Everything is falling into place.

What had once been a chaotic jumbled mess in his brain after the war, had now realigned itself into a fully functioning living being. To be more succint, Tommy Shelby had never felt more alive. All it had taken to shake everything back into order was the threat of an imminent, unfair, and entirely unexpected death.

Isn't that how it always is? Wasn't there always some sort of revelation during dire circumstances?

No one saw death coming, not even the old Tommy Shelby who saw threats lurking behind every corner. But, not even he, the man who saw death in the shadows, had predicted he'd be whisked away from the races, forced into an open grave, reciting the first line of In The Bleak Midwinter, thinking that was his final moment, when he had been spared.

By none other than Mr. Winston Churchill.

It was all quite surreal and his system was too shocked to fully process that he had nearly died and then been miraculously spared. After a glass of whiskey and a conversation with Michael, it struck him that he had to change his perspective. He had to grab onto life and never let it go. That was what Michael was doing. Michael was taking care of the books and doing a hell of a lot better job than Arthur or even John. The lad was sharp.

Pride ran through Tommy as he thought of the newest addition to the Shelby clan. He had Polly's brains and zeal. Seeing the determination in Michael's eyes had kindled a determination, a clear focus of his potential future inside Tommy and right then and there, he knew without a shadow of a doubt, that he had to marry May Carleton. Some might have called it impulse, but it went beyond that. He'd thought of her, had spoken about her before being ushered into that grave, before the gun went off. It became clear that Grace, the woman he had pined after, had named his horse after, was not "The One." If he had died in that grave, Grace would have returned to her American husband and claimed the medical treatments had worked, that they would have the child. Tommy Shelby would be forgotten.

But May…

May was the one he had promised he would find after the races and had genuinely meant it. He wouldn't delude himself into thinking that she would never move on after his death, but they had shared something, had bonded in a way that he couldn't explain, two people who had been alone and closed off from the rest of the world, until they found each other. That was why he was driving to the Justice of the Peace to get a notary. He was going to take a chance on Michael with the business and he was going to take a chance with May. There was no need for a coin toss this time.

As he drove, he continued to think about all the events that had led to this particular moment, this drive to the law offices. He thought about the future. Michael would work the books, gain experience under him as a protege. He would marry May. He would get Arthur cleaned up, get John back in line after Esme had led him astray with his talk of the countryside and living like wandering nomads. He would try to make it up to Polly about Michael. She would come around when she saw how he was thriving. Now that Sabini was gone, there was a power-vacuum, one he intended to fill. Campbell was gone. Campbell had been shot point blank in the chest at the races. Tommy wasn't going to waste a second thought on the man who had gotten exactly what he deserved. There was no immediate threat to his family.

Don't forget Alfie Solomons.

That man, despite all his rambling and blustering, was no fool. He was a master of contriving an artificial personality. He wasn't a common street-thug, but an educated, intimidating, business man, who had a code on how to approach business. He wasn't insane, despite his erratic behavior. He didn't let that grenade go off just to prove that he was unpredictable and would not cave to anyone. The man was shrewd, practical, and wild, but was someone Tommy could picture falling in line, even if that line were a little jagged and uneven.

Never forget what he did to that goat.

He would keep an eye on the baker and unearth more about the man's past in case a situation were to arise where he needed an extra upper hand.

There was traffic, as usual, but Tommy wasn't troubled. He had time to sit back and reflect, without a rival to play cat and mouse with. He pulled up alongside the court house, a somber looking building, parked the car on the sidewalk, stepped outside his car door, and looked around. He saw men, women, children, bustling around on the streets, horses, carriages, cars, nothing out of the ordinary on a sunny morning, until he saw the man who had pulled him out of the grave standing on the side of the street, watching him, with a smug look on his face.

Damn it.

When the man had said Mr. Churchill wanted to see him soon, he didn't expect it to be this soon. Government proceedings were always delayed and he expected Churchill's attention to shift to more pressing concerns than a humble bookmaker.

Tommy assessed the situation. He had options. Act like he hadn't seen the man and attempt to make it to the courthouse, which would look like he was running away. He could get back in his car and be followed to another location, by Winston Churchill's toady. He looked down at his watch, reached into his pocket, and nonchalantly took out a cigarette. Hell, he might as well smoke. No turning tail and running. Guess that limited his options.

A Shelby doesn't run.

He was irritated make no mistake about it, and by the smug expression on that man's face.

"Didn't think Mr. Churchill forgot about you, did you Tinker?"

Tommy took another drag of his cigarette, resting his eyes on the man's face.

"It might have slipped my mind," he said coolly, acting completely indifferent.

"Well, that's why I'm here to remind you, Mr. Shelby. Why don't we take a wee drive to see Mr. Churchill?"

Tommy bristled at that, knowing the man did it to scare him, remind him of their "wee drive" to that open grave. He took another drag from his cigarette then tossed it to the ground.

"We're taking your car," the man said, motioning for him to open the door. "I'm driving."

There was no point in arguing and causing a scene. The sooner he met with the Prime Minister, the sooner he could be rid of him, and the sooner he would be married. He took the seat on the passenger's side. The drive to wherever Mr. Churchill was, was silent and Tommy had no interest in speaking with anyone who continued to refer to him as a Tinker. The man was nothing in his eyes. He looked out the window, scanning for other cars following them. There would be security all around the Prime Minister of course. The drive was uneventful. They pulled up alongside a hotel, a classy, refined, and altogether vapid looking establishment. Tommy preferred The Garrison, the clubs, the speakeasies. The man parked his car and motioned him to get out. Tommy did so, scanned the area and followed the man up the step where the bell-hop greeted them.

The inside of the hotel revealed a stuffy pastel colored interior, with people who looked like they were lounging around because they literally had nothing else to occupy their time. The man led him past the lobby without being questioned by the reserved looking woman at the front desk, down a hallway, and into a lounge.

"Good morning, Mr. Shelby."

Sitting in a light-colored arm chair, smoking a cigar, was a man who clearly was not Winston Churchill. He was younger, thinner, and did not resemble the Prime Minister in any way shape or form. Tommy looked at his escort who was grinning smugly at him by the doorway.

"What is this?," Tommy asked, his eyes swiveling back to the man in the chair, who was shrouded in thick cigar vapor.

The man in the chair laughed and the escort laughed in unison.

Well, he's someone's toady.

"I fail to see the humor in this," Tommy said, reaching into his pocket for another cigarette.

"Oh you can't smoke in here," the seated man said, his eyes widening in mock horror as the cigar hung in his mouth. "Your kind have to go out back."

My kind?

Tommy did not like that sneer on the man's face, or the man in general. He made quick, brief assessments of the man: mid to late thirties, a face that looked as if it were hewn out of stone, and sly beady brown eyes. He took his hand out of his coat pocket, never taking his eyes off of the seated man.

"Who are you and what do you want?" It was best if he kept his tone flat, neutral, unemotional.

The faux Churchill removed the cigar from his mouth and exhaled, deliberately refusing to answer for a beat in an attempt to anger him. If he were Arthur, Tommy would have fallen for the trap and started a row.

"You know, you're not what I expected," the man said, pointing a long index finger at him.

"I'm a busy man," Tommy said, glancing down at his watch. "Whatever you have to say needs to be said now while I have my smoke." He reached into his pocket again, took out a cigarette, and lit it. He wasn't speaking to Winston Churchill so he could damn well smoke where he pleased.

""You're smaller in person and I told you not to smoke in here."

Tommy heard the dangerous edge to the man's voice, but he continued to smoke. He took a long drag of his cigarette.

"When I'm finished with this cigarette, I'm gone, so you'd best not waste any more of my time."

"Heaven forbid I waste Tommy Shelby's precious time, what with all the important things he has to do in his life," the man sneered.

Does he think he's riling me up?

"I can tell you're not taking me seriously and I find that very disrespectful, not to mention ungrateful, considering I saved your life."

"I'll buy you a drink, and we can call ourselves even," Tommy said dryly with not intention of ever fulfilling his end of the bargain. The man laughed, a harsh barking sound ,as if Tommy had said the most hysterical phrase in the world.

"You and me, having a drink? No, no, leave your false gestures to the dolts fluttering around you. I won't be caught dead drinking with a gypsy. No,Thomas," he said, rising to his feet. He was tall, like Alfie Solomons, but not as wide in the chest and shoulders. "We aren't going to have a drink. You owe me for saving your life. You owe me something that's as precious as a first-born child."

Tommy couldn't help, but think of Grace. It was momentary, fleeting. She was carrying his biological child; a piece of information no one could ever know about, for everyone's sake. The thought was replaced by a slow simmering anger as the man continued to try and make him feel as if he were an inferior while wasting his time. May was waiting for him. Business was waiting for him.

The man shook his head and heaved a sigh.

"You know Tommy, you townies and tinkers, you think you've built yourselves up all on your own, that you're self- made men who have somehow elevated themselves by their own sweat and tears. In reality, you're beholden to those who are truly responsible for your success." He pointed to himself. "The wealthy members of society."

Bloody hell, not a lecture on the social hierarchy. All he needed was another elitist, claiming superiority over the proletariat. This was the kind of man Freddy Thorne had been preaching against from the start.

"And that would be you?" he asked, skepticism in his voice. "Whoever the hell you are?"

"Oh, everyone calls me Churchill," Churchill said. "It gets peoples' attention and makes them want to meet with me. Then I tell them, not THAT Churchill, I'm no relation whatsoever… but I digress."

"And I'm finished with my smoke," Tommy said, sick of this entire conversation and the fumes from Churchill's imported foreign cigars. He turned towards the door.

"Alright, I want your business. Inviting you here was a courtesy call. I intend to buy Shelby Brothers Limited from you within the month."

Tommy turned back to face Churchill and laughed, a mirthless sound, and watched as Churchill's hand straying seemly unconsciously to his belt, which had a holstered pistol attached, probably a high-end one.

"You think it's impossible, that you're untouchable?" Churchill said, his eyes narrowing. "Thomas, I'm a business man, and I know how to get the business I want. You're going to sell your company to me for a reasonable price because that's how business transactions work. Also, keep in mind how easy it was for me to spare your life. Just imagine how much easier it will be to end it, along with the lives of your loved ones.

Tommy watched him.

"Ah, I see I've got your attention now." Churchill tossed his cigar down on an ashtray and took a slow step towards Tommy. Tommy didn't move, but his mind was in motion. Churchill looked down the bridge of his nose at him, his eyes cold and said:

"So the next time I tell you not to smoke, you'd better damn well listen."

Tommy's eye contact never wavered.

"I see the wheels spinning in your brain. You're asking yourself, who do I protect? Is he bluffing? Should I call in the Jewish baker with the hammer to pummel the bad man's face in?"

Churchill shook his head, leaning closer to Tommy, but Tommy would not budge. He would not step back and cower.

"The question you should be asking yourself is 'what is the best asking price for my little empire?'"

Tommy dropped the cigarette onto the floor and crushed it under his heel, never taking his eyes off of Churchill.

Churchill clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

"How rude, but what else can you expect from a street urchin?"

Tommy could think of a whole list of unpleasant responses to the man's question, but resisted the urge to voice any of them. There was a time for words and there was a time for observation, and this man needed to be carefully observed. Armed, tall, muscular, someone who might have been a professional boxer judging from the lacerations and swollen appendages on the man's large hands. Someone who wasn't as cultured and sophisticated as he claimed.

Why the act?

Tommy wasn't buying this elitist, I'm from a superior class, persona. He didn't care, whether the man was a capitalist or a devout follower of Karl Marx. What he cared about was the threat to his loved ones and his business. He never took those threats lightly. This man undoubtedly had more men at his disposal to send after his family. But why tell him in advance?

He wants to scare me.

Churchill was enjoying himself, planting fears into his mind to make him lose focus and stray from his master-plan. Tired of staring Churchill down like a hawk, he turned and walked to the door. Churchill's toady did not move to stop him and Tommy walked out of the hotel and to his car, vowing to put a stop to this man and show him that no one who valued their livelihood and life would dare threaten Thomas Shelby.