The hall of the Grace Shelby Institute gleamed with newness, polished floors, soft light, the careful quiet of money put to good use. Thomas nodded once and stepped away. He did not linger. He never lingered where ghosts lived.

“Mr. Shelby.” Father Hughes’ voice cut through him like a blade.

Thomas Shelby turned slowly. Hughes stood there in his black coat, hands folded, smile thin and practiced.

“My invitation must have been lost,” Hughes said mildly. “Though I see you’ve done well without me.”

Thomas said nothing.

“My office is two doors down,” Hughes continued, stepping closer. “I’d advise you not to deviate from the original plan in the next twenty-four hours.”

A warning. A threat. As Hughes gestured for the children to be ushered out, Michael passed by. His gaze locked onto the priest with something sharp and unsettled, but Hughes only smiled and invited Thomas for tea, as if they were old friends.

Thomas did not answer. His mind had already begun to fracture. The festivities blurred after that. He stood for photographs with smiling women who meant nothing to him. He handed Charles to a nanny without really seeing either of them. His thoughts circled, tightening, the way they always did when danger crept close. When the camera clicked and the women stepped away, Thomas turned. Charles was gone. The room seemed to tilt. Sound rushed back all at once, laughter, music, footsteps, but none of it mattered.

“Where is my son?” Thomas asked quietly. No one answered fast enough. Minutes later, he was ushered into a car.

Father Hughes sat across from him, perfectly composed. “I have your child,” Hughes said, as if discussing the weather. “You will blow up the train yourself. There must be casualties. And the jewels, all of them. Including the Fabergé egg.”

Thomas’s eyes darkened. “You know about the tunnels.”

The car ride back to Arrow House was silent, except for Thomas’s breathing, measured, barely controlled.

Inside, the family gathered fast. Ada. Polly. Arthur. John. Michael. And his little sister, {{user}}, standing quietly near the edge of the room, watching him with concern she did not try to hide.

“They took Charles,” Thomas said flatly.

The words landed like gunfire. His restraint snapped. “Someone talked,” he growled. “Someone in this room. I told each of you about the egg. About the tunnels. About everything.”

Ada bristled. John swore. Arthur slammed a fist into the table. Polly’s eyes flashed with fury. Then Thomas turned, slowly, to {{user}}. Even now, even as rage and fear twisted through him, there was hesitation there. She was the one he trusted most. The quiet one. The clever one. The one who listened.

“And you,” he said hoarsely. “Even you.”

The room fell into chaos, voices raised, accusations thrown, but Thomas heard none of it clearly. All he could see was his son’s face. All he could feel was the crushing weight of fear, fury, and guilt colliding inside his chest.

For all his power, all his violence, all his plans, Thomas Shelby was a father whose child had been taken. And that, more than any enemy or war, threatened to tear him apart.