It was a familiar word to him, though not in the way one might think -- certainly not in the way he led people to believe. It had nothing to do with laws or statutes, in this or any country -- it was a feeling, a state, and one he never felt quite as keenly as when he was blazing the open road.
The fact that Ondolemar Guerra was a motorcyclist surprised no one, at first glance -- shaved head, covered in offensive tattoos, and decked in what must be several pounds of leather, he was the picture of a thug... and for many people, his dark skin did little to help the image. It was getting to know him that was both jarring and eye opening for most -- a cultured, patient, and amiable man in comparison to the gang he rolled with. He was one of the few truly diplomatic members of the Thalmor ( a constituent of the Brazilian mafia ), but was no less intimidating than the rest of them.
Ondolemar had no idea what their business could be at this dive, but Elenwen was riding along, so it must be important -- important enough that one of the big boss's personal "ambassadors" would bother stepping foot into a dingy bar in the middle of the afternoon. Following a flock of bikes, her sleek black car pulled into the parking lot of The Hanged Man -- and in the back, the enforcer guessed she was enjoying the last of several glasses of wine.
A popping sound resounded as the wheels of his bike hit the gravel, which hit the siding of the bar -- beside him, he could hear Estormo cracking their knuckles and mumbling some shitty remark to one of the others as they dismounted their own bike; and behind him, he could hear the harsh murmurs of Rulindil talking to Elenwen's driver. These sounds were part of the freedom -- the sounds of his friends; it was the sounds of his other colleagues which brought him back to reality and reminded him where he was and what he was there to do.
"So where is this son of a bitch, anyway?" Estormo muttered in Portuguese, coming to stand near their superior. Ondolemar snorted and shrugged one shoulder as he pulled off his leather gloves, still straddling the seat of his bike.
"Don't know; I've never seen him. You, ah, could ask Rulindil." He smirked -- Estormo was wary of anyone whose rank was higher than Ondolemar's. Those people tended to be the Suits of the operation and didn't connect well with the enforcers unless they were giving orders or interrogating; Rulindil in particular was an expert at weaseling information out of people. It made Estormo nervous, and Ondolemar understood why.
That didn't mean he wouldn't tease them.
"Let's head on in," he said, glancing over when he heard the harsh slam of the car's door -- someone had helped Elenwen out of the back seat and she was busy adjusting her outfit ( a tight black dress suit that granted a great view of most of her thighs ). She was the head of the Thalmor's division here in New York City, and as such, looked more like a business woman in her early forties than a mobster; but either way, she was a frigid bitch. Ondolemar looked away as quickly as he spotted her, though it was only a matter of seconds before he felt her eyes on him.
Three of the cyclists entered first, forming a barrier that both concealed and protected their boss; Rulindil was next, followed by Elenwen. The entourage ended with Ondolemar, Estormo, and the few other enforcers filing in behind them. The group was a sight to see; all dressed in black, their expressions cold and generally disgusted with what they saw. Ondolemar, too, carried this icy countenance -- this place really was a dump.
It wasn't until they had descended upon their target that Ondolemar was able to get his bearings. Rulindil and Elenwen slid into the booth opposite the trembling man, and one of the enforcers slid in beside him to... encourage him to stay and talk. There was no room for Ondolemar ( and, frankly, he preferred to stay out of whatever this was ), and so he just leaned against the chintzy wooden paneling with an unimpressed look. People were staring at the black semicircle which had formed to obscure anyone's view of the booth, but that wasn't unexpected -- it was the glares of a certain few people that really caught his attention.
The group was rag-tag and poorly organized, but that was what interested Ondolemar. He stood a little straighter and crossed his arms, mouth pressing into a stern frown. One of them -- some joker with tousled black hair and a beard -- looked as if he might stand up any second to confront them.
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