Born2Fight

Zara had been waiting at the bar far longer than her patience liked. The Derby crowd was thirsty, and the poor bartender was drowning in orders from men who thought waving their programs counted as manners. She leaned an elbow against the counter, clicking her tongue with mock despair when a tray of champagne flutes sailed past her untouched.

“Story of my life,” she muttered under her breath, reaching to adjust the brim of her hat before straightening. Just then, a stranger brushed past close enough that she shifted to avoid a spill—only for the rim of her glass (half-full at last) to nearly tip against his sleeve.

“Careful, trouble” she said quickly, steadying it with a laugh. “I’d hate to be the one who sends you home smelling like bubbly. Not the sort of souvenir you want from the races.” With a quick flick of her wrist, she signaled the bartender again, as though sheer persistence might win the day. Her friend asked for a drink, and she'd be damned if she didn't leave victorious.

Her eyes flicked over him with quick curiosity—the posture, the cut of his suit, the air of someone who didn’t exactly belong in the rabble. Recognition hovered at the edges, though she couldn’t place him outright.

He turned fully, taking in the wide-brimmed hat framing sharp cheekbones, the crimson lips curved in what he considered a challenge. “I'd trade a case of Dom Pérignon for the name of the woman who nearly christened my best Suit."

Two fingers, one of which adorned with an infamous Halperin family ring, signaled the harried bartender and just like that, had him frozen mid-pour. "Two of whatever the lady's having," While his declare was made, his gaze never once left the young woman’s intense eyes. A smug smirk curled around his lips as he spoke again: "Consider it hazard pay.” His new nickname trouble lingered. He’d been called worse by better. "Trouble?" His voice dipped low, a velvet threat wrapped in amusement. Little did she know, his name alone opened doors or slammed them shut, depending on his mood.

"Though," he continued, all the while plucking the glass from her hand with practiced ease, "if you’re trying to sabotage me, darling, aim for the script next time. Spilled ink hurts worse." The roguish wink he’d directed at her all but emphasized the humorous undertone of his voice.

out and about again, but this time with security in tow, scarlett headed for the same diner she'd been in when she'd crossed paths with eion and made an unlikely friend. she'd enjoyed the homely food and the atmosphere so she had to come back to visit again. she'd been unable to get away by herself this time which was a shame, because she hated the fuss that being well-known caused.

as she entered, she threw the waitress an apologetic smile. "i'm sorry for all this," she gestured to her two security guards standing outside, "i told them it wasn't necessary but my team insisted." she huffed out an exasperated breath before composing herself. "could i just get a table for one please?"

“Sounds exhausting.” The comment slipped although it had only been meant solemnly for herself. Her chin jerked toward the empty booth by the window - the one farthest from her other customers and framed by some giant plants. "Sit there if you’re hoping for some privacy. That table is often overlooked." Frida handed her a neatly folded menu, wrapped in worn leather, adorned with hand-carved ornaments on its edges. A friendly smile curled around her lips as she prepared paper and pen to take the order. “What would you like to drink? The owner’s especially proud of our cocktail selection. Just a tip”

Maeve's painted lips curved, not in warmth, but in cool acknowledgment of the doctor's perceptiveness. "Told anyone?" Her voice was silk over steel, low enough for her words to seem to materialize only in the space between them. "My dear doctor, in my world, vulnerability is a luxury traded for bullets. And my family has other matters to concern themselves with. There is no need to bring this … obstacle to their attention. Have I made myself clear?”

Her headache pulsed behind her temples, a familiar, unwelcome drumbeat, the ever present reminder of the ticking time bomb inside her very own head. "The prescription is urgent. The current -inadequacy- coincides with certain... - escalations- in my responsibilities." Her crimson nails tapped once, sharply, on the armrest. A silent period to the sentence followed her statement. The implication was clear: the headaches worsened when blood was spilled, when deals turned sour, when the delicate balance of her family's empire was threatened. And more so, when her dearest were involved.

“The night, the band, the drinks—take your pick,” he said, voice roughened by whiskey and cigarettes, but smooth all the same. “Me, I don’t believe in wastin’ any of ‘em. But you…” His eyes traced deliberate from the bright silk clinging to her frame, up to the cocktail she cradled, then finally settled on her face with a knowing steadiness. “You’re sittin’ here sellin’ cocktails like you’re on the payroll. Maybe you’re the real entertainment tonight.”

There was a pause, stretched long enough to feel like the opening hand at a card table, the kind where no one yet knew who had the better play. He leaned an elbow against the bar, posture easy but alert, like a man who didn’t miss much and wasn’t about to start tonight.

“Careful, though,” he went on, tone low and edged with something between amusement and warning. “Around here, favorites come with a price. Sometimes more than the rum’s worth.”

His cigarette burned low, and he flicked the stub away, eyes never leaving hers. “So tell me, darlin’—are you just here to drink, or should I be expectin’ somethin’ else walkin’ in with you?”

Eyes steadily locked on each other, the pause didn’t quite unsettle her, if anything it only added to the palpable tension between the pair. “If the night ends half as promising as it started, it will be worth the price.” The almost empty wallet in her purse would beg to differ and yet here was Frida, spending more on a cocktail than she would make on a work day as a waitress, flirting with a captivating stranger. As she leaned in, inhaling deeply, she breathed in the smoke of his cigarette. “Care to share, handsome?” The smoke however wasn’t what she was out for. Oh did he not know she was indeed trouble, although the innocent kind, compared to half the gruesome individuals in this city, which in fact, dear Frida was still blissfully unaware of. Her brows quivered only slightly when he called her darlin’ and Frida could not conclude her imagination from running wild at the utmost alluring sound of his voice. “A drink was the original plan, yes. But then…”

@born2fight

Location: small restaurant

When his personal chef unexpectedly got sick, Cruz decided to grab dinner on his way home after a long, exhausting day. The evening air was cool but comfortable, as he entered a modest, cozy restaurant, tucked away from the chaos of the main street. He chose this place because it was one of the rare ones, where even someone like him could stay unnoticed at least for a little while.

Choosing a booth by the window, Cruz settled heavily onto the seat and sighed, before he took the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Almost immediately, a young waitress approached and placed the menu carefully before him. He paused and offered her a brief nod in thanks, before letting his eyes roam over the menu. “Is that chili burger any good in here? Be honest.” His expression was serious but not completely unfriendly either, while he waited for her response.

A leather covered menu was handed to the gentleman seated by the window, greeted with a friendly smile and tired eyes. “Here you go, Sir. What would you like to drink?” Her quip sounded gentle and kind, while she waited for his response. To her surprise he had made up his mind rather quick, much unlike most guests ever had. “The kind of man who doesn’t waste time. Very well.” Her joke was not meant to offend, yet Frida had no filter and often stepped on someone’s toes without intention. “I’ll have you know, Sir, most of our clients say it’s the best in the city but you’d have to try for yourself in order to be able to judge.”

Location: the hills

As Los Angeles stretched out below in all its glory, Maurizio found himself at a secluded overlook on the Hollywood Hills, bearing his own reasons for being awake before the city. The air was still crisp, carrying the faint scent of earthy woods and distant sea salt, enveloping his every sense, as he inhaled profoundly; piercing blues reflected the deep indigo shade of the very sky above, which now slowly faded into soft rose and golden hues. He'd just finished a rigorous run, his built frame moving with an almost unnatural grace, not a bead of sweat seemingly out of place, while he went about his daily routine.

The bodyguard stopped at the very edge of the clearing, facing the rising sun, allowing himself to just be present in the moment and admire the beauty of nature itself. His dark, impeccably tailored jogging attire did little to hide the toned musculature beneath, or the faint, intricate patterns of tattoos peeking from under his sleeves and collar – tiny hints of a deeper story he was adamant to leave where it belonged — buried deep within the indefinite abyss of his past. He turned slightly, catching the nascent light, his eyes unmistakably exuding an enigmatic aura, a quiet power that was both intriguing and subtly intimidating without trying. Clearly enjoying this solitary moment of peace and quiet, his breathing evened out slowly, his focus unmarred; yet there was an underlying alertness ever present and stirring within upon realizing, he wasn't as alone as he might have thought. His gaze briefly swept over the panoramic view of the dormant city, before it settled on the approaching figure. With no surprise in his oceanic blues, no immediate reaction beyond a calm, almost analytical observation, he gave a small, acknowledging nod and offered a short: "Good Morning". - for his manner's sake; not because he was particularly in the mood for a little chit chat.

The Stag's Head was quieter than usual for a Saturday night — quieter in a way that made Eoin’s skin itch. The sort of quiet where every word carried and every pair of eyes was half on their pint, half on the door. News traveled fast in this city, but death traveled faster, and Johnny Halperin’s had reached even the regulars who didn’t know the boy’s name until last week.

Eoin sat at one of the corner tables, his coat still on, the weight of a fresh cigarette pack resting between his palms. He wasn’t sure if Maeve had chosen the place because it was public — or because it was theirs. The truth was, he still didn’t know her well enough to guess.

When she came in, he didn’t stand. Just tipped his head, a faint greeting, and let her make her way over.

“City’s gone quiet,” he said once she sat, voice low enough to keep it between them. “Not the peaceful sort. More like everyone’s holdin’ their breath. You hear about Halperin?” He didn’t wait for an answer — the whole world had heard. “Poor bastard’s face carved up like some kind o’ warning.”

His eyes flicked to her, trying to read what the death meant to her — if it meant anything at all — and coming up empty.

“Wonderin’ if we’re supposed to take it that way.”

One brief glance around the vastly familiar space, her eyes immediately gravitated towards her dearest of all. Slightly tinted lips twitched into a faint smile at the sight of her only son. The one she’d thought lost forever, up until only a few years ago.

All obstacles aside, he was now sitting right here, by her side and that was truly and utterly all that really mattered.

“What an utmost friendly greeting.” Maeve chuckled with a rare whiff of mirth sparkling in her eyes, as she pulled out the chair across from him and settled in smoothly. At first she listened to his words quietly, her head tilted ever so slightly while she nodded briefly in a silent agreement about the quietness and whether she had heard about the Halperin boy. Every last soul surely had heard by now. And Maeve was always ahead. She had to be. “Can’t say I’m surprised he ended up like that. He’s been barking too loud one too many times for sure.”

Fortunately for the Riley’s sake, not everyone always got what they deserved. At least not on their end of the food chain. Eoin’s gaze was held steadily by her own, which carried an unusual warmth only he could draw out. No matter the circumstances, she would always look at him the way only a mother could ever look at her child.

“Not us. I doubt it. Their inner circle and affiliates maybe. But we’ve got nothing to worry about.”

The music hit just right tonight. Something slow, rich, dripping with brass and smoke. The kind of sound that curled through the air like a promise—half-sin, half-sacrament. From his perch near the end of the bar, Zion Walker let it wash over him, one arm slung across the back of the leather booth like he owned the whole damn world. Technically, he just managed this corner of it. But The Dunbar pulsed with the kind of life that made a man feel bigger than he was.

Central Avenue glittered outside, but in here, the real stars were on the floor. A velvet haze hung over everything: cigarette trails, perfume, sweat, ambition. Couples twirled under the golden light. Men in tailored suits shook hands over deals worth dying for. A woman laughed like she meant it. Somewhere behind it all, the underground poker room murmured with tension.

Zion sipped something dark and neat from a cut-glass tumbler, ring tapping lightly against the side. “A little slow for a Saturday,” he commented, smug facetiousness oozing with each word. He wore a suit tonight—sharkskin gray, crisp shirt open at the collar, no tie. Decadent. Intentional. He dressed like a man with nowhere to be but everywhere to rule. His smile was lazy. His eyes were not.

It was a good night. Which meant he didn’t trust it one bit. His gaze swept the room again. Familiar faces. New ones, too. Some trying not to look his way. Some looking too hard. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he lit a cigarette, exhaled a slow curl of smoke, a smirk unfurling as he did so, he turned to the person closest to him "If tonight gets any prettier, I might just fall in love."

A curl of smoke, originating from his cigarette, shrouded her view temporarily. Nevertheless, her gaze perceived his appealing features. “What with? The band? The drinks? The night itself?” Her warm hues locked onto his very own for the briefest of moments before her attention was turned back to the bartender who’d just happened to serve her drink. Slim fingers wrapped around crystal glass, bringing the sweet liquid to her lips and nipping on it. A low hum approved of the cocktail before she set it back down onto the counter. “I think I found a new favorite. You should try!”

Location: The Dunbar

Malik leaned back in the plush leather booth at Dunbar, a family owned pub, which, —although he may have been a little biased —was indeed his favorite place to go, whenever he was in the rare mood for a night out. The dim lighting cast a warm glow across the rustic wooden bar, where familiar faces busily poured drinks and swapped stories during the usual evening hustle. As head of the Walker syndicate, Malik was used to commanding attention and respect; yet here, in this homely establishment, filled with laughter and music, he encountered a brief moment of solace. One, that wouldn’t quite last for much longer than a heartbeat but still; he’d take what he could get. Chief Walker savored this moment, his calloused fingers firmly holding onto the glencairn glass of amber liquor, appreciating the complexity and nuances of the spirit. He took a small sip, letting it coat his tongue first, then he paused, allowing the flavors to develop —a rich bourbon with notes of caramel— and relished its soothing warmth, as it settled comfortably within him. It was moments like these, that reminded him, why he worked so diligently: to protect what mattered most—his family. He’d failed them once, he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

The gentle clinking of glasses drew his gaze to a figure seated next to him. Their eyes met briefly, his gaze intense but not threatening, as Malik eventually broke the silence between them with an easy question, projected more for hospitality than necessity: “What’s your poison tonight?”—It wasn't often one received such attentiveness from someone usually buried under responsibilities higher than most could fathom, but sometimes… wonders did happen and Malik never ceased to surprise even himself.

Was it merely a simple challenge or more so a concealed provocation on her part? The question remained unanswered to onlookers and the Chief himself, with Maeve carefully planting the seeds of her next, carefully planned strike. In a world ruled by men who thought themselves to be superior and invincible, she had learned to leave a mark of her own along her path to victory and success. As she awaited her drink, she took the seat next to him with no permission asked prior. “Worry not, I come in peace. This time.”