1963-06-25 - O' Death
Summary: Irish gangsters plan to hit their Italian rivals, but a few unexpected twists are in the making.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
daredevil shaw jess gambit mercedes daniel 

In memory of the great Ralph Stanley.


Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan, New York
Thirty eight hours ago


Vinnie the Pincher screamed in agony while staring at his right hand. Caught between the heavy iron parallel bars of an industrial vice, his fingertips ran beet red with the blood caught within their arteries. A burly sack of potatoes and muscle grunted while wrestling the screw lever, causing the bars to dig deeper into Vinnie's wrist and hand.

Raising his hand, Freddie Flaherty stopped the brute from crushing Vinnie's trapped hand altogether. "You ready to talk?"

Vinnie seethed, clutching at his arm with a free hand while glaring daggers at Flaherty. "Fuck you, you god damned, bog-hopping clover!"

Not really the best idea. Freddie Flaherty gave an upward nod to the brute, who resumed his cranking on the vice until it finally crushed clean through Vinnie the Pincher's hand, with a flesh squelching crack. His fingers flailed and trembled, while fresh blood spewed forth to coat the vice and the workable it called home.

Amidst Vinnie's horrified cries, two more men rushed quickly forward, grasping the Italian by his shoulders while the brute began cranking the other way. Staring at his mangled hand, Vinnie had little strength to fight as the Irishmen forced his other hand into the vice, and held it there while the brute commenced with his cranking.

Meanwhile, Freddie Flaherty plucked a fresh Lucky Strike from his pocket, pinched the fag twixt his lips, and lit it with a match. "Strike one, Vinnie. Now, you're gonna tell me when Frank Cavassini plans to meet up with the rest of his WOP queers at the Italianete, or Mack here's gonna put that tiny noodle you call a dick into that vice next. Ya hear me, ya greasy Dego?"

"You done sucking mead off'a your grandma's potato licking twat, Flaherty??"

Mack grunted and commenced with his cranking on the vice, when finally, Vinnie the Pincher broke.


The Little Italianette, Hell's Kitchen

Soft music is played on T E accordion while a handful of innocent people enjoy a late dinner, unaware that the nice Italian ristorante they've discovered happens to be crawling with mobsters. This place is home to the Cavassini family, whose top dog, Paul Cavassini, suffered the unfortunate fate of getting busted not more than a month back. There's been a silent power struggle amongst Paul's surviving relatives, with Frank supposedly arm wrestling his way to the top. Rumor has it he's about to secure his spot as the new Cavassini boss, but rumor also claims the Irish are about to make their move. Odds are, there's a high number of firearms concealed all over the place, while Frank Cavassini slurps down rigatoni and Pinot Noir with the rest of the Cavassini leadership.


"I never thought you'd be the one to have a taste for Eye-tal-yun, Shug." Misty comments towards Daniel. It was supposed to be a grand night out. After the latest upset of their last case and watching a man get scalped and doing -nothing- about it, there needed to be a bit of relief. Some good ol' fashioned cooking that had nothing to do with anything asian infused, asian inspired, and tea. She was sick of all the goddamned tea. Maybe wine would be good. Some beer. Maybe more wine and more beer. -ANYTHING- but tea.

The menu was plucked from the table with her left hand, an expert at using just that one side as the other remains covered and bandaged against her body, wrapped in the darkest silk to the tune of her black dress with sequins to match. Her makeup was fine, nat'tral hair pressed down to a flat with a hot comb that nearly burnt the living shit out of her scalp. All nines, when you get a ten? You know there's going to be trouble.

Her lips press together to release a little pop, the menu flopped downupon the table as she turns to the side, curving her hip just enough to lift one leg and cross over the other, heel dangling from the tip of her painted toes as the left arm drapes along the back of the chair as if she were the boss.

"You order for me, Daniel. I need to try to be a lady tonight. Get mama some meat, ya hear?" Fingers snap playfully, but it was all in jest.


Outside, it's a 1942 Shaw Shadow Classic, a stretch limosine that's parked outside, with two goons inside waiting for instructions to do goonish like thing. The other two goons are with Shaw, in the restaurant, having just left a private meeting with Frank. It seems he knew Paul, and had an … interest in who would be taking over. What interest? Who knows, but a little support from the Black King is the kind of favor people remember. Meeting concluded, Sebastian makes his way out of the office, and is joined by two other goons.

Goons: Serious looking men in nice, fitted black suits, that are almost certainly armed to the teeth.

Sebastian: A man who walks as if he owns the place, but with a casual, easy confidence to him that seems to point at him having no concerns in the world. He's in a suit's likely imported and hand made with the finest materials money can buy.

"Tell Vincent to bring the car around." says Shaw to one of his people, who moves towards the door, while he purses his lips and regards the room a bit impassively.


Jess doesn't particularly care about whether the Irish or the Italians run things here. As far as she knows, there are bigger problems in the world. Corporations and special interests taking advantage of the common man, shady government figures trading innocent people for their own power. Those are the problems HYDRA told her she'd be dealing with.

But there was a drop, and the drop said that this hit wasn't part of the plan.

So just across the street, hidden in the shadows cast by the streetlights, she clings to the side of the building, feet pressed against the bricks and back resting against the wall like it's a comfortable chair. The red and yellow suit might not be the most subtle outfit, but at least she designed it. And it's not the godawful green and yellow standard.


Danny Rand's wearing a suit, a rare thing for him, but Misty deserved to have him cleaned up a bit, even if he did have to have Mrs. Chung down the street show him how to do his necktie. His gym teacher's salary wasn't much, but he didn't really use it for very much. He had his nest egg, too, the family money, but he generally never touched that, leaving it to accrue interest for the next generation who might be more materialistic than he.

He arches an eyebrow at her insistence on meat - she liked to tease him about his vegetarian ways. "No veal," he says, nodding to the waiter. He gets chicken parm for Misty, noodles and olive oil for himself. Plenty of garlic bread.

He takes note of the armed men arriving, trying not to let it bother him and not entirely succeeding. "It seems that dangerous men enjoy Italian as well."


All of that stuff is probably really interesting.

Torture and power vacuums and violence and sex ticks about every box for intrigue. Well, except for one. And that box takes the form of a gigantic safe, which Remy Le Beau sits in front of upstairs at the Little Italianette.

Torture, power vacuums, violence and sex all end up with craziness and when things are crazy people get sloppy and when people get sloppy, people lose track of things and when people lose track of things, Remy LeBeau is here to liberate them of their valuables.

Don't get too worried for the proprietors. They're connected and by connected ole Remy means that they're part of the mob and killed lots and lots of people. Moreover, the dinner jacket he just 'forgot' in this room belongs to another mobster from an oppositely warring family. The jacket can be easily traced because of the damn name that's sewn on the inside.

Remy Le Beau sighs. All in a day's work. Especially when a day's work is liberating mutants from their chains, or whatever it is that Raven always talks about. Dat shit's expensive, ami.


Frank Cavassini meanders back over to his table following the meeting with Shaw, and promptly retrieves a cigar from his dinner jacket. The group of well dressed thugs at his table laugh and joke with each other, the lot of them speaking a loose mixture of Italian and English.

The place isn't fancy by Wall Street standards, but it's nice enough. Clean, well decorated, candle lit, with a trio of skylights above.

A shadow crosses one of the skylights, before a resounding crash fills the room. A body comes crashing down, surrounded by shattered glass, and lands in a bloody and mangled heap right in front of Cavassini's table.

Mangled, bloody, and naked, it's the body of Vinnie the Pincher, his lifeless eyes staring up at the table of mobsters.

A hush falls over the restaurant, one that lingers until Frank Cavassini has stood from his seat, beady eyes glaring at the body.

Outside, a trio of vans roll up and park outside of the ristorante.


The arrival of Shaw gets a tilt of thechin in his direction. Surely enough, Daniel has already seen the other big boss hog and that has Misty's eyebrow raising just a touch. Her fingers reach up to lightly afix the decorative bandage that holds the golden arm close to her body, loosening it just so for just enough mobility.

"So I see." Her foot snaps up to catch the heel of her heels right in place, foot planted upon the ground as she afixes her posture as non-threatening, drawing the napkin from the table with her left as the right finally begins to click and whirr to twist the wrist and..

Scratch her belly. This fabric is too coarse for her brown skin.

Just when she was about to say something snarky, the crash has her head snapping and whipping in that direction, a turn so hard that the flower resting upon her well pressed hair tumbles down and to the ground. She stands immediately in shock, where others would gasp and probably scream, her lips weren't loose ships, not in the slightest.

One look gone to Daniel, the other to the boss, and Daniel again as she shakes loose the binds…

"..Can't take yo' ass anywhere can i?" For some reason? This was all Daniel's fault.


Sebastian has places to go, empires to build, mere mortals to crush between his thumb. He's a busy man. But it's not oftenthat while visiting an associate that a well tended body comes falling out of the ceiling. He arches a brow.

Immediately, his goon is reaching in to pull out his gun, his posture shifting into a defensive one— but he is halted by a slight lifting of Shaw's hand. Wait. Shaw's curiosity has been tweaked ever so slightly.


Oh hey, look, vans. Jess straightens up just a little bit at the sound of the crash through the windows and the sight of the vans pulling up. She's a spy first, though, which means observing is standard procedure. Still she checks the wings built into the arms of her suit. She'll be ready for a quick entrance when things start to go down.


Daniel doesn't let the flower from Misty's hair hit the floor, snatching it just short of the ground and laying it carefully on the table, his reflexes sharp as the edge of a katana.

"Technically, I think I brought you here, but your point is taken," he says. Seeing one of Sebastian's goons going for a gun, he grasps a plate and flings it like a discus, intending to strike the man in the wrist and disarm him before he can get off a shot.



That beautiful sound of success. It's Christmas Morning here at the upstairs office of the restaurant and ole Remy LeBeau is a kid in his pajamas. Let's see ifhe's been naughty or nice.

Stacks of cash. Off to a good start. A necklace? He holds it up to inspect. "Mon dieu!" Remy whispers to himself before holding the necklace against his chest. And what's this? A notebook with super secret mobster notes. "Laissez le bons temps rouler," he mutters as he gets to his feet and turns out his flashlight.

Just as he does, the sound of glass from the skylight erupts and poor Le Beau leaps at the surprise. "Well," he says to himself as some people upstairs begin shouting and trying to figure out what in the world that noise was. "Bout dat time for ole Remy to hit de road."


Outside, the vans disgorge a rowdy group of Irish thugs, who begin swarming toward the doors of the ristorante. Jess will be able to see a handful of others on the roof, likely the same ones who threw Vinnie the Pincher through the skylight.

The dish flies through the air true, and strikes the hand of Shaw's goon, knocking the gun free. At that precise moment, the front door is kicked in, and the Irish swarm in, guns drawn.

Men begin to shout. People scatter for the corners of the room, leaving those who are part of the Cavassini Family, who draw their guns in return.

Then? The air is filled with steel.

Upstairs, a figure comes crashing through a window. In the darkness, it's hard to make out who it is, but there's the sound of two objects whirring through the air, then, the meaty sound of something solid striking flesh.

"Il diavolo! Il diavolo della cucina dell'infer — oof!"


A dish goes flying, and hits the goon in the hand as he reaches for his weapon. The man grunts, shaking his head and turning a narrowed look in the direction where that plate came from.

"Really?" Sebastian's tone is mild, unconcerned, "My bodyguard is your concern, and not whatever gentleman did… that?" He gestures at the tenderized mobster in the center of the room, but then chaos erupts as everyone in the room is showing themselves armed and bullets are flying. He should duck and flip over a table or something similar, he really should. It would help him keep up his appearance as just another tycoon, a titan of industry.

He simply can't be bothered.


Well, the man coming through the windows wasn't in the drop information. Rather than join the mobsters below, Jess pushes off the building across the street, snapping her arms out to use the wings built into the sides of her suit. Spider-anatomy does fun things, like make her light enough to glide across to the roof. And let her cling to the side of the broken windows as she peers down to see just who's crashed the party.


True to form, Daniel was already in action. Misty was attempting to head to the door but as soon as she hears the van doors slam open and goons exit, she turns right back around in a shuffle. "Shit.. shit shit shit.." She mutters to herself, the little shuffle run picking up as she tries to head right back to her station. With a slight kick of both feet, the heels were off and flung into a random direction, her golden arm reaching down to snag a bit of her dress to dig in, fingers puncturing holes into the expensive fabric which was soon ripped and tossed aside to land atop of someones head.

It was a quick motion, the infiltration of the restaurant, the click and clack of the guns and the immediate fire. Too quick, this was something that was well planned and prepared for.

Want to know how to make a black woman mad? At times it got something to do with her hair. Or the fact that she lost a shoe. Or probably because she spent -TWO- hours and maybe half of her allowance from Stark just to buy that dress that she ripped.

Nah. It was none of that. Shooting at her would do the goddamned trick.

Shouting for everyone to get down was a little bit too late, ducking behind a table? Nah man, too late for that too. Her arm snaps up to grip the heavy table by the leg which was soon lifted and -HURLED- towards the goons door at a shocking speed that she didn't even think she had.


Danny doesn't particular care about Shaw'sreprimand - all guns were equal evils as far as he was concerned. He focuses on trying to get all of the civilians down.


Sure, the family of this place is connected, but what about the others? Should not all the workers be protected? Surely they have families. Surely they're just trying to make ends meet. Not unlike Remy Le Beau, himself.

Gambit sighs as he walks to the end of the hall, so close to getting away. So close to just avoiding this whole mess. But his conscience is getting the better of him. What if, inside that room, with all that crashing and sound of fists on meat, is an innocent person who just happens to be caught up in this mess?

He curses at himself and his softness, walks the several paces back toward the room in question, and rubs his hand upon the door handle. With all the commotion going on in the building it is likely no one will notice anyways, right? The door handle turns a fluorescent shade of purple in color before it is blown away in a small explosion. Gambit leans down to look through the hole he just made.


Downstairs, it's a veritable bloodbath. Mobsters from both sides are dropping fast, filling the room with blood and death, but the Irish clearly seem to have the upper hand.

Frank Cavassini is quickly surrounded by those closest to him, shielding him with their own bodies and cover fire while the mob boss makes for a back door. One of them takes a bullet to the head, splattering bone and organ all over Frank's face.

Upstairs, Daredevil pauses. He can hear something in the hallway outside. When the doorknob blows, he leaps to the side, whinging a billy club into the side of the last mobster standing. Gambit will be able to see the silhouette of him, complete with what appear to be devil horns on his forehead, as he leaps through the window. No innocents in here; all of the bodies in there have guns beside them, but at least they're alive.

Depressing a trigger, the end of his billy club blows and fires a grapple line that soars right past Jess and latches onto the roof. While grasps hold, Daredevil gasps a bit when he sees her, but continues his drop into the alleyway outside without a word.


Sebastian sort of blurs. He doesn't really disappear, or anything as distinct as that, but when a couple bullets fly towards him, it seems his hand is simultaneously in more then one place at once. And ineffectual bullets fall to the ground before him. To those without superspeed, it probably just looked like a blurring — if anyone has heightened senses or speed, they might see him reach up to block the bullets, and the moment they touch his hand they just drop away.

Shaw's goon takes one to the shoulder, though, and goes down with a grunt, proceeding to flip a table to get into a hiding position. Shaw is now openly curious, his only real complaint that he doesn't have a drink, so he casually walks over to where a waitress huddles, having seen she has a tray with drinks. Selecting the brown one, he takes a sip, and watches. Explosions? He heard explosions. This is getting more interesting by the moment.


Sure. A table stands up to all of the gunfire like what! But she wasn't exactly Superwoman. She couldn't ninja kick a bullet back to a person let alone track the trajectory of where it's headed. Which seems to be where the crowd of Italian folk were huddled over and blocking. Hopefully, none of them had the gall to aim downward, cause her backside was going to be up in the air and she was just going to get going! Nothing to see here folks!

But a boss to catch and question.

"Danny!" Misty hollars out, at least hoping that he'd be smart, not get shot and take her lead. She was crawling on all fours, knees and hands beating the floor, probably slipping and sliding in some fro fro pasta dish mingled with a bloodied dressing. She was going to follow Frank's path. Seemed like a safeexit.


Jess twists as the club and its bearer go flying past her, arching a brow beneath her mask. "What in the…" And there are explosions. Flipping down, she lands in the hallway near the remnants of Remy's exploded doorknob, giving all of it a look and leaning over to peer back through the hole at the Cajun. "How many hits are going on here tonight? Because someone is seriously failing to keep up with their intel here if they thought it was just one." Never mind the bullets below. That's just gang warfare, they can handle it themselves.


By the time Jess is arriving next to him, Remy is already leaning over, lips tightly gripping a cigarette as he lights it. "I dun got no idea, ma'am. I tink dat dey be tellin' me dis is da wrong way to da bat-room." He holds his pack over to Jess as he puts the lighter back in his pocket.


He enters the room, nudges one of the moaning mobsters and leans onto the window that Daredevil leapt from, looking out on the street.

"Dis is why I never come to da Kitchen."


The bloodbath is winding down, with most of the focus upon the group protecting Frank Cavassini. Shaw's trick does earn some attention, but when the Irish who fired at him realize just what happened, theyback away, eyes wide and awestruck.

Frank is eventually pushed outside, moments after Daredevil's feet hit the pavement behind a dumpster.

As soon as Frank is outside, Daredevil leaps over the dumpster, showcasing his acrobatic skill. Each of his clubs are thrown with ninja-like accuracy to the closest street lights, knocking them out. Then, he goes to work on Frank's bodyguards. There are a few shouts, but mostly, it's the telltale sounds of a brutal beating.


As Daredevil chases Cavassini and his guards out and follows, and the sounds of a beating are heard, Shaw looks displeased. This entire business transaction was of no use if Francis can't even manage to defend himself against one silly acrobat in a suit. "Apparently I bet on the wrong horse." he remarks casually to the cowering waitress, downing the drink and setting it down, then gesturing to his goon.

He makes his way out: he could possibly try to intervene on Franks' behalf, but really. The man is a human. Sebastian might invest in him if he's some use, but he's not going to expend any real effort to protect him before he actually is an asset.


Well, that was relatively easy. Soon Misty was on her feet, rushing out towards the back, the sounds of gunfire and screaming in the distance as she busts down the door with her golden arm. Or out. Busts out the door with her golden arm to see..


The fight was something else. Misty was able to follow the movements due to her own training, but standing out in the open wasn't going to do her any good. Apparently, someone had something for both of the 'families' and she was going to stand by and watch. Not her monkeys, not her circus.

It was like a sense that danger, or potential danger was coming up behind, so she immediately took to the shadows and hid behind her own dumpster, and hopefully out of sight. Nevermind the two above, that is.


Jess eyes the pack of cigarettes for a moment, then shakes her head to the offer. "Thanks, but no." She moves back toward the view into the restaurant, watching Shaw make his way out there without interfering. Which is also curious. "Weirdest op ever," she mutters. And so many choices about which weird part to follow. The man who's just walking out of a hail of bullets? The one suspiciously hanging out upstairs? The one who apparently dropped a body and then moved out back…but isn't one of the mobsters? Torn, she settles for the roof, where she can at least watch Shaw and the Daredevil from one vantage point.


"Suit yo'self," Remy responds as he finishes his cigarette. He flicks it out the window, down towards the others. Standing, he then exhales the smoke out slowly, hazing up the room a bit as he walks by the mobsters. One mutters something, so he gives him another quick kick, good and proper like.

Down the stairs, his face wrinkles when he gets to the main floor soaked in blood. "Aint played hopscotch in a spell," he mutters as he begins to hop on the dry spots in an acrobatic way. Now at the front door, a deep breath. Towards the heroes and the villains on the right? Or down the street to the left. Always to the left. But not before he lights the last of his cigarettes and crumples up the pack. He lets it fall upon the ground and begins his jaunt. "Mama said da devil done live in New York." And he walks away.


The Devil's fight isn't merely one of skill, it is one of instinct, a sort of predatory ferocity that Jess might recognize. It's not any kind of spider sense, but it seems like it. He seems to know where the answering blows are coming from before they fly, and he leads the mobsters in his dance, so that he might retrieve at least one of his clubs to use beside his fists.

Frank Cavassini, haunted by the systematic dispatching of his closest defenders, begins running for safety down the alleyway. The Irish will soon be after him.

Daredevil, however, quickly disappears into shadow. He's got to decide whether to snatch up Cavassini, or investigate the strange figure he smelled, who blew that doorknob clean off its fixture.

At the end of the alley, a fancy car rolls up, and the back door is pushed open. Frank jumps in, moments before the Irish spill out of the ristorante and take aim. The car peels off, and the street is filled with gunfire. Bullets pelt off the fenders and knock out one of the tail lights, but the car takes a quick left and ducks out of sight.

Cursing and shouting at each other, the Irish make for their vans, but their work here isn't done. From each van, they retrieve heavy cans filled with gasoline, and head back into The Little Italianette. Unless someone plans on stopping them, it might be time to get the hell out of dodge.


As Sebastian strides out, another fancy car pulls up, and he slips in, along with his injured goon. Into the night they go, for if one project failed to bear fruit? There are always more ready for the planting, and Shaw has all the time in the world.


Fascinating. Shaw drives off, but Jess sticks around to watch the Daredevil's fight, curious. "Aren't you an interesting one," she murmurs. As he swings off in his own way and the men with the gasoline show up, Jess makes a half-hearted effort to follow the man in red leather. Who knows what she might find out?

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