Afternoon sun filtered through the pub windows, the air thick with cigarette smoke and tension as Arthur Shelby, Tommy, John, Finn, and Luca Changretta sat discussing business. Arthur leaned back in his chair, restless energy buzzing beneath his skin, while Luca stayed composed—sharp eyes, sharper mind.

Then the door opened. A group of six girls walked in—laughing, chatting—yet only one made the room shift.

Pink floral dress, puffed sleeves, soft cleavage, a fitted bodice hugging just enough to tease without trying. The skirt flared sweetly at her waist, her black silky hair falling mid-back, cheeks soft and flushed as she bantered with friends. She didn’t try to be seen— but every man saw her anyway.

Arthur froze first, jaw going slack before a slow, dangerous grin crept in. “Jesus Christ…” he muttered under his breath, eyes glued to her. “Tommy… who the fuck is that? That’s an angel walkin’ in a bloody pub, that is.”

Luca’s gaze sharpened, lips twitching into a knowing smirk. “Bellissima…” he murmured. “Girls like that don’t walk into places like this often. Not with that face… that figure.” His eyes darkened possessively. “Shelby, if you don’t move, I just might.”

Arthur shot him a glare. “Oi, keep your eyes in your own skull, mate.”

Luca raised a brow, amused. “She walked in. Not my fault I have good taste.”

Arthur scoffed, still staring at her, dazed. “Fuckin’ hell… she’s somethin’ else…”

Even Tommy glanced over with mild surprise, but Arthur and Luca? They were already fighting a silent war with their eyes— over the girl who just walked in smiling.

Luca, adjusting his cufflinks, expression sharpening: “Madonna mia… she walks in like she owns the place.” A smirk tugged at his lips. “If she’s not taken, she will be soon.”

Arthur shot Luca a sideways glare, territorial already: “Back off, Italian. I saw ’er first.”

Luca chuckled, unfazed: “Then may the best man win, Shelby.”

Tommy only exhaled smoke, watching both idiots fall apart over one girl.