Calloway // Michael Gray x Reader - Peaky Blinders Fanfic

Chapter 4

Present day

Michael

"Now, this is very fucking important, so listen."

Tommy claps his hands on Michael's shoulders. Michael's face stays impassive, his eyes stay sharp, but internally he's hanging onto every word.

He's been enthralled with Tommy ever since he first saw his cousin — driving the car, wearing the suit. Speaking with all the confidence of a man who could rule the entire world, if he so chose.

It's like every main character of Michael's books had come to life and merged into one. The very man he, himself, had always wanted to be, always envisioned himself as — fate had sent him this sign.

Tommy would be Michael's key to achieving what he'd always wanted. No longer would he be weak and helpless, bullied and beaten and abused and —

He sucks in a breath. No use reliving any of that.

"This is the only bank that'll take us on, alright? They have a London branch, but we don't own enough fucking coppers in London, and I'd feel safer close to home in case anything should go wrong. You say we're close to eighty percent legal. This is how we turn the other twenty percent, and get very fucking rich doing so."

"You'll be able to buy your own car," Arthur pipes up from across the room, where he's practicing blowing smoke rings from a cigar.

"So, in short, don't fuck this up," Tommy finishes. "I'd meet with them myself, but think it looks better if you do it, as head accountant."

Michael nods sharply. He understands the responsibility that's being placed on him. Finally, after a few years of hard work, he feels like he belongs here, with his cousins. He's earned his place. And he'll stop at nothing to keep growing.

To achieve what he's always wanted.

"Now, I've got a dinner with my wife," Tommy says. He tucks a handkerchief into his pocket.

Arthur frowns. "It's only twelve-thirty."

"What I do with her for the next six hours is none of your business, Arthur."

Arthur shrugs. "Tell May I said hello."

***

A bloody car, Michael muses as he sets off down the streets of Birmingham, briefcase in his hand. A car all of his own. He doesn't know anyone else his age who owns one.

And it's not about the possession. It's not about the low whispers, the fuck-you-I-have-money attitude, though those things are nice. It's knowing people will show him respect.

He won't be a victim. Beaten and abused and taken into the church pew and —

His fists clench, then release. Once more, he reminds himself there is no use in reflecting on the past. It can't change a fucking thing. All that energy that he might have wasted on such matters, he pours into his work. Into building himself into someone worthwhile. Worthy of respect.

He clears his throat as he enters the lobby of the bank. It exudes opulence and sophistication, the grand reception area shining with light reflected from the polished marble floors, bouncing from the intricately carved panelling on the walls.

The ceilings are high, as are the windows, and at the centrepiece of the hall lies a row of ornate teller counters. Polished walnut, brass accents. Each man working is impeccably dressed, his suit tailored down to the last detail, his face either so clean-shaven it's a wonder any beard grows at all, or sporting a gleaming, perfect moustache.