Realistic or Modern 𝗜𝗡 𝗗𝗬𝗡𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗔 - 𝘪𝘤 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 ( revival )

It was a dark, rainy day in Saint's Heights.

Water poured from the heavens above as if deep in mourning, washing away what little color there is in this city. Fog, thick and gray, clung shyly to the streets even when the sun protested weakly from behind heavy clouds. Outside, the city bustled; the rich and famous watched from their mansions on the hills, safe behind fences and guards. The not-so-rich yelled, walked, laughed across the streets, always something going on in the entertainment district. The rest were at work or sleeping off a shift, tucked under blankets.

Another person died somewhere. Another person climbed to power unknown. That's how the ecosystem of this city worked - the ever-shifting structure here is as natural as breathing at this point.

The day was as dark as any day here, but Emilio would argue today is even darker if you're an Avancini.

It's been exactly one year since Andrej and Louisa have met their ends.

The anniversary came faster than Emilio expected; with the shock of Stephan still fresh in the air, the rush of taking over in the span of a night, and stress of trying to keep the Avancinis from falling apart at the seams, a year passed in the blink of an eye. These past months have felt like a fever dream, something to wake up from any moment now. It seemed unreal - Louisa was gone and so was Stephan, and all that was left in their wake was a gaping hole of dread. A member, alongside their boss, gone in the snap of a finger.

Emilio still isn't sure that he's fully accepted it. Stephan, the man who has led them for more than a decade, thrown off the chess board like he hasn't been ruling the city just a year ago.

He remembers the call he got on that fateful night. The showing of the body. The funeral.

And the moment when everybody looked at Emilio, knowing he is taking over. The rush he felt at that moment shouldn't have been as terribly seductive as it was, not with STephan's body still cooling on an autopsy table.

He hasn't had the chance to ask the others what they make of this, yet. Of course they talked - some conversations more tearful than others. But they haven't really talked. About the terrifying, looming feelings they all have right now. About where to go from here, about fear for the uncertain future. It's not that Emilio is opposed to it, but the crippling weight of work hit him full force after he took over - and work always took first place with Emilio. He's hardly been out of his office, too busy with calls and bargains and sending hit after would-be hitmen aiming for his throat. That's a new change; suddenly, everybody decided Emilio is important enough to be killed. He's not quite sure if he should be flattered or terrified - probably both in equal measure.

Taking over hasn't been easy, and he doubts the pressure will let up anytime soon. Sleep doesn't come often and even when it does, it's plagued with nightmares.

He woke up this morning with one of said nightmares fresh in his mind's eye - clutching his cotton sheets, pajamas soaked through with cold sweat as he sat upright in bed. It wasn't anything specific. Flashes of memories and vaguely anxious figures - him as a child in Cuba, nursing a broken leg and staring with empty eyes; knife-wielding shadows, laughing; Saint's Heights on fire, with him to watch helplessly.

'Great way to start the day. We love to see it,' he thought bitterly as he climbed out of bed, padding to the bathroom in the morning quiet to get ready. A flash of his face in the mirror startled him in his stride.

He looked like climbed out of hell itself. Not too far from what he felt like.

There was a distinct paleness under his dark skin, one that only came from too much stress and too little sleep. The dark circles under his eyes grow larger by the day, letting anybody know just how bone-deep exhausted he is. At least his eyes were sharp as ever, the black of them staring back intensely. His expression was startled, looking almost ghost-like in the pale gray of the just emerging sunlight - as if he just stumbled into the wrong apartment and found somebody standing there. A stranger in his own home.

Emilio stared at his own reflection thoughtfully, wondering just how to make himself presentable for the anniversary.

- - -

Being the right-hand man is not as glamorous as the movies make it out to be.

No, really. Believe Emilio has enough experience in this regard for his word to carry some weight. That's who he was for the Avancini until recently, after all. Emilio - some guy that just popped in town one day, somehow becoming the boss' most trusted member in a matter of few years. The older brother like figure for some of the members, making sure they stay out of trouble. The one shooting strict glances whenever somebody slacked off. The person resolving conflict, all while learning how to rule under Stephan.

That's what his reputation has been in the Avancini for so long, that to have it suddenly be changed feels like a sucker punch.

Not that Emilio didn't love power. No, everybody knows just how much he craved it - he made no secret of it, though the full extend of it is tucked close to his heart. Emilio might be young, but not young enough to show all of his cards. But as much as he dreamed of this moment, the reality was much different than he was ready for. There was never any formal celebration in Emilio's name - about the closest he got to that was a rushed meeting, when Stephan's body hasn't even cooled yet. His uptake was quick and violent, mostly filled with holding their enemies at bay. There were people more than ready to snatch the title from under his legs if given the chance, drawn to the power vacuum like sharks to blood. Hell, the first few months were filled with just staving off death and killing anybody who came in the way.

Much thanks to the other Avancini, of course. He's sure holding on to power would be much more of a fight if it weren't for them. He'll have to find a moment soon, when his schedule allows it, just to say thank you.

Today, though, was his first formal gathering as the new Avancini boss.

Talk about pressure.

Good thing Emilio is good at that. Keeping his nerve, acting as if there was nothing at all behind his cool mask. Say what you may, but it's something others haven't cultivated even after decades in crime. Even as the bundle of nerves in his stomach curled and protested, Emilio was insistent on not showing how badly he's being affected. Far it be from him to show weakness when meeting the Adamski.

If they thought him weak, there would be little to stop them from trying to devour him. A boss he may be, but a new one, and the position can always change hands if Emilio is killed.

The drive to the anniversary was silent as if he and the driver were still half-asleep. Blame it on the anxiety.

Even this - having a private driver, hiding behind bulletproof glass in an expensive car, having soldiers watch for snipers on roofs - is something he has yet to get used to. Accompanying Stephan to and from party felt completely different, even if it had the same look. Usually, he would have somebody with him - Kiko, Jin, maybe Azalea. Somebody to keep his thoughts off the inwardly rising nervousness. But he didn't think to call one of them, not today - perhaps the silence as he watched the passing scenery is what he needed. Another person worrying over the possibility of being unconvincing, or a sniper aiming for his head, or the Adamski saying 'fuck it' to the temporary peace would drive Emilio up the wall.

The drive was over faster than he expected, lost in thoughts as he was. Emilio startled out of his thoughts as the car door was opened, a soldier opening an umbrella for him. He gave a firm nod of thanks as he stepped onto the pouring sidewalk, taking everything in.

The private hall was the image of Saint's Heights luxury; pale columns framed the white building, beautiful bushes and roses packed tight around it like sycophants around a celebrity. Bright light poured out of the tall windows, elegantly framed with gold. It looked like a giant persian cat of a building, lazily observing those too poor to even enter. He came just at the right time; not too early, not too late. A few guests have already started bustling in, with a handful making conversation outside.

he mumbled to nobody in particular, making his way inside. A handful of familiar soldiers followed tightly behind him.

It was much warmer inside than in the harsh rain outside; crystal chandeliers and waitressing staff greeted him as he entered, one of them taking away his heavy coat. The soft sound of piano drifted over paintings of classical subjects and richly woven carpets, mixing with the sound of quiet conversation. 'The dining room will be ready soon,' a waitress with a too-wide smile told him, leaving him with only the drinks and snacks. Sandwiches and cocktails and small cakes lined the ornamented tables.

Emilio smiled at the familiar faces passing him by, the perfect display of cool politeness. A few of them were Adamski, and some of them of his own family. Guards from both groups kept watch at every corner, observing each other closely. He didn't miss the way their fingers twitched at the holsters of their gun, as if getting ready to pull it out at the first sign of danger.

Emilio's phone hasn't vibrated yet, despite the numerous texts he has sent. A very, very bad sign.

He gives a too-polite smile at the gathering crowd - too much teeth in his smile, too much darkness in his eyes for it to be real - and slinks away to a corner where he won't be immediately swarmed by shark-grinning allies or too-curious enemies. Jin hasn't replied yet, even to the first text Emilio sent five hours ago. If he knows his cousin - and he does, knows Jin as well as his own head - then that means the man is up to no good. And Jin's no-good is everybody else's 'terrible'.

dude
where the hell are u??
please tell me u didn't forget
JIN

No reply. Aw, shit. Hoping to not show the very real panic that's building up inside, he flickered over to Kiko's number (he hesitated a second too long, as he always did when texting her). Maybe she knew where Jin is - perhaps they were just returning from a wild night out, he lied to himself. He knows damn well something is up, but maybe God was feeling merciful today.

hi
kiko my friend my pal
do you mayhaps know where jin is
wait actually
where are u??
kiko??

Minutes passed by without reply. His smile faded completely at the face of realisation.

Neither Kiko or Jin are here yet. And if that means anything, it's something Emilio doesn't need on an important day such as this.

Oh, shi -

mood

location

outfit

tags

Inner turmoil paired with the incessant tugging of insomnia in her wake, Kiko hadn’t gotten much sleep; and while it often crept up on her, not once did it sink its teeth. It stalked, preyed, yet Kiko—inevitably—had turned it away. The workings of a woman afraid of the dark and its monsters awaiting her demise.

A few phone calls here and there, interminable ringing—avoiding the urgent phone call to Emilio, the man had enough on his plate already. “Jin, hey buddy. Listen, don’t snitch but… I’m in jail. Please pick up?” There wasn’t any surprise that he hadn’t picked up—a rough night mixed with alcohol, drugs, and whatever the hell he was doing didn’t phase her much—though, it did always raise concern. Thick brows furrowed as she hung up the wall phone, its cord swaying back and forth as if springing to life. The slick feeling in her fingers lingered for a bit, an obvious expression of disgust as she stared down at them. That, however, was the least of her worries. Who else would've picked her up? Azalea? No, she didn't want her baby sister seeing her like this. Val? She had to laugh.

"Right. Look, one more phone call, I swear!" The dark-haired woman called out, holding a hand up to the officer that readily stood, awaiting to rip her away.

Julien wouldn't have an issue. Right? For the most part, a large, daunting teddy bear with little words was the perfect subject—she should've thought of him first. He didn't judge—outwardly, that was. There was more ringing, most of it counting down the excruciating seconds of waiting—all of which have felt like unnerving minutes. "Julien! You have no idea how happy I am to hear that... interesting voice of yours. Look, I'm in jail right now—think you can pick me up?"

In the corner of her eye was a flicker of the light.

***

On most days her only source of light was a computer screen; completely consumed in darkness, not a single ounce of sunlight—had there been any—leaking beyond any unnoticed cracks between her black-out curtains. Through the crowded streets crawl cars, the patter of feet against pavement, incessant chatter that hit the senses all at once—engulfed in the all-too-familiar scent of the city. Once hearing the sounds of the season, one could lose a sense of time; how gradually moments shift without much recognition and someplace under the sun, most aren’t aware of tragedy—or, rather, most turn away at the thought of life moving onward other than their own.

Dead cities have no hearts, luckily for Saint’s Heights, its pulse never faded.

The morning, much like any other in this city, bustling with traffic—roaring with life. She could have been enjoying the city in its urban sprawl if one could call it that; blanketed by crime under several names most wouldn't want the unfortunate circumstance to find in passing. If not for the bounds the city (as well as the clutches of another’s presence, entrapped by her own heart) had on Kiko, she would've left—changed her name, moved countries, maybe even settled down if she had the strength to separate herself.

Kiko found herself in the middle of it all—the center, a hacker for the Avancinis (the only family she had, they treated her better than the Na Chiangmais); an asset that most would fear rather than overlook. It wasn't her first career choice; no, she had aspirations, ambitions knocked down piece by piece, chipped away like rock. She wasn't opposed to it, though: there was power in her position, somewhat—although she wasn't a crime boss, she made herself a nice, cushy spot next to the one that was—if you looked past the underboss that she wasn't all too familiar with. But she, for once, was essential.

The Avancini suffered at the hands of an unknown presence; a grim scene that shocked most, if not all of them. Nothing was ever quite the same, no matter how much people tried to return to normalcy. A once convivial atmosphere with a touch of tension became a heavy, burning feeling between people’s ties.

Trouble always found her, no matter where she went—be it intentional or not, Kiko was bound to find herself in the most unsavory situations: from flashing her gun out her car window in a fit of road rage to, only hours before being thrown into a cell, punching a soccer mom in the face over the last Oreo donut she’d been eyeing within the first few moments she entered the donut shop.

Today was a day of mourning, although she wasn't too close with them, it was still touchy. Losses were an everyday occurrence, yet this one hit harder than the rest. And to top it off? Kiko could've been late, the product of her irresponsibility and impulses—she forgot to watch the time and keep herself out of trouble, but how could she? No sleep and exhausted beyond belief, eyes red and puffy—the only thing keeping her afloat was an iced coffee; the ice had already melted. A layer of water sat at the top, what was iced coffee was a diluted mess that—despite abhorring the taste—she chugged.

***

Dark, tired eyes took a peek around the dingy jail cell. A combination of iron and sweat filling the cramped space. In a far corner, the ticking of the clock—she’d been counting the murder of minutes; time wasted away by keeping her in a godforsaken cell. “Free me, I did nothing wrong,” Kiko slid her arms between the cell bars, a rested forehead against cold metal in frustration. “The bitch had it coming; you’re gonna look at me and tell me that I’m WRONG? I saw the donut first.”

Light flickers and fades; once, twice, with flashes of a soft light dampened by fog.

“You are so lucky someone’s coming to get me! The longer I stay here-” She gagged: what the fuck was that damn stench; the foul odor, one that she could not place, attacked her senses. Why the fuck does it smell like that? And why the hell is nobody else reacting? Her face scrunched up, nose pinched at the nostrils as she brought her fingers to them. Mortified, Kiko’s eyes frantically buzzed around, looking for its origin but to no avail. It was only a matter of time before Julien plucked her from that hellish place—and she couldn’t wait. Granted, the silent, imposing giant often did that: ripping her away from the confines of jail; it was only a matter of time before he finally refused, tired of the antics that Kiko often found herself in.

Word to the wise: keep your fucking mouth shut while you’re in jail. Of course, Kiko didn’t plan on giving anybody peace; "So y'all are just gonna ignore me? Forreal? It's like that? HELLO?" Kiko placed her face between the bars, rolling her eyes at the guards that, much to her dismay, just smiled and nodded. They were smug, for sure—having more power over her just because of a simple uniform: she hated it. A firm reminder that she could be on top one day and pushed all the way down to the bottom in a heartbeat. But did anyone like someone being in charge? If she had more energy, she would've continued—barking whatever remarks she could, but with the looming risk of Kiko being in there even longer? It wasn't worth it. At least, not for today—a significant anniversary that rattled both parties.

Another hit of the stench seemed to wash away the worry for even just a moment, the feeling in her throat was heavy; squeezing itself to keep down whatever was in her stomach, which wasn't much; last night's sushi, watered-down iced coffee, a few gummy bears, and a lot of alcohol. Last night was filled with scattered mental snapshots she couldn’t piece together all too well.

The smell seemed much stronger than it was. Hell, it wasn’t even really there.

There was still no indication of where the smell came from, but Kiko knew she smelled it and nobody else did. And whatever fucked up hallucination this was, she wasn’t falling for it again. That’s when she realized it: fire, soot, and burning flesh. God. Get her the fuck out of there and fast.

It was all too vivid.

Fires were a common thing in Saint’s Heights, or so it seemed; her family, Louisa, Andrej, and their poor child meeting his unfortunate end in the worst way possible. The biggest problem with them both? There wasn’t a single puzzle piece that fit. No traces, no evidence, no idea who could’ve started them. She didn’t buy it—the thought of it being their own doing. Kiko didn’t think anybody did, but she didn’t dare vocalize the different routes her brain went grasping for an answer that, inevitably, wouldn’t appear.

She gagged, body leaning itself against the cold bars—dried blood flaking off of her fur coat. “I’m feeling pretty sick—don’t think you want,” bile welled up into her throat, taking most of her strength to keep it down, “I don’t think you want me blasting chunks all over this cell.”

There was a collective sigh, paired with other inmates hollering for her to shut up. Kiko just couldn’t, not in her nervousness. God. Her hand covered her mouth, her body now hunched over—and just like that, as if prayers were answered and the gates of heaven (or was it hell?) opened, there was the sound of clanking metal. Just on time. Kiko looked up, with sweat dripping down her brow; there was a subtle shake in her body, but it wasn’t obvious under the thick coat she was heavily clad in. Her eyes, although watering, were luckily covered by black sunglasses that pointed at the edges.

She would rather die than let someone even suspect the turmoil brewing behind her dark eyes. “You got lucky Chiangmai, a friend came to get you.”

In her pocket, her phone vibrated from the flurry of texts from Emilio—she was lucky enough to keep her phone due to her connections, but that wasn’t enough. Her free hand grabbed it, bright screen burning into her sockets, much like the stench overbearingly singeing her nose hairs.

kiko: em!! hey sorry
kiko: i tried calling him earlier but he didn't pick up
kiko: oh,, ahaha look
kiko: i got us donuts? omw soon < 3

A buzz echoed from behind, handcuffs clanking with every step she took; the thick soles of her platforms squeaked against linoleum, jewelry jingling like her beating heart. She felt freedom's embrace once the cuffs were off, lungs filling with dank air heavier than inside the facility. "Good morning, knew I could count on you, big guy," stuffing her hands into her fuzzy coat pockets, Kiko fixes her hair—whilst neglecting to wipe the dried blood from her nose.

Azalea

At 7:30 AM, Azalea's alarm clock went off. It only buzzed twice before her hand slithered from under the green covers and pushed the alarm switch to 'OFF.' Within a minute, Azalea was sitting up in bed. The sky was grey with rain clouds, and it had already started drizzling. She watched the blue light of morning color the sparkling leaves of her plants on the balcony. When she inhaled, the air was fresh and perfumed by the faint scent of petals. She had dreamed the night before but struggled to remember it now. As the rain strengthened and the sky grew lighter, the dream was washed further and further away until it lay just out of reach.

By 7:45 AM, Azalea was up and about with a watering can in hand, tending to her indoor greenery. Due to the rain, she didn't have to worry about the ones on the balcony. As she watered, she seemed to float away from herself, seeing herself and her apartment with so much clarity in her mind. It was clean and comfortable. Azalea had been virtually homeless after first being released from prison. She could have returned home to Martha, but it was out of the question. When she had joined the Avancini family, Emilio made sure that she was taken care of. When she had asked him if she could fill the place with flowers, he gave her a nod. She moved in and put the flowers and shrubs all around. She called it "Azalea Path." From the air, she saw herself in this moment, watering her loves, her heart. It will bloom beautifully, she thought.

At 7:55 AM, Azalea was eating breakfast, which was oatmeal with blueberries and buttered toast. As she ate, she watched the news. On the west coast, trees were burning, decorated with flames from the trunk to the highest branch. Flowers blackened and went up in smoke. Azalea watched with indignation. The image of vegetation burning was personal for her. Fire was political. She thought: Who decides what deserves to burn? How do they make those decisions? Women have been kindling for centuries. Marcus Licinius Crassus formed the first Roman fire brigade, comprised of his five hundred slaves. He would arrive at burning homes with his brigade and only agree to put out the fire if he could buy the home at a meager price; he would later lease or sell it back to the homeowner or someone else entirely for profit. If citizens refused to be scammed like this, Crassus would stand by and watch the flames render them homeless. Did he feel powerful, Azalea wondered?

After breakfast, it was reading time. Today, she cracked open Some Imagist Poets and went through with a pencil as she read, marking anything notable. The rain grew stronger as she read.

She read Richard Aldington's "The Poplar:"

Her interest was piqued, but further reading soured her impression:

How typical of a man, Azalea thought, to make a beautiful, natural being into something to be molested. Azalea thought of Ovid's Daphne, her cursed namesake--made even more cursed by the fact that she always heard the name in her head in her parents' voices. "Daphne! Daphne!" Her mother's voice had had this sing-song cadence to it, but the effect was always eerie. Her words tended to ring like a dirge. Her father's voice, when he was himself, was dulcet. When he said the name, Azalea could almost believe the kids' version of the tale they told her: that Daphne was a beautiful, young girl who loved the forest so much that she turned into a laurel tree, turning out pale-yellow flowers for the delight of it.

By 9:00 AM, Azalea was in the shower. The water, too hot for her sensitive skin, hit the floor like the rain outside hit the ground. Azalea felt that she was like those flowers on the balcony, invigorated by morning showers. Deja vu hit her. Is that what she had dreamed about? Being a flower in the rain? Everything's coming up purple, she thought--I'm coming up azaleas. She reflected on the opening lines she had marked of John Gould Fletcher's "The Blue Symphony:"

It reminded her of what today was about. Rain was how the sky sang of death. The darkness rolled upward, scourged on by the sun, to announce to Saint's Heights that today was the anniversary of the murders. The fog was a miasma of grief. Azalea hadn't been with the Avancinis long enough to have known Andrej or Louisa or to have fully felt the impact of their deaths. She mainly heard about it from her superiors. But what she had heard and felt in her time as an Avancini gave her enough of an idea of how serious the matter was. She could've smelled this rain a week ago. The soil covering those three caskets, one of them small, had yielded sad and dangerous things over the past year: paranoia, resentment, dread. The big question: who was the murderer? Who decided they deserved to burn?

At 10:00 AM, Azalea was dressed and sat thinking about old gardens sunken. The gardens of the mind flooded with death, with the darkness that the sky brought to Saint's Heights this morning. And in the gardens is water. As if suffering were the thing being cultivated. Azalea thought of her father. What flowers populated the garden of his mind? What blighted his blooms?

By 10:30 AM, Azalea was plotting her route. She had no car and wasn't interested in getting a driver, so she plotted out a trip that ended up being half walking and half subway. Thirty minutes later, she had left her apartment with an umbrella in hand. As she left the building, she pictured the plants she had just left, whispering in the dismal light of her apartment but unable to hear each other over the pouring rain. She thought: Does grief deafen us? Is that why I never listen to Mother's voice anymore?

At 11:10 AM, Azalea was on the subway train. A few people looked, but it likely had more to do with her outfit than her bud of a reputation. Since she was still a little fish (and also because Jules had helped her to become semi-capable with a firearm), she didn't worry much about being attacked. Sofia Lorenzo was the most likely to attack her out of anyone, and Azalea found the idea of being afraid of Sofia ridiculous. She chuckled in her subway seat just thinking about it. There were four stops before it was time for her to get off the subway, and the second stop was on the street of the downtown bookstore, where college students spent a lot of time and where fourteen-year-old Azalea had taken bus rides to steal whatever she could to cultivate her mind. She remembered when she had stolen a copy of Ovid's Metamorphoses and learned the truth about Daphne, her cursed namesake.

Azalea never asked her parents why they lied because she knew why. 'From the lion runs the timid faun, and from the eagle flies the trembling dove.' Who wants to tell their daughter that they named her after a victim--after prey? '[Daphne] seemed most lovely to [Apollo's] fancy in her flight.' This was Ovid's way of saying that Daphne's victimhood enhanced her beauty; her fear made Apollo want her more. What bullshit. Azalea had later read somewhere that most laurel forests had disappeared, unable to survive in the Mediterranean climate that grew progressively drier. Good riddance, she had thought. Better to be dead than to always be a victim, petrified by innocence and unable to fight back.

Perhaps this is why Azalea found her face burning up whenever Louisa and Andrej's child was mentioned: petrified by innocence, yet not even given a chance to grow thorns. Fireweed responded to fire by blooming through the ash, a wild purple smile on the wasteland. Azalea thought this was so admirable. But a baby? What chance is there for regrowth for one who has barely had the chance to grow at all? It seemed unjust that children should be expected to bloom in the wasteland--little phoenix flowers unto a garden of bones--or else choke on the ashes.


Azalea frowned. What if, instead of being made into a laurel tree, Daphne had asked her father to set her ablaze so that Apollo's fingers would burn when he touched her? Would that make the story more or less tragic? Azalea imagined Crassus, with his five hundred slaves, arriving and watching the flaming nymph. He offers his extinguishing services in exchange for Daphne's agency, but she declines the trade offer. The slaves look on as she burns to death, and for a moment they envy her freedom. It is she who decides that she should burn. Azalea found herself thinking about Jin, who at times seemed to burn like someone in purgatory: as if accustomed to the fire. Is self-destruction the best protection against the cruelty of the world? Is that why Father...?

By 11:39 AM, Azalea was walking into the hall. She had been diligent in getting ready, appearing stately in a way that may have been inappropriate for a memorial event. As she entered, a few heads turned. Some glances were more polite than others, and it wasn't hard for Azalea to figure that the meaner glances came from Lorenzo family allies. Even these Lorenzo allies, however, wouldn't go so far as to cross the Avancinis in broad daylight, so Azalea wasn't too worried. Only Sofia was crazy enough, and she was nowhere in sight. However, even though Azalea wasn't necessarily worried, it was hard to shake the feeling of being new on the scene. She felt like a twig among oaks.

Azalea took a moment to admire the bouquets she had ordered to be sent to the hall, consisting of lilies, chrysanthemums, and carnations. Classic flowers for events having to do with death. They were set in fancy glass vases on different tables in the hall. She walked by the lilies and chrysanthemums breezily but lingered on the carnations, white and red with pink stains in between. Upon noticing that interpretations of nature's finger painting could include blood splatter, Azalea felt a sudden desire to not be standing alone. She searched for her family members.

Azalea spotted Emilio in a corner looking a little alarmed and then spotted Molly sitting alone. When Azalea wasn't able to find Jin or Kiko, she reached the conclusion that their absence may be the source of Emilio's alarm. Azalea didn't want to bother him if he was in the middle of a heated phone conversation, so she drifted over to Molly but didn't sit down. She found herself watching the entrance, waiting for any other Avancinis to walk through. She specifically had Marina in mind. She was sure the other rookie would be able to relate to that strange feeling of newness.

Azalea turned from the entrance to Molly. The woman, although often stone-faced and blunt, seemed like a good person to hover around. Aside from the fact that Azalea found her interesting, she seemed tough: the type to be taken seriously in a setting like this. "Good morning, Molly." Azalea's tone was pleasant, but level, as if she trying to be careful with her volume. "This is my first time seeing a lot of these faces. Adamskis, allies, other enemies." The scope of the Avancinis' influence and the severity of her own position were manifest properly in the crowd that had gathered in the hall. "You got any insight to help me make sense of this crowd? Any warnings about or praises for specific people? I trust your judgment." There was a chance that Molly wouldn't be in a talking mood, but it was in Azalea's nature to try. She thought the other woman may appreciate the straightforward inquiry if anything.

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The abandoned warehouse's old bones creaked and groaned. A single fluorescent light dimly lit the scene before Val; a man was bound to a chair with a sturdy rope. The defeated man peered up, the harsh light spilling over his portly features and the clearly broken nose. It was a clean break, a simple fix, Val surmised. Luckily Val was courteous enough to take his expensive suit off, leaving him in his red, heart patterned boxers. The man's pale body was an explosion of yellow, purple and browns hues from Val's beating.

Val's latest visitor was a first-timer, Gary Rossi, a businessman in his early forties who was equal amounts of ambitious, greedy and fucking stupid. His insurance company not only swindled from the desperate but sold illegal weaponry that the Avancini family kindly loaned him. He had failed to pay them back in the allotted time which meant Val had to step in. Unluckily for Gary, Val hated insurance companies.

"You're a r-reasonable man, right?" Gary began, licking his chapped lips, "I have a big buyer p-planned for the weekend, I promise to have—"

"It doesn't matter, Gary," Val begun, his voice blunt and low, "I have an order to make sure you keep that promise."

Interrogation and torture were an art, one that Val took seriously. Similarly to an artist, Val had his own set of tools. A wide array of knives — neatly packed in a black suitcase — were settled in front of Val. Now, what would make you learn, Gary?

Val instinctively chose Dolores, a lengthy bowie knife. He had a habit of naming his knives. Dolores' name made sense when you translated it. Brandishing the knife in his steady grip, he ominously turned towards Gary whose eyes almost popped out of his head.

"P-please! I'm sorry," the pleading had begun. They all begged but Val rarely listened, taking a step forwards, "I-I have a family, a-a little girl," Gary stammered and Val stopped in his tracks. He must have realised the hesitation and continued babbling, "and a s-son, he is supposed to grad—"

"You think that makes you special?" Val interrupted, voice reverberating off the warehouse's walls, "that it makes you exempt from responsibility and pain?" He took another step forwards. Gary whimpered, tugging at the knots. Another step until he was situated between Gary's bare legs, his boxers saturated, "everyone has a family, you think you're the first to use that excuse?" Val lightly pressed the knife's razor-sharp edge to his pudgy stomach.

"Y-you have a family, r-right? Children?" Gary began crying, his broken nose sniffling, "y-you must understand!"

The pair shared a moment of silence.

"Oh, I understand..." Val's eyes were dark, voice grim as he dug the knife into Gary's flesh.


Slumped in the taxi, Val thumbed the keypad of the old flip phone to a contact labelled 'A', simply writing: Be there soon -V.

His broad shoulders were strained in Gary's fancy, black blazer he decided to borrow. He had realised that having his harness, brandishing knives, was not a good look for a formal event. Gary didn't seem to mind as Val released him from his confines.

The event was for the anniversary of the death of a young family. Not just any young family, one that had a parent from both the opposing families — the Avancinis and Adamskis. Their love story was one that rivalled Shakespeare's classic, Romeo and Juliet. Val recalled the brief interactions he had with them — especially with Louisa who was one of the best soldiers the family had.

It was back when Stephan was in the power of the Avancini family. Stephan, Val couldn't help but dwell on his death. The man had pulled Val from the trenches and given him another chance at life. Without him, Val wouldn't even exist...

Val was certain that Stephan's death was connected to the deaths of Lousia, Andrej and their son. Eventually, he would find out who was responsible. Val would break his moral code just once when he found them.

"Here is your stop, man," the taxi driver announced. Rummaging through Gary's blazer he pulled out a bunch of crumpled notes and handed them over. Gracias, Gary.

Stepping into the cold, his gaze settled on the grand Adamski mansion. Oh Dios, que estoy haciendo?

Val ignored the waitstaff scurrying to take Gary's damp blazer from his person. Rain droplets beaded down his scarred face as his eyes scanned the over-the-top opulence of the funeral. They never did spare a dime to show off their wealth.

He could see a few familiar faces but beelined for the "refreshments" instead. His head pounded, brain thudding madly against his skull. Was alcohol going to help with that? Val would soon find out as he downed the smooth whiskey.

After another empty glass, Val combined half-a-dozen glasses of the honey liquid into two glasses - ignoring the questionable stares. The almost full glasses in hand, Val made quick work of avoiding everyone until he was settled in a corner that lacked any black-clad figures.

Only one other person was in his safe space - a grieving woman - with the all-to-familiar black circles under her eyes. Val wouldn't be surprised if his own eyes were in a similar condition. Guilt began creeping its way up Val's spine once he realised who she was. Mierda, Louisa's sister...

The two were not close in the slightest but he had seen her around and the resemblance was uncanny.

Val took a hefty sip of one of the glasses and shuffled towards her.

One of his arms extending in her direction, whiskey in hand. Val spoke softly yet his voice still carried weight, "looks like you need this more than me."

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@username has set their status to:
Disoriented.

@username has set their outfit to:
Funeral 11s

@username has set their location to:
Private Hall.

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Mentions here.

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Emi

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mother of sorrows

@username has written a tl;dr:
tl;dr here.

Flecks of muted morning light through sheer curtains broke through panels of glass, sparsely touching the furniture. Though still dim, Theo could still make out the books and strewn about pill bottles in his room; loose tendrils of brown hair falling in front of his eyes, though not obstructing his vision. A stifled sigh, the shuffling of slippers against old wood, and the ring of his alarm blended with every pass of excruciatingly long seconds. The click of a kettle sounded off in the quiet room, steam meeting the air above, melding with the thick air that squeezed into his lungs; a lit cigarette placed between his lips, a sharp exhale, tired eyes burned with the overwhelming sensation of tears.

He hadn’t cried much in years, only so much in his childhood.

Had it been the grievous atmosphere or the death anniversary, it was only clear that nothing would be the same; with only a year’s passing in the death of Louisa and Andrej, one Theo had surprisingly been devastated by, rising tensions transitioned into temporary solidarity engulfed both the Adamskis and the Avancinis. A year, though it may not have seemed long, managed to compile death: like participation medals after multiple trials. He’d seen death; experienced the pain at a young age and even now, despite being the shell of a man, he felt the itch of gloom encase its hands around his neck.

Theo barely remembers the faces of his family, only smudges in his memory that he wishes he could fully put together. Recollection only came in short washes, and even after, Theo suffered at the hands of static. He could, however, remember the feeling of shock that coursed through his veins, adrenaline mixed with stinging tears; fresh pools of blood on marble floors; screams of terror and cries for mercy; those memories, as much as he’d like to forget, were vivid. No drug could make the immeasurable pain go away; highs were temporary, but the memories further etched into the crevices of his brain like hieroglyphs, were forever.

Matezh should have killed him rather than spared him; at least then, Theo wouldn’t suffer.

Dreading days where he’d have to see the murderer of his family again, face to face, as well as the family he was never fond of—in fact, he hated them—Theo shuddered at the thought of being overtly friendly with this group of familiar strangers; they may have been convinced that he’d seen them as family, but to him, they were nothing more than chess pieces. He awaited their downfall much like any other enemy of theirs. And rightfully so. Their actions were unforgivable, even in the wake of his acceptance into their mess of a home.

Was home even the right word?

For now, however, he had to dwell with the ones he hated most. The fact is that, although he may despise the Adamskis, in a cruel twist of life, Theo is afraid of the emotional connection he'd grown with them. Guilt speckled with his own inner hatred for not only them but for himself is constantly plastered on the walls of his mind. Confused. He questioned himself every day as to why; Theo, Casimir, whoever had this emotional attachment to the Adamskis, made him hate himself more than he already had.

He sought vengeance, but the curious mind gained a love indescribable. Theo hated it; Casimir hated it. The further dismissal of such feelings caused more turbulence than intended.


Dark coffee splashed with every tremble in his hand; most days they were steady, however, the overwhelming dread that came with the present-day often loomed above him. Encased in a cage of grief, held by the bars of his own horrific passages of time, Theo was unable to wipe away the sadness that came with losses he fell familiar with. Hazel eyes stare down at the dark liquid, steam against his pores; there sits a reflection of the man he wasn’t. Theo Adamski, no longer Casimir Sayed—he lived a nightmare in flesh and ties.

Theo’s jaw clenched at the bitterness, tired eyes barely able to keep themselves open. His sleeplessness was, and had always been, a plague that further exhausted his body; heart torn asunder, deep lines under his eyes indicative of what has been, and the slight twitch in his eye.

A finger tugged at the collar of his turtleneck, an uncomfortable amount of cloth clinging to his neck with little give; he followed with a gulp, finishing off the last of the black coffee—its bitterness sitting in the back of his throat. “To survive another day,” deep huskiness settled at the end of his lips, lingering with the air that chilled his skin—even under the long-sleeved attire. The gold watch worn on his right wrist ticked with the inevitable passing of time; never a fan of keeping time, Theo covers it—he was early, anyhow.

Another pill washed down, Theo awaits its effects: to numb himself of the pain often settled; the lit cigarette as company, he keeps it lit, taking drags whenever he feels.

Rain trickled against the roof of his car, windshield wipers a constant reminder of the weather. He didn’t mind it. Rainy days, rainy nights; the sky’s tears seemed to kiss the earth, though it may have been more of a curse than a blessing. None of it had touched his clothing, pristine condition without a single wrinkle or droplet. His drive, although short, left him with himself: intrusive thoughts often came in waves; thoughts of family, several attempted recollections of faces, scheming, and the unfortunate occasion of having a melody stuck in his head—unable to place what song it had even come from.

Wheels came to a quiet halt, body slightly lurching forward as he parked the plain car—never one to favor drivers.

He pulled a flask from the inside pocket of his blazer, taking a swig from it without hesitation; this should save him for a little while, right? Theo didn’t need further recollection, not again—whilst his thoughts ran rampant in several directions—awaiting for the right target to hit, yet failing miserably with every agreeance. “Get in, get out. You will be fine, Theo,” the man reassured himself, calloused hand placed against his heart, its beating wilder than the coincidental sound of sirens whizzing past the private hall.

The feeling in his chest was tight, yet his face remained emotionless; for the most part, the feeling of grief had faded temporarily. Had it been the pills mixed with alcohol? Or his general desensitization at the hands of himself, wanting to separate from the emotional wreck he would’ve been. There was a built up feeling unfamiliar, and that there, terrified him more than anything. It was neither hate nor grief, happiness or anxiety.

Heavy doors pushed open, a slight shake in his stance as he tried to piece himself back together, Theo enters with an eerie calmness. The pills had finally begun working.


For a moment, he silently scans the hall for familiar faces he could tolerate (the amount minimal, a man never fond of the presence of another); Marzanna, Evangeline—both women whose familiarities were less than daunting. Marzanna, however, approached him with her usual tone; though, he’d always thought of asking her why she’d spoken like that—if not for the obvious position she’d held herself to. “Very fancy seeing me here, yes,” thus flickered the false smile most were familiar with, “is anyone ever ready for occasions such as these?” Theo sucked his teeth, crossing his arms as he alertly traced the surroundings with his eyes.

“It’s been a year already,” he stated the obvious, eyes subconsciously falling to the floor, stricken with sadness. “Time moves quickly, don’t you think?” Small talk was never his thing, it would never be. But he did what he had to do to blanket the inner workings of his vengeful DNA, even if it killed him. He reaches for the flask in his inside pocket once again, shamelessly taking another drink—liquid burning down his throat, catching fire in his stomach.

August was pretty sure they could plan an outfit better than anyone else in their family; certainly, better than anyone else in the entire Adamski mansion.

And yet, a funeral was where their talents seemed to end.

August didn’t own much black, and not much black that was PG-13. They’d accepted the fact that they wouldn’t be able to compile a full-black outfit, and that was okay. In all honesty, August wasn’t completely interested in all this funeral business. Someone had died, and that was objectively sad, but August felt no personal connection to the man or his family.

Of course, they’d go, as was their responsibility. But they hadn’t left with Marzanna, content on being a bit later, considering he had other things to do in the meantime.

And, punctual as always, those ‘things’ came through his window in the form of Valentino Mendez.

August barely spared Val a second glance as the man walked through their room. August was dressed now in only the black skirt which they intended to wear; it was pretty appropriate, they thought. It was long… although it went sheer at mid-thigh length, but it was the best they could do. They stood in front of a full-length mirror in front of their bed, holding up a pinstriped crop top against their bare chest.

“I wanted to talk about today.” There was Val, blunt as usual as he strode past them and sat somewhat awkwardly on the bed. Clearly he was nervous and on edge, not how he usually was around them. August granted him a single glance, noted that his knuckles were bloody and split open, and let their eyes drift back to themself in the mirror.

“This is the first time our families are meeting all together,” it was unclear if Val realised how that sounded as he continued, eyes not meeting August’s, “no one can find out, okay?”

August held a pinstriped, suit-style crop up to their bare chest, a black skirt that was sheer from mid-thigh down adorning his lower half. Most of it, anyway. They barely reacted to Val as they stared at themself in their full-length mirror.

August asked, completely ignoring the other man’s words.

Val huffed, eyeing August’s outfit. He stared for way too long, as though getting lost in thought. August’s lips twitched in amusement.

“Are you even listening to me?” Val stood up, realising they definitely weren’t.

“You really don’t understand how dangerous this is do you, mi amor?” Val’s voice was softened but August could recognise the anger laced within, “this isn’t some game. This could end with a bullet in both our heads.”

August finally turned towards Val, tossing the shirt on their bed. They reached out to grip both of Val’s biceps with their hands as if comforting him, unable to help but give his arms a quick squeeze.

they assured him with a small smile. They gave Val a quick wink.

Val’s tense body seemed to relax in August’s hands as they spoke, and August grinned purely from the sight of his small, genuine smile.

Val’s calloused hand rested on their cheek before he pulled them in for a kiss. August, of course, didn’t hesitate in kissing back.

Val headed towards the window and had one leg outside before turning to August, “I’m not sure if it’s funeral appropriate but you look hermosa, mi amor.”

A charming smirk on his face, he lingered there for a moment, clearly he didn’t want to leave. August didn’t blame him. The next moment he was gone.

August looked at themself in the mirror again, looked over at his pinstriped crop top, and knew that after Val’s comment, there was no way he could wear anything else.

***

August wondered if their disinterest showed when they entered the private hall. They felt eyes on them, but they knew that that was probably more for their outfit than for who they actually were.

It was nice inside, actually. August didn’t consider themself as someone overly posh or pretentious, but God, they liked luxury. As soon as they spotted the cocktails, they made a beeline, downing one and then grabbing another to slowly sip on for the rest of the… well, you couldn’t call it a party exactly, could you?

They made no secret of the way that they people watched, openly staring and gawking when they felt the need to. It didn’t happen that much - things were dreadfully boring so far, and their second cocktail was being emptied a lot faster than they’d initially intended.

@username has set their status to:
Agitated.

@username has set their outfit to:
Funeral 11s

@username has set their location to:
Private Hall.

@username has mentioned:
Mentions here.

@username has interacted with:
Emi, Gloria, Nadia

@usernae has tagged:
mother of sorrows , StaidFoal , FireMaiden

@username has written a tl;dr:
tl;dr here.

Azalea

Azalea followed Molly as she walked around, pleasantly surprised that she was willing to provide a detailed show-and-tell of the unfamiliar faces. The girl was eager to learn about the people surrounding her. Insight would help her shake that creeping feeling of newness. It would also help her mind to get started on its machinations and its categorizations: people to avoid, people to befriend, people to seduce, people to poison. Azalea was confident in her ability to do all of these things with extra weight on the last two.

Molly first pointed out a sharp-featured blonde woman. Before Molly said anything, Azalea made a guess in her mind: Marzanna Adamski. Hard to mistake the height and blue eyes, she thought. She was as pretty as Azalea had heard. She was delighted when Molly spoke, confirming that her guess had been correct.

Molly's comments about Marzanna were less than complimentary. This initially humored Azalea, partially because she opted to ignore the strange flash of emotion that dashed through her when Molly described the Adamski woman as "god’s gift to earth in her father’s eyes." Azalea still took note of the other woman's harsh tone, however. She didn't realize that the general Adamski/Avancini dislike could sound so... personal.

Molly's voice was less harsh and more sly when she pointed out Augusta Adamski. Azalea immediately took notice of their outfit and couldn't help but smile. How properly improper. The top specifically struck Azalea as fashionable. How conventional it was for a memorial service... Well, Azalea supposed that aspect had been secondary.

Azalea once again took notice of Molly's seemingly personal take on an Adamski person. Are the circumstances of Augusta's upbringing common knowledge, Azalea thought? She decided to let her curiosity go for now--perhaps Molly just knew a lot about people as part of her position. Azalea looked at the two Adamskis again and idly wondered what having blood siblings would have been like. Azalea had recently identified her feelings of being around the older Avancinis as those of being a younger sister. She had come to treasure it. But her question: what if they had been there from the beginning for her to look to? How would things have been different for little Daphne?

Azalea abandoned this train of thought as Molly took the conversation in a different direction, bringing up the fact that it was Emilio's first year as the boss. She shrugged at the other woman's comment and smiled. "I suppose everyone else's feelings about it would be different from mine. I wasn't around for a time when Emilio wasn't the boss. He's all I've known," she explained. Her smile was soft and genuine as she spoke, different from the careful smiles she had given to some of the random guests in the hall. "My faith in him is strong, though. He's brilliant, level-headed, resolute--oh, and well-read! I have a hard time believing that--."

Azalea's praise was interrupted when she overheard the voice of Jin from the corner where she had spotted Emilio earlier: "I’m GOOD, YOU’RE good, we’re all good, everything’s good!” She saw Gloria, whom she had figured wasn't Jin's favorite person, and another woman standing near him. Azalea grimaced slightly, getting the impression that everything was not, in fact, all good.

Turning back to Molly, she finished: "I have a hard time believing that his performance as a boss has been or will be anything less than exemplary. If I was gonna be a leader, I would hope to be as..." Azalea paused and refocused her eyes on Molly. "Geez, I'm just blabbering. I'm sure you have some opinions from your time as an Avancini. What do you think about how things are gonna go? With Emilio or just--" Azalea gestured slightly around the room. "--with anything."

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There's no rest for the wicked, as they say - and if there's any truth to that, then Emilio must be about the worst man in Saint's Heights for what goes down next. He should have known, really - because when do things ever go his way?

The placating smile he wore kept the curious members strolling by at bay, busying himself with a glass of red wine. He barely took note of the taste as he sipped, keeping his expression in check as he looked at the new texts. From Kiko, thankfully - that means she's awake and not beating away a nasty hangover somewhere in the city. Something to be optimistic about at least, even if he'd prefer she was here soon. For anybody else, he wouldn't mind a few minutes of lateness. For KIko and Jin? It made Emilio nervous and for good reason.

kiko: em!! hey sorry
kiko: i tried calling him earlier but he didn't pick up
kiko: oh,, ahaha look
kiko: i got us donuts? omw soon < 3

No concrete answer for what he asked. That's all he needed to know about Kiko being in trouble; he resisted the urge to rest his face in his hands, lips tightening the only sign that something was wrong. He's sure it's obvious to the other Avancini, with how pinched his shoulders are, but hopefully the Adamski won't smell it out like sharks to blood. He's not sure how to explain something like this to anybody out of the family. Ah, yes. I haven't seen Kiko yet, is all. Who? Oh, our hacker. She fights old people sometimes, over coupons. Have you seen my cousin, maybe? Yeah, one time he swam in a drain canal and I had to fish him out. Funny. I am about to lose it, yes, how did you know? He thought about sending over another text, but he knows no amount of them is going to make Kiko appear any faster. He pocketed his phone, distracting himself with another sip.

Thank God for the familiar faces that arrived soon after him; there was Molly, looking as solemn as ever - and out of place in a way the others might not be privy to. Azalea followed shortly after, the decorative flowers like the background of a classical painting behind her. Both were strangers in a stranger land, if not in the exact same way. For Molly, it must be a slap in the face, to be surrounded by the Adamski and the people that could be called her family. Azalea, on the other hand, is still new enough where it's hard to find a place during such events. Who to talk to, what to say? He thought approaching them, but they talked among themselves well enough; he shot a small smile their way, if they did see it. Val has also made his entrance, looking exhausted in no small way. Probably best to not bother him.

Emilio was about to check his phone again, impatient - when the sound of too-loud giggling and unsteady footsteps made him freeze on the spot. He closed his eyes for a moment, two. Hoped to God it didn't mean what he knows it does. It's a sound that spelled disaster all through his childhood - one he recognised right away as trouble.

He opened his eyes, just in time to see Jin near jumping on him, too loud and too giddy for a memorial service. The older man grabbed hold of him, trying to steady his wavering cousin. Black sunglasses shielded the man's eyes, but you'd have to be blind and deaf to not sense the intoxication following him like a shadow. It was an all-too familiar sight of countless parties Emilio had to hunt him from ever since they've grown from scrawny little kids with nobody but each other. Nobody was going to look after Jin; not even himself. It has always been something Emilio took on his back and he'd do it a thousand times over. If only Jin would at least try to make things easier for Em. Apparently, being all over the place wasn't enough. No, Jin just had to speak what's on his mind.

'Bro did you see the pictures they used? They look like cheesy feet.'

Emilio blanched.

The surrounding people stopped to stare and Em had to do his best not to smack his hand over Jin's mouth - all the practiced smiles of before disappeared in a flash, replaced with the face of somebody going through the five stages of grief all at once. His face was pinched and pale, eyes wide.The moment of weakness was quickly covered up with a forced smile, wondering if knocking out a man would be considered ruining the party. Internalizing his steadily rising distress, his leaned closer to Jin, his voice a hiss. ''''

Never call a situation bad, because it can always get worse. Something he was reminded of a second later when a woman popped up near them - pretty, but unfamiliar in her black dress - obviously wondering about what he said. Emilio gave her a too-calm smile, the one that tells the people that know him that he's reconsidering his life choices. Placating words ran though his mind, wondering just how to excuse Jin from the deserved scrutiny.

'What our dear friend here meant to say is: No picture of the deceased can ever truly represent what was lost.'

The marble-smooth voice of Gloria added like a heaven-sent messenger, her figure squeezing inbetween Emilio and Jin. Looking as if she had just stepped out of a photoshoot with a winning smile and confident gait in tow. Ah, exactly who he needed - Gloria, here to save the day like she often tends to do. She's saved Emilio from a handful of awkward conversations, as if she had a second sense. Oh, Emilio can hold his own very well; but it's easy to admit Gloria outshines him in the charm that makes people listen to her like devoted worshippers. He gives her a half-grateful, half-tired smile, genuinely glad to see her here.

'''' And at the best possible moment, too. Turning to the unfamiliar woman, he flashed another smile. An Adamski, right? He blanked at a name, but he's sure he's seen her around. Now, what's her name again... '''' He tried to play it off as this being just an insignificant comment - just Jin being Jin. Nothing to see here.

'No I meant that they look ugly as fu- as fudge.'

...He's just going to pretend he didn't hear that.

''''

Putting aside his own glass for the moment, Emilio produced two new ones, offering it to the two women (very pointely not giving one to Jin, because the least he needs to do is give him more power). He gave a quirk of his lips at Gloria's comment, shifting to his full height. His gaze pretended to drift along the hall as her voice lowered to a murmur, expression still terribly polite. 'Kiko's temporarily in prison because a pastry, raising hell. Julien's picking her up. They'll be over here in no time.'

Ah. He squeezed his eyes shut in an almost unnoticable gesture, wanting to rub at his temples. So that's why she was being so vague. He would have known Kiko wasn't going to come here without some shenanigans. He'd find it endlessly hilarious if anybody else but him were responsible.

'''' He whispered back, gaze snapping to the trio again.

'And Jin, surely even you can understand that there's a time and place for your antics that doesn't put our liaisons on the line? Or is your mind too full of chemicals and lust to care?'

Emilio held back a grimace at her sharp - if somewhat deserved - words, hoping to God Jin doesn't take this as a challenge. Of all the places to show their rivalry, he truly does not need them to do that here. But what God lacks in mercy he makes up in a sick sense of humor. Jin, who has been rambling on and on about something Emilio didn't understand (he caught only a few words like cheese and custom gun, and he shivers to know what Jin meant by that) and ogling the stranger in a way that would make a stripper feel scandalized, obviously didn't take well to her words. He never really did. Emilio has a theory that Gloria could say 'the sky is blue' and Jin would still go outside to go check for himself.

'Why do you talk like that? This isn't Bridgerton.'

Oh my fucking God. Emilio stared at Jin with the expression of a man that just ate a whole lemon, wondering just what goes on behind those eyes. He often says he knows Jin as well as he does himself; you do not go through the things they did and not form a bond as strong as theirs. How Jin still manages to surprise him, he has no idea, but he has a long running record of doing that. As if the words wasn't enough, he actually pushed her forehead in clear provocation.

He showed little signs of his inward screaming, grabbing hold of Jin's arm with steadying strength. He needed to get him out and do it now, before Jin adds more memories to Emilio's nightmare fodder. Gloria is calm, always collected; but also prideful in a way that he's not sure will allow Jin to go unscathed. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned doesn't begin to describe it.

'Besides, Kiko’s fineeeeeah, she’ll be here in no time. AND wif donuts bro, I know you love donuts.'

Words slurred and so loud it drew even more attention, Jin tried to (terribly) convince the others that everything was fine. If Jin is the one telling you that, in Em's experience - something is on fire and you should panic.

Molly appeared a second after, looking a bit too much for comfort. Were this a few moments ago, when he didn't have to worry for their reputation, he'd be glad to see her. She's like a little sister to him, even if he sometimes prefer her tongue wasn't as sharp as it is. It's a blessing and a curse, really. It always somehow manages to be a curse when he'd really need anything but.

Example A.

'Do you think that you can go anywhere without any type of substance in your system, dear Jin?'

Oh, yeah. There goes the gasoline to the fire. He tried to return her smile, he really did - but all he could do is rub the bridge of his nose, hoping Molly could telepathically feel just how he felt about her words. Et tu, Molly? The betrayal.

"" He interjected, pulling Jin closer. ""

Giving one last too-exhausted smile, Emilio dragged Jin with him, beelining towards the end of the hall. He ignored the following looks from servants and guests alike, obviously still caught on by Jin's behavior. Thank God the toilets were more private - there was nobody inside as Em pushed into the room of dark marble and white porcelain, finally letting go of Jin's arm.

All the painted openess of before slammed shut, expression one of utter exasperation. He tore off one of the napkins, running it under cold water.

"" He hissed, switching to hushed Spanish. Folding the cold napkin, he held it to Jin's forehead, hoping it would help the hangover he was no doubt fighting. Lips pressed tightly together with no small amount of anger, Emilio grabbed his shoulder when it seemed like Jin might stumble over again. ""

How often has this scene played out before? Change the scenery, clothes, location, but it's always the same. Jin does something dumb, Emilio is angry, and yet he can't help but be worried for his cousin. It's been this way since they were kids with scrapped knees, making pinky-promises they had no way of fulfulling. It was same in Cuba, when him and Jin would swim around the small kiddie pool Em's parents laid out for them, the smell of chlorine and cut grass - and it was same in America, with both of then grown and with not much healing to show for it. Jin would have let himself waste away already, if Emilio wasn't there to stop him.

Both their scars run deep, but Jin's went in such a spiral that it made Emilio's chest ache with pain.

Jin never truly did care enough for himself, if you ask Emilio.

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Azalea

"From my experience in this family, we have had great leaders. Andrej knew what he was doing having Emilio next in line for leadership." Azalea nodded, happy to have her hunch that the Avancinis were in good hands reassured by someone who would probably know better. Molly didn't seem like the type to say complimentary things just to be nice, especially after her comments on the two Adamskis they had seen a moment ago, so her praises of Emilio seemed reliable.

Azalea leaned in slightly as Molly described basically being raised from her teenage years by Emilio. Azalea had a bad habit of forgetting that her superiors had been in her position once. Maybe even in young Daphne's position at one time. Hearing tender words from the often stone-cold Ms. Devereaux warmed Azalea, but also made her aware of the Avancini's deep history and consequentially her own newness. Although Azalea had convinced herself that, after killing that creep Marco Lorenzo, she had truly bloomed, was that really the case? The moment of insecurity faded quickly as Azalea's strong-willed spirit answered the question: I am here now, with the drive and capability to prove myself. I have done more than bloom.

Almost as if in response to this inner dialogue, Molly began to comfort her in a light-hearted tone. Azalea followed Molly's eyes to the crystal chandelier that hung above them. She still hadn't quite gotten used to the opulence. “You’ll learn from the best what it takes to survive in the shitty world we live in.” Azalea returned Molly's slight smile, getting the impression that the other woman's words and this moment would be rather important in the long run. She made a note to hold the memory of it with special care. "Thanks, Molly."

Azalea then followed Molly as she made her way over to the commotion. She waved to Emilio, Jin, and Gloria as she approached, slightly behind Molly, but she couldn't be sure that they noticed. She had picked up some of the words exchanged as she walked over and observed facial expressions; she got the impression that Jin had said a couple of things that were deemed inappropriate and Gloria was reminding him to use his manners in a way that was less than nice. However, the woman that had supposedly been offended didn't look very upset. In fact, she looked a little amused. Nice dress, Azalea thought as she looked the woman--presumably an Adamski--up and down.

“Do you think that you can go anywhere without any type of substance in your system, dear Jin?” Azalea cringed imperceptibly. She knew many people would say the reproach was deserved, but Azalea had grown fond enough of Jin for her to dislike hearing him spoken to harshly. It wasn't long before Emilio dragged Jin away in the direction of the bathroom. Azalea waved goodbye lightly to them.

As Emilio and Jin departed and the tension seemed to dissipate, a familiar face arrived and spoke to Gloria. Azalea recognized Evangeline, someone she had seen around and spoken to occasionally in her time as an Avancini. The woman was polite (and fashionable), but Azalea sometimes got a feeling of... aloofness from her. Envy flashed through Azalea briefly as she gave the woman an up-and-down, again finding herself lingering on an outfit. Azalea watched as she exchanged words with the Adamski woman and they seemed to begin walking away. She gave Evangeline a pleasant nod.

Azalea then turned her attention to Gloria. Azalea knew people often joked about her being a Marilyn Monroe impersonator, but she didn't quite agree. Gloria's grace was less innocent and more refined, in Azalea's opinion. As little Daphne, she had actually watched the woman on TV. To now be a part of her family was a bit of a pleasant shock for Azalea. If someone had told her that pick-pocketing off of Marco Lorenzo at sixteen would eventually get her aligned with the Gloria Goldie, she would've laughed.

"Hello, Gloria," Azalea greeted, keeping her tone light. "I suppose you got... whatever exactly was going on over here under control." Azalea took a moment to look around, looking for the others with Marina and Kiko specifically in mind. She spotted Val, but that was about it. Turning back to Gloria, she went on: "I hope the others get here soon. I heard there's going to be lunch?" Azalea absently ran a hand through her long, straightened hair and thought out loud, "I hope I look ok."