young god I marquis du gramont

15/12/1998

death valley - fall out boy

what i've got will make you feel more alive
i'll be your favorite drug, I will get you high

/

'we play to win' - anonymous 

-

francesca

'Well, I'm most intrigued by what you have to offer me, Señorita Mallilos'

'Do not call me señorita'

Vincent threw his hand back in mock defence and chuckled.

'My, my, did I strike a nerve, mademoiselle?'

Francesca ignored him and turned a corner. He followed, watching her dress rustling in the light breeze. It sparkled in the night, under the little lights in the distance. The area they were travelling through was dark, untouched by the brightness. The marquess wondered if that was symbolic, was it a retreat to the dark, the mysterious, the unknown. Or was it just a convenient place to commit a murder? He touched the knife concealed in his black waistcoat. They had done a security check at the entrance of the Continental but of course, he had managed to charm and bribe his way through the various security guards. Francesca really needed more loyal staff.

Vincent looked around as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The garden seemed to stretch in all directions, like a maze or a labyrinth. He was sure Francesca had a gun on her. He wondered if she would use it. They must have been around the back of the Continental, soft music sprouted out from the cracks of doorways. The pianist was playing the first movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. Familiar to his ears. His mother loved this piece.

'Shall we dance, mademoiselle, I don't think I have had the pleasure'

'I'm afraid we don't have the time for that luxury, marquess'

'That was not a no, Ms Mallilos. Besides, there is no harm in mixing business and... pleasure'

Vincent held out a hand. Francesca could see his glint in his eyes under the mask. He looked amused. She hesitated. Her own hand reached behind her for the knife she had in the hidden in the tight fold of the bow on her flowing gown. Francesca reached out her pristine gloved hand. She regretted her decision as soon as his hand made contact with hers. The Marquess was dangerous, ruthless and she had just given him the upper hand.

He pulled her, softly yet with harsh movements. Their faces were close, so close she could smell the whiskey on his breath. Vincent smelt the flowery tinges of her perfume. They moved together with a strange synchronisation, bodies fitting perfectly together but their motion discordant. It felt... wrong. For her. She cleared her throat, casting her eyes downwards. She couldn't bear to look him straight in the eyes; there was a peculiar sadness in them. It made her nostalgic for a childhood she was refused.

'Leave John Wick alone and I will give you power that you could never fathom'

He chuckled, hands tracing downwards to the back of her dress. His hand was cold against her skin.

'I already have that power, dear Francesca. The Table has given me everything that I could ever want. I am akin to a god, I control who gets to live, who gets to die. I am everything, I have everything.'

He leaned in and whispered, so coldly Francesca's stomach churned.

'You have nothing. You are just a girl, from a once glorious family. You were stripped of everything you ever loved, everything you had. So, who are you to offer me power?'

She shivered in the cold of the evening. The temperature in the air seemed to drop. Francesca ignored the sinking feeling in her stomach. She ignored the fact that he was right, the fact that she lay awake thinking about it every night. That she was gambling with a bluff hand. Vincent Marquess du Gramont had just called her bluff. Vincent's hand lay just below her waistline, eyes staring so deeply into hers with a potent pride and arrogance. The music crescendoed in the background. He spun her, slowly lowering her into a dip. He was certain that she had nothing else to bargain with. He slowly slipped the knife out from her dress. It was light and delicate in his hand; she looked helpless. Vincent's eyes lit up with a sadistic gleam.

'Who are you to stop me?'

Francesca had one card, one singular card that would ensure that she was the victor in this unkind exchange.

'Maybe you are right, maybe, I am just a girl from a broken family. Or I am the only person who knows what happened on the 15th December, 1998'

The colour drained from Vincent's face but it was quickly replaced with anger. He pulled her up with no mercy, hand wrapped around the back of her neck, the other holding her knife over his head. Francesca smiled in amusement; she was now in the presence of one of the Marquess's famous episodes. His hands shook with anger.

'I will kill you'

But he knew that she would have a back up plan, in the sudden event of her death. Blackmail. A Mallilos family trade. He had underestimated just how much she knew.

'Many have tried, Vincent Bisset, many have tried'