Gold and Red [Vesna]

She might not have a real apartment anymore, but at least they didn't lock the way to the roof. Of course, there was a roof at the Kommunalka, but it wasn't as nice as this one. There the roof was covered in bird shit, and not so safe to walk on. Here it was clean, and sturdy, and some little asian woman she'd seen had even put a little garden in the corner. More than that, it was the best place to catch the sun.

And catch it she did, on a foldout chair with foil, sunglasses, and the smallest bikini she could find in her limited budget. It was a great day. Or, it should have been. Vesna had been feeling a little off after her work on the side had gotten a bit dangerous, and she hadn't gotten her money for it.

Catching her a blurry reflection of herself in the foil, she tapped the red marks on her neck and shoulders. Maybe the tan would cover them. They hurt, of course, but everything hurts at some point, and goes away. She was only worried about how it looked-- it wouldn't be good for business, her operation on the side or at the company.

Sighing defeatedly, she slouched in the chair and tried to focus only on the sun, hoping to fall asleep and wake up a new shade of gold.

If the Ukrainian was hoping to have a peaceful time while sunbathing, she was well out of luck. The door to the roof burst open, followed by an indignant voice, at near-shouting level.

"I told you no smoking indoors!! This is the fourth time--four times you've set off your smoke detector!" The landlord's voice carried across the rooftop, as he pushed a considerably taller man out of the stairwell and into the sunlight, "Out! OUT! Next time, I'm kicking you out for good!"

The door slammed shut again, followed by a muttered "fuck", as the expelled Dutchman squinted against the midday glare. This no-smoking rule was a load of bullshit. Even in the office they made an exception (after a relatively heated exchange about the results of his drug test)--he had far too serious of a nicotine addiction for it to be conceivable for him to go outside every single time he needed a smoke. Cursing some more under his breath, he took a long drag on the offending cigarette, trying to relax in the warmth of the sunlight. At least the weather here was nice. One thing that depressed him the most about his home country was the perpetually gray atmosphere. It was nothing like the places he'd adventured to in his youth.

After knocking out some ashes, he took a glance around and finally noticed the young woman, practically naked, laid out on a lawn chair. Well, well. Maybe this wasn't so terrible, after all. Not at all the type to open a conversation, he contented himself with staring unabashedly.

Normally she wouldn't have minded any glancing, and might have even encouraged it. It wasn't like it was the only way she felt good about herself, but it was her only way to power when she lived in a place where women had little power at all.

She stared at him right back, from above her sunglasses, although she couldn't quite see his face-- it was on the same angle as the sun. She clicked her tongue in mild annoyance; if the landlord was kicking homeless people out of the building, he was probably looking for people who just plain didn't live there anymore. She did miss it-- there was no crying little sister or having to pay for her comfort... she would have moved Sonya into the apartment if it was affordable, but she wasn't sure even the last time she had been outside. On the other hand, she couldn't live with herself if she didn't know if her sister was okay. So money or not, it was the Kommunalki.

"Sorry," She told him, annoyed just as if he was the man who'd left the marks on her, gesturing to where he was looking. "You lose something in here? Otherwise you ain't got a reason to look at 'em like that." Wasn't the whole point of feminism supposed to be the ability to be the person one wanted, no matter if that was a housewife or someone who wore less clothes?

She sank her face down into her foil panel and did her best to ignore him (not like it was that difficult). "Your head is blocking the sun."

Snorting, he tapped some ashes onto the concrete and stepped over to the right, as if to humor her. He could have sat down (because it wasn't like he doubted that he really might have been blotting out the sun), but...it was a long way to the ground. He couldn't be arsed, especially not for a woman that sounded like she almost certainly wasn't interested in his unspoken advances.

Not that that was enough to completely stop him.

As he continued to go right on staring, his gaze momentarily flickered to the red marks splayed angrily across her skin. Huh. He didn't particularly care, nor would he ever be curious enough to ask, but it was something to notice. ...Or maybe just something to momentarily distract him from what he was actually noticing.

She huffed. "Glad to see chivalry's not dead." He looked old enough to know when it started. And also too large to fight off.

"Listen," She got up, pulled on her shirt and shorts before pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head. "Normally you'd be a business opportunity but right now I'm just not in the fucking mood--" She advertised in the back of the newspaper ads anyway-- she was sure he'd seen it.

She was angry-- hyperbolically angry at him, misplaced from what had happened earlier. Payment is up front-- she never had a problem. What was she supposed to call it if the man didn't pay and took it anyway? She just didn't want to call it what it was. It was sad, too sad, to tell her sister that they could only get half of their usual food because she'd been raped for free.

"So stare any longer and I'll kick your balls into your throat." It was a long way up.

Once again, he was disinclined to respond. There was little point in arguing with an angry woman, especially if she 'wasn't in the mood'. That was never a good thing, no matter what situation it was applied to. Even if her threat was questionable at best (he doubted she could kick high enough to displace his balls), provoking this female stranger wasn't going to do anything for him.

So when he finally spoke up (because ignoring her entirely would have been an equally poor choice), it was to calmly change the subject. "...You like sailing?" His tone was more solemn, and certainly far quieter, than what was probably expected from a man of his size. 

Dropping his cigarette stub and grinding it out under his heel, he immediately went to his pocket for another one. Only after he'd pulled out the carton and busied himself with selecting a fresh one, did he continue, "You got a tattoo of an anchor." He waved in the general direction of her chest...as if it was the tattoo that he'd been interested in, all along. Not technically untrue; it certainly added to the appeal, for him.

She fully expected to hear something worse from him, after he'd stayed uncomfortably silent, seemingly arrogant. Well, she didn't really know what ti expect. But it certainly wasn't anything about sailing."

"I dont know." She answered honestly. "Never really been... I just lived on the sea all my life." Not anymore. She did regret that all that time, she had only watched ships come in, and wondered where they came from. She hadn't been in the ocean farther than she could swim. "Some sailors' kids dared me to when I was 15, been there ever since." The others didn't have such a funny story.

He didn't look like the sailing type-- not by today's standards, anyway. "...why?" Was he just covering up his staring? It wouldn't be surprising.

"Hm." Disappointing, but not entirely. Anyone who lived on the sea automatically got a few more points, in his opinion. ...Well, almost anyone; certain Russian cities didn't. He wondered where she was from--she was obviously European, but he couldn't place the accent to any seaside city he was overly familiar with--but didn't ask.

And why? "...Just curious." Finally getting his cigarette lit (he should have just used the embers of the last one--even for all his experience, it was still difficult getting the tiny lighter to work, in his fingers), he spoke around it, adding, "Used to sail for the Dutch Trading Companies, 'fore they went bankrupt." An understatement: he owned the companies. ...Before they went bankrupt. That wasn't the end of his sailing days, but it was certainly the beginning of the end--before when life was perfect.

Exhaling a stream of smoke, he was silent for another moment, before grunting, "...You gonna kick my balls in, or what?" He hadn't broken eye contact once.

"I've seen one of those ships before." Would it matter to him if she said she didn't really notice it much? Other places had similar flags and ships, after all. There wouldn't have been an East Indiaman ship in the black sea. "But it might have been French. Got alot of those, too." Thinking it was probably good to reciprocate, she added, "I've been alot of things... not enough time at them to call any a career." More and more she felt like she was just aimlessly drifting, thinking she knew what she wanted but that it was never going to happen, and just parading around as a mess on the pretense of being a creative free-thinker.

She squinted past the glare of the sun at him and hesitated for a moment before slightly smiling, "I don't think so. Wouldn't make me feel better." She chuckled a little bit, "Wouldn't want to mess up my shoes, anyways. Thanks for asking, though."

Leaning on the edge of the rooftop, she looked out onto the skyline before turning back around as if an idea had struck her. "Hey-- do you want a drink?" Retrieving her bag, she pulled out a large bottle of something that certainly wasn't water. "Not asking you out or anything... Apparently it's not a disease unless you drink alone."

He didn't say anything--some people might have responded by inquiring further into what she meant, or by providing more personal information about themselves, in turn. But that wasn't his style. Beyond simply not caring much, he didn't need people thinking he cared about them; if he wanted to implant false ideas in their heads with false manners, he could have just saved the energy by lying in the first place.

Thankfully, though, it seemed that he'd dispelled whatever misaimed anger she had towards him. And his balls were safe. And apparently now he was invited to some free booze--which was, in his opinion, way better than getting asked out for a drink. Besides not having to pay for it, he wasn't a fan of the noise of bars. Though it would be a lie to say he would have declined, if that had been what she was offering him, instead. "Sure." Sliding down against the door to sit on the floor (might as well, if he was going to be up there for a while), he watched her with the bottle, wondering if by 'disease', she really meant she was some kind of addict. And if so, were her vices just as bad as his, or worse?

He wasn't much of a talker, was he?  Conversation just didn't come naturally.  Didn't stop her.  As soon as she took the first swig of the bottle (she was generous but not so generous to offer it to him first-- she bought it, after all), she immediately brightened up, and took a seat next to him, offering the bottle to him as if she was making a toast.  

"My name is Vesna, and I came here from Odessa-- which isn't too much different, depending on where you look," She began, and nodded towards him, making up her own story for the silent man.  "And can I say what an honor it is to spend the evening with the Giant at the top of Jack's Beanstalk, who even so graciously offered to let me kick him in the beans." She hoped he had a sense of humor.  

"I'm an actress, an artist, and an amateur telemarketer." She took back the bottle and washed down a laugh.  "Professional drinker." 

She waited for him, but really it wouldn't have mattered much.  He was just about as much conversation that Sonya was, except she could bet he didn't feel intimidated into silence.  Perhaps she should have called her sister-- by this time she usually would have brought home their dinners (since Vesna couldn't be arsed to cook and Sonya wouldn't leave the room as long as other people were in the building), but she wouldn't have been able to buy anything, and would rather risk disappointing the sad girl when she got back and it was too late for arguing.  

Accepting the bottle from her, he took an equal swig (he was greedy but not so greedy that he was going to try and gulp down most of it) before passing it back. Unlike her, alcohol didn't do much for him--if anything, it only made him more solemn. It wasn't like drugs; it did nothing for his mood. But the way it clouded the mind, provided an escape, even one to nowhere good or tangible--was what he was after.

When she introduced herself, he glanced at her with an eyebrow raised, as if taken off-guard. Turning back, he said flatly, "I know you. Knew you. When you were a kid." Didn't he feel old. But no doubt, this was the little brat that was the grandmaster brat's younger stepsister--or lackey or something, he never did try very hard to figure out what their relationship was. "You probably don't remember." He was just now remembering again, himself, to be honest. He'd been a busy man, back then; he couldn't recall everything he'd done and everywhere he'd been and all the places he'd done something important in. And really, he'd only had a relatively very minor role in this place--but he did remember Odessa.

Snorting at her interpretation of him, he disgruntledly took the hint and responded shortly, "Diederik. From Amsterdam." He didn't say what he did. (Most people assumed that he just got high and solicited hookers all day, and as far as he was concerned, they were almost right, so let them assume.) It wasn't that he thought his job now was bad, because it certainly wasn't. But the list she'd given him was all the things that she was. If he responded in turn, it would have to be with things he was, but wasn't anymore. Sailor, explorer, merchant... Those things barely even existed anymore. The best parts of him had become outdated, now he was just a multi-addict trying not to get fired because of it.

She didn't often hear a guy that looked like that say that he hadn't seen her since she was a kid. Frankly, she was surprised she hadn't run into him earlier. "Now that you mention it, I do... kind of." She swished some vodka in her mouth before swallowing it, trying to recall something. "I think I tried to throw rocks at you... like David and Goliath." Although, she was sure she did that with alot of people that had come by, seemingly uninvited. "Didn't work, obviously... but I think I gave you a bruise or two."

Amsterdam, huh? Made sense. "That's what that accent is." That's what his look seemed to be, as well. He didn't dress for his age (didn't care what was on his t-shirt, apparently), but at the same time he wasn't trying to hide it at all. He just didn't care. Somehow, she caught on to the reason he stayed silent. "I also work at the company... I mean, who doesn't..." He didn't look like someone who would be good on the phone in Marketing, that's why she'd never seen him. "You probably do, too... You might have seen my sister. She works in Franchising, does the Public Relations... Her name is Valentyna," She took another drink and shook her head with a stiff laugh, "Never ever talk to her, she's really boring." Thinking more about it, she added, "Maybe the two of you could make nice conversation."

((I will app her soon XD))

He snorted at the vague memory, but didn't say anything. It wasn't like she was the first one to pull shit like that with him; he'd been dealing with Piter long before she was born. As for her sister, he really couldn't care less. He had his own annoying siblings to deal with, in the company. "Never heard of her. I'm in CPO," he mumbled, sincerely doubting that he would ever be interested in making conversation with whoever she was. He hadn't had a good conversation since Peter the Great died. And even then, it had mostly been drunken conversations.

If she was saying anything else at that point, he was only half-listening as he smoked, wondering if she could somehow still stand to associate with Piter. Now that he thought about it, her tattoos might suggest as much. It wasn't like he kept up with the Russian brat's life, but it was difficult to miss the bluish markings on his hands, especially since they were so often propping a book up right in front of him. What they were for or why they both had them (because anchor aside, those other ones didn't seem like the kinds of tats that one would get on a dare--and Piter's especially didn't) was beyond Diederik, though. And he certainly hadn't cared to know until now...

At that point, the handle of the door behind him turned, and he felt a slight pressure on his back as someone attempted to get through. In retrospect, perhaps that wasn't the best place to sit. Frowning, he got up and stepped away so as to not get hit. Almost instantaneously, though, he regretted it, as an unfortunately familiar droning voice came through, followed by it's owner, "Good lord, this really does lead to the roof..."

Speak of the devil, and he will appear.

As Piter stepped through, releasing the door handle as if he were touching something rather filthy, he looked up and raised an eyebrow at the sight of the Dutchman, "Well, I was told someone else was here, but what a lovely coincidence, nonetheless. How are you doing, Ditya? I must say, you look just about as good today as any day, these days." Which was not very.

"Fuck off."

"It's always a pleasure to see you, too. Now, I'm looking for..." He turned to spot the Odessan, clapping his hands together in a sort of robotic faux-delight, "Vesochka, I called your home telephone, but no one answered, so I was forced to search for you here, instead. You don't appear to be 'busy'," unlike certain Austrians, "let us go have lunch." Glancing between her and Diederik, he added, "Are you still acquainted with Ditya? I suppose I have to assume so; the coincidence would be too startling, otherwise. He must come with us, I think."

"Think again," the Dutchman scowled heavily, looking like he was considering throwing the slender Russian man off of the roof. He probably was. In any case, he was done here. There was no way he was spending a second more than he had to in Piter's company, regardless of how many bombshells may or may not have been joining them.

((Hope you don't mind, I felt like changing things up--and I have been wanting so badly to rp Vesna and Piter together. :I Idk how close they would be now THOUGH I DID KIND OF ASSUME A LOT HERE ANYWAYS SORRY /sob, or anything, but I imagine he must still keep in touch with her, if only because she's entertaining. XD Also, I don't think Diederik would be as immediately interested in getting closer to her in this AU, because in the past ones, she was someone he was buying sex from and a person bringing him cigarettes and freedom. Here, I don't see the same extreme degree of incentive, and because of that, it's hard for me to think of lines for him that wouldn't just be either short and standoffish, or complete silence. Which I can't imagine is easy for you to reply to. :I So have Piter, the unorthodox matchmaker--/shot XD))

"Hm," She mumbled, almost trying to mimic him. "Maybe I'll visit you sometime." His lack of speech was growing on her. She didn't need someone who would judge her drinking, or her life, or her thoughts. Not to mention, he wasn't bad looking. She may have been just 24, but her whole life had revolved around idolizing men like him. Maybe if he hadn't been such of a jerk when she was a child, she would have done the same to him. He was tall, had a unique face, and didn't seem like he would care if she ever told him how she made most of her money. His silence and distant look was something out of a James Dean movie (if he were older). Her speech trailed off, and she just... looked at him. In the end they'd both said the most meaningful things through stares.

Suddenly he moved, and she was jarred out of her own thoughts. Piter seemed to have materialized out of thin air. She didn't feel nearly the same way towards him as Diederik did, but she did like a joke. "Yeah, fuck off, Petya--" She just couldn't follow through with it, and was laughing before she could repeat it fully. She got up, suitably buzzed, and dusted herself off. "I don't live here anymore, I moved," She thought she had told him. Gathering her purse, she conceded. "I'm starving, I was hoping someone would take me out." She hoped it wasn't about any more criminal plans. Also she hoped that he payed for it. "I don't have any money."

She started heading towards the door before she remembered she had business cards of sorts in her purse. Well, they were slips of paper with her phone number on it. pulling one out, she went back over to Diederik, and left a lipstick mark on the card (what if he didn't remember the number was a woman's? It mattered to her). "Call me... in a few days, maybe. Not today." She wasn't ready, today. "You can keep the bottle." Grinning, she turned on her too-high heels and follwed Piter out of the building.

Piter raised an eyebrow in fascination when Vesna mimicked the Dutchman, telling him to 'fuck off'. He did have something of a sense of humor--or at least, an appreciation for amusing things (which Vesna was, if nothing else, with her spontaneity and questionable mores). More so than Diederik, evidently, who continued to look wholly displeased with the turn of events.

"Oh dear, you did say something about that, didn't you? Well, I suppose I just didn't want to go to the kommunalki, so it's fortunate you were here, anyways," he said with a sigh as he inspected a loose thread on his sleeve, "And of course, I wouldn't dream of having you pay, even if I couldn't have guessed you're short on funds." Having plucked it out, he flashed a knowing smirk at Diederik, "Only a...ah, what's the word--a cheapskate wouldn't pay for a lady, am I right, Ditya?" All he got for a response was a disgruntled glower, as the older man proceeded to suck his cigarette dry of nicotine, foot tapping angrily. Even just being in Piter's smarmy presence was enough to get under his skin, let alone when he was actually trying to do so.

He was forgotten momentarily, though, when she handed him a small piece of paper, invitingly stamped with her lipstick. Eyebrows unfurrowed slightly, for once, in mild surprise, he pocketed it while nodding his thanks for the free alcohol. His expression quickly returned to normal again, though, when Piter chimed in, "How lovely. Well, have fun drinking--" The way his voice dropped off, he didn't even need to finish. The word 'alone' could practically be heard following it, mockingly. Diederik very nearly threw the bottle at his head as he turned away. As the door shut, he scowled and looked down at it.

So...did this mean he had a disease?


As they exited the building, he looped an arm through hers, on principle, "Now, I am rather in the mood for something French, I think. Or traditional food--Franzi never wants to go to a Russian restaurant," he complained with an exaggerated sigh. Unlocking his car (that was another good thing about Vesna; she didn't mind his driving as Franzi would have), he remarked, as if off-hand, "I have to say, if you really have been keeping up with Ditya, you've been keeping it quite the secret. I really had no idea." But he was interested to know--specifically, he was interested to know if she remembered throwing rocks at his head. Good times.

For once she was glad he was that old-fashioned; she was having trouble keeping her balance, with the fog in her mind and the height on her shoes. She scoffed at his idea. "Do I look like I'm dressed for French food?" She didn't think she even had "french food" clothes in her closet. "You can drink cheaper with Russian, anyways." Really, she probably wasn't even dressed for public walking. He might have looked like her John, or a wealthy pimp, next to her. It was funny to her, but she knew it wouldn't make him laugh. At the comparison between herself and the Austrian, she made a face. They couldn't be any more different. "She doesn't even eat, so what does it matter?"

She slid into the car seat, relieved to have her head stop spinning. Never drink on an empty stomach... (her amendment to the rule:) if you had some walking to do. She held her hair back with her sunglasses again and adjusted the seat to stretch out her legs. "Oh, I haven't. We were both just...there." Vesna grinned. "Pretty lucky, eh?" Piter didn't like to hear about what she thought of men, so she would just leave it at that. "...I don't think he likes you very much."

"You don't look like you're dressed for society in general, Vesochka, I hardly think it makes a difference at this point," he quipped lightly, "And it would be humorous to see the looks on the server's faces." Although it might mean that he'd never be allowed into the restaurant again, with or without her, which would be a shame. He already skated on thin ice with his hand tattoos, which tended to nullify the claim that he was once royalty and dined on French food since before they were born. ...Still royalty, technically.

"Appearances, I imagine." Franzi wouldn't be caught dead in a homely Russian restaurant, surrounded by drunks. "A dangerous thing to worry about, in my opinion." When it didn't matter, anyways. When it did, Franzi was his friend, when it didn't, Vesna was. He rather felt like he was getting the best of both worlds.

Halting at a red light, he raised an eyebrow at her, "Really. He lives there?" Surely the man could afford to live in the tower block--though perhaps it was to be expected that he'd go for something more modest. That certainly would have been more his style. Smirking lightly, he agreed, "Oh yes, I'm well aware that he's not particularly fond of me. He and my father were very good friends, though--I've consequently known him throughout all of his best and worst years." Well, mostly. Just as with Franzi, contact had been cut off for most of the twentieth century. "I find him to be a highly amusing character. He used to be the richest man in the world you know? This was before you knew him, of course--not that you could tell, even back then."

'She frowned jokingly. "I don't think that's fair, people wear bathing suits around all the time." Just not when there wasn't any water around. Or as visible undergarments. "I didn't have time to do my laundry." And it wasn't like she could borrow clothing from her sister. Normally it wouldn't matter what people thought of her, but people who thought they were fancier always looked at her a bit funny. And she was in no mood for that kind of thing. "I've been treated like shit enough today, thanks."

She'd stopped worrying about appearances ever since Catherine and the rest stopped trying to dress her up. "I'll say." That Austrian woman always looked like she was about to faint. So did Piter, to a degree, but she knew why.

Shrugging when he asked if the Dutchman lived there--who knows? She was on the roof too, and she didn't live there-- she added, "You think he'd want to live in the same building as you?" Diederik had seemed fairly aged, but apparently he was old enough to have been old enough to be the richest man in the world when she was too young to barely write her name. "Do you know if he still has money?" Probably blew it all on cigarettes. She wasn't sure if his last comment was a comment on her intelligence or not, so she added, "Not that I've ever cared how rich people are." She used to, in the 60's. It never ended well.

"I suppose context is old-fashioned," he ho-humed, "Though I'm interested to see what you'll do when the bathing suit is dirty. If I could venture a guess... A bed sheet toga, perhaps?" Probably not revealing enough for her--it was altogether more likely that she'd just go completely naked. Which was not nearly as humorous or pleasant to consider. Without bothering to glance pointedly at her bruises, ill-concealed by the recent tan, he commented dryly, "I've noticed. I do hope that's not Ditya's doing...?" He would never hear the end of it if it was.

As if he hadn't just been thinking of making the man know the misery of being publicly reminded and accused of assaulting a woman physically and sexually (if it were only the former, it would be massively hypocritical on Piter's part) for the rest of his life, he pretended to scoff at the suggestion that Diederik wouldn't care to live in his proximity, "Who wouldn't want to? I can't imagine a greater privilege." As if reading her thoughts, he informed her, this time with a real scoff, "I should think so, but I'd guess that he wastes it all on various addictions. I wouldn't be surprised if he were stuffing his mattress with money, though; he's quite the miser." He offered her an unsettling show of teeth...which she was likely too used to by then for it to actually be unsettling. "Charming, no?" It was certainly entertaining.

Pulling to a halt in the parking lot of the local Russian joint, he exited the car and sauntered over to her side to hold the door for her. All joking aside, if they had gone elsewhere, he might have considered offering her his jacket. Might have. As it was, her very conspicuous tattoos coupled with what could be seen on his fingers would make for a very fun impression on their fellow Russian diners. After all, nothing was better than making people jump.


((Only added that bit at the end because the guy who played in Eastern Promises mentioned that his tattoos were so accurate that, when he was on lunch break from the filming and hadn't bothered to remove his makeup, he accidentally frightened a Russian couple sitting nearby enough that they left the restaurant. So I'm assuming that at least some Russians can recognize criminal tattoos apart from the meaningless variety. XD))

"I was wearing regular underwear today." She muttered begrudgingly, not enjoying his joke. "I didn't get them back." She was intent on being vague, she didn't want to get emotional about it. Until he'd asked-- but she mostly kept it together, the last place to be emotional was in a car with someone like him. Although with Sonya constantly in her room, maybe she wouldn't ever have a chance to be emotional. "No, he didn't..." She pulled down the mirror on the passenger shade and nearly jumped at how black and blue the bruise on her right cheek was. "I showed up at this asshole's place... first he tried to choke me, then he hit me in the head... I guess I went unconscious, but I woke up and he was gone. With my underwear." She sunk into the seat and added in a mutter, "No money." She used to feel powerful, sleeping with men. That was back when they were politicians, and the heads of the black market. Now they were just dingy, greedy, and dangerous.

But she thought it a bit strange that he had automatically assumed that it had been her new acquaintance's doing, when Piter knew what she did as a side job. "why did you ask about him...? Would he have?" If it was true, then all her delusions of his silent romance were for naught.

When he scoffed at the fact that no one would want to live with him, she laughed dryly. "Why, are you offering? You got a real nice place. You never let me touch the piano in there, though, and I've never even seen you play it." She laughed again at his admission that Diederik hoarded his money. If she ever got her hands on him he would think twice about that.

As she got out of the car, she commented, "You were much better at pretending to smile when you were a kid." Except for when she punched at him, or put him in a headlock and ruined his hear, or stole something of his father's that he'd carried like his own. Best friends, the two of them. "Oh-- you're buying dinner for my sister, too." No negotiations.

Unlike him, however, her tattoos weren't really a sign of power and potential. So as they entered the restaurant, she tried her best to get her crop top to cover as much of her as she could-- eventually she had settled on the plan that the sailor's tattoo was fine to see, and pulled her shirt below one of her shoulders to cover the unsavory tattoo of the naked prostitute, and the telling one, of the cartoony cat. Maybe she should have asked for his jacket, herself.

"Hmmm," he tapped on the steering wheel with thin fingers, drilling a testy staccato into the leather. He wasn't nearly as possessive with Vesna as he was with Franzi, but he still didn't appreciate the idea that someone thought they could get away with beating and raping his younger stepsister. He didn't care that she had been, but it was the principle of it: you couldn't break someone else's toys and expect them to not be angry. "And what was his name, may I ask? His appearance?" Payback was in order.

He was so preoccupied with mentally going over available hitmen (something the Russian mob was in no short supply of), that he nearly missed her question. "Oh, perhaps, perhaps not," he waved the issue away vaguely, "I had to be certain." He couldn't say he understood Diederik's (or anyone's) sexual appetites very well, which, combined with the knowledge that he could occasionally be just as callous as Piter himself, made him a very real suspect to the Russian's mind. It was probably good that he wasn't the culprit, though, because he wasn't entirely inclined to put out a hit on the Dutchman just for Vesna.

"My dear, I would be only too happy to have you stay, but you know there are rules to living in my household." No being drunk, no being high, absolutely no sex, no touching the piano, no touching his violin, no touching his books, no touching his chessboard, no getting paint on anything, no bringing people over without his approval, no helping oneself to his drinks, and absolutely no talking while he was working or playing music or reading or otherwise doing something important. It was basically a no-Vesna zone. 

With a mock sigh, he locked the doors, "I suppose I can't pull the wool over your eyes." He knew she knew that his smiles were all fake. Which was why he didn't bother with a second one when she informed him that he was treating her sister, too. "Naturally, as my generosity knows no bounds. Be good and tell her it's from me, too, I'm sure she'll be thrilled." She'd likely refuse to eat it, preferring to cry from hunger, instead--which he would have found downright humorous. A shame he wouldn't get to witness it firsthand.

Unlike her, he made no move to cover up what tattoos could be seen on him. As they entered, he rested his fingers lightly on the hostess's station, addressing her softly in Russian, "Table for two, please." It was the same kind of softness that one might have used right before brandishing some chloroform and a butcher's knife. 

The girl behind the counter glanced downwards, then at the scantily-clad woman's bruises, and back up again into his blank expression with uneasy eyes, smiling nervously, "Right this way..." Piter almost smiled again. Almost.

As they were seated, he gestured to the empty seat next to Vesna, "Please give us an extra menu, for Sofochka. She won't be joining us, of course, except perhaps in spirit, but niceties must be observed, all the same. Now, go and fetch us some water." As the girl scurried off, no doubt wondering what on earth had been the fate of poor Sofia, he skimmed over the menu with his version of a pleased expression. Sometimes he forgot how fun it was to terrify servants.

If he'd said as much, she would have denied it. She'd been in the business for long enough that she had a million and one loopholes for not calling something rape. This time she was unconscious, did not remember it, so it was almost like it hadn't even happened. Almost. "I don't ask for their names anymore, and I don't give 'em mine. And I'm certainly not going to talk about it anymore than I have to." People who might have been feeling a bit more just than usual and overheard her might have decided to alert authorities about it. "I don't want to end up in jail again." Granted, jails here were much, much better. But she had rent to pay and a little sister to take care of, so she wouldn't leave anything to chance. She used a fake name in transactions, even.

She sat down, immediately throwing off her shoes and crossing her legs on the chair and propping her elbows on the table. She didn't observe manners when they were children, and wasn't about to start.

"If you're trying to scare me, it never works." She might have been dull, but she was smart enough to catch on to the fact that, even as an adult, he liked to get a rise out of people. "I think he's a good guy." Said the woman who had just ordered an entire bottle of brandy to their table, right after he'd mentioned water. Along with one-fourth of the whole menu. Laughing at his mention of rules, she muttered, "I bet all you do in your house is just sit around." More like no-fun household.

She called the waitress back over again (partly to put her at ease with how cheerful she was, despite being so bruised). Handing 'Sonya's menu back to her apologetically, she requested, "And can I have kapusniak-- schi-- to go... and papushki, when we leave?" As long as she wasn't paying for it, she wanted to treat her sister-- she remembered she'd snapped at her a bit, previously, and felt bad. Maybe cabbage soup and rolls didn't exactly count as a decadent dinner, but she knew she would have preferred something that was homey; a bit polish, a bit ukrainian, like she was. Looking back to Piter, she rolled her eyes as the waitress (who seemed to be too afraid to ask if they needed anything else) rushed off. "Right, like I'd tell her that." Sometimes his antics were fun enough to go along with, but even she had limits.

Pushing the water away and sipping her brandy, she eyed him strangely. "I know half the time you come to see me you want something." Still, it was a bit comforting that it was only half, as compared to how he just used most people for manipulation. She supposed that meant he cared. "But this time I'm glad I ran into you-- I heard you were the new head of HR." And she had alot of complaints she'd like to have erased.