ɪᴛᴀʟɪᴀɴ ꜱɪʀᴇɴ

quarto capitolo

Thomas Shelby was a lucky bastard. A man who claimed not to care whether he lived or died, and yet, every time death reached for him, he found a way to slip through its fingers.

The first thing he noticed when he woke was the sound  sharp, deliberate clicks of high heels striking against the tiled corridor of Birmingham Hospital. They echoed steadily through the hallway, unhurried and precise, as though whoever wore them had nowhere to rush and no reason to fear what waited at the end. It was the sort of sound that made men tense without meaning to, a quiet warning wrapped in elegance. Even men who had faced machine guns in France. And then she appeared the gypsy princess herself. Polly Gray stood framed in the doorway, a thin ribbon of cigarette smoke curling upward from between her fingers, her dark eyes already sweeping over him with calm, clinical precision. There was no panic in her face, no frantic relief. Only assessment and calculation. She wore that familiar, restrained smile not warmth exactly, not softness but something steadier, something that felt like comfort and home in a world that rarely offered either. It was the kind of expression that reminded him of their late-night conversations in the kitchen, when the house had finally gone quiet and the fire burned low and of that unspoken certainty that no matter how dark things became, she would always stand beside him.

She crossed the room at her usual measured pace, composed and self-assured, and lowered herself into the chair beside his bed as though the space had always belonged to her. When she placed her hand over his, it was steady and certain, her fingers firm against his skin, anchoring him in a way no doctor ever could. From her composure alone, he understood what she was not saying. The doctors had reassured her. Whatever damage had been done, it was not fatal. Not this time.

"Just spoke to the nurses at the front." she said calmly, a faint satisfied smile playing at her lips. "They reckon you'll be out in a couple of days."

She flicked the ash neatly into the tray and let her gaze travel over him again, slow and deliberate, as though she were inspecting damage to something valuable and dented, perhaps, but still very much intact.
"Don't try anything before then." she warned, her voice calm but edged with command.

Tommy's eyes, bruised and darkened, one still refusing to fully open, lifted to meet hers. The fire in them hadn't dimmed. If anything, it burned sharper for the pain.
"No" he said flatly. "I need to leave tonight."

Polly stiffened at once, her hand tightening slightly over his, but he went on as though he hadn't seen it.

"Sabini could send one of his men any minute to finish what he started." Tommy said, his voice roughened by pain and held together by irritation. "I'm a sitting duck in here."

Her composure cracked. "You can't fucking leave, Thomas" she snapped, giving him a sharp slap against the arm not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to remind him he was still flesh and bone. "Look at you. You can barely sit upright, let alone take a piss without help."

She leaned closer, eyes flashing.
"You woke up less than twenty-four hours ago. You need doctors, not another mad dash through the streets like some bloody lunatic."

"I need air," he shot back, teeth grinding as he shifted and the broken ribs protested violently beneath the bandages. "A boat. Somewhere open." His jaw locked.
"Help me get out tonight, Pol, or I'll be dead by morning. I need to get to Charlie's yard. I've got to be in Camden as soon as possible. I've got business."

Polly swore under her breath, a sharp curse in Romani slipping out before she caught it. She scolded him again, but she was already moving, already bracing an arm behind his back to help him sit upright. Her hands were steady - almost. But not quite. They trembled just enough to betray what she refused to say. He looked better today. Colour back in his skin. Eyes focused. Breathing stronger.