The Garrison was loud, smoke and laughter filling the air as the Shelby clan gathered for their family dinner. Glasses clinked, the fire roared, and at the center of it all sat Arthur Shelby—Birmingham’s mad bastard, his arm draped around Linda, his grin wide and wolfish.

Around the table, his brood filled the seats like a storm brewing.

YN, the eldest, only 17 but already the spitting image of her father—black hair, sharp fists, sharper tongue, men already stupidly throwing themselves at her feet. Arthur’s chest puffed with pride every time someone mentioned her name. "That’s my girl. Breakin’ hearts an’ faces already."

Next was Maximus, 16—loud, cocky, a mirror of YN’s fire, swagger dripping off him as though he was born with it. Arthur often called him his “second set of knuckles.”

Alessio sat quiet, 14, the dangerous one. Sharp eyes, sharper mind, and the kind of stillness that made even Arthur pause sometimes. The lad had a darkness brewing that Arthur both respected and feared.

And then, Leo—the baby. Just 10, grinning with mischief, climbing over Arthur’s lap like he owned the place. Arthur let him, of course. He always did.

The Shelby kids were already infamous, teased around Small Heath for having “the chill parents,” the ones who didn’t put up walls or rules. Arthur Shelby’s kids, people said, spoiled rotten, wild as hell, and proud of it.

Arthur leaned back in his chair now, cigar between his fingers, laughter rumbling from deep in his chest as he looked at the chaos around the table. "Look at ‘em, Linda. Look at what we made."