TAKE ME BACK TO THE NIGHT WE MET / IMPERIA

[JERSEYBOY]

JERSEYBOY

// shit this is late [member=598]imperia[/member]
ref bbyyyy

Lights, music, and chatter filled the open space as the sun slowly began to make its way downward onto the horizon. It was a clear, cloudless night, and quite perfect for a party. This wasn't a "rager" full of teenagers, it wasn't a cheaply-thrown together party at your parents house, it was a social. It was chock-full of adults with money coming out of their ears and bullshit spewing thick from their mouths. People put on pretty facades, as if it were a competition to see who could be the most oozing with charisma and glamour. Women wore flashy little dresses, high heels, and pearl necklaces while the men wore their finest blazers, suits, and dress-shoes. It was practically a "Gatsby party", though the Gatsby of this party was just some other wealthy entrepreneur who liked to show off his things and his money. He made no effort to hide his appearance, as he stood in the middle of a circle and guffawed at whatever jokes they were telling.

There were dozens of people invited. There had to be around a hundred here, maybe more. From millionaires to business-owners to CEOs, all intermingled with one another and discussed their work and their successes. Accompanying one of the said "business-owners" was a man named Thomas DeVito. He, uh, did some work for the man, as did the other men in his party tonight. There were a handful of them, all donning obsidian tuxedos and matching bow ties. Their hair was slicked back with gel, they reeked of cologne, and their grins were are sharp as knives. A lot of the people here knew what they were about, and they practically spelled "T-R-O-U-B-L-E", but everyone knew to keep their business hush-hush. They knew better than to expose the mob, because if they did? They'd never be heard of again. So, everyone just went with it, treating the gentlemen with the same respect as everybody else in the room.

Tommy was currently holding a glass of bourbon, although its contents had significantly lowered since he had first been poured a drink. He figured that, since the current conversation topic was growing dull anyways, he'd might as well get a refll. So, the Italian quietly excused himself and began to stroll on over to the bar, taking the final sip of the liquid and emptying the glass completely.

© MADI

[imperia]

[align=center][div style="width: 51%; text-align: justify; font-size: 10pt; letter-spacing: -1px; font-family: georgia;"]hittin ya w/ that iconique keira knightley green dress

There is something almost magical about traveling far away from home. A new place filled with new people living lives almost completely different from your own, yet somehow the same. Young Imperia Arceneau has just arrived from Canada. Winnipeg, to be exact, though she was born in France. Suffice to say the many of the goings on off New Jersey live is foreign to the girl, even if she has already endured several long briefings from the family's personal assistant about mobs and whatnot. It seems like a bunch of fairytales to her. Unlike most of the other guests, Peri is not here for business. Or maybe she is, depending on how one observes her situation. Imperia, as well as her colleagues Jean-Luc and Rose, received an invitation to represent the Royal Winnipeg Ballet at the prestigious gathering of world tycoons.

While Peri and her co-dancers are not present to talk up their company by any means, they are intended to represent the company with the intent of bringing in new patrons to invest in the company. Although the woman is still fresh-faced and entering her twenties, Imperia is among, if not the top dancer in Canada.

It is clear in the way she stands, over in the corner by the bar. A glass of rosé balanced delicately in one lithe hand, the other resting by the fingertips atop the table by which she chats with a group of two other women. Emerald green silk cascades down her body in a vintage style ballroom gown, the fabric hinting at a lean frame with muscled legs and chiseled arms. The figure of a dancer. All elegance, grace, and poise. A single lock of raven black hair escapes from the elaborate braided bun atop of her head, tickling her jaw. Imperia easily clears six feet in her heels, although all of the dancers present possess long and lithe frames.

For a moment, the conversation seems to lull, and Peri finds her silver gaze drifting across the crowd. She is studying what looks like to be a group of businessmen when the sight of an intense-looking man moving towards the bar distracts her. Brown hair and brown eyes and the sleek appearance...She wonders if he could somehow be related to rumors of a Mafia. He certainly looks the part, handsome as he is.