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Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 24

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 24

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: Luca Changretta makes his move, crossing a line by targeting the youngest Shelby. In a calculated ambush, the Shelby's are forced into a desperate fight, rattling the foundation of their trust and control.

Word count: 8.8k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language

A/N: I've been so awful at updating, SORRY and thank you all for being patient. maine might lowkey get a snow day tomorrow (rip, but also fingers crossed??), so if we do i might be able to write another chapter :)

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It had been quiet for days.

The kind of stillness that felt like the whole city was holding its breath. Like something just out of sight was winding itself tighter with every tick of the clock.

The streets were too calm. Even the usual hum of conversation in the betting shops felt subdued, like people were speaking just low enough not to draw attention from whatever shadows lingered nearby. Doors stayed locked a little longer. Eyes lingered a little too long on unfamiliar faces.

Tommy said Luca must be dealing with something in New York. He’d heard rumors, whispers of unrest, tension between families, something about one of Luca’s allies gone missing. A temporary distraction. A wedge in the machine. Whatever the cause, the pressure that had been choking Birmingham like smoke seemed to ease—just slightly.

Polly had gone back to her own house for the first time in a week, insisting she needed real tea and a proper bath or she’d start cursing at people. Finn had started hovering near the older boys again, hopeful and quiet, desperate to be given something—anything—to do. Arthur spent most of the day in the betting shop, sorting the books with a half-smile and a cigarette hanging from his mouth. And John… John cracked a joke at breakfast. A real one. About Arthur’s new haircut, which had earned him a half-hearted shove and a round of laughter that didn’t feel forced for once.

Even Tommy had let himself sit for five whole minutes that morning with a cup of tea he didn’t drink.

Things were almost starting to feel normal again.

You found him standing by the front window after breakfast, one hand braced against the sill, the other holding a nearly finished cigarette. The smoke curled lazily in the still air, ignored. His eyes were fixed on the street outside, watching the same corner he always did, like he was waiting for something to move, for someone to step out of place. He didn’t blink much. Didn’t shift. Just stood there, tense and silent, like he was trying to piece together a threat he couldn’t quite see yet.

You hesitated before speaking. “Harry said he’s short a hand today. Thought I’d go help at the Garrison. Just a few hours.”

Tommy turned then, his eyes narrowing slightly. “No.”

You raised an eyebrow, folding your arms. “It’s been days since anything’s happened, Tommy.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s when people get stupid.”

“I won’t be stupid,” you said calmly. “I’ll be behind the bar, not out wandering the streets. And you’re going to be there anyway, aren’t you? You said you, John, and Arthur were meeting with someone.”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched, muscles shifting as he stared past you, thinking it through. You could tell he didn’t like the idea of you out in the open, even somewhere familiar. His arms stayed crossed, fingers tapping once against his sleeve, a small habit when he was biting something back.

Eventually, he let out a short breath through his nose and nodded once, sharp and reluctant. “Fine. But you stay inside. Don’t step out for anything. And if something feels wrong—even a little—you tell Harry and he’ll get me straight away. Got it?”

You stepped closer and reached out, resting your hand against the front of his shirt. The fabric was still warm from the morning sun, and you could feel the tension underneath it.

He caught your wrist gently. His eyes locked onto yours, steady and serious and searching yours.

“I mean it,” he said.

You nodded, swallowing. “I know.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, then dropped his hand. “I’ll be down in the back room by three. Stay where I can find you.”

You headed out for the Garrison just before one. The walk through Small Heath was familiar—same cracked pavement, same rows of soot-streaked brick. You kept your coat buttoned to the collar and your gloves tucked deep in your pockets. The sky was gray, but it wasn’t raining, and the streets were quiet. For once, no one seemed to be staring too long, and no shadows felt like they were trailing behind you.

You kept your pace up, not quite rushing, but not strolling either. The past few weeks had made watching corners, checking over your shoulder, and listening for footsteps that didn’t belong a habit. Even when things seemed quiet, you didn’t let your guard down.

By the time you reached the Garrison, it was already filling up. A few regulars were parked at their usual tables, nursing pints and muttering over the paper. A couple of men from the factory had wandered in early, their work shirts still dusted with coal. The air inside was warm, the floor scuffed, the hum of voices steady but low.

Harry greeted you with a grateful nod as you stepped behind the bar.

“You’re a blessing,” he muttered, already elbow-deep in washing glasses. “Don’t know how the hell I was going to manage the afternoon rush.”

You smiled faintly. “I missed it here.”

You slipped into the rhythm easily—drying glasses, topping off pints, wiping down counters. The kind of work that let your mind drift while your hands kept moving. Tommy, John, and Arthur arrived not long after and disappeared into the side room with two men in sharp suits and quiet voices.

Tommy’s eyes found you first.

He gave a small nod as he passed, but he didn’t keep walking right away. He paused at the bar, rested one hand lightly against the edge, and leaned in just enough for his voice to be heard over the quiet hum of the pub.

“All quiet?”

You gave a faint smile, nodding. “So far.”

He studied you for a moment. Then, with the corner of his mouth twitching in something close to a smile, he reached out and gently touched the side of your waist, his fingers brushing the fabric of your dress like he needed to feel you there.

“Won’t be long,” he murmured.

You leaned into the touch, just slightly. “I’ll be here.”

Arthur made a sound behind him, half impatient grunt, half teasing, and John muttered something under his breath about lovebirds.

Tommy cast them both a look, but didn’t take the bait. Instead, he gave you one last glance before disappearing through the side room door with the others. It clicked shut behind them.

You could still hear their muffled conversation through the wall, low tones, nothing distinct. But it was enough to make the space feel protected, for just a little while. Everyone was exactly where they were supposed to be.

You stayed behind the bar, falling into the routine without needing to think much about it. Wiping down the counter. Drying glasses. Restacking the clean ones in neat rows. The usual sounds filled the space, glass hitting wood, stools creaking, quiet conversation in the background.

A few regulars were spread out at the tables, hunched over their pints. Most of them older men, talking low about football scores and council taxes. The radio behind the bar buzzed now and then, playing a scratchy jazz track that didn’t quite fit the room, but no one seemed to care enough to turn it off.

You finished drying a tumbler and placed it on the shelf with the rest, then bent down to grab the small ledger Harry used to track the afternoon’s orders. Nothing unusual. Just another slow, steady day.

You were drying off a short glass when the front door opened with a soft jingle.

You didn’t recognize the man who came in. He wasn’t dressed like a factory worker or one of the usual drinkers that passed through. His posture was straight, his steps steady, none of the tired slouch or fidgeting you were used to seeing in men coming off a shift. He looked put together. Plain coat, well-fitted. Clean shoes. No hat.

He didn’t glance around or take in the room. Just walked straight to the bar like he already knew where he was going and sat down at the far end, quiet and settled, like he had all the time in the world.

You blinked, the cloth stilling in your hand.

He didn’t meet your eye, or say a word. You watched him for a moment, cloth slack in your hand.

You cleared your throat lightly and stepped a little closer along the bar.

“Can I get you anything?”

Your voice came out steady, casual. But the man didn’t answer.

He didn’t even move.

You waited a beat, brows drawing together.

“Sir?”

Still nothing.

You adjusted your grip on the rag, not because the glass needed more cleaning, but because your hands needed something to do. You weren’t exactly nervous, but something about the way the man sat so still, not moving a muscle, made the air feel heavier. The space behind the bar suddenly felt narrower.

You glanced toward the back room. The door was still closed. You could hear the low murmur of Tommy’s voice through it, along with John and Arthur’s, nothing clear, just the muffled rhythm of conversation.

Everything’s fine, you told yourself.

Maybe he’s just tired. Or lost in thought. Or…

The phone rang, sharp and sudden.

You jumped a little, the sound cutting through the quiet and catching you off guard.

It rang again.

Then, without looking up, the man at the end of the bar finally spoke.

“You’re going to want to answer that.” His voice was low. Smooth. Devoid of urgency, but full of certainty.

You turned to look at him, unsettled by how calm he seemed. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

The phone rang again.

A slow, cold feeling crawled its way up the back of your neck. You reached for the receiver, hesitating just a second before lifting it to your ear.

“Hello?”

For a few long seconds, there was nothing but static on the other end. You almost thought it was a deadline, until you heard the heavy breathing. It was light and uneven. Not the breath of someone calm or collected. A little too fast. A little too shallow.

Then, “Hello?”

The voice was small, young, and strained. Your heart dropped. You knew that voice before your mind even caught up.

“Finn?”

A sharp, ragged inhale, he gasped your name. “They’ve got me—” he burst out. “They’ve got me—please—I didn’t know what to do—”

Your heart slammed into your ribs. “Where are you?” you asked, your voice already breaking. “Finn, where are you? Are you hurt?”

“I—I don’t know—” His words tangled over themselves, rushed and panicked. “I was just trying to help—I thought if I followed them, I could find out something—I heard John say they were going to meet someone and I—I thought maybe I could watch from across the street, just in case—”

Your stomach dropped.

“I didn’t tell anyone—I didn’t want to get in trouble—but they grabbed me. They pulled me into a car—I didn’t see their faces—I didn’t see anything—”

He was crying now, or close to it. You could hear the breath catching in his throat.

The words tumbled out, too fast, too choked. You could hear the terror in his voice, that wild edge right before someone starts to scream.

“They said I had to call,” he sobbed. “Said I had to—said if I didn’t—if I didn’t—God, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just wanted to help. I thought Tommy would be proud if I did something real. Please, I don’t want to die—”

Your knees nearly buckled. Your eyes flicked back to the far end of the bar. “It’s okay, Finn. You’re going to be okay. Just breathe— okay, love? Just breathe.”

The man at the bar had his hands folded neatly in front of him, unmoved from the moment he’d sat down. But now—his lips curled. Just slightly in an almost imperceptible smirk. Cold. Knowing. Cruel. Like he was enjoying the show.

Your blood ran ice-cold. But just as you opened your mouth, just as you realized what you were really in the middle of, the voice on the line changed. You heard a quiet shuffle, and then someone else took the phone.

“Put Tommy on the line,” the voice said. It was smooth and controlled.

You turned toward the end of the bar—but the stool was empty. Suddenly, the man was gone.

You nearly dropped the receiver. Your voice cracked as you shouted over your shoulder. “Harry!”

Footsteps from the back. Then Harry appeared in the hall, startled, wide-eyed.

“Get Tommy,” you said, breathless. “Now.”

Something in your face must’ve told him everything, because Harry didn’t ask a single question—he just turned and sprinted down the hall.

You held the phone to your chest, pressing it tight like you could somehow stop the sound of Finn’s voice still echoing in your ears. Your breath came in short bursts, your chest tight, the ringing in your ears louder than anything in the room.

You didn’t even notice how badly your hands were shaking until the side room door flew open.

Tommy was first through it, followed closely by Arthur and John. All three of them looked alert, ready for a fight.

Tommy spotted you and stopped in his tracks. His eyes scanned your face, then the receiver clenched in your hand. He didn’t ask again. Didn’t need to.

He was across the room in three long strides, jaw tight, shoulders squared.

“What is it?” he said, his voice low and clipped, already bracing for the worst.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came. Your throat locked up. So you did the only thing you could, and you held the phone out to him.

Tommy took the phone from your shaking hand, his eyes never leaving your face. His fingers brushed yours—steady, deliberate—but the way he gripped the receiver was firm, controlled. Like he was already bracing for what he was about to hear.

He raised it to his ear. No greeting. No hesitation. Just silence.

You stood frozen, watching him.

His jaw tightened almost immediately, the muscles along his cheek shifting. His eyes narrowed, focused on some fixed point across the room, but you could tell he wasn’t seeing it. His whole body went still, shoulders squared, chest rigid, as if he were holding himself back from moving, from reacting.

The room had gone quiet, like everyone else was holding their breath.

“Hello?” he said, flat and even, like he wasn’t going to give whoever was on the other end the satisfaction of hearing anything else.

Another pause.

Then his eyes sharpened.

You couldn’t hear what was being said, but you saw the way his expression changed. First the slight flare of his nostrils. Then his lips pressed into a thin line. His grip on the receiver didn’t move, but something in his stance stiffened, like a pressure valve locking into place.

John and Arthur exchanged a glance, but neither interrupted.

Tommy finally spoke again, quiet and low. “I’ll give you one chance to return him alive.”

Another silence. His eyes flicked down, then away, calculating something even as he listened.

“If he’s hurt, there’s nowhere you can go that I won’t find you.” His tone didn’t rise. He didn’t curse or shout.

You stepped closer without meaning to, your hands still trembling at your sides.

Tommy nodded once, barely perceptible.

Then, calmly, “Tell him if he touches Finn, I’ll put every man with his name in the ground. One by one.”

He listened a moment longer, then lowered the receiver and ended the call with a sharp click.

You didn’t say anything.

No one did at first.

The silence in the Garrison was thick—crackling.

Then it all shattered.

“What the fuck was that?” John barked, already moving toward you. “How the fuck did they get to Finn? Where was he? Who the hell—”

Arthur’s voice cut over his. “Where were the guards? He wasn’t supposed to be alone—he wasn’t alone—”

“Did he say where he was?”

“Did they hurt him?”

“Jesus Christ—how—”

The questions came too fast to answer, their words piling on top of each other, louder with each second. You couldn’t keep up. Couldn’t think clearly. It was all noise—panic, blame, disbelief—and none of it told you what you really needed to know.

Your ears were ringing. Your chest was too tight. You were still standing there, but you didn’t feel your body. All you could focus on was the memory of Finn’s voice, thin and terrified, still echoing in your skull.

You didn’t even notice the tears until you felt the heat on your cheeks.

Tommy reached for you without a word.

His hand wrapped around your wrist, not tight, just firm enough to bring you back to yourself. The noise in the room didn’t stop, but it dropped away somehow. You looked up, and he was already watching you, his eyes sharp but steady, locked onto yours like he was trying to pull you out of the spiral.

“Go home,” he said quietly, just to you. “Straight home. Have Harry or someone walk you.”

You shook your head, throat tightening. “Tommy—no.”

“Yes,” he said calmly.

“I can’t—please, I need to stay—I need to know. I have to help,” you whispered, voice starting to crack. “You don’t understand—Tommy, there was a man—he was sitting right there. I looked at him. I let it happen—”

“Hey.”

His voice cut through the noise—firm, steady, right in front of you.

He stepped in, closing the space between you, and brought his hands to your face. His palms were warm, thumbs brushing just under your eyes as he held your gaze. Then he leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.

The closeness made everything else fall away, the noise, the panic, the sick weight in your chest.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low but clear.

Your eyes lifted to meet his.

“Breathe.”

You tried.

His thumbs brushed the tears from your cheeks.

“I need you to listen to me,” he said, voice low and rough. “I can’t help Finn unless I know you’re somewhere safe. Do you understand?”

You nodded, just barely.

Because if you tried to speak, you'd fall apart again.

Tommy’s hands lingered on your face for a moment longer, thumbs warm against your skin.

Then, gently, he pulled back. “Go home,” he said again, quieter now, but firmer.

You opened your mouth to protest, but he didn’t give you the chance.

“I’m going to ring Polly. She’ll meet you there.” He was already reaching into his coat pocket, pulling out his cigarette case with one hand, the other still hovering close like he didn’t trust you to stay upright.

You swallowed hard, your voice rasping when you finally spoke.

“How do you know where to find him?”

Tommy paused, just for a second. It wasn’t doubt you saw—he never doubted himself. But something flickered behind his eyes. Something darker.

“I recognized the voice,” he said. “The man on the phone. He used to work for Sabini. Now he works for Luca.”

You blinked. “And?”

Tommy’s jaw shifted. “I’ve had someone watching him for weeks. In case Luca ever used him.” He looked you straight in the eye. “He just did.”

A cold wave rolled through your chest.

Tommy exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, then reached for your coat from behind the bar and helped you into it with a tenderness.

“Go,” he said again, softer now. “I’ll be back when it’s done.”

You hesitated—but he gave you one last look, the kind that left no room for argument.

So you nodded.

…

As soon as the front door of the Garrison shut behind you, Tommy struck a match and lit a cigarette. His hands were steady. They had to be. There was no room for anything else.

Arthur was already throwing questions into the air, his voice sharp and too loud. John was pacing in tight circles, one arm shoved halfway into his coat, like he was ready to bolt out the door and take on half of Birmingham by himself.

Tommy didn’t look at either of them right away.

He took a slow drag, let the smoke sit in his chest, then exhaled hard through his nose. His mind was already turning, every moving part laid out in front of him like a puzzle with missing pieces. He didn’t need noise. He needed facts. He needed direction.

And right now, the shouting was just slowing him down.

Tommy’s voice cut clean through the noise.

“Quiet.”

They listened.

Tommy exhaled smoke through his nose, eyes locked on nothing and everything all at once.

“Frankie Rossi,” he said.

Arthur frowned. “Who?”

“He used to work for Sabini,” Tommy said. “Now he’s Luca’s. I recognized his voice on the phone.”

John stepped forward. “How the fuck do you know that?”

“Because I’ve been watching him for three weeks,” Tommy said, turning toward them. “Johnny Dogs has had a man on him since Luca first landed in England.”

He flicked the cigarette into the ashtray and grabbed his coat. “They’re at a house on the edge of Small Heath. Old warehouse front, backs onto the canal. Used to move cargo through there before the war.”

Arthur was already grabbing his gun from behind the bar. “You think they’re keeping Finn there?”

“I don’t think,” Tommy said. “I know.”

The plan was already forming before Tommy even finished speaking.

He moved quickly, heading down to the cellar beneath the Garrison, where the air was cold and close and smelled faintly of dust and whiskey. He pulled back the shelf like he had a hundred times before and opened the lockbox behind it.

Two pistols. A sawed-off shotgun. Boxes of ammunition, neatly packed. The tools of survival. Of retaliation. Of this life.

He handed the shotgun to Arthur without a word. Arthur took it without flinching, like it was an extension of his own hand.

Tommy paused for half a second, his eyes scanning the rest of the weapons before settling on one of the pistols. He checked the chamber. Loaded it. Moved on.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, something tugged at him.

How many more times are we going to do this?

How many more enemies? How many more backroom raids, ambushes, retaliation plots? It had been years of this—years of protecting, losing, rebuilding, and starting the cycle all over again. Every time he thought it was done, another threat came crawling out of the dark.

And now it was Finn.

Finn—who should’ve been in school, not in the crosshairs of men like Luca Changretta.

And you, caught in the middle of it all, tied to him in ways he couldn’t undo.

He was so fucking tired of watching the people he loved pay the price for the life he built.

For a second, he let himself picture it. Something else, something quiet. A house far from Birmingham. No enemies. No weapons. Just you. Maybe even a family, if you wanted that. A place where no one had to look over their shoulder.

But the thought didn’t last long. Because this was his life. And right now, Finn needed him.

He tucked the pistol into his coat and shut the case.

“Johnny Dogs is already posted across the canal,” Tommy said. “He’s been watching comings and goings since last night. Finn’s still alive.”

“How do you know that?” Arthur asked.

Tommy didn’t flinch. “This isn’t about killing Finn. Not yet. It’s about leverage.”

Arthur scoffed. “Fucking bastards are using him like bait.”

Tommy nodded once. “That’s exactly what they’re doing. They want me to come to them. And I am, which means he’s alive.”

John strapped on his shoulder holster, jaw clenched. “And if he’s not?”

Tommy pulled his coat tighter, reaching into the inner pocket to check the pistol again.

“Then we kill every fucking man inside,” he said simply.

No more questions.

They slipped out through the Garrison’s back entrance, coats pulled tight against the wind. A dark blue car waited across the street, one of the newer ones, quiet and unmarked. Curly was already behind the wheel, engine running low.

He didn’t say a word when they climbed in. Just tipped his cap, eyes straight ahead, and hit the gas as soon as the doors shut.

The drive was quick, no one talking. No one needed to.

The warehouse came into view just off the canal road—weather-beaten and quiet. The windows were boarded, the metal siding streaked with rust. Piles of rotting crates sat near the loading dock, half-collapsed, as if no one had touched them in years.

It looked empty. Abandoned.

But Tommy leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.

In one of the upper windows, tucked behind a broken slat of wood, he caught the faint glow of a cigarette ember. Brief. Flickering. Then gone.

“They’re watching,” he muttered.

Curly killed the engine a block away.

“Park up two streets over,” he told Curly. “Wait there. If you hear gunfire, bring the car ‘round. Fast.”

Curly gave a tight nod. “Right.”

The moment the car slowed, Tommy was out first, moving quickly across the street with Arthur and John close behind. They stuck to the edge of the buildings, boots scraping low over the cobblestone, ducking beneath windows and slipping into the alley that curved behind the warehouse.

Everything smelled like rust and wet wood.

They went the rest of the way on foot, cutting through the alley, boots silent over gravel and brick, hearts pounding in time with the threat.

Tommy stopped at the corner of the building and scanned the loading dock, eyes catching on a narrow side entrance, half-blocked by a stack of crates, but unlocked if you knew how to move right.

He turned to Arthur and John, voice low.

“Johnny Dogs says three inside. Two near the front, one pacing. Finn’s in a back room—tied up, probably watched.”

Arthur’s face was tight, his hands already flexing around the grip of the shotgun.

Tommy went on. “John, you take the rear. Go quiet. If they hear you, they’ll use him.”

John nodded, jaw set.

Tommy turned to Arthur. “You’re with me. Side door.”

He looked at them both—calm, controlled, but cold beneath it.

“We get in. We get Finn. If they point a gun, you shoot. No warning.”

They nodded.

Tommy turned back toward the warehouse before moving. The side door creaked open with a groan, the kind of sound that made every muscle tighten.

Tommy went in first, gun drawn low, Arthur right behind him. The air inside was cold and stale, the sharp tang of oil and old metal cutting through the dust. Their boots moved over concrete scattered with debris—empty crates, glass shards, scraps of rope.

It was too quiet. No shouting. No footsteps. Not even breathing.

Tommy swept the first room with the barrel of his gun. Empty.

They moved forward, careful, step by step, through a narrow corridor that led toward the back of the building. A door at the end hung slightly ajar. A faint light spilled through the crack—just enough to show movement.

Arthur raised the shotgun slightly, finger brushing the trigger.

Tommy glanced back and gave a single nod.

He pushed the door open.

Once they were inside, his eyes instantly landed on Finn. He was tied to a chair, wrists bound in front of him, mouth gagged. His eyes were wide and glassy with fear, blinking rapidly when he saw them. He made a sound—choked, desperate.

Tommy was already moving.

“Clear the room,” he snapped, voice tight.

Arthur swept the far side as Tommy crossed to Finn and dropped to one knee. He cut the ropes with a quick flick of his blade.

“You’re alright,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’re alright. We’ve got you.”

But the moment the ropes fell and Tommy pulled the gag free—

Gunfire erupted.

The warehouse windows shattered as bullets tore through the wall, ripping into the crates stacked nearby.

“Down!” Tommy yelled, grabbing Finn and shielding him with his own body.

Arthur fired blindly toward the upper floor, cursing, the shotgun blasts echoing through the rafters—but there was no clear target. Just shadows moving too fast, boots scrambling over steel beams above them.

“They’re up high!” Arthur shouted. “Can’t get a shot!”

“Cover us!” Tommy barked, his voice raw with urgency.

He crouched low, arm around Finn, trying to move—but more gunfire cracked through the air, forcing them back behind a stack of crates.

Then, another door slammed open across the room.

“This way!” John’s voice rang out. He burst through the far side of the warehouse, eyes wide, gun raised. “Come on—back entrance’s clear!”

Tommy didn’t hesitate.

He yanked Finn to his feet and threw an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close as they bolted toward John.

Gunfire followed them.

Tommy felt a sudden burn slice across his upper arm—sharp, hot, fast. A bullet had grazed him, tearing through his coat and skin. But he didn’t stop.

“Keep going!” he growled at Finn, forcing himself to keep pace, arm still tight around the boy.

Arthur laid down cover behind them, shotgun echoing through the rafters.

Tommy shoved Finn through the door first, John grabbing him and pulling him clear. Tommy followed a second later, nearly stumbling from the pain in his arm. Arthur barreled through right behind them, breathing hard, shotgun still in hand. He spun to slam the door shut, eyes scanning the alley behind them.

“Fucking trap,” he growled, jamming a rusted metal rod through the handles to seal it. “They wanted us boxed in.”

Tommy turned to Finn, ready to tell him to keep moving, but the look on John’s face stopped him cold.

“Tommy—” John’s voice was sharp, panicked.

Tommy’s eyes dropped.

Blood. Seeping fast through Finn’s shirt, soaking the boy’s side. His knees buckled as the adrenaline started to crash, and John barely caught him in time.

“I’m fine—” Finn mumbled, swaying, trying to stay upright.

“Christ,” Tommy snapped, stepping in and grabbing him before he could fall. He pressed a hand to the wound, trying to slow the bleeding. His own arm throbbed from where the bullet had grazed him, but it didn’t matter. Not right now.

“Help me get him out,” he barked. “Now.”

John adjusted Finn’s arm over his shoulder. Together, they half-dragged, half-carried him down the alley, boots pounding against wet pavement.

Arthur ran ahead. “Car’s waiting!”

Tommy’s jaw was clenched tight, blood smeared across his palm, the boy’s weight dragging heavily between them. Finn was still conscious, but barely—his head lolled, breath shallow, eyes fluttering open and closed.

“Stay with us, Finn,” Tommy muttered, more command than comfort.

“I’m—I’m okay,” Finn tried, but his voice was faint, the words slurred.

“‘Atta boy,” Tommy said. “Just hold on.”

They rounded the corner, and the car came into view, engine running, headlights cutting through the mist. Curly had the back door already open, face pale as he took one look at Finn and swore under his breath.

“Get in!” Arthur barked.

Tommy and John eased Finn into the backseat, careful but fast. Tommy climbed in beside him, pressing down hard on the wound with his sleeve as Finn groaned in pain. Blood was everywhere—on the seat, on Tommy’s hands, on Finn’s shirt already clinging to his skin.

Arthur slammed the door and jumped into the front. “Drive, Curly. Now.”

The car peeled off before the doors were even fully shut.

Tommy leaned over Finn, voice low and steady. “You’re alright. We’ve got you. Just keep your eyes open.”

Finn nodded weakly, but his eyelids were already drooping again.

Tommy looked up at John across from him. “How far to the house?”

“Ten minutes if Curly doesn’t slow down.”

Tommy pressed harder against the wound, ignoring the searing pain in his own arm.

Finn’s head lolled to the side, a low groan leaving his throat.

“Finn!” Tommy said loudly. He glanced down. “Stay with us, Finn.”

But Finn’s breathing was changing—getting faster, more uneven.

And then, he let out a sudden cry. “It hurts!” His voice was hoarse and high with panic.

He jerked beneath Tommy’s hands, trying to twist away. His legs kicked out, heel slamming into the floorboard.

“Don’t touch it! Don’t—don’t—”

“Jesus—” John lunged forward, grabbing Finn’s shoulders as he thrashed. “Finn, calm down! It’s alright!”

But it wasn’t.

The adrenaline that had kept him upright was burning out fast, and now the pain was rushing in, full force. Finn’s body bucked again, arms flailing, knocking into Tommy’s injured arm hard enough to make him grunt.

“Hold him,” Tommy snapped, jaw clenched.

Arthur turned from the front, alarmed. “Christ, what’s happening?!”

Tommy pinned Finn’s torso with one arm and pressed the other down over the wound, even as the boy screamed.

“Stop—! It hurts, Tommy—please!”

Every word was like a blade to the gut. But he didn’t let go.

“You want to live?” Tommy growled, even as his voice cracked at the edges. “Stay fucking still! You hear me?”

Finn sobbed, shaking, but the fight started to drain from him, muscles twitching under Tommy’s grip.

Tommy didn’t loosen his hold. Didn’t let himself soften. Not now. Because if he did, he’d lose the edge—and that could get Finn killed.

So he kept his head down, eyes locked on the blood, and waited for the next corner to bring them home.

The car screeched around the final corner, tires skidding on the wet cobblestone. The house came into view—dim porch light flickering, front steps slick with rain.

Tommy didn’t wait for the car to fully stop.

He threw the door open and climbed out, blood already cold on his hands and sleeves. His coat was soaked through—some of it Finn’s, some of it his own—but he barely felt it.

“John— Get his legs.”

John moved fast, grim-faced, lifting Finn as Tommy took him under the arms. The boy was limp now, head lolling back, face pale and streaked with sweat. His shirt was soaked in blood, clinging to his chest like it had been painted on.

“Easy,” Tommy muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Don’t drop him.”

The front door flew open. Polly stepped out first, already rolling up her sleeves, but her usual composure was shaken. Her eyes locked on Finn, and for just a second, her breath caught. “Christ,” she muttered under her breath, already moving forward.

Then you appeared behind her, barefoot, hair still damp from the bath, one hand braced against the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

Your eyes landed on Finn.

Tommy saw the moment the terror hit you. You straightened, voice tight but clear. “Bring him inside. Set him on the kitchen table.”

Polly turned on her heel. “I’ll get towels. Scissors. Whiskey.”

“Boil some hot water,” you added. “And bring anything clean—we’re going to need pressure on that wound until I can see it properly.”

John pushed past you to open the door wider, and Tommy followed, Finn sagging between them. His body felt smaller than it had just minutes ago—light and fragile and far too quiet.

They laid Finn out on the kitchen table, his body slack, blood soaking through the towel Tommy had pressed to his side.

Polly was already moving—dropping a pile of clean rags, bottles, and scissors onto the counter with a loud clatter, hands working fast. You had your sleeves pushed up now, eyes scanning the boy’s body like a battlefield, checking for exit wounds, for signs of shock, for how much time you had.

Tommy stood back, silent, his hands still covered in blood.

He felt it cooling now, sticky between his fingers, seeping into his cuffs.

“Pulse is weak,” you said, mostly to yourself, voice sharp and clear despite the paleness in your face.

“Where is it?” Polly asked, already soaking a cloth in the boiled water.

“Lower left side,” you replied. “Looks like it might have nicked something.”

The chair scraped loudly as Polly pulled it closer, dropping to her knees beside the table to cut Finn’s shirt away. You took a fresh towel, pressed down hard on the wound, and Finn flinched—still barely conscious, but the pain was enough to pull a groan from his throat.

“I know, I know. Sorry, sweetheart,” you whispered, your hand steady even as your voice cracked.

Tommy leaned against the doorframe, watching. Too still. Too quiet. His hands were stained with Finn’s blood, dried now along the cracks in his skin, soaked into the sleeves of his coat. It clung to him like the weight of every bad choice he’d ever made.

He should’ve done more. Should’ve seen the setup for what it was. Should’ve anticipated the ambush. He’d known Luca was clever—calculated. And still, he’d walked right into it. Dragged John and Arthur in with him. Dragged Finn.

He was supposed to protect his family.

And he was failing. Again.

Your eyes lifted suddenly, catching his, just for a second.

It wasn’t anger in your face. Not even shock anymore. It was fear. The real kind. The kind that stayed in your bones long after the bleeding stopped. And somehow, that look hit harder than the bullet had. Because you were supposed to be safe, too.

And standing there, helpless, Tommy realized what scared him most wasn’t that he’d nearly lost Finn. It was knowing this wouldn’t be the last time. Not as long as he was in charge. Not as long as they lived in his world.

Suddenly, Polly brushed past Tommy, coming back in the room with an armful of bandages and bottles, her shoulder bumping his as she moved toward the table.

He flinched, barely, but it was enough.

You’d been focused on Finn, hands soaked and steady, but at that, your head snapped up. “Are you hit?”

Your eyes scanned him, zeroing in on the tear in his coat sleeve. Dark blood was seeping through the fabric around his upper arm. It wasn’t gushing, but it hadn’t stopped either.

“Tommy.”

He tried to brush it off. “It barely touched me.”

You didn’t move. “Take off the coat,” you said, voice sharper now. “Now.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to Finn still unconscious on the table, attention now fixated on him.

“It’s just a graze,” he muttered, jaw tight. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” you snapped. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve bled before,” he said flatly. “Plenty of times. Focus on Finn.”

You stepped in front of him, towel and whiskey in hand. “That’s not the point.”

He met your eyes, and for a moment, there was something almost defensive there. “You think I can’t handle a scratch?”

“Christ, you’re not invincible!” you snapped, your voice rising louder than you intended.

He stared at you, caught off guard, the anger in your voice slicing clean through the fog of blood and pain and guilt.

He finally gave in with a muttered curse, pulling his coat off one arm with a wince. The shirt beneath was soaked through, the fabric torn where the bullet had grazed the muscle.

You grabbed a clean towel from the stack and moved around the table toward him.

“Sit,” you said firmly.

“I’ll stand.”

“You’ll sit,” you repeated, already reaching for the bottle of whiskey Polly had left on the counter. “Why do you have to make everything so damn difficult?”

He didn’t move. Just stared back at you, jaw set, like sitting down would somehow make it real—make him look weak, or worse, make him feel it.

You stared at him, chest tight, rage and worry caught somewhere between your ribs. His arm was bleeding. His shirt clung to the wound. He was in pain, but still too proud to stop moving, too locked into that damn Shelby armor to admit it.

“Fine. Fucking forget it, then. I’m done.” You let out a frustrated sigh, turning your back to him.You shoved the supplies into Polly’s hands, and stepped back. “Here, you do it.”

Polly didn’t ask questions. Just took the cloth and whiskey, already stepping in.

And you returned to Finn, where your help was actually wanted.

Tommy stayed standing for a beat longer, watching you from across the room.

Your back was to him now, hands moving with purpose as you leaned over Finn, murmuring something low and steady.

Polly moved around him without a word, inspecting the wound. But Tommy wasn’t paying attention anymore.

And he couldn’t even blame you.

He looked down at the towel in Polly’s hands, at the blood on his sleeve. He didn’t want you to see him like this—tired, bleeding, worn down. He didn’t want you to look at him and see someone breakable and vulnerable.

Because if you stopped seeing him as the one who kept everyone safe, then maybe that meant he really wasn’t. Maybe tonight had proven it.

Polly pressed a cloth to his arm, muttering something about stitches, but Tommy barely heard her.

His eyes were still on you. You were kneeling beside Finn, one hand steady on the boy’s shoulder, the other dabbing gently at the wound with a clean cloth. Your sleeves were rolled up, stained with blood. The set of your jaw was tight, your movements practiced—but your face told a different story.

There was pain there. Not the kind that showed up in screams or gasps, but the quieter kind. The kind that settled behind the eyes. That kind of sorrow that came from watching someone small and innocent hurt—again.

Your brow creased, and for a moment, you pressed your lips together like you were trying not to shake. Not to cry.

And you wouldn’t look at him.

He wanted to say something. Anything.

But he didn’t. He just watched you, silently, as Polly dabbed at the bullet graze on his arm. The sting barely registered.

Because all he could think about was how close you were—how your hands moved with care, how your face held everything you weren’t saying—and how far away you felt.

The tension in the kitchen was thick, broken only by the low crackle of the fire and the rustle of fabric as you worked.

Tommy didn’t look away from you, but it was Arthur who finally spoke.

“Is he—?” His voice was gruff, uncertain. “Is he gonna be alright?”

John hovered behind him, pale and restless, arms folded tight across his chest.

You didn’t look up. You were too focused, one hand applying pressure to Finn’s side, the other shifting his shirt back to expose the wound more fully.

“I don’t know yet,” you said, voice low but firm. “It’s still bleeding more than it should.”

Polly looked up from where she was finishing Tommy’s bandage.

“There’s no exit wound,” you said, shaking your head.

John swore under his breath.

Polly stood then, wiping her hands, her face pale but composed. “What do you need?”

“Boiling water, the sharpest needle you’ve got, and strong thread. And someone to hold him down if he wakes up.”

Arthur moved without being asked, already heading toward the stove. John didn’t move. He just stared at Finn like he was willing him to start breathing normally again.

You were already reaching for the cloth again, pressing it gently to Finn’s side to slow the bleeding while you worked.

Tommy watched from the chair, his arm bandaged, but his entire body rigid. He’d stopped feeling his own pain a while ago.

You cleaned around the wound as gently as you could, your hands moving with methodical focus. The cloth came away soaked again, darker now. The bleeding hadn’t slowed.

You’d stitched worse in the war. You’d stopped worse bleeds, clamped worse wounds—but not in a kitchen, not with a boy this young, not with this many eyes watching every move you made like it was life or death.

You pierced the skin with the needle once, then twice, working quickly, but every time you pressed, Finn’s breathing hitched again—high and sharp, like he couldn’t quite pull enough air in.

Then you saw it.

The rise and fall of his chest had gone uneven again. Too shallow. Too quiet.

Your hands paused.

“Something’s wrong,” you said quietly.

Polly stepped closer. “What is it?”

You looked up—face pale now, voice thin. “I think the lung’s collapsed.”

That silenced the room.

You glanced back down at Finn. His chest was barely moving now, breath shallow and sharp, each one sounding more strained than the last. His lips were starting to lose color. No matter how much pressure you applied or how steady your hands stayed, it wasn’t enough.

“I can’t do this here,” you said. “Not without a proper chest tube. Not without—everything. I can’t—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t think I can fix him.”

Your hands hovered over Finn’s chest like you didn’t know what to do with them anymore. The cloth was soaked through again. You pressed down, but your fingers were starting to shake.

“I don’t know how to help him,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.

The silence that followed felt heavy, like the whole room had stopped breathing too.

Then Tommy stepped forward. “Then we take him to the hospital,” he said, voice low but solid.

You looked up at him, eyes wide, on the edge of unraveling.

Arthur was already grabbing his coat and heading towards Finn without waiting for permission. John moved toward the front door.

Polly gently touched your back. “Go with him.”

Still frozen in place, you nodded once.

Tommy helped Arthur shift Finn’s weight carefully, lifting him with practiced coordination—one arm under his knees, the other behind his back. Finn didn’t stir. His head lolled slightly against Tommy’s shoulder, lips parted, breaths faint and uneven.

Tommy’s sleeves were streaked with blood again, soaking into the fresh bandage on his own arm. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

You looked over at him briefly as you grabbed the last of the cloths and followed him toward the door.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, voice cracking.

Tommy didn’t stop walking. But he glanced down at Finn, then over at you—just once. There was a flicker of something in his eyes. Something that almost looked like it might become a reply.

But he didn’t say anything.

His jaw tightened, gaze shifting forward again as he adjusted his grip on Finn.

And then Polly’s voice came, quiet but firm behind you.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” she said.

You turned slightly, caught off guard by the weight in her voice. She was standing in the hallway now, hands stained with blood, shoulders squared.

“You’ve saved this family more times than I can count,” she said. “Tonight included.”

You stared at her, throat tightening again.

Polly didn’t flinch under your gaze. She meant every word—stood there like the house itself wouldn’t be standing without you. Like she knew what you’d done, and needed you to know it too.

But still… you nodded once. A small, uncertain gesture. Not quite believing it. Not tonight.

Then you turned.

Tommy was already at the door, Arthur just ahead of him, holding it open as the night air swept in cold and sharp.

You followed them out into the dark, the weight of Polly’s words still hanging in the hallway behind you.

John had the car waiting at the curb, engine running, headlights spilling light across the cobblestones. He jumped out the moment he saw you, flinging open the rear door as Tommy and Arthur carefully maneuvered Finn toward it.

They worked in sync—Arthur easing Finn into the backseat, Tommy supporting his head and shoulders, settling him gently across the bench. Finn was barely responsive now, his breathing shallow and rattling, one hand twitching weakly as they adjusted him.

“I’m going in the back with him,” Arthur said, climbing in beside Finn without waiting for an answer.

Tommy followed, slipping in next to Arthur, one arm braced behind Finn to keep him upright.

John looked over at you. “Come on then.”

You slid into the front passenger seat, pulling the door shut just as the tires rolled forward. No one spoke at first.

The city passed by in a blur, wet streets, shuttered shops, lamplight glinting off puddles. The quiet in the car felt heavy, like everyone was trying not to breathe too loudly.

In the back, Finn let out a low, pained sound. Arthur leaned in, murmuring something under his breath, and adjusted the blanket Polly had wrapped around him.

“That warehouse was a fucking setup,” John muttered after a while, hands tightening on the wheel. “They were watching us the whole time.”

Arthur gave a grunt in agreement.

“They knew we’d come,” John added, glancing in the rearview. “Knew we’d be too focused on Finn to see the rest of it.”

Tommy said nothing. You glanced over your shoulder briefly. He was staring at Finn—his expression unreadable, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the tension all the way through his shoulders.

His injured arm was pressed tight against his side, blood still soaking through the bandage beneath his coat. But he didn’t seem to feel it. Or he refused to.

The hospital came into view just ahead—pale brick and glowing windows, too quiet for what it was. John pulled the car up near the entrance, tires crunching over wet gravel, engine still humming.

Before the car had even fully stopped, Tommy spoke.

“Park the car,” he said to John, voice low but clear. “Wait fifteen minutes before coming inside. We don’t need all of us storming in. One Blinder’s enough to send the nurses running.”

John nodded, throwing it into park. “You sure?”

Tommy was already opening the back door. “Yeah. You too, Arthur. She’s coming with me.”

No one protested. Together, you lifted Finn out of the backseat. His head rolled slightly against Tommy’s shoulder, but he was still breathing, barely.

Tommy’s jaw tightened. “Let’s go.”

You nodded, falling into step beside him as the hospital doors slid open ahead of you, the lights inside too bright and sterile after the dark chaos of the last few hours.

The doors slid open with a mechanical hiss, and the second you were through, Tommy’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding.

“We need help!”

Heads turned. A nurse behind the front desk froze for half a second before jumping to her feet and calling for a stretcher.

Within moments, two more nurses and a young doctor came rushing down the corridor toward you.

“Gunshot wound,” you said quickly, breathless. “Male, twelve. Entrance wound low on the left side, we think the lung’s collapsed. He’s losing blood fast.”

“Is he breathing?” one of the nurses asked, already pulling on gloves.

“Yes,” you answered. “It’s shallow—one side more than the other. He’s been like this for at least twenty minutes.”

They didn’t hesitate. One nurse reached for Finn’s legs while another supported his back, and gently, they took him from Tommy’s arms.

Tommy didn’t let go right away.

The second they pulled Finn’s weight from him, it was like something dropped out of his chest. He straightened slowly, blood smeared up both arms, across the front of his coat. The warmth of it gone, leaving only the weight behind.

The nurses disappeared down the corridor with Finn on the stretcher, voices overlapping—orders, vitals, prep.

And then it was quiet again. You stood beside him, still staring down the hall where they’d taken Finn. The doors had already swung shut behind the stretcher, and the sound of rushing feet had faded.

Silence pressed in again. The kind of quiet that made everything feel worse.

You looked down at Tommy’s hands. Blood everywhere. Caked along his knuckles, soaked into the sleeves of his coat, smudged across the edge of his collar.

Still, without thinking, you reached for him.

Your fingers brushed his first, tentative—but he didn’t pull away. You threaded your fingers through his, gently, like you were afraid he’d vanish if you held too tight.

He looked down, eyes flicking to the contact, then up to your face.

His hand was warm, but stiff. Like even now, even after everything, he wasn’t sure he deserved this—your touch, your calm, your choice to stay.

For once, he didn’t speak. He didn’t argue. Instead, he just stood there, letting you hold his hand like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

And maybe it was.

In the silence of the hospital corridor, with fluorescent lights buzzing and footsteps echoing from down the hall, it was the only real thing left.

Just you.

And him.

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