The Play Of The Wicked


Indira.jpg Vaputero (NPC'd by Jaya)

Date: June 18, 2011
Location: Headwoman's Office, EW
Synopsis: The crimelord of Bitra stops by to meet the Weyr's Headwoman. The exchange of words, pleasantries and threats were in order.
Rating: PG-18 for some strong language and adult situation.
Logger: Jaya

It took a full day to reorganize themselves and wait for their men to arrive outside the Weyr before Vaputero Ilste decides to go exploring. It’s not that he hasn’t been to a Weyr before – in his early youth, he used to frequent Benden’s own since under the cover of trade business. It was the south that fascinated him, and those Holds and Weyrs present. There were new people and new places, and he wanted to make sure he has seen every inch of it before his home claimed him once more. Knowing full well that the young upstart-of-a-crimelord has men trailing behind him as if he was going to gut a man at any minute and on sight, the Bitran crimelord and his intimidating bulk stalk the inner caverns and halls with cold interest. It was definitely too much to ask to run into either Olira or Jaya, and so his explorations end up taking him to one the people he wanted to meet at the Weyr: the Weyr’s Headwoman. He stops just outside the door to the office, hands clasped behind his back before he looks the guard over and states crisply, “I want to meet with the Headwoman, Indira.” He already knew who she was, and he knew who her son was and wanted to see her for himself. Strangely enough, his second, Faust, is absent.

Doran, well aware of whom the man is that requests audience with the Headwoman of Eastern Weyr, is not in the least bit intimidated neither is he impressed, his visage a neutral canvas. “She’s been expecting you,” and only with those words does there come the barest trace of a smirk that it sits in the guard’s tone more than it does his expression. Reaching passed Vaputero, two sharp raps are delivered against the wood of the door before it’s opened and pushed inward, the hand gesture that follows ushering the Bitran inward.

Indira, as is to be expected, is seated behind that imposing desk of hers and looking every inch the perfectly groomed Headwoman. Dark blonde tresses have been tamed into a tight chignon worn low at the back of her neck that accentuates her cheekbones and lends her face a stern look of authority. The white blouse she wears is almost masculine in its crisp clean lines with just enough buttons left open at the neck to display slender collarbones and a hint of cleavage and is cinched at the waist with a wide black belt. The rest of her attire is of course hidden beneath the desk.

Expected. He was expected. Vaputero did not expect to hear that, but his stony expression never changes. He merely strides on through with no further words or gestures for Doran, now facing a immaculate Headwoman done up behind her desk. His own attire is crisp and one of Bitran make – A blue so deep it’s almost black and every inch of him looking like a dark dragonrider in leathers. Deep grey eyes take in Indira rather his surroundings as he approaches, slowly flowing over her frame and what he could see of it. There’s the barest glimmer of those unnerving eyes undressing her, but his guards are far too up right now to give it fuller inspection. Once he reaches the chair, he drops into it much like a Lord Holder would, and simply stares across the desk at her with those hard eyes. It’s a long moment before he speaks – his voice a mixture of rough quality of one of holdless stock, but touching on that manicured quality of a trader. Brushing the stubble of his chin with a big hand, eyes lift from what cleavage he could find on her to her face before breaking the silence with, “You must be Indira, the young crimelord’s mother.”

With the two rap knock having been a pre-arranged signal, Indira exhales a sharp breath but doesn’t look up and in fact keeps her attention fixed to the document she’s working on even as Vaputero strides on in and situates himself in the chair across from her, writing implement flying across the paper. She can feel his eyes on her like spinners crawling across her skin and she has to work hard to suppress the shudder that rises in response. Only when his gravely voice breaks the silence does the Headwoman set down her writing implement, move the document to one side and then slowly lift sloe eyes to the Bitran crimelord, a perfectly polite smile in place. “Vaputero, a pleasure I’m sure,” her husky voice stroking across the words as if she were speaking a lover’s name, “I trust you find your quarters to your liking?” Ever the gracious hostess.

Such kindness and ever the host is what has Vaputero lifting one brow at her. “I see we can move on from the name-giving,” he states when Indira drops his own. “So I suppose I have you to thank for such……accommodations.” He sits back with comfort, never taking leave of her face. Letting it linger on her face, “You are far more pleasant to look at than your son,” he gives her with one corner of his mouth twitching into something more cunning. “I take it he had gotten his looks from his sire?” Finger lifts to absently scratch at his stubble, watching her before adding, “I take it you know why I’m here, and what I want,” he muses, gauging her reaction and responses to his words.

Slender elegant hands clasp together before Indira on the desk and one corner of her mouth tilts upward in what looks to be an apologetic smile, “I am afraid their location was my idea. Though if they’re not to your liking we could always have you moved to the resident’s hallway. But take my word for it, it’s cluttered with young ‘uns running up and down and creating a noise.” There’s even a delicate shudder attached for such uncouth behaviour. Low laughter streaked with cunning that’s disguised in the husky quality of it, spills out, “Quite the charmer you are.” This stated as the Headwoman comes to her feet in a whisper of multi-layered skirts shaded from palest grey to midnight black and designed in such a way as to accentuate curves and the nipped in waist banded by her belt. “Oh but of course,” Indira replies moving toward a small cabinet nearby that holds a decanter and two glasses on a try, “You’re here to see your son.” As if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“It’s suitable enough,” Vaputero will play the man of courtesy when it pleases, and for now, it pleases. “Though, I imagine it would be more difficult to keep an eye on me and mine if I were to bunk in the resident’s hall.” He’s well aware of that and the men that tail his every step. “I have not received such….courtesy, in all my days as crimelord in Bitra,” he notes with an almost mocking incline of his head, “but I will suffer such….courtesies, if it pleases the Headwoman of Eastern Weyr.” On to charms, and the crimelord delivers a low, almost missed laughter that’s brief before he answers, “I’m in the presence of a civilized woman,” is his explanation for it. “I may be renegade, but I was in a position among civilized company once.” Company he is checking out in every shape and form, apparently. Indira’s answer as to why he was here was getting a curt smile now, the man watching her closely as she moves to retrieve the glasses before he answers her. “My son,” he repeats gravelly, nodding slowly. “Perhaps we can speak as parents. A mother understands the heart of a bereft father.” Or so he wants her to believe, maybe. Hands clasping together before him now, “And,” he adds as an after thought, “there’s an employee here of mine that your son wants me to believe has moved on. I see this Weyr is being used as a sort of …..haven, for fugitives on the run?”

“Your safety would certainly be a little more difficult to ensure,” Indira responds with a light smile flicked the Bitran’s way. Another low sound of husky amusement spills as she returns and sets the tray down just off to the side of Vaputero’s elbow. The soft clink of expensive crystal against crystal is heard as she pulls the stopper and starts to pour a measure of the rich dark liquid into each glass. She ignores the air of mockery about the man as leaning a hip against the desk she holds out a glass to him, sloe eyes setting the man with an intent look. “A civilized woman…” and for some reason, the Headwoman finds high amusement in that comment, “They failed to mention your wicked sense of humour, sir.” Pushing away from that casual lean she takes her glass with her and sinks gracefully back into her chair, leaning back in it as one leg crosses elegantly over the other. “The bond between father and son is strong,” she agrees smoothly and then taking a sip of the rich cognac pauses to savour the taste with a little sigh of appreciation falling from her lips. “So what is it you’re hoping for in seeing your son?” idle interest exhibited.

“Bajaya of the clan Dicori,” Indira doesn’t even try to affect ignorance on the topic of the man’s former employee though she neither confirms nor denies the woman’s continued presence or absence at the Weyr but instead, with the cunning smile of a feline sizing up its prey attached, queries his last. “And by the sound of it, you have a problem with the south,” the south in general, not just the Weyr, “being run as such? You know,” here she leans forward allowing for a brief flash of cleavage as she sets her glass down, “considering the manner in which your son came into being, one would assume that you would be glad of such safe haven as has been granted him.” The reason for that cunning flash of eyes delivered with all the nonchalance as if she were commenting on the weather.

There’s a faint smirk on the account of his ‘wicked sense of humor’, the big Bitran returning back, “So you’re not civilized? You will be bearing me your breasts, then and let that hair of yours fall free?” Vaputero has the grace to at least say such uncouth words with the utmost civilized air. Yeah, that’s his wicked sense of humor she’s talking about. Taking the glass then and lifting it briefly towards hers, the talk on his son gets measured silence before answering. “What I am hoping? I hope to see if my son is fit to be raised among dragonriders, for one thing,” the words come blunt. “I do not want him growing up with…..strange thoughts and teachings of this sort of place,” and a hand flicks to indicate the Weyr. “I imagine you would find that cruel of me to say,” he add, eyes boring into her. “But I am an outlaw. Your sort hunt down my sort on a daily basis. Call it a learned sentiment.”

When Indira flat out drops the name of his employee, Vaputero is quick to state, “I have a problem with the south taking what does not belong to them,” and in that, perhaps he’s lumping in Olira and his son, too. “Bajaya belongs in Bitra, in my care and those of her family. We left on bad terms from a minor squabble, I admit,” yeah, if you can call the slash down her face a ‘minor squabble’, “but all will be forgiven if I can just speak with her. She would understand the pressure I have been under these days. We understand each other so, so well. Do you know much about her clan?” The last along with that look from the Headwoman, almost seems expected. He finally takes a sip from the glass, eyes dropping to what cleavage he could see when she leans forward before he drains half the glass then and answers, “Tillek has done me a disservice. I paid back in kind. Did you expect me to be civilized about it?” He is not the least bit apologetic.

There is just the very faintest tightening at the corners of Indira’s eyes and the cognac is used to wash down the bile of revulsion that rises up when Vaputero puts words to her baring her breasts or loosing her hair for him. However, he receives little more than a dangerously sweet smile when her glass comes away from her lips. Those very lips then twitch at the Bitran’s next words and once again, she leans forward and deposits her glass on her desk. “Do I look like a dragonrider to you?” a brow arching in light challenge. “Strange thoughts and teachings…” she muses on those words for a moment, “would those be the ones that teach a man not to take what isn’t his and that the use and abuse of innocents is the coward’s way of doing business,” a cuttingly pointed look landing on the man before her, “or the ones that teach that knives are unnecessary in the face of a…minor squabble, was it?” The matter of his abuse against Olira and his claims to both his son and Jaya are into woven together into a neat package with those words.

“In your care…” Indira echoes his words once again as she leans back in her chair and laces her hands together over her abdomen. Tilting her head to one side she sets Vaputero with a long look and a slow and entirely calculating smile appears as she poses a question of her own, “Tell me good Sir, do you know much of the clan, Aloujah?” She being the last of the line of reputedly cruel and hard hunters of men and animal alike. A line that most are under the impression had died with her father and late uncle but instead, lives on through her and her son. A soft sound of disgust is finally allowed to spill free, lips curving about an entirely mocking smile, “You men, always thinking with your dicks.” That in open reference to the heinous crime commented against Olira, “Perhaps if you started using the heads on your shoulders you’d find life a whole lot simpler. But,” and here she lifts a hand and waves those words off airily, “you keep right on dismissing us,” women, “as being little more than a good fuck,” there goes the civilized Headwoman, “and ovens to bake your spawn in, for it suits our purposes for you to do so. However,” and here she places both hands to her desk and slowly stands to her feet, “don’t be surprised when you wake up one morning and find nothing but empty space between your legs where your balls used to be, hmm?” It’s not a threat, it’s a metaphorical remark made of the male gender in general. Or so the neutral smile the formidable blonde wears will convey.

“If dragonriders looked like you….” Is all Vaputero counters, his brows twitching upwards briefly before he briskly continues on to add, “Coward’s way. Funny. I still got my message across, coward or no.” He drains his glass then and sets it on the desk, nudging it forward in the purpose of receiving more. “Business is dirty, Headwoman, especially the business of outlaws. I don’t make the rules. I merely pay homage to them.” Leaning forward, “As for what’s unnecessary, it was either my face or hers. Lessons are paid in blood, not sweet-sounding words. I suppose she got my message, too, ir she wouldn’t be running so.” But then Indira brings up her family’s clan and he knows all about them. Leaning back slowly with just the tiniest smirk in place, “I do,” he confirms. “About as foul as Borrento and his sort. No wonder the two of yours resided in the Reaches. Perhaps the cold mountains have a tendency to breed such hard sorts. Do any of them even exist anymore?” Before Indira would be able to answer, Vaput would answer it for her with “Of course not. The Aloujahs are the fate of the Dicoris – soon to be phased out. That is the way of such families. Good to employ, but too destructive to their own ends.” His demeanor turns a shade colder to that mocking smile and sound of disgust, the man studying the glass before him through her words and threat. “Am I to be cowed by a woman’s words?” Grey eyes flick up to meet Indira’s own then. “If you aim to outright cut my dick off, step around this table and have at it. Better that than nattering at me with harper words on how us men should be using different heads. If I had, Kelarad’s cousin and that barkeep would not be breathing still.” Chin lifting with his eyes narrowing now before he adds, “So spare me the lesson, and the warning for what it is. I’ve heard enough of these wails over one woman to last me a whole turn. Has my son and his mother fled the Weyr like the Dicori suddenly has as well?” he asks coolly, returning somewhat to the matter at hand.

Nothing but another of those annoyingly unreadable smiles greets both the attempt at flattery and his response on cowardice. His nudge of glass is successful and another splash of the rich liquid is sent into it as a low laugh free of mirth spills. “You assume I’m scared to get my hands dirty,” Indira surmises by his comment. “How very…masculine of you,” her lightly condescending tone perhaps lends suggestion that she is one of those women that prefers the company of her own gender rather than that of the opposite sex. “Aaah,” the Headwoman breathes the sound out, it echoing off the glass that lifts to generous lips. Swallowing and then licking up a droplet. “Lessons are paid in blood,” she repeats as if she were learning an important lesson herself even adding a bit of a wide-eyed look for good measure. “So what you’re saying is basically…an eye for an eye? In other words, if he were of the persuasion to do so, our dear friend Kelarad of Tillek would then be well within his rights to bend you over a table and serve up the same kind of…lesson that you served to him through his cousin?” Sweetly innocent with an edge of coy is the look that flickers up to Vaputero as if she were a puppy looking for the pat on the head of its master for getting something right.

The decanter still in hand now lowers over her own glass as she tops up her drink, the immaculately turned out blonde leaning back again with an enigmatic little smile that leans toward a smirk touching her lips for his comment about the Aloujah clan. She of course, says nothing for where would be the fun in setting the man straight? There does however come a cold snap to dark eyes that’s reminiscent of those Reachian Mountains mentioned by the Bitran when he speaks of the Telgari barkeep but its there and gone so fast he may not pick up on the lethal warning it holds. Instead, she tips her head back and laughs, it saved from being a maniacal sound by the rich warmth and husk to her tone and then Indira utters a soft tsking sound, “And here I thought you to be an intelligent man. A pity, I’d had high hopes for you.” Whatever that’s supposed to mean. Dismissing the matter of Jaya’s absence with a flick of fingers a brow goes up, “Oh quite the contrary, sir. They have been apprised and are readied for your visit.” Aaand there’s that calculating look edged with the amusement of one engaged in a secret game understood by only themselves.

Reclaiming the glass once it’s filled again, “Most women are,” Vaputero states on getting hands dirty in a brisk manner. “It is the way of things. Perhaps you are of the small few that could skin a man alive.” An eye for an eye? That one gets laughter, though there’s a cold edge to it on the Tillekian crimelord paying such like homage to him. “So he’s a friend,” he picks that part up easily enough, raising the glass before tasting. “That would explain a few things. A friend to one is an enemy to the other?” Brow lifting at Indira, “A shame and a pity. Rest assured that Kelarad is not of that persuasion, nor will he ever get me bent over and legs spread. Sorry to disappoint.” Beat. “I trust the bar wench well enough, then?” he means of the man’s cousin. “Looking for revenge and eliciting the help of the whole Weyr to stamp the lights out of me? Hmmm,” and he tastes his drink again, as if the taste finally touches him. “I remember one such thinking to do the same. Can’t remember what ever happened to her,” and his eyes roll to the ceiling as he thinks on it more before shrugging and letting it go. “Ah well, such is life. Fleeting.”

The lethal warning, so there and gone, the Bitran is watching close enough to catch with some mirth. The laughter isn’t shared, the man holding to the drink and watching her before her words get a droll, “Beautiful you are, but aren’t too smart yourself. At least we can say that the feeling’s mutual on high hopes.” Then he permits himself to give a small smile, full and cool. Hearing that Olira is present and knows that he is here gets the perfunctory “Good. I expect no less. I intend to see her and my son soon.”

Perhaps she is one of those that could skin a man alive. That phrase draws a sharp glint of relish to sloe eyes along with a little twitch of lips as Indira studies the rich liquid in her glass for a moment. But by the time she looks up her expression is cleared of any tell-tale signs save for a dark blonde brow that arches upward. “Are you branding yourself my enemy?” Indira asks looking faintly amused by that. A sip of her drink is taken and then: “Is that what we’re doing?” another question asked on the heels of his comment about being stamped out by the Weyr at Olira’s behest. Leaning her head briefly against the back of her chair, she sets Vaputero with a darkly amused look, “Aye, such is life indeed.” The words purred out in a low tone that might come across as seductive to those unfortunate enough not to know the ways of the wily Headwoman.

Vaputero’s rejoinder on high hopes and intelligence or the lack thereof has Indira setting him with a contemplative look and then one corner of her mouth curls up. “Then we are of an accord, I’m too pretty to be clever enough to understand the way of men’s business and you too arrogantly male to understand where true threat lies. No wonder my Neratian friend finds you lot so amusing.” With that she rises gracefully and seeks to move around her desk toward the Bitran crimelord like a feline stalking her prey. Indira halts when she’s just off to the side of his shoulder and then reaching forward, right out across his personal space, she sets her glass back down onto the tray. Drawing back again there’s an almost condescending little pat of hand to his broad shoulder, “Never fear great crimelord of the North, you’ll see your son alright.” And that sounds almost ominous.

“Are you?” Vaputero is quick to turn that initial question right back on the Headwoman with slightly cunning amusement. “Do you relish playing these word games with me, Headwoman? Are you being merely protective of your son, or of those you have under your dragon wings? Am I that much of a threat to you and yours?” Yes, he will belittle himself and make himself appear as insignificant as he can towards all the ‘safety’ precautions being heaped up against him. Grey eyes narrow minutely to the threat of her Neratian friends, the return from the big Bitran being a lofty, “I’m sure they would find my lot amusing….until they have no voice or memory to what they were amused about in the first place.” Beat. “But we are of some accord, though I’m fairly sure you’re as clever as you seem. I think you know exactly what you’re doing,” he observes with a twitch of brows lifting upwards. He watches her equally predatory-like when Indira gets up from her seat and approaches, and he does no move when she leans forward to set her glass down. It’s only when she draws back and moves to deliver that pat to shoulder that a hand shoots out and grabs her wrist, and if succeeding he would try to pull the woman close and almost into his lap. To ominous words there’s laughter, the kind given with no warmth. “Oh you southern lot are a tunnelsnake bunch, are ya?” he hisses in his cold mirth, his grey eyes shining on her own if she’s close. “Far too cryptic for the likes of me! What is it, dear Headwoman, huh?” and he’ll put his face close to her own as if the man was going to kiss her, adding in that low, cunning voice, “Looking to lay a trap on me, is that it? Or perhaps it’s the trap between your legs that will cow the dirty likes of me, ehhh?” and if she’s not careful, the big Bitran will set his glass down to try and wrap his other arm about her waist.

“Tsk, can’t a woman enjoy a little banter here and there? It is the civilized way after all, is it not?” Indira queries, her mouth smiling but her eyes remaining untouched by the sentiment. She conveniently not putting answer directly to any of what Vaputero says to her. It’s just as well she’d set her glass down or else the Bitran might have found the last mouthful of its contents thrown in his face when he grabs her wrist as he does. Then again, he might wish for that given what comes next.

Indira goes deadstill for a moment, eyes dropping to where his big hand is wrapped about the fragile bones of her wrist and then slowly her gaze tracks upward and lands squarely on Vaputero’s face as he brings it in closer to hers. Rather than the fear he might have expected to see, there’s nothing but deadly challenge that lies in the dark pool of her eyes and a slow and cunning smile that appears as her other hand moves to do something he likely never expected and that is to hike up her skirts revealing flashes of smooth tanned legs as she does so. A slight shift of hips and weight and the Headwoman is suddenly straddling the man where he sits, it looking like she intends to give him what he seems to want. Except that in one swift movement there’s a knife in her hand and its being pressed up hard against his groin as she moves her mouth toward his ear and purrs, “That might work with frightened little hold girls, darlin’. But it ain’t gonna work on me.” Her accent slipping through, “You see…there are those of us woman that actually like it rough but,” the tip of the blade given more pressure, “you’ll be dead before you can find out.” Dark promise with those words as Indira will then attempt to jerk her hand out of his grasp and step back, her knife held at his crotch to keep him subdued as she does so.

“Fuck civilized, woman,” is Vaputero’s quick response to that. It is all he gets out when he has Indira in hand, the sweet smell of her near intoxicating as he dares to lean in close and take a sniff at her. He seems to like that this one is not afraid, the challenge he sees there seeming to intrigue the man and work like too much whiskey. Grey eyes drop and drink that hike of skirts and the reveal of legs, that hand about her waist pausing and dropping as if to grab at her thigh once she’s straddling him. The big man leans back with low, knowing laughter, baring his stained teeth as that hungry hand moves to seek out the flesh his grey eyes was feasting on…..until the knife at his groin pauses all activity. He couldn’t help the stir of his loins to those purred words close to his ear – even more so when she presses that knife even further against his nether region. “Quit turning me on, woman,” he tosses right back, his words low and inviting to that threat, “but I get the message. No need to tease with empty promises.” His hands lift off of her then, releasing his hold of her wrist but not without the barest brush of rough finger pads against her bared thigh before doing so. He remains there with his hands up, looking all more amused and possibly aroused more than intimidated by the knife. Once she steps back, “Tease,” is what he calls her, his eyes tracking where she goes with dark interest. “I like a woman that holds a knife well. Bet you can use it well too, huh?” It’s almost mocking the way his words fall, touching on suggestive, sardonic and darkness all at once. “Well understood. Don’t fuck with Indira of the Aloujahs,” and he reaches calmly for his glass and raises it to her in a toast before chuckling roughly and draining its contents down.

The hilt of that knife that Indira has pressed up against Vaputero tells a tale of its own for hidden beneath the grasp the woman has on it is a symbol unmistakeable to those that might know of the deadly clan of Aloujah – two knives crossed over the head of a wild boar. Indira has to fight hard to push down the revulsion that rises up and keep it from her expression for his words of being turned on by her, forcing her body to relax and not jerk away from Vaputero’s touch. Lips draw back from teeth in what is meant to be a smile but produces something closer to a silent warning snarl. She is however unable to stay the shudder of disgust when the Bitran’s fingers brush against her thigh. Stepping well clear of the man once she’s released, Indira sets him with a cold twist of lips and a small incline of head is given when he speaks her clan name. “The one and only,” aside from her son that is but even Max has no idea of his mother’s roots or that he bears last title after her to the all but extinct clan of hunters. "Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do," this stated as she moves toward the door of her office, "Its been fun though. Do feel free to drop by again while you're here." Smirk.

That smile that looks deadly and feral seem to pleased the big Bitran nonetheless, and his gives that knife she wields some study from where he lounges. The shudder from her is felt and it seems the please him even more. Vaput will even complete the creep factor by undressing her with his grey eyes before she speaks, the man reaching forward to set the empty glass down on the desk. “The south is too uncouth for the likes of you,” he states, his gaze lingering. “Perhaps you should return to your northern roots. I’m sure the Reaches is missing their sole huntress.” The big man gets to his feet deftly then, brushing his hands over his immaculate leathers before he follows her too closely towards the door. Breath washing over an ear as he slowly passes when Indira seems to direct him out, “We can chat another time. Or not, even,” and he looks down at her, his gaze unnerving. “I could be into more of that knife-play,” he seems to give in cool jest, the Bitran crimelord brushing past her now on his way out and looking as arrogant as when he arrived. Over his shoulder, “Until next time, Headwoman.”

Creep factor indeed for that grey-eyed gaze Vaputero turns on Indira has her skin once again crawling as if spinners had been released upon it. Her knife, rather being sheathed back into the thigh-strap it had come from and thus affording the man another leering eyeful of bared flesh, gets carefully inserted into the wide belt she wears with the wickedly curved blade pointing away from herself. “The North and its petty little games…bores me,” she puts forth with a syrupy sweet smile attaching itself, “I prefer the wilds of the south.” As would any good huntress, she infers.

For the very briefest of moments Indira tenses when Vaputero comes right up behind her, closing her nostrils to the stench of him and grappling with the urge to plunge her knife into him and be done with the sorry excuse for a man. Turning her head fractionally in his direction a dark smirk touches her seductive mouth, “You’d lose,” she states with certainty on knife play. “And I have no wish to run that little hole you call home,” touching on the way of succession amongst crimelords. “Until next time,” the Headwoman states and firmly locks the door behind the man once he’s gone before lurching toward the decanter on her desk to wash away the nausea that wells up.

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