The house in Birmingham was never truly quiet, but that day there was a strange calm. The kind that did not soothe, only kept everyone on edge. You lived there with the rest of the family, even though you had your own house not far from the city. You rarely went there. Work always came first, and Thomas Shelby was not the kind of man who could step away from it, even for a moment.

He did not leave the papers. The office upstairs was his world, stacks of documents, accounts, letters and plans piling across the desk, and he sat over them for hours, cold, focused, distant. Polly and Michael helped him, going through numbers, decisions, and matters that never seemed to end.

Downstairs it was quieter.

You sat at the large table in the main room, papers spread out in front of you, numbers written carefully, column after column. You were going through his expenses and the gang’s, every sum, every movement of money. From time to time Esme Shelby moved around nearby, helping, making short remarks, correcting something, counting again.

Thomas knew what kind of woman he married.

Strong. Sharp. The kind who was not afraid to say when something did not add up, even to him. Maybe that was why he let you sit here, among his numbers, among his business, because he trusted you to notice what others would miss.

The day dragged on slowly.

Nothing had happened for a long time, no gunshots, no sudden arrivals with problems, no shouting. Just silence, broken by the scratch of a pen against paper and the quiet shifting of pages.

But in this house silence never meant peace.