Jude King's Story

It wasn't very often that Martin Ross started his morning by hiding behind the corner leading to his living room, a loaded gun held in his shaky hands. However, it was to be noted that this wasn't the first time this had happened. The prior instances that had found him sneaking around his own home like a particularly incompetent thief had been during his first week living in the Brownstone Apartments, a time in his life where his nerves were so on end that he was scared of his own shadow in both a literal and metaphorical sense. It had never been anything back then, of course, just the sounds of his apartment settling or the occasional pipe adjusting in the cold winters, but this, he knew, was something else entirely. It hadn't been a settling foundation or his overactive imagination this time; it had been footsteps that startled him from his sleep. Well, it had started with footsteps and had eventually turned into a poor attempt at hiding the sound of things being moved about. And, as any person living alone will tell you, that is perhaps the most terrifying sound in the world. Which brings us to now with Martin clutching a gun in trembling hands, more than sure that something was going to happen.

It was silent now, making his shaky breath seem like it echoed in the not so empty apartment. Martin gripped his gun tighter, lips pressed together in a thin line. It was now or never… One…Two…

"Is that a gun in your pants or are you just happy to see me?" Martin stumbled slightly, blinking slowly, his usual composure all but gone. Lying on his couch, spread out like a particularly content cat was none other than Jude King. The Irishman leered up at him, entirely unconcerned that he had almost been shot, and, given how comfortable he looked, not likely to get up any time soon. "No, wait, you're holding the gun, aren't you? You must be pleased to see me, then; those boxers of yours leave nothing to the imagination, Marty Boy."

"Shit," Martin breathed, an exclamation of both relief and exasperation, letting the doorframe hold him up as his body went limp, gun swinging uselessly to his side. "What are you doing here?" He wasn't any less nervous knowing who exactly had found their way into his house because, quite frankly, Martin wasn't an idiot. No one really wants to find Jude King lurking around their house before the sun has even had the chance to rise, regardless of his intentions.

"Now, Marty, is that what you're going to say to the person who brought you breakfast? Made you tea? I thought you had better manners," Jude tsked with a pout. Martin's eyes strayed over to the coffee table at the prompt. True to his word, spread out on the table were two of his own plates with croissants from the little bistro down the street, paired with two mismatched mugs full of tea, the steam still curling idly from the warm brown liquid within. After the shock he'd just gone through, it was, despite the presenter, a welcomed sight. But he wouldn't admit it, not right now. It was stubborn and it was childish, but he didn't really want to thank Jude at the moment after the older man had almost sent him into cardiac arrest.

"How did you get in? Did you force the lock again?"

Jude heaved a sigh, finally sitting up on the couch, chin resting on the armrest as he leaned towards Martin.

"Don't be so boring, Marty. You know very well that I apologized for that already. I made a copy of your keys months ago. Now sit down and tuck in. We've got an early meeting today, remember?"

It was probably slightly disturbing that Martin accepted this logic with nothing more than a little sigh and plopped down next to Jude who received this acceptance with a triumphant grin that showed more teeth than it really should have. It was, if Martin had taken much notice of it, particularly predatory, a glint of something in the Irishman's eyes, but if he spent his entire life worried about psychopaths smiling in his house, well, he'd never have another peaceful moment because Jude had made it quite clear that he was here to stay.

The two made an odd sight, a pair of perfect opposites seated next to one another on Martin's too plush couch, eating French pastries and sipping hot tea in a comfortable silence. There was Martin, hair a curly mess, tired eyes hidden beneath glasses just shy of stylish and still dressed in an old, ratty t-shirt and plaid boxers. In contrast Jude, who was far too perky and put together for this early in the morning, was dressed to the nines in a black suit, shoes shined with pride and hair slicked back into an impeccably neat shape. You really couldn't find a pair of friends less alike, but, then again, their friendship was anything but ordinary. Any relationship started by shooting one another rarely is.

It was only a short time later that Martin had gotten dressed himself, slipping into a dark red sweater and black slacks that could be called business casual if you were incredibly openminded about fashion, and the two were off with Jude making a show of locking the door behind him with his own personal key.

"And you thought that I'd broken in," He scoffed.

"Technically, you still did. Just… In a nicer way," Martin retorted.

"Details, details. Come on, now, we're walking today. You could do with a little sun. You're starting to get as pale as I am."

The moment they stepped outside of the apartment building, a change took place over the two men- it was a minor one, but one nevertheless to be noticed. The small amount of space between them suddenly widened dramatically, Jude pulling away to walk nearly two feet beside Martin instead of pressing up against his body like a demanding cat. Neither so much as blinked at the behavior; after all, even the background men of the mob had to keep up appearances.

Smoke twisted softly into the early morning sky, blending in with hues of blue and orange greeting the sun. The streets of Sixth Avenue were silent - most people either hadn't woken or were still passed out from last nights bender. Maxwell Parks wasn't most people. He was sitting on the edge of the crumbling sidewalk, elbows resting on raised knees, chuckling softly as he passed a cigarette to his right.

"What the fuck do you do this early?" Erica asked, pulling her own drag. Max smirked to himself, running a hand up through his hair. There were only a few of them out, five at most. Most of them, like Erica, we're coming home from being out all night.

Max, however, had been up since four. "Work," he answered, then almost immediately whined a complaint the moment she arched an eyebrow and held the cigarette away from him. He could see the accusation in her eyes...she didn't believe him.

"No one gets any work this early, punk."

Max smiled at her slowly, glancing over her shoulder down the street where a Mercedes Benz had just turned the corner. The car was moving slowly, questionably, trying to be inconspicuous and failing greatly. No one drove nice things like that around this part of town...and when they did, it was only for one reason.

He clicked the silver ball in his mouth against his teeth in a tsking manner, nodding his chin towards the vehicle. She caught his gaze and followed it, watching as the car slowly eased to a stop in front of them, the tinted window sliding down. The man in the passenger seat was older, in a suit more expensive than his car, not one piece of hair out of place.

Erica shot him a grin, dropping the cigarette and stomping it out with her heal before she stood up. Max's hand snapped out, wrapping around her wrist and keeping her there. He knew she looked back to glare at him, but his eyes stayed locked on the man in the car. There was a moment of silence, a battle of wills, but Max never let his smirk fall.

"Him."

He grinned widely, jumping to his feet and pushing passed Erica as he bounced across the street before sliding onto smooth leather seats. Her shocked expression was the last thing he saw before the window went up, but he had just enough time to blow her a kiss.

---

Max hummed to himself as he hopped out onto the sidewalk in front of Santoro Inc. The building loomed in front of him, tall and intimidating, but his face only broke into a grin. It was still early, just before work should officially begin, and Max really wasn't supposed to be there. But when a client claimed he had to drop you off right then, you picked something familiar

He dug in his back pocket for a lollipop, unwrapping it and shoving strawberry goodness into his mouth, just about to bounce into the building when a voice called: "Hey kid!"

Confused, he twisted around on his heels, arching an eyebrow at the Mercedes as it inched up closer. The passenger window was down, the man giving him an unamused look as he held out a wad of white cotton. Max beamed - he was always losing his shirts - and pulled the candy out of his mouth as he leaned closer, grabbing the offered material. "Thanks, stud." He winked before turning away, popping his lollipop back in his mouth before shrugging his shirt on.

It didn't really help his appearance much. His short blonde hair was a mess, his shirt was thin, sleeveless, and showing the tattoo spread across his collar bone, and his pants were old, faded, ripped and hanging way too low off his hips. Anyone watching him walk into Santoro Inc would surely think he was lost.

He took the steps two at time, humming all the while, when a set of voices caught his attention. Max paused in front of the door, one hand reached out towards it, before he glanced over to his right. Two men were walking his way, seemingly talking about something either gratifying or exhausting depending on which man you chose to look at.

One had four or so inches on the other, a slender but lean frame under a red sweater, definitely more tired looking. He was gorgeous...all messy curls, attractive stubble, glasses. Max loved glasses....and curls...and stubble.

But it was the other male that caught his attention. He was the broader of the two, definitely physically fit, in a name brand suit, brown hair slicked back. He was...intriguing...all sharp features and gray eyes. But there was something about him...something Max knew others probably couldn't pick up on. Something he only knew because it was a job requirement.

“When did all the men get this fucking hot?” he muttered under his breath, glancing inside the building at the clock hanging on the wall. He had time, a good few minutes. He smirked around his lollipop, stepping down a few paces to slink himself across the railing.

“Hey baby,” Max pulled the candy out of his mouth with a suggestive 'pop', licking his lips as he dropped his arms over the pole. “I have a good ten minutes if you wanna play...only fifty for a quickie.”

Walking in a big city, while relatively cost effective and quite exciting for tourists, can be absolutely irritating for those who didn't quite appreciate the hustle and bustle of city life. Martin was one of those people. For all of the resentment and bitterness he held towards his former life, he did occasionally pine for his old surroundings, clutching onto the memories of tall mountains and plentiful greenery like a child's security blanket. These bursts of nostalgia were few and far between these days, too busy with work and too caged by tall buildings and water that you couldn't even pay him to go swimming in. However, walking down the streets of Boston, inhaling the fumes of cigarettes and the traffic-filled streets, stepping around litter and people too busy tapping away at their smartphones to notice that they were about to run into another human, the pang of homesickness hit. Well, that and annoyance.

It took a lot to irritate Martin because, even on his worst day, he had more self control than the average man. Still, walking through Boston did put a damper on his day with the sheer noise and chaos that was the streets. Car horns, even this early, blared with an unpredictable staccato rhythm, car engines revved and roared, and the voices of the people pressed around him was a constant noise in the back of his mind. It was, therefore, excellent news that the streets leading up to Santoro Incorporated were far less crowded, like the building had enough power to glare down and intimidate anyone attempting to break the perfectly ordered chaos that it kept in check. Well, almost anyone.

"I'm just saying, Marty," Jude said amiably as they continued their walk, "If you're going to get a car, you might as well get something flashy, yeah?" It was easier to hear Jude now that the noise pollution had toned down, not that Jude was ever loud. No, he spoke in a certain way that demanded attention, like a primal awareness that listening to him just might save your life one day. "Not one of those Mercedes that you Americans like so well, or one of those hyper-cars; you need an Aston Martin."

It wasn't often that Jude spoke cars, but, on their walk to Santoro Incorporated, the flash of a red Koenigsegg Agera R rushing by had caught his attention like a kid in a candy store, changing the strain of conversation almost immediately from where they were going to get dinner that night to what cars tickled Jude's fancy. Martin bit back a sigh; they'd certainly had this conversation before and, just like before, he was prepared with his own line of dialogue in this casual repartee.

"You just want one because you want to feel like James Bond," Martin accused tiredly, bespectacled eyes glancing down at Jude who merely nodded, a smirk crawling its way onto his face.

"You know me so well, Marty. Of course I do. Although…" He paused, which, of course, meant nothing good was about to come out of his mouth, "I think that would make you my Bond girl, wouldn't it? Now, what sort of name would you have…"

Martin almost spluttered in indignation because he would at least be Q or Eve Moneypenny as they approached Santoro Incorporated when a voice cut into his exasperation and Jude's thoughts, catching both of their attentions for very different reasons.

“Hey baby. I have a good ten minutes if you wanna play...only fifty for a quickie.” The speaker was a boy in scruffy clothes, blonde hair messy in a way that even Martin could guess at the origin, a lollipop dangling in one hand as he licked his lips.

Both men froze. Martin's face twisted into one of pure horror. It wasn't the prostitution that bothered him, or even the boy's probable age; oh no. He was worried that he'd have to see this kid die in front of him, and all before a big meeting too. Jude's face, on the other hand, remained achingly pleasant, which, Martin knew as he tried to grab the smaller man, was the worst possible way for his face to look. However, he was too late.

As quick as a striking cobra and potentially twice as deadly, Jude's fist was flying through the air, connecting with the poor boy's smirking mouth with excessive force. The bare-knuckle hit didn't rattle him at all, hands too used to the bare-knuckled brawls he so enjoyed, and his second movement was a grab for the lollipop, which he plucked gracefully from the boy's hands.

"Let me show you where you can shove your lolly, you fucking poofter-" In contrast to Jude's amiable expression, his voice was pure malice hidden behind the tone of someone giving a helpful suggestion instead of a man willing and more than excited to shove a lollipop into someone's eye socket. It was then, of course, that Martin had enough time to move himself and quite knowingly save the boy's life.

"Jesus Christ, Jude!"

The translator grabbed the Irishman from behind, arms wrapped tight around him as he heaved him backwards. It wasn't much on the physical side of things- Martin had never been one for physical confrontation, but it was all it took for Jude to give in, allowing himself to be manhandled so that the candy in his possession was no longer a potential lethal weapon.

"We're done- no, no more. We have a meeting to go to and you can't just kill someone or maim them." Even in times of pure chaos, Martin's tongue hardly failed him. "It's not worth it, Jude. It's really not."

"Fine." It was like a switch had been flipped, the Irishman nodding before turning back to his very near victim. Instead of saying anything, instead of going for one more strike, he dropped the lollipop to the ground before grinding it to dust with his heel.

"Oh, not the sucker too," Martin mumbled as Jude turned away and headed up the steps to the building, stopping only at the door, holding it open expectantly. Martin bit back his second sigh of the day and briefly turned towards the prostitute.

"Right. Well." There wasn't much else to say, but he did fish around in his pocket for a white handkerchief, passing it over to the boy. "Here. You need it more than I do." And, with that, he jogged up the stairs after his psychopath, trying not to glance back.

As soon as the door closed behind them and they followed the familiar path to the elevator, Jude finally spoke.

"I'm thinking Gavin Goodhead. That would certainly be your Bond Girl name," He concluded sounding too entirely pleased with himself.

"Wouldn't that make me a Bond Boy technically?" Martin replied because two could play at the "let's never mention what just happened" game. Jude began to laugh in reply, a great howling sound, when he suddenly stopped, an look of confusion so out of place on his face appearing. Call it a sixth sense, call it a gift for finding the not quite right, but something seemed off in the building. It wasn't until both of them came upon the six beefy men apparently posing outside of the meeting room that it all began to make sense. Well, kind of- there were still six weird men, one with an honest-to-God trumpet and another with a basket full of flower petals, with the rest having assorted other items, like, for some odd reason, a boom box blaring AC/DC. In almost perfect unison, the two peered into the room and caught sight of a young beauty who looked like she'd stepped right out of a magazine, standing before the assorted collection of the Santoro Family Mob like a goddess returning to her people(well, she did. The others didn't seem nearly as impressed and/or pleased). Recognition was instantaneous.

"I think it's safe to say the meeting's cancelled. Come on, let's go," Martin said, spinning on his heel and nearly avoiding beefcake number four with his wind machine. It was far too early for this, although, to be fair, it would never be the right time for this in Martin's opinion. It had been years since he'd seen the eldest Santoro girl, but not nearly long enough for him to expect a pleasant meeting with her arrival.

Jude, on the other hand, was beaming and grabbed Martin by the wrist. Their thoughts went along the same strain, but rather than being tense about whatever insanity was to follow, Jude was more than pleased to see Eleonora returned. She, he was convinced, was going to make things even more interesting than the motley crew collected in the meeting room already would have.

"Now, now, Marty, this is a very important meeting. Can't just leave, now can we?" Martin wanted to reply that, yes, of course they could, but Jude was a force of nature making resistance futile as he dragged Martin into the room behind him.

"What a pity. I would have loved to see that entrance," Jude commented, skirting around the Santoro twins with a smile and a wink for the prodigal daughter returned before finding his way to the same seat he'd always sat in since the beginning of his employment with the Santoro Family. Martin managed a little half-smile, well aware that eyes would probably brush right over him and onto the more obvious and more than likely clinically insane people and things in the room as he slid into a seat next to Jude.

"Our apologies, Don Carlos. We didn't mean to keep you waiting," Martin offered up quietly, threading a hand through his tangled hair as he tried to tame his mess of curls. It was, as always, completely ineffectual.

❂ ℓєѕℓιє янσ∂єѕ ❂

Leslie rode the elevator the whole way rested against the hand rail. The pain was beginning to grow irritating, and not necessarily in the usual way that it always was. There was nothing to do about it, but he traced through his actions of the previous night, recalling many of the details of the day which had put more stress on the limb and probably had caused the amplified ache. He sighed, tapping the end of his cane against the floor in aggravation. For the moment, his expression had dropped, but he quickly and effortlessly put a good face back on as he took note of the slowing elevator. Noise was welcoming him the moment the doors slid open and he made his way to the meeting room.

He took a deep breath, expression flinching to reveal his irritation for a mere second before composure had set back in, forced back on his face. He had managed to catch just about a second of the end of a spectacle; the overly-dramatized entrance of a tall beauty in blonde, and the interjection of Giovanni Santoro. A few large thugs shuffled about with odd objects, a few people weaved about them to get into the meeting room and get situated, and as Leslie drew closer, the tapping of his cane echoing audibly in the hall despite other noise clouding the space, he could see plenty of people were appropriately staying out of the matter, themselves. The idea seemed fair enough, no questions asked, as he paused by the door, leaning heavily on his cane and simply not having the energy to attempt to weave his already difficult to move body around some of the bodies that clung at the entrance with their odd objects and pointless duties.

One eyed him a mere moment before the concept to shuffle out of the way finally crossed him, and the unidentified man gave him just enough room to get through without hassle. Lez hobbled forward, slipping past without so much as a word. Perhaps on a better day he would have managed an 'excuse me' or even a sarcastic rendition of a 'thank you,' however, he found no ounce of remorse for saying nothing in his current state, only focusing on moving forward towards the closest available seat. While others were available in the room, it was an obvious choice to make as far as selecting one which required the least amount of effort to get to, after all.

"I apologize for the delay," He announced politely, directing at Mr. and Mrs. Santoro as he grabbed hold of the back of the chair for support, slowly lowering himself down to it. He suppressed an audible sign of the struggle by clenching his jaw when he let himself plop down, his bad leg outstretched in front of him for mere seconds before he brought it back to a normal position, letting his hand move from the back of the chair, the support no longer needed. He took a deep inhale, the hand with his cane still gripped firmly pressing against his thigh as if the pressure could help at least a little. He left the concept of further explanation hanging, but supposed it could not be helped much. Excuses were never his favorite activity, not unless one counted the lies he constantly told as a child. Now-a-days, he simply left people to speculate, and often it was far too easy for them to do so.

Leslie crossed his injured leg over the other, resting both hands on the silver hilt of his cane in front of him while he leaned back, letting his gaze circle around the room at the others who'd arrived before him. Just about everyone, actually, as far as he was sure, but he supposed it couldn't be helped. There was no going back around and taking a quicker, easier rout, waking up just a few minutes before the usual time. The point of dwelling on the situation was, however, nowhere in sight.

His eyes settled on a few people at a time; the Santoros, of course, along with Dickie Glenmore, Louis Cappola, Martin and Jude, Nico Kato, the list continued onward before Leslie decided to end his scan of the room. His gaze focused on the Santoros. After all, that was where the real point of the meeting was lying. Any simple person could detect the heaviness in the air, anyway, and it hardly took a rocket scientist to know who and where it was coming from. He let his quick glances fall upon one person at a time, before falling back to the Don, who seemed near plagued with the thought of the meeting ahead of him. No one could blame him, however, it was piquing Leslie's interest further into the event before him, to say the least. After all, it had seemed a bit more along the lines of mundane business at the start of the day, but the room was simply so... weighted. At the very least, Lez was sure that a show ensued.

Was it too much to ask that your family be happy – or at least only faintly disappointed – at your return?

Apparently so.

“Eleonora, darling, so nice for you to have joined us,” Adriana cooed. She sat primly by her husband’s side, the sole epitome of a good wife and every woman’s Botox dream. Of all her children, Eleonora was the one who most resembled her and her Polish descent, but they might as well have been strangers. Looking at her now, Leo felt the same void she always had before. As a child, she had stared, wide eyed, at the stunning woman who whispered sweet words by Alexandra’s ear and smiled proudly at her only son, wishing desperately that the same gentle gaze would be turned on her. She would tuck herself between Giovanni and the wall, praying that one day her mama would see her when she saw Vanni.

Fat hopes.

The void was like a black hole that devoured every particle of her being, and when there was no one left for it to consume, it devoured itself, until every wish and every fervent prayer was ground to dust.

She felt nothing when she looked at her mother but she wondered, every now and then, what her mother thought of her. If after Gio was born, Adriana felt rage and annoyance at having to endure the torture of prolonged labour to bring a second, less useful being to life. If she ever wished Alexandra had been Giovanni’s twin instead, so they hadn’t had to try for another better child to overshadow their failure. If it pained her to look at Eleonora despite what she doing, be it leaping across the stage as the company’s lead prima ballerina, or receiving her honours degrees from Harvard University. If it pained her to know that although Eleonora was too much, she would never enough.

Leo returned Adriana’s polite smile and replied, “Thank you.”

“Why would anyone faint over you? Because you’re ugly?”

She did not allow herself time to think or space to feel. Her eyes darted toward the source of the voice and she met his eyes without truly seeing him. “Oh, honey,” she whispered with a tone of soft sympathy. “Self-hatred is not the way.” She beamed at him. “We are twins who share numerous physical similarities, after all.” It was a reply entirely unlike the Leo they knew previously. When they were children, she would merely scowl and bark a similar insult back at him, something along the lines of, “Me, ugly? You’re ugly!” Now she regarded him like a stranger, speaking words the impulsive but furiously passionate Eleonora would never utter.

Her hair cascaded around her in smooth, sculpted waves, framing her body like a pale halo. When they were young, Leo had kept her hair in a messy braid trimmed to her shoulders. Three years and a million neglected phone calls later, her hair brushed the end of her tailbone, defeating every statement that “long hair [was] impractical” she had ever hissed. Over a dozen rings glinted at her ears where before they were bare. Her ballet schools had largely disapproved of body modifications.

“What a pity. I would have loved to see that entrance,” remarked a low voice. Eleonora turned to find none other than Jude King, although she liked to call him Judas. The first true grin emerged on her face. Judas was possibly the only of her father’s employees she could tolerate and perhaps even like, somewhat.

”At least someone’s happy to see me,” Leo remarked with a wink. However, her grin faded as quickly as it came. Her eyes wavered on Alaura but more than that, it lingered on the small creature settled between her and… She had known. Eleonora had known, but she felt the chains that encircled her heart jerk as it leapt forward, beating itself against her ribcage. The world seemed to pivot and she was crashing, screaming till her throat caved in on itself as swords pulled her flesh apart. She stared at the young boy for a few moments too long and distantly, she noted that the room had fallen silent, or had her mind ceased to function?

Her eyes drifted up and over to the man that stood next to the boy and her lungs tripped over the oxygen that forced its way inside, forcing her to breathe, to live, when she wanted to do anything but. She felt every ounce of pain crash into her like a tidal wave and she needed to scream. She wanted to leap forward and clutch Giovanni and beg for him to come back, to not give up on her, to love her. She wanted to rip every strand of hair from her scalp and shatter her skull against the prison walls of this building and the ones in her mind. She wanted to rip the child from their arms and tear his wife from limb to limb. She wanted to curl into herself like a dying star, for her body and soul to disappear into a supernova – at least then she might illuminate the sky and be beautiful, for once.

“Congratulations,” she said instead, a smile sitting frozen on her lips. “I’m sorry I missed your wedding.” Leo held an arm outstretched for a handshake to Alaura. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. You must be the beautiful Alaura I’ve heard so much about. Please, call me Leo. It’s lovely to meet you.” She crouched so she was level to their son. “And you must be the little prince. You’re very tall for your age! I guess you take after your daddy."

Mary mother of Christ.

Such thoughts rarely left his mind and exited his mouth. This particular moment took a lot of restrain however. There were not enough antacids in all of Massachusetts to get through this morning comfortably for Lou Coppola. The purposefully annoying spectacle which followed in on his proverbial coat tails, caused him to spin a full 180° to look back with a flash of stone-like ire. Very few things annoyed Lou more than wasting time, but disrespect -- disrespect was certainly on the short list. As initial perceptions would have it, Lou found this display to be a combined disrespectful waste of time. He definitely needed a Seltzer.

Eleonora was family by blood. That was something that doesn't just go away. Louis operated under this knowledge. His mind never considered taking action against the girl directly. The rest of these sons of bitches however...they were not family in the slightest. He turned with a half raised brow to the Don; as if asking to carry out some sort of order within a second of its delivery. Lou followed orders when he wasn't the biggest name in the room -- he didn't act impulsively. To his disappointment, there seemed no suggestion for him to place a call to have the man escorted out.

As a silent sigh escaped through his clinched teeth, Lou took a seat at his usual end; placing the folder he carried on the table in front of him, and swiveled back against the chair.



He quickly surveyed the rest of the invited party that had gathered. Truth be told, he was rather apathetic towards the lot of them -- body guards, bar tenders, escorts. The rest of them, he had some professional dealings with, but very rarely on a daily basis. He was pleased to see the lawyer roll in. He liked doing things properly, and the sooner they could get down to official business the better. Looking around the room only reinforced a notion that had been a long time coming: Lou was the old hand. This young faced collection of the families second generation was the wave of the future. A sign of the changing seasons and the introduction of a new way of doing business. One thing was now a reality however: the old and the new could not exist without the other. Not yet anyway.

Lou leaned his head back and swiveled the chair slowly to face the door. With his arms crossed over his chest, he let his eyes land once again on Leo's performers.

"How many cocks you think you have to suck before taking a job as a flower girl?"

He made the statement quietly, and to no one in particular. But his unblinking, emotionless gaze stayed heavily glued on the meaty individual that now busied himself with the cleaning of petals off of the floor. It was only until Giovanni himself entered the room did Lou start looking elsewhere. He sat silently, trying to pick out the emotional cues among those at play on this high stakes game board. He smirked slightly, as the kid sarcastically began to spar at the girl. Lou knew one thing for sure at this point: he could really use that antacid.

Max had been hit in his life more times than he could count. He had the scars, bruises, and the occasional hospital records to prove it...He grew up on the streets, lived with a bunch of mobsters, and had a mouth on him that would cost him his teeth one day. Thing was, he always at least saw the first punch coming.

Not this one.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. One moment he was fine, the next there was a flash, and then pain was irrupting from the same damn area that always got him in trouble: his mouth. It fucking hurt. Knuckles slammed into lips, skin ripped from being forced between bone, his teeth rattled so damn hard he thought he might actually lose one or all of them.

Normally, Max even knew how to get hit – roll with the punches and it doesn't hurt as bad. This time the only reason he moved was because the hit literally took him off his goddamned feet. He smacked into concrete steps on his ass, new pain sliding up his spine, before he spit blood off to his left and glared up at the asscake that just messed up his face.

The other guy, Sexy McScruffy, was holding off said Asscake. He could hear words, though they bounced around in his head and didn't really make any sense whatsoever, but it was obvious Asscake was being talked down. Max felt his fists curling at his sides, blunt fingernails digging into his palms.

He didn't get up, though. Just stayed on the ground, eyes narrowed, willing his ears to stop ringing. It was really only then that he actually realized he no longer had his lollipop...Asscake stole it. And Dropped it. On the ground. Then stomped on it mother fucker.

“Fucking cockwad,” he grumbled under his breath, feeling skin break beneath his nails. He didn't get angry a lot...but what was he going to do? Jump up and get the ever loving shit beat out of him? Because Asscake was twice his size...and probably more than a little mentally unstable. He cursed again as the men moved passed him, going for the door, and it was only just before he rubbed his bloody palms down his pants that he realized Sexy McScruffy had turned back to him.

"Right. Well." the man was digging around for something, and Max arched an eyebrow as he finally raised one of his hands to cup under his jaw. He probably looked like shit, he could feel blood traveling down his chin and just didn't want it all over his shirt...a handkerchief. He was being handed a handkerchief. Both of Max's eyebrows were up now, but after a minute he slowly reached out with his free hand to take the offered cloth. He barely had it in his grip before both men were disappearing into the building.

He stayed there for a minute, blood filling up his mouth while he pretty much regretted every life decision he ever made, then he leaned to the left again to spit out another glob of red before finally climbing to his feet.

He still had a couple of minutes before he had to be anywhere, so he took the elevator up to the third floor, keeping his mouth covered and his head down as he slid into the cafeteria, lifting a bottle of water and a salt shaker then sliding down the hall and into the mens restroom.

The handkerchief was already stained red by the time he got to soak it under warm water, but he could still use it to wipe up the mess then swish a bit of saltwater to make the bleeding stop. It took a good five minutes or so, but then he could see the damage. It could have been a lot worse...His lips would probably swell, probably bruise, but he had all his teeth so that was good enough for him. His bottom lip was split wide open, and he kept having to fight the urge to suck it into his mouth or it'd start bleeding again.

With a sigh he shook his head, rung the water out of the ruined handkerchief before running it under a hand drier, and stuffed it in his back pocket as he jogged towards one of the elevators.

---

Giovanni lingered in the doorway for a moment after his sister addressed him. Nothing in his expression gave him away, it was only his hesitation that hinted what he was thinking about. The words used...the tone...the general way she regarded him made his heart tighten in his chest. He was glad, now, that he hadn’t hugged her like he so desperately wanted.

He didn't move until Jude and Martin were sliding in the room next to him, maneuvering their way around both twins. He stood up straight then, reaching behind him to take Aluara's hand again and pull her into the room, picking a spot to sit just in front of his parents. Though he stayed standing, hands resting on the back of his wives chair.

"Our apologies, Don Carlos. We didn't mean to keep you waiting.” The don sighed at Martin's words, shaking his head lightly and dismissing the comment with a wave of his hand. He knew that this meeting was going to be a disaster...now there was just proof.

The generation was half filled with rambunctious young adults leveled out only with the few who knew what they were doing. Thankfully, with the entrance of Martin, Jude, and finally Leslie Rhodes after them made things a bit easier. He too apologized for being late, but Carlos was too exasperated to really care much.

It was then that the older man realized a new sense of heaviness weighing on the room. Elenora, seemingly for the first time, recognized Aluara Santoro was in the room. Gio was watching his sister, closely, hands lifting from the chair he was leaning on as if he might have to make some protective movement over his son or over her. Aryan, even, seemed closer to the small group than before.

Everything snapped back into place the moment Leo spoke, and Gio seemed to relax only a little, his hands falling gently onto his wives shoulders while he smiled softly down at Alphie in her arms. “He is,” he murmured. “More than you can imagine.”

Crisis adverted, Carlos deflated slightly, only really long enough to catch the look Lou shot him. He hesitated for a moment, going over his options, but this morning was too important...his eldest daughter too unpredictable, and he ended up shaking his head once.

Maxwell Parks slid into the room finally, his head ducked and one hand rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to inconspicuously make it to one of the chairs by the door. He didn't, of course, because he was a klutz and tripped at least twice before managing to sit down.

"How many cocks you think you have to suck before taking a job as a flower girl?” His bright blue eyes glanced up at Louie's comment, soon followed by an arched eyebrow as he glanced back at on of Eleonora's men who had just finished gathering petals off the ground. He let out a snort, covering his mouth when he did, and muttered a: “More than me. Fuck, that's a lot...”

Eleonora turned away from Alaura then, a very serious expression on her face as she pointed her gaze towards Fast Louie. “Fourty-two,” she answered, as if she was stating a fact as simple and unarguable as the color of the sky.

Max laughed, hard, grabbing his sides and shaking his head. “I stand corrected.”

Gio made a face, leaving the others to converse amongst themselves before he crossed the room. “What are you doing here?” he asked, and knew that something was wrong the moment Max just shrugged. The kid was much too verbal to just shrug. “Max~” he tried to lean down to the blonde's level, but when Max moved backwards, Gio shot out his hand to grab the kid by the chin.

Max squeaked, looking up finally, and Gio felt a rush of anger. “Who hit you?” he demanded, eyes glazing over the freshly split lip, light bruising appearing around the kid's mouth. Max jerked his head back, opening his mouth to pop off something he was certain Aluara needed to cover their sons ears for, but then he...froze.

Gio arched an expectant eyebrow, following Max's gaze to the opposite end of the room...landing on Jude King. Of all people. “Ohmygod, Maxwell!” He dropped his head, running a hand down his face as he groaned. “You were not soliciting sex in front of the building again...!”

“...no?”

A snap of something hard and plastic demanded the room's attention then, and silence feel as Giovanni looked up at his mother who had purposely dropped her binder against the desk. “I think that's enough,” she said clearly, running her fingers through her dark hair. “If everyone would, please, sit down and gather around, there are some important announcements that need to be made.”

Within the interior of the meeting room was a thick, cloying tension, an additional heaviness in the air that weighed down on anyone observant enough to notice the situation. This was not singularly abnormal, however, when it came to meetings with the Santoro mob. Granted the addition of the eldest daughter giving out false platitudes towards her brother's family- Martin would rather not ruminate on what exactly was going on there, thanks very much- was an oddity, but this was around what Martin had expected. If you place enough big egos into one room, they're sure to clash, battling for dominance, and everything was just a hair's breadth away from total chaos, only the few societal norms that the mob actually clung to keeping it from devolving into hysteria. It was, Martin decided as he sank further into his chair, way too early for this.

While Jude watched on as the last members of their motley gathering filtered into the room, Martin pushed up his glasses, rubbing tired eyes with one hand. It had only been a few hours ago that he'd been in this very building, sequestered in his office like the good little worker he was, working until the time shifted from late to early on an account from a new business partner in Saudi Arabia. He was running on little sleep and even the caffeine boost from the tea Jude had broken into his apartment to fix for him(which was still vaguely kind in a psychotic sort of way) had begun to fade from his system. Maybe, when he had these early morning meetings, he should at least try coffee again…? Or maybe a coffee drink filled with so much sugar and chocolate that the coffee was just hinted at?

Jude, on the other hand, was as awake as anyone could claim to be this early in the morning, sharp eyes surveying the room. There was this delightful tension in the room, thick enough to cut with a knife- something that he'd be tempted to attempt for boredom's sake but refrained from doing so because half of the people in the room would not react well to seeing an open knife, no matter who's holding the blade. However, quite unfortunately, everything had come to a standstill, only the deliciously fake trivialities passed between the blood members of the Santoro family(Eleonora, he was quite sure, was far too like himself for him to fall for her innocent sister act) and the caustic wit of one Fast Louie doing anything to break the tedium. That is, until the distinct sound of stumbling caught his attention. It couldn't be- his grin grew to levels that would put the Cheshire Cat to shame. Oh, oh this was fantastic, wasn't it?

Martin was woken from his sleep-deprived stupor by a finger being pressed incessantly into his side. There was only one person he knew that invaded his personal space with such ease and eagerness. He slid his glasses back into place and noticed two things. One, Giovanni Santoro was fretting over someone in the middle of the meeting room with, which, considering it wasn't anyone Martin instantly recognized, was a bit odd. And, two, Jude was beaming at him, eyes glittering with barely contained mirth, which either meant that he'd thought of something hilarious or was about to do something socially unacceptable, or, more likely than not, a combination between the two.

"What…?" Then it clicked. Oh. Oh, Lord. The boy currently being fawned over by the Don's son was the boy from earlier, lip split open but the blood already starting to congeal. And here was Jude, beaming and still poking him incessantly, like a child showing off a homework assignment to his parent that he'd gotten a smiley face on. 'See, Marty?' Jude's expression eagerly conveyed, 'Didn't I do good? That is a bloody fantastic split lip.' Martin groaned quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose. What were the odds? Fantastic. Fan-freaking-tastic. It was far too early for this.

"Who hit you?" The question rang in the duo's ears as Martin sank lower in his chair and Jude straightened up, hands clasped in front of him, smile shrinking from a beaming grin to a content smile, an artist waiting humbly for appropriate acknowledgement for his work. He wasn't disappointed as anger flashed to realization to shock to rage on the Santoro boy's face, rounding on the poof with all of disbelief he could muster. Martin, who would have preferred never to meet their little friend ever again, just sighed for the third time that day.

The sound of plastic clattering across the meeting table drew both of their attentions and an immediate shift overtook the two men. Martin rose in his chair, back straightening out until he was once more seated like a normal human being, not like a teenager who was particularly embarrassed by whoever they were with. His tired eyes gained focus, leveling on the Don and Donna of the Santoro family with all of the attention a meeting like this required. Jude, on the other hand, swiveled in his seat to face Don Carlos and his wife, elbows pressed against the table as he leaned towards them, all of his attention now solely on them.

The announcement wasn't a complete surprise- the rumor had made its way around the office gossip mill several times by now and it seemed, if not optimal, then inevitable that it would be Giovanni Santoro who would be named as the new Don when his father officially retired from the business. Still, to hear it spoken by the man himself was enough to bring its own shock with it. As the assignments were administered, Jude's smile completely faded away, lips pressed into a thin line as his eyes darted over to the boy who had the gaul to think he could become the Santoro's family next Don after the shit he tried to pull only a few years back. He was weak and had yet to earn respect from the consummate professionals in the room, which made him seem terribly inadequate.

Eleonora fled first, her excuse about parking meters hollow and as obvious a lie as any, and Jude was sorely tempted to join her, to leave the room and jump ship before it could officially sink with this wrong choice when a hand caught his wrist in a tight grip. Martin wasn't looking at him, was instead staring ahead as he had before, posture upright and head bobbing in an understanding nod. Jude sat back as Martin relinquished his grip, his initial ire quelled as reality set in as dictated by Martin's simple gesture.

Martin, in comparison to everyone else in the room, was in a unique position. He hadn't grown up fighting the man from the bottom of society, had never known the need or environment that drove men and women to break laws with little care. He hadn't grown up in a wealthy family either, hadn't known what it was like to be in power over others. No, for the entirety of his life he had been somewhere in the middle, a subservient sort of role. It made him realize something that perhaps no one else in the room had; leaving wasn't an option. It was just a pretty phrase meant to calm and cajole, but he knew, he knew that none of them ever really had the option to say so long and waltz out those doors for good. Not here, not now.

"I take it that we're going to begin immediately," He said dryly as he made steady eye contact with her, voice calm despite the situation.