From The Ashes Chapter 6: 6: An Unfortunate Slight, a sakura wars fanfic

Rating: PG-13, Violence, Language

"FROM THE ASHES" – An Unfortunate Slight

It had been two months earlier when Giuseppe Ignazio dropped the hint that perhaps Maria's career might be furthered if she could manage to remove a certain leech from the family's books.

Carlo Bianni frequented all the same establishments as the rest of the men (and rare occasional women) who worked for Ignazio. Originally, Maria had had no intention of becoming an assassin. The suggestion had been made to her on several occasions by Joseph, by Valentinov and even by the boss himself. She'd been offered money to take care of the situation - $450, to be exact, a rather impressive sum, and enough money to keep her fed and dressed and from being tossed out into the streets in the onset of winter in New York – and the next three winters after that, if she was frugal. Still, she could not decide.

One night, she'd told Valentinov she was going to try to talk to Bianni, see if she could get information from him, at least – and perhaps the information would be worth enough to pay a few months' rent.

It must be strangely exciting to watch The Stoic squirm.

"An excellent idea, my little one," Valentinov smiled and stretched out his arms to her. They were in the cigar lounge of an uptown restaurant, and Valentinov was sitting in a leather armchair. Maria dreaded stepping toward him. The combination of the smell of old leather and stale cigar smoke in the wool of Valentinov's blazer was repulsive. She sank to one knee beside his chair, and he took her by the shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks, falling just short of a fatherly gesture. Then he did not release her.

"Major… let me go." To Maria, this was a routine. Be polite enough to appease his anger some of the time, and gently ward off his advances the rest of the time – all the while remembering that, with her beloved Yuri gone, their superior officer, Major Valentinov, was all she had in the world.

"You were… what was it, nine years old, Maria? Nine when your father was killed? He was a diplomat, exiled for his sympathy for the people, and died in Siberia..." Sympathy welled in Valentinov's eyes, making him appear gentle despite the grip he had on her arms. "A revolutionary. Such powerful blood is in your veins, Maria."

Maria froze, both apprehensive and confused. "Major…"

Like anyone would be, I am flattered by your fascination with me.

Valentinov released one of her arms and brushed back her hair. "You were bred to be a killer. You were fifteen or sixteen when Yuri – God rest his soul – took you in. In two years' time, you were more than just his protégé. His aide du camp, his most trusted one… his most beloved one."

He slid a finger under the chain of her locket and began to pull it from her shirt. She grabbed his wrist and stopped him.

But this is not allowed. You're uninvited.

Valentinov, as if coming back to himself, released her and covered his face with his hands. "I apologize, Maria… please forgive me. I miss him too, you see. If only I had been there… If only I had been in command of my unit, instead of leaving it to the captain… If only Yuri had had his commanding officer beside him… I might have died with him, but…"

If only. Yes, if only. That was a phrase to which Maria had grown quite accustomed, she used it all the time, in her mind, each time she recalled the incident. If only she had sent the soldiers on their retreat and then remained at Yuri's side. If only she'd faced down the enemy ambush with him. They might well have both died, but they might also have beaten back the oppressors. Instead, she hesitated. And then fled, as ordered, supporting a soldier who'd taken a bullet to the gut. She carried him still when a bullet grazed her side, and then knocked her rifle from her right hand, and fell finally when the bullet tore through her leg. Two other soldiers helped the wounded man to his feet, but Maria refused aid, and turned to look for Yuri. He'd thrown a grenade, then turned to run back toward her.

"Captain!" She lay in the snow, her blood seeping into the whiteness around her leg, and reached out with a bleeding hand. "No!"

She shook her head to clear it and looked up at Valentinov. He ran his hands through his white hair, pulling it back from his eyes and blinking to dry tears. "Maria, I…"

"Yes, Major?" Her voice was not expectant, not the throaty whisper his was. Her eyes were not anticipatory, not tormented as his were. She was on one knee as she might have been before a prince or czar. And her eyes were cold, indifferent. Her voice merely readiness to hear an order from a superior officer. Her voice, her eyes, her indifference, they dissuaded him from speaking.

"I am proud of the work you have done, and wish you well tonight," he said quickly and stood, turning his back to her. He paused, measuring his breathing, calming his anger at his own reticence, and at the nonsensical behaviour the proximity of this girl seemed to cause in him.

Like any uncharted territory, I must seem greatly intriguing.

"Thank you, Major," Maria stood abruptly and gave a brief nod of her head in respect, even though Valentinov's back was to her. "Good n—"

"Wait!" Valentinov spun around and held out a hand as if to stop her. "Wait, don't… don't go. Not just yet. I…"

Now Maria was confused. Valentinov had been drinking. And smoking cigars. And brooding. It was not a good combination, and typically lead him to bouts of moodiness that Maria found uncomfortable, and thus typically avoided.

"There is… so much to say, and… never the time…" Valentinov mused, gazing at the brandy glass sitting on the end table next to the leather armchair he'd been sitting in earlier.

"Time?" Maria attempted to seem detached, only mildly interested. "I will see you tomorrow, Major. When I return with my report." She spoke it as a reassurance. In the Revolution, they were accustomed to believing they might not see tomorrow.

"Yes… tomorrow." Valentinov nodded. "I will see you tomorrow."

Upstairs after the meeting in Luna's, Maria paced the length of her room, back and forth. She was not unpacked. And she would not become any more unpacked if she simply continued pacing.

She needed a plan. And plans tended to formulate themselves when one was working. Maria set to work on her few boxes and duffel, setting up her meagre belongings in the newly exanded apartment above the restaurant on Mulberry Street. There was something cathartic about organizing. It was routine, automaton. It could almost be considered living, when her heart wasn't certain it could continue beating under the strain of so much grief.

Last night she had killed a man. And tonight she was asked to kill another.

Maria smoothed the blankets on the bed, straightened the sheet.

Valentinov was behaving strangely. When he fell into moods such as these, she began to wonder about her former commanding officer. Where had his squadron been? Where was the support they so desperately needed when Yuri's troops were ambushed? They had promised their support. Valentinov, as a Major, outranked Yuri, and outranked Maria a great distance. She had never asked. He had apologized, wished he was present. Often, that was enough to soothe her, but… Sometimes it made her wonder. Why would he not appear to help? The enemy forces were far greater than they'd anticipated. They didn't have a chance, especially without Major Valentinov and his squadrons.

She drew closed the blinds on the windows which faced the street and turned down the wick in the kerosene lamp. She splashed cold water on her face from the sink, attempting to clear her mind enough to sleep well. No plan would come to her if she could not drag her focus from Valentinov's moodiness.

Silvio. Lupo's bodyguard. Bozhe moy.

She pressed a cloth to her face to dry it and exhaled, sitting down on her bed.

She needed to tail him. Study him. Learn his habits, his patterns, his routine. But that would be almost impossible without being seen.

Maria pulled one foot up onto the bed and rapidly pulled her bootlaces free with deft fingers, then set the boot at the foot of the chair beside her bed in an orderly fashion, then did the same with the other. She shrugged out of the pin striped jacket and hung it over the back of the chair, then paused, drawing a long breath again. Her chest seemed to ache as if she were frequently forgetting to breathe.

There was the distint possibility that she could not manage this job. Silvio. The bodyguard of one of the biggest mobsters in New York City. And possibly Chicago as well. Why her? Did Ignazio really have no one else more capable? And why kill Lupo's bodyguard, but not Lupo? Was it a warning? A threat? A message? Would Lupo turn his sites on her, then? What did Ignazio hope to accomplish by assassinating a bodyguard?

I don't think you unworthy. I need a moment to deliberate.

She pulled her belt from its loops and hung it over the back of her chair as well, and carefully folding her pin-striped pants along the pressed line along the fronts of the legs. She set them on the seat of the chair and reached for the button at the throat of her long white shirt.

"Mari-- oh!"

Maria spun around just as her door slammed closed, her revolver aimed at the door in her right hand, and her left fist holding her oversized shirt against her. She was poised on her sock-clad toes, ready to move in whatever direction was required. "Who is there!"

The muffled voice from the other side of the door was sheepish. "It's Joseph, Maria, I… I-I'm sorry! I shoulda knocked…"

That went without saying. Maria seethed, her brows lowering and her revolver NOT lowering as she approached the door to bolt it, locking Joseph outside.

"Maria?" Joseph turned the knob to no avail, then remembered to knock. "Maria, can I come in? I just wanted to explain about the whole Lupo Silvio thing. Please?"

"Go away, Joseph. Is nothing to be explained." Maria set her gun down and set to pacing again.

"Look, I know I told you it was gonna be Lupo, an' I wasn't just trying to scare ya. Really – it was supposed to be. So, I think that might be a next step. You want to know why we're doing this or what?"

"Idiot!" Maria whispered. "You are going to… to shout all these… secret things… through a door?"

"I wouldn't have to if you would let me in."

"You won't because… you are nyet stupid. Dobre vecher, Joseph." Maria ignored him then, turning the wick out in the lamp, ending any light that might have emanated from her room. She pulled off her socks and stuck them into the tops of her boots. She could see the shadows of his shoes under her door in the light from the hall. For a moment, he remained in silence, seemingly considering whether to go or stay.

In the end, he chose to let her be, and she heard his footsteps dimish. Then she hung her shirt over the chair and pulled the blankets up to her chin. Turning onto her left side to wrap her arms around her second pillow as if in an embrace, she drew up her knees, buried her face in the pillow and hid from the world just long enough for sleep to find her.

Russian Glossary:

Bozhe moy. – My god.

Dobre vecher – Good night.