RAVENOUS.

A shadow can become a knife, can become all consuming. You chafed at it, the way you were always placed under another. There would have to be a way out. The solution took the form of the merger between CASTOR MANUFACTURING and MARQUEZ CONSOLIDATED. Two old companies – the sort that had maybe begun with cars, but then spiderwebbed outwards, consuming whole worlds with their reach. If you managed to be one of the lawyers to guide them through the merger, then you might begin to make your own name. You were fresh out of training then, just starting to get settled at your parents firm. Still cautious, but less cautious then you are now, the instincts not quite so finely honed. 

You saw this merger, and knew it could pull you one step further out of the shadows, into something known for your own merit. Only… there was a catch (and isn’t there always?). Over drinks, as you sipped at whiskey in minute breaths, old Ephraim Marquez told you of indiscretions– of multiple a handful financial, a handful personal– that would clash with certain moral clauses in the merger. He sighed about the whole thing, wondering if certain documents simply no longer existed in the discovery process.

You took the hint. You’re not a fool. But you were foolish, certain that the process would be easy. Still– you had to pull a couple strings to get at certain documents, to silence certain people. You had to ask THE TRAGEDY for aid, and you’ve regretted it ever since. The whole merger went off without a hitch, everyone bound together tight as sin. It was a boon for you, your mother calling it an auspicious start to your career. And from old Marquez, you found other clients, other opportunities. But it niggles at you– all of this could be undone with a string pull. You hadn’t known how to be tidy yet. And so– you could have a fate worse than living in a shadow. You could be cast off the edge of the world, should someone take the time to unravel the whole thing.

@trialofheartsrpg

as a bonus: dante's original rumors --

There’s a whisper going around that Dante’s current girlfriend (and likely soon to be fiancée), one LEANDRA VANE, is not his partner out of affection, but out of a mutual business bargain for the two of them. While Lea and Dante both seem deeply affectionate in public, some like to speculate that the whole thing is just smoke and mirrors. This is: TRUE. Dante isn’t really interested in women, but that’s something he has historically put to the side/covered up for the sake of advancing his career. Lea is someone who had her own reasons for wanting the illusion of a relationship, and while neither has likely disclosed those reasons to the other, the illusion of the relationship, and the mutual benefits it provides are enough for them both.

It’s the classic thing: people always report that Dante will always turn down drugs at parties, at events, at any classic gathering where they might pop up for the elite and rich. Which always begets the rumor: does the golden boy really care enough about his image to not do drugs? This is FALSE. While he doesn’t do the classic party drugs, Dante does have a slight dependency on Adderall, which has only intensified as his career has gone upwards. He gets a doctor to prescribe him them in an under wraps sort of deal, as a way to maintain his work as effortless and flawless, even as he tries to pile on more in all capacities of his life. It’s one of those funny instances where the truth might be more inflammatory than the rumor.

There’s a final one, from one of his roommates in boarding school. The man was convinced that Dante couldn’t cook, that any food he touched would go to a crisp, and that once he left school, he’d have to be dependent on a mix of private chefs and takeout. This is FALSE. He can cook! He often prefers to prepare his own food, just because there’s always the fear of a rival trying to slip something in to make him miss a meeting or fall flat in his personal life. It’s all about the control issues xo

and then the second batch:

[1] the thing is, dante is supposed to be perfect. the golden boy image and all that. but there's an old rumor, the sort that swirled for a week, that he dismissed with a smile and reams of evidence, that one of his term papers was plagiarized. that it wasn't his own work, despite the praise heaped on it by the professor. maybe that would explain why he never submitted it for publication?

a truth -- in undergrad, in his second year, he'd gotten close to his limit. under the veneer, he felt close to snapping. as an out, he dug through copies of old masters theses in the library. there, he found one that suited the assignment for his class, stole the core argument and citations, and tried to make it his own. as an added bonus, he burnt the book, tried to erase his transgression. but the paper won him an undergrad honors thesis advisor, and through him, a wealth of connections. it bites at him that some of that ambition was built on desperation and theft, two things antithetical to the person he wants to think that he is.

[2] there's a thought, a thing that flits at the edge of conversation lately: dante arcari doesn't like to lose. and also he doesn't ever lose. there's something funny about it-- the way that during certain cases, where his clients seem liable to be caught guilty, the opposition lawyers will often fall ill. nothing too bad: a stomach bug, bedridden, a junior and often unprepared lawyer sent in their stead. it's almost a pattern, almost something that catches on the edge of the mind. but he wouldn't be that underhanded, would he?

Coming home isn't like anything. It's just coming home, it's just fitting back into an old shape, old routines.

Dante has even fit himself back into his old room, the adolescent detritus lingering here and there from the last time he lived there with any real semblance of permanence. This time though, someone else has fit herself into the space, fingering through objects, considering the art on the wall with a sharp look. She's all pale hair, all a quick smile, fingers precise and nimble as she considers a football trophy, wiping away the dust.

Lea smiles, settling herself onto his bed, hands pressed against the mattress. Here, they don't have to act so close -- he ends up settling in an old desk chair that could easily do with replacement. It squeaks faintly.

"And you really can't tell me?"

She asks it quietly, shifting forwards to prop her chin in her hand, legs crossing underneath her.

It's a continuation of the conversation they had on the way here. The one they continued after dinner as well, the frigidity between Dante and Lucia even more pronounced than normal, his smiles even smaller, his mentions of his sister even more pointed. Lea had noticed. Of course she had. When had she ever not noticed something, hadn't tugged on a thread until the whole tapestry unraveled?

He thinks that Lucia is lucky -- that there are enough people that he can't pull out the proverbial knife, can't cut her clean to the bone.

He sighs, folding his hands behind his head. "I'm afraid not. It's tighter than even the most steadfast NDA."

She frowns, eyes tightening as she considers him. Slowly, she shifts back to an upright position. "But she's there. And she's left you on tenterhooks."

It sometimes rankles, how clearly she can see him. Not all of him, but more of the picture than normal. Enough to see the patterns. Enough to know how something in him is wrong. Burnt clean through the inside, unnerved, out of step. The polish given over to a more vicious edge, a more clean cut cruelty. Something that simmers near the surface, rather than being buried deep.

He doesn't respond, not fully. A nod of his head.

She sighs, pulling to her feet. A few steps towards him, hand cradling his cheek. "Cherie, you're a fool. I thought we agreed: no secrets when they could hurt the other person."

And then there's the other part of it. He hadn't mentioned Archer to her. Hadn't asked if she'd heard from the other woman. That's a knife that might cut both ways, might hit right to her bone.

Her palm is cold against him, fingers not quite curling in. It's simply there, a reminder of the things that bound them. The engagement ring freezes against him, a sharp point of clarity. A future that continued in a clear bright line.

Through this and to the other side.

He glances up, his eyes meeting hers.

"If it gets that bad, I promise I'll tell you."

A snort on her end. "I'd prefer a contract, if you could write one up quick."

"Unfortunately, all my good pens are at home."

When she pulls back her hand, laughing, he can feel the ghost of her still. It's an uneasy balance, her standing over him, the past few months hanging unsteady.

"Well, you could at least help me with this damn dress."

As he stands in this room, this black box with nothing save himself and the woman (and the recording device, though that hardly factors in– he is always surrounded by recording devices, in the form of others’ minds, their eyes, their memory), Dante considers his posture. He doesn’t cross his arms as a sign of aggression– though anger is one of his cardinal emotions as of late, the sharp irritation towards his sister having blossomed from latent noise to a harsh static. He also doesn’t fold his hands in front of him– the action is too boyish, too eager to please.

There’s a line to walk here, after all. He might have returned, the deal might have been sealed, but a contract can always be broken. He’d have to play the part of diligent mentor, worm his way into the heart of this apple, before anything else could be let loose. It was a matter of pacing– a matter of both being the flower, and the serpent underneath. The games might not unfold for him as he had hoped, but– he could always tilt them towards a winner who might fold in his favor.

And away from his sister, though that was always going to be his approach.

In the end, he opts for something almost casual. Hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, head tilting off to the side. “I mean– I’m flattered. It’s not every day that you’re asked to have a hand in something like this.” One hand pulls out of his pocket, running through his curls, an almost sheepish motion that he had well refined over the years. “If I’m honest though, part of it is selfish. I was supposed to be a competitor.” If he’s to cement himself here, there are some dregs of honesty that must come out. This is one of them. They know about the letter– they likely know about his frustration.

To settle the stomach for future falsehoods, give them some truth first. Better yet, never lie– only talk in truths spun through a mirror darkly. “Part of me wants to see how everything will play out. A what could have been, if you want to be a bit poetic about it.” Here, he grins, as if at his own folly.