@FATALISMS » character studies in tragedy, greed, wrath and lust. as penned by dahlia for pantheon-hqs.
*ALESSANDRO ALIGHIERI, nocturnal animal.
↳ thirty-six. social liaison for the reserve. owner of the marquee nightclub.
↳ intro. threads. images. musings. wanted connections.
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"Depends. Does a Ferrari find it hard to keep up with a fucking Kia?" She talks in cars, well-known and loved in Veronica's mind. Learned in the ways of jacking cars, tuning up motorcycles, and getting into the rough-and-tumble of New York's dangerous boroughs. Alessandro can puff his chest, slick back his hair, and act the formidable villain. And certainly, he'll win when it comes to matters of finery and the twisting of words. But when it comes to a battle of machismo - she knows she's a winner. "Well, why would you? Seems to me like you've eaten well all your life. We all play with things we take for granted." Another loathsome fact about him. The worst kind of man; bottom-feeding whilst being well-fed and educated. It makes her recoil, yet linger even closer at the heat of his challenge.
Is sleeping with Alessandro an exercise in recklessness, or self-punishment? The jury is out, but she chuckles at his assessment. Of course, he's right. But Veronica knows how to play every hand, too, and she lifts a brow at him. "And what's your excuse? Keeping the riff-raff out of your club?" Because if that were the case, she would already be escorted out. She emits a low breathe, revolted and intrigued in equal measure. Before finally exhaling, "You don't think I could make you more amenable?" She asks, closing the distance between them. The warmth of her body emanating against his. "Last time, I had you begging for it." She reminds, voice a hair above the whisper amidst the music pumping in his club. "And you gave me exactly what I wanted." The challenge written in her own eyes; could he really walk away?
Alessandro was egoistic enough to believe that the luxury vehicle which rolled off her tongue was a deliberate choice for he and he alone, a sharing of heritage that likened one mechanical beast to the corporeal one before her, nipping at her heels. Chasing if only to be chased back. The cocksure smile never once dropped from his lips, not when her words dragged him into a sparring court, and certainly not when she played the part of someone revolted and refusing. "Take for granted? You wound me." She couldn't even begin to try, and Sandro very much enjoyed reminding her of such. "Consider it a talent. Not everyone has the patience to savor their prey, even if that prey is the near-equivalent of road-kill."
It was a disgusting thing, this intimacy between them, fueled by mistrust and sharpened barbs — but the glory of something intimate was that its patterns were known. Predictable. Alessandro knew precisely where they were along the steps of their familiar little dance, circling like sharks and baiting each other into blood. He knew that in a matter of moments, repulsion would take over and either fuel them into a fighting frenzy or a fucking one. "And last time should've remained a last time..." he mused into her ear, body naturally leaned in to meet the warmth of her own, even despite the sneer laced into his voice as he continued, "...Only, the owner wants to see you in his office. Come up in five minutes." With that, Alessandro tore himself from the challenge in her gaze, stride propelled by desire and repulsion in equal measure as he made his way to the office overlooking the chaos below.
Had Rüya ever been asked just what her thoughts were regarding the matter, the word she'd pick to describe them certainly it would have been something that fit their unpredictable nature. Two creatures, ready to prowl and yet beings with masks that echoed a depth only seen within those that knew to play the game; fight hard. She'd gotten to where she was now simply by stabbing someone in the back; not one she cared for. An old boss that had it coming. She was too ambitious to let go and yet loyal enough to know that one did not take what did not belong. Those rules could be extended so long as she herself wasn't loyal to the source in question; person or otherwise.
The Caravellis were among the few, so she'd never dare step down that line. Sandro was as well, in his own way. A well so deep it held something Rüya refused to name. Another loyalty placed within it. Others were not so lucky. Or perhaps her not caring as much made them the lucky ones in turn.
The brunette got up. "Are you trying to squeeze information out of me like an orange, Sandro?" The way his name fell from her lips, almost as though she was ready to charge ahead. He'd been the one wonderful teacher. "What if I come without gifts, hm?" She hadn't. Of course she hadn't. ❧ @stagecrafted
In more ways than one, Alessandro held a long fascination with boundaries and the art of pushing against them. Whether it was by hands, lips, or simply his own mental practice, he enjoyed exploring all manner of restraints and the many ways he could make them unravel and fall apart — only to tie it all back up again in a pretty little bow. He supposed that was the idea he'd had in the first place when it came to Rüya, his secret little project of sorts, a walking manifestation of shared desires and strategic machinations wrapped in high heels and red lipstick.
And so, when she rose from her chair, he saw the lithe length of her and the rage contained within, recognized it as the first sign of a limit pushed against. He smiled knowingly, without any hint of apology, eyes hungry to see what she might do next. "Rüya, Rüya... Don't be silly. If I wanted you squeezed, you'd be squeezed. Not an ounce of information or breath left in you." He spoke the would-be threat so simply, so easily, so completely without malice or humor — a dangerous field upon which they'd play their little game. "But I rather like you unqueezed, as it were. Besides, I still have a gift of my own to give you, after you give me yours." Leaning forward, if only to study her response more closely, Sandro requested, "Tell me what your people have learned about the fires."
SPOTTED — ACHILLAS ZUBAIR in new york city! heard the FORTY year old belongs to THE CAVALRY as a TACTICAL TRAINER & FREELANCE SECURITY CONSULTANT. word on the street is that they can be DISCIPLINED & JUDICIOUS, but they can also be BLOODTHIRSTY & VENGEFUL. (dahlia, 30, she/her, est)
»»» ...a rabid dog, twice-bitten, never shy; the search for respite paid for in blood; a furious god born from an unceasing machine; a blessed unrest that keeps a heart alive; devotion spun into violence; the weapon that weeps.
DOSSIER.
full name ⸻ achillas zubair.
nickname(s) ⸻ achi to anyone brave enough to use a familial pet name,
AZ & Killa to his military mates / possible fellow cavalry.
age ⸻ forty.
birthday ⸻ november 10.
gender identity ⸻ cis man.
orientation ⸻ tragically heterosexual heteroromantic.
pronouns ⸻ he/him.
hometown ⸻ astoria, queens, ny.
religion ⸻ islam.
current occupation ⸻ freelance security consultant / gun for hire.
criminal occupation ⸻ tactical trainer for the cavalry.
positive traits ⸻ disciplined, judicious, strategic
neutral traits ⸻ aloof, guarded,
negative traits ⸻ bloodthirsty, vengeful, short-sighted
character inspiration ⸻ Frank Castle (Marvel's The Punisher - rip this is the whole basis for Achi dont @ me), Sandor Clegane (A Song of Ice and Fire), Sisyphus (greek mythology), John Wick (John Wick franchise), Din Djarin (The Mandalorian),
tropes ⸻ The Vigilante, Anti-Hero, Shell-Shocked Vet, Action Dad.
ABOUT.
(this is currently the tldr from my app. i'll flesh this out with a full bio sometime later on!)
»» tw for murder, death of spouse and children.
In his youth as a military man, he ran headfirst into war, and rose through the ranks to become the person handpicked for not only the most difficult of assignments, but the jobs that the government kept strictly classified. How strange an experience to be welcomed into the supposed 'safety' and 'security' of the US military, to be molded by its training and support, only to find oneself committing acts that same governing body would undoubtedly demonize if confronted into by the public. With an honorable discharge, he left the military after twelve years with every intention of adjusting to civilian life, got married and started a family — only for the dream of normalcy to be shattered in one ruthlessly precise evening in Central Park that resulted in the deaths of his wife and twins. From that moment on, he's clung to grief not just as a shield against the prying eyes of the world, but a weapon with which to slaughter anyone and everyone with any connection to his family's murder. Getting tapped by an old friend (wc?) to be a member of the Cavalry was a natural enough fit; the syndicate's line of work is not only suited to his particular skills, but has given him the perfect opportunity to investigate the top authority on murder in all of the godforsaken city he calls home.
HEADCANONS.
Before the untimely demise of his wife and children, the Zubair family had talked about adopting their first family pets — one pup for each of the twins, names picked out, training crates bought and everything. A few months after his family's murder, he adopted two bonded dogs from a local shelter, called Brock and Gus — short for Broccoli and Asparagus, his kids' favorite veggies. Achillas is attached to them; he knows they're largely responsible for him getting through the days, and he takes them practically everywhere when he's not working on an assignment.
His 'day job,' so to speak, still revolves around ensuring security. He's a gun for hire, personal bodyguard, private events security manager, protection consultant, government contractor, transport official, etc. With this job, he moves quietly, lets word of mouth and the power of the Cavalry speak for his work and abilities.
Although Achillas isn't a materialistic person, he has a number of safe houses throughout Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens, and alternates between them every few months. He tends to live in reformed warehouses, industrial areas, near construction sites, and the like.
Like any self-respecting man working in the city, he loves a strong cup of coffee. He won't indulge in having a picky palate, and will settle for a cup off a street cart over nothing at all — but a strong Turkish coffee? You might even see him smile.
All in all, he's a pretty old-fashioned guy. He believes that if you break something, you pay for it; if you're interested in a girl, you show up with flowers; if a guy fucks you over, you fuck him up. Achillas sees the world in stark contrasts of black and white — anything else lends to shades of uncertainty, and uncertainty leads to sloppiness.
WANTED CONNECTIONS.
BAND OF BROTHERS » Military mates who've been with Achi from day one of boot camp, to intense missions authorized in secret by the government, to his family's funeral. Achillas hasn't ever been one to attract lots of friends, but these are the handful who've stuck by his side, through thick and thin.
KEEP COMING BACK » It's taken him awhile, but Achillas has recently started trying different support groups in the city. He doesn't speak much at these, but it brings him a quiet comfort to hear other folks discuss grief, loss, and PTSD — to normalize the struggles that exist in his own head, even if his way to combat them is through violence first, and discussion second. This connect is for fellow members of the support group, perhaps even the counselor leading their meetings.
UNDER HIS WING » Someone who, over time, has weaseled their way into Achi's inner life and takes up the role of student, aide, even partner in crime. This is definitely for a character also affiliated with crime, perhaps someone who hasn't quite found their footing in the underworld of the city, perhaps even someone who makes a stupid mistake and finds Achi pointing pity their way rather than the barrel of his gun. Lots of possibilities here, let's plot it out!
AND BY OPPOSING END THEM » The Matt Murdock to his Frank Castle. Achillas and this character want to achieve the same ends, but their preferred methodology is entirely different. Where Achi is willing — no, eager — to employ violence to solve his problems and the problems plaguing the city, this character wants to use Achi's skills to bring them to justice, the legal way. This connect is for a good, law-abiding, possibly law-affiliated character. Bonus points if they're in the know about one of Achi's targets and take it upon themselves to thwart him at every turn.
WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING » We knew this was coming...! The trusted friend who betrayed him and set in motion his family's untimely demise. Whether they did it for money, for power, out of jealousy, etc. — we can absolutely plot all of that out. The key thing is that Achillas once thought of them as family, trusted them with everything, and he would never expect the spark of betrayal and loss to start with this person.
FREEDOM OF THE PRESS » The investigator (journalist, PI, etc.) who's either currently helping or will help Achi piece together the truths of his family's deaths. Perhaps they were initially digging around into the death of someone else and traced things back to Achillas, only to realize that this is a man devastatingly wronged and broken only trying to avenge his family. I think playing around with that tension of knowing his approach is wrong, but also understanding his methodology — even supporting it, in a way? — would be so fun to play around with. In turn, this person becomes one of the only people Achillas will go out of his way to protect, no matter the project, no matter the time. Big Karen x Frank vibes here <333
more to come soon!
It was getting late. By now she was sure the others had long left, as not a sound could be heard. Perhaps they were locked away in their rooms, working away at paperwork or whatever else needed doing. Footsteps echoed and for a moment Genevieve was so busy sorting through things at the front desk that she thought they were her own, despite standing still. Only when she looked up did her face fall on someone.
"I'm about to head out. The receptionist has left. Are you here to pick something up or did you need an appointment with one of the doctors?" Honestly, work mode was the main setting the blonde had to offer while in the middle of something. For all she knew the person in front of her wasn't even there for something related to the clinic.
From the moment he exited his town car and stood at the clinic entryway, Alessandro was confronted by two very real things he detested with fervor: the sudden evening downpour, which drenched the length of his suit and brought the faint city smell of oil, smoke, and piss to new heights...and the fact that his debtor had opted to either mislead or hide in a place that was small and homely, rather than somewhere his lender could disappear into anonymity while on the prowl.
In truth, this visit was dedicated to Alessandro's own wellbeing, in a manner of speaking — that was, in the ego-induced financial sense rather than the medical one. A debt was owed, and a debt he was here to collect. "Buonasera, Signora," he greeted, dialing up the charming accent that often worked so well on strangers who were none the wiser. "I understand that my uncle took a bit of a tumble earlier today and came in to receive some help." A lie, entirely, but one he believed he could sell well enough. "You wouldn't happen to be one of the fine doctors who took care of him, would you?"
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*setting: a few weeks after the fires, gianna's tiny shoebox apt <3
*closed to: @giannarossi
Standing against the doorframe he'd graced too many times to be considered 'casual,' Alessandro felt more than saw a version of himself as though through the ripples of a fountain distorting as much as it paralleled — a shadow-self, phantom yet still known, not quite resembling him, yet bearing characteristics even he could not deny. Even after some time, there was still that certain intimacy in the air of this hallway, as though the space itself greeted him as a secret returned to its hiding spot, not quite offering the warmth and surefire safety of home — but something dangerously close to comfort.
His reasons for being there, unspoken and resigned to silence, did not matter. What did matter rested behind the door he'd refused thus far to knock against, and an old familiar habit rolled off his tongue in spite of the cowardice of his fist. "Knock, knock." The man waited for the traditional response and, once received, continued with a roll of his eyes and ghost of a smile at his lips, "Yoda lady."
"you two share good taste," she murmured softly, angling her body so it was towards the senator despite her attention being on the man that was beside her. the taste, however, was only good because both of their focus was on her. she was the prize and she wanted them eager and desperate to win. her body shifted, pressing into alessandro's chest and then moving so she could settle between his legs, his own form leaning back to accommodate her body against his. "touch me," she whispered as she guided his hands along her body, towards her rib cage, beneath the swell of her breast to work its way down. her gaze fixed on the senator who was zoned in on them. "do you think he wishes he were you?" she lifted one of alessandro's hands towards her mouth, parting her lips to welcome his index finger.
Morena was an impossible vixen, the pretense of her desires on wanton display for all to see, maddeningly distracting and utterly enticing in equal measure. In a rare and fleeting demonstration of Alessandro following someone else's lead, his hands fell helpless to her manipulations, fingers lingering — no, pawing — at every curve of her body, savoring the swell of her breast before resting at her throat for just a moment. He knew precisely who in this room would shudder with fear at the thought of his hands at their neck, and here Morena was, not only welcoming it, but employing it as part of her ruse. Alessandro's half-moon smirk grew easily into a hungry grin, lust unmistakeable in his eyes despite himself and the task at hand. She led his fingers to her mouth, lipstick smearing ever so slightly as he idly pressed into the fullness of her bottom lip before tilting her chin up to him. "Everyone does," he breathed his answer against her mouth, allowing his machinations to momentarily succumb to his desire.
Greed was ever-present on his lips and tongue as the proximity between them faded into a fervent kiss, marking his claim on the woman without bothering to confirm the senator's attention. Satiated for the moment and curious to see the result of their display, Sandro held Ren close as he whispered conspiratorially, "If he's not jealous after that, then I might just have to fuck you right here and now." A mere few moments later and the man in question greeted Alessandro, eyes rarely leaving Morena's figure even as he extended an invitation to chat in private. "Senator Campagna, it seems our schedules are finally allowing us to be in the same place at the same time. But, this auction is a special treat for my date tonight, so it'll be up to Miss Aguirre to decide if I'm allowed a few minutes away from her side." His fingers caressed the soft of her exposed skin, casual and unhurried, but knowingly teasing the man before them. "What do you say, mia bella? Are you willing to share me tonight?"
it sounded like a challenge to fidan. especially when coupled with the wink. a brow quirked as she sat there awaiting what was in store for her. it sounded like too much alcohol, especially when introduced before they even got to the wine. hopefully there'd be food pairings or something to counter the intake that seemed promised if this tasting went full steam ahead. "is that why you invited me? to test me?" there'd been some assumption on fidan's part that this could all be to show off and stroke his ego. the record spoke for itself, she didn't need to prove herself to anyone.
"i think that's because you have a nightclub." something light, halfway between a smirk and an easy, friendly smile sat on her lips. dark eyes roamed the space, watched him fix the drinks with a flow that stated he'd been pretty hands on at some point. "most people come to dance and meet people. sure good drinks are a plus but this isn't a restaurant or lounge. i appreciate the ambition, though."
the setup was nice, she could appreciate a well curated and crafted menu, especially when the fine details were extensively thought out. that was a different class of establishment. "the citrus smells nice." a hand wrapped around the delivered drink and fidan lifted it close to her mouth. instead of sip right away she took in the entire presentation of it, including a whiff. then she sipped and began nodding her head as it rolled over her tongue. it was easy to see he was in his element and enjoying himself, perhaps that made it taste all the better. "i like it, very refreshing. do you get many requests for this or do people mostly go for limoncello?"
If one looked closely enough, one might notice Alessandro's wide, inquisitive eyes lit with a spark of relief, or the curl of an almost satisfied smile playing at his lips. It was an unfamiliar thrill that coursed through him from that very first invitation extended, and one he felt with undeniable presence as his gaze, ever hungry and ever watching, relaxed ever so slightly at this first glimpse of approval. The critic was a beauty, there was no doubt, and the sight of a beautiful woman finding pleasure from something of his wasn't an unfamiliar experience, of course — but this, this first taste of endorsement from the lips of someone whose opinion actually mattered... This he could find himself getting quickly addicted to.
"Bene," the man responded simply, allowing her approval wash over him like the first ray of sunlight peeking from just behind overcast grey clouds. "Most people order tequila stingers, Long Islands... Mojitos if they want to annoy my bartenders—" he laughed mirthlessly, assuming she knew the drink's reputation, before continuing, "—or Sex on the Beach if they find them attractive." A cocked eyebrow suggested wordlessly that his patrons always found the bartenders attractive, entirely by design.
In this moment, in this room shared by the two of them alone, Alessandro held no pretense about his business. He believed her smart enough to see the Marquee for what it was: a hedonist's haven, a refuge for revelry — not quite an atmosphere befitting the likes of a Michelin-star chef. "The patrons aren't like you and I, Miss Dursun. They're here for a quick high, an easy rush of the senses... Experiential, yes. But they're not after something worth savoring." He eyed her from underneath the furrow of his brows, hands working once more to prepare her second sampling. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not ashamed of what the Marquee is. After all, it allows me to indulge the tastes of beautiful women..." The drink, a Cynar Boulevardier, is placed before her with no introduction, as he's far too intrigued to hear her first impressions — and in turn, be impressed by her astute senses. "...But I wouldn't be who I am if I didn't crave more."
"did you come looking for me?" her gaze shifted from the man who'd been trying to start a conversation with her once she'd decided to escape behind the nightclub for some fresh air. sandro's appearance was a blessing and the way her body angled towards him hopefully reflected that she had no interest with the older gentleman who couldn't take a clue. "i knew you wouldn't be able to stay away for long. i was just telling my friend here that my boyfriend would soon come find me but he didn't seem to believe me."
The honeyed sweetness of her voice, body and attention curving towards him and only him... Rosalia was many things, this he knew — but a lovestruck, cooing little dove she certainly was not. Suspicion pricked immediately at his senses, and his eyes quickly found the reason for her act of pretension before resting on her countenance. "Madonna, amore mio... You know I can't bear to be apart from you for too long," Alessandro feigned exasperation, slipping easily into his role as a lovesick bird of prey, his hands demonstrating quick possession over her lithe frame as they rested on her hips, pulling Rosalia closer to his core — effectively claiming her as his own.
The only trouble was that Alessandro hadn't quite decided if this display of control was only to dissuade the leering gaze of the other man, or to entertain himself with the torture of one of two options before handling the inevitable. "I see you've been making friends without me. I wonder who he finds more enticing. You, bella...?" He asked, squeezing her tighter to his frame. "Or my other friend?" The man, all broad length and tanned musculature, flexed an arm from under his suit jacket, revealing the hilt of a pistol at his waist.
Sadness was grotesque look on her and yet one she'd worn over the first few days. Then, as time passed, it had become easier to hide it. For the most part, to all those who did not know better Rüya seemed almost fine. As though forgetfulness had claimed her. Those that knew likely could simply see the truth underneath.
From the words that followed Rüya didn't need to ask if he could tell. He had laid it out in as plain terms as one could have with words. "Oh, no." She shook her head, refusal to accept that as the truth and denial very much companions she'd had by her side. "We both know I can't allow myself to be off my game. Or perhaps it is simply an advantage."
Her eyes, trained on his desk for just a moment finally moved to actually look at him. "Are you trying to play and find out? Perhaps it is both." Games with him always had been fun, no denying there. Even in times like these she didn't allow that to slip by. ❧ @stagecrafted
Sharks were born swimming, weren't they? It's a thought that's crossed his mind more than once in his encounters with Rüya, discerning a particular sharpness behind her eyes that could only belong to someone confident, opportunistic, and vicious when the moment called for it. Someone — and this, his ego delighted in to an almost inebriating extent — just like him.
"An advantage? How very generous of you," Alessandro mused, not entirely convinced by her words, but too fixated on exploring his private fascination of her to forgo one of their little games. Her eyes met him at last, feline and haunted. Was it pretense at her tongue's employ, or intentional caution? After all, if they were both sharks circling each other, one would have to bite to prevent getting bitten themselves. So, he challenged, "Convince me, then. Hit me with something good."
Admittedly, the man didn't know if he meant a deal, a secret, or even a slap, but he recognized within himself a rather intriguing truth: that it didn't matter what he meant — in this moment, he wanted only to see again that gleam of elegant savagery in her eyes and be the reason for its return.
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"You're right - what gentleman?" She parrots back, quick and coy. "As far as I can see, there's no gentlemen here." Veronica lets her eyes linger; down the dance floor, up the private booths, before landing squarely at Alessandro's smirking figure. "No, not a one." She concludes, as if that isn't part of the appeal. She's the arbiter of 'good and sensible' choices for others. But when it comes to her own? Well, there's a reason she hasn't backed out, a reason she accepts the pretentious bottle of vodka he has delivered to them. "You love to speak in riddles and dramatics, don't you?" As if he's in an Edwardian novel, rather than the bar keep to a New York City nightclub. "What ever happened to a man who knew how to smile, please, and let a woman do all the talking?" Far too placating a seduction tactic for him, she bets. Alessandro makes sure everything is like pulling teeth.
"As far as challenges go, I've had my share these past few weeks." Her home and family, attacked by the fires. She doesn't bore him with her pain; she doubts it would even leave a scar. Instead, she shrugs ambivalently. "Call it what you want - but I'm looking for easy tonight. Someone eager to please, good at taking orders." A lie - nice and easy has never been her type. But she sells it well, never breaking eye contact as she downs the shot of vodka.
"Not finding it too hard to keep up with me, are you?" He teased back, grinning easily at what he knew was a taunt from her lips, but a compliment to his ears. It was true, Alessandro prided himself on speaking in such a way that formed the hazy edge of an Impressionist painting rather than the stiff brutality of a modernist work. Over the rim of his own shot glass, the man mused half an explanation, half a retort, "What can I say — I never quite outgrew that childish habit of playing with my meal." With that, he downed his shot in one and poured them both a second round.
His ears perked at the brief mention of her challenges, not out of care, but curiosity. Whether under neon lights or board room fluorescents, Alessandro was a businessman through and through, and he'd never shy away from learning entry points to exploitation for his own benefit. Was this the influence of liquor on her tongue, or simply another test from a similarly ruthless rival? "You're more than welcome to keep pretending that, bella...but you and I both know there's a reason you're still talking to me rather than someone you could easily wrap around your little finger." He watched with animalistic interest as she drank the liquor down, the sight of her enjoying one of his profferred gifts a definitive stroke to his ego. "But, if we must pretend... It's a shame —" Alessandro started, head cocked in lazy observation of her. "Seems you're stuck with someone who has no intention of giving you what you want." The challenge unspoken: Leave, if it's truly someone else's eyes you'd rather have watching you.
the walls of her home had begun to feel as though they were closing in on her, loneliness and grief stubbornly held her in isolation. those red strings weren't connecting as easily as she'd once thought in piecing together the puzzle of emily's murder, and fidan could hardly handle the suffocation of the board constantly bearing down on her. especially now that another friend had met an end. work seemed to be the only thing she could occupy herself with to keep from completely spinning out. the once chef, renown around the world, was in demand as a critic. in some ways every establishment wanted a place on her blog, a stamp of approval from someone that not only knew the best of the best but also still maintained all of the important connections. if one were to dig deeper they'd learn of her prominent, aristocratic family. though it'd be a miss to think fidan could connect them to her turkish diplomat father.
the invite to the marquee nightclub was interesting. one, nightclubs rarely took reviews, nor did they boast about an extensive and exclusive wine selection. two, it was an establishment emily had loved to frequent. she'd always gone on about the IT people that partied there, the eminent and powerful figures that she loved to be close to. it was last minute when fidan had decided on meeting the invite. she'd dressed for the location, a nightclub, by slipping into a slinky party dress and then when arrived she was taken to the owner of the marquee himself.
upon approach he was impressive. tall, dark, and handsome. the energy around him was shadowy, mysterious, mischievous, and perhaps a little sinister. some of the faces she'd spotted among her walk through the crowd could explain why but she wasn't thinking about that for now. "you already know who i am or we wouldn't be here right now." her hand slipped into his, and yes, she'd judge his grip and the way he treated her hand. "but if we're going with formal introductions... fidan dursun." the touch continued, she didn't recede from the shake, only because the brunette was curious of his behavior. that tailored suit hadn't gone unnoticed, nor the tattoos and expensive watch. "you're gonna make my drinks?" brow quirked, it was unusual, most owners if they wanted to be in attendance had their best staff on hand to put on a stellar performance. especially since fidan knew exactly what it took to earn michelin stars. twice. "bartender, not sommelier? well, now i'm curious what you think of me. what would a man like you serve me?" a challenge, one based on appearance alone.
Their hands joined in something between greeting and invitation, his touch firm and warm, beckoning her further inside with a gentle squeeze. Patrons parted for them to pass through the dizzying sea of dancers and hedonists — commanded, as Sandro knew, by fear, respect, and perhaps even a touch of jealousy. Was it any wonder that cocksure grin never once faded from his visage?
“Correct. Bartender, not sommelier — not yet, anyway," he confirmed as they arrived at the tasting room he'd arranged for their privacy, music distantly audible behind the one-way glass. "One thing that I hope you come to learn is that I am a fervent supporter of equal opportunity indulgence. So, we'll start where everyone else does — the cocktail menu I curated — and move on to the intimacy of wine if that famed experience of yours proves as impressive as I've been led to believe," Sandro stated with no further explanation, offering the critic a wink before turning his attention to the mixology at hand.
The role of 'bartender' was one he held a lifetime ago, when he was little more than a lowly underling tasked with serving gods their personal ambrosias. Still, it seemed there were things that couldn't quite be unlearned, habits and tricks that couldn't be unknown, and so he moved about the bar with surprising ease, swiftly working to put together his first favorite for them to try. "Not many patrons take the time to realize, but I built the menu around the idea of a perfect Italian day. So, it's divided into three parts: Solare, Notturno, and Afterglow. For Solare — sunlight, the idea of waking up to the gentle sounds of waves crashing against sand and stone, or the bloom of excitement in your chest when an intoxicating citrus cologne mingles with salt-air breeze and catches you off-guard..." His musings were ripe with excitement, the sight of which was a rare opportunity granted to the woman before him. "I present to you my favorite from this first collection, the salted-rim Sirene Spritz. Cin-cin."
the attention was nothing new, certainly not when she wore something as revealing as a dress with a low neckline and tight enough that it accentuated each and every curve. it was as if he'd taken the measurements of her form and built the dress specific for her. "if i use my cleavage, i'm afraid i'll miss out on the fun of having you pay for anything." ren hummed as her hand slid upon her companion's thigh. though the allusion was that she was available enough to keep people's interest on her, she still wanted to make it clear there was a bit of competition. "you have an eye for the female form. it's impressive. i wonder how you knew it would fit like a glove." a hand rose up the front of his suit, smoothing down a wrinkle on his lapel. "should we give him something to stare at?" her legs parted, then refolded as she shifted closer to alessandro.
The smirk playing at Alessandro's lips only grew hungrier in response to his companion's unfettered confidence. It was one of the traits he enjoyed most of Morena, perhaps the very reason why he so frequently cast her in the role of his own personal weapon of distraction. They understood each other as extensions of business and entities of pleasure — the means to a variety of ends. His ears caught onto a dare thinly laced into her words, deepened surreptitiously by the press of her palm first to his thigh, then to his chest. So, Alessandro responded in kind, saying, "When it comes to beautiful women, my imagination becomes impossibly overactive — a trait, as I have on good authority, that's shared by our good senator." He allowed himself a moment to sip from his martini, lips coated in liquor as he whispered against the warmth of Morena's cheek, "Go on, principessa. Do your worst and make him come crawling, hmm?"
setting: sandro's office at the marquee, daylight hours
closed to: @softstcps (rüya)
Grief makes strange bedfellows of us all.
He'd stared at the phrase countless times over in his attempt to outsource the grotesquely underutilized skill known as 'empathy' to a glowing white screen. Alessandro was a friend to tragedy, having undoubtedly been the cause of it for untold numbers — but he was no victim of it, for his own personal encounters with the phenomenon started and stopped in childhood. From then on, no soul had ever been allowed close enough for him to answer the question: What was it to lose someone one truly cared for, with enough years spent together to make their loss feel like a haunting?
Simply put, he didn't know, and didn't know how to know. He could only assume the answer based on the uncertain vacancy in her eyes, or the dulling of that frighteningly sharp acuity he'd come to admire. Still, even if those assumptions resolved his first question, Alessandro was left with a far more important one: How can this best be used to my advantage, in the long and short of it all?
So, as soon as the woman took her seat across from him, he pushed all queries of grief and heartache from his mind, greeting her instead with a measured, "For as much as I enjoy seeing you, Miss Nacar — preferentially, often, with all to offer laid before me like a feast... I do hate seeing you off your game." It was a rare modicum of truth, though even Alessandro did not know if he meant it as a lifeline, or a threat.
Work hard, play hard - words to live by. Veronica leaves it all out on the dance floor, thankful she's forgone heels for the combat boots that ruin the line of her body con dress. She's just about to order a drink when New York's most perfumed Italian slips beside her, his back already up. "Yeah? Then quit eye-fucking me on the dance floor." Because he may be smooth as butter, but Veronica is combative like gravel.
"You mean the over-priced vodka you sell at a four hundred percent markup? Say, with that profit margin, could you do something about this--" She gestures to Alessandro's shirt. "Because what you think is class is giving Jersey Shore." Where, mind you, Veronica's enjoyed many a night out. But Sandro's always considered himself 'above that' for someone whose main clientele is the bridge-and-tunnel crowd.
“Basta, basta... Just say you'd like to see me with my shirt off, Veronica. What gentleman wouldn't acquiesce to a beautiful woman's request when she speaks plainly of her desires?" Even his pseudo-musing bore the trappings of a dare, as that cocksure grin graced his features once more, eyes still refusing to leave her form. Notably, Alessandro chose not to parry back at her earlier claim — not because it wasn’t accurate, but because he preferred to let the air remain as it was: dangerously electric, a current thrumming through each exchange of the other's violent, yet most delicious, wit. To admit or deny would alter the chemistry of the moment altogether, and that was simply something he’d not allow this early into their little game.
“For you, however... This shirt — or, the removal of it — would cost far more than the price of admission and a watered-down vodka," the man continued languidly, his mind's eye spinning yet another tangled web. "Then again, I've never known you to back down from a challenge."
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Setting: the marquee nightclub, late into the night
Closed to: @dxncingonmyown (veronica)
His club was neutral territory, and although he had no interest in soiling its not-so-sacred ground with an all-out gang war, Alessandro couldn't restrain himself from a few easy jabs at his rival's expense. So, when his ever-focused eye caught her taking a reprieve from her revelry, the man readily gave in to temptation, sidling up to her to tease, "Visible or not, yours isn't the kind of leather I enjoy having on display in here, you know." The low tones of his words were coated with bitter challenge as he continued, gesturing to the sleek bar, "Go on, enjoy your next drink on me. I'll be more than happy to give you your very first taste of the good stuff."
Location: a private art museum auction, shady business to be had
Closed to: @bulletwnds (morena)
"If you're hoping to bid on my behalf tonight..." Alessandro started, finally reclaiming his companion's attention amidst a sea not only of rare works, but of hopeful — that was, hungry — connoisseurs with one eye on the art and the other on the sculpture come to life at his side. "...then I'll remind you to negotiate a lesser price with your neckline first, and your words second." A small smirk plays at his lips before he presses a kiss to her cheek, lingering by her ear to say, "Of the options I sent over, I was hoping you'd pick this one." Alessandro murmured, fingers skimming the fine fabric against her delicate skin. "Senator Campagna can't take his eyes off of you tonight."