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ᴛᴇɴ 𝑅𝑒𝑣𝑜𝑙𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛
❦
Arthur lead her back down to the bottom of the warehouse in the exact way she had came: through the back doors. The front of the building was empty, having already been in the process of clearing for the evening when she had entered, feigning being slightly lost. But Arthur evidently slowed his pace, as if he wanted to savour the time they spent walking, not matter how stifling the silence made her feel.
But as they neared their destination, Arthur paused in his step. Maria could tell it wasn't out of want to talk to her either. His shoulders had stiffened, his face pulled into a tight scowl that creased his brow. Then his head snapped to the side, peering down the steps only a few feet away. The sounds of quiet snickers and splashing liquid met their ears.
"Wait here," he snarled, as he prowled away, disappearing into the shadowy entrance of the stairway.
Maria's heart was in her throat, the rapid pounding meeting her ears quicker than it should have. Her brothers men were down there. She didn't need to catch a look to know that it was true.
So she staggered down, gripping the railing like a lifeline, willing her steps to be silent as her shoes padded against the slim metal. Arthur's voice reached her before she could see anything more than the greenish floor only a step away.
"A party? Is that what this is?"
The room was dim, basking in a dirty light that seemed to seep through walls rather than windows. But the last dreads of daylight that flowed through the large, open door at the very end of the room allowed her eyes to trace the outline of Arthur's tense figure as he stalked toward the three men, all stood with paint buckets in hand.
"What is this, a party? Fuck off out of it, get out!"
None of them were familiar though, as she had expected. They were panicked too as their bright and youthful eyes set upon his towering figure, not as her brother's men would have been. He would have been dead. But the three ran, not before chucking a bucket of paint over him.
"I wasn't going to hit ya, but that wasn't nice, was it?"
Crimson paint stained his simple clothes, dripping like blood and spreading across the floor in one large pool. Arthur leales forward, his fist connecting with the man's face, sending him toppling backward, gripping his face. But Arthur slipped backward, shoes dancing in the thick liquid, the colour of wine and a fist only just collided with his face, though not hard enough to cause too much damage.
Arthur recoiled, eyes blazing with pure anger that morphed his face into an animalistic snarl. A hammer was in his grip now as he stalked forward, watching as the man pleaded for mercy. He kicked him one last time, hand enclosing even tighter around the tool before he shouted.
"Then get the fuck out!"
He was half mad, his eyes unnaturally wide, as if he was high. The violence seemed as good a drug as anything for a man like him. But his hands still trembled around the grip, holding himself back.
"Fuck your fucking revolution!"
Arthur turned, feet shuffling against the floor, slowed by the stickiness of the paint. His hair was soaked by it, as if matted by a wound. Maria started forward, his front facing her, but head not up. Then they appeared. Just how she thought they would.
Long black coats. Wide fedoras. Dressed in the shadow of the factory. Guns raised. Arthur stared, like a rabbit caught in crossfire, yet appearing like the devil, fresh from the depths of hell and dripping with mortal blood.
Maria slid away, back swiftly meeting the wall. Her brother had told her not to be here for this moment, had ordered her to run. But Maria watched as the two men hurried after him, only silhouettes against the fires that raged across the room, the fluctuations of side and temperature almost in sync with her loud heartbeat.
Arthur crawled across the metal bars that ran like a labyrinth over the floors of the factory. He should have known them like the back of his hand, but he couldn't remember the last time he did a full day of labour. He had lost eyes on one of the Italians too. He hadn't even thought of Maria either. Arthur had told her to stay- he prayed to God that she had listened.
His footsteps, as he made his way down the ladders, made little sound. In fact the beating of the cross that hung from his neck was louder in his own ears, masked lightly by the pounding of his heart. One of them was in front of him, gun raised in the opposite direction, oblivious to his close presence.
Maria could see one of her Brother's men. Only one. Arthur was out of sight too. But then the dull clank of metal met her ears and her heart lurched. Still sliding with her back against the wall, Maria found Arthur, a gun now shaking in his hands, one of the men barely able to lift his head up on the floor.
Arthur left a trail of red as he limped to his feet, stepping forward silently, weapon raised in front of him. The Italian behind him pushed himself to his feet, but Arthur paid no attention.
A gunshot rang through her ears. Just as quickly as the familiar clang of metal.
Maria's hands shook. She was moving before she knew it. She had barely had enough time to whisper out a prayer before her arms were raised, lifting a paint bucket over her head and letting it crash down against the Italian's fedora, sending him tumbling to the floor on his face again. Arthur had shot the other man. He barely processed the fact that Maria had hit the man before her was pulling him up by the collar.
"Bloody hitman? Is that what you are?"
He dragged him forward, ignoring the groans and the burst of physical protest, pulling him all the way to the open barrels of paint, teeth gritted.
"Arthur Shelby? Is that who you wanted?" He spat. "What about fucking John Shelby?"
He drowned him. The cross that reached to the top of the man's submerged head was as red as Maria's own hands. Arthur pulled back, dropping the man carelessly, breaths laboured and harsh.
Then he turned, looking her straight in the eyes.
"Changretta."
Arthur stepped froward, his face bathing in the shadow, expression unseen. But Maria moved backward too, until her back was firm against the cold iron work table. Her hands trembled.
"Maria Changretta."
She flinched away, scared of what he would do to- her enemy name now revealed. But Arthur slid his fingers across her clenched ones, soothing them out and calming the shaking. He showed her his palm, scarred by tiny crescents that were obviously from his fingers. Just like the slim marks she had made from her trembles.
Maria looked up at him with wide, blinking eyes, her cheeks slick and shining from the tears that slid down them. She could see the question in his eyes, shadowed by his furrowed brows and thick with paint. Why did you do it? But Maria has no answer. It didn't make sense, the feeling that had urged her to defend the man that was her brother's enemy. Not her enemy.
She shrunk away, shaking her head. Maria ignored the calls of her name as she hurried away, the sound of her heels clipping against the floor, the sound of her leaving, filling her ears and the streets that she emerged into.
