Falzone, Marcolo

[Guest]

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CASE FILE: Alkahestrist {Cosca Falzone}

"You can get further with a kind word and a gun than you can with just a kind word." - Al Capone
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FULL NAME:
→ Marcolo Giovanni 'Marco' Falzone

AGE:
→ 46

SEX:
→ Male

BIRTH PLACE:
→ Napoli, La Cerisé

RACE:
→ Cerisian

DATE OF BIRTH:
→ 4th June, 1966

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HEIGHT:
→ 6' 2"

WEIGHT:
→ 178lbs

PICTURE:
→

Spoiler:

DESCRIPTION:
→ In reality, at first sight, Marco doesn't really look like your typical mafia boss. He's slender. Thin. He won't usually be flanked by two goomba bodyguards. He walks alone. He carries an air of sophistry about him, and an air of importance that he seems to radiate, but, somehow, this is all suppressed: people tend to ignore him. He looks inconsequential. But yet there's something flickering in his eyes that makes you know this man is a man of business, and a force to be reckoned with.

Marco stands tall and thin, and he hasn't ran from anything in a long time, because he hasn't had to. He will usually wear full-black; a waistcoat, shirt, and tie, and a pair of black suit slacks and dress shoes. Over this, he will wear a long trenchcoat and typically a fedora.

Marco tends to speak using a mixture of Cerisian, his mother tongue, and Cretan. His Cretan is heavily accented, but flows perfectly, and he knows exactly where to put emphasis on: make no mistake, whilst not a man of languages, Marco is a man of diplomacy, and a man of speech. He's convincing and he's got his cunning, and his guile. Marco is no brute.

His long black hair is usually tied back behind him, and he wears a circular half-spectacle, tinted, usually, hiding pale red irises. His eyes are small and jagged, and his face, even whilst smiling, is calloused and scarred. His smiles seem unnatural, evil, in the presence of anyone but his immediate family, due to the love he holds for them.

Marco wears black gloves, and metal bands around his wrists from which there are small metal wires tied to, stream upon stream of them. Marco is a master with these, able to grip an enemy from afar - the bands upon his wrists also hold his alkahestry array, meaning he has the ability to activate it from a range.

Put simply: Marco looks like he means business. Because, well, he does.

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PERSONALITY:
→ If you ever ask Marco how many marriages he's been to, he'll say 'not enough'. If you ever ask him how many funerals he's been to, he'll say 'too many'.

As dictated beforehand, on the outside, Marco doesn't appear to be a very... bad person. He seems to have remorse, feelings, and functions just like any human beings. He's calm, collected, and thinks about things tactically; he's just like any other father. He has an office, a job, and workmates. The only thing that's a little dubious is the nature of his work, and, even then, it's far steadier than a lot of other people.

Marco frowns upon vices. He's strongly against gambling, though he allows his people to control it. Drugs are grounds for being expelled from the Family. However, drinking leisurely, so long as it's controlled, is seen as a good social device, and Marco himself is partial to the odd cigar or cigarette. He figures if anything's going to kill him, it's not going to be lung cancer.

So, without a vice, and with a lot of money to spend, Marco's actually a collector. A lot of the time, he'll be tinkering away and admiring his grand, expensive collections, cabinets full of guns. Of course, a number of these do ACTUALLY get used; though Marco prefers to delegate some of the messier work to his subordinates, he himself, despite all the talk of vices, has one of his own.

Marco likes the rush. He really does just like to kill. Beneath that collected interior of his lays a malicious undertone. In his inevitable struggles against the flowing tide of age, Marco likes to remind himself that his number's not up, and, having been a family member since sixteen, likes to exhilarate himself and flash back to the old days. That, and the fact that, sometimes, Marco can get very controlling, and wishes to oversee things personally.

Control freak as he is, Marco has a code that he sticks by and that he expects his families - both of them - to adhere to. The rules are simple; don't betray your family. Don't mess with drugs. Family has top priority. Break them, and you'll know what it is to fear; Marco and his men will come for you. And they won't stop until you're dead.

If there's one thing he despises above all else, one thing which can truly spur him into a rage, it's the breaking of a promise. In Marco's life, his word is binding, and his speech is law. Everything he says, everything he promises he'll do, he will deliver on. And he won't repeat himself. Marco, when business-oriented, is a truthful man. This code of promises is a double-edged blade in reality, considering both Marco's generosity and ruthlessness.

A lot can be said of Marco's honour. He doesn't like those who are underhanded and sneaky, and will say straight to people's faces that he dislikes them and the way he operates. His clear-cut ability to talk to anyone on a level of true equality is something that has been core to his rising through the Falzone family - that, and, of course, his blood as son of the last don.

Marco isn't demanding. Whilst some members of the Family will walk into shops and demand free wares, Marco doesn't - and that's why he gets it. The fear of his power and the fear of his place comes naturally, and he doesn't even have to speak to command such an air of respect that he does, even at a comparatively young age.

So, put simply, all in all, Marco is cool. He's collected, and it takes a lot to get him to move. Hell, most of the time, Marco won't move for anyone. But it's clear and crystal-cut of why he won't: because he doesn't have to. He's tolerant, and it takes a lot to piss him off, but spur on his wrath, and he will become ruthless. He'll become the face that haunts you in your dreams. The dog, ever at your heels, waiting for you to slip up.

All said and done, perfectionist and murderer that he is, Marco has a large heart, and a lot of remorse. When a family member dies, he condoles the family personally; he views every friend as an asset, and as a human being. What with the nature of his business, sorrow comes as you'd believe it to - quickly and in copious amounts. But this aside, Marco is respectful. He's quiet when he needs to be, and loud when he needs to be. He's both remorseless and regretful. He's a man of feeling, a man of emotion, a man of business... but above all else...

A man of family.

LOVE:
→ Guns, old guns
→ Suits
→ Dinner
→ Business
→ Cognac
→ Old cognac
→ Really old cognac
→ His family
→ Alkahestry
→ Black cars
→ Knives
→ Chains
→ Wires
→ Imprisonment
→ Proving himself
→ Subtlety (more of an appreciation for it)
→ Intelligence
→ His wife, Constanza
→ His two children, Santino and Maria
→ His brother, Valiente
→ Fire
→ Family meals
→ Romance
→ The underworld
→ The Underworld, his uncannily-named Napoli manor and base of operations
→ La Cerisé
→ Birdwatching
→ Golf

HATE:
→ His full first name
→ Funerals
→ Interlopers
→ Those who would stop him
→ Those who would harm his family
→ Casual Friday
→ Business and family getting too close
→ Intruders
→ Wolfgang Murinyo
→ The Rosario twins
→ Government
→ Establishment
→ Law
→ Order
→ Police
→ SWAT

DEEPEST SECRET:
→ His son, Santino, isn't his son by Constanza, his wife.

IDOL:
→ His father, Aldiro Falzone
→ Al Capone
→ Charles 'Lucky' Luciano

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HISTORY:
→ Marcolo Falzone was born the middle of three children to Aldiro and Vietta Falzone in June of 1966, in Napoli of La Cerisé. He had an older sister, Gianetta, and a younger brother whom he is still on good terms with today, Valiente. Marco had a happy childhood, even if his parents weren't exactly on the best of situations, financially; his parents were kindly and grew him up affixed with a firm sense of honour, and the creed that family is more important than anything else.

Vietta was a housewife, at this point in time, and Aldiro was a simple, humble construction worker in his late twenties. It was gruelling, back-breaking work, and the pay was less-than-adequate, but it was consistent, and enough. Aldiro himself was a good man, with no vices, and put all of his money towards raising his children.

However, every Wednesday, at the construction office, no matter which site they worked upon, Aldiro saw him. A portly man dressed in a suit with a bulging waistline and a gun at his hip. Every day he came past, he intimidated the foreman in a matter of moments - a man who Aldiro knew to be firm - into giving away a large chunk of his hard-earned cash. For years, this puzzled Aldiro, oblivious to the concept of the mafia and organised crime controlling as much as he did, until he asked the foreman of why he paid off this man so consistently, and why he was so afraid of him.

The answer? "Tribute."

The foreman's operations run in Napoli territory, under a crime gang known as the Scirocco family, or 'Cosca Scirocco'. They were men of bonds to each other, who were brothers and sisters in arms and crime, who extorted, blackmailed, and murdered just to get their cut. Everyone working on their turf, legitimately or not, gave up a weekly cut to the Family. And word had it that this cut, known as 'tribute', was peeled off, until a full fifty percent of it went up to the don.

Now, Aldiro was an honest man, but the amount of money the foreman explained to him about was staggering. Partially from disbelief and partially from greed, he flocked to the enforcer the next time he came along to take money from their foreman, and asked of their family, and asked if he could work for them. Aldiro, now twenty-nine, was laughed at, and the man said to him: "Kid, you already are."

Things at the construction firm only got worse. Within another two years, by Marco's fourth birthday, it collapsed, and went under. Aldiro was out of a job, and the market wasn't exactly booming. With some friends, seeing how the family had operated, Aldiro decided that he'd try his hand at organised crime - but his way. Everyone was on a friendly basis when it came to Napoli - Aldiro knew everyone from his childhood, and everyone knew Aldiro. With a couple of friends, they began a few rackets.

As opposed to the Scirocco Family, Aldiro's new mafia, the 'Falzone group', being the figurehead of it all, was a lot more pleasant than Albert Scirocco and his lackeys were. The money changed hands not out of fear, but out of promise. Aldiro was convincing; before long, he discovered his natural knack for diplomacy and conversation. It was how he'd gotten Vietta to marry him, after all; it had taken six long years, but, eventually, they were in love, and wed. And that was entirely the principle here.

As the face of the organisation, when he came down to grace people with his presence, they were humbled and honoured. And no matter how much Aldiro claimed the honour was all his, they always had to back up and just leave it a moment, humbled and in awe. Within a few months, talk of Aldiro was rising up - and the man and his lieutenants were making money.

However, this was the Scirocco's territory - and Aldiro had ignored that. Blissful and ignorant as he was, when the don's men came along and kicked the ever-living shit into him, they made two mistakes. First off, they underestimated Aldiro, and they underestimated his balls. They sent lackeys to do a job a professional should have. Second off, they thought that a single beating was going to scare him into shrinking back down and leaving off.

For another two years, Aldiro's operations, on the surface, calmed down, whilst he amassed power and knowledge beneath. He spent four months recovering with five broken ribs, a fractured skull, a snapped clavicle, and an almost crushed foot - but he was alive. And more importantly? He was pissed off.

Just like his son, Aldiro was calm and collected on the surface, and even humble; but when berated, again, like Marco, he could spur into an unstoppable and indefinitely powerful rage. Sitting in the dark, his other operations collapsed and Albert Scirocco deluded into thinking it was only a phase, going about their operations as per usual.

Marco was around six when his father struck back. He took an army to Scirocco one day in 1972, and it was on that day that he gained a reputation for his ruthlessness; they stormed his headquarters with sub-machine guns and pistols, over fifty men rifling through and catching the bulk of Scirocco's forces unawares before Aldiro cornered Albert in his study, where the man threw up his arms and surrendered. "You've made your point!" He said. "We were fools to try and stop you! Please, just don't kill me!" With a smirk, Aldiro retaliated by drawing his golden Luger, and shooting Scirocco three times in the gut, before standing over him, and kicking a hidden pistol out of his hand.

"You have no honour, Albert Scirocco," His voice was colder than it had ever been heard before. "Scum like you are not fit to lead," With a single shot, it was all over. Cries of joy resounded through the bullet-riddled headquarters of the Scirocco family; any remaining members were over the next few weeks were sought out and offered an ultimatum: join the new family, or die. Most chose the latter.

It was that moment that Aldiro Falzone became the first don of Cosca Falzone, or the Falzone crime family. But his business in Scirocco's manor was not yet finished; as he moved to the kitchen, he discovered Scirocco's wife, having killed herself with a revolver lest the Falzone troops get to her. But in another room nearby, Aldiro heard a baby whimper; stepping into the room, he found the bearer of the Scirocco legacy. Gabriel Scirocco.

Looking down at Albert's body, he knew the boy shouldn't be punished for his parentage, something he couldn't choose. And, thus, in a flash of remorse, Aldiro took the child in as his own, and brought up Gabriel Scirocco alongside his other children. There was a five year gap, but he was just as much one of them as an other. His true parentage was swept under the rug; his name was Gabriel Falzone from that day forth.

It was then that the Falzone family truly began to boom. In four years' time, they had the whole of Napoli under their thumb, doing so through a large span of rackets and blackmail; after the Scirocco massacre, which was ancient history, now, no-one wanted to fuck with Aldiro Falzone. And, sure, his wealth was spread throughout his family as generously as was possible; but Aldiro always took that cut for he and his children, buying the large Napoli base of operations, the Underworld estate in the northern outskirts of the city.

With the dawn of the 1980s came the automatic weapons rush. Every gangster on the street wanted to own a modified Glock or a Mac-10; using contacts throughout Creta, Aldiro shipped in weapons in copious amounts and continued to profit from murder.

However, for Marco and his three siblings, the most important year of that decade was 1982. For that was the year of his sixteenth birthday, and the year that marked his leaving school for what he thought to be greener pastures. Anxiety shook him and with bated breath, as his father had promised, he wished to be flung head-first into his father's business.

Aldiro had done his best to keep the matters of the family away from his children, even though his wife grudgingly knew, but as they grew older, they grew wiser, and wished to take part in their naivete. And so Aldiro promised them; at sixteen, once they had adequate education to survive, he'd let them integrate into the family as his lieutenants. After all; the wishes of family came first, and as much as Aldiro wished to defend his children, he too was at fault for wanting to keep them in the dark. Grudgingly, he nodded, as the birthday celebrations of Marco's 16th finished, and the boy asked if he could now join his father in his work.

The next day, Marco was taken to a tailor, where Aldiro imparted to him the knowledge of a gangster's attire. "You always gotta look your best, Marco," His father explained. "So that way, people know you mean business, and when your enemies see ya', they won't just think, 'he's a rat bastard', but they'll think 'he's a rat bastard in a fine suit'." Marco smiled, and Aldiro paid for seven suits - one for each day of the week - which he took back home and kitted Marco out in.

From there, the boy was inducted as an apprentice, an up-and-coming. Aldiro fastened him to other friends and trusted lieutenants, and over the next two years, Marco learnt the creed of the gangster. He learnt every little thing; carry money in a roll, not a wallet, and always keep a hundred on the outside. Anybody touches your suit, you turn around and beat the shit into them, you've got to keep your image. And finally, the most important two creeds of all. Everyone told him, at the end of a day of work, these two things, imparting two mottos to live by: 'don't take shit from anyone' and 'family is the most important thing'.

It was like an internship in murder and vices. To Marco, everyone else out there working shitty jobs for shitty pay to pay those shitty bills was dead. They didn't matter. Inconsequential. Nothing. But Marco still wanted more; he was still a kid, and still being treated so.

Because of Marco and Valiente's two-year-difference and their birthdays being close to each other, when Valiente turned sixteen and Marco eighteen in June of 1984, both of them got a nice boost; Valiente was shown the ropes, the same as Marco, and Marco became a soldier. A made man. An enforcer, a cadet - but there was something else different around him. Whilst his father wanted him to go through the motions of rising through the family the same as anyone else, he had Aldiro's protection - he was an enforcer with the power of a boss behind him. That was too the day that Aldiro handed down to him his golden Luger - engraved along the side of the barrel was written the word 'Hawk'. It was his father's legacy; and he was so proud of Marco that for his eighteenth birthday, he gave to him the pistol that had already slain so many, the pistol that had seen so much blood, and so much change, the one constant throughout the .32 ACP rounds fired from the beauty of its adorned, golden barrel.

With Hawk at his side, and his father pulling the strings above him, it took Marco only another six years to rise to capobastone, or underboss. He was twenty-four, and the year was 1990; Valiente too was a caporegime, a lieutenant of the family, as was he, and the 1972-born adopted Gabriel, the true nature of his blood only known to Vietta, Aldiro, and the don's consigliere for now. All three sons were in the family and rising fast. His induction into being underboss was highly controversial; many found it upsetting that Aldiro was bringing his son up quite this fast, the twenty-four year old still very much rash in some ways, despite the tactical intelligence and prowess for this work he displayed.

But things then were going well. Nothing could go wrong. All of the police in Napoli were bought out, and only the furthest reaches of the cherry island weren't under their thumb. It was plain sailing, and everything was smooth.

That was, of course, until Aldiro's consigliere, Giorgio Montasera, stumbled back drunk one night in 1991 and happened upon young Gabriel. Eventually, overcome with guilt, he let something slip; Gabriel prodded further for answers, the young nineteen-year-old curious. Eventually, Giorgio spilt it. All of it. All the news of his heritage. And Gabriel was furious.

For his father, he promised revenge against the men who had taken him in, stolen him from the death he should have had. Aldiro Falzone was not his father. He was Gabriel Scirocco; and his vengeance begun then. He took out his pistol and shot Giorgio dead, and grouped together all of his father's old men he could, and swarmed the manor, striking out against those who had taken him in.

He went from room to room. He riddled the body of Gianetta, his thirty-year-old sister, with bullets, and then the mother that had taken him in, Vietta, and treated him as her own. Remorseless, he stalked further through, shooting maids and thugs indiscriminately; the battle was bloody and he killed with no regret, slaughtering, until, finally, splattered with blood, and alone, clutching a rifle, he entered the office of Aldiro Falzone... murderer of his father.

Aldiro clutched a shotgun in his hands aimed dead-off at Gabriel, and though his brow was furrowed, he couldn't bring himself to shoot. As much as he tried to deny it; the boy was still his son. And through that all, as Aldiro broke into tears, Gabriel rose his rifle, and pumped Aldiro's body full of rounds, before fleeing, alone, disappearing into the night.

When Valiente and Marco returned home that night from another drinking session at the pub, they found their manor still; from the survivors that had hidden in cupboards whilst their traitor brother murdered their family, they were told of the killer's name: Gabriel. Gabriel Scirocco.

They mourned for their mother, sister, and father, spending the night crying into each other as they wondered what they would do. Then, the next, day, they awoke, eyes sore and faces red, before they stepped out onto the promenade of the Underworld. And there, they were greeted with a crowd - no, not a crowd. An army. An army of those who wanted vengeance for the death of Aldiro Falzone. The man who had treated them so well. The man who was don. The man who had left now only his two sons, pure of heart and regime, in charge.

The funerals were barely a few days later. Everything was lavish; and just as they would have wanted, but it had come decades too early. As the coffins descended into the pits, Valiente and Marco watched from afar as Aldiro, Gianetta, and Vietta were buried, amongst countless other friends and family members. But their mourning was complete; their parents were gone, and as bad as it felt... now, they had to seek revenge.

With guns in hand and an army of angered men, women, and children at their back, remorselessly, the pair rifled through all of La Cerise, until, finally, they took a raft across to a small island off the coast. It had taken them a year, but, finally, they had found him, following leads that had never existed, breaking kneecaps, shooting many, many men. Murder followed in the pair's wake, but vengeance was so close.

New Year's Eve, 1993, and they snuck into the cabin. Their brother was twenty, now; or the man they would call a brother. He had let his guard down, and disregarded everything Aldiro had taught him. He was a slob. "You betrayed us, Gabe..." He was fat. "You killed our father..." And as the two approached, he did nothing but sit, stare, mouth agape, food spilling out onto his lap. "You left the family to die..." They rose their guns. "And, for that..." Click. Click. "You're going to die." They fired, filling him with one bullet each for every man and woman that had died at his hands during the massacre. He jerked and jerked and screamed until finally there was nothing left but gunshot echoes and the sound of blood dripping onto rotting floorboards.

And that... that was truly the legacy of the Scirocco family finished.

With nothing else to do, they returned to Napoli, heralded like kings. Parades lined the streets and as they walked past, heads held high, they were cheered. They returned to the manor to find it restaffed; and whilst old ghosts lurked, it was as much a family home as ever. The pair smiled at each other and settled back in; but now, they were left to take over the family business. After drawing old friends in to debate, the consensus was made: the older Marco would rule, take up Aldiro's office as don of dons, king of kings, man of men. And, humbly, Valiente stepped aside, loyal as ever, and pulled back his leader's chair for him as Marco slumped down into it... and wrested control of the Falzone enterprise.

Festivities for Marco weren't quite finished yet, however. Remembering an old girl he'd had a drunken one-night-stand with at a bar in 1988, by the time he'd been ruling for a year, in 1995 he got a letter. Enclosed was a picture of a small, seven-year-old child. A healthy, young boy. On the back was written 'Your son, Santino', in scrawled, childlike handwriting.

Everything came flooding back; the pair of them wrote for about a month, until they arranged a meeting, whereupon Marco met the boy; however, his mother was unfortunately not present. He was illegitimate, but just as beautiful as all the Falzone family had been, and he knew the kid was the future. He was energetic, vigorous in everything he did, and he reminded Marco of a younger version of himself.

Then came Santino's revelation, the first words he spoke to his father: "My mother is dead. I killed her." The translator relayed that. Marco's reply came swiftly.

"Are you... sure that you translated that properly?"

After that, there was no discussion to be had; Marco was taking in his son, and would give him the childhood he deserved. Social services were waved away simply due to the man's position. All the paperwork was filled in under an hour; and Santy took up his real mantle as a Don's son. To this day, Marco still remembers the look of awe on the boy's face as they first walked into the foyer of the Underworld - his home.

For a few months, nursing Santino as a single parent was difficult and trying; but Marco was kindly, as his father had always instructed him to be, and the boy began to grow up well in his real father's custody, and both began to work together. Already, the difficult stages had passed; the boy was independent enough, and it was a number of times that when he stumbled his way into the kitchen, instead of the many bars or drinks rooms, and Marco would find him trying to pull his miniature frame up onto the edge of the sink and drink straight from the tap. "We are not animals, Santino. Remember that."

The next year was one for memory, too. 1996 was quickly closing in, and Marco still had no bride. At 30, in their organisation, it was frowned upon to be yet unmarried; but Marco was new, and alternative, and they knew the time would come for him to meet someone. And that time came. June 4th, 1995. Marco's birthday.

They met in a club; but it wasn't anything like the romance stories. Drunk as he'd ever been, and classy, too, Marco took her into the bathroom, and the pair started going at it hot and heavy in the stalls. And when he turned around to leave, she called him back; he saw that fire in her eyes, and for the first time, he realised her true beauty. Her power. And he knew that this woman would be a good mother for his children.

Smiling, as he stepped into his car to drive off, he debated it, and, finally, moved up, opened the door, and beckoned her in. Happily enough, Constanza Bonasero sidled in, sat down, and the car drove away, back to the Napoli estate. And from there on out, Marco began his first truly committed relationship; the first where he truly had feelings for his other half.

Not once since then did his feelings for Connie falter. The two aged together; and when Marco spoke of Santino to her, fearing her response, it was the best he'd heard yet; she squealed with joy and ran to him, smiling as widely as she ever had. Not three months later, the pair were wed; and in another six, courtesy of that night in the club, in March 1996, Connie gave birth to a beautiful, young baby girl, Maria Falzone. It wasn't too long after this, that bored and musing in his office, Marco decided to begin to dabble in alkahestry. After a family trip to Xing in the early 2000s, he learned the art properly, and for almost ten years now, has been a veritable master of it, and renowned as the Splinter Alkahestrist. Of course, a gun works just as well; but never before has he gained a reputation as such a... bone-breaker.

Down the line now, Marco is still very much happily married. Santino is twenty-four, and Maria almost seventeen. His son, despite his much-silenced illegitimacy, much the same as he, has settled into the life of the gangster very fluidly, and seems to be enjoying himself. He's a little wild, though, in reality, and Marco thinks he'll be keeping his seat at the top of the empire for some time yet.

Marco has been ruling for sixteen brilliant years, and the Falzone empire is growing rapidly. They control La Cerisé with ease, and the man couldn't be happier. Excitement, rigidity, and a firm home life are all his. Of course, each is not without their discrepancies now and then, and Marco occasionally turns around to join some of his subordinates on their conquests and idly given-out jobs, just for the rush of it all; but somehow, his face is a much better incentive than any beating. And you know why?

Because you just don't fuck with the don.


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TRIVIA:
→ Speaks Cerisian and Cretan.
→ Collects antiqued and old guns (see custom weaponry app)
→ Has three tattoos.
→ Wants to write a memoir when it gets to the time that he can.
→ Happily married, and has been since 23.
→ His personal motto is 'Business and family should be kept apart'.
→ Enjoys some Sinatra on a sunny day
→ Can ballroom dance
→ Favourite movie is 'The Godfather'
→ Don't ever break a promise you make to him.
→ Every Sunday he goes to lay flowers on his parents' and sister's graves.
→ Keeps a loyal and stoic bodyguard known as Antonio by his side constantly.
→ Enjoys the odd spot of golf.
→ He always carries his money in a roll with a $100 bill on the outside.
→ Expects, as a formality, by any made man, to be briefly kissed on the cheeks. Never on the lips, as that's a supposed sign of his impending death, or a contract on his head.
→ When he says 'this is a friend of mine', that means he vouches for an associate. When he says 'this is a friend of ours', that means the man/woman in question is a made member of the Family.
→ Marco will only refer to people with their full name (or the Italian variant). With those he's not happy with, he will refer to them impersonally using their surname. When he starts calling you 'Amato' or 'Vecchi', get that man a glass of fucking cognac. Stat.
→ Marco keeps a pig farm on the outskirts of Napoli for disposing of bodies. He doesn't visit it often; just drops off corpses and leaves.

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ALIAS:
→ Ross

OTHER CHARACTERS:
→ Ayden Derocha, Balthazar, Marcus Frostbrook, Zen Howler, Alastair Carson, King, Victor Dresden

CREATOR'S COMMENTS:
→ Weep not for roads untraveled.

FACE CLAIM:

Code:

[b]HELLSING[/b]/[i]walter c. dornez[/i]

CUSTOM RANK:
→ IL CAPO DEI CAPI

OFFICIAL TITLE:
→ Splinter - The Splinter Alkahestrist

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[Reila Tsukino]

APPROVED

I'll read the history later since I got yelled at for being slow D<