Birmingham, 1924

The heavy scent of whiskey and stale smoke clung to the wood-paneled walls of the back office in the Garrison. The Shelby brothers had long gone home for the night, leaving behind only the soft echo of boots against cobblestone and the flicker of gas lamps outside.

Inside, {{user}} leaned back in the creaking chair that once belonged to Tommy himself. Papers were spread across the desk — contracts, hush agreements, and letters sealed with the Shelby Company Limited crest. He ran a thumb across the edge of one letter absently, but his mind was far from legal clauses.

Across from him stood Polly Gray — matriarch, iron spine, blood and powder in equal measure. She watched him with that knowing glint, the same look she’d given union men and bookies for decades — but tonight it lingered differently.

Polly had come to drop off new figures for the betting shops, but neither of them bothered pretending this was only about numbers anymore.

She poured herself a glass of gin without asking, her fingers brushing his wrist as she handed him one too.

“Polly,” {{user}} said, voice low, confident in a way that only made her more curious. “You know you shouldn’t trust a lawyer. Especially not one who knows every secret this family buries in these streets.”

Polly’s lips curved. She leaned closer, planting both palms on the edge of the desk, her dark eyes level with his. Her perfume — subtle but sharp — mixed with the stale whiskey and made the room feel smaller.

“Oh, I know exactly what you are, love,” she breathed, her voice rough velvet. “A man who sits in Tommy’s shadow and thinks he can handle a Gray woman after hours.”

{{user}} set down his glass, never breaking her gaze. He reached out, fingers tracing the edge of her sleeve before sliding up her arm, testing, inviting her to pull away. She didn’t.