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Javier isn’t one in attending grandiose parties and talking to socialites who’ve got nothing more to brag out than their mundane life. The place was pretty neat, but Javier dreaded to have come. He steadily walked behind the rest of his siblings, trying to maintain an act that he does not exist, although his efforts were definitely futile. It was obvious that he had quite a unique aura in comparison to his siblings. Taking a glass of champagne from one of the trays being served around, Javier walked discreetly around, trying to avoid any people he knew would talk to him, he’s not gonna waste him time for the small talks. 

He stood behind a wall and leaned on against it, trying to familiarize himself with the faces around. The Capo had forced him to come because of the threat that other Mafia’s are coming along. This party was a ticking time bomb, just waiting to be lit. And when the fire starts to erupt, that’s when Javier begins to join.

Javier leaned against the wall, observing the people around, trying to get a feel on who they are based on how they talk, walk and shuffle around in garments they wore. He can distinguish which ones has weapons under their sleeve if he observes them properly. Focused on this hobby of his, Javier suddenly felt a person who stood near, too near in fact that it felt like an invasion of his bubble.

 “What?” He said as a reflex before turning to look at the other person beside him.

Then the man spoke and frightened her. A loud wheezy squeak leaves her lips as she teeters backwards. “Umm..drink you..” Lethargy had claimed her words, and she couldn’t get the room to focus. Then she realized she didn’t even have drinks to offer left on the tray. Instead they rested her fate a bit quickly topping over to smash on the ground around them.

“I..am..sorry.” Cordelia responds closing her eyes hard and reopening them quite a dozen times. “Can I get...you...drink?” She asked between wheezing gasps of air. She tried to turn the knob on the tank, but it didn’t feel like the oxygen was pumping through. 

There wasn’t a word in either English or Russian which could accurately describe her feelings. She’d never been in a place as… as beautiful as The Garden Hotel. She’d never worn anything as elegant as the dress she was borrowing, or the pin in her hair or the pearls in her ears. This was a dream, surely. She was dreaming and would wake up at any moment to find she’d fallen asleep in the middle of ironing the Pakhan’s shirts. But the dream kept going, and only the solid feel of Tatia and Emmaline beside her was keeping her grounded enough to believe this was actually happening. To keep her from being overwhelmed.

Anya stayed close to her friends as much as possible. Emmaline was fluent in English, and Tatia’s English was much better than Anya’s, so she felt better being near them and knowing they could field conversations that she might embarrass herself in. But in such a massive building with so many people, it was hard to stay with them without literally holding their hands, and eventually a moment came when Anya turned around to ask a question only to find that her friends were not there. Panic swelled inside her, churning her stomach like river rapids until she felt sure she might cry or puke or faint. All she could do was back up to the nearest wall and close her eyes for a moment. Deep breaths, she told herself. Don’t make a scene. Don’t draw attention. The only thing worse than losing track of Tatia and Emmaline would be being found by one of the boyeviks, or even Viktor himself.

So she waited. Breathed. Counted to ten. Opened her eyes. The panic was suppressed, for now, but she would have to find her friends in order to banish it permanently. Time to start asking. Anya timidly approached the nearest person and spoke up in a quiet voice, “Excuse me? Um, forgive interruption. Have… erm, have you been seeing two girls? Short, one is blonde in pink dress, and one is having brown hair and blue dress. Both very pretty.”

The soft words almost didn’t hit her ears, but she leaned over to listen. Oh christ, this girl just described half the party. Trying her best she straightened and did a little look around. “Um.. I’m sorry I don’t.” Alright, she’d feel like a total dick if she left the girl here. “How about you come with me.. to the bar..?” She speaks slowly and takes care to sound out every word. “Um, maybe you can spot them from there?” She kept looking as she motioned for Anya to follow her towards the bar. Occasionally pausing as a guest grabbed a flute from her tray. “Where are you from?”

she was lucky someone had managed to calm him down, or better yet.. something. that something being nearly half a bottle of this scotch the other bartender insisted was the best in the world and he found it to taste watered down. whatever it was, it was helping him get through tonight without tearing his head off. 

he let her finish though, a look of amusement on his face which faded once she’d opened her eyes. he knew, or well.. he’d heard snippets. it was too ridiculous of a story to believe with closed eyes but seeing it now, he put the two together. he didn’t mind, but he was still her boss and who would he be if he didn’t give her a bit of a rough time. ‘oh yeah, love? tell me what the shots are saying.’ he mused, with a low chuckle, leaning forward on his elbow. 

‘okay, cee. shots. if you insist.’ he was fond of her, even if he didn’t show it in the most… obvious of ways, he was fond. he left hefty tips too.. even at his own bar. leaning forward without even sniffing the shots he downed the three in succession and stacked them up to hand back to her. ‘what was that? your own personal blend? some foreign vodka?’

Cordelia playfully swatted towards his forearm with a napkin from the bar. “Hmm? Uh.. It wasn’t about what the shots were saying, it was the glass on the counter.” She explained feeling mortified that of all people at this party - he had been the one she had almost went on a full fake psychic trip on. “Come to think about it though..” Her voice trails off as she takes the three shot glasses back into the fray of the bar. Setting up three new shot glasses, as she opened up the liquid again. “Come to think of it. Just listen boss.” The first glass when it got to the rim she remarked, “Que”, the second one, “Sera”, and then the third, “Sera.” 

She laughed and looked to the unmarked bottle with a shrug of her shoulders. “Nonna’s secret recipe, shouldn’t make you vomit thinking of food tomorrow. Easily mixable with beer too.” Cordelia looked around not seeing any other customers, so she leaned against the bar. Arms down on the counter as she eyed him curiously. “Having a good time?”

     “It is a beautiful night for a party…” though, to Soleil, every night was a beautiful night for a party. Nevertheless, this one in particular was breathtakingly beautiful. He could tell that no expenses had been spared. He knew that the Golightlys had more money than anyone could count, but, even if he hadn’t known that beforehand, the visual of this event was enough to prove that to anyone. 

     What was he doing at the party? Just some fresh-faced artist in a city full of fresh-faced artists; he really had no place there. Despite that, he’d been invited by Damien Olivier himself, and who was he to say no to the Parrain? In fact, who was he to not go above and beyond for him? Yes – it was a beautiful night for the party, but it was a beautiful night for Soleil, as well. Some may call him dramatic, coming with an entire outfit change for after the sun set, but he was surely no more dramatic than most people here - he was just taking advantage of the party as anyone should. After all, in a room full of the richest people in New York, one could surely sell a few paintings, gain a few commissions. A good night to be had, beautiful clothing to be worn, money to be made, drinks to be sipped.

The girl gives him a probing look and another glance around the room. “The stars speak to me, and say your business endeavors will flourish at this party tonight. Stick the retrograde of your right, and be weary of your left.” She replies in a fleeting whisper, eyes dramatically rolled into the space in the back of her head. Before she straightens herself and clears her throat. “Another glass of champagne, sir?”

They were somewhere here. They had to be. Alex hadn’t come all this fucking way to spend his night celebrating some spoiled brat’s nineteenth birthday to walk away empty-handed. Currently, Alexander found himself posed at one of the tables scattered around the grand banquet hall, his phone before him on the table alongside a half-eaten plate of filet mignon and herb-roasted veggies.

Pushing away his plate of food, Alex stood up and slipped through the crowd, making his way around the ballroom where guests young and old danced; some among friends, some among more intimate romantic partners, as he slipped onto one of the vast balconies that scattered the hotel property, unlocking his phone and searching for a specific contact in his phone.

“Balcony’s occupied,” he said without glancing up from his phone at the first sound of the balcony doors snicking open. “Find somewhere else to be.”

Part of the reason she was in this mess in the first place was her nonna’s inner justice. She should have known King of the balcony would be here. Just like they were at any gala like this. However, being so close to death before made her more reckless than normal. Was this guy a big shot? He was dressed like one. Did Cordelia Tate care? Not in the slightest. King of the Balcony could throw her off, and she was almost certain with all broken bones but one that she would survive. 

Cordelia closed the door behind her, but didn’t heed the initial advice. The clank of the metal hitting the ground, and then she spoke out with a soft wheeze. “Wow.  Clearly, there is space here for more than one person. Unless you’re Bunny, this isn’t your balcony tonight. I suggest you kindly fuck off to your corner and I’ll fuck off to mine for two minutes. “

La Belle Epoque’s foot traffic was more than adequate for a Saturday morning; he’d met some prospective new clients, had heard tales of magnificent works of art being shipped from Prague and Paris to New York to be auctioned off, and had just finished a light lunch as he made his way through the exhibits that dotted the gallery, his inventory checklist in hand as he crossed off that everything was in order. Seigneur Olivier had yet to visit the gallery for the day, but Gabriel wished to make sure everything was in order for him when he did drop by.

Making his way back to his desk at the front of the gallery, Gabriel took a seat, spread the inventory checklist before him, and reached for his reading glasses, slipping them onto his face as he worked through the papers before him. At this rate, he might consider closing up shop early for the evening so he could see to some of those promising new features making their way into the city.

There was a fleeting moment where she thought she would have enough time to mad dash in, but she felt the heavy hand on her shoulder. Offering the investor a small smile she follows them inside, being careful not to scruff the small wheels of the oxygen tank on the tile. The man behind the desk seemed distracted, so she paused and placed two fingers against her temple. “Yes, yes I see it now.”Cordelia lead the oblivious bank towards Gabriel and cleared her throat when she was close enough. “This man would like to buy the Gerhard Richter piece you have.” Cordelia wheezes and turns her head to cough.