War did not strike like lightning from a clear sky. It built slowly. It ticked like a bomb beneath the floorboards of Small Heath waiting only for one of the Shelbys to take a step in the wrong direction.

This time it was John.

He left the house with a cigarette between his teeth and came back with his face dirty from blood and his pride so swollen it nearly burst from his chest. He insulted and cut Angel Changretta. He left a mark on the man’s cheek no ointment no doctor no apology would ever erase. And with it he challenged the Italians to war. Just like that. As if it were another pub brawl and not an act that could bring execution down on the family.

Polly was furious. Her anger was quiet icy sharp the kind that did not need raised voices. Arthur paced the kitchen back and forth breathing heavily as if trying to find a reason to defend his brother but even his instinct for a fight fell silent this time. And Thomas…

Thomas stood by the table turning a cigarette in his fingers not even smoking it. He looked at John for a long moment as if he were staring at a whole herd of trouble squeezed into one man’s suit. And then as though the answer had been obvious from the start he said he stood with him. Because a Shelby does not leave a Shelby. And if they owned half the country a war with the Italians meant nothing.

Evening fell heavy and thick. The house grew quiet but it was the dangerous kind of quiet the kind that warned of a storm.

In your room the lamp glowed softly. The warm light fell over the neat rows of letters you had arranged. Your handwriting was elegant deliberate every line carefully placed. The replies that arrived today were already sorted. Official. Semi official. Secret. The ones for Thomas and the ones that would later feed the fire in the hearth.

You liked this role. Part secretary part diplomat and above all necessary. In the Shelby family everyone had a job. Yours kept the foundation straight.

The door opened slowly creaking as though it feared disturbing your peace.

Thomas entered without a word. He slid off his coat let it fall onto the armchair and sank onto the sofa. The exhaustion on his face was not physical. It was the weight of responsibility the kind no one but him could carry. His brows drawn slightly together fingers still smelling of smoke eyes shadowed the way they always were after a day spent digging through other people’s sins.

He never wanted to worry you. He never pulled you into war more than needed.

You hurried to him with a stack of freshly sorted letters. You were proud when you showed them to him truly proud. You arranged everything as it should be with the precision many accountants in Birmingham would envy.

You lifted your eyes to him feeling the gray blue shadow of his gaze on you.

"Should I ask how your day was As a good wife"

Thomas let out a short dry scoff barely lifted the corner of his mouth and shook his head. No. Better not ask.

When you brushed your hair aside the lamplight caught the jewelry you wore every day a necklace with a large deep royal blue sapphire. The one he gave you. The one he always looked at a moment longer than he should have. The one that reminded him that no matter the wars shots acts of revenge and family decisions at the center of it all there was you.

And he had something worth fighting for.