The Pleasure's All Mine (Alexander Blasetti) [TW: Swearing, Violence]

Sebastian's thoughts of England so far was that it was perhaps, the dreariest dowdry little place. Though not a patient man, he is a willful one. He has plans he needs to carry out in England, and until they were to come to fruition, he will be biding his time here. He needs something to do and pinning down this Mr. Blasetti is just the first of his side-project. Not that this little project is time consuming in the slightest; the free lance work he does barely keeps him from the twinges of homesickness he feels. Portugal was thriving with life, to distract him from the twinges of homesickness. Nevertheless, he knows the solution will be to contact his younger sister, Vittoria, as soon as possible to meet her during her next day off. They share a love for Lisbon, where their family fortunately still has one of the nicest homes, and Amadora, where they could flounce around the streets. For now, he bides his time in England, waiting to see the first step in the many it would take his plan to catalyze.
 
He has one name on the mind: Elenore Clement.

He has one circuit to get to her, and currently, he sits in a tawdry little pub, full of wannabe "dark" wizards drinking and talking about the good days. He sips his third tumbler of whiskey as he taps his foot against the floor at the bar. He's batted away two women and one rather pushy man, especially considering the fact that he has one plan for night and the slightest distraction could cause it all to go awry. He taps his free hand on the bar as his eyes scan over the building once more.

He sees pasty, overgrown men leering at waitresses, sees jezebel women flaunting themselves on what he assumes to be some "bad boy." Fools, he thinks, sips on his drink again before spotting the informant. This boy represents the only saving grace Sebastian thinks this region has to offer; this "contract killer" has all the professionalism of real wizards back in Lisbon. In Lisbon, there was always a person to go through to get to who one really wanted to speak to. Finally, as he's about to order his fourth glass, a scrawny little University student scrambles up to him.

"Mr. Marroquin?" The boy squeaks out.

"The one and only." He says, he wants the boy to feel comfortable, so he turns in his chair and opens his arms in a flourish. "Have you information to give to me?"

"Yes." The boy smiles gratefully. "Mr. Blasetti says he has a private room in the back for you two to discuss."

"Thank you," he says standing. He fixes the lapels of his blazer and straightens himself to his full height. "You may leave unless you have something more to deliver to me."

"N-no sir, th-that-that'll be all." The boy rushes away, and Sebastian watches him with a tinge of pride. He's glad to know his stature can still inspire some modicum of intimidation and makes plans to utilize it. He has a fair idea that if this Mr. Blasetti needs a messanger boy, then he must be good, so he readies the wand on the inside of his jacket pocket if he needs to use it.

Sebastian makes his way to the back, standing to his full height, and knocking at the lone door he assumes to be an office.

"Mr. Blasseti?" He asks through the wood. "I believe I scheduled a meeting with you a while ago." Though he has the money, Sebastian makes no plans to use that. He needs something Alexander's got, and by all the good graces of any magical deity, he'll do whatever it takes to get that information.

The only person in the Marroquin family who knew of Sebastian’s plans was Valentina, his younger sister, the middle child, and the one who was destined to marry into a family that would bring their own nothing but gain. He knew that because of his temperament and disposition to quick action, his parents had their well-meaning concerns: he was observant, he heard the conversations that his parents had together in the evenings at an age even as young as sixteen. He knew they expected great things of Valentina. She was beautiful, brilliant, and just as conniving as the rest of their family. His parents knew that Valentina had the patience to execute well-devised plans: such as her involvement in the last scandal with the previous president of Portugal. No one wants to hear that the leader of their nation is nothing more than a sleaze, and no one especially does not want to catch him in bed with a beautiful young woman.

Of course, though his parents were in on this scandal, it had been all of Valentina’s work and careful planning. They expected her to be capable enough to pull off such an impressive feat, and Sebastian would watch with proud eyes as she would continue to crumble the infrastructure of both the Ministry of Magic and the thin excuse of a democracy from within. For their mother, Valentina ensured the previous Head of the Department of Mysterys was gifted a basket of sweet fruits, one of which was a durian fruit he was deathly allergic to disguised in a candle. The gift was anonymous and when the incumbent Head died, their mother took that position. That had not been done with their parents help; it had all been Valentina’s careful placement and slick moves.

These feats of her abilities forced Sebastian to consult her for help, six months ago before his transfer to the Ministry of Magic in England. She had been sitting on the veranda of her current lovers apartment, the CEO of a big airplane and airplane parts company who spent whatever days he wasn’t with her with his loving family (with no knowledge that she planned on using this man to blackmail him into giving up his company to her), on her third glass of wine. He sat across from her, on his second shot of straight, pure vodka from a Russian coworker after telling her that he wanted Elenore Clement.

“She is a girl, Seb,” Valentina said casually, she pinned him with a glance, “you seem to be under the impression that you can easily just woe her over.”

“And you do not think I can.” He guessed. She shook her head.

“You are handsome and charming, that we can agree on, but you are also hot-tempered, quick to failure in that way,” she sagely commented, “if you wish to effectively win her, and do what you must to get our family back to where we once were, you must be better than that.”

“Why won’t mine own plan work?” Sebastian asked. He began tapping his fingers on the metal table, a sure sign he was ready to blow up, and she sighed impatiently.

“Because she won’t fall in love with you if you’re just you.” She made a flourishing movement with her hand. “She is a young girl who will be wooed by you, but the more of yourself you show her, the more you will trust her, and you risk falling in love. That will not do, will it?”

“I could never.” He said arrogantly rolling his eyes. His brain conjured the image of Catherine, all dark hair and sharp eyes with angular cheeks and sweet smile, and all of her kind, brash sweetness and his heart tenderly gave a thud as he immediately remembered the day he lost his one true love. None could ever compare, none could ever take her spot into his mind; he had no plans on even developing the tiniest bit of sympathy for the daughter of a family as despicable of the Clements. He wished only to watch her burn between his fingers.

“The mighty falleth the hardest, caralho,” she commented, putting her wine down to give him all her attention. “If you are going to do this, Sebastian, you only have one chance to do it right. Move to England, find out everything you can about her; become the only thing she thinks about, have her so deep in love with you that she forgets the world around her, that she forgets she is a Clement because she is your woman.” She sat up straight and pinned him with their mother’s soulful brown eyes.“Despite your foolish thoughts, that will not come easy. The Clements are more formidable enemies than you believe; mama and papa have not launched an attack because rushing into it would be too foolish, and it would not guarantee a success. I would not even advise you of all people to endeavor into capturing the young heiresses heart, but,” she sighed and rubbed at her temples, “I cannot stop you.”

Sebastian said nothing just stared at his sister for long minutes on end before she cursed and gave in.

“Find the man or woman that knows her best, trick him or her into giving you everything you need to effectively capture her. There will be no winning until,” she tapped her lip and then grinned in such a cool, collected way it was almost sculpted from the face of Hera, the vengeful Greek goddess, “you have convinced her to live in Portugal with you. It will not be done within a month or even a year; it will take many years and much patience on your part. However, if you can accomplish this, you will have her. Only a woman so desperately in love with a man would relocate from her own, loving family to another, crueler, unknown one. Do you understand me, vaca?”

“Yes, and Valentina,” he stood and with the flourish of his long arm and strong hand knocked over all their drinks and bared his teeth in a snarl, “do not speak to me as if I were some simpleton again. I am not the idiot you think I am. You know this, no?” She swallowed hard and cowered as he lunged forward slightly to frighten her further. The glint of danger in his eyes forced her reaction.

“Isso! Irmao, descarnas se faz favor!” (Yes! Brother, relax, if you would please!) She cried, curled into her seat glaring at him. He straightened up, put his cool facade on, and gave her a small kiss on the temple, she winced the whole time but received his slight affection and non-verbal apology. He then returned to his office in the Ministry to research a man or woman with connections to the Clements and begun to fill out the paperwork to transfer to the England Ministry.

From his conversation with his sister it became abundantly clear that he would need to stay in England, or the U.K, for an extended time period. He told his family it was to explore work ventures and make connections, but Valentina knew better and, knowing better than to ruin the “surprise,” kept her mouth shut. Six months after making this decision, he was in England as a “pending Auror.” This meant he would need six months after being hired for citizenship and other legalities to finish pending before becoming an actual Auror for the Ministry of Magic in England; for now, he was a free-lance Auror on consultations for his expertise from University, Dark Magic. How he excelled in his classes on Dark Magic, and how he did well in capturing and successfully subduing Dark Magic users in Portugal would be something that only his family was truly aware of.

So, standing in Mr. Blasetti’s doorway, he felt no fear. He knew his goal in this conversation, and he knew the steps he needed to take. For now, he needed to only uncover whether or not Mr. Blasetti would give him everything he wanted to know about Miss Elenore Clement. He’d taken his sister’s advice to heart, and deemed it foolish to underestimate the Clements. Therefore, he was in this ploy for the long-run. He would accomplish his goal and then some.

“I apologize, Mr. Blasetti, if I have offended you. I do not know the type of man I am entering business with other than that you must be damn good at your profession to need a messenger boy.” He slips his wand back into his pocket. He did not need a wand to exercise the full brutality of his strength; he was trained in more than just magical persuasion. He smiles as he steps into the office. “May I close the door?” He did not mind an audience, but perhaps, Mr. Blasetti would not want witnesses to his own downfall.

“The Portuguese family I derive from understand well the abilities of the Italians and would not engage in business if we were not in need of certain,” he slides his tongue over the front of his teeth, like a lion licking his teeth after a meal, “information.”

“No thank you,” he says to the offer of drink, “but may I take a seat before we begin this meeting?” He gestures to the other chair in the room.

Sebastian was not as calculating as his sisters. Valentina had a gift for intuitively knowing what people wanted. Their parents often joked about how she was probably part-Seer, but Valentina confessed it was because people were predictable. She’d looked at him pointedly when she said this and he just stared back. She would later tell him that whereas yes, Sebastian was predictable, his temperament made him less easy to predict. She saw him as pop fizzled up just waiting for a single tap to explode into a fountain of either rage or violence. He’d never lay a hand on either of his sisters, but it was because he knew he wouldn’t have to. Vittoria had readily agreed. Both his sisters had a talent for manipulation that he wasn’t quite as adept in. They pushed his buttons, and he pushed them back into a corner to remind them that yes, they had the abilities of mind, but he had more strength and more cunning than the two of them put together.

He often wondered what it would be like to take his sister’s brains for his own. Would he have everything he ever wanted? A country under his heel? Catherine at his side? Probably. He certainly wouldn’t be here, contemplating the help of the Italians. He wouldn’t be seated, upright, hands flat on top of his knees, eyes forward at Mr. Blasetti as he reclined in his chair.

How silly.

Could Mr. Blasetti not see the sheer difference in their builds? Despite having his magical abilities, with his parents involvement in muggle affairs, Sebastian knew the advantage to having physical abilities. He’d killed men with magic, per his father’s request, and killed men with his bare hands. He knew the satisfying pop of eyeballs under his thumbs, knew the delicious crunch of bones beneath his feet, and savored each moment that his own dominance was reasserted.

In this office with Mr. Blasetti, though Sebastian felt he was superior in strength, he was inferior in mind: Mr. Blasetti had information, dire information that Sebastian had one chance of getting, that Sebastian needed.

“I do not speak for the entire Marroquin family in this meeting, I’d like to make that clear.” Sebastian says. It’s true. His family does not know the true intentions behind his move to England. “I am merely here as Mr. Sebastian Marroquin.”

He leans forward. His patience is wearing thin. Formalities are really not something Sebastian dealt with on a normal basis. He’s used to physically or magically getting what he wants. Mind games are really not his expertise.

“Mr. Blasetti, it’s been made apparent that the Italians have connections to the French, and that’s a relationship, I would like to personally become acquainted with. There is one French woman I would like to know, and have her know me. It has been made known to me that you have the necessities for me to get her. Will you assist me, or not?” He asks, his smile gone.

Sebastian felt his blood running hot with a predatory thrill. He thought to only use his magic if Mr. Blasetti did not comply. Now, the idea of using his hands brought about that feral side of his personality he shaded with his smiles and professional mannerisms. He knew it was wrong to take delight in the prospect of bringing others pain, but he also knew that he only delighted in bringing forth pain if there was no other option. He doubted Mr. Blasetti would allow him to drag his wand out of his pocket, and he was, unfortunately, not as talented in wandless magic as he was in non-verbal magic. If he could touch his wand, feel the magic channel through his hot-blood, he would utilize his magic to take control of Mr. Blasetti, the way he had with multiple other men.

His brain brought him back to a rather frantic conversation with his youngest sister, Vittoria, when she was fourteen. The silly criança (chit) thought herself in love with a man, some University student in the states, who found her on a family trip to New York. He didn’t need to do a background check on the University student. He knew that following their father’s first election into office, the Marroquin name became renowned in the states for being, “Perhaps the Most Promising President of this Century,” and this University boy probably only wanted Vittoria for the money. It did not escape Sebastian’s attention that Vittoria did not lie to this man about her age; the University student continued to pursue her with full knowledge that she was only 14. She was not the age of consent, and the University student was pleading to Vittoria to allow him to come study and live with them in Portugal.

His parents were convinced they should just pay the University boy off; convince him through monetary needs that Vittoria’s worth rivaled physical money. Sebastian assured them he would “vet the boy.” He took a week-long trip to New York to see the American boy, an escroto (swindler) with no shame, and cornered him in a bar. He said he was just a man visiting New York and needed directions, told him to come outside, took his wand out from his pocket and “persuaded him” (Imperio or not, Sebastian saw it as just persuading) into taking a walk with Sebastian. He had the boy walk straight off the Brooklyn Bridge after a car ride through the city where he uncovered their family’s suspicions were right: the University boy saw the Marroquin name, remembered meeting a Marroquin in Central Park earlier that year, and found a way to send a letter overseas. The stupid University boy used his words to charm his still innocent little sister, who had not yet reached the darkest part of her training. A ridiculous muggle notion, Sebastian thought as he lit a cigarette and watched the boy plummet to his own death.

Vittoria was devastated, but his parents quietly applauded Sebastian's valor and loyalty to his family. He remembers his blood running hot that day he killed the University boy, not his first, and certainly not his last Imperio. Just as he stares at Mr. Blasetti with thinly-veiled patience and professionalism, he did in New York.

Sitting in Mr. Blasetti’s office, he put a foot up onto the table as he reclined back in the chair, relaxing his muscles briefly to look at Mr. Blasetti with hooded eyes. He licked his lips in anticipation, hoping Mr. Blasetti would attack first so that any action he took from then on out was merely in “self-defense.” Funny little American term he picked up in his visits.

“Of course I understand, Mr. Blasetti. I also understand my sources tell me that the Blasetti family, one person in particular, has quite an outstanding connection to the French family in question.” He smiles sweetly. There is a kind of smile that haunts the ones who view it because there is no real emotion behind it; there was no mistaking that though Sebastian's lips curled into some semblance of a smile, his eyes told a different tale. His eyes screamed of the most primal urges known to man, something buried in archaic tales of barbarian ways. Yet, he kept his body tense, not quite attacking yet, but provocative to say the least. He knew how to evade, and he would if he needed to.

“Do I need to say her name, Mr. Blasetti?” He put both his arms on the armrests and lifted himself up, his foot kicking the table absentmindedly but with force into Mr. Blasetti.

“I think,” he drawls out as he puts both his feet on the ground to stand, “we both know who I want.”

He puts both his hands on the desk then, his forearms flexing as he grips the edges with a lethal glint in his eyes. His body was tensed, ready to dodge, defend, or attack at a moment’s notice, and oh, with so much glee would he love nothing more than a good fight. He felt like a tiger being poked in his steel cage, had felt that way since this ridiculous plan had been put into motion and his patience that once was thick was now thinner than ice. He craved a nice duel, or a quaint fisticuff. His body ached to dominate and conquer, destroy and remake. The crunch… The yells… Best of all, the begging.

“To what lengths will you endeavor,” he says mockingly emphasizing the word, “to give me what I need?”