Chapter Text
"You think it's going to hold?"
When yesterday's storm hit the city of Birmingham, it was hard to tell which boat wasn't damaged. Looking around Charlie's yard, you guessed it was Tommy's boats that were intact and solid as rocks.
Still, there was doubt swirling in your mind.
Charlie looked up from the boat, having just finished swiveling around with the heavy crate to get it in after you offered no help. His dirty hat was bent on his head and puffs of air escaped his lungs.
"Why the fuck are you here?" He cried out, arms out as to point out where you were. "You're like a fucking migraine."
You gazed around, eyes travelling from the running canal and the igniting fire behind you before you shrugged nonchalantly. "It was either this or I stayed with bloody Linda."
Charlie gave up opposing you, "Tom's orders?"
You nodded bitterly, "Billy's cute and I love him, but Linda…"
Seeing how his face twisted uncomfortably at the size of the thing he was holding, you decided that it was time to join Charlie and offer him a hand. "I really don't think it'll hold Charlie."
"Shut the fuck up."
"I'm just saying," you pointed out, hands on the crate to keep balance as the boat roughened up. "See? I don't know how it's still standing."
He grunted, seemingly understanding of the reality of the situation. Profanities flew out his mouth and into the brittle air. Charlie's boot caught on the wood, and he slipped, catching onto the railing for support. "That's it," you announced, back straightening as you spoke. "I'm getting bloody help and unless you want to die, I suggest you let me."
His glare was enough. "I'll be right back."
Letting you go out of your way to get help wasn't something the older man minded on a daily. While he usually held distaste toward your clean, neat riding boots stepping onto the sacred soil of his yard, it was on days like this when rain left marks on the waters that he appreciated you most out of everyone. Despite how annoying you were sometimes.
But this time, danger lurked around the corner. Real danger. Italian danger.
You were already gone by the time his brain thought that it might not be such a good idea to let you, Tommy's girlfriend, wander around vulnerable and alone.
***
If you tried to remember every Peaky boy that was in service of the Shelby family, you'd be left with nothing but a headache. That's why it was incredibly hard to find men with a good built and razors in their hats without knowing anything about them.
The streets were empty, muddy and worn. It wasn't busy, it was calm even.
Finally spotting three men was the highlight of your day. "Oi there lads!"
All three turned, and their brows raised ever so slightly in surprise. They wore Peaky hats, that were no doubt razored and groomed, but carried a different air altogether.
You didn't have time to question their mustaches because the next thing you knew, an arm sneaked around your neck and it was only a matter of seconds before darkness consumed you.
***
"Where is she?!"
Tommy's voice was raised, his hands clutched into fists at the table. His men couldn't see, but he was shaking from inside. His insides were burning, his heart clenched until it near burst.
He felt fear, genuine fear, for the first time in years.
His older brother, Arthur Shelby, sat idly in his chair. He didn't mind Tommy's raised voice; the shrieking sound of him yelling at poor men that did nothing wrong was pleasant. The eldest brother itched for the battle of violence, for blood that would coat his hands.
And with a perfectly reasonable excuse. "How do they even know who she is?"
Michael Gray was the voice of reason in this matter, the only one able to work this out diplomatically because asking question no one thought about seemed to be his thing.
Arthur answered him, "I think they saw 'er at John's funeral."
Charlie was met with nothing but anger in Tommy's eyes. The older man's eyes softened, and his eyebrows came down into a saddened frown, "Look Tom I'm sorry. She—"
"Charlie," Tommy cut him off, a shaky finger in the air to silence him. "Not a fucking word. Not another…FUCKING WORD!"
And then he swiped at his desk, the glass objects shattering into the wall beside him. They reached the floor in the form of million bonded pieces. There was blood on Tommy's hands from the glass cutting into his hand.
But he didn't care.
He cared about you, but you weren't there.
He didn't care for his hand, yet there it was, mocking him.
Because he couldn't kill the man who took you with it.
***
Your lungs were burning, the water trapped in your throat. You couldn't swallow it even if you tried. It was hard to breathe, hard to keep your eyes open without feeling tears prickle because of how much they burned. You gagged once, twice and then threw up the remains of your breakfast and Linda's tea next to your chair. It freed the capacity of your body, the vomiting, allowing them access yet again. You didn't mean to do it, but it became a battle for air hours ago. You'd do anything to not choke on your own spit at this point.
The smell of blood was making your head spin, and without a clear source it was disturbing just thinking about the possible cause. It began to feel harder to stay conscious.
How long has it been?
When they took you, it was still early in the day. But now, it could be deep into the night. The blindfold was itchy, sinking into your eyes until you were sure it bruised.
The sound of footsteps had your heart jump into your throat. You could feel the thunderous beating of your heart. Every sense became heightened, yet vision was the one to be taken away from you. You didn't want to go through it again.
"Take off her blindfold."
"Si signore."
Not again.
You almost cried but didn't beg to stop the agony. The light blinded you when they roughly took the blind off, and you had to close your eyes to protect your usually pretty irises. It was the next day, you realized, as the sun glowed brightly from outside the warehouse you were crammed in. Your breathing was shallow, and you fought the urge to squirm when your eyes spotted the water.
The man before you tsked, bringing your attention to his expensive, dark suit. It was probably on Tommy's level of expensiveness. The fact made you shiver because men like that use words as an instrument of torture.
And you could only take so much. "Such a pretty face you have there."
His voice was low, hitting you more than water ever could. He flicked the toothpick in his mouth, feeling its sharp edge. "Tommy is one lucky man. It's a shame he isn't here."
You stopped breathing.
There was a time, hours ago, that the only thing that was on your mind was Tommy. You replayed his lips on yours a million times in your head. His scent that followed you everywhere. It was enough to brainwash you that he was there, keeping you safe.
But you hadn't seen him for hours. His scent was gone now, and all you could smell was the sewer and the water.
"Give her some scarpe (shoes). The poor girl is freezing."
And he was right. Damn him he was right. Your arms were shaking, bare feet numb against the concrete. So, numb you almost didn't feel them. You wanted to wiggle your toes, make sure there was proof that they still functioned, but didn't, afraid of what doing so would do to you if they weren't moving. You were filthy, your dark coat stripped off you and shirt wet from all the water, exposing you in the worst possible way. You didn't even want to think about your hair, knowing it was stuck to your face and only just beginning to dry.
A man went out to retreat a pair, but you didn't know it just yet. Flinching inwardly, you finally caught the mob's full attention.
"Hey, hey bella," he whispered, almost sensually. Your insides churned at his proximity. His thumb on your wet cheek felt like a knife. "Don't fret. It's not a good look on you."
You didn't know what came over you, save the fact that your pain finally reached its breaking point. Your voice was hoarse when you bit out into his face, "Fuck off."
Changretta's hand grasped your chin, "Tsk, tsk, tsk," he murmured, roughly holding you captivated. You realized then you were wrong about him. It wasn't the words that were his biggest weapon. No. It was his face. Eyes dark and soulless that made one cry just looking at them. Death was greeting you, blinking in his irises. "That wasn't very nice, now, was it?"
"What do you want from me?" You asked, working your jaw in the process. Every word was cruel on your throat, but you didn't dare to cry because of it. One of his men handed him the expensive riding boots you were so fond of, them being a gift from Tommy, and kneeled down to take a cold foot. Goosebumps arose on your body, equivalent to his sickly touch. One boot went over the other and warmth seeped through.
You were never so grateful for warmth before.
"I have a bullet," he teased, drawling the words into a taunt when he came to face you, caressing your foot. It was a play, you realized. His other hand disappeared into an expensive pocket, coming out with, true to his words, a bullet. Letters were engraved into the bronze-like case, and you knew immediately what they formed. "I could've killed you; you know. Drowned you. Let the water consume you until you couldn't breathe cos that's what you deserve."
Every word was a taunt. A sickly taunt meant to scare you.
And it was working. Your insides churned.
"I would have thrown you in the river so he would never be able to find you."
Just the thought of that had your shivering, the cold droplets of water from your hair were sneaking down your clad body like snakes. It was torture. Knowing what might have happened to you… Still can in all honesty.
"But my mother knows you," he murmured with an eye roll, explaining why he has yet to drown you in the Thames. "She said you didn't deserve to die in the waters."
Oh no.
"Send Tommy Shelby a message for me, hm?" Luca told you, his hand grasping your face to bring your eyes to his. "If he finds you alive, of course. Tell him I will take everything from him, and then when I do…I will put a bullet through his head, just like I did to John."
You didn't know what came over you in that moment. Where the bravado emerged from was unknown to you, but its presence likely had to do with the amount of fear and anger that forget together until the only thing that was left was pitiful courage.
And so, you did the only thing you could while bounded and captivated…
You spit in his face.
You felt a strange tingle of pleasure roll through your bones, and a content sigh escaped you in the form of a struggled, disformed breath. You wanted to scream at him, to threaten him the same way but the body you owned opposed you greatly.
Watching as he straightened his posture was disturbing to say the least. The Italian reached for his silken handkerchief; his lips pressed into a thin line that gave away nothing about how he was feeling about your little breakthrough. You had hoped for a slight arch of a brow, something that would give away what he felt.
But there was nothing. Just a blank, clean slate of his face.
"My mother really was wrong about you," Changretta mused, almost to himself, straightening his suit and grabbing the cloth that hung loosely around your neck in the process of doing so. Instinctively, you started to shake your head, but he didn't spare you a glance as he tugged roughly at the cloth, stuffing it around your mouth instead of eyes.
Cutting you off.
"It would be a pity to cover those beautiful eyes of yours."
It was ten times harder to breathe through your nose. There was still water left in it, and it burned with each intake of air, making your head hurt. You panicked, quickening your breathing in the process. It began to hurt, your lungs igniting.
"The waters would be a mercy, bella."
And with that, he left.
His men followed him out, taking everything with them. Everything that could help you escape if you got your hands on it. Your chair was bound to the ground, and you were bound to the chair, surrounded by nothing but stripped, gray walls of a damaged warehouse.
With nowhere to go.
It was then, just then, that you finally allowed your tears to flow unchecked. With no one to watch you silently cry, you cursed at everyone and everything.
Tommy especially.
Your tears were on his hands.