Read this book if you want to f-k Tommy Shelby.
You're Billy Kimber's daughter.
You've been accused of stealing the Peaky Blinders' shipment of guns.
And now you're forced to work with Tommy Shelby to solve the mystery of who's framing your father...
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I only clued Tommy in on the investigation because two sets of eyes will be better than one. Because it heightens my chances of finding out the truth.
Not for any other reason, and definitely not because I actually enjoyarguing with him.
But as we pull up to Spiegler's house in the heart of the city, I have to admit I'm grateful to have Tommy at my side. There's something unnerving in the curtains covering the windows even in daylight, the handful of rats that scurry along the damp pavement. Nobody in this derelict postcode owns a car. I spot a haggard woman smoking a cigarette on her porch, eyeing Tommy's Ford greedily.
If I'd come here alone, I'd be turning around and leaving faster than Tommy could say 'guns'.
But looking weak in front of him isn't an option. And I try to reassure myself with the knowledge that, between his gun and razor blades, he can take care of any danger.
We approach the door to the house in silence. Tommy raps his knuckles in a sharp knock. I wrap my coat more tightly around my shoulders — whether fending off a chill or fighting nerves, I can't be sure.
"He might not be home," Tommy says as the seconds stretch out before us.
"He fucking better be," I mutter. "I'm not coming back here again."
Still nothing. Impatience builds up within me, and I bang loudly on the door with my fist, ignoring Tommy's bemused glance. Finally, a shadowy figure appears, and the door clicks open.
He's an older man, with a long nose and scraggly grey beard. His shirt's caked in mud and grime — or what little I can see of it as he holds the door open just a crack, just wide enough to poke his head through. "Yes?" He asks, his voice quiet and polite.
I swallow as his eyes fix on me. I hadn't actually planned what to say to him. Words choke in my throat — I don't know where to begin.
Tommy comes to my aid. "Daniel Spiegler?" He asks. Spiegler's gaze whips across to him as Tommy extends a gloved hand. "Thomas Shelby. Local businessman. Mind if we come in?"
"I'm not interested in purchasing your wares," Spiegler says, flapping his hands at us to leave and trying to close the door.
"No, we're not selling anything," I say quickly. "We've come from your store. The lady there said you could give us a list of your clientele."
His eyes narrow in suspicion, his fingers curling around the door edge. "Why do you need that, eh?"
Tommy regards him coldly. "You do as she says. If we have to ask again, I won't be so polite."
Spiegler mutters, shaking his head in resignation. "Fine. Hang on."
He leaves the door slightly ajar, disappearing back into the house. We continue to wait on the doorstep. A sear of goosebumps spreads across my neck as I feel a set of eyes burning into me. I turn instinctively.
