Before, life had felt simple. Michael Gray been a man, a warrior. He'd been a dirty gangster hidden behind slick clothes and impeccable taste. Now- he was a crippled, broken man with anger sewn deep into his heart. Tom had cast him out, like Lucifer from heaven. Now; Michael Gray, was no longer an archangel of the Peaky Blinders.
He'd chosen Polly over Tommy. And by God, Tommy's wrath was unending. Michael would surely know regret for his choice every day now indefinitely. That was part of Tommy's design. To inflict constant and unyielding torment on his enemies and betrayers. Though he was family, Michael knew; he was not above Tommy's fury.
So he had found himself on that fucking ship. The SS Munroe. The letter, with a sizeable cheque to see him sufficiently covered until money begun to flow in, had instructed him to align himself closely with the Sabbatini family as the monopoly of the liquor import to New York was taken over. Tommy had underlined 'at whatever cost'. Michael took this as a challenge. He never fancied himself as much of a follower, but the loss of Tommy's confidence was an enormous blow. He felt like a wounded animal, bitter and pulsing with agitation as it felt like the world turned in on him. If winning over the Sabbatini family and filling the Shelby coffers with US dollars was what it would take to win Tommy's approval- then that's what he would do, and one hundred times over at that.
The three night journey to New York had not been managed alone. No- Isaiah and two others had followed him over, one of Johnny Dog's kin and the other, a no good Peaky Blinder son, all ready for the New World. Together the four of them schemed and chain-smoked the entire way across the seas. A bottle of whisky in hand had kept the conversation lively and the four had become like a band of brothers, godless and unruly- Birmingham's heathens ready to be set upon New York like rapid dogs hungry for bones.
Across the sea, land begun to approach, Michael cast a miserable eye outside the small porthole, watching the docks draw closer and closer among the waves. He'd never wanted to leave Birmingham. But this would be a new chance, a prospect to rise up and make a name for himself.
'Ready brother?' Called Isaiah, clapping a hand against Michael's shoulder as he adjusted his overcoat into place, ready to join the throngs of people bracing to flood into the sprawling city. Michael steeled his gaze, facing ahead and awkwardly coming to stand, leaning heavily against his cane for support. Truth be told his body still hadn't healed from the shooting two months prior, and he was doubtful it ever would. The doctors said that the scar tissue would always be present and apparently- ever painful. A self-prescribed diet of cocaine, morphine and alcohol kept most of the agony of the bullets at bay, especially from the bullet that had lodged itself in the left juncture of where thigh met groin. Michael remembered listening to Polly tell him just how fucking lucky he was. But always was he aware of just how close he had come to death, and not just for the first time.
'Let's get this fuckin' over with.' Michael huffed under his breath, slowly and steadily emerging from the cabin with his boys in tow, ready to negotiate customs as the liner approached port.
In the hallways, the crowds gave him a wide berth, encouraged by the men surrounding him, pushing bodies aside. He hated this, the eyes of the elderly looking at him with a knowing look, the understanding of living life as less than whole. He suffered more under the looks of beautiful women, who before his very eyes, fleetingly reduced him down to nothing than a handsome face with broken body. Back in Birmingham, before John's death and his own near miss, Michael could have had any woman he wanted. Now he just longed for the soft skin of woman that wouldn't look at him with horror at his awful disfigurement.
Being herded through immigration was far easier than he had anticipated. Handing over his passport and waited for the man to recognise his name never came.
'Business or pleasure?' The man asked in a thick New Yorker accent, barely sparing him a glance.
'Pleasure.' Michael replied; a dark, Machiavellian smile curling at his lips without his own authority. The man nodded, curtly stamped him, and waved him on. Michael exhaled in relief. He was finally in New York and ready to do battle with what tools he had been given. Michael had been told a car would be waiting at the docks to pick them up and take them to the Sabattini stronghold in Little Italy, and sure enough, a line of stunning Rolls-Royce Phantoms were parked waiting for them, but most surprising was what stood proudly in front of them.
She was far more beautiful than anything his mind could conjour up. The whole world slowed as he drew closer to her. She was impossibly beautiful, from a distance he couldn't miss her flowing white blonde hair and diminutive stature. Her skin was pale but striking against the bland surrounds they found themselves in. She held his gaze defiantly as he drew closer, he noted how her eyes shone the most brilliant green he had ever seen, and he had seen Tommy's collection from the Romanovs. Her lips were fully and of dusty pink and she wore very little make up save for some of that kohl he often saw Esme wearing before she had upped and disappeared.
'Mister Gray I presume?' She greeted aloud, surveying him and his boys evenly as they stood before her.
'Right you are madam.' Michael countered with a tip of his peaked cap, he was sure the razor would have glinted in the dim sunshine.
'If you'll follow me. I'll be taking you to Mr. Sabbatini now.' She rounded the car and placed herself squarely in the front passenger seat, leaving both Michael and Isaiah exchanging bewildered looks between themselves, before finally settling into the backseat. Smoothly reclining as the automobile pulled away from the curb and towards their first assignment- to charm the head of the Sabbatini family, Vincenzo 'Mago' Sabbatini.