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" 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 once in a while. Makes me feel useful." Caterina's hands disappeared in the sink overflowing with soap bubbles only to reemerge moments later with glasses in each.
"Spoken like proper royalty." Grace accepted them with a grin, rinsing them off and placing them on a piece of cloth to dry. The two of them had been clearing up The Garrison for the last hour, using the end of Grace's shift as a welcome girls time they hadn't had for quite some time.
"Is it just cleaning glasses that makes you go all giddy on the inside or do you occasionally plow your garden?"
"Well, I did try to bake once, mind you. Successfully burned the curtains and now I'm evicted from my own kitchen."
Organising a criminal operation across the continent? Not a problem for the youngest Cardinale. But baking something as simple as a bread pudding? The curtains were doomed from the start.
"You're a lost cause. What do you eat then?"
Cat shrugged, thinking back to her good old Maria who served as a cook and a housekeeper for the last two decades. "I pay people to do that for me."
Both giggled when Grace swatted at her with a hand full of soap bubbles, littering their blouses with tiny water stains.
A knock sounded at the pub door making them instantly cease their chatter. The two exchanged a look before Grace rushed to open them. Thomas Shelby pushed into the deserted pub, completely ignoring the two women, out of breath and disarranged.
"Leave that open."
"What's going on?" Thomas snapped his head in the direction of the voice, finally noticing her form.
Dark tresses pulled behind and sleeves of her red blouse rolled up to her elbows, Caterina peaked at him worriedly from behind the bar. It was the first time she spoke to him since the day of John's wedding and Ada's birth.
"Are you expecting trouble?" A confused Grace furrowed her brow; he had declined an offer of a drink, which could only mean something potentially dangerous could be amiss.
"Yeah."
Caterina wiped the water from hands off, making way to where Tommy was rearranging the table in the middle of the room, three chairs around it. "At this hour?"
With a nod of his head, he pulled out his gun, checking the bullet count. "Midnight is as good an hour as any, love."
"How dangerous Tommy?" Her voice turned serious, pressing for truth.
"When the St.Andrew's bell strikes midnight, two IRA men are going to come through that door," he pointed. "When they have what they want, they plan to kill me."
