𝐋𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈𝐧 𝐚 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞 🍞PEAKY BLINDERS 🥖

Chapter Twenty-One

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Extra shifts in the betting house was not all Finn would have to do.

But saying more, in front of Kizzie, would do her no good. She was already in a fragile state.

Was she acting out from his absence? Or was this simply the result of being fifteen? Polly warned him this would happen, but Tommy denied it; his lambkin was no normal girl. She'd never disobey him for just a single night of fun.

They'd discuss it later, once safely home.

"Relax, boy."

Ozzy nodded. "I'm fine, sir."

Tommy looked the boy over and lit a cigarette. "Then why are your shoulders so tense?"

He immediately released them.

"I already told you that you're not in trouble... You've been in the same room as Sabini's and Solomons' men."

Was that supposed to be a question? "I have, yes. But mostly just to run drugs between London and wherever they say."

"And then you chose to leave. Why?"

"It wasn't so safe anymore. Their war was getting bad. I couldn't play both sides and remain neutral. Besides, there wasn't room for me in either gang. I wasn't Italian. Or Jewish."

"You're Polish."

"Yes, sir."

"And you murdered your family."

"I did. But on accident. Mostly."

No one told him setting fire to his bed would spread the flames faster than a bullet. But between the hoarding his parents did, all the wood finishings, and generally shitty ventilation in their building, the fire made sense. Ozzy admitted it to the police. Told them he did it because he was mad at them. Which was true. Both of his parents had a hard hand, especially when drinking. And that was all they ever fucking did. He just wanted it all to stop.

Tommy flicked ashes onto the floor. "Then you went off to a hospital."

"Worse than living with my parents." Ozzy shook his head. "But I got lucky. They kicked me out due to overcrowding. Livin' on the streets ever since."

Hospital talk was not discussed with the family. Tommy was dealing with it on his own. There was no mention of his progress or of Kizzie's time there. It physically made Tommy ill. But he was close to it all being over. Even if it meant sacrificing time with Kizzie to do so.

"My sister is getting older, but she will always have the mindset of a child. My business is growing, so my family and I cannot be there as much... She needs someone with her. Someone she feels comfortable around and someone I trust. Someone like you, Mr. Wójcik."

☻

Tommy's home didn't really feel like Kizzie's.

And she was pretty sure it didn't feel like his either.

It was a hotel, if anything. A place to retire temporarily before you go home. Their home was on the way. Once Tommy planted his feet in London.

Their flat was two-story. The very bottom was just the dining area and parlor. Filled with elaborate gold fixtures and messy tapestries. Tommy didn't pick out any of the furniture. Neither did Kizzie. Because this wasn't really their home.

But her room was certainly hers.

It was twice the size of the old one (Tommy's half included) with lush purples and gunmetal grays. Her easel sat closest to the bay window and the little cushioned seating. When not painting, she sat there with her sketchbook and oil pastels.

Kizzie discovered oil pastels two years ago, while on a walk with Tommy. Artists frequently did portraits and landscapes for tourists. The man she saw was making a beautiful sunset. The oranges and pinks and purples blended together like nothing Kizzie had ever seen before.

People-colors came to life so much easier. Her confidence grew, and it was around this time when people-colors started to calm down around her. She could manage painting other things. Her favorite were flower doodles: swirling, colorful petals like metal springs. When she ran out of room on the canvas, Kizzie would then mark any remaining white spots with petals.

Her work was scattered around her room. Tommy hung up his favorites, too, like in his room and in the hallways.

Kizzie sat on her bed when Tommy knocked on her open door.

"Hello," she greeted. In her hands was her ruined dress.

Tommy watched her trace her fingers over the torn collar. "Tomorrow we'll get a new dress, yeah?"

"Okay."

He came inside and sat beside her. "Why did you have Finn bring you out tonight?"

"I just...sometimes I want to be normal. Like Finn. And Ada, even. She was allowed to do things when she was my age."

"I—"

"But it was wrong. I upset everyone and almost...you know. "

"I know, lambkin," he whispered. His hand came up to stroke her cheek. Her skin was still dry from her tears. "I was so afraid when I got that phone call."

Kizzie rested her head on his shoulder. Tommy's body relaxed and he allowed himself to exist in the moment. He held her like he did when she was younger. Those days were long gone. He would never forget the moment he realized he could no longer pick her up. So much control was taken from him once realizing it. How could he best protect her? Protect what remained of his mind? Kizzie would always be his anchor, and Tommy needed to find a new way to keep her close.

But he was failing. Nothing he did felt right or natural. So, he busied himself with work: both with London and the hospital; just to keep himself from falling over the edge. But the longer he spent away from Kizzie, the taller she got. The more defined her face became. Even her art changed. And by God was his sister not a fucking beautiful artist. Nevermind the fact that she never picked up a paintbrush. Everything in her room and in the house she made with her fingers.

Tommy threaded their fingers together. He inhaled her scent and let himself sink further. She was the most potent drug. She would never leave him, she promised so herself. And he was determined now, more than ever before, to keep her under his wing until Death finally came for him.

Author's Note:

Just this chapter today, friends. The next one will kickstart the official season 2. We're just one step closer to Alfie 🥰.