XII | A CALM BEFORE THE STORM

𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐘 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆, as the sun barely touched the peaks of the tallest trees in the park and the dew was yet to dry upon the greenery, Grace Burgess sat patiently, observing the way wind played with the branches barren from the chill.

Her eyes followed a tiny sparrow dancing around the puddle on the ground — how free it looked as it dipped its skeletal talon in the water, bouncing back when the cold waters splashed its beak. How free it was, unburdened by the human frivolities.

Lost in her pondering, she did not hear the heavy footsteps approaching over the crunching gravel before Inspector Campbell called her name.

"You were not involved in the conflict that ensued last night, I was made aware. Dear God, if I had known you would be involved with this ugly business at all, I never would have let it happen." His eyes swept over her figure, looking for any sign of injury til Grace reassured him with a shake of her head.

"No sir, they sent me away before the IRA men arrived. But that does not mean I didn't listen."

His voice held a note of urgency. "Explain, Grace."

"I hid by the backdoor I slipped out of and managed to retrieve possibly crucial information for our mission," she conferred, noticing the way Campbell's eyes lit up almost predatory.

"Truly?"

"Last night, while I observed the entire ordeal and the savagery that they inflicted upon those men..." She stopped for a moment, taking in a breath of cold air.

"I believe something inside me changed. I no longer feel the need to avenge my father. The hatred that I brought here with me is gone and therefore my reasons for joining the service.."

"You want to resign?"

Grace met his aghast gaze, afraid of saying the wrong thing. "I think our mission has come to a natural end, after all, I believe I know where the guns are hidden."

"Firstly, can I have your guarantee that Caterina Cardinale and Thomas Shelby won't be harmed? Once the guns are found our military mission will be over and we can leave the city as we found it."

The man beside her sighed exasperatedly. "Grace, darling.." Yet she urged her request forward.

"I want your word as a gentleman that they would not be harmed."

"Two avid sinners, why would you want to save them? You've taken liking to the Italian harlot, Grace, haven't you?" Averting his eyes from her, a sour look crossed the Inspector's face. Now when he was closer than ever in taking down their wretched empires..

"Sir, I... A residue of sympathy." She blurted out, lacking the words to describe the perplexing sense insecurity growing in the pit of her stomach.

The Inspector narrowed his brows at her choice of words. "Sympathy? You mean sentiment.."

"You are too good-hearted for this work, my dear. Not everyone can be saved." Chester shook his head mournfully. Her hand found his gloved one, grasping it pleadingly.

Why was she so torn between her duty and her conscious? Months ago her conscious would've been clean and at peace for betraying the trust of Caterina and Thomas... And now..

"Perhaps. So for my sake, will you spare them?"

"You have my word," he said it so firmly, so reassuringly, Grace almost believed him.


For three hours they councilled — her, Mazza, and the caporegimes Bastiani and Lardini - over her kitchen table only to come to the same agreement as the week prior; the American job was far too risky for the company, especially now the racing business was kicking off — the final decision would have to wait for Robert to come back from Bath.

I hope he drowns it that bloody spa, Caterina gloomed darkly as she stared at the crumbs and empty wine glasses, all that remained behind the councillors. The ledger in front of her did not lighten her mood in the slightest, either.

The front doors of the Cardinale household were opened and then vigorously slammed shut. Caterina briefly glanced up to take in Francis's disheveled appearance; his usually neat and combed hair was damp and flustered, shirt wrinkled and shoes leaving a trail of sludge on her new carpet. He was either in a pub brawl or a whorehouse, and Cat found herself lacking the need to know.

"We had a briefing an hour ago in this very room. For someone who wants to be more involved in the business you don't seem very interested. Or responsible for that matter." She bit sharply.

"It would've been easier for me to present the plan of action if you were here to support me."

The caporegimes grumbled incessantly, eager to find a flaw in her plans for taking Billy Kimber down once for all and establishing her family on the top of the criminal web of Birmingham. With Francisco's presence she could've generated more support, especially from those loyal to her father, the conservative old Sicilians that would rather follow a daft man than an able woman.

"Where've you been, anyway?" She inquired, feigning carelessness, simultaneously subtracting the numbers in her ledger.

"Fuck off, Kat." The older sibling muttered, passing by her chair and shrugging off his trench coat before going towards the staircase.

His groggy and rigid tone unnerved her; he was obviously drunk to the bone, she noted, by the way he squinted at the oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, and the way his every step collided with the wooden boards — as if the impact wasn't entirely expected, and he wobbled up the stairs grasping the rail with both of his hands. If it weren't as sad as it was, she would've laughed.

"I'm just worrying Francis," hearing that, he stopped his arduous climb and turned in her direction, fixing her with a bleary looking glare. "You'll get yourself killed one day."

Her brother scoffed bitterly, rolling his eyes. It could've been due to the poor lighting the lamps provided, or her eyes were playing games on her mind, but she could swear there were bags of yellowish hue underneath Francis's eyes.

"Shut it will ya. You sound like bloody moth-"

"Yeah, well, mother is dead, inn' she, so I'm the one worrying if you'll end up dumped in the Cut somewhere."

Perhaps she went too far: she hadn't intended to be so snappish and most certainly did not intend to bring up their late mother, but the events of the past few days left her on edge and anxious, and with little to no rest, constantly turning and twisting until the sheets rumpled and fell off her bed.

As of late she made a ritual out of putting on her dressing gown, opening the doors to her balcony where she'd smoke a pack or two, watching as the rising sun emerged, young and radiant, through the bleak smog of Birmingham.

Out of her two brothers, Francisco had always been the less temperate one — that is, before the War. (How distinctly she could separate those periods now.) There was something unnatural, something inhumane in his eyes that for the first time made Caterina fear her brother.

An unpleasant sneer marred his once handsome features, twisting them hideously. "And who's fault is that, huh?"

A twinge of rage ignited in her chest. "How dare you, how dare you accuse me of being responsible. She died of influenza, like half the bloody Birmingham!"

The knuckles of his hand gripping the railing turned white, the other raised threateningly in her direction. "And who was an annoying little bitch who wanted to help the sick in the hospital? Fuckin' charity and your volunteering cost us a mother!"

Lies, she wanted to scream in his face, if it were not for a tiny voice in her head whispering ; But what if it is your fault?

A long time ago she though she could save everyone, that her little acts of kindness would change the world into a better place. She dragged mother and all her friends to charity events and orphanages where they sewed clothes for children and distributed presents at holiday time.

It seemed almost natural for her to volunteer at the hospital when the influenza broke out in England; she visited the sick and helped the nurses fold the washings and cut up bandages.

Vittorina Cardinale fell with a fever a month after the initial breakout; the sickness swayed her one afternoon and by the next morning she was gone.

Once, a long time ago, she wanted to change the world and she paid a price too dear. Somewhere along those lines God seemed to have abandoned her, too, and the descent to what she had become had been sinfully easy.

A clash of his bloodshot greens and her own maroon met somewhere in the middle and a tense silence fell between the siblings, a waiting game, to see which one of them would back out first.

Her stomach was boiling and she could feel her chest rapidly rising and falling. Briskly turning away she snatched her coat, not bothering to look at him. If she did, she would have probably stabbed him with the first thing she could find.

"Oi , where're you going!?" He barked forcefully as she opened the front door with one hand and clipped on her heels with the other.

Her answer was left unheard, doors slamming behind her.


Not even the fear of God's infernal punishment could stop Chester Campbell from desecrating what was supposed to be the grave of Daniel Owen, and for that he was rewarded with what he sought.

From the moment the worker's shovel hit something solid in the ground, he could barely contain the smile on his face. Not only was he bound to get a medal for such swift work of uncovering the stolen guns, that petty gangster had no leverage over him anymore.

"All but one gun accounted for." There was a certain gleam in inspector's eyes, one of personal satisfaction beyond all else, and he pulled Grace into a quick embrace.

Once they separated, she solemnly supplied. "Then, Sir, I resign my commission."

"Good. So, I am no longer your superior officer and you are no longer my subordinate. And therefore.." Chester Campbell fished out a velvet box out of his coat pocket, an elegant ring nestled inside. Grace's heart plummeted into her stomach.

"Regulations permit me to offer you this," before she had time to protest, to at least open her mouth, he continued. "I am but a simple man, but a good man. And my admiration for you has turned to love. I don't ask for love in return. Just recognition that we are like minds with shared values."

"Grace will you marry me?" His eyes bore deeply into hers, expectant of her answer. And what was she meant to say?

For years she saw him solely as her mentor, a man of similar goal of vengeance as her own. How could he possibly want her, a woman soiled and a murderess? He did not know her heart could never belong to him, not truly, as long as Thomas Shelby lived.

"Mr Campbell, you deserve better." The blonde's voice came out as a wavering whisper.

"My dear, I could find no better than you."


It had stopped raining not long ago, and the cobbled streets were filled with shallow ponds of murky rainwater and mud. A stray labourer here and there passed her by, tipping his hat in a salute.

The pavement turned from finely cobbled to cracked stone and coal ash, soot and shit and grime sticking to the soles of her once pale blue heels, before she marched carelessly through the puddles.

Puffs of smoke coming from her cigarette mingled with the one she exhaled into the night. The houses around her seemed awfully familiar and Caterina stopped in her tracks as she realised where she ended up, absentmindedly strolling through the empty streets.

It seemed as fate always drew her back to the Shelby's, like the murderer returning to the scene of crime, she couldn't stay away for too long.

The Garrison stood there at the end of the lane, and she hoped Grace was there to ease her mind.

The last thing she needed tonight was an encounter with Tommy, not while she was unsound of mind, not while she didn't know how to address the pulsating sensation that seemed to make her utterly breathless every time he was near.

Golden light shined from the insides of the pub, in addition to raised voices. It was then she noticed a police car haphazardly parked in the front, making her pick up her pace.

Pushing inside just as the last two officers were leaving, she took note of the distress clearly etched on every face around her. Some solemnly stared into their pints, others looked at each other in grim silence, and some woman seemed to have fainted out of shock.

"Harry, what's this commotion about?" She called, quick steps taking her to the bar. The bartender was holding onto the pillar in the middle of the room, droplets of sweat glistening over his pale forehead.

He shook his head, accepting a glass of water passed into his hand. "If you're lookin' for Thomas he's not here - those bloody coppers asked me the same thing."

She shook off the confusion mulling inside her. "Right, and where is he?"

"He left with Grace minutes ago, I don't know."

The ground disappeared underneath her feet, and it took immense willpower for her to remain standing still. More than aware of what Harry implied, she cleared her troth uncomfortably. "Right.."

A regretful look on his face, Harry placed a friendly hand on her shoulder. "Catty...I'm sorry." The little Italian lady grew close to his heart in the passing months, and her presence regularly lightened the drab pub.

"What ever for, dear Harry? Here, drinks on me gentlemen." A gratuitous murmur passed through the room when she slapped several bills down on the bar, far more than needed for a round or two.

"Good evening gentlemen. Enjoy your drinks." What she intended to be a friendly smile came out as a bitter grimace, not reaching her eyes, before she exited the pub in long, purposeful strides.

Frigid air slapped her burning cheeks and she welcomed it gratefully. It was pouring again, but it hardly mattered as she clawed at the cigarette pack, yearning for a distraction. The match wouldn't burn in the rain, she realised during her fifth try, letting both the match and the cigarette fall limply from her hands.

It hardly matter as the frost bit and poked at the empty feeling inside of her. Is this what betrayal feels like?

If she stood in the rain for long enough, she hoped, she might drown in something other than her treacherous mind.

But, then again, who am I to mourn something that was never mine?