MAFIA!VERSE PICSPAM + DRABBLE COMPANION PIECES


Portraits, both graphic and literary, of several characters and people, both original and adapted, in the Emanuel brothers Mafia AU.








NOTE: Most of the writing here is new, but I have rewritten one or two of the drabbles from the recent Mafia Drabble Post, and the ones not reposted here are linked to under the relevant character.


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INTRODUCING:

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THE CHAUFFEUR: OLIVER






Oliver has been Rahm's chauffeur for six years now, and that is by far long enough for him to have realized that Rahm's interpretation of the job description of 'chauffeur' is very ...unique. It tends to include things like fitting bodies into the trunks of expensive sports cars, keeping a stock of fresh Armani shirts to replace the ones splattered with blood and, on occasion, blasting the shit out of people who make the mistake of not looking past his pretty face.





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Clean up duty.

His seventh night on the job, Emanuel emerged from the back entrance to the luxury office building he'd entered only twenty minutes earlier. He snapped his fingers - still coated with blood splatters - in Oliver's direction, and chucked a body bag straight into his chest.

"Can't carry the bloody fat bastard on my own. Come on, Oscar."

He stared blankly at Emanuel's already retreating back for a moment, then his eyes narrowed and he flicked his still-burning cigarette to the ground and followed the man into the building.

"Oliver." He said when he'd caught up to Emanuel, tucking the body bag under an arm and slipping his hands into his suit pockets. He ducked his head, feeling the back of his neck burning.

"What?" Emanuel snapped out, impatiently slamming down the button on the elevator.

Oliver cleared his throat politely as the doors finally slid open, and entered the claustrophobic box, feeling Rahm's presence overpower the space, crowding him into a world where the only thing that existed was Rahm, and Rahm's intent, written into every sharp angle and line of his body.

After a moment of silence, Oliver calmly shook out the handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to Rahm with a meaningful look. "My name is Oliver, not Oscar."

Rahm's eyes flickered darkly up at him, and after a moment, he slowly reached out and took the handkerchief, idly using it to rub at the largest of the patches of gore, and didn't reply.

"I like you." He suddenly pronounced, several minutes later as they were levering the body into the bag. "You're hired."

Oliver didn't mention that he'd been pretty sure he already had been hired, because thoughts like that inevitably lead down the disconcerting path as to what might have happened had Rahm decided to dislike him.

That way lead nightmares and insanity. So instead he smiled, and pulled the zipper up over the murdered man's still-bubbling slit throat.

Because that wasn't like nightmares and insanity at all.

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THE MAFIA WIFE: SARAH





The first time Ari introduced Ezekiel and Rahm to Sarah, they had not approved of her at all.

They'd thought she was too delicate, in over her head with Ari, and liable to become a problem, an unstable, unpredictable element. They had assumed she was in it for the money, and that she lacked the kind of fierce intelligence and willpower required to become a part of the Emanuel family. They had told Ari she was a mistake. "A costly mistake."

When Ari had come to tell Sarah that he was leaving her, he broke very quickly under her unrelenting questioning. Once he'd informed her of the true reason behind it, she'd simply smiled.


She'd had to ... disabuse the brothers of several such notions.





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Drycleaning.

Sarah glared balefully down at the dry cleaning bill, mentally adding up the sums to figure out just how many times Ari had needed cover up the fact that he'd been bleeding - himself or some other unfortunate soul - to death.

The man tried, he really did, but somehow, when he went behind her back to drop his Armani suits, Gucci shoes, Ralph Lauren shirts, and the flashy like, off at Greers Drycleaning - who had been servicing the Emanuels since before he was born - he clean forgot that Sarah had made a habit of cultivating personal friendships with key contacts within all of the hired help and family services. Old Diana Greer, a cackling, magnificent woman who could do wonders with even the blackened blood stains that came from a punctured liver, slipped Sarah copies of all of her husband's bills.

Just then, Ari and Rahm bounded in, jostling each other playfully and loudly arguing over something that had to do with fucking Sarkozy and Chinese gold bullion. Rahm saw her first, and some small part of the terrified, livid fury she was feeling must have been showing in her face, because he pulled up short, eyes wide.

She smiled, like a razor's edge.

Ari, still oblivious, crashed into the back of Rahm, tumbling over him, jacket flipping up reveal the Glock holstered under his shoulder.

"Hey, what the fuck, Rahmb-?" He cut himself off when he caught her eyes, and, already off balance, stumbled on the polished wood floors, coming to a sliding halt, his dark eyes already doleful, ready and set, she knew, to morph into any degree of puppy-eyes once he found out just what he was in trouble for this time.

Rahm had, somehow in the past three seconds, utterly disappeared.

Sarah brandished the dry cleaning bill, leaning back in the leather chair, silver Tiffany bracelets tinkling.

Ari's face fell.

"Not my fault!" He said immediately, slick as the devil's own lawyer. "There was this speedboat that Rahm swore was clean, and the fuse broke, with the Irish surrounding - and dammit, woman! The explosion was only one fifth of what they'd promised, and all I had was two paperclips and an Uzi! What the hell was I meant to do?"





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THE RIGHT-HAND KID MAN: TOMMY





Tom started working for Rahm when he was just a kid, only a few months past eighteen and still brash with the cockiness of surviving on the mean streets of Chicago for over half his life.

Working for Rahm had swiftly shattered any illusions he might have had about his level of experience with true violence. It turned out that Rahm, for some reason, had taken a liking to him. That fact, more than anything, was the reason he was still alive.





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Jailtime.

The extent of what Tommy was willing to sacrifice to Rahm terrified him sometimes, because he honestly thought that there were no limits to it. Then there was the rest of the time, the other 99.9%, when it felt as natural as breathing, when he lived and bled and fucked according to the tunes and rhythms of Rahm Emanuel.

He hadn't even hesitated before taking the hit for Rahm that could have easily brought down the entire Family. He'd gotten lucky with the sentence. If, by luck, you meant thousands of dollars of grease, three blackmailed jurors, a forced resignation of a shamed judge, and the best damn lawyer in Chicago. But if it had been Rahm, there would have been nothing anyone could have done.

The silver cufflinks, the silver-crested Gucci variation, clinked as they tumbled to the steel prison bench, followed by a creased silk bowtie, a blackberry that was, by now, almost certainly out of date, an underground Barack Obama 'Change You Can Fucking Believe In' pin, a pair of aviators and three empty sugar-free chewing gum wrappers.


Tom smirked up at the CO, undoing the second button of his dress shirt, and started refilling his pockets. The man looked positively livid. Tom hadn't really done much to endear himself to the prison authorities during his eighteen month stay. What could he say? He was a scrappy kind of guy.

When he walked out of the prison, sliding on the sunglasses to protect his eyes from sunlight that somehow seemed infinitely brighter when seen through freedom, the Cat was there, glistening black and sleek in the sun.

Oliver was leaning against it, arms crossed tight across his chest, an inscrutable tilt to his crooked mouth.

It was all Tom could do not to abandon all restraint and barrel straight into his arms.

Then Oliver was turning, opening the Jag's door with impeccable grace and tilting his head at Tom. Swallowing, Tommy walked the last few feet and slid in. Rahm was waiting, an all-too-familiar cheesecake box gracing the seat beside him.

"Welcome back, kid."

And that was that.






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THE SPY: KEITH OLBERMANN





If you had asked him how his life would turn out, Keith would have told you that he would be a sports journalist, or, failing that, something like a raging liberal maniac driven mad by the world. ...So maybe that last one had slight elements of the truth to it.

But walking away from the sirens and screams generated by the violent explosion of his most recent rathole, he would have to say that being a double, triple, quadruple - oh hell, he loses count of all the opposing sides and facets sometimes - agent for the US government would have been bottoming out the list of career objectives.

But he was damn good at it. So good that his own handler didn't know when he went rogue, let alone the agency. So good he could periodically meet up with the woman who had somehow become a protégé of sorts to him - a woman whom he was supposed to shoot on sight - even if it did mean destroying all evidence by any and all means necessary, as evidenced by the flaming Parisian apartment building now several blocks behind him.

He had his own moral compass, and loyalty had nothing to do with the fact that he passed delicate information to whomever he thought could do the best for the world with it. He was playing God, and he knew it.

Better him than the bureaucrats and politicians.





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THE HITWOMAN: RACHEL MADDOW





It was, above all else, kinda fun being one of the foremost assassins in the world. She can't say she has a taste for blood, but most of the hits have it coming, the money's good, and she never has to worry about being an oblivious drop of water in the ocean of humanity.

She's one of the sharks. Keith taught her that.

Okay, maybe a baby shark, but still a shark, dammit.

She's leaning back in her first class seat to Chicago, her bulky, brilliantly comfortable tracksuit concealing the shape of hidden weapons against her thighs, her wrists, the small of her back and her left ankle, when the seat phone rings.

She narrows her eyes at it. She's under an alias. The ticket was booked under two hours ago. Nobody should know she's on this flight, let alone in this seat.

After a moment she shrugs, and picks up the phone.
"Yeah?"

"Looking forward to seeing you, kid." Rahm's voice is unmistakable. She opens her mouth in indignation, but gets over it before she can blurt out something stupid and embarrassing like "How the hell did you know I was coming?"

Instead she swears, hangs up the phone, and walks right off the flight, bloody grateful the plane is still in taxi.


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THE REVOLUTIONARY: ANDERSON COOPER




Rahm Emanuel first meets Anderson Cooper when Ari takes over the network. But he doesn't really meet Anderson Cooper until Bill hooks him up with a traitorous M16 source, who tells him that the best operation for pirated pharmaceuticals is "a) So fucking secret, the Mossad couldn't find it with a map and three gallons of truth serum, and b) Okay, okay, I'll set up the meet, God, just please, don't hurt me!"

So when he walks into the meeting and comes face to face with the ice-cold glare of Anderson Cooper, internationally renowned journalist, he's caught off guard for maybe a nanosecond or two. Which is impressive.

Then he grins.

Anderson doesn't.

By the third time they do business, he's smiling back.





Anderson Cooper: Serious Journalist, Serious Smuggler.


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THE FEMME FATALE: CARLA BRUNI





After marrying into the French Family, Carla hears a lot of talk about the Emanuels, either because they don't know she's listening, they haven't yet heard about her past history with them, or they just don't care.

"Brute American upstarts. No class, no code."

"Did you hear about the Bush family? One of the oldest, the finest, destroyed with utter disregard."

"Someone needs to put those dogs down."

"Psychopathic inbreds. Did you know they send children to do their work?"

"Who knows when they'll start branching out? They're certainly mad enough to do a lot of damage before anyone can react and destroy them. And they will be destroyed. It's only a matter of time. My money's on the Russians, they've been furious since the incident with the diamond-grenades."

She ignores the talk, or laughs at it from the privacy of her beautiful study. Nicolas came from money, and she's always had an eye for aesthetics; it was just one more asset for her to assess and employ as efficiently as possible.

She doesn't know why she didn't consider the possibility of her connection to Rahm being exploited. She certainly didn't expect the Italians to be the ones to do it. She was, after all, born of Italian soil and blood. Obviously they were more threatened by the Emanuels' recent activities than anybody had guessed.

When Rahm finally caught up with them, she was barely conscious, feeling the blood drip down her bare calf in an odd kind of harmony with the staccato bursts of gunfire, her head swimming and hallucinating mad creations.

She didn't know how much time had passed when she felt his arms wrap around her, lifting her gently, and she heard his voice, cracked and soft, but she curled her naked form against his chest, and refused to cry.




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That's all folks!

Comments are love, and even more so if you have links to awesome guns/cars/weaponry/other mafioso-type things. They are better than cake!