Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Something changed in you after that night at the Chateau. Fundamentally, something in your life switched, and whether it was for better or for worse yet you couldn't quite decide. For now though, it seemed for the better. 

A week after the shooting and you were called back into the Shelby's office with an offer you couldn't refuse. With the Shelby's on their way to becoming prolific public figures, John had the bright idea of owning their own nightclub - something that was glamorous and, with all intents and purposes, perhaps the best place to both conduct business in faux neutrality as well as show your wealth all in one go. Surprisingly Tommy agreed, the idea one of John's rare better ones, and above that, it made perfect sense who to cast as the star of the place. 

Who better to be their musical frontrunner other than you? 

The contract was finite. A minimum of four shows every week, at least for two hours, over the course of a year. You'd be paid in numbers you've never seen before - maybe it was time to actually invest in a safe instead of the little lockbox you kept hidden up in your closet. The venue was gorgeous too - someplace to be constructed in the heart of London with all its glitz and glamour, meaning you'd have to move out there for work, nothing you were particularly hesitant over. The Bordeaux at Abbey Road. That would be your domain for the next year, and you'd be a rotten liar if you dared tell anyone you weren't excited about it. 

"Moving out to London." Georgie, one of the trumpet players in your band mused after practice on a particularly gloomy Tuesday. "I can't believe it. No wonder why people like conductin' business with the Shelby's." 

As your band, they too were greeted with the same opportunity as you, contract and all. It was quite respectable - most times in the past you had to pay them out of your own pockets (which was why despite your many bookings you weren't particularly wealthy - not like people respected a black enough to pay them what they were worth in the first place). 

"I wonder if it's only business we're conductin'." Ben, your pianist, shot you a look. The implication was there but you weren't acknowledging it, busying yourself with fixing the bow on your hat. "Seems like our Y/N here's particularly close with 'em." 

"You'd do best not speaking on matters you don't know of, Benny." You quipped, stern but not full chested as a small smirk played on the edge of your mouth. "We were childhood friends, that's all." 

"Childhood friends." William hummed, cleaning the spit-catch from his clarinet. "Is that why John couldn't seem to stop teasing you the last time we met with them?" 

John was a new development. Something childish and fleeting that blossomed after running into each other (literally) on the street when you were out buying groceries. The man asked if you still made those lemon tarts like when they were kids, the first real acknowledgement that any of the Shelby's actually remembered your existence in their childhood, and upon discovering that's exactly what you were running to the store to pick up the ingredients for, the man abandoned all duties to accompany you for the rest of the day in the name of sweets. Hours later on a stomach filled with tea and tarts, you'd found that John had grown into quite the smooth talker without even trying, and by the time he left that afternoon you were exchanging secretive giggles and coy smiles behind your hands that reminded you of the girls who swooned at him in your youth. Above all it was harmless though. John was a married man (though you learned their marriage wasn't exactly traditional, with John expressing somewhere between the fourth tart and scalding his tongue on a cup of butterfly pea tea that he and his wife had an...agreement, of sorts, that allowed them to see other people), and you weren't looking for a fling with the man who was one of your employers. That, and begrudgingly, your heart still belonged to Tommy. 

"John is a friend, William." You said, ignoring the whoops and wolf whistles the men gave you in teasing. "Nothing more, nothing less." 

"Sure, sure." Donald, the third trumpeter snorted. "Then what about Tommy? Y'know, I had a friend at the club that night. Word on the street is, that whole fight between the Shelby's and the Urry's started because the Urry's were insultin' ya's and Tommy didn't take too kindly to it." 

You felt your heart skip and swoon at the same time and cursed yourself for it. "That's just a rumor." You said in shaky tone, ignoring how the band raised their eyebrows in unbelief. "Mr. Shelby wouldn't worry himself over another woman; he's married with a wife at home anyway." 

Charles, the drummer, smirked as he propped his elbows on his drums. "Careful cupcake. You almost sound a little jealous there." 

"I'm not-" You bit your tongue, willing your temper down as to not prove his point. Carefully, you fitted your cap on your head and shot Charles a pointed look. "I'm not jealous, Charlie. I'm not looking for a lover right now, I'm too young." 

"Twenty two's too young?" Donald leaned on the wall and crossed his feet. "Most women get married before their twenties, y'know." 

"And when have you ever known me to be like most women?" 

William snorted, flashing Donald a toothy grin. "She got ya there." 

"I just think the Shelby's have taken an interest in us partly because they're interested in you." Ben remarked. "Aside from Arthur, but it's only a matter of time before you charm him under your spell too." 

"I am not charming anyone." You huffed, nose and eyebrows scrunching up together. "Especially not Arthur." 

"Aw c'mon." Georgie pouted playfully. "What's wrong with Arthur?" 

You let out a noise that was far from ladylike. "I'm not too keen on being courted by a drunk, Georgie." 

And for a month, this was how your days went. Mornings spent commuting to a studio down on Abbey Road that rented out to you all for peace and non-interrupted privacy when writing and composing a whole new list of songs to perform, wanting to expand your catalogue from just covers. The little ballads and tunes your rag tag band came up with were things England hadn't been privy to before, and in your gut and soul you knew you'd be something memorable. Eventually your band grew - you'd brought along a young boy named Richard, no older than seventeen who'd found grace and favor unmatched on the saxophone. You passed him originally on the streets not too far from the studio, a young black man performing for a little money, and upon hearing his expertise you simply had to have him join your group. Ben and Charlie teased you for being so much like a mother to him, Richard having being motherless for some time now, but you didn't care. People like you had to stick together - it's what brought your band together after all. You were, essentially, a bunch of misfits in Britain's society - Georgie a Jew, Donald an American, Ben a gypsy, Charlie and William twin brothers left to fend for themselves since ten years old. Your band was comprised of people who'd seen the worst life had to offer and decided to, still, toil and make the best of it, and Richard was no different. 

Your visitations by the Shelby's weren't any less frequent. The first time they'd came around it was only John and Arthur, strolling in to check on the status of their latest investment to meet you trying a new style that Richard said he'd heard in passing on a barber shop's radio once. It was fun, snappy and snazzy and something that everyone involved had a lot of fun playing. Richard was near terrified, witnessing Arthur Shelby pile drive and knock out three men in al alleyway in during his youth, but upon seeing how you were so nonchalant in their presence he eased. 

"What's that one called?" John asked you as you turned to him. You shrugged, your cardigan falling off of your shoulder, sweat creasing on your hairline. 

"No clue." You said, chest heaving with the adrenaline of music still coursing through you. "We're just playing around in all honesty." 

"Playin' around?" Arthur scoffed. "Could've heard ya's beltin since we stepped foot outta me car. There's no way you were just playin."

"I like it too." Remarked William as he ran a rag over his face. "I think we should keep it." 

Hums of agreement echoed through the room and you found yourself with you lip pulled between your teeth. Your eyes fell to Richard, meek and quiet in the corner, and you raised an eyebrow. 

"Well, Richie?" You crossed your arms. "It is your song after all." 

The boy blinked owlishly at you. "It is?" He caught himself as the others in the room snorted, Arthur raising an eyebrow at him. 

"You wrote it?" Arthur questioned, and Richard fiddled with the saxophone. 

"I- I came up with the a little of beat, and some of the lyrics." 

At that you scoffed, turning to Arthur yourself to clarify. "He came up with the entire thing. All we did was some tweaking to polish bits of it off."

"You're gifted, mate." John nodded, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Own it. Not many men can say they were born with much talent." 

"If any at all." 

"What'dya say, Richie?" Donald slung an arm over Richard's shoulders and gave him a little squeeze. "How about it? Just to see how it goes." 

Richard bit his lip, glancing between all the adults in the room. You could see apprehension begin to lose its grip on the young boy, a nervous smile pull across his dimpled features. "W-what if people don't like it?" 

"Won't know until we try, will we?" Charlie smirked. 

And just like that, Richie was set to make his grand debut at The Bordeaux on Abbey Road. Between all the encouraging whoops and cheers from the men, you didn't notice when John slinked back just a bit until a hand pressed into your side and a presence was nearly pressed into you from behind. 

"Sing it on opening night." Came John's voice tickling your ear. Your cheeks burned, wide eyes flickering to see if anyone was paying attention to you. 

"You like it that much?" You tried to ignore the butterflies that built up under his touch. John hummed, the scent of you clouding his senses. "Hm. Fine, we will. Any more requests?" 

"If I think of any I’ll let you know.”

And John would ignore Arthur’s pestering later about sticking his nose in another man’s home. Even if, technically, you weren’t any man’s belongings and free to do as you pleased.

The opening night of the Bordeaux was a grand affair. It was teased on the radio and promoted throughout the country for weeks leading up to this. Women spent their last dime on fancy new flapper dresses, men in the most expensive three piece suits and alligator shoes they could find. Children with wide eyes passed the grand building on the day of, curious little boys peeking through the open doors as workers busily hurried in and out of the establishment. Little girls gawked at the other performers, long legged women who giggled and talked idly of men and makeup and money like it was nothing and everything simultaneously. The air around London was alive, so much so that the sun shined bright, bringing enough warmth that it warranted shorter sleeves and shorter skirts. 

“Today’s the day boys.” You grinned, stepping onto the street after the taxi cab dropped you all off. “We’re gonna make history in this city.”

“Think so?” William shoved his hands in his pockets, heart racing with identical adrenaline. “I hope I don’t forget my parts.”

“You nervous, Willie?” Donald raised an eyebrow, flashing a smile when his bandmate rolled his eyes stubbornly. “The girl is right. We’re about to take London by storm.”

Charles let out a chuckle. “A bunch of social outcasts. Nobody’s.”

“A couple o’ orphans, a Yank, a gypsy, two blacks and a Jew.” Georgie snorted. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

“They’ll remember our names.” Richie grinned. “Won’t dare forget it. The Blackbirds Jazz Band.” 

The Blackbirds. That’s what you all settled on some days prior, after an evening of fine tuning and stretching around your flat. The Blackbirds, London’s newest Jazz band. You liked it. You liked it so much that you made sure your clothes felt as exciting as the name did. You’d went out and spent an absurd amount of money on a fairly risky number, something that would surely have gotten you stoned a few years prior but after Josephine Baker took the world by storm in her shocking outfits, you figured you could get by showing a little skin. The black velvet number was still fairly modest, despite hugging your body with a lover’s embrace and having a neckline that plunged almost dangerously deep. The large off white buttons in the front secured the dress in place down to your mid thighs, and the end of the dress flared out in a style reminiscent of men’s coat tails. It was different, that’s for sure, but exquisite enough for the most important night of your life. 

Around six p.m. you were greeted with a knock on your dressing room (of which you couldn’t get over for a solid week) door. You felt like the women in Hollywood, dabbing blush on your cheeks and swiping dark liner on your lids when you called out for whoever it was to come in. It wasn’t until the door clicked back shut that you realized the silk robe you had on wasn’t tied, and so you scrambled as you turned to face your visitor, eyes widening slightly when you realized who it was.

“Mrs. Shelby?”

Grace Shelby strutted into your room with a kind of practiced and poised grace you’d come to expect from royalty. The royalty of Birmingham, you could stand to call her, stood before you in sapphires and pearls far too expensive for you to consider putting a price tag on. Blonde hair was done intricately in fancy curls, a dark blue dress covered in crystals draped around her slim figure. It was almost threatening, her dressed up so magnificently while you sat before her in a robe with your hair still in rollers and your makeup half done. 

Her eyes landed on you and she offered a smile that almost bordered on disinterest.  “Miss Y/N.” She greeted, charmed and eloquent as usual. “How are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine.” A lump grew in the hull of your throat as your voice fought to push past it. “And yourself?”

The smile grew. “I’m wonderful! How could I be anything else on an evening like this?”

That you could agree with. You nodded, lips sealed shut as you felt it wasn’t allowed for you to speak as yet. Something about her presence felt off. Almost threatening, even.

“Tommy’s excited for tonight too.” The woman continued, fixing the long lacy gloves on her hands. “Been the most important thing on his agenda ever since he bought this place. We always talked about how much he loved music; he said this was like another gift to me.”

Her authenticity made your mouth sour and the corners of your lips twitch. Something, something still inside you warred against her sentiment, wanting nothing more than to shut your ears and roll your eyes like a petulant child. Your voice came out, a little pinched and strained than normal. 

“Really?” You inwardly frowned at your drying mouth. “That’s so sweet, Mrs. Shelby. He sure knows how to treat a lady, doesn’t he?”

“Doesn’t he!” Her eyes twinkled with something you couldn’t quite describe. “All of this, all for me. Even you being here, it’s for me. I’d talked so fondly of your voice that he went ahead and bought you too, that man!”

At that you resisted the urge to narrow your eyes. You sat a little straighter, heart pounding in your ears not only from the sole influence of adrenaline but anger as well. 

“I am grateful that Mr. Shelby sought me out to hire me,” You fought to keep your voice steady and calm. “and I am more than happy to perform until my tenure is finished. It is rather nice to know that you put in a pleasant word for me — though I think my talent speaks for itself.”

The challenge was clear and evident. You played naïve and docile onstage, you weren’t stupid in real life. Even Grace looked shock, be it by the slip of her tongue to imply such a thing or your ability to pick up on it and squash it with a practiced elegance only, presumably, she would possess. 

It was there when your battle lines were drawn. Grace Shelby was beginning to get jealous of you. 

As your saving grace someone else knocked on the door, John Shelby peeking his head in at such an opportune time. The tension remained thick enough for his to notice, his eyes darting between you two in inquisition. 

“Is everything alright in here?”

You spoke before Grace did. “Yes sir, Mrs. Shelby was just leaving. She was wishing me well for my performance tonight.”

A dismissal. Grace never thought she’d be on the receiving end of that anytime soon. The tall woman gave you a look, noting the signature soft smile on your face, before replicating it as best she could with a nod. “Yes, John. Good luck again, sweetheart. Until we meet again, yes?”

“Until we meet again.” Grace avoided John’s eye as she took her leave, noting how he remained in your room after her exit, shutting the door behind her. Information she’d pocket for later. 

“Getting fan visits to your dressing room now, love?” John’s teasing voice broke any lingering irritation, your eyes rolling as you turned back to the mirror. “You’re on your way to becoming a big star.”

“You’re not fooling me John.” You deadpanned, picking up your lip color to dab it on your lips. “What are you here for?”

John, hands in his pockets, leans against the neighboring wall with a lazy smirk playing on his face. “I can’t come to send you off with good luck as well? Or is that honor only bestowed on Mrs. Shelby.”

Your nose crinkled involuntarily, and John laughed as your eyes rolled. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

“And you can’t get enough of it.”

You curse the roaring flurry of butterflies tumbling around in your stomach. Had you not just meticulously applied your lipstick, you’d have bitten them. 

You turned to him, amusement dancing in your eyes. “I have to get dressed John.”

He tilts his head. “What does that got to do with me?”

“Means you have to leave.” 

You could nearly see the words on his lips before he let them out. “I thought I came here for a show.”

“John!” Your cheeks burned, hand finding the closest thing — a throw pillow — and you chucked it at him. The man laughed while he caught it, dimpled and boyish in glee, tossing it into the small couch nearby him. His eyes wandered for a bit, landing on the dress that was hung up on a little hook. 

“This what you’re wearing?” He let his hands run over the soft material. “You’re killin’ me, doll.”

“How so?” You felt anticipation creep beneath your skin. 

“Cause,” John shook his head as the material fell from his hands. “means you’re g’na have the attention of far too many blokes out there, and I am a jealous man, Y/N.”

The way his voice dropped sent heat curling in your stomach, slow burning and dangerous with need. You swallowed, shaky breath raking out of you under the piercing weight of his gaze. 

“You’re a married man John.”

He’s quick to shut you up. “She knows about you.”

“She does?” You blink in surprise. 

“Do you want to ask her yourself?” He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t hide many secrets from my wife.”

You swallowed, turning back to your mirror. You’d deal with that later. “I have to get dressed, John. My set is after those dancers.”

You nearly forgot your words as his wide hands found your waist. John always smelled lovely, some mix of deep bourbon and cigars and whiskey mixed with the sea. You blinked to clear your mind, his chin finding the nook between your neck and shoulders. 

“Are you still singing the song I asked for?” His thumbs massaged into your hips. You busied your hands with pulling the rollers out of your hair before they ended up entangled in his. 

“Yes.” Your cheeks sucked in when he let out a pleased little noise, something low and guttural in the back of his throat. “Are you going to leave now?”

He grinned. “Is that what you want, love?”

A beat passes, eyes meeting in the mirror before you blink. “Is it this same persistence that made you wind up with eight children?”

A sparkle crossed his eyes, hands stilling at your sides. “Do you want to find out?”

This man was bad for your health. That you found yourself sure of, heart nearly running out of your chest. You resumed pulling the rollers out of your hair.

“I’ll see you onstage, Mr. Shelby.”

John cracked a smile. “I’ll look forward to it, Miss Y/L/N.”

You pretended you didn’t shiver at his tone, letting out a sigh when that devil and his awfully good cologne finally left your room with the click of the door. You’d think, with as flustered as you looked, that something had actually went on while he was in there, so you busied yourself with getting ready. Not of John, nor his hands, nor the way he smells, nor the permanent scent of whiskey and mint that’s always on his lips, nor the way he talks to you, nor the way his hands would feel on your body. 

Miraculously, you made it out in time for your set. 

The Bordeaux was grand. A building with tall ceilings and intricate designs etched into the walls and pillars of the place. People sat around at tables with pristine white linen cloths, waiters moving around with trays of champagne and wine and whiskey. It was exciting, anticipation buzzing in the air for the main event, the infamous Blackbirds that no one knew about but if they were hired by the Shelby’s they simply had to be good. You shot discreet thumbs up to your band when the lights around the place dimmed, allowing you to make your way onstage in relative secrecy. The most anyone else saw was a silhouette, and the anticipation was quite enough as the chatter in the crowd finally died down. Your eyes briefly caught onto the mezzanine, the Shelby family perched up high with their eyes trained on stage below. You swallowed, and turned around. Richie, stood beside Frankie, the last addition to your group as a cellist, counted down from three.

“One, two, three.”

Then the spotlight was on you.

Tommy Shelby learned something very important that night. No matter what or where you were, the stage was your home. 

The way you laid your claim from the first second you stepped on it made him nearly smirk to himself behind his glass. He saw you, days when you’d visit with the band during construction of the place. How you wouldn’t look at anything else except it. The grin that stretched on your face when you could finally walk on it, stand in the center and see the kingdom of the Bordeaux around you in all of its glory. This stage, you owned it like it was built for you. In a way, it absolutely was. 

“My tell-tale heart's a hammer in my chest

Cut me a silk-tied tourniquet”

The smirk on your face, the glimmer in your eye, the ease you found yourself on stage — you were a natural. Something special. No wonder nobody could take their eyes off of you. 

“This is my roaring, roaring 20's

I don't, I don’t even know me

Roll me like a blunt, 'cause I wanna go home

Roll me like a blunt, 'cause I wanna go home

My roaring, roaring 20s

I don't, I don’t even know me

Roll me like a blunt, 'cause I wanna go home

Roll me like a blunt, 'cause I wanna go home”

“She’s incredible.” Esme sighed, starry eyes looking at you in awe and wonder. Tommy watched as John grinned, leaning over to whisper something in his wife’s ear that left her gaping and smacking his arm. 

“That’s not true!” She whispered, loud enough that Tommy could hear. “You could never. She’s out of your league.”

John’s eyes twinkled the way they often do when a challenge presents itself. “Would you like to bet on that, dear?”

Tommy sat confused at their conversation, pulled away by Grace’s hand finding it’s way into his. Instinctually he accepted it, running rough thumb over her glove-covered hand, though if he’d be honest he forgot his own wife’s presence at his side. It seemed she didn’t matter, not when you demanded so much attention so effortlessly. 

“Mr. Shelby,” she began, soft and gentle in a tone that’s only used when she’s being mischievous. “Would you care to accompany your wife to the ladies room? I don’t think I remember the way on my own.”

Grace watched the way her husband was transfixed on you. His eyes wouldn’t leave you, but if she was honest, no one’s had. You’d placed everyone under a spell of some sort, even Esme as simple and daft she was, and the only person immune to your charms was her. Be it for jealousy or rage she wouldn’t know, she wouldn’t dwell on, because she found herself seeking her husband’s attention and he had no interest passing it to her. She watched, his normally cold blue eyes that only softened for her in the past now melting for another woman. There stood warmth where frigidity used to lay, gentleness to his features that Grace knew all too well. Her lip found her teeth and she was leaning over before she could realize it, attempting to pull his gaze away with an offer no man could refuse. She made sure, made full sure that her true intent was painfully evident, that she didn’t solely need assistance to finding the restroom, that she was offering herself in exchange for his time. She was sure, positive he couldn’t refuse. Beneath all of his glory Tommy was only a man, and there were things men couldn’t refuse. 

“Ask Aunt Pol to take you.”

Apparently Grace wasn’t one of them. 

Her heart shattered much to her own dismay. Her mouth ran sour, eyebrows pinching so quickly that she grabbed her wine glass and downed the entire thing just to privately save face. Has Tommy ever rejected her? She wonders if this was how other women felt, vying for his attention only to get cast down without second thought. For the first time, Grace found herself as unimportant. She’d lost her role to you, some little girl with doe eyes not as innocent as they seemed and a voice even she couldn’t try to match. 

“Oh. Okay.”

Grace’s stomach rolled over angrily, your bubbly tone and riffs sounding like taunts in her ear. She was jealous, as much as the realization loathed her to admit. Jealous of you, someone who shouldn’t have been a threat in the first place. Her eyes fell bitterly to her hands, large ring glimmering in the low light of the grand building. Jealous of you, someone who wasn’t a threat. You weren’t a threat. How could you be? You weren’t privileged enough to have the title of being a Shelby. 

You didn’t need it either. 

The standing ovation you got after your first song nearly brought tears to your eyes. It was only one song, one out of how many else you had to do, and the whoops and cheers were near deafening. Your chest heaved, breathless, body buzzing with excitement with a grin so wide your cheeks pulled and ached and you didn’t care. You looked around, looking back at your band who looked just as overwhelmed as you did, and when you spun back to the microphone the chorus belted out of you with such authority that it etched its lyrics into the hearts and minds of anyone listening, down to the alley rats and nosy delinquent teens who crept along the outsides of the building hoping to catch glimpses of the wondrous new attraction that popped up in the city. The Roaring 20’s, a phrase that wouldn’t leave anyone’s minds for years to come. 

It was there, on that one particularly warm summer night in London, that your life would change forever. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Tommy sincerely wished he’d left Grace home that day.

It seemed that fights in his home were becoming more frequent after the race’s passing. Snide little underhanded comments that were said with the sole purpose to crawl beneath his skin, things he had to try and sedate before it leaked out to the public and became an actual problem to deal with. All because of you. You didn’t do anything wrong, no, but Grace could sense that Tommy yearned for you in a way far different from a professional engagement and Tommy didn’t have the heart - or patience - to admit it. He found it best to sedate his wife in other ways, extending from lavish gifts to his presence and his body, and that seemed to work in his favor for the timebeing. He simply decided he’d busy her with something else if it all came down to it once more.

Aside from that, if he hadn’t invited Grace, then maybe it’d be him you’d be into instead of John. Tommy was no fool; something happened between the two of you that day. Something that resulted in John being a bit of a happier man these days, waltzing around the office with his chin held high like he’d just struck a deal with the emperor. It pissed Tommy off, to say the least. He was jealous as much as he loathed to admit, and Tommy Shelby did not wear jealousy very well.

Not that you or John noticed much to care.

The feeling of John’s hands massaging into your sides was something you became accustomed to as of late. You’d sneak off during breaks at practice or stay back late to meet the man in his office, the one set up for the Shelby’s if they were stationed at the Bordeaux (which John was). There, John never could quite keep his hands to himself, finding it much more comfortable to rest on your waist, your hips, or occasionally your arse if he was allowed to get away with it. Today you’d gone and worked him up, landed yourself a spot on his lap with his tongue lapping into your mouth and hands tugging at the ends of your skirt. The moan that fell out of him made a shiver run down your back, sly smile etching onto your flushed lips.

“You’re killing’ me, angel.” John groaned, breaking away a breath between your lips. “Treatin’ me like a boy when I’m a full grown man.”

“Are you?” You hummed, combing his hair back from the front of his face “And what is it men need that I’m not giving you?”

The noise that echoes in the back on John’s throat is primal. You gasp when he lightly pinches your thigh, running his hands over the exposed parts, teasing just above your hemline.

“This, angel.” He mutters, giving you a small kiss. “I need it.”

“I think you’ll be quite fine without it.”

John groaned, head dropping to nose at your neck. “What’ll it take, hm? For you to stop teasin’ me like this.”

Your lids fluttered, John pressing light kisses along the column of your neck. You hummed out a soft moan when he found a particularly sensitive area, trying your best not to move around too much in his lap — you could already feel how much you affected him poking into your thighs.

“I don’t think I’m the tease here, Mr. Shelby.” You sounded a little breathless and John could feel your pulse racing. “I think it’s you who’s being unfair to me.”

“Bull.” John scoffed. He looked up at you, a wild look in his darkening eyes. “Bratty little thing aren’t you. And here I was thinking you’re a good girl.”

John watched the moment your brain short circuited. You blinked once, twice, three times, not expecting the way the slow burning heat in your stomach would magnify instantly, your mind repeating the words just as they were said.

Good girl.

Oh, you liked that. You really liked that. John noticed it too, and the wicked look that crossed his eyes spelt trouble for you.

“That’s it then?” John’s touch suddenly felt warm, almost too warm. “Been trying to see what you liked for ages and that’s what got you? You like being called a good girl is it, angel?

You let out a shaky breath. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A chill ran down your spine as John laughed evilly. “Sure you don’t.”

He’s on you in moments. Got you pressed up against the back wall, caging you in without anywhere to turn. All you see, all you smell is John, John, John. Your heart races, lids fluttering as his mouth works on the soft spot by your collarbone he likes to abuse so much.

“Mr. Shelby,” you whimper, earning a hand at your backside and a nip at your shoulder in return. John’s eyes are dangerous and wild when they look down on you, his little girl, his sweet prey. You gasp, both on impact and at the heat of his gaze. It nearly makes you want to shrink into yourself and jump him in the same go.

“I told you to call me John.”

“’M sorry.” You swallowed at the growing lump in your throat. John licks his lips, heady breath panting out of him,

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you don’t forget from now on.”

A part of you registers that if John’s mouth is on you for any longer, your steel resolve will turn to dust. It’s sinful the things he can do with his hands, his mouth, making you feel things you didn’t think you’d feel again. It’s unfair. Downright ungodly, and you nearly whimper a sob for mercy when his tongue laves along the newly formed love bite on your collarbone when a shrill noise cuts through the air.

“John,” you pant, eyes rolling when the man grinds against you and you can feel him pressing up against your tummy. Goodness, just how big was he- “John, the- the phone, the phone is ringing.”

“I don’t care.” He mutters into your neck. Of all the bloody times for Tommy to call, he had to choose now. John’s hand snaked downwards, inching towards the hem of your dress. Your hips bucked into him, a soft plea - for what you weren’t sure - falling from your mouth as his fingertips brushed against the tops of your stockings, but as he found the hemline of your underwear, feeling the soft brush of your public hair, the phone screamed again for his attention. This time you couldn’t ignore it, pushing on his shoulders to break his focus.

“Answer the phone, John.” You said, voice a bit more stern. The man groaned atop you but relented, a chill settling between you two when he broke away. His hand remained around your waist as he picked up the receiver, more than a little irritation seeping into his voice when he answered.

“Yes, Tommy?”

“Where are you?” Tommy was asking questions he already knew the answers to. “We’re waiting on you to begin, John.”

“To begin bloody what?” His thumb massaged your waist. He leaned on the end table nearby, pulling your body between his legs. Tommy’s irritation grew, the elder Shelby fishing a cigarette from his coat.

“We have a family meeting.” Tommy said. “Arthur should’ve told you.”

“Arthur didn’t tell me jack.” Of course he didn’t. Tommy’s eyes flickered to the eldest Shelby with an inward sigh.

“Be here in ten minutes John. No later.”

And the phone went dead. Tommy needn’t wonder what had John held up in the first place; he started to regret his decision to station him at the Bordeaux.

John sighed, hanging up his phone. He rest his head on your chest, taking a deep breath of your scent. Today you smelled like cinnamon and brown sugar, warm and inviting and bloody delectable. His thumbs rubbed circles into your hips as he muttered.

“Stupid family meetings.”

You laughed breathily, hands falling at his shoulders. “You’ll be alright.”

He looked up at you, hair a little messy, dark brown lashes pretty in the light as he blinked. “Suppose I won’t get to see you later either?”

You hummed. “Afraid not. I’ve got practice straight through ‘till midnight. Apparently some businessmen from New York are coming to town and Tommy is insistent we put on a good show.”

“He just wants to show off.” John remarks, earning a small laugh in return.

“He wouldn’t be a Shelby if he didn’t.”

John basks in the feeling of your warm hands touching his face. He leans into your touch, lets you cup his cheeks and run your thumbs along the apples of them.

“I’ll see you later then, yeah?” You nod, watching as the smirk on John’s face grew. “Then maybe I’ll get back to seeing just how much of a good girl you’re willing to be for me.”

You stiffen, warmth in your core near distracting. The pout that crosses your face makes John laugh. “You’re not going to let that go now, will you?”

“Of course not.” He says, gleam in his eye as he looks into yours. “You know us Shelby’s. When we see a weakness, we exploit it to our advantage.”

You blink at him. “You’re horrible.”

He grins. “And you love it.”

You shut him up with a kiss, sweet and full and brief smack on the lips. “Get to your meeting before Mr. Shelby has your head.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Yes, John Shelby would be the death of you.

To some, John is the luckiest man in the world. He’s married but his wife is more of a best friend than a wife, considering the circumstances they met and what brought them together. He harbored a love for Esme as a friend — despite their children together, which he did love very much as well. But their affections toward each other would never extend beyond the platonic, so a mutual agreement was made to be…swingers, of sorts. Non-monogamists.

Simply put, they had a mutual agreement that it was okay to see other people.

At first, John wasn’t doing much about it. Sure the man was a flirt, and sure he had a few sweethearts all over the place that he visited, but he didn’t really enjoy the privilege to the extent Esme had. In three weeks she landed herself a boyfriend, some book keeping bloke from Glasgow who wrote to her like his life depended on it. And really John wasn’t bothered, he was happy for her, but he wanted something similar.

Now, John couldn’t call you his girlfriend, no. He doesn’t even think you’d accept the offer if he asked. But you were pretty close to it, and whatever this arrangement was, he liked it. He really liked it. Even though it pissed his dear brother off, which was evident the moment he stepped into the Garrison and met the searing icy glare of Thomas Shelby himself.

“Sorry I’m late.” John greeted his family, shuffling over to a seat between Arthur and Polly. “Got caught up at the office.”

“I’m sure you did.” Arthur said gruffly, half beneath his breath and half aloud. John settled, meeting Tommy’s heavy gaze head on. The other man’s ticking jaw could cut through steel, gaze sharp and angry and a weaker man would likely wither beneath it. Not John. Never John. Perhaps you could call it bravery, perhaps you could call it stupidity, but he’d never fear his brother like others do.

“Right, let’s get started then.”

Tommy takes a deep breath, forcing his eyes to move around the room. “First things first, a welcome to my wife. Grace will be joining us in meetings from now on.” The sentiment bittered his tongue but he swallowed the taste and carried on as everyone sent nods in Grace’s direction. “Second, Esme sends her apologies, she’s dealing with matters at the betting shop.”

“Alright, item number one. An update. Mr. McCabe has agreed to aid in legitimizing our endeavors into Glasgow and Dublin. We are projected to begin expansion in a few months time, first with a branch of distillery. Polly has offered to oversee that operation alongside Ada, and they are set to travel within the coming weeks. A drink, to their success.”

Tommy grabbed his glass and gestured for everyone to do the same, making a small toast to the matriarchs of the family. The burn of the liquor was welcomed, not at all to match the burn of jealousy in his chest but enough to help distract him and make him focus on the things he could control.

“Item number two,” he continued, setting the glass down. “An announcement. Michael has presented us with an opportunity to sell to the Americans. The Scorsese Family has an interest in our gin, and Mr. Bruno Scorsese himself has decided to visit Birmingham on account of meeting his new business partners. I expect that we’ll greet him with open arms.”

“How much of our gin are we talking?” Arthur furrows his brows. One of the youngest members in the room, Michael Gray, stands up.

“30 barrels weekly, 120 monthly to start. Eventually Mr. Scorsese predicts that he’ll need up to 300 barrels within the next six months.”

“All because of this prohibition nonsense?” Polly takes a drag of her pipe. “And what if the bill is overturned?”

“We pillage the profits until that day comes.” Michael straightens up. “The deal with the Scorsese’s is only the beginning. It’s our entrance into the American market and our first proper opportunity at making connections across the waters. It’s an offer we can’t refuse.”

“The Scorsese Family will be here in two days time.” Tommy says. “They’ll be staying in one of our hotels, eating at our restaurants, drinking at our pubs, and being entertained by our people.”

Something clicks in John’s mind. “You mean to have them at The Bordeaux.”

“Among other things, yes.” Tommy’s eyebrow twitches ever the slightest. “Will that be a problem?”

“Not at all.” John relaxes back with a lazy smirk. “We’ll show ‘em a good time. No better club than The Bordeaux in all of Europe.”

“Indeed.” Tommy agreed.

The emphasis on the strict regimen wasn’t just for purposes of ensuring a good time. The Scorsese’s were still a crime family after all. Certain people you simply didn’t trust further than you could throw them. Tommy’s regimen was to keep eyes on them at all times. Ensure that they wouldn’t think of double crossing or backstabbing the Peaky’s while they were here. Subtle to a degree and still very smart.

“We’ll finalize negotiations with them on Friday.” Tommy continues. “Birmingham’s to be on its best behavior until they leave.”

“Best behavior, aye?” Arthur chuckled beneath his breath, earning a quick look from Tommy. “Don’t got to worry about that.”

Tommy could nearly see the men Arthur beat within an inch of their lives already. He’d have to pay the police department a little extra this week, evidently.

“Any questions?”

“Yes.” Michael sat straighter in his chair. “What exactly are they to do at the Bordeaux?”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. The others in the room, namely Polly, Arthur and John, sent the younger man a confused, questioning look.

“Clarify yourself boy.” Polly said through a mouthful of smoke.

“The Scorcese family is of prestigious status in the States.” Michael chose his words carefully. “I’m not sure it’s in our best interest to have them view a show at a night club.”

“Really?” Arthur huffed dryly. “And why’s that?”

Now, Michael Gray was not a man who was hard to read. The boy was cursed with a certain ease in his life, one that veiled him from taking precautions against others seeing his emotions. In a way he was still painfully naive, a little boy dressed in grown men’s garments and attempting to carry opinions and make decisions that grown men did. This trait left him vulnerable to the simple skill of body language and, in some cases, the observance of common sense.

“I think they deserve better.”

“Better?” John spat the word out before Tommy could, rage filling both their bodies at the audacity. “You think there’s someplace better than the Bordeaux in England? Tell me the name and watch it burn down by night fall.”

“There is no place better than the Bordeaux.” Polly looked at her son in irritation. “What do you suggest? Take them to the races?”

Michael shifted. “Possibly.”

Arthur laughed. “Those yanks aren’t fascinated by horses, boy. They’re fascinated by women.”

“I reckon you’re still bitter that singer turned you down a few nights ago.” Polly turned forward. Had she noticed Tommy’s and John’s immediate interest in the comment, she didn’t make mention of it. “We’ll continue with the Bordeaux.”

However neither brother was too keen to let it go just yet.

“You approached Y/N?” Tommy asked calmly before John got the chance. They watched, Michael’s embarrassment painted clearly on his face, eyes averted at the mere mention of your name.

“Isaiah dared me.”

A flimsy excuse that would’ve made John laugh had it been tied to a different woman. But this was different, and Michael, the stupid boy had the sheer gall to approach his woman—

“Y/N is off limits.”

Simple and straightforward. Tommy’s verdict came down like a metaphorical gavel, gaze sealing his judgement and leaving the younger man both puzzled and upset.

“For what reason?” He challenged, Arthur taking his drink and downing it in one swig.

“Besides the lass turning you down already?” The older Shelby chuckled. Michael sent him a fiery glare, never very fond of the old man in the first place.

“Oh shut up you useless drunkard—“

Arthur reared as if preparing to fight. Tommy’s mouth shut with an inward sigh, Polly’s gaze turning towards Michael in waning warning.

“Mind your mouth boy.” Polly snapped. Michael turned to her, ready to run his loose mouth once again, but Tommy’s jaw unhinged and uttered words that soured his tongue and bittered his core.

“She’s off limits because she’s John’s.”

For a moment, the world stopped. The family was left gaping for a second, any flush of tension sweeping out of the room and making its way for a myriad of other feelings. For Tommy, it was resentment. For John, pride. For Polly and Arthur, expectancy and mild surprise. For Michael, jealousy.

Polly was the first to speak. “What?”

Arthur let out a breath. “‘M gonna need another drink.”

“John’s?” Michael spat. “John’s married. We’re Catholic, aren’t we not?”

“It’s none of your business, is it not?” John retorted with a slick grin. The second youngest Shelby rose from his chair with a smug expression, eyes harboring mischief and glee. “Now, if you’d excuse me, I’m due to meet my wife shortly.”

Perhaps John should’ve felt a little bitterness and shame grace his soul at the acknowledgment of his mistress and wife in the same conversation. Perhaps. Yet, John couldn’t find it in himself to be anything but smug.

-

On days when you weren’t performing, you’d allow yourself a sometimes luxury of experiencing the Bordeaux for yourself. Tonight was something different, dancers dressed in skimpy shorts and sequined bralettes shaking and twirling around the large stage to some kind of swing jazz sound the band played. You perched at the grandiose bar, dressed in silk and satin, a red number draping from your body in ways divine. Matching red lipstick coated your lips, your hair slicked into something fancy to match how you felt. The most eye catching piece of all was the diamond bodice you found, something wiry and elegant that shaped your frame and accentuated yourself nicely.

It was no surprise to find John at your side not thirty minutes after your arrival. You smelt him, all bourbon and smoke, before you saw him.

“Come with me.”

You raised an eyebrow, eyes still trained on the performance. “You’ve horrible manners, Mr. Shelby. What ever happened to hello?”

His heat pressed near your side. “I told you to call me John, dove.”

“Not in public. It’s unprofessional. Much like you’re being right now.” You set down your glass and turned to him. There was no bite to your words, and the most beautiful, serene expression crossed your comely face. “Come with you where?”

John could swear his heart stopped. “To the Halycon Jewel.”

The Halycon Jewel was a wondrous place. Located in the heart of London, it was the most prestigious casino of modern times. Willy always bragged about the place, citing how he spent his eighteenth birthday there before the war — how the place could run a weak man broke and still make him feel like he was king of the land. It’s beautiful, with high ceilings and grand pillars, sculptures at its entrance with large trees and fountains. There was a red carpet leading to its entrance, guarded by burly men, and inside was beyond spectacular.

You were sure you dug crescents into John’s arm once he led you inside, but it wasn’t like it mattered. It wasn’t like you cared either.

Men and women crowded around tables with long pipes and cigarettes and drinks in their hands. Cheers rang across the room, mixing with a symphony of card shuffling and chips stacking. Waiters dotted around the place with flukes of bubbling champagne, one of which John swiped for you as he led you through the starry maze. You soaked it all in, basking in the beauty of the arena and of the man who brought you along in the first place. By the time you reached your destination, a private booth in the back, a smile had made its home on your features, eyes lidded in sultry fashion.

You weren’t quite expecting what you walked into, but if performing taught you anything, it was how to pretend like you knew all along.

“What are we playin’ gents?” John tore himself from your side to find a seat around the table. Tommy looked up first, eyes passing his brother to lock onto you, and inwardly he cursed. His heart sped, and much to his dismay, Grace’s thumb began to stroke his stubbly chin.

“Poker.” Arthur answered, acknowledging you with a nod. “You brought your friend.”

“Our friend.” John corrected with a half grin. Your eyebrow twitched upwards.

“The friend has a name you all know quite well.” You stepped forward, standing behind John’s chair. “I trust you all are having a good evening.”

Your eyes scanned the table until you landed on something unfamiliar. “Hello,” you greeted them. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

John coughed to hide a laugh. Arthur hid it behind his drink. Tommy, pulling his attention away from you, swallowed a snicker and settled for a soft, rumbling chuckle.

Michael glowered. “No, I don’t think we have. I’m Mi-“

Your mouth popped open in surprise. “Michael! We have met! You’ve been to a show!”

The memory came back to you. That particular show was fairly teasing and mild, but enough for the man to personally see you afterwards and, in a much more eloquent demeanor to his credit, ask if you’d prostitute yourself out for him for a night.

“Maybe I did.” Michael waved it off, Arthur hacking near violently now, causing John to slam his back in his aid. “It’s a memory though now, isn’t it?”

A sinister smirk creeped its way to your face. Maybe the liquor was finally hitting you. Maybe you enjoyed this power too much.

“Indeed it is, Mr. Gray.”

Michael couldn’t stand you. Some showgirl vixen who thought she was better than everyone just because she was a bird with a voice. He couldn’t stand you, the heat of anger blossoming in his chest at the sight of you. You infuriated him, wholly because you were something he couldn’t have. There weren’t many things Michael Gray couldn’t have. How dare you cement yourself as one of them?

You watched idly through their game of poker. The stakes weren’t very high, everyone betting moderate amounts of chips, and maybe it be the alcohol or maybe out of unfamiliarity but both John and Arthur played terribly. Michael was a decent player to his credit, Tommy the best, but you were sure you could do better.

“May I have a turn?” You said after Arthur lost the third consecutive time in a row. Grace laughed first, an unattractive little snort she attempted to hide in her shoulder.

“No can do love.” Arthur collected his remaining chips with a grunt.

Michael conceded. “Poker’s a men’s game, not women’s.”

“And ‘m not givin’ you my chips.” John flashed you a smile, to which you returned with a playful scowl.

“Just one.” You pleaded. “I’ll be gone before you know it.”

Tommy eyed you for a moment, the others too busy counting chips to acknowledge your plea. He hummed.

“Get your own chips then.”

Michael’s eyes darted upwards. “Tommy?”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“She’s a woman.” Michael’s brows furrowed. “Women can’t play poker! What’s wrong with—“

The sound of your chips clattering to the table cut Michael’s concerns off. John raised an eyebrow, looking up at you in question. You simply grinned.

“Five thousand.” You breathed, eyes trained on Tommy. “To start, of course.”

“Five thousand?” Arthur choked. “Are you sure?”

“Positive, Mr. Shelby.” You perched on John’s lap, legs crossing at the knee. “Now, dealer. Deal me in.”

The dealer, a stout man previously mute in the corner, sprung to life like a machine. He shuffled the cards, John’s arms circling your waist. Arthur had wanted to make a comment, but at that moment your dress shifted, slit exposing your knee down to your shoes and he lost all thought.

Poker was, indeed, a man’s game. As a child, your father used to teach you and your cousins how to play on Sunday nights. You had no chips then, opting to play with rusted little trinkets to serve a substitution, but the thrill of the game back then never lied in the chips. It lied in learning it, dissolving in its rules and probabilities and learning how to beat your cousins and your father with relative ease. This, strangely, took you back to your youth. With a table filled of men who needed to be knocked down a few pegs and money to plunder from them in the process.

Tommy and Arthur threw in two orange chips first, you and Michael following suit. Five cards were dealt each, and you took liberty to snag one of John’s cigarettes to keep your hands busy in time.

“Don’t look at her cards John.” Tommy commanded.

“Tell Grace not to look at yours.” Came his retort. Grace fake gasped and pouted.

“It’s not like I’d be much help anyway.” She shrugged. “As you said, poker is a man’s game.”

“Not for long.” You mused, taking a peek at your cards. Some threes, a seven, a set of jacks. Interesting.

“Three hundred.” Michael called out first, tossing in three chips.

“Five.” Arthur grumbled, tossing in a lavender chip.

“Hm.” Tommy sipped his gin. “Five.”

Another lavender to the pot. You sighed.

“A thousand.”

Michael and Grace shot you a look from the corner of their eyes, Arthur in disbelief at the yellow chip that left your hand.

“Christ.” Arthur breathed. “I’ll fold.”

“I’ll play.” Michael tossed in a chip. “Two cards.”

The dealer passed him two cards in exchange for his two, and Tommy made the same judgement, opting to exchange one card. You quickly turned your head to make sure John wasn’t looking, blindly flicking a chip to the pot.

“Play.” You turned to the dealer. “Two cards, please.”

Michael studied your expressions intently. Normally, every poker player had a tell. Arthur hid his the worst, grinning when his hand was good, drinking when it was bad. John’s was less obvious, but his demeanor relaxed even more if he held a good hand. Tommy was hard to spot but not impossible. The minuscule twitch in his eyebrow always called him out without fail.

But you, you were impossible.

You kept the same sultry gaze throughout, schooling yourself features to look both disinterested and intrigued at the same time. There was always a smirk intact with you, painted nails rapping on the table when you were thinking and nothing more. He couldn’t get a read on you, admirably so, and it drove him wild.

A three, an ace, a turn of jacks. Perfect.

Against your average bar crawler or poker junkie, typically you’d opt to set a trap. Hardly bet at all, make the kid think he’s about to win it big, y’know? But you’re playing with the Shelby’s. A tactic like that’s not gonna work, they’re too smart for that. So, you’ve got to overbet the pot. Pour so much money in you look stupid, like you’re making amateur moves or you’re certain you have the best hand.

“Two thousand.” Michael starts out. Tommy takes a puff of a cigar Grace presents to him, taking a moment to glance at his cards.

“I’ll fold.”

This catches Arthur’s and John’s attention. Grace, even without knowing the game, could feel the tensions rising in the air, your eyes locking onto Michael’s with a cool expression and no trace of worry in your poise.

“And you?” Michael challenged. Your eyes gleamed.

“Your two thousand,” you began, hand pressing behind your chips. “I’ll double.”

“Y/N.” John was quickly hushed by Tommy. Instead, he pressed his thumbs into your sides, massaging your hips in weary warning.

“Dealer.” Michael called for the man’s attention once more. His eyes never leave yours.

“Give me ten thousand dollars more.”

Grace whistled lowly. Tommy shot Michael a look, then turning to you. You licked your canines, unfazed as the stack of yellow chips met the pot.

“Mr. Richards, sir. Match me.”

John’s grip tightened. The dealer, for the first time that night, with wide eyes behind wiry glasses spoke. “A-Are you sure, Miss-“

“Never question a lady, Mr. Richards.” You twirled the cigarette in your fingers. “I’m sure.”

Michael’s heart rattled against his rib cage. A matching stack of yellows appeared next to his with a soft clatter. Michael licked his cheek and nodded. “I’ll call. Four nines.”

Sure enough, he laid four nines and a deuce on the table. A beautiful hand indeed. But, it was difficult to hide your smugness as your hand stretched to turn your cards over.

“Four jacks.”

Arthur’s eyes bulged. Tommy took a glance, one would assume it fleeting but it was really of surprise and disbelief. John let out a noise between a sigh of relief and a laugh. Michael, in short, was furious.

And you simply sat smug and grinned.

“I believe you owe me nearly twenty grand, Mr. Gray.” Your eyes twinkled in the face of his anger. “I suppose poker isn’t much of a man’s game after all. Still, it’d be best not to let boys around the table, don’t you think?”

Michael’s lip curled into a sneer. “You watch your mouth around me Miss Blackbird—“

“And you’d do best to treat me with respect, Mr. Gray.” You bit back with identical intensity.

“You think because you’re my cousin’s whore you have any right to—“

“Watch your mouth Michael.” John was quick to warn. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

“All of you stop it.” Tommy snuffed out the head of his cigarette. “Michael, apologize.”

“Like hell I will.” He scoffed. Your brows raised.

“Are you always this sore of a loser? Thank God you were too young to go to war.”

“Y/N.” Tommy warned, John’s grip on your waist tightening. You ignored them both.

Michael’s eyes flashed with something deadly, and before you knew it, his mouth opened to reveal something of the equivalent. “I will not apologize to Luca Changretta’s runaway whore.”

The smile dropped off of your face instantly. Suddenly, the room felt cold. John’s touch reminded you of ice, everyone’s heavy gazes akin to fire. Your heart lurched, something sour spreading across the plane of your tongue, causing your expression to morph into distaste and fear. Michael, on the contrary, never looked more vengeful and alive.

“What?” John looked at you cautiously. “What’s he talking about?”

“Nothing.” Your teeth gritted together. Michael took on your precious smugness, standing up and fixing his suit before reaching for a cigar.

“Go on.” He said, lighting the cigar and taking a short puff to get the tobacco burning. He took a longer pull afterwards, French inhale technique sending the milky white plumes from his mouth through his nose. For a moment you cursed the man; he actually looked attractive doing it. “Tell them.”

“Tell us what?” Arthur looked between the two of you. The blood beneath your skin began to burn.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Really?” Michael laughed, dry and sardonic. “Allow me then.”

He turned to Tommy, confident with his chest full and knowing. You knew the words before he even spoke them.

“She belongs to the Changrettas. So Scorsese says, Luca’s been obsessed with finding his dear fiancé ever since she left.”

Chapter Text

New York City was an aspiring show girl's dream.

You still remember the day you landed there. Bright eyed and bushy tailed, some young girl from across the pond with a smile that could melt a coal miner's heart. New York, though a busy city that never slowed down, at least was kind enough to welcome you. Sure, it was by no means in any way you'd expected, but you treated the indifference of it's hasty citizens as the warmest welcome you'd ever recieved. You'd get no favors based on your politeness, and you'd receive no worse treatment because of your skin color. You'd watched the same old lady who cursed at you for standing in her way swat her cane at a tall caucasian man for speaking too loudly. Here in New York, you felt somewhat...equal.

A level playing field. The world was your oyster, and you took a knife to its seam and pried open its potential all on your own.

Landing gigs came within a week. You and your rag-tag band - at the time just a drummer, a guitarist, and a man who knew his way around the trumpet - jumped from club to club, working tirelessly night after night to afford food and stay to the motel you'd taken residence in. New York was a beautiful city, but expensive, and the little pounds you'd saved from your voyage only went so far. Quickly you found yourselves working day jobs - one a cook, the other a doorkeep, and you, you found yourself singing on the streets for pocket change (and a chance to get sighted by your band's next employer). It was here where Luca Changretta first laid eyes on you, wrapped clad in swathes of dusty pink and rose, coils hanging free in the crisp autumn air. It hadn't took long - by the ending of your second song the large man approached you, two other men flanking his sides, hat on his head tipped cordially - a greeting, to which you accepted.

"You new around here or something, love?" He says kindly. "There's a ton of new birds landing in the city these days, but I think I'd remember one with a face like yours."

You raised an eyebrow. At this point your accent was still thick and fresh, so as the tones and flips of your natural tongue progressed, you watched the expression on the man's face morph into one of genuine intrigue.

"A face like mine?" Your head tilts slightly. "And, pray tell sir, why would a face like mine commit itself to your memory?"

Luca smiles. You're new, and beyond your newness, you're unaware of him. The men at his sides don't phase you - it's likely that you're used to seeing this, maybe mobsters have no impact on you. Perhaps you've a story to uncover, or perhaps you're just blissfully aloof and taken no heed to what most people would immediately associate with the face of danger. Either way, Luca finds he rather likes you.

"Because something so beautiful is very hard to come by." Smooth. His tongue is smooth, and his accent weighs with a certain charm that makes the corners of your mouth twitch. You straighten, your hands clasped in front of you. Luca takes note of your gloves. How posh.

"What is your name, sir?" You ask.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours?"

A sense of humor. You bite the corner of your lip down in a poor attempt to hide a smirk. "L/N."

"Changretta."

You raise an eyebrow. "No first name?"

"I'll tell you that when you tell me yours."

Amusing. "Well then, Mr. Changretta. It's awfully nice to make your acquaintance."

Luca smirks as well. "Likewise, Miss L/N." 

"Do you plan to stay to hear another song?" You ask. "I'd wager you might enjoy my next number."

"I'd love to." Luca says, keeping with your banter. "Afterwards, you and I can discuss performances at my showroom. Tell me, have you ever performed at a lounge before?"

You blink. Back then, Luca was somewhat...intoxicating. Exciting, with a tongue and matching wit that you'd only experienced with certain men way back home. But those men were dead, buried in war-torn soil hundreds of miles away, and you were in New York. Singing with a tambourine on your hip and the full attention of one of the most influential men in New York, soon to be the entire east coast. You hadn't time to think of what this meant for you, nor of the potential repercussions of this fast life.

Your chest rises and falls shakily. Michael's words echo shrill in your mind, your face running hot as palms run clammy. Luca Changretta - she didn't think she'd ever hear that name again.

"What is he talking about, Y/N?" Arthur's eyes are hard and wary as they turn to you, examine you. "Speak plainly, dove. And quickly."

"I've nothing to say." You hold your chin high, gaze meeting his straight on with the same hardened expression. "My past relationships have nothing to do with anything of current."

"They do when we're planning to breach into his territory and overthrow the man!"

"What?" Your eyes turn to Tommy, and a part of you immediately regrets it. It feels as if ice is poured straight over you, like waters from the brook in the middle of winter. 

"Shut up, Arthur." He warns. You push past his frosted tone.

"No, tell me what he means by that." You turn fully towards Tommy, taking a step forward cautiously. "You're planning to move things overseas?"

Tommy stands firm. "It's none of your business."

"None of my business?" You squint. "You're planning to what, send rum there? To New York? Through Scorcese? Do you know the kind of man Luca is, Tommy? He kills for much less."

Michael scoffs. "And you would know, wouldn't you? How many men have died because of you, Y/N?"

"You insolent little bastard-"

"Go on! Tell them what you've caused. Tell them why you ran away from New York!"

"I'm not saying a word."

"Then perhaps I will, you murderer, you liar, you common-whore!"

"Enough!"

It's John that shouts. It's loud and booming, enough to pin your tongue to the roof of your mouth and keep it latched for the rest of your tenure. It's enough to suck every sound out of the room until all that's left are weighted gazes and shreds of your dignity. You decide then, after a few tense seconds, to collect your purse and rise to your feet.

"I'll see myself out." You say. Someone begins to protest, but Grace's voice fills the room before they do.

"Perhaps that's best." She says. "Whore or not, Y/N, it seems the Shelby family must decide if we can still trust you."

Tommy's gaze rounds to Grace but she's too wrapped up in looking at you to care. Situation aside, she thinks she could kiss Michael in that moment - the look on your face is priceless. Defeated. Somehow, you manage to figure that this is retribution for your dismissal of her in your dressing room before. Except now, this wasn't solely in front of John. This was in front of everyone - this was in front of Tommy.

You bite a bitter grin and nod. "I understand."

There are no protests to your dismissal. None verbal, at least. You leave the room without second thought, door sliding shut behind your departure. Soon after the only evidence of your arrival are the mounds of chips scattered across the table, and the scent of cinnamon and spice hanging in the air.

Tommy is the first to speak. After minutes of unbridled silence, he speaks, eyes on nothing but the poker table.

"We can still trust her."

"Can we?" Michael barks immediately. "After all that? She's proven a liability, is she not-"

"Was my statement not a statement, or did I open it for questioning?"

Michael recoils as a threatened snake. Grace doesn't, in capacity of his jealous wife.

"Perhaps it should be open for questioning." Grace says, met with a hint of a bewildered look from Tommy. "I understand that she is your childhood friend, Tommy, but she's refused to cooperate and she's hiding secrets from you-"

"I don't recall having you partake in the decision making of Shelby family matters, Grace." Tommy says sharply. "This is a discussion for Arthur, John, Pol and I. We share the same heart. She is not a threat."

Grace, spitefully, wonders if this was your plan all along. To drive a wedge between her marriage — one she hadn’t the opportunity to enjoy, even. Had you been that cruel? That selfish? Was one marriage not enough? Was one Shelby not sufficient? 

She wonders, as she curdles in dismay, while your name taints her husband’s tongue once more. 

“John, see to Y/N.” 

John hadn’t needed another word. 

You wished for peace. You wanted, more than anything, after that debacle to be left alone. To have an opportunity to breathe, at the least, after being degraded and humiliated without care. Michael’s words burn beneath your skin in ways that made you want to take a scalding bath and sear the memories away, but as burning tears sting against your waterline, while you tuck yourself into an awaiting taxi with full intentions to lock yourself off in your home and sleep this dreadful night away, a hand wraps itself around your door and wrenches it back open. Your stomach twists at the scent that accompanies it — something warm and spicy, mixed with bourbon and smoke.

“Leave me alone John.”

John Shelby’s voice sounds something pained. “You know I can’t do that love.”

“Oh, fine.” You round on him, eyes wide and bridled in anger. “What is it then? Come to reiterate that I’m a whore? Or perhaps something more scathing is more your fashion? Get on with it then, tell me all of what the Shelby family thinks of me!”

John’s face twists sour. “You know we don’t think of you poorly, Y/N.”

“Oh, do I? Because the last thing I heard was your spokesperson saying that you can’t trust me!” 

John recoils. Trust…how bitter, sometimes. He could trust her. They all could. They knew that. But Luca Changretta couldn’t be trusted. And if what Michael said was true, then their trust in you could be wagered. 

That made their trust in you a liability. 

The Shelby Family doesn’t do liabilities. 

“Let me take you home.”

Your retort burns on your tongue. “I refuse to—“

“Please.”

Even in your anger, there’s little you can do to steel yourself against John Shelby.

The ride is tense and long. John detests the way you sit as far from him as possible — nigh pressed flat against the door the entire time. The wrinkles in your forehead never flatten or smooth, as does the frown seldom move. He pulls affront your home and you scramble for the door handle, but before your hand curves around the handle, his hand wraps around your arm and his lips are on yours. And you, curse your heart, for a moment you melt. It’s hard not to — taste of whiskey and sweets on his tongue, it’s hard not to forget yourself, if only for a moment. His lips speak words he can’t say — things John Shelby never says, even to you. 

I’m sorry. Forgive me. 

Nearly, you should. 

John’s partly shocked when his efforts are met with your canines sinking into his bottom lip. He pulls away by reflex, the taste of crimson blossoming on his tongue. He looks at you, your lips coated in his spit, your eyes broken yet hardened, embarrassment and confusion written across features he’s come to appreciate so much. 

There’s blood on his tongue and adoration in his eyes. There’s spit on your mouth and betrayal in yours.

“Goodnight, Mr. Shelby.”

You leave without another word. 

John decides that he can’t stand the Changretta Family. 

Chapter Text

“What makes you think you can trust me, Mr. Shelby?”

“Is there any reason I can’t?”

The words burn against Tommy’s mind for days. Fourteen, to be exact, each day spent between the crux of his office and Grace’s unwanted bosom. The two have been more at odds, now more than ever, though she was none the wiser with Tommy’s descent on her every night. She’s unaware that his affections now lie in detest, in irritation, in a need to simply forget his impending reality. Her outburst in that room wasn’t forgiven. 

Tommy decided it best to give her something to preoccupy herself with, at the very least to ensure a mistake like that wouldn’t happen again. 

In the meantime, he kept tabs on you through John. Of which, John had no better luck than Tommy. 

John realized quickly how cold of a woman you could be when scorned. Seldom he sees you — outside of practices, you were never on Bordeaux property. Visits to your home were met without answer. The little lad you’d taken ownership of would answer John’s desperate knocks with a repentant smile and some excuse or another. You went to the grocer. You were out on business. A few times John got the urge to ask what business you could possibly be on outside of the Shelby’s, but he figured a question like that would drive a further wedge between the two of you. 

So, Tommy and John Shelby spend fourteen full days in disarray. Both men are tethered, on edge and largely unhappy, days spent ruthless at the office, nights spend ruthless atop their wives. By the third week, Arthur had finally called a meeting with the brothers at the Garrison, to which Tommy and John begrudgingly attend. John is the last to arrive, Tommy puffing out plumes of whitened smoke as John takes a seat beside Arthur. 

“Grace is pregnant.” Tommy announced dryly. “Found out this morning.”

Arthur, seemingly the only Shelby who’s still some remaining semblance of himself, gruffs  out a pleased laugh. “Congratulations are in order then. A drink, too!”

“Hardly.” Tommy waves off his excitement. “What is this meeting about?”

Arthur frowns. “Can’t an old man request to see his brothers every once in a while?”

“I’m leaving.” John stands abruptly, thumbing the button of his coat closed. “Wasting my bloody time again Arthur.”

Tommy moves to follow suit, but Arthur holds out his hand. “Wait, there’s something to talk about—“ 

Before any other words could be said, in walks the object of his brother’s desires. You. 

You, dressed in soft yellows with flowers braided in your hair. Your presence sucks the air out of the room, replaces it with the scent of lavender and sandalwood. You look largely unfazed, more annoyed than anything, softened jawline rigid and ticking as normally sparkling eyes hum dull and sardonic. 

Still, you’re beautiful. Beauty that all brothers couldn’t possibly deny. 

“Y/N.” John breathes, voice much like a boy’s, shaken and unsure. You saunter as your heels click dull against the wooden floors, rounding around to your chair at the table. You stop just behind it, pretty white gloves on your hands as you clasp them in front of you. 

“I’ve considered your offer, Mr. Shelby.” Your eyes are on Arthur and none else. You don’t dare to look elsewhere. “If the discussed terms are agreed upon with your brothers, then we have ourselves a deal.”

A deal, John broods. Now here you’ve gone picking up filthy Shelby habits. You’re striking deals now. With the Shelby’s, no less.

Surely you knew better than to get into bed with the devil. 

“What deal?” Tommy says before John has the chance. The middle Tommy brother stares at his eldest sibling with pointed eyes, eyes that Arthur does his best not to wither beneath. Instead, he takes a swig of the dark liquor on the table and chooses to focus on the sweet scent you left in the room. 

“Listen, Tommy. This will be good for us.”

“You spoke to her? Privately?” Tommy thinks his eye twitches. He wouldn’t be surprised if it did. “About what?”

“‘M tryin’ ta get t’ that.” Arthur gruffs out. 

“Then do it quickly.” John says, picking up his own drink. “Tom’s not the only one gettin’ impatient.”

Arthur sighs. He’d believed only Tommy and John would be the ones who’d found themselves entangled in your darling web of peril. Pretty as you were and precious as you are, he always knew that the price to pay with a face like yours around would always be dire. He hadn’t imagined it’d be this dire, though. 

Your first love was Tommy Shelby. Your second, however, was Luca Changretta. 

You fell in love with him in the springtime. Amongst the cherry trees in Central Park, where you two giggled like teenagers in the middle of fruit-flavored kisses. Back then Luca was much different - livelier, boyish. Back then, when his father and uncles worried more of the mafia business than he did, Luca was free. Free to indulge you in whatever you pleasured, be it riding in the rowboats in April or apricot picking whenever the farms opened up. Free to spend his nights tucked away in your shoe-box sized apartment, the scent of tomato sauce simmering away on your stove, Luca’s family recipe that he dared to clue you into (the secret was in the garlic.) Free to devote his life to you, no matter what that meant. 

These times were sweet, but they were dangerous. Because while Luca had blossomed in your gentle spring light, Luca was still a Changretta. And the Changretta’s like the Shelby’s, were a family darkened by war and cast away from any redeeming sunlight. 

He couldn’t keep himself from you. Not that he tried - despite the protests of his family, Luca never kept his life from you. On the nights when he didn’t bask in your bosom from dusk to twilight he stumbled on your doorstep, eyes bright and heart pounding, hurrying inside as the distant sounds of coppers howled far away yet never too far to suggest Luca wasn’t at fault. There were times when he’d come smelling like work - like cigar smoke and rum - and you’d usher him into the bath before you ever let him near your bedside. There were times he came by after not hearing from him for days and he did nothing but hold you, cradle you against a racing heart, eyes staring at demons you could not see, mind racing on foes you could not touch. 

You didn’t know the specifics of what was happening, but that didn’t matter. All you knew was that Luca, your Luca, had changed. 

The reality of just how monumental that change was came on the heels of the night he proposed to you. He spoke of meadows and picnics, of picking blackberries in the summer and going fishing just before fall. He spoke of a perfect life, one void of trouble, one he hoped to provide. 

You asked it first, eyes glittering, though not with hope. 

“Do you think you can leave this life behind?” 

Luca paused. Question dancing around his mind, possibilities racing to and fro. His answer took long to manifest, even longer for him to speak. 

“I want to.” 

You think the revelation sparked something in him. Some sort of fire you’d never seen before. A want, a deep rooted, groaning desire to leave that drove him to doing things you’d never seen before. Made him cold, made him calloused. Made him ruthless. 

Worst of all, like the factory smoke that covered Small Heath’s hazy sky, Luca’s ambition corrupted you, too. 

The rumors started first. Rumors of the girl, the woman that Luca Changretta killed for. They spoke wearily of her, stories told in hushed voices over pints of rum in the corners of seedy underground pubs. Rumors of her beauty, of her foxlike charm, how she’d woo a man with one look and how that single look would be a man’s last. How her eyes were beautiful yet haunting, for such beauty could only serve an omen of death. They’d call her many names - Malvolia stuck like folktale, soon used to scare nosy children into their beds and keep bright eyed foreigners at bay. Be careful, or else Malvolia will see you. 

The only thing worse than death, was death by Malvolia’s gaze. 

It wasn’t far from the truth. Slowly, yet quicker than you’d like, Luca’s life consumed you. And faster than his family would believe, you started to call the shots, not Luca. It wasn’t immediate - rather, it happened subtly. An inference of one’s disloyalty. A suggestion that another would falter. You hadn’t meant to, not intentionally, and not at first. Yet, eventually, your word became a gavel, men swallowing while your evocative gaze befell them with finality, Luca’s following thereafter. People spoke of you, of the British woman who had Luca Changretta wrapped around her finger and knew it. Some inferred that you were a witch, some kind of spell wrapped up in that silver engagement band that tied and twisted your souls together. 

And, for a while, you allowed him to engross you. Until the night before your wedding, when the souls of the tormented haunted you so deeply that you woke in a sweat, when the guilt gnawed and chewed on you until you ran out of Luca’s house barefoot with nothing but a nightgown and a coat to your name. 

Georgie and Charles would say they betted on it. Waited, figured that you’d come to your senses at the last moments. That’s why they were at the pier that day, quaint boat and a suitcase of your old things in tow. You escaped New York in the dead of night. By morning you were in Jersey, and by the afternoon, you were already on a boat back to England. 

And Luca was behind you. Or, so you hoped. 

“So that’s it then?” John scoffed. “She’s his runaway bride? Of all the things that maddening woman could get roped into, she falls onto a Changretta.” 

“Believe me, she’s not particularly proud of it either.” Arthur huffs. “I’d never seen that sort of look on her face before. She looked…haunted. Like she’d seen things, John-boy. Horrible things. The types of stuff women shouldn’t see.” 

“And yet she did.” Says Tommy. His voice, rather than angered like John’s, or grim like Arthur’s, remained steady. Pointed, firm. “What was her deal?” 

“Right.” Arthur sighs deep and heavy, leaning forward in his chair and resting his elbows on the table. His face looks weathered, more haggard than usual, as if the words weigh heavier than anything else possibly could in that moment. “She wants to be there when we meet with Scorcese. And with the Americans, in general.” 

“Absolutely not.” Both younger Shelby’s say in unison. “Have you gone mad?” 

Arthur’s eyes flutter shut. “I told her this wouldn’t be simple.” 

“Present for what?” John nearly spits. “This is none of her business.” 

“I think it warrants consideration.” Arthur says, to which John’s nostril flares and Tommy’s brows twitch upwards. Arthur looks at his two brothers and begins to plead his cause. “Listen, aside from Michael, she knows how the Americans are. Moreover she knows the Changretta family, so I reckon she could be useful in the communication aspect. Not anything else, just in the negotiations.” 

“You want to send a singer to do negotiations for the Shelby’s.” Tommy says, unimpressed, unamused. Arthur scoffs. 

“Oh, don’t give me that, Tom.” He rolls his eyes. “You and I both know she’s much more than just a singer.” 

“And yet, she’s not a Shelby.” Tommy quips, quick, direct, firm. “The answer is no. Relay the message yourself if you’d like.” 

“‘Fraid she won’t take no as an answer.” Arthur sighs, and the tone of his voice suggests something that make both his brothers squint. 

“What do you mean by that?” John tests. Arthur hesitates. “Be straight with us, Arthur. What on bloody earth do you mean by that?” 

Arthur looks up. He wonders, briefly, if this is what you did to men. Lead them to their deaths at the hands of your lovers. He considers, for a moment, what kind of enemy Luca Changretta would be, the man you made him become, the kind of men you’re turning his brothers into. 

He sighs, deep and heavy, once again. “She’s gone off to meet Scorcese ahead of us.” 

“What?!” John nearly roars, standing up so quickly he knocks the table, sending Arthur’s glass careening to the ground. He picks up his coat from the back of the chair, Tommy leveling Arthur with a look one could only describe as searing. 

“To do what, Arthur.” 

“Oh who bloody cares, Tom!” John rears, but Tommy doesn’t budge, Arthur looking at him wearily, tiredly. 

“To do what .” 

Arthur sighs, for what feels like the umpteenth that afternoon. He thinks he’ll need a bit more than whiskey to help his headache after this stunt of yours. 

“To question him.” He says, grim. “Reckons he’s up to something. Went to find out for herself before we meet him.” 

John scoffs, storming out the door with Tommy following, but not before giving Arthur a hardened look. The eldest Shelby once more sighs before collecting his own coat, trudging after his brothers. 

You’d kill them all one day, he reckons. One by one, without even trying to do it. 

Chapter Text

In another life. Michael Shelby would be just the kind of man you’d toy around with. The kind of man that Luca would watch you giggle at from across a crowded room, rum in his hand and a burning look in his eye. The kind of man you’d pull by the tie and whisper sweetened declarations of affections to. The kind of man you’d, knowingly, lead to his own demise. 

You suppose that dastardly woman hidden within the confines of your mind was never truly left in New York, despite your fervent efforts in trying to ignore her existence as much as possible. There were glimpses of her, times when John had you pressed against his desk that you felt her rise and show face. Moments when the smirk on your face lay a little too sinister, when the look in your eyes glimmered a bit too dark. You’d never truly rid yourself of that woman. She was embedded inside of you, latched into the deepest parts of your soul, an ever present smog that hung thick in your heart that you couldn’t scrub yourself clean of. 

You tried to ignore it, you really did. But, sometimes you couldn’t help but entertain it. 

Michael Shelby glares at you from across a bar and you can’t help but smirk. The sun is setting and the room is warm and you know that despite the hatred he’s desperately trying to paint across his eyes, the way his gaze flickers down to your exposed, shiny knee meant that it was all a ploy that he’d been busy trying to wrap himself in. Michael didn’t truly hate you, no. He hated what you represented. A woman who, by all means, could do what she wanted, have what she wanted, be what she wanted. A woman who, despite all odds, was truly free. 

But were you that? Truly free?

Luca’s name soured the back of your tongue like the sting of cigarette smoke. The implication, the mere implication of that man, of that beautiful, tortured, dangerous man was enough to stiffen your spine and render your every nerve alert. You’d do your best to hide it, but in quiet your hands trembled, your heart raced. You didn’t want to face him again. You didn’t want to face that side of yourself again. That part of you that sprung out when he was around, the part that treated human life like pawns and play things, the part that forgot what her parents instilled in you. 

The woman you were with Luca Changretta was a dangerous, conniving woman. You didn’t want England to meet her. You didn’t want the Shelby’s to meet her. 

You didn’t want Tommy to meet her. 

So, you’d do your best to not let that happen. Even if that meant allowing the ghost of her to creep out every once in a while. For now, for tonight, you’d let her play. 

Michael is much too prideful, so you do it yourself. You don’t miss the way his eyes trail the slit in your dress as you sit next to him, thin stemmed glass in your hand and a red-painted smirk on the corner of your lips. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” Michael says. His tone is searing, barely contained. It amuses you more than it scares you. 

“And yet I am.” You hum, a quirk in your brow. “Why can’t I be here, Michael Gray? Can’t a gal enjoy a night on the town every once in a while?” 

“No,” Michael spits, then thinks to retract. “Not here. Not in this company.” 

“Hm?” You ask, inquisitive, a bit aloof. “Why not this company? Something wrong, Michael?” 

His eyes latch to yours as he brings his drink to his mouth, and you mimic him the same. It’s a silent game - he can’t reveal too much, you won’t stand down unless he does. You’re too much like a Shelby, he thinks. You won’t take no for an answer unless you have good reason to. 

His sip is long and warm. He imagines, briefly, that the look in your eye above the glass is challenging in a different sense. Your knee shines in the corner of his eye and his lashes quickly flutter in an effort to contain himself. He’s a married man. He must be better than John. 

The swanky sound of heated jazz disrupts your silence, and Michael takes the music as his cue. His eyes roam past your head, hand moving on its own accord, swiping a few bills from his pocket and tossing them on the bar top before standing. 

“Stay here.” He tries. You snort dryly, downing the rest of your drink and standing. 

“Not a chance.” 

He didn’t expect you to listen. You follow him, weaving through the crowd as he makes a beeline for the stairs that lead above. Before you know it you’re in the mezzanine, looking over the crook of your nose to the dancing crowd below, and there’s a hand that settles on the curve of your waist - Michael’s hand, you realize, and the hand is followed by Michael’s voice, placed low to enough to your ear that you can hear over the racket, just bordering on the line of acceptable behavior. 

“You know who’s here, don’t you?” He breathes. His breath smells of whiskey and mint. You hum, curiously, eyes still overlooking the crowded clubroom. 

“Depends on who’s here.” 

You make him want to squeeze your sides and press into you. He refrains, instead digging his nails into his palms. 

“You won’t bait me into telling you information I’m sure you’re already privy to.” Michael spits harshly. “But if you’re so insistent on staying, I hope you plan to make yourself useful.”

“You’re cute when you play toy soldier, Michael.” Your words are light as if you’re giggling beneath your breath. His nostrils flare, you don’t need to look behind you to see his indignation. Instead, you move past it, as if it’s akin to an unruly child acting out for attention. “You come off too much like a city boy, you know. You’re too prim and proper. A bit too polished. Scorsese would have you for lunch.” 

Michael scowls. “So that’s why you’re here. To meet with the Italians. I knew we couldn’t trust you, I knew you were a traitor-” 

“If I was a traitor, do you think you’d still be here? Standing? Breathing?” The raise in your brow latches Michael’s tongue to the roof of his mouth. You still don’t look at him, though your head turns inwards, closer to his. “You’re here to question him, yes? I’m here to make sure he tells the truth.” 

“And how would you do that?” 

You don’t answer, not immediately. Instead you smirk, a soft, dainty little thing that makes something in Michael squeeze and stir. He needs to get away from you, and quickly. His grip on your waist begins to burn his own touch. His thumb presses into your back - his hand flexes, grasp on you tightening. 

“Just do what you came to do, Michael. I won’t get in your way. Promise.” 

You turn to meet him eye to eye and Michael restrains himself from letting his gaze fetter over your features. He thinks your gaze is enough to make a weak man agree to anything. Distantly, a voice tells him he’s weak, as he gives a forced nod, jaw feathering as his teeth grind in reluctance. 

By the time the Shelby brothers arrive, Michael Gray is on the mezzanine with Geno Scorsese. This, Tommy anticipated. This was what was supposed to happen. And, as icy eyes survey the scene, he notes that you’re curiously nowhere to be found. 

The hairs on the back of his neck raise. He snuffs out the cigarette between his lips onto the silver tray of a passing waiter, barely turning to address the two brothers that flank his sides. 

“Stay down here.” He says. Simple. A command. Keep watch, just in case one of them sees you. Collect you before you do something stupid. Understood. 

Michael Gray looks like a boy dressed up for war.

His suit is pressed, his hair neatly parted, his tie done in a Windsor knot so tight it looks like it may choke him if he breathes too hard. He wears confidence like a coat that doesn’t quite fit—shoulders a touch too broad for him, sleeves grazing his knuckles. The revolver tucked beneath his jacket feels heavier than it should, like it knows it doesn’t belong in his hands.

He’s trying, though. That much is quite obvious. There’s an edge to him tonight, a deliberate sharpness in the set of his jaw, in the way he adjusts his new cufflinks like he’s seen Tommy do a hundred times. But he doesn’t carry the same weight. Not yet. Michael looks like potential . Geno Scorsese looks like proof .

Geno Scorsese looks like money that used to be dirty.

He’s somewhere in his late thirties, maybe forty, but wears youth like a mask—slicked-back black hair with just the faintest hint of grey creeping in at the temples, as if time itself knows better than to fully touch him. His skin is olive-toned, ruddy in the cheeks from a life lived in cigars and bourbon, and he’s always clean-shaven, obsessively so, as if hiding something beneath.

He dresses loud, like a man who clawed his way up and wants everyone to know he made it. Wide-lapelled suits in silk and pinstripes, patterned waistcoats, too much jewelry—thick rings that gleam like brass knuckles dressed for the opera. His pinky wears a signet from a grandfather he probably shot in the back. His shoes are crocodile leather, immaculately polished, soles likely worn out from pacing.

But what really marks him is his eyes—hooded and heavy-lidded, the kind that never blink fast. They’re brown, yes, but dull and bottomless. Something like used coffee grounds or tilled soil on barren land. And when he smiles—which is often—his teeth show too much gum. It’s never quite a grin. It’s a warning. 

Like a dog baring teeth before the growl.

“Michael Gray ,” Geno purrs, a showman’s grin splitting his face. “Been hearing a lot about you.”

Geno lounges like a man who owns the room. He’s already seated when Michael arrives at the private table tucked in the mezzanine’s shadowed corner, legs spread wide, one arm slung lazily over the velvet backrest like he’s lounging in his own damned parlor. The cut of his suit is sharp, Italian tailoring with loud patterns and silk stitching, just shy of garish. His tie is wide, his smile even wider.

Michael doesn’t offer a hand. He sits. Straight-backed, no jacket, no grin. His features are set in cold, careful stone.

“Good things, I hope.”

“Oh, the best. Rising star of the Shelby enterprise. The brains behind the legacy.” There’s tease behind Geno’s words. Tease that Michael doesn’t like, but he won’t call out the insult. Scorsese leans forward on his elbows. “Tell me, Michael. Is that what you are?”

Michael keeps his expression flat and unreadable, but his fingers twitch against the rim of his glass. Geno doesn’t miss it. “We didn’t come here to play games.”

Geno chuckles like he’s just been complimented. “Oh, but I love games, Mikey.”

Below them, jazz winds through the bar like smoke, thick and low and warm. Michael keeps one ear attuned to it, the other to the conversation, his eyes flicking briefly across the floor to where Tommy and Arthur have settled in like watchful dogs. The meeting’s meant to be simple: gauge Scorsese’s interest in expanding distribution into New York through Shelby Company Limited. Cut out the middlemen. Shared profits. Shared protection. Should be easy. Simple. Straight forward. 

Except Scorsese isn’t playing by the script.

“You Brits,” he says casually, conversationally, eyes flickering down to the glint of amber liquid that catches the light as he swirls his drink, “you’re always so careful. Always so… tidy . Clean suits, cleaner kills. But this business? This business is blood and guts and piss in the alley.”

Geno’s voice is low— not loud, never loud, because men like Geno Scorsese don’t need to raise their voices to be heard. It’s gravel and honey, slick with that New York-Italian lilt that stretches syllables and coils them at the end like a snake ready to strike. There’s a grain to it, grit, something rough and worn in, like it's been dragged through smoke and whisky and too many late nights leaning over bloodstained tables.

Every word sounds rehearsed, but not in a practiced way. No. Geno speaks as if he’s putting on a performance. In that theatrical way the Italians do. As if he’s playing puppeteer. Like he’s always playing a part and you’re the proper fool for forgetting that.

He talks like a promise you knew you couldn’t trust. Shouldn’t. Like snake oil salesman or used car dealers. Michael certainly didn’t trust him, that’s for sure. He trusted Geno about as far as he could throw him.

Michael doesn’t flinch. His jaw twitches, once, only once. “And yet you agreed to the meeting.”

Geno’s grin falters, just for a breath. “Curiosity, mostly. Wanted to see what all the noise was about.”

Michael leans forward slightly, glass still untouched. “And?”

Geno grins.

“You’re young.”

“I’m smart.”

“You ain't the one who rattled my men in Boston.”

“No,” Michael allows him that. “But I’m the one who’ll make sure they stay rattled, if they don’t cooperate.”

Oh? Geno chuckles. A low, joyless noise, like an animal surprised at a challenge. He grits his teeth and speaks through them like a gate. “You threatenin' me now, Mikey?”

Mikey . Another jaw twitch. Michael breezes past.

“It’s not a threat,” He says, voice still calm, measured, level. “It’s business.”

Geno chuckles again, but there’s less ease in it now. Irritation, Michael thinks. He swallows discreetly in an effort to ground himself. Geno’s hand tightens around his glass. He leans in closer.

“You’ve got balls, kid, I’ll give you that. But this? This ain’t chess. This is war . And I don’t like being told what’s what by a lad whose balls just barely dropped.”

Michael stares him down. He resists the urge to grimace. To fight. To smash his glass against the side of Geno’s head and make him swallow down whiskey until his lips turned blue. Another jaw twitch. Michael’s response is measured. “Then maybe you need a new mirror.”

There’s a pause. Just enough for the response to float in the air alongside the hum of a tired saxophone. 

Then—

Scorsese’s gaze shifts.

Just past Michael’s shoulder. Up.

His whole body stills. The glass lowers to the table with a slow, deliberate clink. His expression doesn’t change, not entirely, but there’s a flicker—so fast most men would miss it. But Michael sees it. The sudden tension in his jaw. The quiet coil of something—recognition, most certainly. Or dread.

And Michael doesn’t turn to look—he doesn’t have to. Doesn't feel the need to.

Because you aren't hiding.

You’re above, leaning against the wrought iron of the upper railing, shrouded by the dusky gold of low lamplight. One gloved hand trails along the rail, your form half-silhouetted in satin and shadows, the glint of your earrings catching just enough of the light to make your presence deliberate. Your gaze is fixed downward—not at the table, not even at Geno—but somewhere far off. Detached. Unbothered. And yet you’re there. Watching. Geno knows it. Michael doesn't.

Geno swallows.

“You brought her here?”

Michael frowns, confused. “Brought who?”

The shift is nonplus. Scorsese leans back, his bravado suddenly brittle. He mutters something in his native tongue, face grim as if he’s seen a ghost. He has. 

“Thought she was a ghost,” he mutters. “Didn’t think she’d show her face again. Not after—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Michael doesn’t ask him to.

A beat of silence passes. Then Geno clears his throat and reaches for the bottle, pours himself a generous finger of bourbon.

“So,” he says, voice scratchier now. “You were saying. About distribution.”

Michael doesn’t smile, but something in him eases. His jaw stops twitching. He nods once.

“We’ll handle the logistics,” He picks up his glass and brings it to his mouth. “You get us the right names in New York. We'll protect your ports, your ships. Everything else flows from there.”

Scorsese lifts his glass. Michael pretends not to notice the way the man’s hands are no longer steady. “Fifty-fifty.”

Hell no. “Seventy-thirty.”

Another flicker of hesitation. Michael can see it all working in real time—Scorsese suddenly recalculating the risk, not of the Shelby's, not even of Tommy, but of that woman standing above like an omen in silk. A ghost of New York’s ugliest secrets. The woman Michael Gray doesn’t even know is there .

He lowers his glass without taking a sip.

“Sixty-forty,” he counters.

Michael lifts his own glass for the second time. He clinks it lightly against Scorsese’s with a simple, charmed grin.

“Done.”

And somewhere above, without moving a muscle, cigarette smoldering between gloved fingers and satin rippling against stocking-clad legs, you smile.

Tommy Shelby’s presence is one felt, not heard. So, when the air shifts and the smallest breeze kisses against the curve of your back, you don’t need to look around to see it’s owner. 

“You shouldn’t be here, Lottie.”

Tommy’s voice sounds low. Gritted. Dragged over gravel and stone in the best way. Sinks into your stomach like stones into a lake. The cigarette still burns between your fingers. 

You don’t turn around. “A woman can’t enjoy a show?”

A show. Tommy could chuckle. Nearly does. Something small, a ghost of a smirk pulls on the corner of Tommy’s mouth. 

The air shifts again. Suddenly the air behind you is warmer. There are arms on either side of you. They hold onto the railing and cage you in. Tommy’s cologne is sharp in your nose, and you still don’t look at him. 

“I’ve a feeling you’re not referring to the band down below.” 

This. This makes Lottie smirk. Makes her settle, cross her arms and take a slow drag from her cigarette as Tommy just looms in the back of her, around her, close enough to touch but never quite touching. It’s foreplay. It makes something in Lottie die and come alive in the same breath. 

Tommy continues. “Scorsese. That was you, wasn’t it?”

You don’t miss a beat. “You’ll have to be more specific, Mr. Shelby. Lots of things could be me.”

“Tommy.” He cuts in, sharp as a dagger, ache in his tone. “You call me Tommy.” 

Tommy. His name tastes as bitter and welcomed as the smoke on your tongue. Addiction looms. You swallow. 

“Tommy,” You try again, softer, sweeter, and Tommy’s lashes flutter shut as he lets out a low noise of satisfaction right into the crook of your neck. It makes every hair on your body stand upright. It makes every nerve beneath your skin become attuned and alert. “You can’t be this close to me, Tommy. Someone will see.”

“I don’t care.” 

And, finally, like mercy itself you look at Tommy. You look at him with your doe eyes and soft lips and the scent of honeysuckle behind your ear and he’s got to swallow to keep himself together. Something in him pulls. Tugs. Beckons him closer to your warm body but he, a man with no limitations and selective restraint, decides to restrain himself. 

Long lashes flutter as you take him in. His eyes, his mouth. You swallow—he groans as if you wound him. 

“Don’t look at me like that, love.”

“Like what?” You look at him full on, wide eyed, as if a cigarette isn’t burning between your fingers and the devil doesn’t reside on your tongue. Tommy thinks he’s starting to sweat. 

“Like something I can’t have,” Tommy says, hoarse with want. “But I’d take anyway if you’d let me.” 

A beat. A pause. His words are too raw for the moment, jazz billowing through the room like clouds riding the wind, curling between the two of you like a suggestion. For a second, a fraction of a moment, Tommy stills—your tongue takes your lip between your teeth and he watches the reddened flesh divot beneath your bite. It’s cruel. Teasing. You don’t even mean for it to be. 

You place your cigarette between his lips. He watches your eyes as he takes a drag. You don’t look away. 

“Where the Americans are involved, you let me sit in on meetings.” You say. Soft and pretty as you speak, there’s no suggestion in your tone. “I know how to keep them in line. They know not to cross me.”

Tommy holds his smoke for a breath. Just a moment. Enough for it to sting hot in the back of his throat, then he releases with a slow exhale. 

“Meetings and nothing more.” 

You smile, taking a final drag of the cigarette before placing it between Tommy’s lips. Residue from your lipstick smudges and colors his mouth. You don’t point it out. Tommy doesn’t wipe it off. 

“I’ll see you around, Mr. Shelby.”

And you leave without another word. Tommy resists the urge to watch you go. Instead, he takes a long, hard drag of the cig. 

You’ll be his end. He’s sure of it.