2010-07-10: Don't Kill the Messenger



Date: July 10th, 2010


Sam arrives to inform his boss of unfortunate news.

"Don't Kill the Messenger"

Salvatore Mansion

A cool, soft breeze intertwines itself through the gardens of the Salvatore mansion, african violets, roses, daisies, orchids, all manners of flowers swaying gently in the wind as it whispers and hugs the floral arrangements. The sound of a lawnmower echoes from behind the house, and the smell of freshly cut grass permeates the air.

Vincent Salvatore currently rests in an well cushioned, elaborate lawn chair out in the middle of the gardens, surrounding himself with fresh air and vibrant colors. A cover is overhead, help up by six columns set evenly spaced apart, the elaborate white marble glinting in the sun. He has made an indecent amount of money over the years — it looks as if it's been well spent. He sips from his glass, the dark brown liquid obviously some kind of alcohol… most likely a scotch — neat. He unfolds the newspaper in front of him, catching up on the current headlines of the world. He wears a simple suit, the top few buttons undone — although both his jacket and tie have been removed. Cuffs are undone as well, the fabric of his shirt lazily blowing in the breeze. He's not out on business. There's no need to look quite as fancy as he normally does.

Significantly less fancy than Vincent, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a button up long sleeved shirt, Sam treads to the top of the patio, heavy steps stamp the ground irritably. Hands shoved into pockets, the FBI agent narrows his eyes at his other boss— the more important one, in his opinion— as he approaches the gazebo. His steps cause the gazebo to creak underneath his feet. Forcing a smug tightening of his lips, vaguely resembling a smile, Sam arches his eyebrows at the boss before assuming one of the lawn chairs, allowing the weight of his body to spread evenly over it.

"Boss," he greets gruffly as his eyes narrow just a little. Cautiously he eyes the drink, wholly unsure of himself and where things are at. He forces a dimpled grin that comes out annoyed rather than merry. "The plan isn't… goin' as planned…"

The boss doesn't look up, even as Sam makes his way towards the gazebo. He finishes the article he's on, and only once he's finished does he set the paper down onto the table, folding it and half and setting a small paperweight carved like a wolf's paw on top of it. Taking another drink of his scotch, he pushes a glass in the direction of Sam, and indicates at the chair. "Have a seat, friend. Care for a drink?" Even before he answers, the scotch is being poured — a generous helping, too, at that. He adds a little bit more to his own glass and sets the bottle down.

With another sip, taking a moment to savor the flavor, he turns to Sam. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Yes. Thank you," the scotch is accepted and greedily Sam gulps a mouthful, putting it away rather than savouring it as usual. He's quite off-put all things considered as his fingers drum irritably on the table. A glance is given to the paper and then back to the boss, his eyebrows arcing as he leans forward, elbows rest on the table as the glass is brought to his lips again, this time slower, more carefully, cautiously even as Sam lowers the glass, his caution is evident.

"Miles wire went dead after… after Harlin was yelling about somethin' rather…"

Continuing to sip at his scotch, Vincent keeps his gaze leveled on Sam. His face is passive, devoid of any real true emotion as he watches the man across from him, who seems quite upset about something. He isn't sure what that something is, but he's sure he's about to find out, and he's quite positive that he isn't going to like the news.

"Wire dead? Are you telling me that the NYPD no longer has a connection with their officer?" He pauses for a moment to take a sip of scotch, and then continues. "What was Harlin yelling about?"

The scotch is sipped again, but Sam lets it linger on his tastebuds before swallowing, even with the way it burns his gums and tongue. His lips purse together as he slowly swishes it around his mouth and then swallows. Again the glass is lowered to the table.

"Harlin was yellin' about the hostages Miles released, not that he knew it was Miles at that moment… well not necessarily… lots of accusin' goin' on…" His lips purse together. "Miles hasn't checked in since…"

As the news is delivered, Vincent's face continues to remain impassive. He takes another slow drink of his scotch, hissing in a breath as he does so, the liquid burning its way down his throat. Popping off the top of the bottle, there's a soft clink on the air as the bottle touches glass, more liquid falling into the container. He does the same for Sam's, topping the man off.

"So, in simpler words… you believe he was made. That, most likely, Detective Laurence Miles is dead."

The passive face only adds to the caution as Sam sips his scotch again, drawing the glass to his mouth with that same kind cautious motion. Again he lets the liquid linger, enjoying its fullness, breadth, and body. And then the response comes back, eerily silent with a kind of unspoken heaviness in the air. He returns the glass to the table and just watches the boss, his own features hardening, preparing for the worst.

With a final swig, Vincent finishes off his glass of scotch, setting it down gently on the table. A small burst of air escapes him, the cooling flow of air moving ove rhis mouth cooling the burn. He closes his eyes for a moment, thinking, pondering, before his eyes again open and he turns his attention back to Sam.

"While I hope that our mutual friend is indeed still alive… if only for my own selfish reasons — which I fully admit involve ruining and taking his life for myself, and drawing out as much pain as humanly possible in doing so — I want you to keep your ear to the ground. As soon as you hear any indication whether he is alive or dead, I want to know. Do you understand?"

Sam finishes off his scotch, permanently returning the glass to the table as he presses his hands to his legs to stand. The rise is fluid, slow, and steady, and somewhat less cautious as the entrance. Carefully he backs off from whence he came, not quickly, but certainly in that direction, taking the moment as indication that he's able to leave. Fortunately, this messenger is still intact.

"Understood, Boss. The moment I hear anythin', the moment I know anythin', you'll be in the know."

"Sam," Vincent says, watching as the man departs. "Hope, for your sake, that he comes back alive."

As Sam departs, Vincent turns back to the table, a hand reaching out to grab the bottle of scotch. At first it seems he's going to pour himself another glass as he looks at it, face reflecting back oddly in the surface of the bottle… but his anger gets the better of him, and he suddenly grips it, twists it upside, and smashes the bottle against the edge of the table, glass shattering as scotch sprays everywhere. "No one kills him but me."

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