#oc: santino giovanni

[gorbalsvampire]

@vampiremood called, it's picrew o'clock! That was two hours ago... I went a bit sideways, see.

Here are some Jennis! They come in "snuggly short sighted," "oh! you have startled the witch!" and "I make this Anarch shit look good" aesthetics.

And here are some Hecata girlies! First up, a succession of Sorcha fits. She's a little... chonkier than I'd like, but props for an actual, good shaved head setting. Showing here, Sorcha in "quiet night at home with the bois," "see me I'm hawt I am," and "power dressing or something" modes.

Luciana (glorious, the wheelchair handles are a nice touch) and Nadia (shhh stop talking to her it's coffee time).

And finally, a rather femme Orpheus. Picrews tend to not be great at men, especially older men...

Big ol' smoochin' lips.

I would dearly like to see an Annabel, and maybe some Canadian horrors, and a weird girl who peeps in the window while you're sleeping. THUS I TAG: @pathogenic and @friends-of-beetlejuice and @gwenynen-bach !

[bluelolblue]

Bro I’m not even joking but like since last year I made Santino’s father name Giovanni too😭

-news anon

AHAH ANOTHER GIOVANNI

Honestly I really like that name for like an older mafia leader, which is also why I named Romano's father (my oc) Giovanni, too 😭

It fits, too, in my opinion, Giovanni D'Antonio :)

[the-darklings]

So you said that you scraped the idea for a squeal to coa was it because of working on your other projects with your original characters ( which sound really interesting and am excited for ) . Also since your working more on developing Clara will gasoline girl be more to your original characters instead of a coa au instead ? Also all your writing is amazing so thank you for taking the time to share it with us. I hope this message doesn’t come out sounding passive aggressive because I don’t mean it that way sorry 😅 was just curious . You don’t have to reply if you want !

I was very heavily debating the legitimacy of a sequel even before npfh really became a thing of its own. That, if anything, just cemented the idea of letting go of COA after its intended ending (and it’s a type of ending where there could be more but there doesn’t have to be more - it’s complete on its own y’know?). I think it’s mainly because COA is so massive, and demanded so much of my energy and time, and especially because people seem to genuinely enjoy my original characters/concepts so much that it was cemented in my mind. I decided I was better off pouring my energy into something original and something I genuinely love (creating new characters/stories, not restrained by anything). Fun fact: I actually started out writing years ago with OCs when I was still a baby, so this return to original content feels more like coming home.

As for Gasoline Girl : ) That now is Clara’s origin. I always felt compelled by gasoline girl concept as something more. Like it was meant for more than just a random au. I even, at one point, debated writing a book series based on that concept but it simply works for Clara too well (and was created with her in mind in the first place). So in ASE, when we first meet Clara, she’s still living with Camorra. Everything you read about in that first part of GG? Her friend Luci getting killed? Giovanni putting out his cigar in her hand as punishment? All canon for her. (Minus Santino but there’s someone there to take his place now : )). I’ve even written a scene in ASE already where Clara tells Jean about the scar on her hand she got from the incident.

[kashimos-hajime]

the pit | d.w.t.d. 02

summary: you wonder if he’s as alone as you are.

WARNINGS: swearing, giovanni d’antonio deserves a warning all by himself, mentions of child death, prostitution, and pregnancy pairing: hector x fem!reader word count: 10.7k 

a/n: thank you so much for the support on ch1!! i welcome all your questions and i’m so glad you guys like it! hector is an oc that belongs to @the-darklings​​ and as always, hope you enjoy!

00 | 01 | ... | 03 | 04 | 05 

In an odd way, you wish Hector was here. You’d been getting used to his company.

“So, you are the woman I have heard so much of.”

Instead, he’s gone and here you are, sitting before Santino and Giovanni D’Antonio. You keep your gaze on Giovanni’s as he pours himself a slow cup of brandy, and your lungs struggle for air in the thick tension hanging in the room. Santino’s eyes roam your face and you feel your back beginning to ache again from jumping out of a moving car just yesterday as you set your jaw, determined not to move under the man’s scrutiny.

The glass flagon is set down on the wood with a subtle clack.

“I must confess when my son informed me of an irreplaceable asset, I was intrigued. No one is irreplaceable in Camorra—” He sips languidly, smiling as if he’s said something funny as he approaches you. The grey, pin-striped suit barely creases as he lifts your chin up with his free hand— “unless they’ve proven themselves. And you have not proven yourself.”

Your eyes do not roam as he analyzes your face. He angles your head in every direction and his gaze is burning in a way that makes you want to squirm in your seat. When he’s done, he lets you go with a sharp push, your head snapping to the side. Fighting the urge to grimace, you resolutely turn your head back to him.

“Did you retrieve the USB?”

“Yes, messer.” Leaning down beside your feet, you rip open your bag and grab the jacket you had been wearing. Unfolding it, you catch Hector’s blood, dried and dark, in the navy blue fabric, but you ignore it in favour of digging your hand through the pocket. Your uncharged phone brushes against your fingers, and you entertain the thought for a moment that maybe Jardani has called you, before you tell yourself it’s stupid. Instead, you wrap fingers around burnt metal and bring it to Giovanni. “It was damaged in the blast.”

“Yes, I heard. It was messy.”

“I know,” you murmur as he takes it, inspecting the damage. “I wasn’t aware it would be an extraction.” Turning around, he heads walks to his desk and this time, you sneak a glare at Santino. His eyes are narrowed, dragging over your face before he looks to his father and you want to shout at the man for lying to you, but you don’t. No, to do so in front of his father would be suicide. “I did what I could in the circumstances provided.”

“No blueprints?”

“No.”

“Hm.” There is a pause where he drinks and flips the USB over in his fingers, and you stare at his back, an uneasiness worming its way up your throat. “Santino.”

“Yes, Father?”

“Leave.”

You could’ve heard a pin drop in the silence that follows. Santino blinks, mouth slightly open as if he wants to protest, and his gaze finds yours again. Fear grapples at your stomach and you avert your eyes as Giovanni turns to his son, expectant. Your blood freezes in your arms as you look into your lap, and you feel like you’re caving in on yourself as the shift of Santino’s shoes against the hardwood echoes through the room. He’s hesitating.

Idiot, just go. Just go.

“Is something the matter, son?”

“No, Father.”

Then the wood creaks, the door opens, closes, and you are left alone with the most powerful man you’ve ever met. Glass clatters against his desk, ripping your attention upward and you find him not even looking in your direction, finger tracing the curve of his glass.

“Your work is satisfactory, given the conditions, but this was not something I would have trusted to a new associate.” At this, Giovanni takes the USB and snaps it in half in his fist, and your lips part at the ruins of your work. You try to ignore the protest building up in your throat, eyes following the halves of the USB tossed onto the table carelessly. “How did you meet my son, girl?”

Your words catch in your throat and all that comes out is nothing. Pressing your lips together, you blink and try to find your voice before you can be punished for it as Giovanni turns around. His gaze is nothing but a pit, a warning of the one you’re about to be tossed into, and he smiles. Smiles.

Terror paralyzes you.

“In Sicily, a week ago,” you finally manage to utter. Your voice comes out steady, though, and strong. Good. You won’t show weakness before him. “I was searching for a contact. I met your son, instead.”

“Did you have sex with him?” he continues, grabbing the large glass flagon of brandy once again to pour himself another drink. He turns his head just enough in an offer, as if you’re merely talking about the weather, but you shake your head despite your dry throat. You don’t think you can stomach anything in the moment.

“Yes.”

“And did you use protection?”

You blink. Did Giovanni D’Antonio really just ask if—  

Better yet, how do you explain to him that, no, you hadn’t used a condom but you’d been on the pill? Opening your mouth, you stop the strangled sound from coming out of your mouth as Giovanni merely scoffs, shaking his head and setting down the glass flagon heavily.

“My son’s dalliances are none of my concern, but should you wish to find a place here, it will not be as his mistress. If I do intend to let you stay, you will be taken to the medical ward in due time. And if you have any intention of chaining my son to a child, I will not allow it. I am not interested in having bastards for grandchildren.” Shame burns through your skin and you duck your head, swallowing the tight knot in your throat. Your hands roll into fists in your lap as you just keep yourself quiet. “Look at me, girl.”

You do, and find yourself in the chasm of his gaze.

“You do not have the look of a killer,” he observes. “I can see why Santino fell so recklessly for your charms. You’re the type he attracts and is attracted to.” He takes a pull of brandy, his other hand in his pocket as he surveys you once again with a sweep of his gaze. You don’t know if you should be insulted at his insinuation, but you don’t have the gall to ask as he continues, “Persephone. Why do they call you this?”

Swallowing, you barely manage, “I don’t know.”

“Do not lie to me.”

The even tone from which he speaks makes your blood congeal and you swear your heart stops for just a moment. Your eyes meet his and you push down your fear. If you could crush the man’s windpipe and live to see another day, you would. The dread Giovanni brings you is rotting your innards, pulling you inside out as another second passes in silence, and you try to rein in your ability to speak, but you can’t. You don’t know where your tongue has gone.

“I ask you again. Why should I let you live?”

Clenching your jaw, you feel like your teeth are going to crack as you sit up straighter. Hector’s voice in your ear is warning you to be careful, and you take a deep breath to let go of it. Let go of the fear, of the apprehension cramping in your chest. If he kills you, he kills you. Better to die free than chained to Tarasov’s throne. You and Jardani had been the crows on his shoulder, ready to gouge out eyes and carve out hearts—no longer.

“Do you know him?” you ask, the image of Jardani flashing through your mind. Your chin tilting up when he raises an eyebrow, you smile—a thrilling confidence fills your body. Every nerve is singing as you pull your shoulders back. “John Wick.” You take the moment to relish his silence, to relish the intrigue in those pits, before continuing, “He is the man who took me from nothing, raised me, trained me until Tarasov was sure the second coming of Baba Yaga was upon the Russian Mob. That is why you shouldn’t kill me. Because of him.”

“Hm.” Giovanni exhales sharply through his nose, a smile coming upon his lips again as he drains his brandy and sets the glass down. “The Boogeyman’s protegé.”

You nod, but his smile merely grows, and that confidence drains away like snow melting in the sun.

“Then, why do you lack his eyes?” Approaching you again, he makes you crane your head to look up at him, and you lean back as he looms over you. He grabs your jaw once again, fingers rough against your skin. You’re sure your heart is in your throat, and he can feel the rapid pulse of it against your bone. “Why do you not carry that cold fire I have heard so many tales of?” He squeezes your jaw, hard enough to bruise, his other fingers digging into the side of your neck, and you understand.

He doesn’t believe for a second that you’re telling the truth.

“Because that’s not who I am,” you reply, monotonous. “I’m not cold. I still feel. There is no ice in me except for my enemies. For Tarasov. I do not look like a killer—” You feel the fire in your throat when his grip does not loosen. You had just admitted a weakness to his face, but he said not to lie. And you won’t— “but I assure you, sir, that it is to the benefit of me and my employers. I understand you have more than enough men and women to replace each other, but there will only ever be one Baba Yaga.”

“And only one of you?” he inquires dispassionately, letting go of your jaw. Cold air rushes to your skin, soothing the heat left behind. You take a measured breath, careful not to crack.

“He will come for you. If you kill me, he will know and he will tear Camorra to the ground,” you whisper, letting your words hang in the silence.

Giovanni appears to take them in, take the threat to his empire in stride and does not even consider it, hands in his pockets as he looks down upon you. His features are stone, lips set in an unforgiving frown.

“Hector informed me of what you did for him in New York.” His fingers ghost over your cheek, eyes narrowed. “You saved his life. That is the only reason why I will give you this chance to prove your loyalty to Camorra. As for John Wick,” he murmurs, slapping your cheek lightly. You can feel the metal of his rings, cold against your skin and you swallow quietly, “let him try. One man cannot stand against the might of my family.”

You’d be surprised by what he can do, asshole, you warn silently, bitterly. You don’t move from your seat when his hand falls away from your face and he turns around. Walking behind his desk, he pulls the chair out and glances at you again, and you pray, pray that you can leave the stifling air of this office— “Leave.”

Thank fuck.

Standing, your legs feel like pliant clay and you almost collapse as you give yourself a moment to collect yourself and pick up your bag. Giovanni’s gaze follows you as you walk to the door and you can’t open it fast enough, whisking yourself away into the cold air of the hallway.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind you, you stumble towards the wall and suck in a huge breath, your head spinning. Your heels clack against the tile and your hand grabs the cold marble, fingers sinking into nothing. Clutching your backpack to your chest, you close your eyes and take a deep breath, already feeling the pain in your chest easing at the colder air.

“Bella.” Santino’s smooth voice seeps into your ears and you jerk back when his hand brushes against your shoulder. Green eyes flash at you, but you merely swallow down the bile that had threatened to spill from your lips and straighten, hand still on the column as if you’ll tip over at any moment.

“Don’t touch me,” you warn slowly, your breath still rattling in your chest. “I just need a moment.” Santino draws back, nodding, and your eyes train on his shoes, gleaming in the light.

“What did my father want? What did he say?” The questions are flurries against your mind still playing catch up and you clear your throat, trying not to scowl. I’m fine, thanks for asking, you want to retort, but you can’t. Giovanni’s voice is haunting you. Bastard grandchildren.

You would never bring a child into a world where you did not love their father. No. Not into a world without love. The mere thought of it makes you want to shed your skin.

“I’m staying,” you whisper instead. “I… I need to go to the medical wing in a few weeks. He wants me tested for pregnancy. In case I have your bastard,” you murmur, and Santino’s eyes widen, his relieved expression melting away. “I—” You shudder, turning to walk away. The cold sweat gathering in your palms makes you feel disgusting from the inside out. “I need to go. Find a place to stay.” Pulling your shoulders back, you brush hair out of your face and simply let the wind soothe away the heat.

Santino doesn’t follow you.

At first, you’re glad that spawn of the Devil himself doesn’t, and then you realize you truly have no idea where you’re going. The mansion is huge, long hallways of black and white tiles leading into more hallways of similar décor, and you blink, getting lost and admiring the marble busts upon podiums and the golden chandeliers hanging in rooms with open doors.

Is this really what it is to be rich?

Stopping before one of the marble sculptures, your eyes trace over the subtle ripple of fabric etched and polished by some sculptor years before, lost in its beauty. To be immortalized, loved enough by an artist to be sculpted with a loving hand, you could never imagine it.

Jardani, perhaps, will have statues erected when they tell tales of the Boogeyman. You, on the other hand…

“Hey.”

Twisting around, you blink and think it might be Hector for a moment before you register the body before you. Big, broad shoulders, trimmed beard, but kinder eyes than you would’ve expected meet your gaze, and the man smiles. Breath caught in your throat, you swallow down the embarrassment at having gotten caught.

“Hi.” Smiling yourself, you pull back from the bust as the man tilts his head, sticking out a hand. He's a hulking figure, but his presence does not intimidate you so you take it. His palm is hot, fingers engulfing your hand as he shakes it heartily, and although occupational wariness bites at your gut, you keep it under a tight leash.

“I’m Dario.”

Oh.

Oh.

You’ve heard tales of this man, none of them flattering, and at his massive height, you understand it, then. You had imagined the Strength of Camorra’s Elite to be something akin to a giant, large and hulking and made of stone with an impassive expression constantly etched into his face. Or perhaps a long-haired barbarian, with scarred hands and a wild beard.

What you see before you is a man of giant proportions, but his smile is easy and bright, and although his hair is long and his hands are scarred, his beard is trimmed well as he peers down at you.

“Oh, I’m Persephone. I, uh, I just got here,” you say, remembering your courtesies. You lift your bag as if to prove your point and Dario smiles, warmer than the sun. It would be refreshing if you weren’t in a home full of killers and liars, but you still let it sink into you regardless.

“Persephone,” he repeats, letting go of your hand. “It’s great to meet you.”

“You, too.” You lower your head, eyes briefly flickering over his face. His eyes gleam with amusement, as if he finds you endearing, but you can sense the power emanating from his very being. Those hands have probably broken more bones than there are in the human body, those muscles have the memory of a lifetime of training. What more can you expect from the Strength of Camorra’s Elite?

Certainly not a personality that doesn’t bite you whenever you try to speak.

“Thanks for saving Hector’s ass back in New York,” Dario says. “It would’ve been boring without hearing him insult some poor soul unlucky enough to cross his path at the wrong time.”

“What a charmer,” you mutter under your breath and he stifles a chuckle as you add, “And you don’t need to thank me. He just needed help.”

“Yeah, good luck hearing him say that,” Dario jokes, and you grin, your shoulders falling as you allow yourself to relax in the man’s presence. “I’m thankful enough for the both of us, as I always have to be. Known the boy since he was a kid and he’s always struggled with his manners.”

“And was he always a pain in your ass?” you ask, quirking an eyebrow. Dario chuckles, shaking his head.

“Yes, although it seems he’s only gotten worse with age.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Dario looks to the bust you’d been inspecting and tilts his head. You follow his gaze, and your eyes trace the delicate curve of the sculpture’s nose. “I saw him heading for the medical wing, but I didn’t approach the wild animal.” Blinking, you twist to look at him, and frown. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so foul-tempered.”

“I’m guessing that’s saying something,” you suppose, although your mind is already racing to think what would have placed him in a bad mood in the short time span between him leaving you and your meeting with Giovanni.

“Wouldn’t know a thing about that, would you?”

No. If you recall correctly, Hector had helped you unpack your bag from the van and told you to wait in the foyer while he went to find Giovanni. His parting words were almost a promise that he’d come back, but you knew better than to hold him to that. It was only proven when Santino came to fetch you instead.

Shaking your head, you sigh. “No. I haven’t seen him since I’ve arrived.”

“Right. Your meeting with Giovanni,” Dario assumes and you nod. “How did that go?”

You shrug. “It went well enough.” No point in spilling your guts to a man you just met as you add, “I have to get going if I want to find a place by sundown, though.”

“Are you going to be staying at the Continental?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I can,” you reply uneasily. “I’m going to try, anyhow.”

“Can you not afford it?” Dario asks, nearly interrogates. His voice is worn with concern, stabbing you in the gut and you shake your head, averting your gaze. You feel like you’re being scolded by a father who’s disappointed in you, and you hate it. Your pockets are as empty as the pit Tarasov dug out of you, and when you look up at the man beside you again, you press your lips into a tight smile.

“No. And I’m not about to accept charity either, Dario,” you add hastily when you see him open his mouth to protest. Whatever words he had evaporates like smoke as you glance down the long hallway. “I should probably go. Try my luck before I have to settle.” Turning back to Dario, you shrug. “I’ll see you around.”

You pick up your bag and walk away. Dario doesn’t call after you, but you think you can feel his stare weigh heavy on your back.

You’re broke and you realize that this is your first test.

It’s time to build yourself back up again, and if that means relying on the past, then so be it.

.

You’re not unused to sleeping in the streets. There were missions from Tarasov when you were nothing but a homeless face, scrapping intel together from what you overhear. If you can’t book a room in the Continental, it wouldn’t be so terrible.

That’s what you tell yourself, at least.

Wearing your backpack on your front, you keep your eyes out for any threats as you walk through Rome. You don’t know where you’re going well enough to be confident, but with a map you’d stolen from a tourist information centre, you’re more sure in your steps.

The dusk is barely brushing the sky, the smell of food warm in the air as you take a turn down an alleyway, folding the map. If you’re right, the Continental should be just a few minutes away.  You’ve slipped on the hoodie and sweats you wore on the plane, feet comfortable in sneakers as you tug the hood harder over your head. Your hair pulled away from your face, you reach a fence that separates you from a main road and across that, a place to stay.

You haven’t seen Julius since you were a child, when you were just a girl and not quite a threat yet. You wonder if he’ll even recognize you, pull strings if he could.

You take a deep breath, switch your bag to your back, and dig your toe into the chain link fence.

You’ll have to try.

Pushing yourself up and over, you land and immediately make your way across the road. There are cars pulled in at the roundabout, patrons exiting their fancy cars and you duck your head, desperate to avoid their gaze as you tread up the steps, red carpet soft against underneath your feet.

Entering the Roman Continental, you feel the air conditioner puff against your face and sigh, letting your shoulders slump. An invisible pressure lifted as soon as you crossed the line but now that you’re not in open air, you feel as if you no longer have a sniper’s sights set on you. You walk the halls until you reach the double doors, and they open up before you as you enter the lobby.

Men and women lingering, sitting and chatting whilst they have their tea, all pause, conversation stilted at this foreigner intruding on their safe haven, and you tilt your head just enough to catch their eyes.

Yes, they’re all watching you like a hawk as you approach the concierge. The lobby is grander than the one in New York, and you’re far more exposed as the woman behind it dips her head in greeting. Glancing over your shoulder, you spot a blond man sip his tea, dark eyes trained on your hands.

Watch the hands, not the mouth, Jardani’s voice warns you. It’s age-old advice that clearly you weren’t the only one privy to.

“Welcome to the Continental of Rome. How might I be of assistance?” the concierge inquires in Italian.

“I was wondering if Julius is in,” you reply in the same. The woman nods again, eyes searching deliberately over your face before picking up the phone and spinning the rotary dial. Your eyes search her face, lips twisted into a frown. The last time you were here, you don’t quite remember this woman. Last time, it’d been a man named Antonio, with light hair and a lively smile.

He liked to watch Casablanca, if you recall. You wonder what he’s doing now.

“How shall I announce you, Miss?”

Julius doesn’t know you as Persephone, and your true name balls up in your throat. The woman waits expectantly, but you shake your head.

“Persephone, but he knows me as passerota,” you say, the word coming out quiet in your mouth. “It’s his passerota.” The woman’s lips pinch tighter together into what you think could’ve been a smile before she lowers her head and speaks quietly into the receiver.

Then, a click and she lowers the phone.

“He is waiting for you on the roof.” Digging out a card from underneath the counter, the concierge slides it across the marble countertop. “And this is for you. One of our finest rooms, just below Sir’s should you need anything.” Confusion bubbling in your throat, you tilt your head at the gold card.

“I don’t have the money for that—”

“Someone has already booked it in your name for a month’s stay.” Taking the card, you feel a nagging feeling tug at your stomach as you pocket it. “The elevator is to your left. Enjoy your stay.” Nodding, your eyes flicker across your surroundings. Chatter had just started again although you’re more than aware of a few gazes that flit across your figure as you head for the lifts, hands grabbing onto the straps of your pack.

No one will break the rules, you tell yourself in an effort to calm your fraying nerves. Not even if they consider me a threat.

It is these thoughts that keep you from going to grab a gun and risking bullet holes punched into your skin.

And there still begs the question of who in god’s name paid for a month in one of the most expensive rooms?

Your thoughts go immediately to Jardani as the elevator slides into motion, and you smile. Of course he would. Even when he can’t help you, he would. It’s always been this way where he’ll bend the rules, cross faint lines, just to keep you off the streets and safe.

You make a note to send him a text once you charge your phone, but first, Julius.

As the elevator doors open, you can’t help the smile that pushes its way onto your face at the mere memories alone haunting this rooftop.

A lone figure sits by the edge, in the midst of his dinner. The balustrades golden orange in the fading sunlight, you step onto the rooftop. The stone floor slaps against your sneakers and you can feel the fading sunlight kiss your face as the elevator doors close behind you.

“When I was told Persephone of small Russian fame had landed in my city, I did not recognize the name. I expected a woman of cruel intent, harsh in her nature,” Julius calls, and even his voice rings the same. You let out a relieved exhale, your shoulders dropping and when he turns to you, you cannot make out his features in the shadows. “And then Gia tells me that my passerota has flown back to Rome, and I see it is just the opposite.”

“Julius—” Your voice cracks from pure exhaustion and he gestures to the chair across from him. Your stomach growls and you walk to the chair, trying to contain your excitement as you pull it out. Swinging off your backpack and laying it by your feet, you sink down into the chair and finally catch a glimpse of his face. An ease rests in his gaze, a familiar warmth engulfing his features, and your smile splits your face in two.

You’ve missed him.

“Hungry?” He gestures to his plate and your eyes fall to the tantalizing steak before him. You nod. You’re starving. “Good. I had the chefs prepare your favourite. Although, perhaps it has changed over the years, hm?”

“That depends on what you thought it was in the first place.” He smiles at that, his hands on the table as he chews, and you reach forward to hold the one grasping his fork. It’s as if the fatigue has been chased from your limbs just by the sight of him, and your smile softens. He sets down his fork, and twists his wrist to hold your hand. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“And you as well, my dear. You were little more than knee-high since I last saw you, and now—” He squeezes your palm briefly before returning to his dinner, and you sigh, withdrawing your hand and leaning on your elbows. He quirks an eyebrow at you, eyes raking over your dishevelled appearance, before his eyes find yours again— “I see a woman grown.”

“I guess John didn’t mess up too badly,” you tease. Julius tilts his head to the red wine sitting on the white tablecloth and you nod. A spare glass sits pristine, crystal in the sunset, and he pours the dark liquor, letting the red gleam as it splashes within.

“I would say he did quite well,” he agrees. “Now, why are you here?”

“I have work to do.” The elevator dings again and you crane your head to see a man pushing a tray out onto the roof. Cloches cover many of the dishes, and you shake your head to yourself, grinning at Julius. “How much did you order?”

“Enough to cover all of my bases concerning you, passerota. Thank you,” he adds to the server who merely bows his head and retreats back to the lift—a safe distance away to talk privately but close enough should the manager need something. “Take your pick. What you don’t eat will be at your disposal later in the night,” he invites and you chuckle, reaching to unveil a broiled salmon atop sweet potato mash, asparagus garnishing the edges. Bringing it to the table, you pick up a knife and fork and dig in, your stomach already crooning with the idea of food.

“How do you remember? I was here for all of, what, two weeks?”

“And you ate more than any little girl I’ve ever met,” Julius quips. “Whatever the cooks could concoct, you would sample and give your seal of approval. Hm, you decided on the menu for two weeks, remember?” The salmon melts in your mouth and you sigh in relief at the warmth it sends through your limbs.

“Yes. I remember Antonio was quite happy with me placing chocolate lava cake as the number one dessert for fourteen days straight,” you reply. The stretch of the smile is so welcomed you can’t help but chuckle. “He was getting old. I assume he retired?”

“Mmh. While he still could. But, business. You are not here to murder the Pope, are you?”

“No,” you chuckle. “I’ve switched employers, actually.” Dragging the fork between your lips, you smile at the sweetness of the potatoes. It feels like it’s been forever since you’ve been full, and the hollowing feeling Giovanni had printed into you slowly begins to disappear. “I’ve left the Russian Mob for Camorra.”

Silence.

Your smile drops when Julius simply slices into his steak, his eyes on yours as he brings the piece to his mouth. Then, his eyes leave yours, gazing out into the streets and you frown.

“What do you have to say?” you murmur, glancing down into your  own plate. Your fork twists in the pink meat as Julius exhales sharply, not quite giving you an answer and then you realize. “You don’t approve.”

“I don’t enjoy the idea of knowing that there are men better suited to protecting you,” he says simply, and you shake your head to yourself. Protecting me, you repeat in your head. Ridiculous.

Jardani couldn’t protect you from Tarasov. And if he can’t protect you, then no one can.

“Julius, I’m not a child anymore.”

“You are a woman,” he agrees, tone even, “but still young. Still growing. And Camorra, they will snuff out your light, my dear. I assure you that whatever salvation you believe they can give you, you will not find it. Camorra is a pit, and you are one of many desperate to climb out of it.” Julius’ gaze turns hawklike as he sets down his utensils and reaches for his wine glass. “If you don’t weave your own rope, you’ll wither away in the shadows and no one will care. It is the Camorra way.”

You want to say you know. You’ve always known that the only thing you can rely on is your own strength, but it’s different here, now. You don’t have anyone on your side. Not really. There’s no one you can rely on. There is no Jardani, no Winston, no one who can possibly shelter you. Not even Julius can withstand the might of Camorra should it rain down on the Continental, and the thought of this beautiful building nothing more than scorched rubble sends a chill up your spine.

You have no illusions of what Camorra is, and still you’d rather choose it over the Russians any day.

Clenching your jaw, bitterness swims in your mouth as you look at Julius, let him really look at you for the first time, and he blinks at the intensity behind your gaze. You keep your voice soft, dangerously so, as you ask, “Do you know what Tarasov did to me? After we left Rome and went to America.” You stab at an asparagus, the utensil clattering against the plate and your blood sings at the thought of plunging a knife into Tarasov’s throat. When Julius doesn’t answer, you jerk your gaze up and grit again, “Do you know what he did?”

And Julius concedes with a bow of his head. “No.”

“If you did know, you would know that whatever light you think you see in me cannot be extinguished after the hell I’ve survived in New York. I wouldn’t be here chatting with you over steaks and salmon if that light has gone out  And if you knew that Tarasov would sell me around like diamonds at an auction, and you still let him take me away from here…” Your voice darkens, although your next words do not need to be said. You would be dead.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting out a quivering breath, the memories of those dark rooms crowding into your head but you simply shake them away, build up the walls that won’t be enough to keep it out.

“I didn’t know.” Three simple words that bring you such assurance yet so much pain. Tarasov hid his tracks well. Cowardly secrecy always was his forte. He always hid behind Jardani, behind you, to do his dirty work

No longer.

“Good.” The finality of your tone strikes you cruelly in the chest and you know you’ve been cold but you don’t care. No one understands unless they’ve faced similar torment. They can try, but they never will. “I have no illusions on what D’Antonio can give me, but Camorra could never compare to the hell Tarasov put me through. I have clawed my way out of a pit once. I have no intention of rotting in the dark again.”

“I understand. Camorra has the power to keep you safe, but I’m merely asking you to be careful. Their sort is known to be a bit different. Old blood, and all of that.” They’ll root out weakness in their ranks, sieve it like sand, and I do not want to bury your body, he does not say but you hear it anyway. Julius is only looking out for you, you know that. Even as a child, you’re sure he’s the one of the only people who have ever cared about you. Those two weeks you spent here shadowing him had been the happiest moments of your life. Moments you clung on to when you closed your eyes on satin spreadsheets you could never afford and let them do whatever they wanted to you.

You’re not there anymore, a voice a lot like Jardani’s murmurs in your ear. You’ve left that life behind. You’re stronger than them, now. Stronger than him.

The dinner passes in a quiet you’re more than happy to rest in. Your eyes stay on your plate, and the only time someone speaks is when Julius points out that the sun has finally set, but you don’t acknowledge it. You’re barely swallowing food that feels bland in your mouth.

If you don’t play your cards right, you’ll fall back to where you started, and Jardani can’t pull you out of this one. He is an ocean away and, Giovanni was right, he cannot withstand the full power of a criminal empire.

The pit seems to cave in above you.

When you stand to go, you thank Julius for dinner, and he proposes to do it again some time.

You mean it when you say yes.

.

The room is huge.

It’s the first thing you notice when you enter. It’s bigger than any hotel room you’ve ever seen, even at the New York Continental when you shared a twin room with Jardani, and you can’t help but gape at how warm it is inside. The walls are a creamy white, the floor a dark wood, and the lights are a dim gold. It’s as if you’ve stepped into the Pantheon.

You toe off your shoes and close the door behind you, lips parting as you marvel at the huge canopy bed, its wispy white curtains tied to the posts, and it alone takes up most of the room. The pillows and comforter are bright white, arranged at the head of the bed, and you walk over, pushing your hand into the mattress. It seems to sink endlessly into the bed and you cannot imagine sleeping on something so soft, but you’re sure the staff will be more than willing to fix it if you don’t like it.

Might as well give it a shot, you muse to yourself, dragging your hand along the sheets. You sigh at the smooth cold brushing against your palms as you walk around the bed, your feet gliding across the heated floor.

A white cushioned bench is pressed against the foot of it, and a warm brown armchair sits opposite that with an accompanying ottoman footrest. You set your bag down on the armchair, relieving the ache in your shoulders before you turn, walking past the desk and to the balcony. Sliding the glass door open and stepping outside, you inhale deeply at the cooler night air as you lean on stone balustrade, glancing up at the moon.

The smell of wind sinks into your bones and you let out a relieved sigh. The view Jardani had booked for you is wonderful.

The night sky is dark, violet staining the canvas as you watch the life of Rome ignite in orange fires along the streets. You can still make people out, walking along, some even biking in the evening along the stone roads. They’re all living peacefully—no one is hurrying under the cover of an umbrella, and the streets aren’t vacant like they would be in New York if it were raining.

This is… different. The colours are warmer, and you can’t help the slight tug of your lips into a smile as you turn away and close the balcony door behind you. You’ll have time to admire your new city tomorrow. Now, you ought to shower, wash the day away before you can finally get some sleep.

The bathroom is nothing short of luxurious, the towels soft against your skin as you dry yourself. You’ve scrubbed every inch of yourself clean of any residual blood, any ick your meeting with Giovanni has left you with, and you pull on the robe, tying it tight around your waist as you comb through your hair. Stuffing your feet into slippers, you exit the bathroom and continue to explore your room.

The standard welcome note sits on the surface of the desk , along with a few chocolates, and you open the drawers. Nothing more than the standard notepad, Bible, and a list of numbers and services to call. You tuck the chocolate between the phone list and Bible.

You’ll save them for a rainy day.

Turning your gaze to the shelves, your eyes flicker over the glass art, little momentos. All of this, from the art to the huge size of the room, it’s overwhelming. You’ve never lived in so much extravagance.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Whipping around, you retreat from where you’d been reaching to pick up one of the glass pieces, and head for the door, wondering who on earth would visit you. Your feet stuffed in the slippers muffle the sound of your steps as you approach the door and peek through the eyehole. A man you don’t recognize stands there, waiting, and you adjust your robe tighter around yourself before you unlock the door and open it.

“Miss Persephone.” The man wears a tailored suit, his eyes steadily remaining on your face, and you frown. On his arms are a row of bags, designer, garment, and otherwise that you could never afford, and your eyes widen. “A gift to welcome you into our illustrious family.” Stepping aside, you let the man in and blink, unknowing what to say. Your mind wanders onto who could’ve done this as the man places the bags on the bench, slowly unpacking all the contents.

“What is this?” you ask quietly, closing the door and approaching the man. He looks up briefly before continuing, unpacking boxes. “Is this Santino’s doing?”

“In Camorra, we uphold a certain standard concerning a dress code.” At this, the man picks up a garment bag and unzips it to unveil a dark maroon pantsuit, clean and pressed. Your eyebrows rising, you cross your arms over your chest. “They are all tailored and fitted to you by the measurements of the New York Continental, and therefore, stay extremely accurate. Should you need adjustments, please do not hesitate to inform the Seamstress.”

“Of course.” Approaching the bed, you pick up one of the boxes to unveil a pair of stilettos. “But, I could’ve bought this with my own money.”

“From what we have heard, you have no assets to your name and messer D’Antonio expects appearances to be held up no matter your status. Therefore his son has commissioned for these outfits to be made at the earliest available time,” the man replies swiftly and you grimace. Paper tissue crumples as you watch him pull out a few hoodies, sweaters, and jogging pants that you don’t think fit under Santino’s radar and you frown. That, and no one knew what size pants and shirts you liked to wear besides Jardani.

“So, Santino purchased all of this?” you clarify, but the man just ignores you, folding up all the bags and holding them in his arms. He straightens up, nodding to you, and you open your mouth to protest at your apparent closet now splayed across your whole bed. “This doesn’t seem like his style.”

“I only have delivered what signor D’Antonio arranged for me to pick up,” he replies. “Tomorrow, you will report to this address at 6AM sharp and ask to see the Headmistress,” the man continues, pulling out a letter from his breast pocket and you take it, eyebrows knitting together. “There, you will give her this letter and begin your service to the Camorra Family.”

You take the letter and nod, eyes flickering to the address scrawled onto the envelope, and then to the man who offers a hint of a pleasant smile as he dips his head towards you.

“Good evening, ma’am. Welcome to Rome.”

And then he’s gone, the door shut behind him while you’re left alone.

What are you supposed to do with all of this?

The urge to put it away answers that. You put the envelope down on your nightstand and call the concierge to give you a wake-up call at around 5:15AM tomorrow morning before turning around and glancing at the organized chaos on your bed.

Picking up the first box of shoes, you carefully pull them out and set them on one of the empty shelves, admiring the gloss of leather before turning back, and your eyebrows scrunch together at the clear distinction on your bed: garment bags, jewelry boxes, and designer shoes; sweatpants, hoodies, Nike shoes.

You frown and push the thought out of your mind. Perhaps Santino did buy it all. Perhaps you had underestimated his idea of fashion.

Your closet is still half-empty once it’s all said and done, and you sit on the bench, staring at the dress and pantsuits hanging by themselves. They all seem to sway in some imaginary breeze, and you frown, a nibbling at your gut making you squirm.

You’ve never had this. Never had this much money to go around and spend so carelessly, and now… just the thought of it unsettles you. With Tarasov, he oversaw every spending, made calculations in your allowance depending on how much you spent or did not spend in the past month. It’s made you frugal with what you had, and you’ve never even thought of owning more than one designer item, and now, you’re sure more than half your closet are names you’d recognize anywhere.

How did one deal with so much money?

A thought for another time as a yawn tugs at your throat and you tear your gaze away from your closet. Glancing at your bed to make sure you haven’t missed anything before you go to bed, you spot a dark box, the only thing left on an otherwise empty bed. It’s small, unadorned, and sleek in your hand as you reach to grab it. Crossing a leg over the other, you frown thoughtfully.

You thought you had put away all the earrings and bracelets Santino had bought you—meaningless gifts, but you’re grateful for them nonetheless—but apparently not.

Pulling off the cover, you tilt your head once you catch a glimpse of the contents, and your fingers sink into the soft silk. You tug carefully, and it unfolds, brushing coolly against your wrist as you inhale sharply at the shade. Grey silk. The same shade as Jardani’s last gift to you, but it can’t be. Getting blood out of silk is a pain in the ass with how delicate it is, yet somehow…

Your heart hammering in your chest, you close your eyes and hold it to your chest. If you try hard enough, you can hear his voice telling you to get to bed, and you smile, pressing your lips into the fabric. The thought of Jardani lifts weights off your chest and you want nothing more than to scold you for staying up late, but this would have to be enough. The faint whiff of cologne and tobacco smoke clings to your sinuses, and you sigh, flipping it over in your hands to read the stitching.

Savior.

It’s like water is thrown over you, shockingly cold, and you read the stitching over and over again.

Only one man has called you that.

Hector.

Of course.

Smiling incredulously to yourself, you shake your head and try not to laugh as you bring it to your nose again, eyes peering into the box.

A rough, hand-written note on cardstock lays beneath the handkerchief and you pick it up, setting the silk handkerchief aside.

The cologne is stronger in the card, as if he’d sprayed it before he set in in the box, and your cheeks ache from how wide your smile is. On one side is a number you don’t recognize, and then you flip it over to reveal a short message.

Capitalize on the pool and gym. Order room service. That room comes with perks and it wasn’t cheap. Get back on your feet and prove that you’re not as weak as you put on.

Sorry about the jacket and the handkerchief. Navy’s a good colour on you, so I tried to stick to the theme.

See you around.

H

You read it over once, twice, and then the smile disappears.

Jardani had no hand in any of this.

Hector. It’s all Hector. The sweats, the room, it had all been Hector’s doing.

No fucking way.

But then you read the card again and you know there’s no other way to interpret his words.

You don’t know how to feel about the man’s kindness. You never expected this from him, and as you glance around your room, you wonder if he’s at home himself, resting and healing from that aching wound. You wonder if he’s as alone as you are.

Tossing the card aside, you look down into the final item left in the box. Set in velvet is a glass case, and within it is a single bullet. You lift it up carefully, your eyes inspecting the number on the barrel as you turn it in your hands, and you know immediately what it is. The bullet’s been wiped of any blood, and the glass is smooth to your touch as you set it down on your lap.

Cracking open the glass case, you pick up the bullet. About the length of your index finger, it gleams in the low light of your room and you twist it in your fingers.

“Come on, don’t be like that.”

“Like what? Like I care about you?”

“Yeah, like you fucking care about me.”

You set the bullet back into its case and stand, gathering his silk handkerchief and card as well. A honey-warm feeling oozes through your body as you place the card down on one of the shelves, setting the glass case on top of it before stepping back and admiring the gift.

“What if, if anything, this life has made me soft?”

Turning away, you climb into bed, handkerchief still tight in your fist.

“Then, you’re a fool.”

As you lie on your back, sinking into the mattress and with Hector’s gift firmly in your hands, you feel your heart stutter in your throat, and close your eyes.

Tomorrow, your new life truly begins.

You dream of gunshots and blood rivers, and in the midst of it all, tattooed fingers dragging you into the dark.

.

Jab. Duck. Punch. Kick.

Your blood is singing as you take down a man with a quick sweep of your foot.

“Better.”

Straightening, your head jerks to the entrance of the training room to see Hector looming by the door and you, panting, brush hair out of your face just as your opponent tries to lunge at you. Stepping aside, your eyes dart to your sparring partner as you duck underneath his arm, and he rolls onto his ass, grinning from ear to ear.

“Let’s call it quits, Step, before you embarrass yourself even more,” you tease, and your partner rolls his eyes, flopping onto your back. “Get up. I’ve got to deal with him,” you add, and the boy smiles crookedly, extending a hand towards you which you take to tug him up.

He jumps to his feet, head cocking as his gaze flickers to Hector, but you merely shake your head as if to say not worth asking and let go of his hand. Above, you can hear the Headmistress shouting at one of the children, and you mentally take note to check up on whomever is being punished this time around for one small slip-up. Step glances upward as well, and you give him a grimace-like smile.

I’ll deal with it later.

“Want anything to eat? I’m heading out after I shower,” Step says but you merely shake your head, playing with the wrappings around your wrist. He grabs his towel and water bottle, and you watch him bypass Hector, not missing the dirty glances they exchange as the older man walks in, and you turn to face him fully, beginning to unwind the wraps around your fists.

“Hey.” You smile, stretching and flexing your fingers as you undo your right fist. Shaking it, you let blood rush to your fingers before undoing your left wrap as he merely cocks an eyebrow. “What’re you doing here? Thought you hated it here.”

“There are prettier things to look at than the slums,” he agrees, vaguely disgusted, and you scoff, shaking out your left hand. Two months has seemed so much longer when all you do is train and complete mundane tasks at the issue of the Headmistress and Hector’s more than a sight for sore eyes. You’re too happy to see him, but you don’t mind as he jerks his head in the direction of the exit. “You’re getting chummy.”

“And I haven’t seen you in three weeks. Things change,” you retort, grabbing your bottle and hugging it to your chest. His eyes track down your arms and body, skin coated in sweat, and the raw hunger of his gaze still makes you shiver. Nothing’s truly changed, has it? “What, are you jealous?”

“Being friends with that chickenshit is not on my priority list, sweetheart,” he mocks, but you shake your head, insulted. “That bastard always manages to fuck up my day somehow whenever I see him. He’s like a bad luck charm.”

“Step’s not going to put shit in your pillow if you don’t give him a reason to, and you always do, so that’s your problem,” you respond coolly. Squirting some water into your mouth, you swish it around in your mouth as you approach the man. His maroon pin-striped suit is pristine and he tugs at one of his cuff links. It’s a suit that clearly needs breaking in, and you note the lapel pin gleaming in the light. He’s dressed for work and you frown warily. “Did the doctor clear you for work? He told me he gave you four months.”

“And you’re discussing my health with the doctor, now? I’ve been on administrative duty” he intones flatly, eyebrow rising and you aim the nozzle of your squirt bottle towards him, raising your own eyebrows. You’re not afraid to tease him about spraying him, and he merely cocks an eyebrow himself, unimpressed. “Don’t you dare.”

You turn the nozzle back towards you, shrugging and pushing another stream of water into your mouth. Swallowing, you turn back to the bench to grab your stuff, the cheeky smile digging into your cheeks.

“I bet that’s been thrilling.” Grabbing your towel, you sling it around your neck and wipe at your face. “What are you here for?”

“You have a meeting with Giovanni in forty-five minutes.” He crosses his arms over his chest, pale eyes clearly surveying your status while you glance at yourself in the foggy mirror in the training room. Step had gotten you good in the stomach with a kick, and you poke your stomach, testing how much it hurts before deciding to simply treat it when you get back to the Continental if it’s still a bother then. “I have better things to do besides being a little messenger boy so if you could speed it up, that’d be grand.”

“It almost sounds like you miss me,” you rib and Hector rolls his eyes as you wipe the sweat away from your face and neck, still regaining your breath. “Thanks for telling me.” The thought of Giovanni makes a cold snake slither into your gut and you suppress a shudder as you head for the exit. The smell of sweat lingers in the air and you close your eyes for a moment, steeling yourself. “Are you going to wait?”

Hector’s quiet for a moment, and you look over your shoulder to see him standing there, pale eyes following you.

He doesn’t answer, except he does, and it makes you smile.

“Hurry up.”

.

“This is absolutely ridiculous.”

“Hector, silence.”

There’s the sound of muffled shouting before a door slams, and you look down the hall to see Hector tugging at the lapels of his suit in an effort to look unbothered. His hair falls into his face and his lips are still twisted into a displeased snarl as he storms up to you. You push off the column, meeting his eyes unflinchingly and a certain lust dominates his face as he rakes his hair back violently.

“Get inside.” His voice is edged with a coldness to it that doesn’t shake you as you frown, eyes searching his.

“Are you okay?”

“Fuck off.” He takes your place against the column, crossing his arms and you regard him for a moment before heading for the office. You’ll either learn what’s got him riled up or you’ll ask him later when he’s cooled down.

Rapping your knuckles against the door, you hear Giovanni’s faint ‘come in’ before you push it open. He is sitting behind his desk, a fitted grey-suit barely creasing as he writes. The ruby ring on his finger glimmers in the light of the candle keeping the sealing wax melted. An unfinished glass of wine sits in the corner of the leather place mat, and you stand there for a moment until he acknowledges you.

“Sit.”

The chaise you sink into is warm, the leather soft underneath you and you keep your gaze steadily on the man, waiting until he looks up at you.

And when he does, your heart freezes in your chest.

“You’re still alive,” he begins, almost surprised and if you didn’t know how closely he was monitoring you, you would believe it. You don’t speak, and his gaze drops back to his letter. “Have you had the chance to read the results of the blood test?” he asks, sliding a paper towards you, and you catch your name printed at the top of the sheet before leaning back. You have the original copy stashed in the drawer of your desk back at the Continental.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. And are you pleased with the results?”

NOT PREGNANT.

“Yes, messer,” you say quietly. “If I was pregnant, I assure you I would’ve gotten rid of it at my earliest convenience.”

“Good. Then, you’re fit for a deal that will take place in Singapore in three days. Do make sure it does not go through.”

“Of course.” You move to rise but his head lifts, stalling you. You sink back onto the chair, eyebrows knitting together. Those dark eyes are bottomless, and you do not look away, do not blink. You don’t think you could if you tried. “Is there something else?”

“Hector will be accompanying you.”

You sit there, blinking as you try to digest the mere idea of Hector coming with you on your first mission outside of Italy, but Giovanni merely continues, “As he will be for the remainder of this year.”

Two months with a partner.

You’ve never had a partner for missions. Not even Jardani was your partner at any point on a contract.

“May I ask why?”

“The Headmistress is pleased with your progress.” Progress. The insult veiled as the drug deals and gun fights all way below your skill level, but money is still money no matter how much you deserve. “The children have made substantial improvement since your arrival.”

“I was doing my job.” Your voice comes out aloof, but your mind goes straight to the boys and girls training, running jobs tirelessly just for a chance to survive another day. That could’ve been you, in some other lifetime. You know that. You remember that every time you’ve had to help bury a body too small to be dead. “The children are talented,” you add quietly. “They learn quickly.”

“You have yet to disappoint.” Your eyes flicker from his face to the paper as he dips his pen into ink. “And do you like this gutter work, girl?” he inquires, the scratch of his pen tip against the paper filling what your words do not. Setting down his pen, Giovanni picks up his paper, eyes scanning his own words. “I expected Baba Yaga’s protegé to find this work meant for nobodies to be… unfulfilling, uncomfortable.”

It is, you want to spit. It is, and the children are the only thing keeping me sane in that hellhole. They provide more of a challenge than some of your cronies do on a good day. There was no challenge in the tasks you’d been given besides trying to get the kids to behave. Now, they know they can sneak candy and other treats out of you, and you always use whatever you could spare from the money you received when you were tasked with raiding warehouses with some low-level Camorra thugs to keep the children as happy as you could.

Happy children led to compliant children, but it seems that secret has yet to strike the Headmistress. You don’t say that, of course.

Instead, you reply stiffly, “I think if it is where you think I am needed, then it is what I’ll do.”

Giovanni smiles. It is flat, cruel, and the jaw in your muscle ticks as he folds the paper.

“Your compliance would be admirable, if it were honest.” He slides the letter into the letter smoothly, closing the envelope and taking the spoon of melted wax from the stand and pouring the dark red onto the envelope. “Your frustration is warranted, but your patience… I only hope your patience wears off on Hector in your time together.” The stamp schlecks as it leaves the cooling wax, and he extends the letter to you. You take it, eyes dropping to the Camorra seal.

“Yes, messer,” you murmur, fingers running over the warm seal, before you look up at Giovanni again, and the glint in his eyes frightens you to your very core.

“Give the letter to the Headmistress and tie up any loose ends. From now on, you report to me.”

.

The children don’t want you to go, and when the Headmistress is not looking, you let them cling onto you as if you’re their saving grace.

You’re sure some of these children won’t last more than a few months as you usher them into bed, and promise to return in the morning with treats, but you don’t linger on that thought. The idea of dead children in the streets, a sight you’ve seen more often than should’ve been allowed, should not be so dull on the senses anymore, but it is, and you wonder if some part of you died, seeing the innocence of these children stolen just as yours had been.

On your last day, you bring danishes and pastries from the Continental in a basket as a farewell.

The oldest boy there tells you he’ll take care of them like how you did.

You pat his head, and wipe the blood away from the new cut on his lip, before assuring him that you believe he’ll do great.

.

You think about the children as you’re driven to the airport, and you think that no one’s born a monster. Those children had light, barely, but still they had it, and you wonder if the man across from you has hidden it away to survive or if Giovanni had crushed it beneath his iron fist.

“I know you’re not happy about it,” you begin quietly. He hasn’t spoken to you since they’ve entered the vehicle, but you don’t know what else to say. “If it were my decision, I would’ve never dreamed of it.”

“Well, it wasn’t your decision so let’s not waste breath on false niceties,” he intones frigidly, looking out the window. Your eyes on Hector, you trace the bitter pinch of his mouth, the tension in his jaw, before looking into your lap.

“Hector, I don’t want us to be like this—”

“Sweetheart, I tolerate you enough to ignore your pointless chatter,” he says, head snapping towards you. His pale gaze pins you down and whatever words you were about to say die in your throat. “That doesn’t make us friends.” Your gaze holds his for a moment before he turns to look out the window again, and you bite your tongue.

The silence is near enough to choke you.

.

The job goes off without a hitch. Three clean shots, three dead.

Hector ignores you when you ask if he wants to catch some dinner before you head back to the Continental, and you wonder if you're the one he’s angry at to begin with.

[redbeanboi]

hi Signora Giuno!! I was wondering if you could do a stats/profile thing for Don Vito ? Even if it’s without a picture! I just want to know what the dad is like in BbP, thank you ~

gahhh !!! “signora giuno”?!! being addressed like this makes me feel like i should be looking after my son while secretly helping my husband run his criminal organization!! 

and yes, of course!! this will be a fun exercise for me. getting requests to do a character profile for an OC in Business Before Pleasure is so exciting!! I’m going to assume that we’re going to model this character chart after the ones in the manga? 

if so, I shall continue! without further ado:

maybe it’s because I initially based Don Vittorio on Don Corleone in The Godfather Part II, but I always picture Robert De Niro whenever I write him, except he has a mustache, really dark gray hair (he dyes it black every so often) and very tanned skin. 

Birthdate: 17 August 1944 (he’s a Leo! get it?? because he was born in CorLEOne?? i’ll shut up now)

Death date: December 2008 (haven’t found a specific date, but he’s 64 years old when he passes)

Blood type: AB

Height: 185cm (… yes, he is shorter than his son-in-law Giorno, who has shot up to the height of 195cm)

History: Don Vittorio was born in a very poor family and grew up in Corleone. Eventually joins the local gang at the age of 20 with his distant cousin, Matteo Barese. A few years later, he decides to pull a bloody acquisition and oppose his boss, who is very unpopular with the locals, treats his men like disposable pawns and threatens Vittorio’s parents. Goes to Calabria and asks the boss of the ‘Ndrangheta, Don Arnaldo Oscuro for an alliance; seals it with a marriage pact and marries Arnaldo’s sister. Quickly takes over his faction in Corleone and moves on to take over the bigger and powerful gang in Palermo. The other factions fall in line after and swear themselves to the new boss. Subsequently named the “capo di tutti capi” (or “boss of all [the] bosses”) for uniting all of the small factions in Sicilia into one large organization. In comes the new era for Cosa Nostra.

((You might notice that this acquisition/backstory is a slight nod to Don Corleone taking over Hell’s Kitchen and killing Don Fanucci in The Godfather Part II as well as Robert’s Rebellion and Aegon’s Conquest in A Song of Ice and Fire))

Hailed as a conquerer among his men and just like Don Corleone in The Godfather, opposes narcotics, but not for the reason you might think! Don Vittorio thinks narcotics will make politicians less inclined to work with him, so that’s the main reason he decides to push them away from his own gang. He doesn’t think that narcotics are any different from illegal gambling in terms of its effects on people—understands that both do plenty of harm. 

Eventually has one son, named Santino, who dies at the age of 22 (along with his wife, son and mother), thanks to Passione. Meets the reader around 1992, when she is approx. 8 years old and takes her in as his daughter soon after.

Personality: Solemn, intelligent and pragmatic, which ultimately helped him become a boss at a fairly young age (mid 20′s). Losing many family members due to Sicily’s violent and chaotic living conditions has made him very protective of his own family and dearest subordinates. He is the one responsible for coining the motto that every single one of his men follow: “famigghia obbricu, unuri.” Charming, distant and polite to most, but with his family—and especially his daughter—Vittorio is a very loving person. He’s not someone you want to mess with, but if you want to hurt him where it counts, you should probably go after his daughter… just hope you can live to tell the tale if you’re stupid enough to try and hurt her.

Favorite book: I Malavoglia by Giovanni Verga

Favorite movie: La Dolce Vita (1960)

Likes: Sicilian lemons (Don Vittorio actually owns his own citrus grove in Palagonia, Sicilia), Natale (because he gets to spend time with family!), studying history, listening to classical music, spending time with his daughter Y/n and his grandson Giuseppe 

Dislikes: People who eat pizza with a knife and fork, men who try to talk to his daughter, spending money (except when it comes to his daughter/the wedding)

–

A/N: AHH, this was so fun!! I’m so sad he’s passed away in the fic already… but don’t think you’ve seen the last of him yet. he’ll be coming up here and there in the future.

let me know if any of you want one of these profiles for other characters like Don Elio, Pesca, Ciabatta, etc. thank you for sending this in and i hope you have a nice day/evening!

[spoopyghostgirl]

No Other Way (A John Wick Fic)

Fandom: John Wick

Name: No Other Way

Fic name inspiration: No Other Way by Sinead Harnett + Snakehips

Pairing: (John Wick X oc X Zero) [Cassian X oc X Santino D'Antonio]

Word Count: 3,494

'Amber eyes,' Zero noted dutifully, dark eyes unwavering as he watched the young woman before him. She sat at the counter of his restuarant, a pair of wayfarer sunglasses on her face, Zero having finally seen her hidden gaze when she looked over them at the kitty that had hopped on the counter.

"Hallo, miene süße katzechen," the menu she had been skimming over was forgotten immediately, Pochi having stolen her attention. "Bist du gekommen, um ein paar kostenlose Fische zu holen," she continued, her fingertips burying themselves in the fur of the purring creature. Pochi rolled into his back, shooting a glance over in Zero's direction, the icy blonde haired woman following the creatures gaze. "Ist der nette Attentäter dein Vater," Pochi purred enthusiastically in response, stretching his long white arms up and wrapping them around the womans wrist. "Wie unfair von dir, solch ein süßes Wesen in deinem Haus zu haben," retracting her hand from Pochi, the white haired woman turned to him. Zero, who had frozen at her observation of being an assassin, watched as a coy grin spread across her lips. "Keres," she spoke in a way of greeting, right hand extending towards him.

"Zero," he hesitated briefly, eyes slightly widening when something cold and circular pressed against his palm. Pulling back he found a silver coin in his hand. It was similar to the coins traded amongst assassins and the like for varying jobs and resources but this coin was more intricately patterned. A skull with a crown upon it was in the center surrounded by a circle. Moving out from the center was what looked like olive branches surrounding it. 'Quod. Debitum. Sanquine.'

"My associates wish for you to meet them at the continental," her English was smooth, sounding of an American rather than the foreigner that she likely was. Pushing herself to her feet, she reached out her right hand once more to affectionately stroke Pochi, a content smile slipping across her lips. "And Zero," he was surprised that the woman had turned her back to him, her head turning slightly so she could glance back at him. "I would not suggest keeping them waiting," with that, she stepped out into the rain, an all black umbrella seemingly appearing above her head. Brown met brown, a dark skinned man having stepped closer to the white haired woman so they could share the umbrella. "Cassian," she spoke his name firmly, drawing the mans attention from him. "You know how much your mistress hates having to wait," his jaw clenched but he made no move to step into Zero's restuarant. Cassian was a Canis, a hound of the Table and their families. He had sworn his loyalty to Gianna, the younger child of the D'Antino clan. In that time he had grown to love the woman, his life having become tied to hers so deeply that it had been bonded in blood. Opening the car door to the black jetta that had pulled up to the restaurant, Cassian allowed his companion in first before following after.

"Almost as much as you love playing messenger," this caused the white haired woman to grin, her right hand reaching up to absently run through her short hair.

"Anything to get away from Michael," Cassians muscles tensed, feeling the overwhelming urge to comfort her. Things had been tense between the pair, Lucifer having been chosen as the family head and face of the table. 'But she declined, instead requesting to remain active and allow her elder brother to take the lead in their family.' It had been quite the scandal, Lucifer having embodied everything the table stood for. 'And now, she is a adjudicator,' the highest member of their society, only sitting below those who sat at the table. A warm hand wrapped around her own, Cassian grinning at how chilled her skin was.

"Now now, cant have you turning into an ass-sicle," Lucifier grinned, turning her hand over to squeeze Cassians. "That came out wrong," he muttered, attempting to pull his hand away, only for Lucifer to tighten her hold on him.

"You always know just what to say Cass," she flirted, Cassians cheeks coloring at her obvious teasing.

"See, and this is why some assassins think you slept your way to the top. You God damn shameless hoe," Lucifer full on laughed then, releasing her hold on her friend.

"You adore me and we both know it," the car rolled to a stop, Cassian exiting first before offering Lucifer his hand. "What a gentleman," rolling his eyes, Cassian made to pull the umbrella away from her only for her hand to close around his. "Dont you dare," Cassian grinned at the daggers she glared at him, stopping only when they entered the continental. Cassian stopped to shake the water from their umbrella, Lucifer crossing the lobby to Charon, the concierge of New Yorks continental.

"Good afternoon, mistress," Keres smiled at the polite greeting, watching as Charon reached his hand under the counter and pulled out a jingling satin pouch. "For you from Master Black," Lucifer accepted the gift, not stopping to count it before she slipped it into the inside pocket of her jacket.

"Thank you, Charon, and did there happen to be any messages for me?" The bald man nodded, producing a plain but worn white envelope, Lucifer doing her best to suppress the smallest slivers of a smile.

"Marcus hand delivered it himself," Grin smiled at the mention of the older man. He had been keeping casual tabs on an old acquaintance of theirs, Lucifer having been happy to hear that the man had found what he had been searching for. 'Though, it is rather unfortunate he couldn't find it in you,' her lips pressed together painfully at the thought. He had wanted out of the only life they had both known and when he said he was ready to jump, Lucifer had clutched the railing and watched him dive to freedom. 'I'm sure she is able to make him much happier than I could have,' Lucifer shook her head, stepping into the elevator that would take them to the higher levels, Cassian having to shimmy in before the doors closed.

"Hey, blondie, watch it!" Grins amber gaze snapped up to her frowning companion, Cassian carefully tugging his jacket free from the elevator doors. "What's got you so distracted,"

'Distractions are what gets someone like you killed,'

"Nothing," her lips twitched but her neutral expression held. 'Always so bad at lying to your friends,' Cassian sighed but didnt push the matter, stepping slightly back so he stood behind her. Pinching her eyes shut, Lucifer steadied her mind, her shoulders squaring, and her back straightening. Her golden gaze flickered open as the doors moved apart, revealing the roof of the continental.

"Well well well, if it isnt Lucifer Black," Keres frowned, golden gaze moving to land on her elder brother. Beside him stood the manager of the continental, Winston, a dark colored drink clutched in his hand. To her brothers right were the D'Antino siblings, Santino looking uninterested and aloof while Gianna looked worried, her hands worrying at one another.

"Michael," she greeted, face a calm mask of indifference. "It is a pleasure to be seeing you again," she continued absently, the protocall she was set to follow being ingrained in her personality. "As well as seeing the two of you," Santino smirked, stepping forward to take her hand in his own.

"The pleasure is mine, my love," Santino flirted, raising her hand to his lips. Gianna rolled her eyes behind her brother, the pair having both been pinning after the fair haired woman in their youth. 'And despite how firmly Lucifer has denied his advances since turning down her position at the high table, he still hasnt stopped.'

"You flatter me, Santino," she turned to glanced around herself, pulling her hand back. "Zero should be arriving at any moment now," she spoke off handedly, golden gaze moving past the four man group before her.

"Our fathers are waiting within the garden for you and your associate," she nodded, she and Cassian moving forward towards the entrance. "Not you, Canis, father has no reason to see you." Dark eyes hardened, Lucifer stopped,

"That is not a decision you get to make, Michael. I chose Cassian for this, just like you choose the ninja and his followers." Michael's jaw clenched but he made no move to stop the pair, Cassian trailing slightly behind the younger woman. Pushing open the double glasses doors that lead into the large greenhouse that sat atop the continental of New York, Lucifer inhaled deeply. "I really do love the smell of this place," she spoke offhandedly, trying to cool the heat that had surrounded her at her brothers unnecessary harshness towards Cass. 'He has my place at the table, the least he can do is be civil towards those I surround myself with.' Her thoughts moved absently to both the pouch of coins and letter she had slipped into her inner pocket. 'Jardani,'

"Hallo meine süße Sonnenblume," Lucifer tensed, light eyes moving up to land on her father. He was a man of average height with mocha skin and large almond colored eyes.

"Hallo, Herr," he smiled at her formality, dark eyes moving from his daughters bowed head to his partner.

"Hello my sweet," her golden gaze moved to a deeply tanned man with a warm smile and brown, almost black eyes. "It is wonderful seeing you again, despite it being for a job." Giovanni D'Antonio stepped forward, wrapping his arms around the slim young woman. Lucifer felt her body tense, golden eyes moving to her fathers hawk like gaze. Slipping her arms around the older man, she gave a tight squeeze, smiling warmly at him as they separated.

"Hello, Gio, it is always wonderful seeing you." He grinned broadly, dark eyes moving to her father. She kept her face warm despite the irritation she felt. Ever since she had turned 16 Giovanni had an... concerning level of interest in her. Something her father was always happy to use against him. Turning his dark eyes, Giovanni smiled, having always been rather fond of the dark skinned man to her right.

"And young Cassian, how wonderful it is that you were hand chosen by sweet Luci to complete this mission with her. I know now that this contract will be taken care of quickly and efficiently." Cassian bowed his head, dark eyes briefly moving to Lucifer.

"Thank you, sir, Lucifer and i will complete this task and make both you and the table proud." Giving a nod, Giovanni looked back to Lucifer, a brow arched.

"Did you give the man your true name?" Shaking her head he nodded, unsurprised. 'Its been quite the long time since shes gone by her given name.' "Keres it is, then, though I do find myself wondering. Did you tell him how we feel about being kept waiting?" She opened her mouth to respond when the doors behind her opened.

"Good afternoon, I apologize for the delay," he informed, the thick Japanese accent he had had at restaurant completely vanishing. Frowning, Lucifer turned her gaze to him, finding his dark brown eyes flickering around the green house. 'An act?' She wondered, figuring he had to be quite the actor to have not broken character during their discussion. 'Maybe he did not realize the position I hold...,' she watched as a smile slid across his lips, left hand moving absently over one of the herb plants he passed to join them.

"It is quite alright, Zero, we were just going to start now." Reaching her right arm out she grabbed Zeros arm, pulling him closer to the trio before her father reached to his right, pulling on a lever that protruded from the ground. Zero glanced over at the white haired woman, his hand having moved to grab hers, expecting an attack. Lucifer arched a brow but made no move to harm the man, merely removing her hand from his.

"Thank you," she nodded, the platform they stood on lowering several levels in a dimlightly lit shaft before clicking to a halt in an all black room. Lucifer's eyes adjusted quickly, being able to see the outline of her companions before her eyes closed, bright white lights flickering on around them. Her eyes opened, finding neither Zero or Cassian had moved, Cassian subtly watching their newest companion warily. Lucifer stepped forward, following her father and Giovanni off the platform, Cass and Zero finally following her after Zero moved first. They were lead through another set of glass doors before they came upon an all glass room. "Cool," Zero exclaimed softly, Lucifers lips twitching into a grin despite herself. Moving across the glass floor, Lucifer made her way to a glass table, taking a seat while her father and Giovanni stood at the head.

"Gentlemen, if you'd be so kind as to join us," once more Zero moved first, Cassian watching him closely. Placing her hand on the back of the chair next to her, Cassian sat down in it, Zero sitting across from the pair. Abraham smirked behind his hand, dark eyes moving to Giovanni, his lips twitching into a tight lipped frown.

"Now, I'm sure you're wondering why we have gathered you here," Abraham started, picking up a black remote off the glass table. "It has come to our attention that there have been some rumors going around. Rumors of murders through out the ranks, an assassin amongst assassins. After careful consideration, we have decided that you all would be first to know that the rumors are... true." Zero and Cassian looked shocked, Cassian casting a quick glance in Lucifers direction. 'She already knew,' Zero noted, unsurprised now that he felt he was getting a clearer image of who the woman was. 'An adjudicator, ' the face of the high table. "We have gathered the three of you today because you've been selected to take the lead on fishing out any moles within our organization and eliminating those who stand against us." Abraham paused, dark eyes moving over the trio, lingering on his blank faced daughter.

"That is, if you choose to accept the task. For you, Zero, your students would be expected to take part in this assignment. We understand if you need to decline our request if you feel that they are unprepared-,"

"I accept." Zero interrupted, "my students are more than ready to take on this task."

"And you, Cassian, do you accept?" Cassian looked to Lucifer, her face blank. 'I wont make this choice for you,' he could almost hear her thoughts. Turning back to Abraham, he gave a nod of his head.

"Yes, I accept," the tv screen shifted, photos of dead Canis decorating the screen.

"At first, they started with newer members of our society, children really, that they could take out easily. We tried warning them and that's where the rumors began but that wasnt enough. They continued to fall and so, we sent in those trained to protect those at the table. We thought they would succeed but it seemed they were prepared. Many were lost but we were able go get a better idea of what's going on and who their main targets are." The screen shifted, Lucifer recognizing all of the faces that not littered the screen. Her eyes narrowed, focusing on their chests and stomachs. 'They-,'

"As you can see, they carved the high tables names into them." Lucifer looked to Giovanni, his jaw flexing, clueing her off to the anger and worry he felt.

"And, from what we gathered, they were alive when this happened." Cassians jaw clenched, seeing his brethren slaughtered in such a way.

"So we have someone whose hatred for the table runs deep, likely a personal vendetta against the members." Lucifer spoke up, grabbing the attention of her companions. "Which means, it will be unwise to trust those outside if this room. Anyone could be the traitor," Giovanni hummed in agreement, looking to Abraham.

"Correct but, with how the table operates, it would be best to keep our friends close and our enemies even closer. That's why Keres here will be venturing out into the streets of New York tomorrow, meeting with both the Director and the Bowery King." 'Mistress...,' she closed her eyes, thinking of the tattoo she had been given, showing that she once served the older woman. "Winston has already been made aware of what is going on, the three of you have rooms reserved and paid for for you for the next several weeks here in the continental." Sticking his hand into his inner jacket pocket, he pulled out a large red satin pouch, placing it neatly in Lucifers hands. "To pay for your trips to other continentals. We arent sure if they stick to our policies but we believe it's for the best if you all stay near one another." Turning away, Abraham looked up at the screen, Lucifer recognizing Alejandro, the man who had acted as her fathers Canis for the last 25 years. "All of you are dismissed now, if you have any questions, Keres knows how to reach us. Lucifer gave a nod, pushing herself to her feet, Cassian following soon after.

"Zero?" Lucifer questioned, realizing the bald man hadn't moved to follow after the pair.

"I have questions, if the two of you have time to spare." Lucifer made eye contact with her father, the dark skinned man nodding, Lucifer taking that as a good enough sign that her father was fine. Grabbing Cassians wrist, she pulled the taller man from the room, the pair ending up in a long hallway, the door behind him all but vanishing into the wall.

"How long," Lucifer turned, Cassians dark eyes narrowed at the wall over her shoulder. "How long did you know that he was-," his eyes pinched shut, Lucifers betrayal weighing heavily between them.

"2 weeks," Cassians eyea snapped to her, Lucifers gaze unwavering. "Neither Abraham or Giovanni thought we should tell you in advance. They did not want you to agree to join because you would wish to seek vengeance." She paused, stepping closer, her hand dropping to grab his. "Cass, I know how close you and Alejandro were-,"

"Did you? He was like a father to me and you knew that! Yet you waited TWO WEEKS," Lucifer stepped closer, right hand sliding over his mouth.

"Cassian, please, we need to continue this somewhere else." Her voice lowered, light eyes searching his face. "Please," his jaw clenched but he moved, leading Lucifer back to the suite she would continue staying in. Lucifer opened the door, Cassian entering first, jaw clenched. Lucifer turned to lock the door, her mind a calm sea despite the anger that she could all but taste rolling off her companion. Turning, she gasped, Cassian having suddenly closed the distance between them.

"Why," she gulped, light eyes flickering between his heated gaze and a spot on the wall behind him.

"The table thought it best," he scoffed, whirling on his heel, stopping across the lavish room. "Cass, please-,"

"I never would have kept something like this from you." The hurt in his voice stopped her in her tracks, Lucifer realizing that he wasnt angry but hurt. Cassian perched himself on the side of the bed, Lucifer moving across the room to crawl across the bed and sit behind him.

"I just wanted you to be with someone when you found out or get the news from someone else," she spoke softly, reaching forward with her right hand, and lacing their fingers together. "You're my closest friend, Cass, I wanted to be here for you. I'm sorry I waited so long," Cassian turned to her, reaching up with his left hand to stroke her cheek. Sighing, he leaned his head forward, pressing their foreheads together.

"I forgive you," Lucifer smiled widely, brushing their noses together. "Don't start trying to be cute, I may have forgiven you but that doesnt mean I'm happy with you." He leaned slightly away but the smile on his face gave away his lie.

"Mmmm, you adore me and you know it," she teased, tensing when the look in his eyes shifted.

"I really really do," Lucifer leaned forward, connecting their lips. 'Anything to get him to stop looking at me like that.' Despite the passion shared between the pair, Lucifer found herself unable to love Cassian in the way that she new he deserved, her love having belonged to another. A man she had fallen for as a child. A man who had abandoned the life they had lived together. A man who asked her to leap into a new life with him. The man she watched ride away into a life she new she'd never get to live.

Jardani Jovanovic.

The baba yaga.

Or simply know as Jonathan Wick.

[gorbalsvampire]

The other day, I was thinking about the cringe effect of Orpheus – the way my little old man came across to younger players as washed up, raging on the Internet and generally impotent and pathetic.

At the time I chalked it up to his being a very Gen X character facing a Gen Z audience. He was cool in the 1990s… for a very 90s value of cool. He's a second edition guy in a V5 world.

But… it's more than that. He's also my most "teenagers think this is cool" character. Rocknrolla, guitarist with a gangster past and a ghost eye, he fucks but in a kind of Vettriano basic-kink way, his wardrobe'a all black everything. He's a character from the mind of someone who thinks The Crow is a goddamn masterpiece.

I feel slightly embarrassed by this, but also… this is part of the age play aspect. When he used alchemy to age himself up he was trying to get closure on his old life, but also – he was 25 when he died, in 1994, and he DID think The Crow was aspirational. He is, now, the kind of slightly cringe cool old guy a slightly cringe 90s twenty something wanted to be, and… IDK, there's something deconstructive about all this that I find weirdly compelling.

[gorbalsvampire]

PRIDE ASKS: FOR ORPHEUS NADIA AND SORCHA

1 + 2 + 3

GENDER

Orpheus is... mostly cis male. He's given some thought to the Potion of Trans Your Gender, of course, but it's something he'd want to play around with for a weekend, not commit to long term. But the performance of cis masculinity? Not really. He's goth. Guyliner and fancy fabrics aren't really peak str8 boi behaviour.

Nadia is mostly cis female. Since she mussed her hair up she can pass for a teenage boy, with a binder and a big leather jacket, but it's not a thing, it's just something she can do when she wants to be incognito.

Sorcha is girl-adjacent. She/they. Her gender is "goblin." She likes being a freaky little scrawny baldie thing hovering on the edge of the whole mess, but she doesn't actively identify as any sort of boy.

ORIENTATION

They're all bisexual.

Call it the benefit of a decadent upbringing. Call it simple common sense for Kindred - you can't go hungry because of gay panic or "no homo." Call it the dirty secret of the Giovanni family: like every claim to propriety they stake, their "traditional values" are only skin deep.

That said, there are distinctions.

Orpheus is... weird about women. Head full of his family's bullshit, then decades of situational trauma from his "if my wife doesn't get two orgasms a night every night you're a dead man" situation. He's much more chill in relationships with men.

Nadia was closeted for most of her mortal life. Probably in deep denial until she got a good look at Jenni and realised that spooky girls are pretty girls. Wasn't that long afterwards that she realised that included her. And then she... proceeded to not do anything with this intelligence for ages, because she was being good. Now that she's been Embraced, she has room to... stretch.

DISCOVERY

Orpheus has been casually interested in guys for a long time, but he was always the third wheel in Driftback (Paul and Carlos shared one semi-legal grotty bedroom in the Alexandria, he had the other). Post-Embrace he was hardwired into compulsory heterosexuality, but he was on very good terms with his Sabbat contact Tremolo for... some reason. Chez was the first to actually drag him into a meaningful relationship, get him to do more than just flirt.

Nadia discovered her bisexuality at the point of a loaded Tremere. It was... an exploitable weakness, and she felt terribly betrayed when it turned out Jenni was only interested in her grimoires. (This isn't strictly true: Jenni did fancy Nadia, probably still does, but exploiting the people she cares about is kind of her defining character flaw.)

Sorcha figured herself out at school. She'd always had close girl friends, and been told off at her Italian primary for kissing them; in her Scottish secondary she gravitated to the other deep cover queer kids and, y'know, she's from the "read theory" generation, she learned a good chunk of her English from AO3, she figured out what turned her on from The Internet.

[gorbalsvampire]

For Sorcha and Orpheus

❤️ 🤍 and 🎂 (for the astrology girlies out there~)

❤️ RED HEART — what are three of your oc's positive traits?

Sorcha is generous. She likes her money and her insights and her alchemy to get out there and make her friends, and she gives away more than she ought sometimes, because she wants friends and making herself useful helps there.

Orpheus cares. He's very earnest, and he's very seldom lied, and he wants the people he cares about to Not Suffer if it's in his power. He is aware of what his diablerie-charged Banes do, and he tries to isolate others from that; from the physical pain and the inevitable entropic collapse.

Both of them are very loyal people. Orpheus takes a minute to warm up, Sorcha tends to go ride or die very quickly, but either way, once you've got them they're friends for life.

🤍 WHITE HEART — what are three of your oc's neutral/questionable traits?

Sorcha is generous for a Dunsirn, and as a Dunsirn she knows the value of a debt. When she decides to set a price, it's exorbitant. She plays the Eternal Struggle better than anyone expected, and she's quite capable of screwing over the same people in three different ways at once if it means she gets the bag.

Orpheus is self-absorbed. Everything is his responsibility, his problem, his fault. It makes him invested but it also makes him insufferable. Fucking martyr complex.

Both of them are moral hypocrites who pride themselves on being "the good one" right up until they have to actually DO something. The fact is, Sorcha's a landlord, a drug dealer and a necromancer, and while she has a soft heart, she also has a hard head and she's not gonna stop doing the things she profits from. Orpheus likes hurting and controlling people - he's much, much more into it than is healthy - and all his boundaries can be compromised if, for instance, he's in a bad mood and just really wants to eat someone.

🎂 BIRTHDAY CAKE — when is your oc's birthday? how old are they? what are their sun, moon, & rising signs (if known)? what about their tarot card, ruling planet, & ruling number (if known)? do they fit the typical traits of these sun, moon, & rising signs?

Orpheus? 6 December, 1969. He'll be 55 this year. Sagittarius sun, Scorpio moon, Leo rising, and two out of three are spot on. He's not a typical Leo... he was, when he was alive, but it's been a long thirty years. Tarot? The Chariot and the Tower. Prone to catastrophising, given to romanticise the past, but self-mastered and driven and able to reinvent.

Sorcha? 22 January 2000. She is twenty-four years old. Aquarius sun and ascendant, Leo moon, and that's pretty accurate. Sorcha IS unconventional, anti-authoritarian, eccentric; can't not push a boundary, just wants to be loved. Tarot? Same as Orpheus. And they ARE very alike in those respects.

[gorbalsvampire]

Number 3 and number 18 for sweet Santino/Orpheus!

3. How did you choose their name? 

It means "little saint" and, considering he was supposed to be the least awful of his immediate family, it felt – not dramatically ironic, but almost spiteful, a name that his nose could be rubbed in every time he was too soft.

"Orpheus" was my partner's suggestion. They were in the room while I was RPing him bullshit drunk with the other Hearts, falling in love and REALISING they'd fallen in love, and he said he wanted a stage name too.

Numerous characters have pointed out the various ironies, but he likes it.

18. What was the most recent thing you discovered about them?

He's been a frontman/lead guitarist and he's had his moments of ego, but he actually prefers playing bass on stage. He's a virtuoso, he knows how good he is, and real keen ears know it too. It's the background stuff – basslines, hooks and studio tinkering – that he enjoys.

[gorbalsvampire]

For the OC Ask! #18. What is the most recent thing you’ve discovered about your OC??

Every month brings a fresh revelation about Why Orpheus Is Like This. January's was "he just wants to be taken seriously for once in his goddamn life."

He's good at what he does, but who in la famiglia GIovanni gives a shit about a musical prodigy with cult fame and indie credibility? It's not the more, the much, the most, it's not blood and money and death.

That trickles down into the personal, too. It's not that he's not smart, but he's a little slow to catch on, and he ends up impotently angry after the fact rather than successfully protective. It's not that he's not badass, but his kind of earnest white-knight broken-bird shtick is considered at worst a red flag and at best deeply cringe. The Crow has dated badly. He's a second edition character in a fifth edition world, and he's really feeling it sometimes. Neonate on the cusp of either making it to ancilla or burning out as Time Moves On.

[gorbalsvampire]

For the OC ask thingy!

4. In developing their backstory, what elements of the world they live in played the most influential parts? 

(Besides VAMPIRES! I mean 😆)

Fucking hell... ask me the hard ones, Marshie...

OK. Sorcha's original concept was very much Of The Social Media Age. She's an Instagram vampire, an underground party planner, a drug chemist, she's had at least one Vice article written about her. That aspect got played down as she became more #harrowcore over time - actually, that's another thing, the NA necromancy novels that have come out in the last few years have definitely pulled me in a different direction. Sorcha would not be as she is now without Ninth House, Harrow the Ninth, The Library of the Dead... I can drop literary influences for her because she's listened them all as audiobooks and that's part of her goth gril deal.

Alistair's history is inextricable from Glasgow's, in the twentieth century. He's the character I have a full CV worked out for, the spots where he intrudes into and overwrites real historical figures are clear, the incidents which led to his ghouling, jailing and Embrace are all there, he clawed his way out of the Gorbals and their glow up is his as well.

Luciana has an aesthetic influence. Venice is a wonderful city in which to be an old vampire - elegant and decaying, timeless and under siege by modernity, tourist trap yet people still live and work and study there. I will die mad that V:tM closed it off so effectively by saying GIOVANNI TURF and putting the majority of the player base off the place entirely, but it also plays directly into my hands so I'm not going to complain about it too much. But anyway: the rot and romance and fragility and the kind of... authenticity, but also the reality that it is a living city, that the airport is just over there and the cruise ships make the foundations shake, and real death is not pretty and romantic, it's rank and arbitrary and carnal? That's where Luci comes from.

Santino is about the music. Of course he is. He is inextricable from that Eighties-Nineties period of music culture where print journalism was a thing, indie wasn't a genre, and specifically the turning point where goth was deemed Unfashionable and grunge was everywhere. The moment it all crystallised for me was writing the fake Quietus snipped about Driftback: how if they'd come along ten years earlier they'd have been goth rock superstars, ten years later and they'd have been up there with your female-fronted-gothic-metal boom. That sense of being out of time is core to Santino. It comes to all vampires eventually, and he was dealing with it before he was even Embraced.

Penny is a Bond girl gone bad. There's no other way of putting it. She was always rooted in that Cold War spy-versus-spy drama, even though her origins have shifted further back to Bletchley Park and Edwardian England. Her exaggerated Englishness is a bit she can't put down now that the Sabbat has burned out so much of her selfhood, too: she's an alien, she's a legal alien, she's a Camarilla English girl in Sabbat Arizona.

Riley was deliberately engineered around a sort of Tipping the Velvet point: Victorian queerness and gender and sexology vaguely simmering away in the backstory. I'd been reading A Bitter Remedy and Daughters of Night earlier in the year so I think "historical queerness and class barriers" were definitely in the mix.

[gorbalsvampire]

art by @sluggybunny

*posts OC x canon mushy commissions and runs away screaming*

OK OK look... I don't know what it is about Nadia either. Maybe it's the closeted bisexual coding (stuttering over any sufficiently attractive interloper during the Italian Dinner quest), maybe it's that she'd make a better Giovanni than any of the actual candidates up for the Proxy Kiss that night, maybe it's sexy bite times on the autopsy table...

She's barely in the goddamn game and yet she lives in my head rent free. Her pastel look is thanks to Sluggy and I uniting in our dislike of that dress and headcanoning that she has more money than her taste can deal with so all her looks are just a little bit... off.

Anyway, here we see what she was thinking about when Jenny gatecrashed her family's party in LA, and the ascendant Santino Giovanni making a promise he may, perhaps, have to keep one day.

[the-darklings]

Would you ever consider writing for Giovanni and Emilia, I think they’re really interesting characters and I interesting to see the parallels between them and V and Santino. Like how did they meet, how they were together , how he was before her death.You really created something new and original with them and I love your work. I’m very excited to see what you do with your OCs in the future cause honestly love them all and they are amazing . Thank you for sharing your work with us it’s a true blessing .

hello!!

so yes, this question has crept up a few times now actually. people seem to really like their story despite - or perhaps because - of its tragic conclusion. And I have considered writing a short story for them post-coa (since jw movie verse is not concluded but coa will have its own ending not covering jw4 or 5, or any future movies) and since the sequel for coa was scrapped long ago, I always kept my options open about writing extra content/aus/mini-stories after the main body of the story is finished.

coa discord has even helped me pick out faceclaims for both giovanni and emilia a while back, and honestly, their dynamic has always been extremely interesting to me. very, very heavy parallels with s/v, and it was always intended to be that way. giovanni is going to be part of npfh too (a lot of camorra is carrying over because I came up with basically 90% of it) so you will be seeing more of him actually alive if you try out original content one day too! : )