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Nemico del mio Nemico || ft. CL

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evcravens‌:

You can always come to me.

Always.

Everett tilts his head curiously, tentative hope gleaming in watchful eyes. His heart aches to cling to something steady at a time when his home has been so desperately uprooted — and not just to a best friend like Simon. There’s something about Cristian’s presence that makes Everett feel safe, like an anchor amongst the buffeting winds and waves of the unwitting cruelty of adolescent boyhood. In some ways it’s the same security his father gave him, until his father let him down in one of the most distressing ways possible. But Cristian won’t. 

Do you mean it? Do you really mean always? Everett nearly asks, but his faith in the goodness of the world is still fresh and unblemished and naïve enough to keep his apprehension at bay. Half of him basks in the glow of his good luck; the other half is embarrassed by the mawkish warmth that wraps itself around his chest. He hugs his knees closer to his chest and offers Cristian a shy, simple smile. “Va bene. I’ll remember that.”

His expression morphs from attentive interest to a sheepish grin at the mention of Padre Michele. “It was an accident! I didn’t mean to, I swear,” he protests, a good-natured lilt to his voice. Everett does, of course, have the decency to blush at the memory of nearly inadvertently snitching on the older boy, even if smoking is quite bad for the lungs, according to his mother, the priests at San Tommasso, the science magazines, and his pediatrician. Truthfully, he didn’t mean for the conversation with Padre Michele to veer in that direction. It just… almost did, until Cristian caught his eye with a very meaningful look, and Everett stammered his way to an arrivederci. 

By now, Everett’s anxieties have melted away at Cristian’s warm encouragement, his rude classmate’s words a hundred miles away. All that matters right now is Cristian’s advice and the solid arm jostling Everett’s shoulders and the delightful prospect of having a sibling to share his home with. As much as Everett adores Villa Santarossa and the rest of the grounds of the Craven Estate, the wide, empty corridors don’t make for very good company. But with a brother, it’ll be loads more fun, even if Easton is still too little to do fun things like climb trees or slide down the banisters in the main atrium.

“You really think so?” A beat. Everett’s surprise turns a tad bit sweet. “Grazie, Cristian.” Enthusiastic, hopeful, green and fresh like the first grass of spring. This time, the wave of sentiment is absolutely too embarrassing for the young boy to stomach, so he flings himself back on the bed and crosses his arms over his face before Cristian can see him. “Gross. Now you made me all sappy.”

12 JANUARY 1996

It’s been five days since their return to San Tommaso after Christmas break and Cristian is already planning on breaking school rules. The holidays had been as frigid as the weather because between the successful appointment of Genevieve as CFO of the family’s business and Howard’s lucrative assignment as a star Montague Captain, there had been no space in between for Cristian’s own merit to shine as much as he’d like or deserved. And what did he even have to show for it but a string of A’s for that semester’s examinations and a few satisfactory distribution runs for the mafia. In his family, as he’s come to accept, grades have little value or rather they have notably less value than wit and the ability to make money.

He knows there is not much that he can do to change that while still being in school but it makes the words of his adoptive father ring in his ears just as true as the bells chiming the signal to go to bed; When you are content to be simply yourself and don’t compare, only then will everybody respect you. That has to be terrible advice coming from a man as accomplished as he is.

But it has given Cristian pause to reevaluate his life and circumstances.

To him, being himself holds no meaning other than being able to exceed expectations, at least that’s what he tells himself. But at 18 now he still hasn’t yet figured his life out and it feels as if he’s running out of time. One more year and he will never have to set a foot within these walls again. And it’s that thought that pushes him to reach into his coat pocket for a recently purchased pack of Marlboro. If he isn’t going anywhere now, then one more night of defying his tutors won’t make a difference.

He palms the pack in the deep pocket and its presence feels like a steadying partner who’s ready to see him through as he turns the key and steps out of of his room.

Without plans for suffering any consequences, Cristian calmly walks as if he’s making his way to the lavatory past the last few students scattered along the hallway. They are turning in for the night. But him? He’s going for a smoke as if it’s nothing out of the ordinary. He peeks around the corner facing the common room and sees that the professors are gone now. So, he doesn’t think twice on making his way there until he takes a glance back and sees a familiar face. 

“Everett. I thought you’d have gone to bed by now.”

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lavolumnia‌:

‘I need to know how far you’re willing to go… With your enemy.’

An enemy is only an enemy without a common cause to fight for. Before she can contemplate his proposition any further, the Montague grabs hold of her chin, insinuation clear. Thought flees from her mind, replaced by the echo of a single word… Reckless. Where normally it carries the fear of failure, and the very real threat of ugly consequences, tonight, the word is an enticing whisper. She’s walked the line for the Capulets, inched her way across a a tightrope for Cosimo; one that seems to thin out by the mile. Soon, she’ll be balancing precariously on a thread. Is it any wonder she feels suffocated? Is it any wonder she’s here?

She’ll go back to him in the morning. Faithful, steadfast, reliable. Il capitana esemplare. What’s a few hours till then? What does it matter if the outcome is the same?

She’s lit the match, and Cristian is keen to see it burn. And, so long as she can keep from singeing her own fingertips in the process, then there is mutual benefit to be found. So Vivianne captures his finger with her mouth just as it sweeps across her lower lip; teeth sinking lightly into flesh - just long enough for him to recognize that she isn’t all bark. That just like him, she’s capable of the bite. A split second later, he’s released as she ticks her head to the side to liberate her jaw gently from his grip, before reaching into her purse to grab her cell-phone. Slipping off the stool, Vivianne dials a number and moves a few feet away in order to place a quick call to the babysitter who’s watching her son sleep tonight.

“Maricel, I’m going to need you to stay until I return. I’m not sure what time that will be. Please… I’ll pay you double. Fine, fine! Triple.” How like the old woman, always trying to stiff her out of her modest income. “Yes… Yes, okay. We’ll speak again soon.” The young mother whispers, hoping the music’s loud enough to keep Cristian from making out the contents of her conversation. Not a minute later she’s returned to him, palm settling lightly on his shoulder until he’s turned to fix her with those pale blue eyes. “Andiamo.” She tells him, let’s go, and with that he’s up; leading her only the Devil knew where. She pats the switchblade that’s concealed beneath her clothes as she follows him. It occurs to Vivianne then that he’s no mere customer in this bar; that either he has a hand in its establishment, or else the connections to give him special privileges. She makes a mental note, keen to investigate the Capulet more carefully when she’s returned home, or when she’s a little more sober - and get to the bottom of exactly who he is. But there’s no time for it now. No time to think, or even to breathe as he turns the corner into a backroom and pulls her flush up against the wall. His mouth crashes down on hers, and she surges up to meet him; arms snaking around his neck. The alcohol coating his tongue mixes potently with the liquid courage already swimming in her veins; setting her alight. And suddenly, she’s burning.

The feel of her tongue on his thumb comes not so much as a surprise but as a confirmation that she’s not afraid to play with him. In fact it tells him she’s eager, the same as him, to show off her prowess at the game they’re playing and eager to find out what the night has in store for them because as much as it seems that Cristian is the puppeteer and she the marionette, it’s her willingness that makes this whole affair so enticing. So as his grip loosens on her chin and she walks away, the knowledge that nothing is off the table stays to accompany him while he watches her have her phone conversation. “Please... Fine, triple!” is all he manages to pick out amidst the blaring of the music and he tucks that bit of information away when he empties the contents of his glass. The one gulp burns the back of his throat, turning stronger when her feather light touch reinforces the fact that he’s not above fraternizing.

“Andiamo,” she tells him and he’s wide awake despite the alcohol. He gives her a long considering look again ( what might be the last time for this evening ) before sliding a €10 note across to the man standing behind the bar. “Nessuno entra nel retrobottega.” It is an order despite the tip and the casual way he delivers it with a grin that is received with an affirmative nod and a glance at the blue eyed woman standing beside him. No one enters the back. The man looks as if he’s seen this before and even more than that, he doesn’t seem to care what happens to her as if she’s bound for nothing more than a good time. Either he’s being paid well enough or doesn’t want to meddle, Cristian doesn’t ponder. 

Turning a corner, Cristian leads her through a door labeled STAFF ONLY and into a what looks like an office nice enough to entertain more than just business. His blood is coursing now yet it is only the click of a lock that pulls the trigger that sparks his desires like gunpowder. He is electrified when he holds her against the wall and closes the gap between their two bodies. No smile cracks when his lips press against hers. No clever quips find their way past his tongue. No sound save for the deep groaning for more of her when his hands finally roam the trail his eyes had traced over the curves and valleys of her contours. While she is most delectable to his touch, it’s her captured gaze that makes him hard—a hunger burning lapis blue in the dark.

Fluidly, he disengages his gun holster and hangs it carefully on the hook behind the door without breaking away from those damning hues. “Tell me what you want.” And ever the devil, he capitalises on delivering every sinful delight. Because when his hands slide down her thigh to lift her up, when she wraps her legs around his waist, he makes damn sure she knows the extent of his desire as he presses her against the wall, fixing himself at her core. There is nothing soft about the way he kisses her neck, nothing sweet but all carnal excitement saturates the way his teeth graze her skin and the hold he now has on her body. He’s beyond words but still he manages to tell her this, “If you’re going to use that weapon on your thigh, you better use it now.” There won’t be a second chance.

Nemico del mio Nemico || ft. CL

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setting : circa 2010, nothing, not the glimmer of stars nor the blink of neon boards betray the tragedy that has befallen a man, having been struck down, who now lays in a pool of his own blood. no warning signs whisper nor spell the cataclysm lay not in that stranger’s death but rather in the reverse — the other whose hand are now permanently stained and slicked with gore, forth which a carmine wrath had spilled tenfolds, uninhibited and irreversible. 

present : @ofrosso 

There is no helping the ominous feeling which sinks deep and heavy in the pit of his stomach the moment he sees Marcelo’s name light up on his phone. Three missed calls. Call it intuition or just plain worry but Cristian’s jaw only clenches harder and all previous thought of his negotiations and trip to Russia ceases the moment he realizes he’s missed their call more than twice. Marcelo knows to only call a second time if it’s important and a third if it’s life or death, and they’ve known it for a long time. Cristian swears under his breath, hoping it was just another one of the boy’s antics but just as well as they know him, he knows them. He knows that even a second call from them should warrant an answer.

Many thoughts rush through his brain within the span of the thirty seconds he takes to make the brief walk from his private charter to the car awaiting him. He’s tired from a long journey but nothing could make him to ignore those three unanswered calls. So, with quick and purposeful taps on his phone screen the dial tone breaks up the blaring sirens in his ears.

CRISTIAN: Come on, pick up.

He swears under his breath, annoyance and unease both prickling under his skin like an itch he can’t scratch. It rings until finally... he hears not the monotone ringing but the sound of a person’s breathing over the phone.

Clearing his throat, he inquires steady and collected, almost stern. This better be worth my time.

CRISTIAN: Ciao, Marcelo? Qualcosa non va? ( Something wrong? )

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gertrudezhang‌:

Genevieve had climbed the precipice of unspoken expectation that had been thrust upon her - the expectation to be silent in the face of what she knew, the assumption that she would be a constant amid variables, among others - now prepared to jump from the peak of disappointment on which she stood. It would mean that she faced a decline as steep as the one her view of Howard had taken in a few, short, years, crafted from the need to remain in line. All it had taken was one event, one misdemeanour, to shake his standing in the mob from what she had thought were firm roots. However, she stayed, because she loved him in spite of his ever dwindling spontaneity. 

It might have been why she needed a moment to respond, to adapt to the readiness at which he accepted her offer. Genevieve is quiet while she listens, a soft curve forming on her mouth as she does, unconscious but shamefully genuine. “Come get me,” she half-laughs, half-pleads, a softness seeping into her tone that hadn’t been there for some time. “I can meet you at the end of our street, by the bakery I like on the corner,” she thinks in convenience, though her words underpinned with a question. Is that alright? Difficult herself to suppress the part of her that felt the need to leave a note for Howard, not sure what she would even say to placate him. It wasn’t like she was a teenager sneaking out of her parents house, not anymore.

Even as she gives him direction, she is taking her keys in hand before sliding her coat over her shoulders, having decided she would go on her own if he were to decline. However, a sense of satisfaction wells up within her as the thought snakes forward that tells her he won’t. Impulse had been the catalyst that warmed her body like a shot of whiskey, the sound of her boots echoing against the pavement in the eerie silence. And yet, she still felt safe though she scanned the street for a sign of life.

Easily enough, he agrees to meet at the bakery and if he were an emotional man, that single moment of weakness would have thrust him into the past, unearthing the times when it had felt like it had been him against Howard and the way the man had speared through the world — that had always been more difficult to endure than if it had been Cristian against the universe. But the man who is on his way to that end of the street is someone who has learned to make sure emotions never get the better of him and instead be used in a calculated manner. Because having emotional stakes will drive him to ponder on how his brother might feel about him taking Genevieve out for a ride or how he would retaliate if it comes to light that he had lured ( that’s the word Howard would use ) his wife out at midnight like a snake does it’s prey. 

But easily enough, when he agrees to meet at the bakery, he detaches himself from that notion.

Why overthink things? It seems to him like a curious twist to the beginning of his night’s conclusion. He rests easy in the fact that the closest person to Howard would rather spend these next few moments with him than with the golden boy with a stick up his arse. 

“You’ll be happy to know I come with options.” Cristian’s grin is wide and beaming not from some elation he feels at the sight of Genevieve looking straight at him. No, he’s not that kind. He’s smiling because doing a bad thing feels so good. 

Leaning against the black car pulled up by the side of the street, he paints a picture of a Byronic portrait—alluringly dark and mysterious, now clad in a more comfortable attire than his suit. The curve of his smirk is a curling finger, and the arch of his brow is the beckoning of a wrapped gift. A surprise. “One, we could sit in the car and smoke until you’re satisfied or high as a cloud. Two, we go for a drive.”

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feral ave marias // l.e.e.

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“He was a shooting star, he fell for her wishes.”

— Channing M (via de-morte)

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czarnichego‌:

She hums in a satisfied way, as though putting pieces together. ❝ Maybe you sound alike because you gave them the advice ? Or maybe all you Montagues get a pamphlet that I missed. ‘Unnecessary Things la Mafia Considers Necessary: A Treatise by Damiano Montague.’ ❞ She can’t argue that Don Montague hasn’t made them necessary, but it’s his decision, and therefore can be undone on his whim, along with Don Capulet’s. All it takes is one person powerful enough to stand on their own. Someone with courage, though it’s rare in a place like this. 

Brielle considers that proposal. ❝ Sensible advice, ❞ she decides after genuinely picking through it. ❝ Yes, I will then. I’ve swallowed enough poison by now to be well on my way, but I’ve a long way to go. ❞

At the mention of a Captain’s meeting, Brielle’s eyes go wide, but likely not for the reason that he thinks. Worry for Marcelo is present, obviously; they were only returned to them that day, practically. Far too little time for them to recover. Yet that wars with worry for Alexander as well, who would be expected to get into the heart of the fray to ensure that Don Montague was safe. So many people she cares for, and so little time to help them.

Her brows furrow. Henry? She doesn’t know much at all about the Captain, but the familiar way Cristian refers to him makes it clear they have some kind of relationship. He was one of the names she heard bandied about during her time at the hospital, but beyond the time he saved her life, she’s never spoken to him. Curious, not that she can do anything about it, she nods, noting the blood under his nails as he points toward the aforementioned room. ❝ You should wash away the blood first, ❞ she says, all practicality even as she wonders, desperately, how it came to be there. Did he hurt someone, or did he save someone? She wanted to ask as much as she didn’t want to know at all. ❝ Just in case. Lots of sick people at a hospital. ❞

She waves him off unsure if she’s made another ally or someone that will try and make her. Still, she wants to know more. Now that her curiosity’s peaked, it will be difficult to sate. 

законченный.

— EXEUNT.

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gertrudezhang‌:

“It is one of the reasons I like you,” the admittance comes unbidden, natural in the manner that it leaves her, as easy as breathing. Cristian had been a glimpse of light amid an otherwise darkened sky that was the dull backdrop of monotonous routine. This night, surrounded by people whom she knew better than the back of her hand, he was a welcome surprise which she appreciated more than she could - or, more accurately, would - say. 

The gesture was subtle, the gentle shift of his form to protect her, though that did not mean it went unnoticed, her fingers tightening for a moment on his forearm in an expression of thanks. Their secret, one of what could turn into many, sealed in an unspoken response. Genevieve huffed her amusement at the quip, the relaxed atmosphere overridden by the tension that fizzled between the two brothers, having affixed her facade in place once more. Howard beckons to her and she stands, releasing her grip on Cristian’s arm after flexing her fingers once more, “I’ll see you soon.” The woman assures him, before she is swept away, resuming her designated place on the arm of her husband.

However, soon was perhaps an understatement, as mere hours later her finger hovered over his contact information in her phone, pressing the call button after several moments of hesitance. “Is it too soon to take you up on that offer?” Genevieve asks eventually, somewhat tentative, finding that the trail that the words burned in her throat was now peppered with a nervous energy that she couldn’t quite shake (and an uncertain origin). The vigour left her in anxious fidgeting, sitting in her lounge with her free hand toying with her cigarette packet as she waited for an answer.

“No matter how surly anyone gets, nicotine will always be at the bottom of my list, fratellino.” Howard retorts placidly but Cristian feels the acute sting of it that he lets go a breath with his smirk now hanging in an incredulous crescent. Howard has always had a way with gaining the upper hand even without seemingly wanting to. It’s their dynamic; the way it has always been like the never changing tides that crash against seawalls. But their one saving grace is that no matter how much they each grated on the other’s nerves, neither one has ever managed or seriously tried to tear down the walls and bridges that cannot be rebuilt. That would be quiet an assault. 

Still... As Howard holds out his hand to his wife, Cristian can’t help but read differently into it. You will always be at the bottom of my list, little brother. “Ah, but it’s still on your list.” He bitterly refuses to let it go but evidently Howard has already moved on and only cares that Genevieve leaves his brother’s side to rejoin him in the gallery. She does, but not without conveying her subtle thanks first to which Cristian acknowledges with a nod. Soon, he keeps the thought to himself as he waves the pair off and is effectively left alone to brace cool winds with the only source of warmth coming off of the lit cigarette in his fingers. Even then, without taking another puff Cristian crushes the stick with the heel of his foot and having had enough for the evening.

Though, it’s funny now when he thinks back on that and his conversation with Genevieve, that topics of surprises and midnight had come up. It’s as if their exchange had breathed life into the circumstance that he now finds himself in because when his phone rings and he sees her name on the screen, he knows exactly why she’s called — what she craves for. The tail of his brow arches curiously a moment before he answers. It’s funny because when he thought that he had had enough for the evening, he’s actually just begun to whet his appetite. “Just say the word, Gen.” Ask me to come. “Where are you now?”

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gertrudezhang‌:

His tone causes her to avert her gaze, glancing downward to one side as she attempts to suppress the half-smile that it coaxes onto her features. If Howard was the sun, the one who might die so that she, the moon, could breathe each night, then Cristian might have been a shooting star; a bright streak across an otherwise dark sky destined to lay ruin in its wake. The confession summons her attention again, head turning to face her companion as brow arches in curiousness. “You are full of surprises,” although she says as such, it would have been more so had he told her he was a stranger to such desires, his admittance itself was the surprise. “Thank you,” her gratitude is genuine, “You do have a nice car,” her words her own way of accepting his offer.

Howard had always seemed to possess the uncanny ability to appear just after he had been the topic of discussion, it might have been a coincidence as she would have recognised his silhouette either way as it appeared in the double doors leading to the balcony. Genevieve moved to extinguish the still-lit cigarette in a move that had been well rehearsed, discarding the butt underneath the bench on which the pair sat. “Howard, darling,” she greets with a smile, able to ignore the question evident in his gaze and the brief thrum of her heart against her rib cage. A cigar on occasion was acceptable, though smoking cigarettes wasn’t acceptable, according to Howard Zhang. “Cristian was just keeping me company,” hand rests on her brother-in-law’s arm for a moment, an unspoken plea to follow her lead, “It was terribly warm in there.” 

Why she tries to hide her smile he doesn’t know but as she does it, he levels a wide grin in her direction and thinks what fun it is to conspire with family... And if they are to release their inhibitions, they would do it freely because in time he’ll wear down whatever defenses she puts up. While Cristian is normally careful about the things he pries into, with Gen he doesn’t feel the need to be cautious and if he gets burned in the process, well... let’s say it’ll be fun while it lasts. “Mm, yes—surprises. It’s the one consistency I have to my name.” It is what has made him so successful over the course of his career in their organization but less so in his personal life. Though it is a surprising fact that he had ended up here when at one time he had had nothing. “Keep that in mind, won’t you?” 

And before more could be said following the suspicious cant of his head, he hears a set of very familiar footsteps intruding upon this most interesting conversation. “Gen?” As luck would have it, Cristian is fast enough to catch Genevieve discreetly disposing her cigarette butt a moment sooner than his brother’s voice seems to stifle the airflow on an open balcony. Even before he feels Genevieve’s touch on his arm, he twists enough so that his body might shield her vices from Howard’s gaze. An unspoken favour.

As he blithely greets the man with raised fingers in between which is a lit cigarette, a white plume mockingly dances with each of his movements. It almost seems impossible but he could have sworn his brother’s deep hues turned a shade darker at the sight of the his signature smirk. “Howard...” Cristian says as he stands, taking a measured step to place a foot over Genevieve’s discarded stick before taunting her husband in his usual manner—cocky and shameless. “Are the devils in there too surly for you that you suddenly feel the need to smoke?” 

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… murder is always an option Always

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czarnichego‌:

She couldn’t help it — the words made her wrinkle her nose a moment before laughing. ❝ Sorry, sorry, ❞ she said once she’d caught her breath. ❝ You sound so much like Masha ! ❞ Brielle blinked and corrected herself after a moment; she’d never called them Masha to their face, but they didn’t mind her other nickname, fitting more plainly with Italian than the Russian syllables. Using diminutives was instinct for her in this language. She had them for everyone, whether they knew it or not, that she loved. ❝ Celo, I mean. They were just telling me I should be harsher. ❞ That was the sticking point between them, as always, but the words were said with fondness in every syllable. She liked having that argument with Marcelo, pushing them and letting them push her. She knew they thought they would come out the winner, ultimately, but that was still up for debate in her own mind.

Brielle considered that on its face. Was she cruel enough to leave her family to their fate? Of course not, though they’d left her to hers. They did not write or call, though it would be easy to contact her through the Russian contacts they knew she’d obtained. They did not know whether she lived or died. They did not bother to find out. ❝ They wouldn’t for me, ❞ she said, words thrown out like a curse before she could stop them. She thought of Heloise, of her delicate hands that had never needed to bear callouses the way Brielle’s had, fine-boned features so at odds with the soft roundness of her own face. She’d been hand picked to exceed Brielle in every way, and oh how she did, glowing with gentle moonlight as Brielle burned bright as the sun. 

Yet above all, her family loved the moon. They always had.

❝ But… I would protect them, yes. I can’t let what others do to me define what I do to them. I can’t become what someone has made me. ❞ That was the harshest lesson she’d learned in the wake of Faron’s death. She couldn’t be someone’s creature again, as seductive as it might be. She had to belong wholly to herself above all else, and in doing so, might find a way to stay true in this city as burning and grim as Dante’s Inferno. ❝ Good thing I’m not important enough to warrant a trip to Russia just to get them, then. ❞

Feared. He took what she wanted and spoke to the fear in it. She’d never thought she might be feared, not by anyone, but she’d seen it in some of their faces tonight. It troubled her more than she would willingly admit just yet. ❝ I don’t seek fear, but I do seek respect. ❞ There was a quiet, careful steel in the words, something flexible but absolutely unbreakable. ❝ That’s what I wanted. What I was always meant for. When Faron was teaching me… ❞ She trailed off into a sigh, blinking rapidly to clear any unwanted mist from her eyes. ❝ I know I can’t help them all. But they’ll remember me, and next time, it won’t take half as long before they let me help them again. ❞ Amused, she waved her scarred hand, not even bothering to point out her myriad bandages. ❝ I get hurt no matter what. Verona sank her teeth deeply into me from the moment I came; I can only decide what to do before it comes. Whether to cower in fear or stride boldly toward what I believe in. ❞ Unspoken was that she chose the latter, again and again. Always.

Unbuckling, Brielle slid out of the car, long limbs coordinated and sure. With a start, she realized she was a fraction taller than him. Odd, when he seemed so much larger than life in his tone and manner. She met his eyes without hesitation, and was pleased to see he wasn’t writing her off, as so many in this city had done. That interest spoke well of the way he thought and his willingness to accept the unexpected; she wouldn’t forget it. ❝ No, ❞ she answered, grinning, ❝ I race horses. It’s a hazard of the job. ❞

She followed him inside, and taking a look around, felt bemusement at the words. Santi had said them too, but unlike this place, the Gallo apartment felt like home. This felt a lot more like a place someone happened to stay, on loan for some sort of photoshoot or something. It was too collected to feel home-y, and as she looked down, she worried about flaking dried blood onto the floor. She hadn’t had time to change since Delilah Bello had sliced open her skin, and even bandaged, the blood had trailed across her skin in rivers, dripping behind her as she left the theatre. Electing to wash it off her arms at least, she moved toward the kitchen, running the water and waiting for it to become hot. ❝ Thank you, ❞ she called over the rushing sound. ❝ Any other lost lambs you need to pick up just yet ? ❞ It was a question asked with a hint of teasing mirth, for they both knew she was no lamb. She was a wolf beneath a lamb’s clothing, and that pleased her to no end.

If he’d been asked, he wouldn’t be able to point out what Brielle found so funny. Still...a deep chuckle sounded at the back of his throat at mention of Marcelo. Cristian has known the Rosso family for a long time and Marcelo since they were a child, but he has never known them to indulge in nicknames so fanciful as Masha. It was heartening, at least, to know that they still inspired some kindliness in people like Brielle. And from their short conversation in the car, Cristian had a feeling that there was no way Marcelo could withstand a force like hers. She is both of their opposites to an extreme degree but somehow not quite so grating on the nerves. And maybe that was enough for him to want to keep her company. “I can’t say I doubt their wisdom. There’s some truth there if you want to hear it,” was all he said on the subject because Cristian believed whether or not one deems being “harsh” a necessity in this job, it almost always becomes one regardless. And it’s something he’ll let Brielle figure out on her own. 

And possibly sooner than expected. There was a coldness in the way she talked about her family, and some part of Cristian thinks he understands a fraction of that stranding. But she cloaks it with her unshaking warmth just as she has done the whole night. Every inhospitable circumstance they discussed, from the people on the streets to the people in the mob, and any stony-hearted idea have been met with a tenderness that might grow to smother. Is that how she will do her job? Compensate for the harshness of reality with her inexhaustible reservoir of charity and benevolence? It’s a dire feat for anyone. 

But the fact that she’s acknowledged that the city has teeth and jaws that could lock was enough to tell him that she’s being as vigilant as she could be. And if she felt a strong need to shield the people, then so be it. With a nod, Cristian replied “No, you don’t cower, not when you can still stand. But you also don’t go unarmed. You’ll learn from the city, no doubt. And if it poisons you, absorb it until you become immune.” That way you don’t get hurt and you can protect your people better.

Ironically, it was finally in his own home that he truly felt the magnitude of the night’s events settle over him like an invisible film clinging to his skin. The sight at Teatro Nuovo played behind his lids in scenes; the hanging, the panicked stampede, his nephew’s gunshot wound, the blood on his hands... It reminds him to look. As he stared to see the red still crusted under his nails despite his quick wash at the hospital, he said over his shoulder “Не за что.” You’re welcome. If he hadn’t had the excuse of following Damiano’s orders, he would still be at the hospital waiting for Henry to come out of the OR. “No. One is enough for tonight.” Cristian joked back before grabbing a clean towel and some antiseptic solution from the guest bathroom and brought it to Brielle. 

“The captains will assemble at the library at dawn. You should get some rest before your new orders come in.” Even as he said that, Cristian didn’t look like he was going to follow his own orders. “Sleep in that room or on the couch, whichever you prefer. I have to go see Henry.” One glace at his phone and he began to feel the uneasiness of being the one to deliver the news to Genevieve — but later, when it’s certain the boy is in no danger dying.

[lnvitto]

lavolumnia·:

‘Consider me intrigued’, he murmurs, and as his eyes track down to her lips, there’s a delectable shiver that runs down Vivianne’s spine; one she hasn’t felt in a very long time. She almost doesn’t recognize it at first, shifting in her seat as if to uproot the feeling. Until it settles somewhere above her coccyx and fans inward, into the pit of her stomach. 

Desire. 

The alcohol in her system isn’t helping matters - or maybe that’s exactly what it’s doing. Regardless, it’s easier to recognize the stimulus when it’s exactly that and nothing more - desire; flat and carnal, without the cocktail of complicated feelings that came with it last time. Or all the times before that… She doesn’t want to think of last time, or of him, and that’s just another of the reasons she’s still here tonight. “Why trouble yourself with what I want in return? I won’t be asking anything of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Vivianne eyes the Montague evenly, blue eyes on blue, but his skepticism persists. “Fine… La vendetta.” She cedes, vengeance. “I want to take something away from him just as he took something away from me.” Her tone is stark and unforgiving; a contrast to her graceful fingers, which leave the stem of her martini glass in order to drop gingerly over the man’s knee. She walks two fingers slowly up the side of his thigh, gaze still level on his. “You understand that, don’t you?” It’s brazen, but she’s young enough at twenty-seven to keep it precariously light and coaxing. Just in case. She hasn’t forgotten that he’s armed. “You seem like a man who might.”

But Vivianne is finding that the Montague’s cynicism runs practically as deep as her own. And although he’s taken a bite of the bait she’s dangled before him, his teeth are still barred and latched on, razor-sharp. Towards that end, he’s still pressing her for more where it comes to Genevieve. It’s not a topic she wants to delve into in any more detail - especially not under the influence of three martinis, but Vivianne knows that if she loses his ticking attention, it’s game over. Perhaps even literally. “How can I prove it to you?…” She wonders, a mild pout briefly capturing her lips. “Ask, if you don’t believe me. Anything you like, and maybe I’ll answer.”

Cristian, for all his wit and cunning, is an easy prey of envy and contempt especially when Volumnia strikes a match and there, the fires of his avarice ignites. He hungers for what she’s offering, if he’s reading correctly between the lines. He wants and wants but the right opportunity to take his boastful brother down a peg has never fallen into his lap but with a little more effort on his part he’ll make it so. And quite literally if I might add. He feels her fingers trailing a path up his leg but his gaze doesn’t waver from hers. Where she might stop is entirely up to her and he isn’t about to prevent her from seeing an end to what she’s started. 

A gleam dances across his blue eyes as they begin to roam shamelessly over her person matching her brazenness, and visibly considering her offer with a shallow nod of his head. He feels a thrilling response lingering on the tip of his tongue. And smoothly, his answer edges off of it to fill the space between them, articulating his thoughts. And what makes you think you’ll walk away after entering an arrangement with me? he wants to say, but instead goes with something less forboding. “I do admit, your offer is tempting me. You really want to take something from him? I’m all ears. But I need to know how far you’re willing to go. Con il tuo nemico.” With your enemy. Enemies, that’s what they are, are they not?

 He runs his fingers through his hair, biding enough time to think through what she’s laying before him. An opportunity to prove herself? How naive is she? Cristian isn’t above exploiting that at this point, in fact he’s ready with a proposition. In a calculated move, he tips her chin in his direction, clasping it with enough pressure to show he means business but his touch is hardly abrasive. He does it first to see if she would flinch, and second, to smooth his thumb over the traces of the martini on her lips. They were soft, almost velvety. He knows the little games people like to play, so he plays them too. And Cristian is convinced he’s the more skilled between the both of them.

“Come with me to the back room, Volumnia. And then you can prove yourself.”

Nemico del mio Nemico || ft. CL

[lnvitto]

theodoramoreaus‌:

We pay anyway. Theodora knows he means to tell them this is an offer they should not refuse. This is an offer they almost cannot refuse, but they do not give kindly to the demands of others, especially not those who use the death of Orpheus as a bargaining chip. He would have some snide comment had his ghost been able to speak to them over their shoulder during this moment. Hell, had someone used their death as a bargaining chip to a live Orpheus, he would have laughed in their faces (possibly before punching them in the very same place). Death was never a pawn upon the table, only a threat. Still, they follow his beckon as they wander about the board, black and white squares alternating beneath their feet.

In a quieter room, all is unveiled. They want to know what they would give for him, to have even a fraction of that man in their life. Nothing, they think. They would not give a thing to cheat death, for they know it always comes with a price. They certainly would not give a piece of themself for a piece of him. They were whole with him and they were whole without him, only this time filled with pain instead of the myriad of feelings they had for him, ranging from infatuation to rage. They did not need to remove a thing from their being for the hollow caverns Cristian dangled before them. They do not say this out loud. They wish to hear the rest of his offer.

Orpheus was a king in his own right, and Measure by Measure was his kingdom. Theodora was a queen in their own right, but they were not specifically his queen. They were their own queen who ruled their own kingdom; they simply shared an alliance with the king and his own lands. Those lands were never meant to belong to them, just as their kingdom was never meant to belong to him. He was king of the ruffians that entered his domain; he was king of the exchange of blood and dirt. They, on the other hand, were queen of the fairies; they were queen of the dizzying fantasy only they knew how to create. They would not vacate their throne for anything – certainly not for the seat that was previously occupied by Orpheus. They missed him, that much was true. They were filled with pain from this loss, that was undeniable. But they would not give up themself for even a shred of comfort from this pain. Orpheus knew they wouldn’t, and he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

“Measure by Measure is not my kingdom,” they finally state when he has finished speaking, hands clasped together in front of them. “I have my own. And I cannot allow it to fall into the hands of someone who didn’t earn it – certainly not Roman Montague.” Their empire would not fall into the hands of Orpheus’s murderer, nor would it fall into the greedy hands Cristian outstretched as if he were doing them a favor. “If I decide further on the matter, I’ll be in touch.”

– EXIT [ TITANIA ]

— EXEUNT.

[lnvitto]

[lnvitto]

gertrudezhang‌:

He laughed, and Genevieve couldn’t remember the last time that she had heard the sound from him. It plays against her ears, transforming her into an audience listening to a symphony, something that she could appreciate as it eases the remaining tension from her shoulders. Smoke vapour curls from her mouth in tandem with her exhale as she talks, “I think he likes the sound of his own voice,” although her words are light and airy, she is unable to quell the pang of guilt in the pit of her stomach in response to her admittance. However, it is soon over ridden by the sharp truth that her words were honest. 

“Yes,” she responds, “Of course.” Genevieve answers, the epitome of the dutiful woman though her image was marred by the cigarette that hung from her mouth; like a portrait that hung just off-centre. Her words are a warped copy of his own, tainted with her own amusement; the knowledge of something that he remained unaware of encapsulated by the gleam of wickedness that flashes across obsidian like shooting stars across the night sky. “However, you should know I often have cravings after midnight. Would that be a problem for you?” Amusement arches her brow, the partial truth overshadowed by the jest that underpinned her question, matching his humour with an equal measure of her own; ingredients for a dangerous cocktail.

The realisation that she was enjoying his company surprised her, the sensation was a rare experience at events such as these. Contentedness washing over her like the nicotine that coursed through her lungs. Obligation being the original driving force and reason for her presence there that evening; the duty to maintain social expectations, to Howard and, perhaps most important, to herself. It was nice to find herself with another reason to extend her outing, even if it was a surprising one.

“My, my. Genevieve…” Has he been willfully refusing to take notice of how much Howard even annoys his own wife? It’s funny now that he thinks of it. “I didn’t know you felt that way about my brother. If I’d known earlier, I would have suggested that we take him to the summer cabin and leave him. Last I heard there isn’t any cell reception there. Can you imagine the peace and quiet? Just for a few days, of course.” Isn’t it some marriage faux pas to go along with someone when they call your partner insufferable? It’s one thing for a brother to say these things and another for a wife to agree.

Cristian can’t say that it’s surprising that her wit matches his own, he’s known that about her for a long time. She doesn’t miss a beat with her response and her company delights him even more so. “Midnight. Cravings. I’m no stranger to those things.” It’s the hour by which many of his businesses conclude and he’s only human, much to his dismay. So, of course he knows all about the desires that claw at his chest after the clock strikes twelve. Sometimes it’s the low, rich tunes he plays on his stereo. Other times it’s the thrill he finds between the thighs of a woman. But now, he finds the prospect of coaxing the wife of his brother out at night to be a delectable idea. Simply because she had suggest it and that he knew for sure it would antagonize the man. Howard doesn’t like to share, Cristian’s known that for a long while now. “It would be no problem at all.”

“You won’t have to wait until the next time you can find an empty balcony to smoke. I’m sure my car will be a better hiding spot. Not to mention more comfortable.”