𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 . . .

𝐌 𝐀 𝐊 𝐈 𝐍 𝐆 𝐄 𝐍 𝐄 𝐌 𝐈 𝐄 𝐒 ,　　a　writing　blog　dependent　on　pulptv   ,   featuring　　𝐕 ,　( script . pin board . tag . intro . )　　𝐌 ,　( script . pin board . tag . intro . )

            call it nerves, what causes a heel to tap excessively or martini bar olives to substitute a meal, something grows over the halcyon. a looming shadow, the silhouette of a man, the moreno god, and he whispers, ' you do not belong here. ' like a sinner in church, ( something admitedly familiar to her ) mira feels this down to her unsettling core.  trespassing.  but her, the one bathed in all the glory the title of fbi director can bestow, she holds it differently, that whisper. “ this is dicy territory we're walking in on, ” an olive on a pick lingers by burgundy stained lips, just long enough to finish a thought. “ j. lovegrove seen at the late lev moreno's luxury casino. ” she bites, an empty pick between her fingers remains. “ it's an eye-catching headline, if they throw in your job title to the mix. ” and she watches. not always jacqueline, but what lies behind her, sprawled out like a menu, and like a moth to a flame all the dirty little secrets draped in ruby red cloth and gold. “ lev had quite the eye for gaudy interior design. ” 

            it's there, etching across the fine lines like a worn roadmap of fifty six years, the price of returning to the past. sitting across from the woman called wife decades back, he thinks, ' this time will be different ' but he always ends up here with empty bottles lining along the floor and table like knocked over dominos, glasses filled with intent to forget,  and meredith.  the only person who makes vodka neat look like water. selfishness places her in the chair across, offered up with a kick, pushing the seat out. few words are exchanged in favor of the comparative comfort, she makes him appear to drink less, that this isn't a crutch. but the empty shot glass he sets back down over the water ring of condensation speaks louder. “ not exactly a medical emergency. ” no, this was the ' other ' sort he mumbled about outside of her door five minutes beforehand.

            the dimming light flickering overhead the hotel entrance claims it's reputation, no one wants to come here. an aging memory of what it had been, lost to time, and that too echos what is becoming of them, the morenos. it's all a pale comparison of past glory. viktor steps over the threshold older each time, payment in the untraceable form exchanging hands like it's second nature,  but she is different.  the psychiatrist. it's a glance in passing from the lobby's edge by a glass shattered window pane where a man in a worn leather jacket is handed a bag from viktor, and this acknowledgment of the outlier, it lingers too long to claim indifference. does she belong? but what is done here is taken to the grave, as shallow as some may be. and this is why he waits, like unfinished business. the clank of a zippo lighter engraved with his allegiance sounds through the emptied hotel, shut with the same force it's opened with once the narrow cylinder between lips ignite. even a familiar stranger is not to be trusted.

            a pen's cap clicks incessantly in mira's once gloved grip, the same pen she carries as if it were to possess a lifeline, but it's familiarity. and she favors it, yet the same cannot always be said of recognition contained in his features, a cocktail of  permanent disappointment  and the unease in wait of something to go wrong like the whistle on a kettle, it'll come out of silence. it's vanity that mira believes herself to know more than him, but her eyes, as weary as they appear illuminated by red and blue siren lights cutting through the dead of night, they've seen more, eight years more. “ this must be more serious than anyone realises if you're here. ” she faces away, like talking to a ghost. “ it's not related, to the moreno case. if that's what you heard pete say too. ” 

            grief presents itself in ways that no two share the same resolve, manifested with external differences, but   implicit judgement  advances in a steal gait emerging from the shadows, settling in the adjacent right sided seat to lev's prodigy.  moreno blood.  there will never be a right time, to pluck valentino out of his anguish will always be too soon and yet, it can undoubtedly be claimed that a few days since lev's passing is, in fact, too soon. “ they did the same performance yesterday. ” but he too finds difficulty in a parting glance to him, the one now to be called godfather,  the one possessing his father's resemblance,  lev's likeness. as if all the years have washed away and viktor sits there harboring secrets already known to the man holding all the cards.  they will never be rid of him.  he is there in the dimly lit audience, in the vacant office watching from above, in the remnants of what is left after those who pledged loyalty have been bled dry. “ they'll do it again tomorrow. ” he espies the nearing empty glass of alcohol on the table and a second glance is offered with no comfort presented in the inevitable, the answer he knows. “ have you been upstairs? ” 

            her worry comes in a tangible form, a rushed lunch she scarfs down hovered over the notes and newspaper clippings of a crime ( new york's chosen idol they claim god-like sacrificed ) unsolved, marked up in red ink that serves to pull attention to importance. and the unease, it comes etched in the delicate skin around her eyes, the fine lines across her forehead and the way she holds tension in her lips after each bite.  there is a weight to this case,  something that haunts the snow blanketed streets of new york at night when only the flicker of a neon sign and dulled street lamp remain a constant.  it's in the name.  sacred and given meaning otherwise foreign to those who did not claim the title of moreno, gutierrez or  sawumara. “ how many times did you meet him? ” mira doesn't glance past the edge of the table, but she knows that walk belongs to estelle, the pace and weight of her steps. “ lev ' lucky ' moreno, did you ever meet him? ” 

            “ you knew he was't coming. ” accusations never out of reach, dancing on the tongue's tip, an attribute similarly likened to the woman at the barstool adjacent. the one he hardly indulges with recognition, a payment reserved for anyone else who wouldn't peer at him with the same cutthroat malice. almost tangible in her gaze, the way she desires to reach over and wrap a wedding band costumed hand around his throat.   and maybe, it's mutual.  the first of shared common ground nestled between a snifter glass of scotch, untouched since its arrival mirrored the sound of a repetitious clack across the marble lobby. “ so why did you? ” his positioning shift removes the ex-wife from his peripheral and a grasp claims the wood-aged spirit, bottom lip pressing against the glass with another accusation. “ maybe francisco should find someone else to spy for him, that's what this is about, isn't it? ” not alexander.  the death of their god.  a name that fails to be spoken. lev moreno.