Tuesday, November 2, 1965
Boston
The past few nights had been unseasonably warm, people were whispering of a second Spring, joking that winter would have to wait until next year. Everyone had their own reason for why it had been so hot, but deep in the streets of Boston, they all knew not to believe in some astrological phenomenon or some radical change in air pressure. No, they knew that blood had filled the streets, gunshots and chaos had swallowed up the city, and that commotion was driving off the cold embrace of winter. But this morning was different. The city was greeted with the first good frost it had seen in eight months. There was a dull hum that blanketed the city with the cold, it was defining, resonating sound of church bells. The two gangs that had started the war four years ago had both lost. Their leaders were dead or imprisoned, and their members were clinging to empty glasses for inspiration. Every member of the underworld was out and about today, some were mourning, some were celebrating, and others were simply hard at work. The war had changed nothing, and it was still far from over...
Carmella Yakavetta
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
You knew today was going to be a long one. Not only had no one in the Charlestown crew slept for two days, but you have already been to two churches and hugged sixty people, and the funeral doesn't start for another five hours. Days like this were never pleasant for you. Sure you held your own in the gang, and everyone in the crew respected you, but nearly all of their families did not. Especially the girlfriends of your closest associates. Some of them thought you may be competition, the smarter ones thought you were sleeping around with their men, and the smartest ones knew you weren't but easily could. Regardless of your actions, they all knew one thing, you were breaking tradition. The women of the Charlestown mob have their own hierarchy of command, one to which you do not apply nor belong. They are constantly suspicious and distrusting, even the ones who knew you as a child, before you pulled into this heaping mess. But today they all had to be nice to you, and you were expected to do the same. If there was one thing the Charlestown mob never did it was infighting. Even the people that hated your guts could only get away with being passive aggressive.
"Cammie, you holding up alright?" Questioned a familiar voice, it was Mack, he was an enforcer like you. He placed his hand on your shoulder, pulling you out of your mind and back into the interior of his Ford Galaxie. It was one of the few four door cars the mob had access to, which he needed to retrieve his sister and brother-in-law from their apartment in Brookline. The trip from BunkerHill to Brookline passed through both Italian and Winter Hill territory. And with so many gangsters being put in the dirt today, no one was taking any chances. "It'll all be ova soon." He continued, placing his hand back on the wheel. You could tell by his whitened knuckles that he was angry, but it was not a day for anger, something you had heard from far too many this morning. You and Mack were basically a taxi service all morning, collecting people from all over the city and dropping them off St. John's. Your next stop was Darleen and Patrick. Darleen had kept her nose clean and put some distance between herself and Mack. Something he praised her for. Despite her efforts, she knew plenty which meant she had to be watched over. Your silent contemplation had taken longer than you thought it would as you felt the car pull upward into a steep driveway and begin idling. Mack stepped out of the car and peeked his head into the slightly open driver side window. "You feel like coming in? The big sis makes a damn good cup of joe." He questioned gesturing up towards the door.
You knew today was going to be a long one. Not only had no one in the Charlestown crew slept for two days, but you have already been to two churches and hugged sixty people, and the funeral doesn't start for another five hours. Days like this were never pleasant for you. Sure you held your own in the gang, and everyone in the crew respected you, but nearly all of their families did not. Especially the girlfriends of your closest associates. Some of them thought you may be competition, the smarter ones thought you were sleeping around with their men, and the smartest ones knew you weren't but easily could. Regardless of your actions, they all knew one thing, you were breaking tradition. The women of the Charlestown mob have their own hierarchy of command, one to which you do not apply nor belong. They are constantly suspicious and distrusting, even the ones who knew you as a child, before you pulled into this heaping mess. But today they all had to be nice to you, and you were expected to do the same. If there was one thing the Charlestown mob never did it was infighting. Even the people that hated your guts could only get away with being passive aggressive.
"Cammie, you holding up alright?" Questioned a familiar voice, it was Mack, he was an enforcer like you. He placed his hand on your shoulder, pulling you out of your mind and back into the interior of his Ford Galaxie. It was one of the few four door cars the mob had access to, which he needed to retrieve his sister and brother-in-law from their apartment in Brookline. The trip from BunkerHill to Brookline passed through both Italian and Winter Hill territory. And with so many gangsters being put in the dirt today, no one was taking any chances. "It'll all be ova soon." He continued, placing his hand back on the wheel. You could tell by his whitened knuckles that he was angry, but it was not a day for anger, something you had heard from far too many this morning. You and Mack were basically a taxi service all morning, collecting people from all over the city and dropping them off St. John's. Your next stop was Darleen and Patrick. Darleen had kept her nose clean and put some distance between herself and Mack. Something he praised her for. Despite her efforts, she knew plenty which meant she had to be watched over. Your silent contemplation had taken longer than you thought it would as you felt the car pull upward into a steep driveway and begin idling. Mack stepped out of the car and peeked his head into the slightly open driver side window. "You feel like coming in? The big sis makes a damn good cup of joe." He questioned gesturing up towards the door.
Xiu Lan Chun
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
It wasn't often you awoke in a stranger's bed with the noxious scent of sex filling the air. You were far too careful for that. But here you were, wrapped up in sheets of velvety smooth silk laying next to a well muscled Italian man, or was it, two men. With your head still spinning you groggily lifted yourself from the bed and slowly take in the room. The large glass windows, lavish couches, full bar, and brilliant few of Boston Harbor leads you to the conclusion that you are in the one very expensive hotel. As your eyes adjust to the bright light you soon confirm your suspicions, a small Statler Hilton brochure half hidden under a still sleeping mostly naked man on the floor. Speaking of naked, your clothes seem to have liberated themselves from your body, being replaced by a thick layer of sweat. Based on the soreness of your feminine parts and the cash you can see spilling out of your purse, you can tell it was one hell of a party last night, and the still damp sheets tell you it that it ended only recently. You quickly count at least twenty men before your eyes fall upon the body naked body of Lara, a woman of a similar profession. Before you can pull yourself much further up, a surprisingly heavy pillow collides with your face, in your brief moment of blindness you feel weight shift on the bed and a pair of dainty knees flank your hips. "Your first night with the Italians and you already end up in the big bed." Said Rose in a hushed voice, she was a young and pretty Greek girl, who had introduced you to the Patriarca. "I don't know how you do it, Cynthia." She continued, pulling you up to your feet and shoving your clothes in your arms. "There are three studs in the bathroom so you can shower at my place." She offered while slipping on her shoes. "You want to grab breakfast on the way?"
It wasn't often you awoke in a stranger's bed with the noxious scent of sex filling the air. You were far too careful for that. But here you were, wrapped up in sheets of velvety smooth silk laying next to a well muscled Italian man, or was it, two men. With your head still spinning you groggily lifted yourself from the bed and slowly take in the room. The large glass windows, lavish couches, full bar, and brilliant few of Boston Harbor leads you to the conclusion that you are in the one very expensive hotel. As your eyes adjust to the bright light you soon confirm your suspicions, a small Statler Hilton brochure half hidden under a still sleeping mostly naked man on the floor. Speaking of naked, your clothes seem to have liberated themselves from your body, being replaced by a thick layer of sweat. Based on the soreness of your feminine parts and the cash you can see spilling out of your purse, you can tell it was one hell of a party last night, and the still damp sheets tell you it that it ended only recently. You quickly count at least twenty men before your eyes fall upon the body naked body of Lara, a woman of a similar profession. Before you can pull yourself much further up, a surprisingly heavy pillow collides with your face, in your brief moment of blindness you feel weight shift on the bed and a pair of dainty knees flank your hips. "Your first night with the Italians and you already end up in the big bed." Said Rose in a hushed voice, she was a young and pretty Greek girl, who had introduced you to the Patriarca. "I don't know how you do it, Cynthia." She continued, pulling you up to your feet and shoving your clothes in your arms. "There are three studs in the bathroom so you can shower at my place." She offered while slipping on her shoes. "You want to grab breakfast on the way?"
Jenny-Lee Pettimore
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
Fucking traffic. Why was there always traffic? Back home you could make it thirty or forty miles without seeing another person let alone another car. But here that's all there was. And to top it all off it was freezing. Seventies last night and twenties this morning it was absolutely bizarre, even for New England. You were supposed to make four deliveries this morning, and now it was looking like you'd be lucky to get half as many done before noon. Your short time in the city hadn't afforded you the possibility of joining the race scene. However, your family name was well known enough to secure lucrative work as a courier. It wasn't bad work, a day's worth of gas was barely a quarter and deliveries ranged from twenty to one hundred dollars. You moved anything you could, dirty money, guns, drugs, occasionally people, but passenger service was a premium. Today was a mixed bag. You had collected two seemingly important Chinese businessmen. One of them had to be ninety years old, and the other looked like he was barely twenty. The young one was nervous as all hell, you could tell he had practiced the greeting he gave you a few hundred times. Your first trip was short, take the geezer and amateur from Logan to the corner of Tremont and Stuart, once they had been dropped off you would get a package. The Chinese were fans of daisy chaining your services, whoever you were bringing the package to was expected to pay for that and the previous service. It was something no one else ever asked you to do. But so far you have always been paid. The trip should have taken you fifteen or twenty or minutes, but as the shorthand clicked past the hour, you and one of your passengers were getting very angsty. "Is traffic often this intense Ms. Pettimore?" Asked the younger gentleman, on more than one occasion. His other questions revolved around asking how much longer it would take to reach their destination, and if was usually this cold in Boston. As you missed your third light in a row you began paying some serious attention to cars traveling perpendicular to you. It was a funeral procession, the largest you had ever seen. There must have been two hundred cars, decorated with small orange tags. You were rather certain you could slip yourself into their ranks, or at least add yourself to the back of the pack. Either way, it would definitely get you the hell out of this traffic, and you just might be able to make up some time.
Fucking traffic. Why was there always traffic? Back home you could make it thirty or forty miles without seeing another person let alone another car. But here that's all there was. And to top it all off it was freezing. Seventies last night and twenties this morning it was absolutely bizarre, even for New England. You were supposed to make four deliveries this morning, and now it was looking like you'd be lucky to get half as many done before noon. Your short time in the city hadn't afforded you the possibility of joining the race scene. However, your family name was well known enough to secure lucrative work as a courier. It wasn't bad work, a day's worth of gas was barely a quarter and deliveries ranged from twenty to one hundred dollars. You moved anything you could, dirty money, guns, drugs, occasionally people, but passenger service was a premium. Today was a mixed bag. You had collected two seemingly important Chinese businessmen. One of them had to be ninety years old, and the other looked like he was barely twenty. The young one was nervous as all hell, you could tell he had practiced the greeting he gave you a few hundred times. Your first trip was short, take the geezer and amateur from Logan to the corner of Tremont and Stuart, once they had been dropped off you would get a package. The Chinese were fans of daisy chaining your services, whoever you were bringing the package to was expected to pay for that and the previous service. It was something no one else ever asked you to do. But so far you have always been paid. The trip should have taken you fifteen or twenty or minutes, but as the shorthand clicked past the hour, you and one of your passengers were getting very angsty. "Is traffic often this intense Ms. Pettimore?" Asked the younger gentleman, on more than one occasion. His other questions revolved around asking how much longer it would take to reach their destination, and if was usually this cold in Boston. As you missed your third light in a row you began paying some serious attention to cars traveling perpendicular to you. It was a funeral procession, the largest you had ever seen. There must have been two hundred cars, decorated with small orange tags. You were rather certain you could slip yourself into their ranks, or at least add yourself to the back of the pack. Either way, it would definitely get you the hell out of this traffic, and you just might be able to make up some time.
Alyssa Oakwood
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
Your trip to Boston has been a very long one. Mexico fell way to Cuba, which lead you to Miami, then Chicago, New York, Providence, and now you found yourself in the den of El Padrone, the head of Patriarca crime family. Raymond spent most of his time in Providence but today was a special occasion. The Irish pigs, as he referred to them, had literally outdone themselves. The leaders of two separate crime organizations were dead and all their rackets were up for grabs. Raymond had decided to spend the entire month in the North End to facilitate the transition of power. For you that meant that lots and lots of men were coming and going from the offices of the Patriarca family, reporting on who was willing to adopt the Italian's terms and who would have to be convinced to do so. Raymond Sr. was near sixty years old and happily remarried, needless to say, he didn't partake in the actions that most men in position would. His son, however, was twenty years old and full of spunk. As far as Junior was concerned, you were his girl and only his girl. He was a sadistic little bastard who loved dishing out pain, and he especially loved it when he watched you do it for him. He thought that he was showing his delicate little princess how to be a real gangster, little did he know that your rap sheet far outweighed his. As the boss' son he got away with practically anything he wanted, and though he cared for you, his temper was quick and he would most definitely not be punished for anything he did to you. A sharp whistle pulled your attention away from the blank concrete wall of an aged Victorian wine cellar. "Alyssa get your ass in here!" It was Junior, he was the only one who whistled before he called your name, that and his voice always sounded the same, probably because he was always high. Two rather average looking thugs opened a heavy steel door and stepped aside to let you. "You two wait upstairs." He said to the thugs, his back turned towards a small workbench covered in bloodied tools, adjacent to him was an equally bloodied white male. You couldn't tell his ethnicity due to blood and soaked hair that covered most of his face, but he looked close to forty, there were subtle lines under his eyes and beset to his chin, the blood had made them more noticeable. He turned back towards the door and said, "Yes, you two, did you think I was referring to the barrels, get the fuck out." He turned back to his workbench, scooping up a sturdy looking clawed hammer. You knew all too well how this was going to end. Junior's knuckles were already covered in blood and the poor sod in the chair was barely breathing. He didn't wait very long after you entered before walking behind you and shutting the door. He swung his free hand around your waist and prodded you forward with his crotch until you were standing less than a foot away from his tortured victim. "This asshole is three months behind on his payment." The three months portion of his statement were accompanied by three hits to the man's knee, all he managed in response was a short cough. "What do you think we should take from him so he doesn't forget to pay up next month, three fingers, toes? Some nice souvenirs?" He questioned as his hand slowly crept up towards your hair, playfully twisting it around one of his fingers.
Your trip to Boston has been a very long one. Mexico fell way to Cuba, which lead you to Miami, then Chicago, New York, Providence, and now you found yourself in the den of El Padrone, the head of Patriarca crime family. Raymond spent most of his time in Providence but today was a special occasion. The Irish pigs, as he referred to them, had literally outdone themselves. The leaders of two separate crime organizations were dead and all their rackets were up for grabs. Raymond had decided to spend the entire month in the North End to facilitate the transition of power. For you that meant that lots and lots of men were coming and going from the offices of the Patriarca family, reporting on who was willing to adopt the Italian's terms and who would have to be convinced to do so. Raymond Sr. was near sixty years old and happily remarried, needless to say, he didn't partake in the actions that most men in position would. His son, however, was twenty years old and full of spunk. As far as Junior was concerned, you were his girl and only his girl. He was a sadistic little bastard who loved dishing out pain, and he especially loved it when he watched you do it for him. He thought that he was showing his delicate little princess how to be a real gangster, little did he know that your rap sheet far outweighed his. As the boss' son he got away with practically anything he wanted, and though he cared for you, his temper was quick and he would most definitely not be punished for anything he did to you. A sharp whistle pulled your attention away from the blank concrete wall of an aged Victorian wine cellar. "Alyssa get your ass in here!" It was Junior, he was the only one who whistled before he called your name, that and his voice always sounded the same, probably because he was always high. Two rather average looking thugs opened a heavy steel door and stepped aside to let you. "You two wait upstairs." He said to the thugs, his back turned towards a small workbench covered in bloodied tools, adjacent to him was an equally bloodied white male. You couldn't tell his ethnicity due to blood and soaked hair that covered most of his face, but he looked close to forty, there were subtle lines under his eyes and beset to his chin, the blood had made them more noticeable. He turned back towards the door and said, "Yes, you two, did you think I was referring to the barrels, get the fuck out." He turned back to his workbench, scooping up a sturdy looking clawed hammer. You knew all too well how this was going to end. Junior's knuckles were already covered in blood and the poor sod in the chair was barely breathing. He didn't wait very long after you entered before walking behind you and shutting the door. He swung his free hand around your waist and prodded you forward with his crotch until you were standing less than a foot away from his tortured victim. "This asshole is three months behind on his payment." The three months portion of his statement were accompanied by three hits to the man's knee, all he managed in response was a short cough. "What do you think we should take from him so he doesn't forget to pay up next month, three fingers, toes? Some nice souvenirs?" He questioned as his hand slowly crept up towards your hair, playfully twisting it around one of his fingers.
