[It had been one hell of a time, figuring out what to wear for his club's grand opening. Roman waffled over the decision for weeks. It needed to be something grand, something expensive, but not something gaudy or tacky. Eye-catching, but not too flashy. Something that would not just look good on him, but accentuate the club's decor, get people associating its color scheme with his beautiful face and outgoing personality.
He'd had something custom-ordered, but hated it by the time it arrived. Then he'd picked something from a local boutique, which he changed his mind about the second his driver pulled into his personal spot out back. By the time the day of the Bertinelli job rolled around, he'd gone through over 10 possibilities, eliminating some by ripping them apart with his bare hands, and others by throwing both them and the closest useless henchman into a fire.
Perfection was such hard work.
At last, though, at long last, Roman decided on something perfect: a deep blood-red suit inlaid with intricate flower patterns made out of flawless gold leaf. Under that, a midnight black button-up, top two buttons undone, and no tie. Dark and mysterious, but sexy and easy-going. Shiny enough to shimmer under the club's lighting, to make him stand out against the crowd.
While Galante and his crew were out ending the Bertinelli line, Roman was working on his face. Cleanser. Toner. Antioxidants -- he got the call, the "It's been done." Eye cream. Spot treatment. Moisturizer, and a bodyguard knocking on his door to tell him that guests were lining up around the block.
He finished it all off with a little bit of eyeliner and mascara. Just a touch of golden glitter through his lashes, not enough to look caked-on or intentional, just enough that people's eyes would have no choice but to follow the sparkle, keep their attention on him, subconscious or otherwise.
One last look in the mirror gave him the confidence he needed to saunter downstairs and start the party. And oh, what a fucking party it turned out to be.
Truthfully, the first few hours were a bit of a blur. The club filled up fast, packed with socialites and other players in Gotham's underground scene that Roman was dying to talk to. Alcohol flowed freely, and drugs right along with it. Every table was a crowded, writhing mass of people leaning over each other to dance and drink and shoot eyes at each other, scope out who was worth a fight or a fuck.
Roman made it a point to scrutinize everyone in his club. He memorized names, matched them to faces, started calculating who he'd need to make nice with and who he could cut out of the picture without much trouble. And in between that, he drank. Martinis. Cocktails. Plenty of shots. Roman wasn't a heavy drug user -- unless you count the drugs that don't make your nose bleed and your skin turn into cheap leather -- but even he couldn't resist snorting a few lines of the pure Colombian shit that was being passed around.
So as far as the details go? He's not 100% sure how they got here. He doesn't remember burning a whole night in the club, shouting and laughing and darting around with an energy he hasn't felt in ages. He doesn't remember making the trek back up to his penthouse. He doesn't remember dragging the scary-looking platinum blond mercenary from the Bertinelli job up with him, either.
But he does remember where he got the decorations scattered all around his apartment. With one arm around the blond's shoulders, and the other outstretched, he points to a long, dark mask with animal horns hanging from the wall. Two fingers gesture to the mask, and the other three stay wrapped around his half-full scotch glass.]
This one here's called a Yohure mask. I got it in CΓ΄te d'Ivoire. The native people there wear these to funerals, especially ones that threaten to upset the social order... They have a ritual, you know, where they wear these masks and have a celebration before the funeral. Resets the spiritual energy. Puts things back into balance.
[The similarities to his own situation aren't lost on him. This is a new beginning. A fresh start, without the Bertinellis in the way. A purification of Gotham's equilibrium. He brings his glass to his lips and takes a drink, hand tight on Zsasz's shoulder.]
no subject
He'd had something custom-ordered, but hated it by the time it arrived. Then he'd picked something from a local boutique, which he changed his mind about the second his driver pulled into his personal spot out back. By the time the day of the Bertinelli job rolled around, he'd gone through over 10 possibilities, eliminating some by ripping them apart with his bare hands, and others by throwing both them and the closest useless henchman into a fire.
Perfection was such hard work.
At last, though, at long last, Roman decided on something perfect: a deep blood-red suit inlaid with intricate flower patterns made out of flawless gold leaf. Under that, a midnight black button-up, top two buttons undone, and no tie. Dark and mysterious, but sexy and easy-going. Shiny enough to shimmer under the club's lighting, to make him stand out against the crowd.
While Galante and his crew were out ending the Bertinelli line, Roman was working on his face. Cleanser. Toner. Antioxidants -- he got the call, the "It's been done." Eye cream. Spot treatment. Moisturizer, and a bodyguard knocking on his door to tell him that guests were lining up around the block.
He finished it all off with a little bit of eyeliner and mascara. Just a touch of golden glitter through his lashes, not enough to look caked-on or intentional, just enough that people's eyes would have no choice but to follow the sparkle, keep their attention on him, subconscious or otherwise.
One last look in the mirror gave him the confidence he needed to saunter downstairs and start the party. And oh, what a fucking party it turned out to be.
Truthfully, the first few hours were a bit of a blur. The club filled up fast, packed with socialites and other players in Gotham's underground scene that Roman was dying to talk to. Alcohol flowed freely, and drugs right along with it. Every table was a crowded, writhing mass of people leaning over each other to dance and drink and shoot eyes at each other, scope out who was worth a fight or a fuck.
Roman made it a point to scrutinize everyone in his club. He memorized names, matched them to faces, started calculating who he'd need to make nice with and who he could cut out of the picture without much trouble. And in between that, he drank. Martinis. Cocktails. Plenty of shots. Roman wasn't a heavy drug user -- unless you count the drugs that don't make your nose bleed and your skin turn into cheap leather -- but even he couldn't resist snorting a few lines of the pure Colombian shit that was being passed around.
So as far as the details go? He's not 100% sure how they got here. He doesn't remember burning a whole night in the club, shouting and laughing and darting around with an energy he hasn't felt in ages. He doesn't remember making the trek back up to his penthouse. He doesn't remember dragging the scary-looking platinum blond mercenary from the Bertinelli job up with him, either.
But he does remember where he got the decorations scattered all around his apartment. With one arm around the blond's shoulders, and the other outstretched, he points to a long, dark mask with animal horns hanging from the wall. Two fingers gesture to the mask, and the other three stay wrapped around his half-full scotch glass.]
This one here's called a Yohure mask. I got it in CΓ΄te d'Ivoire. The native people there wear these to funerals, especially ones that threaten to upset the social order... They have a ritual, you know, where they wear these masks and have a celebration before the funeral. Resets the spiritual energy. Puts things back into balance.
[The similarities to his own situation aren't lost on him. This is a new beginning. A fresh start, without the Bertinellis in the way. A purification of Gotham's equilibrium. He brings his glass to his lips and takes a drink, hand tight on Zsasz's shoulder.]