#tatopen

[oxfxrdprince-blog]

              He’s dressed to the nines, but the night isn’t nearly as exciting as it should be. How many times, after all, has he been placed in this same role? Make him a depraved beggar, a street peddler; clothe him in rags and let him eat stale bread: even a day of poverty would be more stimulating than a constant lifetime of rotating riches. 

             This entire bloody mess -- Hale didn’t sign up for this shit when he pledged himself to the Society. Of course, he’s in no immediate danger of being found out, but god knows what dear Uncle Victor might give up if he was compromised. Regardless. At this rate, he’s missed more days of school than he’s attended: and when it comes to Hale Rothschild, look-alike geniuses don’t quite cut it for attendance. A degree doesn’t really matter, of course. There were always backdoors to take, officials to bribe, summa cum laudes to net. But really, what the fuck was this whole fiasco? He’d come for the fun of it, and now he was part of a globally wanted crime organization. 

         Still, he’s known this life for too long to relinquish. What’s another day, another night? Strangely, he’s here today as precisely his own identity: there’s no better disguise than that which you are born with. There’s a key with his name attached to it, Rothschild -- there’s his golden Porche in the casino garage, his white bowties hung neatly up in the East-wing penthouse. He only had to be himself, and nothing could be said against him. It’s the proletariat who needs to hide behind masks: all those low-status pickpockets and scrappy burglers who had risen out of obscurity, their name worth less than a penny in these halls.

      Even so, he introduces himself to strangers as Clement Duval, young business magnate, here for a weekend of debauchery and bet-placing. Obviously, this means that he speaks impeccable French, has a generally snobbish air to his boyish beauty; and eyes women like a dog eyes a steak. In fact, he’s cornered one now, near the massive windows of the ninth floor, which overlook the city in all its splendor. He’s fishing, or maybe he’s just having fun. Nonetheless, there’s a general note of flirtation to his greeting --- 

                                              “C'est une vue jolie, n'est-ce pas?” 

[cvilliers]

Charles was glad to be home. Glad to be back where he had a steady hand on every marble that rolled across his palm. Security had tightened in America and then right across Europe as utterance of mafia movements sent authorities into a spin -- partly because everyone knew that it wasn’t just the bloody mafia at the centre of this bizarre and violent incident, no there was someone else, something else, an entity that nobody could quite put their finger on -- the masterminds were quite set on keeping all fingers far from their chests. 

Charles should have brought his Daggers back to home base as Francis advised but... business was business, there was stock to be sold and debt to be collected. So as Charles attended the many whispered meetings and kept a steady eye on Lorenzo (who he was sure would attempt to take the reins any day now) -- the Daggers continued to wreak solicited havoc in London’s gutters. 

Lorenzo’s uptight outburst back in France had been questionable at best, but as the news broke, his actions seemed quite clear to Charles. The Capecchis were not to be trusted, and Charles would have been prepared to talk Francis into breaking all ties had his own interests not been so tightly aligned with the Italian crew. 

“I say we cut the shit and lay out what we know here.” Charles interrupted Victor who was bumbling something about covering their tracks to a meeting full of people that had been ‘covering their tracks’ their entire god damn lives. Who even let him into the room? The distracted whisperings that were being exchanged during Victor’s ramblings fell silent as Charles took command of the discussion. 

“The Italian’s cannot be trusted.” There was an uproar of disagreement and Charles stood, slamming his fist on the table and then looking around the room with a fire in his eyes that said he’d murder every single one of them right then and there if he had the chance. “Error cannot be taken lightly. Now as far as I see it, the Beauregards and the Capecchis need to take a back seat while we clean this shit up. Security is tight everywhere right now, which is why I say we need another Heist. Another three. Three different locations around the world. We give enough distraction, throw them off the scent, how can one group of people possibly be in three places at once?” He raised his voice as people began to chatter beneath him.”There are other crews out there looking to sweep in from underneath us. We show them we can’t be beat, and we show the world that nothing and no one is safe. We can sit back and let them crawl over our battle lines, or we can attack. They know Italy, they know France, but they don’t know the rest of us, who we are or what we can do. I say we show them - because they’ll be so fucking blinded by it that they’ll forget who they were looking for to begin with.”

[rosiemallory-hayes-blog]

The hustle and bustle of the Victoria was stark in contrast to Rosie’s silent mind. Processing the news of the “terror attack” in Houston. Realizing that she, somehow, had something to do with the entire thing was the scariest part. Her involvement with the Heist Society so far had seemed unreal, like something that she dreamed up, a nightmare that one day she’d wake up from. and find herself back home, back in Houston. But, Houston wasn’t the same, wasn’t her city anymore. 

A kind voice fills the air, answering a question. It takes Rosie a few moments to realize that the drawl belongs to her, automatically reacting to a common question. She lifts drinks, her eyes on the man’s watch. Rosie’s shift ends soon, when she’ll finally be allowed to sulk in her apartment in peace. 

The clock ticks over to the hour -- nine in the evening, and Rosie stands with a smile on her face. “Sorry, honey, time’s up.” she states, returning to the bar and ordering whiskey for herself. She’s off the clock -- she doesn’t have to speak to anyone. Drinking alone is just as good as sulking in her bedroom, definitely. 

She hadn’t checked either chair next to her, but now the person sitting on her left is staring at her -- “What do you want?” she demands, downing the whiskey that had finally arrived. 

[esmeraldaknight]

“I have to feed my birds,” she said, plucking her jacket from the back of the chair she had draped it over, uncrossing her legs. The cup of zhū chá in front of her was almost untouched, cold, the little gold-plated spoon balanced across it. She had cut the slice of cake in front of her into smaller and smaller pieces and eaten none of them. She liked coffee more. “You can wait at the door. Or you can find me later. At the Victorian. Tonight.”

Esme had to trust her crew, Francis’ crew, the society, she knew that, but still, she was on edge at the prospect of bringing someone home with her. Even just to wait at the door. Their conversation was too important to abandon now. She could blindfold them so they didn’t see the address. She could move, after, across the city. Esme had to trust her crew.

She stood, still moving when she turned back to see if she was being followed at the door. “Are you coming?” 

[cvilliers]

France was not exactly Charles’ country of choice. Wine was not exactly Charles’ beverage of choice. And yet there he was, in the depths of Loire Valley, surrounded by one hundred and sixty five cases of French wine. He’d begrudgingly travelled to the green countryside with the rest of the Villiers crew as they were to ‘welcome’ (for use of a better word) the Lohovary’s into their sacred circle. This week of festivities was to be a humble induction, one that Charles could not give a single shit about. He’d spoken two words to Roman Lohovary since the formal christening of he and his pitiful excuse for thieves, those two words were precisely, ‘Fuck off’. 

Charles strongly believed that a thief had to earn the title, earn their place in the grand circle. Roman had not earned the coat on his back or the rings on his fingers, nor would he (or could he) earn Charles’ respect. Whilst the children of the society drank themselves into a second existence and flounced around the chateaus like untrained horses, Charles was preoccupied with advantageous activities. If he had to be in France, he sure as hell was going to make the most of it. Targeting several vineyards across the region, Charles had cut deals, handed money under tables, paid off drivers and ultimately stolen a vast volume of various wines. Three cases he had bought himself, the rest were stolen from sheds, basements and shipping containers in the dead of night, brought to him here in this room where he’d send them back to England case by case to be rebranded and resold at inflated British prices to barmen who didn’t know Pinot Grigio from Sauvignon Blanc. 

For the most part he’d completed the work without alerting the rest of the society whom which were distracted by their shiny new friends. But he hadn’t exactly gone to any effort to stop them from finding the section of the chateau that had essentially become his temporary wine cellar. He inhaled deeply as he finished his count of the cases, mentally calculating how many he’d be sending to each base back at home. His thoughts, however, were interrupted as someone entered the room. He edged past a stack of crates, looking the visitor up and down.

“Can I help you?” He condescended rhetorically. 

[dominik-woo-blog]

If Dominik was a man who gave into to his addictions, he would be away from this farce of a party. But Dominik had long tamed his selfish desires and could be seen sitting in France. The heist always had its own mask but the veneer that the society suffered from currently was especially fragile. Fake congratulations and smiles directed at the Lohovary twins. If there were any in the heist he detested it was people like them.

Still there was nothing Dominik could do. His status in the heist was relatively stable, but Dominik was replaceable. There was no safe gamble he could take, so he would wait to place his bets. He always had an eye when the opportunity to go all in came along.

Dominik eyed a server offering champagne and took a glass though he wanted to feel the burn of something stronger. He took a sip, his eyes roaming the crowd.

“I wonder how long this farce will continue?” He asked himself.. There was change on the horizon, filled with lies, blood, and wealth. What else was new in the society, yet it felt different.

[romanlohovary-blog]

He arrives in a black car. It’s a beautiful estate - charmant indeed, as the historic title suggests. In this time of the year the gardeners work tirelessly, and exiting from the vehicle once it is parked behind all the rest, Roman passes his gaze over them. They are, as is everything to do with the Beauregard name, picturesque. Sunhats and white starch shirts - as if out of a Van Gogh painting. Not a bloom is out of place, not a fountain or manicured follicle of grass mistaken. He’s arrived at the right place. 

He senses them watching him from afar. He must be the last to arrive - as should be. This is, after all, his coronation: whether they know it or not, today they are welcoming him into their alliance, and inevitably he will manifest and build up his ghostly kingdom until it too belongs to him. Iris, Leonard, Sanjay, Caleb, and Candice are split between two other cars, coming soon. This one houses only his bargaining chips. 

Footsteps approach from the east. Turning, he meets the eyes of one of Francis’ thieves. Certainly, there are crews - but in essence, they were all Francis’ thieves, weren’t they? With an obscure smile, he adopts a conversational, light tone. “You’ve come to fetch me, I presume.” 

[estelasalvarez-blog]

“What are you even saying?”

Shock washed her over for a second -- it was an unbelievable scenario, something she couldn’t really buy. If someone else had come to her and announced that the plan had gone down, the crown wasn’t theirs, she wouldn’t have believed. Still it was the truth, and Estela, fond of everything terrible, didn’t mind hiding the smile that plucked her crimson lips.

The heist was a failure and she couldn’t find it more amusing. “Tell me more.” She crossed her legs, eyebrows raised, lips still stretched in some sort of smile.