Warnings: Slowburn. Violence. Sex. Dark. Angst. Crime and criminals. Swearing. Spoilers for the show. AU. My english. My cringe knowlege. To be added.
Reader: Fem and she is a survivor in this one. I'll do my best to leave freedom for interpretation for the reader's character, whether it is race, appearance, past, etc., but since this is a series some things will be set in stone.
Author's Note: I despise Grace, but I believe he genuinely loved her without transaction. Not exactly her — more a version of her that he idealized, and subconsciously he loved her fake barmaid persona, not the real her, but consciously he thinks he loved her, and now, after her death, he's put her on a pedestal because their relationship hadn't yet been tested by marriage and the conflicts were still unresolved, so I'll write based on that. Also not gonna lie - the continuation will depend on traction. I'm stretching thin and I prefer to prioritize my "One last time" series.
Tags: @lilrios-world, @kitten-blog12
My lord and savior: @boggubozakatochnihmashinok
Summary: Grace is dead. His family curses his name, and Tommy is alone in the world.
He mends his newly broken heart with whiskey, cigarettes, and, of course, prostitutes. On one such evening, he makes his usual trip to a rented house, expecting a night of sex and oblivion. Instead of the woman he came for, he finds a stranger in a black dress.
She shoots him in the shoulder and disappears into the night without explanation.
Not that one is needed. Tommy soon finds the landlady's body in the house — and, more importantly, a letter suggesting that the murdered woman had been digging into both him and his late wife...
Masterlist. Next Chapter->
The blurred glow of streetlamps drifted across the raindrops clinging to the windows.
The rain had finally stopped. Thank Chirst for that, because Tommy was sick to death of working the little hand-operated wiper lever.
Worse still, his conscience kept jabbing at him for putting more effort into reaching a whore than he ever did into getting back to his young son, who once again would be spending the night without him home.
He wasn't heading to a brothel, no.
His reputation mattered too much these days for an up-and-coming businessman and grieving widower to be caught up in ugly rumours — or worse, splashed across newspaper pages.
Even if those rich fuckers would never truly accept him, no matter if he became purer than snow and Jesus Christ Himself.
Even if he could never truly relax again.
He needed reliable people. People who knew how to keep their mouths shut.
Though he wasn't entirely certain that included the brothel madam with whom he'd made the arrangement, and whose house he was driving to now.
A rented cat house.
A beautiful blonde woman was waiting for him there.
A woman who knew how to lower her eyes and keep unnecessary words to herself.
Her hair was more wheat-blonde than honey-gold. Her eyes more green than spring-blue.
In other words, to his relief, she didn't look too much like her.
Like Grace Shelby.
May God — or someone better than Him — rest her soul wherever she was now.
He only knew she wasn't here anymore.
The need was strong.
Tommy turned into the alley, slowing the car. The cat house was already in sight, lights glowing warmly behind the windows.
The cold key rested almost weightlessly in his pocket.
Yes, the arrangement — and the rented house — cost more than a room in the brothel.
He didn't care.
Normally, he would've gone to Lizzie.
But at times he became so disgusted with himself — and with the way he treated that girl, who did nothing but save him from himself while receiving almost nothing in return — that he couldn't bring himself to do it.
Tonight was one of those times.
Small stones crunched beneath his boots as he stepped out of the car. Dark puddles had spread here and there across the alley, and the air smelled more of rot and soot than of the rain that had just fallen.
Tommy glanced around out of habit, taking note of the passersby and weighing which of them might become a problem — or an unwanted pair of eyes.
But he didn't linger outside.
He walked up to the door, pulled out the key, exhaled, and slid it into the lock.
Perhaps he should have looked through the window.
Perhaps he should have had a cigarette before going inside.
Then what happened next might never have happened at all.
But he opened the door and walked blindly into the hallway. Then froze on the spot.
The madam's house had been hastily tidied. Yellow light illuminated every corner. The place looked respectable enough, despite the less respectable reasons for visiting it.
Everything was as usual. Except for one detail.
A woman stood in the middle of the sitting room.
Just not his woman.
She wore a long black dress — something his prostitute never wore. It suited her well, and Tommy couldn't tell who the girl was from appearance alone.
More importantly, what the fuck was she doing here?
She seemed surprised by his sudden arrival too.
You were surprised.
"Are you a whore?" he asked bluntly. He wasn't in the mood for guessing.
"Y-yes, sir," you answered modestly, lowering your eyes. Your fingers clenched and unclenched.
Tommy noticed the nervous gesture.
"I didn't hire you." he said plainly, expecting some sort of explanation.
"And you're not my client. I... I think Madam simply got confused and made a mistake." You smiled shyly and awkwardly spread your hands. Your shoulders twitched nervously instead of offering a calm shrug.
Tommy was silent for several seconds, studying you with an unreadable stare.
Fuck. Everything always had to go to shit.
"Well, your client isn't here, love," he informed you.
Not a sound. Not a rustle. As far as he could tell, the two of you were alone.
You said nothing, apparently unsure how to respond.
Tom looked you over again from head to toe.
Quite a pretty girl.
"Madam left?"
"Y-yes! Not long ago."
Something about your answer bothered him. Still, he nodded.
Then he turned around and finally shut the front door.
Something flashed fearfully in your eyes when he did. Your lips pressed together.
Tommy removed his cap and carelessly tossed it onto the floor as if not wanting to move away from your path.
"Well," he began, spreading his hands shortly. "Since that's the situation, and neither of our people are here..."
He made his way to a nearest small chair gathering dust in the corner, dragged it in front of the door, sat down with his back against it, and fixed you with his tired icy eyes.
"I suggest we fuck."
Your gaze darted to the front door. You hesitated.
"B-but—"
"You don't have to." Tom raised a hand, cutting you off. He wasn't planning on forcing anyone, but he intended to finish his thought.
"I'll pay you three times as much. Madam will never know."
You seemed to consider it, though your face showed no enthusiasm whatsoever.
Tommy looked away so his burning stare wouldn't make you any more uncomfortable.
"Alright," you answered at last.
Your voice had changed. It no longer stumbled over every word.
Tommy noticed that too.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt that something wasn't right.
Perhaps that was why he'd chosen the chair by the door.
Perhaps that was why he tossed his cap down carelessly instead of going away from the door and placing it on some furniture neatly.
Perhaps that was why he didn't want to let you leave.
But honestly, he was too fucking exhausted to let his subconscious speak any louder than his need.
"Come here." He beckoned with his hand.
And you started walking toward him. Slowly.
Blue eyes dropped to your hips.
To the way the black dress shifted through different shades beneath the yellow chandelier as you moved.
He felt his heart go still. Captivated.
You spread your legs slightly wider and settled onto his lap.
He felt the heat of your body through his trousers and let out a sharp breath, looking up at you.
He didn't know what expression he was wearing, but you froze for a moment, as though hypnotized.
Eyes locked on eyes. The moment stretched the silence thin, broken only by your uneven breathing.
Then it shattered when Tommy's hands settled on your thighs and slid lower, beginning to lift the dress and bare your legs.
Suddenly you wrapped your arms around his neck and crashed into his lips.
The kiss stole his breath. Instinctively, his hands moved to your waist. One rough palm slid higher and closed around your breast — not hard, but insistently enough to make you gasp into his mouth.
On the way, his fingers brushed against something wet. He barely noticed.
His attention was fixed on more desirable parts of your body.
His coat suddenly felt far too warm despite the overcast weather battling against the poorly heated walls.
Hot breaths tangled together. His tongue demanded entry, unwilling to miss the chance to taste your lips.
Then he inhaled. Deeply.
You pulled back slightly to catch your own breath.
Your eyelids were half-lowered, your pupils wide, your gazes connected.
"You smell like gunpowder." Tommy's voice was quiet but rough. "And Madam's perfume."
His hand slid lower along your thigh.
In a dress like that, there was only one place a pistol could be hidden.
You instantly shoved him hard in the chest and sprang to your feet. Stumbling backward two steps, you drew the weapon strapped to your stocking.
"Don't move! Don't you fucking dare put your hand under that coat!"
Well. It could have been worse.
If he'd remained stupid for another minute, you might have reached under his coat yourself and put a bullet into his stomach with his own gun.
He wasn't surprised. At last his subconscious forced its way forward, loudly pointing out that something had been wrong with you from the very beginning.
He glanced down at his fingers. A faint reddish smear marked one of them.
"Just let me leave, alright?!"
Your body was drawn tight as a bowstring. Back arched, stance ready. The pistol trembled before you in your outstretched hands like a shield. Your eyes burned wildly.
Tommy slowly raised both hands while getting to his feet.
"I said don't move!" you snarled, shaking the gun like a warning.
"You're not a professional," Tommy replied, as though that mattered right now. Still, he didn't risk pushing you further. "A professional would've already fired."
Not the slightest change crossed your face. Your posture remained tense, your lips stayed pressed into a thin line, your eyes tracked every movement he made.
Tommy examined the pistol.
"Familiar model. Not easy to aim with, love." He extended one hand and you immediately stepped back again, tightening your grip. "You're going to miss, so let's not be stu—"
The gunshot exploded through the room.
Tommy jerked backward as though someone had yanked his shoulder.
"FUCK!"
Pain tore through his nerves. He barely felt himself falling when you shoved past him and bolted out of the house.
That's what you get, his mind remarked to him dryly.
Clutching his shoulder, Tommy forced himself upright on a surge of adrenaline. Naturally, he wasn't hurrying after you.
As he moved deeper into the house, he wasn't surprised to find the motionless body of a heavyset middle-aged woman — Madam herself — lying in the bedroom he passed through on his way to the bathroom in search of a first-aid kit.
Thomas quickly found what he needed and carried the supplies back into the room with the corpse.
He also needed the telephone. But first he had to stop the bleeding.
Tommy dropped everything onto the large soft bed beside which the landlady lay. A pink pillow riddled with a hole rested nearby.
And in the blood-soaked fabric of her dress gaped a bullet wound.
Tommy hissed as he poured antiseptic over his injury, but his eyes kept returning to the body and the pillow.
The woman in the black dress.
A black dress so any blood that landed on it wouldn't show as easily. She'd fired through the pillow to muffle the shot.
Not a professional, but a clever girl all the same.
Tommy got to his feet and staggered toward the black telephone sitting atop an imposing dressing table. At first glance, the table merely looked messy, cluttered with scattered bits and bobs.
But when he reached the phone, he realized the table had actually been torn apart, as though a hurricane had swept through it.
The inner drawers had been pulled open and turned inside out, a key protruded from one of them.
Tommy picked up the receiver, noticing the single sheet of paper left inside the drawer with the key.
But his finger froze above the dial before touching the first number.
His gaze had caught on a name.
A crookedly written name buried among Madam's hurried handwriting.
you know all the words we’ve said
piled up in this home
like kindling, all of it so very ready
to burn. you could say—
well, I could say—it was inevitable.
the memory of our interlaced fingers
the last of many,
but still the last.
and when we scream our acid screams
ever louder, they are all lit matches,
they are all gasoline and tears.
and our house, our home, all we’ve had
together,
they are alight, they are aflame, they are
burning.
first a broken love; and in the end
a wildfire.
Summary: Grace is dead. His family curses his name, and Tommy is alone in the world.
He mends his newly broken heart with whiskey, cigarettes, and, of course, prostitutes. On one such evening, he makes his usual trip to a rented house, expecting a night of sex and oblivion. Instead of the woman he came for, he finds a stranger in a black dress.
She shoots him in the shoulder and disappears into the night without explanation.
Not that one is needed. Tommy soon finds the landlady's body in the house — and, more importantly, a letter suggesting that the murdered woman had been digging into both him and his late wife...
<-Previous Chapter. Masterlist. Next Chapter->
Dear K.,
You'll never believe what kind of fish has swum into my little corner.
The sky above Arrow House was clear and blue, covered in patterned clouds that a fresh, lively breeze drove across the open countryside.
Inside the house, it was stuffy despite all the windows standing open. Yellow sunlight poured over the rich black ink of the letter and unpleasantly stung the eyes.
The cigarette smoke Thomas kept breathing in instead of clean air had already begun to cloud his suffocating mind.
Yet Tom kept rereading the damned letter, denying himself and his body even a ten-minute walk through the garden while the weather was rare and good.
Not for the first time, you and I have landed a fat catch.
What had that bitch managed to dig up?
And let me tell you, all these gentry and rich women without titles are every bit as filthy and depraved as our highly respectable blue-blooded aristocracy.
Thomas Shelby could do many things.
Raise a woman from the grave wasn't one of them.
Once again, much to his disappointment.
Grace Helen Shelby. You've heard of the Shelbys, haven't you?
Tommy pushed his glasses higher up his nose. He was still getting used to the frame blurring at the edges of his vision. To the way they slipped down a little whenever sweat broke out on his skin.
Dropped dead at her own charity party! Nothing's sacred to people these days, is it?
Tommy clenched his jaw in helplessness.
Then again, what were the chances that money would've gone toward poor children? And even if it had, she'd probably have pocketed a share for herself.
Because he would never get the chance to strangle the old wretch with his own hands.
Or cut her eyes out.
I know the type. Those children will get more use out of her dead than they ever would've gotten out of her alive. At least this way the money will go where it's supposed to, if only for appearances' sake. But I got distracted. You've heard of her husband too.
Those were the words Tom read over and over again.
So then, the grieving husband mourns very deeply, emptying his balls into my girls once a week. And do you know something, my dear K.? What I've dug up on him could buy me a title of my own. I wonder, would old Lloyd George have sold me such a trifle if he were still in power? Really, how am I any worse than those Burgesses, or those Shelbys for that matter? Speaking of the Burgesses.
Because those lines made one thing painfully clear.
The ambitious madam knew enough to drag Grace's name through the mud after death.
I know exactly what happened to the American Burgess was married to before Shelby. Clive MacMillan, that one. And I've got proof.
Proof that had clearly been inside that drawer together with the letter reeking of sickly-sweet perfume.
You'll die when you hear it! But all in good time.
And which, Tommy had no doubt, now rested in the hands of the mysterious woman in black.
At the thought, his injured shoulder throbbed and Tommy let out a loud breath, his brows drawing together. He was lucky the bullet had gone clean through.
Then again, his shoulder was the least of his problems.
The huge, almost empty house was the least of his problems.
Loneliness was the greatest.
He snatched up the telephone receiver and quickly dialed the number, barely looking at the digits. Thomas had dialed it so many times over the past few days that it had settled into muscle memory.
"Johnny," Tom began without so much as a greeting, impatience ringing in his voice. "Well? Any news?"
There was no hope in him. He already knew the answer, because had anything changed, Johnny Dogs would've called himself. But sitting and waiting was unbearable. Constantly pestering people with calls was like smoking a cigarette - it drove the painful need away for a little while.
"We're looking, Tom!" Johnny answered reassuringly. "I haven't stopped searching, so don't worry, we'll find her. But maybe you should describe her to the coppers, eh, Tom? Might make things easier..."
"No, no..." Tommy mumbled uncertainly. Somewhere at the back of his mind wandered the thought that involving the police would only make things worse. The stranger hadn't struck him as stupid, and he felt that rushing into drastic measures wasn't the best idea. "Later, if... if you don't find her. Keep looking."
Thomas didn't wait for a reply. He hung up and pushed his glasses onto his forehead to rub his aching eyes.
Perhaps if Arthur were here, he'd help Johnny speed things up.
Perhaps if John were here, he'd put in a word with Esme and she'd bring the Lees into it.
And if Polly were here, she'd give him advice. She'd find a way to quiet the storm raging in his chest.
But they weren't here.
They were scattered across England. Gone in every direction.
Trying to get as far away from him as possible.
"Daddy?"
Tommy flinched.
Only Charlie's small voice could break through the leaden clouds swirling inside his mind.
What kind of future awaited the boy if his mother's name became stained with disgrace?..
Thomas turned toward his son as the little boy toddled over to his chair on his tiny legs. Without a second thought, he picked him up and settled him on his lap.
"You're so sad, Daddy," the child babbled in his childish, clumsy way, stumbling over words as his little hands grabbed the lapel of the charcoal-grey jacket.
Tommy tried to smile. But he couldn't.
Funny how observant children could be compared to adults.
"I'm just tired, Charlie," Thomas answered, gently patting his son's cheek.
"You're always tired," Charles noted, studying his father's half-lidded pale blue eyes with his own clear ones. "Is that why you never come?"
The question stabbed Tommy in the heart, and he rose to his feet with Charlie in his arms.
To get away from the damned letter.
To somehow make up for the guilt gnawing at his insides.
Toward his son. And toward Grace.
Perhaps he didn't fully realize it.
But it was guilt that guided him across the room, away from the desk, away from the study.
"I'm sorry, son," he said as he walked. "I promise I'll rest more often."
But he already knew he wouldn't keep that promise.
And so he never forced out a smile.
These rich fuckers think we're furniture, my dear K. And that fancy Shelby, who killed God knows how many people, who drugs his own horses to win races, who made a fortune off betting, that damned street gypsy who clawed his way up into society, is no exception. With everything I've got on him, he'll have to start sharing. Risky, I know, but everything comes at a price, and he'll pay it if he's not a fool.
Still, I've only just begun. Who knows what else I'll find on that thieving family. Besides them, I've got plenty of other fish with dirty, juicy little secrets.
***
You couldn't sleep.
Days of suspicion, streets too dark, and constant glances over your shoulder pressed down on your mind, driving sleep away. All you'd managed was a colorless doze. One foot of your mind remained in sleepless darkness, but otherwise you heard the sounds of Birmingham outside the window perfectly clearly and knew that any odd noise would tear through the thin film of weak oblivion and make your eyes snap open at once.
This couldn't go on.
Sitting up in bed and letting out a heavy sigh, you rubbed your forehead, as though that could somehow loosen paranoia's grip around your mind.
You'd almost made it.
The yellowed pages bearing names you knew all too well, and the past hanging over your neck like an axe, had crumbled easily in the tiny flame of a candle.
So little had been needed to break the chains Madam had bound you with through blackmail and her insatiable greed.
Only instead of freedom, there was powder beneath your feet, scattered for miles.
And in your hands burned the matches.
Other people's papers. Other people's names.
Other people's freedom and well-being, hidden beneath your own like sticky quicksand, dragging you deeper with every step.
And those names carried weight tons heavier than yours.
You cast an empty glance at the plain, tasteless table where your handbag lay, the one you'd miraculously managed to snatch before fleeing from that damned Peaky Blinder.
No. Worse. Their leader. Their mind and will.
It wasn't curiosity that drove you to open the documents once you realized what exactly you possessed.
You felt it was a necessity.
Besides, you were looking for your own letters.
You had opened a treasure trove, but the realization brought little joy to you.
For what you'd found there, they would level your whole life to the ground.
It wasn't only Thomas Shelby's secrets the landlady had kept, but he worried you more than the others now.
Because you'd shot him.
You had shot the most powerful gangster in Birmingham and run, leaving him to bleed.
He knew what you looked like. Did you stand any chance now?
At the time, it seemed to you that had you killed him, you wouldn't have lived to see the end of the week.
Not to mention what you'd read about him in Madam's papers...
Not just letters. Documents too.
Records of detectives who'd poked their noses into Peaky Blinders business and been dealt with.
Reports from veterinarians who'd been paid to keep the condition of Shelby horses secret.
The suicide note of a certain Clive MacMillan.
And judging by what was written in it, he'd taken his own life because of Mr. Shelby's now deceased wife.
And much more besides. Enough to have people hunting you day and night.
Your eyes darted toward the corner of the room. Once again, your peripheral vision had deceived you, turning another shadow into the silhouette of someone in a heavy coat.
As though someone stood there waiting for you to finally notice him.
The web only seemed to spread and thicken, slowly weaving itself into silvery nooses.
And those nooses would fit many necks. Including yours.
Now, after that cursed night. And that unexpected, unwelcome meeting.
Perhaps Shelby didn't know what had been piling up inside the locked drawer of Madam's desk, and what now rested on the table in your shabby little flat. Perhaps he wasn't even looking for you, and all those men in identical hats who frightened you in the evenings, making you take the long way home, had been nothing more than ordinary passersby, unaware of your troubles.
But optimism would be a great foolishness in your situation.
Whether he knew or not, you'd shot him.
And all that dirt you'd stolen while escaping your own might be your only shield against a certain death in some deep ditch, where no one would hear you and no one would find you.
But if he didn't know—
He could always find out.
And when he did...
You jumped to your feet as though burned. The imaginary powder flared up, and you hurried to the window, your subconscious urging you to check the streets for suspicious loiterers.
You needed a plan.
Even though you possessed the weaknesses of the infamous Thomas Shelby, your chances of climbing out of this new swamp without getting soaked and hurt were slim.
You needed something wild. Something unpredictable.
But by some cruel law, when the need was greatest, the mind was useless.
Sweat broke out on your temples, as though the heat of the candle was still licking at your letters, carrying away every word sacrificed for your safety.
…Dear Miss L/N. It is with deep regret that we inform you…
Warnings: Slowburn. Violence. Sex. Dark. Angst. Crime and criminals. Swearing. Spoilers for the show. AU. My english. My cringe knowlege. Use of Y/N. To be added.
Reader: Fem and she is a survivor in this one. I'll do my best to leave freedom for interpretation for the reader's character, whether it is race, appearance, past, etc., but since this is a series some things will be set in stone.
Author's Note: I despise Grace, but I believe he genuinely loved her without transaction. Not exactly her — more a version of her that he idealized, and subconsciously he loved her fake barmaid persona, not the real her, but consciously he thinks he loved her, and now, after her death, he's put her on a pedestal because their relationship hadn't yet been tested by marriage and the conflicts were still unresolved, so I'll write based on that. Also not gonna lie - the continuation will depend on traction. I'm stretching thin and I prefer to prioritize my "One last time" series.
Summary: Grace is dead. His family curses his name, and Tommy is alone in the world.
He mends his newly broken heart with whiskey, cigarettes, and, of course, prostitutes. On one such evening, he makes his usual trip to a rented house, expecting a night of sex and oblivion. Instead of the woman he came for, he finds a stranger in a black dress.
She shoots him in the shoulder and disappears into the night without explanation.
Not that one is needed. Tommy soon finds the landlady's body in the house — and, more importantly, a letter suggesting that the murdered woman had been digging into both him and his late wife...
Summary: Grace is dead. His family curses his name, and Tommy is alone in the world.
He mends his newly broken heart with whiskey, cigarettes, and, of course, prostitutes. On one such evening, he makes his usual trip to a rented house, expecting a night of sex and oblivion. Instead of the woman he came for, he finds a stranger in a black dress.
She shoots him in the shoulder and disappears into the night without explanation.
Not that one is needed. Tommy soon finds the landlady's body in the house — and, more importantly, a letter suggesting that the murdered woman had been digging into both him and his late wife...
AO3: Here
Wattpad: Here
<-Previous Chapter. Masterlist. Next Chapter->
"I did nothing. This is... a strange one, Tommy."
The voices beyond the door were muffled, but the men weren't whispering. Their silhouettes were hopelessly blurred behind the frosted glass.
"What do you mean, Johnny?"
Johnny had offered you a seat while you waited to be called in.
But you couldn't sit.
"She came here herself!"
Silence settled beyond the door for a brief moment.
Your back tensed.
"Then show her in, Johnny."
The door opened, and you stepped inside the office of Mr. Thomas Michael Shelby — the very place you'd demanded Johnny Dogs take you after walking up to him in broad daylight, much to his surprise.
As though he hadn't been looking for you all over the city for the past couple of days.
Johnny Dogs barely had time to open his mouth before you cautiously stepped forward, coming to stand before his boss in your plain, practical clothes.
He sat behind his desk, both hands planted on the papers scattered across it. He looked you over with an unreadable expression before giving a small nod in your direction.
"Search her."
You bit your lip to suppress an unwanted smile. It seemed he'd learned his lesson well after what had happened at Madam's house.
"I, uh... right."
Johnny hesitated, but obeyed.
You slowly raised your hands, never taking your eyes off the icy blue ones boring straight through you.
Johnny's hands quickly searched your body as a heavy silence settled over the room.
"Nothing, Tom," he announced at last.
"Nothing at all?" Shelby asked, without looking away from you.
"Nothing at all."
You noticed the emphasis. Or perhaps your paranoia did.
Truth be told, you'd come up with your wild plan. But you had almost no hope it would actually work.
"Sit." Thomas gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. "Johnny stays," he added, speaking more to Johnny Dogs than to you.
You didn't turn toward his companion.
Still holding Shelby's gaze, you sat down opposite him and folded your hands neatly on your lap.
You noticed the muscle standing out along his clenched jaw.
He noticed your rigid, perfectly straight back.
"I heard you've been looking for me."
You spoke first, acutely aware of Johnny Dogs' eyes fixed on your shoulders.
"You hid well," Thomas acknowledged, taking two cigarettes from his silver case.
He offered one to you.
You gave a brief shake of your head. You were far too focused to allow yourself even the slightest chance to relax.
Thomas left the cigarette on the edge of the desk. Your refusal was another observation worth noting.
Just like the silences that kept settling between you.
You were visibly tense, yet you weren't begging. You weren't making offers.
You kept your mouth shut.
And Tommy—
No.
The two of you—
Both seemed to know why.
Neither of you wanted to reveal what you knew.
Every card stayed buried deep inside its owner's sleeve.
Thomas folded his hands on the desk.
"So why have you come to see me, Miss Y/L/N?" he began, taking the long way around.
"Because you would've found me sooner or later," you answered simply.
You both knew it was true.
The Peaky Blinders would've searched every house in Birmingham. Twice, if they had to.
You didn't have much time. And you didn't have many options.
So your plan was utterly insane.
But compared to all the sensible ones, it was the only one that, in your eyes, offered a real chance.
Tommy blinked instead of nodding.
"And you're not afraid I'll simply put a bullet through your forehead and have Johnny bury you somewhere outside the city?"
He spoke in an even voice, devoid of either anger or threat.
"If that had been your plan, you would've done it already," you replied, forcing confidence into your voice.
Johnny could've led you into an alley instead of bringing you into this austere office and put a knife between your ribs if Thomas Shelby had had nothing to discuss with you.
But you couldn't be certain. You had no choice but to gamble.
Shelby's lips twitched in a faint, joyless smile.
He looked away and rubbed his palms together.
Then, with a mechanical motion, he drew a pistol from beneath his jacket, cocked it, and aimed the barrel straight at your face.
Your lips trembled.
Your hands crushed the fabric of your skirt in your lap.
Your eyes darted frantically between the man's face and certain death staring at you from the darkness of the barrel.
"Better late than never, eh?"
Thomas tilted his head ever so slightly, studying your face with detached curiosity.
Tension gripped everyone in the room except him.
You could feel Johnny's gaze shifting between you and Shelby. It even seemed you heard his lips part, as though to exhale — or to say something.
Sweat ran down your back.
Your mind desperately searched for words inside an empty head.
But you never looked away from Tommy.
Your lips parted. You wanted to speak.
To start bargaining.
To finally get to the point!..
But your throat betrayed you. It closed.
"You're tough," Tommy concluded before slowly lowering the pistol.
You wouldn't have agreed. Your eyes were already filling with tears.
You'd frozen like a little animal caught in a hunter's sights, and only that paralysis saved you from bursting into humiliating sobs.
"I've seen men twice your age piss themselves standing where you are."
Thomas uncocked the pistol, holstered it beneath his jacket, and looked at you again.
You quickly wiped at your eyes.
"You read them?" Shelby lowered his gaze. The muscle pulsed once more along his clenched jaw.
You knew perfectly well what he meant.
"Yes..." you answered quietly, your nerves still burning in your frightened brain.
"So what is it you want, love?" Thomas looked back up at you. From beneath lowered brows. Watching you very carefully.
The moment of truth.
What did you want in exchange for his letters?
Safety.
Something he couldn't guarantee.
You could’ve disappear. But they'd dig you up—
Only to bury you again. Alive.
You'd never know where the blow would come from.
And you didn't have many friends willing to put themselves in harm's way and stand between you and the Peaky Blinders.
You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees and clasping your hands before your face.
"If anything happens to me," you began.
Your eyes met Tommy Shelby's with a sharpness no one had dared direct at him in a very long time.
"Then what you're looking for will be in every newspaper in England before you've even finished burying me."
Going to the police was suicide. Everyone in Birmingham knew the coppers here served anyone but the Crown.
"If you try looking behind my back, the result will be the same."
Your wild, insane plan.
Perhaps there were better ones. Safer ones.
But you hadn't had the time to come up with them.
You'd come to the conclusion that only publicity could protect you.
But running straight to the BBC or newspapers was dangerous too. The Peaky Blinders could simply snatch you up and force you to take your words back.
"I do have one condition."
You drew a quiet breath.
"And I ask that you don't take it as a joke."
There was only one place where you could remain in plain sight. One place where people would ask questions if you suddenly disappeared.
Thomas gave a small nod, encouraging you to continue.
A place where you would matter.
Where you couldn't simply be dragged away, quietly killed, and forgotten.
Especially not by the Peaky Blinders.
You slipped the dull ring from your finger. A worthless little trinket. Not every pawnshop would've taken it.
With a light movement of your fingers, you set it down beside the untouched cigarette on the desk, then gave it a small flick toward Tommy Shelby.
It lightly tapped against his fingers before coming to a stop.
Summary: Grace is dead. His family curses his name, and Tommy is alone in the world.
He mends his newly broken heart with whiskey, cigarettes, and, of course, prostitutes. On one such evening, he makes his usual trip to a rented house, expecting a night of sex and oblivion. Instead of the woman he came for, he finds a stranger in a black dress.
She shoots him in the shoulder and disappears into the night without explanation.
Not that one is needed. Tommy soon finds the landlady's body in the house — and, more importantly, a letter suggesting that the murdered woman had been digging into both him and his late wife...
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The sour smell of sweat mingled with the bitter haze of cigarette smoke.
It might as well have been another pub. Only here, the sweat was stronger than the smoke.
Thomas pulled the collar of his overcoat a little higher and adjusted the fedora on his head. Just enough to look anonymous, with the brim casting a shadow over his eyes while leaving his jaw visible. Not too suspicious, but inconspicuous enough — exactly how brothel patrons usually tried to appear.
Tommy knew he was taking a risk.
"She's waiting for you in here," announced a short, round woman who somehow managed to move much faster than him despite her tiny steps.
Tommy didn't need to answer.
The door groaned open. Like a porter, the woman held it aside for him, granting passage into a small room crowded with furniture. He stepped inside without a word, not even sparing his guide a passing glance.
The arrangement was fairly standard.
A desk against the right wall. A large double bed against the left. A window ahead, veiled by lace curtains and, for now, open drapes.
Everything plain and cheap.
And on the bed, facing him, sat a woman in a short nightdress.
Wheat-blonde hair. Greenish eyes.
"Mr. Shelby!" she greeted, rising from the bed.
"Stella," he returned with a brief nod.
She seemed surprised he remembered her name. He almost smirked.
But she recovered quickly and stepped closer, slender fingers already beginning to play with the buttons of his shirt, fastened all the way to the throat.
Her eyes lowered. Her hands moved automatically, following a well-rehearsed script.
"No."
He gently removed her hand and walked past her.
Pulling out a chair, he sat down instead of taking a seat on the bed.
He kept his coat on. Kept his hat on, too.
"I came to talk," he added before she could worry she'd done something wrong.
But his next words frightened her anyway.
"About Madame."
Stella visibly swayed and lowered herself onto the edge of the bed.
"We're all mourning—"
Tommy couldn't help snorting.
"Don't talk nonsense."
The sharpness in his tone silenced her immediately.
"We had an arrangement the night she died. But you weren't at the house." Tommy's voice evened out again.
Stella twisted her hands nervously.
"It wasn't me, I didn't—"
"I know. Why weren't you there?"
Thomas looked her directly in the eye.
Perhaps for the first time in all their "meetings."
"I arrived at the appointed time, but there was a woman there..." Stella began.
"In a black dress?"
"Y-yes." She wiped her damp forehead. "She seemed nervous. Said Madame was furious and gave me a note with an address. Said Madame wanted me to go there instead and that the client had already been informed..."
Tommy leaned back in his chair.
"And does Madame often send notes?"
"Actually, yes." Stella nodded eagerly. "No signature, no addressee, but we all knew her handwriting."
No signature. No addressee.
So the mistress had become so tangled in her own schemes that she'd overlooked an important detail.
The note you'd handed Stella to redirect her from the house could have worked on practically anyone.
It wasn't difficult to guess that Madame had originally written the address for you, and you'd simply passed the scrap of paper to the prostitute as though it had been meant for her all along.
"At first I was scared. I thought about checking with Madame so I wouldn't get punished if that girl had lied to me. But after hearing that Madame was angry, and seeing the address..."
Madame had been a vicious woman. That much was clear.
And you'd used her subordinate's fear against her.
"I had a bad feeling about the whole thing, honestly..."
And for good reason.
Tommy leaned forward.
Resting his elbows on his knees, he folded his hands before his face.
"So I decided not to argue and just leave."
"Do you know this woman? Had you seen her before?"
The girl nodded.
"Not that we ever really spoke. But I'd seen her with Madame a couple of times."
Tommy rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.
And this was where his questions for you began.
You'd worn black so blood wouldn't show on your clothes.
You'd fired through a pillow so the shot wouldn't alarm the neighborhood.
But you'd left a witness behind.
Had you not known a whore and her client were on their way to that cat house?
It wouldn't have been surprising. Madame was greedy enough to deal with you quickly while refusing to change or cancel a paid appointment.
She could already have been dead when Stella arrived.
Or slowly bleeding out in the next room.
Tommy had probably missed the prostitute by only a matter of minutes.
But you could have killed her.
If you had, he wouldn't be speaking to anyone now.
Yet you hadn't.
Had the coppers investigated the case, they would've reached you easily enough and named you the prime suspect.
"Do you still have the note with the address?"
Stella nodded, rose from the bed, and crossed to her handbag hanging from a hook on the wall.
Why hadn't you killed her?
Perhaps if Tommy himself hadn't become your problem, you would've found her later.
Convinced her to leave.
Maybe frightened her.
Maybe paid her.
But he had entered your life and disrupted every plan you might have made.
Tommy carefully accepted the tiny scrap of paper from her hands. There was barely enough room on it for a few lines.
Sure enough.
No names. Nothing.
No unnecessary words beyond the address itself.
Tommy stood, and the girl rose with him.
He folded the note and tucked it carefully into an inner pocket of his coat.
From another inner pocket, he withdrew a thick roll of cash.
"One last question. Do you know who K. is?"
Stella's gaze fixed on the bundle of banknotes, but she shook her head weakly.
"No. But we've heard that initial before... Madame always called them simply K. Funny, isn't it?"
She offered a nervous smile. Tommy didn't return it.
He merely nodded.
"Funny indeed."
He held out the money.
"Forget this conversation. And forget this place. Pack your things and leave. Today."
Stella's eyes darted anxiously across his face. She parted her lips to speak, but Tommy gently touched her chin with two fingers.
His grip was soft. But firm.
The gesture wasn't meant to intimidate.
"It's a dirty story, and I can't guarantee your safety."
A pause.
"Can't guarantee anyone's."
The words carried a double meaning, but Tommy knew Stella wouldn't see Grace's reflection in his eyes.
"You'd be better off getting out of here. What I've given you is enough to start over."
His gaze lingered on her for a moment.
"Without having to sink in filth."
Then he let her go.
And walked out without another word, waiting for neither thanks nor farewells.
***
You occupied the most visible spot at the bar in «the Garrison».
The sun had dipped below the horizon, surrendering its post to the lamps and streetlights whose glow caught on your new jewelry and makeup, bathing you in amber light.
Your dress, also new, gleamed against your body, drinking in the evening glow.
You sat in a carefully practiced state of ease, surveying the room through lowered lashes, trying to catch how often people looked your way and what sort of patrons surrounded you.
The best-dressed and most pleasant-looking among them received your smiles.
All while you hid your exhaustion and concentration behind that feigned languor.
"Yeah, the Shelby brothers stopped coming around here a long time ago."
But most of your attention remained fixed on the barman's words.
"No idea what happened between them. None of my business," he said with a polite smile, though his tone betrayed a reluctance to involve himself in the owners' darker affairs.
"Tommy doesn't talk much about it..." you nodded.
Truthfully, you knew almost nothing yourself, but you were trying to learn whatever you could, twisting and weaving through conversations, choosing your words carefully.
"I can imagine. He's not exactly a talkative bloke." The barman nodded as well.
He never looked directly at you, remaining intensely focused on polishing glasses.
Almost conspicuously so.
As if he feared that if he wasn't visibly busy while speaking with you, you'd report it to Tommy. As if he couldn't refuse to talk to you, but couldn't stop working to do so either.
Of course, there was always a chance you were imagining it...
"You'd be better off asking Harry Fenton about that. He knew them better than most. Trouble is, he quit."
You memorized the name.
"And sailed off to Ireland."
...Apparently for nothing.
You could ask whether the barman had a telephone number for him, but that would probably seem too suspicious.
Gradually, you told yourself. You could always ask later.
Yet something inside you remained uneasy.
Anything could go wrong.
At any moment, the barman might tell Tommy you were poking around in his secrets.
"A bottle of gin, please!"
You flinched sharply.
Lost in thought, staring down at the stained wood of the counter, you'd relaxed without noticing, and the sudden voice of a woman appearing beside the barman made your entire body jump and tense.
The newcomer dropped onto the stool beside yours without ceremony, and your skin prickled at once.
"Right away, Mrs. Thorne!" the barman replied dutifully, turning toward the towering cabinet of bottles behind him. The woman pointed out the label she wanted.
"I'm Ada, by the way," she informed you, lounging comfortably on her barstool. "I've heard quite a bit about you."
That statement immediately captured your full attention.
"Interesting," you replied with a smile, carefully studying the newcomer.
Her clothes. Her jewelry. She looked very well-off.
"Seems you're well known around here," you added, nodding toward the bustling barman.
"Something like that." The woman released a weary breath.
Despite her lively introduction, she showed little interest in idle chatter.
"And what exactly have you heard about me?" you pressed, gently steering her toward revelations. She seemed worth studying.
"Only good things, don't worry," she smiled.
A predictable answer. And a frustrating one.
You sighed as well, feeling the conversation slipping through your fingers, and took a sip from your glass.
"For example, your influence on Tommy Shelby," Ada suddenly added. "People say he's changed since meeting you."
Interesting choice of words, you noted.
"It's mutual," you said, forcing a bashful smile.
"He's very secretive, isn't he?" she asked, and you immediately perked up.
"Yes. Sometimes..." You spoke carefully into your nearly empty glass, your voice echoing faintly off its sides. "Sometimes I think he doesn't fully trust me."
You glanced up at her.
"Are you a friend of his?"
This time you studied Mrs. Thorne more openly.
Bright blue eyes. Thick dark hair. Fair skin.
And most importantly, a direct, unwavering stare.
The physical similarities could have been coincidence, but the way she looked at people—
That, you instinctively attributed to family.
Ada pulled a crooked smile.
It was the only answer you got.
She was studying your behavior too, and you realized she was reading you just as carefully as you were reading her.
"You'd be better off heading home. It's already too dark and too dangerous for a woman. The workers will start pouring in soon, and after a hard day's work they don't tend to think with their heads," she said.
It wasn't a threat.
But apparently she'd learned what she wanted from you, even though the entire conversation had consisted mostly of circling each other with words and taking each other's measure.
Ada grabbed her bottle and slipped easily off the stool.
She gave both you and the barman a nod, then headed for the exit.
She neither hurried nor lingered.
Which was curious, considering her warning —
She clearly wasn't afraid of dangerous men herself.
You watched her go, sighed, and reached for your purse.
But the barman raised his hands.
"Mr. Shelby said it's on the house," he informed you.
You nodded and decided not to linger.
If Ada Thorne was who you thought she was, it was easy enough to understand why she wasn't afraid of the dark.
But you still hadn't found any powerful, important friends who could strengthen your position in Birmingham.
People whose names alone would keep trouble away from your door.
No matter how hard you'd tried to find them today within your “fiancé's” territory.
Well.
The evening hadn't been a complete waste.
You would remember Ada.
And Harry Fenton.
And the looks from the patrons that would turn into rumours by tomorrow.
Pulling on your coat, you offered the barman a polite goodbye.
