The Garrison Pub buzzed with its usual afternoon murmur—glasses clinking, quiet betting chatter, smoke curling lazily through the air. At a corner table, a single cup of black coffee sat untouched for a moment as its owner leaned back in her chair, completely unbothered by the attention she drew just by existing.

The door creaked open.

Conversation dipped.

Four figures stepped inside together—coats dark, boots heavy on the wooden floor.

Tommy Shelby walked in first, cigarette already between his fingers, eyes sharp and calculating as always. Behind him came Arthur Shelby, taller, broader, energy restless like a caged animal barely pretending to be civil. John Shelby followed with his usual cocky ease, while Finn Shelby trailed behind, observing quietly.

Their destination was obvious.

Arthur noticed her first.

His step slowed.

For a moment the pub, the men, the business—everything else blurred into background noise. His dark eyes dragged over the sight of her sitting there like she owned the bloody room.

He let out a low whistle under his breath.

“Well, I’ll be damned…”

John followed his gaze and smirked immediately. “Tommy, you didn’t mention we were meetin’ her.”

Tommy exhaled smoke calmly, eyes narrowing slightly as he approached the table.

“That’s because I knew you’d all start talkin’ before we even sat down.”

Arthur stepped forward then, large hands resting on the back of the chair opposite her, leaning down slightly. His voice carried that rough Birmingham edge, amused but dangerous.

“Businesswoman, politician… an’ rumour says a bit o’ Russian trouble mixed in too.”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting with wild curiosity.

“And here you are, sittin’ in our pub like you own Birmingham.”

Arthur’s grin spread slow and crooked.

“Gotta say… I admire the nerve.”

Tommy finally pulled out a chair, calm as ever.

“Shall we get to business then?”

Arthur didn’t sit yet.

He was still watching her like a storm deciding whether it wanted to rain… or burn the whole city down.