"Just say the word and it's done, Sir."

"A guy can't just disappear and expect to keep his life. God knows who he could be talking to. I can't take that risk. He has to go."

"It will be done. I'll be back soon."

Letifer bowed his head to his Don, then left the office. The word had been given, the mark was a member of the Family who was no longer paying tribute, no longer calling into the Headquarters, and was not responding to any messages. A man like that can't be allowed to live. There was no question of that.

He pulled up outside an old brick building, one of Chicago's oldest. The Model Y's engine faded into nothing, and Letifer stepped out of the car. He straightened down his jacket and pushed the door open. The damp stench of the hallway filled his nostrils, and he quickly ascended the staircase to his apartment. He flicked the switched by his shoulder and the soft lighting flickered into life. The place was incredibly small for a Left Hand Man, but it did the job. Letifer wasn't a material man - in his eyes as long as he was still breathing he was a rich man. He made his way over to the grubby kitchen and pulled open one of the faded kitchen drawers. Inside sat his precious firearm - a unique chrome Colt M1911 with beautifully ornate silver on black grips bearing a "spade" on either side. He took the handgun from its drawer and placed it gently on the kitchen work surface. Pulling the drawer further open revealed a box of .45 ACP cartridges and a chrome plated magazine. He took 7 rounds from the box and began to push them into the custom magazine. Each unmistakeable click sent shivers down his spine, each click brought his target one step closer to death. After seven clicks he took hold of his gun and pushed the magazine inside. After eight clicks the weapon was ready, and he placed it carefully in the holster by his chest. He smiled at the thought that such an inanimate object was the closest thing to his heart, took a mouthful of whiskey from a nearby bottle, then made his way to the door. The job was about to begin.

By the time he'd composed himself for the hit he'd arrived at the target's house. The engine died once again. Letifer turned the rear view mirror towards himself and stared into the deep brown eyes in front of him. This was the Don's will, this had to be done. He was ready. He took the gun from his jacket and pulled back the slide. The familiar sound of hammer locking into position was followed the snap of the slide as it was released back into position. The gun returned to its holster, and Letifer climbed out of the car and once again brushed down his coat. By now it was habit. He look up and down at the house. It was quite a substantial place for a Wise Guy, Letifer thought, but it was clear that half the place rightfully belonged to the Don. Unfortunately for the mark blood was worth far more than bricks. He threw his body into the door, which heaved and groaned but didn't open. After taking a deep breath Letifer rammed the door again, which this time swung open with a large crack. Upstairs something, or someone, hit the floor with a thud. Doors creaked and footsteps rumbled above Letifer as he approached the staircase. From upstairs a voice cried out in fear:

"Fuck you! Fuck. You!"

Letifer drew his handgun and raced up the stairs. He reached the stop of the stairs and turned to where the voice yelled from, only to be staring down the barrel of a 12 gauge. With the agility of a hare he spun back to the staircase and dived down the first 3 steps. The roar of the shotgun sent splintered wood and plaster over his head, covering him in white dust. Though his ears were ringing he could hear advancing footsteps and the cracking of the now-reloaded shotgun. He threw himself down the remaining steps and pointed his custom piece at the top of the stairs. As the mark spun round the top of the stairs Letifer pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the air and in an instant had struck its intended target in the stomach. His screams bounced down the stairs, and as he slumped to the floor he involuntarily fired a shot into the ceiling. Once more a haze of white powder filled the air and covered the groaning victim. Letifer, his gun still focused on the mark, climbed the stairs slowly. The mark was still breathing, though each breath was short and inconsistent. His stomach was almost black with blood, and his hands were awash with crimson. As Letifer reached the top of the stairs he uttered to the dying man:

"You knew this was coming, Jimmy. You took this path, you made this choice. Nobody gets away with this. Nobody disrespects the Don like you have."

"Look at you." The man choked, "Michael "Letifer" Sciarra, The Emperor's lapdog. You're fucking pathetic. Every waking minute of your life is spent serving that greedy fuck. You're like his fuckin' shadow. Me-" His speech was interrupted by a stream of blood erupting from his mouth, "Me, I got outta that shit. I wasn't gonna become the Don's fucking slave. Better to die a free man than live a sl-"

His final words were brought to abrupt end by Letifer. He'd heard enough. In the blink of an eye he emptied the remaining six shells into the victim's chest, painting the surrounding walls with spattered blood. The bullets echoed around the house like thunder, and after the six flashes of light had died so too did the rogue gangster. His dribbling mouth had stopped moving and his lifeless body slumped against the adjacent wall of the stairwell. "You said it." muttered Letifer as he returned his favourite weapon to its holster. The job was done. He descended the dust-covered stairs and, after one final look at his victims' lifeless corpse, exited the now-vacant house. The glare of the Sun was a rare treat in Chicago, whose days were usually shadowed by clouds, and Letifer brushed down his coat once more before climbing back into the Model Y. He started up the vehicle and drove back to the Family's Headquarters. He could only have wished that this killing was the last.