Gino and Brandon Cassini exchanged looks and adjusted their respective grips on their firearms, a Glock for the wiry Gino and an Uzi submachine gun for the bulky Brandon. Their heads swiveled back to the door and, by unspoken agreement, the younger Brandon reached for the handle. He glanced at his brother and, receiving a nod, opened the door quickly, bringing his weapon to bear.

For a moment his mind couldn’t process the scene. The lot outside the warehouse door was smoky. Two of the other men were down, groaning. Brandon didn’t pay them any mind; they were piciotto, button-men, and therefore expendable. Willy the Pick was holding his face and whimpering, his clothes smoldering. There was evidence of a small blast on the asphalt nearby.

“Are we sure we want to do this?”

“Hello? Am I talking to myself here?”

“Yes, we want to do this.”

“What a shock. How ‘bout you, Jen? You don’t have to—“

“Y-yes. For him, yes.”

“’Atta girl. Frankie?”

“I don’t know, man. I’m not really—“

“Frankie.”

“I mean, yeah. Yeah, I’m in. Right? I’m in.”

“Doc?”

“What? Oh. Yes. If I can help, I will, of course. I’m just not sure…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I just…”

“Listen, you’ve done plenty. You got us to the game, okay? No need to go any further.”

Ophilia paused for a moment as she exited the stage, eager to talk to Nemesis and tell him what a bang up job he had done.  It became readily apparent, however, that the press wouldn't be letting him go for a while yet.  Then she turned her attention to finding Ardent and quickly realized that he had already slipped away. She'd seen him heading silently across the crowded floor, smiling and waving as questions and camera flashes washed over him, and then he was gone.  She bit her lower lip nervously and set off into the crowd.