Arsonist's Lullabye- Thomas Shelby x OC || Peaky Blinders Fanfic

Chapter One: The Black Country

"Monsters are real, and ghosts are too. They live inside us and sometimes they win."

- Stephen King

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The Black Country had gained its name due to the smoke from the many thousands of ironworking foundries and forges plus also the working of the shallow and thirty feet thick coal seams. Birmingham was also not very modern despite it being an industrial area. There was the burning stench of horse shit lingering in the poisonous air of burnt coal and roasted meat. It was damp as well as foggy, not a very comfortable setting.

Horses were bearing the weight of wagons being driven by gypsies. Every wagon was loaded down with some form of produce or machinery parts. Probably stolen parts, I found myself musing as Massimo kept the car going past each one. It was a long drive to Small Heath from London but it was better than anything else. It gave me a chance to prepare myself for what was undoubtedly supposed to be my home now.

There was so much dirt being kicked up by the horses and the noisy sounds of steam hissing in every direction, laughter in the distance, and the sounds of heels and boots on cobblestone and despite the place being poor ridden and filthy... It was the place Frankie formerly known as Uncle Mirko had made a home in. A home that Frankie had tried his hardest to make after he ran off with some servant girl, trying to hide away and ignore the blatant fact that Birmingham was not where he belonged, was not a place his family belonged but push through it anyway. I understood it though, he was my favorite uncle and I was saddened when he left New York but I understood now why he did. 

Nonno had tried to make him marry and threatened to have the woman he adored murdered so he wouldn't be blinded by the notions of "love" especially to a servant girl. So, he took his beloved Gianna and moved them where nobody would ever look. Not a single blasted soul would ever be suspicious of Small Heath being the place their missing Prince Mirko would ever disappear to. It was perfect... At least until he made the mistake of contacting her father a couple of years ago for help.

He wasn't all that cut out for a small life as a welder living in a shabby flat with a wife who was a real bender with the number of kids she'd popped out in a short period of time. Too many kids because Gianna had died giving birth to her eighth child. The baby barely made it. The eldest child was ten years old, it had been twelve years since I had last seen Uncle Mirko, he'd clearly been busy in his bed more than at work.

Papa was always soft on his little brother, always struggling to tell him no when he probably should have, and even after six years of no word from him of anything — not even a postcard, papa still had sent money when asked for help. Then the Nonno died not too long after making my papa Don and King of the families as it was his right as the firstborn son. He did well keeping Mirko's letters secret for all these years.

I had suspected that I would never get to see him again or ever meet my cousins but a woman, an old woman came bringing destraughtful news. She was demanding a vendetta and despite wanting her husband's killers to pay, she took one look at little lovely me, the darling Princess of the Eastside, and thought about how bonnie I was and how perfect I would be for her son. A son who had been contending for my hand in marriage since I was thirteen years old.

I hated Italian mothers as much as I hated my own, I thought to myself as I lit a joint — an indulgence I seldom took pleasure in. The smoke filled my lungs and slowly came from my nose as if I were the engine blowing steam. I passed it over to Marcello, one of my bodyguards to finish it because one hit was enough and I wasn't really fond of it anyway. It was better I take a puff for the anger that boiled in me than punching someone or something.