The Sharpest Jewel | Alfie Solomons |

~Chapter 26~

Small Heath, Birmingham, 1919.

A few days had passed since the chaotic events of the wedding and Freddie's arrest. Florence sat in her small, dimly lit flat, the lingering smell of last night's rain seeping in through the cracked window. She straightened her dress in the mirror, hoping it would be presentable enough for wherever Thomas was sending her this time. She hadn't expected the job he offered to take her so deeply into the Shelby world, but she was here now—and her curiosity about them outweighed her reservations. Thomas had mentioned that Arthur would be at the betting shop, where the Shelby family ran their business operations. As Florence pulled on her worn coat and locked up her flat, she steeled herself, hoping that Arthur wouldn't be as intimidating as the others had been.

The streets were bustling by the time she reached the bookies, a modest but well-guarded building on a side street. The air was thick with smoke and the sounds of men shouting bets, a mix of tension and thrill swirling in the air. Florence took a deep breath and walked through the narrow entryway, past a few men who eyed her with curiosity. Inside, it was chaotic—clerks handling wagers, runners darting back and forth with tickets and cash, and at the center of it all, behind a counter stacked with racing forms and betting slips, stood Arthur Shelby.

She hesitated for a moment, watching him from a distance. Arthur was busy, barking orders to the men around him with an intensity that seemed effortless. His bruised face was beginning to heal, though the cuts still stood out against his skin, a reminder of the beating she'd saved him from. Gathering her courage, Florence stepped forward and cleared her throat.

"Arthur?" she called, her voice almost drowned by the noise. Arthur's gaze snapped to her, his expression shifting from irritation to surprise. He raised an eyebrow. "Well, look who it is—the fucking nurse," he muttered.  Florence offered a small smile. "Thomas said you'd be here. He... suggested I come and help, said I should start today." Arthur scratched his chin, as if unsure what to make of her. "Did he, now?" Florence nodded and made her way over to the desk. She took a seat, feeling the old wood creak beneath her as she opened up a large ledger. With quick strokes of her pen, she started taking notes on the bets being called out, her concentration unwavering.

Arthur's expression shifted to a hard line as he looked Florence over, crossing his arms. "So, Thomas sent you to help, did he?" he said, a touch of disdain in his voice. "Not sure what he thinks you'll fucking do here, but I suppose you can keep the papers straight." Florence's stomach twisted at the bluntness of his tone, but she kept her face steady. She knew better than to show a reaction—it'd only add fuel to the fire. "I can manage," she replied simply, forcing herself to hold his cold stare before looking back down at the ledger.

Arthur didn't seem convinced. "You better be quick on it, then," he muttered, his tone carrying an edge. He gestured with a curt nod toward the betting slips piling up on the corner of the counter. "Start by sorting those. And don't ask too many questions—I'll let you know if you're doin' it wrong." Without another word, Florence nodded, moving straight to the stack of slips. Her fingers quickly got to work, separating the winning bets from the losers, and making notes on the amounts. She worked in silence, feeling the weight of Arthur's gaze on her now and then, as if he expected her to falter. But she ignored it, channeling all her focus into the work.

Minutes stretched into hours as she organized the bets, kept the accounts, and adjusted the running tally—all without a single complaint. Arthur would toss the occasional cutting remark her way, usually muttering something under his breath, but she kept her eyes on her work and let it slide. By mid-afternoon, she'd built a steady rhythm, keeping pace with the brisk demands of the operation. Arthur finally gave a small, gruff nod of acknowledgment, though he didn't say anything. Florence saw it, though, and took it as a small victory. Whatever Arthur Shelby thought of her, she'd proven she could keep up—and she'd done it without a single word of protest.