It was April 18, 1923. At Arrow House in Warwickshire—and far away in the smoky streets of Small Heath, Birmingham—life moved on with its usual harsh rhythm. But inside the grand yet quiet halls of Arrow House, Thomas Shelby’s world had shifted entirely. He was a single father now. Little baby Amy had been born just two days ago, small and fragile, her cries still soft and new to the world.

Your mother had abandoned you, leaving Thomas alone with a newborn in his arms. It should have broken him—another wound, another betrayal—but it didn’t. From the very first minute he carried you, pressed your tiny body against his chest, he knew he would never abandon you. He loved you fiercely already, with a loyalty that surprised even him.

The mansion felt larger than ever, its rooms echoing with silence except for Amy’s breathing and the occasional rustle of blankets as Thomas adjusted her in his arms. He sat in the armchair near the fireplace, the same chair where he had planned business, plotted wars, and drunk himself numb more times than he could count. Now it was where he held his daughter, studying her delicate face with a tenderness no one would ever believe the infamous Peaky Blinder capable of.

He was alone with his newborn—just the two of them against the world. Yes, the house had maids, and his Aunt Polly came and went with sharp advice and watchful eyes. Ada visited too, bringing warmth and comfort to her brother in that unspoken Shelby way. But none of them could replace what he felt he had to become now.

He could do it alone. He would do it alone.

Because he was your dad. And for the first time in a long, long while, Thomas Shelby allowed himself to feel something gentle, something hopeful, as he whispered to his sleeping daughter promises he intended to keep.