8:3 / Interlude – Gryphon
Gryphon
Gryf checks the piece of paper in his hand, looks up at the red brick building in front of him. He’s not sure why he’s looking at the paper, it’s not like he didn’t immediately recognize the name of his old philosophy professor, Samuele Bianchi, or the location of the school he’d been kicked out of the moment Don Franco gave him the note to collect on.
If he had anything striking close to remorse left in him he might be feeling bad about having to go rough on his old prof, but that shit was something he’d pared away along with his good diction, quality threads, and all the other legacy crap that had threatened to hold him back when he’d rolled up on his Uncle Joe’s old poker buddy, Franco Rossi’s front step looking for some option to keep himself out of the gutter after his parents kicked him to the curb.
At first Don Franco hadn’t wanted to give him a chance but Gryf had persisted, all tooth and claw and fuck you and letting go of who he’d been so he could become who he needed to be. He’d been merciless. He’d been coldblooded. He’d done every fucking ugly thing he had to do; every demeaning, ugly, cruel thing he had to do until that just became who he was. Demeaning, ugly, cruel.
Back when they’d cut his ass off his family had called him ruthless. Called him heartless. He snorts. For most the lens of memory shows a distorted view but Gryf’s had enough time to rub the crap out of that thing so his view through it is crystal. What he’d done…? Who he’d been…?
He has no illusions. Illusions were one of the first things he pared away. Illusions were for rich, pampered fuckers.
If he’d had a heart, or given a shit about anyone except himself, well maybe he would have thought before fucking his cousin’s best friend, Sofia. Maybe he’d have considered her feelings, but what had feelings been to him? Something to use to get in a girl’s pants, that’s what. And maybe if he’d had any mercy he wouldn’t have fucking laughed at her when she told him she was pregnant and it was his. And maybe she’d be alive. Maybe she wouldn’t have gone to his family’s estate, in the middle of a party, and hung herself in their pool house.
But, if he’d been the fucking Crown Prince of Ruthless and Heartless and all the Lesses then, what did that make him now? Because he was so much worse than that stupid, selfish asshole… kid.
He thought when they’d found Sofia, hanging there, a marionette with cut strings and a belly just rounding with his child he’d hit rock bottom. When his family kicked him out… rock bottom. But, he’d just kept falling. Into the street, out of the gutter, onto Don Franco’s doorstep, and into the only life left to him.
Most days he feels like he is hanging by a rope himself, though it is wrapped around his fist and not his neck, and it just keeps giving way cord by cord so he drops a little more with each fraying slip. Only it’s not a cord, it’s a steel cable and as each wire snaps it pops back on his clenched fingers, opening his skin, and each stinging lash says let go but he can’t. So, he drops a little more each day and he clings to that lifeline, that fraying motherfucking lifeline as it whips at him and promises oblivion if he… just… let… go…
Shoving away the thoughts, he crushes the piece of paper in his hands as ruthlessly as he does the memories that prod at his atrophied conscience. Long practice has him pushing that shit to the back of his brain where it could sit lurking and fermenting some more and then he’s up the stairs in a bound and through the door before he can linger more in what-could-have-beens.
It’s late, after normal class hours, and the place is pretty empty. It isn’t quite turn-the-lights-down-low yet, but it’s for sure as shit later than most students hang. He cuts through the corridors, an abyssal silent in his element. It has taken him time to get this way of moving down, taking up space to show he can while leaving nothing of himself behind. Time to transform to a shark, a monster, where once he had been a pampered prince.
Crap. He tightens his jaw and moves silently up the stairs to the third floor where the professors have offices tucked up under the eaves. It’s darker up here, quieter too; but he’s quieter, darker as he moves up to the door at the end of the hall. There’s a pair of chairs there, set up to one side of the door. A figure sits in one, face averted, a curtain of dark hair hiding the features of the girl reading a book.
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t ask if she’s waiting for the Professor. This wasn’t going to take any time. He has this down to science by now.
The air parts around him, a wake rippling as he passes. He glides past the girl and quietly opens the door. There’s movement behind him as he steps inside, like maybe she’s looking up at him, but he has moved so quickly he knows she didn’t catch a glimpse of him. He’ll make sure when he leaves that he keeps his face from her. It’s a subtle precaution, one that probably isn’t necessary. His targets usually know the score and don’t make waves so there’s little chance that anyone will ask for a description of him but why take chances?
A twist of the lock to make sure no one interrupts, a fiddle at the cord of the wood blinds to make sure there’s no view of the room from the hall beyond, and then he’s turning towards the desk and the man sitting behind it. So quiet is he in his movements that the professor misses his entry.
The mark sits with his forehead propped in his hands, his attention on a pile of papers in front of him, unaware of the danger that glides towards him. Gryf sets that firm in his mind – The Mark. Not the Professor. Not some guy with a life and hopes and dreams and aspirations and all that crap. Just a deadbeat Mark with a debt that’s gone unpaid too long. Just one more demeaning, ugly, cruel thing he does to survive.
Sound distorts around him, an echo of silence, pressure building somewhere on the subaudio. He squares his jaw and narrows his gaze, fixing his focus on this moment, this job, this Mark who is not a professor, not a part of his past but a stepping stone to a future he’s aiming for. Get this thing done. Cause some pain. Collect some money, if the guy has any. Cause some more pain if he doesn’t. And move on.
A bend of his leg and he’s knocking on the desk with his knee, jarring the surface and catching the Mark’s attention. The prof… Mark looks up, startled expression morphing into one of consternation.
“Mr. Ricci?” He adds, “Gryphon Ricci?”
He thinks of himself as Gryf. Gryphon was a lifetime ago. Gryphon would have thrown himself down in the chair across the desk from the professor, striking an insouciant (and wasn’t that a 10 gold word?) pose that spoke of disdain and privilege and how he was gracing the professor with his presence. Gryf? Well, Gryf lunges across the desk, grabs the guy by the hair at his crown, and efficiently bangs his forehead into the desktop. Once, then again to make his point.
The Mark sits back, dazed, as Gryf releases his hair and settles back on his heels.
“Don Rossi’s patience is spent, Professor.”
The Professor… the Mark blinks slowly. His pupils don’t match. Gryf is thinking maybe he hit too hard. Usually he’s better than this but the ghosts are speaking to him in whispers in the back of his head, speaking to Gryphon, and Gryf is maybe a little distracted. Rather than admit to the doubt, he squares up to the desk, crosses his arms, and gives the Mark a steady eye until the guy is stuttering and pushing back to widen the gap between them.
“I’ll get the money,” the Mark says in a weedy tone.
Gryf lifts his brows and lowers his lids. “Rumor is you’ve said that before. A lot.”
“Don Rossi knows I’m good for it.”
“Does he?” Gryf puts all his ‘yeah, right’ into his tone. He examines his nails pointedly, then makes a big deal of rolling up the sleeves of his shirt as he moves around the desk towards the Mark. “I’m thinking he wouldn’t have sent me to collect if he did.”
He laces his fingers together, turns his hands palms out, gives his forearms a stretch. It’s a particularly subtle intimidation, one he’s worked to perfect, and by the prof’s gulp and darting gaze he can see the Mark appreciates it.
The Mark’s shoulders slump and a look of resignation crosses his face. “Fine. Just don’t let Aillea hear.”
Aillea must be the girl in the hall. Gryf gives about a second’s wonder to who she is to Professor Mark, then lets its flow from his mind as he pulls back his fist.
“No!” The shout and the sound of the door hitting the wall come at the same time, overlapping so Gryf doesn’t know which comes first. He turns to see the girl from the hall standing in the doorway, mouth open.
Fuck. Did he not lock the door? He swears he locked… his gaze goes to the key in the lock. Yeah, okay, he locked the door. And he’s guessing this is Aillea and he’s guessing she’s something to the Mar… the Professor.
The Professor confirms the suspicion. “Aillea. Go. Let the men discuss…”
He doesn’t get any further before she’s sputtering and snapping and going stomping into the room with a look of righteous fury that’s kind of… well, awesome. He hadn’t given her any consideration in the hall, but he’s definitely doing so now. “Let the men discuss…? Father!”
Gryf is shifting his gaze between the Prof and the girl and he doesn’t know which one to focus on. Eventually he goes for the girl as, by the look of her, she might just take a swing at him. It amuses him to consider it. Almost makes him want to cut up on her. Almost.
For all the good holding back does him. She stomps over to him, stopping when there’s about six inches of space between them. She’s looking up at him. Way up. She’s a little thing. Like five feet nothing. Nothing except righteous rage that is, a rage she lets him get a full shot from as she pokes him in the chest with the book she’s holding.
“You can just step back, you… you… thug!”
Gryf’s been called worse, by worse, so he’s fighting not to laugh. And then he’s not fighting as he’s crossing his arms and looking down at her, a rusty laugh escaping him, and how long has it been since he’s done that? Since a pool house and a broken marionette and he should be feeling the dark things he usually feels when those thoughts creep in but instead he’s kind of falling into a pair of dark brown eyes that are filled with sparks of outrage and for once his falling isn’t coming to a jerking stop from the rope wrapped around his fist and he thinks, “well, now…”
And she’s still talking and he has to focus on her words, which must have been about paying him as he catches the tail of a statement that ends with “… by tomorrow.”
Rather than be about telling her he wasn’t listening, or why, he instead makes a point of looking down at her and narrowing his eyes with rapacious intent. “What if I want more?”
And wasn’t she getting the drift of it just fine as she rears back, her gaze wide and her cheeks flushed and her book suddenly clutched to her chest like it will shield her from his attention.
“More…” she stumbles, hastens to correct, “more money?”
“Now, see here,” the Professor starts, then goes suddenly quiet as Gryf turns to glower at him.
“I’m not about hearing what you have to say. I’m talking to her now.”
The Prof starts to “but, but, but…” but Gryf is already turning back to the little prey turned predator with her dark hair and big brown eyes and book shield.
He bares his teeth and he’s hoping for something other than the “hey, come inside” of an apex predator, but it’s been a while and his smile is as rusty as his laugh.
“Tomorrow. I’ll give you to tomorrow to have the money.”
“How much?”
“Twenty G.”
“Twen…” she stutters, blinks, bites her lip. “That’s a lot.”
She turns her gaze upon the Professor, her, Gryf thinks, father and her look is all hurt betrayal.
“Twenty G?” she repeats and the Professor has the grace to look bad because, right, twenty gold, that’s a whole lot of owing to someone like Don Franco. Gryf sets back on his heels and crosses his arms and waits for her to turn back to him, because, of course, she will and she does.
“Twenty G.” This time it’s said with a determination and a lift of her chin.
“Twenty G,” Gryf confirms and then adds, “Tomorrow.”
She looks down then up again, meeting his gaze in a way that most men he runs up against won’t. He gives her credit. She has more balls than most all those guys combined or she’d be looking anywhere but at his crazy, shark gaze.
In a voice that barely carries, she says. “Tomorrow.”
Gryf uncrosses his arms, nods to the Professor, then gives her a knowing look. “Tomorrow.”
That said he exits the room and starts down the hall in a quiet glide.
Tomorrow.
Enter The Woods 