ᴀꜱʏʟᴜᴍ :: ᴛ.ꜱʜᴇʟʙʏ

xii: mourning black

Mr fucking Jones. Michael wanted Tommy to fall into obscurity, and that was his pathetic version of an olive branch. He should have known it wouldn't work. He should have known better than to take his second option. He should have known Tommy didn't take kindly to traitors.

"I'll kill him," Tommy said, slowly, calmly, tapping the end of his cigarette against the nearby ashtray. "I'll fucking kill him."

"He's our cousin, Tom." Tommy didn't have to look towards his brother to hear the despair in his voice, to see the anxiety written across his features. "Our blood. Polly's blood. I'm sure it's all . . ."

"What? A misunderstanding?" The words exploded from Tommy, then, so sudden Arthur reared back as if struck. Fury twisted Tommy's features, had him standing abruptly from his desk and slamming his hands on its surface. "A fucking misunderstanding? What fucking vices have got inside your head, Arthur, that made you so fucking thick?"

"Polly wouldn't want you to—"

"You think I fucking care—" Tommy said each word slowly, leaning forward across the desk— "what Polly wants? Michael betrayed this family. He is no blood of mine."

"Tom—"

"No more." Tommy shoved himself away from the desk and strode towards the window, staring out at the street. It felt like an eternity had passed since the beginning of the rally, since dawn, since Winnow, but it was still early morning. "No more, Arthur. We won't speak business until we've seen Aberama to hell."

What would it take for him to find some fucking quiet? What would it take for him to find the silence? He could still remember Grace's soft croon from this morning, her face through the fog, his screams as the gun pressed to his temple—

Fuck. Tommy screwed his eyes closed and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. Enough. He'd had enough of this. The world was filled with liars and cheats and fucking black cats—

"Where did you go this morning, Tom?"

—and Winnow. Dressed all in white, her features shrouded by errant black curls, her hands grasping at the balcony railings as though they were all that grounded her to the earth. The thought of her struck him all over again, as though the time between each recollection was enough to trick him into believing she was a dream. She may as well have been one.

Tommy didn't reply. He heard Arthur exhale sharply from behind him, a familiar growl entering his words. Good. Tommy had always liked the wild fire in Arthur far better than he liked the shell-shocked, bible-kissing weakness. He was vulnerable enough before Linda had preyed on the softest parts of him.

"We needed you—"

"Everyone fucking needs me, brother," Tommy snapped, without turning from the window. "Believe it or not, many of those people aren't you. And much of my business is none of yours."

Chair legs screeched sharply against the floor as Arthur stood, sniffing to clear the last of the snow. Tommy could feel his brother's gaze boring into his back, but he didn't turn to meet it.

"Remember that I didn't betray you, Tom," Arthur said. The grandfather clock ticked heavily in the silence, its pendulum swinging like a death knell. "I never did."

A beat passed, weighted with everything which went unsaid. Tommy swore he could hear the words Arthur would have spoken, the warning not to drive him away.

But Arthur said nothing more. He sighed, then left the room. The doors fell shut behind him with a heavy thud.

Alone in the rare quiet, Tommy leaned forward and rested his head against the glass. A thin trail of smoke rose from the butt of his cigarette, curling its grey fingers through his hair. The street below was quiet and empty, occupied only by the dark figures of his own men standing vigil.