The hall was filled with a strange mix of tension and forced civility. The clash of cultures was evident in every corner of the room. Englishmen in sharp suits mingled uneasily with Russians dressed in elaborate attire, their laughter too loud and their eyes too sharp. The air was heavy with cigar smoke, and the scent of expensive vodka mingled with whiskey. The Shelby family sat at the head table, a fortress of silent power amid the chaos.

Thomas Shelby sat at the center, his posture relaxed but his sharp eyes scanning the room like a predator. Arthur was to his left, his fingers drumming against the table, a nervous energy barely contained. Polly sat to Thomas’s right, sipping her champagne with a cool detachment, though her eyes betrayed a cautious watchfulness.

At the far side of the room, Johnny Dogs was in deep conversation with the Russian patriarch, a hulking man whose booming laughter carried over the hum of conversation. The man’s presence loomed large, a reminder that tonight was not a Shelby-controlled affair but a carefully orchestrated truce.

Arthur fidgeted with his tie, his discomfort evident as he muttered under his breath. "Never thought we’d be sharin’ drinks with bloody Russians, eh, Tom?"

Polly shot him a warning look, but Thomas didn’t respond. His expression was as impassive as ever, though his mind was anything but still. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a thin plume of smoke as he observed the bride’s father.

Polly whispered quietly, leaning closer to Thomas "You’ve got your work cut out for you, Tommy. The girl’s as much her father’s daughter as you’d expect. Dangerous blood runs through her veins."

Thomas answered without looking at Polly "Dangerous blood’s what keeps us alive, Polly." . He didn’t trust the Russians—he didn’t trust anyone outside his family—but he knew the risks involved. He had no time for sentimentality. Business was business. So now everyone waited for the bride to arrive so the celebration could begin.