𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐄 ↳𝐓. 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐲

chapter 6

In the dimly lit office of the brothel, Madam Marcella reclined in her ornate chair, the air thick with a mixture of heavy perfume and the subtle scent of aged whiskey. Her once regal posture now betrayed signs of weariness as she coughed, a delicate hand rising to cover her mouth. The raspy sound echoed in the room, a stark contrast to the usual ambiance of clandestine conversations and clandestine deals. Retrieving a small bottle from the drawer, she poured a measured dose of medicine into a crystal glass, the liquid glimmering like amber. With a sigh, she swallowed the concoction, a momentary relief washing over her features. Despite the façade of resilience she maintained for the world outside, in this private sanctuary, the Madam succumbed to the vulnerabilities that lurked beneath her formidable exterior.

Mr. Gonzales walked in, knocking at the open door. "Take it easy," he said, laughing at the businesswoman. "You're bedridden so soon, Marcella?" he questioned, clearly poking fun.

"When did you guys ever let me leave my bed?" she asked, rolling her eyes at her loyal customer. They laughed together.

"I hope you'll make me meet Evara today," he winked, wanting to have yet another sensational moment with the young girl. He had always come back for Evara; he was her very first customer, after all.

The madam rolled her eyes, partly jealous. She whispered in a hushed voice, "Ever since Thomas Shelby claimed her as one of his, she does as she pleases!" The woman complained, coughing once more. "She is behaving like the new madam here... I think my time is up," she cried, this time with sincerity, as if she was about to let go of the world.

"Time up? Don't be silly," he scoffed, trying to cheer up his old friend.

Evara walked into the room, a smile lighting up Mr. Gonzales's face.

"Called for me?" she queried, unbothered.

"Gonzales is here for you," the madam rasped, her voice a feeble wheeze.

"I don't feel up to it today," Evara yawned, her gaze fixed on the ground as she idly played with the hem of her skirt.

Mr. Gonzales and the madam exchanged anxious glances.

"What do you mean?" Marcella inquired.

"It means I'm running a temperature," Evara declared. "Check for yourself if you doubt it." She moved closer, crouching slightly, inviting the madam to feel her forehead.

Marcella hesitated, withdrawing her hand before making contact, confirming, "Yes, you do have a bit of a fever... go and rest, dear."

Mr. Gonzales called out, "I'll wait until you're feeling better," his eyes lingering on Evara's departing figure, a mocking edge in his tone.

The madam began to sing, "All plans have backfired!" Her laughter soon morphed into a fit of coughing.

Mr. Gonzales resumed his seat, offering to massage Marcella's back. "You need rest," he urged, a sympathetic smile on his face. "Shall I give you a massage?" he teased, his hands moving down her arms, progressively lower to her knees.

"Oh, yes," the madam moaned between coughs. Her heart felt burdened, and weariness clouded her eyes. In that moment, she pondered the myriad paths life might have taken had she avoided this sordid brothel.

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The brothel, enveloped in an air of ignorance and routine, existed in a state of obliviousness to the recent demise of Madam Marcella. The day unfolded under a somber sky, the weather mirroring the hidden turbulence within the walls.

It was mid-afternoon, and the muted sounds of the bustling street outside seeped through the worn curtains, creating a dissonant harmony with the quiet despair within. The girls, draped in the heavy shadows of the dimly lit rooms, went about their tasks, unaware of the significant event that had transpired.

The air inside the brothel felt stagnant, weighed down by the oppressive atmosphere that Madam Marcella had long cultivated. The creaking floorboards bore witness to a hushed tension that lingered among the girls, an unspoken acknowledgment of the palpable void left behind by the absent figurehead.

As the clock ticked away, a peculiar stillness settled in, creating an illusion of suspended time. The routine continued – makeup reapplied, hair tidied, and the facade of normalcy carefully maintained. The absence of the madam's piercing voice and demanding presence cast an unusual calm, an unintended reprieve from the daily torment.

Outside, the weather hinted at the storm to come. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon, painting a tapestry of impending change. Unbeknownst to the girls, the universe itself seemed to grapple with the weight of a secret, and the wind carried whispers of the inevitable transformation.

In the communal areas, where moments of camaraderie were shared, a subtle unease lingered. The girls exchanged glances laden with curiosity, sensing a shift in the usual dynamics. Little did they know that the storm brewing outside would soon mirror the tempest within, unravelling the carefully woven threads of their existence.

As the day unfolded, the truth of Madam Marcella's fate remained concealed, shrouded in the silence of the brothel's corridors. The stage was set for an inevitable revelation, and the unknowing participants moved through the dimly lit rooms, caught in the unaware grip of their own destinies.

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The murky streets of Small Heath echoed with the distant sounds of life carrying on its worn-out routine. As Evara walked through the labyrinth of narrow alleys, her sharp eyes scanning the surroundings, she noticed a young boy named  Mathew, watching her with a mix of curiosity and fear. His tattered clothes and dirt-streaked face hinted at a life hardened by the unforgiving streets.

Approaching the boy with a confident stride, Evara crouched down to meet his gaze. The air was filled with the scent of dampness and distant cries, but Evara's presence seemed to command attention even in the dilapidated corners of the neighborhood.

"What do you want, little one?" Evara inquired, her voice a blend of warmth and authority.

Marcus hesitated, his eyes shifting nervously. The reputation of Evara, the enigmatic newcomer, had already spread through the whispers of Small Heath. With a deep breath, the boy mustered the courage to speak, his words carrying a heavy secret.

"Miss Evara, I've seen things, I have," Marcus began, his voice a low whisper. "The Shelby boys, they ain't just runnin' the Garrison. They got somethin' big goin' on, somethin' with guns. Stolen guns."

Evara's eyes narrowed slightly, her interest piqued. She motioned for Marcus to continue, sensing that this young boy held a key to unraveling the clandestine affairs of Small Heath.

"They meet at night, behind the old factory near the canal. There's crates, big ones, unloaded from lorries in the dead of night. I seen it," Marcus divulged, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and exhilaration.

Evara, ever the strategist, processed the information swiftly. The stolen guns were a piece of the puzzle she had been assembling. With a subtle nod, she acknowledged Marcus's revelation and assured him, "You've done well, young one. Keep your eyes open, and if you see anything else, find me."

As Marcus scurried away, disappearing into the shadows of Small Heath, Evara stood alone in the dimly lit alley, her mind already devising a plan to leverage this newfound knowledge. With a sly grin on her face, she devised a plan to approach Tommy Shelby, subtly revealing her knowledge. Her entrance into the world of Peaky Blinders was no longer a mere consequence of fate; it was a calculated move driven by ambition. Evara's mind, sharp as a blade, was ready to cut through the complexities of Small Heath.  The power dynamics of the Peaky Blinders were shifting, and Evara intended to be the orchestrator of the change.