marcelorrodriguez:
Marcelo was on edge. Everywhere he looked, vaguely familiar faces appeared out of the crowd of the elite. Killers, mercenaries, mafia men, they were all here that night, baring their teeth at one another and shaking hands with too tight a grip. He knew many of them, whether it had been from serving as a former client or because he had nearly been on the receiving end of their bullets, and it didn’t settle well with him one bit. In every room he went to, the underlying tension between the powerful mafias was unmistakable. It was only a matter of time before someone snapped and turned the overdone soiree into a bloodbath; Marcelo would have bet on it.
And there was Lorelai Degenhardt, oblivious to everything. She was out there now, dancing with some no name trust fund brat who thought he had a snowball’s chance in hell with her. Unlikely, given how she had already gone through two or three other partners in the span of the past hour. Each one, if he was being honest, was marginally worse than the last, and his mood kept souring with each flirtatious smile she shot their way. The first few prospects he had managed to scare away by standing close enough, but with each drink, they were getting bolder, and therefore far more annoying to deal with. It was even worse with the socialite herself.
When she finally noticed him (though he had been shadowing her for most of the night save a few interruptions), Marcelo scowled, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he stared her down. “You’re not getting rid of me, princesa, we’ve been over this.“ As clever as she thought she was, running away from him into the throngs of drunken guests, Marcelo was an expert at tracking people. Even under the flashing lights and sweat-slicked bodies of the many dancers on the floor, he could have been able to spot her anywhere. There was no other woman more eye-catching, or more fucking irritating than her.
The bodyguard cut through the crowd, deftly avoiding elbows to the gut and heels unintentionally aimed at his feet. She was quick, he would give her that, but he was quicker. Crushed among the guests, he shot a hand out for Lorelai’s wrist, pulling her closer before she could get away again. His other hand went to her waist, knowing fully well she would try to twist away from him if he gave her the opportunity. “Lorelai, enough.” He growled, eyes narrowing dangerously. “You can’t keep running from me forever. You need to stay close.”
“Who said I was running?” Lorelai quipped, a devilish smile curling across her glossed lips. “I’m just dancing. You know, enjoying myself. Not that you would know what that is.” Her green eyes gleamed as evilly as her smile, but as she looked up at him, her expression wavered. No, no -- she was just drunk. One too many shots with Mariana in the hours before she’d been swept away by a no-name what’s his face. But Marcelo’s face -- Lorelai suddenly didn’t feel to keen on slipping away anymore from him as she stared up at him. The light caught him from behind, casting long shadows over the sharp planes of his features. His face itself was dark, but light glimmered past his curls and etched streams of dim light across his cheek bones and the edges of his jaw. It gave him an almost angelic sheen, though he could hardly be described as such.
She had to stop herself from reaching into a bag that wasn’t there to draw out a sketch book she hand’t brought with her. Marcelo’s eyebrows were creased together, and she had an itch to rough out the shape of them with a stick of charcoal. But the thought just made her giggle. Drunk. Yes, that’s what this was -- the wave of heat and the flush to her cheeks was just too much tequila, and as the room spun, she let out a loud crack of laughter and wrapped her fingers around his tie and tugged him closer to her face. “How close? You know, since we’re like, on a first name basis.” She liked the way her name sounded rolling off his tongue, and his hand settled on the curve of her waist wasn’t uncomfortable in the least. Had Lorelai been a touch more sober, she might have twisted away from him once more and vanished into the throng of dancers. She had half a mind to do it, up until the first gun shot rang like thunder in her ears and sent a scream rushing from her throat.
“What the hell?” She yelped as screams roared louder than the music, and with an unintentional movement, she released his tie and found herself tucking her face into his chest, half-shoved agains him by party guests and half seeking him out -- damnit -- in fear.


















