Author's note:

So, I definitely made you wait for this one! I'm so sorry – obviously the world has turned upside down a bit at the moment, and I've been adjusting accordingly! This chapter has been in my head for so long now that I had to get it on paper.

Thank you all for your beautiful, wonderful reviews: I love hearing from you, and you've been so supportive and brilliant. I write this for you, and I hope you enjoy this entry too.

After much consideration, I'm thinking the Russians will have to be part of this story, but I'm going to play around with them to make room for Mercy. By that I mean the Duchess is going to have to be put in her place.

More on that later though.

For now, I hope you like this chapter!

"Lizzie's been asking after you. Says she hasn't seen you round the city for a while. Wanted to make sure you were alright." Polly stubbed out a cigarette, smoke dense and thick in the office of the betting house as Tommy looked over the books in meagre lamplight, feeling her judgment pressing, demanding some acknowledgement of effect in the dimness.

Tommy recognised an agenda. He knew it wasn't Lizzie's secretarial role that motivated her inquiry, and Polly had no interest in the other kind of transaction Tommy sometimes utilized the former prostitute for, "And what did you tell her?"

Polly watched, scrutinized, for a reaction, a flicker of movement, a twist in his expression. Tommy did not flinch, and so she continued on nothingness. "That you've been busy."

"I'm always busy." Tommy stated, still leaning over the accounts bodily but inclining his head upward to meet her gaze, his razor-ed cap no longer shadowing the cuts of his cheekbones, the line of his chapped lips, the frost of his pointed, impatient stare. "Business is thriving, after all."

Polly considered him, ghosting over him with a pointed look from her seated position the other side of the desk. "Aye. But it's not just business this time, is it, Tommy?"

He half rolled his eyes, closing the log book in front of him to signal the end of his need to be there with her. "Get to the point, Pol." His hands found the back of the chair in front of him, and he wrung to bar once through his palms before pinning his eyes on his aunt once more, eyebrows raised with impatience. "You've got something on your mind; we both know you're not planning to keep it to yourself. So what do you have to say to me?"

Polly bristled at his soft condescension and knotted the lines around her lips tightly, drawing a sour look across her countenance. "Your attention has been somewhere else; somewhere it has no business being." She persisted, sharp and unyielding: "That little nanny of yours –"

Tommy could hardly believe he was having another conversation of this sort, and laughed airily; humourlessly. "You and Ada and my workers. Between the lot of you I get no peace." Welcomed thoughts of desperate, trembling lips and glistening, creamy skin under the calluses of his own roughened palms sparked alive in his head once more, and his smirk inexplicably deepened as he ran through the scenes offered to him in the subconscious of his mind, keeping him from true, restful sleep; keeping him alight and warm and awakened.

Polly slapped the desk sharply and stood, moving quickly to confront him, to stand just in front of him. "You leave her be, Thomas. She's not there for you; she's there for Charles. You've no business messing with her, messing with his routine, his life!"

Tommy's lips flattened, and he looked down upon her with cold precision. "She is on my payroll; she lives in my house; she helps to raise my child. She is precisely and entirely my business."

Polly persisted, clinging to the hope of making her stubborn nephew see sense. "Not like you're thinking, she isn't. Not the way you look at her, or the way you've got that poor girl looking at you."

Tommy turned away, removing a cigarette from the case in his coat pocket, checking his pocket watch as he went, thinking of those shy looks and pretty blushes. "I didn't know you were so interested in the way I look at my employees." He pinned her with his emotionless stare, and ran his cigarette along his bottom lip to wet it.

"Oh, come off it, Thomas!" Polly blistered, turning her body away to finish the last of the whisky she had poured him before slamming it down and charging toward him once again. "She's too young and too innocent and nothing at all like you or me or this family! You need to be careful. You need to be professional –"

Tommy cut across her demand. "Be professional and look at Lizzie Stark, who knows the business through and through, instead?" He lit his cigarette and raised his eyebrows in challenge, billowing more curling, silver smoke between them as they both knew the business he spoke of.

Polly stalled, breathed, folded her arms. She held his stare and replied evenly, "Get it out your system. See Lizzie and be clever about it all. You know you risk too much otherwise. You are risking too much."

Tommy shook his head, turned to leave with one parting gift, as a shy smile and whisky, honeyed eyes caught the attention of his mind once again.

"I'm a gambling man, Polly. I like my life with a little risk."

Driving home in near darkness, alone with his demons and his shadows, Tommy thought about stopping in on Lizzie: he thought about opening her whitewashed front door without knocking, pushing up the skirt of her semi-respectable, well-worn dress, bending her face-down into a table and picturing the pretty noises he imagined Mercy would make as he fucked one woman while visualizing the one he really wanted beneath his hands.

But he dismissed the notion as fleeting and ridiculous.

It would do nothing to stem the fury of his desire for Mercy Hale if he fucked Lizzie Stark. He thought of how it wouldn't compare – couldn't hope to compare – having his hands on Lizzie when he wanted the fullness of Mercy's hips and breasts, the dip of her waist, the taste of virgin lips and skin and sweat.

It wouldn't be fair. And it wouldn't do.

Only one thing would, and with London looming so near he could almost touch it, Tommy was on edge and ready as he ever had been for it.

Mercy both hoped for and railed against the lazy passing of time from one weekend to the next. She looked forward to shopping and dresses and speaking with Ada; she resisted the oncoming journey with Mr. Shelby, and even hesitated at the idea of a party amongst city men and women she couldn't hope to keep time with.

Her grandmother had taught her that the devil lived in the souls of those who liked to drink and dance and revel too freely with others: that sin would paint the skin, would drift on the melody of tainted music and in the swill of a tumbler or wine glass, before seeping through into the very blood of you, twisting and corrupting and gushing to every limb and extremity.

Until all that drives you and moves you is devilish poison.

Mercy didn't believe this to be true, but it meant that she had little to no experience at parties or gatherings; little to no experience of charming or being charmed, of entertaining or being entertained. Of what it looks like to corrupt, or be corrupted.

The thought led her back to Mr. Shelby, every time.

She had spent a year, almost to the day, in relative obscurity. With a start she had recognised that this life, this very ostracizing, often lonely life behind high walls of cold stone and dull, heavy brick, is exactly what her grandmother would have wanted for her. Virginal and shrouded and away from the throng of haunted, violent men her grandmother envisioned at every turn, ready to paw at Mercy's virtue, tarnishing its glowing white with the muddiest black.

The thought of leaving her grandmother pleased made bile singe the back of her throat. She wanted to vomit at the very idea that she had lived her life exactly the way she had troubled to reject; exactly the way she had run from at the tender age of sixteen.

Leading back to Mr. Shelby this time made her grateful, as he was the only thing that marred the perfect, holy, virtuous life her grandmother had dreamed for her. Had raised her on. Had beaten into her.

His business. His weapons. His violence. His seduction. The temptation he embodied to her. The blood on his hands, hands that had guided her, that paid her; that grasped at her in her dreams.

He was her salvation. He was the sin that penetrated the marble her grandmother wanted to form her from. To worm beneath the white and the cold and the solidity to mar its chastity.

It was dangerous.

He was dangerous. And he had spent a year entirely unaware of her presence in his home, in the life of his son. She had ghosted through the corridors of Arrow House, the Shelby Estate, with only a passing glare from an errant maid, or an indulgent half-smile from Margaret.

They slept on the same corridor and she had never even stirred his interest. She'd never even seen him breathe in her direction. Had barely crossed his path.

And now…

Now she felt like she couldn't escape him. Even when he was away – which he was, often – she felt surrounded by him, felt his infiltration in her space, in her very blood.

Like sin. That devilish poison her grandmother warned her of.

But it wasn't her space, was it? Everything she had, everyone she loved, the very bed she slept in: all of it was stamped in virile red by Shelby Corporation Ltd.

And now that he was there, so very present in her life, she was remembering that. She was remembering that she ghosted those corridors only under the banner of his permission. That she could delight in loving his son only as long as he allowed.

It was precarious. All very precarious.

Only made more so by her dreams of him. Even there she had no control, no more knowledge of him, as if her imagination daren't try to conjure what it didn't know in case it couldn't do him justice, as if her mind didn't wish to insult him with injustice.

Her hands always seemed to be tied away, shackled down and immovable as he stirred over her, all rough grazes and suffocating shadow and ashy smoke. He moved in her, on her and around her but still he felt liquid to her: drowning her, filling every inch of her lungs.

It was devious and perverted and it was all she could think about.

It was going to be a long weekend.

Mercy was nervous. She'd barely wanted to relinquish her hold on Charlie that Saturday morning, and Margaret had to practically yank the chirpy, dribbling one-year-old from her grasp so she could pack and be on her way, in accordance with Mr. Shelby's schedule.

"For goodness sake, girl: you got yourself into this mess so do the British thing and muddle through with little to no grace and deep regret. Now pass me the young master and get packing."

If she'd been looking for understanding or sympathy, Margaret would not be her go to.

And so, Mercy did as told, filling her battered, yellow, square suitcase with nightclothes and other necessities for a stopover, tucking in her savings, before breathing deeply, checking herself over once more, and meandering at a slightly slower pace than usual down the stairs and out the door.

Mr. Shelby wasn't in the driveway waiting for her, and that helped to ease the cramping tension in her shoulders just a little, sending them an inch downward from where they'd stationed around her ears. She resolved to wait for him by the car, finding the very slight breeze a comfort to her sensitive skin and the fresh air soothing to what felt like raw tissue in her lungs.

And that was where Tommy found her five minutes later.

Dressed in a light, cream jacket the same length as her calf-skimming skirt and one of her pussy-bow blouses the colour of sage, Mercy had leant herself against the dark bonnet of his car, suitcase handle grasped in both palms and chocolate tendrils falling away from the tie in her hair and across her eyes in an almost caressing breeze.

She hadn't noticed him yet, her eyes glowing honey in the mid-morning sunlight as she looked across the lawn to the gates of the house, so he stole the moment to indulge his interest and absorb her. To keep her to himself, like owning a masterful painting and peeking through the tarp you smothered it in, so no other could appreciate it. So no other could truly enjoy it.

He moved forward and caught her eye.

"Good morning, Miss Hale."

"Good morning, Mister Shelby." Her voice was slightly breathy, like she couldn't catch air, and something stirred at the edge of his nerves, catching the hairs on the back of his neck.

His hand, rough and warm, scratched the soft cold of hers as he plucked the case from her with ease and set it on the backseat, before moving around the other side, away from her, to open the passenger door. Mercy only watched as he did so, a little transfixed and lot focused on the authority in the way he moved.

With the door open in one hand, he gestured with the other for her to climb on in, "Let's not keep Ada waiting." Mercy hurried to him, eyeing his proffered hand with slight hesitation, weighing up whether the offense of ignoring it would be worth it, rather than repressing the shiver of delight that would captivate her should she take it.

The look in Tommy's eye allowed no room for negotiation, and so she grasped his hand and allowed him to guide her up the step to the cab, trying not to relish in his warmth and the fire as it spread through her.

"Thank you, sir."

He moved quickly, his black coat indicating a harsher wind than there actually was as it flowed and billowed around him, adding to his aura of mystery and drama.

As he climbed in, Mercy swallowed a deep breath, preparing to dive under water, to be consumed by him, and before she knew it the doors were shut, the engine ignited, and his presence filled every inch of space, surrounding her without reprieve.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tommy noted the muscles of her slender arms contract. He smirked, amused, "Try to relax: it's a longer drive than to the village."

Mercy flickered her gaze over him, noting his amusement, and fought an indignant blush of reproach. She cleared her throat slightly, feeling it dry in embarrassment under his notice, "How long does it take to travel to London by car?"

"Quicker than the train," His eyes didn't move from the road, "About two hours to Central London, where Ada wants you for your afternoon of dressing up and spending money."

Mercy thought of her little stash in the pocket of her suitcase, recalling the memory of her reverently packing the cash to be assured that she did have the money with her.

Trying to be polite, Mercy responded, "I hope that doesn't lead you too far away from your business."

"It does." Tommy was blunt, and he could see it caught her by surprise. He didn't allow his face to move, teasing out her reaction further.

Mercy was slightly aghast, and floundered a little before stuttering forward, in unsure territory. Hadn't he usurped the journey and told her he was going to driving her? "Well, I'm sorry, I didn't realise it would cause you a hardship–"

"Why are you sorry?" He interrupted, swinging a little wildly on a left turn to unseat his companion. She had learned from last time though, and he was secretly a little impressed and a little amused that she held herself so stubbornly. Those curls that had escaped their tie fluttered in her eye line though, and she was harried in the way she pushed them aside.

Mercy felt her indignant spirit rising, and tried to remind herself that she wasn't a hardheaded little girl anymore, and she wasn't speaking to a hardheaded little boy: she was speaking to a veritable lord, considering the power he held over her. "For making you drive out of your way –"

"Did you make me do that?" She thought the idea laughable, that she could make him do anything he didn't want to. An absurd notion. But Tommy noted that her jaw had tightened slightly, and that actually, in a way, she had made him drive out of his way in order to keep her close. In order to illicit the conversation they were having now.

"Well, no, I suppose not –"

Another interruption and Tommy was suppressing his amusement with little success, Mercy observing the mocking way he played with her. They reached the main road, and Tommy felt in no rush to overtake the slower driver in front of them, drawing out their time together.

"A strange thing to apologise for then, isn't it?"

A beat of silence passed between them as Tommy took the time to light up a cigarette, holding it casually between his thumb and forefinger, his other hand flat against the bottom half of the steering wheel. He released the smoke in his mouth and tapped the ash out of his window, all while Mercy watched, open expression painted with suspicion.

"Are you trying to make me uncomfortable?" She hadn't meant to sound so accusatory, but Tommy heard it, and knew that he'd been found out. He grinned a little. Clever girl.

"Are you feeling uncomfortable?" It was strange to hear a tease in the depth of his voice, and something pleasurable flickered in the bottom of her stomach.

She scoffed and shook her head, the words tumbling from her before she could reel them back into her mind. "I'm starting to feel put off."

Tommy nodded slowly, moving his eyes from the road to hold her eyes, embers flickering with doubt, trepidation and a whisper of something that encouraged him. Delighted him, even. "The trip to London, or me?"

"Both." She promptly responded, though that lovely pink mouth of hers lifted with nerve and levity, before she conceded, "And neither." He met her gaze again, but she felt so easily read, so open and vulnerable, that she shook her head in amusement to break the connection.

Tommy persisted, flicking his half-finished cigarette out of the window, both hands returning to the wheel to take a right turn, "I don't like small talk. Travel and the weather; it's a waste of time."

Mercy wanted to roll her eyes at his impatience, but thought better of it, choosing a more diplomatic route, "You're a businessman. Surely you need small talk to make connections." She shifted slightly on the leather of her seat, feeling out of depth by mentioning his work, wondering if she really wanted to veer the conversation so.

Tommy looked at her for a beat, shaking his head ever so slightly, and thinking about just how little she knew. How she had no real idea who she worked for; no idea where he planned to lead her. What he planned to do with her. It excited him more than he would have cared to admit, and the demons in his mind hissed and purred. "Not in the kind of business I run, sweetheart; not with the kind of connections I make."

Mercy breathed a little deeper and exhaled through her nose, not wanting to ask though feeling she should know. Was Mr. Shelby the right person to ask? Would he indulge his secret criminal world to her? "You're not a man of words then, Mr. Shelby?" She didn't think so, and so she didn't ask. She'd just have to pry what she could from others. Maybe from Ada, if the opportunity arose.

"Only the words that need saying, Miss Hale." Mercy thought that a little shameful, given how wonderfully sinful his voice was. She wished he'd say more, so she didn't have to be the one revealing so much of herself. But that was what he wanted, wasn't it?

The notion led her to prompt: "So shall we proceed in silence?"

Tommy looked at her with amusement, and a sharp rejection of her question, "Oh no, there's plenty that needs to be spoken about today. There are answers that you owe me." He watched her eyebrows rise briskly, and her look turn to shocked apprehension.

"I owe you?"

Tommy wanted to grin at her consternation but refrained, allowing the lightness in his tone to contrast with the serious angles of his sharp face.

"Aye."

Mercy forced her open mouth to shut, having to work the muscles of her jaw harder to churn out her response with respect and a tone of semi-playfulness. Tommy saw through it with ease. "To what questions?"

Tommy's answer was simple: "Any that I ask you."

The command of a man that always got what he wanted, that's what it was. Mercy hardly thought she could stand to it, as surprised as she was.

"And do I get to ask you questions?"

Tommy laughed – at her, she was sure – the sound mainly working out of his nose to add to its mocking texture. He pinned her with a look, and god, Mercy thought he was so dangerously beautiful. "You can ask."

Did his voice have to be so deep and alluring? So saturated in a dark temptation, rough and tangible?

Mercy sighed, and lifted one leg to cross over the other, her movement revealing her exasperation. "But you don't owe me answers?" How business-like this all felt; Mercy could understand how he sped through transactions with no small talk.

"I pay you. I owe you nothing but the wages we've agreed upon." He watched her from the corner of his eye, letting the reminder of his power wash over her, noting her bristle with that fire he liked so much as she appalled his words.

"So I answer, or I lose my position?" Mercy felt this was ridiculous; she felt it was unfair, and then tried to dampen her childish reaction. When had anything ever been fair in her world? And she knew, she knew the moment Thomas Shelby had told her he planned to drive her to London, just the two of them in the shrinking confines of his car, that this would be the plan. To unravel her as he had been doing since the moment he realised she existed. And truly, did she not feel a little thrilled by it all?

"No. You answer, and I let you keep your position." Mercy shook at her head at his response, and wondered how serious he was being.

"Really?"

Tommy let a sharp pause pierce the air and addressed her with a cool look that somehow burned her and doused the black embers in her stomach simultaneously. "It's important I know who my son spends his days with. It's important that I know my sister's friends and acquaintances. It's important I know who lives under my roof, in my house." He ran his tongue along the chapped skin of his top lip, so pink and full and enticing as his next words encouraged the reaction in her he intended, "Who sleeps three doors down from me."

Mercy held his gaze stubbornly, and he watched her flicker with anticipation, worry and a lovely spark of bridled desire. She shook her head and wished she'd left a curtain of hair down to hide herself behind. "I think you're overestimating how interesting I am."

"I think you're going to lengths to make me believe that." His suspicion offended her, but she only watched him as he spoke, low and slow and ridiculously beautiful, "And I think I'll decide what's interesting."

She licked her lips and turned her head to watch the passing scenery, realizing abruptly that she'd been so caught up in him – in his words, his posture, his magnificence – that she'd had no time to be uncomfortable with the machine purring softly beneath her.

Her only discomfort came from the man sat half a foot away, yet somehow pressing all around her. The man that demanded she give herself over, demanded entry to the fortress of her memory. Did she want to let him?

Did she have a choice?

"What would you like to know, Mr. Shelby?"

The car ride has begun!

To be continued…

Let me know your thoughts, and make sure you stay safe and healthy! Wishing you all the absolute best.