in which a frenchman, drunk in power, stands in the way of a girl brave enough to challenge his bloodlust
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'i will not let you kill john wick'
'and who are you to stop me?'
#1 in marquis
#1 in koji
#3 in keanu reeves
you got that james dean daydream look in your eye and I got that red lip classic thing that you like and when we go crashing down, we come back every time 'cause we never go out of style, we never go out of style
/
'show me a hero and i'll write you a tragedy' - f. scott fitzgerald
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francesca
The Palais Garnier certainly lived up to its reputation as far as Francesca was concerned. Swan Lake was a common cliché but Francesca had always wanted to see the glorious performance. She had often dreamt of it as a little girl but she had always waited for the right moment; call her a killer but the truth is Francesca was a hopeless romantic. With the life she had grown up with, she dreamt of ball gowns, a hand written invitation and bouquets of flowers but she made her peace with the fact that she would never get the life she longed for. High arches, golden ceilings and decorated walls but the staircase drew her eyes. Polished steps and intricate banisters loomed above her like a giant towering over a mortal; she felt insignificant somehow. As if nothing mattered. As if there were forces beyond her control, hands coming out of the darkness to drag her down into the inferno below. Francesca felt cursed. And helpless. Not for the first time, she found her mind wandering back to John. She wonder how he was, how Winston as well.
'You look ravishing, mademoiselle'
Francesca snapped out of her thoughts. The marquess was dressed all in eggshell white. A fitted jacket over the slim trousers, a hint of the waistcoat and pristine shirt peaking out from the blazer. His top button was undone. Hair slicked back like when they first met at the Istanbul Continental. He had a hands in his pockets, crinkling the edges of the otherwise pristine outfit. She supposed it was more than just a costume to him; this was his way of showing supremacy. He smelled of leather and oud, a controlling, imperious smell. Francesca made the mistake of staring. Vincent chuckled a little, running a hand through the perfectly made buttons on his waistcoat and toying with the buttons. He stared at her all the while he did, head slightly bent but held high enough so she could see his green eyes. She turned away before she could give him the satisfaction of making her blush; she already felt the colour rising to her cheeks.
