young god I marquis du gramont

pré-accord

author's message:

hi guys! im so sorry I've been on massive hiatus, ive been doing exams and I have literally had no time to write until now! I'll try to post more regular updates now that I have more time! xx

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aint no rest for the wicked - cage the elephant

oh no there ain't no rest for the wicked
until we close our eyes for good

/

'nobody smart plays fair'- anonymous 

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'Should we take this conversation elsewhere?'

Francesca's voice hinted sarcasm. John chuckled.

'What a good idea, Francesca'

The barrel of the gun pressed a little harder against the back of Vincent's head. Vincent wondered if the party would miss its host. Not many people seemed to be paying attention to Francesca, he doubt the hoi polloi even knew she was the manager of the Istanbul Continental. She hadn't exactly been promoting; the invitation she sent was unnamed. An air of mystery about her. It seemed that she was comfortable with being shrouded in shadows. He glanced over to the band; they seemed on bothered. He made eye contact with the violinist; the woman swiftly looked away, as if ashamed. He wondered if she had been payed off to look the other way. The woman looked distressed but she continued playing perfectly; they had now switched to a niche type of acoustic music. Even though Vincent much preferred classical music, especially Debussy, he occasionally enjoyed more contemporary music. He recognised Crystallised by the XX.

John jammed the gun into the base of his neck. The Marquess snapped back into reality. Francesca had moved beyond on the curtain and was now glancing back to them, expecting him the pair to follow. The back of her dress was stunning; silver lace snaking around her back and tied together above her skirt with a neat bow. Her mask reflected the light of the chandelier, casting a shadow on her face. Even in the dimly lit light, he could see her eyes; vicious with ambition. What could he do but follow?

She led them to down a winding set of staircases to the gardens. It was lightly lit with fairy lights and flower arches. He guessed that there was going to be an afterparty, possibly with fireworks to celebrate whatever occasion Francesca was commemorating. He straightened his crisp suit, smoothing down his mask. Francesca was in front of them, walking with a smooth sway of her hips. She stopped in the middle of the path way, looking either side, checking for a nosy guest or eavesdropping assassins. John had removed his white mask. He didn't look like the man in the pictures the Marquess had seen; he looked older, more serious and more melancholic.

There was a heavy sadness to his eyes that even Vincent noticed. Vincent was almost tempted to feel sorry for him. He removed his mask, throwing it to one side. It landed n the grass with a soft thud. He hand't realised how heavy it actually was until now. Vincent held his hand to the back of his head mockingly, eyes not leaving Francesca.

John walked over to join Francesca, gun never leaving the Marquess's head. Even if Vincent started running, he would never survive the deathly accuracy of John's shots. He knew that and the Boogeyman knew that too. Vincent made sure not to show any signs of weakness or caution. He remain to be perfectly calm.

'I'm flattered that you would go through all these efforts for me, mademoiselle.'

Francesca turned and spoke to John in fluent Spanish. Vincent watched in fascination as the two exchanged conversation, undoubtedly about him. He could not fathom any other thing it would be.

'He's exactly what you said he'd be, Chess'

Ah, so they were discussing him. Vincent felt a sudden sense of anger boil up in him. Francesca Mallilos of all people did not get to stereotype him.

'If you brought me here just to insult me, at least you put a glass of whiskey in my hand'

Francesca chuckled.

'Don't get your feathers all ruffled, pretty boy. We're here to propose a deal'

The corner of the Marquess's mouth rose into a sly smile. He removed his hands from his head and reached into his jacket pocket. John cocked the gun. Vincent pulled up a lighter and a cigarette. The lighter was engraved with his crest with golden letters. The ends of the cigarette flicked into life, red sparks and grey ashes flicking out and floating down to the floor. The air suddenly turned sticky. His grey eyes settled on her like a predator's gaze, seconds before devouring prey. Francesca showed no sign of backing down. Impressive he thought. Most would shy away from his gale alone. He slowly walked closer; he could almost feel a hot sensation flutter across her face. John stepped in front of her protectively, like a father.

He flicked as from the butt of his cigarette.

'You won't shoot, Mr Wick. Even if I die, they simply send some other bastard to eliminate you. Besides, I might be the only one reasonable and patient enough to reach an accord with you. But even my patience has its limits, Mr Wick. Do not make me angry.'

Francesca stepped out of John's shadow and lifted a hand to his gun. John cast a concerned look, silently asking if she knew was she was doing. He lowered the gun.

'Take a walk with me, Marquess. The gardens are so nice this time of night'

Vincent shot a glance at the Boogeyman, trying to read his expression. There was nothing on his face, not even worry. He assumed that John had given his blessing and had deemed her capable of defending herself. He wondered if John saw him as a threat, he would me mightily offended if he didn't. He chuckled, throwing his cigarette to the side. He waltzed over to her and took her gloved hand. He had called their bluff.

Before Vincent pulled her away, John whispered something in her ear, soft enough only for her to hear. She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. Francesca let Vincent lead the way, towards the flower arches.

'May I call you Francesca now?'

'With all due respect, Vincent Marquess du Gramont, I'd rather die than let you do that'