EAST END

-

The feeling of driving in an automobile never seemed to grow old for Dorothy. It made her feel weightless, as if she had the world in the palm of her hand - but she kept her enthusiasm under wraps, not wanting her assistant and the burly men in the car with her to lose any respect for her if they realised she still got excited over cars. 

She sat in reservedly the back seat, buried in a beige double breasted trench coat against the cold. One of her bodyguards, Jazz, sat beside her, one eye warily on the streets and the other on her, his hand at his gun holster, while Claude drove and Mick sat in the passenger seat. 

All three men were talking, but Dorothy was silently deep in thought, gazing out of the window behind her tiny circular sunglasses, a finger resting on her lips. 

Even though she had never met Blake Holland before, the pair of them had had a distant type of rivalry for some months now. She knew very little about him, and as far as she knew, he knew very little about her. Their rivalry was ambiguously driven by this point, and he had in fact been silent for a few weeks. Why he had demanded a meeting now, she did not know.

Delving into her deep coat pocket with leather-gloved fingers, Dot scooped out her pocket watch, letting the chain dangle between her fingers. Three-fifteen, it read. Blake had proposed twenty past. They were right on time.

The car lurched onto one side as it hit a dip in the road and turned into a street named Little Kerry, and Dorothy's face remained stoic, pocketing the watch silently, as they neared Blake Holland's territory. 

It was a little different to Camden Town; there, people covered up their business with fronts of bread and pottery, whilst the East End folk weren't even trying. The thin three storey buildings that lined the wide streets were completely open, not a trace of evidence that anything was hidden in them. Men stood blatantly in doorways selling and buying God knows what, and Dorothy winced at the idea of doing business in broad daylight. 

She may have had the coppers wound around her little finger, able to make them turn a blind eye, but if they were to plainly see her dealing her firearms around town, she didn't doubt they'd decide to do something about it.

Claude drove further down the street, not bothering to slow for stragglers, forcing them to dodge the vehicle, most of them swearing obscenely as they did. But then, most of them saw who was sitting in the back seat, and shut up sharpish, bowing their heads and rushing away. Dorothy smirked. 

That was always a good feeling - to know they feared her.

Then, Claude was making a right, and Blake's area of London was in view.

Dot had been pretty sure that Blake ran a foundry from what she knew about him, and she appeared to be right. Not a single man to be seen had been spared of soot, skips and pens full of iron scraps were wedged in between huts where they evidently worked, etc.

What she assumed was an office building towered over the rest of the site, and giant transport vans were parked in a line to one side of the lot. She could even see what must have been Blake's sizeable mansion perched on the hill behind the foundry.

The car pulled up in the only area that passed for a parking space, and Claude killed the engine before twisting around in his seat to face Dorothy. Jazz and Mick were already getting out, standing ready outside the vehicle to help her out. 

"Look, Dorothy - " he began, but she cut him off quickly.

"I know he's dangerous. I've dealt with worse, Foreman."

An awkward laugh escaped the man's lips, and he cleared his throat. "Right. Yes. Sorry."

Dorothy tilted her head, giving him a look. Her sunglasses somehow made her look more intimidating. "It is not your place to worry about me."

"Yes. Yes. Apologies." Claude stumbled over his words. 

Dorothy nodded, and silently opened the car door, placing her hand into Jazz's open palm, allowing herself to be helped out. Instantly, a strong sulphuric smell hit her, and her nose crinkled in distaste. Claude followed her out after a moment, checking himself, his cheeks burning.

Jazz and Mick flanked Dorothy silently, folding their arms in front of themselves, as Dorothy cast a wary eye across the courtyard, pushing her glasses further up her nose. Her face was completely blank, refusing to give away an inkling of what she was thinking. 

The men who passed and parted around her frowned in puzzlement, wondering what a woman of her status was doing standing in a sooty, grimy foundry. 

Claude went to Dorothy's side. "They've seen you're here," he murmured."They'll probably come down and escort us." 

She hummed stiffly, half ignoring her assistant. Digging through her coat pocket, she pulled out her pack and drew a cigarette out, sticking it between her teeth and covering the flame from the wind as she lit it. Flicking the match onto the floor carelessly, a cloud of smoke flowed from her mouth and whipped behind her with the wind. 

She kept it balanced between her lips, parting them slightly to exhale every few moments, and watched as one of Blake's employees emerged from one of the huts, striding surely towards her.

Even from a distance, she could tell her couldn't have been older than thirteen. His blonde hair stood out amongst the sooty brunette men, and his clothes, despite being filthy, were probably the cleanest in sight. 

Once he was within earshot, the lad waved an arm over his shoulder and turned on his heel without stopping. "This way," he called, as casually as if to a mate.

Scoffing a little, Dorothy set after him, and her entourage fell into step with her immediately. 

Sparks flew as the giant glowing vat of molten iron was tipped by one of the pulleys, the stuff flowing slowly, non-stop, into the moulds. Heat radiated off of it even from a distance, and Dorothy watched in fascination as she watched the golden liquid iron pour. 

Then, she turned her gaze back to the lad, who was running up the fire escape steps up the side of the tall building that loomed over the foundry. 

She went to follow him, but suddenly, he turned around, looked down at them all, and said, "Just you, he says."

Dorothy pressed her lips together, and subtly tapped the pistol tucked in her pocket. 

Turning around to Jazz, Mick, and Claude, she nodded once, gesturing towards the car. They left after a moment without a word, and Dorothy resumed following the boy up the stairs.

He was racing up them with all his youthful energy, whilst Dorothy opted to take her time, her heels clicking loudly on the metal steps, her slim right hand ghosting the rail. 

The higher she climbed, the more the sounds of the foundry dissipated. Her nerves should have been heightening by this point, but she found herself being entirely neutral. Blake was a raindrop in the great storm of men she had taken on before.

When she reached the top of the stairs and the lad opened the door labelled B. HOLLAND, she did admittedly feel a slight pang of unease. 

He got to his feet the moment he saw her, and rounded his desk, striding forwards to meet her. Waving a hand towards the boy without budging his gaze from Dorothy, he said in a Cockney drawl, "Go back to work, lad."

"Yessir," the boy said, and closed the door, closing off most of the light. Dorothy could hear his footsteps receding noisily down the steps. 

Blake was still staring down at her studiously, the slightest of smiles tugging at his lips. 

Dorothy stared right back.

Drawing a short breath, she parted the corner of her lips and released a puff of smoke before raising both hands to her glasses and taking them off, exposing her eyes to her adversary - a subtle indication that she wasn't afraid of him. He seemed amused by this, tilting his head to the side.

Then, never once taking her eyes off him, she folded her glasses up and placing them in her pocket. She didn't missed the way his steady gaze followed her movements. 

Then, she held her hand out before her.

"Nice to meet you, Blake," she said, her cigarette jumping in her mouth.

After a moment, the gangster reached out and clasped her gloved hand in his inked one, shaking firmly.

"Likewise," he said, his voice consistently smooth and gravelly.

He released her after a moment, and gestured towards the chair before his desk, moving towards his whiskey table in the corner. Subtly tapping the gun in her pocket again, Dorothy strode forward, her eye on Blake as he turned his back. 

Good Lord, the way he moved - she reminded her a little of a lion. He had the steady power and grace of the beast, but she knew just by watching him that he was more than capable of chasing her down and tearing out her throat.

His looks were similar - there was a predator hidden behind his weathered, handsome face, one that made him no doubt popular with women. He had hazel eyes, a stubbled jaw, and dark, long eyebrows. His hair was his staple piece, perhaps - a beautiful fade cut, the top of his dark hair pushed back with gel. He wore a waistcoat with a gun holster slung over his shoulders, a collared white shirt that he filled out nicely, and a dark tie. On his hands, neck, and what was visible of his arms, she could see numerous tattoos, most of which he probably shared with his gang. 

(Dorothy had one tattoo herself - but it was too personal to be on display, as all of Blake's were. She kept it hidden under her clothes, and she doubted anyone but herself and the person who had done the tattoo had ever seen it.)

While she knew that his looks distracted from his threat, she had to admit he was one of the classier criminals she had dealt with. While Salvatore had dressed passably, his behaviour had been questionable - and Solomons was scruffy, to say the least.

Dorothy sat down in the chair before the desk, folding one leg over the other and holding her cigarette up between two fingers, and waited for Blake to sit down with the whiskey. She took the opportunity to admire his office as she shrugged off her trench coat, exposing her pinstripe suit. It didn't hold a candle to her own, of course, but it was still decent.

Dark wood lined the walls and made up his desk and chairs, save for his own, which was shiny brown leather. The windows were tall, light was filtered through blinds, and a long cabinet probably packed with snow - she wouldn't have been surprised, she hardly knew anyone in Camden who didn't take it these days - took up a whole wall.

There was very little in the way of personal things in the room that Dorothy herself valued so much, making her feel a little out of place - well, more than before, anyway.

Her survey of the office was cut off when Blake rounded his desk again, two tumblers and a decanter of whiskey in hand. Planting one hand firmly on the desk, he poured a little of the molten amber liquid carelessly into each glass with the other. Dorothy winced as some spilled over the sides, but smiled quickly as Blake handed her a glass. It was odd - they had never met before, but he was acting as if they had known one another for years.

"So, Mercer," he began suddenly, slowly lowering himself into his chair, and Dorothy looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Would you prefer for me to get straight to the point, or beat around the fucking bush as not to offend your delicate ears?"

Dorothy smirked a little, before picking up the glass of whiskey with her spare hand and taking a sip. Blake's intense gaze never left her, his hands interlocked, his arms braced on the desk, waiting patiently. 

Only when Dorothy had finished with her drink did she look back up at him and reply, "I'm hardly delicate, Blake. Go right ahead."

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, and his mouth curved down as he nodded in confirmation. "Alright then. You've been causing me problems, darling."

Her brow furrowing, Dorothy took a drag, ignoring the pet name he had used for her, before asking quizzically, "How so?"

"You know," he said shortly.

"Yes, but I'd like to hear you say it," she drawled lazily, tilting her head to the side. 

Blake drew a sharp breath, shaking his head very slightly. "If that's how you want to go about this."

Dorothy faked a smile, turning her cigarette over in her hand.

"I was doing well before you turned up here," Blake started. "I could deal with just Solomons being my opponent, maybe even Salvatore - but another? And it's not just the competition you've landed me in, but - fuck, do I have to say it? - you're a woman, for Christ's sake. And one with a questionable past, too."

For a moment, she didn't move. Her lip twitched, her dark brown eyes lurched back into her head, and she let her head roll back. A slight chuckle escaped her lips.

A long, angular eyebrow cocked up. "I need you to back off, Mercer. My legitimate business is failing because of your illegal dealership."

"Don't talk to me about legal business." Dorothy snapped her head back up, suddenly serious. She was done with fake politeness. Blake drew back a little warily. 

"I know for a fucking fact you have bags and bags of snow shipped in from America every month, and you sell it to every poor bastard who has the money for it. Plus, you clearly can't resist the stuff yourself." She pointed casually to his desk where a dusting of the drug remained, and he swept it away quickly, his jaw clenching.

"You sell guns and the police look the other way," Blake drawled resolutely, "How'd you pay them off, huh, Mercer?"

Her breathing hitched. "Don't you dare," she murmured. Her voice was so, so soft, but it cut through the air like a knife.

"Have I struck a nerve?" he asked, his voice cocky, and Dorothy remained very still. "I thought you were meant to be fearless, darling."

"If that's what you've heard, I must be doing something right."

He hummed a little, his eyes drifting to the rafters, his jaw popping to the side. 

"So, does that mean that if something was to happen to your sister, you wouldn't care?"

Dorothy felt another pang of unease in her chest. It took all the willpower in the world for her to plaster a mask of indifference on her face, to take a sip of her whiskey, and say bluntly, "No."

"Really?" he said, an almost mocking grin on his face. Then, he rose out of his seat, and Dorothy tilted her chin up, keeping her gaze fixed on him.

"You wouldn't care if Lillian Mercer was snatched from the streets on her way home, pulled into an alley, and had her pretty throat spilt across the ground? You wouldn't lift a finger if she was left there to bleed out, convulsing, choking, doing everything she could to call out your name, but she just... can't," he almost whispered, leaning forwards onto his desk. "Your own blood? Your dearest sister?"

Her throat bobbed. But she still replied, "No."

A thick eyebrow raised. "Hm," he murmured. "Alright then - change of scenario. Let's say I don't kill Lillian. Let's say... I kill you instead."

Dorothy almost furrowed her eyebrows in confusion, but checked herself, and remained still. "Oh?"

"That'd be what you'd expect me to do, right? As a cause of whatever it is we have going on between us," Blake reasoned. Dorothy didn't reply.

"But, again, let's say I don't just kill you to get rid of you," he continued, his voice lowering. "Let's say I kill you to get at Lillian."

She frowned.

"I know, I know But, just think about it for a moment," Blake murmured, beginning to round his desk. His gaze was still trained on her as he moved, a hand trailing the smooth wood.

"After she stopped grieving, dear Lillian would be fine. For a few months, at least. You have enough money stored away to keep her going for long enough. But eventually... " His voice was incredibly low now, beginning to grate against his throat, as if all the cigarettes he had smoked in his life were finally taking effect. 

"She'd run out. She's young. She'd splash out on some pretty dress, not knowing that that would be the last thing she'd be able to call her own."

Dorothy's throat bobbed, but her face remained stoic, hazed by the smoke that drifted from the cigarette in her hand. All that was on her mind was her gun in her coat pocket, just out of reach. 

Blake stood before her now, and despite herself, she still marvelled at his agile, stealthy movements. 

But she instantly stopped admiring him when he slowly leaned down, planted his tattooed hands on either sides of her chair and rested all his weight onto it, bringing his face level with hers. 

Now, she could see every detail in his beautiful face - the mole on his left cheek, the dark ring around his hazel irises, the black ink on the side of his neck that etched out the shape of a broken mirror. She didn't doubt many others in her position would have either swooned or panicked, but Dorothy merely stared resolutely into his face, her eyes fixed intently on his. 

The gangster's eyes were flickering across her face almost pitifully as he smiled sadistically, and murmured, "She'd lose her job. Her home. She'd start getting desperate. And she'd try and deny it at first - try and get work someplace. But there's only one place for poor, desperate girls like herself at the end of the day."

Blake slowly leaned right into her, and only then did she flinch, stiffening as she felt his shirt collar brush her neck, his lips on her ear, his hair on her temple. He hovered there for just a moment, and she felt him breathing slowly as she felt her own heartbeat start to quicken. And then -

"And you know all too fucking well where that place is, don't y -"

Before Blake could react, Dorothy had brought her leg up, planted it on his chest, and thrust out hard.

He fell away from Dorothy and stumbled back into his desk, and hissed as the wood dug into the small of his back. But before he could regain himself, Dorothy was on her feet. She flicked her cigarette away, downed her whiskey, and threw the glass to the side where it shattered, and her fist connected with his jaw before he could blink.

 Groaning in pain, he groped at his face and tried to shield himself with his free hand, but Dorothy thrust his hand down and punched him again, her face the stony mask of a warrior. He fell back again, his back hitting his desk as his feet left the ground. 

He was regretting on insisting that no-one else could be in the room with them. He hadn't thought she would be this strong.

"Get in here and help m - !" he started to yell to anyone who would listen, but Dorothy had seized him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to his feet, only to punch him again, this time knocking him to the floor. Every move he had, she countered. 

Blake hissed in pain, and tried to roll back onto his feet, but then he felt Dorothy's shoe collide with his side, and he convulsed violently, barely containing a scream. 

She did it again. And again. And again. And now Blake was gasping for breath, struggling to get to his feet, to fight back. But yet again, Dorothy stopped him as she swung a leg over him, and straddled his lap, pinning him to the floor. He reared his head to look at her, sucking in breaths desperately. 

He expected her to strangle him without hesitation. But she merely loomed over him, a cruel half-smile growing on her face as she watched him - revelling in his pain. She was enjoying this.  

Then, she seized his collar, and yanked him right up, his nose almost touching hers. Blake winced at the sudden movement, his vision blurring, something in his head unbalancing. When his vision returned, he gulped as he saw the look on her face.

He would have preferred her to look angry. But the composure she somehow kept was enough to make him tremble.

The corner of her mouth quirked up for a second, and she shook him, quickly but hard. He grunted, and looked up at her with unreined contempt. He could feel her chest against his, her breath on his face. Her voice was quiet as she spoke, but after the noise from just a few moments ago, it seemed louder. 

"I don't know how you found out about Lillian, or any of that other shit," she whispered in his face, "but you better stay the fuck away from her."

Blake didn't dare speak - only stare up at her, doing his best to catch his breath, and ignore the pain in his side.

Dorothy was beginning to shake as she said, "Because if I see you, or any of your men anywhere near her - fuck, if you so much as think about her, you might as well start digging your own grave before I get to you, 'cos you're dead.That was just a taste of what I'll do to you if you touch my sister. Get it? You're dead," she spat.

It took a moment for Blake to react, to even build up the strength to do so. But then, he coughed, and a blood-stained grin flickered onto his face. "Y - you'll regret this, Mercer."

Then -

Three burly men covered in soot burst into the office, and before Dorothy could even acknowledge them, they were hauling her off Blake, setting her on her feet, wrenching her arms behind her back. Blake lurched to the side in the absence of her weight, and spat red onto the floor, his face contorting.

"About fucking time, fellas," he growled venomously, getting unsteadily to his feet, clutching his side with one hand. Once again, his head was set off balance, and it took him a moment for his vision to clear. 

Then, Dorothy came back into focus, struggling against the men that restrained her viciously. But as strong as she may have been, not even she could overpower three bulky factory workers.

The arrogant smirk building back onto his face now that he knew she was powerless, that she couldn't attack him any more, he took the few steps to close the distance between them, and seized her by her chin, forcing her to look at him, and she froze, meeting his hard stare.

"You will regret this," he said again, his fingers digging into her face. She barely flinched as his nails pierced her skin; something just as unnerving as the way she stared almost defiantly back at him, unnaturally still.

Her threat was a real one. Then, so was his.

Releasing her, he turned his back, waving an arm towards the door. 

"Get her out," he called to his men, and without question, they began to haul her to the door. 

Suddenly snapping back into motion, she shook them off violently, giving them glares that were enough to ward them off. Blake glanced over his shoulder from where he stood by his desk with his back to them.

Brushing off her suit, still glaring at the men, she snatched up her coat from the back of the chair she had been sat in just moments ago, and made for the door, shrugging it on in one smooth movement. 

It was only when she stepped out of the office, slamming the door behind her did she notice the dampness on her face. Pausing on the fire escape, her hair whipping about on the wind, she frowned, raised a gloved hand and touched it to her cheek tentatively.

A little of Blake Holland's blood came away. 

And all she did was shrug, and start down the stairs.