Fractions In Rain

I bled. I cried. I apologized.

Now forgive me.

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There’s something sinister and cruel about making someone wait. They know what’s coming. They know the storm is on its way. But when...thats the real trouble. When will it come? When. When. When. When?! But that was your plan, wasn’t it? She marked me, so you marked me worse. You made me wait... to think about my sins. You asked me if it was worth it. If she was worth it.

No. Never. Because I fucking want you. Only you. And I’d choose you again and again. I’d tear my heart out for you. I’d break my own bones, my ankles and dance for you. I would bring you the moon if you asked for it. I’d break myself if it’d mean you’d be okay. So here I sit with my sin. And I wait. And wait. And wait...wondering when.

There are some places you go when you cannot rest.

When you lose the one you love.

They say your soul crosses over to the other side. What comes back is a shadow.

What comes back cannot be bought or sold. It cannot be burned or drowned.

But he came back for love. For vengeance.

And she gave him the last gold coin.

JW. Blood of The Raven King.

New Chapter Coming Sunday.

Color conveys an important role in John Wick (2014), helping distinguish the two major moments in the film: the greenish blue and black tones portraying the melancholy and sadness of John’s loss; and the electric neons that accentuate the anger and pursue of revenge. A way of showing, through aesthetics, the seductive and addictive power of violence.

Why don't you listen?

Saw John Wick a couple of days ago and made this to process the ending :’)

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[my social media links]

And one day.... She'll take it all back.

JW. Blood of The Raven King

One likes to think there’s something in it, that old platitude amor vincit omnia. But if I’ve learned one thing in my short sad life, it is that that particular platitude is a lie. Love doesn’t conquer everything. And whoever thinks it does is a fool.

Meanwhile, within the private confines of his office, Santino leaned into his window frame watching a flock of doves in the garden below as they bathed happily in the stone fountain, chirping to themselves in the afternoon sunlight. He was immensely glad to be home at last. He enjoyed international travel even if the different time zones tired him. Regardless, he found nervous reserves of excitable energy the moment the plane landed, to go out, breathe foreign air. Explore. He'd been to every corner of the globe he could attend, maxing out his passport twice before he was even twenty-eight. No sooner did he land in one city than he wanted to strip it of its beauty and riches and take flight to another. The food, the music, the women, history, art, architecture. They all enthralled him, captivated and enlightened him. His favourite was always travelling across Asia. Singapore, Thailand, Malaysia, China, Japan. So much history, it made him dizzy. The temples fascinated him. The monks and their chanting, their combat. The way they could meditate for hours on end, removing their souls from the living world yet remaining present, focused. Incredible.

Yet, no matter where in the world he went, there was never any place like Rome. His homeland. His birth nation. Here is where he belonged. Where he felt freer and safer than any destination ever before. He would jet set off for months on end, restless, hungry for more... but Rome called him back. A lover to her breasts. He sank into her tender embrace. Here... in his estate, surrounded by his loved ones. This was where he needed to be. He loved London too, the empire humbled him, its vastness outstripping anything Italy was capable of producing in terms of sheer geometric land mass. The people were so unified, so patriotic and good-natured. A little rigid perhaps. Still very Victorian in their behaviours. The class divisions were clear amongst the people. The rich were rich, the poor were poor. A steady stream of middle-class citizens kept the nation rolling on the backs of hypocrisy and terminal bloodshed.

When he attended the Continental, he had no intention of staying any longer than it took to present his face to Athena with his High Guard. A token offering of respect. There were issues with minor gang members and lower Camorra mafia teams that ran a money-laundering racketeering ring along the red light district. Athena had written to him personally, inviting his attention. Inviting... Huh! He scoffed at that. She diplomatically demanded the Prince of Rome present himself in her nation to remind his men of the stringent rules of arranged compliance for their trade in her city... or they would meet with significant family losses. He was at a loss. Gianna gave the list of names a cursory glance and decided immediately that the work was beneath her. Her brother would dispatch on her behalf. She didn't waste her time with two-bit pistol-toting wannabe thugs. That was his job. And he resented her for it.

"Jon Marco è un tuo problema, Gianna, perché devo sempre fare il tuo lavoro sporco?" (Jon Marco is your problem, Gianna, why do I always have to do your dirty work?)

He'd argued with her.

"Perché mi devi, fratellino. Ti ho salvato la vita, mantieni l'ordine lungo la ragnatela. E smettila di darmi problemi. Ne ho abbastanza del tuo piagnisteo. Lavora, per una volta! Fuori dalla vagina di una donna." (Because you owe me, little brother. I saved your life, you keep order along the spiderweb. And stop giving me a hard time about it. I've had enough of your whining. Work, for once! Outside of a woman's vagina.)

Oh Gianna! She infuriated him beyond belief sometimes. That look of tense fury in her eyes, the way she looked down upon him, almost in faux pity. He'd warned her before that wouldn't think twice about slapping that narcissistic look off her face. He hated her puffed up, over-importance. Ever since their mother had left she had assumed the role of lady of the house. And Lorenzo had tolerated it. Allowing the bitch to push her weight around as though she owned the place. God! He argued with their father bitterly, swearing to the Gods that he would not spend another night under the same roof as her. And he didn't have to. For the moment he turned eighteen his father had bestowed this estate upon him with a look of relief.

What was that for? Was he so impossible to live with? It wasn't his fault, it was theirs! Gianna's mainly. He got on well with father. But that bitch sister of his... God!

Well, no matter. He shook the memory away and freed his phone from his trouser pocket, thumbing the screen absently and opening his banking app. He sought to review his statements for the last two months. What he was doing was stalling. He hadn't wanted to front to conversation with Judeth Clayton. That White Woman was... unnatural. Detached. Disassociated from the world around her. She lacked warmth, humility, presence. She was beautiful, yes, some eight or nine years his senior, but already the cracks in her beauty began to show. Those eyes... They haunted him. He found himself remembering them at the oddest occasions and with the memory came a crawling discomfort in his chest. The English were too militant. Too rigid. There was something never quite right about them. Some sort of dark discipline that permeated their presence and stripped the air of its joy. He didn't want to face the call. The berating he knew he was in for. The whole affair in the Continental with Sable and Hector and Lalienna had unhinged a portion f his sanity, leaving him feeling disconnected and powerless. He couldn't accept it. At least here, in Rome he was lord of his own means once more. He needn't fear the oppression of another ruler. He could manage his father. He could manage Gianna. Everything seemed a hundred times more manageable now.

Sort of.

He was unaccustomed to being made to wait or having his summons ignored. It offended him that Lalienna did not present herself at his table for breakfast. She'd not attended lunch either. Nor had Ares. He would make allowances and swallow his displeasure for now. The girl meant no offense and he sympathised with her plight at being transplanted so wilfully across whole countries to please him. She would need time to adjust. Gather herself. They both needed time to heal. To his heart, healing began in the intimate embrace of her body. He'd enjoyed her vigour, her rejuvenating sensuality and nearly unquenchable thirst for heated, passionate love making. He never rejected her advances, relishing in her need to explore his physical terrain, testing the skin to see what would give way beneath her fingers. He rarely rejected her advances, even if he was tired or distracted or otherwise mentally engaged. She seemed to always find a way of dominating his will, to bring him back to her body. He bled himself to love her. But the trip to Austria had been a veiled blessing. In a way, he needed the solitude and distance to ground himself. He'd felt it coming on multiple occasions that in each session of passionate embraces, he was losing something of himself in light of relinquishing it to her needs. She was draining him of his spirit. Through his cock, it seemed.

Until her affair left him cold. Then it had all changed. He was no longer warm and yielding. Rather, he'd pushed her way entirely. Abandoning her to her private demons.

What a nightmare. He didn't think he'd ever be able to look upon London the same way again. That city had brought with it demons and nightmares he was not prepared to endure. And prayed he'd never have to again.

Something wasn't right. Among his men. Among Christov and Hector and Ares. They...they were distracted. Preoccupied at the table. They looked to each other and the rest as if they were in the midst of uncovering something great and he was not part of the unveiling. He couldn't put his finger on it. Perhaps it was just tiredness. Lalienna had not attended his needs for days. Then again, he wasn't the same young man he was at twenty-one. His ravening after sex was better controlled. He relaxed knowing he had a Mistress to attend him when and if he desired it. And she was explosive in his bed. But not recently.

He pushed the thought away and with it, righted himself from the window frame, clearing the room and seating himself heavily into his sofa. He closed his banking app and pulled up his contacts, scrolling until Judeth's surname appeared on screen. He connected the call... and waited.

Within three rings the woman answered in alarmingly clear Italian.

"Buon pomeriggio signor D'Antonio." (Good afternoon Mr. D'Antonio)

"Grazie, signora Clayton. Confido che il giorno ti abbia trattato gentilmente?" (Thank you, Lady Clayton. I trust the day has treated you kindly?)

"As well as can be expected. I thank you for your concern." She returned in English. Her Italian was clear and well elocuted, but her English... that accent made him feel things. She was positively delicious to listen to on the phone. He would enjoy this exchange after all. He remembered the power rush he'd gotten off meeting her face to face. The battle of wills between them. The game... It felt good, so long as he was winning. But he couldn't win her. Not for all his charm and swagger, he couldn't win her. So he'd try now. On the phone. The way he did Lalienna whilst he was nations away.  He licked his lower lip, leaning back into the tobacco coloured leather of his sofa and purring, almost sensually into the phone in his richly accented English.

"Lalienna tells me there is conversation pending between us. I called to push it into traction. How can I be of service, Lady Clayton?"

A heartbeat passed between them on the line. He'd chosen his words carefully. She was thinking. Her reaction was like a whip to the shoulder blades.

"You can start by telling me on whose authority you sought to transplant my daughter from English soil to Roman territory, Mr. D'Antonio."

Ouch! The sting. She was so direct. So... aggressive. So completely out of her depth. He liked it. He had her off balance. Which card would he play? How would the tarot fall?

He decided to take her with swords. That seemed the most prudent. The English understood power. Now he would show her his.

"My own authority. " He began, meeting her with a direct thrust. "Your daughter is now my employee, Lady Clayton. The Camorra has absorbed her assets, expenses and losses the moment she pledged her allegiance to my sister, Queen Regent, Gianna. Are you suggesting, we did not make it perfectly clear that she is our property now? She serves a new King , White Woman. Our King. And he is Roman."

God he was sharp. He spat the honorific almost as if it was distasteful. And it was. He had no love for the Tower, Athena or her Iron Fortuna syndicate. Their arrangement was purely statutory as far as he was concerned. A formality. He owed the English crown nothing.

She was silent for moments. Likely bleeding out slowly. But she returned to conversation presently and her tone betrayed no weakness.

"The Camorra has,  in recent memory, been an organization born and bred on the honour of family and its traditions, Sir. As such, I merely enquire as to why you have affronted me with the discourtesy of removing my daughter from the hands of her English Masters without, at bare minimum, a simple phone call to pre-empt me of your intentions to take her with you? Am I to believe I class so lowly; that I was not worthy of your attention? "

Bold move... She retaliated with veiled flattery and the hidden threat of a knife blade. He was stimulated. She was worthy even as she hinted on debasing herself.

"No! Perish the thought!" He assured her. "I admit, I was remiss in not calling to ask for your pardon. Even if I do not feel I had to." There it was, his fire. He threw it in her face and continued. "But I understand family more intimately than you would know, Signora. And I respect that I have caused you anxiety. I assure you, Lalienna is healthy and safe and will come to no harm in Rome under my care. The time has come that we complete her initiation under Lorenzo D'Antonio. Your Queen relinquished her on a political loophole. We merely caught her in the undertow. Her English "masters", as you call them, are as inconsequential to her wellbeing as are her ties to Iron Fortuna. " He meant to tell her that included her. But he held his tongue. He'd said enough. He would not allow this woman to dictate the terms of the agreement to him. What he did with the disowned was his business alone. He'd not justify himself to anyway save his father and sister and even then it was not without heavy resistance.

"I'm afraid her disassociation from my syndicate is not that simple, Mr D'Antonio.  There's still the matter of her hotel membership that needs to be settled."

"I personally take responsibility for her on-going maintenance. I will request Signore Jeremy dispatch her accounts to Signore Julius here in Rome."

"I decline your request, Mr. D'Antonio. Her residency in London's accounts department will stay exactly where they are."

"Scusami?" (Excuse me?) He straightened off the lounge now, raising his brow.

"I said, no, Mr. D'Antonio. I refuse to allow the Camorra Miss DeMentriento's retrenchment of financial maintenance until we formalize a grace period to establish her commission of service to Italy."

"Woah woah woah," He snapped, rising to his feet and pacing toward his fireplace. "There's nothing retrenched about her situation! She had promised herself to my family on her own word-"

"Three months." Judeth insisted, cutting him off cold. "Three months of probationary service and if you find she is unable to meet the needs of the Camorra based on her criteria, then you are to return her to independent service to The Continental London where she is to live and work unmolested and free of your entrapment, do I make myself clear, Mr. D'Antonio?"

The words stung like a slap to the face. He had no intention of enrolling Lalienna's service to his family with any probationary period let alone giving her back to Jermey and Sable if she failed her purpose... alive. He'd sooner break her neck himself than allow her to walk free with any knowledge that could be used against his family. This woman was insane! He told her so.

"Sei fuori di testa, signora!" (You're out of your damn mind, lady!)

"Don't you dare take that tone with me, Prince of Rome." The words like ice as they left her lips. "You don't get to fuck my daughter and then assume you have imperial ownership of her person just because you spilled your seed in her belly."

"Che cosa!?" (What?!) He snapped... completely beside himself. He couldn't believe what she was saying.

"You heard me, you degenerate slave trader. Lalienna's clearly a child. Barely able to wipe her own arse yet. Do you honestly think I'll allow you to chew her up and spit her out like some inconvenient whore? You, are the one who's out of his mind, Santino.  I may not have birthed her, but I spilled blood in her name well before you ever came to the English scene to pluck her from the wild. As far as I'm concerned, she's still an independent contractor on loan from London and will remain so for three months. I will ensure Lorenzo D'Antonio himself is aware of this arrangement and it will remain so, without breech of protocol or God help me I'll fly down there and stick something sharp in you, capisci, pasanio?" (understand, peasant?)

With that, Judeth disconnected the phone and returned it to her coat pocket, flicking up the collar against the Autumn wind. She'd had absolutely all she could stand of that idiot Italian and his self-proposing mind games. He sickened her. She was furious. Completely indignant of entire affair. No sooner did she begin her march across the quadrangle under the escort of her personal guard, than her phone rang again. Irritated she noted the name and answered. It was Sable this time.

"Clayton."

"Good afternoon Mistress Clayton. The Continental extends its compliments and wishes to invite you as its guest to join us for dinner this evening." Still seething from her attack on the Roman Prince, she bristled and responded far too sharply.

"With whom?"

"Me..." Came the reply. Velvet-like. Seductive. "I want you to join my private table for dinner Judeth. I want to talk to you about Lalienna's account."

"It's been paid for, Sable. You know this."

"Judeth... we're not talking about money here. We're talking about contractual obligations. For ten weeks we provided a service to your ward and I second that her bill has been settled. With interest. That's not the point. The point is... Twenty-four hours ago, your ward left English soil under the employ of the Italian mafia who are not known for leaving behind loose ends. I need to know if we're to transfer her paperwork to Rome or not. And considering how delicate this matter is to you, I thought it best you join me for supper first. A little wine perhaps."

When a pause was extended, he lowered his voice and continued. "Dessert."

"Sable...." She breathed the name, a heavy sigh. "Come to dinner, Mistress Clayton. Tonight. Table Twenty-One. Eight o'clock sharp. And wear a dress."

"...Fuck...."

"Dessert. Don't keep me waiting." Mmh. That felt good. He'd enjoyed that call. Sable wore a self satisfied smile as he put down the reception phone. He enjoyed Judeth's company. More than he should, he admitted. But it was good to hear her voice falter under pressure.

"Ladies, take over the desk will you. I'm going out for a little while."

"Ooh Sir!" The twins chimed in, all too happy to relieve the handsome gentlemen of his post.

"While that cat's away..." Sang Chantelle

"The mice....shall.....play...." Chervonne completed. Purring the line with suggestive undertone.

Sable stood proud, adjusting his leather gloves as he fixed the girls with a predatory glare.

"Don't wait up."

He turned on his heel and stalked away.

Tears formed in her jade eyes, lip quivering slightly. She held back a sob, taking a breath.

“You…you never wanted me?” It felt as though her heart was breaking. Literally. The strings of her cardiac muscles were snapping, leaving her in the worst pain she’s ever felt… and she’s felt a lot of shit. She’s been through the worst, through hell. But this…this was worse. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her lungs wouldn’t produce the oxygen needed to stay alive. God, make it stop. Stop it! She couldn’t handle it. She clutched her heart, squeezing the fabric of her shirt in her fists. Her eyes broke. They relayed how she felt. So so so so ruined. So torn. So…worthless. Thrown away.

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@f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat // here is your angst. Do with it what you will. ;) have fun, my angel of sadness.