Chapter 2

A/n: HIIIIIII besties, I couldn't stop thinking about this fic and all of you who've left such lovely comments SO I'm here to finish it. I'm going through chapter by chapter and editing/updating bc I cannot cope in its current state, so thank u for making it this far. I can't wait to finish this story for y'all ily u guys xxx

Six months earlier

Finishing school in Switzerland fucking sucked.

As if a lifetime of regular boarding school abroad hadn't been enough, my father decided to send me away for longer even after I graduated. Because it's what proper ladies do, he'd said.

But I know it's just so he didn't have to deal with me. And too bad for him, they kicked me out, and now I'm his problem once more. Almost two years since I came back home, and still he won't let it go.

"What the fuck's this?" He asks, words muffled around the cigar in his lips as he snatches the leather-bound novel from my fingers.

"A book," I answer coldly. "Haven't you seen one before?"

He glares at me, and I fight the peals of fear that begin to erupt in my stomach. I knew it had been a mistake to nestle in here, in the sitting room where he can easily find me. But rays of sun are glinting through the window, casting soft rectangles across the floorboards — a rarity in Birmingham, and I'd wanted to feel the warmth from the window seat.

"Enough fucking books," Father snaps. "Chucked out of Brilliantmont because you always had your nose stuck in some fucking story. Rather mope around wasting your time than focus on your French or homemaking lessons, which I paid a bloody fortune for. What book is this, anyway?" He shakes it roughly in his grasp, staring in disgust, as though it's some pesky gangster he can intimidate into absence.

"Don Quixote," I answer.

His responding stare is so appalled, anyone would think I've begun speaking in biblical tongues. "You've got to sort yourself out, girl. You've fucked your education. You refuse to find a husband, if one would even take you at this point. All you do is sulk around the horses and read your bloody books all day. Your sister—"

"Is miserable," I finish for him, my voice rising. With nothing to hold onto now he's snatched my book, my fingers begin to tremble. "Marjorie is miserable, and she's married to a monster. She was covered in bruises when I saw her last. And you do nothing. Because you're just as bad, aren't you?"

It leaves me in a blurt of anger, a moment of bravery. Stupid, I think, as Father rises ominously to his feet. I refuse to cower before him. But as the ember of his cigar glows, I come awfully close. I don't want to be on the receiving end of that again. My scars have only just begun to heal over from the last time I'd insulted him.

"What did you say to me?" He asks quietly.

Stop talking. Don't answer. But the words tumble from me in rage. "Mother's never here. She fled to New York to be with Marjorie because she can't stand you. They managed to escape, and she's finally happy."

I could go on — mention the fact that Mother's coherent for the first time in my whole life, now she's away from Father's doctor and the morphine he prescribed her. For migraines. All on my father's orders, of course.

But it doesn't matter that I bit those words back. They hang unspoken in the air between us, and Father's gaze turns positively murderous.

"Hold out your arm."

It'll burn. He'll dig the glowing end of his cigar into my flesh, and he'll hold it there until I cry and beg him to forgive me. And I'll do it. I've learned over a lifetime that stubborn pride isn't worth the risk of losing my whole arm, a near likelihood at one stage after a particularly brutal burn and following infection.

I should have learned better by now than to lash out at him. But it's worth it. Every circular scar dotting my arm serves as a reminder that he couldn't break me. That I refused to be beaten into subordination.

Just this once, I wonder what would happen if I fight back. If I lay a blow into his face. How bad my punishment will be.

I never find out.

Three men burst through the door, blowing the wood from its hinges and sending it smashing across the room. I turn, instinctively lowering, expecting a round of gunfire. But Father only stares at them, mouth gaping, totally nonplussed. Three violent men don't scare him — they only confuse him. We should all be so lucky.

I rack through possibilities in my mind. They aren't policemen — this much is obvious. As I assess them each in turn, one steps forward, instantly capturing my full attention. His eyes are the brightest blue, reminding me of water on the Alps, of an arctic storm. It takes only one glance to see he's the leader.

"Alright, Billy?" He asks in a deep Birmingham drawl, almost conversationally, as though he's visiting a friend. But there's a coldness to his voice, an ice that sends shivers down my spine.

Father's hand twitches towards his pocket, where he keeps a pistol at all times. But one of the other men, the one with a thick moustache, shakes his head and tuts warningly. His own hand's thrust deep into his pocket, mirroring the man beside him. This one chews on a toothpick, his eyes mean and threatening as he glares at my Father.

At me.

I recognise them at last. The Peaky Blinders. The only reason they haven't drawn their guns yet is because they don't need to — they could whip those caps off and slit our throats in an instant.

Father clears his throat. "Well done, boys," he says drolly. "I'm impressed. Now, Thomas... Tell me what you want, and then you can fuck off out of my house while I decide if I'll kill you."

I wait with bated breath. Thomas takes his time lighting a cigarette, drawing it out into a ritual — rustling for his packet, pulling one free, gliding it across his lips. He brings a lighter to catch the end and considers it for a moment as he inhales, brows nudging into a light frown as the smoke moves in whirls through the air.

He strolls across to the desk and lifts the stopper from my Father's liquor decanter, eyes grazing across the entire room. Oh, he's bold. And yet so calm, so in contrast to the silent rage of his brothers. Somehow, it makes him the most threatening of them all.

I try to do a quick calculation in my head. There's a gun in the first drawer of the desk, a few feet to my right. I don't need to be a bookmaker to see the odds aren't in my favour — risking three guns to get my hands on just one is beyond stupid. But if I take them by surprise, I can use the desk for cover. Maybe even shoot one of them before the others react. If my Father's clever — not that he's ever struck me as such — he'll draw his own gun, and that'll make it two a side. Even odds.

I feel Thomas's gaze on me, some primal instinct warning me that I'm being sized up. My head snaps back in response and his eyes flicker up and down, examining me more intently yet than anything else in the room. I can't very well lunge for the gun now, I realise in bitter irritation. But equally, it sends a strange feeling reverberating through my bones.

Like he's a predator deciding how he'll kill his prey.

He's still holding eye contact as he speaks. "I want my guns, Billy," he says quietly. My Father barks a loud laugh, and Tommy finally tears his gaze away. I can breathe once more.

"And what guns might they be?" Father asks. "Primitive slingshots with bits of stone? Or have you gypsies finally discovered fire?"

"Laugh all you want. But if you don't return my shipment, I'll make a sorry man out of you."

"I don't know what the fuck you're on about," Father says calmly. "If I wanted guns, I'd have the coppers turn their seizures over to me. Just like I do twice a year already. Now. Get the fuck out of here, and we'll pretend this embarrassing incident never happened, shall we?"

Tommy gives a slow, torturous hint of a smile. "I've asked you nicely. I won't do so again."

"You're right." Father plants his fist on the desk. "You won't, you little shit."

I see him blaze. I know he's about ten seconds away from escalating this to gunfire, all over whatever testosterone-fuelled dick-measuring contest they're holding.

"Do you have any proof?" I ask, drawing attention. Not a fate I particularly enjoy, but one that seems necessary if any of us are to leave this room alive.

Tommy doesn't glance back at me again. I find myself irritated by it, though I'm not sure why. He tilts his head, strolling across to the bookcase and running a finger along the shelves, as though inspecting for dust. "John?" he asks.

The one chewing a toothpick speaks. "Three nights ago, our shipment went missing. Our men saw a car registered to the Brummagen Boys leaving the scene. By the time they went to check, the guns had all been dug up."

This ought to be simple. I turn to Father. "Where were you three nights ago?"

"At the opera in fucking London," he spits. "Paid for by cheque. Brought a woman with me. Taken by my driver, admitted by the fucking concierge, are we fucking done here?"

I raise my eyebrows and smile sympathetically at the Shelby brothers. None of them look too happy, but they're cornered. They've got no proof.

Apparently, Tommy doesn't see it the same way. "And you?" He asks me. Eyes boring into my own once more.

I swallow, hoping nobody can hear the sound in the silence. "At home," I lie.

I can't say the truth. Not here, in front of my father. If he finds out I snuck out of the house, heading into a bar in the city where I let a man slide his hands up my dress — well, he'd flay me alive. And then everyone else in this room for knowing about it.

"Anyone who can corroborate that?" Tommy asks.

"Yeah, fucking me," Father says. "She's got her head stuck in a book nine hours out of ten, and I've got enough men round the place to know if she'd stolen a car."

"Is that so?" Tommy asks, frowning as he stubs his cigarette into the last dregs of whiskey. "We didn't see many men at all, did we, brothers? We were able to get in here, after all."

Father's face darkens to a shade of puce. I wince. His fury isn't going to be pretty.

"Out!" He barks. "Fucking out! And if you come on my personal property again, I'll have your heads mounted on the iron fence like I'm fucking King Henry!"

Arthur growls and moves forward, ready to launch, but John pulls him back.

"Leave it, Arthur," Tommy says calmly. "We're done here."

Once more, Thomas Shelby fixes his attention on me, like undressing me with his eyes to discern all my secrets. "If there's anything you want to tell me about that night, you come to Small Heath. Ask for Thomas Shelby. You'll find me."

"As if she'd ever go near you!" Father shouts, his screams following the Peaky Blinders as they leave the room. "As if you won't be dead within a week, you fucking scum!"

He visibly shakes with rage. It emanates from him, filling the room with heat, slick sweat beading across his forehead.

Time to make myself scarce.

"And you," he snaps before I can leave. Points an accusatory finger. "You ever embarrass me by speaking like that again, you'll be on the streets."

I quickly leave the room as he lights another cigar, before he can remember his earlier punishment that got so crudely interrupted. For all my complaining, maybe finishing school hadn't been so bad — at least I never needed to tolerate this level of abuse.

But it had been dull. Boring. Necessitating a deep escape into books, into worlds of mystery and romance and other lives I longed to live.

And now there's a mystery looming in front of me. Not inked onto a page, not pre-determined. An enigma in the flesh.

Who stole the guns? Was it Father? One of his men? Why would he do it, and why would he lie?

And if not... Who is framing him?