It was 2 am in the crime riddled city of Scarface, New York, but all was not well: no, for there was a deadly score that needed to be settled. The target? Frank Calbone . The chief rival of Styles Brockton and his claim to the Metropolitan underground kingdom.
There had been multiple heated exchanges that had taken place between the two men, intensifying even more over the past few weeks and each horrid encounter became progressively worse.
Bitter words had been exchanged. Scathing threats were issued. Both sides were equally determined to be the solitary rulers and undisputed Kings of Scarface, New York.
Dark ominous clouds, roaring thunder, and wild ravages of vengeful bolts exploded over the Lexington Avenue and 117th Street area, directly over the penthouse apartment of the now deceased mobster on the morning in question.
As Frank Clabone slept peacefully in his spacious two bedroom home there were no sign of the lurking danger that had silently entered into his premises without making even a solitary sound.
But suddenly as his eyes flashed open, right at the point of his final moments in the world of the living; a cold hearted and vengeful glare fixed upon him as the fatal blow that ended his life was dealt.
Mission accomplished. The killer looked around for a few moments, going over and retracing his steps before suddenly vanishing away from the scene.
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