In the bathroom in an expensive Italian restaurant, two men stand over a sink. One busies himself combing his hair, while the other stands by, a layout of colognes, combs, and sundries sitting next to him.
"We have a problem," the one combing his hair says to the other.
"And what might that be?"
"There's a man. An assassin. He's taken to killing us by the dozens."
"Who is he?"
"I don't know," the man admitted. "Whoever he is, he's very obviously a professional. Still, I can't afford to lose anymore men. Not like that."
"What do you propose?" the attendant asked.
There was a pause as the man at the mirror sets down his comb and straightens his lapels.
"I want the Duke..."
Later, elsewhere...A small penthouse apartment in New York City.
Inside, a notrious crimelord.
Around the perimeter, several armed guards.
Leon dispatches them quickly. That is what he does. He is, after all, a professional.
The professional.
The crimelord is easy. Grovelling, attempting to pay him off. If it would not have been a sign of weakness, Leon would have laughed.
Two bullets ended his grovelling.
As he made his way down the stairwell, Leon prepared a mental list in his head. He would need more milk, obviously. Perhaps some cookies or a cake for Matilda? A stuffed toy maybe? He didn't have much of an idea of what little girls liked, but he could hazard a guess.
His musings were cut short as a bullet whizzed by his head. Hitting the wall, he immediately pulled his gun, looking around for the source of the fire.
At the base of the stairs stood a man, his face covered by a large grey beard, small round sunglasses obscuring his eyes, and a cigar butt mashed between his teeth. Two guns drawn, several more on his person. He fired away with wreckless abandon.
Leon gritted his teeth. Beneath his own rounded sunglasses, his eyes narrowed. In that moment, he knew... only one of them would leave this place alive.
Leon versus Il Duce
