Brass Knuckles, Sticky Fingers.

The blonde's gaze flickered over Nicoleta, taking in the woman's careful demeanor and calculated words. There was something in the way she held herself, a mix of determination and underlying tension that made Cece wary.

"Yves de Metz," she repeated slowly, letting the name roll off her tongue. "Not exactly a common topic around here. You must be quite determined to find him."

She leaned back in her chair, maintaining a composed exterior while her mind raced through possibilities. "And what do I get for helping out a… friend?" Cece's voice was smooth, though she hesitated on the word 'friend,' as if testing its weight before letting it slip. "We both know I can find this information for you," she said, her thoughts briefly drifting to the last time she'd contacted Father Doherty for a work matter. "Your curiosity about Yves de Metz intrigues me, but you'll understand if I need more than just your word to go on."

She observed Nicoleta closely, noting the careful smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, the way she sat there with deliberate precision. There was more to this request than met the eye, and Cece intended to find out what it was.

"You want discretion, and that comes at a price," Cece continued, her tone turning more businesslike. "Information like this isn't something I just hand out for free. So tell me, what exactly is in it for me? Why should I go out of my way to help you find Yves?"

In truth, she's weaving the backstory as she goes along, thread by thread, like a spider preparing for her next meal.

But where she'd been tempted to murder the patroness in cold blood mere moments ago, Nicoleta finds herself grudgingly entertained by how quickly Ms. Hathaway joins her at the bargaining table. For someone painted by the papers to be something of an immaculate Madonna, she's a little more interesting than the image usually implies.

"Of course, I understand. We two are women of business, oui?"

And here it comes, the price tag for getting what she wants out of Vixen's Madame, sans la belle violence. Nicoleta arches her spine and leans forward, dark eyes locked on the blonde. "Nothing in life is free, this I know. But I know too, that in some times, us women, we can help each other. You always have your secrets..." She presupposes, throwing a wide net because it can be said of virtually anyone. That's how the street-selling fortune-tellers would do it back home, and they're her inspiration now.

"... There is always some way I can give you help in return."

One minute ocean orbs had been tracing the contours of an almost perfectly symmetrical face, framed in the most gorgeous red. Even if he could tell it was a cheap box dye from the corner shop, it suited her.

Who the fuck else? Nico -- that crazy mother fu--

Maksim's breath came out in ragged, shallow bursts, almost doubling over as the piercing pain was enough for that smooth exterior to crumble.

Rage, pain, anger flickered over his features in a matter of seconds. The redhead he'd been attempting to charm only moments ago now wore a look that sat somewhere between shock and utter confusion, but still, she stayed rooted to her seat, eyes wide, unsure of how to react.

She couldn't see what Nico held, even he wasn't sure? A knife? A fucking pen? Her satan nails? The bustling noise of the club around them seemed muffled momentarily as if the sudden shock had dulled his senses. Breath, he demanded, in, out.

It hadn't hit any organs, he was sure…he hoped. Grunting.

"Nico," he managed to hiss through gritted teeth, "What the actual fuck are you doing?" his hand finding the hot liquid that now clung to his shirt, as he reigned himself in. If this was anyone else, he would've snapped their neck without thinking. But this was Nico.

Crazy came with her, and he'd signed the invisible contract.

"Apologies -- " he turned back to where the redhead had been sitting, only to find her gone. Like dust in the wind, a heavy sigh heaved from between his lips. Well fuck. What had the witch in such a foul mood happened to be his next line of thought. "Right, thanks for that. Let's walk."

The sensation of the cold metal buried in his flesh made every step excruciating. He could feel the warmth of his own blood trickling down his side, and with each movement, it seemed to spread, soaking further into his shirt. The crowd around them was blissfully unaware, too engrossed in their own revelries to notice. Oblivion, it was a beautiful thing and something he was glad to have none of. With that came disappointment. Aware, he could make decisions and choices -- except for those on his own fucking side, It seemed.

So it's a strange song and dance that leads them both to the male restroom; Maksim waving a white flag in the lead, bleeding all the while, Nico pulling up the rear like a pissed off Valkyrie. "What am I doing?" She echoes viciously, herding him along and ignoring the stares from nosy onlookers. The reason the two are somewhat closely albeit awkwardly attached is hard to make out definitively in the dark of the club.

"How it feels, to be the one who doesn't know?"

She only releases him with a shove when they enter the restroom, ignoring the grunt of pain as he stumbles a couple steps towards the sink. Nicoleta, in turn, kicks open each stall to make sure they're empty, finding an old drunk man pissing in the last one and yanking him out by the scruff of his shirt. He's too uncoordinated to fight her off, but protests all the way to the door as she shoves him out and lets Maksim lock it.

"I'm not. It's our stop." He nodded at her, indicating it was their turn to move. He didn't have anything to add to her later too, so instead, once they got out of the bus, he took out a cigarette and offered the other to her. "We have seven minutes." Until their target was going to come into sight.

'We have seven minutes.'

"Long enough for a quick fuck." Nicoleta deadpans, noting the lack of response to her question. Interesting. It almost makes her look at him twice, though the annoyance at having been so rudely awakened on the train lingers yet. Would she fuck Roman?... It's as noncommittal a question for her to mull over as wondering why the sky is blue.

Just as soon, her mind travels to another topic. "Why now?" It's delivered backwards, without the necessary context first. She swipes the lighter out of his hands.

"Ever heard of a shower?" He mused, looking her up and down. "Or is that you're trying to fit in with the beggars from around here?"

"Why are you so interested, anyway?... Think I'd touch you with a ten foot pole?"

"Yes, Charlene and I have always been like night and day. Keeps things interesting, I suppose," Cece continued, her tone light but her eyes still sharp and assessing.

She took a sip of her own drink, her gaze never leaving Nicoleta’s. Cece was trying to figure out the Romanian’s angle, but she knew better than to push too hard, too soon.

The mention of a quieter space aligned with Cece's own need for control and understanding of the situation. "Of course, we can move to my office," Cece replied smoothly. "It's quieter there, and we can discuss whatever you need in privacy." She gave Nicoleta a polite smile and gestured for her to follow.

As they walked through the bustling room, Cece stayed a step ahead, leading Nicoleta past elegantly dressed guests and conversations layered with hidden agendas. Upon reaching her office, she opened the door and stepped aside to let Nicoleta in first.

The office was a stark contrast to the lively party outside – it was tastefully decorated, with a large mahogany desk, shelves lined with photos and awards, and a few pieces of contemporary art on the walls. Cece closed the door behind them, shutting out the noise.

"Please, have a seat," she said, motioning to a pair of comfortable chairs arranged in front of her desk. She took a seat behind the desk, folding her hands neatly on the surface, and waited for Nicoleta to settle in. Her hand slipped under the mahogany desk, gripping a small gun she kept hidden there.

She wonders how interesting, exactly, this difference is between Cecelia and Charlene, between sun and moon. But Cecelia's eyes are sharp – sharper than she'd expected, admittedly – so she thinks twice about pursuing that particular curiosity.

It isn't the time, anyway. She's here for Aviv.

And the first step, the first goal post, is to have a private audience with Cecelia. She's surprised enough she's achieved it that for a moment, Nicoleta doesn't know what to do with the hard-won privilege. As the business woman turns to shut her office doors, she's accosted by the impulse to catch her unawares; hurt her, kill her. A malevolent, irrational impulse — Nicoleta's fingertips itch with the desire to do it. Yet even if she managed to leave the club alive, before the body's discovery, a dead Hathaway would get her no closer to Aviv or his captors.

So she contains the impulse, debates her options. There's the classic route of threats and torture. Scare Cecelia, hurt her enough that she knows it isn't just a bluff, and that she'll be spared only by divulging useful information on Yves De Metz. But all it'd take is a scream from Cecelia and the office would swarm with security.

So Nico slinks into the seat opposite her patroness and gets comfortable instead. They're no longer mirrors, she can tell Cecelia's ill at ease. Not just because of her words – a cut-to-the-chase straightforwardness that Nicoleta would've otherwise appreciated – but because her body language conveys it.

"It is not social visit, this is true." She agrees, taking the time to set her martini glass on the desk between them. "I was looking for different person, because I want to see him again. I thought maybe, this is the place for man like him." Her words are careful, and as calculated as any bit of improvisation can be. "Yves de Metz." She smiles again, but doesn't let it reach her eyes. A sad smile, punctuated by a sigh. "But I see you instead, and this is good enough surprise for me. Still, I am hoping you can help me find him, avec de la discrétion, bien sûr... Your face tells me this name is known."

The mention of Aviv set a frown deep onto her face. Why the hell was she coming to Yvonne about this?

"I don't have any role in those decisions. So, I suggest you take it up with someone who does."

Nicoleta continues to ignore the guard, merely tilting her head to one side so she can still lock eyes with the brunette hiding behind his shoulder. Somewhat a comical sight, the three of them positioned thus in the book aisle of a supermarket, but the humour's lost entirely on the irritable Romanian. "No? What decisions do you have role in then, principesă? What good is Rutherford who is not a Rutherford, hm?"

A pause. "Or you just don't give one shit about the people coming into family?"

@mobscene-starters

After two months on high alert, Yvonne needed to get out of the house. She loved her daughter, she truly did, but there were only so many times she could watch Frozen without completely losing her mind.

It took ten minutes of pleading and a promise to leave after one hour for Óscar to approve her request. There was a twinge of something that she couldn't place on his face wen he caved that left her wondering if the source of the threats was still a mystery or if people knew and just hadn't said anything to her yet.

But, she was determined to take advantage of her one hour and so she strolled through the aisles of the store with a basket looped over her arm and Óscar on her heel. The title of a book caught her attention and she picked it up with a small chuckle. "'There Are Moms Way Worse Than You'? That's a comforting thought."

And now, with Aviv missing, suffice it to say that the Romanian mobster is in a mood.

It may be unfair to take that out on the Rutherfords, but she's never cared much for the business of playing fair.

"Well, it won't be a new car..."

The answer to her question couldn't be any clearer for Nico; the lack of denial as much an indictment of Maksim's guilt as any explicit admission.

One hand snaps up to meet the chain of his pocket watch, fingers curling around the golden links as she kills the distance between them and centers Mikhail's attention on her next words. "One thing I will do for you. When you want, no questions. That is our deal." With that, Nico releases the younger Vorshevsky brother and takes a step back.

Something black is beginning to bloom around the edges of her mood and she needs a drink to staunch it. "Споки, Михаи́л." She adds before taking her leave.

Amélie jumped, shifting uncomfortably in the plastic, barely covered seat, her heart racing from the sudden awakening and the unfortunate realization that the woman had just sworn loudly in public. And dramatically, might she add. But even she couldn't deny that she'd woken from dreams, clawing sheets as if they were enemies in the past -- imagining that Mathis was...

she pushed that thought away, a sudden heaviness in the pit of her throat.

Amélie's anxiety always seemed to be at its peak during moments like these, moments when she felt exposed to things she wasn't quite sure how to handle...like the retort from the woman that had her swallowing thickly, a sudden case of dry mouth. Glancing up...once more, cautiously, her fingers tightened around the edges of her book. Pierre, from War and Peace who sat between her hands wasn't coming to save her from this.

But...why did that woman look so familiar?

"Me? Oh-- Oh, no, no." trying to steady the uptick of nerves that shone in her voice, cheeks darkening an ugly shade of red. "I-- I wasn't...staring. I just, line of sight?" face scrunching up at her awful, and she meant it... horrendous attempt. She chastised herself silently, berating her own clumsiness and lack of composure. Of which she practically never had any. At least the train was quiet, the announcement of 'See it, say it, sort it,' hadn't driven her insane...yet.

"So who are you?" She demands, even though what she really means to ask is why this acquaintance should be important to her in the first place. She doesn't resemble any of the women from the shelter, but there's been a bit of a turnover recently, she has yet to meet all of the new ones. Or is it someone she'd fucked and forgotten about?... But no, scared shitless isn't exactly her type. Someone she'd fucked over, perhaps?...

The possibilities are truly endless.

"I was wondering how long you were going to be out." He said, casually. Always in Russian, as he wasn't going to force his tongue, and there was no need. "Is that why you haven't done shit here so far?"

... Hardly any more pleasant for it, however. "Shut the fuck up, Baranovsky. You can't even brush your hair. What are you going to tell me about doing things in London?"