PECATTI.

Luckily for Gio, not asking questions was something Carla was particularly well-versed in. It was especially helpful when your dad was arrested or when you knew your clients were guilty but were still committed to giving them the best defense possible.

"I'm glad you got your nosebleed resolved. They can be awfully stubborn and annoying to deal with."

The Russians were nothing if not persistent, after all... Cockroaches. Human equivalent of cockroaches.

The Italian gestured the bartender over with a snap of his fingers, before nudging his head toward Carla. A silent demand he take her order, immediately, in spite of the queue already waiting for his attention.

Olivia's job as mistress was to give Gio company and let him unload his stress, which included not adding to his stress. And so, just as any good mistress was, Olivia never needed anything from him, not directly at least. If that meant keeping her mouth shut about her loneliness while he worked through what he needed to. Giorgio Pecatti was not the kind of man you turned to for emotional needs, anyways.

"That still gives you a few years to think of what you're going to say to her. Sounds like plenty of time to me," Olivia teased back with a glance down at the bracelet now gracing her wrist. She'd learned years ago to stop looking at the price tag of Gio's gifts, lest the sticker price stun her into early heart problems. No matter how hard she tried to deny it, you could take the girl out of Valence but not Valence out of the girl. "Though, you'll be lucky if she only sticks to deportation."

The sounds of sirens had been punctuating their conversation for the past ten minutes, but since moving to London—and having spent a fair amount of time in Launceston, for that matter—Giorgio had grown so accustomed to them, they'd faded into background noise, easily ignored. It wasn't until he'd heard a woman bawling as she forced her way through the crowds, clutching onto what appeared to be an injured arm, that his attention finally departed from Olivia.

Kensington & Chelsea was a relatively safe borough. Usually, the emergency services were just passing through. In this case, though, he started to wonder if something was wrong. Something a little closer to home. The woman started seeking out help from one of the tables off to their left, and a disturbed waiter shot out to attend...

And then the quiet (but unmistakeable, given his experience) sound of gunshots made clear that his concerns were not unwarranted. The people around them didn't seem to take notice. Maybe because it faded into the sound of the traffic, or it was mistaken for something else... Until they started to grow closer. Giorgio turned back to Olivia as several more bloodied people started making their way up the street.

@giorgiopecatti

Once she had her fill of wine and cheese, Olivia was almost giddy to receive Giorgio's message to meet him by the water. Olivia knew that whatever the state of Giorgio and Patrizia's relationship, her role as mistress was always going to come second to his wife, and thus she'd kept her distance during her captivity and even after she was freed. Emotional intimacy, love, and all those other annoying emotions were not something she needed from him, but she'd be lying if she said being wanted didn't stroke her ego just a bit.

Olivia walked up to Gio and held out one of the drinks for him with a smile. It was a stupid fucking cliche, but in that moment any annoyance or frustration fell away. This was what she wanted from him, the occasional moment alone. She glanced around for any familiar faces before closing the distance between them and reaching up to greet him with a peck. "Hello, stranger. I wasn't sure if I was going to be seeing you here tonight."

Giorgio wasn't good for much, but when it came to them, he tried.

When he'd dropped them back at the house, he'd seriously considered not venturing back out again. But he'd promised Cristiano an adult beverage, and given his status within the Sovrani, it would be remiss not to try and make a good impression on a community that was still a relative unknown. And then, of course, there was a face he'd spotted earlier that day, but had been forced to brush aside.

Things had been complicated since Patrizia's return from the basement. Giorgio had never felt guilty for his infidelity before, not really, but even he wasn't completely heartless. The idea of leaving his wife in the state she was to go and spend time with another woman felt wrong. It'd never been his intention to neglect Olivia entirely, but serious conversations had never really been their game, either.

"I wasn't entirely sure myself," he returned her greeting with an appreciative half-smile. Both for the drink, and the company. "I know you don't expect an explanation or an apology, but I'm sorry I've been so...absent lately." And as much as it was easy to wallow in his own self-pity: "I should've checked in more. How are you holding up?"

The status of the alliance was far above Jean's pay grade and so far hadn't spilled into his borough, so his eyebrows raises clear into his forehead when Pecatti approached him. In any other location, he'd remain on guard. But, Pecatti was waving the metaphorical white flag.

Whilst his opinions toward the French were a mixed bag on the best of days, their taste for liquor fell firmly in the positive. Giorgio couldn't help but wonder if the they felt anything good about the Italians at all at the moment, though. And he realised then, he wouldn't blame them if the answer was a resounding: no.

"I spoke with St. Pierre and he gave the go-ahead for us to make a move on Haringey. But we won't until we've discussed it with you." The red neighbourhood belonged to Palfroix in the Organization's books, and the Sovrani had stepped on enough toes already. "We have people coming from Rome. And, if rumours are to be believed, the Cosa Nostra are sending men from Sicily."

God help them.

There was no guarantee their mother would return mentally or physically unscathed after time spent enduring Russian brutality. Worse, there was no guarantee she'd return at all. No need to assign words to the obvious, Giordana could read on his face that he'd also tallied up all the parts they might leave on his doorstep. Which ones might be explained away as an accident upon Patrizia's return and which indicate permanent loss.

"Slow down," she coaxed. "You can't borrow trouble from the future, you'll drive yourself insane going down the rabbit hole." Maybe he already had. Despite all that they bore witness to back in Launceston, there was still no manual for how to behave when violence from their world struck so close to home.

"At least you're here, with them, creating some sense of normalcy in this shit show."

At least you're alive.

Giordana had endured Launceston for far longer than he ever had, but that didn't mean the horrors witnessed were lost on him. The Russians had taken people back then, too. St. Clair's beloved daughter had been sent back to her family in pieces, and the Auditore underboss had showed up in a dumpster with his face blown off to rob the family of a wake. Konstantin didn't know rationality when it came to his family, and for the first time, Giorgio was beginning to understand how that felt. Yet such a monstrous disregard for human life...he couldn't stomach the thought. The idea that plenty of history would suggest his wife would meet the same fate was too much.

How could he do anything but expect the worst when the worst was their forte?

Yes, he was there for his daughters, but the strength to manage it was fuelled by a sole sliver of hope that tomorrow, something would be different. That there would be news, or the Russians would reach out, or that she'd stumble through the door, hurting but received by someone who would do anything to make it go away. Giorgio loved his children more than anything in the world. But he also didn't know how to be there for them without her. That realisation was as disappointing as it was terrifying.

And then, for a moment, he finally did take pause. Dark eyes once again scanned her features, and he wondered how he was going to manage the first conversation with Vincenzo without a brotherly right hook to the fucking jaw.

"I'm sorry I didn't stop by to check on you. I knew you were hurt, I just—" Had to prioritise them. Giorgio knew she would understand that. That she wouldn't expect an apology for him doing the right thing. But that didn't mean he couldn't wish that he'd had the emotional capacity to do both...because the only thing worse than losing Patrizia would've been losing her, too, and they'd come so fucking close he could've grieved that in itself. Vincenzo better have been. "I'm glad you're all right. I really don't know what I would've done right now if you weren't."

Finally, Johnathan thinks, as he sits across from the Sovrani underboss, someone who won’t be wasting his time. There were big knowledge gaps that needed to be filled, mainly how they managed to orchestrate such a debacle without letting the boss’ fucking date know. And now she was missing — were there more, or was she the lucky one? Did the Sovrani use her as a fucking pawn? So much for honour and respect. This was diabolical.

"It's astounding, truly, that you feel you have the right to feign outrage when you're the cretins who invited them here in the first place. You bring home a rabid fucking animal and then you're surprised it doesn't behave how you expected?"

Because from what he understood, this wasn't their first misstep against their allies...

It might well have been the Sovrani who poked the bear, but they had no fucking obligation to mitigate for Rutherford sensibilities. London mattered none, and they were lucky the Italians hadn't considered them enemy number one for the mere fucking association. The fact he thought himself entitled to any explanation was a stark indicator that he had no idea who the Sovrani were. What they were capable of. Delusional about their own standing in the food chain, and that this was no longer about politics, or white collar crime, or playing games where the odds were weighted in their favour. This might have been Rutherford territory, and their excursion into it was almost solely for their own anti-Russian benefit, but one more wrong move from the British and they'd bring an army instead of a hit squad. Rome wasn't so far away.

"Gianna might be something to you, but last I checked, she chose to be one of us. You don't have a monopoly on caring. Is your influence over the Russians so pitiful you daren't ask? Why don't you get down on your knees and beg ? They'd enjoy that."

Sanity, on the other hand... Well that was a word with a growingly obscure meaning.

The Italian shut the door behind him.

Giorgio wanted to invite her in, was desperate to be in the company of anything aside from his own thoughts, but her hesitance was the sensible approach. Everyone wanted to stop by, and he could only explain away so many solemn faces in his home before Anna and Sofia started to pick up on the mood. Young they might have been, but still switched on enough to know something was amiss.

"I had to lie to my kids. Despite the fact that I lie to her every damn day, and one might be fooled into thinking I'd be good at it, I couldn't even do better than 'your mother had to take a trip.' But see, now I'm realising I didn't really think that through, because how the fuck am I going to explain she's never coming home if those animals send her back to me in a fucking shoe box?"

Johnathan scoffs humourlessly, and turns round back to his men standing at the door. Jutting his thumb over his shoulder at the Italian, he says, "You hear that? He's got time to pour me a fucking drink." When he turns back to the boy, Johnathan fixes his gaze on him, and as he walked towards him he wondered if he'll be able to see the sheer stupidity staring back at him more clearly. " What’s next, a fucking blow job?" A beat. "I didn't come here to talk to a fucking waiter." Now, Johnathan stood in front of the boy, close enough that he didn't need to lower his voice to leave the customers with their ignorance intact. "Bring me someone who’s been alive long enough to know just how fucking important this conversation is going to be."

Another adjective added to the list on how to describe Johnathan Parsons.

This was a waste of his time. If the man could not be civil, where David was willing to speak with him, then he'd rather be out trying to find Patrizia, Gianna and Lisette.

He ignored the comments, knowing they were merely used to entice him and gauge some type of reaction that could be used against them.

"Good thing I'm not a waiter." A beat. "I'm the only one here who can have this conversation with you. If you'd like to talk to Vincenzo, I can let him know you came by. Otherwise, I have a few leads I would like to go check on. I'm not going to rest until they're found." He wasn't here for Patrizia, nor Lisette, so he was assuming this had to do with Gianna.

"Let's take it down several fucking notches, shall we? I think the after party had more than enough theatrics to go around."

Though, if he intended to come here and scold the Sovrani for their reckless actions, Giorgio was not opposed to adding a few theatrics of his own; decidedly tired of playing nice after Vincenzo's gargantuan fuck up and what it had cost him personally. If this was about the Russians, he'd be lucky to leave with his spine intact, let alone his dignity. But Giorgio had been briefed about Gianna's connection to the Rutherfords, and he couldn't help but wonder whether the reason any sense of civility had left him (if he'd ever been capable of it at all) was because this was personal.

Yeah, well. They all had fucking problems, huh?

Giorgio shoved a chair in his direction, before taking to his own. The Italian looked up at David with an expression that clearly read: give us a moment.