The Masquerade Ball (4)
“Zuzu,” Jamie’s voice broke through the quiet time Snow was having by himself. He jogged towards Snow, binding up like a wind up toy, flushed and glimmering with a bit of sweat.
“Have you seen Adriel?” He looked around as if expecting Grimm to materialize behind one of the flower arrangements. “He vanished like smoke. I blinked and poof, he was gone.”
Jamie took off his mask and used it as a make-shift hand fan, muttering to himself if it was supposed to be that hot in autumn.
Snow turned his head calmly and looked at Jamie. “He walked toward the side hall with his… master.” he said, eyes flitting toward the second floor where he saw shadows moving behind the tinted glass and up to the second floor. His eyes narrowed.
“Huh? Did he?” Jamie asked out of breath. He turned using his eyes to search for the run away Grimm.
The gala had been going on for hours, and he had spent most of it chasing Grimm. Although he didn’t do much at the gala or talk to anyone else, it was still fun having someone to annoy.
Snow gave a barely-there shrug. “Maybe he’s avoiding you.”
Jamie scoffed. “Rude. Who would want to avoid me?”
Snow didn’t say anything, just turned around and hummed. His tone carried a hint of dry mockery.
Jamie clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “Dang, Zuzu.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jamie said, completely undeterred. “I’m going to find him, You’ll be alright, yes?”
Jamie didn’t wait for Snow’s reply and just walked right off, disappearing and mixing with the crowd. Snow watched him jog off with a fond sort of sigh, then turned his eyes back to the windows, the starry nights. It was starting to get late and he was wondering if he should just go ahead and call it a night.
Before he could come to a conclusion of leaving, the quiet knocking of shoes announced a figure approaching him. He once again turned and saw the waiter in his neat uniform walking in his direction.
“Mr. Snow?” The waiter asked cautiously only when he reached Snow.
“Mn,”
The waiter nodded and smiled after confirming his identity. “From Mr. Vargrave”
The waiter handed Snow a small note and walked away, not sparing any room for questions or small talk.
Snow looked at the small wheat coloured note in his hands and flipped it over.
The first thing that stabbed at his eyes was the incredibly messy handwriting, so messy it might as well been written by a three year old. The scrawled writing was almost unintelligible to read, but Snow could tell it was a phone number. At the very edge of the note was a name.
Sully.
Snow raised an eyebrow in amusement. This was definitely something, his eyes trailed back to the stairs to the second floor.
Sulien and Grimm stepped out of the glass elevators into the penthouse of the Ainsworth building. The design was minimalistic and simple, with clean lines and spaciousness that made the air feel crisper and more refined. Below them, the gala still hummed with soft music, a gentle reminder that the night was no where over.
Michael quietly led them through the heavily guarded corridor toward a private room at the end of the penthouse. He paused by the door, offered Sulien a quiet nod of parting, then turned and left, leaving them to face the Orlov Bratva alone.
Sulien adjusted his cuffs with slow, controlled movements. At a glance from him, Grimm nodded, understanding the unspoken command. The mask of his alias, Rhys Vargrave, sat comfortably on Sulien’s face like second skin.
Grimm opened the door for him and stepped aside. He watched as his master disappeared inside, then took his position by the entrance just outside the room.
Inside, Roman Orlov sat with the nonchalant ease on a chair. His broad shoulders and shaved head was the most prominent features Sulien could catch, and he looked at Sulien like someone who was way beneath him. Roman was quietly flanked by two bodyguards who kept one of their hands hovering near the concealed holsters beneath their coats.
“Mr. Vargrave,” Roman spoke in a thick Russian accent with his thin lips, “You’ve come far. The Ainsworths and Korran speak well of you. But then again, the British are easily impressed.”
Sulien just shrugged and opened his mouth to speak. “It’s a pleasure to finally speak to you face to face”
Orlov didn’t return the gesture, he just picked up a cigar from the table and allowed one of his men light it. “Everyone wants to speak to me but no one has spoken anything I find interesting. Are you the same?” He took a long drag of the cigar.
Sulien smiled, unbothered. “I don’t like wasting my time either, so rest assured, I don’t talk shit either”
Roman said nothing for a moment.
“Help me claim the Hydemoors and your gain will be bountiful” Sulien said sharply, his eyes narrowing.
“You speak boldly for someone without power.”
Sulien wasn’t the least bit bothered when he heard that, after all he was using the identity of Rhys Vargrave. He was a man that believed in actions more than he did words. He reached up and slowly removed his mask, walking to wards the table in front of Roman, he dropped the mask directly in front of him.
“Because I’m not just a man from nowhere.”
For a breath, the room went silent as if holding its breath. One of the aides in the corner straightened abruptly. Another whispered to a colleague.
“Sulien Vexley?” The name scattered across the room like shattered glass.
Roman’s face remained still, though something sparked behind his gaze. He set the cigar down, his eyes narrowing. It was obvious that he had become weary.
The Russian patriarch let out a low, amused grunt. Then he nodded once then leaned back. “Vexley, who would have guessed? And Vargrave?”
“Dead.”
“Hmm…” Roman looked Sulien who at some point leaned on the table in front of him. “What is your goal with the Hydra?”
Hydra, the formal clan name of the Hydemoors, a group steadily rising in influence after the Donovans disappeared. Though Northern English by origin, their roots ran deep in both the Chinese and Spanish mafias. Now, they're climbing the ranks fast, taking advantage of whatever remnants the Donovans may left behind.
The Hydemoors had begun courting the Russians, scheming to become the first clan to unite all major syndicates under one rule, theirs. Somehow, the other clans hadn’t yet pieced that that was their true purpose. But Sulien had.
And he couldn’t allow it, not if he intended for his own clan to survive.
“That is for me to know.” Sulien finally said after a long pause. He stood up and dusted imaginary dirt off his trousers. “Name your price. I trust you’ll do the smart thing. We are currently leading in weaponry and information”
The corners of Roman’s mouth twitched upward. “Can you give me what I want?”
Sulien shrugged as if not caring to give him a definite answer. “We’ll see,” He said softly, lips stretched wide in a smile.
Roman looked at Sulien for a long time, then sighed. “I will consider your offer. But we are not one to betray an ally. Hydra offers a lot.”
Sulien said nothing as he turned to leave. He would admit that he really needed the help from the Orlovs, but showing even a tiny bit of desperation would diminish the respect his clan has built.
So… He had to act like he didn’t give a shit. Like he was doing the Orlov’s a favour for letting them join his cause.
Sulien felt like he was being watched and inclined his head. Turning subtly, he caught Valeriya’s gaze across the very edge of the room.
Her lips were painted wine-red, eyes masked behind gold lace. She sipped something dark from a crystal flute as she maintained eye contact, never looking away. She gave Sulien a smile and tilted her glass slightly toward him, but he knew it wasn’t a toast.
Sulien smiled.
He was going to get what he wanted, one way or the other.
The Author has Something to Say:
XL (flipping the note in his hand front and back): What the hell?
Sulien: What
XL (Looking at Sulien dumbfoundedly): Are your hands fucking broken?
Sulien:…