JLA Watchtower (Archive)

For his part, Savant is simply glad to have several someones who truly need hitting in his line of sight. He's been restless lately, even downright snappish and he needs to vent.

The nearest sack of hired muscle receives a kick to the midriff that sends him crashing into a heavy cabinet. The koi tank sitting atop it crashes onto the unfortunate as he struggles to get up. The fellow that had the presence of mind to pull his gun is rewarded by a vicious blow that shatters his jaw into a dozen pieces.

Savant takes quick stock and heads for the target nearest him, regretful that the men sitting at the long table do not count as such unless they pull guns. He takes a moment to call over one shoulder.

"Creote!" Russian, of course. "There is a moron with a gun behind you."

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"Ungh-- "

Both land near the first henchman in a hale of glass shards and a healthy smattering of blood. The capos inside get to their feet in a collective movement as the third sinks to his knees with a groan of pain, clutching his face.

"Who the hell are you?" one demands.

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love-of-duty.livejournal.com

It doesn't take much work to disarm the gunman. He's no Batman, but he's got tricks of his own. And he's surprisingly agile for someone of his stature.

The dropped gun is picked up and stashed, however. One can know all the martial arts in the world, but sometimes the best way to intimidate someone is simply to stick a gun in their face.

It isn't long before all the guards are down, and all that's left is to interrupt the meeting proper. Of course, that's better left to others.

And speak of the devil...

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The door of the black limo swings open, allowing its occupant to step out onto the street. Glass crunches under black-heeled feet as the new arrival steps through what's left of the plate glass window and inside the restaurant. From head to toe, Helena Bertinelli is clad in designer black, and she carries herself with a haughty sense of inherited arrogance as she surveys the men in the room.

"I do apologize for the mess. My boys seem to have a habit of being a little ... overenthusiastic about their work."

Her smile is like ice.

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Anger ripples over Sigiorello's pudgy face. "Who -- "

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"My father made you all. He established the territory, he hired the muscle, he made the profits you now attempt to claim as your own." She continues to approach the table, oblivious to the looks on the faces of the men standing around it. Pulling out a chair, she gracefully seats herself, and looks around at them.

"My name is Helena Bertinelli, gentlemen. And I'm here to reclaim my birthright."

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She's met with a stony wall of silence, broken only by the muffled groans of the injured bodyguards. The restaurant owners huddle behind the bar in paralytic terror.

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Helena ignores them in favor of leaning over and retrieving a pair of chopsticks. "I thought so." She nimbly removes a wafer-thin sliver of salmon from the nearest platter with the slender utensils. They pause just shy of her mouth. "Really, all I want is what's due me, as part of the empire my father worked so hard to build."

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Sigiorello's rage is maturing into incredulous disbelief. "You're out of your tiny little mind."

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Helena savors the morsel for a moment, lifting a finger to quell Sigiorello's objection as she finishes. "Oh, quite possibly. But I'm done playing nice. Allow me to introduce you to my leverage." She gestures over her left shoulder at her entourage. "This is Savant, gentlemen. Quite possibly the most effective and ruthless blackmailer you've all had the displeasure of knowing. While you spend your days lounging in your designer suites extorting protection money from restaurateurs such as this one -- " she nods to the cowering owners, " -- Savant lists royalty among his many clientele. Now, I'm sure you're all eager to learn that he's been very busy pulling up enough information on each of you that would put you all away for several decades." She turns her head to look at Savant. "How long did it take you, again?"

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Savant grins coldly at the assembled. His batons have been stashed in their back-carry in favor of one of the Glocks carried in twin shoulder holsters. He keeps the firearm at the ready, just in case someone decides to get cute.

"To be fair, Ms. Bertinelli, were we in a perfect world, it might have taken me a week, perhaps as long as two. As it is, I'm afraid Sigiorello here does not do much business with men possessing anything in the way of a spine. It took four days."

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She feigns mild surprise for the benefit of her captive audience. "Four days. My goodness."

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Sigiorello leans forward, taking the cigar from his mouth, his expression dangerous. "All of it inadmissable in a court of law."

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Helena meets his look evenly, unruffled. "I wouldn't be so sure, Mr. Sigiorello. Savant?"

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"Expectation of privacy is a standard that becomes more fluid every day. And while bringing my findings to a court of law as they are might be somewhat awkward, it would not be a difficult thing to use them to arrange a trail of breadcrumbs which would lead the authorities to your door with their own hard-gotten evidence in hand." Savant shrugs nonchalantly. "Or to simply falsify a plausible path to the same in order to save time."

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"And this, gentlemen, is my buy-in fee. As long as we remain family, said information will not find its own meandering way to the databases of federal officials across the world." She spreads her gaze around the other assembled capos. "I'm sure you are all aware that some countries are not quite as stringent about the sources of their information."

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The capos exchange nervous glances among themselves. The anger returns to Sigiorello's posture, spittle flying from his mouth as he shoots back his response. "Impertinent little bitch! If you were really a Bertinelli, you would have shown me some respect!"

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"My father intended for me to follow in his footsteps, Don Sigiorello. Believe me when I tell you, I mean no disrespect. I simply ask for the opportunity to prove my worth to you. One chance is all I need. Give me a month, and I'll increase your revenues and make you worth talking about in this city again."

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He leans over to consult momentarily with the capo to his left in an undercurrent of irritation before he looks back to her. He takes a slow pull from his cigar, exhaling a plume of lazy grey smoke into the air. "Only because of your father, you understand - you get one week. Then any information on any ... alleged incidents your associate mistakenly believe we were involved with is destroyed."

He gets up from his seat, approaching Helena at the end of the table, seemingly ignoring the guns trained on him by her two bodyguards. He perches on its corner, reaches out and takes her face roughly in his hand. "But understand this, my girl ... if you foul up ... think of the worst possible thing that could happen. The worst. And then ... think harder. Are we clear?"

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Helena fights down the rising swell of nausea that threatens as his fetid breath washes over her. The memory of the gambling dens is still too raw in her mind. She hides it well. "Crystal," she counters, trying not to flinch from his grasp.

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He releases her from his grip and turns away. "One week, Ms. Bertinelli. Seven days."

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She gets to her feet, staring at his back for a moment. Then, a quick glance to Savant and Creote, and a nod. Her signal for them to withdraw.

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Savant forges ahead a bit as they near the car, opening the door with timing smooth enough that Helena need not so much as slow as she steps smoothly into the vehicle.

Savant waits until Creote is settled in the driver's seat and the car is in motion before he speaks, twisting about in the passenger seat to regard Huntress. The dark-haired woman blends into the shadowy depths of a limo's interior.

"So what is our next move?" He knows that this week's grace has nothing to do with respect; their targets are simply hoping for a window in which to erase their new problem in one way or another.

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