Camden, 1925

After Alfie had returned from the war, he'd wanted to find you, see you again, but his new underground empire of rum-running and leading the criminal gangs of Camden Town had led him away from the man he used to be, the man you used to know.

He heard on the grapevine that you were married, it had broken his heart frankly, though no amount of torture or rum could coax that information from him.

He'd also heard that he wasn't a good man, your husband. A whisky-beater, a violent drunk who didn't care for you, how it made Alfie's heart ache for you, knowing if he just stuck his nose in it'd probably make things ten times worse for you.

Which is why he was slightly bewildered when you stormed into the distillery like you owned it, anxiety rolling off you in waves as Alfie sat you down by his little log fire in the back office.

"Treacle, darlin', it's been so long.." he murmured, taking a knee before you, his strong, steady hands holding your shoulders as he frantically searched your face for an answer.

You'd killed him.. he'd raised his hand to you for the last time. It all happened so quickly, he'd come home from the pub, absolutely bladdered, he'd lunged for you, his gun was right there..

In a flash he'd crumpled on the floor, thick red already staining the carpet of the grotty flat you'd shared with the man.

"It's alright turtle dove, it's alright, it's only me, my old hands'll do you no harm my darlin', old Alfie'll see that this never'appened yeah? He'll make it all go away, hm?" his rumbling baritone soothed you somewhat, your trembling extremities and teary eyes only pleading your case.

"Can you manage to write down your address, poppet? There, there's a good'n, thankyou my darlin'," he said, Alfie then quite literally snapped his fingers, summoning a man, giving him some money and telling him: "go here, there's a body that needs taken care of, do it right or I'll wring your neck," before turning back to you.