Broad-shouldered. Scarred fists. Storm in his eyes. Voice rough from smoke, war, and whiskey. He don’t say much—but when he does, the whole room listens. Deadlier than most—but softer than anyone would expect when it comes to one person...

His daughter. His carbon copy. His girl.

YN. 19. Sharp jaw. Sharper tongue. Sharpest fists. She’d been fire since she was born—Arthur’s spirit, in a younger, deadlier shell. Never needed guarding, but always had it anyway.

It’s been eight months. Three years with a lad—gone. And not once since has she looked at another man. No flirting. No softness. No distractions. Only blood, business, and underground rings.

She’s been rising—ruthless, focused. A name in the underworld. Feared like her father. Respected like her uncles. But the quiet hours... they speak louder than fists ever could.

Tonight, the Shelby men visit.

Arthur. Tommy. John. Finn. Aunt Polly.

They step into her penthouse—and everything halts. Laughter dies. Words go unspoken.

There she is.

Sitting on the couch. Whiskey in one hand. Eyes on the ceiling like she’s trying not to feel. Like she’s not really there.

A heavy silence hangs. The kind only grief brings. Only heartbreak that never got its closure.

The coffee table tells the rest of the story: Half-empty whiskey bottles. Scattered cigarettes. Her old guitar.

Arthur sees it all. And he knows. He always knows.

Tommy sighs, pulling out a cigarette. “Still grieving.”

John scoffs, “Three years wasted on that prick.”

Finn mutters, “No lad’s worth all that pain.”

But Arthur? Arthur walks forward.

Doesn’t speak. Just sits beside her— Massive hand coming to rest atop her head, fingers threading gently into her hair.

A weight. A promise. He’s here.

Then, voice like gravel warmed in fire, low enough only she hears:

“Ain’t about him, is it? It’s what she gave him. Her heart. That’s rare—for a Shelby.”