Alex reached up and touched his cheek with her good hand.
"I've told you how much you've come to mean to me in the short time we've been acquainted." She choked back the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her, and steadied her voice. "But you have to admit that our bond has become intense very quickly. I have to wonder how much of what you've just said to me is motivated by guilt-whether it be conscious or subconscious."
He stiffened. "You think I'm just feeding you a line?"
"That's not what I mean," Alex said softly. Her index finger lingered along his full lower lip, and she nearly lost her resolve. A sudden flare of pain in her right hand, however, was quite effective at tamping down the wisp of desire that had begun to make its way into her core.
She took in a breath, trying to distance herself from the pain by focusing on their conversation. "There's no doubt that the circumstances that brought us together have shaped our relationship. How could they not? Few couples have a casual meeting that is promptly followed by an full-throttled attempt on their lives. And even fewer experience a threat to such a degree that one party is forced to move in with the other for protection. From our time in France, both of us well know that violence and chaos can forge an intense attachment among those struggling to survive it. I suppose it's instinctual—a way to increasing the odds of living to see the next day."
In response,Tommy slid the small signet ring off his little finger, then took her left hand in his. Fixing his eyes on hers, he gently slipped the gold band onto her ring finger.
The circlet was still carried his warmth. Alex could have sworn that the skin beneath it began to tingle. It was as if Tommy's personal brand of charisma had been transferred onto her. She looked down at the initials on the ring. TSM.
"Thomas Michael Shelby," he murmured, folding her hand into a fist. "I want everyone to know that you are mine."
She bit her lip, and lowered her eyes.
He tilted her chin up, and she saw his jaw had tensed. "What's wrong?"
"Tommy, I—I don't know how to say this without sounding like I'm trying to put you off, because nothing could be farther from the truth. When we were at Olive's cottage, I told you in embarrassingly honest language how I feel about you. But we ended up in bed together before we ever had a proper date. I don't—-"
He raised an eyebrow. "So the Lee wedding wasn't a proper date? I seem to recall us dancing together—you were a fucking vision in that green dress."
She rolled her eyes. "I'd hardly call it the most intimate of moments. We were in the midst of a crowd of drunk Romani...with sweet Baba Theodosia predicting that I'd be a Shelby broodmare before too long."
"Problem?" As his gaze swept over her, Tommy could not hold back a smirk.
Alex laughed. "Not for you, I'm sure. After all, you don't have to carry a child for 9 months, do you? But this just illustrates my point. You don't even know if I want to have children—I might not even like them."
He sighed, and looked up at the ceiling before turning back to her. "Please don't insult my intelligence."
"What?"
"You're a natural with Finn—and I caught you staring at Baba Theodosia's infant granddaughter with a silly smile on your face."
"I was thinking how cute her wee yellow dress was."
A broad grin spread across his face. "And you were imagining our daughter lying a blanket on a sunny hill in Sutton Coldfield wearing the exact same dress."
She lifted her chin. "That is not true."
He leaned over, and reached for the pack of cigarettes that were tucked inside his the pocket of his overcoat. Pulling them out, he gave her a sideways glance, and shook his head. "You are a terrible liar, Alex Ross. Those pretty pursed lips give you away every time."
She made a face at him, and his expression instantly transformed into the grave countenance she had seen him assume when he was focused on business. "Okay, then. Never let it be said that I don't know how to compromise. We can stop at eight if I have my four boys by then."
When Alex laughed again, she was rewarded with the sort of smile that she thought gave a glimpse of what Tommy had been like before the war. The upward quirk of his mouth was really only a small part of what made him so attractive at that moment. The tiny crinkles around his eyes warmed the blue of his irises, transforming them into a kaleidoscope of colors that took her breath away for an instant.
The swirls of grey, aquamarine, and green reminded her of a long distant autumn afternoon spent on a misty Scottish beach. She hesitated, then said, "Have you ever been to Luskentyre Beach, on the Isle of Harris?"
Tommy struck a match. A tiny flame traced a small arc into the darkening shadows, then vanished. He took a drag, then exhaled a languid, rolling plume of smoke that only served to accentuate his chiseled good looks. "I've never been to Scotland, so that would be a no," he said, leaning back and tucking an arm behind his head.
A sudden burst of rain lashed the window, and Alex looked away. "I hate it when you do that."
"Do what?"
She flushed. "Make smoking look sexy."
A flicker of amusement showed in his eyes. "Easily fixed. I can just channel Uncle Charlie down by the cut, and drop ash all over my shirt."
"That will do nicely. Uncle Charlie is a good man, but he's not exactly—" Alex shifted, and gasped as a bolt of pain shot into her bandaged hand. She clutched the edge of the bed, fisting the sheets in her left hand. Tommy put down his cigarette, and put an arm around her shoulder to steady her.
"Bad, is it?" he asked quietly.
After a moment, she shook her head. "Could be worse."
"Here, lean against me." He drew her against his chest, and carefully slid a pillow under her right arm. She closed her eyes, and allowed her breathing to slow, matching the timing of his slow, easy inhalations.
"So, what were you going to say about Luskentyre?"
"I suppose it's my Barafundle. It's such a gorgeous place, with some of the most wild, windswept landscapes you've ever seen. Harris is a study in contrasts—-the northern part of the island is rocky, even desolate in some areas. But once you drop down into the southern area, the mountains give way to the white sand beaches of the west coast. They say Luskentyre on a sunny day gives you a glimpse of paradise—the water is a turquoise so clear that you can see through it to the bottom, and the sand fairly sparkles in the sun. I was there on a windy, overcast day, and there was a fine mist of rain in the air. But the ocean on that stormy day was an indescribably beautiful color—a mix of blue, green, and grey. The waves seemed almost alive—as if they were possessed by a restless energy searching for the peace that has always managed to elude its grasp." Her throat tightened. "When you smiled just now, that's what I saw in your eyes."
He was silent for a moment, then rested his head on her shoulder. "When I'm with you, the sounds of the tunnels—-the constant drip of the water from above, the slosh of the mud, the incessant fucking clinking of the German shovels—they just go silent." He kissed the hollow above her collarbone, his lips skimming upwards. "Never think that I'm with you because of guilt," he murmured, his warm breath teasing the tiny curls that clustered at the nape of her neck. "You've given me a bit of my life back."
A pleasant shiver spread down her spine, and she relaxed against him. "I just want you to be sure. When I'm with you like this, I feel more secure than I've ever felt in my life—because I'm done with war. God willing, this mess with Sabini will soon be behind us, and then I'll have the rest of my life to look forward to. A future where I'll be with a man who is confident and supportive. A man who's successful in his own right—who doesn't care that I've my own career, and isn't threatened by my education."
Thunder boomed in the distance, followed by a flash of lighting. "It seems as though we've found a bit of peace in each other, eh?" He rested his chin on her shoulder, then chuckled, his chest vibrating against her back. "Fucking ironic, that is. No one else would ever picture me as a refuge from the turmoil of the world."
Xxx
"Now we're getting somewhere!" Sabini crowed, slapping the table. The marionette knight, an imposing four feet of plumed helmet, polished armour, and bejeweled sword, slashed at the bandits attacking him. Limbs flew across the stage as a pile of bodies rapidly formed. Reinforcements rushed to the hero's aid, and the battle intensified. Wounds bled beet juice that served as a reasonable facsimile of blood, and wooden limbs flew across the stage. By the time the curtain fell, a pile of marionette bodies had formed stage left.
Sabini stood up, clapping with enthusiasm. "Fottutamente fantastico!" he shouted.
The pointed toe of his mother's boot hit his leg an instant later. "Porca miseria! Sei un uomo importante!" she hissed. "Stop acting like a peasant who doesn't know his shoes are covered in shit!"
He felt a surge of annoyance, then realized she was right. These people should be applauding him. After all, he was the most important man in Birmingham.
Sitting down, he muttered, "Chiedo scusa, mamma." He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you for arranging this. It was brilliant."
The puppeteers came out and bowed. He waved an imperious hand at them, then nodded at Gianmarco, his lieutenant. "Have Alberto take these gentlemen back to the hotel. They've put on a good show, and I want them well taken care of. Then bring in my two guests. And have the waitress bring me a new glass."
"Certo, capo." Gianmarco ushered the puppeteers out.
Maria raised an eyebrow. "Would you like for me to leave?"
"No, mamma. I want you to watch and listen, then give me your opinion afterwards."
A comely waitress in a stylish off-the-shoulder red dress suddenly materialized. She bent over, positioning herself so that her boss, and not his mother, got a lingering look at her cleavage. She placed a chilled, straight sided shot glass in front of Sabini, then knelt at his side. As she looked up at him, the tiny silver beading on her bodice reflected the light.
Maria looked away, disgusted by the waitress' painted red lips.
In an instant, the woman's hand snaked under the table, finding the erection that was waiting for her. One nimble twist of her fingers opened his fly, and she closed her hand over him.
He leaned back in his chair, spreading his legs slightly as her fingers began to caress and stroke his length. "Is it cold enough, sir?" she inquired. "I was afraid it was a bit too hot in here."
"Fuck, no," he said, struggling to keep his voice even.
Maria made a disparaging noise. Sabini felt himself start to soften, and cursed under his breath.
"It's fine," he said curtly. "You're dismissed." The waitress rose to her feet, and sashayed off.
"What are you, fifteen?" his mother hissed, leaning over the table. Her hand shot out, delivering a stinging slap to his face. "What kind of a man lets a slut slap his salami right in front of his own mother?"
"Mi dispiace, mamma. Ti prego, perdonami."
Pulling out a rosary from her pocket of her black dress, she began to run the wooden beads through her fingers, muttering the familiar prayers under her breath.
The door swung open, and Sabini sat up, squaring his shoulders. Giancarlo brought in two men, and gestured for them to stand before Sabini. Eyes remaining watchful, the lieutenant took a step back, and gave his boss a nod.
The gangster filled the glass in front of him, then took a sip.
"Tell me your names, and where your family is from.
A tall, muscular man stepped forward confidently. "Salvatore Falcone. Palermo."
Sabini looked up. "What part?"
"I was born in Albergheria."
"The old quarter," the gangster mused. "What was your father's trade?"
"He was a cobbler. Died of a fever when I was 15. My mother sent me to the Order of St. John of God, but I didn't last long there." He grinned, revealing a gap between his front teeth. "Managed to get myself expelled within six months."
"What for?"
"Got caught fucking one of the laundry girls in a confessional."
Sabini gave him a slight nod. Clever. Got him out of that hellhole with a bit of fun to boot.
His eyes swiveled to the bald, stocky man. "And you, Cicciobomba?"
The man's spine stiffened. "This ain't fat, sir. I'm big boned. Name's Luca Cinquemani. I was born in Catania."
"Luca Five Fingers, eh? What did your father do?"
"He ran a pawn shop."
Sabini hooted, then saluted the man with his glass. "I can guess why he had the name Cinquemani. Stole jewelry from neighbors, then sold it right back to them. Am I right?"
Luca's eyes narrowed. "No sir." He paused, then said, "My father was a man of honour."
Mafia. "Your clan?"
"I'm not sure what you mean by that."
"Your father was Cosa Nostra."
Luca's face remained impassive. "Didn't say that. Just said he wasn't a fucking thief."
Sabini held his gaze for a moment, then gave him a curt nod. "So, I'm told you two have information that might be useful to me."
Sal spoke up. "It's no secret that you've got a feud on with the Peaky Blinders. Word has it that some of your men had a shootout with Tommy Shelby in Small Heath not that long ago. Only it wasn't Tommy that killed two of them. It was a lady doctor, name of Alex Ross."
"What of it?"
"Well, me and Luca work at the Royal Orthopedic as orderlies. We've also got some other business on the side." He exchanged a brief glance with his comrade, who gave him the slightest of nods. "You wouldn't know it to look at him, but Luca here is a master calligrapher and artist."
"A useful skill." Sabini cocked his head at Luca. "I'm assuming you don't waste your talents laboring over wedding invitations?"
"No, sir. My tastes run more to Raphael and Titian. Venus and Organist and Little Dog? I've done a replica that you'd think was the original. Made Venus' tits a good sight bigger though." He gave a coarse laugh. "Titian may have been a fucking genius, but he didn't have a fucking clue about the proper proportions of a beautiful woman."
Maria, eyes fixed on her beads, loudly cleared her throat. Luca reddened. "Sorry, ma'am."
"Why don't you stop wasting my son's time?" she snapped. As she fixed her piercing eyes on the pair, her fingers moved on to the third decade of her rosary. "Tell him what you came to tell him, and be done with it."
Sal took in a deep breath. "This morning, we were moving a female patient to the post-anesthesia area, and this bloke tried to go in with her. I told him family aren't allowed, and he told me to fuck off. Luca got into it with him, and this man—fucking vicious looking cunt, he was—called me one of Sabini's dogs. A fight broke out then. A few men took up for him, and some of the orderlies came to help us out. We was getting the best of them when Dr. Harbottle—fucking man always acts like he's got a fucking rod permanently stuck up his ass—comes out and breaks it up. Tells us to apologize to the Shelby brothers. Doesn't take long to put two and two together."
Luca cut in. "So, right before Harbottle docks our pay and sends us home for the day, I look at the name on the stretcher's placard. Alexandra Ross. She's had some sort of complicated surgery to her right hand, and she ain't moving from that hospital for at least two days."
Sabini looked at his mother.
Eyes shining with excitement, she licked her dried lips. "Vento, tempo, donne e fortuna - prima voltano e poi tornano, come la luna. This is your chance, son. It has to be done tonight."
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Many thanks to those who have have recently followed and favorites, and from those who are continuing to read along. This story continues to have quite a few views on a weekly basis, which is fantastic for a fandom with a relatively small number of posted stories. I love to hear feedback from readers—have gotten some great plot ideas in the past that way. If you have a moment, let me know what you think!
Fottutamente fantastico!=Fucking fantastic!
Porca miseria! Sei un uomo importante!=Bloody hell! You're an important man!
Chiedo scusa, mamma=I'm sorry, mother.
Certo, capo=Of course, boss.
Mi dispiace, mamma. Ti prego, perdonami=I'm sorry, mother. Please forgive me.
Cicciobomba=Fat boy
Vento, tempo, donne e fortuna - prima voltano e poi tornano, come la luna=Wind, time, women and luck - first they turn away and then they come back, like the moon.
I have a new appreciation for the creativity of Italian insults. The literal translation of Porca miseria is miserable female/bitch pig.