young god I marquis du gramont

s&w mp9

montero - lil nas x

you live in the dark, boy, I cannot pretend
i'm not fazed, only here to sin

/

'we play to win' - unknown

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

francesca

'Quien es?'

Francesca Malillos had sat up when her trusted concierge entered the office. Her arms carried a folder, tawny brown in colour and beckoned with an air of mystery. She had placed it on the mahogany desk and slid it across the smooth polished surface. Francesca stopped it with her outstretched arm. She was wearing an elaborate gold ring on her index finger, adorn with a fire breathing-dragon. The Malillos crest. A symbol of power that was enough to breathe fear into the hearts of various members of the High Table.

The concierge bowed her head. She replied in fluent Spanish.

'Se llama Vincent Bisset, el Marqués de Gramont. Tiene órdenes para matar John Wick y le dan todos los recursos.

(They call him Vincent Bisset, Marquis of Gramont. He has orders for the death of John Wick and they've given him all the resources)

'Todos los recursos?'

(All the resources?)

'Si, todos sus asesinos y armas'

(Yeah, all their assassins and weapons)

'Mierda'

(Shit)

Francesca leant back and sighed in annoyance. She had told John never to come back. And now he was back, stirring up more shit than anyone could have ever imagined. The bounty on his head was like a treasure trove, just waiting to be taken. She raised a hand to her temple while flicking through the file of the so-called Marquis. He was very arrogant, she thought quietly to herself. Another egotistic maniac on the hunt for power. She had dealt with enough of those in her life. But a power hungry maniac who sat above the laws of the Table was a terrifying thought.

She flicked through the pages and stopped to read. Merciless killing. Mindless slaughtering. Prone to maniac outbursts, possible Intermittent Explosive Disorder. Descendent from a long line for aristocrats. Cares very little for the values of the Table. Thinks of himself as a god, a young one at that. Ambitious, ruthless cunning. Very well dressed. Knows how to use his charm.Dark brown hair, cold green eyes. Favourite weapon, a Smith and Wesson MP9. 

She found her mind wondering. Her concierge, Catrina, coughed lightly. Blonde hair caught the light of the setting sun in the distance. Francesca snapped back into reality. Francesca shook herself out of the thoughts and cursed under her breath.

She needed to help John, even though she had warned him never to come back to this life. Helen's death had hit him much harder than Francesca had expected. She had vowed to stay out of John's way and let him carry out his revenge. But John had gone too far this time, killing the Elder was an irredeemable mistake. And he was going to pay the price for his arrogance.

She stood up and took a couple of steps towards the window. The sun slowly dipped over the Istanbul horizon, illuminating the mosques and their towers. She would stare at the Hagia Sofia, marvelling at its beauty and complex architecture. She had oversaw the construction of the Turkish Continental from its starting day.

There weren't many places that John could run to now. She cast her mind back to their time together. All that time, she had never truly met anybody who John could call his friend. Except Koji. And Caine. She had seen Caine only a few months ago, before his retirement. They had gone to a casino and drank until both of them were throwing up in the streets. For a blind man, Caine was excellent at poker. She was glad he retired too but a prickling feeling at the base of her spine told her that she would be seeing him very soon. But with Caine in retirement, John only had one person left to turn to. And she knew that Koji would honour his promise of brotherhood to John. He was a man of his word, honest and loyal to the last breath. Francesca respected him greatly.

She had told John many times that he was welcome at the Turkish Continental but he refused, claiming that he would rather die than endanger her. She scoffed. As if he could endanger her any further. Francesca had to step on many heads to get where she was now; she had killed countless to lay the foundation for the person she was to become. She had bribed and manipulated her way to the top and the most dangerous thing was that, even though she was on the top of the food chain, she wasn't scared fall. Growing up without family meant that she had nothing to lose, she didn't care whether she stayed at the top. Because Francesca knew that, wherever she ended up, she would always claw her back to the top.

Catrina coughed again, pulling Francesca from her thoughts. She pulled out a gun from the leather holster and fired it at the door. It ricocheted off the bullet-proof aluminium frame. It ricochet off into a wall into a glass vase with flowering coral orchids. Glass sprayed over the marble floor.

'Stop that'

Catrina didn't blink, a small smile crept over her face. She snapped her finger, summoning a group of cleaners into the room. They scurried towards the glass and within seconds, the floor was pristine. Kat shooed them off with a flick of her finger, eyes never leaving Francesca.

They had been friends for over 10 years; Francesca had met her in a shady neighbourhood with demolished grey buildings and rusty net gates. She was lighting a cigarette, grey eyes glancing over at her squabbling parents. Francesca was drinking, it must have only been late afternoon but she had been through too much training. She poured vodka on the cuts on her legs and hissed at the pain. She had dared to challenge John to a knife fight. Francesca had sat down next to her and allegedly said

'I might be drunk but you look like depressed as shit. You need a drink?'

They had been friends ever since.

'I know what you're thinking, Ces. About el marquéz. Not even you can take on the Table by yourself. Not even for John'

'That wasn't what I was thinking'

'Mierda, cariña. You've been thinking it since the moment you opened the file. He... el marquéz... is exactly... como dices.... your type. You've been waiting years for an opportunity to start a war with the Table. And you opportunity has just come through the door, dressed in Giorgio Armani and the face of a Greek god'

Francesca couldn't help but let a small smirk creep up her face. Kat knew her too well. And she was right on all accounts. Even though she hated to admit that she was right. If she was able to control el marquis, even for a tiny amount of time, she could manipulate him into giving her a portion of his power. She could turn the Table on itself. Let them slaughter each other, one by one. Like they did to her family. A snake biting its own tail. And, just maybe, she could get John off the hook too.

'Well, looks like we need to plan a dance. I was thinking a masquerade'

Francesca's caramel eyes lit up with a sparkle.

'My, my, maybe you do know me too well'