there's daggers in men's smiles;

She felt as though she was being flayed across both ends of her being; in skin and spirit, from within and without. Her body steamed and fizzled where it was exposed, skin giving way to sizzling gashes, weeping welts and warped scars; an array of wounds gleaming in place of the jewelry that ought to have adorned the vacant spaces surrounding her dress. And where they burned away beneath the glare of questing eyes and swirling colors, her boiling blood rose up to meet them with the force of a wave gathered from the heart of the sea; stirred and roused by the embers of scorn that had begun to swim in it from the moment she had set foot in this room. Matthias’s presence had held the first itches of her turmoil at bay, yet she had soon found herself forced to endure on her own, and it was growing more difficult with each lonesome second that passed.

All around her, there was nothing but revelry and relish; hands clapping against shoulders while arms slotted together in jovial embrace, dulled eyes and beaming smiles, brimming warmth and trickling laughter. It was all so sincere, visceral and without a care; the Montagues in their natural habitat, in their defining state of passion. One wouldn’t think that a mere two months ago, those same hands had brushed against her best friend’s cold, punctured corpse in muted farewell; that those same eyes had drowned in tearful sorrow and numbed rage as they traced her descent into an early, youth-dampened grave. It was an ugly, shameless betrayal, and one that Ramona, in all her undead idealism, had utterly failed to anticipate.

A gasp broke free from the rigid lock of her lips as Matthias’s hand came to rest upon her shoulder, back tensing and fists clenching for a breathless, frenzied moment before she looked up and recognized him. “Matt,” She breathed with relief, raising a hand to rub at the side of her neck as she chuckled uneasily. “You scared me.” In the face of his gentle inquiry, Ramona could only sigh, gaze dropping to the space between them that she suddenly longed to breach. She crossed her arms against her chest, instead; a makeshift embrace to replace the one she sought. Even after all this time, the fear of their love being used against them once again was ever-present and all-consuming, and so she sought to shelter it from the eyes of hungering beasts; Montague or Capulet, they were all the same. “It feels wrong,” She muttered with a shake of her head. “This whole thing feels wrong. The way that they’re just… celebrating—” She indicated their surroundings, index rigidly raised at her side. “—so soon after Val? Like she never mattered, never existed? It’s making me sick.” She spat the words, turning to streak her resentful gaze across the crowds before looking back at Matthias. Her eyes softened. “If I’m here for any reason, it’s for you and only for you.”

For once, the roles seem reversed. Matthias, once afraid of weighing Ramona down with the weight of all he’s known and endured, becomes the boat, and she becomes his anchor. She waited, tethered to this spot while he floated about to accept the congratulations of others in attendance. He knew he would always return to her. And yet, there was something that ached at him, seeing their places swapped. Her freedom was always something he’d admired, something he wanted to keep aloft, something he’d feared of dragging down. And now, her shoulders seemed to hold the weight of the world upon them, just as his did, no matter how much weight he offered to lift from her burden. For a moment, he wondered if he contributed to this, that if Rafaella ever would have touched her without his ties to her, or if Verona would continue to be cruel regardless of whose arms reached out to hold her. He shoved the beginnings of guilt and worry down. Tonight was not the night for that.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, hand running along her shoulder and down her arm gently. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Tonight, her ferocity dimmed, her flame an ember of what it normally was. He could tell something was wrong, but he would never force it from her. Still, she admitted it as he took her hand, offering to be her tether. While he feared his weight could drag her down, sometimes, he’d learned, it could keep her from floating far beyond his grasp, and the feeling of having lost her once would remind him to hold her close at every chance he got, onlookers be damned.

Bellamy finds it hard not to smile up at Matthias as he speaks, memories flooding the narrow, intricate alleyways of the Santo Domingo’s mind as if they were more raging storm than mere whispers of the past, tickling his ears with a feather-like touch. Matthias is a bearer of warmth ━ has always been, a lighthouse amidst the heavy clouds that corner Verona into darkness. Bellamy stares for far too long at him, cheeks burning with the rising of his lips as he becomes a child again, restrained laughter easing out of his throat as Matthias slips into the role of a caretaker. It might be selfish of him, but he had missed it ━ not the war, not the mob, but belonging near the cracks and tender curves of this wicked organization they all learned to call family. ━━ I’m hiding away. ━━ it wasn’t a lie on its entirety, although the soldier wouldn’t complain about minutes of solitude, no worries about carrying a gun on his pockets as he could excuse reading as field work. He was guilty of trying to make it more bearable than it could be, sneaking away from dirtying up his hands for far too long. Death is death, and it certainly lurked around every corner, but Bellamy pretended not to feel its grip. Foolish. ━━ I agree, however. Decent out of view spot, but not quite as comfortable as I would like. ━━ he smooths over his clothes as he rises from the floor, graceful as ever as he faces Matthias with the same glow of an innocent bystander. ━━ I envy you. I’m quite behind on my coursework ━ should probably start working on it soon. ━━ truth be told, Bellamy’s education is his sanity, an escape from his own mind. And yet, he can never focus on it, numerous concerns proving themselves as louder, as urgent. Being in Verona can only mean one thing for him, and it often is the abnegation of the self in the name of the Santo Domingos, of the Montagues. He had almost forgotten how that felt. ━━ Have you encountered what you needed, though? What is your class about? I haven’t had the chance to bother you with academic discussions in so long. ━━ Bellamy teases, a soft nudge to Matthias’ hips. ━━ Lead the way, angelo.

Their lips tug downward, stirred from the apathy Marcelo had sworn to paint across them, as they stubbornly shake their head, “a poor one. What good will patience do me?” It wouldn’t be the years between crime and punishment that lessened the weight on their shoulders, but a taste of what came after. The taste of finality. “But hanging them with it might serve as some encouragement,” they sigh, mouth pursing in thought. They had to learn — for Roman, for the Montagues; a bruise on the mob would be found, and pressed, until ichor poured from its veins and sank it to its knees. 

Could it be taught, Marcelo wonders, what they share with Matthias? This inherent rotten thing that writhes within, that eats and singes and howls when spilled from their blood? Was it born from the death of a father, or at their own first breaths? Had they learned from Matthias, and he, from the mouth of beasts like Vivianne? It’s between them now, as it always is, and Marcelo has never considered when it was they first noticed its shifting gaze, only that they had. Only that if they recognize it in one another, can the others, as well? Or have both simply etched it beneath the eyelids of Verona —their faces— and the fear that cradles such a sight?

Matthias agrees, and an innate, childish, urge in Marcelo wants it to be enough; wants to be the same kid that would let his praise be spoon fed to their hungry lips, again. But it’s not. There’s a divide between them, as raw and angry as the bitterness they share, and it won’t be dismantled by honeyed approval. Their mouth presses into a thin line as they search Matthias’ expression, seeking that same crack they always prodded for. He gives them none. “Loyalty means little if you can’t prove it,” Marcelo acknowledges, hazel hues boring into the man, “it’s one thing to die for the Montagues, but it’s another, entirely, to live for them, and we’ll need soldiers in this war — not sacrifices.” 

Why? It was glaring to most. A man who did little to boast his success, and yet found much. A Montague, born and raised, the red in his blood the same red of the kingdom he served. He had arrived in most their formative years, and had left each knowing more than before he had. There was a natural inclination to mentor in Matthias that Marcelo knew he was loathe to deny anyone of. It all made sense on paper. Yet, perhaps more so than any of those reasons, they wanted to watch, and to learn, Matthias again — they wanted to trust him with the family they’d tenderly tucked beneath their ribs, and know it was in hands that would break and bleed to protect it. 

“Because there’s no one more loyal than you, Warren,” Marcelo speaks, a grim smile pulling at the edges of their mouth, “I trust you’ll show them exactly what it takes to be one of us.”

“A lot, if you learn to weaponize it,” Matthias pointed out with a shrug. He’d been lying in wait for years, and had learned during that time that striking immediately didn’t always guarantee you were going to strike perfectly every time. “Sometimes patience brings more preciseness. Plus, haste can make you act at inopportune times. And it may make you predictable.” While Marcelo’s sometimes wild nature made them a force to be reckoned with and one that could be unpredictable in itself, it was widely known that they would often be first to act, something Matthias had even come to expect in their fights. It was something he learned to prepare against, and if the Capulets did the same, it might spell danger for Marcelo, which was quite possibly the last thing Matthias wanted. Their strength and vigor was valuable, not just for its effectiveness against the Capulets but for its energizing powers within the Montagues. When one of the strongest links was bested, the rest of the chain begins to weaken.

The words Marcelo spoke had an abundance of truth in them. Matthias had lived for the Montagues before he was even eligible to join them. His father had lived for the Montagues. Matthias would not say Marius died for them, however. No, he died for nothing, not when Mikael Falco couldn’t even be brave enough to face him and look him in the eyes. His father did not have a fight to give, and died like a dog. Such an action he could never forgive, and even after Matthias had left Verona, he returned with a new life’s vigor, and again gave it all to Damiano and the Montagues. He had no doubt that Marcelo had lived for the Montagues, as well, knowing them as they grew. “You’re right. We need more than human shields. If they don’t believe in the things they’re doing, they’re no better than that.”

10.06.2019 | UNIVERSITÁ DI VERONA | @matthiaswarren​

Each beat of her heart pulsed another shot of anxiousness through her, wave after wave, each seeming larger than the last until her unease threatened to consume her. Harriet pushed herself into a standing position before she drowned in her thoughts - exhaling a modicum of them in deliberate, slow, breathing - as she began to walk around the office she had been directed to wait in. Curious that such a small space could tell her so much about the person whom she knew very little about, the most intimate detail she knew was his preference for ammunition. Very little indeed.

I just need to come to terms with it was what she told Easton. I have no inclination to see him again was what she told Vivianne. Harriet herself was the one who had chosen to pick determinedly at the emotional scab she had been left with until it fell off, having come here with the intent to stop the blood flow before she would bleed out. Amber hues glossed over the spines of books that stood to attention on the shelves, as though one might hold the answer to the question she desperately wanted answered so she didn’t need to ask.

Abandoning that conquest, Harriet had just lowered herself into the chair again when the door opened minutes later, turning her head to meet the sound of the person entering the office. Her own hand clamped firm on her thigh, reminding her not to bold like a frightened animal, even though her heart pounded frantically against her rib cage. “Buongiorno, Matthias,” her voice doesn’t betray the nervous energy that seems to vibrate inside her ear drums and Harriet is grateful for it. “Dobbiamo parlare.” We need to talk.

Now or never is the last thought that crosses her mind before she turns around to face him.

Matthias felt the same as every day as he walked through the hall. No worry plagued his mind, no thoughts of the past echoed in his footsteps. The past was left in the classroom, erased from a board he’d covered in dates and definitions in the last hour. It remained confined to only the note he kept in his bag, weighing heavy as it swung into his hip with every step he took. And yet this was not the past that ever weighed him down. In fact, this past, this historical past, kept his mind off his own all too recent past, the one that kept his feet running, the one that kept his mind scheming. Nine years was not such a long time ago.

But a more recent past resurfaced as he unlocked his door and entered his office, only to find someone sitting within the room he’d expected to be empty. Surprise wore clear on his face, but the anger it switched to at the thought of someone rifling through his things quickly dissipated once he recognized the face of the woman who occupied the seat. Harriet. The woman who he’d met weeks prior, who was teaching a course. The woman he’d shot even more recently than that.

Matthias knows that while it was his bullet that injured her, it was not his fault that she was injured in the first place. Of course he knows she should not have been injured in the first place, and it was a shame and she had his condolences, but he also cannot think of the moment without acknowledging that without Lucrezia’s actions, Harriet would not have been shot, and she likely would not have been in his office. But he figured, if she had to extract his bullet from her arm, she at least deserved to extract some answers from him in return.

“Ms. DiAngelo,” he greeted, placing his bag down behind his desk. Matthias is stone-faced, calculated, the picture of professionalism. He does not jump to point the blame. Instead, he sits, calmly, and addresses her. His eyes can’t help but wander to the shoulder that was bloodied by his weapon, but there is nothing for him to see other than the layers of clothing she wears. His gaze returns to hers. “I hope you’re faring well. I’ll grant you the time. I hope you were not waiting long, though I do not quite appreciate how we’re meeting,” he says, looking about the office, unsure what she had touched and what information she had obtained.

‘I’m not here for games,’ Warren insists, as if it isn’t what they’ve been playing at for years now, as if Verona hasn’t made a farce of a childhood friendship and turned everything between them into a political puppet game. 

Some part of her wants to lean her head back and laugh; half-scornful, half-crazed. 

Verona had taken a boy with a heart of gold and molded him into a mafioso fanatic who lived with one foot in poisoned soil, and the other in his father’s grave. And still, Matthias wants to talk to her of games. Not realizing all the while that they’re mired in a game, that they’ve both of them become the joke; the pathetic punchline. 

So Vivianne looks to her former-friend-turned-adversary and gives him the truth he’s asked for; no more, no less. “È vero,” She tells him simply, it’s true. The Underboss scans his eyes for any tell as to how the priceless information registers, keeping her own expression aloof and guarded all the while. ‘It’s not my information to share, nor my consequence to consider,’ Malcolm tells her, and, she thinks, were he one of her own Captains she would roll her eyes and rebuke him for his short-sightedness. 

Once set free, intel ceases to belong to the speaker. It becomes tool or weapon; wielded at the mercy of whosoever chooses to equip it first. But this truth she keeps to herself. Not so charitable as to lend it to a man who still sees her as the Enemy. 

“What’s the verdict, Capodecina? Have you wasted your time?”

It’s true.

It’s a simple answer, one Matthias pockets away. Perhaps it will be removed at a later time, when it is useful, or perhaps it will be forgotten, washed away in time. It is quite the heavy piece of information, and yet, it is not his weapon to wield. In doing so, Matthias knows it would almost certainly harm Henry in one way or another, and while this war can be cold even to allies, Matthias knows he can not afford to risk all that Henry is worth, be it from a calculated general’s standpoint or the view of a childhood friend.

But the implications are too grand to simply just brush off. A Capulet — and more than that, the Capulet’s untouchable Underboss — has helped a Montague, going so far as to be the reason for his safety, perhaps even the reason he is still standing. There is still so much context that Matthias is missing, and it is also that which blunts the tool of information he has just received from Vivianne. Yet another reason two words are not so useful for now. Matthias knows better than to expect any more from her, and he has no reason to force it out of her, for he has no conviction to suspect her of any wrongdoing and has no authority to lay such hands on someone of her rank.

Matthias’ brow arches, the low timbre of his voice an echo of their childhood. It had been years they’d played this same game; a mouthy teenager verbally felling opponents, and the knowing cluck of a man that could, but wouldn’t. Marcelo had learned plenty from him, but not humility. In fact, beyond their sparring and wrestling, they’d most favored pressing thumbs hard against the Montague’s buttons, itching for Matthias to shed some of his own in favor of showing them the brutality Marcelo feigned not to be familiar with. 

“Both,” they return with a glance, arms crossing across their chest as they tilt their head, “you would think the third or fourth broken rib would be useful, something worth avoiding, but they keep stumbling right into it.” A snort as hazel hues flicker to the stretch of windows they lean against, “they’ll learn.” It had been taxing on Marcelo, their anger rooting around beneath the skin with no where to burrow, but it had served to sharpen their efforts in making a monster of the soldatos; a punching bag that might latch its teeth into their muscle and tear before they had a chance to beat it down. “Positive, old man,” they snort, as if they did not hunger for the sight of Matthias bearing down on them, squeezing the usual confidence from their lungs. Was it something they could allow, now, with bitterness resting on their heart?

“Training,” Marcelo reveals, turning to face Matthias once more, “a formal initiate training process. All of the fundamental tools you’d teach your soldiers — self defense, weapons training, how to disarm and throw a decent punch.” Hazel hues flicker across the Captain’s expression, searching for an ember of interest in his stillness. “You’d be assigned certain days and certain initiates to work with that week. Watch for the ones that fall behind, any that might excel, strong points and weaknesses.” They punctuate their thought with a nod, arm extending to wave idly in the space between them, “we have had far too much fresh blood splattered on enemy territory. Once we’ve shown an interest they need to know how to defend themselves, or we’re leading lambs to a slaughter.”

Matthias saw some of his youthful spirit in Marcelo, sometimes. It was never a long glimpse, a flash here when they took off into a wild charge and a fleeting reminder there when they let out a ring of victorious laughter, but it was there. Matthias hadn’t always been all calculated thoughts and harsh glances. While planning, he’d learned from his father, was important, he’d once been so excited at the possibilities the future offered that he once ran head-first without thinking. He once threw himself into the wild romps of the Montagues in search of scraps of the greatness he saw in his father. He knew Marcelo still exhibited those wild qualities, and sometimes, his own feet still itched to run. But he was a different man, now. A man whose fists were his best weapons just the same, but they swung with new direction, new motivation, new emotion.

“Sounds to me like they’re giving you a lesson in patience,” he pointed out with his arms folded across his chest. Marcelo was exceptional, and they knew it. They picked up on these violent acts quickly, a combination of talent and the head-start they’d gotten knowing people like Matthias as a child. But not everyone was so swift to learn, and not everyone was as eager to give into violence. “They will. Or they’ll pay the price for not keeping up. You’ve done all you can. There’s a point where they need to pick up the slack.” It was necessary that they did, else Matthias knew they wouldn’t survive a day in this city on their own. 

TRADIMENTO E FIDUCIA || FT. MW

‘Because I’m not Mercutio, nor am I Goneril,’ Matthias fires back gruffly with his head held high. Vivianne gives him a long look, one of muted half-interest. Perhaps it’s inaccurate to toss him into the same category as Grace, or Mercutio, or any other Montague — much as it makes their interactions easier when she can pretend like so. She wonders if it’s the same for him. She wonders whether she’s merely a Capulet in his eyes and nothing more; whether thinking it lessens the cavitating weight of Unforgiving Memory riding on his own back.

… Or whether, in contrast to her, it makes no difference to him at all.

But the minute his reasons for approaching her become clear, Vivianne wishes sorely that she had not stopped to entertain him. That she’d ignored Matthias’ shadow and continued along her way; forever ignorant to the indictment that falls off his tongue. That way at least, she might’ve been able to plead the fifth.

‘I’ve heard you helped one of our own… Is it true? Have you saved Hamlet’s life?’

Instead, she’s left to bristle in response, the gears in her mind turning rapidly in search of a defense, a way out. “E se lo fosse?” Vivianne rebuttals; and what if it is? Who’d told him? Henry and his mother were the only two people who knew about that night; had there been other unintended witnesses, watching from the shadows?… Was rumor, even now, reaching Cosimo’s ears?…

She, better than anyone knows the consequences of such a revelation. The Capulet Underboss would not be lauded for her mercy. Instead, the Capulet Underboss could be cut down like an infidel for the Montague life she’d saved that night.

“What will you do, dutiful Capodecina?” Vivianne continues sardonically; rapidly building a facade, a defense to buy time. “String me up? Sell me out? And what, di grazia, does it matter to you whether I did or whether I didn’t? Better yet,” She baits him, lifting her chin, blue eyes steady, “ — Which answer would please you best?”

There’s a dangerous element to having followed Vivianne. She could easily report back that she was being tailed by a Montague, to which soldiers could easily keep their eyes on his every move, and bring about his demise if they see him as a great enough threat. But he poses no threat to Vivianne, not in this moment. She turned to face him on her own volition, and he will let her go just as easily as she chose to stay and entertain his question. He won’t imagine she wished to speak with him, and he knew well the risks of confronting her. Matthias had judged those risks worth the information he sought, and he can only believe Vivianne will not use those risks against him. After all, he was sure she could have erased him from this life just as easily as a younger version of himself had believed she erased him from her memory.

Matthias shrugs at her question. Truthfully, he hadn’t really thought of what he would do if it was. Part of him, the sane part that knew no one in this city held out an arm to someone in opposing garb, had assumed she would deny his claim outright. Perhaps she’d even laugh at him. But if she had done what the rumors suggested, it would leave him with more questions than answers. Perhaps the question that surfaced too easily was how much of the Vivianne he had known as a child was still behind the cold exterior. “Then it is. I’m here for truth. I’m not here for games,” he explained.

Vivianne appears to step through life as if it is a game of chess, where every move is calculated and everything a pawn. Matthias certainly understood the calculation, but for once, this information is not one he intended to weaponize, certainly not when he didn’t know the entire story. He simply had a question to quell. “It is not my information to share, nor is it my consequence to consider.” Even promoted, Matthias knows his place. He also knows to simply utter all information given to him, no matter who it helps, is a foolish move, and often a death sentence. Thus, Matthias Warren is no songbird, no matter whose ears find the tune pleasing. He was merely in disbelief of the rumors he’d heard. He’d merely wanted answers, if only for his own peace of mind. 

DATE.            twenty-fifth of may.

LOCATION.   the library of verona.

STATUS.        closed, @matthiaswarren.

It’s nostalgic, albeit not in a good way ━ to find himself hiding amidst piles of books that recount death as glory, painting blood over beautiful words, turning poetry into sinking a blade inside one’s chest, iron shining under the moonlight as victorious rhymes would. It’s as if his father would be there at any minute, ready to drag him off to train until his hands were filled with blisters. It’s as if Roman and Marcelo would laugh when they should not, and Bellamy would have to urge them to keep it down. It’s as if nothing had changed━ and yet, there is the unsettling sensation of every detail being just slightly out of place, centimetres  &  souls apart from their original position. It crashes over his head every time, merciless: how nothing was ever fine, how there was no way to turn back to what had long burned away. Bellamy reads over the same line twice, memory a synesthetic  &  overwhelming thing ━ it never washes off, nails digging deeper into skin until they find roots, until crescent moons become permanent blemishes in his tan complexion. Faith is a haunting, he is sure, which is maybe is the reason why he has become one, as well. Sitting down by a bookshelf, crossed legs and face buried in a book that feels older than his own soul, Bellamy hopes words will reach him, somehow. Maybe he needs one saving grace━ and it does come in the form of Matthias. Bellamy smiles up at him, although he is quite sure of what is to follow (a reprimand for wasting away at the library instead of keeping up shape, perhaps?). ━━ Angelo. ━━ honeyed terms come out easily from Bellamy’s lips, as if he was not entirely tainted, sinful, fallen. ━━ What brings you here? Has the cold bitten you out of the streets for the day? ━━ playful banter is meaningless for a voice thoroughly dipped in caramel, no harm ever climbing out of his throat to see the light of day. ━━ Come, sit down. You could use some rest, it seems. 

Matthias has spent too much time in this place at almost every stage of his life to exclusively associate it with nostalgia. As a child, he would take his mother’s hand and follow her to the storybooks, his head craned upwards in the hopes of getting a glimpse of his father or the work being conducted outside of the regular patron’s gaze. He remembered the times in his teenage years where he would find any excuse to wander up there, to pass along a message to his father or another Montague, only to be reprimanded for interrupted or given a silent look that sent him back to the world of the mundane. The moments he could finally walk behind those firmly-shut doors, freshly eighteen and nearly running head-first towards them, were moments he once reveled in. Now, those moments were routine. There were years he did not see those doors or any book in that library, and it was during those years he felt something missing from any similar library he found himself in whilst in Paris. They did not hold the power or the secrets that Verona’s did.

It always seemed to come to this; the two, bleeding and bruised, frothing and exhausted, still able to drag themselves to the others feet if only to prove that they can. Matthias has suffered far worse and lived, still, to return the favor. It’s perhaps less his body Marcelo worries for, but his mind, and the way it can so often ache just as a wound might. The man gives them nothing, though, just as they’d expected. So many similarities shared between the two, yet Marcelo has never quite perfected that same art of ambiguity, no matter how faulty Matthias’ own might be. 

“Bene,” they observe, hazel hues flickering across the exposed stretches of his flesh, “sparring with the soldatos has been worthless.” It’s a noncommittal congratulations, acknowledgment wrapped in disinterest as they raise a shoulder, “no one poses quite the challenge you do.” It is as honest as Marcelo will allow themselves now, a seed of doubt pricking at the admission; a sliver of anger bred from it that wills itself not to lunge for the man before them. Vivianne Sloane? It asks, it pleads, in silence.

“Good as ever,” Marcelo lies, glancing out the window toward the streets below as their tongue darts to wet their lips, “in fact, I’ve kept busy.” At least, that much was true. It’s all they can do with Paola healing, Valentina buried, and Vivianne free. Keeping busy as if to pretend their heart is not alight; a pyre eaten to ash in their chest. “That’s why I’ve called you here, actually. You have enough on your plate, lo so, but you know how I love to watch you struggle, Warren.”

Matthias was used to seeing Marcelo covered in sweat more often than he saw them in a suit. It was just the nature of the other Montague, war-raised and hell-seeking, and those above them had learned where they excelled long ago. Why force them through negotiations when they were much more persuasive in a fight? Matthias had thought so, at least, always receiving a worthy challenge from Marcelo. It helped that he had watched them grow to excel in a fight, and he would not say whether or not he had any hand in that.

“Worthless for you or for them?” Matthias asked with a raised brow. He’d sparred with enough of those with less experience to know what Marcelo might be feeling, but he still does it to remind himself of the skills that he rarely had to think about, and to ensure the Montagues were as strong as could be. They were only as strong as the weakest soldier, and even though things were looking up, Matthias didn’t think there was any more they could afford to sacrifice to the Capulets, who were likely growing hungrier than usual. “I’ll be back soon enough,” he explained. The last thing he needed was to tear the wound back open. Even he knew when to rest in a fight. He also knew a complement when he heard one, especially coming from Marcelo. He did not gloat. “Are you sure you won’t regret those words?”

“The delay?” Paola repeats. Try as she might, she cannot memorize the histories of every Montague. There is a shared thread between them all, thick as rope and solid as steel. She is not a part of it. If she had a better sense of balance — something to keep her centered and standing upright — she might try to walk across the tightrope. But the only way Paola has ever kept herself safe is to leave and be left behind. She does not bother trying to join this merry band of brothers.

It seems silly to think of herself on a team — she doesn’t feel that way in the least. She is the pawn on the board that is taken off the board first to make room for the other pieces, stronger and more powerful than she. Still, Paola smiles and lets Matthias believe that this is the beginning of a new dawn for the Montagues.

It’s actually quite nice, Paola realizes. Matthias thinks she belongs in the new era. It’s a small kindness, and Paola takes it into her palms with quiet wonder. The heart has a habit of forming connections without trying. Even in strange cities, even in the dark underbellies of the criminal world.

Matthias includes Paola in the we, and something in her gives way. Her smile grows genuine. “I suppose I will. And so,” she points out, ” will you. You’ll make a fine captain.” A quick dose of curiosity compels Paola to press further and ask, “Are you nervous at all?”

“Yes, or at least I’d imagine if I’d not taken a leave of absence this day might have come sooner.” He does not give up the reason right away. Most Montagues knew the reason why Matthias left, able to put two and two together when he hadn’t explicitly explained it to most. He’d left as soon as he could following his father’s funeral without a farewell to anyone except for his mother, and eventually word had gotten around when he finally began to correspond to some in Verona that he was studying in Paris. Certainly they all knew that he ran, and likely they had a feeling as to why. And yet Matthias stood here, feet planted firmly, as if they weren’t itching at every moment to run in some sort of direction. They ran from Verona and raced to return, and now they wished to charge in the direction of Mikael Falco’s last breath before speeding back down the path his father had forged, to retrace those footsteps and perhaps continue to carve out a path where Marius could not finish his. Paola, he’d realized, didn’t know much of that at all.

There is much about Paola that Matthias does not know. Yet, he would argue that, pawn or not, are they not all pieces of the same color? Do they not all serve the same side in this game? It is hard to envision such a scenario when he has been a piece his whole life. When does a pawn realize it is a pawn? There may only be two moments: when that pawn is first introduced to the game board, when it finds that sense of belonging only to know it is to be used, and when that pawn is finally removed from play, be it by the hand of its owner or its opponent, seeing the board from a new perspective.

A humble smile appears on a stoic face as he nods. “Thank you.” Matthias shakes his head. “No, I cannot say I am. I’ve been preparing for this for some time, and I’ve been exposed to it for so long it’s as if I had done it already. Are you?”

.

“If I wanted to catch you while you were weak, I would have done so already,’ Matthias tells her, and although it might be intended to reassure, Vivianne can’t help but bristle slightly. “I almost wonder why you didn’t try. Your Mercutio came all the way to my office to say hello with their fists. Goneril preferred to gloat at my bedside.” She can’t bring herself to say your Goneril, not when there’s ever the bitter reminder that the woman was hers not so long ago; as much as any soldier can belong to an Underboss hopeless enough to have once thought them friend. 

“… Maybe if you’d joined we could’ve had ourselves a proper party. Isn’t that what they say? Two’s company, three’s — nevermind.” The Underboss trails off with a wave of her hand. She’s used to keeping her emotions more tightly-held against her chest, especially when it comes to Matthias; yet another person she’d lost along the way. A man who, at one point, had been her only friend in the world. But the past few weeks have left her unstrung; pulled thin at the edges like frayed rope. It spools out of her.

‘I’ve come to hear if the rumors were true.’

“What rumors?” She asks him sharply, a frown settling in her expression as if that alone is enough to raise her hackles. Truth be told, there’s a lot that has her feeling defensive lately; and on top of a baseline predisposition for cynicism, Matthias’ words draw her defenses up that much higher. “You know I’ve no love for hearsay, Warren. Tell me plainly what it is you wish to know.” Vivianne doesn’t yet know whether she’ll grant him insight anyway. Even if she can, even if it costs nothing. He’s bold to approach her like this, bolder still to come with a request for honest answers.

But then, how entirely, unsurprisingly Malcolm of him. 

“Because I’m not Mercutio, nor am I Goneril.” It was the only answer he intended to give, so Matthias thought Vivianne would have to be satisfied with it. He did not intend to fight her if it was not warranted — he had not even laid vicious hands upon her when he accused her of breaking their deal with Rafaella as a proxy. Besides, he knew the rules of warfare, and the Underboss was not one to lightly trifle with. If he were to take action, it would need to be successful without a moment’s weakness, and while he was capable of such things, still, he didn’t, for the action was not warranted. He respected the unspoken rules of this war, even if he has found that the Capulets do not time and time again. Perhaps there was also part, deep down, that remembered the girl she was. The thought rarely grew, robbed of sunlight in the deep, dark shadow of the reminder that she was long gone from ever being that girl again.

“And I share the same sentiment, which is why I’ve come to do some fact-checking of my own.” Matthias was not one to easily fall victim to rumor, but the whispers have not left the curious part of his mind, for the thoughts were so incredulous that they were either laughably false or concernedly true. Stranger things have happened in Verona than Capulet helping Montague, and such things have happened in Verona before. This was not a rumor on which Matthias would tread lightly; he wasn’t even quite sure what the implications of them could mean if they were true.

date: may 22nd location: the library of verona status: @matthiaswarren

There was no need for a desk between the two; no separation between their own superiority and their fellow Captain’s. Marcelo and Matthias were equals, had always been equals, long before their respective titles had been bestowed. It felt unnecessary to slouch in their chair, staring at the empty walls and waiting for their meeting to trickle to a close when they could watch Verona from below, instead. With their shoulder pressed against the glass, their gaze flickers absently from one pedestrian to the next, leashing their thoughts to the prospect at hand.

The library is quiet — perhaps fear to linger after the Cathedral was abandoned charred and simmering. It would be a fitting end, no doubt, for Verona’s L’inferno. Yet, their heart shutters deep in their chest for a separate reason entirely. A doubt burrowing to the beat of its pulsing that has stayed with them for nearly a month now. It’s interrupted, then, by the sound of their object of concern’s footfall echoing through the hall. 

“Warren,” Marcelo greets without turning, having seen the blurry reflection of Matthias in the window pane, “how you holding up?” Angling their body in the man’s direction, finally, they settle hazel hues on his frame, brow quirking.

Matthias remembered the days long ago when he and Marcelo were much younger, though Matthias had more than a few years upon the other Montague. But this was a time before the Montague name was stitched to their own, though Matthias had seen it sewn to that of his father’s. He remembered occasionally having to watch over the chaotic three of the young prince and his two closest friends, and knew Marcelo had been the one with fire in their eyes, and that heat fueled more than a few thrown fists as Matthias watched them grow. Eventually, Marcelo had surpassed him in rank while he was absent, and when he learned of such news, he thought of that fire in the eyes of a child that did not dwindle as they reached adulthood. He respected it, he fought alongside it, and now, his own fire, a different sort of burning beast, was equal to it.

He’s called to meet with them, and considering the chosen location, Matthias assumes it’s a serious matter. Had Marcelo wanted to talk of something less relevant, they might have chosen a restaurant or a bar or even the gym for an informal meeting. But the library signaled to Matthias that this was Montague business, and it was Montague business that was not to get out or fall upon the ears of anyone outside their circle. So he approached as such, squared shoulders serious with every step he took towards the waiting person at the window.

.

“No congratulations are necessary,” Paola insists, raising a palm as if to halt Matthias before he can start. Would you congratulate a woman on a precipice, staring down into the depths of the sea as she wonders whether the wind will shove her into death’s embrace or back to safety? It is less a promotion than it is a cage: lure, they say, because it is a better word for what they mean. Pawn.

It doesn’t bother her. Pawns have freedom, after all. She has never been an ambitious creature, with a hunger for the sun’s blistering heat to reveal her glory. She wants only the simple touch of the wind against her bare skin. A moment of quiet, in which everything makes sense and all the puzzle pieces click into peace. She cares as little for the future as she cares for the past. Let it burn. If Verona has taught her anything, it’s that the present moment is all she has. In that, Paola finds peace. What waits behind and what lies beyond has no meaning.

Paola wonders if Matthias, on the other hand, is pleased. The slight tug at his lips is more joy than she’s seen in him during their sparring sessions. Studying him now, Paola sees not a man but a lion stepping into his pride for the first time. A man who is shrugging off the airs of a footman and assuming the command of a conquerer. The smile on her lips is sincere; it’s a good look for Matthias, who did not bat an eye when she stole his wallet.

“But for you, Matthias, I imagine this was a long time coming. Your father would have been proud.”

There’s something less than humble about her dismissal. Matthias does not think she says it to be modest, that spotlight makes her wish to shy away, for her words lack that bashful note. However, he cannot see her promotion as a negative thing, but that is perhaps he cannot bear to imagine any attention from the Montague higher-ups would be negative. She was promoted, and such things in his mind rang out as positive, a step-up, a reminder that she is trusted with more from Damiano and Genevieve. After all, it was not long ago that Paola joined their ranks, learning the ropes as a soldier. While he wasn’t sure of all the responsibilities that came with her new role, though he could imagine some of them, the specialized role meant they saw a strength in her, and had to entrust her with more than they might any soldier. It’s easy for him to say — when you’ve always been a pawn, you learn to admire the shine of the other pieces on the board.

But Matthias indulges Paola and pursues the congratulations no further. There’s no need to pry for what reasons she humbles herself — likely, he would never receive the answers to such questions, and he is not here to extract information from her. If she wishes to leave it, then leave it he shall, perhaps only to bring up smaller congratulations when she proves herself in this role. She’s done a good job at it so far, he thinks, though it only reminds him of how long his progress took, how much time was spent to bring him from soldier to captain. He supposed his leave of absence played a role, that there was trust he had to earn back, but in showing his determination, he had, and now, plenty of opportunities unfolded themselves to him. Damiano, unknowingly, had given Matthias the permission he’d never intended to ask for to strike his enemy down.

“It was, though I understand the delay,” he replied. Paris felt like a world away, and yet it was only two years since he’d arrived back in Verona, his brow set in a hard line and his eyes set on the target of his rage. Your father would have been proud. Those words seemed to lift a tension off his shoulders. While Paola had never known his father, those words were the ones he’d been longing to hear, second only to an expression of pride from Marius himself. When he could not obtain the latter, he would gladly accept the former. “Thank you. I can only hope that I continue to make him proud.”

Tradimento e Fiducia || ft. MW

Date: May 25th, 2019. Time: Early afternoon. Place: [Redacted] Neutral Territory. Availability: Closed to @matthiaswarren​

She realizes she’s being followed a few minutes in. 

It’s hardly the first-time, and for such a high-ranking Mafia member the threat of being stalked, assailed or cut down is always near; even in the middle of a busy street. Even in broad daylight. Crimes considerably more bold have been committed in Verona, and with the added layer of her pessimistic paranoia, Vivianne is almost always on-guard. But it’s even worse this month; after the string of Montague attacks and decisive victories that have left all Capulets looking over their shoulders.

And already she can feel the turmoil beneath her skin; bile mixed with anxiety as her shoulders tense and she measures her breathing. How to look without looking?… 

Eventually, she does.

A glance at a reflective window pane in her peripheral vision reveals her pursuant to be none other than Matthias, but she doesn’t slow in her steps. They’re still in a fairly public space, and she guesses it’s why he’s keeping his distance. That, or he really hopes she hasn’t seen him. Vivianne turns a corner and keeps walking, moving further away from the main road and into a secluded side-street. It’s a minor relief that of all possible Montagues it’s Malcolm who’s tailing her, but given the relative hostility of their last interaction, it doesn’t guarantee she’s out of danger.

Finally, Vivianne stops in her tracks, but doesn’t turn to face him as he approaches. 

“You cast a long shadow, Warren. If you mean to catch me while I’m down for the count, I’m afraid you’re about a week late.” The side-effects from her concussion have mostly faded, and her other injuries are well on their way to healing too.

Dimly, she wonders if he wishes they wouldn’t. 

Matthias knows Vivianne is smart, and so he does not hide as he stalks after her. His steps mirror hers, only his are yards behind, trailing her as she walks with that purposeful stride through Verona’s few neutral streets. Following her is a split-second decision on his part, for one does not often see the Capulet Underboss lurking about lawless streets so soon after Montague victory. Such a thing was asking for a challenge; fortunately for Vivianne, Matthias did not present a physical one, despite his stature.

He wondered that she was doing in these streets on this day, aside from wondering what god blessed him with this opportunity. Likely, it was the same one who had granted him his promotion, a great reward for the price of the blood that seeped from his side, from the blood he shed of an innocent. Matthias had been recovering just fine, the wound slowly healing itself, the blood long since cleaned up. He doubted there would be any shed today as he followed Vivianne, but he was certainly prepared, just in case. His steps slowed as she came to a halt.

“Then it’s fortunate that stealth was never intended,” he replied as the space between them shrunk, his voice still low in case any curious ears were nearby. Matthias knew his strengths well, but he was also aware of his weaknesses. His appearance guaranteed he would be spotted or heard eventually, no matter how much he tried, and so Matthias never attempted to use stealth to his advantage, instead relying on force. “If I wanted to catch you while you were weak, I would have done so already.” He could not touch the Underboss, an unspoken rule he was well aware of. The universe was balanced in such a way that her position of power was not to be disturbed by the likes of him, even with his own promotion. “I’ve come to hear if the rumors were true.”

There was something in the way he looked at her that was difficult to place. Lucrezia was no stranger to the stare of men, usually obvious, nearly always wanting. But from her professor there was something different. It wasn’t want, not exactly, but it was a type of hunger all the same. Lucrezia felt a slight chill shoot down her spine and she sat up straighter, leaning slightly forward to angle her chest in a more appealing way. She suppressed the feeling of unease, the warning that sang out in every nerve. This is a bad idea, some deep part of her knew this, and yet she stayed out of a morbid sense of curiosity.

“I was looking for a new lens, well - I am.” Lucrezia’s chin seemed to jut out in an almost defiant way. “A lens not entirely based on the world experience of white men. No offense.” She softened suddenly, smiling her most seductive smile. “Which has proven difficult to find, but don’t worry, I can be quite persistent.” The unease still lingered, and so she went on the attack, letting the charm and flirtation drip off her red lips like honey. Would it work? She wasn’t sure, but at the very least it was entertaining.

She nodded in thanks, noting the somewhat backhanded nature of the compliment. Typical man, Lucrezia resisted rolling her eyes, instead playing the role of teacher’s pet. She’d always had a way with words, so it wasn’t surprising that her writing was decent without her having any other sort of higher education. It was still nice to hear, particularly from someone who owed her nothing. Bringing up her husband was a strange tactic, a tiny furrow appeared between her brows. Either he wanted her and brought up her attachment to see how far she was willing to take this; or he was some alpha-male asshole who thought women could not be intelligent or successful without a husband to check her work. Anger flared up across her skin, sharp and electric. For the moment she ignored it.

“Oh.” Dark eyes floated downwards in a look that might have been demure on a less wicked hearted girl, “I don’t think he is all that interested.” Lucrezia peeked up at him through thick lashes. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to bother him with this. I’m not sure if he thinks this class is a good use of my time.” It was a perfectly plausible cover, the distant husband letting his flighty wife do as she wished - in reality Lucrezia was far too proud and stubborn to ask for his help. She’d chosen to do this, and she would do this on her own. “That is not at all to say he doesn’t care,” a sudden surge of desire to defend him sprang up in her chest. “He does, it’s just,” she sighed, “I am taking it seriously, but it feels like he - no one really thinks I am.”

“Do you tell all your students to ask their spouses for help or am I just special?”

Lucrezia has missed the point entirely, Matthias realizes. History is not about spewing random opinions everywhere. Yes, different events have different interpretation, and they are all looked at and examined with a critical lens whether the reader agrees with them or not. But the important thing is that these claims have evidence, and he’s seen none from Lucrezia. Matthias knows a thing or two about accusations and the amount of evidence that must support them, and that is not limited to his studies. He’d spent years gathering the evidence against Lucrezia’s own husband before returning to Verona with the certainty in the justice he planned to enact upon Mikael Falco. Matthias knew better than anyone that running with an unlicensed claim was as good as painting a large target on your back. He would have expected an emissary to know better.

“I don’t care what lens you’re using,” Matthias replied sternly. He was not here to coddle anyone, let alone the wife of his enemy, and if she would not listen, he would ensure he drove the point home. If she ignored it after that, well, her grades were her own doing. “Your lens also needs to be focused on some facts for claims to make sense and be supported. That is the point I am making here. If you do not give me sources, as I have requested multiple times in the assignment, your grade will not improve.” The threat of a less-than-desirable grade by her standards, or even a worse grade, was one of the lighter threats Matthias had made in his lifetime. But at the risk of exposing his affiliations to the woman who seemed mostly unaware, he kept it at that, the facade of a stern teacher masking the face of a vengeful Montague.

after hours // open to montagues may 23rd, hotel emelia, late evening

Even though she had only arrived no more than fifteen minutes ago, Ramona was already overwhelmed. The gold-drenched room felt overbearing and all too bright, the air felt sour and choked up along her tongue, and the crowds seemed large and limitless, as though they were going to swallow her whole and spit out her bones if she dared to drift too close. Matthias’s steady presence had soothed her, but considering his promotion and the celebration around it, he had to leave her side sooner than either of them preferred.

Now she stood alone, lingering beside one of several tables carrying a wide array of food and drinks, firmly resisting the urge to steal distant glances at her cousin or throw beckoning looks Matthias’s way. It was strange, to think that, in this moment, she would choose the battlefield over a simple party. She had grown somewhat accustomed to it, comfortable with attributing her roiling emotions to that volatile environment; however, she couldn’t even recall the last time that she had emerged from her isolation to engage in such raucous, brimming activity – if there had even been a first time. And to think, that once upon a tarnished time, she had actually thrived on it.

Rubbing at her knotted brow, Ramona took a deep breath then reached for a drink. She took a long gulp, staring down into the empty glass for a long moment before closing her eyes and breathing a clipped sigh. “Fuck.” She muttered to herself, taking note of the companion lingering at her side only after it was too late.

He’d arrived with Ramona, keeping her close as they talked and enjoyed some of the concessions that made their ways about the room. Even then, Matthias could tell something was amiss, in the tension in Ramona’s back beneath the firm presence of his hand, in the lack of sparks that danced in her eyes. Once, she would have been the one pulling him about the room, begging him to dance with her and sighing and handing him her drink to hold when he refused. That was what it had all started with, freedom in her limbs and upon her lips. So little time had passed between then and now, and yet it felt as if they’d both lived so many lifetimes with everything they had experienced in that time. He loved her in each lifetime. He would love her in every lifetime after, no matter how much weight they both had to bear from every last one of them.

Matthias had been pulled away with a rueful look at Ramona, following the soldier who had informed him that Don Damiano was wondering about his presence. Unable to deny the boss, Matthias intended upon quick conversation, pride filling his chest at the powerful man’s congratulations. In that moment, no matter how many lifetimes he had been through, Matthias was reminded of what he had joined for. He was once again that young man with his chin held a bit too high, asking Damiano to join. He was that soldier who flashed a wild grin with every encouraging remark from his father. He was invigorated with the spirit of Marius.

But Damiano turned to speak to someone, and even in a sea of congratulations, he looked over at Ramona, hoping to catch her eye. She was turned away from him, but not completely out of sight. He politely excused himself from a few conversations hoping to draw him in as he made his way through the crowd to get back to Ramona. As he neared, Matthias noticed the tension in her body once again, the look upon her face becoming clearer and clearer. Finally, as he approached, he heard her sigh, the weight of the world appearing to wring it out of her lungs. “What is it?” He asked, placing a hand on her arm.