Their hands lingered on one another's for a few moments. 

Dorothy couldn't help but stare into his eyes. His beautiful bloody eyes. Crystal clear, hypnotic ocean blue. Just as she remembered them.

She cleared her throat. "I must admit, I didn't think we'd ever cross paths again," she said, making an effort to keep her tone professional.

Tommy's face remained stony, but there was the tiniest hint of warmth in his eyes as he spoke. "Well, here you are." He returned his hand to his side.

Arthur was looking between the pair as if he were watching tennis. "I'm sorry, brother - you know her?"

Tommy moved to join his brothers. Dorothy watched him as he moved. His frame was stiff, his gait cautious, restrained, yet confident. Like he knew nobody could stop him.  

"Yep. I know her," he murmured, lowering himself into a chair beside Arthur. He loosened a breath in relief once his feet left the floor. 

"We met when I was breaking bread with Solomons." His gaze flickered back to Dorothy. "I believe she's his protegee."

"Something like that," Dot said.

Arthur and John's heads turned, staring at her across the table. The latter blinked.

Unfazed by their sudden attention, she waved a hand in the air. "He was a kind of benefactor for my company, at it's beginning. I've long since paid off my debt to him, but we've remained good friends. He likes to think he's my boss."

"Company?" John echoed, blinking harder.

"And is he?" Tommy asked, ignoring his brother.

The corner of her mouth turned up. "Nobody is."

There was a pause. 

Then, Arthur sniffed loudly, and leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. Dot cocked her head, eyeing him with interest.

"Why did you do... what you did... last night?" the eldest Shelby asked. He couldn't quite meet the woman's eyes. She almost pitied him. It was clear he wasn't used to not getting what - or who - he wanted. 

"Simple," she replied. "I knew you were important from the way the barman treated you. I wanted you to remember me. I wanted something like this - " She gestured to the room, the brothers, the meeting, " To happen."

"Why?" Tommy spoke up. He had never taken his gaze off her since he sat down.

She didn't reply. Instead, she suddenly dipped a hand into the pocket of her coat and began to fumble about. Arthur's hand darted to the gun in his holster, while John and Tommy merely looked on, frowning. 

"Cool it, moustache man," she muttered, eyes lowered, brow furrowed as she checked her other pocket. Arthur snorted indignantly at the nickname. "I'm not going to shoot you. You emptied me of my arsenal, anyway." 

Then, she looked up, and cast her eyes across the brothers. 

"Does any of you have a fag?" she asked suddenly, gesturing loosely between them. "It seems in the rush to leave my accommodation, I left mine behind."

The brothers exchanged glances. But none of them made a move.

Tommy turned his head to look at his brothers. After a moment of sitting and waiting, he came to the conclusion that neither of his brothers were going to step up. He drew a burdened sigh, and began to dig around in his jacket pocket. 

"Here." He leaned across the table and held out his pack to her. 

Meeting his eyes, she leaned forward and drew a cigarette out with slender fingers, giving him a tight, but appreciative smile. As Tommy struck a match, Dot balanced the stick between her lips, and leaned further forward to meet him as he struck a match, narrowing the distance between them. She could have reached out and brushed an unruly strand of hair back into place if the fancy took her. 

But she did no such thing. Not only was it an odd thing to do in the best of circumstances, she wasn't entirely sure of the purpose of this meeting yet; if they planned to kill her, or kick her out of Birmingham, or certainly something malicious of the sort, touching Tommy Shelby would definitely worsen her fate for a plethora of reasons.  

The cigarette caught, and she inhaled. 

"Thank you." She leaned back in her chair, and let some smoke drift out from between her lips. Tommy sat back down and returned his cigarettes to his pocket after lighting one for himself. Inhaling, he flicked the burnt out match onto the floor. 

"What is it you do... Dorothy?" Arthur said her name like he wasn't sure about it.

"I sell pottery," she said blankly. Her gaze flickered over to Tommy, her eyes knowing. But his face remained stony. Blank. 

It was like he was hiding. 

John snorted. "The fuck you do."

After a moment, the woman's eyes broke from Tommy's. He did not follow suit. 

"What makes you say that?" she murmured, and took a quick drag.

"I've seen your name on crates in export bays," the youngest Shelby said, pointing an accusing finger at her. "Mercer. Mercer Corp. I took a look inside a few of the boxes." He shot Tommy a look. "Firearms."

A smile. Smoke danced before her. "Clever boy."

John's eyes slid back over to her. After a second, he drew back, shifting uncomfortably.

"You didn't answer me," Tommy pushed, and took a deep drag on his cigarette.

"Hm?" Dot said.

Smoke drifted from between his lips. "Why did you want Arthur to... remember you?"

Once again, Dorothy didn't reply right away. Arthur and John were growing restless; she was a hard nut to crack. 

Then, she took another, more urgent drag, and threw a hand up into the air. "Look. I'm here because the universe seems to want me to be. My sister's life is in danger in London, and I received a telegram asking me to meet someone here a few days from now. I couldn't go anywhere else; I have enemies in most cities. I have to stay here for a few weeks. And I've gotten used to having influence. I found when I arrived here that I didn't like being nobody."

"So you decided to start a fight to get people talking," John cut in. His voice was full of disdain.

"Suck it up, Miss Mercer," Tommy sighed, clearing his throat. "It's only temporary, eh? This is our territory."

"You can't just... waltz into the realm of the Peaky Blinders and set up shop. It makes us look bad. Like we can't handle some little girl who can't stand not getting attention," Arthur added. 

Her face hardened. "How old do you think I am?"

"I've learnt not to ask that of women," Arthur said, stifling a laugh. A wheeze came from John, who had not bothered to try.

Once again, Tommy didn't react. He just kept his steady gaze fixed on her. Was it an intimidation tactic? Was it attraction? Either way, Dorothy didn't acknowledge it. 

"Because it's disrespectful - to women, yeah?" she said.

"Well, yeah - " Arthur started.

"So is laughing at them." She gave a fake smile. "Or anyone, for that matter."

They didn't stifle their smirks. If anything, John's smile grew wider.

"You seek attention like a little girl, and you want us to take you seriously?" he chuckled.

The Russian woman straightened suddenly in her seat, and dipped her chin. Venom seeped into her eyes. 

But she remained silent. 

Tommy watched her. Observing. Waiting.

A little of Arthur's embarrassment from the previous night had remained, and Tommy had no interest in speaking just yet. But John lacked a filter. He leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. His brothers cast him wary looks, but he ignored them, and began to speak.

"Let me ask you something - who do you think you are?" he said, a cocky smile playing on his lips. Dorothy inhaled sharply, murder in her eyes she held his gaze. "Actually, don't answer that. Let me tell you who you are - you were born into a rich, influential family, who was the reason for your success. You got lucky. Sure, you may have been a big shot back in London, but here, you don't mean shit."

He spread his hands, grinning manically, and said in a spiteful half-whisper, "I sure as hell ain't ever fuckin' heard of you."

Dorothy's eye twitched.

She could have ended him. Right there and then. The fucking nerve. 

But dealing with males, especially male gangsters, was precarious. She couldn't lash out. She had to handle this situation carefully.

She drew a sharp breath, and tipped her head to the side, stretching her neck. 

Then, she looked at John straight. 

"Alright, Mr Shelby. You've had your say. But I won't humour your perception of me for a moment."

John's smile faltered a little.

"Let me explain something to you," she said, leaning forwards. There was a smile playing on her lips. But it was cold. Inhuman. Almost frightening. 

"For two fucking years, my body was at the disposal of men." She glared at them. "Countless men."

All three of their faces fell.

"My parents died, and my sister and I were forced to come here. I couldn't support us. No-one wanted to hire a barely educated immigrant - and one who still had spots, for God's sake. So I sold myself. But this one bastard - he refused to pay me. And he tried to take what he wanted by force. I beat him to death with a metal rod. And then, I spat in the face of my mistress, and left that bloody place.

"I started beating people up for Laurence Bailey. And, somewhere down the line, I shot a man in the chest. When Darby Sabini heard about that, he tried to have me assassinated, because he deemed me too big a threat. I sent his men back with missing limbs. I stared down the barrel of Alfie Solomons' gun, and I smiled."

She laced her hands together, and cocked her head. Her gaze remained fixed on John. He swallowed.

"And just a few days ago, Blake Holland threatened the life of my sister, and I beat him to a fucking pulp and had his foundry destroyed. 

"But all the fucking trauma, all the struggles and poverty and watching my sister whittle down to skin and bone because I couldn't afford to fucking feed her - it was all fucking worth it. I'm one of the most powerful business owners in London, and I built it all from nothing. My parents weren't rich, and even if they had been, they were dead before they could have been of any help. I didn't get fucking lucky. I've had it just as hard as you. 

"So don't sit there, with your dirt cheap whiskey and shitty shop-bought suit, and talk down to me like I'm one of those cocks in them posh houses born with silver fucking spoons in their mouths." 

She leaned forward. "You fucking bastard." 

And before John could move, Dorothy rose out of her seat, and spat.

It flew across the table, and landed on the youngest Shelby's jacket. 

Then, she sat back. 

She slowly raised her cigarette to her lips, and took a leisurely drag. 

Never did she take her eyes off John. 

And while the latter sat there, his face sucked of all arrogant cheer, Arthur and Tommy stared at the woman before them, stopping short of gaping with their mouths open. 

It happened too quick for her to confirm it, but Dorothy could have sworn she saw Tommy smirk out of the corner of her eye. 

"Fuck," Arthur muttered, swiping a thumb over his lip, clearing his throat. His eyes were lowered. "Shut you up, eh, John boy?"