Chapter Text
The air at Leyhill was deceptively fresh for a prison—brisk and pine-laced, the kind of Surrey breeze you might expect at a country estate rather than an open correctional facility. If not for the quiet surveillance hum and the distant murmur of guards, it might’ve passed for peaceful.
Susie Glass walked the stone path like she owned it.
Her dark-blue trench cinched neatly at the waist, matching a Liberty silk scarf in moody jewel tones tied elegantly around her neck. Vintage square tortoiseshell sunglasses framed her face like she’d stepped out of a late-sixties film still. Not a strand of her hair out of place. Lips red, nails oxblood, jewelry yellow gold—chunky hoops, three rings on one hand, two on the other, all glinting like quiet declarations.
She carried a wicker picnic basket in one hand. It was large, lidded, and characteristically extravagant for a prison visit—but that was the point. Inside: a bottle of wine, blood-orange segments, smoked almonds, a wedge of brie, a bar of dark chocolate, and the crown jewel—a slab of fresh rosemary focaccia she’d baked herself that morning. The kind of thing her father used to pinch straight from the oven even before it cooled—back when her mum was still around.
Eddie Horniman walked beside her, relaxed but alert, in his usual pared-down elegance. No tie today—just a white shirt under a cashmere blazer, open collar and sharp lines. He looked like he belonged at a boardroom in Mayfair, not on prison grounds. But then again, so did she.
Bobby Glass was already waiting at their usual table—sleeves rolled, cigar lit, sunglasses slightly too dark for the modest sun. He looked, as always, like the sort of man who could arrange a hit before dessert.
“You look good, sweetheart,” he said as Susie leaned down to kiss his cheek. “Better than last time. Bit of colour in your face. Glowin’, even.”
“New moisturizer,” Susie replied dryly, setting the basket down on the table.
Bobby turned his gaze to Eddie and gave him the nod. That particular nod. The one that said, I’m watching you, son. Tread carefully, even if she’s the one wearing the lethal heels.
“Ah, the Duke . Still standing, I see. No bruises, no scratches. I take it the arrangement’s... civil? ”
Eddie smiled coolly. “Getting better every day. To be honest, I think I’ve grown on her.” He looked over, but Susie only scoffed, shaking her head in denial.
They sat, and she began unpacking the basket with quiet efficiency. Napkins. A proper corkscrew. Eddie took the bottle of wine and uncorked it with practiced ease, then poured for all three of them.
“Don’t worry,” Susie said as she handed her father a slice of focaccia on a ceramic plate. “It’s that good olive oil from Greece.”
“Luxury,” Bobby muttered, tearing a piece off with reverence.
Conversation flowed easily after that. Bobby asked about the Dublin warehouse ( “Is Murphy still sniffing around?” ), and Susie confirmed that he was, but that they had it under control. Eddie relayed an amusing anecdote about a crooked supplier who’d tried to undercut them on packaging and ended up short one Range Rover and two kneecaps.
Jack came up too.
“He’s doing more on the business side of things now,” Susie said, peeling a blood orange with one perfectly manicured hand. “Coaching the lads at the gym, managing the day-to-day. Still doing PT, but no more sparring.”
“Good,” Bobby said. “Boy’s done enough damage to himself.”
“He’s doing it for me,” she added quietly, like it wasn’t up for debate.
A beat passed.
Then Eddie cleared his throat.
“There’s something else,” he said.
Bobby leaned back slowly, lips twitching at the edges.
Eddie continued, voice calm but deliberate. “Susan and I have decided to expand our partnership.”
Bobby’s brow arched. “Expand?”
“Into other areas of our lives.”
He didn’t say love .
Didn’t say marriage .
But it was there .
Susie didn’t flinch. Just reached for her wine glass and swirled the deep red liquid with one long, ring-heavy finger resting on the stem.
Bobby gave it a moment.
“Well, thank fuck .”
He beamed, wide and unapologetic. “Took you long enough. Jesus.”
Susie rolled her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”
“And I’ll say this now,” Bobby added, jabbing a finger toward them. “I want a grandchild. Soon. No faffin’ about. You two’ve got the fire, and I’m not gettin’ younger in here.”
“Subtle as ever,” Susie muttered, taking a sip of wine.
“Don’t need to be subtle,” Bobby said, still grinning. “Not when I’m lookin’ at Britain’s underworld power couple. Go on. Make it official. Knock her up. You’ve got my blessing.”
Eddie met Susie’s eyes across the table.
And for once, she didn’t tease. Didn’t look away. Just held his gaze for a second—and smiled.
Soft. Rare. A little devastating.
Then she quickly turned to Bobby, dry as ever:
“Wow, Dad—so glad we fought for gender equality so I could be publicly offered up for breeding like a prize mare.”
Bobby barked out a laugh. “If the shoe fits, sweetheart.”
She flipped him off with a perfectly polished finger and finished her wine.
Eddie chuckled, and beneath the table, his hand found hers. No fanfare—just a steady, easy hold. Like he meant to keep it there.
Bobby sat back with his tea, tore another piece of focaccia, and muttered with complete sincerity—
“God, I love your mum’s focaccia.”
“ My focaccia.”
“You know what I mean.”