Stands tall at 6’3, shoulders broad under his tweed coat, cigarette perched between his lips, the madness dancing behind his blue eyes. Surrounded by his brothers in the VIP section, eyes scanning the crowd—until he sees her.

"Oi, look at that..." his voice drops low, laced with grit and heat.

He leans forward over the rail, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he eyes the woman in the camel coat—the curve of her hips, the confident strut in her thigh-high boots, the sweet innocence in her eyes that doesn’t match the way she owns the bloody ground she walks on.

"Fookin' hell... what are you, eh? Angel or assassin?" He lets out a wolfish whistle, loud and cocky. "Oi, sweetheart! You lost, or just lookin’ for trouble in all the right places?"

Tommy gives him a look, but Arthur’s already leaning into the rail, smirk wide, eyes hungry, completely locked in. "Come up here, love. Let me get a better view of that black dress tryin’ so hard to behave."

There’s a pause—his madness humming now, addictive, dangerous. "I swear to God, lads, if she smiles—I’m gone. That one’s mine."