unbecoming.

Viola’s skin was crawling as so looked around the room. There were too many people in her father’s home, something that had her on edge, not only because Gregory was gone, but because whoever killed him could be in this room. The woman was exhausted, sleep having been elusive for the past week. The weight on her shoulders felt like too much but her face was stone hard, barel any emotions showing. This was not the time to allow herself to be weak, to feel the pain left by her father’s absence, by her family torn apart. This was the time to be strong and Viola was a Bianchi. “Thank you for coming,” she said, barely looking at the person who walked near her. It was like the woman was on auto-pilot, so many people coming up to her to pay their respect that she found herself repeting the same words over and over again.

-

People attended funerals for all sorts of reasons. In her years of experience, rarely, were those reasons to mourn. Perhaps it was a harsh viewpoint to take, it didn’t make her sentiments any less true. Just to her left, she overhears two men discussing business, some strange form of networking, no doubt. To her right she spots a pair of women dressed in their finest furs and heels, no doubt here for the sake of making appearances. For her part, Lyra has no desire to constrict herself to any one particular motivation. Surely, she could mourn, network, and make an appearance all at the same time. Thus, when the Bianchi girl, speaks to her, Lyra’s lips take the form of a sorrowful smile, “Of course, my dear,” she nods, “I’m sincerely sorry for your loss. How are you holding up amongst all this chaos?”

Open to: All | Location: Anywhere Neutral

The last place he expected to find himself was here. Same park, same exact playground. Him and his boy’s stomping ground. But it shouldn’t have come as a surprise, him turning to it for solace. Hearing the distant screams of kids playing, it was like he might still expect to hear the little guy call his name. 

He swallowed, attempting to collect himself. Nothing brought back memories like sitting on the bench he sat on now. If it weren’t for the sad look in his eyes, or the way he absently watched other people’s kids play, he might’ve been able to pretend.

But he knew the longer he stayed with no kid to claim him, the more suspicious it looked. Which is why he didn’t visit often–– save for the days that felt a little harder than normal. “I’m about to leave, anyway.” He sniffed, barely giving a glance to the person hovering near him, clearly looking for a seat. “Spot’s yours. My kid’s…” He went quiet. Six feet under. Not exactly a conversation starter. “…over there.”

-

It was important to be seen around the community, Lyra knows. For all her years spent hiding her humbler beginnings, parks, grocery stores, and her other childhood locations had all become a part of a larger plan to remind voters that Mayor Lyra Nolan, was just one them. Sure, Lyra it had taken time for Lyra to truly embrace her roots, but as it turns out, she was just at talented at feigning interest in soccer moms as she was at schmoozing the elite at her fancy fundraisers.

After spending nearly forty-five minutes chatting with a group parents and their kids, alike, Lyra began searching for a bench to rest her weary feet, when she stumbles across a man sitting by himself. 

“Oh, don’t worry about it, there’s plenty of room to share,” Lyra quickly brushes off, taking a seat beside the man, “I just need to rest my feet for a couple seconds...turns out the office heels don’t exactly agree with the grass,” she chuckles with a small grin. Gazing at the group of kids in the distance, Lyra feels the need to swallow a wistful sigh. Marriage hadn’t agreed with her, and she always supposed motherhood wouldn’t either, but, a small part of had always wanted to experience what it might be like to raise a child. “No kids, on my end, I’m afraid,” Lyra replies, “Probably for the best, though. Kid’s these days are so bright, I’m not sure I could ever keep up.”

—

“Thank you, we appreciate it.” The moment Gregory Bianchi took his last breath, he’d singlehandidly ushered in a new era of uncertainty. His only son would take the reigns, having the power to end alliances, create enemies… a world in the palm of his hand. No doubt, the seedy underbelly of New York was holding its breathe as it awaited Angelo’s next move.  Leyla could only imagine that Lyra was among that group. She’d heard about the whispers of corruption behind closed doors and truth be told, Leyla could admire it. Ambition, in her opinion, wasn’t a dirty word. “That’s good to hear, the last thing I want to do is give her bad news… coffee, please.” 

Sitting back, brown eyes quickly scanned the office. The handful of plaques were impressive- magazine covers, a Columbia degree, photos of gala openings… each piece was evidence to the mayor’s value. “I don’t know if you’ve been asked by anyone, but I wanted to invite you to his service…”  She nodded, hands clasp in her lap. “You’ve been a friend to our family, and its important to keep our friends close in times like these, right?” 

-

“It’s my pleasure,” Lyra replies, offering the girl a warm smile. It wasn’t often such gestures came from a genuine place, but for as long as she had been working with the Bianchis, expediting a few permits for a funeral was the least she could do. Pressing a button on the phone that rested on her desk, she requests a fresh cup of coffee for the younger woman, which is delivered by her rather nervous-looking assistant, who scurries out of the room at rather impressive speed. 

“You’re mother had implied my attendance on the on the phone, but you’re certainly the first to extend a more official offer. I would be humbled to attend,” Lyra replies, as she listens to the young Bianchi girl. Lyra was hard-pressed to disagree about with the girl’s thoughts about friendship, especially given how valuable her family had been in developing her career. Leyla is certainly youngest of the family, but Lyra refuses to dismiss the girl on those grounds. If anything, Leyla’s youth was to be admired and appreciated for all the potential she held.

“Indeed it is, Miss Bianchi,” Lyra smiles softly, “I certainly treasure my relationship with your family very much. Please know, my door is always open to you, for whatever you may need.”

“Can’t believe you’re drinkin’ when you have a murderer on the loose,” He let out a slight chuckle, knowing that there wasn’t anything she could really do about his father’s passing. How the hell was anyone supposed to know this would happen? “Bourbon or scotch, yeah. Anything that’s liquor I like,” His dad was the one who got him into bourbon, it only felt right to have one in his honor. “How ‘bout you? What are you drinking tonight?” 

-

“Sometimes a woman just needs a drink for clarity,” Lyra replies, a smile curling at her lips, “I find that the occasional vodka on the rocks tends to give me a new perspective when handling particularly difficult cases. After all, I would hate to give this case anything less than my best.” Motioning to the bartender, she requests a glass of bourbon for Angelo to be put on her tab. Turning to face the eldest Bianchi, she tilts her head, “So, besides buying you another drink, is there anything I can be doing to help you and your family out?” 

A woman of action, Lyra decides that she’ll save her sympathies for the funeral. Sure, she could channel her emotions when she needed it, but in the wake of chaos she always preferred to do, rather than feel. If that made her heartless, than so be it. 

Amelia always had big plans, for herself, for the club. Always looking at the bigger picture. What was a fight Club if it did not keep improving? What was it if it would be run or imploded by the police every chance they got? That was not how she wanted to make things work. So Amelia made things turn in her favour. With the right people, the right decisions - all in her calculated favour. 

She and Lyra though, they had a dance. While the words that fell out of their mouths seemed innocent, generic, the meaning behind them was much deeper, one simply had to know what to look for. She smiled at the mayor. “Always a pleasure to share with you.” Though she did not exactly like the full names, there were some lines that they had to draw. “Well, sometimes the business is good when there is nothing new.” That meant there were no things she needed to worry on top of what was happening in the open. “I know, but then again, these guys bring in the profit. Can you really complain about that?” 

The server came up to their table and filled their glasses. “To normal.” 

-

Lyra notes that Amelia had always known how to read between the lines, something she assumes most women in men’s worlds learn to do. Really, it’s a skill for survival, just as much as it’s a way of conversation.

“Profit always seem to make those meetings worth bearing through,” Lyra replies a light smile playing at her lips. Profit always seemed to be her greatest motivator, but who could blame her? She wasn’t born with fancy cars or new clothes, money was always a barrier she was desperate to overcome. But now, she had created a life for herself that was vibrant, decadent, and meaningful...one she had forged with her mind and own two hands. 

Clinking her glass against the other woman’s Lyra echoes her toast, “To normal.”

“May we always appreciate the parts of life that never quite change, for the security they provide,” Lyra adds, thoughtfully, “but always be pushing towards greater things, for the satisfaction they bring.” 

It wasn’t often that Leyla found herself in the mayor’s presence. In fact, she tended to avoid any kind of authority like the plague. Knowing her luck and aptitude, something would go wrong… it almost always did. She’d had a few brush ins with the police, some too close for comfort and if it wasn’t for their connections with the Davenports, Leyla wasn’t sure where she would be. Nonetheless, her footsteps echoed in the hall until she was led to Lyra’s door. With Gregory’s funeral looming, they needed a few permits here and there- street lock downs, parking zones… Her mother had asked her specifically to drop them off, a dull task but she couldn’t say no to her now. 

The woman behind the desk looks put together: hair perfectly quaffed, beautiful, a trustworthy smile. If Leyla didn’t know the details about the politician- she had her hand in the Bianchi cookie jar, didn’t she- Lyra could’ve fooled her. “Oh I’m sure, christmas mixed with a high profile murder…” The words trailed off her tongue before she sat down. “I’m suppose to ask you about a few permits for my dad’s funeral, I think my mother called ahead of time?” 

-

Lyra immediately recognizes the youngest Bianchi, with her dark hair and dark eyes. As an only child that grew up with very little, Lyra couldn’t begin to imagine what it might be like growing up the youngest within an empire. What she could guess, was that running errands like this probably wasn’t entirely uncommon. Thus, she greets Leyla with a small smile, quickly recalling the conversation she had with the girl’s mother just an hour earlier. 

In truth, making arrangements like this was Lyra’s specialty and she was all to happy to comply, knowing she’d be compensated generously for her speed and discretion. There was after all, nothing quite like funeral business. “I’m sincerely sorry for your loss,” Lyra wishes, as she motions for the girl to take a seat in the plushy chair in front of her desk. “But, yes, the permits are processing right now and should be ready for printing in no time at all. In the meanwhile, can I perhaps offer you come coffee or tea? I imagine you’ve been busy all day and could use a moment to rest.”

☉

The mayor. To prep for his sudden arrival, Deran slips into new skin, to convey his position as a confident liar and a member of his infamous family. It was easier this way, wearing a mask, remaining collected in order to seem stern. You see, Deran was the kind that was torn to shreds on the insides, always in between choices, always awaiting a train to come barreling toward him. The cliché was almost poetic.

He pads across his metaphorical railroad tracks as he steps inside Lyra’s office, taking a seat just in front of her desk. The chairs unleashes a subtle squeak under his weight. “I’m just here to avoid anymore casualties.” The man starts with, resting his hands in his lap. That’s when he leans forward, a criminal’s stance. He means business. Silently, he wonders when government officials started becoming attractive. Lyra, their beloved mayor and associate, looked like a Barbie doll his daughter would own. “Has anyone spoken to you? About you or Gregory or any vendettas, personal affairs? I’m just trying to get a clear image on what’s going on around here. You understand, right?”

-

Deran captures her attention immediately, the very moment he walks through the door. There’s something about his demeanor and intensity that seems to fill up the entire room. Still, given the most recent unfolding of events, it’s not surprising the Bianchi consigliere has made his way into her office. Truthfully, she knows the man’s properties better than she knows the man himself, but having been in with the Bianchis for as long as she had been, Lyra was wise enough to know that nothing any of them touched was totally clean.

Then again, neither was she. 

“I certainly understand what your asking,” Lyra replies, carefully leaning forward ever so slightly, “But I’m afraid I'm just as in the dark as you are. You see, people come to me with specific requests-- expedited permits, city funding, policy changes-- anything beyond that I tend to stay clear of,” Lyra explains, holding the man’s gaze. “I might not have the information you were hoping for, but if you’re need of something a little more enticing from me, I’m willing to offer up my office’s press release on the matter. We’re quite the trusted source, but I’d be willing to spin it however you’d like, for the right price, of course.”

“That is, unless you have any pertinent information, I ought to know for myself?”

-

“Funny, I assumed you would be even more cautious in booking your meetings. Heaven knows this is only the beginning of a cold war.” And a cold was was precisely what Ainsley was anticipating. Despite popular belief, the cartels of New York existed through a delicate equilibrium. This war would not burn the city down, but come to a frost. “Meeting with me might look like picking a side.” Ainsley taunts, but her words are not without meaning. In the past decade, she and Lyra worked arm-in-arm to secure the privacy and security of the Bianchi’s. And though they shared little in the likeness of upbringing, they both knew the power of keeping one’s hands clean.

“Thank you,” she murmurs politely, passing a glance to the floor. Gregory’s passing was not easy on his ranks, or her father. It was no secret that the retired, Theo Davenport thought of the King himself as a brother of sorts. “There’s our usual business, of course. Expedited permits, a bid on a small property…” Ainsley lists, as the papers find their way onto Lyra’s desk. “But what I am most curious about is where you stand.” With an even gaze, she looks upon a woman she considered a friend, seriousness quelling her face. “Like I said, a cold war is coming.”

-

“Would it not be more suspicious to cancel my meeting with you in the wake of this tragedy?” Lyra counters carefully, “I would argue  that maintaining some semblance normality ought to be a priority in these trying times. I would hate for a cancelled meeting to read as ill-will on my part. Besides, it’s always such a pleasure to have you in my office,” Lyra adds with her signature politician’s smile. Surely, that much was true.

Taking the files from Ainsley, Lyra allows herself a moment to gaze over the paperwork. Just as Ainsley promises, it’s nothing out of the regular. “I’ll have this taken care of immediately,” Lyra agrees, with an affirmative nod, before mulling over Ainsley’s next query. “You ask where I stand, but I suspect you know just as well as I do why my position remains as is. I’m paid for my discretion, my silence, and occasionally my help, but never for my sole fealty,” Lyra explains, “Empires rise and fall, just as wars come and go, Ms. Davenport. I merely have no intentions of becoming a casualty of a war I did not start.”

She recognised the mayor almost immediately. It was known to most of them that Lyra had her own way of dealing with things, which Amelia guessed was her way of staying on power. Who could blame her? One taste and everyone was already fighting over it. They didn’t even need to look past the few days mark. Both the Syndicate and the Bianchi groups were on boiling point. “Mayor, what a surprise.” Her lips curved into a smile as she lifted her hand to call the waiter over. “No, no. The least I could do for all your troubles is get you a drink.”

There were different opinions that Amelia had heard in her club regarding the mayor. Some good, some bad, but nonetheless, they were all effective. For now, someone like her was needed, just so that the business, even her business, could continue with it’s dealing. “Tonight is red.” Amalia only needed to point a finger at her glass for the waiter to understand her. It wasn’t her first time there, nor would it be the last. “So, what brings you here in the mids of all the chaos?”

Lyra was an ambitious woman, for there was no denying that. But perhaps more importantly, she was an opportunist, just as Amelia was and from early on, they had both seen the potential of what they could do for one another. Knowing someone who could provide her reliable muscle was rather valuable when it came forging protection from her stronger political opponents. It of course helped that Lyra drew her own form of twisted entertainment from Amelia’s club, which Lyra supposed was her prerogative given the sheer amount of insanity she was juggling at any given moment. 

“We’ll share another bottle of red then, Miss Blackwell,” Lyra smiles easily, before responding to the other woman’s query with an effortless shrug, “I’m afraid it’s nothing particularly exciting...just typical mayor’s business...funding, fiscal policy, and whatnot,” she reveals with the shake of her head. “The work is important, no doubt, but some of these numbers guys make for remarkably dry company, if you know what I mean...”

“Madame mayor,” the phrase is as sweet as it was imploring. Par for the course, for the Bianchi’s head counsel. Her regular, two in the afternoon slot at the mayor’s office was often reserved for speaking of more delicate matters. From expediting permits to an agreement on the burial of evidence, there was no shortage of criminal acts that neither Ainsley or Lyra could not sweep under the rug. “I’m surprised your office hasn’t cancelled our meeting, in light of recent events.” Ainsley settles onto the chair with ease, legs crossed as she balanced the folder in her hands. “Some might say it’s hardly business as usual.”

It’s a familiar face that greets her, the Davenport darling, herself. As child, Ainsley would have been everything Lyra envied, however, now Lyra simply respected the woman, for how could she not appreciate a woman with fangs as sharp as her mind? She was a worthy partner when it came to making unsightly things disappear, which was a rather necessary skill to have when dealing with the Bianchis.

“I suppose that given the recent events, there’s all the more reason to meet. I find it’s best for everyone involved that I remain up-to-date on such evolving matters,” Lyra replies each word carefully considered, “You certainly have my sincerest condolences, though.”

open to all

bianchi affiliated bar 

He didn’t need protection which was why he tried to slip out from under their radar. Angelo could take care of himself, knowing that he wouldn’t sleep until his dad’s killer was found. He wouldn’t let his guard down, that was for sure. “I’m not buying you a drink,” He said to the person next to him as he sat down at the bar. He knew he was getting looks, thanks to whomever had leaked the news. But that didn’t matter because right now, he needed a drink. “None on the house tonight. In fact, people should probably be offering to buy me drinks instead.” 

The perks of being a mayor on two payrolls meant that Lyra largely had free reign over where she went in the city. The downside was that Lyra could never fully account for who she would run into. Sipping from her own glass of vodka, Lyra is surprised when the voice of Gregory’s son catches her attention. Then again, she supposed that given the most recent events, it was actually rather unsurprising to find him here in a bar. “Well, what can I get you, then?” Lyra offers, shrugging haphazardly, “Let me guess...you’re a whisky kind of man? Scotch?” she tries. 

location: some club available: open to everyone

Live fast, die young was basically Carmen’s mantra in life. Pleasure was a priority, and thankfully for her, she was able to mix that and business all the time. Sure, being a capo was stressful, but the rush of adrenaline that came with it was everything she needed in life. Carmen had no idea who killed Gregory Bianchi, but she knew what it meant; war. And that was something exciting in her books. She had been dancing for what seemed like hours now, stopping only to have a drink. After grinding against strangers for most of the night, she finally took her leather jacket and left, a tipsy smile on her lips. In the pocket of her coat was someone’s number, one of the guys she had danced with slipping it there where she wasn’t looking and she crumpled it with a laugh before throwing it away, newly placed cigarette dangling from her lips. “Shit,” she said as she realized she was out of matches. “Hey, you got a light?” If needed, she would ask everyone she crossed path with until someone said yes.

Lyra didn’t frequent clubs, at least not since she was twenty-two. In fact, she had pretty much laid rest to her more raunchy adventures since taking elected office. But when the owner of the club, an old friend, sent her an invite to come out tonight, she was hard-pressed to refuse. After all, Gregory Bianchi just meant increasing pressures from both sides, to make a statement and take position, which Lyra had no desire to do. Her relative neutrality was a saving grace in this war and she certainly wouldn’t be giving something that precious up, without a fight. Needless to say, she had al the more reason to clear her head at club for one night, as opposed to her office.

When the girl asks her for a light, Lyra can’t help but chuckle, “I don’t, but I’ll bet he does. You got anything, Mike?” Lyra replies motioning to the bouncer, who produces the lighter for the girl at Lyra’s request, “Having a good time?” Lyra asks, noting the tipsy smile on the girl’s face.

Location: City Streets Open to all!

Sid wasn’t a smoker. Not really. He had enough dirty habits as it fuckin’ was, so he was not about to add a black lung to the mix of awful shit that would one day kill him. However, every so often, just once in a while, he got a mad craving for a marlboro. Just comes outta no where and he has to hoof it down to the nearest store for a pack of 10 or he would spend the whole fuckin’ night like a bated bear, crabbit and angry

Which is what he’s doing now. Standing outside a news agents, trying to light a cigarette with his back to the wind. Eventually, he managed it, snuffing the zippo with a flick of his wrist. Sid took a long draw and the sharp burn that rattled down his chest made him splutter but it felt so good. He closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the burn like a sweet whiskey, even going as far as to lick the taste of tobacco from his lips. 

Opening his eyes Sid was hardly surprised to find someone standing not far away, their back to the sharp cut of winter wind too. Sid huddled further into his coat, blatantly enjoying the struggle for a moment before he outstretched a callused hand “-need a light?” came the offer, voice low and gruff but carrying none the less.

The interview had gone well, Lyra decides. Sure the pesky reporters were always digging for quippy sound bite or scandalous misstep, but Lyra had been at this for years. At this point, it would take more than an overzealous intern to trip her up. Stepping outside, Lyra finally realizes how dark and freezing it is, her expensive coat and bare legs doing little cut through the bitter wind. A car was supposed to be here to pick her up by now, but it appeared her ride had been caught in traffic, leaving Lyra to fight the chilly winter air on her own.

Gazing over her shoulder, Lyra realizes that she wasn’t the only one occupying the street corner as a man offers her a light. She’s tempted to take him up on his offer, especially with how cold and exhausted she is, but with those antsy photographers just a few buildings away, it’s not a risk she’s willing to take. The last thing she needed was her face splayed all over the New York Times with the headline: ‘New York Mayor caught with cigarette after pushing anti-tobacco education in schools’.

“Appreciate the offer,” Lyra smiles gratefully, “but I’m not much of a smoker. I’m just trying to stay warm, while I wait for this damn car to get here. Nothing like New York traffic, am I right?”