Irina Zakharov didn't do things by halves. That included the amount of alcohol in her glass, the type of car she drove, the linen she slept on, as well as the clothes she wore every day.

Upon deciding to accept Thomas Shelby's invitation to his party at The Eden Club, Irina made a visit to the lavish tailor across the other side of London, in need of a new dress for her event.

It was rare she wore something more than once, an occasion outfit that was. Day to day, slim fitted trousers and a crisp Japanese silk shirt hung from her frame, her hair always pin straight down her back and her skin bare of any makeup besides a pale red lip stain.

Irina embraced her natural beauty, of which she was fruitful. Deep olive skin and dark sultry eyes with hollow cheekbones and a sharp jawline made the need for any foreign product on her skin unnecessary, her most vulnerable state being all she needed most days.

It was early morning on the day of the party when Irina arrived at the tailors to pick up her dress. She'd requested a slim fitting red satin dress with black gloves to match the lace detail on the plunge neckline.

"Good morning Miss Zakharov, how are you?" The seamstress greeted her with a warm smile as she moved a basket of old thread underneath the counter.

"I'm well thank you, it's a lovely morning, isn't it?"

"Oh yes, meant to be a clear night too, you'll be able to see the stars."

"How darling," Irina flashed a smile, placing her black leather handbag down on the counter, "How much do I owe you?"

The seamstress wavered over the price, glossing over a hefty discount they'd given Irina for her repeat custom. She was grateful, of course, but there was practically nothing Irina couldn't afford, though a discount here meant more to spend elsewhere.

After paying for her dress, she headed back out into the mild morning sunshine. It appeared as though the seamstress was right in her prediction, the sky clear of any clouds as far as Irina's eyes could see, a sign for a starry night.

It wasn't often that Irina was invited to parties, or invited anywhere, truthfully. Since moving to England, her social life had been put on somewhat of a back burner, becoming far less important to her than earning a living and building a successful business.

To her, speaking to Kristian and her staff all day was more than enough socialising. She would sometimes visit the cocktail lounge not far from her neighbourhood if she'd had an especially draining day that a drink could help, but the attempts at conversation from trying gentleman in three piece suits cheaper than her underwear soon ruined her attempt at a tranquil evening.

Irina wasn't even remotely interested in the idea of falling in love. She was far too busy working and quite frankly the idea of having a busy day in the office and returning home to a man needing love and affection was enough to almost repulse her. She had her needs satisfied when she felt like it, knowing men would fall at her feet without her even having to try, but a long term affair wasn't in her plans.

As a little girl, she had liked the idea of being in love. The fairytale romance and endless dream of being adored by a man, protected and taken care of without having to lift a finger used to seem like the only thing she ever wanted to achieve, though now, her ideas couldn't have been more different. Indulging into the boss lifestyle she lived was far more rewarding to her than being loved by a man. It wasn't that Irina had completely disregarded love, but it certainly wasn't something she could envision being a part of her life any time soon.

Dressed like the wife of a rich, retired Mafia boss, Irina locked the door to her home and jumped into the back of the car once her driver pulled up outside. As she gazed up at the sky, she saw the stars shimmering against the black, sparkling much like the large diamond that sat on a silver band on her finger.

The drive to The Eden Club wasn't far. Before she knew it, Irina was being offered her driver's hand to help her step down onto the pavement, which she took with a smile.

Guests in satin dresses and high heels clung to the arms of equally well-dressed men, cigars between their lips as they all stared at Irina before walking through the doors of the club.

Irina was never intimidated, and so despite being alone, the stares of men as women scowled at their other halves only boosted her ego. She knew how good she looked, Irina always looked good, and she certainly didn't need male validation for her to know that, but it was always welcome.

Her heels echoed on the pavement as she made her way towards the door. A thick-set man stood guard, but Irina saw him gulp as she approached him, a thin smile on her lips.

"Name?"

"Irina Zakharov."

He stepped aside, allowing Irina to walk past without either of them exchanging another word. Inside, large round tables were scattered with men and woman, many were crowded on a dance floor before a band on a raised platform. A golden interior matched with the yellow glow of the lights and the rims of the expensive crystal champagne flutes that were daintily held between the fingertips of the Shelby invitees.

Irina scanned the room quickly, expectedly not recognising a single soul. She had many business connections in London, but quite clearly, Thomas Shelby wasn't from the local area and so it didn't come as a surprise to her that she didn't know the name of anybody she'd seen.

Making her way over to the bar, Irina tapped her nails on gold and cream marbled worktop that glasses were placed down on, cocktail shakers clattering against the bar.

"A drink, Miss?"

"Champagne, please. And spare me the raspberry if you wouldn't mind?"

The bartender nodded and began pouring Irina a glass of champagne fresh from a bucket of ice. He handed it to her with a nod and the smile while she quietly thanked him, tipping the rim of the glass towards him before pressing it gently to her lips and taking a small sip, the red of her lips staining the glass.

"Miss Zakharov, I'm glad you could make it."

She turned around to find Thomas Shelby stood before her with one hand stuffed in his pocket and the other clutching a short glass with what looked like whiskey inside.

"Not drinking your gin, Mr Shelby?"

"Not drinking your vodka?"

Irina smiled and tilted her head, "This isn't my party. That reminds me."

She placed her glass down on the bar and opened her bag, pulling out a small bottle of vodka and handing it to him. He peered down at the black label with blood red lettering forming the logo, inspecting it closely.

"This all I get?" He asked.

"I don't give my vodka away for free very often, Mr Shelby."

He stifled a laugh, still holding the bottle in his grasp as he drank the last of his whiskey before slamming the glass down on the bar and calling the bartender over with a wave of his hand, pointing down at the empty glass before turning his attention back to Irina.

"Have you spoken to anyone yet?"

"Just you," she said, "I don't tend to be very good at small talk."

He chuckled, "That makes two of us. You have a husband?"

She held up her hand, showing the bare fingers to which Thomas just nodded. Irina didn't particularly strike him as the type of woman to have a husband to rule over her, in fact he thought she'd eat any man alive, but her beauty made him struggle to imagine her alone.

"What's that you got there, Tommy?"

Tommy turned over his shoulder when a man with slicked back brown hair and two week old stubble sauntered over, a huge coat hanging from his shoulders and a gun in a holster beneath the wool.

"Ah, Mr Solomons, this is Irina Zakharov. She produces vodka in a factory not far from your own. Irina, this is Alfie Solomons, the rum distiller I mentioned a few weeks ago."

Irina looked up at the large, burly man with a face covered in once healed scars and an uneven hairline. He stared at her before extending his hand, to which she placed her own inside and shook gently.

"Pleasure." Irina said quietly, her face expressionless.

"This yours then is it? Mind if I try?"

Alfie snatched the bottle of vodka from Tommy's fingers before he or Irina had chance to say anything.

"Zakharov Russian Standard Vodka, interesting." He mumbled to himself before unscrewing the cap and pouring the entire contents of the small bottle down his throat, wincing and narrowing his eyes as he swallowed before spluttering a cough.

"Fuck me," he said, grabbing Tommy's whiskey glass and taking a sip before handing it back to him, "That's strong that is."

"It's Russian, that's why." Irina said, her eyes narrowed though she felt amused inside at how much the vodka had burned his throat.

"Tastes like fire from the burning pits of Hell, that does, love. How do you sell enough of that to make a living?"

Thomas stayed quiet, sipping his drink as he watched Alfie strike up a conversation with Irina, who looked like she couldn't have been less interested if she tried.

"Perhaps because not everybody wants watered down rum or gin, people want to get drunk not be sober and penniless. My glass is empty."

Alfie's lips curved into a smirk as she glared at him. Her accent was thick and sounded intimidating, as if that wasn't enough on its own her eyes looked like they were sharp enough to slice through a soul when she looked at him, setting him on edge the slightest bit.

"Bartender, over here. Another champagne for the Russian alcoholic."