Our apologies, Don Carlos. We didn't mean to keep you waiting.” The don sighed at Martin's words, shaking his head lightly and dismissing the comment with a wave of his hand. He knew that this meeting was going to be a disaster...now there was just proof.

The generation was half filled with rambunctious young adults leveled out only with the few who knew what they were doing. Thankfully, with the entrance of Martin, Jude, and finally Leslie Rhodes after them made things a bit easier. He too apologized for being late, but Carlos was too exasperated to really care much.

It was then that the older man realized a new sense of heaviness weighing on the room. Elenora, seemingly for the first time, recognized Aluara Santoro was in the room. Gio was watching his sister, closely, hands lifting from the chair he was leaning on as if he might have to make some protective movement over his son or over her. Aryan, even, seemed closer to the small group than before.

Everything snapped back into place the moment Leo spoke, and Gio seemed to relax only a little, his hands falling gently onto his wives shoulders while he smiled softly down at Alphie in her arms. “He is,” he murmured. “More than you can imagine.”

Crisis adverted, Carlos deflated slightly, only really long enough to catch the look Lou shot him. He hesitated for a moment, going over his options, but this morning was too important...his eldest daughter too unpredictable, and he ended up shaking his head once.

Maxwell Parks slid into the room finally, his head ducked and one hand rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to inconspicuously make it to one of the chairs by the door. He didn't, of course, because he was a klutz and tripped at least twice before managing to sit down.

"How many cocks you think you have to suck before taking a job as a flower girl?” His bright blue eyes glanced up at Louie's comment, soon followed by an arched eyebrow as he glanced back at on of Eleonora's men who had just finished gathering petals off the ground. He let out a snort, covering his mouth when he did, and muttered a: “More than me. Fuck, that's a lot...”

Eleonora turned away from Alaura then, a very serious expression on her face as she pointed her gaze towards Fast Louie. “Fourty-two,” she answered, as if she was stating a fact as simple and unarguable as the color of the sky.

Max laughed, hard, grabbing his sides and shaking his head. “I stand corrected.”

Gio made a face, leaving the others to converse amongst themselves before he crossed the room. “What are you doing here?” he asked, and knew that something was wrong the moment Max just shrugged. The kid was much too verbal to just shrug. “Max~” he tried to lean down to the blonde's level, but when Max moved backwards, Gio shot out his hand to grab the kid by the chin.

Max squeaked, looking up finally, and Gio felt a rush of anger. “Who hit you?” he demanded, eyes glazing over the freshly split lip, light bruising appearing around the kid's mouth. Max jerked his head back, opening his mouth to pop off something he was certain Aluara needed to cover their sons ears for, but then he...froze.

Gio arched an expectant eyebrow, following Max's gaze to the opposite end of the room...landing on Jude King. Of all people. “Ohmygod, Maxwell!” He dropped his head, running a hand down his face as he groaned. “You were not soliciting sex in front of the building again...!”

“...no?”

A snap of something hard and plastic demanded the room's attention then, and silence feel as Giovanni looked up at his mother who had purposely dropped her binder against the desk. “I think that's enough,” she said clearly, running her fingers through her dark hair. “If everyone would, please, sit down and gather around, there are some important announcements that need to be made.”

Within the interior of the meeting room was a thick, cloying tension, an additional heaviness in the air that weighed down on anyone observant enough to notice the situation. This was not singularly abnormal, however, when it came to meetings with the Santoro mob. Granted the addition of the eldest daughter giving out false platitudes towards her brother's family- Martin would rather not ruminate on what exactly was going on there, thanks very much- was an oddity, but this was around what Martin had expected. If you place enough big egos into one room, they're sure to clash, battling for dominance, and everything was just a hair's breadth away from total chaos, only the few societal norms that the mob actually clung to keeping it from devolving into hysteria. It was, Martin decided as he sank further into his chair, way too early for this.

While Jude watched on as the last members of their motley gathering filtered into the room, Martin pushed up his glasses, rubbing tired eyes with one hand. It had only been a few hours ago that he'd been in this very building, sequestered in his office like the good little worker he was, working until the time shifted from late to early on an account from a new business partner in Saudi Arabia. He was running on little sleep and even the caffeine boost from the tea Jude had broken into his apartment to fix for him(which was still vaguely kind in a psychotic sort of way) had begun to fade from his system. Maybe, when he had these early morning meetings, he should at least try coffee again…? Or maybe a coffee drink filled with so much sugar and chocolate that the coffee was just hinted at?

Jude, on the other hand, was as awake as anyone could claim to be this early in the morning, sharp eyes surveying the room. There was this delightful tension in the room, thick enough to cut with a knife- something that he'd be tempted to attempt for boredom's sake but refrained from doing so because half of the people in the room would not react well to seeing an open knife, no matter who's holding the blade. However, quite unfortunately, everything had come to a standstill, only the deliciously fake trivialities passed between the blood members of the Santoro family(Eleonora, he was quite sure, was far too like himself for him to fall for her innocent sister act) and the caustic wit of one Fast Louie doing anything to break the tedium. That is, until the distinct sound of stumbling caught his attention. It couldn't be- his grin grew to levels that would put the Cheshire Cat to shame. Oh, oh this was fantastic, wasn't it?

Martin was woken from his sleep-deprived stupor by a finger being pressed incessantly into his side. There was only one person he knew that invaded his personal space with such ease and eagerness. He slid his glasses back into place and noticed two things. One, Giovanni Santoro was fretting over someone in the middle of the meeting room with, which, considering it wasn't anyone Martin instantly recognized, was a bit odd. And, two, Jude was beaming at him, eyes glittering with barely contained mirth, which either meant that he'd thought of something hilarious or was about to do something socially unacceptable, or, more likely than not, a combination between the two.

"What…?" Then it clicked. Oh. Oh, Lord. The boy currently being fawned over by the Don's son was the boy from earlier, lip split open but the blood already starting to congeal. And here was Jude, beaming and still poking him incessantly, like a child showing off a homework assignment to his parent that he'd gotten a smiley face on. 'See, Marty?' Jude's expression eagerly conveyed, 'Didn't I do good? That is a bloody fantastic split lip.' Martin groaned quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose. What were the odds? Fantastic. Fan-freaking-tastic. It was far too early for this.

"Who hit you?" The question rang in the duo's ears as Martin sank lower in his chair and Jude straightened up, hands clasped in front of him, smile shrinking from a beaming grin to a content smile, an artist waiting humbly for appropriate acknowledgement for his work. He wasn't disappointed as anger flashed to realization to shock to rage on the Santoro boy's face, rounding on the poof with all of disbelief he could muster. Martin, who would have preferred never to meet their little friend ever again, just sighed for the third time that day.

The sound of plastic clattering across the meeting table drew both of their attentions and an immediate shift overtook the two men. Martin rose in his chair, back straightening out until he was once more seated like a normal human being, not like a teenager who was particularly embarrassed by whoever they were with. His tired eyes gained focus, leveling on the Don and Donna of the Santoro family with all of the attention a meeting like this required. Jude, on the other hand, swiveled in his seat to face Don Carlos and his wife, elbows pressed against the table as he leaned towards them, all of his attention now solely on them.

The announcement wasn't a complete surprise- the rumor had made its way around the office gossip mill several times by now and it seemed, if not optimal, then inevitable that it would be Giovanni Santoro who would be named as the new Don when his father officially retired from the business. Still, to hear it spoken by the man himself was enough to bring its own shock with it. As the assignments were administered, Jude's smile completely faded away, lips pressed into a thin line as his eyes darted over to the boy who had the gaul to think he could become the Santoro's family next Don after the shit he tried to pull only a few years back. He was weak and had yet to earn respect from the consummate professionals in the room, which made him seem terribly inadequate.

Eleonora fled first, her excuse about parking meters hollow and as obvious a lie as any, and Jude was sorely tempted to join her, to leave the room and jump ship before it could officially sink with this wrong choice when a hand caught his wrist in a tight grip. Martin wasn't looking at him, was instead staring ahead as he had before, posture upright and head bobbing in an understanding nod. Jude sat back as Martin relinquished his grip, his initial ire quelled as reality set in as dictated by Martin's simple gesture.

Martin, in comparison to everyone else in the room, was in a unique position. He hadn't grown up fighting the man from the bottom of society, had never known the need or environment that drove men and women to break laws with little care. He hadn't grown up in a wealthy family either, hadn't known what it was like to be in power over others. No, for the entirety of his life he had been somewhere in the middle, a subservient sort of role. It made him realize something that perhaps no one else in the room had; leaving wasn't an option. It was just a pretty phrase meant to calm and cajole, but he knew, he knew that none of them ever really had the option to say so long and waltz out those doors for good. Not here, not now.

"I take it that we're going to begin immediately," He said dryly as he made steady eye contact with her, voice calm despite the situation.