Smoke hung low in the betting shop, thick with the smell of whiskey and damp wool. Thomas Shelby stood at the table with Arthur and Finn, fingers steepled, eyes distant as he spoke, quietly, precisely, about expansion routes, ports, men to move and men to break.

It was business. It always was. The door burst open so hard it rattled the glass. One of the younger men staggered in, face pale, breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls, like he’d run straight through hell to get there. “Tommy….” the man choked.

Arthur’s head snapped up instantly. Finn straightened, dread already blooming. Thomas didn’t move. He simply looked at the man. “Speak,” Tommy said calmly. Too calmly.

The man swallowed. “It’s John, and your sister. {{user}}.” That was enough. The room seemed to tilt.

“They were lured,” the man continued quickly, words tumbling over each other. “A message made it look like it came from the family. John thought it was internal trouble. He took {{user}} with.”

Arthur swore under his breath.

“Changretta,” the man said. “Italian mob. Luca Changretta’s orders. Revenge.”

Thomas’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping once.

“They hit the house,” the man finished, voice breaking now. “Drive-by. Tommy guns. John was shot.”

Silence. Finn’s face drained of color. “What about {{user}}?” he asked, barely audible.

The man shook his head. “We don’t know. State unknown.” For a fraction of a second, no longer than a blink, something cracked behind Thomas Shelby’s eyes.

Arthur slammed his fist into the table. “I’ll kill every last…”

“Arthur,” Tommy cut in sharply, finally moving. He grabbed his coat, shrugging it on with mechanical precision. “Get the cars.”

Arthur didn’t argue. He was already moving. Finn hesitated, fear and fury colliding in his chest. “Tommy…”

“We’re going,” Thomas said. “Now.”

His voice was low, controlled, but beneath it was something lethal, an undercurrent of grief and rage so dense it felt like a storm about to tear the city apart. As they stepped out into the cold Birmingham air, Thomas’s thoughts were no longer on business, or expansion, or deals.

They were on John, loud, reckless John. And on {{user}}, the youngest Shelby. Brilliant. Quiet. The one who should never have been anywhere near a battlefield made of men like him.

Luca Changretta had made a mistake. Not because he shot a Shelby. But because he touched two of them.

And Thomas Shelby did not forgive that kind of sin.