Despite the jaunty tune the quartet played in one of the corners of the expansive space (though somehow intimate in its arrangement) Ares could not still the beating of his heart. He was surprised when he held his water, the entirety of the drink did not spill out, for his hand shook like an old man's. With his nerves, he felt out of place in the relaxed, bubbly atmosphere of the social club.
It all started in a dingy room clung with cigar smoke and despair. He had stood, back pin-straight, head full of hope and expectation, as the overweight and tired looking detective pushed a manila folder towards him from across the oak desk that he sat.
The man had laughed, causing a puff of gray smoke to billow from his pipe, when Ares flipped open the folder and examined the casefile carefully. "Good luck," the man snorted, each exhale of air filled with that awful smelling smoke. "I don't know why they keep assignin' the rookies to this case." When Ares turned his back and pushed past the blinded door, he had thought he heard the man mutter, "Another good kid, gone."
The brick-stoned city was plagued with a criminal problem. There were the typical cat burglars, robberies, even murders, sure. But crawling beneath the asphalt ran a criminal underworld so large and twisted that it was impossible to stop. When one head was cut off, two grew back in its place. Ares' family was famous for pledging to rid the city of this underworld, particularly, the mafia's hold over it. If the operation were the veins, the blood stream, the mafia was the heart, pumping resources and life into it. Ares' father had just retired and Ares, fresh out of the police academy, was determined to dig his nails in and continue on his legacy.
To his surprise, his career had started at the top- to one of the high profile mafia bosses that supposedly controlled a large part of the city. From the intel gathered before, it appeared that the man, one "Etienne Blanchard", perused a club called "Solstice". So lead him here, to the social club, really a floor of tables and sofas before a large stage in the front and a smaller stage in the corner where the band currently played.
Ares sat at one of these tables. He was dressed in a smart looking solid tan blazer, a brown fedora perched on bed of curly, tawny hair. He had not the time to grease it that morning, so he hoped the fedora covered up any offending fly aways. The minutes crawled by and after a half an hour of keeping his eyes sharp over the daily tabloid, he allowed himself a reprieve. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, a lighter from inside his blazer, and flicked on the light. The tip of his spliff flashed like dying embers.
The Blanchard crime family. Started by his parents before him — ruled now by their only son and heir to their fortune, Étienne Blanchard. A man born into crime and taught to live and thrive amongst the chaos of the streets. A life of brutality and wit, two things that a person required in order to rule over the underworld of the city. There was no brutality without wit — the cops were like hungry, rabid dogs, still starved even a decade after the second world war had already finished. They were looking for something to pin to their badges and gloat over, and their eyes had been on his throne for a long time. But just as many times as they thought they could bring him down, Étienne proved them wrong. He simply had too many pawns in the chess game to lose his king that easily.
One would think such arrogance would bring a man to his knees quickly — but not Étienne. He was smart, and knew just how far to push the game. Which is why he had no qualms about showing his face in public, an arrogant smirk that hid the true face of a mastermind enjoying the way he could flaunt his power in front of others. Tonight was no different, his rolls royce rolling up to the entrance of Solstice, a particularly favourite club of his. It helped they often did dirty work for him on the down low, hidden somewhere in the basement where the detectives had yet to sniff it out.
The man's driver exits his door and heads to the back, where he opens the door for the mafia king himself. Étienne steps out from the car dressed to the nines in a striped black suit, fedora accompanying his slicked back hair and black leather gloves concealing the family ring hidden on his finger. The man lingers just long enough for a svelte young lady to exit the car alongside him — a woman who, for all intents and purposes, played her job well as the family's mistress. In such times it was a requirement, but the two of them had an agreement with one another. She merely played the part, but their personal lives never intersected with one another.
Étienne leaves the car and heads into the club, flanked by men and women of various standings in the family. The thick, cloying scent of smoke reaches him as he enters the club, and Étienne enjoys the stench for a second before the establishment's owners rush over to greet him. Formalities are exchanged between one another before he and the rest of his unit are lead somewhere towards the back of the clubs — the more restricted area, where only those from the mafia are allowed to sit. They're close to the stage, but still concealed enough that they're somewhat hidden amongst the dark mood lighting of the club. Étienne takes a place in a booth, alone save for the woman still plastered up against his side. He orders a stiff drink as he too finally takes out a cigarette and lights it, the orange glow illuminating his face as eyes casually drink in the rest of the customers enjoying the evening.
For many, he and his gang would look like nothing more than a band of customers drinking expensive liquor and enjoying the night life. But for those that knew the darker side of the streets, it was very clear they were mafia, their imposing domination of the space making it very clear.
The conversation that rolled around him died, to where the hushes of whispers could be heard. The quartet ceased playing, and at first, Ares thought the dying of music meant they were done with their number. But the silence stretched out for a moment too long and the detective sensed something was wrong. Green eyes flashed over the top of his newspaper to see a gaggle of impeccably dressed men and women enter the club. The way eyes followed them, while their confidence radiated like night lights in an electric city, Ares knew- this was the mafia, and one of them was Blanchard.
Etienne Blanchard was instantly recognizable. The black-and-white headshot that was presented to Ares did not fully portray the man's beauty. Sharp roman features, darkened hair slicked back under a crisp, black fedora, an air of arrogance about his long steps- Ares found he had stopped breathing, joining the collective withheld breath around him.
The group seated themselves in a section fenced off with velvet rope, guarded by a burly and very mean-looking man. Conversation regained traction then and the club fell into its usual routine, the quartet starting up its jaunty tune and laughter splitting the hazy air. But Ares had lowered his newspaper, readjusted his blazer. His hand went to the weapon concealed at his belt, a handsome revolver, while a sense of paranoia suddenly clutched onto him. He was born into law enforcement, grew up hearing stories of his father's and uncles' greatness within the field, their dashing epics of impossible odds. But when Ares finally laid a naked gaze on the Blanchard, he felt out of his element.
Swallowing his feat, Ares lifted himself up to his feet, casually as he could. He would stick to the plan- mask himself as an upstart looking to become big within the scene. A singer, an entertainer, enthralled by Etienne's suave. With his youthful looks, and admittedly similar circumstance to the fictional act, he could play the part well. Hoping his knees did not shake through his slacks, he approached the VIP section.
It would have looked confident, it would have played well. But Ares had to have become distracted by the way Etienne's strong fingers wrapped themselves around a spliff, had to make accidental eye contact with one of Etienne's men who saw him staring. He only noticed the waitress crossing paths him when it was too late, when he'd knocked her over, with the tray she precariously and deftly carried on manicured fingertips, into the velvet rope. It knocked the entire barrier back, slamming onto the marbled floor cringefully loud and, to Ares' horror, fell onto the table Etienne sat at and shattered the majority of glasses. Ares froze instinctively, his heart racing and his face drowned white. He was looking directly at Etienne, petrified.
Posted 10-07-2021, 03:02 PM
This post was last modified: 10-07-2021, 03:10 PM by Ares Wheeler
cruisin' for a bruisin' [ Mafia AU ]
