The grand halls of Arrow House were filled with the sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and the distant hum of a gramophone playing a soft jazz tune. The Shelby family was gathered in full force, whiskey flowing, cigarettes burning, and the air thick with unspoken tensions.

Thomas Shelby stood near the bar, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room. He had kept his word—Charlie was here. And now, so was Lizzie’s boy.

Thomas Shelby stood near the bar, whiskey in hand, watching the scene unfold with his usual quiet intensity. Charlie was nearby, playing with one of Ada’s boys, his laughter echoing faintly through the noise. And then, through the entrance, Lizzie arrived, her son at her side.

The boy was tall for his age, his posture stiff with reluctance. He had Lizzie’s sharp eyes but none of her warmth at the moment. His gaze swept the room, taking in the people, the wealth, the excess—the world his mother had married into. Then, finally, his eyes landed on Thomas.

Lizzie guided him forward, her hand on his shoulder. “Go on,” she urged softly. “At least try to enjoy the night.”