Mentions: Vincent (@Estylwen), Asterion (@The Savant) Interactions: Emilia, RRS spy
Another Quiet Cathedral, White Pine
The cathedral's splendour towered majestically above the tranquil morning thoroughfares, its lofty spires etched against the tender azure of dawn’s nascent light. Within its hallowed confines, the gentle luminescence of flickering candles danced upon the ornate stained glass, illuminating the vibrant depictions of saints and martyrs in a celestial embrace of ruby and gilded hues. The lingering essence of aged incense intertwined with the subtle perfume of polished oak and stone's cool touch, steeped in the remnants of night. The pews stretched out in solemn, unbroken rows, their emptiness a quiet testament to the void that filled the cathedral’s vast expanse. The cavernous quiet seemed almost alive, interrupted only by the faint resonance of footsteps trailing from a passing priest.
Isabella occupied a pew near the front, her frame poised but her expression cloaked in introspection. Beside her, Emilia sat with hands lightly clasped, her gaze wandering the frescoed walls where scenes of divine and mortal struggle unravelled in exquisite detail. The cathedral's silence, heavy yet serene, embraced them, a respite from the ceaseless march of the world outside.
“I've never been much for places like this,” Isabella murmured, her voice subdued in the solemn stillness. “Faith, prayer, salvation—none of it ever seemed particularly... useful.”
Emilia's eyes flitted toward the altar, where a carved effigy of the Virgin Mary gazed down with an air of tranquil benevolence. “And yet here you are,” she said softly, “seeking something, even if you won't admit it.”
A dry laugh ghosted past Isabella’s lips as she folded her hands. “It’s just... habit,” she admitted, her tone tinged with something between nostalgia and disdain. “When I was a child, my mère would bring me here. She’d tell me to pray, and I’d just stare at the ceiling, counting angels. Les chiffres always made more sense than prayers.”
“Practical,” Emilia replied, tilting her head as if appraising the thought. “Measurable, tangible—easier to grasp than the nebulous promises of faith.”
An interlude of silence enveloped them, filled with the weight of words unsaid—much like the motes of dust suspended in the stained glass illumination. Leaning back against the pew's embrace, Emilia pondered aloud, “Have you ever considered that perhaps faith isn’t about finding answers, but about enduring the questions?”
Isabella's lips pressed into a thin line. “I don't have the luxury of enduring questions. I need answers. Always have.”
Emilia regarded her thoughtfully, sensing the softening of her armour. “Perhaps that is the very reason you’ve graced this sacred space,” she proposed. “Searching for clarity in a place with many mysteries.”
The silence returned, this time companionable. Isabella exhaled, her eyes drawn toward the arched doorway as a shadow of movement stirred in its frame. “He’s late.”
“Well…you can’t exactly rush divine intervention,” Emilia quipped dryly, though her posture straightened as a figure emerged. The Red Rose Syndicate spy approached, his every movement laced with tension. His eyes darted, his breath uneven as he slid into the pew behind them, his nerves practically vibrating.
“You seem agitated,” Isabella observed without so much as a glance in his direction.
The spy dragged a trembling hand across his damp brow. “With good fucking reason, I tell ya. Accardo’s men are everywhere. I’ve got something, but he said it’s gonna cost you. $200,000—twenty wealth—and you'll get the address where they're keeping Mr. Delacroix.”
Emilia glanced at Isabella, whose expression remained unreadable. The spy hesitated only a moment before pressing a card into Isabella’s waiting hand. “Call that number when you're ready to make the deal.”
Isabella turned the card over in her fingers, staring at it like it was a key to something much larger than a hostage. The spy stood abruptly, mumbling an excuse as he vanished into the cathedral’s vast corridors, his footsteps swallowed by the hymnals echoing in the distance.
After a long pause, Emilia spoke, a small smirk on her lips. “And what do you think, Bella?”
Isabella let out a soft sigh, her fingers drumming the card against the polished pew.
“I think this city has too many devils and not enough saints.”
Emilia tilted her head. “Speaking of devils... Kairo surprised me a bit when I met him.”
Isabella's brow arched, intrigue mingling with skepticism. “Surprised? In what way? You’re rarely surprised by anything.”
A fleeting pause held the air taut before Emilia’s smirk deepened, touched with something sly, something secret. “Let's just say he knows how to mix charm with threat in a way that’s... effective. He gave me this.” From within the folds of her coat, she revealed the blank card Asterion had surreptitiously entrusted to her, flipping it over to show the magenta-inked number.
Isabella's eyes narrowed, sharpened by doubt. “Do you think he’s serious?”
Emilia spun the card between her slender fingers, her gaze lingering on its surface as though searching for answers in the curves of the handwritten number before she handed it over, the other slipping it into one of her coat’s pockets.
“I think he’s more invested in this game than he lets on,” she said. “He talks about death like it’s an inevitability he’s long accepted, but I don’t buy it. Not entirely.” She glanced at Isabella, whose expression remained impassive, waiting. “There’s something in him—something unfinished. He builds, Bella. He builds because he wants to leave something behind, even if he won’t admit it to himself.”
A muted scoff escaped Isabella’s lips, her fingers drumming an impatient cadence upon the wooden armrest. “So he’s just another man clinging to the illusion of legacy? I expected more.”
Emilia shook her head slowly. “No, it’s not that simple. He’s clever, and controlled, but underneath all that composure, there’s a man who hasn’t quite decided whether he’s a king or a pawn in his own game. He’s drawn to control, but he’s also fascinated by chaos—by people who challenge him. And right now, that includes us.” Her lips quirked in a smirk. “He’s trying to decide whether we’re an asset or a liability.”
Isabella’s eyes narrowed in calculation. “And what’s your read? Is he an asset... or a threat?”
Emilia leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “Both. He’s pragmatic, and he doesn’t take risks without reward. He wants proof, something tangible—he’s not a man who moves on whispers alone. So, if we give him a reason to believe we’re worth aligning with, he’ll play his part. But... there’s a line with him. He won’t be led by emotion, and if we push too hard, he’ll shut us out completely.”
Isabella studied her for a long moment, then turned her gaze back to the altar, deep in thought.
“And what about you, personally?” she asked. “Do you think we can trust him?”
Emilia’s smirk faded into something softer, touched with a rare, honest reflection. “Trust?” she echoed as if tasting the word on her tongue and finding it lacking. “No. But we can work with him... for now.” She exhaled, her eyes tracing the wavering glow of the candles. “He’s the kind of man who delights in unravelling others, but I wonder if he even realizes how much he’s unravelling himself in the process.”
After another elongated interlude, Isabella released a breath through her nostrils, her fingers coiling fiercely around the card in her hand. “If he’s unravelling, that makes him unpredictable, Emilia. Unpredictable men are dangerous.”
Before Emilia could offer a response, the muffled hum of Isabella’s phone reverberated through the solemn hush of the cathedral, an intrusion that felt almost blasphemous. With a sharp motion, she retrieved it, her brows knitting together as the voice note played.
Another buzz. A new notification.
Emilia observed how Isabella's lips compressed into a razor-thin line, a subtle shadow of trepidation weaving its way into her otherwise inscrutable visage. “What is it this time?” she asked, her voice a shade quieter since the first message.
Wordlessly, Isabella tapped the screen, and the new minute-long video began to play.
The shadowed room exuded a heavy silence, punctuated only by the venomous intent lacing Eric’s voice as it slithered around Mathieu’s quivering frame.
Then, the sound.
A sharp, wet snip, followed by a scream that clawed through the speakers, raw and desperate.
Emilia's breath caught—just for a heartbeat—before she schooled her expression into something neutral, detached. Meanwhile, Isabella remained a statue, her grip on the phone tightening almost imperceptibly.
When the video ended, an eerie silence settled between them. Emilia finally spoke, her voice carefully composed. “He’s escalating.”
Isabella’s thumb hovered in suspended animation over the screen for a heartbeat longer before she silenced the device, placing it face-down on the pew beside her. “Accardo’s message is clear. He knows we’re moving against him.”
Leaning forward, Emilia propped her elbows against her knees, eyes alight with inquiry, probing Isabella's expression. “What’s the play?”
Isabella remained silent for a beat longer, then shifted her focus to Emilia. “Vincent’s been compromised. He’s using Mathieu to push me into a corner.” A dangerous smile danced upon her lips, though the smouldering rage igniting her eyes betrayed her otherwise composed demeanour. “He’s renegotiating the deal. Wants dirt on Detective Newport.”
Emilia arched her brows, a glimmer of understanding igniting. “Yes, that much I got. He’s making us jump through quite a few hoops, isn’t he?”
Isabella’s expression hardened. “Then we jump—but not the way he expects.” Her fingers tapped against the pew, rhythmic, calculated.
“We give him what he wants... and then we take what’s ours.”
Emilia studied Isabella in the flickering glow of the cathedral’s candles, the light casting a sharp contrast across her features—determined, unyielding.
Then, slowly, she extended her hand, palm open, fingers steady.
Isabella’s gaze hovered over it, her hesitation lingering like a held breath. At last, without a word, she surrendered the card into Emilia’s waiting grasp.
The gesture, though small, carried the unspoken weight of trust long tested and never once broken.
As Emilia's fingers caressed the card’s surface, a reflective hum escaped her lips.
“I’ll find him, Bella.”
“Do it quickly then. And discreetly.”
“Always,” Emilia acknowledged, rising with poise. Her silhouette was framed by the ornate stained glass, a vision of determination caught between worlds—both mortal and divine. For a fleeting moment, she seemed to absorb the reverence of the hallowed space, her expression inscrutable before she turned to the grand doors.
Isabella remained where she was, her gaze following Emilia's retreat until the grand doors yawned open, spilling sunlight into the dim sanctuary. Her eyes flickered back to the altar, where unspoken prayers pressed heavy against her ribs, never to pass her lips. Instead, she exhaled slowly, the weight of her breath almost penitent.
Emilia’s voice drifted back to her then, almost teasing, before she disappeared into the daylight beyond the cathedral doors.
“And may God have mercy on him.”
Because Emilia for sure would not.
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