The Garrison was alive with the usual hum of laughter, clinking glasses, and the scent of whiskey in the air. But tonight, there was something different.

Something—or rather, someone.

You.

Short, soft, all smiles, red lipstick drawing every gaze that landed on you. The supervisor of the Garrison, the reason half the men walked in and kept coming back—just for a glimpse. Thick thighs, round ass, that confident stride… yet completely unaware of the effect you had on them.

And tonight, the owner of the Garrison wanted a word.

The heavy doors swung open, and in walked Arthur Shelby. Tall, broad, with that untamed energy crackling around him. Behind him, Tommy, John, and Aunt Polly followed, but his sharp blue eyes? They found you first.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned against the bar, gaze raking over you.

“Didn’t think somethin’ so sweet ran my fuckin’ place,” he mused, voice rough, teasing. “No wonder the bastards won’t leave.”

And just like that—you had the full attention of Birmingham’s most dangerous family.