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@cirocapecchi: 

Drunk off glory, high off victory and a pinch of cocaine, Ciro Capecchi is a goddamn mess, and he knows it, he adores it. His favorite casinos are the Lees’, the ones riddled with lies and theft, the ones where he can hide cards up his sleeve and get away with it, but tonight, the Monte Carlo, in all of its palatial elegance, is serving as a satisfactory substitute, and God, is he grateful. Ever since Shanghai, ever since the Lohovary twins played their final hand and hedged their bets, Ciro has been jet-setting across the globe, avoiding his home, avoiding his family, avoiding the sweet beckon of Palermo. It’s a siren’s call if he’s ever heard one, and the temptation to return, to bathe himself in the radiance of his most favorite place, is sickening. He needs this now, tonight, if only to keep himself from Sicily’s shores.

His tie is loose, his hair is mussed, and the first couple buttons of his shirt are undone when he steps out onto the balcony, nearly gasping for relief from the muggy interior of the casino. At first, he doesn’t quite realize who he’s with; he’s preoccupied, his attention stretched in a thousand different directions, the glass in his hand nearly drained of its liquor, the burn on his nostril still fresh, and then he notices, and then he speaks without thinking. His words are honeyed, sweet, but he knows that she knows better than to believe it. Funny seeing you here, he murmurs, and Adelaide’s response is as sharp as a knife, sharper than the one that split him open just a few weeks ago. Ciro wants to laugh, but he doesn’t; he just draws closer.

“Excusez-moi,” he starts, sarcasm thick on his tongue, and even though she’s half a dozen feet away from him, he’s almost certain that Adelaide can smell the liquor on his breath. If he had access to any more of his faculties, he would find it nauseating. Swallowing what little is left of his scotch, Ciro moves closer, places the empty glass on the sturdy concrete railing encasing them, and grins like he’s about to share some great secret with her. “We have to stop meeting like this.” He gestures vaguely around them, at the balcony, at his suit and her dress, at their equally wrecked appearances, his drunken dishevelment and her drooping strap, but that’s all that it takes to get his point across. The ball feels like it happened a lifetime ago, but it didn’t, and they both know it, don’t they?

Ciro Capecchi. His name leaves a bitter taste on her palette, just like it always had, and suddenly, there’s a slight twitch of her nose and a wave of aggravation that knocks her to the ground with a vigorous thrust. His presence was demanding, intolerable, everything she wanted to stray from ━ he was a Capecchi, after all. They were not copains, they were not enemies, nor acquaintances ━ no, they were nothing and it was blissful. 

But who was she to forget the visual of him leaning in, neck craned, eyes hungry? The boy who jolted her to the ground, for something sweeter ━ for something golden and undeniably tempting, gaped at her as if he could swallow her whole, as if he wanted to taint her flesh with his bloodstained, whiskey-induced fingertips. The haunting thought belligerently mocked her ━ repulsed her, even. And, as always, the soles of her eyes crawled with bitterness, with wrath and dismay. She wanted no part of him, no part of his artificial company or fraudulent, heart-rending spellbinds. 

“Merci.” she’ll mutter, and then, “Ah, Capecchi. Just the cockroach I wanted to smash.” Easy, Adelaide. Tuck your fangs away. But God, there was no need for this sugar-coated, honey-eyed exchange. It would all be forgotten, buried in the archives of disorderly, inebriated conversations that took place on the Monte Carlo balcony. This would not last. 

She’s tensing, dark irises penetrating his own, as if she were searching for something ━ for an answer, for an honest moment.

 “What do you want, Ciro?” 

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Monaco ━ oh, how it had her frigid, splintered heart. It was a city that consumed her all at once ━ a city she had visited when life went quiet and no work was to be done. France’s greedy, lustful hands wrapped around the length of her neck and refused to let go. It was selfish ━ it was lonely. No one accompanied her but that’s how she wanted it, wasn't it? Even so, people knew better than to approach the rotting beauty in her time of self-loathing and wrath.

She had one too many flutes of champagne, the alcohol thriving in her frostbitten veins. And though she should have stopped after her fifth, the bartender of the Monte Carlo was a little too eager to drown her sorrows in the expensive, gold-encrusted liquid.  

Adelaide found herself nearly stumbling to the nearest balcony ━ she needed air, she needed to breathe. The crowds, the incessant, bullshit laughter, the sight of people actually enjoying themselves ━ it made her nauseous and unsure of herself. So she’s opted for isolation, the strap of her Givenchy dress hanging from her shoulder like past lovers once had. The wind is biting and harsh but she’s completely numb. 

And just like that, her moment of silence and self-deprecation is abruptly torn from her, a familiar voice haunting the depths of her ears. So she’ll turn her head slightly, eyebrows furrowing in near vexation. But she can’t seem to muster up a biting comment ━ she's too indulged in the fact that they’ve found her sniveling and falling apart at the seams. It disgusted her. 

“Don’t.” Her brash tone is fleeting, yet to the point. She wants her sudden, undesired company to disregard her tears ━ disregard her disheveled presence. Because this? This is not the Adelaide that people are supposed to know. When they’re consumed by her existence, they are meant to feel fear ━ not god-damn pity. 

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The Lovohary twins and their conniving bullshit ─ it left a bitter taste on her  tongue. In a few, quick, harrowing weeks, they had managed to make the society look like fools and if Adelaide despised one thing, it was being portrayed as a gullible halfwit. But mon dieu, how she admired their harsh intelligence, serpent tongues and scheming ways ─ two people cunning enough to put a blindfold over the irises of respectable masterminds, such as Francis Villiers and Lorenzo Capecchi ─ even Lillian god-damn Beauregard. 

But why? What was their purpose and why now? They were questions that flooded the confinements of her mind and she wouldn’t sleep until she received thorough answers ─ or at least an idea. It’s the only reason she agreed to work alongside of Charles Villiers, eyes heavy and guards up. And though his morbid presence was nearly intolerable, she trusted his instincts ─ well, to a certain extent that was. 

They had been at it for hours. People came and went, exhausted and worn-out ─  but Adelaide and Charles? No, they never once left the depths of the room, eyes scanning over the same pages and photographs for what felt like a century. 

She sat across from him, arms folded and eyes narrowed. “He’s not to be trusted.” She’ll utter, a sigh emitting past the curves of her lips. Of course he’s god-damn not Adelaide, was the only thought that managed to peak through after her opinion had been stated. 

She leaned back slightly, not settling entirely into the chair. 

“His purpose is blaring. Lohovary wants something ─ someone. What better way to conquer said thing than to penetrate our walls?” Accent flowing, her tone is low and solemn. “He's going to tear us apart from the inside out.” 

The grand conclusion, the final meeting with the Lohovary twins, it was a scene that had played on repeat in Charles’ mind since that fated night. As he stood in the corner of the meeting room, gritting his teeth at the blatant stupidity that they’d been blinded by for the past two weeks, Charles had seen, even then, the parallels between Roman and himself. That was perhaps the biggest kicker, the central reason Charles should have seen it coming, it was something he himself would have done….had he been born with fire in his veins opposed to the ice that had settled there quite firmly. Roman and Iris, standing before the society in all of their smug glory, they were Charles and Adeline ten years ago, Charles and Adeline had they fallen into the same situation. But this was also what had Charles puzzled, and it was why it had plagued his mind ever since – if Roman was the man Charles thought him to be, if the Lohovarys were everything they claimed to be… then why would they need the society?

Charles, being the man he was, did not need the society. However, the society was a significant part of his identity, he had been raised living and breathing Villiers loyalty. He could leave, and indeed he had considered it many times, particularly over the last chaotic and bitter months, but there was an integral part of himself that was irrevocably tied to the society and forever would be. But, he did not need the society. He was perfectly capable of creating success for himself, perfectly capable of constructing crimes and dodging the grasps of the law. It was quite obvious that Roman Lohovary was a similar man, far more immature perhaps, and Charles had a feeling he was perhaps not as scarred as he pretended to be, but there were definitely similarities. Roman’s charming and menacing bravado could get him just about anywhere in the world, so why, why in the fuck, would Roman Lohovary, in all his confidence and ‘experience’, want to weasel his way into an established society to which he had no sentimental pull?

It was fucking suspicious, that’s what it was. 

Charles did not trust Roman Lohovary, not for a second. 

With the assistance of several other society members, Charles had compiled a lengthy file on their new acquaintance and his better half. He’d sat and flicked through it countless times now, trying to connect the dots, so far there were only bits and pieces that didn’t add up. 

After looking through the file for what felt like the billionth time, Charles sighed heavily and flipped the folder back to the first page which consisted of a brief profile of Roman.

“What do you make of this fucker then?” He tiredly asked the individual who sat opposite him.

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ADELAIDE ROTHSCHILD + text posts 

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Winters in Paris. They were almost as biting as Adelaide’s iron-clad tongue and rich, English accent ━ but not quite. She could’ve flown anywhere, really ━ Milan, Prague, Brazil but her loyalty remained with France. And though the brisk air was numbing and savagely quiet, there was something oddly calming about it. 

The nights after a completed heist were meant to be spent drinking seventy-five year old scotch in the depths of Palermo and London but she’d rather be everywhere they were not and by they, she meant the god-awful Capecchi’s and classless Villiers ━ that’s all that really mattered, wasn’t it? 

It was nearly dusk in Paris and Adelaide had yet to leave the confinements of her studio. Work needed to be done ━ there was no time for play. 

“Spin,” She utters in a bland tone, her index finger motioning towards the European model. “You know what ━ stop. No, no ━ take it off. You’re two sizes too big. Mon dieu, Anna Wintour would spit you out like some bad escargot.” Her tone is brash and scathing, her hand waving in dismissal. 

“Where’s Charlotte?” She’s quick to turn around on scarlet Givenchy heels, amber eyes surveying a crowd of incompetent employees and mindless, pretty visages. “Charlotte, look alive. I don’t pay you to stand there. Unzip her dress and get her into the next one.” 

“And where the hell is Xanthe?” She’ll pinch the bridge of her nose in evident frustration before striding to the fitting room that held the tragically beautiful bombshell. “Xanthe, what are you doing? You’ve been in there for far too long.” 

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