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PAOLA

His sense of humor is a damper on her horror — but not a strong one. Amusement cuts through the fright, but it flees before it has a chance to make a mark. A corner of Paola’s mouth quirks for a moment, though he does not see. Words are the only things that will reach him, his gaze locked to the ground; she wonders if he wants it to swallow him up. If he wants the pain to stop no matter the cost, even if the cost is his life.

She doesn’t blame him. If she was a better woman, she would want him to have faith and choose life. If she was a kinder woman, she would try to set him free. Instead, Paola watches, and she waits for him to speak. Because he’s right: she wants only to give him what will ease her fear and this guilt of being a witness to the evil things people do to one another. It’s all they know, she wants to tell him. Montague or Capulet or completely unaffiliated with either, they are all the same. When the monster bares its teeth, it demands a response; it demands to see what you are capable of.

Some devour the beast; others are devoured. Paola has a feeling that Orion is still in the midst of fighting, from the sound of his voice alone. Verona has yet to see whether he will fall or if he will rise. Paola wills herself to be apathetic towards either option, but she finds herself wanting him to survive — if only because she will always see herself in those who are suffering.

After a beat of surprise that he’s actually making a request of her, Paola answers: “I can take a message.”

Although, she does regret accepting when he stumbles over his train of thought again and again. Her thoughts begin to wander before he snaps it back to him with one name: Marcelo. Paola can’t help the choking sound she makes. She recovers quickly, as if that will undo the slip she’s just made. With a smooth and untroubled voice, Paola asks, “Marcelo is the one who did this to you?” He doesn’t need to answer for her to know that they did. “Do you really want me to deliver that message?” A single brow arches as she adds, “Look at what they did to you already. Why poke the beast that’s already bitten off a leg?”

“I’ll tell Rosaline that you didn’t leave.” She doesn’t point out that he did, in fact, leave. It’s his intention that he wants to express, but that’s never enough. It’s not the right thing to say to a victim of brutal and merciless torture, but Paola is sure he already knows: when you are left behind, their mere intentions are a flicker of candlelight before the wind snuffs it out. All that matters is what is left behind: cold, empty and endless silence, and an empty side of the bed.

But she’s not so cruel to tell him this. Instead, Paola comes closer and says, “Now to my question. I want to know everything you do about Valentina, and if you’ve ever run across the name Gabriele.”

She thinks she’s covered it, Orion can see as his eyes snap upward toward her face. Not good enough. He heard her, when he said Marcelo’s name. Heard her clearly enough to be interested in what that little sound means. Her voice doesn’t shake when she asks, and for that as well as to unravel that little tic, Orion answers: ❝ Took me right off the street. ❞ He coughs, throat burning fiercely. ❝ Even if I saw them, we haven’t always been enemies. Not exactly. ❞ Ask me, he thinks, though he doesn’t vocalize it. I’ve given you just enough to ask me more. Even in this room, there’s still ways to play, in the end. Orion just... temporarily forgot that. He should send her an edible arrangement after this, considering what she’s done for his mood.

His thoughts turn serious as she asks. ❝ That’s what I do. I poke people. ❞ He wishes it was more of a joke, but it’s not. Orion’s best work is as being a pest. It’s difficult to speak, but these words matter more than anything else, and he pauses to collect himself before saying them. Whatever she thinks, this message is essential. ❝ Shocking even myself, I value her more than I care about that. I made her a promise. Marcelo broke it for me. ❞

He struggles to reorient his mind around her question. In and out of delirium, he can feel it overtaking him, which must be why he laughs to hear Valentina’s name. ❝ The little rat ? ❞ he asks, though it’s a rhetorical question. ❝ That she couldn’t be stealthy for shit. ❞ He breaks the words on a cough, licks his lips against the rust-metal-salt taste of blood in his mouth. ❝ Not a lot. Gabriele ? ❞ He goes to shrug and then stops, fully freezing as excruciating pain radiates from his shoulder. ❝ Fuck. I. Describe him. ❞ This is said through gritted teeth. He wants to do everything he can for her, if it will convince her to send a message to Rafaella. Anything.

#blood cw #wounds cw #{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ PERDITA | not every girl survives the forest.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ PERDITA | oo1.

ODESSA

The sound of Orion’s laughter caused her cheeks to burn red. She didn’t realize her attempts were such jokes to him. She had been honest in her admittance. She didn’t need his pity. She didn’t need free hits or to be treated like a delicate creature. Her life had been filled with tip-toeing past the dangerous aspects. She was placed as an emissary fresh into the mob in order to avoid bloodshed and violence from tainting her hands. She was told to play with dolls or draw in coloring books to avoid the wrestling and dirty activities that the boys would get up to. Perhaps Odessa was tired of being told to keep her hands clean. Perhaps she finally acknowledged the fact that being in a mob meant getting her hands dirty.

The impact of the fist caused her to jerk away. She should’ve expected the retaliation, but Odessa had been too blinded by her own anger to think straight. All she saw when she looked at him was hair fluttering to the floor and a knife headed towards her throat. He had imprinted himself in her nightmares for weeks after the event, and Odessa was attempting to confront those demons head-on. It’s just too bad that she wasn’t nearly as skilled in combat as her opponent was.

Her hand cradled her jaw. Odessa had been lucky enough to avoid injuries to her face, but she had a feeling that the result would be prevalent when the morning came. Her eyes locked onto Orion as she dropped her hand back to her side, and she forced herself to stand up straight. She didn’t want to cower before him. She was afraid of letting him have that much power over her again. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to hit girls, Orion?” She had used his real name rather than his codename because the fight was more than just two different mobs coming together to duke it out. She had a personal score to settle with him. “It’s tacky.”

Odessa knew she would regret getting under his skin, but she saw red when she looked at him. He had seen her with tears streaming down her face, and she hated that he had enjoyed her pain so much. She should’ve just backed away, should’ve raced over to rejoin Matthias, but instead, she reached for a sore spot. “But then again, so is your art. Tell me, how is that art gallery of yours?”

Poor little Odessa Vernon, pretty and vapid and all wrapped up in being seen as tougher than she was. She should’ve stuck to working from the sidelines, for it was clear to him still that she was not suited to combat. Truly, even in torture he’d gone easy on her, both him and Rafaella focusing on the mental rather than the physical, yet she was so angry, as though he’d broken every bone in her arm for fun. Exactly how the last person he’d done that to had looked at him, actually. Uncanny.

She cradled her jaw like he was teaching her self-defense. She so easily could’ve been Maeve or even Rafaella in front of him, when they’d first met, except this was not a training scenario. ❝ Did Daddy tell you that’s how gentlemen play, Vernon ? ❞ Taunting her, he stepped to the side a little, shaking his head. ❝ You’re not a little girl. You’re a mafioso, and no one will thank you for being weak enough to bank on chivalry. ❞ Not that Orion had much to speak of. He didn’t care who he hurt, not really. It was all just another game.

He smiled, not giving her the response she wanted, using the movement he’d gained to dart behind her and wrap an arm around her, pinning her arms at her sides. His other hand he curled into that newly cut hair, though it was growing somewhat since he’d hacked it off, and yanked her head mercilessly to one side. ❝ Being rebuilt. Could they reconstruct you so nicely, if I burned you ? ❞ He hummed a little near her ear, tightening his grip on her hair again, pulling it tight. ❝ That’d be a great new look for your Insta. They could call you... Phantom of Verona. Such a nice operatic touch. ❞

#( WHEW NELLY )#( get ready 2 stab i think )#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ OPHELIA | anger climbing in her veins / carrion sweet.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ OPHELIA | oo1.#violence cw #threats cw #burning cw

text | tiberius ⇄ orion

tiberius: woke up this morning and thought i'd refresh myself with the water i so thoughtfully left by my bed

tiberius: as it turns out, not water. vodka

tiberius: bought another round last night but you'd fucked off somewhere. looked for u for a bit but, well

tiberius: got distracted

tiberius: anything you'd care to share with the group?

[three hours later]

orion: ok cazzo tell me ur whole life story

orion: oh. vodka? sexy

orion: HA

orion: looks like i got distracted first

orion: in fact i have only just finished with my distractions,,,, just remembered phones exist

orion: pls say your diversion was at least less creepy than daly

#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ TYBALT | what a pair we made.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ TYBALT | on the phone.#SLDFJDSKLFJ

BUNNY

date: april 13th, 2019 time: 8:00 am location: Ospedale Borgo Roma status: closed to @dukemassetti

Una mattina mi sono alzato…

Even Bunny considers it creepy to watch people sleep, so maybe it’s a good thing she isn’t just watching Orion. She hums quietly to herself and leans over him, forehead crimped in concentration. Bunny finishes up with the makeshift pupils and shades in the black circles on his lids. She’s given his eyebrows some shape, and now they arch up ever so comically in an expression of semi-permanent surprise. His new mustache extends straight out from his philtrum and makes a ninety degrees turn at the edges of his mouth; it continues all the way up to his lower lash line. He’s lucky that she’s quite the artist. He could be left in far worse hands.

Sotto l’ombra di un bel fior…

Satisfied with her work, the beautiful flower sits back and takes her shadow with her. The sunlight puts him in better perspective now that it has a chance to reach him directly—although on second thought, better, she thinks all too late, probably isn’t the right word to use. Orion’s face looks gaunt, skin stretched paper-thin over the contours of his skull, and his bruises purple like smears of watercolour bleeding through cardstock. The Montagues have done their worst and left none of Orion for her. How inconsiderate of them.

She’d suspected as much, but she wanted to see the damage for herself. It’s true that Bunny Du Pont does not get up at the crack of dawn to visit just anyone, and yet she refuses to simply sob at anyone’s bedside like some pathetic fangirl. Being at the hospital so early is necessary, if only for the completeness of her little scheme. Bunny caps the marker. Finally, Orion stirs.

E ho trovato l'invasor…

“Oh, good,” she says, setting down her copy of Orwell’s Animal Farm. “You’re up.” She peers closer, then shudders in exaggerated horror, as if she means to mock him for the atrocities he has endured (and yet she doesn’t, not quite). “It was quite difficult to look at you when I got here, so I thought I’d do my part to help out.” The marker still dangles loosely from her fingers, and she taps it against the safety rails of his bed in time to Bella Ciao, making no effort to hide her not-so-secret weapon. Instead, she holds a compact mirror open in front of his face. "Verdict?”

Orion stirs to the sound of French singing in his ear, and without a shadow of a doubt, that’s Bunny du Pont. Her voice a touch breathy, definitely rehearsed, maybe she didn’t even notice anymore, but Orion always marks it. She still sounds lovely, but not quite real, and so he won’t give her the compliment she knows she deserves, no matter how often she hums under her breath. Now, his lashes flutter, cool to the touch in a way that confuses him. Her face swims has his vision comes back, but it clears alright, and he angles the bed so he can sit up and look at her.

❝ Clock doesn’t run on your schedule, Lady Luck. ❞ Between the poison down his throat and the sleep in his voice, he sounds like the sound you get when the earth rumbles, but whatever. It was Bunny’s choice to come while he was sleeping; he wonders how fast she charmed them into letting her in outside visiting hours. Was it six seconds or twelve?

Now, he watches her face screw up and fights the urge to laugh. The problem with giving Bunny what she needs is that he likes Bunny, so it would be easy to give her what she wants. That’s not, however, what they are to each other, and he keeps a lid on it somewhat, until she shows him his face. He doesn’t smell the strange scent of permanent marker, thank god, so he studies his cheek, getting it together as he looks at different angles in her compact mirror. ❝ Impressive artistry, ❞ he finally says, humoring her but not giving her the satisfaction of watching him cackle like he wants to. Plus, it would be killer on his torso, which has barely recovered. ❝ Not many points for creativity, but the execution is flawless given the material restrictions. ❞

Orion looks up to meet her eye, and finally, he decides he’ll hand something over for free. He holds out a hand and places it in front of her, palm up, ready to curl around hers. It’s his right, of course, because his left is bandaged to shit and missing a finger, but luckily his right side houses Bunny’s chair. His hand still works, anyway. It can still hold hers, warm against pale, cool fingers that always want to make things beautiful and exquisite. ❝ Miss me ? ❞ he asks in French, voice soft. ❝ I hope you were terrible in my absence. I’ll be expecting a full report, Mademoiselle du Pont. ❞

#sorry but i'm Soft #{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ BIANCA | wild wicked slip of a girl.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ BIANCA | oo1.#hospitals cw #injuries cw

LUCREZIA

where: ospedale di verona (idk if this is right) when: 14 april 2019, early afternoon who: @dukemassetti

Lucrezia hated hospitals. Then again, she supposed most people hated hospitals. This wasn’t the place where one went to have a good time. Her heels clicked on the sterilized tile floor - echoing eerily past the identical endless halls. Hospitals were haunted in an overly sanitized, clinical sort of way. The death and despair that lingered in these wards smelled like bleach, the ghosts all plastic sheeting. Even the familiar blood rust was tainted in a way that felt stale, inducing nausea instead of thrill.

She had to come. Rafaella - her first love in this godforsaken city - gone for a month. And then they came for Orion, the one who taught her to lovingly caress all the dark and twisty parts of her like a favored cat. The rage that bubbled up in her stomach at the thought of it was not the personal type, but a strange sort of avenging anger. Would it always be like this? Give and take of deaths and hostages and damages and pain. Usually she could see the benefit, the larger picture. But, leaning against the door frame of his dreary hospital room, Lucrezia only felt the rage and futility.

“Damn,” She tried to seem lighthearted, her usual self when looking at his damaged body and bruised face, “you look terrible, O. Maybe now I’ll be able to steal Raf back from you.” Lucrezia laughed, then crossed over kissing him lightly on the brow - or the least bruised part of his face. “How are you, really?” she was much more serious now, noting the bruising, bandages and the cuts that surely lay below, the missing finger. Lucrezia would not stare, she owed him that. “I got you something,” she set down the box on the bed beside him containing a pair of bright blue mittens. If the Montague’s had beaten or burned the sense of humor out of him, well all the more reason to rage against them. “I thought what do you get a nine-fingered man who has everything? And then I found this and it was perfect.” There was more, of course, but she’d let this play out first.

Orion is lightly dozing when he hears the click and clack of his visitor’s shoes against linoleum, causing him to look up and catch the furious look on Lucrezia’s face before she stores it away behind her joke. He doesn’t call her out, because he’s sure he wasn’t meant to see it, but it gets a tired sort of whispering emotion from him. He hadn’t really thought many people would be angry on his behalf. Loyalty and all that wasn’t his thing with a lot of them, but in the end, they still came through far more than he could’ve anticipated.

❝ Feels worse, ❞ he admits, ❝ til Theo visits, anyway. And don’t even try it, ❞ he warns, still unused to how different his voice sounds, finding the idea of it never going back to his usual tones startling. He’d always sound like he’d swallowed gravel, now, and it was uncanny, almost disorienting. ❝ I just put her name on the deed to my house. ❞ He hadn’t told Rafaella that, but he didn’t really see the need to. It was unlikely to come up; it was only a just in case measure, honestly. A way to make legally sure they were treated as equals. He exhaled quietly as she drew near, glad for the touch. He was a physically affectionate person, and it was nice to get that energy back, when he was too stoned and in too much pain to do it on his own.

It was a loaded question, unavoidably so. ❝ I’m most annoyed about the tattoo, ❞ he admits, shifting his right arm slightly. ❝ The artist’s dead now, breast cancer. No one gets Michelangelo like zer. ❞ He faces the worst bit head-on, because he does get sick of people thinking he can’t handle talking about it. ❝ The finger, I’m pleased with, they took the one that doesn’t matter. Wanted the whole hand, but I told them I’d rather die, and that got serious real fast. ❞ He shrugs as though it doesn’t matter, and he believes it himself, but deep down it has to be a lie. It’s just... easier this way.

He blinks, then grins, even though it hurts his damn face. Lucrezia faced it just as abruptly as he did. ❝ Sweet, gimme. ❞ He can’t get it over the left hand, the one that actually needs to hide a missing finger, it’s too bandaged. The mitten fits on his right, though, and he folds his fingers at her in a wave. ❝ Not everything, I don’t even own mittens. Well, I do now. ❞ He takes it off his hand with his teeth and tucks it back with its’ partner carefully. ❝ Filled the hole in my closet, for sure. ❞

#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ LADY MACBETH | oo2.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ LADY MACBETH | just a taste of dark and divine.#amputation cw #wounds cw #trauma cw

GENEVIEVE

“I didn’t imagine you as a rigid timekeeper.” There is a tilt to her lips that are reminiscent of a smile, but it disappears as quick as the sun dipping behind the clouds, accompanied by hollow disbelief. He almost made her laugh and, in another circumstance, he might have succeeded. Genevieve found the notion of the male waiting for her to visit quaint, if only it were that easy to replace reality with antiquated fairy tales. Focus shifting instead to the comment that followed, exhaling a sharp huff before responding, “Scared you’ll fall over? Absolutely.”

Ignoring his jibe comes easily to her, not willing to disregard it entirely when it casts their opposing mind sets into sharper contrast. Her initial thought had been that Orion would anticipate poison rather truth serum of some variety, it was what she would want if their roles were reversed, made from porcelain she was easier to break than a man made of steel. Mouth pressed together in an effort to restrain herself from snapping that she did not take orders, yet never found it in herself to kick someone when they were already down, Genevieve remains silent as she draws the bottle back for a moment.

“I’m not playing, I assure you.” It was the truth, in that moment at least, had she endeavoured to be the ‘good cop’ she would have shot him as was done to wounded racehorses and called it a kindness. “I imagine that you have had some very -,” gaze trails over the litany of of injuries that peppered his form, violent kisses where teeth tore at skin in hopes of vengeance, not wanting to imagine those she couldn’t see, “ - angry visitors.” It was putting it lightly - very lightly - from the appearance of the man sitting opposite her.

“You’ve been here quite some time now.” Genevieve recalls the day that the papers were set onto her desk announcing his arrival to the holding cells, as close to a red carpet roll out that one could have gotten. Her attention divided between action and thought as several items are liberated from the box she had brought with her; mostly dressings and medication of some variety. “Don’t you have someone who would be looking for you by now, mmm?” Awaiting an answer, the Zhang woman holds out the bottle of water again asking for confirmation or denial for another drink with an arch of her brow.

She has wit. In this regard, she reminds him of Vivianne. He wonders if Vivianne has replaced him already. He’s starting to think in looping spirals, where even his level of self-confidence begins to wane. He didn’t come fast enough for Rafaella, after all, why would she come for him? He remembers the betrayal in her voice and doesn’t feel a lick of it. He understands, in the end, why it would be a waste of resources. Rafaella’s brain is essential to the mafia’s inner workings, but Orion is far more easily replaced. Maeve might be looking for him, but without the full resources of the Capulets at her back, she’s doomed to fail. He hopes it doesn’t upset her forever.

The depressing thoughts aren’t like him, and he struggles to free himself from their shackles, knowing that if he could just feel anything in his hand again it would be better, but he can’t, and it’s killing him. He focuses on her words just to have something to tether him, to remind him that Orion exists outside his own head. ❝ Some of them were at first, ❞ he admits, referring to the soldiers she commands, however indirectly. ❝ Of themselves, I think. One kid threw up in the corner, but some of them liked it. ❞ He has to pause after that many words together, breathing shallowly, head down-turned.

She’s not playing, or so she claims, but she makes a good joke, anyway. ❝ So politic of you, ❞ he breathes, head feeling so very, very heavy. For a moment he thinks she might actually have drugged him, but no, then she would be falling asleep too. Exhaustion is simply overwhelming him again, yet the likelihood of sleep is less than none. He tries to lift his lashes to look at her, but what energizes him is the thought of perhaps mapping out how long he’s been down here.

❝ How long? ❞ he asks, knowing she doesn’t need to extend the courtesy. He thinks she might, anyway, because she mentioned it for a reason. He struggles to sift through her words and find a reaction that can be deemed appropriate. For a moment, he says nothing at all. What can he say that won’t give way to the vicious thoughts that have swirled in his mind, dragging him closer to drowning in something suspiciously close to misery? ❝ I hope so, ❞ he finally says, because he says what he feels and in that moment, he clings to the thought. ❝ My position, ❞ he slurs again, tongue so heavy it feels like hefting a weight with only his jaw, ❝ means I go away suddenly sometimes. Cosimo thinks I’m being unruly, Vivianne thinks Cosimo gave me a job, blah blah. ❞ He’s run out of air again, and he tries to lean his head back before wincing sharply. Orion takes a deep, steadying breath, though it does him little good. ❝ Why do you care ? ❞

#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ GERTRUDE | she did not need grace to be god.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ GERTRUDE | oo1.#injuries cw #Drug mention cw

PAOLA

She’s seen a number of terrible things in her life — but nothing so terrible as this. Paola physically recoils at the sight of him. There is nothing that could have been done to prepare her for the way Orion’s blood gleams, sickly and sinisterly, beneath the light. Her gasp gives her away as the initiate she still is, green and new and a stranger to this level of brutality. Each step towards him feels leaden, weighed down with the gravity of what the Montagues are capable of. What the Capulets are capable of, too; she still hasn’t stomached the sight of Valentina’s death on display.

Is that why they did this to him, or is this normal for the Montagues? Bile creeps up Paola’s throat. She swallows, letting it sting her throat on the way down, and forces herself to walk closer to Orion.

The questions are long gone, chased away by the horror pooling in her gut like a hurricane. “Can I get you anything?” It’s not what she wants to ask, far from what she’s supposed to ask. She can imagine the irritation of the Montagues already when they learn the initiate brought the hostage something to eat.

But she remembers. She remembers what it’s like to hunger and to thirst, and feel too weak to find it yourself. It kills a part of you that only you, by yourself, can ruin. It steals the piece of you that has faith in the universe, karma, some cosmic force that promises to take care of you in your worst moments.

Paola is close enough to touch him. She doesn’t; she won’t. Not only because it may hurt him, but because she can’t stand to know what his wounds feel like. She can’t bear the thought of having that memory ingrained in her; it will stick forever, and it will haunt her for years and years.

“I came here to ask something…” Voice trailing off, Paola tries to remember. Something about vengeance, something about the Capulets, something about Valentina… It doesn’t seem to matter much now, with Orion’s pain laid before her like a map. “It will come to me later. First, let me help you.” Her voice falls to a whisper as she insists, “Please.”

Her gasp gives her away in more ways than one, and Orion laughs a little under his breath, which quickly turns into a cough. ❝ Bad hair day, ❞ he jokes, but it’s true, too, the way it clings to the blood on his face and even behind his ears, sticky and messy and, as everything else in this room, fairly disgusting. He pegs her for a new soldier, or even an initiate, though the Montagues letting initiates see torture so early would surprise him. Don’t they wanna sugar coat it at all, sweeten the deal? Idiots.

Orion almost says she can get him out of here, but he knows she can’t, so he won’t bother. ❝ Nothing that’ll make you feel any better, ❞ he accuses, though he’ll be forced to take whatever she offers anyway. Doesn’t she know that’s the way this works? She can do whatever she wants, he’s in no position to stop her. Besides, the only thing getting him out of here would be for someone to notice he’s gone, and with Rafaella detoxing, he’s not sure anyone will. Tiberius will keep Maeve busy, and he has no clue how many days have passed since he’s been gone. Who else would hunt him down? Maybe, if they ask whether he’s on a mission, but most aren’t brave enough to ask. No, he’ll wallow down here for a while, he’s sure, or maybe he already has. He tries to think of anything else she could tell him, and an idea slowly forms. He was going to ask for her name, but it’s unimportant, unless she chooses to offer it. No, what he wants is...

❝ Wait. Can you... can you take a message ? ❞ he slurs, thinking of how Rafaella had tried to push him away in their last moments. ❝ I don’t care about the rest. ❞ If she’ll do it, he’ll ask for her name, and the next time he has opportunity to hurt her, he won’t. That’s about as much as he can offer. ❝ Remember it, and I can, I can... ❞ He trails off, blinking up at her. ❝ Uh. ❞ He doesn’t remember the last time anyone threw water at him, but it’s got to be a while, because there’s blood oozing down his back from where Marcelo branded him and it’s not being replenished well enough for him to think. They only mostly cauterized it, after all.

❝ Tell Marcelo they’d be a shit pet owner, ❞ he says without thinking, then frowns. ❝ No, that’s not it, don’t. I mean you can. It’s not what I have to say. Please, ❞ he says, looking up at her now and struggling to stay coherent. All he knows is pain, and his throat is so dry his voice starts to crack at the edges. ❝ If you can find a way, you have to... to get a message over. To Rosaline. ❞ She’ll know the gang name even if she doesn’t know Rafaella’s real one. ❝ I didn’t leave. I didn’t leave, okay ? I didn’t. ❞ He starts that coughing again, and he wonders if he’s re-opened any of the wounds on his chest, barely bandaged after his first day with Marcelo. He can’t stand looking at her any longer, because for the first time since he arrived, he has a fraction of hope, and he doesn’t want to look her in the eye when she steals it. Strangely, he thinks it might hurt worse than the others have. To lose it now would leave him hollowed out.

#blood cw #gore cw #wounds cw #{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ PERDITA | not every girl survives the forest.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ PERDITA | oo1.#found a way to sneak in marcelo HEHEHE

MARCELO

Keep reading.

#the amount of tags i am about to put on this shakes me to my core #sadism cw #masochism cw #dirty talk cw #i do wish i was joking but sadly im not #blood cw #violence cw #gore cw #choking cw #body mutilation cw #death cw #grief cw #torture cw #ableism cw #just at orion feeling miserable abt the possibility of being disabled #i think i covered everything............#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ MERCUTIO | i destroy myself and then want again.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ MERCUTIO | oo1.

MAEVE

It’s as if she’s made of bubbles, as if she’s pure carbonation and it’s all rising to the top the longer Orion is around. She plops the mug into his palm, forever happy to oblige the greedy baby he is. They share this in common: she, too, feels that dark undercurrent of gimme, gimme, gimme when love arrives on her doorstep. Maeve knows what it is to want until it defines you, until you stink of desire and are covered in its sticky sweetness.

The truth is, she and Orion have more in common than they don’t. From where Maeve stands, Orion is an extension of her soul, and she is an extension of that heart he so often denies. In ways she can’t put into words, Maeve has planted herself in him, and he has taken root in her. This is what love is: you belong to each other, and there is no separating them. Love bears her likeness and then, Orion’s; love binds both their names together into the same song that will draw Maeve to the depths of the sea until she drowns.

“Japanese?” Maeve’s head cants to the side, remembering that Orion took a trip there. She still has his gifts, the trinkets that she treasures more than her life. She carefully sidesteps the mention of Rafaella, sensing that Orion is not ready. If he will look his pain in the eye, it will be of his own accord; and Maeve isn’t sure she can bear to see him in pain, either. It is an honor to help Orion shoulder his burdens and carry the weight of his all-too-human heart. But it takes a toll. Every time Orion is hurt, Maeve feels like she’s been wounded, too.

“Okay.” She smiles, thinking of how cute everything from Japan is. She at least appreciates their eye for design, especially when it’s pink. “Let’s learn Japanese! How do you say, my friends are my favorite?” Her nose wrinkles playfully at him as she asks skeptically, “Or are you actually not that far along yet?”

When Orion’s hand reaches her face, Maeve makes a point of turning her head to catch his fingers with her lips. Her kiss is feather-light and fleeting, but it’s enough. Sweet Orion, who still thinks her crying is anything other than normal and a perfectly reasonable reaction to — to this, to Orion reaching for her when he has no need of her. Big, strong, clever man who has no need of anyone, really, and still thinks of her. Impossible, sweet, dangerous man who has chosen her just as surely as she’s chosen him.

She can’t help the way she winces when he says cunt. “You haven’t been, you’re wonderful.” Leaning into the hand on her cheek, Maeve blinks wide, doe eyes at Orion to show just how much she means it. “You know I don’t care about any of that, right? This is all… you know. Bad. And I don’t need you to be or do anything different than whatever you need to.” Maeve covers one hand with her own. “I really mean it.”

And she knows he means it when he says he loves her — she’s always known, but she’s stunned he said it. I never needed it, she wants to tell him as he kisses his brow, I never needed you to say it. Maeve feels it in her bone marrow, Orion’s love for her. She keeps it with her wherever she goes, as possessively as she’s ever been; she will never let it go.

Still, it’s a gift to hear the words at all. “What are you, my papa?” Maeve asks, laughing gently as her eyes betray the warmth that emits from inside her. “I love you, I love you a million times back and more. Do you know how easy it is to love you? You’re so strong and brave and I feel like it’s so unfair that people don’t see how wonderful you are. It’s my favorite secret, I’m not telling anyone but also, I want to tell everyone.”

“Can you say it again?” She smiles impishly up at Orion, her eyes sparkling. “You what me?”

Orion cradles it to his chest for a moment before taking care to set it near his jacket, so he won’t forget it. She considers his question as she goes, and by the time he gets back, she has an answer for him. He thinks a moment, bumping her with his hip when she suggests he isn’t there yet. ❝ Excuse me, I’m mostly fluent, ❞ he argues, tapping her nose with his finger. It’s something Rafaella always does, and like any people who spend time together enough, he’s picked it up without even noticing.

❝ Hmm, let’s see... ❞ He thinks it over for a moment. There’s not really a good way to say it that matches what she’s said, but he can get close. ❝ 私の友人はすべて私のお気に入りです。 ❞ It’s close enough. ❝ Want to try ? We’ll go slow, sound it out. ❞ He takes each syllable and rolls it over his tongue, slowly, to see if she can pick it up. It might move her mouth strangely at first, for Italian and Japanese are next to nothing alike, but it’ll be good for her to expand her languages, at any rate.

At least she’s not crying anymore, he thinks as she seeks to reassure him. He winces; he knows he has been, but Maeve would never think of him that way, too kind by halves. She gives him a lot more credit for trying than he probably deserves, but if she wants to forgive it, that’s her own business and he’ll take swift advantage of her giving heart if it means staying in her good graces. ❝ Bad is about the best word for it, ❞ he agrees, though he could think of a hundred synonyms that would be just as apt.

Orion wrinkles his nose at her comparison. ❝ Gross, no, ❞ he says, ❝ I’m way cooler. ❞ He tries not to be cruel to Maeve’s Papa out of respect for her, but he considers the man rather weak, personally. He opens his mouth and closes it again as she keeps going, but he can’t help it, shaking his head in her direction. ❝ It’s not easy, ❞ he says, because love being true doesn’t mean lies can just go about willy nilly as they please, ❝ because you and Raf are the only ones who ever did it. ❞ Then, feeling vulnerable, he attempts to bring himself back to a semblance of normalcy.

❝ You, girasole, have infinite amounts of love, somehow stored in your tiny body. ❞ He pokes her cheek and grins. ❝ For me, it’s a finite resource. I only have so much, and I only just noticed it. So I want to make sure I only split it with my favorite people. ❞ Orion sighs as though she’s exhausting. ❝ Greedy thing. Ti voglio bene, Maeve. 愛してる。 Je t’aime. Я люблю тебя. My Latin is rusty and it’s a dead language, but I think it’s something like l diligunt te. ❞

#my softest biggest UwUs to this #{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ MIRANDA | roses into the black sky.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ MIRANDA | oo2.

VIVIANNE

‘He’s still a bastard,’ Orion says and there’s an almost-answer on her tongue that dies as soon as it forms. ‘And so are you’, she might’ve told him once long ago; an eye-roll to offset the smile tugging at her lips. But those days are long gone, and such words, delivered within the confines of an Underboss’ office — contain none of the harmless camaraderie from a past she’d much rather forget. To use them now would be a weapon, and Vivianne doesn’t have the heart for prodding at this particular bruise today. So there’s nothing but a cock of her eyebrow to acknowledge the comment Orion makes as she sets Ivan’s file aside.

“Si. Tail her. Take heed not to be noticed.” She grants her permission with a frown as she pours over the contents of Valentina’s file. There’s nothing in it that would raise any alarm bells, no matter how many times she rereads each entry. Each mission had been undertaken with success and full cooperation. Valentina had earned regard for being dependable and willing to do as she was asked without argument. These days, too many soldiers come in with the blustering arrogance of fools; who think the Mob owes them praise for any task completed with relative mediocrity. It annoys Vivianne. It annoys her when remembering how much she’d trembled to do the same twenty years ago when she’d first joined; wanting nothing more than the comfort of her cold mattress after a mission. No bluster, no search for empty praise. Valentina, she’d thought, was similar in that regard.

But now she’s beginning to wonder whether there’s more to Viola’s perfectly obedient silence than she’d previously assumed. “Her name’s come up too many times lately. I don’t like it. Edmund too, had reservations about her stemming from the night of the Gala.” Vivianne shares, before closing the file at long last. It’s no coincidence that Easton’s dossier is the next one in her hand, and as she opens it up she looks at Orion. “Tell me why he’s on your list.”

He rolls his eyes at her instruction, as if he’s never done this before. He was promoted to Spettro for a reason, even if Vivianne holds a petty grudge against him for reasons unknown from years ago. He won’t be the one to bring it up, of course. People hate him all the time, and it’s never really bothered him. If he sometimes feels a pang of annoyance in Vivianne’s office? He chalks it up to the leash she has around his throat, though she so rarely tugs on it.

Orion frowns. Easton was having second thoughts about Valentina, too? He can’t tell if it’s a good sign or a bad one. Is she simply his scapegoat, or has he seen the same things Orion has? He doesn’t know or trust Easton well enough to say. ❝ What happened at the Gala ? ❞ he asks, needing to put the puzzle pieces together himself. Putting his and Easton’s information together may be the clue they need to confirm this.

She moves to him rather quickly, and now it’s Orion’s turn to be more unsure than ever. ❝ Because I went over these files with Everett, and he’s got a bias the length of several futbol fields that says he isn’t. I don’t hate Easton, either, but I’m not Everett. He has a lot of bitterness to him. All that in consideration, I figured I might as well get a third opinion. You talk to him more than I do; would you eliminate him ? ❞ When it comes to his job, Orion does his best to operate on cool logic alone. If he can’t, he gets another opinion, and in this case it’s hers. It doesn’t matter that she thinks lowly of him. Vivianne has a sharp, bright mind, that always spins in directions his won’t. She makes a fine yes or no candidate when he’s on the fence about something as serious as this.

#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ VOLUMNIA | god i love to watch you eat them alive.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ VOLUMNIA | oo2.#your honor i love them

GENEVIEVE

WHERE: [REDACTED] WHEN: APRIL 10TH 2019 WHO: @dukemassetti

Someone, somewhere, many moons ago, had decided that benevolent people could not be executioner when coupled with their role as both judge and jury. The same person had concluded that justice would not be found in bloodshed (so they weren’t a Capulet, anyway) and that those who found murder an appropriate retaliation for perceived injustices could not be good people. It was a shame, really, considering that the majority of - and indeed some of the best - people she had known all had bloodied their hands, either directly or indirectly red was written in their ledger.

The metallic taste hits the back of her throat before she sees him, while they hadn’t killed him, they had certainly maimed him. Sable hues settled on the figure bound to the metal chair, almost tutting in her disapproval, dropping the emerald box from her grasp with a thump that breaks the silence. Canon continues, the sound of her chair sliding across the floor echoing around the cell, settling herself into the seat; close enough that she can observe his injuries but far enough away that she remained just beyond his reach.

Condensation drips from the bottle of water she retrieves from her handbag before surrendering the bag to the, slightly-sticky, floor, making a point of taking a swig from the bottle herself - she wouldn’t demean him by poisoning him, not that she would tell him that. Genevieve then shifts forward in her seat, extending the drink outward until the neck hovered centimetres from his mouth. It was likely to be the only kindness that was extended to him, given the day that was in it, even if it was not an altruistic act by any means.

Orion is awoken from a barely-functioning slumber by the sound of something dropping. He can’t perceive enough to tell what it hit or from what height, but it’s enough to have his lashes fluttering, slumber eluding him once again. It’s another form of torture, of course. Keep the lights on glaringly bright, the room hot, and a person will find it difficult to sleep without the level of excruciating pain Orion is in. There comes a point where he can retreat away from that pain, but they’re few and far between, and whoever it is just ruined that chance.

He wants to tell them to fuck off (not that it will do any good), but when he looks up, he’s curious enough to see the Montague Underboss that he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he ignores the blaring siren of pain enough to lift his head, regarding her coolly as she sits across from him. ❝ You’re late, ❞ he slurs, tongue too thick for his mouth and not really caring. He can’t remember the last time he ate or drank anything; the most recent guard is lax, maybe, new to understanding that torture is only useful if you keep your subject alive. ❝ Scared ? ❞ he asks, noticing the distance between them and leaning forward to bite at the air, just to see what she does. He’s delirious, both from blood loss and dehydration, but it makes him laugh. Everything hurts, of course. Everything always hurts.

❝ Truth serum is bullshit, you know, ❞ he says, sounding like a drunk as she takes out the bottle. Seeming to have read him before he finished the thought, she takes a drink from it first, and he doesn’t actually have a death wish. ❝ Small, ❞ he whispers around the gravel in his throat, gasoline having burned its way through his voice days ago. ❝ Little at a time. ❞ He has no clue how much experience she has with re-hydrating someone, and he doesn’t think she’s interested in waterboarding him, though she could be. Still, what can she do? Reprimand him for his instruction? He thinks it unlikely, and takes the drink when it’s offered.

❝ Playing good cop, Capobastone ? ❞ he drawls, still slow to speak and woozy.

#torture cw #violence cw #wounds cw #just in case #{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ GERTRUDE | she did not need grace to be god.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ GERTRUDE | oo1.

LILLIAN

MARCH 26th, 2019, marks the capulet anniversary, and lillian does not know just how many years it must have been since the inception of an organisation that felt, lately, as though it had been around forever. her amber-eyed gaze wanders THE CATHEDRAL, not restless, but searching, for something(/one) to busy her mind. unexpectedly, her scanning has her eyes locked on @dukemassetti‘s, and with a grin curling her mouth, her feet wander towards the familiar face.

perhaps they are not friends – not by the strictest definition of the word, at least. they do not set their hearts down at one another’s feet, nor do they reach for one another amidst a tumultuous avalanche of their demons. lillian wen and orion massetti, to be sure, do not mean safe harbour to one another… and yet, as her stilettos click-clack morse code across the cathedral’s floor, the sight of orion still buoys lillian undeniably.

why? one might question.

after all: comfort is hardly the first feeling the man’s reputation elicits, with it being one that more than precedes him amongst the capulets between whom it is her job to circulate. an occupational hazard as much as it is a potential hamartia, the emissary-woman does listen; intently, consistently. from what she’s heard, she knows of the occasional bout of admiration; fear, too, often intermingled with that same admiration, and even, from the brave, puritanical, humane, or an intriguing cocktail of all of the above might even risk emanating disgust, even. but comfort? hardly. if his reputation didn’t render such an emotion an impossibility, lillian suspected the wolfishness of his countenance just might.

it is only a fortunate truth that lillian knows herself—better than most anyone else, in fact—to exist beyond the fray, purposefully. lillian wen does, all too often, enjoy her beauties as unreservedly as she does her beasts, and orion massetti means just so happens to be a little of both. the curl of her mouth and the glimmer in her gaze is telling enough that she does not, ultimately, mind. she’s wondered, of course, whether such is the case because she has known orion for far longer than their occupations have been in any proximity. it has never been violence—of the capulets’ inciting, or a more independent project—that has served as the baseline for their connection. before anything, they only ever bonded over a mutual reverence for the divinity of art. lillian has wondered, more than once, if it is why she does not evade him, knowing what she is now privy to as a part of the capulets’ world.

then again, her conscience serves to remind her, that it would be a lie to claim that she never gleaned darkness from his aura before her initiation – or even, frankly, before she knew of cassian butt’s existence… just as it would be a lie to claim that it ever dissuaded her from approaching him, in all those years, careful but fearless all at once, just as she goes to him now. single-handedly she sweeps two flutes of champagne off a passing tray, without her gait ever stuttering in its smooth glide.

the shoulder-seam of her own tuxedo-jacket grazes orion’s when she sidles up beside him. “you are quite the dapper rascal tonight,” lillian hums, tilting a flute to him.

She brushes up against his free side while the other almost unconsciously curls a fraction more tightly around Rafaella’s waist. Once he figures out it’s Lillian, his threat level recedes, and he squeezes her hip in apology. She hums, eyes closed as she leans against him slightly. This much excursion is more than she’s done in a while, and it’s obviously wearing her out, though the night still holds much excitement for them both. For now, he lets her drift, eyes slanting in Lillian’s direction with a single raised brow.

❝ Dapper, always, but I’ve been the absolute modicum of restraint, ❞ he says, doing his stuffiest Everett imitation before rolling his eyes. ❝ As much as I like being the star of the show, Cosimo can have this one. ❞ He doesn’t call the Don Capulet anymore if he can avoid it, preferring to say the name with actual fondness, whether it be for Juliana, Rafaella, or Tiberius. The Don, indeed, is the least appealing and most boring Capulet in Orion’s eyes, though tonight certainly is a treatise on excitement and building suspense.

He takes the flute from her and sips, letting the bubbles stick to his tongue as he figures out what to ask her. Orion and Lillian work best as an out of the mafia friendship, and within its boundaries, he finds himself a little off-kilter. She so isn’t associated with the Cathedral for him, no matter how many times he sees her here. Luckily, with everyone dressed to the nines and celebrating, it doesn’t seem like the typical workplace or godly fare, either.

Everything’s out of sorts, and therefore, he feels comfortable slotting right in.

❝ Seen anyone embarrass themselves yet ? ❞ he asks, for he’s been too preoccupied to notice, but beneath Lillian’s soft and kind exterior, he sees flashes of a sarcastic, maybe even people-watching type. He consistently tries to coax it out, as often as he can, with mixed results.

#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ LAVINIA | everything rough becomes delicate.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ LAVINIA | oo1.

april 24th delilah’s home mid-afternoon | closed for @delilahsbello

Now that he’s firmly decided on what to do, it’s time to tell Delilah. It won’t be easy, and the conversation will suck very deeply, but he cares enough to let her collect herself before he tells the entire Capulet rumor mill.

It’s taken a lot of time and patience to get here. Orion had a suspicion for some time, that it was Ivan who had torn Odin and Delilah apart, but nothing close to being able to confirm it. It took help from Pietra, and even reaching out to Loretta, in order to put Ivan’s history together. Once he was able to do that somewhat-reliably, the pieces began to fall into place.

It’s all cirumstantial, of course. Ivan would never have left any actual evidence behind. Yet like a puzzle of logic, eventually, investigation will lead to only one conclusion: it could only be Ivan Rahal. He was the only one motivated, to the extent that anyone could be, to ruin Odin and Delilah’s happiness. He is the only one who still reaps the benefit of their anguish, who still gets to see his perfect plan bear fruit in their pain. Now, Orion has him caught enough to coax him into admitting it, if he plays his cards right.

But first, a test run, on the woman who has most to gain and most to lose from such a reveal.

Since he only had to go from the car to the door, in essence, he brought his cane, and he sets it beside his chair as he sits across from Delilah. ❝ I know I told you I had something serious to tell you, but we might want to start with wine. How does that sound ? ❞

#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ DESDEMONA | to be haunted by someone that is still alive.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ DESDEMONA | oo3.#LMAO SORRY FOR TWO ALYX ILY

april 23rd orion’s villa afternoon | closed for @oliviorivera

Waiting on people is frustrating. Gone are the days where he could just drop in on someone, bothering them into assisting him with something. Now he has to reach out, to convince people to come to him, and he dislikes it. There’s a sense of shackles around him, closed by the injury to his body, that irk him, though he won’t let Marcelo have the satisfaction of breaking him altogether. Instead, he bounces his good leg while he waits for Olivio.

He doesn’t know the man well, only enough to like him more than Orpheus, but he does know that Rafaella has been training with him, which means she might have opened up about things to some degree. In any case, he has a lot of drug experience and is less kind than Theo, who would otherwise have been his best bet. Some might find that off-putting, but for Orion it only makes him more attractive.

At last, the knock comes, and Orion gets up to walk the few feet to open it. In his own home, he can walk with limited mobility, though he doesn’t move a ton without Rafaella there to make sure he doesn’t fall on his ass and break something else. For now, though, he simply gestures Olivio in. i’d appreciate your help with something, that was all he’d said in the text, but he supposes initiates can’t be picky who they help.

❝ Thanks for coming, ❞ he says, feeling a bit like a coward for doing this without talking to Rafaella about it, but unsure of how to do it without her biasing his interaction, unless of course he does keep it a secret. Rock and a hard place, in the end. He leads Olivio to the dining room, where he can sit across from him and feel semi-human, even if he mostly looks like mulch at the moment. ❝ I know you don’t know me well, but your experience in your field makes you a valuable resource, if you’re willing. ❞ He leaves the offer open. He can do this without Olivio’s advice, but he would like to do it with the help, if he can.

#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ OBERON | oo1.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ OBERON | i am glad it cannot happen twice.

april 21st twelfth night afternoon | closed for @hazelaccardi

Being in a motorized wheelchair aside, Orion feels good today. Having forced himself through several Capulet-related meetings in this new, makeshift version of their headquarters, he rewards himself by heading down into the museum itself. It’s a slow process; he wishes he’d had time to get a custom model, because then he could’ve bribed someone into making it go very fast indeed. Instead he moves at the pace of a snail, taking the ridiculous shitty little elevator and bothering about three people on his way down and taking pleasure in watching how uncomfortable they get.

He’s meandering his way through the familiar halls when he sees someone, sat on a bench, some sort of notepad in front of them. Are they sketching? He can’t be sure, and he can’t get a good angle from behind them. Curiosity piqued, he pulls the chair up beside the bench, resting his cheek in his hand and leaning on the armrest. They’re in front of a series of 18th century paintings, and the warm light around them makes him feel sleepy and content.

This is one of the most comforting places in all of Verona, to be surrounded by creativity and beauty wherever he turns.

❝ Can I ask what you’re working on ? ❞ he throws out casually. He must look a rare sight, the visible bruises on his face having mottled green and his left hand wrapped tight in bandages to protect the missing finger. His ankle is no longer obviously wrapped, but he still isn’t supposed to walk on it more than a couple of steps to promote healing, so the chair it is until his arm recovers enough for him to use crutches. He debates on if it’s better or worse to smile, with the ruin of his face, and goes for about half of one. ❝ I’m Orion, by the way. If you come here often, you’ll end up seeing a lot of me, too. ❞

#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ HERMIA | these are the days that must happen to you.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ HERMIA | oo1.#UwU

march 26th the cathedral 8 PM | closed for @delilahsbello

There was no clear reason for him to be so vaguely fond of Delilah. She was weaker than Maeve, who at least had the comfort of her convictions, and not so talented as Lillian, who had just as soft a heart. She didn’t stand up for herself, that was the issue, and Orion was usually uninterested in standing up for someone who never took the initiative. He’d only started to befriend her on a whim, instinct telling him that she was part of lies and conspiracy that he would like to figure out. Prolonged proximity really did make the heart grow fonder, because now, with everyone dressed so nicely and feeling so celebratory, he saw her wince at the sight of her former husband and felt a feeble twist in his stomach.

He raised Rafaella’s hand, linked with his, and kissed the back of it. ❝ I think I see the only empty space on my dance card, ❞ he murmured, turning to make sure it would be okay if he left for the space of a dance. This was her first large-scale outing with the Capulets since she’d come home, and she had been unnaturally quiet, prone to sticking to his side more than usual. He liked it, he’d admit to that, but he also worried for her. At his sentence, she looked away for a moment, but when she collected herself, she gave him a slight smile. ❝ As long as the rest are firmly reserved, ❞ she said with reluctance, her fingers on his cheek.

Orion leaned forward to kiss her, leaning his forehead against hers for a moment. ❝ Every other slot’s got your name on it, ❞ he promised, squeezing her hand before getting to his feet. He was reluctant, too, not just to leave her but to let the others have a fair shot at her. He had been greedy with her, and he reminded himself that he wasn’t supposed to cage her, not entirely. This would be good, a moment of separation for both of them as the current song neared its’ end.

He crossed the room to Delilah, weaving his way through the other Capulets and knocking her shoulder with his gently. ❝ Hey there, wallflower, ❞ he said, turning fully to face her and holding out a hand. ❝ Party’s over. Dance with me. ❞

#rafaella i wrote with rosey's permission! <3 #{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ DESDEMONA | to be haunted by someone that is still alive.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ DESDEMONA | oo2.

PAOLA

APRIL 8 AT 4 PM, IN WHEREVER ORION IS??? I DON’T REMEMBER. closed to @dukemassetti

It’s more curiosity than desire that leads her to see him. Orion Masseti, hitman — the name isn’t familiar, but she recognizes it now as the Capulet the Montagues have taken hostage. She has yet to learn who brought them in at all, but she knows what they’ve done to him: severe beatings, cuts and bruises, broken bones all in the name of retribution.

Torture is a cruel word, but Paola finds she can stomach the thought of it. It’s the sight that she knows will make her recoil. But the question has haunted her dreams since she first learned that they all had access to inflict their own vengeance in Valentina’s name: how far will they go to avenge one of their own?

Can Paola bring herself to embrace the same? Can she unleash every furious urge and every reckless want, meant for whoever who took Gabriele from her? Will the sight of Orion satisfy her frustration, that there are no more roads and paths to follow?

She enters the location the Montagues disclosed tentatively, each question ringing in her mind like a steady drum.

When she opens the door and steps in, every question stills. No answer reveals itself on the wall or crystallizes in her mind immediately. Her heart leaps in her throat and her hand goes to cover her mouth, repulsed by the sight of Orion Masseti — a limp bag of a human, in this state.

Paola takes a hesitant step forward. “Orion Masseti,” she says softly, as if trying to wake a lover from a deep sleep. “I have a few questions for you.” A long beat of silence passes before Paola adds, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

He doesn’t lift his head at the sound of his name. All their voices swirl together now, and she’s not the first unfamiliar one to grace that door. So many want justice for Valentina, for the soldier they lost, and he is their only outlet. They cut pieces from him like their memories will solidify into trophies, like they can keep them forever as a way of grieving that won’t eat them alive. Orion knows that it will turn most of their stomachs in the end, for few people truly have the stomach to do what must be done. Orion would know, for how often he’s disappointed by those who seek the knowledge he holds.

No, he doesn’t lift his head. Whoever she is, she sounds weak, already wilting at the sight of him. When it’s clear that she’s neither going to go away nor bash his skull in, he takes a breath, slowly lifting that weight enough that he can look at her. She has the wide eyes of a doe and a mouth made for sculpture. Even in this state, he dissects people as works of art, doing what he does best for lack of any other way to start. He hopes it disgusts her, honestly. It’s better when it freaks them out, more enjoyable for him, anyway.

His eyes are so blackened they throb near-constantly, blood trickling down his face. Cuts and abrasions mar him everywhere she might care to look, one ankle carelessly twisted beneath him in a way that can’t be natural, though it’s not quite broken. He would know, because he would’ve screamed, and he was proud not to have done so. Salt sticks to the ruins of his chest and back, the shirt having been cut away long ago, and there are several cuts that could easily be at the early stages of infection. She has no way of knowing that the glisten on his skin is part sweat and part citrus, the salt and lemon poured over his body mere hours ago. Orion remembers, however. It stings to move, to breathe, to think, and there’s blood still oozing from him in a way that makes him dizzy.

❝ Questions, ❞ he slurs, his vision swimming. His voice is so raw that she’ll have to get very close to hear a damn answer, if he decides to humor her. Yesterday a kid about a decade younger than him soaked a rag in gasoline and stuffed it down his throat, taunting him with the flickering flame of a lighter but never quite setting it alight. His mouth still tastes like petrol, poison coating his throat. ❝ Already hurting, ❞ he admits, ❝ no real difference. Ask, then. ❞ He won’t wait for her to waffle any longer or beat around the bush.

#( HOO BOI IM EXCITED FOR THIS ONE )#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ PERDITA | not every girl survives the forest.#{.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ PERDITA | oo1.#wounds cw #gore cw #torture cw

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