(Author's Note: This story is intended as a story, but I won't be upset about people coming in and RPing, the more the merrier. I am also interested in hearing people's opinions on the story)

The man from Rome, known mostly to his associates in the Cielo Osservatori Cartello as Roman, walks down the rainy Detroit streets with a leather backpack slung over one shoulder. A cigarette hangs between his lips, casting a soft glow in the otherwise dark streets, protected from the rain by his flat hat. The brown paper bag weighs heavier than it should in his backpack. Underneath a false layer of oranges and bananas is a large silver flask, full of Canadian whiskey and hidden in a box wrapped up like a birthday gift, which it is. Old Malcolm Sweeney, owner of a local diner. He's been friendly with the Cartello for years, and lets the Detroit crime families conduct 'business' in his back room.

Roman feels eyes on his back, and suddenly his heart rate jumps. He uses a window to look over his shoulder, and sees two suits several feet behind him. His hand slips into his jacket, grabbing the .38 revolver that he keeps for his own protection. He slips down an alleyway that splits off into two paths, and is just far enough ahead to hide behind the first wall he sees.

One of the suits hurries down the alley, heading one way. Roman takes a step away from the wall, just in time for a fist to slam into his jaw, sending him clattering to the ground. Roman rolls, pulling the pistol from his jacket and firing. A burst of blood erupts from the follower's shoulder, sending him clattering to the ground. Roman jumps up, grabbing his backpack, and heading for Sweeney's, hoping to find a phone. The Cartello would want to hear about this.

The phone rings in Roman's ear, agonizingly slow as he waits for his sponsor to answer.

"Come on..." Roman mutters. The adrenaline still flows through his veins like blood, and the receiver quakes visibly in his hand. When he'd gotten on the boat from Rome, he'd never expected to be ambushed in the streets here in America. "Dammit, pick up!"

"Whoever this is, you better either lose my number or have a damn good reason for waking me up," the sleepy voice on the other end of the line growls.

"Gangsta, it's important," Roman says without preamble. "It's about the birthday present, I need to speak to you as soon as possible."

"Roman?" GangstaG asks, suddenly alert. "What's wrong?"

"A couple of goons tried to open it early. I don't want to say anything more over the phone," Roman says. "I'm at Sweeney's Diner."

Two cigarettes smolder in an ashtray and a third burns between Roman's fingers. A highball glass of 'prescribed' scotch sits before him, waiting to be downed while Roman tells his story. GangstaG absorbs it all, questioning every little detail, making sure he gets all of the facts. The expression on his face grows more serious with every word.

"Do you know if you killed the guy?" Gangsta asks, twirling his hat in his hands.

Roman shakes his head. "I don't think so, unless he bled to death. His friend was so close he should've heard the gunshot."

"Well, at least we don't have a body out there somewhere," Gangsta says. "Did they say anything? Have any type of accent or anything, might tell us where they're from?"

"No, the guy didn't even say anything when I shot him."

The telephone behind the counter rings. Sweeney answered it, and called Gangsta over. He shared a few terse words with the caller, and cursed when he hung up.

"What?" Roman asks.

"That was the boss," Gangsta says. "Durden just hit our bar on 8 Mile. We're at war."

The hard, knuckled fist slammed into Roman's jaw, threatening to pull him out of the chair he was tied to. He would've hit the floor if it hadn't been for the two large brutes holding his chair to the floor. Roman looks up at his captor, but all he can see is the gleaming piece of brass curved over his knuckles. They hadn't even asked him any questions yet, they were just beating him. Another blow lands home, dislodging a tooth and sending it rolling across the wooden floor. Blood drips from his jaw on what had been a new pair of dress pants, ruining them.

One of the muscled brutes grabs a handful of his hair and pulls back hard, forcing Roman to look his abuser in the eye.

"Now that we've had time to get...acquainted, how about we have a little chat?"

Roman goes to speak, but the mixture of blood and spit catches and his throat and he coughs, hacking crimson-colored phlegm in his captor's face. Anger dominates the man's features for a moment, and he brings his open hand around, crashing it into Roman's jaw. He rubs his eye, looking at the blood covering his fist, and curses.

"Its alright," the captor says. "Let's come back and have our chat tomorrow."

The thugs file out after their leader, and a faint smile crosses Roman's face. He opens his hand slightly, letting a small pocket knife fall into his hand. He presses the button and lets it spring open, before starting to saw away at the ropes. This was going to be a busy night.

(Author's note: Thanks to Henry Tomasino for reminding me of a character's name, much appreciated!)

Roman stood with his back pressed against the wall, next to the door. Even when it was slammed open, the door didn't come that far open, just far enough to obscure him. He pulls off his dress shoe and hurls it across the room, as hard as he can. It smacks against the concrete wall with a loud BANG, and almost immediately guards rush in.

Roman makes his move, grabbing the first guard in a choke-hold, bringing the blade across the man's jugular in a spray of hot blood. As the body grows limp, Roman drops his knife and pulls the pistol from the man's belt, firing three rounds into the other guard's chest without a second thought. The escapist retrieves his knife, and searches both bodies, before reloading the gun.

Robert Paulson was laying in bed, trying to go to sleep, when he heard the sounds. It sounded like a car backfiring, three times. To anyone else, it would've been inconsequential. But Paulson knew better, he'd heard gunshots thousands of times in his life, and had taken a few as well. He comes out of bed like a shot, digging for the Bible he kept hidden under his bed. He pulls it open and extracts the large, nickel-plated .45 that his father had given him. He loads the clip, pulls back the slide, and steps outside.