You nod, understanding the importance of making a good impression. You exit the hotel and make your way to Rafael's in Viceport, the streets teeming with activity and a sense of urgency. The scent of the ocean mixes with the exhaust fumes from the passing cars, creating a unique blend of city life and maritime industry. You park your motorbike and enter the store, greeted by the soft hum of air conditioning and the gentle jingle of a bell above the door.
Rafael, the owner, is a tall, slender man with slicked-back hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He extends his hand in a warm greeting, a practiced smile on his face. "Welcome to Rafael's, Mr. Vercetti. Ken told me to expect you. How may I assist you today?"
You hand him the invitation from Ken. "I need something suitable for a yacht party. Colonel Cortez's party, to be precise."
Rafael's eyes widen slightly, but he maintains his composure. "Of course, Mr. Vercetti. Right this way, please." Rafael leads you to a secluded section of the store, filled with luxurious suits and designer ties. He pulls out a dark navy-blue suit, its fabric shimmering under the soft lights. "This should do the trick," he says, holding it up for you to see. You try on several outfits, scrutinizing your reflection in the mirror. Each one feels too flashy or not serious enough. Rafael offers suggestions, his face etched with concern, as the minutes tick by. Time is running short, but you cannot afford to make a poor impression at Colonel Cortez's party.
Rafael's eyes light up as you try on the light blue suit, black shirt, and black loafers. "Ah, the Soiree outfit. This will surely make an impression." He offers a knowing smile, and you feel a sense of confidence wash over you. The fit is perfect, hugging your muscles in all the right places. The color contrasts with your eyes, drawing attention to their intensity. Satisfied, you head to the cash register, ready to pay and leave for the marina. As you leave Rafael's, you can't help but feel a surge of anticipation. The weight of the task ahead presses down on you, but you've faced greater challenges before. The marina is a short drive away, the sun casting long shadows over the pavement.
You spot an Angel motorcycle, its sleek metallic body gleaming under the waning sunlight. The owner, a scrawny man with a panicked expression, locks eyes with you for a fleeting moment. He realizes his mistake and bolts away, leaving the key dangling from the ignition. Your heart quickens at the opportunity. You rev the engine, and the motorcycle responds with a throaty growl. The scrawny man's desperation is palpable as he races back, pleading, "Hey, man, I need that bike!" You give him a funny stare, savoring the power dynamic between you two. "Not anymore," you say, your voice low and menacing. The man's face falls, and he takes a step back, realizing there's no room for negotiation. You peel away from the curb, the motorcycle thrumming between your legs as you head towards the marina.
As you park your newly acquired motorcycle, you can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at the small victory. The sun has dipped below the horizon, casting an orange glow over the water. The atmosphere is alive with the chatter of the wealthy elite and the soft strains of a string quartet echoing through the air.
You approach the sleek yacht where Colonel Cortez's party is in full swing. A burly bodyguard checks your invitation, giving you a nod of approval before stepping aside. The yacht, a monolith of opulence, towers above you as you ascend the ramp leading to its entrance. Its sleek, white hull gleams under the dim lights strung along the marina, and the polished chrome accents shimmer, reflecting the party's festive atmosphere. The name "El Dorado" is emblazoned on the side in cursive gold lettering, evoking images of lost cities and untold riches. Stepping onto the yacht, you're greeted by the clinking of champagne flutes and the low hum of conversation. The air is thick with the scent of cigar smoke and expensive perfume. Men in tailored tuxedos and women in elegant gowns mingle about, their laughter and voices weaving together in a symphony of luxury. You move deeper into the party, scanning the crowd for Cortez or your target.
A waiter offers you a glass of champagne, but you dismiss him with a curt nod, preferring to keep your wits about you. You spot Colonel Cortez on the upper deck, surrounded by a group of admirers. His black hair is slicked back, and his dark eyes are filled with a steely resolve. He is wearing a tan short-sleeved button-up shirt with matching tan pants and a red undershirt. This attire is typical of casual wear, giving off a relaxed yet slightly formal vibe.
You make your way towards Cortez, your footsteps echoing on the polished wooden deck. As you approach, he notices you and excuses himself from the group. His eyes appraise you, sizing you up in an instant. "Mr. Vercetti," he says, extending his hand. "I've heard a lot about you."
You take his hand, gripping it firmly. "Colonel Cortez, I've been looking forward to meeting you."
Cortez gestures to the empty seat next to him. "Please, have a seat." You sit down, the chair's plush fabric molding to your form as you get comfortable. Cortez leans in, his voice barely above a whisper. "I understand you're interested in finding out who was behind the ambush during the drug deal."
A chill runs down your spine as you nod. "Yes, I've been trying to get to the bottom of it."
Cortez takes a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving yours. "I may have some information that could help you." Cortez's voice cuts through the air, "But not now, Vercetti. I have other matters to attend to. However, I'd like you to meet someone." He gestures to his side, where a young woman stands, her eyes cast downwards. "This is my daughter, Mercedes. She'll show you around and make sure you're comfortable."
Mercedes Cortez raises her gaze, meeting your eyes for the first time. She is wearing a purple floral dress with thin straps. The dress has a vibrant pattern with hints of green and other colors, giving it a lively and elegant look. Her hairstyle is a short, bob cut, complementing the dress's sophisticated style. Mercedes steps forward, a slight smile playing on her lips. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Vercetti," she says, extending her hand. You take it, feeling the warmth of her touch. "I'd be happy to show you around," she continues, her voice soft yet firm.
Cortez nods, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Take care of him, Mercedes. I'll be busy for a while." With that, he turns and disappears into the crowd, leaving you alone with his daughter. Mercedes leads you through the throngs of people, her hand lightly resting on your arm. She points out familiar faces, family friends, and business associates. The atmosphere is thick with tension, a subtle undercurrent of power struggles and manipulation simmering just beneath the surface. You can't help but feel a sense of unease, a creeping suspicion that you're being watched.Mercedes introduces you to the notable figures at the party with her usual charm. She points out Alex Shrub, a politician, whose arms are wrapped around the infamous Candy Suxxx. "That's Alex Shrub," she says with a hint of disdain, "always looking for a good photo op."
Next, she directs your attention to BJ Smith, the former football star turned car dealership owner. "There's BJ, always trying to relive his glory days," she comments with a playful smile.
Nearby, Jezz Torrent, the lead singer of Love Fist, is surrounded by a group of adoring fans. "And that's Jezz Torrent, bragging about his latest escapades," Mercedes adds, rolling her eyes.
As you move through the crowd, you spot a trio in deep conversation. Pastor Richards, with his fiery rhetoric, stands alongside Gonzalez, who looks as shady as ever, and Steve Scott, the movie director, who is enthusiastically exaggerating the success of his recent film. "There are Pastor Richards, Gonzalez, and Steve Scott," Mercedes notes. "Steve's probably going on about his new movie. You can never tell what's true with him."
Just as you're about to lose interest in the party, Ricardo Diaz shows up. Your blood runs cold at the sight of him. You've killed him before, or at least, you were certain you had. How is he here now, alive and well, mingling as if nothing happened?