Ash and Amaretto | Thomas Shelby
The night was quiet—too quiet for a city that thrummed with sin and smoke.
Viviana Sabini sat alone in her hotel room, her only company a dog-eared book and her cat, Cecil, whose white fur gleamed faintly in the candlelight. He sprawled at the foot of her bed, batting lazily at the lace sheets, the tip of his tail twitching with mischief. The faint tick of the wall clock marked the hour, but time felt like a ghost here—sluggish, untrustworthy.
She had never liked Birmingham.
It was a place that stank of coal and sweat, where the sky seemed forever bruised and the air was heavy with things unsaid. The city had no perfume, no pulse of beauty beneath its grime. It was nothing like London, where even the rain seemed perfumed—softened by roses and chatter spilling from riverside cafés. London sang. Birmingham brooded.
There were no street musicians here, no laughter spilling from corner pubs. Only the distant clang of metal, the coughing breath of factories, and the echo of boots on wet stone.Birmingham was a city of men who mistook cruelty for strength— A place where grief was stitched into suits and violence smelled like expensive cologne.
Her brother, Darby, had called it a city for wolves. And yet here she was—dragged along like a doll to a place that gnawed at her calm. Her pale chiffon dress, her lace gloves, her silk ribbons—they didn't belong here. She looked like a ghost misplaced in a world of steel and smoke. Darby had said, "I don't trust London without you."
But Viviana knew the truth.
It wasn't trust. It was possession.
She was the soft thing he used to remind himself he was human. The fragile, untouchable relic he guarded as though her very existence could wash the blood from his hands.
Tonight, she could not sleep.
The house they had claimed for the night was old and creaked like a ship at sea. The silence felt alive, whispering between the walls. Darby had gone hours ago, his voice echoing in her mind, "Time those Shelby bastards learned who they're dealing with."
The Shelbys.
Even their name tasted of gunpowder.
Viviana didn't know much about them, only that their shadows reached long through Birmingham's veins, and that her brother's men spoke their name like a curse. The same men who had torched her brother's beloved Eden Club not a week ago, reducing it to ashes and whiskey fumes.
She rose when the clock struck twelve. The air was cold, brushing against her skin like a warning. Pulling a shawl around her shoulders, she slipped out into the fog.
The streets were slick with rain, the cobblestones glistening like wet glass. Lamps burned weakly in the mist, their light bending and breaking through the fog. The city slept, but not peacefully—there was always something moving beneath its skin.
Viviana walked without purpose, humming an old Italian lullaby her mother used to sing when thunder scared her. The melody trembled on her lips, soft as breath.
Then she saw him.
At first, he was nothing but a shadow—a heap of darkness at the edge of the street. She might have walked past him if not for the faint, broken sound that followed: a low, guttural groan.
Her steps faltered.
The fog curled around him like a shroud, and for a heartbeat, she thought him dead. Then he moved.
Her breath caught.
He was a man—crumpled, half-curled, one arm bent awkwardly beneath him. His coat was soaked in blood, the crimson blooming like dark flowers across his chest.
Viviana approached slowly, her boots echoing softly. "Signore...?" she whispered, the word trembling in her throat, wrapped in her Italian accent.
No answer.
She knelt, the hem of her dress sinking into the puddles, and touched his shoulder. His body flinched beneath her hand, a shudder more instinct than awareness.
When she turned his face toward the light, she almost recoiled. His cheek was split open, his lip torn, his temple bleeding freely. His hat lay several feet away, crushed in the mud.
"Oh, Dio mio..." she breathed. Her gloved hand pressed gently against his wound, the white lace immediately stained with red. "Don't move. Please—don't move."
But the man disobeyed even in ruin. His eyes flickered open—ice blue, startling, unrelenting even through the fog of pain.
For a moment, she forgot everything—the cold, the rain, even the blood between them.
He was beautiful, but not in any way the world would forgive. His beauty was carved from storms and ash. It was the beauty of a man made from fire and kept alive by fury.
"Who...?" he rasped, voice low, cracked with exhaustion.
"Don't speak," she whispered. "You're hurt."
She looked around desperately—no soul in sight—and ran toward the public telephone booth. Her fingers shook as she dialed for help, her voice breaking as she begged for an ambulance.
When she returned, he was still watching her. His gaze was heavy, unreadable, like he could see something inside her that even she had forgotten.
"Stay," he said, his voice barely a whisper, but there was command in it—something that made her obey without question.
So she did.
She sat beside him, pressing the soaked handkerchief to his temple. The rain fell softly, making tiny ripples in the puddles near them. Neither spoke again, as though words would break the strange, fragile spell between them.
When the ambulance arrived, she refused to leave him. The medics protested, but she climbed in beside him anyway, her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. The vehicle lurched forward, and she kept her eyes on the blood staining her gloves, unsure why she couldn't look away.
She didn't even know his name.
At the hospital, the corridors reeked of antiseptic and wet stone. Viviana sat outside the operating room, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles whitened. Hours passed. Nurses whispered. Someone asked if she was family. She only shook her head.
When the doctor finally stepped out, peeling off his gloves, she stood so fast her chair scraped against the floor.
"Will he live?" she asked, her voice quiet but urgent, eyes wide with something she couldn't name.
The doctor sighed. "He's lost a lot of blood. A few broken ribs, deep cuts—but he's strong. He'll live."
For the first time that night, Viviana exhaled.
The air left her lungs in a shaky, almost disbelieving breath. Relief washed over her like the warmth of a sun she hadn't realized she was missing.
And she didn't know why it mattered so much—
why a stranger's survival felt like something more than mercy,
like fate had just begun to stir.
The next day, she returned.
She told herself it was only to make sure he was recovering—nothing more.
A simple act of decency.
A courtesy.
A thing a person with a conscience would do.
And yet, when she reached the small hospital tucked between two gray brick buildings, something inside her thrummed, low and uncertain. Her reflection in the window looked too careful, too deliberate. She adjusted her gloves twice before stepping inside.
The nurse at the desk barely glanced up when Viviana asked for him. "Mr. Shelby's room, third on the left," she said.
Mr. Shelby. The name meant nothing to her yet, though it soon would.
The air smelled faintly of smoke and antiseptic—an oddly fitting combination for Birmingham. She walked quietly, the click of her heels muffled by the worn linoleum floor.
Then she saw him.
He sat propped against the headboard, shirt half-unbuttoned to accommodate the bandages winding around his ribs. The light from the window fell across his face, and for a moment she forgot he was supposed to be the villain in her brother's story. His jaw was bruised in shades of violet and blue, his hair slightly damp, curling faintly against his forehead.
A cigarette burned between his fingers, the smoke coiling upward in slow, silver spirals.
He looked utterly out of place in that clean white room—like sin trapped in linen.
Viviana froze by the doorframe, her breath catching as his eyes lifted to meet hers. Cold blue, sharp as broken glass.
"You," he said, voice rough but steady now, each word dragged through gravel.
She clutched the bouquet of pale yellow flowers tighter. They suddenly felt ridiculous in her hands—fragile, foolish things among all this steel and smoke.
"Me," she managed softly. "I came to see if you were... better."
For a long moment, he just stared at her. Then, slowly, he smirked.
"Why?"
The word lingered between them, edged in both suspicion and amusement.
Viviana hesitated, her lips parting, then closing again. She wasn't sure herself. Why, indeed.
"Because..." she began, her voice uncertain, "no one else was there."
It wasn't the full truth, but it was the kindest version she could think of.
Tommy studied her for a moment longer, his eyes dissecting her with quiet precision. He exhaled a slow drag of smoke, the movement lazy but deliberate, like everything he did was meant to be watched. Then, flicking ash into the tray, he leaned forward slightly.
"You don't know who I am, do you?"
She blinked. "No."
Something unreadable flickered across his face—half amusement, half disbelief.
"Good," he muttered. "Keep it that way."
He turned his gaze away then, but not before she caught the faintest curve of his mouth—a ghost of a smile, like he found her ignorance almost charming.
Viviana wasn't sure if she should feel insulted or relieved.
For a moment, silence fell between them again, filled only by the faint hum of the lights above and the distant rattle of a trolley wheel. She looked down at the flowers, then back up at him.
"Should I... leave these here?" she asked, gesturing awkwardly with the bouquet.
He glanced at the flowers as though they were an alien species. "If you want. I won't stop you."
"Well, that's comforting," she murmured, setting them down on the nightstand. "I'll sleep better knowing you approved of the floral arrangement."
His head tilted slightly, and there was the smallest sound—half a breath, half a laugh—that escaped him before he looked away again.
Then the nurse entered.
She carried a clipboard and a calm voice, the kind that had seen far too much. "All right, Mr. Shelby," she said, scribbling something down. "How's the pain today?"
"Manageable."
"Good. Keep resting, no visitors past six."
The word Mr. Shelby landed like a stone in the quiet.
Viviana froze. Her pulse stumbled, and her gaze darted back to him.
Shelby.
The name fell heavy in her mind, connecting swiftly, violently, to her brother's words the night before.
Those Shelby bastards.
Her heart sank.
He saw the realization unfold in her expression, and the faintest glimmer of amusement—dark, knowing—crossed his face.
"Ah," Tommy said softly, "now you know."
Viviana's fingers tightened around her shawl. "You—" she began, her voice low, a little breathless, "you're the one Darby—"
"—tried to kill?" he finished for her, tone flat, almost bored. "Aye. Seems he failed."
The audacity of it left her speechless.
Her brother had nearly murdered this man, and here she was, standing in his hospital room with flowers and guilt and a very confused cat waiting at home.
She wanted to say something dignified, something intelligent, something not completely absurd.
Instead, she muttered, "You don't look like someone easy to kill."
That earned her a faint, crooked smile. "And you don't look like someone who visits enemies in hospitals."
Viviana exhaled through her nose, flustered but trying not to show it. "Yes, well, I suppose we both have surprises to offer."
He looked at her for a long, silent moment, then leaned back against the pillows, eyes still fixed on her. "You've got your brother's eyes," he murmured. "Same sharpness. Same trouble."
She frowned, unsure if that was an insult or not. "You know, most people would say thank you when someone brings them flowers."
He smirked. "Most people don't bring flowers to men who blew up their brother's club."
Touché.
Her jaw clenched, but she almost laughed. It was absurd—standing there, trading dry remarks with the man her brother had gone to war with.
She glanced at the bruises on his jaw, the bandages beneath his shirt, the faint tremor in his hand as he reached for another cigarette.
"This wasn't part of your plan, was it?" she asked softly.
He raised a brow. "Getting beaten half to death? No. I had other things on my schedule."
"Good to know," she murmured, crossing her arms. "Next time, maybe try diplomacy."
His mouth twitched. "I'll consider it."
For a brief moment, their gazes met again—sharp, searching, and strangely human.
Viviana sighed, stepping back toward the door. "Well. I suppose I've done my good deed for the day. I'll let you return to your... criminal recovery."
He smirked faintly. "You always talk like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're trying not to care."
Her lips parted, but no words came.
And for a second, neither of them moved. The silence between them thickened, stretched thin, almost fragile.
Then she turned away, her heart too loud in her chest. "Rest, Mr. Shelby," she said quietly, hand on the doorframe. "Don't make me regret bringing you flowers."
As she left, his voice followed her, low and almost amused.
"Too late for that."
The days bled together in the soft quiet of the hospital—each one folding into the next, carrying the rhythm of rain against glass and the faint ticking of the clock above Tommy Shelby's bed.
He hated hospitals.
Hated the smell of them—the sharp sting of disinfectant that clung to his throat. Hated the hush, the careful footsteps, the pity in the nurses' eyes.
They treated him like a wounded bird, unaware that if he had wings, they were barbed with wire.
Tommy Shelby was many things: a soldier, a businessman, a sinner dressed in fine wool. He'd crawled through mud and fire, had watched men turn to ghosts in the trenches, and somehow kept walking.
But fragile? No.
He'd left fragility in France, buried in the same soil that had swallowed his youth.
And yet here he was—ribs wrapped, head stitched, body heavy with pain and morphine—forced into stillness.
The first day after he woke, he expected solitude. He expected silence.
Instead, she returned.
Viviana Sabini slipped into the room like a whisper, bringing warmth that didn't belong within those whitewashed walls. She carried a small tray covered in linen, her lace gloves folded neatly at her wrist. Her dress was a pale rose that caught the dull afternoon light, and her hair, soft and curled, was braided over her left shoulder.
She smiled at him the way sunlight filters through fog—tentative, but impossibly bright.
"I thought," she said softly, setting the tray down, "you might be tired of hospital food."
Tommy watched her, cigarette balanced between his fingers, the smoke spiraling upward like a prayer that had lost its faith.
When she unfolded the linen, the scent of lemon and thyme drifted through the air. Roasted chicken, warm bread, a dish of custard crowned with sugared violets.
It was too domestic, too gentle for a man like him.
"I had the hotel chefs prepare it," she explained quickly, as though she'd intruded upon something sacred. "They make better meals than these walls can offer."
He didn't answer. Just watched her.
Viviana hesitated, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve. "You don't have to eat it," she murmured. "I only thought... you might want something warm."
Tommy's gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he stubbed out his cigarette and reached for the bread.
A small nod.
That was his thank you.
From that day on, she returned.
Each morning, the nurses whispered as she passed—the sound of silk skirts and soft perfume gliding through the corridor.
"His angel," one nurse called her, half-joking, half-afraid.
Viviana didn't correct them.
She carried trays from her hotel, her gloves dusted with flour, her golden hair gleaming beneath the sun that filtered through the window.
She brought dishes he hadn't tasted since before the war—wild mushroom risotto, veal braised with wine, small pastries that flaked beneath his fingers.
He never asked her to stay.
But she always did.
She would sit in the chair by the window, hands folded in her lap, speaking softly about things that sounded like another world.
London gardens heavy with roses, the smell of the river after rain, the hum of music drifting from open cafés.
Tommy never said much in return.
He didn't know how to.
He'd forgotten what to do with gentle things.
So he watched her instead, through half-lidded eyes and curls of smoke, trying to decide if she was naïve or simply mad.
Probably both.
Her dresses were never the same twice—pale blues, butter yellows, blush pinks. Too fine for Birmingham, where elegance was a language no one bothered to learn. Her voice, soft and lilting, carried the faint rhythm of Florence or Rome—melody dipped in sunlight and vowels.
She didn't belong here.
Which made her even more dangerous.
By the fifth day, she arrived in yellow silk. Her hair was pinned away from her face, small tendrils escaping to brush her neck.
Tommy looked up when she entered, then back to his paper.
"You look better today," she said, setting the tray down. Her voice had a music to it—warm and teasing.
"Do I?" he asked, deadpan, his tone as flat as the heart monitor beside him.
She smiled, unbothered. "Less like you were dragged through hell. More like you walked there willingly."
That earned the smallest smirk—the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Sometimes," he murmured, "it feels the same."
Viviana tilted her head, studying him with quiet curiosity. She wanted to ask what hell had looked like for him, but she already knew it wasn't the kind found in stories.
Instead, she opened the tray. "Lamb with rosemary," she said. "I promise it won't kill you."
"I've survived worse," he replied, tapping ash into the tray.
She sighed. "You make conversation sound like a combat sport."
That time, he actually smiled—brief, crooked, almost human.
"You don't have to keep coming here," he said finally, his tone softer than it should have been.
"I know."
"Then why do you?"
Viviana's fingers traced the edge of her skirt, smoothing invisible creases. "Because you looked alone that night," she said quietly. "And I thought... perhaps you shouldn't be."
He stared at her then—long and hard, as though her words had come from a place he'd forgotten existed. Something shifted beneath his ribs, something he didn't want to name.
He looked away first.
She stayed until the rain started again, tapping softly against the window, and when she rose to leave, she turned at the door.
"Try not to brood too much," she said lightly. "It'll ruin your appetite."
He raised a brow. "I don't brood."
"Of course not," she replied. "You just think very angrily."
Tommy chuckled under his breath—a small sound, rough and fleeting. She smiled at the noise as if she'd won something rare, then disappeared down the corridor.
By the seventh day, he began to notice things he shouldn't.
The way her perfume lingered long after she'd gone—something floral and clean, like jasmine in the rain.
The way she tilted her head when she listened.
The faint imprint of her glove on the linen where she'd rested her hand.
It unsettled him.
She didn't belong here—not in Birmingham, not in his orbit. Every instinct in him whispered danger.
Italian. Not from here. Too soft. Too kind.
Too much like something the world would burn just to see if it screamed.
And yet, every morning she came, carrying warmth into the cold, and every morning he let her.
By the tenth day, when she appeared again with another tray and that same impossibly bright smile, he didn't ask why.
He just watched her reflection in the window, smoke curling from his lips, and wondered—not for the first time—whether she knew she was sitting beside the very man her brother had sent to die.
And if she did... why she kept coming back anyway.
The day Tommy Shelby decided to invite her, the rain had stopped for the first time in a week. The city breathed smoke as it always did, but the streets glimmered beneath the pale wash of sunlight breaking through the clouds. From the window of his office above the betting shop, Tommy watched the way it turned the puddles into mirrors, lighting up rooftops and broken glass as though the filth of Birmingham had been briefly softened.
He wasn't a man who owed anyone anything.
But Viviana Sabini...
He leaned back in his chair, cigarette balanced loosely between his fingers, blue smoke curling upward like a whisper. He thought of her arriving each day at the hospital with soft silk skirts and quiet smiles, hands full of neatly packed dinners from her hotel. He had just come back from London still looking awful, he had left the hospital late at night and went to his uncles Charlie's yard and headed off to London Camden town to meet with Alfie Solomon's. It didn't take much for him to settle a deal with Solomon's and he was quick back to Birmingham without anyone knowing.
No one had ever taken care of him like that, not without expecting something in return.
It unsettled him.
And yet, as he tapped ash into the tray, he reached for the telephone.
Viviana was sitting by the window of her hotel suite when the call came, sunlight spilling across the pale lace curtains, her bare feet tucked beneath her silk dressing gown. "Signorina Sabini?" the hotel receptionist called softly through the door, holding the telephone cord in her hand. Viviana rose, smoothing the folds of her robe, her delicate bracelets catching the light as she lifted the receiver.
"Miss Viviana?" A pause. A voice, low and deliberate, rolled like distant thunder across the line. "It's Thomas Shelby."
Her lips parted slightly at the sound of his name, soft surprise lingering in her breath.
"Mr. Shelby," she murmured, her accent gentle, words rounded like petals. "Is everything... alright?"
There was a pause on the other end, the faint scratch of a match striking.
"Meet me for dinner," he said simply. "Tomorrow. Eight o'clock." Her brows arched faintly, curiosity blooming beneath the softness of her expression.
"Dinner?" she repeated, almost carefully, as though testing the weight of the word. He exhaled smoke faintly into the receiver. "Call it a thank-you." She hesitated only briefly before her lips curved into a small, warm smile he couldn't see. "Alright," she said softly. "Dinner."
The following evening, Viviana stood before her mirror, the pale gaslight behind her haloing her in soft gold. She had chosen a butter-yellow dress for tonight, its delicate lace spilling from the chest down into silk that brushed her ankles with every movement. Her hair, pinned loosely at the nape, left curls tumbling gently down her back. She fastened a small string of pearls around her neck , subtle, quiet, elegant.
Viviana had grown up in rooms where beauty was expectation, where softness was a language her mother taught her from birth. But Birmingham had been nothing like London, and nothing like the circles she was used to moving in.
She didn't know why she was nervous. Maybe because this wasn't her world. Maybe because she wasn't sure she understood him.
And maybe, though she would never admit it, because she wanted him to see her , really see her , beyond the lace, beyond the silk, beyond the Sabini name she kept hidden like a secret between her ribs.
Tommy left The Garrison late. Arthur had been shouting again, Michael's numbers were short, and Polly sharp-eyed as always , had been watching him from the bar as he buttoned his charcoal waistcoat and slipped his pocket watch into place. "You're dressed too well for this side of town," Polly called, folding her arms. "Where are you going, Thomas?"
He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, cigarette pressed between his teeth, and glanced at her briefly without pausing his movements.
"Dinner."
"Dinner," she repeated flatly, eyebrow arched. "With who?"
Tommy's silence was deliberate. He slid his coat over his shoulders, lit another cigarette, and headed toward the door. Polly's voice followed him, low and warning. "You don't know her, Tom. You don't know where she comes from, or what she wants."
"I know enough," he said without turning back, his words carved smooth and sharp. But as he stepped into the night air, Polly's words lingered longer than he liked. The restaurant stood like an island of elegance in the smoke-stained heart of Birmingham, all soft light spilling onto cobblestones and faint piano music drifting into the street.
Tommy was late.
He'd had business that couldn't wait, men who needed reminding of their debts and a deal that needed sealing. By the time his black motor pulled up outside the restaurant, it was well past eight-thirty.
Inside, the lobby was warm, golden with soft chandeliers reflecting against polished marble. The maître d', a thin man in a dark suit, looked up from his podium as Tommy approached, cigarette between his lips.
"I have a reservation under the name Shelby," Tommy said, voice flat, clipped.
The man checked the book briefly before looking up, polite smile fixed in place.
"Of course, Mr. Shelby," he said smoothly. "Ms. Sabini is already waiting for you." The name landed like a blade sliding clean between his ribs.
Tommy froze for a single heartbeat, cigarette still burning faintly between his fingers.
Sabini.
The word hissed through his mind like a fuse.
He inhaled sharply, smoke curling from his lips, masking the tightness in his jaw before he nodded curtly and followed the host into the dining room.
She sat by the window, bathed in the soft amber light of the chandeliers, her butter-yellow dress glowing faintly in the warmth of it.
Her hands were folded neatly over her lap, and when she looked up to see him, her smile bloomed, quiet, delicate, genuine.
Tommy stopped by the edge of the table, eyes unreadable.
"You kept me waiting," she teased gently, though there was no reproach in her voice, only softness.
Instead, he stood there, silent, his shadow falling over the table. "Sabini," he said finally, his voice low, rough around the edges. Viviana blinked, confused.
"Yes?"
"You didn't think to mention that before?"
Her brows knit together, and she tilted her head slightly, her soft curls brushing her cheek.
"Mention what?" She said.
"Your name," he said sharply, leaning closer. "Your brother. The little fucking war we're in the middle of."
Viviana froze, her lips parting, caught between confusion and shock.
"I... I didn't know," she whispered. "I didn't know who you were that night. I didn't even know your name until the doctor said it."
Tommy's jaw clenched, his stare unrelenting.
"And yet you kept coming back."
"Yes," she said softly, her voice trembling now. "Because you were bleeding in the street. Because you were hurt." But Tommy didn't soften.
Instead, he leaned back, pulling out a cigarette, the scrape of the match loud in the silence between them.
"I don't like coincidences, Viviana."
Her throat tightened at the way he said her name flat, stripped of the warmth it had held before.
"I only wanted to help," she whispered.
"Help," he repeated, coldly. "Or watch?"
Her breath caught at that, and she felt it — the sting blooming behind her eyes, the weight of his distrust crushing the air around her.
Viviana wasn't used to this.
Men didn't raise their voices at her.
Men didn't accuse her.
Darby kept her far from the violence, far from the blood, far from anything that might bruise her.
And yet, here she was, in the middle of it, being gutted by words sharper than any blade.
"I think I should go," she whispered finally, standing so quietly her chair barely made a sound.
Tommy didn't stop her.
He only watched, smoke curling around his unreadable expression, as she walked out into the night.
But when the door closed behind her, the silence was louder than the music.
And Tommy Shelby, for the first time in days, didn't feel like he'd won anything at all.
Outside, the night was cold and sharp against Viviana's skin as she stepped into the street. The lamps along the cobblestone road glowed faintly, painting thin pools of light on the wet pavement. She held her breath as she walked, her heels clicking softly, the sound swallowed quickly by the hum of distant carriages and the low murmur of voices drifting from nearby cafés.
She didn't cry. Not yet.
Her chest ached, tight and heavy, but she swallowed it down, forcing her shoulders back the way her mother had taught her when she was a child. A Sabini never let the world see her falter. A Sabini never bled where others could see.
And yet, as she walked further away from the restaurant, she felt as though something inside her had splintered clean in two.
She hadn't lied to him.
She hadn't known who he was, not that night, not when she found him on the street with blood pooling beneath his coat and the sharp, broken sound of his breath cutting through the rain. She hadn't known his name until she overheard the doctor say it softly in the dim hospital room. But maybe she should have known. Maybe she should have asked. Her steps slowed as she reached the quiet curve of the street, stopping beneath the flickering glow of a lamppost. Her fingers curled around the edge of her shawl, gripping tightly, her breath clouding in the cool air.
She thought of his face as he'd looked at her tonight, not the faintly amused, unreadable Tommy Shelby she'd grown used to over her visits, but someone colder, sharper, someone carved from stone and shadow. There had been no softness in his voice when he spoke her name, only distrust, only steel.
For the first time since she arrived in Birmingham, she wished she'd never come at all.
The street outside the restaurant was quiet now.
The lamps along the cobblestones glimmered faintly, reflecting on the damp stones beneath her heels.
Viviana walked quickly, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
Her chest felt tight.
Her breath came uneven, shallow, as the cool night air touched her flushed skin.
By the time she reached the small townhouse where she had been staying since arriving in Birmingham, her hands trembled as she unlocked the door. Inside, the soft amber glow of the hallway lamps welcomed her.
For a moment, she stood there in the silence, unsure if she even wanted to face anyone at all.
But she did not have to decide.
Darby was already there. Her older brother sat in the worn leather chair near the fireplace.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows.
A glass of whiskey rested loosely in one hand.
His dark hair fell untidily across his forehead, and his sharp, storm-grey eyes snapped immediately to hers the moment she stepped inside.
"Viv," he said slowly, rising to his feet.
"Che c'è. What happened."
She shook her head quickly, keeping her gaze low as she tried to brush past him.
But Darby caught her wrist gently. His fingers were warm and firm around her delicate skin.
"Don't," he said softly, though his voice carried the weight of command.
"Look at me."
She hesitated, then lifted her eyes.
Darby's jaw tightened when he saw the faint redness there, the slight sheen of tears she had not managed to wipe away.
"Who," he asked carefully, his voice calm in that dangerous way only Darby could manage, "made my little sister cry."
"No one," she whispered, pulling her wrist
free.
"I'm fine."
Darby's expression hardened instantly.
"Non mentire," he said quietly.
"Don't lie."
"I'm not," she insisted, though her voice cracked at the edges, betraying her.
She turned away, setting her shawl carefully on the arm of the chair, as if the neatness of the gesture might distract him from the tremor in her hands. Darby was not distracted.
He took a step closer, lowering his glass onto the mantel.
"Tell me his name," he said, quieter now, the softness of his tone far more dangerous than shouting ever could be.
"Tell me who put that look in your eyes, Viviana, and I will take care of it."
Her breath caught.
For a moment she almost said it.
Almost gave Tommy's name without thinking.
But something inside her stopped her.
Despite everything. Despite his coldness. Despite his sudden, sharp distrust. She did not want Tommy hurt. She swallowed hard and shook her head again, forcing her voice steady.
"It was... nothing," she said softly.
"A misunderstanding, that's all."
Darby stared at her, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Finally, he sighed, running a hand down his face, frustration simmering just beneath his calm exterior.
"You have never been a good liar," he muttered.
There was no anger in it.Only quiet resignation.Viviana stepped past him then, moving toward the small writing desk near the window where the city lights blinked faintly through the fog.
She placed her hands on the smooth wood surface, steadying herself, her back still to him."I don't want trouble, Darby," she said gently."Not here. Not now."
"You think I want trouble," he asked, incredulous, turning to face her fully.
"I came to this cursed city to keep you safe, Viv.
And if someone.
Anyone.
Thinks they can lay a hand on you.
Or speak to you in a way they shouldn't."
"They didn't," she cut in quickly, her voice sharper this time.
"He didn't." The silence stretched between them. Thick. Heavy. Darby's eyes narrowed slightly. "He," he repeated.
Viviana closed her eyes briefly, knowing she had revealed more than she meant to.
"It doesn't matter," she whispered. "Just trust me when I say it's nothing." Darby stared at her for another long moment before finally nodding. But his jaw was still set like stone.
"Fine," he said at last.
"I will trust you, Viv."
"But if this... nothing... makes you cry again, you tell me."
She nodded faintly, though she did not turn to meet his gaze.
Darby moved toward the door but paused, his hand resting on the frame as he glanced back at her.
"And Viv," he added softly, his voice suddenly low and dangerous.
"If this has anything to do with the Shelbys.
You stay away from them. All of them."
"That family is nothing but trouble."
Viviana did not answer.
She only stared out the window at the faint glow of the lamps beyond the fog. Her fingers curled tightly against the wood. She did not promise him anything. Because she was not sure she could.
Back at the restaurant, Tommy sat unmoving for a long time after she left.
The untouched glass of whiskey in front of him reflected the low amber lights, but he didn't drink it. The smoke from his cigarette drifted lazily upward, curling and fading into nothing.
His jaw was tight, his shoulders tense beneath his coat, but his expression remained unreadable to anyone watching.
Inside, though, his thoughts churned like storm water.
Sabini.
He couldn't ignore it, couldn't untangle her from the name, no matter how much he tried.
It didn't matter that she claimed she didn't know who he was. It didn't matter that she'd shown up every day with warm meals and quiet kindness. Kindness was a weapon too, if used right. And in Tommy Shelby's world, nothing, and no one , came without an angle. But then he remembered her face when she'd whispered, "I didn't know," remembered the tremor in her voice, the way her hands had folded in her lap, small and helpless and soft.
He hated that it unsettled him. He hated that he almost believed her. By the time he returned to The Garrison, the night had grown thick and restless, the streets heavy with smoke and the sound of distant shouting. Inside, the bar was quieter than usual, only a few of his men lingering at the far tables, their voices low.
Polly was waiting for him upstairs, sitting in his office like she owned the place, a glass of gin in one hand and that sharp, knowing gaze fixed firmly on him.
"Where is she?" she asked without preamble, setting the glass down.
Tommy ignored the question, removing his coat and hanging it neatly on the rack by the door.
Polly's lips curled faintly. "Didn't go well, did it?"
Tommy lit another cigarette, his movements precise, deliberate, a man clinging to ritual when his thoughts threatened to slip out of his control.
"She's Sabini," he said flatly.
Polly blinked once, slowly, then leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs.
"Ah," she said softly, the sound almost a whisper, heavy with understanding.
Tommy didn't look at her, only stared at the smoke rising from his cigarette, his expression as blank as the walls behind him.
"You going to tell me the rest, or do I have to guess?" Polly asked finally. "She says she didn't know," Tommy muttered.
"And you don't believe her."
"I don't trust anyone," he said simply.
Polly studied him for a long moment, her gaze sharp enough to cut through bone.
"You liked her," she said finally, and though it wasn't a question, Tommy's jaw tightened at the words.
"She's Sabini," he repeated, as if the name itself were enough to bury the thought.
But Polly wasn't finished.
"She's also the one who's been feeding you, patching you up, keeping your sorry arse alive these past few weeks," she said, her voice low and deliberate. "And unless I'm mistaken, she hasn't once asked for a bloody thing in return."
Tommy huffed loudly "What you trying to say aunt Pol?"
Polly leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. "Be careful, Tommy," she warned softly. "Not just with her. With yourself."
He didn't answer.
That night, Tommy couldn't sleep.
The house was silent, the distant hum of Small Heath muted beneath the weight of his thoughts. He sat by the window in his darkened bedroom, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers, watching the faint shimmer of fog roll over the cobbled streets below.
He hated not knowing what game he was in.
He hated not knowing if she was part of it.
But most of all, he hated that a part of him , small, quiet, buried deep l, wanted her not to be.
Across town, Viviana sat in her hotel room, the city spread out beneath her window like a map she couldn't read.
She hadn't changed out of her dress, still seated at the little writing desk, her fingers tracing the edges of the untouched plate of food the kitchen had sent up hours ago.
The night outside was loud , the distant roar of laughter, the clatter of glass, the muffled sound of men shouting in the street below , but in her room, everything was hushed and still.
She kept hearing his voice.
She kept seeing his eyes, cold and distant, the way he'd said her name like it was something dangerous.
She should stay away from him now.
She knew that.
Her brother would want her far from the Shelbys, far from Birmingham entirely if he knew she'd been near them.
But something in her resisted the thought of leaving.
She didn't know why.
In the quiet, she opened the small leather notebook she carried everywhere and began to write, her handwriting delicate, curling letters filling the page.
She didn't write about Tommy.
Not directly.
She wrote about the city, about its smoke and grit, about how it seemed alive in its own dark way. She wrote about the weight of names, about how they could cage you, bind you to things you didn't choose, how they could make you a weapon without ever giving you a say.
And somewhere between the lines, without meaning to, she wrote about him anyway.
The next morning, Tommy woke early, though he hadn't really slept.
The streets outside Watery Lane were damp with fog, the smell of coal smoke clinging to the air. He dressed in silence, pulling on his dark wool coat, sliding his cap low over his eyes, and stepped outside into the cold.
He didn't know where he was going until he was already halfway there.
The hotel stood tall and elegant against the gray morning, its windows glimmering faintly with the first hints of sun. Tommy stood across the street for a long moment, hands in his pockets, watching the doorman greet guests as they stepped out into carriages waiting by the curb.
He didn't go inside.
Not yet.
But something in him told him he would.
Not today.
Soon.
