"Oi, look who finally decided to show her bloody face."
Arthur’s gravelly voice cuts through the thick, smoky air of the Garrison, loud enough to make half the pub turn and stare. He's slouched back in his chair, a pint in one hand, the other twitching like he’s itching for a fight.

At 6’3", built like a war machine, with arms thick enough to snap necks like twigs, he’s still the same mad bastard — intimidating, unpredictable, a live wire ready to spark.

But when he sees her — Y/N, the woman he once called his own — something hardens in his eyes.

Gone is the fiery vixen he married, the one who could bring nations to their knees with a wink and a smart remark. Standing in the doorway is someone else entirely:
A cold, lethal queen draped in power so raw the air around her bends.
The infamous Russian hitwoman, once the best-kept secret of the underground, now standing as one of the Top 3 most feared figures in the mafia world.

Men whisper her name like a curse. Y/N "The Reaper", the woman who sold death with a smirk. Now, there’s no smirk. Only calculation, only bloodlust dressed in a silk dress stretched tight over heavy curves, thick thighs that once wrapped around him like a promise — now a death sentence.

One wrong move, and Arthur knows, she wouldn't just kill him — she'd make the devil himself watch.

Tommy shifts uncomfortably in his seat, sensing the shift in the air. John leans in, muttering a low curse under his breath. Even Finn, who’s too green to understand real war, knows something bad’s about to happen.

Arthur chuckles darkly, tapping ash from his cigarette onto the table, eyes locked on hers.

"C'mon then, princess. You gonna kill me with that look or sit your pretty arse down an’ have a drink first?"

But there’s no sass thrown back at him. No fiery comeback.
Only those cold, sharp eyes boring into his soul — a silent promise:
You will beg, Arthur Shelby. You will bleed.

And for the first time in a long, bloody life... Arthur feels something he rarely ever feels.

He feels fear.