A/N:

Bratva is the Russian word for mafia.

The dialogue between Oliver and Alexi is in Russian – since I don't trust Google Translate completely, I've put it in italics.

I also used italics a couple of times for internal thoughts, but it is in the narration.

Beauty and the Bratva

A smile spreading across her face, Felicity closed the window on her live session with a native-speaking tutor in her Rosetta Stone Russian class. She was ready.

Oliver stopped his Ducati at the edge of the docks, its back tire skidding to the right and up against a curb. He raised his visor, and looked back at Felicity. "You don't hafta do this, ya know."

Felicity knew Oliver needed her for this transaction with the Russian Solntsevskaya Bratva in order to gain their trust again after they ended their connection to him, not caring that he was a captain.

"Yeah, I do." Felicity unwrapped her arms around his waist where she'd been gripping him for dear life. "Besides, Oliver," she added, "How else would I start my weekend?" He snorted and gave her a half smile as he held her forearm and helped her off of the slick motorcycle.

She staggered a little. "You sure ride hard and fast, Oliver . . . I mean, er, on your motorcycle, not anywhere else. Although you might there, too . . . oh, Gawd. 3 . . . 2 . . . 1."

"Focus, Felicity, focus. We have to pull this job off to make Leonov trust me again."

"Yeah, well, I sure wish we didn't think we might need him again," she said.

"You and me both."

Taking off her helmet, Felicity tilted her head back and shook her hair loose. Oliver couldn't help but admire the action. Men were more or less completely powerless against a woman running her fingers through her hair and shaking it out. It didn't help that her bright blond hair shone like a beacon in the dark night. Clearing his throat, he helped her shrug the laptop bag holding her lightning quick Intel Core off her shoulders. Maybe I should follow my own advice, he thought.

They walked into the large, dimly lit garage. Its drab, run-down appearance was a perfect cover for the Bratva's side business in the basement of the garage. A tall man with shoulders as broad as a barn door came around a stack of old tires. His gun aimed at them, he nodded toward the stairs leading down to the basement.

"Wha – d'ya get that off a policeman?" Oliver quipped looking at the firearm generally used by law enforcement.

The man held the gleaming Glock .22 more firmly and grunted in disapproval. Felicity cut her eyes at Oliver. "Was that really necessary?" she hissed.

Oliver led Felicity in front of him with his hand guiding her gently, albeit firmly, by her right elbow as if he might need to change her direction at a moment's notice, a move of his she was very familiar with by now.

As they reached the bottom of the metal stairs, they saw Alexi Leonov at a large rectangular table in the center of the room. Fluorescent lighting flickered above. This could not be any creepier, Felicity thought, taking in the enclosed space with Russian mafia goons coming out of the dark shadows like cockroaches on a late night kitchen raid.

Oliver always stood a little taller and broader when he conducted "business," and this trip to Leonov's garage was no exception. Felicity took notice and tried to copy his stance.

"Let's do this." Oliver looked at Leonov.

"I hope your pretty little girl can turn on the computer." Leonov sneered and the Bratva goons snickered. ". . . or she dies. 'Twould be such a waste, too . . . such a beautiful little girl."

Felicity, knowing her capabilities around her Intel Core, should have been offended. Very offended. Instead, she gulped, loudly enough that she could have sworn the bats in South America could have heard her.

Oliver definitely heard it and nodded almost imperceptively at her. She found strength in his steadying gaze and sat down at the only chair available.

Unzipping her bag, Felicity laid it to the side and opened her laptop. Her fingers glided across the laptop with ease as she checked the status of the back door she'd created last night over a glass of merlot. Hacking into the CIBC Trust Company Bank wasn't easy, but it also wasn't too difficult . . . for her.

"I'm in."

"Good," said Oliver. "Enter 7847529563-935-2."

Felicity punched in the numbers almost as quickly as Oliver called them out. We make such a good team, she thought as she watched the transfer go from CIBC to a bank account in another bank in the Cayman Islands that she created for Leonov yesterday afternoon. She bit her bottom lip as her eyes darted from one screen to the other, her Maybelline Vivid lipstick in Brazen Berry still as vibrant as when she reapplied it in one of Queen Consolidated's ladies' restrooms after lunch.

Feeling more confident now that she'd been in her computer-hacking element for a few minutes, she looked directly at Leonov.

"You have your money back now. Not bad for a 'pretty little girl,' eh?" She said in perfect Russian. Everyone looked at her - including Oliver. "Oh, and Leonov, here's your new bank account information." She handed him a file she'd prepared last night with all of the information he would need.

"But . . . but it's in Cayman still." He sputtered.

"Yes," Felicity continued in Russian. "The Cayman Islands have very extensive laws regarding financial banking privacy very much like Switzerland. No questions are asked there."

They left Leonov's garage a few minutes later and walked back to the Ducati.

"You are so awesome under pressure, Felicity."

"I had you with me," Felicity looked at him and gave a quick, shy smile.

"And, for cryin' out loud, Felicity - when did you learn Russian? Good Russian?"

"Well, I'm a self-professed nerd and always want to know what's going on. Plus, we deal with the Bratva quite and bit and will continue now that I found that money trail and recovered the stolen money for Leonov. And . . . don't get me started about the trip to Russia. It was the straw –"

Oliver put his finger up to her brightly colored lips. "Okay, okay."

"'Besides," Felicity added, "some women want to know Chinese in nail salons. I wanna know Russian in mafia meetings."

Oliver laughed and Felicity joined in. It felt good and right and comfortable like they had been friends forever.

They reached the motorcycle and put on their helmets. Felicity climbed on after Oliver wrapping her arms tightly around his waist again.

"Well, I'd say you've had a great start to your weekend, Ms. Smoak, and I promise not to ride hard and fast on the way home," Oliver said in Russian. Felicity turned red and punched him playfully in his ribs, and he couldn't help but look forward to seeing her shake her hair loose again when they got back to her car.

I hope you enjoyed this story - I would be honored for any feedback you may have for me. Thanks!