chapter two ; fashionably late

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Garfield Brooklyn's Mansion
San Francisco

The mafia house's ballroom was more elegant then you would expect, for a bunch of murdering mob bosses. The room was filled with gold accents and expensive artwork.

If one didn't know that the owner of this house had killed seventy five people in one pass, they might think it was quite nice.

Unfortunately, the glamour was ruined for Dahlia Anelace because she was very aware of this fact.

She stopped in front of any portrait she passed, looking like she was invested in the art, when really she was invested in the information she was receiving.

Don't get her wrong, she loved art in all its' forms, but she also loved incriminating evidence that could send a serial murderer behind bars for years.

The painting was really really gorgeous, though.

"The package is in place." A tall, slender man behind her said into what seemed to be a radio.

It had wonderfully placed brushstrokes.

"Set to go off in ten."

A very beautiful color palette.

"Hey, boss. There's a lady at my six, been hanging around a little too long."

Gorgeous depiction.

"Should I engage?"

Very expressive, almost like the artist was speaking directly to her.

"Roger that. Should be easy enough to take care of."

Dark and light themes, nicely balanced.

Without turning around, Dahlia grabbed the man's wrist, which was in midair, ready to hit her, and twisted. The man yet out a sharp yelp, and she used his distraction to launch herself into the air, swiping her heel-clad foot across his face. As he held the sharp cuts on his cheek and tried to catch his breath, Dahlia pulled her gun out from her thigh holster, holding it up as a warning.

"Now, now, don't you know never to disrupt a lady when she's observing her art?" Dahlia smiled sweetly at him.

The man shook in his annoyingly clean black dress shoes, holding his hands behind his head.

As he put his hands behind his head, he reached back to his gun holster, thinking that Dahlia wouldn't notice and also wouldn't have the guts to fire.

He was wrong on both accounts.

She lowered her gun, but not in defeat, but to aim at his thigh, leaving him alive but useless to his superiors.

"Thanks for the company, darling." Dahlia winked at the man who was writhing in pain.

She performed a mock-curtsy before exiting to the heart of the party.

Dahlia looked like she belonged there, with her golden dress shimmering in the light, her dark chocolate hair curling down her back. Everyone at the party needed only to look at her to accept that she belonged.

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