Finches: Dirty Money

Legacy of Blood

As Silvano walked down the long hall, his eyes drifted towards the impressively high, vaulted ceilings, Renaissance-styled paintings decorating them like his own Sistine Chapel. Though unlike the holy faithist imagery, his family's name and money had bought a darker version. Twisted yet true, the paintings above him reflected his namesake's legacy, depicting every heartless and cold act his family had inflicted to get where they were. Murder, torture, and extortion were none of the exceptions that he passed under daily. It was a reminder and a threat, telling everyone who had ever laid eyes on the morbid artistry exactly what the Quinncelli name was capable of and wouldn't hesitate to repeat.

Lowering his eyes to the portraits that lay to his right in a long line against the wall, Silvano tugged at the collar of the finely knitted sweater he wore. He felt as if the expensive fabric was strangling him, hardly comparing to the clothing he wanted to wear if he could. Yet, as a representative of not only his father but his name, Silvano conceded to the dress code he had been given after the incident with the ripped and patched, jeans. No matter how expensive they had been, or if the maker had intended for them to look that way, his father had seen it as nothing less than an insult. He had paid for weeks after wearing them to dinner with a few of his family's 'friends'. Even now, he could hear his father's voice bellowing at him, spitting in vile Italian just how much Silvano had embarrassed him with the small stunt. Though no one else had seen it as such, there was no arguing with Luciano Quinncelli, his word was absolute law.

Passing the seventh picture from the end, Silvano back-peddled, coming to a full stop in front of the portrait, his eyes slowly roaming the monolithic painting. There, standing beside his father, both in immaculate, pressed suits made specifically for the occasion, was himself. Luciano looked as he always did, handsome, formidable, dark and charismatic, holding onto the shoulders of his son who appeared as the mirror image, only drastically younger and far cockier. Silvano often stated that his father looked like danger and money while he came off as trouble and rebellion, each housing their own capabilities within their grassy, green eyes.

Far from usual, his hair had also been brushed, gelled, tamed and combed into the perfect part for the picture. It had been a look his father had given his approval on, something that rarely if ever happened with the pairs clashing tastes. Though he never lived in terror over his father's strict rules or ways of living, Silvano listened, or as much as he could. He respected Luciano deeply and if showing that meant slicking down his typically unkempt locks for portraits, then he had no problem with it. It helped that his father understood his need for individuality, allowing Silvano a short leash of what was and wasn't acceptable behavior, a line the younger Quinncelli toed dangerously. He was thankful that his hair wasn't a large issue, knowing it was one of the little things that Luciano had given him leeway on, allowing him to wear it as it currently and usually was. Though styled, it was a controlled mess of straight, almost black, brown locks. His mother had once called it 'tousled' while Luciano insisted that it made him look as if he had just gotten out of bed.

It was clear by the portrait and how his father had requested he have his hair for it, that the Quinncelli patriarch would prefer his son to look just as clean, disciplined and well-dressed as he himself usually did. Though he only wore a tie for certain occasions, Luciano lived and breathed in suits, Silvano once joking to his younger sibling that their father probably slept in them too. It was a credit to him however as his father consistently looked powerful in his custom-made threads. Always Italian and always local. His father never bought anything overseas if he could help it, proclaiming that 'they never did it right anyway'. Luciano was particular in his ways but what it culminated in was an extremely dangerous, yet incredibly high-class aura. He looked made for a throne while at the same time putting off an air that he hardly minded getting his hands dirty, something his reputation backed up entirely.