Cohost writing prompt: @spy-thief-assassin-who — Mob Boss who extended their tab too far for this joint
"Padrone," Dandelion says, ducks her head and spreads her hands in a gesture of respectful welcome.
Martingale adjusts her cuffs. "Nice office," she says coolly, pretending not to know the over-warm and over-interested gleam in the hexsworn dedicant's eye. And it is a nice office, for all that Dandy's been in town for less than six months, coming up from scratch; because Dandy's services aren't the cheapest, but she's already earned a whispered reputation. You pay Dandy for magic, you don't get stiffed. You pay Dandy for magic, you get results.
Also a little: you ask Dandy for magic, you don't fucking stiff her on the fee. And you don't come dick-swinging, saying she's a newcomer and needs to bow out of any part of the city you've considered yours for lack of arcane competition: they still haven't found Threefinger Jim, only that pool of something darker and stickier than blood, one shoe, and the desperate scrabbling fingermarks on the inside of the locked room he wasn't in.
"I'm grateful for your generous forbearance in letting me set up shop," Dandy says. "Anything you need, Padrone. Say the word."
"As it happens," Martingale says. "A certain three-fingered man used to do occasional work for me. Let's be clear; I'm in the business of business. If a man of magic starts an occult matter he can't finish, that's not within my consideration, but I find myself in need of a comparable...resource."
"Padrone is kind to consider us comparable," Dandy murmurs, in a tone that distinctly suggests the kindness isn't to her. "What do you need?"
"There's a certain establishment," Martingale says, and motions to the lieutenant hovering behind her, who walks forward to press something into Dandy's hand: a matchbook, embossed with the name of a downtown cocktail lounge. "Which has likewise enjoyed my forebearance, and certain business transactions, and a mutual regard that's seen regular customers flow their way from among my many friends in this city. And the proprietors seem to think that they can simultaneously benefit from business relations which cut out some of my interests, in favour of supply from the Subcthonian boys. The Subcthonians."
"Mm," Dandy says, eyes glittering and expression almost hungry. "Marty, you've known me since before we — well, you — grew tits; you know what I could do then. I don't think you know what I can do now." She licks her upper lip, and smiles. "I understand your need to say things in a careful way that can't be used against you, but until we're on a more established footing for — certain services, I need you to be very clear. Are you feeling 'every traceable family member for three generations goes missing one midnight, leaving behind exactly one tooth each' slighted? Or 'one guy dies in a way that leaves the carefully arranged-for witnesses screaming in mental sanatoriums for years'? Or 'their customers flee in horror and never dare return'? Or you want I should just put the frighteners on 'em?"
Martingale turns to her lieutenant. "You see this?" she says. "Never got this kind of diligence out of Threefinger Jim," and allows herself a smile that's as much fond as sharp. "The frighteners, Dandy. They get one chance to crawl back to me swearing never to disrespect me again, and I'll explain the new terms of business to them. And if they prefer to forego my magnanimity — well. Either way, I expect you to impress me, and I can always find more business for impressive people."
Dandelion clasps her hands in front of her chest, in a gesture that could almost look girlish, if not for the savagery of her grin. "Impress you," she says softly, as if it's the most magnificent gift she's ever been offered. "I'll see what I can do."