[Evelyn stepped out this evening with the intention of meeting people, indulging in a little giggle water, and while the latter thirst has been satiated the former is more than lacking. It isn't so much the clientele as the manner with which they present themselves - desperate and overeager, almost too aggressive, and more than once has she jumped to protect her purse only to realise that a wandering hand was trying to grab at something else.
She expected better and perhaps that is the crux of her current situation: American gin joints, while fun and attractive for the conspiratorial air people adopt when speaking of them, are about as crowded and raucous as any seedy pub back home. The place has become an absolute rowdydow in the last quarter-hour and no amount of wristwatch-checking will satisfy her desire to try and wring some joy out of the occasion.
At the far table in the corner she is afforded the freedom to survey the room as she desires and, unfortunately, it sets her as a target for dapper beaus who want to try their luck. Bawdy speech is all well and good when one gets to know a person, but there's something about the forwardness employed by most of the bar's stags that she finds distasteful. There's no subtlety, no art to the conversation before it inevitably meanders into territory she finds objectionable on the grounds that there is no connexion on a level of wits.
That, and only a fool lifts her skirts for a man who cannot appreciate the difference between rotgut swill and Scotch whisky.
She is just beginning to slide off of her chair to settle up at the bar when a gentleman - the word alone might be generous - seats himself across from her, and someone who appears to be his friend loiters a step or two behind, standing, blocking the way out.]
How ya doin', sweetheart?
[She frowns immediately, and schools the expression into a thin smile.]
Fine, thank you. I was just leaving to settle up.
[They shift again, in such a way that she does not particularly like. A human barricade of two people who appear to have already had one too many drinks on their tab and in their bellies. They look at each other, and Seated laughs, slipping a cigarette into his mouth and lighting it. He offers her one from his case. She stares at him. He continues.]
[ The thing about Prohibition is that it has anybody who's anybody thinking they can open up their own joint. Meat lockers to boiler rooms, long as there's a key to lock off the space and some spare glasses people put themselves in business. That enterprising American spirit hard at work, Rafe supposes. At least this way it's less a matter of setting up shop and more rooting out the place and making a decent offer. It's still work, mind, since most back alley holes in the wall aren't up to a dog's standards much less Rafe's— Which is why he's here tonight.
This place is a new acquisition, some crumbling half-finished subway station complete with a car left on the track. Hell of a lot of potential, if handled right. He's spent the better part of the night at his own table, idly scribbling observations and figures in a notebook and ignoring the good whiskey sitting in front of him. His focus has been on numbers — who ordering what and how much and when — but he'd have to be blind, missing the steady stream of customers one table seems to draw in particular. Have to be blind and stupid, missing the reason behind it.
Rafe has seen beautiful women, wooed some and peddled some and enjoyed more than his share, but the brunette here... She's a breed apart, he can tell from a glance. The first dog rushing in with his tongue lolled out almost had him stepping in but better judgment prevailed— And he was soon glad for it from what he was able to overhear. Little lady was more than capable of dispatching fools all on her lonesome and Rafe was hard-pressed at times to keep his amusement to himself. Said lady seems to be worn thin by now, though, with these two latest customers apparently sniffing for trouble and eager to find it. Which, whether the lady can handle herself or not, simply won't do in any place he's running.
Ambling from his table to hers, he slips behind Gentleman No.² and clears his throat. ]
Tom. Dick. [ He smiles, perfectly friendly save for the glint in his eyes. ] Why don't you two blouse and find a Harry elsewhere, huh? The lady says she's ready to settle her tab, not for either one of you.
[ Gentleman No.¹ scoffs and pats the lady's hand before standing to join his friend. ]
Excuse me? This is a private party, pal.
[ Gentleman No.² shifts aside, brows knitting even as he makes way for No.¹ to attempt looming over Rafe. He can see the cogs turning and oh, when the realization hits... No.² could put snow to shame. All Rafe does is continue smiling as No.² tugs at a sleeve. ]
George—
No, Charlie, I wanna know where this greasy dago bastard gets off jumping my table.
[ The slur is nothing new, and Rafe's smile stays put. It does get sharper and anyone with sense would know to back away. Quickly. ]
I'd listen to your friend, Tom. I'd listen real close.
[Evelyn is prepared to deal with the worst. It wouldn't be the first time someone attempted to corner her while she was on her way out, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, which is why the hand gripping her little clutch is sorely tempted to snap open the clasp and withdraw something that might give these gentlemen seconds thoughts.
She isn't afforded the time to do so, however.
Their efforts are intercepted by the man who has spent the better part of the evening at a far table, working intently on something with the air of a fanatical accountant. Assuming he was taking stock of inventory Evelyn didn't spare more than a passing glance - people who wish to be left alone tend to exude such an air, and she was managing her own myriad of issues - to note that he was well-dressed.
It stands true up close, when he meanders over wearing a benevolent smile that looks a little too sharp around the edges. He's handsome: laissez-faire good looks paired with attire that fits far too well to be dimestore, no doubt tailored to his precise measurements. Dark hair, pale eyes, the lazy gaze of a predator that smells blood in the water and wants to take its time before striking with swift efficiency. Even his manner of speaking suggests he is aware he picked a fight he will win.
The offending party is collectively bothered, though one of the men in particular looks unnerved on an entirely different level. He knows him. He must know him, and fear him. Poised for flight at the edge of the table Evelyn watches in rapt interest as that shark-like grin grows ever more dangerous.]
I don't gotta take shit from you, guido.
Jesus, George, he's Alieri.
[The name means nothing to Evelyn, unfamiliar with the local realpolitik or the players, but it is apparent that it stands for something to her harassers. The cigarette dangling from the noisy one's lips falls as his jaw slackens, a perfectly good Lucky Strike relegated to the concrete floor when recognition seemingly sinks in.
The change is immediate. Perhaps not deference, but acknowledgement as both of them seem to shift uncomfortably. The loud gentleman hazards a dubious:]
...thought this was O'Malley turf.
[It is politics, she realises. Italian territory.]
These gentlemen were just leaving, [Evelyn states plainly, already tired of being a passive bystander.] Unless I am much mistaken.
um i did nothing of the kind i'm just tryna stay on your level
Clearly you thought wrong, but that's understandable. I can see now that thought isn't your strong suit.
[ No.¹ takes clear offense for a clear insult, building up for a bluster in spite of all common sense before his associate grabs hold of his arm now and steps close to hiss better judgment in his ear. Rafe just waits patiently. The smile on his face doesn't waver for an instant though something hungry flickers in his gaze, all but daring this piss-for-brains to start a spot of trouble that Rafe would have no problem and no small pleasure in finishing.
For good or ill, though, the lady in the equation speaks up and cuts the debate short. For her, Rafe's expression becomes more genuine — more conspirator than carnivore — and he genteelly offers a small bow in her direction. ]
A lady never is, [ he replies earnestly, mischief in his manner if not his tone before he returns his attention to the assholes in question. ] The door is that way.
[ Credit where it's due: they don't hesitate grabbing the out as soon as it presents itself. Rafe's eyes track the two as they take their harried leave, burning a hole in their backs until he sees the door close behind them. Several other sets of eyes find his then, all posing a silent question across the murmur of the crowd and Rafe answers with the barest shake of his head. No, no one need follow and reinforce the message, not tonight. Let the somari shit themselves all the way home, jumping at every shadow for the blow that isn't coming.
Once they're out of the picture, Rafe uncoils himself from a viper ready to strike back into a person. ]
My apologies, miss. I can see you're a kind can handle herself, but you've been batting the full nine tonight. Thought you could use the relief hitter.
Edited (shut up i was in the neighborhood and saw stuff that needed fixing) 2017-12-28 23:28 (UTC)
[The gesture of politesse does not go unnoticed - it is the first one she has received this evening, albeit on the formal side, but she won't protest to the contrary. The gentleman, the Alieri, appears as a jackal might while lurking along the edges of a funeral procession: dark eyes and razor-sharp teeth, waiting for the right opening and daring the offenders to press further. It would no doubt give him good excuse to thrash someone about, if that's the sort of thing that tickles his fancy.
She watches the patronising party smooth its ruffled feathers and turn to its friend, and they make a speedy escape together through the crowd that parts as if they might have suffered plague. Perhaps getting in someone's bad graces here will do that in the same way that a minor faux pas might make one a social pariah back home.
Leaning her hip against the table Evelyn drops her reticule in the chair, expecting introductions from the man who took the half-second to bow at her.
The baseball metaphor is a swing and a miss, if only because she isn't especially versed in the sport. Evelyn raises an eyebrow, prying clues from context, comprehending that his powers of observation are either very keen or his attention span has wandered from his own evening several times in the last four hours.]
You've been watching me.
[There is no accusation in her tone - simply a statement of fact.]
Enjoy yourself?
GASP how dare you accuse me!!! me!!! an inNOCENT LAMB
[ His eyes follow her purse back to the seat, one eyebrow arching eloquent to match hers when as his gaze flickers back to her face. Of course he had hoped after the minor intervention she would choose to stay a while longer but a gentleman never assumes these things, and Rafe had sure as hell expected to do a little more convincing. Not that he's about to complain, no sir. Rule of thumb, that — don't look gift horses in the mouth, accept a white elephant with as much grace as you can, and never walk away from a pretty girl that's given you her attention.
His hands spread in a helpless shrug when she points out the obvious, a smile on his face that only vaguely tries to be apologetic and doesn't lose any sleep not making the cut. ]
Don't take it too personal. I watch everything when I'm working. Although... [ And here that smile gives up the ghost, too wry a grin to even bother pretending it's anything else. ] It does take something special to keep my attention.
[ Without missing a beat, he switches from English to accentless Latin: ] Ego maxime fruendum te dico quarto generosum quid tibi cogitatio eius hairpiece.
[ That particular high hat would've better availed himself of an actual hat instead of the sad mop he came in with. Rafe may have given him a little more credit for the attempts at small talk if it hadn't been clear that he could give a hang about any of the answers. One too many impatient uh-huhs after inquiring about the lady's hobbies and she began to display her stated affinity for tongues; Rafe had already had half an ear tuned to that table but Latin isn't something he hears often, least not outside Sunday mornings, and it'd certainly never sounded so fine coming from any holy roller's lips.
He sidesteps her neat as you please in order to pull out her chair for her. Genteel pretensions and all. ]
Would it be possible to tempt you back into your seat? I'd hate for you to leave with a bad impression of the place. Bad for business, you understand.
[He isn't lascivious. That much she can tell even without the self-aggrandisement, the sureness of his posture and stance, the way he holds himself as though he owns the place. And he does, apparently, based upon his statements. Proprietor of a gin joint, well, enough so that others seem to hold him in high enough regard to avoid confrontation.
He talks with his hands - definitely Mediterranean.
Evelyn is waffling between having one more drink and taking her leave when he speaks in a language that is decidedly dead with a flair that suits the homeland from whence it comes. It makes sense, being the tongue of his people. Catholics are born into the call and response. She blinks at him for a long moment, impressed.]
Multum observasti.
[Kept very close watch, indeed. She scrutinises him carefully, a businessman with every intention of keeping arses in seats, wondering if he wants something more even as she settles back in the chair.]
I don't usually go to these sorts of places alone. [Evelyn remarks, suddenly feeling very awkward. It's as though half the eyes in the room are trained on the table where the head honcho is going out of his way for a stranger.] I moved recently, but you probably already know that.
[ Gently nudging her in, Rafe crosses to sit opposite — after swapping chairs for one from another table, untainted by asshole association.
He does her the courtesy of pretending not to notice her discomfiture, and just as easily ignores the curious glances he knows he's earned them both. Not everyone in here recognize who he is and what he represents but those who do know enough to keep aware of the true power in the room. Said power rests easy on his shoulders, a mantle as tailored to him as his perfectly starched shirts. ]
Just moved here? You don't say. Where from? Jersey? [ Yes, yes, he knows he's hilarious but that doesn't mean he doesn't like to hear people acknowledge it. ] Yeah. I could kind of tell as much. Though I'll have to assume not going on your lonesome is simply because you're never short a body to keep you company.
[ Well. Let him amend that. ]
Bodies of better stock than we've seen tonight, at least.
[ Further proof of his import comes way of a waiter's prompt appearance, inquiring if either needs anything. Rafe purses his lips, eyes flickering over his newfound companion as he considers — again, not lascivious. Merely assessing. He prides himself in pegging a person's poison. ]
Champagne cocktails, I think. If that's amenable to you, Miss...?
no i'm just having trouble seeing through all this bullshit
[Jersey. Evelyn rolls her eyes but it isn't entirely in bad humour, because the joke itself is delivered so drily it might as well be a glass of prosecco. He follows it with a compliment in true formulaic performance, something to no doubt soothe her ruffled feathers - if they are indeed ruffled - but in his defence he isn't wrong. Evelyn is more likely to take someone along with her to evening events like this, just to act as a buffer when things get strained.
Leaning an elbow on the table she smiles politely at the server who has whisked in out of nowhere, been appraised, and been given an order that she almost wishes wasn't accurate so she didn't feel as caught off-guard as she already is.]
Carnahan. Evelyn.
[There is a warmth that reaches her for the hapless waiter, who nods when she adds,]
Champagne cocktails are just fine.
[The man departs from them swiftly to fetch their drinks and Evelyn turns back to Alieri, sensing the lazy posture of another predator. This is his territory and while it is clear he intends to protect those within it who mean him well, she shouldn't be so careless as to tread on anyone's bad side. Everybody has one: it is writ into the sharp edge of his jaw, the razor-thin smile and the casual but penetrating gaze from beneath heavy lids.]
If I am to understand you are the owner of this establishment, you needn't treat me so well unless we are to be on forename terms.
w o w w w w w w w w i don't need to take that from you!!
[ She reads him about as well as he does her and Rafe can't fault her probing gaze — she'd be entitled to begin with, triple after the night she's already had. The only concession he makes to her assessment in kind a slight cant of the head that patiently awaits verdict. He's securely at the top of the food chain, without a doubt, but it doesn't translate to condescension. No, Evelyn has already shown her claws to other men who assume themselves her better and he respects another predator when he sees one. He wonders if her bite would be as sharp.
It's a distracting thought.
Rafe nods in slow approval, lets the name sit on his tongue to get the feel for it and enjoy the taste. It's elegant. Classy. Suits her perfectly. ]
Then suppose I should get on fixing that, hm? [ He allows himself a moment's smugness at being right before his smirk dims into something more palatable for conversation. ] Rafe. Short for Rafael. The Alieri you already heard and yes, this is my place. Or at least mine to manage, anyway.
[ His fingers, momentarily laced before him, spread in a clear show of what can you do. ]
Hence why I'm here tonight, though I doubt the bar's quality enough to draw across the pond.
He has every right to be after a performance like the one he gave in front of those hoodlums, the fact that he's got his hands in this entrepreneurial pie. Evelyn mouths his name - Rafael, it's deliciously Biblical - and watches his hands spread, comforting, open. A gesture of welcome to put her at ease and a habit developed from working tense negotiations like the one only minutes prior.
She settles back into her chair, much more at ease, and toys with the strand of pearls around her neck. It's an obvious opening and she knows that she is interested or she would have walked out already, so getting to know a local fellow might actually do her some good.]
I moved here a month ago, with my brother. Specialised in antiquities back home, so I've been working in Egyptian art at the Metropolitan.
[The smile that dances over his mouth and tugs at the arch of his eyebrow is becoming increasingly interesting. Evelyn winds her necklace around a finger.]
[ It seems rights to cockiness are well-shared and Rafe whistles quietly, impressed. He's spent his fair share of summer days at the Met — one of the few free and cool places to retreat from Manhattan's swelter. The culture had been an unexpected but welcome bonus. ]
You must be pretty phenomenal to land the gig in a place like that. [ A rougher operator would point out the obvious, that Evelyn comes packing beauty and brains, but Rafe figured that went without saying even before knowing her credentials. Aside from smarts, it's a bigger pointer than a posh accent to at least some money. No other way to go and pay for the kind of schooling to open doors like that. Would dovetail with the good breeding so plain as should warrant an exhibit plaque. ] Why not try somewhere closer to home?
[ His eyes momentarily fall away from hers, attracted by motion and then happily distracted watching Evelyn's slim fingers and the curve of her throat. Leaning on his elbows, forearms crossed against the table, he doesn't do her the disservice of pretense. She meant to catch his attention, he willingly caught the bait, and the appreciative gleam shows it well-received.
Genteel pretensions only go so far between two adults who both know the score. ]
Oh, I'm an altar boy. Couldn't you tell?
[ As evidenced by his saintly behavior thus far. ]
A little over a year and a half in employ now and they've got no sign of terminating their business arrangement with the Italians, not that either Drake is complaining about the steady influx of cash, the variety of the work, and the company of their cohorts - even if Nate is sure that most of the family is talking shit behind their backs. It's fine; he and Sam do the same in Spanish and it's never anything they haven't heard before: their complexions, their eyes, their clothing, their piss-poor excuses for Italian accents when they try to blend in with the group.
They're Irish through and through but boys like them never moved within their own fold, always seeking new homes for the sport of it. Restless hearts and wandering hands alike.
Right now his hands are wandering around the handle of his knife, eager to dispatch the stragglers of this particular clean-up. While assigned to Rafe Alieri's private detail Nate tends to spend little of his time doing actual wetwork for the guy, playing the part of an attractive shadow in meetings and formal engagements with other businessmen.
These ones won't be so lucky to get a contract, but that's what happens when you try to fuck with the Italians. You get your dick sliced off, sauteed in olive oil, and served up to you while you're still bleeding out.
Movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention and Nate grunts as a body slams into him. The both of them crash through a door which cracks under their combined weight, falling through to another room with an ungodly amount of dust.]
Motherfu-
[Nate hisses and crushes the blade in his fist into the man's neck without thinking, twisting eagerly as the offending party gurgles and struggles, spitting red on him. Better him than Rafe, elsewhere in the warehouse. They scattered when bullets started plugging the walls and having spent the better part of the last hour clawing his way through their lingering forces Nate is at least content that this is probably the last guy on the premises with air left to breathe. Or he would, if he wasn't choking on his own blood.
He waits until the body stops twitching before shoving him off and sitting upright, mopping at his face with the cuff of his jacket.]
[ It's been a relatively quiet year and a half. Not for lack of opportunity, or of nerve, but because all pieces have to be in place on the board before moving for checkmate. Rafe has spent far longer than their tenure doing just that before he extended an olive branch paired with hefty salaries to these brothers Drake — a perfectly matched pair of rooks to be the muscle behind the pawns and flank a deceptively strong king. Of course his family had their doubts entrusting such matters to stranieri, and still do, certain of better candidates with the blood and background to back them up but Rafe ignores the whispers and the too-polite queries. All that matters are the last eighteen months and the long game making methodically sure of what he knew in his gut five minutes after meeting these micks.
He trusts Nate. Nate has his back. In a game of maneuvering (hopefully) irresistible forces against (hopefully) less than immovable objects, that's all he can ask for before rolling the dice.
Clean rolls all— Until tonight. Someone had to eventually call bluff on the moves they've been making, and Rafe can't say he's unhappy about finally being able to show off the iron fist that's been waiting in this velvet glove.
It turned into a macabre game of hide-and-seek then, ducking the first round of bullets to slip between towers of crates and pallets while Rafe grinned as he pulled out his knives. He's faster, smarter, better than they are and he proves it with every body he drops, each sporting a brand new smile across their throats. Wants to cackle with each new burst of gunfire and the frustrated voices he hears echoing close behind when they realize they've missed...and nearly does as those voices dwindle one by one.
Rafe almost thinks the game at an end, prowling through the warehouse in a last sweet when reality comes ringing back down around his ears with the splintering of wood and the unmistakable thud of bodies on pavement. His stomach drops as realization sets in, the fiendish glee that's carried him this far suddenly evaporating. Nate. Before common sense can scream otherwise, Rafe is running flat out towards the foreman's office and he could give two hangs whether there's any others waiting in the wings for just this kind of stupid. All he has eyes for is the door— there! —and then the man-sized shadows that separate from the darkness within, with... ]
Nathan!
[ Half a snarl on his face, Rafe skids to a stop beside Nate and oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, that's a lot of blood. As if Rafe has any room to talk on that front as he kneels beside him, splattered from his own exploits and knife still dripping in his hand. ]
Fuck, [ he mutters under his breath. ] Any of that yours?
[The silence is a dead giveaway that there isn't anything more just waiting to leap out and slit his throat, so Nate takes the moment to catch his breath and halfheartedly wipe his knife off on his trousers. Pants already soaked through with water from the damp floors and blood from the saps that wanted to pick a fight, his efforts are relatively useless and he lets the blade fall onto the concrete just as he hears someone shout from another room.
Rafe.
It's a relief he's alive, although Nate never had any doubts about Rafe's ability to keep from dying of something so miserably pathetic. Jumped by mooks in a job that went south. What a shitty headstone that would be.]
Over here.
[He says breathlessly, waving with one loose hand as a familiar pair of couture shoes steps into his field of vision. Rafe is always dressed to the fucking nines and it suits him.]
And nah, I'm- [Nate laughs airily, almost a giggle, as he smears red across his face in an attempt to wipe it off.] -I'm peachy keen, boss.
[One look at Rafe and his mouth dries up, watching a rivulet of red slither from his temple to the space where his collar meets his throat. He looks good like this, but he always looks good like this: wild-eyed and sharp. An effortlessness in the way he carries himself even with a face that concerned. Nate grins lopsidedly at him.]
If nobody else came running at the sound of two bulls in a china shop, I'd say we're good.
[ Rafe tucks one knife away in its sheath, the second still out and ready to land in someone's eye if any surprises come out the woodwork now. He thinks they're good, is relatively sure, but you don't live this long taking shit like that for granted. ]
You knock your head on the way down?
[ The floor in here is unforgiving as the last circle of Hell, already digging into Rafe's knees. Since hiring the Drakes, he's seen how there's no landing they can't walk off but there's walking and there's walking. His newly freed hand catches Nate's cheek, trigger calluses dragging against his temple as Rafe narrows his eyes. Sure, he says he's all right but Rafe knows too well the way a fight gets under your skin, can make a man blind to anything but the next kill and the rush that follows. Nate wheezes a laugh, seems to dip in a sudden loop... Shit. Shit. No, he can't trust Nate's self-assessment until he has the chance to double-check it himself. Once they're in the flivver, maybe. Yeah.
Better to focus on that instead of what that crooked grin does to him. The slide of quick-cooling blood under his fingertips and and how Nate's chest seems to heave in time with his own pounding heart. ]
[Nate replies quickly. He's used to hearing that kind of question from his older brother, but it stings from his boss - Nate isn't the "consummate professional" type but he's not a goddamn greenhorn, and his job could be at stake if he isn't as strong as advertised. He is fine, just winded and coming down from the high of the fight.
That's all.]
Are you?
[The Irish aren't as abundantly hands-on as the Italians are - not all that uncommon for face-touching, even if it drives him up the wall - but Nate gives Rafe a once over as he gets to his feet. Blood soaks into the rich cotton of Rafe's shirt like a sponge and he worries that some of the gore and viscera might belong to his employer. There are reasons why capos send soldiers to do the dirty work. The loss of a leader is a big deal with these guys.
Nate rolls his shoulders and casts a look around the room, grimy and dark, and shakes off the last anxious nerves telling him there could be another person around another corner. Some fuckers don't know when to quit.]
Y'got a little...
[He waves a finger at his own temple, indicating the blood sprayed down the side of Rafe's face.]
[ Nate responds with a bee in his bonnet and Rafe rocks back on his heels, feeling stung himself as he pops up alongside Nate. For all Nate's nerves slough off his shoulders, Rafe's worm under his skin to wind him up tighter and tighter— A jittered-out Jack-in-the-box crowding the lid while the pressure builds and he's dying for release. It had almost played itself out nice and neat between the stacked crates yonder, a steady head of steam whistling down before a moment's alarm stoked the fires into a blaze. Fuck, but he wishes the the body at his feet hadn't been so neatly dispatched. A fresh wash of blood on his hands and impact shocking up his arm as he slams a blade home, that's what he needs right now. Something to burn away the tang of iron and gunpowder that clings oil-slick to him still. Or just...
His eyes are wide and eerie-bright when he wrenches them away from the roll of Nate's shoulders. Snaps back to here and now and catches himself flicking his switchblade open and shut the way old women finger their rosaries. ]
Nah, just from finding these guys bleed better than they shoot. [ A jagged smile made all the whiter contrasted against so much red. ] Let's get the fuck outta here.
[ The warehouse isn't theirs, neutral ground offered and taken in good faith from a third party — in the same faith Rafe had come to deal. Let the cleanup serve its own message, to the backers left on the other side of the table and everyone else. A fair deal's a fair deal but the Alieris won't be played for suckers. ]
[Nate can tell that Rafe still has those inconvenient murder jitters. It always kind of feels like you've swallowed a kid's wind-up toy, that you've got some kind of nervous energy you need to let out. Like you need to smash your fist into somebody's eye socket until it cracks under your hands. If he points it out it will only make the sensation worse, more noticeable, so Nate shrugs away what could be misconstrued as inappropriate concern and glances at the knife in Rafe's hand.]
You got it, boss.
[Fuck that smile. It's like fingernails clawing down his back and digging into his skin and he shouldn't feel like this about anyone, let alone the guy who signs his checks. The guy who's married.
Nate gives Rafe another once-over anyway and nods, eager to peel these rags off and get something else - something clean - on if he's going to head back to Sam afterward. Picking up his pace Nate tries to concentrate on anything but the blood-spattered line of his employer's jaw. One botched job for the evening and at least he and the capo have come out all right; if Rafe died on his watch, the rest of the family would skin him alive and feed him his own goddamn balls in front of his brother.]
Got a bag in the flivver with a change of clothes. Thought we might need it.
[ It isn't the first job they've had to get wet for, and it isn't the first Nate's had to deal with Rafe as he tries to come down after. Won't be the last time. Hasn't ever been this much of a mess before. Rafe prides himself on knowing all the angles, on being ten steps ahead of the game and being able to direct the board like a grand master. Tonight had been a surprise and if it hadn't been for Nate's forward thinking they'd be screwed. This far out from any friendly port, a storm could easily overtake them — especially if any cherry top spied them behind the wheel looking fresh from the slaughter. ]
Good, [ he mutters. ] That's smart. Very smart.
[ All he's gotta do is keep his head screwed on tight until they're home. Simple. Cake. He can do that. He can hold himself together like a wine glass at the opera until the fat lady sings and his own lady can ease the tension. He can make it that far without doing something stupid to force his mind into the downshift.
Christ, he could use a drink right now.
Snapping his knife shut and pocketing it, Rafe breaks out into a brisk jog ahead of Nate to leave the darkened warehouse all the faster. Doesn't stop until he's at the car, rummaging through the shadows under the seats, but then he does. Stops and straightens with a grimace, hissing under his breath as he rakes tacky fingers back through his hair. ]
Not here. Drive a little ways, va bene? Folk around here ought'a be smart enough but last thing we need's some piss-for-brains stickin' his nose in after all that fuckin' racket. [ His fingers drum impatient against the car door as Rafe thinks over the map of the city in his head. ] There's a blind alley down south a few blocks. Should stay clear long enough for us to get outta these rags.
[It's easy for him to slip out of his job momentarily, to be distracted by Rafe's furrowed brow and the skeptical squint he employs at so many objects of interest. Easy to think about how that butcher-block hands might feel, blood sticking them together, on his skin. Rafe always dresses in the sharpest fashions and every time he loosens his tie it's like someone is gripping Nate's throat, seizing the breath out of him. The way he moves, the way he speaks, the way he kills - probably the way he fucks, not that Nate would know. But he's sure Ms. Evelyn does.
He's seen the way they look at each other, too, with a ruthless kind of devotion. Something he wishes he could contribute to in some way, outside of the work he executes at Rafe's side: a red knife in the master's hand. A blunt instrument.]
Mhm.
[He agrees without listening, unusually quiet, mentally attempting to catch up with the boss' suggestion that they split for the time being. Better than being caught red-handed and hauled down to the station in a paddy-wagon.
On the fritz the way that Rafe is, Nate doesn't want to risk offering to drive - the capo needs all the control he can get just to still those shivering fingers. Nate's thrill manifests itself in the heartbeat he can still feel pounding high in his throat, fluttering to get out. He swallows it and slips into the passenger side.]
I'll keep an eye out, [he offers, finally wiping his own knife clean on his trousers.] Ain't like we've got far to go, though. Bulls usually keep to the west side this time of night.
[ Rafe shrugs out of his jacket, arm flailing angrily where it catches before it's freed. ]
I ain't about to go banking on usually.
[ He knows better. They both do. Which is why he takes the time to use the relatively unsoiled inside of his jacket to wipe the worst of the mess off his face. A couple blocks is only a couple blocks but all it takes is one pair of peepers ringing up for cherry-tops and that's the ball game. It'll stick after he puts it back on but if them's the breaks then Rafe'll take it and be glad for such easy pickings.
Clambering up into the driver's seat, the door slammed shut with a little too much force behind him, Rafe takes a minute. Breathes. Sucks it down and holds it before letting it out again. ]
Easy peasy, Japanesey.
[ The words are murmured softly before Rafe allows himself a harsh, barked laugh before kicking the car into gear. He almost jumps at the sound, the purr of the engine suddenly much too loud in the still of the night and all the more reason to peel the fuck out of here to safer harbors. But he knows better. Forces himself to hold it like he did his breath and calmly rolls off down the road. True enough, it helps to have something outside himself to focus on, that demands control as he drives between the shifting pools of light and swallowing dark. His knuckles stay white where they clench at the wheel but he drives...slow. Safe. Sedate, even. Just any two gents on a quiet midnight drive along the waterfront. Nothing to see here, officers.
Even with the trip as short as it is, there isn't much for conversation. Not with Nate so oddly quiet and Rafe concentrating on getting there of a piece. They do but now he's wound up all the tighter for the effort. All but vibrates in place after the car's parked behind a couple stacks of crates. Hands flexing at the wheel, he stares out at brick walls for long seconds after cutting the engine. ]
It isn't a long jog around a few city blocks, but it feels like half a day in the dark. Lurching shadows creep out from under streetlights, any lump in the darkness could be a copper car rolling out of a nearby alley. It isn't that he doesn't have faith in Rafe's family to post bail if they got picked up covered in blood, but it would definitely suck all the fun out of the evening. They're both strung thin and his imagination is running wild, so when the opportunity comes for him to breathe easy, Nate takes it.
They safely deposit themselves shielded from the street and it doesn't take any prompting for Nate to turn around, snatching his kit from the backseat and digging through its contents. Their pants are dark - no big problems there - but both of them have a tendency to wear shirts that are spic-and-span, and duds this stained won't be saved by bleach or quicklime.
He gets to work without thinking, the movements made comfortable with repetition. This isn't his first rodeo.]
Here.
[Nate extends a small towel and one of Rafe's crisp white button-downs with the French cuffs. Realizing that neither of them ever really have water sitting around, he offers his flask and its sterile contents for the sake of breaking up the red on Rafe's face. He can't imagine that coming home drenched in blood would be all that great for the little woman, so smelling soused will have to do in its stead.
With an ease born of lacking his own space for most of his life Nate sets to changing his incriminating attire. He unfastens the buttons quickly, peeling cotton away from his torso and hissing as an unlucky cut sticks to the fabric, early coagulation ripping open and further staining his undershirt.]
Ah, applesauce.
[Comes the surprisingly child-friendly swear as Nate looks down at his tank top in dismay. It's a filthy mess of sweat, grime from the warehouse floors, and a preponderance of blood.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
uncalendula) wrote2017-12-07 11:15 pm
affaire d'amour would be attractive
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She expected better and perhaps that is the crux of her current situation: American gin joints, while fun and attractive for the conspiratorial air people adopt when speaking of them, are about as crowded and raucous as any seedy pub back home. The place has become an absolute rowdydow in the last quarter-hour and no amount of wristwatch-checking will satisfy her desire to try and wring some joy out of the occasion.
At the far table in the corner she is afforded the freedom to survey the room as she desires and, unfortunately, it sets her as a target for dapper beaus who want to try their luck. Bawdy speech is all well and good when one gets to know a person, but there's something about the forwardness employed by most of the bar's stags that she finds distasteful. There's no subtlety, no art to the conversation before it inevitably meanders into territory she finds objectionable on the grounds that there is no connexion on a level of wits.
That, and only a fool lifts her skirts for a man who cannot appreciate the difference between rotgut swill and Scotch whisky.
She is just beginning to slide off of her chair to settle up at the bar when a gentleman - the word alone might be generous - seats himself across from her, and someone who appears to be his friend loiters a step or two behind, standing, blocking the way out.]
How ya doin', sweetheart?
[She frowns immediately, and schools the expression into a thin smile.]
Fine, thank you. I was just leaving to settle up.
[They shift again, in such a way that she does not particularly like. A human barricade of two people who appear to have already had one too many drinks on their tab and in their bellies. They look at each other, and Seated laughs, slipping a cigarette into his mouth and lighting it. He offers her one from his case. She stares at him. He continues.]
Shit, you from England or somethin'?
[Evelyn blinks.]
Or something.
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This place is a new acquisition, some crumbling half-finished subway station complete with a car left on the track. Hell of a lot of potential, if handled right. He's spent the better part of the night at his own table, idly scribbling observations and figures in a notebook and ignoring the good whiskey sitting in front of him. His focus has been on numbers — who ordering what and how much and when — but he'd have to be blind, missing the steady stream of customers one table seems to draw in particular. Have to be blind and stupid, missing the reason behind it.
Rafe has seen beautiful women, wooed some and peddled some and enjoyed more than his share, but the brunette here... She's a breed apart, he can tell from a glance. The first dog rushing in with his tongue lolled out almost had him stepping in but better judgment prevailed— And he was soon glad for it from what he was able to overhear. Little lady was more than capable of dispatching fools all on her lonesome and Rafe was hard-pressed at times to keep his amusement to himself. Said lady seems to be worn thin by now, though, with these two latest customers apparently sniffing for trouble and eager to find it. Which, whether the lady can handle herself or not, simply won't do in any place he's running.
Ambling from his table to hers, he slips behind Gentleman No.² and clears his throat. ]
Tom. Dick. [ He smiles, perfectly friendly save for the glint in his eyes. ] Why don't you two blouse and find a Harry elsewhere, huh? The lady says she's ready to settle her tab, not for either one of you.
[ Gentleman No.¹ scoffs and pats the lady's hand before standing to join his friend. ]
Excuse me? This is a private party, pal.
[ Gentleman No.² shifts aside, brows knitting even as he makes way for No.¹ to attempt looming over Rafe. He can see the cogs turning and oh, when the realization hits... No.² could put snow to shame. All Rafe does is continue smiling as No.² tugs at a sleeve. ]
George—
No, Charlie, I wanna know where this greasy dago bastard gets off jumping my table.
[ The slur is nothing new, and Rafe's smile stays put. It does get sharper and anyone with sense would know to back away. Quickly. ]
I'd listen to your friend, Tom. I'd listen real close.
binch u out here showing me up with your tags
She isn't afforded the time to do so, however.
Their efforts are intercepted by the man who has spent the better part of the evening at a far table, working intently on something with the air of a fanatical accountant. Assuming he was taking stock of inventory Evelyn didn't spare more than a passing glance - people who wish to be left alone tend to exude such an air, and she was managing her own myriad of issues - to note that he was well-dressed.
It stands true up close, when he meanders over wearing a benevolent smile that looks a little too sharp around the edges. He's handsome: laissez-faire good looks paired with attire that fits far too well to be dimestore, no doubt tailored to his precise measurements. Dark hair, pale eyes, the lazy gaze of a predator that smells blood in the water and wants to take its time before striking with swift efficiency. Even his manner of speaking suggests he is aware he picked a fight he will win.
The offending party is collectively bothered, though one of the men in particular looks unnerved on an entirely different level. He knows him. He must know him, and fear him. Poised for flight at the edge of the table Evelyn watches in rapt interest as that shark-like grin grows ever more dangerous.]
I don't gotta take shit from you, guido.
Jesus, George, he's Alieri.
[The name means nothing to Evelyn, unfamiliar with the local realpolitik or the players, but it is apparent that it stands for something to her harassers. The cigarette dangling from the noisy one's lips falls as his jaw slackens, a perfectly good Lucky Strike relegated to the concrete floor when recognition seemingly sinks in.
The change is immediate. Perhaps not deference, but acknowledgement as both of them seem to shift uncomfortably. The loud gentleman hazards a dubious:]
...thought this was O'Malley turf.
[It is politics, she realises. Italian territory.]
These gentlemen were just leaving, [Evelyn states plainly, already tired of being a passive bystander.] Unless I am much mistaken.
um i did nothing of the kind i'm just tryna stay on your level
[ No.¹ takes clear offense for a clear insult, building up for a bluster in spite of all common sense before his associate grabs hold of his arm now and steps close to hiss better judgment in his ear. Rafe just waits patiently. The smile on his face doesn't waver for an instant though something hungry flickers in his gaze, all but daring this piss-for-brains to start a spot of trouble that Rafe would have no problem and no small pleasure in finishing.
For good or ill, though, the lady in the equation speaks up and cuts the debate short. For her, Rafe's expression becomes more genuine — more conspirator than carnivore — and he genteelly offers a small bow in her direction. ]
A lady never is, [ he replies earnestly, mischief in his manner if not his tone before he returns his attention to the assholes in question. ] The door is that way.
[ Credit where it's due: they don't hesitate grabbing the out as soon as it presents itself. Rafe's eyes track the two as they take their harried leave, burning a hole in their backs until he sees the door close behind them. Several other sets of eyes find his then, all posing a silent question across the murmur of the crowd and Rafe answers with the barest shake of his head. No, no one need follow and reinforce the message, not tonight. Let the somari shit themselves all the way home, jumping at every shadow for the blow that isn't coming.
Once they're out of the picture, Rafe uncoils himself from a viper ready to strike back into a person. ]
My apologies, miss. I can see you're a kind can handle herself, but you've been batting the full nine tonight. Thought you could use the relief hitter.
LIES and SLANDER
She watches the patronising party smooth its ruffled feathers and turn to its friend, and they make a speedy escape together through the crowd that parts as if they might have suffered plague. Perhaps getting in someone's bad graces here will do that in the same way that a minor faux pas might make one a social pariah back home.
Leaning her hip against the table Evelyn drops her reticule in the chair, expecting introductions from the man who took the half-second to bow at her.
The baseball metaphor is a swing and a miss, if only because she isn't especially versed in the sport. Evelyn raises an eyebrow, prying clues from context, comprehending that his powers of observation are either very keen or his attention span has wandered from his own evening several times in the last four hours.]
You've been watching me.
[There is no accusation in her tone - simply a statement of fact.]
Enjoy yourself?
GASP how dare you accuse me!!! me!!! an inNOCENT LAMB
His hands spread in a helpless shrug when she points out the obvious, a smile on his face that only vaguely tries to be apologetic and doesn't lose any sleep not making the cut. ]
Don't take it too personal. I watch everything when I'm working. Although... [ And here that smile gives up the ghost, too wry a grin to even bother pretending it's anything else. ] It does take something special to keep my attention.
[ Without missing a beat, he switches from English to accentless Latin: ] Ego maxime fruendum te dico quarto generosum quid tibi cogitatio eius hairpiece.
[ That particular high hat would've better availed himself of an actual hat instead of the sad mop he came in with. Rafe may have given him a little more credit for the attempts at small talk if it hadn't been clear that he could give a hang about any of the answers. One too many impatient uh-huhs after inquiring about the lady's hobbies and she began to display her stated affinity for tongues; Rafe had already had half an ear tuned to that table but Latin isn't something he hears often, least not outside Sunday mornings, and it'd certainly never sounded so fine coming from any holy roller's lips.
He sidesteps her neat as you please in order to pull out her chair for her. Genteel pretensions and all. ]
Would it be possible to tempt you back into your seat? I'd hate for you to leave with a bad impression of the place. Bad for business, you understand.
SQUINT
He talks with his hands - definitely Mediterranean.
Evelyn is waffling between having one more drink and taking her leave when he speaks in a language that is decidedly dead with a flair that suits the homeland from whence it comes. It makes sense, being the tongue of his people. Catholics are born into the call and response. She blinks at him for a long moment, impressed.]
Multum observasti.
[Kept very close watch, indeed. She scrutinises him carefully, a businessman with every intention of keeping arses in seats, wondering if he wants something more even as she settles back in the chair.]
I don't usually go to these sorts of places alone. [Evelyn remarks, suddenly feeling very awkward. It's as though half the eyes in the room are trained on the table where the head honcho is going out of his way for a stranger.] I moved recently, but you probably already know that.
i'm sorry is my halo too shiny for your eyes
He does her the courtesy of pretending not to notice her discomfiture, and just as easily ignores the curious glances he knows he's earned them both. Not everyone in here recognize who he is and what he represents but those who do know enough to keep aware of the true power in the room. Said power rests easy on his shoulders, a mantle as tailored to him as his perfectly starched shirts. ]
Just moved here? You don't say. Where from? Jersey? [ Yes, yes, he knows he's hilarious but that doesn't mean he doesn't like to hear people acknowledge it. ] Yeah. I could kind of tell as much. Though I'll have to assume not going on your lonesome is simply because you're never short a body to keep you company.
[ Well. Let him amend that. ]
Bodies of better stock than we've seen tonight, at least.
[ Further proof of his import comes way of a waiter's prompt appearance, inquiring if either needs anything. Rafe purses his lips, eyes flickering over his newfound companion as he considers — again, not lascivious. Merely assessing. He prides himself in pegging a person's poison. ]
Champagne cocktails, I think. If that's amenable to you, Miss...?
no i'm just having trouble seeing through all this bullshit
Leaning an elbow on the table she smiles politely at the server who has whisked in out of nowhere, been appraised, and been given an order that she almost wishes wasn't accurate so she didn't feel as caught off-guard as she already is.]
Carnahan. Evelyn.
[There is a warmth that reaches her for the hapless waiter, who nods when she adds,]
Champagne cocktails are just fine.
[The man departs from them swiftly to fetch their drinks and Evelyn turns back to Alieri, sensing the lazy posture of another predator. This is his territory and while it is clear he intends to protect those within it who mean him well, she shouldn't be so careless as to tread on anyone's bad side. Everybody has one: it is writ into the sharp edge of his jaw, the razor-thin smile and the casual but penetrating gaze from beneath heavy lids.]
If I am to understand you are the owner of this establishment, you needn't treat me so well unless we are to be on forename terms.
w o w w w w w w w w i don't need to take that from you!!
It's a distracting thought.
Rafe nods in slow approval, lets the name sit on his tongue to get the feel for it and enjoy the taste. It's elegant. Classy. Suits her perfectly. ]
Then suppose I should get on fixing that, hm? [ He allows himself a moment's smugness at being right before his smirk dims into something more palatable for conversation. ] Rafe. Short for Rafael. The Alieri you already heard and yes, this is my place. Or at least mine to manage, anyway.
[ His fingers, momentarily laced before him, spread in a clear show of what can you do. ]
Hence why I'm here tonight, though I doubt the bar's quality enough to draw across the pond.
no subject
He has every right to be after a performance like the one he gave in front of those hoodlums, the fact that he's got his hands in this entrepreneurial pie. Evelyn mouths his name - Rafael, it's deliciously Biblical - and watches his hands spread, comforting, open. A gesture of welcome to put her at ease and a habit developed from working tense negotiations like the one only minutes prior.
She settles back into her chair, much more at ease, and toys with the strand of pearls around her neck. It's an obvious opening and she knows that she is interested or she would have walked out already, so getting to know a local fellow might actually do her some good.]
I moved here a month ago, with my brother. Specialised in antiquities back home, so I've been working in Egyptian art at the Metropolitan.
[The smile that dances over his mouth and tugs at the arch of his eyebrow is becoming increasingly interesting. Evelyn winds her necklace around a finger.]
What sort of wholesome American boy knows Latin?
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You must be pretty phenomenal to land the gig in a place like that. [ A rougher operator would point out the obvious, that Evelyn comes packing beauty and brains, but Rafe figured that went without saying even before knowing her credentials. Aside from smarts, it's a bigger pointer than a posh accent to at least some money. No other way to go and pay for the kind of schooling to open doors like that. Would dovetail with the good breeding so plain as should warrant an exhibit plaque. ] Why not try somewhere closer to home?
[ His eyes momentarily fall away from hers, attracted by motion and then happily distracted watching Evelyn's slim fingers and the curve of her throat. Leaning on his elbows, forearms crossed against the table, he doesn't do her the disservice of pretense. She meant to catch his attention, he willingly caught the bait, and the appreciative gleam shows it well-received.
Genteel pretensions only go so far between two adults who both know the score. ]
Oh, I'm an altar boy. Couldn't you tell?
[ As evidenced by his saintly behavior thus far. ]
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i'm going to seek a certain lad i've had in mind
eyes emoji
A little over a year and a half in employ now and they've got no sign of terminating their business arrangement with the Italians, not that either Drake is complaining about the steady influx of cash, the variety of the work, and the company of their cohorts - even if Nate is sure that most of the family is talking shit behind their backs. It's fine; he and Sam do the same in Spanish and it's never anything they haven't heard before: their complexions, their eyes, their clothing, their piss-poor excuses for Italian accents when they try to blend in with the group.
They're Irish through and through but boys like them never moved within their own fold, always seeking new homes for the sport of it. Restless hearts and wandering hands alike.
Right now his hands are wandering around the handle of his knife, eager to dispatch the stragglers of this particular clean-up. While assigned to Rafe Alieri's private detail Nate tends to spend little of his time doing actual wetwork for the guy, playing the part of an attractive shadow in meetings and formal engagements with other businessmen.
These ones won't be so lucky to get a contract, but that's what happens when you try to fuck with the Italians. You get your dick sliced off, sauteed in olive oil, and served up to you while you're still bleeding out.
Movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention and Nate grunts as a body slams into him. The both of them crash through a door which cracks under their combined weight, falling through to another room with an ungodly amount of dust.]
Motherfu-
[Nate hisses and crushes the blade in his fist into the man's neck without thinking, twisting eagerly as the offending party gurgles and struggles, spitting red on him. Better him than Rafe, elsewhere in the warehouse. They scattered when bullets started plugging the walls and having spent the better part of the last hour clawing his way through their lingering forces Nate is at least content that this is probably the last guy on the premises with air left to breathe. Or he would, if he wasn't choking on his own blood.
He waits until the body stops twitching before shoving him off and sitting upright, mopping at his face with the cuff of his jacket.]
Shit.
thank goodness for all these bloody icons
He trusts Nate. Nate has his back. In a game of maneuvering (hopefully) irresistible forces against (hopefully) less than immovable objects, that's all he can ask for before rolling the dice.
Clean rolls all— Until tonight. Someone had to eventually call bluff on the moves they've been making, and Rafe can't say he's unhappy about finally being able to show off the iron fist that's been waiting in this velvet glove.
It turned into a macabre game of hide-and-seek then, ducking the first round of bullets to slip between towers of crates and pallets while Rafe grinned as he pulled out his knives. He's faster, smarter, better than they are and he proves it with every body he drops, each sporting a brand new smile across their throats. Wants to cackle with each new burst of gunfire and the frustrated voices he hears echoing close behind when they realize they've missed...and nearly does as those voices dwindle one by one.
Rafe almost thinks the game at an end, prowling through the warehouse in a last sweet when reality comes ringing back down around his ears with the splintering of wood and the unmistakable thud of bodies on pavement. His stomach drops as realization sets in, the fiendish glee that's carried him this far suddenly evaporating. Nate. Before common sense can scream otherwise, Rafe is running flat out towards the foreman's office and he could give two hangs whether there's any others waiting in the wings for just this kind of stupid. All he has eyes for is the door— there! —and then the man-sized shadows that separate from the darkness within, with... ]
Nathan!
[ Half a snarl on his face, Rafe skids to a stop beside Nate and oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, that's a lot of blood. As if Rafe has any room to talk on that front as he kneels beside him, splattered from his own exploits and knife still dripping in his hand. ]
Fuck, [ he mutters under his breath. ] Any of that yours?
nice nice nice
Rafe.
It's a relief he's alive, although Nate never had any doubts about Rafe's ability to keep from dying of something so miserably pathetic. Jumped by mooks in a job that went south. What a shitty headstone that would be.]
Over here.
[He says breathlessly, waving with one loose hand as a familiar pair of couture shoes steps into his field of vision. Rafe is always dressed to the fucking nines and it suits him.]
And nah, I'm- [Nate laughs airily, almost a giggle, as he smears red across his face in an attempt to wipe it off.] -I'm peachy keen, boss.
[One look at Rafe and his mouth dries up, watching a rivulet of red slither from his temple to the space where his collar meets his throat. He looks good like this, but he always looks good like this: wild-eyed and sharp. An effortlessness in the way he carries himself even with a face that concerned. Nate grins lopsidedly at him.]
We clear?
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[ Rafe tucks one knife away in its sheath, the second still out and ready to land in someone's eye if any surprises come out the woodwork now. He thinks they're good, is relatively sure, but you don't live this long taking shit like that for granted. ]
You knock your head on the way down?
[ The floor in here is unforgiving as the last circle of Hell, already digging into Rafe's knees. Since hiring the Drakes, he's seen how there's no landing they can't walk off but there's walking and there's walking. His newly freed hand catches Nate's cheek, trigger calluses dragging against his temple as Rafe narrows his eyes. Sure, he says he's all right but Rafe knows too well the way a fight gets under your skin, can make a man blind to anything but the next kill and the rush that follows. Nate wheezes a laugh, seems to dip in a sudden loop... Shit. Shit. No, he can't trust Nate's self-assessment until he has the chance to double-check it himself. Once they're in the flivver, maybe. Yeah.
Better to focus on that instead of what that crooked grin does to him. The slide of quick-cooling blood under his fingertips and and how Nate's chest seems to heave in time with his own pounding heart. ]
hey rafe u ok
[Nate replies quickly. He's used to hearing that kind of question from his older brother, but it stings from his boss - Nate isn't the "consummate professional" type but he's not a goddamn greenhorn, and his job could be at stake if he isn't as strong as advertised. He is fine, just winded and coming down from the high of the fight.
That's all.]
Are you?
[The Irish aren't as abundantly hands-on as the Italians are - not all that uncommon for face-touching, even if it drives him up the wall - but Nate gives Rafe a once over as he gets to his feet. Blood soaks into the rich cotton of Rafe's shirt like a sponge and he worries that some of the gore and viscera might belong to his employer. There are reasons why capos send soldiers to do the dirty work. The loss of a leader is a big deal with these guys.
Nate rolls his shoulders and casts a look around the room, grimy and dark, and shakes off the last anxious nerves telling him there could be another person around another corner. Some fuckers don't know when to quit.]
Y'got a little...
[He waves a finger at his own temple, indicating the blood sprayed down the side of Rafe's face.]
pErFeCT ty for askin
[ Nate responds with a bee in his bonnet and Rafe rocks back on his heels, feeling stung himself as he pops up alongside Nate. For all Nate's nerves slough off his shoulders, Rafe's worm under his skin to wind him up tighter and tighter— A jittered-out Jack-in-the-box crowding the lid while the pressure builds and he's dying for release. It had almost played itself out nice and neat between the stacked crates yonder, a steady head of steam whistling down before a moment's alarm stoked the fires into a blaze. Fuck, but he wishes the the body at his feet hadn't been so neatly dispatched. A fresh wash of blood on his hands and impact shocking up his arm as he slams a blade home, that's what he needs right now. Something to burn away the tang of iron and gunpowder that clings oil-slick to him still. Or just...
His eyes are wide and eerie-bright when he wrenches them away from the roll of Nate's shoulders. Snaps back to here and now and catches himself flicking his switchblade open and shut the way old women finger their rosaries. ]
Nah, just from finding these guys bleed better than they shoot. [ A jagged smile made all the whiter contrasted against so much red. ] Let's get the fuck outta here.
[ The warehouse isn't theirs, neutral ground offered and taken in good faith from a third party — in the same faith Rafe had come to deal. Let the cleanup serve its own message, to the backers left on the other side of the table and everyone else. A fair deal's a fair deal but the Alieris won't be played for suckers. ]
doubt.jpg
You got it, boss.
[Fuck that smile. It's like fingernails clawing down his back and digging into his skin and he shouldn't feel like this about anyone, let alone the guy who signs his checks. The guy who's married.
Nate gives Rafe another once-over anyway and nods, eager to peel these rags off and get something else - something clean - on if he's going to head back to Sam afterward. Picking up his pace Nate tries to concentrate on anything but the blood-spattered line of his employer's jaw. One botched job for the evening and at least he and the capo have come out all right; if Rafe died on his watch, the rest of the family would skin him alive and feed him his own goddamn balls in front of his brother.]
Got a bag in the flivver with a change of clothes. Thought we might need it.
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Good, [ he mutters. ] That's smart. Very smart.
[ All he's gotta do is keep his head screwed on tight until they're home. Simple. Cake. He can do that. He can hold himself together like a wine glass at the opera until the fat lady sings and his own lady can ease the tension. He can make it that far without doing something stupid to force his mind into the downshift.
Christ, he could use a drink right now.
Snapping his knife shut and pocketing it, Rafe breaks out into a brisk jog ahead of Nate to leave the darkened warehouse all the faster. Doesn't stop until he's at the car, rummaging through the shadows under the seats, but then he does. Stops and straightens with a grimace, hissing under his breath as he rakes tacky fingers back through his hair. ]
Not here. Drive a little ways, va bene? Folk around here ought'a be smart enough but last thing we need's some piss-for-brains stickin' his nose in after all that fuckin' racket. [ His fingers drum impatient against the car door as Rafe thinks over the map of the city in his head. ] There's a blind alley down south a few blocks. Should stay clear long enough for us to get outta these rags.
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He's seen the way they look at each other, too, with a ruthless kind of devotion. Something he wishes he could contribute to in some way, outside of the work he executes at Rafe's side: a red knife in the master's hand. A blunt instrument.]
Mhm.
[He agrees without listening, unusually quiet, mentally attempting to catch up with the boss' suggestion that they split for the time being. Better than being caught red-handed and hauled down to the station in a paddy-wagon.
On the fritz the way that Rafe is, Nate doesn't want to risk offering to drive - the capo needs all the control he can get just to still those shivering fingers. Nate's thrill manifests itself in the heartbeat he can still feel pounding high in his throat, fluttering to get out. He swallows it and slips into the passenger side.]
I'll keep an eye out, [he offers, finally wiping his own knife clean on his trousers.] Ain't like we've got far to go, though. Bulls usually keep to the west side this time of night.
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I ain't about to go banking on usually.
[ He knows better. They both do. Which is why he takes the time to use the relatively unsoiled inside of his jacket to wipe the worst of the mess off his face. A couple blocks is only a couple blocks but all it takes is one pair of peepers ringing up for cherry-tops and that's the ball game. It'll stick after he puts it back on but if them's the breaks then Rafe'll take it and be glad for such easy pickings.
Clambering up into the driver's seat, the door slammed shut with a little too much force behind him, Rafe takes a minute. Breathes. Sucks it down and holds it before letting it out again. ]
Easy peasy, Japanesey.
[ The words are murmured softly before Rafe allows himself a harsh, barked laugh before kicking the car into gear. He almost jumps at the sound, the purr of the engine suddenly much too loud in the still of the night and all the more reason to peel the fuck out of here to safer harbors. But he knows better. Forces himself to hold it like he did his breath and calmly rolls off down the road. True enough, it helps to have something outside himself to focus on, that demands control as he drives between the shifting pools of light and swallowing dark. His knuckles stay white where they clench at the wheel but he drives...slow. Safe. Sedate, even. Just any two gents on a quiet midnight drive along the waterfront. Nothing to see here, officers.
Even with the trip as short as it is, there isn't much for conversation. Not with Nate so oddly quiet and Rafe concentrating on getting there of a piece. They do but now he's wound up all the tighter for the effort. All but vibrates in place after the car's parked behind a couple stacks of crates. Hands flexing at the wheel, he stares out at brick walls for long seconds after cutting the engine. ]
Clothes. Now.
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It isn't a long jog around a few city blocks, but it feels like half a day in the dark. Lurching shadows creep out from under streetlights, any lump in the darkness could be a copper car rolling out of a nearby alley. It isn't that he doesn't have faith in Rafe's family to post bail if they got picked up covered in blood, but it would definitely suck all the fun out of the evening. They're both strung thin and his imagination is running wild, so when the opportunity comes for him to breathe easy, Nate takes it.
They safely deposit themselves shielded from the street and it doesn't take any prompting for Nate to turn around, snatching his kit from the backseat and digging through its contents. Their pants are dark - no big problems there - but both of them have a tendency to wear shirts that are spic-and-span, and duds this stained won't be saved by bleach or quicklime.
He gets to work without thinking, the movements made comfortable with repetition. This isn't his first rodeo.]
Here.
[Nate extends a small towel and one of Rafe's crisp white button-downs with the French cuffs. Realizing that neither of them ever really have water sitting around, he offers his flask and its sterile contents for the sake of breaking up the red on Rafe's face. He can't imagine that coming home drenched in blood would be all that great for the little woman, so smelling soused will have to do in its stead.
With an ease born of lacking his own space for most of his life Nate sets to changing his incriminating attire. He unfastens the buttons quickly, peeling cotton away from his torso and hissing as an unlucky cut sticks to the fabric, early coagulation ripping open and further staining his undershirt.]
Ah, applesauce.
[Comes the surprisingly child-friendly swear as Nate looks down at his tank top in dismay. It's a filthy mess of sweat, grime from the warehouse floors, and a preponderance of blood.]
Last time I wear new smalls on the job.
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