divine violence

Location: the hills

As Los Angeles stretched out below in all its glory, Maurizio found himself at a secluded overlook on the Hollywood Hills, bearing his own reasons for being awake before the city. The air was still crisp, carrying the faint scent of earthy woods and distant sea salt, enveloping his every sense, as he inhaled profoundly; piercing blues reflected the deep indigo shade of the very sky above, which now slowly faded into soft rose and golden hues. He'd just finished a rigorous run, his built frame moving with an almost unnatural grace, not a bead of sweat seemingly out of place, while he went about his daily routine.

The bodyguard stopped at the very edge of the clearing, facing the rising sun, allowing himself to just be present in the moment and admire the beauty of nature itself. His dark, impeccably tailored jogging attire did little to hide the toned musculature beneath, or the faint, intricate patterns of tattoos peeking from under his sleeves and collar – tiny hints of a deeper story he was adamant to leave where it belonged — buried deep within the indefinite abyss of his past. He turned slightly, catching the nascent light, his eyes unmistakably exuding an enigmatic aura, a quiet power that was both intriguing and subtly intimidating without trying. Clearly enjoying this solitary moment of peace and quiet, his breathing evened out slowly, his focus unmarred; yet there was an underlying alertness ever present and stirring within upon realizing, he wasn't as alone as he might have thought. His gaze briefly swept over the panoramic view of the dormant city, before it settled on the approaching figure. With no surprise in his oceanic blues, no immediate reaction beyond a calm, almost analytical observation, he gave a small, acknowledging nod and offered a short: "Good Morning". - for his manner's sake; not because he was particularly in the mood for a little chit chat.

The next morning was different, usually opting for a walk in the hills to blow some of the cobwebs that were making her usually sharp mind so fuzzy away. As she focused on putting one foot in front of the other and drawing air into her lungs, attention was soon captured by the view unfolding below her. Gaze on the city she supposed was her home she didn't notice the man until she was almost upon him, head turning towards him at the sound of his voice. "Shit." Curse slipped out before she could stop it ( not that she tried hard to ) and her next words were dry and verging on disapproving. "Most people like to start their mornings with coffee or something to get their blood flowing. Can't say a heart attack's working for me." Pointed look was shot in his direction, sharpness of it dulled slightly by the laugh she offered at her own expense. Privately she'd place the blame for her heart beating a mile a minute at his feet but she wasn't about to ruin her own morning with an argument. "Some view, huh?" An olive branch or maybe just a redirect before she talked herself into trouble.

Alina Byrne. Christ.

Of course she’d find him tonight of all nights. And of course she’d walk right up like no time had passed at all—like it didn’t cost him anything to be seen by someone who remembered the version of him that hadn’t come back from France with blood on his boots and skin that didn’t fit right anymore. Someone who’d known him when his hands were still calloused from rope, not war.

“I don’t bolt,” he said finally, voice gravel-soft, almost amused if it weren’t so tired. He glanced her way, eyes sharp beneath the lowered brim of his gaze. “Not unless I see trouble.” And she was that, wasn’t she? Not in the way that needed running from. But in the way that dug under the ribs and made old wounds ache again. Her being here pulled on something he hadn’t named yet. A tether to a life he wasn’t sure he deserved anymore.

Eoin turned toward the bar a little more, slow, deliberate—still angling the right side of his face toward her. Habit. The scarred side prickled when he was watched too long. He felt it even now. “I didn’t mean to…” He stopped. Exhaled through his nose. The sentence went nowhere, like most of the things he wanted to say to her. Too many starts. Not enough ends. He pushed the glass toward her. Not quite a peace offering. Not quite a wall, either. “Buy it if you want. But I don’t promise much these days.”

That was the truth of it. He was a man of few guarantees. Fewer still that held up under the weight of memory. But his voice dropped slightly on the next part, quiet in a way that wasn’t evasive—just honest. Like it mattered, that she’d offered him something simple. Like silence might be a kind of truce. “...Silence don’t sound too bad, though.” He didn’t smile. Didn’t frown either. Just let the stillness settle between them, and for once, didn’t get up and leave.

She didn't miss the way that he still angled himself away from her, resisting the urge to lean in further and make it impossible for him to. Hard to tell if he was hiding from her, the world or just the reality of what their lives were after war. It didn't matter, she'd coax him out one way or another. "You callin' me trouble?" Hand clutched at pearls she'd never had the money to buy, rosy lips parting in faux disbelief. "Mighty big accusation there, Riley." Curls bounced as she shook her head in mock disapproval. "A baseless one too." Hand was lifted, gentle waving away of what she could only guess might have been the start of an apology or maybe some kind of explanation. He could make up for whatever slight he thought he'd inflicted upon her now.

Their drinks arrived and she settled into the silence she'd promised. She might have been a woman of many words but she'd always been one to keep them. Even if she felt as though the quiet that stretched between them might just kill her. Each second that ticked by a new itch that she was so desperate to scratch, feeling as though her mind was sowing words into her tongue like seeds but she wasn't allowed to let them bloom. Sip after sip was taken from the glass in front of her, wondering if the rich, burning liquid might wash away the unsaid things taking root in her mouth.

A few others approached, expecting to get a typical raucous welcome for her but instead head was shaken or hand raised to wave them away. The persistent once even got a glare as she protected the brief peace she'd created for them. Eventually she reached the bottom and a sidelong glance in his direction told her he'd done the same. The glass was placed back on the counter with more of a thunk this time, as though she was banging a gavel to end their self imposed silence. "I think it's time for round two." Brows raised over brown eyes that seemed to flicker with a playful light, hand already raising to beckon the bartender over again.

"Maybe this time we can up the word count to at least more than zero?" Beneath the teasing was a subtle sincerity, something of a trademark of hers, because she did want to know how he'd been. They had years to catch up on and she thought there was no better time than now.

It didn’t matter how many gowns Rosa Alvarez owned, how her star rose or fell, or how many fellow wives of means tried to tell her to let someone else “handle it.”

This part? No one else ever handled it.

The heat inside Grand Central Market was its own kind of perfume—chili oil and roasted pork, fresh cilantro and ripe mango, something frying three stalls over, and the clatter of knives hitting cutting boards like percussion. The whole place buzzed, a tangle of languages and hands and hunger. Rosa moved through it with a kind of ease that could never be faked—basket on her arm, heels traded for flats, lipstick still perfect because of course it was.

She was bartering in Spanish with a produce vendor over the price of guajillos, but her mind was already on the rest of the list. She needed plantains firm enough to fry, culantro—not cilantro, culantro, por el amor de Dios—and a very particular cut of pork shoulder that only old Man Torres ever got just right. She’d promised her mother’s pastelón recipe for dinner this week, and she wasn’t about to half-ass it, not even for a private meal at home.

"Dos puñados, pero bien secos—sí, así, gracias, corazón." She gave the vendor a smile that could’ve knocked the wind out of a lesser man and moved on, the basket already starting to fill. There was something centering about this place. Among the chatter and the chaos, she didn’t have to be anything except her father's daughter. Her mother's daughter. A woman raised in a kitchen that never went quiet, in a home where food was affection, and the right sofrito could fix almost anything.

She reached for a bunch of culantro just as someone else’s hand did the same, and her fingers brushed theirs. Rosa looked up, one brow arched, a spark already in her smile. “Careful. I will fight you for this.”

Hand moved back a fraction to end the contact but remained in place, debating whether he was going to relinquish the bunch while careful gaze watched her face. "Threatening violence over herbs, hm." Faint trace of amusement flickered over his features, the kind of almost imperceptable expression you'd miss unless you were one of the few in the city who actually paid attention. He kept his hand hovering, as though he was prepared to accept her terms. But sense and good nature won out over stubbornness, finally moving his hand to gesture for her to go ahead. "It must be pretty important to you." Words were said neutrally, no accusation in his tone when it felt more of an obvious statement of act. People didn't declare that they would fight over something they didn't care about.

Gaze left her features, his studying set aside for a moment to look at the herbs he was supposed to be picking up. After a few moments of silence he broke it, the only time he was ever prepared to ask for help was when it benefitted someone else and he wanted to make sure he was taking the bet home. "What made that bunch so special?" Not quite a plea but hopefully not putting her on the spot either. The corner of his lip curled up into a self-deprecating smile. "Not much of a culantro connoisseur."