where the shadow ends

“Right, of course.” She says it without ire despite the deadpan look she throws his way. His worry is transparent and Cemile feels something prickling at the back of her neck – the discomfort of someone caring in a way she doesn’t know how to reciprocate. In a way she won’t. She doesn’t know why…what’s stopping her from opening the door and letting him in. She’d brought him here, but not for that. Rather, she wanted the familiar presence of someone she trusts. There are so few people she can trust these days. That any of them can trust, really and that’s what he is. A steady presence. A pillar within War…a partner she can rely on. And someone she doesn’t want to hurt. So she takes without giving, inviting his presence without returning any overt affection, selfish to her core because that’s how she’s always been with matters of the heart. Not that this is one.

She laughs this time, genuinely, because the notion of sleep is as amusing as it is evasive “I’ve done that all day and if I could be sleeping, I would be. I don’t actually fancy being an insomniac, Dom. Besides, I could say the same thing to you – what’s got you up so late? Or who?” Cemile waggles a brow, knowing it’s unfair but thinks maybe joking about it would make it less…serious. Less important, despite the slight discomfort in her stomach at the thought. “Don’t tell me Sam’s got you up trying to beat a high score on Halo? Is that still a game?” It’s a pivot, trying to backtrack slightly and make it lighthearted even as she hits the punching bag again, Dom’s steady grip keeping it from moving much at all. “Saint and I used to watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians a lot,” she says, shrugging, “so I could be doing that instead and my brain would be rotting away. Think that’s be better for me? ” Despite the vulpine smirk crossing her lips, her tone is teasing and a grin threatens to break across her mouth. She knows he’s only trying to help, knows that she’s probably being stubborn but she can’t help it. The moment someone says she’s doing something wrong, she doubles down. Always has, to the point it’s a force of habit now.

However, once he moves to the bench, she chews the inside of her cheek, debating about continuing with her mulish ways or to give in, just a bit, to reason. “You’re lucky you’re you, Dom.” Cemile relents with a roll of her eyes, moving over to the bench so she’s standing at the top, hovering over him as she prepares to spot. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind,” she offers, shrugging as he begins reps. It’s easy to say as much to him, the two of them working on a balance of trust, regardless of everything else.  “And I can’t answer another email without wanting to throw my laptop across the room so…figured I’d try this.” Hands grip the bar as he brings it back up, letting him push the heavy weight up and then down again, releasing as it descends. “Are you worried? About what they might do?” They’d attacked Death’s headquarters over a week ago and there’s been no retribution yet. She thinks it’s only a matter of time before they do something drastic…and the thought worries her, puts her on her guard even more than usual. 

     Domenico chuckles at her cracks, and the idea of her and Saint watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians, his head canting to the side with a subtle shrug, “I think any relaxing would be better for you.” And any answers he’s about to provide to other questions floats away on the gentle cascade of air that passes over him when she appears. He’s lucky he’s him — and he is, because it affords him Cemile’s company, and somehow, made him the text she’d sent that night. 

     Sympathy softens his features as he listens to her, a muffled grunt escaping his lips as he lifts the weight above himself, his body shocked by the sudden workout when it knows it should be sleeping. “I’m always worried about what they might do,” he answers plainly, tone void of any betraying emotion, because he has none. It’s the truth. Even before Death reared its head, he was worried about what a mysterious they could do. What they would. It’d been worse than any of them could’ve imagined and now Domenico is more on the defense than he’s ever been. “But I think if we just stick to our guns and trust each other, it’ll work out for us.

Ever the observer, Saint stands back at Domenico sets to work, watches in curiosity as the other man pulls out gloves and slides them onto idle hands. He wonders if it’s the effects of War that had made the other man call for caution, or if this had always been a trait the dominion had bared. Born with it, perhaps, as Saint had his quietness, not inherited or learned; simply, it was always a part of who he was. Saint supposed he could picture it too, a younger version of the man that works in front of him now, a man who dedicates his life to his mother’s cause without hesitation, or loathing. So there’s a thing or two that could be learned from him, Saint conceives, analysing actions and returning movements with a nod of praise. There are Angels and Powers in their ranks that could do with growing a stronger stomach, one which Domenico wears without much thought or consideration. And as for Saint, he’s always thinking about their gang, what is the best for the group along with the people that inhabit within their ranks.

Saint smiles, shoulders shrugging as he waits by the door, his gaze flickering through the crack in guard of any further interruptions that were solemnly unwanted. “You like to be wooed?” he falls quiet in his thoughts, grin turning to a smirk as green eyes dart back towards the other man, looking Domenico up and down with a low hum. “I’ll keep that in mind for the future. Note to self: buy Dom roses and a diamond ring before asking him to do something,” it’s dipped in sarcasm, and accompanied by a wide grin. The sort of taunting only the years of practice as a younger brother could perfectly manipulate. “Yeah,” he agrees easily, a hint of pride tinting his tone, as he permits himself the small amount of pleasure in knowing he’d successfully done something for his sibling. Something good, too, not a gameplay or petty jab that his Maman primes him with for the majority of his life. “Well, you know, it’s a new era,” a fresh start, if he had wanted it or not. Now that Juno was no longer part of the picture, her portrait dismantled from the hall, too painful to look into the oil paint captured gaze in the pain of her vacancy, it leaves a hole the Warden’s scramble to fill. A vulnerability in their fortresses walls, one that Remus and Saint had decided could only be filled with the brotherly love they already possessed for one another.

With a tilt of his head, Saint looks at the two men, expression pulled into a pleased smile as traces of alcohol pepper their lips, and a false narrative becomes more and more tedious to unmask. It’s meticulous, no trace of War left in the office, not physically or mentally, their grand crime committed there successfully wiped from all traces. “Good work, Dom,” Saint chirps, pulling the door open and motioning for the other to walk through first. “Ladies first,” and he follows behind, allowing for the door to swing shut again, leaving behind a ticking time bomb for the press to pick up and send the news of an unreliable MP to spread nationwide. 

“Both of my parents were rigorous academics, a kid spending time in a place like this would have been nothing but a waste of time for them and me. Academia was their life and so it must be mine too, no?” Liam gave a wistful look around the venue briefly before turning his attention back to the screen. “Can’t say arcades were exactly at the top of my list of things to do when I finally peeled myself away from my studies and had enough agency to explore the world.” 

He shrugged with a crooked smile, turning away from the cartooned zombies that had started to fill the screen in some bizarre opening sequence, “Eh, Samir suggested it. I wasn’t going to turn down a new experience. He and Greer both seemed adamant that I not spend the day at home like a hermit. Besides, its been quite fun, honestly.” If anything, it was a nice distraction from the life they were entrenched in.  He raised the toy gun up to the screen, watching as a cross hairs tracked the movement. A miniscule lag, perhaps, if he was interpreting what he saw correctly. “How’s the accuracy on these things? And I assume you just shoot the bad guys until we run out?” 

     “I think sticking fun in somewhere should be the top of anyone’s list — and I’ve been called a workaholic.” He wasn’t; it’s just that Domenico’s focus is always on strategy. Working among War, working in this world, means one always has to be one step ahead. The risk is life and they’ve all already seen it be taken from them, right before their eyes. It’s what reminds him to make time for the “little things,” even if there’s nothing to be done about lost childhood arcade visits. “I wasn’t ever big into school anyway. I was always itching to go outside.” 

     There’s multiple targets on the screen in front of them, peeking out from behind cover to fire at them, and between the two of them, the thing really has no chance. That is, once they’re used to the guns. It’s been years and years since Domenico’s last been at a place like this and the weapons don’t function like real ones, the age of the system altering how the aiming worked and the trajectory of the bullet. Not surprisingly, he finds he doesn’t enjoy it as much as he did when he was a kid. It’s too easy and reminds him too much of his occupation as is. Still, when he misses an easy shot, the enemy unloading a clip toward Domenico, big GAME OVER letters become stamped across the screen, causing him to let out a breathy chuckle as he drops his head, glancing at Liam. “Forgot they aren’t really forgiving with lives. And the fact that I can lose with these things might say a bit about the accuracy,” he’s boasting and it’s all in good fun, even though it really can’t be argued he’s one of the best shots in London. Maybe even further. 

Samir rolled his eyes and shook off the comment. As close as he was to Evren, he wasn’t stupid enough to think that he was her type. “I’ll share the playlist with you, can’t wait to hear you singing J-Lo in the shower.” He laughed at image of his all around badass roommate singing ‘Jenny from the Block’ some morning. It nearly sparked a full on laughing fit the more he thought about it. But, he contained himself to a longer belly chuckle while Dom got situated. “Nah, women like her don’t go for guys like me.” Samir waved off the other man’s comment. He wasn’t much of a ‘ladies man’ anyways. Making himself unnoticeable wasn’t a learned trait, it seemed to come naturally. Blending in took some training, mainly due to the fact he was constantly out of touch with social norms and culture. 

A grin spread across his face when the confirmation came that tacos were on his horizon. Dom’s tacos were probably his all time favorite meal he made. Maybe his favorite tacos of all time, at least out of the ones he’s had. “Sweet, I love your tacos. Maybe I’ll grab some cupcakes or biscuits after breakfast.” There was a bakery not far away that made the best jaffa cakes and chocolate fingers he’d ever had in his life. Samir’s biggest vice was his insatiable sweet tooth. The secret candy stash in his room was embarrassingly large, luckily no one ever went in his room.

Samir had no clue what they were doing in the game. Being in the dark house with just a flashlight to light the way and listening to the creepy noises made him anxious. If they were doing this in reality, he would definitely be the guy in the truck watching the cameras. “I can’t think of anyone who deserved it more, man. You’re quite amazing at everything you do.” His words genuine, he believed that Domenico had the potential to do anything he wanted to from all he’d observed of the other man. A ghost like figure emerged from one of the rooms and rushed toward his character before he could react. “Oh what the bloody hell was that?” He exclaimed and nearly jumped off the couch. After a moment and a breath he turned to Dom. “I’m not sure Solomon is happy about anything. Ever. Just ignore him.” His character was somehow killed by the interaction and Samir got up to stretch. “If we’re doing an all nighter I’m going to run to the corner shop for some red bulls. You keep ghost hunting.” 

there it is. in an instant. domenico turns from something gentle, into ice. if it wouldn’t ruin their make up, emil would cry. the familiarity is still there, the acknowledgement of knowing one another, just perhaps not as well as they both wanted. there are so many stark differences between the two that most would find their friendship to be disingenuous to some degree, but emil has never felt more like thier old friend. gentle souls, wrapped up in a darkness neither of them can shake, lying and hiding things from loved ones. emil wonders if dom feels the same. “come on, babe, don’t be like that,” they’re attempting to hold onto humour, knowing full well it won’t help them now, “surely having someone you actually like around here is better, no?” they grin, but it’s not visible under their obscured features, so instead they reach out. a hand finds domenico’s arm, squeezing gently as if to silently ask, don’t give up on me now, please.

a sigh escapes him and he reaches up to flick off the light switch on their mask. they don’t pull it down, but at least his eyes aren’t so obscured from the purple glow. someone who knows them would be able to see his warm, inviting eyes. “like, end of 2018,” he admits, finding relief in it, “it’s a really shitty coincidence, dom, i’m not like— i didn’t do this to hurt you. i didn’t know you were wrapped up in this till this year.” humour has long faded now, and sadness makes his throat ache as emil manages to keep his emotions steady. “what about you? how long?” they ask like it’s small talk, like they aren’t talking about the darkest corners of london. please don’t say you’ve been here longer, please don’t be one of the worst of them, please be in way over your head, please need my help.

     Domenico notices how Emil tries to keep things light, and he wishes they could, another clamp on his heart because it’s useless upon his revelation. There’s no humor to find here, and a wave of nausea rolls through his stomach before it constricts with a quick burst of anger — or is it giref? — Domenico pulling his arm out of Emil’s grasp. “There’s plenty of people here I like,” he retorts flatly, staring his old friend down as he continues to search for signs of the person he’d come to know. Of course, he’s still there. Of course, it’s still him. Domenico had just been too blind to see some of the facts; something that doesn’t sit well with him, weighing heavily between his ribs. Only he can’t see Emil’s features past the mask, making the entire situation more aggravating, and he doesn’t understand why they’d go as far as to wear masks when Death already donned them so often, when everyone was still shaking with distrust, stomping the ground to check it’s steadiness before moving forward. Concealing their faces only adds to the distrust — or perhaps, for some, it makes it easier. 

     He pulls his own goggles up, settling them on top of his head, eyes narrowing when Emil answers with a year and Domenico begins sorting through every encounter he can remember since then. Before he can lose himself in his thoughts for too long, Emil speaks again, and Domenico blinks as if he’s been splashed in the face by a glass of cold water, his expression instantly transforming a second later, rigid and unforgiving. “This has nothing to do with me or my feelings. You hurt a lot of people. As I recall, you killed people and thought it a fun time to put it on screen.” A hand lifts as he’s about to run it down his face, but he stops, unwilling to obscure his vision for even a second in the face of the enemy. That’s what they are, isn’t it? Whether they choose to acknowledge them or not, there are lines, walls, thick, reinforced, and stained with the blood of many, barely cracked by time. 

Cemile tells herself that she  wants to talk to someone, but she doesn’t want to bother Saint so late, and she doesn’t want to worry Evren either. So that leaves Domenico. Well, it leaves a whole host of people but he’s the first person who comes to mind. She’s not even sure he’ll show up and maybe she’ll feel foolish for reaching out in the morning. But the distant sound of a car crunching on the pavement outside of the gym says otherwise. She glances over her shoulder at the sound of his arrival and flashes him an amused smile as his words fall on deaf ears. “I didn’t realize you were a doctor, Dom,” Cem says, resolute in her stubbornness when she wants to be. She hits another one-two combo, biting the inside of her cheek at the slight twinge in her side. Really, it’s not so bad. Bruised ribs could’ve been cracked, a concussion could’ve been severe trauma and hypothermia could’ve been frost bite. All things considered, Cemile is in peak condition, perfectly fine to be doing this, at least by her logic. By Domenico’s? Well…his expression speaks louder than his words. 

“Besides, this is the most moderate thing I can be doing at, what is it? One in the morning? And, I drove.“ Said like it should earn her points rather than taking her motorbike. When he stops the bag, Cemile makes a face; brows furrowing and nose wrinkling. “Oh, but that’s exactly why I invited you. I love a good debate, ” she says, tone dripping good-natured sarcasm. No one can say she didn’t have a knack for getting into arguments. “But, uh, really – I don’t know. Figured you were awake.” She shrugs, punching the bag haphazardly despite his holding it still. “You were up, weren’t you?” I didn’t wake you? Not that she’s got great concern for his sleep habits, and it’s probably not a relevant question considering he was well awake now anyway…but she can’t help the curiosity. Tugging at a thread to see if he’d come because he would’ve, regardless of who’d sent the message, or because of what she suspects is true. It’s a small thought, needling at the back of her mind since Kai and Greer’s birthday party…but she doesn’t voice it. She doesn’t really want to know, does she? 

Instead, Cem lifts her shoulders, shrugging off any concern he voices. “Never been great at sitting still.” Even under doctor’s orders. "And I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to. Too much going on,” she taps her temple and then gestures around them, as though indicating to all the things on her mind, and everything going on around them. “I’ll rest when I’m dead. “ 

     He hadn’t been awake — not exactly — sleep finding him at intervals when he’d been up late surveying the security of their properties in light of the truce, a pot of coffee doing him no favors when his head finally hit the pillow. Cemile’s text had sent a surge of adrenaline that would’ve made it impossible to sleep even if he hadn’t shown up. “Military gives you medical training whether you’d like it or not,” he responds, matching her stubbornness though with far less heat, his attention never straying from her even when she delivers another round of punches, and the tightness in her features is enough to confirm what he’s saying. A distinct lack of amusement lifts his brow, cutting his gaze from hers when his eyes fall closed momentarily with a shake of his head and a surrendering chuckle, because what else did he expect from her? 

     “You could be doing any task that allows you to sit. E-mails. Phone calls. Paperwork. Planning. Whatever it is you do for hours on end in that office. Or… because it’s one in the morning, you could be sleeping.” A huff that mimics another chuckle is released when she says she invited him for a debate, his arm swaying with the bag when she hits it again, his fingers splaying as he lazily steadies it. The last thing Domenico likes to do is dole out orders, and he isn’t, though this feels close enough to a lecture that he isn’t interested in pushing the topic. The only problem is the persisting worry that tugs at his nerves, briefly making him wish that he’d become tangled up with someone a tad less pertinacious. Then again, she wouldn’t be Cemile without it, and she’s the one he’s falling for. Fallen for? He doesn’t know for certain, hasn’t sat awake with it; all he knows is that he cares, deeply, and if she opens that door for him, he’ll gladly walk through. If she doesn’t, then he’ll accept it, because his feelings don’t hold a candle to hers. He’s grateful for the time he’s been given. 

Merde– It’s the first word to be uttered, non-verbally but still just as profound by the expression on Saint’s face. But this is part of it, part of their schemes and their nature. Violence embeds itself within War, it’s their common necessity to forge their surroundings in Gabrielle Warden’s vision, to force circumstances to always prevail on the side of the red. So as plan A transitions to plan B, Saint is quick to follow the guidance of his trusted Dominion, as Domenico urges him to duck below the desk, he does so without further question, the cooperation and faith of teamwork as he grabs the laptop with him to continue with the download in the safety of a newly concealed location. Now on the floor, his concentration remains sharply on task, moving around files and constructing social media posts to urge the press and public onto the path of Simon’s condemnation; just another toxic MP, glorified for a righteous agenda when his true morals and past paint nothing more than a man born of pure self-interest.

Quietly, he watches, green eyes analysing each window open on the computer screen until everything is in place. The documents successfully released, both that of fact and fiction, to bring the current leader of the electoral race to his knees, and hoist Remus up in terms of public favour in turn. Removing the USB from the drive, Saint returns the evidence to his trouser pocket and waits a moment longer. The sound of conflict emanates through the room, groans of pain and gasps of urgency in which he was previously deaf to now ringing in his ears and Domenico does what Domenico did best. A mercifully trained assassin, with a duty to fulfill. It’s only when he hears the struggle of a more familiar tone that Saint dips up from the desk. One guard on the floor, and another still hanging on in combat against his friend. With a firm slam of the other’s palm into their nose, the attacker stumbles backward, their own hands cupping their face in a state of dazed confusion.

There’s no blood, that much Saint is thankful for, no traces of DNA to splatter onto office carpeting and call for the need for police investigation. Moving around the desk, Saint removes a handkerchief from his pocket, dampened with a vial of chloroform which he swiftly comes behind the man to hold the material to his face. And within a few moments, he too hits the floor. “We won’t tell Remus about this part,” Saint cracks the joke with an amused grin, quiet laughter expelled from his lungs and he moves to the other guard, placing the same cloth over their face to ensure they wouldn’t spring back into action before they’d left the scene of the crime. “So we’ve got some options now. The CCTV is shut off, I’m going to replace it with footage from an hour ago when the room was empty, no one will ever be able to prove that we were here. And this all took part in the blind spot,” Saint explains, taking out his phone and already tampering with the device, a beta app for his newest business venture in hacking and creating his own security systems. “It just leaves us with these clowns. We can either leave them where they are, let them panic, and ultimately look stupid when there’s no footage or evidence. Or we can arrange them on the sofa over there, snuggled up to each other, and confuse the shit out of them when they wake up. I’m easy,” Saint shrugs, confident in his plans enough to know that either would be an effective out.

    Domenico breathes out a chuckle through his nose at Saint’s quip, nodding as he hooks his arms under those of one of the bodies, lugging them up to drag them to the loveseat. “Let’s go with option two. And I know how to make them second guess themselves even more.” It wasn’t that Domenico has any issues with Saint’s plan, but he’s the type to tie every end he sees in front of him, and the alcohol he spotted upon entering the office is a fine scapegoat. While he knows Saint has a specific goal in mind, one that has little to do with his own well-being, Domenico’s is just that, and tension remains in his muscles as they clean up the office, unwilling to drop an ounce of his guard until he knows Saint is out of the building, with no chance of him being pinned to the events today. They hadn’t anticipated anyone coming into the room, and yet they had, because life is a series of unplanned incidents, each one setting down a stone, another step in a certain direction, and isn’t that what brought him here? Tiny moments, seemingly inconsequential happenings, from the moment his father had first placed a rifle in his hand to this afternoon, in a politician’s office, where his concern isn’t that of the people, but the Seraphim of his gang. 

     Saint has the other covered, the two of them heaving the men onto the cushions, pulling and shifting them until they’re fully seated, the two of them propping the other up. Domenico departs for the bar, retrieving a pair of black gloves from his pocket, pulling them over his hands before he grabs two of the four tumblers positioned around the bottle. He fills both about a quarter with the amber liquid, pouring it back to get it along the edges of the glasses, then refills them with a splash in each, carrying them over to the guards. One, he lifts to their lips, imprinting it on its surface before he situates it in their hand, balancing on the seat, and then brings the second to the other’s mouth as well, only Domenico doesn’t leave it in his hand after getting his prints on the glass, splattering the alcohol across the front of his suit instead before dropping it on the sofa and letting it naturally roll off and onto the floor. Finally, he dips a finger into the tumbler with scotch still in it, poking it into their mouths to leave behind the oaky flavor and force their memory into question. 

JUNE FIRST || ELITE || @domenicochambers​

Cemile is a restless creature. Shoulders taut and prickling with nerves on edge. It’s been a week and a half since Death’s boat went down and she can still feel the lingering effects of that night. Her fight with Jack. Her near-death experience as the boat sank. Her bone-chilling swim in the Thames. It doesn’t slow her down, though – few things ever do. She throws herself back into work, into action, the moment she’s able. Her ribs only ache now and there’s a faint scar by her hairline, and it’s all enough for Cemile to deem herself fine. To occupy herself with work for Bellum, work for War, work for Remus’ campaign. She juggles all these responsibilities seamlessly, seemingly only comfortable when she’s spread the thinnest. The more responsibilities the better, the more opportunities to prove herself, her worth, her value to Bellum, to War, her value as a person. She seeks it everywhere, in everything, unable to stay still.

So, while it’s late, it doesn’t deter Cemile as she heads to Elite’s back door, unlocking and disarming the alarm when the door swings shut behind her. It’s not like she can sleep, having tossed restlessly for at least an hour before giving up and opening her laptop. She answered emails and reviewed numbers of War’s latest shipments until she felt like she was going cross-eyed. Rather than spend another hour trying to fall asleep, she opted for movement. And even as she sets her bag down besides the gym rings, her mind is already elsewhere, thinking of the long week ahead. The Shareholder meeting was fast approaching and she needed to focus. Once hands are wrapped, she jumps up, grabbing the rings and grimacing slightly at the jolt it sends through her side. Through still bruised ribs. Shit. Gritting her teeth, she hauls her body up, ignoring the throbbing in her side as her arms shake. She only manages ten leg lifts before swearing again, and dropping from the rings. Take it easy. The doctor’s words ring in her ears but they don’t matter. She was never good at listening when people told her to limit herself.

Still, she leans down, slow for a very brief moment, stretching fingers to her toes and then pressing them to the small of her back as she looks up at the gym ceiling. She has too many thoughts tonight. Too many things to consider. The numbers from War’s shipment were good, just shy of what they were before the factory explosion but now she needs to get them back to what they were. And then better than before. And now Bellum was in the news again, the shareholder meeting talked about in various financial circles. She needs to prepare for the oncoming firestorm. Not to mention Remus’ speech – unwritten, message still in the works before it gets handed over to a speech writer and then back to Remus for approval and edits, and then back and then – Fuck.

Cemile squeezes her eyes shut and takes a breath. She has too many thoughts tonight. It’s a bad decision, foolish even, but she ignores the prickle of doubts at the back of her mind in favor of grabbing her phone. at elite, if you’re up. The text is sent before she can overthink it. She heads for a punching bag, beginning reps and reasoning with herself that before anything had happened, she and Domenico had been friends. Good friends, even, and partners, which they still where. And they were still friends too…she thinks, she hopes. Just like she hopes it’s not read into as anything more than that. It’s not that she actually expects him to show. It’s well past midnight, after all.

     Elite is the last place Cemile needs to be, Domenico thinks when he receives the text, and it quickens his action, spurring him into motion instantly so he’s putting on his sneakers to go meet her before he’s even pocketed his phone. After what happened at the boat, he knows she’s in no condition to be working out; not when he knows her well enough to know she’s hardly going to go easy. Isn’t that why she’s texting him? To put some sense into her? Or… he doesn’t entertain it, a split second spark that dies out before it becomes a full flame, and he’s driving to Elite, parking out back and trying that door first — it’s unlocked — before heading inside. It’s dark, security lighting providing enough brightness to see clearly and he’s walking slowly, footfall quiet as he listens for signs of Cemile.

     The low thuds of knuckles hitting leather clue him in and he makes his way toward the punching bags, his expression pinching into a frown when he sees her, a gleam of sweat giving her a glow. He approaches, backhanding one of the bags lightly as he passes it to notify her of his arrival, pacing closer as he examines her movements for any signs of discomfort. “It’s three weeks minimum. It’s barely been over one,” he says sternly, referring to the time it takes for bruised ribs to heal and that’s not even counting the concussion. When he was in the military, this became one of the main reasons he got aggravated with his troop mates: when they didn’t realize their injuries, that they were human, and they needed time to heal before they could reach for superhero status again. He reasons he’d show up for anyone from War who called, especially late, and it’s the truth, but Cemile is different… and he’s relatively certain she knows it. 

Despite the heat of anger at his face, the tensed jaw, the instinct to find Astrid now and set things fucking straight, the feelings of the moment are made small as Domenico debriefs Remus on what he’s missed going on behind the scenes of their shareholders’ meeting. “Well, go fucking figure,” he starts, a bit incredulous at the fucking thought, though he trusts his Dominion enough to know he wouldn’t lie about business. “Who isn’t tempted by our fucking inventory, right? If I was a lowlife competitor of ours, I’d probably be desperate enough to try to fucking steal from us, too.” The water bottle in his hand crinkles as he unscrews the cap, diffusing annoyance with this new inconvenience with a drink of water. “Kai knows not to let them off fucking easily. Did either of you manage to see the fucking thief up close?” If they had, perhaps this little chat will unfold into something more serious, plans of strategy and figuring out which of their enemies wanted to play dirty and tempt their fucking lives alongside their empire. “It’s a nice bonus that you’ve kept it quiet thus far. Impressive, really.” Mostly because it takes a huge load off Remus’ shoulder, no need to explain away loud gunshots or take care of any more unfortunate witnesses.

It’s the first time he’s heard anyone in War refer to him this way, name him a politician — it’s no secret that Remus is a born leader of sorts, even if his past is stained in the way all Wardens are, but his new venture into the political world could prove lucrative for their family company and gang alike. It takes adjustment, though the world of Parliament is more like navigating criminal London than any of the others might initially think. “Of course,” he finally says, affirmed by this simple response from Domenico. “Being scrutinized is a huge part of the candidacy, yeah, I just never thought I would have more fucking competition this close to home,” Remus adds quietly, though the irony of the statement isn’t lost on him. He sighs, knowing it was probably better to say nothing more at all unless it was to his brother, who is sworn to secrecy and to never compete against him again. The temptation of a cigar is enough to distract him, at least for a fleeting moment, weak grin on face in response to the offer. “How sweet of you,” he muses, knowing well that he should refuse; for the better part of two months, Remus cuts down on cigarettes and all things tobacco, an attempt to wean himself off his remaining vice in preparation for campaign and children alike. “Sounds fucking amazing right now, to be honest. We’ll have to see if I make it through the rest of the day without having an aneurysm first,” Remus exaggerates, pulling at his turtleneck to loosen it from his neck a bit, the heat of stress kicking it and bringing out his anger again. “Confuses the whole fucking board if anyone takes this Astrid thing seriously. Cemile is out there doing damage control as we speak, it’s practically a PR fucking wet dream for her,” he says, laughing quietly to himself as he considers his audience — Remus supposes the particular combination of Cemile and wet dream is enough to catch Domenico’s attention. “At least she’s quite good at her job,” he says, thinking out loud. Remus catches Dom’s eyes. “Don’t you think so?”

     It seems the weapon hiccup serves to distract Remus from his aggravations, at least a bit, the crumpling water bottle cluing Domenico in that it isn’t completely dispersed. Not that he’s foolish enough to think he can deflect the stressors of the night that easily. He’s on duty and his composure expresses as much, posture straight and rigid as he remains close to the door. It’s let go enough to release a chuckle and a nod in agreement. “Desperation rarely works out for anyone,” he points out, the thought spurring him to pull his phone from his pocket just long enough to make sure Kai hasn’t tried to get a hold of him. “We did get to see him. Normally I’d be concerned with finding out what they know, but Gabrielle suggested tonight wasn’t the night to let things go. I’m going to review the footage later; I’m sure we got them on camera. I can see if their face pulls up anything more.” Toting around a live one — even knocked out — is a more difficult predicament to keep quiet, and while War has many places to keep someone captive, Domenico is almost certain the thief holds little power, little worth, and it’s not worth their time to spend hours attempting to pull information. “If they’re aligned someone important, we’ll hear about it soon enough.” If they’re a member of Death, then at the very least they’ve taken another body. 

     Remus’ voice drops when he admits he didn’t think he’d have competition so close to home and Domenico feels for him, a pang of sympathy wavering his equanimity, brows drawing together momentarily as he watches his Seraphim. While no one can argue Astrid doesn’t have the talent and ambition, she’s War, and Remus her Seraphim. Whatever she had with Juno doesn’t counter that and the Dominion will stand beside Remus through it all, backing him in every way possible on his path to Parliament. “Do you even know if she wants it? It’s not competition if they aren’t competing.” Perhaps it isn’t his place to say, revealed when he tilts his head back toward the door to listen for any activity, his phone back out as he checks his texts, thumbing an icon to pull up the app that displays the footage from around the hotel. Dark irises search the screen, every square, enlarging them one by one to get a better view, and once he’s satisfied, he closes it down, knowing the cameras in the back halls will alert him at the sight of any movement. 

Solomon smiles at the other’s reply - so collected, so logical, all that he once appreciated in him. “Did have it out of its place, though. Happens to the best of us, aye?” I wouldn’t have let it happen, plays on repeat in his mind, fueled simply by pride. It does fill him with a certain hope that perhaps this was a bit of a show of Domenico’s flaws, something to make him lower in personal consideration rank of their higher ups, but logically he knows that a fixed situation is no situation at all. It’s the constant struggle: he wants to see War grow and succeed, full to the brim with qualified and experienced people like Domenico, having each other’s backs in a heartbeat; yet he clings to glorious days where being up-and-coming prodigy was easier than strong-and-steady elder. Days where Domenico and the sort were friends to be applauded, not rivals in a game that, while it did push them to be better (the Warden method had proved results time and time again), ultimately broke down their safety net. But perhaps it was just Solomon who just didn’t know how to play a game without flipping the table halfway through. “Liam’s great. Did his part, as always, no complaints here at all.” Oh, multiple complaints, even if most had no tangible link to his work. Sol couldn’t complain about Liam to Domenico, not when the Power was his doing - forever doomed to reflect on Solomon, and vice-versa. 

He learns closer, matching the eye contact with slightly furrowed brows. Why would they discuss it? And why bring it up only now, after months of aggravating behavior? When Domenico didn’t get it immediately, it only made Sol’s frustration worse, but he knew that the other dominion understood it eventually, so why chat it over? “Nah, let’s talk then.” He bites. “Don’t pull out the bait and then pack it up, Dom. Ya wanna talk?” He taps near one of his aids. “I’m all ears. Have I been bothering you? Shit, thought I was being quite civil.”

     Domenico isn’t someone who gets annoyed, though in Solomon’s presence, as the older man tries to poke at an earlier situation, he feels the prickle of it along his nerves. He keeps his focus forward, unwilling to falter as he examines his fellow Dominion based on words, sensations, the bits of his expression Domenico catches in his peripheral. He combs for clues as to what went wrong — and he’s tired of the search, never one to beat around the bush. “Not a thing was out of place. Sometimes, things happen. It’s impossible to prevent every problem. The perimeter was secure enough to leave them with little room to run. Problem solved.” The last word falls heavy, a rock dropped in the water, an audible plop that ripples their surroundings. 

     The snark Solomon delivers in response to Domenico’s bid only furthers his aggravation, fists briefly clenching as a result, and isn’t the other man too old for this? A primary school playground. A secondary school changing room. Children picking at children, trying to find their place, and there’s always those who struggle more than others, who claw at shirts as they try to climb their way over everyone else to prominence. It isn’t earned; there’s no respect to be found in people who stand taller by knocking others down. His feigned courteousness is even more grating and Domenico hates being at odds with those in War, irritated when the animosity is seemingly pulled from thin air. 

who: @domenicochambers​ where: Four Quarters Arcade when: 17 June 2021

He finds the marksman standing at what Samir had informed him was a target shooting game, the one with two twin, brightly colored guns that seem to be some bastardization between a SMG and a rifle attached to a stand across from a large screen. The other man seemed to be critically watching a pair of younger arcade attendees make their way of the game, and when their allotted time ran out and they declined to continue the game, Liam approached the imitation firearms. They were startlingly light compared to what he’d handled before, the shape encumbered by the cord anchoring it to the stand, and the design itself is  something he’s sure would have had Kai in fits. 

“Jesus, these are….” Liam grimaced as he adjusted his grip on the toy, tying to gauge the balance of it. He was sure it was completely nonessential to its purpose for playing the game, but it was unfamiliar, surreal, and frankly disarming. “Are all arcade target shooting games this inaccurate?”

     The local arcade had been one of the few ways to entertain himself in the small town he grew up in and in the military, between rounds of beer, he and his troop would visit them too if they were available. Simple fun. And it feels as if it’s apart of another life, one before his occupation strayed into criminal territory, simple almost equating to innocent in memory, and there’s a creeping sense of nostalgia that takes over him as he watches a pair of kids duke it out on the game in front of them. 

“Apparently you haven’t been around when she’s broadening my knowledge of all things music.” He joked. Samir listened to all the music Evren played for him very willingly. He let her try makeup looks on him. Anything to help be a distraction when she needed it, because she was his friend. “It’s not a date, just friends getting breakfast I’m sure.” His cheeks flushed and he shook his head. Evren was way out of his league, just like everyone else surrounding him. Plus he was fairly positive no one was interested. Maybe someday, but it wasn’t something he was seeking out while undercover. It would be a means to an end when his assignment ended. That wouldn’t be fair to anyone who took interest in him, if they did. 

He rolled his eyes at his roommate and laughed. Samir took a moment to stretch then he started up the game. The lobby seemed fairly non-threatening at least. Didn’t mean much. He’d watched a couple highlights for the game and it was a thriller from the looks of it. “Yeah, me too. Obviously. They weren’t a big deal when I was younger, and didn’t carry over into my adult years.” He shrugged. It was cryptic, like most of what he chose to share about his life or feelings. But, it was a lot more than he normally offered up to Dom, usually staying quiet instead of attempting to relate in any way. “I’m starting in one of the easy places.” He stated, picking the house on the street. 

Samir laughed at his roommate’s jump into action. “It’s not that kind of game. You have to grab equipment and unlock the house before the investigation starts.” He explains what he knows, which isn’t a whole lot. “Then we have to walk around and find clues, I think. I don’t know but there’s a journal and indicators and all that bloody jazz.” Sam had no clue what he was doing but he grabbed the flashlight, thermometer, and a glow stick because that all seemed like good ghost hunting items. Mostly he didn’t want to be in the dark but he was betting he wouldn’t have a choice. “How’s Dominion life?” He asked while he moved the character around.

     “How come you aren’t bringing that knowledge back here?” He’s grinning, a fuzzy comfort wrapping around him as he feels himself relax in the company of his roommate, in their living room, discussing topics like music and Evren… and the flush in Samir’s cheeks doesn’t go unnoticed, pulling at a corner of Domenico’s mouth. “Right. You’re sure. That blush confirms it.” He’s joking still, though he wishes Samir the best, and happiness, his mind wandering to Evren’s sister and the feelings he stows for her at his center, keeping them contained until she invites them out. He doesn’t want to let himself get dragged into those sort of daydreams, where he remembers the softness of her lips, the overwhelming joy caused by her smile. 

     Samir always kept things close to his chest, and perhaps some people would want to pry him open, but Domenico understands it. He’s the same. And in their occupation it doesn’t hurt to be a ghost; it doesn’t hurt, except themselves, when they notice they’re standing alone, in the middle of a barren field, bodies and memories littered all around them. So birthday’s aren’t a big deal. “Taco’s it is,” he answers, not arguing or pushing for something more, and he’s staring ahead, moving his character around the screen as he familiarizes himself with the controls. It’s a much different game than the shooters and other competitive ones they’ve poured hours into, and Domenico welcomes the change, becoming absorbed in the new challenge of winning a game he’s never played before. 

Another question, and Saint turns to look at the Dominion properly now, a glint of something mischievous held in the youngest Warden’s gaze as he effectively answers Domenico with expression alone. Remus hadn’t known, not yet anyway, as his brother tucks himself away into his work and his campaigns, there have been less and less opportunities for the two to forge their plans together in the previous weeks. And it’s when Saint is left unaccompanied, that he can become his most impulsive. He had a mind nurtured for the art of problem solving, but it also happens that his natural instincts mix harsh with his upbringing, cruel and brash; a will to wage Wars whenever one of his own is in danger. So it’s just that, Saint had seen an opportunity, and he snarls his teeth, ready to latch his jaw around the pray’s throat. “No,” Saint shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly, “but I don’t need my brother’s permission to do anything anymore, now that i’m no longer a Virtue, I can answer to myself.” 

Inside, the office air is cold, an air conditioning unit working overtime in the heat of the Great British summer as rays of sunlight cast through the window and make and otherwise dull office somewhat more inviting. “Alright,” Saint grabs Domenico, holding the other close so he doesn’t walk into the sight of the CCTV camera before Saint is able to cut it off. “We’re in a blind spot here,” he explains, sliding his mobile back out from his pocket and pressing at some highlighted coding of his phone screen, until the green light flashing on the front of the camera turns amber, and live footage of the room stops playing on Saint’s phone. He’d thank Kai later, for the ease his fellow War member had in setting up the technology and hacking equipment to effectively disable the security set up in the MP’s office. 

With his phone back in his pocket, Saint replaces it with a USB stick, and makes his way over to the laptop. “So, basically, I just need you to keep an eye out on the door in case anyone comes in. And if they do… well, you know, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” he shrugs then, green gaze looking back up to Domenico as Saint motions towards the door and sets his plan in order. All there was to do now was download the incriminating files onto the laptop, and log into Twitter for good measure, uploading the statements in full that would surely silence the other man’s campaign to the brink of extinction; and rightfully so. With gloves on, Saint opens the computer up, types in the incredibly uncreative password (their daughter’s name and date of birth) and starts setting up the first stages of the plot. “Ok, it’s downloading, should take two minutes and then we’re out of here. Is everything clear in the hallway?” 

     Domenico gives Saint a knowing look of fondness, a light chuckle hopping from his throat. He’s right; Saint’s earned his promotion and no longer needs permission from his brother, though Domenico finds it curious still. He’s never had a sibling, always imagined if he had, he would’ve latched on tight, including them in every aspect of his life possible. But then, he’s never had a sibling, and perhaps he doesn’t really know the first thing about having one and the complications that come with it. The question hadn’t come from Saint needing permission, but sheer wonder, and he thinks about what Remus might have to say about it for a fleeting moment before he’s back to the task at hand. He doesn’t fault Saint; he admires the impulsive recklessness that rears its head at times. Even more than that, he admires how it rises up out of his love for others, and for all the faults of War other’s spout, there is love. Family. 

     He freezes when Saint takes hold of his shoulders, dark irises flitting to the camera above as the light turns orange, and he remains in place even when Saint goes to the computer, turning to peer out through the long, thin pane of glass that borders the door into the office. “Mhm,” he grins softly, “I know the drill. Brick wall Domenico, at your service.” He can hear muffled conversation from reception, broken up by a sharp laugh, and his eyes are narrowing as he’s listening, because he swears he hears someone coming down the hall, the carpeted flooring quieting their footfall. His voice is hushed when he answers, keeping himself close to the door so he isn’t visible through the window into the hall. “Not sure,” he begins, holding an index finger in the air as he casts a quick glance at Saint who is absorbed in the screen ahead of him, and before he can say anything else he hears a question from the other side of the door.       “Is someone in Simon’s office?”      “If you’re so concerned, go check.”      And as the short conversation goes on, Domenico’s pulse quickens, muscles jerking as he slides aside, giving them clear access to open the door should they choose to investigate. By the sound of things, they are, his body tingling as it readies itself for a fight. It doesn’t matter how many times he does this, the neutrality of familiarity is only a blanket over the emotions that come with harming others. Domenico works with them; he isn’t haunted by guilt that keeps him awake at night. He acts with justice, with respect, and even still, his heart pounds as if he’s never touched another, as if he’s never taken a life. 

     Domenico looks at Saint, expression somber as he gestures for him to duck down below the desk. The handle dips down as someone turns it, the door opening as two men dressed in suit jackets labeled security step into the room, and Domenico’s back is pressed against the wall beside the door, his palm flush against it as he eases it shut behind them and leaps into action. A large hand comes down on one of their heads as he steps away from the wall, yanking it back so it collides with the hard wood, and it isn’t enough to knock him out, but it’s enough to daze him, their partner looking at Domenico with an O shaped mouth in surprise. The surprise only lasts seconds before he’s going for his radio, and the Dominion propels toward him, yanking it out of his hand so it clatters against the floor, sliding under the desk. He’s grabbing their jacket, forcing their torso back and putting them off balance, Domenico immediately pulling them into him once their shoulders disengage, leaving them open, swiftly striking one of the guard’s nose with the crown of his head, their own rolling forward as Domenico lets go and their body slumps to the floor. 

where. – penthouse, the ritz.

when. – 10th of june, 2021.

@domenicochambers​

the surroundings felt rather celebratory, and it was mighty deserved. the long fight culminating in the impressive sinking of a ship felt like something grander than a win - a return, perhaps. every piece seemed to be falling in the right place and war was riding high. intertwined with the very concept, solomon too felt renewed and impossible to take down. one little fact clouded his brain, though, but he delayed his own reaction to it, choosing instead to hit the problem like a moving train once tasks were completed: domenico. it was reasonable that solomon, with the clean up by liam, be in charge of eliminating targets. it was even something he found a certain pleasure in, especially when feeling quite as well as he did - blood on the floor dissonantly matched with a deeply annoying tune he’d been whistling the entire day. he did it well too, of course. from a purely strategic viewpoint, it was all quite reasonable, but solomon was not one to measure things simply in wisdom. effectively, he’d been closed up in a room with liam for a lot of the day, while another dominion was specifically placed in charge of the security, near it all, innumerous moving targets under his care. 

by now, they can’t call it paranoia anymore. perhaps in the months leading up to domenico’s promotion, when solomon’s gears began turning in the opposite direction, it was just fear. however, domenico has effectively become a dominion. a very trusted one, at that. he wouldn’t admit it, but a great one too. and what has solomon done in the many years since domenico has met war and climbed up the ranks? static, a long stuck dominion who’s only growing greyer and angrier. i’m not paranoid, i’m being traded. it had been sinking for months now but, much like death’s ship, the idea that domenico was gunning for his spot was fully submerged. and so solomon approaches, using the same cold expression he’s applied to the other dominion more and more in recent times. not that long ago, he’d be grabbing him another glass and chatting over the event, complaining about pretty much everyone involved, showing a warmth few got. “heard a gun got stolen.” things have certainly changed. “proper tight security going on. you got to it in time, right?”

     He feels Solomon coming, the iciness of his presence a severe contrast to the warmth Domenico once received from the Dominion. Once a mentor and a friend, now Solomon brings a hostility that blights Domenico’s surroundings with unwanted strain. There isn’t a member of War he doesn’t get along with well enough, and at one point, it was the absolute truth. Until Romero. He knows there isn’t a reason for the disdain, short of his ambition, and he glances at Solomon with a pinched expression, growing tired of the jabs, of the way it seems his fellow Dominion wants to step on every opportunity Domenico gets. “I appreciate the concern,” he tries to remain diplomatic, keeping his voice cool and even, dark gaze turning back to the floor, “Never had it out of my sight.” 

domenico, domenico, domenico, what do i do with you? emil watches his old friend from across the room, notes his discomfort and even at a distance, feels his worry. in another place, at another time, emil would spare dom a hug, tell him everything will fall into place soon, even if it’s a lie. emil can’t promise any friend behind enemy lines happiness, and that’s what hurts them the most about this war. that there are good hearts stuck in the ranks of war and famine and pestilence that deserve freedom, but it doesn’t seem to be on uriel’s agenda any longer. maybe it never was.

what emil doesn’t know, is what degree of willingness was present when domenico crossed paths with war, and how long ago it all started. it would be easier if domenico was just a lowly player, no power, no choice. emil hopes (maybe they pray too) for it to be the case, for dom’s hands to barely be touched by blood. but what’s the likelihood of that working for remus warden?

dom supposedly catches him staring and it makes emil laugh. of course the one always standing to the side or in the shadows feels others eyes on him first. but walking towards his friend in this moment could mean the same end their friendship with evren met, it makes emil’s feet feel as if their cemented to the old station floor. it’s the age old tale of loneliness that breaks that spell, allowing emil to put one foot in front of the other until dom is close enough to hear over the music. emil has to hold back the familiar desire to embrace a friend, as if for a moment they forgot about the masks and the hostility. maybe it’s selfish to be here, ready to give a stream of clues until their identity finally clicks inside of domenico’s skull, but emil is tired of being the only one to hide. they just hope it’s something nico would do in return.

“what if people are sick of seeing my face?” emil asks with warmth and amusement that don’t belong in a gathering like this one, but they do belong with dom, and have done for years. emil gives him a little twirl, towering a good three inches over their friend, but domenico is no stranger to sight of emil in six inch heels. “you this complimentary to everyone, dom? i’m starting to feel less special,” they chuckle, barely audible over the music filling the space. “this whole thing seems like your worst nightmare, right babe?” do you recognize me now?

     Babe. Domenico’s stomach sinks instantly, the walls closing in as claustrophobia clutches him in its grip. He knows that voice — all too well — and the Dominion’s made sure he knows most of the names within the other gangs ranks. The only one who remains somewhat of a mystery is Death. His saliva sours, bitterness spreading across his tongue, and when he speaks, he’s surprised it doesn’t waver, the weight of Emil’s identity pressing on every nerve, every organ, crushing as it stomps careless into his bones, “You should know I am.” He’s staring at him, rigid in posture, memories filtering through his mind: coffee dates and jogs in the park, intimate conversations about life in general, love… family. He’s known Emil before his fame, for about a decade, and yet here he is, seized by shock. 

     “I’d have said it could be worse but then you showed up,” he answers Emil’s next question pointedly, folding his arms over his chest, and he can’t tell if he’s suffocating his heart, its pulse seeming to slow altogether. He isn’t. Emil is. Emil and Domenico’s inability to realize he stands with Uriel. Were they there when Juno was killed? Were they the one who did it? His thoughts are racing, whipping through history to find the exact point where he’d gone wrong, and he doesn’t think their relationship was all fake… then again, he didn’t think they would ever be a part of a gang in the first place. Failure. He’s failed the Warden’s, War, nausea rolling over in his stomach when he recalls when they got dinner a month before, how he’d admitted his feelings for a coworker. He’d been open, like he always was with Emil once they got closer, and now he’s punishing himself for it, closing himself down. Only War. Everyone else is a suspect. A danger. A possible target. It’s too messy to care for people one might have to kill and Domenico’s never been faced with that hurdle. 

As sweet as Belladonna could be, there was something darker inside of her and while it didn’t usually manifest in a violent way, it was rare for the woman not to find something to hold over other’s heads. And without knowing it, Domenico offered her something on a silver plater. The innocent smile and tone never left her when she spoke again, knowing full well she would get on the other’s nerves with her next words. “So you wouldn’t take a bullet for War? Getting hurt for the name of your gang is not worth it, that’s an interesting way to see things. A sense of loyalty like that doesn’t weight heavy, don’t you think?” Belladonna was twisting his own words against him, knowing full well it wasn’t what he intended when he said the words, or so she thought. No one would openly say such a thing, let alone to a rival, but it was still something fun to toy with. She wouldn’t press this any longer, the remark made so lightly that she could have talked about the weather. His reaction would be interesting with tensions high, there was no telling how he would take it.

Belladonna was doing her best to mask the pain from the fight on the boat and the exhaustion that was starting to settle as the adrenaline left her. There was many things on her mind, one of them being a certain Seraphim and the worries that came with his involvment. Her eyes sightly narrowed at his question. Did she have any names? It was a bold question on Domenico’s part and she wondered if he truly expected her to tell him anything. All information she gathered would go to her partnered Dominion and Seraphim. Had it been asked in the moment, not thinking of the ranks or did he thought her foolish enough to give such information? “Eager to get something you could bring home? Maybe I have, mayde I don’t,” she casually said with a small shrug, almost as if such knowledge was nothing but a game. “Whatever I have will be reported to my Seraphim. If they think sharing it is the thing to do, I’m sure someone on your side will get the information.” They might have been in an alliance at the moment, that didn’t mean they were not still at war and Domenico could be working for Death.

     She’s baiting him, attempting to throw his words back in his face, and hers fall flat, Domenico staring with a distinct lack of amusement, a sharpness tightening his neutral features in a flash of disdain. He won’t answer; it isn’t worth his time. He’s loyal — to a fault — and he hadn’t even entertained members of other gangs during the truce, offering little more than polite exchanges, so the idea that Belladonna can shake his faith in his commitment is laughable, if it was the time for such things. It isn’t; Domenico isn’t laughing and the Famine Power is revealing every reason he’s never trusted anyone without War attached to their role: sweet upon first glance, with a venomous tongue and even more poisonous intentions. They’re always the same, even when they try to claim otherwise. He knows, because underneath his steady civility, he’s the same. It’s always about War — and it’s always about putting them first, at the top. While Domenico doesn’t utilize violent measures as much as some other people in their circles, he knows it’s always there, the risk and the opportunity. He remembers when Ikki boldly chose to let Domenico fall into the very waters behind Belladonna and how if the tables had been turned, Domenico wouldn’t have made the same choice. He expects people to make the dishonorable decision if it shoots them up the ladder, and the type of conduct Domenico squeezes close to his chest is a rare sight among the underbelly of London. 

     His eyes cut to her when she speaks again, the urge to chuckle bubbling between his ribs, and he nods, his voice becoming smooth and placating, “Suit yourself. Commendable, at least. Your Dominion is in the car already. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you in one piece. Your brother as well.” Domenico keeps his eyes on her as he steps aside, his lips stretching slowly into a stiff smile, using no effort to make it more cordial. “Perhaps you can take the time we have to wait for the others to ponder the meaning of loyalty. It might bolster your argument the next time you’re trying to bait.” There’s a chill when he speaks again, because Domenico might be firm, but he isn’t goading, and he never takes kindly to the loathsome activity. He has even less patience for it. “I’ll radio in if I see anyone coming.”