silk hiding steel;

‘I’m marrying the man, not his taste in jewelry,’ Daphne informs her with blushing forbearance, and Vivianne has to resist rolling her eyes to the very back of her skull. “You’re marrying his reputation,” She snorts, gaze scanning the room to keep tabs on her social targets. The woman’s voice drops lower still, a cynical hum under her breath. “Or at least you would be, if you’re half as smart as you look.”

And she is — smart, that is, in ways la Capobastone had grudgingly not expected of her childhood acquaintance. “Dis-lui de le retourner.” She suggests offhandedly, slipping into their native tongue; tell him to take it back. For the life of her, Vivianne doesn’t know whether she means the ring, or the proposal. “It isn’t too late.”

‘Does Cosimo know you?’... 

It’s bold, especially for Daphne. Vivianne lets the question complete a circuit in her mind, thinking back to the last year or two since she and Cosimo crossed over that staunchly political line and invited a far more intimate relationship between themselves. Does he know you, she wonders, recalling the way he’s learned to read the turns of her expression and the subtlest inflections of her tone. He knows how to speak when she’s listening, and how to listen when she speaks. He knows how to command attention and how to return it; how to steer the more mercurial of her moods into directions profitable for him; like a ship through stormy waters. He knows where to touch her, knows never to ask for more.

“He knows what I want him to know.” She answers at last, and thinks therein lies the truth of it for all women. All lovers, more broadly, who know exactly what it is you want them to know, until you decide to give them more. Others claim more before you’ve given it, she thinks, mind traveling to the ex-fiancé she almost married before he learned that little bit more she wasn’t ready to part with, and dashed it all to smithereens. But then Vivianne drowns the thought in more alcohol, feeling it slide to the back of her mouth and numb its way down her throat. 

Better to control all the pieces, she’s long since decided, and wonders now whether pretty, whimsical, Daphne Allard’s come to the same conclusion on love.

Vivianne is only a little wrong. She’s not really marrying Beau’s reputation. She’s marrying the Renaud family reputation...if you want to be technical about it. He presented other benefits as a future husband, as well. His fondness for throwing extravent parties and galas were beneficial for getting secrets from champagne-losened lips. Moreover, he most likely knew not to embarrass her and to keep his indiscretions discreet.

And, of course –– “L’Arena is a plus,” she quips, a little more bite in her voice than usual., and she lets Vivianne make her own conclusions about that. 

Daphne raises an eyebrow when Vivianne calls her half-smart, remembering their little...performance at her parent’s funeral. She knew Vivianne didn’t think too much of her, but Daphne had given her little cause for complaint during the course of her time with the Capulet’s. And she had come to appreciate her childhood acquaintance’s maturity; for whatever else she may be Vivianne was not a fool and too busy to be whatever monster people whispered about.

“C’est trop tard. It’ll grow on me,” Daphne says. “The ring.” Jewelry is easier to become fond of. Easier than a human being, at least. She looks at the ring again, wiling herself to have some kind of deeper sentiment that apathy towards it. She can’t. This is new to her. Daphne Allard has always been one to feel, always been given towards sentiment.

He knows what I want him to know, Vivianne says, and Daphne’s first thought is: Oh, what a sorry state, but beggars can’t be chosers. They were both in the same boat, Vivianne and Daphne –– and it would be a cold day in hell before either them of them went around begging for love. And for better or for worse, they had chosen their arrangements. Vivianne with Cosimo and Daphne with Beau. 

Maybe there are more similarities between their arrangements than Daphne would prefer there to be. Beau knew what Daphne wanted him to know about her – which was, for the record, about as little as possible. He didn’t know about the broken hearts, the schoolyard taunts. He didn’t know that she could pickpocket half the persons in at this party and no one would be the wiser. He didn’t know she was a Capulet. 

But perhaps to his credit, Beau was not the don of a criminal syndicate. Do you know Cosimo, Vivianne? She wonders, but doesn’t ask. Can’t push too much, and if she knew anything about Vivianne, it was that the woman didn’t take kindly to concern or innocent questions from her. 

She raises her drink. “To love...and to arrangements that work, then?” 

“Merda,” She breathes, nary a greeting in response as Daphne approaches her. One sweeping glance to the ring on the younger woman’s finger; one pointed look back up, “ — Well, if that isn’t the tackiest rock I’ve seen in all my life…” Her voice trails off as the flute of champagne rises up to meet her lips, which is undoubtedly a small mercy for the newly minted fiancée who already looks uncomfortable beside her. 

Good.

She hadn’t invited the company, and if Daphne Allard finds her a preferable choice to the clucking hens that flock around the blushing-bride-to-be, a lesser of two evils, so to speak — then that’s Daphne’s misfortune. 

And Vivianne’s misfortune that she’s here at all; forced to attend the flamboyant Valentine’s Day luncheon masquerading as a charity benefit for the city. But Cosimo had practically implored her to do so; convinced as he was that she could charm her way into the good graces of several of the guests in attendance, turning them into eventual songbirds for the Capulet cause. What he doesn’t know, is just how much alcohol it’s taken her to do exactly that.

She steals another glance at the ring. It isn’t quite so bad as she makes it out to be, but one thing is clear, at least to Vivianne — “He doesn’t know you at all, does he?”

Merda is right, but Daphne cannot bring herself to agree with Vivianne out loud out of deference to decorum. Rumors would flow as readily as this city would spill blood, and any measure she could take to ease their spread, Daphne would take. In addition, the ring was hers, for better or worse, and Daphne supposed she could get used to the sight of it. 

However, she doesn’t disagree with Vivianne, her silence louder than her words. “I’m marrying the man, not his taste in jewelry,” she replies airily. “But I don’t think I’ll let him decorate our future house unsupervised.” Not that he’s likely to even care. Daphne knew what the consequences would be of a glorified political marriage, and the effort it would take on both their parts to pretend it was a love match. She knew, but that doesn’t lessen the frustration of Beau’s personality tarnishing an otherwise handsome face and spectacular resume.

He wasn’t that bad, really. If he was, then Daphne would’ve never agreed to start seeing him or agreed to marry him. There was just something cold, something entirely without feeling, about him. She could like him more if she knew him, or if he gave her any indication other than the ring on the finger that he gave a shit about her. 

It wasn’t that she wanted the fairytale – well, she wanted the fairytale wedding, but no one would expect anything less from la famiglia Allard. She wanted love, the real and enduring and beautiful kind her parents have. Enduring. She wished for enduring love, and she was granted a marriage of endurance. Be careful what you wish for. 

He doesn’t know you at all, does he? Ah, there it is – the quiet part said aloud. “I don’t think he knows my taste in jewelry. Besides, who can know anyone at all, really?” Daphne takes a sip of her drink and lets it make her bolder. “Does Cosimo know you?”

//

Katarina’s eyes flick to her rearview mirror, spying the car that’s stayed just far enough away the past few minutes, but after driving for nearly twenty now, it’s more than obvious to her that she’s being followed. She takes a nonsensical left turn, and after a few heartbeats, there the same car is again. “The south side of the city,” Kat answers, “A few kilometers south of the business district. “And, no, I can’t see them. They’ve kept their distance, and it’s too dark.”

She has to have imagined hearing the tightness in her own voice, right? There’s no way she’s scared after a successful hit— that would be completely unreasonable, especially for someone like her. Katarina forces herself to hold her breath for a long moment before letting out a slow exhale as she waits for Daphne’s answer. Understandably, her friend hesitates, and Kat won’t fault her if her eventual answer is ‘no’. All she can hope is that she trusts her to not bring a fight to her door. It’s the last thing Daphne, Beau, L’Arena, or herself needs. 

“Thank you.” Tired warmth seeps into her voice, and Kat visibly sags into her seat. “I’ll be there in no longer than a half an hour.” It won’t take her that long to get there, but she’ll stop somewhere else to take care of whoever’s following her and then hide out at Daphne’s before figuring out where to head next. “I owe you one.”

Thank you. I owe you one. “Careful; there might come a day when I’ll hold you to that,” Daphne says with a smile. It is, however, very true. Daphne Allard was fond of favors, of the power you could hold over someone when they owed you something. She was also, typically but not always, fond of the people who were in her debt, as there was a certain amount of trust required for it. Daphne wouldn’t trust certain Capulet’s to follow through with a favor, but she’d trust Katarina with that much at least. It was almost a love language to her. 

With half an hour to Katarina’s arrival, Daphne has time to clean up. There’s not much out of place in her townhouse – there rarely is – but giving the kitchen a dust and putting a kettle on the stove gives her something to do other than worry about trouble. There’s a jacket draped over one of the chairs that catches her eye – Maeve’s. Daphne frowns. When did that get here?

For a minute, her heart stupidly hopes that the past month has all been some kind of horrible misunderstanding. That she’d turn around and Maeve would be putting some pink roses from the shop into a vase, blissfully unaware of what a fright she’d given all of them. No, she’d left it here last time Maeve came by for dinner, she remembers. Her heart quietly breaks again when she hears the knock by the back door. It’s Katarina.

Daphne lets her friend in, still holding Maeve’s jacket. She locks the door behind her and double checks that her security system is in place, before pulling Katarina into a hug. “You’re not hurt, are you?” Then: “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

date: 21 giugno 2019 location: en route to…? status: closed, for @daphneallard​

“I could be wrong, but I think I’m being followed.” Katarina doesn’t greet her friend before those words flow from her lips in a smooth exhale, French not Italian as is her way with the woman. She isn’t quite sure if she would prefer to be wrong and considered paranoid (something that would raise more than just a few questions) or if she wants to be right. “I’m going to take the long way home, but could I stay at your place for a few hours tonight?” To her credit, she sounds calm as she speaks, but the white-knuckle grip she has on her steering wheel and from visible just for a second as she raises her gaze to the rear view mirror says otherwise. 

It’s afterwards she finally speaks a greeting. “Hello, Daphne. I’m sorry to disturb you so late.” A beat. “Nothing is going to happen, I’m not bringing any fight or any danger to you. I just need to make sure. I’ll even park a few minutes walk away… Just in case.” Katarina glances down to her sweater, her pants, and thankful she’s wearing all black she lets out an audible sigh of relief. There’s no chance the other woman will be able to spot any stray splatters of blood, but to be sure she intends on changing into the beige cardigan stowed away under her seat. Her gun sits in her middle console, and another in her door side. She’ll bring one with her to Daphne’s if she’ll let her stop by, though if not she might just have to get creative about where she’ll be driving to.

I could be wrong, but I think I’m being followed. Daphne’s blood runs; she didn’t know all of particulars of Katarina’s situation, but between her apartment being broken into and everything else with the war in the city, it wasn’t out of the question that the senior Du Pont sister would be followed. “Où es-tu?” Daphne asks, keeping her voice level. “Can you see who you think is following you?” 

When Katarina asks if she can stay for a few hours, Daphne hesitates. It’s not that she distrusts Katarina, but Daphne wouldn’t be terribly surprised if some kind of danger followed her to Daphne’s townhouse. The last thing either of them needed was a mob-related shootout at a villa. Daphne could only imagine what the papers would say, and not even she could keep something like that from the pages of L’Arena.

But if something were to happen to her tonight, Daphne would never be able to forgive herself – and she couldn’t handle another tidal wave of grief caused by a death she could’ve prevented. “Of course, Kat. Do you still remember how to get to the back door?” 

Daphne is not quick to express her anger; it was an unseemly emotion, and people didn’t like it when she got angry. They didn’t know what to do with her. For clients, it was contrary to the good-nature emissary. Saints and saviors were rarely noted for their wrath, unless it was righteous –– and since Daphne happened to be in the mafia, she was in short supply of righteous rage. 

So she bites her tongue and thanks Dr. Bakker, a Capulet-affiliated doctor in the city, for patching up her and Theodora up. The démon the pair travelled to Amsterdam to meet with was not as advertised. A routine mission. Simple. We should have had time to handle this and have some time for ourselves. The simple, routine mission their don had advertised had led to a broken wrist and a body covered in scrapes and bruises. 

The démon hadn’t spared Daphne’s face either. Bruises, scrapes, split lip, black eye –– nothing too imaginative, nothing that enough makeup couldn’t disguise, and nothing permanent, the doctor had assured her. That doesn’t stop the emissary from wanting to wring Don Cosimo’s neck. 

The whiskey burns in her throat and she wrinkles her nose. Daphne doesn’t like whiskey – she prefers champagne or a good cabernet sauvignon, but supposed a party is a good a time as any to try it. No time like the present, she thinks, glancing at the diamond ring adorning her finger. It’s a beautiful ring. It suits her. It’s perfectly perfect. It’s fine. 

Despite her personal antipathy towards the ring, it was a hit with the crowd of revelers. It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. Congratulations. You two are the perfect couple. You’re so lucky to have him. She smiled widely. She thanked with the right mix of pride and humility. She showed off the ring, but didn’t brag about it. Daphne Allard was the perfect blushing bride-to-be. An Oscar-worthy performance, given her secret apathy. 

You wanted this, she reminds herself. You wanted a husband and marrying the man who runs L’Arena will be good for the Capulets. It’ll be good for Verona. It was a suitable arrangement, and certainly he was the best option. She chose him, for what it’s worth. But it wasn’t love, and it would most likely never be love. But maybe that was the whiskey talking. 

She elegantly sidesteps a flock of married women attempting to give her marriage advice, wedding dress advice, diet advice (blegh) –– all bullshit Daphne would have the length of her engagement to figure out – and finds perhaps the one person who wouldn’t grate her about roses and diamond rings tonight. 

“Bonsoir, Vivianne,” she greets. “How’s the night air treating you?”

Grief is ruinous. Philip Petre is not ready for what he must tell her, and Daphne Allard is not ready to hear what he has to say. 

TW: death, grieving, suicide mention, drowning mention, murder mention

MENTIONED: Philip Petre (NPC), @deadagainmaevepetre (among others but mostly Maeve)