petrovna. peaky blinders

C H A P T E R 4

Anastasiya found herself following him, her hand held tightly around the gun that dipped heavily in her pocket. He walked slowly and purposefully down the street, his shoulders swaying. He knew that people would avoid him and move out of his way, and Ana noticed that they definitely did. For that fact, she couldn't help but feel wary of him. But then she remembered that his family was working in line with her own, and that always lead to bad news, and so she felt confident, stalking behind him.

The man stopped by a run down building, heading down a dim set of open stairs. Ana remained outside, watching from the top as the man pulled the cap from his head, jumping out at an Italian and suddenly beating him with the blade. The men cried out as blood splattered across the floor, the attacker showing no sign of regret or guilt as he bounded up the stairs after he had finished with them, leaving their squealing bodies behind. In the space of a few moments, he was done with his violent business.

Ana raised a brow in intrigue at the sight. She stepped to the side, pulling her gun out on him with a smirk as he rose from the building, stopping short on the street. He sighed, closing his eyes in annoyance.

"Do you mind following me Aunt Pol?" He complained, as he tilted his head away from the gun, only to feel it follow him. "I've not left my gun out this time."

"I promise you, I am not Aunt Pol." She said, and the man's lids snapped open and shot to look at her from the corner of his eyes. "Which Shelby boy are you?"

He scoffed, not willing to answer her question. "Who are you?"

In truth, he was surprised by the fact that she didn't know who he was. Everyone knew John Shelby. Everyone feared John Shelby. Though apparently not.

"Answer." Anastasiya insisted, as she pushed the gun further into his head.

"John. John Shelby." He rolled his eyes as he answered, his hand reaching to take the stick from his mouth. "You're one of them Russians. What'd you call her? Tatiana, that's it!"

He turned his head to face her daringly, before spitting, "Now go off."

"Don't forget, John Shelby, that I am holding a gun to your head." Ana said slyly.

"I bet you can't even use it." He said, staring her in the eye. Ana smiled, tutting slightly and shaking her head.

"We can test it if you'd like." She asked.

"No, no. What'd you want?" He asked, shaking his head.

John Shelby held a certain charm about him that no one could deny. It was simultaneously both as appealing and unpleasant as the scent of cigarettes and whiskey, that he happened to indulge. He was the kind of man, that Ana would come to learn, that people like, without realising what they were getting into and without wanting to. But as she stood with her gun against his head, she couldn't see the appeal. She wondered whether he was faking his weakness, or whether it was just her that perceived it as so, or even whether he understood the fact that she was not afraid to hurt him.

"I want to know why my sister gave your brother a case of money." She asked him simply, watching as he rolled his eyes.

It seemed, to John, that everyone but himself knew of his brother's business. No matter how many questions he asked, he wouldn't get answers, and he was made to look stupid for even asking. But though this woman pressed him for answers to questions that he didn't even know were possible, she still didn't know. In that, John found a certain sense of quietness. Even the Russian was left out.

"I don't know yet. I promise you. You can trust me." He said, keeping his eyes trailed on her dark, narrowed ones.

"How can I trust a stranger when I can't even trust my own family?" She spat. John sighed, watching as her chin wobbled. The word 'trust' had obviously pushed a nerve, or more likely, killed it.

"But I'm not a stranger. Strangers don't know each other's names."

"You know mine?" Ana asked, eyeing him carefully. She tried to remind herself that he was a trickster. Deception was a game he was well accomplished in.

"You're a Petrovna." He said, as if her last name was a good enough enough.

He made out that her family name defined her. Ana hated it.

"I'm Petrovna in name only."

John could feel her hold on the gun and her stance wavering. Taking the spare moment into his own hands, he flipped them around, pushing his palm against her gun so that it was flung away from his head. Ana was thrown harshly against the wall, his arm resting with force against her throat and his hand wrapped tightly around her wrist, pointing the gun away from the both. Like an iron grip, she held tightly to the weapon, not allowing herself to lose it.

"I don't appreciate having a gun to my head." He said in a low voice, sounding more like a growl to her ears.

"And I don't like having an arm to my throat." Ana whispered. He was close enough that she could feel his warm breath against her face. "But here we are."

Anastasiya swiftly brought her knee up, sending it kicking between his legs with a smirk. John hunched over her, seething from the pain that she had caused. He forced himself to move, standing behind her, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other her neck. Ana could hear his heavy breathing, feel it brushing smoothly against the skin on the nape of her neck.

"I could snap your neck in ten seconds." He hissed, heightening the pressure on her throat. "Don't give me reason to."

"And I could shoot you in five." Ana quipped. "Let's agree to do neither. Then we can talk."

Raising her hands slowly into the position of surrender, she could feel John's hold on her loosen as they slowly parted. Facing each other, both John and Ana could finally see each others faces. They took a moment, sending scrutinising glances before nodding in civil agreement. It seemed that both of them wanted to know what was going on, and if Tatiana and Tommy could work together, then why couldn't they?

"You don't know anything?" She asked and John shook his head, glancing to the floor.

"I sort the horses and the Italians." He said. "Not this."

"I don't like horses." John looked to her questioningly and she let a smile grace her lips. "They smell bad."

He didn't question the laugh that left his lips. Just as she didn't question the comfort in not holding the gun to his head. Something in her was telling her to trust him. She prayed to God that it would be right.

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