Familiar faces from Grand Theft Auto IV join a cast of new characters in this epic new fan fiction by SIKKS66. Made in Alderney is a retelling of the final days of the Pegorino family from the perspective of a brand new character, Richard "Dicky" Gattuso, a middle-aged mob captain controlling the northern arm of the Alderney crime family. His boss, Jimmy Pegorino, is planning on expanding his operations across the river, to become a legitimate member of the Mafia commission in Liberty City, whatever the cost may be.
As Dicky struggles to balance his home and business lives, the world of organised crime in Alderney is about to be irreparably damaged. Will anybody make it out alive?
Little Empires, Little Problems
As he stepped from his car, the morning air felt cool on Dicky’s face. Seagull’s squawked overhead as the waves from the sea crashed upon the shore nearby. The sky was blue and the sun was high above him but small grey clouds loomed ominously above. Pulling off his black, leather jacket and throwing it onto the backseat of his car, Dicky slammed the door shut.
At the sound, one of his two lieutenants emerged from the abandoned casino. Marco was a reliable man. He refused to drop the questionable facial hair and purple shirts but he was a man Dicky could rely upon dearly. As he approached the casino door, Marco held out a hand. “Good morning, boss,” he said, tightly gripping Dicky’s hand, “how are you, sir?”
“It’s a good day, Marco my friend,” Dicky replied, reaching his other arm around in an embrace. Marco returned the gesture before leading his caporegime into the building. “How is the wife?”
“Glowing. Any day now, skip.” Marco replied smiling. Dicky smiled too. The pair had been trying for years, he knew, with no luck. When Marco had announced that they were finally expecting, the whole family was elated. They’d celebrated with a five course meal with everyone’s wives over at Ray’s restaurant, followed by a weekend in Venturas with the crew. It was a great time. Photos of both parties still adorned the walls of Drusilla’s: the boys in Venturas at the tables, all dressed in immaculate suits and tuxedos, the wives in the restaurant holding up glasses of wine with their husbands. Even Jimmy Pegorino was smiling. That seemed a lifetime ago.
But this morning was not about Jimmy Pegorino. This morning was about Dicky, about settling old business. Back in 1995, two years after he’d been made by Pegorino’s old man, Dicky had been pulled over while carrying a van load of firearms. He figured he’d run a red or a stop sign- he reckoned he’d be able to bullsh*t his way out of it or take the ticket and drive off- but someone had tipped these cops off. Before he even realised, the whole street was swarming with cops: cruisers, guys in armor, SWAT vans. Seemingly, the whole LCPD was out to pinch Dicky that evening. A week later he was put in front of judge and sentenced to ten years. Just like that.
It turned out that Dicky’s old childhood friend Christopher Pistone had flipped. The pair had embarked on their life of crime together after dropping out of school, stealing and beating for young Pegorino soldier Ray Boccino from his base of operations in northern Alderney. When the time came for the pair to “make their bones”, they were both dispatched to execute a Gambetti informer. Yet when the family books finally opened, Chris had been passed over in favour of Dicky; according to old man Pegorino, Dicky was tougher, more reliable and by far the better earner. Upon learning he would probably never be made, Chris fell into drugs and petty theft. Before long the feds were sniffing around ready to catch him on the smallest charge, hoping to threaten him into ratting on his old friends. Finally they caught him with a questionable amount of cocaine in his possession. In exchange for getting Pegorino upstart Richard “Dicky” Gattuso and captain Tony Casso incarcerated for ten and fifty years respectively, Chris was offered the chance of a new life by the government.
Prison wasn’t so hard for Dicky. The guys who ran the place- the guys in the yard, not the screws in their watchtowers- were all well connected to the five families and took their fellow made man under their wing. Sharing their influence, he got himself onto all the work forces he could, into the good books with the warden and the state. He even got himself a job teaching an art class; Dicky had always been good with his hands. Seven years into his sentence he was put up in front of a parole board; he was released three years early on probation, promising to find legitimate work back in Alderney.
A lot had changed in the intermittent years. Old man Pegorino had passed away, leaving his organization in the hands of his volatile son and underboss, Jimmy. The old man’s consigliere, Alfie Barone, didn’t live much longer either after being diagnosed with liver cancer. In his place, Jimmy had placed his old friend Phil Bell in as consigliere and “family lieutenant”. Having to report to and do the bidding of an Irishman caused a few initial problems but amiable nature soon won him many friends, including the fiercely untrusting Ray Boccino. Jimmy and Phil together took southern Alderney- with many whorehouses, gambling dens and shylocks within its docklands and suburbs- under their protection. Ray (promoted to acting captain after the incarceration of Tony Casso) was tasked with controlling the protection rackets in the north of Alderney from his headquarters in Westdyke Autos. This small empire had thrived, with the family’s “big three” chiefs ruling Alderney with an iron fist. But with the uncontrollable ambition of Jimmy Pegorino, this was never going to be enough.
In 2002, Dicky was released from prison. He remained true to his promise, acquiring work as a salesman at Westdyke Autos. As far as the authorities knew or cared, Dicky was now a functioning and legitimate member of society. In truth, Dicky was now Ray’s chief lieutenant, assisting his caporegime by handing out orders to the crew from their office in the back of the dealership. It was the worst kept secret in the family that Dicky was being groomed as Boccino’s replacement as Jimmy prepared for his “great expansion” of 2003. A year after coming out of prison, Dicky was promoted to acting captain of northern Alderney. Ray was tasked with spreading Pegorino fingers onto the mainland, creating a base of operations in Little Italy: a little “family-run” bistro called Drusilla’s. Ray would become immeasurably richer than Dicky, in essence becoming family underboss and Jimmy’s right arm, but nobody else in the family had a machine running as efficient as the northern Alderney crew. The two lieutenants that Dicky had personally made upon being made capo became his eyes and ears on the streets and together, the three of them ran the protection, drug, prostitution and auto-theft rackets with an iron fist of their own. So much so that Marco had dubbed his captain in one drunken, early-morning exchange the “Lord of Westdyke Autos”. For the first time in his life, Dicky was truly content, except for one, nagging annoyance in the back of his mind; a problem that at long last he could finally resolve.
In the early hours of the morning the abandoned casino was relatively deserted. The few bums who lurked around had been swiftly moved on by Dicky’s men. Inside, a small flight of stairs led to an old office room where the casino manager had once looked over his own, little empire. The door was open and coming from inside was the muffled grunt of a man being beaten severely. Dicky furrowed his brow and rolled up the sleeves on his dark brown shirt.
Walking into the room, Dicky greeted his second lieutenant with a pat on the back. “You left anything for me, kid?” Pete turned and welcomed his captain with a curt nod of the head. He was the very definition of “muscle”- a man who loved nothing more than a brawl- but Dicky had always seen more in him than that. Always cracking wise, “Big” Pete Marchetti grew up in the same neighbourhood as Dicky and had very much looked up to his captain from the day they met. When Dicky got his button, he took Pete under his wing and gave him all kind of low-level (though high paying) work. While he was locked up, Dicky had tasked Pete with the responsibility of running his interests on the outside, a task he had done brilliantly. He had also taken care of Dicky’s elderly mother, a kindness that Dicky would never forget. “No boss, just been warming him up for you!” he laughed walking over to a sink in the corner of the room. He cleaned his hands, pulled on a jacket over his bloody shirt and took his place by the door alongside Marco.
“Boys,” Dicky said, holding a hand in the air, “leave us alone. Go keep a look out.” The two soldati did as they were told and left the casino for a smoke. Dicky pulled up a chair in front of his prone, old friend whose mouth was bound with tape. Dicky ripped it off, recoiling somewhat as Chris spat out two broken teeth.
They’d found him living rough in Los Santos. Having been dropped from the witness protection program sometime during 2005, Chris had been running with low level gangs in Venturas. Small-time crimes: robbing stores, selling pot, stealing cars. It was enough for him to be finally noticed by family associates they had over on the strip. The first attempt at grabbing him had failed; the order was to take him alive but he proved to be too slippery for the men they had over there. Jimmy was pissed that Dicky just didn’t have him whacked but this was a job that Dicky always wanted to do with his own hands; despite countless requests from his boss and consigliere, he was unremitting in his resolve to do it his way. Yet after losing him in Ventuas, Dicky figured they’d lost him for good. Howver, Chris seemingly hadn’t learned his lesson; he was again spotted pulling similar stunts in Los Santos seven months earlier. This time he took no chances, sending Pete down to personally oversee his capture. His lieutenant had found Chris passed out drunk under a bridge and managed to subdue him with little effort. One, long road-trip later, here he sat face-to-face with the man he f*cked over.
“You don’t look so good, Chris. And I’m not just talking about the face.” Dicky pointed at the man’s garb. Along with dirty white trainers and slacks to match, Chris was wearing a bright pink Aloha shirt. A thick, gaudy (probably fake) gold chain hung from his neck and his beard was thick, long and greying. “What, did you get dressed in the eighties?”
“Prison didn’t change your sense of humour much, I see” Chris retorted with the smallest of smiles.
“It did not, no” Dicky replied, “but other things changed the day you sent me down.”
The pair stared at each other for several minutes. Dicky said nothing but only nodded his head slowly. Suddenly, Chris began to weep.
“Stop that,” Dicky barked, angered. “What the f*ck is the matter with you? You knew this was going to happen eventually, Christopher. I gave you thirteen f*cking years to do something with your life and maybe make yourself disappear. I pitied what you had became- all the f*cking drugs, the stumbling out of nightclubs- but I promised to myself I’d end you if given the opportunity. You were given a chance to make something of yourself, Chris, and you f*cking blew it!”
“I know!” Chris roared back through broken, bloody lips. “I tried to get myself good, I did. I went to those f*cking meetings to piss and cry and whimper to a bunch of other useless f*cks. But it doesn’t put money in your pocket, does it Rich?”
Dicky shrugged nonchalantly. He didn’t show it, but he was somewhat taken aback by Chris using another old nickname. Suddenly he was young again. “You should have taken your chance at redemption, Chris. There’s nothing I can do. This isn’t entirely personal, you know. You sent down a serving Pegorino capo too, a man still in the joint as we speak. There’s been a contract out on you for years but it seems you’re too f*cking stupid to keep a low profile. Well now the time has come for you to pay for your betrayal, Chris. I’m sorry.” Dicky stood from his chair and nodded solemnly at his former friend.
“Come on, Dick, for old time’s sake,” Chris pleaded, grabbing his former friend’s shins. Dicky kicked him away, hard in the chest.
“Get your f*cking hands off me.” Suddenly he felt himself well up. Tears formed up in the corner of his eyes. No, I cannot show weakness here. Chris deserves to die at the hand of a Mafiosi seeking revenge. Not a reluctant fool weeping for his friend. Dicky crossed the room. On a table, Pete had left a baseball bat, steel and strong. Besides it, a dead rat lay with its head twisted almost completely around. Dicky lifted the bat in one strong hand, holding the other end of the bat in his other, open palm.
“For betraying me and the Pegorino family, you will die here this morning. Because you were my friend and I loved you, I will make this quick.”
Chris whimpered at first, his broken hands tucked between his legs. As Dicky crossed the room once more, Chris began to weep aloud, staring at his old friend through red, milky eyes. At the last moment, a scream escaped from within his mouth; a moment later his jaw was cracked in half. Four strong beats to the chest- each crunching hard, blood exploding from the dying mans mouth- and one two handed swing to the skull later, Chris was dead.
Throwing the bat against the wall in anger, Dicky called out for Marco and Pete. Together, as the lightest of an early morning drizzle began to echo on the roof above them, the three heaved the lifeless body down the stairs, out the door and into an empty dumpster. Marco applied the finishing touches, forcing the dead rat deep down into Christopher’s bloody throat. The three stared at him momentarily- Marco cursing under his breath, Pete snarling and shaking his head- before realising the sun was rising higher; the faint sound of cars on the roads above became momentarily worrying. It was time to leave.
Without speaking, the three climbed into Dicky’s car. “Don’t ruin the leather,” Dicky half-joked as a somewhat bloodstained Pete climbed into the back of his car, attempting to break the awkward silence. Chris had been a good friend of the pair at one point back in the day, Dicky knew, and his death had clearly affected them as much as it did him. Dicky decided the three deserved a night out. “I think we’ve earned a night out, what do you say? In the city? We can get ourselves into a poker game and maybe see a fight or two in that dodgy backstreet place up north.”
“We can’t, Dick. Jimmy wants us over to his place first thing in the morning.” Pete replied grimly.
“Jimmy? Why?” Dicky stared at Pete in the back seat through his mirror. What is he planning now?
“He didn’t say. All he said was he needed back-up. Said he was taking some new muscle out on an important job and wanted some of the family there for insurance.” This worried and annoyed Dicky in equal measure. Jimmy’s scheming of late was becoming more and more dangerous.
“Why can’t he take Corrado? Why is he taking my men? And why the f*ck didn’t you two tell me earlier?”
“He said Corrado is going to be elsewhere,” Marco interjected “says he wants us. Can’t exactly refuse him can we, skip? We didn’t get chance to tell you this morning, what with what had to be done.”
“I’m sure it will be simple enough after that last piece of work, Dick.” Pete said, hoping to finish the discussion. Dicky was unconvinced.
“Nothing is f*cking simple with Jimmy lately. Listen, you guys call me and tell me what went down as soon as you get back, you understand? Immediately.”
His two lieutenants nodded and remained silent for the rest of the journey. Finally arriving back at Westdyke Autos, the three exited the car. Without saying a word they entered the dealership and made their way towards the back office, past their rows and rows of for-sale motorbikes. The store’s front manager- a wiry, nervous middle-aged man named Aldo- gave them a concerned look, staring apprehensively at the blooded Pete before finally nodding a relaxed welcome. In the office, Pete and Marco took their familiar seats in front of a large television and Dicky his behind his, large wooden desk.
“You guys not going home? You could use a wash, Pete” Dicky grinned, bundling a fistful of dollars from an envelope on his desk into his breast pocket.
“I want to catch the end of this game,” Marco replied, “I had to pause it when you gave me the call.” Dicky laughed and peered over to see what he was watching. Baseball. Dicky hated baseball.
“I don’t think I should be walking around outside like this,” Pete said, pointing to the sticky patches of blood on his arms and his shirt. “I’m going to use the staff shower in a bit.” Dicky nodded in agreement. He had forgotten about the “real” staff room across the building. Pete disappeared soon after, shouting his goodbyes before leaving the building clean. Dicky spent an hour or so emptying envelopes and signing paperwork for the dealership before finally deciding to head home.
“Well Marco, it’s been f*cking awful. But now I have an even harder job at hand,” Dicky announced, rising to his feet. His lieutenant looked at him suspiciously. “I’ve got to take my daughter shoe shopping,” he smiled, making his way towards the door. Marco, lying on the couch alone, laughed and waved the slightest of waves before returning to the television. Stepping out of the dealership and into the early morning sun, the trickles of rain falling from the sky belied the warmth that Dicky felt on his face. That’s one black cloud gone from my sky, Dicky thought, but I can’t help but feel there’s more on the horizon.
A follow-up chapter depends on interest and how well received this fanfic is. Any thoughts, suggestions or corrections (grammar, presentation or plot) would be appreciated.
Thanks to UNRATED69 for the logos and graphics
Edited by SIKKS66, 11 February 2012 - 10:59 PM.