A CONFIDENT LIAR.

Ah, Deran. She knew he would be here, of course, but she wasn’t expecting to have such a run-in with him. She was intending on leaving the man alone for just one day, but turns out, she’s found herself right beside him. Though maybe that’s her own subconscious need to torture him and his own inner demons. Maybe it’s something about him that makes her need in her most evil ways.

But she tells herself, not today. Give the man a break. And there’s people around, it would be bad form for her to stay dishing about the things she knew he got up to. Her hands slide over the hips of her sleek back dress, only to clasp behind her back. “Very profound, Cowboy.” Her red painted lips twitch in a smirk.

Be nice, she tells herself. So she clears her throat, nodding to the collection of photos. “They say the more you try to remember something, or someone, the less accurate your memory is. Seems photographs help keep you grounded in reality.”

☉

Very profound, cowboy. 

Like clockwork, he chuckles, shaking his head. Just by her tone of voice, he knew the woman beside him was Gianna. She had a particular sway over him, as if she held the key to the hidden cage inside his body. Some days, she’d wave this key in front of his face, a threat like a shared secret. “Maybe death makes me poetic.” He points out, an open assumption. He sets the photograph down then, taking a few steps back. Carefully, his hands are shoved into his pockets. 

“Where’d you hear that?” Deran asks, genuinely curious. His eyes avert to her now, brows raised in amusement. It was strange to witness her like this. Kind. Usually, their encounters bordered hostile. Deran, most times, had to hold back from spewing his own threats. Though, he knows better. He always knows better. “I’ve always had a good memory. My father used to tell me it was a curse. It irritated him. Still does. He likes to say that people with good memory have a hard time letting go.”

In a crowded room under the bleak nature of the event, Lilith stuck herself to the walls of the room. It was an easier way to see what was happening around her, eyes of hazel woodland peaking at every passerby, taking in their attire and solem appearences. While a woman of the more upper class world of New York City, she was used to events of glitz and glam; this, however, was more drib and drab. A sigh parted from her cherry painted lips, the champagne flute empty and her perfectly manicured fingers were tapping slightly at the rim of the glass. The in time beat keeping her sane from the mumbles of quiet conversations that were happening in clusters around the room.

Being perched near the mantle piece had allowed her the peace and quiet she desired, while Lilith loved ravashing conversation, she knew it was very unlikely that this would happen in here and rather than chase the need for a thrill she kept herself away, in hopes that time would fast forward and take her to the much needed after party she’d find in her own dive bar later this evening; whiskey, although fabulos here, wasn’t the same as a dirty one on a sticky bar. But the voice cut through her solace, like a sharp knife to delicate silk. Eyes snapping towards the man, whose voice she knew instantly.

It was Deran Bianchi. 

Lilith mulled his question, a very intricate thought running through her mind of the meaning of a photograph — to be captured in time, a memory instilled on paper. It was a beautiful thing, how they could bring back feelings she had long forgotten.

‘‘It’s a weird thought really, photographs that is.’‘ Lilith agreed, as she peaked a glance at Deran. ‘’If you think about it, in one snap shot, we could have been apart of thousands of photographs, background that is…’’ She hummed, furrowed brows following, lips pursing for a moment. ‘’Some people may have even looked at us in the back ground that moment and wondered who were were — how we lived.’’ Lilith wasn’t a high up person in command, heck, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he didn’t even know her name, but her one redeeming quaility would be that she was an enigma within herself, a beauty of words. She was a charmer, who spoke with eleqouence that came from her time working under her old mentor, when con artistery was her daily living. But as she took a second more to look at Deran, she noted his features, his facial expression, and inwardly sighed. 

It was a shame, the absolute awfulness of this situation for them all. A lot was going to a change, and she wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or bad thing, she wasn’t sure. She was adaptable, she knew that much but she’d be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy it a little. 

‘‘Sorry, Deran — I didn’t mean too…I’ll leave you be.’‘

☉

When an apology comes from the woman before him, Deran can’t help but furrow his brows. Had he done something? Had he said something he shouldn’t have? In a lapse of sudden uncertainty, he rests the picture frame back on the mantle, positioning it just as it was moments ago. He thinks to speak again, to aid her apology, but doesn’t, his mouth opening before closing once again. For a moment, he ponders what she’s just said. The prospect of being in other people’s photographs, hidden behind crowds of people or perhaps even a bush or a family. He’s not sure why but the thought makes him feel strange. Sad. He hates the idea of a moment that fleeting, unknown to him. 

“That, um,” He starts then, interrupting his sudden stream of thoughts. Perhaps it was the nature of this day, having just buried his uncle and the head of their entire operation. A huff escapes him, looking to where the service continues in the next room. He can hear people mingling, voices muffled by the wall. There’s a painting hung above the couch a few feet away. It looks like a war, soldiers fighting during a period that Deran couldn’t place. “Don’t be sorry, you didn’t do anything. Not at all.” The man says then, his tone polite. 

A chuckle escapes him then, looking to his shoes before back toward Lilith again. “I hate that thought. Um, being in other people’s photographs. I’m not sure why it makes me uneasy. I don’t wanna be....wondered about in that way.” Another laugh, a shrug of his shoulders paired with the sound. “How’s the bar?” He asks then, averting away from the obvious speaking topics at hand. For now, he’d rather now go over the contents of his emotions again. At this rate, he was exhausted. 

The shower fills the space where silence brews. As the steady stream hits his back, Deran rubs at his face. In truth, he’s never been to a funeral of this magnitude and that notion alone earns a surge of nerves to travel through his body. Today, the Bianchi family were to be their own protectors, shielding themselves from any oncoming threats, ones that may very well earn in their demise. A sigh escapes Deran as he reaches to shut the water off, pulling back the shower curtain and stepping out. He grabs a towel from underneath the sink, wrapping it tightly around his waist, before heading back into his and Janine’s bedroom.

His wife is half-dressed, seated at her vanity, touching up her makeup. Deran looks, of course he looks. He takes her in entirely, smiling a little to himself. Even to this day, Deran never feels prepared for way she makes him covered in a sudden red flush. The anticipation was almost brutal though routine nonetheless. The man circles his bed, pouring himself a glass of water from the pitcher that was provided by their housekeeper before they sent her home for the day. “I don’t even think I remember how to tie a tie.” Deran says then, staring into his glass before taking a sip. A breathy chuckle sounds from him as he turns to Janine again, his eyes trained on her bare back. In some quiet way, he was avoiding the obvious. Gregory’s death, the funeral, the growing distance between them. Perhaps this has become a specialty of theirs. Avoidance. 

Being here now, in the wake of death, was a pillar of insurmountable grief. Deran stirs in the sentiment of everything, the sorrowful faces and black clothing, all patrons clad in large coats to hide from the cold of an early-December New York. The service was nice enough, a somber affair. Deran stood to the side and watched with a gentle stare, seated with his cousins. He fixated on a chipped tile on the floor halfway through. To his right, his father mentions Christmas. 

Once back at the Bianchi estate, he wanders. He plucks up prepared foods from small tables and pops them into his mouth, though his appetite was fleeting. With so many people inside, with so much security, the place looks brand new. When he was young, he used to picture large balls happening here, ones where women paint their cheeks red and lift their breasts to their neck. 100 years of familial activity was enough to earn in his overflowing imagination to go rogue as a child. Now, it’s all just a little bleak. 

He reaches for a photo from the mantle in the common area, one of Gregory and Deran’s father, Colin. They look formal, neckties and dress shoes. Their faces were baron of any smiles or teeth. Deran thinks he may turn to concrete if he looks long enough at their stern, steady eyes, focused on the camera, hands clasped together in front of their bodies. It’s then he realizes that someone was just a few feet from him, no doubt taking a few laps as well. “Photographs are weird,” Deran says, breaking the silence that brews between him and the other, “It’s strange to think something can be immortalized like that.”

To be frank, Deran was the kind of man who did what he could to maintain concrete business relationships. He didn’t enjoy having loose ends, the man finding solace in the evenings knowing that there was nothing he needed to tend to until dawn breaks. He kept a clean list, his mindset steady, or as steady as it could be. But, like most well-oiled machines, there would always be a kink in the system. Deran’s kink, Gianna Alvarez, was a crease he couldn’t iron out.

Night was slowly approaching, a darkened blanket swallowing the city. Deran makes his rounds, gathering all the information he could about his uncle’s death. That’s when he bumps into Gianna. The woman, to him, was like a fox. She was cunning and smart, practical in her remarks to tear him down on certain occasions. That was just it, though, it seems. If it weren’t for what she knows, perhaps Deran would’ve truly liked her. Perhaps he would’ve even slept with her by now in some effort to reclaim or hammer the last nail within his dwindling psyche and failing marriage. Deran attempts to walk past her but he knows she’ll follow. Hell, he might have even stopped in his tracks if she didn’t. “Are you gonna threaten me or bring up all the things I’ve done wrong in my life, Gianna? Maybe you should spice things up for a change, hm?”

If someone had told Meredith Rutherford that she’d be spending every little bit of spare time she had sneaking around with the man who was supposed to be her enemy, she’d have laughed in their face. A cold, condescending laugh floating through the room, but even then there would have been doubts lingering in the air. Stranger things had happened.

There she was… laying in a plush bed, her slender frame almost fully exposed other than the blanket that covered her backside. Cheating wasn’t exactly a foreign concept to her, she’d done it before. A seasoned professional, if you will. Deran was different, though. This was a man who went against everything she was supposed to stand for… everything that she was meant to object as the District Attorney of New York City, but the tender part of her usually cold, dull heart swelled even just at the sight of him, making her relationship with the man unlike any she’d experienced in a very long time. It was a confronting thing to realise that she had grown to care more deeply for her lover than her own husband. Mr. Rutherford had his chance… but it was gone, and now the blonde had to sit with her growing feelings for the Bianchi’s consigliere.

One thought that sat at the back of her mind was Deran’s wife, Janine. She was a topic that was rarely mentioned, only on occasion when it was absolutely vital. They both went home to other people, Meredith came to terms with that from the very beginning, after all the nature of their relationship was purely sexual at first. Until it wasn’t. What would his wife think of her? It was a valid question, but one she didn’t really care about the answer to. It was as clear as day that he wasn’t happy, otherwise why would he be entangled with her at any given chance? It wasn’t Meredith’s fault that she gave the man something that Janine couldn’t.

His question caused her to sit up ever so slightly, running her fingers through her tousled blonde hair as she took a moment to ponder her answer. “The fact a prominent member of the Bianchi family is fucking the DA?” She couldn’t help the chuckle that elicited her lips then. “If you want me to be frank… it doesn’t look good in favour for either of us, we both know that.” Her expression became more serious, she was well aware of the risk of losing her job, not only because of the affair, but her unlawful dealings with a criminal organisation. “How long do you think we can keep this up? Us, I mean. The affair, our business relationship.” If the woman had it her way, her illegal activities would never come to light, and she was cocky enough to believe that, but at every point in our lives, the pin would drop.

☉

In certain ways, Deran had found religion within this affair. Inside the daunting eyes of Meredith Rutherford held the keys to his untapped desires. And, in other ways, that was terrifying. He straddled the edge of a mountain when with her, just dangling from the edge. The altitude makes him sick but it’s an addicting kind of journey. Reaching the top meant more than remaining still, a pebble in water. Perhaps that’s what he craves, the thrill. Because, outside of this, he wonders if someone like Meredith could ever stomach a man like him. Unfaithful, guarded, cagey, and alone. A father’s son, desperate in the way young children were when they lacked attention.

Then, a chuckle escapes Meredith and Deran can’t help but laugh too. It’s quiet, breathy, paired with a shake of his head. “It could be worse,” Deran says, breaking the silence that brewed within the base of his throat, “I could be fucking whoever killed my uncle.” He says with calculated efforts, allowing his eyes to rest upon Meredith. The softness had left his gaze for a moment, training on her with intent. In hindsight, despite their tension and his desire for her touch, he wonders her position in all this. Why keep quiet? Why entertain this for so long? What did she want?

With that, he sits back again, hands resting against his bare stomach. He thinks to close the window as a chill sends over his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, but he doesn’t. “I don’t know. Forever?” He says, sounding small now. “Or as long as you’ll have me.” Deran continues, another laugh escaping him. His head cants to the side, one hand reaching over to brush a loose strand of blonde hair from her face, his knuckles brushing against the skin of her cheek. She looked like a film actress his father would’ve liked. The sight of her makes the steady rhythm of his heart increase. It sounds in his ears. “What? You getting sick of me, Mer?”

Deran swallows hard after speaking, turning his face away, looking across from them blankly. “I love her, you know.” The confession comes quietly, a secret despite it being something that should be common knowledge. Perhaps the sentiment has become lost in translation over the years. “Janine, I mean.” 

Lyra swore that her phone had been ringing non-stop all day. This time it was her assistant reminding her of her 2 o’clock meeting that had managed to slip her mind entirely. “Send them in,” Lyra replies, before hanging up the phone, shutting down her computer. Sweeping a stack of paperwork to the side, Lyra gazes warmly at the person entering her office, “I sincerely apologize for the wait…the office always gets remarkably busy around this time of year, but I appreciate your patience. So please tell me, what can I do for you?”

☉

The mayor. To prep for his sudden arrival, Deran slips into new skin, to convey his position as a confident liar and a member of his infamous family. It was easier this way, wearing a mask, remaining collected in order to seem stern. You see, Deran was the kind that was torn to shreds on the insides, always in between choices, always awaiting a train to come barreling toward him. The cliché was almost poetic.

He pads across his metaphorical railroad tracks as he steps inside Lyra’s office, taking a seat just in front of her desk. The chairs unleashes a subtle squeak under his weight. “I’m just here to avoid anymore casualties.” The man starts with, resting his hands in his lap. That’s when he leans forward, a criminal’s stance. He means business. Silently, he wonders when government officials started becoming attractive. Lyra, their beloved mayor and associate, looked like a Barbie doll his daughter would own. “Has anyone spoken to you? About you or Gregory or any vendettas, personal affairs? I’m just trying to get a clear image on what’s going on around here. You understand, right?”

She tried her very best to stay awake. Sipping at a rapidly cooling cup of coffee as the housewives of Beverly Hills tore each other to shreds on their TV. She wanted to be awake to see him, to hold him, to perhaps rip him to shreds as well because god knows she didn’t deserve to be treated like a fucking after thought. But really, she would want to hold him above all of that. The anger, and concern, and sadness that radiated off of her made her bones weary, eyelids heavy as she nodded off every now and then, only to jolt back away every time Kim ran her fucking mouth. 

She would give him another hour. Then she would get up and go to bed… 

The relief she felt when he walked through that door was palpable. She did not stand, though. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, she stayed seated, eyes trained on the TV screen, only to have it be blocked by the man that held her whole heart in his hands. 

She clenched her jaw as she regarded the bouquet of flowers in hand. 

“I waited for you.” She said quietly before finally getting to her feet and taking the flowers from him, eyes still trained at his chest. She cleared her throat and stood on her tip toes to press a kiss against his cheek before floating past him to look for a vase, ignoring the subtle scent of perfume that was most definitely not hers. 

Her heart cracked, but she pushed that thought aside. 

“How was today?” She prodded carefully. “I hear the band’s back together.” She offered him a small, wane smile before clearing her throat once more and propping the arrangement in a vase. 

☉

The sound of Janine’s heart breaking has become noticeable over the years. The way she moves away from him, speaking casually, it was all a testament to the true nature of her emotions in moments like these. Deran has known her, loved her, for too long not to notice. Yet, he does nothing. He remains still, steady water. Perhaps he was too scared, terrified that any sudden movement might earn in him losing her once and for all. 

“I know — I know, I’m sorry.” He says, and this time he actually does mean it. With Gregory’s death, Deran felt like he was drowning in responsibilities. “Everything was a mess today. They’re all angry, you know? Upset.” Deran clears his throat as he follows his wife back into their kitchen. 

For a moment, he thinks to reach out to her, to remind her that he’s still here. But, of course, he refrains. Maybe that was too much, maybe that seemed desperate. Maybe Janine no longer wishes for his affections. The thought makes his face scrunch in pain, moving to sit at their island. 

The room goes silent, which had become routine. This silence held a pent-up energy that never of them could access. One day, Deran fears it may pop like a balloon in each of their faces. With that, he stands, moving to press a kiss to Janine’s shoulder from behind. “This might get ugly...” He speaks, breaking the silence. Deran’s emotions hit a sudden peak in this moment, a strange coiling sensation making itself known inside his stomach. “I can’t lose you two. You and Madison. I don’t know what I’d do.”

location: a syndicate owned bar (still open to everyone)

Many were celebrating tonight, the fall of Gregory Bianchi being an early Christmas present. It was all politics to Valeria and they bored her. She felt that New York was more complicated than Mexico, with the Alvarez openly ruling over everything. Here it was all secrets and chess game, something that most of the time, she was in no state to understand. Valeria was off work tonight, which meant that she was out at one of New York hottest club. “My drink is almost done,” she said, voice filled with honey, to the person that stood next to her. “You can pay my next one.”

☉

Flying under the radar was hard now after recent events. Gregory’s death, to him, was no laughing matter. But with a man of his magnitude, with his track record, Deran was well aware the mogul would have a select few that were thrilled when it came to his sudden demise. 

That’s what leads Deran here. He’s stood in a corner, a bodyguard close by. He advises his family that he would do some digging for them while they mourned or planned retaliation on their own terms. When someone speaks to him, his brows furrow, a confused look gracing his expression. “What, your card get declined or something?” He asks casually, still attempting to keep a low profile. 

So many people had been in and out of the family estate. Not only was it the place she grew up, the place her father lived but it was also the place where most of the family business was conducted. It was no surprise that so many people would come in, even more on a day like today. There were so many things to be done, planned, found. And Viola was acutely aware that almost anyone who crossed the front door could be responsible for the hole in her heart.

But Deran was family, true family. He had been by their side for so long, Viola saw him more as a brother than a cousin. Most importantly, he had been her father’s trusted advisor. Still, the reprimand stung and her eyes turned even colder than they had been. If anyone in the family expected Viola to play the grieving daughter, the one who couldn’t stop crying, the one who did not act, they were mistaken. “The next PR nightmare will not be coming from me,” she said, eyeing the newspaper with the daunting headline, the one exposing a secret they tried to hide. It wasn’t exactly what she wanted to reply, but now was not the time to pick fights with family.

A heavy sigh left her lips at the question. What she was thinking was not only retaliation but torture, emotional and physical. There was no way whoever did this would run free for long and they would regret ever touching a Bianchi. “Obviously. Aren’t you?” A hand passed over her eyes, trying to chase the exhaustion from them. “We can’t be merciful with this Deran. This is war and we are the rulers.”

☉

Family was a factor he could never negotiate. Deran Bianchi was many things but when it came to family, he was a rock. Steady. He would do anything to steer the people he loved towards a beacon of careful affairs. Perhaps that’s why this situation was so jarring. Gregory was not his father but he was, in certain ways. His cousins were more than cousins, they were his siblings. His blood. And because of that he feared for them, for their loss and their reactions to it. This alone was why he was best suited for the role of the family consigliere. His understanding and his fear alone allowed him to see through a different lens. Though, today, his love for his family might contradict this piece of him. 

“Don’t worry about that, we’ll handle it.” Deran says then, his tone softening. He takes a quick look at the paper, his face scrunching a tad at the sight. This wouldn’t be easy, that he knew for sure, which alone made his internal terror increase. “Of course I’m thinking it. We all are.” Deran stands then, arms crossed over his chest. “I think, for now, we need to be careful. No sudden movements. I know that may seem weak but we can’t risk any causalities. Not right now.” 

Teeth chew at his bottom lip as the cogs inside his brain churned. “I think we should cut Leyla in too. Let her be part in the retaliation process.” A sigh escapes him then, hoping this suggestion doesn’t come as a lapse of poor judgement. Everyone was aware of the rift between Leyla and Viola and, in a way, Deran hopes the death of Gregory may help mend that. “Where do we even begin? I mean, we have to start from the inside...”

“You’re right…” They couldn’t afford to doubt their organization. Not in its greatest challenge since its inception. The myth of Gregory Bianchi had kept them alive, given them eden… his passing put everything in danger. They needed to find the mole. They needed to ensure every brick in the wall was immovable, to maintain the minatory reputation. “Smart and confident.” Leyla nodded, trying to convince herself of the words. “I guess we don’t have a choice.” She took a deep drag of the cigarette. “I want in, Deran. Whatever kind of retaliation we’re planning, I want in.” 

“It’s not death that I’m scared of…” What Leyla feared, what kept her up at night, was losing everything before she even got her chance. To die unimportant, just another number in this ugly world. The years of trying to mean something to her family had exhausted every bone in her body, she wasn’t supposed to be this tired at twenty-five. Now- finally- that opportunity was in her grasp, grazing her finger tips, yet everything was fragile. Uncertain. Their once iron ranks had be infiltrated right beneath their watchful gazes. “You know, it’s funny- he was my father and yet I can’t find even a single part of me that wants to mourn him. Maybe the security he provided, maybe the fact that him dying hurts people I love, but him?” Deran was the only person that she could be this honest with. He, at least, understood what it was like to be tossed aside. Ridiculed by your own blood. “It’s a fucking terrible thing to say but… I don’t feel anything. I’m more worried about what happens now…”

☉

When the world eventually explodes, Deran believes he might always remember Leyla’s compassion towards him. Her honesty too. It would survive the end times, he believes, and he feels the end is near. Perhaps it’s why his emotions bubble to the surface, threatening his actions. He couldn’t help but wonder, in this light, who would mourn his own death. What would become of him in death? Would he become a thought made in passing only after someone saw him in an old photograph, or would his image be hung up above a large mantle in remembrance like a dead president.

In truth, it pains him to think that Leyla’s demise might be insignificant. To him, she was a beacon. Stronger than people know. But she was cast away, made to be only an after thought in most affairs. 

So, he reaches out to her, his hand resting on her arm. “You don’t have to mourn him.” Deran says then, reluctant to speak on her involvement in any kind of retaliation tactics. Not just yet, anyway. “I don’t think I’d mourn my father’s death. They say the death of someone close to you feels like dying yourself but...that’s hard when you don’t exactly love them.” He releases her shoulder then, plucking his carton of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. In some ways, this was a lie. Despite all that his father’s done to him, he might silently crumble at his father’s death. But not because he was no longer there, no, but because Deran isn’t sure what he’d be anymore. “Remember him by remembering who you are. That’s how you mourn him.”

A drag of his cigarette is taken then, smoking escaping through his mouth. The sun hangs low in the sky, shining right into Deran’s eyes. He squints a little before speaking again, “What do you want, then? You know, with the retaliation. I might have some pull with your siblings.”

Try to be more romantic, you fucking moron. The words of his father after a heated phone call on his drive home. For once, Deran decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. He just lost his brother in the most cruel way, his pride and honor stripped from him with one bullet to the brain while he slept. Deran had obtained his father’s same coping skills, acting out in order to heal the emotional wounds that soon consume him. Little by little, he became just like him in certain ways, though his bitterness still hurt. In hindsight, Deran was still a boy scorned in the wake of his father’s mistreatment.

On the phone, Deran had mentioned Janine. Something about how he hadn’t seen her much that day and that he was dealing with Gregory’s death closely with his cousins. Retaliation was in order, business was business, and his wife had soon become an after thought. This, for some strange reason, had baffled his father. Perhaps he was afraid his son would too suffer the same romantic fate as him, his spouse running away with a bag of cash, never to be seen again. So, Deran receives the usual. Some aimless insults and then the grand finale. Try to be more romantic, you fucking moron. 

While on his way home, he picks up a few things. Odds and ends. He walks past a bodega with a station filled with bouquets of flowers. At this rate, his marriage was so strained that he considered buying every damn one. “The roses are most popular.” The worker says, ready to sell. Deran hesitates before picking up a bouquet of roses paired baby’s breath. He pays, says his thank you, and heads back home.

Deran silently hopes the flowers will mask the subtle smell of Meredith’s perfume.

“Hey..” Deran starts quietly as he heads inside once he’s home. He removes his shoes and circles around the couch where Janine sits, the TV on before her. By some miracle, she was still awake. On days where he came home late, she usually fell asleep long before he arrived home. “Um,” The man clears his throat, holding out the flowers. “These, um, these are for you.” 

status: closed for @deranbianchi​

location: driveway of the bianchi estate

carina bianchi was a face hardly seen at the bianchi estate in recent years. she’d pop in every now and then, particularly on holidays to see the family. not much would change in between each visit. yes, she was moving up the ranks in her profession. yes, she’d even taken a part time teaching job at a local university. but her presence on that particular day was unexpected by many. with the news of her dear uncle passing, she had been already in the midst of making plans to return home to say her goodbyes. but per the urgent request of a family member in particular, she was flown home on a private plane, only to arrive the following day. it was hardly the type of visit she’d enjoyed making, but she was home.

as she took her first steps out of her car and onto the pavement, she couldn’t help but stare in awe at the home. it certainly had a grand curb appeal and before she knew it she’d been deep in the memories of her first visits to the estate in high school. it looked just as intimidating as the day her father had brought her, showing his newfound daughter off to the rest of his family. 

a familiar face caught her eye at the entrance to the home, her half-brother. the two had hardly known each other and yet, they shared the same familial ties to that estate. carina made her way to the man and greeted him with, “lovely to see you deran, despite the unfortunate circumstances. I assume everyone is inside?” 

☉

Having a sister is something that often crossed Deran’s mind. In truth, he was a deep thinker, always looking for a way around his thoughts and emotions. But he was also dreadfully alone when it came to the way he thinks. He’d often spiral a little, falling down a deep void that promises the likelihood of no return. But then Carina arrived one day. A sister. A blood bond that was unscathed and brand new and suddenly something inside of Deran lit up. He wasn’t sure why, he didn’t know her and still doesn’t, but the idea of having a sibling was always a vague comfort in the back of his cluttered mind. Even after all these years of only greetings on major holidays and the occasional visit on a whim.

Seeing her now, a subtle smile graces his expression. Needless to say, their dynamic was still awkward. They fumbled over their words, at a loss of what to say to one another. You’d think it’d be easier considering they shared the same father. Perhaps they could bond over his sourness or his harsh words. But, no, they haven’t approached that yet. Maybe they never will. Secretly, that pains him.

“You too, Carina.” Deran says, clearing his throat after speaking. Despite his emotions, he was still on the fence about whether Carina should be involved within family affairs of his magnitude. The death of Gregory Bianchi was not something to take lightly. This was going to get ugly fast, that he knew was certain. But whether Carina was up for the task was up in the air for now. “Yeah, come on in. Things are a little, um, fragile right now, as you can imagine..” He says then, leading his half-sister through the foyer and into the main room. There’s a table at the end of the room filled with food and drink for the family. “How was the flight? Sorry it was so last minute. Janine should be here soon too, she’ll be happy to see you.” Once again, Deran clears his throat, “Dad’s not coming. Not yet, anyway. He’s devastated even though he won’t admit it.”

Declan Davenport is the name Deran gives at the front desk. One of his many pseudonyms used to cover his tracks. He was a careful man despite all his impulses. He’s learned over the years that if he was going to be risky, he needed to make sure that everything was calculated. Everything needed a reason, a time, a place, especially his more unfaithful endeavors.

Though, Meredith was a bit of a wild card. Their partnership had started professional, Deran in search for a crooked lawyer to aid in family affairs. Sooner or later, there was a tension, an attraction. You could cut it like a knife through butter. Eventually, the two made a routine out of fucking in lavish hotels, away from seeing eyes and their spouses. 

This has been going on for years, due to his wife’s unknown dismay. Poor Janine was left believing that her husband was out on family business which she’s learned never to question. Yet here he was, shacked up with another woman, naked under a thin, expensive blanket, cool early December air traveling through an open window and hitting his bare skin. 

With the untimely death of Gregory Bianchi making the rounds, he flees to Meredith in no time. In search of comfort, release, a warm mouth, whatever you want to call it. Perhaps he was lonelier than he leads on, desperate too. And maybe, in some vague way, he knows that deep down his feelings for Meredith were a little more than a mattress and two bodies. For now, he’s a tad too stubborn to fall victim to this truth. 

Deran sits up, his bare back pressing against the headboard behind them. He thinks to light a cigarette but doesn’t. Instead, he stares forward, brows slightly furrowed. “From the eyes of a civilian, how does this look?” He asks Meredith, and his question could have been about many things in hindsight. Gregory’s death, the nature of their relationship, what their spouses might think of this affair. Perhaps she’ll answer all three. Meredith always had a way of calling his bluff, surprising him.

Deran;

Where: The Bianchi Estate | The Balcony When: December 5th, After the Family Meeting

A bad little habit had drawn Leyla to the balcony, Marlboro pinched between two fingers as smoke swirled through her lips. It’d been a strange family meeting without her father’s booming voice. So often he commanded the room the moment he entered, horrid plans of slaughters and betrayals discussed so simply it could’ve been a conversation about real estate. Instead, his place was taken by Angelo, Viola at his side. Their fearless leaders. Their future. Jealously burned through her veins while she watched from the fray… As the discussion came forward, vengeance colored each word. They would find who did this. And they would make them pay. Yet there was an overwhelming sense of mistrust… who had broken their ranks? Someone among them was wearing Gregory Bianchi’s blood… The french door behind her creaked open, Leyla’s tension in her shoulders dipping as she saw Deran. Unlike her father, the man had always invoked a sense of safety and security in the youngest daughter. “The news is already starting to get out…” A mogul, dead in his own bed- of course they would lie about the cause. But when the other family’s heard… “The moment the sharks smell blood, it’ll be a frenzy- how do we know it’s stop here? Angelo, you, me? Any of us could be next.”

@deranbianchi​

The entire home feels strange without Gregory. It was a board game with a missing piece. Or a puzzle that’s missing every corner. The air remained frigid, the family ties keeping them close, but there’s a daunting atmosphere consuming them now and it begs to ask the more intrusive question. Who killed Gregory Bianchi and will they live to tell the tale? Because that’s just it, it seems. There was a mole. A rat. Something’s gone bump in the night and now they’re all being punished for just that. 

Deran’s already heard enough profanities from his own father today. Colin Bianchi would rather tear his own heart from his chest than weep in front of anyone, even his own family. But with Gregory’s death, there seems to be a vague hesitance in his father’s usual undying vigor. Deran had reassured him that he’ll handle the logistics and ideas of retaliation. This couldn’t be messy, that Deran knew for sure. Whether his cousins will agree was up for debate. 

“I know, I know,” The man says, looking out towards the estate. He spots an area where the grass was dying, green turning a dull shade of brown. The promise of winter was approaching and it was going to be bloody. “Don’t think like that. That’s weak thinking. We need to be smart. Secure. Confident.” Deran says, averting his gaze to Leyla. No matter what, he’ll always see her as the young girl who clung to him, desperate for any kind of attention from her family. Mainly her father. “We’ll figure it out.” Though, Deran wasn’t so confident. Not after hearing his own father’s doubts. A mole was not something a Bianchi family member would take lightly and that worried Deran.

“You shouldn’t be afraid of death, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Deran says, scanning her expression for a moment. Hearing himself, he realizes he’s begun to sound like his father. “How’re you feeling?”

location: the bianchi estate

There had been no sleep since the tragic news was told to her, trembling hands holding the phone as she half registered what the other person was saying. Only three words had mattered, Gregory is dead. Viola wasn’t a child anymore, she knew that her father would die eventually, but never did she thought it would be that soon. Gregory was a Titan and Zeus at the same time in her eyes. All around her there was chaos, the organization being restructured. And that included her, taking on the role of the underboss by her brother’s side, the new Bianchi leader. Did Angelo know how afraid she was? Surely he did, knowing Viola more than anyone else. But she would not show fear, only allowing herself to cry in private. “What is it?” she asked, her tone tired as someone walked in the room where she had been staring into the fire, mesmerized by the dancing flames. A hand erased the tears that had been rolling down her cheeks. “Save your sympathies for someone else,” she said as she slowly turned around. Whoever had killed her father would pay for this.

☉

The news came to Deran in one burst. Suddenly, he’s being swallowed whole, his phone ringing to no end. To no surprise, they all knew this day would come. One day Gregory Bianchi would pass on and the family business would prevail either way. They’d live on in the wake of his demise but respect the way he went out. On his own terms, no doubt, riding off into the sunset with his middle finger in the air.

But, no, this was different. It was the promise of war. It’s a life taken, a life filled with pride and stubbornness that was both undying and vital. The death of Gregory was like being pushed to the ground, cracking your ass bone on the concrete. Eventually, you have to get up. Cracked ass bone and all. 

Eventually, Deran makes his way to the Bianchi Estate, his palms damp from sweat. The early December cold was welcome, his heavy coat aiding in the dampness from his nervousness. When he sees Viola, he thinks to sigh out loud but refrains. She could speak first, Deran had nothing more important to say. 

“I’d maybe keep comments like that on the low,” Deran says now, attempting to ease the tension that blankets the air. He moves towards the fridge to grab a bottle of water, “The last thing we need is a PR nightmare.” Deran looks to his cousin, lips pursing. He sits at the dining table, legs spread. “What’re you thinking? Retaliation?”