What If We Were Villains, Madam? Would You Think Less Of Us? I Doubt It. Like Moths To A Flame, You Just

Star Wars art from Fantasy Flight.

The following pieces of morbid art are by Nicola Samori, a 35 year old Italian artist. He says “My work stems from fear: fear of the body, of death, of men. I think my nature as an artist is something like feeling hopeless. Works are just temporary shelters and painting is a leisure place where you can conceal yourself.”

"No matter who comes...."

- John Wick - Various Artists

An Interesting Juxtaposition

Joker || Fracture

Readers Please Note: Joker || Fracture may contain spoilers for the film. Read at your own discretion. 

|| SIX ||

Time is flux.

The days rolled into weeks, leaving behind October and greeting November with sharply declining temperatures. Gotham woke every morning to frigid, cutting winds and frozen sidewalks. The radios, televisions and newspapers continued to bemoan the state of Gotham’s garbage crisis as the sanitation strikes rolled into their second consecutive month.

Meanwhile Thomas Wayne began his campaign for city mayor beseeching the people to hold steady for the future. It seemed his speeches were poorly received by the under classes who began to protest boisterously in the streets. ‘We are all clowns.’ Their bitter demonstration posters read. Such was the way of the wealthy. So disconnected from their workforces it appeared they weren’t listening to the people they hoped to govern at all. Even a man whose best intentions were on display was not immune to media misinterpretation. Misconstrued messages manipulated out of context.

Arthur was reminded sharply of how little attention people paid one another in this city. Everyone walked with a weight on their shoulders. Slightly hunched against the wind and rain. No one seemed to smile anymore. Not even the children as they walked holding their parents’ hands, tearful at the school gates. Fearful of a world outside the comfort and routine of their private homes. It was rough out there. They’d learn soon enough. They’d grow up like everyone else. Without a smile.

His latest visitation with his psychologist had not gone well.

“Arthur, I have some bad news for you.” He braced himself. When the blow finally came, the realization that the public health system would now be closed to him and his medication paid for at a premium that he clearly would be unable to sustain – it was like a wave had struck him in the face, tearing the air out of his lungs all at once. He’d been taking his medication for so long now. How would he function without it?

Meanwhile the Regale Theatre had opened to a full house. The musical production had performed without a hitch as a dozen or more stage hands, Arthur included, ran a series of fast paced checks ensuring audio, set and lighting were beyond reproach. There were reviewers for Gotham Times in the audience and Lauretta was not about to take any chances. Tensions ran high and Arthur found himself in the unfortunate position of having to defend his work more than once.

Early in the season he found himself party to an unwanted argument. He’d argued with Fay bitterly and broke into an agitated fit of laughter that resulted in the aspiring comedian taking a hard slap to the face. Fay had stormed away, bursting into angry tears and refusing to return to work for two whole days after. Arthur wasn’t even given a chance to explain himself. Even Freddie who witnessed the disagreement had come to Fay’s defense.

“Jeeeesus, Mary and Joseph, Artie! Where’d they teach you be such an asshole? You done deserved that slap boy! Look at ‘chu. Still laughin’? Whatcha being such a jerk for, huh?”

His disappointment purely crushing. It felt as though ice water was being pumped directly into his bowels. Sick to the stomach but unable to control the cackling peels of rib shaking laughter that plagued him. He reached into his trouser pocket and simply placed his apologetic card upon the closest table in the break room, ensuring all eyes were on him, before turning on his heel and marching away. They’d work it out themselves. He’d answer questions later if in fact he was asked any ever again. The atmosphere always seemed to change when people witnessed the otherwise docile comedian decompile into a fit of painful, choked, near sobbing laughs.

Agitated, revolted, Arthur continued his duties, attending the male dressing rooms as was his routine instruction. The play costumes had returned from the dry cleaners and it was his duty to ensure each one was returned to the correct rack in performance order before the actors returned for the evening show. No sooner had he entered the empty dressing room with its light framed mirrors that his aggression swirled and bubbled forward.

His painful laughing fit had passed but his surging aggression was uncontrollable as the scene replayed its self in his mind’s eye. He stalked the empty dressing room, furious, humiliated, hurting. Why was he always the fuck up? Why could he never find the words to defend himself when he needed them? He’d tried to explain but even so, Freddie seemed in no mood to hear excuses. And he knew he only had himself to blame. If he only rang Fay through their walkie-talkies sooner this whole mess might have been avoided. Everyone was simply trying to do their job.

He hadn’t meant to upset Fay.

It happened when Freddie had told him to move a heavy road case out of the way and into the orchestra pit. Freddie hadn’t seen or known about the microphone cables gaffed to the ground connecting to the expensive master PA amplifier rack that outputted audio for the entire theatre.  Arthur knew Fay was working on settling the orchestra pit. He’d meant to tell Fay not to attempt to move the road case until the sound engineer gave him the all clear to take it out into the loading bay. There was nowhere else to move the road case until then.

It had all gone terribly wrong.  

Arthur had turned his back for just a moment to take some cables out of the way. It was then that he heard Fay being abused by the conductor for having unsightly equipment intruding upon his work space. Irritated, Fay muttered a curse and rolled the case out of the pit crushing and tearing the audio cables underfoot in two.

A disaster!

Show time was less than two hours away and this costly mistake meant the audio team would have to frantically rig new cables to amplify the show throughout the theatre.

The blame game ensued.  Freddie had argued with Fay, Fay exploded at him and they both erupted at Arthur for failing to communicate properly.

“Christ, Arthur, this fuck up is entirely your fault! When Lauretta hears about this she’s gonna rip us all a new one!” Freddie had snapped angrily.

“She won’t if you just let me explain-“

“What?! How you cost her a sold out fuckin’ show? What’s the point of a fuckin’ musical if half the people in the theatre can’t hear the fuckin’ music- eh?” Freddie snapped, cutting Arthur off mid-sentence.

Defeated, Arthur chose to walk away. A barking cough erupted from his belly, smashing through his ribcage in a crippling peel of breath-stealing laughter that he fought to choke back. His eyes stinging, his insides burning for air. And there he found himself now, in the empty dressing room. His pain soaked eyes and contorted reflection looking back at him pitifully from the illuminated mirror. His rage overtook him. A chair was in his hand and hurtled across the room, impacting upon the mirror and shattering it into hundreds of out-blown shards with a stunning explosion of glass and noise.

He watched the wrecked glass as it lay cracked and hanging haphazardly from its frame with numb composure. He hated that man in the mirror. Hated feeling this empty sense of disconnected futility that followed the encompassing wave of crushing anger.

The cacophony had jolted nearby staff into action. Footfalls rushing across the floor. The seamstress surged through the dressing room door with Greg and two other crew members at her heels to find Arthur searing in fury. His hands shaking violently. His eyes bloodshot as he stood in partial darkness amidst the ruins of shattered mirror glass and detonated light bulbs.

That evening had not gone well.

Lauretta had heard about the argument and phoned Fay entreating her to return to the theatre. The younger woman refused in a fit of tears, humiliated at being laughed at by Arthur and belittled by the conductor. It took the theatre director the better part of twenty minutes to calm her down and explain Arthur’s unfortunate condition.

“Fuck, Laura! Why’d you have to go hire such a freak?!” Fay cried.

The words stung. Lauretta may have had personal reservations about certain members of her staff, but her rigid British up-bringing prevented her from voicing them in a professional capacity. Instead, she opted for neutrality.

“C’mon now, Fay, give him a break.” She soothed, “He didn’t mean it. This whole episode is a great misunderstanding. I’m sure Arthur would apologize if you gave him half a chance. He’s harmless, honest. A little peculiar perhaps, but deserving of an even go, like anyone else.”

“How could you just defend him like that? He humiliated me in front of everyone!” Fay wept bitterly, throwing herself onto her sofa cushions and kicking her shoes across the room.

“If I don’t, who else will? Now, you take the next two days off if you must but I expect you back for Friday night’s performance. I’ll have you, Arthur and Freddie in my office before then. We’ll talk this out. Goodnight, Fay.”

No sooner did she hang up the phone than she sent for Martha to fetch Freddie and Arthur. The two men were marched into her office and door closed behind them. For the first time in weeks, Lauretta sat behind her desk, lit a cigarette and quietly demanded the men explain exactly what had happened.

They left her office an hour later, their heads hanging significantly lower.

The broken mirror and light globes would come out of Arthur’s wages and both men received a formal warning for misconduct. They would be made to apologize to Fay personally upon her return. Arthur’s affliction had been ousted. The theatre was relatively quiet for the rest of the night. The crew spoke in clipped hushed whispers to one another. No jokes were cracked over the walkie-talkies and the only noise to be had were the claps and cheers of the audience as the performance went ahead whilst the crew sweated and swore under their breaths.

Somber and muted, the crew could not wait for the audience to empty the theatre. Shut down was as fast and efficient as ever. Staff attended their lockers and wished each other a goodnight whilst Arthur distanced himself as early as was prudent.

Without realizing it, he’d found himself hovering about the foot of the stairs that led up to Lauretta’s office.

She was up there, writing her reports and calculating her losses. She was almost always the last one to leave the theatre at night and the first to open the doors of a morning.

That meeting was the first time in two months of employment that he’d seen the warmth in her eyes fade. Her features become hard and her words cold. She was furious in the way a quiet storm might exact its wrath upon the earth, under an incessant torrent of heavy rain. So different to the shouting and yelling of his previous bosses. Arthur struggled to make sense of his feelings until he decided, this treatment was worse.

So much worse.

In spite of this disastrous episode, come Boxing Day, Lauretta had kept her promise and allowed Arthur the opportunity to perform as a roving entertainer for the Boxing Day Theatre Gala held at the Gotham Centre for Performing Arts. A lavish party that featured the board of directors for the theatre whom Lauretta paneled with were present. With them came a whole host of actors, writers, directors, stagecraft students, their families, friends, members of the media and general public. The gala highlighted excellent opportunities for students of performing arts to meet an array of teachers to discuss the following year’s courses and training programs. A busy and lively party of which Arthur was invited to entrain for two sets.

His first set would commence shortly after the opening speeches. The auditorium was outfitted with three small elevated round stages that highlighted talented performers, Arthur occupied one and was splendid in his costume. The theatre seamstress, Italian woman, Paola Midici took inspiration from the 18th century Italian comedy. When asked to fashion Arthur a great costume for his gala performance, she spent a great deal of time looking into his eyes.

“Are you happy, Arthur?” She had asked, deliberately and without preamble. Italian accent heavy still.

“What does that have to do with-“

“It was a simple question, young man.” Paola interrupted briskly. “Are you happy?”

“I suppose-“

Paola cleared her throat sharply, cutting off the aspiring comedian yet again.

“Not really, no.” He found himself admitting quietly. It was strange to say the words out loud to a stranger no less.

To this admission Paola nodded her head approvingly.

“It’s in the eyes, dear boy. Always in the eyes. Now stand still, let me take your measure.”

Now Arthur stood upon his elevated stage, in his element as a crowd gathered round him to watch as he performed classic mime, juggling and magic tricks in silence. He wore a magnificent costume styled in the fashion of the classic historic clown, Perriot. His puff sleeved shirt, waistcoat and trousers divided evenly in an array of black and white large satin diamonds. His buttons a deep, wine red. An Elizabethan ruff made of lace and tulle adorned his neck. On his head rested the tri-horned hat of a royal court jester. Spectacular, like a crown in black and white, adorned with red and silver bells that jingled musically for every time he moved his head.

His face however was of spectacular contrast. In delicate black and white greasepaint the left half of his face was painted in a great upturned smile, the right however, pulled down low in a miserable frown. Neither comedy nor tragedy. But a vision of both painted in homage to the theater he now served.

His audience was intrigued, pointing and clapping at his jubilant gestures and exaggerated dancing. He made flowers appear from under his hat and brightly coloured silk scarves were handed to a passing lady who had the good grace to laugh when she found they were tied together from his pocket in a seemingly endless string. A blue rose tied to the last one. Around her the gathering clapped and cheered. Arthur, court jester as he now fashioned himself, bowed smoothly and pointed to his cheek, wordlessly requesting a kiss. Embarrassed, the lady shuffled on heels, hesitating. Arthur frowned deeply, hanging limp and sad. The audience broke into an exaggerated cry of: “Awwwwwww!”

Pinched by the pressure, the lady thought better of her station and came forward bravely, pecking Arthur upon the cheek. Joy! He straightened and clapped happily, a merry jingle of his belled cap. The gathered crowed cheered and clapped. A far better outcome!

The lady curtsied and darted away to her giggling friends whilst Arthur bowed deeply. His performance a success. The set was complete. He bounded off the stage and made for the cluster of other performers milling about behind a red roped area reserved for theatre staff beside the bar.

“Arthur!”

Upon hearing his name he turned to find Lauretta dressed in a beautifully fitted black evening gown that trailed to the floor. Her hair gathered in an artful array of curls. Her lips the most striking shade of red that contrasted sharply with the blue of her eyes. She was stunning to behold. And smiling. At him.

Arthur removed his hat slowly, running his fingers through his hair. He strode forward and offered his hand that the director took, watching warmly as he kissed her knuckles just as he’d witnessed so many gentleman do in those old black and white films from Pinewood Studios, London.

“Arthur, you were wonderful out there, really!”

“You were watching?”

“Intently. Every sway and trick brought delight to your onlookers. You should be very proud of yourself. You have true beauty in your movements.” Lauretta replied earnestly, fixing him with a tender, appreciative smile.

“Thank you. Really. I-You look lovely tonight.” Arthur offered warmly, taking a step back to admire his employer more completely.

“As do you! Paola really has done magnificently with your costume. And your face paint  - the crème-de-la-crème to be sure. Are you enjoying yourself? Not nervous at all?”

“A little, I’m not used to performing in front of this class of society, but I am having a lot of fun. This is incredible, honest, it’s like a dream come true.”

“I’m glad you think so. We’ll see if can’t establish you in the theatre a little more fully in the new year, you’re doing very well for yourself.” The compliment delivered with all sincerity. She had watched as he mingled with her colleagues, noting the way in which Arthur had not broken down into a fit of nervous laughter.

She’d witnessed a few fits rack the man most painfully in the months of his employment. Notably soon after he had revealed to her in private that his psychologist’s office had now been closed and his access to his medication subsequently revoked.

She worried for him. He continued to function, mindful not to be late on shift and engaged in his work. But there was something about him that wasn’t quite right. She’d made calls here and there until she located an office for social services across town that agreed to assess him with a referral letter from his doctor. There was administrative work to take care of, but if it meant bettering an employee who worked so tirelessly, then she agreed without hesitation.  Arthur had first refused her help on principle. Although his position in the theatre did pay a great deal better than his commission performances at Ha Ha’s, he could not yet afford health insurance to cover the cost of private consultations. Lauretta had insisted none the less.

“We can find a way, Arthur. If you need help-“

“I can’t afford to pay you back, and I have to look after my mother.”

“So let me help you both, Arthur. Don’t be stubborn. How do you expect to carry on looking after her if you’re not well enough to care for yourself?”

The matter seemed to be settled. Though he hesitated, there was something in her eyes that drew him. He appeared so displaced and vulnerable. Something inside him ached. Words would not come and instead he began to weep silently, so starved of affection and human kindness. He would have kissed her then and there he felt so overwhelmed and broken down.

She took him in her arms and Arthur lowered wordlessly into her embrace, breathing in the scent of her rose perfume. A cruel fit of laughter took him, coughing, weeping, and shaking him from within. His ribcage burning. Every ounce of him aware that in his arms he held a woman, honest and pure. Guilt welled in his gut, his fantasies of his neighbor, Sophie, haunted him. He’d followed her to her work place. Watched as she’d walked her daughter to school and hovered by her front door, meaning to knock but unable to find the courage to let his knuckles rap the timber.

Even so, Lauretta held him through his fit. One hand caressing his back with near motherly affection, the other stroking his hair.

“It’s alright,” She’d whispered gently, sweetly. “Everything’s going to be alright now.”

He wanted to believe it.

For many minutes Lauretta and Arthur chatted together amicably. She offered him a glass of champagne that he took graciously admitting he’d never tried the drink before. The possibility thrilled him as he clinked glasses with Lauretta proudly before taking a sip …and immediately winkling his nose in disapproval.

“It’s not for everyone.” Lauertta laughed gently, enchanted as she watched his eyes twinkle. The clarity and warmth of his features were not withdrawn by the layers of face paint.

It was then that she saw him standing not more than ten feet away. A handsome gentleman dressed in a fine silk suit of pin stripe navy blue. An elegant burgundy tie at his neck and a glittering diamond tie pin shimmered in the light. He caught her eye and held it with his own deep green gaze as he rose his glass in the air, a salute. Lauretta’s smile vanished setting Arthur off kilter. He whispered her name,

“Arthur, please excuse me.  I’m afraid I’m obliged to have a conversation with a colleague it seems.” Her focus returned to Arthur’s eyes who turned to see who it was that so efficiently erased Lauretta’s smile. A group of students here, a waiter, some ladies smoking over there. It was her hand on his arm that turned his attention back to her lovely features.

“You’re doing extremely well, Arthur, I look forward to seeing your second set in an hour. Mind you travel home safely tonight. I’m sure Fay or Freddie will gladly give you a lift. Excuse me.”

And with that she was away in a flutter of black fabric and sure footfalls. He called his good night after her wondering all the while who it was that could upset her tender nature. Arthur lamented her loss as he watched her recede into the crowd.

He’d wanted to ask her to dance.

Previous Chapters? Search Tag : #joker fracture

@smilewhatstheuseofcrying​ || @arthur-j-fleck​ || @daily-joker​

I bled. I cried. I apologized.

Now forgive me.

————

There’s something sinister and cruel about making someone wait. They know what’s coming. They know the storm is on its way. But when...thats the real trouble. When will it come? When. When. When. When?! But that was your plan, wasn’t it? She marked me, so you marked me worse. You made me wait... to think about my sins. You asked me if it was worth it. If she was worth it.

No. Never. Because I fucking want you. Only you. And I’d choose you again and again. I’d tear my heart out for you. I’d break my own bones, my ankles and dance for you. I would bring you the moon if you asked for it. I’d break myself if it’d mean you’d be okay. So here I sit with my sin. And I wait. And wait. And wait...wondering when.

It didn't take the Camorra High Guard long to arrive in Rome Airport. The flight was booked first class courtesy of the Iris Twins who made the arrangements swiftly and efficiently as was their custom. Sable had trained them well. Two and a half hours later they touched down clearing the runway and being given priority access through express security and customs clearance. Thank God he'd arranged to have Lalienna's international passport processed quickly. Otherwise it would have made the trip through security cumbersome. Not that he cared. Money talks. His money practically screamed the national anthem. Security and Customs Officers made haste to let the Camorra High Guard pass unmolested. Their reputation proceeded them. But the security staff were curious at seeing a new face amongst the men and woman that made the line up of his usual crew. The Prince of Rome wasn't interested in conversation. He was dressed in Versace, dripped in gold bracelets, rings and watch and for an explanation he merely took Lalienna's hand in his own, and kissed her knuckles in front of them. Security staff and their sharp eyes took stock of the ring of the Camorra that graced the young woman's finger. They stopped asking questions immediately; and made sure the High Guard were escorted by airport security to their luxury Italian cars and permitted to leave the international terminal completely unhindered thereafter.

They were saluted when he returned to his mansion. Hector had made the call to the D'Antonio Estate manager to advise that they had returned from their extended stay in London and would now take their usual residence with Mr. D'Antonio in his expansive and extremely luxurious home.

The D'Antonio Estate was nothing short of purely spectacular. It sat on just over twenty thousand square feet of land, was four stories tall, sported sixteen bedrooms, fourteen full sized bathrooms and was furnished in a classical contemporary style. Sporting a grand entrance that flowed into a regal pair of stair cases connecting different floors that had an overall enchanting atmosphere. The living areas were bright, beautiful and airy. The kitchen was massive and dripped in luxury and the dining area overlooked spectacular manicured terrence gardens that could be seen from the sweeping balconies. Study rooms, library, spa and gym. Weapons room, office, service rooms and guest rooms. The breathtaking Italian villa overlooking Calandrelli was one of the most fashionable and sought-after elite estates in the entire city. And  it had been built and owned by the Camorra for almost forty years. It was a gift that Lorenzo imparted on his son, not more than ten minutes drive from his palace where he kept residence with Gianna. Needing impendence and self acquirement, Santino was given the estate as a gift on his eightieth birthday. The estate also featured a live-in chef, an allotment of twelve maids and one butler who doubled as the estate manager. A tender hearted and gentle old man that had served the Camorra for almost as long as Santino had been alive. His name was Panchelli and he instantly fell in love with Lalienna the moment he laid eyes on her!

"Oh signore D'Antonio, hai trovato un diamante! Un diamante completo e puro in Inghilterra! Guardala! Che angelo! I cieli stessi canteranno lodi della sua bellezza! Vieni, signore, subito, prepara subito la stanza migliore per Miss DeMentriento!" (Oh Sir D'Antonio, you have found a diamond! A complete and pure diamond in England! Look at her! What an angel! The heavens themselves will sing praises of her beauty! Come, ladies, immediately, prepare the finest room for Miss DeMentriento at once!)

The old Italian butler clapped his hands briskly and instantly a team of white and blue uniformed women stripped Lalienna of her bags and belongings, taking them from Tony's hands and descended up the stairs in a flutter of happy chirping, singing praises that the master of the house had returned at last and brought back with him the finest new jewel the Camorra has ever seen!

Gianna had filled them in, in her brother's absence, that the Prince of Rome was returning with a new High Guard to compliment Lorenzo's impressive line up of militant power. Lorenzo approved without much preamble. If Gianna had clapped eyes on the girl and believed what she saw and was told, that was good enough for the aging Italian Crime King. He was content to know that his son was finally showing a little initiative and stopping all his hideous whoring. The stains of Marissa Conti would never wash free of the halls of his palace. It was Gianna that stopped Lorenzo ultimately from planning his own son's execution. Though why for, Lorenzo still wasn't entirely certain.

He would bide his time and see how this new flower to his garden of thorns would comport herself under the care of his High Guard.

The Italian Silk Mafia. That is what they were known as on the streets of Italy. And everyone knew them by name and sight. They were professionals. Civilised. Refined. Products of the new renaissance. He hoped for her sake that the ex-Iron Fortuna initiate would live up to his expectations. And tame his wayward son.

Back in his mansion, Santino and his crew were already making themselves at home. They all had their own private rooms in the estate and needed no permission to attend them. They had lived in this mansion for years at a time and were fully accustomed to its spectacular beauty.  Santino was gracious and extremely inviting. He demanded the team not ever stand on ceremony or ask permission of anything. The house was theirs as much as it was his and he insisted on nothing if not their complete and absolute enjoyment at all times. If they were hungry, they knew where the kitchen, pantry and larder were. The chef prepared three solid meals a day for both Camorra staff and domestic servants and even the servants were permitted to do as they pleased when they pleased...within reason of course. They had their own private wing of the house where the maids retreated after daily duties. They rose at 5AM and retired at 8PM Monday to Saturday. And they were always given Sunday's off duty and permitted to host their own families and friends in the estate so long as they did not interfere with their working arrangements or leisure activities of Mr. D'Antonio or his High Guard.

They always wore uniform in blue and white to clearly mark them as domestic assistants. They proudly wore brass name badges emblazoned with the Camorra family crest. The maids were a variety of ages. Some as young as 17. They were not wealthy women by any stretch of the imagination. Their backgrounds were mostly completely impoverished and wretched which was why Santino petitioned them into the care of his estate. So they would not starve on the streets. When they were not attending to their domestic duties of cleaning and washing and running the household, they were given hours upon hours of spectacular education. All paid for by Santino in hopes of the girls growing up to be safe and happy. Marrying into money, hopefully, where they would be kept in luxury and retire from the life of servitude he gave them. Though it was not a difficult or dangerous life. Rome was a beautiful city with thousands of years worth of history, culture, art and refinements.

They were happy girls! They had food and clothes and jewels and music. Mr. D'Antonio protected them as if they were his daughters. (or so they imagined, for they rather swooned over him and his classical handsome elegance. They knew he came from an old mafia crime family, but they did not ask questions and were just grateful to be given such a fortuitous turn where otherwise their lives would have seen them staving in the gutters or working as whores.)

It was almost 2AM now but the news of the Camorra High Guard's return to the estate drove them all from their beds in a frantic bustle of happy excitement. Santino immediately thanked Panchelli and the girls for their diligence, apologising profusely about the shockingly late hour of their arrival and insisting they all return to their beds and have tomorrow off in celebration for his return. Panchelli tried to argue that he lived and breathed to serve his master, and Santino acknowledged the man's passionate imploring but absolutely insisted he returns to his rooms and rest. For Santino and the guards were fully independent and self-sufficient men and women who knew very well how to run a household without a team of domestic staff. They could cook and clean and make beds for themselves. They didn't need help. If anything, their work in London had left the team entirely drained and now that they were home again they were grateful to just be left in peace to unpack their belongings in their private bedrooms and retire to their own decompressing pleasures.

Panchelli, seeing that this was definitely true, apologised a thousand times, kissed Santino and Lalienna and each of the other guards in turn before calling off his maids and retiring again to the servants quarters to rest.

Santino was immediately better. Happy, boisterous! The demons that had tormented him of the past few months in London had completely vanished. Now he was absorbed with excitement as new invigorated focus because he had his dancer, his Spanish flower here in his home in Rome and he could hardly believe his good fortune! This was real! Really real! It was incredible! He was overjoyed. He welcomed her to his estate, personally showed her to her rooms, he stayed with her happily letting her unpack and make herself at home.

He brought her wine and cheeses and bread and salami. He showered her with praises, with romance and love and adoration and everything was as if this whole horrific mess had never happened to begin with.

The guards all retreated contentedly to their own amusements in the mansion. Ares sought to play her videogames. Tony and Curtis drank and played cards until they were tired and went to bed. Hector smoked and read a book on the balcony. Christov and Marcus decided to hit the spa bath to unwind as it looked over the glittering Italian city.

They were home. Finally home.

No one had died. No one had been mutilated or abused beyond recognition.

Well... none save for Lalienna, who wore Santino's initial upon her neck. Where once a love bite had been.

And the only death was the loss of her child. But only Hector and Christov knew the truth about that. To the rest of the guard, it appeared as though the young woman was merely recovering from the pained aftershock that came from a difficult argument with her lover over one night's indiscretion.

They prayed amongst themselves that Lalienna would never do it again. For they knew, deep down that for all their bluster and fiery words... Santino was still their employer and if he rose his hand and put a hit out on her lover, they would be forced to obey. He signed off their pay checks every month and made sure they were kept in immaculate luxury. As much as Santino gave, he would take away. They were still organized criminals. They were still assassins, hit men, gang members. They had clout, they had reputation, power and money. But they still had a city to run. There were still weapons trading, whore houses, drug rings and war offerings that had to take place in the background. Blood for blood. And eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Rome paid their coffers for protection. Against family feuds, home invasions, theft and property destruction. They still made deals to rough people up. To confront and intimidate. To protect their boarders and keep the streets safe from other gangs that might get a little antsy about who really had the bigger pair of balls around here.

But none of that mattered right now.

For at last, before the sunrise, Santino brought Lalienna back to his master bedroom. And it was nothing like the luxury that he had imported for him in the Continental London. It was better. More opulent. It spoke of power and refinement and was entirely masculine and extremely tastefully elegant. His linen was still two thousand thread count luxury Egyptian cotton... in black. Because he loved the contrast of pale skin on ebony linen.

And he was still passionate and romantic and adoring to a fault. Sensual. Erotic. He wanted her. He wanted to taste her, touch her. But he was afraid. She was afraid. They had had their first-ever really big disagreement in their short relationship. So much had happened so quickly. He had rushed things. He had moved too fast. He scared the girl. Like he had on that first Wednesday evening when his lust took control and he had bled and mounted her there on that hotel room dining table. That almost killed him that night.

And now, having almost lost his mind in grief and anger over her fleeting, drunk affair... He vowed to himself. Never again.

He spoke to her for hours. Apologising, telling her his thoughts and feelings as they lay in bed together. Naked, because he needed to touch her skin even though he didn't dare to make love to her in this condition. He told her how sorry he was for the ten-thousandth time that morning. And explained and justified himself out of shame and guilt. That he was angry at the White Women still for having cast her out. That he went wild knowing that she would pick one of those creatures to love her whilst he was away. He begged her... begged her. If she ever grew restless or bored again and needed any sort of sexual release... That she calls him. In his grief, he even went so far as to say he preferred she make love to Ares, whom he loved and trusted completely, than some stranger off the streets or some woman from The White Tower.

"Never again amore mio... please... You will put me in my grave if you do it. I am still a young man my love, only 31 but I tell you, what we've been through together this past month has aged me easily at least twenty years. I feel so old inside. So ready to meet my maker. I shouldn't feel this way. You shouldn't feel this way. I don't want to be the cause of your suffering, Lalienna. From the moment I set eyes on you, I knew deep in my soul that you needed to be loved, nurtured, protected. Hector, Christov, Marcus, Curtis, Tony, Ares... all of them had scathing words for me and a thousand admonishments about how poorly I treated you. How you suffered and bled and cried. And I was wrong for shutting you out, shutting you down the way I did. I was suffering. I pray, think about it from my perspective: How would you have felt if you were thousands of kilometres away from home, working to make a life for me outside of England and then you find out, by accident, through a photo that your boyfriend was home fucking another woman in your bed? Would you not lose your mind in grief? Would you not fire and rage and want to kill her and me too where I stand? You would mi amore. You would, bella mia. You would and you would and there's no two-ways about it. I know you, Lalienna. I know your heart. Your mind. I know we've not been going steady long but I trust you. I would give my life to protect you if that's what it took. All your family now would. Without questions. Because we are family and...." He wanted to say it... to propose.

No... instead, he got out of the bed and cleared the distance to his dressing table where the black box that held the keys to Lalienna's new house and car in Vienna rested.

He came back and gave it to her. It was not a diamond engagement ring, but he got down on one knee all the same.

"This is what I was working on for you whilst I was away." He said at last... She didn't seem to be able to comprehend the magnitude of the gifts he was giving her. He insisted they were of no consequence, no value. What he was trying to give her...more than anything... was freedom. Freedom from suffering. Freedom from the Underworld. The Table. The servitude. The enslavement. But he would not free her heart. No matter what she said he stood firm on the idea that she belonged to him.

So he gave her the keys to the house and car in their velvet-lined box. And he showed her the papers, the photos on his phone. He told her about how the people in Vienna were friends that would love and protect her just in case she needed to get away and leave the life from the criminal underworld behind. She would never be free of the Table. Never be free of him. But she could start a life outside of London now. She could be independent and powerful and not need to depend on the White Women or Judeth ever again.

The moment he said Judeth's name she grew sad again. Her happiness diminished.

"Papi.... I can't leave my black swan behind.... My mother... She's the only one I've ever known that cared for me the way Rosalina never did. The way Marquis never did. You saw him. He didn't want me. He never wanted me.... I've never been wanted for anything..." She started to cry again. Tears and tears and tears and screams of anguish and he held her through it all. He weathered the storms of her grief and stayed firm as her anchor, choking back his own tears because he could not bear to see her suffering so raw... so exposed.

"Family amore mio. We can't choose them. They choose us. We can't escape them any more than we can try to push away the skies or burn the seas. But you can rest now darling, baby girl. You have me. And I will never leave you no matter how irrational and insane I get. Just... kiss me... tell me you want me... Slap me if you need to... shoot me with a pistol, cut me with a blade... I don't care what you do to me, Lalienna but I beg you, don't stop loving me. I don't think I can exist in this world without you."

He kissed her again. And it was magnificent. Erotic. Their shared suffering and joy, swinging emotions like a pendulum between them served as the most potent aphrodisiac to his frayed nerves. He wanted to make love to her. He begged her gently,

"Please...amore mio...I've been so lost without you. I need to feel you... I need to be inside you to know I'm real...I want this intimacy between us. More than flesh and blood. I want your heart... I need your soul to temper me. I admit it. I wronged you. And when you are strong again I will take to you to the finest laser clinician in all of Rome and I will have that horrible scar on your neck removed forever. Because we don't need reminders of our sins. We need to heal together. Heal me... Let me be inside you...." He was begging... the tears came and he could not stop them he was so raw and broken down.

He didn't know the truth. Of course not. Hector didn't say a word, Christov neither. He didn't know he had just lost a child.

But if he did.... he probably would have died with it.

Tears formed in her jade eyes, lip quivering slightly. She held back a sob, taking a breath.

“You…you never wanted me?” It felt as though her heart was breaking. Literally. The strings of her cardiac muscles were snapping, leaving her in the worst pain she’s ever felt… and she’s felt a lot of shit. She’s been through the worst, through hell. But this…this was worse. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her lungs wouldn’t produce the oxygen needed to stay alive. God, make it stop. Stop it! She couldn’t handle it. She clutched her heart, squeezing the fabric of her shirt in her fists. Her eyes broke. They relayed how she felt. So so so so ruined. So torn. So…worthless. Thrown away.

————

@f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat // here is your angst. Do with it what you will. ;) have fun, my angel of sadness.

Lalique ♥♥♥

First week of Inktober: this year I’m doing a few of my favorite bands chronologically and candidly as to when I got into them.  I’m selling the originals (each is about 4x4, 5x5) and am open to doing prints as well. Hopefully I can compile a zine of all 31 of them at the end of the month. message me on tumblr or email rp0@comcast.net, my paypal is the same. 

JOHN WICK (2014) dir. Chad Stahelski

THE MAN. THE MYTH. THE LEGEND. JOHN WICK. YOU’RE NOT VERY GOOD AT RETIRING.