𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 ♛ thomas shelby

xxxᴠɪɪ | ғᴀʟʟ ᴏғ ᴀɴ ᴇᴍᴘɪʀᴇ

"You have the worst possible timing, Thomas Shelby. Proposing by my father's corpse? I'd hardly call that romantic, even for our standards."

A smile was tugging on the corner of his lip, and he pulled her further into his side.

     "I'll do it properly, I promise."

There's lump in her throat that wouldn't go away no matter how many times she swallowed, or how deeply she breathed. "You better. I'm just a vain little girl who likes a good show," she flashed her teeth briefly, sobering up a moment later.

"Could you give me a minute?"

He obeyed without a question, dropping a brief kiss to the side of her head. When the sound of soles hitting the stairs dimmed in the background, Caterina turned her head at the cold figure on the metal table.

She firmly refused to feel anything; not sadness for the loss of a parent, not relief for the fall of her bully and tormentor. He is dead, ha can't hurt you. The soles of her boots scrapped against the cheap tiles on the floor when she stepped closer. But oh, he could.

Caterina carefully lifted the sheet to reveal her father's immobile hand. Would some indecribable power burn her if she touched it? With all the confidence she could muster, she slipped the golden signet ring off Roberto's finger, and onto the pinky of her left hand.

The gold weighted heavily on her hand, almost as heavy as the responsibility that the carved ring represented on her.

     IN THE YEARS THAT WOULD COME, many would say Roberto Cardinale's funeral rivalled those of some members of the royal family, and the cut-outs from the papers of the days following it would only serve to prove it.

Lord Major, Sir David Davis and his shy little wife came for the wake, but left before the church service. Antonio Tavolieri kept sniffling, loudly and wettly, using a worn out handkerchief to dab at his red rimmed eyes. Every patriarch of every Italian family in the city, and the counties that surrounded it came for the service, in their best black finery, and hats they held against their chest.

Caterina cursed whoever invented the elaborate mourning clothes, the black veil that ticked her nose, and the lacy gloves that kept sliding down her arms no matter how many times she tried to keep them upright. She cursed the tradition, and the seating plan that allowed her to observe all the guests that came to pay their respects to her late father.

St. Michael's graveyard seemed far too small for such attendance, she took notice with well hidden disdain. The Changrettas didn't bother hiding in the shadows. Vincente and Angel, and some of their older cousins were planted right next to Sabini and his retinue — the whole affair would no doubt make the pages in tomorrow morning's Times.

Blood hounds, the lot of them, sniffing out the new competition. She could smell the bloodlust from her place of honour, the hunger that was kept at bay by the stability of her company, of her. Her fingers curled and dug deeply into the palms of her hand, but not enough to draw blood just yet.

They stared, and she stared right back at them, through the sheer fabric of her veil, hardly focusing on the priest and the words, the hymns and the ominous sound of trumpet somewhere in the distance. Sharks, the lot of them, waiting for her to bleed she knew, scooping a fistful of soil and letting it fall on the casket. He was dead, he was dead and she was free. The shaky breath she didn't know she was holding disappeared into the air.

No sign of her brother, at least. Perhaps he was truly and well deservedly dead.

Her eyes searched for Tommy, out of habit. He promised her he would hang in the shadows, with Arthur and John and the rest of the Blinders that manned the premisses of the churchyard during the ceremony. Mostly to keep the peace, but also to openly proclaim their alliance. Shelby Limited was on the rise in both hemispheres of influence, a valuable ally for her shaky company.