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Tommy realized he had made no less than three visits to the hospital in the last month.
It was Arthur's turn to get chained up to the hospital bed. Neck full of gashes and wounds inflicted upon him in an unfair battle. That brother of his looked very much pale against the screaming blue and yellow walls of the hospital room. He looked out of place. Like he didn't belong there at all.
Arthur was unconscious for quite some time. Thomas decided it would be best if Arthur's 'aliveness' be hidden from the rest of the world. He brought him home discreetly, making sure there were no witnesses when his boys moved him. At the hands of his kin, Arthur would recover much faster than those of the nurses and doctors at the hospital. At least that's what Tommy thinks.
"Come again?" Thomas Shelby felt like he misheard Robert Grosvenor.
The eldest of the Grosvenor children sighed, "My sisters. One of them, being your Head of Legal, had gone missing. Now, papa has turned our home into a base for all the private detectives looking for them. He'd gone mad for his daughters, and he's petrified for them. The girls are calling everyone they know in London."
Tommy white-knuckled, the crystal in his hand, filled with the whiskey Irene would pour for him during their late office hours. God, now he can't even do anything by himself. This was news to him, and Thomas Shelby doesn't like it when he's the last to know about something, especially when it's about an asset under his company.
His eyes darted to Arthur, now fully awake, just a wee bit groggy from all his treatments. Tommy darted toward his bed, "Brother, I need you to answer me this."
Arthur turned his head weakly as he rasped, "Tom?"
"Where are the girls, Arthur? Did you hear anything, man?"
Arthur swallowed slowly, eyes still far away, "They were taken, Tom. That's all I saw before closing my eyes meself."
Tommy pressed, clutching his brother's cheeks, "Taken by who?"
"Them, Tom. The Changrettas."
Fuck. He knew it. Thomas Shelby fucking knew it.
Of course, they would use the girls as leverage. Just like he thought and predicted they would. Though when the war was closing to an end, by the decreasing number of their troops, thanks to him, Tommy thought the heiresses were not worth it anymore. How wrong Tommy was.
Fuck, what if something happens to her? Shit, Tom. Is that what you're thinking about, eh?
You better get your fucking head back in the game and win the fucking war and then get those two little tarts out.
The leader of the Peaky Blinders pinched his own flesh when he heard Grace's voice chiming in, But you still can't get that tart out of your head, can you Tommy? My little opium warrior.
No amount of head shakings can get Irene Grosvenor's image out of his head. He had imagined her scared, probably shivering due to the harsh weather or maybe just pure fear of Luca Changretta. Tommy had imagined her lips trembling, tear tracks staining her flushed cheeks. He knew Irene Grosvenor would always try to protect her sister no matter what; that was a fact. He knew Irene would try to emulate confidence, even when she's scared shitless.
She was his Mountain of Adamant, in every sense of the words.
When Robert rose abruptly, Thomas' head drifted to the door. There stood Hugh Grosvenor. The father of the two girls taken hostage. The father of his Mountain of Adamant. Robert regarded his father with a nod, "Papa."
Hugh nodded slowly, making his way to Thomas. "Where is that fucking Alfie Solomons?"
Tommy was confused, "Sir?"
"He fucking proposed to my daughter, then left her to be taken by fucking savages. Now, tell me where the fuck Alfie Solomons is!"
This was brand new news for the three men; they exchanged glances as Tommy spoke, "Don't know, sir. He's told everyone he's retired."
Thomas Shelby never knew Alfie Solomons had the capacity to get down on one knee for a woman. Or to retire, for that matter.
The Duke of Westminster laughed loudly; the kind of laugh you know immediately was a fake one. "How dare he. I will hunt him to the ends of the earth."
Thomas knew not to mess with the daughters of Hugh Grosvenor. But it feels so good to mess with Irene.
Hugh sat in the chair next to Arthur's bed with an air of absolute excellency, "I've talked to my peers at Kingsman and my other gentleman's clubs. All of them willing to help me in any way possible,"
"We've been looking for everything. My long time friend is investigating history of purchases, odd aliases used around England, anything that has a track at the academy. My brother was worried, talking to customs about every foreign man that has entered the United Kingdom,"
"All of the crumbs lead up to one man. Yours truly, Luca Changretta. He escaped to his hideaway in the outskirts of town. I reckon that's where they keep my girls."
Robert threw a glare at Tommy's way, "This is your fault, you fucking gipsy."
If it wasn't for the Duke of Westminster in the room and Robert was an important business partner, Thomas would be throwing hands right now. He stared at Robert, "Oh, yeah? Well, I might be the best chance you have for getting your sisters, mummy boy."
Robert's ears were red, something that Tommy found quite satisfying to see. "My sisters are my pillars, and my father is my roof. doubt you would know how it feels, eh, gipsy?"
Tommy blinked.
Arthur glanced at Tommy with a knowing look. Hugh Grosvenor stood up, his signet ring shining blindly as it hits the light. "Alright, let's collect ourselves here. I've got two missing daughters, a foster who's balling her eyes out at home,"
Arthur lowered his head, knowing full well who the jab was intended for.
"And I don't need two idiots fighting over my daughter when they should be cracking their brains in half trying to find a solution!"
Hugh massaged his tiring eyes; the Colt .25 buried in his Savile Row coat glinting. Thomas had never seen Hugh Grosvenor, the half brother of King George the Sixth and one of the wealthiest business owners in all of Europe, look so anguished.
"My girls – they're not the, how do you say this, strongest. You must've known this very well, Mr Shelby. By now, my girls are probably crying oceans. "
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Musty, damp, and disgusting warehouse somewhere in the Changretta territory.
"Oh, okay, okay. I've got a good one." Irene nudged Isabelle with her shoulder. Her tied hands tugging on her sister's dress. Laughing lightly after what her sister had asked her, would you rather fuck Charlie Chaplin or Douglas Fairbanks?
Izzy laughed along, "What is it?" Her back pressed on the fine garment of Irene's dress. "Would you rather marry Lord Seymour or Lord Willoughby?"
Irene could tell Izzy was thinking hard about this, which made it funnier. "Hold on, though, isn't Lord Seymour the one who's as old as papa?"
"Yes." Irene laughed. "And isn't Lord Willoughby the one that has a nasty case of – "
The older of the two wheezed, "Yeah."
"That's not fucking fair. Well, alright then. Lord Seymour."
"What?!"
"Well, I don't want to catch whatever Lord Willoughby fucking has, Irene."
"Why the fuck not?"
Izzy turned her head, only catching a glimpse of her sister's back, "Are you seriously asking that?"
"Uh, yeah. I would like to know why you're so evil to the poor chap." Shrugged Irene, shifting around trying to fix her dress, now hunched up to her thighs.
"He has the fucking clap, for fuck's sake!" The two wheezed. Clearly unaware of the danger they're in. Or maybe they are perfectly aware, just not fazed by it. Mr Changretta, who was talking to his advisor, turned abruptly toward the heiresses.
"Aw, look. Someone's mad."
"Got their knickers in a bunch." Continued Irene. Her mouth clamped shut when a strike came to her head; the barrel of Mr Changretta's gun had made violent contact with her forehead. Her sister widened her eyes once she saw the thick scarlet liquid oozing out of the cut, "Irene!"
"Fucking baldracca!" Luca Changretta kicked Isabelle hard on her side. Irene's younger sister winced. Hands reaching out to caress her sister's. No less than five wops laughed and cheered their boss on, each of them carrying a gun. Lifting them in solidarity as they shouted Italian profanities laced with some English.
A lanky man approached them, crouching to meet Izzy's eyes, "Why don't we taste these little tarts, eh boss?"
"Don't be a fucking idiot. They can be our ticket to Thomas Fucking Shelby." Luca lowered in front of Irene, caressing the heiress' chin. Laughing when she stared him dead in the eye, mediocre resilience crystal clear. His filthy hands moved to her sparkling gemstone necklace, caressing it ever so tenderly.
Irene had seen lots of filthy places before. Yet when she opened her eyes, back-to-back with her sister Isabelle, hands tied up, She can't help but gag at the swampy darkened room. The only source of light being the small orange-tinged bulb hanging in the middle.
Luca Changretta and his men had hollered the first time they caught sight of the terrified heiresses, like wolves at the sight of moonlight. The only difference was the constant disgusting slurs being thrown. Both in English and Italian, at least that's what Irene guessed. With teeth as yellow as the colour of the ale he was holding, one man had taken a piss near the two girls. Laughing drunkenly as he zipped up his trousers. Irene and Izzy cried. Unconsciously wailing and begging their abductors to let them go.
That they had no relations to anything, the Shelbys or the Solomons had cooked up between them.
That they were mere employees.
The mob leader then cackled. A truly devious sounding cackle that made Irene's stomach churn. The kind of sound that makes you stay awake for hours. He proceeded to brand the girls as liars, saying that he had his men watch the two of them how they were the closest to the two most important figures in the two most powerful clans in the underworld.
How Irene and Thomas Shelby had been inseparable this past month.
How Isabelle had been Alfie Solomons 'rock' in his mad world.
"And then your fucked up lover decides to stab Tommy Shelby in the back. So here I am." Luca Changretta had his finger pointed at Izzy. That sister of Irene's had her head shaking in a continuous motion as if swaying her head would make the information untrue.
"That's a lie; he would never do that. He's changed."
Luca barked out a laugh, slapping his knees in the process. Theatrically wiping a tear from his right eye. "Oh, darling. You can deny it, sure. But here I am; how did you think I entered that rat hole, eh? The whole fucking city was crawling with Peaky assholes."
Irene squeezed her sister's hands as a sign of solidarity. However, her mind can't help but agree with what Mr Changretta had exclaimed. It made sense what he said. From what Irene has heard, Alfie was more than capable of doing such things. No less than five people had told her the incidents when Mr Solomons would turn on the Peaky Blinders, all for the benefit of himself.
Mr Changretta put on his mock sad face, "Oh, sweetheart. And he proposed to you, didn't he? Well, where is he now? He's left you for fucking Margate."
Irene could feel Izzy's back trembling. Soft sobs coming out of her lips.
"Alright, that's enough now, Mr Changretta." Irene felt her blood boiling.
When the mafia leader threw up his hands, cackling as he stalked off somewhere, Irene turned sideways, "Hey, it's alright, Iz."
"How can anything be alright, Irene? He lied to me, and he used me. Now he's run off somewhere. Leaving me alone, heck, it feels like he sacrificed me."
"To fucking Margate, apparently." Isabelle chuckled when Irene cussed.
It was quiet once more. Izzy rubbed the ring on her finger, eyes empty,
"The worst part is that he's left me to hope on false words."