𝓋. 𝓉𝓌𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓎-𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉: red warnings

                                    

                                          


ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : pretty venom - all time low
⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻


v. twenty-eight: ❝red warnings❞


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Small heath, Birmingham

Throughout the night that followed the bloody aftermath, and the morning that dragged its weary self in, and the days that followed after, Marianna came to a grim realisation. The spirits, those unseen spectators of her sins, seemed to revel in each brutal act she committed. The more entangled she became in the Shelby family's murky dealings, the fiercer and more unruly the spirits grew.
For days, she felt herself slowly disintegrating. But there was a certain dark comfort in falling apart quietly—one could always begin anew, again and again.
No one bothered her. Thomas had sent word that she was to avoid the pub for a while, knowing it would be unwise for her to be seen in the very place where two men had met their end. Yet, she needed to do something. Her rage and devastation were too raw to be confined to mere paint.
So, Marianna ventured back to work.
Even so, returning was no simple feat. As she slipped through the back door, the crowd seemed to avert their eyes as though she were a spectre. And she couldn't care less. But the stark reality of the same lively chatter and jovial clinking of glasses in the very place where Thomas and she had been drenched in blood made her stomach churn with revulsion.
Harry, with worry etched into his face, cornered her by the rear door. "Tommy said you're not to be here. You ought to go home, Mar."
Marianna waved him off with a weary wave. Struggling to form words, she finally managed a weak smile and asked, "Why's that, Harry? I work here, don't I?"
She shifted to the side, grabbing her smock and bundling her straw-blonde hair into a careless knot. The bruises on her legs and arms, hidden beneath her clothes, did little to mar her beauty, though the marks on her cheek and forehead were impossible to miss.
Marianna's steely gaze swept across the dimly lit tavern, her eyes finally landing on the other Irish blonde waitress. She attempted a smile, but noticed how Grace seemed to flinch and avert her eyes, as though trying to dodge an inevitable confrontation.
Unbeknownst to Marianna, Grace had already achieved her goal—Marianna was harmed, and though it had been her aim, it weighed heavily on her conscience.
Grace had heard the murmurs and tales of Birmingham countless times—whispers of a gypsy soothsayer's daughter with a dangerous reputation. The stories painted Marianna as a woman with an uncanny ability to read and unravel secrets, a strategist with a ruthless talent for exposing hidden truths.
With Grace's secret operation nearing its climax and her conflicted feelings for Thomas Shelby, the Irishwoman knew that a single encounter with Marianna's piercing hazel eyes could unravel everything. Grace understood the danger all too well—a mere glance from Marianna could lay bare her deepest secrets.