location: continental hotel
when: some months ago
open to: @talicolsett
Patrick didn’t know the first thing about cars. He knew even less about how to convince a person to sell their garage ( and their illegal car service ) to quite literally the scariest man he’d ever met, but Sebastían had asked for Patrick’s help, and of course he agreed. What’s a favor like this, when it’s family?
At the very least, it’s a free trip to Rome. He hadn’t been since he lived in the Vatican City, nearly ten years ago. He never once missed it when he moved back to the States, but as the taxi pulled up to the front of the Continental Hotel, he felt a certain fondness for it. ( It was likely just the city’s lights pulling him in. Like all of the places Patrick searched for God in, Italy had let him down. He remembered this later, when he was back home, lying alone in his bed. )
Patrick stepped out of the cab and nervously checked his iPhone, to confirm for the third time that he gave the driver the address Sebastían provided. He was told to give him the address of the hotel, but not the name. To pay for the room in cash, to not ask any questions. A smarter man would’ve asked questions; Patrick was not a smart man.
He ascended the steps to the hotel, where a doorman greeted him. It’s a hotel, alright, Patrick thought as he stepped through the threshold, revealing a rather ordinary-looking lobby, if not much nicer than what he was used to. He did what he was told; he asked for a room, he paid in cash. He almost did what he was told.
“Uh, listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but– what the fuck is this place?” Patrick asked the woman behind the desk. “I’m not gonna get an axe through my bathroom door later, am I?”
The hotel is ordinary enough to be discreet, clean and well cared for. It could be any hotel in a When in Rome Catalog, and it was carefully designed that way, for all the men who come in here with bruised knuckles and bloodied shirts, it’s far cleaner than some may expect. Tal at this point is convinced she’s seen it all, and that the cleaning staff has cleaned it all, really. she once found a thumb under a pillow, ( she should have been more disgusted, really. )
But then comes the priest, who goes through the usual motion, steps that are little more than muscle memory for her, host goes through them without thinking, she doesn’t ask questions, knows better than to do so. Easily counting bills without thought of where they might come from, before honey warm eyes flicker upward to meet his, vague irritation flickering over features : shouldn’t you know this ? most people who visited the hotel knew the rules, more often than not, a ‘friend’ ( if you could call them that. ) had shared the important information,
“ mmm,” She hums, a sound that echos : you think you’re funny, “ If you do please immediately inform the nearest member of staff, that’s against the rules last I checked . . . and from what I’ve heard. . .” She leans over the counter now, lowering her voice as if she’s sharing a secret with the stranger. “ The owner isn’t the kind of person you want to piss off...”
she takes pity then, features becoming more serious, if that’s possible. “ Rule One : do not, under any circumstances, kill someone on hotel grounds. ”
