chiaroscuro.

LOTTIE LI — THIRTY-THREE. PAINTER. ( SEE ALSO: FORGER FOR THE VINCELLI CRIME FAMILY. )

there is never a moment of silence in these time-worn streets. perhaps it’s a matter of habit; new orleans has been lined with vincelli men for as long as he has drawn breath. to assume that things would stay quiet would be foolish in much the same manner that expectations only serve to disappoint.

hasim has yet to experience a bloodless revolt in this lifetime.

he catches the curious look in lottie li’s glance thrown his way but dismisses it just as easily; to each their own and she’s entitled to her thoughts about him, such as they are. “i don’t believe i’ve ever seen you at a loss for words,” he smiles most annoyingly in lieu of a greeting, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side when lottie grants him her attention after having inspected the dead body. it is in silence, and not for the first time, that hasim notices how she doesn’t appear shaken at all by the gruesome violence but chooses not to remark on it.

instead he accepts the offered weapon in one fluid movement before his head bends down in mocking acknowledgement, a hand on his chest. “my savior. do i dare to inquire about the terms of repayment?”

“let it be the last time,” lottie replies, flashing him a pretty smile back. she doesn’t trust this man and his too-silver tongue, yet an affectionate amusement laces her tone, the sort that comes with running into someone so many times you’ve simply accepted their presence. knock five times’ host may be irritatingly charming, but he certainly isn’t boring. “don’t you ever get tired of smiling?” 

she has gotten used to this kind of exchange between them: breezy quips that skim the surface and wit wielded as an ice pick attempting to chip away at their exteriors. it’s a game with no end; how fortunate they are both exceedingly patient people. 

but for all their roundabout conversations, there’s more to be found in what’s unsaid. can you shoot a gun? she’d asked. the ease with which he took the weapon sufficed as answer enough. he doesn’t seem fazed by the dead body on the street, either, though in the same vein, neither is she. perhaps they are both quick studies, or maybe he’s been used to the sight long before she has. 

“i could ask you the same thing.”

like lottie, zosia’s tone remains friendly. it comes from practice as much as it comes from pedigree - a sort of sixth sense amongst blue bloods to remain amicable amongst each other unless the transgressions rotted everything to the core. some might call it being the bigger person; zosia simply prefers not to deal with the nastiness of bitterness.

even if lottie deserved a bit of nastiness. 

“i thought i’d pop into sal’s, actually.” her arm links with lottie’s, disallowing the opportunity to back out in case lottie only offered out of societal politeness, and they’re off. zosia glides along, adjusting her long stride so she isn’t dragging her once friend after her, in a dress custom made and gifted to her from a designer she’d plucked from obscurity some time ago. “and you? dressed like that i find it hard to believe you weren’t heading there.” a policeman hurries past them and then another. frowning, zosia glances around - taking in their surroundings for the first time - and frowns. “have i missed something?”

“you caught me.” lottie gives zosia a slanted smile. “thought i’d pop in and say hi to sam, see if i can get him to laugh. i suppose it works out we’re going in the same direction.” it’d be almost startling how easily lies leave her lips if she wasn’t so versed in dishonesty. it did not start with zosia and does not end with her, though she has always been on the receiving end of it. lottie couldn’t exactly go and admit she wasn’t the blue blood she was pretending to be in new york city, and she certainly can’t announce she’s running with the vincelli’s. 

and with the way she left, is it any wonder she can’t tell the truth?

closed starter - @lcttieli​ location - the streets of new orleans time - late night, 12th September 1924 tw - gun violence, death

It was too open. The street yawned in front of him, ill-lit and deceivingly empty, and Erik could almost taste the wrongness of it on the tip of his tongue. It was the sort of uncanny feeling that accompanied normal-seeming things which the instinctive part of him recognized as inherently wrong. He almost preferred the press of a gun barrel to his temple to this, envied the certainty of it. In any case, Erik did not trust the silence.

It was beside the point - trust rarely mattered around here, even if something hungry inside him always reared its head at the idea of it - the story would unfurl, as stories do, regardless of whether or not you trusted pieces of it. So he pressed on, his step slow and methodical, the rifle heavy where it was hung on his back. He preferred the revolvers and resigned himself to the indelicacy of the rifle only once all other options were spent. They had not been yet, but he figured his luck had to eventually run out. He’d delved too deep into the night without a hitch, and while he might not have trusted the silence, he did trust the odds.

There was silence and there was a sound, something wet and unceremonious, and then it was all instinct and muscle memory. He had spun around, guns raised, everything about him tensed and poised to fight - a moment too late. The way bodies hit the ground, it was a dull sort of sound, recognizable in the most primal way, and he’d heard only a fragment of it before the shot rang out. He did not shoot back, because there was nothing to shoot at and he was no longer the trigger-happy green kid who would’ve wasted the ammo and drawn attention. But almost instinctively he did look down to check for bullet wounds - sometimes, you couldn’t feel it at first - but his hand came away clean, for once.  

Then he was moving forward and the scene slowly revealed itself from the shadows - an outstretched hand against the pavement, a gun hanging loosely from the fingers, it was fragments before it was the picture of a body on the ground. Distractedly, he noticed the ring on his finger before he noticed the blood, and it was only when he looked up and into the alleyway that he finally noticed Lottie. “Wha…” he started, stopped, looked down, “He was just about to shoot, wasn’t he?” There was something feral in his eyes as he stared down at the would-be killer, wide-eyed with a realization. “That bullet… that was supposed to be in me now. Wasn’t it?” His breath came out shaky, though for the life of him he couldn’t tell what with - adrenaline, horror, bewilderment? “Jesus fuck. Are you okay?” 

♢

Beneath the glow of lamplight, she can make out two figures: a man, slinking towards another, his gun raised. His target is all too familiar, and she’s moving before she knows it, swiftly picking up a crowbar off the ground and swinging it towards the man’s head. It slams into his skull, and he falls to the ground, the aim of his gun knocked off course; a shot rings out, bullet landing somewhere that’s not Erik’s chest.

Once again, she confirms a fact: It did not matter what world you were born into—your odds vastly improved if you didn’t fight fair. She’d swung before she shot, using the element of surprise to her advantage and playing to her strengths. In the dark, she could’ve missed. Up close and coming from behind, the traitor didn’t stand a chance. 

In another fluid movement, she takes out her own pistol, ready to fire at anyone lurking in the shadows. Only when Erik speaks, his voice stopping and starting, does she lower her weapon, falling back in place next to him. “And now it isn’t.” Despite her heart thrumming in her chest, she keeps her voice deadpan, as if she’s merely making another snarky comment in response to Erik’s scorn for modern art. It’s easier this way, to deflect and detach, and keeping her composure is a lesson she learned early. Smile pretty. Stand still. Stop crying. 

The only betrayal of emotion shows in how tightly she clutches the crowbar, fingers wrapped tight around metal. This isn’t the first dead body she’s seen, and it isn’t the first person she’s killed. It really shouldn’t shake her this much, and yet she stands there for one dumbfounded moment, gaze trained on the man crumpled on the ground, blood pooling out from behind his head. Perhaps it’s knowing if she’d gotten there a split second later, it’d be Erik on the ground instead. 

One moment can decide whether you live or die, and that has never been truer than now.  

An exhale, and she lets the crowbar clatter to the ground. “I wasn’t about to let you go and die.” And isn’t that the truth? She cares, one way or another. Yet she doesn’t elaborate, simply adding a flippant, “Who else would debate why exactly Les Fleurs du mal must be read in French with me?” She doesn’t want to explain the intricacies of why instinct spurred her to save him, nor does she think she even can. She tries to rationalize it as wiping away whatever debt she owes him for taking her under his wing; there is no higher favor than saving one’s life. Then again—

I’m helping you because I want to, he once had told her. 

Maybe it’s as simple as that.

“I’m fine, by the way,” she says, flexing a gloved hand. “Let’s get out of here before one of his friends decides to say hello, too.”

.

all this time and samarth still can’t make up his mind whether he enjoys lottie bringing up their past everytime they see each other or not. on the one hand, it’s such a painful reminder of how life used to be and how it should’ve been—a complete opposite of the life he’s living now. on the other, it seems like the past is all they’ve got. with all these years of silence and then with the chaos of making up for lost time without sharing too much, it’s difficult to find common ground that doesn’t involve bringing up their youth. 

and sometimes he wishes they could just go back to how they used to be; he wishes he could be that person again, the one who’d tell lottie every single one of his secrets without batting an eye; someone unafraid, someone determined to live life the way he wants to. that version of him feels like it’s from another lifetime; feels like it’s never coming back, no matter how much sam wants it to. 

“i don’t really do well with experiments anymore,” he says and can’t help but chuckle at the double meaning. god, he can’t even remember when was the last time he’s stepped foot in a lab. he wonders if he would’ve made it more memorable if he had known that it was going to be the last time. “but if you’re this desperate to wake up with a nasty hangover tomorrow, i’m happy to help,” sam adds as he busies himself with preparing the drink. his hands hover over the row of bottles under the bar; if lottie wants a surprise, he’s not about to mix something that’s on the menu. he settles on three different spirits with a hint of fruit juice and hopes for a happy accident. vodka, gin and brandy together in one glass probably isn’t going to be one and samarth is growing curious to see if lottie will be able to drink it with a straight face. no amount of blackberry juice is going to mask this kind of volume 

he slides the glass across the bar and then folds his arms in front of his chest expectantly. “well, bottoms up. i think it’s going to be disgusting. but at least now i’m aware of it before drinking it. back then i’d pour the most vile combination of hooch into a glass and insist it was going to be the next hit before even tasting it.”

♢

“no time like the present,” she retorts, laughing along with him, while something in her heart breaks at the comment. he’d always been so smart, and so ambitious too; it isn’t fair he never got to be what he really wanted. and how could she ever blame him for it? she understands how being here, in this land of supposed wealth and bounty, can warp a person. she knows all too well how the pressure of family can call you back, only to suffocate you until you can’t take it anymore. mix these all together, and it makes for the perfect cocktail of cynicism. 

how much have they sacrificed to stand here? how much does it cost to begin anew? 

the answer: too much. it’s sacrificing passion for a paycheck and clawing their way back up after they’ve left everything behind; it’s looking in a mirror and wondering where that starry-eyed student went. he doesn’t have to tell her these things for her to understand, because they’ve never needed words to get each other like this.

yet where he packed up his aspirations and shoved them in a box, trading beakers for cocktail shakers, she still holds a paintbrush. maybe she’s lucky that she’s hung onto her dreams. maybe she’s an outlier to have achieved them. haven’t you finally got what you’ve always wanted? ( life, on her own terms. her paintings in galleries under her name, a space to call her own. ) she doesn’t regret the path she’s taken to get here, but she can’t help but wonder what sam would think of her if he knew the price she paid for where their paths diverge. ( blood welling at the tip of a finger, a deal made in the dark. ) 

maybe he won’t judge her—he never really has before. even so, she’s not quite brave enough to take the leap. 

“well, some of them were actually good,” she says as she takes the glass he’s slid across to her. “not that i can recall the specifics. though maybe we’ll blame that on how drunk we were than our memory, yeah?” she raises her drink to that before taking a long sip, the liquor burning all the way down. as much as she tries to keep a poker face, she can’t help but grimace at the strength of it. “it’s not disgusting,” she counters, as if choosing to be contrary for the sake of. still, it’s not the most horrid concoction she’s ever had. “murder in a glass, maybe. i knew i could count on you. what’s in there, brandy, vodka—something else? a drop of juice?”

DATE — October, 1923

LOCATION — New Orleans Museum of Art

FOR — @lcttieli​

You’d think that Leona, being a good Catholic child, would know better than to indulge in her vices. But, to be fair, this particular service that she provided wasn’t for her own benefit. She didn’t ask for any money, save for the amount that was requested by Lottie. The only money that she took was the cash that was forced into her hand by the few who could provide it. So this service that she provided was fully for the benefit of those who needed it — fake passports, citizenship documents, IDs. 

And when she helped Leona lift some art that the rich and the wealthy stole — well, she was simply the sword that was wielded by Lady Justice. Nothing more than a ready and willing blade meant to fell the upper-class. None of them could tell the difference between the original work and Lottie’s pieces anyway. And Leona couldn’t help but be incredibly proud of the other woman for that. It was as though the two women were sharing an inside joke — and the elite of New Orleans were the butt of it. 

Leona ambled through the gallery, eyes skirting over each painting appreciatively. She wondered which one she might be able to get her hands on next, idly tucking the idea away for their next venture. Today, though, she had to remain on-task. They were here to discuss something time-sensitive, after all. 

The staccato of her heels preceded her as she walked into the hushed room, falling into stride beside her partner-in-crime. “Lottie, doll,” Leona cooed, “don’t you find the weather incredibly agreeable this time of year? The crisp air, the onset of winter, the way that the cold bites at your nose…it’s a great time for people to pay an extended visit to our lovely little city, don’t you think?”

♡

The painting in front of her is a fake. 

She knows this, because it’s one of hers. 

A woman draped in green and red stares at her, one hand held high, fingers curled around a leaf. Countryside scenery peeks out in the background, a swath of clouds above a landscape dotted with mountains and trees in the distance. Lottie stares back, arms folded across her chest, and smiles. 

Saint Lucy by Benvenuto Tisi — Donated by Mr. Aubert, reads the small sign affixed next to it. She hardly recalls the man; he was simply a client of Teddy’s, another name in a long list of connections. Remembering the process of imitation comes easier, the memories of sleepless nights and almost obsessive precision flooding in. That feeling of achievement comes rushing in, too, with the knowledge her work equals that of the old masters. 

Perhaps this explains why when Leona calls, she answers. She should leave it behind, now that she doesn’t have to solely rely on it, but it all comes back to stroking her own vanity. It is not easy to pull the wool over sheep’s eyes in this line of work, but it is satisfying. The pursuit of perfection never stops, no matter how warped its shape. 

But today’s meeting isn’t about paintings or what artist’s name she’ll take on next—no, Leona’s tapped her for a different kind of forgery, one with a cheaper fee. The kind of people Leona assists don’t have the same size wallets as those looking to collect sculptures and canvases, and so Lottie adjusts her prices accordingly—she may be selfish, but she isn’t entirely heartless.  

The click of heels across the marble floor signals Leona’s arrival, and Lottie turns to her. “Beats the sweltering heat of a summer day. Speaking of visits, didn’t you say you had a cousin who wanted to come see you? Rose, was it?” She tilts her head. A name corresponded to the kind of document needed—a little code they’d come up with one night over wine. “Or maybe it’s Clara.”

LOCATION: Bourbon Street TIME: 8:03pm, September 13th, 1924. OPPOSITE: Lottie Li〖 @lcttieli​ 〗

     THE EVENING WAS A DISASTER. In the chaos of gunfire, she had lost Hugo. In the refuge of the speakeasy, she had found herself acquainted with a simply deplorable woman. Nobody whom offered a sense of self, a sense of care for her well-being, appeared to be in sight. Virginia was alone. Utterly, wholly, alone. And, of course, at risk of being taken prisoner by a hard-faced John. The mere thought of such a fact made her squirm, and so solace had to be sought else where. Away from the cold streets, and far, far away from that shyster. 

     As though God himself had heard silent prayer, an all too familiar figure became apparent before her. Her best friend, her personal voice of reason, the woman in a storm that she had become accustomed to counting on. Anything which she hated to bother Hugo with, or anything regarding Hugo for such a matter, was always swiftly brought to the ear of Ms. Lottie Li. Whenever she had time to listen, of course. 

     “Have you lost your mind?” Despite the personal protection she was packing, Ginny kept her voice low, a harsh but well-meaning whisper. “Oh who am I kidding? We cannot lose what we do not have. Lottie, what on earth are you doing out here?”

♢

Quick strides take her across dark streets, gaze alert for any friend or foe. She needs to get out, and get out fast, but in ensuing chaos, her orientation is knocked on its side. People run down sidewalks and through alleyways, and as one man rushes past her, his face all too familiar—a traitor running with Rogers, who’d come knocking for false checks two weeks ago—she tugs her cloche further down her face. He hasn’t seemed to have spotted her, too concerned with whoever he’s running from. It’ll be either a Vincelli man or a copper; she’ll take the first, isn’t keen on the latter, and decides she won’t be sticking around to find out which it will be.

As she swiftly turns a corner, she lets out a breath she hasn’t realized she was holding. Limbs loosen only slightly, and she lets her gaze refocus on her surroundings. Nerves grow taut once more when Lottie realizes there’s someone else in the vicinity, a slight-figured woman who she can’t quite make out until she speaks. ( It doesn’t matter how unassuming someone might seem. To underestimate is a mistake. )

“Ginny?” Lottie says, falling into place next to her friend. Relief flows through her knowing Ginny’s alright, though she knows the other woman can take care of herself just fine. “Also, you should check if you've got your head on straight before coming for mine,” she retorts, voice just as low, “since you’re out here, too.” She pulls Ginny back when she spots an officer across the street, keeping them out of his line of sight. “Does it matter why? Let’s just get out of here—Hugo’s looking for you, I ran into him earlier, but lost him again in the crowd. He’s fine, by the way.” Regardless of her own opinion of the man, she can at least guarantee his well-being for Ginny’s sake. “And he will be fine, I’m sure. Your guy has nine lives, I swear.”

it’s easy enough to slip into the apartment with a party in full swing, and easier still to blend in with the crowd. there are a few familiar faces, mostly people she knows through the french quarter’s art scene—burgeoning playwrights and fellow painters, models and muses. they beckon her with where have you been all night? and doll, that chicago lightnin’! did you see what happened? as if she hadn’t been caught in the middle of it. but one man stands apart, a figure belonging to the world that’s just shot up bourbon street. 

“you’re not dead.” lottie grins when she approaches carmine. “though i figured you wouldn’t be. you don’t go down so easily.” knowing him, he must’ve been one of the first to jump out of the shadows. her gaze flicks quickly up and down as she brings her glass to her lips. “did you come out in one piece, too?”