Chapter Text
What made a man?
It had been the everlasting question whispered from lips, uttered into the ether in complaint or pleasure alike, each opinion further complicating the other - almost as if centuries of sacrifice, death and war occurred to produce an answer to the ominous myth.
Was it the mere actions that made a man worthy of walking this earth with dignity and pride, chin up high? The pure strength, the mental blocks constructed? How fast he could draw a pistol and take a soul without hesitation?
Was it how long he waited before taking a life? The duration he would stare into the eyes of the victim, until the last light of life disappeared from their orbs?
How much blood coated their fingers, only to be scrubbed frantically later?
Or had it been how his body claimed others within the sheets?
To him, it was none of those qualities.
To him, the answer was rather quite simple, shaming the conquest and efforts of many in this cause.
It was sheer power - control laced in dominance that made a man. That distinguished the ones who were worthy.
Not the kind of power that made men bow, no. He had not been interested in artificial showcases of submission.
The power he sought was the kind that made the fire in glinting eyes turn into ice, that ran chills down the spine the moment his steps echoed into a room. The kind that announced presence even before the body appeared - the mere idea of him in proximity enough to shatter mental barriers.
He had learned it early on in life.
Forced through the circumstances that had brought him into this earth, with an empty nothingness seeping through his small fingers.
Power was not something he had been donned the privilege of the moment he opened his eyes into the back alleys of a long-forgotten banlieu, under a name that had fleeting weight yet no substance.
The promise of privilege staring at him right in the eye, yet far to the touch.
His was a power that rose from sheer ambition - and the willingness to cut anybody who dared step in his way.
It had been a trait he had carried with him through the adventure of life, like a blade strapped tight.
After all, a life wrapped in the guise of shadows and faintly resonated whispers, often times adorned with the crimson of blood spilling and smoke rising from the barrel - had not been for many men.
Weakness ran rampant in some if not many, resolves crumbling just when they think that they hit their limit.
Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont did not believe in limits.
Not when it came to how his life was structured.
For the unseeing eye, he had been yet another rich count running his wealth rampant, as far as it had reached.
For those who had an idea what to look for - he had been an enigma wrapped in the finest fabrics Paris ateliers could produce.
For those within the circles of the underworld - he had been the one they did not want to encounter unless they wanted to be erased from the face of the earth.
Out of the tables he had sat at over the years, not many had been meaningless dinners.
When he had entered a room of envoys and delegates, it had been with the intention to manipulate.
Only a small handful of situations came to mind where events happened without his control, where cogs turned and twisted without him conducting the speed. In the world he had so carefully curated and constructed with utmost thought into detail, not a soul breathed out of order. Not a single call went unanswered, a want dismissed.
Even a man like him had to admit - he had not been used to being an observer.
Yet, that day, he would enter the New York Continental not as a man with an obligation, but rather a watchful judge.
Among all the occasions, as an exception, he had not been there to change the course of history that one time.
He was there to bear witness it get rewritten in front of his bare eyes - something a man like him could not afford to miss. Someone who understood the shifts, the ebbs and flows of volatile power dynamics in their world.
Vincent had not been one for funerals - he had been around death way too many times to hold respect to the farewell of such a fragile thing. However, when duty had called to ensure the event had been conducted according to High Table standards - his interest had piqued.
The light incense of the chapel engulfed him, along with the flickering of candlelight scattered all around the room - elegance seeping through the air, the room the epitome of muted, somewhat feigned grief and politically spoken condolences.
He stood near the shadows in the rear, a crystal glass of something amber and aged wrapped in his fingers, his signet ring catching the light with the subtle movements. Black three-piece suit with satin lapels cut so sharp, his pants the finest of gray Italian wool. Fragments of leftover orange and yellow light catching his cheekbone, the blue grays scanning the room as they often did.
Shortly after, came the moment when Vincent had first laid eyes on you.
It had been an accidental gaze, he would tell himself, even though he did not believe in accidents. His eyes trailed with your frame, the focal point for some seconds now, watching you shake hands and accept condolences from a weapons dealer whose hands bore the scars of too many deals gone sideways.
Vincent raised his glass to savor another sip of his drink, letting the bitter taste burn his throat.
The first thing he noticed of you, had been the effortless grace.
There was a subtle command in how you moved - precision in each limb, each step taken with intention. It was not the kind of elegance that could be instilled through laborious years of training - it was one that people dreamed to be born with.
The kind that shone through the confinements of the skirt suit you donned, expertly tailored in the finest tweed.
A Camorra family brooch adorning your lapel, shining through the sombre. The tiny black veil in front your eyes providing refuge in case of unwanted eye contact.
A tasteful diamond ring adorning your left hand.
Vincent’s brow furrowed ever so slightly as the shine of the stone caught his eye in an angle.
Your movements too elegant, perhaps, for someone who had just buried the patriarch of their family.
He knew a performance when he saw one.
Yet another actor would slowly approach him, taking him out of his brief focus - the scent of expensive cologne laced with a hint of tension on his features, Santino d’Antonio greeted him with a brief handshake. The perfect example of a grieving son with his pressed suit. A show of measured strength meeting a counterpart.
A slow, courteous nod from the Marquis was his way of expressing his condolences.
“Marquis,” he would acknowledge, his voice neutral. “I imagine this is different than most ceremonies you’ve attended.”
There was a flicker of unknown origin in his gaze. “Fewer tears. More knives under coats.”
“Ah,” Santino would exclaim, a hint of a smile stretching his lips, “- then it must feel like home.”
To that, the Marquis responded in a slight smirk, taking another sip. Again, through some force of nature that he had not been made aware of - his eyes landed on you, after they lingered throughout the crowd of guests.
Much to his surprise, so did Santino’s.
“She carries herself well. Confident,” Vincent would exclaim, voice low but purposeful, his eyes briefly shifting to catch Santino’s.
“Camorra?”
A soft chuckle escaped Santino’s lips at the mention of you, his voice proud and almost hopeful.
“My fiancée.”
A soft shiver of unknown origin went down his spine upon the words. For a moment, the Marquis let the weight of the words hung between the pair of men - unexpected and unheard. Thick as the air surrounding them.
A short nod in acknowledgement of the news.
His smirk, however, did not betray him as it turned into something colder, sharper. The sound of his voice low, dangerous yet surprisingly light.
“It seems that mourning is only the opening act of this evening.”
Something lingering in the air whispered to him - that there would be blood that day.
He, out of all men, knew that there always was.