The afternoon had bled into a bruised purple evening, and the office was once again settling into its nocturnal hush. The gold fern brooch was pinned to your lapel, a small, glittering weight that felt like a brand.
Thomas hadn't emerged from his office since the brothers left. The only sign of life was the occasional scratching of a nib against parchment and the clink of a crystal decanter. You were clearing your desk, preparing to lock the ledger in the safe, when the heavy street door didn't just open—it hit the wall with a violent crack.
A man stumbled in, his breath hitching in wet, ragged gasps. He was dressed in a suit that had once been expensive but was now stained with soot and sweat. This was Silas Vane, a factory owner whose gambling debts had recently seen his deed transferred into the ledger you had just closed.
"Where is he?" Vane roared, his eyes bloodshot and wild. "Where’s the devil who took my livelihood?"
You stood up, your movements calm despite the spike of adrenaline. "Mr. Vane, the office is closed. You’ll need to make an appointment through the proper channels."
"Proper channels?" Vane laughed, a jagged, hysterical sound. He lunged toward your desk, slamming a heavy, grease-stained hand down near your typewriter. "He took my father’s mill on a card game! I have workers to pay! I have a name!"
"You have a debt, Mr. Vane," you said, your voice dropping an octave, steady and cold. "And Mr. Shelby does not appreciate unannounced guests."
The Shadow in the Doorway
Vane didn't listen. He reached out, grabbing your shoulder with a bruising grip, his face inches from yours. "You’re just his little bookkeeper, aren’t you? Tell him to come out, or I’ll start breaking things he actually cares about."
The click of a pistol hammer being cocked back was the only warning.
The voice was quiet—frighteningly quiet. Thomas was standing in his doorway, the shadows cutting across his face so only one crystalline blue eye was visible. He held his Webley revolver with a casual, practiced ease, the barrel pointed directly at Vane’s throat.
Vane froze, his hand trembling on your shoulder. "Shelby... you can’t just—"
"I said," Thomas stepped into the light, his expression a mask of murderous indifference, "let go of her. Now."
Vane recoiled as if burned, stumbling back toward the door. The sight of Thomas Shelby in the flesh, unbothered and armed, was enough to break what little courage the man had left.
"Get out," Thomas commanded. "If I see you on this street again, I won't use the gun. I’ll let my brother Arthur handle the conversation. And he isn't nearly as patient as I am."
Vane scrambled out the door, the sound of his frantic footsteps fading into the Birmingham mist.
Silence rushed back into the room, heavier than before. Thomas lowered the gun but didn't holster it. He looked at you, his chest rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm. He walked toward you, his eyes fixed on your shoulder where Vane had grabbed you.
"Are you hurt?" he asked. It wasn't a boss asking a secretary; it was a man asking a woman.
"I'm fine, Mr. Shelby. Just a bit of rumpled wool." You tried to smooth your sleeve, but your hands were finally starting to shake.
Thomas saw the tremor. He reached out, his gloved hand steadying your wrist. He didn't let go. His gaze dropped to the gold brooch on your lapel, then back to your eyes.
"I told you the streets weren't safe," he murmured, his thumb brushing the underside of your pulse point. For a second, the office, the debts, and the war seemed a thousand miles away. "Perhaps you should move your desk into my office. From now on."
He didn't wait for an answer. He gently pulled you toward the inner office, as if the outer room had suddenly become too dangerous for you to occupy alone.
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