Kimber's Dilemma - Tommy Shelby x Reader Fan Fic

Chapter 41

"Now, petal. What are you gonna do?"

Alfie looks at me with amusement as I stab angrily at the sausages on my plate. How lovely of my father to organise this breakfast after the engagement party. We're all sat in our pretty dresses and suits, eating from fine china with golden knives and forks and soft music playing.

And I'm ruining the atmosphere somewhat by scowling and skewering every piece of meat I can get my hands on.

"I'm going to find a gun and shoot Michael Shelby," I mutter. "Possibly followed by his favourite cousin."

Alfie shakes his head fondly. "Much as I'd love to see that, you'd be signing your own death warrant in the process. And you're makin' me too much money to lose ya now."

"What would you suggest, then?" I snap.

The silk handkerchief's soft against my lips as I press it there, marked by a smear of pink lipstick as I pull it away. My father pays us no mind, too busy muttering darkly among his associates about tensions with the Italians. A few guests shoot me a weary look — but I suppose after last night, when Alfie announced the wedding would be called off because I'm not Jewish before seemingly changing his mind, they must realise we're all one bullet short of a firearm.

"You need to find out what the fuck they're up to before you go makin' your own plans, alright?" Alfie says, shooting my sausages a reproachful look before neatly cutting into his kosher breakfast platter. "It's like a game of chess. No use plotting your own attack if you're not payin' attention to your opponent."

"They're not my opponents," I say quietly.

"No? But this accountant was more than willing to let you be killed for this, yeah? After framing you himself?"

"You were also involved," I glare at him. "You stole the car."

"For the right price, I'd steal my own mother's car," Alfie says. "That's the difference, darlin'. Old Alf's only ever looking out for number one. The Shelby's, they're different. They're also looking out for number two, number three, number four, whole big gypsy fucking family, yeah?"

I think it over for a moment. Finally make peace with my breakfast. Chew slowly. "I need to speak with Tommy."

"Fucking hell, haven't you been listening to a word I'm saying?" Alfie leans in close, his eyes boring onto my own. "Don't go and fucking speak to him. Go there and spy on him."

I blink. "If you're worried about my untimely death, that seems like a terrible idea."

"I'll bloody come, alright?"

An inkling of realisation suddenly dawns on me. "You want to be just as informed as I am, don't you? Find out if they're going to drop you in it with my father."

Alfie clears his throat and casts an auspicious glance in my father's direction. Not that I can blame him for being curious, or for wanting to protect himself. And in spite of everything, I like Alfie. He's grown on me. Much like a scraggly puppy from North London with a penchant for violence who could betray you at any moment. But he's fluffy with big eyes, so it all balances out.

Even so, I don't like having to resort to such measures. I don't like that it suddenly feels as though Tommy and I are on separate teams, when until now, we've been working together. I don't like that he fucked off. I don't like that he shut me out.

And I especially don't like that this has all happened since finding out the Peaky Blinders were responsible after all. I wonder, if it was Roberts, how he would have reacted. What price I would have had to pay.

I wonder if I would have paid it.

I sure don't see him stretching his hamstrings in preparation to get down on his knees and give me an apology in front of my father.

I know for a fact I'd have no choice in the matter if our roles were reversed.

Because that's Tommy. It's frightening, how well I've come to know him in such a short time together. He doesn't reveal himself with grandiose statements or moments of reminiscing. He disclosed himself to me in stages.

And I fell for him in stages too.

Now it's come to this.

"What will it be?" I ask Alfie, sipping back water to fend off the sting prickling in my eyes. "A stakeout?"

He shrugs. "We leave now, we'll catch 'em before their hangovers wear off."

***

At first I feel guilty. Fingers curled around the door to the pub, listening intently as the voices spread from the private booth. It strikes me that Tommy's only mere feet away. That we're separated by no more than a wall of panelling and frosted glass. It feels like idiocy to think I could ever hope to remain unnoticed. That we could be so close to one another, and yet so unaware of my presence.

By the time the conversation draws to a close, I no longer feel guilt. I feel rage.

My vision burns into the frosted glass, my hand trembling around the door. I boil red hot, brimming with anger and ready to unleash.

And then, I marry Kimber's daughter.

He's already got the Italians surrounding on all sides. He'll take what he can get.

If she sets foot into Small Heath as things currently stand, she'll be shot in the head.

Actually, Polly, someone stole from me and I took his daughter to bed.

My mind quickly draws conclusions. This must be all I've been to Tommy this entire time. A bargaining chip. Collateral. This must be why he was so angry about the betrothal to Alfie — not because he actually feels anything for me. But because it would have been a wrench in the works of his plan.

I was always the backup option. If one of his own men framed my father, he'd simply marry me. Job done. No risk of retaliation.

No considering whether I'd fucking accept in the first place. How I might feel about any of this. Why would he? He made sure to say and do all the right things. He committed to his part as much as he could.

And like an idiot, I fell for it.

You're mine. Nobody touches my property.

I should have seen the words for what they were. Possession not because he covets, but because he deems it obligatory.

I make no great effort to silence the snap of the door closing behind me. Angry footsteps carry me to the car where Alfie waits. I've barely closed the door and he presses his foot down, ready to get the hell out of Small Heath before we're recognised.

Not that I can blame him. Apparently, I'm not welcome here.

I've learned more from Tommy by listening at the Garrison door than I did in months of spending time with him. And to make matters worse — they're planning to frame Roberts. They're planning to lie. To drag my name through the mud.

I only have myself to blame for thinking things would be any different.