persephone writes home: salazar dinner

He sees the purple sewn across the room. Lighting bruised in the way he forces his own victories, Sayer bought out and bonded to the dark rooms of pity -- this room that continues to see him see it. See every destructive word of a man bent on success, the ever drawing line. Meter by meter it moves and yet he remains still, standing at the front of the great hall entrance to the Salazar Manor. 

Waiting, poised. 

Stiffer than a million dollar man should be, solely because he knew the cost it took to get here. It isn't the blackmail he feels sorrow for, nor the murder- never the murder, really. The only difference between a successful man and a dead man is the one with the better aim. The only thing he regrets is how pitiful his family has become in the last half decade; how many ways he could have fixed things. Perhaps even the last decade. 

Violetta could be alive, Jacinta could have kept this family together instead of driving that wedge ever deeper. Marina insists she come, because of the endorsement -- reap her own success, but Esme insists she not. Jacinta is not family, the baby is not family, Mackenzie still has not met Valentino but that is nothing personal, surely. Just another mistake that will have to be rectified eventually. 

"Luce!" He smells like fresh whiskey before the events even begun, "looking as stressed as ever, brother." 

Marina stands besides them as he hugs his brother; for the first time in what feels like a decade, Marina seemed nearly supportive. She and Luce about the only two not killing Valentino slowly at this point -- even his own damn kids are driving him to a heart attack one of these days. He shakes his brothers hand before hugging him briefly, perhaps the warmest greeting of the night. 

Valentino had near hoped they could skip the formalities, there isn't much to celebrate- there wasn't a chance in hell they'd lose this election. From the start it was always Salazar up, the purple night bleeds into the whiskey they drink. It's just another hand shake and greeting cousins, nieces, Esme -- one after another until Ignacio closes the door. 

"Qué Carajo..." Valentino growns to his wife, "where is she?"

Marina swirls her white wine without make eye contact, speaking only as she makes her way to the kitchen, "if she knows what's good for her? Dead." Must be fitting, desperately, for Valentino to grovel and beg for forgiveness only for Jacinta to throw away the only opportunity she'd get. He walks behind his wife as he straightens his suit, Ignacio behind him. 

You can only do so much. 

The rooms full of chatter, white noise bleeding lavender as family members talk what he can only assume to be politics- quite topical recently. Valentino takes his mantle at the dinner head, Marina's empty chair on the left and Luce firmly seated on his right. It's lovely so how legacy sounds -- what he's working so hard for and it still doesn't feel enough. What more can he do? How much higher can he bring his family? 

How high do they want to go, really? Looking from Luzia to Sebastien to Elena, he can't force them to succeed; hell, can't even advise it any further. A family so hellbent on driving itself into the ground and here he is to spite it all, Valentino Salazar, Mayor of District Seven. He draws the family's attention with his whistle, waiting for the chatter to die down until it's only eyes on him. 

And Marina, stunning wife she still is. 

"In all honesty, I am about sick of giving speeches. I had one prepared five years ago but how about we just skip to the toast this time, yeah?" He lifts his flute, wine already in place. Success tastes bitter sweet in the ghost of reality, he waits to sip the fruits of his torture. 

"To Marina & I, and a good damn five years." 

Let's see where this takes us.