I Need You

[Dan]

At first light, the sun arose over the pacific ocean, inching closer towards the beautiful City of Los Angeles. In the light, you could see the haze of pollution hanging above the skyline of the city of angels. Its citizens already accustomed to the smog that infinitely hung around like a smoker’s cough after decades of using a cancer stick. That was just the veil for what lay beneath the blanket. The interior of LA was far darker than what it portrayed on its exterior. Any local could claim stories of their own, of what they saw, heard, or even experienced at first-hand. Though the sprawling metropolis had its drawbacks, it is also one of the finest cities to ever exist in modern history; with its Mediterranean climate, ethnic diversity, and last, but not least, it’s entertainment industry.

The hub of infinite possibilities, if you worked hard for it, was endless. But with the metropolis ever aiming for the stars, others were always looking down. Survival was a common theme, especially for nearly half of the workforce that was the foundation of the city of angels. Los Angeles had been claimed for a long time, just not by its residents. A shadow society of crime families controlled large factions of the city. They respected one another if they weren’t peaking in one another’s business, that was. One of those crime families was the Delafontaine’s; a French crime family that established roots in this city after its founding in 1781; they were one of the oldest and present families who claimed a large faction. The Delafontaine’s were always recruiting members, since they were always running out of expended soldiers to do their dirty deeds. One of the many members recently inducted into their family was a woman of intellect, who was quite intricate with her hands, and was no stranger to getting them dirty. This woman who ditched her former name after being given the nickname, “Lemon.” Only those close to her knew the real reasoning behind the nickname, but rumours always speculated it had to do with her looks, and how she portrayed herself to the outside world.

Lemon was making her way back from the desert, driving an old 1969 Baldwin-Motion GT Corvette AKA “her baby.” It turns out having connections to the crime family wasn’t all bad, it came with a fat pay cheque, and with enough money to waste away on starting her own garage. Mostly as a front to operations that truly happened behind the name of, “The Sanguine Syndicate.” Having two flows of cash going towards her name, Lemon used a portion of it to donate to charities that helped research in cancer, and to help the homeless that plagued her city. After they released her from Prison, her grandmother died of terminal cancer. As the only kin remaining of the Keswick name, Noémie made her the sole heir to her estate and assets. But Lemon sold the manor in the Hills, and moved a sizeable portion of it into the Delafontaine’s name as a way of saying she was a part of the family now, and would give up her riches for the name if she had to.

Her destination was towards the city of angels. Last night’s rendezvous was short-lived as the guy was easy to crack. Her phone rang throughout the speakers of the car. She answered it, “Hello.” She greeted her windows rolled up, but the roaring of the engine prominent.

“Lemony, my sour fruit, how goes the deal?” Vitallo’s voice spoke. She was practically her new best friend—but with strings attached.

“It was retrieved hours ago. I’m bringing it to you now.” She retorts, shifting gears as she ramped up the speed.

Vitallo’s laughter could be heard fading away as if she walked away from the phone, the inaudible voices speaking fast, then the clicking of heels coming back towards the speaker, “You never disappoint.” She remarked.

“Well, I aim to please.” Lemon’s speedometer ticked higher as she sped down the interminable stretch of open road.

“Mr Delafontaine will be pleased, then.” The sounds of rustling paper could be heard, then a gasp sounding from Vitallo. ”Magnifica! You’ve outdone yourself this time, my sour lemon.”

“I should arrive within the hour. You know where to find me whenever you want your goodies. Ciao.” Lemon ended the call.

Lemon adjusted her shades. The sun was well high in the sky now and not sparing her from its glare. There was one thing she couldn’t help but wonder about, ‘Just who the hell was this Hydra person?’’

---

@Bygones ​

 

[Bygones]

The Manor was quiet. It was the morning after one of the Hydra’s fantastical parties. And every morning after consisted of guards shooing out any stragglers that passed out in a bush or in a bathroom with their head face down in the toilet, back home. Along with patrolling, surveillance covered every inch of the 10,000 square foot land and home, not even a sly, little mouse could go undetected.

“Wha- Hey man, don’t touch the suit, do you know how much I paid for this?” A hungover party goer slurred after being yanked out of the wine cellar and escorted out by a guard, boysenberry stains dribbling from his chin all the way down to his collar.

Most wake up with such a foggy head from all the drugs and liquor consumed the night before, they keep coming back just to try to remember, and fail every time. And that’s how Desdemona liked it, it was specifically how she orchestrated it to happen, that way they keep coming back for more, and bringing others along with them when they did. That’s what Elektra Valentina was good for: planning the parties, advertising the parties, and keeping the parties going. The parties were for everyone. Drinks for the drinkers, drugs for the tokers, gambling for the gamblers, sex for the freaks-- and, a unique feature that few other parties in L.A offered, market and trade vendors. Products were mostly contraband; such as drugs, guns, and in some cases, exotic animals. But cars were also a hot item in the mix, most came just to show off their supercars and try to race, but Desdemona would have that shut down immediately, racing was not permitted. Not anymore.

The Mansion was so tucked away in the hills, with the closest neighbors being five miles away, they could get away with anything. The only way you could find it is if you were specifically invited and were escorted by a returnee. If you happened to find it by chance, you wouldn’t be let in without an invitation. Desdemona often fraternized with guests and partook in auctions and gambling sessions for fun, but always under her identity of Desdemona, and Desdemona Desert was simply an invited guest, she had no idea who the host was, just delighted that she was given the chance to attend. Once the parties ended, Desdemona would either leave along with other guests or disappear suddenly when nobody noticed, whatever she felt like on that particular day. And nobody had the slightest clue that she was behind all of it.

Once everyone and everything was completely rid of, Desdemona had the entire place to herself to enjoy, but she could never quite be completely alone, that is why her crew always remained, living there as they pleased. They each had their own quarters and spaces whenever they felt the need to be alone, but for the most part, they were around doing things for Des or the Haven.

Desdemona’s day started with a glass of cognac, it was never too early for a drink, it was like her cup of coffee in the morning. It wasn’t every morning she had a drink though, just on days that she wanted to feel more relaxed. Normally her day started with white lines, to really get her going, but not today. She slipped on her favorite black, silk robe and stepped out onto the balcony of her room. She could see Hellcat sunbathing by the pool, partly shaded by one of many palm trees surrounding the backyard.

“Good morning, kitten,” Des called out, swishing the liquor in her glass around.

He looked up, shading his eyes from the blazing sun and grinned. “Did you enjoy the show last night?”

“Mmm, so-so.” She made the hand gesture along with it.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting bored, now. Your monotony always leads to crazy-ass things happening.” He laughed.

He was right., Desdemona got bored of things rather quickly, always having to push things to new heights. She was quiet for a while.

“Hey.” She suddenly called out.

“Yeah?”

“Go gather up the rest of youse, I want to have a little chat.” Though this chat wasn’t going to be ‘little’ in the slightest.

He nodded, giving a thumbs-up, and stood to walk back inside.

“Wake up bitches, we got work to do. Boss's orders!” Des heard him yell for them. She was still leaned against the balcony, staring aimlessly out at the palm trees swaying in the gentle breeze. It was time.

She closed the door to the balcony behind her and got dressed. She slipped on a pair of shades and heels to go along with her usual attire and gradually made herself downstairs to the main living room. The four of them sat patiently, their heads all turning upon her arrival.

“What’s up, D?” Elektra pipes up.

“There’s been something I’ve been working on…” She said, walking over to the vast window looking out towards the fountains in the front lawn. “A plan that will set us for life.”

The four of them glanced at each other, intrigued.

“But it’s going to take more than just us, to do it.”

 

[Dan]

On the front of the ocean, an attractive, older male stood at the back porch of the enormous mansion that had a view many would die for. He stood with a straightened posture, a muscular frame that never wavered from its sculptured form since he was a youth. Messy, platinum blond locks sat atop his head, opal blue eyes that saw more violence than one should see in a lifetime, and in his left hand was a glass of chilled cognac grande champagne, a one-hundred age old alcohol that was worth less than him. It none matter to him; he could spend his money however he saw fit. And from where he stood, he admitted that he spent it well.

“Armand, darling, what’s on your mind?” His wife calls from the living room, she’s just as attractive as him; wearing a silk kimono that stopped mid-thigh. She was 10 years younger than him, with a voluptuous figure, matching platinum curly locks that cascaded down her back, and light blue eyes to match. His wife was also a former model who understood him the most. They went through a lot together.

The crashing of the waves against the sand banks sent the salt winds toward the French Mafia boss. He turned with a smile on his lips, “Nothing, Mon amour.” He retorts, he walks away from the porch and joins his wife in the living room.

He turns the vinyl record on, the needle to the record as it scratches the tunes to life, playing one of his favourites from a golden era gone by. Armand places the vice aside, and takes his wife by the waist and hand, surprising her in doing so. She yelped out with a smile hanging onto her plump lips, “What’s the surprise for?”

“I’m thinking we need to produce an heir soon.” Armand says, his eyes reflecting those of a man in love.

Her laughter carries throughout the empty beach house, if you could call it that when it could house over six families. The tune of ‘Angel Baby’ by Rosie & The Originals, carries through the speakers of Lemon’s corvette as she enters the flow of traffic into Los Angeles. One of her all-time favourite albums, ‘The Unavailable 16 & The Original Nitty Gritty,’ has been playing the entire time. A few of the songs reminded her of the olden days when it was just… now it was something she wished to forget about entirely. This song, in particular, reminded her of her grandmother. The old coot nestled her way deep inside her heart, and that hurt. It stung worse now that she was gone, probably enjoying the afterlife with her long-gone husband, the grandfather she would never know.

Her reminisce interrupted by the loud ringing of her cellphone sounding through the music, it was Mr Delafontaine, “Shit.” She cursed as she answered with her customer-friendly voice. “Good morning, Mr Delafontaine.” She, perhaps, greeted too chipper as the man started talking.

“Yes, it is a good morning, very, very good one.” He says, his French accent apparent, he continues, “Richie tells me you’re coming your way back from Las Vegas. She said, Lemon is coming with the information that I need.” He sniffs, a sign of annoyance, “Vitallo failed to inform me of Mr Vargas’ death. I hear you made it slow and painful when—”

“Darling, come back to bed!” Mrs Delafontaine’s voice could be heard. Some muffled words are exchanged, and it sounds as if he moved into a different room, “—I promised he would receive a swift and painless one.” He argued.

“I receive orders from Ms Vitallo, sir. It was a mistake on my end, but if this makes up for it, I will personally send his Wife and family a sum of money as compensation for my mistake and triple the fee for this month’s due.” Lemon retorts.

“Good. And, you’ll be receiving punishment once you come to the Manor, personally by my hand.” He threatens. And ends the call abruptly.

Mr Vargas was a close associate of his, but as it turned out his close colleague was a mole working for one of the other crime families, feeding them vital information on his trade of drugs, and dealings of illegal substances that moved in and out of the country. Now, he needed to direct that anger to someone, and he’s chosen Lemon for that reprimand. Lemon knew what he meant when she would retrieve a personal punishment; she would likely get smacked up a few times and perhaps given fresh scars to display in shame. She wasn’t the first member to receive new scars from, and she wouldn’t be the last. Ms Vitallo received more than she admitted as Lemon seen at first-hand glance.

Lemon called the garage, mentioning of her absence for the afternoon, but would likely stop by before midnight. The others understood her tone, to keep operations going as per usual, yet to put away a small portion of this week’s income to add to the promised compensation. Although she dreaded heading towards the Manor, she did so with a set resolve of content, and a calm facade.

 

[Bygones]

“Why’d you never tell us about this girl, if she’s so important?” Scarlett lay on a lounge chair, her legs swaying in the air as she puffed on a cigarette and slipped through the pages of the latest Forbes magazine, not really investing too much attention to it though as Desdemona's extravagant plan was getting more and more interesting. Who exactly was this mystery woman who held the key to this scheme that apparently the other four people in the room lacked, and why were they just now hearing about her?

Desdemona sighed, leaning over the chair to take a drag from the cigarette dwindling between Scarlett's quaint fingers, she admired the ruby red paint on her nails, so glossy she could see her reflection in them. Scarlett took good care of herself, she didn’t have a choice, her clients didn’t pay top dollar to reserve a beautiful woman that didn’t.

“Well, Scarlett, my darling,” Des began slowly with her words, still draped over the red-haired bird. “Do you dig up old bones just because... or do you dig up old bones when it’s buried with treasure?” She paused. Her companions still didn’t understand where she was going with this, albeit used to this sort of thing because most of her explanations were always vague and cryptic. It was a bad idea to question her, so they never pushed it.

“You're starting to sound like Frankenstein,” Scarlett smirked, ashing the cigarette in a porcelain tray beside her.

“Frankenstein wanted the bones, not the treasure.” Desdemona corrected her, finally standing and adjusting herself. She pressed the creases out of her pristine white jodhpurs and began pacing the room slowly.

“What does it matter? All you need to know is that she is going to be a valuable asset. I wouldn’t go through all this trouble if she wasn’t.” She reassured them. She talked as if Calliope was an object, a key of sorts, but knew deep down that she was secretly dying to be reunited with her-- and by breaking her out of prison and presenting this master ‘final, get out plan’ to her, that all would be good again. Quite a big assumption for Des to make after all that had happened, but she’d have to hash out the details when it came to it.

Hellcat gave Desdemona a raised brow from across the room, shaking a cocktail at the bar. “I just figure we should know what we are workin’ with here, if this whole thing rides on this old friend of yours.”

“Nothing is riding on anything, if all goes according to plan, you four will have minimal contact with her, so no sense in making acquaintances and saying your hellos.” Des retorted gruffly.

“Ah, shoot! I was really hoping we’d trade home invasion stories and our first time getting chased by the cops.” Elektra whined.

Vulture, who leaned against the wall in the corner with his arms crossed, observing the whole mess that was a ‘discussion’ between these three, suddenly spoke up. Which caused each of them to look his way. He was so silent the entire time, they had merely forgotten he was there, he wasn’t too talkative anyhow, no one could decipher his language when he did speak. They each turned to Scarlett, who was the only one that could translate Korean to English. Scarlett gave him a judgemental stare, as if giving him a chance to reconsider his choice of words, to which he did not. It seemed they had their own telepathic conversation for some long drawn out seconds before Scarlett finally turned away and looked back to her magazine that she suddenly became interested in to avoid eye contact with Des.

“He said: if she’s so good, why is she locked up?”

She was quiet, which made everyone uncomfortable, everyone except Vulture who you could never really tell what was going on behind those cold, dark eyes of his. After an excruciatingly long pause, everyone just waiting for this ticking time bomb to explode already, she shifted and cleared her throat which made them flinch. She remained rather calm for a question that would normally have her breaking glass over your head, she usually didn’t take questions very well.

“She’s just as good as any of you. Hell, I pulled you off the street!” She pointed accusingly at Scarlett, “and you, you were just a bumbling little barista at the local Starbucks!” Elektra tensed up, looking away in shame. “You two, you two would be nothing without me!” Hellcat had his eyes glued to the ice in his colorful drink and Vulture scoffed, Desdemona reacted to this.

“Ye’? Ya’ don’t think, so? Then you can walk out those doors and we’ll find your washed-up ass dead in a ditch in a week, tops!”

Vulture pushes himself off the wall and spats out something in Korean, turning to leave but Des stomps after him. She grabs his shoulder and as he is turning to react she socks him in the nose. Vulture stumbles back and falls onto the hard, quartz flooring. Everyone thought she was satisfied with this and would send him off to cool down before she saw him again, but they were mistaken. She climbs atop of him and gives another, quick and precise hit to the jaw, she lifts her hand for one final blow but he reacts quicker this time and reaches for it.

“Okay...okay..” He huffs, crimson blood dribbling from his nose. “You go through a lot of trouble to defend her name, she must be worth something.” This was the first time they had heard him speak English, though his native accent was still apparent and his grammar wasn’t perfect, it was decently fluent.

Desdemona was surprised, she slowly let her hand drop to her side and stepped off of him. “Clean yourself up, we got work to do.”. He gets up and they all peek at the bruising that began to appear across his face, he just glares, slipping away to adjust himself.

“Now then-- kitten, you were going to do that thing for me?” Her voice was no longer low and menacing, it had returned back to its usual cutesy manner.

Hellcat froze up and began to choke up words when he realized she was speaking to him. “R-Right, right.” He sets his glass down and makes his way back into the living room, eyes on a leather suitcase sat on the glass table in the middle of the lounging area. He clicks it open and out comes a thin, grey laptop with a few documents taped on top of it. He looks them over, “Calli..ope...Kes..wick...right?” He glances at Des and she nods.

“Sentenced thirty years to life based on charges-- we’ll just skip through that, the list is quite long…” He mumbles more as he skims through the documents then continues, “Ah, okay...oh, oh…”

“What? What is it?” Desdemona snatches the paper from his hands impatiently. Her eyes darted across the page. “Sentence was never fully served...how?” She lowers the page, “How?!” She lets go of it completely and stomps in her heels.

“Someone must have got her before you did.” Hellcat watched the paper float down to the ground.

“You don’t think I realize that?” Her voice raises, “She’s got friends, huh? Buddies? Bet it was the same pricks that put her there in the first place!” Her fist clenches, she was looking for something else to hit so the three of them step away out of her line of sight.

“This changes things, huh?” Elektra says quietly.

“Your little Bonnie is out there somewhere, Clyde.” Scarlett teases.

“What else, what else does it say?” Des scrambled over to Hellcat and pushed him to read more aloud.

“Uh, well...she must go under a different name and address now because there is no other record of a Calliope Keswick after this. No death certificate, so she ain’t dead yet. Where do you think she’d be?”

Desdemona, or rather, what Calliope knew her by, Wren, knew Cal wouldn’t stray too far. Des didn’t either, she had this plan in mind since the day Cal went away. Los Angeles may have been their stomping grounds, but they weren’t done here just yet. She drifted, caressing the Roxbury caramel walls and tracing a gloved finger across the marble countertops, pinching the dust that got caught between them. Then she grinned. “This ain’t all too bad. We don’t mind a good hunt once in a while, eh? This oughta be fun.” She saunters towards a door under the stairs and before entering, she turns her head, “C’mon, one of youse. I only got room for one, don’t fight over it.” She winks and disappears inside.

The three glance at each other. All that could be heard is Hellcats obnoxious sips of his drink and the rattle of the ice inside of the glass.

“I think... I’m going..to go look for V. Yeah, he might need my help.” Elektra skitters away.

Scarlett and Hellcat make eye contact and he begins to laugh.

“Don’t think I’m leaving with her crazy ass right now! Besides, I don’t wanna’ waste my Gin Daisy.” He sips again.

Scarlett groans and sits up, muttering irritably under her breath. “Am I the only one who knows when to shut the hell up around here? You owe me one, kitty.” Scarlett enters after Desdemona and squints at the blazing sun shining into the twelve car garage that was usually dimly lit. She reaches in the pocket of her dress and takes out a hand fan to shade her eyes from the bright light, she could hear an engine already started and being revved after what sounded like it hadn’t been for ages. She realizes this car wasn’t just any of the old hotrods that were added to Desdomans collection of many, this was her most prized car, the car she said that she had dreamt of as a child, the car that, according to her, she would someday die in. It was the James Bond 1964 Aston Martin DB5, coated in a sophisticated midnight, glossy black, a counterpart to James’ silver. She lifted the hem of her dress to step in, sitting in the left seat as the steering wheel still had its original place at the right.

“So glad you could join me, Miss Quinn.” Des proceeded out and down the driveway and reached the gates, after a noisy buzz, it opened for her.

“Glad I could accompany you, Miss Desert.” Scarlett smiled, her usual cool demeanor remaining, yet hidden underneath it were tinges of worry and caution. Scarlett wasn’t like Des, or Hellcat, and Elektra for that matter. Her and Vulture were the more silent but deadly types, they didn’t have a huge ego and something always to prove like the other three did.

The street coming from the manor went on for a mile or so, winding turns all the way down, the only real view being a few trees and shrubs here and there. A detour to the right leads to an entrance onto Interstate 405, they take it and ease into the traffic until Desdemona gets impatient and cuts everyone off while speeding.

“Where are we off to, Des? We don’t normally take the freeway.” Scarlett lights a cigarette and Desdemona glances down at the pack, gesturing for her to light her one as well. Scarlett slips a Marlboro between Desdemona's lips and lights it for her as she drives, she takes a puff before answering.

“Beverly Hills.”

The sudden sound of an engine roaring from behind had them looking for its source, it was the only car that was gaining on them on the entire interstate, so it had to have been going at least ninety miles an hour to catch up to them. This meant a race to Des, she hadn’t been in one for so long, so she may be rusty, but the adrenaline rush was always worth it no matter who won. She looks in the rearview mirror, cigarette sitting on the edge of her lips.

“What a beaut.” Scarlett cooed, admiring the Corvette as it comes passing them up in the other lane.

Des grins, “Hey, reach in the glovebox, there’s a tape labeled 'Prince'-- put it in.”.

Scarlett reaches in and rummages through an assortment of cassettes, picking out the one Des had requested. “Oh, I see.” Scarlett giggled, she loved this side of Desdemona, the few times she wasn’t hellbent on the idea of killing someone or making a quick buck, it was a nice change when it came around. The first track was Little Red Corvette.

The windows rolled down and they turned it up as loud as it could go, Des revved the engine, instigating the car beside them.

"And honey, I say Little Red Corvette...Baby, you're much too fast..."

 

[Dan]

Rolling through the ease of traffic, her baby not even scratched as she ticked her speed up past eighty, now going near ninety miles per hour. Lemon was making her way past Santa Clarita, taking another route back from Las Vegas. The outskirts of Los Angeles coming into view, it showed an exit sign off towards San Fernando as she continued to past up slow traffickers; it surprises Lemon at no police chasing after her, likely a bribe from the Delafontaine’s. She was tired of the music playing through her speakers and shut it off, her thoughts coming to disturb her peace. The roar of her engine, however, kept her attention on the road as she sped against the time towards her boss’s Beach House in Malibu—it had its own private beach and sold for less than again what he was worth. Though she was speeding, it was mostly to calm her nerves, Lemon always felt most ease at racing near death speed limits, the rush it gave her always reminded her to join back up in a race one of these coming days.

On the streets, Lemon was making a name for herself in the street racing game again. Though she enjoyed the check that came from working the darker side of her business, she enjoyed more so with the high stakes being placed in races that took off in the hills of Los Angeles or even in down town LA. Ever since she was saved from rotting in a 4 walled hole; she sharpened her driving skills, even learning how to drive backwards, which soon became her taunting signature of winning a race whenever she crossed the finish line. It had been just her luck when she passed what looked like a familiar car; she arched a brow at the midnight-coloured Aston Martin. Lemon soon overtook the beautiful vehicle in the second lane, only sparing a look over to the music blaring from its speakers.

Her tinted windows blocked out from anyone looking within, making her appear as a mysterious driver. She watched the two females in the car's front, one who looked vaguely familiar though she couldn’t quite place it. It was obvious what the driver wanted; they wanted a race—and what the hell, she may as well give her driving skills another try. Lemon had nothing else to do on her schedule. She inched closer to what would likely result in bruises, perhaps another fresh nose job, who knew? She had her nose broken more than she could count in this line of work. As if accepting the driver’s invitation to outrace one another, she revved her engine louder than hers, overtaking the Aston Martin’s loud music that continued to sound outside the windows, it was swept away with the speeding winds. A smirk appeared on her lips, Lemon suddenly shifted gears, pressing on the brake to slow down, but then she quickly did a U-Turn in her car, avoiding the oncoming traffic as she did so. She switched gears again, punching it in reverse and she pressed hard on the gas, catching up rather quick to the Aston Martin again. She appeared in the same lane again, Lemon’s passenger window facing against the red-hair female’s side as they raced through the flow of traffic.

‘Good to know I haven’t grown rusty.’ She complimented herself. It was more of a show-off trick. Lemon wasn’t racing her, though if she wanted to, she could easily pass up the vehicle.

As if to add salt to the wound, she pressed the button on her driver’s side, the passenger window automatically rolling down. Lemon’s platinum locks caught in the wind rushing into her vehicle. It whipped all around her as she did a finger-gun gesture with her left hand, aiming right at the driver’s head and pretending to shoot her. It was more of a warning to not to race against her again, to stay away, and to know that she wasn’t someone to be messed with. Then the window rolled right back up again. Lemon did another illegal turn as she shifted gears, stepping down on the gas pedal again, and sped through the traffic to do a quick drift into switching onto I-101, her corvette tearing through the honking vehicles as they stopped to avoid the Corvette’s onslaught. She left a bout of white smoke behind her; it cleared as she tore away from the Aston Martin and sped the rest of the way towards Malibu without further taunts from other race cars that she’s come across.

Lemon felt elated as she pulled into the interminable stretch of ocean side road down Pacific Coast Highway. Her vehicle going the normal speed this time, finding a moment to put on some Ritchie Valens. She pondered who the heck owned that car, and why were they slightly familiar to a past she thought long gone already. Whoever that woman was, she made the youthful Keswick glow with an elation and adrenaline she needed just to enliven up her sour mood. She pulled into the closed gate, Lemon mentioned her name and it came fully open, her car low-rumbling down the interminable stretch of driveway, pulling it up into the drop off point at the private beach house. Soon as she parked her car, Lemon put her shades away, and she slipped the keys into her pocket, finding Richie meeting her from the garage.

“Baby! You made it!” She screamed out, her heels clicking against the pavement as she wrapped her into an arm hug. Her other hand was holding a Martini.

She could tell Vitallo was dead drunk. She staggered alongside her. Something must’ve happened while she was coming back from Las Vegas. They stopped by the infinity pool in the manicured backyard. Lemon’s bliss mood gone as she saw Richie sporting a black shiner, “What the hell did that French bastard do to you?”

“D-don’t worry!” She said, adding a hiccup into the mix.

Lemon didn’t need to know what it was about. Mr. Delafontaine must’ve grown impatient with her coming to the house. It was already near evening, though the sun was still high in the sky, there’s no way it took her that long to get to his private beach-side estate. Her boots clicked against the pavement as she went into the side door, entering the lit-up home with Vitallo staggering to keep up with her.

“Mr. Delafontaine?” She asked out into the silent home.

There were giggles, likely belonging to his wife. Lemon followed the sounds into the indoor pool. She found her boss and his wife in the pool, splashing at one another like children. As the door shut behind her and in front of Vitallo’s face, it caught the attention of Mr. Delafontaine, who turned from his wife and to his…latest member.

He smiled, “Ms. Lemon, it turns out I don’t need you after all.”

“But what about—”

She was cut off by the rising of his hand; the boss climbed out of the pool. His bodyguard grabbing a robe for him to slip into. Lemon stuck in her tracks as the older male came over, water dripping off him. He was taller than her. With his left-hand donning in multiple rings, he backhanded the driver to the ground. The sound of the smacking sounded bad as she fell to the ground without as much as yelping in pain.

Mr. Delafontaine knelt beside her, “You embarrass me like that again and it will be you in the hospital, got that?”

She was silent for a long time, her breathing growing erratic, but gave a silent nod to him. A smile found its way back onto his lips as he stood again. “Come on, mon amour. Let’s go get that wine, shall we?”

His Wife was already out, her hair dripping around her and in another silk robe as she joined her husband’s side. She giggled as they left the indoor pool side, Mr. Delafontaine’s bodyguard help the woman up. Wordlessly, she headed into one of the seven bathrooms to clean herself up. It was still bad, his rings had cut deeper than normal, and she would likely have a slightly swollen face by the time she made it back to her garage. The people she employed didn’t know she's a member of the Delafontaine Mafia, the same people who ran their past ancestors from their homes and bought up a lot of lands to operate within. If her employees knew who she was, she’d be screwed harder than she could imagine. Not only that, she would likely have to ‘take’ them out, if they were to unveil the truth about her. Placing some small bandages on the cuts after cleaning them, Lemon found her way going out of the house and back into her car, albeit slamming the door with more force than intended.

There were many ugly faces when working the Delafontaine’s and this was barely a scratch of the surface. Lemon started her car in frustration, she’d wasted a lot of gas coming out here, now she’d have to waste more to return to inner Los Angeles.

 

[Bygones]

The Vette revved alongside them, "I think that means they accept your challenge." Scarlett snickered. Perhaps it was the music that got Desdemona high, or the adrenaline rush, or the perfect mixture of the two, but she had not felt so giddy and playful in a long, long time. She spent most days sulking in her tower like a villain contemplating how they were going to kidnap the heroine of their story; drinking and smoking and snorting. What brought her to this newfound motivation, she could not pinpoint, just that she was tired of waiting. But what was she waiting for? Desdemona did not want to admit to herself or to them, that after all this time, she knew that her old friend was not behind bars. Perhaps for a short while, but Calliope had her ways, connections apparently, and money, lots of money. The parties were a recruitment process, that was true, but more so a function, one that never succeeded in completing its specific purpose. Like a modern-day, dysfunctional, Great Gatsby, these fantastical festivities were anonymously held in hopes to one day attract the most important guest, but never did so. Desdemona did not know of Calliopes cousin, or if she had one in the first place, so she would have to seek out 'Daisy' on her own.

Desdemona was aware that the Vette was notoriously faster than her own hell on wheels, and her Martin was not equipped with ejector seats and missiles like the movies, but she certainly wasn't expecting what happened next. When the car beside them shifted gears and fell back a bit, Des took this as a chance to speed up and pass it up, but was retaliated with an impressively meticulous U-Turn in the middle of traffic and reversed back to its original place beside them, without a scratch.

"I think you're in over your head, Des." Scarlett grinned, her feet on the dash.

"Cheeky little bugger, I'll give em' that."

The two maintained speed, Des inching faster and faster little by little. The Baldwin proved itself a more than worthy competitor, this mysterious driver, whoever they were, was certainly no amateur. However, its' maneuvers and techniques were oddly familiar, and could have only been acquired through the cultivation by...well, something like The Anarchists, and as far as Des knew, the gang had long since split up.

"This ain't no ordinary fat cat with their Sunday afternoon to spare, S. This here is the work of a trained cash cow. I've seen skill like this before, and only in the darkest, deepest, holes in the ground, in Los Angeles." Des yelled over the loud music and wind blowing.

"So your familiar?" Scarlett smirked.

"Oh, I'm familiar."

The passenger window rolled down and the two turned to finally catch a glimpse of who was behind the wheel. Des squinted, pulling up her shades so she could see clearly, it took a moment to discern a face with it covered in a whirlwind of lemony hair, but once facial features began to be uncovered, Des could feel her heart drop. The driver shoots a finger gun and is off, riding into the sunset. Desdemona's mouth drops, agape, she slams a heel on the brake and the tires release a piercing screech onto the hot tar of the freeway, drifting to a complete stop-- blocking the entire interstate. Cars screech to a halt and begin to honk, crashing into one another. Scarlett had slammed her whole right side of her body into the passenger door, she would have flown out the window if she hadn't been strapped in.

"Jesus!" She yelps.

"W-Which way did she go?" Desdemona's voice cracked, catching her breath.

"Des, you're gonna' be racing against a patrol of police cars if you don't get your ass out of the middle of the road!" Scarlett slammed her fist down in frustration, she was shaken up by the surprise.

"Right." She glanced at the clogged up traffic and feud of angry drivers ready to ram into her Martin. Without another beat, she sped off into the direction of the nearest exit, hoping to catch the Corvette before it was too late. Scarletts hand dug into Desdemona's arm as the car titled to the right, clinging on for dear life.

"You're gonna' get us killed, I swear!" Scarlett cried.

"Oh, don't be a baby! There are much worse ways to die." The car hightailed it up the exit and out, but all that effort, end up for nothing, Des could see the Corvette in the distance, heading South. "Damn!" Des slams her fist on the dash, and jolts back into her seat. "Light me another, cig." She exasperates.

Scarlett went to, but suddenly stopped, "Are you going to tell me what all the fuss is about? You looked at her like a deer in the headlights."

Des drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, then grit her teeth and let out a sigh. "That was her."

"What do you mean, her? This Calliope, girl? That, her?"

"Yes!" Des snapped.

"You're sure? Cuz' I swear I've seen that same platinum blonde hair on every girl's head in L.A." Scarlett scoffed.

"I'm damn sure! I'm not playin' games, S, don't argue with me! How many blonde bimbos that you know of that can whip a two-hundred thousand dollar car, like that?"

"Elektra, maybe, but she's not that good." Scarlett looked out the window. "She's heading towards Malibu. That's Delafontaine territory, you know."

"Who?"

"Some old, Frenchie mob family. Ran into one of them once or twice, I don't recommend it."

"That so? Well, frankly, I don't bloody care whose territory it is, they should be worried about running into me."

The Aston Martin had turned and changed its sights towards the coast, "I've been meaning to visit the shores, anyway." Des smiled.

"Huh, we didn't have to look too far now, did we?" Scarlett lit a cigarette for the two of them and placed her feet comfortably back onto the dash.

Desdemona reached inside her pocket for her phone and dialed a number. "Kitten, I'm takin' a trip to the beach, I want you to on stand by, got that? Gonna' go for a swim with the sharks, if you know what I mean."

"Copy that."

 

[Dan]

She was ready to tear out the private estate’s garage when a thump was against her car. Lemon looked over, “What the hell?” She says, rolling down the passenger side again. She crawls over the seat and peeks out, seeing Vitallo eating shit on the pavement. In her frustration, Lemon didn’t hear the boss give orders to his right-hand woman. But what could Richie do in her drunken state? She was as good as a toddler in this situation, and that’s more of how ridiculous it looked.

“Vitallo!” She yelled.

The drunken criminal jolting awake. She looked up to see Lemon looking at her with a raised brow. A smile finds its way onto her lips, “I-I think—hic—I’m coming—hic—you.” Richie says, staggering to her feet, hanging onto the Corvette for support.

“Can you open the door?” Lemon inquired, unsure if she should help her.

“I’m drunk—hic—not dumb.”

“Then, climb in. I don’t got all day to loiter around here.” Lemon was growing impatient.

Richie yanked the door open, stumbling in the process. She starts laughing, climbing into the vehicle, and slams the door shut. Lemon was already in the driver’s side, slipping a mix tape cassette titled, ‘80s Rock/Metal’—and she turned the music up above acceptable volumes. Ripping out of the garage, leaving black marks and smoke as she tore off the pavement. Richie whooped out in her drunken stupor, yelling out as the Baldwin went down the interminable stretch of driveway. The gate security must’ve seen her coming, already aware of the underboss’s anger as the gate was wide open. The traction of her wheels picked up. She did a daring drift back out onto Pacific Coast Highway, the long coastline stretching on for a while.

Vitallo was clicking the seat belt on. Even in her drunken state, she knew what was coming next. Lemon gained speed on the traffic, tearing her way through the civilians driving within the law’s speed limit. For the underboss, her speedometer was ticking well past eighty, already past Malibu Pier heading out of Malibu. Her engine roared, revving even louder as she pressed the metal to the floor. Only the sounds of her music and the roaring engine could be heard. Moving past The Getty Villa, her speed was well over a hundred now, and her turn was coming up on Santa Monica.

As she flew down the road, she saw the same Aston Martin from before tear through on the other side of the lane. Her head twisted for a moment, a grin making its way onto her lips, only to add the curious car into the mix, an interstate police car was making a large U-Turn, the lights of blue and red flickered on and the sirens.

“Do you hear that, Richie?!” She yelled over the music.

“Body ‘em!” Vitallo yelled back, her right arm swiping away left-over contents that had spilled out onto the road.

Lemon fixed the rear-view mirror. The adrenaline coursed inside her. Police having the bold move of chasing after her, she wondered if this were a fresh face that would chase after her. Her face throbbed. The swelling didn’t go down as she had hoped. Thinking about the pain only brought her anger back. She switched gears as her turn off was coming. Slowing down subtly so, she did a sharp turn, white smoke obscuring the Officer’s view. Lemon drifted into Highway 10, thinking she could lose the cop instead of confronting him—she wanted to play a mini-game of cat and mouse. Cars around her were turning into the walls of the interstate as the police car and she zipped through.

While she had an original Baldwin Corvette, the former race driver made her own customisations to it. The original top speed was 160, she got it past 200, tinkering around with her baby gave her elation the first time she tested it out. Her speed was ticking back up into the ninety range as a four-way was coming up, Lemon had the same grand idea. Just as the light turned green up ahead, Lemon drifted into the vehicles, swerving out of the civilians way, just enough to have them crash into one another. It forced the Police to make a detour, Lemon ordered Vitallo to pull open the glove box.

Out came a handgun and a small scanner, “The scanner!” She yells over the engine.

Vitallo knows what she means, her hand grabs it, she turns it on and loud. The large antenna sticks out as Lemon can hear the exchanges between the officers.

“All Units respond, A 1969 GT Corvette is racing on Interstate 405 headed down San Diego Freeway.” The female dispatcher says through the static.

Which was her luck, the high she felt as she laughed out loud. The music growing on her as she gripped the wheel. Upcoming there were Police cars coming from the opposite way and more had joined the other, chasing her down the interstate. She looked over to Richie, who was still vomiting out the window every few minutes, her manicured hand around the scanner and the other around the gun.

“Are you ready for another drift!” She said in a firm statement, rather a question.

As the Police gained on her, Richie was looking out the window, her hair whipping all around her. She was feeling anxious and woozy all at once, thinking she should’ve never joined the crazy member off in the driver’s seat. This drift came on faster than she expected as it slammed her into the seat, Lemon’s insistent yells unheard over the cacophony of sounds as her own shoulder went into the driver’s door. They were doing a complete, full drift, leaving marks in the debacle as they joined up to I-90. Apparently, this caught the Police off guard as she heard their surprised comments going back and forth on the scanner.

“Are you sure we can catch up to him?” One Officer says.

“Positive.” A firm woman’s voice speaks.

“Bold pigs!” Lemon yells as she tears the Corvette off the exit ramp going into Cypress Grove. It looks like she would have to tear through the streets off the Interstate.

“They’re not letting up!”

“Then let’s give them a show.” The smirk returns to her lips as a new song blares through the speakers, deafening both of the mafia members.