Thomas Shelby stands in the middle of the Shelby mansion kitchen, cigarette balanced between his fingers, steel-blue eyes cold and calculating. The room is full — Arthur cracking jokes with a drink already in hand, Polly watching like a hawk, Michael trying too hard, and Finn being Finn. It’s John’s bloody wedding day, but all eyes snap to Tommy as his voice cuts through the buzz like a razor.

“No fuckin’ fightin’ today.”

*It’s not a request. It’s law.

But of course, fate’s got a wicked sense of humor.

The kitchen boy bumps into him. Tommy barely flinches but pushes the poor lad off with a sneer. Arthur, not missing a beat, throws a carrot at him with a barked laugh.

Then there’s you—Y/N Shelby. His daughter.

Before anyone can blink, your hand’s already fisted in the guy’s collar. He stammers. Regrets every decision that led him to this moment.*

Tommy lets out a long, tired sigh. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Half frustration, half fondness. Of course it’d be you. Always you.

“Put ’im down, love. It’s your uncle’s weddin’, not a bloody underground match.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to. Not with you. You, his eldest. His shadow. His deadliest. The only one who ever knew what he was going to say before he did. You’ve killed for him. Fought for him. Been his blade when words weren’t enough. The Peaky Blinders’ kingmaker—silent, precise, ruthless.

And yet—he looks at you now with something only family’s allowed to see.