clementefuoco

[clementefuoco]

She could feel her body trembling involuntarily as he helped her to sit up, and she cursed it to hell. It wasn’t the pain, though the bite of glass embedded in her arm was sharp enough to steal her breath. It was the weakness. The involuntary, visceral response of her body betraying her in front of him. Serafina bit down hard, jaw clenched, trying to steady the shake in her limbs as she turned just enough for him to look at her injury. “Shoulder and arm,” she muttered, voice low, trying (and failing) to sound unaffected. Blood was trailing a slow, warm path down her skin, painting her dress in something far less elegant than wine.

Around them, the world cracked apart. Shouts. Screams. The sharp buzz of panic that moved like electricity through the room. But Damian’s focus didn’t waver. His voice, steady. Hands, deliberate. The lights came back on in a sudden blaze, white-hot and jarring. Serafina winced, momentarily blinded. Her vision sparked with stars and memory, and by the time her eyes adjusted, she found herself studying him instead of the wreckage. He blocked part of her view maybe without trying to, crouched in front of her as he assessed the damage with that frustrating mix of practicality and care.

She rolled her eyes with a half-hearted scoff as he threatened to amputate. “Listen, the kindergarten teacher part already was a stretch. I fear I will want a second opinion on this, doctor.” The hiss that slipped past her lips when he pulled the first shard made her grit her teeth. “But I guess I was in need of some permanent damage,” she added with a breathless laugh, voice tilting dry and sharp. “Or people in the business might start to question my position.”

She was about to answer his question when a voice echoed through the room again. No shot, but a shout cut through the air, sharp and terrified. Fire. Her head snapped up, eyes catching the bloom of hot orange in the near distance. “Getting out of here sounds like one hell of a plan,” she muttered as she reached for his hand with her uninjured one. The warmth of his grip was grounding, even as he pulled her up and into motion. Letting him guide her out of the room in a hurry, without a second glance back. The situation could be assessed later, when they could regroup with Pentavita and all the eyes could give words to what they saw.

“I can make it out,” she said with a voice that, though stubborn, had lost its edge. Her eyes, however, were steady. “If you need to go. Maybe some of your people are still in there.” Yet her fingers didn’t loosen around his. Because no matter how many walls she’d built since the day she chose to leave, when he looked at her like she still mattered, a part of him was fearful to send him back into the unknown.

"You didn't have to play with me, baby. Normal is overrated. You are much more fun like this." Damian wouldn't say his kinks leaned to dark; he liked to try things out, but he was pretty tame compared to most, more interested in exploring pleasure and edging with light bondage than the more extreme stuff. He liked the connection that sex brought, being close to that person, sharing the moment. "I don't know about that one, I am not made of money." Sera definitely had a lot more than he, being a small business owner and single father.

While Damian may have been lying about some things... notably big things.... he never gave her a version of himself that was not true. He didn't care for playing pretend or being something that he wasn't. If people didn't like him for him, they could fuck off. Damian could tell she was over this conversation with her dry laugh. "I wasn't very good at it. We got by, though. As for hidden talents... I think my others still have the lead."

It seemed wherever their conversation was headed, someone decided to take pity on them. With the energy change in the room, he could feel the tensions building along with fear. People didn't like the unknown, and this room didn't like the hints and threats they were being toyed with. Let chaos begin? That could not mean anything good was about to come from this.

As he took them both down to the ground, Damian let out a wince as they landed on the glass. He got a few shards in his hand, but nothing major. "Fucking hell." He grunted, looked at her, still hovering over her. He cleared his throat and pushed himself off to the side to sit, and dusted off his hands. "Okay, good goo-no?" Damian squinted to try to see better in the darkness as he helped her up to sit, but still holding her in close.

"Where are you bleeding?" He needed to get eyes on the wound, but he wasn't going to take the risk of shining a light on it; it would give their location away in case someone really was hunting for someone. After a few moments, his eyes were adjusting, and he was able to see better.

The chaos continued to run wild in the room, screams, cries, shouting for someone being shot, but his focus was on her and only her. And then the lights switched on. Damian quickly closed his eyes as the abrupt brightness hurt briefly. "Okay, let me see what we are working with here." He let his eyes scan over the cuts from the glass and gave her a nod, "I'm not sure we can fix this mess, we may have to cut the whole arm off." He said with a small smile as he reached up and started to pull some of the shards out.

"I'm sure one of the medics on the way can take a closer look at this if you want. Are you okay? Any pain? I'm sure we can f-" But the man was cut off again as the words "Fire" Echoed throughout the room. His head quickly snapped up to see the growing flames not too far away. "Okay, change of plans, we need to get you out of here." He said as he stood up and offered her a hand, he scanned the room and noted Neo down on the floor covered in blood, he was the one who was hit. "This way." He said, not letting her see the mess behind her, he wasn't sure what their relationship was like but he knew he had to get her out first.

[clementefuoco]

Serafina swirled the contents of her glass as she listened, her eyes never fully leaving Irina's face. There was a refined ease to her, like art in motion, all sharp corners smoothed by years of diplomacy and curated grace. And yet, beneath the polish, Serafina couldn’t help but wonder what the cracks might look like. What truths might lie just beneath the surface. “A detox through art,” she repeated with a soft huff of amusement, tilting her head just so. “And what would be your usual method of detoxing, if I may ask?” Her gaze dipped lower, taking the other woman in with the kind of slow appraisal. “You don’t strike me as the ‘expensive retreat with only juice for food’ type. But I’ve been mistaken before.” She took a sip from her glass, the wine rich and dry, as she let the silence stretch between them just enough to make it meaningful.

“Thursday sounds perfect,” she said finally, her tone smoother now. “I’ll make sure my assistant blocks off at least an hour—more if I’m feeling indulgent. Perhaps you’ll show me your favorite pieces. I imagine they say more than most dinner conversations ever could.” Her gaze followed Irina’s to the marble pillars and gold-drenched décor, and Serafina let out a low, unimpressed hum. “I’m certain they got paid their money’s worth if they managed to sell the rich all this,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the ballroom.

Then came a small curve to her lips, something sly and knowing. “Ah, if the line between friends and foe begins to blur you must be starting to make waves in the underworld scene.” The words came with a velvet edge, but not unkind. In their world, where most friendships were pawns and every alliance a move on the board.

“Well,” she said, voice light as a sigh. “It’s best to keep them buried anyway. Ghosts always have the worst timing when they show back up. But I suppose that’s where we may have a similarity. My list of the dead and dearly detested is growing longer still. Though, to be fair—” she leaned in just a fraction, as if offering a secret in plain sight, “—my half-siblings probably would make my list look like a small grocery note.”

irina listened, poised and unreadable, the practiced socialite mask sitting comfortably on her face like second skin. “mm,” she murmured with a pleasant sort of detachment, “a detox through art. that does sound more civilized than my usual methods.” her smile was faint, polished, present, but never overcommitted. “the piece is in my possession, yes. resting in the back room, away from the usual vultures. i think you’ll appreciate its energy. it doesn’t beg for attention. but it refuses to be ignored.” it reminded her of serafina in that way. "how's thursday? i have the whole day open."

she tilted her head slightly at serafina’s commentary on the decor, her gaze flicking over the ballroom like it physically bored her. “marble is the last refuge of the unimaginative,” she agreed smoothly. “though i’m sure someone here paid handsomely to be told otherwise.”

she wasn’t surprised to get little from serafina. women like them rarely gave much away without reason. it wasn’t stinginess, not exactly. it was strategy. the kind of guarded calculation that came from being raised to smile, assess, and never reveal your full hand. irina knew the game. she’d grown up memorizing its rules. the question...friends, foes, ghosts, it brought a subtle shift behind her eyes. “oh, a few familiar faces,” she said lightly, letting the stem of her glass twirl between her fingers. “whether they fall into the category of friend or foe? depends on how generous i’m feeling tonight.” a pause. then, with a soft lilt of amusement, “as for ghosts from the past…well. i'm really not that interesting, serafina. sorry to disappoint. if you want to talk ghosts, you should probably talk to my brother. i'm sure he has a more compelling list of haunts." a cordial lie. but a charming one. and in rooms like this, charm was often the only currency that mattered.

[clementefuoco]

Her gaze tracked the blur of sequins and shrill laughter as the woman darted off, unapologetically cutting through the air like a bad scent in an otherwise perfectly curated room. Serafina didn’t flinch, but the lift of her brow said enough. “Unfortunately,” she murmured, voice satin-smooth with a hint of dry amusement, “yes. I think we’re in for a few more performances tonight. Must be the side effect of bad champagne.” There was something quietly fascinating about Levi. The way he stood a breath away from the usual chaos of the Pentavita, carved from the same stone but weathered in a different pattern. Less polished. More pragmatic. And in a room full of glossy masks and whispered schemes, it was... a relief.

She took a sip of her drink, letting it settle before responding. “I’ve grown accustomed to these events over the years,” Serafina said, her tone conversational but not careless. “My mother made it a point to have me attend them from the age of twelve. First by her side, then under the eyes of some chaperone or another. By sixteen, I was attending alone with instructions to ‘observe, report, and don’t embarrass us.’” She smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “It was all part of the training.” Her fingers traced the stem of her glass absently, a motion born of habit, of memory. “You learn a lot about people when you’re expected to be silent and decorative. Who talks too much. Who drinks too fast. Who arrives to be seen and who watches from the shadows. Eventually, you start to enjoy it for what it is. Not the glitter, but the game.” she paused for a moment, then added, "Though I do enjoy a good designer dress and well-placed make-up."

She glanced over at him then, the steel in her spine softened by a quiet kind of honesty. “I understand your hesitance. These rooms are loud in all the wrong ways. And your instincts about the money?” She gave a small, measured nod. “You're right not to trust it. There’s always another mask beneath the one we’re shown. This... charitable display is just smoke for something uglier.” The words sat between them like an open file. Nothing incriminating, but enough to say I see it too.

“Still,” she added with a shrug that made her gown shimmer, “some faces have to be here. Some titles require it. I'm sure those who count appreciate that you came.”

Her gaze met his again, calm and steady. “There’s value in being the one who isn’t like the others. Just don’t let them forget that.”

“cheers to that i suppose.” levi says as he glances at serfina. he was never much of someone that drank when he was younger. he’d have one or two glasses of something the most while he was out, but he was always someone that would rather be on his toes in any given situation than let alcohol alter his vision. “i might have something later, but perhaps i should not be seen drinking this early in the night when there are other pentavita members around.” he adds simply with a shrug as he glances towards the senators mixing and mingling with each other. he thought that they were doing a better job at getting to play the chess board tonight rather than any of the other people that were here because they had to be tonight. “the gala didn’t even say what this money was for, no one even knows whose family of this poor late mayor. It seems all too much like a mask for something bigger. i’m not trusting my money in that pit. my employees have worked too hard for that money to not be put towards a good cause that isn’t explicitly stated.” he says a bit turthfully with a shrug as he steps back as the woman in the sequin dress invades their space, his hands were deep in his pockets. the girl screeches about something else and runs off in the opposite direction. he blinks a bit as he glances over at serafina. “do you think people will be acting like that all night?” he asks, still flabbergasted by that outburst. It is like people forget how to move in a crowded room or in the city these days. One of his biggest pet peeves. “another reason why i don’t really care for these galas, but i suppose i should show my face here.” he says calmly as he glances over at serafina. “do you go to many of these things? It has been a moment since i’ve gone to a large gathering like this. I didn’t think it was customary to act barbaric like that.”

[clementefuoco]

Serafina didn’t look at her right away. Eyes straight ahead, her expression the picture of poise, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward with something that didn’t quite belong on a woman of her standing. “Making things obvious?” she repeated, tone syrupy-sweet with just a hint of danger. “Now, what on earth could you be referring to?”

There was always something heady about stolen indulgence, and with this one? It was getting harder to pretend she wasn’t looking forward to the chase as much as the catch. Her glass tilted lazily in her hand as she stepped just a fraction closer, careful to keep enough space for plausible deniability. “Hmm, perhaps a little obvious, yes” Serafina murmured, letting the stem of her wine glass twirl between her fingers, “but that might also be the thrill of it.”

They weren’t the first to test fate under crystal chandeliers and political tension. Events like these had always been playgrounds for the bold and the stupid. Cloakrooms. Lavatories. Private lounges behind locked doors and mirrored walls. It was all part of the unspoken rhythm of this world. The right glance, the wrong person, and the delicious danger in between.

Serafina leaned in just enough to let her breath graze Jolene’s ear, letting the words drip from her tongue like sin laced with silk. “You’re hardly the only one flirting tonight, darling. But you are the only one I’d consider to follow into a private room.” She straightened smoothly, a teasing glint in her eye as she raised her glass in kind. “To coincidence,” she said lightly, clinking her flute against Jolene’s with that signature, knife-edged smile. Serafina took a slow sip, composure intact—but behind her mask, her pulse was a traitor.

"what? am i perhaps making things a little too obvious?" jolene lowered her voice by a few notches, hoping nobody was taking their consevation in the wrong light. "don't worry, i'll try to be more careful, my apologizes," she added on, truthfullness in her tone. she knew that this event was filled with everyone from the rivaling groups, so she wasn't that stupid to say or do something to blow any sort of cover. but, chit chatting and some mild flirting wasn't going to harm anyone - as if she was the only person doing that right now.

if she wasn't careful, she might have just stumbled on her next words or let her cheeks flush in tone. something about serafina's presence simply had that effect on her, she couldn't fully explain it. clinking her glass back, she raised one of her brows. "guess we'll toast in hopes that this isn't the only time we'll see one another tonight, hmm?"

[clementefuoco]

“If only I hadn’t been making a desperate attempt at playing the normal girl when we were dating,” Serafina drawled, every word dipped in smoke and deflection, “I might’ve figured your fantasies leaned a little darker. Shame.” She shrugged, the motion fluid and almost dismissive. Then came the grin. Slow, deliberate. Beautifully polished but little warmth. “Using you for target practice might save me a pretty hefty therapy bill. New York rates are no joke, Day.” She tilted her head, eyes glittering like lit fuse wire. “I’ll have my assistant give you a call if I ever change my mind.” And yet, even as she said it, her voice lacked the venom it once held with ease.

It was hard to stay angry when he was just… himself. That easy, grounded presence she remembered. There was little heat in her words as the conversation continued, not anymore. Just the practiced ease of someone who knew how to wield her tongue like a blade. She wasn’t trying to hurt him—just keep her footing. Especially when he talked about his daughter. A small twist of something flickered in her chest, but it was faint, passing, easy to dismiss. She didn’t carry a grudge against a child, especially not when she saw the softness it carved into his voice. It wasn’t shocking that Damian had stepped into the role with that same silent confidence he used to throw around like a second skin. “It’s funny,” she said, this time quieter. “I always knew you were good at a lot of things… but a kindergarten teacher?” The laugh that followed was dry. “I guess even you have your hidden talents.”

She might’ve said more, might’ve drawn out another jab or two, but the room shifted. The room plunged into darkness. Unease crawled under her skin. Just as Damian’s arm came around her waist, firm and steady, his words cut short by the deafening crack of gunfire.

“Fuck.” It all came apart at the seams Screams rose. Glass shattered. People either ducked or bolted like deer in headlights. Damian’s arm had already been around her, and the moment the sound echoed she could feel his strong hand encircling her waist and pull her to the ground. She didn’t fight it, instead curled his body into him to brace for the landing. His frame shielding hers as they hit the floor. Except the floor was no longer only marble. It was jagged edges and broken glass and sharp pain blooming across her right side.

The sting of glass biting into her skin made her breath catch in her throat. Splintered shards sliced into her shoulder and forearm, heat flooding her nerves in violent bursts. Pain bloomed fast, jagged and raw. She curled slightly, body taut with the instinct to protect itself, she didn’t cry out. Her jaw clenched, dragging her bottom lip between her teeth, swallowing any sound before it could escape. She would not scream. She would not give them, whoever they were, the satisfaction nor put them both in any more danger.

Damian hovered above her, his voice low and seemingly laced with worry. "Fi... Fi, are you okay?" Her eyes flicked to his in the darkness, chest rising and falling a beat too fast as adrenaline surged. Her lips parted in a sharp breath, teeth clenching as she fought back a grimace. She could feel the glass digging in deeper the more she moved. Blood was already seeping through the fabric. “Yes…” she started, then faltered, trying to push herself up slightly with an arm that stung like hell. She hissed softly. “No…” Blood trickled warm down her arm. She could feel it pooling beneath her shoulder, could feel glass shifting with every breath. “I think I’m bleeding,” she whispered, breathless, the words clipped and careful. “But I’ll live.”

Despite the tremble in her voice, she made herself search for his eyes. “Are you okay, Day?” Outside the cover of their bodies, the chaos raged on. But here, in this fragile pocket of safety, it was just him and her. Because of course he’d thrown himself over her like some martyr. Of course he’d put himself in the line of fire, when he had so much more to lose. As infuriatingly on-brand as it felt, she desperately needed to hear that he was fine.

"Hmm, sounds kinky. How did you know I was into knife play." Damian quickly snapped back at her words, he was surprised she didn't throw any of the listed at him, he sure in hell deserved it. "Well you know me, I am always here to satisfy so if you do change your mind, just let me know. I'd love to make your dreams come true." It held more of a dim borderline sarcastic tone rather then light and flirty, but the slight smirk on his face spoke for itself, he wasn't hurt by her words, he expected nothing less. Serafina de Luca was not a women to stand down. She gave you what she thought you deserved and never held back.

The tribute played in the background but Ian payed no attention to it, he never cared for the man they called mayor, he was shit and everyone knew it. Damian knew Sophia might be a sore topic but he wasn't going to lie about his trip. Since the affair, Ian locked down and really focused on himself and his family, mainly Sophia. "She was already able to name all of those, she's a smart kid. We are working on cars now, but the home schooling was mainly the normal stuff, math, reading, and shit, you know, normal kindergarten stuff."

"Not many share my view point. I also feel like the best leaders are the ones who don't want it, or want power at all. They often have the best interests at heart. That's why our world is so shit, it's run by power hungry men." The blonde rolled his eyes, he was sick of this shit, all the way up to the government level. "Now that fucker, he was the worst." Damian said as he nodded over to the tv, talking about the Mayor.

It seemed like maybe Mayor DuPont was listening or something because a few beats later the screen was hijacked and a distorted voice took over. "And what's what I get for opening my mouth." Damian muttered to himself. Karma's a bitch. And when the lights blacked out, he didn't panic. He knew his people could take care of themselves. Sera gripped his arm and he found himself furrowing his brows as she stepped closer to him. Damian wrapped a protective arm around her, "No, not at all, we should mov-"

Damian's words were cut off by the deafening sound of gunshots. "Fuck." Damian cursed as he grabbed around Serafina's smaller frame and pulled her to the ground. He shielded her with his body as he listened for more gunshots but none seemed to come. "Fi... Fi, are you okay?"

[clementefuoco]

Serafina knew better than to waste breath discussing dead men. Or the half-dead ones who lingered in suits tailored more for ego than body, for the matter. Art, now that was a language Irina understood. And truthfully, she did dabble a bit herself at times as well. Though women had slowly begun to claim more power over the years, the city’s most coveted posts still belonged to men who knew other men. It was old blood in old rooms, exchanging old favors. But in the underworld, at least, the game was simpler: power belonged to those who played smart and hit harder when it counted.

She allowed Irina to take her in, meeting the curator’s slow assessment with a calm, practiced gaze. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth when the blonde mentioned she might have something of interest. Of course she did. There were plenty of galleries in this city desperate to sell, but Serafina preferred to feed business into hands that already moved in rhythm with the greater cause. “I like art with an undeniable presence,” she mused, swirling the wine in her glass, watching the rich red catch the light before taking a slow sip. “We should arrange a meeting sometime next week, assuming the piece is currently in your possession. I’d like to see it for myself. Even if you decide not to part with it, the way you describe it… it sounds like the perfect detox from this-” she gestured vaguely around the ballroom, lips curving wryly, “unfortunate aesthetic.” A breath of a laugh followed. “When will people learn that slapping marble on every surface doesn’t elevate style? It just makes the place echo with bad taste.”

When Irina asked about interesting conversations, Serafina’s eyes returned to her. She raised a brow, just slightly. Assessing, measuring, as if weighing whether or not the woman across from her had earned a peek behind the curtain. Alignment wasn’t the same as loyalty, after all. “Nothing in particular yet,” she said, tone measured, silk over steel. “But the night’s still young. With all the players in this city, aboveground and below, I’d be shocked if something didn’t happen. And if it doesn’t, I’ll be very disappointed.” Her gaze swept over the crowd again, sharp and deliberate, her polished smile never quite fading. “And you?” she asked, eyes flicking back to Irina with interest. “Spot any potential buyers? Friends? Foes? Or perhaps some ghosts from your past you’d prefer to avoid?”

irina’s lips twitched—more acknowledgment than amusement—as she lifted her glass, letting the stem rest between her fingers like an accessory rather than a drink. “ghosts in suits,” she echoed, “how very… on-brand for tonight. half the room looks embalmed.” the last word lingered, low and deliberate. it felt like a tomb. “‘gone too soon, remembered always’ is kind,” she murmured. “i imagine the real drafts are more concerned with portfolio reallocation and public optics.” still, the line fit. vague and poetic. two adjectives that followed her like perfume.

her eyes returned to serafina, this time with something closer to curiosity. the kind she didn’t show often. what was it like—to have an office with walls worth curating? to sit on a council where words moved money, men, and borders? to strike fear into the hearts of the uninvited and call it structure? irina studied her, measured and quiet, something almost like admiration tucked beneath the polish. “i might have something,” she said finally, voice cool with a glint underneath. “a piece that never sits quite right on any wall. red and oil-thick. the sort of thing that stares back. it watches. makes people nervous.” a small pause. then, lighter, almost coaxing—“collectors ask. i’ve never said yes.” she tilted her head, eyes narrowing with a hint of a smile. “maybe i will. for you.”

she let it hang, then added—casual, almost offhand, "had any… interesting conversations tonight?” fishing? maybe. small talk? possibly. with irina, it was always both. no one handed her secrets. she had to find the cracks and slip through them herself.

[clementefuoco]

“I took you for someone who’d rather participate than watch from the sidelines,” Serafina mused, smoke curling from her lips like silk-spun sin. Her eyes didn’t leave the crowd beyond the glass, glittering and chaotic under flickering lights. “But alas, a woman can make an honest mistake.” Her tone was featherlight, but it didn’t quite hide the blade beneath. Another drag. Another silent dare. “Still,” she continued, “you’re not wrong. It’s always the ones who wait… who bide their time. The true danger wears patience like cologne; sharp, intoxicating, and guaranteed to stain.”

She felt him before she saw him—his presence slipping into her space like a shadow that had learned how to speak. Close enough to be noticed. Close enough to be dangerous. Yet not close enough to touch. She let herself look, truly look, letting her gaze trace the cut of his jaw, the glint of mischief forged in something colder. The smug bastard was painfully handsome, she had to give him that. The sort of man who knew exactly how many hearts he’d broken and kept a tally like trophies, along with the hearts cut out in malice. She casually shifted, unfazed when their eyes locked. The silence stretched. Tightened. Tension wrapped itself around them like a noose laced in silk and secrets.

“You chose the reference, darling,” she said finally, voice dipped in velvet, eyes unreadable. “But I do have to disagree with you on one small matter.” Her lips curved, not quite a smile, not quite a threat. “No one needs a mortal god. They’re far too prone to martyrdom… and, as we’ve now seen, death.” Her eyes drifted toward the crowd again, watching the distant flicker of a slideshow meant to honor the fallen. It played like a eulogy, dressed in glitter and hypocrisy. “Our dearly departed mayor?” she scoffed. “A puppet. Poorly strung and already forgotten. If anyone wants to play god in this city, they’d better prove they can bleed… and survive it.” When her gaze dropped to the matchbook he offered, black and crimson with a symbol she knew far too well, Serafina let the weight of the moment settle in her hand as he tucked it into her glass. “You could have just asked me for a cigarette” she hummed, tone cool and casual. “Or are you aiming to set something else alight for the sake of entertainment?”

The wind tugged at her hair as she flicked the last of her cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the sharp heel of her shoe. “Now you've only just ruined a perfectly good vintage,” she sighed, head tilting, voice dipped in something between exasperation and intrigue. “Now that is what I call a true waste.”

A pause. A pivot. Something darker curling at the edges of her smile. “What are we auditioning for, Alexie?” she asked, voice low and dangerous. “You want to be the dark Romeo tonight? All charm and ruin, promising poetry with a dagger behind your back?” She stepped in, just enough to let the distance burn. “Careful now. You might find a Juliet who already knows how to wield the blade.”

The grin that curved along Alexie’s mouth was slow and venom-slick—never loud, never rushed. Just enough to show he knew exactly who he was dealing with.

“You know,” he murmured, lifting the flask just under his nose before sipping, “for someone who always claimed to hate theatrics… you do love your little soliloquies.”

The moonlight cut sharp across his cheekbones, catching the glint of the silver flask as he lowered it again, eyes never leaving hers. The tension between them coiled like a loaded spring. He let it linger, let it stretch, until silence itself felt like foreplay.

“I wasn’t hiding, Serafina.” His tone was soft, but there was steel beneath it. “I was watching. Which is far more dangerous, if you remember.”

A beat passed.

“Besides,” he added, eyes glittering now with something too knowing to be kind, “you know better than most that the sharpest edges don't announce themselves at the door. They arrive late. Dressed in black. ”

He took a step closer—not close enough to touch, but close enough to disturb the air between them. The kind of proximity that dared her to call it intimacy. Or a threat.

“Olympus?” he echoed, letting the word curl in his mouth like ash. “Olympus was always a lie. Built on borrowed names and bankrupt ideals. Marble’s just limestone that got ideas above its station. What this city needs—what it’s always needed—is a god who remembers how to bleed. And how to make others do it for him.”

His gaze slid from her cigarette to her lips, but his smirk never faltered.

“And as for the dearly departed,” he continued, voice lowering like a prayer you don’t dare say aloud, “let’s just say… some gods don’t die. They get replaced.”

He reached into his jacket, not for a weapon—yet—but for a single black matchbook, flicking it open with elegant ease. Inside, a crimson wax seal. The mark of Nocturne.

“Tonight,” he said, tucking it into her wine glass hand like a token—or a warning, “we aren’t mourning. We’re auditioning.”

[clementefuoco]

Sera lifted a brow, an amused smile curving her lips as she caught Giselle’s suggestion. Discreet stabbing rarely worked outside the silver screen, but the thrill of drama dressed in elegance? That had its own undeniable allure. “Is there someone I should be watching?” she asked, voice smooth like velvet with a hint of mischief. “A name you’d like erased from this party, from this very perfect vantage point? I hadn’t planned on bloodshed tonight… but for you, I might consider changing my mind.” Her gaze swept the room like a well-placed blade, observant and deliberate, before drifting back to Giselle with a softness most rarely earned.

“I wasn’t exactly planning to get my hands dirty,” she added, glancing down as she smoothed her palms over the rich emerald fabric of her gown. “This is an Elie Saab, and blood…” she sighed, “Well, even the best dry cleaner can only perform so many miracles.” A graceful shrug lifted her shoulders, the shimmer of indifference briefly giving way to something quieter. Something warmer. “But you’re right. If the night demands something less... political,” she said, voice dipping into something close to affection, “I suppose we’ll just have to rise to the occasion and take a liar out of the game”

Then, with a subtle tilt of her head, her eyes searched the room again, this time more sharply. “Where are your siblings now?” she asked, the smile fading into something more serious. “Do we need to find a better vantage point to keep a closer eye on them?”

Glancing over at the disgusting man, Giselle couldn't help but laugh. He could have been soaking his suit, which was certainly a loaner, for a plethora of reasons, so who were they to unfairly judge him? "To be fair, this could be a great vantage point. Most people will swing by here, giving you a chance to stare them down or discreetly stab them. Damn, maybe I should've thought of this myself." She teased, though she wasn't one for planning much, choosing to just fly off the handle should anyone tempt her to.

Grabbing herself one of the treats, she wasn't surprised that Sera was just an observer tonight, or for now. They didn't know what would unfold tonight, or who could be in harm's way, so maybe that was the right move — not that she would do the same. "You're not being paranoid. This Veil person put us all in a version of the Pretty Little Liars series, so you're right to be on edge. I'm honestly here just to see what crap they pull tonight, and to be sure they don't come for my siblings. I know we should all be on our best behavior tonight, but I'm prepared to get violent if I have to." She shrugged. "Don't tell me you're not hoping to get your hands dirty tonight too?"

[clementefuoco]

A huff of a laugh slipped from her lips before she could catch it. Not one of bitterness, but reluctant amusement, like the flicker of a flame refusing to die even after a storm had passed. Her initial anger, the righteous fury she’d kept alive like a cherished heirloom, began to simmer instead of boil. Damian had that effect, always had. The infuriating talent of remaining unbothered by her temper, of tugging her back down to calm waters with nothing more than a steady presence and that maddeningly warm smile. “A plate, glasses, a knife…” she mused, swirling the wine in her glass like she wasn’t already halfway tempted to pour it over his head just for revenge's sake. “My dreams tended to get quite colorful in the beginning. Who’s to say I won’t change my mind tonight? The night is still young.” There was more humor to her voice now, even if her eyes still held an edge of something sharp. It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it wasn’t hate either.

Her attention snagged briefly, drawn to the screen across the room, where stale images of the mayor played in tribute. The man’s life condensed into grainy clips and hollow applause. It didn’t hold her attention for long. Nothing about him ever had. - She turned back to Damian just as he mentioned his daughter, and the smile she wore faltered, thin as paper, gone in a blink. Right. One half of the secret that broke her. Serafina blinked slowly, pressing her shoulders back until her posture fell into something pristine again, like a sculpture restored after a crack. Poised. Indifferent. “I’m sure it’s quite the adventure for a young girl,” she replied evenly, voice not cold but distant, like she was watching the scene from far away. “And what did you teach her? Can she now name every single part of a motorcycle engine?” It was meant to be a joke, and it even sounded like one, but it didn’t take much to hear the strain beneath it. Talking about his child like it was normal hurt more than she wanted to admit. So she sipped her wine slowly, savoring the burn.

A humorless chuckle slipped free when he offered his thoughts on power. “I admire your views, Day, but I think hardly anyone here tonight would agree. Even the ones who claim to fight for what’s righteous are just dressing up greed in virtue’s clothing.” She parted her lips to answer his next question, to fill in the blank spaces of what she’d been up to all these years. But the ballroom fell silent.

A sharp cut. Static. Then a voice—distorted, broken, too loud. Mayor DuPont. Fragments flickered across the screen in rapid succession. His voice, pieced together like a ransom note from the dead, rose to a crescendo.

“You are all at fault, and you will all pay. Let chaos begin!”

The final word felt like a roar that shook the room. And then—darkness.

“Accidenti." she cursed under her breath as the lights cut off. Gasps filled the air. The shift in the crowd was palpable, the air turning thick with unease. Somewhere in the darkness, glass shattered and a few panicked screams rang out. Instinctively, Serafina reached out, her hand finding Damian’s arm exactly where she knew it would be. The contact was immediate and grounding. A warmth, a steady presence she needed.Her fingers curled around the fabric of his sleeve. Slowly, She licked her lips. A nervous habit as she assessed the situation in the dark and leaned in close enough that her words barely carried over the rising panic.

"Not good, is it?” she murmured, voice a shadow of its earlier confidence. Something soft trembled underneath. Only he could hear it.

Day. The nickname reserved only for her. No one else called him that; Ian was their normal go-to. "I'm sure you thought about chucking a plate at my head a time or two. I'm surprised you never went through with it." It was his attempt at some light-hearted banter to ease the tension between them. He hated that he hurt her, dragged her down in his mess, but for a moment there, she was the light when he didn't see one anymore. But it was like god punished him for it because soon after he lost her, he lost his wife as well, leaving him alone to fend for himself.

"It was an adventure, Soph thought it was fun at least, she was excited to get to explore around and do some homeschooling for a while." It felt weird bringing up his daughter because at the time of their union, he kept her a secret from Serafina. But she was right, part of him took the trip as a punishment to himself, stepping down from his title and all. Because he missed what was going on, right under his nose, and it got people he cared about hurt. It caused him to doubt himself and his skills.

"Power is only good when you do something useful with it." Damian was never power hungry, climbing the ladder just because. He did it because he thought he could do good for the club, and when that seemed to not be happening, he did what he needed to. "What can I say, I live to surprise you." He shrugged with a weak smile. What she said hurt, but it was true. He only gave her half truths, how could she have know him, the real him? "Yeah, uh. I'm still sorry about that... about everything. It wasn't fair to you," he gave her a nod. "It's good to see you, too. Still looking beautiful as always."

"Have you been well? Been up to anything interesting?" He asked in a lame attempt to keep the conversation going. He figured it was open ended enough where she could give a quick response and call the conversation quits.

[clementefuoco]

“Not a single drop?” she echoed, voice lilting with soft surprise, though the glimmer in her eyes said she already knew the answer. “Usually, I have the sort of effect that makes people desperate for a few more glasses just to survive my company.” The jest was quiet, almost intimate, the kind of sharp-edged remark smoothed over by a rare softness. The curve of her lips gentled, a subtle fracture in the porcelain of her usual facade. Most guests were offered thorns dressed as smiles. But Levi -familiar, steady, unreadable in all the right ways, was given a version of her that wasn’t quite so manufactured. If that part of her still existed. “In full honesty,” she went on, gaze drifting back toward the churning crowd, “I don’t know how you brave a room like this without at least a few sips of something strong. I know I couldn’t.”

Her eyes lingered on the pockets of movement in the ballroom, picking out familiar figures from the blur. The ones who stood just a little too still, who smiled just a little too wide. The ones who were being watched—and the ones who knew it. “Darling,” she murmured, voice laced with dark amusement, “the king is dead. Long live the king. The only ones shedding real tears are his family. And I’m not entirely convinced even they feel the loss. No one mourns power. Not when they’re already sharpening their blades for the vacuum it leaves behind.” She followed his gaze to the woman in the red sequin gown, lips curving with the barest trace of a smirk. Of course. That dress had costume rental written all over it. Intentional, no doubt. “Or they’re too busy catching the attention of whoever they think might rise next. They never choose the right horse, though. Too blinded by their own glittering fantasies.”

Levi’s admission that this wasn’t his scene made her smile deepen, just a touch more genuine than before. She appreciated that about him—he didn’t pretend. Didn’t bother wrapping honesty in niceties. “Better you don’t donate,” she said lightly, tone dipped in honey while her eyes told a sharper story. “They photograph anyone foolish enough to give, then tack their portraits to God-knows-what. I’d wager someone at city council is clearing wall space as we speak, dreaming of their own little hall of saints.” Her voice was warm, teasing even, but the arch of her brow and the bite behind the words gave her away. Always, there was something deeper threaded beneath her charm. A warning in silk.

“‘Enjoy is a stretch,” she admitted, swirling the last of her drink in her glass. “These nights serve a purpose. Exposure therapy is what did the trick for me, I think. Start them young and eventually you don’t flinch" She finished her wine in one slow sip, the motion elegant, deliberate. Then, with catlike ease, she licked a drop of wine from the corner of her mouth before lifting two fingers to beckon a passing waiter. Her voice, when she spoke again, was almost a purr. “But this?” she said, gesturing toward her empty glass. “This is absolutely necessary.”

levi stands next to his companion as he watches a few passerbys take the champagne and his gaze rests on hers. “i don’t think i will be participating in the alcohol at this venue. i appreciate the recommendations though.” he says giving her a soft smile. though he really should have a glass of something in his hand. maybe it would keep him from feeling so out of place and sticking out like a sore thumb. “it seems like everyone has forgotten what the gala is actually for.” he says a bit truthfully as his gaze gets distracted by a woman in a ballgown that has red sequins like she was trying to be a red disco ball. though his gaze doesn’t linger on her too long as serafina continues to speak. he listens to her talk as he leans his back against the wall. He stands there, with his hands resting behind his back “it is not, no.” he is not going to sugar coat how he feels about these events. it would just be a waste of time if he did. “I don’t care for any of this, i was going to donate money, but i don’t think the mayor’s memorial is a good investment, i am, however, appreciating the architecture cipriani 25 broadway has.” he says honestly. “do you enjoy these galas?” he asks, his eyes studying her carefully. she looked stunning underneath the crystalized chandeliers, he could admit that. she looked like she was just as powerful as some of these senators in the room

[clementefuoco]

Serafina tilted her head slightly, the ghost of a smile playing at her lips as Jolene reached for her glass. Their fingers brushed, an accident that didn’t feel like one, and Serafina didn’t move away. “Trouble?” she echoed, voice silk-smooth and low. “Darling, I am the trouble. And last time I remembered, so were you." She let that linger for a beat, her eyes locked with Jolene’s, dark lashes lowering just enough to turn the glance into something heavier. Around them, laughter floated through the ballroom, the soft clink of crystal glasses and murmured deals echoing like background noise.

“You, on the other hand,” she murmured, reaching to brush a stray strand of hair from Jolene’s shoulder with a touch too familiar for enemies, and far too careful for friends, “should be more careful with how you look at me. Someone might start asking questions.”

Still, she leaned in, just slightly. Just enough that her perfume might cling to Jolene’s memory long after they parted. “Thank you for the complement though. It's always nice to hear it from your lips" Her gaze dipped briefly, taking the other in in with the kind of quiet appreciation that wasn’t supposed to exist between people on opposite sides of the city’s cold war. Serafina straightened again, effortless grace stitched into every motion, her expression returning to something more neutral on the surface. Effortlessly she clinked her glass gently against Jolene’s. "What are we toasting to tonight? Your pick."

"i can be for the right person, or the ocassion," jolene corrected serafina, sending a flirtaous glance in her direction. she was trying to be careful of course, not to make a scene or have someone think something was out of the ordinary. considering it was a rather packed event, they didn't have too much to worry about it. it wasn't illegal to mingle tonight anyways, right?

"you look rather stunning youself," she replies, smirking as she reached for the glass from the other. "hope you haven't gotten into too much trouble tonight, huh?"

[clementefuoco]

[clementefuoco]

Serafina laughed, but it wasn’t a sound meant for amusement. It was hollow—sharp around the edges. “You’re lucky, Day. Most men don’t get verbal warnings. They get a plate flung at their heads, or worse...” she murmured, eyes glittering beneath the chandelier’s scattered light. Unfortunately her heart had not truly forgotten how she liked him once. She just prayed it didn’t show. Her fingers tightened around the clutch in her hand, the only betrayal of her composure.

Shifting position, she folded her arms across her chest in a move that was too casual to be careless. In truth, she felt like a steel beam beneath the silk, rigid, bolted down by effort. It took everything not to crumble just a little at the familiarity of his voice, that maddening calm he wore. As if time hadn’t carved a canyon between them. As if her absence had been a footnote instead of a full chapter. As if he wasn’t still a pleasant sight in the worst, most unforgivable way. Serafina tilted her head, the faintest echo of a smile pulling at her lips. “Well,” she said, tone light, “you always did have a talent for making an exit sound like an adventure.” Her eyes lingered on his face just a breath before drifting past him, to the hum of laughter and polished glass, the low thrum of secrets hanging beneath the surface of the evening. “Jersey, Pennsylvania… It sounds like you’ve been collecting miles the way some men collect penance.” There was no accusation in her voice, none that could be named, anyway, but something shimmered beneath the surface. A flicker. A shadow.

She turned her gaze back to him, thoughtful. “Stepping down, though. All that power just... handed over? Unexpected.” A soft laugh, almost fond. Almost. “I would say very few would choose to leave power and hit the road. Once again, you manage to surprise me.” Her hand lifted to smooth a strand of hair behind her ear, effortless, graceful. “It’s funny I used to think I knew you better than most,” she added, more quietly now. “But I suppose that’s the trouble with stories told in half-light. You only see what you're allowed to.” She met his eyes then, calm and unflinching. “Still… I guess it’s good to see you. You wear the years well.”

It was wrong for him to let his touch linger on his arm, but the feel of her skin was the only reminder that this was real and actually happening. He held a lot of regrets when it came to how things had happened between them. When he felt Bella pulling away after she tried relentlessly to reconnect, he just felt lost and unloved. He knew what he did was wrong, but Bella leaving him really set it in for him that he was right in trying to move on.

"Well then, good." He replied back awkwardly, not really knowing what to say. He deserved her anger and hostility. "I see you haven't changed much." He said as he looked at her, "That snide tongue still throwing words around in hopes of packing a punch." He could take her verbal sparring, though; she couldn't say anything worse than he had already said for himself. "As for looking older, that is what happens when you age, you look older too, it's just natural."

"Here we are." He repeated after her as he gave a small shake of his head, "I went away for a couple of months and did some traveling for work, upstate New Jersey and PA, nothing serious. It was needed." he was doing good work in his time away and it was good for Soph to get to explore a bit more than she was use too. "If by stepping down means climbing, then yeah, you are right, but I'm not the VP anymore. I handed my title over when I left."

[clementefuoco]

A faint glint flickered in her eye at the mention of her mother. A small, sharp thing, like the flash of a blade just before it meets skin. But Serafina only reached for her glass again, swirling its contents as though the burgundy held all the answers. She didn’t look at him right away, not until her smile was in place: soft at the edges, edged like the hard wood of a  chessboard.

“She’s rather selective with her regrets these days,” she said lightly, almost fondly, like she wasn’t speaking of the woman who’d once made entire rooms of Italian mafia go silent with a glance. “But yes. Francesca sends her warmest disapproval, tied with a silk ribbon.” Her gaze met Aleksey’s then, feintly twinkling like the chandeliers above their heads. Glittering of approval, defiance, and the unspoken truth of the role she played in crowning him.

There was reverence in the way she regarded him, not the cloying kind, but the respectful deference owed to the man at the top. “But I would say the place on the highest seat suits you well, even if my mother disagrees” she offered, voice quiet but certain. “Doesn’t creak when you sit in it. That’s rarer than it should be.” Her tone shifted then, ever so slightly, a private note slipped beneath the conversation. “What of tonight? Will it pass over smoothly or are there people lurking in the shadows, you think? There are many important players on a very small board…”

old money shimmer, nothing nouveau about the way people moved or held their glass. the air smelled like polished stone and ambition, expensive perfume hung too thick near the stairwell, and there was always someone adjusting a cuff, a smile, a story. sey moved through it like he belonged—and he did—but he never let the belonging dull his awareness.

he recognized the stillness in sera's posture, not passive, practiced, like a dancer between steps, poised. he stepped into her periphery. “good to know,” he hummed, eyes scanning the tray that passed behind him before landing on her. he went for the wine. his smile curved, restrained but easy. he liked her. or at least, liked the way she played her role. “your mother sends her regrets?” he asked, casual, as it didn’t matter either way. 

[clementefuoco]

Serafina didn’t look up at first, just let the light from the chandelier shimmer in the crimson swirl of her wineglass. Her expression was poised, practiced, a mask carved from bone-deep elegance and long years of wariness. But then, slowly, she turned, her mouth curving. Not into one of her usual calculated smiles, but something gentler. Real.

“Giselle,” she murmured, voice smooth and touched faintly with relief. “If I were planning an attack, don’t you think I’d choose a better vantage point than next to the petit fours and a sommelier who can’t stop sweating?” Her eyes flicked briefly toward the trembling man behind the bar before returning to Giselle, amusement softening her features.

She tilted her head, taking in her friend with a feline-like curiosity. “No,” she said at last, quiet enough to pass beneath the murmur of the crowd. “Tonight, I’m just… watching the strings. And the hands that pull them.” A pause, then a dry little laugh. “I’m starting to believe paranoia is an inherited trait, but I seriously doubt tonight is going to go over smoothly. So perhaps the trait is a necessary one.” A beat passed, one of those rare moments where the weight of things slipped off her shoulders, just for a second. “I’m very glad you chose to come”

Normally, this sort of thing would have caused quite the excitement to bubble inside of her, but given the circumstances, Giselle was iffy on this whole thing. Someone executing the mayor was already bad enough, but then enclosing them all in a venue, albeit beautifully decorated, seemed like asking for someone else to be taken out. Or worse, for them all to be lined up like dolls and toyed with, or whatever else this freak would think to do to them. But never one to be a sitting duck, she was trying to mingle while keeping her eyes peeled, which was how she spotted her friend hovering over the drink table. Walking over, she only paused when Serafina gave out the disclaimer, opting for the wine instead. "Is that why you're standing over here observing the crowd?" She questioned as she sipped on her wine. "Or is this the part where you tell me that you're actually planning something and this is just the spot where you're going to make your attack?"

[clementefuoco]

Serafina’s smile didn’t falter, sharp, serene, immaculately polite, but something behind her eyes flickered. “Charming, as ever,” she replied coolly, swirling the wine in her glass before taking a slow sip. Her posture remained composed, but one heel tapped ever so faintly beneath her gown, barely perceptible unless you were looking for it. She tilted her head slightly, studying him like he were a misbehaving detail in a carefully composed painting. “Though I suppose bluntness is a kind of flavor. One best taken in small doses.”

For a heartbeat, she let the air hang still, letting the weight of her poise do the talking before she leaned in just enough that the words were for him alone, laced in civility but loaded with quiet steel. “I know you can hardly help yourself, but do try not to make a nuisance of yourself tonight, Neo. It’s a delicate room—and I’d hate for anyone to mistake recklessness, even if tinged with some alcohol, for rebellion.”

Then, with a gentle smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, she straightened, lifting her glass slightly in mock toast. “and even if you do not like my suggestions, I am sure there is plenty here more to your liking that does taste a little more refined than storms and wreckage.”

Neo had made quick work of getting a buzz going, slamming back whiskey neat and shots like it could save his life. His life lately had been taking a toll on his mind, spending sleepless nights worrying about Paisley and how to handle Destinee. Now that he had met his son, he knew he couldn't let him go again, and it was a dangerous game he was playing.

Neo did not think of the de Luca's as family; every day he lived in that house was a nightmare on crack. It seemed his father did the most to hurt him in more ways than one. It was a feeling he passed on to his siblings, never building too much of a relationship with them. It was a house divided, and the twins were the odd ones out.

"Hard pass, I prefer something stronger," Neo said blandly to his sister. Serafina was a little older, being about fifteen when the twins moved in. "Not sure I'd trust your sense of taste or flavor anyway."

[clementefuoco]

Serafina smiled when she spotted a familiar face near the drinks table. Slow, sharp, and private, like the glint of a secret passed between shadows. Her fingers cradled the glass of wine like it was a keepsake, and she didn’t look over right away. She didn’t have to. She’d felt the shift in the air the moment Jolene entered her orbit. “I didn’t take you for the trusting type,” Serafina murmured, voice velvet-soft, laced with amusement. Then, finally, she turned. Her eyes found Jolene’s, and for a beat too long, they didn’t look away. “Tempranillo is one I do quite enjoy. Smooth, rich, a little too bold for the stuffy, overly polite company,” she said, tilting the glass in her hand. “Seems fitting.”

The candlelight caught in the dark gaze in hazel eyes, in the knowing lift of her brow. Her gaze dipped, not to leer, never that, but to remember. The flash of bare skin in a bathroom mirror. The way Jolene had whispered her name like it was a sin and a salvation in one breath. “You look beautifully out of place tonight” Serafina said, tone dipped in something warmer. There were people nearby. The wrong people. And still, she let her fingers brush lightly, deliberately, against Jolene’s wrist as she reached for a second glass. A ghost of a touch. Nothing more than a whisper of heat.

“To new tastes,” she said, offering the drink with a tilt of her head and a barely-there smirk. “And old habits that die hard.”

after touching up her makeup in the nearby restroom, jolene was ready for another round of refreshments. truthfully, this was far from her normal scene. the girl was typically found at a loud club or a seedy bar, not at some super fancy gala like this one. while it was a nice change of scenery, it was also feeling like a complete fish out of water. at least there was some comfort knowing that she might not be the only one who might feel this way, needing more liquid courage to make the enviorment seem more familar.

heeled boots clink on the floor as she makes her way towards the drink table, spotting serafina in the near distance. she looked stunning in her gown, making jo stop in her tracks for a moment to admire her beauty. "what kind do you recommend? i feel like i can trust what you're drinking," she spoke.