The Sharpest Jewel | Alfie Solomons |

~ Chapter 36~

Camden, London, 1924.

The morning passed slowly in the office, the quiet hum of activity from the bakery outside drifting in, but Florence's mind was elsewhere. Her fingers ran absentmindedly over the edge of the desk as her thoughts circled back to the charity ball. She hadn't heard from Ada yet, she assumed she may stay a day or two with Karl catch up with her family.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching, sharp and purposeful. Florence glanced up just in time to see Alfie walk through the door, his gait slow and deliberate, his eyes scanning the room before locking onto her. "Florence," he said, his voice low, like a rumble in the background. "Get me a pen." She raised an eyebrow but did as he asked, grabbing one from the drawer and handing it over. "Good," he muttered, his gaze flicking to the pile of papers on her desk. "I need you to send flowers to Thomas Shelby." Florence blinked, slightly confused.

"Thomas Shelby? Is everything alright?"."Everything's fine," Alfie replied coolly, dismissing her concern with a wave of his hand. "Well, it's not fine. But you don't need to worry about that." She paused, the weight of his nonchalant tone making the words harder to understand. "What happened?"

Alfie's eyes sharpened briefly, but then he looked away, running his fingers over the edge of his own desk, his posture stiff. "Grace Shelby was shot last night. Dead." Florence's heart sank, the words hitting her like a punch to the gut. She felt a rush of empathy for Thomas Shelby. To lose someone like that—so suddenly, so violently—was beyond comprehension. Her voice was almost a whisper. "That's terrible. How...?" Alfie shrugged, unfazed. "Doesn't matter how, really. Doesn't concern me. But it's the right thing to do. Send flowers to Thomas. Out of respect. You know how these things go."

Florence swallowed, trying to suppress the unease spreading through her chest. Alfie spoke of it with such casual indifference, as if death didn't mean much at all in his world.

"You think that's enough?" she asked before she could stop herself. Alfie's gaze snapped back to her, his eyes cold and calculating. "What do you mean, 'enough'? You think flowers are too much? Too little?" His tone was steady, controlled, but there was an edge to it now. He paused before speaking again. "You've got a lot to learn about this world, Florence." She nodded, biting her lip as she tried to focus on the task at hand, her fingers fumbling with the pen.

"Just send the fucking flowers, will you?" Alfie said, his tone softening, though his voice still carried an unmistakable weight. "Respect for the dead is the least we can do." Florence gave a small nod, but her mind was still racing. Sending flowers to a man like Thomas Shelby felt almost trivial in comparison to the loss he'd suffered. Still, it was what Alfie had asked of her, and it was a reminder that she was quickly learning her place in his world.

As Alfie turned to leave, he paused at the door, glancing back at her. She exhaled slowly, watching him disappear down the hallway before turning her attention back to the task. Her hand hovered over the paper for a moment, her thoughts lost in the dark, unspoken layers of the world she had just stepped into. It was a world of men like Alfie, like Thomas Shelby—untouchable, ruthless. And in the middle of it all was her, trying to figure out which way to turn next.

Florence exhaled deeply, trying to focus on the job at hand, but the weight of the tragedy—the reality of what happened to Grace Shelby—kept creeping back into her thoughts. As she began drafting the message for the flowers, she couldn't shake the feeling that the violence surrounding these men wasn't just something she'd have to witness from afar. Sooner or later, it would touch her, too.

Florence sat at her desk, the silence of the office pressing down on her, the weight of the task at hand settling heavily in her chest. She picked up the pen, her fingers trembling slightly as she began writing out the message for the flowers. "My deepest condolences, Thomas. Alfie Solomons." She frowned at the words, wondering how someone could put such finality into a few short sentences. But it wasn't her place to question it. It was business. Respect. That's all it was. Or so she tried to tell herself. The thought of Grace Shelby—her death, the suddenness of it, the violence that seemed to follow the Shelbys like a shadow—pulled at something inside of Florence, a gnawing feeling that wouldn't let go.