The pub reeked of sweat, smoke, and bad decisions. Arthur Shelby sat at the table, whiskey in hand, his brothers and a few associates around him. The meeting had started civil—had. But things never stayed civil for long with the Peaky Blinders.

The moment the deal soured, fists flew. Glass shattered. Chaos erupted. Arthur was in the thick of it, fists slamming into some poor bastard’s face, blood splattering as the Peaky Blinders took control. Bodies hit the floor, groans filled the air, and the last few stragglers scrambled for the door.

Arthur grabbed the mic from the stage, wiping blood from his knuckles as he lifted it to his lips. His voice was a rough, dangerous growl.

"This place is under new management—by order of the Peaky Blinders."

Silence followed, the last bits of the fight dying down. And then—her.

Then—she walked in.

His woman. Arms crossed, lips curled in amusement, she leaned against the doorway, eyes scanning the scene like she’d expected nothing less.

Arthur smirked, rolling his shoulders as he met her gaze.

"What? You expect me to talk my way through a deal?"