[ WP ] A professional hitman is offered an unbelievably large sum , and accepts . The target ? His daughter 's fiancé .

Cigar smoke hung milky blue in the sweltering air about the three associates, tumbled and scattered by the lazy overhead fan. Two of the men, wearing matching suits, watches and haircuts, each likely worth a small fortune, sat across from Joey Bagliano, hands folded, eyes intent. Joey fingered the crumpled note, turned it over in his meaty fingers, and took a drag from the derisively cheap cigar. 
 
 “ Who ordered this? ” Joey laid the note back on the table, alongside a portrait of two far-to-familiar faces. The two doppelgangers across the table exchanged conferring looks, nodded, and returned to their focused study of the professional, albeit aging, assassin. Joey had never liked the pair, thinking their incongruously consonant idiosyncrasies unnerving, and held for them a keener-than-average mistrust, which evidently showed on his grizzled features. “ That is not important, Mr. Bagliano. All you need to know ” “ is that the interested party is offering a substantial ” “ sum indeed. I would seem that this man has ” “ stepped on one too many toes, and the boss gave ” “ his go-ahead. ” Joey hated that binary rapport of the messengers. Damn twins. 
 
 Joey tried his best to look disinterested, puffing on the repugnant cigar, leaning back in his chair and crossing one alligator-skin loafer over his leg. “ And, while the boss does understand ” “ the… ‘ close ’ relationship between you and the ” “ mark, he does believe the offered ” “ recompense to be more than adequate to ” “ trump any… objections … that you may have. ” Joey, finding it hard to pay attention to the constantly shifting speakers, suppressed a grin at metonymic irony of the term ‘ mark ’; he had recently dispatched two separate targets of the same name, one of which, a blonde-haired crooked bookie, had offered quite a struggle, much to Joey ’ s pleasure. He missed the old days, getting his hands dirty, and had always thought that the ‘ new methods ’ left much to be desired, efficiency be damned. He absently chewed on the cigar. 
 
 “ Mr. Bagliano… ” The twins had redoubled their stares, apparently awaiting a response. Joey shook the musings from his head, un-crossed his legs and sat forward in the uncomfortable oak office chair. “ Listen, fellas. I ’ m not sayin ’ the money aint good, but come on, it ’ s my little girl ’ s squeeze. ” The photo on the desk, striped with the leaked august sun from the cheap venetian blinds, leered up at him. The two twins maintained their stares, silent and unblinking. “ I mean, it ’ ll just kill her, ya know? ” Joey ran a sweaty palm across his greased-back hair, not taking his eyes off the portrait. It had been taken several years ago on some Hawaiian Island during an extended vacation, the two young lovers embracing on a sand-bar moments after a cinematic proposal. 
 
 “ Now, any other time, no problem, guy ’ s a prick. But… he ’ s gon na be family. ” Joey wrung his hands unconsciously in his lap. He had only met his future son-in-law several times, mostly over holidays, and it had always been a stretch to hide his true profession from the overly-inquisitive, up-and-coming district attorney, let alone his only daughter. Two thousand miles and a do-not-fly designation, earned after a particularly long and bloody weekend in Omaha, did not aid their bonding. 
 
 The twins exchanged another knowing look-and-nod, and one reached into his coat pocket, retrieving a small manila envelope. He placed it on the table and slid it half-way across the lavish leather surface, prompting Joey with a beckoning flourish of his well-manicured hand. Joey slowly placed his cigar in the nearby ash tray, reached for the envelope and fingered the clasp. The twins said nothing. 
 
 Inside the envelope was another photo, face down. On the back, scrawled in choppy cursive, the unmistakable handwriting of his long-time boss, were the words *Consider this a wedding present*. Joey cast a suspicious glance at the twins, who maintained their passive gaze. With meaty fingers Joey turned the photo over to reveal a woman ’ s mug-shot, his daughter ’ s mug shot, bruised and bloodied, mascara smeared in macabre streaks down her porcelain cheeks. His vision swam. For a long while the room was silent, save for the rhythmic beating of the fan and the thunderous heartbeat of the graying assassin. 
 
 Finally, the twins broke the silence. “ Domestic abuse ” “ it would seem… ” With trembling hands Joey slid the photo back into the envelope and placed it atop the other. “ When do I leave? ” 
 
 *edited for spelling* 

