Xanatos Gambit [Marc]

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The closed sign hung in the door and the lights were dimmed. The tables were once more polished as if new. Coppola’s usually many, well-dressed, and bustling staff were nowhere in sight. The lively restaurant if it could, would have whistled the absolute silence that had crept into every space. It was late night and Coppola’s had closed a few hours ago with the last customers leaving merrily red-faced. It wasn’t a good restaurant without the best wines. Italian, French, the works. The owners had always made sure Coppola’s endured and surpassed. Not a one had failed that promise from the first to the last. Speaking of the last owner, she had been the only one who had stayed late to get some of management work done.

She emerged from the back offices just as the clock struck eleven-thirty with her large, white purse thrown over her shoulder. She was wearing a light, dark-blue halter dress clinched at the waist. Anna had been there since the early morning, going over tax information and holding meetings with some of her “associates”. Anna was not only proud of how well the restaurant was still doing, but at how well she could meet with the other members of Gotham’s notorious mobs here. The place was quite a meeting spot of any and all she associated with. Good food and wine loosened tongues and eased relations. Most thought the life of a mafia don was blood, gore, and glory. They failed so often to realize the business aspect that went into it. Anna took to running her late husband’s operations like she would taken on running his restaurant. You had to know supply and demand and always be the supplier. Lessen your demands as much as you could or excise them completely. She never wanted to owe a favor to anyone. She may have been running the Coppola Crime Family well, but there was and would always be those who thought they could do better. That was where blood, gore, and glory came in.

Running a business was ruthless; you had to exterminate competition, but that usually meant buying them out or offering the same quality product for a more reasonable amount. You ran businesses out. People, however, had to be disposed of. They had to be rubbed out. There were creative methods for that too and Anna got to enjoy exploring her more “artistic” side there. Anna Craven was a smart and manipulative business woman; she was also a terrifying mob boss. She could smile and charm her way through many things, but what charm didn’t buy her threats and death did. Luckily she’d not had to deal with any of that lately, though someone had offered to buy her out on her restaurant.

That soured things, but she both didn’t care who this person was nor what their reasons were. The answer had been no. The answer would stay no.

She had just taken a final look around the restaurant, her keys in hand to lock up it up for the night, when the door opened. She took a deep, frustrated sigh, but all that was absent from her face when she turned to face the intruder.

“I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid we’re closed,” she gave a disarming smile all the while being irritated. Couldn’t this person read the very blatant “CLOSED” sign on the door?

[Marc Dahlmaine]

The night had been a whirlwind. And probably not the most sober either. While Luthor had gotten into his mind to purchase nearly every establishment they had imbibed in, there had been one that both of them had enjoyed, yet a deal had not been struck to add it to Marc's now empire of fine dining. It was some sort of Italian place, nothing like the facade of Falaccio's, more gritty, more Gotham, and of course, ran by a woman.

The manager that evening had said Ms. Craven was around, but not while the two inebriated young men had cajoled and offered to purchase. He thought they had been bluffing. Of course they both weren't, with a healthy bank account backing each man's attempt to gain ownership of this restaurant.

And so the next day over breakfast they had set down the rules. If Marc could convince the owner to relinquish her hold, he would win. His prize being another eatery under his belt to oversee. His loss would be Luthor's gain, and his prize would be choice. The two men had shook over wide grins and shrewd eyes, knowing that there really was no failure in this endeavor.

And Marc had done little to research this Ms. Craven, other than a cursory glance at the establishment's mentioning here and there in the news. It was a quiet place, yet had a devoted, dedicated following. Part of that screamed certainties at him, but mattered little. What mattered was the gentleman's agreement.

And so he had an assistant of Luthor's check into the joint many times. And this Ms. Craven was around yet busy. Of course she would be as the word she would not sell had returned to him early evening. Well. A challenge and something entertaining to do in the city. It was no far reach for Marc to entertain a woman such as this. He was in the art of convincing those who did not want, to find reason to.

So while he slipped behind the seat of his own car for the evening he had made sure to mull over his own wine collection he had shipped to Gotham, that had been carefully crated and then lovingly placed into the cooled cellar for his stay. A red, a pinot noir, that his gut had told him this woman may enjoy. When he felt that niggling tug toward this or that he was not one to ignore it. And so he was off, navigating the vehicles on the road that never seemed empty until he made his way to the lot that hugged the restaurant.

The time was late, and he knew the sign had said 'Closed,' but as most establishments of worth, he had noted the door was not locked. Waiting for someone, or had he just found the perfect opportunity before him?


In either case, the tall, darkly dressed man crossed the Mafiosa's threshold with aplomb. Italian leather on his feet, a red shirt belted into soft merino wool slacks, which matched the bespoke charcoal jacket. The bottle of wine was cradled in one hand as cool eyes took in the woman about to leave.

The words she spouted with such efficiency he wanted to grin at. Laugh at. She was irritated even as she smiled, her darkly lined eyes engaging.

"And yet, the door was not locked?" His accented English responded. "Perhaps I could help you with that." Reaching behind him deft fingers turned the lock with a loud click.

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If she had been any other woman maybe she would have cowered, maybe her countenance would have mere bravado, but she wasn’t any other woman. She was Anna Craven and instead of sending off alarms, she took in his appearance. The wine, his dress, and those eyes so full of laughter. Her own narrowed as the click of the lock burst across the space between them. Her smile didn’t falter, but her eyes became sharper. Wasn’t he just bold?

Anna leaned back against the counter. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself…I’m not afraid of the dark.” She’d long stopped being concerned about the danger of Gotham nights. Her late husband taught her all she needed to know about defense; she wasn’t a pushover and if this man had meant to intimidate her, she wasn’t frightened in the least. She merely crossed her arms and mulled to herself. She’d had plenty of riff raff come in off the street. Sometimes she’d feed them, sometimes she’d chase them off. The real reason she kept her door unlocked, however, wasn’t a simple lack of foresight. News, crime, her other ‘business’ waited for no man or women and it certainly knew no hours. She never knew what the night would bring into her store or who. The man before her now, though, was unexpected. Unexpected and yet somehow very familiar.

They’d never met, she knew that. Perhaps she’d seen him in passing? He had that air of confidence and money that wasn’t fake. The clothes he wore were tailored to the nines; he was definitely in her class circle. That made his visit all the more peculiar and all the more intriguing, even if his arrogance was making her skin prickle most unpleasantly. Still in her simple, though elegant black dress she was easy to mislabel. She was certainly a business woman, but she was no simpleton.

Manicured, red nails tapped against her upper arms. She went back to staring at the wine he’d brought. “Some secret admirer of mine? You’re bold if so. I do not think we’ve met, though you seem familiar.” She would remember someone like him. Tall, dark, handsome and with an accent that immediately drew the attention. French. She tilted her head and her red lips pulled into a predatory smile. No, she was not welcoming him. She was angry. This was her territory and this haughty man had waltzed in with panache and no manners. Still she dropped her keys on the counter, deposited her purse and with a rock of her body stood straight on her stilettos and came towards him.

“Tell me,” she said, “what brings a man with wine to my simple little restaurant?” She stopped just before him. “And what makes him lock the door behind him? If you’re here to daunt me, you’ll need to try harder…I’ve been in Gotham too long for your show of power to frighten me.”

[Marc Dahlmaine]

"I bet you are, considering you are the owner, and seem to have forgotten to lock the door, but do have the 'closed' sign in place." Running a hand through his hair he scanned the room. It was neat, tidy, and ready for the next day. He was about to go to one of the tables when he found her mere inches from his chest. Rather pretty, too. Successful in her restaurant. Lack of decent wines, him and Luthor had found out that night.

"Actually, no. A proposition made by a good friend of mine was turned down. We were told to return when you would be around. Usually closing time is best to find the owner." Not that he was going to tell her he had experience in that realm. His parents had taught him, and taught him well.

"Forgive me. I am finding my manners in Gotham are not up to a standard I was raised with." He offered a hand to her, along with his name. "Marc Dahlmaine." The thought of her thinking him an admirer in any form was telling. She must have many men seeking such a position.

"Confidence, Ms. Craven. No daunting. Just to have a moment of your time. And if that time is valuable, I do find I am able to repay such minutes in a dinner of your choice if that is necessitated." He laughed, abruptly at her show of her position in Gotham.

"I am glad you have been here long. Perhaps then you can educate me on this peculiar city. I have been here mere months." A show of power? This was a proposition, nothing more.

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“I didn’t forget to lock the door. It might invite unwanted guests to enter,” she wasn’t hiding that she’d aimed that at him, “but it also invites those who want protection. I leave it open for my ‘family’.” Anna crossed her arms. This stranger might have been handsome, but he was unknown, clearly here for a purpose and she was not keen. He was an enemy until proven otherwise. An enemy who brought the sort of wine she usually served in her restaurant—that was the last time she let anyone but her pick the selection to buy. It didn’t stop her frown, in fact the expression only grew for the barest moment as she listened to Marc.

Then she smirked, “Ah, that’s the real reason you’re here. Then you’re wasting your time. My response was final; I’ve no intention to sell to Mr. Luthor or anyone else. And I don’t leave my door open to deal with decisions I’ve already made.” Whoever had told him to return would be lectured. She wasn’t the sort to change her mind and plying her with wine would not work. Her answer would not change.

“Mr. Dahlmaine, then,” she took his hand. She was displeased and she wouldn’t mask it, but she was a business woman. A business woman, who yes had admirers, but she’d not settled in years. “I am sorry you had to come here, but time is something I believe I should not deprive you of.” She gestured around her. “I am not going to be selling this place and you can deliver that to Mr. Luthor and anyone else who is interested in it. This place was my late husband’s. His family built this place and I chose to maintain it. I will not dishonor his memory.”

She ran a hand through her hair and took steps, intending to pass him and unlock the door. “Your taste in wine is exquisite; I am a fan of that brand I usually order it, but tonight is not a night I can entertain you. I imagine your time is just as valuable as mine. Let me show you out, apologize, and you can return to enjoying your evening.”

A proposition for this place would be useless. More than sentiment kept her hands on it.

[Marc Dahlmaine]

He may not be Italian, but he was more than up to snuff on the terms she was highlighting with a slight stress to her words. Mob. Mafia. With a name like Craven, she had to have married into the family. Mob he was used to. Masked crazies flitting around the city? He could care less. So she may have been expecting someone, but that someone was not him.

As she took his hand, he easily transitioned the aborted handshake into something better. Her hand was turned flat, her knuckles supine. Stepping forward, her hand was pressed lightly to his mouth before he let go. "Ms. Craven, my pleasure."

She was keen to illuminate him on the history of the place, and why she would still further decline not only Alexander's proposal, but why. He could deeply understand that, giving an understanding nod in admiration to her dedication of her late husband.

"I am sorry to hear you are widowed. I, myself am a divorcee." The words were spoken quietly, with introspection. They had both experienced loss. In his own eyes, his loss was akin to a death he felt such pain. A flash of heightened emotion was in his eyes before he could keep it under wraps.

"I will convey your wishes to Alexander-another time." As she shifted to move beyond him he set the bottle down and gently spin her to face him. She would not be moving to the door.

"You have declined to answer me in repaying your time wasted with dinner. Your choice. My indulgence." Staring down at her he would allow those words to sink in. She would of course compliment his wine choice. He had only introduced his name. And in not being native to Gotham, few would understand such a thing.

"My time is my own, as I seek to educate this city on fine wine. I am keeper of my own time, as a sommelier in my own country, and peddler of such simple things as fermented grapes. Forget my offer in buying this establishment. Humor me in a meal instead, Anna." He is a dedicated man.