"YOUR FATHER LEFT THE CITY BEFORE THE SUN WAS UP. Took everything valuable with him, cars with those bastards determined to stay loyal until the end?" the dark haired Sicilian spat on the ground, disgusted frown marring his face.
"He left it all for Sabini and Changretta, to tear it all apart with their dirty little hands."
Caterina stood in front of Watery Lane, still disheveled from sleep and completely livid. "Figlio di putana!" She kicked a stone with the tip of her boot, sending it flying over the deserted street. Stefano, by now used to his boss' bursts of famed temper, simply nodded in agreement.
Her mind was running a marathon already, too many things happening at once, a domino effect making all the bricks fall neatly on her own head. "Call–I don't—wait for me here," she ordered, turning on her heel and entering the Shelby betting shop.
A family meeting was called for and scheduled the moment the news of Alfie's betrayal came from London, and Polly marched into the office like a tornado, demanding answers and justice for her son. Now, she was sat well away from the rest of the family, her back turned and smoking cigarettes one after another.
John was leaning with his elbows on the table when Cat entered the hall, an open ledger in front of him, with Esme rubbing his shoulder supportively. None of them managed to sleep properly, and it was doubtful if they would until the mess they were in was put into order.
Cat winced away from the look of pity thrown at her from the couple. "You look like shit," John said, extending his own cigarette for her to take. "Here."
She took it, mumbling a faint thanks his way and leaned on one of the wooden pillars.
The man they all waited for walked in moments later, lips firmly set in a line. His eyes swept the room, prepared for the worst.
"John?"
"The coppers have lifted ten of our men in Camden Town," John straightened up in his seat. "The rest of them are on the run."
"Tommy, they've taken Michael," Finn said.
His brother shook his head. "Business first," he held a hand up.
Polly, who had been sitting away on the side, interjected. "They took Michael last night," she snapped.
"They've took Arthur, too, Pol," Cat snapped, fed up with the woman's impatience. She loved Polly, she truly did, but ever since Michael stepped into the business she turned into something she could not get behind. "Get in the fucking line."
Polly looked as if she was ready to pop an artery. "Say that—"
"Polly, business first!" Tommy roared over her ranting, his aunt not shrinking away but pursing her lips in distaste.
"They took all our whiskey," John reported. "So no doubt they'll be sipping that for Christmas. They've impounded all our vans, put their own locks on our warehouses. The Eden club and all our pubs have been raided by the coppers and handed back to Sabini and Solomons. The Black Country boys think it was Arthur that killed Billy 'cause that's what the coppers told them. So there'll be no more free passes for our whiskey boats."
"Cat?"
The brunette kicked herself off the pillar with a sigh. "Liverpool and Manchester are down, and there's been shooting in the Nechells, but I still don't know on what scale," she rubbed a hand over her face. "Coppers closed down all the pubs and restaurants, the company's liquor license was burned and all our barkeepers jailed."
Her life's hard work up in flames in one night, all because of one vengeful Irish copper determined to destroy their lives.
"I don't give a fuck about whiskey. I don't give a fuck about Nechells," Polly sneered, joining the rest in the centre of the room. "I don't give a fuck about Billy Kitchen. I want my son out of prison, now."
"Thomas, I spoke to Johnny Dogs," Esme piped up, immediately stopped by Polly's cold glare.
"This meeting should just be family, " Polly spat. "It's family only."
Caterina had had enough by then. "D'you want me to leave, then?" she demanded, walking over to Polly with her arms open. "She can help," she defended Esme.
But Polly would not be swayed. "She is not blood, Tommy."
"Let her speak," Tommy demanded, but it fell to deaf ears. Polly continued to speak over him, the spiteful jabs coming from all the attendants until Tommy slammed his palms against the table John was sitting at, rattling all the lamps in the betting shop.
"Enough! Enough, Polly. Esme?"
"I spoke to Johnny Dogs," Esme began, trying not to glance warily at the woman shooting daggers into the back of her head, "The Lees are kin."
Another unconcealed scoff left Polly's mouth. "The bloody Lees?"
"They can give us more men," Esme defended her family. The rift between the Lee bride and the Shelby matriarch had become most unnerving over the past year, created over Polly's sheer distaste of Esme asking blunt, clear-headed questions and influencing decisions made for the family. She felt threatened.
"We don't need more fucking men! It's men that have done the fucking damage. It's-" she paused to take another breath of air, "It's men fighting like cockerels that have put us here in the first place."
Caterina was very close to tearing both her and Polly's hair off. "For Christ's sake Polly, we just need time! There's a plan in motion, we just need to follow it properly and both Arthur and Michael will be out of prison," "You don't have to trust us, but trust the plan."
"You can take your plan and shove it down your throat," Polly replied with same venomous fervour.
"Esme, we'll take up their offer. We need men," Tommy firmly ignored his aunt.
"If Michael ever gets out of prison, I am taking him away from this family. For good. This life is bad," she marched over to Finn, grabbing his arm and dragging him away from the meeting, despite his protests. "This life is all bad."
Somewhat annoyed, Finn asked, "Aunt Pol, what're you doing?"
"Shut up," Polly snapped, tugging him more firmly. "And walk."
Tommy took a seat at the table as soon as Pol was out of sight, only the firm slam of the front door greeting them. John and Esme exchanged a worried glance, the later tentatively stepping closer to the brooding man.
"Thomas. Should I go speak to Queen Mary Lee at the Black Patch?"
"Yes," Tommy agreed.
"She can give us soldiers for a few nights." When she received no answer from him but a hard stare into nothingness, Esme turned to the other Shelby that might yet prove to be useful.
"John, go bring up the car," his wife ordered, staring him down until he finally moved from his spit. The Lee woman remained behind for a moment longer, her quick eyes darting over the other two occupants of the room. Cat had a discomforting notion that she was reading their bare souls.
"Thank you, Esme," Cat called after her before she had the opportunity to leave. The Romani beauty turned with a barest hint of a smiley
"Everything for my family."
Caterina returned the sentiment. "Would you mind asking if some of your cousins would like to shoot some Italians?"
"Don't you worry about that," her friend gave her hand one last squeeze before she followed her husband outside.
By the time Esme was out of the door, Tommy was already up and stalking out of the room without a word.
But Cat was quicker, despite his long legs. "Don't you fucking dare," she warned him, slithering past him and blocking the hallway. They locked eyes, waiting to see which one of them would crack faster.
"London?"
Her lover nodded gravely. "I need to confront Alfie, see what can be salvaged."
"Be careful," she warned him, cursing herslef for sounding so girlish. Her words made him smile.
"I should be telling you that, I'm leaving you in a viper's nest." There was an unspoken reassurance that passed between them, and despite the gravity of the situation they both bore on their shoulders, this moment of respite gave them the strength to pick themselves up.
"Why do you believe in me, Tommy Shelby?"
"Because you're a soldier on a different battlefield. And soldier, I won't have you dying on my watch," his fingers found a way underneath her coat, laying on her wrists. "Is that clear?" They tightened almost painfully, demanding.
Her head bobbed up and down. "Yes, Sergeant Major," she gave him a slight salute with her free hand, throwing in a crooked smile as an attempt to lessen her nerves.
He pulled her into his lean form, laying a quick kiss on her lips. "I'll see you soon." A promise that meant everything and was yet left to fight against the wind that threatened to tear their world apart.
Thomas disappeared down the hall, leaving her with one hand firmly grasping the door knob that led outside, where Stefano impatiently waited for her to finish with the meeting. Focusing on the weight, its coolness against her palm, Cat found it near impossible to twist it, to be swept into the fray that awaited.
Instead she rummaged through the insides of her coat, itching for the smooth surface of a little blue bottle that helped her sleep at night, or stay up until the morning as she poured over words and numbers in the ledger.
Making sure the was truly no one left in the betting shop, she stealthily produced a compact mirror and a razor she nicked from Tommy's peaked hat, slicing a fine line. The white powder hit harder, the dose bolting through her nervous system and shooting a pang of dull ache she became far too familiar with up her nose.
The brunette threw her head back, making sure her newest vice served its purpose and gave her the artificial strength she needed now more than ever. Or so she thought. Her trail of thoughts rarely had any sensible backing these days.
A trickle of blood trailed down her right nostril and she wiped it away with the back of her hand, sweeping away all the evidence of her dirty little secret.
THE NEXT DAY STARTED WITH GUNSHOTS AND FIRE, and as the time went on it seemed this one would end that way, too.
Nechells and Bordesley were split into factions, the ones backing Changretta — and in extension, Sabini — and the loyalists that remained firmly on the side of Cardinale's.
The rivalry between the two families was almost natural; Roberto and Vincente arrived to Birmingham at nearly the same time, occupying their respective neighbourhoods and keeping their noses out of the others business.
Over the years, however, the Cardinale's managed to push out the Changretta's out of their places of interest, taking control of more pubs and restaurants, soon controlling all the trade that came and went out of the city. The animosity brewed as the time passed, and by the time first Kimber, and now Sabini approached them with the idea of seizing Cardinale territory, they accepted it readily, throwing all the notions of friendship and respect out of the window.
No one expected an actual civil war to erupt on the streets.
Another rain of gunfire ripped through the square, a sound Caterina had grown familiar over the last twenty four hours.
An operational centre was set up in the heart of Bordesley, in the living room of one of the flats Caterina user to own, a bare minimum they could work with, but with enough place to store the ammunition and pour over the mals and plans of action.
A young man with a thin moustache appeared at the door, out of breath. He wiped his sweaty hands off his overalls before saluting, and entered the room.
Caterina eyed the rifle slung carelessly over his shoulder. Far too young to have been in the war, but old enough to have learned a thing or two in the back alleys. "Reported casualties?"
"Two on Drummond Road and one extremely wounded," the boy answered readily.
"Santa Maria, there's a school on Drummond," Giorgio muttered, sharing a look with others. "Is nothing saint to them anymore?"
"That's by the machine gun on the post office, no?" Asked she, while simultaneously circling the positions on the map laid out in front of her. The red dots she marked down were the streets yet to be liberated, and their number decreased steadily over the hours.
"Si, signorina, but out boys are holding their ground," the lad assured her. "I suspect they should be running out of ammunition by four." It brought a dose of optimism into the room. It would be all over soon.
The guerrilla war they were leading would prove to be tragic for the collateral damage, both sides being equally bold and careful. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed an unusual pattern of the attacks once they were laid out geographical. "Would they expect us to intercept them by the Bull Ring?" she asked her advisors, the five of them, all able men, veterans.
Any answer they might have provided was cut off by a deafening explosion rocking the building. The lamp hanging overhead swung wildly until it crashed into a shelf, raining pieces of glass over the table they all stood around.
"This one was closer," came a remark to her left. The yells from outside rung in their ears.
"A grenade!"
"Man down! Get him inside!"
Caterina approached the window overlooking the square. One could not possibly see their own finger in front of their nose, the dust of explosion polluting the air they breathed.
"I'm going down," she announced, already halfway down the stairs before they had the opportunity to protest.
A makeshift infirmary was set up in the basement of the house, though it resembled more of a war zone than a place if healing. Caterina stepped over a pile of bloodied bandages, careful not to step on any of the patients spread over the ground on flimsy mattresses. The wounds were mostly not too severe, several bullet wounds and imbedded shrapnels, one or two fists maimed by explosions.
There was a tug on her jacket. "Signorina, per favore, there's a woman asking for you. Per favore," she allowed the nurse to drag her to one of the makeshift beds on the edge of the room.
She knew that face. It was the one that put her to sleep all her childhood, that waited for her after school, whose smile warmed her even when her own flesh and blood remained cold. "Maria!" Cat choked out, falling to her knees by the old woman's side.
Her wrinkled face was marred by dust and dirt, and dried blood that had seeped out of the cut on her head. The poor woman had walked through the fray, the witnesses would tell her later, determined to reach their headquarters only to be shot down moments before the grenade went off several feet away from her.
"Ai, ai, carina," she hissed in pain when Cat touched the bandages over her chest, revealing a bullet hole just underneath her ribs. She reached blindly for her hand, squeezing it.
"They came to the house, they break everything," beads of sweat emerged on her brow every time she rasped. "But I find the secret safe, carina, carte e documenti—" another coughing fit rattled her chest, a trail of blood going down her chin.
"Don't talk, please, we'll get a doctor," Cat begged her, hand fumbling with the bandages, pressing down on the wound. She could feel her childhood slipping through her fingers, with all its kind memories, leaving the bitter coldness behind.
She could feel her slipping, along with all the composture she had kept until now. Words turned to lead on her tongue.
"Aiutami!" Tears ran down her face, blurring her vision. The explosion still rung clearly in her ears. "Aiutami!" No one moved.
"She's gone, signorina," a woman's voice pipped up from behind her, trying to pry her hand from the cold, lifeless one.
What little air remained in her lungs emerged in the form of a muffled scream, stomach heaving in phantom pain that twisted and turned, digging into her wounds.
"No!" she cried, slamming her fists into the ground, cursing the Heaven and all the Hell on earth for taking her away, for leaving her so alone.
The soldiers around them swiped their hats off their heads, whispering a Hail Mary under their breaths for their countrywoman, fallen in battle.
THE CORNER WHICH CONNECTED MANSEL ROAD AND BURLINGTON was a dead end, a forced hand and by all means, bound to be a battlefield.
What was once her distillery stood behind her, three dozen of her loyal soldati in rows, tightly clutching their weapons.
The other side did not lack firepower either — dozens of them, with two snipers positioned on the roofs of adjacent buildings. She recognised the man leading them, now striding towards her with a steady frown.
"Angelo Changretta," she smirked wickedly, holding her arms open, "have you come to surrender?"
If Devil climbed up from Hell, he must have took the appearance of Caterina Cardinale. Her shirt was bloodied and torn at places, and dark hair pulled haphazardly away from her face.
The young man shook his head, not entertained by her dramatics. "Caterina, stand down, you have nothing to prove," he told her, eager to end the fighting and finally go home.
A sharp chuckle came from her. "Nothing to prove? Of course I don't," the smile she gave him was colder than ice. "You expect me to stand idle while you chip away my life's work, one street, one building at a time? No, my dear Angelo, I might be young but I wasn't born yesterday."
Angelo fixed her with a look. "There are more of us anyway. Stand down and I can guarantee you will be treated with respect and all your possessions will be returned to you. I don't want to see you dead." Lies, a voice whispered in her ear. They always lie and then stab you in the back.
"I'm done with empty promises made by feckless men," Caterina spat. Behind her, a figure emerged from the distillery, trailing a canister of some liquid behind him, its contents spilling over the ground. Once he reached Caterina, he placed it right in front of her with a slight nod of his head.
She turned to Angel again, slowly and deliberately taking a lighter out of her coat. "One more step and I blow up this fucking street and all of us with it," she commanded, her voice void of emotion.
Her fellow countryman paled. "Crazy, you are crazy!" It was, in fact, gasoline that spilled over the road leading up all the way to the distillery — gallons and gallons of easily flammable alcohol that would raze down the entire street in a matter of moments.
"Am I Angelo?" A dangerous smile was still playing on the woman's lips. There were words going around, mindless gossip, of what the Cardinale girl had become. A monster. A devil. A woman.
"You sided with Sabini, of your own volition."
Angelo let out a nervous chuckle. "We had no choice, Sabini is the biggest player in the arena," he tried to justify himself.
"You always have a choice. You just made the wrong fucking one."
Her hand was lowering, but her face betrayed no emotion. Angel knew she was not bluffing, no. Caterina Cardinale always entered the game with her cards firmly on the table, no matter what was at stake, and placed the highest bet off all. Tutto, o niente. Vita, o morte.
"Stand down," Angel ordered his men, the collective sigh of relief heard over the murmurs. He raised his head to look at the woman who had once again bested them all.
"Good. I want a meeting with the head of your family, on neutral ground. No arms, no coppers and no fucking Londoners."
TRATTORIA TAVOLLIERI LOOKED THE SAME as Caterina remembered it; the prosciutto hanging above the mantle, waiting for a joyous occasion to be brought down and cut into paper thin slices; the wooden cross with a sprig of olive pressed between the wood and the wall; the painting of Madonna di Syracuse, smiling heavenly from behind the bar.
Her nemesis came through the main entrance, flanked by his younger son and consigliere on his left. His right remained empty, a reminder that one son wasn't there, in his rightful place by his father's side.
"Don Changretta," she bent her head respectfully. He might have been her enemy, but he was still an elder and for that, she gave him the respect that was expected of her.
The man lowered his grey fedora, passing it to his son and revealing a serious face that sported a frown, once kind and fatherly features weathered by time. "Don Cardinale." Vincente Changretta regarded the young woman that stood several feet away from him. He understood why the men followed her — there was a certain sense of pride she emitted, back straight and a firm set of jaw, dangerous eyes following their movements around the room.
She gestured for him to take a seat across her, while their companions were left to stand behind their chairs.
"It's quite an unfortunate turn of events," she began, folding her hands in front of her in a casual manner.
Vincente nodded in agreement. "We could've been family," he reminded her, earning him a bitter smile in retaliation.
"And now we're enemies. I wonder whose fault is that, Don Changretta."
A waiter came around, pouring some deep red wine into their glasses. The woman reached for hers, taking a hearty sip. Vincente did not touch his.
"What can I give you, Caterina? You know very well our hand was forced, if not by Sabini, then by your father's reckless business," he leaned back into his chair. "You can't blame me for trying to protect the interests of my family. I'm sure you would have done the same in my position."
"I want peace," she held up her hand, one finger raised, "I want my company," another went up in the air. "I want you to mind your own business and stay out of mine."
Stefano emerged from the kitchen, carrying a stack of papers he then placed in between them.
"All the contracts made between our families," she explained, noticing the confused look on the old man's face.
Caterina took the first one from the pile and fished the lighter out of her pocket. The men in her presence visibly tensed, Angel most of all, vary to see her wield anything that had to do with fire. They watched at the flames licked the bottom of the paper, slowly eating away the yellowed page and its ink. She dropped it onto the remaining ones, allowing the fire to spread, under her watchful eye, over the rest of the paper.
Yellow and orange flames flickered in the depths of her eyes, molten gold finding Vincente's through the coils of smoke. "We start anew. Today."
IT WAS WELL AFTER MIDNIGHT, but Polly discarded the idea of sleep a long time ago. Her skin ached from the harsh wooden brush she used for her carpets, now trying to scrub away the vile, repugnant touch of that man, his bruising fingers leaving purple marks over her body and tearing away her dignity with eager, groping hands. And Michael—
Michael's disappointed eyes danced in the flames, eating at her soul faster than the fire consumed dry timber, clawing, mocking, sneering while she threatened to drown in simmering anger underneath her skin.
Someone was unlocking the front door and closing them. For all she cared, it could've been the seven devils coming to collect her soul. She'd let them take her away willingly.
Polly took another long drag of her cigarette as the footsteps grew louder, echoing through the hallway with surety of step. The house was so empty now, when there was no Michael's soft humming while he did something around the house, or the maids bustling in the kitchen and the washing room.
A hand placed an engraved bullet on a tea table in front of Polly. Chester; a named bullet held the greatest meaning with the superstitious folk.
"I will not apologise for what I said," came Caterina's firm voice, sliding the bullet further into Polly's direction. Polly raised her eyes from the flames to look at her. Cat's clothes were still caked with old blood, the expensive coat thrown over a body of a fallen soldier in Bordesley, a thick layer of dust covering her boots. Fiendish, almost, with a fiery determination shining from her eyes.
"But I stand with you."
Polly nodded in understanding, twirling the unexpected gift between her fingers. "Didn't expect you to." Too prideful they both were, and equally headstrong in their wants and opinions.
The two women spit in their palms and shook each other's hand with firm grip, nails digging into the calloused skin of their hands. It was the men that started the mess, but it was, inevitably, the women that would end it.
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ's ɴᴏᴛᴇ
if you haven 't seen it yet, I published an AU for Bloodlines I look very forward to writing — it's in fact a Goodfather/Peaky Blinders crossover