#vc:starter

It was time to leave for real this time. So Bruno told himself. Yet there he still was, watching the twilight moon rise up in the sky, reminding him of the hours he'd spent reconnoitring the mansion. He had to wonder to himself what the purpose was, Vera's voice echoing in his mind. Sure, he could delude himself that there was some useful police evidence in seeing who exactly decided to visit the mansion, but he'd done about zero actual interviewing or real searching for dastardly deeds.

In reality, he already knew where many of the bodies were buried. After all, he'd been the proverbial grave digger less than a decade ago. But the Vincelli's didn't leave details behind, and any court case would just be a wild goose case.

No, he wasn't here as Officer Bruno Vincelli, but as a wounded, pining, wayward son. He'd left of his own volition, and yet standing on the Terrace and looking out towards the gardens, he felt a longing nostalgia. There was a comfort in the house, if only because it had been filled with family and familiar faces. Now he had just returned to an empty apartment and fell asleep listening to the radio in his chair.

So lost in his sobering thoughts, Bruno didn't notice someone joined him on the balcony. Just leaning over the rail and cradling another drink too many. He whispered out to himself, voice trembling with a soft vulnerability as he closed his eyes. "What are you doing, Bruno?"

Then his ears came to life, and he snapped his head to see who had entered.

The evening has gotten off to a good start, but the night is still young. 

Opening the doors to the Vincelli Mansion for all of New Orleans was a risk - one Vera hopes will pay off. Her father had needed some convincing that the plan was a sound one - but what better way was there to show their security, to demonstrate that their family was strong, than to welcome the entire city into their abode? It was much needed after the failed rebellion if they were to get the New Yorkers to trust them. Even their enemies would not dare to strike here, she reasoned. They were walking into the lion’s den, and Vera, the leader of the pride, was not a fool. Her men may look like they are having a goof time, but under their suit jackets, every one carries a weapon. Every one is alert, and so is she. 

She lingers at the side of the room, alone, clutching a glass of champagne in her hand. It isn’t her favoured choice of drink, but they have an image to uphold tonight. Only the best, most expensive of drinks will do. She had already played the charming hostess, welcomed the attendees into her home and her party, and now, she is taking a well-earned break. 

Or, she was. A hand and an invitation is extended, and she can only stare in response, for Vera Vincelli does not dance. 

“No thank you.” A smile curls at her lips. “You are more likely to find me at a card table than on the dancefloor, I’m afraid, but I am sure my brother Lorenzo will indulge you, I think I saw him skulking around. That is, unless you want to play a hand?” 

Alba jumped when she heard the door close, she turned around and wrapped her arms around herself as she smiled politely out of etiquette. "I apologise, you made me jump."

The Vincelli Mansion is a place Nalini had only ever dreamed of being, and never like this. In her dreams, she was the lady of the manor, the rooms filled not with drunken revellers but happy, barefoot children who look like their father. It has been years since she realised that was never to be, but to be here, so close, yet never further away, stung at her. 

But she had come anyway, because there was never any question of staying home. The night promised to be the party of the year, and that wasn’t something she could miss. Besides, she was being paid a decent sum. It wasn’t the kind of money she could turn down. 

So she came, and she sang, and now her set was over. Nalini had smiled courteously at those who commended her for her performance, but had barely heard that words. All she was interested in was getting her hands on a bottle of champagne, and drinking to the bottom of it. 

She had just finished that task, her cheeks tinged pink from intoxication, her troubled emotions a little more evident on her face and her head a little fuzzier, when she finds herself in the company of another. Nalini leans over the bar, waiting for the attention of the bartender, and cocks her head at them, a small smile gracing her face. 

“Absinthe would hit the spot right about now, don’t you think? What do you say, want to sink a few shots with me?” It’s a bad idea - she’s teetering on the edge of tipsy, and this would likely push her straight into the arms of drunkenness, but she doesn’t care. “And by a few, I mean all of them. I intend to drink the bar dry tonight.” 

he wonders if his face says it all but then perhaps if it did, then the woman chatting him up would’ve got the hint and realized how uninterested he is in the way she’s trying to coax an invitation to dance out of him. he’s impressed with her determination but he wishes she’d given up after he briefly and simply explained to her that he just doesn’t dance. jacob truly thought he was safe, tucked away in the corner of the room, mostly watching and definitely not participating in the scene. he was so, so wrong. he has no idea how to let her down gently but what would be even worse in consequences is saying yes to the dance. and she’s not trying to make him ask anymore, she’s actually asking him.

he makes brief eye contact with someone in their vicinity, someone who’s undoubtedly witnessed this entire conversation. at first, jacob worries about how pathetic it must look to them but more than that, he hopes that this is exactly what’s going to make them take pity on jacob and intervene. 

     IT WAS COOLER INDOORS. The exposed skin of Virginia’s ankle felt the breeze trickle from the open window - was it not dangerous to have such exposure, when the street was amok with chaos? Likely, but this wasn’t her home. It wasn’t her concern. September nights had a penchant for varying between a heat she could barely withstand, and a cold that chilled her bones. Tonight had been closer to the former than the latter, but she knew that the rain would soon come. That was exactly what they needed in New Orleans; a little rain. Clean the streets of the blood it would inevitably be awash with, allow the sins to trickle away and seep into the ground. This home was not one that she necessarily belonged in, but it was the greatest option of sanctuary that she could find. At least there was alcohol, music, and enough company that surely boredom could not strike. Boredom.. so fickle an emotion, yet one which so commonly plagued her. At least it used to. Before Hugo, before the excitement and danger, before love and chaos. She had always been so bored as a child, money cannot buy happiness, after all. Though it certainly did make for a more formidable attempt.

     “You look like you could use a drink.” Though she practically prided herself on keeping her list of friends as short as possible, Ginny knew that at least having acquaintances, of recognizing faces in crowds, would always be beneficial. “Or well, I could use a drink and I poured far too much lime in this for my taste. You’ll take it from me, won’t you?” Doe-like expression blinked at the companion, arm half-raised to offer the gimlet in her left hand, slight pout allowing for her lips to part, an expression of innocence to hide a criminal.

“There is always fucking something.” Her words are quick, snapped and terse as she retrieves a larger shard of glass from the floor. It had been dropped when the gunshot went off, a shatter after a bang, and though someone has begun to sweep it already, the piece she holds had hidden itself under a barstool. 

The bar had very quickly become crowded right afterwards, and though that’s never something to turn your nose up at, it’s taking effort to keep people calm. Police crawling the streets does not mix particularly well with illegal speakeasy. Cecilia isn’t quite worried, rather feels an intense annoyance that would be more pronounced if she wasn’t sure that whatever had happened was probably necessary.

Behind the bar in a moment, she spins to dispose of the glass safely in the trash. As part of the same movement, one fluid motion, she pulls a bobby pin from seemingly nowhere to pin back a strand fallen from her bun. Despite her conversation partner having quite clearly seen her complaint, she replaces it with the mask of hostess all the same. “Anything I can get you?” 

draped across the length of divan, with hips lined squarely against the velvet cushions and silk slippers discarded at the foot of the settee as shining mementos to the bare feet that kick idly in the air, delysia wanders from the party — mentally. while bodily she remains firmly fixed in the bounds of her friends apartment, her gaze seems focused on some indistinguishable point in the near distance, the directness of her stare lost somewhere between gin and reverie until it lands on the passing form of a fellow partygoer.

“you’ll know,” in a graceful sequence which nearly appears choreographed, delysia sits up on her elbows, places chin in hand, and fixes them with one of those rare looks of complete and utter belief, separated from resembling that of a child’s only by the misty quality of her eyes, the languid nature of her voice which dips and drawls against the floor like a train of pale silk. “is it fall yet?”

fingers play stutteringly along the pearl necklace that drapes around her neck and plummets earthward, a rope so long and baring so many milky pink beads that a suitor had once claimed there was more saltwater around delysia’s neck than in entirety of the pacific. if you look closely, you can see it clinging to her neck: drops of perspiration left behind either by the ocean or the terrible reality of the evening.