As the youngest Shelby child and twin to Finn Shelby, Kezia has spent the last 4 of her 10 years locked away for her mental defectiveness.
She returns to Small Heath under the legal guardianship of her brother, Thomas Shelby. Despite knowing she's s...
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Oooh, baby here we are!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
There were two reasons to meet with Thomas Shelby.
The first, because the Gypsy's power had grown. Took a recent liking to London and got into it with Sabini.
The second, because he was a Gypsy. And a Gypsy stole Alfie's little bird from him.
Alfie was a man of strength, and he prided himself on his mental resistance. He stopped himself for four years from going after every Gypsy family he had the names of. The urge came to him most often at night, restless and praying for sleep. Alfie thought of their time in France. Her love for Cyril. Her peculiar obsession with bread.
And then the rage would come. Knowing she was gone. Stolen from him.
But he couldn't pull the trigger and round up every Gypsy in England. Not because he couldn't, because it wasn't supposed to matter. She was a ghost proper now. And he had a war to win.
The little man survived a bashing. Carried himself fine so his body was healed, but his head was another story. Having blood behind the eye and the slowness they tracked both Alfie and the room with indicated a migraine the size of Russia. It would only take one shove. One punch to kill him.
Alfie led the Gypsy to his office, where Ollie and Cyril waited outside, watching.
"Well, I've heard very bad, bad, bad things about you Birmingham people," he began. He fiddled with his beard, to ease the need to launch across the table. "You're Gypsies, right?" Could he do this? Alfie wasn't so sure anymore. "So what do you live in, a fucking tent or caravan?" The answer was neither. Man lived in a house, but many of his Gypsy friends did live out in the open. If he could rile him up, might make this easier. Justified killing in a business type of way.
He lit a cigarette and took a drag. "I came here to discuss business with you, Mr. Solomons."
"Well!" Alfie slapped his hands together. "Rum's for fun and fucking, innit? So, whiskey, now that is for business." He reached into the right-side drawer beside him, muscles coiled like frozen springs, and took out the bottle.
"Let's talk first, eh?"
No whiskey-infused rage then. Fine. "Suit yourself." He tucked it back into the drawer and allowed himself to fall. He accepted catapulting over the ledge, so let's see what happened. "Before we begin whatever it is you came all the way down here for, I need to clear somethin' up. I understand some of you people like to take children off the street. Use them for your spells and horse fuckin' before leaving them for dead. Are you one of them people, Thomas Shelby?"
The man remained stoic, just as described. He was surely used to insults. "I don't use children, Mr. Solomons. Nor would I associate with anyone who did."
