It's an absolute mess in the hotel room at the Pillazo, coke one tables and strobe lights moving to the beat of some shitty house music. Blowing a cloud of smoke, the prince of the Popov crime family takes a drag from a joint, grinning as he watches some people getting belligerent in the corner. "Heh, fuckin' southerners-" He mumbles in his Russian accent. "Can't hold dere' liquor like my people, shit, a baby could out drink 'dem." He can't even remember whose hotel rooms this is, probably a fellow trust fund baby whose daddy is just as detached but less dangerous.

Dragging himself towards the door and off the couch, he grunts. "Dis party is shit-" He says to a nearby guest, a young man doing a double shot of God knows what. "Get some premium powder next time, do everyone a favor."

"Whats your problem? I let you into my party and you bitch-" The guy starts, before Anatole smacks his across the face, open pal.. "Fuck!"

"My problem is the veak shit you got in here. I could've gotten stuff all de way from Cuba by now, I'm out. Lose my number." He drops the joint on the guys shoe, snuffing it out. Outside, getting into his car he souts at his driver. "Drive. You know vhere to fucking go." His accent gets thicker as he slurs his words a bit and watches the city lights of Berlin go by. He can feel himself sobering up, that small pit of self hatred and anxiety welling up. "Need a drink, shit." He groans. Eventually getting up to his daddy's old penthouse, he can see the lights on.

"Fuck..." fidgeting in his jacket, head grabs the piece he carries, but he knows it's for show. He's shaking like a baby at the thought of having to fire, but his dad's got enemies. "If someone is in dere, you've got five seconds before I turn dis corner and fire..." He warns.