Who Dares Wins.

If he wanted to be fair about it, though, it was technically his own fault. One of the conditions he’d agreed to had been having his own lads, his own people he trusted.

But did he want to play fair? Nope. Fuck this and fuck Jonno.

"Take my gun. Go on. Shoot me in the fucking head." He said it the moment she sat down, accepting the drink from her with clear gratitude despite the theatrics. "And I said get me out of here, not sit down and watch the bloody show." He rolled his eyes, but there was a laugh underneath it. Always was. "Ten quid he falls off in two minutes."

He took a sip of his drink, then leaned slightly toward Gianna, pressing a brief kiss to her cheek in greeting. "How you doing, kid?" His expression softening just a fraction.

Oh, she was absolutely going to sit down and watch the show. Too bad, so sad. Gianna scrunched up her nose at the cheek-kiss, similar to how a child might reject affection, before she took a hearty sip of her pint. Trying, all the while, not to choke through the laughter as the debate about the illuminati raged on. Gianna wondered if Lara was a member. Hm. That could send them on an interesting tangent later.

"Actually, I'm good, but I did come to ask you for a favour..."

@ a pub

Benny had been on one of his intellectual talks, as he called them. Which really meant he had about seven pints of Guinness and was ready to talk for an entire night or get into a fight. It was either and neither of the options sounded like a good one.

"Sit the fuck down." He motioned to one of the other lads to actually do that. He;d been talking about how things had been quiet and then somehow the conversation morphed into illuminati.

"Someone get me out of here." He muttered.

Gianna never could quite tell whether Vidal was a lieutenant or a babysitter these days, but she was leaning toward the latter. Maybe one of the higher ups really hated him. It was always fun to bump into, though. To sit and watch with a drink as he tried to wrangle the intellectually challenged.

At least she'd brought him another drink. Gianna placed the pint down in front of him—none for the others, mind—before taking a seat at the table.

"You choose this. It's only right to watch you suffer."

"I've always heard talking to yourself is fine, as long as you don't talk back," He countered, flashing her a wry grin. He recognized her, vaguely, having seen her around Vespucci's but never spoken with her personally. "Lorenzo," He said quietly, offering a hand for a handshake.

"Don't believe I've had the pleasure yet. I'm in from from Porto Velho."

For a moment, she simply glanced down at the hand he'd extended. A pause. Slowly, her arms unfolded from across her chest, before she reached out her own to shake in greeting. There were a fair few members of the Sovrani she didn't exactly appreciate the attitude of. She'd learnt quickly to make her own judgements about people, instead of operating as if they were all immediately on friendly terms.

They weren't.

"Gianna," she stated simply. "You could say that. Certainly longer than you."

David rolled his shoulders as he stepped off the mat, sweat still clinging to his skin, knuckles sore beneath the wraps he hadn’t bothered taking off yet. The sharp bite of adrenaline was fading, replaced by that familiar calm he only ever got after a good session. He reached for his water then paused. Someone was standing there, just off to the side of the ring, like they’d been watching longer than a casual glance would explain.

His gaze lifted to meet theirs, unreadable at first, before a slow, curious look settled in. “You always hang around boxing clubs,” he said evenly, “or did I earn an audience?” He couldn't help but smirk.

Whilst she hadn't made any secret about her career in the military, the extent of it—and the particular regiment she had been a part of—were still things she was unable to share. That didn't mean she couldn't use her training to help a couple of 'em out though, right? With a little polish, some of the Sovrani beyond Vincenzo and Giorgio would be absolutely formidable in fight club.

The streets were crowded, bustling with shoppers, diners, and tourists in the chilly evening air. The sidewalk was lit by the lights of each shop along the road, and the jovial atmosphere spilling from each of the open doors was contagious. Smiles abounded on many of the faces, and many different languages of the patrons blended together in a busy, excited buzz. Lorenzo Mastronardi stood just outside the door of one of the restaurants, having just had a delicious, home-style Italian dinner. Throughout his professional life he'd traveled many places, and frequented different establishments, all Italian in nature. Few were decent, and even less were truly enjoyable. It seemed the cooking secrets of the Old Country were fading, mixing with american styles to make bastardized versions of once good food. Tonight's dinner had been one of the best he'd had, that wasn't concocted on actual Italian soil. As he buttoned his overcoat and his breath rose into the air before him, he acknowledged that, while the food had been good, the restaurant was not suitable for his purposes. It was too small, had no tables that offered privacy for important discussions, and while the owner seemed at least part Italian, they did not appear to be raised in the old ways. The Sovrani could not count on their silence if they were to be overheard. Lorenzo lit a cigarette, his eyes traveling to an empty building across the street. It was large, appearing to have once housed a restaurant of its own, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. "Perfetto," He breathed under his breath, letting a large cloud of smoke stream from his lips.

Perhaps it was the fact he was American. The Italians over there had such a strange sense of identity, almost to the point of overcompensating for the fact they weren't born in the 'homeland.' Gianna empathised to a degree, being the first of her mother's children to be born in the UK instead of Italy...but she couldn't quite relate to what came of it. And there were still more of them to arrive in London?

Maybe she was curious. A bit like observing a strange animal.

Gianna rarely left Little Italy after what'd happened to her (and certainly not unless Vincenzo required it) so was always lurking somewhere nearby. Keeping an eye on things. And that was when she'd noticed Lorenzo lurking across the street, interest seemingly piqued by a boarded up old restaurant.

"Having a conversation with yourself? Should I come back later? Wouldn't want to interrupt, obviously..."

Carla twirled around and curtseyed for Gianna, meeting her half smile with a full one that quickly turned into a dramatic pout.

"Believe me, I tried. I even pouted at him. The fucker wouldn't budge. I suggested Donkey too, but somehow he liked that option even less than Shrek. I can't imagine why."

As the woman before her twirled like a certifiable princess, Gianna couldn't help but let out a chuckle. This would certainly be a costume for the history books. No doubt she and Sexy Pac Man would be taking home awards for best dressed.

Though, his brow rose exponentially, as he waved his hand over the outline of her costume. "Tell me summat', did you pick the Cheeto so people would stay away, or because you finally decided to dress like the kind of mess you leave behind?" he raised his hands mockingly. "Either way, Gianna… it suits you."

Though, his expression soured just as quickly.

"Careful," It's low, but edged with a joking tone. Though in truth it held none. "Start talkin' bout' my sister, and you might not like where the conversation goes — and neither will I." She was pretty. But there were some lines Maksim never crossed. Vika was one of them. His brow arched. "I don't know what she came as, but something akin to the female version of Negan would be far better suited to her." A bat-wielding maniac? Either her or fucking Oliver Parra.

Oh, Gianna was sure she wouldn't like where the conversation went so far as his sister was concerned. The woman securely held the top position on her shit list, and she would neither forgive nor forget. Her brown eyes were focused intently on his face as he spoke, enjoying that little tick of annoyance. Family was always a touchy subject for them; truly an Achilles' heel they practically boasted to their enemies.

Boo fucking hoo.

"Oh, I'd love for Viktoriya to show up with a bat and a bad attitude. Let's see how that goes for her when I'm not chained up. Care to make a bet?"

The music blared and thumped. Enough to make Oscar's hearing a bit muffled. His eyes had to take a moment to adjust too. So many lights flickered relentlessly. Strobing in time with the music. All the while, in the shadows, masks hid smiles. As with his usual initial survey of a space packed with bodies, Oscar stayed back. Scanning the crowd like it was a drill—no exits blocked, no one getting too close to Yvonne’s orbit without him noticing. Not even the helmet of his ridiculous firefighter get-up was going to hinder his work.

Gianna didn't recognise him from her uncle Emilio's circles, but she'd seen this one around Johnathan Parsons enough that he had to at least be a Rutherford affiliate. And either his eyes were glued to Yvonne's ass because that dress was doing work, or she was his charge, as Giorgio was hers, for the evening. A shared pain; not to be able to enjoy the party. But that never stopped Gianna from enjoying herself.

"Well, well. I'm not sure whether to tell you I want to climb you like a tree, or that my cat is stuck in one."

A party that Olivia didn't have to host was always welcomed. Nomentano was having its own festivities, of course, but she left those in the very capable hands of her assistant manager. She fucking earned this night off. Though, with the fun police lurking throughout the Venue, maybe working was the better option. Alex had long since disappeared to a bathroom, but it seemed every time Olivia tried to join him, Sovrani eyes were on her.

"Anyways, I'm Shego. You know, from Kim Possible?"

Shego from Kim Possible? Not a damn clue. Still, it seemed better to nod her head politely and give a thumbs-up after her joke had landed poorly. God, women were defensive about their Hallowe'en costumes. As bored as she was playing babysitter, she wasn't quite bored enough to get into a fight.

But when had Maksim ever been good at following the right path? Do the thing that his father was most likely internally begging for. "Sexy's overrated, y'know," the ghost of a smirk tugged, as he disguised it behind the rim of his glass. "Not a fan of the fang thing — think it's a bit tacky, so I went with this...far scarier." sexier too some women might say, but not all. "And what are you meant to be exactly? A Cheeto? Nothing says 'do not approach' like processed corn and an unhealthy mixture of bloody artificial cheese."

At the comment about her own attire, she couldn't help a derisive snort into her glass. Sexy is overrated. Not that he would ever have to worry about it. Gianna quirked an eyebrow, giving his outfit a quick once-over--he would appreciate the attention, no doubt--before shaking her head.

Surely enough to drive anyone to the brink of no-contact.

Carla was, at least, a welcome sight amidst the chaos. There were plenty of Italians in attendance tonight (thankfully), but few Giovanna had genuine patience for in a mood like this. Sexy Lord Farquaad over here got a pass. The brunette eyed the woman for a moment before her lips begrudgingly curved into a half smile.

She held up her finger to flag down the bartender. "If you needed the drink that desperately, might as well get the next round in before you start going up and down the line stealing everyone's drinks.

It was the truth, too. Gianna had fought far worse than the Russian bodyguard, and if she happened to lose tonight, the woman was confident it wouldn't be badly enough that she had anything real to worry about beyond a bruised ego. The same certainly couldn't be said for some others, though, she'd noted...

"Next round's on me. Obviously. What're you having?"

"If I die," which...was possible. "Make sure Vika gets everything, keep an eye on Isla and for the love of god -- someone check on Aviv every now and then." he said with a dramatic sigh, ankle hooking over his knee. "Any tips, bud?"

Amusement obvious, negroni in hand.

"Oh, you're definitely going to die. And look like a peasant as you do it. I bet he fights in a suit. In fact, I'm almost certain he fights in a suit."

"What's your poison?" he tilted his head towards the bar and then keen brown eyes followed the trail of her second shot with idle interest, "Keep it calm ‘til there’s blood on the mat."

Óscar rolled the empty glass between his fingers once before setting it down with a soft clink. Then, his gaze found hers again—steadier now, like he wasn’t just looking at her, but measuring something, "You say Vespucci like I should be shaking."

The corner of his mouth tugged, crooked and dry.

"He’s a fighter. So am I. That’s all that matters once the bell rings."

He leaned in just enough to meet her confidence—not to crowd her, but to show he didn’t flinch.

"But I like the concern, Gianna. You always this sweet to, what I assume, is the opposition?"

"Sambuca," she said simply, choosing to ignore his comment regarding his fight entirely. There was no point lecturing him. Better to let the guy figure it out on his own. "Though I'm British, so you can probably just drop anything with a decent alcohol content and I'll be happy enough."

As he leaned toward her, she couldn't help her quiet chuckle. Didn't' move, though.

"Sweet? The bar really is in hell..." Gianna adjusted in her seat, matching his lean, seeing whether he'd back off when he realised she wasn't about to. "Maybe I'm just scouting out the enemy." Not that she could ever consider the Rutherfords as such. "The shot stealing was just a convenient excuse."