exitus acta probat — the outcome justifies the deed
PERSONAL DETAILS
NAME... francisco dante d'alessio vitelli
NICKNAMES / OTHER NOTABLE... franco, frank, frankie ( by family ), don vitelli, the vitelli bloodhound, canis ( by his soldiers ), that cocky italian bastard ( the masses )
PRONOUNS... he / him
AGE... twenty-eight
OCCUPATION... don of the vitellis, politician, city council member
RESIDENCE... the vitelli estate ( officially ), the penthouse of the mirage ( unofficially, more commonly )
BIRTHDAY... october 28 ( vampire, turned in march of 1997 )
STAR SIGN... scorpio
SEXUALITY... pansexual / greyromantic
ALIGNMENT... lawful evil
PERSONALITY TYPE... intj-a, the architect
ENNEAGRAM... type eight, the challenger
INFLUENCES... michael corleone ( the godfather ), luca changretta ( peaky blinders ), tony soprano ( the sopranos ), don draper ( mad men ), francis underwood ( house of cards ), terence fletcher ( whiplash ), tyler durden ( fight club ), patrick bateman ( american psycho )
SUBSTANCE
the smell of cigarette smoke lingering in tidied hair and on fresh, clean skin; a long, black peacoat with ox blood red leather loafers, a well pressed shirt; the glint of something silver and sharp hidden; the taste of iron on the air, a musky incense burning in another room; dark hard wood floors, cleansed with the special pine scented soap for old homes impeccably upkept; the sound of fingers pressing on fresh parchment; a wicked jaw, a smile rarely seen, eyes that swallow light whole in the pits of their darkness; a tone of voice that bleeds cocky, arrogant, but still so very undeniably charming; a candle lit near a bedside, the skull of an animal preserved in glass; an aristocrat raised with violence, a single silver molar in the back of his mouth
APPEARANCE DETAILS
HAIR... short to medium length, dark brown, always well styled with a musky pomade
EYES... deep brown, almost black
BUILD... lean and muscular, purposely fit
HEIGHT... 6'1"
NOTABLE MARKS... relatively heavily tattooed from the neck down, including his family name across his chest; arms and hands peppered with small scars. heavier scarring on his back and torso in long slashes, bullet hole in his right shoulder. foul play.
USUAL COUNTENANCE... well dressed, usually slacks and button downs, sometimes with a suit jacket. his favorite shoes are ox blood red monk strap loafers. always has an air of importance, doesn't wander or dawdle, a mouth with white, straight teeth that rarely pulls in a smile unless he wants something. charming, attractive, arrogant.
BIOGRAPHY
born in rome, italy to a street rat mother and a father that never showed his face, francisco was raised as a pickpocket, but never a beggar. a wicked smile and a sweet, young face, charming to a fault, he found his way around and into the purses of tourists and locals alike. dirty hands, tattered clothes, sleeping in the streets or in shelters, the first ten years of his life were not made of stability nor simplicity. he was uneducated, but with a spark of intelligence yet to be fed.
he was allowed to wander, to run off, dirty soles of his feet from running barefoot in the streets, long, curly hair, and his pants rolled up to his knees. he was akin to a wild animal, a street dog barking and growling, monstrous and free. on a warm june evening is when he met augustu vitelli, his hand in their pocket, a firm hold on his wrist as he looked into the eyes of success and riches, dark pupil's bore into dark pupils' and augustu's face cracked into a wide grin. “ ah, canis. “ they said, inviting franco to sit, and sit he did, and they spoke for hours.
eventually augustu left, with a promise to meet again the next day, and the day after, until finally they asked if franco would like to return home with them to the americas, to las vegas, as their son. they met franco's mother, her eyes wide pools of pain and loss, as, after extensive conversation, she willed her son into a better life, but not without the feeling of despair. franco would remain in touch with her when he grew older, in small bursts between long silences, part of him having a distain for the consequences of his birth, but that silent longing for the love of his mother howling louder in his ribcage. he took care of her, quietly. she would no longer live on the streets, but he would not claim her name ever again.
augustu pulled some strings to get the boy back into the states, and once his eyes landed on the vitelli estate something inside him changed, clicked. this was where he was meant to be, this was what he was born for. he was washed, his hair cut, new clothes tailored, and he was educated. he learned english as well as his native italian, peppered with french and german, excelled in mathematics, took an interested in linguistics. he was on track to become the golden boy, his competition being the flock of siblings, adopted or assimilated, some showed promise while others were merely fodder. either way, it was of no consequence to him.
it wasn't until his teenage years he learned the true nature of the vitelli's, had always had an idea, a premonition that something sinister lurked under the surface, but he could have never anticipated the scale. at age seventeen he begged augustu for an in, any position to prove his worth to the family name, and it was not earned easily. he began as a cleaner, the first few jobs stomach churning, hands and knees with bleach and a bucket, but a determination building in his chest and throat, scrubbing the floors was the closest he had ever felt to his childhood. to who he swore he would never be again.
after a year he was allowed to take the role of a solider, and he worked ardently, as if he were not of the vitelli name but instead the same boy ripped off of the streets, working for everything he wanted. it garnered attention from his father and he was soon promoted to capo. this job was where he reached the vampires, the underground contract killers and vile beasts. it was love at first sight, a power human hands could not touch, and he knew through these connections and with this world, he would someday touch the throne.
in the midst of the criminal underground, he entered the political scene of vegas like a demon crawling from hell, one day he was nowhere to be seen in this scope and the next he was a front runner for libertarians in the city. he used his status and name, as well as his quickly growing political fame, to garner himself a position on the city council, and despite the weiss family's attempts, no seat of power out of reach or past his fingertips. at the age of twenty-eight he was ripping his teeth through the city at an alarming, controversial pace. his name meant control, meant respect, of this he made sure. now his eyes are solidly set on his next goal; the vitelli underboss position, the next step to total power; and his siblings are no threat, and if they are, they should remain keen to keep eyes on the backs of their heads.
Briar knew that she'd taken a risk when she'd first approached Cassandra Weiss. It could've all gone up in smoke and quite frankly, the eldest Weiss daughter could've simply turned her into the Vitellis if she'd really wanted to. But instead, she'd taken the brunette up on her offer. And perhaps, that made sense. Perhaps the Weisses and the Vitellis would forever be in a feud with one another, keeping the city of Vegas tied up in all of the messes that they made. And she was about to make an even bigger mess and traumatize people along the way. Oops. In a way, she'd been training all of her life for a moment like this. Her father had taught her well: shoot straight and aim true. Sure, she'd done this plenty of times. Briar Pogue was no stranger to death. She'd seen it plenty of times. However, she'd never carried out a job so publicly. She knew she'd need to move fast after the job was over. She couldn't be caught, it would fucking ruin everything--and she certainly couldn't be caught by the wrong side. The Vitellis would skin her alive if they knew she was behind this. And she'd deserve it. But she didn't know any other way to possibly save her own skin. This is something she had to do. And from here on out, she'd take her new chance that Cassandra Weiss had given her and she wasn't going to waste it. Not this time.
She was situated high up on a rooftop overlooking the city. She had a decent aim and though she'd never claimed to be a sniper, she was pretty accurate. As Francisco droned on and on about the Vitelli legacy, desperately trying to convince onlookers that he had everything under control, she began to calm her body down, as she always did when it came to a job like this one. While Briar pretty much ran on stress alone, she knew she couldn't be a jittery mess if she wanted to hit her target and make it count. So she practiced taking some deep breaths, calming her nervous system down, preparing to perform her role in this show. That's all it was, really--just theatre. Francisco Vitelli was just a character prancing around on the stage and the audience was soon to watch him meet his demise. The only issue was that they wouldn't be able to walk out of the proverbial theater afterwards and chalk it all up to artistic expression. They'd probably have the image of Francisco in their head forever. And she was sorry for that.
As he neared the end of his speech, she stared down the barrel of her rifle, into the scope, so she could get a good aim. She did in fact have a red dot sight but she was hesitant against using it--she didn't want to give away her position, after all. Taking a deep breath in, she placed her finger on the trigger, the middle of his forehead being her target. Just as his eyes gazed up upon the skyscrapers of Vegas, she saw his eyes dart towards the building she was at the top of and she could've sworn she saw his eyes reveal some sort of recognition--she doubted that he knew it was her specifically. But she was almost certain that he saw what was coming next. Her target locked in, she pulled the trigger and sent the bullet flying down from the top of the building and over the crowd--however, he turned his head at the last moment and the bullet ended up hitting his temple instead. "Dammit..." she whispered to herself. The job was done, though not the way she'd intended. But she didn't have much time to fret over that. Waiting for just a moment to watch him fall, she quickly began to throw her equipment into the bag that was at her feet so she could make her getaway. The hurlyburly was just beginning below her feet on the streets of Vegas and she knew she had to find cover and fast.
Francisco hears the shot before he's even aware it hit him. Everything slowed, a loud buzzing overwhelming, shaking his very skull. The next thing he sees is the floor of the podium, a haze of screams and faceless bodies moving and shifting, running. He tries to move his limbs, to touch his chest, his body, to find out where exactly he was hit but all he can muster is a twitching of hands. Nothing moves the way it should, open mouth a shaking of his jaw. This, he thinks, must be death, or at least the very precipice, thoughts a quaking mess, sticky and red under the weight of his head, seeping and spreading. For the first time, in a very long time, he's afraid. The speed at which the day happened, the decisions he made to still go through with this knowing the reality of this possibility. There are thoughts, feelings, but so muddled that he can't differentiate one from the next, a ceaseless barrage, of what is and what isn't, what now may never be. The height of his existence, everything he had sough and fought for finally within reach, fingers grasped around the salvation of a childhood bred from desires and darkness. He had understated death for so long, taken so many lives through violence and what he had considered necessity. Now it rears its head at him, not a religious man, he doesn't see light or hear choirs, creeping darkness and cold tugging from the ground up. The flimsy veil between mortality and the divine, the crippling weight of his own body, suddenly he does think of heaven and hell, the only prayer not to be saved, but for a purgatory he can manage.
A shaky breath, a death rattle, vision going white and then black, sight the first thing he loses, a tingling through his body and then nothing at all. Blackness, devoid of all feeling, the karmic retribution for every trigger he's ever pulled, every knife he's ever wielded. Now, the best case scenario involves far more violence, a true necessity so dense and all consuming that he can sense he will miss the days when it had been a choice -- a choice that lead him to carnage every single time. His life doesn't flash before his eyes, but there's the sensation of rain on his skin, the aching of bare feet having run over rocks for days, a last tensing of muscles, preparing for a fight that can't win, then everything falls limp, empty. The last thing he can truly remember thinking was of the pain every decision he's made has led to, selfishly, this one most of all.
Now, the rest is out of his hands and out of his control; whether he rises again, or stays stagnant for the rest of time, buried next to the fresh plot of his father with a grave marked only as SON, the sole contribution he's ever made justifiable to be incarnate. The only thing that remains is the weight of his deals, the loyalty to promises, and how long passes before his body turns cold.
thursday, march 20th, outside of city hall — early afternoon with briar pogue and petra weiss
It’s really more a responsibility than something he had wanted to do, the first public display as head of his family which has meaning outside of the more devious underground implications. The Vitelli’s have standing to the Vegas public as well, a massive conglomerate owning casinos and land, donating money in large amounts at charity events and auctions. This tied to his current political standing means that he’s required to do, to say, something to the general public. A reintroduction, a performance, a podium in front of city hall where he will wave and smile, he will give a speech about the good of the people and the all consuming future of them all. It will be filled with niceties and diplomacy, the intent not by any means to change the world, but instead to leave a good taste in their mouths. This was the sole intention when he requested the ability to speak in front of the people, this was the thought when the date was set; so simple. It isn’t until about an hour before the speech that he’s made aware something is off, someone is on the precipice of turning, and he may very well have set the stage for his own demise, something a far louder statement than anything he may have prepared to say on this day.
That’s why he called her, that is why he was fitted with a bulletproof vest underneath his suit that will not see the mark of war today. Francisco has never shied from danger, has never admitted when someone has the upperhand; he doesn’t even consider cancelling the show, he doesn’t make any phone calls so no one can attempt to convince him otherwise, instead he steps onto the stage with a glaring target on his back, a guillotine he places his head in and willingly lets the scythe hang over his neck. He continues as planned, hits every point he has written and practiced, the wave of his hand, the confidence in his smile; he doesn’t show that he’s afraid, or that there is even anything to possibly be afraid about. The crowd is of a decent size for things of this nature, a blur of faces and shifting bodies, perked ears. The Vitelli prince will say his part, will rouse the people, make a new impression; they’re all wondering, ignorant, does he crumble under the pressure?
It starts smoothly, the reintroduction of himself and his family, his views, his goals, smooth and eloquent, everything intentional to a fine point. It stretches and the crowd breathes alongside it, he feels, in the moment, that they’re caught, thousands of fish on hooks. His peripheral vision is spread wide, his eyes shift responsibly through the crowd as if simply addressing them all, but he’s looking for something, for someone that no one is aware of. He stands on his dais of civilians, he spreads the good word of the Vitelli bloodhound with diplomacy and a silver tongue, dark eyes sharp and rapt. He doesn’t move from the spot he stands in front of the microphone, bound to it, doesn’t shift his posture, making it almost far too easy. This very well may be it, he finds the thoughts coiling despite himself, the adrenaline pumping, he finds that he will have regrets if he dies here, but he also thinks that it would perhaps simply mean it was his time. The war that will wage in the aftermath will speak for itself, the cries and screams of the people. His backup plan is not concrete, no more bullproof than his own flesh. He continues, a wind far too gentle, the sky too bright with sun, temperate and calm, a cloudless sky. In the midst of a sentiment, he pauses, at first to exemplify a thought, but it goes a moment longer than intended; on a rooftop nearby, just a moment too late, he spots the telling glint of metal.
CLOSED STARTER FOR @devilsons, FRANCISCO + MAXIM.
early-mid february, empty rooftop of an event. late.
When he was sixteen years old, Max would wait by the phone at Andover Boarding School for the call he knew was coming; Nevada was only three hours behind Boston, but the young Crane and Vitelli sons had worked out a very specific schedule to be able to speak to each other. It was about all the contact they'd have to look forward to until the summer months drew their families together again and, inevitably, each other. Before the cruelty of the real adult world had sunk its teeth into flesh, before responsibility and ambition began weighing down Franco's shoulders while contempt and solitude weighed down Maxim's, they got through on excitement and planning every next time they'd finally be in each other's orbit again. It was simple, it was fresh-faced boyhood and kinship and exploration, the media watching them grow up side by side, beautiful and fucking dangerous when in a room together.
Fifteen years of friendship, between messy rendezvous and quarrels and realizing something once pure cannot stay that way forever; all that time shared and the last few months are the longest they've ever gone without communicating. Business is business, Franco is Don now, and the Cranes stuck by his side during the change; there's no avoiding each other in that regard, but the exchanges are cold in a way they'd never been before. Devoid of any affection that might have lingered previously, the bubble of Maxim and Francisco popped in such a swift, upending movement - not with a roar or a bang like Max is always so inclined to encourage, rather soft and silent and fucking brutal, a final click of elevator doors marking the end of an era.
It's borderline pathetic to be affected so deeply by it, to be a grown man and watch him from afar, to be so hyperaware of movement, only to be unable to do anything about it as he would have before. It's more of the same tonight; silk and sequins, champagne and chatter, the kind of gala where grief gets ironed flat beneath tailored jackets and a good spotlight. Max moves through it effortlessly, practiced and sunlit. He laughs at the right beats, touches elbows, remembers names, the Crane veneer. Cracking every time the crowd shifts, every time the lights flare across the marble and glass, when he finds the same silhouette like a bruise you can't stop pressing. Francisco Vitelli is a magnet wrapped in discipline, and Max has spent two and a half months trying to pretend he isn't made of metal.
He couldn't tell you why he decided tonight was the night he'd had enough of the Cold War. He'd told himself it would be better this way, that Franco deserves more stability than Max, because he's never been stable in his fucking life and he's not sure he's capable of giving Franco what it is he wants, no matter how deeply he might want to; but at its core, it's selfishness, the very thing that drove Franco away in the first place. He's bone-tired in a way sleep doesn't fix - the sickly sweet pressure of a voice in his ear, the heel at his throat. He's been living with a gun to his family's reputation and the Vitellis' stability, and he can feel the noose tightening every time he tries to breathe around it and he has no one to talk to, not in the way they could. Simply put, Max fucking misses him.
He's made an art of not needing anyone but anyone with eyes and a brain can tell it's all bullshit, Franco most of all, reading him like a fucking book.
Across the room, he catches sight of him leaving, disappearing into the stairs, excusing himself. Max watches like he's locked onto a target, takes one last sip of his drink, and sets it down. His smile returns to his face like a mask snapping into place and he excuses himself from whoever he's talking to with a hand on their shoulder and a lie about fresh air, moves through the crowd with that same easy entitlement like he belongs everywhere.
He follows him to the top of the building, through a fire exit he's not sure anyone is allowed to go through, but fuck it. He doesn't wait to be invited, never has before, and finds himself stopping short for a moment. Every word he'd wanted to say goes out the door, two and a half months like an eternity, and it's so unbearably ridiculous that all he can do is lean into it. Max knows Franco knows he's there, even if he's not facing him. The scent of tobacco and spice, and it's obvious what he's here for because Max doesn't carry his own cigarettes and he sure as hell has never been subtle enough to pretend this isn't deliberate. "I hope you're not thinking of jumping," he breaks the silence, walks up to the edge of the roof beside him, the distance between them. Unbearable. "You've got so much to live for."
Max glances over at him after a moment, and gives up any pretense of pretending to be enamored by a city skyline he's seen hundreds of times before. Lets his gaze rake over his form, cataloguing really, for differences, like two months can make much of a difference, though if the sunken hollowness of his gaze was anything to go by, maybe it is.
Francisco didn’t plan on staying long, wrapped in the responsibility of showing face for the family, his first charity event with the title of don marked something glaringly important. He walked into the event, as expected, with Roxanne Zuzen on his arm, his consigliere not far behind. He shook hands, made introductions, a slow and steady movement across the open space, pleasantries, eventually getting separated from her, going off to entertain her own audiences; he supposes his conversations are boring to someone like her who’s all about the glitz and glamour, she doesn’t have the business mentality, doesn’t enjoy flitting between the two worlds. Franco tends to find the balance, can enjoy the bullshit and the gossip, but he isn’t built to make it the heart of the event, has to be done tastefully in side-bars, leaned close and whispered under their breath, while she likes it loud, a statement, and to be the very center of the room. He’s determined in their short time together, that they couldn’t be more different. Admittedly, the parts of her he enjoys most are primarily the parts that remind him of someone else.
Of course he sees him when he enters, feels his presence like a magnet, ignores the sensation of his eyes on him, drawing himself further through the crowd, another drink, anything to not have to think about it, about him. Two months came and went, the presence of someone new and consistent in his life and in his bed only managing to make him somehow feel sicker. He doesn’t sleep, he drinks more, barely leaves the office; it is truly, he finds, his first real heartbreak.
How foolish is it that it happens as he nears thirty years old, the horrible detached feeling of a break-up that never was even truly a relationship, fifteen years of kinship doomed from the beginning, lost in a weak moment of tender words and honesty. It’s bitter and harsh, leaves a bad taste on his tongue just to think of it, his presence like an open wound, prodding and picking at the scabs, too entwined in work and in life to ever fully escape him. It’s a prison, it’s hell, and at the end of the day, it’s the bed he made.
Most of the night passes uneventfully, the same bullshit as always, polite smiles, useless banter, friendly quips bubbling from the bottom of champagne glasses. It feels endless, time moving so slowly, distracted and disjointed, endlessly tired, if he were being honest, fucking miserable. Covered head to toe in responsibility, the aftermath of mourning, of being accepted and pushed away and dismissed in his new role, so many smiling to his face and waiting patiently to shove a knife in his back. There’s so few people he can truly trust, the circle dwindling smaller everyday and even the people he does, he finds there’s no one he really feels comfortable talking to. It’s incredibly lonely, using busy as an alternative word for exactly how lonely he really is, always telling everyone that he’s so very busy.
Eventually he can’t take it anymore, the little pleasantries, the feeling of Max’s gaze finding him, so distinct and sickly, and excuses himself from his conversation.
He makes his way through the moving bodies, the loud cadence of fake laughs and the clicking of heels on marble, and pushes through a back door, up some stairs that are clearly meant to be for employees, and out an exit. For a moment it’s perfect, the air cool, a breeze, Vegas spread out underneath with all the lights bright, blocking out any hint of stars. He lights a cigarette, leaning against the railing surrounding the roof. For a moment, he thinks he may be able to gather himself, the flush of nicotine and the silence bringing a peace that is too soon broken. Franco doesn’t have to look when he hears the door swing open, even if there were more than one person it could be, he could sense him, feel him, in the way he’s always been able to. He closes his eyes, doesn’t move away from the railing, a pull of brows.
He innately knows that he doesn’t want to do this, can’t handle it, already wound so tight from everything else in his life, the addition of his presence, here and alone, making his fucking chest hurt immediately. The eventualities, the possibilities, none are satisfying; what does he want? To be friends? To fall back into the way things have always been, painful and cruel? The same song and dance that lead them here, that makes his heart clench in his chest, his neck stiff and eyes screwed shut.
He opens them again when fully Max approaches, the proximity buzzing in the air, not able to look over and meet his gaze fully, the vision of him in his peripheral already more than enough. He takes another drag on his cigarette, chewing over the quip in his head, everything fumbled and aching and hurt, doesn’t have anything left to offer. The intention is sarcasm, but it just comes out dry and empty, feels too real when he just says, “No, not yet. I’d say I probably have a good few years left before I get to that point.”
LILIAS WASN'T ONE TO QUESTION THINGS WHEN IT CAME TO HER JOB. She noticed the blocked-off time in Francisco's calendar that never aligned with his council duties, but she just assumed the boss was taking mental health breaks or handling personal business. She noticed a few strange people popping up for meetings, but she didn't know enough about the council's inner workings to really look into the guests' associations. Things felt a bit off at times, but Lilias had always been out of place herself. It just felt like casual parts of the job at the end of the day.
But tonight had been anything but casual. Big dogs, people with weapons, locked doors and hushed tones, none of it seemed like a normal grieving family. She didn't want to pry into her boss's affairs, especially when anyone could see that tonight had been taxing on him and his family. She wanted to let the air clear and maybe just forget it all happened, but it appeared Francisco read between the lines and knew that brushing the events aside wasn't the way to go.
"... Someone came through a window and shot an arrow at me." She admitted, wondering if her boss would think she was lying. It sounded absurd to say out loud, and the moment still felt like a dream despite the blood trickling down her arm. She sat next to her boss, legs tucked underneath her body as she listened to him speak. "I'm not in trouble, am I?"
The weight of the fucking world, dead soldiers and family members, and now Lilias; an innocent, her only crime being having chosen to work for him. He'd never fully informed her on the danger of his craft, had tried to protect her by keeping her blind. In hindsight it was foolish, putting too much faith in people who are as cruel and bloodthirsty as himself. She was lucky she survived this day with only a wound, a sickening thought. He's exhausted and hurt, everything sharp and painful, and he feels something he never feels, he fights off and discards; guilt.
There's a sigh on his lips as she sits, a slow nod as she recalls how she got hurt, such a ridiculous matter without context, and she was surely confused. "No, Lilias, of course you aren't in trouble. This is my fault, you shouldn't have been here." A heavy admission, never one to like admitting he was wrong, but she shouldn't be bleeding, she shouldn't be in the family home at all. A lack of thought and consideration in the wake of his fathers passing, thinking a day of mourning and sorting through his will couldn't be nearly as dangerous as it turned out to be.
"I owe you honesty, and I'm going to tell you some details that, I'm sorry to say, will require you to sign an non disclosure agreement. But if when I've told you, you wish to leave and you don't want to work for me anymore, you're free to go. You'll be protected, no consequences, I promise you that." The slow, calculated cadence of his voice, the weight of his dark stare as it meets her face. "I will, of course, make sure you're compensated and your medical bills are taken care of regardless."
Where: Jimmy's office, Snell Law Firm
With: @devilsons, @nxnbinarydracvla, @cfstvlla
When: March 1997
It didn't take much convincing to get Franco to agree to the meeting. It was the most logical course of action. The Vitelli's didn't have the current manpower or territory to be fighting two battles at once, and priority needed to lie in their biggest threat. Right now, that was the Weiss faction. Jimmy's last meeting from that end didn't end on the most civil of notes. It had been made very clear that there would be more issues in the future. All guns needed to be pointed for defense.
Beyond the obvious business, Jimmy had a personal interest in this particular raising of white flags. Franco, a boy he helped raise from a small, scrawny mutt to the man he is now, and Cyrek, whom he grew rather fond of in his youth. Jimmy had a nasty habit of adopting strays. His biggest weakness was the kids, all of them. Getting these two on civil terms lessened the stress of having to pick sides. It was obvious which he would have to choose should the choice arise, but he didn't want to. He hoped this would put that to rest, at least for a while.
His office was usually accompanied less people, one or two at most. Any more heads and he moved to the meeting room but this was too personal for that. There were only two chairs opposite his desk. To be polite, he chose to stand. More than likely, Franco would choose to sit in his place, and he didn't mind that.
Evening light filtered through the tall windows behind his ostentatious chair, golden rays leaving tight shadows across the heavily flattened carpet. If there were any dust to be accounted for, it would be visible floating in the center of the room. The office felt warm in a way that almost made the air thick, stuffy.
Leaning against his desk, ankles crossed at a casual angle, he watched the door. He wasn't particularly nervous. He knew both boys well enough that he expected nothing but civil conversation. Still, there was an odd charge to the anticipation, like one life meeting another.
As the door opened, Jimmy offered a tight smile. "You ready to make some big moves?" It was the first official meeting the two were having with others. Until this point, it had been all private, confidential matters. It would be the first time he saw Franco taking charge in a way that extended their circle. "They should be here soon, if theres anything you want to go over, now would be the time."
This wasn't a meeting he wasn't particularly excited for, more made of necessity than anything else. It was Jimmy's idea, a good fucking idea granted, part of the very thing that had made him perfect for his position. He was, in many ways, unbiased, and able to look at things more objectively than most. The Vitelli's, in all the changes and shifts of power, needed as much peace as they could garner to fully fit their transition. The Weiss' had wasted no time moving into their territory, using the death of the previous don, the tragedy, as an opportunity. Franco in many ways couldn't blame them, it was business, and if the tables were turned he admittedly very likely would've done the same.
In Francisco's perspective the Cactus Cats were a lesser threat statistically, a smaller conglomerate with less money and status to their name, but that wasn't to say they were any less vicious. A treaty, a brief peace between the two families, could be a blessing. A reprieve to allow everyone to get their shit together, and if all goes well, potentially assist in a more focused attack on another mutual opponent. Opportunists, broader thinkers; this is the line of thought he was focused on.
He entered Jimmy's office as usual, well dressed, fucking exhausted, but focused. He had his collection of thoughts and paperwork, lists and concepts, negotiations, but he intended, in this situation, to let Jimmy do most of the talking. Jimmy had a garnered a good relationship with Cyrek and Stella, something that baffled him a bit, but it had it's benefits at the end of the day. Jimmy knows people, and those people tend to like him, a stark contrast to Franco who tended to lean on respect and fear rather than affection. In this room, once the two of them entered, he was the black sheep.
He hung up his coat, gave a greeting, and sat towards the end of desk as opposed to opposite Jimmy where the other two chairs were, not quite next to him, but closer. A more round table effect than us versus them, body language psychology, a small thing, but still a gesture none the less. He sighs a little, the last of the casual comfort before their new counterparts entered the room, rubbing at his face, the feel of a fresh shave under his fingers. "I think we've covered it all, if they throw anything out of left field, we can adjust. I'll be here, and I'll participate, but the know you, and they trust you. And I trust you. This is your project. Do what needs to be done."
No sooner is it past his lips that the sound of the opening door catches his attention, turning head, patient and a polite nod of greeting in response.
open starter for @boneyardstarters
location: city hall
It was a simple game. A pencil holder sat on the far side of Wolfgang's desk. With one eye shut, he would simply fling a pen at it. If he got it in? Three points. If he hit it? One. If he missed? Minus one point, unless he forgot. Wolf was currently on fifteen points. Or, at least, he thought he was. It was hard to write down his score when his pen was regularly on the other side of the desk.
Wolf closed one eye, lined up his shot and -- damn. Fourteen points. He went to mark down the loss only to realize his pen was on the floor on the far side of his desk. With an annoyed tsk, he stood up from his chair and circled around to retrieve it. He scooped down, picked up the projectile, and paused, trying to remember what his score was now. It didn't come to him - and no bother. It was written down on a sticky note on his desk.
He stood back up and, as he turned, caught sight of someone just entering the office door. He popped up with a bright smile. "Oh, heya. Is there something I can help you with?" Wolf moved back to behind his desk, taking a quick glance at his notes. Fifteen points. Nice. "Or - wait. I was supposed to have something ready for you, I think. It's probably almost done. Just, uh... what was it?"
Nothing's ever simple around this fucking place, the incompetence and lack of drive humming its way through the very halls. It all comes to a head with the secretary that he honestly can't believe still has a job here, can't seem to retain a single thing in that dense head of his, asks too many questions has far too few answers. Franco left for lunch, dropped off a document he needs signed by an inspector, something that really should only take about twenty minutes maximum, and came back an hour later to meet a hopelessly blank stare.
His gaze doesn't falter, permanently too intense, even more so when he's a little pissed off which he decidedly is now. He sort of just stares at him for a moment, a ringed finger tapping once on his desk. "I never give you anything more complicated than a very basic conversation." He says it with something like a bored deadpan, not looking for any excuses or reasons, just the usual disdainful disappointment he feels every time he has to ask this guy for anything. "It's fine, I'll give it to my assistant. I should've just started there anyways." He says in a way that implies he shouldn't expected so much from the secretary. He reaches out, a cue to just hand the form back unsigned and call the conversation a wash.
There's something unsettling about his gaze, in how he can feel it sinking into cracks and crevices of his security, slowly prying them apart to find space to sink his teeth and devour. Or so he feels. Wyatt's not sure he likes being in this kind of spotlight... not sure he entirely hates it, either.
The cig was a worthy distraction, pulled and held before his lips pushed to one side and blew a heavy plume away from the Vitelli. Polite. Still making himself smaller, lesser, even as the sound of his name on the other's tongue makes him clear his throat. Makes him readjust his posture where he sat and forces his free hand to busy in a scratch of nails at his jaw and a routine push through his hair.
His eyes settle for the desert and neon lights flickering in the setting sun and pedestrians that pass in a blur, even as he feels Franco's eyes on him. Can see him in his periphery, even as he tries his damndest not to notice. He's out of his league, out of his depth, and he can feel it vibrating through him with an exhilaration in shockwaves. The kind that usually makes him grit his teeth and close his hands into fists, but in Franco's company it makes him nervous; he has that kind of command that calls for undivided attention, and Wyatt has that stubborn drive to ignore it until it's burning a hole through his chest. Until he wants to chainsmoke the entire pack like relief might be waiting at the end of the last cigarette.
If the rake of his gaze didn't draw his attention, his voice sure as fuck did. His head snaps, eyes wide, forgotten cig begging to be ashed, lips parted like the dumbfounded mouth-breather he was born to be.
"Wha'?" Brash, harsh, jarring—so very English. Wyatt's brows had lifted, entirely caught off-guard. In the second of silence that passed, he convinced himself he misheard. Offers a breathy laugh, a softness to his features with jostling shoulders that slowly fall, clear that his laughter's out of place, along with the warmth in his expression. Replaces it instead with furrowed brows, a hard swallow, his unwavering gaze confirming he'd heard him loud and clear. A shift, again, in the way his thighs tense and a large hand comes to rest against it, close to his crotch, trying to be discreet about the way heat sinks to the pit of his gut. All from the intensity of his gaze and a single, simple question.
"Pardon me?" he tries again, infinitely more polite.
The appearance of shock, parted lips, wide blue eyes. There's something so distinctly amusing about it, the width of his face, the slackened jaw, transforming into a laugh, surprised and maybe a little uncomfortable -- uncomfortable because he clearly doesn't know what the fuck is going on. He has the disposition of someone infinitely confused, not understanding the situation in the slightest, not getting why the line of questioning is happening or where it possibly could've come from. He just can't seem to put the pieces together, the duality of Max and himself, specially delivered on Francisco's doorstep with a pretty bow and wide, opened mouth. Franco isn't going to fucking wine and dine him, isn't taking him bowling or fucking shopping; Wyatt has a purpose, sad and demented, but a purpose none the less. Clueless, ignorant, and don't they say thats what bliss is? Franco, on the other hand, sees everything; the shift of his posture, the pressure he puts between his legs, eyes purposely shifting down and then back, letting him know he sees right through him.
“I asked if you want me to fuck you. That’s why you’re here, you know that, don't you?" It's rhetorical, but he wouldn't be surprised if he got an answer anyways, purposeful in the movement of his own position, leaning back, the wide knees, open posture. Then, however, in the moment before something snaps in the tension, the car stalls. Francisco glances out of the window, in front of the first stop he had intended to make.
"Hold that thought." He says with no additional flair, that monotone timber, as if entirely unaffected by the direction of the conversation, doesn't so much as look back over at him as he exits the car, the door shutting securely behind him. It doesn't take long, but he lets it stretch anyhow, an image of the blonde sat in the idled car, over thinking, getting himself riled up in the sick little anticipation, debating his options; the age old question, do I or don't I?
Franco knows Wyatt is a simple creature, that's been clear since the moment he fucking looked at him. He knows he will, knows he wants to, one of Max's little paper dolls. Such a shame, Max could do so much better. He returns to the car about twenty minutes later with a pressed manila envelope, slides back into his seat, setting it aside with a sigh, letting a moment pass before he glances back in the other man's direction again, a sharp dark gaze, as if he'd almost forgotten he were there. A game, everything's a game, winners and losers, the outcome clear before the first move is even made. Another beat of silence, the car starts to move again, a smooth tone as if he'd been sitting here the whole time, "I asked you a question."
PETRA KNEW THAT IF SHE WANTED TO ACCOMPLISH HER GOALS, SHE NEEDED ALLIES. The Visitors were her closest confidants at the moment, but she knew the group needed to grow bigger if they were to truly cause chaos and destroy the city of Las Vegas. She had started approaching those who caught her interest and attempted to weave an offer they couldn't refuse, but Francisco was a special case. She had to be more patient with him, to sit back and watch how the Vitelli politics played out before fully luring him to her side. It was annoying on her part (for patience had never been her strong suit), but she knew it was the only way to get to her goal.
But that didn't mean she couldn't have fun in the meantime. Though they weren't allies in the official sense, they still found each other crossing paths fairly frequently. The meetings consisted of nails digging into skin and lipstick stains on torn sheets, and truthfully, Petra couldn't complain. There was an allure about the forbidden, and a son of her father's rival certainly topped the list.
"And that's what makes it all the more enticing." She hummed, nails reaching out to trace his jawline before making their way down his neck. She knew he wasn't one to beg, but the teasing couldn't help but be drawn out of her. Perhaps she longed to be the one who tamed Francisco Vitelli, the untouchable politician and potential underboss of the Vitelli family. Or perhaps she was simply bored and wanted to watch him come undone under her touch. Either way, it was entertaining her. Her amusement shifted when he got up, her eyes tracing his form as he wandered around the room. "A present for me?" She grinned, sitting up in bed as curiosity ate away at her. "You know I love surprises."
He finds a box in the pocket of his jacket, a certain complex about nice things and beautiful people; they belong together, intrinsically linked, a further intent even still when it comes to women. Petra has a particular type of beauty, sharp features, long blonde hair, striking eyes even before vampirism laid it's claim on her. Francisco keeps his circle small, trysts even smaller, a necessity for discretion in matters like this, and that confidentiality is rewarded as such.
He's no stranger to ulterior motives, the two of them revolving around each other like a pair of mountain lions, two predators with the intent to claim the other; he knows she wants him on her side, and he wants her on his, but neither of them are willing to give up the position of power, attempts to coax the other into a place of submission. Their similarities are stark, but their differences even starker. What a great ally she could be if only they could come to an agreement. And that's what makes it all more enticing, and oh, isn't it a thought, Francisco Vitelli on his knees, begging for her teeth in his neck, but that's all it is -- a thought, something meant only for dreams.
Smoke billowing, cigarette held in the corner of his mouth he makes his way back over to her, sitting back on the edge of the mattress, handing over a long, slender box, a hint of slightly narrowed eyes, the touch of a dark smile, more games and carefully chosen positioning. His canines are almost as sharp as hers in a flash. White gold, not silver of course, delicate little diamonds to fit to a slender wrist like a shackle, a stunning little claim, a vision that it must belong to her. He hums low in his chest, laying back against the pillows, reaching over to ash in the correct place, no words to accompany the gift.
WHO: Lilias Tsukasa & Francisco Vitelli (@devilsons)
WHERE: Vitelli Manor
THE NIGHT HAD OFFICIALLY BECOME THE STRANGEST THEY'VE EXPERIENCED SINCE THEY STARTED WORKING FOR FRANCISCO. First, they were prevented from following Francisco into the meeting room, so they just hovered around with others who were summoned for the news. Then, their childhood friend came through a window and attacked them with an arrow--- leaving a bleeding wound on their arm. Finally, they swear they saw a giant dog running around at some point in the night.
They wanted to go home, but they didn't want to leave their boss in his hour of need. His father had just passed away, and though they hadn't experienced a loss like his, they knew he needed people to lean on to get through the grieving period. They weren't sure about his family situation (other than what's in the news, but they didn't trust the tabloids), but they didn't want to assume that the family members could provide the support he needed. Plus, they wanted to see if they'd get compensated for getting injured on the job.
Lilias ran far away from the violence that plagued them earlier in the night, and they finally spotted FRANCISCO VITELLI after what felt like hours of waiting around for an instruction. They gasped as they landed in front of him, not used to physical activity in such a capacity. They stayed hunched over for a good minute or two before they sat up, eyes wide as they watched their employer, "Boss... this night has been strange." They murmured, momentarily forgetting about their bleeding arm as they watched him, "Are you okay?"
Francisco had honestly forgotten that Lilias was there at all, was actually kind of fucking confused as to why she was but knows it logically had to be on his word. He doesn't remember much of the semantics at this point, the whole thing a brutal whirlwind of nightmares coming to a head with the devastation of headless bodies and dog-like entities that he chose not to spend anymore brain power on. He was exhausted physically, mentally, fucking emotionally.
He was sat on the couch in the main living room of the estate, had been ruminating there for what felt like hours but whose really to say what time it was anymore. His eyes caught Lilias, poor thing, bleeding and confused. "You're injured." He says blankly, not the sort of thing he'd usually waste energy on saying aloud, stating the obvious. Another thing that's his fault, added to the tally of endless travesties of the day. There's not much to do here, not even he being someone capable of making up lies or excuses because he hardly understands any of this himself.
A long drawn sigh, empathetic and a little miserable because now he has to try to explain not only what possibly could've happened tonight but also who he was and where she actually was. He waves a hand, motioning to the seat besides him. "I suppose we have some things to talk about." He owes her that, and he's a man who generally owes no one anything, but he can admit when he's wrong; and this was wrong, she lost blood, time, and probably a fair bit of her sanity as well. It's not so much a command as a suggestion, but his tone is usually single faceted so it reads the former regardless, "Sit down."
CLAUDIA HAD NEVER BEEN A LOYAL PERSON. She was raised in a competitive environment and watched as any efforts to impress went to the wayside the moment her brother flashed his charming smile. She thought the Vitellis were the endgame at first, that she could claw her way up the ranks and really rise to the top of the organization, but she knew the story was the same as her family's. The children with the Vitelli name would always hold the power, and those without would only serve under their command. It was a tale as old as time, and not one she wanted to repeat.
Perhaps that's why she defected to the Weiss family. She saw her promise in that organization--- more ways for her to weave her influence into the mix. The oldest daughter disappeared, the middle child deflected, and the youngest wasn't even her father's underboss. The familial structure was hanging on by a thread, and Claudia longed to sever it and replace it with her own web.
Of course, with ambitions came time, and she had plenty of it. She to spend this particular night at a cocktail bar, eyes trying to gauge any secrets she could keep under her belt. She loved learning what made people come undone--- it helped with blackmail and any favors she may ask in the future. Her quest, however, paused the moment she spotted FRANCISCO VITELLI. The man was quite the news story lately, and she couldn't help but wander over and press on his wounds a bit.
"I heard daddy finally kicked the bucket." She slid into the booth across from him, eyes watching him with a hint of curiosity. Would he cry at her prodding? Lash out? Remain as calm as usual? She was curious to see how death impacted the Vitelli prince, and what information she could glean in his assumed to be vulnerable state. "Tell me, did they wise up and make you don? Or should I expect to find you pouting in your office come Monday?"
Eyes narrowed, an elbow on the table with his cigar between fingers, a thumb thoughtfully brushes against his bottom lip. Claudia Crane, strangely found herself the black sheep of the family; Aurelius was like a brother to him since he was young, Maxim was... well, complicated at the moment, but the Claudia was always what she is now, impenetrable, disloyal, and just vindictive enough to slide into his booth with unsavory questions designed to prod the bear, sporting a Weiss title and all. There's a word for people like her, a distasteful, uncouth word; cunt.
He listens, watches, dark eyes glued to hers. The Crane family, such similar features and incredibly different demeanors, and he can't seem to understand a single thought in any of their heads even on a good day, as if they speak their own language, coded into something other than the common tongue. Ironically, he found himself understanding her the most, perhaps because they had the same motives, the same filthy ambition. Their minds worked in similar ways, pulled them down comparable and yet very different paths.
A pause, her words hanging between them, as if she had any right to information about the Vitellis anymore, a traitor to his family as well as her own. "Would you like a drink, Ms. Crane?" He sits back, a pull of smoke, "Or shall we skip the small talk and foreplay and get to the part where you tell me why it is you're here?" Carefully blank expression, emotionless, a slight turn of his head.
"I assume it's not just to ask me questions you know I won't answer. You don't like wasting time as much as I don't like having my time wasted."
snell law firm, jimmy batts office, early morning, following the don announcement
with @thcshyster
It happened in a whirlwind, the month passing in a haze; it was a brutal one, full of fights, grief, and misunderstandings. It had felt towards the end that there weren't going to be any winners. As expected, they lost territory, he lost friends, a father, and half of his fucking mind. He had never in his entire existence been so unsure of the future as he were the entirely of January, the new year rung in with something akin to endless devastation.
Then the silver lining, the ending he fought for tooth and nail; he was named don. It hit with a feeling of success only drowned out by the renewed stress, this wasn't the end of the struggle but merely the beginning, now he had to prove they made the right choice, had to push harder than he ever had in his life. Everything up until now was the easy part, that he could admit.
The steep slope of an uphill battle laid in front of him. So he starts the only place you can, the beginning.
The first order of business was clear -- he needed an advisor, and not just anyone would do. The answer wasn't hard to find, but he wondered if it would difficult to pull off. Jimmy Batts hadn't been directly involved in the hierarchy for a decade give or take, had distanced himself, even if only slightly, as the years wore him down. He knew part of the reason he left, something like retirement, but was never privy the full details, too young at the time to pry or be given answers.
He did it the right way, he made an appointment, was sure it rung some bells in the older man's mind after hearing the news of all that's happened recently. Good, he wanted him to start thinking about this, wanted him to have an answer before he even walked into the door. The other candidates aren't promising, Francisco's always had trouble taking advice, rarely has the respect for another person to trust their word, but Jimmy was different.
Jimmy half raised him, was the uncle he had never had since he'd landed in the United States, the way he spoke, the way he dressed; a lot of it was directly influenced by him. He was incredibly intelligent, knew how to handle the numbers in the family, the statistics, things that Franco was sure he would be able to grasp easily with time, but he needed a solid guiding hand.
He's called into the office, sharp, pressed suit, freshly shined loafers -- he looks the part, of that much he's sure. Carefully blank expression until he enters the room, unable to fully quell the crack of a smile. He hadn't seen him in too long, and he was one of the few that truly felt like family. He extends a hand, over the desk, familiar, lacking his usual cold exterior. It feels like relief, just being in the room with him, aware at how much he needs this to play well. "Jimmy, it's good to see you, it's been too long."
Aviel Gillinski looks like he belongs in most places. At the same time, he sticks out like a sore thumb. So maybe it's the uniqueness that makes him stand apart from others - the 6'6" height, the shock of grayish white hair with a dusting of stubble. It could be the large hands always gesticulating to his points, how they move as if he's weaving a tapestry- back and forth, around and to the sides.
Or, it's the grin. Wolfish, as if the CSI team leader knows more than anyone thinks. And often, he does.
Death. Decapitations. Rumors. Aviel hadn't come in to chat about this- he's off the clock. He's there to gamble, to drink something sweet and tart. But Avi can never pass up a pretty face, or someone interesting to chat with.
A hot politician is as good as any, right?
"I was going to offer to buy you a drink, babes, but I'm rather sure you run this place." He sets the lemondrop martini he's been holding in a splayed hand down very carefully so it doesn't tip. "What about a cigar instead?" He touches the breast pocket of his nice jacket, and his warm eyes flicker in curiosity.
Francisco knew the CSI team leader by sight, of course he did, beyond being so involved in the Las Vegas mafia he also had a hand in city council; two reasons to know the who’s who in the local police force. For a moment when the man sits down he has a vein of interest, the death of his father fresh on everyone’s mind, perhaps another set of prying fingers into the cause of death and wherewithal of the Vitelli family’s personal business. The presence isn’t welcome, but it sparks a part of his brain that can entertain him to find out what exactly it is he wants, and more so, what he already knows.
His gaze falls momentarily to the martini, a hazy yellow with a sugar rim. Nauseating. A sharp raise of an eyebrow, dark eyes focused in on the man’s face, an almost dismissive expression as he raises the cigar he’s already smoking. He has that handled, the drink too, seeming to only want to offer things he already has; a bad start. His interest already begins to waver, the use of ‘babes’ disrespectful, offensive even, to someone of his title.
“Officer, I don’t think we’re quite at the familiarity level for pet names.” Not even using his surname name, never mind his first, and least of all something so garish, presumptuous, and unprofessional. Someone of Aviel’s status should have more sophistication and civility. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, already seeing this conversation coming to an end fairly soon in their future.
glitter gulch lounge, a private room, late
with @cag3dfate
It was always risky getting into the Cats' territory, but never impossible. In his meetings with Naomie he had originally thought about having her walk into Vitelli territory instead, could come and go unscathed but then there was the question of her safety when she returned, eyes everywhere. They would eventually put the pieces together; she was a rat, no better than the rest of them, selling information for protection and self interest, even if it were only out of love for her father. She was playing the game the same as the rest of them, something he can respect but only because he's not the one being crossed, instead the one who benefits from her lack of loyalty.
So, he found himself here, snuck into the back door of the Glitter Gulch under the strobing lights and pumping music; he'd been here before, a few times but never for long, unsavory meetings, past negotiations with the Cats' themselves, inconspicuous in leather booths surrounded by the smell of perfume and sweat and desperation. Clubs like this where never his scene, not somewhere he liked being nor somewhere he liked being seen.
He sits in the back room, muffled music through the door, reserved for private dances, a casual posture, relaxed into the seat with a cigarette between his fingers, lingering smoke. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting, an appointment set, though he understands the consequences of her being at work can complicate things. It doesn’t take much longer for the door to open, dark eyes centered on her immediately, a lack of harshness to his tone despite the words he chooses, carefully flat intonation when he says, “Nice of you to join me, Fletcher.”
Max rolls his eyes but lets himself be crowded, lets Franco push into his space. Hardly pressed, not when they’ve shared fifteen years of friendship, sometimes it’s difficult to tell what movements come from Max and which come from Franco. He scoffs, a huff of laughter, voice low. “Yeah? Who told you that, my fucking brother?” His gaze flicks down, instinctual, to his mouth, close enough to bridge the distance but he won’t be the one to do it. Games, always playing them, and he’s gotten quite good at forcing Franco to play, too.
The cigarette is forgotten, he lets Franco have the rest, can’t be bothered and he doesn’t particularly like the scent of tobacco on his nice clothes, anyway. Max breathes a little easier once the couple is gone and they’re alone again, the air filled by Franco’s laughter. He smiles a little despite himself, the sound so unbidden. Unfamiliar to the senators and city dwellers inside, how fun Franco can actually be when he lets loose, but Max knows.
"Who knows, you might change your mind. Midlife crisis could change everything." There's an amused look on his face, shrugging a bit as he settles against the brick again. He reaches out, straightening Franco's tie as he speaks, instinctual. "You mean your type has changed?" he says absently, brushing invisible dust from his shoulders. "Here I thought I was the precedent." He might be immature to a fault, but he's certainly not in his fucking thirties, and he'd do well to remind Franco of exactly this.
He cracks a smile but works to flatten out his expression before he speaks again, a smooth deadpan, a sniff, when he says, "Oh, no, definitely not. Aurelius and I don't like to talk about our wives and kids at home when we're together." An annoying fucking cheeky look over at Max, another shove of shoulder to shoulder, "You don't need to be worried, though, it's not love between us, it's just raw, sexual chemistry." And prepares to get shoulder checked again like they're playing fucking hockey.
He snorts, stubbing out the cigarette underneath a shined loafer, Max adamantly defending the last year of his twenties with an iron fist, "Yeah, I'm really robbing the cradle with you, huh?" Ridiculous, but he isn't surprised, you can't be a socialite party boy bachelor over thirty, it just starts getting sad, and it's not like Max put in the effort to have much else going for him. They'd have to work on that.
He watches as Max adjusts his tie, half a glance before his eyes meet his face again, crooked smile, close together once again now that the other guests are gone, ready to keep pushing and pissing him off. Franco can be fun when he's in a good mood, goddamn it. "Keep holding onto those last six months with white knuckles, Crane. It's gunna be a sad day when you get your twunk card revoked."
