Maura sat in the study, sipping from a stem of wine, as she thought back on the day - the meeting, and mainly, the bathroom meet.
She traced the tips of her fingers, relishing in the memory of the reaction of her receptors - the tingling of her skin, of her fingers; the tingling sensation of touching the woman's skin.
It tingles. It flushes.
She searched her mind for a scientific explanation. A sudden rush of blood to her capillaries? An unlikely pressure to her nerves?
Science, she loves it, she relies on it. Unwavering facts, irrefutable studies, tested hypothesis...stability.
Unlike Hope.
"I need you back at Boston Maura," her father had stated on the phone.
Her father had kept her - in his words - safe, by giving him to the Isles - a respectable, well-to-do family in France. She had been adopted, brought up, in a manner that was in all sense refined, and moral. She adored and loved her adoptive mother - Constance Isles.
Constance was a renowned artist, and in her guardianship, she learnt - she grew to have a delicate if not acute sense of culture and sense. Be it in music, arts, or fashion. She had been given a shelter, an education, and really anything if she had asked - except that she hardly ever did.
Constance and she were mother and daughter; but they weren't family.
Her family, her biological relations, sent greeting cards, and appeared to her in one form and no other - news articles. Her mother was a brilliant physician. Her father was a brilliant mobster.
They had discussions, and they learnt from each other - her adoptive mother and her. She had been interested in science, in forensic science specifically, and Constance had ensured that she had gotten the best education.
She had been in all sense of the word - fortunate.
Constance had been there - her first day at school, her graduation, and had vetted even her social options; all like a parent would. She adored and loved her adoptive mother, but she wasn't Hope.
Her father - Paddy Doyle - mob boss, with hoards of men at his bidding, managed only to secure pictures, pictures of her first day at school, her graduation, and had vetted in his own manner, her social options; all like a parent would too, in principle.
Her mother - Hope Martin - remained her mother, in name. Her mother was there - present but unavailable. Her mother had sent timely greetings, had sent over gifts, and yet had only ever asked, for one picture of her - when she finally completed the awkward phases of growth - and she knew it, she looked like her mother, but could easily come off as her adoptive mother's daughter.
Her father had explained that her mother hated him for doing what he did - taking her away, hiding her away, keeping her safe, by ridding her from her mother's presence; and maybe, she had also given her mother the concession and allowance to allow her mother to hate her.
Her father had only told her mother about her when she had grown enough to call Constance her mother; and her father had only told her mother after Constance had finally put her foot down and called her father out on his passive, and selfish participation in her life.
"I need you back at Boston Maura," her father had repeated. She had offered no reply.
Her father had been calling her back over to him; and her mother had been unreachable; while Constance was in a room above her.
"I need you back here to help me Maura," her father had softly spoken.
She had never been needed. She had been asked, during summer breaks, to help her father with his immoral business. She had always declined. She is her father's daughter, as evidently seen in medical school - Queen of the dead - given for how she would gut a dead creature, with neither a blink nor a moment of hesitation. She is her father's daughter, but she is also Constance's; because she would only ever cut into the flesh of the dead. She had always declined, and he had only asked again next summer. She had never been needed.
"I don't think that I'm right for your line of business Paddy," she had answered.
"Your mother's…" Her father had paused. She had waited.
"Hope's dead. And I need you Maura." Her father had said.
Her mother had been unreachable; and now her father was calling her back over to him, because her mother is unreachable.
She had said yes.
Her father needed her, and her mother was no longer here. Her father needed her, and she is her father's daughter. She's the Queen of the dead; she is also her father's daughter.
She had said yes; and he had said, "I'll send a plane over."
Constance had handed a coat to her - Hope's.
She took a sip from the glass of wine atop the study desk, as her fingers trailed the minutes of the meeting Chang had sent her.
Just think and execute. Just think and execute. That had been her mantra throughout the meeting.
Korsak had been kind, patient, and understanding. He had been her liaison with her father for as long as she could remember. He had been the one who called and asked if she needed anything. He had been the one who came over to check out her social options. He had been the one who, stood between her and her father - their connection; and without whom, maybe her father might not have even been here, nor her. He had helped her father hide her before she stopped being a Doyle, and an Isles. Korsak was her right-hand man now, because she's the mob boss while her father had taken some time off.
Her father needed her. Her father needed her in Boston. He was nowhere near.
Turf wars, drug wars, war after war - killing and killing; that's the life her father led, that's the business her father had taken over and chosen to stay in.
While she would much rather prefer finding out causes of death, she knew now that she got to choose how death would befall them - men who went against her father, against her.
She took another sip and reclined back into her chair.
Constance had her chair specifically tailored to the shape of her back, to provide respite for her weary back and spine. Like the gentle embrace of a mother's hug, she tried not to compare. Constance was not easy with affection, and she had her chair flown over from France to Boston.
The wine trickled down her esophagus, and her fingers tapped melodically on her chair.
She thought back to the bathroom meet. At how her fingers had run over a skin so warm, so smooth, and how the woman's skin smelt of lavender - calming, and hopeful. She found herself smiling at the memory.
"Madame?"
She turned to the call of her name - Chang's at the door.
"Come in please," she beckoned, and sat away from the back of her chair.
"I have the reports you wanted," Chang sat a folder down at the desk.
"Do they indicate favourable conditions to carrying out my orders?" She asked as she looked through the report. She liked Chang, and Chang was the closest social contact that she actually managed to have.
Korsak's verdict had been: She looks up to you Madame Doyle, your junior Susie Chang.
Constance's had been: Susie likes you, she won't judge you. We all need a friend Maura, try it, you'll be fine.
She had since then had Chang for a lunch companion, and in years to come, an assistant to her matters when it came to her father. Chang could do what she feared - communicate with the living people.
"It's different but feasible, and Madame?"
She looked up. "Yes Chang?"
"It's a good plan," Chang smiled.
She smiled; she had caught the emphasis, "Thank you Chang," she closed the report, "Could I trouble you to relay the message to Korsak?"
"It's no problem Madame," Chang sent another smile as she reached for the report, "And I've gotten a car ready for your use tomorrow," Chang nodded before she closed the door behind her as she left.
She finished the remaining wine, and looked forward to tomorrow. She had done as she had to – her duties. She would reward herself appropriately, with a drive around Boston, around the town that'll be hers for as short a period as possible. She might even purchase a place of her own - somewhere smaller, less grand, and stifling.
She might even, look for the woman who made her feel human.
The woman with the song under the toilet sink, the woman with the lavender smelling skin, the woman who caused her fingertips to tingle.
She didn't need science to deduce the obvious. There was nothing wrong with her fingers - she was just attracted to the woman.
Think and execute. Think and execute. She had the power to decide how her mob kills; she can breathe a little easier now. Think and execute. It's a good plan. She is Constance's daughter too.
A/N: Hi there, thank you, for the time~
Updates! Two chapters and, I do hope that this fanfic doesn't veer too off in terms of characterization. Thanks for the interest in this story~