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EXPECTATIONS
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
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@fatalisms
@FATALISMS » character studies in tragedy, greed, wrath and lust. as penned by dahlia for pantheon-hqs.
*ALESSANDRO ALIGHIERI, nocturnal animal. ↳ thirty-six. attaché for the reserve. owner of the marquee nightclub. ↳ intro. threads. images. musings. wanted connections.
*ACHILLAS ZUBAIR, bullet & proof. ↳ forty. tactical trainer for the cavalry. freelance security consultant. ↳ intro. threads. images. musings. wanted connections.
The wager was sealed with nothing more than the slightest wink before Alix's attention drifted toward the unfortunate target in question. A quiet tsk clicked against the roof of her mouth, serving as little more than a distraction from the laugh threatening to escape. Barely contained, it disappeared beneath the radiant smile that settled across her features instead. As though someone had snapped a clapperboard and yelled action directed at her, the mask overrode her demeanor fully like a second skin. "Councilman, it's a pleasure." Her favoured hand extended in greeting, one that passed the point of pleasantries when her other hand met the politicians arm in a subtle second touch point. Fleeting, however, when her attention turned to follow Sandro's lead, producing the three lollipops in question from the mini Chanel sea shell purse slung over her shoulder. The options displayed with a purposeful positioning of blue at the top.
Her gaze lingered on the display before lifting to meet the senator's, only to wander past him entirely - out toward the Atlantic, where the waves rolled in over themselves. Then she returned to the target. The smile she'd worn from the beginning hadn't shifted a mere fraction. "He's so dramatic," she confided with quiet amusement, as though Sandro wasn't standing right beside them. "Always has been. He has such a way with words..." Her eyes flickered briefly toward the candy before finding the senator's once more. "Love the suit jacket, Councilman. White truly brings out the blues of your eyes."
The slow but certain settling in of panic forced his eyes to scan the terrace, searching for anyone who seemed deep in study at the conversation he'd orchestrated upon the anonymous directive. It was only when the blonde said 'blues' that Alessandro's attention returned from his half-drunken daze, blinking himself back into the reality of the little wager that was his only glimpse of respite and levity amidst the unwelcome task. Despite being too distracted to know what had inspired the councilman's laughter in the first place, Alessandro joined in with a low chuckle of his own. It was something undoubtedly charming, he could safely assume, a joke or a tease hung off the lips of a sun-kissed goddess offering a sweet to be sucked. Such a reality was heaven to most, but in this moment, it was Alessandro's own personal purgatory.
"Go on, Councilman. She won't bite," he urged, watching as the man's hand hovered over the red option before finally shooting over to the blue, picking it up with the reverence one might offer in receipt of the key to the city. "Tsk. Now I might be the one to bare my teeth," Alessandro confided with another feigned laugh, picking up his newly-rejected candy from the pile as he turned towards its purveyor, a conciliatory smirk gracing his features. "This means you, dolcezza, have the honor of making a toast to our good councilman and his first candy cocktail. Shall I fetch us all some champagne?"
she'd heard rumours from friends. some girls who'd spent their evenings with the senator long enough to uncover some of his most desired proclivities. though those were often shared amongst most of the powerful men who continuously held control and enjoyed the ability to let someone else take the reigns for a few hours. while ren wasn't fond on taking on the role of dominatrix too much — outside of being in charge of money — she understood what needed to be done tonight.
there wasn't any wavering or hesitation in her request and the excitement that vibrated from the man only fuelled her further despite the ghastly look she received from alessandro. the woman ignored him as she looked down upon the male who knelt before her, only allowing him to see the content on her face when he was done with his task. "that's good. good boy," she added under her breath for the senator and alessandro's ears alone.
her gaze remained on alessandro as he approached the senator in a manner that indicated he must have been apologizing on her behalf— or perhaps his— and frankly ren didn't quite care. "you owe me an apology," ren regarded him with a dissaproving shake of her head. "you doubted me." while her methods were out there, they had landed them both exactly what they wanted and he should have known better than to assume any different.
"how will you make it up to me?"
It was a strange thing to look into eyes of crystalline waters he knew well enough to swim in rather than sink under, only to realize the misplaced self-belief in his own safety. Looking in Morena's eyes now, he only felt the deadly, inescapable pull of a siren calling out to him instead, morbid curiosity threading all manner of thoughts and ideas through his mind. In this new light, the woman he'd called friend, even confidante, almost appeared like a shadow-self version of Alessandro himself arguably at his worst, threat and danger twisting with charm and cunning, and animalistic smile hiding teeth dripping with depravity.,
"Morena, I never..." The man started, rubbing a knuckle along his jaw in thought. "I never would have asked you to do that if I had known." It was an admittance of truth and tenderness, a rare acknowledgement that Alessandro, for the first time in a long while, held even fewer cards than he knew. An unfamiliar hesitation underscored his thoughts as he continued to parse through what had been and what now was, wondering if he'd uncovered some rare treasure in the revelation of Morena's hidden depths — or merely, a new threat.
Regardless of what she was, it was now in his best interest to fashion a weapon from the wreckage of this epiphany — which meant, for now, playing the game by her rules. A rare privilege, indeed. "I am...sorry for doubting you, Ren. You're right, I underestimated you. Tell me, what would erase that little indiscretion from your mind? Name anything in this world or the next, but understand..." At this, his eyes grew dark with teasing, the curve of a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. "...there is no world where you'd have my tongue on your heel."
she could have easily snuck away and allowed achillas to disarm and handle both men who's attention had now shifted from her towards him. they likely believed that he wouldn't be much of an issue given that he was on his own. little did they know the force behind the tall and built man. she'd seen it a few times whenever she walked in on trainings, intent on doing some cardio for the day. evidently, it was the hawk-like attention that brought to attention the weaknesses the men held. one with a bad leg and the other without an ability to hide the item that was within reach in his pocket. fingers toyed with the material, indicating that he was thinking of reaching in but second-guessing whether it was the time or he was willing to give it away.
too late.
achillas was quick and rosa didn't have time to even think of making a run for it when he lunged and got both men disarmed and at his mercy. it was impressive and frightening. the question, however, brought forth interest and a newfound desire to remain in order to see where this went. "this shouldn't even be a question. make it hurt for a few days so they can remember that they shouldn't run after a pretty girl who is trying to enjoy her night."
her head tilted as she looked towards both men and smiled. "can you do it that it hurts for a few weeks? they did give me quite the scare."
His eyes, all the more darkened by the swift violence that preceded her words, fixed onto her as she remained unmoved from her spot, mischief and revenge interlacing to form a pretty twist of a smile at her lips. For a moment, he was almost transfixed, brows knitting together in approving surprise at her apparent steadiness, one proven even more grounded as she named her request.
"With pleasure, princess," Achillas snarked back, combat-booted heel rolling from the back of the first thug's knees to his shaking feet, back and forth with varying degrees of pressure until he bent one ankle to the point of a break and kicked the back of the other leg's knee, hard enough to elicit a groan of pain and panic. "Now run," he whispered to the man, threat barely bitten back by teeth honed on brutality. Blood was in the air tonight; the soldier felt it with every sense afforded to him, that particular thirst for vengeance denied ringing in his ears as his grip on the other thug tightened. By now, the guy was a whimpering mess of himself, his pleas of mercy falling on intentionally deafened ears as Achillas shushed him like a parent to an irascible child. "We still got ourselves a chatty fuckin' Cathy, huh." With that, one heavy hand punched hard against his cheek, his Adam's apple, and finally his diaphragm, until the man was fully bowed over, choking on his own air. "You wanted mercy, yeah? Ten fingers, ten toes — and now, ten seconds to catch up to your friend over there. Ten... Nine..."
'Six' barely left his lips before the man caught enough of his breath and hobbled his way out of sight, and Achillas tore his gaze from the work of his hands and feet to the woman who, miraculously, remained planted amidst the open display of violence. Dark eyes gave her a once-over as he spun the pocketknife of her would-be assailant with his index finger, pointing it at the leg that launched a 3am alleyway scuffle. "You gonna buy me a thank-you gift with those diamonds strapped to your thigh, or what?"
"Pause, we both know I'm a switch, don't pigeon hole me but please do call me Tesoro again. Really accentuate the r, it really really does it for me." Henri let out a dreamy sigh and brushed his hand against Alessandro's chest. Henri's eyes widened and he actually had to bite his lip before fanning himself. "Jesus, are you trying to get me bricked up or encourage me, I really can't tell but fine, I sense the grumpiness of your voice. But you better be ready for me later because I am feeling very energetic." He leaned up to press a kiss to Alessandro's cheek before walking towards the councilman. "Councilman Duarte! It's so good to see you." Henri glanced over at Alessandro to reach out his hand and pull him forward. "My husband and I are very loyal constituents. We wanted to buy you a drink for all of your hard work and also ask a few questions. I know, I know, you're here for pleasure, not business but I promise we will make it worth your while, isn't that right, my love?" Henri glanced at Alessandro and gave his arm a squeeze. "Isn't it just the best occasion to celebrate Mr. Duarte here? My husband, a man of few words but his wallet speaks very loudly if you know what I mean." He let out a little laugh and moved to fawn over the councilman like he was instructed.
Henri had the countenance of Adonis and the marble-hewn mouth to match, lips curving around ego and flirtation as the second-hand clock in Alessandro's mind ticked loud and unceasing, chipping away at an already tenuous patience. In truth, the man would have found his companion's commitment to the bit admirable, if the wasting of precious seconds on matters decidedly below the belt weren't so potentially damning. There's a sigh of half-confused relief off his lips when Henri finally relented, kissing his cheek not like Judas the betrayer but Judas the friend. Tender, close, embracing, with a hint of insouciance. The man's next words — namely: husband and my love — revealed the 'why' behind it all, and it took everything in him to bring forth the charming, cocksure grin from his initial surprise.
"Yes, a drink is precisely what's needed at a moment like this," he agreed with faux warmth, though his retaliatory squeeze at Henri's shoulder suggested something far sharper underneath his words. "By this point in the evening, my husband could tell you the taste of every cocktail on the menu. Couldn't you, tesoro?" With a measured laugh, Alessandro's gaze shifted from Duarte to Henri, challenging the con artist to continue the ruse alone, the demand unspoken but nevertheless heard. Taking a few steps away from the conversation, he offered simply, "Speaking of learned tongues... My own is parched. Allow me to fetch some drinks for us all while you and my better half scheme some ways to drain my wallet, hmm?"
*setting: a brunch spot on 5th Avenue *closed to: @dadivosos (mattia)
"That boy... He looks just like your father, so many years ago..."
The words his mother spoke — so casual and effortless, silent in her request yet resounding in his ears all the same — left an ashen taste in his mouth as he bid her farewell, gaze lingering briefly on the chauffeured town car before stealing a glimpse of the boy in question. Alessandro returned to his al fresco table, studying the other's countenance from above his Italian newspaper. His memories of his father were fractured at best and recolored by bitter hatred at worst, and whatever uncertain familiarity existed about the boy, he was more than content to hold his mother's paranoia at bay until he had good reason to partake in it.
As the younger man neared his table, Alessandro offered a small gesture to attract his attention. His head canted, regarding the other more closely now, deciding privately that their connection must originate from home. So, he asked casually, a faint smile playing at his lips, "Amico mio, dimmi: come ci conosciamo? Dalla Sicilia?"
It wasn't that she'd been avoiding him all evening. Avoiding implied intention, therefore, that wouldn't be the first descriptive term she'd assign to it. For while Alessandro's presence was a difficult one to go amiss - from the fashionably late entrance announced by the growl of a Ferrari, to the pinstripe suit and the effortless gravity of his mere presence in any room - Gianna had made the wrongful assumption he would be too consumed with holding court, playing the role of dominating a crowd, that her attendance would go unnoticed by him.
Clearly no such luck would be bestowed upon her as the pocket of quiet she'd carved out for herself along the shoreline was short-lived and soon interrupted by the unmistakable cadence of his approach. Whatever had drawn him there - because Gianna was of the belief Alessandro never did anything void of reason - it sent a quiet pulse of satisfaction through her chest. Could it be called childish? Perhaps. Regardless, she maintained her attention fixed on the horizon, the rhythmic crash of the Atlantic against the shore drowning the silence until he stood within arm's reach. Only then did she turn, her gaze lifting to meet his before sweeping over him in an appraisal of her own. For another moment, her eyes held steady with before drifting down to scrutinize the zippo grasped between his fingers. One that garnered her attention for a drawn out three seconds. The pointed stare that followed was accusation enough when recognition hit of every scratch worn into the silver casing - acquired after the night Jamie had handed it to her when she'd, once again, misplaced her own.
As her eyes returned to meet Alessandro, her head tilted almost imperceptibly, confusion threaded with an emotion eerily close to concern for something was off. Something was wrong. A thought born solely from intuition. For hours he'd emersed himself within the circles that fit him - expansive, exorbitant; everything she wasn't. Add that to the ever growing list of reasons they wouldn't ever have worked in the long run. So, why was he here before her now spewing words from a realm of paranoia? "Using your last words to call me a chain smoker?" Sarcasm laced the inquiry, punctuated by a faint lift of a brow. All signs would point to that conclusion with consideration to the unlit cigarette that was fashioned between two fingers in preparation of her own lighter was the fifth of her evening. Rather than argue, she finally deigned to take the offer. Closing the distance by a single step, Gianna slotted the stick between her lips in waiting, hazel eyes never once wavering from his.
What did midnight mean for a man who'd had an invisible clock counting down to an unknown deadline, chiming for his ears alone like a death knell for the unidentified fallen? Was the start of a new day Pantheon's offering of tabula rasa, the wiping of his utterly sullied slate acquired by playing their little game? Or, was it simply one safety net made of slowly-fraying twine, knots coming undone with every threat received and secret revealed? Alessandro thrived under neon lights obscured by smoke, subsisted on shadows and silk, existed in those obscure in-betweens of illusion and reality — willingly so, as long as he held a modicum of control over the outcome. Only Pantheon had ever brought him to his knees in this way, stripping him of knowledge, benefit, and reason as they bid him to do their dirty work, hands stained by an invisible paint, marking him with a guilt he could not see.
To that effect, the woman before him was the only other entity who'd come similarly close, some cruel charm about her knocking his defenses down, stripping him of control and replacing it with that unbreaking string that pulled him straight to her apartment after the fires and into her orbit here and now, even while paranoia set in deeper and deeper under his skin. "Not quite," he managed out, and in an attempt to steady himself, Alessandro silently flicked the lighter for Gianna, shielding both the flame and her cigarette from the seaside wind. Instinctively, his hand flexed to move a few strands of hair from her face, perhaps selfishly, for he knew the Atlantic winds well enough by now to know they would deny his handiwork at the next gust.
He swallowed, resigning himself to once again expose the soft underbelly only she had ever seen — and not just seen, but burned fingerprints onto, scarring him with remnants of a love he'd never admitted aloud. Deep hazel eyes regarded her, fear and the burgeoning desire to protect burning in his gaze. "No, vita mia. I'm using my last words to tell you that... If anything happens to you because of this Pantheon, or because of what they know... Gianna, I will not stop until you are safe."
It was almost like the man was placing someone else in front of him that was not her but she was now the recipient of dangerous anger. Rachel could not make any sense of his words though and it was only terrifying her more. She had lived in a big city all her life and was tough. Part of her was ready to scream out. See if anyone would answer the cry for help. But he spoke the names of the people she had just been reading about and realized that this man was the husband who had been left behind. She was relieved when he let go of her hand. Rachel was about to explain what she had been writing, but what she had thought was the man realizing how very wrong he was, it was not. Her eyes filled with panic at his movement. He was out of his mind. Cutting her airway off but telling her to speak. Survival instincts went into gear even though everything was starting to tingle in her body, she tucked her chin in like she'd learned in self defense and raised her shoulders to attempt to protect her closing airway and then swiftly brought her knee his groin with impact and simply ran as fast as she could away from the man, her adrenaline kicking in as she needed to be in a public place and remain in a public place. She had no idea where her phone was as she searched her body, terrified of the idea that it was back in the alleyway. Relieved when she found it in her bag though, she started to call Cesar, looking around her to see if the man had followed her back to the library's front steps.
His mind was spinning, the scenes and screams of that night in Central Park, the memories of what had been ripped from him flooding his every thought and every word. Achillas no longer saw the woman in front of him, but instead some malevolent amalgam of everyone and anyone he'd ever suspected of doing his family harm, of every reporter looking to capitalize off of tragedy for the headline that made their career, and of every false lead he'd tracked down only to turn up empty-handed. Except — what was in his hand now was far from emptiness, but instead the very life of a woman with no real defense against someone his size, someone with his indignant fury. He felt her knee at his groin and released her immediately, bowling over in pain for a few moments before limping after her.
"Look, lady, I'm... I'm sorry..." Achillas called after her, knowing how crazed he must have sounded after what he'd just done. Dark eyes watched her pull out her phone, and he nodded, understanding the situation he had placed her in, panic spiral be damned. He'd done this — made a woman fear for her life by his own hands. He kept a few feet of distance between them with his hands held up in surrender, resigning himself to whatever fate befell him from the phone call alone, and offered simply, voice broken, "I'm sorry. I saw... I saw their names on that screen of yours and... I lost it. Call whoever you need to call, keep them on the phone if you feel up to talkin', bring New York's finest on over — I don't care. I don't care what happens to me anymore, not after losing them... So, just tell me one thing. Why were you looking into my family?"
This party felt ridiculous. Riches upon riches. If not for the public display and her having the need to support some people in attendance, perhaps the doctor would have never made her way there; would have never found herself needed some fresh air. No matter how grand, the past few months had taught her that any room, no matter its size, was confining, limiting and perhaps space that should be broken out. The beach had been an obvious choice, an opportunity the blonde couldn't just pass up on simply cause the freedom could be found within the grains of sand. The familiar face, even from the distance, wasn't in her bingo cards that day, though.
Genevieve had moved closer, holding a few shells in her hands that she'd picked up as she moved across the strip of sand toward the figure. "I've never been good at tossing pebbles or rocks. I don't think shells are going to make miracles happen in that regard." Still, despite it she tossed one into the crash waves, watched nothing happen. "Not part of my skill set, Achi." ❧ @fatalisms
What did her voice sound like to someone who wasn't so intimately tethered to it by that thin red string of utter devastation? He wanted to shake the sound of her from out his ears, to choose the crash of ocean waves or distant festivities as better distractions, but found himself unable to walk away, or scream her into running off. Maybe it was the respect he held for her late husband, or maybe it was just that they were held together by a certain ruination only they knew — a prison. One, by all looks of it, that she'd been able to break free from, at least when the moon was high and the waves steady.
That, of course, made one of them. He huffed a derisive chuckle as she followed his lead and tossed a shell, mentally adding a piss-poor attempt at skipping shells as another thing they shared. His voice remained distant and cool, keeping up all pretense that they were merely perfect strangers. "Yeah, yeah... Your skill set lends itself to being the good doctor checking up on the city's wounded warriors, is that it? Take a good look, Doc. I'm doing just fine."
❧ @fatalisms (sandro) // the white party
Rüya had spotted him within an ocean of white, the sunlight beaming through the windows only making things more intense, more radiant. Very befitting for someone like Camilla and Celestina. Yet through it all the brunette had managed to keep an eye on the people in her life that mattered, spotting them across the place occasionally, given a nod and a smile here and there. With him, she bothered to take the steps, to stop only once she stood next to him. Eyes trained on the crowd in front of her, as though she was as nonchalant as it could get. No, they had played enough games to know that Rüya was anything but nonchalant, far more calculating.
"White suits you." A compliment, as she finally turned around. The glass of red wine moving about in the glass she was holding. "Lets hope your outfit won't end up ruined. They do serve plenty of reds around here." Plenty at that. "Seen anyone interesting yet?"
Alessandro's arrival not by a chartered helicopter with champagne spraying from the side window, but instead a private drive in his favored Ferrari 308 Stradele was, for him, arguably understated. There was a ladder to be climbed at events like tonight's, a certain longitude that favored charisma as smooth as silk rather than the screams of hedonistic delight most commonly associated with his business. Just late to be considered fashionable, his steps echoed minutes behind a crowd that had already explored halls of white marble and pale lumber, led by hungry eyes and an unquenchable thirst for free liquor.
He followed the natural progression from receiving room to deep terrace, and lingered near the terrace bar as his watchful gaze tore through the crowd gathered below, near, and all around. It came as no surprise that someone whose eyes were always fixed, mind always thrumming, found his vantage point soon after and claimed a part of it as hers. "Threatening me so early into the evening, Rüya?" The man mused over his martini, casting a sideways glance at her glass of red. "Nearly everyone in attendance tonight has the capacity to be 'interesting.' What matters is...who's useful."
Henri sucked his teeth and rolled his eyes. "That's what you always say. And then what happens? I catch you paying more attention to some blonde than to me. Don't make me promises you can't keep, Alessandro." He told him, exaggerating the s's in his name as he did. "A Councilman, how exciting. Maybe, maybe not. Should I know him?" He followed where Alessandro was looking and nodded. The man vaguely looked familiar. "Oh! You're coming with me?" Henri was quick to move, knowing that Alessandro meant real business if he was rushing them along. "Wait so you want me to flirt with him or make him think we're bros? I need to figure out my persona. For example if we're flirting then I'm introducing myself as Jonathan but if we're going to be bros, I'm thinking something like a Nicholas or a Lucas, no maybe more like Ivan. A very strong, manly name."
Even with the tick-tock of Pantheon's threat ringing in his ears, he'd give into Henri's cries for attention if that's what would spur the man straight into the Councilman's arms. "Tesoro, if you're going to be a bossy bottom, at least spare me you being a whiny one, too, hm?" A gentle tap against the other's handsome face gave way to the tease, "I'm partial to brunettes, and you know it." His attempt at reassurance did little to assuage the man's incessant musings, and Alessandro felt once again the pressure of the unknown deadline sinking further into the pit of his stomach. Dark honey eyes fixed on the councilman still standing at a distance, as his voice simmered just above a growl, a certain sweetness cutting through his usual bite. "I don't care if you convince him that we've been best friends since before we were born, or if you make him think you've had my cock buried down your throat for the last thirty minutes. If you want to be my number one boy after hours, then right now... I need you to be his very eager constituent, willing and able to keep him talking. Understood?"
Who: @fatalisms (Sandro) Where: marquee nightclub
Of all the places in the five boroughs to meet. It wasn't that Esra detested nightclubs, she simply had never experienced a carefree enough youth to patron them back when reckless behavior hardly mattered. All of her twenties were spent grinding relentlessly at the stone of her career. Now the music's volume was too loud, the lights too strobing, and she could feel the onset of a headache emerging with every minute spent inside, regardless of their VIP sectioning. "Tell me again why I'm here." Spoken with only half the annoyance she felt, because Sandro was still a friend even if his choice of business venture made her want to walk right out the door.
For all the exhaustive criticisms that could be levied against him, the one attribute that could never be pinned to Alessandro Alighieri was a proclivity for obliviousness. He knew it'd take hardly any time at all for her head to turn against her under the neon lights and pounding bass of the Marquee. So, as soon as she slid into his booth, he greeted her not with a kiss to the cheek as was his custom, but instead a glass of water and two aspirin. "Because I want it to be one of the last times we meet here..." he started, tone calm and level as the growing smirk upon his lips betrayed his excitement. "...when we could be meeting here instead." He slid a file her way, the pages contained within a showcase of the design mockups he'd already commissioned, pictures and logistics communicating the genuine consideration he'd given to the matter. "That old restaurant and bar in the Maritime Building — the one that's holding on only for posterity's sake rather than because anyone wants it... I want it."
Cleo watches him perform his little inspection of the kitchen, making a conscious effort to keep her lips from twisting. Her mind trails back to the messages she’d ignored from her father’s lawyer. ‘Cleo, it’s Milton. I do need to discuss several provisions in your father’s will…’, ‘Cleo, darling, Milton again. I hate to intrude, but your father was quite specific in some of his arrangements. There are security provisions, already funded…’ Words like bodyguard, safety, current climate, spoken gingerly via voicemail. “That ‘some guy’—” Her fingers hook into quotation marks, gesture dry as her tone, “—you're referring to is embalmed and rotting in a mausoleum. You’re working for a ghost, you know that, right? Should we go get my Ouija board? Ask him if this is really necessary?” Cleo takes a bottle of aspirin from a drawer, shakes four into her palm and takes them two by two with swallows of water from the faucet.
His next sentence rouses a pale smile as she wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. “Well it’s a 3k bottle of wine,” Cleo says, wholly unimpressed. “It’s what people bring to the function when they feel like they have something to prove.” Her fingers walk the counter’s edge until they find a dark-tinted bottle with a yellow label. “Now this is good wine. Grenache. 40 bucks.” She tosses it in the recycling with a crash. “I can clean up my own messes.” Literally and figuratively. “You have a name? Seeing as I’m sure you already know mine.” She moves to the freezer, opens it, and produces a pack of cigarettes (she swears up and down they keep better that way). Though nicotine isn’t the only thought on her mind. “And follow-up question. Do you like omelettes?”
His face remains placid, betraying nothing as she not only speaks on matters of which he'd been well-informed, but plays out what had just this morning been a merely hypothetical estimation of how, exactly, this moment was to go. The blonde hits his prediction beat for beat, and a thin smile forms at his lips in surprised appreciation for her inclusion of a nod to the occult. "Yeah, yeah, I figured you'd say all that. But, gotta admit — The Ouija board was a nice touch. If you do bust it out, tell him 'thank you' for me. Ghost Daddy pays well." Gaze fixed, he raised his brow as if to challenge, You done now?
A faint amusement hummed through him with every indiscriminate toss and ensuing crash of bottles being relegated to the recycling, no difference made between the apparently 'insecure' expensive vintage or her seemingly favored cheap shit. His own bottle landed firmly in the category of the former, and found itself tossed into the bin from the opposite side of the counter, a mirthless chuckle leaving him at the sound of bottles clanging into bottles. "Achillas Zubair," he stated simply, knowing that — for those who paid attention to the news, anyway — the name was inextricably linked to an unsolved crime in Central Park, the one that took his family from this world and set him in motion to enter the criminal one. Not wanting to let the sound of his name linger in the air for too long, he answered more substantively to her follow-up. "Prefer ejjeh. You ever try some? It's good, but — sure. Omelettes aren't bad. Eggs, cheese, veg, meat. Can't really go wrong with that." His eyes flicked to the stove before returning back to hers, curious now. "It'll cost you extra if you're askin' me to cook while you ruin your appetite with nicotine."
"No hello, no Henri you look ravishing I'm here to confess my undying love for you? Is that too much for a guy to ask?" Henri let out a dramatic sigh but took in Alessandro's words. It wasn't like he didn't love to have a task to focus on at a party like this. "Fuzzy dice? Tacky, what kind of person do you take me for. But of course. Who is he and does he have a boat? Just curious." Henri stood up straighter and looked around. "Do I even want know why you want me to distract him?"
He stifled a smirk at the con artist's energetic wit, too entertained by him to not respond in kind. "Play the role of that man's new best friend, and you might get all that you wish for and more," he teased back. "His name is Councilman Duarte. Have you heard of him?" At the mention of the man, Alessandro gestured to a silhouette a short distance away, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone screen. "From what I understand, he loves boats to the point of believing that sailing is the most fun a man can have standing upright. I pity him." Feeling the weight of the invisible clock currently ticking against him, he clapped a hand to Henri's back, launching them on their brief trek to meet the politician.
The last remnants of the cherry lollipop met their end between her teeth before the stick left her glossed lips and was wrapped in a napkin for trash. Intoxication notwithstanding, her eyes followed Sandro's gesture across the terrace and scrutinizing the man in question akin to a puzzle of scattered pieces she was fitting together within her mind. Councilman Duarte was an instant recognition - one she'd read up on plenty of times prior. She could read him from across the terrace by the way he stood, the particular self-importance of a man who believed he'd be President one day.
"You're a genius - he's so boring. I read in US Weekly that his idea of a fun Friday night is sailing and grilling. Or," a brief, solemn pause, "curling up with a good book." The contortion of disgust that threatened to surface within her features was refrained. She straightened slightly within the easily bracket of Sandro's arm slung over her lithe shoulders, heels falling into step beside him. "I've got blue raspberry, cherry bomb, and grape flavour left." A sideways glance up at him, ocean eyes bright with mischief. "Wanna make a bet which he'll go for?" The smile that broke across her face as they approached the Councilman was nothing short of dazzling, awaiting Sandro's lead though not before a quick whispered, "my money's on blue raspberry."
At the confirmation that the man in question was Pantheon's target du jour, he breathed out a sigh of relief, eyes setting on the man as she offered a challenge within a challenge, albeit unbeknownst to Alix. "I'm all-in on the cherry bomb. Both parts of the name account for two favorite things of any hot-blooded politican," he whispered back to her with a smirk before immediately turning his attention to the man of the hour, lips curling from smirk to bright smile. "And, speaking of hot-blooded politicians...Councilman Duarte. Wonderful to see you tonight."
Alessandro greeted the man with a handshake, embodying the showman bravado he'd donned numerous times over, slipping easily into it due to both alcohol and adrenaline. "My friend — Alix Harrigan, of the Malibu Harrigans — and I have quite the patriotic bet for you tonight, though you'll have to promise not to report us to the Gaming Commission if you want the reward." His practiced laugh rang out as he nodded to the blonde to reveal their options. "What'll it be, Councilman? Purple for the mountains' majesties, blue for the shining seas, or red for the beating hearts that keep this country strong?" Turning slightly to Alix, he flashed a private, knowing smirk. Even with his secrets and, by extension, his whole life on the line — that wouldn't stop him from rigging their little bet in his favor.
*setting: the beach, away from the party, after midnight *closed to: @giannarossi
Give them an inch and they'll take enough rope to hang themselves with, a mentor once told him. And by now, what was his life if not twine made of one secret braided into the next, threatening to tie itself to a tree until his feet stopped twitching? That was the fear that Pantheon's warning had burned into his mind's eye, and here he was in the aftermath of completing his task with no confirmation that it had been enough. The threat of being exposed amidst peers eager to turn judge, jury, and executioner still remained — not acted upon, but not retracted either. Worst of all, the one secret he'd held closest to his heart, the one that ignited a spark from the moment he met her and burned them both as soon as he walked away, was alive and present and damn near the only thing that really mattered, should his life truly be at the mercy of some greater, unknown gods.
So, he looked for Gianna in the places that, like her, were a little incongruent and out of reach. Areas where somehow, cigarettes and lighter flames made perfect sense against wind and water — the beach. Wordlessly, he joined her, the low, gnawing fear from the evening leading his dark eyes to search her for any sign of harm. Sucking in a breath, Sandro met her eyes, and exhaled. "I don't know what's going to happen tonight, but...something might. So, in case they decide..." Unable to speak aloud the thought, he fished the Zippo out of his jacket pocket instead, the one she'd casually tossed his way one evening that he'd held onto ever since. "...I want to be the one to light your next cigarette."
*setting: the beach, away from the party *closed to: @softstcps (ginny)
A job was a job, but — God, at what fucking cost? No amount of too-sweet flowers or shiny Italian marble could convince him that the hotel wasn't, in its own way, a warzone waiting to happen. Not with all these billionaire shitheads running around, laughing like the bubbles in their champagne told the funniest little joke while they compared superyacht sizes. The luxury of it all was humiliating at best, insulting at worst. So, he did what any good Marine did with no easy exits, no help to call upon, and no weapon but his own damn self: stay alive by way of escape, rather than capture. He found himself a quiet little spot on the beach, away from the noise, distant enough to not be bothered by anyone, but close enough that he'd see — or, likelier, hear — if his asset had found herself in some trouble.
He skipped a couple of shells out into the open water as he heard footsteps near him, and called over his shoulder, "Shells ain't as good for skipping as stones are, so unless you've got any... Mind finding a different stretch of beach?" Achillas took a glance at his newfound companion and immediately felt the headrush of escape flooding his system yet again. Pretending as though he didn't recognize her, he stated simply, continuing his earlier thought, "Not as though there they don't have miles and miles of it up here."
