Hockey Player Shane Hollander/Mob Boss Ilya Rozanov idea:
Shane and Ilya are outed after falling deeply obsessively in love and during some bordering-unpleasant chirping in the Metros locker room right after, someone cracks a joke about how "Local Boston Businessman Ilya Rozanov" is definitley code for Russian gangster.
And poor, oblivious, has-not-meet-Ilya-yet, JJ tries to defend Shane and goes "Hey now not every Russian is in the mob, that's such a stereotype, right Vladimir?"
Vladimir Volkov, veteran Metros defenseman, responds, "Yes, is stereotype, not all Russians are bratva, but Ilya Rozanov is. He is a very dangerous man. Are you sure about him, Hollander?"
The room is stunned silent.
Then Shane sighs deeply and responds in Russian, "Yes, he is the love of my life."
Volkov stands and places his hands on Shane's shoulders, "Then you are going to be the safest man in the NHL"
And lo and behold, not a single Russian or Eastern European player checks Shane all season. Ilya is smug that his reputation proceeds him, Shane is fucking furious.
Dang. Idk if anyone has ever laid out Donald Trump’s entanglement with Russia sO clearly.
If you’ve had enough of watching the Trump clowns defending Trump & white supremacy, the Sutori link is definitely worth reading. It is a very enlightening, detailed and comprehensive timeline that puts Trump’s very very long history with Russian mobsters into sharp perspective.
It must have been. It existed in your memories, the forgotten crumbs of moments laying bare right in front of you.
Through the tinted windows of the backseat in the armored vehicle, an extension of Camorra’s constant protection over you - your eyes staggered momentarily on the grand 18th century wooden doors, encrusted in the brick and stone that stretched for floors upwards.
Hidden in plain sight. Evil, crime and all that was unholy, being led by the seemingly normal, historic building. Did the ordinary pedestrians, many who walked near or across the stronghold every single hour, have the slightest idea of what was transpiring inside? The extent of detail flowing through plans to spill yet more blood or to transport even more drugs? The bourbon and whiskey consumed by men after an operation that paid well?
Would they change their morning commute had they known?
With the amount of corruption running rampant in the city that never slept - people would always go out of their way to blissfully ignore.
It was not much different back in il Bel Paese, and you would be damned to be a hypocrite as a pin of the underworld yourself. Camorra’s limbs extending all over the crevices, stones and doors adorning the narrow streets of Napoli - yet, people still drank on the streets, chanting the songs of their victorious football team, melodies leaving their way into hurled curses on some nights. Almost every restaurant in the town owed something to a Camorra boss somewhere, with money flowing into eventually the lifestyle that you led, but did not ask for. Yet - people still frequented the establishments, ordering the finest the fair city had to offer.
And, to think, this was only where it began.
It often hurt to think just how vast and interconnected this web was, jumping from city to city, port to port. Just how many souls were involved. The notion of Camorra almost seemingly incorporated into real life itself - becoming one with the city, with the population, with the beliefs and the traditions.
It was embedded in the pavement stones of Roma, in the bronze of the angels that protected the holy land. Gleaming in the intricate cuts of pink and green marble adorning il Duomo, ever withstanding centuries. Etched onto the mosaics in their lazy trail across cliffs, into the deep, turquoise eternity.
A sentient presence among all corners of the country, blurring the lines of morality wherever it touched in the outside world.
Until it bled the people dry.
Until men were beaten to a pulp in the dimly-lit back alleys on a cold winter night, limping to get home till morning come - because the count had not been right. Until bullets started whizzing in the air upon a missing kilogram. Until an innocent died at a road ambush in the countryside.
For you, it had not taken years to grow accustomed to the ruthless truth of the source of your estate, the grandeur. Of your place in the world.
It was all you knew, your only version of reality, from the moment you gained consciousness.
Was it rightful? Earned? All you had to do was to be born into it, into the right family with the right connections. At least that was what the Camorra told you, when they took you under their wing.
Sometimes, in this life, there are choices.
Sometimes, they have already been made for you.
Everyone in the underworld was tied to each other by an invisible thread, that would get pulled on or snipped off sooner or later.
Tarasov had been no different. It was the same, when it came to members of the mob, they were all the same - except they were Russians.
Direct, straight to the point. In times, even more ruthless than what your clan could become. A little too reckless at times, yet devout to tradition. To the century-old ways of living and letting die.
Like every crime lord you had the luxury of being in their vicinity in this lifetime - they always got what they wanted, one day or another, late or early.
As the car stalled in the empty space, the chauffeur respectfully waiting - you would take out your phone, nimble fingers typing a quick sono qui to the one who waited for you back at home.
I have made it.
He had briefly mentioned plans to take a couple of days to travel to Piacenza, to his father’s estate, where he resided with the looming sickness, far out in the countryside with an army of doctors and guards. Time had not been on his side, and would never be at his age. As much as Santino wished health on his father - decay was the one thing he could not change, even with all the power and funds he had. It could not be stopped.
Time.
It either healed you, or it broke you down.
“Grazie, amore,” came his fast text momentarily, making your lips curl upwards in a moment of courage.
“Buona fortuna.”
Packing up your tote and thanking your driver, the suited guard on the passenger seat exited quickly to help you down the backseat of the tall SUV. Clicking heels across the concrete took you to the doors, guards giving you a quick once over and opening the gates to the dark, moody entrance covered in the deepest mahogany paneling.
The door closed right behind you in a fleeting moment.
“Welcome to New York,” your escort that appeared out of the shadows would speak in a heavy Russian accent, earning a nod from you. “Viggo had been waiting for you.”
“Thank you,” you responded, walking through dimly lit halls leading up to an elevator. The seemingly short ride up would take you to the top floor, exiting out in a grand foyer with windows overlooking the silhouette of the city, filling in the moody room with slivers of natural light behind crimson velvet curtains. The distant crackling sound of a fireplace echoing in the tall ceilings. Finest examples of taxonomy glared at you from the walnut-paneled walls, doors opening up to you as a known voice welcomed you in. The guard staying right outside, clicking the door shut - sealing you in for the job.
You had been here before, but not like this. Everything felt so familiar, yet so alien. The passing months and years seemed to long, yet it was closer than you recalled. The days had flown by, memories fresh yet forgotten, human beings being lost in the cacophony of everyday life.
The dreams, however, did not cease to remind you from time to time.
Dreams that took place in this very room, a fleeting moment in time, etched onto unknown corners.
Where you had met him.
“It’s always a pleasure to have you in our fine city,” the older Tarasov spoke in the deep accent, slowly getting up from his vast mahogany desk, polished shoes tapping against the hardwood as he took your outstretched hand to press a fleeting kiss on your knuckles in greeting.
“Thank you for having me,” you offered with a respectful smile as you unbuttoned the coat with a single hand, gesturing the armchairs sprawled across the burning fireplace, the center of his office. “May I?”
“Please. Coffee?” he asked, as he walked to his perfectly stocked personal bar that was places as yet another center of attention, dark walnut and black marble blending in seamlessly, contrasting the bright bottles and glasses.
“Or better yet, as is tradition - some vodka?”
“Grazie,” you would politely declined, even though you knew the jetlag would get the worst of you by the evening as you took your coat off with habitual ease, draping it across the armrest and sat with your legs crossed, waiting on the mob boss to join you for the long-awaited chat.
Business. That was what you were there for. The atmosphere was eerie, in the early lights of the quiet and calm morning, with Viggo pouring a small drink for himself as the glasses clinked. It was always unsettling and intimidating to get into the conversation - after all, with men this powerful, all bets could be off the table. Unpredictability came with the occupation most of the time.
Your eyes would trail to the tall windows, lazily letting in sunlight - now partially covered in thick, velvet curtains. Unobstructed views that many could only wish for.
That had been where he stood as you had stormed in the room, one of the times where the anger had manifested externally.
With his hands in his pockets, deep in thought, his hair slicked back in what you would discover to be his signature style. His dark stare catching you by surprise from the first time your eyes met, it did not matter if it had been a millisecond.
The first time you saw the man behind the rumors, in flesh, in this very room, mere years ago - the details of the snapshot of a moment carved in stone.
There had been no curtains back then.
A man of fine taste, Viggo tended to change things up every once in a while. The furniture had changed, no expense spared - yet the comfort was there. As comfortable as you could get with a mob boss who had districts under his thumb, that was. Your body straightened itself as Viggo took a seat in front of you, setting his crystal glass on the nearby drink table. He had donned a thick gray suit to combat the icy New York cold that morning, complete with a red shirt and burgundy tie tucked into his three piece.
His presence could be felt, just as much as his style and décor choices, as he spoke, albeit his voice was of a leisurely nature.
“Before business, let us be friends,” he offered with a slight smile. “Tell me, how’s life been on your side of the world?”
“As you know - business as usual,” you would start, as old-fashioned as you could be sometimes, taking out a small notebook from your purse. “Trying to help a friend out.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” he nodded, taking a sip of the drink. “I gathered you are here to ask something of me. Must be very important if it had you travel all the way over here.” Tarasov leaned back, sitting comfortably with the glass resting in his hand.
By that point, you had understood the sarcasm slightly laced in his voice, yet you had a feeling it was not targeted at you necessarily - but for what you stood for.
He believed your efforts were futile, a hint of a smirk stretching his lips.
He believed it could not be done.
“Santino requested I help with the fulfillment of task. I need names, Viggo,” you spoke, clear, articulate yet soft, looking to meet his eyes.
“And your word to honor what you promised John.”
The man first looked amused, letting his drink rest on the coffee table, learning towards you. “Now, why would you think I would not?”
“Just covering my bases this time.”
“I am a man of my word,” he added, voice lower, his jaw clenching slightly. “I suggest you do not pry that further.”
The air in the room tightened.
“Absolutely,” you replied with a knowing yet kind smile.
It did not make sense to ever anger a Russian mob boss.
Much to your slight surprise, the man offered a light chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “I will give you whatever information I have - not that I have much,” he would concede without much of a fight required.
“But, just so we are clear,” he would start, elbows on knees as his icy stare got closer to yours, “ - there is a reason this is called an impossible task.”
“It simply cannot be done.”
Another crackle of the burning wood would echo across the wood paneling, the orange flames illuminating the side of your face, lips tilted upwards as you opened up your small notebook, looking through your lashes as the words flowed.
Timothy Hutton, Aldis Hodge, Christian Kane, and Beth Riesgraf in Leverage (2008) The Wedding Job
S1E7
Blackmailed restaurateur Ray Palermo was falsely convicted and jailed instead of mobster Nicky Moscone, who didn't even keep his promise to take care of his family. Sophie makes Nate accepts to promise getting the restaurant back for 'widow' Teresa Palermo. The plan is stealing enough cash at Moscone's daughter's wedding, posing as wedding planner, caterer and minister. But is gets complicated because Russian mob guest Sergei and Nicky's bossy wife Heather bring their own plans and his ruthless retinue, including Elliot's nemesis, the butcher of Kiev.
*First interactive appearance of the inept FBI agents Taggert and McSweetin, whose careers will continue to skyrocket thanks to the intervention of Nate and his team. (First appearance was The Bank Shot Job, but they never met the Leverage team.)
FOR THE LAST TIME! MARTIN SCORSESE DID NOT DIRECT GONCHAROV!
I wrote all of this on a reblog of a great post by @mortalityplays that explains how Twitter’s broken copyright protection system is finally letting the world appreciate the up-til-recently lost film “Goncharov,” but it was a reblog, so I don’t think enough people are seeing this. And honestly, it’s just like tumblr to go hog wild on a media property without knowing even a scintilla of the actual history of it.
I know that Martin Scorsese is getting a lot of love for tumblr’s favorite new rediscovered film, but (and I can't believe I have to fucking go all filmbro on this, but I fell down a hyper-fixation rabbit hole on this a while back) what's pissing me off about all of this, is that everyone, including op, keeps giving Martin Scorsese credit as the director, when the title card clearly shows "Martin Scorsese Presents" (I think it's the snippet in the 3rd tweet, maybe the 4th) which means that Martin Scorsese was the DISTRIBUTOR.
Like. Ok, so Scorsese graduates film school roughly the same time as George Lucas and Francis Ford Coppola, Brian DePalma, and the rest of the Movie Brats, coming up with Steven Spielberg etc, launching the American auteur era of film, but smack in the middle of research for Mean Streets, Scorsese encounters this film by the mononymic Italian director, Matteo (JWHJ0715 was his member id number in Italy's version of the Director's Guild of America - pretty sure they stopped requiring directors include their guild number in the credits after Fellini refused for like 20 years and they just gave up trying to fine him. This is also what inspired Lucas to cow the DGA into submission on the credits at the end thing for Star Wars).
And Scorsese is just fucking blown away. Like, it's everything he's wanted to do since he went into film school. The symbolism, the interpersonal intrigue, the conflicting loyalties between love, honor and duty, the family you are born into vs. the mafia family that finds, accepts and trains you, the constant ethical tension between doing what's right for your morality and what's right for YOUR family vs. what's right For the Family.
I mean. Jesus, look at Goodfellas if you want to see how Scorsese tries to touch on SOME OF THAT when he finally feels like he knows enough to even attempt to approach Matteo's mastery.
Of course, that's not even touching on the Cold War intrigue about the Russian mob operating outside of Soviet Russia and the whole KGB subplot aspect of it all.
Anyway, so back to 1972. Scorsese is just absolutely blown away. The Godfather has just come out and America is mafia mad! Scorsese has had some modest hits. He thinks that Mean Streets is gonna be his big break, and he sees this movie. Not only does he dump his original lead actor to cast Robert Deniro because of it, he decides that he's gonna use the connections he's been making to get this film in front of American movie goers, to help finance the films he wants to make.
So he just, he just fuckin COLD CALLS Dominico Procacci and says "I know people and I can get this movie seen over here" and Procacci takes the meeting... Like, the balls on Martin!
But Procacci doesn't tell him that the real Russian mafia is already sniffing around. Anyway, Scorsese gets the distribution rights for the US and starts getting prints made and ready to distribute to prop up the mob-movie-fever so he can ride it when Mean Streets hits later in the year.
Like, the film was already in cans and at the theater, when the Russian mob knocks on Marty's door and have a very convincing conversation with him.
Next thing you know, all of the prints are back at the warehouse where, reportedly, the fucking Russian mob counts each and every single one. Then they toss the fucking master on the pile (I don't know where they got that, does anyone have that story??) and set it all alight, while Marty watches his future go up in flames.
But then they just fucking walk away and Martin Scorsese, with britches full, goes back to his car and doesn't even see the bag of cash in the backseat until the next day. Business concluded.
Gotta give Old Ivan credit. Just like Matteo depicted - they keep their fucking word. Martin Scorsese decided to stick to the Italian and Irish mobs in his movies from then on, and leave the god damned Ruskies alone.
Of course, none of them knew about the test prints back at the warehouse of the company that was hired to make the copies for American distribution. I could be wrong, but isn't the leading theory about the provenance of the Twitter copy that someone probably found one of those test prints in some corporate asset auction or something?
Anyway, sorry for the ramble. I just hate seeing Matteo getting left out of the fucking conversation, especially now that arguably his greatest work is finally getting attention.
Scorsese has been basically fanfic AU-ing "Goncharov" his whole fucking career and now he's gonna get actually credit for the original? Not on my fucking watch, thank you.
