[modern au - fic: by vesuvio]
Title: By Vesuvio.
Characters/Pairing: Jean Louis/Lucretia (FOC).
Summary: He can sense the way her temper smoulders beneath the surface, however, like a small disaster begging to be ignited.
A/N: Takes place during the summer, 2001.
By Vesuvio
It’s close to midday. Another slow morning, the Sicilian sun heating up the air and a light, Mediterranean breeze making Lucretia’s white curtains flutter in the open terrace door. Seated on her bed by the headboard, a heavy pillow propped up behind his back, Jean Louis waits for his laptop to brave the warmth of the south and load his mail boxes. He runs a hand through his hair, strands wet from the shower he’s left only five minutes earlier. With the towel tightly strung about his hips, he’s going for only the most superficial sort of modesty. They had sex. If she’s going to care, it’ll only be by way of approval.
His mail programme blinks into view, finally. 150 new messages since yesterday - unsurprising, really, considering how his work has been gradually picking up ever since his official appointment to Foreign Minister back in spring. On top of that comes all the unofficial business. Like his current little rendezvous with Lucretia Salvoca, which is mostly a pleasant detour before the slightly more official dinner with her father, Ezio Salvoca. Only slightly; after all, according to his plans here, Jean Louis is the guest of the Italian Foreign Ministry, but Ezio “Bird” Salvoca certainly doesn’t make his millions by preaching politics. Confusing perhaps, if you don’t know the way this country works. And very revealing too, if you’re daring enough to keep your eyes open. Skimming through the various messages, he stifles a yawn. How long does it take for one woman to bring two cups of espresso? Really? Particularly a woman with about twenty servants at her disposal. But Lucretia always picks the longer route to the finish line; it’s a very Italian trait that he’ll never get used to. Doesn’t want to, either. Aside from its cuisine, Italy is not really to his tastes.
Most, if not all, of his messages go to different, segregated folders sorted into specific categories. He pauses when he notices one that’s made its way to the main inbox - sitting there, somewhat lonely, along with only a few other mails from some of his newer contacts. But this one is different, isn’t it? The name of the sender rings more than clear: Mireille Barrault, by way of the private network system of Tressange Academy. Subject line: “A New Guide to Post-Keynesian Economics by Steven Pressman - Critical Comments”. For a long moment, he simply stares at the text, one eyebrow raised slightly in surprise. Settles down further against the mattress before opening the message, curiosity winning over professional work ethics. He has many projects, after all, and Barrault’s 16-year-old daughter ranks high on his list of priorities, if not for her usefulness then for being almost incriminatingly interesting.
The French doors fall open, Lucretia entering with light but quick steps. He looks up. Even while balancing a tray with two cups of steaming espresso, a plate decked with slices of Bruschetta and two glasses of white wine, she’s unfailingly graceful. The blue-and-gold Dolce & Gabbana morning gown sways about her long limbs, elegance no doubt owed to hundreds upon hundreds of expensive dance lessons. She’s not conventionally attractive, the young daughter of the Sicilian mafia, but she draws your eyes as easily as any high-fashion super model. Consciously, of course - Lucretia knows her own worth, both in the monetary and the personal sense - but never literally. He’d asked her about that once, during their first late night dinner. A model is a canvas, she’d said. I am no one’s tabula rasa, you could not pay me enough.
“Working already?” Her heavy, Italian accent turns the syllables longer, the vocals rounder. “Take a break. I have been a good girl today, just for you.” She places the tray on the bed, seating herself next to him and holding out one of the cups. “The espresso machine is almost what I wanted. But Ezio tends to hit and miss, you know, in some areas. As a contrast, he says.”
Jean Louis smiles. Takes the cup from her after a few seconds, leaving the message on the screen open. Lucretia leans in closer, her brown eyes narrowed slightly in curiosity. He lets her get away with a lot because everything that makes her happy tends to make her father less likely to shoot you. That, and she smells nice, her brown hair loose around her shoulders and feather-soft against his chin. From here, he’s got a decent look down her cleavage, which is an added bonus that he won’t exactly complain about. Sipping the espresso, he watches her carefully, waiting for her to spot the name of the sender. She doesn’t disappoint.
“Mireille Barrault,” she says, tasting the French pronunciation with her particular, arrogant reluctance. “Phillipe’s adorable daughter. I hope you are not waiting for me to turn 16 again, Jean Louis. You are not patient enough for that.” Shifting back slightly, she returns her attention to the espresso; he can sense the way her temper smoulders beneath the surface, however, like a small disaster begging to be ignited. Entertained, he clicks the attached PDF document, knowing by its digital size alone that it won’t be a quick read. At that, she sets down her cup on the tray with a hard clink, leaning in again and resting her cheek against his shoulder. Two seemingly contradictory actions if you fail to speak the language sufficiently. To Jean Louis, it’s an obvious warning. And he ignores it, happily, in favour of doing what he wants. It’s what she likes about him anyway, isn’t it? Let her burn if she wishes.
The document really is long. As in, ten pages. His eyes widen as he realises that Mireille has sent him a small dissertation - in French! - with quotations and references sprinkled evenly throughout the text. A commentary on every chapter in the book, some parts obviously longer than others. And judging from the first couple of lines, it might even be worth the time it’ll take him to get through it.
“As far as love letters go,” says Lucretia after a moment, her voice unusually quiet, “this is not bad. Odd,” she adds with a shrug when he glances at her, “but not bad. You like it.” It’s not a question and so, he doesn’t answer. Instead, he saves the document with a few clicks before putting the laptop away, aware that Lucretia’s patience is about as well-developed as his own. Sure enough, when he turns towards her she’s glaring at him, her arms crossed over her chest and her espresso forgotten. He takes another sip and sets the cup on the bedside table, meeting her angry eyes with calm disinterest. Leans in closer, watching as her eyes stray from his face and downwards, despite herself.
“You are going to marry her,” she says and stops him short, their faces inches apart. Her eyes are downcast, long lashes casting shadows over her skin. He doubts she’s actually taken her eyes off him, though it’s difficult to tell. It’s a game she plays; making herself visible by feigning transparency. “In a few years. A French-speaking girl with too much class and too little confidence.” He frowns, about to correct her - because that’s rather presumptuous isn’t it, even for her and her southern dramatics - when her lips stretch in a thin smile and she looks up, gaze suddenly, shockingly sharp. “Try not to break her, Jean Louis. Someone like her, she would be precious no longer.”
She shifts away, getting up without a glance back. He doesn’t stop her when she leaves the bedroom, hands curled into fists and her stance rigid. At least she didn’t throw her wine glass today; no doubt, she’ll be back for it soon enough with a very different look in her eyes. He’ll make it up to her - she’ll let him, certainly, because Lucretia won’t deny herself anything, even when her pride should keep her abstinent. He doesn’t consider her words too carefully either; Mireille is still a girl. And while he’s fascinated by her and by how Barrault treats her mostly like a barely lovable outcast... well. She’s beautiful, yes, and intelligent beyond her years. But he hasn’t decided what to do with her yet. How to include her in his plans.
A short pause. The rest of the espresso has gone cold on the table and he ignores it. How to include her? Not ‘if’ - but ‘how’. He glances towards the French doors. Sits in silence for a long moment, the quiet stretching around him and mixing with the sounds of leaves rustling and the buzzing of the AC. Then, he reaches for his laptop with one hand and grabs a piece of Bruschetta with the other, reclining back against the pillow again and clicks the screen. Waits for the document to open and starts reading, brow furrowed and feet tapping lightly against the duvet.
~