𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 porcelain cup rapidly turned to dark brown as Caterina dropped some dry tea leaves in it, stirring them lightly. Absentmindedly tracing the faded birds and roses delicately painted on the saucer, she turned another page of the Birmingham Daily Post, thick headlines glaring at her from the yellowish pages.
Strikes at the BSA
Wages Cut Again, Workers Up-rise Eminent
New Racing Favourite from Small Heath
The usual worker's unrest had increased rapidly in the last few months, the blame mostly resting on the communist agitators riling up the masses of underpaid factory workers, and IRA activists milling about, looking for recruits.
Losing interest in the headlines she let her eyes wander down, over the lively neighbourhood of Nechells Green where she had one of her gelato parlours and a tiny flat above. It has become a sanctuary after yet another turbulent spat with Francis. They had become a common occurrence: him complaining about her way of making deals, her screaming at him to stop wasting family money on whores and unruly parties in London until one of them stormed out of the house to cool their rage.
A flock of children ran by, scaring the chickens, their screams and giggles startling the old ladies near the panetteria debating over the quality of imported garlic. Several Dio mio's and Piccoli ratti! could be heard, the old ladies threatening to pinch their ears, pointedly waving their walking sticks in the direction of the tiny rascals.
Shaking her head and smiling at the children's antics, she took a few long drags of the cigarette, the smoke coiling around her neatly pinned waves. If she could have stopped the time then and there, she would reminisce in later years, she would have grasped the warm morning air and the sound of chiming bells above shop doors, and put it away safely between her ribs, cradle it, protect it like a child.
The bliss of a peaceful morning was abruptly cut short as an unfamiliar man hurried down the street, disoriented and carelessly bumping into passerby's. He stumbled and clattered into a metal table in front of Travelli's creating a ruckus that made Caterina glance up from the teacup and lean over the rusty rail of the balcony. Even from afar the man looked distressed and deranged, holding his cap tightly to his chest and rocking back and forth like a mad man.
The waiter, Cat knew him to be Franco Stuzzi, appeared from the cafe. He levelled the bald headed, barrel of a man with a cold glare.
"Hey, what you do? We're closed." He spat, making a shooing motion at him.
But no response came from the hysteric man. "Go home you crazy man! " At this point the scene already attracted the attention of customers in the nearby shops, several women peaking out of the windows at the display down below.
"Vattene a casa, pazzo!" Franco was small in stature, but was hardly scared of the barbarian in front of him, as he slowly unsheathed a stiletto from the back of his belt.
A few tense seconds passed as the man regarded the blade in the waiters hand, breathing hard, before screaming.
"Fix bayonets!"
He hurled himself at the waiter, knocking down the surrounding tables, grabbing the knife and twisting it around before plunging it into Franco's heart. With the last ounce of strength Stuzzi grasped his jacket in a death grip, baring his blood stained teeth at him, before falling limply to the damp ground.
Caterina stood up abruptly — unblinking — the discarded cigarette now burning a hole through the lacy tablecloth. The street exploded in a frenzy; children screamed as their mothers covered their eyes and hurried them home, not daring to glance behind in terror at the bloody scene. Young men clutched their companions tightly, ushering them out of the tumultuous street and into safety.
Snapping herself from staring, she hurried down through the house and onto the street. By the time she pushed past the people crowding in front of the cafe, the murderer was gone. She gestured to the two young men beside her to pull the body of Franco Stuzzi upright and carry him away inside. Stepping inside the circle of people that formed around the murder scene, she placed her hands on her hips and addressed them.
"Does anyone recognise the man," She began, gesturing wildly all around her. "That just walked in here and killed our countryman and nobody fucking did anything?!"
"Signorina, scusi," someone piped up to her right. A scraggly black haired boy held a peaked hat in his hands, the very same one the bald man carried on his head. He passed it to her. "Dropped it when he ran away."
It was a common cap, the one many factory workers covered their heads with, grey and brown tweed, covered in ash and sooth. A glint of silver caught her eye as she carefully flipped the discarded cap around only to find several razor blades neatly stitched under the brim.
A look of confusion passed over her face, brows furrowing as she regarded the object in her hands. Impossible, she thought, and yet...
And then, with a furious determination and a few venomous Italian curses spewing from her lips, she turned to one of her men standing close by.
"Bring my Bentley up front. We're going to Small Heath."
*:･ﾟ♛･ﾟ:*
Thomas Shelby leaned back in his chair, processing the news delivered to him by one of his cousins, the one they always knew by the name Lovelock.
Fuckin' hell Danny. The leader of the notorious Small Heath cap-wielding band stared blankly at the blackboard ahead, hardly taking notice of the odds being yelled out or the clinking of coins, pennies, shillings as dozens of men laid their bets at the desks behind him — all on Monaghan Boy. You dug your own grave now, old friend.
It had been going perfectly; the powder trick, the increase of bets, the bloody guns. Things were looking up for the first time since he returned, only to be knocked down with a winding blow by one of his own. Can I blame him, after everything?
There was little to nothing he could do without starting a war with the Italians, a war he could not afford, not now.
The entrance to the betting shop suddenly flung open, distracting him. One of the runners halted, face dotted with sweat. "Tommy!" he rasped, trying to catch his breath. "A Bentley coming down the street."
He sprung up, straightening his immaculate three-piece suit as the roar of the engine became audible even over the buzz of the betting shop. Several moments of anticipation passed before the customer entrance opened with a bang.
A striking figure clad in a fitted black suit jacket, and a matching skirt strutted into the room overflowing with cigarette smoke and buzzing with illegal activity. The incessant noise suddenly died down, both bookies and bet-placers turning to look at the newcomer.
He took notice as the girl — no, a woman — slowly stalked into the room, staring down the men surrounding, who instantly removed themselves from her path. Her appearance screamed privilege — a carefree elegance dangerously wrapped in black silk and fur, fashionably clashing with the blood red on her lips, nails and heels.
"Which one of you is Thomas Shelby?" Her command reverberated through the shop, eyes darting over their shabby headquarters. There was no need for her to ask; her eyes instantly centred on him as if she already knew the answer.
"Who am I talking to?" Tommy shot back, making his way towards the petite figure in the centre of the room.
"I'm Caterina Cardinale," She paused, eyes flickering over the crowd that formed around them. "Do you have somewhere we could talk, privately?"
A beat passed before he gestured to the doors that separated the Shelby household and the betting shop. As the doors slammed behind them, the lively atmosphere returned to the shop, although a little more tame as they anticipated the result of the confrontation between their leader and the lethally good-looking lady.
She was greeted by floral wallpapers and doilies covering mantelpieces. It was a breath of another culture — the fancy crockery and little brass elephants dotting the shelves, a vase of roses that had probably been red once but now hung limply over the edge.
A table appears as they pass into a homely parlour and she takes liberty in taking a seat as Thomas approached the cabinet, soon procuring two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.
Her eyes traced the features of the man as he poured them a drink each. Would his high cheekbones make her bleed if she ever dared to touch them? Or perhaps the sharpness of his jaw as he steadily poured her whisky before setting the glass in front of her. No, Caterina knew. The chilling blue of his eyes cut much deeper than any of the blades he and his comrades stitched into their hats.
He sat back, balancing a freshly lit cigarette between his fingers as he gestured for her to speak.
"Miss Cardinale, how can I help you?" He stated in a low yet commanding drawl.
"One of your own, a Daniel Owen, barged into my territory, destroyed my property and killed one of my men," Caterina started, lips pursed in irritation. "You seem to be a respected and serious man Mr. Shelby. I do not wish for a war between us and, quite frankly, I believe neither do you."
"Danny... he's a good man. But even the best men lost a part of themselves in France. An honourable man but what the war did to him.."
Something akin to a pained look crossed her features. And some of the best men never return.
"Yes, I suspected so," she continued softly. "You do realise, he has to die? Though I wouldn't want him to die my men want to. It's barbaric really, far too bloody even for my taste. But alas it's tradition."
A small smirk curled her painted lip. "We Italians are quite the traditional folk."
The Shelby leader pursed his lips. "I'll do it myself. Tonight."
"Right, of course. Unless, perhaps..."
She leaned forward and plucked a cigarette with her slim, elegant fingers from the pack on his side of the table. Eyes sparkling with mischief behind long dark lashes she slowly brought it to her crimson lips, acutely aware of his blue eyes tracing her movements.
"We make a deal."
*:･ﾟ♛･ﾟ:*
"Thank you for the hospitality, Mr. Shelby." A shy smile crossed Caterina's features as they made way to the hallway of the Shelby household. She tried not to dwell on his hand on the small of her back, gently guiding her towards the exit. Pull it together, woman.
"Kat! Kat!"
She nearly fell over as a small figure slammed full force into her. Gleaming eyes of Finn Shelby stared up at her, mischievous grin showing off his chipped front tooth. The sight of the merry boy brought a matching grin to her face as she ducked down to pinch his cheek in affection.
"Finn, dearest boy! I haven't seen you in ages. Have you forgotten me, young man?" she feigned a pout to which he responded with a giggle. "Is it possible you're eleven on Sunday?"
The youngest Shelby nodded animatedly. "Do tell Pol to swing by with you after church then." She leaned in, whispering conspiratorially in his ear yet loud enough for Thomas to hear. "We'll have some of that gelato you love, aye?"
Pressing a brief kiss to the little boy's cheek, she ruffled his hair and shooed him away to play.
Almost forgetting the elder Shelby brother standing in the hallway behind her, she jumped when he sharply coughed, gesturing for an explanation. "How do you know my brother? And Polly?" He all but demanded, his protective nature slipping into his demeanour.
Caterina cocked her head to the side, chuckling at his tense posture. "Polly is a dear friend of mine, and young Finn is a lovely boy. I took care of him for a while, while you boys were at war. Ask her, it's not really my place to tell."
"I'll be seeing you Mr. Shelby. Until tonight."
"Until tonight Miss Cardinale."
He was left to watch her retreating figure from the threshold as she climbed into her shining car, disproportionately delicate behind the steering wheel, wondering what did he exactly get himself involved in.
*:･ﾟ♛･ﾟ:*
As the chill of the night ascended over riverbank, two men hurriedly hauled heavy crates onto a coal barge, the older of the two occasionally looking over his shoulder as if expecting an intruder to catch them in a treasonous act.
Charlie Strong dropped his sack into the hold of the boat in time to see Thomas strolling into the yard, a faraway look in his eyes. The entire situation uneased the man; his nephew was acting more odd than usual and he had a sense of something ominous coming their way — a Gypsy's foresight one would say.
"They are aboard. There's no Moon. We can take them out to the turning point beyond Gas Street and leave them on the bank. They'll be found by railwaymen first thing." Charlie nodded to himself, bringing his hands to the fire to warm them. The only response he got was silence.
"Is that agreement?"
The pounding of heavy machinery in the factory echoed through the moonless night.
Thomas sighed softly. "I changed my mind."
"You what?"
"I have an alternative strategy."
Thomas procured a set of iron keys from his coat pocket, offering them to his Uncle.
"Tell Curly to take her out to the old tobacco wharf. There's a lock up mooring we used to keep cigarettes. He knows it." The older man stared at his nephew in horror, not taking the keys.
"When the boat leaves your yard it's no longer your concern." Thomas pressed, trying to reason him but to no avail.
"Have you lost your fucking mind?" Charlie raged. "Have you not seen the streets? They've sent an army to find these things..."
"That's right. They've shown their hand..."
"Their hand?"
"If they want them back this bad, they'll have to pay. That's the way of the world. Fortune drops something valuable in your lap, you don't just dump it on the bank of the cut."
"You're blood Tommy. I've always looked out for you like a dad. You're going to bring holy hell down on your head. This copper takes no prisoners..."
"I'm told he didn't serve." His lip curled mockingly as he remembered flicking through the Inspector's folder. "Reserved occupation." A coward, he wanted to say.
Charlie peered at Thomas, slowly realising the man's intent. "It's another war you're looking for Tommy?"
"I'm preventing a war. I struck a deal with the Devil herself." He smiled, absentmindedly, and Charlie wondered if Tommy had indeed completely lost his mind. He finished the cigarette, stuffing the keys into Charlie's top pocket, patting it twice before turning on his heel and leaving.
"The tobacco wharf. By order of the Peaky Blinders."