" 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 once in a while. Makes me feel useful." Caterina's hands disappeared in the sink overflowing with soap bubbles only to reemerge moments later with glasses in each.
"Spoken like proper royalty." Grace accepted them with a grin, rinsing them off and placing them on a piece of cloth to dry. The two of them had been clearing up The Garrison for the last hour, using the end of Grace's shift as a welcome girls time they hadn't had for quite some time.
"Is it just cleaning glasses that makes you go all giddy on the inside or do you occasionally plow your garden?"
"Well, I did try to bake once, mind you. Successfully burned the curtains and now I'm evicted from my own kitchen."
Organising a criminal operation across the continent? Not a problem for the youngest Cardinale. But baking something as simple as a bread pudding? The curtains were doomed from the start.
"You're a lost cause. What do you eat then?"
Cat shrugged, thinking back to her good old Maria who served as a cook and a housekeeper for the last two decades. "I pay people to do that for me."
Both giggled when Grace swatted at her with a hand full of soap bubbles, littering their blouses with tiny water stains.
A knock sounded at the pub door making them instantly cease their chatter. The two exchanged a look before Grace rushed to open them. Thomas Shelby pushed into the deserted pub, completely ignoring the two women, out of breath and disarranged.
"Leave that open."
"What's going on?" Thomas snapped his head in the direction of the voice, finally noticing her form.
Dark tresses pulled behind and sleeves of her red blouse rolled up to her elbows, Caterina peaked at him worriedly from behind the bar. It was the first time she spoke to him since the day of John's wedding and Ada's birth.
"Are you expecting trouble?" A confused Grace furrowed her brow; he had declined an offer of a drink, which could only mean something potentially dangerous could be amiss.
"Yeah."
Caterina wiped the water from hands off, making way to where Tommy was rearranging the table in the middle of the room, three chairs around it. "At this hour?"
With a nod of his head, he pulled out his gun, checking the bullet count. "Midnight is as good an hour as any, love."
"How dangerous Tommy?" Her voice turned serious, pressing for truth.
"When the St.Andrew's bell strikes midnight, two IRA men are going to come through that door," he pointed. "When they have what they want, they plan to kill me."
A beat of silence passed between them before Caterina turned to the Irishwoman looking mildly shaken behind the bar. "Grace go home."
Grace turned ashen grey. Did Inspector know about the meeting? If Thomas Shelby died tonight, and the location of guns remained unknown, her mission would be for naught. "I can't just leave you here, what if-"
"Grace, you don't deserve this kind of life. Go home and I'll lock it up," with a purse of her lips she nodded, promptly disappearing through the backdoor of the pub.
Caterina busied herself taking out a fresh bottle of whiskey and three glasses, acting as if she couldn't feel Tommy's eyes burning into her back as she moved around the bar. "Did you know I was going to be here? Or were you ready for Grace to watch your back?"
There was an inkling of malice lacing her voice and Tommy accepted it willingly.
"I hoped, " He confessed softly. Unnoticed, she tensed slightly and continued wiping down the table between them.
"They want to meet here alone."
"And pretty girls don't count?" She raised an eyebrow in question.
"Nope, no they don't. You have a gun?" Caterina nodded affirmatively.
"Know how to use it?"
With a quick motion she unlatched the revolver from the harness underneath her jacket, pointing it straight at Tommy's head. "You want me to use it on you?"
He circled around the table, coming behind her and set one of his hands over one of hers grasping the weapon, steadying it in her hand and pointing it to where the Irishmen would be sitting soon enough.
Taking in the rosy smell of her hair that invaded his senses, Tommy prayed to whoever listened not to make this night his last.
"When I make a toast, come out of the door and aim it at one of them. Don't shoot, just point. I'll do the rest," he murmured against her ear, his other hand resting on her waist. The woman nodded, her teeth sinking in the soft flesh of her lower lip as she tried not to feel his hand fit comfortably in the dip of her narrow waist.
St. Andrew's signalled midnight and the spell was broken. The two sprung apart as if burned by sudden proximity, averting their eyes and taking their positions.
"Go hide behind those doors."
Be careful, a warning died on her lips as she scrambled for the larder doors just as the clock struck once more.
There was a sound of doors opening and closing, the creaking of the rotten old floorboards underneath the men's shoes. With every clink her stomach rose to her throat and she clutched the gun in her hand tighter.
Through the crack between the doors and the wall she could make out the back of Tommy's chair and the heads of the two IRA operatives opposite of him.
She had to press her ear closely against the doors, and only then she could hear fragments of their conversation.
"Give me the cash."
"You're gonna need a shovel."
Rustling of paper — money — followed by a hollow laugh coming from one of the Irishmen.
"You thick fucking thinker. Did you really think we'd let you live?"
"Make your peace Mr Shelby."
Tommy's voice rose clear in a toast. "To beautiful women, may they be our downfalls."
On cue, Cat pushed open the door and walked out, gun raised towards one of the men. Hand steady from years of experience, she aimed straight towards his head.
There was a familiar look on one of the IRA's men face, one of panic and resolve, and Cat knew there was only one way the things could go in that moment. It would be either the Irishmen or the two of them, and Cat did not intend to die tonight.
It came to her instinctively, almost morbidly natural.
"Man up girl and pull the trigger." Please, no, not again. A memory she kept burying flashed in front of her eyes.
Metal burned in her hand, the impact of the shot making her stagger back on unsteady feet. Bang! The first shot caught him in the shoulder.
Bang!
Irishman's body crumpled to the floor, blackened hole in between his brows and a blossoming pool of red trickling out of the back of his head.
Her hands were shaking — they shouldn't be doing that, should they?
Familiar stench of death filled the room and she fought the urge to empty the contents of her stomach on the floorboards. Humans did die most awfully.
Some blood found its way to the wall. Blood on her hands.
Tommy was on the floor being strangled by the other man. She aimed to shoot him too but he noticed her and with a quick motion slammed her face into the bar, effectively splitting her lip. Groaning in pain she crumpled to the floor, blackness overcoming her sight momentarily.
"Catia please...." Shut up!
That was enough time for Tommy to get back to his feet and with all his strength launch himself at the man.
He was not Tommy Shelby, a bookmaker, no. He was Thomas, the trencher, his lungs filled with smoke and stale air, still digging through the darkness. Dark and hot — he tasted metal on his tongue again — all he saw was red in front of him.
Through squinting eyes Cat could only observe the violently unhinged way Thomas slammed into Byrne.
A whiskey bottle found its way to his hand and he swung it, and swung it repeatedly at Byrne's head until the man stopped struggling and stilled underneath him. Even then he continued, furious rage blinding his sight, with every new strike wishing for peace no God was able to give him.
With a sharp intake of air to lungs he stopped, bloodied hands still clutching at the dead man's collar. Like awakening from a hazed dream, he took in the damage inflicted on the man bellow him, only to release a shaky breath.
Caterina was on his left, crumpled on the floor and clutching the side of her face smeared with fresh blood — and how lovely did that shade of red suit her.
"Cat? Cat! Why'd you kill him?" She came back to focus only to find herself nose to nose with Tommy, searching for a sign of her consciousness. She let him help her to her feet, strong hands steadying her against the side of the wooden bar.
"Why did you shoot, love? Kate why did you shoot?" He clutched the sides of her head, icy blues of his eyes taking in every feature of her pale face. Searing guilt clawed at his insides — he let her sully her hands for him.
Was he searching for her remorse? He would find none.
"It was him or you, Tommy. I wasn't about to let him kill you." She reassured him, voice barely above whisper. "I wanted to kill him."
"Now you've seen me." He said gently, wiping the trickle of blood coming from her lip. It was only a matter of time before the monster that he truly was awakened, Its thirst for blood enough to scare the man himself. At times like these he felt his sanity slip like grains of sand through his open palms.
"And now you've seen me." His hand cupped her cheek, letting her relax into him. "What a pair of sinners we make."
They danced around each other for far too long, neither wanting to reveal their true form to the other person in fear of rejection.
Tommy reached forward, arms circling around her waist as he pulled her tightly against him. Blood from her lips stained his shirt as she buried her face in his shoulder, tightly squeezing her eyes in an onslaught of a growing headache. The doors of the Garrison opened, two officers walking in on the scene of crime.
"You were supposed to come on the sixth chime. You were supposed to come on the sixth fucking chime!" Thomas spat furiously at the policemen entering the pub, one arm still securely wound around Cat.
"They refused to surrender. They fought well, they were brave men."
Sergeant Moss exchanged a look of bewilderment with his colleague, scoffing at Tommy's words. "One with a clean shot to the head and the other looking like he was ripped by a wild fucking animal, must have been quite a fight there. Still. This never happened. They were never here. Who cares?"
If she hadn't been so exhausted, Caterina swore she would have strangled the spiteful policeman.
"That's how you'll look if I ever get my hands on you, Moss, " She croaked, the officer throwing a dirty look in her direction.
"Get the bodies out of here." Tommy's hoarse demand broke the tension. He sounded far away, shattered in both mind and heart
"All right, are they making the lady uncomfortable?" Caterina did not answer, but felt a twinge of shame seep into her mind. Birmingham trembled under her hand and here she was, shaken after disposing of two men. What kind of gangster did that make her?
"Right. I'll leave you two lovebirds alone." The smirking officer said in a mocking lilt. "A Shelby and a Cardinale, who would have known?"
Once the policemen and the bodies were gone, only stains left in their place, two broken souls remained in the empty pub.
"I'll walk you home."
*:･ﾟ♛･ﾟ:*
A slight detour in their walk took them to the canal. Brisk winter air crawled down her back and seeped into her clothes, an unwelcome acquaintance at any time.
Without a word, Thomas shrugged down his black coat, leaving the bloodstained shirt with a jacket over it. Warmth enveloped her, followed by the unmistakable scent of smoke and expensive cologne that could only be described as Thomas Shelby.
If he himself was cold he did not intend to show it in the slightest. The two of them walked slowly, deliberately prolonging the minutes spent in each others comforting presence.
Neither of them would catch a wink of sleep that night, it was certain, and walking seemed a healthier alternative to drinking themselves into unconsciousness.
With an experienced hand he struck the match against its box, bringing the flame up to the cigarette in his mouth and cupping it so the rain doesn't extinguish it. Inhaling the smoke, the cigarette was passed between them as they trudged over the wet cobblestone and mud.
Taking another drag to steady her beating heart, she willed herself to remember it all over again.
"I was seventeen again, a gun in my hand. Roberto considered it an initiation rite." A bitter smile crossed her lips. Her sire did not deserve the title of a father. "First, ritualistic blood on my hands that would make me a proper Cardinale."
"I was seventeen and he put a man in front of me, and a bullet in my gun, and told me to shoot."
A light drizzle started to fall and they took cover in a nearby tunnel, a storage of sorts, its arched entrance providing a dry shelter. They settled near the opening, Cat seating herself on one of the wooden crates while Tommy leaned against the brick wall, their eye's fixed on the droplets kissing the surface of the canal.
It was the year 1913 and Emilio Stranzi, a lad only two years her senior ran his mouth off at the local pub after one whiskey chaser too many.
One of his drinking partners happened to be an informant of a rival gang, purposely planted in that exact pub, a favourite spot of many of their men, to overhear possibly useful information for his boss. Emilio turned out to be a goldmine.
The boy himself did not participate in the business but he happened to overhear pieces of information when his father discussed work with his other colleagues in his little foreman office down in the factory. That's how the informant dug up the story of a gun shipment disguised in flour bags bound for London, and then Italy.
The train cart with their shipment was robbed the night before it was supposed to be sent off, their guards coldly murdered. But they were gracious enough to leave the name of the traitor after taking their weapons.
Emilio Stranzi broke the omertà. Only one punishment exists for such offence — death.
It was the vivid details she remembered clearly; the way father's sleek golden watch winked threateningly underneath the candlelight, and Mazza's gigantic form forcing the young lad she knew on his knees. Her cheeks had been wet, but she dared not to sob. Papà would strike her for showing weakness in front of the men.
She drank tea with his sister Angelica many times. His father was a foreman at their distillery, a man of trust. She swallowed another onslaught of tears. "I can't papà, please."
"Man up girl and pull the trigger. Or are you both a girl and a disgrace?" Roberto was taller then, and towered over her, one hand painfully squeezing her shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye, Alessandro lowered his head in shame.
"Catia please, please, think of my mother-"
Her finger pulled the trigger, the boy slumped against the wall. There was a painting done in blood, splashes of life against the brick.
Satisfied with the work done, Robert left the warehouse, leaving only Caterina and Alessio, Mazza and his henchmen following to dispose of the body.
"I killed a man Alessio. Ho ucciso un uomo."
Her brother cradled her closer to his chest, trying to calm her shaking form. Not even her big brother could've protected her from this. Nothing could protect them from the harsh hand of the legacy.
"Shh, basta, piccola." Shielding her eyes from the gruesome sight behind them, he led her out.
"Andiamo Rina, don't look."
Blinking back the memory, she spat bitterly at the ground in front of her as if trying to get rid of the harsh taste in her mouth left by it.
"Every time I kill someone I see him, bleeding out against the wall. He's that one stain I can't wash out, no matter how much I drink or smoke or try."
Her first kill switched something deep inside her, caused her to bury all emotion she once possessed beneath a thick layer of unyielding brutality she used to control the vast organisation she could almost call her own.
And yet Thomas though her Aphrodite reborn, there as the silver moonlight spilled over her wet tresses, cloaked by his own coat, a dying cigarette hanging loosely from her fingers. It was a twisted sort of beauty in the firm set of her jaw and glistening rage in her eyes — for all the tears in her eyes only made them shine more brightly.
"Your turn, Shelby."
The rain must have stopped at some point, and absentmindedly they continued their trail.
What was he supposed to tell her?
But there were no words he could describe it with — the way sleep never soundly found him, the overflowing abyss in the back of his mind that threatened to swallow him whole.
The only thing worse than the shovels was the silence. Even back there, while the shovels and pickets sounded from the depths of the wet ground, you knew where to continue digging. But once the damned symphony ceased it was likely your fate was sealed — silence meant a grenade was bound set of somewhere in the depths of the trenches, eager to destroy everything found in its proximity.
And that's what he told her, voice tired and pained, he poured his tormented heart in her patient ear.
It did not erase his burdens but it made him breath a little lighter. A year after his return from the front, he addressed his nightmares and the lack of the man he used to be.
"Thank you, Tommy Shelby."
She turned towards him as they reached her doorstep. The walk seemed far too short now that they stood in front of her doors, deep green ones flanked by two finely crafted pillars.
He accepted his coat back, noticing how it retained the soft rosy scent the woman in front if him radiated.
It was a spur of the moment, a simple thank you to the dark haired man. Stretching out on her tip toes, she pressed a brief kiss to his cheek, stunning the imposing gang leader to silence.
Without looking behind her, she was already behind the doors, like a thief in the night, having stolen both a kiss and a piece of his soul.
Tommy Shelby hadn't felt so alive in years.
*:･ﾟ♛･ﾟ:*
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ's ɴᴏᴛᴇ
enjoy this portion of childhood trauma with a side of unresolved tension before shit hits the fan as we're nearing the end of season 1 - if you think this is a rollercoaster oh dear you're so not ready x