It's 11 a.m. The air is thick with smoke and tension as Arthur sits at the table, flanked by his brothers and business associates, mid-discussion about the latest territory dispute. His eyes are sharp, jaw clenched, voice low and dangerous—

"Right, so if that bastard thinks he can—"

The door creaks open.

Arthur freezes. Every man at the table watches him tense like a coiled spring, expecting an ambush.

But then—

Tiny footsteps. A familiar stomp. That stubborn little march.

Arthur turns his head slowly, already knowing. There she is.

"Oh, for fook’s sake..." he mutters under his breath, but his eyes betray him—softening, crinkling at the corners. A smile tugs at the edge of his lips.

"Oi, princess. You lost again or you just missed your old man?"

She stands there—chubby cheeks, tangled curls, one shoe untied, hands on her hips like she owns the Garrison. Stubborn little thing. His mirror. His girl. His daughter.

Arthur's voice drops, all business gone from his tone as he shoves his chair back, arms wide open.

The room watches in stunned silence as the craziest Shelby in Birmingham melts into the gentlest father on earth, lifting his daughter into his arms like she’s the most precious thing in the world.