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sᴇᴠᴇɴ 𝐿𝑢𝑐𝑎 𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑎
❦
It was easy to say that Luca Changretta was underwhelmed by the Peaky Blinders, even more so than he had imagined while in America. He had walked into the building where he worked without a head turned in anything more that intrigue. A name had been given, and he had been believed, not to mention the man he had sent in before to disarm the room he would be walking into blindly.
It was too easy.
At first, that had frightened him, because surely it must have been harder than that? But no. He could see no possible trick, no possible bad outcome for him. In fact, it was almost an insult, he felt. These were the people that killed my father, he thought.
"Mr Shelby, this is Monsieur Paz, from Paris."
Luca stepped into the office, his head slung low under his fedora. When he lifted it, looking forward to the man with shaded and narrowed eyes, he half expected to be met with a gun to his face. But instead, he was greeted by a man of no astounding appearance. Tommy Shelby stood at the opposite side of the long table that filled the room, his hands in his pockets casually and a cold stare on his face, that Luca decided must have been permanent and unwavering.
"I heard you had trouble. It's good of you to see me." He said, with a nod. Tommy was silent for a moment, looking at him without blinking.
"You just came from Paris, eh?" He finally said, his Birmingham accent gearing against his ears like chalk on pavement.
"You know Paris?"
Tommy's jaw clenched. "I left Paris in a cattle truck. And they said you were French."
Luca sat at the end of the table, leaning back lazily into the chair. Tommy was talking about the war. Had Luca not been so in control of himself- of his emotions and actions- he would have rolled his eyes. Always with the way.
"I came here from Paris. That does not mean I am french." He let his lips pull into a sly and taunting smirk. "Guess where I'm from."
"Well, in my cattle truck in Paris, there were American soldiers who played cards. They sound like you."
His head lolled backward, as if bored. "Yeah. Did you win?"
He was looking up and down now, scrutinising him from top to bottom, just as Luca had done to him as he stepped through the door. Tommy pulled a cigarette to his lips, brushing it swiftly across his lips before lighting it.
"You didn't come on a train. Your suit is pressed and your shoes are clean." Luca smirked, watching as he stared into him, leaning into the table. "Where do you get your suits made?"
"I have a tailor in New York City. One in Birmingham here, too." His eyes were un wavering.
All until Tommy spoke again.
"You're sister."
Luca's jaw jutted out. He dared to mention his sister. Maria had never been well known or attended to in Birmingham, and yet he pulled her in. Luca knee she was apart of this as much as anyone else, but it felt as if she were far away, out of reach and at an advantage.
"Look. Finacci, Italian. He's my uncle. Makes suits in the basement on Motts street. He is my uncle, so every stitch, stitched with blood," he said, ignoring the man's last statement. "I heard you dressed well, Mr Shelby. But now I see..."
He made a point of twisting his nose, as if a dirty smell had touched his senses.
"Not so well as me."
Tommy Shelby wasn't affected. He cleared his throat unbothered, his lips never moving above the straight line they were pulled into.
"You know, I have uncles as well. But they're not the sort of men who would work in a basement with a needle and thread, Mr Changretta," he said, staring straight, but Luca simply smiled.
"I am surprised how easy it was to get into a room with you," he said, his voice bordering into a permanent sneer.
"And now?"
"And now," he began, "and now you should know, that during the trouble you had earlier on your factory floor, I sent an accomplice into your office in overalls. He found your gun. And unloaded it."
The glint of cold metal met his eye from beside Tommy. The gun, he thought, with malice lacing his tongue like poison, ready to spit and bite like a snake. Tommy pulled the gun from the goat that hung on the rack, pulling it to reveal the short barrel, empty of bullets.
With a smile, Luca pulled a handful of his own bullet, already scraped into. He thought of his father; of the bullet that had not been named out loud but shot straight on target. These people killed my father.
"Arthur Shelby."
The bullet clinked against the table, shining in what little light flooded into the dim room from the factory on the opposite side of the walls. The man's name, the killer's name, was clearly marked on the side of it, glaring toward Tommy as if it had been his own name that would eventually come. It was like having a gun to his head, there and then.
"Polly Gray. Michael Gray."
Another two were set down.
"John Shelby."
He placed this one down, before knocking flag. It wobbled, out of balance, before falling backwards slowly and ungracefully like a body. Luca flicked it away, grinning wickedly as it stopped by the side of the unloaded gun.
"Spent," he spat, watching as Tommy's gaze unwillingly darkened.
"Ada Thorne."
Another was placed.
"Tommy Shelby."
The last didn't hit as hard as the rest of his family's did. If he's as affected by these bullet, he thought, just wait until they're all spent. Luca stood, walking painfully slow so he stood by the window that overlooked the rest of the building. Tommy remained in the shadow, watching only as he moved, his stance sharp and unwavering.
"None of you will survive. Your level of security is pitiful and we have an organisation of a different dimension," Luca said as he pulled down the blind, peering out at the factory with a grimace. "I could have killed you when I walked through the door... my sister would have killed me. It seems she's wanting to be as separated from me as your family are from you. So there you go, a little more even now."
Luca smiled, his mouth morphing with his teeth to form a face that would easily growl.
"But you see, I want you to be the last. I want you to be alive after your entire family is dead. After I killed them off, one by one, like mice. My mother says that is what will hurt you the most," he said. "You people have traditions of honour, as do we. Instead of sending you a black hand, I could've had you killed in the night. You don't know why..."
His teeth were gritted. "But I want you to know why. And I want to suggest to you that we fight this vendetta with honour."
"No civilians, no children." Tommy said.
"No police." Luca raised a brow.
"Welcome to Birmingham, Mr Changretta."
He turned from the window, looking humorously at the empty gun and single bullet that lay beside it. He was already winning. Perhaps he should thank for his pathetic defence.
