The air-conditioner is intrusive, nearly drowns out the serrated sobriquet. Cara Mia. His words are on borrowed time. In her youth she’d respond - Carino - a term only a few syllables different, now a lifetime off. Her fingers twitch. She needs a fucking cigarette. ‘How are you holding up?’ Sits on her tongue, never really leaves her throat. ‘Are you getting enough sleep? Enough to eat? Look at those bags under your eyes, death’s got you good.’ She knows these are all strange things to say when she’s ready to pick apart his empire bone by bone. But Carmen agrees, they certainly hadn’t imagined this. 

“The price of neutrality these days is shitty Jack-” She says lightly, with almost sneer. “-Does the crown feel heavy yet?” 

How does it feel? To lose a father, to inherit a throne, to wear a crown, and to maybe realize that the one promise you’ve always wanted to keep is the very one you have to break? Sometimes it feels like Carmen’s been waiting these last three years for Valentino to catch up with tragedy, with destiny - to find the red omen yarn she’s left him round the sharp corners of a stone maze. They’re old enough to know that whatever they had was never going to be enough to save them. (Carmen doesn’t break promises - except maybe this one.) 

“I’m also told whatever’s on the bottom shelf builds character.”

Nevertheless, from her purse she produces a small black, gunmetal flask. She slides it across the bar towards him, knowing full well that this is the last time they break bread in this manner. It’s quiet here, with only them in this corner of the universe. For herself she pulls a cigarette from her pocket. She’ll be done with the pack by time this is over. She waits for him to speak.

The Shinawatra family's holiday traditions always unfurl against a backdrop of upscale extravagance—be it a sojourn to a serene upstate ski resort for schmoozing with stakeholders, an exclusive holiday art exhibition at one of their opulent estates, competitive gift-giving among board members, or indulgent festive meals crafted by a lauded chef of the year. Anchali, having weathered the ordeal of a near-fatal gunshot wound, has excused herself from these elaborate celebrations.

Though repeatedly deemed a colossal mistake by her father, elucidating how she had found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time posed a daunting challenge, given the meticulously constructed façades the Shinawatras must uphold. Instead, she tightly clutches the gauze wrapped around her side, observing Carmen Gutierrez, who, wielding the very type of weapon that once imperiled Anchali, empties the clip into the firing range. The staccato echoes of bullets instill trepidation as Anchali, unable to take notes on Carmen's stance, posture, and form, watches with rapt attention. She's moonstruck, breath fully hitched, and eyes melting away at the scene.

The purportedly private shooting range, a prerogative of their association with The Godfather of a renowned family, isolates them from other visitors, offering a secluded space where their intertwined destinies linger. The twin-flame connection and codependency between the two persist, an unyielding undercurrent. With consternation etched across her brow, Anchali meets Carmen's gaze once the clip empties and bullet holes pierce the target. "Your proficiency is evident," she remarks, breaking the silence as she removes the earpieces safeguarding her from a potential blown-out eardrum. "Indulge my curiosity—how many people have you, with such skill, fired upon?" @explosiives

But Carmen doesn't bother to hear the rest. Doesn’t really care to. She believes that’s the sort of narrow-minded excuses that put people in the ground when Carmen’s quite resolutely decided that that doesn’t happen anymore. Death defiance is her highest form of arrogance and for a while now Carmen’s drawn a line in the sand against all natural order. She doesn’t let people die on her watch - can’t. So when a bullet buries itself into Anchali’s side, has her bleeding out on the some marble floor, the Godfather turns feral.  

The shooting range is Carmen's idea of course, an immediate and necessary step when her fury is met with inadequacies. The stalls are made private, just for them. The gauze on Anchali’s wound is only freshly wrapped. (Carmen is still feral.) It takes an amazing amount of restraint on the Godfather's part to measure her shots for the demonstration, to not have each bullet kick the heel of the other as she fires them, one after the other. The glock is a tin can in her hand, held steadily and confidently- though she might actually be able to bring a tea to a simmer with the heat she’s palming into the handle. 

“I need you to stop asking about my body count and focus. Are you paying attention?” She snaps, tempted to take Anchali by the chin and jerk her gaze to land on the target. “Your father wants you to shore up with one of your overseas accounts until you’re fully healed and I have half a mind to agree with him.” 

That’s stupid, so stupid, for so many reasons. Carmen likes to keep that which is hers, close and, in general, she’s bad at sharing. Whatever anger displayed here is a drop in the hurricane in the absence of her oldest comrade. (Co-dependent some might say.) Still she bites out the words, throws them down like a threat. With Lev Moreno’s death in the rear view mirror, the night only gets darker from here. Anchali needs to fucking learn how to fire a gun. Before Carmen does something dramatic.

— NEW YORK MADE FOR A GRIM VIEW atop their golden tower, where they stood by ceiling tall windows overlooking this kingdom of stone. Nose scrunched in disdain, body motionless with the elegance of a statue crafted by the goddesses; an exceptional creature above the ordinary and bland works of this city. Business, as feeble as it may seem, was invaluable to Katya —  precious as the diamonds decorating their fingers. A talk they pushed far past what would have been acceptable had it been anyone else occupying the space left behind by the death of a father, grew only more beneficial given the circumstances. Yes, Katya could not avoid her forever, and it seemed appropriate their first meeting to be with her. A call from sir pulled Katya from their brooding, the elevator ride silent beside the breathing of their bodyguards. A show of power, frankly. Katya knew how to defend themselves well enough; the knife strapped to her thigh only one of the many weapons they hid. But the imposing figures following their every step gave them leverage in situations like this; out of their own domain, surrounded by people who didn't hold as much respect to them as they wished. Still, a smile graced their features when they made it to the meeting location, white suit shining under the white lights. " Carmen Gutierrez. What a pleasure it is to see you again, " voice velvet smooth as each syllable flowed out of their mouth, not a breath between the pleasant greetings and their next words, " I've been in New York for less than a day, and Andrew Fontaine has tried to arrange your demise three times already. I stopped answering my phone. " With ease, crossing one leg over the other, they sat on the pristine couch, raising a brow as they looked Carmen up and down. " I truly wish we were having this conversation under better circumstances, darling. I'm sorry about your father. " Heirs of an empire granted to them by death, perhaps finding common ground would be easier this time. " How are you finding ruling? Thrilling, isn't it? "

And some welcome wagon it is. Carmen’s eyes flick one by one to the rooks flocked behind Katya. What were they called in large numbers again? Oh yes, a murder. It’s certainly cheeky little show piece on Katya’s part, because if memory serves her well (and Carmen likes to think she has quite a long memory for pretty things, longer for the deadly) there’s plenty tucked away and slipped out of sight on Katya’s person that could slice into a straying hand, cut into an offending figure.  The bodyguards might as well be part of the decor  - and Carmen wouldn’t enjoy this half as much if there wasn’t that sort of visceral danger wallpapering an already electric exchange.

She settles back into a leather seat as Katya does, kicking one boot over the other with streamlined elegance. There’s the need for some politicking when it comes to the other, but this is a suit Carmen wears well (though, again, not perhaps not as well as the marble silk Katya has slipped over that bowstring back.) The politician knows how to smile, knows Katya needs someone to wrestle for their attention between their teeth. Carmen is all too happy to provide. Maybe some things never change. The little tid-bid about Andi has her grinning cold and shark-like.  “There he goes again, begging for my attention - he couldn’t be louder if he tried. Andrew Fontaine needs a real job. You’re more than welcome to tell him I said that if you end up taking one of his calls.”

If Andrew Fontaine wants to put a bullet in her, he better look her in the eyes when he does it. But that’s neither here nor there. What is both here and there is Katya returned. A curious thing, one Carmen is determined to get to the bottom of. There’s a prick in the hollow of her chest at the mention of her father, one she stifles, won’t let bleed. 

“If there’s anything my father would want, even in the face of death, it’s to continue business as usual. Ruling is thrilling - and en vogue as I’m sure you’ve heard.” No doubt the news of Valentino’s installment into power has reached them; a crown handed down, the bloody business of it all. And is that why Katya’s here? Business or a vulture circling?  “You’d make my day if you told me it was you behind Lev Moreno’s little fall.” This is said with another purr and Carmen leans forward. “Surely, you didn’t come all this way just to see me. We both know know how much you hate this city."

⠀#⠀        A    HELLHOUND    OFF    THE    leash,    just    for    tonight.    nothing    but    copper    scraps    and    freshly    earned    bruises    to    call    a    reward.    should    be    a    real    fuckin’    celebration    to    live    and    see    another    day,    can’t    help    the    anarchic    nihilism    that    bleaches    his    outlook,    (    childhood    sun  -  stained    bedroom    walls    and    the    notable    cross    shaped    𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐋𝐓𝐇    /    this    far    in    life,    intwined    anger    and    blood    inside    . . .    call    it    a    concrete    revelation:    you’re    fucked,    man.    )    doors    swing    wide    with    a    callous    push,    the    tips    of    his    nerves    fading    into    dreaded    obscurity.    terrible,    cheap    liquor    brings    the    best,    impulsive    ideas.    and    fuck,    he    needs    to    feel    alive    again    !    “    c’mon,    hit    me.    ”    spoken    as    a    sober    thought,    cacophony    of    limbs    jolt    with    drunken    brilliance,    “    what,    never    punched    a    guy    before    ?    shit,    tonight's    your    lucky    night,    isn’t    it    ?    so    t'fuck    you    waitin’    for.    hit    me.    ”  

The streetlights are a return to normal. This dark is the irascible New York she knows - the landscape complete with Vinnie itching for a fight. Purple touches an eye as bruises bloom. Once upon a time Carmen would have joined in, gotten a little violent too. Responsibility's a plague. 

She whistles - “What are we, a fucking charity? If you’re picking a fight, I expect you to be charging for it.” Far from reprimanding. This is her, opening the hellhound’s mouth to check its teeth. She holds up two fingers. “How many?” She wants confirmation that she doesn’t have to turn around and collect a pound of flesh.

"Carmen?" Delilah's voice is cool, almost disinterested as she calls out to the figure passing through the hallway. "Sit with me for a moment," she smiles, and it's phrased as a suggestion, though her daughter knows the truth by now. The blonde sets aside the brief she's working through, not really that important, and focuses entirely on the woman before her. "Please be careful today, darling. The Moreno death has the city on edge," that's putting it mildly, but Carmen knows her well enough to recognize the genuine concern under the icy facade. "I nearly had someone go collect Alexander, but he promised he was meeting you at City Hall after his exam today."

That morning she’s got another freshly printed statement between her nails when her mother catches sight of her. Carmen’s given up smoking in the public eye, which is to say: she practically chews through a pack of cigarettes under her desk everyday. Now a low haze hangs around the politician’s dark curls. She stops in the hallway. 

“Mother,” Carmen croons with a sort of sharpness that translates to affection for a creature like her, “this is really fucking with my plans to fixate on the smear of blood in front of the Halcyon.” 

Nevertheless, she supposes Delilah has to get something out of her system. Carmen accepts by dragging a chair to a window -  so she can lean her head out and let the New York air kiss her. There’s little curl of smoke from her own lips in return. As she does, her mother’s concern unveils itself. 

Carmen offers a languid wave of her hand to dissipate the well-measured worry, the smoke - all of it is as if to say ‘Alexander’s safe with me.’ He is. No place safer in New York than under the wing of a carrion vulture like Carmen, one that had a hunger for flesh and a long memory. “Collect? The kid’s going to rebel if you try to smother him.” Carmen warns lightly - even though Carmen is the sort to believe that all loved things should be kept in a box so they can’t be taken from you. Few things were worth loving with such violence in the first place.