CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
father almighty

"Fathers, do not provoke your children to anger, but bring them up in the discipline and instruction of the Lord." —Ephesians 6:4

Trixie, having recently come to the realization that she might have feelings for Tommy, was not quite sure how to act normal when she arrived back at the Shelby house. All weekend, she had gone back and forth on it, trying to discern how much was love and how much was genuine affection, and all she ever ended up coming back to was the utter and total despair she'd felt, collapsing sideways onto her sheets and not finding his chest. She had wanted him to touch her, but she had wanted that before. What Trixie had no idea how to deal with, though, was the fact that she'd wanted him to hold her after and fall asleep by her side. If she saw him, Trixie worried that he would notice something had changed, and know what that thing was. It was fortunate, then, that she found herself in rather extraordinary circumstances when she shut the door to Polly's house.

All the Shelbys—minus Tommy and Ada—were gathered around Polly's dining room table as a stout man she didn't recognize went on about a fight he'd witnessed—or won?—across town. "It's true," he swore. "One hit, and three of his teeth popped out! Just like that."

"Hello," Trixie interrupted cautiously, shutting the door behind her and setting her coat on the rack.

"Oh, good," the man said. "Can you make me something to eat? A sandwich? I'm starved."

Trixie blinked. "What?"

"Trixie's not a cook," Polly snapped. "Sit, dear girl." To the man, she said, "John can make you food if you want it."

As she lowered herself into the dining room chair, pulling the gloves from her hands, Trixie tried to discern if he thought she'd be the cook on the account of her sex or her race—either way, she wasn't thrilled.

"Me?" John cried. "I'm a man, Poll, I don't know how to make a bloody sandwich."

"It's two pieces of bread and something in between," she retorted. "Surely you can figure it out with that big Shelby brain of yours."

John muttered something under his breath, but disappeared into the kitchen anyway. Almost immediately, Trixie heard the clatter of pots. She wanted to go help him, just to spare Polly's kitchenwares, but she was more intrigued by the man at the table and what he wanted. "You're a maid, then?" he asked, surveying the room. "Judging by the state of the place, not a very good one."

"She's an accountant," Polly replied, smug. She rounded the table and rested a comforting hand on Trixie's shoulder. "Do you want tea?"

"Love some," the man replied.

Polly glowered. "Not you. Trixie. Tea?"

"Oh," said Trixie. "No, I'm alright."

"You know, you shouldn't be serving her, Polly," the man said. Trixie struggled to remain polite. "It's not right. There's an order to things."

"Here we fucking go again," Polly snapped. She pulled out the chair at Trixie's side and lowered herself into it. Trixie just narrowed her eyes, not entirely believing that this man was serious. "Trixie is family. She's more family than you'll ever be."

"I'll make you tea, Dad," Arthur said, heading off to join John in the kitchen. He'd been so uncharacteristically quiet that Trixie had hardly registered that he was there, but she had begun to piece it together. Dad. This was Arthur's father—Tommy's father, too. She searched for the resemblance but found none. In fact, the only of his children he resembled was Arthur, with the full mustache.

"Accountant," the man mused. "Didn't know that was possible for people like you."

She couldn't stand to bite her tongue any longer. "Numbers are very real, yes. Even if you may not be familiar."

He glowered, pushing back in his seat like he was rearing for a fight. Trixie wished she had taken her purse to the table with her. The butterfly knife Tommy had gifted her was still tucked inside, and this man might take her more seriously if she had a blade at her side. "If you keep—"

"Sandwich," John interrupted, stepping out of the kitchen and nearly throwing the plate down in front of his father. Somehow, he'd managed to muck it up, with the two pieces of bread separated by a single slice of cheese while the top slice of bread was smothered in jam.

"That's a good boy," his father commended, putting a hand on his shoulder. John stepped away, unmoved by the praise. His father clasped his hands together and ducked his head, praying, "Bless you, Father, for these bounties we are about to receive—"

Polly snorted and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Jesus Christ."

Their father popped one eye open. "Please, woman," he asked, clearly feigning seriousness. "Not in vain."

Polly shot Trixie an irritated look, and Trixie just shrugged. "Finish your sandwich and sling your hook, Arthur," Polly told the Shelby patriarch.

"Pollyanna," said Arthur Sr. "I'm the guest of the head of this family." He pointed to his eldest son, who was setting a cup of tea down in front of him. "And since you let that into your house—" He pointed to Trixie. "Surely you can host me for lunch while I reconnect with my children."

"For the love of God," Trixie snapped. "You're saying Grace—and you're saying it wrong, by the way, it's supposed to be 'Bless us'—only to turn around and insult the daughter of a priest! Who also happens to own a gun. I invite you to reconsider your behavior."

The man laughed. "Fine. Well, then I invite Polly, here, to reconsider how she's treating the guest of the head of the family. Perhaps your time would be better spent tending to your mangle, or your scuttle."

"The head of the family ain't here," John interrupted, his eyes on his shoes. He and Finn stood side by side in front of the China cabinet, hands clasped, looking like foot soldiers.

Arthur Sr. turned towards his oldest son, as if demanding an explanation. Trixie smirked. "Tommy, uh," Arthur fumbled. "He sometimes helps me with business, dad."

Just then, Trixie heard the front door open and shut, and she tilted her chair back to see who it was. Tommy, in fact, who took his time removing his hat and his coat, and Trixie took advantage of the delay to smooth her dress down awkwardly. Do not think about it, she willed herself. Do not think about it. For a moment, she actually felt gratitude for their father's presence, as the sour look on Tommy's face when he recognized him was a firm enough reminder of the impropriety she risked.

"Speak of the Devil," Arthur Sr. greeted. "How are you, son?"

Tommy blinked once, as if to ensure he wasn't seeing things, before shaking his head emphatically. "Get out."

"Come on, son. I just want to see how things are doing." He gestured at his suit, a poor attempt to recreate the Peaky Blinders' uniforms. Even Trixie could see the cheap stitching in his jacket's seams. "I'm a changed man."

"This family needed you ten years ago," Tommy said, clearly restraining himself. "You walked out on us. Not now."

His father nodded, slowly, putting his hands in his pockets. "Well, truthfully, I do have some concerns I wanted to talk to you about. What's happened to the business? First I hear that you've taken over for Arthur, and now—" He waved to Trixie with a mix of disgust and disinterest that made her ball her hands into fists at her sides. "When did we let these people in?"

"That's my fucking wife," Tommy replied immediately, his voice suddenly going sharp. Trixie felt her cheeks grow warm. Everyone in the room knew that it was not true, and yet he'd said it anyway—to his father, no less. "And you don't fucking talk about her like that. Get out of this house."

"Tommy," Arthur said, staring down at his hands. "He's trying. He—"

"Shut up," Tommy snapped. Arthur gave up immediately, dropping his eyes with shame. "You are not part of this family. And you chose that. Live with it."

A moment passed where nobody spoke, and Trixie considered laughing just to see if she could humiliate the man further, but decided against it on the grounds that Finn was behind her, probably curious about who his father had been and why he had left, and she didn't want to traumatize the poor child any further.

Their father stood, buttoning his jacket. "It's alright, then," he conceded. "Arthur Shelby never stays where he's not welcome." On his way out the door, he mussed Finn's hair. "Bye, son."

Trixie watched as the boy twisted himself to watch his father go, but John was quick to yank him back into the kitchen. The door closed, and she fixed Finn with a gentle smile. "It's alright," she whispered. Finn nodded, and though he seemed sad at his father's sudden departure, Trixie was grateful he hadn't the opportunity to get to know such a wretched man.

"He's our dad," Arthur said quietly, drumming anxious fingers against the tabletop.

Tommy scoffed, no kindness to spare. "He's a selfish bastard."

Arthur straightened in his chair. "You calling someone a selfish bastard. That's a bit rich, Tommy." He glowered at Tommy, but Tommy didn't bother to look him in the eye. "I mean, thanks to you, we're already down a bloody sister."

That had Tommy's attention, and Trixie bit back the instinct to interject on Tommy's behalf. This was a family dispute, and despite Polly's proclamation that she was one of them, Trixie hardly felt that it was her place to take sides between the brothers. "You want to see him, Arthur?" Tommy pointed at the door. "You want to see him, do you? You go with him."

The oldest Shelby glanced around the room in search of support, but Trixie was hardly going to praise the man who had regarded her as something subhuman all of three minutes ago. She raised her eyebrows at Arthur, waiting to see what he would say for himself. He shoved the chair back after a moment and stormed out of the house—but not the way his father had gone.

Trixie waited a moment for somebody to say something, before she stood up too. Careful to avoid Tommy's gaze, she pivoted quickly to his youngest brother, and said, "Finn. I have to get bread. Would you like to come with me?"

He nodded.

"Alright. Let's go, then. Maybe if I have any change leftover, we can use it to buy you some sweets."

Trixie and Finn found themselves at the Garrison an hour later, splitting an extraordinarily pricey slice of chocolate cake. They were an odd pair, certainly, to be sitting in a pub. She, an unaccompanied Black woman, and he, an eleven-year-old child. But it was the only place that felt both safe and familiar to him besides the house, and they'd be closed soon to prepare for the dinner rush, so it was relatively quiet.

"Is my father a bad man?" Finn asked. It didn't surprise her, but it was certainly a deviation from the conversation they'd been having moments earlier about football.

He looked so concerned, but his face was also covered in chocolate icing, so Trixie had to bite back a fond smile. How was she supposed to answer that question? How was she supposed to answer it without implicating the rest of the Shelbys, too? "Yes," she said, honestly. The rest of the Shelbys were liars, thieves, and killers, but they were not senselessly cruel. Their father, on the other hand...

"Oh," Finn replied. Evidently, that had not been the answer he wanted.

"He's bad because he left you," Trixie said. "A dad is supposed to take care of his family, but he didn't do that. He's just quite a mean and nasty person."

"Polly took care of me," Finn said.

Trixie smiled. "Yeah," she said. "You're lucky to have a big family who loves you very much, Finn."

He spent a moment absorbing this information, before asking around a mouthful of cake, "Will I be like him?"

She inspected Finn—his wide eyes, his round cheeks. How could a boy like him ever become like his father? Trixie wanted immediately to say no, to say that Finn would be good if she had to ensure it herself, but truthfully, she didn't know. She wouldn't be around long enough to find out. "Only if you choose to be. But you don't have to."

"I don't want to," Finn said immediately. "If he's mean. I don't want to be mean."

"Good," said Trixie. She set her fork down on her napkin and pushed the rest of the cake across the table. "As long as you keep choosing good, Finn, you'll be nothing like him."

Finn accepted the cake eagerly, shoveling a huge bite into his mouth and chewing so loud that Trixie winced. "Where's your dad?"

She sighed. "He died. Three years ago, right before I started working for Polly. Do you remember when I started?"

He nodded yes, but the confusion in his eyes undermined the assuredness of his answer. "Polly took care of you too?"

Trixie smiled. "Yeah," she said. "You all took care of me."

Grace emerged from behind the bar to ask a few men to leave as they finished cleaning, but she seemed to know well enough not to interrupt Trixie, if the glare she shot her was any indication. "I'm surprised you're not in the meeting with him," Grace remarked, fake-sweetness dripping from her words as she wiped a nearby table down.

Trixie arched an eyebrow, glancing past Finn at the other woman. "Meeting. Who's he meeting with?"

"IRA, I'd guess," Grace said.

IRA? They'd already talked to them, and Tommy had already declined their offer. Trixie pushed out of the booth. "Finn, I'll be right back. Can you watch the boy, Grace?"

Grace's face was blank. "Fine."

"He is just a boy," Trixie emphasized, dropping her voice a little above a whisper. "If he gets hurt, the only thing you'll get out of it is an early grave, got it?"

"I'm aware," Grace replied. "I have a conscience, Trixie. I don't hurt the innocent."

The insult may have stung more had Trixie not been so proud of the night in question. It repulsed her, the sort of achievement she felt from having wielded a gun, controlled someone else, having been the most powerful person in the room. She brushed the woman off, opening the door to the snug and finding Tommy on one side of the booth, smoke unfurling from his cigarette, while a man in a brown suit with a cropped haircut sipped from a glass opposite him.

"This is a priva—" Tommy started, before he realized who was intruding. "Ah, Beatrice."

"Tommy," she said, taking a careful seat at his side. Surely, she was able to set aside the dream she'd had for the sake of business. "And you are?"

"Byrne," the man answered.

"We were just talking," Tommy said, "about how Byrne's cousin came here and got shot."

Trixie bowed her head to the Irishman. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Byrne smiled thinly. "I'm sure you are."

She was—perhaps for the wrong reasons, though. Trixie was certain that the Peaky Blinders had no reason to kill an IRA man, and yet this had become more trouble for them to deal with.

"Byrne came to inquire about some guns," Tommy said, eyes zeroing in on the man across the table. "But we don't have any guns, now do we?"

"Not besides the guns on our belts, no," said Trixie.

"Well," said Tommy, reclining in the booth. "Now you've heard it from the both of us."

Byrne was unphased. "The thing is, Mr. Shelby. And Miss…"

"Price."

"Miss Price." Byrne cleared his throat. "The thing is, your man Danny talks a lot when he's drunk. But we also have men at the BSA factory, and men at the police station. And they say—they all say—that it's the Peaky Blinders who have the guns." He leaned forward. "Every finger in this city points in one direction, Mr. Shelby. Let me get to the point."

"Please do," Tommy said, resting his wrist on the table.

"I don't care what kind of half-arsed tinker operation you have going on here. But I can assure you—I represent a very different category of organization." Byrne stood, bracing both hands on the table and leaning forward. "My cousin was shot. Now, I am judge, jury, and executioner. I find you guilty and I pass sentence." He cleared his throat. "You deliver the guns to me, I don't care which one of you, or I deliver death and hell's fury to you both. Am I making myself clear?"

Tommy was nonplussed, scanning Byrne carefully before leaning forward to ash his cigarette in the glass dish. He shrugged. "Let me confess something to you, and only to you. I have the guns, but they have become a burden to me." He raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps it is time to unload that burden. For the right price."

That seemed to please Byrne, and he lowered himself back into the booth. "Just you," he said, pointing to Tommy. "Not her."

Trixie shot him a look. "I—"

"Give us a minute," Tommy interrupted, gesturing to the door.

She scowled, but obliged, stepping out of the booth and out of the snug, Tommy right on her heels. As soon as the door was shut behind them, Trixie shot a cautionary look at Finn, who was sitting contentedly with his cake at the booth while Grace swept the floor. Trixie didn't have much time to check up on things, though, before Tommy was swinging her around to the back hallway facing the office, his steps urgent.

"What the hell?" Trixie demanded, her voice a forceful whisper.

"You didn't kill an IRA man, did you?" Tommy asked.

"I've never killed anyone—I've barely ever tried." Trixie raised an eyebrow. "Couldn't you tell? Friday was my first time."

Tommy blinked, and Trixie resisted the urge to blush. She hadn't intended for it to sound so filthy. "Right," Tommy said, which made her feel even more foolish. "I've got a plan, we just need to parley with him."

"Is this the kind of plan I'm privy to? Or is this like the guns?"

"I will tell you everything," Tommy said, voice a low rumble. "I promise. You just need to trust me."

The late-afternoon sunlight illuminated his bright eyes. Trixie did trust him—easily—but the shame of her recent revelation gave her reason to overcompensate. "I need to?"

Tommy put his hand on her wrist, thumb tracing up to the edge of her palm, and leaned in close. "Beatrice," he said. Her skin felt raw under his touch. It was almost unbearable. She thought she might die if he pulled away. "Please. I will take care of it, you just have to stay out here until I can tell him whatever he wants to hear."

She cleared her throat. "Fine."

"Thank you," he said. He wavered forward, and Trixie leaned in, thinking he might kiss her, wanting him to kiss her, but he only nodded, stepped back, and smoothed down his jacket. "Alright," said Tommy. "That's that."

"That's that," Trixie echoed, still stunned, her wrist alight from his touch.

He pursed his lips, and then put both hands on her shoulders for a moment, and then left back for the private room, the door shutting behind him with a click.

Truthfully, Trixie wasn't all too bothered about being left out of the meeting, because it meant she had time to find answers to some of her own questions. When she returned to the bar, Grace was reorganizing the dishes.

"Trixie," Finn asked, sounding sheepish. "Can I have another slice of the cake?"

She smiled fondly. "Alright," she agreed. "But just one. I promise we're almost finished, and then I'll take you home." As the boy dug into his dessert, Trixie took a seat at the bar and leaned forward on her elbows. "Question for you, Grace."

The blonde set down a beer mug with more force than necessary. "Are you going to be able to ask me without putting a gun to my head? Or do you need to ask Tommy's permission?"

"I think I'll find a way to do it myself," Trixie quipped in reply. "You didn't happen to kill an IRA man recently, did you?"

Grace paused her work with the dishes. For a spy, she wasn't a very talented liar.

"You see," continued Trixie. "Unlike me, or Tommy, the man in there doesn't suspect that you're a killer of any sort, and so he's come to the conclusion that the Peaky Blinders were the ones to kill his cousin."

"Am I supposed to feel sympathy for you?"

Trixie shrugged. "Maybe not sympathy, but I think you ought to worry about the fact that he's attempting to blackmail us for the guns. You wouldn't like that very much, now would you?"

Grace narrowed her eyes at Trixie. "What do you need from me?"

Trixie leaned back, appalled. "What?"

"What do you need me to do, to get the IRA off your back? I can shoot. I can negotiate. I can call in backup."

"None of that." Trixie shook her head. She glanced back at the door to the snug, and considered what Tommy could possibly be cooking up. If it was anything like she imagined, they would need Grace out of the way, but not gone. "I need you to take the night off, actually."

Grace balked. "And what? Stand by while the IRA strong-arms their way to the bloodiest revolution this continent's ever seen?"

"Bloodiest revolution?" Trixie asked, dubious. "Have you seen what they're up to in Russia?"

"It will be bad," Grace promised. "Thousands. Thousands of innocent people will die."

"Don't you think I've put that together?" Trixie asked. "As long as you leave the Shelby family be, we will keep those guns away from the IRA."

"You went through all that trouble of hiring me," said Grace, "and you're not even going to put me to good use. I am capable, Trixie. Let me help."

"You're a liability," Trixie replied. "If you're going to help us, you need to learn your place."

Scowling, Grace set a glass forcefully down on the counter. "Do not tell me to learn my place. I have spent my life being told—"

"So have I," Trixie interrupted. "And if I had to put money on it, I'd say I've heard it more than you. I am not telling you this, Grace, because I doubt your abilities. You made this mess, and now we have to clean it up. Let us handle it."

Her nostrils flared from the force of her exhale, but Grace eventually conceded. "Fine," she said. "But if you give them the guns—"

"We won't," Trixie promised. "I can't speak for Tommy, devil that he is, but I have no plans to hang at the gallows."

Grace set her jaw. "I meant what I said, Trixie. You could get out. Before he gets you killed."

"I'll take my chances," Trixie replied. Unlike most of what she said to Grace, she was telling the truth.

Grace scoffed. "You two deserve each other." The disgust in her voice was evident. "Was anything you told me true? Your priest father, your—Luca? Your fiancé ?"

Oh, God. If her father or Luca were ever to see her again, she would be beyond recognition. Little Bea, reading through homilies every Saturday night and never saying the Lord's name in vain, now committing treason against the crown and wielding a gun. The Shelby clan may have twisted her into realizing how much she was capable of, but she would never resent the fact that she had become someone because of them. As a girl, she had never dreamt of becoming princess or queen, but there was something about the way that people had begun to scramble out of her way on the sidewalk that made Trixie grateful that she was more than just an accountant.

Maybe they did deserve each other. She couldn't think of anyone else who would be able to stand all she'd become. Trixie lowered her head to hide her smile. "The dead are gone, Grace."

"They look down on us."

"Then it won't matter what I do. I'm sure it all looks the same from up there."

They spent a long moment staring each other down, until the door to the private room swung open, and Byrne and Tommy stepped out, shaking hands. "This evening," Tommy said.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Byrne replied. "Miss Price."

Trixie nodded at him politely. "Two whiskeys, Grace," she ordered, once the Irishman had disappeared out the door. "We'll take them in the snug."

"That so?" Tommy asked.

"That's so," Trixie replied.

He agreed with a shrug, holding the door open for her to pass through and then settling opposite her at the table. Grace was in only a moment later, two drinks in her hands, and she set them down on the table with a quiet, "Mr. Shelby."

"Grace," said Tommy. "Why don't you take a seat."

She leered back. "Me?"

"We both know you'll be listening through the window anyway," Tommy said, gesturing to the seat at Trixie's side. It was a fair enough point, and Grace acknowledged that by sitting down next to her in the booth. "Cigarette, anyone?"

"Yeah," said Trixie.

"I'm fine," said Grace. "Thanks."

Tommy passed his tin of cigarettes to Trixie across the table, only for her to realize that she'd left her matches in her purse with Finn. "Do you have a light?" she asked. He nodded, fishing a box from his pocket and striking one of the matches. Trixie leaned across the table and—careful not to tremble at their proximity—dipped the end of the tab into the flame, waiting for it to catch, before settling back into her seat.

"Any particular reason I've been included in this?" Grace asked.

"You don't ask questions," Tommy directed. "Understand?"

"What did Byrne say?" Trixie interjected.

"We made a deal," Tommy replied with a shrug. "He's going to come back tonight and we'll complete the transaction."

"You're giving the guns to him?" Grace demanded. "Just like that."

Tommy raised one hand to stop her and used the other to pull the cigarette from his mouth. "We are not giving the guns to him. He is going to come here to finalize the deal with an associate of his, at ten-to-eleven. Then, you," he pointed to Grace, "or Campbell, or whoever's in charge of this little operation, are going to bring some men around to pick Mr. Byrne and his friend up and take them down to Winson-Green."

"Why not just surrender the guns now?" Grace pled. "Avoid all this."

Tommy sighed. "The thing is, Grace," he said. "I like having the guns with me, for now. They are a burden, yes, from time to time, but I find that they help others take me more seriously with the other business negotiations I'm managing at the moment." Tommy reclined. "When I am finished with my expansion plans, I will surrender them. But only when I am finished with the expansion."

"When will that be?" Grace asked.

Tommy tutted her softly, shaking his head. "If you know what's good for you, you won't bother asking those sorts of questions."

She looked to Trixie, almost as if for backup, before remembering herself. Trixie cleared her throat. "Tommy," she said, her voice coming out softer than she'd intended. "How do we know it'll only be the one friend, and not an army?"

He tilted his head to the side. "Because you'll be there, to ensure that the transaction goes smoothly. But we can discuss that later. Grace—do you know anything about a man called Malachi Byrne?"

"She killed his cousin," Trixie grumbled.

Grace tensed, but she didn't deny it. "I've heard the name, but I don't know who he is in any specificity."

Tommy seemed almost disappointed when he shrugged. "Then I suppose you are not as useful as we hoped. Nonetheless, I need to do research, so it appears I will have to contact your boss, the Inspector." He paused. "Unless you would like to do so on my behalf."

It only made sense for Grace to take him up on the offer, Trixie thought, with everything that was at stake. But she looked rather reluctant. "I can't," she said. "He can't know that I'm—that we've made this deal."

Trixie raised her eyebrows. He can't know? Surely as an undercover operative, Grace had some sort of say in the path she took to the information she sought, and offering her services in secretary work could not be any worse than her services in pouring beer. "He doesn't trust you," she guessed. "He doesn't think you're capable of holding your own." Grace's silence was revealing. Trixie barked out a laugh. "All this about being capable, and your own boss doesn't trust you."

"You know why," she said, her voice low. "He might make the mistake of underestimating me, but I suggest you don't do the same. Not when I have the legal authority to kill you."

Tommy held his hands up in surrender, but the glimmer in his eye was obvious. "Alright, Grace, alright. Don't get trigger happy yet, you still need those guns." He cleared his throat. "And since you can't tell Inspector Campbell that we've discovered your little charade, why don't you go back to wiping down the bar?"

Grace didn't protest, just smoothed her apron on the way out the door, leaving Tommy and Trixie alone together. Her stomach did a flip. She pinched the top of her thigh under the table, hoping she looked normal, wondering if he would be able to tell from looking at her what kind of thoughts had run through her mind.

Impossible. It was impossible. Nobody read minds.

But—she thought. But if anyone could, it would be Tommy Shelby.

"How much?" Trixie asked, forcing herself to focus back on work.

"Doesn't matter," Tommy replied. "Not if he won't actually be paying."

She shrugged. "Fair enough. And tonight?"

"Friday's events didn't scare you off the trigger, eh?"

Trixie shook her head.

"Good. I'll need you as my Plan B."

"And Plan A?"

Tommy smirked. "Plan A is where they pull a gun on me at the same time a dozen officers happen to be patrolling the area, and they land themselves in prison for being armed at a public establishment."

The idea was almost ridiculous—the Peaky Blinders, utilizing malicious compliance? "But you won't be arrested," Trixie surmised. "You won't be arrested, because I'll be the one with the gun, and I'll only need to use it in the event of the first plan failing."

"There you go." He reached across the table, and nudged her fingers with his knuckles. "Still trust me?"

Yes. "On special occasions."

"Good," Tommy said. She wondered, faintly, if Grace had been right—if he was going to get her killed. "You'll be safe," he promised. "Tonight. I'll keep you safe."

Trixie pulled her hand away from his for only a moment, to rest the cigarette between her lips, and then extinguish it in the ashtray. Covering his hand with her own, she offered him a smile. "I'll be the one with the gun. I think that means I'm supposed to protect you."

"Well then, Beatrice," Tommy said, turning his hand so that their palms were pressed together. "Can I trust you?"

She laughed, feeling like the little girl in the fable who wandered into the woods. If only that girl had been given a gun and taught to use it. "Time will tell," she replied. "Only time will tell."

a/n: thank you for reading! this chapter is a bit of a setup for next chapter, which is probably the one i've been most excited for since i started this story, so i hope you enjoyed it. thank you also for everyone's kind words on the last chapter and the author's note—honestly things have gotten a lot worse but i'm writing to cope now so it's kind of a win in that way lol ! shoutout to Stephanie as well for beta-reading this and giving me so much wonderful insight :)

all the feedback means the world, so thank you to Kate, Idcam, wantertogondor, scars from the sun, NotSureHowToMingle, and EleanorJames for commenting on the last chapter and please let me know what you thought of this one as well!

Chapter 25 / The Name of God

"I want you," Trixie blurted out. This was hardly the time to admit it, what with them both being covered in blood, and she wouldn't blame Tommy if he exiled her to the countryside this very minute. This was hardly the time to admit it, and yet, Trixie continued. Her next words were soft, but her voice was steady: "It's you for me, Tommy. It's you."