WOUNDS THAT NEVER HEAL || tommy shelby x reader

prologue

An odd feeling dawned on you, the moment you held those keys within your hands;

You knew where the Shelby's operated, but they didn't know where you did.

London differed from Small Heath the way a brick wall looks better after a layer of paint—it was all a façade. One that you wanted to make seem true. Legitimate business was all you had on your plate; no cutting corners; no becoming one of them.

It had taken you just over seven months to save up enough, but finally it was yours. You pressed the cold keys into the palms of your hands, taking in the space that you'd worked tirelessly to call your own.

When Polly had discussed your skills, you'd joked about owning a speakeasy.

On the train to London, the idea had settled itself in your mind—

You'd have your own club. You, and only you.

That day had finally come.

You'd never thought of yourself as the manager type, but as soon as you'd viewed the spot in Soho, there was no going back. You walked in and imagined the space as your own, with your own décor, your own drinks menu, your own entertainment. Your place wouldn't disguise itself as lavish, when it was in fact a cesspit for criminals and murderers. Your place would be genuine; fun; a place for everyone to enjoy.

By your eighth month in London, it was almost finished. Decked out with thrifted furniture, an old copper bar-top with matching stools, a varnished stage for musicians and dancers, glass chandeliers that reflected light around the room in crystal waves—

It was done.

And opening day was upon you.

"Martin!" You yelled. You sat at your vanity, putting on a pair of earrings in the mirror. Martin ran down the corridor, stopping when he reached your doorway.

He was of slim build, with dirty blond hair and an honest face. You'd met your first week in London, when you'd got a job at a fancy restaurant near Tottenham Court Road. When you bought the club, you gave him a job as bar manager. You shared the flat above the club together—as friends.

Nothing more.

Besides, he was a ridiculously short man. In heels, which you'd taken to wearing now, he only came up to your chin.

You looked at Martin through your mirror. "Did that table of twelve for cocktails get back to you?"

"Yeah, they're coming around ten." He replied. You finished with your earrings, standing up and checking the rest of your outfit in the mirror.

"Brilliant," You added, nodding at yourself in the mirror, content with the way you looked. Martin lingered in your doorway, giving you a once over. You saw him in your peripheral vision. "What? Too flashy?" You asked him, he immediately retreated slightly.

"How do you do that? Noticing things so easily," He almost whispered.

"It's not a bad thing to be vigilant," You fiddled with the collar of your outfit. It was black and mesh with long sleeves, before the material became opaque at your breasts and below. Instead of a cocktail dress, you donned a jumpsuit. Long black culottes covered your legs, and small black heels tied everything together.

"You scare me sometimes, y'know," Martin added, sending you a small chuckle. You turned to him with a smirk on your lips.

"You're a wuss if that's the case," You approached him, immediately going to straighten out his bowtie without hesitation. "Done," You smacked his lapels once, sending him a bright smile. "Let's do this,"

The band was ready, the liquor was prepared—

You opened the doors on your new life.