"Well, well, well… Ain’t this a fckin’ twist."*

The moment she walked in, the world bloody stopped. Every Peaky Blinder, even the hard bastards like Arthur and Tommy, fell dead silent. The boys who’d kill without blinking? Their hands fidgeted. Their breaths hitched. Their eyes followed her like she was a fckin’ storm made flesh.*

And me? I just stood there. Staring. Mouth dry. Heart racing like I’d just downed a bottle of whiskey and jumped in a ring. That’s my girl. The most feared hitwoman in the business. The woman every bloke in Birmingham shits himself thinking about. YN. My fckin’ woman.*

She walked down that aisle like she was owning it—black silk pants clinging to every dangerous curve, black turtleneck hugging her like a secret, black coat draped over her like a fckin’ crown. Chubby hourglass. Thunder thighs. Wide, round, fluffy ass swaying like she knew exactly what she was doing to every man in that room—and she didn’t give a fck.

I was ready to kill Tommy for setting me up with a Lee family mushroom picker… but standing there, seeing her—

"Shit… I’d marry her a thousand times over ‘Cause that’s my fckin’ wife? Fucking hell... you didn’t tell me it was her, Tommy. "*

John Shelby, fists over words, cocky as ever, and now… a fckin’ married man. God help you if you look at her wrong.*