|| All The Possibilities.... ||

“Everything you ever did to me. when you did it. Cut like a knife. More than any bullet wound, Lalienna. I would have saved you from the world. But you didn’t trust me enough, did you? It was never enough. You needed more. Nothing seemed to satisfy you. So I can’t force your hand. I’ll get up, get dressed and leave.  But you will remember this hour. This night. You will remember me. I’ll see you ‘round.” - J. Wick. Tower of London. 

Black Arts

“Have you really thought this through? I mean, really chewed it down to the bone? You dip so much as a pinky back into this pool and you’ll find that something very nasty will reach out and drag you back in.”

Be seeing you, Mr. Wick.

I need you, John.

I need you like a drug.

I need you even though you’re hurting me.

How I do refuse you when you look at me like that?

How do we stop destroying each other?

When I can’t say no.

No, to you.

John Wick Chapter 3: Parabellum (2019)

Star Wars Aesthetics: 10/∞ → Darth Maul

‹‹ At last we will reveal ourselves to the Jedi. At last we will have revenge. ››

Time & Pressure

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.”

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.

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 || Blood of the Raven King

Act One || Scene Three || In This House

Bobby could not have been happier than the moment in which her plane touched down upon the runway of the John F. Kennedy International Airport. Her eight and a half hour direct flight from London in business class had been exceptionally uneventful save for the enormous amount of reading and rock music listening to that she had divert her attention whilst the other passengers either slept, watched films or worked quietly, keeping very much to themselves. She may have drifted off to sleep once or twice only to jolt awake and re-read the same passage of her history book for the eighth time in a row. Finally, when she grew tired of this, she set down her book and resorted to people watching. Glancing upon them for a moment or so then taking hold her note book and writing a line or two of random nonsense that popped into her head and was based entirely on the impression she received from simply looking over their faces.

 Ah, but when the pilot finally announced that they had entered American airspace, she was at once vividly awake and full of anxious energy. New York always had a way of feeling like a home away from home. Naturally, it was because Uncle Winston was there, in his grand and busy hotel. And Mr. Charon whom she thought was just spectacular in his refinement and elegance. And she had friends in New York too. Friends she’d met online, through correspondence and via her studies. Members of her expedition crew that lived across Brooklyn, Manhattan and Queens. She was excited to meet with her closest friends and research companions that had stayed by her sidelong after her misadventure with the Purvrian cartel of criminals, Constance and Nathanial. Traditionally English born but American settled. Both of these friends were as well-travelled, loyal to a cause, dedicated to each other and as heartfelt as she could ever have hoped to have in colleagues. Especially colleagues that agreed, her research for the resurgence of the Raven King was not a bout of absolute madness to be relegated to the confines of mythological studies along with classical Roman and Grecian Gods and Irish or Welsh fables and legends. Like Bobby, they believed she was on to something. That she was perhaps a little obsessive, but there was definite web, just beneath the surface. And they were so close in uncovering it. They hoped it would occur together. But they didn't fully understand the depth of Bobby's inadvertent involvement in the darkness of society. And Bobby's tender heart and good nature meant she would not reveal it to them in so long as she could help it. It was Constance however that started to put the pieces of the mystery together not long after Bobby had awoken from her coma. She had confessed her private investigations to Nathanial whom helped her dig a little deeper. And in the months of therapy and rehabilitation that followed, Connie and Nate became Bobby's sole support network outside of Winston or Charon. She had begged them both.

"Please, guys, please... If you don't know anything, you can't be held accountable. So stop asking. Stop investigating. Everything you've been doing. You may be right. You may be wrong. It doesn't matter anymore. What's been done is done. Nothing is going to change. And I want to leave it all behind. So I'm begging you, let it die." Heartbroken for their friend and her suffering, they reluctantly acquiesced the request. If capture and torture was an indicator of what Bobby was worth, they could only imagine the depth of filth in which they would have to traverse to come to a reasonable conclusion. Amongst themselves, Connie and Nate came to the understanding that there was a strong possibility that the Sicilian Mafia was likely involved. If they had to hazard a guess they had began to point their fingers at a Camorra family. But Bobby had asked them to let it go. And they did. For now.  

Alas, Bobby could not make her way off the plane and through customs and security fast enough. She travelled light, with a single flight case, a backpack, a hatbox and a smaller overnight carry-on bag in a range of battered complimenting leathers that she had taken an affinity for as they belonged to her late father. She only ever carried the bare minimum in clothing, footwear and cosmetics, dedicating the majority of her bag space to books, ledgers, photographic cameras, laptops, external hard drives, power supplies and drawing pencils. Whatever else she needed or wanted she would buy in whatever part of the world she was in at the time. If it was large or bulky she'd have it shipped home by post. And on occasion, her travels had seen her to booking a freight container to carry some incredible artworks or furniture pieces that she had discovered across Europe and Asia to be transported back to her countryside home in Essex. The results were a bohemian, antique concoction of colour and texture, style and shape that added an endless warmth to the otherwise dated and plain English timber that her mother and father had thought was perfectly charming at the time.

The moment it was prudent, Bobby pulled out her mobile phone, swapped out her SIM card from the UK carrier to her American carrier and called her Uncle with the exuberance of a schoolgirl.

"Uncle Winston? I'm here! I've just arrived!"

"Very good my girl, welcome back to New York City. I trust your flight was pleasant?"

"Restful if nothing else, Uncle. I'm dying to see you. Were you able to arrange for a car or should I board a shuttle bus into town? I'm sorry about this all being so short notice by the way. I can make alternative boarding arrangements if you like?"

This made Winston click his tongue as he smiled down into his phone.

"Tsk! Perish the thought, darling! You know very well that's not how we play cricket in this neck of the woods. If you attend the visitors arrival ranks you'll see Charon standing by. He'll help you with your luggage and return you to me safely. We've a cosy room prepared for you and once you're checked in, you can meet me in the dining room for a little something to eat that isn't aeroplane cuisine, yes?"

"Oh Uncle, you're too good to me sometimes! I'm looking forward to it. I'll be with you in a bit then, traffic permitting."

"Yes, I am rather, aren't I? I'll be here when you arrive. Bye for now."

Phone away and bags in hand, Bobby ran a final check to ensure her passport and papers were in proper order and when she was satisfied, she didn't look a terrible mess, she organized her bags and joined the ranks of other arrivals that looked equally overburdened but generally happy to have touched down.

And how could she miss him standing there? Charon was always a magnificent sight to behold. Other private chauffeurs held up place signs with surnames for guests that they were to collect, but Charon merely stood at relaxed attention in his dark grey pinstripe suit looking the very picture of statuesque regal elegance. His dark-toned skin the richest colour of pure coffee and his thinly rimmed glasses caught the light in a sparkle. His hairless head and sharp features gave an imposing allure. Ladies turned their heads, even discreetly to stop and stare and the other uniformed drivers, whilst very smartly dressed, didn't quite shine with the same radiance or power that Charon had inherently mastered. He smiled at her as he recognized her amidst the crowd and finally broke free of the chauffeur's line on powerful strides that made him seem very much a dancer or a great black cat.

With a delighted cry, Bobby dropped her bags and rushed him, reaching up on tiptoe to wrap her arms around his neck and shoulders. She was instantly taken by the familiar warmth of his cologne and the reassuring pressure of his strong embrace as his hands caressed her upper back.

A passing woman with a Puerto Rican complexion was obviously heartened by their tender reunion, for when they parted she paused to say,

"Damn girl! You is lucky, huh?" in her heavy accent, before winking suggestively and striding off, wheeling her suitcase behind her.

Both Bobby and Charon saw the humour in this assumption. They laughed and greeted each other warmly. The Concierge welcomed his employer's niece back to American shores expressing his contentment to see her doing so well. Bobby had spent a great deal of time in a wheelchair post coma and had worked very hard and very long with her physiotherapists to restore her mobility. The ordeal had taken years and was excruciatingly painful. Bobby had given over to the fact that cortisone injections, anti-inflammatory pills and an array of painkillers would be par for the course now as she negotiated her spinal injury. What she hated more than anything was the stigma that she suffered when she moved from wheelchair, to walking frame to finally, walking cane. She wanted to be free of the damn thing. More than ever. For she felt as long as she was reduced to using her cane, she would forevermore conform to the ideal that her history had bested her. And that was a notion that would simply not do. She could not take the past into her future. The idea was abhorrent. So she took her cane and burnt the thing in her fireplace, back home in Essex. She called her physiotherapist the following morning and explained the whole thing demanding that the man make her case the most serious work he'd ever do in his entire bloody life. By the end of the phone call her physiotherapist was in absolute tears. He'd pledged his purpose to her rehabilitation and they worked together, day in and day out for nine months straight. Bobby had triumphed! Bobby would walk, unassisted at last.

Considerations would need to be made, of course. She was not able to stand for long hours anymore. And rough terrain was a bad idea for it jarred her knees and hips too greatly. She would have to be a great deal more gentle with her body in the gym and resolved to take a lot of low to no-impact exercises which eventuated in strength and resistance building by taking on Yoga and Pilates. She ensured the majority of her diet was generally clean and free of processed foods or preservatives and was quite rigid about drinking as much pure water and tea as possible. Perhaps what she missed most of all was the ability to wear heels higher than three inches for parties and events. But then again, Bobby rarely attended any of those that were not of some academic foundation and didn't entirely need that level of glamour anyway.

Thus, when she next visited New York after having successfully mastered walking without a noticeable limp; it was to Charon and Winston's absolute amazement. They had been witness to her worst level of suffering. To see her spin a complete one-eighty was nothing short of miraculous as far as they were concerned.

Now, Charon insisted he take the majority of Bobby's classic, worn leather luggage and stood back to admire her walk appreciatively. Again, unknowing on-lookers may have thought he was admiring the sway of her hips as any hot-blooded man might admire a young woman. A not unheard of concept, surely. Except for the fact that Charon was some twenty-three years Bobby's senior and any affections he had toward Miss. Kent as his employer's niece were purely plutonic and deeply family orientated.

"Oh Charon, it does my heart so good to see you! You're still as striking and handsome as ever!" Bobby had no issue in affirming as they walked together, shoulder to shoulder toward the car parked amongst the ranks of others on the airport passenger collection rank. This admission brought a glitter to Charon's eyes and a smile to his lips. He always thoughts Bobby was nothing if not entirely charming herself and was mortified by the horrors that had befallen her.

"The feeling is mutual Miss. Kent. I am elated to see you walking so well without your chair or cane. You seem to have regained your balance even more so since your last visitation. It is almost as though your injuries never took place to such a dramatic extent. Has your endurance for standing and walking distances improved as well?" He asked, loading her bags into the boot of the car tidily.

He earned a gentle nudge to his ribs as Bobby begged him to drop the formality and honorifics. She insisted they were family and being called 'Miss. Kent' simply made her feel estranged rather than interconnected. And interconnected right now was where she sorely needed to be, both in his presence and in Winston's.

She answered truthfully though, relating the information and summaries given by her medical professionals that assured her that whilst a great deal many things were wrong with her, including a metal plate in her skull and the loss of a kidney; that she was otherwise healing and walking longer and stronger than ever before.

She slid into the passenger's seat beside Charon and spoke on as he paid his phone's text messages a cursory glance. Hotel staff updating him on shift changes and suppliers logging his produce deliveries. They were of no consequence right now. He set the phone to silent and rejoined in the conversation, entering the stream of New York traffic that would travel over Brooklyn Bridge and eventually join New York proper.

They arrived at the curb of The Continental's famous multi-story high-rise corner block some forty minutes later having narrowly avoided the brunt of Friday afternoon peak hour traffic. The uniformed doorman greeted their arrival and a bellhop was summoned on Charon's order to take Bobby's luggage up to room Five-Twelve. Bobby thanked all the staff profusely as she pushed a tip of five dollars US into the bell hop's hands; apologizing because she'd not yet attended a money exchange office and this token gesture was all she had left in her wallet since her last trip to the US. The charming young man took the note into his pocket, smiling and bemused before tipping his hat and strolling away with his gleaming brass luggage trolley that carried Bobby's few bags.

"What was that all about, Charon?" Bobby inquired, "I thought American hospitality staff appreciated gratuities for service. That young man looked at me as though I was asking for directions to the beach in Norwegian." Her eyes followed his departure as the lift doors in the lobby closed and began their ascent.

"From civilian guests perhaps," Charon replied patiently. "You, however, now fall into an affiliated professional category." He punctuated this sentence with a wink so rapid and smooth, you would have missed it if you blinked. Bobby, however, never missed much of anything when she entered her Uncle's hotel. Even less now that she had a more complete understanding of what The Continental New York City actually stood for. She had not expected her status to be elevated to anything other than casual civilian, especially as she had no claims or designs to work in any kind of arrangement, cartel or syndicate that Winston had explained many of the guests took to his doors to find reprieve from. 

Alas, it had taken an extraordinarily long time for Bobby and her Uncle to come to a respectable understanding that The Continental served as an external and entirely independent enterprise that functioned as a complete cease-fire neutrality twenty-four hours of the day and night. Winston had parsed over the function of The High Table, The Department of the Adjudicator and the invisible lines of gang territories that controlled New York's underworld for everything including narcotics, prostitution, weapons caching, law enforcement manipulating, money laundering and hitmen for hire. Amongst a great deal more that he withheld on principle. Because he maintained that his niece simply didn't need to know. It was for the best. It was for her protection. But this new line of her obsessive study. This relentless pursuit that she had taken upon herself to uncover the other side was a massive concern in and of its self. He'd taken so much care to dissuade her from these fancies. To suppress and reengage her into entirely different stratagems for coming to terms with her mortality that didn't devolve into the streams of the preternatural that he himself had only in his history caught soul-shocking glances of.

And now Bobby was on it. Like a dog with a bone. She was on it with ravenous attention. A woman in a wheelchair with an academic mind and little else to distract her was prone to obsessive lines of study.  Her letter had been a forewarning. She had the intention to pry knowledge from him that he wasn't certain he was prepared to impart because he himself was not sure he fully understood the depth of the other side. Who did in this day and age anyway? Life, as it stood in the modern 21st Century, was a great, glittering neon distraction from the core of the unseen that walked amongst them day and night. Hiding. In the shadows. In the peripheral of human vision. Always just out of reach. But there... So there. So extremely there that you could close your eyes and deep down, if you focused, you could hear it. Like the echos of waves in a seashell. You wanted to believe that you were listening to thousands of years of history contained in the natural and ordinary. That you were not falling subject to the tricks of the mind. That magic was something that was done in studios and meant to entertain and hoodwink the uneducated.

It wasn't true.

It just wasn't true.

And Bobby was now closer to a malicious entity than perhaps she had ever bargained for. And would ever know.

His only hope was that their paths never crossed.

At last Charon offered to take Bobby up to her room personally so as she might take a little while to unwind and refresh herself before coming to join the dinner service downstairs in the dining room. Her Uncle would be waiting but would see her only once she was properly settled. Bobby agreed reluctantly. She had a great deal many things she wanted to share and ask of her Uncle. But she too had just come halfway across the world on more than a whim. She'd need time to recuperate and organize herself.

So she hugged Charon one final time, feeling very much like a protected species under the eyes of the hotel's staff. She gasped at the sheer radiant elegance of her rooms. But knew better than to protest about their grandeur. Rather, she thanked Charon a thousand times with heart-felt sincerity and took a moment to gather her thoughts when he proclaimed as always that he was at her complete disposal. He would be downstairs where she always expected to find him. He shut the door behind her and left her in peace. Overwhelmed a little. Displaced a little. Confused a little. Aching a little.

Alone in her solitude, Bobby buried her face in her hands for a private moment and cried.

And so concludes Act One of John Wick || Blood of the Raven King

You can Read John Wick || Blood of the Raven King // Act One Scene one & Scene Two Here!

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