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a-wraith-891 · 20 days ago

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A Spin-Off of my Hawthorne Mafia AU

Tags: Grayson Hawthorne/Lyra Kane, Grayson Hawthorne, Lyra Kane

Summary: Fourteen years later, her nightmares start, and she arrives in Texas, a mob house, quietly, unnoticed and carrying hell in her fists.

(Maybe in another life, she tried the other method available—a phone call, a rejection—but in this one, she doesn't)Or, How Lyra and Grayson meet in my Mafia AU. Completely OOC.

a/n: Guys ik this is shit but like I saw a comment and I couldn't resist. This is completely Out of Character for canon AND my AU, like how do i mess up this bad 😭 🙏. Anyways just something. I don't even know at this point. No, I don't I have a 17 page project to edit

The blood of a Hawthorne stains everything, even the peace that death is supposed to bring.

Lyra knew that intimately. She knew it in the way bruises bloomed in her dreams like rot, in the way her father’s final words carved their way into the depth of her dreams:

“What begins a bet? not that. A Hawthorne did this.”

She was four when he said it, only four years old, when they found a body. Only four when the gunshot had echoed in her young ears, and the dull thump of a body falling before her like a cut doll had been the topic of her nightmares for weeks, until her brain had blocked it out. Dissociative Amnesia, she recalls distantly, and she hadn’t thought of it since. Not even when the police—though God knew how corrupt they were—said it was suicide. Not even when they cremated him. Just… let it fester in silence.

Fifteen years later, her nightmares start, and she arrives in Texas, a mob house, quietly, unnoticed and carrying hell in her fists.

(Maybe in another life, she tried the other method available—a phone call, a rejection—but in this one, she doesn't)

She discovers she's good at stealing six days in. Discovers she's even better at it if she throws in some acting on day ten. Discovers she doesn't care about acting on day twelve, and discovers she does give a shit about beating people up just a few weeks later.

She...likes the feeling of it, someone's face beneath her fists, skin and cartilage and sometimes even bone splitting under the force she puts forth. She likes the dazed look his opponents get in their eyes after a good punch, likes the wheeze that weasels its way out of their throats when she kicks opponents double—triple her size in the nuts.

She likes the blood that gushes from a broken nose, the blood that drips from a split lip, the blood that peaks through the surface when the skin splits.

She likes the violence, the barbaric nature of it, the simplicity. She likes the rush in her veins, the pounding of her heart in her head. She doens't remember many words, but the feeling? It's easy to get lost in it, easy to remember the crunches and the breaks.

She finds that she likes the fights where she's the clear winner from the start, and the fights where it's really touch-and-go for a while. She likes the fights that get broken up by the cops, and the ones where there's no one around to save them.

(And if she goes overboard from time to time, well, there's no one around to see anyways, and dead men don't tell any tales… well not if they're burried right.)

Everyone likes seeing an eighteen-year-old girl beat up her opponents like it's nothing, and they'll pay for the amusement. Well, everyone likes it except for the people she ends up fighting.

It never really ends well for them. But who gives a shit about those morons?

She wasn't always like this. She doesn't think, at least. Or maybe she was, a product of a suicidal criminal father and a drug-addicted mother, neither of them very good at their professions.

Maybe life set out a path for her, to follow in one of their two footsteps, and that's where the itch in her brain for violence and the seeking out pain for calm came from, but Lyra's never really been one for destiny. Destiny can kiss her ass.

Losing might be the legacy her parents passed down to her but she's not them, and Lyra is a winner.

Of course, some men aren't too happy about that decision, and end up tracking her down to teach her a lesson, or something else super cliché; to be honest she isn't really listening while they talk, it's not like she'll remember what they said word for word anyway. 'Blah, blah, no one betrays us, blah, blah, you'll pay for this, blah, blah.' It's all the same nonsense. Who gives a fuck.

(What Lyra will remember is the feeling of fear clinging to the men with the Hawthorne crest on their skin. The unkemptness of their hair and wrinkles in their clothes. The desperation they reeked of that spoke of higher-ups demanding something they couldn't give. And their payment, or a concession—either way really—being her.)

(She won't remember the other itch in her brain, to solve the issue, uncover the patterns that her brain is great at analyzing. Won't remember the urge to know)

The beating hurts. The beating hurts a lot. Hurts enough that it takes her out of commission for a week or so, hiding out in the little flat she's renting under her dead dad's name. She doesn't dare go to the hospital—she's not an idiot, everything in this city is owned by the Hawthornes—but when she's well enough to walk without every movement making fire lick at her bones, she breaks into a clinic and steals some pain meds.

(Some part of her acknowledges that she's turning into her parents, a druggie and borderline suicidal, but the other part of her doesn't care, and yearns for more)

They take the edge off, and she goes right back to fighting. Rage doesn't crawl under her skin, but thinking of the Hawthornes, the need to cause some damage and pain and chaos itch in her brain and for the first time since she came to Texas, she doesn't ignore it.

Everyone there for the fights are regulars, one or two newbies that fit right in, and then there's him.

Pretty boy, perched on the exposed beams above the ring. No one else seems to have noticed him, and Lyra only sees him by chance, glimpsing him when she rolls her neck against a crick and tilts her head at just the right angle to spot the hiding boy.

He's mostly covered in shadows, but she can make out the strong jaw and pretty features, the glint of an expensive watch around his wrist. And she recognises it. Grayson Davenport Hawthorne. Heir to the Hawthorne Crime Family, and also the reason her nightmares are assaulted by her dead father every night.

She wonders how often he comes here, how stupid the boy must be, how he's tempting fate.

(She'll ignore that she's being illogical, that Grayson was six when her father died. Emotion is like that, clouding all judgement.)

Ah, well. It's not supposed to be her business, even though she does care overly much. The boy'll get what's coming to him either way—now or later—but rn? Lyra has a fight, or two, or three, to win..

The blood pounds in her ears, the adrenaline floods her veins, her thoughts turn to a sinple static, and she feels. These few moments during a fight, when this is all that matters, when she is powerful and everyone else is weak, when she stands above her opponent and listens to the bell ring, listens to the crowd scream her name and proclaim her victor—

There's nothing like it. Not stealing, not drugs, and shes had mediocre sex, and she cant imagine that good sex'll live up to it either.

Her parents might be trash, but in moments like these, Lyra can barely remember their names.

(She's lying to herself, the name Thomas will be burned into her memory far into her next life)

She walks out of the building and there's a fancy car parked outside. The fucking Hawthorne insignia gleams bright in gold. But she can't deny that God, it's amazing. Gleaming and dark and fast and expensive. There is no question that it's his.

She's overcome with rage that she doens't even feel in the ring. Automatically, her hand drifts to her boot where she keeps a knife.

She slashes the tyres with a knife stolen from some idiot who brought it into the ring. She breaks the headlights with a rusted wrench, and leaves a streak of red lipstick across the pristine hood like a signature. Some part of her wants him to come and look for her, wants him to try.

Petty? Yes. Pointless? Probably. But in a startling moment of clarity, she finds that it is all she has. Rage and rituals.

She doesn't expect to get caught immediately.

It is past midnight when he corners her.

Outside a convenience store, next to some blood that hasn’t been cleaned since she arrived, Grayson stands like some wraith. He leans against her stolen rusted-out Toyota. Smoke curls from his mouth like a lazy fire. Somehow, she doesn't find his presence intimidating or scary. She's not afraid of him, or anything he can do to her—not like she was of those men.

“You like knives?” he asks, voice low.

She freezes.

His presence carries heat—not the kind that warms, but the kind that burns. Strangely, she gets the impression that he's actually burned people before.

She lifts her chin. All her calm evaporates suddenly, her mouth moving free of her brain, “You like being a pompous asshole?”

A flicker of amusement, maybe. Or interest. It passes too quickly, and part of Lyra yearns to bring it out again.

“Cute,” he says. “You’re new here.”

“Definitely not just someone who you've not met before, I'm new,” she mocks back.

He drops the cigarette. Crushes it under one expensive Penny Loafer. The smoke dies in a heartbeat.

"You know who I am.” Lyra says.

He cocks his head, "Are we just stating facts now? You know who I am." He says with an air of finality.

“Unfortunately.”

“So you… vandalized my car anyway.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t like the color.”

He steps closer. The lamp above them buzzes like her mom's phone did when her dad died.

“I should make you pay for that.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could afford to have me disappear, Mafia Prince.”

Grayson doesnt flinch at the accusation. He just smiles. Slowly.

“Cash doesn’t buy people like you,” he murmurs. “Too much bite, I saw you fighting. You're quite angry. Daddy issues?”

Her mouth gows dry.

“You want to talk about 'daddies', asshole?” she asks, voice bitter and biting. “I know for a fact that yours is either dead, or didn't want you. Mine blew his brains out in front of me when I was four. Said a Hawthorne did it.”

The smile vanishes.

For a moment, all that glints in his expression is… stillness? And she knows that she's actually suprised him. And also caught his attention.

He ignores the jibe. “What exactly did he say?”

She repeats it word for word.

Grayson doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Then: “That’s not how bets work.”

“What?”

He turns, sudden and sharp. “Nothing. You’re not the first person to hate my family. But you’re the first to leave lipstick on my hood.”

“I’ll carve my initials next time.”

He laughs — genuinely. It sounds like sin, dark, deep and alluring.

“You’ve got nerve, Lyra.”

She hasn't told him her name. She steps back. Just one. Because something was shifting in him and in her. The way he looks at her—not with pity, not with cruelty, but amusement and recognition— it unsettles her and leaves her looking for more.

She has nothing that the Hawthornes can take other than her life, and she is ready to gaurd it with… well her life.

She looks back, deep into those grey eyes. She should walk away.

Instead, she asks, “Did your family kill him?”

And Grayson, serious, heir to America's largest crime family just sighs. He looks in her eyes, deeply, like he's memorising her retinal scan or something, as if this is the last time they'll see each other.

(It's not of course, they are fated to be better together in one way or the other, no matter how much pain they cause themselves and each other)

Deeply, he shrugs and just says;

“...Maybe.”

Asshole.

#grayson hawthorne #jennifer lynn barnes #the grandest game #fanfic #mafia au #This is how they met #It's a peice of garbage #but like whatever

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a-wraith-891 · 21 days ago

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Let’s just say one of them looks better than the other…

Oh wow, my sign looks WAYY different… idk. But I’m finally DONEEEE… (Now i feel grayson looks weird. Eh)

Oh, almost forgot, the original—

Lemme js tag @7975348473 , @lyrakanefanatic

Hope you both like Lyra's card, cuz let's be real, Grayson looks a bit creepy.

#grayson hawthorne #the grandest game #jennifer lynn barnes #my art #art #lyra kane #grayson x lyra

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a-wraith-891 · 21 days ago

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I’m done with Lyra’s Card!!

Ik I made her the queen of phones… ummm…

just ignore that, thanks :)

#lyra kane #jennifer lynn barnes #my art #grayson hawthorne

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a-wraith-891 · 22 days ago

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A Hawthorne Mafia AU

Tags: Jameson Hawthorne, Avery Grambs, Grayson Hawthorne, Xander Hawthorne, Nash Hawthorne, a lot of minor/ background characters.

Extra Tags: Dark Hawthorne Family.

Other Parts: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Tagging: @7975348473

Summary: Avery isn't sure why she's been called, she's not sure why she's there in the first place. Thirty-eight people dead. Avery doesn't want to know why she's there at all.

Avery knows the Hawthorne boys are cruel, and even worse when they're bored, but knowing it and seeing something so awful with her own two eyes is truly different.

------------------------------

"What can I do for you?" She asks as Alexander heads over to his brothers, sitting on the free couch.

"I disagree," he says, not answering her question but talking to the others about some discussion they must've been having before she came.

"We know, Xander," Grayson, Nash, and Jameson all say at the same time, Jameson then adding, "Jinx."

"Go get your own goddamn soda," Grayson replies offhandedly, then looks her over. It's appraising, and uncomfortable. All of them, always appraising, always searching, always looking for the best way to get under your skin, always knowing more about you than you do yourself.

There's one in particular, who seems to know everything, and takes the unknown as a challenge, uncaring of what he has to do to prove it, and she relates to the energy.

"Grandfather would also disagree," Alexander adds.

Now that's unexpected.

And what is this, anyway? They never do this, never appear as anything other than a united front. This disagreement they're having in front of her? That doesn't happen. So the question is whether this step is in the right direction or in the wrong one.

Jameson shoots Xander a faux-irritated look.

"You were there to hear what Grandfather said same as the rest of us, Xan, which means you have zero basis for that declaration."

Grandfather. Always that word, always with a capital-G. The only power possibly capable of making the Hawthorne boys behave, and the word that never fails to make them tense. She wonders if they tense for the same reason she wants to whenever someone mentions her grandmother. But a fact of this life is that no one can ever hope to truly understand the Hawthorne boys, so she abandons that train of thought.

"Just because he gave you decision making power doesn't mean he'd agree with this decision," Nash mutters.

What is this? Is it a test of some kind? It has to be purposeful, right? These boys don't do anything without a reason. Sometimes that reason might simply be "Because I Want To", but it's still a reason.

Jameson rolls his eyes and doesn't bother saying anything. He shifts in his seat, cocks his head slightly looking straight at her, and Nash snorts, then a tiny incline of his head.

Another conversation that Avery is nowhere close to understanding. She wonders how much the other two do.

But right now, Jameson is looking straight at her, in a way that seems less mocking and more inquisitive, and she remembers breaths falling like feathers on her skin, 'Do you every think of other lives you could have lived, Sarah? Of the what-ifs?'

She debates prompting them and dismisses the thought, deciding it's better to just wait.

Grayson's lips twitch up slightly, looking at Jameson, and he seems amused. His fingers tap absently on the edge of the armrest.

"Xander," he says. His tone is light, offhand, a summer's breeze. Alexander tenses nonetheless.

"Fine," the youngest boy grits out, looking incredibly displeased, a complete 180 from his usual grinning charm. "But when this bites us in the ass down the line I will blame you three." He then gets to his feet and stalks out, chin raised high.

Avery blinks after him for a moment. Is it real? Is it all a game? What purpose would it serve, if it is? Why be so openly against each other, if it isn't?

Maybe Avery's just paranoid. Maybe she's not paranoid enough.

But after the night she's had (five cops, nine innocent bystanders, twenty-four mobsters and gang members) she really just wants to take a few sleeping pills and hope that the smell of burning flesh doesn't follow her into her dreams, like the copper scent of blood often tends to do.

When she looks back to the three remaining Hawthorne boys, Nash smiles charmingly and says, "Ah, puberty. Makes devils out of demons, doesn't it?"And Avery...has no idea how she's supposed to reply to that, so instead she asks, "How can I be of service?"

"We have this job coming up," Grayson says. "It's a...test run, shall we say. Need another pair of hands on it. You free next week?"

Now, Avery is anxious. Because asking her this shouldn't be as much of a production as it has been. They've asked her to help on jobs many times in the last four months. Earlier tonight, for example. She's working her way in. Right now it's all low-level stuff, mostly grunt work, but she's proving her value.

None of that would require this level of attention.

What's the reason for the disagreement between Alexander and the others? Why let her see it? Why did they dismiss all of their people before asking her this, why did they interrupt the revelry they so enjoy?

Do they know? Are they just playing with the newcomer in their midst, one who is close to Tobias Hawthorne the First (and the Second, but they don't know that…do they)? Or are they simply bored, and spicing it up a little by troubling the girl that one Hawthorne brother keeps trying to puzzle out?

Grayson and Jameson share a smirk. Again, it makes Avery wonder.

"Of course," Avery says, because there's absolutely nothing else to say. She values her life, thank you very much. "Send me a time and I'll be there, sir."

"Excellent," Jameson says, smiling that gorgeous smile of his that has suckered in so many people, and gets to his feet.

Nash stands simultaneously, cracking his neck. "Now, I still have a bit of excess adrenaline from... earlier, so I think I'm gonna head out, find a lively club somewhere, and I'm taking Libby-loo with me. Grayson?"

"Libby-loo." Jameson mocks, but Avery is too deep in memory to care.

—A birthday party flashes through her mind, a drunk father and a mother braiding colourful extensions in a nine-year-old's hair. A scream as the father throws the knife from the cake. A gift from…Harry—a glass ballerina—shattering. A gunshot. A girl's hair, red, not from the dye as she so desperately wanted, but from blood—

A new city a few days later.

"You guys go," the second Hawthorne grandson says, smiling back. "Lyra and I have plans; I'll catch up with you tomorrow."

"Try not to traumatize the children, or break the bed… again," Jameson drawls as he heads for the door, Nash behind him. Grayson flips him off at the snarky comment, but doesn't actually seem too bothered.

Once they're gone, Grayson looks at Avery, amused. "I'd caution you to avoid Nash and Jameson's path for the rest of the night if I thought you actually ran in those circles in Texas," he says, lips curved.

A spike of anxiety. How? "Sir?"

He shakes his head, waving off the question, but his eyes are knowing. Knowing what? How much of this is all a trap, how much is real? Am I overestimating their knowledge or underestimating it?

"Clubs. Texan Clubs, Sarah, that's it. That's all I meant. Now, I hate to cut and run on you, but I do have plans."

"Of course," Avery says, the words automatic. She steps to the side, clearing the way for Grayson to the door. "Let me know when you guys need me."

He nods and claps her on the shoulder as he walks past. "Would you mind cleaning this place up for us, by the way? The boys out front have been super busy tonight, and I'd hate to give them one more thing to do." They're busy cleaning the blood you dragged in.

He doesn't even stop walking as he "asks" his question, spoiled and entitled dick he is, but Avery doesn't expect him to. No one says no to the Hawthorne boys in this city, not even her.

"Of course," Avery says again, certainly not pointing out the busy night she's had, (five, nine, twenty-four, a total of thirty-eight), and then the boy is gone, leaving Avery alone with the mess created by a bunch of teenagers, teenagers who deal with life and death on a day-to-day basis—are usually the ones causing the deaths, and yet still spill chips on the ground like regular old kids.

It's fifteen minutes later that it occurs to Avery that the four Hawthorne boys seemed to sober up incredibly quickly for how intoxicated they'd first appeared. Was the show for all their friends? Was it for themselves? What was the point of it all? What was the point of any of this?

Just what has she gotten herself into?

--------------------

When she finishes it's past midnight, but the club is as lively as ever. Outside, Jameson Hawthorne holds two bottles of expensive alcohol in his hand, one empty and one full

—A game. 'Is the bottle half full or half empty, Grambs, or is it both?' A mocking grin. Her hand reaching out and grabbing the bottle. Brushing his, but burning nonetheless. Drinking it in one gulp. 'It's fully empty now, Hawthorne. And the present is what matters anyway'. A genuine laugh—

"Are you done cleaning the room?" The catty voice of Thea Calligaris calls past her.

"Yes ma'am," Avery replies, unsure of why Thea asked her.

All of the Hawthornes and Hawthorne-adjacents are insanely perceptive people, and the garbage bag in her hand and the smell of the air freshener do give off a particular look.

"Throw that out and go have fun at the bar, dear. You deserve it," the woman says as she strides into the room Avery just vacated. Behind her a train of people follow, a red-head and Savannah, Rohan and Gigi, none of whom acknowledge her existence.

What Avery deserves is a four-week paid vacation, but what does she know. It's not like she can just disobey Thea Calligaris-Hawthorne, and Avery is very well acquainted with the difference between a request and an order, and as far as she's concerned, it's the latter.

Going out back to throw out the trash, she knows she has to go to the bar, no matter how shitty she feels.

The bar. The bar where Jameson Hawthorne presently is. "Grambs," he hollers, as always, the first to call to her.

"Mr. Hawthorne," She replies, heading over, closer to him. He waves of the person attending him and jumps over the bar and grabs a rag, singing it over his shoulder in an imitation of the bartender who just occupied the space.

"None of that tonight, Sarah, call me Jameson," he says, flashing her his patented million-mega-watt smile.

She doesn't know what's different about that night, about him, but she find herself easing onto the bar stool he previously occupied, and slowly leaning onto the counter, gravitating towards him.

(She knows what's different. Five, nine, twenty-four men and women dead. He's riding off the high he gets off murder, his green eyes shining bright and a wicked smile on his face.)

Like all teenage girls, Avery had a Twilight phase, no matter how hidden it was from her grandmother. The spattering of blood on his neck has dried, and it almost looks like a vampire bite if she squints hard enough.

"What do you want to drink, Sarah?" He says, putting emphasis on her name, a slow, seductive tone that draws her in.

"I'm not drinking tonight… Jameson," she purrs, drawing out his name as much as he did hers, and any chance she had of denying the attraction she felt towards him fades away.

The smirk on his face impossibly grows wider, "Oh really Sarah? I bet I can make something you'll like."

The innuendo should have sparked something in the pit of Avery's stomach, as things said by Jameson often did, but instead hearing him say her mother's name irked her.

She leans forwards, "Just between us, Just for tonight, Jameson," she whispers.

"Yeah, S?"

"Call me Avery."

#grayson hawthorne #jameson hawthorne #nash hawthorne #xander hawthorne #jennifer lynn barnes #the grandest game #fanfic #avery grambs #thea calligaris #Etc #Idc I can't tag them all #I give up

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a-wraith-891 · 23 days ago

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A Hawthorne Mafia AU- Part 4

Tags: Jameson Hawthorne, Avery Grambs, Grayson Hawthorne, Xander Hawthorne, Nash Hawthorne, a lot of minor/ background characters.

Extra Tags: Dark Hawthorne Family.

Other Parts:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Summary: Avery isn't sure why she's been called, she's not sure why she's there in the first place. Thirty-eight people dead. Avery doesn't want to know why she's there at all.

a/n: I went overboard with the italics, idk wtf I'm doing. It's 3 AM and it's Monday tomorrow. I hope you enjoy the fruit of my insomnia. Thank you. Also idk what I'm doing with the relationships. Again, I would like to draw your attention to the time being 3:39 AM. And the fact that I started writing at 12:24 AM. I hope I survive till my break.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Avery hears the voices before she gets to the backroom, as is usually the way. It's their club, after all, and there's no need for them to lower their voices. This isn't where the actual business gets done, anyway. Not the big stuff, the stuff worth overhearing. she learned that Day 2.

Jameson and Rohan—

(Rohan, last name: Unknown, 18 years old, close friend of the third eldest Hawthorne boy. Been arrested for assault three times, and twice for murder. Never went to prison bc the witnesses and accusers always mysteriously vanished before trial could begin. Expert fighter, known from his frequent fights with Jameson. Assassin? No. Hitman.)

—are currently the loudest, their laughter carrying down the hall with the music, both performers in their own right. They're probably drunk—a good majority of the people in that room are probably drunk—but she knows that not a single one of them will be nearly as drunk as they let the rest of the world believe.

Avery doesn't know where all these people, and she feels disgusted calling them anything human, learned to lie so well, but she has to admit she's impressed by their skill. She's an observant woman—she has had to be—but she's pretty sure they often get things past her. They often get things past a lot of people.

It's why they've never been caught. It's why they have so many people chasing their tails. It's why Avery has to be better than she is.

She hears someone shout something, a few words slurred, but the sentiment is something along the lines of celebration. A chorus of cheers follows the words, and Avery's lips twist sardonically; from their point of view, she supposes that they do have things to celebrate.

Avery, on the other hand? Well, the deaths of five cops and nine innocent bystanders weigh heavily on her mind and turn her stomach into knots. She doesn't care that Don Hawthorne has gained some territory from Blake, territory that Blake probably would've given him anyway because he—just like every other person in Texas with half a brain—is afraid enough of the Hawthorne family to simply do as he's told.

No, that isn't why they torched the warehouse.

That isn't why Jameson Hawthorne held up a gun and pulled the trigger again and again without hesitation, robbing a family of a husband, a wife, a son, a daughter. That isn't why Nash Hawthorne grinned down at a man begging for mercy, both of their faces splattered with blood. That isn't why Alexander Hawthorne used a machine he built to cut a man gut to throat, splitting his body practically in two and cauterizing flesh. That isn't why Grayson Hawthorne walked through the smoldering remains of a building, putting bullets in anyone who survived.

None of that was to get territory. None of that was strategic. They could justify it to the world however they wanted, but that was just because they were bored.

Five cops, nine innocent bystanders, and twenty-four people who worked for William Blake.

Avery wasn't even there for the main event, just the end, and she still barely kept herself from vomiting.

She pauses outside the door to the room, takes a moment to steady herself. It's only been five hours since she was called to the warehouse. Only five hours since she helped get rid of the remaining bodies. Only five hours since she saw in person things she'd only seen in pictures. Only five hours since the demons inside those four boys really came out to play.

At the very least, she'd been given a chance to go home, shower, change, and not eat something. Then she'd been called to their shining club, and she hadn't hesitated to go.

She doesn't have the luxury of hesitation. Not in this business. Not in her role.

She knocks on the door, waits half a second, and then enters. Automatically, her eyes scan to track everyone in the room, going first—of course—to the Hawthorne boys. Alexander , despite where he is, is the one she sees first. The fifteen-year-old is sitting in an armchair in the back corner of the room, legs folded, laptop open. There's a phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear as he types rapidly, coding probably, simultaneously holding a conversation with whoever's on the other end. There's a small grin on his face, too, looking extraordinarily pleased, and she even hears a hint of an actual laugh from the boy.

It would've been sweet, if the curl of his lips was gentle instead of sharp, if the spark in his eyes was shining instead of hard, if the laugh was melodic instead of razor wire.

She can pretend that the boy is talking to a friend about something normal, but the more likely scenario is that he's talking about the massacre he just participated in. Part of her wonders who's on the phone, and the rest of her doesn't want to know.

The next person Avery spots is Jameson. He's standing a few feet in front of a dart board, a grin splitting his face, lighting his eyes, and her stomach rolls with unease… and something more. The nineteen-year-old tends to not look like that in public, or look like that in front of anyone other than his siblings, and Avery doesn't really like seeing it; makes her feel like he's somewhere she shouldn't be, or like someone's about to get seriously hurt, but a part of her finds that she doesn't care.

(He only tends to look like that in front of his family, or when he has the barrel of a gun bearing down on someone's face.)

Some twisted part of her wants to extend a hand and trail it down his face, real in a way only he is, and despite the atrocities he has committed—atrocities she has been witness too—she feels like she can accept the man.

He has his arm around Rohan's shoulders, who's standing next to him and holding a few darts of his own, and she is sure she can hear a challenge being thrown around. She's s not surprised; Rohan's one of the few people who has never had a problem standing up to the boys, whether or not it gets him beaten black and blue.

She thinks that's why Nash and Jameson like the shooter so much. Rohan's sharp and determined and a little wild around the edges, and he's loyal. Once, he provoked Jameson into breaking his leg, and still showed up to work the next day. The three of them all acted like it was nothing, like it was another day in the life. No resentment, no babying, nothing.

It had been fascinating to watch. And definitely weird.

Next, Avery sees Grayson. The twenty-year-old is at the pool table with a few other people, leaning over it with his cue. A brown haired girl is plastered to his back, hands on his hips, and she adjust his aim slightly, causing him to look at her with exasperation. She simply laughs in reply, saying something that looks like an apology. Grayson, without taking his eyes off her face, shoots, easily making the shot with his own aim.

Grayson turns back to the table and Avery can hear the word asshole being thrown around.

(Five cops, nine innocent bystanders, twenty-four mobsters and criminals.)

It all makes Avery wonder if they do this every time they destroy lives, if they party like they've achieved something great, something gorgeous.

And frankly, she knows they're all too self-aware to actually believe that they're celebrating getting territory from Blake. She knows that they have to know they could've gotten that with no more than a threatening look. She knows that they know they're just riding high on murder, and using the territory as an excuse to celebrate.

She wonders how much Don Hawthorne supports this versus tolerates it, control freak that he is.

Last, she sees Nash. The twenty-seven-year-old is sitting on one of the couches with a beautiful girl perched in his lap, arms wrapped around his neck. She looks like she's attempting to swallow him whole, and he's grinning against her mouth. She has blue hair and is wearing a cowboy hat that resembles the ones that Nash frequents. She looks vaguely familiar, in the way her mother looks in her memories, in the way distant objects from her first life tend to look.

The girl also hurts in the way thinking about her mother does, so Avery simply stops. Maybe in a other life she knew the girl as more than just a prop in the empire, more than just another cog in the machine that spits out the worst that Texas had to offer.

Avery recognizes a majority of the other people in the room. Standing by the darts board, though farther away than Jameson and Rohan is Oren—

(John Oren, 32 years old. Personal security of Don Hawthorne. Military. Met Tobias Hawthorne I ten years ago. Has been involved in the violence caused by the Hawthorne Crime Family ever since)

By the pool table with Grayson and the girl is a woman she doesn't know—and Thea Calligaris.

(Thea Calligaris, 19 years old, daughter of the imprisoned Constantine Calligaris. It is rumoured that Don Hawthorne's grandsons brought her in last year when her father went to prison. She's a very sweet girl. Very manipulative. Very good with a blade)

"Grambs!" Jameson calls out. Avery would say that he was simply the first to spot her, but she's all too aware of the fact that the Hawthorne boys are scarily perceptive, and Jameson's just the first to acknowledge her existence, like he always is, and something in her warms at that while the other half freezes and warns her away.

"C'mon in!" He sounds drunk. He's smiling and swaying like he is. Avery refuses to let herself be lulled by that.

She walks further into the room. "Hello, Mr. Hawthorne," she says respectfully. It's weird calling someone her age Mister, but she's had four months to get used to it at this point.

No matter how many times Grayson says Oh, please, call me Gray, or Jameson says Jamie's fine, really, she knows better. It's not a real invitation. They all know the second she called them so informally (or, god forbid, called Don Hawthorne Tobias) some kind of harm would befall her person.

So many games with these boys. So many layers. She's still working on working it all out.

Nash detaches his mouth from the girl in his lap, the girl who now seems to be grinding down on him, and offers her a blinding smile. "Avery, glad you made it. Would you like something to drink?"

She knows it's rude not to reply, but her mind has just started cataloging the little details in the room, her mind giving her the bigger picture in a talent that has harmed her as much as it has kept her alive.

There's a spattering of red flakes (blood) on nash's sleeve. There a small bit on the side of Jameson's …neck. Alexander's nails have it. Grayson keeps leaving red fingerprints on the pool cue.

She wonders how much of that is purposeful, how much forgetful, how much accidental.

She just smiles back.

"No, thank you, Mr. Hawthorne. Is there something I can help you with?"

Is there a reason you called? Is there a reason I'm here? Can't I have one night of sleep, after the night we've already had? What do you want? Why am I here? What can I help you with?

Simultaneously, Nash's eyes flick over to the pool table and Grayson's eyes flick over to the couch and it's not the instantaneous understanding and communication that Nash and Jameson have, but they come to some decision before she has taken three more breaths.

Nash looks back to the girl in his lap and murmurs something in her ear. She pouts, he says something else and strokes her hair, and she brightens. She kisses him briefly and then stands, heading for the door.

Alexander chuckles. Jameson smirks.

Grayson rolls his eyes and drops the pool cue. "Idiotic," he says derisively, and sits down at the other end of the couch from Nash.

Jameson heads over too, flicking Alexander on the back of his head as he passes, and then throws himself down into a beanbag. He ignores the way Grayson looks at him. Nash tilts his face away, smiling.

"Thea, Lyra," Grayson says, and they all know he doesn't have to continue.

"We're out," 'Lyra' confirms, waving goodbye.

"Good to see you, Heiress," Thea adds as they pass him, walking out the door.

Heiress. If this is a dig at her escape from her grandmother on the west coast, it isn't a good one. Anyone with one braincell and two working eyes could have seen that her grandmother thought Avery anything but a worthy heir.

"Rohan?" Jameson says next. Rohan rolls his eyes and says, "Juliet, Savvy, move your asses." The girl on the couch pops to his her, swaying a little and blinking rapidly, and mouthing something that looks vaguely like 'mimosas', but Savannah just snorts. "Yeah, right."

Grayson looks over at her, eyebrows raised. She scowls, but gives in, heading for the door after her twin.

"Just shout," she says to him, and then heads out the door with Rohan on her heels, leaving Avery alone with the four Hawthorne boys.

It's not often that it's just her and them. Usually there are other people who work for them there, or it's just half the boys, or maybe even only one of them. But really, Avery doesn't spend a lot of time with them. She's only been working for Don Hawthorne for four months; she's not part of the inner circle, she's not even their go-to woman. She does her job well, keeps the information she used to get the job under lock and key, as per their deal, and sometimes they check in on her.

Every time they do, she wonders if this time is the time, the time where everything goes to shit, the time where they reveal that they know, that they've just been playing her, stringing her along, having some fun. Avery wonders if she would let herself be strung out if it was a specific boy.

Right now, just alone with the four boys, there are an infinite number of possibilities as to what will happen with her. It is Schrödinger's experiment, except she is the cat, trapped without air, both dead and alive at the same time, and at this point in time, where anything can happen, Avery wonders.

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