paint me as a villain

marcello venturi. forty-five. venturi warehouse manager. caporegime. " real monsters don't tell you they're monsters. they show you. "

[justicemadisonporter]

She desired to inform him that there were no other women like her - that she certainly wasn’t an ‘all’. But she thought that getting into an argument over semantics would only cause trouble with the drunken and aggressive man. She knew the Venturi’s - she knew what they were capable of. Luckily, Marcello didn’t seem to know what she was capable of. That was probably for the best, he wouldn’t think she was a threat. But she would know at least that she was important enough that someone would notice she simply went missing. 

Her lips narrowed when he said he was going back to the pub, but then came the real line. Of course, a man like Marcello used lines like that. She shouldn’t be surprised. She gave him an appraising look, then slipped into the cab. Glancing up at him, looking expectant. 

“You best give him your address then.”

Perhaps it was a mistake. But Madison was a woman who always made calculated risks. And yes, this was a risk, but it certainly was calculated. Marcello Venturi perhaps didn’t have the influence that her brother had. But he could make a powerful ally, or even a useful pawn in the game that she played. It was always handy to have a killer around. 

[marcelloventuri-blog]

“Attagirl.”

Her body slipped into the cab, his following suit — not nearly as gracefully as she had, but with a slight fumble, he found himself seated beside her, the door slammed behind them. A bellow, one far too loud for the confines of a taxicab, told the driver where he was headed. His flat was but a few blocks away, but in his state walking hardly seemed an option. Besides, he’d found a woman all too willing to fit the bill, and he was nothing if not perfectly willing to milk a stranger’s good will for all it was worth.

As the car picked up speed, his hungry eyes landed on her. In some ways, the invitation had been a shot in the dark. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe a woman like her would want to parade around on his arm; quite the opposite. He was stitched from the same fabric as London’s dirtiest secrets, the kind of man who was good for a night of rebellion against high society’s rules and restrictions. If tonight was her night to forget how a lady behaved, he was all too willing to oblige.

Brows quirked, eyes doing a thorough once-over of her body, he smirked. “Mum never told ya not to get in cars with strangers, did she?”

[sacredsavage-blog]

She smouldered for him, his fair and furious Gwendolyn. Any passing stranger– and perhaps even her husband himself– would have spotted the heated expression upon her face and assumed it the result of anger. It would have been warranted, she supposed; few folk were equipped to handle Marcello Venturi without letting him poke and prod their temper aside. Even endlessly patient Vienna found herself snapping, bright smiles soured by reproach, whenever his acid tongue found its mark. For all his bluntness, he did have an uncanny knack for identifying a weak spot and exploiting it without hesitation nor restraint. That Gwendolyn’s own weak spot seemed to be him left him rather ill-equipped for combat. 

And it was handling, or so Gwendolyn would tell herself. While no one could truthfully claim they controlled Cello and his tempers and his airs and his brutality, it was equally true that no one could divert his attentions quite so well as the wife of his brother.  (That their stupid and endless game or chase was, in fact, tit for tat rather than her preferred stomping of the opposition went ignored as best she possibly could. She didn’t need Marcello Venturi; she would never need Marcello Venturi, never the way he needed her. Never. Only the very best of liars could wholly convince themselves.)

But her Cello knew better than to take the annoyance on her face point-blank. He was never the sort to beat a quick retreat, even as she drained the dredges of her champagne and abandoned the flute on the small alcove behind her. Her icy eyes met his only to deliver a challenge of her own. 

“If that’s how you think babies are made, Cello, it certainly explains a few things,” she purred, eyes flashing brighter than the diamond her husband had slipped on to her finger. That same left hand reached for him then, touching not the expensive jacket he wore atop his expensive shirt (as if silks and satins would ever make man of monster) but the smooth skin just beneath, the tips of her fingers resting against the inside of his wrist. A challenge, a move made to counter his own; it was an old dance, one well-known and begrudgingly well-loved. “Dance with me, then, brother. For appearance’s sake.” Put your hands on my body, screamed a small purse of full lips. Touch me where everyone who matters in this fucking world can see. 

[marcelloventuri-blog]

He’d never been a man of self restraint, instead far favouring the highs of over-indulgence, even more so now that the privileges of life on the outside of those grey stone walls had been restored. A single bullet left in the barrel of a fully loaded gun was a waste; an ounce of liquor left sitting at the bottom of a bottle was a challenge. He was a man of all or nothing, operated not by a dial that could be measured or gauged, but by the simplest of switches — on or off, stop or go, stand-still or full throttle. The offer to put his hands on her was one she was often too proud to make — perhaps too proud to admit she craved with just as primal an instinct as him. It was an offer he wouldn’t dare refuse — but once his calloused hands graced that delicate frame, a brush of her thigh would hardly be enough. He’d need all of her, right then and there.

If there was any indulgence he’d break his own rules for, it’d be her. He was a fool on his feet, caring too little for the constraints of a four-four beat to be bothered to keep time, yet as her invitation rung in his ear his fingers clasped themselves around the hand that toyed with his wrist, the other taking a grip on her waist, thick fingers taking a handful of silk in an attempt to squeeze the skin just beneath the drapes of her dress. “The princess gets what the princess wants,” he conceded, leading her into the crowd. Princess, not queen — to be a queen, she’d have to marry a real king.

Surely she knew better than to believe he gave a shit about appearances. No, the eyes of London’s finest falling upon them as he twirled her out of time to the music, admittedly following her lead, meant little to him. Whispers of Marcello Venturi’s reform were matters Luciano and Sabina concerned themselves with, not him. His attention, instead was split two ways — on the succubus of a woman that had lured him onto the dance floor with but a few well timed flicks of her tongue, and on the faced in the crowd, searching for one in particular — the man who odds said should’ve been standing in his place.

Lips close to her ear, a gesture the room would surely pass off as a man sharing a secret with his brother’s wife, his mouth curved into a satisfied smirk. “So this is how you get off now, is it?” he prodded, his fingers holding her waist tighter, desperate to leave blue and black bruises for Luc to find come morning’s light. “Knowin’ he’s out there somewhere, watching you take what you really want?”

[viennaventuri]

“Must you be so crude?” Vienna asked, properly scandalized by her Uncle’s persistence in talking about her sex life. Honestly, he’d never cared about anything she’d done before, why on earth would he care if she was sleeping with her boyfriend? Whether or not he was “eating” anything she had to offer was absolutely none of his business. “Carlos isn’t cheating on me, even though he technically could – anyone could cheat, it doesn’t mean they would. He loves me and I love him and it’s honestly heartbreaking that you can’t understand what that’s like.”

The bitterness in his voice had her torn between her own righteous indignation and sympathy for Marcello. He was the family screw up, everyone knew that, but she didn’t exactly fit the family’s mold either. In a very different way, of course, but she could understand what it was like not to be fully accepted by your family. Perhaps that was why she always went out of her way to try and include him. Not that he appreciated it or her…and yet here she was trying again. 

Her mouth fell open as he claimed that Carlos would be unfaithful to her at their wedding; shock, embarrassment, and hurt all fought for dominance in her expression. Her voice was softer now but she still shook her head stubbornly. “You’re wrong about him. Besides, we’re not engaged and even if we were Maia would be my maid of honor – she would never do something like that. She’s my best friend. And Carlos wouldn’t either. Why would you even think something like that or worse say it out loud?” 

Sighing and shaking her head, Vienna looked away from him. She was visibly upset, trying to figure out why Marcello felt the need to be so cruel to her. Some might write it off with a simple he’s mean to everyone, it’s not personal but it certainly felt personal. And still the attack continued. She wasn’t good at shutting out the derision in his voice when he talked about her, his obvious scorn for her and her outlook on life cutting deeply. What had she done to make him so spiteful? Was it really just because she’d asked for a dance? Whatever it was, perhaps it was best she simply apologize and excuse herself before she actually started to cry and made things worse. “It wasn’t my intention to upset you, Uncle Marc, I’m sorry.” 

[marcelloventuri-blog]

The earnest disbelief in her voice was mind blowing, as if she expected not only him, but the world to censor itself on her behalf. “The world is crude, princess,” was all he snorted in return. He took a quick glance around the room, eyeing the well-dressed members of society’s highest circles as they twirled around each other, pursed lips pressed close to listening ears, gossiping and scheming and making promises none of them intended to keep. There was but one stark difference — he lacked the tact to keep his slander at a hush. “I’m not sayin’ anything the rest of these assholes haven’t thought before. Only difference is, I’ll say it to your face.” 

Love. It was amazing, how quickly saps like her could eat the concept up, devouring what childlike hope fairytales and carefully curated television shows fed to their all too willing hearts. Admittedly, he knew little of the concept himself. Lust, passion, obsession, he knew those well, but love was a force foreign to Marcello Venturi; love required selflessness, a quality he’d never known, yet one Vienna surely knew all too well. Love required compassion, sacrifice, a loyalty beyond oneself. No, he wasn’t built for love, and his unfamiliarity with the disease of a feeling made it all too easy to dismiss. “If you’re so sure about him,” he shrugged, “you wouldn’t mind putting him to the test then, would you? All it’d take to get some broad up to his room is a few hundred — if he send her right back down, you can spend the rest of your life together tellin’ me how piss poor my judgment is.”

If he’d been a bigger man, he’d have felt the need to care that a girl, barely twenty, stood shaking before him, her painted lips curved into a disappointed pout, her brows knit together as if she were biting back something far more difficult to cage than the apology she gave him — admittedly, for no reason at all. The stares they were beginning to receive from bystanders should’ve fazed him much more than they did. “And I’m not tryin’ to upset you,” he scoffed in return — not an apology, simply an observation. “All I’m sayin’ is, the world ain’t just rainbows and butterflies and happily ever afters. Thin skin like yours gets ripped apart, ‘specially when you’re too stuck in your little storybook to see it comin’.”

[devilalchemy]

Luciano was not a man of empty frivolities and revelry, and as such, was rarely seen frequenting bars without definitive reason. There was little to respect about those who invested their time in being lowered to reckless drunks. Those who employed the aid of alcohol to dull life’s disappointments were even more reprehensible in Luciano’s mind. 

Where there was liquor however, his little brother was surely not far behind. 

A brief perusal of the bars within a twenty mile radius of their family’s central headquarters narrowed the search down to this particular establishment. Luciano arrived to a scene of chaos and unnecessary embarrassment, his features a mask of permanent amusement edged with thinly veiled distaste. “I apologize for my brother. I’m sure you know how it is. Bad days get the worst of us all,” Luc drawled, rumbling voice low and light-hearted as his shoes crunched over shattered glass. Light-heartedness that belied a subtle tempered warning in its undertone. Marcello, family disappointment as he may be, was still a Venturi. Still blood.

To sweeten his brother’s shameful display, Luc plastered a smile to his face, stretching out a hand for the bartender to take. “No harm, no foul.” A hundred pound bill, unseen, was pressed into the man’s hand in an effortless manoeuvre  ––  more than enough to make up for damages. 

And that was the Venturi brothers for you, Luciano mused as he spun to face Marcello. The elder forever cleaning up after the younger. 

“No, but I’d say you’ve kept everyone else here plenty entertained.”

[marcelloventuri-blog]

I apologize for my brother.

The words echoed, turning sour the longer they hung in the air, drawing a grimace onto Marcello’s lips. “Fucking hell.” Perhaps he’d meant to think his sentiment and it had only slipped from between his scowl, perhaps it’d been all too intentional to mutter it aloud; in the haze that had long since washed over him, he wasn’t entirely sure. 

There he was, the golden fucking son, making excuses and apologies on his behalf — shoving his own words and will down Cello’s fucking throat, like he always had. It was no wonder he spewed such profanities and crude oversteps of boundaries — when he was choking on the bullshit his brother attempted to feed him on the day to day, it was difficult to hold anything in.

“So fuckin’ babysitting me all day isn’t enough for you, huh? You’ve got to seek me the fuck out after hours, too?” He’d never been particularly afraid of confrontation, not even with the brother who liked to think he held power over him. Censorship was a waste of time, especially for a tongue that flapped so quickly on its own accord. Luciano was no exception; the so-called authority he held in their ranks was inherited by obligation, never earned, and he wasn’t about to bow to the man whose greatest accomplishment was popping out of the womb first.

“How’s it feel to swoop in and save the fuckin’ day, huh? It’s a real shame this is how you get off, ‘specially while I bet you’ve got Gwen just sittin’ at home, just waiting. Poor broad.” There was his shot. There was his subtlety — and perhaps it was the only underplayed nuance he possessed. 

[maleki-tahan]

“I would actually like to correct you, but I feel as if we both know that is inaccurate. That glass you threw is very well private property and you destroyed it in a fit of drunken rage. For all you know the poor barkeep here was terrified out of his mind that you were actually going to do something to him with it and that is very much assault. Not only assault on him, but the other patrons in this bar whom you terrified then began your violence towards. I don’t even have to pretend that you’ve broken any laws; you seem to be doing well actually doing them on your own and I have a feeling you know that good and well, Marcello. Say, what would your former guard say if he saw you this way? Perhaps he would think you were meant to return to your lovely vacation behind bars?”

There was a smirk playing on Julian’s lips. He should just go home and forget about this all. If anything were to happen, police would be called and while Julian didn’t trust them himself, they weren’t completely incompetent that they wouldn’t be able to pick on a drunkard from a bar that was terrorizing other patrons. This sort of situation happened sometimes when people didn’t know how to stop being loud and felt as though they were owed the world. It was simply the fact that the man in question this time was Marcello that made Julian stick around. He wasn’t a good man, Julian had never believed that he was a good man, and seeing him fallen this way after a sentence that Julian had pressured the judge into handing down felt good. Seeing a man who had done wrong suffer made Julian feel good about himself.

It was twisted and perhaps even something that he should have spoken about with that shitty college therapist that his parents had insisted he go to after his brother’s death – it had been a joke, Julian had played circles around the poor young woman – but he didn’t. That warmth that he felt when bad people struggled was something Julian actually held dear and he would be damned if some shrink tried to tell him it was wrong or take that away from him.

“I could stick around and I’m sure we could come up with more laws that you’ve broken or plan to break within the hour, but I think it’s best for everyone if you simply gather your coat and return home.”

[marcelloventuri-blog]

Julian’s list of so-called rules he’d broken went on for fucking days. To pretend he’d registered any of them would’ve been a lie, and he hardly cared enough to grace Julian Asshat Crenshaw with faux respect. His eyes rolled as the man droned on, his attention shamelessly occupied by a woman perched at the end of the bar — a woman whose mouth had fallen open in shock as he’d thrown his glass, yes, but a woman who still looked all kinds of fuckable in that dress of hers. It was clear, he hoped, that he cared little for the law school bullshit the prosecutor spewed, likely more for the sake of inflating his own ego than for teaching some kind of lesson to Marcello, a man who learned from no one, not even his own mistakes.

“You say somethin’, asshole?” he asked as he looked back over to the man attempting to threaten him, smirking through his transparent words and willful deafness to Julian’s lectures. “I did my time, and that ball and fuckin’ chain of a probation officer’s already onto the next one. He doesn’t own me anymore, mate, and I don’t see a fuckin’ badge on you, so unless you’re gonna call your friends down at the station, I think I’m doin’ just fuckin’ great.”

He should’ve been scared. He should’ve been worried about the implications attached to spending a night in a holding cell, or about what yet another shot of Marcello Venturi in handcuffs would’ve done for the family name — but he wasn’t. It wasn’t in his blood to care like that, nor had it been bred into him — granted, not for lack of trying on their part. Any problem he faced, he was certain it could be solved either with his fists, or with the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans. If Julian continued to push him, he wasn’t above resorting to either.

For now, though, it was all a game — pushing back, watching the veins in the prick’s head bulge as he digested every word spoken by the mouth he’d wanted to lock up for so much longer. “I’m havin’ a grand fuckin’ time, actually,” he shrugged, head turning to do a scan of the bar. The patrons’ uncomfortable expressions told him enough about their sentiments, but fuck ‘em. He had a point to prove. “And unless you bought this fuckin’ bar while I was on my little vacation, you can’t say shit.”

[justicemadisonporter]

She didn’t wince when he shouted past her ear, directly at the bartender. The young man had enough sense to scamper away - probably to the back where he hoped that once he was out of sight he would be out of mind. Madison’s expression looked unflinching, unamused that the man had to resort to yelling just because he hadn’t gotten what he wanted. How childish. Crude, even. But then again, she’d heard stories from Luciano, and it suited his brother well, that description.

Admittedly, she had expected it to be harder to convince Marcello away from his seat at the bar. She found that certain men were far to attached to their drink, and after that outburst, she had counted the other Venturi man among them. She watched in mild interest as the man shrugged and stood, quite clearly making his way towards the door. She followed half a step behind, grateful that she wouldn’t have to lay out any more money to keep the other man from harassing the bartender. 

When he spoke as they ventured out the door, she forced an amused smile. “I think that would be ill-advised.” She raised a brow, almost questioning for a moment. Instead, she stepped past the man, hand reaching out to flag down a taxi.

It appeared in a matter of moments, and Madison opened the door first. As she did, she turned back to the man, looking momentarily thoughtful before the image disappeared again. “Where are you going, Mr. Venturi? The driver needs to know.” The implication was there too, that she was curious as to where he was going as well. 

[marcelloventuri-blog]

Ill-advised. The words made him scoff, loudly and unapologetically. Most times, he knew better than to do that dance with women like her — women in their crisp dresses with their hair neatly in place, their lips painted on as if they were waiting for the chance to leave their mark on the collar of some rich fuck’s crisp white button-down. Women like her didn’t want men like him — at least, that was what he assumed they told themselves in an attempt to quell the animalistic instinct to let go; who better to forget about the plagues of aristocracy with than a man who couldn’t even pronounce the word?

“That’s what you all say at first,” he scoffed as she strode past him, her head held so fucking high as she sauntered through the door and onto the sidewalk. He followed, his steps not nearly as calculated as hers. To have made it out of the building without tripping over his feet, considering how quickly he’d poured half a keg down his throat, was an impressive enough feat. With a wave of her hand, a car pulled quickly up to the curb — the same act would’ve taken him twenty fucking minutes, but people here knew her. They respected her. Fucking figured.

Save for slipping the driver however many bills it’d take to get him out of there, her job was done — but she lingered, hovering before the open door with quirked brows and an intrigued smile that disappeared the moment he’d noticed it. He wasn’t done here just yet. Marcello approached the car, if only to appease her, but his feet remained planted before the open door — the second he sat down she’d send him away, that much he knew. “The first open pub he can find me,” he shrugged, giving the woman an honest answer. He wasn’t done yet; the insistence of an asshole of a bartender was hardly enough to kill the buzz he’d worked up. “Unless,” he continued, his own brows piqued with shameless insinuation, “I’m not leaving alone. In that case, it’s back to my place.”

[littlemisswright-deactivated201]

Pleased to have his offer accepted, Vaughn followed after the man, not so much as tossing a look over his shoulder. The bar had been a place he’d stumbled into a time or two after his divorce, but in truth, it wasn’t the best. They’d cut him off as well, leaving him to make his way to the nearest bar. Which is how he’d found the hole in the wall bar he was taking his companion to. Shooting a grin at the other man, Vaughn nodded. “I remember being thrown out of this joint, and quite a few others. Not to mention the ones I don’t remember being thrown out of,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. As they stopped at the curb, he hailed a cab.

While one crossed traffic to pick them up, Vaughn spoke again, “Now it’s not my business, so I won’t bother asking you why you’re drinking. But, I know a reason to drink when I see one and that’s something I can respect. That, and it’s been a while since I’ve run into someone whose shown themselves to be a decent drinking companion.” Once the cab pulled up, he opened the door and slid over, making room for the other man to get in as well. “O’Malley’s, right up the street here,” he directed the driver. Looking back as the drunkard got in, he surveyed him once, simply taking him in. “Names Vaughn, by the way.”

[marcelloventuri-blog]

His steps were thunderous, the thump of his weight against the tile as he stormed from his chair unable to be censored by the sobriety he’d chosen to abandon six — seven? eight? — pints ago. Over his shoulder, he turned to eye the man whose suggestion had been enough to coax him from his stool, watching the grin slide across his lips. He was.. different, put together in ways Marcello had always rolled his eyes at, in ways Luc and Raph had always tied their fucking ties and slicked their fucking hair. But his words, those were of another man entirely — they were words Cello himself had thought, and felt, and spewed with little regard for who heard them. This man was an enigma, an image of refinement with the tongue of a degenerate like Cello himself — the first time in months he’d found someone actually worth his time.

“Fuckin’ right,” he repeated, his voice echoing louder now that they stood outside the crowded pub, their taxi pulling up beside the curb with a simple wave of the man’s hand; it would’ve taken Cello half an hour of thrown profanities to pull one himself. “It’s all bullshit, right? These shit holes look like they’re ‘bout to be fuckin’ condemned, should be kissin’ our asses for givin’ ‘em a few fuckin’ quid, and they throw us out on the fuckin’ street?” With a loud scoff, he poured himself into the car that awaited them. Never a man of self discipline on a good day, he found no reason not to answer the rhetorical question his companion had haphazardly posed. “It’s the same shit as every day,” he said, with a bitter roll of his eyes. “Watchin’ someone take what you deserve, while you’re standin’ on the pile of shit they gave you.” The streets were a blur as the cab whizzed past. All his hazed eyes saw was the stranger that had plucked him from the bar in the first place — the stranger who now had a name. “Marcello,” he nodded.

[littlemisswright-deactivated201]

The bar had been a spur of the moment decision, but Vaughn was happy with his choice as he watched the display before him. The anger that radiated from the man making such a scene was something that resonated with Vaughn. After all, he’d been almost the identical image of what he was seeing now after his divorce from Olivia. A drunken wreck night after night, starting fights with anyone who so much as looked at him wrong. But he felt no pity for the man in front of him. No, how could he? The man wasn’t broken, he wasn’t hurt. He was on the cusp of becoming something great. And Vaughn could use greatness.

Stepping up to the bar, he shot the staring patrons a look that had them ducking their heads. “Fuck them,” he said, looking back to the drunken man beside him. “And fuck this bar if they think they can cut you off.” Pulling out some money, he paid the man’s tab and added some extra for the broken glass. “I know a place about a couple blocks down, not a great place, but they’re not the type to cut you off when you’re just getting started. I’ll pay, if you’re feeling up to it.” He watched the other man.

[marcelloventuri-blog]

Fuck them. The words spun him in his chair, catching Marcello entirely off guard. He’d never grown accustomed to being agreed with — when he was, it was often in sarcasm, laced with that condescending tone that Luciano had come out of the fucking womb with. His instinct, of course, was distrust. What the fuck did a stranger want with him, sliding the bartender a handful of bills for his tab, offering to buck up for a cab to keep the party going someplace else? It was all too good to be true, and Marcello had taught himself better than to blindly trust an act of kindness — kindness came with strings, with ulterior motives.

Unless this wasn’t kindness — maybe this was just the first fucking person in this city to have some god damn sense. About damn time.

He stared for a moment, the drunken buzz in his ears keeping the man’s offer on a loop. “Fuckin’ right,” he finally nodded along, standing himself up from this stool. “This is the last time this shithole sees me.” The words, bitter, were tossed out just loud enough for the dick of a bartender to hear. Throwing his jacket over his shoulders, long strides took him out the door and onto the sidewalk, his nameless companion not far behind. “You know a thing or two about bein’ thrown outta joints like this, or what?”

[justicemadisonporter]

A crash pulled Madison’s attention away from the man who had been attempting to flirt - an unfortunate attempt by him, but an amusing past time for Madison. After a long work day, it was at the very least entertaining. But her attention was drawn away from the fumbling attempts of the man who looked as though he’d never spoken to a woman of Madison’s caliber in his life. Her eyes followed the source of the noise, locating the reason of the shattered glass in a moment.

Marcello Venturi - admittedly, she knew less of him that she did his brother. Luciano had always been the brains behind the operation, while Marcello was known to be a loose cannon in comparison. No thought, only instinct and blood lust. She could appreciate that, but only when it was controlled. And that certainly wasn’t the other man’s skill set. 

She stood, not even bothering to dismiss the man that she had been speaking to. In Madison’s opinion, very few things couldn’t be solved by money. She slipped next to Marcello at the bar, leaning towards the bartender who had turned an angry red in the face. 

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it.” She peeled a few notes from her wallet, pressing them across the counter towards the bartender. The man looked unsurprisingly wary, but took the cash and removed himself to the other side of the bar. Barely glancing to the side, she addressed Marcello. “Mr. Venturi, perhaps you’d like to accompany me out? I’m sure we could find us both a car home.”

[marcelloventuri-blog]

He watched, all too perplexed as the woman slid a small stack of bills to the bartender, who all too quickly pocketed them and looked the other way. “Yeah, real fuckin’ sorry,” he bellowed towards the man’s back, loud and facetious. Brow furrowed, he turned to take a good look at the woman who thought she needed to save him — put right the fuck together, from the dress to the hair to the designer wallet she’d pulled the bills from. Her face, as his blurred vision finally settled on it, was familiar — from the papers, he managed to put together. Some posh lawyer bitch, or something like that. The question remained — what the fuck did she want from him?

It was all too easy to mentally dismiss her suggestion, a no fuckin’ way dancing atop the tip of his tongue. He had no plans to return home, not now — he wasn’t pathetic enough to wallow in his flat alone, booted from the pub with no place else to go. But, as her fat wallet had silently promised, the car was sure to be on her, and he was hardly the kind to turn down a free ride. He could accept her offer, sure — he’d simply hop out at the sight of the next bar, moving onto a new venue.

Unless she didn’t plan to send him home alone.

With a shrug, he stood from his stool and headed towards the door, ensuring she wasn’t far behind as he strode to the exit. “You know,” he ventured, a shameless smirk slipping across lager-scented lips, “most broads your type usually offer to buy me a drink first.”

[maleki-tahan]

Bars weren’t something he normally frequented, having found long ago that Julian rather enjoyed getting wasted in the privacy and comfort of his own home, but today was different. Today was one of those days where the drinking couldn’t wait until he got home and maybe for a while he didn’t want to be home. For perhaps just a few hours he wanted to pretend to be nothing more than a common bar patron enjoying a drink or two and pretending to ignore all others around him while still listening in on their chatter. Usually it was about petty things, some housewife knowing that her husband is cheating so she’s eager to get revenge or even some poor sap who had just been dumped and was looking to wallow in liquor until nothing looked normal anymore. There was never anything that really made Julian sit on the edge of his seat, but that never stopped him from listening in anyways in hopes that one day a riveting story would make way.

Riveting was an understatement though as he looked up and noticed exactly who was at the bar filling himself with enough booze to stock a college party. Though he hadn’t seen the man in quite some time, Julian couldn’t forget a face. There was no way he would forget the face of a man such as Marcello. The man was all cruel words and sneers – Julian had been delighted the day he had been charged and found guilty. Time didn’t seem to change him as Julian watched the glass shatter and the harsh words spit out towards the other patrons.

If he were smart, he would have simply finished his drink and slipped out of the bar without another word or order, but time had made Julian reckless. What once was a mindful voice telling him to stay out of trouble for his family’s sake now stayed silent and a more careless nature took over. If anyone asked Julian would quickly state that he was far from looking for a death wish, but deep inside he knew the truth. So without another moment of hesitation, the man stood from his seat and made his way over to the bar and the commotion that was gathering around.

“They might not be, but I certainly am.”

[marcelloventuri-blog]

He heard the words slip from the lips of a man, but it wasn’t until Marcello swivelled that he saw him — the cruellest fucking joke the universe could choose to play on him, especially now. He’d seen enough of Julian fucking Crenshaw to last a lifetime, his last memory of the man nothing but a shark-toothed grin as the judge had called out his final sentence. How ironic — one of the last faces he’d seen before being caged like a fucking dog for a year and a half, and now, one of the first he crossed paths with now that he’d been let off his leash for good.

“The fuck do you want?” he spat, the beer on his breath making no attempts to cover up or justify the outburst his prosecutor had just witnessed. On any other day, an opportunity to flaunt his freedom in the face of the man who’d locked him away would’ve been priceless; fuelled by liquor, though, and an anger towards the bartender who dared tell him no (an anger that he was all too willing to redirect towards the unfortunate soul that stood in his way), he was in no position to gloat.

The prick was resourceful, he knew that from experience. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he tried to pull up his toss of the glass as assault, or if a single step outside the bar’s doors would merit public intoxication, if only as an excuse to have him thrown in a holding cell for the night. He wasn’t about to give him any ideas. “I’m not breaking any of your precious laws this time, asshole, so unless you’ve got somethin’ to add?”

[viennaventuri]

Vienna’s back stiffened as her uncle insinuated that Carlos wasn’t with her because he was off with another girl, a better offer. She was well aware of his past exploits and had little doubt that he could have anyone in this room that he wanted, but he wanted her. They were in love and she was sick to death of her family questioning it. She had expected the drama with her father – Luciano had never liked the idea of Vienna dating someone and never thought they were good enough for her. Maia’s reaction had been a surprise given that Vienna was used to her sister’s support, but even that hadn’t been enough to make her want to separate from her boyfriend. If her uncle thought his opinion was going to make her change her mind about Carlos he was sadly mistaken. 

His booming laugh made her flinch slightly, lips pressing together tightly. The thinly veiled insults stung and she wasn’t at all sure what she’d done to deserve his ire. Had he only insulted her she would have borne it in silence, trying to nudge him into a better mood but the jab at Carlos still had her back up. She had already defended her relationship to her immediate family, she saw no reason why she should have to defend it to her Uncle too, but she would. Vienna crossed her arms, her eyes flashing blue fire as she fixed him with a look.

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating, Uncle,” Vienna told him in a low, stern voice. She couldn’t remember ever speaking to him in such a way before, but in this instance it was appropriate. “I’m not sure if my father said something to you or if you just don’t understand what it’s like to trust someone completely, but I don’t need to keep him by my side all night to know that he’s remaining faithful to me, no matter who offers him something. I’ll thank you to keep your opinions on the matter to yourself.”

Taking a deep breath, she let her eyes scan the crowd again, Carlos was nowhere to be seen so she couldn’t prove to her Uncle that he was wrong, but that was no matter. “I was having the time of my life, yes,” she answered, trying to get back to a more pleasant state of mind. “There’s nothing wrong with finding pleasure in the simple things. We’re here, for whatever reason, why not enjoy yourself?” 

[marcelloventuri-blog]

It was amazing how doe eyes that wide could be shut so tight. His idiot brother was to blame, no doubt. For twenty fucking years, the girl had been coddled, shielded from the world that paid for that sparkly dress and the jewelry that Daddy Dearest decked his precious baby in. She was weak inherently, there was no doubt there, but perhaps she was a product of him. Perhaps Luc’s incessant babying of the girl had done this to her, stripping her of the preparedness any young thing needed in the real world, never mind their world. That rose-coloured delusion of hers did her no favours; it never would. It needed to be broken, shattered, just like that shrouded spirit of hers. A real father would’ve done her that favour long ago — yet another place he needed to step in where Luciano fell short.

Her voice carried far more strength than he’d ever seen her muster — an accomplishment already, but not enough. She needed to be pushed further, tested, that naiveté  ripped from the childlike hands that clung so dearly to it. “I’m not insinuating shit,” he shrugged, a bitter laugh falling at the tail end of his words. “I’m telling you straight — lad’s got the fuckin’ world at his fingers. I don’t care how much you’re puttin’ out, I can promise he’s eatin’ your cake and half of London’s, too — because he can.” He had no proof, of course, nothing to found his accusations but his own brutish dealings with women and his assumption that all men — at least, the smart ones — thought the same. Of course, he’d never have been stupid enough to find himself tied to a girl so sheepish — but if he had, he could guarantee he wouldn’t have been satiated by the company of one sheep alone.

“But, what the fuck do I know, right?” he laughed, his words an echo of what he was sure they all said, or at the very least thought, when he wasn’t watching. “Go the fuck ahead, prove me wrong. If no one catches him gettin’ sucked off by your maid of honour at your wedding, you can give me a big ol’ told ya so.” It wasn’t that he wished pain on her, though it was difficult to deny the sadistic slices of himself that did so often take pleasure in watching others wretch and squirm, but that he wished for her to enter reality, to emerge from the cage Luciano had kept her in and force those eyes open by whatever means necessary. Then, perhaps, she’d grow into a girl worthy of his name.

Why not enjoy yourself? A loaded question, posed by a girl who could enjoy a fucking funeral if she put her mind to it. “Because, there’s nothing here to enjoy,” he scoffed, taking a quick scan of the ballroom. “Fuckin’ aristocrats spending the night pattin’ each other on the back and stackin’ up their wallets next to each other? I’ll pass. Not a damn thing in this room is real — but you’re pretty good at forgettin’ that, aren’t ya?”

[aubriellenadir]

It wouldn’t have been unexpected to have her hand pass through the arm Aubrielle had reached for – the occupants of the room were wispy, somewhere between a silhouette of smoke and a cloud of gasoline. They were all innuendo instead of promise, and even their corporeal forms matched that sideways slightness, with nearly every body within the walls lithe and muscled. Slim. But this man, the one she had stopped with no intention but common courtesy – he was suddenly, and all at once, very real. 

Perhaps she should have known from the moment her hand wound around his arm, with its thick muscular build obvious even through his suit jacket, but it wasn’t until he spoke that the weight of him clamped around her. She almost winced, the sudden answer all the louder after a night of conversations in half-whispers. His teeth seemed to leave imprints in the syllables, marking them as his own. She almost winced, but she didn’t. Aubrielle was better than that.

“No – I’ve got them locked up in my attic.” Bri answered in stride, keeping her tone mild and withdrawn, walking the paper’s-edge line between jadedly amused and disinterest. She wasn’t cold, hadn’t aged, wasn’t rough enough to match the stranger’s relative… vulgarity. But naivete wouldn’t do. “You lock any girls in your basement this evening?”

[marcelloventuri-blog]

She was a thing plucked fresh from the kinds of fairytales his heavy words stomped in circles around, delicate, her words floating through the air as if they’d been lifted fresh from the page of a naive schoolgirl’s picture book — but they were not the words of a child, they were the words of a woman. She was girlish innocence balanced on a razor’s edge, that tasty looking tongue of hers treading a truth she sure as hell couldn’t see, even as he stood so unapologetically in front of her.

He made no attempts to disguise what he was. Those hands weren’t weathered from hard work, those thick arms weren’t the result of a commitment to health, that unfiltered mouth wasn’t trying to impress. He was a brute, speaking his own language, and how shocked he was to find she was already fluent.

A loud laugh echoed from his belly through the crowded halls, an unapologetic rumble, one the frail bones of the nobility that surrounded them had likely never heard. If only she knew just how true her words rang, how his flat had seen more girls than he could count parade in and out — some willing, some not so much; some alive, some.. not so much. “Why?” he pried, his brows piquing along with his curiosity. “You lookin’ to be next?”

[marcelloventuri-blog]

Pouring a long gulp of his pint down his throat, Marcello slammed the glass back down, beckoning toward the bartender for another. These were not celebratory drinks; those had been downed weeks ago, when he’d finally severed ties with the fucking blue collar dragon of a probation officer that had breathed down his neck for months. No, these were angry drinks, being thrown back by a man who had just endured another day of being treated like a belligerent fucking pack mule by the empire he should’ve been commanding. He wanted release. He wanted to drink until he was stupid, maybe find a pretty little thing to take home and throw around for a few hours — but four short words had another plan entirely.

“You’ve been cut off.”

The bartender’s look was stern and unwavering, while Marcello’s contorted expression of confusion only reinforced his decision. “You fuckin’ kidding me?” he barked, standing from his stool. To be fair, he’d had.. more than he could count. But Marcello Venturi cared little for what was fair. With a thrash of his arm he sent the empty glass flying down the bar, breaking into crystalline shards as it crashed against oak. His eyes followed the sound, settling on the row of patrons who watched his outburst with wide eyes and open mouths. 

“You enjoying the fuckin’ show?”

[sacredsavage-blog]

The man was a beast, a brute, a burden. 

Luciano had always spoken of him so dismissively, so derisively, that Gwendolyn had half expected to find some half-witted ingrate before they first met. Marcello, the baby; Marcello, the lost cause. He was brusque and often insufferable, crude and callous, but he was far from stupid– Gwendolyn would never have tolerated flagrant stupidity. What her husband passed off as unintelligence was merely carelessness: with their family’s work, with the company, with his own life, with the lives of those around him. Cello had a bad habit of snarling until he could sink his teeth into whatever toy or title caught his fancy, and this made him dangerous– more dangerous still when the toy was Gwendolyn herself. 

She encouraged him, certainly. Playing with fire and striding off with her icy veneer intact and undisturbed was both a forté and favourite pass-time. Gwendolyn had been sure to let him catch a glimpse of her garter on her wedding day; had throughly enjoyed playing the part of ingenue whilst her Cello fought a hard-on before escorting her down the aisle to his own brother. He had always been her Cello, she supposed, since the moment their eyes had locked across Vito’s dinner table. She, the platinum prize his eldest brother flaunted; he, the laughingstock of the family, who wanted nothing more than to conquer what Luc held most dear. She found it quite funny, really, that the lowest blow Cello had ever successfully landed against Luc was when he had found his cock between Gwen’s thighs, and all Cello had managed to truly accomplish was to give Luc the one thing he wanted most of all: a child of his own. 

Gwendolyn felt him looking, as she always had, as if those wide eyes blew fire her way that razed over her skin. A flute of champagne, half empty but hardly the first of the evening, dangled almost haphazardly from one hand. The other brushed an ice-blonde lock of hair away from her slender neck, fingers drawing slowly over one collarbone, up her jugular, along her jawline, bidding Cello to lay eyes on skin he’d once sank his teeth into and remember how easily Gwendolyn had tossed him aside when she was through. Dance for me, my Cello. 

He came as if she’d called him, for he was nothing if not predictable, a slave to every whim his savage mind concocted. But Gwendolyn, for all her hardness, all her proud and cold aloofness, loved nothing more than a chase, to say nothing of one that had lasted twenty-some years; loved nothing more than to be wanted, to say nothing of the wanting of a man that let such wants consume him; loved nothing more than the never-forgotten memory of his thick fingers bruising the supple skin of her hips as he took her like the animal he was. He knew none of Luciano’s gentleness, and Gwendolyn loved him fiercely for it, as slave to him as he was to her. 

“So proud,” Gwendolyn echoed coolly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of watching her limbs prickle in gooseflesh at the first sound of his rough, rasping voice. You are nothing like the man with whom you share a name, Marcello. “It’s as if she hasn’t the faintest idea who her father is.” 

“Is there something you need, brother?” Those strange, blank eyes shifted over his face, her thoughts as hidden as his were all but screamed to anyone who knew how to look. “You’ve put in your cursory appearance– you’ve managed not to humiliate the family entirely so far this evening. Best to leave while you’re ahead, unless that was a piss-poor attempt at asking me to dance.” 

[marcelloventuri-blog]

“Her father doesn’t even know who her father is,” he snorted in return. There was enough privacy for him to speak freely in the corner he’d blocked her into — and that was the story he’d stick with, him pinning her down, never the other way around, because Marcello Venturi would never admit to himself that the fucking succubus had enough power over him to draw him to her with a few well-timed glances and flashes of leg. Had there been company, clinking their glasses and toasting to their shiny hair and circle-jerking society bullshit within earshot, his tone would’ve only hushed just low enough to preserve the one card he still held to his chest. He was a careless man, reputations and perceptions inconsequential to him, but this — this was the key to an empire, the one bullet in his gun, and he wasn’t stupid enough to flash the whole room his hand so soon.

Those words tasted fucking delicious on his tongue; they tasted like victory, tasted like her. Dangling the product of he and Gwen’s tryst before his brother’s arms for twenty years was but his greatest amusement yet, a sicker thrill than knowing the woman had been forced to look his brother in the eye and justify the bruises his possessive grip on her thighs had marked her with, because this was a lasting reminder of the time he’d won — the time she’d been his.

In his twisted mind, demented and disillusioned, she’d always been his. On the surface, she was no different than the aristocrats who’d disowned her for marrying beneath her — shallow, all too concerned with perception over passion. Of course she’d gravitated towards the eldest, the heir, the one who looked fucking perfect on paper; below it all, though, he could see the flame that burned bright, the girl who hungered for flesh and blood and fucking chaos the way Luciano never could. It was only fitting he’d been the one she’d chosen to accompany her down the aisle, giving her away to the brother that would never deserve her; to give, you must first own, and fuck, she’d been meant to be his since the very beginning. He knew it, she knew it — but those lips were too proud, too comfortable, to ever admit it.

Instead, she fucking taunted him.

Is there something you need, brother?

Brother. As if the word were somehow supposed to reaffirm just how inappropriate his jabs were, how it’d be better for the both of them if he simply played a role like the rest of the fucking puppets that shared his name, her included. ( At the end of the day it would always be his name more than hers, no matter which of his blood she’d taken it from ). 

“I’m not an animal, Gwen, I can say a fucking hello without askin’ for shit.” Oh, but he was an animal, with strong claws and sharp teeth and an innate taste for blood, and he was sure she remembered. He needed little from her explicitly, easily preferring a shallow grave to the humiliation of bowing his head to anyone and begging a favour. What he sought from her was exactly what she delivered — her prickly tongue daring to slice through his calloused skin, the fire between her words just satisfying enough to keep him in that tie and in that spot for however long it took for her to tire of his prodding and recoil.

A toothy grin, arrogant and challenging, broke free. “You’re lucky I don’t dance,” he said, the words slithering from his tongue. The only dance he’d ever entertain between the two of them was the one still burned into his skin, a dance of heat and desire, power and control, rough hands grasped tightly around a slender neck and diamond-cuffed wrists — that, and the tango their tongues knew all too well. “We both know how that goes, and that pretty li’l frame of yours isn’t built to pop out another one.”

[maiavxnturi-blog]

          Her head moved slowly, neck coiling to the side, hair falling behind in waves of ink which barely compared to the darkness that withered her from within. She was a beautiful black rose, sweetly scented but full of death. She accepted the immersion of her uncle with little movement, a short raise of the head as her brow shot up, lips pulled together as her eyes narrowed with curiosity. “Careful, Uncle, the queen might hear your words,” she teased, although little in her feared the monarch which presided in the palace walls and upon postage stamps. She was a figure head, nothing more than that, yet people bowed before her feet and swore their undying love. She’d make every weak willed person bow, their bodies crippled with the pain she’d gladly inflict, evil sparkling in her dark eyes. 

“I was raised in events like this, my very upbringing a result of being in favour with the royal family. Or did you forget that my mother was and still is on very good terms with Queen Diana?” There was little in her that truly admired her uncle, not in the way she did her mother and father, who she desired to succeed with a glorious reign of terror. “Still, once you’ve seen one royal event, you’ve seen them all. Only a Venturi truly knows how to throw a night to remember,” Maia responded, a hidden darkness turning her last sentence slightly. A Venturi soiree was met by luxury, weath and the smell of death in the air. 

[marcelloventuri-blog]

The queen might hear your words. There was little he perceived as a real threat — the barrel of a gun pressed to his temple, a knife to his throat, calloused hands wrapped around his neck, all things his weathered body had survived. The Queen, hiding safe in her castle, doing nothing but sitting pretty on her fucking throne while men like him were the ones who ruled her country, struck no fear into him. Instead, a laugh boomed loud and strong. “And what’s she gonna do?” he joked, not an all encumbered by the stern looks of judgment being thrown at him from London’s elite, spiffed up in their suffocating ties and dresses built for mannequins. “Escort me out? Make me kiss her fuckin’ feet? I’m quivering.” He’d seen death look him in the eye and pass him by, he’d doled that punishment to men who’d looked at him wrong. A pursed look of disappointment from Her Fuckin’ Majesty was a joke.

His eyes rolled, Maia’s dropping of her mother’s connection to the woman hardly impressive. There were tens of thousands of things about Gwendolyn Venturi capable of tempting him — that wasn’t one of them. “Yeah, I’ve heard,” he scoffed, dismissing the idea that any of them could’ve found such an anecdote so riveting. It was all part of the games they played, the games he had neither the tact nor patience for — games about who you know, whose loyalty sat safely in your back pocket. Real power, he’d always known, came not from blowing up the arse of someone who sat on a fancy chair — it came from being the one to pop a bullet through their beating heart and taking that blood-stained chair for yourself. “When your mum’s rubbing her elbows with someone with real power, why don’t you let me know?” — a not-so-subtle jab at the brother whose empire sat so close, but only just out of reach. Not for long.

“That’s because when it’s done right, we’re the only ones still standing to remember a damn thing.” Tactless as always, the words were spoken loud enough for any passerby to hear — and he couldn’t bring himself to care enough to censor himself. The nights he spoke of were the only ones worth his time — the ones where he’d silence a threat, seize power over a rival, assert himself as the fucking visionary he knew himself to be. This stuffy shithole couldn’t hold a candle to his wonderland of blood and bone — that was no secret, especially not to the girl who, despite her veneer of emerald and diamond, found thrill in the same wicked delights as he.

[viennaventuri]

Vienna’s smile faltered at Marcello’s harsh reply and she dropped her hand to her side. Honestly, she should have known he’d say no, but she was in such a good mood that she was hoping it would be infectious. Marcello Venturi had never been an easy man to get on with, but he was her uncle and she loved him even though he’d never given her the time of day. Vienna wasn’t stupid, she knew her uncle resented her father and that there was an odd sort of tension between him and her mother; he tolerated Maia but no matter how hard she tried, Vienna could never seem to please him. Then again, nothing really seemed to please him so she tried not to take it personally. 

“Oh, uhm, alright then.” She moved to stand beside him, pale blue skirts floating around her legs as she moved out of the way of the other dancers. A golden curl had come loose from her updo and she tucked it back in a thoughtless gesture that echoed her mother’s movements. Though she might look like Gwendolyn’s second coming, no one who had spent any time with the two women would mistake them for each other. Pale brows pulled together as she looked up at Marcello’s face. I bet he’d let you step on him wherever you want. There was something behind the words that she wasn’t understanding but there was no way she was going to ask what he meant by them. 

“Carlos is around somewhere… Perhaps with Andrew,” she answered, glancing around the dance floor for her boyfriend but failing to see him. “I wouldn’t expect him to stay by my side the entire night.” Her thin shoulders lifted in a shrug. “That’s why I needed a new partner, but it’s alright, I can sit this one out. Are you enjoying the party?”

[marcelloventuri-blog]

To look at her was to be mislead by the worst kind of doppelganger. She stared back at him, the pout of her lips and the point of her nose and the contours of her face screaming of Gwendolyn — a mirror fucking image of the woman who’d bore her, the woman who could still slither so effortlessly under his calloused skin with but a well-timed flicker of her eyes or shift of her hips. Had she moved like her mother, spoke like her mother, thirsted for more like her mother, perhaps there’d have been a shred of something redeemable stitched into their shared DNA — but she didn’t. No, when that singsong voice of a fucking cartoon lamb slipped from her lips, the illusion came quickly crashing down. It took a magnificent kind of creature to embody all her beast of a mother did — it was a miracle this sad little thing hadn’t been eaten alive yet.

She knew better than to push the matter further, having spent enough time, no matter how unwilling, around him to know that attempting to rope him into anything would’ve been a waste of breath. Though, his refusal went hand in hand with circumstance. Should he have snatched a few more drinks from passing trays, and perhaps caught glimpses of Luciano and Gwen watching from the corner of his eye, twirling the girl around for three and a half minutes would’ve been a small price to pay as he watched his brother fume at the thought of his brutish hands on his daughter, or prodded at Gwendolyn’s nerves by flaunting the unspoken bond between them for all of the gala to see. For now, though, he happily allowed the girl to shuffle herself from the midst of the floor with her tail between her legs, her soft disappointment entirely lost on him.

The uncertainty in her eyes as she glanced around the ballroom told him all he needed to know. That boy had a better offer somewhere else — or so he could only assume. A child with the world on a string and an empire in his back pocket had no business chaining himself to a girl like her — not when it took so little to get another girl between his sheets, and, as he assumed by her dismissal of his not-so-subtle insinuation, if she wasn’t putting out. Despite what Luc might’ve thought, he could add two and two. “Why wouldn’t he?” Marcello ventured, fully aware he was prodding to wound. Good — maybe if she opened those doe eyes a little wider, she’d be that much easier to tolerate. “Unless someone made him a better offer someplace else.” His words were nonchalant, accompanied by a shrug that simply didn’t care whether he’d poked at an open wound or torn an entirely new one. “Enjoying the party?” he echoed, a booming, inappropriately loud laugh not far behind. “I wouldn’t pay a fuckin’ quid for this fairytale bullshit. Only reason I showed up to begin with was to get your aunt to shut the hell up — but you must be havin’ the time of your life, aren’t ya?” Deprecation laced the words that carried so little thought. He cared little for whether or not he offended her delicate sensibilities, whether such a quick, brutish dismissal of her interests stung; if it did, good. She fucking needed it.

[aubriellenadir]

When she was a child, Aubrielle had at times wondered if it got lonely on the other side of the mirror, and attempted to soothe her reflection with attempts to coax it into conversation. Or eating. Or invitations to play. Some eighteen years later, she had yet to contemplate that she was the one on the wrong side of the mirror. The reflection has only four edges to prick her finger on, but here, in the ice-diamond world she had walked into, all things were shining and sharp and ready to draw her blood. (Beautiful things are also terrible too, girl. They are the space between god and the devil). It was so easy to forget that a fistful of diamond rings cut a man as easily as brass knuckles, and within the room Aubrielle had just entered, everyone was well armed. The party-goers with names inked onto the guestlist were like opulent icicles, freezing and sparkling stalactites that were simultaneously cold to the touch – and even some capable of drawing blood, should they choose to break off from their resting places and puncture someone walking beneath them.

But Bri had no knowledge of this; she had the secrets men forgot to remember to lock up under her tongue, the slithering, sweet truths that amounted to a greater, marbled one – but she didn’t know how close she was to danger. Not yet. All she understood was the immediate threat at her feet.

“Oh – Just a moment.” Aubrielle extended a hand to catch on the elbow of the person moving to overtake her stagnant position in the hallway. Even here, in warning, she remembered to slow her voice and gloss it, rolling lacquer. She had relinquished her girlishness when she stepped into her gown and onto these premises, as with all nights with similar formula. “They’ve asked us to wait.” They, the staff that had darted away only a moment ego. In explanation, she tilted her eyes to the floor, where glass - or perhaps they were sharp shards of diamonds, for the way they glittered in the light - had been left shattered, decorating the hallway. Her gaze lifted upwards again, the edges of her lips rising with it. “Cinderella’s been by.”

[marcelloventuri-blog]

He’d never taken well to being told what to do. The only entities who dared attempt to command him were the demons that ruled within, the impulses whose brute force could maneuver stubborn bones and barge through thick skin. Passions and the barrel of a gun were but his only drivers, a line of red tape or assemblage of bodies hardly enough to cage the bull of a man. The crowd that had gathered in the hallway, likely gawking like well-trained idiots at the fucking brush strokes on some overpriced painting that hung in the corridor, didn’t quell the quickened pace with which he strode. If anything, the group of tangled limbs only fuelled his steps. Prepared to shove and elbow his way through tangled arms and legs and a sea of glittering dresses, a light touch against his arm was hardly enough to bring his body to a halt, nor was the singsong voice that accompanied it. They’ve asked us to wait — us, as if she and him were somehow an entity together, as if he couldn’t have snapped those pretty little fingers for attempting to sway him.

Who the fuck did she think she was?

A smug grimace prepared itself for her before his head had turned her way. She was beautiful; Marcello had never been the kind to appreciate beauty in its simplest sense. No, beauty was but a clean slate, an invitation to paint that pure, sterile body with black and blue and red. Beauty was meant to be bruised and bloodied and broken, and the pretty little thing that had caught his eye was a blank slate, a canvas that only needed someone with vision to create a masterpiece. Marcello Venturi had vision seeping from every pore. 

“I’m not worried about her,” he shrugged, taking a look down at his watch. For a brief moment he mentally thanked Vienna — a first — for her incessant obsession with that cartoon’s help in understanding the reference. “She’d’a turned back into a pumpkin half an hour ago. You, though — you’re still here, and you’re sure as shit no ugly stepsister.”