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One would think that being a gangster's daughter would make you tough. Many people did think that way, so it came as a surprise whenever they came to encounter your innocent nature.
When a gangster has a daughter, he will never put her out in the fields of danger. He will do the opposite.
Protect her from taint, and in a sense, place her into a glass box like a rose.
You were a pure example of that rose, and if it weren’t for your usually shy and calm nature, you would have fought your father's decision.
You had only one true friend, and it hurt just thinking about the fact that your friend was your own uncle. Finn Shelby might have a lot of things in common with you, but his light in no way matched your own.
But there was anger in you. And it was directed purely at your father.
"Y/N!" His voice reasons through, being heard even through the walls of your room.
His footsteps were closing in on you as he paced up the stairs, and you placed the book you were reading down on your lap. Your brows came together as an afterthought.
"What, dad?" You bit out with the same decibel in your voice. The door opened a second later to reveal your father.
He was adorned in his usual expensive attire, and while everything in his outfit and posture seemed normal, the dullness in his eyes that appeared after Grace left was as present as ever.
And you hated him for it.
"We're going to the races," he announced, focused on his cuff links. "Pol's going to help you get ready."
His absence, both physical and mental, aggravated you for some reason. "I don’t want to go to the races."
There was rarely a time when you openly disagreed with something, let alone disobeyed. You did now, and there was no going back from your words.
You observed the way your father merely raised his brows, and that small act was more intimidating than yelling itself. "You are going to the races Y/N."
"No, I'm not!" You abruptly stood up, suddenly feeling sick of life.
You were done with people pushing you. Completely and utterly sick of everyone taking your kind heart for granted.
Your father, your family, your classmates…
It needed to stop.
And somehow you thought yelling at your father – the only true constant in your life – was going to put an end to it.
"Just leave me alone!" You cried, listening to your voice as it slipped past your lips. It no longer sounded like the gentle, joyous voice people were always so in awe of. "Please!"
You hadn't even noticed you were crying. Tears flowed unchecked down your rosy cheeks with no means to stop. It was a sight to see, you crying, as one would never be able to connect trauma of any kind to you.
For the first time in a while, Tommy had asked himself if perhaps his own sorrows prevented him to see the distraught in his daughter's identical ocean-blue eyes.
"For once in your life, just stop! Everyone, just leave me alone."
And he did.
His heart with him.
But he couldn’t pit point at who else exactly your cries were referring to.
And so help him god if he didn't find out.
You slipped past him in a haste to get away from him, and he didn't even notice until you reached the front door and stormed past it.
"Y/N!"
You were gone by the time your father reached the door.
***
Elders often pass negative stress down onto the children of their dysfunctional society. Their actions speak louder than words and are regularly mimicked by younger children. There is a pattern in bullying, as it's often the same. Thus, why the most venerable of the children are forced to be what one would call 'target practice' for those patterns.
Essentially, that's what you were.
And you hated yourself for it.
Why be given your mother's kind heart in a world in which one couldn't survive if they had what you did?
Why not live up to your Shelby name, and show society just how alike you were to your father?
One would think just the birth certificate would be enough.
Apparently not.
The gray clouds you were admiring were soon replaced by the worn, gravel road your boots just crunched under. You braced yourself on your palms, feeling them burn, no doubt scratched and bloody.
It didn't take long to put two and two together.
The patterns were here, ready as ever to decorate their target practice.
One thing led to another, and you found yourself crying in fatal position on the muddy road, a million soulless words itching into your skin, branding you forever.
The industries were loud, and no one was there to hear the commotion.
"Stupid little c#nt!"
"Where's your daddy now?"
"Look at her. So pathetic."
"C'mon, let's go, I'm bored of her already."
It took you minutes of lying on the floor to drag yourself back up and on the move.
And for the first time, you didn't find home comforting. Your cuts and bruises would have to settle somewhere else.
***
"Tell the Lee boys to wait for my orders," ordered Tommy as he sat on his desk, his head in his hands.
"But Tom, the Lee's are kin-"
"I don't give a shit!" He said, looking up at John with wide eyes. "Tell them to wait for my fucking orders."
He turned to Polly, "Have you seen 'er?"
"What'd you mean?" She asked him, tapping her cigarette against the ashtray.
For the first time, Tommy was sick of the wafting smell.
"Now where are you going, Tom?"
He seized them as he threw his jacket on, a mixture of fury and fear in his eyes, "To find me daughter."
Tommy turned to John, "If the Lee's know what's good for them, then they'll wait for my fucking orders."
***
The cold night was placed under a dark, gray sky. It was a spectacle of white blinking stars, and the only solace you could find.
You hugged your lanky, bruised arms close, your head placed on your knees. You were sitting on a crate of some sort, and while Charlie's yard was full of mostly safe ones, it was quite hard to guess whether a crate was full of explosives.
You might be a softer breed, but that didn't mean you were deaf.
Your father was sailing toward legitimate business, and you trusted him enough to ease up on the explosives.
Suddenly, you didn't feel like you were alone. You raised your head and looked behind yourself, catching sight of an intimidating figure. It was fairly easy to make sense of who it was, given that several fires were lit all around the canal.
You didn't try to run, only switched your gaze toward the front.
Warmth enveloped you after a second, your father having placed his bigger coat over your smaller body. He even placed his hat on your unruly hair, not saying anything until he settled the clothes on you.
Your small, fragile heart couldn't take it anymore. The tenderness of a father's touch being the last straw.
Your armor fell, the tiredness of the day seeping through, and you began to sob.
Tommy couldn't see well because of the night, so your bruised face was visible only when you looked at him with tears in your eyes. He had merely a second to register what he saw, and a second more to keep his brewing anger in check before you stood up and threw your arms around his neck and just cried.
"I'm so sorry," you sniveled, "I'm so sorry, dad."
He was always so bad with comforting. Especially because he arrived into your world after the war for the second time; the time you couldn't see your father in the man he was before.
But you learned to love him again, despite the fact that he was no longer his smiling self.
And so he just held you silently, knowing deep in his bones that that was what you truly needed.
A rock.
A lifeline.
A father's embrace.
Eventually your sobs became less frequent, and what they were replaced with small hiccups, he brought his face to yours, getting on your eye level. His eyes went over every scratch and bruise until he placed a hand on your damp cheek, brushing your tears away with his thumb and holding you.
Tommy didn't say anything as he grabbed your smaller hands in his bigger one, looking over the bloody palms you were now in possession of. He brought them to his lips and kissed them better, inhaling your scent just like he did when you were a small child.
Your father wasn't going to press for answers this night, and you couldn't be gladder for his ability to perform a perfect silent condolence.
"You don't apologize to me Y/N," he spoke quietly. "I don't deserve it."
Your breathing matched his own, "But you do. I'm so sorry."
And then you cried again, and he held you close again, for the first time in years crying with you.