Chapter 17

A/n: I feel like this chapter needs a content warning to be on the safe side - physical violence and descriptions of pain. Could be triggering for abuse survivors pls take care of yourselves x

My father refuses to even look at me. He stands at the window and swirls his drink, while I crush down any fear threatening to rise through me. Memories flash through my mind of every burn. Of every bruise I saw on my mother, of the way her screams would fill our house. I refuse to scream like that at his hands, too.

"How long have you been fucking Alfie Solomons?"

I stare at his back for so long I can almost make out the stitching in his shirt. "Excuse me?"

"Don't play stupid with me, girl. Everyone's seen you eye fucking him. Everyone's seen the interest he's taken in you. And now you've been caught at his house, in the dead of the night." He finally turns to face me, loathing all across his face.

It's almost amusing, how confident he is when he's managed to get the complete wrong end of the stick. I can see the glint in his eyes, the rage. There'll be no reasoning with him now. He's beyond that.

"That's a little dramatic," I say. "It's barely ten-thirty."

He slams his hand down on the table, so hard I nearly flinch. "I have been a patient man," he warns. "I have tried to be understanding. Forgiving, even. But I will not tolerate the disrespect."

This is getting ridiculous. When he's this roiled up, this delusional, the only way to calm him is time. Leave him ranting and raving, stewing on whatever story he's made up in his head, until something else comes up at work and distracts him.

I say, "If you're finished, I'm going to bed."

I only pray he won't follow. I only pray he'll choose to stay here and drink himself into oblivion, and with any luck, tomorrow he might forget this conversation ever happened.

"He's agreed to marry you."

What. The. Fuck? I slowly turn back around. He's bluffing. Surely he's bluffing. Saying anything to try and gain the upper hand...

But my father doesn't make empty threats.

"And be fucking grateful," he continues. "He'll take you in, protect you. Won't give a shit if you want to read your fucking books, neither. Might need to convert to Judaism, but I'm sure you'll pick it up quick enough. Shalom, and all that."

"You're lying," I whisper.

"What, it didn't come up in pillow talk?" He lights a cigar. "You made this mess, girl."

"No. You did." So many layers of deceit to all this. Alfie, my father, the Italians... "You're marrying me off to secure your ties with Alfie. You've blown this out of proportion for that reason alone — you're forging a family alliance so he can't fuck you over. You're treating me like cattle," I seethe.

"And he only agreed so I can't fuck him over," my father says, his voice rising. "So everyone fucking wins, right?"

"You're mad," I say flatly. "I'm not doing it."

"Yes, you fucking are."

"You can't stop me. And you can't marry me off without my permission!"

His gaze turns deadly, reminding me of snakes before they strike. "I have done everything for you. Sent you to the finest schools. Allowed you to stay here, under my roof, when you were meant to be off with a family of your own years ago. And now I've made you a fine match. Be fucking grateful, you little bitch."

I do the stupidest thing in my life.

I attack him.

Launching across the room, I hit and kick every part of him I can reach, the rage unfurling from me. There's no skill behind my blows — I never learned martial arts or self defence. Rather than technique, I hit in pure anger.

I get some good hits in, too — one of his eyes begins swelling shut and after a distinctive crunch, blood leaks from his nostrils. Every collision of my fists, every pummel I land into him, is as much for my younger self as it is for me now. Every time he burned us. Every time he made me tremble in fear, when a father should have been the one person to make me feel protected. Safe. Treasured. My own desperation for his approval sickens me, and it fuels me as I attack.

I don't stop until hands clutch at my arms, restraining me and pulling me away. I continue to try and fight him off, but Roberts' grip is too firm. I'm turning into a caged animal.

And then my father gets his revenge.

Heat erupts through my face, pain so white and blinding it brings me to my knees. I'm vaguely aware when my back tooth cracks as his fist collides with my jaw, dislodging in a pool of blood. Without thinking, I spit it out — or rather, I try. But my facial muscles don't seem to be working, and the metallic tang of blood washes over my tongue before leaving me in a stream.

But he's not even close to done. He wrenches my arm out of Roberts' grip, pulling up my sleeve. I brace myself, anticipating the pain.

But it's so much worse than I expect. It leaves me in shuddering gasps, in screams, as he digs the cigar end deep into my skin, until I can hear my skin sizzling and smell the burning flesh. It's like a blowtorch as he drags it the entire length of my forearm. Before my vision turns white, I see him snarling, his lip curled in glee. Madness dances in his eyes. I wonder if this will ever end, and it's a fight with all my strength just to stay conscious. That becomes my sole measure of victory or defeat, my last line of defence against his onslaught. If I don't blackout, he doesn't win.

He shoves me away when he's done, and I crash against the wall. Tears well in my eyes against my will. When Roberts restrains me once more, I don't have it in me to fight.

"Take her," Father seethes. "Drop her on her future fucking husband's doorstep. Let him see what he's in for."

My head hangs from my shoulders as Roberts drags me out of the house. Everything spins around me, and a resounding thump pounds through my head. I allow myself two full minutes of rest, of not resisting. I use this time to collect my bearings. To form a plan.

I wait until we reach the car. Until his grip on me relaxes as he pulls a hand free to open the door.

I thrust my elbow into his ribs, twisting out of his clutches, then drive his head into the car frame. Hard. Knotting my fingers into his hair, I smack his face into metal again, and again, then shove him away with all my strength.

He staggers, barely conscious, before toppling to the ground. There's no time to waste.

My heart pounds in my chest, my ears, even my fingertips as I start the car. I catch the shadows of guards moving in my rear vision and floor it, pressing the accelerator all the way down with my foot. The world's still on-tilt, and it's a struggle to stay on the road — but I make my way down the street without incident.

It's not until I get to the outskirts of the city that I slump back in my seat, sucking in my first deep breath since the moment I arrived to speak with my father. My thoughts finally have time to gather and coalesce in my head.

And then I flare red hot with anger.

Alfie knew. The whole time I'd been at his house, the whole time we'd spoken, he knew about this. He'd agreed to it.

I slam my hands against the steering wheel. He'd even had the fucking audacity to warn me about a life feuding with the Italians, when that's exactly what he's setting me up to do.

Unless, says a small voice in the back of my mind... Unless he's trying to give me an out.

My blood chills. His words echo through my mind. Might not be a bad idea, to get in with the Peaky Blinders. Better life than feuding with the Italians, can tell you that for nothin'.

The thought brings a laugh to my throat. The Shelby's are surely as bad as the Italians — at least in my experience. I still think they might have created this whole shit storm in the first place by stealing their own guns.

But once my anger dies down, the biting air flooding the car through the windows clears my head. The adrenaline's fading off, leaving a searing pain in its wake — weaving through my skull, along the agonising burn at the underside of my arm. Tears sting at my eyes and I sniff them back, needles stabbing at my throat. Everything feels puffy and swollen. Everything hurts. I'm terrified to look at my arm and inspect the damage. I'm terrified to even look at my own reflection.

I decide, in this moment, that he will never lay hands on me again.

And I have a choice to make, as I draw closer to Coventry. Where the fuck to go. And how to return this stolen car back to my father, cutting off any trail that could lead to him finding me.

Roberts or another of the men could be hot on my tail. Stopping off at the Coventry home might be too risky, but I need to pack some clothes. Some supplies. And then...

Where will I go then?