when: 27 september 1924 where: the vincelli mansion - who: @lextalioniss
sometimes, however very rarely, when luciano’s blood runs as hot as his does right now he’s well aware enough to know he needs exactly what a foul-tempered toddler needs: a timeout. he doesn’t stick around to listen to whatever tongue lashing or backhanding salvatore has to offer for embarrassing him or, just as likely, for embarrassing vera. he doesn’t care about that; it’s bruno’s fault any of it happened. showing up here, tonight, thinking he’d be welcomed as if he hadn’t turned his back on them all because he’d decided he was better than the rest of his siblings or whatever bullshit he believes about himself.
luciano carves a warpath through his childhood home, dripping blood and sending partygoers scurrying out of his way, until he’s made it outside. at least it would be a warpath if anyone was brave enough to try and stop him. none are; he can’t blame them. a stolen drink, snatched from a gape-mouthed guest, gets downed quickly before the glass is tossed aside to shatter in the darkness. the night air, heavy even in late september with humidity, feels suffocating. it only furthers his foul mood until he rounds the corner of the mansion and, finally alone with no one left around, he can let out the rest of the fury denied by salvatore’s earlier intervention.
the only thing that can withstand luciano vincelli’s fury is the brickwork of the house. he lays into it with heavy fists, punching until he’s both winded and a lance of white hot pain shoots up his whole forearm. “fuck!” luciano grips his wrist, flexes his fingers, swears so loud he almost drowns out the sound of someone approaching. “fuck-” he turns and the off part of snarled fuck off dies on his tongue when he sees erik standing there.
“fuck.”
