Did you really think she was a tender flower you could trample upon, and damage her very soul? She is wildfire. And she is coming to devour you whole. MARGAUX OLIVIER — heiress —
“The real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but self-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege of the rich.” — Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
Tonight, the serpent is wearing a piece from Elie Saab’s highly coveted Spring/Summer 2019 collection. 80% of Margaux’s closet(s) are filled with red garments, so this gown is perfect for tonight and is very on brand for her. She’s here not just because her attendance is expected, but so that she can do a bit of networking to continue diversifying the connections of the Corsican Mafia.
She’s sin personified, clad in a little skin-tight ruby red number complete with a Paris label—a siren’s uniform if there ever was one. There’s a certain look of utter discontent that twinkles like the glimmer of a diamond in both eyes as she scans the scene ahead of her. The High Tide Lounge, for all of its hype, is virtually unimpressive to say the least. Margaux is, as always, expecting more from everything around her and she never fails to be disappointed when nothing meets her outrageously high standards. Aren’t all god’s just positively insatiable? Is not commonplace for those like her in status to crave the the absolutely impossible? Men don’t become immortal by taking only what’s been given to them. So no, Margaux is never impressed by the usual or the expected. What exactly makes this dive any better than the rooftop of the Garden Hotel? By invitation only, one can sit beside wealthy elites in the lounge and compare towering Hampton estates and trust funds over top shelf liquor. That’s a typical Tuesday afternoon for Margaux. Where the fuck is the big twist?
She’s here for a good reason. It’s time to put a face to the little princeling who’s hand supposedly belongs to her now. Margaux’s heard stories of him and they’re all just as pedestrian as one might imagine. He’s handsome, that much Margaux has been assured of. This engagement is enough of an insult, so at least he’ll be pretty to look at when he’s down on his knees by her command. A tall man leads her to the empty booth where she’s meant to wait for him, and already she’s counting this as the first slight (one that she’s not likely to forget). Who the fuck is he to make her wait for him here like some afterthought? She’s patient, yes, but she’s never been too keen on waiting for something she can’t care less about. Suddenly, she remembers the pretty little cardstock invitation and bouquet of typical red roses that had been sent to her penthouse suite a day ago and quickly makes a mental note to shred both the note and the flowers the moment she returns home. No doubt the letter and flowers had been sent to her from some nameless secretary or servant.
It’s all for Damien, she reminds herself. It’s for him, and for their business. To belong is to serve, so she’ll swallow her pride and sink down into the booth as is expected of her. Still, she’s agreed to meet on his turf, the least he could do is arrive earlier than her and save her the embarrassment of waiting around for him like some forgotten appointment. Before he can slip away from her, Margaux waves the tall man down with a bit of annoyance wafting from the gesture. “Dry martini” there’s hints of boredom in the tone of her voice as she orders the drink because now she must suffer through having her time wasted. Within a few short moments, the tall man returns to the table carrying her single drink on a silver tray. Just as she’s taking her first sip, another figure emerges from behind the man, and her dark eyes immediately latch on to him. Finally, the Valentina boy has arrived. Let the games begin.
They reside in a crystal palace in the sky; in suites that are far too palatial for gods lesser than themselves to dwell in. It is here that opulence knows no bounds, for the Oriole is the ever glittering crown jewel of the upper west side of Manhattan. Her own floor in the Oriole is positively sumptuous and appears entirely unlived in with its clean cut decor and cool white walls. One would expect nothing less for the living conditions of Manhattan’s very own medusa. It’s a shame that Margaux may soon have to abandon this multifaceted paradise for other less extravagant lodgings. Of course, Margaux won’t be going anywhere if she has anything to say about it. Betrothals can shatter just as easily as glass beneath the force of the right kind of hand, and Margaux is sure that she has just that. She’s in no rush to topple the engagement just yet, as there are still cards left on the table to be played and a more important game to win. She’s waiting for something, an opportunity to present itself so that she can bend it to her will. All in due time, she silently reminds herself while nursing a crystal flute filled to the rim with prosecco. Patience is perhaps the most intimidating virtue that a woman can have.
She’s draped elegantly across an ice-white sectional sofa; a designer piece that costs more than the rent of a luxury brownstone. Deft fingers with neatly painted blood red nails swipe at the screen of her iPad as she skims through the business section of today’s newspaper (a habit she’d adopted during her years at Yale). Sliding across lacquered lips is a devious little smile once she hears the passcode to her front door unlock; a sign that her cousin has arrived. She makes no fuss when Damien enters as he is the only soul alive who can enter her floor uninvited. “One day you may walk in unannounced and see something you wish you hadn’t, cousin” She greets him quite playfully all while keeping her attention focused on the lengthy article on her screen. “And what, pray tell, brings you here so early? You of all people should know that I can’t be bothered to take anything seriously past 2pm.”
· · · vivienne wasn’t upset or insulted by margaux’s lateness. hell she was entertained by the rumors spreading of another actress being dropped from a very big movie role. one that she had been offered this morning. of course vivienne would claim to have no idea about it but that was for appearances. the menteries knew exactly how to work the field and to get things in her favor. after all, she was her fathers daughter. despite her hate for the man.
vivienne could appreciate a good set of heels, and it came as no surprise that she loved margaux’s taste in the finer things. after all, it was in their blood. it was not long after, the olivier woman sat down had the waiter appeared, asking if they were ready to order. given that this was where margaux and vivienne often met for their brunch/lunch dates, vivi knew what she would order. once he had taken the orders down he proceeded to refill vivi’s drink and place one in front of margaux.
❝ speaking of husband, he’s a pain in my ass.
what bout you. how’s prince charming?… ❞
“He’s a problem,” she answers before pausing immediately after, the words sound just as bitter as they taste on her tongue. “one that I should like to be rid of quite soon.” The imaginary band of gold squeezes her ring finger too tightly for her to truly ignore it, so she must deal with it in some way. There will be no narrative in which Margaux Olivier is the wife to a spare, for such a role would be impossible for a monster of her breeding to play. No, she’s meant for thrones, for crowns too heavy for men to hold in their feeble hands. The union between herself and the little prince will only know tragedy should it come to fruition. “He’s not my match. He could never be my equal.” She says it with a kind of arrogance that is unmistakably regal. She is, in every facet of life, a crownless queen with her grip on something greater than most can imagine. What use does a queen have for an overly protected prince who’s much too afraid to soak his hands in the ichor of gods? Should he somehow usurp his brother’s role, take control of his father’s life's work, then perhaps he may be worth sitting beside at some point. For now, Dimitri is but a toy that she’ll play with until she manages to have him and his family on their knees where they belong.
“You and I aren’t what other people consider to be wife material, mon chéri. We’re meant for something more than what marriage can offer us.” Margaux’s never really been one for girl talk; for empowerment among other women. She’s actually never been too drawn in by the intricacies of female friendship at all, but she feels alarmingly comfortable in Vivienne’s company. She’s not met many women who are cut from the same roll of silk as herself, so perhaps that is why she’s found herself seeking Vivienne out as of late.
· · · fingers stroked over keys as the buzz of laughter filled the air, the sound of glass wear clinking in the background along with it. vivienne sat at a table waiting for a dear friend for a brunch date. the waiter came by, replacing her empty glass for a full one. her drink choice, mimosas. vivienne had been so engrossed in snapping a picture, editing it to post onto her media platforms.
setting the phone down at the sound of a chair being pulled out, vivienne looked up towards margaux, a bored face present on her face.
❝ took you long enough. did you forget about our date? ❞
@margauxolivier
There’s a certain spring in her step, an unusual essence of joviality that’s entirely unlike her. She’s never quite this upbeat, especially not when en route to meeting another face that’s closely tied with the Corsican mafia. Before she is anything else, Margaux is an opportunist that seeks to elevate her own status and is certainly no stranger to cutting corners in order to achieve her goals. That was what Vivienne was to her; a means of boosting her name in this godforsaken city of culture deprived Americans. Never did Margaux intend to find a creature of the same brood as she. Like blades, they cut. Like serpents, they bite. It’s a rare enough thing to find someone of your kind in this city, but Margaux is certain that she has found it tenfold in the Menteries woman.
Jet black heels with blood red soles click against the marble flooring—the warning siren of the arrival of a serpent. Spreading across rouged lips is a sleek smile as Margaux’s dark eyes establish a connection with Vivienne’s. “I had some business to take care of,” she answers Vivienne’s question matter of factly while sliding into the seat across from her. It’s not a lie, there’s much to arrange now that she’s being shackled to the useless little Russian princeling. There’s nothing she wants more than to be free of this engagement, but she is unfortunately bound to him through a debt she owes to her family. The opportunity to shatter this engagement hasn’t come yet, but she’s more than ready to advantage of it when it does. “Try not to be too mad at me, chérie. I’m certainly better company than your beloved husband.” It’s a tease, and it isn’t meant to be anything but that. She’s met the man, just as she’s met all of the men who reside beneath the all powerful thumb of her cousin. After a single conversation with him, Margaux knew for sure that Vivienne deserved better.
Kat’s tongue slid against her teeth as she listened to the woman and shook her head. She was astonished by this woman’s coldness and wondered sometimes if this is what people thought of her. “I’m qualified for so much more than that, sweetheart. I just like being filled to the brim.” Her eyes set but her body language still unwavering of anything other than lax. Her brow raised, “that is if you know how to use it, of course. You probably have it sewn up, huh? Too scared to let someone see that weakness in you that you enjoy the same things I do. I just have pride in myself and what I like. What do you have? Your nose covered in your own shit is all I see.” Those words did hurt for a minute though. The sting of them real because that was where Kat had been headed at one point when business was going down hill. “I have served some of the most well to do men in this city, none of them complain. I probably have serviced someone you’ve fancied even. Just remember this, men are more like animals than you realize. They may marry a bitch, that doesn’t mean that’s the only bitch he’s fucking. They come to my house of pleasure to get what they desire that women that think they are higher than us can’t provide. We’re not afraid to get down and dirty, in fact we’re right proud of it. So give me that cock in my mouth and ball of twenties any day, because at the end of the day. That’s money in my pocket and a man satisfied because the woman at home, couldn’t do it the way I could.”
She’s a creature of burning desire, a beast of raw and red wanting. She craves the rush of an electrifying touch just as much as every other woman in the world. The only difference between herself and all of those other women is that she fucks on silk sheets in a penthouse that’s too high up in the clouds for them or this puny woman to see. There is nothing virginal about Margaux Olivier but she isn’t interested in explaining herself to to a common whore on the streets of New York city. Gods do not bend to the whims of feeble humans, and they certainly do not explain themselves to them either. No, she can find better uses of her time than that. Let this woman believe that she knows Margaux; she doesn’t. “And you will continue to serve the most well to do men in this city. A highly requested cum rag is still a cum rag, mon amie. Shit rolled in diamonds is still shit.” It’s a particularly harsh truth, one that Margaux will ensure that this woman learns early. “There is nothing spectacular about making a man cum. It’s the easiest thing in the world to do, your cunt has no special powers.” she answers with a snicker following closely behind. Margaux has grown tired of this now, and she’s already wasted far too much of her time and energy on this woman. The valet attendant will certainly face the back end of her wrath for making her wait so long and with such unpleasant company no less. “Your worth is at the end of a politician’s penis. That isn’t power, you stupid bitch.”
Margaux turns from the woman once more as dark brown eyes manage to catch a glimpse of her car being pulled around to the front. Now she can finally be away from this woman and her rickety pro sex work soap box. As the jet black sports car comes to a stop directly in front of her, a scrawny young man quickly leaves the driver’s seat and passes Margaux the keys (sans eye contact of course) Before she departs, she turns to look at this pitiful woman once more and slowly closes the distance between them. “Every time you open your mouth to someone in this city you paint a big red target right...” She pauses as though she’s thinking about something, but her eyes never leave the woman’s face as she stops right in front of her with her finger gently poking the center of her forehead. “there.” It’s a threat, and it rolls off the tongue with a kind of unsettling ease. She wields words of poison that are meant to Golden bullets are a perfect way to silence a mouth that speaks out of term. Perhaps this one will learn to keep hers shut lest she wish to be silenced permanently by someone with much less patience than Margaux. “Au revoir”.
Kat’s brows gently furrowed, her tongue sliding to find purchase against her teeth for a moment as she took in the woman’s reaction. “A simple no thank you would have sufficed, love. No need to act like the bitch you are.” The words spitting from her tongue like venom, because even though Kat was an escort, she didn’t take that tone from anyone. It had gotten her in trouble with clients before but just because she enjoyed sex and having a good time didn’t mean she deserved to be talked to like some bitch on the street. Her jaw slightly dropping, and a huff of laughter bursting from her chest. Her forehead crinkled slightly as she sought to stand toe to toe with the woman, “the only person I see with fleas here is you, dog. Your nose is so far up in the air you’re doing a back bend and smelling your own ass, is it?” She shook her head at the woman, “it’s people like you that make it hard to support other women sometimes, because the fact that you think you’re so much better than us and you’re probably more miserable than the lot of my girls. You’re no better than the hooker down the corner, you just sold your soul for greed rather than a fix.” Her tone remained the same. Her voice never raising higher than it had when the woman had interrupted her night. Her cool kept and the calm never leaving her eyes.
Buried behind her ribs are a bouquet of dying roses, each one a representation of the death of her morality. Margaux is a woman devoid of all softness; a creature who has no desire for neither kindness nor respect for the peons around her ( and this woman is just that: a goddamn peon). This is New York City, the land of gods and men, the devil’s most cherished playground. One would think that in a city as gruesome as this that a keeper of whores would have thicker skin. Daggers laced with poision attempt to wound impenetrable diamond, but they all clatter to the concrete below her six inch heels like the pennies this woman and the whores in her service earn in order to live another day. She laughs now, cool and silvery. It’s the chuckle of an arrogant god who toys with her prey for no other reason than because it amuses her. “I support your right to shut your mouth and to have your holes stuffed, idiote salope. That is all you are qualified to do, non?” There’s ice creeping on the fringes of her words; the kind of freezing cold that burns flesh from the bone. Like the woman across from her, she’s unimaginiably calm but unyielding in the brutality of her words. Actually, this isn’t even her worst. No, Margaux always likes to play with her food before really devouring it. The bite may be the most satisfying, but the fun is in the battle. “Better to sell my soul than my cunt. I at least have some use for the latter.” Ah yes, now she recognizes that stench. It’s the stench of someone wanting to be more than they are; wanting to be more than they’ll ever be. “Cherie, your place in this city, in this world, is in the alleyway with a cock in your mouth and ball of twenties thrown into your face. Pour votre bien, ne vous comparez pas à moi.”
“Well this is a surprise,” She said smiling, she actually thought she had been sneaky in the no one knowing she was coming here department but well she supposed that the city wasn’t that big or rather their social circle was actually very small and people knowing things were just how things went. “I was just waiting until the jet lag had passed a bit more before I started to show signs of life” She explained “I barely stopped at my house when I arrived. So no need to be offended” She said with a small chuckle, though she didn’t really think Margaux had been truly nearly offended at the least, of all her friends, Margaux was probably one of the least dramatic of them and that was one of the reasons Lexie liked her very much. She took the offered cocktail and took a small sip. “I was thinking of doing something tomorrow.”
“Something tomorrow? Like?” The glare of dark eyes that linger just above the crystal rim of a well nursed cocktail is positively vampiric. Devious in nature, a sleek smirk slips itself across rouged lips at the subtle mention of a possible celebration. Margaux’s been raised to sink her teeth into every opportunity, to bleed it dry until her own hand is the one that raises with sole authority. She’s done it far too many times to count to too many people whose names and faces she can’t quite be bothered to remember. It matters little to her whether or not someone has already made up their minds about something, for she has never been one to follow the natural flow of things, or to quietly go along with the whims and desires of lesser people. If Alexandra intends to settle for a sweet garden party then Margaux will happily plant the seeds of her own desires for a different sort of party. “I was thinking that we might celebrate with several bottles of Dom that neither of us will even think to pay for at a club that’s lucky enough to host two of the most successful and promising women in all of New York city. Any objections, ma petite douce?” It’s the superior option; the only one that is truly appropriate for the homecoming of New York’s modern day Grace Kelly.
The party she had just left had been more than a delight and definitely one that would help business with the people she employed in tow. They all stumbled out of the establishment laughing and enjoying themselves in the late city night air, the smile unable to wipe away from her face even as they all seemed to block the street and someone’s path. “I’m sorry sweetheart. Let us just move on out of your way.” She chuckled, “unless you’ve come our way on purpose?” Her brow raised playfully as the others giggled. “We’re heading back to the house if you would like to join us?”
Her smile is sugar sweet, gritty white crystals melting atop waxy red lips as her pointed chin is tilted upwards. Positively angelic in both appearance and demeanor, the woman can’t possibly anticipate what Margaux is planning to say to her. In truth, she has no use for niceties, never has. Kind gestures, warm words—neither of them serve a single purpose to the serpent. No, all she knows how to do is lure in her prey long enough for her to able to bite down on their necks. So, the smile fades almost as quickly as it was formed, and what was originally believed to be sugar was always just salt in disguise.“Fuck no.” It’s vulgar and yet it still glides off the tongue with a certain frenchman’s poise. She’s waiting for her car to be delivered to the front; a jet black Bugatti Chiron with windows tinted blacker than her immortal soul, so why the fuck would she ever be interested in going anywhere with this woman? Perhaps this is what she dislikes the most about New York City; the audacity of its people. They’re too open for her tastes and much too free with their tongues to be taken seriously by her. This woman and her...group reek of something that Margaux can’t quite place her finger on but whatever it is she finds it unpleasant. “I don’t need any fucking fleas.” Her voice is soft, lucious even. The words don’t even leave her lips sounding like an insult and yet they still cut just the same. Smooth as Godiva, sharp as a blade.
Alexandra was very happy to be back in New York, though she would always love to travel and go to so many places, at the end of the day she liked being home. She knew she was biased but to her New York just had a certain charm that made her the city she liked the most, very few came close but in the end it was the city where she had grown up the one that called her back every time. One of her favorite spots was The Garden Hotel and more specifically the rooftop garden. Today the garden was quiet and really it was the best way to experience it. She had been walking for a while when she heard a loud noise that made her jump before going to where the noise had happened. “Is..everything okay?”
Margaux never forgets a face for each one leaves distinct marks that are permanently etched upon her brain - all labelled accordingly as she recognizes ally from enemy, friend from foe. Unfortunately, in her family’s line of work there is no middle ground. New York, for all of its glamour and intrigue is still but a bloody battlefield for the power hungry warlords and their faithful henchmen (this is certainly not a city for the weak, but somehow Alexandra Rothschild manages to float above it all—untouched). She’s clay, that much Margaux is sure of. Innocence no matter how enticing it may be almost never thrives in the seat of chaos, and yet here is a pink tulip growing proudly but quietly between the cracks of weather-worn concrete. She’s useful, Margaux has decided. Like herself, Alexandra is disgustingly privileged and conveniently comes with a last name that can be traded like currency. The Rothschild girl is good for Margaux’s publicity; a pretty enough star with a famous name that can stand silently at her side during charity galas. If nothing else, then the girl would at least be a decent enough companion to have eggs benedict and mimosas with at twelve-o’clock in the afternoon.
She rises confidently from her seat, tucking freshly curled brown waves behind her ears to expose twin diamonds that drip precariously from both lobes. Passing two faceless waiters carrying silver trays of assorted cocktails, Margaux plucks two crystalline glasses from the bunch without offering the server so much as a glance before making her way over towards the girl. She clears her throat to gather the blonde’s attention, a n abrupt enough interruption that’s quickly followed by a comfortable smirk that laces itself across lacquered lips. “And why, pray tell, have you not bothered to notify me of your return, ma douce? I dare say that I’ve become somewhat offended.” There’s artificial sweetener eroding what others might consider to be friendly teasing. Truthfully, Margaux’s never been one to do anything even remotely friendly, but she plays the part of the sincere girlfriend who actually gives a fuck frighteningly well. Hands with nails sharply carved into the stiletto fashion offers the girl the second cocktail as she takes generous sips from her own glass; dark eyes never waver in their connection to Alexandra’s. “You can’t simply return without a proper welcome home gathering, now can you?”
&&. word has it ( margaux olivier ) was just spotted around the city. ( she ) is a ( 25 ) year old affiliated with ( the corsican mafia ). it’s been said that ( she ) resembles ( emily ratajkowski ). ( she ) has been said to be ( artful & captivating ) but also quite ( cruel & domineering ). ( she ) is currently serving as ( both an heiress and socialite).
( Hi guys! I’m Jay and this is Margaux my sour cherry, my vicious little Veruca Salt. I’m super excited for you all to get to know her and plot with you all! Below the cut you’ll find her bio. Please mind the trigger warnings! )
♟une.
( margaux ) would describe ( herself ) as a ( summer ) person and would identify as a ( entj/lawful neutral ). ( her ) birthday is ( february 6th ), making ( his/her/their ) star sign ( aquarius ) and ( her ) animal sign the ( cat ). ( her ) biggest pet peeve is ( incompetence ), and ( her ) theme song is ( fuck with myself by banks ). finally, ( her ) primary goal is to ( promote the interests of the corsican mafia ).
♟deux.
She was born a girl of secrets and half truths; of sickeningly cruel games and gruesome punishments. It is in adulthood that men become monsters, but Margaux has always been a beast of prey patiently waiting to devour supple flesh. She was born cold, calculating, patient. Like a snake’s threatening rattle, a bell’s final warning, she was nothing if not a bad omen. Perhaps it all began years ago in private school when Claudette Dubois mysteriously fell from the tower of the jungle gym during recess and sprained her ankle after being chosen for class leader. When questioned about the incident, Margaux only smiled and a flutter of sable lashes erased any and all suspicion that may have surrounded the young Olivier girl. Even then, She’d never been the type to make her desires known. No, the enemy must first suffer before ever hoping to peer into her desires. Of course, this ideology isn’t exactly self taught. Such putrid ideals had been whispered into the docile ears of this young girl since birth by both her mother and father. How could she not believe in them? She’s a fucking prodigy, her father would endlessly sing her praises at the dinner table as he crudely scraped her mother’s fine china with the blades of his silver fork. Aren’t all masters proud of their creations no matter how devious they turn out to be? Every victory claimed by her hand earned her a sleek and pretty smile from mother and an approving glance from father. Throughout her childhood, Margaux fashioned herself into the perfect mirror image of her mother’s sharp, regal beauty and her father’s quick wit and brutality. But what happens when a child claims the best pieces of their parents for themselves? They begin to look past them for power and they grow to resent them for all that they are not.
She’s known fabulous wealth and privilege her entire life; a small yet prominent debt owed to her mother’s everlasting trust fund and her loan shark father who had quite the penchant for frauds and finagling. Margaux has never been blind to the swindling and jugular slicing of her father’s career. His familial connection with the Olivier run mob was well known in her sixteen room chateau but was never spoken of outside of it. By the time Margaux’s designer heels stepped foot off the marble floors of the all-girls private boarding school in Switzerland that she quite literally dominated, she was prepared to sink both teeth and talons into the gritty world of the Corsican mafia that had bitten so many people back. Of course, her mother and father had other plans for their daughter’s future and none of them included her being apart of the blood soaked and diamond hungry mafia. No, their princesse was meant to be just that: a princesse. Smart, beautiful, and cunning does not a mafia member make. No, in their eyes Margaux was destined for the ivy league where she would likely fall into the arms of some wealthy aristocrat that she could forever control. This is where she made her first mistake. Sometimes mommy and daddy do know best but how can a child who’s been raised like a young god be certain of what others think is right or wrong? So she charged in head first, a woman grown who’d honed her feminine wiles into a shiny blade of terror. High on the power, frightening in her intellect, and drunk on the international influence, Margaux forgot that even gods bleed from failure.
Her second mistake happened very early on in her brief trial period as a soldier. It was all so thrilling to her. She’d been an untouchable princesse both at home and with her brothers in the mafia. A girl of diamond wit and burning cruelty, she easily gained respect and earned her place among the ranks of the Corsican monsters (and of course, her last name and status didn’t hurt her chances for success). After being given nothing but small errands and minor debt collections, Margaux was finally tasked with a real job. Margaux was to meet Henri Baptiste, a man that the mafia had been keeping an eye on due to his outstanding debt. Ever the capable little harpy, Margaux accepted the challenge and met with the man on the balcony of his luxury suite in the 6th arrondissement. What should of been a game of wits where Margaux would have easily had Baptiste by the balls turned bloody when he revealed that he had no intention of repaying his debt to the mafia. Thinking that she knew best, Margaux quickly withdrew her gun and with frighteningly accurate precision, a golden bullet hit him square between the eyes (a skill that had taken her months to learn and perfect). With a swipe of the linen napkin against the apples of her cheeks, Margaux wiped the blood splatter from her face without even flinching, and exited Baptiste’s suite unseen. Her father never revealed how he handled those who couldn’t pay their debts, but she had an idea. If they couldn’t be loyal in life, then they would be loyal in death. Well, that was the end of that. Or so she thought. Afterwards, Margaux had never felt more alive. Unfortunately, her arrogance blinded her to the mafia's the golden rule: your failure is your mess to clean up. The mission was never meant to end in death, but since it did and because it cost the mafia a great deal, Margaux’s punishment would be to discard the body.
She began with dismemberment, severing as many pieces of baptistes body as her stomach and senses would allow before sending the pounds of flesh through a wood chipper. After five hours and several pools of vomit, all that was left of the man was an empty suite and two garbage bags full of his remains ready for the incinerator. The image and the smell of his mutilated body was seared into the back of her mind; a reminder of the hefty price she paid to be where she was. Princesse, you knew this could happen. I warned you against joining them. Her mother sang the words sweetly, softly into her ears on the night of the bloody deed. It wasn’t the gore that disgusted her, but instead the failure. If she’d been smarter, quicker, or less arrogant, Baptiste would be alive, and she wouldn’t feel like such a fool. Her cousin’s mafia cleaned up the rest, and Margaux was sent back to her father’s chateau in shame like the spoiled little child she was. Going away to college never sounded better.
Shortly after her discharge from the mob, Margaux applied for universities in the states and was unsurprisingly accepted to Yale University on a full scholarship due to her impeccable grades (as if she even needed it). With the corsican mafia now spreading its influence in the upper east side of New York, Margaux was able to cement her new life in the states while residing in a luxury penthouse owned by her cousin Damien no less. After 4 short years, Margaux graduated Summa Cum Laude from Yale University with a degree in Political Science and had seemingly overcome the horrors of her failures back in France. The last four years of her university experience were spent perfecting herself once more, stealing every opportunity she could in order to win. But of course, she wasn’t done paying for the mistakes of her past quite yet. In an effort to build a bridge between the Corsican Mafia and the Russian Bratva, Margaux was to marry the second son of the Russian Mafia that had already been established in New York long before her kind ever stepped foot on American soil. The sting of being sold off like a prized cow to the spare son of the Russian Bratva felt like a knife in the back, but she accepted the proposal to show that she is still fiercely loyal to the mob that has always protected her and showed her what it means to fail. The Valentina spare, the little princeling is but an obstacle that can either be dealt with or overlooked. Surely, a woman of her status and intellect would be better suited to wed the Pakhan instead, but perhaps with a bit of work, the serpent can fashion a leader out of her fiancé. For now, she’s content with playing the role of the park avenue princesse and the pink-lipped heiress that floats across the floors at high profile galas and enchants the Americans with her French accent. She’ll be content… until she grows bored again. Because New York is boring. Because Dimitri is boring. Because without a secured place in the Corsican Mafia she is nothing but a bitter bitch with a taste for blood. Because the last time she ever truly felt alive was on that balcony in France.
