There was that silver lining, the suggestion that they made it this far had to be some fucking winning streak that none of them wanted anything to do with. Did he sacrifice others, did he father do the same prior to Richard taking over? Of course. Lives were expendable except for the fair few he considered personal, important—people who were worthy to live were rare. Jac had been exceptionally one of them. Considering killing all of Atlanta to take down those fucking useless Italians in favour of keeping a fair few he preferred alive—a sacrifice Richard would make. “Listen—I’m only fuckin’ going six feet under if I take Bianchi with me—“ His head, preferably, but still.
He understood the sheer confusion—Richard’s persona had set off that Whitney was by his side the last decade—dangerously so, as he picked apart all the things he hated about who she was and replaced it with the monstrous values he wanted. He ruined her, that poor twenty-one year old manipulated by him— even now, a rock on her finger, a prospect of a future, the one she wanted. It was still all under his guidance. “I know what you fuckin’ mean, man—“ And Richard honestly wasn’t sure still if it was love or lust, obsession or possession that kept his iron grip on the blonde so tight that if she tried running again, she would do it without kneecaps—but that was him. “But no matter how fuckin’ annoying she is—and believe me, I gag her a lot in bed unless it’s somethin’ I wanna hear—“ He snickered. “She’s mine. So if I want her primed and prepped to look like a plastic Barbie doll, she’ll fuckin’ do it, or risk her future.”
The title of Mrs. Johnson hung like a Vegas banner above her head, Richard could take it away as easily as he offered it to her.
“I’ve been with the fuckin’ girl for almost a decade—you don’t think I don’t have all that and a massive coke stash to settle with when she gets in her fuckin’ moods—“ He laughed at the suggestion of the prenup—there’d be some iron clauses—and some that withheld her from running. Something she was fond to do. Not that all her moods might’ve been developed by him over the decade he morphed her into the being he wanted, rather than the woman she was. She would’ve been fine as she was for any other man. But Richard wasn’t any other man.
That bark of a laugh fell, as the President threw his head back—well, he wasn’t wrong. The insatiable needs of the man had to be met, and since he wasn’t about to find it within the bevvy of Atlanta as he’d once done a time ago, he had to make sure she was in tip top shape. “Fuckin’ right, bud, she could pull that shit on me anyway of the week—“ The suggestion there, but the literal of it was that he knew a bullet would be popped in his skull—he turned Whitney into a life of insanity, it was bound to pick at her personality. Now a war—this was Richard’s forte. This is what he loved, what he thrived for. The money from his father’s business, the money the mafia made—nothing came into play the way the sheer thrill of killing them all off would.
The ideal alone was intoxicating. Now, as the mention, he shrugged his shoulders. “You partial to a bullet between her eyes while he watches her beg for her life?” How casual was a deranged man, as he looked over at Jac, tossing back the last of his drink, as he slid the drink to the bartender for a refill. “I mean, I’m sure I could find worse, but the idea of him being helpless—that shit’ll make me laugh.” As for the sales pitch—“ Shit, bring ‘em in by force, make ‘em see how nice we have it here if they comply—who wouldn’t wanna be one of us, right?” Like there was any merit to being within the opposition. “So—“ Refilled drink, as he doused half of it before setting the glass back down. “Anythin’ I miss tryin’ to control Whit’s crazy fuckin’ ass?” He turned to look closer at Jac. “You pickin’ fights with anyone? I approve, I’m jus’ fuckin’ bored with the business shit.”
“Yeah, that’s if the dementia don’t get him first,” Jac said, exhaling a steady stream of smoke in the direction of the perpetually annoyed bartender. He smirked. “Old-timer’s already a few sponge baths short of a goddamn nursing home as it is,” he said, chuckling lowly. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already wearin’ diapers.” Either way, he'd be shitting them soon enough, Jac mused silently. Hell, two dead kids? That'd be the final nail in ol' Bianchi's coffin; no fucking trigger necessary. Jac could only hope that the prick would suffer - after all the shit that he'd put them through - Richard more than anyone - it was the least karma could do.
Jac shook his head, snapping for the bartender to hurry it the fuck up on his refill. If he was going to have to hear about Bimbo the Beauty Queen all night, Jac was going to need something stronger than whiskey. Or at the very-fucking-least, a hell of a lot more whiskey. "You ever consider a shock collar?" He proposed sarcastically; though knowing Rich, he might actually take that suggestion at face value and buy the damn thing. And Christ only knew how he'd use it, Jac thought, face mirroring his internal yuck factor.
Wasn't like he didn't already hear enough about Dick and Jane's kinky sex life during poker nights with the boys. "Works like a charm on those little, annoying ass dogs that yap too much," Jac said with an amused look in his eye. Blondie wasn't exactly too far removed from a chihuahua, anyway.
Jac exchanged a few Lincolns across the bar top for a fresh glass of whiskey, his interest caught like a fucking fish to a hook upon hearing Richard's plans. That's what he always liked about Rich: guy wasn't one to pussyfoot around what needed to be done; sometimes, he even took it a step further than that. "I'm more than partial to it, brother," he said, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "I wanna be there, front-and-fuckin'-center when that shit goes down," Jac told him, "just say the word and I'll have the little brats delivered to your front doorstep; hell, I'll even wrap 'em up all nice and pretty for ya, boss. Like a goddamn Christmas gift." He was no stranger to a little home invasion - it was the kidnapping part that he wasn't all that familiar with. Even so, he thought, that shit would go off without a hitch.
"I'm pickin' fights with everyone, man," Jac said with a shrug of his shoulders. It was what he did, after all. "Ain't seen too many ginzos on the street, though. Leads me to think they're plannin' something––" Though, as soon as he'd said it, it seemed that Jac had spoke too-fucking-soon. A few screams sounded off like clockwork behind them - the shattering clash of bullets against glass shortly following. "Guess you ain't gonna be bored for long, chief," Jac said, nodding towards the five armed Italians at the entrance. He downed the rest of his whiskey and pulled out his pistol, meeting Rich with a wicked grin. “You ready for this shit?”
