The first was simple—quiet, serenity, a life untouched by the curse of her own affliction.
The second was ruthless—to guard and provide for her blood, the last sliver of family she claimed as hers.
Thomas Shelby was neither of these things. Not at first. Not until he came back from the war with mud on his boots and death in his eyes.
"𝘐 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘢 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸," she once purred, lips stained with whiskey and wickedness, "𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯."
Rare was the lady who could walk into a room and look both angel and executioner, but Marianna was bred for it. Daring, magnificent, pugnacious—her laughter stitched itself into the same air that carried gunpowder and prayer. She was not the kind of woman who stood beside Thomas Shelby's crimes; she wove herself into them, making each sin look like scripture.
Together, they were not lovers in the way the world wished them to be. They were sharper than that—more ruinous. A beautiful collision dressed as fate.
And so Small Heath, Birmingham, whispered it in alleyways and taprooms alike: Thomas Shelby and Marianna James were the most perfect disaster the city had ever seen.
----------
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
