The Sharpest Jewel | Alfie Solomons |

~ Chapter 39 ~

Camden, London 1924.

"Oh, fuck off," Alfie's irritated voice echoed down the hallway, sharp and unmistakable. Florence, seated comfortably on the sofa in the living room, couldn't help but smile at the colorful start to her morning. The soft light filtering through the windows illuminated the room, and Lara, her bull mastiff, was curled up beside her, resting her massive head on Florence's lap, while Cyril was sprawled out by her feet, snoring softly.

She ran her hand along Lara's smooth coat, absently flipping a page in the book she'd been trying to read for the past hour. It was nearly impossible to focus with Alfie stomping about, muttering and swearing at some unseen annoyance. The house felt alive in a way that had become strangely comforting since she'd moved in temporarily. Another loud thud came from the direction of the hallway, followed by a low string of curses. Florence bit back a laugh, shaking her head. "Dear god" she murmured to herself.

A particularly emphatic bang made Lara lift her head briefly before settling back down. Cyril, unbothered, simply let out a snore in response. Florence could practically picture Alfie now, tugging at his coat or battling with a drawer that refused to open. She smiled to herself, letting her fingers trace idly over Lara's fur, her eyes wandering toward the doorway. Sure enough, moments later, Alfie appeared, filling the frame with his broad shoulders and his perpetually annoyed expression. His hair was slightly mussed, and his shirt collar looked like it had barely survived a tug-of-war.

"Right," he announced gruffly, scanning the room before his gaze landed on her. "You seen my coat?" Florence arched a brow, feigning innocence. "Which one?" "The one I wear every fucking day, Florence," he snapped, though there was no real bite in his tone. "You know, the coat that actually keeps me warm in this fucking icebox we call a country."

She stifled a laugh, smoothing her hand over Lara's head. "I haven't seen it. Did you check the hallway?"."Of course, I checked the fucking bastard hallway!" Alfie barked, throwing up his hands. "You think I'm that thick?" Florence tilted her head thoughtfully. "Well, you are the one yelling at furniture before nine in the morning." Alfie narrowed his eyes at her, but the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. "Funny. Real fucking funny love."

"Maybe Cyril's hidden it," she teased, nodding toward the dog who hadn't so much as twitched at the mention of his name. "He looks like he's plotting something." Alfie gave her a sharp look. He stood in the doorway, his eyes scanning her for a moment. "You're very bloody comfortable, aren't you?" Florence shrugged, settling further into the cushions. "Someone has to keep the peace in this house." Alfie huffed, clearly unimpressed, though there was a flicker of something softer in his gaze. "Right, well, don't get too comfortable. This ain't a fucking holiday, you know." She gave him a mock salute. "Yes, Boss." His scowl deepened, though she caught the faintest twitch of his lips as he turned and stalked back down the hallway, muttering under his breath.

Once he was out of sight, Florence leaned back into the sofa, a small smile lingering on her face. It was strange, living here. Strange, but oddly... nice. As chaotic and gruff as Alfie was, there was a warmth to this house—a life that she hadn't felt in her flat for years. Lara nudged her hand with her nose, breaking her train of thought. "Alright, girl," she murmured, giving the dog a loving scratch behind her ears. "Let's see if we can survive another day of Alfie's bad moods, shall we?"

It was just past noon when Alfie began again his ritual of storming through the house like a man possessed, cursing under his breath as he searched for something. Florence, meanwhile, had just settled back onto the sofa after finishing her morning's work, a fresh cup of tea in hand and Lara snoozing beside her. Cyril padded past, tail wagging, clearly accustomed to the commotion.

"Where the bloody hell is it?" Alfie's voice boomed from the hallway. "Where's what?" Florence called, barely looking up from her book.

"My glasses !" he barked, stepping into the living room and glaring at her, as if she might be hiding it beneath the cushions. Florence sighed, setting down her tea. "You left them it in the kitchen. You tossed normally toss them on the table" Alfie stared at her for a moment, then grumbled something unintelligible before stomping off toward the kitchen. "I'm sure Mrs Aarons has been hiding my stuff so I rely on her more she crafty bastard that women sometime I'll tell you the Florence." He voice echoed through the house and Florence shook her head, smirking as she returned to her book. It wasn't long before he reappeared, coat now slung over his body and his glasses dangling from pocket.