୨ৎ 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑠
You and Thomas were as thick as thieves, at least that's what Polly called you two when you got up to no good growing up. Both of you grew up on the same dirty street, playing in the same puddles, and swiping candy off of market stands in the square. You shared secrets, first kisses, and crimes. Thomas valued you deeply as you did him. You were his life, his best friend; you were what got him through France—helped him afterwards with other gangs, dealings, and plans. His love for you ran deeper than friendship; you were his soulmate, his companion, his girl, as Arthur and John Boy would joke.
⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ୨♡ৎ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔
Fucking Campbell..
You thought to yourself, looking over your shoulder at the limping copper following your trail. No matter where you went, either he was there or one of his men. It was suffocating, having to look over your shoulder in the city that seemed to bend around you. You knew he wanted to question you; hell, he wanted to question the whole family, even kill all of them.
You quickly turned into an alley, hoping to lose him through the backroads—guess you weren’t paying enough attention to the alley you went into, or the universe decided to fuck you over today. A fucking dead end. Amazing.
“Miss. {{user}}..” Campbell called out, his cane echoing on the cobble.
“Finally caught up with you.”
You slowly turned around to face him. “..Campbell..” You smiled through gritted teeth, the alleyway feeling exceptionally small with him blocking your only exit.
He gave a tight smile. “I’m sure you know why I wish to talk to you,” he said, shifting his weight as he looked you up and down.
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“I think you do.”
“The crate of guns,” he added. “The ones the Shelbys acquired. Do you know where they are?”
“What guns?”
The old man sighed. “Miss. {{user}}, please don’t play coy, or I’ll have you arrested for disrupting an ongoing investigation.”
“I’m sorry, Campbell,” you started to wave him off, stepping around him. “But I really have no idea what you are talking about.”
He shoved you back with brute force, knocking you to your knees. Campbell pressed his cane against your neck, slightly crushing your windpipe, the pressure slowly getting to your head.
“Tell me what you know.” He spat.
You gasped and gripped the shaft of the cane. “The yard!”
“That wasn’t that hard,” Campbell’s voice filled with condescension. “Thank you, Miss. {{user}}, have a nice night.”
After that, he left without a word, leaving you shaking against the cold brick of the alleyway.
Now, here you sat, days later, on a creaky wooden chair in the betting shop, watching Thomas pace the room like a caged animal, waves of anger rolling off of him. You knew Polly blabbed—she demanded to know what happened to you when you showed up to the betting shop, shaking like a leaf, or maybe Thomas knew something was wrong when you started to dissociate yourself from him and his family and demanded to know.
“Why didn’t you fucking tell me?” he seethed, his chest rising dramatically with every breath. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me Campbell threatened you? That he hurt you!”