#MOBSTARTER.

The streets were crowded, bustling with shoppers, diners, and tourists in the chilly evening air. The sidewalk was lit by the lights of each shop along the road, and the jovial atmosphere spilling from each of the open doors was contagious. Smiles abounded on many of the faces, and many different languages of the patrons blended together in a busy, excited buzz. Lorenzo Mastronardi stood just outside the door of one of the restaurants, having just had a delicious, home-style Italian dinner. Throughout his professional life he'd traveled many places, and frequented different establishments, all Italian in nature. Few were decent, and even less were truly enjoyable. It seemed the cooking secrets of the Old Country were fading, mixing with american styles to make bastardized versions of once good food. Tonight's dinner had been one of the best he'd had, that wasn't concocted on actual Italian soil. As he buttoned his overcoat and his breath rose into the air before him, he acknowledged that, while the food had been good, the restaurant was not suitable for his purposes. It was too small, had no tables that offered privacy for important discussions, and while the owner seemed at least part Italian, they did not appear to be raised in the old ways. The Sovrani could not count on their silence if they were to be overheard. Lorenzo lit a cigarette, his eyes traveling to an empty building across the street. It was large, appearing to have once housed a restaurant of its own, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. "Perfetto," He breathed under his breath, letting a large cloud of smoke stream from his lips.

@mobscene-starters

Jean leaned back in his chair, sipping at his cognac. When he first arrived to London, it seemed impossible that the place would ever feel like a home. That anywhere would ever feel like home again. But here, sitting in Vixen, surrounded by his brothers, his famille, he knew he was.

"Are you planning to drink anything tonight or are you just going to be a drooling mess all night?"

He never said they were a sophisticated family.

Maria slipped out of the market with a small paper bag tucked under her arm, the low hum of voices and bartering fading behind her. The air felt cooler out here, easier to breathe, and she let her shoulders relax as she stepped aside, only to bump straight into someone. She stumbled slighty backwards, instinctively steadying herself. “Oh, sorry,” she said quickly, lifting her gaze to them.

David rolled his shoulders as he stepped off the mat, sweat still clinging to his skin, knuckles sore beneath the wraps he hadn’t bothered taking off yet. The sharp bite of adrenaline was fading, replaced by that familiar calm he only ever got after a good session. He reached for his water then paused. Someone was standing there, just off to the side of the ring, like they’d been watching longer than a casual glance would explain.

His gaze lifted to meet theirs, unreadable at first, before a slow, curious look settled in. “You always hang around boxing clubs,” he said evenly, “or did I earn an audience?” He couldn't help but smirk.

Jordana sat at a small table near the window, one hand wrapped around her coffee as she watched the street outside. The café was busy but not loud, the kind of place she didn’t mind lingering in. When she noticed the other person approach, her attention shifted fully, posture relaxed but assured. “You’re right on time,” she said simply, a faint smile touching her lips as she gestured to the empty chair across from her.

@mobscene-starters Location: Mistral's Date: January 25th, 2026

Mid-morning sunlight washed over the terrace outside Mistral’s. Bright, cold, and precise despite the early morning drizzle. Théodore had wanted a simple le petit déjeuner, thus went to his usual comfort. Same seat and all as he sat in the patio chair with practiced ease. Jacket buttoned, collar up to protect his neck from the wind. Sunglasses shielding his eyes. Leather gloves still on, concealing the faint stains left behind by a long night of book restoration. A croissant rested beside his coffee, untouched for the moment, while a worn French paperback of blue lay open on the table.

Les Fleurs du mal. Familiar. Grounding.

He turned a page slowly, gloved fingers careful with the spine. Pausing only to sip his coffee and watch the city pass by in fragments. London moved around him, loud and unaware, while Théo lingered comfortably in the quiet space between. Hands busy, mind at rest, and the morning unfolding exactly as he preferred.

"What, never had a nosebleed before? Vaffanculo."

The bartender had cast him a particularly judgemental stare when he'd caught sight of bloodied shirt cuff on his right arm. Clearly too much to be a nosebleed and they both knew it—his story further hindered by the bruise blooming beneath his eye—but even in his pride, he wouldn't broadcast the city had one less Russian to worry about.

Another corpse to dispose of, mind you.

Just as he was about to take a sip of his scotch, someone settled into the stool beside his. A questioning glance sure followed as they too noticed the blood.

"Don't ask stupid questions, and I won't give stupid answers. Accordo?"

"Hmm." Odile's head shifts. "It's giving Blair Waldorf, 2007. Which is… a choice."

"No matter how long I live here, I'm never getting used to Chinese food coming with fries." Carla wiped her hand on a napkin and chuckled under her breath. "Sorry, I mean chips.

It took Lyudmila a good minute to figure out what kind of madness she’d wandered into. At first, she assumed it was just her half-awake brain playing tricks with people dressed like neon nightmares, celebrities she didn’t recognize staring at her from cheap plastic masks, and outfits so ridiculous they had to be hallucinations. For a brief, worrying second, she even wondered if she’d gone a little heavy on the Xanax and was now seeing things from the wrong side of reality.

But no, clarity dawned soon enough. Halloween.

The word itself explained the chaos around her.

Lacking both the mood and a mask, Lyudmila turned to make her exit only to collide with someone head-on.

“Oh—sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

This was actually terrible of her. Her best friend's party, and she didn't even prepare a better costume. Of course there were excuses; her whole day was filled with surgeries (including the night shift before), trying to control Antoine's new favourite activity - throwing tantrums, travelling, writing her paper, talks... But she should have done better.

Looking around, everyone else really put in the effort. At least her sticking out meant that everyone else was a far better person than her.

It had been some time since she attended an event like this. The people who had once been so familiar had become... A thing of the past? She needed the time away, needed to get her head in order, to decide what was it she really wanted to do. Being lost wasn't something she wanted to become accustomed to.

Therefore, as soon as the deal had been signed, the building prepped, Adriana felt that it was the right time to re-enter this world.

Not that she ever left it. Just London for a while.

"Missed me?"

"I'm praying for a relaxing evening."

It was, of course, kept in mind that there was futile hope for such things when so much blood had already been drawn. So many deaths. Moves and counter moves.

Peace had never been the language known, or felt by those in this room, nor of the business that was held within it. The most important part of why they all played these games. The undercurrent between the different parts of the mob, the turf wars within London, political, and criminal aspirations. Andrew, Johnathan and Melissa had those moves in place, should they be required.

But what were they all doing here, right now? It was simple. One thing: pretending and practicing false civility and doing it to the best of their ability.

Inevitability, Melissa feared that it'd come to a blow sooner than later.

Still, she sat there, shoulders drawn back. Playing her part.

"So," his hands sweeping down his Cat in The Hat outfit. "How awesome do I look? And don't go easy on the compliments."

The pulse of the bass hit her chest like a second heartbeat as Delphine weaved through the crowd, clad in black from head to toe, every curve accentuated, every movement deliberate. Her glass caught the light as she tilted it just so, eyes scanning the room with a predator’s precision. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips. “Well, this is… lively,” she murmured, voice low and teasing, the hint of danger in her tone matching the sharpness of her costume.

Hasan entered the hall with measured steps, cane tapping lightly on the floor. His coat swayed just enough to suggest elegance, and for a moment, the faintest gleam caught in his eyes. like a shadow deciding whether to linger. He paused near the center of the room, surveying the crowd with an unhurried gaze, a polite smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Fascinating, the city always dresses up so well for its little performances,” he murmured, voice smooth and calm, yet carrying a subtle weight that made heads turn.

Adjusting his stance, he let the tip of his cane tap once, twice, deliberately. “And which of you shall make the first move in tonight’s… delightful game?”

The music blared and thumped. Enough to make Oscar's hearing a bit muffled. His eyes had to take a moment to adjust too. So many lights flickered relentlessly. Strobing in time with the music. All the while, in the shadows, masks hid smiles. As with his usual initial survey of a space packed with bodies, Oscar stayed back. Scanning the crowd like it was a drill—no exits blocked, no one getting too close to Yvonne’s orbit without him noticing. Not even the helmet of his ridiculous firefighter get-up was going to hinder his work.