#a-shepherd

Marcelo wasn’t the sort to enjoy high-class parties. If anything, the gross displays of opulence combined with the uncomfortable number of trust fund babies made his trigger finger itch in nervous anticipation. Of course, he hadn’t imagined he could keep the Degenhardt heiress from every social event, but at the very least he had hoped that this was one that her father would have been more likely to decline. Much to his misfortune, that wasn’t the case.

And so he was stuck in an uncomfortable suit, sipping soda and remaining painfully sober while his ward flitted about looking to make a scene. His eyes drifted past the designer gowns and pin-striped suits, memorizing faces as they passed for future reference. A few he recognized from his other occupation, which only served to irritate him further. He knew a number of them to be more than capable of causing some serious trouble at the party, but so long as they stayed away for Lorelai, there were no reasons for him to engage with them socially. The fact they were there at all, however...that was something of concern.

Yet in the midst of his surveillance, he spotted his housemate among the sea of vaguely-familiar faces. Marcelo nearly choked on his drink in surprise, a cold feeling of dread coiling up in the pit of his stomach at the sight of her. Of course, of course she had to be there too. Why the fuck should he have expected anything else? 

The bodyguard considered his options briefly before reluctantly approaching. It was far better to be the aggressor in this case, lest she hound him for the rest of the night. “Andrea.” He said curtly, raising his half-empty glass in greeting. “Didn’t strike you as the type to enjoy these kinds of parties. What brings you here?”

There was a disturbance in his territory. Viktor could see it in the way his subordinates exchanged nervous glances as they informed him that he was needed on Coney Island. He noticed it as his informants looked away as he passed, whispers following at his heels like the strays he used to come across in Russia. Something, or most likely someone, had them all anxious, as though there was another monster lumbering its way closer to the streets of Little Odessa.

Unfortunately, for whoever this intruder was, there was only space for one apex predator, and it sure as hell wasn’t them.

As he arrived at the popular tourist destination, the first thing that drew his eye was the bright yellow police tape barring entry to a scene bustling with police activity. Viktor’s slight frown deepened at the sight, and he drew closer. Given the number of officers, and the presence of an ambulance, this was not so much an accident but a murder. In grounds that were rightfully his. Was this perhaps the problem his henchmen had spoken of? A crime committed on the border between Russian and Irish territory? It certainly seemed that way.

Viktor stepped under the police tape, dismissing the officer as the gathered crowd of witnesses surged forward with excited chatter. Anyone with even a remote knowledge of how Little Odessa really worked knew who he was, and it was far more powerful than having true credentials. He was a man who was above the law; a higher power who could speak to the sorts of depraved individuals who were likely to have caused the scene. Even if the authorities wanted to, they wouldn’t be able to touch him without fair reason, lest they place their own families’ lives in danger.

As he stepped into the crime scene, his suspicions had been correct. A body was sprawled before him, with a face that was vaguely familiar to him. It had to have been one of the new recruits that Catarina had been training; Viktor was almost certain about it. But before he had an opportunity to investigate it, he noticed that someone had already beaten him to the scene. “Excuse me.” He said, stepping closer as the woman obscured his view. “I was here first. He’s one of mine. Your services aren’t necessary here.”

It was beginning to look like the start of another long, restless night. Marcelo had spent his waking hours either with the Degenhardts, which mostly meant having to endure a solid ten hours of trading barbs with their daughter only to come home too frustrated to let the day end with nothing accomplished. But by the time he had finished cleaning his gear and preparing for another day of waiting out in the hallways of the Melbourne Institute, it was already well-past midnight and he was starving.

He didn’t often go through the house he was living in during the dead of night. His landlord and subsequent housemate was someone he only ran into when it was time to pay the rent. Most of the time, he was either out on missions for a questionable association, or trying to will himself to sleep. But as he quietly made his way through the near empty building, his feet carefully falling where he would make the least amount of noise, he kept an eye out for any signs that he was disturbing the other occupant of the building. The last thing he needed, when conflict was so rife in his day job, was additional conflict when he was off-duty.

But as he finally made his way downstairs to the kitchen, Marcelo noticed that the lights were already on. He frowned a moment, wondering if perhaps he wasn’t the only one who had issues with sleeping. As he stepped into the room, he was surprised to see that his suspicions were correct. “Hey.” The mercenary raised a hand somewhat hestitantly in greeting, unsure if he really wanted to be conversing with someone at this hour. “Sorry, I’ll be out of here soon. Late night, I guess?”

Claire’s hand stings as she watches Marius’s cheek grow red. She shook out her hand, instantly beginning to regret it before some major fight would break out and ruin everything. Niko would have her head, for sure, and it would do nothing to ensure the safety of her boyfriend. “Not that I’m sorry… but what are the odds of both of us forgetting this ever happened?”

✋ – SLAPPING THEM IN THE FACE. 

GRIFFITH IS SAT AT THE BAR, innocently trying to honor his new year’s resolution-- or as innocently as possible-- when he hears some vague commotion. instead of getting himself involved, he busies himself with ordering another round. he’s just i n c h e s away from sweet, sweet salvation when there’s an aggressive tap on his shoulder. he turns-- a mistake-- and there’s a  sudden palm crashing into his left cheek and it’s almost brisk enough to knock some sense into him. ‘ CHRIST, i know we all look the same, but the bloke you wanted to clock definitely ran over that way. ’