CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
wanted man

"A false witness will not go unpunished, and he who breathes out lies will not escape." —Proverbs 19:5

Tommy made the call, and maybe that's why Trixie didn't catch it sooner. When the four had arrived at the Pub, she had split off with Arthur and John to the private room, while Tommy busied himself reaching out to Freddie's contacts to find him and tell him the news.

"Some bloody day," John sighed, sinking down into the booth and looking at Trixie contentedly. "Do you still have my hat?"

"It's in Tommy's car," she said, though she wasn't sure how true that was. At some point between the ceremony, a brick wall at the far end of Lee territory, and the reception, it may have gotten lost. Well—John would live; God knew the Peaky Blinders weren't suffering a hat shortage. "I'll get it tomorrow," she said, though she knew it was lost, more likely than not. "So. You're married. Congratulations, John."

"Yeah, thanks," he said. "I like Esme. I think we're a good match."

"I'm glad," Trixie told him. Though she didn't say it, it was clear they were both thinking of Lizzie, and how she'd been swapped out at the last minute for another bride so that Tommy could protect his best interests. Ada's rant may have been poorly timed, but she hadn't been entirely wrong about anything. Either way, it was too late to back out now, so she just leaned back to make room for Grace to drop off their drinks at the table.

Arthur clapped John on the shoulder. "She's not bad to look at either, eh, John boy?"

John snorted, and Trixie rolled her eyes. Lifting one of the glasses of gin, she announced, "A toast. To John. God willing, the streets will be safer now that he's settled down."

"To Ada," John added. "Ada and that fuckin' baby of hers."

"Cheers," Arthur declared, at the same time Trixie said, "Baby's not even born yet, and you're already cursing it." Even so, she threw back her drink with the rest of them and sighed to herself, satisfied. The day had been a long series of gambles that had mostly paid off, but she was still tired to the bone, and wanted desperately to collapse onto her pillow and dream of sweeter things than racetracks and labor. When she caught Tommy watching her from the doorway, it felt like something in her chest calmed and settled. Suddenly, it was easier to be in this room, with boisterous men riding the high of a new car, a new woman, a new allegiance. He took a seat beside her and the world grew quiet, the only audible sounds the rustle of his jacket against her own.

"What are we drinking, boys?" he asked, taking a glass for himself and downing it before anyone could answer.

"Whisky," said John.

"Good choice." He turned to Trixie. "You?"

"Gin," she answered, reaching for another glass, this time with the intention of savoring it. "How was it?"

Tommy nodded. "Good. He'll be there."

"Tommy Shelby, Diplomat," Arthur mocked.

She couldn't help but snort at that, looking up at Tommy to see his reaction. Rather than his usual sour expression, he seemed genuinely amused, eyes brightening with his smile. Trixie swallowed and pulled her eyes away, worried that if she spent too long looking she might not be able to stop.

"Since when does the Garrison have a fuckin' phone, anyway?" John asked, rolling his glass between his palms on the table.

"Grace put it in," Arthur explained. "The barmaid."

Trixie raised an eyebrow. "Grace? Did Harry ask her to put one in?"

Arthur answered with a shrug. "I don't know. Was here before I got here."

It was possible that Harry had asked for the installation of a phone, since more and more Birmingham businesses were carrying them and those who didn't were setting themselves up for failure. But Grace had a compelling interest to get a phone installed, too, and Trixie didn't trust Harry's business sense enough to ignore that fact entirely.

It's probably nothing, she assured herself. Grace couldn't have been listening in on the call, she was busy with their drinks at the time. And Tommy wouldn't be stupid enough to get himself caught like that, either. She let her eyes shut for a moment, taking a breath to calm herself, and then let out a groan as she leaned her head against Tommy's shoulder. "It's been a day," she announced.

"It's been a good day," John echoed.

"It's been a long day," she corrected. "But yeah, good too. Since you got a wife out of it and all."

"Any marriage advice?" John teased. "Since you're such a happy couple."

Straightening, Trixie rested an elbow on the table. "Get to know the family, I guess," she suggested. "Don't make my mistake. They might be a bunch of fucking maniacs, and you'll be stuck drinking with them on an otherwise perfectly fine Friday evening."

Below the table, a foot collided with her shin and Trixie hissed. "Hey!" John snapped, clearly biting back a smile. "You knew us first. Tommy only decided to get over himself a few months ago."

"Fair point they're making, dearest," Trixie told Tommy. "Do you have anything?"

Tommy arched an eyebrow, but paused to consider the question. "Take her dancing. Keep her happy. It's all there is, John. It's all it takes."

"Right," said John. "Trix, you're not much of a dancer."

"He knows," Trixie said. "I've stepped on him enough times to ensure he won't forget it either."

"Scuffed my shoes, too." Tommy cleared his throat. "Everything's a negotiation, John. Remember that. Marriage, business—it's all the same."

"Yeah," John scoffed. "'cept Esme doesn't operate by the same fucking rules. You know she had a gun under her dress? In her bloody garter. At her own wedding."

"And how'd you find out what was under her dress?" Arthur laughed, shoving him affectionately. Even Trixie had to smile at the proud blush that bloomed over John's cheeks. Maybe she hadn't made a terrible mistake with this. Maybe only one life had been ruined, and not three.

Hard as she tried, Trixie couldn't help but let worries about Lizzie occupy her mind. It wasn't the girl's fault that she couldn't offer them much by way of connections or treaties, but it gave her pause that she had begun to view people through the lens of hypothetical exchanges rather than as people by their own right. She looked over at Tommy and thought of all the reasons she'd loathed him when they met. If she went back and talked to her younger self, the two women would be unrecognizable to each other.

She made herself small as the men talked wedding nights and sex, booze and children, instead wondering what Lizzie Stark was doing at that moment. Was she working? Was she being treated well, or was she gritting her teeth through it? Had she only just begun her work, or was she on her way home? Had she eaten dinner? Had she eaten enough?

Guilt was not something Trixie wrestled with usually; she rarely hurt people, and the ones she did tended to deserve it. But Lizzie didn't. She'd only been trying to do better for herself.

"I have to go," Trixie said suddenly. She wasn't even sure of where her feet were leading her, only that she needed to start walking. "I—excuse me."

Tommy spent a moment staring at her, but moved out of the way so she could leave the booth. "Where are you going?"

"The brothel," she said, not thinking too much about it. Distantly, she registered John and Arthur's confusion and subsequent snickers, but it all faded as she stepped back out into the Garrison's main room and pushed through the crowd towards the street. Lizzie had only been trying to do better for herself, and Trixie had taken the chance away from her.

The streets were uncharacteristically quiet, Tommy's order for truce deafening in its silence. No fights, no smashing of bottles, no shouting. Just men walking to the pub or the brothel or home, hands no longer resting on the triggers of their guns. By the time she reached the brothel, Trixie's watch read 1am, but the calm outside made it feel much earlier.

Well, outside was calm; inside was exactly as she expected. Moans and banging echoed down the hallways that forked off of the foyer, and the man standing at the front had a wolflike quality to his features. When he spoke, his teeth were oddly sharp. "We don't have men here, you know."

"I'm not here for a man."

"You want a woman?" he asked.

Trixie considered explaining the situation to him, but figured it wouldn't do much good. The women here got paid after the souteneurs got a cut, and he probably wouldn't waste time that could be spent making money on letting Trixie clear her conscience. "Yes," she answered, making a grave effort to sound confident in her answer.

"Chinese, black, or white?"

"Um," she said, furrowing her brow. What an odd question. "Lizzie Stark. I want Lizzie Stark."

"Fine," he said. "How long?"

Trixie blinked. "How long does it usually take?"

The man stared at her for a long time, as if she must be stupid. Then, he turned back down to his dossier. "I'll give you an hour. Room 4, upstairs, to the left. You come out here and pay after."

"Right," she said. "Thanks."

With that, he turned back down to his paper, ignoring her entirely. Trixie moved towards the staircase. All the banging and moaning made her feel like she was in a haunted house, which would've been nightmarish enough, but the reality of it all felt worse. Here she was, in a building that smelled of sweat and sex, overhearing intimacy between people she'd never met before. When she reached the room, she was surprised by how well-kempt it was. The sheets seemed clean enough. The bed was made. Still, Trixie couldn't bring herself to sit.

It wasn't long before Lizzie arrived, dressed as any ordinary woman in Birmingham. All Trixie had imagined of raunchy dresses and bare legs proved false; in fact, Lizzie was dressed more modestly than she was.

"Hello," she greeted, locking the door behind her. Lizzie hadn't seen her yet, and Trixie waited for her to turn around before saying anything. "Oh."

"Hello," Trixie said. "Um, I was wondering if you had time to talk."

Lizzie smiled but it was hollow. "Alright. Talk about what?"

"I'm sorry, first of all," Trixie said. "I didn't mean to hunt you down and then—just tell John." Well, it wasn't an accident either, now was it, Bea?

"It was Tommy's idea, wasn't it?" Lizzie surmised. "Heard John got married to one of the Lees today. Big ceremony. You were there?"

Trixie swallowed. "I was."

"Pity I wasn't invited."

This was uncomfortable, but she supposed she deserved it. "Look, um. John told me you wanted to take a typing course at the college."

Lizzie stepped out of her heels, kicking them aside and sitting on the edge of the bed. She pointed her toes, stretching her foot. "Yeah. Can't anymore, though. It'll take another three years of saving, at this rate."

"I'd like to pay for it," Trixie blurted out. "I'll—whatever it is, I'll pay for it. Typewriter, course fees, ink. You shouldn't have to give up on it because Tommy wanted to betroth John for his own political benefit."

"I'm not giving up on it," Lizzie snapped. "I'm going to do it, whether it takes me three weeks or three years to save up for them."

"I'm sorry," Trixie said, nodding. "Of course, I didn't—I didn't mean that. I only want to say…" She took a deep breath. "It's my fault that it went from three weeks to three years, even if it was Tommy's idea. It was my fault. And I want to fix it, because you were promised something when John proposed and I took it away from you. You deserve to have it."

Lizzie held her bitter expression for a moment before softening. "Are you serious?"

"Yes," said Trixie. "It's—I've been roped into this—political marriage with Tommy, and I live with him now, and I don't pay for any of my own things anymore but I still get paid for my work at the betting shop. You deserve that money, Lizzie. It's owed to you."

Bracing her hands on the bed, Lizzie hesitated. "I don't know," she said. "Look, I don't want to get into any more trouble with Tom—"

"You won't," Trixie promised. "It's my money, and I'll do what I want with it. Tommy can go fuck himself if he's mad about it."

Lizzie snorted. "You're not what I expected, you know."

Trixie raised an eyebrow. "How do you mean?"

"You just—" Lizzie shrugged, giving up on the sentiment. "Not the kind of girl I thought he'd end up with."

Trixie wasn't sure what to make of that, so she just shrugged. "He's not the type of man I thought I'd end up with either," she said, forcing out a laugh, thinking of how he'd kissed her so tenderly on the brow just hours earlier. "Well, anyway. Just come by the shop on Monday, alright? I'll give you whatever money you need."

"How do you know I won't start asking for extra?" Lizzie challenged.

"I make enough money for you to skim a little off the top," Trixie said, "but I don't think you'll want to, because that would reflect poorly on your work ethic, and then the upcoming Shelby Company Limited won't want to hire you for any of your typing skills." Lizzie gawked, and Trixie took advantage of her surprise to head towards the door. "Take care, Lizzie," she said, before letting herself out.

After paying, Trixie expected that she'd have a pleasant walk home, just as the one she'd enjoyed on her way to the brothel, but she was almost immediately ambushed by a group of younger Peakys. "Missus Shelby!" one of them called, his voice cracking and betraying his age. "You hear about Freddie Thorne?"

"The baby?" she asked, hoping that whatever news this was would overshadow the inevitable gossip that would accompany her being caught exiting a brothel. "Yeah, I heard."

"No," said the boy, adjusting his cap so that the reflection of a nearby fire caught in the shine of his razorblade. "The police broke Tommy's truce. They took Freddie away."

Oh, fucking Christ. "Who told you this?" she demanded.

"Jeremiah was walking by the house when it happened. Fifteen coppers, he said. All had their guns. They broke the door down."

"What—" Trixie started, but before she could finish her question, the boys were skittering off. After they dissipated, she realized why. Tommy was approaching, his coat fanning out like some villainous cape behind him, head bowed menacingly. "Tommy!" she called. "What the hell's going on?"

He slowed to a stop and put both hands on her shoulders. "Beatrice," he pleaded. "You need to believe me, I had nothing to do with this."

"Freddie's been arrested?" she asked, hoping it wasn't true and that Jeremiah had been mistaken. Tommy nodded, and she winced. "Fuck."

"I never lied to you," Tommy swore. "And I'm not lying now."

Something in his face was so genuinely panicked, unraveled, afraid. Someone had ruined his sister's life. Someone had come for his family, and he was shouldering the blame. Tommy was a ruthless man with a razor sewn into his hat and a gun always at his belt, but he was not the kind to endanger family. And Freddie was family, now, whether Tommy liked it or not.

She shrugged his hands off her shoulders, needing space to think. "Alright," she said. "Well—if not you, who was it?"

Something shattered nearby, followed by incoherent yelling. "Not here," Tommy mumbled.

"Well. We can't go home, can we?"

It took him a moment, but he eventually shook his head. "Where else?"

Trixie sighed. "We could go to my apartment," she offered. "Assuming you didn't tell the landlord to move someone else in straight away."

"It should still be empty," Tommy said, reaching again for Trixie. This time, she let him have her, ignoring the sting of his fingers as they closed in a circle around her wrist. He'd switched from panic to paranoia, casting wild looks over his shoulder at any given moment, and Trixie felt the sudden need not only to help him, but to protect him, too.

Don't be stupid, she chided herself. Tommy was not the kind of man who needed protection, especially not in the city he owned. "Let's go, then," she offered, pulling him forward. "Tommy, let's go."

The silence broke, and he stumbled forward. Trixie swallowed down her concern. For the first time since she met him, Tommy Shelby looked utterly and completely terrified.

The apartment was not too different in appearance from the way Trixie remembered it, but was clearly more bone than body. Every drawer she glanced at was empty; furniture unused; the windowsill dusty and probably warped shut by the rain, as it always seemed to get this time of year. The bed had remained, still unmade from the morning she'd woken up early to go shooting with John, and she almost hummed to herself at the sight of it.

Tommy had been eerily quiet for the walk over, and was silent still as Trixie locked the door behind them. She took his coat by the lapels and pulled it off of him, waiting as he settled in a chair that was no longer Luca's, no longer even hers. Just a chair in an empty apartment, forgotten.

"Tommy," she prompted.

"I don't know how this happened," he exploded, coming back to life. "Nobody knew about the truce until after I'd given Freddie enough time to get to the house. I didn't announce it until after I'd given him enough time to get to the house."

"Someone knew," Trixie said. "Did Grace overhear you when you called?"

He shook his head. "She was at the bar. Nobody was in that hallway except me."

"Well, I didn't tell anybody," Trixie was quick to explain. "Ada was busy giving birth, and Polly was helping with all that. John and Arthur were with me the entire time, so it can't have been them."

Tommy sat with her words for a long moment, seemingly calm. "Ada won't speak to me. Polly won't speak to me. My brothers are too bloody pissed to be of any use."

"Except Finn," Trixie added unhelpfully. He glared at her, and she didn't bother feigning any indignant surprise. Trixie took a seat across from him at the table and sighed, happy to get off her feet. It was easy to relax back into the apartment as she kicked off her shoes, stretching her sore legs. "Someone told Campbell. Do you think he had other spies?"

"Your neighbor," said Tommy.

Trixie glanced up at the ceiling and considered James. He wouldn't step into the Garrison without her to accompany him—it was a twisted form of the normal rule about unaccompanied women. Just as an exception had been made for Trixie to get into the Pub, an exception was made for James, on the ground that he was an utter posh prick. "He wouldn't get in without being beaten halfway to heaven, Tommy, and he's far too fussy to endure that ordeal." Campbell might have other spies, but it wouldn't make sense to have more than one stationed at the Garrison. If Trixie would bet on anyone, she would bet Grace. She decided to say so. "Somehow, I think it was Grace."

He sat quietly, index finger tapping cautiously against the tabletop. "Grace installed the phone," he said.

Raising an eyebrow, Trixie sat up straighter. "Okay…"

Tommy met her eyes. "During the war—before they sent us to France—we had to get vetted at an office in London. They told us that they had found surveillance devices in the phones that German spies had left."

"Wait," said Trixie. "The Zimmerman telegram?"

He shook his head. "Before. The King had the War Office build something similar to spy on the Germans in return."

Trixie pushed her chair back abruptly, moving suddenly to the armoire. Her clothes had been packed, but the bottom drawer was untouched, locked shut with a key she'd kept under one of the loose floorboards. Trixie dug it out easily, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand: Grace, Campbell, Tommy, the guns.

The drawer slid open easily, and she grabbed the bundle of letters carelessly, as if they were old newspapers and not treasured correspondences from Luca. Trixie hadn't looked at them since his passing, just sealed them away and tried to pretend they weren't there.

"Luca wrote to me about them," Trixie explained, tossing the letters onto the table. "The dictographs, I mean."

Tommy lifted one of the letters and inspected it, and Trixie resisted the urge to smack it out of his hand. "Anything of importance?"

"I don't remember," she admitted. "I wasn't all that focused on the technical details when I initially received it."

He skimmed over the letter in his hand. "Bea," he said. "I thought everyone called you Trixie."

She ignored him, searching for the letter in question. It had been the last letter before the telegram, about the flight that would end up killing him. "Do you see anything from April?" she asked. "1917."

Tommy parsed through the papers, amassed over three years of writing, before picking one up. "Dear Bea, I had a dream last night that you—"

Knowing how the letter continued, Trixie ripped it from his hands. "Yeah, alright."

Dear Bea,

I had a dream last night that you—

They're considering promoting me to Flight Lieutenant if this attack run succeeds—

I'll buy you any diamond you want—

"Here," Trixie said, pointing down at the last few paragraphs of the letter.

The War Office received an alert that says the Germans are planning on sending their zeppelins out of Arras. My squadron is supposed to move out in three days' time. I know you worry if I'm scared, but I'm not. It's like any other mission, and I've always made it out, Bea. I'll make it out again, and come home to you sooner than you know.

The base is in a panic because the Germans discovered that we'd placed eavesdropping devices in their phones. Things are tense, but we're all just trying to keep our eye on the prize. I don't know if I'm supposed to tell you all of this, but you were reading that book on telephones when I left, and it reminded me of you. Feel free to tell me if I'm boring you. So long as you write back to me soon, you can tell me anything you like.

I love you, darling. I can't wait to marry you, and I'll be home soon.

Yours,

Officer Luca DeSilvio

Tommy shifted uncomfortably after he finished reading, and Trixie cleared her throat, pulling the paper back to her chest and folding it. "Do you think she would've gone through the trouble?" Trixie asked.

"I doubt she did it for the sake of bringing business to the Garrison," he muttered dryly.

"Campbell fucked us," Trixie surmised.

"I'm not letting him get away with this."

"What do you want to do?"

Tommy stood up and began pacing the length of her bed, rubbing a thumb against his jaw. "You'll tell Campbell that you know about Grace. That you've known about her for months. We'll have him think that he and Grace cannot trust each other."

"Tommy," she warned, "I do think Grace would be quick to dispute that kind of story."

"We'll have her think the same," he vowed.

"How?"

He shook his head. "I need to think."

Trixie pressed her lips together. She was capable of thinking, too. Regardless, she gave him time as she re-folded the letters and stacked them back together neatly. Something about leaving them out on the table made her feel naked, and she'd gotten close enough to that sort of thing with Tommy already. He could know what Luca said about the dictographs, he could know the name of Trixie's father, he could even know how her father died, but he would not know what kind of fool she could be when she was in love, not even by proxy.

As he busied himself with pacing, she returned to the armoire, placing the letters neatly back in the bottom drawer. There would be no use in taking them with her back to the Shelby house; she would simply pack them whenever Tommy found her a new place to live.

"We have to talk to her," Tommy announced.

"We can try, but I doubt she'll talk to us," Trixie replied, standing and smoothing the skirt of her dress.

Tommy pulled the gun from his belt and held it up. "I can be persuasive."

Trixie thought she might feel guilty about the prospect of putting a gun to a woman's head and forcing her into some sort of deal, but Grace had ruined Ada's life, and maybe even gotten Freddie killed. She could be merciless when she wanted to be; nobody was obliged to that particular characteristic but God Himself, and good thing.

"I know where she lives," Trixie said. "I've never seen her with a gun, but if she's gotten this far, she's probably armed. She might shoot you back, Tommy."

He pointed at her. "You have a gun, Beatrice. Are you ready to use it?"

She chewed the inside of her cheek. There wasn't much of a choice, but the answer was nonetheless yes. Trixie would be cruel if she had to be; and though holding a gun to someone's head was only a finger-twitch's difference from killing them, an eternity seemed to exist between the first point and the second. "I am." She cleared her throat. "What stops her from fleeing, once she knows?"

Tommy shrugged, replacing the gun in its holster. "We'll offer her a job. Give her the opportunity to get closer to the business, and to the guns, while adding legitimacy to the lies you'll tell Campbell. There's only so much an undercover officer can get away with to preserve their lie."

"Right," she said, nodding slowly. In a way, she'd become an undercover officer, too, just on the opposite side of the line. While Grace crossed over into their world, she put herself into Campbell's. "Seeds of doubt. Do to them what they've done to you." Us, she considered saying, but betraying Freddie had cut Tommy away from the family; Trixie had never quite belonged to it enough for a schism to be meaningful.

He rubbed his eyes, sinking down to the foot of the bed, looking more exhausted than she'd ever seen him—and he always looked tired.

"Tommy," she started, resting a tentative hand on his shoulder. He tensed but didn't shrug her off. "Tommy. These guns. Are you sure they're worth all this trouble?"

Instead of answering, he just leaned forward and rested his forehead on her sternum. Both his arms encircled her waist, wrapping her in what felt like an embrace but which could not possibly be one. It was the tenderness she'd cursed him for earlier, against the walls at the wedding, but here, he was not offering it to her. Just taking. It was cruel, then, she reasoned, and therefore permissible. Tommy was not trying to be gentle with her, Tommy was not using kindness as an insult to her strength; he was the most powerful man in the city, holding her close, because he needed her in that moment.

The choice was hers whether to grant it to him or deny it, but knowing that was enough to make the embrace strategically beneficial. Trixie slid one hand from his shoulder up to his neck and draped the other on top of his head, raking her nails through his hair. She willed him to hear her thoughts. Remember this when you get rid of me, Tommy. Remember this when you find me so intolerable you have to exile me from the city. I held you. I cared for you when the rest of your empire turned its back.

He gave no indication of understanding. Trixie didn't expect him to.

Remember this, she willed. Remember me. I loaded a gun for you, and put the barrel to a woman's eye. I slept in your bed. I told you my secrets. I went to the darkest parts of the city, and I allowed it to hold me by my throat.

"Don't say I never did anything for you," she told him instead.

Tommy didn't answer, but his grip on her waist seemed to tighten. As if to say, I know.

A/N: okay just want to clarify because I feel like the opinions expressed on sex work in this chapter are so archaic but I absolutely think that (voluntary, adult) sex work is work and sex workers should be treated with respect! even/especially if they like being sex workers and don't want to move into whatever is considered "legitimate work." lizzie's setup this chapter was just so i could lay the groundwork for her to move into a bigger role even without being tommy's love interest, because i think she's a badass and the show didn't give her the respect she deserved.

i hope everyone had a happy holiday season and has a good new year! i'm going to try to get another chapter out before 2020 (finally) ends so keep an eye out for that too :) thank you again to Stephanie for beta-reading this chapter and helping me with some of the historical stuff! it is so appreciated

let me know what you thought of this chapter! and thank you to MoonlightShine, min kone, RachelLynnexx, wontertogondor, Kate, Dee, Idcam, EleanorJames, and scars from the sun for all the lovely feedback! and thank you especially to Minstorai for reading and commenting on so many of the chapters omg it made my day. I also got a question about Tommy/OC recs from Celia in a review of chapter 21 so I'll leave some of those at the very end of this chapter :)

i will see you all for the next chapter, and i wish you a happy end of a hellish year in the meanwhile!

Chapter 23 / The Woman With Two Faces

Something in Beatrice was cold, now, a bitterness foreign even to Tommy. Her arm did not tremble under the weight of the gun cocked against Grace's temple, and she did not flinch. "You're going to kill for him thinking it can make him love you back," the spy said, "but he will never love you, Trixie. He's just hungry. For—for sex, or power, or money."

She seemed to consider the idea for a moment, and Tommy was so absorbed in trying to decipher her expression that he forgot about the gun he was holding in his hand. "I'm hungry, too," Beatrice said finally. "I don't need to be loved, but everyone—even a woman—needs to eat."

Reading Recommendations

Here on FFNET:

Bad For Business by wandertogondor:

When Lucia Changretta heard her brother was going to Tommy Shelby's wedding with Lizzie Stark, she decided to go straight to the Shelby Mansion and put a stop to it. She had hoped to walk the line between loving Tommy and staying loyal to the Changretta's but loving a Shelby had always been bad for business. [Tommy/OC].

The Devil and the Daughter by Anasatsia98

"To say that I don't love you is a lie, but to say I'd die for you would be one too."

Tommy's Red Right Hand by HisRedRightHand

As if being left in charge of the two youngest Shelby siblings wasn't enough, Tommy decides to ask a redhead as ornery as he is and her six year old sister to take up residence at 6 Watery Lane.

On AO3:

Field of Poppies by Jubile44

After being apart for six years, childhood friends Tommy and Amelia reunite under odd circumstances. Tommy is an outspoken young man and Amelia is pregnant and out on the streets. The bond of family can be unbreakable but it is tested often. Especially when Europe descends into war.

Unscented by Bloopy42

Being a friend to a young Thomas Shelby is hard. Being a friend to a young Thomas Shelby in love is worse.