Jimmy Batts

Romi had the day off so she'd decided to partake in the festivities. However, trying to dress up to theme was a little more difficult when she was broke. She was experiencing all sorts of firsts, including going to her first thrift store. It was a little horrifying but she'd found a semi-decent pair of cowboy boots in her size so she thrown on those, as well as her Daisy Dukes and a too-small flannel shirt that she'd tied up above her belly button. It certainly wasn't her best party look but it'd have to do. Tonight, she'd decided to seek out the Doll House--and mostly because she was avoiding the Glitter Gulch like the plague. That place reminded her too much of her old life and so instead, she'd come out with the rest of her friends to the burlesque club. She'd actually come to the bar to get some water, trying to steer clear of any sort of temptations. However, while she'd been waiting, she'd began to zone out, lost in thought about all that had happened in the past few months and how quickly and drastically her life had changed. It was a lot to take in.

The most detrimental of all his habits was his collection of troubled youth. He had been taken in by Agustu, by the Vitelli family at a young age. He was a street rat, a poor boy with nothing to gain from the world but struggle. They gave him more. He knew this was the root of his trouble, the sentiment of wanting to offer what he could to those who might not be given it otherwise. The Vitelli children were a given. He was an uncle to them, in a way. Others, Cyrek, for example, were less easily explained. At the end of the day, he was loyal to the family that, in its own way, adopted him. That didn't keep his heartstrings from tugging in directions other than his own faction.

He didn't have a goal in mind, wasn't prepared to offer her anything, not that she was even likely to want it, but he found himself offering her kindness anyway.

Jimmy nodded at the bartender in gratitude as he took his drink, allowing the glass to slide across the bar between his fingers. "The show's usually good. I like to think it's just good casting." As he lifted his drink, he allowed his eyes to meet hers now. They were soft, the puppy-like expression he so often carried heavy on his features now.

"A man who shares his recipes? Very uncommon," she expressed. Janella came from a household - and community - where people loved keeping secret secrets. Until they died, then you suddenly received a whole notebook filled with unintengable scribbles of many secret recipes. She knew that if she hadn't stood in the kitchen with her gran and mom, she wouldn't have known anything. Though it was rare that she even used the fancy kitchen she'd installed in her place.

"Provolone? I may sound incredibly uncultured, but what is that?"

"What's the use of good food if you can't share it?" He was generous in many ways. Some were simple, like a sandwich, for example. Others put his neck out. His current career path was a great example of that.

"You aren't very cultured in cheese, then." He gave a soft laugh. "I have much I can teach you."

SAMANTHA HAD FINALLY GROWN FRUSTRATED WITH the run around of receiving no definitive quote from the Vitelli family, waiting days as the press continued to report on the death but receiving no further direct information. If there was one thing to be said about Samantha Alcott, it was that she did not mess about her career, and while carrying the firm belief that the Las Vegas Sun should be the first to publicize a direct Vitelli quote, she refused to take no for an answer and chose to take one herself once the lawyer chose to act as the spokesperson for the family by offering one. "I'm sure you're going through a lot now," the blonde conceded as she took a seat across from Jimmy Bates, the thought not lost on her that he had quite a exquisite office. "But I'm sure you're aware that the public is in quite distress and wishing to hear from the family after witnessing what had happened. And our publication will handle everything with the utmost of respect, but the longer it all goes without a comment, the more questions and hypotheticals that will arise." As pushy as she truly was when it came to reporting, and she had to be pushy in the past to get to the rank of copy editor that she now sat at, honor and respect sat heavily on her heart. It was also why she refused to publish anything her own eyes ran over that couldn't be proved verifiably true, despite the money offered otherwise. Her honesty couldn't be bought. "Thank you for agreeing to meet. You have my word that whatever statement you hand over to us will be published as is, no edits or extractions."

The harassment the family had been receiving had been taking a toll on Meera in particular. She had been dealing with them for weeks, her own personal issues making her a spectacle of conversation. To say the increased attention was not settling on her comfort was an understatement. So, of course, in predictable Jimmy style, he agreed when she asked him to get them off their backs.

His office had become an increasingly popular spot. Visitors were coming and going so often, he had to stop taking personal jobs. His priorities would first and foremost always be the kids he took responsibility for.

"Yes, I have been close with the Vitelli family for a very long time. They've been going through more than anyone should have to this year. I'm just hoping to ease some of their burden." This would be a very cryptic interview. Answers were not coming, but he hoped some publicity, a sob story, would be enough to hold the public off even for just a day or two.

"I know there are questions. It was a horrific scene. Franco has become beloved by many. It's only natural for people to want to know what has happened." Franco's popularity was questionable; Jimmy was well aware of that, but press was press. He was more than accustomed to the language of it.

There are few people close to Aurelius who could say they've known every version of him. From the days of his drug-addled party youth to the rehabilitated, corporate golden boy, Jimmy Batts bears witness to it all. It was the sort of knowing that Aurelius couldn't handle on a regular basis, but something he had long grown accustomed to when it came to Jimmy. There was a relief in knowing there was space to lower the mask, even for just a few moments. A certain ease existed with the man that he's never able to find with his father.

The most recent hierarchical shift in Vitelli leadership meant the reintertwining of their immediate daily lives. With Augustu's funeral still fresh on the minds of those within the Vitelli orbit. It's enough even for Marcus Crane to return to Vegas to pay his respects— an encounter Aurelius dreaded after so much time away. Even more so without any concrete details or timelines on a possible retirement date for his father.

Aurelius knows that his father is... reluctant in his desire to hand over the reins, but it was becoming increasingly more obvious that he'd likely rather die before willingly handing the company over. A difficult pill to swallow when he'd dedicated the entirety of his life to the betterment of the company. Like many workaholic men of his variety, Aurelius sacrifices the potential for a family outside of work, all in the name of Crane Industries.

"Must be something important if you needed to make sure I would be here." Jimmy sat back in his chair, the folder on his desk lazily being shut closed as he reached for the coffee.

He hadn't always been so polished, the man standing before him. He was once a boy, troubled, much like the rest of them. Jimmy could never bring himself to blame them, though. They were all born, or brought into, a life that bore so much stress it could be felt from across the house. They all inherited fathers who valued work over family, prioritized things outside of the house before inside. Beyond that, the business was rough, dirty. Even from the pressure-free angle Jimmy had grown up in, he had his rough patches. There was just too much exposure, too much temptation. Most of them pulled together, though, as they entered adulthood. Aurelius was one of the more impressive turnarounds.

"You know I won't say no to a cup of coffee." He offered a boyish smile with the wave of his hand, offering the chair in front of him.

really, kenny couldn't have given half a shit about maintaining a certain status within her own family. they were all money-hungry, blood-guzzling psychopaths, and she loved them for it—from a cautious distance, of course. she'd never inherited their ambition and forthrightness, let alone the drive that sparked the ignition of their empire. she was more than content to take a back seat when it came to deliberations and ultimate decisions, partially because her adhd had bestowed upon her a very stubborn executive dysfunction, and partially because of her ever-growing list of illnesses that had struck her body from the time she was a child. where once it was only her deafness and difficulty reading and comprehending words, now she'd begun spacing out and snapping back into proper consciousness minutes later. it'd concerned one of their staff enough to where they urged her to visit the emergency room for a diagnosis, which she was sluggishly obliging to. first, though, she needed to kick jimmy's ass in goldeneye 007.

it was pleasant having someone around who didn't bore her to death. while she did have her brothers, ever since the death of their father, she had a more difficult time looking them in the eyes. she always believed she favored her own mother much more than she ever had augustu, so it wasn't as hard seeing herself in the mirror everyday. jimmy was a nice reprieve from the people whose faces eerily echoed her deceased father's, and he never judged her, never belittled her. he understood why she chose to stay where she was, though there did come brief moments of inquiry about entertaining something beyond what she'd always known. she would consider it, even for half a second, which is more than she could say about other people who pressed on what she was planning on doing with her life.

She managed to avoid the red hands of guilt her siblings carried in one way or another in a way that looked effortless. Sure, she lacked ambition; people often chalked it up to that, and while that certainly carried some weight, there was an art to avoiding the harsh blows the Vitelli family was constantly taking. She would do well in legal. It was a career choice he had been hinting at for her, giving her information, the heavy appeal of not needing any prior schooling to be a paralegal. He could make that happen with ease, and it would give her some direction for her future. He didn't push, though. He knew the harder you tried, the more they pulled back. If it didn't feel like their idea, it was a lost cause.

"Don't tempt me." He glanced at her with a mischievous smile. "Fifty dollars sounds like a fair trade for my ego." He really didn't mind losing. Being good at video games wasn't a skill he felt a dire need to obtain. He mostly did it for her. If video games were what it took to get his quality time in, he'd take the losses with a smile, and he did.

A heavy sigh of defeat left his puffed chest as the lost finally came to a conclusion. It was taking longer now, at least, for the game to end in his demise. "I'm not that old." He shot a feign expression of being appalled.

The controller found itself in his lap as he took the opportunity to change the subject to a more serious tone.

In Francisco's perspective the Cactus Cats were a lesser threat statistically, a smaller conglomerate with less money and status to their name, but that wasn't to say they were any less vicious. A treaty, a brief peace between the two families, could be a blessing. A reprieve to allow everyone to get their shit together, and if all goes well, potentially assist in a more focused attack on another mutual opponent. Opportunists, broader thinkers; this is the line of thought he was focused on.

He entered Jimmy's office as usual, well dressed, fucking exhausted, but focused. He had his collection of thoughts and paperwork, lists and concepts, negotiations, but he intended, in this situation, to let Jimmy do most of the talking. Jimmy had a garnered a good relationship with Cyrek and Stella, something that baffled him a bit, but it had it's benefits at the end of the day. Jimmy knows people, and those people tend to like him, a stark contrast to Franco who tended to lean on respect and fear rather than affection. In this room, once the two of them entered, he was the black sheep.

He hung up his coat, gave a greeting, and sat towards the end of desk as opposed to opposite Jimmy where the other two chairs were, not quite next to him, but closer. A more round table effect than us versus them, body language psychology, a small thing, but still a gesture none the less. He sighs a little, the last of the casual comfort before their new counterparts entered the room, rubbing at his face, the feel of a fresh shave under his fingers. "I think we've covered it all, if they throw anything out of left field, we can adjust. I'll be here, and I'll participate, but the know you, and they trust you. And I trust you. This is your project. Do what needs to be done."

No sooner is it past his lips that the sound of the opening door catches his attention, turning head, patient and a polite nod of greeting in response.

Cyrek and Stella were a pair renowned of being unfashionably late — they had the excuse, at the current moment, that she was carting around forty pounds of extra weight set to pop out of the oven in t-minus seven weeks. There was a buzz of anticipation, electricity short-circuiting the palms of hands too deadened to comprehend regularity of circulation, as the kingpin was aware that it wouldn't be a smooth meeting — to be frank, the Vitellis weren't on their shortlist of greatest concerns in the wake of Augustu's death. The ambush months before could be reasoned as leveraged by the old man himself, and it was an increasing concern that the Visitors were knocking on the city's golden gates.

The scales of balance were tipped to one end of misfortune that the queenpin was equipped with more cognizance and knowledge than their prior crossing of paths — a woman scorned was dangerous, in and of itself, and Stella was worse. All that without the golden goose on top that she had spent the better part of the drive in the truck up to the city blasting herself in the face with the rumbling air conditioning of the dying vehicle, and the night erstwhile of their meeting wriggling for the bathroom or unable to get comfortable. For that reason, and the mounting hesitance about the vampire coven silently ghosting through the city to sink claws into his debt collector's hide, it was the lesser of two evils to forge an unsteady trust. One that neither of them trusted to last, but were in the foresight to discuss in private what a dealbreaker looked like.

Hand in hand, the office door smacking into the wall wasn't his intention, and Cyrek found the manners to mumble a sheepish apology. Everyone in the room looked about as run ragged as they were, and maybe that borrowed them room for graciousness that the coupling didn't rightfully deserve. Nudging the leg of the chair next to him a bit wider to part room for his expectant wife, his thumbs worked underneath the straps of his suspenders and left them to dangle against his knees, ripped dark denim a smokeshow varnished in the occasional scrape, scratch and bruising, and black-and-blonde hair cut clean and short to stiffen into spikes when the tepid temperatures of the wintertime had sloughed away. Dropping into his chair, far unceremonious by comparison, he greeted, "Long time, no see."

STELLA HADN'T BEEN MUCH OF A PATIENT OR UNDERSTANDING person since the moment she burst onto earth, clinging onto her stubbornness ever since she was young and rarely letting go of it except for the times that could probably be counted on two hands that she had actually decided on changing on her mind of a topic (and really, only done so by people she held closest and with a cradle of patience that anyone could see played a large role in why the marriage of the biker gang's leaders worked as well as it did). Thin patience had been turned to a practically threadbare tire by nights spent with internal kicks, an inability to get comfortable, and little sleep, and while excitement still lingered over each and every movement to be felt after the first few a month and a half ago, her baby's timing was impeccable to right when she laid down in the midnight hours. (The joke had been made that she was a natural creature of the night herself, but it wasn't very funny when the two already had a child that required a lidded cup adorned with cartoon characters of blood every full moon.)

No apology was offered from the queenpin's own lips for she found it unnecessary; there was rarely a place or appointment the two actually did show up to on time, just usually for more interesting reasons than that of Stella requesting a stop at the closest gas station as she refused to interrupt the meeting to leave her husband there alone despite now being the human vampire version of a ticking time bomb of piss. Quite frankly, being late gave off the exact impression she was shooting for: they could take it or leave it. There would be no gratitude of generosity for striking a deal as she refused to succumb to such when she couldn't trust the other end of the bargain to be kept, distrust wafting off her even if the way she had to slowly lower herself into the chair with the help of the armrests somewhat shot whatever intimidation she otherwise always carried with her. Leaning back in the chair, not that there was a snowball's chance in hell she'd find a lick comfort, her eyes took in the appearance of the law office, considering it had been the first she had ventured into, despite a long list of legal issues littering her past. Her public defenders usually came to her—and usually, unwillingly.

"I'm fine," she shrugged, unwilling to admit any weakness even if it was thirst, not dissimilar to a feline who masked in an attempt to not attract predators, hands lacing together and laying them atop her bump as there was little else for them to go. "I think we can skip all the bullshit niceties." Mostly as she didn't contain any to offer, instead choosing to be blunt and to the point and situating herself at the lead of the conversation, where she preferred to remain. The Cats had already been kicked around by society enough; she refused to accept it from anyone else, which was exactly why she appeared anywhere with a sense of authority required for wrangling a bunch undead and living bikers. A hard lesson to drop after being in and out prison: set yourself up to be taken as a threat or you're sure to be fucked with. "You called us here for something good, I assume, so we might as well get right to it." // @thcshyster

The smacking of the door made Jimmy's lip twitch into a small smirk. It had been a long time since Cyrek stood in this office. Like a time capsule, the dangly boy stood in the corner while Jimmy mulled over options, directions. The energy wasn't quite the same; Franco and Cyrek were tense, and saying Stella was wary was an understatement. The air pressed down on him, pressure building with the bodies collecting in the room. Jimmy was the centerpiece.

It hadn't been that long; the baby shower had only been a few weeks ago, but that was hardly much of a reunion. There was no shortage of attendance, and Jimmy, being the odd point in the room, made his congratulations and left swiftly after.

"Been even longer since you stepped into this office."

His eyes followed in line with Cyreks, landing on Stella, which was whas about the size of a beachball now. He hopped she didn't pop in his guest chair but given the luck he'd been having lately, it wasn't completely out of the question. "If you need anything, let me know." his eyes lowered to her with earnest, kindness. She wasn't the biggest fan of Jimmy; that was understandable but that didn't stop him from showing her the same level of courtesy as the other two. If anything, it made him kinder.

"To the point works." He agreed, not wasting time. These three were likely in a rush to get out of here, a stark contrast of Jimmy's underlying desire to have all of his young mentees get along.

"We all have more pressing matters than each other." He turned to Cyrek. "You recently took one of our territories, we understand it was an opritunity and Franco is willing to let it slide." He turned to Stella now, wanting to include her in the conversation. "Quite frankly, we don't have much conflict in our agendas. I don't see why we can't just white flag it for a while."

Jimmy allowed a beat, a moment for the speech to sink in, before wrapping it up. "If either party changes their mind later, it needs to be voiced beforehand. We can choose not to work against each other right now, focus on our personal goals. No double-crossing, no tricks, just an understanding that eachother aren't the target right now."

It was straightforward, a simple truce. It required both ends to offer very little, but reap great benefits.

Jimmy had always worn plausible deniability the way he wore his suits, impossible to tug loose without ruining the whole garment. It suited him, the smile, the easy cadence of his voice, the faint creases at the corners of his eyes that suggested warmth, a man who listened before he spoke. 

A choirboy’s face fitted to a man who could have half the city poured into concrete foundations before breakfast and still arrive at church on time. Diana had missed it, in a way.

Some men were entertaining in bed. Some were entertaining in conversation. Jimmy had always been entertaining in strategy. There was a particular thrill in crossing blades with someone whose mind moved quickly enough to make the exchange worthwhile. With him, every sentence had always carried the promise of a trap, or the pleasure of dodging one.

Her heel continued its slow percussion against the desk.

Tap. Is he lying? Tap. Does it matter? Tap.

“You’re stalling,” Diana said at last, tipping her head slightly to one side. Her hand drifted lazily through the air, tracing a slow spiral between them as if she were sketching the shape of his thoughts. “You do this thing where you pretend the answer might arrive if you circle it long enough.”

Diana leaned forward in the chair and lowered her legs from the desk. Her heels met the floor with a decisive click that seemed to echo in the quiet office. For a moment she said nothing, simply letting her eyes wander the room, cataloging it the way she used to, back when she spent far too many evenings here. 

The office was a time capsule; the same heavy desk, the same shelves lined with thick binders and expensive whiskey that was never meant to be finished in one sitting but somehow always was, the same dim amber light that softened everything just enough to make bad decisions feel like good ones.

Uncle Pete used to say that after thirty you could only walk on tombstones. Every year added another stone beneath your feet, another choice already made, another path you’d stepped too far down to turn around. You kept moving forward, but the ground beneath you was nothing but the weight of your own past.

Of course, Uncle Pete had said that while drunk off bourbon, so she was not quite sure on how much of his philosophy could be taken to the heart. 

Still, the idea lingered.

Because this room was exactly that: a graveyard of old evenings. Barroom laughter that had spilled into midnight negotiations, courtroom theatrics rehearsed over cigars and brandy, nights in expensive hotels that began with flirtation and ended with them tangled across rumpled sheets, still arguing about some piece of city politics long after either of them remembered who had won.

This had been their old game and Jimmy, for all his faults, had always been an excellent opponent.

“Someone interrupted a system that has run smoothly for decades,” Diana mused, almost to herself. The thought made her smile faintly, the absurdity of it was delicious. “A system that happens to pass through territory controlled by men who consider surprises a personal insult… and suddenly everyone forgot they have tongues in their mouths.”

She rose from the chair in one smooth motion, fueled by the unconscious grace of someone who had spent half her life crossing stages and catwalks beneath bright lights. A model never forgot how to move through a room. She stopped beside him and leaned one hip against the edge of the desk, from here she could smell his cologne, the same one he’d worn when they first met. The scent stirred an old reflex in the back of her mind, the urge to reach for a cigarette she didn’t carry anymore.

Some habits really did die hard.

“Let’s try this again, shall we? Who got a one-way ticket to the fiery pits of hell?” Her smile returned slowly, bright and sharp around the edges. “Wannabe King Solomon or his sociopathic neighbor?”

"That logic does sit soundly, don't you think?" He gave her a long, lingering smile, the kind that flirted without words. "Maybe I would just like to keep you in my chair a bit longer."

This, in itself, wasn't a lie. In fact, it was probably the truest thing he would offer tonight. He wanted to keep her here, use her own frustration to hold her hostage in his stuffy office. It didn't smell like it used to. Her perfume hinted at the space between them but it wasn't quite as appealing without the light salty sheen vailing between it and the air.

That smell haunted him at first, lingered in the varnish of his desk, the leather of his chair, random folios opened to reveal the memories of drunken nights. It wasn't love. No, he wouldn't call it that at all. It was fascination.

Flirtation was his favorite weapon when it came to Diana. He could feel the heat radiate off of her. It didn't matter if that fire was born of desire or flirtation; he liked the warmth either way.

"Perhaps those men have just gotten too comfortable, started expecting things to run themselves. You know, without proper maintenance, even the strongest of empires fall." He raised his brows with an expression that fained innocence in the way a puppy would repent a chewed shoe. "I am curious, though, whose tongues have you tried to wag?" The interest was shown in a manner that hid nothing. The question behind it too strong as he crossed his arms, head tilting.

She rose and his eyes trailed her body. Her shoulders, the curve of her waist, her hips, the place on her thigh where he used to brush his lips. The gaze lacked that of a preditor though. It resembled something more of an artist admiring his work. She wasn't his, but that was the point. He didn't want to own her, just borrow. Steal her when he wanted, return her when he was done. "You're quite sexy when you're mad, do you know that?"

"Me not have a big ego? It'd be easier to tell the sun not to waste its time rising in the morning. It would be a far easier job, too." Alessandro knew that he had a big ego; he felt it was earned, too, and anyone who disagreed could argue with the wall. "My siblings, my fellow circus clowns, mmmm, no, that isn't right, my fellow marionettes, which it will be interesting now, won't it? The strings have been cut. What will we all do now?"

Alessandro paused a moment, listening to the advice, the input that Jimmy had to offer. Alessandro was the first, he was also the only one who had no family outside of the Vitellis, no other last name, no dead parents to cling to the memory of......it was probably why he was the most fucked up out of them all, Augustu was....an excellent and ruthless businessman and mafioso, but......Jesus fucking Christ, he was a shitty dad as they got older.

"Maybe. Who the fuck knows? Daddy....he was....complicated, did any of us ever actually know him? I mean, we could try and piece it all together.....and create something that might resemble him, but some of the pieces we have are just....incompatible with the other pieces someone else might have." Alessandro believed that Augusto cared about him in some way; he had to if he wanted this world to make sense.

"But now comes the fun part, the after, the next. Will it all come crumbling down? Will it remain standing and prosper? Will it remain standing as a hollow shell of what it once was? I can't lie, the heir being unclear, the generals picking the succession, it's all giving Alexander the Great's, to the strongest, and within two years, there was mass infighting." He chuckled again, rubbing the back of his neck, before shrugging.

"Maybe what this Empire needs is a Grand Admiral Thrawn."

"Your heads about the size of the sun." Jimmy joked in return. The tune of amusement dropped from his face at the next comment. They were stumbling around right now; he could see how the comparison would have been drawn. "You stick together. You are all each other have. I know when you're young, that doesn't sound like much, but trust me. You'll be glad you have them one day." He kept the serious tone muted. He knew better than to push too hard, especially now. But he hoped Alessandro would consider it all the same.

Agustu was complicated, at least when it came to family matters. He wasn't the most paternal, didn't have the same desire to be around kids that Jimmy had. He never judged his friend for it, despite what his reasons might have been, he gave those kids a good home. Still, Jimmy found himself trying to fill those gaps in quality time. And he enjoyed it. He never had kids of his own, never felt the need to. Agustu's kids kept him plenty busy, and in the strange way the relationship allowed, he loved them.

"He did have a tendency to split himself when it came to you kids. He gave you each what he thought would be best for you, to help you grow the most." At least that was Jimmy's interpretation. As close as they were, they never talked about matters of the heart; it just wasn't the style of their relationship. It never bothered him, but it did leave him filling blanks. Jimmy felt he pieced him together pretty accurately. He watched the man grow from a small child to the ruthless ruler he was.

"I'm going to do my best to help you all keep things rolling. At least till Franco has his barings. It's a hard roll to fill, try to give him a little grace, yeah?" It was more of a request than anything else. Franco saw Jimmy as his own Admiral Thrawn, in a way. Jimmy just hoped he could fill the shoes, for their sake.

“A most satisfying offer,” she said.

She did not wave as they left, deciding to put all her attention on Jimmy. “Nobody taught you to listen to your doctor? They do give excellent advice sometimes, though when they try to pretend to be my dietist, I tend to stop listening. Prosciutto sandwiches do sound delicious, is it a secret recipe? Or are you willing to share?”

"Oh, I've been taught. But what fun is living if you have to cut out the things you love to do it?" It was the same speech Jimmy gave his doctor as he waved him off. He saw it as sound logic.

"They're the best. And I most certainly will share, it would be a crime to withhold." He placed his free hand in his pocket as they walked. "Pickled red peppers is the secret. Provolone is a staple. The bread though, can be versatile. I'm not a huge stickler for the bread."

When she’d spoke to Lilura about it the next day, the exhaustion evident on her face in a way that wasn’t quite the same as her usual ‘called out in the middle of the night’ tiredness, Quinn had been dismissed with a read the report and a rant about the incompetence of city officials. At least on that front, Quinn could agree. Quinn hated liars, and looking at Jimmy she reveled in the loathing that so easily made its way in the space between them.

“Illness, James? Is that the PR statement you’ve landed on?” Quinn took a drag and averted her eyes. A smile played on her lips. “Do me the favour of not insulting the very little work the LVPD put in on this file in at least categorizing this as a suspicious death.” She exhaled smoke in his direction. “And those poor kids, indeed. Meera in particular – the heir apparent, a suspect. Can’t imagine Franco’s too torn up about it since it works in his favour.” A humorless laugh crossed her lips.

“Illness,” she mused, “you know, between you and me, I think the Vitellis have gotten too comfortable with local law enforcement. They might believe that little lie, but the FBI certainly doesn’t. So what’s the deal James, we want the same thing. We want whoever killed Augustu to be brought to justice, whatever that looks like for either of us. Surely you can't believe Meera had anything to do with it.”

A pause followed, his pace slowing as he contemplated her words. "Poor Meera, indeed." His words sounded far away as he debated his options, more so on a personal level than for the conversation at hand. It was a subject that plagued him more than any of the current business issues that piled up higher every day.

Despite what the law may think, Jimmy was never out for himself. He could see how it could appear as if he was taking advantage of Augustu's death, using his younger children's lack of experience to raise himself up the totem pole but this was never what he wanted. It had been offered to him before, more power, but he didn't like being the bad guy, not in the way he would have to be. No, this was about protecting those kids, the ones who were now thrown to the wolves, Meera being the largest victim.

"Heir is an interesting choice of words." There had been rumors, nothing set in stone but a few people were still running with that. Her interpretation of the family was clearly warped, though. She was so far off the mark she could have been shooting blind.

"It's actually in the family's great interest to free Meera of her current predicament. No one is very thrilled about it." The words landed flat, clear distaste for her view of Franco lacing the tone like a fine fabric; gentle, but visible. Franco was as invested in the clearing of Meera as Jimmy was, if not more. Their intent, Franco and Jimmy's, was to make her underboss. Jimmy couldn't see a clearer, quicker way to end the family divide than to unite the current Don with the sibling others felt should be in his place.

"I find comfort everywhere." He offered a sly smile in response, his mouth pulling up higher on one side as if to hint at the smugness that lingered beneath. "If someone is directly responsible for the death of my friend, I would be very interested in knowing who. But as it stands, I know about as much as you probably do. Unless you were there, of course."

(Thread with @thcshyster)

Aunt Carol had always said that a resourceful woman ought to keep four things within reach at all times: stilettos in her closet, a gun in her purse, a bank account in her own name, and three different kinds of men in her roster: one to fix your pipes, one to drive you where you needed to go, and one who would lie to the law for you without blinking.

Diana had taken that advice to heart, which was precisely why she had sunk her teeth into James Batts.

James Batts was dangerously fun. Up to his neck in crime, always hovering a hair’s breadth away from catastrophe. And yet there had always been something disarmingly familiar about him. Jimmy had been such a handsome liar, omitting and twisting the truth with a priest’s serenity, haloed by the chaos he left behind him. Archangel in the blaze of his own trail. A Vitelli in everything but name.

Their relationship had burned bright and fast, the way reckless things usually did. Being in an open relationship was, in theory, a perfectly lovely arrangement. Diana had nothing against the concept. Freedom was a virtue. But a relationship could only be open if both parties actually knew it was, and that had been the complication.

Diana hated being the other woman almost as much as she hated cheaters. The hypocrisy alone had nearly killed her.

She had hugged James’s wife when the truth finally came apart at the seams, soothing her through tears and outrage while gently badmouthing the shameless little bitch who had been sleeping with her husband. Diana had played the role with remarkable sincerity, considering the shameless little bitch in question had been herself.

In the end she’d done the decent thing. She’d handed the woman the best divorce lawyers money could buy, personally paid the retainer, and turned tormenting dear Jimmy into a recreational activity. It had become something of a hobby, really, one she pursued with creativity and devotion whenever opportunity presented itself.

Over the years those opportunities had grown scarce.

Nowadays there were very few occasions that required Diana to even consider speaking to James. A meeting here, a curse thrown across a room there, civilized hostilities between two people who knew each other far too well.

All perfectly pleasant.

Until they weren’t.

For the first time in decades, her mail was late. That alone would have been irritating, but the route her correspondence took through town was precise, protected, and monitored by people who understood that delaying Diana’s mail was a spectacularly stupid decision. The post office’s responses had been even worse.

“We have no further information,” they had told her. Ominous words, which meant something had happened to the meatheads running the town. And if something had happened to the meatheads, there was exactly one man who might know why: meathead number two.

“Well,” Diana mused aloud as she wheeled around behind his desk, voice low with amusement, “Shakespeare was right.”

Her gaze swept the office, settling on him like a cat choosing where to land. “Hell is empty and all the devils are, in fact, here.”

James’s chair was unfairly comfortable. Plush leather, expensive stitching, the kind of chair that made a man look powerful even when he wasn’t doing anything particularly impressive. She made a mental note to buy one.

Diana wheeled forward and swung her legs up onto the desk, crossing her ankles with deliberate elegance, one heel lightly tapping the polished wood.

“You see, Judas,” she continued, “my mail is late.”

Her tone carried the mild irritation of someone discussing a delayed manicure appointment rather than a potential criminal disruption. Who the hell had brought him back from retirement? The thought crossed her mind with genuine curiosity. Surely there were labor laws about forcing old men back into crime. Could she file a complaint somewhere? Elder neglect, perhaps.

“Now,” she added, tapping a manicured nail against the desk, “whoever handles that little system of yours told me they have ‘no further information’ which can mean exactly two things.”

Diana lifted her hand and began counting on her fingers, starting deliberately from her middle finger.

“First,” she said, folding one finger down, “they don’t know who they’re talking to.”

Another finger.

“Second, something happened to your oh-so-dear and beloved criminal buddies.”

Her head tilted to one side as she studied him, expression bright with crooked curiosity.

A shark circling familiar waters.

“Now, which one is it?” A small smile curled at the corner of her mouth. Hook, line, sinker. “Spit it out, Jimmy.”

Diana was not the first, not by a long shot. Jimmy had been entertaining women on the side for years before he even bought a ring. There was always one or the other. At first, they were the ones to get the dirty and wild nights, the ones that happened in dark alleys and backrooms. Things got boring at home, though. Soon, his wife had found herself comfortable in her routine, no longer gushing at each and every gift he gave her, didn't brighten with excitement when he took her somewhere nice. She became, not ungrateful, but expectant. In return, Jimmy became bored. The women he entertained started receiving more of a pampering than a sleezy fuck. That had been the gold standard. His last thought, was exciting in a different way.

There was something about a woman of equal caliber, a power clash that rose his blood pressure higher than any of his favorite foods, higher than any woman had in years. The game wasn't one of winning affection or admiration, but of respect and surrender. The issue with anyone who carried that much power though, was just that: power. Diana wasn't one of the cocktail waitresses at the Riviera. She wasn't bright-eyed and eager to please; she wasn't looking for someone's arm to latch onto, despite who they were. She cared if he was married.

It seemed harmless, at first. He planned for it to be a night, maybe three. It was supposed to be a fling; a few sweaty nights in a nice hotel after drinks. Somewhere along the line, though, she seemed to snare him. He had to respect it. It was an open game and she played well. What he hadn't planned for, though, was a scorned woman.

He was used to the reaction of a young, impressionable woman who felt wronged: yelling, throwing, crying, and threatening. Diana did none of that. She worked slowly, quietly. Ending his marriage wasn't the end of her game. She kept dragging it out long past the papers, past the court dates. She basically sat next to his wife in court, not that it was necessary. He was a fair man, he did wrong and he had no issue paying the alimony, buying her the hair salon, letting her keep her car and apartment. Diana, though, seemed to be waiting for her own retributions.

Jimmy sighed through a smile as his own chair spun around, eyes crinkling at the corners in an expression of genuine welcome. He never played with anger, with yelling, with mean words. He deserved it, after all, but even if he hadn't, he never found any fun in a straightforward fight. Jimmy much preferred a smile and a gun pointed under the table.

"Well, you must be very much looking forward to your retirement then." He spoke with the same polite and friendly tone he used with anyone in the office, despite the insinuated damnation.

This was how she had kept his nights so full, why he kept coming back. She was fun, cunning, exciting. He watched her with the same admiring eyes as he had the first night at the bar. She was just as alluring now.

"Hmm." His gaze fell to the window as if he were pondering something, tongue pressing over the front of his teeth. "Last I checked, that was Weiss territory, the mail, I mean." There was never any point playing coy when it came to Diana. She knew what went on. She would also know that it was, in fact, not Vitelli business. That didn't stop them from planting a seed or two though.

Brows furrowed at her accusation. "You'll have to be more specific on the 'who', I'm afraid." It wasn't a bluff. A lot had happened to many of the mob family lately. From top to bottom, Jimmy was up to his balls in messes to clean. The mail, that was more of a petty vengeance than anything else.

Although he stared the man behind the counter down for a tad excessive amount of minutes for comfort, he swiped his own plastic-wrapped goods from the counter, pre-paid when Briar had stopped by the store. Boris hadn't precisely consorted with the family for decades — it started with his wife, as he wouldn't have dared to try to reign in Tessa's free spirit. Their loyalty to the Vitellis had continued on through her death, mostly because someone had to put bread on the table and fund Briar's college degree ( which was astonishingly for naught, considering she spent her time singing at the lounge and clawing her way through the ranks of the family to secure a spot as an assassin. )

He was more likely to meet people that were part of the longtime revolving door. Seemed like no one who got mixed up with the mob ever truly left, but he wasn't certain he'd ever left the army either. Jimmy was fine enough — he tolerated that Boris was cantankerous and didn't rock the boat in their tenacious friendship, which was all the pyromaniac could really ask of anyone. ( And didn't care, either way. )

"Long as he keeps the business in the back," he said vaguely, alluding to the butcher's own ties to the family, and shoving the door open with his shoulder, eyes darting to the prosciutto, "And when you get a heart attack?"

"Business is always conducted where it should be; our friend knows that." Another smile at the butcher, then he turned his eyes back to Borris.

"I've had it this far. Besides, I'm on a healthy dose of blood thinners, I have a good few years left in me." It was a joke, but not a lie. Jimmy's health wasn't bad, persay, but there were a good number of future concerns, his sodium being one. Still, nothing dangerous yet, precautionary is what his doctor said. He just didn't see a point in living long if you had to live like you were in hell anyway. He didn't want to cut out the things he enjoyed, the things that he could lookforward to throughout the day. He wanted to live long enough to make sure all the kids he watched grow were set up, were safe, and that whatever happened happened.

His own coldcuts were ready now and he exchanged them with the cash he had counted out prior. "Prosciutto, provolone, roasted peppers, only the best."