1920s (time warp), new york city, ny

“I love it when you say I can hunt for sport.”

It wasn’t that there weren’t people who could get the job done, hands that could stand to get dirty - that didn’t mind getting dirty - for the sake of a big payday, but there was something to be said about making an appearance now and then. Koschei, he knew, wasn’t a ghost among his associates. He was a common presence in closed door meetings that the din of the oft-crowded speakeasy couldn’t break into, no silent partner though the unhinged intensity of others floated over what was strong quietude, but once in a while, a reminder was necessary especially when people got too comfortable.

And when there was an ironclad alibi, an establishment in Chicago in need of oversight and witnesses who could place Koschei and his auditor within the dim lighting of known establishments thanks to what could only be described as a “time discrepancy” without any valid explanation to be found - yet - why stop it?

There was opportunity to be found there and Ash was nothing if not opportunistic. Not only did it allow Koschei the opportunity to stretch his limbs and put some life into old muscles that were years removed from the days he had spent waging war, it allowed Ash the time to take care of the loose ends that would ultimately follow the scheme being laid out over his husband’s ire. He tapped the corner of his ledger, cigarette perched between his index and ring fingers, watching as Koschei paced about. There was money missing and a number of parties who, as it had been put, “begging poor”.

“The amount of business any number of these people see,” Ash said, flipping through a few pages absentmindedly, poring over names and finances as formerly reported, debits and credits accommodated for whenever capital had exchanged hands, to seek out examples, “it is highly unlikely to be the case for all.”

“It’s fucking bullshit when I’ve seen their mistresses strutting by with pearls down to their ankles is what,” Koschei replied and where many might have overlooked the more fashionable of mentions to the subsequent rectification of such unabashed spending, Ash just smirked and leaned his arms more forthright on the table in front of him. He knew what was coming, knew that there was a message to be delivered, but there was little that shook him - not in this business where the next person in line would walk right over one’s dead body if given the chance and not after so many years.

“Seems like there’s some new pearls in my future.”

Nonchalant as the conversation had erred, it had been just as quick to return to focus, plans made, men called, and a handful of strategic measures left to Koschei’s plans while Ash maintained some semblance of ignorance as to what his husband was after. It would all come out in the press: Men Killed in Shoot Out, Police Suspect.

Not that a newspaper played much part in the commotion about him, plush red cushioned seats and tables full of prohibition dodgers, all angling to get as boiled as an owl without the strong arm of the law interrupting, while live music filled the empty air beyond and rooms once full of irate made men were far more jovial, any one of which could have tugged the print from his hands though he reckoned few dared. His expression echoed Koschei’s own, Ash’s arms folding on the table in front of him for a brief second before he held out his hand expectantly - both knowing, both aware of what had been done, both smug about it.

“I secured the territory,” he said, speaking of the building around them, an establishment newly in their name with a few key personnel removed from the paperwork and more avenues for those activities not meant for prying eyes, least of all the police constantly chomping at the bit to see illegal liquor and all associated with it shut down for good. “So…”

“Where are the pearls?”