(sunday_reveries) The Exiled Prince Returns
What have you known of loss that makes you different from other men?
-Gilgamesh
Mario Falcone
Batman (Nolan)
675 words
“Mario!”
The Italian man, a month past thirty, looked away from the luggage carousel at hearing his name. Unlike his fellow passengers, he did not grumble under his breath about the plane’s delay or any such thing. He felt fortunate enough that he had not lost his seat from Florida to New York. That was the danger of flying economy, he had to admit, but flying first class would have attracted too much attention. He was a free and cleared man, yes, but he still did not relish being greeted by anything more than the perfunctory airport security. He’d flown first class from Venice to Miami. That long on a flight? He was going to be comfortable. But for the last leg, for returning home? He could handle third-class.
Mario Falcone smiled when he saw who had called for him. Another man, about four years younger, hurried over to him. Alberto Falcone had changed little in the years his brother had been gone. He was still taller than his older brother but of a thinner build, and Mario smelled cloves as soon as he approached. Mario pulled Alberto into a hug and grinned.
“Been taking care of yourself?” Mario asked.
Alberto smirked. “That’s not a problem for me. I don’t get in trouble. Remember?” He gripped his brother’s arm. “How are you?”
“Relieved to be home,” Mario muttered.
Two of the men Alberto had brought began collecting Mario’s luggage from the carousel. The rest of his things would be sent directly to the penthouse.
“It’s good to have you back,” Alberto said. He led his brother toward the exit. “I wish it was under better circumstances.”
“Tell me everything.” Mario slid into the back of the waiting Rolls Royce limousine.
Alberto tapped on the glass divider once he was inside as well, and the driver started. “It’s pretty bad.”
“It must be, if you’re saying that.” Mario frowned and settled into his seat.
“Pop… isn’t showing any improvement,” Alberto whispered. “Whatever that bastard did to him, it’s… it’s permanent.”
“I’ll handle him,” Mario promised.
“Mario, I want to-”
“No. Pop didn’t want you involved, and… neither do I.” He paused at seeing the look on his brother’s face. “Not right now, okay? Let me handle this. You’ll be my eyes and ears. You can go places I can’t. People talk to you like they won’t talk to me.” He gripped Alberto’s shoulder. “Let me rebuild the empire, then… we’ll see.” He exchanged an almost conspiratorial smile with his brother.
Alberto nodded, pacified. “Maroni took over the Falcone clubs and businesses when Pop… went away. He’s dead now.”
“Good. Who do I have to thank for that?”
“Word on the street? Dent.”
“Dent?”
“It’s a long story.” Alberto shrugged. “I’ll tell you later.” Mario motioned for him to continue. “The docks stayed under Italian control. Lombardi should hand them back over to you without a fuss.”
“Good. What about the clubs?”
“Newcomer took them over.”
“Italian?”
Alberto snorted. “Hardly. Chechen.”
Mario considered what he knew of Chechens. “So it’ll be a fight.”
“At best.”
Mario considered his brother’s words for a long time, and Alberto remained silent. He wasn’t about to break the new don’s concentration. “Will any of the Italians oppose me?”
Alberto shook his head. “I don’t think so. One or two at the most, but they shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’ll call the Family together Friday. Once the docks are back, we’ll lay low. I’ll send someone to the Chechen, see if he’ll listen to reason and give me Pop’s clubs back.”
“He won’t.”
“I know.” Mario frowned. “You talk first, then you act.”
“How long should we wait?”
Mario considered this. “December twenty-sixth. If he refuses to see reason by then, we’ll show him why the Falcones ruled this city for years and why they will for years more.”
“I’m right behind you,” Alberto promised. “Every step of the way.”
“I’m glad, Alberto.” Mario paused slightly, glancing out the tinted window as the city rolled by. “I can’t do this alone.”
-Gilgamesh
Mario Falcone
Batman (Nolan)
675 words
“Mario!”
The Italian man, a month past thirty, looked away from the luggage carousel at hearing his name. Unlike his fellow passengers, he did not grumble under his breath about the plane’s delay or any such thing. He felt fortunate enough that he had not lost his seat from Florida to New York. That was the danger of flying economy, he had to admit, but flying first class would have attracted too much attention. He was a free and cleared man, yes, but he still did not relish being greeted by anything more than the perfunctory airport security. He’d flown first class from Venice to Miami. That long on a flight? He was going to be comfortable. But for the last leg, for returning home? He could handle third-class.
Mario Falcone smiled when he saw who had called for him. Another man, about four years younger, hurried over to him. Alberto Falcone had changed little in the years his brother had been gone. He was still taller than his older brother but of a thinner build, and Mario smelled cloves as soon as he approached. Mario pulled Alberto into a hug and grinned.
“Been taking care of yourself?” Mario asked.
Alberto smirked. “That’s not a problem for me. I don’t get in trouble. Remember?” He gripped his brother’s arm. “How are you?”
“Relieved to be home,” Mario muttered.
Two of the men Alberto had brought began collecting Mario’s luggage from the carousel. The rest of his things would be sent directly to the penthouse.
“It’s good to have you back,” Alberto said. He led his brother toward the exit. “I wish it was under better circumstances.”
“Tell me everything.” Mario slid into the back of the waiting Rolls Royce limousine.
Alberto tapped on the glass divider once he was inside as well, and the driver started. “It’s pretty bad.”
“It must be, if you’re saying that.” Mario frowned and settled into his seat.
“Pop… isn’t showing any improvement,” Alberto whispered. “Whatever that bastard did to him, it’s… it’s permanent.”
“I’ll handle him,” Mario promised.
“Mario, I want to-”
“No. Pop didn’t want you involved, and… neither do I.” He paused at seeing the look on his brother’s face. “Not right now, okay? Let me handle this. You’ll be my eyes and ears. You can go places I can’t. People talk to you like they won’t talk to me.” He gripped Alberto’s shoulder. “Let me rebuild the empire, then… we’ll see.” He exchanged an almost conspiratorial smile with his brother.
Alberto nodded, pacified. “Maroni took over the Falcone clubs and businesses when Pop… went away. He’s dead now.”
“Good. Who do I have to thank for that?”
“Word on the street? Dent.”
“Dent?”
“It’s a long story.” Alberto shrugged. “I’ll tell you later.” Mario motioned for him to continue. “The docks stayed under Italian control. Lombardi should hand them back over to you without a fuss.”
“Good. What about the clubs?”
“Newcomer took them over.”
“Italian?”
Alberto snorted. “Hardly. Chechen.”
Mario considered what he knew of Chechens. “So it’ll be a fight.”
“At best.”
Mario considered his brother’s words for a long time, and Alberto remained silent. He wasn’t about to break the new don’s concentration. “Will any of the Italians oppose me?”
Alberto shook his head. “I don’t think so. One or two at the most, but they shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’ll call the Family together Friday. Once the docks are back, we’ll lay low. I’ll send someone to the Chechen, see if he’ll listen to reason and give me Pop’s clubs back.”
“He won’t.”
“I know.” Mario frowned. “You talk first, then you act.”
“How long should we wait?”
Mario considered this. “December twenty-sixth. If he refuses to see reason by then, we’ll show him why the Falcones ruled this city for years and why they will for years more.”
“I’m right behind you,” Alberto promised. “Every step of the way.”
“I’m glad, Alberto.” Mario paused slightly, glancing out the tinted window as the city rolled by. “I can’t do this alone.”