ᴀ ᴡᴏʟғ ɪɴ sʜᴇᴇᴘ's ᴄʟᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ

A gleaming silver jet, sleek and silent, touches down in London, and the city shudders beneath it. Yearning or fearful? Both. Neither. Its passenger—a man, small in stature, intimidating—steps onto the tarmac; his presence breathes new life into the pavement. Dark, brooding, he strolls lazily away from the plane, late spring sunshine beating down on his broad shoulders, sunglasses drawn over his bronze face, shielding him. Masking him. Both. Neither. He laughs and retrieves a purple banknote from his wallet, flings it carelessly in the direction of the uniformed boy carrying his luggage, punctuates the gesture with a lewd wink.

“Buy yourself something nice,” he drawls in accented English, and the city trembles again, like it knows the chaos that’s been brought to it.

He slides into an inconspicuous black car and lounges against the leather seat with his legs spread and jacket thrown open, breathing in smoke and exhaling strife. He stays like this until the car creeps to a stop in front of an imposing (familiar) club, stewing in his own anxieties and methodically ashing cigarette after cigarette, until his driver glances reproachfully back at him. A signal to go. A signal he must return to a life that nearly ruined him. A signal his break is over, and now he must attend to the chaos the heist has erupted in, fear in his veins and throat. The car door swings open noiselessly, sunshine streams in, and Ciro’s mouth twists into a wolfish grin.

(Because it’s expected. Because he’s nothing if not Capecchi. Because he came back from the dead and learned no lessons from it at all.)

Still, he feels small as he strolls through the Victorian’s grand entrance, feels undeniably unwelcome as a cool wind whistles past him and the door clicks shut behind him, feels out of place even as he locks gazes with a familiar face, lurking among the velvet sofas and heady smoke and glittering chandeliers.

“It’s been awhile,” Ciro says around his cigarette, head tilting to one side. His dark hair bounces with it; it’s longer and lighter, not gelled, soft curls untamed, a laziness he’s grown used to in his weeks away from the melodrama of the heist, although the garishly colored suit stretched across his shoulders nullifies the possibility of a complete transformation. Some things simply never change, and when he continues, words spoken with playful vitriol through a tight grin, it’s clear that his brash Capecchi wit is one of them: “Miss me?”

The instant that HE entered the room, Adelaide could feel it. At first, it was almost like a change in the air, a certain electricity that had been vacant before, filling the joint with a feeling that made the hairs on your arms stand straight and chills creep down your back - but then she could sense it within her whole body. That quiet rage she always held back, burning in her belly and swimming in her veins started to creep forward like it had seen a familiar face and wanted to come out to play. It couldn’t be.

He’d been gone. A ghost in the wind that she didn’t care to chase. It had been a weight lifted off her shoulders, the devil on her back gone and unfeeling. It was nice. Though fiery and feisty with everyone she came across she’d always reserved her meanest side for Ciro, a honor she deemed him long ago when they’d declared themselves enemies. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” The worlds were grumbled and breathy, Adelaide making sure to keep her annoyance to herself. None of the people in this god awful place were her caliber, save for a certain red head she’d been hoping would be on the payroll that day, so she didn’t bother to make friends. They stunk of whiskey and sleaziness rolled off of them like the cheap cologne they were drowning themselves in, but now with him strolling across the threshold in her direction, she’d wished she could hide herself in a conversation with any of them - any possible distraction that would make it so Ciro wouldn’t say a word to her.

Though with no luck, his irritating voice was filling her ears within seconds, her teeth clenching together tightly.

“You left?” She turned slowly, the corners of her lips turning up slightly in the falsest smile that she could possibly manage, one even faker than the grin she gave to strangers and other acquaintances. “Hadn’t even noticed.”

The rain was pouring, drumming rhythmically to the canvas of Penelope’s umbrella. Her shoes were soaked through, but she liked the rain anyway. It offered empty streets and the muffled music of raindrops to the surface of buildings, of umbrellas, of the earth beneath her. It offered a sense of quiet that did not exist in her head at the moment; how could they possibly get out of this mess?

There was only she and one other person walking the street this particular evening. She had walked behind them for several blocks already until she noticed something distictly familiar about them. One from the Heist - it had to be. She had seen them at events before, she knew.

Should she walk over to them? Should she keep her distance? Maybe she could round the corner and take a detour… They did not carry an umbrella, though. They’d be soaked in only a couple of minutes if they weren’t already. Okay. Count from 3. 

3 – she cleared her throat, deep breath. 2 – pushed her hair from her face, one hand brushing though her fringes to straighten them up. 

1 – “Hello.” There was a smile on her lips as she walked up beside them, holding the umbrella up over their heads. “Aren’t you cold?”

Adelaide was getting “air”. If that’s even what you could call it. A heated discussion had broken out in one of the Beauregard meetings, Adelaide sitting by passively as she watched hateful words fly across the table, fists slamming for attention. It was stressful for anyone to witness such a thing, but the fact that it was her own family only gave her a headache. It was a time of peril for the Heist Society, but turning on one another was not what was needed right now.

That’s why she was out on the streets, no umbrella in hand, rain coating her expensive clothing. She knew she should feel cold and shivery from the drastic temperature drop from the water, but the fire from her veins from how angry her own flesh and blood made her kept her warm as she trotted along the nearly empty path.

It was only until a small voice came from behind her that she perked up, exiting the deep hole of her own mind that she’d crawled into.

“Hello,” She replied slowly yet loud enough to be heard over the rain, she sized the familiar looking stranger up almost immediately, a bad habit she had yet to rid herself of, “No. I’m fine. Also friendly tip for the future, don’t surprise me like that again. You won’t like what happens when you do.”

Rosie studies the other woman’s face. her mind racing as she tried to place the name, ( Addison, maybe? No, that couldn’t be right. )  She finally gave up after enough time had passed for it to see awkward that she was just… staring at this girl. 

“Everything I seem do here seems to be tacky, is it the accent?” Rosie asked, knowing she was deflecting. Of course, it was considered uncouth to drink at a bar you worked at, but Rosie couldn’t find it in herself to care all that much with all the stress she was under. 

Rosie frowned, assessing the other girl’s intentions. Of course she’d seen mean girls before, she’d been one, but it didn’t seem like this girl was purposely trying to tear her down to build her own walls up. She had a quiet confidence about her, and Rosie could respect that, at least. She was pretty, too. Beautiful, even, in some lights. Someone Rosie may have liked had she been able to think about dating or trivial things like that. Rosie was always a sucker for women with pleasing aesthetics, and this girl had it all figured out. 

“Rosie Mallory-Hayes, if you were wonderin’.” Rosie states, offering up her hand to the other woman to shake, as is the Southern tradition. “What brings you here to judge my drinking habits?”

Adelaide bit back any further comment regarding her previous insult, knowing full well it wasn’t worth the trouble. It was just instinct for her to be on attack like that, especially when she was called out for something embarrassing like wide eyed, nearly open mouthed staring at a beautiful woman. She had to protect her dignity, her over self-righteousness and clearly pointing out something trivial and stupid about this girl was the way to do it. It gave her the upper hand, or so it usually did, but the red head seemed to move right past it with no problem. It was almost admirable. 

“Adelaide Rothschild,” She took the girl’s hand confidently and gave it a small shake, forcing a pleasant smile onto her lips even though her tone was still short - It offered nothing and remained elusive all at once, and that way she liked it. “Work brings me to London and my slight onset alcoholism brings me here.” 

“I know you, don’t I? You’re in with uh -” Brown eyes flicker from her delicate face to their immediate surroundings, double checking that there were no prying ears or curious ears, “with the Society.” She kept it simple, making sure to use a lower tone than previously as she slipped in the name of their criminal business, the nickname a stand-in for the actual title. With how tense things were with the events in Houston, it wasn’t wise for anyone to be gabbing about the details of their endeavors. 

“I’ve definitely seen you around before, probably heard about you through Xanthe a time or two and just forgot. Nice to meet you, Rosie.” The name felt good on her lips, Adelaide remaining surprisingly civil with her, though she still held back on showing any signs of outright friendliness. 

The hustle and bustle of the Victoria was stark in contrast to Rosie’s silent mind. Processing the news of the “terror attack” in Houston. Realizing that she, somehow, had something to do with the entire thing was the scariest part. Her involvement with the Heist Society so far had seemed unreal, like something that she dreamed up, a nightmare that one day she’d wake up from. and find herself back home, back in Houston. But, Houston wasn’t the same, wasn’t her city anymore. 

A kind voice fills the air, answering a question. It takes Rosie a few moments to realize that the drawl belongs to her, automatically reacting to a common question. She lifts drinks, her eyes on the man’s watch. Rosie’s shift ends soon, when she’ll finally be allowed to sulk in her apartment in peace. 

The clock ticks over to the hour – nine in the evening, and Rosie stands with a smile on her face. “Sorry, honey, time’s up.” she states, returning to the bar and ordering whiskey for herself. She’s off the clock – she doesn’t have to speak to anyone. Drinking alone is just as good as sulking in her bedroom, definitely. 

She hadn’t checked either chair next to her, but now the person sitting on her left is staring at her – “What do you want?” she demands, downing the whiskey that had finally arrived. 

Adelaide didn’t use to drink - at least not this much. Maybe as girls, her and Xanthe would wash a teenage night away with some gin and fruity mixtures between giggles and whispered secrets, but it was never anything heavy. Nothing harder than light booze dipped into tasty chasers ever crossed her lips back then, but now, she had made strides towards being slightly alcoholic. Her drink of choice? Jack and Coke. Something a lady would never order, or so she’d been told by some high-class dumbass trying to pick her up one night. That only made her like it all the more. If a man hated that she did it, she was going to doing it more fiercely and fervently than she had before. 

Which tonight, she was doing exactly that, glass nearly empty as she sat alone at the bar in the Victoria. She’d rolled into London earlier that day, meetings on meetings filling her neatly blocked schedule and after having worked her tail off for hours, a drink is just what she needed. Adelaide had only been perched at the bartop for about an hour now, quietly sipping from her crystal and observing her surroundings. A few times, a flash of red had caught her eye, the woman working the bar coming to and fro as she did her job instantly the target of Adelaide’s interest whenever she was in eyesight. She was certainly more pleasing to look at than anyone else in the joint and easy to asses because she was too busy working to notice the brunette staring her down, analyzing her every move like it was the most important thing she’d ever do.

Adelaide approved.

It was only when the mysterious girl was seated next to her, ordering her own poison, that Adelaide tensed up. She’d been feeling so easy all night, caring less and less with each drink she gulped down, but in the presence of this girl, her muscles suddenly went rigid and her cheeks began to burn - something that had been happening more and more whenever she was in close proximity of a good-looking female. Had this woman sat down next to her on purpose? Or was she reading too much into it? Surely she just wanted to blow off steam and hadn’t even noticed Adelaide was sitting there - which proved to be the latter when she spoke, tone demanding as she waited for an answer. Crap! Had she been staring? She’d tried to make her curiosity less obvious, but clearly subtly and a slightly buzzed Adelaide didn’t mix.

“Nothing,” Adelaide replied cooly, gathering back her usual demeanor, “Just couldn’t help but notice your drinking at the same bar you work at...bit tacky, isn’t it?” 

Charles was glad to be home. Glad to be back where he had a steady hand on every marble that rolled across his palm. Security had tightened in America and then right across Europe as utterance of mafia movements sent authorities into a spin – partly because everyone knew that it wasn’t just the bloody mafia at the centre of this bizarre and violent incident, no there was someone else, something else, an entity that nobody could quite put their finger on – the masterminds were quite set on keeping all fingers far from their chests. 

Charles should have brought his Daggers back to home base as Francis advised but… business was business, there was stock to be sold and debt to be collected. So as Charles attended the many whispered meetings and kept a steady eye on Lorenzo (who he was sure would attempt to take the reins any day now) – the Daggers continued to wreak solicited havoc in London’s gutters. 

Lorenzo’s uptight outburst back in France had been questionable at best, but as the news broke, his actions seemed quite clear to Charles. The Capecchis were not to be trusted, and Charles would have been prepared to talk Francis into breaking all ties had his own interests not been so tightly aligned with the Italian crew. 

“I say we cut the shit and lay out what we know here.” Charles interrupted Victor who was bumbling something about covering their tracks to a meeting full of people that had been ‘covering their tracks’ their entire god damn lives. Who even let him into the room? The distracted whisperings that were being exchanged during Victor’s ramblings fell silent as Charles took command of the discussion. 

“The Italian’s cannot be trusted.” There was an uproar of disagreement and Charles stood, slamming his fist on the table and then looking around the room with a fire in his eyes that said he’d murder every single one of them right then and there if he had the chance. “Error cannot be taken lightly. Now as far as I see it, the Beauregards and the Capecchis need to take a back seat while we clean this shit up. Security is tight everywhere right now, which is why I say we need another Heist. Another three. Three different locations around the world. We give enough distraction, throw them off the scent, how can one group of people possibly be in three places at once?” He raised his voice as people began to chatter beneath him.”There are other crews out there looking to sweep in from underneath us. We show them we can’t be beat, and we show the world that nothing and no one is safe. We can sit back and let them crawl over our battle lines, or we can attack. They know Italy, they know France, but they don’t know the rest of us, who we are or what we can do. I say we show them - because they’ll be so fucking blinded by it that they’ll forget who they were looking for to begin with.”

Adelaide never dared to speak when the Society all gathered like this. Her role within, though vital at times, was minor and her opinion never carried much weight when it came to the big leagues - especially not in a time of peril when they were all thrust into chaos with no proper warning. It was still so enticing to her to sit in on the madness, painted lips pulled thin, brown orbs scanning the faces of other members thoughtfully while they fought and yelled at one another with urgency lacing their tones. They were scared. The foundation of something built long ago was starting to shake, its stability terrifyingly weak as unplanned obstacles wedged their way within the visible cracks. It was almost unnerving to see. Powerful men and women nearly shaking, spitting venom as they fought for a plan, for any kind of way out of the terrible consequence that came from unthought out actions. 

There was far too much happening at once for her to truly hone in on any one member and their exposed emotions, her usual judgments held at bay as she tried to keep her mind with the problem at hand. The Heist Society was in trouble. On the verge of exposure and decimation. The beginning of the end - that is if they couldn’t come up with something to cover their ass and quickly. Adelaide had already done her part by taking a step back. Resuming her normal life as if nothing was a stake or about to crumble and it was easy. Being here now, with the very men who’d began the business that she’d happily entered into what feels like ages ago, she started to feel as if she weren’t doing enough. Given her status both within the Society and out in the world, it wasn’t like she could really contribute anything other than fake smiles and empty advice, but damn did she want to.

“You make a good point,” She spoke up, leaning forward slowly in her seat to make sure she could be seen, clearing her throat to the demand attention from the room and specifically Charles, “However, what exactly do you plan to pull off in three different places? Clearly, this is a life or death situation, so they have to be worth it and they have to be noticeable, but we also have so little room for mistakes. Not saying we are the messy types, but caution is the one thing we need to take heed of. So hotshot, what big heists do you think we call pull off in such a short amount of time without tripping up and COMPLETELY screwing ourselves”