Enzo had learned to hate everything here, even the bars. He didn't use to frequent bars back in New York City. That sort of thing was looked down upon in the mob, and he'd always prided himself on being good in the family. Sure, he'd fucked up a lot (one such mistake had landed him here) but he'd still been good.
Now, what was he? Some fuckin' no one. Some human on this island of freaks. Which he wasn't even allowed to say, said Angelo. His best friend had turned cop, almost everyone could kick his ass, he had no contacts, and couldn't connect with his old friends.
The man sighed and knocked back a shot, dropping his head a little to help keep from distracting himself. Strip joints. Eh, gentleman clubs he'd been to a few times back at the Big Apple. Surprisingly, they held little appeal. Why would he want to get all worked up and have no release? He liked the atmosphere of the classier places, like this one. Dimmed light, flirtatious women, and good alcohol.
He needed to get a job. Find some niche around this part. Angelo had warned him away from the organized crime on the island. 'You're out of your league,' he'd said. Lorenzo believed him, but would never say so.
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@ReD
Yoka Sake was bored.
This was the problem with being alive for over 500 years. She planned on being alive for 500 more, and then for eternity, hopefully, since immortality was her goal.
But it was so, so easy to get bored.
The kitsune was in her normal human form: a tall, leggy Japanese woman with thick, black hair like spilled ink. Today, it was pulled back from her face and held in place with an ornate butterfly clip. When she worked the club she usually wore something gauzy and see-through, but tonight, Yoka wasn't dancing or minding the floor. She wore a loose fitting kimono top as a dress and a pair of thin, sharp heels that looked like she could stab someone with. Her thin wrists were covered in what looked like live butterflies, but were probably her favorite bracelets. She was not wearing pants, but the shirt covered enough that it was impossible to tell she was wearing small shorts--which was exactly what she intended.
She'd come to observe the patrons.
The people who came to strip clubs interested her greatly and tonight was one of the busier nights, but not busy enough that Yoka couldn't justify taking time off to interact. She owned the place, for the gods sake, and she didn't have to work.
One man, at the bar, caught her eye. He was not someone Yoka had seen before, but there was something about the casual way he sat that implied to her that he might be someone she'd want as a regular. Tough looking, but without that vibe that said he was likely to mistake her dancers for toys.
She slid onto the barstool next to him and said, "Can I buy you a drink?"
Yoka was direct. She may have batted her eyelashes, but her tone was firm.
This was the problem with being alive for over 500 years. She planned on being alive for 500 more, and then for eternity, hopefully, since immortality was her goal.
But it was so, so easy to get bored.
The kitsune was in her normal human form: a tall, leggy Japanese woman with thick, black hair like spilled ink. Today, it was pulled back from her face and held in place with an ornate butterfly clip. When she worked the club she usually wore something gauzy and see-through, but tonight, Yoka wasn't dancing or minding the floor. She wore a loose fitting kimono top as a dress and a pair of thin, sharp heels that looked like she could stab someone with. Her thin wrists were covered in what looked like live butterflies, but were probably her favorite bracelets. She was not wearing pants, but the shirt covered enough that it was impossible to tell she was wearing small shorts--which was exactly what she intended.
She'd come to observe the patrons.
The people who came to strip clubs interested her greatly and tonight was one of the busier nights, but not busy enough that Yoka couldn't justify taking time off to interact. She owned the place, for the gods sake, and she didn't have to work.
One man, at the bar, caught her eye. He was not someone Yoka had seen before, but there was something about the casual way he sat that implied to her that he might be someone she'd want as a regular. Tough looking, but without that vibe that said he was likely to mistake her dancers for toys.
She slid onto the barstool next to him and said, "Can I buy you a drink?"
Yoka was direct. She may have batted her eyelashes, but her tone was firm.
Oh, ho ho ho. No, no. Enzo was wise to this fuckin' game. He'd had a business woman buy him a drink on this island once, and that wasn't exactly a pleasant fucking experience. He side-eyed Yoka.
He didn't know her, at least, he didn't think he did. He hadn't been on Manta Carlos long enough for any drunken shenanigans, and no mob business meant no threats from that front. She had that same no-nonsense tone Yura had, and that wasn't alleviating any wariness on his part.
Lorenzo drummed his fingers on the bar irritably. He let out a long, weary sigh. "Alright," he said, New York accent thicker than normal from alcohol intact and aggravation, "what do you want? No way a beautiful woman walks up to buy me a drink and look at me like that without wantin' somethin'."
If she was going to be direct, so was he. Then, that was to suggest Lorenzo was ever not direct. Which was just not true. He didn't buy into lovely words.
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Yoka laughed. It was much dryer than one might expect to come from a woman like herself. She seemed like she'd have a high, sweet laugh--and sometimes she did, when she was faking it. But her laugh was usually low and self-assured, as though she'd been in on the joke the entire time, regaldess of what it was.
Yoka lifted her hand and waved to the bartender, signaling for two drinks.
"Whatever he wants," she nodded to the man.
She considered his directness and her plump lips twitched as though she wanted to smile but couldn't quite bring herself to expend the energy.
"Well, you are in an exotic dance club," Yoka said. "It wouldn't be out of the question for a beautiful woman to approach you hoping to have you buy a dance from her. But, of course, then usually the dancer would be asking you for a drink, and not the other way around, so you've got me there, unless it's a marketing ploy used here."
She crossed her legs on the barstool, one slender foot dangling over the edge and said, "But I doubt you'd believe that. I'm bored. I'm moderately horny. You look interesting. What I want is to be interested by someone who looks interesting."
She pointed to him and said, "So, if you wouldn't mind, interest me. What's your name?"
Yoka lifted her hand and waved to the bartender, signaling for two drinks.
"Whatever he wants," she nodded to the man.
She considered his directness and her plump lips twitched as though she wanted to smile but couldn't quite bring herself to expend the energy.
"Well, you are in an exotic dance club," Yoka said. "It wouldn't be out of the question for a beautiful woman to approach you hoping to have you buy a dance from her. But, of course, then usually the dancer would be asking you for a drink, and not the other way around, so you've got me there, unless it's a marketing ploy used here."
She crossed her legs on the barstool, one slender foot dangling over the edge and said, "But I doubt you'd believe that. I'm bored. I'm moderately horny. You look interesting. What I want is to be interested by someone who looks interesting."
She pointed to him and said, "So, if you wouldn't mind, interest me. What's your name?"
"Scotch on the rocks," Lorenzo said to the bartender, never taking his eyes off Yoka. She felt too dangerous for that and Enzo sat there attempting to read her despite knowing she couldn't be human and he couldn't read something he didn't know or understand.
"They still want somethin'," Enzo pointed out, tone clipped. "They want money. Look I've done this song and dance in New York, I know how it's played."
Enzo couldn't help himself, when Yoka shifted her legs he glanced down at them, eyes quickly scanning upward until they were on her face again. He relaxed on the outside, but an experienced onlooker knew the pose of someone on guard, ready for an attack.
He didn't dance when people told him to, not usually. He barely did it for his father or Angelo. Lorenzo held a hand out for her to shake. He had worksman hands, used to dealing with rough material and useful weapons.
"Lorenzo Moretti," he paused, thoughtful, and then offhandedly added, "from New York city. Came here cause some fuckers were tryina kill me. Who're you?"
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"That's fair enough," Yoka conceded.
When he offered his hand, Yoka slid her smooth hand into his own. Though her hands were small, her grip was strong and firm. She gave two brisk shakes before releasing.
"Yoka Sake," she offered in return. She was musing over his addition when she gave her own. "I own this place. I came here from New York because I want to be alive forever. Not quite the same thing as having someone try to kill you, though."
For an add bonus she said, "If you've ever been to The Sly Minx outside of Brooklyn you've been to another one of my clubs."
New York wasn't the only city in the states that she had her fingers in. She liked the city, but she loved the Manta Carlos islands more. She also liked the interesting part of the story. The bartender came and delivered their drinks--a shirly temple for Yoka and Lorenzo's scotch. She was curious to see how he would drink it; would he nurse it and let the ice melt in and dilute it or was he the type to toss it back, or maybe a third alternative she hadn't considered? Yoka liked to read men by the way they drank.
"Obviously you succeeded in staying alive then," Yoka said. "How did you do it?"
She meant staying alive. She just took it for face value that people wanted him dead. In her line of business that wasn't as uncommon as one might think.
When he offered his hand, Yoka slid her smooth hand into his own. Though her hands were small, her grip was strong and firm. She gave two brisk shakes before releasing.
"Yoka Sake," she offered in return. She was musing over his addition when she gave her own. "I own this place. I came here from New York because I want to be alive forever. Not quite the same thing as having someone try to kill you, though."
For an add bonus she said, "If you've ever been to The Sly Minx outside of Brooklyn you've been to another one of my clubs."
New York wasn't the only city in the states that she had her fingers in. She liked the city, but she loved the Manta Carlos islands more. She also liked the interesting part of the story. The bartender came and delivered their drinks--a shirly temple for Yoka and Lorenzo's scotch. She was curious to see how he would drink it; would he nurse it and let the ice melt in and dilute it or was he the type to toss it back, or maybe a third alternative she hadn't considered? Yoka liked to read men by the way they drank.
"Obviously you succeeded in staying alive then," Yoka said. "How did you do it?"
She meant staying alive. She just took it for face value that people wanted him dead. In her line of business that wasn't as uncommon as one might think.
She was feminine, pretty in that sharp, cold sort of way that came from models and other unattainable things. But there was something drastically masculine in how she held herself, or how business savvy Enzo could feel she was. He was intrigued and even a little intimidated, although it didn't show on his face.
A bit stupefied, Lorenzo asked, "what are ya?"
Live forever, she said. Suppose Lorenzo had never considered such a thing. It never occurred to him before that it was even possible. Magic was a thing of fairy tales, except that it wasn't and now he was in the middle of it all.
To answer her, he went on, "seen it. Never been in it. We didn't drink much in the clubs, the group I was with back in New York. Were ya born there?"
The talk or New York was relaxing Enzo noticeably. It gave him pangs of home, made him think of happier (though hardly happy) times in his life. He'd met two people from New York here now. Interesting.
While debating how much he wanted to tell this woman, Lorenzo threw back his shot and set the glass on the bartop with a bit of a bang. He was quiet, savoring the flavor and the burn the alcohol had left in his throat.
"I was part of the Genevoses family," he said, recalling that past crimes couldn't be used against people here. Start over, Angelo had told him. So why lie? "I was the Don's son, actually. Killed a made man and that got me sent here. But, before that? Mostly by killin' anyone who wanted to kill me. Ain't that the way?"
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Yoka appreciated his directness. In her line of work, there was a lot of dancing around the difficult questions. Sometimes, Yoka harbored the thought, I'm getting too old for this shit. But she wasn't. She was young, comparatively, only a few centuries in.
"Kitsune," she said. Then, another decisive shake of the head. "No, Japan. New York was nice, though. I miss it from time to time. There is something about that city, some feeling it creates, that being a New Yorker, that just can't be replicated, even here, you know?"
She realized she couldn't put this thought into words, so instead she shook her head and watched him take the shot.
Interesting. Yoka filed that information away and took a delicate sip of her own drink.
She recognized the family name even if she'd had no dealings with them directly. Yoka liked to maintain a certain cleanliness that organized crime families did not always possess. But she wasn't an idiot, she knew the way the world worked and needed to be aware of the going ons of those who might think fast money could come from randsoming a rich woman.
"How do you kill them?" she asked.
Her voice was level and business like. Her amber eyes glinted in the dimlight, reflecting her interest.
She was intrigued.
One thing was certain: Yoka was no longer bored.
In fact, she was very interested, and she was starting to see how this handsome man might fit into her plans, provided he was willing. And if he wasn't willing? Perhaps he could be persuaded.
Yoka needed someone who understood kill or be killed and here he was, drinking at her bar. She signaled to the bar tender for another round. She pointed to the top of the bar, asking for the better bottle. The bartender obliged and poured.
"Kitsune," she said. Then, another decisive shake of the head. "No, Japan. New York was nice, though. I miss it from time to time. There is something about that city, some feeling it creates, that being a New Yorker, that just can't be replicated, even here, you know?"
She realized she couldn't put this thought into words, so instead she shook her head and watched him take the shot.
Interesting. Yoka filed that information away and took a delicate sip of her own drink.
She recognized the family name even if she'd had no dealings with them directly. Yoka liked to maintain a certain cleanliness that organized crime families did not always possess. But she wasn't an idiot, she knew the way the world worked and needed to be aware of the going ons of those who might think fast money could come from randsoming a rich woman.
"How do you kill them?" she asked.
Her voice was level and business like. Her amber eyes glinted in the dimlight, reflecting her interest.
She was intrigued.
One thing was certain: Yoka was no longer bored.
In fact, she was very interested, and she was starting to see how this handsome man might fit into her plans, provided he was willing. And if he wasn't willing? Perhaps he could be persuaded.
Yoka needed someone who understood kill or be killed and here he was, drinking at her bar. She signaled to the bar tender for another round. She pointed to the top of the bar, asking for the better bottle. The bartender obliged and poured.
Kitsune. Lorenzo would have to remember that to ask Angelo about it or look it up. When Yoka brought up the unique g one got from living in the Big Apple, Lorenzo nodded emphatically, and his expression softened momentarily.
"Yeah, I get what you're saying," he told her with feeling before looking at his empty shot glass and sliding it toward the bartender to take away. Now, he wasn't feeling much like drinking. He wanted a clear mind for whatever came next.
This was one of this times in life that felt oddly important for no other reason than intuition. And that gut feeling was only proven correct when Yoka asked Lorenzo for the details of his killing.
What could he say? Most of it wasn't as glamorous as the movies made out, in fact, none of it was. He could have told her about the times they needed to torture men or the drive-bys. The dark rooms. The acid bins. The dump sites.
But Lorenzo found he didn't want to. He'd been raised to keep it all a secret. It was odd being able to be so open about it now. A feeling he wasn't used to and wasn't sure he liked with some woman in a bar who he didn't even know and the sharp look of a trickster in her eye.
"Mostly, it was clean by our business standards. Traitors were lured away and shot. Enemies - shot. Sometimes you sent a message by destroying a business in really extravagant ways. That didn't happen so often in my time. We had agreements in place, all the families."
And then she was offering him more to drink, which seemed like a strategy of sorts to Enzo. He held up a hand to signify that he didn't want anymore and turned his body to watch Yoka. "Why are ya so curious about all of this? What are ya after?"
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