despite a rather innocuous upbringing, iona finds that she’s settled easily into the lion’s den of the mafia — that is to say easy enough that she tends to blame genetics as nature vs nurture seems to crumble in the face of her comfortable confidence, the welcoming weight of a gun against her thigh and the familiarity of words that bring men to their knees. they underestimate her, of course, trying to tear her down with comments about her body and the weakness of it, whispered jests about the american girl with a russian name and temper as if that will bother her — as if she has not heard worse in the comment section of her articles when she had done nothing but state facts.
as if she doesn’t know that men will take any opportunity to degrade the women that frighten them.
most of the time iona controls her gang well enough, even if she doubts she’s bloody enough yet to truly inspire dread. they do what she tells them, only presses the well off and wicked for protection money; she’s twisted them into criminals with a conscience, or at least she’s trying to. sometimes, however, they make their own choices and that’s when the trouble starts. words trickle up her information chain, twisting and worrying their way into the faces of those who are afraid of being the shot messenger until she finally pries it out of someone. her glass of champagne hits the table hard enough to make the legs shake and she’s on her feet before anyone in the room can do anything but scatter out of her way, scrambling away from the sound of heels on the marble floor like the tip of knives against bone.
❝ where? ❞ her second in command flinches away from the words, but she gets her answer regardless. the fucking cheap kids clinic, the lowest of the low hanging fruit. there’s no honor in stealing from the sick and the good hearted, no point in power without effort. it’s just bullying and she has no time for it. she’s the heir to a centuries long criminal empire, not a fucking school yard idiot and she’s not about to have her name tarnished because some idiots with more muscles than brains get their rocks off to picking on weak people.
gravel grinds and flies as she pulls up to the clinic and the slam of the car door echoes on the half rotted alleyway walls as she gets out, every inch of her body taut as she follows the sound of the men’s cacophonous taunts and threats. shoving hard on the door that led to the inside of the clinic, she revels in the dead silence that follows the snap of the door handle against the wall behind it. that moment of fear is what she expects when she enters a room and she suspects by the end of the day, she might not have to make a loud noise to command that respect.
actually, at the sight in front of her, she suspects none of the men in front of her will be far enough this side of hell to have any sort of opinion on her. threatening the clinic is one thing but the shaking woman with her fragile shoulders squared at the crowd of leering men is too reminiscent of a rabbit in a pack of wolves with blood on their muzzles to let any kind of mercy form. ❝ what the fuck do you think you’re doing? ❞ the man closest to the doctor turns towards iona, scarred face twisting into a sneer as he regards the blonde. ❝ not taking orders from dumb little bitches that think they can ruin our fun. ❞ her mouth opens and her hand slides towards her thigh, but he still speaks. ❝ you’re not in daddy’s castle anymore, princess. we’re gonna take the money, we’re gonna take the bitch and then we’re—❞
the sound of a gun shot hits the air hard and the man crumples, the red splattered across the clinic walls painting a clear picture of iona’s opinion. smoking gun still gripped in manicured fingers, her gaze slides across the remaining lackeys. ❝ fun’s over. ❞ without much hesitation, they scramble out and she’s left alone with a dead body and a blood splattered doctor that looks like she’d be far more at home in a fairy tale than mafia controlled russia. ❝ you alright, daisy? they didn’t touch you did they? ❞
there is blood spatter covering her white coat. a mark here or there would cause no pause to tamsin on a normal day, but she can feel warm wet specks on her face as well, a macabre facepaint of freckles, and she is unnerved. if this were any other situation, she would have been jumping into action, one hand’s fingers on the man’s neck to check for a pulse, the other pressing onto the wound. but she cannot move. she can’t bring herself to walk over to the body, or even to the woman. she just stares.
her mother had told her to be careful and, when tamsin left london, she had assured her that all would be fine, that the most danger she would be in would be from the cold and harsh winters or cars speeding when the shouldn’t be. yet now she stood, blood pooling on the floor, the puddle finally just breaching the toe of her shoe, and all she could think of doing was calling her mum to say how right she had been. this is bizarre and insane. things like this don’t happen, not to her, at least. not to good people.
the day had started out fine, too, at least as fine as treating children with tuberculosis could be. she had given care to the few patients who had come in, humming quiet songs to ease the childrens’ fears about the strange doctor with too-cool hands who spoke in broken russian. by the end, most had soft smiles on their faces and a lolly in their hands. as long as by the time they left, the expression of fear in their eyes had dissolved into something of relief, she could be happy. it’s all she could do. it’s all that she wanted to do.
and tamsin had never wanted for herself. from when she was a little girl with pigtails, her allowance went into the donation coffers at the grocery stores. she’d offer half her lunch to someone who had even a morsel less than her. her becoming a doctor was no surprise, if anything it was most fitting. she’d give up the last of her being if it was only to help someone else.
but never in her wildest dreams did she imagine this. a man had walked in and, before she could ask how she could help him, his friends had trailed inside behind him. they said they wanted money, they wanted anything she had that they could sell for money. tamsin had told them no. they laughed at her and they repeated themselves, starting to close the gap between them by taking a few steps foward. again, she said no, a wobble in her voice and her shoulders beginning to shake. they grew angry and aggressive, and her eyes had been burning with unspilt tears as she tried to stand her ground. it wasn’t her money to give, she explained, or tried to, but then a woman walked in and tension reached a point.
the sound of someone’s heavy breathing has taken over, louder than the woman’s voice -- a voice in the back of her mind is saying it’s yours -- and everything is just wrong. the room around her is vibrating or maybe she is shaking and she doesn’t know what to do now. it’s an unfamiliar feeling but this entire situation is new. there’s blood on the floor -- her floor -- and it will surely leave a stain on the carpet. rationally, she knows that’s not what she should be focusing on but --
all she knows that there’s a dead man on her clinic’s floor and the woman who shot him is still standing just a few feet away.
❝ it’s all fine -- i’m fine. ❞ her voice is high-pitched and it is wavering. she’s not doing well to convince herself, and she can hardly think that the woman will believe her. her eyes dart over from the woman to the clock on the wall. ❝ the clinic is open for a few more hours. i need to -- i need to get him out of here. if someone comes in, they can’t see this. they can’t see him. ❞
leave it to tamsin to be singularly focused. she doesn’t care about herself. she cares only about whoever else might come in. what does it matter that she is shaking like a leaf ?? what does it matter that she doesn’t think she’ll be able to close her eyes tonight without seeing that man drop like lead at her feet ?? the fact is -- it doesn’t.
