9:46 AM - Vinnie's

Papa Nurgle stared at his veal for a few seconds, lavishing its thick, delicate aroma. Slowly, like an artisan working on his craft, Big Papa mixed the soft rice and forked the lamb chop. The meat juices mixed with the natural sauce, filling the rice and heightening the Papa's appetite. As he took the first bite, Papa Nurgle felt his soul drifting to whatever heaven is awaiting mobsters. Then he plummeted in a mere second, ready for another helping. He took a second bite, a third, a fourth, until he finished the meal nicely. Better than a clean murder. The veal is okay, perhaps an inch shorter than the greatness of Sparelli's meals.

Ah, that's the regret. How Nurgle wished that he spent his breakfast at Sparelli's, instead of Vinnie's. But he's not here for a simple breakfast anyway (sort of). There's business to be made here. A big break that will take years of politicking, mastery, and buildup of connections.

While enjoying his after-meal cannolli, Big Papa saw his old friend, McLovin' entering the restaurant. Papa smirked; Thaddeus McLovin' still looked like a freshman: skinny, flashy trenchcoat, glasses, and a hat that says 'shoot me please.' Yet, Papa respects McLovin.' Why not? The fella is a big-shot in Chicago's bureaucratic ladder. A pezzonovante in the making, but he wants to play behind the lines.

McLovin' reached Papa's table. Papa gestured him to sit, which McLovin' abided.

"Order a breakfast. It's on me." Papa spoke and bit at his cannolli.

"Thanks, thanks. But I had mine...you know...I don't fancy Italian too much." McLovin' smiled, awkwardly. He knows that Big Papa loves Italian food.

"Okay." Papa finished his food and wiped his mouth. "What do you have for me?"

McLovin' took out a small brown envelope from his coat, shot a glance over his shoulders and leaned forward. He opened the envelope and took out few papers with indiscernable letters. 

"The big guys told me that you'll get a green light for this. Big money to be made. And since this will be the first professional thingy that will cover most small-time rackets, you're in for a big haul."

Nurgle read the papers. It was all shitty jargony mumbo-jumbo shit. But useful nonetheless. The paperwork will be the backbone for the Chicago Gaming Commission - a big project which will spark profits and aspirations.

"Cool. Who will be in the panel? I'll put my guys in there. Andrew Faget and Pierre La Conti. You know em, right?"

"Of course." McLovin' smiled, as if he had a deal with those guys. "The panel will be full of dorks anyway. You'll make heaps of cash in the first year alone. Second year will be more difficult."

"We will make cash. You're part of the operation now."

"Thank you, sir. So, I have a list of all the small-time games running all over the city now. Well...not all. Most. Craps, lotteries, rings, all those things. You can muscle in once the muscle of the Commission is ready."

"I'd love that. I'll handle security." Nurgle said.

McLovin' shook Nurgle's hand and decided to order a meal anyway. The two resumed talking about the future. Nurgle can see his place on it, but he is still uncertain of what will happen. After all, uncertainty is one of the fuels of being a hustler. As McLovin' finished the meal and the discussion was concluded, the two 'planners' left Vinnie's and prepared for the next stage.

#