𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐄𝐘𝐄.

‘How did you know I’d come here?’

When she was capable of finding another moment to slip out of the back door as the evening began to leer on, discernible by the sound of crickets chiming up from the sands of the desert and the rays of the sun less intense than she recalled the last time she had found a quiet moment to herself. Normally, she was so accustomed to singing on the stage, and permitting the charisma of the dancers to shine through with convening and connecting to the audience afterwards. The past weekend, she had suffered and endured more chatter than she was used to. Remington was a fellow as taciturn as herself; she never needed to worry over keeping it going.

Vyvyan? His voice met her ears before his hand, and she turned slightly, finding that the tension riddling through her mollified in an instant. Of all the descriptions of Edward Weiss that one might overhear in the dressing rooms, or on the streets, or more hushed conversations at Kitty's, compassionate was not one of them. But Vyvyan preferred to give people the benefit of the doubt until she had reason to believe that her life was in danger, even after everything that the fallen starlet had been subjected to — assuming an image, a reputation, was practically synonymous with Las Vegas, itself. She would like to believe that she was opaque by design, perhaps she was a blank slate that everyone else reflected their image onto.

"Edward. Hello," she greeted him cordially at first, formalities reserved less for who many believed to be the true keeper of the city and more out of her own manners, "I'm surprised that you would show at all. Pleasantly, of course..." Her voice was light, if wearied by the transpiration of events. Her smile was equally worn like leather weathered in time, and her hands dropped to her outfit, smoothing over the fabric and touching the back of her head for her ribbon, as if to ensure that she was still presentable, despite it all.

It’s the truth either way. Showing up had been his wife’s idea and, under any other circumstances, he would’ve refused. Publicity, obligation, image maintenance; none of it would've convinced him to enter his personal idea of hell. But the thought of spending even a few minutes with Vyvyan had been enough to endure hell, and the horror of that realisation is inseparable from the relief.

There’s a certain dishonesty in it, he supposes - allowing her to think kindly of him while withholding things that would force her to confront the reality of who he is. Nothing he's done for her undoes the things he’s done to other people, as much as he’d like to believe otherwise, and he knows even the mildest truths about himself tend to send people running.

I'm... not really good at talking to people. He understands the angle, the way she doesn’t fit the expectations of a society that rewards loudness, but he truly thinks the way they speak to each other - awkward, gentle, comfortable with silences, free from pretence - is the better way to be. “I don’t think that’s true. I mean… I like talking to you, so.” Then, with a similar touch of self-mockery: “But I’m definitely the wrong person to be reassuring anyone about their social skills.”

When she asks if he’d like to go for a walk, the answer arrives immediately, more than happy to put some distance between them and the rest of this godforsaken event. “Yes. I’d like that a lot." He straightens up and offers her his arm to take, lightly brushing the back of his hand against hers so she’ll know where it is. Always faintly astonished she’d go anywhere with him - equally astonished he hasn’t somehow managed to destroy this friendship yet.

The comment that followed took him aback. He'd gone from hoping not to be recognised to thinking it was better to be recognised as an actor than someone once connected to the world of crime, someone who had a mother who had once probably been responsible for thwarting the Weiss family's business, and while he'd never known what his father had done, he knew it was connected to the Vitellis as well.

It was better to be recognised as an actor, so he let his shoulders relax and smiled like he was caught, holding his hands up for a moment in a 'you got me' gesture. "They'd burn the place to the ground, never mess with the fans." And the Weiss patriach wasn't wrong. Harsh was certain the producers of the show would go all out, because he might be an innocent bystander, they also had back-to-back days on set and the show was bound to grind to a stand-still if something happened to him now. So much money lost, so many re-writes. The producers hated re-writes. "Good to know I'm safe, however."

At the mention of his horrible disguise, he blushed and bit his lip, the automatic reaction one that was caught in multiple episodes and fans often swooned over. The thought of a man showing a mistake, the people went crazy over it. And right now, he wanted to seem as harmless as ever. "Usually I wear it once I go out of the house," he admitted. "But some days I leave set and completely forget about it. My life has changed so quickly since I got a role as a regular." Though before it had already been often that he was recognised. Fans coming up to him asking when he'd be in another episode. But back then he'd basked in the attention, a bit awkwardly, but it had been what he'd wanted. To be loved. Even if people didn't love him, but they enjoyed seeing his character on screen.

Oh, he’s doing the thing. The lip-biting thing that would have his housekeeper melting into a puddle on the spot if she were here, cheerfully signing divorce papers to a husband Edward knows she adores - just not quite as much as she adores Harsh. He's never understood how people manage it: being charming so effortlessly. It makes him want to ask how it works - whether it's something Harsh learned or something he was simply born with - because frankly Edward could use the advice. But the thought is embarrassing enough that he keeps his mouth shut for once.

“Fame sounds horrible, to be honest. How do you cope with it?” If he had to deal with being hounded in the street by fans, he's pretty sure he'd start biting people. His own reputation is preferable in a strange sort of way - influential but never approachable enough that people would ever think they're entitled to his time.

He tries to think of something fun to ask about the show that he could report back to his housekeeper. Unfortunately, the only question she'd actually want answered is are you single? and he absolutely refuses to ask it. It would help if he'd ever watched an episode. As it stands, he's only caught the occasional snippet in passing; apparently there isn't much time for television when you're busy maintaining a blood feud. “How did you get into acting? Are the rest of your family actors too? You know. Nepotism and all that.”

Jesus. Susan. She cackles at the idea of the woman who hasn't changed her style since the 60's and would certainly risk a hip getting on the fake beast. The woman was well-meaning, and Sophia knew that, but her skills and idea of therapizing everyone she came across were outdated. She could see how the behavior would annoy someone like Edward, it does most of her co-workers.

He can't even find it in himself to complain about looking ridiculous, and nobody is more surprised by that development than Edward.

Then, an awkward, quiet offering of his own: "I made origami animals as a child. Used to drive my parents mad finding them everywhere." Little paper swans. Dragons. Boats. Taught in an air-raid shelter by a woman who noticed his hands wouldn't stop trembling and showed him a way to steady them. He still catches himself doing it sometimes. Cigarettes have mostly replaced the habit, but every now and then he'll glance down and realise he's started folding a receipt or napkin into something recognisable without consciously meaning to.

There is, admittedly, a twist of warped satisfaction in knowing Susan has noticed something is wrong but can't quite work out what. The sudden appearance of a tacky Life Is Better With A Dog slogan mug had raised eyebrows at the Weiss Manor, mostly because they do not, in fact, have a dog. Nobody had questioned it, naturally - too afraid to ask. Edward, for his part, has developed a sudden enthusiasm for drinking tea - and, entirely coincidentally, a favourite mug to drink it from. It feels good to be petty; petty grudges are an excellent distraction from the increasingly unavoidable fact that, the way his life is going, he's headed for the grave soon enough anyway. If Susan ever stops irritating him long enough - and that's a substantial if - he might even consider leaving her the mug in his will.

"Oh! Psychological warfare. I respect it. I'd say poor Susan, but fuck that.” He enjoys this more than he'd like to admit: silly workplace grievances, water-cooler conversations, the sort of problems people are supposed to have. "Why stop at the computer? We should move everything in the wing just slightly off-kilter. Let Susan think she's gone mad. She’d have to start diagnosing herself for a change."

Well, Ace would and he tried his luck. Bummer.

One failure won't deter him though.

Ace quirks his left eyebrow up at the mention of Edward being old, "Damn Mr. Weiss, I didn't know you were both a grandpa and a pussy."

As soon as those words left his mouth, Ace's immediate thoughts were 'Ah shit, I ran my mouth again. This is it. I swear. This is my last night on Earth. I'll probably get shot while riding that bull. Heck, he might even order someone to fix that bull so that as soon as I get on it, the motherfucker will fall on me, making me go with a splat for tonight.' that quick line of thought immediately got followed by 'I knew I should've made that I love you letter to my Mom when I thought about it. Always gotta trust your gut feelings, they're survival instincts at this point, which I do not have.'

Those quick succession of nervous thoughts were concealed by a carefully placed taunting expression. His every action taken towards the other really makes it took like Ace is just egging him on as to how long it'll take for him to finally murder him. Edward Weiss at this point is probably only keeping him alive because he's amusing enough; especially when it came to his cases—Wait, that was it.

"How thoughtful of you to think of me even after your death," Ace voiced out, trying to sound as touched as possible as he put his hand on his chest, "How about a bet on information then?" he offered with a cock of his head to the side with a grin, "You ride that bull longer than me and I'll give you info on any body I worked on for the past month."

He sounds like such a dirty cop, this is probably how he'll get into the Weiss' family's payroll. He'll forever be known as the guy who got employed because their boss beat him at riding a mechanical bull longer. He has to make sure that kind of embarrassment will never be put on him.

God, it's tempting to take the bait. If his ego had been battling self-preservation before, his incurable nosiness has now entered the ring. He wants the information. When doesn't he want information? He's a complete gannet for gossip, particularly when it's absolutely none of his bloody business. He's aware he could always just pester (The Dirty Harry), but where's the satisfaction in that? It wouldn't feel like a victory if the answers are handed to him. "It's amusing that you think you're in a position to bargain with me, Ace. If I wanted to know, I'd know already." It’s punctuated by a dismissive wave of his hand - and then, because apparently he has the fucking self-control of a teaspoon: "When you say any body, do you really mean any body? I might reconsider."

A devious thought occurs to him: agree to the bet, insist Ace goes first, allow him to thoroughly humiliate himself, then immediately rescind the deal. True, it would cost him the gossip. On the other hand, if the mechanical bull throws Ace hard enough - and God, he's hoping it does - a well-timed head injury might make the information considerably easier to acquire. Silver linings.

"You know what? Fine. You're on. But you're going first."

"Betcha' I can stay on the mechanical bull longer than you," Ace said with a grin, a taunt if it was anything else. "Twenty bucks to see which one of us can ride it longer? Although I think I already know the outcome, but you can try."

In all honesty, Ace doesn't even know if he's going to win. But, it was always fun to make these kinds of bets. He likes the thrill of things and adding money to it doesn't hurt. It's also to make the stakes higher or just plain entice the other person to take up his challenge.

Ace is a local, has been going to this event for a majority of his life. He's had his fair share of riding that bull and has definitely lasted in riding it for at least eight seconds. He's going to try and break his record and having someone go against him is getting him excited.

"Would you prefer a higher amount? I don't mind it." he says before looking over to the mechanical bull. The person who was riding it is barely three seconds in and they're already slipping, then falls off of it. Ace laughs, amused at the person who fell and couldn't last a mere three-seconds on it.

That being said, it doesn’t make Ace's taunting any easier to ignore. It’s very much a battle between his ridiculous ego and self-preservation; the compulsive need to prove people wrong matched against the very real possibility he’s reached the age where stuff like this could kill him. What a depressing way to go: decades spent locked in a blood feud only to be taken down by a mechanical bull. He supposes he'd be too busy being, well, dead to be embarrassed about it, but still.

“I’d rather just give you the money. There’s not a fucking chance I’m getting on that thing. It’s so undignified. Don’t you think it’s far more entertaining watching everyone else get thrown off? Because I do.” He’s enough of a menace to enjoy it; if anything, he’d prefer it launched people further. “And I’m old - as you keep reminding me. It would probably fucking kill me at this point. And you’d be heartbroken, obviously.” A beat. “I’d make sure you got stuck doing the autopsy too. Just to compound your grief.”

"He is quite insufferable, but he's my little brother. And I've grown to love him." Alessandro is younger than Spencer and they are far from close. But he still cares for him like he does to all of his siblings. "Well, I guess working hard to make sure I'm different from him has paid off." Spencer shrugs his shoulders. Edward isn't the first person to tell him he's different from his younger brother. Sometimes he doesn't feel like he fits into the Vitelli family since he took the path that he did. Spencer wants to be like the others or wishes he could be. All he can really do is try his best to make his life worthy of living.

He was worthy of being observed? Hardly. But yet here he was being told that he was basically being watched. "Yea, probably would've been worst to make a child cry. It's no surprise that you seem to not really care if you do." The last thing he wants is for this man to go away where near his students. Edward can do what he wants to Spencer, but those kids...he'll be damned if he let Edward hurt them. Even if hurting him meant they would cry or miss him. Maybe that was a bit worth it to him. When he became a teacher, he vowed to protect all of the students that he's come across. But something tells him that Edward won't hurt them unless he doesn't do exactly what he wants. Whatever that may be. It was become obvious to Spencer that this conversation was only happening because the older man wanted him to do something for him. Whatever it is, Spencer knows he won't do something to hurt his family.

You look just like your dad. Those words hit harder than he ever thought they would. It's been awhile since he mentioned his father, let alone both his parents. He had been feeling uncomfortable watching Edward look at him the way he was. All he had wanted to do was look away, but now Edward holds his interest as he brings up his father. Spencer's sure their murder was in the papers or even on the evening news. There had been looks throughout his years growing up. Whispers at school, looks from parents, and even strangers who probably stayed a bit too long. Spencer himself has pushed down his memories of his parents and that awful night deep into the back of his mind, not wanting to talk about what happened. It didn't really occur to him that someone like Edward knew his father.

Or even remembers what he looked like for that matter. The elder man is probably the only one who every told him he looks like his father. He didn't know what to say or how to take it. He didn't have time to process his feelings since Edward continued to talk and Spencer struggles to listen. Mind elsewhere. He's only brought back to at the mention of his dad being stupid. "He wasn't stupid...he had his problems but the last thing he was..." He doesn't finish his sentence. Spencer can't bring himself to continue defending his father. It was pointless when clearly all Edward wanted was to hurt him. What did he do to deserve this treatment? "I under...understand what you're saying. "Yes, sir. I'm not stupid. But whatever it is that you want me to do, I won't do it. I don't owe you a damn thing."

Out of anger, he turns around to storm off into the venue like the others coming and going. He doesn't. He hears what Edward asked about that night and he stops in his tracks. Eyes wide and glossing over in anger. His emotions are too strong and almost immediately he turns back around and does the first mistake of the evening.

It happens in a flash. He doesn’t know what he’s doing until Spencer’s fist colliades with Edward’s face. It’s not a hard punch, but it’s enough to make his knuckles sting a little. “Fuck you,” Spencer angrily spats out towards Edward. For once maybe his voice holds venomous anger that helps him to not stumble over his words. His arm drops to his side. His body shakes with anger. He wants to punch the older man again, but he doesn’t let himself. His breathing is hard, fast, and his heartbeat is speeding as equally fast. “You don’t know anything about that night. You don’t know what it’s like to walk in and see your parents dead on the ground.” It was the worse experience of his life. Something that he’s buried deep inside himself and doesn’t think about it. He was only twelve years old. Like the child he was, he risks it all and does something that might make things worst, he spits at Edward’s feet; watching as it lands close to the other’s shoe. “Don’t talk about my parents. You have no right.” He doesn’t say anymore. He just stands there shaking from anger, fear, annoyance…all the emotions as he glares daggers at Edward. Not really caring that maybe he shouldn’t defend parents who didn’t stay in Boston to keep them all safe.

He knows publicly sparring with Vitellis is a bad look, particularly with one who spends most of his life trying to distance himself from the family name, but they're still largely swallowed by the festivities around them. Besides, if anyone notices, Edward knows he can make them forget - and he's already made enough reckless decisions tonight that it almost seems rude to stop now.

“Was there a lot of blood? I bet there was.” A very efficient way to earn a second punch, perhaps, but he can't help himself. The devilry comes naturally; being nice, apart from the rare few people he tolerates, has always required so much effort. Smiling for the cameras, shaking hands, feeding reporters the same trite fucking lines about being a working-class kid who still can’t quite believe where he's ended up. If he’s honest, he’d rather be doing this than public engagements or holed up in his office any day; fighting, causing chaos, dragging people right to the brink of what they can tolerate - and then nudging them just a little further.

Technically, he does know what it's like to see a parent dead on the ground. Slightly different, admittedly, when you're the one responsible for putting them there, but it’s just semantics, really, isn't it? His gaze flickers briefly to the spit by his shoe, observing it with detached amusement. "I spat in your brother's face earlier.” It’s offered in an almost conversational tone, figuring it's relevant. "If you’re going to spit at me, Spencer, do it properly."

He'd intended to keep this particular card close to his chest, but watching Spencer spiral has made it infinitely too tempting. "I know who did it." The sing-song quality creeping into his voice makes it sound less like a confession and more like a playground taunt. "I know who killed them. Maybe it was me."

It wasn't, but why waste an opportunity to twist the knife?

"I mean, they're so forgettable, it's difficult to keep track sometimes - but I seem to know an awful lot about what happened for someone who wasn't there, don’t I?” A beat, cruel as ever. "So maybe I was. Maybe I'm the last face they ever saw. Wouldn’t that be interesting?”

The loss of the territory didn't keep Dominic out of the club. Though the recent peace treaty left his old hangout back open without consequence. Even if it hadn't, he was unlikely to catch anyone's attention tonight.

Dim lights highlighted sweat-slick skin, smoke sticking to those places on contact, shoes sticking to the split liquor on the floor as it dried. He liked grittier places. Something about well put-together people caused an irrational irritation to rumble behind his ears. Nothing quite felt like home the way blood and stale smoke did. Even tonight, with the stupid country theme draping every dancer and drunk girl on the bull, it was more comfortable than most places.

Dom wouldn't be caught dead playing dress up, not that his lack of costume made him stick out. Faded blue jeans and a black t-shirt blended in anywhere.

"I bet the next round your dumb ass can't last two minutes on that fucking thing." He was drunk already, eyes beginning to glaze as he tried to escape the shit show that was his job here lately. He was starting to worry he wouldn't have one soon. At the rate the Vitelli's were going, he'd be out of employees.

With the gesture of his hand, he called over the bartender. It would take her probably another ten minutes to get to him, but that wasn't her fault, and he wasn't about to make his empty glass her problem.

"Shit, a shot just to see you try."

“Two minutes? That’s harsh.” His nose scrunches as he briefly weighs up whether he values his dignity more than his compulsive need to prove people wrong. Thankfully, dignity wins, and he shakes his head. “Probably best to keep the Vitellis away from it. Looks strong enough to take one of them out. Though I suppose that’s hardly difficult these days; your lot do seem to drop dead with alarming frequency." A beat. "Can't really afford to lose another one, can you?"

He should stop gloating. Really, he should, but the jokes practically write themselves.

“Do you have to do a headcount every morning now? Just to make sure nobody’s spontaneously expired overnight?”

If it wasn't culling the sacrificial lamb enough, the humiliation of the stalemate outside that had sent Boris seeking refuge from the walls of the lounge that were haunted by relics of the past were few and far between. Especially when none other than Edward Weiss came trampling in, smoke curling out of his ears, and unceremoniously found himself sitting right next to the elder Rogalnikov in the farthest corner of the raunchy building. It reeked of body odor, mud dragged in from the outside, and the horrendous shrieks from the mechanical bull that were becoming more grotesque and devolved as it wore out the voice box of its electronics.

But, apparently, he cannot fucking help himself.

Your spit take was weak. The look on his face is comically bewildered, entertaining the increasingly realistic possibility that he’s being pranked, because how can this evening continue getting worse? When exactly did he lose the ability to empty a room without saying a word? Now every fucker in the city seems to think they can roast him to his face. Was it the wedding? Or has there been some gradual erosion of his authority, his ability to command even basic respect, to the point he’s now considered fair game?

“Guess I was just matching the new don’s energy then. Weak. You recognise that, right? That he’s weak? I’d almost feel bad for the bastard if he wasn’t so...” The words would usually come easily, but rage keeps distracting him. “Well. Whatever the fuck he is. Do you seriously think he’s going to be a good leader?”

Your lungs do not have power. There’s a fleeting urge to defend the honour of his lungs, purely out of contrarianism - a cherished pastime - because it’s fair enough. Tar-ridden, old, probably half-destroyed already from being born during the war and inhaling so much brick-dust in his formative years. His doctor is forever telling him to stop smoking, that it’ll kill him, and Edward always responds that he’s fucking counting on it. Better to die like that - on his terms, hacking up a diseased lung - than at the hands of the Vitellis. He sees his future and it’s bright: one of those bastards outside a hospital, hooked up to a drip and still puffing away. That’ll be his retirement plan, assuming he ever gets to fucking retire.

Right now, he wants Boris to retire to another planet.

"Well, I'm very happy to practice it on you. See if I can make the spit travel far enough onto your fucking face. Don't test me."

Fucking around with someone so volatile could very well backfire, but he’s never known when to shut his mouth, has he? Why start now? “And it's arguably more pathetic to be a guard dog for Alessandro Vitelli when you’re clearly capable of more. I’m surprised you’ve stuck around that bloody family. Anyone smart would abandon a sinking ship.”

Listening as the other began telling him how he was a fuck up that no one wanted around. That some people's success spoke for itself. That they didn't need billboards. He chuckled at the idea of what he had actually achieved. As if Edward would understand what he had accomplished.

"Well, I made it to fucking Don of the Vitelli Family, you know, the family people actually care about. And what makes that a success is that I clawed back from nothing. Being disowned, cut off, and abandoned by my own family. Here I am. I'm a fucking survivor, Eddie boy. I'm willing to do what it takes to get what I want. I'm a fucking tiger."

“You’re disgusting - but that’s hardly news. Do you genuinely think behaving like this makes you look like a good leader? That shock value and acting outrageously somehow translates into authority?” Conveniently, he ignores the fact that he was the one who spat first. Alessandro’s response is less of an escalation than the natural conclusion to Edward’s own behaviour, but he’s far too stubborn to acknowledge that part aloud. “But who cares anyway? You’ll be dead soon.” It serves less as a threat and more as audible reassurance to himself - a reminder this won’t last forever. That eventually the next don will go back to trying to kill him instead of willingly swallowing his spit - and, somehow, it will be a relief.

I made it to fucking Don of the Vitelli Family. “That’s hardly an achievement. Becoming head of the Vitelli family is basically jury service at this point. I’m half-expecting someone to knock on my door any day now and tell me I’m the next don.” Now is decidedly not the time to be a smartarse, but when has that ever stopped him? The family people actually care about comment is such an unexpectedly catty thing to say that he laughs outright - abrupt, disbelieving - without even bothering to feign outrage. “People care about your family more than mine, apparently, and yet you were literally just talking about us working together. Why bother, if we’re so irrelevant? Do you want to know what I think?” He says it as if Alessandro has a say in the matter, as if he’s not simply going to bulldoze ahead anyway with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “I think it’s pretty fucking damning that multiple people had to die before you started looking like a sensible option for leadership. And, I think, if people actually cared about your family, someone would’ve told you how ridiculous you look."

Oh. A tiger. Of course. There it is again: the same involuntary snort escaping him, though Edward's hardly in a position to criticise self-mythologising when he spends most of his life convinced he’s a God. “A tiger? I had you down as more of a yapping little dog desperately trying to convince the world you’ve got your father’s bite, but it’s lovely to see you maintaining so much confidence, even if it’s spectacularly misplaced. If you're a tiger, what does that make me?”

He already suspects he'll regret asking.

where: glitter gulch lounge

jibril stares at the mechanical bull in front of him, watching as other patrons try and fail to stay on it. they've never seen this sort of ride in person, only ever heard of it, so this was new to them. from what they could tell, the objective was staying on for a certain period of time. jibril had never considered himself one to back down from a challenge, so this seemed like a perfect opportunity.

he looks at one of the people in the crowd, making sure he understands the purpose of the ride. "so...is there some kind of prize for if you don't get thrown off?" they ask, voice soft with a little hesitance. "have you ever ridden one of these before? is it hard?"

“Presumably the prize is maintaining some dignity, but I don’t actually know.” Admitting ignorance about something? This truly is a night of firsts for him.

“Have I ever…” He can't even finish repeating the question, baffled by the suggestion but too tired to think too much into it. Briefly wondering whether he looks like someone who would willingly climb onto a mechanical bull. Deciding that, if he does, something has gone terribly wrong with the image he’s trying to project and he must fix it immediately.

“No. I think I’m a bit too old for it, to be honest. No idea if it’s hard, though - I suppose you'd only find out by trying, right?”

He’s deep in a conversation with his ‘work wife’ when he sees Edward Weiss coming their way. He gulps, clearly feeling a bit worried about the elder man wanted. If anything at all. His fellow teacher sees the look of fear, of worry cross Spencer’s face. She sees it go paler than normal and he feels his own skin goose up across his whole body. Before Edward could even come up to Spencer, his friend pants a hand on his shoulder, giving him a gently squeeze. She clearly knows Edward isn’t coming for her. All Spencer can do is stare at his work wife, begging her with his eyes to not leave him alone.

But she does. Leaving him nearly paranoid and alone.

She leaves the moment Edward calls out his name, coming closer than Spencer really wants him to. He tries to move back away from the older man. He tries to put distance between them, but there’s no space. There’s too many people around. Having encounters with other mob family members is one of the reasons why he doesn't want anything to do with it all. He doesn't want to be bothered or threatened because he's now considered a Vitelli.

Yet he stands there listening to Edward threaten him. Saying that something may happen to him? Or could happen to him. Whatever he meant, Spencer wished he could be someone else; wishing for his previous life as a Whitlock. He can't though. That life he stopped living the moment he found his parents, that life, was gone. Forever. He became a Vitelli when he was adopted. Maybe he hasn't really embraced being a Vitelli like his siblings. He wasn't like them. He didn't fall into what people think they should be like. He embraced a life he has outside of the Vitelli's. A normal life. He's starting to understand though that he won't have the life he wants because people like Edward are there to remind him who he is now and not who he was.

"Hello…Mr. Weiss, sir. I think...I think you're mistaken. I'm not my brother. I am simply trying to enjoy the rodeo. Why...why the threats, huh?" He hates how paranoid his voice sounds, how almost fearful. His voice cracks slightly, mouth going dry. He didn't understand why this man wants to talk to him. "My students? Are you stalking me? That doesn't look good for you, sir." He laming tries to find the words that don't want to come out in order to mask whatever emotions of worry are about to betray him. "What is it that you want to speak to me about, hmm? I don't know much about the workings of our family. Maybe...maybe in your old age your mistaken who I am and that I want nothing to do with the crime life. Please...sir. What is it that you want?"

Feels good to be efficient.

He’s relieved beyond measure that Spencer is nothing like Alessandro, that the thinly-veiled threats land exactly as intended, that he looks fucking terrified. Probably the most sensible Vitelli he’s ever known - which is, in itself, another reason he struggles to think of him as a real Vitelli at all. That has to be the Whitlock influence, surely - although he can’t pretend Xavier was sensible either, only sensible enough to die before Edward ever got his hands on him. So, maybe Spencer inherited his common sense from his mother.

Then again, she clearly hadn’t possessed enough of it to avoid catching a bullet either.

He notes, up close, that Spencer is the spitting image of both of them; the realisation only deepens the cruelty in Edward’s smile, a flicker of mischief passing through glacial eyes. His head tilts slightly, feigning polite interest, as he listens to Spencer stumble over his words. Calling him sir. Definitely not his brother; Edward suspects Alessandro would only ever call him sir to get a thrill out of it. Spencer, meanwhile, is sensibly pliant. Even the mention of his old age - a subject Edward is already feeling particularly vicious about lately, as if he can stop the aging process with sheer spite alone - fails to dampen his mood. 

“Not stalking, merely observing. If you think that’s a bad look, I probably shouldn’t tell you I very nearly came and spoke to you in front of your students. I chose to walk away. I chose not to traumatise them. But I do wonder which one would’ve cried the most.” There’s no getting through to him when he’s like this. His mother had recognised the devil in him even when he was a child. Edward only recognises it in moments like these - eyes glassy with something ugly, so far removed from anything recognisably human, slipping into the dark with an ease that should horrify him. He knows people believe he killed his wife, has heard the flurry of rumours ad nauseam; only he knows the truth. He briefly wonders if Spencer thinks he killed her too, or, if he didn't, if his opinion is swayed by the look in his eyes now.

“You look just like your dad, by the way. It’s uncanny. Mostly the eyes.” His gaze lingers over Spencer’s face, dissecting him feature by feature, deliberately taking his time with it, making the scrutiny feel as invasive as possible. Then, abruptly, the jarring shift into another too-bright smile. “But Xavier was stupid. Catastrophically stupid. Weak. Pathetic. Terrible with his finances.” Speaking ill of the dead is of no consequence to him; it’s a cherished fucking hobby at this point.  “And unfortunately, his stupidity didn’t die with him. I don’t think you’re stupid, Spencer.” He says it like they’re friends, like he’s trying to reassure him about an insecurity. “I think you’re sensible enough to understand that I don’t ask people for things. I tell people what they’re going to do. And they do it."

He spares a glance towards the club as cheerful patrons spill in and out of the doors, music briefly flooding the street before it muffles again when it closes behind them; everyone else blissfully unaware of what’s happening, the festivities continuing around them. “Your parents died on your birthday, didn’t they?” A wince. “That’s fucking brutal. Were you there?”