Chapter Text
The chandeliers dripped gold and crystal above the banquet hall, their fractured light scattering into a thousand shards that danced across polished silverware, sequined gowns and watches so heavy they probably felt more like shackles than adornments. The room was opulent incarnated; a living reminder of what power can purchase when it’s sharpened to a blade and wielded without mercy.
For Ekko Marinelli, he wore it like armor.
He leaned back into his chair, the cut of his suit clean enough to slice glass, every line of the fabric drawn to frame his shoulders like the architecture of a weapon. He didn’t need to raise his voice or flash the kind of bravado others cloaked themselves in, his presence moved quieter, a heavy force that pressed down on the table like an unspoken truth.
Around him, the table glittered with false laughter. Rings caught light and knives disguised as ornaments laid on hands that had long forgotten innocence. Men leaned in close to one another, speaking in low tones and teeth baring in grins that never quite reached their eyes. Their wives beside them sparkled like decorations, draped in gowns that whispered when they shift.
This was a dinner where every toast was a test, and every word carried the quiet threat that any man at this table could end another’s life. Politeness was just a mask and civility a mere costume. In the center of it all, Ekko wore it with ease, as if he was born for stages set with velvet and knives.
His wine glass sat untouched, pristine in the dim glow of the chandelier. He never drank, not because he disdained it but because he didn’t know how it was made. Instead, his dark eyes, sharp and unblinking, were fixed on the older man seated across the table, tracing the slight sway of a hand as it cut through the curling cigarette smoke.
“Shipments will arrive Tuesday” the man said, voice smooth. “You ensure your men clear the docks” he continued, leaning forward just enough to make the gesture personal. “And I’ll make sure your cut is” he paused, letting his words hang and fill the silence, propping his chin on his hand and tilting his head to stare Ekko down, “let’s say… worth the trouble”.
Ekko’s jaw ticked, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to suggest the thought of a smile before he dismissed it as unnecessary. It was the smallest of motion, almost imperceptible, yet it carried the weight of a man entirely in control.
“Don’t worry” Ekko replied, his voice low, almost casual but threading with danger, “it’ll be worth your trouble” he paused, letting the words stretch across the table. “Because a single delay…” his tone sharpened, threat folded neatly into calm observation, “will make me wonder if you’re getting sloppy. Or worse, greedy”.
He leaned forward slightly, mimicking the older man’s own gesture with an almost mocking precision, propping his chin on his own hand. He continued, “and let’s say”, voice dropping to another octave, “I have no patience for either”.
The older man’s hands stilled, a flicker of calculation in his eyes and a momentary hesitation where there had been certainty before. Ekko didn’t press further, understanding that the weight of his words carried their own command. He was a man who acted without hesitation, and that knowledge alone was enough to bend the table to his rhythm.
Ekko reclined in his seat just enough to suggest casual ease, but the undercurrent of danger coiled tightly around him. Even the other men who had not caught the exchange seemingly felt the imperceptible shift in the room’s gravity.
“Have you seen her?” a voice beside him cut in, a spark of excitement breaking through his caution. He turned to his side, Ezreal Morello. The host of this banquet and a long-time partner to the Marinelli family. He smiled with just enough charm to remind everyone why he’s known for these kinds of dinner parties.
“Who?” Ekko’s voice was flat, almost bored. “Madame Seraphine” Ezreal said, his tone dropping into a conspiratorial whisper as though his words themselves were dangerous. “A famous fortune teller” he added, his gold ring throwing a tiny sunburst across the polished table.
Ekko arched a brow, unimpressed, “that’s just a Parlor trick”.
“No, she’s notorious and always right. Don’t you know you father sought her once?”
That earned Ekko’s attention. His head turned slowly and deliberately, that predator’s gaze locking on Ezreal with a weight that seemed to strip excuses from the air around him. “My father” he started, voice measured, “believed in bullets, not fairytales”.
“Right. But imagine, eh?” Ezreal sighed, leaning back in his chair, arms draped casually over its sides. His eyes gleamed with a mixture of mischief and genuine curiosity, the kind that only those comfortable in power dared to indulge, “to know what’s coming before everyone else”.
Ekko let out a sound that was almost a half-laugh and a half-scoff, the corner of his mouth twitching in amused disdain. He shook his head slowly; the motion alone could dismiss the notion of fate as laughable. “I don’t pay strangers to tell me my life” he said, eyes flicking to Ezreal, sharp and cold, “I write it myself”.
The words hung in the air like a challenge, quiet but unmistakable. Even the clinking of glasses and murmurs of other conversations around them seemed to pause, or perhaps merely faded beneath the gravity of Ekko’s presence. Ezreal tilted his head, a thin smile curling on his lips.
“Suit yourself” Ezreal replied with a casual shrug, rising from his chair. The scrape of wood against marble echoing sharply. In one hand, he balanced a glass and spoon which he clinked twice with practiced flair, the sound ringing like a staring bell, drawing every eye to him in the room.
“Dinner has ended” he announced, voice light but authoritative. “You’re all welcomed to join me upstairs for a little party. Drinks and booze on the house, of course”.
A ripple of cheers and chatter followed, guests standing and straightening as the atmosphere shifted again. Ezreal’s gaze found Ekko’s, and he leaned forward to tap him on the shoulder. “Now, excuse me Marinelli, but I’m the man of the hour here”.
Ekko’s chuckle was quiet, almost teasing. “Don’t trip on the way out” his voice carrying a dry amusement that only Ezreal would catch.
“Fuck off” Ezreal shot back over his shoulder, grin wide as he strode toward the grand staircase with his hands in his pockets. Ekko watched his silhouette ascend, flanked by servants and maids who trailed him like a current of obedient energy, the sound of hurried footsteps echoing faintly behind him. The room buzzed with revelry, but Ekko remained seated, a dark calm watching, always watching.
He drummed his fingers lightly on the polished table, the muscles in his jaw twitching again. His mind flickered to his father. If he had sought out Madame Seraphine, did that mean she held knowledge of secrets he never told?
“Excuse me, Mr. Marinelli, I’m afraid you can’t stay here for long” a young servant murmured, her voice barely more than a tremor as she balanced the tray of polished silverware.
Ekko considered it for a heartbeat, then let the thought settle. Perhaps he should meet this Madame Seraphine.
He rose with fluid control that made the movement seem almost lazy. A hand flicked at an imaginary speck of dust on his suit, the gesture casual, but impossible to ignore. He met the servant’s eyes with a gaze that could have been mistaken for warmth, if not for the subtle precision behind it, the kind that left no room for objection.
“Ah, my apologies,” he said, letting the words roll out like a ribbon of honey, slow and carrying the weight of expectation. “I wouldn’t linger without purpose. But I’m quite curious to make acquaintance of Madame Seraphine. Would you be a darling and direct me to her?”
There was something in the cadence of his words, the gentle tilt of his head, the faint curve of that near-smile, that made refusal difficult. Even the young servant felt it, the subtle insistence that this wasn’t a request but a demand.
Ekko allowed himself a pause, scanning the room casually as though the answer might reveal itself on its own. There was charm in his composure, but beneath it, the suggestion lingered, he was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, and rarely, if ever, did he ask twice.
The hallway leading away from the banquet was unnervingly quiet. The servant moved ahead, barely making a sound, her polished shoes whispering against the marble floor like cautious secrets. Velvet drapes framed the walls, heavy and dark, while shadowed paintings stared down from gilded frames, their features half-swallowed by the dim glow of sconces.
Ekko’s mind entertained a thought, gnawing at him with persistence. Why the secrecy? Why not have her at the table, entertaining the others like a proper sideshow? His gut told him that hiding her away meant she was dangerous, in the sense that she might see things others couldn’t, and he didn’t like anything or anyone having that kind of insight.
The hallway ended as abruptly as it had begun, marked not by a proper door, but by a curtain of beads strung from the frame, trembling slightly and swaying as the servant pushed them aside, the faint clinking rang like distant wind chimes. Ekko followed, lifting them with one fluid sweep of his arm. The beads whispered against his sleeve, brushing skin and fabric as he ducked his head to slip through the entrance.
Inside, the room was intimate, almost suffocating in its contrast to the grandeur he had just left behind. Candles burned in scattered clusters, casting shadows that pooled in corners like liquid night. In the centre of the room sat Madame Seraphine, her figure poised on a low chair, a table before her cluttered with tarot cards, crystals, and a small cauldron that exhaled smoke curling in pale spirals toward the ceiling.
Even seated, she commanded the space, a singular presence that felt simultaneously grounded and untethered, like she belonged to neither the room nor the world outside.
They met eyes.
She appeared to be in her mid-fifties, though age had only carved her presence sharper. Silver streaked her dark hair at the temples, each strand framing a face that had carried decades of knowing. High cheekbones and a delicate jaw hinted at fragility, but there was steel beneath the porcelain. Her gaze, molten amber flecked with shifting hints of green, fixed on him without blink or hesitation, weighing, reading and unafraid. It was the look of someone who had watched truths unravel and lies crumble.
“I was expecting you” she said, with just enough resonance to suggest amusement beneath her composure. She gestured to a chair opposite her, “sit”.
The servant beside him bowed, murmuring something under her breath. Ekko tilted his head in acknowledgment, a simple gesture that ended the exchange without a single syllable. The young woman retreated, the soft shuffle of her shoes fading until the hallway beyond swallowed the sound entirely.
He walked closer, sitting on the chair that creaked slightly under his weight. The table separated them but could not shield him from the quiet intensity of her gaze.
Ekko stepped forward, each step flowing with the ease as he lowered himself into the chair. It groaned softly under his weight, a faint protest. The table stretched between them, a modest barrier, yet it did nothing to blunt the force of her scrutiny.
“Why have you come, Mr. Marinelli?” she asked as if she already knew the answer.
“To read my fortune” he replied, flat and unadorned, almost a challenge. Madame Seraphine’s lips twitched, just slightly, enough for Ekko to notice.
“You’re very much like your father” she said softly. Ekko’s jaw tightened. A flicker of irritation passed across features he otherwise kept composed, a storm masked behind careful restraint. “Would that be a compliment Madame?” His tone remained even, yet the underlying edge was unmistakable, sharp enough to cut through the room’s dim warmth.
She offered no answer beyond a glance.
First, she brought out the tarot cards, shuffling them with a steady, hypnotic rhythm. Each card landed face-up before him, only for her to flip it with care, revealing symbols that made his brow crease.
Next came the crystals, which she handled with a reverence that bordered on ritual. Fingers danced lightly over his hands, tracing small, circular patterns as she murmured words in a language that seemed older than the walls themselves.
Finally, she produced a small pendulum, letting it swing between them in languid arcs. It made his teeth itch with frustration by the sensation of being scrutinized by something unseen and intangible.
Her eyes then darkened. She studied the pendulum, the cards, the crystals, then her gaze returned to him, unflinching and absolute.
“Challenges and misfortune are approaching, Child” she said, voice hushed but insistent. “You’ll face obstacles that will test your resolve and betrayals you will not see until the last moment. Luck will falter; allies may turn. You will be forced to choose between what is easy and what is necessary. And the cost… the cost will be higher than you imagine”.
A flicker of disquiet raced through Ekko, subtle and swift, a lone ripple across his otherwise controlled surface. He suppressed it immediately, masking the tension with a faint tilt of his brow, but the words clung, stubborn and persistent, refused to clear.
He leaned forward, the shadows of the candles tracing sharp angles across his face. “And what, then, am I to do?” his eyes narrowed, a flicker of impatience barely contained beneath the surface, “cast dice and pray for fortune like a desperate beggar?”.
Her amber eyes glimmered. “The only thing left to you, Mr. Marinelli, is to seek luck. By any means you can. Even your father understood that much, arrogant though he was”.
Ekko’s jaw clenched. His father? The insinuation and the comparison rubbed him wrong. “Lucky as I already am” he said, clipped and cold, “I am not he; I would not be so foolish as to imitate what brought him to ruin”.
She gave a small, enigmatic smile, the kind that pricked under the skin. “Ah still, in some ways, you are, though you possess a discipline and a restraint, that he never dreamed of. Perhaps that is what makes you more dangerous and yet, far less human”.
Ekko’s hands twitched just enough to betray him. The smile on Ekko’s face deepened. In mockery. He tilted his head, studying her like a cat studies a mouse just before it plays with it. His laugh was low, unhurried, dripping with amused cruelty.
“Less human” he echoed. “And yet, you sit across from me, bleeding secrets you think will wound. How adorably brave of you”.
A dark line opened across Madame Seraphine’s throat. Blood welled hot and vivid, spilling through her fingers as she clutched at it in desperate shock. The sound she made was ragged, wet, a gurgle that filled the room. Her body lurched against the table, wheezing, crimson staining the tarot cards she had so carefully laid out.
Her eyes were wide, but even as the blood trickled down her robes, she spoke. “You think this will matter? My end will change nothing Marinelli, nothing at all” she rasped, the words jagged yet steady, each syllable a fragile testament to the will she refused to relinquish entirely.
Ekko leaned back leisurely in his chair, his expression unreadable except for the faintest glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. His hand brushing against the cool, familiar hilt of a knife, blood dripping down his forearm and fingers curled around it with a practiced grace, the leather-wrapped handle a comforting weight.
The second cut came without warning, swift and exact, a motion so immaculate it seemed to command the candlelight itself to still in reverence. Blood arced faintly, glistening like dark ink against the soft glow, and her body shuddered, muscles tensing against the intrusion. Yet her wheeze persisted, ragged and stubborn, a defiant echo that clung to the room like smoke.
Ekko watched, unflinching, watching the life drain from her and yet another whisper, she still managed, “you... will learn... fate does not... bow, child”.
He smiled then, wide enough to show the dangerous gleam of teeth. “Fate” he repeated, leaning close enough that his words brushed against her dying ears, “bows to me. As you just did”.
Her breath then hitched one final time before silence claimed her.
Ekko sat back, slipping the knife into his pocket with the same nonchalance as one might tuck away a watch. He pulled the robe from her body and wiped his hands, dabbing the blade once before letting the stained cloth fall onto her body.
He regarded the scene one last time, his expression unreadable. Adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, he exhaled a soft sigh through his nose. How tiresome, he thought, and what a waste of velvet robes.
The beaded curtain whispered as he brushed through it again, the echo of death swallowed by the lavish hush of the hallway. His steps were quiet, but his mind was alive, sharp with thought. He despised being compared to his father, despised it more than the act of killing itself. The irritation lingered like a bitter taste at the back of his tongue, though it only sharpened the calm mask he wore across his features.
A servant bowed as he passed, eyes cast downward, too wise to speak. Ekko paused only long enough to murmur, with a silken charm that felt almost like a caress, “send for Dante”.
The servant stiffened, understood immediately. Dante and his crew were shadows, ghosts who appeared when any mafia left behind things better erased. “Yes, Signore” the man said quickly, scurrying down the hall with urgency.
Ekko straightened his tie, adjusting it with two fingers, and made his way back towards the area Ezreal said about the party. The laughter reached him first, raucous and drunk, sounds which he found intolerable.
Sliding back into the room was effortless. His face, smooth and charming, betraying nothing. A few men raised their glasses toward him; others tipped their heads in acknowledgment. Ekko offered a small. He took the closest chair from him, a waiter filling his glass with wine he had no intention of touching.
Their chatter carried on around him, all shallow and predictable. His appetite for such performance had withered entirely. He leaned back, twirling the stem of his untouched glass between two fingers, his mind already elsewhere.
With an almost imperceptible gesture, he drew his phone from his pocket. The device looked out of place in his hand, too modern, too crass for the silk and marble around him. He scrolled to a familiar number and pressed call.
It rang once. “Brother” Scar’s voice was a low rasp, darker than Ekko’s, sharpened with a feral edge that had always distinguished him from the heir apparent.
“I’m finding myself” Ekko said lazily, his tone rich with feigned amusement, “utterly bored of pretences and hollow company. Care to join me for a drink?”
Scar chuckled, a dry sound, “you sound restless”.
“I sound hungry” Ekko replied, a hint of wicked humour threading his words. “Not for food. For something stronger”. His tongue clicked softly against his teeth, “there’s a bar downtown. You know the one”.
A pause. Then Scar’s voice again, low and certain. “I’ll meet you there”.
Ekko ended the call without farewell. His gaze swept the room one last time, the edges of his thoughts keen as glass. Let them laugh. Let them drink. Let them cling to the illusion that fortune still bends in their favour.
He rose from his chair, and with a courteous inclination of his head to Ezreal, he excused himself.
The night outside awaited him, darker, freer and humming with the promise of something more intoxicating than champagne.
The city air him like a baptism. Outside the mansion gates, the night broke open, the sky bleeding rain in steady sheets that pattered against the pavement. Ekko titled his head back briefly, letting the drops hit his face. He didn’t bother with an umbrella, the rain slid down the sharp planes of his jaw, tracing the collar of his suit until the fabric clung to him in places.
He walked without hurry, polished shoes striking the wet cobblestones with soft rhythm. The streets were half-deserted, save for the glow of passing headlights and the occasional umbrella bobbing along hurried silhouettes.
A block down, the bar came into view. Its neon sign flickered defiantly against the downpour, a cheap red glow bleeding across puddles at the curb. Inside, it was warm light and low music, the kind of place that carried too much smoke and too little shame.
Ekko pushed the door open, the bell’s jingle barely audible against the low thrum of voices and the clatter of glasses. Conversation dipped as heads turned. People always looked when he walked in, though his presence left them little choice. He returned their attention with nothing more than a languid sweep of the room, unhurried, assured, as if the place had been waiting for him all along.
And there, in the corner booth tucked against the wall, Scar Marinelli sat.
His younger brother lounged with a kind of restless ease, one arm draped over the back of the leather seat, a glass of whiskey in hand. His presence was heavier, his dark hair falling untamed against his brow, his stare already locked on Ekko before the door had even shut behind him.
Ekko crossed the room, water trailing from his suit and leaving faint marks on the worn floorboards.
Scar’s mouth curved into a wolfish grin, sharp and knowing. “You look like hell, brother” he greeted, his voice low, threaded with amusement. He raised his glass slightly, amber liquid catching the dim light, “and I’d wager it’s not the rain that put that look on you”.
Ekko slid into the booth across from him, his own expression carved in its usual blend. The leather seat creaked under his weight, his damp sleeve brushing against the table as he reached for the menu he had no intention of reading.
“Irksome company” he said smoothly, brushing back wet strands of hair locs from his temple. His voice carried the faintest hum of laughter, though his eyes held none. “I thought a drink with my dear brother would prove far less tedious than listening to old men choke on their wine and their secrets”.
Just then, the waitress drifted over, all painted lips and tired eyes. Scar didn’t bother with pleasantries; he raised his glass and rattled the ice. “Keep it coming” he said with a crooked smirk at Ekko, “and put it on his card”. She gave Ekko a quick glance, a shade too long, before taking his card and vanishing back into the haze of smoke and low chatter.
Ekko leaned back, a faint curl at the corner of his mouth, “careful, Scar” he drawled. “If you keep drinking on my dime, you’ll start drowning your evenings in cheap whiskey”.
Scar smirked, teeth flashing, “just like how you’re drowning in expensive blood, brother?”
Ekko chuckled, low and soft, “touché”.
Their drinks arrived, condensation slick on the tumblers. Scar raised his glass, chin tilting with mock ceremony, “to the Marinelli name”.
Ekko’s smile sharpened. He clinked his glass against Scar’s, the sound muted but cutting through the air, nonetheless. He took a measured sip, the liquor burning smooth on his tongue, then set the glass down.
“Funny toast” he murmured, eyes steady on his brother, “which part of the name you think still has weight?”.
Scar stared and ignored him back, downing his drink in a swift motion.
“I killed someone tonight” Ekko said, almost idly, as though remarking on the weather. His fingers toyed with the rim of the glass, “a woman. Old and presumptuous”.
Scar didn’t flinch. His brows arched slightly, but the wolfish grin remained, wiping whiskey from his mouth with his sleeves. “I see, was wondering what stank on you when you walked in” he muttered, taking a long swallow from another glass.
Ekko leaned back against the booth, one arm resting across the leather. His smile was faint and playful, “she thought to measure me, to weigh me against father”. His lip curled, “so I measured her neck instead”.
Scar’s jaw flexed, though his expression remained mostly composed. He didn’t bother with the charade of surprise. “You slit a lady’s throat in a Morello’s mansion?”. His tone was low, not horrified, just assessing. “Christ, Ekko. Do you ever think past the first strike?”
Ekko tilted his head, “always” he purred. “I think precisely to the strike. That’s what makes it perfect”.
Scar rubbed at his jaw, exhaling through his nose. His grin returned, crooked and sardonic, “you know who’ll love this story when it finds her ears?”
Ekko’s brows arched in mock curiosity. “Do enlighten me”.
“Mother” Scar leaned in slightly, his grin fading. “And she won’t call it perfect, brother. She’ll call it reckless, foolish even, to kill someone whilst in a building with a Morello. She’ll nag you, as she does to me, that the Marinelli name doesn’t survive by blood spilled in dark corners”
Ekko regarded him in silence for a long moment, swirling the amber liquor in his glass. “Mother” he said, “may call it reckless or dangerous. But even she knows, she raised wolves, not sheep”.
Scar barked a laugh, harsh and biting, shaking his head. “Aye, wolves we are. And she’s the one who taught us to bite”. He leaned forward, grin crooked, eyes glinting with something between warning and amusement, “so tell me, brother, who’s cleaning up your mess tonight?”
“Dante” Ekko replied instantly, sipping again, voice silk and ice. “By morning, there will be no Madame Seraphine. Only whispers”.
Leaning back, Scar stretched his arms along the booth, shaking his head in a low chuckle, “only luck will help now. Better yet, may luck help anyone standing in our way”.
Ekko’s eyes gleamed in the low light, his smile faint, “luck, brother” he murmured, “it bows to me”.
“Your taste for chaos tonight is impressive” Scar sighs, tapping against worn wood, “you’ve gone from murder to meal in the span of an hour. Strange rhythm you have”.
Ekko smirked, “rhythm is everything, Scar. One misstep, and the music dies”. He drained a sip, savouring the burn, leaning closer, a hum threading his words, “besides, one cannot linger in lethargy while the night offers so much”.
Scar shook his head, a wry laugh escaping him.
Then, clinking of glasses and muted chatter were suddenly pierced by a sharp crash. The bar’s music faltered; conversation halted. Heads turned toward the source.
Ekko followed the commotion, eyes narrowing. At the far end, the bar boss, a stout man with a red face, was scolding an employee, finger jabbing furiously at an employee who stood rigid, arms crossed. But it was the girl who drew his attention.
Her hair was a riotous cascade of neon blue, flowing like liquid from her head to just above the floor, the strands catching the dim neon lights and turning her presence into a bright, disruptive pulse in the otherwise muted bar. Clouds were inked across her arms and her torso, a swirling, ephemeral storm in permanent ink. She moved with a strange mix of grace and tension, apologizing with every jab, yet showing no trace of actual remorse.
Scar exhaled sharply, leaning closer across the table, voice wary, “poor girl, better to stay awa- don’t-”.
Ekko cut him off with a single, lazy raise of his hands. “Don’t worry” he said, voice teasing, “let’s see, just how far I can push my luck tonight”. The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, a dangerous promise.
Scar’s jaw tightened. “I said don’t-”
But Ekko had already stood. His suit brushing against the booth’s leather, water droplets flicking onto the worn floorboards. With effortless grace, he weaved between patrons and tables, each step purposefully and eyes fixed on the girl.