ultraviolence.

A small note attached to the vase merely has a hastily drawn doodle of a knife in a heart.

He will 100% know what it means and, because he knows Lucretia, might suspect that the handmade (yes, she made it) vase was painted with actual blood involved. (item link)

Emilio rereads the text for what feels like the hundredth time after arriving outside One Man’s Trash, phone gripped tightly in a gloved hand. It doesn’t say much — simple instructions to meet Javier at three pm sharp followed by the address of the antiques shop favoured by the Jolly Rogers. Of course, following the events of the vote and Eliza’s disposal, there isn’t any great need for more to be said. He can damn well imagine what Javier wants to talk about even if Emilio has little interest in hearing it. He’s still irritated, to put it mildly, by how the vote turned out, even if he isn’t surprised. Ten years of silent obedience have made no difference; he’s still the outsider. Failing to gain control over the gang has just turned him into the outsider who unsuccessfully tried to stage a coup.

After pocketing the phone Emilio finally enters the shop, bypassing all displays and the sparsely occupied seating area in favour of an inconspicuous door leading to the back room. He’s been here many times before, if under vastly different circumstances. Eliza, for all her flaws, had been a fair leader with an interest in keeping her people safe and close by. From what he’s heard of Javier, Emilio isn’t so certain the same can be said of her replacement.

Javier hears the door to the office close as the clock chimes three o’clock, but it’s a few moments before he looks up from the ledger he’s writing in, waiting for Emilio to speak before he finally sets down his pen. “I did,” Javier acknowledges, gesturing at the vacant chair opposite his desk with a smile that glimmers like a razor’s edge. “Come in, killer, have a seat.”

Reclining in his own chair, Javier looks unflinchingly into the face of the man that opposed him, his dark eyes appraising. Critical. “Look, I ain’t gonna fanny about making small-talk with you, Kovac - I invited you here to see where the fuck your head’s at. ‘Cause, from where I’m sitting, the future ain’t lookin’ too bright for you right now.”

When Lucretia had gotten the call, she understood nigh-immediately that she was likely the last on his list of people to talk to. She wasn't offended though, no, she was thrilled. It meant that she still had some semblance of meaning to him. His eat, pray, dick tour through another country had not lessened how she effected him and, whether she understood it or not, that made her happy.

No, instead she'd taken her time, deciding to be a little late to the appointment time SHE had agreed to and set up; just long enough for him to think she had almost forgotten.

Each step through One Man's Trash was calculated, as if looking for spots to make sure the sound of her heels resonated — reinforced with titanium with a removable tip to reveal a stiletto blade — as much as they could.

Who dresses like that to a first meeting with their new boss? Even if it is your ex-husband. A perfectly tailored deep red silk suit jacket buttoned just beneath her rib cage but left open to reveal the bare skin of her decolletage and sternum as she wore no shirt underneath; a pair of matching silk pants made for her, clinging against her hips and snug at her thighs but flaring out a little towards the ankle; a pair of black heels with six inch high heels and modifications to suit her tastes; her hair was pulled up, a messy bun that left pieces falling to frame her face, artfully done to seem as if it wasn't, but each aspect was perfectly planned; across her fingers — between the top and middle knuckle as well as beneath the middle knuckle — several rings of varying metals and gemstones, but all perfectly meshing with her entire vibe.

The real kick was, dangling on a long, delicate chain in the center of her bare chest, next to a tattoo of a black tattoo of an anatomical heart with lines of gold in the style of kintsugi, was a small charm — an arrow made of platinum pointing straight at her real AND tattooed heart — seeming almost fragile in the way it hung yet she never seemed worried.

No, this wasn't how one dressed to meet with their new boss; it's how one dresses when they plan to kill their new boss. Or, perhaps, other fun things.

She knocked on the door but didn't wait to be admitted, instead pushing it open and letting it close in behind her. Her arms would come to cross her torso, one hip cocked out and looking all at once excited and bored. He'd know better than anyone there wasn't a part of her outfit that didn't house some kind of weapon... the cuffs of her sleeves, in fact, had razor thin garrote wires, for instance.

"Javier," the name on her tongue felt like a forbidden prayer, a litany of gospel she had no idea of and dripped a venom laced sweetness, "so glad to see you made it back in one piece. Oh, I apologize."

Ten minutes tick by, and he can’t stand it anymore. Javier is not a patient man, could never be accused of being such, and the more time that passes, the more agitated he becomes. He gets up from the desk he was sitting at and takes to pacing back and forth like a caged jungle cat, clenching and unclenching his fists for something to do. It’s the first time he’s seen Lucretia in over a year, and the anticipation is exacerbating the worst of his impulses - he’s angry, yes, but he’s also... excited. And therein lies the danger.

It’s insane that he can sense her presence in the building before she’s even managed to get anywhere near him. The ring of her stilettos on the hardwood floor, the ghost of her perfume in the air, hell, he fancies he can even hear her heartbeat thrumming in his ears - but maybe it’s just his own. At last, the door swings open, and there she is in all her glory. Lucretia looks incredible, but then again, she always looks incredible. Javier has to fight to tear his eyes away from the ink on her skin, to resist the urge to devour the poisonous snake in front of him, now matter how appealing it looks. Fuck.

“Don’t fuckin’ start, ‘Tia,” he warns, trying to ignore the way her calling him jefe makes him feel. Because she’s right, he is the fucking boss now, and he can’t let her get under his skin (as if she hasn’t already made her home there, an indelible mark on his soul). “Mummy might’ve let you get away with mugging her off, but that ain’t gonna fly now I’m running things. Where the fuck have you been?”

Luis had been trying to think of something to gift for their Tin Anniversary. He’d have a much easier time if it had not been tradition to offer something made of damn tin. That would be when he thought of going for something dating back to the 1910′s instead. Yes, it was technically cheating on the traditions but Luis, while he usually showed respect for those, refused to buy a piece of trash to his husband. He’d pushed the door leading to this antique store on the advice of one of his collaborators. Sure enough the place looked like it had everything one could ask of an expensive antique store, and he’d have been delighted if it wasn’t for the fact that those places always made him feel out of place. It was silly, he knew that, but catching with his eye a £103,350 price tag on a tacky centerpiece made him feel even more uneasy.

Hearing the bell above the door, Javier swears under his breath, having no choice but to step out from the storage room and into the store proper. He’s the only one here, and he needs to get rid of whoever it is, so he can get this shit done and go home. “Alright, mate?” He calls in the direction of the world’s ugliest centrepiece, where the supposed-customer is hidden from view. “The dealer’s out, I’m afraid - might want to come back tomorrow, yeah?”

“First of all congratulations, jefe,” he wasn’t sure why he’d been summoned by the newly named crooked hand. Thomas already knew that this wouldn’t be the same relationship as the one he had with Eliza. She’d often treated him like her son. He didn’t expect this from Vidal. Shoving the last bits of his danish into his mouth, he took a look around the room, dragging his finger along the edge of one of Sonny’s shelves. “Is that a…” He’d come back for the old camera later, for now, he wanted to see what the boss had in mind.

“Jefe,” Javier repeats with a shake of his head, exhaling a smoky laugh as he reaches over the desk he’s sitting at to ash his cigarillo. “Fuck me, man, that’s gonna take a bit of getting used to.” Not that he minds, of course. It’s true that Javier hadn’t sought out his new position - hadn’t even thought of it with any degree of seriousness - but when the call came, he’d leapt in with both feet, as is his way. Every gangster has their own ideas about how things ought to be run, but few of them ever get the chance to see their vision into reality. So here he is.