Trigger warning: a nonconsensual kiss, mild blood/gore
*****
Holding a suit on its hanger in his left hand, Ezra checked his pocket watch with his right. Eleven twenty-eight, two minutes to go. He peered into the window of Silver's Stitches, though it was hard to see with the summer sun. Would it be inappropriate to go in two minutes early? He hated the way his stomach flipped when he saw the back of her braided, chestnut hair.
He straightened his collar, adjusted his cuffs, and picked at his black hair in the window's reflection. A flashy brute of a gentleman waiting outside the shop side-eyed his primping; he was tempted to loudly ask if something was on his face, but decided he was afraid of the answer.
This is nothing, he thought. Just an appointment. No 'episodes.' I'm an average gentleman with impeccable taste.
The rest of Ezra's morning had not been so agreeable. Hours of fruitless combing through the eastern part of town, searching for a whiff of his next target, Amaranto Vitelli (who was evidently involved in the smuggling of illicit substances into the country), with only a profile and loose whereabouts. But Amaranto was a thorough man and left no breadcrumbs, even as he puppeted the death of another, smaller drug lord; the only evidence of his involvement was a bold, bloody "A" carved into the victim's back. Even the pinpoint-pupiled addicts of the crowded slums revealed nothing of note. He'd never had a trail run so cold, so quickly before.
The words of Sir—his boss, master, mentor, and someone who demanded his subjects to call him "Sir" often enough that it practically became his first name—echoed in his mind: "Follow the money." The Vitelli children, Cesaro and Francesca, were rumored to be reckless, luxury-craving miscreants, especially with their new money. Though he had no evidence proving this bit of gossip yet, going directly after Amaranto would likely only end in frustration. Better to hunt down his idiot spawn instead.
He squinted at the window. Was that something on his coat? He looked down and plucked it off with a scowl. Unacceptable. He used the lint remover that very morning. How did he miss a spot? And if such a blemish had been on the front of his coat, who knew what was on the back?! He debated turning around and marching back to The Eyre to change, but he was already here, and if he was late to his appointment, he could only imagine how disgusted Teresa would be. If one couldn't show up punctually, why show up at all?
Ezra had murdered, maimed, dissected, and autopsied so often it was normal as a Sunday stroll. But the sight of Teresa's round, tan face smiling down at him through the window made him jump a foot back.
She threw her head back in laughter, her braid falling from her right shoulder and over her back. She waved him inside as he hastily adjusted his coat and tried to calm his hammering heart.
A cheery tinkling and the remains of Teresa's giggles welcomed him inside. Suits and dresses lined the leftmost wall of the antique, cottage-like building. Mannequins dotted the floor plan, dressed and undressed alike. At the back of the room, the head seamstress toiled away on a dress (from the looks of the gargantuan amount of clothing hung up behind her, she was too busy to attend to customers herself and left them to her chestnut-haired daughter, Ezra noticed with more satisfaction than he'd like to admit). And... was that the smell of tea brewing?
I swear, she's an angel.
"You got me." He put a gloved hand to his heart, which was still beating uncomfortably fast. "You shouldn't tease. Someone's going to faint one of these days. I wouldn't want that on my conscience if I were you."
She covered her still-laughing mouth, the corners of her brown eyes crinkling. The light caught her hair, turning earthy chestnut into blazing copper, and Ezra was pretty sure he couldn't feel his legs.
