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a-wraith-891 · 25 days ago

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A Hawthorne Mafia AU- Part 4

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

Extra Tags: Dark Hawthorne Family.

Other Parts:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

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

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

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

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

Jameson and Rohan—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It had been fascinating to watch. And definitely weird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She just smiles back.

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

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

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

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

Alexander chuckles. Jameson smirks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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