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73 Questions with Deepika Padukone | Vogue

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OVERVIEW

Monal Arora’s parents let her travel to Mumbai to be trained in classical dance, and that makes all the difference. Monal gains fame in the arts community and even in Bollywood -- she frequently starred as a guest act in films. It’s a scandal when she falls pregnant with no man in the picture but, it eventually passes. She’s still charming and loving and her daughter is far too sweet for it to last.

Delilah has never known anything about her father aside from the fact that he chose her name and that while her intuition in her classical dance classes come from her mother, her voice is her father’s. Her mother still calls her Laila at home -- she suspects that they must have loved each other deeply from the way her mother’s eyes teared up late at night when she thought no one was watching. She wants her mother to be happy, and so she stops asking about her father.

Growing up as the darling of the Bollywood world is...odd. Her mother sends her to the international schools where English is the norm and when the time comes, picks Italian for her foreign language. Upon completion of secondary school, she is sent off to London where she studies Politics & International Relations. Even Bollywood families made sure their children had back up plans. Still, Delilah is part of a cover-band all through uni and travels all across Europe in her breaks, attending every kind of concert. 

She takes a semester abroad in Italy in her final year. She meets a man with dark eyes that draw her in and unravel her. It’s a whirlwind affair that results in an elopement some months later. Her mother is furious. The fight is bad, and they both say things they regret. But when the marriage comes crashing down, Delilah flees back to India and weeps into her mother’s salwar kameez. Monal chin tilts up with something like pride when Delilah explains she won’t have to file paperwork to change her name back. She’d never taken her husband’s name in the first place.

With her mother’s contacts, she begins singing for Bollywood film soundtracks, gaining recognition after her cover of an old Bollywood song. She likes the work enough but it doesn’t ignite a passion in her -- a part of her hesitates to indulge in her own emotions after her failed wedding but she misses that heady rush and thrill of simply being. She doesn’t like the structure of the Bollywood music industry, but she doesn’t trust herself to do anything else.

The Capulets find her in Glasgow. She’s visiting for a university friend’s wedding and the bachelorette party is at a glitzy karaoke bar. She sings freely, enjoying herself and at the end of the night is approached by a member of the Capulets with a business card. Her mother is supportive of the move, the way her parents had supported her, and the world seems at her fingertips.

Delilah Arora (though she only goes by Delilah for business purposes) is an up-and-coming pop singer and is often compared to Lorde and Florence Welch. Her voice is surprisingly powerful; more familiar ears are able to pick up the Ghazal influences (though Europeans find it similar to the Portuguese Fado style). Her first album, COMMUOVERE (a story that moves one to tears in English) was released recently to modest financial success and critical acclaim. Her feature track, Anarkali, garners special attention -- the ballad of a dancer’s tragic love story entrances every listener.

CONNECTIONS

THE CONTACT (Lucrezia Falco) -- Lucrezia has a keen eye; there’s a reason she’s a headhunter. Delilah also trusts Lu more than anyone else in the industry. She’s the reason for Delilah’s big break and so she’s become a dear friend. And someone she can talk to at big parties, as an additional bonus.

THE MANAGER (Everett Craven) -- Everett is smart and she knows it. But sweet and kind gives guarantees. Her mother used it to gracefully handle what could have been a career-ruining scandal and Delilah has made enough mistakes that she’s positive it’s the right move. Sure, everyone likes to watch a good girl go bad, but she needs to establish herself as a good girl first. 

THE INVESTIGATOR (open) -- Delilah’s past is rife with juicy secrets from her ex-husband to her mysterious father. Maybe Delilah asked you to look into her father, or maybe you just can’t stand how nice she is and want to see her facade break. Either way, the truth will make its way out and she will have to confront it.

THE TRUTH TELLER (Regina Daly) -- Delilah was delighted to be asked to be a part of Regina’s latest documentary. The topic of authenticity makes her hesitate but she’s been playing the part of the darling for so long she’s sure she can manage keeping it up. She hasn’t realized just how insightful and perceptive the other woman is and the interviews will definitely bring forth questions. 

THE GUIDE (Nikolai Borisov) -- Delilah is somewhat unfamiliar with the ins and outs of the European entertainment industry and Nikolai may be more fallen angel than guide, sauntering about casually, but he was a friendly face who knew everyone. Following him is always an adventure; a guilty pleasure Delilah can’t help but allow.

THE FLIRTATION (Orion Massetti) -- Orion is sweet and sad in a way that draws Delilah like a moth. Around him, her persona feels real and around him, she feels as though indulging in her impulses isn’t the great crime she’s made it out to be. She still stutters when he flirts but she smiles too.

THE STAR (Tiberius Capulet) -- Delilah wasn’t really into rap so when their management teams suggested working together, she was not convinced it would go well. However, she can’t say no to the opportunity, recognizing it merits. She’d forgotten that music has its own language and to those who understood it, anything was possible. Even a collab.

THE CRITIC (Odin Bello) -- Hooking up with him wasn’t something Delilah regretted, but it was definitely a mistake. Odin had been helpful at first -- he’d understood her vision for Anarkali in a way no other producer had and for that, she would always be thankful. But he’s been cold, somewhat rude and mean, quite frankly, ever since she refused to date him. From her biggest fan to her biggest critic...Odin and Delilah could only ever be tragic.

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(macbeth).

    Leave it to the ever-intuitive Delilah to catch the small -isms that Mikael himself is too self-involved to notice. Her perceptiveness is something that he finds himself overlooking all too easily, his weakness for pretty faces a deadly vice that he still has yet to correct. Perhaps it is because her dark hues beg for the onlookers to drown in their warmth, or perhaps it is the soft curves of her mouth that seem more befitting to smiles and laughter than the barely-there frown that is present more and more often. Regardless, he receives the criticisms with an apologetic smile and an incline of his chin, gaze dipping in a show of reconciliation. 

    “While my celebrations may seem premature, I think it is quite appropriate considering all that we’ve suffered recently.” There was no quelling the smile that pulled at his lips, leaning forward as he does. “Falco and Family will be rebuilding the Castelvecchio. Verona will be made whole once again.” Physically, that is, there is no speaking for the dispositions of the two warring mobs. To heal that chasm would require the miracle workings of a saint or a prophet – and so far as he could tell, Mikael did not have the makings of either.

    He pulled her chair out for ever, nodding towards a passing waiter. A quick order was put in for an antipasto formaggio board as well as a bottle of champagne. “Besides, I don’t think Orpheus would be one to commend us for bemoaning his death. He seemed more preferential to the revelry type of funeral – getting drunk, music, fornicating and all that.”

If Ivan studies her like a specimen, a creature to be tested under the strict regimens of experiments, then Mikael studies her like a game -- something to be ultimately won. He’s reactionary in a way that doesn’t sit well with her; where Delilah waits for others out of a sense of etiquette, he seems to wait for others in order to gain the upper hand. Every moment of preparation allows him to perfect his response. She can’t stand it, and finds herself frowning in her seat even as he showers her with charming smiles and gentlemanly overtures. 

“Congratulazioni,” she says though it’s rather obvious her heart isn’t in it. “At least someone has managed to find a silver lining.” Her instinctual passive-aggression shames her; here she was upset at his games only to play petty ones of her own. The least she could do was be honest, and if not that, polite. “I’m sure the city will be glad to have the Castelvecchio restored. I’ve already missed walking along the river.” This much is true, though it’s not the only reason why she’s been skipping on her evening walks, as she’s reminded by the twinge in her leg.

Delilah finds herself helplessly frustrated that Mikael’s attention to frivolous detail works. His order is perfect and somehow exactly what she wanted, though perhaps the champagne was a little much. “I suppose. I didn’t know him very well and I didn’t want to make assumptions based on what little I did.” Glasses of room temperature water are placed before them, and Delilah requests ice. “Is that what you’ve been doing since the funeral, then?” A beat passes and she blushes -- her dark skin hides her embarrassment but her stammering voice doesn’t. “The Castelvecchio deal. Not the wine, music and other stuff.”

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(volumnia).

“You still hold him to the same qualities you imagined he had when you were married, then?” Her expression is almost fiendishly curious as she watches the interplay of emotions on Delilah’s face before the woman answers her question. She’s an open book, much too easy to read; a dangerous thing in Verona - albeit only to herself. “Are you sure?” Vivianne asks, although it’s rhetorical, because Delilah’s troubled features have already answered the question for her. But the tables are turned when the soldier expresses relief that she’s alive. It’s Vivianne’s turn to be surprised then, although she does a better job of masking it than her counterpart. Still, there’s the slightest tilt of her head as she considers Delilah; as though trying to work out the ulterior motive beneath those words, searching for an angle that must be there, simply because it’s been too long since she can remember life without one.

She doesn’t reply.

“That’s just it - there is no point.” The lady continues breezily. Disdain curls her lips and she does nothing to mask the expression. At no point tonight has she been even remotely convinced that the Witches’ bargain would cure the city of its bloodlust. “The mistake was in assuming that there’s an upper limit to the depravity of humankind. That we could sate ourselves tonight and be hallowed saints the rest of the year.” She shares, in a tone that relays both boredom and lack of conviction. She takes another sip of her celebratory drink. Truth be told, it was part of her motivation in shooting the man who’d been bothering Delilah mere minutes ago. The Hotel Emilia was owned by the witches; a mark of pride, the ultimate No-Violence zone. To desecrate that came with a vindictive kind of satisfaction for the Capulet Underboss. It was the only night where they couldn’t retaliate — thanks to their own decree in allowing a day of debauchery. “Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve come out at all, on a night like this.” Vivianne tells her, gaze lingering on the woman. She wonders whether it is bravery or naivety, and yet either option make Delilah an enigma of sorts. One she hadn’t paid much attention to, before the rumours swirled about her and Odin’s sensational divorce.

“I didn’t imagine them, Signora.”

Her quick and adamant response is the closest to insolence in the presence of her Underboss that Delilah has ever gotten. Some part of her needs this woman to understand that she’s not the wilted flower she seems; that while joining the Capulets hadn’t been much of a choice, loving Odin had been one of the few choices she made without consideration of others. Loving Odin had been and still was for herself. Loving him had been freedom and home -- she wouldn’t let herself be thought a fool for loving a man who had secrets. 

“To love someone is to believe in the best parts of them and recognize their faults. Neither negates the other,” she continues, “He didn’t suddenly change -- our environments and our understandings of each other did.”

Teeth pull at the edge of her bottom lip, a sudden hesitance that seemed at odds with her earlier certainty. Delilah wasn’t good at these political games that were tied up with the mafia; she was too honest to be savvy, too unsure to be bold. For every truth she shared, there were two platitudes. She opens her mouth to apologize for being presumptuous or too short, but then shuts it, a sudden set to her jaw. Tonight is La Purga, and for Desdemona the ability to do anything perhaps means being unapologetic. She takes another sip of her drink.

“Is that why you joined the mafia?” Delilah wants to bite her tongue for asking something so personal from a woman that seemed distant even when she was right before you. But curiosity and that heated buzz from hard liquor loosens her tongue she finds herself going further. “Because there’s no point to not indulge the limits of our depravity?” She’s never understood the motivations of those who willingly joined, and for someone so close to the top she has even less insight. Volumnia is a record covered in redacted black marks, what little she revealed painted a very incomplete picture. 

Delilah laughs at Vivianne’s question, something bitter in that faint way like the aftertaste of their drinks coloring the sound. “I didn’t mean to be out. I was at work.” She thinks back to the case she’d been working on. “It was a pro-bono case and the partners tend to prioritize those least and the client had been waiting so long...” It was a woman, a young mother, who had come to them after being unfairly evicted by her landlord. “It seems silly now -- it could have easily been done in the morning.” Delilah shrugs. “But this war...it doesn’t need to have so many innocent victims.”

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(edgar).

A favor. Everett has heard those two words from many over the years, spoken in smoke-filled back rooms and in the buttery light of a Saturday brunch, from con men and businesswomen and wheedling social climbers alike. The request almost always curls his lip with amused scorn. It’s a reminder that in this city of tarnished gold, what a man owns is intrinsically of more worth than a man himself. What Everett can provide and what he cannot is the full measure of the majority of his daily interactions. Funds. A foot in the door. Protection.

But not with Delilah. He knows her too well to suspect that her request comes from a position of greed, even if the hesitant way with which she approaches the topic hadn’t already betrayed her innocence. In the fading shafts of light falling through the stained glass windows, her usually subtle grace seems ever more pronounced. Everett wonders how long it will be before the mafia rips it from her.

Her request forcefully yanks his thoughts back into order. Whatever he had expected Delilah to ask, it certainly wasn’t this. No amount of mutual respect and friendship between them could have induced Everett to think that she would willingly subject herself to his authority in a situation steeped in a moral code that both of them find detestable to stomach. Still, Everett can’t deny that his immediate impulse to her request is to accept. Pragmatism reins back his tongue. There is too much to wade through to give an immediate answer, both political and personal.

“Desdemona,” he murmurs, and it falls foreign from his tongue. It’s a sigh that trails into quiet, a question in and of itself. Everett studies her features, searching for a reason for her plea. The goodwill he maintains with Tiberius is not something he wishes to jeopardize, nor does is he eager to instigate a game of political chess within the Capulet ranks. Asking for another capo’s soldier, even at the soldier’s request, would be seen as a power play. But Delilah wouldn’t ask this of him if she was not already desperate. A beat of silence. Everett wonders whether Tiberius knows his soldato is here right now. “What brought this on? Did something happen?”

He breathes her Capulet-given name and she feels a weight sink in her stomach -- she understands even before he continues that her ask is big, that the hierarchy of their side is tenuous, that this favor might be out of his grasp. Something about the way he says Desdemona, reminds her of the night she first discovered exactly what sort of people her husband was involved with -- she still remembers how Odin’s face had been carefully blank but for that sheen in his dark eyes. Please, they had seemed to say, I’m sorry, and I have no choice. But all he’d said out loud was a quiet, broken Delilah.

Delilah is an open book, and she knows that disappoint must have flashed across her features, subtle but present even in the waning sunlight. As the moments pass in the church, her face is briefly lit by a last sunbeam; pupils constrict to reveal their true hue of umber, only a few shades darker than her skin and a few shades lighter than her hair. In that moment she is bronze, more statue than human -- expressive despite her lack of movement. And then it passes, and she is shifting back into shadows that are more comfortable and she wonders when she began to prefer the solace of darkness. Delilah casts her eyes down, fixating on the wood grain pattern of the pew, absentmindedly tracing it with her finger.

“Would something had to have happened to take my request in consideration?” Her voice is light, gentle in it’s question. Slowly, she lifts her gaze and with a rueful smile offers absolution quickly and easily. (She’d offer the same to Odin if he’d let her.) “It’s okay if you can’t help or if you don’t think it appropriate, Edgar.” I understand, she says, without saying it. “No, nothing happened -- it’s about what hasn’t.” And here, she finally looks guarded. “Tiberius pushes people hard, you know this. And as time passes, and I haven’t-- I haven’t killed anyone...” Her voice trails off as she contemplates her options. “I don’t want to give up on my own ethics. Not yet.” 

Please. Don’t let them turn me into something else.

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Marianas Trench, “I Knew You When”

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(malcolm).

“I am being honest,” he replied, despite his ribs aching in protest. “Nothing I have sustained is so worrisome as your leg, and like I have promised, you will get to the hospital safely.” He hoped he could get her there quickly, as well, before others were awake and sane enough to realize just what Matthias was doing, even an act of kindness seen as weakness in this war, and especially after the crescendo of violence within it these past few nights. Matthias would have condemned that kindness he showed now had it been anyone else, especially with the blood on his hands. Yet, he could convince himself that this was different, that she was different, not the typical Capulet with a hidden agenda, but someone to be understood, and especially someone who didn’t deserve to die from the injuries she sustained tonight.

Looking down at her, Matthias notices Delilah’s eyes begin to droop, and tries to keep her awake, giving her arm a gentle squeeze to wake her from the lull that began to wash over her. “I’m not sure I know who you’re talking about – then again, I don’t exactly go looking in my coworker’s eyes all too often. But whoever he is, if I find him, I’ll have to thank him.” Truthfully, with the lack of trust he and Faron had built at the time, perhaps he might not have, or at least not get the chance to, exposing his fondness a bit more damning than exposing Faron’s momentary kindness.

He wanted to know more about that passion. Matthias wanted to know more about how Delilah wasn’t quite a lawyer, but had all the intellect and drive to surpass one. He wanted to know what she thought of her job, what she truly wanted to do and how she might get there, regardless of whether or not it concerned or utilized the Capulets. Again and again he found himself wondering what held her there in the first place; he knew how she came to find herself in their wretched ranks, but he could not think of why she chooses to stay. Perhaps he’d get the chance to someday, but not as consciousness becomes harder to hold onto and the hospital is approaching with every step he takes. An uneven sidewalk he could not see as he turned made him stumble for a moment, jostling her into him. Her wince hides his soft grunt in pain, and he murmurs a quick “Sorry,” before considering the question she asked. 

“I left Verona for a time, actually. While I was away, I thought I would make my time in Paris somewhat useful, so I enrolled in university. My father had always wanted me to go to college, anyway. I studied history because I liked it and found I also happened to like teaching, surprisingly, and so I stuck around for a few more years. I wish there was some sort of novel-worthy enlightening moment to tell you, but there truly isn’t much of one.” Just sadness, grief, desperation, and a slight glimmer of hope in the self he didn’t realize was forming.

Like I have promised, you will get to the hospital safely. She doesn’t know why the words bring a sudden sting to her eyes; she and Odin had made promises to each other too, and here they were now. Six months of separation that had been absolute hell and their final court date was soon approaching. It’s that final thought that tips her over the edge and before Delilah quite realizes, the tears she always tries her best to hide but never quite succeeds, begin to fall. Optimism defeated at last, she lets her head fall slack against Matthias’ chest, uncaring of the damp spreading on his shirt. Everything hurts. Her leg, her head, her heart. In the morning she’ll hate herself for falling apart at such a critical moment, but for now...

For now, she cries.

The tears don’t last quite as long as she thought they would. Perhaps it was dramatic, but Delilah was always convinced that if she started crying she’d never stop -- it was always why she waited so long to cry, until she was helpless, until her body won over her mind. By the time she’s wiped away the last of the salt from her eyes with the heel of her palm, Delilah can recognize the street corners Matthias steadily passes by. The pain is a dull constant she’d nearly forgotten but she’s still glad they’re so close to the hospital. After the bomb, she’s sure the waiting room is filled with loved ones waiting desperately for their family.

“I think-- “ She hates to voice her concerns when Matthias’ presence is so comforting, but her mind is beginning to feel clear again, no longer muddled by the feelings she struggles to articulate. Her mother always said crying would make her feel better. “I think we might have to walk in separately.” Despite a bomb, Delilah isn’t sure that Capulets and Montagues would take it kindly to them entering together. “The others must be at the hospital as well.” And yet, even as she speaks, Delilah makes no move to let him go.

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(iago).

Ivan blinks his surprise. An impish glint sparkles in his eyes as the passive aggression seeps from her tone, drips thickly into the space between them. He presses his lips together, stopping the unruly curve his smile wanted to take, trapping his amused laughter from slipping past his teeth. But it doesn’t quite work, his chuckle low as it curls around the bright green straw that’s stuck between his lips. “Easy, Del, easy–” He uses a nickname as if they’re friends, as if he has any right. “–put away the claws.” And as quick as that, she’s backpedalling. She’s apologizing because she hadn’t known it was him. Clearly, she would have rephrased, would have ensured the bitterness didn’t sharpen the edge of her words, would have selected her response with much more delicacy. Surely, Delilah Bello didn’t wish to give her husband’s best friend any more ammunition than she already had. 

It made him smile, a serene spread of his lips as she stammered and squirmed.

What are you doing here? It was a god question, one he didn’t exactly know the answer to. Or perhaps he did – if anything Ivan just wanted to make her day a little more uncomfortable than it was. A distinct and inherent need, crackling beneath his skin, a nasty little voice in the recess of his mind that uttered ‘ruin’ over and over again. Instead of leaning, he perches on the edge of her desk, distracting her from her question as he plucks up one of her sticky notes, eyes scanning over her neat penmanship. “Why aren’t you one of them, again?” An attorney, he means, chin jutting towards the black-suited pigeons flocking about. “Clearly, they give you all the work and give you no credit for it.” He leans over, squinting at her case file, taking another chilled sip of coffee, “What case is that, anyways?” 

Delilah had never much liked most of Odin’s friends. She’d understood that to him, his mob colleagues were more than professional contacts. They were brothers-in-arms and so she’d tried her best to befriend them to varying degrees of success. But Ivan made her skin crawl in a way she struggled to articulate. In Venice, she’d been vaguely aware that others considered her pretty -- at the time, she’d thought it a curse, hating the way lecherous stares settled like weights on her chest if she ever walked home late at night. But the way Ivan looked at her was different. He wasn’t trying to remember the shapes of her curves or the length of her legs. He was studying her. Being under constant examination picked at her nerves, and she could never tell if she was passing his secret tests.

“I just --” she snapped the file close, careful to follow company policies, “--haven’t had the time to take my bar. I will.” Delilah didn’t sound particularly convincing. “Thing have just been so hectic lately, you know.” Initially, she’d been hopeful that working the same place as Ivan would improve her relationship with the Capulets and her husband, a sign that things were not as dire as she’d believed. How naive she’d been. Looking up at her colleague, she frowned. “If the partners wanted you to know about this case, you wouldn’t have to ask me.” It was one of the high profile, international cases -- the kind she got most frequently given her high qualifications in both law and her ability to speak a few languages. “Don’t you know all these things anyway? You could just --” she waved her hands at him, waggling her fingers in a way that vaguely resembled typing, “-- do your thing.”

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(goneril).

She wishes she had been born with a knife in hand, if only for the sheer convenience of being able to inflict her fury onto those she loathed from a young age, too full of rage and too young to know what to do with it. Instead, fingers had been broken from punching with heated vigour and poor form; knees had been grazed on brick walls and skin snagged on barbed wire fleeing fights she should never have started; a tooth had been lost at one point and frantically replaced by worried parents but she forgets which one. Grace has been sharp-edged and restless her entire life, which is why she looks at people like Delilah, soft-limbed and clueless, and she takes offence to their presence. How dare they think themselves good enough to call themselves a vital part of the mafia? Why should they be bestowed with such greatness when their voices shake and their fingers tremble?

“Wrong,” she responds, the word more bite than sound. “I know me.” Of all those who have drifted across her path through life, she remains the most important ( Katarina swiftly follows but a flaw of loving women with war in their veins is that they will always put themselves first, regardless of how much they adore their long-haired, sweet-lipped lovers ). “That’s all that matters.” A short, low laugh slides through her lips which twist into an awful sort of smile. “What a bold fucking thing to say after telling me you don’t know me. Maybe I am unpredictable, New York city – but enough about me. Let’s talk about you.” Pale fingers rip back a velcro pocket by her knee to pull out a pair of dressing scissors, her uniform armed to the teeth with instruments other medical staff wouldn’t bat a lash at. She taps silver metal against the bedframe, amusement growing with each ringing sound. “Who are you? Really? What is Delilah-liar doing with the Capulets when, from where I’m standing, she’s deadweight and a bore?” 

There was a certainty and confidence in the way that Grace carried herself that Delilah so desperately envied. The idea of knowing herself was both something she reached out for and feared. It was the thoughts that crept over her late at night when she was along -- What am I doing? Why am I here? Who am I? The last time she’d felt anywhere near confident of her identity was the day of her marriage. She was Odin’s wife. Now...she was simply a lost failure, one among thousands of others who were crushed underfoot in Verona. But she voices none of these things to Grace. Instead she tilts her head, voice quizzical.

“Why do you keep calling me New York? I’m from Venizia.”

Each bell-like ring of Goneril’s scissors against her bed frame adds a sense of foreboding to the hospital room. It feels like something out of a horror movie, the few calm scenes before things get bloody. And then Grace is asking the questions Delilah’s specters toss at her. Who are you? Delilah-liar. Deadweight. Bore. She doesn’t quite realize that she’s curling in on herself. If she were bolder she would have spat venom back, voice unafraid and firm. Delilah would have said she was a lawyer, a truth-seeker who didn’t belong. But despite her steadfast conviction, her voice is quiet in the room, a soft whisper easily lost. 

“I’m not a liar,” she says, gaze steady upon Grace. She hopes she seems calmer than she feels. “I already know I shouldn’t be here. I should have never been involved. I am many things wrong for the Capulets, but the one thing I am not, is a liar.”

[dqbello]

act i. scene vi. THE PURGE PT. II setting. 1312. november 10th. oberon’s funeral. ft. @goldenbrigette

Delilah doesn’t know why she’s even bothering attending -- it’s like secondary school all over again when her classmates would beg her to skip and she’d resolutely refused. Grace may have been accurate when she called Delilah boring, but the legal assistant was also steadfast and dependable. A little late perhaps, as she quietly joined the back pew nearly a quarter hour after the service had started, but dependable nonetheless.

She’d spent a long time looking at the white traditional suit at the bottom of her chest, stark and pale amongst her more vibrant traditional clothing. But Orpheus hadn’t been family and so she chose black pants and top that she was fairly sure she had worn to work a few days prior. Smoothing the creases as she took her seat, Delilah stretched her leg into a more comfortable position. Though she should have listened to the minister going on about the nature of death, her eyes were instead drawn to another late figure who seated herself in the back pew as well. Quickly facing back to the front, she offered a kind word to her new companion.

“Glad to know that I wasn’t the only one who was late. 

[dqbello]

📞 | november 9th | d & t

Tiberius: [Perhaps because there has been so much ruin, because il Tigre was tired, exhausted of all of this, that it softened the bladed edge of his voice. He knows it's something he's never bothered to direct at Delilah before, never feeling like she'd been deserving of extended courtesy or kindness, but he saw the wonders it happened to do on Catherine days prior, and decided to try his hand again, even though it caught thickly in his throat, uncomfortable and almost unnatural.] It's emptying out slowly, that's for sure. [He twists around, deciding to sit onto the bed as he continued to speak.] Good, good. Cosimo's fine. Doing well. [It's the only update she needs, his tone says, carried with utmost certainty. And even had his uncle been on Death's door his answer would have been the same. Delilah might have been a quiet girl, but the walls of the Cathedral had a strange way of spreading whispers. He couldn't let any of their soldiers know that their leader was even remotely less than good health.]

Tiberius: Is there something you need? [It's painfully formal, the words filling the space where a lengthy silence had once been.] I know you wouldn't call me unless somethings wrong. So, go on with it.

Delilah: That's good. [She doesn't care how Cosimo is, she never has. He's a distant figure she avoids and yet the tether for all the other delicate relationships she's built in the last few years. She thinks she might actually hate him. Him and the Montague boss, too.] I'm sure it'll be especially heartening for everyone to hear. People are more...shaken than they appear. [She crosses her strong leg beneath her, running her fingertips down the length of her weak one. He's being delicate with her and she appreciates it, but it can't make up for the months before.]

Delilah: [She waits, breathless, all of a sudden sure that this favor she will ask will only pull the city into more ruin. But she's drowning under Tiberius' expectations, can't make herself what he needs her to be. Delilah was never meant to be a soldier.] Ah-- well. You see, I've been very thankful for the opportunity to work under someone so...[She flounders and reaches out for her notebook, looking at her notes. She's listed all his faults and can't think of a compliment.]...driven. But I think my interests and skill set might potentially align better with a different captain. [The words fall from her lips fast, barely comprehensible in her anxiousness. Delilah takes a deep breath and continues.] Like Edgar, perhaps.

[dqbello]

(imogen).

Doesn’t love remain invaluable, too?

Isabella’s breath hitches, though she does her best to conceal it with a soft chuckle. Yes, she so desperately wishes to say, yes, it’s invaluable. There’s nothing that amounts to the worth of love, nothing that truly conquers like it does. But, Delilah Bello knows nothing of Isabella’s constant longing for Celeste; rather, Delilah Bello holds truths that Isabella wishes to coax from her so Verona will know of her truth–the truth, Isa swears–so she merely shrugs. “Love is fleeting, cara.” Feelings come and go. “But the truth remains steadfast.” The truth, in its purest form, could not be altered by something as trivial as love–especially in Delilah’s case. 

The other woman’s amicable evasion of her question elicits a laugh in response from Isabella. “Oh, Delilah,” she says with a shrug, “you can’t truly believe that.” Isabella knew a fair amount of information, yes, but it wasn’t enough. What she knows isn’t enough for her, isn’t enough to destroy the mobs and those who transgress without an ounce of punishment. 

“Have you checked on your loved ones since la purga began?” Have you heard from Odin?

Delilah is quiet for a while after Isabella speaks. For all her stubbornness, she does actually listen to those who offer different opinions. Like a judge, she sifts through evidence provided before determining her conclusions. Love is fleeting -- this she decides to be untrue. Infatuation is fleeting. Certain aspects of relationships can be fleeting. But the truest love lasts, endures even if its form changed. “Perhaps you haven’t yet experienced the kind of love that lasts,” is what she finally says, voice gentle. “Love changes people, and love also changes itself. But that doesn��t mean it holds less inherent value than truth.”

The realization dawns then, the foggy tendrils of understanding beginning to envelope her thoughts. They’ve been asking the wrong question -- to try and determine which outweighed the other, love or truth, was pointless when they could not be measured against each other. The question the journalist and legal assistant should have been asking was what consequences they’d be willing to live with. Was Delilah willing to accept the fallout of betrayal?

The answer was a surprisingly confident no. 

Delilah faces Isabella, reflections of street lamps caught all glimmering and star-like in her eyes. “Really? Because I happen to believe that I’m not the only one you must be speaking to regarding Verona’s secrets.” Her voice is steady, and her face calm -- it’s easy to see in moments like these why she’d make an excellent lawyer. “I happen to believe that you have several sources of information, definitely more willing than I to discuss such matters.” I suspect you think I’m the weakest link. The easiest to remind of the laws and ethics and morals we should be bound to follow. 

A few years ago, Delilah would have absolutely agreed with that assessment. But things had simply become too complicated for her to simply sever all ties and try to disappear. She had changed in the last few years, and so had the consequences. Delilah frowns at the last question. “No,” she says, an overcompensation to hide her worry. She tilts her head then, suddenly curious. “Have you?”

[dqbello]

“That’s human nature, isn’t it? People want to put someone on a pedestal. Maybe it gives them something to dream about.”

— Marissa Meyer, Archenemies

[dqbello]

(iago).

Interior: The law offices of Studio Legale Biondaro, mid-morning, corridors abuzz with legal-jargon laced conversation and hustling steps that can’t seem to get to their destinations fast enough. The stench of justice clings to the air, wafting over burnt coffee and case files. November 17th. ( @delilahlaila )

                                                 [ Enter IAGO and DESDEMONA​. ]

With one hand adjusting the slender tie at his neck and the other cradling a tall cold-brewed coffee, Ivan slinks around his co-workers, every bit serpentine as he weaves through a wall of attorneys, making his way further and further down the hall, away from his desk. His lips are pursed around a straw, ice sloshing against the sides of his plastic cup, fingertips greeting the icy chill like an old friend – it’s his favorite part of the morning, not too late for an extra kick of caffeine and not too early to be criticized for having a second cup so quickly. He looks nearly out of place – steps languorously unhurried, features free of the stressful pinch that only trial preparation could cause. But as he drew near, it was clear that the same couldn’t be said of dear Delilah Bello, somehow prettily hunched over her work. Leaning a hip against the edge of her desk, Ivan perches silently, clinical cerulean eyes falling over her but for a moment before slurping loudly to announce his presence. His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, whistle wet, assessment dry, “You look busy.”

When she was in school, Delilah liked to use post it notes, several notebooks and multi-colored pens and highlighters to organize her studies. She thinks it must have worked since her two degrees (sitting forgotten in a drawer somewhere in her parent’s home) were granted from some of the most prestigious institutions in the continent. Now, she prefers her three pens in black, blue & red, a single yellow highlighter, and two pads of yellow sticky notes in two different sizes, but the point still stands. Delilah Bello is smart. When it comes to the matter of law at least. She has a keen eye for finding the weak link in the opposing side’s line of reasoning and an even keener one for finding the single word in a deposition that would win the office avocatti the trial. Her skills would be much easier to employ, however, if she weren’t being interrupted every five minutes. 

First, it’d been the office secretary coming over to ask about her leg. One of the younger partners had slyly made his way over to question whether she was finally divorced, eyes flitting over her figure in a languid way she didn’t like. Then another legal assistant came to complain about how the former partner had been flirting with him as well. So when Ivan spoke, Delilah didn’t even think before the passive aggressive words flew from glossy lips.

“Yes, you are absolutely correct. Excellent use of your observational skills. And?” It’s upon the last word that her dark eyes flit up to her desk visitor and she straightens, both surprised and embarrassed. Flustered, she tries to apologize. “Perdonami, I didn’t realize-- I shouldn’t have-- What are you doing here?” Of all the people in the office, her husband’s best friend was one she most avoided since their falling out. For him to seek her out did not bode well.

[dqbello]

📞 | november 9th | d & t

Tiberius: [They say he can go home today. It's just about the only good bit of news he's heard in days and he intends to clutch onto it with both hands, not allowing anything to take such a mild elation away from him. He packs his things away into the pockets of his jeans, slow as he eases one bruised arm into his jacket after the other. His phone vibrates against the bed, and he expects Juliana, telling him that the car came around, and that she'll be up soon -- but he certainly hadn't expected his soltato.]

Tiberius: Delilah. [He makes a point to correct, this wasn't work -- or at least he didn't think it was, eyes narrowing even though she can't see him.] Ciao...I am okay, better than I have been. They've decided to release me, finally. [He gives a snort, something almost like a chuckle.] Though, I think it's less about my injuries healing themselves and more because I've terrorized the nursing staff... [A long pause of his own, this time, a near-awkward clearing of his throat.] You okay?

Delilah: [Tiberius had always been unfair to her but this...She had been ready for his usual anger. The bitter words, the harsh commands. She had prepared for Tybalt, of the Capulet Trio. El Tigre. How many times had he driven her to tears at training sessions and on missions? All that vitriol she told herself would be at the other end of the line was suddenly gone. Here he was, calling her by her real name as though they had any relationship outside the mafia. Her brain stutters and she tries to regroup.]

Delilah: I'm glad to hear it. [A soft chuckle.] Or maybe they're simple ready to have their hospital empty again. [At his question, she glances at her leg. She'll need to change the wrapping before bed.] Yes, I left the hospital a few days ago. How about-- [She cuts herself off. She'd already asked how he was.]

Delilah: --Cosimo? [She's proud of her save.] Have we any updates? [Delilah knows that Tiberius knows she doesn't care. She's never been interested in anything remotely related to the Capo. But she can play at niceties until she figures out how to broach her real question. It's not going to go well, already she can tell.]