The Sharpest Jewel | Alfie Solomons |

~Chapter 31~

Camden, London, 1922.

As soon as the clock struck seven, Alfie's patience seemed to wear thin. She didn't argue. A man appeared to escort her, his expression unreadable as he led her down a different hallway, this one dimly lit and quieter than the rest of Alfie's territory. She noted every turn, every shadow, mentally mapping her way. But when they reached the door, Ollie simply motioned her inside and, with a nod that betrayed nothing, pulled it shut behind her. She heard the heavy click of a lock, sealing her in.

Florence glanced around. The room was small but functional, more comfortable than the damp storage room she'd been in earlier. A narrow bed with a thin blanket sat against one wall, and a small metal toilet stood in the corner. A tray of food—a bit of bread, cheese, and a tin cup of water—had been left for her on a low table, though there was no change of clothing, just the same rumpled outfit she'd worn since the day before. She imagined Alfie didn't intend for her to get too comfortable.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath. The silence was thick, pressing in on her, and she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was stationed just outside the door, waiting for any sign of trouble. She tested the handle, but of course, it was firmly locked. She was certain Alfie had someone keeping watch—he was too careful, too calculating to leave her unwatched for long.

The small comforts in this room—food, a bed—felt like a peculiar gesture, almost as if Alfie was acknowledging that she wasn't quite a prisoner, but not yet trusted, either. She took a piece of bread, chewing slowly as she tried to piece together what game he was playing. Alfie was a man of layers, his motivations veiled beneath sarcasm and threats, but this felt like something else, a test or maybe a trap.

Florence leaned back on the bed, the springs creaking slightly under her weight as she tried to settle in. She didn't trust any of this—Alfie's quiet tolerance, the strange camaraderie they'd shared in his office, and now this room that was just comfortable enough to keep her guessing. It felt deliberate, like Alfie wanted her to wonder, to question whether she was a guest, a captive, or something in between.

The minutes dragged by, stretching into hours as the dim light faded. Her mind wandered back to her brief exchange with Ollie. She thought of his warning glances, the edge in his voice when he'd called her hypocritical. Florence felt a pang of something—regret, perhaps, or the realization that she was more deeply enmeshed in this world than she'd ever meant to be. She listened intently for any sounds outside, but the hall was silent, muffled by heavy walls and the locked door. Occasionally, she thought she heard footsteps, the quiet shuffling of someone stationed just outside, confirming her suspicion that she was being watched. Every so often, she paced the narrow floor, restless and unable to shake the feeling of being caged. Yet she knew she couldn't afford to show any sign of frustration. Alfie was a man who pounced on weakness, who read people like books and kept their secrets tucked away for later use.

As night settled fully, her eyes adjusted to the dimness, and she noticed small details she'd missed earlier: a narrow window high on the wall, too small for anyone to crawl through but enough to let in a sliver of moonlight. Shadows danced across the stone, casting faint patterns on the walls, which gave her a strange sense of company in the silence. Exhausted but too alert to sleep, she wrapped herself in the thin blanket and lay down, staring up at the ceiling, her mind drifting. She thought of the war, the makeshift beds she'd slept in during her time in France, and the constant uncertainty that had been her only companion back then. This room, with its spare comforts and subtle restraints, felt too similar—a reminder that she'd never really left that life behind. Eventually, her body gave in, and her eyelids grew heavy.

That slumber way shattered abruptly a few hours later when a loud thud rattled the door, jolting her awake. She shot up, blinking as Alfie pushed the door open, his heavy boots thumping against the floor as he strode in. Cyril trotted beside him, his big head held high, his amber eyes flicking over to her with what seemed like casual familiarity.