#sofia markova

WHERE: Vetrova Mansion foyer

WHEN: July 12th, 13:15.

When Mata arrives back the mansion is already buzzing with angelic activity. Their own successes - a silent infiltration, a warehouse now ash - don’t have time for celebration. She had received duel messages of information when she was still in the hideout - from Leclair: ‘Ambush. Shadow shot.’; from Sofia: ‘Tell Ryker he fucked up’. And that was on top of the information lying on Isaac’s desk. So they must look a dangerous sight as they pace up the steps to the mansion, Masha flanked by an underboss and consigliere who are both radiating concern. Or is it fury? She, however, radiates only calm, crosses the threshold with the same composure as ever. There are things to be done, people to hear from - neither concern nor fury will help debug their headquarters.

“You can go,” she tells her advisors quietly as soon as they’re inside the marble foyer of their home. Masha’s not the telepath, but it’s as obvious as day that they both have their thoughts on a wounded Francesco. She catches Ryker by the shoulder though, needs her own quiet worries placated first. “Reapers have been here, check on your sister,” she murmurs, both boss and mother, before raising her voice enough for the room to hear, “and we’ve been bugged. Make sure everyone knows to shut up.” 

As she says it, her eyes move off of her underboss and sweep the room around her. Sofia is a smear of red against the usually pristine white interior. If the sight makes Masha’s stomach tighten, she does not show it. Really. She’s seen Sofia, she’s seen all of her angels, injured enough times to have built up a better resilience than this. And yet. She walks to Sofia - steps around the streaks of blood on the floor - with deliberate steps. Reaches out, tilts the other woman’s head chin towards her as her eyes scan for signs of hurt. It’s automatic, reminiscent of their younger days when Masha played protector. “Any of this yours?” is all she asks with narrowed eyes, her thumb wiping a steak of blood from Sofia’s cheek as she does. She releases her grip, inspects the blood on her hand with neutral eyes, “or just Russo’s?”