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Vinny

The Family

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Legal Stuff:

This is a game set in a world of my own creation. All fictional characters are purely fictional. Not intended to be a reference to any real life people. Yada yada yada. Badabing, badabang.

 

Ok, this stuff is posted for easier references. Might get a map up later on, but we'll see.

 

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New Haven itself is bordering the East Coast, built along a wide harbor called Perdition Bay.

 

To the East are the Dock Yards. These include the main bay area, the ship yards, along with rows of warehouses, many of them housing illegal products. Black marketteers operate here.

 

In the center is Downtown New Haven, a fairly commercial area where government and businesses operate. This area, at the moment, is mob-free, as it's neutral territory (often, the mob bosses met here for agreements and deals).

 

To the north is Rowland Heights, a fairly wealthy region, residential mostly. The higher class live in this region, and crime seems low. However, it is also the territory of the Salichi Family, the strongest organization in the Three Families of New Haven.

 

To the south is, ideally named, the Southsides. These regions tend to be poorer, divided into Chinatown to the West and Little Italy to the East. Both are fairly culturally developed, and there have been some form of tension, often with youths fighting and such, but otherwise the two neighborhoods are mostly secluded and isolated from each other (that is, until the Triads start to move in the future). The official boss of the Southsides are the Marlino Family, operating out of Little Italy.

 

The last major region is the Brooks to the west. The Brooks is known for Commercial Row, where many shops and businesses are open. However, it is also home to countless numbers of bars and brothels, also home to the New Haven's Red Light District. Overall, its a very poor region further away from Downtown and Commercial Row, where the slums start appearing and thus has earned the Brooks as the worst neighborhood in all of New Haven. (Common line is alive by night, dead by morning is often a reference to the Brooks). It's controlled by the Taglione Family, a heavy-weight in the Three Families and the second most powerful on the committee.

 

The main powers of the New Haven underworld are the Three Families.

 

The Salichi are the strongest, with close conenction to the Sicilian Mafia in Italy. They often dictate what the other families can and cannot do, and any illegal business ventures in and out of New Haven is regulated by them, making them very influential. Don Antonio Salichi is the boss of the family, and he is known to be a sly and cunning strategist.

 

The Taglione are the strongest in manpower, with fresh recruits from the streets and powerful enforcers. The last major mob war between the families has brought fear of the Taglione's might in muscle, and has thus granted them much respect from the other families. Don Guiseppe Taglione is the boss, and he himself is known to be extremely aggressive and hot-tempered. He has a large scar across his eye and is known, ideally, as "The Scar" or "Guiseppe the Scar".

 

The Marlino are the weakest and most neutral of the Three Families. They have a small territory and their business ventures have often been humble compared to the other two houses (minor bootlegging, scattered handful of establishments). However, they possess very strong relations with the politicians (especially the press), and thus they have great leverage amongst the Three Families. Nonetheless, with political backing, they have become ambitious of late, slowly attempting to gain a stronger foothold in their own territory with probable intention for expansion. Also, while they are culturaly Italians, they have shown the most tolerance towards non-Italians. Don Vittorio Marlino leads the Marlino Family. He is known to be a warm and compassionate man but is also notorious for being extremely manipulative when necessary (in fact, many think it was he that orchestrated the previous conflict between Salichi and Taglione twenty years ago to establish his role as peace-time mediator between the two). Old age and a throat infection as a kid left him with a distinctively raspy voice. ( *cough* Corleone *ahem*...)

 

Other underworld powers include:

 

The Golden Gang (more often known as the Goldmen), led by the German-Irish Jewish Randolph Goldstein. They are harsh rivals with the Tagliones, and have a foothold in the northern region of the Brooks. While they are not "officially" considered part of the mob, they are still a powerful party, and Goldstein has attended many meetings of the Three Families.

 

Dockyard Runners- A very small faction in the Dock Yards. They control most of the transportion, and while the mobs own the warehouses, they control the shipping. Amongst other friends, they are closest to the Marlino, especially with the many favors they owe to Don Marlino.

 

Many other small time gangs exist, but often, they are assimilated by the other organization in the city.

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The Family

 

Part I- Welcome to the Family

 

 

On a calm New Haven day, nothing is truly calm. Even from inside, the sound of muttering pedestrians can be heard, the noise from rattling car engines, the occasional honking from the traffic, occasionally the ring of the tram system.

 

Today, business was usual at the Abbandando Canned Food Factory, in the heart of Little Italy. There was a ring as a man stepped into the upstair office, a tinkling from the tiny metal ringer nailed on the doorway.

 

"Ya wanted to see me, pops." the man asked.

 

"Yes." came a gruff, hoarse, raspy, almost muffled voice from the man sitting at the desk, the man whose chair was turned so his back was to whoever enter. He raised his hand gently, holding a folded piece of paper.

 

"I've got a job for you, Vincenzo." he said.

 

Vince approached his father and took the paper, unfolding it, carefully reading over its content. Three names, two addresses.

 

"Two guineas and a mick. Ya want them whacked, Pops?" Vince asked with a grin, which disappeared when his father turned around to face him.

 

"I want them hired." the Don corrected, then turned around once again, his eyes on the cloud, the New Haven skyline, his back, for the moment, to reality.

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Sal, Vitto-

 

It's been a rough day. The trucks went about as fast as they came, new shipments from the dock yards. Life, at least today, was busier than usual at Mario's Trucking and Co, 5th Street Little Italy.

 

Just as Salvatore Vitale hoisted the last crate from an olive oil company truck, a new truck started honking outside the opened garage doors. The groaning of the loaders thinking they could catch a minute's breather was heard all around, along with their mutterings and cursings.

 

The truck kept honking.

 

"Vaffanculo! F**kin' wait you're turn, eh? F**kin' prick!" his boss, Mario Cuillio shouted, a rough man who seem always to be sweaty and unshaven, sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, muscular arms, his suspenders loose after a hard day of working alongside his men, the leather thongs hanging by his side.

 

As he passed by, heading towards the garage, he hands his clip board to his accountant, Vittorio Vitale.

 

"Alright, break time. Why don't you all go outside, have a smoke, while I deal with this son of a bi*tch!"

 

And with that he leaves the loading bay, leaving behind an exhausted, slightly thankful work crew. Several of the groaning men shuffled outside, fishing in their pockets for cigarettes and lighters, one of them even slips a sip from a flask, which he hid as quickly as he drank from it, then went for a cigarette. The clow ticked and hit noon.

 

James-

 

The sound of the seagulls is fairly calming, a much better alternative to the ruckus of the city. Nonetheless, the Dock Yards had its own commotion, the tooting horns of steamers boats comming and going, the ringings from dock bells, signaling shifts. Occasionally a sputtering, canvas-backed truck would drive by, loading up or dumping loads of merchandise, many of them crates, a few kegs (but only some were inspected). Finishing up his paper, James sits at his desk, making a stack. His job was done for the day, but suddenly, his boss walks in, with grave news.

 

"McFadden." the man says, a heavy, round man in a white buttoned up shirt, sleeves rooled up, a moustache over his upper lips, sweat trickling down his forehead and brow.

 

"McFadden." he repeats nervously, althought not because of you, "I got some bad news... I have to let you go. You're fired, I'm so sorry."

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Sal wipes the sweat from his brow with his kerchief, the muscles bulging in his thick biceps. "Yo, Vitto. Wanna grab some lunch at the deli? I gotta couple bucks, my treat."

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Vitto finishes scanning the clipboard in his hand, "Sure, but how about skippin' the deli on the corner and hit the one on 9th. I'm not gonna guess what they did to the food last time but I don't wanna find out again." Vitto walks up near his brother and whispers, "If I didn't miss it we're short a crate from that last truck. Mario is gonna flip."

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"McFadden." the man says, a heavy, round man in a white buttoned up shirt, sleeves rolled up, a mustache over his upper lips, sweat trickling down his forehead and brow.

 

"McFadden." he repeats nervously, although not because of you, "I got some bad news... I have to let you go. You're fired, I'm so sorry."

 

Standing up quickly James replies, "Why? What?? Whats going on???? We go way back...."

James stands up, begins to walk towards his boss, and starts to unbutton his cuffs. Looks to his boss and say's, "Why? Just give me an answer.."

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sorry forgot his old name, so he's gonna be Mr. John Peterson. :blush:

 

James-

 

Jame's boss, breathelessly, seats himself on a chair, wipping his brow furiously with a hankerchief. He yanks desperately at his tie and, after much effort, finds the right tug and loosens it, gasping for breath.

 

"I'm sorry, James. I'd... g-give you an extra week of work or so, until you find a new job or somethin', but I just can't! I got nothin' left, J-James! Nothin'!"

 

James stands up, begins to walk towards his boss, and starts to unbutton his cuffs. Looks to his boss and say's, "Why? Just give me an answer.."

 

"Look," Mr. Peterson, "I wish there was something I can do, but I can't. Here, here..."

 

He stands up, and fishes in his pocket, producing a handful of money (three one dollars, five nickels, and a five dollar bill and about three pennies), and puts it on your desk, his hand trembling so much that half of it falls to the floor.

 

"That's all I got left, just take it. Take it! It probably won't do you any good, but I can't do anything else. What time is it? Sh1t!"

 

Before you can even get in another word, the man turns and hurries out from the room and back to the warehouse, leaving the door open.

 

"I'm sorry! Goddam it, I'm sorry!" you hear his muffled voice drift away, leaving you alone, in a messy, stuffy office, the only sound the noise of the docks outside and the creaking of the ceiling's rickety wooden fan unit.

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Vitto finishes scanning the clipboard in his hand, "Sure, but how about skippin' the deli on the corner and hit the one on 9th. I'm not gonna guess what they did to the food last time but I don't wanna find out again." Vitto walks up near his brother and whispers, "If I didn't miss it we're short a crate from that last truck. Mario is gonna flip."

 

"Sounds good to me, the extra walk would probly do ya some good anyways!" Sal replies with a gentle chuck to Vitto's shoulder. "You're lookin' even more scrawny and pale than usual. Besides, when Mario does find out, we don't want to be too close by!"

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Before you can even get in another word, the man turns and hurries out from the room and back to the warehouse, leaving the door open.

 

"I'm sorry! Goddam it, I'm sorry!" you hear his muffled voice drift away, leaving you alone, in a messy, stuffy office, the only sound the noise of the docks outside and the creaking of the ceiling's rickety wooden fan unit.

 

"Dammit!" He then flops over his desk and the papers go flying. James begins to think to himself, "Hmmmmmm .... That sure wasn't the Mr. Peterson that initially hired me. Wonder what has gotten into his britches to make him want to go and do something like that with no reasonable explanation."

 

After thinking this James takes a quick run over to the window and takes a quick look outside to see if anything is amiss or he can see where Mr. Peterson ran off to in such a hurry.

 

Looking down at his hands James thinks to himself, "Well fellas looks like we will start to need to make a lil side money again. Wonder what I can get for a little freelance work for now?"

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James-

 

From the third story office window, James looks down at the loading yards and sees Mr. Peterson dissappearing a good distance away as he rounds a corner at a stack of metal shipping crates. Suddenly, James notices two men (dressed in dock yard attires, dirty plaid shirts and newspaper caps, oil smudged faces) near the crates, standing as if resting from a hard day's work, suddenly begining to hurriedly follow his boss around the corner.

 

Before he does anything, however, James sees a man walk out into the open, a large bulky man nearly twice his size both in lenght and width. The man is wearing a large coat, grey, with the long attached waist strap and the thick shoulders, and, shading his eyes, a dark brown fedora with white trimmings. He stands there for a moment, then moves his hand as if tossing away a cigarette, then looks up at James, staring for a few moment, before begining to walk towards the warehouse, hands in pockets.

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Before he does anything, however, James sees a man walk out into the open, a large bulky man nearly twice his size both in length and width. The man is wearing a large coat, grey, with the long attached waist strap and the thick shoulders, and, shading his eyes, a dark brown fedora with white trimmings. He stands there for a moment, then moves his hand as if tossing away a cigarette, then looks up at James, staring for a few moment, before beginning to walk towards the warehouse, hands in pockets.

 

"Chicken s@#t Peterson. He never had a spine in him anyway. And whats up with this big b!@%$#d." , thinks James. James then proceeds to begin his descent from his office making sure to topple over a few of the filing cabinets as well as throwing all the paperwork all over the place. "There ---- that should keep you busy for quite some time ......... A^^&(@e!!!! if you can even read PIG!!!!!", James says aloud.

 

Descending down to the bottom floor of the warehouse James does look for a nice place to "get out of sight" just in case this guy means some type of trouble as well as to measure him up. "Hmmmmmm may have to scope this situation out a tad before I take my leave" looking down at his knuckles "we may actually get a decent little training session in shortly....."

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James-

 

In his fury, James moves through the warehouse like a pitbull, destroying any destructible pieces of furniture, scattering paperwork and the likes all across the floor.

 

However, as he descends the stairs, he is suddenly confronted by the tough-looking guy he spotted outside, this time, the man stood at the bottom of the stairway, looking up. His fedora held in his hand, revealing a large head with a thick double-chinned neck and a sweaty crew-cut. His other hand held a silver butane lighter, which he flicked open and lit a fresh cigarette between his lips. Snapping the lighter close, he turns his gaze up towards you.

 

"Mr. McFadden?" the man asks in a rumbling voice. "You James McFadden?"

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Sal and Vitto-

 

Walking away from the garage, the Vitale brothers manage to slip past their boss, who was undoubtedly busy engaging in a shout fest with one of the truck drivers. In fact, the shouting could be heard nearly half a block down the streets before it finally fade, although both men could overhear some very colorful insults.

 

The deli isn't that far away, and about a ten minute's walk they arrive at a small joint: Al's Cafe and Delicassen. Its a humble place, a one glass window eatery with about three or so tables with three wooden chairs per table. A bell over the door rings as you step through. The man himself was skinny, with a droopy mustache, sitting comfortably reading a newspaper behind the cash registed, looking up as you walk in and nodding at you. He stands up and walks behind the counter, waiting.

 

"So what can I getcha today?" he says.

 

Arranged before you is a fairly decent selection, several different kinds of bread, at least five kinds of cheese. A few bowls of side dishes, and, stacked neatly in rows, a variety of long sausages, all stacked together next to an opened space where a cutting board and a knife rests.

 

As you make your selection however, the door bell rings and you see a man walk in from outside, a tall, hazel-eyed, skinny man in a navy-blue coat, a small-brimmed hat in his hand, which he tosses on the nearest table before taking a seat and whipping a newspaper. He brushes his cropped brown hair before going into his paper, not looking up at you, as if minding his own business.

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