#les petits morts

[amaranthine-enihtnarama]

The Mamba (Marquis de Gramont x Assassin! F! Reader)

Sequel to Les Petits Morts. I was planning on only having a one shot, then Belladonna’s backstory expanded in my head and I just had to see it through!

warnings: blood, mentions of violence, allusions to csa ; some s3xu4l content; harsh language, MORE romance ⁉️🤭.

A year has passed since La Belladonna and the Marquis de Gramont crossed paths, and they have not parted once. However, as time begins to dissolve illusions and break down walls that guard dark secrets, the Marquis finds himself in over his head, and Belladonna finds herself vulnerable to the demons of her past.

Tokyo, Japan — One Year Later

“Are you in position Higanbana?”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Good.”

Belladonna crouched on the roof of a luxury hotel, setting up a climbing rope with plenty of give. She placed a finger on her earpiece.

“Stay tight. We don’t need any excitement tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m dropping in.”

She approached the edge of the roof, fastening the knot of the rope tighter. She’d wrapped the rope around her waist, then over her shoulders, then around her waist a couple more times for good measure. Stealing a peek over the edge, she let out a sigh, then took a few steps back.

Giving herself a running start, she jumped off of the roof, flying through the air silently. The rope unspooled as she whizzed by windows, eyes darting briefly into each one to make sure they were vacant or the occupants were fast asleep. Her fingers tightened around the rope as it went taut and she turned her body to land feet first onto the wall next to the target’s room window. A shot of pain went through her ankle, but she clenched her teeth and waited for it to pass.

After pain subsided into a dull ache, Belladonna swung onto the balcony and untied herself, fastening her end of the rope onto one of the metal bars. Higanbana opened the window for her, dark eyes glancing quickly to check for any lit rooms across the street. Belladonna closed the window behind her, eyeing the target’s lax body. She chuckled.

“Jesus, did you kill him?”

“He was like an elephant; I had to up the dosage to put him to sleep.”

“It still won’t read in the autopsy, right?”

She gave her a look of offense. “Of course not.”

Belladonna chuckled. “Okay, okay, my apologies.”

Higanbana reached under the bed, pulling out a suitcase and unzipping it while Belladonna went into the bathroom. She opened the medicine cabinet, removed the lone bottle of aspirin, and took off the false back. Her eyes settled on a small box. She grinned.

“Bingo.”

Inside the box there was a Marker, some gold coins, and a miniature handgun. Holding the box under her arm, she returned to the bed, watching as Higanbana shoved the suitcase back under the bed, opening the nightstand drawer.

“Oh, here it is,” she muttered.

She turned to Belladonna, handing her the Adjudicator medallion. She tossed it in the air, then put it in her pocket.

“Violet, you have a shot,” she asked, placing a finger on her earpiece.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Belladonna nodded, looking over the Adjudicator—now former—fast asleep. She smiled at the sight. He looked so peaceful, like a little boy after Christmas. She pressed her earpiece again as she moved next to Higanbana.

“Shoot.”

In a flash the window shattered and a bullet pierced the former Adjudicator’s forehead, splattering blood and brain matter all over the pillow and headboard. Slowly, Belladonna stepped toward the bed and leaned over him, listening to his weak breaths. Despite how small they were, they trembled their way from between his thin, barely parted lips. She shut her eyes as his last exhale caressed the shell of her ear. Goosebumps rose all over her skin from her arms to her legs.

“Bella?”

Her eyes opened, void of their playful glimmer, and she got to her feet. In silence, she looked down at the man’s peaceful face. She always wondered if they could feel anything under Higanbana’s cocktail despite all their drug induced slumber. Of course, the woman herself insisted on the contrary, but Belladonna wasn’t convinced.

She could hear it in the trembling of their breath, she could feel it. There was a part of them that was always awake, always afraid, always crying out for someone, someone to please help.

“Anyone notice you at the bar?”

“One guy. He seems intent on taking me home.”

“Ooh,” she remarked, walking to balcony, “He your type?”

“I’m not into muscles.”

Belladonna chuckled. “Well, be sure to take him home. No loose ends. Put him in the river.”

Higanbana frowned. “He looks heavy.”

“Violet’ll help you with cleanup,” she assured, pulling the Adjudicator medallion out of her pocket. She brandished it to Higanbana with a smile. “How’s that for job security?”

The young woman smiled, shaking her head. “I’m heading back to handle the muscle-head.”

Higanbana checked her bartender’s uniform for any specks of blood in the mirror while Belladonna untied the rope and pressed her earpiece again.

“Mission accomplished, everybody. Higanbana’a got a loose end, I’ll let you handle that—no traces.”

Grabbing the rope tightly, she swung off of the balcony and climbed down until she landed on a fire escape. She pressed her earpiece.

“You can untie the rope, Daisy. We’re done. Help with cleanup and discreet transportation of a loose end.”

“Got it.”

Not a moment has passed after her words when the other end of the rope fluttered down from the roof. She caught it and headed for the alleyway as Higanbana left a red spider lily next to the man’s head. She climbed down to the alleyway where her motorcycle waited for her return. She mounted the vehicle and pressed her earpiece for the last time.

“Great work, everybody. Thank god for the small jobs,” Belladonna said, smiling at the other three women, “Daisy, Violet, I’m impressed by your stamina. Three consecutive jobs without a hiccup isn’t easy for rookies. Keep up the good work. I’ll deliver this to our contractor.”

She took out her phone with a yawn and scrolled through her messages until she’d found the contact she wanted: Vincent. Smiling, she sent a text.

On my way home, tesoro.

He answered immediately. Good. See you soon.

With a sigh, she dialed the contractor’s number, heading for the airport as she quietly drove her motorcycle out if the alley.

“Ah—sì, ciao, mi amico…”

***

Paris, France.

Belladonna climbed the steps of the Marquis de Gramont’s mansion as she stretched, squinting underneath the morning sunlight. She nodded to the gray suited men at the doors as she let herself in, collapsing against the wall and slowly lowering to the ground. With a sigh she unlaced her right boot and rubbed her ankle with a grimace. The pain had dulled, but there was definitely something worse about the unyielding throbbing that had replaced it.

Still, all her stress melted away when she heard her lover’s footsteps approaching from down the hall. She smiled up at him as he stopped and stood over her with a hand in his pocket. He only offered a small smile in return, but the warmth in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. She winked back before going back to her shoes.

“Morning,” she greeted, moving to unlace her other boot.

“Morning, Bella.”

Vincent crouched down in front her and untied the boot himself, setting it aside as he looked over her face. His features srunched up slightly in concern at the sight of a healing bruise on her cheek and the dark circles under her eyes.

“You look tired.”

She chuckled. “I jumped off a roof again. And I got in a nasty showdown against these two huge bodyguards—I won, of course, but then I turn around and get socked in the face by this smelly bald one with a big gold ring on his pointer finger. He said he branded it on my face; is it on my face? Long story short, I think I sprained my ankle.

Vincent helped her to her feet, holding her upright as they made their way to the bedroom. He sighed in disapproval.

“I thought you were only going to oversee one small job.”

“Oh, you know. Friends ask favors, jobs pop up. It’s good for my rookies.”

He laughed softly. “Even when there is no danger, you manage to put yourself in it.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t complain if I were you,” she chided with a smile, “If it weren’t for my danger habit we never would’ve met.”

“Impossible.”

She grinned. “Oh, impossible?”

He scooped her up in his arms and carried her through the door, lowering her onto the bed.

“I would’ve always found you, chérie.”

She smiled, sitting up to place a kiss on his lips. He smiled at the feeling and passed a hand over her hair, brushing it away from her face.

“Do you want a bath? You feel cold.”

“Mm, only if you come with it.”

His features lit up with another smile, and he leaned towards her as if to give her a kiss only to lean back when she moved to meet his lips.

“Maybe if you didn’t like those bubbles so much.”

With a chuckle, she unzipped her jumpsuit and pulled it off, stretching out in her tank top and black cargo pants. Vincent made a face and went for the door. She let out a bright laugh and went after him, earning a sharp look.

“You stink.”

“Oh, do I? Sure it’s not your top lip?”

“Get in the bathroom.”

“Vincent, you don’t like your lover’s natural musk?”

She leaned towards him with a playful grin, making him lean back. It only took a peck on the cheek to get a laugh out of him as he gently pushed her away.

“No, I do not, and your silly imitation of me doesn’t help. Now go.”

She stole another kiss on the cheek as she unbuckled her belt and tossed it onto the bed as she unbuttoned her pants. Vincent watched with interest as she let her pants drop to the floor and kicked them aside, then peeled off her tank top as she went into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. After taking off her underwear, she hopped in, taking out her braid and lathering away every inch of grime she’d accumulated on her three day mission. She let out a sigh as the hot water ran over her fresh scalp and squeezed out some rose conditioner.

Of course she didn’t have to oversee the rookies; she had hired enough people to train newcomers— Vincent was quite eager to point it out — but she couldn’t help it, not since that fuck-up in Cancun. It was superstitious of her, which she knew Vincent would judge her for, so she cited her reasoning as a preference instead. Not to say Belladonna didn’t enjoy the field, but she couldn’t help but feel that she needed to keep a tighter leash on her entire organization, let alone newcomers. She’d gotten the sense that there was something brewing, and she was pretty intent on making sure her operatives stayed far away from the entire mess. Vincent, on the other hand, was knee-deep in the eye of the coming storm as he schemed his way higher up The Table’s ranks. Hopefully, he wasn’t aiming to become an Adjudicator.

There were undoubtedly a few glaring differences between the pair that they’d accepted wouldn’t perfectly reconcile, and one of them was how they handled the dirty work. Vincent, of course, preferred to let his men and the firepower of The Table handle his difficulties; Belladonna was quick to join her girls on the ground if things got hairy or if she just wanted in on a piece of the action when a fun assignment came along. Naturally, he didn’t see the fun in her dragging herself back home, half-broken and covered in blood, but she felt he needed to appreciate a love of the work. Besides, sitting on a cushy throne and sending pawns out to do your bidding makes you soft, not to mention dulls your senses in the field. But he’d earned his place at the top, and she could understand his propensity to keep blood off his hands now that he had the choice. He never gave her much trouble either, so she did the same.

Belladonna shut off the shower and squeezed her hair out, drying off and putting on a robe and slippers. She yawned as she left the bathroom, tying the robe securely, and noticed that Vincent had disappeared. She raised a brow; surely the smell wasn’t that bad. Her eyes caught a note next to her bed in Vincent’s handwriting.

Come have a bath.

With a frown she peeked back in the bathroom—then she remembered.

She couldn’t help but laugh a bit as she headed to him. Aside from a few select characters in her life, only the Marquis de Gramont, with his sparkly suits and grossly decadent banquets he called “high tea,” would have a particular room for a singular bathtub. It was amusing, considering it still held the same water as any other tub, but considering the number of times they’d had sex in there, it might not precisely be meant for a relaxing bath. That, and the soundproof door to the room, which she opened and locked behind her with a smile. In his defense, the room had a beautiful view of the grounds outside. The sunlight was warm and abundant, making the white, marble-floored room glow softly as if she were in a dream. Her eyes flitted to Vincent in the large tub, and she smiled, slinking up behind him and gently grazing her fingertips from his shoulders down to his chest. His eyes shifted beneath his eyelids, but he kept them shut, taking one of her hands in his.

“You smell better.”

With a chuckle, she kissed his forehead from his reclined position, then slid her hand out of his. She untied her robe and shrugged it off, then kicked off her slippers, climbing into the tub with him. His eyes opened lazily as she sat back against him, her fingers stroking his cheek.

“You feel relaxed,” she said quietly, eyes falling shut, “Work is good?”

“Yes,” he affirmed, “Unnaturally so.”

He cupped some warm water in his hand and passed it over her hair, feeling her body rest into his further, her muscles slowly releasing their tension.

“Does your ankle feel better?”

“Mm…I think I just need to stay off of it. I definitely didn’t sprain it.”

Vincent hummed quietly, continuing to stroke her hair. Like so many times before when they’d finally had a moment alone in peace, thousands of questions he wanted her to answer bubbled up to reach the tip of his tongue. Her chest rose and fell slowly with each gentle breath.

“Bella.”

“Mm?”

He hesitated for a moment, then let it out.

“Will you tell me your name?”

She gave a soft laugh. “You know my name.”

He sighed with displeasure, caressing her temple.

“You know what I mean.”

She was quiet for a while, seemingly mulling it over. She tilted her head to look up at him. Her gaze was sober, hardened by a stony deadness in her eyes that he’d recognized whenever she thought about the past.

“I’ve had many names. Which do you want to know?”

His eyes gently scanned over each of her features lovingly. He placed a hand over hers.

“The one given to you when you were born.”

She nodded, becoming even more cold at the mentioning of her birth.

“My name then was Leïla.”

His ears devoured every curve and groove of the name on her lips. Leïla.

The water rippled as she reached to touch his face, eyes softening as she held his gaze.

“What else has been on your mind?”

His eyes flitted up to hers in surprise. Was that permission? He licked his lips.

“Where did you grow up?”

“Between New York and Morocco.”

“Morocco?”

She snorted. “Leïla is a Moroccan name; I’m sure you noticed.”

He smiled. It explained the Arabic tattoos he kept finding all over her body. But what they meant, especially the one on her back down her spine, she refused to tell him. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her back against him. She sighed, her finger tracing circles on his skin underwater.

“Why won’t you tell me about your past,” he asked gently, as if he was avoiding startling an animal.

“I don’t want it to define me. I don’t want it to define you. I want it to just be you and me, not you and me and all of my ghosts.

“You have all of mine,” he offered, “I can have yours.”

She whispered, resting her head against his chest. “Mine are hungry, Vincent. They are always going to be hungry and seeking. No one should have them.”

He sighed through his nose as he placed a gentle kiss on her shoulder. “Mon cœur…je les aurai comme je t'aurai. Parce que je t’aime.” My love…I will have them how I will have you. Because I love you.

Her body became rigid. She tilted her head upwards and met his eyes. Vincent held her gaze, unnerved by what he’d found there. He’d never seen the look before.

Fear.

Her eyebrows furrowed as she looked at his mouth, then touched his cheek, resting her head against his chest. He swallowed, wrapping his arms around her.

She whispered. "اللسان ليس له عظام." (allisan lays lah eizam)

He frowned. “What?”

“The tongue does not have bones.”

“You know I never understand your little poems.”

She smiled, stroking his arm. “Be mindful of what you say. You don’t know the danger love can put you in.”

He placed a finger under her chin so she would meet his eyes.

“But you love me too.”

“Ti ho amato da quando ti ho visto, tesoro.” I’ve loved you since I saw you, darling.

A smile came to his lips. She chuckled.

“Mm, you understood?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“To think a grand Marquis like yourself didn’t know Italian,” she teased, leaning in for a kiss.

Their lips met tenderly, then Vincent’s hand lowered to her hips, curving over her backside to pull her on top of him as their second kiss gathered a bit of heat.

“Non è colpa mia,” he whispered, “Avevo bisogno di una bella insegnante che mi desse il giusto…incoraggiamento.” It’s not my fault, I needed a beautiful teacher who would give me the right encouragement.

She giggled, kissing him again. “You have crushes on your teachers, then?”

“Only one.”

He sat up, wrapping his arms around her waist and placing kisses on her chest, trying to control himself in mind of her fatigue. She needed rest more than she needed him. His lips pressed against her stomach, and he felt the muscles rippling against his mouth with a smile.

“I am so glad to have an Amazon for a wife,” he said, grinning up at her.

She looked away bashfully, covering her face. “You are a fool, Vincent.”

He pulled her hands away, revealing her shy smile. His eyes crinkled at her blushing.

“Hm, I am only a fool for you.”

“Careful, I wouldn’t marry a fool,” she said, leaning onto him, “In our line of work, I’d be setting myself up to be a widow.”

“My life is yours,” he proclaimed against her lips, “As long as your heart beats, it must be loved by mine.”

She shook her head, a bright smile forming on her lips. “And you say you don’t understand poems.”

He kissed her stomach again as she turned back around and rested against him. She let out a soft sound, her eyes falling shut.

“Mm, I’m tired.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Sleep.”

She never needed much convincing for that. “Okay.”

A long pause settled between them until Vincent abruptly broke it.

“May I call you by your birth name?”

“Hm?”

“Leïla. May I call you that?”

She seemed to become alert just from the sound of it, and hesitated to answer. He felt her body tense in his arms.

“When we are alone, yes.”

That was all he needed. “D’accord, Leïla.”

She nodded, slowly falling asleep.

***

They awoke in tepid water to the sound of pounding on the door. Leïla jumped, quickly getting dry and dressed. She buttoned up Vincent’s shirt and tugged on a pair of her sweatpants she grabbed by her hookah as she answered the door. Vincent made his way out of the bathtub slowly, listening intently as he toweled off. She raised a brow as her annoyed stare burned holes into Chidi’s apologetic gaze.

“Perdóname, señora, but there are four men here looking for you and the Marquis.”

Her face went cold, big brown eyes widening a fraction in subdued terror then flattening.

“¿Qué es lo que parecen?” What do they look like?

“Turbantes... ropas largas y vaporosas... espadas.” Turbans…long, flowy clothes…swords.

Vincent came up behind her in a robe, eyeing her and Chidi curiously.

“What’s going on,” he questioned.

Leïla whirled around, fixing a grave look onto him. “We need to get dressed.”

She turned to Chidi. “Tell them to wait a moment, and that we’re coming.”

“Where are we going?”

She grabbed his wrist and rushed to the bedroom.

“Get dressed,” she instructed, “Not anything you don’t want to get sand in.”

The mentioning of sand made him fall silent, and he watched her as she passed oil through her hair and nimbly braided it, putting it in a bun against her head and wrapping her head up with a teal scarf. She put on a tank top, then a long black linen tunic and a dark blue pair of loose wide-legged cotton trousers. She glanced at him in the mirror.

“Dress,” she ordered.

“Bella, where are we going?”

“There are four men wearing turbans outside waiting for us,” she said, strapping two daggers around her waist and sheathing two sabers on her hips, “Do the math. And dress for the heat.”

She kissed him, leaving Vincent alone in the bedroom to stare at the door. Slowly, he dressed. A pit formed in his stomach—he didn’t know why, but they had been summoned by The Elder. He dressed light and semi-casual, maintaining a sense of elegance but feeling naked facing people of The Table without a three-piece suit. It felt like the old days. He overheard Leïla snapping in darija to the men at the door. They were unmistakably from the desert—god knows how long their journey was—and they seemed to heed whatever her words were with respect. Vincent glanced between her and the men as their eyes slowly fell on him. One of the men had an amused grin form on his lips, another nudged Leïla, but not aggressively. The man said something to her, something that made her tense up and shove him back, seemingly in embarrassment.

Vincent passed through the doors, sharing a look with Chidi. He gave him a nod, eyes darting over to Leïla and their four escorts.

“You may go,” Vincent told him.

Following orders, Chidi returned inside and the doors shut behind him. Vincent looked at the closed doors, feeling a strange anxiety budding within him. Something had left him, something important, and it was being left behind in the walls of this mansion.

“Vincent.”

Leïla’s gentle voice pulled him away from the troubles starting to brew inside of him. She cupped his cheek with her hand, then gestured for him to follow her. He felt the men’s gazes on his back as he passed them to follow her. One snickered.

“Let’s go, French boy,” one of them chided.

Leïla whirled around and spoke sharply at him in darija, eyes flashing. His smile dropped and he seemed to apologize to her.

The group of six filed into a white suv and drove off. Vincent’s mind was running miles a minute. He was missing something gravely important, but what? Leïla clearly had no intention of saying. They drove to the airport, and boarded a private jet, flying three long hours to Casablanca. Leïla remained silent, but never left his side. Her eyes were quick and watchful of the men around them.

They left the airport and drove into the city. Vincent watched silently as the Casablanca Continental came into view with some distaste. The manager here had assisted John Wick in finding the first Elder, despite his excommunicado status, and seemed to have got off scot-free. They were escorted out, slipping through the crowd as music played and women danced, swerving and twisting their waists and hips. Sweet smells filled Vincent’s noise as he took in all of the vibrant surroundings. The men stopped them and walked ahead to a door, and Leïla suddenly took his hand, whispering something.

“Finora non siamo in pericolo. Ci avrebbe fatto uccidere se quello fosse stato lo scopo di questo incontro.” So far we are not in danger. He would have had us killed if that had been the purpose of this meeting.

“Cos'è questo? Perché stiamo vedendo l'Anziano?” What is this? Why are we being brought to the Elder?

She let out a quiet sigh as if she feared the men would hear it.

“Non so perché ti abbiano portato.” I don’t know why they brought you.

She let go of his hand as they gestured for them to approach. A woman with a covered face bumped into her, apologizing profusely in french as the empty teacups rattled at their collison. Leïla gave a smile, reassuring her and nodding her head. Vincent watched the woman depart with a stoic expression as they passed through the doors.

A low growl made Vincent’s head snap around, and two made him tense. He was face to face with two giant dogs that bared their teeth at him. Leïla’s voice sounded behind him with a firm command in darija, and their eyes widened as they made a beeline for her, tails wagging. She pat their heads as she smiled down at them.

“Hey babies,” she greeted softly, “Did you miss auntie? Auntie missed you.”

Vincent watched her in bewilderment, putting his hands in his pockets. He looked around the room and found a woman sat behind a desk, cool gaze shifting between the two. Her honey colored hair and desert brown complexion matched Leïla’s impeccably.

“Well, well,” she said, rising to her feet, “La Belladonna and the new Marquis.”

She walked up to them, passing the Marquis a look.

“I’ve heard much about you, Gramont. Are you here to kill me?”

“You had a marker,” Leïla suddenly interjected, “You had no choice but to help John Wick.”

Vincent tensed at the feeling of her eyes on him. His skin prickled under the intensity of her gaze. He’d never felt such heat off of her before, not even when she was dead-set on killing him a year ago. Discreetly, his eyes shifted over to get some kind of glance at her. Her large eyes were dark, commanding. She rose a brow.

“Certainly you can appreciate the rules? No one who sits under the table can turn away a marker.”

After a pregnant pause and his indignation simmering under the two women’s stares, he cleared his throat.

“That can be discussed later.”

Her glare softened and faded as quickly as it came. She went back to petting the dogs with a small smile on her face.

The Manager laughed, giving Vincent a sudden smile.

“Then welcome to the Casablanca Continental…”

“Vincent.”

“Sofia.”

Tentatively, he reached out to shake her hand, feeling the dogs’ stares fix onto him despite Leïla’s attention. Sofia looked down to Leïla, smiling.

“Hey, this isn’t playtime, kid.”

Leïla stopped, rising to her feet. Her expression quickly sobered.

“He wants to see me.”

Sofia nodded. “Ya-huh. And the French boy, too.”

Vincent bristled at the nickname, thinking of the men snickering at him before.

“Did he mention why?”

Sofia’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, so I’m supposed to question the Elder, now? Give me a break. He summoned you, that’s all I know.”

Leïla let out an annoyed sigh, earning a confused look from Vincent. Sofia clocked it, eyes glinting curiously.

“Fine. We leave now?”

“You leave now. I stay in the shade, enjoying my drink. Just wanted to say hello. In case, you know…it’s the last time I ever see you.”

Leïla gave her an unamused look. “Great catching up.”

The door opened, and Vincent was ushered out, much to Leïla’s quiet alarm. Sofia touched her arm gently as the dogs trotted away to rest by the fire. Leïla gave her a questioning look.

“I just wanted a moment alone to say I’m sorry for your loss.”

Leïla froze, then softened. “How could you tell he didn’t know?”

“You’ve always been more protective of your secrets than your own ass.”

She grinned. “Hey, don’t judge. This is a pretty great ass.”

Sofia chuckled softly, shaking her head.

“But…really…a French boy?”

“Oh, my god,” Leïla exclaimed, turning away and leaving as Sofia laughed, “Leave me alone!”

***

Vincent was amazed by Leïla’s miraculous lack of sweat as they rode through the desert on horseback. He wiped his forehead, directing his horse closer to hers, earning a look in his direction. He hadn’t been able to catch her attention ever since they had entered the desert—her mind quickly faded out of his grasp and her thoughts resided in places unknown to him. He had been wondering what this desert meant to her, what Morocco meant, and just who exactly this woman was that he had devoted his heart to so recklessly. She’d torn out the throat of a Marquis for her freedom, that was always the tale, but who was she before that? Was she an orphan, like John Wick, a Baba Yaga? Was she a Ballerina? Was she a slave, at the mercy of cruel, filthy men? Some kind of child bride for the Elder (he didn’t know what these desert men got up to)? What were those hungry ghosts that she had outran—or had she outran them at all?

From the look in her eyes, the ghosts rode the winds over the sand dunes, baked with them in the sun, and awaited her at the feet of the Elder. Her brow was heavy and taut, and her brown eyes that shone like gold in the sun had gone dark as night. One hand rested testily on a saber. The other gripped the reins so tight he thought she would draw blood. It was as if uttering her name had summoned those fearsome ghosts right to his doorstep.

Of course, he had nothing to fear besides a sunburn. He was making good on his promise, tracking down John Wick and disciplining the insurgents that defied the will of the High Table, and thus the Elder. His men were closing in on the Baba Yaga, and everyone was falling back in line. So why was he here? And why did La Belladonna, who sat beneath no Table, answer his call without so much as a second thought and speak of him with such familiarity? More questions, more questions—they gathered in his throat, becoming so numerous he feared he could choke on them. The mystique of La Belladonna was titillating. But the secrets of Leïla—his Leïla—only planted a heavy unease within him. He hadn’t questioned the possibility of trusting her, but now…

His mind lapsed under the pressure of the Moroccan sun. He didn’t know when they reached the Elder’s tent, but he knew his throat was dry and his head was pounding. They dismounted, although Vincent didn’t know how he managed to keep standing. Leïla looked back at him and her eyes widened. She quickly grabbed his hand and squeezed it painfully.

“Get your head on straight,” she urged, “You can’t show weakness.”

She rubbed his back as he took a breath.

“Fuck, it’s hot,” he whispered.

She smiled. “See? You’re getting soft.”

He looked down at her and his heart lifted at her smile.

“Come on. They’ll have something to drink inside.”

They walked into the tent. Vincent heard a few chuckles between their escorts as they passed him. He gave them a dark look as they entered the tent.

The first thing that hit his nose was the smell of frankincense. The scent of it billowed from a plume of incense smoke by the entrance, circulating throughout the entire interior from the brief gust of wind that passed through. Vincent felt his skin pricking as he found himself surrounded by elderly Moroccan men in traditional garbs, surveying him and Leïla with unreadable expressions. But the young man that sat at the head of the semicircle that stared at them through the hookah smoke and incense made his blood still. His eyes were large, dark, and piercing. They looked familiar.

They looked like Leïla’s.

“Hello, Sister,” the Elder greeted in darija.

Vincent glanced between the two, then uncomfortably fixed his eyes on the Elder. He was a dark-haired man with a warm brown complexion and kohl lined around his deep brown eyes. His face was rugged, but his lips were full and his hands were long and slender, his movements elegant as he gestured for them to sit down.

Leïla stood, but Vincent obeyed. She stared at him in silence. A smile came to his face as they eyed each other, a palpable tension forming in the air.

“Yes, Leïla?”

“Why am I here? Why is he here?”

She pointed to Vincent, making him a little concerned. He didn’t want the man’s soul-piercing stare on him again. To his surprise, he laughed, rising to his feet.

“I wanted to set my eyes on the man that my sister has chosen for herself. Is that so unacceptable?”

She wasn’t convinced. “It is unlike you.”

Vincent watched the Elder move towards her, placing his hands on her arms and place a kiss on her forehead. She seemed tense, but not rigid—ready to pounce but not on her complete guard. Then, the Elder turned his gaze down to Vincent, eyes twinkling.

In that moment, Vincent had no other possibility of who this man was in his mind as he saw her face in the Elder’s. He must’ve noticed the dawning realization on Vincent’s face because he smiled.

“You’ve been taking good care of my little sister, Marquis?”

For a moment, words failed to leave his lips as he stared up at the smiling Elder.

“Don’t tease him,” Leïla reprimanded, “He doesn’t know.”

“You haven’t told him? After a year. You heartbreaker,” he chided.

“Why am I here,” she demanded. “This is not a family reunion. You summoned us.”

The Elder paused, then sighed, turning away and returning to his seat. He studied her.

“You have killed an Adjudicator, sister.”

Leïla paused, then chuckled, shaking her head.

“And what is this supposed to mean to me?”

“You’ve killed many of the High Table. It is hard to let it go unnoticed.”

She scoffed. “You’ve handled worse.”

He sat back, surveying her, then gestured for her to sit as a woman brought in a teapot and two cups.

“Rest, sister. This is not a battleground.”

“How many of our cousins did you tell that to before you executed them?”

The Elder brandished a dazzling smile, her pointed comment rolling over his shoulders. “I did not owe those cousins my life, sister.”

She was immovable stone. “Neither did ours.”

The Elder’s smile fell as Leïla took a seat, nodding to the the woman in thanks as she poured her and Vincent tea. Leïla grabbed a few sugar cubes and placed it in Vincent’s cup with a small smile and a glance to him. The Elder watched them cooly, bright white teeth bared in a troubling smile.

“You are fond of him, yes?”

Leïla’s eyes shifted back to her brother, visibly deadened.

“Hmm?”

“You’ve taken a liking to our new Marquis,” he proclaimed as if the man weren’t in the room, “I wouldn’t have expected a man like him to keep you in one place so long. So…sparkly.”

Indignation churned in Vincent’s stomach but his companion was only amused.

“You’re still so naive, big brother,” she teased, “I hadn’t taken a liking to him until the sparkly suits were off.”

Her brother rose a brow disdainfully. “Would Mom want to hear you say such disgusting things?”

“I don’t know; shall we dig her up and ask? Or should you join her?”

A silence fell over the tent as Leïla’s smile grew in warning. The Elder considered Vincent as he slowly drank, shoulders and neck tensed. He gave the Marquis a small smile.

“I have heard much about you. A lot of complaints. You’re killing managers, you destroyed the New York Continental; had Osaka raided. Charmed my sister.”

Vincent held his gaze, setting his cup down. The sugar on his tongue soothed his nerves.

“Yes.”

“It makes a big brother wonder, Vincent.”

A chill went up Vincent’s spine upon hearing his name leave The Elder’s lips. The man’s eyes were as empty and consuming as voids, measuring up the Frenchman before him.

“A man as ambitious as you…makes me question how much is chance, and how much is design.”

He didn’t let anyone see it, but Vincent was frozen. He cleared his throat, mustering a humorous smile. “If it was anyone’s design, it was your lovely sister’s.”

The Elder nodded. “I appreciate your fielty, Marquis. Your choices have spilled more than enough blood in honor of our dear Uncle. You’ve honored her, even in ignorance.”

Leïla looked away under her brother’s brief glance to her. She tapped her glass with her fingertip.

“She hasn’t told you who she is yet in the interest of protecting our family, you see, despite her flagrant disregard for the rules and traditions of the Table.”

She rose a brow. “I earned my freedom from those rules.”

“But you kill, and kill, and kill,” he countered, “You know you toe the line.”

“You know I have no line. I am completely in my right to conduct business how I choose.”

The air felt heavy under their brief stare down, then the siblings looked away. The Elder shifted his gaze back to Vincent.

“Your Bella here has gotten a bit comfortable, Marquis. She has gone from a serpent to a delicate flower. La Belladonna. She has forgotten who she was, and where she came from. She has forgotten the meaning of consequences.”

Before Vincent could react, Leïla suddenly shot up to her feet, unsheathing her saber and turning it above his head to slice as something behind him. A light thud sounded behind him, then the familiar sound of a body falling made his blood run cold. He looked to the Elder, whose cool gaze pressed down onto him with the familiar glimmer of an executioner. He looked up to Leïla’s whose eyes were sharp and blazing. The fire rose as she set her gaze onto her brother.

“You forget, brother, the blood I spilled that fertilized these sands for our family’s blessings. You forget, but I still taste it on my tongue. It leaves me thirsty.”

She turned her bloodied saber from above Vincent to point it at the Elder.

“If you touch him again, I will make another offering to the desert. It will be what runs through your veins.”

The men surrounding them jumped to attention, drawing their blades and pointing it at the two. Leïla casually acknowledged them.

“I will kill you all as well,” she assured, “Don’t get impatient.”

She turned back onto her brother. “If you are so upset by the death of some Adjudicator, perhaps you should take it up with the Manager of the Roman Continental, who wished to be rid of a Marker that troubled his sleep at night. You waste your time condemning the hand of Death.”

Vincent’s gaze couldn’t break away from the Elder. He was watching his sister calmly, eyes unreadable. Then, his callous expression broke into a bright, gleaming smile.

“It is good to see The Mamba is still alive and well.”

She tilted her head upwards, holding out a hand and quickly being given a rag. She wiped off her blade with it and returned it to her hip.

“What is it you want her for?”

“A job.”

She nodded, taking a seat. “You should’ve opened with business, brother.”

“Forgive me for my fraternal affections. I’ve missed you. Don’t you miss home?”

Her voice was soft. “Always. What do you want?”

He sighed, resting his chin in his hand as the same woman placed a tray of tea in front of him. He gave a small smile.

“Could La Belladonna…kill the Baba Yaga for me?”

Vincent’s back straightened, and he looked over at Leïla. She was silent, her stare measured. She hummed quietly and poured herself a glass of tea. The Elder’s eyes narrowed questioningly as she rose it to her lips, unable to even take a drink as she broke into laughter.

“Oh, you’re serious? No.”

Vincent stared at her pointedly. She didn’t flinch, raising an eyebrow.

“I will not flagrantly throw myself or my men onto the mountain of bodies the Baba Yaga has left behind. I am not a fool like the rest.”

He chuckled. “Ah, but it was worth a try, no?”

“I would disagree.”

“Yes, I imagine you would. Too empathetic to a fellow orphan. Your principles.”

A small smile came to her lips. “It would do you well to adopt some of your own.”

He shook his head, his laugh a deep, low, rumble in his chest. He gestured to her, looking to Vincent.

“She talks to you the same way, Marquis? No respect for anything.”

“I will not kiss the feet of the man who sits atop the throne I placed him on,” she dismissed, chuckling incredulously, “Do you have a real job or not?”

He waved his hand. “Yes, yes, I do—the Roman Management. I would like him dealt with.”

She sipped her tea cooly. “I see. Why?”

“Because he killed the man who held a Marker against him, not to mention an Adjudicator.”

“Romano is an old friend,” she remarked, “Why should I accept?”

“I will pay you thirty-five million.”

“Mm, after all he has done for us, thirty-five million.”

“You are lucky I let your men and your French boy live.”

She didn’t react to his raised voice. She only smiled.

“Oh, yes, very scary.”

She finished her cup of tea with a sigh.

“I wish I could grant you the same courtesy, brother, but I am not a patient woman.”

She rose to her feet, and Vincent followed, feeling rather uncomfortably like a lapdog.

“I will kill Romano for forty million. You have my services. Goodbye, brother.”

She turned, leaving. Vincent looked down at the decapitated body that had fallen behind him as they passed through the tent’s entrance. He blinked in surprise at the sight of the men that had escorted them dead in the sand, throats slit and arrows sticking out of their limp bodies. Their eyes were still bulging in alarm.

“Remember sister,” the Elder called from behind the tent flap, “I do not pay for the flower, I pay for the Mamba.”

Leïla paused, seemingly heeding his words before taking Vincent’s hand and walking away. They mounted their horses and rode back to the city.

***

Leïla and Vincent sat in silence in Sofia’s office, cooling down from their return through the desert. Leïla’s brow had been drawn tightly ever since they’d turned their backs to the Elder’s tent, and she sat in a grim silence by the fireplace, smoking a cigarette. Vincent watched her with a vice grip on his heart. This woman he’d fallen in love with was the Mamba. The kid sister of the Elder himself.

He sat back. “I thought the Mamba was dead.”

She rose a hand quickly to silence him then tapped her ear.

“The Mamba is only a desert fairytale. You know these Elders; they’re always such mystics. You speak of rumors and whispers.”

He chuckled, looking down at her sabers. “I understand.”

She looked over at the sound of his laugh, then slowly put out her cigarette and went over to him. Her doe eyes seemed soft. Vulnerable.

“Mon cœur…”

She whispered softly, caressing the scar on his cheek, letting out a trembling sigh. He watched her, taking one of her hands in his.

“You saved my life,” he said softly, looking up at her.

Her eyes drifted away shyly. She smiled, and he smiled too.

“You like me, huh?”

Her bashful demeanor made his heart lighten. She laughed softly, looking back down at him.

“Of course, where would I find another French boy if you died?”

He groaned in annoyance, making her laugh and climb onto his lap, placing a kiss on his lips. His hands snaked around her hips and firmly pressed against her back as he leaned into her, deepening the kiss with a soft hum. She sighed, sliding her fingers into his hair and kissing back.

Their lips parted, and Leïla slowly rested her forehead against his.

“He wants me to do it. Take his life. Personally.”

Vincent made a sound of acknowledgment.

“You will do it?”

“Gotta do what big bro says sometimes.”

He chuckled. “Big bro.”

“Hey, you don’t make fun of my English, I’ll stop acknowledging how shitty your Italian is.”

“It’s not shitty,” he protested with amusement.

“It is.”

They looked at each other, smiling softly. She brushed his hair away from his face.

“Let’s go home, tesoro.”

They quickly made their way to the airport and flew back to France on Vincent’s jet. The shadow that had been looming over Leïla seemed to dissipate as they landed in Paris, and her shoulders slouched. She rested her forehead in her hand with a sigh. Vincent observed her, then leaned over to her.

“I want to know, Bella. Tell me everything.”

She looked up at him, meeting his pointed stare.

“…Or do you still not trust me?”

“I’m not hiding from you, Vincent,” she said, a hint of exasperation, “I’m protecting you.”

A sliver of frustration cut through him as he stared at her concealed face. Letting out a sharp sigh through his nose, he took her hand away from her face and squeezed it, lifting it to his mouth and pressing his lips against her fingers.

“Leïla. I will not be left in the dark. I will not be a stranger to the woman I love.”

She held his heavy gaze, then let out a sigh, looking away.

“There is nothing worth knowing. I only have the story of a little girl in the desert, doing anything to survive; who was blessed by God to grasp her freedom.”

“Stop running from me,” he insisted, “I want all of you. I don’t care what it is. Tell me.”

“The last person who had all of me I found dead on a bathroom floor, clutching their entrails,” she snapped, eyes hot.

“I am not some low-level assassin,” he argued back, “I have my men, I have my wits. I am not some little boy in Casablanca.”

She laughed. “Oh, if you had any wits worth mentioning, you’d have stopped arguing with me by now.”

He squeezed her hand tightly, trying to bite back his frustration. Leïla tensed as his grip became painful, her hand resting on the hilt of one of her daggers.

“Why didn’t you accept the Elder’s assignment to kill John Wick?”

She held his glare cooly, challenging him to escalate his behavior.

“Do you think I am hiding allegiances from you, Marquis? Is that it? Do you think after I killed five of my brother’s men to protect you, I am still not trustworthy?”

“Neither of us are trustworthy.”

She smiled, snatching her hand out of Vincent’s grip.

“Then you should be able to appreciate the merits of keeping secrets.”

She rose to her feet but Vincent grabbed her, chuckling as his anger began to rise.

“You think I will just keep a liar in my bed?”

She looked down at his hand gripping her bicep, eyes darkening as she looked up at him.

“What, are you going to hurt me? Is that what this is now? You know I won’t obey you like some dog. You have no right to make demands of me.”

“I have shared a year of my life with you,” he insisted, “I deserve to know who the woman I’m going to marry is.”

She froze, mind blanking. The word echoed in her head, slipping from her lips.

“Marry—Marry?”

She backed up, her eyes searching his face. He let out a sigh, dragging his hand over his face. Fuck, he didn’t mean to say that until at least five more months.

“Shit, shit…”

“You want…to marry me?”

“Fuck, Bell—Leïla, wait—“

She stepped back as he moved towards her, her eyes growing misty as she fixed her eyes onto the ground.

“You can’t…you can’t do that.”

“Why can’t I have you,” he demanded in frustration, “Why won’t you have me, why—“

“Because you’ll die!”

Her voice struck the air around them, making him jump. In all of the time he’d known her, she’d killed, she’d beaten, but she’d never risen her voice, never cried.

He watched the tears form in her eyes in shock. She shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose and turning away.

“Fuck,” she murmured.

She pressed her palms together in front of her face, taking deep breaths. Vincent watched her hesitantly, feeling her upset infecting his body. He could feel his palms sweating, his chest tightening, his mouth becoming dry as her shoulders tightened.

He watched her fight her outburst from an agonizing distance. His hands itched to hold her, comfort her, feel her, kiss her wounds that she had hidden so masterfully. But he couldn’t stop her from running away.

“Bella…please.”

He felt as if a migraine was forming in his head. He begged her softly. It was foreign sound; submission, humility, vulnerability. It felt awkward on his tongue and unnatural from his mouth. It didn’t seem real, the tenderness of his words, but the longer he looked at her, the more he wanted to try to make it so.

“Please look at me,” he whispered, reaching for her, “Please.”

Her body seemed to relax at his careful touch despite herself, and he stepped closer, feeling how her body quaked.

“I love you,” he said, “Please, Bella. I love you.”

“You don’t understand,” she said, voice quivering, “Everything I touch, everything I embrace…dies.”

“Cheri, what makes you think thar?”

“Because I’ve seen it. Death has chosen me for its bidding. It’ll set me straight if I forget my purpose.”

Hey couldn’t help a small smile at her naïveté. “What, do you think you’re cursed?”

“I think these are the wrong lives to love in,” she said, turning around to face him. “But we just can’t help ourselves, can we, tesoro.”

“You’ve too superstitious, mon cœur,” he comforted, gently rubbing her arms, “There is no boogeyman coming for us.”

Her lips were tight as she smiled. “We all must pay something for the lives we lead. You can’t think these lives we take cost our souls nothing?”

“What do souls matter,” he dismissed, “This isn’t the time for navel-gazing.”

He let out a quiet sigh, snaking his head and kissing her forehead.

“Je peux t’aider, mon cœur.” I can help you.

“This is my debt. Not yours.”

“It is ours now,” he insisted, cupping her cheek and pulling her closer.

“Tell me about the girl in the desert,” he gently asked, searching her eyes, “Please.”

She looked into his eyes silently for a long time, then closed her eyes, biting her lip, wrapping her arms tightly around his torso and melting against him. He let out a breath, embracing her just as tightly.

“Will you tell me?”

“Yes,” she whispered, “I will.”

***

Thirteen Years Earlier.

Leïla stood over the bodies of her mother and father in austere silence. There were no flies buzzing around their cut throats or open mouths; it was still cool in the early mornings. She stared at their wide eyes and limp hands wielding daggers, taking in the ransacked tent (a struggle, at least, ensued), her mother’s hair splayed wildly around her ghastly face. She kneeled, leaning over her and placing a kiss on her forehead. She looked to her father, moving over to him, gently pressing her lips against his cool, wrinkled forehead. She shut their eyes, covering their faces with silks and rising back to her feet.

“Leïla,” a voice gently called out for her, “Where are you sweetheart?”

Leïla listened to her mutter to herself, hoping she hadn’t taken her favorite horse out for a morning ride again.

“In here, Fatima. Mom and Dad have been murdered.”

Fatima made a sound of distaste as she opened the tent flap.

“It’s not good to made jokes like that—oh my god!”

Fatima hurriedly dragged Leïla out of the tent, calling out to the rest of their sleeping party.

“Wake up! Wake up! The Elder has been killed,” she called out, distress creating cracks in her voice, “Where is Hossam—someone find Hossam!”

Fatima tucked Leïla away in a tent where her brother, Hossam, was fast asleep, instructing her not to open the tent until she returned. She obviously disobeyed. Her eyes scanned the chaos that ensued as the families in their tents called out for their husbands or children—some were asleep with them, others long gone—causing mothers to crumble into tears as their calls weren’t answered. She crawled to her sleeping bag, grabbing her cigarette box under her pillow.

As she placed one between her lips, she looked to Hossam, who snored softly. She smiled a little seeing how peaceful he was. Ever since they were babies nothing could disturb him up until he decided to wake up. It scared their mother when he was born because she thought he’d been stillborn.

She shoved him roughly, shaking him until he woke up with an annoyed grunt.

“God, what,” he snapped, “This had better not be anything stupid.”

“Mom and Dad are dead,” she said, returning to the tent flap and lighting her cigarette with a match, blowing the smoke away from the interior, “So are some other kids and men.”

He fell silent, sitting up slowly. “Oh.”

“Probably some fucking High Table shits,” she said, blowing out more smoke, “Probably family.”

“You think it’s Uncle Mohammed?”

“He’s in Italy, I doubt he cares much about the desert anymore.”

“Hm, you’re right.”

She felt the cigarette’s heat closing in on her lips. Hossam crawled up next to her, watching the village bring out the bodies of their mother and father somberly.

“It was a hit, yeah?”

“Seems so.”

She put out her cigarette. Hossam spied the silks covering their faces, glancing over at his sister.

“We’re probably next,” she said cooly, “Orphans of the Elder…”

“Fuck, yeah,” he muttered thoughtfully, “That or some creep is going to try and marry you.”

She gave him a dark look, but smiled afterwards. “I’d be happy to kill another.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Fatima noticed the siblings watching the commotion and rushed over, pushing them back inside, scolding them.

“Children aren’t meant to see these things,” she insisted.

Hossam scoffed. “We children have done worse.”

She waved her hand in dismissal, shaking her head and returning to the bodies. Leïla pushed the tent flap back open. Hossam watched her, sensing the gears turning in her head.

“What do we do, sister?”

She took a palmful of sand, letting it trickle through her fingers. She rolled a grain between her fingertips.

“We can’t stay here obviously…they’ll die for us.”

“They are loyal to the table; they will serve.”

She looked back at him with a hint of disgust. “I wouldn’t insult these people to die for a couple of jackass kids like us. Besides, we need to go somewhere safe; somewhere we can build something.”

“We are the rightful—“

“Oh, yes, and that will protect you from Ahmad’s men? Stop the sabers? The bullets?”

She crawled over to her sleeping bag, rolling it up.

“He got father to surrender his seat on the promise of his family’s safety. The man obviously has no honor.”

“No principles,” he said with a hint of a smirk.

She shot him a look. “He will kill us if we don’t have protection. We are alone. They picked off the men, the other capable hands here. They will come back and kill us. You want your seat atop the Table, don’t be a fucking idiot. Roll up your sleeping bag.”

Leïla fastened the buckle and began to load up her bag. It was partly packed with a couple of pistols, one smaller than the other, a few daggers, a strip of throwing knives, cigarettes, burner phones, gold coins.

“What, are we leaving now,” Hossam questioned with some incredulity.

“Yes.”

“Leïla, please,” he said, moving to place a hand over hers.

She slapped it away reflexively, looking at him in surprise, an apology nearly leaving her lips before she went back to business. Hossam’s face softened. He groaned, starting to roll up his sleeping bag as well.

“Can we not at least mourn our mother and father?”

Her face tightened. “Once we’re no longer joining them, you can mourn as you like.”

They slipped away under the heavy heat of the afternoon sun after grief had departed from their village. Leila's eyes darted vigilantly as they loaded up the saddles of two horses and snuck away. Her heart hurt just a twinge at the vision of Fatima's distraught face when she discovered they had left her. She knew that Fatima would think they'd abandoned her; the last of her family leaving her behind to crumble into the sand dunes, but it was Leila's final gift to her mother's sister to be spared the burden of pointless sacrifice.

To be given the gift of life.

They raced through the desert on horseback to Casablanca, beads of sweat stinging their eyes and drying their lips. Hossam insisted they stop for the horse's sake, and Leila relented. They sat on the sand; it had gotten hot enough to soothe their sore backside as their horses drank from a bucket they'd drawn from a nearby well. They sipped from a gallon-large metal water bottle, propped up against the stone, staring back at their ever-distant home.

"What are we supposed to do, Leila?"

He looked at her as she sighed, closing up the bottle. Her brown irises drifted up to the clear blue sky.

"Italy."

Hossam scoffed at the thought of their long-lost Uncle and shook his head profusely.

"No."

She rose a brow. "No?"

"That man is a lunatic and a fool. Besides, we can't trust him."

"He is satisfied."

He met her gaze, unimpressed. "He's a Bennani."

She didn't back down. "And there was a time when sharing that name meant something to this family--loyalty."

"Oh, god, this isn't the time for your silly daydreams about the glory of the old days--"

"Mohammed has principles. He values his family. If you would get out of the Table's ass for three minutes, you would understand that simple fact makes him the wisest out of all of us. He is loyal to blood, not power."

"You're a dumbass if you believe that. Everyone wants more power in this world."

"No, some of us just want to get the fuck out."

She shot him a glare, then returned the bucket to the rim of the well, mounting her horse.

"Get up. We have to go find Sofia."

"Oh, shit, her?"

***

They left their horses with a family that were carrying a heavy load then went the rest of the distance to the city and near the continental. Sofia waited for them in an alley, her dogs posted next to her. Hossam gave them a concerned glance as they approached her, lagging slightly behind his sister. She gave him an amused look.

“Scared of a puppy, Hossam?”

“Leave me alone.”

Sofia’s sharp gaze fixed on them as she harshly gestured for them to be quiet. The siblings straightened up under her consideration. She straightened up off of the wall and stepped towards them.

“Good to see you here,” she addressed them, hand resting on a pistol, “Where you headed?”

“Italy,” Leïla said, “The Roman Continental.”

“You’re betting on Mohammed Benanni,” she remarked with some amusement, “The madman himself.”

“I tried to tell her,” Hossam interjected.

“I trust him,” she insisted harshly.

Sofia rose a brow. “Oh, yeah?”

She stepped closer, looking into the girl’s dark eyes.

“You know why they call him a madman, habibiti?”

Leïla remained silent.

“He is a monster. He isn’t a hitman, no, he’s an artist. He mutilates, and flays. He’s sadistic and knows no limits.”

Her eyes stayed cold. “I know what my Uncle does.”

“Then why the fuck would you want to be under his ward?”

Leïla’s eyebrows drew together as she leaned toward her.

“I trust him. He never touched me. He protected me.”

Sofia’s eyes softened slightly. Hossam tensed, putting his hands in his pockets.

“He put the blade in my hand and guided it. He will help us.”

She glanced back at her brother, then shrugged.

“Or at least me.”

Sofia stepped back with a sigh. Leïla took out a cigarette, holding it between her fingers.

“Besides, no business can be conducted on Continental grounds. The oldest rule in the book. Even Ahmed will respect that.”

“Crazy runs in your family, kid,” Sofia challenged, “Nothing’s off the board. And get rid of that stupid thing.”

She swiped the cigarette from Leïla’s fingers with a hint of disgust.

“You’re gonna kill yourself with these.”

“Oh, with so much to hang on for? Tragic.”

She gave her a stern look. “Giving up is how they win.”

Hossam let out a heavy sigh. “Look can you just get us to Rome—“

Sofia gave him a sharp look and his voice softened immediately.

“—Please? Ma’am?”

“Safely, preferably,” Leïla added.

The woman looked over the two siblings quietly with a frown. She shook her head.

“Yeah, I can get you there. Can’t say how safe it would be…I have to call up a friend. Come back with me to the Continental and I’ll have things situated by morning.”

Sofia turned but Leïla grabbed her arm, ignoring the dogs’ growling at her.

“He’s expecting us there. We’ll be killed.”

“What happened to Continental rules?”

“You don’t understand; he wants us dead. All of us—he wants to exterminate us from The Table.”

The girl’s eyes were intense; filled to the brim with fear.

“You and I both know this country isn’t safe for us. He owns every single stone in every building.”

Sofia calmed her dogs as she considered Leïla’s words, then sighed.

“Fine. Look, I’ve got a friend of mine staying, he just finished a job. I’ll ask him to take you.”

Hossam wasn’t convinced. “Who’s to say that this friend of your isn’t interested in hauling us to The Elder himself? I can imagine there’s some cash prize for our hides by now.”

“I’ll get him to help you,” she said firmly. “Just come with me—I’ll sneak you in.”

Leïla sighed heavily. Sofia looked at her in annoyance.

“What, you’d rather hang out in this exposed, dark alley all alone?”

“At least I can kill anyone who comes across us here.”

“God, just bring your skinny asses with me, okay?”

Leïla’s mouth was dry the entire time they made their way to the Continental. Her heart slammed in her chest so intensely she was afraid the sound would break their cover as they slipped in through dank and pitch black tunnels beneath the grounds. Hossam grimaced as he grew increasingly nauseated by the smell. Still, they remained silent, making their way inside undetected. The dogs’ footsteps gently splashed through the mysterious inch-or-a-half of water on the ground. Leïla’s head swam; she remembered these tunnels.

Back when Sofia ushered out a young girl to escape the violent payback that her act of self-protection certainly would’ve gotten from a man like him. Like her cousin, Ahmad.

She never saw him again after what had happened in his room in the Continental and her bloody pushback. Sofia told her that she wouldn’t even recognize him by now; they had to rebuild what she’d left behind. The memory of it made her Uncle Mohammed proud, but it only made Leïla feel sick—the thought of him touching her, of her against him, crying as he encroached upon her, threatening to rip the innocence from her slight body. His smile.

The image of his smile made her want to scratch off all over her skin; no amount of time or scrubbing would ever cleanse her of his putrid fingerprints. That smile, that shine in his eyes; the joy she saw he got from betraying her trust, of the terror that gripped her heart.

The memory of cutting it all into ribbons invariably granted her solace at the end of the memory. His screams always purified his smile in her mind.

She remembered crying in her father’s arms and being soothed by her mother to finally sleep, stroking her hair and humming a soft lullaby. She remembered Fatima and her mother’s embrace shielding her after the nightmares began. She would see her Uncle’s wry smile and watchful eyes and her brother’s uncertainty. She never held it against Hossam; she chalked up his silence to guilt and ignorance. He never knew what to say, she imagined, and she eventually understood he may never know at the end of it all.

As for herself, she’d found peace in the traveling and working with her Uncle—the love of the job, he’d always say, heals all wounds and satisfied all hunger. He was right. He was right most of the time. The love of the job made her better, so good at what she did that she’d gotten a name and an unspoken exemption from being offered up to any other men that could bring the family more power through mutually beneficial alliances. After all, no man in their right mind would ever want to marry The Mambe. All’s well that ends well.

Sofia led them up a narrow cobblestone spiral staircase that opened into the staff’s quarters. She stuffed then into her cramped room and left the dogs with them.

“John’ll come for you. I gotta get back to work.”

She left without another word, leaving the siblings to wonder to themselves: who was John?

It seemed like an eternity, stuck in that little room with no windows. Leïla pet the dogs, maintaining a cool exterior as Hossam freely voiced the concerns both of them had.

“Did she die,” he questioned out loud, “Should we be running right now?”

Leïla frowned. “Shut up, you’re too loud.”

Hossam gave her an annoyed look. “What? You sure as hell don’t know any better.”

She met his eyes, a hint of a smirk on her lips. “Which means you know absolutely nothing.”

He scoffed, eyes drifting back up to the ceiling.

“What do you think this John guy’s like?”

A chuckle came to his lips. “You think Sofia got a boyfriend?”

Leïla rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Stop talking or I will kill you if Ahmad doesn’t.”

He fell silent, huffing through his nose.

“Fuck else are we supposed to do…”

She stared him down in annoyance, and he avoided her gaze until her mood passed.

Then, the doorknob turned. Both the siblings’ spines straightened as the door opened and they caught sight of a pair of black dress shoes. Leïla tensed slightly as her eyes slowly rose to take in the tall, black-clad, dark-haired man that entered the room, looking over them. Her eyes briefly flitted over to her brother, who welcomed her over with a jerk of his head. She quickly sat beside him to create distance from the door.

The man eyed them from the open door, letting out a sigh.

“Hey.”

Leïla remained silent, watching him closely. Hossam nodded his way.

“…Hey.”

A brief silence filled the room until Leïla spoke up.

“You’re John?”

He nodded slowly. “You’re Leïla?”

“Mhm. Are you going to get us to Italy?”

He pulled out a pistol, opening the door fully.

“Depends. You ready to go?”

Leïla pulled out a pistol of her own, shooting a look to Hossam. The two rose to their feet as he armed himself as well. She nodded.

“Yeah. How?”

“Sofia says we’ve got a flight,” he explained, gesturing them to follow.

They quietly made their way back to the tunnels where John finished relaying the plan.

“We need to get to the Mohammed V International Airport by six am,” he explained.

“Is there a contract on us?”

John paused from checking his magazine. "Uh...not yet. No one knows your parents are dead yet."

"Ah, open season hasn't started yet, then," Hossam remarked, "We can get to the plane, then."

Leila nodded in agreement, starting to walk ahead. "Once we're in Rome, I'll call Uncle Mohammed so he can make sure we get to the Continental safely. We just have to get out of Morocco."

"Yeah, let's hurry up."

Hossam caught up with his sister, looking back at John.

"Can you run, old guy?"

Leila shoved him, reprimanding him in darija, but John managed a small chuckle.

"Yeah, kid."

The three jogged their way through the tunnels, emerging from the mouth underneath a bridge that had been built over a canal. Leila's eyes darted around, then nodded in the direction of a small motorboat.

"Good, it's still here."

She looked at John briefly. "Did she give you the keys?"

He pulled them out and she opened her palm expectantly. He hesitated.

"Can you drive?"

With some annoyance, she snatched them out of his hand, earning a look from him. He turned the look to Hossam, who gave a small apologetic smile.

"She likes to be in charge."

They sped through the water under the cloudy night sky. Leila drove silently as Hossam and John cast watchful eyes over the banks. Her eyes burned into the horizon before her, her grip on the wheel iron-clad.

Miraculously, they’d gotten to their flight without any complications, leaving them nothing but time as they took off for Italy. Leïla’s shoulders seemed to relax as they lifted into the air but her gaze was locked onto the window—her home, her country, her family—she watched them all disappear into grids and dots beneath her, and had a troubling sense that it would be the last time she’d ever return “home” again.

Hossam was talking to their chaperone as she sat in silence.

“So, John,” he began, sitting down next to him, “How are you feeling?”

John was unfazed by the advance, and simply looked at Hossam cooly.

“Fine. You?”

The young man shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

After a beat, Hossam glanced over to John uncertainly, then continued to speak.

“I mean…I woke up this morning to murdered parents…and now my sister’s dragging me to Italy to live with our crazy uncle…so…”

Hossam sat back as he fell into an awkward silence. John cleared his throat.

“I mean, that guy’s really sick,” Hossam told him, voice hushed, “He’s a total sadist freak. He’s a torturer, you know? Barely even a hitman, but all that information made him the Roman Manager. Now he doles out punishment instead of getting information. I don’t really get why my sister loves him, but she’s a bit of a sadist freak, too.”

John glanced back at the young woman as she stared out of the window pensively, hand ghosting over the hilt of her pistol. As if she sensed his gaze, her eyes snapped over to his, wide and empty, almost pulling him in like a magnetic void. He blinked, then looked away. There was a chill on his skin all of a sudden—even a man like him would be unnerved by that girl’s cold, predatory stare. It certainly reminded him of Mohammed Bennani’s gaze, although he had some ability to feign pleasantries and charm, to miraculously conjure up genuine pleasure and joy at the sight of you. That girl most likely had yet to learn; being the daughter of an Elder would’ve made amicability low on the list of things to teach her.

“I can imagine,” his voice rumbled lowly.

The flight was silent until Leïla rose from her chair and sat across from John and Hossam. She focused on her brother.

“We need to talk about our plan.”

Hossam looked up from his cup of Sprite at her with a frown. “We’re already on our way to Rome. Haven’t we already done the plan?”

She rolled her eyes. “I obviously don’t mean that.”

Her gaze finally met John’s. “We need to speak in private.”

It was an order, and he awkwardly moved to the other side of the plane—it was strange being ordered around by a sixteen year old girl, but he’d dealt with stranger. Leïla took his seat.

“We need to talk about getting our power back,” she clarified, “Unless you plan on being runaway orphans in Rome while Ahmed eradicates our entire family from The Table.”

He frowned. “Why the urgency? We should take stock of our situation in Rome, see what Uncle Mohammed can do for us.”

“Uncle Mohammed isn’t answering the phone.”

Hossam swallowed. He knew his sister would come to the worst conclusion, but he didn’t want to imagine that The Elder—his blood—was laying siege onto his entire family so quickly. His stomach wasn’t as strong as his sister’s.

“None of them?”

She shook her head. Hossam sat back, looking at the ice in his cup, then glancing out of the window, seeing the sun shining on the clouds.

“You get it, right? The moment we land in Italy, we’re in the battlefield for good. Either we hide, or we take our power back. Ahmed wants to eradicate the Benanni family from The Table for good. He’s probably made some deal with some family, or he’s looking out for his own—it doesn’t matter—he has to die.”

He sighed quietly. “Yeah, I get it.”

“You want to be the leader. You want to be the King. We need to figure out a way to get you there.”

His eyebrows rose, and he looked at his sister in shock. “A favor? From you?”

She smiled. “I just don’t want to have death on my back. We’ll figure out how you can repay me later.”

He chuckled. “Right.”

He set down his soda, turning to face her. His eyes sharpened with intent.

“So, what have you come up with?”

Her smile grew. “You know how fond Ahmed is of the old ways. I saw we use them.”

“Use them? A duel?”

She tapped his nose with a sardonic smile. “Look at my brother, so smart.”

“Yeah, yeah, but how? You said it yourself, he’s killing us off.”

“That means you’re the heir, Hossam.”

Hossam froze, the realization washing over him. She was right—his father was dead, his Uncle was out of the picture, his older cousins were dead or missing as of this morning. The sun shine through the airplane window, shining on his dark drown eyes, turning them to gold. He was all that was left.

Leïla smiled as he met her gaze. “You see? You’re almost there.”

“But…I couldn’t fight Ahmed.”

Her smile fell. “Oh? And why not?”

“That man is an animal, are you kidding me? I couldn’t fight him the way I am now! He’s a full foot taller than me! He’s probably fifty pounds heavier than me! He’s already uglier than hell, he’s got nothing to lose—he’ll rip me apart!”

Amusement glittered in Leïla’s eyes. “And how do you think I handle the taller, stronger, ugly men I’m sent to handle?”

His eyes lit up. “You can do it, then?”

She was visibly taken aback. “The hell are you talking about?”

“C’mon, you’re The Mamba,” he encouraged, “And I know you want to kill that disgusting bastard anyway.”

Her face fell completely at his words. She was silent for a long time, turning away, her shoulders visibly tight.

“Don’t presume to know what I want.”

Hossam cursed himself silently. “I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“You never even acknowledge it for years and now, you bring it up?”

He shrank inwardly at the sight of bubbling anger in her eyes as she stared at him. Delicately, he placed his hand over hers.

“I’m sorry. I…I didn’t know I had to say something. I just thought the best thing to do was to never leave you again.”

Her anger softened in lieu of the storm of emotions that filled in her eyes. Wordlessly, she took his hand in hers and squeezed it tightly.

“We’re going to land in Rome,” she proclaimed, voice firm.

“We’re going to prepare, we’re going to make sure we’re not alone in this task, we’re going to sharpen our claws and fangs. We’re going to take back our home. You’ll sit your ass on top of The Table.”

The sun finally hit her eyes. They were like embers.

“And I’m going to rip that bastard’s throat out.”

***

Leïla took a slow inhale from her cigarette holder, shutting her eyes as she exhaled and waited for Vincent to speak. He had been silent for a while now ever since they’d sat down in the garden, green eyes pensive. So she watched him curiously, troubled by his air of gravity.

“Well, French boy?”

He glanced up at her. She smiled.

“What are you thinking?”

He looked away, then sighed quietly, sitting back. Leïla’s shoulders tensed at his genuine sense of trouble.

“When I heard the story of La Belladonna ripping out the throat of a Marquis for her freedom as a child, I didn’t expect the truth to be more incredible than the legend.”

His eyes shifted over to me. “You have a seat at the Table—shit, above the Table…”

She rose a finger in correction. “I have no Table at all. That’s what I got out of fighting Ahmed for my brother: he would be The Elder, I would be free.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, rubbing his forehead, “You were sitting above The Table. Who throws that away? Who turns their back on everything a person could want?”

She took a drag again. The cigarette glowed orange, burning down as she inhaled. The smoke billowed from her nostrils and flew away with the gentle breeze.

“I hope I don’t sound too insufferable when I say this, but being in the most powerful family in the world taught me I never wanted to sit on that throne or be anywhere near it.”

Her eyes fixed on the horizon. “I’m not as ambitious as you; It’s easier to dismiss for me. But, I can assure you: power is a burden that is best at its lightest.”

“Power is freedom,” Vincent challenged.

Her brow rose as she looked at him.

“Have you seen anything? All of this—family’s massacre, my brother’s dogmatic idiocy we were just subject to, that hotel room in Tokyo my men and I just left—this is what power brings.”

She sat up, leaning in towards him. “You don’t have to agree, but I am right. I’ve seen firsthand what the prospect of power does to people. It turns families and lovers against each other. It makes sacrifices out of the youth and martyrs of the innocent. It breeds filth. Loyalty and honor become ghosts.”

“That is why rules are implemented,” he said simply, “You can’t escape filth in a world like this, but you can keep order.”

She laughed. He looked at her in bewilderment.

“Order? What order?”

Her eyes glittered as she looked into his. “Let me guess, you’re talking about that old saying, right? You think rules are the only thing keeping us from the animals? It’s not. We are animals. Only the illusion keeps us from devouring ourselves. None of us can presume to know what to implement as order when we’re all children of chaos.”

He watched her as she reclined, smoking in silence.

“Why are you still here?”

“Eh?”

“Working, I mean. Why are you still here if you despise everything about this world? You have your freedom, you’ve had it for a long time. You could have left, like John Wick did. You could’ve done anything, but you stayed.”

A smile formed on her lips as she kept her gaze on the distance.

“When was the last time you killed somebody? And I mean personally. When have you last held another’s life in your hands and released it?”

Vincent rose a quizzical brow, shrugging lightly. “I don’t care to get into messes that I don’t need to be in. You know that.”

“Oh, but the mess is the best part.”

Her eyes slid over to meet his. Cigarette smoke passed between their shared look.

“Do you know why I was named The Mamba?”

“You didn’t name yourself?”

“It’s a title,” she explained, “I didn’t sit idly in the desert, I trained. I perfected my art.”

Vincent smiled at her earnestness. “We’re killers, not artists.”

“Mm, maybe for you, but I grew up in a world where the manner in which you spilled another’s blood was a reflection of the truth of your soul. Of course, not all the families are like this—the Benannis are unique. We have firm connections to the Old Ways.”

He watched her pensive face, seeing the hints of nostalgia in her eyes.

“We give our most promising names. The Scorpion and The Mamba.”

She looked over at him. “I was born to be the Mamba. As my brother was to be The Scorpion like our mother before him. These aren’t random namings; they’re honoring the patterns in our family’s souls.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Who was named the Mamba before you?”

“My great-grandmother. My great-grandfather’s bloodline is from the desert, but she came from war.”

“War?”

She smiled as she nodded. “Second World War: bombing, terror, destruction, the breeding ground of human degradation. She escaped the Nazis and brought us atop the Table. Before we sat at it, nearly below it, but my great-grandmother took the throne for us. Too many feared her to resist her. The ones who resisted didn’t live long enough to matter. She was merciless and power-hungry…I loved her.”

Vincent laughed. “I can imagine how well you two got on.”

Her smile grew bigger as she looked over to him. “She would’ve loved you.”

Their hands intertwined as Leïla’s eyes remained fixed on Vincent. His heart bounced around his rib cage as her gaze softened.

“She taught me everything I know. Without her, I would’ve been nothing but fodder for my family and their enemies. She mentored me on my first kill—I was so horrified, I got sick for almost a whole week.”

The two laughed. Her brown cheeks glowed as she set down her cigarette holder.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I did have a soul once.”

Slowly, Leïla got out of her chair and moved to rest next to Vincent on his. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, kissing her forehead.”

“You still do,” he softly encouraged.

“Really. Me?”

“I can’t imagine anyone could love like you do without one.”

Her eyes shone amber in the sun as she looked up at him, eyes roaming his features. Vincent caressed her cheeks, making her shut them and smile.

“I don’t think I could feel this way about someone without a soul.”

His fingertips grazed her lips, her eyelids, the curve of her jaw. She let out a soft exhale as her legs rested on his.

“I would marry you.”

A smile came to Vincent’s lips. “You would?”

“Mhm.”

She turned over to lie against him, slinging an arm over his waist.

“When?”

With a chuckle, her eyes opened to look at him. “Let’s say…three years.”

“So soon?”

“Okay, seven.”

“So late?”

She laughed. “How about you buy me a ring, I wear it, and we decide later on the wedding?”

“Mm.”

Leïla squeezed his waist then shut her eyes again. She’d never tell him in fear of making his ego so big he’d explode, but she’d already thought of marrying him before when they’d first made love. Never before had she met someone like him. Someone who held her so gently, yet didn’t fear her love of the work. He never questioned her nature; he matched it, and he did it with ease. It was like magic. There was no way she’d ever let him go.

“Who should we invite? I’m sure your brother would appreciate an invitation.”

She laughed. “Yes, he’d love a chance to have you in shooting distance again.”

Vincent let out a soft chuckle while he stroked her hair. His smile faded after some time. He watched her face. The ghost of a smile, the complete relaxation of her features, the setting sun on her skin.

“I love you, Leïla,” he said, feeling the air leave his chest.

The smile appeared. “I love you, too, Vincent.”

“Do you trust me?”

A soft laugh—his heart actually fluttered. “Yes, tesoro, of course I do.”

“Will you forgive me for killing John Wick?”

She frowned. “That’s a strange question.”

“He helped you when your life was in danger. Don’t you want to repay the kindness?”

“I already did. I went to the desert myself to make sure he would be spared.”

“He made a deal. He wasn’t spared.”

“Yusuf is a patient man, and a wise one, but he isn’t merciful. I had to do that. John lost a ring instead of his head. A life for a life. It’s out of my hands now. He knows that.”

She pressed her hand against him chest. “But I know what happens if you fail. You’re already taking too long. That is my concern. I’d prefer John not to die, but I refuse to see you hurt. Do what you must.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Merci, mon amour.”

Another laugh, like music. “Bien sûr.”

She let out a quiet sigh. It sounded happy—he made her happy. Vincent shut his eyes in satisfaction.

“You never said why you still work,” he muttered.

Leïla laughed. “Because I love it, Vincent. Just as I love you.”

Hie eyes twinkled as he watched the clouds while she slept. Just as she loved him.

[amytz24souls]

This is so funny , I'm sure maxime and René would get along great , gwen ...well idk maybe not lmao

[fidjiefidjie]

🎷 Petite douceur 🍂🍁

Créateur :Robbie Shilstone

Autumn Leaves (Les feuilles mortes) 🎵 Cannonball Adderley

[el-diablo-espacial]

Ahora lo se...🍃

[la-petitem0rte]

Sorry, would I be mistaken for thinking that your url french for "orgasm"?

-Akutagawa Ryuunosuke from @akutagirlwa

Some could interpret it that way. Most modern usage does refer to a post-orgasm sensation akin to death, but at first (and still in some contexts) simply refers to a loss of consciousness or a nervous spasm. Why?

[lamiaprigione]

Le Petit Soldat (1963)

[ratelet-james]

James Ratelet, sur les chemins du Gard, Arènes de Nîmes, Maison Carrée, Tour Magne et Temple de Diane, jardins de la Fontaine, Porte d'AugusteCostières, terroir viticole et activités autour de l'AOC Costières-de-nîmes, Mas des Tourelles, Beaucaire,Abbaye de Saint-Roman, Voie Régordane, Abbaye de Saint-Gilles, Petite Camargue, Scamandre, Gallician, Saint-Laurent-d'Aigouze, Aigues-Mortes, Salins du Midi, à Aigues-Mortes, Pointe de l'Espiguette, le pont du Gard, Uzès, Avignon, Occitanie , France, Europe

[acapelladitty]

Hello le tittie,

Adored your Charon (FO3) fic, will there be more available?

Love your work and blog

A little crab 🦀

Since he's now on my radar there is always the potential for more Charon fic! I just need the right prompt or inspiration 💋 xx

[beardedmrbean]

[th-em-vibes]

"You're gonna be the death of me"

"Oh darling, just a little one"

Kills me every fucking time. Every. Fucking. Time.

[amaranthine-enihtnarama]

Les Petits Morts Update 💚

Ending has had me stuck for like months now for this upcoming chapter, but I’m finally getting there so that’s what’s the holdup has been; once that’s done I revise which won’t take long <3

[hermie62]

May the 4th be with you you say ?

Well my sweet summer children this day was Sherlock Holmes since 1871

[frnkiebby]

just…please~🎃

[el-diablo-espacial]

Eterno silencio🍃

[kerlhau]

[fatovamingus]

Nathalie Philippart and Jean Babilee, first staging of Cocteau and Petit's "le jeune homme et la mort"