young god I marquis du gramont

boogeyman

riptide - vance joy

lady, running down to the riptide
taken away to the dark side
i wanna be your left-hand man

/

'sinners judging sinners for sinning differently' - unknown

-

vincent

The Turkish Continental had never looked better before tonight. Everything had been decorated with glitter and gold; the banquet and ball room boasted candlesticks dipped in real gold. They had recently commanded the cleaning of the chandelier, now each individual diamond sparkled in the light like thousands of stars. Conveniently, the ceilings had been decorated in with royal blue wallpaper, giving the illusion of a starry night. A lively string quartet of musicians were playing orchestral renditions of modern songs; strings playing in perfect synchronisation. Vincent recognised James Arthur's Train Wreck as he entered the lobby where he was greeted by staff. They each donned a silver mask lined with navy blue rim and a prim white uniform. He picked up a glass of champagne, bubbling ferociously and took a sip.

He wondered how much Francesca spent on this night alone. It must have been a lot; from the invitations to the exquisite decorations to the selection of drinks that had been neatly laid in the glass cabinet behind the bar. He laid his eyes on a bottle of whiskey, a Johnny Walker Swing. He straightened his waistcoat. It was lined with black buttons bearing his crest. The fabled Bisset family crest. Vincent had a particular fondness of the colour black; it suited him. Vincent imagined himself a dragon slayer and a king; a force of power that feared nothing and nobody, tasked with hunting down the greatest beast of them all. The Baba Yaga. And he would be successful. He'd come out of the whole affair with more power and reputation that he ever could have imagined.

The dance was starting but Vincent lingered around the corner of the room next to a beautifully embroidered curtain, sipping whisky. His hungry eyes scanned the room, taking notice of specific people who would be of use to him later on. He set eyes on Winston Scott, manager of the New York Continental talking and laughing with Marcello de Marci Schmidt of the Cosa Nostra. Vincent watched Marcello's tattooed hands glide smoothly over the rim of a glass margarita. He meant business; the Italian Mafia often came with a surprisingly straightforward charisma. His wife was perched on his arm - a young woman, not many years older than Vincent himself. She had bright sunflower blonde hair and dull grey eyes; she looked fascinated by the whole event. She pulled Marcello's arm and gestured towards the middle of the room. She obviously wanted to dance but Marcello was too wrapped up in conversation, or maybe he didn't care. She looked increasingly desperate by the second. Vincent took a small sip and turned his attention towards the other end of the vast room. He recognised many assassins there, ones he had met before but there were many new faces. Fresh faces. They looked power-hungry. Koji Shimazu was there as well. Vincent had heard of his legendary katana welding and his deathly accuracy. He was wearing a fox mask, white and red ornate with gold patterns. There was a man in the corner, he looked around 40, eyes shielded by a pair of black hooded glasses. He leant heavily on a cane looking uninterested but Vincent had a hunch that he wasn't looking at all. He tapped his cane onto different surfaces in the room as if testing the waters. The marquess touched his own mask to his face; a simple black mask with French style patterns covered in gold paint. The black ribbons tied on his slick hair.

Women dotted the crowd. Every now and then, he would spy a wife, a mistress, or more rarely, an assassin trudging through in their long ballgowns. He laid eyes on a Russian girl, dark hair and even darker tattoos boasting patterns of torture and depictions of massacres on her arms. Her fingers showed illustrations of dripping blood. Her sky blue gown trailed down to the floor in a silk train and she held a her mask on a delicate ivory rod. Her mask was a deep navy blue, eyes dripping with transparent painted tears. He eyed Koji again and a girl had appeared next to him. Her eyes looked like her father's; the same deep, melancholic stare, as if expecting something bad to happen. She touched her hair often; he could only assume that she had something, a weapon, concealed in the black low bun. The oak chopsticks that protrude from her hair highlighted the oval shape of her face. She was conversing with another girl, short spiky hair with white highlights. He wondered if that was Francesca. But he doubted it. This girl looked cold-hearted but he always imagined Francesca to be much more ruthless.

A girl in the corner of the room caught his eye. She was holding a similar glass to him, a whisky on the rocks by the looks of it. She wore a white Venetian mask, lined with sculpted silver rims. The black on antique white base was finished with silver swirls. Her silver backless layered gown was embroidered with glitter details and a corset back. Everything about the dressed suited her. She seemed to blend into the background but yet she stood out in the crowd. Her dark brown hair was plaited into a braided side-bun with loose strands crowning her face; the grey ribbons were braided into her locks, adding an artistic flare to her guise. She seemed to be watching him, amber eyes locked onto him. He subtly stared into the bottom of his glass, watching her from the corner of his eye. He wondered if it was her. Her gaze was unfeeling, moving her eyes over him like an object. He coughed. She crossed her arm across her chest, sleeves on the white mesh jewel neckline of the dress wrinkling.

He straightened his black tie and ran a hand over his hair. Vincent made up his mind; he was going to approach her. Through the organised chaos of the ball, nobody noticed him slip away from the light and approached the woman in the shadows. She didn't look at him as he approached; her eyes stared straight forwards at one of the musicians. From her eye line, he could tell it was the cellist. She nodded her head at him. Vincent cleared his throat, adjusting his black mask.
'Mademoiselle'
She didn't turn. She offered her hand. White mesh fabric gloves with flowers on her long fingers and smooth nails. He took it gently with his and bent his head, eyes fixed on her face. Her hand was cold on his lips.
'Hello, stranger'
Her nose was sharp. Lips painted a scarlet red. She dropped her hand down to the the silver folds of her dress and smoothed down the top layer. The band had switched to Sam Smith's Stay with Me.
'Bonjour. I got your note. You look exquisite this evening'
'Your words flatter me, Marquess. You're not too bad yourself'
He chuckled and took a step closer. He leant into her ear, so close he could smell her perfume. Rosewood, amber with a touch of fresh cut flowers. Vincent brushed back a strand of hair form her face and whispered
'Be honest, Mademoiselle Malillos, was this all an attempt to meet me?'
She didn't flinch, even as his lip grazed her ear, masks touching each other. Vincent smile to himself.
'You overestimate your value, Vincent Bisset. And that ego of yours will one day be the death of you'
She spoke with a perfectly monotonous voice, as if she were stating a fact rather than making a threat. All bark and no bite. The Marquess stepped behind her. They watched the crowd. The Koji and his daughter had taken the dance floor and they held hands and laughed as she said something in Japanese. Many were talking amongst themselves, hands holding appetisers and canapés. Nobody seemed to notice them; it was an usual ability, to be able to blend into the crowd, to turn into nobody while holding the most significant role. It must work wonders for Francesca.
'May I call you Francesca?'
His hand lingered above her waist. She gave no response.
'You didn't deny my words, Francesca. I know of your connection to John Wick, I know why you have hosted this party. A feeble attempt, I must say, at making my acquaintance. Nothing, nothing you do will convince me to turn my back on the job I was tasked with. Your family, the Malillos name, must have gotten you far in your life, non? Opened doors for you. Made people obey you, confirm to your will. Just because they're scared shitless by the power you had. I will not be so easily convinced. From how I see it, mademoiselle, you are just an empty promise. A girl from a washed up family, desperate to make a name for herself. You have no power over me'
The band had switched to Vance Joy's Riptide. More people seemed to be enjoying themselves, dancing and swaying along. The alcohol had started inflicting its power. He brushed her hair back from her neck.
'Do not think I will hesitate to kill you just because you are a beautiful woman, mademoiselle. Men have killed for less'

Vincent hadn't notice a man approaching them from the other side of the room. He was wearing a crumpled suit and a simple white mask. There was no pattern or decoration. He stride across the room with a sense of determination and fierce caution.

Vincent's hand came to a rest on Francesca's waist. His other took her gloved hand in his.

'Would you care to dance?'

'You think yourself so smart, Marquess, but I'm afraid I didn't throw this ball for you and I. I organised this ball so that you could meet him'

Vincent felt the barrel of a gun press into his back, followed by a small click.

'Let go of her'

He recognised the voice. He had heard it on videos and recordings the Table had given him. Vincent closed his eyes and cursed himself for being so naïve. Even with her back turned to him, he could feel Francesca smirking. Vincent slowly turned around, cursing himself again for not carrying a weapon and came face to face with the Boogeyman himself.
Francesca turned around a flashed him a smile.

'You fucking idiot'