#never heard her harping on the importance of repentance or going on about the awfulness of sinning or whatever

[earnshawww]

Controversial opinion but as someone who's been raised in a quite mild Catholic way, went to Sunday school for ~8 years of life and ditched the religion w/ zero second thoughts, I'm quite baffled by the concept of Catholic guilt. I hear about it all the time when it comes to English-speaking Catholics (Irish and USAmericans) but I don't think we have even a phrase for that feeling in Italian?? And what about other romance languages? And even the concept itself like. Is it specific to the Anglo-Saxon flavour of Catholicism or are Catholics from all over the world obsessed with guilt and me & my family are/were never simply catholic enough?

[mrsalwayswrite]

The Difference Between Champagne and Rum Part 4 (Alfie Solomons x OFC)

Thank you everyone for your patience with this. Finally!! Here is the next part! I am not sure when I will have Part 5 & 6 done but I promise they are already plotted out...just got to write them. So this takes place in Season 2, so we get to see our beloved Alfie in his gangster glory. 

Warnings: Swearing, some racial slurs, mild sexual content, nothing major

Words: 10k 

The Difference Between Champagne and Rum

Part 4- Chance Encounters and Necessary Libations 

~1922~

“Fuckin’ Italians.” Alfie Solomons muttered as he pushed through the door of Darby Sabini’s club in London. The obnoxious mixture of perfume, cologne and cigarette smoke assailed his senses making his throat close up. For the briefest of moments his mind returned to the smoke-filled, blood-saturated fields in France, with that nauseating smell making his throat constantly feel like it would rather seal itself closed than force more of the poisonous air into his lungs. Bombs going off. Piss running through the trench, mixing with the fresh blood. Men, boys really, screaming for God or their mothers…or crying out for death. Quickly Alfie shook his head before the memories could escape the locked box in his mind that was reserved for them. No, he had a different kind of pain in the ass to deal with currently.

He moved just off to the side of the main entrance, eyeing the swarms of men with slicked-back hair, women in flapper dresses and pearls, and the workers hovering in the shadows waiting to assist the guests. Realistically, the pause was also to give his hip a moment’s respite before he had to pretend the pain radiating like a flare out of his right hip was nothing. He would rather suffer then give Sabini one hint of weakness. The man was a shark, sniffing blood in the water and attacking anything weaker than himself. He scanned the place, noting the gaudy décor, bold colors and the aura of alcohol and lust infused in the air seeking to corrupt the mind with every breath. This was definitely Sabini’s place. Alfie sent a silent prayer heavenward that he never had to cross this threshold again. This place was certainly far from kosher. After he left, he might have to repent of sins he had not even committed just to cleanse himself of the stench of this place. 

“Fuckin’ hip.” He rubbed a hand over it for a moment before straightening. The sooner he met with Sabini, the sooner he could leave. “Let’s get this shit done.”

Black hat on, long black coat hanging off his wide shoulders, scowl on his face- he stepped out of the shadows and moved forward. The guests parted before him, like Moses parting the Red Sea. Not that he minded, he actually got a thrill out of seeing people’s reaction when in his presence. He could be the personification of intimidating when he chose to be. His cane tapped on the floor with each step, only taking some of his weight. It could be its own added force of intimidation. A solid strike with it had taught many people it could be used for more than just a handicap.

“Mr. Solomons!” One of Sabini’s men finally approached him. The pinstripe suit, slicked back hair and thin moustache were enough of a giveaway before the man even opened his mouth to speak in his thick accent. “Mr. Sabini informed me to meet you at the entrance.”

“Yeah? Kinda hard to do that when you got your fuckin’ tongue down that girl’s throat, eh?” Alfie pointed at a girl walking by in a cream-colored dress, attempting to adjust it back into place. “Where is Sabini? He said to meet him here.”

The man attempted to wipe the lipstick off his lips, causing some to smear on his cheek, never mind the few spots on his neck he seemed oblivious too. “Mr. Sabini had an important family meeting come up. Once that is finished, he would meet with you. It should not take long.”

Alfie grumbled, rubbing a hand over his mouth and jaw, his beard prickling the skin. The idea of waiting for Sabini sounded awfully boring and insulting. Yet he needed to have this meeting. If for nothing else then confirmation that his new alliance with those gypsies was still worth his time.

Somehow the man seemed to sense Alfie’s decision to stay and gestured for him to follow. They passed the dance floor, nearby tables being used for both alcohol and snow, and the band at the head of the room. There was a slightly elevated section that the wop led him too. Only a handful of others sat at the tables, too focused on their own conversations and drinks to pay any attention to Alfie.

“I’ll inform Mr. Sabini of your arrival, he will be out soon.” The man gestured to a table in which Alfie took a seat. “All drinks are on the house.”

Alfie watched the man scurry off before ordering a whiskey when a server approached. If Sabini had not shown his ugly face before Alfie finished his drink, he would leave. Fuck this waiting-power game Sabini was playing. The truce between the two of them wavered like a flickering flame, some moments stronger than others but this newest insult was too much. He was affecting Alfie’s business and that was something the Jewish gangster would not tolerate.

His thoughts turned to his schedule for tomorrow and what needed to get done. Ollie had been harping on him to get a secretary with how business and paperwork had been expanding and piling up. Each time Ollie tried to bring it up, Alfie’s glare would shut him down. He did not need nor want someone else sticking their nose in his books and affairs.

About halfway through his whiskey he heard footsteps approach from behind. They were not Sabini’s usual cocky stride. No, they were light and with a clip from high heels. Alfie internally rolled his eyes. He wondered if Sabini sent a whore to distract him, he would not put it past the arrogant wop to try that.

“Is this seat taken?”

Her soft, sweet voice swept over him, causing him to tighten his fingers around his glass. His plan to be rude or ignore her flew out of the window. Her voice was a siren’s call, a lingering song from his past that he had never truly forgotten.

The chair across from his slid out and she gracefully settled herself. Light caught and danced off all the silver beads on her sleeveless gray flapper dress. Long gray gloves covered her hands that held a flute of champagne. His eyes traced up her form to her red, plump lips and delicate features to stare into her hypnotic gaze with gemstone eyes. The biggest change was her shortened hair, a bob now, very fitting with the current style apparently but a part of him lamented the loss of her long, sleek, blonde hair.

The air froze between them. Time and space no longer mattered. Their eyes beheld one another as if a magnetic force refused to let them escape. Trapped in this disbelieving look. Trapped in this moment. Yet there was nowhere else Alfie would rather be. Even after all this time, even after all the shit he had seen and survived, even though it had years since he last saw her…she was still the most beautiful woman to him. He doubted that was something that would ever change.

“It is you.” She breathed out as if momentarily in awe.

“Angel?”

A small smile tilted her lips up. “Damn. Alfie Solomons in the flesh. This must be my lucky day.”

A sound between a snort and a laugh emerged from his own mouth but never once did his eyes come off of her…not did hers leave his. A bubble of silence encased them but it never felt uncomfortable. They just stared at one another as if seeing the moon for the first time. His mind struggled to convince itself that the woman sitting before him was the very same woman he had pinned after for so long. Eight years had passed since he last laid eyes on her. Eight years in which he went to war and returned to expand his empire and reputation. The year before the war ended, her letters stopped. One of the only sources of light and joy in that fucking war ceased and it hit him harder than the bomb blast that sent him to the hospital. All his hopes, dreams and promises of reuniting with her ended then. Yet here she sat in front of him now.

His brain finally decided to start functioning again and he asked the first thing that came to mind. “What are you doin’ here? Your last letter said you was in America.”

She tensed minutely, barely anyone would notice but his eyes were trained on her and did not miss her reaction. After taking a quick sip of her champagne, she answered him. “I have been. I am currently traveling for business.”

“Business?”

“Mmm…I am not sure if you have heard but over in America, this awful law was passed and now alcohol is illegal. Apparently, it is the root of all evil, if you listen to some of the old women.”

“And where does business come in?”

She shrugged casually, peering over the dance floor for a moment. “There are some people willing to pay for alcohol, especially those with money…they just lack the connections to grant them this great evil.”

“So that s’where you come in. You’re a supplier of an illegal substance.”

“I prefer to think of it as a supplier of the finer things in life and good times.”

He chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. Even after all these years, she still continued to surprise him. “So what you sayin’, yeah, s’you still a trouble maker.”

“My dear Alfie,” she gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her chest in mock horror, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Yeah, yeah, you s’fuckin’ angel. What are you doin’ at this club?”

She rolled her eyes, glancing around quickly. “My business partner and I were supposed to meet with Mr. Sabini but we have been waiting over an hour already.”

“Why the fuck you meetin’ with the likes of him?” He narrowed his eyes at her. Something within him roared in anger at the idea of her meeting with scum like Sabini.

“My partner thinks he has connections we could use. I disagree. With what I have heard, he is not a man to trust easily.”

“Yeah, you s’right, love. Stay well away from ‘im. What kind of connections you lookin’ for? Maybe I can help.”

“I actually planned on calling on you next week. Between us, your reputation may have…frightened my partner. He does not want to utilize your resources. He says you are too volatile and unpredictable.”

“Fuck ‘im too.”

She laughed shamelessly, eyes crinkling as she tilted her head back.

Heaven above, that sound was like music to his ears. He could not help as his own lips turned up at her amusement.  Every fiber in his body demanded he snatch her up and leave with her, never let her out of his sight again, beg her to smile and laugh for him because he had forgotten how it warmed him from the inside out. Although, if he somehow doubted that she would approve of his idea of kidnapping her. That idea made his smile broaden slightly. They both may have changed since they last saw one another but he doubted her independent streak had abated much.

“Come to me bakery tomorrow. Yeah, I’ll show you me bread and give you some names to check out.”

“I would like that.”

“Right! S’settled!” He clapped his hands together loudly, drawing the attention of the few other patrons sitting nearby. “Stop by in the mornin’. Mmm…yeah. I’ll have Mrs. Liebgott in the front expectin’ you.”

“If I may be so bold…” She gestured to his hands. Curious, he nodded and watched as she changed seats to sit next to him. Hesitantly she pulled his left hand closer and seemed to be examining it.

“S’you a gypsy now? Gonna read me palm for me fortune?”

A small smile appeared, the only indicator that she heard his tease. Now so close, her scent taunted him. That same lavender scent, even after all these years, still hung around her like a pleasant aura. As subtly as possible, he inhaled deeply, wishing to permanently brand his nostrils with her scent. Fucking hell, what was happening to him? He was starting to sound like some kind of miscreant stalker.

“Is that…from the necklace I gave you?”

He glanced down to see her finger gently touching one of his rings. “Yeah, the chain got damaged during…” he swallowed thickly, “…during a fuckin’ blast. Kept it in me pocket until I got back to London. Eventually had the gold melted from the chain to form the ring and had the star put on it.”

He wondered what she thought of it. The star was no longer perfect like when she had given it to him. There were dings and scratches on its surface. One of the star’s spikes was dramatically shorter than the others. Yet it still was the same star and same gold, just now a thick gold band encasing the simple gold northern star.

“I can’t… I am surprised you kept it.”

Unsure if those were really tears in her eyes or just a reflection off the club lights, he placed his other hand over hers. Her hands were now sandwiched between his.

“Course I kept it. It was the company’s fuckin’ good luck charm, given to me by me angel, yeah? Why the hell would I get rid of it?”

A genuine smile appeared as she squeezed his hand. “I am glad it brought you luck. From what your reputation says, even the devil himself could not have taken you down, Mr. Solomons.”

“Fuckin’ hell, he tried a few times. I had a promise to keep though. An angel told me I wasn’t allowed to die.”

“You certainly are a man of your word.”

“Mmm…yeah, yeah. That s’me.” His thoughts seemed to move sluggishly when he realized how close they were. Hands clasped between the two of them, bodies leaning forward. It felt surreal. She was truly here…in the flesh. All he wanted to do was pull her into his lap, wrap his arms around her and never let her go. Yet it had been eight years. He had changed, and he suspected she had too. Did she still want him like he wanted her? Could she? Or was this all a dream sent to torment him?

A voice destroyed their peaceful moment. A figure coming to stand near them. “Sarah, I think it’s time we leave.”

“Of course, Hector.” Sarah squeezed Alfie’s hands one last time before releasing him and standing up.

Alfie stared at the man who helped Sarah slip on her fur-lined coat. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the man kept his hand on her lower back.

“Who is your friend here?” The man asked, his American accent easily recognizable. His blue eyes peered through his thin-rimmed spectacles, an intelligence there that was undeniable.

“Yes, my apologies. Hector, this is Alfie Solomons. Alfie, this is Hector Richardson, my business partner.”

Hector nodded slightly. “You seem to know each other well for how long you were talking.”

“We s’old friends, yeah. Haven’t seen her in years.” Alfie said, drumming his fingers on his cane.

“Old friends.” Hector repeated slowly. “Well pleasure to meet you, Mr. Solomons, but as I stated earlier, Sarah and I need to leave.”

Alfie grumbled, an unintelligent consent, wishing for this Hector to find himself at the bottom of the Thames. He did not like the look of him. He could not be much older than himself but this American carried himself like somehow Alife had insulted his mother. He had a handsome enough face, minus the slightly hooked nose and thin lips pursed in annoyance. What bothered Alfie the most was the possessive touch he had on Sarah. The idea to do some digging into this- Hector Richardson- sounded worthwhile.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Angel?”

“Yes, I promise.” She winked at him, furthering the scowl on Hector’s face. The two walked away, getting lost in the midst of the crowded club.

Her heady scent of lavender lingered behind like a pleasant memory. The feel of her hands in his brought a warmth to his soul that had been cold for a long time. In all reality, he knew he was overreacting to her reappearance. It had been eight years since he last seen her and truthfully at any moment she could vanish once again. Yet the irrational piece of his brain he usually silenced chirped that it felt like a missing piece was back in his life.

Grumbling to himself, he rubbed his hand over his mouth and jaw, thoughts now turning to tomorrow and their meeting. He could not help but smirk at the knowledge that she was getting into the illegal liquor business. Even after all these years, the girl who should have been a princess and high above the rest of the peasants was still rolling in the mud with them. Even if she still carried a dignity and grace about her that made others turn heads and take notice. She may be in the mud with the peasants but she was a queen, no one could deny that.

“Mr. Solomons.”

Alfie turned to the wop from earlier who approached, now cleansed of lipstick.

“Mr. Sabini can see you now.”

Quickly Alfie slammed the rest of his whiskey back, that familiar burn bringing him back to the present and this god-forsaken meeting.

“A’right, lets get this done, mate.”

 *****

-The next day-

 “So you see sir…that’s…that’s what ‘appened. Just an accident.” The young man stood quaking under Alfie’s gaze, eyes darting around as if any of the other bakers would step in and help him.

Alfie grunted, turning to stare at the large spill of rum soaking into the floor. All he could see was money wasted, laying on the ground. Sure the other lads had managed to save most of the rum in the broken barrel but that did not alleviate one of the newest bakers from learning to be careful with the goods. Normally the foreman on the floor would be dealing with this mess but unfortunately Ishmael was out checking a new batch of cane sugar from Jamaica before bringing it back to the bakery. So that left dealing with this imbecile to the boss.

“Clean this fuckin’ mess up.” He demanded, paused a moment to see the young man nod erratically then turned to head back to this office. The shit that needed to get done today kept piling up without any signs of a reprieve in the future for him. This was something he really did not need to happen today. A shipment was supposed to go out tonight that he wanted to look over once more then there was that pub owner he needed to address for his late payments along with…

“I’m sorry, sir… I won’t spill no more rum. Thank you, sir…”

Before the young man finished uttering his sentence, Alfie turned around to tower over the lad. He glared, summoning all his repressed anger and intimidation, then poured it like hot oil over the lad.

“May I remind you…that the distinction between bread and rum, yeah…IS NOT DISCUSSED!” Alfie ended roaring into the quivering lad’s face. “GET IT THROUGH THAT THICK SKULL OR I’LL FUCKIN’ CRACK IT OPEN!” Without waiting for a response, he turned and started towards his office. If the smell of piss was any indicator, he guessed he would not have any troubles again with that one.

Back in his office, he slammed the door shut, startling Cyril from his nap on his bed on the floor. The bull mastiff looked up at his master before laying his head back on his front paws, watching the muttering man, unaffected by his foul mood.

Shuffling around his cluttered desk, Alfie checked his pocket watch and groaned. It was only 9am and already he wished for the day to be over. He dropped down onto his seat to stare at the paperwork before him. It was an unending pile that he seemed unable to escape no matter the number of late nights or early mornings. Slipping his halfmoon spectacles on, he started again on the notice he had been reading earlier. Someone must have dropped it by late last night. It was from one of the police officers on his payroll, saying how they were getting a new captain and a few new recruits with a list of names. Alfie made a mental note to have the captain checked out, see if he could be of use before Sabini got to him.

A gentle knocking brought Alfie out of his thoughts but kept his eyes glued to the paper before him. “Oi! What s’want, Ollie?”

The creaking of his door alerted him to Ollie’s entrance.

“This better be good, yeah, or you can just fuck right off now.”

“Would you prefer for me to come another time?”

The teasing, sweet, feminine voice had Alfie almost giving himself whiplash with how fast his head jerked up. Ollie stood just inside the office, keeping the door open, meanwhile Sarah stood in the doorway looking like a vision as usual, a mischievous smirk on her lips.

“I like the spectacles by the way. They make you look…scholarly.”

Alfie snorted, taking the glasses off before rising. “Fuckin’ hell, love. I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“I said I would. I always follow through with my promises.” She stepped further in, her heels clicking on the wood paneled floor. “I can come back another day if you are busy.”

“No, no. S’fine.”

“Ollie,” she turned back to smile at the man, “perhaps that pot of tea and scones would be beneficial right now.” She started to peel her fur-lined coat off, the same from the prior night if Alfie was not mistaken. Ollie immediately jumped to her aid, taking her coat and hanging it up on the hooks near the door. Sometimes Alfie wondered at the true intelligence of his assistant but the lad was certainly raised well in how to treat female guests. Probably due to his mother who was a tyrant when she wanted to be but would tear down governments for anyone she cared for.

“Of course, Mrs. Bondurant. Anything else I can do, Alfie?”

“No, just that.” He leaned on the edge of his desk, running a hand over his mouth and jaw. “Then we aren’t to be disturbed, yeah? When Ishmael returns, he can leave the papers with you for now.”

“Yes, sir.” Ollie gave one quick nod, his shaggy hair shaking with the movement before closing the door behind him.

“Mrs. Bondurant, eh? You married?”

She smiled slyly before taking time to look over his office. “Would it change things if I was?”

“Well that means I’ve been having inappropriate thoughts about a married woman, yeah, very inappropriate.” He watched her, wishing he could read her mind. He wondered what she thought of his office. It was cluttered with bookshelves and files. A fireplace sat abandoned in one corner, only used on the rarest of occasions in the dead of winter. There were a map London on one wall and a couple drawings from an local artist he admired. He also did not mind admiring her in the cream calf-length skirt and plum blouse, a very sophisticated and modern look. She looked ready to take on the world, especially in those heels that made her legs look like a divine treat but were sharp enough to stab someone with. He wondered if she wore them because of how they looked or as a weapon. Probably with her, both reasons.

Slowly, she moved from where she had been admiring a drawing to stand before him. “And if I am not? If I am simply Sarah?”

“You ain’t never been just Sarah to me.”

Her lips twitched as her eyes trailed over his face and eyes, reading and weighing out his words. One of her hands came up to brush through his bristly beard, her thumb rubbing across the scar just above his jaw.

“France.” He answered her unspoken question. “Shrapnel from a bomb.”

“I heard you were made a captain.”

“Not noteworthy, love.”

“I disagree, I like the sound of Captain Solomons.”

There was that teasing, mischievous look back in her gemstone eyes that he remembered so well. Standing so close, even in her heels, her eyes were level with his chin. A strange realization that so much had changed since they last saw one another except for this. She was still the perfect height in his opinion. Her hand on his cheek, he drew his own hand over her cheekbone before running through her shortened hair.

“Why you cut your hair?”

“Are you not aware? It is the latest fashion.” She batted her eyelashes and pouted her lips, the perfect image of a spoiled aristocrat.

He chuckled, running his hand through more slowly this time. At least it did not feel full of product like some women wore their hair. “Sure it is. Never guessed you’d be one to follow the rules.”

“Maybe I will grow it back out. It does help me not to stand out.”

“Love, you are a beautiful angel. Anyone who don’t see that is a fuckin’ fool.”

“I see you still have that charmer’s tongue and honeyed words.”

“I am a man of many talents.”

“Mmm…I seem to recall a few of those talents, especially involving that tongue of yours.”

“Only a few? S’shame, yeah, gonna need to fix that, yeah.” His hands landed on her hips, holding her close. Their gazes remained locked, a heat spilling out between them to fill the air. This teasing, flirtatious banter they so easily fell into felt different this time. Maybe it was because they were different people now. Maybe it was because the time spent apart. Yet Alfie guessed it was because they no longer were hindered by her family and his limited time before the war. No, now they were free. He hoped.  

“Please tell me you s’unmarried, I don’t need to be fightin’ no angry husband later.”

“Afraid you will lose?”

“No, Angel, its cos if I kiss you, I ain’t lettin’ you go again, damn your husband.”

“How do I know you are not married?”

“Been too busy.” He dragged his lips over the shell of her ear, loving the way her hands gripped the front of his shirt like a safety line. “Now answer me question, love.”

“No, I am not married.”

“Mmm…good, good.”

“What now, Captain Solomons?” One of her hands reached down to gently cup his growing erection. “I thought I was here to talk business and see your bakery.”

He suppressed a groan, trying to keep his thoughts in line. It was hard to think beyond this bubble of lust they were creating. The lock on the office door had been replaced lately, so being disturbed was not an issue. There was nowhere to lay her down though. If memory served him correctly, she did not mind being pinned against a wall (although his hip may protest). He wondered how she would feel about utilizing his desk. It was very sturdy. His hands slipped down to cup her ass, pulling her closer as he lightly kissed a trail down her neck. “It ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

And of course that was the moment Ollie chose to reenter with the tray of tea and biscuits. Opening the door, his eyes fixated on the two, his mouth gaping slightly. In all honesty, he probably did not expect to see his boss caressing this strange woman as one of her hands cupped his cock, her other tangled in his hair, pulling his head closer. That would give anyone a shock.

“Ah, um…I can come…”

“That is alright, Ollie.” Sarah stepped away from Alfie, somehow disentangling herself with ease and speed that astounded him. Probably did not help all the blood had rushed from his brain down to his cock. “Tea sounds delightful. I have been missing a good pot of English tea. Soothes the soul.” She peeked over her shoulder at Alfie, who had a scowl on his face. “Business before pleasure, sweetheart.”

Ollie almost dropped the tray on Alfie’s desk with that last comment.

Grumbling, Alfie tried to subtly adjust himself and get his mind off the feeling of how good her body felt under his hands. God, it was like the best wet dream and a nightmare simultaneously; having her so close and ready, yet then it being ripped away suddenly.

“Oh? And who is this handsome boy?”

Alfie straightened, fear coursing through him. So lost in her he had forgotten about the dog. “Sarah, wait-“

It was too late, she knelt down on the other side of Alfie’s desk near Cyril’s bed. Even Ollie momentarily looked horrified. Alfie expected to hear a cry or a growl, yet the immediate sound that greeted him was her cooing and a tail thumping. Coming around to the other side of his desk, shocked did not even begin to describe how he felt at the scene before him. There lay his massive dog that had torn men to shreds in protection of Alfie, who normally disliked strangers and even then was choosy about who he let touch him….now lay on his back, legs sprawled, tongue lolling as he got his belly and chest scratched. Sarah knelt on the floor, facing him, her voice low and cooing at him like he was the sweetest puppy. It would have been comical if Alfie could wrap his head around what his eyes were seeing. Exchanging a look with Ollie only mirrored his own surprise.

“Didn’t know you s’dog person.”

She looked back at Alfie, the widest, genuine smile on her face he had ever seen. “I love dogs. They are the most loyal companions and great for cuddling.”

“Mmm…” Alfie muttered, rubbing a hand over his face and jaw. He watched a second longer, transfixed by the sight in front of him. Glancing to his side, he suddenly remembered Ollie standing there, who now was staring at her with a dreamy look. “Oi! Keep those eyes in your head, boy. Now fuck off!”

He did not have to be asked twice, most likely knowing Alfie was pissed at him already for interrupting…whatever was happening before he arrived with the tray. Ollie stumbled an apology, along with a parting before scurrying out of the office, closing the door behind him.

“Are you always so harsh with him?”

“Didn’t like ‘im starin’ at you.” He reached a hand out to help her back to her feet, much to Cyril’s dismay. Rolling her eyes, she allowed him to pull her to her feet. Before he could get his hands fully back on her, she evaded him to glide over to the tray.

“Now, tell me the tale of how Alfie Solomons became a distiller of rum and owner of such a fine bakery. I must confess I tried one of those honeyed scones with Mrs. Liebgott, who is a delight herself, and it was delectable. I may have to come back just for that.” Sarah poured herself a cup of tea while she spoke then sat to blow gently on the steaming liquid. At her last comment, a soft whine came from around the side of Alfie’s desk. “Precious boy, I will come back and see you too. Oh! What is his name?”

“Cyril.” Alfie shook his head at the strangeness of this encounter, but then again, when had him and Sarah ever met like normal people. He rounded his desk to sit in his seat, shuffling some papers out of the way to not spill tea on. “Why you askin’ ‘bout me business?”

“Curiosity…perhaps I am impressed and am trying to see how the young man I once knew with bloody fists has now become such a successful businessman.”

“You forgot to mention dangerous gangster.”

“You would not be the first of those I have encountered.”

He squinted his eyes at her, disliking that comment. Gangsters were not to be trusted. Who else around here besides Sabini had she ‘encountered’? Had she somehow met the Shelbys? The fuckin’ Russians? Why could she not stay out of trouble?

As if reading his thoughts, she waved a hand dismissively. “In America. Apparently it is a growing trend. Now, I am still waiting for my story.”

“A’right. First,” he pointed a finger at her, “where this ‘Mrs. Bondurant’ business start? Then you’ll get your fuckin’ story.”

Several silent moments passed, her holding her tea cup against her lips as she stared off to the side. Softly, just above a whisper, she finally spoke. “My father disowned me, said I was a disgrace to our family name. I never fit into the mold that he wanted.  Do not look at me with that pity, it truthfully was not a surprise to anyone. Once he realized I refused to be married off to benefit his business and position, he no longer had a need for me. Besides, he had my brother who was beginning to follow in his footsteps. So I went back to stay with some distant family in America…”

“That’s why your letters came from there. The men thought I had me an American sweetheart.”

She chuckled. “I remember you mentioning that. Ishmael wrote me a letter about how you got into a fight when one of the men called me a ‘whore’ or something. Still defending my honor even in the middle of a war.”

“Fuckin’ hell…he did?”

She nodded slowly, smile growing on her face.

Grumbling about useless friends under his breath, he motioned for her to continue her story.

“I traveled around some, New York City, Chicago, Charleston. I have some cousins who got into the liquor business of distribution to places willing to pay for the stuff even though it is illegal now. Apparently I have a good mind for business and numbers so they convinced me to help them.”

“That man last night…”

“He is a distant cousin, a business partner. Him and his brother are the ones I work with.”

He shook his head, secretly pleased the man was not a suitor. “Why the fuck he so possessive of you?”

“We have had a few encounters with gangsters who…who wanted me to be part of the deal. They have become a bit protective of me since. And also his wife is one of my good friends. Before we left to come here, she told him if anything happened to me, she would cut his cock off.”

He laughed, not expecting that.

“He has a valid reason to be afraid. You do not mess with Southern women, they are usually sweet and kind but they can be brutal if they want too. Anyway, after an…incident, I had to lay low for a while. Hector had me stay with some friends in Virginia who are moonshiners. Actually one of them reminded me of you. It was uncanny. His name was Forrest Bondurant. I guess at one point while I was resting, some men came to the house asking questions about me. Forrest told them I was his wife…and it just stuck. It certainly kept the men in the area from trying anything. It is not like I wanted to go by Sarah Byron anymore.”

“Mmm…what was this incident?”

She shook her head. “No, I answered your question. Now I get my story.”

Fiddling with the rings on his hands, he found himself pouring out about life after the war. Only two women in his life had been able to boss him around, his mum and the angel staring at him with eyes of interest and affection. He talked about how coming back he noticed how many men could not get work, their families forced onto the streets. Plus while he was gone, his mother started to get sick. Without proper care, because she could not afford it, she began to deteriorate. Seeing this, he began to figure out ways to make money to pay for her care. Thus the rum business began. He still had all his prior connections, memories of how everything worked and now the man power to make it a business. The idea of the bakery had actually been inspired by his mum who complained that he always came home smelling of molasses and rum. He managed to afford her the best care until she passed two years ago. Now his life consisted of his business. He still “ran” Camden, giving protection to those willing to pay for it and trying to keep the wops off his turf. He dabbled with races some but that was more Sabini’s territory. With the growing popularity of his nephew, he was thinking about getting into boxing matches more instead of it just being recreational. He was unsure how long he spoke for, her asking questions along the way. The tea and scones were long gone. Cyril had gotten up at some point and sat next to Sarah, laying his head on her knee so she could pet him absent-mindedly as she listened to Alfie.

Dramatically, the office door opened. Ishmael entered, a surprised and smug look on his face.

“What the fuck, mate?” Alfie demanded.

Ishmael glanced at his boss and friend before turning back to Sarah. His eyes scanned over her like she was a new species he had discovered. “Damn, Ollie was right.”

“Ishmael?” Her eyebrows rose as her mind seemed to connect his face to her memories.

“Yeah, love. It’s me. What you doin’ here?”

“Just talking history and business.”

Ishmael leaned against Alfie’s desk, ignoring the glare being sent his way by Alfie, focusing on her. “You comin’ down to the floor to see the bakery? I’d give you a tour.”

“Oi! You got somethin’ important cos if not then fuck off, yeah?”

“Seein’ the lovely woman who holds me friend’s heart is important.” Ishmael winked at Sarah before looking over his shoulder at Alfie, a shit-eating grin on his face. “And I came to tell you that one of our lads got in a fight with one of them Pikey boys and now that big fella, the red-head, is demandin’ to speak to you.”

“Fuck.” Alfie groaned, rolling his eyes skyward. He needed all the patience to deal with that particular man, who was good at his job but just continued to rub Alfie the wrong way constantly. Looking over at Sarah, he could read the amusement and understanding in her eyes. “Love, I’m sorry…”

“It is fine, Alfie. I am sure I have taken up more than enough of your time today. You do have a business to run.” She stood up, brushing out her skirt.

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

“What?”

He rose, coming around the desk to stand before her. A sudden desperation in him that he could not let her leave without knowing he would see her again soon. “Lemme take you out tonight. I’ll pick you up at eight. I still didn’t hear none of your time in America and we never talked business.”

She paused a moment, eyes scanning his face. “I would like that.”

“Mmm…good, yeah, good.” Before she could grab it, he reached over and snagged her coat, helping her into it. “Ollie! In ‘ere!”

Ollie stepped in, seeming to have been waiting just outside the door. Probably expecting to get chewed out for letting Ishmael in.

“Good. Take Mrs. Bondurant to the hotel she is staying. Use me car, yeah, have David drive you.”

“Alfie…” She started to argue, hand placed on his chest.

“No, that’s an order, yeah?”

She cupped his cheek, before pressing her lips to it. “Of course, Captain. See you tonight.”

He mumbled something unintelligent, brain suddenly on hiatus with the feeling of her lips on his skin.

Giving a brief smile to Ishmael, she followed Ollie down the walkway, looking like a goddess amongst the dim and dusty bakery.

Alfie shook his head, dragging his eyes away from the door to Ishmael to ask him a question. His foreman and friend just stared at him smirking. “What?”

“Gonna propose proper this time?”

“Ah, fuck off.”

Ishmael laughed, pushing off Alfie’s desk. “Bout time you married and started having a house full of babies. Me wife is sick of making dinners for you all the time.”

“I’m just waitin’ for you to finally die then Ruth knows I’ll marry her right after your ass is buried in the ground. ‘sides, your ankle biters like me more.”

“Well you be waitin’ around a while…don’t plan on dying yet.”

“Good, good. I need you still, you fuckin’ bastard. Now let’s go crack some heads, yeah? Cyril, c’mon boy.”

Ishmael clapped a hand to Alfie’s shoulder quick before walking out of the office. Straightening the rings on his fingers, he allowed his boss persona to rise to the surface. Alone with Ishmael, they could joke but out in the bakery, he was the boss you did not fuck with or your blood spilled on the ground. Cyril at his side, he strode out of his office, wanting to deal with this mess as quickly as possible. He had a pile of things he needed to do still but nothing would stop him from seeing his angel tonight. He cracked his knuckles. Like she said, first business then pleasure.

 *****

Unfortunately business took longer than Alfie wanted. It was closer to nine that evening when his car pulled up in front of the hotel Sarah was staying at. A nice place with brick walls, banners and an attendant at the door to greet guests and provide information. Alfie let his driver go home claiming to need the drive to clear his head, when truthfully he just did not want to be around anyone. That afternoon had been exhausting from dealing with the Pikeys working in his bakery (damn Shelby for convincing him this was a good idea) and then trying to catch up on paperwork. Parking the car on the side of the street, he hopped out, almost getting hit by an erratic driver before heading towards the hotel.

“How can I be of service, sir?” The attendant politely asked when Alfie approached the double doors.

“Um, lookin’ for a friend. She s’stayin’ here.”

The attendant glanced him up and down quickly as if assessing Alfie’s worth of being allowed through his doors. Before Alfie could give him a piece of his mind, the man spoke up. “Would you, by chance, be a Mister Solomons?”

“Um…yeah.”

“Ah. A Mrs. Bondurant said she would be waiting for you at the bar, sir.”

Grumbling to himself, he nodded to the man before slipping past the double doors and heading off to the bar area on the right. His eyes shrewdly scanned over the patrons before landing on her. What should of brought elation only caused a shot of fiery anger to course dangerously through him. Sitting next to her at the bar was a man who was much too close and much too focused on her in Alfie’s opinion. He was fully turned facing her, holding a glass of amber liquid in one hand and the other draped across the back of her chair.

Sarah was only turned slightly towards him but one of her hands were carefully holding a wine glass and the other a lit cigarette. Her dress was a deep red, V-necked so her cleavage peeked out enticingly, and two strands of pearls hanging over her chest with black heels that were sharp. She looked positively beautiful and sinful at the same time.

The man brought his face closer to hers, whispering something before leaning back and chuckling about whatever it was. Sarah laughed along but it seemed fake to Alfie. To his growing rage, he witnessed the man place a hand on her thigh as he continued talking casually.

Without warning, Alfie stormed over and practically yanked the man out of his seat, causing him to spill his drink all over the counter. “Keep your fuckin’ hands and eyes off ‘er, yeah? Or I’ll cut ‘em off. Got it?” He growled into the man’s face.

“What the fuck?” The man scrambled to stand up straight, made impossible by the way Alfie was gripping the man’s suit jacket. His own voice rising to meet Alfie’s anger. “We were just talking. Who the fuck do you think you are? Get your bloody hands off me.”

Permission granted and uncaring of the amount of stares he was receiving, he pulled the man upright to get into his face. “I’m Alfie Solomons, that’s who the fuck I am.”

Alfie watched the lightbulb go off in the man’s eyes as his name sunk into his thick skull. Where there had been irritation and rising fury, now was doused away with the realization of who held him and pure fear at the unknown of Alfie’s actions.

“Good, good. Anymore questions? No? Then fuck off, mate.” He released the man, who stumbled back before righting himself. He opened his mouth as if to say something but with Alfie’s pointed glare, he clamped it shut and briskly walked away without even looking at Sarah.

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, Alfie turned back to Sarah. She had not moved, a single eyebrow raised as she took a sip of her wine.

“You look like you need a drink.”

He chuckled darkly. “More than one.”

Taking the man’s seat, he plopped down and ran a hand over his eyes. He signaled for a whiskey from the bartender, who quickly cleaned up the spilled drink. “Sorry, ‘m late, love, I had some unforeseen business…”

“Was that necessary?”

He stopped at her abrupt interruption. Turning slightly to face her, he eyed her. “What?”

Pursing her lips, she took a drag off her cigarette before speaking, the smoke dancing out of her lips and floating above her head. “Was it necessary to come after William like that?”

“William, eh? You two s’friends?”

“No, I just met him.”

“Then pardon me but what the fuck is the problem then? You didn’t seem to enjoy none of how close he was to you or was I readin’ that wrong? You tryin’ for his attention? Hopin’ to fuck him?”

With that, she turned to face him, emerald eyes glowing with unbridled rage. “You listen, Alfie Solomons,” she spat out, keeping her voice low but no less deadly. “I can talk to, spend time with and fuck whomever I want. I am not some innocent posh girl you need to protect anymore. Nor am I yours in any way. I am my own and I can do whatever the hell I want. If that affects us then you can be on your way and do not expect to hear from me. Am I making myself clear?”

Alfie’s own anger rose up instinctively. No one had talked to him like that in years and he remembered how much he hated it. His own blue eyes met her emerald, flames practically flickering between them with the surrounding air thick with tension. He did not flinch nor look away when the bartender hesitantly slide his drink in front of him. This battle of wills between them, staring purposefully into her heated gaze made him notice something. There was a darkness that lingered in the edges of those beautiful, gemstone eyes he had always loved so much that had not been there the times prior they had met. No, this was something new and it broke his heart. It was the same darkness that lingered in himself, in returned soldiers, in people who had seen far too much violence and their minds could not forget. She was haunted, just like him. Whatever anger he held crumbled like dust at this realization. All he could think of was pulling her into his arms to protect her from her own pain. What had happened since he had last seen her those eight years ago?

“A’right, love, a’right. You s’right. Just don’t want to see you hurt, yeah?”

After a long pause, he could see the tension drain from her posture. Slowly, she brought a hand up to cup his cheek, her thumb rubbing over his scar. “Why do you still care? Why are you still looking out for me?”

“Cos you s’me angel. You deserve it.”

A hint of tears glistened in her eyes as she held his gaze once again, but with a very different emotion this time.

“Now, it’s been a fuckin’ long day after you left. Me temper may have gotten the best of me. Here we are and this mornin’ you promised to tell me your story…mmm…so…”

“Is that so?” She chuckled, pulling her hand back to grasp her glass, and there was that twinkle in her eye that meant trouble. “Perhaps I want to see if you will beg for it?”

He leaned forward, invading her space intimately, as he whispered in her ear. “There is only one reason I would beg…and we will both be naked before that happens.” Returning to an upright position, he witnessed her pupils dilated slightly and lick her lips subconsciously. A jolt of desire shot through him at her action.

“An interesting proposal, Mr. Solomons. There is one thing I have heard that I am most curious about.”

“Mmm?”

“Some new friends I have made informed me that at the Paradise you regularly pay more for blonde company.” She smirked, lifting the cigarette to her lips again.

“Fuckin’ hell, what are you doin’ at a whorehouse?”

“I told you, I thoroughly research those who I may be doing business with.”

“You s’still trouble, Miss Sarah. Fuck…what you learn ‘bout Sabini?”

Shaking her head, she laughed making a smile appear on his own face. The prior tension between them fully gone.

“When you start smokin’?” Not that it bothered him terribly. During the war, he had become used to the smell. It was one of the few ways a soldier could attempt to relax while in the trenches. He never acquired the taste for it personally, much to the amusement of some of his men.

She shrugged, “I cannot rightly say. It just happened.”

He nodded, taking a sip of the whiskey. Not terrible stuff, surprisingly. Opening his mouth to tease her about it, the words died on his tongue as a different voice called out to her.  

“Sarah? Sarah Byron, is that you?”

The tightening of her hand around her glass was the only give away of emotions. Gracefully she turned to face the man now standing behind her. Alfie’s ire returned, especially with the look this man was giving her. In his crisp suit, cropped hair and smug smile, he looked the part of an arrogant aristocrat. He practically smelled of money from family inheritance.

“Yes…Joseph?”

He smiled broadly, eyes trailing over her body. Quickly he took that last step forward, plucked her hand and kissed the back of it. “My dear Sarah, it is a true pleasure to see you. I do believe your beauty has only grown since I last saw you. Unfortunately I have a brief meeting I must attend now but after, could I take you out for a drink or food? There is a splendid restaurant not far from here my driver could take us.  It has been far too long since we were able to talk without any preconceived notions and expectations.”

“Sorry, mate, she s’busy tonight.”

For the first time, the man turned his focus on Alfie. Meeting his narrowed eyes, all Alfie could think of was a serpent.

“Oh? Is she? And who are you?”

“Alfie Solomons.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. “The gangster?” He looked back at Sarah. “Fascinating company you keep, my dear.”

“And who the fuck are you?” Everything in Alfie screamed at him to stand up and have this bastard’s face meet his fist…repeatedly.

“I am Joseph Coventry, Earl of Lancashire.” Keeping his sly gaze on Sarah, he pulled the single red rose out of his suit jacket’s pocket. He held it out for her, who took it somewhat reluctantly as he spoke again. “Truly a shame I must leave but I will call on you soon. Have a pleasant evening, Lady Sarah.” After a quick peck on her knuckles this time, he headed towards a far table already containing three men dressed similarly and with an air of high class.

“What the…”

Ignoring Alfie, she turned to the bartender. “Whiskey, a whole bottle, yes that one will do. Two glasses. Put it on my tab, please.” Snatching the glass bottle and glasses, she stabbed her cigarette out and left it on the ashtray before she got up and started towards the nearby stairs.

Alfie stared at the men a moment longer…this Joseph Coventry…an arrogant bastard if he had ever met one. It might be prudent to ask around about him. Alfie could usually get a good read on people, those that were trustworthy or not. Everything about this prick made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his hand to unconsciously twitch to grab the pistol under his jacket. There was something there…something dangerous and deadly just under the surface…and the man had his eyes on Sarah. No, Alfie would not tolerate that.

After taking that moment to memorize Coventry’s face, he followed after Sarah up the stairs. He had a few new questions for her and with her purchase of a whole whiskey bottle, he was unsure how much longer she would be sober for. Although the idea of seeing her drunk did amuse him slightly, he wondered if she would be the angry type or the giggly, excessively talking type. Personally he hoped for the cuddly type but he would never take advantage of a drunk woman. He may be a low life gangster with too much blood on his hands but he did have some morals.

He quickly caught up to her on the second floor as she opened the door to room number 16. Without a word or a look back at him, she walked through and into the hotel room, leaving the door wide open. He followed, closing and locking the door behind him before scanning the place. The room certainly had an upscale feel with its floral wallpaper, wood accents and gaudy still life paintings. There were only two other doors, one he guessed led to the washroom and the other to the bedroom. His focus though turned to the woman who had collapsed onto the couch, her high heels kicked to the side, and pouring two fingers worth of whiskey. Within moments after pouring it, she slammed it down and poured another. So many questions resided on his lips but he kept them closed. Moving around the room, he tossed his coat onto a nearby wingback chair and joined her on the couch. He sat on the opposite end, allowing her space. To his surprise, she poured him a glass and wordlessly handed it to him. After pouring herself another glass, she leaned back and closed her eyes. He could not help his wandering gaze, eyes drifting to those sleek legs with more skin exposed as her dress had ridden up with her unladylike posture, and the swell of her breast, straining against her dress.

“Do you remember…” she stopped, licking her lips as of to encourage the words to come out, “…last time we saw each other. I told you I was back because I was supposed to be getting married.”

“Yeah.” Then it clicked and his eyes widened momentarily. “That…that bastard? That s’who?”

She took a tentative sip of her drink this time, still leaning back and keeping her eyes closed.

“Fuck, love, think you dodged a bullet with that one.”

A snort escaped her but it was her eyes opening and turning to look at him that caused him to finally relax.

“Tell me, Sarah.”

And so she did. He could tell she glossed over much of her story and skipped certain parts entirely. Yet he let her talk, sharing about her past eight years and things she had done. He sat mesmerized by her and her story. After the “insult” perceived by her father, he disowned her, kicking her out of the house no matter her mother begging for him to reconsider. More determined than ever to prove herself and to never let a man control her, she got on a boat and traveled back to her mother’s distant family in America. Finally America decided to join the Great War and many men were sent over to Europe. During this time she became more involved in that family’s business and proved herself to be an asset. Once the war was over, she continued with the work but settled more behind the scenes. Prohibition happened which only proved to make business a challenge she thrived in. Her brother died in France during the war and with the grief of losing her son and disownment of her daughter, her mother fell into a deep depression and eventually died. Her father died last year, the only reason she felt confident in returning to London after all this time.

Somehow during her retelling, their postures changed. Alfie had shifted to sit closer to her, feet still planted on the ground and a glass in his hand. Sarah laid stretched out on the couch, her legs over his lap with her head on the arm rest and a glass in her hand. Together, they were slowly working through the whiskey bottle while she spoke. His hand skimmed up and down her legs, the feeling of her stockings and skin under his hand was intoxicating.

When her story ended, he asked something that had been gnawing on him for years. “Why did your letters to me stop?”

She threw back the rest of her glass, turning to look at the large window they faced. “I did something stupid and got thrown in jail for a short time before family could get me out. The sheriff was not a fan of me.”

Something about the way she tensed and refused to look at him made him wonder what happened to her while in jail. Nothing good. The thought of this sheriff laying a hand on her made his blood boil and he wondered if the man was still alive so he could kill him himself. Slowly and painfully.

Reaching a hand over, he gripped her free hand and entwined their fingers. There was nothing he could say or do to take away the pain no matter how much he wanted to. He changed the subject, hoping to bring her out of the solemnness that she was wallowing in. “How long until you head back?”

“Two weeks? A month? Depends on if we decide to go to France and meet some connections there.”

“That s’it?”

He could not disguise the sadness nor longing in his voice. Emerald eyes turned to meet his, mirroring his emotions. Slowly she sat up, setting her glass down before placing one hand on his shoulder and another on his cheek.

“I will not leave unannounced. I can promise you that.”

“Is it selfish for me to want all your time while you’re here?”

She smirked, dragging her thumb across his lower lip. “Something particular in mind to occupy our time?”

“I’m sure I can get creative.”

“Promises, promises, Captain Solomons.”

In a heated rush, his lips claimed hers. Whatever slow building fire that burned between them suddenly turned into an inferno and Alfie swore he felt like his blood was aflame. Unexpectedly  she moved to straddle him, hands tugging on the buttons on his shirt. His own hands fumbled between cupping her ass and undoing the buttons on her dress. He sipped on the sweet ambrosia that was her mouth, drowning in the taste of her tongue and the heat between her legs over his straining cock. It was heaven. It was torment. There was one thing he knew, he could not stop. Whatever self-control he had flew out the window once their lips touched. He was fully under her control and had no intentions of going anywhere else. In one last draw of strength, he pulled away to meet her lust filled eyes. They had been drinking and he did not want her to regret this come morning.

“Angel, you sure?”

Slowly, she blinked as if awakening from a fog. Then she pulled off his lap to stand before him. A piece of him died when she turned and started to walk away. Did she regret this? Had he pushed her too far? They were certainly different people and with everything she had shared tonight, perhaps this was not what she wanted.

His breath caught in this throat, hope and fear warring within him when she stopped at the bedroom door. Meeting his gaze, she reached back and undid the last few buttons on her dress. It slipped down to pool at her bare feet, leaving her standing there in a sheer shift that left nothing to the imagination. She looked like both the angel he called her and sin wrapped up in a body that begged to be worshipped and ravished until she could not move. His blonde, green-eyed siren regarded him, a smile growing on her lips as he stared.

“Coming, soldier?” Turning around she strolled into the darkness in her bedroom, the slip coming off and dropping onto the floor like a trail for him to follow.

He did not think he had ever scrambled off a couch so fast. His shirt fell onto her dress on the floor, symbolic of their owners just a few feet away.

The rest of the night was spent in a haze of lust, laughter and contentment. Neither brought up the new scars scattered along both of their bodies. Pleasure was the purpose of the night. Something they certainly succeeded at if how sore they both were come morning was any indicator.

 *****

-The next day-

 Alfie sat at his desk, massaging his sore hip. He had been forced to use his cane more than he cared for today but thinking of the prior night and the reason why…completely worth it.

A knocking on his door had him looking up. “Come in.”

One of his men came in, a fellow soldier from France and now a baker, when he was not needed as protection on the streets.

“John, good, good. C’mere.”

John shut the door behind him and took the indicated seat, the chair creaking slightly under the weight. John was a large man, muscular and thick with a bushy beard and watchful eyes. Although Alfie would never tell him out loud, John was one of the few he trusted most that worked for him and found him indispensable. But Alfie did not want to boost the man’s ego more than it was.

“I got a task for your lads.” Alfie rubbed his hand over his jaw and mouth for a moment before continuing, damn the consequences. “There’s someone I need your lads to keep an eye on for me. A Mrs. Sarah Bondurant. Don’t let ‘er know, yeah. Just report who she s’been meetin’ with and make sure no one harms her.”

“This the woman who came by yesterday?”

Alfie raised a single eyebrow.

John shrugged. “Ishmael been talkin’.”

“Fuckin’ hell, that ugly bastard. Yeah, yeah, it is. Think you can do it?”

“Course.”

“One last thing. See what you can find out about a Joseph Coventry.”

“The earl?” John asked, clearly surprised.

“Yeah, I gots me a bad feelin’ ‘bout him.”

“Yes, boss. I’ll stop by in two days. Should have somethin’ by then.”

“Good, good. Thanks, John.”

After John left, Alfie toyed with the gold star ring on his left hand, lost in thought. After hearing everything from Sarah and seeing some of her scars, it only increased his desire to protect her. She would certainly be livid with him if she knew he had men looking out for her. He both loved and hated that independent streak in her. For now though, he needed to focus on work. He had managed that morning to draw a promise to see her again tonight, and this time he planned to take her out proper…maybe go back to his place after? He smiled at the thought of her writhing beneath his sheets. Maybe they should just go straight to his house?

A loud bang sounded from outside his door drew his attention back to the present and a scowl formed on his face. No rest for the wicked.

“Oi! The fuck is goin’ on out there?!”

[ecotone99]

[SF] Matilda and the Golden Apple

[ XIX ]

Having slept on all the shit that had transpired in the black box: Matilda needed her army now more than ever. She expected little of her Titans, but knew they’d come chanting her name as Venus fell to align with the Moon that Matilda loved so dearly. She resorted to her fantasy world that she had created: if only as to try and forget the pain that laid in her lumbar region. She had spent her day battling the aftermath of having flood the Stables of Augeas, tired from hearing the corporate voices that tried to reason disability discrimination and intimidation. Matilda was so unbelievably tired of dealing with the dead-eyed savages that inadvertently forced her to pay taxed on her own land consistently: despite the fact that their own Chief in Command did not pay his taxes. Both worlds began blending into one another as the days wore on, and Matilda felt relief as her readers finally fell back to backtrack what portions of her Odyssey that they had missed. This endless rage was all Matilda knew, and it were only her music, Chandler and a sacred plant that reminded her that everything was going to be ok. Until the night fell, Matilda would continue on her journey of daydreaming in a constant state of wonder.

She watched as time warped to fit whatever simulated parameters were set, and noted her body were the only one telling the truth. The concept of time and space was often for her to understand, as she had somehow forgotten how to do complex mathematics. An embarrassing quality she often hid whenever working under the blue crest of hope, but worked on in secret as a hobby. She had used this method to master advanced engineering, but only of projects that evolved around aeronautics. Specificity of project demands allowing her to complete projects with sole devotion set to the one thing she needed to explain. It made for quite the random situations, as engineers would question her aquatic equations and how she’d purpose to apply them to aero propulsion systems. She’s say it weren’t her duty as her project was set in water: but politely open the conversations on who would be interested in converting her work, as they all worked under the Blue Shield of Hope. To the suggestion of extra work the man fell bored as he hadn’t the skill to pull off whatever he had just proposed that she do: a weird goodbye in an office of the brightest minds. Matilda didn’t have the luxury of bull-shitting what information she knew and did not know, and her father had taught Matilda that her shifty and sparkly eyes: meant people may as well just call her trouble. He would do so a kid, and always made spectacle announcing that trouble were arriving, or chaos in a wig had arrived: when her hair were too unruly to be brushed. To these jokes Matilda grew a thicker skin, but after her papa passed away she were left with the aftermath of jokes now turned ridicule: with no papa to correct them that they were out of line. She missed him so often, and wondered if they’d meet again and if he’d approve of her many accomplishments creating sky-boats and inventing under contract with the Blue Shield of Hope. Matilda missed her papa Jim, and often felt survivors guilt, having learned about his trauma as a child prisoner in the assimilation schools. She had been the Cindy-Loo-Who to his Green. A detail people often boasted about, as her papa finally had an opponent with wit that matched his. She missed his questions as he had been the only one to see her wheels were working in advanced ways. He had served in the military and knew a fine soldier with potential a mile away it seemed. Matilda had been to young to understand death, as she grew up to believe they had plans to fix the world together. She now only remembered his presence in songs, as she was only left with the echoes of his funeral service and his resting songs singing of amazing grace, and a wonderful world. They left the her alone as Hera had yelled at her for asking if his returning home meant he was finally better. Hera had barked at the eleven year old that the man were “coming home to die”: offended the child she had purposely averted details from, was now excited as she heard vague news that her papa were finally on his way home. The New Year fell and no bug swept the land, as had been the fear of citizens for some weird reason: as they took extreme measures to prepare for the attacks of the bug they had invented to propagate fear. As the world were impacted by this conspiracy theory now proven wrong: Matilda were no left grieving, a cynic with no right to wonder.

As time continued she wished at the stars each night: asking that she could be swept away from the abuse if only for a day. She remembered how alone she felt sitting in rooms alone, or surrounded by criminals in court. Matilda had been programed to believe she deserved this feeling: as the woman funded by taxpayers that Matilda called A. Butt utilized her freedom to verbally abuse her and shun her away from society under the cloak that she were unbalanced and unfit for society. Matilda hated this woman, but knew she were important to her story, as she were an Indigenous Warrior and now under her protection as Princess of the land. She hated that she still used this word when referring to A. Butt, as it made her heart ill to harbor unresolved sadness for things she couldn’t change. She wished her papa were by her side if only for one day to see how awful she felt in Hades, as A. Butt had once told her that she saw Matilda as “ a lot of work for a Case-file”. Matilda were a burden to the world and everyone made it their prerogative to tell her that: as she were an orphan, brown and a female: theirs to deem unworthy of love and abuse for intentionally suspending her right to call herself a human. It were only A. Butt and Carmen together who had almost once defeated Matilda with their curses with their vile combo of hatred, as she had now vowed to her best friends Krista and Jolene that she’d never attempt suicide again. She owed it to no man to apologize for her seasonal state of depression, as they had all done nothing and even treated her as "other" for having been abandoned on a hillside surrounded by the constant rain. She had been abused until her body matched the freak title she had been gifted by those on her land, and she transformed into a monster after the years of constant physical abuse and bodily harm took its toll. Matilda knew she now deserved the title hunchback: as her past as an orphan raised in Merica’, for allowing herself to hate: her past sins that now held her complicit.

Matilda would not wish this fate upon her worst enemy, she thought. This sentiment the truest thing she ever said: forever stuck learning how to not defecate herself or stand without the aid of wheels and sticks, just to give way to seizure and do it all over again with no cure in sight. She lived a lowly existence free from false premise of friendship, and knew her agoraphobia made her depression worsen. Matilda needn’t anymore people in her life that would call her friends one day, and a burden the next for having spent a week requiring medical attention. She couldn’t imagine her life panning out in any sort of way, and knew it were idiotic to fantasize the idea of a future building a family, as she couldn’t even get her “friends” to help her as she struggled to open doors, stand up, sustain hygiene without their ridicule suggesting that they could do better. It wasn’t a surprise to Matilda: as her condition made her spine curve and leg fall heavy. She wished for only the memories of those who were now gone, as time passed and she grew weary attempting to convince herself that they had once lived, and that she hadn’t made them up all along. If the pain was part of the human experience that she had needed to understand as repentance for her sins, than she weren’t sure how the scales were still uneven. There were nobility in being unable to feel the lower extremities under the neck, and she couldn’t image all those that she had met: understood the severity of their actions, as Matilda could no longer guarantee her heart would survive her next seizure. She owed the world nothing if they had ignored her instructions on the matter, or made light of her condition: as they believed she were not allowed to be injured, as they loved all of her stories, “her antics”. The world was partially accountable for this shit she thought, as it were the dead-eyed savages and their grandparents and parents who had abused Matilda and her siblings. They avoided accountability at extreme costs and Matilda would occasionally push buttons if it meant that those who attempted to argue felt uncomfortable, as they deserved it for being complicit.

Matilda was unaware of how to talk to these people: for they still made fun of her culture in the masses, and belittled her whenever she asked politely that they stop. Even during sporting events these people wore her sacred attire: the ones only meant to wear for healing ceremonies and war, as they drank the poison of Hera: listening to the same song over and over again. Weird think to be mad aboot, Matilda had originally thought: since they would even use their finances to preserve the right to mock her on a large scale, and broadcast their racism for the world to see as they declared war on strangers and spread bad medicine in the process. Ewww she thought. These men and women were as disgusting and revolting to her as Hera, a woman named Carmen who had once fostered and abused her as a youth. The Ant Queen as was her villain name gifted by Matilda: for she saw the woman for the pathetic ant that she was the second she were allowed a second to think with freedom. These dead-eyed savages were puny little ants in her God game to influence as wished: at least in this world. Matilda used her calming keys and the tune of a harp to mellow her anger, as it no longer burned violently with the rage of a thousand suns. She were finally in charge of her emotions and breathing, her captivity to hatred and self-loathing broken: understanding that her ability to defend the truth had kept her from being complicit.

She wished for nothing more than a peaceful year for the world with each Birthday: but saw that wishes don’t come true early one her youth and now wished it out of habit, as Matilda knew it were silly to ask the universe for favors. She didn’t want to know why these people had raped her and a majority of her family, as the God of Olympus were known for being ruthless. There were no one flying bearded dead-eyed savage coming back to claim his throne, as were the rants of the religious terrorists that had once abused her papa as a child. This conquest had taken all that Matilda had: minus one apple. She loved this item so, and stared at it all day, mesmerized by the speck of light that seemed to call her from deep within. She couldn’t explain what the warmth of the apple provided her, but it were the most expensive thing she owned outside of her white-elk leather Princess regalia. That was priceless...as she had survived the Genocide, as an anomaly and the efforts provided that kept her from being allowed to make the outfit by hand. Both these items held time consumption efforts, as both needed her attention the more she learned about her culture. Matilda often hid her prized apple in a trim of Golden Fleece as she were paranoid of theft: having grown up in the ghettos along the hill where had once been abandoned soon after birth. She walked around with lunch-box size headwear on as she listened to endless music, hoping to find any hints as to what she were supposed to be doing with her life. She hated that she felt so unaccomplished and being financially indebted to the Boar and his Minions. He had a small army for sure: but it were a situation where it were obvious that Matilda were more tactful with who she called her friends, ally and enemy. The Boar had a million helping hands, and yet they still managed to break more than they fixed, as they flounced their bow-ties and bragged of not being a man-of-the-people. Actively working the citizens backwards in thought and underestimating the importance to what freedoms Matilda believed were protected by a parchment called a constitution. The man known as Tucker yelled that they should be outraged by the elite, despite the fact he were elite in social and economical status having been an heir to a Swan. The woman with Con in her name would scream what women wanted, and encourage the citizens to accept the perverted Boar who lied through his clamped teeth, and her own husband would make public statement that said the opposite of the Con-woman, as he denounced the idiocy of the want-to-be throne. Matilda watched as a woman called Huckles, as she began to openly spit into the crowd in a rage : shaking and yelling at the taxpayers for daring ask what the Boar meant when he had told citizens that he were entitled to the art of "grabbing women by the pussy" and informed the citizens that it was his right to do so for being Chief in Command. She took their money as she answered no questions and defended the pervert who wished to rear his own daughter and diverted conversations of how the Boar had spent and wasted so much of their tax money: cheating at a sport and promoting his red-hat gang of thug and religious terrorist, as they openly called themselves Nazis, and killed any citizens who looked different than the Aryan propaganda that they still loved unconditionally. These things scared Matilda and reaffirmed her fears: that she was needed on the battlefield once more. She admired a tall stern man who looked off into the future Matilda had once dreamed of: as he were always gazing off, Mulling over ways to preserve the integrity on the Nation, and properly weigh the scales of justice. Men as such gave Matilda ambitions to continue her path of truth and justice, as she weren’t sure why her ovaries held her opinion as less than that of a man: alas, that was the world she live in she thought as she sighed. The Boar now in charge: allowed by the citizens to laugh at their naked emperor, as the chaos he invoked left little to the imagination of the taxpayers. She did however indulge herself on stories of a Steele Dossier, the one article that had lead to all the others, as the Boar threw tantrum to distract for his sexually elicit past that had tethered him to the Cyclops. Matilda watched as the world laughed at her land and its citizens, who had now shown the entire world their true colors. Their enemies growing by the day and the threats no longer secret or confidential: leaving the citizens unprotected, with little room for wonder.

Matilda needed the warmth of her Golden Apple as she were anemic in her blood, and permanently chilled from having bad circulation along her central nervous system. She lived in a constant state of fatigue as she shook all day in the cold and her body stressed from hypertension on her already damaged spine. She had yet to her taxes, and her entry served proof that she may possibly be avoiding the task. Matilda thought it were unfair that she were obligated to pay taxes on her land when the Boar did not, and wondered what the legality of avoiding tax-payments would be, as it’s not stated that filing tax were mandatory in the constitution. A loophole the Boar had obviously now discovered upon, as he squealed and hawed endless excuses at his citizens who demand he show receipt that he were a tax-paying citizen, or at least show his returns, as the boar was famous for committing tax fraud. He would make randoms paint his picture and donate it for auction to the wealthy as he wrote off the price of the art as charity: sold it to the lowest bidder, who was also himself. The Boar loved people looking at him so much that he would hang his gaudy bust portrait in the halls of his inn’s, next to the ones he had painted that suggest he were more prominent and accomplished than he really was. Man this random is full of shit...thought Matilda. She was unsure how many ways the Boar could break the law before being exiled by his own citizens, but the more time went on: the more she began to doubt the citizens. They had proved her wrong as always: choosing to do nothing as Matilda stood surrounded in fire: unable to assist and complicit.

As she sat there staring at her Golden Apple she knew it were a day in which something was to happen, but Matilda couldn’t remember what. It drover her nuts feeling like she was forgetting something, and it seemed to be a part of her Golden Apple which now held her attention captive and cursed with intrigue. She didn’t watch as the dead-eyed savage known as J. Paul as he desiccated a holy forest meant to end suffering, as she knew that were the sickness that her papa had warned her about, and J. Paul and his shamelessness and lack of culture were obvious. She watched as they glamorized serial killers, abusive partners and pedophiles with their excuses of loving their art or craft. She knew that only two out of every ten citizens would ever come to her aid if she were yelling warding off an attempted rapists, and that their ignorance and apathy had made them wealthy in certain terms. Matilda was not like all those people: even though she were genetically dead-eyed savage. She were a man of action, and when people refused to listen to Matilda was left with what little power that they willingly surrendered, as they refused to talk to one another as Rome burned to ground. Complicit.

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