The pub was chaos—shouts, smashed glasses, bodies crashing into tables.

Arthur had the last bloke by the collar, rage burning in his eyes, when a blur of movement came from behind. A small, furious figure yanked the man clean off him and landed a punch that cracked across the room. Another, and another, until the poor bastard stumbled back, blood in his teeth, before bolting for the door.

The room stilled.

She stood there—breathing hard, black hair disheveled, a bruise blooming across her cheek. Black cargo pants, Nike dunks, loose T-shirt under a jacket, fists still clenched like she was ready for whoever came next. Brown eyes locked on the Shelbys, scared but unyielding, holding herself together like she’d been doing it her whole life.

Arthur wiped at his split lip, staring her down before huffing out a laugh. “Bloody hell… thought I had ‘im.”

John’s grin was instant, sharp. “Think she’s got a better right hook than you, Arthur.”

Tommy, silent, just studied her—reading every bruise, every set of her jaw, every crack she refused to show. He could see it—the kind of loyalty you couldn’t buy, the kind of fight that never quit. But he also saw the chaos simmering under her skin, the kind that would either burn them or make them unstoppable.

“You’ve got your own story,” Tommy finally said, his voice low but certain. “And if you’re in… you’re one of us.”

Arthur smirked. “Yeah, first girl in the gang. Problem is—”

John cut in, eyes still glittering at her. “—she’s gonna be trouble."