Father Dear (Moriarty's daughter)

Chapter XV: Clever as the devil, twice as pretty

You didn't break me, all you did was make me ruthless.

Cole had to go home, after all, he never told his family where he had gone after last night's ball. "Here, have my number." He said, as they stood opposite of eachother, she leaned against the doorpost and smiled at him as she took the piece of paper from his hands. "Thanks for all the help again, we really appreciate it."

"Don't worry my sweet little Violet." He spoke, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. She rolled her eyes and replied with a smirk on her face too. "Hey. I'm not sweet. I'm a Moriarty."

"Sure, sweet little Violet." He stepped closer and placed a kiss on the crown of her head.

**************************

The night was moonless, shrouded in an inky blackness that enveloped the old distillery. She, Moriarty, Moran, and a small team of trusted operatives approached the building with the stealth and precision of predators closing in on their prey. The air was thick with tension, each breath they took seemed to amplify the silence surrounding them.

They reached the side entrance without incident. Moran's information had been accurate: only two guards stood watch, their attention focused on the distant hum of the city rather than the immediate danger. With swift, calculated movements, Moran signaled his men, who silently dispatched the guards with silenced pistols. The guards crumpled to the ground without a sound, and she felt a surge of satisfaction. They were in.

The side door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit corridor that smelled of old wood and stale alcohol. She took the lead, her pistol drawn and ready. Behind her, Moriarty moved with the quiet grace of a panther, his eyes cold and calculating, while secretly concentrating on his daughter too. Moran and the others followed, their steps muffled on the worn floorboards.

The interior of the distillery was a labyrinth of corridors and storage rooms, each twist and turn heightening the tension. They moved cautiously, their senses on high alert for any sign of danger. The faint hum of machinery echoed through the halls, mingling with the distant sounds of the river outside.

They encountered minimal resistance at first, taking out the few guards they encountered with efficient, silent strikes. But as they moved deeper into the building, the atmosphere grew more tense. The air seemed to crackle with the anticipation of violence.

She led them to a large storage room, where they paused to regroup. Moriarty leaned against a wall, his hand pressed to his bandaged side, his face pale but resolute. She could see the pain etched in his features, but there was no hesitation in his eyes.

"We're getting close," Moran whispered, pointing to a doorway at the far end of the room. "Dubois should be just beyond there. We need to move fast and hit hard."

She nodded, her grip tightening on her pistol. "We'll take the lead," she said, glancing at her father. "You and I will confront Dubois. Moran, cover our backs." Moriarty straightened, his expression one of steely determination. 

They moved towards the doorway, their steps almost soundless on the concrete floor. As they approached, the muffled sounds of conversation reached their ears. She signaled for the everyone to stop, then crept forward to peer through a crack in the door.

Inside, a group of men were gathered around a table, and they seemed to be in what she imposed was some sort of a heated argument. At the center of the group stood Carl Dubois, his tall, imposing figure casting a long shadow over the others. He was speaking animatedly, his gestures sharp and precise.

Her eyes narrowed. This was the moment they had been waiting for. She turned back to her father and Moran, her voice a barely audible whisper. "He's in there. We need to move quickly."