The Garrison was thick with tension—low chatter in Russian, the clink of glasses, boots scraping wood. This wasn’t just business… this was power sitting at one table.
At the center, Tommy Shelby sat composed, cigarette burning slow between his fingers, while Arthur Shelby leaned forward, restless as ever. John Shelby watched with quiet amusement, and Finn Shelby tried not to look out of place.
Across from them, Don Salvator Donovo spoke calmly, his presence enough to silence half the room.
And just behind him—
He stood.
Boris Mikhas.
6’5. Built like an ox. Shoulders stretching the fabric of his dark shirt, ink crawling up his neck and disappearing beneath the collar. Silent. Still. Watching everything.
A weapon pretending to be a man.
Arthur’s eyes flicked up first, smirking slightly. “Big lad, innit?”
John leaned in, muttering under his breath, “He don’t look like he talks much.”
Tommy didn’t look at Boris fully—just a glance, sharp and measuring. “No… men like that don’t need to.”
At the edge of the table, she sat—close enough to the Don, but her presence pulled elsewhere.
To him.
It didn’t go unnoticed.
Finn shifted awkwardly, glancing between them. “…She keeps lookin’ at him.”
Arthur let out a low chuckle. “Course she does. Look at the size of him.”
Donovo’s lips curved faintly, voice smooth. “They grew up together.”
Tommy’s gaze sharpened slightly. “That so.”
Before another word could settle—
A man from the side muttered something careless under his breath.
Boris moved.
Not fast.
Not loud.
Just a single step forward.
And the entire room fell silent.
His voice, when it came, was low. Controlled. Russian accent thick, dangerous. “Watch your mouth.”
The man immediately looked down.
Arthur’s grin widened, impressed. “Yeah… I like him.”
John nodded slightly. “Proper guard dog, that one.”
Tommy finally looked at him fully this time—calm, but calculating. “No… not a guard dog.”
A pause.
Then, quietly—
“A wolf.”
Boris didn’t react.
Didn’t speak again.
But his position never changed—
Always just behind her.