THE ENTIRE CLOSE CIRCLE OF the Shelby family sat huddled in their snug in The Garrison, save Polly and her son, the birthday boy in whose honour they had gathered. While they waited, Caterina kept herself occupied with bugging the youngest Shelby, joined by both John and Arthur.
"So, Finn, you've got two choices. Mild," John paused for the sake of dramatics. "Or mild?"
As if he was actually weighing his options, the youngest Shelby contemplated for a moment. "Mild," he gave them a toothy grin, reaching for the pint passed from John's hands.
Cat threw a hand over the boy's shoulder bringing him closer to ruffle the mop of unruly hair upon his head, despite his vehement protests. "My baby's all grown up," she joked, earning a bout of laughs around the table.
The poking was silenced as soon as Polly appeared at the door, letting Michael pass right after her. "Here he is!" Arthur roared, the half-bottle of whiskey he consumed already going to his head.
They stood up to greet the boy, a chorus of well-wishes raining onto him as soon as he passed through the door, and the newly made adult couldn't help the wide smile stretching over his face.
"Happy birthday, Michael." Thomas was first to greet him, a brief appearance of a smile visible on his lips.
"Eighteen years old. You're a man today," the oldest Shelby raised his hand, clutching a near empty glass of whiskey just as John hauled another bucket of beer onto the table, passing a glass to the boy.
"And after that, we'll go find you a lady of the night," Arthur nudged his cousin, making his mother fume and hit him with her purse.
"Arthur!"
Clambering out from her usual spot between Arthur and Finn, Caterina produced a finely decorated parcel and passed it to the birthday boy, landing a loud, red-staining kiss to his cheek.
The packet revealed a navy tie with silver stripes running across — very fashionable, or so said the nice sales assistant at Selfridges. "Just a little something from me," she mussed up his perfectly slicked back hair.
"Thank you, Cat. This is too much," he said, overwhelmed with the sudden gust of affection and embraced the woman.
"Michael," Tommy said, clearing his throat as he passed him a small leather box. This one contained a pocket watch, elegant and simple. It was a very Tommy Shelby thing to do, give a present with a deeper meaning to it.
"So you're never late for work," he explained, though he would never publicly admit how glad he was Michael joined their ranks.
Words failing him, Michael only gave him a simple smile and a nod. Tommy wasn't a man of many words either.
John, closest to his cousin, clapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome to the business, Michael," he announced grandly, almost far too loudly and shut up only when Esme pulled him down.
"Welcome to the family," Cat stressed immediately, throwing an arm around his shoulders.
Polly shone with indescribable pride, heart filled with love to the point of bursting.
With a clap of his hands, and then slamming one on the table, Arthur signalled for something stronger than the basin-brewed beer. "Right, come on, let's get him drunk."
"Whiskey!"
"No whiskey. He's got work tomorrow. Give him only dark mild," Tommy ordered, making the rest of the booth groan.
"One whiskey," Cat pouted, trying to sway their leader with a flutter of her lashes. "It's his birthday." There was not much he could do in retaliation. The fierce Tommy Shelby gave an exasperated sigh, the snug exploding in cheers again.
"A toast," he grabbed one of the glasses, raising it in the boy's direction. "To Michael."
The family echoed his toast, content to wash away their worries of the day with a hearty dose of Scottish brown gold.
*:･ﾟ♛･ﾟ:*
John dealt the cards again, for the third time that evening.
"It's easy as that, John boy. London, you wouldn't believe it," with a content sigh on his lips, Arthur took another drag of his smoke. One might assume he was reminiscing something much profound than a libertine encounter with a lady of ambiguous morale.
They'd been teaching Finn how to play poker for the last few hours, but the boy was a lost cause. Instead, Arthur decided to grace them with scandalous tales from London, or more precisely, his escapades with southern ladies.
"The women, John boy, the women. I've got this one, she's a dancer, right? She can do things with her-" he made a few abstract motions with his hands, trying to depict the curvaceous figure of the 'saucy London girl' — Arthur's words — that entertained him at the Eden Club and all her wonderful virtues.
Caterina threw a sharp glare over her cards, making sure to kick Arthur's shin under the table for a good measure.
"Finn, cover your ears," she told him. He was the last of the brothers still untainted by the horrors of the streets, rebellious but still a bright-eyed lad that deserved much more than any of them could give him.
"Let him listen Cat, might even learn a thing or two," he disregarded her worries, giving a wink to the rascal who soaked up his every word, like a sponge far too eager to grow up.
"He should be learning his sums and history, not how to fuck two girls at the same time," she rolled her eyes. Spying a lit cigarette between the fourteen-year-old's fingers, she reached over the table and plucked it straight out, his protests falling on deaf ears. "Shouldn't smoke this shit either."
Arthur grunted underneath his breath, turning back to the cards in his hand. "Well, that's a knowledge he might actually use in life, unlike the bloody French Revolution."
Just as she was about to launch into a full blown discussion they were timely interrupted by Michael and Isaiaah walking through the door, slightly disheveled but smiling widely, carrying a pint each.
Arthur was quick to greet them, scooting over so they could sit in the booth. "Here they are, look, Junior Peaky boys," Cat raised her eyes to look at the two newcomers only to have her eyes land on the bloodied collar of Michael's shirt, and the red liquid dripping off of Isaiaah's knuckles, sticking to the table.
She wasn't the only one who noticed either. "What's that on your hands," John furrowed his brows, intrigued by the prospect of Polly's prim and proper boy scrapping with some Small Heath hoodlums. "Did you get in a tuffle?"
"Some idiots at the Marquis of Lorne," Michael looked a bit sheepish. "Tried to stop me and Isaiah from drinking, but it's alright. We fought them off. Arthur, we had to stand our ground and we did."
Cat placed her cards down with a frown, moving closer to asses a fresh bruise forming on Michael's cheek. "Did they know who you are? Whose sons you are?" They couldn't have, she noted grimly, no one had a death wish that came with insulting one of their own.
"The Marquis, eh?" John and Arthur exchanged a knowing glance, both of them standing up at the same time. Finn attempted to stand up and go after them only to be pushed back down by his brothers.
"Where's your dad?" Asked Arthur.
"Preaching." Isaiah answered. Arthur simply grunted in thanks, patting his shoulder before he made his exit.
"Don't nick any of me chips, Finn!" Yelled John over his shoulder, pulling up his collar before he, too, disappeared through the door. That only left Caterina who first downed one of the glasses from the table before moving around it.
"Finn, fetch boys a drink while we're gone," she placed a placating hand on the boy's shoulder before fetching her coat off the rack.
"We'll get someone to patch you up nicely so Pol doesn't notice. She'd have all our heads if even a strand of hair fell off your head."
"Why can't I go with you?" Finn whined petulantly, sick of always staying behind whenever something remotely interesting happened.
"Next time, Finn boy, I promise." Promises meant little those days, a currency of the losing side. "Now fetch them a chaser each. And don't touch the pile, I will know."
With one last pointed look to the youngest Shelby, and a wink to the two scrappers, Cat was out and gone, following after John and Arthur with a quick pace and a wicked predicament on their minds.
Isaiaah slumped back into the leather of the booth, letting out a low whistle. "Such a shame, they had good whiskey." He stretched his arms over his head, shuddering slightly at the thought of what might befall the rude barkeeper. It would no doubt end on the front cover of the paper's tomorrow.
"Where are they going?" Michael asked once the two Shelby's and Cat disappeared through the door, a strange sense of foreboding simmering in the pit of his stomach.
"To set some bills in order," Isaiaah replied solemnly, looking more into his pint than anything else. "By the order of the Peaky Blinders."
Michael had a vague, albeit ominous idea of what 'setting bills in order' meant here in Birmingham, where the law started and ended with the name Shelby.
Inside the Marquis, the Peaky Devils took their revenge for the slight made against them. Cat could feel the thump, thump, thump of her beating heart hammering in the back of her skull as another row of bottled spirits crashed against the floorboards with satisfying crunching, all with a decisive blow of her arm.
Arthur was already pouring gasoline over the bar and around the barkeeper, tied up and trashing on the ground beneath them.
Standing in the middle of the pub, what were once stools and tables now simply reduced to chunks of wood, Caterina assessed their new masterpiece. "Think we're done here, Johnny, Art," she motioned for the boys, swaggering out of the wreck.
John dropped the axe from his hands. "Let's light this shit up." It felt good to be in the action again, he noted. He needed to get out of the house more.
Throwing the canister to the side, Arthur took out a cigarette pack from his inside pocket.
"M'lady would you do us the honour?" With a wicked smirk playing on her lips, Cat took a cigarette from his outstretched hand with a haunting sense of fascination. A strike of match lit it up, a strike of hand allowed it to land in the puddle of gasoline that led to the insides of the pub before them.
And just like that, plunged into a fiery inferno, Marquis of Lorne was no more.
*:･ﾟ♛･ﾟ:*
In the bowels of one inconspicuous rum distillery of Camden Town, a Jew and an Italian glared at each other from across the table in mutual disrespect.
All it would take was one poorly place word or a wave of hand from their bosses and the two sides would gladly commence a bloodbath. Not today, however, for there was one issue more serious than the long standing feud between the Jews and the Italians.
"Now, admit it," Darby Sabini crossed his arms. "The Peaky Blinders are out of control."
"Yeah. Yeah, they're fucking out of control, mate. They came down the canal and spread like a fucking clap," Alfie replied, fiddling with the golden rings on his fingers. He did have a deal with Thomas, but what were deals these days? The Birmingham-bred gangster had proven himself to be a wildcard, something neither of them could allow.
"Right. So now they're everybody's problem," a look of false sympathy crossed the Italian's face. "Alfie. You and me, we've been fighting since we were at school."
The jewish gangster gave a grunt of agreement.
"Alright. Now, also we've been friends. How much better is it when we are friends?" Alfie contemplated drowning the little smirking Italian in a barrel of rum for his patronising lilt, but instead joined in with all his false smiles.
"Oh, it's much better, mate," Alfie turned to his second in command, pointing at the paper in his hands. "You write that down."
Darby continued to talk and Alfie continued to nod, and Ollie continued to scribble their words on a piece of paper.
Finally, Sabini stretched out his hand in a show of friendship. "And war against the gypsies." Alfie accepted it.
"The Cardinale girl, you leave her to me," said the Italian, a cruel smirk twisting his face.
Alfie shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Mate, I'll let you deal with the gypsy scum, sure thing. But we don't disrespect women here, alright?"
"That witch is not a woman, she's a blood traitor, an abomination that turned on her own family," Sabini spat the word like venom. "In my land, that calls for blood."
Alfie didn't particularly want to be the man onto whom Thomas Shelby would rain hell if something happened to Caterina Cardinale.
"Of that one, I wash my hands." The words left a bitter trace in Alfie Solomons' mouth, and with a cruel twist of thought he asked himself, did Judah feel this way when he sold Christ?
*:･ﾟ♛･ﾟ:*
All Thomas Shelby wanted was to worm out of his fog-drenched coat and sink into his pillow, the promise of well awaited rest for a few hours very tempting and only a few short strides away.
Throwing open his bedroom door, Thomas was surprised to see his girlfriend sitting at his desk, one leg over the other, obviously waiting for him to come home. He closed the flimsy door behind him. If it were some other occasion he would've admired her striking figure, garbed in a dressing gown that fell down to cover her knees, pooling and shifting over her thigh when she faced him.
By the purse of her lips and the firm crease between her brows, he already knew the following conversation wouldn't have a pleasant end.
"Ada's been writing me letters."
"Yes, you seem to do that quite a lot these days," he deadpanned, shrugging off his coat onto the nearest surface, the tone of his voice revealing the exhaustion of the day. Caterina was having none of it.
"There are things you're not telling me, and don't you dare to pull that 'I don't want you to get hurt' card because I'm not buying it. You damn as well know I'll just find a way to dig it up myself," the brunette's eyes flashed dangerously in the dark.
"So save me some fucking time and tell me why you've been writing up a goddamn will."
"I'm putting my affairs into order, as any sensible man would. For the future." As calm and collected as ever, Thomas took off his jacket, too, rolling up the sleeves of his blue shirt with a tense precision.
Even completely livid at his stubbornness, Caterina couldn't help but admire his figure, propped up by the wardrobe behind him; the tight fit of the shirt around his upper arms, strands of dark hair wet from the weather and tousled, falling innocently over his eyes. But oh, he was far from innocent.
"For the future in which you might end up six feet under because you're a stubborn bastard that thinks he can do all on his own," Caterina murmured angrily, standing up to walk the lenght of the room.
Tommy narrowed his eyes slightly, not liking the way their conversation crossed into a fight with every new sentence. "When I took up that mission, I knew exactly what was at stake. I had no choice, it's not just Campbell who's in the game, but the fucking Government. There's no options, not even death is an option."
He bit down on his lower lip, one hand resting on his hip and other freely moving, firmly clasping the cigarette between thumb and index finger. "This thing I'm doing is for us, for this family and all people do is complain and demand things, with no fucking ounce of respect for the things I do to make us respectable," the volume of his words increased, and by the time he reached the end of the sentence he was yelling, knuckles of his hand turning white.
"Oh, I'm not going to be like Arthur and the rest of your brothers and listen to your every word like it's straight out of God's mouth, alright?" She said, her voice flat and cool.
"You don't like to remember it was both of us who started this," Thomas lifted his finger to point at her accusingly. "Who told me we should be thinking of expansion, as soon as possible, aye? You wanted to rip apart Sabini with your own hands for what he did to you, and so did I."
"This," he gestured vaguely, thinking of all the wheels set in motion for the last act. "Was inevitable. Sabini was inevitable if we wanted to expand southwards. And Campbell is something I'm dealing with."
"That's one thing." She raised her index finger dangerously near his cheek, only to press it as hard as possible into his shoulder. "You promised you'd get Arthur a treatment for all the mud and smoke in his head and then you dump him off in London, so he can snort his money away. What a lovely plan to turn your own flesh and blood into a rabid dog. And when he's too wild to control, will you take him out back and shoot him out of his misery?" She sneered, harshly and unforgivingly, watching as his eyes darkened dangerously.
Sometimes she forgot Tommy was a soldier, and when he grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to stand still while she glared at him, Caterina felt more defiant than ever. "Why are you so fucking stubborn, woman?"
"Someone has to be! Someone has to stop your delusional, one man crusade against every single fucking person in England who comes in your way," she exclaimed, wriggling out of his grip.
Neither of them spoke for several heavy moments, each occupying their own part of the room; him, back against the cold wall; her, leaning on the window still, looking everywhere except at her lover.
"The things you do are my concern to, because the future concerns both of us, together," she said, softer than the words that came from her mouth moments before.
With a repentant sigh, Tommy crossed the room, raising his hand to cup her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Ask me anything, anything at all besides this one thing I have to do, for us. I make a lot of promises, but this time I mean it. Epsom, and then we're done," he bent down to press a chaste kiss to her lips. "Then we talk about the future."
He wasn't not easy. Nothing about him was easy. Not loving him, not caring, nothing in him was willing to yield and neither did she want him to. All Thomas Shelby knew was dig, dig until his hands bled and eyes aches, dig until he found the gold and won the prize.
But Caterina, she hated to lose.
Instead of asking, Cat pulled him down to press her lips against his, one hand firmly on the back of his neck.
"I hate you," she whispered passionately. She hated her weakness for him, even as she arched her back into the curve of his hand, even as he pulled her top down, as his mouth reciprocated the same insatiable want, as they are replaced by stealthy, eager fingers, as he tugged and bit and whispered like a man long starved of touch.
And then, he has the audacity to chuckle against her mouth. "No, you don't."
Too many buttons, she thought, too many fucking buttons as she went to undo the ones holding his waistcoat and it proved to be a difficult business once his hands started to wander, down her back and along her breasts, each time getting closer and closer to lifting up the robe wrapped around her body.
He takes his time, makes her shiver with anticipation, playing with the delicate silk as she frees him of his dress shirt. "If I knew an argument was all it took to have you this bold and —"
She shuts him up with a burning kiss. "Be quiet," the brunette hissed in a desperate hurry so very unlike her.
They hit the edge of his desk, moving like they're blind, and perhaps they are, until they finally find the bed and he leans over her, finally seeing.
"I'm still mad at you." He tasted like unspoken promises and tobacco, so very cruel and dangerous in his temptation as his calloused fingers sunk in the softness of her waist, pulling her down against him.
"Tomorrow," he nearly groaned against her lips — a noise so obscene that it turns her hips liquid — letting himself be lost in the frenzied battle of tongues and limbs, where there were no true winners, and yet, both of them felt like they won the world.
Holding a sheet over her bare body, Cat tapped across the room to open the tiny window overlooking the garden, letting the cold spring air bite her rosy cheeks.
"What are you thinking about?" she whispered in the dark, once she found the way back to his bed — their bed now, she reckoned — quick to settle back into her lover's embrace.
This time he doesn't reach for the smokes on his bedside, and instead props himself on the pillow behind him. The woman that laid beside him was better than the smoke and the drink, and he was willing to drown in the possibilities of her, of them. A photograph would do her no honour that she deserved — he was determined to map out every inch of her with his lips, the gentle slope of her shoulders, the scars on her legs, every crevice and all the warmth. Determined to become familiar with all the birthmarks that littered her body like heavenly constelations.
There's a saying, he remembers then, a fleeting memory from the days he longed to forget. He reaches in the dark, pulling her closer until the scent of mint from her hair invades his senses.
"All quiet on the western front."
*:･ﾟ♛･ﾟ:*
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ's ɴᴏᴛᴇ
instead of incorporating the smutty bits in the chapters i've decided to publish them at the very end of the book, as sort of extra chapters for all you horn bugs