𝑵𝑶 𝑴𝑬𝑹𝑪𝒀 | 𝐓.𝐒 |

𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 : 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚒, 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜

"Right ya are," whispered the man, it was so low it didn't reach Mercy's ear. Alfie adjusted his hat and straightened his posture as he offered his right arm for her to cling onto. "Aren't we running late?" she asked, walking towards the car that was parked outside her flat. 

The charity ball that was taking place at London Pavilion started hours ago, and they there were, taking their time. "Aye, but I don't give a shit or two," Alfie stated flatly before opening the car door for her. Mercy sneered at his frank response before climbing into Alfie's brand new Rolls-Royce. Camden Town's crisp night air embraced her entire being, making her shiver, but the thick fur warmed her body as their ride to Piccadilly Circus began. 

"Why d'ya look tired?" he asked, glancing at Mercy. It had been a week since she returned from Small Heath and every time she'd show up for work, Alfie would notice her spacing out and agitated. 

"Because I bloody am, Mr. Solomons," she weakly chuckled, resting her head on the seat before closing her eyes. The nightmare that began at Shelby's house never left her; it followed her wherever she went. It kept repeating, the same scenario where Marisol would throw up water, her eyes turning white to black, blaming Mercy for her death, and eventually killing her. That nightmare encircled her soul with their sinister fingers every night, dragging her deep into a world dominated by terror.

"What's botherin' ya?" the man asked once more, several lines forming on his forehead, clearly concerned for her. He took a quick glimpse at the woman beside him before fixing his eyes on the road ahead. 

"Uh—nothing, I'm just tired," Mercy flashed him a forced smile, but it wasn't enough to convince the Jewish gangster. The woman didn't feel the need to tell him about her problems; it's not something he should be concerned about. Mercy was certain that Alfie was dealing with his own issues, and she didn't want to be a burden to him. Alfie had done more than enough for her.

Mercy would deal with it on her own.

"Cut ta bullshit, Mercedes, I know ya," Alfie raised his eyebrow at her before pulling the car over. As the vehicle halt on the side of the road, Mercy suddenly felt anxious. "Let's just go, Alfie," she whispered, feeling the waves of sickness crashed over her.

"Na," he shrugged, his face turning sour, "Yer tellin me right e're, right now."

"No," she answered and fiddled with her polished fingertips, lowering her head. She pressed her lips into a thin line, "Let's just go," Mercy repeated, almost begging him. 

"What is it, Mercedes?" he snarled as he stared at her. He assumed they wouldn't get out of this damned car unless she told him what had happened. "Is it bout that gypsy bastard?" Alfie guessed, just thinking about that certain Shelby made him drive up the wall. 

"No, Alfie, what the fuck?" Mercy shot her head up, upper lips raising. A loud and deep sigh escaped from her lips, "It's not about him, alright? It's a personal problem," she said, emphasizing the word personal. That made Alfie narrow his eyes, still suspicious of the woman. 

The man clicked his tongue in annoyance, "Then what is it?" he irritatedly asked, he sure was bent on getting answers from her. Mercedes realized at that moment that he wouldn't take no for an answer, and there was no way she could get away from Alfie's never-ending questions.

Sighing once more, "Fine," she said before rolling her eyes, "But you better start driving or else the ball's going to end by the time we reach Park Square."

"Si, señorita," Alfie replied, a grin on his face as he finally got her to speak. Since the first time they met, Alfie had been aware of her troubles and burden. He could see the sliver of sorrow, guilt, and sadness in her eyes that she conceals so well behind her smiles, he was aware of the secrets she keeps to herself, and the flaws that made her even more magnificent.