The Sabbat are not "right" they're just v-anon

The Camarilla is not "right" they're just old crime lords

The Anarchs are not "right" they're just loud

Cappadocius is right. Diablerize God.

Follow Up pt 4

This dour mood followed Angelina for the rest of the car ride and doubled when pushed into the morgue to find the medical examiner already there with Peitro’s Proxy.  The Rosselini took one look at her and then her gaze slid to Pietro standing just behind her. Angelina knew she had been dismissed out of hand and the anger seethed.  Such a thing had happened many times before.  When people went to meet the Donna of Grenoble, they expected a woman in her prime, perhaps one aged into wisdom, all demure silk velvet over maternal steel.  When they saw a slight girl frozen forever at 18, round face still carrying the memory of childhood, they discounted what they saw and turned to Pietro as the continuing authority, he having been her voice and direction up until the moment of their first meeting.

Pietro, well schooled and endless amused by this bitter bit of theater, stayed where he was and said nothing, waiting for Diana Rossellini to figure out the silent error she had made.  Angelina did not wait for those brown eyes to widen, or the face go ashen to realize she had dismissed the one that had given permission to be Proxied and that permission could be revoked.

“What did you find?”

The Proxy caught herself, startling to be addressed, but not looking alarmed to be caught out.  “Donna Angelina, a pleasure to - “

“Yes,” Angelina agreed, a great pleasure to meet yet another family member that would have to be taught respect and comportment.  “Your findings?”

Angelina could feel Pietro’s amusement behind her, like a wave of warmth coming off a fire and she made a mental note to address his instigating these awkward introductions at a later time.  One did not humiliate one’s enforcer.  Not if one wanted to keep their good humor and loyalty.

The medical examiner cleared her throat from where she stood on the other side of the table, a skeleton, white and unweathered, laid neatly on a steel topped table.  “I’ve been able to narrow it down to three missing persons.”

“A three way tie?”  Angelina asked, brows raised as if mildly curious about the outcome and the examiner flushed, turning a faintly accusatory stare at Diana.  

“I had just arrived with the dental records, Donna.”  Diana handed them to the examiner, as cool as you please.  The way the other woman snatched them out of the Proxy’s hands suggested that the files had been withheld, either for spite or for testing of the examiner's skill in reading the bones.  It wasn’t that Angelina disapproved of testing the academic might of the people called upon to perform a service, just that at this moment, Angelina wasn’t in the mood for delays.  Or for anyone to decide now was the time for a power play. 

Hurriedly, the woman took out the x-ray images, the shaded transparencies hung up on the light box to be studied.  They waited, Angelina not unaware of the Rosselini’s subtle attempt to size her up, comparing what she saw to what she had imagined.  For her part, she let it go.  There would be time later to put Pietro’s Proxy in her place if necessary.  

“This one, Ms. Giovanni,” the medical examiner said, hurriedly.  Taking down the transparency, she slid it back into its file and handed it to Angelina over the table holding their mysteriously departed.  “I’ll give you a moment.”  Stripping off her gloves, the woman left.  

“Simeon Boucher,” Angelina read aloud before putting the file down on the metal table.  “One parent still living, two siblings living abroad, no spouse, no children.  Cause of death, blunt force trauma.”

“That would be consistent with what we saw when we dumped his body,” Diana confirmed.  “We - “

But Angelina wasn’t interested in the explanations or stories the Rosellini was quick to give.  Ignoring her, she stripped off her own gloves and set the soft black leather aside, concentrating on the well ordered bones before her.

“Simon Boucher,” she murmured under the self-aggrandizing chatter of the Proxy.  “Let’s see if you’re still here.”  Angelina laid both hands on the bones, one hand cradling around the smooth curve of the skull, thumb tracing along the zygomatic arch where a spider web of fractures hinted at the violence of the man’s final moments.  The other hand rested on the cracked and ragged remains of the sternum.

She wasn’t surprised to feel that Simon’s soul still lingered.  A death as sudden as violent as his had been, often made spirits bound to this world.  Ones so bound were unable to let go of their former lives and find whatever peace was beyond the Shadowlands.  Angelina called to the spirit gently, testing to see at what strength the contest of wills between her and the unwilling dead, and while she hadn’t been surprised to know he lingered, she was surprised at the promptness of his response.

Simon’s soul manifested as suddenly as switching on a light, vivid and clean as if drawn on her vision by some bold artist with only a faint transparency to suggest that he wasn’t of this world.  Whatever chatter Diana had been engaging in stopped and Angelina had blessed silence in which to contemplate the spirit.

“You’re like her,” it whispered, voice coming from some other place.

“Like whom, Mr. Boucher?” Angelina asked, hand absently stroking the smooth bone of the skull, as if petting a cat, or soothing a child.

“I assume he’s talking about Elizabeth,” Diana put in unnecessarily.  “I didn’t think little Miss Princess could do the family business.”

Angelina set her jaw, cross that the Rosselini dared to speak, but before she could order her cousin to silence, the sad and despondent shade of the late Simon turned to survey the room.  Once his eyes fell upon the disdainful Diana, it flared, a shadow behind a flame, blown to grotesque proportions and flickering as if caught in a hot and terrible wind.

“You left me to die!” It roared, leaning towards the shocked Rosselini, mouth agape and hands turned to grasping claws.  “YOU KILLED ME!”

Sternly, Angelina bound the enraged wraith of Simon Boucher so it could not attack the stunned woman.  But, with a bit of satisfied spite, she let it slowly drift in her directly, forcing Diana to back up a step.  Aloud, she said, “Perhaps your recounting of your mission wasn’t entirely correct, Ms. Rosselini?”

The look that Diana shot her before looking back at her slowly stalking wraith was murderous.  “No, Donna.  We found him dead and - “  The wraith roared, cursing.  “He was beyond saving!  I could see that just by looking at him!”

Angelina believed Diana when she said that she had seen the man’s fast approaching death.  It was her family curse, after all.  Everything was on the cusp of death to her and everyone that had the Rosselini gift.  She did not, however, believe that Simon had been beyond saving.

“He might have been more useful alive, Ms. Rosselini,” Angelina said, sounding disapproving of Diana's protests and indifferent of her discomfort. 

⨌

dude. one of me is enough 2 deal with. naw wae.

VTM Inktober 2020 - Day 20 - Constanza Rosellini, Clan Giovanni. Another of the NPCs from my Chronicle of Vigo by Night'95. Constanza is a cruel Necromancer who likes to torture his victims by enclosing their souls in objects, such as the necklace around her neck. The visual reference for the character is the model Kate Moss.   Inked with Fineliner Staedler (numbers 1.2, 0.8, 0.6, 0.4, 0.2 and 0.05). Winsor & Newton Chinese ink for the illustration wash technique. Gouache Talens white for corrections, and red for the gem in the necklace. Mask with Schimncke masking liquid. Reservations with washitape. On Canson Mixed Media Imagine paper, 120 lb of 5.8 x 8.3 in (A5).   -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- VTM Inktober 2020 - Día 20 – Constanza Rosellini, Clan Giovanni. Otro de los Pnj´s de mi Crónica de Vigo by Night´95. Cruel Necromante que gusta de torturar a sus víctimas encerrando sus almas en objetos, como el colgante que lleva al cuello.   La referencia visual del personaje es la modelo Kate Moss.   Entintado con Fineliner Staedler (números 0.8, 0.6, 0.4, 0.2 y 0.05). Tinta china Winsor & Newton para la técnica aguada de la ilustración. Gouache Talens blanco para correcciones y rojo para la gema del collar. Máscara con líquido enmascarador Schimncke. Reservas con washitape. Sobre papel Mixed Media Imagine de Canson, de 200g de 14.8 x 21cm (A5).     #vtminktober2021 #vtminktoberday20 #inktober2021 #inktober2021español #inktoberday20 #worldofdarkness #mundodetinieblas #worldofdarknessrpg #worldofdarknessart #vampirethemasquerade #vampirolamascarada #vtm #giovanni #clangiovanni #constanzarosellini #necromancer #vigobynight #vbn #vigochronicle #vigonocturno #cronicadevigo #vtmillustration #cansonimagine https://www.instagram.com/p/CVYZATZoFPY/?utm_medium=tumblr

 Does anyone know any good 'Let’s Play' Until Dawn run-throughs so I can introduce @clangiovanni to the game? I feel it’s only it’s only right to drag him into this dumpster fire.

Following Up pt 2

Nicky’s people had cleaned the grave well enough, now that the original mission, both true and false, was over.  Nicky had the manners to police his own.  Now it was left to her to gather what dust had fallen out of her cousin’s reach and how she could make it pay.  It would be more satisfying to have someone else pay the costs now resting in her ledger.  

“Any reason you chose…”  Angelina turned back a page to see the list of operatives that Nicky had sent. “Diana Rosselini, alias Anna Betancourt?”  

“I felt she was the best of the four.”

“What made her stand out?”  At first glance, all four seemed to be of similar quality.  Military training of one flavor or another.  Specific skills earned in vague unnamed places.  Confirmed kill lists.  All from distant branches of breeder families, probably only accidentally aware of the family business, if aware of it at all.  No one with any strong ties to any Kindred family that she could recall at this moment.  Perfect operatives for those hopefuls with nothing left to lose and willing to work for a family pariah.

Family pariahs.  

Angelina frowned slightly, perturbed at the unnecessary self-reminder, tucking that thought away for later contemplation.  Now was not the time for meditating on old injustices. 

“I feel that a Rosselini was more suitable,” Pietro gave an easy shrug, as if such an important choice was merely an afterthought.  Normally a temperate guide, she found his lack of care or worry to be irritating this evening. 

“More suitable than what, Pietro?  Do not dissemble.”

He capitulated immediately.  “The Rosselini was the only choice, donna.  I wouldn’t dare Proxy Jara without approval of the Pisnob.  I didn’t feel that you’d want the della Passaglia here, all things considered, so Durant was also not an option.”

“Your consideration of my feelings is commendable, but if he was the better candidate, I would have accepted him.  Chances are he wasn’t involved with the…current politics.”  Angelina clicked her teeth shut on the words, biting them where she couldn’t bite those that had risen against her.

Again that nonchalant shrug and easy grin, tacitly ignoring the tempest she held under thin glass  “I would not risk it and besides, the Rosselini was equally qualified and the fourth did not survive the mission.”

“Karl Koeing, alias of Gerhart Auer,” Angelina mused, putting the papers back in order and finding the small work of neatness to be soothing.  There would be very little this evening that would be considered soothing.  “Nicky removed him from the operation himself?”

“Compromised,” Pietro agreed.  “At least that was what my Rosselini has told me, though I find it all a little extreme.  The Butcher didn’t like the fact he was passing information.  I understand his reasoning, but it wasn’t as if the Koeing was speaking out of house.”

A flash of annoyance cut through her precarious calm, jaw tightening against what she wished to say.  Vincenzo. They had been contemporaries once, equal in status as one of the North American padroni.  Their cousin’s unexpected murder had given him the job and she found the timing of it suspect, as well as Vincenzo’s lack of proper familial mourning.   “And Ms. Rosselini was the one that made sure the grave was clean?”

A bastard's bastard. pt 2

Lillian looked at the hair in her hands. Four days after the incident and her body had stopped withering. Not quite a walking corpse, but certainly nothing that would walk in public and not cause notice. Her hair, her beautiful dark auburn hair, had continued to wither away until it became brittle and thin. Now it was the hair of an old woman standing on the edge of her grave. The nuns at school had alternately praised her for her luck and admonished her not to give into the vanity that was the sin of all women. If they could see her now, holding handfuls of faded dried up weeds.  

A knock at the door made her cry out in alarm, "No! Don't come in!" She didn't want to see anyone until she could come to terms with what she was. But someone entered anyway.

"Mother," Lillia whispered, suddenly wishing to cry. Instead, she covered her drawn and sunken face behind knobby hands. "Don't look at me!"

Catherine Rosselini came to her daughter with soothing sounds of comfort. "Oh sweetheart, don't hide from me. You're as beautiful now as you were when you were born."

Lillian choked on her mother’s good humor and obvious lie. "Newborns are ugly."

"Not to their mothers." Catherine laughed, not hesitating to put her arms around her daughter, holding the cold and stiff body tight. Desperately needing the comfort, Lillian returned the embrace still feeling tears that wouldn't fall.  Could she still cry in this state, or would she always feel stuck not being able to purge what was in her heart?

"What do I do now?" she whispered into her mother’s shoulder, only just now realizing she was dressed for a formal evening. Count Rossellini was hosting his own descendants tonight at the family gathering, an invitation that Catherine had coveted more than anything, finally getting to mingle with the greatest of her relations.  Lillian backed away hastily, less her changed countenance somehow stain the dress.  She felt filthy in this condition, still smelling the canal water that had flooded that pit and wondered if, like her missing tears, if she’d ever feel clean again.

"You put on the dress I brought you and you hold your head up high and you remind everyone that you have been triply blessed this year. And when that poor excuse of a father of yours hosts the Milliners at the end of the week as the youngest family, you'll attend that one too and remind every one of those ignorant Yankees exactly what you bring to the table."

"Why'd you do it?"

"Do what, honey?"

"Sleep with dad if you hate him so much?"

Catherine looked thoughtful, smoothing back the thin scant wisps of hair that still graced Lillian’s head. "Because it was the price of my independence, darling. And besides, it brought me you and your little brothers and I didn't have to chain myself to some fat lugard of a man for the rest of my life. You," she kissed Lillian's cheek. "Were entirely worth putting up with that dithering ass. And this," she kissed Lillian's other cheek. "Has made every insult worth it. My precious daughter given the Kiss just hours after the Milliners were formally included in the family. By one of the elders no less. It is very possible you are closer in blood to Uncle Ambrogino than you are to your father!"

The way her mother laughed, it was clearly the crow of triumph.  It was apparently a mark of status to have a close family be….whatever she was now.  Whatever status Catherine had gained by having Old Man Milliner’s bastards had somehow increased by her literal falling in with Mathias. 

"How...how did you know to send me there? To the well? How did you know there'd be family there?"  Lillian tried to forget the screams of the people they pushed in - Frances’ wife and all his descendants, by blood or by marriage, that had refused to bend a knee to the horror that was the Giovanni.  It was Frances’ proof of loyalty, that everyone walking would be bound, one way or another, to the family business.  She had already heard the servants gossiping on the haggling being done over the newly widowed and who would take them of Frances’ hands.

Again that thoughtful look as if Catherine was considering the events and if the story could be told. "My uncle married outside of the family. She was an only child, an heiress to use the old fashion term, so it was permitted.  There wouldn't be anyone to challenge the inheritance or any of her own family she could run to if she....discovered any of the family business. It was eventually discovered she had been having an affair. He couldn't divorce her and risk losing any of the estate, or her taking the one child he knew for sure was his, so he demanded that Count Rossellini do something. And so he did. My uncle's wife, her lover, and their children were all pushed into the well. We were all brought to watch as a reminder that one doesn't betray the family."

It was said so casually that Lillian felt colder than she had been, staring at her mother in something akin to shock.  “And…and no one thought her death suspicious?”

“It's easy to fake a drowning death in Venice, my dear.  What was left of the bodies showed up in the lagoon eventually.  A boat accident was to blame.”

"Did you...expect this to happen to me?"  Lillian pressed withered hands to her sunken cheeks.

"Absolutely not! Nothing from that pit has ever created a childe, not by any family story I've ever heard. I sent you to follow our cousins because I wanted you to know that there were resources here that you could make use of. If you needed them."

The Meeting pt. 3

“So what do the Giovanni have to do with it? Were they the ones to wack her?” While not on the friendliest terms, Madaline had managed cordial relations with the local Brujah leadership. If nothing else, her stand off with the Ventrue had earned her some grudging respect. But there had been nothing on the ledger that would have led to a murder of convenience. Nothing that required cutting losses quite so severely. Nicky could not think of anything that would have led to the current levels of hostility. “If that’s Jon’s grudge, I’d need some proof before taking it to the family.”

“Your cousins put out a bounty for any of her belongings. Needed something near and dear to ol’ Dana’s heart. Extra if they could provide Dana’s ashes. Rumor had it they wanted to call up her soul. Bring her back from the dead.”

“Mother already told me that my cousins were taking witness statements from beyond the grave. If that’s all you got for me….”

“Oh you don’t understand, Nicky. It weren’t to talk to her and find out her killer. When has your lot ever been interested in justice?”

“Hey. I’m sitting right here.”

“Vengeance, mebe.” Monster grinned, warming to his tale. “But then vengeance ain’t nothing more than justice with interest, ain’t that right?”

“That’s fancy philosophy for a Gangrel,” Nicky was getting impatient for the meat of the matter. “What’d my family want with Dana Stone’s soul?”

“They wanted to bring Dana back from the dead. Not to talk, to bring her back.” Monster slapped the ground in front of him, emphasizing one what side of the Shroud he was talking about. “They found a nice new body and put Dana’s soul into it. Shipped her off all wrapped up in ribbons to her Justicar. Wanted to sweet talk that ice queen into some sort of alliance. Like he was going a-courtin’.”

Nicky stared at Monster, sure that he was lying. Or exaggerating for purposes of his story. “That’s not possible.”

The lie came easily. It could be done, Nicky knew, because he had done it. But the Giovanni were in the business of collecting souls, not returning them. The cost to do such a thing was astronomical, with the chances of success to be so minimal as to not be worth the attempt. On top of that, the family had forbidden it. It would have to be a valuable soul to pay the cost of return and to risk eternal torment at the hands of the Giovanni.

Dana Stone nor the favor of her Justicar was worth that kind of risk.

“Who’s idea was that?” Nicky demanded. He had seen first hand the carnage that came from the Brujah Justicar and her idea of proper punishment for the smallest sin. There was no forgiveness for anything. To actively seek her attention? To flaunt family power in her face? Nicky was under the opinion that the Giovanni were very lucky to still be in this city at all. Little wonder the city was burning through dons faster than the family could replace them.

“That tall cocky one, the one that took over when the old don burned.”

Nicky thought of all the missed opportunities to eat Vincenzo’s fucking soul and how that could have saved all of them from having to deal with this latest fiasco. “I don’t know why that’d piss off the Brujah. They had Dana Stone back. You could almost say new and improved. Certainly that’d be worth something.”

“Oh, but that’s the best part of the story, Nicky,” Monster purred, creeping forward to share his delighted secret. “Something went wrong. The body rotted. Your cousin sent the soul of the Midwest’s most influential Brujah to her Justicar as a walking corpse. Rumor has it that her frosty bitchness had to decide to let Dana slowly rot away or put her down.”

Nicky hid his face in his hands for a moment. One didn’t trash talk family in front of outsiders. Even family you disliked to outsiders that were tolerable. This fuck up was now bigger than Vinnie failing his way upwards. Whatever his cousin had been attempting had backfired. Backfired so badly as to risk the enmity of an entire clan. Possibly the Camarilla, depending on how the Brujah pressed their cause. Nicky considered leaving Chicago within the hour. “How accurate is this information?”

“I’m not pen pals with her Fury, if that’s what you’re asking.” Monster shrugged, his interest fading now that the story was told. “But we had a wanderer come through a year ago, claims to have attended a gathering where this story was told. Was the explanation of why your clan is being uninvited from Switzerland. Prince Guillimere don’t allow no violence and easier to evict some bankers than his Justicar if you’re looking to avoid a fight.”

Nicky got up to pace, rubbing his hands together to keep them occupied. His mind raced trying to find ways around this crisis. “This…incident. How widely known?”

“Not much if you didn’t know,” Monster observed and also rose, looking more man than animal now that he was upright. “But maybe your kin didn’t see fit to tell you. Common enough among the Brujah I think, the way they’re closing ranks. Not as many Anarchs these days. A newfound willingness to take the Queen’s shilling, as it were.”

Nicky’s jaw clenched until the teeth creaked in their sockets, the pain cutting through the rage flooding through him. The enormity of Vincenzo’s blunder began to settle on him. On an average day, a room full of Brujah couldn’t agree on the color of their black leather jackets. Vincenzo had just given them a cause big enough for them to unify under. “I appreciate you talking to me, Monster.”

“Always willing to work with you, Nicky. I know you’re good for it.”

“I’d also appreciate it if you keep this incident on the same level I heard it.” Nicky could hear the expectation in Monster’s voice. It was clear they had gotten to the wheeling and dealing part of the show. “What can I do for you?”

Monster sighed explosively, looking around at the wildness of parkland gone to see, fists on his hips as if considering his options. “The fucking Torys want to make the island pretty again. Turn it back into some Japanese pleasure garden the way it was during the fair. Would appreciate you shutting that down so we can keep it how we likes it.” The Gangrel’s tone turned sly, arching one red brow. “Hear you have an affinity for roses.”

“What can I say? They love sharp pricks,” Nicky said with a self-deprecating shrug, sending the Gangrel into howls of laughter. With an amiable clap on the shoulder, Monster turned and still chuckling, disappeared into the wilds of the Wooded Island.

Follow Up pt 5

“He might have been more useful alive, Ms. Rosselini,” Angelina said, sounding disapproving of Diana's protests and indifferent of her discomfort. 

The woman clenched her fists, standing just out of reach of the grasping and vengeful spirit.  “The mission was compromised, Donna Angelina. Even using family resources to transport a near dead man from our basement would have drawn more attention that was necessary thanks to the problems his little princess had already created for us.  Nicky would have done the same in disposing of our unexpected guest.”

Nicky, Angelina thought, would have put a bullet into the man as a safeguard from sudden recovery or rescue.  Nicky would have then proceeded to put a bullet in everyone in the building and she was certain Diana Rossellini knew that, giving Diana’s final call on the matter a tinge of self preservation rather than protocol.  However, having chastised the Proxy sufficiently, she reeled in the wrathful wraith, giving her sullen cousin space to breath and be thankful for her life.

“Simon Boucher,” Angelina said, focusing on the spirit.  Its attention now turned to her, it shrank back into human proportions, once again clear and calm and sad.  “We regret that you have come to this state.”

“You are like her,” he whispered again. 

“I am,” Angelina agreed.  “Did you see the ones that attacked you.”

“No.  I didn’t.”  A ghostly hand went to the pockets of his clothing. Searching.  “They took the rosary from me.  They knew we were coming, even though Elizabeth said it was safe.  Is she safe?  Did they kill her too?  I can’t find her.”

“She’s safe with her brother, Mr. Boucher.  She left France unharmed.  What can be done for you?”

The resigned spirit of Simon looked at his bones under Anglina’s gentle hands.  “Tell my family.  Don’t let them wonder what happened.”

“I can do that for you, Mr. Boucher.”  Angelina glanced meaningfully at Diana and tipped her head to the door, indicating that the Proxy needed to find the absent medical examiner in order to prepare the bones for travel.  Diana, sullen to be dismissed, wisely left without a word.  The wraith of Simon didn’t notice the accessory to his murder leaving, starting transfixed at his own body.

“Is this what happens when you betray someone?  Am I in hell?”

The notion amused Angelina.  “You aren’t in hell, Mr. Boucher.  Whom did you betray?”  The spirit flickered for a moment, the way a warning ripple might go through a swarm of bees.

“He paid me to bring him the rosary.  Elizabeth said he was going to kill me if I did.  But then I died anyway.”  Angelina could feel the sadness in the bones. “Did Elizabeth have me killed?  For the rosary?”

A child, even one in the shadow of  Nicky’s influence, could not possibly have orchestrated such a thing and she said so.  “This might have been simple accident of chance, Mr. Boucher.  Whom did you betray?”  She leaned into the question, urging the wraith to answer truthfully.

Again that ripple as the words were bent unwillingly from the wraith.  “Vincenzo Giovanni.  He paid...my…our Order…to find things for him.”

Angelina shared a quick look with Pietro, her cousin and enforcer becoming grim to hear the news.  “Does Vincenzo live here in Grenoble?”  While a common enough family name, there were only so many that had gotten the Kiss and she could account for each one of those and the territory they were allowed to operate.

“America.  The rosary is gone.  How do I make amends so I can go to Heaven?”  Simon’s voice was beginning to go hollow, an abyssal wail.

“I will help you, Mr. Boucher, but you will have to wait.  We’ll move you out of this place to one of sanctuary.  You will be safe and soon on your path to redemption.”  Angelina poured all of her sincerity into the words, lifting her hands off the bones and letting the mournful spirit of Simon Boucher fade back across the Shroud.

She stood there quietly for a moment, Pietro coming alongside.  “If it is the same Vincenzo that tried to gull the Butcher’s little China Doll…”

“Then you might have to keep me from killing him, Pietro,” Angelia interrupted, more abruptly than she intended.  Her enforcer smiled, a smile full of warmth and charm.

“I am conflicted, Donna, although I might just hold your coat for you.  For the insult done your office if nothing else.  But,” the smile faded as he crossed his arms.  “The way he dallies with business not his own, you might have to wait your turn behind prior complaints.  How does he hold his position the way he burns these bridges?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Pietro.  And,” she added more quietly, seeing Diana escorting the uneasy medical examiner back into the room.  “When we get back to the villa, I want to talk to you about your Proxy.”

Follow Up pt 3

A flash of annoyance cut through her precarious calm, jaw tightening against what she wished to say.  Vincenzo. They had been contemporaries once, equal in status as one of the North American padroni.  Their cousin’s unexpected murder had given him the job and she found the timing of it suspect, as well as Vincenzo’s lack of proper familial mourning.   “And Ms. Rosselini was the one that made sure the grave was clean?”

“Yes.  And informed us of the body in the tunnel.”

Silence fell.  Angelina shut the file and handed it back to Pietro, musing on what Nicky had discovered, motivating him to liquidate his own operative.  The Koeing had been talking out of house.  Outside of Nicky’s house, which was a far greater sin to their mutual cousin than if he had been talking beyond the bounds of the Giovanni.  To compound that sin, the ex-Koeing had been passing on information to Padrone Vincenzo of the New World’s Central Territory.  It was more than just poor form to be caught undermining a cousin.  The late Karl Koeing had chosen the wrong personal grudge to be caught between.

No, not the wrong grudge, the worst grudge, she thought with a slight huff of pained amusement.  If Pietro heard her, he gave no indication and she leaned back in her seat to watch Grenoble through the dark tinted windows. 

Angelina wasn’t entirely sure what raw grievance lay between Nicky and Vincenzo, but she could guess based solely on her own past difficulties dealing with her former peer.  Vincenzo had been a mere annoyance when he was but a Central Territory Don and she the Padrona of the Western Territory.  Everything had changed for the worst when he stepped into Central Territory Leadership, quite unexpectedly.  She was certain Vincenzo had no hand in her demotion, but he had earned her enmity on his own for a multitude of reasons.  The silver lining of her reassignment had been that she would be far from Vincenzo’s field of influence and no longer forced to deal with his ham handed handling of family politics nor his ineffectual leadership and complete lack of boundaries.  Yet here he was.  Whatever game he had been playing had been uncovered, either intentionally or by accident by the child Nicky had sent here to pretend being nothing more than a minor investment yet to come to fruition.  It had resulted in a dead resource, one of her resources, as well as an unnamed body, with the killer - or killers - also unidentified.

It was a puzzle Angelina would have enjoyed better if not for the potential culprits.  She had no interest in hanging Nicky out to dry, although due to familial status he wasn’t technically working out of bounds, having no real bounds to speak of.  She had absolutely no wish to engage Vincenzo at all, as even logging the formal complaint with its demand for restitution would be seen as an invitation for future interaction.  Considering the mess made with the muddled struggle Vincenzo had already been involved with, a struggle with a literal child, it didn’t speak well of any future business being well handled.

She would very much like everyone to go back to their own territories and leave her alone to run Grenoble without further interference.

Following Up

The car ride to the morgue was pleasantly uneventful.  Pietro understood the value of silence, leaving Angelina to read the report he had given her.  It was a valuable skill in an enforcer, that silence.  Too many people were threatened by the lack of conversation, needing to fill it with audible rumination, as if proving that they weren’t scared or threatened by the presumed judgment of their colleagues.

Still, she took her time, making sure she had all the details set.  The aggravation that had come with this particular situation was exhausting.  What should have been a simple covert mission had been compromised several times over.  Each one an accident of unforeseen stupidity, a level to make her grind her teeth.  Nicky was to send his adopted sister, the child she had given him five years ago at his request, to her city with an escort of four family members.  The public report was that they were being put forth as candidates for potential Proxy and Nicky was never going to get permission for any of them.  Escorting the child gave them reason to be in her city and gave them purpose in demonstrating their particular skills.  

It couldn’t have been simpler.  They were to remain in residence until Nicky called them to return and Pietro would pick the one he felt was most suited for Proxy.  A life for a life, as it were.  Nicky would pay for her generosity with a resource he could barely afford to lose. She would have done this favor for him without the gratuity, but she understood the need for official paperwork.  Payment rendered made it less a mutual benefit and more a matter of business.  Neither one of them could afford to look as if they had any allies.

But it all fell apart.  The child’s safety was the real reason for their mission, although Angelina couldn’t quite tell what exact danger had sent them her way.  Pietro claimed his promised Proxy despite discovering the multifaceted ruse, pleasantly pretending that all was as it should have been.  Another useful trait in an enforcer.  The party line remained the party line until Angelina decided otherwise.  Pietro was wise not to rock the boat.  

Shall we dance? pt 2

Seemingly not bothered by the silence, she wandered about, slowly going from display to display, dragging fingers along the frames as she peered in to see the shining specimens under their bright lights.  Nicky remained where he was, tracking her silently as she slowly spiraled in to stand next to him.  More patience than he thought her capable of, subtlety tending to need a certain amount of forethought and planning.  He hadn’t thought her clever enough for the slow approach.  Then again, any woman looking like her wearing only enough clothing to be considered decent tended to have men approaching her the moment she walked into a room never giving her the chance.  The black velvet coat, with black satin lapels and cuffs, looked modest enough, but silver buttons joined it just beneath her breasts and to her hips.  When she walked, it drifted slowly open, showing silk stocking legs up to where the lace cuffs ended.  Imagination supplied the rest.  Like meat to dogs.  

Nicky kept his eyes on the stones.

“Have a fondness for opals?  You haven’t moved since I came in.  Maybe you’re really a Toreador?” she teased, touching his forearm gently.  Nicky tensed.  Ettored had warned Nicky not to let her touch him, something he had brushed aside in the moment’s argument and in the debate that had followed, he had failed to demand why.  

Rather than some attack, physical or otherwise, her hand twitched where it lightly lay on the wool of his jacket. She curled her fingers slowly into her palm, like petals withering to the center of a flower.  He looked over at her in curiosity, not expecting that reaction, to see the bright smile still on her face, but her eyes were deep pools of terror. 

“Just thinking,” Nicky said, watching her draw her hand back and fold them together on the edge of the case, the heavy winding platinum chains on her wrists winking with a ransom of sapphires set into the links.  They clicked ever so faintly on the sturdy glass.

“So I did interrupt!  I’m sorry for that.  What were you thinking about?”

Nicky wasn’t sure if he should admire her tenacity or pity her stupidity.  She didn’t want to be here with him yet was bravely soldiering on.  “Business,” he replied, with a shortness that didn’t encourage further questions just to see her gamely rally, turning the full force of her brilliant smile on him.  She was pretty, he couldn’t deny that.  Easy to see why any Kindred might attempt to leash her, wanting to own a golden goose that was nice to look at and not clever enough to see the cage.

“Imports or exports?” 

He stared at her and the directness of the question.  “Neither.  Acquisitions.”

Pia laughed as if he had said something funny.  “I’m sorry!” she touched her hand to her lips, hiding the rudeness of her outburst.  “I expected a different answer.”

“Like?” he asked, despite himself.

“Wetworks.”

That empty look in those impossibly blue eyes was back.  Something fathomless and sad.  Nicky understood Ettore’s warning then.  This was what she did, sifting through the stray thoughts and lingering emotion of her target, collecting that vulnerability and taking it to her prince.  He wasn’t sure what she had seen in that chance touch, but Nicky was certain it wouldn’t come as a surprise to Follet. Careless of her to let that knowledge show on her face. 

“The thought doesn’t scare you.”  He wouldn’t have thought her so jaded, Prince’s Whore or not.

“Well, I’ve never known a Giovanni to hire out for contract killing.  Not other Kindred anyway, and certainly not anyone from the Camarilla.”  The Toreador’s sparkle was back, having lured him into speaking with her.  “So I guess I’m safe.  For now.”

“Yeah.  About that.”  Nicky turned to face her, a movement she mimicked leaning on the edge of the case in casual echo.  “I’m just visiting Chicago for a time.  I won’t be here long.”

“That’s too bad.  Its been a long time since someone interesting came through.”  Pia reached out again, unknotting her fingers to touch the very edge of the lapel of his jacket, as if removing some speck of lint or tugging it back into place. Like it was a compulsion, a child unable to resist touching a candle flame. 

“Interesting enough to risk being put in a box?”

If it was still possible for her to flush with anger she might have, the flirtatious glint in her eye going sharp and cold, if for only an instant.  She dropped her hand.  “I see my reputation precedes me.  I guess I’d better be on my way then.  I wouldn’t want you to get caught up in that.  Be rude of me getting you put in a box on your first night here, wouldn’t it?”

He let her get halfway to the door.  “Boxing a Giovanni would be an act of war.”

She stopped suddenly and looked back at him, confused although by what he wasn’t sure.  “Good to know I can speak to you again without you getting in trouble.”  And with that cryptic farewell, she left the gem hall.

Round one.  Your move, Follet.

First Round pt 2

Clothing was propaganda and no one knew that better than her.  Every outfit she sent down the runway or into the hands of her private clients had a story sewn into the very seams.  Most people tried too hard to carry stories that weren’t true.  Clothes never made the man.  Not really.  The whole point of fashion was to dress the lie, and if you couldn’t lie convincingly, then all that would happen was that your clothes would wear you and everyone could see it for the costume it was.  Like putting frosting on a shit cake.  It would look pretty at first glance, but something wouldn’t smell quite right.

She would have to get closer to determine if that violent character hollering like a mad thing had any truth in him.  Pia made her excuses to the Tremere, now made petulant that he wasn’t the focus of her attention any longer and unwillingly relinquishing her hand in exchange for the promise that they’d speak again.  Her interest was now the angry little man from the poker table.  If a fight broke out, Follet would want to know why and it was her job to read these unruly guests for their secrets and grudges so the prince could use it against them when needed.  It had been so long since a new game had presented itself and was interested in this new little tempest despite herself.  Follet’s demands of her were forgotten in this new attraction.

 It wouldn’t do to approach the table directly, letting them know it was the point of her interest.  She would watch from afar, watch the subtle shifts in their auras, the tell-a-tale flash of one color over another that would speak of their hidden feelings.  Then, having a sense of them, she would approach and a gentle hand on their shoulder or, in allowing them to touch her, she would get a deeper taste.  There’d be the flash peek inside their minds, the way an ornamental fish would touch the surface in a bright twist of color before sinking back into the dark.  

Follet would want anything that could be a killing offense.  Anything that would make them money.  The subtle lures were not worth his time.  The treasure she mined from these casual encounters were left to spoil.  If only she could make use of what she knew.  If only she could find enough to buy her safety, since it wasn’t enough to buy herself a seat at the table.

As Pia drifted quietly to where the game was paused, the yelling continued and the angry man stuck a finger in the face of his trembling ghoul, shouting at him.

“Why isn’t that fucker dead yet?” 

But the ghoul couldn’t answer.  “I don’t - 

“What do you mean you don’t know?  You find a gun now and go kill him!”

“But I - “

“You go fucking kill that guy or I will fucking shoot you myself!”  A hand dropped to the gun in the waistband of his pants.

The ghoul fled and, now apparently satisfied that business was concluded, the man picked up his chair to resume his seat.  The rest of the players shared a look, but said nothing while going back to their cards.  Either they knew the man from prior meetings and thought this behavior was of no consequence or they knew the truth of this threat.  Pia found that interesting.  It wasn’t entirely a surprise that the Kindred not known to her would keep silent, being on unfamiliar territory and in a new Domain, but the other residents of the city would have no reason to tolerate ill manners from some interloper.  Yet there they sat, as mild as summer breeze.  

First Round

Anyone else would have had some decorum, regardless of reason for their ire, yet the argument rose and rose, climbing over all other conversations.   Everyone stopped to watch, caught by the sudden explosive drama around the poker table.  Despite herself and knowing it for rudeness, Pia paused where she was making her social rounds, her hand momentarily caught by an overly familiar Tremere looking to insinuate himself into her good opinion. He couldn’t help the fact that he was an intensely boring man and much taken with himself.  Anything would have distracted her from their conversation.

The source of the commotion was the shortest Kindred at the table, were she to guess.  He gave a fine example of the descriptor of lean and mean.  The snarling made the hollowness in his face more vicious, like he was hungry and not very particular on what he was going to eat.  Pia thought it was going to be the fear-frozen ghoul that remained rooted to the spot when the yelling Kindred stood up from the table so violently, the chair he had been sitting in flew back to crash against the floor.  

That was when she could see the gun he had tucked into the waistband of his pants, like some common street thug.  She dismissed that detail at once, knowing most of Clan Brujah affected the same accoutrement, as if it were fashionable to risk shooting oneself in the dick.  He hadn’t even put on a shirt under that dated blue suit he wore, just suspenders and a tank, completing a look of disreputable and violent.  He even had a gold necklace and Pia bet if she got closer, she’d see a tiny cross hanging from it.  It was the quintessential look of a street tough.

She had seen it before, a hundred times over, albeit not quite so honestly.  

Future Crossroad pt 3

Elizabeth leaned her head against the window, the glass feeling warm against the sweat on her skin.  It was a struggle to stay focused.  “It looks like an English hunting lodge.  I thought you were a proper Italian.”

“I forgot what a judgmental bitch you were, Lizzy.” But his heart wasn’t in it.  Their usual dance of insult and retort was weak, lacking bite or interest.  He pulled around the winding drive where a ghoul waited to catch the keys Vincenzo threw at him and to take it off to wherever  he kept his toys.  If said servile cousin noticed the slight Asian woman in the padrone’s company, leaking blood all over the expensive upholstery or on the cobbles of the scrubbed courtyard, he gave no indication and Elizabeth limped slowly in Vincenzo’s wake.  It wasn’t as if she could out run him, even without the hole she had put in herself.  Being in the padrone’s private domain, it was best to bow to the laws of hospitality and follow where he led.  

He was silent, walking slightly ahead of her and not stopping when her breath caught nor turning when the pain forced a whimper or gasp through clenched teeth.  Vincenzo paced himself as if he expected to be followed, entering into a comfortable sitting room and waved off the servants who hovered in the doorways.  They silently obeyed, closing doors softly behind them, leaving the two to their privacy.  Family training ran deep in both and it wasn’t until that privacy was secure that Vincenzo turned his ire on her.

"Family never travels alone. Especially a woman. What the fuck were you thinking?" 

"I wasn't alone." Elizabeth crossed the elaborate carpet, sinking into a wing chair, absently noting the well worn leather as she did so.  This wasn’t a place for show.  This house was lived in.  "At least not until I lost my back up. I don't know where Everett went. I hope he didn't die. He's a good kid."

"Everett? Everett St. John?" 

"You know him?" Elizabeth turned slightly where she sat and pulled the blood soaked tie away, trying to see the stab wound low in her side. The blood spilt by this wound was supposed to call wings of fire, wrapping around her like a Seraphim's protective embrace. When the wings flared out, they'd incinerate anyone within that immolating reach. It was a spell of last defense being something of an unsubtle work and you could kill yourself if you stabbed yourself too deep or hit something vital.

Or bled out before you could reach help.

It hadn't worked. Well, not really. She had felt the warming heat, like a summer wind coming off hot pavement, but there had been no sheltering dome of glowing feathers. There had been nothing to scorch her pursuers once they came in range and she had been forced to stand and face her impending doom where she waited at the feet of the unresponsive sculpture.

"Nicky uses him as a courier now and then.  We've met."  Vincenzo fished out a cell phone and pushed a button.  He wandered off to the far corner of the room, stepping through a door to some private chamber, leaving Elizabeth to sit in pain and exhaustion.  She had no other option but to wait.  In theory, she was safe here with family.  In practice, she had never been safe with anyone that wasn't Nicholas' own bloodline, or the Giovanni of Chicago.  Leaning her head against the back of the chair, she dozed again, feeling drained and weak.

Future Crossroad pt 2

Elizabeth did walk to the car, even though it was further down the road than she would have liked.  It was slow going, stopping occasionally when the vertigo was too strong to ignore, but she managed.  Mostly for no other reason that she'd rather have the Ventrue burn her alive again than to have Vincenzo carry her like a child.  She also wasn’t convinced her disliked cousin would behave himself if she was unconscious in his presence.  

Vincenzo held the door open for her as she slid into the passenger seat, hissing so that she didn't whimper. "Since when did you start driving your own cars?"

"You think I can't drive myself?"

"I think you think you're too important to drive yourself." Elizabeth leaned the seat back, trying to take pressure off the wound in her side. "I'm going to bleed all over your seats."

"I'll buy a new one."

It was strange to sit here, alone in Vincenzo's company and him not sneering at her or blatantly working an angle. He was almost distracted, like he had bigger and more important things to worry about than doing her in. Again. Weariness overtook her and she closed her eyes figuring that if her cousin was going to murder her, it wasn't going to be right away and she had time for a nap. Better to face death well rested and clear minded. 

Vincenzo didn't take her back to the family home, the one public property in every city known to Camarilla and Sabbat as the official Giovanni residence.  The one place that was untouchable, by the Camarilla at least, and the place to approach if the family’s services were needed.  But family business was done in private and, Elizabeth assumed, she now qualified as ‘family business’.  At least as far as the Padrone of the Central Territory was concerned.  Her arrival in his city had layers of ritual formality to it, given their disparity of family connection and Kindred status.

The asshole.