Pragonis would never tell the woman that she excelled at her work, nor that she was a quick learner. Praise and compliments were not a facet that was dished out to those that worked for him or his family. Notorious for liking to clean his own messes, Samira was only there for the bigger ones. The ones that took far too long for a single person to clean. His most ludicrous actions were the few times he admitted to needing support in disposing of the deed. The brunette would come with ideas of discarding, what chemicals to use in cleaning, and a method that was rapid. Dante was methodical in his approach to cleaning up his own works of mastery, but those exercises remained hidden away from the rest of the Anserini. People made their opinions, their deductions of his works - scrutiny that never to affected him - they would love to know his approach, but all they knew was what the media knew. All victims having a most horrendous death were branded shortly after their murder with the mark of, as the news called it, “The Devil.”
The television on at night had only become a burden when he preferred the quiet - which was admittedly quite frequently as of late. Jace talked enough as is, he didn’t need a slew of other people to do it as well. However, cutting the blonde off from the flashing screen would just be another headache to Pragonis, which was why he didn’t actively play games about turning it off. Perhaps it was some sort of comfort toward Jace to have the voices of others while he tried to sleep. Dante was fairly certain that the blonde almost never did. Perhaps it was in floods of a few hours, but never substantial rest all at once like he had. Despite that, Jace stayed where he was supposed to be through the night. From what information he had gathered, Dante realized that most of the Anserini didn’t care much having their property sleeping with them. For him, he preferred it. In fact, there was a barrier that crumbled victoriously when people slept, and he had seen that fall around the blonde’s body within the darkest hours of the eve. “Drowns him out when he speaks,” Dante remarked, though it was more or less a touch of a lie. “I figured you’d be teaching him your ways. Either that or using his body. Not often you open yourself up to someone.”
Bishop’s connections had become her own, though it hadn’t been the easiest of means to keep most of his roster for her own. While Samira had all but been raised with the Anserini she wasn’t raised in the club house, many of the faces were familiar at first but not necessarily known. She took it upon herself to know the Pragonis and Calvery children, even if she didn’t spend a terrible amount of time around them. Perhaps it was why she appreciated Dante more than any of the others: he preferred to keep to himself, only popped around whenever he saw fit and disappeared just as quickly. His business was not hers unless it was late at night and he required assistance, and her business was nobody’s — it worked out just fine. Still, there were few times she had come to his aid and carted off sawed-down pieces in thick, black garbage bags to dump off somewhere she knew was secure. Chief among them was an older brass mill (still in operation) with a surly (but surprisingly gentle in nature) older man that had always opened the door for Bishop whenever it was needed. All Samira need to was give a call to turn the mill’s furnace up and her problems were solved. Her chemical connections were similar — code words and short conversations from burner phones to keep her tracks covered. It was a lonely life to live but it elated her to know there was a seat of power in the work. Within the kitchen, presently, were two being who intimately knew the human anatomy …. and it wasn’t because of the public education system.
Though her reverie of work-thoughts split upon the imagined image of Jace with his television on in the dead of night. If empathy were her game (and it wasn’t), Samira could imagine why these captives would prefer to hear a voice or see a presence other than those they were forced to interact with on a daily basis. She hadn’t much run into Dante’s captive, but she’d heard of the trouble he seemed to cause whenever the opportunity presented himself. Most recently she heard of a burn inflicted onto him and it had only crinkled her nose for the horrid smell of live burnt flesh. Right up there with the grinding scent of bone, it was one of the things she’d never quite get used to but trucked on through anyway. “He does talk a lot. I imagine you’ve become better at ignoring people, or you’re thinking of removing something to cease it when it becomes unbearable.” Samira paused at the remark of Reid, then merely rolled her shoulders. “He was a detective for Brookswood — clean, unlike your brother. And a Navy SEAL before that. I doubt he’d be open to learning how to dismember the evidence of murder. Besides, he’s fresh into the house. He’s got to get all of the emotion of being here out — at least one stupid attempt at my life or to flee, before he really gives up. Then he’ll be open to formation.” And then the stern shake of her head, “But I have no inclination of sexually using him. Or taking pieces off, unless he provokes it. I didn’t capture him to have someone to sleep with. I captured him because he was a direct threat to the gang and your family.” She never understood the fascination that some bore with capturing and sexually abusing their marks. Any sexual endeavors Samira had over the years were kept private, like most of her life. For all the club knew as a whole, she was virginal in status.
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