#om.event01

Being here now, in the wake of death, was a pillar of insurmountable grief. Deran stirs in the sentiment of everything, the sorrowful faces and black clothing, all patrons clad in large coats to hide from the cold of an early-December New York. The service was nice enough, a somber affair. Deran stood to the side and watched with a gentle stare, seated with his cousins. He fixated on a chipped tile on the floor halfway through. To his right, his father mentions Christmas. 

Once back at the Bianchi estate, he wanders. He plucks up prepared foods from small tables and pops them into his mouth, though his appetite was fleeting. With so many people inside, with so much security, the place looks brand new. When he was young, he used to picture large balls happening here, ones where women paint their cheeks red and lift their breasts to their neck. 100 years of familial activity was enough to earn in his overflowing imagination to go rogue as a child. Now, it’s all just a little bleak. 

He reaches for a photo from the mantle in the common area, one of Gregory and Deran’s father, Colin. They look formal, neckties and dress shoes. Their faces were baron of any smiles or teeth. Deran thinks he may turn to concrete if he looks long enough at their stern, steady eyes, focused on the camera, hands clasped together in front of their bodies. It’s then he realizes that someone was just a few feet from him, no doubt taking a few laps as well. “Photographs are weird,” Deran says, breaking the silence that brews between him and the other, “It’s strange to think something can be immortalized like that.”

           Their presence at the wake was ironic, and Tatiana found herself secretly amused at the thought that were it not for them, there wouldn’t be a wake to begin with. Though she would never express that, especially here, of all places. She wasn’t an idiot. As she wandered from room to room, observing those in attendance and conversing with whoever saw fit to engage her in casual conversation, Tati found herself outside : escaping to a secluded area of the Bianchi estate where, naturally, her phone would vibrate with a call.     “Fuck,”    she swore under her breath as she removed the cell phone from the pocket of her dress, swiping ignore with a roll of her eyes. She couldn’t turn it off completely. She had a business to run, after all. But Tati had also specified to her staff and the board that under no circumstances bar a catastrophe should she be contacted. It was a funeral, for gods sake. Gregory’s, sure. But even she wasn’t so cruel as to work at a wake - well...

where: Alley | A few streets away from the Bianchi Estate When: December 11th | plot drop

Alfonso Mancini. The Alvarez. The youngest Bianchi had barely any time to register the betrayal when the first bullet rang... Like a flash, the room exploded into chaos. Screams began to echo throughout the estate as bodies collided in order to escape however they could. She could feel it- the panic, the anger, the fear. It almost made her freeze, until a pair of arms pushed her awake. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Brown eyes strained to see Angelo and Viola, catching only a trace of her siblings as they melted into the fray. Leyla was just about to burst through an opening in the crowd when a bloodied figure with a gun blocked her path. Was that Deran behind him? Instinctively, she managed to catch the man off guard with a hit, wrestling the weapon into her grip. “Deran-!” Leyla could feel her voice get stuck in her throat, her head suddenly radiating with pain...The familiar smell of iron filled her nose as crimson oozed from above her eyebrow...This wasn’t happening...

When her feet hit the pavement, the only thing that Leyla could think of was to run. Not the fact her gun had unloaded on a woman who got in her way. Not that her siblings had disappeared without her in tow. Nothing but the pure need to get as far away as she could. The sound of sirens filled the air like a fog, each one seemingly growing louder as Leyla darted in between cars and alleyways. It was finally when her knees gave way that she dropped to the ground, leaning against a garage. Fingers gingerly reached up to her forehead, coming away a dark shade of red as she tried to catch her breath. The Mancini had betrayed them. It was a twig snapping behind her that made her immediately lift up the gun, barrel pointed at whoever was there. “Get the fuck away from me!” 

Where: The Service | Foyer When: December 11th

An affair fit for a king, Gregory Bianchi’s funeral would be something to remember. From the intricate wreaths and displayed photos to the sea of black mourners, the titan himself had drew quite a crowd. It was hard to escape a passerby without hearing condolences and how great her father was... Leyla must’ve been on her hundredth thank you when she spotted a face from the past. “Ayaz?” The brunette stopped, a look of surprise coloring her features. The last time she’d seen the man was the day he got put into hand cuffs, a flurry of FBI coats pulling him away to oblivion... The last time she’d seen him, he’d covered for her and taken the fall. “You’re here- when did you come back...?”  Her voice trailed off before Leyla bit the inside of her cheek. 

The shower fills the space where silence brews. As the steady stream hits his back, Deran rubs at his face. In truth, he’s never been to a funeral of this magnitude and that notion alone earns a surge of nerves to travel through his body. Today, the Bianchi family were to be their own protectors, shielding themselves from any oncoming threats, ones that may very well earn in their demise. A sigh escapes Deran as he reaches to shut the water off, pulling back the shower curtain and stepping out. He grabs a towel from underneath the sink, wrapping it tightly around his waist, before heading back into his and Janine’s bedroom.

His wife is half-dressed, seated at her vanity, touching up her makeup. Deran looks, of course he looks. He takes her in entirely, smiling a little to himself. Even to this day, Deran never feels prepared for way she makes him covered in a sudden red flush. The anticipation was almost brutal though routine nonetheless. The man circles his bed, pouring himself a glass of water from the pitcher that was provided by their housekeeper before they sent her home for the day. “I don’t even think I remember how to tie a tie.” Deran says then, staring into his glass before taking a sip. A breathy chuckle sounds from him as he turns to Janine again, his eyes trained on her bare back. In some quiet way, he was avoiding the obvious. Gregory’s death, the funeral, the growing distance between them. Perhaps this has become a specialty of theirs. Avoidance.