”The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa” - The Magnificent Seven: Part Two“You think I'm brave because I carry a gun? Well, your fathers are much braver, because they carry responsibility — for you, your brothers, your sisters, and your mothers. And this responsibility is like a-a big rock that weighs a ton. It bends and it twists them until finally it buries them under the ground.”
New York City, New York --- The Offices of Roman J. Solomano
The Solomano building was a monolith, arcing up into the sky as the hand of mankind, waiting to touch the face of God. It rose from a cluster of freshly renovated buildings, their owners warm inside with full bellies and fuller wallets. It’s access was a bay of revolving doors, open to an alley so large it could hardly be called an alley at all. Fifty floors of young professionals flush with cash culminated in the fifty first -- The Offices of Roman J. Solomano.
His office layout had changed over the past month. A mahogany piano seemed to grow from the dark tile of the floor itself, dominating the space. A black wood circular desk was situated at the window, sporting a chromium-tanned leather swivel chair. Its occupant sat with hands clasped together, all ten fingers interlaced. His dark hair flecked with grey was slicked back, and he considered the ice cubes bobbing in his tumbler of bourbon. He was Roman J. Solomano.
“Lupelinos just got outta town with your, uh, project, boss.” George ‘Big Caesar’ Vincenzo rapped his knuckles on the office’s wooden door as he entered. “Preparations are goin’ well otherwise.”
“Goblins are giving us a wide berth, yes?” Solomano pushed back from his swivel, standing and straightening the wrinkles in his suit.
Big Caesar smiled. “Like you always say, boss. Friends in high places.”
Solomano’s eyes flickered down. “One way of looking at it.”
“Anyway, everything’ll be gone by tomorrow morning.” Big Caesar pulled a toothpick from his pocket, rolling it around in his mouth. He sat on the piano. “N’ Castle hasn’t bothered hitting any of our trucks, neither --”
“Get your ass off of my goddamn piano, you fat fuck.” Solomano stepped forward.
Big Caesar’s hands shot up and he stumbled forward. “S-sorry, boss. M-my mistake.”
Solomano nodded, running a hand back through his hair. To think it all lead up to this. He shot his gaze back out over the city. It’d been a quiet takeover. Slowly moving in on operations as the ‘heroes’ picked them off. Setting them up and knocking them down. His piece of the pie was still small, to be sure. But profits had quintupled in the past six months. Nobody wants to fuck with you when the
worst man on your retinue is
Barracuda. Projections saw Solomano in control of the City within the next two, three years -- Osborn’s Goblins or not.
“Always mistakes with you, Vincenzo. Why am I tolerating your presence now?”
“Ah, Mehrunio’ll be up in a coupla with the equipment you requested. Order just came in a coupla minutes ago. Just, uh, thought I’d letcha know.”
The requisition. He’d almost forgotten -- no, he hadn’t. He just told himself he had to make the wait feel shorter. He turned his hands over, looking at all ten of his fingers staring back at hm through the black leather of his gloves. It’d taken pain to get this far. Pain and death and enough blood to make the streets of New York run red.
Solomano could hear the creak of the door. “Vincenzo?”
“Y-yes boss?” Big Caesar gulped, halfway through the door.
“Is that cocksucker Laughton still in the wind?”
“Our boys traced him past Gotham… We’re trying to get more, but, you know how the folks there are…”
“Course I fuckin’ do. Get out of my sight.” The door closed with a resonating thud.
He pulled his gloves off, one finger at a time. One hand the pink of flesh. The other hard plastic green. The joints clicked and whirred as he adjusted the joints. He picked up his drink.
Another assassin dead. That sick fuck Laughton taking the power and
leaving. One chance left. He still remembered it. Who else could it be?
The form of the devil himself, drawn up in his own blood over his desk. It dripped into the fabric of his clothes and ran through the gutter of the tiles. He could still feel the cleaver in his hands now. His choice, his final assassin. After all, no one can escape The Hand.
A mousy man appeared in the doorway, arms wrapped around a wooden box. He made no sound. Solomano’s fingers probed at his elbow. There was a click, and the green plastic of his false arm shattered against the ground.
The man knelt, holding the box over his head like a holy weapon. The box was old, willow carved so fine you’d think it grew out of the ground that way. A glossy black metal hand sat in a nest of velvet fabric. It gleamed in the subtle lights of the office. Solomano’s hand closed around it.
It clicked into place. A familiar symbol on its surface began to glow.
“Mark my words, Mephisto. The Iron Hand shall take no prisoners.”
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