igagliano

[igagliano]

Isabella chalks it up to luck that she’s not yet seen Tomas Sabello since news of her involvement with his wife broke. Every gossip magazine in Verona and beyond hungrily lapped at the story, propelling it forward; il Giornale, however, remained entrenched in mafia news, save from a little article written by a fledgling reporter on a nondescript page explaining that the star-studded actor and his socialite wife were headed towards divorce. Here, she attends a wedding of a coworker--perhaps the first event in months that she’s attended that didn’t have the claws of the Capulets or the Montagues dug deep into attendees--and she turns, a laugh escaping red-lacquered lips as she bumps into someone. “Perdón, I--” Her voice falters when she looks up from their jostled flute of champagne to come face to face with Tomas Sabello. 

It seems as though her luck has run dry.

Outside, the actor commands and Izzy hesitates, torn. Who is he to demand their movement, to address them so crassly? But then, he is in every right to order that they give him attention; after all, she’d given so much to his wife, had she not? She runs her tongue across her teeth, weighing her options; he leaves them no choice, as his first demand is followed with the threat of a man who has already lost his everything. The Gagliano woman downs the rest of her champagne, places it on the tray of a passing waiter, and strides past him and towards the exit. 

“Signore Sabello,” she greets, turning to face him once they’ve reached the parking lot. “Are you a guest of the bride or groom? I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

🎬 Troilus & Imogen, Scene II

Date: August 1st.  Time: Late evening. Place: Wedding Reception, Neutral Territory.  Availability: Closed to @igagliano​​​​

When a hapless run-in at a wedding reception brings him face-to-face with Isabella Gagliano, nearly two months after discovering they’d been the homewrecking party in his marriage, Tomas begins to understand the expression God has a sense of humor. Except it isn’t a good one, he thinks, stopping abruptly in his tracks at the sight of them. They’ve seen him too, and he thinks there’s something like dread that flashes briefly across their features as they slow to a halt, eyeing him warily. It’s too late to pretend otherwise — and Tomas has no reason to spare them the present discomfort after they’d played such a starring role in wrecking his marriage. 

… His happiness.

“Outside.” A single word drops off the actor’s tongue as he ticks his head towards the nearest exit. It leads towards the parking lot, and it’s the only shred of mercy he’s willing to offer the journalist in front of him. Their reputation’s already taken a hit amidst the tabloids linking them to Celeste; he very much doubts they’d want for it to be sullied any further with a semi-public blowout amidst the other guests. Tomas on his part, can’t find it in himself to care. The breakdown of the celebrity’s marriage has already been covered in everything from the most respectable newspapers in Italy — to the trashiest, most sensational tabloids. A little more fodder for the canon won’t change his lot much if Isabella refuses his offer of discretion. 

“… Or we can do this right here. Your choice, Isabella. I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

[igagliano]

BRITTANY O’GRADY as BESS KING in LITTLE VOICE  

[igagliano]

“To hold a pen is to be at war.”

— Voltaire, Oeuvres complètes de Voltaire: Correspondance

[igagliano]

  REGAN.

“I know nothing more than acquaintances,” Regina replies monotonously. It was almost true, though she didn’t care for the technicalities one could accuse her with. Yes, she knew family, and yes, she knew lovers, but Regina cared for them no more than she felt for any stranger she encountered. Everyone was the same in her mind, fleeting spirits waiting to leave their mortal vessels. Some were useful to her, and others, like Brielle, had become more of a nuisance the longer time went on. However, she did not care to unpack all of that, especially not in front of some strange person who asked for her time when she really would rather be licking her wounds in the comfort of her own home.

But Isabella pushes on, and obviously so, now. Digging would get them nowhere when she was already about to strike bedrock. “It’s unimportant,” she answered, because in her mind, it was. Brielle didn’t matter. Regina didn’t even consider herself to matter so much. A question tickles the back of her mind. She scratches the itch and asks, “Why do you care?” Regina certainly didn’t, and she was the one who had been attacked. Yet Isabella insisted on gaining this information when they were not clearly attached to the situation. Perhaps they wished to call the police, but Regina didn’t imagine such things necessary. “This city makes it impossible to avoid,” she shrugged.

“There is nothing you can do and no one you can call. I plan on returning home and feeding my cat and that is all of my night.” Regina lists such plans as if she hadn’t been involved in a brutal fight only minutes prior, as if her hand didn’t rest upon her torso in an attempt to comfort her aching rib. 

Why do they care? It takes a great deal of self-control not to let their eyes roll in annoyance and an even greater deal to keep their whip-quick tongue in check before they said something they would regret. “You know, it’s not odd for me to care,” the journalist pushes back, lips pursing. “It would be more odd if I turned a blind eye to it all. What kind of Veronesi would I be if I let such things occur without trying to fix it?” A brow arches and a soundless sentiment passes between them: I’m not like you, it says, I value life no matter which king you’ve decided to sign your soul away to.

“Regina, please—” they say, exasperation coating their words as their gentle impatience gets the best of them, “—I want to help you. I can’t do that if you keep giving me such sorry excuses for responses.” But they quickly realize that Regina is as giving as the greediest of dragons, which is to say she keeps her cards as close to her chest as humanly possible and is most certainly not giving. Izzy sighs, brown hues scanning the area around them; most have scattered, save for a few soldati they notice prowling around the cafe, and they feel the hairs involuntarily rise along their neck.

It’s a gamble to reveal that they know more than initially let on, but they’re near-desperate for something that could give them a lead on a story—an explanation as to why and how the Montagues managed to pull off the concerted strikes of multiple Capulet-aligned places at once, a hint in regards to the near-certain revenge that will be exacted against the Montagues when their enemies decide the time is right.

“I’m not sure how Verona will take to the new owners of their beloved, silver-spooned cafe,” Isabella says in an attempt to draw something more from the less-than-talkative Capulet.

[igagliano]

marlahey​:

Okay. Okay.  LITTLE VOICE (2020–) | 1.08 Sea Change

[igagliano]

vcdette​:

💖✨🌾

[igagliano]

[igagliano]

 HERO.

.

Isabella Gagliano sees this as idle chatter, like something to be shared over a cup of steaming hot tea, and Heloise cannot help but be consumed by their sheer audaciousness, the way their eyes spark with such intensity when they speak, and it pierces her, so much so that she almost feels the need to look away. She doesn’t. Instead, she lessens distance between the two and studies the crease between Isabella’s brows, the slight curve of their lips, the structure of their cheeks, and Heloise chews on the inside of her own as she exhales, a frenzy of emotions bleeding from her lungs. “Tomas and the word trouble don’t belong in the same sentence.” She bites back with pretty words as her heart skips a beat. It flutters incessantly, takes flight like the wings of a feathered dove, and she wants to scream, she wants to pick apart Isabella’s words and tear them asunder.  “You don’t know him.” Heloise hardly knows him herself, but she decides to overlook this specific point.

Heloise takes another sip, her muscles loosening, warmth spreading throughout her belly. The two of them entangle themselves in a waltz of sorts, and just when Heloise thinks she has the upper-hand, Isabella takes her hand and sweeps her off her feet. Tell me I’m wrong then, cara mia. “You’re wrong.” The words sound inadequate on her tongue, almost like she doesn’t quite believe them herself. Isabella begins to tell her what she thinks she deserves, and her heart sings like an orchestra of angels, like the sweet chiming of bells, and she cannot help the faint blush that dusts her cheeks. She cannot disagree with them there. “I want that more than anything.” She ducks her head. “It’ll happen one day. I know it.”

I’m upset that you got hurt at all, Heloise, because you shouldn’t have been.

Her heart softens. “An exceptionally wise woman once told me that I cannot live in Verona without getting hurt.” Heloise glances at her sling and offers a faint smile. “Regardless, I have nowhere else to go.” It’s a tender confession, but painful nonetheless. “I believe it’s time for me to start calling Verona home.” She’s all starry-eyed and full of sweetness, and although Isabella’s set on crashing her high, although they condemn her words and scold her for holding her head in wisps of clouds, Heloise does not turn them away.

I don’t feel alone right now.

Heloise misses Maeve’s overwhelming passion. She misses her words of innocence, her love-struck silence, the sea of stars that fill her eyes when she looks at Heloise, and the rapid flutter of butterfly wings that beat around her stomach when Maeve smiles. Her adoration for her has become knotted, a tangled web that weaves itself through the tenderness of her own heart. But she isn’t here. Isabella is. They burn brighter than any flame, and Heloise aches to be scorched. “I don’t feel so alone myself.” Her eyes find theirs as she takes another sip. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about Tomas anymore.” The tapping of her shoe matches the rhythm of her heart. “You think maybe…” Heloise falters, “maybe you could stay awhile?”

--

Isabella decides to let Heloise keep her shred of faith in the Sabello man--for now, at least. They merely shrug, the movement slow and cat-like, conveying neither approval or disapproval. “I’m wrong?” they challenge, leaning closer. They don’t think they’re wrong at all; in fact, if they were a betting woman, they would bet that Heloise Maksimovich is lying--and the gentle flushing of her cheeks only solidifies their assumption. “It’ll happen,” Isabella promises, “in one way or another.” Heloise seems to need someone to adore her, and Isabella Gagliano is near desperate in their desire to give, give, and give...  “It wouldn’t be hard to spend hours giving you the attention you deserve.” In fact, it would be easy; thoughts of Celeste are present, but she is not. 

Heloise is.

They look at her sling. “That woman is mostly right,” Izzy says, lips pursing. Verona is a city of loss and destruction and death--and beauty and history and old money. They can understand its allure--after all, it’s what brought them here to this city--but they wish Heloise had been in a better situation, a situation that didn’t force her to live in the middle of a war zone. “But, florecita, it can be done. I mean, it’s not easy, but it’s possible.” After all, they’ve managed to navigate through the annals of Verona alive--and in their line of work, that’s a feat of which they should be proud. “You’ve just got to have the right friends and a bit of luck on your side.” And they intend to help with, at the very least, the former. 

Maybe we shouldn’t talk about Tomas anymore, Heloise says, and Isabella’s pride gently swells, having taken responsibility for the woman’s decision to change the topic of conversation. “Certo,” the journalist agrees, cosmopolitan dangling precariously in their seemingly-careless hand as they watch her curiously, brown hues flitting across Heloise’s soft features--the arch of her brows, the gentle of her nose, the enticing curves of her lips. They shift in their barstool, knee knocking gently against Heloise’s as it stays there. Isa sips at their drink, a playful smile curling against the rim of the glass as they take note of the near-frantic tap-tap-tapping of her shoe.

“I can stay for as long as you’d like.”

[igagliano]

 VOLUMNIA.

La Spada e La Penna || ft. IG

.

Isabella treads with care over the eggshells that the Underboss scatters intentionally along their path. Her gaze remains impassively trained on them, interest growing in infinitesimal increments; steadily accumulated. La giornalista isn’t being so brazen here as has previously earned them a certain degree of infamy. She wonders whether they’re merely saving it for later in the interview — or whether it’s with deliberate premeditation that they’re navigating this particular interaction. 

Vivianne aims her a steady smile. “Certo.” She agrees so very amenably, matching the polite discretion of the journalist sitting across from her.

Still, she has to keep from laughing outright when Gagliano asks her to name her suspects. That’s a good one, she muses, compelled to appreciate the other’s straight face as they ask it. Egregarious, Gagliano puts it, as if they’re all stars in a telenovella; as if such titillating murder is really so rare in Verona. It’s a good pitch. “I won’t hide that my suspicions travel in a particular direction,” The Capobastone replies with perfect solemnity. “Our political opponents across the Adige have long been associated with such callous and cowardly executions; when it so suits their agenda.”

Vivianne lets the cigarette idle between her fingers, gaze intent on the writer. She’d be remiss to leave it at that. “If you think my own sympathies carry a certain bias, rest assured, it isn’t through personal passion that we’ve built this case. La polizia have interviewed dozens of friends, associates, and family members of both the deceased. Neither had enemies of any note.” There’s an affected pause as she leans back, letting her expression turn pensive before taking a drag from the cigarette. 

“But of course, the Montagues do not discriminate… They are enemies to us all.”

///

Political opponents, Vivianne so tactfully calls them, and their lips just barely quirk at the edges. Political opponents, as though the Capulets and Montagues are  vying for a seat in their respective chambers in Italy’s government rather than slaughtering hundreds of thousands who come in contact with their weapons and drugs. Thats all it was to her, right? Nothing but politics, nothing but a game of chess in which the lives of real people happen to be at stake--lives that, conveniently, are never hers, but rather those in subordination to her. Expendable lives, the lives of murderers and liars that aren’t quite murderous and deceitful enough to warrant protections, lives that are whole in their own right without mafia business tainting it--

Lives. That’s the difference, Isabella decides, between herself and Vivianne Sloane: that Isabella sees this as a terrible war in which life is unnecessarily lost in the names of Cosimo and Damiano, but Vivianne sees it as a matter of politics--as though one side is right and the other is wrong. They resist the urge to scoff, instead deciding to latch on to a particular set of words: ...when it so suits their agenda.

The journalist’s head cants slightly. “Does this currently suit the Montagues’ agenda?” they press, feather soft against the supposed bruises of grief. “If they are enemies to us all--” us all, because this one of the few times they’ll group themselves willingly into the same category as the Capulet Underboss in order to stroke her ego and coax her to say more, “--it would be to the benefit of Verona to know Montague tactics are more aggressive than any common Veronesi could have thought, sì?”

But, as quickly as they jump on the bandwagon of blindly believing it was a Montague, they jump off of it, instead offering, “Non lo so... It may not be your political opponents. Verona’s a city of tragedy, after all. It would be convenient, but not necessarily wise to completely close off to the idea of it being a random attack, or an inside job.” 

“Perhaps you should consider hiring an independent private investigator, signora,” Izzy says.

[igagliano]

 REGAN.

The more time passed, the more the adrenaline in her veins began to seep out, returning to the depths of the void once more, only daring to slither out again when blood was on the line once more. The results of the fight thus began to sink in. Pain began to bloom from a sharp ache in her side – a rib must have been bruised at best and broken at worst. The cuts and scrapes from fists and weapons and the unforgiving pavement began to sting under dirtied clothing, and red began to contrast pale white of what skin Regina had left exposed. Perhaps she would send Brielle her dry cleaning bill. Perhaps she would have disregarded all of this by the time she ever reached the cleaner’s. 

The woman beside Regina was certainly a curious one, she noted. Curious, for now. Regina had found in this line of business and in spending her life as a creature few ever truly knew that there was a fine line between curious and prying. The former had her craning her head to catch a better glimpse of what was going on behind a bustling storefront. The latter was often found in too many questions and a complete lack of subtlety, no matter how hard the inquisitor tried to hide their nature. Regina only knew this from so many years of others refusing to accept the answers in front of their face – she would be asked plenty of questions about her motivations or emotions, for others could not seem to be satisfied with the plain fact that she felt little and cared even less.

“An acquaintance,” Regina replied with a shrug, feeling the pain as her skin stretched over the injury at her ribs. “It is not the first time we have crossed paths. It will not be the last.” But it may be the last in which Regina bends to Brielle. She would ensure it next time they met. “Regina,” she answered plainly, looking over at the other woman. “It’s unlikely for someone like you to run towards this danger.”

Isabella resists the urge to snort, careful so as to not reveal their feelings in regards to what Regina says. An acquaintance, the bleeding woman says with a sort of terrible nonchalance that threatens to chill Isa to the bone. An acquaintance, Regina intones disinterestedly as though this is as common as a conversation about the weather. “Don’t you think it’s about time the two of you took it to the next step and became more than acquaintances?” the journalist jokes, though there’s merit behind their words; they want more than vague details, more than half-hearted responses. They yearn for names, for important details--the who’s, the what’s, the when’s, where’s, why’s, how’s--but Regina gives nothing.

If they have to pull, then so be it.

“Regina,” they start, “what’s the name of your acquaintance?” It’s a direct enough question, they hope, but the detachedness with which Regina speaks gives them reason to believe that she’ll find a way to blithely answer this, too. “Unlikely?” Softly, Isabella chuckles. It’s unlikely that an acquaintance would shoot her--but they let this point rest, deciding instead to focus on danger.  “Oddly enough, it seems that I’m a magnet for danger like this,” Isa says with a shrug of their shoulders. 

“What can I do to help you? Is there someone I can call?”

[igagliano]

 PERDITA.

The million dollar question: who is Felipe? The honest response would be to admit that Paola herself doesn’t know. A conman, who shifts in the light as expertly as Paola does — even better than Paola, a truth that still smarts. That she became a victim of the same tricks she knew well, all for love. Love, which she knows does not stay. Love, a dirty name and a dirty trick that Paola usually knows better than to believe.

Ah. But even the wolf can become prey; even the orphan can be led to have faith in belonging, at last.

Isabella doesn’t want to know any of this. It doesn’t help with the story she’s writing, after all. Who will read the tired old tale of a child left behind, a woman who has survived the aftermath of love and the desolation it leaves behind? Isabella has no use of Paola’s heart — and who, in all the world, does?

So she sticks to facts. So she chooses to give Isabella what she needs, what Isabella wants. Perhaps it’s less than they deserve; perhaps what Isabella is owed is the truth.

If you were to ask Paola, she would tell you this plainly: what is deserved and what is owed is of no importance.

TEXT TO: Isabella G They’re one and the same. Gabriele is Felipe, Felipe is Gabriele. He was on the run and let himself die, so that he would not be found.

She doesn’t say who; she doesn’t need to. The Capulets and the Montagues, of course. And if in the back of her mind Paola wonders if her own name belongs on the list of those Felipe wanted to hide from — well. That, too, is of no importance.

--

TEXT TO: Perdita And yet, he’s been found alive and has not yet been killed. 

They’ve been around the mobs enough to know that nothing is ever as it seems. If Gabriele-turned-Felipe hasn’t yet been murdered, there is something that shrouds him in protection; there’s something of merit here, and Paola knows just how to string them along—with tidbits of juicy information, bits of hope and truth, of course.

TEXT TO: Perdita I imagine he’s worth more alive than dead, sì? Tell me, Perdita, why are you so readily tossing the reason why you joined the mobs to the likes of il giornale, like myself?

The irony isn’t lost on them: that the reason Paola Damasco devolved into Paola was because of a man named Gabriele—who, in honesty, is a man named Felipe. That this same man was the match that burned so many of Paola bridges—and for what? That this man no longer warrants that same love and unfettered adoration that he once received from the Damasco woman. Isa swallows the bitter tang that bubbles in their chest, jealousy-green and unyielding in the way in which it threatens to choke them.

Paola joined for a halfhearted, gilded reason. The newly-christened Montague threw her friendship with Isabella Gagliano to the wind at the first mention of a possibility of knowing the truth. And now that Perdita knows the truth and shares it still, they can’t help but wonder if this—joining la mafia—is something she regrets.

[igagliano]

 VOLUMNIA.

La Spada e La Penna || ft. IG

She doubts very much that her presence brings any pleasure whatsoever to Isabella, but her expression betrays nothing. The smile balancing serenely on her lips remains permissive and polite. ‘Of course,’ she could say, or ‘you as well,’ returning flattery for flattery in a bid to win the sharp-eyed journalist. Yet Vivianne is ever a woman of few, if carefully-chosen words; preferring to leave the flowery ones to Cosimo.

What she wants to say is this: Hope’s a dangerous game… Do you play it often?

But with the constant possibility that her every word will be taken down – anything you say can and will be used against you – Vivianne keeps the question to herself, and merely wonders it about the writer sitting across from her. 

“Grazie per le vostre condoglianze,” She hums instead, letting her tone warm with something bittersweet; thank you for your condolences. “Given the sensitive time for us all, and the families still grieving, there may be questions that are not yet appropriate for me to answer… You understand, of course.”

It’s a fail-safe — the media has a love-affair with asking unsavory questions, and Vivianne, a love-affair with denying them answers. She’ll not fall into that trap when she’s the one who’s requested this interview in the first place. And with the disclaimer given, if la giornalista pushes, it’ll be them who risk looking insensitive. Grief, after-all, is such a touchy topic. The Underboss takes a drag from her cigarette. 

“Their bodies were discovered by the police on the night of May 1st. Lillian was strangled, Cassian, shot in the head. The gun with which he is assumed to have been killed was left in Lillian’s hand, framing her for a crime that forensic experts agree she did not commit. As you might imagine, this adds insult to fatal injury. I was informed the very next day, after which I gave word to their friends and colleagues.”

Vivianne is a smart woman. Hardened by years of media scrutiny, she’s effectively erected an almost-impenetrable defense of grief and loaded phrases; Isabella isn’t surprised in the slightest, but it does make their job a bit more difficult. Nonetheless, they nod understandingly. “Of course, signora,” they say. “Though it is never my intention, please tell me if my questions err on the side ignorant to the grief of the families or yourself.” They toss the ball back to Vivianne’s court, accepting her game but adding their own provision that, in the event that they ask a poorly-phrased question, begs for mercy.

They want one chance to slip up, one chance to proffer the wrong question without Vivianne closing the interview and leaving il Giornale’s rogue editor in the hot seat with their superiors. Isabella, of course, doesn’t think they’ll need it--but it’s always nice to have even a semblance of comfort, right?

Isa takes note of everything Vivianne says--strangulation, fatal gunshot wound to the head, a poorly framed murder-suicide. Then, they offer the other woman a chance to divulge more than paltry police reports and knowledge-backed assumptions with a simple question: “Do you have suspicions as to who committed the egregious crimes?”

[igagliano]

moxyphinx​:

Brittany O’Grady as Bess King in Little Voice

[igagliano]

 LAMPRIUS.

She is not shy, his words have unlocked something in her and they spill forward now, as unavoidable as that gravity of truth. And he remembers how easy it is to walk through this world when there are those who feel as you feel, those that see as you see. There’s an asphyxiation to loneliness and it’s gripped his throat since that night at the theater. Finally, he feels like that grip has loosened, finally he feels like he’s breathing again. Lamprius is all flesh and blood once more. There was a time when only a romantic love could draw him out of the numbness that wrapped him up. 

And now maybe, there is something else.  

One hand with the phone to his ear, he uses the other to pull the slip of paper with Ms. Gagliano’s name on it. Lamprius listens with intention and he understands why her name sits dried in ink on so many of Hecate, Medea and Circe’s lists. Of course they paid her attention, just like they paid attention to every brick, every crack in the pavement of this city. No detail, no person too small. Lamprius doesn’t really know how to respond with her wistfulness at having missed the opportunity to speak to them. He wishes she could too - because there were three of them and only one of him. There wasn’t much to compare was there? But he’d have to do; he’d have to be good enough for both her and the city. The fact that he hadn’t died trying yet meant he was either doing something right - or he was lucky. 

But as he listens to her speak with conviction, even though he is on his own, operating as his own, single agent, Lamprius does finally feel like he’s done something right.

“For what it’s worth, Noemi is very capable. I really had to try in my efforts to make sure this phone reached you undetected.” The wicker chair digs into his back as he sinks into it. He does this so he can get a better look at the night sky. Her condolences are still ringing in his ears, he’s heard so few for his fallen sisters. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Lamprius. Truly, I am‘ He’ll accept them, he just won’t acknowledge them. The time for grieving has passed - so he’ll keep talking about the phone. “I won’t be coming back for it, so do whatever you want with it. Though I do recommend getting rid of it.” 

It’s not all idle chatter. It’s second nature to cover his tracks and Lamprius does feel compelled to teach Ms. Gagliano exactly how to make herself disappear - beginning with the burner phone in her possession.  Scatter the pieces, make yourself untraceable, destroy the sim card. Lamprius is suddenly standing without weight at the prospect that he has found his first ally and while his own apprenticeship was hardly a victory won overnight, he is on a timer. Lamprius can’t even call it the floodgates opening because he’s seen the river of blood and the persistent, consistent way it has been rushing towards them. Each second is a grain of sand in the hourglass of this city and it is not a very big city. Certainly not big enough for the two gangs that threatened to overrun it. 

The next question is expected, Lamprius could set his watch to its timing. Of course she wants to know how she can trust him. She might not like the answer but she’d have to come to terms with it. 

“I do not know I do not think there is much I could say to you, nor do I really wish to try and fumble for the words that would make you believe me. I think…” How to say this, “it’ll happen in due time.” 

Truly, if Isabella Gagliano could be convinced via simply a phone, she wasn’t the woman he believed her to be. And while Lamprius supposed there were some things he could be surprised by, he knows that she isn’t one of them. She, like him, is a candle with an unwavering flame. Something that will continue to endlessly illuminate and burn. 

Lamprius searches for the words and finds he doesn’t have to look far. He picks them with precision. 

“All I can say is,-” In fact, he’s been thinking about these specific words for a while now. One day, in the not too distant future, he’ll deliver them both to Damiano and Cosimo as a threat. She’ll hear them then. And when she does, she’ll know it’s him. Life is determined to make a patient man out of Lamprius. It’s a necessity, but he wants to warn her that it is one of the hardest things to do. “-What is dead can never die. Not while there is life and legacy to be taken in its name.”

Yes, those words feel right. Better, they feel true. Silence falls, heavy between them. Does she find comfort in the weight between words that he does? He lives in those liminal spaces less and less now, he mostly sticks to the black and white truth of the words. This whole conversation has been governed by the truth, and Lamprius could get used to the freeing feeling of being only himself. 

“Besides that, well, we will just have to wait, I suppose.” A beat. “We will meet soon, I’m sure of it..” 

For what it’s worth, Noemi is very capable. I really had to try in my efforts to make sure this phone reached you undetected.

A breath of a laugh passes through her nose, and she makes a note to apologize to her secretary. Noemi has been good to her for as long as they’ve worked together; eagle-eyed and eager to please, the younger woman always was voracious when it came to making sure that Isabella’s requests were followed. She’s just about to comment about her secretary’s grit and determination when he continues on about the phone: I won’t be coming back for it, so do whatever you want with it. Though I do recommend getting rid of it. She ignores the small pang of disappointment in her chest, the thought of luring Lamprius from hiding with the promise of returning his phone quickly dissipating. “Of course,” the journalist says instead, “I’ll get rid of it this evening.”

Isabella has been led astray before. Yes, she was younger and less seasoned; she was still, compared to the mafia-aligned Veronesi, soft and green. She would hold her tongue, would write in secret--but no more. Now, Isabella Gagliano is hardened and stubborn; she’s dodged poisoned cups and death threats, has been threatened to lose her job under different publishers and superiors--and yet, she still stands. So, when Lamprius concedes that he won’t try to placate her with words and promises, something stirs inside of her chest: hope. 

It’s a dangerous thing--but what in la justicia’s life is not?

“I fervently hope, Lamprius, that due time comes sooner rather than later.” He should know as well as anyone that tomorrow is never promised--but by his words ( What is dead can never die. Not while there is life and legacy to be taken in its name ), Izzy is led to believe that maybe, just maybe, Lamprius has something up his sleeves. 

“I look forward to meeting you.”

[igagliano]

 HERO.

.

The citizens of Verona know nothing of profound love and sweet adoration. They know nothing of prolonged glances, sugar-sweet kisses, or sleepless nights due to the incessant flutter that pirouettes in your stomach, like you’ve swallowed a handful of butterflies. For Isabella, it appears as though love is nothing more than a distant memory. Heloise cannot fathom why else they’ve reacted in such a distasteful way. “You seem upset,” Heloise notes, her smile full of false charm, equivalent to artificial sweetener. She’s grown tired of asking for permission, of walking upon scattered eggshells, of being told who to loathe and who to adore. “I’m well aware he’s married, Isabella. I’ve been told no less than ten times.”

Does Isabella’s frail, brittle little heart ache to be held? Will they return home as the clock strikes midnight, pressing their pen to a piece of paper and confess their deepest desires? Perhaps they long for the touch of Tomas Sabello too. Perhaps they wish for hasty kisses and a plethora of sweet nothings, his hand in theirs. “How could you possibly know what I want in my life?” Her words are succinct, straightforward, but bashfulness colors her tone as she ducks her head and tightens her grip around the glass.

Heloise takes a few sips and waits for her heart to stop thundering in her ears. It bleeds a delicate shade of red, it overflows with an overwhelming need to be cherished, to be cared for, iit spills forward like a river of desire. Isabella pokes and prods, eager for it to run dry. “Perhaps you’re right, but there was no-one else. Only Tomas.” Heloise sings a song of warmth and adortion, her words soft and slow. She’s always been exceptional at getting a decent read on those around her and she senses slight jealousy. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” she doesn’t believe she is, “but does that upset you? That Tomas was the one who saved me?”

A light dusting of pink decorates her cheeks as she inches forward. “Do you know what would ease your dismay? Love. Love happens to be the best medicine, Isabella. Unless the one you love doesn’t love you?” Heloise questions, her eyes wide, mouth agape. “I hope you aren’t alone. That’s a terrible way to live.”

I’m glad that you made it out–hideous sling and all.

“So am I.”

--

So she’s got some bite to her. 

Their lips curl at the corners in amusement, the ruffling of Heloise’s feathers acting not as a deterrent but an invitation. Isabella wants to poke and prod, to see just how sickly-sweet the woman in front of her can be until she rots--until her rose-tinged thoughts of Tomas Sabello are washed in the ugly incandescents of the truth: that he is married, that he is not a hero for doing the right thing, that he is a liability--and not a helpful one for la justicia, considering his egregious mistakes often are watered down for the sake of their heart’s other half. “Not upset,” the journalist corrects as they catch the attention of the barkeep, “just...Incredibly aware. Verona is a monster enough without accumulating extra trouble.” Now it’s their turn to order a cosmopolitan--with a water to accompany it, as they begin to notice their alcohol-induced languidness and warmth. “But you’ve been told no less than ten times, sì? So, you needn’t hear it from me.” 

When the bartender places both glasses in their place, Izzy offers a quick thanks, though it’s clear their attention is elsewhere: on Heloise, her bleeding heart, and on the question: How could you possibly know what I want in my life? At this, they shrug and resist the urge to quip that she’s not necessarily making it difficult for them to see what she wants, with the longing that colors her words and the bashfulness that dictates her movements. “Tell me I’m wrong then, cara mia,” Isabella returns evenly. “You’d really want to have marital drama and receive a half-hearted love rather than the whole, unfettered adoration and love that you deserve?” They punctuate their inquiry by taking a sip of their water.  

Does that upset you? That Tomas was the one who saved me?

Isa’s nose wrinkles in displeasure, curls swaying as they shake their head in declination. In truth, Isabella is not upset--they’re greedy, wanting nothing more than to strip Tomas Sabello of this certain die-hard fan simply because they can and because, in the end, it will benefit Celeste. Jealousy rears its ugly head and coaxes them to continue, to kill three birds with one stone: to satiate the underlying longing for someone to touch and to hold; to save Celeste from a potential gossip-fueled rumor about an affair; and to show Tomas Sabello that yet another woman that claims to love him isn’t his and his alone.

“I’m upset that you got hurt at all, Heloise,” the journalist responds at last, “because you shouldn’t have been.” Their expression softens as the Maksimovich woman prattles on about love and loneliness. Isabella Gagliano is not alone. Well, they are--but not really, right? Their hand bears no ring, their last name is still Gagliano and not Duval--but Celeste loves them and if love is the best medicine, then that should be enough. But... Isabella is acutely aware of the aches in their chest and the pit of their stomach. Rather than ignore them, however, they choose acknowledge the sensations.

Are they alone?

 “Non lo so... But I don’t feel alone right now.”

[igagliano]

 HERO.

Sweet memories cloud her mind as Heloise splits the peanut shell in half, the air heavy with humidity. When her eyes flutter to a close, she sees nothing but velvet eyes and a gentle smile, and she wants nothing more than to melt into him as he whisks her away. Heloise doesn’t quite understand the delay, but an old saying echoes in her ears: patience is a virtue.

Cupid plunged the arrow so deep, she couldn’t deny him even if she wanted to. Heloise aches for spilled ink and extensive love letters, she aches for tender kisses under the moonlight as heaps of roses surround her. She yearns for the high-priced ring and the cottage hidden away amongst the cherry trees. In truth, she doesn’t believe that she’s asking for too much. She wants the fairy-tale. Everyone does. The tattered stool wobbles beneath her as she sways, lovesick and filled with delight. With every beat of her heart, it sings his name: Tomas, Tomas, Tomas….

An unfamiliar voice rips her away from her reverie. Reluctantly, Heloise turns to face them, curiosity piqued. Whatever she wants next is on me. Heloise straightens the curve of her spine and offers them a gentle smile. She’s seen this face before, hasn’t she? Isabella Gagliano, the journalist, one with gums that flap almost as quickly as her own. Heloise turns to the bartender with ease and requests another Cosmopolitan as Isabella occupies the stool next to her. She’s quick to offer her thanks. “I’m celebrating,” she corrects them, a giggle spilling forth. “I don’t drink much, only on special occasions. I’ve decided that tonight’s one for the books.” Heloise takes a swift glance at her sling before peering at Isabella through her lashes.

“I’m in love, you see.” She sighs, her eyes wide with longing. “Tomas Sabello saved me that night, at the Phoenix and the Turtle. This blue sling is hideous, but it also reminds me of that him. The way he held my hand and put my worries to rest. The way he carried me to his car as the rain fell upon us….”

Her eyes find Isabella’s at once. “So you see, Isabella, the bullet that pierced my shoulder was unfortunate, yes, but it led me to him.” 

~~

I’m celebrating, Heloise corrects, and Isabella can’t help but chuckle softly as they order themselves a whiskey sour. Doe-eyed, soft-spoken Heloise--of course she’s celebrating. They think she’s celebrating her life, celebrating the fact that the sling is the worst of her worries, that her sister lives, that Verona didn’t again make a martyr out of someone far too soon--but then, she intones that she’s in love, and their eyebrows shoot upward. “Are you, now?” the journalist prods, glossed lips curling around the rim of their glass as they watch the Maksimovich’s woman’s heart beat furiously on her sleeve. 

It makes their own heart aching fiercely for their love: for Celeste Duval, for the other half of their soul, for the only person who’s ever been able to muddle the line between right and wrong for in the eyes of la justicia di Verona. Their fingers itch for their phone so they, too, can sigh longingly and nearly swoon from their seat at the bar. They almost do grab their phone to, at the very least, send a text--but Tomas Sabello’s name grates against their ears and forces them to choke on their drink.

“I’m sorry--who?” Isa says, an incredulous chuckle bubbling from their chest. “Unfortunately--” for both of them “--he is married, florecita. You don’t want that sort of trouble in your life.” They speak from experience and a place of selfishness, for they know the burden of loving a married person intimately and wouldn’t wish it upon Heloise--but for Celeste’s sake, and not hers. They know in their heart of hearts that Celeste doesn’t really love Tomas, but appearances are everything and gossip of an affair between the Roman actor and Verona’s newest recruit is the last thing the Duval woman needs.  

“Besides, don’t you think he did the bare minimum? Any good person would have helped you. Any person should have helped you.” Common courtesy seems to be an evasive concept in Verona, but Isa is sure that stepping in and helping an injured and innocent bystander doesn’t merit such devotion. They finish the whiskey sour, a lazy grin curling the edges of their lips in spite of the current subject of their conversation. 

“I will say, though, I’m glad that you made it out--hideous sling and all.”

[igagliano]

 REGAN.

This was not how Regina expected her night to go. They hadn’t been expecting the call of Cosimo to rouse them from their evening just to send them to Phoenix and the Turtle, for one. It seemed like a paranoid move, in their opinion, that this cafe of all places had to be guarded with so many Capulets — after all, it was a cafe. It did not have the same physical power of Measure by Measure or the same symbolism of the Cathedral. That didn’t mean they didn’t put on their boots, pocket their blade and holster their gun, and head to the assigned location, of course. They would do as they were told, and when little happened, they would help themself to whatever pastries were just going to be thrown away at the end of the night, anyways.

But that didn’t happen, either. For reasons beyond Regina, the Montagues had targeted the cafe, marching on its small storefront. And again, incorrectly Regina saw it as a mere minor inconvenience, a battle easily won, especially as they locked eyes with Brielle. They had bested the Montague before and they would best her again, and the smell of Brielle’s blood in the air would be just as sweet as the last time, and the time before that. The weight of her knife felt sturdy in their hand, and it stayed loyal to their side as they stayed loyal to the Capulets, engaging in battle that resulted in the breaking of a display case and the toppling of many, many tables.

Forced outside, Regina only figured it would be a better sight to see Brielle’s blood shine in the moonlight. But again, the unexpected tapped Regina upon the shoulder, taking their place in their dance with Death. Excused from the waltz, Regina’s attention was drawn towards Alva, and it was then the battle was lost. Blows exchanged before bodies ran into the distance, and Regina craved nothing but their blood as they laid upon the stone, their side aching something awful. The lark wouldn’t sing much longer. The soldier wouldn’t march much further. At least, once the time came.

Regina let out a pained grunt as they attempted to right themself, not wishing to stay in the area should more trouble arise. They’re only up upon scraped elbows when a voice calls out to them, concern wavering in the air. They do not need someone to be concerned for them. They have survived worse and they will survive this moment. Still, they feel the ache in their side as they inhale, and know they do not have it in them to shoo Isabella off tonight. “A fight,” they answer simply, looking up at her.

Isa wishes she’d come sooner. Regina has taken on someone who was able to leave them wincing and vulnerable to a prying reporter--but not vulnerable enough to so readily place blame. Even still, there’s an odd sense of satisfaction that washes over her as they gloss over her question in regards to their wellbeing. Isabella has been exposed to enough mafiosi to know that, if Regina was hurting enough, they’d have given at least some acknowledgement to their pain--they always do. And yet, the Capulet hardly winces, their tone lackluster and bored.

A fight, Regina says plainly, and Isabella Gagliano resists the urge to bristle at the early onset of tight-lipped, paltry excuses for answers. To muzzle herself, she takes a moment to drink in the scene with one of its actresses at her side. She sees shattered display cases, shards of glass; she sees tables broken in pieces, flipped upside. But more importantly, the bullet cases strewn haphazardly within and outside of the café are obvious signs, the smatters here and there of blood are just as prominent; any living being would have known that a fight occurred.

“A fight,” Izzy parrots in weary bewilderment, brown hues overlooking Regina’s frame once more as they shift uncomfortably. “A fight between who? Who would have done this to you, signora?” She sinks for her knees, careful to avoid the shards of glass. “I’m Izzy, by the way.” Izzy, not Isabella Gagliano.