Gypsy - T. Shelby

1.1 We're Going To Birmingham

"I ask you this one thing:
Let me go mad my own way."

- Sophocles (translation by Anne Carson)

1919, London

Bold Italics- Romani

"FUCK!"

The clanging of metal accompanied by her brother's scream jolted Florence awake. She pulled the gun under her mattress to her chest and bounded out of her bedroom and down the  gargantuan staircase to the study where the clamoring was coming from. Once she burst through the door ready to shoot she found only her brother, amongst the chaos of his desk contents scattered over the floor.

"Christ don't fucking shoot!", he raised his arms in defense, his outburst of rage giving away to fear.

Florence let the gun drop to her side and collapsed against the doorframe with a sigh of relief that yet was lingering with annoyance, "What the fuck Patrick?"

Before he even had a chance to answer a man, identical to the one standing opposite her, came into the doorframe.

"What are you on about at four in the morning?", he rubbed his eyes sleepily and looked at his brother, still wearing his days clothes and his sister, holding a gun in her pajamas. He couldn't conclude who's eyes were wilder, but then on the other hand, both his sibling's were in a constant state of wilderness.

"Somethings happened.", Patrick had a tone anger in his voice but it didn't phase his siblings, Patrick had a short temper, though unlike his sister he was terrible at hiding it. His brother took a seat in front of him as Florence moved to pour herself a drink. He watched her carefully, nervously.

"Speak then. You didn't wake Richard and I up for nonsense did you?"

"You bloody nearly blew my head off for nonsense then?", the elder man retorted, still riled up but now he couldn't tell if it was his anger or his nerves.

"My sincere apologies sir.", she deadpanned, her brothers ears getting hot, "Go on now.", she motioned with her glass, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the edge.

Patrick hung his head afraid to meet his sister's gaze, "The Libyan guns were intercepted before we could get to them. When we opened the proofing bay... they weren't there."

"The contraband for the IRA?", Richard looked over to Florence who was standing silently against the bar cart her eyes fixated on Patrick, her expression unreadable.

The twins had dove right back into the business when they had gotten back from the war after their sister had run it practically alone for a year. Her fathers business partners had all been "dealt with" as she said, not that there truly were many people the man trusted enough to allow them into his business affairs anyway. They both had very little knowledge of how she had built their fathers empire even higher since his death, especially since she was so young, a woman and had only had the enterprise in her hands for a very limited time period. They'd bargained on never seeing her near the family business nevermind see her in charge when they returned from the war. And hell, she was good at it.

"Do we know who took them?", she asked bringing the glass tumbler to her lips. Patrick felt as if her steel gaze was drilling a hole through his skull.

"The Birmingham gang.", he said and Florence's heart skipped a beat at the mention of The Peaky Blinders, the gang Polly and her nephews were in charge of. She hadn't seen Polly since she returned to London and her guilty conscience weighed heavy on her shoulders. When the war ended the Shelby boys came home and fought their way through the smoke and mud of the city until they had an iron grip on it. They were Birmingham fucking royalty. They weren't in a position of any real power though, but she'd heard rumors of the gang that wore razor blades in their caps and slashed out the eyes of their enemies. The gang was making a play for bigger power, power that was hers to give.