@ritasrussianroulette || open
In the dark of the night, in the darkest corner of Paris, Rita waits.
Waiting is half the job, and in truth, it’s the hard part. Rita has never been the patient kind, not when there’s a mission to be accomplished and, if someone gets in her way, a trigger to be pulled. Tonight should be easy, admittedly: Holst’s most trusted smugglers would be carrying in a fresh shipment of booze, ready to be shipped to America. But it was never that easy, and tonight, she felt, would be no exception.
Her fingers reached for the trigger, not because she was in danger, but as a sort of comforting reflex. She almost pulled it when she heard someone step her way. “You are late,” she says bluntly as she moves out of the shadows, but she’s shocked to see that it’s not one of the smugglers. Maybe she will get to pull the trigger.
“Who the fuck are you?” she demands.
Ever the eavesdropper, Arturo couldn’t help but overhear of the meeting time and place while in questionable company. It seemed one of the new smugglers was still very wet behind the ears, and his mouth too large. After ingesting a few lines and half as many drinks, Arturo had the terrible, but wonderful, idea of surprising Anthony’s right hand. Whom he was well-acquainted with, though not entirely tolerated by.
Stealth wasn’t his forte when he was in this type of state, and so he stumbled into the alley. Thankfully it wasn’t too far from the club he was playing at that night. He could make out her figure in the dark, though when she came closer he was reminded of her incredible size. Arturo took a step back---which was more of a frightened jump, when she spoke up.
“Hola, mamita.” Arturo laughed nervously when he noticed the gun. “Only me. When I heard you were waiting here I wanted to see for myself... Your smuggler is very talkative, is he new?”
