Jeanne, as her stage persona, "Roulette," glided onto the stage. The kick on her red dress hindering no movement, reaching up to her mid-thigh. She moved a hand to the microphone, agile digits brushing every inch of the metal surface. Her painted red lips curling up in a smirk. The white spotlight highlighting every curve of her figure. The music was cuing her first few notes as she began her song. The gentle music of the piano and the slight harshness of the saxophones blended perfectly with her sultry voice. An old classic, Frank Sinatra, was on the platter on this especially crowded night. She glanced over the crowd, deep and dark blue eyes, like the depths of a lake, noting each person. The woman in the back, hand inside her leather jacket, caught her eye, but "Roulette," kept one parading down the stage, red heels clicking with each drawn out step. The song was now catching up, notes getting higher and faster. A climax before the music slowed, and eventually stopped. She wrapped her exposed leg around the metal pole, feeling the cold surface press to her skin. The song was now slowing, her voice quieting, her eyes still hosting the same fire as they ever did. "Roulette," finished the song with a long and drawn out note, feeling the rumble of it deep inside her throat. It brought a smirk she couldn't resist as she turned to disappear behind the curtains. She gave a signature wink to the woman sitting in the back. As soon as she passed the curtain, "Roulette," turned back to Jeanne, losing her sexy demeanor. Jeanne went to take off the long elbow-length gloves that made her hands burn and let out a long sigh, running a hand through her bleached and short cropped hair. She didn't expect what happened next.

Jeanne didn't expect any of this. Apparently the Russian mob wasn't just a rumor. "Oh my..." She let out a slightly terrified sigh before going into a very quickly spoken flow of words. "The other girl got sick or something along those lines, they called me in to replace her. I was supposed to sing at another club..." She stopped for a few seconds to take a breath, her generally high-pitched voice letting out little squeaks as she spoke. She took another deep breath and started speaking again. "My name is Jeanne Duval, I preform under the stage name Roulette and.... and...Oh, I got the dress when I went to France to visit some family and preform," For someone of French decent, Jeanne lacked a French accent. She had a high voice with a very, very slight Boston accent, it only affected certain words, not the entirety of her speech. She kind of froze after she had answer all the questions "Chickie," had asked her. The cigar smoke made her let out a light cough, Jeanne wasn't a smoker and couldn't stand the smell of it. She was probably going to need to use her inhaler after "Chickie," would leave. Then she saw the gun, this caused her to begin breathing about two or three times as fast. Jeanne really hoped she wasn't going to pass out and end up on the floor. She then realized what "On ice," meant, she really didn't want to die. She decided to not say anything else in hopes of not getting shot, or worse.

Jeanne had never heard anything so suspicious and terrifying in her entire life. She had an urge to follow the woman and her mob but she knew it might put her "on ice," Still, Jeanne's personality made her both want to follow them and dreaded the idea of it. She waited until "Chickie," had left the room before Jeanne took action. She took three shots of her inhaler, tore off the red dress, high heels and gloves, putting on a t-shirt, a cotton hoodie jeans and VANS to replace it. She stuffed the dress and shoes into her messenger bag and tore off after the mob. She trailed after them, trying to stay behind them and out of sight. They turned through the alleys, the snow almost made Jeanne slip a few times, but she made it to the mob's hideout. She waited until they were all inside, letting her courage grow up inside of her. Jeanne let out a long sigh, slowly pushing the door open.
//Exit to Mod hideout//

OOC: in a hurry so this might be short and no template...sorry for being inconsistent! 

Opal, before entering through the large and grandeur doors, she tucked a wad of bills, a deck of cards, and a small handgun in various folds of clothing. She was getting ready to cheat for some real cash. A real friar¹ she was. She cocked her head towards Jeanne and gave her a mischievous grin. "Go flirt with a guy or something. I want to see you at work. And take this." Opal handed her a gun, like her own. Opal couldn't conceal her excitement. She was ready to see some real action going down while she played. 

Her stilettos clacked against the tile of the entryway. She spotted a table, her poker table being occupied by a quite handsome man. She contorted her face into a rough sneer and sat down beside him. "Deal me in." Either this man didn't know of the mafia, or he was looking for a suicide mission. Either way, Opal was going to find out. She looked back at Jeanne, giving her the look to hurry up and have some fun already.



1) a friar was a member of basically this country club that came up with a way to cheat and wins thousands of dollars 

OOC: When you notice you need to hurry up and post so you waste no time with templates...I am a looser, I know.

Opal peeked over her cards to see Jeanne flirting it up with a man. She grinned and kicked her legs. This little discovery excited her. She was a good flirt. Opal licked her lips before setting down her cards and winning a heaping load of chips. She nodded to the group and cashed in her dough before lighting a cigar and watching Jeanne from a safe distance. She rubbed the gun at her hip, caressing its shape. The smoke from her cigar kept swirling upward as she wrapped herself in her coat. Jeanne was doing well...too well. Was she about to go run off with this man? Opal was going to make sure Jeanne had the right idea. Stillettos clacking, she marched up to Jeanne and winked to her as she passed to go sit at the bar. With quick slight of hand, she'd slipped a card into Jeanne's hands, reading you're not running off, in sloppy handwriting. She wanted to keep up her scary stature, but she, if Jeanne was still playing her part, was impressed.