“Hm…fuck Alexandra, though I don’t really know her, marry Melanie since I know her well enough to tolerate her, and kill Ivanna, because that sounds fairly Russian and I like living, thanks.“

( @alexandra-rothschild @derrieuxmelanie @mikhailovs )

Everyone looked positively deathly when Celine finally sauntered her way into the Oceana Residences, a piping hot caramel macchiato in hand as she made her way up to the Valentina complex. It was almost comical, to see how many of the highest-ranking officers within the Bratva were all crammed into the same flat, making the expansive space seem small due to the sheer number of people present. She chuckled at the sight, wondering how much the NYPD would have flipped their lids at the chance to round up all of her sweet cubs in one go. But for now, she let most of them rest, knowing they must have worn themselves out the night before.

They partied themselves half to death, poor things.

The assassin stepped over a few prone bodies, moaning and groaning about in her search for Viktor. However, it seemed as though the pakhan had already disappeared from his flat, likely making a rush order for brunch over at Baba’s. “Hm...pity.“ Celine sighed, supposing that her news could wait for now.

She leaned against the kitchen island, sipping her caffinated nectar of the gods when she heard the door click open. As she saw a flash of blonde and a figure she knew all too well, Celine smiled smugly. Dear Ivanna, her colleague. Wouldn’t she like to know what her evening was like. “Hello gorgeous, have a fun time at the party last night? I heard it was a blast.”

Viktor was tense, prowling around the party like a lumbering bear in a suffocating suit and tie. The rumours of diamonds had brought the worst of New York to the surface, and he knew far too many people that night to be comfortable with any of them. But as valuable as the prize of the night was (undoubtedly a powerful resource for the Bratva), his eyes were scanning the crowd for familiar faces. Reapers, Caporegimes, Red Poles, any and everyone who were enemies either by association or by blood feud. Though the Garden Hotel was a neutral space, he would have been hard-pressed to believe that no lives would be lost that night. They would disappear into the shadows, and be found blocks away the next morning. Viktor’s job was to ensure that none of the Bratva were among them.

He had been in a decidedly unfriendly mood for most of the night, dancing only once out of obligation and spending the rest with a drink in hand, scrutinizing guests and eavesdropping on conversations of value. Ever since the recent uproars within his small brotherhood, Viktor had found himself with little patience for the upper class, and it was showing in his mannerisms. 

And then he spotted her, Ivanna Mikhailov in a long sequined blue dress and looking equal parts deadly and drop-dead gorgeous.

The pakhan approached her, grabbing an extra glass of champagne that was far too weak for any respectable Russian so as to keep up pretenses. “A refill, Miss?” He asked, offering the drink with a slight smile. It had been a few weeks, since he had last seen her, and frankly a small reunion was overdue. Viktor never did like to go long periods of time without contacting his officers. “How are you enjoying the upper crust of New York? Have they chattered your ears off yet with talks of diamonds? It seems to be the worst-kept secret of this place.”