Author's Note: I am a perfectionist. I am a stickler for details. I am attempting to create a literary version of one of my favorite video game series of all time, and am trying to stay as true as reasonably possible to the game, without achieving the "reading a video game" effect you see with such adaptations as Halo: The Flood, instead opting for one which feels like its own separate work such as Starcraft: Liberty's Crusade.

That said, I am far from perfect. I am no professional writer, nor do I claim to be. That is why I humbly ask you, the reader, to bash my work. Pick it to pieces, find as much constructive criticism as you wish. One of the most important parts of the writing process, I believe, is outsider input, and here's where you the reader come in. If you find anything that directly contradicts the games in a way besides skipping a superfluous mission or what was obviously a creative decision on my part, please let me know in a review. If you want to see such and such in future chapters, please let me know. If you dislike an added subplot and would like to see it disappear, please tell me. If you just plain hate me and my writing style, and want me to go die a slow and painful death, I'm all ears. I can't guarantee I will heed every single comment and mold my version of Rockstar's epic accordingly, but I will take into consideration each one and you may see your suggestions in future revisions.


Disclaimer: I do not own Grand Theft Auto. It, and all is characters and events, belong to Rockstar Games.

I also realize that in the games, the GTAIII version of Liberty City is in a completely different set of canon from the GTAIV version. I am mererly combining the two worlds in ways that will become very apparent by the time I reach the GTA3 adaptation, assuming I have the patience to write all the way up to it.

That said, sit back and enjoy my re-envisioning of Grand Theft Auto: Vice City!

It was no secret; Liberty City was the Criminal Capital of the World. Founded in 1798, Liberty City was divided into two sections: Old Liberty, which consisted of Broker, Dukes, Bohan and Algonquin; and New Liberty, which consisted of Portland, Staunton Island and Shoreside Vale.

Old or new, travel agencies consistently rated Liberty City "Least Likely Place to Succeed in America." It was the city with the highest rate of organized crime in the country, and second highest in urban gang violence, second only to Los Santos. Every square foot was gang turf, every police officer corrupt, and every business a legitimate front for organized crime. Marco's Bistro, an Italian eatery in the St. Mark's district of Portland, was no exception. The presence of the word "Saint" in the district's name was laughably ironic- the Mafioso equivalent of Martin Luther King Blvd. If anything, St. Mark's was more of a hellhole than the rest of the godforsaken borough. The district was contested turf of two of Liberty City's most feared names in crime: The Forellis and the Leones, two Italian families who disagreed very explosively.

In a back room of Marco's Bistro, Sonny Forelli, don of the Forelli family and owner of the building, let out a long, hearty laugh. "Vercetti? Shit!" he managed. "Didn't think they'd ever let him out!"

Tommy Vercetti… the name could not be spoken within fifty miles of Portland without a twinge of fear going down the spines of anyone in earshot. There wasn't much to say about Tommy except that he was not afraid to get his hands dirty. He was notorious for the hits he had carried out for the Forellis, especially one in particular… the incident for which he had been incarcerated for the past fifteen years… the Harwood Slaughter of 1971. Vercetti had been sent to kill some rival gang member or another (hell if Sonny could remember who exactly) but things turned ugly. Vercetti was ambushed, but had managed to survive and shoot down all his assailants, as well as one or two innocent bystanders. His deadly antics had earned him the title "The Harwood Butcher," a name which was beginning to rank in notoriety with the likes of Charles Manson and Jack the Ripper.

"He kept his head down. Helps people forget," came the reply of Michael "Fat Lips" Forelli, Sonny's cousin and the Bistro's most frequent customer.

Sonny brushed aside Mike's comment. "They won't forget for long. Won't forget when they see him walking down the streets of their neighborhoods. Won't forget when the Harwood Butcher walks into my doors. It will be bad. For. Business."

"But what can we do?" Mike asked with a shrug.

"I'll tell you what we'll do," retorted Sonny. "We'll treat him like an old friend and keep him out of town. We've been talking about expanding down south, right? Try Florida. Vice City's 24 karat gold these days. The Colombians, the Mexicans, even those Cuban refugees are getting a piece of action."

"But it's all drugs, Sonny," piped in Franco Forelli. "None of the families will touch that shit."

"Times are changing," growled Sonny, leaning back in his chair. "You expect us to just sit back, play with our dicks while our enemies reap the rewards? We best claim the coke capital of the east coast as our own. Besides, it's not us doing the dirty work. All we do is sit back and cut ourselves a nice, quiet slice."

Franco opened his mouth to argue, but seemed to think better of it. Sonny was notorious for his temper. Instead he decided on "Who's our contact down there?"

"Ken Rosenberg," sighed Mike with a roll of the eyes. "Schmuck of a lawyer. Guy's more of a basket case than his clients. How's he going to hold Vercetti's leash?"

"We don't need him to," said Sonny, unmoved. "We just fly Tommy in, give him a little cash to get started. Give it a few months, then pay him a little visit. See how he's doing."