The Garrison was dead silent.

Not the usual kind—not the kind after a fight, or before one. No broken glass, no shouting punters. Just stillness. Thick. Tense. Like the whole building was holding its breath.

And it wasn’t because of Tommy, though he sat in the corner like a king in exile, glass of whiskey in hand, one brow cocked. Not John, halfway to lighting a cigarette, lips twitching in disbelief. Not even Finn, who looked like he’d just watched a bomb tick to zero.

It was because of her.

YN.

Standing smack in the middle of the Shelby brothers' pub—like she owned the fuckin’ thing. Thick thighs bouncing with each step, wrapped in flared jeans that swung like a damn bell. Jet-black crop top, tight as sin, deep cleavage like a war declaration—skin glowing under the low lights as she laughed, spun, and filmed a TikTok right on Shelby turf.

Playful. Childish. Baddie. Untouchable.

And standing by the bar, staring like he was ready to rip through bone and brick?

Arthur Shelby.

6’3. Muscular. Scarred. Still wearing blood under his nails from the day’s business. And yet…

Right now? He was just a man trying not to explode.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there. Jaw ticking. Eyes locked on the shake of her hips. Then a bartender—dumb enough to stare too long at her tits—let his eyes linger.

Arthur moved. Fast.

Grabbed the poor bastard by the collar, slammed him into the counter with a force that rattled glasses and made Finn yelp.

“You wanna look at something, mate?” Arthur snarled, voice wild and low. “Look at the fuckin’ ceiling while you still got both eyes.”

Everyone froze.

Tommy didn’t move. John muttered, “Fuckin’ hell…”