the message

Who: Ian and Dutch
Where: an alley near the Drake
When: after dark

This was a bad idea, Dutch had no doubt in his mind whatsoever about it. But really, looking at the scope of his life? He'd built his whole life on mostly-bad decisions, what could one more do? Besides, this was owed. Sullivan had crossed more than one line in Dutch's book, and the smallest one had been daring to come into the Round. According to Dutch's book? Even the smallest slips deserved punishment. Still, he was surprised by how methodical he'd been when approaching this idea, and how easily old behavior came back to him even after sixteen years.

He'd skulked around the neighborhood for the past few nights, noting the times that it seemed like Ian stepped out each evening, watching for a pattern to it all. He'd studied the shift changes between door attendants, desk clerks, even valets, and there were gaps of opportunity where no one would notice if he was out here. All that remained had been a last step; pulling on his ski mask, tucking a gun under his coat, and heading out. In essence? Truly deciding to do this. He'd promised Sam that he wasn't going to kill Ian, but in the heat of things? Well, Dutch was hoping he wouldn't break the promise he'd given his niece. Of course, if Ian stayed in tonight, there'd be no danger of that whatsoever.

Despite his own understanding of how dangerous of situation it was, the persona that Ian portrayed was in fact, a creature of habit. He ate the same things at restaurants, he wore the same shirt with the same tie and above all he kept a tight schedule. It made him predictable but the people he worked for like that. They considered it a sign of reliability. So just list most nights of this nature, Ian found himself stepping out of the hotel, glancing both ways down the sidewalk and heading directly towards Dutch with no idea what was waiting for him.

This was too easy, and it left Dutch to reflect on just how far his family had come over the years. This new breed like Ian, they'd never had to muscle their way up the ladder, to fight and kill for more sway in the city. They'd never firebombed rival gambling dens just to send a message. Ian Sullivan may have been smart? But he was also soft. And as long as Dutch still had his last name, he'd be willing to teach the old family lesson about being soft. He waited with held breath in the darkness between buildings, one hand on the grip of his old .45 as the sound of footsteps gradually drew closer. He'd picked this alley specifically for the distance from the Drake, the doorman wouldn't see shit.

All at once, he made his move as Ian's shadow stretched past the alley and Ian himself walked across its' length. Out came the gun, the safety clicking off softly, the weapon itself extended from the shadows that hid everything but Dutch's arm. "Don't speak," he growled, "Step in. Now."

Ian was fed up with surprises. Amelia leaving her post the the Drake and calling off their relationship had come at him out of nowhere leaving him with a bad taste in his mouth. And now this. Some fucking mugger managed to get a jump on him. Still, Ian had little fear for his own life. There was no one out there to hurt him and anyone who did either already knew that the family would retaliate or would soon find out. He was important to them. Keeping his hands tucked in his jacket pocket, he did as he was asked, stepping into the alley without question.

'Mugger' had been exactly what Dutch wanted to present; from the ski mask to the black clothes and gloves to the randomness of the attack spot itself. He wasn't abandoning the act either, waiting for Ian to step off the street before Dutch turned after him. This was what he'd been waiting for. He shoved hard, pressing Ian into one wall and smashing his free hand into Ian's kidneys in rapid succession, then shoving again to try and drop him to the alley floor. Down came the gun, aimed indistinctly with the idea that any bullet would hurt. "Money," Dutch snarled, keeping to as few words as possible to keep himself unrecognizable.

Ian's face hit the wall much harder than he would have imagined, and the succession punches knocked the wind out of him along with a solid grunt of pain. He wasn't much of a fighter, but he was hardly a weak person. Despite that, it was enough to force him sliding his shoulder down the wall as he hit his knees hard, gasping as pain shot through his body. "What makes you think I have any?" he asked, hands still in his pockets, but he'd doubled over some, giving his attacker less of a target.

That was a question that normally saw the muggers in Dutch's neighborhood kill their targets, though around here it probably worked better. There was more money to fuel police investigations, more outrage from the legitimate citizens, and more chance of reprisal from the Families. Pushing the money angle might be too obvious, too. And saying too much would give him away, Dutch knew about his own slight drawl and growl when he spoke. Still, he smiled under his ski mask as he prodded Ian with a foot. "Okay then," he mused, "Nice suit. Take it off."

This time, Ian actually looked at his attacker. He was still hurting, more than he'd like to admit, and it was dark but he was able to make out the general shape of the man. "I hardly think it'd fit you," he countered. His own arrogance was showing, that invincible feeling that nothing could harm him. The guy obviously hadn't shot him yet.

There was no warning about the kick, no preamble or second chance given. Dutch simply waited for the turn of Ian's head that told him he was looking, and swung a heavy-toed boot out at the side of it. As much as he wished otherwise, he couldn't go for too many head shots. Scrambling Sullivan's brains would be just as bad as killing him, really, so he'd have to make the few hits he could give worthwhile. "Keep it up," Dutch growled, careful with the phrasing of every word, "I'll strip you myself and leave you for the bums."

If Ian could have sworn he would have. The kick at hurt, enough to leave him reeling, vision blurred and orientation rattling. As soon as regained some semblence of sense, he promised himself this guy would pay. Breathing sharply against the pain in his side and now the throbbing in his temples, Ian kept his eyes down, but didn't lose the strength in his voice. "Figures that's what you'd want."

"Once more. Money," Dutch ordered, expecting Ian to keep up the defiance. He really did think he was untouchable, that the Giacomos would always protect him. It had to take a willful ignorance to still believe that, given that Dutch had seen men rise and fall, had been one of them himself. And while Ian might never know that this lesson was being taught by a Giacomo? Dutch hoped that maybe he'd learn from it anyway. He hoped, but didn't expect it. All he really expected was to end up with blood on his gloves.

"Changed your mind so quickly then? Or maybe you just don't like hearing your own fantasies voiced back to you." Ian asked, finally reaching for his wallet and tossing it at Dutch's feet. "There's nothing of worth anyway. Just a name you should remember when it comes back to haunt you in the night." Ian would see to it that the man died remembering Ian's name. Family or not, people didn't screw with him and survive. Either they died or they were giving a reason to off themselves.

He nearly got Dutch to laugh, to spit back that there was nothing terrifying about a man who needed others to kill for him, but that was counterproductive. Moreso, it was likely what Ian wanted; the more he heard Dutch, the more he could probably identify him. So all he got instead of the laugh was a snort of amusement as Dutch bent low for the wallet, keeping his pistol aimed and ready. He plucked out the cash within quickly, dropping it to the alley floor and grinding it under a bootheel. The nice thing about Eidolon? Was that even in the better parts of town, all the alleys were just as dirty. "Now... eat it," Dutch ordered, stepping back to uncover the money he'd dropped.

When Dutch reached for his wallet, Ian took the moment to feel the side of his head, his hand coming away wet with blood. He'd frowned at it slightly, knowing that walking into the Drake looking like he'd been mugged was bound to cause a fuss. He hated attention like that. At Dutch's request he looked up at the larger man incredulously. "You're obviously the worst fucking mugger ever. What the hell do you really want?" Ian was done with games and smart ass comments. This wasn't a mugging. A mugger would have taken the money and ran. It wasn't much but it was enough and yet his was toying with him. Number one sign of someone after something else entirely. "Who the hell are you?"

Dutch Giacomo had been strong since puberty, and in his youth his father had liked to call him the ox. He'd grown fast, and in a family business like theirs? It had been an asset. So he'd had years to really learn how to leverage his strength, years that he put into practice now as he abruptly whipped the pistol across Ian's face with a crack. Dutch lunged in, seizing the man's bloodied tie cruelly and dragging him farther back into the alley, heedless of whether or not it was choking him, honestly hoping it was. Once he'd dragged him back a bit, he released the tie and shoved the gun down onto the top of Ian's head, mask bunching in what had to be a savage grin. "The messenger," was all he said as he savored every moment of finally getting to strike back at his own family.

The hit across his face brought even more pain and for a moment Ian lost consciousness. He was shaken awake again when Dutch drug him farther into the alley, choking slightly from the tugging on the tie, and blood that had spilled into his mouth from some cut on his face. Yet even with the gun pointed at his head, Ian had a hard time believing whomever had him would actually pull the trigger. If the message the so-called messenger was bringing was a dead member of the family in an alley, Ian would have been dead before the first punch. This was something else. Spitting blood from his mouth he leveled his stare at his attacker. "What's your message then?"

"Watch who you cross," Dutch answered, deciding that this was enough. That was the point of it all; he'd crossed Dutch, Evelyn, and Jesse even if he hadn't realized it. And he probably still wouldn't after this, but maybe the bruises would serve as a good reminder. He'd fucked with families, and he needed to learn that connections couldn't keep him safe. The Drake wasn't a fortress. He was human, he could be hurt. "Next time, you die," he warned ominously, smashing another punch into Ian's jaw. Now was when Ian needed to be soft for his own sake, because Dutch wasn't going to leave until he was unconscious.

Even with the repeated head shots, Ian's mind was racing, trying to place where he'd gone wrong and where he'd been found out. There wasn't anything direct, nothing that openly stood out against as a false step. The punch left him reeling, eyes barely open, but there was another thing he was focusing on, trying to bring to the surface. He knew the voice, he knew the build. He wasn't sure but he had a damn good guess. Spitting again, though this lacked the force he wanted it to have, Ian's eyes barely opened long enough to give Dutch another look. "You're wrong. I'm far more loyal than you've ever been." For a brief second there was a vicious smile, bloodied and bruised, and it spoke of the true master behind the mask, but it didn't last long as Ian slumped forward, focus drifting as he started to slip out of consciousness.

The possibility of discovery was enough to send a jolt up Dutch's spine, but not for very long. He'd known there would be a chance of this, that it might be what got him killed, but frankly? He didn't care any more. Ian couldn't hurt Cheyenne, that was all that mattered here, any pain he had for Dutch could be endured. So he let Ian go limp in the alley, heaving out a breath of satisfaction as he moved a few steps away to grab a wad of the discarded money, then turned back. Loyalty? Ian Sullivan knew nothing about it. He knew money, and he knew filth, which was why Dutch was leaving him with a mouthful of both. Stuffing the cash past Ian's bloodied lips, he dragged the unconscious man back towards the mouth of the alleyway. The cops ran regular patrols here; they'd likely be the ones to find him. And as Dutch stalked clear of the body, waiting until he was long gone before pulling off his mask? He hoped he'd see it in tomorrow's paper.