It's the roaring twenties in Birmingham, the Peaky Blinders exist alongside God but they were much, much closer at hand than Him. Mercedes de Silva, thornless withered rose, petals filled with sorrow. Thomas Shelby, ruthlessly ambitious, conflicted...
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1913
AS IF A MILLION EMBERS IGNITED, THE SUNSET BLOOMS ON THE HORIZON. The green leaves danced as the gentle wind swept it away, strands of her jet black hair were kissed by it. Mercedes leaned her back on the huge trunk of narra tree, shutting her eyes and wallowing in the peaceful and quiet space. This has been her secret hideaway for as long as she could remember, she was free when she spends time on her own. No one dictates her on what to do, what to say, or how to behave. The burden of being inside their house felt like a thousand pounds pressing against her throat and chest, but it has now been lifted—at least for the time being.
"What are you doing here?" a man's voice made her slowly open one eye, a frown forming on her lips, "Go away," she muttered with firm intent before closing her eye again.
Squatting in front of Mercedes, he snickered, "Make me."
"Eres estúpido," she sighed exasperatedly and looked at the raven-haired man, who grinned even wider and brushed his hair back with his long fingers. He knew she was too mentally exhausted to argue with him, so she let him do whatever he wanted. Iago sat beside her, his head resting on the trunk.
"Señorita!Oh no! Your white dress would be stained!" she noticed the maidservant running towards them with a concerned look on her face. Mercedes ignored the comment and smiled at her, "Is that for me?" she pointed to the lemonade Mirasol was carrying.
"A-ah, yes! Señorito told me that it would make you feel better," the maidservant glanced at Iago, who just winked at her. She bit her lower lip as she felt the burning of her cheeks, Mirasol moved next to Mercedes and handed her the glass.
"Thank you, Mirasol," the raven-haired woman said, referring to the woman who has been serving her family for nearly a decade—Mercedes, to be precise. Mirasol, one of their coachman's daughters, was three years older than her lady. Mercedes adored her because she was not only sweet but also loyal and intelligent. Mercy was confident that she was the type of person who would never betray her.
