Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Opportune moments had paved the way to that night; an unmistakeable inching slip of morality, a decline that had already been immanent through the years, that confirmed the Sicilian blood in him. Patron blood ran not only through his veins now, but surroundings too. Not a man that stood beside him was not of his family. Tonight in particular, where he was seated beside his grandfather at the head of a table. Ivory cloth and pure whiskey laid out. There was a quantifiable charge to the night, an importance that was akin to life or death, if the drink was swill the disrespect to all those who worked so hard to protect their family would be plain and insipid. They did not drink what they sold and supplied. 

It had been a long time coming, his omertà was not even a memory in the tangible form; simply a tacit link between them all. It occurred, as plainly as birth, for him to be standing as he was- he had to have taken it. He did not remember it, but he knew what must have occurred from the ones now oversaw. His finger was pricked, the saintly card picked and smeared with the droplets of his blood and then set to light. Passed between his sponsors, mentors. He probably lacked the scope to remember it because his had found him early in age. Still wet behind the ears, naive.

He had been owed this day: but now it was honoured, he had done right by his people. 

The direct lineage made him the next boss. Once Joseph was gone. To think of such things was a disrespect, and Jotaro could see why, Joseph took care of them, he was their benefactor, their claim to all. Joseph’s father and mother had brought him from Italy, young, and it was him alone that founded all they had now. Jotaro was an inheritor of the unfathomable power that their people had come to own. 

But today he had earned it, he had protected the communion and could assume all that was promised. He could be an underboss, with no doubt to his power. Doubt was not an allowed abstract, regardless, not in the living. It was a celebration, a marked evening, a gift. He had been raised, cattled, for this. It had barely been two days since his sovereign action had gifted him the key to his this life, and already things were changing.

Joseph stood then, the creases in his suit straightening out. He was more statue than man, more image than person. A target shaped like a creature; for cops to see all of Italy, Sicily, their people, in. Joseph was all of them, a made man, made right. Teeth like pearls, they shone as he grinned out to the crowd, raising his glass and stiffening the room to silence. Jotaro dropped his head, his eyes, he let the power of the respect in the room harden. Hoards of associates, soldatos, quiet for their Don. 

This was all his too, the people, the power, the respect. Joseph wore his kingdom well, there would be no debate of that, in no amount of louche musings would there even be a hint of triviality to all that he owned.

‘My people, my men, my good friends- tonight is a joyous night.’

Black suits and the men within them all nodded and murmured, it was an instruction that the eve was joyous. The boss looked out over them, surveying the room with a look like a man who had won the jackpot. 

Jotaro raised his head again. Men, all sat, smiling for power they would never have, not in this supreme form, not unless they lay a hand on those before them. The lined table Jotaro sat at, that stared them down. No one would ever know power, like him, like Joseph. He wanted to spit, hack up his throat, these people would kill them. And they were expected to look after them, him, his grandfather, working to lead them. 

Joseph was still paused in his speech, levying his silence, the heavy curtaining in the room around them sapped up any sound but his that might lie in the air. He moved slowly, guiding his arm like some mighty officer, orders to his troops. He pointed at Jotaro; but the people only remained looking at the him.

‘My boy, he has proved how strong this family is, he protected us and made us proud. Did he not?’

There was a light murmuring, a raise of glasses, nods. Jotaro did not nod in turn, or look at those beneath him, he raised his glass briefly, looking to his grandfather to continue. 

‘And tonight- he is taking his place as underboss, protecting you, us.’ 

Joseph swallowed drily, so loudly it could be heard. It meant nothing, but it was visceral and raw, from all the years of cigar smoke. No one flinched at it. 

‘This means the rest of you too, will be joining in the celebration- caporegimes must be found tonight, soldatos bettered, associates baptised and brought in. We are expanding our family. ’

Again under silent instruction, the men seemed to grow grins. Strange grins, happiness seemed odd on the ranking of people they were. Grins, the ones kept for back ally deals, smiles that were only pulled up at the corners from bludgeoning men senseless on the street or slapping their wives. It was like clown makeup painted in the dark, all the right shapes were there, features. There were smiles and eyebrows raised, teeth jammed into gums, mouths pulled back; but seeing a murderous smile with the lights on was a little queer. Off. 

Trickling of speech amongst them was starting to begin- Joseph cut them off with a trained darkening of face. Jotaro had been awaiting this part to begin, it had been as sure his position was. 

‘But as you all must know, the very reason for tonight, is because of betrayal. One of our own. Betrayed our care, our omertà, our family- and a pig worked by his side. You know how this ends, how a betrayal to our people ends. As my grandson did to Eddie- your head will be splattered and spit to the pavement like bad hooch.’ 

There it was, his medal in moonlight. His gift to his grandfather was a threat, that kept their people in line. It enforced the walls of mythos, and truth, that protected them. One of the direct descendants, the next boss, next Don, he had killed two people that had squealed.

What had gotten him here was a recreation of the past at its core, he had done nothing new, and only followed rules that had been clear and potent as moonshine since he could read between lines. 

Like a forged insignia; copied and losing its vitality in every iteration. 

The underboss before him had done it, Joseph too, it was an act that was performative. It was hard to scratch at the memory to find what he was actually thinking, not anger, fury- but obligation. The tensions recently had brought no time to pause, the stakes were higher than ever. They had been given a purpose, to move alcohol in the dead of night, soundlessly. Keep the cities business’ alive. A rat was more detrimental than any one of them could imagined.

It had been simple then, in the second. He had pulled out his model ten and shot them, gun so close to the temple their skin burnt before their brain split. 

Two of them. One after the other. 

A trick to stop the spread of a malignant cur, was to kill it where it stood. In that sense he was the mythological hero his grandfather might have him to be. Everything, as the Don would have it.

It would be rumoured, spread to the people to perpetuate and conjecture what Jotaro had said; done; threatened. Maybe he ran over their legs and made them crawl, maybe he shattered their fingers to shards with a hammer. People would guess what he would never say. 

Joseph was mouthy, and he was tight-lipped. 

The crowd decided to mingle, or Joseph steeped a look that meant for them to do so. Jotaro rose from his seat, the din of at least fifty men all of his grandfather’s loquaciousness was far too much for him at the moment. Any good mood he may of carried from his progression in the family had scarpered, his sinuses felt as if they had been flushed out with something caustic and violent. How was he expected to do anything but sit straight faced when they were discussing his first hits. 

He moved behind the decorations of the room, opening the exit out onto the balcony. Their chosen location for the evening celebration was hidden, Jotaro couldn’t see any of the lights of the city. It was dark where the door opened out onto the facade of a brick building, plain and as inconspicuous as the one they were in. They probably owned it. 

He pulled his cigarette case out from his inner jacket pocket, the snipped metal surface of it was almost impossible to see in the dark, he flipped it open and tried to dig out a cigarette without breaking it in two. Their dark little corner of the city, dark for a reason. 

There were no signs nearby, nothing to occupy his listless stare whilst he smoked. Though it was loathsome and a pain to stare at the neon lettering that had been appearing around as of late, it was something to read. Neon was for the places that their family dealt with, but would never stay near. The colouring of neon was almost a tipoff, where the streets were tinted shades of orange there was a guarantee for a raid. The police were idiots, but not blind. 

Jotaro, or rather Joseph, couldn’t govern all the people though, no matter how many men died speeding trucks through the city to deliver whatever piss-poor booze they could get, speakeasy owners were all the same type. Advertising their product in blaring letters and selling it watered down. Or whatever cocktail stretched their stock the longest. It was seedy. It was none of Jotaro’s care. 

But without something to track his eyes over he was left with his thoughts. Not in any sentimental sense, there was no emotion evoked when he was left to think like this. But he got stuck in a loop, thinking about whatever his brain served for him to dissect. Recently it had been the men he had shot, which he could muse over with a detached feeling- he had taken something from them. But it did not feel like he owned more? 

Before that it had been a distant memory though. Probably one of his earliest, though he did not sift through old relic-like thoughts with a purpose often, maybe there were more. He had been at home in the apartment, as coddled as usual with Nonna and his mother around, when Joseph had returned home. He was smiling, wide, happy. Jotaro had stared up at him, his brown hair and charismatic eyes, like a film star. He had felt distinctly wrong. 

Naively, he had thought that Joseph’s offer to take him out for the day would be to some park. For them to do a day trip like Nonna Suzie would occasionally do with him, when she had the time away from work. He had instead been seated beside Joseph in the car, still so short his feet didn’t hit to floor when he sat flat on the leather, and driven with no known direction. 

Joseph had turned his head to him whilst driving, voice proud and gearing for a monologue-

‘You’re gonna come to work with me today, see what you’re going to take over.‘ Joseph had said with a smile. 

Jotaro hadn’t said anything in return. He had never been a talker. They had driven to a warehouse, Jotaro left in the car whilst Joseph straightened his suit and stepped out. 

He had little to no clue what was going on, he was left to kick his legs until they swung and hit the bottom of the glove box. He remembered being bored, right up until calm and collected business talk turned to shouting, and all of a sudden he was leaning up over the console to watch Joseph stuff a gun into some guy’s mouth and rend a hole through the other side of it. 

Just like that. Done. Jotaro’s legs swung back to the leather instantly, making himself sit prim and proper. He knew his face was luckily not slack jawed. 

His grandfather didn’t seem frazzled when he got back into the car- not even after the guy had limply fallen forward instead of back, and it seemed like some limp jawed creature had been reaching out for him. Jotaro could only think that the man with the blown open jaw, sides and muscle flopping like fabric, was moving like drunkard animal. Jaw jacked open like it was about to vomit. 

‘Now,’ his grandfather said, changing his shirt in the car, the bloody one tossed to the back seat, ‘you won’t tell Mama about this, or Nonna, will you?’

Jotaro shook his head. No. Joseph smiled and ruffled his hair, Jotaro didn’t flinch despite the fact the same hand had pulled the trigger, moved the body, its mouth still flopping. Jotaro didn’t tell his mother, or Nonna Suzie. If he had nightmares he didn’t remember them. 

He finished his cigarette and dropped it through the metal grate he stood on. He stopped in his hindered return to the doorway as he blindly heard commotion, there were gunshots, faintly. The screech of tyres in the distance, vagrant shouting. 

An alcohol movement gone wrong then. 

Jotaro soundlessly turned away from the darkness outside, shutting the door on the frantic shouts and gun sounds spattering through the air. The door settled with a click, the sound muted and covered by the joyous tone within the building. 

Even that day he had known why Joseph had done it, shot that man. He got it when he was young, and now he had a tally in the same box, he understood to a crystal degree. 

Once you had killed one; the people after didn’t really count. They were infinitesimal in their size. Asymptotic. Jotaro was shocked at the warmth of blood drops on his cheek the first time, and used to it the second time. Jotaro couldn’t mirror it, but he knew why Joseph got back into the car happy, the transaction that had just occurred was profitable. They were immune to the sickness of killing someone, and he had gained control. 

He returned, muted, to the main floor to his grandfather’s side. Door shut, cries outside in fear- ignored. Well, that was some of their competition dealt with. 

Red velvet curtains, dark stained wood. Slightly creaky staircases, the grain worn down under the carpeting from the scrape of stiletto. This bar was under his jurisdiction, his care, now. 

It was just like Joseph to give him one of the seedier places to begin with. His shoes already felt tainted and soiled from the slick stairs he had to walk down to get to the main space. It wasn’t just a bar, detestably, it was a club. They had rather had to condense their entertainment where they could. 

He was aware that girls for miles around had flocked to any speakeasies that would take them. It was the gentleman’s clubs that were always checked for liquor first, it seemed almost idiotic, to have so many illegal activities condensed. 

Jotaro couldn’t find it in him to be worried, he owned this place now, but the people were all expendable. There was neither enough revenue earned here or valuable customer base for him to be concerned of a raid, so long as he wasn’t there when it occurred. 

The space was like a theatre, two layers, one higher up with tables looking down onto the stage, not far from the upper bar. The lower section too had tables and a separate bar, opposing the stage, the scalloped metal edges and floor lights like an ominous reminder of the people that would be filling the space later. 

Jotaro hated clubs. Associates always wanted to meet in them. Their eyes dancing across whatever entertainment was on stage, skimpily clad and flaunting their breasts in trashy outfits. The women that would parade themselves around always ignited a slight disgust in him. Or perhaps it was what they brought out in others. Far too many times had Jotaro been trying to secure a date for liquor storage and realised his transaction partner was harder than a proverbial rock. It took everything in him to not set their ties alight. 

It was a discernibly slow night, Jotaro was dryly waiting to try and confirm his plans for the place, his ideas for funnelling alcohol and arms throughout the city. 

He was early too, the main lights weren’t yet an illicit dim tone, instead humiliatingly bright. He could see the waxed table edges where they peeled, the ringed outline of cups on coasters. 

He leant forward onto the clothed table with a silent temper. The whole day had been like having teeth pulled, moving about the city and beginning to control more aspects of their operation. By now he wanted to go home, be alone. Christ, he wanted to be alone. 

Another of the service girls bustled past him, tray hoisted over her shoulder. People were milling about the venue as if it were church meeting. Jotaro looked at his watch, the associate would probably be late anyway. 

He stood and looked to where the service girl was now paused, talking to an older woman whose hair was still in curlers. She was made up heavily, makeup caked over skin in thick strokes. Her lips arched far too high, and a beauty mark was drawn on in a tepid beige. Feigning natural appearance. Jotaro eyed the cracked facade weakly, this was what he owned now, he certainly wasn’t rich in spirit. Some ginmill where girls couldn’t even look after themselves. He moved past them, pushing through one of the doors to the side of the stage, entering a corridor. 

He pulled his cigarette case out again; though he would’ve smoked in the building, he was sick of waiting in there. Being stared at like he was something to be won over, charmed. The girls behind the bar had been silently whispering to one another, fixing their outfits. Jotaro was quickly developing a splitting headache from the lights too. 

He turned down another corner of the grey flecked space, shoes clacking in an uncomfortable, garish manner. 

Distracted, he pried a cigarette out and shoved it between his lips, so tense the force could tear the cigarette in two. He looked up too late to stop from slamming shoulder to shoulder into one of the burlesque girls.

He would’ve growled; snapped a quick command to leave. But as he stopped to look at the quiff he had knocked into, he came to realise it was not a girl at all. 

The person before him, was a man. A man. Lithe, lanky and willowish. Long features in the face, a sly fox-like appearance. Jotaro felt his face wrinkle, it had been time and time before he had shown expressions so freely. A man.

The thing, man, before him was a daisy. Feminine. Dressed almost as such. Silken stockings, the colour of his olive skin, made his legs look shined to an unnatural degree. 

He was just as weakly dressed as the other dancers. Undergarments clung to his skin at his waist, a deep bottle-green. On the back of the slip shorts- that cut embarrassingly low to the crotch for a woman, let alone a man- a great careening spiral of peacock feathers sat. Emerald green, swaying. 

Various jewellery pieces and fabrics draped across his more angular joints, sheer, flickering. 

The man also had red hair. Long. As if he was masquerading to be a woman, for a seconds notice. He felt his insides quiver with bile, something thick and foul.

‘Fuckin’ daisy.’ 

He shoved past the redhead again, ignoring how much resistance he gave in turn. There was a marabou boa around his neck that fluttered at the movement, he had anticipated the rather belle-like man before him to float back in the same way. 

The shock he himself hosted was momentary before revulsion subsided to nothingness, he wasn’t going to beat in someone’s face for catching him in a bad mood. No matter how his patience was shorter than a lighter wick. 

The side door was left open, a racketing cold air dripped in from it. A shoddily painted metal railing held the balcony in place, the wood of the door pushed open with a brick. Other flappers probably smoked here too. There was a distinct aroma of awful trade cigarettes and cheap whoreish perfume. 

He began to firm his lighter, grinding impatiently for a flame to birth. The spark flickered out into darkness, dying humiliated in the dark of his irises. He flicked again- a pointed cough sounded from behind him. 

The redhead hadn’t made himself scarce, no matter the obscenity thrown his way, his expression was lacking any trace of being beguiled.

‘Charming. You allowed to be back here? You’re not one of the girls toys are you?’

The presence of the redhead was hard to miss, all queer and insidious in the air. He continued to question, in a bold tone that grated far too heavily on already shot nerves. Jotaro continued to stare into the dark view before from the balcony, flicking the lighter again. He crushed and clamped down on the lighter between his fingers in a clench, like the metal skin of the casing would break and bleed naphtha. His hand cupped around both lighter and cigarette though there was no wind. He flicked again-

‘You’re not allowed to be here, Mister-‘

A gloved hand latched onto his shoulder, and Jotaro spun in an instant. Cigarette still dangling in his mouth. 

‘Don’t you fucking touch me.’

He paced towards the redhead, who had violently backed up against the opposing wall of the hallway the instant he had turned. An exit was on either side, the corridor that he clearly knew well, spanning like a stream to safety. But he stayed staring up, back flat against the wall, gloved arms by his sides, palms flat against the brick. 

The peacock feathers on his head piece pressed up and straight against the wall, as if he were the bird itself, sending a warning signal- or trying to mate. His sly eyes were now bigger, rounded and glazed. No makeup, or Jotaro was too distant from the craft to tell if there was any that wasn’t slathered on like wall paper paste. 

He pulled the cigarette from his mouth between his forefinger and his thumb, reiterating what he said. The redhead’s eyes seemed to follow the cigarette for a moment, rather than the man before him that was beyond his size and shouting at him. Disrespect came from people like this, all the time. 

‘Don’t you dare touch me. I ain’t a fucking hussy’s property.’

The earrings that dangled by the redhead’s chin shifted as his head tipped further up, eyes cemented on Jotaro before him. His breath was even. His features were prominent this close, the bouncing quality of his hair, the freckles. He really was like a broad, only he managed to be somewhat male too. His chest was definitely that of a man’s, a wide expanse of tan that shined where it was exposed. Shoulders that poked out beyond his waist. His bobbing Adam’s apple as he spoke. His voice. 

‘Who are you then?’

Jotaro fixed him with a stare, his own eyes boring holes into the redhead’s. He could kill him. 

The idea was abstract, like it was on a table, some item, and he was observing it. In practice, beyond theoretical, he could kill the redhead. He would not be questioned, he owned the place now. He was the underboss. Other’s surely would not question why he had done it, it took one look to know the man was a nance. 

He had his Smith and Wesson on him,  
he could mangle the limber thing before him in seconds. Though maybe the redhead could tell of his thoughts, like he had some sense in his head for danger, so many preyed on creatures did. 

He was breathing heavily now, as Jotaro continued to stare, his chest was rising rather evidently. Jotaro could put a stop to that if he so wished, he supposed. The gems that dangled at his ears would almost match the blood. He wouldn’t put the gun anywhere near his face; it would feel wrong to do so. 

Jotaro frowned- he tore his eyes off of redhead’s face, turning and quietly securing his position at the balcony again. Moments shot through the air, time was moving again, his excursion into the possibilities of his power had been disorientating. He rigidly pulled out his lighter once more, he flicked it. Nothing. 

‘Do you- do you need a light?’

Jotaro refused to budge at the sound of the voice close behind him again, there was still a weight to the movement of time. Ebbing in unhelpful heaps, and bounding in others. He hadn’t heard the redhead move, not even the brush of fabric against skin. The bold approach of a clearly scared animal.  

The redhead moved out to stand beside him, body clinking to a stop not far to Jotaro’s right. Drawing his own cigarette -long, Parisian- out, he brought one of his hands to his mouth and pulled the fabric of the glove between his teeth. Pulling the silken material over the flex of his wrist. He draped it lazily over the railing, and procured his own lighter from a bustle of feathers. 

The whole ordeal was observed with a simmering foul expression. Possibly pensive. This was the first male burlesque performer he had met, the first daisy he had met. What a creature. His family had a general disdain for the low class that did not fight, did not help themselves. They had built their way up from nothing in this country, no sideway looks or hitched up skirts about it. All the women here, and now this man too, belonged to him. What separated them? They were in some way keeping him afloat, because they helped sell alcohol to whoever needed it, with winks and exposed thighs and hollowed out cheeks behind closed doors. 

What separated them? If both their origins were impoverished- Jotaro’s lot had found their place, why was redhead here not clad in suit too? Wearing something appropriate. 

Beside him, the being, seemed reasonable. He was offering him his lighter, that was a normal enough thing to do. Jotaro grimaced a stroke at the lighter, a delicate ’N’ was carved into the side in flowery, curling lettering. 

Jotaro sniffed, and allowed him to light his cigarette for him. Dropping his arms to his side as the finally lit cigarette balanced in his mouth. 

The redhead was staring at him now, rather blatantly. His mouth set into it’s own straight pondering. Jotaro looked expressly away from him, avoiding returning to their previous clashed stupor. It was like a violent expanse of horizons for them to view each other too hard. But still, the redhead surveyed him. He spat from the corner of his mouth, trying to stop the mooned staring. 

‘What are you here for then? Aren’t you meant to be at some place for just quiffs like you?’

His question was as demand-like as one his grandfather would pose. He expected the same level of response, an immediate attempt to get on his good side. But next to him the man was languid and calm, he breathed in his own cigarette and waited to delicately exhale before he spoke. 

‘Our place got busted, the men who delivered us the alcohol squealed when they were caught. All of us had to find new nightspots. But- I’m popular. I was taken here ‘cause I make crowds.’

A slight pride twinkled off the words, a shameful thing to be proud of. The redhead was scouted to dance here then, as people flocked to see him. It would be beneficial if it was true and not some tall tale. Lying was inclination to these types of dancers now, for money, for men. Still, if Jotaro made a big profit of his first owned club as underboss there would be talk of his power, his mind for business and success. 

Jotaro scoffed, the likelihood of it being true was minuscule. Though the redhead was smooth and glistening under moonlight, he was a man, surely the amount of people ready to risk everything: their safety and day to day peace, their families, their jobs- was not a lot. All for some lanked and preened man that bordered on the feminine. What man in their wits would go out for a drink in this era and want to stare at an imitation of woman? 

‘Can’t see a lot of people being into that particular thing.’

A laugh pitched up, slightly resentful and dry.

‘You’d be surprised.’

Jotaro acquiesced this, and turned his head away again. He had certainly gained a freak-show then, he could only hope they stretched their booze into some level of decent cocktails. Or that their stage and seating scratched up nice. Joseph’s plan for it, for him, was an enigma; some grand scheme to have the underboss deal with their furthest location out to date. Delivering here would never be the priority, not to the men. Perhaps a test to see how cut-throat and demanding Jotaro could be. 

Redhead piped up again, leant against the railing, his knuckles supporting his chin and his other hand dropping with the weight of his cigarette. Slowly charring and dropping flecks of ash like snowfall. 

‘None of the girls mentioned you.’

Jotaro responded with a sharp bark. People should get to listening to what he said the first time. 

‘I told you I ain’t here for them.’

The redhead began to approach him again, closing a gap that seemed to span the ocean. His voice was confident once more, as if he had forgotten he had been cowering seconds ago. 

‘Why are you back here then-‘

Jotaro was about to snap at him then, he wasn’t here to pick up women, ogle girls. He owned this place. He owned part of the city. He was part of a powerful lineage he would one day be the head of. But there were rules, and he was not to break them. He had shot people for breaking them. To this worker, he would just be the owner, hardly that. Someone who was involved in the management. He would not be enlightening this cheap dancer that he was the underboss just because he enraged him.

His mouth snapped shut when he heard another voice, a girl, an innocent and light voice. The kid didn’t seem old at all as she peered around the edge of the door frame to where these two, no doubt incredibly old to her, men stood. Maybe she was one of the dancers kids. Jotaro turned his head away again. 

‘Red?’

So, this redhead had been aptly called Red. About the level of thinking he could expect from these people. A stage name that was clearly known though; if Red was as famous as he persisted, there would be an immense power about not needing a last name. Red seemed by the book in its sultry quality, made to be scrawled in ink across a pin-up poster. Marketable.

Red shifted, dropping the cigarette off the balcony and turning. Gathering his glove back into his hand, and beginning to replace it. He seemed younger talking to the kid, like he was an older brother, almost crouched down from his extended lean height. 

‘Yes, Kennedy.’

‘You’re on in two dances time.’

‘Thanks, duck.’

The door was as good us shut in terms of the cut and thick break between worlds now, the light was still streaming in from the corridor, but he was locked out in mood. Jotaro had been forgotten, he was left to his smoking as Red was called away, back to his own life. Jotaro finally had some peace, though his cigarette had already shattered to less than an inch in length. 

There was a  buzzing pace and swish of feathers as Red made his way down the hall. Jotaro dropped his own cigarette and wiped his hands across his trouser fronts- he needed to get a new lighter. He retreated back to the door he had made his way into the back rooms through, stopping at the sound that seeped through it. The bar space before him was alive where it was dead before, people, men and women alike, stirring about with drinks in hands. Waiter girls in the same outfits as earlier, dancing by with trays stacked with cocktails. 

Jotaro looked up, to one of the cutoff spaces, a gallery booth. His associate sat there, calmly dragging an iced drink through his teeth. 

When he pushed through the crowds of people, and settled at the table, the stage was already alive. There was flamboyant sound and chatter, it covered their own talk like a blanket. No one would notice them in the corner, not when they appeared to mirror every other table of suited men that sat, drinking and staring at the girl on stage. 

The associate too, had shut off eyes, as if he held secrets of everyone in the room, there would be plain and simple discussion between them. Jotaro ordered them both another drink before beginning. He didn’t know what Joseph was planning, he had to stand his ground, make his own footing- or people would never trust not to cross him.

’We deliver our first import of liquor a month, here.’

The associate raised his eyebrows, twirling the drink in his glass. The ice tinkled shrilly in Jotaro’s ears. As if it was singing of the people’s lack of trust in him. 

‘You sure?’

‘It’s expendable if it gets stopped here,’ he looked over the room, he could see the heads of the people below him chattering. It came to a sudden stop. The music on stage changed, and the lighting over the stretched wood floor turned red. Jotaro looked ahead at the associate again, ignoring how the crowd had gone silent save for a solitary wolf whistle. 

‘These people won’t squeal. And it tests the make is good enough to give to our better spots.’

He kept his head down, but the associates eyes were dragging slowly along the stage, following somethings path. He could sense who it was. That same energy, filled the room out. The associates words petered in and out. 

‘It’s seedy out here. Edge of our territory.’

Jotaro responded in turn, the conversation was as good as one sided. 

‘Police hardly do stops round here. They think they’ll catch a disease.’

This was a lie, given that Red was presumably not far from here when his first club was shut. But the focus he had held was quickly escaping him, impatience at the almost silence of the room now. He ignored the flashes of green feathers he could see in his peripheral. The associate wasn’t paying attention, and Jotaro was sure of his plan. This would be his future played out right, decisive, bold. Powerful. 

‘You sure, boss?’

The associate shook his head back to the conversation, his fingers gripping at the rum in the glass like a lifeline. Red wasn’t lying an inch. 

‘I’m sure. It’s popular. We’ll sell.’ 

‘Have you asked the Don?’

The associate made eye contact with him then, questioning, calm. As if they were two friends over drinks. They were not. Jotaro slammed his glass down onto the tabletop. 

‘I don’t need to fuckin’ ask the Don. To you I’m as good as the Don. Deliver it here first batch you get. And if you question me again even your friends will want to slit your throat.’

He stood, temper striping through his temples, he’d blow his own brains out like this. He needed a right hand man, his own consigliere, someone who would trust his word and not doubt the power he had. He wouldn’t kill the associate, there was no point no matter how much he urged to. 

His impatience roared as he turned away, pushing through the people that were still transfixed with the stage. 

Red. Red was what they were transfixed with, not the stage. Jotaro’s eye caught along the exhibition too, his pace remained fervoured and constant towards the exit. Red’s stage presence was there, his body was there, his expression was there. The feathers crowned him, and darted through the air with the same practiced sensuality as he moved. His eyes were tilted, wanting. 

Jotaro flinched as said eyes clicked onto his own, he halted. They stared at each other for a second, frozen despite the warmth of the stage lights and Red’s continued limber displays. Eyes at least- frozen and stuck to one another. 

A service girl slammed into his chest at the stop and start of the crowds movement. The tray that was over her shoulder tipped forward, and a chilled mix of syrups, tonic water and rum dribbled down his chest. He would’ve said something curt, but she was already bent over to pick up the glass and uncaring of his state. Sometimes that was the best way for it to be, if she had attempted to touch him, mop him up, he might have broken her wrist over a table. He was in a distracted type of mood. 

He continued out, pacing up the steps and out of the vicinity of the building. He reeked of alcohol now, he would have to find his car in a split, if he was caught by an officer he would be arrested immediately. The thought turned his insides to a grotty paste, his family, his lessers, would all know he had been caught because he was doused in a fruity cocktail. He provided thousands of people with prohibited booze, he killed people that betrayed their pack, and he was foully covered with the one thing that would be undeniable. 

All because of the dizzy bitch and the distracted public within the club. He would have to return soon, it was his property, and all the people within were closing the noose around his neck with their lack of sense. 

The car was not far away, Jotaro had left his jacket within. He shrugged it on as calmly as he could, as he remembered his grandfather had calmly changed from blood covered shirt to clean. Collected, grinning. 

He picked what he considered to be back roads, doing almost anything at night could be constituted as dangerous to anyone in his position. Someone would question what he was doing in a car as nice as his, in this neighbourhood. He could be pulled over for almost anything. 

He made it back to the apartment though, car nestled away, he passed the concierge with a well meaning glare, and made his way up to his floor. Wrenching key into lock and turning it; the lights inside were already on.

He kept an ear out, his grandfather wasn’t quiet when he invited himself around. Neither was his mother or Suzie. He held his breath with a weight. This was the last thing he needed. 

‘Jotaro?’

Marina. She poked her head around the wallpapered hall, walking steadily towards him. He sighed, dropping his jacket at the door, she began to attach herself to him immediately. 

Arms around neck, face nuzzling into chest. She cooed for a second, but then her nose wrinkled. 

‘Have you been drinking- Jotaro?’

She looked up at him, almost angrily. It was condescending, the manner he looked her over with. Her hair was almost copper toned in the light, reddish. She had been curling it through out the day. Her earrings were peals, beaded into drops. He hadn’t bought them for her. She stepped back again, hands on her hips, her eyebrows set in. 

Her face seemed rounded, more impudent and curved than he remembered it. He didn’t think about it often to begin with. She seemed short, condensed, angry for no reason. He should be angry, not her. 

‘Jotaro- drinking? Really? You know how bullheaded-‘

He felt suddenly disgusted by her.

‘Get out.’

Her face flashed blank for a moment, he began to slip his shoes off. Passive, sick, he needed to lie down. 

‘Wha-‘

‘Get the fuck out of here. I don’t wanna see you here again.’

Marina stared slack jawed, lip quirking in shock. He continued through to his office. Placing his keys on the desk. She was stood stock still by the door when he returned. 

‘I said fucking leave.’ 

Obediently she found her mink, slipped on her shoes. Not making a sound, holding her breath. He stood by the door, watching her shiver as she prepared to leave. She was probably quite dismayed- maybe it was out of the blue. 

There was no talk. She opened the door, moving slowly through it. He stared heat into the back of her head, it appeared more stained red than ever. His head flickered heavily through the events of the day, jolting, speeding. Like a car about to careen of a bridge. 

The door clicked shut, and remained. It was impossible to note when he came back to his body from his thoughts, he has become as stuck as usual by them. Lured in, lost. Red- the seeping maroon colour that dripped through his grandfather’s shirt that time, all those years ago. Disposed in the back of his car. Who washed it for him? Some other woman? One of the workers he owned. 

The drink spilled on him had a vague red hue, he couldn’t tell what from, it seeped through his own shirt like blood too. It lacked the iron-y smell to it. His head was stuck on the colour, thoughts ricocheting violently. He didn’t feel so opportune any more, he bubbled towards impatient, his hands still felt slick and coated. As if he hadn’t moved from that night, two bodies before him. The smell stuck, like swiping a thumb over a penny, even once, the smell lasted a lifetime. Had there been more than a spatter of blood? It made him slightly ill to think back to the memory. He had drunk something foul.

He sighed a breath of relief as he outlined the shut door with his eyes, he was alone. Probably the only thing he had successfully commanded that evening.