re dei re

I know Paola told you. It sounds clinical, or perhaps it’s only Marcelo imagining it so; bad news strategically read from a doctor rather than from their brother’s impassioned heart. They hate to think Damiano’s wrung the heir’s compassion dry, that this might be damage control and not a plea for their forgiveness. Was there still a difference? They hate these thoughts, intrusive and unsettling; foreign invaders stripping years worth of sowed loyalties from the their shared soil. Most of all, they hate what Roman’s silence has made of them. This fractured, doubtful traitor facing a man whose weaved their loyalty to his very sinews. Marcelo very nearly forgives him on the spot, if only to feel whole again.

Their jaw tics, hazel stare resolute on the nostalgic drip of his every word. It does mean that, Marcelo finds themselves inwardly agreeing, it means that I should mean more to you than her. Because what might they have left were the heir to abandon them? If it was not the enemy that tore them from his clutches in the end, but a girl, with her name etched upon his finicky heart? Before their acid can burn through Roman’s honeyed tongue, he presses onward, clamping bone against bone as teeth grind. You know why I didn’t tell you? He asks, and they know that they don’t. That Marcelo can warp their mind with fantasies of Paola eloping in their malicious brother’s arms, or Roman building a vendetta of hurt he’s allowed the girl to orchestrate in his generous nature, but the truth is trapped in the man’s throat, alone. They raise their chin, not willing to ask, not willing to beg, but forced to listen because he’s right; Roman will always be the boy they can’t remember life without.

I’m not allowed to be who I want to be— why not be someone else? They had never understood his conflict more than when they were Paola’s Marcelo. They were the Rosso survivor. L’inferno Di Verona. Montague Captain. The bloodthirsty Hell hound of the boy king. Before her, they had never wanted to be any less. Let the Capulet’s reap the chaos they’d sowed, let the world see a human reduced to ash, and reborn from it a monster. Let the humanity in them die; it could not survive their guilt, or their grief, not like the bottomless stomach of vengeance that scalded all weakness to soot. But then they met her. Where Roman had run from perfection, Marcelo had glimpsed in Paola all they’d once abandoned. He’d seen what he could be, and they saw what they might still have been. Neither had looked upon her and snuffed out the serpent disguised as hope. 

How do you tell someone who is as much a part of you as you are yourself, that you don’t want to be the person they know? The person they have grown around with the desperation of a tree root longing to survive? Without Roman, there was no Marcelo — how was he to tell them? The strain in their jaw flickers, as if deciding whether to unclamp or not, but the true question lingers between them; why didn’t he mention knowing Paola? As if on cue, the direction takes a turn, a painful and hard-edged nose dive; if there’s anybody that deserves to have a good thing— it’s you two.

Dio, hadn’t she told him? Or had she bit her forked tongue, swallowing her confession in hope of gaining Roman’s aid? Marcelo’s lips part, lungs expanding to accept the breath that rushes through them at the thought that they could have had a good thing with her. There was never any chance of that, they want to reassure him, Paola wants me as much as you want to be a Montague. The words never fall from between their teeth, the strained woosh of relief caged between their rib cage is instead eclipsed by Roman’s mounting honesty. They think to stop him, they think to reach out to him, to swear, I believe you, as the anger in them wanes at the sight of his distress — but it never comes. 

The thought of you two made me feel resentful. Marcelo should be angry; their shoulders should stiffen and their eyes should flare with disbelief. They should scoff that he might struggle to give them this one good thing in spite of his aching heart. But they don’t. Instead, they soften, brows pinching as hazel hues flicker away from his stare, because they know. They had practiced the same plea, knees bruised from falling to them, agony buried in the valley of their chest as they considered what might be said to make what they’d done right. To reveal to Roman that they’d not only coveted the forbidden fruit, but gorged themselves sick on her. That no, they had never left, never had the strength to turn their back on the man they loved and walk away — but that they should have. That they should have stabbed themselves in the heart, before plunging the knife between Roman’s shoulders. Their lips part — I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Silence grips them, instead.

More than destruction, more than bloodshed, more than the apple caught in their teeth, Marcelo loves Roman. He didn’t leave because of responsibility, because of obligation, but they did not leave because there was no them beyond the gaze of Bellamy and Roman. His voice shakes as he admits it, as it spews into the air between them like an oil spill, covering the resentment and thorns stacked between them. Marcelo’s gaze won’t budge, won’t return to their brother, even as they lick their lips and shift on both feet. Guilt rushes to fill their lungs, and squeeze the air from their chest. The pressure of it rising higher, still, as he chastises himself and his wandering eye. They had thought that. There was a reason the city bowed to Roman, and scurried from Marcelo, and they had feared the day Paola glimpsed it. Feared that if he had asked them to stand aside so he could pluck another rose from his palace garden, they would have; for when Marcelo didn’t have the strength to themselves, for when they should have fought harder to grasp it. 

They were always meant to be the strong one, forged from fire to run to Roman’s side, to crawl to Bellamy in life or death. The first to leave had been Bellamy; the martyr, the saint, and yet still able to withstand the siren calls of those he’d abandoned. He had fled and carved a home from a world beyond them, and though he dared not say it, found happiness. What kingdom beyond Verona might welcome Marcelo without the heir’s blessing? What good were they to anyone, if not their own brother? When the good in them died screaming, and their youth was forcefully stripped from its bones, it was the two of them that lifted Marcelo from their grief, and shoved them onward. For the past they had shared, for the future they’d desperately need to look to one another during. They were always meant to be the strong one, but it did not mean the others were weak; what they lacked, Bellamy and Roman breathed into the empty spaces. They would never know what they had given Marcelo — to wake each morning, to a world that had spurned them again and again, because of the little good in it that remained yet? 

Marcelo would have cracked long ago under the pressure of their loss — more than wanting to stand beside Roman, they needed to. There was not a fragment of them untouched by the man, as if because he lived, so did they. His every breath gave them purpose, his every smile gave them reason. If what Roman says is true, they are doubly true for Marcelo, who knows nothing  but their love. Even when swaddled in rage, it rears to frighten all other beasts from those who dare test its limits. There are none, they will love Roman always. 

By the time he finishes the anger has been carved from their carcass. They believe him, as one would believe the sky is blue or the grass is green. They believe him because they, intrinsically, know him with the same sureness as the scar on their brow, or the birthmark on their hip. More than they know themselves, anymore, as they struggle to swallow the knot still lodged in their throat. You ruin things, Marcelo, they think, clearing their throat weakly, are you so proud of it now? 

“Roman—” they begin, their voice raspy as it drags itself free. What was there to say; I forgive you, I love you, I’m sorry, I don’t deserve this mercy? Perhaps, all along, they had been content with their anger because it meant loosening their binds of shame, but no more. All that remains is regret, climbing up their spine, whispering in their ear. I never left you, Marcelo longs to yell, please don’t leave me to rot alone. Instead, they swallow thickly, casting a glance in Roman’s direction. “It was never about Paola,” they sigh, “it was about knowing that you were still my brother.” A beat passes, the pretty words Roman leashes so effortlessly eluding them now. 

“That if she held her gun to my head, it wouldn’t be you pulling the trigger. I couldn’t bear that, not after—” Marcelo pauses, raking a hand through dark strands as they near him, “you are my family, Ro. But you’re an idiot, you think with your dick, and you can be so fucking sentimental that…” It scares me sometimes, that you’ll choose them over me. “I don’t always know what’s going on in your head, because you and I? We’re two very different people.” You’re a better person, they want to say, you have a heart mine would silence. “And if Paola felt anything for either of us, it wasn’t me,” they rub a palm over their jawline, gaze falling to the television beyond Roman, “there was never anything between us. She just wanted answers, and I didn’t have them.”

Marcelo laughs, fingers descending to the back of their neck, “I don’t trust her, but you never said anything about Paola moving to Verona, I didn’t know she had ever…meant anything to you. When she told me I thought it might be bullshit, to cause a rift between us. But it wasn’t, and if it was just that you once fucked her then you’d have told me, or Bellamy, but you didn’t. So then I had to wonder, why hadn’t you?” Their gaze returns to Roman, to the half of their soul they dared to doubt, “I thought maybe you knew what she was up to, and you were too scared to admit you did.” All Marcelo’s cards are on the table, and they’ve given him free range of each —if anyone were to fell the last of the Rosso’s, let it be their heart, their favored rib, the last loving thing in them; let it be Roman. 

It was about knowing that you were still my brother. Roman wants to recoil as if he’s been struck. Had Marcelo not recognized how deeply intertwined they’d been? How inextricable they were; the separation of Marcelo from Roman had been as imaginable as the severing of a limb. How willing he’d been to give on Marcelo’s behalf— if only they would just ask and how rarely, if at all, had they ever did. He knew that was unlike them. He knew they’d much rather damn themself, whether it be to anguish or anger, in place of asking for help; even for something that came as simply to Roman as expressing how they felt. At that very moment, they could not have been more different. But when would something as inconsequential as difference truly be capable of separating the two? He was unafraid to admit that he needed Marcelo. Not yet, at least, even with the increasing awareness that need was a liability in Verona, particularly the need of another person. The way they fueled him, the way they breathed life into him by simply existence. The way they gave him purpose outside of the mob. They were fated to be together, but even the stars could not have foreseen how deeply Roman’s love would run for Marcelo— how much it would become apart of him as his very blood would be. Maybe that was Roman’s hamartia. His blinding, all-encompassing ability to love— that love that trumped all logic and reason. Maybe he had failed to show it. Maybe that was the answer to Marcelo’s doubt because he was having difficulty making sense of the alternative.

What had it been about Paola? What about the woman had driven Marcelo to believe the unfathomable, what about her had been so capable of wreaking havoc on their siblingship? What power had they unwittingly relinquished to her? “I will always be your brother, Marcelo, and I would rather die than not be. I don’t care if that isn’t the way things are supposed to be.” Don’t protest, he wants to say. Please don’t fight it. I was molded— not born, for a cause greater than myself. Allow me this sacrifice. Allow me this love. Allow me to be this for you. He did not seek out this sacrifice out of selfishness. He simply loved Marcelo too much. More than the leader of a mob should have ever been capable of. This was the way he’d grown to understand the concept of love. Inexhaustible loyalty. Serve. Serve. Serve. How could he not be willing to give for someone who had always given to him without a second thought? How could anyone?

That if she held her gun to my head, it wouldn’t be you pulling the trigger. I couldn’t bear that, not after—

After what? He wants to ask more than anything, but he doesn’t, because Marcelo is opening up to him, and that meant everything. They’d been a person of few words, but of immense action. He tried not to get ahead of himself, ideas of how he could mend the fissure formulated between them already swarming his brain. Despite the pain they feel, the insult formulated by Marcelo’s suggestion, he can’t help but laugh despite himself. Everything Marcelo had suggested about Roman had been true— the idiocracy, his being driven by carnal lust. But it was as if in that moment, he realized how trivial their quarreling had been. It had been completely in character for Roman to subject the pair of them to such dramatics— but this had been absolutely unlike Marcelo. It was absolutely clear to Roman at that moment. A younger him might have teased Marcelo for it and might have gone as far as to play matchmaker for them— an older Roman knew he was skidding on thin ice. They liked her, maybe even more than liked her. Why else would they draw such outlandish conclusions? How else could they come to believe that Roman could even fathom forsaking them over Paola? 

“If Paola were to do that, it would be of her own volition, Marcelo,” Roman says calmly, in a single breath, his brown eyes glued to their hazel ones. “Please remember that. You’re overestimating the power she has over me— if any power exists at all.” It seems bizarre for Roman to say, especially considering the weight of his confession, but he means it. “How I feel about the two of you? That’s solely on me. It was bound to happen eventually. I just hadn’t expected it to be Paola of all people, alright? She was once the reason I thought I could exist outside of myself. I never wanted… her to ever exist inside of Verona. Because that would mean everything we had was built on a lie, and that I could no longer avoid that it was. And that love built on a lie can’t be true. Marcelo, you know that she didn’t even know my last name?” He was not sure what he was trying to prove in that moment, but he’d somehow been convinced that persuading Marcelo of Paola’s meaninglessness meant the eradication of any possibility of Roman’s betrayal. “We aren’t competing, Marcelo. We never were. Paola and I are connected by our pasts. But there’s no yielding to me, dammit. If you— somehow end up deciding to give this up, it won’t be because of me.” I’d be so mad at you if you did, Marcelo. Don’t give up on a love that actually has potential, because the love I held for her? It was damned from the start.

“I think reading my mind would be easier said than done. You’ve always had me all figured out, Marcy, you know that right? I’ve driven myself nearly to madness trying to pick you apart, to decipher how you felt. Do you want to know how I really feel Marcelo? What I really know? What I know is that the love I have for you was the first love I was ever able to make sense of. Rafaella, Paola, even Be— Yours was the one that always made sense. I didn’t tell you or Bellamy because I didn’t want you to think lesser of me. I didn’t want you two to think differently of me for lying, for wanting to be someone other than myself. I wanted to somehow keep the best parts of me and defy my fate at the same time.” What answers did they speak of? What did they know that he had not known? Perplexion darkens his features. “Answers for what? What are you talking about? If all she wanted was answers from you, then we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. If all she wanted was to use you, then there would be no use for her intentionally hurting you by revealing this information. It has to be deeper than that. Because wouldn’t you be of more use to her if you continued to think of her as blameless? Why would she risk her supposed scheme just to make you feel bad?” And I’m supposed to be the stupid one, he thinks, allowing himself a momentarily moment of smugness. He had known that neither Marcelo nor Paola had known, and he recognized exactly where the communication breakdown had occurred. Where their own assumptions had gotten the better of them.

At the end of the day, Paola was the woman who had never learned how to have a home. She was the child without a family, the bird with no nest to keep her tethered to the earth. How strange it was, to be in Verona and have to learn what it meant to hold people’s emotions in her palm. Roman, who had returned to her; Tomas, who had found her; Marcelo, who hated her; Isabella, who tried to save her before Paola decided no one could. No one could help her and there was no point in trying to ward off the inevitable.

She wasn’t used to thinking she owed anything to anyone. With only herself to fend for, she had walked without strings and without responsibility through life. Rome had accepted her for it; Rome had let her live without ample suffering because of it. Flying under the radar and owing nothing to no one, Paola had survived.

Only a few months in Verona, and already Paola had felt more than she’d ever had in Rome. The ecstasy of joy and pleasure, the easy comfort of friendship, the pain of losing what she didn’t know she wanted. All because Paola made a point to seek out new faces and learn their names. She had studied them all, every single person in Verona; but she had never stopped to consider that they might remember hers, too. She never thought she’d matter to any of them.

She could still recall the taste of blood and bile from biting down too hard on her tongue every dinner with Isabella, every meeting with Lillian, every night with Marcelo. The truth belonged only to Paola, and to no one else… she had truly believed that. But the more her small circle grew, the more Paola was learning that she was not an island. Her words mattered. Her actions left a mark. Every move she made had an effect on someone, minuscule or memorable. She wasn’t sure she wanted it.

It was a terrifying thing, to love someone. But it scared her more to imagine being loved.

But does Roman even love me? Paola wondered. He had once, when they were foolish and thought themselves invulnerable to heartache. She had loved him too, loved him inevitably as if there was no choice she had in the matter; the stars foretold her love of him, and the stars foretold her loss of him, too.

She had still betrayed him, as she had betrayed everyone else. Left Lillian for Henry, poisoned Marcelo for Gabriele, abandoned Isabella for the Montagues… stole Roman’s confession and delivered them herself, damning him in the process.

Things will be different now, Paola told herself as she waited for Roman to arrive. I will be unafraid of the truth. I will be brave, even when facing my mistakes.

When she saw him, though, she was tempted to change her mind. She was ready to accept his gift and invite him in with a laugh, a kiss on the cheek. A gentle reprimand for his absence, and a warm embrace that told him how dear he was to her, even now. But she saw the title etched in the leather, and her cheeks burned with shame. The Idiot. Yes, she was.

“You’re the most charming idiot I know, then.” She accepted the book from his hands and stepped aside to let him in. “Come in, come in. Sit wherever you want.”

Watching him now, standing in her humble apartment, Paola wondered if she should be embarrassed. He was Roman Montague, a powerful and wealthy man in Verona. He had been the same privileged boy in Rome too — but she hadn’t known. He had seen her in poverty, with a small room in shambles, and he had still loved her. Had things changed so much?

Yes, Paola thought as embarrassment flickered on and off like a broken light inside her, things had changed. “Um… please, make yourself comfortable.” She set the book down and headed towards the kitchen. “I’ll make you some tea.”

She took a moment to compose herself as she waited for the water to boil. This was still Roman. The years hadn’t changed his spirit, the spirit she had fallen in love with at all. The same earnest sincerity, his open heart like a sonnet across his face. And she hadn’t changed so much either, had she? Would he still see the same bookish woman with good intentions and a quiet smile — or a traitor? A monster who hurt Marcelo and hurt him, too?

The two cups shook only minimally in her hands as Paola brought them out to Roman. Taking a seat beside him, she took a moment to study his expression. There was some worry there, and a few deep lines she hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps he wasn’t the same boy after all. Perhaps he was a different creature entirely, a man who had weathered a brutal storm and still had yet to fully escape it. Perhaps it was only nostalgia that tied her heart to his today, and nothing substantial.

“I never stopped to realize how much you’ve changed since we first met,” Paola said slowly, still studying the changes in his face. “I never stopped to ask about all those years in between — after Rome. Coming back here, to lead with your father… I can’t imagine it was easy.” Cautiously, as if he were a wounded animal who might bite, she gently laid a hand on his arm. “I’ll always see you as the Roman I met all those years ago, first.”

An immediate sense of ease washed over Roman when met with Paola’s cordial demeanor. Despite her own nerves (which was more than evident to Roman) she was trying. You’re the most charming idiot I know, then. A light blush crept over his cheeks as she accepted the book. He was instantly brought back to the bookstore that they met— to the one time in his life in which he was just Roman and she was only Paola. How careless and brazen their love had been. There was something to be admired about people who chose to love so fearlessly. Even after all the omission, the lies, the abandonment— he managed to retain the fondness of her caress. Who he was when he met her was just as much a part of him as who he was now— even if their old selves had not been welcomed in a place like Verona. The city had a reputation for devouring wayward hearts and only releasing them when they no longer were useful. 

But she had survived. In her own way, and without help from anyone. There was something to be said about that, wasn’t there? Roman found himself unsure of where to sit in this unfamiliar setting, one he couldn’t help but feel would be more familiar if he would simply make an effort. Should it have been that much pressure in deciding where to sit? Did he need to be so sure of his spot? Finding the one in which he sat at all of his friend’s places recurringly is when he knew he’d discovered the highest level of comfort. 

Yes— he would make himself comfortable if only for her, he thought to himself, as he initially sat on her couch, exhaling a few times as if to release the remaining tension within his body. He allowed himself to mold into her couch, taking in as much of Paola’s apartment as he could as she made the tea. It was difficult not to feel comfortable, something about its set up had evoked an essence of relief for Roman. Maybe this was his own projection— maybe this was simply who Paola had always been to him. But each passing moment was a moment too long with the thoughts he’d attempted to leave at the door. Thoughts of them, thoughts of Marcelo, thoughts of what everything and everyone now meant in relation to each other. Thoughts about if he even truly had a rightful role in any of it. Why had he been here again? To apologize? For what reason? For his existence in her life? To reconcile? It wasn’t as if they’d truly had a falling out or anything. But before he could delve deeper into his thoughts, Paola returned, and his mind quieted, even if only for a moment.

As she took the seat beside him, he observed the way in which he studied her, unsure of what she’d been hoping to find. He instinctively enveloped one of her hands within his, Roman’s own way of steadying her, and hopefully preventing any spillage of hot liquids on either of them. It was also as if to say, If I can relax, you can relax, right? He carefully removed the teacup from her hand after a few moments, a soft grazie tumbling from his lips, unsure of what to make of the depth of the statement she uttered that finally broke the silence.

Roman smiled wistfully for the boy he’d once been. All that Verona had taken from him had been evident in his features— the hardening, the scarring—  for every moment he continued in its grasp meant yet another mark on his body. It meant another mark on his soul and his mind. His father had done everything he could to mold Roman into who he’d wanted him to be, and he somehow still hadn’t been enough. I’ll always see you as the Roman I met all those years ago, first. His expression softened, and he  couldn’t help but take a moment to look away. Could she have possibly known how much her saying that meant to him? Could she have known how desperately he wanted to be seen? How much he longed for some guarantee that his past self would not be forgotten. Even if somehow he’d neglected it altogether, there was always that reassurance that it would live on in Paola. But was she not more deserving then of that responsibility, of the potential weight of that burden that she may eventually have to bear?

How quickly had he turned him to mush; how rapidly had he realized how much of his emotions that she’d held for him, ones that she would always hold no matter what. He turned back to her, the words falling easily— shamelessly from his mouth.

He hadn't been able to reach her for some time. Revealing such information would mean potentially compromising her position, and Roman would have never willingly put Valentina in danger. Not after she came to him, not after he'd offered her protection and acceptance— she was now bound to him, and though she'd been a wholly capable person, he'd felt responsible for her in some regard. Valentina was not Damiano's spy. Valentina was Roman's spy. She'd chosen Roman to volunteer that information to, not his father, and that had made all the difference in his mind. 

How many days, how many hours until he should have sounded the alarmed? Who would he have asked for help? What was there even to ask for help about? What was it he could have possibly done? He scanned over the potentialities in his mind tirelessly. There was always something, there had to be something, anything that would have prevented what occurred. Anything that would have stopped Valentina being strung up against the wall like a Cosimo's sacrifice. Her body, bloodied, beaten, sliced— every part of her had been etched into his mind. He knew he would not forget, not even if he was able to save her. He knew that for the better part of his life when he closed his eyes, he would see her battered figure when he should have been met with darkness instead. It was different than the other cruelties he'd witnessed. There was an aspect of responsibility he could remove from his being. Something in the Montague heir shifted, something contorted, blackened and rotted, the sadness and remorse morphed into something awful and bitter, something absolutely vile— and he was suddenly overcome with such rage, that he could no longer fit it in his body. It was wholly unforgiving, it was not rational, and it was blinding. He could see nor feel nothing else. He knew one thing and one thing only in that very moment, and that was that each and every Capulet would pay. They would all pay some due to him, whether they had a hand in the coup or not. They would pay for whatever he could not erase, the taint that was eternally etched in him. Roman would engrave a piece of this wickedness in each and every one of them. They would not forget coming across the Montague heir, not after this. If he could not rid himself of the darkness that nestled itself behind his eyelids, then the least they could do was all pay. 

He'd never quite known what to make of Henry. The most simplistic of answers was that he was his brother, the difference between them being blood siblings something he hadn't even recognized at a young age. He so desperately wanted Henry to be his brother because that would mean that Genevieve would be his mom, and that he’d finally have the sibling he’d always wanted. That had less to do with him attempting to wish away his own mother, and more to do with him wanting to escape his father. Until he grew up, realizing how dealing with Howard wouldn't be very different from dealing with his own father. That hadn't changed the kinship between the pair, their bond deeper than ever, but more recently, he felt the visceral strain on their relationship. He hadn't known if he had initiated the withdrawal or vice versa. He'd been so caught up in his own affairs, his own drama— that he hadn't checked in on Henry like he used too. But Roman was determined the change that.

They'd exchanged texts earlier, Roman expressing that he would be paying, Henry a long overdue visit, arriving at his door several hours later with pizza and the materials for virgin piña coladas. He arrived at his door with his hands full, knocking on his door with his elbow, and greeting Henry with that smile that covered his entire face. He missed his friend. He knew his Zia would be happy that they'd hung out together. 

when: march 22nd, 2019

where: a neutral bar, likely somewhere inconspicuous 

who: @romroses

It is impossible to remain one way forever. Not even statues of stone, bronze, and marble can claim such immortality, and certainly, no flesh and blood man could manage such a thing. At the end of the day, as the sun kissed the western horizon, there was a weariness, deep inside where that light didn’t touch. Fighting was hard. The starving beast in his chest was never satisfied, never content, no matter how far up his arms evidence of his actions spread. It wanted more, more than he could feed it while his illusions needed to be maintained.

Sometimes, the best solution was to put something else in his chest, something else that burned and warmed like the fires he wished to light in Verona. There was one thing that matched that description and wouldn’t upset years of work, and that was a drink. Bourbon, preferably, though whiskey or vodka might do. 

It was supposed to be a drink or two, enough to soften the limbs and quiet the mind just enough to ensure he didn’t blow the whole charade before it was time. That plan promptly threw itself out the clear glass windows he had passed by when he walked in when Easton took in the individual that had beat him to the bar.

Roman Montague.

He took a breath in, brought it out after three seconds, and rolled his shoulders as his preferred method of dealing with this family emerged. A shark’s smile settled upon lips held on a head balancing at the top of a ramrod straight spine. Easton moved forward, an easy saunter in place, as he slid into the seat next to him. “Well, isn’t this a surprise,” he purred, hand hidden under the table as it played with a knife. “Roman Montague, in the flesh. How… unfortunate,” he drawled, “that I don’t imagine you’ll finish that drink.”

He willed himself to forget. The liquor always made it easier; the process of lulling himself into nonexistence. Roman desired nothing more than to simply just be. He wanted to extract himself from the weight of the world. This process was far easier when he was younger and possessed significantly less responsibility. With each passing day, he had gradually begun recognizing the world from his father’s eyes— the working parts that led him to this aloofness. Damiano had not always been this way, he’d known from his mother’s stories, as well as the tales that frequently wandered throughout the Montague ranks. He wondered if this had been his fate— a life of absolute frigidity, one in which his love, freedom, and hope would only be kept alive by those who had once known him. Perhaps this would be easier than holding onto fragments of himself that Verona so actively sought to destroy.

He’d ventured quite far into his own mind when the most unfortunate of distractions settled into the seat beside him. How shit had his luck been, that he somehow ended up in the company of a Capulet? In the neutral territory of all places. He accepted his taunts, before finishing his drink, politely requesting another from the bartender with a jovial smile. 

He turned to the younger Craven, his eyes devouring his knifelike features and wicked smile. He likened the older Craven but with triple the amount of youthful angst and possible abandonment issues. It would either make him even less tolerable or all the more entertaining, depending on the route Craven had been determined to take. “What was that?” he cooed, face contorting in mock confusion. “About me not finishing my drink?” His elbows slid across counter, drawing his body closer and closer to Easton until their faces were merely inches apart. “Listen… Easton. I don’t get many... mob free nights, especially not ones where I can drink myself silly.” The gun fitted between his boxers and jeans, disguised beneath his half-buttoned mustard silk shirt suddenly felt heavier. “So I’m going to have to take a raincheck on, whatever you suddenly planned in the spur of the moment of seeing me.” 

His eyes glazed across his eyes, his lips, and his concealed hands. “So I’m either going to have fun with or without you. Feel feel to join in if you’d like.” He draws himself away from him, taking a sip of his now refilled drink. “Don’t tell me that neither of the Cravens knows how to have fun. The older is dull and stiff, and you? You’re the pretty, brooding younger brother, aren’t you? Do you ever get tired of it?” He flashes a mischievous smile of his own. “Well, I’ll take hot and sulking, over full any day. Prove to me your some fun, and next time we meet, in a mob-related setting, and you can feel free to have at me. But indulge me for right now. As if neither of us was who we say we are. You can envision my head on a stick another day. Otherwise, I’ll have to transfer my attention to someone whose far more boring and far less attractive. And you’ll be stuck brooding all by your lonesome. That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?” He sighs dramatically, bringing himself closer to Easton once more, his voice drawn out coquettishly in a low whisper. “But I suppose, if I absolutely have to, I could get messy. The kind of messy that ruins the fun for everyone and gets the bar shut down. But which would you prefer?”

There were things Genevieve had anticipated when pledging her service to the mafia, but there was more that she hadn’t; Roman being one of them. Henry had brought many friends into the Zhang family home, future Montague recruits always seemed to be clustered in various rooms of her house, though Roman had been a constant in the life of her son. The bond between the two mirrored that of their fathers and, as such, Genevieve loved him as though he was her own. 

Now as he sat in front of her, she was reminded of the boy he had been and simultaneously the man he had become - two opposing images. His appearance at her office door had been a trigger for the smile that blossomed on her mouth, natural like that of a flower, the nervous energy that buzzed around him like a hoard of wasps something that she could feel when he greeted her. Genevieve listens and his words are the movement of butterfly wings that would form the hurricane that consumed her thoughts.

“You once told me you wanted to be a bird so you could lay eggs.” It was her means of assuring him that she wouldn’t think him dumb, while she had laughed at the time the admission made much more sense in hindsight. Other people would wish to be a bird in order to fly, to see the world and be able to look down on those around them, but Roman’s desire then stood to his character now; making changes on the ground level rather than living with his head in the clouds.

“You know that had you told this to my predecessor he would have had a different reaction.” It was possible that Roman didn’t know why it mattered, that he wouldn’t understand the notion of someone’s legacy looming over their shoulder, or perhaps he understood all too well. Genevieve said it for her own sake as much as his, to be aware of her methods in comparison to Alvise, never one to shy away from acknowledging her bias. “By design my role as capo is meant to serve as your father’s right hand, but that doesn’t mean I’m not proud of you.”

It was something she had to say, speaking in a delicate balance between pragmatism and honesty, needing him to know that much before they continued. Genevieve needed the silence to digest what he said, speaking after the moment had passed, “Bene, why did you want to tell me?”

it was the least she could say, pragmatic but honest, to ensure that he knew that much at least. it lingers between them for a moment, before the woman asks the question that hovers on the tip of her tongue, “why did you want to tell me nipote?” He could have maintained the element of surprise had he remained silent, reduced the risk of his father finding out and attempting to but a stop to his plan - but he hadn’t, and she wanted to know why.

A thick blush enveloped his cheeks upon the mention of one of his several childhood desires, and his eyes fluttered shut as he allowed himself to recollect that particular moment in time. To a young Roman, the plan had been fairly simple. If he were a bird, then he'd be able to lay eggs, and hatch as many new bird friends to his heart's content. Him, Henry, Odessa, Bellamy, Lawrence, and even Marcelo (upon them swearing not to attempt to teach the baby bird how to fly by tossing it out of a window) would be able to play with the uccellini. It was a brilliant plan, one he ran by his zia first and foremost, hesitant to share it even with his mother, in fear that she would tell his father. His father never thought any of his ideas were good ones— even as a child. 

Genevieve indulged him, expressing how brilliant of a plan it had been in theory, but the difficulties that would arise with being a bird— such as their limited diet (birds did not get to enjoy budino or orange juice), and how being a bird meant they could no longer walk with Henry through the Giardino Giusti hand in hand. Roman agreed that as much fun as it would be to be able to hatch a plethora of new friends, it simply was not worth the exchange of human facets he'd grown to enjoy so dearly. Even if he'd been only 7 upon drawing this conclusion, Geneieve's ability to level with him had been something of irreplaceable value. And she'd done so in a way that he wouldn't detest her for (as he detested Damiano), nor in a way that would make him believe her to be foolish (as he would grow to believe about his mother in the later years). 

You know that had you told this to my predecessor he would have had a different reaction. 

His eyes snap open, the nostalgia of the beautiful memory now tainted by the presence of Alvise. Who had he been to Roman, other than the Vernons' parents, and his father's lackey? An abettor to the cruelty he faced, if not an active participant. His sole concern surrounding his death was the idea that it was a Capulet who orchestrated his death. That had not been their life to take. The Vernons had not deserved that.

“Of course he would, zietta. But I simply would not have told him. He's practically interchangeable with my father. That would've made this process significantly easier. He wouldn’t have known just as my father wouldn’t have known. But you aren’t Alvise,” he admits. 

He smiles when Genevieve says she's proud of him, despite her clear conflicting interests. This route had been taken partially out of his own selfishness. He could've left his zia out of this compromising position. But he could not bear the thought, the look and feeling upon her discovering his coup. The thought that Roman outgrew her and left her behind. She was practically all he had. With his mother's debilitating condition, it had been a matter of what— months? And her mind had not wholly been her own in years. 

Bene, why did you want to tell me? 

“La famiglia prima di tutto,” he tells her firmly. Family over everything. “I don't mean blood family either. Truthfully, blood means nothing in the grand scheme of themes. I'm telling you this, Genevieve, because I love you. My love for you was one of the first loves I'd ever known, the first love I could even begin to understand. It is the love of a parent that is there; that is nurturing. A love that is constructive and shapes you. I'm telling you because I respect you. As a person and as a leader. I believe you're invaluable to the cause. I want you to be there when I usher in the new regime. And… I can handle my father finding out prematurely, zietta. Just so you know. But what I couldn't deal with?” Thick emotion coats his next words. “But I couldn't deal with you thinking that I would ever leave you behind.” 

His next words come desperately, frantically almost, but he can't help but ask her, as they are not the sentiments of a future leader. 

“Isn't this what he wanted, zia? For me to take initiative. Well, I'm doing it.” He was entrusting her with his indecision— bearing his insecurity for the sole witness, and he only hoped that she would do right by it. That she’d be gentle. “Do you think he’ll finally be proud of me? That he’ll believe in me?”

Maeve: Oh, okay, that’s gr—

                                                                                                                    March 23rd, 2019

Dearest Juliet,

Sometimes I wonder what a letter to you would’ve sounded like years or even months ago. How lovely and idealistic it would’ve been. How careless and unheeding would be my words to you. But things change, people change— and typically not by our hands. To have so much of our lives subjected to the judgments of others can be quite maddening, don’t you think? As if a million moving parts are working in tandem, and despite the authority, you may possess, there are few options in the determination of your path. You are the heir to the Capulet throne. And even despite being surrounded by supporters, by people who are ultimately working toward a singular cause— you live a life solitude. Because just as quickly as those parts begin propelling you forward, they can just as quickly turn against you. Power changes people. I’m not saying this will happen to you, as I have no true way to tell, but there’s a reason why the greatest leaders have often spent their best days alone. There simply is a minuscule amount of people who can understand. And the ones who do understand, either want what you have— or they fear you. 

I didn’t write to you to advise you on leadership, despite how my letter began. I’m writing to you because I feel if I don’t at least attempt to get to know you, it’ll be a regret that it is difficult to live down. I already have many of those to keep me company, and a regret this monumental would be of extreme difficulty to live with. No one else knows of me writing this letter. This is my own selfish desire, and I’m seeing it through. There are seldom moments in life where I have been afforded such selfishness. This is an opportunity to make decisions of my own volition. I was hoping we could talk. All I’ve ever wanted was to meet you face to face without the interference of another. The last time I saw you, and what happened to you… It wasn’t right. The way you were dealt with by the heir. Which is why I need to know. You have no reason to trust me, just as I have no reason to trust you. We are not working toward a common goal. 

I believe it would be best that we meet on neutral territory, naturally, but I am leaving it up to you when and where we meet. A coffee shop, perhaps? Somewhere with enough witnesses that would ensure that… no drastic action would be taken. Somewhere public, but discreet enough that it won’t draw much attention. And alone. I don’t know if it’s stupider that I’ll be meeting you alone, or that I’m meeting you at all, but this entire effort would be meaningless if I brought someone along. I possess… relationships with parties who would conflict with common interests. Ties that prevent me from being more forthright about my identity. But I need to decide on my own, without the influence of others around me. So this is a risk I’m willing to take. There is goodness within you that I have recognized in few people. You are ultimately the one with the most to lose and the least to gain, so if there is anything you believe that would adequately level the odds… then let me know. You can send your response to the mailing address that will deliver to a local C.P., for reasons I’m sure we both understand. 

Please be well,

W. Whitman

It had been a rare moment of calm— a welcomed silence enveloped Roman as he sat in his newly converted apartment office, going over some reports sent from Lawrence from Russia. Faron's… the disposal had been warranted but had introduced a number of inconveniences, one that amounted to Lawrence's prolonged stay. It felt wrong to give him a definitive timeline when he hadn't any concrete answers himself.

The words had begun to flow unintelligibly across the pages, causing Roman to cover his eyes in frustration, keys shifting in the lock almost instantaneously. Only one person had complete access to his residence, but that didn't absolve him of the feeling of perplexion. Despite her access, he couldn't recall a time where she'd actually used it. This had to be something—

"Pandora?" he exclaimed disconcertedly, straightening up immediately in his chair. Despite her put-together appearance, the turmoil in her expression was clear. Pandora, whose typically statuesque composure, had visible fissures. He’d known her long enough to recognize this. Something had happened. And she’d most likely been there to discuss it with him.

“Hey… let’s talk in the living room, yeah?” he suggested, rising from his seat, and making his way to the door. “Do you want anything to drink? Tea? Coffee? Whiskey? Whiskey in your coffee?”

🤲 - cups my muse’s cheek(s)😴 - climbs into bed with my muse😶 - nudges my muse😿 - rubs my muse’s shoulders or back🔷️ - tracing shapes on my muse’s skin💜 - tucks my muse against their chest

“Quit moving, asshole,” Roman hisses through gritted teeth, the onset of sobriety leading to his blossoming impatience and irritation with his friend. They’d been in a bar only hours earlier, with things going as they usually did— Roman with his fickle flirtations, and Marcelo with their magnetism for any sort of trouble. Bellamy had usually been the buffer, the diplomat that would ensure neither would venture too far in their endeavors, but without him— chaos was bound to ensue. Roman had been discussing poetry with a handsome tourist from London at one moment, and entering the fray with Marcelo against a whirlwind of assholes. Marcelo insisted afterwards that they hadn’t wanted nor needed for Roman to join in, but what kind brother would he be, allowing them to fight on their own?  He hadn’t asked for details afterwards, as the stories that led up to Marcelo’s fights had begun to overlap in subject matter nowadays. There were only so many reasons for a fight to break out, and Marcelo long since exhausted every possible outcome.

Every once in a while, Alva Fae got some time off to report their findings to their boss, Mona Chen. She didn’t like to handle information third-hand, told them so when they’d come to her looking for a way to make more. Whatever whispers they sifted from the Dark Lady’s interior were to be vetted then compiled and brought to her. Alva, as of late, had been dealing with fellow informants and some rather big-spenders, so they’d been allowed to take a little more time. They had never been to college, but, compiling a list of vetted and interesting rumors could have equaled putting together a thesis proposal. Sometimes, she’d slip the folder off her desk without looking and wave them out; a bonus deposited into their account within the hour. Sometimes she looked it through. Whatever she did, it always unnerved Alva. It was like she could tell when they were giving her everything and when they were holding back. But Mona was always a smart woman, and she knew that even the powerless had to scrounge power for themselves, however small, like scraps falling from the high table. 

Today was one such day where Mona scooped their findings into her desk and swept out of the room. Whatever her reason, Alva knew better than to overstay their welcome in her office, and rose, ready to depart. However, when they turned they were met with a face they were familiar with, if not personally, then from social media. Roman Montague was a local celebrity. On paper, he was the son and heir to Damiano Montague, a veritable force on his own, but royalty here in Verona. In the underworld, Roman was Prince Montague, set to take over his father’s outfit. He was known for his good looks, his easy ways, but Alva was not fooled. No man ready to become head of a crime family was as good as his smile. 

Alva wondered if this was what Roman truly looked like, caught off-guard. They wondered if it was such a good thing to finally be seen by such a figure. Where Roman was awkward, Alva was in their element. They, after all, had had actual business here, and they were an employee getting ready to make their exit. 

“No you just missed her, Mr. Montague.” I know you, you don’t know me. 

Alva tucked one hand behind their back, extended the other to the door. “As we have finished with business, I was on my way out.” 

To punctuate their statement, they opened the door wider, waiting for Roman to lead the way into the hall. 

“Would you like to leave a message? I can get it to her within the hour.” 

A message left in the Dark Lady for Mona always reached her before the day was out. 

Roman wondered if they could sense the nature of his intentions; wondering if he even cared to leave a message— and everything they may potentially think of the message he desired to leave… or not to leave. Would it seem as if his visit was something trivial (and it had been in part), something not worth taking seriously if he didn’t leave a message? And then there was the possibility that the message he left would be interpreted the same way, something out of character for a budding princeling turned mob boss; someone completely undeserving of respect. 

His eyes glossed over the stranger— taking in all their beauty, magnificence and mystery, and the now apparent magic that arose from such qualities, and wondered if they were even someone to be trusted with a message and well— with anything quite frankly. This budding mistrust came with practically everyone unfamiliar to Roman nowadays, particularly figures like the stranger in which he could not immediately pinpoint, with all the tactfulness and care that went into their every word and movement. And this made for the exact formula of what Roman declared should be avoided— beautiful, inscrutable, and inaccessible, and he imagined Mona wouldn’t look too kindly upon Roman meddling with her employees. But that exact formula is what roused the curiosity Roman failed to stifle time and time again (he wasn’t exactly trying hard to either), and when had the princeling been known for doing what he was told? The man who had been offered the world and denied it in the same breath had found comfort in forbiddeness. Maybe they were one of those forbidden people. It was all too soon to tell.