The Vronsky male should have known the other would find him. If he didn’t know any better he would have assumed he was chipped, given the other’s uncanny ability to track him down whenever he snuck away from the office. “You’ll have to job my memory on any such moment where I have shied away from any given opportunity, much less an election. In fact, if I remember correctly it was you turning down what was her name Cherry, last weekend. That was quite the spectacle.“ He taunted, lips twisting into a lopsided smirk before his shoulders rose and fell in a simple shrug. “I was but following your advice, working on building that public profile – the ‘brand’, if you will.” He drawled, an easy lie and yet indirectly it seemed that it was not a lie at all. "Don’t quit your day job old friend. Rothko’s work isn’t exactly my taste.” Dominik goaded, clapping the other on the back briefly before his hands returned to the pockets of his suit trousers. Green hues drifted from the well known painters to that of another across the room. “I’m much more interested in that piece —- the work of a local artist. I dare say, it would certainly liven up my future office…”
“And that would be the difference between us: I have taste and standards.” The latter being a matter of speculation, though Devlin would claim his preference for a litany of questionable extracurriculars was built upon only indulging in the finest aspects. Whatever, they weren’t even discussing his own penchants for self-destruction and the conversation pivoted back to Dominik. “This brand sucks, no one likes a kiss-ass in an art gallery. You’ll lose out to a blue collar Chicagoan before the polls are finished roasting you within an inch of your life.” Political aspirations banked on very specific avenues when appealing to the common folk. Haughty, un-relatable types never won out in midwest cities, particularly not this one. “It’s nobody’s taste and yet they hang it up anyway. Tragic really.” Bright hues skirted across the room to land on the object of his client, and occasional friend’s, attention with the slightest amusement. “Don’t make me slap you in front of all these wanna-be hipsters. I charge a fee for public degradation.”
“No, of course not, why would you?” A pause. “Though, I’d say you’re more like the Walmart version of him.” A shrug followed. “I assume you know what that is, at least judging by those trousers.”
“Bold of you to say when you’re in public wearing–– what are those? Mid-tens Tom Ford? If you’re going to degrade yourself at least be exciting about it.” An empty jab really, Devlin didn’t care enough to take a solid look anyway. Tipping back his own glass, the man canted features to the side for a moment. The other was just as he’d predicted and while they were never formally acquainted, it was bound to happen sooner or later with the second eldest’s political aspirations. “Let’s skip the foreplay, I’m sure you know Dominik’s back.”
Jacob turned his head to look over at the man who spoke, missing the comment that was made before hand. “Someone said you look like Vasili Vronsky?” He huffed a little laugh. “If I were you… I’d be insulted.” He picked up his drink, bringing it to his lips and taking a sip.
+
“I’m convinced said person doesn’t have eyes.” Or needed LASIK, though Dev felt his initial statement was scathing enough to get the point across. “Beyond, but I’m able to compartmentalize.” Though it provided a sizable opening to gauge general sentiment and precisely how much cleaning up was needed for a particular campaign hopeful. “All I’ve heard lately is Vronsky this and Vronsky that. The hype sounds overrated.”
“Vasili Vronsky? Never heard of him and can’t say I see the resemblance,” an absolute lie, but his glass tipped back to emphasize the lack of care on Devlin’s part. “He sounds like a bit of a wean though.”
Taking time to explore the great city of Chicago, otherwise known as the shadow of his childhood home, had not been very high on his list of priorities. And yet having found himself avoiding returning to his recently purchased penthouse and the suitcases he had yet to unpack, he found himself on the steps of the Art Institute. Making his way into the building he was pleasantly surprised to note few people wandering the halls of the building. Blue hues drifted drunk in each piece as he went, absentmindedly meandering through the rooms. What hadn’t skipped his attention however was the footsteps of another that very nearly matched his steps as he walked about the gallery. Slowing to a stop Dominik abruptly turned to face the other, the ghost of amusement dancing across his features as he did. “If I didn’t know any better I’d almost think you were following me.“
+
Business and politics stopped for no man regardless of how well affiliated or entangled with recent affairs he might be, a fact that Devlin made a distinct point to hammer home with Dominik whenever possible. As it seemed, and probably as a direct result of a less than amicable delivery on the campaign manager’s end, his esteemed mayoral candidate found more benefit in wandering the great halls of Chicago’s Art Institute. Discounting his own status as an avid appreciator, there were about thirty thousand loose ends worth tying up before the Vronsky heir could take these little field trips. “Don’t flatter yourself, everything I do is for my own benefit.” He returned without missing a beat, bright hues sweeping the large canvas before them. “Care to tell me why we’re giving Rothko an audience? If this is your bizarre version of cold feet before we go public, I’m suing.”
Others have described him as witty & cultured, but also self-destructive & indelicate.
How do I summarize my worst fucking character of all time? Like this, I guess.
Devlin Clery as we know and hate him didn’t exist until about 10 years ago. Before then he was basically a ghost in the system and no one ever questioned it because he managed to avoid any limelight along with its accompanied speculation.
From what most people can glean through multiple encounters with this slippery marionette of Chicago, he’s probably older than he looks and came from a less than idyllic home life a long, long time ago. Something about his family never thinking much of him and an innate spitefulness to prove them right in the absolute worst of ways.
His reasons for aligning with the Bratva are less obscure and more rooted in selfish desire rather than any act of self-preservation. Dev doesn’t care much for staying alive, he just wants to be rich and powerful when he goes out–– however that might be, so long as it’s interesting.
No, but seriously. He has no desire to grow old and he’s seen enough. Just pew pew him please, he’s begging.
Dominik Vronsky has been a “friend” for years (term used loosely because Dev would never admit to having one) with a face and last name just perfect enough to make a sizable claim in Chicago. While not the direct heir to his family’s empire, there aren’t rules against building your own and some thrones are more traditional: government.
He stays out of the public relations side of their campaign for the most part and allows another to be the managerial face while pulling strings and donors from the inside. Their cause has drawn in a number of people who either owe the family or can be strong-armed enough into cooperating.
The duo have every intention of gaining this imperative seat for the Bratva and hold no qualms at tearing down anyone who stands in the way of their ambition. Life’s a game and Devlin plays to win.
Never without a suit or depressingly expensive piece of clothing, if you come to him in crocs please know he’ll scalp you on sight.
An art aficionado! He lowkey loves traditional art and boasts a miniature gallery at his home that he’s quite fond of, though most people aren’t privy to it.
“Let him up,” he calls down to a member of his security team from the landing, shifting away from a floor to ceiling window overlooking Chicago as its curtain fell back into place. “Mr. Williams is our guest, Cisco. He wouldn’t be here without an invitation.” The only secret known about Sonny was that he kept a treasure trove of them under lock and key, particularly when it came to his current location. Only shared with those deemed trustworthy enough to guard it, anyone who whispered out of turn was either cut out or dealt with. Constantly moving every six months to evade law enforcement brought as many advantages as it did headaches, but such was the business model of a successful, mystery mogul. The most valuable benefit of belonging to no faction yet being of service to all rested in the plethora of options at his disposal when contracting out a job. He maintained that if you wished to see something through, it was best to hire an expert in that area. Pipes burst unexpectedly? Call a contractor. Set your kitchen ablaze? Call the fire department. Need an exterminator? Call Fletcher Williams. Only when the assassin joins him, does he finish his previous thought. “Unfortunately, not everyone is as discerning as yourself... Drink?”
It was no surprise to the eldest Dunn that his younger sibling was once again running late. Having organized weeks prior to catch up with his sister over dinner, the detective found himself watching the minutes pass by as he sat in one of several empty booths waiting patiently. Just like old times, only now they were no longer cramped around a quaint kitchen table eating whatever he could scramble together from the fridge. Now they had learnt what it was to live and not just survive by the skin of their teeth. And with Lena’s proven commitment to her newfound responsibility also known as a legitimate legal profession, there was more than enough to celebrate. “You’re late. But I suppose that’s on me for thinking you’d actually be on time for once in your life.” He teased, amusement laced into his tone.
Apparently four months out of the game equated to some promotion style celebration and while Lena vaguely understood her brother’s glee at the change, it also left a hollow pit in her stomach. Not only due to Tiko slipping up and subsequently rattling the foundations of their new life in the process, but because she was quietly envious of him. Green hued and combative in her longing for the same sensation. Like one of the addicts she formerly peddled to out on the streets, simply hearing of his experience threatened to ignite her own craving. Maybe dinner and drinks would be a solid distraction after all. “You got a fuckin’ problem already? I just sat down.” Prying one of the specials cards from the table holder, she immediately flipped it over in search of the alcohol section. “Nice to see you too, bro.”
“Sometimes, you just want / something so hard you have to lie about it, / so you can hold it in your mouth for a minute, / how real hunger has a real taste.”
— Ada Limón, Bright Dead Things; “Lies About Sea Creatures”
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