Chez Martoni was a large manor in upstate New York, ironically close to the Avengers HQ; it was beautiful, elegant, understated in a way that still clearly showed its owner's immense wealth. Wealth that, though hard-earned, could be spent on much better things than Ming Dynasty vases and mistresses' shoes.
Martoni himself sat in his study while his pianist did what she did best, scribbling away on an important-looking document with a furrowed, aging brow. He finished the document off with a flourished signature, sighed, and leaned back in his ornate chair.
"You can leave us now, Maria," he said to the pianist, "I'm sure she's already paid you to make yourself scarce. Or was it blackmail?"
The elegant music stopped as Maria stood up. "I am sorry, sir, but she…"
"It doesn't matter, my darling," he said quietly, "not in the grand scheme of things. Good night, my darling."
"Good night, Mr Martoni." As Maria left, Gwen stepped forward out of the shadows. She had dressed appropriately for such an important occasion, out of her ripped punk clothes and into a fitted women's tux, her candyfloss hair swept back from her face.
"You knew?" she asked, not a trace of emotion betraying her.
Martoni didn't answer. "Please," he said, "have a seat. There's one last bottle of champagne I would like to finish."
She hesitated, and walked forward to sit opposite him. Martoni levered the cork out of a dusty bottle and poured it into two champagne flutes before passing one to her, which she accepted with a nod of thanks.
"I'm impressed," he said, "nobody else got this far. Finnegal, Guercio, they're both decomposing right now since they thought they could reach me, as you have."
"This was an audition," Gwen guessed, "I thought you were deliberately pissing me off. You wanted to see which of the circle were good enough."
"You're a smart woman, Mouse." He swilled the drink reflectively. "I'm glad it's you."
"You're dying. You're dying and you're looking for a successor."
"Game, set and match, as they say. This," he told her, sliding it across the table, "is a sort of will, except the estate and position in question is somewhat figurative. My solicitor helped me work it up- he's a wonderful man, I recommend him absolutely- and it leaves all my authority to you. None of the others will question it."
She narrowed her eyes. "The gangland isn't your possession. It's the home of every person who gets shunned by the clean people, and it's not yours to claim."
"Humour a dying man," he said drily, and she relented. "Brain tumour, of all things. Right here." He tapped his forehead. "I have a few weeks to spend with family, and then… kaput."
"Who else knew?" she asked.
"Your friend Ben, of course." That explained why he looked so miserable; Ben came from the same branch of Italian mafia as Martoni. "He'll help you learn the ropes, should you need it. I think he's looking for a quiet life now, actually. Perhaps your administrator. And I suspect Svechota, who was hot on your heels. Slippery little bastard- it was his idea. To kill your little pet, I mean. I would rather the poor thing stayed uninvolved, but it was that or get on his bad side."
"Algernon," Gwen murmured, "his name was Algernon."
"Yes. Well, if you want to sign it, I would like to go and see my son." Martoni's eyes glazed over. "It's been a long time…"
Gwen had little to no experience of legal jargon, but she was smart enough to understand the contract and after a few rereads, she was certain it was watertight and signed it with an "X", in lieu of her real name (in it, she was referred to only as "the person known as Mouse"). Once she had done, she and Martoni clinked glasses and toasted a job well done. He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed as he inhaled the aroma of the alcohol.
"1876 chardonnay," Martoni told her, taking a sip. "Or so I'm told."
"Fancy."
He nodded. "I met the Krays once, you know. I was only a child, my father had business with them in London. That was back in the silver age of organised crime, when we were still pretending everything gangster was decadent. Devaney, the Luchesses, Lansky… wonderful man, Lansky. True mastermind." Martoni cleared his throat with a great hacking cough before continuing. "These days, people like everything to be squeaky clean. No room for men who make their money in the shadows- and women for that matter, ha ha. We may as well just be street rats, to them." He coughed again. "Excuse me."
Gwen smiled widely- a true trickster's grin, with a silver gleam and wicked eyes, a grin that served only to show more of the skull. "It's fine," she said, "everything's fine. Y'know, as much as I've learned from being in the circle, there are some things you can only know how to do by being a street rat. Like having fast hands," she continued as Martoni began to splutter, "fast enough to pick a tag's pocket. Fast enough to spike someone's drink."
"You-"
"I reckon I would've taken your offer without doing this," she said, picking at her nails, "if it hadn't been for you killing my god damn mouse, the only family I got left, to make a fucking point. But now, I'll just have to return the favour to you. Shame you'll never get to see that kid of yours, boss. I know how much it hurts to be apart from them."
He drew in a great, rattling breath so he could get a full sentence out. "But it was Svechota's idea," he heaved, and she nodded.
"Oh, I know. And he's gonna pay for it too, don't you worry. But I will not be handed this on a silver plate, sir. I started off this mutiny planning to fight tooth and nail and by the gods, I will finish it like that too. Goodnight, Don Martoni."
He managed to nod as he clawed at his neck, the poison burning him from the inside out. "You're smarter… than you look…"
"Cheers." She downed her champagne in one, and grimaced. "It's kind of bitter, actually."
He laughed, a laugh that brought up blood. "I chose… the right man for the job, then… or woman, ha ha…" he slumped forward, rattling the few expensive ornaments on his desk, and Martoni was no more. Gwen picked up a little porcelain bird, gave it an appreciative look and tucked it into her back pocket as she walked away.
%
Svechota got two whole steps into his dirty apartment before Gwen shot him in the knee.
He howled and fell to the floor but before he could collapse forward the toe of her boot caught him under the chin and his neck snapped backwards with a gurgle.
"You - filthy - bastard!" she snarled, each word accompanied by a kick to his midriff. She stepped back and took in the whimpering man on the floor, blood pouring from his shattered knee.
"I'm wondering whether I should let you live," she said, breathing heavily. "Not that you deserve to, o'course, but it'll draw out your suffering. You know how Henry VIII died? A riding injury that shattered his hip, and the doctors weren't very good back then. So instead of cleaning up the wound they left shards of bone in him, which slowly travelled through his body and caused infection as well as tearing up all his flesh. It was a horrible, nasty, drawn out death." She crouched down next to him, grabbed his face and tilted it up to look at her. "Wouldn't you enjoy that?"
He whimpered.
"Sorry? Didn't quite catch what you said, there. Through all the crying."
"No..."
"Good, good." She stood up and wiped her hands on her trousers. "No, my man, I ain't gonna kill you. Get up."
He shook his head, face screwed up in pain, and flinched as she pointed her gun at his other knee.
"I said, get up."
This time, he dragged himself onto one foot, tears streaming down his wan face. "Please," he whispered, "please..."
"No," Gwen repeated "I won't kill you." She nodded to the figure stood in semi-darkness behind him. "But he will."
Svechota spun round as Loki laid a hand on his shoulder. "But you- you're dead," he spluttered, "oh fuck, you're dead- WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?"
"Deus ex machina," Loki said with a smile, took Svechota's head and snapped it to the side. The former vice's body dropped to the floor like the dead weight that it was.
"Very witty," Gwen commented.
"I try my best. He was awfully surprised to see me. Is it really that infeasible that I'm still alive?" he asked. "I am a god."
"Yeah, and don't push it with that obvious superiority bullshit or Thor might cotton in his daddy's not his daddy."
"Did one of your monarchs really die in such a way?" He asked, as she tucked the gun into the waistband of her jeans and accompanied him out of the apartment, safe in the knowledge nobody knew nor cared enough to investigate his death, especially since she had men coming round to clean up after her.
"Yeah, and that wasn't even the worst. Charles II died of syphilis," she told him, "had too much sex and rotted from the inside out."
"We don't have that on Asgard."
"I should hope not. Thanks for doing the neck thing, by the way. I just don't have the muscle for that kinda stuff."
"Mice," said Loki, "all their power lies in their bite. Which is significantly more painful than one expects."
"As you know from experience."
"Indeed."
A/N "deus ex machina" forming the third and final part of the triumvirate of Badass Civilian Chronicles Lines, along with "you're god damn right you should be scared of me" and "you shot the wrong gardener, bitch."