Chapter 1: Isabella "Izzy" Heartwell
Chapter Text
Name: Isabella “Izzy” Hartwell
Age: 25 (in Season 1)
Background:
Born and raised in Birmingham, Isabella Hartwell is the only daughter of a half-Irish bookmaker and a sharp-tongued mother who ran numbers out of their corner grocer in Small Heath. A natural with figures and fluent in street-speak and subtle manipulation, Izzy grew up learning the business from the inside out. Her father died in a pub brawl when she was fifteen, and it was Polly Gray who took notice of the girl’s potential and offered her a position helping manage the Shelby betting shop while the boys were away at war.
Izzy quickly became Polly’s right hand — not just a worker, but a trusted ally. She knew how to calm angry customers, how to hide the real books when the coppers came sniffing, and how to run numbers smoother than any of the lads. She gained a reputation on the streets as “the quiet clever girl” — all soft smiles and sharp eyes.
Appearance:
• Pale porcelain skin, untouched by scars or hard labor.
• Long, thick dark brown hair often pinned up beneath a smart cap or curled just-so beneath a cloche hat.
• Wide hazel eyes — a little melancholy around the edges, always watching.
• Dresses practical but with subtle elegance: fitted wool skirts, suspenders, and tucked blouses with a hint of lace. Polly sometimes jokes Izzy looks like a schoolteacher and a gangster’s mistress rolled into one.
Personality:
• Intelligent and calm, with an uncanny ability to read people’s intentions.
• Soft-spoken but never passive — she chooses her words carefully and lands them with precision.
• Fiercely loyal to Polly and quietly resentful of men who underestimate her.
• Keeps her emotions under tight control — except when it comes to Tommy.
⸻
Relationship with Tommy Shelby:
Before the war, Izzy and Tommy were drawn to each other like moths to flame. She saw something more than ambition in him — a hunger for purpose, for control, for redemption. He saw in her a rare kind of intelligence and restraint, someone who could understand the weight of leadership without ever needing the spotlight.
The night before he shipped off to France, they shared a moment — a kiss that turned into hours tangled in sheets, confessions whispered in the dark like prayers. Neither of them said “I love you,” but both knew it was there. When she woke up, he was gone.
In Season 1, Tommy returns hardened and hollow-eyed, and Izzy tries to keep her distance, unsure whether the man she once knew still lives beneath the soldier’s armor. But the connection between them simmers under the surface, as dangerous and unspoken as ever.
⸻
Chapter 2: The betting shop
Chapter Text
Chapter one - The betting shop
The rain had started an hour ago, soft at first — now louder, heavier, a steady rhythm against the windows like a ticking clock reminding Isabella Hartwell she should’ve gone home by now.
But she didn’t.
She sat at the old desk, sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows, eyes scanning the ledgers. The numbers made sense. They always had. They didn’t change, didn’t lie, didn’t disappear without a word in the night.
She was nearly done when the office door creaked open behind her. She didn’t look up. She knew who it was before he spoke.
“You’re still here.”
Tommy’s voice — deeper than she remembered. Rougher. Like gravel scraped across the back of his throat.
Izzy lifted her eyes, pen still in hand. There he was, framed by the doorway like a shadow given form. He looked the same and nothing like the boy who left. The coat, the cap, the cigarette — all familiar. But the eyes… they were darker now. Like something behind them had withered and sealed itself off.
“Polly wanted the ledgers done before morning,” she said, calm as she could manage. “You know how she is.”
He stepped inside without asking, letting the door click shut behind him. The dim gaslight flickered off the contours of his face — the hollows of his cheeks, the sharp line of his jaw. The man who had once looked at her like she was the only thing he wanted.
“She told me you kept it all running,” he said. “The shop. The books. The name.”
“Someone had to.”
His eyes flicked to hers, unreadable. He gave a short nod, like that was all he came to say. But he didn’t leave.
“You changed your hair,” he said after a beat.
Izzy blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. “So did you. It’s shorter.” Her gaze drifted over him, taking in the edges she didn’t recognize. “Like the army stripped it off you.”
Tommy let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh. “They stripped off more than that.”
Silence stretched between them. Not awkward — just full. Full of years. Of absence. Of things unsaid.
She shut the ledger with care and rose from the desk. Her skirt whispered softly as she moved.
“Why are you really here, Tommy?”
He looked at her then, fully, and for a moment she saw the boy from before. The one who touched her like she was breakable and kissed her like he’d never get the chance again.
“Wanted to see if you were still angry with me.”
“For leaving?” she asked, voice low. “For not saying goodbye? For vanishing like none of it meant anything?”
“I didn’t think I was coming back,” he said, simply.
“You could’ve written. Just once.”
He said nothing. His silence was an answer.
Izzy crossed her arms, as if bracing herself against something heavier than rain. “You think I didn’t know what that night meant? You think I didn’t lie awake and look at the door for weeks?”
Tommy stepped closer. Just a few paces now between them.
“If I’d stayed…” He stopped. Swallowed hard. “If I’d looked at you again that morning, I wouldn’t have gone. And I had to go.”
She didn’t blink. “No one held a gun to your head.”
“No,” he said, softly. “But they would’ve. And I wanted to keep something good. Something soft. And that night with you…” His voice caught. “It was the last thing that felt clean.”
Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. She hadn’t in years.
“So you kept me in your head,” she said. “But I had to live in the real world. I had to walk past your empty chair, serve men who looked at me like I was easy pickings because the Shelbys were gone. I held this place up with Polly while the world assumed you were already dead.”
“I know,” he said. His voice barely carried. “I know.”
And then, something changed. He moved closer, slow but certain. His fingers brushed a lock of her hair from her cheek — soft, reverent, like a ghost reaching for something real.
“Izzy,” he murmured. “You’re still the only thing I ever—”
She didn’t let him finish.
“I’m not afraid of you, Tommy Shelby,” she whispered.
A flicker crossed his face — regret, admiration, something older and sadder. “You should be.”
And just like that, he turned and walked out the door.
The rain followed him, heavy and unrelenting.
Izzy stood there long after he was gone, her breath caught between her ribs, her heart pounding in the empty quiet. She didn’t chase after him.
Not yet.
Location: Small Heath – Izzy’s Room
Time: The Night Before France, 1914
The rain was steady — not a storm, just persistent. A low hum against the windows, like the world was trying to hush itself before the morning.
Izzy sat on the edge of her bed, barefoot, her knees drawn up to her chest. She hadn’t lit a lamp. Only the faint orange from the street lamps bled in through the thin curtains, casting long shadows across the floorboards.
Her hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting.
He was leaving.
And there had been so many nights like this before — Tommy Shelby knocking once and letting himself in. Whiskey on his breath. That low, unreadable voice asking if she had a spare cigarette, a blanket, something to take the edge off.
But this night… it wasn’t like the others.
This was the last one.
Before he left for a war neither of them understood, but both knew would change everything.
The door opened without a knock.
He stood there in his shirtsleeves, jacket soaked through and tossed over his shoulder, hair damp and curling at the ends, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. He looked tired. Worn in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
Izzy didn’t move.
Neither did he.
Until finally, she said, “Couldn’t sleep either?”
Tommy stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The click was louder than it should have been.
“No,” he said simply.
She offered him the other side of the bed.
He sat, their shoulders barely brushing.
For a moment, the silence between them swelled — full of the things they never said. The way her hand always lingered on his wrist. The way his eyes lingered too long when he thought she wasn’t looking. The ache that built between them, year by year, never touched, never claimed.
Until now.
“Are you afraid?” she asked, barely a whisper.
Tommy took a slow drag of his cigarette. “Of dying?”
“No,” she said. “Of what you’re leaving behind.”
His jaw tensed. He didn’t answer.
That was the answer.
When he turned to her, their eyes locked — not playful, not teasing, not the way they used to be when they danced around the truth like it was a fire they couldn’t touch.
This time, they stepped into the flames.
“Izzy,” he breathed, voice raw.
She reached for him first.
Her fingers slid behind his neck. His hands found her waist, slow, careful, like touching her was something sacred. Their lips met — tentative at first, testing the weight of something long buried.
And then it deepened.
The kiss grew—desperate, hungry, full of fear and reverence and years of silence. His hands dug into her hair, his body pulling her closer like he didn’t know how to stop.
They broke apart only for breath.
“I shouldn’t do this,” he said.
“Then don’t,” she murmured, hands already undoing the buttons of his shirt. “But I need you to.”
His shirt dropped to the floor.
Her nightdress slipped over her shoulders and fell around her ankles.
She stood there, bare before him, chest rising and falling, vulnerable in a way she had never let anyone see her.
Tommy stared — not like a man seeing a body, but like a soldier seeing a memory he’d carry into the trenches.
“Jesus, Izzy…” he whispered. “You’re… you’re everything.”
She stepped closer. “Make me remember tonight, Tommy. All of it.”
He caught her in his arms, lifting her to the bed with something between tenderness and urgency. He kissed her everywhere — her collarbone, her throat, the slope of her breast. His hands trembled where they gripped her hips, not from hesitation, but from holding back everything he wanted to say.
When he lowered himself between her legs, she gasped—soft, trembling. He didn’t rush. He took his time. Tongue and lips worshipping her, learning her, coaxing every sound she didn’t know she could make until her hands fisted in his hair and her back arched off the bed.
“Tommy—please—”
He moved back up her body, mouth meeting hers, breathless and warm. “You’re perfect,” he whispered. “I want this to be perfect for you.”
She nodded, eyes shining. “I trust you.”
And when he entered her — slow, deep, guided by the careful steadiness of his hand — she whimpered his name like a prayer.
It was her first time.
He could feel it.
He held her through the stretch, through the sting, kissed the tears from the corners of her eyes, moved in her only when she was ready — a rhythm that started tender and built into something consuming.
Every thrust was a word he couldn’t say.
Every gasp from her lips was a reply.
They moved together like they’d done this a thousand times in dreams and never once in daylight.
She clung to him, nails pressing into his back, hips lifting to meet his, until the pressure inside her snapped, and she cried out — open, wild, free.
He followed with a low groan, burying his face in her neck, the sound of her name like a goodbye he couldn’t speak aloud.
⸻
☀️ Morning – What’s Left Behind
When Izzy woke, the sun was bleeding through the curtains.
Her limbs ached — not from pain, but from what they’d shared. The sheets were warm, still tangled from the night before.
But Tommy’s side of the bed was empty.
No note. No words.
Just the faint smell of him on the pillow.
She sat up, the sheet slipping off her shoulders. Her chest ached. Not with regret. But with the weight of all they hadn’t said.
Because he’d promised her nothing.
But he’d given her everything.
And somewhere out there, Tommy Shelby was already walking toward war — carrying the memory of her skin, her breath, her whispered moans like armor beneath his uniform.
Chapter 3: The Match is already lit
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWO: The Match is Already Lit
Birmingham, 1919
It had been three weeks since Tommy Shelby walked back into her life. And in that time, Izzy had become an expert at pretending not to feel the gravity of him. The room always shifted when he entered. Her skin always noticed. Her heart always whispered, there you are — even when her mind screamed to keep him at arm’s length.
But tonight, all of that pretending finally cracked.
She was in the back office again, locking up for Polly, when the door opened without a knock.
Tommy.
He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes were shadowed, jaw tense. The air behind him seemed colder, as if he’d dragged the war inside with him.
“Didn’t know anyone was still here,” she said, setting the keys down.
“I was looking for Polly.”
A pause.
“But I don’t mind finding you instead.”
Something flickered in her — warning or want, she wasn’t sure.
“She’s gone for the night. You want me to pass something on?”
He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. “No.”
Izzy’s hands stilled on the edge of the desk.
“I dreamed of you once,” he said quietly, as if admitting a sin. “Out there. In the mud. Bombs falling around us. Everyone dying. I dreamed of you… sitting on that damn counter. Telling me not to be a fool.”
“Sounds about right,” she murmured.
Tommy moved toward her, slow and deliberate. No words. Just steps. She didn’t move. Didn’t run. She couldn’t.
“You were the only soft thing I remembered,” he said. “And I hated it. Because I knew I’d ruin it the second I came home.”
“I’m not made of glass, Tommy.”
“No,” he said. “You’re not. But I still feel like I break something every time I look at you.”
And then he was in front of her — too close. Her back against the desk, his body shadowing hers.
He raised a hand to her cheek. She leaned into it before she could stop herself. The years, the silence, the ache — it all rose between them like fire fed by air.
His mouth hovered over hers. “Tell me to stop.”
“I won’t,” she breathed.
"please" Tommy nearly begged "tell me to stop"
"I can't"
So he kissed her.
And everything fell apart.
This time was different. This wasn’t memory or goodbye. This was a wildfire born from denial and years of need. He lifted her onto the desk, hands dragging her skirt up, her legs parting to welcome him. Their breaths mingled — fast, ragged. She clutched at his waistcoat, yanked it off. He pulled at her blouse, kissed down her throat, and pressed against her like he could disappear inside her.
“Say it,” she whispered, breaking away from his mouth, her voice raw. “Say you missed me.”
His eyes burned. “I never stopped.”
He entered her with a groan, forehead resting against hers, the sound of their bodies colliding filling the space between the quiet.
Later, they stayed wrapped together, sweaty and silent. And when he moved to go, she grabbed his hand.
“You don’t get to disappear again.”
He nodded. “I won’t.”
But part of her still didn’t believe him.
Not yet.
—
Birmingham, 1919 — Weeks Later
The sun was bright, but cold. One of those bitter mornings that made your breath fog and your bones ache. The Shelby betting shop was already buzzing — Arthur barking orders, Polly flipping through ledgers, John laughing too loud at something that wasn’t funny.
Izzy stood behind the counter, ink-stained fingers skimming receipts, her face unreadable. From the outside, nothing had changed. She wore her usual dark skirt, blouse buttoned to the throat, hair pinned back in perfect curls. Professional. Polished.
Untouchable.
But inside, everything was shifting.
She could feel him.
Tommy stood near the back, coat unbuttoned, hands in his pockets, speaking quietly with a supplier. He hadn’t looked at her once. Not directly. Not since that night.
Not since the desk.
He was good at pretending. Had always been. That soldier still lived in him — the one who knew how to compartmentalize, how to lock things down so tight even memory couldn’t bleed through.
But she saw the cracks.
She saw the way he paused before lighting his cigarette. The way his voice dipped when she was in the room. The way his eyes lingered on the papers she touched, like her fingerprints might still be warm on them.
“Polly wants the ledgers back before noon,” Tommy said suddenly.
His voice snapped through the air like a switchblade. He wasn’t even looking at her when he said it.
“I’m nearly finished,” Izzy replied coolly, without glancing up.
His jaw twitched.
John gave her a curious look. “Christ, what’s crawled up your arse this morning?”
Izzy ignored him. She gathered the papers into a neat stack, her pulse thudding louder than the clack of her heels as she crossed the room to Tommy.
He took them from her without brushing her fingers. That hurt more than it should have.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said under her breath, quiet enough that only he could hear.
“I’ve been working,” he replied, sharp and clipped. “Same as you.”
“Right,” she said, voice tight. “Because that’s all that happened. Just… work.”
His gaze finally lifted to hers. And there it was again — the fire. Banked, restrained, but far from gone.
“I can’t afford to be weak right now,” he said. “And you—” His voice dropped, rough. “You make me weak.”
Her throat closed around something sharp.
Before she could respond, Polly called out from the back. “Tommy! We’ve got a problem down at Garrison Lane — bookies running their own odds again.”
He looked away first.
“Handle it,” he said, already walking.
Izzy stood frozen, the scent of him — smoke and soap and something darker — still lingering in the air between them. She hated how easily he could leave her like that. How he could turn it off.
But later, she learned that he couldn’t.
That Night – Outside The Betting Shop
She was locking the front when she heard footsteps behind her.
“You walk home alone?” His voice again, low and ragged.
Izzy didn’t turn. “Sometimes.”
“You shouldn’t.”
She exhaled sharply. “And what are you now, Tommy? My escort?”
“I’m trying not to be anything,” he admitted, stepping beside her. “But you make that hard.”
His hand brushed hers. Not intentional. Not entirely accidental either.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said finally.
Izzy looked at him — really looked. Not the gangster. Not the soldier. Just the man.
“You don’t have to know,” she whispered. “You just have to try.”
He stared at her for a long moment. And then, carefully, he reached for her hand. Laced their fingers together.
No one said anything. The cold didn’t bite as hard with him beside her.
They walked home like that — quiet, slow, burning in every step.
"come for a drink tomorrow" Tommy asked
Izzy hesitated, then nodded
The fire crackled low in the grate, casting long, flickering shadows across the familiar walls of Tommy Shelby’s sitting room in Watery Lane. The smoke from his cigarette curled upward like a ghost, tracing the ceiling beams above.
Izzy Hartwell sat stiffly in the worn leather armchair opposite him, arms crossed beneath her coat, eyes steady and unflinching as she watched him strike a match with deliberate calm.
Tommy took a drag before looking over. “Do I not get a drink?” she asked, one brow arched.
He motioned toward the decanter on the sideboard. “Please.”
Izzy stood, moving with that same poise she always had — like everything inside her was wound tight and laced in steel. “Do you want one?” she asked, her back to him.
“Yes.”
“Still whiskey?”
He exhaled smoke. “Yes.”
She poured two glasses, the amber liquid catching firelight. Her fingers curled around the crystal as she returned, her heels soft against the wooden floor.
“I wasn’t sure about coming tonight,” she said quietly, easing herself back into the chair. Her voice was even, but Tommy could hear the effort behind it.
She had barely lifted the glass to her lips when his voice cut through the hush.
“I lit a fire in the bedroom upstairs,” he said flatly, like he was reading from a script he’d decided to rewrite halfway through. “My plan was that we sit here for a while, talk about old times, drink some whiskey. I was going to tell you I haven’t spent a single day not thinking about you.”
Izzy froze.
He didn’t look away. “And then we were going to go upstairs and sleep together.”
Her breath caught. “Jesus, Tommy…”
“But just now,” he said, tapping ash into the tray without flinching, “on the way to opening the door, I changed my mind. So just have one drink, tell me how happy you are, and then you can go.”
A beat of silence passed like a warning.
“You changed your mind?” she asked, voice hardening.
He nodded, slow and sure. “Mhm. So you can go.”
The sting landed sharp and sudden. Izzy stood, jaw tight. “As a matter of fact, I am happy. So what makes you think I would’ve gone to bed with you? After one whiskey and some conversation?”
Tommy’s eyes flicked up, heavy-lidded and unreadable. “I was accounting for three whiskies.”
Her voice cracked like a whip. “How dare you.”
He shrugged, unfazed. “Doesn’t matter now. I’ve changed my mind.”
“I came here because you asked me.”
“Even though you’re happy?” he asked coolly.
Her hand clenched around the glass. “And now I feel like a fucking idiot.”
Tommy leaned back, cigarette still burning in his hand. “Well then go.”
A pause. A sharp breath.
“Jesus, Tommy!” she snapped, voice breaking under the weight of everything unsaid.
He didn’t answer. Just watched her—like he always did—with that look that said he was already regretting everything and would never say a word of it.
And in that moment, with the fire cracking behind them and everything between them hanging by threads of history, Izzy turned toward the door, glass abandoned on the table.
But she didn’t leave.
Not yet.
Izzy’s fingers hovered on the doorknob. Her breath came sharp and shallow as if the cold air outside was already hitting her chest, even though she hadn’t opened the door yet.
Behind her, the fire cracked again. The silence stretched so long it began to ache.
“Say something,” she said without turning around.
Tommy exhaled slow. “There’s nothing left to say.”
Izzy turned. Not fully, just enough to glance over her shoulder — enough for him to see the wet glint at the edge of her lashes.
“You don’t get to do that. Drag me back into this house, feed me half a memory, and shove me out the fucking door like it didn’t cost me something just to show up.”
“You made your choice,” he said. “A clean life. A different man. One that doesn’t come home smelling of blood and gunpowder.”
Her lip twitched. “Is that what you think this is about?”
“I think,” he said carefully, “you came here tonight hoping I’d make it easy. That I’d make it clean for you.”
She walked back to the table and picked up the glass she’d left behind, but didn’t drink.
“I came here because when you asked, I still said yes,” she said. “Even when I shouldn’t have. Even though it hurt. That should’ve told you everything.”
Tommy didn’t move. His eyes tracked her the way a soldier watches a distant threat: not because he wants to fight it—but because he knows he will.
“I changed my mind,” he repeated, quieter now.
“No,” she said, voice breaking. “You got scared.”
He flinched. Just a flicker, just enough to tell her she’d hit something buried deep.
“You were right,” she added, softer. “I am happy. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think about you. Doesn’t mean there haven’t been nights I couldn’t sleep. Doesn’t mean I don’t wake up wondering if you’d have kissed me differently if I’d asked you to stay that night.”
The cigarette burned down between his fingers. He didn’t even notice the ash falling.
“Izzy,” he said hoarsely.
“You don’t get to push me away to punish me for moving on,” she whispered. “I came back, Tommy.”
A long, tense moment passed between them—neither moving, both unraveling in the quiet.
Finally, he stood.
Crossed the room with steady steps.
Stopped a breath away from her.
“I swallowed,” he said roughly. “Took your face in both hands. Pressed my forehead to yours. Just like this—”
And he did.
His hands came up slowly, trembling ever so slightly as they cupped her jaw. His forehead dropped to hers. Their breath mingled, warm and close. Her eyes fluttered shut as his words melted into air
.
“I lit that fire because I needed to believe there was still something left between us,” he murmured.
Izzy didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Until her hands came up and held his wrists gently, grounding him.
“I never stopped loving you,” she whispered.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. “You shouldn’t say that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll make it true again.”
Her eyes burned.
“I never stopped,” he said again, voice low, thick with everything he’d never said aloud. “Not even once.”
Tommy’s hands were still on her face, thumbs brushing the curve of her jaw like he was trying to memorise it all over again. Izzy’s breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.
His eyes searched hers — not with arrogance, not with expectation — but desperation, quiet and hidden, like a man too used to war to believe in peace.
“I shouldn’t kiss you,” he said, voice low, rough.
“I know.”
“I’m still going to.”
“I know.”
And he did.
He kissed her like he was starving and she was the only thing left in the world that could make him feel human. Slow, at first — the ghost of mouths reacquainted — then deeper, heavier, heat curling beneath every inch of skin. Her fingers tangled in the lapels of his coat. His hands slid into her hair, and for a moment, time folded in on itself.
Because it was them. Always had been.
She broke the kiss first, breathing hard. “Tommy…”
“I know.”
But neither moved.
“I shouldn’t stay.”
“I know.”
Still, they stood frozen. Foreheads pressed, breathing the same air, hearts pounding like distant drums.
He took her hand.
Said nothing.
Led her upstairs.
⸻
The bedroom was warm, firelight flickering across the walls. Tommy let go only to shut the door behind them, the click of it soft, final. She stood near the foot of the bed, coat still on, unsure if this was the right mistake or just one she was always meant to make.
He stepped toward her — slow, reverent.
“I don’t want to ruin you,” he said, voice breaking. “But I don’t know how to love you any other way.”
Izzy swallowed the lump in her throat. “Then ruin me.”
He reached for the buttons of her coat, undoing each one with trembling hands. She let him. His touch reverent, unsure. Not the Tommy the world knew — but the boy she remembered beneath the man. The boy who once held her hand behind the betting shop and promised her she was the only good thing in his life.
When the coat slipped to the floor, she unfastened his waistcoat, his shirt. Mapped her fingers across every scar. Every story his mouth never told her but his body carried like secrets.
When they fell into bed, it wasn’t hurried or harsh.
It was slow.
Painfully slow.
Their clothes peeled away like regret, one piece at a time, until there was nothing left between them but years of longing and everything they never got to say. He kissed her like she might vanish. She touched him like she was afraid he already had.
When he finally moved inside her, he stilled. Forehead against hers again, just like before.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.
She shook her head.
He groaned, deep and wrecked, and began to move — like he was trying to stitch her into his skin.
They didn’t speak again for a long while.
The room filled only with firelight, gasps, broken sounds, and the soft ache of love rediscovered and denied for too long. He whispered her name like a prayer. She clutched his back, pressed her mouth to his shoulder, bit back the sob that threatened when he fell apart with her.
After, she curled into him without a word.
He buried his face in her neck, held her like the war hadn’t ended — and she was all that stood between him and the dark.
⸻
The light broke gently through the curtains, soft and pale over tangled sheets and quiet breath.
Tommy woke first.
Always did.
Izzy lay beside him, arm curled under her cheek, hair wild across his pillow. Her back was bare where the blanket had slipped, and he took a moment just to look. To let it land. That she was here. That last night had happened.
His hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. She stirred, eyelids fluttering open.
“Mornin’,” he said, voice gravelled from smoke and sleep.
She blinked, stretched slowly, and winced. “Jesus. Remind me to slap you later.”
He chuckled. It was low, real — a sound she hadn’t heard in years. “Bit sore?”
She gave him a look, then sighed. “Like I’ve been trampled by a horse. A very smug, Shelby-shaped horse.”
He leaned in, nose brushing hers. “You weren’t complaining last night.”
“I wasn’t in a position to,” she muttered.
He kissed her forehead. “Still not, love.”
She rolled her eyes but softened under the affection. Her fingers traced light patterns over his chest — absently, lovingly. Neither of them said it, but it was there, in every touch, every glance.
He got up first, pulling on trousers, watching her with that same unreadable gaze. “You want tea?”
“Only if you’re making it shirtless.”
“Course I am.”
He left, and Izzy laid back in the warmth of the sheets, a smile tugging her lips.
It felt…almost normal.
Ten minutes later, the door slammed downstairs.
Voices.
Not Tommy’s.
She pulled a blanket around herself and padded to the stairs, peering over the bannister.
Arthur stood below, flushed and frantic.
“Tommy, you need to come. It’s the Lees. They’ve hit the Garrison. Said it’s retribution. That you took something that wasn’t yours.”
Tommy’s entire posture changed — shoulders stiff, spine straight. Gone was the warmth from minutes before. He was Shelby again. War again.
“Is anyone dead?” he asked, tone flat.
Arthur hesitated. “Danny’s boy. And they say they’ll come for more.”
Izzy felt her stomach drop.
He didn’t look up at her — didn’t even glance toward the stairs as he lit a cigarette with shaking hands.
“I’ll be there in ten,” he said. “Get the lads.”
Arthur nodded and disappeared.
When the door slammed shut behind him, Tommy still didn’t move.
Izzy descended the stairs slowly, blanket still clutched around her.
“Tommy…”
He looked at her now. But the man she woke up with — the man who kissed her slow and laughed in bed — was already gone.
“This is why I told you to go,” he said. Not cruel, not cold — just resigned.
“You think you can protect me by shutting me out again?”
“I think you’re better off away from all this.”
She stepped closer. “Last night—”
“Last night was a mistake.”
The words landed like a bullet.
Izzy didn’t blink. Didn’t let him see her flinch.
“Then next time, don’t light a fire and tell me you’ve thought about me every damn day.”
He turned away.
And she left.
Not because she wanted to. But because he needed her to.
Because Tommy Shelby was never going to love anyone the way they deserved.
Not while there was still a war on.
The door shut behind her with a final click.
Izzy stood on the cobbled street outside Watery Lane, the morning chill cutting through her coatless body, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders like a broken promise.
She didn’t cry.
Not until she turned the corner.
Not until the sound of her heels faded against the stones and she couldn’t smell the smoke on her skin anymore.
Not until she remembered the way he whispered her name like a lifeline, only to cast her off again like he was drowning and wanted to.
She stopped under a rusted lamplight and took a long breath.
“I was happy,” she whispered to no one. “I was.”
The ache spread slow, quiet. Not like heartbreak. Like old war wounds reopening when the rain comes.
She walked the rest of the way barefoot, heels in hand. Staring straight ahead.
And never once looked back.
⸻
Tommy stared at the burned-out cigarette in his hand for far too long.
The fire upstairs had gone cold. The sheets still smelled like her.
He didn’t go up.
He didn’t go back.
Instead, he poured himself three fingers of whiskey, drank it in silence, and poured another. And another.
By nightfall, he was in his office — door locked, phone off the hook. Papers untouched. Gun by his side.
He didn’t speak to anyone for two days.
When Polly came storming in, demanding to know what had happened, he just said, “It’s done.”
“What’s done?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Everything that ever mattered.”
She didn’t push. She just looked at him — saw the tremor in his fingers, the edge of a bruise on his knuckle, the bottle on the floor tipped over.
And left him alone.
He was always alone.
That was the problem.
⸻
It had been three weeks.
Three long weeks since Watery Lane.
Since that bed. That warmth. That fire.
Izzy was in the market square, coat pulled tight, talking business with a vendor for Polly’s newest bet book. Her guard was up, her eyes sharp, her lips unpainted for once.
She didn’t see him at first.
But he saw her.
Across the crowd — coat dark, cap low, eyes pinned to her like a wound that hadn’t stopped bleeding.
Arthur said something beside him, but Tommy didn’t hear it. Didn’t hear anything.
Until Polly’s voice sliced through the air.
“You going to stand there like a ghost, or say something like a man?”
He turned to her. “You knew she’d be here?”
“She’s still part of this family, whether you’ve bollocksed it or not.”
He walked across the square like every step hurt. Like he’d buried something and was about to dig it up with his bare hands.
Izzy looked up.
Their eyes met.
Time slowed.
She didn’t smile.
Didn’t blink.
Just turned slightly, tilted her head. “Tommy.”
It was the first time she’d said his name like it meant nothing.
He flinched.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” she added. Cool. Controlled. Distant.
“Did you mean it?” he asked, low. “When you said you never stopped loving me.”
She looked at him a long time. A storm behind her eyes. Then she stepped forward, voice steady as steel.
“I meant every word. And I left anyway. You think about that, next time you feel like pushing someone away before they get the chance to stay.”
He stared at her.
But she was already walking.
Polly joined him. “You’ve got one shot left with her, Tommy. Don’t waste it thinking she’ll always come back.”
He didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
Because for the first time in his life, Tommy Shelby wasn’t sure she would.
⸻
That night, they were both at The Garrison for business.
That was the lie.
The room was thick with heat and tobacco and low-voiced negotiations. Rival bookies, black market smugglers, and muscle from Camden lined the booths, their laughter echoing against the wood- paneled walls. Polly sat with Izzy near the back, her rings flashing under candlelight, talking territory and threats.
Tommy stood across the room, leaning against the bar, talking numbers and supply lines — but his eyes… they kept finding her.
Every. Single. Time.
Izzy felt it like a pulse beneath her skin. That tether.
She didn’t let herself look back — not fully — but she felt him, circling like a storm about to break. And when he passed behind her chair, his fingers skimmed the small of her back. Just a touch.
Barely there.
But her whole body lit up like a struck match.
No one saw.
But she felt it.
Felt him.
⸻
Later — after the deals had been struck and the tables had emptied, after Polly had gone home and Ada had whispered something sharp into her ear about not falling for old flames — Izzy found him in the shadowed corner of the pub, where the lamplight barely reached.
She didn’t knock. Didn’t ask
Just stood there, burning.
“You don’t get to pretend you don’t want me,” she said, voice low and shaking, “and then touch me like that.”
He looked up from his glass, jaw tight. Tired. Beautiful. Wrecked.
“I’m not pretending,” he said simply. “I want you every second I’m breathing. But wanting you doesn’t make this world safer for you.”
She stepped closer, breath catching. “And pushing me away does?”
Silence.
Her voice cracked, but she didn’t let it falter. “Tommy… if this thing burns, then let it burn. But stop freezing me out like it never meant anything.”
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
Because in the next breath, he was moving — closing the distance like a man who’d stopped lying to himself.
“You mean more than anything,” he said, voice low and raw, cracking at the edges. “And that’s the problem.”
Then he kissed her.
Hard.
Devouring.
Like months of silence were collapsing in a single, explosive heartbeat.
She kissed him back like she was starving — hands fisting the lapels of his coat, anchoring herself to the only man who’d ever truly broken her. His hands were in her hair, then at her waist, pulling her against him like he could never get close enough.
No one spoke.
No one dared interrupt.
And they didn’t care who saw.
Not anymore.
Let them all see.
Let it burn.
The kiss never broke.
Not when they stumbled through the back corridor.
Not when his hands slid beneath her coat and she gasped into his mouth.
Not even when he shoved open the door to his upstairs room, breath ragged, heart fucking shaking.
This wasn’t like last time. There was no hesitation. No fear.
This time — they knew.
Knew what it meant to touch each other like this again.
To mean it.
Tommy’s coat hit the floor first. Hers followed. They didn’t speak as they undressed each other — not out of caution, but reverence. His hands were gentler this time, trembling at the edges. When she sat on the bed, he dropped to his knees before her and pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh like he was offering an apology he didn’t know how to say aloud.
“Look at me,” she whispered.
He did.
She touched his face, kissed his scar. And that was what broke him — not lust, not need — but that.
That she still looked at him like he was worth something.
They made love slowly, deeply, like they were reclaiming every broken second they’d lost.
He held her afterward, her cheek against his bare chest, her fingers idly tracing the curve of his collarbone.
“You know we’re not getting out of this clean,” she murmured.
“No,” he said. “But we don’t have to burn alone.”
⸻
The next morning, Polly Gray poured tea with too much force.
Izzy tried to avoid her gaze, hands wrapped around a mug like it was a lifeline.
Tommy sat across the table in his undershirt, bruised knuckles resting against the wood, jaw working.
No one said a word.
Until Polly cleared her throat.
“I trust the two of you had a productive evening?”
Tommy looked up. “Pol—”
“Don’t,” she said, sharp. “Don’t insult me by pretending. You walk in here wearing the same clothes as yesterday, looking ten years younger and twenty pounds lighter, and she shows up with bruises on her neck she clearly didn’t get from sleeping on the wrong pillow.”
Izzy flushed. “Polly—”
“You listen to me, both of you,” Polly said, setting down her cup with a clatter. “I’m not here to scold or scorn. I love you. Both of you. But if you’re going to do this, really do this, then you need to stop dancing around it like a pair of teenagers sneaking behind the bleedin’ stables.”
Tommy didn’t speak.
So Polly went on.
“You either make room in your life for her, Thomas, or you let her go. Properly. For good. Because this half-in, half-out mess? It’ll destroy her.”
He looked at Izzy.
Izzy looked back.
“I don’t want halfway,” she said, voice quiet but firm.
Tommy stood. Walked around the table. Sat beside her. And took her hand.
“No halfway,” he said. “Not anymore.”
Polly softened — just slightly. “Good. Because the next time she shows up in this kitchen crying, I’m not bringing you tea. I’m bringing a gun.”
Chapter 4: Red dress, loaded guns
Chapter Text
CHAPTER THREE- Red Dress, Loaded Glances
Location: The Garrison Pub – Late Evening
Post-War. Tension Brewing for Weeks.
The Garrison was alive with firelight and the hum of vices. Laughter clanged off the walls. Smoke curled through the rafters like ghosts. It was a Thursday, but it felt like a Saturday — the kind of night where men got bold and women got reckless.
Near the bar, amid clinking glasses and leering eyes, Izzy Hartwell stood like she owned the bloody place.
A red dress clung to her curves like sin. Silk, sleeveless, low in the back. It shimmered like blood under the amber lights. Her hair was down — long, loose waves tumbling past her shoulders, a little wilder than usual, kissed by heat and maybe a bit of gin.
A devil-may-care smirk curled on her lips as she leaned into Ada Shelby’s side, both women laughing at some story only they found funny.
“You should’ve seen his face,” Ada snorted, mid-sip. “Like I’d actually let him buy me a drink with a fake Irish accent and one bloody eyebrow.”
Izzy snorted into her glass, eyes shining. “You’ve always had a type. He just missed the no chin requirement.”
Ada cackled and bumped her shoulder into Izzy’s, nearly sloshing gin on both of them.
From across the pub, Tommy Shelby watched.
He sat in the usual booth — corner seat, glass of bourbon untouched, thumb circling the rim like it was the only thing keeping his temper in check. Arthur and John were mid-argument about something stupid, but Tommy wasn’t listening. He couldn’t.
Not when she looked like that.
Not when she was laughing, head tilted back, teeth flashing, that dress painting her in want and danger and the kind of confidence that made men stupid.
She was his.
Whether she said it out loud or not. Whether she wore his name or not.
She was his.
And the fucking idiot who thought otherwise? Was about to learn the hard way.
⸻
The Wrong Move
He spotted him before Izzy did.
Tall, too polished, the kind of man who wore gold rings to distract from his lack of a real spine. The sort who thought his smile did more work than his hands ever had.
Tommy’s eyes narrowed as the man approached. Tapped Izzy on the arm. Said something low. Ada rolled her eyes immediately and turned away.
Izzy, polite as ever, shifted — just enough to create space. She gave a faint smile and shook her head.
Dismissal. Kind. Firm.
But the man didn’t take the hint.
Instead, he stepped closer. Leaned in. And worse — his hand slid to her hip.
Tommy saw red.
He didn’t think. Didn’t speak.
He stood.
The chair scraped violently back. Bourbon tipped, spilling amber across the table.
“Tommy—” Arthur started, but one look silenced him.
Tommy was already moving.
The Garrison hushed in a wave — like birds going still before a storm.
Everyone knew that walk. That slow, inevitable path of destruction.
He cut through the crowd without a word. The man looked up just in time to catch the storm in full.
“Touch her again,” Tommy said, low and lethal, “and they’ll find your teeth in the canal.”
The man blinked, dumb. “She yours?”
Tommy didn’t even blink.
“She is now.”
Then, before the bastard could form a reply, Arthur and John were behind him — quiet, grinning, ready.
Tommy’s hand closed around Izzy’s wrist. Not rough. Not gentle. Possessive.
She met his eyes — calm, unreadable. But she didn’t resist.
She handed her glass to Ada without a word.
And let him lead her out the back door.
⸻
Shelby Estate – Moments Later
The door slammed shut behind them.
The hallway was dark, lit only by moonlight and fury. His breath echoed. So did hers.
Izzy had barely opened her mouth before Tommy pinned her to the door.
His mouth crashed into hers — no words, no warning. Just weeks of denied hunger, unleashed all at once.
She moaned, fists twisting in his shirt as he kissed her like a man starving. Like a man ready to burn down the city just to taste her again.
“You let him talk to you like that?” he snarled against her lips, hand already sliding up her thigh.
“I didn’t—”
“You wore that fuckin’ dress,” he hissed, dragging it up with rough hands. “You knew what it’d do to me.”
Her breath stuttered. “I wore it for you.”
He froze. Just for a second.
And then, that smile — the dark, wolfish one that made her ache.
“That right?”
His hand cupped her through her panties. Slow. Intentional. Watching her gasp.
“Say it again.”
“I wore it for you.”
“Say who you belong to.”
“You, Tommy.”
He growled — low, dangerous — and lifted her easily, carrying her down the hallway like she weighed nothing.
In the bedroom, her shoes hit the floor. Her dress followed, torn clean down the back.
His mouth was everywhere — neck, collarbone, the swell of her breasts. Like he was carving the words he couldn’t say into her skin with every kiss.
He knelt.
Dragged her panties down slowly, painfully slow.
“You’re already wet,” he murmured, voice thick with pride and need. “You wanted this too.”
“Yes,” she gasped. “I want you.”
He didn’t ask again.
His mouth found her core with practiced greed, tongue flicking and sucking while his fingers curled inside her just right. He teased her to the brink over and over — pulling away when she begged, making her sob for it.
When he finally gave in, slid into her deep and hard, she nearly shattered.
He fucked her like a man claiming what was his. Every thrust said what he hadn’t — mine, mine, mine.
The bed slammed the wall in time with her cries. Her nails raked down his back. His name came out in broken gasps.
And when she came, it was with a cry so wild it nearly unhinged him.
But he didn’t stop.
Not until she was wrecked — sweaty, trembling, completely undone.
And only then, as she lay under him, dazed and clinging to his chest…
Only then did he whisper it:
“You’re mine. And I don’t share.”
Shelby Estate – Morning After
The curtains were still drawn, but the room glowed with a pale morning hush — golden slivers breaking through the edges like secrets trying to sneak in.
Izzy shifted under the sheets, the cotton clinging to skin still warm from sleep. Her hair was a tangle over the pillow. One arm draped across Tommy’s chest.
She blinked slowly, body sore in a way that made her smirk — a soft ache blooming in her hips, on her thighs, the inside of her knees. Bruises — deep, dark kisses of possession painted into her skin. They stung when she moved. They thrilled her anyway.
She turned her face into his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart.
It was the quietest she’d ever known him.
No words. No orders. Just breath. And her.
She liked him like this.
Unarmed.
But moments like this never lasted long.
Tommy stirred, one hand flexing against her lower back like muscle memory. Then he exhaled — slow, haunted — and shifted away.
The spell broke.
Izzy sat up carefully, pulling the sheet with her, chest bare beneath it. She watched him move across the room, tugging on his undershirt, back muscles tight.
“You always leave like that?” she asked, voice still sleep-rough.
He didn’t look at her. “Not leaving.”
“You’re dressing like you are.”
Finally, he turned.
Eyes shadowed. The war never far from his face. Even in the quiet.
“Arthur needs me.”
“Arthur always needs you.”
She said it lightly, but it landed hard.
He looked at her like he wanted to say something — wanted to, but didn’t know how. Instead, he sat at the edge of the bed and reached for her ankle, thumb brushing the faint mark there — one of many.
“You alright?” he asked softly.
She nodded. “A little sore.”
He smiled. Barely. “Good.”
She rolled her eyes but her mouth twitched into something tender.
Then the moment passed.
He stood. Pulled on his vest. Reached for the chain of his watch.
Izzy let the silence hang between them, then asked, quieter this time, “What now?”
Tommy stilled. That was always the question, wasn’t it?
What now?
What are we?
What will this become?
But he didn’t give her any of those answers.
Just: “You’re needed at the shop.”
Right. Back to business.
She nodded once, sharp. “Of course.”
⸻
Later – Shelby Betting Shop
Izzy arrived before Tommy did. She wore dark blue today. High collar. No trace of red.
But the bruises still bloomed beneath her silk.
Polly sat in the back office, smoking, scanning ledgers.
“You’re late,” she said without looking up.
Izzy dropped the latest receipts on her desk. “Only by ten minutes.”
Polly glanced at her, sharp eyes narrowing. “You look like you’ve been run over by a horse and liked it.”
Izzy blinked.
Polly smirked. “I may be old, love, but I’m not blind. You’re glowing and limping.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t insult me.”
Izzy bit her lip. Sighed. “It’s complicated.”
Polly arched a brow. “It’s Tommy.”
She didn’t ask. She knew.
Izzy didn’t answer.
“That boy’s got fire in him, but it’ll burn you if you’re not careful.”
Izzy smiled, sad. “I’ve already been burned.”
Polly leaned back, dragging on her cigarette. “Then you’d best figure out if it’s worth the scars.”
⸻
That Afternoon – Garrison Pub
The door chimed softly as Izzy stepped inside. She wasn’t working today, not officially, but her feet carried her here anyway.
The pub smelled like woodsmoke, ale, and something older — loyalty and lies.
Tommy stood near the far end, in conversation with Harry, jaw tight. But he saw her. She knew he did. His eyes flicked her way once. Then again.
Then he turned, lips tightening, posture shifting into something colder.
Because she was here.
Grace
Blonde. Neat. A singer, or pretending to be. Her smile was practiced, her voice soft. But there was steel under the surface. Izzy could feel it — the way a woman can sense competition without words.
Grace said something that made Tommy smile.
Not like he smiled with Izzy.
But still — he smiled.
And it stung.
Izzy moved to the bar and ordered gin. Her voice was steady, but her fingers curled too tightly around the glass.
Polly’s voice echoed in her head: You’d best figure out if it’s worth the scars.
⸻
That Evening – Alone Again
The house was quiet.
Izzy undressed slowly, letting her blouse fall to the floor, slipping out of her skirt. She stood in front of the mirror in her slip, lit only by lamplight.
Faint bruises. Purpling. Blooming.
She touched one, lightly. Right where his hand had been.
They weren’t just marks. They were proof.
Of belonging. Of want. Of something real — even if he couldn’t name it.
Even if he was already looking at someone else.
She lay in bed alone that night. But not because she had to.
Because she needed to know if she could.
Chapter 5: The shape of Smoke
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FOUR: The Shape of Smoke
Birmingham – Late Afternoon
The betting shop was quieter these days, but not empty. Not really. There were always footsteps. Always shadows. Always something being exchanged behind closed doors.
Izzy knew that.
She moved through the front room with a ledger under one arm and a pen tucked behind her ear. Hair pinned neatly. Collar crisp. But behind her calm, her pulse ran wild.
Tommy hadn’t touched her since that night.
Not in bed. Not in the back office. Not even in passing.
He’d been polite. Professional. Cold.
And she’d matched it, smile for smile, silence for silence. But it was eating her from the inside out.
And then came Grace.
Izzy first noticed it in the way Tommy started staying at the Garrison longer. Then in how Grace always seemed to be where he was — lingering at the bar, humming something sweet, always with a kind word for Harry, a practiced innocence on her lips.
But it wasn’t Grace’s presence that set Izzy off.
It was Tommy’s absence.
His eyes no longer lingered when Izzy entered the room. His hand didn’t graze hers when passing papers. The bruises on her skin had faded. And in their place, only silence remained.
⸻
Shelby Office – Later That Day
Polly was rifling through paperwork when Izzy entered. The air was tense, and Izzy didn’t have to ask why.
Polly didn’t look up.
“She was here again this morning.”
“Grace?” Izzy asked, too casual.
Polly gave her a sideways glance. “She’s polite. Curious. Too curious.”
Izzy nodded once. “She’s not stupid.”
“No,” Polly said, slowly. “Neither are you.”
That sat heavy between them.
Then Polly added, with a softness she rarely used, “Whatever’s between you and him… you’ll have to fight for it. Tommy doesn’t love easy. Doesn’t even know how.”
Izzy stared at her hands. “I don’t want to fight.”
Polly smirked. “That’s not true. You just don’t want to lose.”
"Pol.." Izzy started but Polly shut her up with a look
"I raised you girl, do not think that I don't know that you have loved him since you where 14" Polly stated raising a brow
Izzy signed, but said nothing.
⸻
Garrison Pub – That Evening
Izzy didn’t mean to follow him.
But when she saw him slip out of the betting shop with his coat collar turned up and that look in his eye—the one he wore when he didn’t want to be followed—her feet moved anyway.
She stepped through the door of the Garrison like it was any other night.
Except it wasn’t.
Because Grace was behind the bar.
She was laughing softly at something Tommy had said. And he was leaning just a little closer than he had to.
Not touching her.
But not not touching her either.
Izzy stood there, long enough to feel it. That invisible thread being pulled, tighter and tighter around her ribs.
Then Grace spotted her.
Smiled. Warm. Friendly. False.
“Izzy,” she called sweetly, pouring a glass without asking. “Join us?”
Tommy turned.
Their eyes locked.
He said nothing.
Didn’t stop Grace.
Didn’t reach for Izzy.
Just… watched her.
Like she was a memory he couldn’t quite remember how to hold.
Izzy stepped to the bar, took the drink, and held Grace’s gaze for a beat longer than necessary.
“Thanks,” she said, voice low. “But I don’t sit where I’m not wanted.”
Then she turned and left.
She didn’t cry until she was three streets away, and even then, only for a moment.
⸻
Later – Shelby Estate
It was nearly midnight when she heard the knock.
She opened the door already knowing who it was.
Tommy stood there, coat still on, soaked at the edges with rain. He looked like hell. Or maybe like someone who’d finally made a decision.
Izzy didn’t speak.
She just opened the door wider.
He stepped inside.
Dripping, silent.
She crossed her arms, leaning against the frame. “You done avoiding me?”
“I wasn’t,” he said.
“Tommy.”
His name in her mouth was too much. Too close.
He sighed. Ran a hand through his damp hair. “I thought if I stayed away, it would be easier.”
“For who?”
“You. Me. All of it.”
Izzy’s heart ached, but her voice was calm. “And Grace?”
“She’s… simple,” he said. “Safe.”
Izzy’s face cracked, just a little. “Then what am I?”
Tommy stepped close. Close enough to smell the rain on his skin.
“You’re a fucking storm,” he said, voice raw. “And I haven’t known peace since the last night I touched you.”
Her breath caught.
But she didn’t move.
“Then say it,” she whispered. “Say you want the storm.”
Tommy reached for her like a man drowning.
“I want you.”
And that was all she needed.
The Garrison – Late Evening
The Garrison had never been this quiet.
The doors were locked. The windows steamed. The only light came from the gas lamps above the booth in the back, where Billy Kimber sat like a man who owned the room — legs stretched out, glass of expensive brandy in one hand, cigar in the other.
Tommy Shelby sat across from him, coat off, sleeves rolled, unreadable.
Beside him, pen poised and notes open, Izzy Hartwell sat still and sharp. She hadn’t said a word since the meeting began. Just listened, recorded, kept her head down the way Polly had taught her.
But Tommy noticed the way Kimber’s eyes kept sliding to her. Too long. Too curious.
He hated it.
“Polly couldn’t make it?” Kimber asked casually, flicking ash into a tray.
“She’s got the flu,” Tommy lied.
Kimber nodded, then grinned. “Well, your secretary here’s a bit easier on the eyes anyway.”
Izzy didn’t blink, didn't react
Tommy’s jaw ticked once.
“Keep it business,” She said coolly.
“She’s got spirit, that one,” Kimber muttered. “Don’t like ‘em soft.”
“I said business.”
The rest of the meeting passed in tight conversation, heavy numbers, quiet threats. When it was done, Izzy flipped her notebook closed and stood to leave.
But Kimber raised a hand. “No need to rush off, darling. But your part’s done.”
Tommy’s spine straightened immediately.
“It’s late,” he said, tone sharper. “I’ll see her out—”
Kimber waved him off. “We’ve got business. Girl knows the way.”
Izzy didn’t meet Tommy’s eyes. She just nodded once, smooth and composed, then tucked the notebook under her arm and walked out.
But Tommy’s chest clenched like something vital had just been ripped out of him.
⸻
Small Heath – Ten Minutes Later
The streets were slick with rain. Gas lamps flickered. Most of the town had gone to sleep — the drunk, the damned, and the desperate still lurking in the alleys.
Izzy moved fast. She always did. She kept to the centre of the road, heels clicking, coat pulled tight.
She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her.
Not until they were close.
A hand grabbed her arm — rough, uninvited.
Her notebook fell to the ground.
“Evenin’, sweetheart,” a voice slurred, thick with drink and filth. “Where you headed all by yourself?”
“I don’t want trouble,” she said, sharp. Controlled. “Let go.”
“Oh, I like the sharp ones—”
A second hand. Her wrist. Dragging her backward into the mouth of an alley—
She kicked. Hard.
But he was bigger. Stronger.
She twisted—
He pinned her back to the wall
her blouse was ripped
she pushed back..hard
he grabbed her hair and yanked
her skirt was pushed up
And then stopped.
Because he was there.
Tommy.
No words.
Just the sound of bones breaking.
He ripped the man away from her and slammed him into the brick. Once. Twice. His fists were wild. Unleashed. Months of rage poured into this stranger’s face.
“You don’t touch her—”
The man crumpled.
Tommy barely noticed. He turned to Izzy, chest heaving, knuckles split open.
She stood frozen. Silent. Breath shallow.
“Izzy—” His voice cracked. “Jesus Christ, Izzy—”
He reached for her.
She didn’t move.
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “He didn’t—” Her voice wavered. “You got there in time.”
But her hands were shaking. And when he touched her face — just her cheek, so gently — she leaned into it like she might fall apart without him.
“I should’ve walked you out,” he said.
“I’m not your responsibility.”
“You’re everything,” he said, eyes fierce. “Don’t ever say you’re not.”
Chapter 6: Something Slipping Under the Door
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIVE: Something Slipping Under the Door
Elsewhere – Campbell’s Perspective
Inspector Chester Campbell sat in his private office, the lamps dim, the hour late. A telegram lay folded on the desk. The contents had been short. Precise.
Target did not succeed. Shelby intervened.
Campbell smiled.
He hadn’t ordered a real assault. Just enough of a scare. Just enough to tip the scales. He’d made sure the man chosen was a coward — too soft to follow through. Meant only to provoke a reaction.
And oh, how it had worked.
Campbell leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.
Tommy Shelby had taken the bait.
He’d chosen her over everything.
He’d given Campbell the answer he wanted:
Where Tommy’s weakness lived.
“Soon,” he murmured to himself, “I’ll have you both.”
And he poured himself a drink.
Shelby Estate – Nightfall
The rain hadn’t let up.
It drummed softly against the roof of Tommy’s house, a rhythm Izzy couldn’t ignore, no matter how warm the fire was or how gentle his voice had been when he told her she wasn’t going home that night.
She sat curled on his couch, an oversized wool blanket around her shoulders. Her coat, still damp from the alley, hung drying near the hearth. She hadn’t spoken much since the attack. She hadn’t needed to.
Tommy was quiet too — sitting across from her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, fingers stained with dried blood and guilt.
“I should’ve been there sooner,” he said, breaking the silence like it offended him.
Izzy didn’t look up. “You were there in time.”
“That’s not enough.”
“You don’t get to control everything,” she whispered.
Tommy stood. Paced. Frustration coiled tight in his shoulders. “No, but I should’ve known—someone’s watching. Someone’s testing me. That man didn’t know who you were. But he was sent. That wasn’t random.”
Izzy swallowed, throat thick.
“Polly thinks the same,” she murmured.
Tommy turned. “You spoke to her?”
“She called. She knew something happened before I said a word.”
Of course Polly knew. She always did.
Izzy pulled the blanket tighter. Her voice barely audible.
“I’m scared, Tommy.”
That undid him.
He crossed the space between them and dropped to his knees in front of her. Not as the boss. Not as the man who always had a plan. Just a man who loved a woman the world was trying to hurt to get to him.
“I won’t let anyone touch you again,” he swore. “I don’t care who they are. I’ll burn this city down first.”
Izzy met his eyes, the firelight catching the gold in hers.
“I believe you.”
And that scared her more than anything.
⸻
Next Morning – Betting Shop
The storm had passed, but the city still smelled like rain and coal dust. Izzy walked through the doors of the Shelby office a little slower than usual. Polly looked up from her desk, cigarette in hand, and gave her a once-over.
“You look like hell,” she said bluntly.
Izzy dropped her satchel beside her own desk. “I feel worse.”
“Where’d you sleep?”
Tommy entered behind her, quiet but impossible to ignore.
“She stayed at mine,” he answered before Izzy could speak.
Polly’s gaze cut to him. “So she’s under your roof now? You think that’ll make her safer?”
“It’ll make her watched.” His tone was sharp, defensive.
Polly stood, voice low. “Someone arranged that attack, Thomas. And not some rival bookie. That man didn’t have orders to kill — just scare. To see what you’d do.”
Tommy’s silence was confirmation.
Izzy’s heart pounded. “So it was a message?”
Polly nodded. “Or a question. From someone with enough power to ask it without moving a single chess piece himself.”
⸻
Somewhere Nearby – Grace Watching
Grace Burgess stood beneath the overhang of the fruit vendor’s cart, watching from across the road. Her coat was plain, a pale gray wool that made her blend into the smoke and damp like any other girl on a rainy Birmingham morning.
But her eyes never left the betting shop door.
She’d seen Tommy enter. Minutes later, Izzy.
And even from across the street, Grace could feel it — the way he looked at her, the way everything shifted in his posture when Izzy was near. Not like she was a worker.
Like she was a secret he refused to give up.
Grace didn’t blink.
Didn’t flinch.
She waited until Izzy stepped outside to run an errand, notebook in hand, lips drawn tight in thought.
And Grace followed.
⸻
Small Heath – Afternoon
Izzy walked fast, trying to beat the weather. She didn’t hear the quiet steps behind her until they were nearly even with hers.
“Well now,” came a voice she didn’t recognize at first. “Miss Hartwell.”
She stopped.
Turned.
Inspector Chester Campbell stood beside her, gloved hands folded behind his back like a gentleman out for a stroll.
Her spine straightened. “Inspector.”
“I’d be remiss if I didn’t offer you an escort. A woman walking alone these days…”
Izzy stared at him.
Her voice was ice. “Did you follow me?”
“I was nearby. Thought I might stretch my legs.”
She didn’t respond. She didn’t move.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the road.
She hesitated, then nodded once. Controlled.
They walked in silence for several blocks.
Campbell’s tone was light, but far from casual. “You’ve been with the Shelbys quite a long time, haven’t you?”
“Polly raised me.”
“Interesting. You must know them well. Especially Thomas.”
Izzy kept her gaze straight ahead. “He’s my employer.”
“Is that all?”
She stopped walking.
Campbell smiled faintly. “You don’t strike me as the type to lie, Miss Hartwell. But you’re not stupid either.”
Izzy narrowed her eyes. “If you’re trying to intimidate me—”
“Not at all.” He dipped his head. “Only trying to understand where his loyalties lie. Because they’re not with the crown. Or the law. Or order.”
She said nothing.
He leaned in — not close enough to touch, but enough to make her heart clench.
“Be careful where you stand, Miss Hartwell. Men like Thomas Shelby leave ruin behind them. And you don’t look like someone meant for ruins.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came.
And just like that, they reached her door.
Campbell stepped back, tipped his hat.
“Good day.”
And he was gone.
Izzy stood there for a long time, heart racing.
He knows.
Not all of it. But enough.
⸻
Shelby Office – Late Evening
The storm came without thunder.
Just tension.
Heavy. Hanging in the air like smoke that wouldn’t lift.
Tommy sat behind his desk, jaw tight, temple ticking. A cigarette burned between his fingers, untouched, forgotten. The office was dim except for the desk lamp, its yellow light sharpening the coldness in his eyes.
He wasn’t listening to Arthur, who stood near the door trying to talk numbers.
He wasn’t listening to Polly either, pacing like a caged animal with a cigarette of her own clenched between her teeth.
He was replaying what Grace had told him, just hours before.
I thought you should know — I followed Izzy. She met Campbell. Spoke with him outside her flat. Looked comfortable enough. I think… I think she’s working with him.
He hadn’t believed it.
Couldn’t.
But the second Grace had said it, the seed had been planted.
And it was already blooming rot.
Chapter 7: The Beginning of the End
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIX: The Beginning of the End
Tommy had been behind the bar, sleeves rolled, cleaning a glass that didn’t need it when Grace approached.
She looked nervous. Almost regretful. That’s how he knew it was calculated.
“Tommy,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t say this if I wasn’t sure. I followed Izzy today.”
His body tensed.
“She didn’t see me. But Campbell caught up with her. They spoke for a while. She didn’t push him away. She didn’t look afraid.”
Tommy stared at her. “And you’re saying she’s what—spying for him?”
Grace bit her lip. “I think he got to her. Maybe promised her protection.”
“She’s been with us since we were kids.”
“Which is exactly why she’d be valuable to him.”
Silence.
Tommy’s heart was a storm. A silent one. All lightning, no rain.
“I thought you’d want to know,” Grace whispered.
She touched his arm.
He didn’t even feel it.
⸻
Now – Shelby Office
Polly stopped pacing. Slammed her palms on the desk. “For fuck’s sake, Tommy, she didn’t betray you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I raised her like my own Since her father died, and I’ve seen how she looks at you. Like the world begins and ends with your breath.”
“She met with Campbell.”
“And you slept with Grace!” Polly snapped. “Want to start stacking poor decisions?”
Tommy stood. Fast. Dangerous. “Don’t bring Grace into this.”
Polly stared him down, unflinching. “She’s too clean, Thomas. Too polite. Everything about her is curated. She’s not just singing at the Garrison — she’s watching. And you’re too caught up in feeling safe with her to see it.”
He turned away. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Fractured.
“She told me Izzy met with him.”
“And what did Izzy say?”
“I haven’t asked.”
Polly’s voice cracked. “Then what the hell are you doing?”
He didn’t answer. Because if he did, it would shatter everything.
The truth was: he believed Grace because the thought of Izzy betraying him hurt less than the idea that Grace might be playing him like a violin. Because if Grace was lying…
It meant he’d destroyed the wrong person.
⸻
Elsewhere – Izzy’s Flat
Izzy sat at her table, tea gone cold. The window fogged with breath. Her notebook lay closed in front of her, untouched.
She was waiting.
For him.
He hadn’t come.
Not last night. Not today.
Not a single word.
And that silence? It was worse than the bruises.
Then: a knock.
Hope flickered.
But it wasn’t Tommy.
It was Polly.
Izzy opened the door, breath caught. “Is he—?”
Polly shook her head. “No. But I need to talk to you.”
⸻
Polly’s Revelation – Izzy’s Flat
They sat on opposite ends of the sofa.
Polly lit a cigarette. “Campbell orchestrated the attack.”
Izzy’s chest went still. “What?”
“He did it to provoke Tommy. To see where his loyalties really live.”
“And he believes Grace?”
Polly exhaled. “He wants to. Because if he doesn’t, it means he let the enemy into his bed and put a knife in yours.”
Izzy stood, pacing. “Then I need to talk to him. Tell him—”
“No,” Polly said firmly. “Not yet. He’s not in the right mind. You go to him now, and he’ll just… look at you and see the lie someone else planted.”
Izzy’s voice broke. “But I haven’t done anything.”
Polly’s gaze softened. “You loved him. That’s enough.”
⸻
Campbell – Watching
From the alley across the street, Inspector Campbell leaned against the bricks, watching the window above Izzy’s flat where the light burned.
He smiled faintly to himself.
Tommy would break.
It was only a matter of time.
And when he did, the people he loved would fall with him.
All Campbell had to do was wait.
And let them destroy each other.
Shelby Betting Shop – Morning Before John’s Wedding
The place smelled of paper, old ink, and cigarette smoke — comfortingly familiar. The usual chaos of ledgers and ledgers-to-be. But something hung in the air today, something different.
Izzy moved quietly, methodically — ledger open, fingers ink-smudged, focus laser sharp. But Polly was watching her. And so was Ada.
They both noticed it.
The way she winced slightly when she leaned too far forward. The way she moved her hand absently to her stomach when she thought no one was looking.
Polly took one last drag of her cigarette, then stubbed it out.
“That ink’s not going anywhere, love,” she said casually, nodding to the page Izzy had rewritten three times now.
Izzy blinked, forcing a smile. “Just trying to keep it straight. Arthur’s handwriting looks like it was done blindfolded.”
Ada raised a brow. “That’s not what’s got you twisted in knots.”
Izzy sighed. Closed the book. “What do you want me to say? Tommy’s barely looked at me in days, and I’ve got Grace trailing me like a shadow.”
Polly didn’t answer with words.
Instead, she stood up, came around the desk, and placed both hands gently on Izzy’s stomach
Izzy frowned. “Polly?”
But Polly wasn’t asking. She was feeling. Quietly, with the intuitive, almost psychic hands of a woman who’s helped birth more babies than she has regrets.
After a long moment, she stepped back, eyes narrowed.
Izzy froze.
Polly’s voice was soft. But firm. “You’re pregnant.”
The silence shattered like glass dropped on stone.
Ada gasped. “Wait—what? Seriously?”
Izzy’s hands instinctively clutched her stomach, like that might keep the truth inside.
“No. It’s—You can’t know that, Polly.”
“I’ve been feeling it in your aura for days. Now I’ve felt it. I know.”
Izzy looked away. Her voice was a whisper. “Don’t tell him.”
Polly’s expression twisted. “You have to tell him.”
“No,” Izzy snapped, eyes brimming now. “He thinks I betrayed him. He thinks I gave something to Campbell—I can’t even get him to look me in the eye.”
“Then make him,” Ada said gently.
“He already made his choice,” Izzy whispered. “And it wasn’t me.”
⸻
That Night – Tommy’s Office
He called for her.
Not with tenderness. Not with softness.
With that clipped, cold tone only he could manage.
“Izzy. My office. Now.”
She entered with her chin lifted high.
She looked tired. Pale. But beautiful still, in that way that hurt to look at — like something sacred you’d ruined with your own hands.
Tommy stood by the desk, back to her. The fire behind him made his shadow long. He didn’t turn until the door clicked shut.
“When were you going to tell me?” he asked, voice like gravel.
“Tell you what?”
He finally looked at her.
“That you met with Campbell.”
Izzy’s eyes didn’t widen. She didn’t gasp. She only went still.
“Is that what you think happened?”
He took a step forward. “Grace saw you.”
“She followed me.”
“She saw you speaking to him.”
Izzy didn’t back down. “He followed me home. I didn’t ask him to. He showed up.”
“You didn’t tell me,” Tommy said, low and cold. “Why?”
“Because you weren’t speaking to me,” she bit back. “Because you’d already started believing someone else.”
Silence fell heavy. Almost unbearable.
Then Izzy said, voice cracking just slightly—
“If you even have to ask me if I betrayed you, then you already made your choice.”
Tommy opened his mouth. Closed it.
She took a step forward now, tears brimming but not falling.
“I would’ve died for you, Tommy. I still might. But I will not stand here and try to convince you of something you should already know.”
He looked like he’d been struck.
But Izzy wasn’t done.
“I know what Grace is. Polly knows it too. She’s the one lying to your face, smiling while she poisons the ground under your feet. But you chose her.”
“I chose safety,” Tommy snarled, finally breaking. “I chose survival.”
Izzy stepped back. Quiet. Devastated.
“Then survive without me.”
She left.
He didn’t stop her.
Chapter 8: The Thing He Can’t Name
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SEVEN: The Thing He Can’t Name
Tommy stood alone outside the betting shop, the cold air burning his lungs, his heart pounding in a way that made no sense.
He wanted to chase her.
To say her name.
To fall to his knees and beg for her forgiveness.
But the war inside him screamed louder than the truth.
He’d believed the lie.
And now?
Now he didn’t know how to fix what he’d already broken.
Days After the Confrontation – Birmingham
No one knew about the baby.
Not Arthur. Not John. Not even Tommy — who could read the language of war and business fluently but remained blind to the most important message of all: he was going to be a father.
Only three women carried that truth: Polly, Ada, and Izzy herself.
And for now, they kept it like a fragile thing tucked in the breast pocket of a storm — hidden, quiet, waiting for the right time that never came.
Izzy had stopped coming to the shop.
Polly said she was doing errands from home. Ada said she needed space.
Tommy said nothing.
But he felt it.
Every fucking second she wasn’t there, the world tilted. Nothing quite aligned. Nothing was sharp enough to focus on, soft enough to rest in. It was all grey noise and moving pieces.
And yet, he didn’t go to her.
Because he didn’t know how to say, I think I made the biggest mistake of my life, and mean it without breaking.
⸻
Shelby Kitchen – Early Morning
Polly found Ada smoking near the window, both women watching the street like something might finally happen.
“She’s not eating again,” Ada muttered. “I brought soup yesterday. She barely touched it.”
Polly nodded. Her face was carved in quiet lines of worry. “It’ll pass. First weeks are the worst.”
Ada looked at her. “You know this secret’s going to break her, right? Not the pregnancy. The fact that he doesn’t know.”
Polly didn’t answer for a long moment.
Then: “It’s not time.”
Ada blinked. “What if there never is a right time?”
Polly’s jaw tightened. “Then we’ll find the least wrong one.”
⸻
Grace & Tommy – After the Races
The sun was setting behind the rooftops when Tommy and Grace returned from the races. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, horses, and money — the scent of victory if you were bold enough to claim it.
Tommy walked with Grace at his side, her gloved hand wrapped gently around his arm. To anyone watching, it looked like closeness. Something forming.
But inside?
Inside he was folding in on himself.
She was laughing at something he didn’t fully hear. Her voice smooth, her eyes soft. And he played along — he always played along — because it was easier than facing the truth: she felt like a coat that didn’t quite fit. Comfortable at first. But wrong once you stopped moving.
They returned to the Garrison. She poured him a drink. They sat. She leaned against him — and he let her.
But he wasn’t with her.
Not really.
His eyes drifted toward the corner where Izzy used to sit during meetings, pen tapping against her lip, smile tucked away like a secret she’d only share when everyone else had left the room.
Grace noticed.
Of course she did.
“Where is she?” she asked, not looking at him.
Tommy didn’t answer at first.
Then: “Working from home.”
“She’s been gone a lot lately.”
“She needs space.”
Grace traced her finger along the rim of her glass. “You miss her.”
It wasn’t a question.
Tommy met her eyes.
And for once, he didn’t lie.
“Yes.”
Grace smiled softly — but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re still suspicious of me.”
Another statement.
Tommy’s jaw clenched.
He set his glass down. “I don’t trust anyone, Grace.”
“But you let me in.”
He looked at her for a long moment. Then touched her cheek, gentle, deliberate.
“And maybe that’s my mistake.”
Grace leaned in and kissed him softly, hands coming up behind his neck, Tommy tried, he really did
But he couldn't, he detached himself from Grace and walked away
⸻
Izzy’s Flat – That Same Night
Izzy sat curled in bed, her knees drawn up, a hand on her belly without thinking. The sickness was better now. The exhaustion, still lingering. But it wasn’t the pregnancy that weighed her down.
It was him.
And the fact that even though she’d told herself to move on — even though she knew he didn’t believe her, didn’t choose her — she still waited for footsteps.
Still checked the lock. Still made tea for two out of habit.
She wasn’t sleeping. Wasn’t eating much. And when the knock came — sudden, late, sharp — she flinched like it was danger.
It wasn’t.
It was Polly.
She entered without speaking and sat beside her on the bed, as she had the night Izzy’s father died, as she had every time the world got too sharp.
Polly looked at her. Long. Quiet.
“He’ll come around,” she said softly.
Izzy shook her head. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then we raise this child surrounded by women who love them, and men who will protect them. And Tommy Shelby will live with what he threw away.”
⸻
Grace – Later That Night
Grace sat at her vanity, brushing out her hair. Her reflection was calm, beautiful. Controlled.
But inside?
She was furious.
He still loved her.
He might never say it. But he felt it. His body pulled in that direction like a man caught in undertow.
And that meant he couldn’t be trusted.
Campbell’s warning came back like poison:
“If you don’t give me what I need, I will take it from someone else. Someone who matters to him. And then we’ll see how long his walls hold.”
Grace picked up the letter she’d written earlier. The one addressed to Campbell.
And added one last line:
“She’s not just important to him. She’s the leverage you’re looking for.”
Chapter 9: The Trap Set Gently
Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHT: The Trap Set Gently
Birmingham – Late Afternoon
It started like nothing.
A folded note. Slipped into Polly’s coat pocket. No seal. No signature. Just four words scribbled in rushed, unfamiliar script:
Izzy. Garrison. Tonight. Alone.
Polly read it once. Then again.
The breath caught in her chest like a curse.
She was at the betting shop within fifteen minutes, coat half-buttoned, storm already brewing in her bones.
Tommy wasn’t there.
Izzy was.
She sat in the back room with her coat draped over the chair, curled over a fresh ledger, hair pinned in place like she was pretending everything was normal.
Polly didn’t knock. She walked straight in and slammed the note on the desk.
Izzy jumped.
“What’s this?” she asked, eyes flicking to the paper.
“You tell me,” Polly snapped. “You planning to go?”
Izzy frowned. “I didn’t even know—”
“Don’t lie to me now, Isabella. Please.”
“I swear, I didn’t write this. I didn’t get this.”
Polly’s face darkened.
“Then someone’s sending for you.”
⸻
Garrison Pub – Earlier That Day
Grace moved quietly through the Garrison, humming under her breath as she cleaned unused glasses, all smiles and charm. But in her apron pocket was another note.
Identical handwriting.
She’ll come. Make sure the door’s unlocked. Upstairs room. Campbell’s men will handle the rest.
She’d burned the first version after copying it.
She never hesitated.
Because Grace wasn’t fighting for love anymore. She was fighting to win.
And if Tommy wouldn’t give her his heart — then she’d give him a reason to rip it out.
⸻
Small Heath – Dusk
Izzy stood outside the Garrison’s back entrance, the sky dimming overhead. Polly had warned her not to come. Had begged her not to. But something about the note pulled at her — the handwriting familiar, almost Tommy’s. And part of her — the part that still ached for him — thought maybe… maybe this was how he tried to say sorry.
Maybe he couldn’t ask for forgiveness in words, so he was asking with this.
So she came.
Alone.
Unarmed.
And with the weight of a child beneath her coat.
⸻
Shelby Estate – At That Same Moment
Polly burst through the front door, hair wild from wind, lungs aching.
“Where is he?!”
Arthur looked up from the table. “Who?”
“Tommy, Arthur!”
He stood. “Garrison. Why?”
“She’s in danger,” Polly gasped. “Izzy’s in danger.”
⸻
The Garrison – Upstairs Room
Izzy pushed the door open slowly.
The room was warm, lit by a single oil lamp. Empty, at first glance. Quiet.
She stepped inside.
“Tommy?”
Nothing.
Then a footstep behind her.
Before she could turn, the door slammed shut. A man stepped forward from the shadows. Unfamiliar face. Long coat. Gloves.
She took a step back. Her heart shot to her throat.
“I think you’re lost,” she said, voice steady despite her pulse.
He smiled. Not kindly.
“No,” he said. “I think you are.”
She reached for the door.
Another man appeared in front of it.
Panic.
Real. Cold.
Her hand went to her stomach — not out of thought, but instinct.
And that’s when she knew: they weren’t here for information.
They were here for leverage.
⸻
Outside – Seconds Later
Tommy was off the horse before it fully stopped.
He stormed toward the Garrison, Polly shouting behind him, “Upstairs! Back room!”
The rage in him was fire and ice. Pure terror. He hadn’t felt this way since France. Since that day they’d pulled Danny Whizz-Bang’s body from the mud and he’d realized there are some things you don’t get back.
He kicked the door open.
Two men inside. One with his hand already reaching for Izzy’s arm.
She wasn’t screaming — she was fighting.
Of course she was.
Tommy shot the first man before he even said a word. The second dropped his blade and bolted.
Izzy collapsed into the corner, panting, hair wild, eyes wide with shock.
Tommy stared at her, chest heaving. Blood on his hands. Fear all over his face.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, but her voice cracked.
“No. Just—just scared.”
He dropped to his knees in front of her.
“I didn’t know,” he said, voice breaking. “I didn’t know.”
“I thought you sent for me,” she whispered. “The handwriting… I thought it was you.”
His eyes closed like the guilt might crush him.
“I would never,” he said. “Not you. Not you.”
She clutched at his coat. And when he wrapped his arms around her, something inside both of them splintered.
“Izzy,” he whispered into her hair, voice hoarse. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
⸻
Outside – Polly Watching
She stood just at the stairwell, watching him cradle Izzy like she was something holy. And for once, he wasn’t the man who built an empire on blood and teeth.
He was just a boy who loved too late.
Polly closed her eyes.
And swore, if she ever got her hands on Grace Burgess, there would be no forgiveness.
Only fire.
⸻
The Garrison – The Morning After
The body had been taken out.
The blood cleaned.
The gun, gone.
But Tommy hadn’t moved.
He sat in the same chair, the same posture — elbows on knees, head down, cigarette long dead between his fingers.
The woman he loved had nearly been taken from him.
Again.
But this time, it was because of him.
Because he trusted the wrong person. Let someone in who wore kindness like armor and poured poison with a smile.
He didn’t even flinch when Grace walked through the doors.
She came without pretense. No apron. No smile. Just that icy stillness — the kind that creeps in when the lie starts to fall apart.
“Tommy,” she said softly, as if she could fix it with a name.
He looked up. Slowly.
And what Grace saw in his eyes — it wasn’t hate.
It was nothing.
“You arranged it,” he said.
Not a question.
She didn’t deny it. She didn’t even try.
“You were supposed to be different,” he said. “Not a weapon.”
“I was,” Grace whispered. “Until I realized I couldn’t win your heart. So I gave you a war instead.”
Tommy stood.
The chair scraped the floor behind him.
“You used her.”
“I used you,” she snapped. “Because you wouldn’t let her go. She was in everything, even when she wasn’t in the room. I saw it, Tommy. And so did Campbell.”
His name landed like a curse.
Tommy crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat, but didn’t raise his hand.
Didn’t need to.
He leaned in, voice low.
“If she dies because of you, I will bury you where no one finds the bones.”
Grace’s breath caught.
“I loved you,” she said.
“No,” he said. “You loved winning.”
He stepped back.
“Get out.”
She stared at him like she still believed he’d change his mind.
He didn’t.
“Now.”
She turned.
And walked out of his life forever.
⸻
Shelby Estate – Hours Later
Izzy sat in silence.
She hadn’t spoken much since the night before. Tommy had stayed close — never far, never pressing. He made tea without asking. Lit the fire. Kept the rooms warm. Said her name only when he thought she was asleep.
But now, she was ready.
She watched him move around the kitchen like he had something to prove. Like if he just kept moving, he could undo what had happened.
“Tommy.”
He froze. Turned.
Her eyes were tired, but calm.
“There’s something you need to know.”
He crossed to her in seconds, crouching down, one hand finding hers. “What is it? Are you hurt? Do you need—?”
“I’m pregnant.”
Everything stopped.
No breath. No thought. Just the weight of those words between them.
He stared at her, like they’d been spoken in a language he almost remembered.
His voice, when it came, was wrecked.
“How long?”
“Seven weeks.”
His eyes closed. Not out of regret. But reverence.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t get the chance.”
He opened his mouth to protest. She shook her head.
“You wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t see me. You chose her. And I couldn’t tell you something sacred when I was being treated like a stranger.”
Tommy exhaled through his nose.
She reached for his hand. Pressed it to her stomach.
“I’m not telling you to win you back. I’m telling you because it’s yours. And whatever happens next… I won’t lie to our child.”
He looked down at her hand over his.
Then up.
And for the first time in weeks, he said something real.
“I love you.”
Izzy didn’t cry.
But she did lean forward and rest her forehead to his, her hands curled around his collar.
“I know,” she whispered.
⸻
Elsewhere – Campbell’s Office
The report was clear.
The attempt failed.
Shelby intervened. Again.
But more than that — new intelligence had surfaced.
A clerk at the Garrison had seen the girl days earlier. Pale. Sick. Hand pressed to her stomach when she thought no one was looking.
Campbell didn’t smile.
He smirked.
“So… she’s pregnant.”
He folded the page in half and poured himself a drink.
“Now we know where to strike.”
Chapter 10: Between the Silence and the Strike
Chapter Text
CHAPTER NINE: Between the Silence and the Strike
Shelby Estate – Three Days Later
For three days, it was quiet.
No bullets. No whispers. No notes slipped under doors. No blood in the alley.
Just her.
Izzy slept in Tommy’s bed, wore one of his shirts unbuttoned too low, laughed softly when he caught her humming in the kitchen. She stayed close, and he let her. He didn’t touch her like he had before — not with possession or fury. He touched her like he was trying to memorize the shape of safety.
And tonight?
Tonight, he came to her not as a gangster.
But as a man in love.
⸻
The fire was low, casting amber across the bed sheets. Izzy sat propped against the headboard in Tommy’s white shirt, legs bare, hair loose around her shoulders. Her fingers traced absent patterns along her thigh.
Tommy stood at the foot of the bed, just watching her. No words. Just that stare — heavy with want, with guilt, with something more fragile than he could admit out loud.
She tilted her head. “What are you waiting for?”
“You,” he said, voice rough.
He moved to her in slow, deliberate steps, climbed onto the bed like a storm held back by thread, and hovered over her without touching.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured, lips brushing her cheekbone, then the soft space under her jaw.
“You nearly did.”
Her voice was steady.
So was her forgiveness.
He kissed her like an apology. Long, slow, desperate to be understood. His hands pushed the shirt from her shoulders, mouth trailing over her collarbone, down her sternum — not in hunger, but in prayer.
She arched into him, fingers threading through his hair.
“Tommy…” she whispered.
He shushed her gently, thumb pressing to her lips. “Let me make it right.”
And he did.
He took his time. Worshipped every inch of her. Held her hips like they were fragile, like they were carrying something sacred. Moved inside her like he wasn’t just making love — he was coming home.
Their bodies fit like the silence after a storm. Her breath hitched. His name left her mouth in a broken cry as they found their rhythm — not desperate, not punishing — but real.
When she came undone beneath him, tears in her eyes, he kissed them away.
And when he followed — shaking, breathless, undone — he buried his face in her neck and whispered, “You’re mine. And I’ll never lose you again.”
⸻
Tommy stood in the yard outside the estate the next morning, cigarette in one hand, coat flaring with the wind. His eyes scanned every corner of the property.
He’d doubled the guards.
Triple-checked the locks.
Moved Izzy into the room furthest from the street.
He was building a fortress around her — brick by brick — even as Polly reminded him, softly, that no walls kept monsters out when you invited them in.
⸻
Polly stood in the hallway, watching Tommy stare down at a map and mutter names like a war general choosing which cities to burn.
He hadn’t noticed her. Not yet.
And when he finally looked up, she saw it in his eyes:
The spiral was coming.
“I’ve got men watching Campbell,” he said. “And the station. If he so much as breathes in her direction—”
“Tommy,” Polly cut in gently. “She’s safe. Let her breathe.”
“I am keeping her safe.”
“No,” Polly said. “You’re locking her away. That’s not the same.”
But he didn’t answer.
Because part of him feared she was right.
⸻
It started with a knock on the front door.
Too soft.
Too early.
One of the guards opened it.
Izzy was gone.
No sign of struggle. No forced entry. No note.
Just gone.
Tommy’s voice shattered the estate.
“FIND HER!”
He stormed through the house like a ghost possessed, overturning furniture, screaming orders.
Arthur tried to grab him.
He shoved him off.
John cursed under his breath.
Polly stood in the kitchen, eyes closed, fingers clutching her pendant tight.
“She was supposed to be safe,” Tommy choked. “She was right here.”
Polly turned to him slowly.
“She was never safe, Tommy. Not from this. Not from him.”
⸻
In a small room lit by a single swinging bulb, Chester Campbell poured himself a drink.
Behind him, a woman sat on a cot.
Head bowed. Hands bound.
Izzy.
He didn’t touch her.
Didn’t speak to her.
He just raised his glass.
And whispered to the air:
“Now… let’s see how far he’ll go.”
Birmingham – Two Days Since Izzy Was Taken
Tommy hadn’t slept.
Not once.
His knuckles were split, blood crusting in the creases. His coat was soaked through with rain and rage, and he moved through the streets of Birmingham like a man who no longer cared who died — as long as they talked first.
Arthur tried to stop him once. Just once.
Tommy shoved him so hard he hit the pub wall and slid down with a curse.
“She’s carrying my child,” Tommy growled. “And she’s gone.”
John didn’t say a word.
He just followed.
Tommy questioned everyone. Shouted in basements. Dragged men out of back rooms by their collars. Ripped up the Garrison floorboards. Put a bullet an inch from a police informant’s ear and whispered, “You’ll tell me where she is or you’ll meet God early.”
The man cried.
But said nothing.
Still — Tommy kept going.
Because if he stopped moving, he might feel it.
Might realize she was gone and it was his fault and nothing would ever be alright again.
⸻
Meanwhile – Somewhere Unknown
Izzy sat in a cold stone room lit by a single lamp.
There was no window.
No clock.
No sense of time.
She’d been there too long to remember the last time she slept — really slept — but she hadn’t broken.
Not once.
She cradled her stomach with one arm, instinctive, protective. Her other arm rested against her knee, jaw tight with silent fury.
She didn’t scream.
Didn’t plead.
Not even when Campbell visited.
He came twice a day. Always clean. Always calm. Always with his hands behind his back like a priest at confession.
“I must admit,” he said this morning, sipping tea across the room, “I thought you’d be more… dramatic. Women in your condition often are.”
Izzy didn’t look at him.
“I’m not dramatic,” she said quietly. “I’m dangerous.”
Campbell chuckled.
“Ah, the Shelby in you speaks.”
“I’m not a Shelby.”
He leaned forward. “Oh, my dear. You are. That baby makes it so. And Thomas Shelby will burn this city down looking for you.”
She met his eyes then. Steady. Unshaken.
“Then maybe it’s time it burns.”
Chapter 11: A Throat Full of Smoke
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TEN: A Throat Full of Smoke
Polly watched from the front steps as Tommy returned again — blood on his hands, mud on his boots, eyes wild.
“I need more men,” he barked. “I need every contact we have in London, in Liverpool—”
“You need to stop before there’s nothing left of you,” Polly snapped.
Tommy turned on her. “He took her. And I let him. I let him.”
Polly’s voice cracked. “You didn’t let him. You were lied to.”
“She’s out there,” he said. “Carrying my child, and she’s cold and alone and—”
Polly stepped forward. Grabbed his coat. Shook him.
“Then pull yourself together and find her with your brain, not your fists.”
He breathed hard. Once. Twice.
Then nodded.
Eyes burning. Chest heaving.
“She’s all I have.”
Polly whispered, “Then start acting like it.”
⸻
Izzy – Later That Night
She heard the door open.
Not Campbell.
Someone new.
The man didn’t speak. Just dropped a tin of food and a flask of water on the floor. When he turned to leave, Izzy whispered:
“Tell him… I’m not scared of him.”
The man paused.
She stood slowly, hand on her belly.
“But he should be scared of me.”
Izzy sank back against the wall, fear curdling in her veins
Small Heath – Late Afternoon
The alley was slick with rain and ash when Tommy shoved the informant against the brick wall.
Arthur held the man by the collar, boots planted. John stood as lookout, smoking and snarling.
The man’s lip was split. His eye swelling. But he was still alive.
Which meant Tommy was still holding back.
“Start talking,” he growled. “Now.”
“I don’t know—” the man coughed. “I told you—I sell information, not run errands for fucking Campbell—”
Tommy pressed the barrel of his pistol into the man’s gut.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know,” the man gasped. “But—but I heard something, alright? One of his men bragging outside the station… said they were moving a package north. High security. Tonight.”
Tommy’s entire body went still.
Arthur met his eyes.
“Could be her.”
Tommy holstered the gun. “Who’s escorting her?”
“Dunno. Just heard ‘rail lines near Saltley’—that’s all I know. Swear it.”
Tommy stepped back.
“Let him go,” he said.
Arthur looked disappointed. “Just like that?”
Tommy lit a cigarette, face like stone.
“No. Let him run.”
The man bolted.
Tommy didn’t flinch.
Because now he had a direction.
And someone was going to die.
⸻
Elsewhere – Campbell’s Holding Facility
Izzy was no longer in the cold stone room.
She’d been moved.
This one was worse — darker, deeper underground, with metal walls and no lamp. Just a bulb overhead that flickered whenever the pipes rattled.
She sat on the floor, back to the corner, arms wrapped around her knees.
And then, he came in.
Inspector Chester Campbell.
Gone was the mask of civility. No gloves. No tea. No soft, twisted pleasantries.
Just power.
And hate.
He shut the door behind him. The sound was final.
Izzy looked up, silent, steady.
Campbell walked toward her slowly, unbuckling his coat.
“You think he’ll save you.”
Izzy said nothing.
“He’s not coming.”
Still, she said nothing.
Campbell crouched down in front of her.
“Do you know what men like Thomas Shelby do when they’re desperate?” he asked softly. “They make mistakes. They start wars they can’t finish. They burn the world and forget who’s in the house when the fire takes hold.”
She didn’t move. But her hand — barely — shifted protectively to her belly.
Campbell noticed.
And smiled.
“You think you’re strong. You think this child makes you invincible.”
His hand reached out — and she flinched.
It was the first time.
And that’s all he needed.
“You’re afraid,” he whispered. “Not for yourself. But for them.”
He grabbed her chin — hard, unforgiving.
“I could kill it,” he said with a smirk
And Izzy?
Izzy spat in his face.
He didn’t flinch. Just wiped it with a handkerchief. Smiled.
“That’s the spirit I’m going to break.”
He stood and turned to the door.
“I want you ready in an hour,” he said to the guard outside. “We move at nightfall.”
Saltley – The Plan Unfolds
Tommy traced the old rail line with his eyes, crouched in the shadows between freight crates, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Arthur flanked him to the left. John to the right.
They had guns. Knives. Nothing clean.
“What if she’s not on the train?” Arthur asked.
Tommy didn’t blink. “Then we keep moving. Until we find her.”
John lit a cigarette and passed it to him.
He didn’t take it.
“I’m going to kill him,” Tommy said softly. “With my hands.”
Arthur nodded. “You’ll have to queue behind me.”
Tommy looked up toward the platform — and spotted the signal.
Three men in dark coats.
And a carriage with blackout curtains.
His heartbeat thundered.
“Izzy’s in there.”
⸻
Izzy – Minutes Before
She sat in the transport carriage, wrists cuffed, two guards on either side. Her stomach felt too tight to breathe, but she sat tall anyway.
Campbell walked past the window without looking in.
But she knew he would be watching.
Waiting.
The trap was set.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER ELEVEN: The Fire We Carried In Our Bones
Saltley Rail Yard – Just After Midnight
Rain soaked the tracks. Fog curled low, thick as breath from something ancient. The train sat silent — no whistle, no movement — just steel and shadow.
Tommy Shelby crouched beneath the edge of the platform, heart pounding a drumbeat against his ribs. Beside him, Arthur and John waited, blades tucked and pistols drawn.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t have to.
His eyes were locked on the carriage.
And if she was in there—
God help anyone who tried to stop him.
⸻
Inside the carriage,
Izzy’s wrists throbbed from the cuffs. Her back ached from the hard bench. But the worst pain was in her chest — a suffocating kind of ache that had nothing to do with the body.
Campbell hadn’t touched her again.
Not with his hands.
He hadn’t needed to.
He knew words could wound deeper. Knew how to plant fear like rot in the ribs.
You’re nothing but leverage.
That baby won’t save you.
He won’t come. And if he does, I’ll kill him in front of you.
And still, Izzy hadn’t broken.
Not fully.
But she was cracking.
She felt it.
Every time her hand drifted to her belly, wondering if the stress had done something no blade ever could.
Every time she thought of Tommy’s face — not angry, not furious — just late.
Too late.
Until she heard it.
The gunshot.
Then two.
Then the scream.
⸻
Tommy moved like a man possessed — fast, silent, lethal.
He shot the first guard in the leg.
Arthur knocked out the second with the butt of his rifle.
John took down the third before the man even turned around.
They stormed the carriage.
Gun drawn, blood in their teeth.
Tommy threw the door open — and saw her.
Curled. Shaking. Breathing.
But not speaking.
“Izzy—” his voice cracked as he climbed in. “Izzy.”
She looked up slowly.
Eyes glassy. Skin pale.
But alive.
He crossed to her, fell to his knees, grabbed her face with shaking hands.
“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here, love. I’ve got you.”
And then she collapsed into his arms.
Not from weakness.
From relief.
⸻
John spotted him first — slipping out the side gate, coat flapping in the wind.
“Tommy!”
But Tommy didn’t let go of Izzy.
He just looked up.
Saw the man disappearing into the dark.
And knew this wasn’t over.
⸻
Tommy carried Izzy into the house himself, hours before dawn broke
Polly was waiting at the door, blankets in hand, eyes rimmed red.
Arthur followed, bleeding from the shoulder.
John lit a fire in the hearth without a word.
Tommy set Izzy down on the couch like she was made of glass. Her eyes didn’t leave his. Not once.
“I’ve got you,” he said again, brushing her hair from her face. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”
But her voice was barely a whisper:
“No one’s ever really safe from him.”
Tommy’s jaw clenched. “He’ll never touch you again.”
Polly moved in, crouched by her knees, taking her hand.
“We need to check you, sweetheart,” she said gently. “You and the baby.”
Izzy nodded, but her body was trembling. And when Polly reached to unbutton her coat, Izzy flinched.
Hard.
Polly froze.
Tommy looked away like he’d been stabbed.
⸻
Izzy sat in his bed. Clean now. Wrapped in one of his shirts. Her knees hugged to her chest.
Tommy sat in the chair near the window, elbows on his knees, a whisky untouched in his hand.
“I shouldn’t have trusted Grace,” he said. “I should’ve seen it.”
Izzy didn’t speak.
“I keep thinking about the way you looked in that carriage,” he said, voice hollow. “And what he said. What he did.”
Izzy turned her face toward him.
Her voice was raw. Quiet. “He didn’t lay a hand on me, Tommy. But he didn’t have to.”
Tommy looked at her — eyes full of rage and grief.
“I want to kill him,” he said. “I want him to suffer.”
She nodded. “So do I.”
Silence.
Then — almost too soft to hear:
“I thought the baby was gone.”
He looked up sharply.
Her voice cracked.
“I didn’t feel them for almost two days. I thought— I thought the stress had—”
He crossed the room in a blink.
Knelt in front of her. Pressed his hands to her stomach.
“Don’t say that.”
“They moved,” she whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Just once. Today. Right before the door opened. I think they knew it was you.”
Tommy buried his face against her belly and wept.
Not loudly.
But enough.
Enough to show her he hadn’t just found her.
He’d found himself.
⸻
Days passed.
The bruises on her wrists were fading.
The ones inside her hadn’t even begun to.
Izzy sat at the window of Tommy’s room — knees pulled to her chest, eyes following the smoke rising from chimneys in the distance. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak much. But she moved differently now. Slower. Lighter, as though something had been pulled from her soul and never returned.
She hadn’t let him touch her.
Not out of anger.
But preservation.
When Tommy brought her tea in the mornings, she smiled. When he knelt to press a kiss to her belly, she rested her hand on his head. But she hadn’t reached for him. Not yet.
And he didn’t ask.
Because Tommy Shelby understood the art of waiting.
He just didn’t know if she’d ever come back.
⸻
Polly watched her nephew smoke three cigarettes back-to-back without tasting a single one.
“She’s strong,” she said, eyes soft but direct. “But strength doesn’t mean untouched.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
Polly leaned in. “Do you?”
Tommy looked at her.
His voice dropped low. “I haven’t slept. Not really. Not since she disappeared. Because every time I close my eyes, I see her face in that carriage. I hear what she said. How close I was to being too fucking late.”
Polly exhaled. “So what are you going to do?”
Tommy didn’t blink. “Kill Campbell.”
She shook her head. “Not like this.”
⸻
Elsewhere – Campbell’s Office
The letter was handwritten. Sealed in black wax.
Delivered not to Tommy.
But to Izzy.
Campbell knew.
He knew how to make a wound scream.
⸻
The Letter
To the girl who thought she was more than a pawn,
You’ve been spared once. That won’t happen again.
You are the rot in his empire. And now you carry the future of it.
I will burn it all. And this time, he will have to choose: blood or bone.
Yours with intent,
– C.
⸻
Izzy walked into Tommy's office and dropped the letter on his desk without a word.
He picked it up.
Read it once.
Then again.
His face didn’t move — but his hand trembled.
“Did you read it,” he muttered.
“I did,” Izzy whispered.
She stood across from him, arms wrapped around herself.
“And now you have to decide.”
He looked up.
“What?”
Her voice cracked. “He wants you to pick. Revenge or… us.”
Tommy stood.
Crossed to her.
“I can do both.”
“No,” she said, stepping back. “You can’t. That’s what got us here.”
He reached for her.
She flinched.
And that hurt more than any bullet ever could.
“Do you still love me?” he asked, voice hoarse.
“Yes,” she whispered. “That’s why I’m scared.”
He closed his eyes.
Izzy’s fingers brushed his chest, just once.
“If you go after him… do it knowing that I might not be here when you come back.”
She turned.
Left the room.
And Tommy Shelby — gangster, soldier, king of the ashes — did not move.
Polly watched from the hallway
She lit a cigarette with shaking hands.
And whispered to the dark:
“God help the man who tries to take from Thomas Shelby what little good he has left.”
Chapter 13: The Last Decision a Man Makes
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWELVE: The Last Decision a Man Makes
The fog curled low across the streets as Tommy stepped out of the car. His boots hit the cobblestones like gunfire — slow, deliberate, final.
He didn’t bring Arthur.
Didn’t bring John.
This wasn’t business.
This was retribution.
Inside his coat, beneath the stitched lining, sat a pistol loaded with a single name.
Campbell.
⸻
The Government Offices – 2nd Floor, East Wing
The smell of polished wood and smoke clung to the air. The halls echoed faintly with the hush of bureaucratic quiet — pens scratching paper, boots moving in measured rhythm.
Tommy’s weren’t quiet.
He walked like he wanted to be heard.
Wanted every man in that godforsaken building to know death had just stepped through their doors, wearing a flat cap and gloves.
The clerk at the desk opened his mouth to stop him.
Tommy stared him down.
The clerk sat back down.
Tommy didn’t knock.
He pushed the door open and closed it behind him with a quiet click.
⸻
Campbell stood near the window of his office, sipping tea, back turned.
But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn.
“You took your time,” he said coolly. “I expected you sooner.”
Tommy didn’t answer. He stepped forward, each footfall heavier than the last.
Campbell finally turned. His face calm, eyes glittering with self-righteous poison.
“You’ve come to kill me.”
Tommy’s voice was low.
“I came to bury you.”
He drew the pistol.
Campbell raised a brow. “Is this for the girl, or the child?”
Tommy’s jaw ticked.
“I wonder,” Campbell mused, walking slowly around the desk, “do you even know what this will cost you? The second you pull that trigger, your world becomes ash. No more business. No more government immunity. No more Garrison. No more Shelby Company. Only blood.”
Tommy didn’t blink.
“Then I’ll build it all again in your bones.”
Campbell smiled faintly.
And that’s when the phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Tommy didn’t look away from him.
On the third ring, Campbell slowly reached and answered.
His smile widened as he passed the phone across the desk.
“It’s for you.”
Tommy took it, pistol still raised.
“Shelby.”
He listened.
And the colour drained from his face.
His hand — the one holding the gun — wavered.
“Where?” he asked, voice sharp.
A beat.
Then:
“I’m on my way.”
He hung up.
Lowered the gun.
Campbell watched him, gloating.
“You can’t be everywhere at once, Thomas.”
Tommy stepped closer.
Pressed the muzzle to Campbell’s heart.
“You’re alive only because someone I love needs me more than you need killing.”
He turned.
Walked out.
Campbell let out a quiet breath — but it wasn’t relief.
It was triumph.
Because he hadn’t lost.
Not yet.
⸻
Polly stood at the door when Tommy arrived, breathless and wild-eyed.
“Where is she?” he asked.
Polly said nothing — just stepped aside.
Inside the parlor, Izzy sat on the edge of the couch, face pale, eyes red. She looked up as Tommy entered.
And he stopped.
Dead in his tracks.
Her hands were covered in blood.
So was the towel in her lap.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered. “I woke up and… it wouldn’t stop.”
Tommy crossed the room in two strides.
Dropped to his knees in front of her.
Held her face like it was the last thing keeping him alive.
“Is it the baby?” he choked.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know—”
Polly appeared behind him.
“We’ve called the doctor. He’s on his way.”
Izzy curled forward with a sharp gasp of pain. Tommy caught her before she fell.
He didn’t cry.
Didn’t scream.
He just held her.
Held her like he hadn’t five minutes ago been ready to become a killer.
And now?
He’d give anything just to hear the heartbeat again.
⸻
A week passed
The fire had gone low again.
Izzy sat in the armchair by the hearth, Tommy’s coat wrapped around her shoulders, one hand curled over the small swell of her stomach like she was trying to hold it — hold them — inside her with sheer will.
She hadn’t bled again.
That was something.
But the doctor had used words like “unknown,” and “watch closely,” and “too early to tell.”
So she waited.
Tried to rest.
But she didn’t breathe.
Not properly.
Tommy brought her tea three times a day. Read the papers out loud when she couldn’t sleep. Sat in silence beside her with blood still under his nails because even now — even after all of it — he hadn’t stopped hunting.
Campbell might still be out there.
And that truth bled into everything.
⸻
Polly stirred a pot slowly, eyes cast toward the back door as if expecting ghosts. Ada leaned on the counter, arms crossed, lips drawn tight.
“She’s holding it together,” Polly said softly. “Barely.”
Ada exhaled. “She’s lost weight.”
“She’s lost more than that.”
Polly turned, wiping her hands on a rag.
“She won’t cry in front of him,” she added. “Not once. She waits until he finally falls asleep, then she sits on the floor by the bed and whispers to the baby.”
Ada bit her lip. “And Tommy?”
“He’s not sleeping much. Doesn’t eat unless I put it in front of him. And when he does rest—he dreams like he’s back in France.”
Ada looked toward the ceiling, voice cracking.
“How do they come back from this?”
Polly was quiet a long moment.
Then: “I don’t know that they do.”
⸻
Grace sat at a desk with ink-stained fingers, eyes scanning the letter she was about to deliver. The Garrison was empty at this hour, and the silence suited her.
She no longer bothered pretending.
Her hair was pinned tightly. Her dress modest. Her posture perfect.
But her eyes?
Cold.
She folded the paper, sealed it with wax.
This one wouldn’t go to Campbell.
This one would go straight to the betting shop.
It read:
Subject: Thomas Shelby is compromised. His mistress remains alive. Pregnant. He has refused to neutralize her or the inspector. Suggest immediate extraction and reassignment before the situation further deteriorates.
— Agent B37
She slipped the letter into her coat pocket.
And walked out the back door, not bothering to lock it.
Let them burn.
⸻
The firelight flickered against Tommy’s face as he sat with his elbows on his knees, head bowed. A bottle of whiskey sat untouched beside him. A photograph of Izzy — one Polly had taken a year ago — lay face down on the desk.
He couldn’t look at it.
Couldn’t look at himself.
She didn’t blame him.
Not once.
But she didn’t touch him, either.
Didn’t reach for him at night.
Didn’t say I love you the way she used to — with warmth and defiance and fire.
Now it came soft, almost like guilt.
Like she wasn’t sure he deserved it anymore.
Tommy dragged his hand down his face.
He felt like a man buried beneath the weight of all the things he hadn’t said, hadn’t done.
Campbell was still out there.
Grace was still moving pieces.
And he was standing still.
And if he didn’t move soon—
He would lose everything.
Chapter 14: The sound that saved her
Chapter Text
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The Sound That Saved Her
Izzy lay on her side, knees curled, one hand splayed across her belly.
She hadn’t felt movement in a day.
That frightened her more than anything Campbell had said. More than his threats. More than his eyes. Because at least with him, she knew how to fight.
But this?
This was helplessness.
This was grief before it was even confirmed.
A tear slid down her temple and soaked into Tommy’s pillow.
She didn’t wake him.
She just whispered, into the dark:
“Please. Just stay.”
⸻
Campbell sent his final order
The letter was short.
Shelby will come. He has no choice now.
When he does, make sure the girl watches.
He folded the note. Sealed it. Lit a cigar.
And smiled.
The end was already written.
⸻
The front of the shop was closed early. Rain ticked against the windows in soft bursts. Arthur had left hours ago. John was out on business. Polly was with Izzy.
Tommy stood alone in his office.
And everything in him was wrong.
He hadn’t spoken more than ten words to Izzy in two days. Not because he didn’t care — but because he didn’t trust his voice. Didn’t trust what might come out of his mouth: a sob, a scream, or a vow he couldn’t keep.
So he came here.
To the last place Grace had stood. Had smiled. Had kissed his cheek and called him Tom.
And what he found?
Was her last move.
It was Polly’s sharp eye that noticed it.
Tucked into the ledger drawer.
A sealed letter — not addressed to him. Not even signed.
But Tommy knew her writing.
His fingers trembled as he opened it.
He read it once.
Twice.
Then a third time.
⸻
“Subject: Thomas Shelby is compromised. His mistress remains alive. Pregnant. He has refused to neutralize her or the inspector. Suggest immediate extraction and reassignment before the situation further deteriorates.”
— Agent B37
⸻
He stared at the paper like it had teeth.
Like it had murdered something in him.
She’d never stopped.
Not even after everything.
Not even when Izzy nearly died.
Not even when she watched Tommy fall apart.
He gripped the edge of the desk, breath heaving, teeth clenched.
He didn’t cry.
But he made a sound like something had been ripped from him.
And then he burned the letter.
Lit it with one of Grace’s own matches. Watched it curl and blacken and disappear.
But the damage?
Was done.
⸻
Izzy lay curled on her side, eyes open, staring at the pale wallpaper. The rain made the windows moan. Her hands were resting gently on her stomach.
She’d barely slept.
Every hour felt like a test she didn’t know the answers to.
Was it still there?
Were they still there?
Was she already grieving something she hadn’t even held?
And then—
It happened.
A flutter.
Barely anything. A soft, slow ripple under her skin.
Then another.
She gasped — quietly, like the moment might vanish if she made it too real.
She pressed both palms to her belly and whispered, “Do it again.”
Nothing.
Then—
Kick
Not strong. But certain.
Alive.
Izzy blinked, and the tears came fast, hot, quiet.
Her whole body shook with relief. With fear. With hope.
She laughed — not loud, not bright — but real.
And whispered to the child:
“I’m still here too.”
⸻
Tommy didn’t knock.
Just opened it gently.
She looked up.
Their eyes met.
And even without words, she knew he’d found something.
Something that had broken him open.
He stepped forward.
She sat up.
Tommy stood at the edge of the bed and dropped to his knees.
One hand reached for her belly, slowly, carefully.
She took it.
Guided him.
“It moved,” she whispered.
His eyes closed. His lips parted.
He placed his hand where hers was and waited.
A beat.
Another.
Kick
His breath hitched.
“Izzy—” his voice cracked.
She nodded.
“We’re still here.”
The words hung in the dark like smoke, soft and trembling. But they landed with weight. With the kind of hope that felt like a gasp after drowning.
Tommy was still kneeling beside the bed, his palm pressed to the spot where their child had just reminded them — I’m not gone. Not yet.
His head bowed. His shoulders curled inward.
And then she reached for him.
Slowly. Carefully.
Fingers threaded into his hair, his curls damp with sweat and rain. She tugged gently — not to guide, but to say: You can come closer now.
So he did.
Tommy crawled up onto the bed like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to — like he might wake and find her gone again.
She sat up to meet him.
They didn’t kiss right away.
They just breathed — face to face, lips brushing without meeting, hands touching without moving.
Izzy’s voice was the first to break the silence.
“I thought I’d lost them.”
“I thought I’d lost you,” Tommy rasped.
And that’s what cracked it open.
She kissed him first — her lips parting against his like a sigh, a sob, a prayer. His hands cupped her jaw like it might shatter beneath him. Their mouths moved together slowly, unhurried, desperate but not rough.
It wasn’t about claiming.
It was about remembering.
Tommy lay her back gently, pulling the blanket up around them like a shield from the rest of the world. He unbuttoned her nightshirt one button at a time, reverent, his eyes on hers the entire time.
No bruises this time. No blood. No shadows on her skin.
Only warmth. Only her.
She undid his shirt too, fingers tracing the scars on his chest, the ink over his heart.
“You came back for me,” she whispered.
“I never stopped coming,” he said.
And then they moved together — slow, deep, tender.
Tommy kissed every breath from her mouth, hands skimming down her body like he was carving each curve into memory. He was careful. Devoted. His forehead pressed to hers as he sank into her, breath shaking, body wrapped around hers like she was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
Izzy moaned softly, her hands sliding up his back. Every movement was reverent. Every thrust a reminder — I’m here. I’m yours. I’m still breathing.
They made love like survivors — like the war hadn’t ended, but they’d found each other in the rubble.
When she came, she gasped his name like it was the only word left in her mouth.
And when he followed, he collapsed over her with a sound that was more grief than pleasure.
Afterward, he held her.
Not just with arms — but with his whole body, curled around her like a fortress. One hand resting on the small rise of her belly. One hand in her hair.
She didn’t speak.
Not until his lips pressed to her temple and he whispered, “There’s something I need to tell you.”
⸻
Izzy was quiet when he finished.
The truth came slowly — words he’d never spoken out loud. About Grace. About the letter to Whitehall. About the betrayal that hadn’t stopped, even after everything.
Izzy stared at the fire.
He waited for the anger.
But she just said, “I knew.”
Tommy blinked.
“Not all of it,” she added. “But… I felt it. Before everything. I knew she hadn’t stopped. That she was waiting to twist the knife.”
He looked away. “And you didn’t say anything.”
“I was too busy bleeding,” she said softly. “And then too busy hoping you’d see it for yourself.”
“I did,” he said.
She nodded. “And now what?”
Tommy’s jaw clenched.
“Now we end it.”
Izzy turned her face toward his. “We?”
He looked down at her — this woman who had lived through fire, and still opened her arms to him after.
“You’re not going anywhere without me again,” he said. “If we do this — it’s together.”
She smiled.
Not brightly.
But real.
“Then let’s finish it.”
Chapter 15: What the fire leaves behind
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: What the fire leaves behind
The map was spread out across Tommy’s desk, corners pinned down with whisky glasses and used bullets. The light was low — not for mood, but survival. The less that could be seen through the windows, the better.
Izzy stood beside him in silence, arms crossed, expression calm. But Tommy knew better. He knew the way her eyes flickered when her mind turned sharp. Knew how still she got when her grief built its own kind of armor.
He pointed to the junction near Great Barr.
“Campbell’s movements are predictable,” Tommy muttered. “Grace is still his ears. She thinks I haven’t seen it, but she’s been watching the betting shops again. I give her one more secret. Something too good to ignore.”
Izzy stepped closer, brow arched. “What kind of secret?”
Tommy’s voice was steel.
“One we let her believe she overheard.”
She tilted her head, thoughtful. “You’re feeding her bait.”
He glanced up. “We feed them both. Same night. Two different plays. Same result.”
“Which is?”
“They fall.”
⸻
“You’re going to get yourselves killed,” Polly said quietly.
Tommy didn’t flinch.
“We’ve been half-dead for weeks,” Izzy replied. “We’re just finishing what they started.”
Polly came into the room, wrapped in her shawl, eyes glinting with some blend of worry and admiration. She crossed to Izzy, laid a hand on her belly like she did now without asking.
“You sure you’re up for this?”
Izzy nodded. “This baby survived Campbell. I think they’ll survive a war.”
Polly smiled. “Then let’s eat.”
Tommy blinked. “Now?”
Polly turned back toward the hallway.
“Yes. Now. While we still can.”
⸻
It wasn’t grand. Just real. A roast on the table. Candles flickering low. Ada brought bread. John poured the wine. Arthur lit a cigarette and got told off by Polly for smoking inside. Tommy poured for Izzy first, even though it was only water.
They sat around the table like the world wasn’t ending. Like none of them had blood on their hands or scars under their sleeves.
Izzy wore one of Tommy’s shirts, sleeves rolled, hair braided down her back. She smiled more that night than she had in weeks. It didn’t reach her eyes all the way, but it was close enough.
Arthur told a story about nearly setting the Garrison on fire at age fourteen.
John mimed choking on a bone and made Ada laugh so hard she snorted.
Polly kept watching them — all of them — like she already knew.
Like she was saying goodbye without saying it.
Tommy sat with his hand resting on Izzy’s leg beneath the table. Not possessive. Just anchored.
At one point, Izzy stood and walked to the record player, placing the needle with a practiced hand. Soft jazz hummed through the room, blending with laughter and candlelight.
Tommy joined her, arms sliding around her waist, his mouth near her temple.
She leaned into him and whispered, “It’s not real, is it?”
His lips grazed her skin.
“It’s ours. That’s enough.”
⸻
After everyone had gone.
After the plates were cleared, and the world had slipped back into silence.
Tommy stood on the back step with a cigarette, coat over his shoulders.
Izzy stepped out behind him, barefoot, wrapping herself in a shawl.
“You cold?” he asked, voice low.
“No,” she said, tucking into his side. “Just… still.”
Tommy exhaled smoke into the wind.
“We won’t get another night like that.”
“No,” she agreed. “But I’ll remember this one.”
He looked down at her, hand brushing her jaw.
“When this is done—if we make it out—what do you want?”
She thought about it for a long moment.
Then: “A home where no one has to knock with a gun.”
Tommy kissed her.
Not deeply.
Just… like it might be the last time he’d get to try.
⸻
The house was still. Pale grey light leaked through the curtains. Izzy sat on the edge of the bed, one hand curled over her belly, the other clasping the thin chain around her neck — the St. Christopher pendant Tommy gave her the day they returned from the hospital.
Tommy stood at the window, already dressed in black, his cap between his hands.
They hadn’t spoken yet.
Because there’s nothing to say when the storm is already coming.
But finally, Tommy turned.
He crossed to her and dropped to one knee, hands sliding over her thighs.
His voice was low.
“This ends today.”
Izzy nodded. “I know.”
His hand moved to her stomach.
“If it goes wrong—”
“It won’t.”
“If it does…” He looked up at her. “You go.”
She blinked, tears burning behind her eyes. “Where?”
“Anywhere I’m not.”
“No.”
“Izzy—”
“I don’t run.”
They stared at each other — two halves of the same fire.
Tommy exhaled.
And kissed her knuckles.
Then he stood.
And walked out the door.
⸻
Grace Burgess moved through the Garrison like a woman still in control. Her boots clicked against the polished floor. Her hair was swept back. Her mouth set in a knowing line.
She had the note in her pocket — the one she’d “intercepted” from one of Arthur’s careless drops.
Coordinates. A date. A time.
A shipment of something too valuable for Tommy to ignore.
She believed she was winning.
That she would hand the final report to Campbell by sundown and walk away with her conscience and position intact.
But when she stepped into the back office, Tommy was already there.
Alone.
Leaning against the desk, cigarette lit, gun on the table.
Grace’s heart stuttered.
“Tommy.”
He didn’t smile.
Didn’t greet her.
Just said, “Close the door.”
She did.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Tommy studied her in silence. Then reached behind him and dropped a file onto the desk.
Her handwriting.
Her signature.
The letter to Whitehall.
“You lied,” he said softly.
Grace didn’t flinch. “You knew I was police.”
“I knew you were mine.”
That broke something in her face.
“You don’t get to say that,” she whispered.
Tommy’s voice stayed quiet.
“You made a choice. You chose the badge. The report. Him.”
Grace’s lips parted, as if she might argue — might explain.
But she didn’t.
Because there was nothing left to say.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” she murmured.
“You didn’t,” he said. “You just tried to bury the only thing that ever made me real.”
He stood, crossed to the door, and opened it.
Polly was waiting outside.
And behind her — men.
“Escort her to Campbell,” Tommy said. “Make sure she tells him everything we want him to hear.”
Polly didn’t blink. “And when he figures out it’s a lie?”
Tommy’s eyes never left Grace’s.
“Then we’ll already be two steps ahead.”
Grace looked at him one last time — and for the first time since arriving in Birmingham, she looked afraid.
Chapter 16: No mercy left but mine
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: No mercy left but mine
Campbell read the letter twice.
Then a third time.
It had Grace’s seal. Grace’s signature. Grace’s breathless note that Tommy was moving something through the tunnels at midnight.
Campbell smiled.
The rat had finally given him the cheese.
But what he didn’t know—
Was that every step he’d taken since that first arrival in Birmingham had led him here.
To a locked chamber with no exits.
⸻
Arthur and John waited in the tunnels.
Polly moved the money.
Izzy watched from a safehouse window, one hand over her stomach, the pendant still clenched in her fist.
And Tommy?
Tommy walked into the dark like he belonged to it.
Waiting.
Weapon in his hand.
When Campbell came — gun drawn, fury in his eyes — Tommy didn’t move.
Didn’t even speak.
He just let the trap close.
Because the moment Grace gave up her final lie…
The rest would collapse.
And all that would be left—
Was justice.
⸻
The Tunnels – 2:13 AM
The air was thick with coal and smoke.
Campbell’s boots echoed down the stone corridor, his pistol drawn, his face slick with sweat. The two men behind him — government-trained, handpicked, faceless — stayed close.
He hadn’t seen Grace.
Not since her whispered confession about the “shipment” Tommy had buried beneath the city.
The last straw. The final thread of control.
He smiled to himself. Victory was near.
He should’ve known then.
Victory doesn’t come in silence.
It comes with screaming.
⸻
Tommy stood at the dead centre of the tunnel — coat soaked, hair flattened to his brow, the gleam of steel in one hand.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Arthur and John waited at his back.
Two figures cloaked in shadow.
Campbell stepped forward slowly, gun still raised.
“You’ve run out of places to hide, Mr. Shelby.”
Tommy exhaled a slow, cold breath.
“Not hiding.”
He nodded.
And Arthur fired.
One of Campbell’s men dropped like a stone.
John shot the second before the first hit the ground.
Clean.
Efficient.
Expected.
But what came next?
Wasn’t.
⸻
Footsteps — Slow, Steady, Unafraid
Izzy walked into the tunnel like a ghost in silk and sorrow.
Her boots crushed gravel.
Her coat hung open — a glimpse of curve beneath, her belly small but present.
And when Campbell turned at the sound of her approach, he paled.
“Izzy,” he breathed. “No. You shouldn’t be here.”
She stopped beside Tommy.
Didn’t touch him.
Just looked Campbell in the eye.
“I have a right to see what happens when a man’s own sins find him.”
Campbell’s voice cracked. “But you’re pregnant.”
Tommy’s hand twitched.
But Izzy didn’t blink. “I was.”
Campbell flinched. “I never meant—”
“No,” she interrupted, cold and calm. “You meant to hurt him. And I was just the closest blade.”
Tommy stepped forward now.
Gun raised.
Face unreadable.
“I should end you here.”
Campbell’s breath hitched. “And what does that make you?”
Tommy tilted his head. “Alive.”
The silence stretched.
Arthur’s hand twitched on his sidearm. John stood like stone.
Izzy whispered, “Tommy.”
He didn’t lower the gun.
“Tommy,” she repeated. “Don’t give him what he wants.”
That’s what snapped it.
Tommy turned — looked at her fully.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t plead.
She just shook her head.
“He dies a ghost if you let him walk out of here with nothing.”
Tommy’s hand lowered.
Just slightly.
Then, without warning, he stepped forward — slammed the barrel of the gun across Campbell’s face.
The man hit the wall hard, blood spilling from his temple.
Not dead.
But ruined.
Campbell slumped, groaning.
Izzy stood motionless, breathing shallow.
Tommy looked at Arthur.
“Strip him. Leave him where the rats can listen.”
John asked, “What about Grace?”
Tommy’s jaw flexed. “She’ll disappear before dawn. That’s mercy too.”
⸻
They walked in silence back toward the estate.
Izzy at Tommy’s side.
Their hands didn’t touch.
But their shadows walked as one.
At the doorstep, Izzy paused.
“You didn’t kill him.”
Tommy lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.
“No.”
“Why?”
He stared out into the dark.
Then looked at her.
“Because you asked me to choose mercy.”
Izzy nodded.
And for the first time in months, her voice softened.
“Then come inside. And let’s start again.”
⸻
The house was still. For the first time in weeks, quiet didn’t feel like dread — it felt like mercy.
Campbell was gone. Grace had vanished, her room cleared, her scent scrubbed from the halls.
Tommy had slept for three hours. Not much, but enough to call it real.
Izzy had not cried.
She’d woken up in his bed, curled into the spot he left warm, and stared at the ceiling. One hand rested gently over the gentle swell of her stomach.
And then—
Movement.
Not the flutter of panic.
Not the uncertain shift of limbs growing.
But a kick.
Strong.
Sure.
Present.
Izzy gasped. Sat up.
And when she placed her hands over that spot again, she felt it.
Another.
And then another.
She laughed — a short, broken sound — and said aloud, “Oh, my love… you’re still with me.”
⸻
Tommy was at the kitchen table, still in his shirt from the night before, sleeves rolled. He hadn’t made coffee yet. Just sat, breathing.
Izzy came in barefoot.
He looked up.
And her face — flushed, glowing, eyes wide — made him stand instantly.
She reached for him with both hands.
“They kicked,” she said, voice shaking. “Three times.”
He froze.
Then his hands were on her — not rough, not scared, but hungry. His palms pressed to her stomach as he dropped to his knees, forehead resting there, his breath shallow and wild.
“Kick again,” he whispered. “C’mon. Let me feel you.”
Izzy ran her fingers through his hair, smiled through the tears. “They know you.”
And then—
Kick
Right under his hand.
Tommy made a sound she’d never heard before — a laugh, and a sob, and a curse all tangled into one.
He looked up at her.
“I need you,” he rasped.
“Then have me.”
⸻
They didn’t make it to the bed.
Tommy pressed her gently to the wall of their bedroom, mouth finding hers like a man thirsty for years. His kisses were ravenous, but not brutal — they were made of need, of longing, of everything they had both swallowed in silence.
Her hands yanked his shirt loose from his trousers. His fingers traced her thighs beneath her nightdress, reverent, urgent. When he finally lifted the fabric up and over her head, he stared — not at her body, but at her.
Every inch of her.
Every place she had survived.
“Izzy,” he said, like it was the only thing keeping him sane.
She cupped his face. “Don’t go slow.”
And he didn’t.
He picked her up, her legs wrapping around his waist, her back hitting the wall. His mouth was on her neck, her chest, her shoulder — teeth grazing skin, lips kissing every bruise he hadn’t caused but still wanted to take away.
She moaned his name, loud and raw, as he moved inside her — deep, hard, but careful. Always careful now. Like he knew exactly how close to the edge they both were.
Their rhythm was pure desperation, hips slamming, breath ragged. She clung to him, nails raking down his back, and when her climax hit — it was a sob in his mouth.
“Tommy—God, Tommy—”
He followed with a growl, holding her tight, kissing her like he could crawl inside her lungs and live there.
Afterward, they stayed like that — clinging, panting, still inside each other.
Not lovers.
Not even survivors.
But home.
⸻
Izzy lay across his chest, one leg tangled with his, her hand curled over the place where their child had kicked like they were dancing to the sound of their love.
Tommy kissed her forehead, her cheek, her mouth — again, and again, and again.
“You saved me,” he whispered.
She smiled.
“You were worth saving.”
Chapter 17: All that we have, All that we choose
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: All that we have, All that we choose
The offices of the Shelby Company Limited no longer smelled like blood.
There was sunlight through the windows now. Clean paper on the desks. Order where chaos had once bled into every wall.
Tommy stood at the head of the long table — suit pressed, jaw clean-shaven, a pen in one hand and Izzy’s palm in the other.
Arthur and John sat to his left. Polly stood to his right.
And Izzy? She stood beside him — coat draped open, hand resting softly on her stomach. The baby had started moving every night now. Soft kicks. Promises.
Izzy was no longer the shadow behind the throne.
She was his equal.
Tommy signed the final document. Looked around the room.
Then simply said:
“We rebuild.”
⸻
The old crowd returned in whispers and waves. A few familiar faces. A few new ones. But the booths were full, the whiskey was flowing, and for the first time in too long… no one bled before midnight.
Izzy stood behind the bar with Ada, laughing at something Arthur mumbled, her hair loose and wavy, eyes softer now.
Tommy leaned in the corner, watching her like a man finally safe enough to stare.
When she caught him, he didn’t look away.
She smiled.
He tipped his glass.
It was peace — the kind that came after war, after loss, after too many nearlys.
But it wasn’t the end.
Not yet.
⸻
Izzy stepped out of the car onto the cobbled street, brows raised. “This doesn’t look like a pub.”
“It’s not,” Tommy said simply, offering his hand.
He led her inside a candlelit restaurant tucked between old stone buildings. Velvet curtains. Warm lighting. A table already waiting for them near the back.
She sat slowly, glancing at him. “What is this?”
He didn’t answer. Just poured her a glass of water, his own scotch untouched beside it.
They ate slowly. Talked softly. Her hand never left his on the table.
Until dessert.
He reached into his coat.
And brought out a ring.
Small. Gold. Classic. His mother’s.
He didn’t get down on one knee at first.
He just looked at her — eyes burning with something deeper than fire.
“I thought I’d lost everything,” he said. “And I was prepared to let it all go.”
Her breath caught.
“But you didn’t let me,” he whispered. “You made me fight. You made me believe I was more than the war, more than the blood.”
He stood.
Came around the table.
And knelt.
“Izzy Hartwell,” he said. “Will you marry me — not because we survived… but because we still choose each other, even after all of it?”
She didn’t cry.
Not yet.
She just nodded — one hand over her mouth, the other reaching for him.
“Yes.”
He slid the ring on her finger.
And she whispered, “It’s always been you.”
⸻
Izzy stood at the foot of the bed in one of his shirts, bare legs, hair wild.
He stepped behind her slowly, pressing a kiss to her neck, then her shoulder, then the place just beneath her ear that always made her shiver.
“Still want me?” she whispered.
He turned her to face him.
“No.”
Her breath caught.
He kissed her slowly, gently.
“I need you.”
⸻
They undressed in silence — no rush, no heat. Just reverence.
She climbed into bed first. He followed, laying beside her, brushing the backs of his fingers along her collarbone, then her waist, then down the curve of her thigh.
She kissed him this time — deep, hungry. And he let himself feel it.
Feel her warmth under his palms. Her hips rolling up to meet his. Her breath breaking in gasps as his mouth found every part of her that had once held pain, and turned it now into promise.
He moved inside her with care. With purpose.
Every thrust was slow, deep, filled with the kind of love that hurts before it heals.
She cupped his face.
And he whispered against her lips, “I will never stop choosing you.”
They came undone together — trembling, clinging, full of everything they had no words for.
⸻
Later, as they lay tangled in the sheets, their hands intertwined across the swell of her belly, Izzy whispered:
“We made it.”
Tommy kissed her temple and whispered back:
“Now we begin.”
⸻
It rained softly through the windowpanes, not enough to stain the sky — just enough to remind the world it was still breathing. The air smelled like lilac from the garden Polly had planted years ago, and fresh linen, and something new.
Izzy stood by the mirror in a simple ivory gown — soft sleeves, a modest train, fabric that shimmered faintly when she moved. It wasn’t expensive. Wasn’t grand.
But it was hers.
Her hair was pinned back loosely, curls falling down her back. No veil. No tiara. Just a silver hairpin in the shape of a crescent moon — a gift from Polly, once tucked into a velvet box with a quiet,
“You’ll wear this for your real beginning.”
Izzy placed a hand gently over her stomach. The baby was quiet this morning — perhaps resting, perhaps listening. Perhaps knowing.
Behind her, Polly appeared in the mirror’s reflection.
The matriarch didn’t speak at first. Just smiled — her eyes full of pride, sorrow, and a kind of love that couldn’t be described, only felt.
Polly stepped forward, placing both hands on Izzy’s shoulders.
“You look more like yourself than I’ve ever seen you.”
Izzy blinked, her voice soft. “I’m not nervous.”
Polly smiled. “That’s because this isn’t the start. It’s just the moment you say it out loud.”
Izzy turned to face her. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For raising me. For keeping me strong when I couldn’t be.”
Polly cupped her face and kissed her forehead.
“I knew you’d survive this world, love. I just didn’t know you’d help Tommy survive it too.”
⸻
Tommy sat alone in his shirt sleeves, waistcoat unbuttoned, cufflinks laid out on the desk. He’d been staring at them for ten minutes.
Arthur entered without knocking, a small white flower in his hand — a boutonniere Ada had fussed over that morning.
“Thought I’d pin this on you before you ran off,” he joked.
Tommy looked up slowly.
His voice was low.
“She said yes.”
Arthur frowned. “Course she did.”
“No, I mean… after everything. After the carriage. Campbell. Grace. She still said yes.”
Arthur shrugged.
“That’s because she saw you. The real you. Not just the gangster. Not just the man who built all this.”
Tommy looked down at the ring again. Then back at Arthur.
“I’m afraid I don’t deserve it.”
Arthur sighed. Clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“No one does. You earn it. Day by day. Same way she does.”
⸻
The rain had stopped just before noon, leaving everything dewy and green.
The chairs were simple. The arch covered in climbing roses Polly had coaxed back to life after winter. Ada stood beside Izzy, holding her bouquet — a wild bundle of white flowers and lavender. John grumbled about the mud Esme laughed softly beside him. Arthur cried once, then pretended not to.
Tommy stood waiting in a black suit, no tie, hair brushed neatly back.
Izzy stepped down the garden path with Polly at her side. No music. Just the sound of wind and breath and belonging.
When Tommy saw her, he didn’t smile.
Not fully.
But something broke in his face — something soft and rare, a kind of awe.
He hadn’t seen a church since France. Hadn’t believed in angels since childhood.
But she?
She made him believe in grace without guilt.
They met beneath the arch, hands joined, no priest. Just Polly’s voice, rich and strong.
“Do you swear to carry each other — through fire, through famine, through joy and peace — not because you must, but because you choose it, again and again?”
“I do,” Tommy said.
“I do,” Izzy breathed.
They kissed as the sky turned gold.
⸻
He helped her out of the gown slowly, reverently, like he was peeling back the pages of a life they were finally allowed to live.
She kissed him first — deep, slow, aching.
Their love was not frantic that night.
It was slow. Languid. Earned.
They undressed each other with laughter and silence, with whispers and gasps. Their bodies spoke more clearly than their mouths ever could. When he slid into her, it was with a groan against her neck, her name said like a vow.
“Izzy…”
She wrapped herself around him, every inch of her saying yes.
When they came, it was together — held, kissed, home.
⸻
Later, she lay with her head on his chest.
And for once, no one knocked.
No one bled.
No one chased the silence away.
“Mrs. Shelby,” he whispered.
Izzy smiled.
“You finally caught me, Tommy.”
He kissed the crown of her head.
“No, love,” he murmured. “You let me.”
⸻
Shelby Estate – Late Autumn, Early Morning
The fire was low. The sky was just beginning to turn. And the contractions had started three hours ago.
Izzy sat hunched at the edge of the bed, her hair clinging to her temples, a sheen of sweat breaking across her neck. Her breath came in tight, shallow pants.
Polly wiped her brow gently with a cloth. “You’re doing fine, love.”
Izzy gritted her teeth as another wave crashed over her. “F-fine—Jesus—”
Her voice broke into a sob halfway through the sentence. Polly gripped her shoulder.
“Breathe.”
“It hurts, Pol,” she gasped.
“I know. You’ll forget when you’re holding him.”
Izzy collapsed back against the pillows, arms shaking. Her legs had begun to tremble. Her knuckles were white where they gripped the bedsheets. Polly left to get more towels.
From the doorway, Ada’s voice echoed, low and urgent.
“She’s asking for Tommy.”
Polly turned, frowning. “Not yet. He shouldn’t—”
“She’s begging, Pol.”
Another cry from the bedroom made Polly’s decision for her.
“Go.”
⸻
Downstairs – Tommy, Barefoot, Breathless
He was in the kitchen, pacing. Shirt half-buttoned. Sleeves rolled. He looked like a man about to walk into battle.
Ada found him mid-step.
“She wants you.”
He froze.
“Now?”
“She won’t stop calling for you. And if you don’t come, she’ll walk down here herself and get you.”
Tommy was already moving.
⸻
Back Upstairs
She was sobbing when he entered.
Bent forward on her hands and knees now, moaning low, the way Polly had told her — riding the wave, breathing through the agony.
He dropped to the floor beside her without thinking.
“I’m here.”
Her hands reached for him blindly.
And when she found him, she didn’t let go.
Tommy pressed his forehead to hers, bracing her through the next contraction. “You’ve got this, Izzy. I’ve got you. You hear me?”
She whimpered, “Don’t leave.”
“Never,” he said. “Not now. Not ever.”
⸻
Hours Passed Like a War
Izzy labored with a force she didn’t know she had. Blood stained the sheets. Sweat rolled down her spine. The pain twisted deep and low — primal, unrelenting.
Tommy held her through every contraction. Whispered through every push. She screamed into his shoulder, fingers digging into his wrist, leaving half-moons in his skin.
“Breathe with me,” he said. “Come on, love. Just breathe.”
At one point she sobbed, “I can’t—”
And he cupped her face. “You are. Right now. You’re doing it.”
Polly called out from the foot of the bed. “I can see the head.”
Tommy looked down, eyes wide.
Izzy shook her head, gasping, shaking. “It burns—God—Tommy—!”
He held her close, kissed her forehead. “Let it burn. You’re almost there. You’re so close.”
Polly’s voice cut through the next cry.
“One more push.”
Izzy screamed.
And then—
Silence.
Then a sound — soft, wet, new.
A single cry.
Then another.
Polly lifted the baby, wrapped him quickly, voice breaking with joy.
“It’s a boy.”
⸻
Afterward in The Stillness
Tommy sat beside Izzy on the bed, her head resting on his chest, her breath slowing.
He held the baby in both arms, stunned.
The boy was small, red-faced, fists curled in tight little knots. But he was alive. He was breathing. And when Tommy touched his cheek, he turned into the touch like he knew.
Polly stepped forward and placed a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. Her voice was quiet.
“Well done, son.”
Tommy nodded once — unable to speak.
⸻
Later – As Night Fell
The house was quiet again.
Izzy slept beside him, exhausted but whole. One hand on Tommy’s thigh. The other curled under the blanket.
The baby — their son — rested against Tommy’s chest, heartbeat fluttering under his tiny ribs.
Tommy stroked a hand down his son’s back, then looked at the sky through the window.
The world outside could burn.
But in here?
There was light.
Chapter 18: And In the Quiet, We Grew
Chapter Text
EPILOGUE: And In the Quiet, We Grew
Two Years Later – Spring in Small Heath
The first thing you heard, stepping into the Shelby estate garden, was laughter.
Not sharp, drunken barks or business chatter — but light, rippling laughter, like sunlight on water. It came from the little boy dashing barefoot between the hedges, chasing a black-and-white dog that barked excitedly around him.
His curls were dark. His cheeks always flushed. And he ran like he had no fear at all.
Thomas Michael Arthur Shelby Jr.
Tommy had insisted on naming him after his brother. Izzy had insisted he learn to run, play, and read long before he learned to carry the weight of that name.
They called him Mick.
He was two years and seven months old, adored by everyone, and utterly unaware of how many men had bled to keep him safe.
⸻
The Kitchen – Warm Bread and Soft Eyes
Polly stood at the stove, apron dusted with flour, a knowing smirk on her face as she watched her grandson from the window.
“He’s going to climb that bloody fence again,” she called over her shoulder.
Izzy turned from where she was folding linen at the table, a gentle swell beneath her blouse once again — not yet showing, but present.
“He’s fast,” she said, amused. “Like his father.”
Polly arched an eyebrow. “Let’s just hope he’s not stubborn like him.”
Izzy smiled. Didn’t answer. Because the answer was yes. He was stubborn, bright, relentless. And perfect.
Polly came over and touched her belly, just as she had once before.
“Do you want to know?” Polly asked.
Izzy shook her head. “Not yet.”
But she rested her hand there, smiling faintly. Another heartbeat. Another chance.
⸻
Tommy sat beneath the shade of the pergola, legs crossed, a book unopened on the table beside him. He didn’t smoke much anymore. Didn’t drink before dinner.
He just watched them.
His son. His wife.
His life.
When Mick took a tumble in the grass, Tommy stood halfway — protective instinct still sharp — but Izzy only laughed, brushing grass from the boy’s knees as he grinned up at her.
Tommy sank back into the chair.
And exhaled.
⸻
Polly bathed Mick in the copper tub by the fire, humming something old and Irish under her breath. The boy splashed and giggled and babbled nonsense about pirates.
Ada arrived with pastries, Arthur with whiskey, John with a bottle of French perfume for Izzy — “because you deserve to smell better than this bloody town.”
It was family.
Messy. Loud. Alive.
When the child was tucked in, Izzy stood at the doorway watching him sleep, one hand cradling the small bump just beginning to grow beneath her ribs.
Tommy came up behind her and placed a hand gently over hers.
“We did it,” she whispered.
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “Not done yet.”
She turned to him, softly. “No?”
He kissed her once more — slow, sure.
“No,” he whispered. “This… this is just the beginning.”
⸻
The Shelby house glowed from within — golden light, soft voices, the lull of a piano playing somewhere upstairs.
No shouting.
No gunshots.
No ghosts.
Just a man, a woman, their child, and something rare blooming in the heart of Small Heath.
Peace.
Earned.
And finally, kept.
⸻
Shelby Estate – Late Autumn, Before Dawn
The house was quiet, but something had changed in the air.
It began with a whisper. A shift.
Then a gasp.
Izzy sat upright in bed, breath hitching, hand sliding to her stomach as the first contraction gripped low and deep — twisting, tight, and different than before.
She closed her eyes. Breathed through it.
But she knew.
It was time.
⸻
Polly wiped sweat from Izzy’s brow, voice calm but firm. “They’re closer together now. You’re doing beautifully, sweetheart.”
Izzy panted, hair clinging to her cheeks. “It hurts so much more this time.”
Polly smirked faintly. “That’s girls for you.”
A cry tore from Izzy’s throat as the next contraction hit hard — her knees buckling on the mattress, her hands gripping the headboard.
Ada hovered in the corner, face pale. “Do you want me to get him?”
Polly hesitated.
But Izzy’s voice was already cracking: “Yes. Get Tommy.”
Ada didn’t ask twice.
She flew down the stairs.
⸻
He was pacing.
Sleeves rolled. Vest off. Hands clenched behind his back.
The moment Ada appeared in the doorway, breathless and flushed, he froze.
“She’s asking for you.”
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t ask if it was alright.
He just ran.
⸻
Izzy was on her hands and knees now, moaning low, her breath shuddering in time with each contraction — deep and guttural and almost animal. Polly rubbed circles into her lower back, whispering.
Tommy dropped to his knees beside her like it was instinct.
“I’m here,” he said, voice ragged.
Her fingers found his sleeve. Gripped it.
“I can’t do this again.”
“You are,” he said. “Right now. And I’m not leaving.”
Another contraction hit. This one made her scream.
She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing.
He held her — arms wrapped around her, his hand on her belly.
Polly checked beneath the blanket. “She’s coming, Izzy. One more push.”
“I can’t—”
Tommy cupped her face. Forehead to forehead.
“Yes, you can. You are the strongest woman I’ve ever known. You brought me back to life — now bring her.”
Izzy screamed through the next contraction — one long, tearing cry that made Polly’s voice ring out:
“I’ve got her!”
And then—
A cry.
High. Sharp. Alive.
A daughter.
⸻
Izzy collapsed into Tommy’s arms, sobbing.
Polly wrapped the baby in a soft blanket and handed her, slowly, into Tommy’s waiting hands.
He sat down beside Izzy, stunned.
Their daughter blinked up at him with deep, curious eyes. Tiny fists waving. Her skin still pink, her breath still learning.
“She’s beautiful,” Izzy whispered, barely able to speak.
Tommy’s eyes were shining.
“She’s ours.”
⸻
Later That Morning – Quiet Footsteps Down the Hall
Mick stood in the doorway in striped pyjamas, hair a soft tumble of curls, clutching his stuffed dog in one arm.
Polly knelt down. “Do you want to meet your sister?”
He nodded solemnly.
Tommy sat on the edge of the bed with the baby in his arms. Mick climbed up carefully, crawling into his mother’s lap. Izzy kissed his hair.
Tommy bent low, holding the tiny bundle closer.
“She’s small,” Mick whispered.
“So were you,” Izzy smiled.
“What’s her name?” he asked.
Tommy looked at Izzy.
Izzy looked at her son.
And softly, she said, “Her name is Rose.”
Mick reached a tiny finger toward his sister’s hand.
The baby grasped it.
And the Shelby family grew again
⸻
The church was small and worn by time — stone walls softened by candlelight, wooden pews polished by years of hands and history. Ivy crept along the outer arches, and the smell of old wood and rain lingered in the air.
Tommy stood near the altar in his best suit, black with a grey waistcoat, Rose cradled in his arms — small, pink, fast asleep, swaddled in a pale christening gown made from the lace of Izzy’s old slip, stitched and gifted by Polly herself.
Izzy stood beside him in a soft cream dress, curls pinned back, eyes steady but glassy with feeling. Her hand stayed close to Mick’s small shoulder — the little boy fidgeting at her side in a smart buttoned jacket and shoes he hated.
Family filled the front rows: Arthur, Ada, John. Even Charlie Strong, sitting straight-backed beside Esme, their faces uncharacteristically reverent.
And at the front of it all stood Polly — not just as godmother, but as the heart of the family.
⸻
The Blessing
The priest spoke the rites softly, hands raised, voice echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling.
But it was Polly who stepped forward when it was time for the family’s words.
She took the child in her arms, brushing her thumb over Rose’s cheek.
“She’s small,” Polly whispered, more to herself than to the room. “But she’s got weight.”
The family stilled.
“She carries something — something from both of you. Fire and stillness. Thunder and bloom. She’ll change things. You’ll see.”
Izzy blinked hard.
Tommy stared, unmoving.
Polly looked up.
“I bless this child not just with safety, but with choice. May she never be bound by the blood that came before her, only strengthened by the love that surrounds her now.”
She looked at Izzy.
“You’ve done it, love.”
And then at Tommy.
“You’ve come home.”
⸻
Afterward – Outside the Church
Rain had stopped just before the ceremony. Sunlight broke through the clouds in golden stripes, lighting the cobblestones beneath their feet.
Tommy lifted Rose higher in his arms as she blinked sleepily at the light.
Mick tugged at Izzy’s skirt. “Did I do good?”
“You were perfect,” she whispered, kissing his curls.
Arthur handed Tommy a cigarette but he didn’t light it.
Instead, he turned to Izzy and asked, “Walk with me?”
She nodded, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow.
They strolled the quiet lane behind the churchyard — just the two of them, their daughter asleep in his arms.
“You alright?” she asked softly.
He looked down at the child. “I think so.”
Izzy smiled. “She looks like you, you know.”
Tommy raised a brow. “Poor girl.”
She laughed.
But then grew quiet.
“You think this’ll last?”
He stopped walking. Turned toward her.
“I don’t know what comes next,” he admitted. “But I know what I’ll protect. You. Them. Us.”
He kissed her — gentle, slow, deliberate.
And when they returned to the road, Rose stirred slightly in his arms.
Tommy didn’t even flinch.
He just held her closer.
Chapter 19: Book two coming soon
Chapter Text
Thorns remember her name
coming soon