BIRMINGHAM, 1919

IT WAS AWFULLY QUIET IN THE GARRISON FOR A SATURDAY MORNING. For once, Grace wasn't serving incredibly thirsty customers, all yelling louder than the other with the crazy hope they would be heard by their comrades. No political songs that made her ears bleed, no rebellious speeches that made her feel nauseous, nothing that could bring her back to her hometown and to her real mission. Nothing that could bring Chester Campbell's voice in her mind when she was also staring at Thomas Shelby's gorgeous features.

Whether she wanted it or not, whether she was willing to admit it or not, Grace was slowly but surely blending into Small Heath environment as if she had always been there. Maybe serving factories workers all day long had brought big words into her posh mouth, or maybe drowning into Tommy's ocean eyes had her believe she belonged there. Whatever it was that made her think about Birmingham as a home was strong enough to take her away from the main reason that had her coming in the first place: to put the bastard who captured her heart under arrest.

Chester had once told her to keep her enemy closer; but however close she was to him, it never seemed close enough, and it frightened her. Even after he basically sold her to a devilish man with the most horrible voice she had ever heard, Grace couldn't tear her eyes away from the gang leader, regardless of everything he could have done — to her or everyone else, for that matter.

Grace almost dropped the glass she had been cleaning when she noticed a pale manicured hand on the counter. Her eyes met deep green orbs already focused on her, and her first instinct was to look away from the woman's divine face. Whatever might have brought this woman in the Garrison surely wasn't good news.

The woman's face was so breathtaking even the Irish posh girl felt ashamed of her appearance under the redhead's intense gaze. If she had not met the Shelby clan a few weeks ago, Grace would have probably hidden behind the counter, just in case these eyes would pierce through her soul like a lethal piece of glass.

Her smile was warm, but her eyes were cold and calculating, as if analyzing her every move to predict the following ones. Grace could only imagine how fast her brain was figuring her out, based only on her own demeanor, the way she was desperately trying to escape her inquisitive stare. But miserably failed, she believed.

"I have to say, I'm a little disappointed, Lady Sarah," the woman spoke, and Grace felt her chest tighten at the mention of the name she borrowed at the races. "I thought there'd be a lot more drunken Brummies around here."

Her voice was one of an angel, soft as velvet and crystal clear; but powerful enough to let Grace know not to mess with her — not that she had the intention to, anyway.

"It's not a busy morning, that is," Grace confirmed. "And I'm Grace, by the way."

"Delilah," the woman responded. She outstretched her hand towards Grace, who took it — and tried to ignore the coldness of her hand around her warm one. "It's nice to meet you in person. I like that dress of yours."

Grace didn't have to glance at Delilah's dress to guess the soft fabric it was made of. If the redhead's smile didn't falter and her eyes were now pure warmness, the blonde barmaid got the slight mockery behind the compliment. Her simple outfit probably worthed Grace's entire wardrobe.

"Oh, that old thing?" Grace questioned, faking innocence. "Yes, I bought it in Dublin."

Delilah's eyes widened slightly as she brought a delicate hand to her hair, pushing a red lock behind her ear. Even that subtle movement made Grace doubt her own gracefulness.

"An Irish barmaid, then."

Grace averted her eyes from Delilah's face as quickly as the words had left the redhead's mouth. She was the spy, she was lying to the Peaky Blinders every day; however, she felt uncomfortable spilling insanities to the woman standing before her. Not that she felt sympathy of any sort, but it seemed like Delilah would pick up her lies faster than Grace could ever make them up.

"So, what do you drink?" the barmaid asked, reaching out for a clean glass behind the counter.

"Gin, please," Delilah ordered as her porcelain hand placed shiny coins on the wooden counter. Even her money was perfectly clean and shining like the diamond hanging around her neck, right beside a golden Christian cross.

Grace poured the transparent liquid into the glass and put it in front of her, snatching the money from the counter and putting it in the fund. Harry finally stepped beside her and Grace felt safer. Not that the woman's eyes left her a for second, but at least she wasn't alone if Delilah happened to try something.

"Thank you, Grace," Delilah said while grabbing her glass of gin. "Now tell me, love, is there somewhere I can find Thomas Shelby?"

Grace felt her heart stop beating in her chest the exact second Tommy's name had rolled on the woman's tongue. Perhaps it was because her Londonian accent made the name sound a hundred times prettier than with any other one around Small Heath, or perhaps it was the possibility that Delilah might take the place she had so much trouble making into the gang leader's heart; but at that very moment, Grace felt like her soul had frozen in her body. Even Harry stopped in his tracks right behind the barmaid, his eyes drifting towards the stranger at the counter. Her green eyes were glimmering mischievously at the effet the simple name held on them.

"Well?" Delilah prompted, enjoying every flaw she saw over the workers' faces.

It was delightful to see on others' faces the consequences of power. Delilah was well aware that Londonian people were reacting the same when her name was spoken somewhere in a dark pub or in the middle of the street. Still, the barman's shocked face was a gift delivered by Heaven. Thomas Shelby might be her equivalent, in the end.

"Well," Grace started, glancing at Harry and clearing her throat uncomfortably. "I think he's in the snug, as usual, right, Harry?"

Harry nodded and glanced at a little window next to him. Delilah reckoned it overlooked the private room Thomas was in, and a smirk blossomed on the redhead's plump mouth.

"May I ask you to take me inside, then, Grace?"

The barmaid shared a worried glance with Harry before she nodded, her blue eyes slightly widened. She cleared her throat and dried her hands on her apron as she slid behind the counter under Harry's stressed eyes. Delilah followed closely behind her as she walked towards the snug door, her high heels clicking on the floorboards. Grace raised her hand and knocked softly on the wooden door, waiting a second before she opened it slowly, passing her head through the gap and clearing her throat slightly.

"Tommy," the blonde called, her voice barely a whisper — but Delilah knew he would hear her.

As soon as Tommy's cerulean eyes left the newspaper between his hands to linger on Grace's face, she forgot everything. It was as if the world had stopped turning for a moment, sweeping away Delilah's intimidating presence in her back, tearing her heart apart. His emotionless, stone-cold face only reminded her of that smile he had harbored when they were dancing together at Cheltenham, the endearing sight robbing her heart and never giving it back.

"Someone's here to see you," she explained, opening the door wider to expose Delilah's frame to Tommy's piercing eyes.

Delilah stood a bit taller when she was revealed behind the barmaid, trying not to let herself be impressed by Thomas' careful gaze. Unlike the first time she had seen him, he wasn't wearing a grey suit, but a jet-black one that matched his dark-colored hair. A cap rested down on the wooden table right beside a half-full bottle of whiskey and an empty glass, the famous peaky hats she had heard so many stories about. A cigarette was loosely hanging between his lips, and he picked it up between his calloused hand in a swift movement. The gesture held so much grace she quickly wondered what it'd be like to see him holding a gun.

At the other end of the looking game, Thomas Shelby thought he'd seen an angel.

They had only met once, but it was safe to say that Thomas had been struck by the woman's elegance and power. If there was one person who had made a good impression of herself, it had been Delilah De Luca. Thomas was far from impressed by the woman; however, he could not help but want to break through these green eyes, deep like a forest and colder than the winter snow falling down on Birmingham in mid-February. Her red hair contrasted with these icy orbs, their shade reminding him of the burning fires in the fields during his family's trips in the countryside, living in their Gypsies culture for two full days.

How could a woman hold so many contradictions in her only appearance was a mystery to him. She was winter and summer, softness and violence, meaningless and dangerous, merciful and cruel. All at once.

"Miss De Luca," Thomas finally greeted, averting his eyes from her face to let his cigarette ash fall in the ashtray before him.

Delilah's lips quirked upwards as she pushed back a lock of her red hair, sparing a glance at the barmaid beside her. Grace narrowed her eyes towards Thomas before slowly retreating back to the bar, her hands brushing against her apron as if smoothing invisible folds.

"Mr.Shelby."

Delilah stepped inside the snug, her hand reaching for the door and closing it behind her. Her dress floated around her knees as she walked towards the chair at the other end of the table, her eyes never leaving Thomas' face as she moved. She was looking like a lioness ready to attack her prey, though she seemed more subtle.

She wasn't going to try an upfront attack. She was smart enough not to try.

"So you came," Thomas remarked, a cloud of smoke exiting his mouth as he spoke.

"I told you I would, didn't I?" She retorted. "This place is a lot nicer than I thought it'd be."

Delilah grabbed her glass of gin and took a sip, enjoying the taste of the strong liquor on her tongue. Ever since France happened, she had stopped drinking alcohol she actually liked and instead drank strong things just to silence the bombs falling in her brain. She put down the glass, running her tongue on her plump lips to dry them from the delicious beverage, and her eyes once again met Thomas'.

"So, are you going to tell me what you want from me?"

Delilah felt relieved that he had broken the silence, probably because she would have sat until dawn just to wait for the words to escape his mouth.

"When my brother and I came back from France, we weren't the same anymore," she started. Her long, slender fingers reached out for the pack of cigarettes on the table, and she quickly lit one up, taking her time to exhale the smoke from her lungs before talking again. "You know what it's like, right? I heard there was much trouble down here after all of you came back. Heard a bunch of names, even. Like Daniel Owen's one, for example."

Thomas shifted slightly in his seat, the movement unnoticeable for every careless stare; but not for Delilah's calculating one. She knew he was paying undivided attention to her every word, in case they would hide a threat somewhere.

"The war left scars that would never heal properly, regardless of what God you pray of what friends or family have your back," she continued, her eyes drifting to the consuming cigarette between her fingers. "No matter how forcefully you once loved, or how full of life you once were, you don't come back the same. You know it, I know it. Danny Owen wasn't an exception, was he?"

Thomas cleared his throat and leaned forward to let the butt of his cigarette fall down in the ashtray. He pushed it in her direction strongly enough for it to brush past her hand and to stop right in front of her, a few centimeters away from the silky fabric of her dress which rested on the table.

"Poor man left his mind in the mud and went mad."

Delilah exhaled a cloud of smoke, a perfect red eyebrow raised in challenge.

"I want to meet him," she declared.

Thomas sighed and crossed his hands on the table, his piercing blue eyes leaving hers for a second before they settled on the tiny scar on her freckled cheek.

"Well, as you surely know, Danny is no longer of this world," Thomas explained.

"Cazzata," she shot back, not missing a beat. "I know he's supposed to be dead, but then you surely have the answer to this question: why has he been seen setting foot on my territory from a boat, coming from Birmingham?"

Thomas opened his mouth to retort, but Delilah cut him short as she started talking again.

"Listen," she whispered, leaning forward slightly. "I can tell there's a fucking good reason for Danny walking down London streets and not lying dead in the Cut like agreed. And there's also a good reason that Billy Kimber is now your associate. Whatever these reasons are, I want to be a part of it."

Thomas scoffed and took a sip of whiskey. Delilah's eyes lingered on the little freckles splashed across his nose, bringing a bit of color to his pale cheeks.

"Why would I want you to be a part of anything, eh?"

Delilah crossed her hands on the table, her eyes never leaving his face. She was determined, he had to give her that.

"Because I have pieces of information you could need."

Thomas scoffed as he reached for his box of cigarettes, exiting one toxic stick from it before outstretching it towards her.

"I know how to get the pieces of information I'll need."

Delilah smirked as she lit up a cigarette with a match.

"Yeah, probably not the ones coming right from London," she argued. "Birmingham's good, but what about expansion? Increasing your power?"

She knows what she's doing, Thomas thought as she took a drag of her cigarette, leaving a red mark of lipstick on its butt.

"How could I know you have information then?"

Delilah ran the pad of her thumb on her bottom lip, her eyes glowing with mischief.

"Thomas Michael Shelby," she started, tapping on her cigarette to let some ash fall in the ashtray. "29 years-old, Arthur Senior Shelby's son. Was sent to the Somme in 1914 along with his older brother Arthur Junior Shelby, 31 years old, and John Michael Shelby, 23 years-old. Daniel Owen, 23 years-old, shot one of my fellow Italian, che la sua anima riposi in pace, in the middle of the street a few weeks ago, and was told dead according to a deal made with my people here. However, his grave doesn't contain a body, but stolen guns supposed to be sent to the IRA. Chester Campbell, from Belfast, working for Scotland Yard, is right now working on your file to prove that you actually have these guns, though you'll probably lie to me and pretend you don't know anything about that."

Thomas' blood ran cold in his veins at the mention of the guns. How did she even know about that was a mystery for him, but now that she did, he knew she owned means of pressure he couldn't afford.

"Is that a threat?" he finally asked, his voice deeper and his cerulean orbs turning darker with every second of silence Delilah allowed passing.

She leaned forward, her voice turning louder than the whisper she had allowed to escape her throat while spilling the beans of Thomas' life.

"That wouldn't serve my interests," she explained. "Besides, I know you made your own research about me as well. You're smart enough not to reach an agreement without holding as much information as possible against people. You have means of pressure against me too."

Delilah crushed her cigarette in the ashtray and laid back on her chair.

"What are these interests, then?" Thomas finally asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at the redheaded lady.

"Billy Kimber runs the most legal racecourse in England, right?" Delilah said. "His empire even expands to London. He pledged allegiance to Darby Sabini, the other Italian gang in London. My family used to make a deal with him, but we're tired of him. He's acting stupid and foolish, and also works with another family we can't reach for now, but is a threat for us. If we can take Kimber down, then we can proceed to take him down too. I know you're looking forward to taking Kimber's empire down, and my family's willing to help if, in exchange, you Peaky Blinders help us burning Sabini's one down."

The only thought running through Tommy's mind was Polly would never approve of that. Whether it could increase their power and influence into London, the simple act of conferring a little part, even if the tiniest, of their trust to these people they didn't know would repulse her.

However, the idea was tempting.

"And what would I get in return?" he demanded, his eyes focused on hers in case she would lie.

"Protection, of course," she started. "You're going to war, so are we. And pieces of information, coming straight from the very place to conquer. Every new thing will be communicated to you right away."

Delilah was aware it wouldn't be enough to make him trust her that easily. She wouldn't trust them either, not entirely though. She had heard stories about them Peaky boys, and even though they weren't renowned for betraying people, if she was able to convince him to turn against Kimber, who knew what he could do to her family if the opportunity arose?

"How could I know we can trust you?"

"We have policemen on our payroll. Not all of them, obviously," she clarified when he raised an eyebrow at her statement. "Enough to provide protection to your people in town though, starting with Danny Owen or your uncle, if he happens to pay a visit. They'll be supervised at every hour of the day and night, as long as they'll stay in London."

She paused for a moment, glancing at her red painted nails.

"We choose the people we're working with very carefully, Mr.Shelby," she added. "Ambitious, loyal. Just like us. If we happen to work together though, I want to meet your whole family. You'll be able to meet mine in our territory."

Thomas scoffed.

"It could be a trap."

Delilah nodded and raised her hand a little over the table.

"Alright then, we'll arrange a meeting in Birmingham."

Thomas nodded as he took out another cigarette from his box.

"I want the guarantee that you won't attempt anything against anyone without asking us first," Thomas then required. "If something happens to one of my men, you'll be held responsible."

"And I'll take that responsibility," Delilah agreed. "Do we have a deal, then, Mr.Shelby?"

Delilah didn't wait for an answer as she looked through her coat inside pocket, exiting two pieces of folded paper from it. She graciously placed them in front of them, her lips drawn back in a satisfied grin.

"What are these?" Thomas asked as Delilah took out an inkwell and a pen.

"Contracts," she responded as she placed the pen in front of him. "One for you, one for me. Us Italians are quite old-fashioned."

Once she had signed the contracts, she passed the pen to Thomas, who proceed to sign them as well. Once it was done, she slid one of the pieces of paper towards him and folded the other one, carefully putting her things in her pocket.

"Alright then," she spoke as she stood up from her seat. "We can meet again on Thursday, if that fits your schedule."

"That should be fine," Thomas nodded, standing up as well and walking her to the door.

Delilah nodded with a smile.

"Then I'll wish you a good evening, Mr.Shelby."

"Likewise, Miss De Luca."

With one last smile towards Grace, Delilah walked through the pub and then left into the cold Birmingham breeze, without looking back.

Grace cleared her throat behind the counter, putting the rag she had been holding down on the counter.

"What's her name, Tommy?" she shyly asked, as if afraid to know the answer — while she already knew it. She was just craving for him to say it.

"Trouble, Grace," Thomas answered. "I'm afraid she's called trouble."

Delilah walked out on the paved streets, holding her coat closer to her body to shield from the harsh wind. Her hair was swept all over her face, red curls blurring her sight as she moved towards the car waiting for her further up Garrison Lane.

As she passed by a dark warehouse, she heard a man whistle on her way. Delilah drifted her eyes from the road ahead of her to meet a worker's dark eyes staring her up and down. A playful smirk blossomed on her lips as she looked back at the street and wondered how many women were walking down the Lane and if they were stared at the way she was.

This part of Birmingham reminded her of Camden Town, probably because of the factories overlooking the small harbor. Delilah could hear shouts coming from the insides of the warehouses, and some of the workers were out smoking a cigarette and staring at the passersby with empty eyes.

Delilah spun her head to follow a group of orphans running down the lane at full speed, their laughs echoing through the paved street as they barely avoided a couple walking in front of them. Their heavy steps resonated around, running against the factories' loud bangs. Delilah bit her lower lip to block a smile from appearing on her plump lips when the littlest of them all slipped on the humid ground and almost fell down. One of the boy's friends started laughing at him while wrapping his little hand around the boy's upper arm and they were running freely again, to God knew where.

Delilah once again focused on her path. She could see the shiny, jet-black Bentley parked next to the sidewalk. One of her fellow men was patiently waiting, leaned against the passenger door, his eyes focused on the pavement and a cigarette hanging between his calloused fingers.

He obviously wasn't paying attention to her yet, which gave her some time to think about what she had just done and the possible consequences of her newest agreement.

Maybe it was a bad idea to make a deal with the devil himself. Her father had warned her again before she left for Birmingham that very morning. Something about that soulless devil residing into an angel's body. Delilah herself was questioning her sanity after signing this deal — who was she to believe the tales about the Shelby clan and their unfailing loyalty? Loyalty to their kin, that is. Thomas Shelby hadn't hesitated to conclude an agreement in order to betray their biggest associate. Delilah could only pray he wouldn't switch sides concerning the De Luca's biggest job.

Of course, once the territory conquered, they would have to share this empire. As long as they were at peace though, Delilah wouldn't mind. If they happened to be trustworthy, it could be useful for everyone.

The adrenaline of the meeting slowly dissipated in her system. Delilah spun on her heels to face the Garrison once again, the breeze clearing her face from every red curl that had been stuck to her lipstick. Slowly but surely as the day went by, people were stepping into the pub, and peals of laughter could be heard even from the end of the street. From where she was standing, Delilah was overlooking the whole lane.

The orphans from earlier were now standing at the pub doors, outstretching their tiny hands for a penny when a customer entered. Every time a man would let a golden coin fall into their palms, kids would scream out of joy and make the most awkward dance moves around their friends. At some point, Delilah could spot two men dressed in the exact same fashion as Thomas stepping into the pub — his brothers, she assumed.

"Signorina De Luca!"

Delilah turned around to face her bodyguard of sorts, Fabio she reckoned, a smile plastered on her features. She walked to the car, stopping right in front of the taller man with her hand outstretched for the car keys.

"Where are we going?" he asked when she wrapped her fingers around the keys and rushed to the driver's seat.

Delilah started the engine and her right hand gripped the steering wheel tightly. She pursed her lips as her eyes focused on the tiny children laughing and running circles around the pub. They were dependent on people's kindness, and if the workers' glares were anything to go by, there wasn't much they could hope for.

"Home, Fabio," she answered before the Bentley started moving underneath their bodies. "But first, devo rimediare ai miei errori."

When they drove past the Garrison, Delilah threw a handful of coins through the window, glancing through the rearview mirror to the children rushing towards the shining shillings spilled on the road. Then, some of them waved at her and screamed loudly, catching everyone's attention on their savior of the day.

Thomas Shelby wasn't an exception as he stood at the door of the pub, his eyes set on the Bentley rolling down the main road, right back to London.

Italian words: 

Cazzata = bullshit

che la sua anima riposi in pace = may his soul rest in peace

devo rimediare ai miei errori = i have to make up for my mistakes