"I know that you said coffee was okay…but I made tea, as well…just in case."

He smiled as she sat the tray down, nodding politely, and reached for the tea. "You know me quite well, my dear."

"…Quite well, indeed," she agreed quietly, chuckling, and his smile only seemed to widen at the foreboding sound of her laughter. Eyes crinkling with mirth, the assassin brought the drink to his lips; Viola visibly stiffened at this, her dark gaze boring into him, and Shelly paused, regarding her curiously. She opted to remain silent, merely watching him – brows furrowing, he dipped his nose low and inhaled the gentle aroma of poison. His smiled stretched into a grin.

"Bitter almonds?" the elder asked, almost teasingly, and she turned her head, as if embarrassed. He knew better. "Surely you would have thought to put it in the coffee, instead?"

"Too obvious," Viola murmured, and carefully pried the mug from his grasp. "You…are an assassin. Why risk it…?"

"You assume I don't trust you?" Shelly prompted, as if offended. She knew better. "…Smart girl."

"…I learned from the best," she said finally, an unsettling smirk playing across her lips. Carelessly, without even looking, she dropped his glass into the trash, her satisfaction evident when it shattered. "You…do not trust me, no."

"And why would I?" he challenged, but affectionately so, meaning for it to be banter. "Your reputation precedes you, Ms. Cadaverini."

"I'm sure," the younger mused, not sarcastically. Sliding into the booth, she sat across from him, clasping her hands together. "You are…no stranger yourself. Papi often speaks of the…ever-elusive Shelly de Killer…è un'ossessione. You are famous."

"I'm sure," Shelly parroted, and removed his monocle, absentmindedly wiping it free of smudges. "Your grandfather may not appreciate my interference, but I specialize in the field of murder – it cannot be helped. You understand the dilemma?"

"…Papi will not bother you," Viola promised, her sincerity astounding him. With all the poise of a lady, she picked up the remaining coffee and sipped delicately, her pinky curving outwards as she continued, "He will…have to go through me, first…"

"…How very gracious of you," he said, in the gentlest voice he possessed. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he tried, "Ms. Cadaverini-"

"Have a sip," she demanded, lightly but firmly, and offered him the cup. He opened his mouth to decline, but the look in her eyes made him reconsider, and ever the gentleman, he graciously chose to accept.

"It is delicious," Shelly praised, after swallowing. He meant it. "You brew a very fine blend, Perdere."

"Grazie," the girl whispered, though she did not meet his gaze as she reclaimed the mug, staring down at the table bashfully. He blinked. "Is there…anything I could do, perhaps…to better my recipe?"

"I find it perfect as is," he said truthfully, and then wrinkled his nose. "This cup, however, has gone lukewarm. It kills the flavor."

Viola's ears pricked up at this, and smirking once more, she slammed a hand down upon the table, as if to summon someone. "Mr. Armstrong."

The assassin startled, not expecting the sudden call to action, and he watched, aghast, as a heavy-set man trudged from the kitchen, his bottom lip quavering – quavering – as he answered, "A-Ah, Mademoiselle Viola! Mon presence iz required, oui? I 'ave la speciale on ze stove-"

"Dump this," she cut in, starchily, and Jean withered, obediently taking the coffee. "Our guest…is unhappy with your work, Mr. Armstrong."

"I am but a belle fille, ma petite fleur," he protested, tears welling in the corner of his eyes. "Mon 'eart – she is tres fragile!"

"…Your restaurant is…tres fragile as well, non?" the girl mocked, though her deadpan remained, and he staggered back, as if struck. "It is like…a stack of cards. If one were to, say…draw a card…from the bottom, that is…the entire establishment would come crashing down upon itself."

"n-Non!" Jean cried desperately, and the orange fringe of hair framing his face bounced as he shook his head vigorously. "t-That is…it is not necessary, Mademoiselle!"

Viola ignored him, instead turning to Shelly with a voracious gleam in her eyes. "Mr. de Killer…do you know what happens…when one plays with fire?"

Catching on, he allowed himself a small, wicked smirk as he withdrew a pocketknife, flipping it open in one smooth motion. "I should imagine that you would be burned, Ms. Cadaverini."

The two revered in their shared sadism, expressions mirroring one another, and the chef whimpered, rightfully afraid. "Please, stop! I…I will freshen la coffee, at ze service of your wishes, but please stop!"

"…You best hurry, then," she deliberated, tapping her wrist for emphasis. "Time stops for none."

Jean gladly turned on his heels, bolting, and Viola giggled balefully. "It has…been nice doing business with you, Mr. Assassin."

Shelly raised an eyebrow. "You're leaving?"

"No," she denied, resting her head atop her hands. "You are."

He almost had to laugh at that. Standing with a flourish, he gave a bow. "I can tell when I've overstayed my welcome. Good day to you, Ms. Cadaverini."

"I'll see you out."

They walked side-by-side, enjoying a contemplative silence, and he gave another bow when they stopped by the door, smiling amiably. "You are an excellent companion. I would not mind doing this again."

"…We'll see," she hummed, and said nothing else. Taking that as his cue, Shelly made to leave – and then stopped. Reaching up, he grasped the piano wire with trained ease, grinning.

"Trying to take my head, I see."

Viola just smiled.

"Hee…Hee…Hee…"