#augusto venza

[rudnitskaia]

Meet the Dad >:| (he will stare directly into your soul and won't ever blink)

Here's Augusto Venza in Lackadaisy animation style! If you think he is shorter than Mau, then know he really is. x)) He is 165 cm tall, while Maura is 171 cm tall.

You can find his lore here.

[rudnitskaia]

I DIED LAUGHING 🤣🤣🤣 Edd you're gorgeous, thanks for showing it to me x))

It's even funnier knowing Mau and Gusto literally lived in Kansas City and then moved to St. Louis xDD

Oh, what Missouri!.. 🤣

[ctvsalitalnet-blog]

Fiscal alista pedido de prisión preventiva para Keiko Fujimori

New Post has been published on https://www.ctvsatelital.net/fiscal-alista-pedido-de-prision-preventiva-para-keiko-fujimori/

Fiscal alista pedido de prisión preventiva para Keiko Fujimori

La situación legal de la lideresa de Fuerza Popular (FP), Keiko Fujimori Higuchi, que se encuentra con una orden de detención preliminar por diez días, se complicará en los próximos días. Una fuente del Ministerio Público dijo a diario Exitosa que el fiscal de lavado de activos, José Domingo Pérez, integrante del Equipo Especial del caso Lava Jato, ha decidido solicitar la medida restrictiva de prisión preventiva contra la excandidata por el presunto delito de lavado de activos, en la investigación que se le sigue por los supuestos aportes de Odebrecht a la campaña del 2011.

“Para el fiscal existen suficientes pruebas que comprometen a Keiko Fujimori de haber cometido el delito de lavado de activos. Además, considera que se están cumpliendo los tres presupuestos para pedir una prisión preventiva y esta solicitud la estará presentando antes que venza el arresto preliminar”, dijo nuestra fuente.

Entre las medidas limitativas que pedirá el Ministerio Público, está la solicitud para formalizar la investigación preparatoria por un periodo de ocho meses, etapa previa a desarrollarse un juicio oral contra Keiko Fujimori, los exdirectivos Jaime Yoshiyama, Augusto Bedoya, entre otros investigados.

Los indicios

El Equipo Especial del Ministerio Público estableció que Fuerza Popular lavó los primeros USD 500 mil otorgados por Odebrecht a través de aportantes anónimos y tres actividades proselitistas organizadas por la tesorería: dos cocteles y una rifa profondos.

La información proporcionada por la tesorería de Fuerza 2011, con relación a la venta de boletos para la rifa, presenta “incongruencias”. Estas irregularidades han obstaculizado a la Fiscalía en su misión de identificar a las personas que compraron tarjetas para ambos cócteles “por la falta de un registro individualizado”.

El Ministerio Público además señala que “se evidencia indicios de doble contabilidad o contabilidad paralela en el partido que podría implicar mecanismos para ocultar el dinero entregado por la empresa Odebrecht y/o vinculadas”.

La Fiscalía también presenta como indicio de irregularidades en las finanzas fujimoristas, las transferencias recibidas desde el exterior para la campaña 2011, que están cerca a los USD 500 mil y que fueron realizadas a través de los bancos Deutsche Bank, Wells Fargo Bank y Caixabank, entre otras entidades financieras.

El registro incluye los aportes de Joon Lim Lee, esposa de Jorge Yoshiyama Sasaki; del empresario Juan Carlos Luna Frisancho, dueño del LVF Liberty Institute, una de las mayores financistas de Fuerza Popular; de la empresa japonesa Takagi y de la compañía Andean Sun Produce, constituida en Estados Unidos, entre otros aportantes offshore.

Fraccionados

El fiscal José Domingo Pérez identificó diversos aportes introducidos a las finanzas de Fuerza Popular a través de la presunta modalidad del ‘pitufeo’: “La Fiscalía identifica a 17 aportantes que utilizaron esta modalidad, entre ellos el ciudadano boliviano Eduardo Montes Vize, que aportó un total de USD 49 mil a través de siete depósitos bancarios en tres días”.

El documento judicial además revela que hay otras 25 personas que realizaron depósitos en la cuenta bancaria de Fuerza Popular en el banco Scotiabank sin estar registrados como aportantes ante la ONPE. Algunos de estos aportantes, siempre según la versión fiscal, también fraccionaron sus aportes.

El Equipo Especial del Ministerio Público identificó a 18 personas que negaron realizar aportes a Fuerza Popular a pesar de estar registrados en los informes que presentó esta organización política ante la ONPE, para justificar sus ingresos y gastos de la campaña 2011.

La Fiscalía finalmente identifica un último grupo de aportes sospechosos a Fuerza Popular. Este es el caso de Daniel Mellado Correa, quien realizó 86 depósitos por más de USD 455 mil entre marzo y junio del 2011 por orden, según el Ministerio Público, de sus empleadores en la compañía Office USA: Giancarlo Bertini Vivanco y Patrizia Coppero del Valle.

COLABORADORES EFICACES

El fiscal Pérez Gómez se ha propuesto que algunos de los investigados se acojan a la colaboración eficaz, esto con la finalidad de que se vean beneficiados en una posible sentencia, pero a cambio de brindar información relevante que demuestre los ilícitos de dicha organización criminal.

Según se conoció, la Fiscalía tiene en la mira a los exdirectivos del fujimorismo, Jaime Yoshiyama y Augusto Bedoya Cámere, ambos sindicados de ser los líderes y encargados de la captación de dineros ilícitos. También la secretaria de Keiko, Adriana Tarazona Martínez de Cortés, encargada de la colocación de los dineros ilícitos captados.

[rudnitskaia]

Thank you, my beloved @aghostnamedclamity 💖 (I would play with Benji and make Mordecai play, too 😡)

These headcanons both for Mau and for Gusto could be true x'DD Augusto really isn't the smartest cookie and when he's nervous, he simply rolls the dice on the level of absurdity of his speech. 🤣 And Mau... she doesn't have much money, therefore I bet her drawer is full of unpaired socks. 😁

And today I poke @tohot4u ✨

Rude. and very true but still rude 🤨

Tag game cuz I’m bored (don’t feel pressured)

@stickypiratepeach @lee-always-kn0ws @quokkalighthanji @kenia4 @takemeseriouslyanddie @leonchansblog26

@official-hannah-bahng @stayriinaa @silencionyx @azuna-sz @foivestarrsketchez

@hopelessskznatic @2mins-world @channiesmegaverse @softkisshyunjin @skz-fanfic-recs

@psychologybat @jeonginplsholdmyhand

@thek-kraze @mf-rockstar @marie-is-seein-stars @demi0lune @stanskzot8 @skz-lover21

[latikobe]

Conozca los ‘escuadrones de la muerte’ cubanos

LA HABANA, Cuba.- “El Villano” murió ahogado en alcohol antes de poder verse reflejado en este reportaje. No le alcanzó la voluntad para cumplir la promesa de contarnos su historia dentro de los “escuadrones de la muerte”.

Lo hallaron una mañana, muerto en el traspatio de su casa, rodeado de gallos de pelea. Los que encontraron el cadáver dicen que tenía los pantalones bajos y su cuerpo bañado con la sangre que botó por la boca.

“Yo tomo, pero cuando tomo, no como”, cuenta Alfredo —alias “El Conejo” — que decía “El Villano” con frecuencia. Los dos eran compadres en unos de los “escuadrones” de la barriada El Platanito, del municipio Cerro.

“Padecía de úlcera sangrante”, recuerda Alfredo. “Me dijo muchas veces que estaba esperando a que regresara el médico de la misión en Venezuela para operarse”, agrega.

Historias como la de “El Villano” son las que describen el nombre los llamados “escuadrones de la Muerte”, conformados por alcohólicos que van perdiéndolo todo hasta completar el ciclo con la muerte. Quienes pertenecen o pertenecieron a estos grupos coinciden en que se llega fácil para saciar la adicción cuando ya no se tiene respaldo económico. Salir vivo es lo difícil: requiere un milagro de la voluntad.

Llamados con anterioridad “pasmoliveros” (pasma’o quiere decir sin dinero), se trata de grupos integrados por 6 o 7 alcohólicos con un rango de edad que ronda los 40 años. En todos, la figura de una mujer dibuja el esquema óptimo del grupo, que pocas veces varia el espacio diario donde se reúnen a beber; un parque, esquina, portal o solar yermo.

No todos son desempleados. Generalmente trabajan como serenos, carteros o mensajeros de instituciones estatales. Los que avanzan por el camino de la indigencia hacia la muerte, venden en las calles lo que recolectan en la basura, hacen encargos por una línea de alcohol, limpian almacenes, cargan, ejecutan cualquier orden para consolar la adicción. Lo poco que logran individualmente potencia el espíritu gregario, que los convoca a compartir las cuotas del alcohol dentro de los “escuadrones de la muerte”, donde beben hasta que la consciencia se lo permite.

Origen de los ‘escuadrones’

Durante el Periodo Especial se inició el auge de la preparación y consumo de preparados alcohólicos no registrados. “Mofuco”, “chispa e´tren”, “bájate el blúmer”, “el hombre y la tierra”, “warfarina”, son algunos de los nombres más conocidos de estas bebidas que aún se comercializan a muy bajo precio en el mercado negro. La mayoría de ellas está contaminada con sustancias como el alcohol metílico, cuyos fabricantes clandestinos filtraron a través de las heces de neonatos.

Beben día tras día, hasta que los venza el alcohol o la muerte (Foto: Augusto C. San Martín)

El origen del nombre, “escuadrón de la Muerte”, surgió para identificar una de estas fábricas clandestinas de alcohol casero, ubicada en Corrales entre Figuras y Antón Recio, Habana Vieja.

Yasser Pedroso Martínez, coordinador del Centro de Rehabilitación para Alcohólicos y Drogadictos, tiene experiencia de 15 años auxiliando a los alcohólicos indigentes.

“Alrededor de la fábrica se reunían diariamente una veintena de alcohólicos a beber hasta ser vencidos por el alcohol (…) Por esa época murieron como cinco en esa esquina”, recuerda. “Cuando uno de estos alcohólicos llegaba a una iglesia, en muchas no los dejaban entrar, en otras entraban pero se abría un espacio alrededor de él. Imagínate, marginado en la calle, marginado en la familia y marginado también por la Iglesia (…) Nosotros salimos por las noches, vamos a los lugares donde duermen y le llevamos caldosas, arroz con picadillo, según las posibilidades”, agrega.

El sistema de salud cubano mantiene programas de prevención de adicciones y centros municipales de salud mental que inician el tratamiento a partir de la solicitud del adicto. En la isla existen alrededor de 108 grupos de Alcohólicos Anónimos y una decena de grupos, vinculados a las iglesias, que trabajan con programas de rescate para los adictos a las drogas fuertes y el alcohol.

Según investigaciones realizadas por Unidad Nacional de Promoción de Salud y Prevención de Enfermedades en el 2016, el punto más alto de ingesta de alcohol es de 53%, en el centro del país. La Organización Mundial de la Salud señaló que Cuba tiene una las tasas más altas de mortalidad por causas atribuibles al alcohol.

Nadie se inicia en los ‘escuadrones’

Silvana no recuerda su edad, su fecha de nacimiento o los nombres de las personas que amó. Esta mujer de unos 50 años deambula por las calles del Cerro con el único objetivo de encontrar un “escuadrón” para beber alcohol. La adicción la llevó a romper todo vínculo familiar, incluyendo a su hijo de 12 años. Las fotos que la recuerdan, ofrecidas por los vecinos del barrio, mostraron una mujer bella, con cierta timidez en el rostro.

Permanecen en parques o esquinas de cualquier barrio (Foto: Augusto C. San Martín)

Nadie comienza a beber en un “escuadrón de la muerte”. Se les puede creer a sus miembros cuando alguno se describe como profesional, con una familia feliz, mucho dinero o que viajó todo el mundo. Algunos aún conservan sus casas maltrechas o comparten techos con familias disfuncionales.

En el largo camino hacia estos “escuadrones de la muerte” se pierde todo, menos los deseos de vivir.

“Tú sientes c��mo el alcohol te mata lentamente pero no puedes dejarlo”, dijo Sergio Catán, parte de uno de estos grupos. “Tengo una hermana pero es por gusto. Mi hijo se fue del país y no he sabido más nada de él (…) A veces como, a veces no. Una vez estuve seis días sin comer, ahí mismo en esa cama (…) Claro que siento miedo, todas las noches. Cada vez que me acuesto a dormir tengo la impresión de que no voy a levantarme nunca”, añadió.

Conozca los ‘escuadrones de la muerte’ cubanos

[rudnitskaia]

White Chrysanths for the Swallow

Rocky was waiting for her at the table at the Little Daisy, but this time he was especially eager. Even Ivy had stopped teasing him about the way he lighted up and hummed to himself as he waited for Mau to show up at the door of the café, and just smiled, refilling his coffee whenever it ran out. He almost daydreamed of handing Maura two tickets to tomorrow's musical: of her eyes sparkling, of her taking his hand and telling him he was the best in the world.

But time passed, and Mau wasn't coming.

In those few hours, Rocky had replayed the fantasy in his head hundreds of times, changing the lines and the scenery. At first, imaginary Maura was beaming with happiness, calling him affectionate names, melting in his arms like all those heroines on the stage of a musical theater in the arms of their beloved ones, but every time the fantasy became darker and darker. More disturbing. Mau no longer rejoiced, no longer smiled. Her bright lively figure was becoming more and more dim, and she more often sighed, frowned, did not accept the gift. She asked him to return the tickets, scolded him for wasting his money carelessly, told him some news, one worse than the other, and finally said she didn’t want to see him again. Never again.

It was getting unbearable to sit still, and Rocky abruptly moved away from the table, threw on his coat, and headed for the exit. Maybe a walk would clear his head a little…

“Miss Pepper, I have a very urgent task to attend to. If she shows up on the doorstep, don't let her out of here on any pretext. Lock the doors, board up the windows, show her every fashion magazine you can find, but don't let her leave here until I get back. I'm counting on your wit and exceptional charm.”

The way he looked intently into Ivy's eyes before he left looked almost threatening. He wasn't even aware of the desperation hiding behind that look. But Ivy saw it.

“Don't worry, I'm an expert at this,” she winked at him encouragingly.

The cold air blew across Rocky's face, and he shivered, pulling his scarf over his nose, the same funny skewed scarf Mau had knitted for him last Christmas. Sometimes, like now, Rocky thought he could still smell on it the very same scent of coffee and pastries that wafted from the Venza family's eatery. It didn't help distract him, though. Quite the opposite. After walking a few blocks in an attempt to escape his doubts, he spotted a small flower shop — Rocky's imagination immediately conjured up a lovely picture of Maura cradling a fresh spring bouquet on this cold, cloudy evening and he didn't notice himself stepping over the store’s doorstep. The frail old woman behind the counter put aside the newspaper and immediately chirped, offering him different flowers, and finally convinced him to take a few white chrysanthemums. She tied the flowers with a delicate pink ribbon and also wrapped them tightly in the newspaper she had read before.

“They mustn't be overfrozen. Or they won't last long,” she explained sternly.

Rocky walked back much more briskly. He was warmed by the thought that now he would be able to give Mau not one surprise, but two. Hiding the bouquet from a gust of cold wind, Rocky lowered his gaze to it and pressed the flowers closer to himself… when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the headline of one of the newspaper articles.

“Shootout at the small Italian eatery Casa di Rondine shocked the residents… a bloody showdown in the neighborhood… occurred on the night… police identified the bodies of two…”

Rocky couldn't remember how he reached the familiar alleyway. How he threw the bouquet to the ground, swung over the barrier tape, and rushed to the entrance — a gaping hole instead of a small blue door. Shards of glass littered the floor, the formerly cozy, cramped hall was a real mess, the furniture was riddled with gunshots. Even the old tabletop radio was now on the floor, shattered to pieces.

“Stop right there!” a panting policeman grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “What the hell are you doing breaking into a crime scene?”

“I… uh…” in his panic Rocky couldn't think straight, but nonetheless he blurted out: “I'm from a newspaper. Wanted to visit the crime scene myself.”

“A lousy reporter you are, then. Your buddies sniffed everything around here a long time ago.”

“I was just hired today and immediately assigned to this very intriguing case. So…”

“There's nothing intriguing about it. This Bianchi guy…”

“Who?”

“The renter, Augusto Bianchi, if that's his real name at all, apparently had a huge debt to pay someone. And for that, he got pinned down. There was a scuffle in the night, at least four assailants. The two guys we found here have a couple priors, but they're not in a condition to tell us who hired them. The amount of such cold cases we have…” the man hummed and passed his hand above his head. “We've already explained it all to your fellow scribblers this morning. And I highly doubt the landlord would want to tell the same story tenth times over to another newspaper weasel. The only thing he's interested in right now is getting money from the insurance company.”

“And the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The waitress. Who worked here. What about her?”

“Considering how much blood there is, they're probably both either in a ditch, scattered in pieces, or feeding fishes somewhere at the bottom of the Mississippi… both father and daughter, if you meant her,” boredly remarked the other officer, who had quietly approached them, lighting a cigarette. “There's nothing for you to do here, boy. Henry's right — there's absolutely nothing of interest in this case. People might have chattered about it in the morning, but the very next day they'll forget all about it. Go home, don't add to our workload. And quit the paper that sent you here. If your editor doesn't realize that news like this must be broken in the heat of the moment, believe me, their business will burn out faster than a short match.”

Rocky tried to get anything else out of them, at least a little bit, to look in the kitchen of the eatery, to slip upstairs to Mau’s and Augusto's apartment, but the policemen were adamant. On unsteady legs he made it to the nearest bench and collapsed on it, staring blankly into the dark November sky. He could have screamed, could have destroyed everything around him on a single painful impulse, but the emptiness that engulfed him was far more frightening.

His silence was more frightening.

Years would pass. Would flow, as before, from night to night. The world won’t notice his loss. The world won't notice any loss at all. In the place of his beloved swallow house, other birds will build a nest. Freckle and Ivy will eventually stop opening that wound with their questions. And one day, perhaps, he will stop gazing into the crowd, hoping to find among the unfamiliar faces the features dear to his heart, and stop flinching when he hears someone say amore mio. He knows how it happens — it was not the first time. All he has to do is smile and everything will work out. It'll wear off, getting back to the way it was. One day.

But the bouquet of chrysanths will still remain rotting on the cold ground.

[rudnitskaia]

This note was supposed to appear in a Christmas fanfic, but after @acesandocs sent me an ask about RoMaunce "Who leaves little notes in the other’s one lunch? (Bonus: what does it usually say?)" with an art request, I made a decision to post both the fic and the note much earlier. The fic is under the cut, enjoy the Christmas spirit in the middle of summer. :D

Bonus: the fic also tells the story of The Most Ridiculous Scarf's creation. x))

The Winter Wonder

Working until the last client was an awful practice.

Mau couldn't remember when she had gotten a good night's sleep. Hiding behind the storefront window, she rested her head on her hands folded on the counter and tried her best to keep from falling into slumber. She might have fallen asleep for real if it hadn't been for the cheerful music that was playing from the radio.

“Let's not disturb Miss Maura,” a cheerful whisper sounded barely audible next to Mau. A few coins tinkled quietly as they fell onto the counter, and two visitors headed for the exit.

She didn't instantly realize what was happening, and raised her head too late. Before the front door slammed shut, all she could see was Rocky wrapping a threadbare blue scarf around his neck with one hand, and gently pushing his cousin toward the street with the other.

The two young men who frequented the eatery, and who were different from most of the visitors, were constantly drawing a lot of suspicious stares. When Rocky had first brought his redheaded cousin to the place a few months ago, it had been noon on a workday, and the workmen who lunched at the eatery had become strangely quiet when the two young men had taken the only available table near the exit. Until that day, Rocky had always sat at that table for some reason, but every time he had been lucky enough to come to the eatery when there were few or no other guests. On his first visit with Calvin, though, it was as if he had deliberately chosen the busiest time of day. Like he wanted them to be noticed. But Rocky had guessed, apparently, that they had attracted too much attention, and since then, alone or with his cousin, he had shown up at the eatery either when honest people were busy working or at closing time, when honest people were getting ready for bed.

Such was the case to-day.

“And the following composition will immerse you…”

With a click of the switch on the radio panel the main room fell into silence. Despite the approaching Christmas, Mau was in a horrible mood, and even with all her love of music, she had no desire to listen to another sickeningly festive song. It was a cloudy, unusually snowy day in St. Louis, and Mau was apparently infected by its grayness, so even her usual chores were draining. Mau's father and the owner of the eatery, Mister Augusto Venza, had been away for a couple of weeks in Chicago on extremely urgent business, so Maura had to serve the clients alone and, moreover, had to meet 1928 all by herself. Though she was rather glad of the latter.

There will be no fuss.

Slowly, one by one, Mau counted the coins that Calvin and Rocky had left as payment for the coffee, and was surprised to find a piece of paper folded several times next to them. Unfolding it, Mau saw some amusing, almost childish, drawings in red crayon. On the first one, she herself was sleeping with a terribly sullen expression in a daisy field under a big, angry raincloud. In the second, Rocky held a sheep, which resembled a cloud of cotton candy and was eagerly munching on that raincloud, above his head, while the cartoonish Mau was already smiling. Next to these sketches was a wry caption:

“Don't be sour! Let sweet dreams eat all the bitter thoughts. R.”

Chuckling, Mau shook her head. She scrutinized the drawing for another minute or so, then sat down on the floor behind the counter and pulled one of the wooden baseboards towards herself.

“Come on, stop being stubborn…”

Finally, the baseboard gave way, revealing a narrow gap at the bottom of the counter that Mau used as a stash for part of her tips. She folded the sheet tighter and put it with the notes Rocky had sometimes left on his previous visits.

The front door suddenly swung open, letting cold air into the room. Mau's heart leapt, and she hastily pushed the wooden flap against the gap, then hastily stood up from the floor and shook off her knees.

“What is it, my dear? Are the spoons running away from you again?” the old Missis Bruno creaked in Italian.

“A keen eye you have,” Mau answered her also in Italian and added: “The usual for you?”

The woman nodded and headed for the far table. As she looked at her, Mau noticed the bright green knitted scarf under her coat and walked to the kitchen to serve Missis Bruno her favorite cheese ravioli.

“You have such a lovely scarf,” she said as she passed by. “Where did you get it?”

“Knitted it myself,” the woman's eyes flashed with pride. “There's some wonderful yarn at Scaffidi's now.”

“You're such a talented needlewoman,” Mau said, putting the pot on the stove. “I can't knit at all.”

The eatery became awkwardly quiet for a moment. Maura's revelation made Missis Bruno squirm uncomfortably in her chair. The mere thought that a woman of Mau’s age could not knit not only disturbed her, but appalled her. From the kitchen, Mau couldn't hear the old woman muttering worryingly to herself:

“Poor girl, there was no one to teach her…”

But even that wasn't enough of an excuse for her. She had friends, neighbors, and yet Maura Venza, at the age of twenty-two, could not knit! It's not a long way to ruin one's fate, thought Missis Bruno, nervously rubbing her napkin in her fingers. No, she could not let it go! A little while later, she said loudly:

“This is just unacceptable. What's your father thinking about? Certainly not that his daughter is so mature and can't knit. That's embarrassing,” her tone changed from condemning to admonishing. “Tell you what, Mau, honey, I'll teach you how to knit. It's easy, you'll see. Mama left you needles and yarn, didn't she?”

“I don't think so. Even if she did, it remained in Kansas City,” Mau lied habitually, barely containing a grin. She was amused at Missis Bruno's attitude toward such things. No wonder, though; things had been different when she had been young. Mau couldn't prove to her that knitting wasn't a required skill now.

“Not good. Not good at all,” the old woman continued to wail. “Back in my days…”

Mau sincerely hoped Missis Bruno hadn't heard the low chuckle that escaped her lips. She pulled a small bag out of the freezer. Knitting. Well now! There was a book she couldn’t finish for more than a month, and today there were mountains of plates, cups, and baking pans to wash. What knitting to think of.

Listening to Missis Bruno half-heartedly, Mau soon put a steaming plate of cheese ravioli with pesto in front of the old lady and returned to the counter. With the toe of her shoe, she again tried to discreetly slide a piece of baseboard back into the gap.

“…and then on Christmas Day…” Missis Bruno persisted. The wooden part wasn't falling into place. Mau frowned and mentally cursed. Why had she even opened the stash in the middle of the day?

Oh, yes, Rocky. Rocky and his funny drawing.

…and his old worn-out scarf.

Mau looked outside the window, watching the snowflakes fall slowly. She rarely got a chance to go outside, but Rocky, given his very specific occupation, had to be out in the cold a lot. And sleeping in the car in this weather must have been uncomfortable, too… it wouldn't take long to get sick. The mere thought of that made Maura uneasy. She pictured him huddled under his coat and a thin, shabby blanket, huddled in the back seat of the car, and she clenched the side of the counter tighter. He had been taking time out of his day for so many months now to come to her and just cheer her up with something: a humorous story, a funny trinket, or a little candy. As if whenever by any means he could find a little bit of warmth somewhere, he had always rushed to share it with her. And now, more than ever, she felt the desire to return that warmth to him a hundredfold. Slipping the teaspoon to the floor, Mau ducked under the counter and pulled back the flap of the stash.

“You know, Missis Bruno… I think you're right. I really should learn to knit. Could I ask you to lend me needles until my father returns and show me how to do it?”

“Of course,” the woman said enthusiastically, obviously pleased that her story had piqued Maura's interest. “Maybe you want to make something specific?”

“A scarf,” Mau answered without hesitation.

“Oh, a scarf is quite simple,” the woman squinted her eyes, smiling broadly. “With my advices, you’ll do it in two evenings. It's the dresses that require all sorts of tricks, but this…”

After a moment, Mau sat down in the chair opposite Missis Bruno and handed her a few crumpled bills. All her tips from the last couple months.

“Good. Can you buy a couple skeins of good yarn for me, please?”

Two evenings was easy to say! A week had passed before Mau could manage to do anything right at all. And Christmas was the day after tomorrow! So little, so little time… Mau yawned. She could hardly keep her eyes open, and therefore even had stopped watching whether the rows of stitches were knitted straight or not. She finished her work only in the morning, and fell asleep, holding her knitting in hands, with the needles dangerously close to her eyes.

And overslept.

In the morning, after freshening herself up, she hastily stuffed the scarf into a bundle of paper and rushed to the eatery. She spent the whole day in anticipation, hoping Rocky would come, and every time the bell over the door jingled, her heart jumped in her chest. Until finally the young man appeared on the doorstep, shaking off the snow from himself.

“Today is on the house, in celebration of Christmas,” she told him, setting coffee and a plate of chocolate pancakes with raspberry jam, garnished with three raspberries and sprinkled with powdered sugar, in front of him. And while Rocky, as if being hypnotized, stared at this gorgeousness and tried to guess if the berries were purposefully arranged in a heart-shaped pattern or not, she shoved the bundle into the pocket of his coat, which hung on the clothes rack behind him.

When Rocky walked out of the Venza family's eatery that evening, he couldn't stop smiling dreamily. He passed by the lamppost, dancing around it, and laughed softly, putting hands into his pockets. To think that Mau had baked pancakes just for him, and damn, what pancakes they were! But… what in the world was that?

He stared in puzzlement at the slanted bundle, and immediately opened it.

Seeing… a scarf.

Or rather, it looked like a scarf, except… the blue stitches wiggled from side to side, the crookedly sewn buttons reminded two eyes, and what should have been white trim on both ends looked more like jagged teeth. If it was a scarf, it was the most ridiculous scarf he had ever seen.

“How did you knit to me, buddy?” Rocky murmured, twirling the knitted mess in his hands. But there was no clue neither on the scarf nor in the paper shreds of the wrapper. Frowning, Rocky looked over his shoulder at the eatery and bit his lip.

Could it be that it was made by Mau?

There was certainly a chance that someone had put the bundle in his coat by accident, but somehow Rocky felt like there was no mistake. It was definitely a present. A self-made Christmas present. From Mau. For him! Rocky straightened the scarf and lifted it as high above his head as his arms could reach, looking at it like at an absolute miracle. The scarf, swaying in the wind, stared up at him with its button eyes and its crooked, white-toothed grin. And Rocky, as he continued his way toward the Little Daisy, smiled broadly back at it.

“Zib, please have mercy,” he kept whimpering, clutching at the man's pant leg. Zib made another attempt to make a step, but after dragging Rocky across the stage floor a little more, he gave up again.

“Kid,” Zib sighed, “if you don't let me go, I'm just going to sit on you.”

“Oh, please! I'll even be your personal horse, taking you out to the audience every night, right under the spotlight…”

Zib gave him a confused look and snorted nervously.

“No, I think I'll pass, thank you.”

“It's a matter of life and death, Zib! What can I do to get you to say yes? I'd do anything. Give anything. Literally. Even my eye teeth.”

“Why on earth are you so damn eager?” The man flailed his arms up. Rocky pulled himself closer to Zibowski's legs, squeezing them like a vise.

“It's just Christmas. I can't resist the urge to do good deeds. What a stale dry man wouldn't be heartbroken at a picture like this? Just imagine: a poor, unfortunate soul burning with a passion for music, but locked in a prison of pots and pans… as the servants of Euterpe, it is our duty to rectify such injustices! Even if only once a year.”

Zib groaned doomedly. He looked down at Rocky tiredly, then up at the ceiling, then back at Rocky, whose blue eyes stared back at him, not even with a plead, but with an almost childlike hope.

“I'm going to regret this…” he muttered, sighing heavily.

The next bright, frosty morning, Mau went down to the eatery and began her routine. She wiped off the dust, pulled open the curtains, opened the window vent, turned on the stove and set a batch of muffins to bake, began to prepare the batter for tomorrow as usual, and then…

…heard the music.

From the street, very close by, came a jaunty jazz tune, accompanied by the singing of several male voices. Mystified, Mau rubbed her hand over the fogged glass of the window and looked outside… no, it couldn't be. She ran out onto the porch and, still not believing her eyes, stared at the whole orchestra on the sidewalk in front of the eatery. When Rocky noticed her, he stepped forward and twirled around himself, playing his violin with an unusually wide smile. Looking at him, Mau laughed warmly and outlined the musicians with her hands, as if silently asking: How? How is this possible? Rocky only fleetingly lowered his gaze, paying her attention to his new scarf, and then winked at her, continuing his improvised dance with the violin.

It was a real wonder.

Soon the music and singing subsided, and Maura, still grinning happily, loudly applauded.

“Bravi! Bravi! Oh, but please hurry inside, I don’t want you all to catch cold! Come on!”

Zib's band could barely fit into the cramped space of the eatery, but that only made the atmosphere more welcoming. When Rocky cheerfully introduced Mau to all the musicians, whose names immediately mixed in her head, she brought out cinnamon coffee for each of them and a vase of ginger cookies to bite until the cupcakes were ready.

“Mind if I smoke?” Zib asked, making himself comfortable in the old chair. Mau shook her head, locking the door. No, there will be no working until the last client today. Today will be only the celebration.

“How could I say no after such an amazing concert? How did you all even sign up for this?”

Zib chuckled, giving Rocky a sly look.

“Well, let's just say he's got a long way to work it off.”

“Oh, it was worth it,” the young man shrugged nonchalantly.

Following the cozy Christmas aromas, the tiny room was filled with stories from Zib's band's past, music and laughter. Mau couldn't remember when she had felt so alive, so it was like a dream. Such a sweet, sweet dream. In her mind, she went back to those distant noisy evenings in New York, when every holiday she and her father celebrated in the large company of the Riva family. When there was no fear or anxiety, when there was warmth and hope in everything. Mau's gaze lingered on Rocky. She didn't understand how he, with all his troubles and hardships, every time managed to do the impossible: even if only for a short period of time, but to bring her back that long-lost hope. But it was then, on that sunny Christmas Eve, when she finally heard in herself undeniably loudly: I love you.

After more than one hour and more than one cup of coffee, after a series of stories and a particularly noisy argument, Sy climbed up on the counter and began to dance and juggle apples to the lively rhythmic clapping…

When suddenly, dumbfounded, with a key in his hand, Augusto Venza appeared on the doorstep.

[rudnitskaia]

Send me the number(s) and the name (Maura and/or Augusto) to know more about those kitties! :3

100 OC Asks

Okay, so there are plenty of these out there but I just wanted to make one of my own! (That, and I’m high-key desperate for asks about my OCs lol) Just tag your OCs so people can ask you these!

1. What do they smell like?

2. What is their voice like?

3. What is their biggest motivator?

4. What is their most embarrassing memory?

5. How do they deal with/react to pain?

6. What do they like to wear?

7. Which of their relationships have impacted them most positively?

8. What’s the weirdest thing they’ve ever eaten?

9. Describe the way that they sleep.

10. What is their favorite food/kind of food?

11. What do they feel most insecure about? 

12. How do they like to dress?

13. How do they react to feelings of guilt?

14. How do they react to/deal with betrayal?

15. What is their greatest achievement?

16. What are they like when they’ve gotten too little sleep?

17. What are they like when they’re drunk?

18. What kind of music do they enjoy?

19. Are they right or left handed?

20. Fears?

21. Favorite kind of weather?

22. Favorite color?

23. Do they collect anything?

24. Do they prefer either hot or cold weather more?

25. What is their eye color?

26. What is their race/ethnicity?

27. Hair color?

28. Are they happy where they are currently?

29. Are they a morning person?

30. Sunrise or sunset?

31. Are they more messy or more organized?

32. Pet peeves?

33. Do they own any objects of significant personal importance?

34. Least favorite food?

35. Least favorite color?

36. Least favorite smell?

37. When was the last time they cried?

38. Were they with anybody the last time they cried?

39. Tell us about one of the times they got injured?

40. Do they have any scars?

41. Do they struggle with any mental health issues?

42. Do they have any bad habits?

43. Why might someone dislike them?

44. Why might someone love them?

45. Do they believe in ghosts?

46. Is there anyone they would trust with their lives?

47. Are they romantically interested in anyone?

48. Are they dating/married to anyone?

49. Do they like surprises?

50. When is their birthday?

51. How do they usually celebrate their birthday?

52. Do they have any family?

53. Are they close to their family?

54. What is their MBTI type?

55. What is their zodiac sign?

56. What Hogwarts House would they be in?

57. What D&D alignment are they?

58. Do they ever have nightmares? If so, what about?

59. What are their views on death?

60. What is something that they’re sure to laugh at?

61. When bored, how do they pass time?

62. Do they enjoy being outside?

63. Do they have an accent?

64. Upon seeing a slice of chocolate cake, what is their first reaction?

65. If they knew they were going to die, what would they do/say?

66. How do they feel about sex?

67. What is their sexuality?

68. Do they become squeamish at the sight of blood?

69. Is there anything that they find really gross?

70. Which TV Trope(s) best describes them?

71. Do they enjoy helping people?

72. Are they allergic to anything?

73. Do they have a pet?

74. Are they quick to anger? What are they like when they loose their temper?

75. How patient are they?

76. Are they good at cooking?

77. Favorite insult? Do they insult people often?

78. How do they act when they’re particularly happy?

79. What do they do when they learn about other people’s fears?

80. Are they trustworthy?

81. Do they try to hide their emotions? Are they good at it?

82. Do they exercise regularly?

83. Are they comfortable with the way they look?

84. What are some physical features that they find attractive on people?

85. What kind of personalities do they find attractive?

86. Do they like sweet foods?

87. What is their age?

88. Are they tall or short or somewhere in between?

89. Do they wear glasses or contacts?

90. Do they consider themselves attractive?

91. What is their sense of humor like?

92. What mood are they most often in?

93. What kinds of things anger them?

94. Outlook on life?

95. What kind of things make them sad/depressed?

96. What is their greatest weakness?

97. What is the greatest strength?

98. Something that they regret?

99. Biggest accomplishment?

100. Create your own!

[rudnitskaia]

Such a beautiful day to be

Happy birthday to dear Åse! ✨💖✨

The evening before his birthday Åse receives a small package from Rocky, that is signed by Mau. She doesn't know where Åse lives, but knowing he and Rocky work together, she decided to pass a present through him. It was risky, considering Rocky's penchant for somersaults, and definitely would've caused a talk between the two later, but fortunately, the package reached the receiver intact with a clear instruction: not open it until tomorrow.

Whether Åse followed this instruction or not, inside she finds a mug with an awful goat pun on it, something reminding a hot chocolate substance with a surprisingly hazelnut aroma in a jar inside a handmade cardboard package, and a birthday card, stating:

"Dear Åse, Happy birthday! May all your days be as bleat-iful as this wonderful Sunday. I also asked papa to make gianduja for you, just like he made for me in my childhood (hope you'd like it more than my sugary pizza, ha-ha). You'll also find some recipes from him below, but I'd say you can simply brew it with coffee or milk, based on your preference. Love you much. Yours truly, Mau."

Thank you for gifting such a wonderful character to the world, my dear friend @acesandocs 💖 Hope your Sunday is just as nice as Åse's. ✨

[rudnitskaia]

Someone she knows just had a baby and Mau is asked if she wants to hold it, how odes she react?

follow-up question is she good with kids?

Thank you so much for the ask, @coffeintheface, it was super cute to draw! I love to dive into such cozy scenes, they soothe me, and I hope you'll feel that warmth, too. ✨💖✨

And it was the perfect opportunity to show Mau as a kid. :3 Augusto daily tried his best to braid her hair, let's praise the man, he's a pro now. x))

[rudnitskaia]

If Augusto wants to call Maura somehow especially tenderly, he calls her mia marasca (my cherry, implying my little cherry). Marasca is a sort of wild cherries with small sweet-sour berries that are perfect for creating cherry liqueur. Despite it would be more linguistically logical to associate Maura with blackberry (which is la mora in Italian), for Augusto Marasca cherries have a very special meaning, nostalgic even. As I wrote in his story, his family owned a small vineyard, but there also were a few Marasca cherry trees that usually start to blossom in April, just the month when Maura was born.

In the distant future Mau will also call her son Niccolò mio nocciolino (my little nut) sometimes, but mostly she perceives it as a cute family tradition that she took from her father.

Picture is taken from here

[rudnitskaia]

Hey-hey, if there's still a room, may I probably ask you to draw Maura or Augusto, please? 👉👈 If no, that's totally fine, thank you for the opportunity!

P.S.: I've put all the refs I have under the cut in case you have any room ✨

need some motivation out of this dark time

soooo I'm opening THIS up for Lackadaisy OCs by other lovely creators! So let me know which ones you want to see ;)

[rudnitskaia]

Im desperately withholding the urge to ask like 13 questions for romauncebut ive narrowed it down to 3, 6, 18 and 19

Hey-hey, Edd! ✨

Thank you for your wonderful ask again! I'm very grateful for the inspiration and the opportunity you gave me to reveal more of the RoMaunce story. 💖

I decided to write and post the ficlets for the remaining part of your ask all at once. I remember you wanted a drawing for № 18, and I will certainly do it in the end of May / beginning of June (only from Rocky's perspective and containing that bonus part of the question), but now I want to cover it at least with a short story. :3

So, here they are, the ficlets for questions № 3, № 6 and № 18 from that list in the chronological (for the characters) order.

№ 18 - Who leaves little notes in the other’s one lunch? (Bonus: what does it usually say?)

A Real Unicorn

“Oh, Rocky, what a—” Ivy stopped short when she noticed that the pieces of paper she had picked up from the floor beneath the table where Calvin and Rocky had been sitting just a moment ago weren't trash, but… notes.

A pile of small, tightly crumpled notebook sheets, all neatly handwritten in pencil. It was unlikely that anyone had ever given Rocky an assignment on paper, and Calvin also had no reason to write so often to the cousin whom he saw every day. Maybe Rocky wrote down poetry that way? Though it would have been a bit of a stretch to assume that he was that meticulous. Ivy stroked the sheets with her fingers. Were they really valuable, since Rocky kept them with him, or did he just put them in his pocket and then forget to throw them away? It wasn't that important, actually. It was better to just return the loss… but curiosity eventually got the better of Ivy.

Forgetting about the plates and cups, she began to read the lines, puzzled to find a strange list of orders from the cafeteria. Pizzas, pastas, salads, coffee… no, Ivy didn't see anything surprising in the fact that Rocky might have dined somewhere else besides Little Daisy, but why did he keep the notes that the waitresses usually made for the kitchen?

She wondered about that until she accidentally turned over one of the sheets.

What she saw was hard to comprehend. With each new word, Ivy's gaze grew more excited. Her heart beat more frequently. Her eyebrows arched in surprise.

She didn't stop until she had read them all, from beginning to end, but even then she couldn't believe it. Ivy sat back in the chair and stared at the wall.

What was more likely? That Rocky had completely lost his mind and over and over again was writing himself tender endearments and, for some reason, wishes of bon appétit, in the same thin handwriting that listed the orders on the back side of the sheets, or that he had a… no, it couldn't be. It seemed ridiculous to even try to imagine.

After all, if somewhere in the world there existed a woman who willingly writes such words to Rocky Rickaby, then somewhere in St. Louis might as well live a real unicorn.

№ 3 - Most common argument?

The Chains That Are Too Short

“Someday I'll steal you away for more than a couple hours, and then we'll get really entertained,” Rocky chuckled, helping Mau roll up the blanket. Another night under the stars in St. Louis was coming to an end.

“Really? Are you planning something for a whole three hours?” quipped Maura at him.

“I was rather hoping for something between fifty years and forever,” Rocky shrugged, picking up his violin case. “And then it is as it goes. You know, all that happily ever after, but… livelier. With a bit of sparks here and there.”

“Hmm. So, you’re going to take me, like a princess, away on a white horse to your sugar castle in the kingdom beyond the clouds, and we'll live in love and harmony, become exemplary neighbors, start paying our taxes, have a bunch of obnoxious kids and die the same day.”

“Why not?” Rocky seemed not to notice her sarcasm. “Yes, the script is old-fashioned, but it's proven by both time and folklore. It's almost a guide to action, if you know how to apply folk wisdom properly. And if we dig deeper into the poetry of feudal Europe, we can probably find a couple or three good tips even about paying taxes.”

“Maybe so, but unfortunately, happy fairytales are now left only as an exception and only on the stages of theaters. And you and I don't have enough for a single ticket even together,” Mau started to walk toward the fire escape, but Rocky caught up with her and took her by the arm. Her words, or rather what was clearly between the lines, made his heart feel totally uneasy.

“Mau… I can get some money. I…”

“It's not about money, Roark,” she sighed. “Or rather, it's not just about them. You know it well already…” she took only a step before Rocky stopped her again.

“Come with me,” he blurted out anxiously.

“Where to?”

“In general! Now! We could live together…”

“You sleep in a car. Which isn't even yours.”

“If I rearrange a few things, we both could fit in there. And I could give the cactus to Freckle…”

“Roark…”

“And… and! And I could also ask Miss M. about a job for you. Sooner or later things will get better at Lackadaisy, and… what if we could rent a room together?”

“That's the very problem. I can't be seen anywhere in criminal circles. My father and I are being chased, and rumors will definitely spread if I show up in the underground, and then… then my father and I will have to run away again, and if anyone finds out that you and I are together… Dio mio, don't you realize they'll kill you?”

Rocky quietly groaned and started pacing back and forth. He was almost shaking from nerves. Mau, meanwhile, continued, oblivious to the need to speak in a low voice:

“These thugs are not going to stop at anything to get us. It's bad enough that you're at odds with the locals, so I pray every night that you'll at least stay alive after your ventures, and I don't want to bring the New York Mafia down on you too! This is madness, Roark! I told you many times, I can't be seen with you while you're in the bootlegging business. Maybe we could rent a shabby little room somewhere if you were just a musician, but you ain't, and you ain't going to be!”

In despair, Rocky flailed his arms.

“But I can't! I can't leave Miss M.! I can't—”

“I know,” Mau interrupted him. “And I'm not asking you to. But you can't tease me with a bright future either… It's too much even for me. We're alive, and we have each other, here and now, and that's more than I could ever hope for. Please, just be with me while it's possible…”

Rocky still couldn't calm down. He was breathing erratically, heavily… when Mau stepped closer to him and gently embraced him, he pulled her against him so tightly that she involuntarily sighed. He was sickened by how right she was. His entire being was rebelling against that rightness, wanting to burn that truth to the ground and recreate his own, happy truth from the ashes, whatever risks it took. The seconds lingered… Rocky didn't unclench his hands. Anything to keep Mau in his arms now… anything to avoid going back into the night alone.

But the chains bound to them were too short to allow them to reach the morning.

Interesting fact: The question № 3 was the hardest for me to explore, because for me Rocky and Mau are not the couple that has many constant, repetitive topics to argue about. At first I thought to write about Rocky ignoring his health issues, because that definitely would've got Maura's nerves, but that topic becomes a 'constant argument' only in the distant future from the Lackadaisy current timeline. But finally, I found the topic that is definitely difficult for them both and may cause repetitive uneasy discussions. I hope it covered the question.

№ 6 - What is their favorite feature of their partner’s?

The Serenity in You

The Epigraph: When stars drown in the night and the storm fills your mind, it's important to find the safe haven to hide…

The summer heat in the car was becoming unbearable. Rocky felt as if he was drowning in the dense air, almost as much as in his own thoughts. Whenever he was able to doze off, fears and memories began to flood his mind, to crash over him in suffocating waves. Carefully, so as not to wake her, Rocky found Maura's hand, gently intertwining their fingers together. Even back then, when he hadn't had the courage to tell her about his feelings, she had taken his hand in hers so often that it had become almost a sacred act for Rocky. She didn't even seem to realize how every time they were sitting or standing in front of each other she began to stroke the back of his hand… and how much peace, serenity even, that gentle touch brought him.

Suddenly he heard a whisper:

“What are you thinking about?”

Rocky slightly shivered from tension. What he was thinking about… he wished he didn't know himself. Keeping his eyes shut, he mumbled:

“Ah, it's nothing. You know, there's a pesky streetlight out there, and its reflection in the window keeps me awake…”

Mau was silent for a while, and only turned slightly on her side, resting her head on his chest.

“I love hearing your voice, Roark. Falling asleep listening to the tune you hum and the sound of your heartbeat. It's soothing… almost like the sound of the rain outside the window, only… much warmer. Dearer. But when your heart beats like this… like how it beats now… I want to know what makes it so heavy.”

Once again, the nightmares that had haunted him became clearer in his mind. He hesitated; he was uncomfortable with these ugly thoughts himself, and the last thing he wanted to do was to make Mau sink into them, too. But when she gently, yet confidently squeezed his hand in hers again, his doubts receded. She was here, right next to him. And as long as she touched his fingers with hers, they would not drown in this boundless sea. So finally, gently leaning his cheek against the top of Maura's head, Rocky began to speak.

[rudnitskaia]

Augusto Venza...

At first sight you’ll see a tired grumpy middle-aged man, whose glance is so heavy that can almost kill, and who works in the kitchen of his own small eatery in St. Louis. But would you believe that once there was a lively lighthearted guy behind his shell?

Augusto was born in 1885 and raised in a small village in Piemonte. His family owned a small vineyard and sold their wines through their neighbors, the Riva family. But Gusto had many other ways to occupy himself besides the family business. Very... nasty ways. Gusto Venza was not a mere firecracker, he was a freaking BOMB. He was loud, he was reckless, he was hot-headed as hell in both his words and actions. A troublemaker is a word too dim to describe his behavior in youth. He and his best friend Leone Riva were the headache of the whole village. It all settled down a bit in 1902, when the Riva family migrated to the U.S., and Augusto was entrusted with the duty to sell the wines himself. To tell the truth, Gusto wasn't smart or experienced enough for such a task, but he coped with it somehow, purely with the help of his own irrepressible energy and charm that were truly hard to resist.

That's why, when he ended up in Turin in 1904 and met Federica, the daughter of one of the wealthy customers, the spark between two 18-year-olds turned into the fire so quickly.

And very soon Federica found herself pregnant.

There was a huge scandal. And though Gusto did all he could to marry Federica, her family rejected his proposal. They insisted that the only way of solving such a disastrous accident is to break Federica and Augusto apart and to send the child into the orphanage after their birth. To Augusto's highest disappointment, Federica refused to go against her parents will, no matter how hard he tried to change her mind. She was too afraid to do so. But Gusto was stubborn enough to convince Federica's parents at least to give him the child. A few bribes, and in 1905 newborn Maura was registered under her father’s surname and without any real mother's name mentioned.

That was supposed to be a happy ending, but Gusto's father and stepmother also refused to help him. “It will be a fatal blow for the family’s reputation and business”, that’s what they told, when he returned home with a baby in his arms.

So, Augusto, furious and offended, cut all ties with Federica and his own family, took the baby and tried to start his life with a clean slate. But three lonely years in Turin destroyed him to the core. It was a miracle that both he and Maura survived those harsh times. Gusto was poor as dirt, had no support and had troubles finding a stable job, because he often skipped the shifts in order to take care of Mau. Only in 1908 Augusto's devastation was literally cried out in the letter to Leone. Not expecting any sympathy, Gusto told him everything he hid before out of shame. By that moment he has already faced the fact that his own failures led him to such a horrible life. But he simply couldn't hold it inside anymore.

Still, his best friend didn't abandon him. Instead, Leone sent Augusto some money and invited him to New York. Gusto had nothing to lose, so he packed his meagre possessions and headed to the U.S. with his daughter.

To say that the Riva family helped Augusto would be an understatement. In every sense they saved his life. Gave him a job in the kitchen of their cafe&bar in South Village, a small corner to live until he manages to rent a room by himself, looked after Mau when he couldn’t. No wonder Augusto became the most loyal and devoted person to the Riva family and was ready to do literally anything for them and Leone in particular. By the time when Prohibition started Leone became the one who ran the business, and when he decided to turn the bar into a speakeasy, Augusto didn't say a word against and stayed Leone’s right-hand man, delivering moonshine and doing many unsavory things. In 1923 he even allowed Maura to play pool on bets there, when she was offered that job. He wasn’t blind; he knew Mau was talented and he, as a truly loving father, respected her decision to try to catch her luck. Moreover, despite Augusto had no faith in criminal patrons who covered Leone's speakeasy, he trusted Leone with his life, so Augusto's condition for Maura’s occupation in the gambling club at the speakeasy was simple: his daughter must stay untouched. Only playing pool and nothing else.

Everything seemed to be fine until one awful night in 1926 Maura returned home all pale, shaking and deadly silent, with some bruises and her hair and dress ruined. The memory of his shivering daughter, of her teary eyes with a blank sight, still chases Augusto in his worst nightmares. When Maura after a few hours finally whispered the name, Augusto's rage was ready to burst out like a volcano.

And he didn't suppress it. The very next day he massacred the security and... well, let's just say that after what Augusto did to that criminal lord the latter considered being shot as a merciful blessing. From him Augusto also stole the papers that could expose one of the powerful criminal syndicates in New York, including involvement of some corrupt authorities.

…and only then he understood what a horrible mess he had created.

So, as usually, he came to Leone, told him everything and gave him those crucial papers, because these documents could have destroyed Leone’s business and endangered his family as well, and bringing them to the police or some press would have been totally unwise. After much deliberation, Leone and Augusto decided that the latter will leave the city with his daughter, while Leone will secretly keep the documents and try to play the poor cards they got to avoid as much damage and gain as much profit from that awful situation as possible.

Augusto immediately took Maura and fled from New York to the unknown direction, leaving the syndicate in the full confidence that he is the one who has broken one of the crucial gears of the syndicate and is holding both 'the valuable asset' Maura and the dangerous documents. Since then the Venza family has scurried from place to place, moved from state to state, covering their tracks, and tried to lie as low as possible. Augusto became completely jammed to the thought that he can't send his daughter away and wander alone, because if she is found, he won't be able to protect her, being far away, and that twisted his caring and protective nature into something nearly paranoidal. All their money rapidly melted away into nothing. From July of 1926 to March of 1927, the Venza family spent relatively quietly in Kansas City, even opening a small eatery; until Augusto in a call receives a hint from Leone that Kansas City may as well become unsafe for them soon. So, in April of 1927, the Venza family ends up in St. Louis, where they also rent a small place for the eatery and do their best to live a quiet, unremarkable life away from any criminal activities. Cherishing the hope that their past will fade into oblivion someday.

However, St. Louis has its own underworld, and who knows, what will happen, if the Venza family becomes involved into it again. But that’s a whole other story to tell…

[rudnitskaia]

The joke got out of hand. 😂

[rudnitskaia]

What can you tell us about Sebastian?! O.O

My newest hyperfixation?

HEYYYYYYY MITYYYYYYYYYYY 💖💖💖 Thank you for the ask, broski. ✨ So, let me introduce you

SEBASTIAN RIVA

Sebastian Riva is the younger of two sons of Leone Riva. He is almost four years younger than Mau, so in 1927 Sebastian is 18.

(Little reminder: Leone Riva is the best friend of Augusto Venza since their childhood, and it was him who invited the Venza family to move to New York from Turin. I mentioned him in Augusto’s bio here.)

Unlike his older brother Paolo, Seb is as far away as possible from his father's illegal business and the underworld in general. In a way, Sebastian and Maura are similar; both are driven by natural curiosity, but this trait manifested itself in both of them in different ways. Seb is the kind of child who will destroy take apart all the devices in the house to see how they work, and who will fidget in his chair, thinking how these complicated things can be improved. He's especially attracted to automobiles. If he didn't have to eat and sleep, he probably wouldn't leave the garage. And to capture all his discoveries he had a little hobby in the form of drawing.

Fun fact: Seb inherited the entrepreneurial drive of his ancestors and in his youth was already well off with money, drawing erotic pictures almost to the whole neighborhood. 😂 For this he got a few hits with a broom from Mau, but Seb managed to literally buy her silence with 10% of his profits. 🤣

In 1927, Sebastian entered university and began studying engineering. There he continued to draw for money, but this time not only naked bodies, but mostly course works on drafting for other students. Subsequently, he successfully got a job at an automobile factory and married a racer, for whom he, among other engineers, improved the racing bolide. He was head over heels in love with this girl and was so zealous to meet her that he almost threw himself under her wheels. As we already know, in the end he got her favor, and has never regretted it for all the long years of his life.

I think the guy hit the lifetime jackpot. Let's be happy for him. x))

TL;DR