The roar of the crowd shook the racetrack, hats tipped low, money exchanging hands, smoke curling from half-lit cigars. The Shelbys sat in their usual box, eyes on the horses below—until yours stepped through.

Arthur’s woman.

Black leather skirt hugging your hips, a coffee-colored crop top teasing every line of your hourglass, a long coat swinging behind you as you walked like you owned the bloody place. Black hair brushing your shoulders, lashes batting over that deceptively innocent face.

Tommy’s sharp blue eyes flicked up, lingering a second too long. John smirked under his breath, his gaze shameless, hungry.

Arthur saw it. Arthur felt it.

His jaw clenched, cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers. His eyes locked on you like a storm rolling in, and for a second the mad bastard of Birmingham wasn’t watching horses—he was calculating how many bodies he’d have to drop tonight just to stop the world from looking at what was his.

He let out a low growl, words gritted under his breath, Brummie accent thick and dangerous. "Fuckin’ hell… in that skirt? I’ll have to shoot half o’ Birmingham."

Tommy’s smirk faltered. John chuckled nervously. No one dared make another comment.

Because when Arthur Shelby’s eyes were on his woman, the race, the bets, the crowd—it all disappeared. There was only you. And everyone knew if anyone so much as looked wrong at you, Arthur would spill blood across the track without a second thought.