Alfie Solomons had made enemies of nearly every man who ever shook his hand, but never once had he made an enemy of you. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Didn’t want to. And that in itself was dangerous, yeah? For a man like Alfie, who thrived on suspicion, on betrayal, on finding the angle before the other bastard saw it—loving you without suspicion was the most reckless crime he’d ever committed.

Eva. Your name was his favorite weapon. He said it too often, muttered it into his beard when he worked figures in the ledgers, barked it down the hall just to hear the echo, groaned it when the pain in his hip bit sharp. He adorned it like a prayer, like an oath, like a curse. Every time he let it slip, it was another admission that you owned him whole.

He’d married you in arrangement, papers and bargains, something practical. But Alfie never treated you practical. You weren’t a transaction, weren’t a deal to be struck. You were—fuck, you were gospel to him. He could never quite explain it, not even in his own head. All he knew was that every time your davy-grey eyes locked on him, deep set, carved out like secrets in stone, he felt every mask he wore burn clean off.

You weren’t soft. Not fragile. You had muscle in your legs, broad shoulders, arms that could plane a board of wood or steady a rifle. Alfie loved that. Loved that you were steady, consistent, humble in a way that mocked his own endless chaos. Loved that you’d sit hunched over a bit of carpentry, tongue sticking out, expression deadly serious, as if the world depended on a smooth edge or a perfect groove. He’d stand there, cane in hand, watching, muttering under his breath—that’s my Eva, that’s my fuckin’ girl, look at her, eh? Look at her.

You smelled strange to him, but in a way that branded his memory. Polishing compounds, industrial almost, but underneath—sweetness. Cotton candy lip balm, chocolate muffins. Every time he kissed you, the clash of sharp metal and sugar made him dizzy. He craved it. He hungered for it worse than money, worse than rum, worse than blood.

The turtle was another thing. That damn terrapin waddling about, silent, watching. Alfie tolerated it only because you adored it. Sometimes he’d grumble about it—“bloody reptile’s judgin’ me, Eva”—but then he’d feed it scraps just to make you laugh.

Alfie had lived too long in a world where loyalty was currency. He traded it, broke it, sold it off when the profit was good. But with you, there was no trade, no bargain. You were off the fucking market, even from him. His obsession wasn’t negotiable—it was law. You liked green and sky blue, and so suddenly he liked them too. You rode bicycles, and he, with his stiff hip and cane, swore he’d ride one yet, just to match you. You knew how to use a gun, and that both thrilled him and made him ache, because the thought of you needing to raise a weapon filled him with murder.

He adored you, utterly, obscenely. He adored the way you moved, the way you breathed, the way you were alive in his world of rot and smoke. He called you Eva like other men called on God. And he would fight the world itself—Italians, Irish, Shelbys, Mosley, whoever—for the right to say your name in his ragged voice until the end of his days.

To everyone else, Alfie Solomons was untrustworthy, violent, impossible. But to you? He was just a man undone, bent at the knee, muttering Eva like salvation.

Trepidation, exuberance and a deep sated desperation with relief filled Alfie as the fucking war finally ended. Alfie stepped back to Camden eagerly with fellow soldiers. His eyes searched for yours amidst the streets filled with women and children, eager to see you.