[excuse the hat in the gif if you will ty]

SEPTEMBER, 1922
CAMDEN TOWN

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She had promised herself she wouldn't let that memory relive itself ever again - but here she was.

A tear had somehow escaped from the corner of her eye without her noticing, and she swiped it away quickly, staring into thin air. 

There's no point to crying, she told herself silently, it's over. Get a hold on yourself. 

The bottle of amber scotch on her desk was within arms reach, but she decided to hold back. Instead, she fished the pack of cigarettes from her pocket, and lounged back in her chair as she stuck one in between her teeth with slim, elegant fingers. She fished her match box from her other pocket, drew one out and struck it, and held the flame up to the cigarette, shielding it with her free hand. 

It caught quickly, and she was shook the match forcefully to extinguish the flame as she inhaled deeply. As soon as the nicotine coursed through her, she relaxed, pushing her shoulder length, wavy brown hair out of her face, and momentarily forgot that one dreadful memory.

It's over. You never have to do it again. It's over.

She sat there, unmoving, for a moment, the cigarette smoke drifting about her face. It was a pretty face, in a roughly edged way. Pale, oval shaped, with a square jaw and beautiful cheekbones. Her brown eyes were hard and cold, framed with thick, dark eyebrows. Her lips were pale and moderately plump, with little smile marks at either corner. She had wavy, shiny brown hair that reached just above her shoulders, and wore a tailor-made, black pinstripe two-piece suit. 

But even though her eyes were off-putting, when she smiled, they lit up. Her entire face lifted, and she suddenly looked different. You began to notice how pretty she really was, something you couldn't see when she looked as she normally did - cold. Unapproachable. 

But she hardly smiled anymore - not genuinely, anyway. Only around people she was close to, did she smile properly.

So, really, the woman was only truly beautiful when you looked close.

Suddenly, the shouts and laughter from the hall beyond her office filtered in as the door swung open, and the woman winced, drawing the cigarette out from her mouth and glaring at her visitor.

"Good God, Claude, what are you all doing out there? I thought you were meant to be preparing the next delivery, not pre-drinking," she called to him, resting one hand on the arm of her chair and holding her cigarette up with the other.

Claude Foreman, her assistant, gave a half-smile as he closed the door, his blue eyes bright. "We are working, Miss Mercer."

He was an oddly good looking man, with light blonde hair, blue eyes, and high but unremarkable cheekbones. He had lines either side of his mouth that only appeared when he smiled, and dressed exclusively in navy blue suits. He had been her assistant for at least two years, and he'd never once arrived to work late.

Before replacing the cigarette in between her teeth, the woman rolled her eyes. "How many times have I told you to call me Dot? Or just Dorothy, even, if Dot is too informal for you?"

"Sorry, Miss Mer - Dorothy," he corrected himself, and the woman shot him a wide smile.

As he turned his back for a moment to readjust the flowers by the door as he always did, however, Dorothy dropped the smile, and quickly brought a hand to her face, wiping away the remnants of her tears. If Claude noticed the slight sheen under her eyes, if he asked her if she was alright, she would be tempted to throw something at him.

Then, he was turning back around, and Dorothy met his eyes swiftly, playing it off like she had been merely scratching at the corner of her eye. Before he could say anything, she quickly said, "So, what've you come to tell me?"

Claude's lips pulled into a thin line, and he began to cross Dorothy's office to stand before her desk.

The room was beautiful - dark oak panels, a high ceiling with skylights, a pale, bejewelled chandelier, and a wide, heavy wooden desk with a tall, cushioned chair where Dorothy herself sat. Little things made the room more welcoming, unlike the rest of the building, like the tall bookcase filled with fat volumes and framed pictures, the rusty gramophone, the lush, towering potted plant in the corner. 

And then, of course, there was the framed photo on her desk, picturing a young woman with brown hair and strikingly similar features to Dorothy. Claude gestured to it as he halted before the desk.

"How is she?" He asked politely. Dorothy gave a slight nod, her eyes wandering across the room.

"Good," she replied distantly, drawing her cigarette from her mouth and absent-mindedly tapping the ash into the dish before her.

Silence hung in the air for a moment. Then, Claude cleared his throat, and reached into his jacket, drawing out a white envelope.

"This was left for you," he said carefully, and Dorothy's gaze slid over as he dropped it onto her desk. 

Loosing a breath, she stuck her cigarette between her teeth again, and reached for both the letter and the letter opener. She turned the blade over in her hand as she took a moment to examine the front of the envelope.

"Hm. It's from Blake Holland," she murmured, and Claude's throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously, his blue eyes fixed on Dorothy.

Blake Holland. God help them.

In seconds, she had split the envelope open, and the letter was in her hands. The opener clattered onto the desk, and Dorothy leaned back in her chair, her eyes flickering across the page as the smoke from the cigarette at her lips drifted hypnotically about her face.

As she read, Claude was conscious of every slight sound he made in the heavy quiet, and found himself holding his breath.

Dorothy's brow was creasing as she read further. 

Claude swallowed again, rocking on his heels. The tense silence was becoming too much for him. So he dared to ask in a half-confident tone, "What does it s -"

A slim finger shot up, silencing him, her eyes not budging from the letter, and Claude shut his mouth sharpish. 

How can she be so calm?  He asked himself. She wasn't showing a slither of fear as she read the fearsome gang leader's letter. Claude knew that if he had been in her shoes, he'd be running for the hills by now.

Suddenly, Dorothy threw the letter onto her desk, and stood from her chair. Tugging her beautifully fitted black pinstripe suit jacket straight and brushing down her matching trousers, she took her cigarette between two fingers and exhaled a cloud of smoke before looking at Claude meaningfully. 

"Do loosen up, Claude. Gather some backup for me, would you? Jazz and Mick, if they're not too busy," she said smoothly, and rounded her desk, heading for the door. A bewildered Claude scurried after her, his brow riddled with fear.

As soon as her office door opened, the hall fell silent. 

The room was huge; all high ceilings and wide windows. Long tables that reached the entire length of the room lined the floor, all parallel to one another, with a wide pathway in the centre of them. There were around a hundred men in braces and coarse white shirts stood around the tables, each and every one of them suddenly quiet at the sight of their boss. 

Simultaneously, they called out, "Morning, Miss Mercer," with varying degrees of pleasantry, and Dorothy merely gave them a dismissive wave.

"No need, no need," she called, already moving down the pathway, her low voice reaching every corner of the hall. Gradually, the men went back to their work, their hearty laughter sounding once again. 

Strange - the middle left bench are livelier than usual, Dorothy mused silently, thinking back to her half-jokey accusation to Claude. She swept a keen eye across their tables as she walked, seeing Claude doing his best to keep up with her out of the corner of her eye, and true to her theory, spotted poorly hidden bottles of beer or whiskey. 

Her eyes rolled in a smooth arc, and she swept forwards towards one of the tables, her hair swinging, Claude still at her heels. Two workers parted automatically for her to get through, eyes wide, and the rest of them stared at her listlessly, shocked. Ignoring their stares, she leaned forward and snatched up a bottle that had been wedged between two of the deliveries, and held it up pointedly in front of one of the men's face, her face blank.

Instantly, the rest of the men dropped their smiles turned back to their work, clearing their throats warily.

"The fuck is this?" Dorothy said incredibly softly. Her face was very close to the man's, her hard stare unwavering, and she towered over him, especially in her heels. The poor man was turning blotchy red, unable to look at her straight. She saw his throat bob, and despite herself, the corner of her mouth briefly twitched up.

"Hm?" She raised an eyebrow, waving the bottle before him, her eyes flickering across his face with some kind of bizarre enjoyment in them.

Clearing his throat, eyes on the floor, he muttered, "A - a beer, boss."

Clicking her tongue, Dorothy shook her head a little. After a moment, she dropped her gaze and angled the bottle so she could see the label, tilting her head up. A second click.

"What's your name, princess?" Dorothy murmured, her eyes flickering back up to the man's. Everyone around them was watching, although they were pretending not to.

It took him a moment, but he shakily looked up at her and stammered, "Charles, boss."

"Well, Charles." Dorothy leaned in even closer to his face, who instantly returned his gaze to the floor, the half-confident smile that had been forming dropping, "I want you to go around each and every fucking table, get every bottle you see, and throw them in the fucking bin. I will not have this place treated like a beer joint. I don't care if it's Friday or not."

She made to leave, but veered back as if she had forgotten something. Clamping a hand on Charles' shoulder, making him start, she added, "Oh, and I hope Jazz and Mick won't be too pissed off at you for taking their drink."

The man gulped, glancing fearfully at the two burly men in question further down the table, who were openly drinking, the veins in their tree-trunk arms popping. They seemed to clock that Charles was staring at them, and if Dorothy hadn't known the pair were really softies, the look they gave him would have scared even her.

Smiling mockingly, Dorothy clapped him twice on the back, making him flinch. Just before she left, she looked at the bottle's label again, and her mouth curved down.

"You could at least have brought a better brew, if you were going to sneak one in," she murmured. Charles nodded quickly, staring at his shoes. He nearly dropped the bottle as Dorothy thrusted it to his chest, and went on her way as if nothing had happened. She heard the men around him sigh in relief, and mutter to him bitterly.

Her heels clicked as she made down the path, checking up on the deliveries as she did, and smiled a little as she saw that not a single bit of table was exposed from under the boxes, cases, and the orders themselves. Business was good. 

Solomons may have had the best gig in terms of industry - he ran a "bakery", selling white and brown "bread" (Dorothy had tried the brown stuff once, and she felt nauseous at the memory. So now, whenever she saw him, she took the white instead) - but Dorothy ran the equally successful twin. To the coppers and the public, she sold pottery.

To her customers - guns.

Long guns, rifles, shotguns, handguns, pistols, revolvers, muskets, short range, long range - even automatic firearms and machine guns. Dorothy sold everything, and it kept her fed and comfortable, to say the least.

Smiling a little wider, she took a drag and kept walking.

Claude finally caught up to her, and almost panted, "Why - why did you need backup, Dorothy?"

"Blake Holland wishes to finally meet me. I'll be in the foyer. Ten minutes." Was all she said, and she pushed the doors open as she reached them, her black heels clacking as she disappeared down the corridor.

Claude paused by the doors, watching them as they swung slowly, heavily. Then, he checked himself, muttering under his breath, before turning on his heel and heading back up the pathway, dodging a few of the bulky workers as he did.