Vito Rosales did not ask much.
Really, all Vito asked their employees was what they could give. Can't fight? Be a runner. Can't run either? Hell, inventory. Contrary to popular belief, not a lot of shooting went down in the mob. It might frighten the ladies and gentlemen of the audience, but the sad truth was that the only difference between a mob and a company were a few pieces of paper. On that point, The Rosales Gang? It was a smooth, well-oiled machine.
But machines can stop at any time. All it took was an exposed wire, a wrench, a goddamn nut in the wheel. In this case, a sneaky little thief. A few weeks ago, Rivera reported that someone had been pocketing cocaine, because the supply number in the cache didn't add up with the sales. It always came a few hundreds too short. Vito couldn't believe it, not at the fact that there were thieves among their numbers, but because they'd have the nerve to do it. He assigned a lackey to do inventory in all of their dead drops, and it looked like Rivera hit the nail on the head.
According to the records, this had been going on for a while now, and further research revealed who the culprit was easily. Someone, a certain Jeremy Maloney, was sneaking out kilograms of coke and selling them online for bitcoins. Digital consumption. Bah. It was a coward's business. Well, he wasn't going to pull one over him.
After all, all Vito asked for what they could give. Abusing his, and Klaus' hospitality, that was just pushing it.
It was high time the two of them had a chat with good old Jeremy.
Vito sat at the driver's seat of his black sedan, loading his gun with one, two, three poisoned bullets. At the back seat, his favorite crowbar, Old Faithful. Nobody outside would be able to see inside because of tinted windows, and that just seemed like the best kind of meeting place, somewhere a little more private, you see? Vito already sent Klaus a message that he was ready to go, and waited patiently in his car.
Really, all Vito asked their employees was what they could give. Can't fight? Be a runner. Can't run either? Hell, inventory. Contrary to popular belief, not a lot of shooting went down in the mob. It might frighten the ladies and gentlemen of the audience, but the sad truth was that the only difference between a mob and a company were a few pieces of paper. On that point, The Rosales Gang? It was a smooth, well-oiled machine.
But machines can stop at any time. All it took was an exposed wire, a wrench, a goddamn nut in the wheel. In this case, a sneaky little thief. A few weeks ago, Rivera reported that someone had been pocketing cocaine, because the supply number in the cache didn't add up with the sales. It always came a few hundreds too short. Vito couldn't believe it, not at the fact that there were thieves among their numbers, but because they'd have the nerve to do it. He assigned a lackey to do inventory in all of their dead drops, and it looked like Rivera hit the nail on the head.
According to the records, this had been going on for a while now, and further research revealed who the culprit was easily. Someone, a certain Jeremy Maloney, was sneaking out kilograms of coke and selling them online for bitcoins. Digital consumption. Bah. It was a coward's business. Well, he wasn't going to pull one over him.
After all, all Vito asked for what they could give. Abusing his, and Klaus' hospitality, that was just pushing it.
It was high time the two of them had a chat with good old Jeremy.
Vito sat at the driver's seat of his black sedan, loading his gun with one, two, three poisoned bullets. At the back seat, his favorite crowbar, Old Faithful. Nobody outside would be able to see inside because of tinted windows, and that just seemed like the best kind of meeting place, somewhere a little more private, you see? Vito already sent Klaus a message that he was ready to go, and waited patiently in his car.