It had taken the poor stylist almost 4 hours to straighten Olga's hair, then another hour to restyle it into a french twist when they discovered that the party's theme had changes from 1001 Arabian Nights to American 1920's gangster. "[I think I'd have preferred the veils]" she told her date, Dimitri, as she surveyed the room over her 5th glass of "weak-as-sh***" Champaign. He only nodded, hinting at his disappointment in not being able to wear the Ifrit outfit she had picked out for him. "[Why are we here again?]" She inquired after a full minute of boredom. "[Because we need his money and he needs our territories.]" Dimitri said as he gestured towards the famous eggplant in the middle of the room. "[Oh. Right.]" Olga hated dealing with politics and often left that work to thinkers like Dimitri. However, it was her security racket on the line, so she had to make an appearance - even if she mearly posed as arm candy. She had been dolled up and forced to wear a pair of stilettos with a black mermaid gown that made walking impossible. She looked exquisite, but felt idiotic whenever she had to shuffle herself from one spot to another. "[Ugh. It'll be years before we can talk to him. I'm going to the ladies room.]" She abandoned her date before he could protest and downed the rest of her drink. The mercenary then hunted down a replacement flute and shuffled out into the hallway, where she threw away her shoes. Who would notice she wasn't wearing them under her floor-length fabric tournaquit anyway? The new glass of champagne was half gone when she noticed a couple of guys going on about tails. She paused as something about the one range a bell in her head, but she could place where she had seen him before. Olga was about to go up the the man an ask, but Dimitri had sought her out. ["They're seating people. We have to go back in"]. Damn it. Olga's face read her displeasure as she followed her face man back inside. This party better pan out or I just might kill someone.