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𝑁𝑂𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑊𝐸 𝐷𝐸𝑆𝐼𝑅𝐸𝐷

𝑁𝑂𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑊𝐸 𝐷𝐸𝑆𝐼𝑅𝐸𝐷
ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀ

From the moment I'd met the man, I'd known that Thomas Shelby was not one to do things in halves. His wedding was no exception to this rule.

The party was held in the late evening in the large manor house that sat on the edge of the English countryside. The mix of attendants was as outstanding as the home itself, with two sides of society seeming to mix all in one go, the new and old. Even the music seemed to be the best of both, with swinging jazz becoming more frequent as the night grew colder, making bodies reach closer.

But amongst the glitz and glamour, I could not help but feel the awful sense of foreboding -like a damp cloth- that sat on the heavy atmosphere of each room I walked into. After only a single dance, Amir left me to speak with someone unnamed and had not returned. His face had betrayed nothing.

It was somewhat freeing, walking through the dance hall, glancing at the newly-painted images that decorated the halls, earning the decadence of fresh wealth. It reminded me faintly of my aunt's home in Italy, as most things did then. Of her gold-rimmed frames and silver-sewn books. But unlike that beautiful villa, at this ceremonious table, sat more strangers than I'd ever had to witness, and there too it was not Amir beside me.

At the evening meal, it was my luck to be placed between Tommy Shelby's aunt and a woman by the name of Lizzie Stark, directly across from Ada who, in between her tirades of politics, would glance at me as if wary of my presence. The two were as prickly as could be expected, being related in some manner to the Shelby family. It was the matriarch that captured my attention, however, with her brooding glimpses and sensual movements, eyes scanning the opposite seats, always landing lastly on a man who reciprocated those glances.

"You're gathering quite the attention tonight, Ms Gray," I said, and my first attempt at conversation was welcomed readily by the two.

Lizzie nodded, dark eyes skimming seamlessly toward him. "He's looking right over."

For the first time since observing the woman, she startled, her lowered lashes widening slightly. "What?"

"He's coming. He bloody is."

Polly followed her glance, finding a tall, slender man at the end of it, his hair reaching a silvery tone of blond and his skin pallid. In other words, it was not the man with the beautiful brown skin and thick hair advancing her way, and Polly Gray was annoyed.

"Fuck, it's the wrong one."

"What do you mean 'the wrong one'? How many are there?" Lizzie exclaimed, her head twisting to scan the table for a second time, making no effort to hide the fact. That seemed to be a quality of the family and their companions- a lack of discretion.

"There are two giving me the eye. I prefer the other one. He looks harmless," Polly said and I had to agree. A nudge of my head directed Lizzie to the second man who'd turned away from us, looking rather disappointed.

"It must be the bloody lipstick Tommy brought you back from New York."

The older woman nodded as if it was the only thing that made sense, rolled her crimson lips together, and then turned to face the man as he stopped beside her, towering over like a ghost with his paper-pale face.

"I couldn't help noticing you are unaccompanied. I also am alone. May I join you?"

Without saying anything, Lizzie upped and moved, sending one glare to a man of the bride's family so she could plant herself on the other side of me. She seemed the friendly type, but the more I learned of her that night, I could not help but wonder if that quality was more of a fault. With her involvement with the Italians that were so against the Shelbys, it seemed more like desperation for something more.

It was revealed to me more, when she finally deemed the conversations from across boring enough to send her attention sideways: to me, the foreigner of which no one else except Tommy Shelby himself seemed to know of. That title was somewhat exciting, for it had followed Amir and I across Europe. The strangers. The travellers.

A son to all cultures. Amir's words would often come to me, warming my stomach. A man of the world, he seemed to be. Like the wanderers of old stories, that shared words of other languages and myths of new religions. But no matter how much time spent with him, I could not grow to feel the same.

A son to all cultures, but a daughter to only two.

My heart was split. Half resided in Turkey, with my parents and their market stalls and seaside painting; my grandmother and her sharp tongue, eyes as wise as owls; and the small but beautiful apartment that would be filled with the scent of rich food every morning. The other was equally held with my Aunt in Italy amongst the flower bushes and books, overcome by the fresh scent of grapes and wine. Lizzie Stark didn't see that though. I couldn't blame her. Neither did Amir.

"Pol isn't the only one with attention on her," Lizzie said. There must've been some resentment behind her words. Looking back I knew why. The only man who might've captured her attention had been chased away with fire. "The man on the end."

I could feel his eyes burning my skin before I'd even landed sights on Amir. His hair had grown longer by then, landing wrapped in black by his shoulders, and his brown skin was gleaming, the red tones beneath it highlighted by the dark, yellowy lights. His expression was intense- eyes dark and shadowed by even darker brows, his jaw chiselled and smooth. Lizzie let out a hum.

"That's the man I came with," I said, watching as she raised a thin brow, eyes not moving from him.

Even then it felt rather insulting that we did not have a name for our relationship. For two people who had done so much together, travelled so far, and said such heated words, there had to be a name. But whatever it was, Amir did not like to use it.

"He must have done something to have you two separated at the table, then," Lizzie said and I shook my head.

"I think he requested it. He thought it would be nice if we both had the opportunity to speak to different people since we don't know many here."

"Why are you here?" Lizzie said, bringing the drink to her lips the moment a waiter placed it by her empty plate. I did not think her questioning was from a place of malice, and Ada, quietened by the lack of agreement that followed her words, shifted her focus my way.

I was saved from the embarrassment of not knowing the answer to her question by the opening of a door. In truth, Amir still had not confided in me the reason behind being with the Shelby family for a time. The air was thick with smoke but still, I could see the fire behind his eyes. A silent warning, the first of which had scared me. It was only as Tommy's cheer carried through the room that I was shaken to attention and pulled myself together again.

"To the bride."

My hands somehow found the glass of champagne and held it upwards in time. "The bride!"

"And now, according to tradition, my best man will say a few words."

It was Arthur Shelby, skinny arms held rather bashfully in front of him, that stood as everyone else sat, nodding to his brother. A round of encouraging shouts followed, most of all from the youngest, and Arthur finally let out his grin. 

"Well, right, I'm not one for speeches."

That initiated a shout from John, his hand throwing out, almost losing the cigarette from between slim fingers. "Sing, then!"

"I will later, John," Arthur said slowly, his voice careful and surprisingly nervous. "But, uh, I do have some words written down here... on this piece of paper. This doesn't include everything that I want to say."

To his side, Tommy closed his eyes and urged him on. "Arthur just read out what you wrote, okay?"

"I will. First... First, a few words... From the heart," the eldest brother said, clapping his hand down on the groom's shoulder. "This man here, my brother Tommy, helped me survive through some of the worst times."

"It's a wedding Arthur. Tell a joke," came John's shout a second time.

"All I'm trying to say is... My brother and the love of a good woman pulled me through that time. Now Tommy also has the love of a good woman. Her name's Grace. Like the Grace of the good Lord. And even though the circumstances of their union was tragic-"

Tommy pulled away from Grace wrapping an arm around his brother's shoulders as his other hand searched for a drink glass. The room was quiet.

"Arthur. Let's raise a toast, eh?" He rushed out, raising his whiskey. "To love, to peace, to marriage!"

I remembered that situation well. Even with the awkwardness of speeches and mingling guests, Grace Shelby seemed a goddess on the end of the table, dressed in lilac and pearls, and as the celebration moved again from the table to the high-ceiling halls of the rest of the manor, the sound of laughter filled the air amongst the pockets of buzzing quietness after music. It seemed an endearing position that I would never find myself in again, whether bride, or guest, or maid.

Amir spared me a single dance, then he disappeared again on business and I was left to the busyness of the room, the scent of alcohol staining each breath. I found Lizzie Stark seething in the corner, still annoyed about the absence of her Italian paramour, and though my own presence wasn't entirely welcomed, I found myself being pulled by the crook of my arm toward the front doors.

The night had darkened hours ago, and only the light that poured from the long windows of the Manor House could create even blacker shadows along the courtyard. Lizzie held no fear of walking toward these shadows and the sound of shouting only seemed to lead her direction.

"Lizzie, are you trying to be a nightmare tonight?" John Shelby shouted, fingers flicking a cigarette to the ground. "Fuck off back inside."

"We want to watch the racing."

"We?"

Lizzie rolled her eyes and placed a hand on my arm, dragging me forward. John seemed to give the reaction she thought he would, his eyes trailing down my body, taking in the foreign fabric of my dress.

"I'd remember a face like yours," he said, and it took me a moment to realise he was asking for my name.

"Dilara," I said, and John nodded, and I still wonder if there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes then. I wish I'd asked.

"I suppose we could make an exception."

The snuffing of horses drew my attention away from the man. Both Tommy and Grace's family had gathered around to watch the racing, hands clutched around money to fuel their bets. John's eyes followed my gaze and he laughed.

"No betting," he said, shaking his head as he turned toward the shouting.

"Not even a small one?"

A hand slapped against mine, swiping the money I'd produced as a bet. The man was Johnny Dogs if I was correct.

"No discrimination here, John. A bet is a bet," he said, taking the money and pocketing it. "I'll take that. Which horse?"

There were two to pick from, both ridden by one of John's side, made clear by the lack of red uniform atop them. But my eyes were drawn to a white stallion, skipping about the circle, eager to bolt, and even though the horse was tricky, the young man who held the reins seemed at ease, as if he'd been born riding. I wondered if he was a Shelby.

"Finn, lad!" John shouted, throwing his arms up with a laugh, confirming my thoughts when I pointed to his horse. "You've got a pretty woman betting on you tonight. You better hope to God you win!"

And win he did. Atop the beautiful horse, Finn Shelby came bounding around the corner of the courtyard a few minutes later, leagues ahead of the other, surrounded by a cacophony of boisterous noise. The crowd had to scurry out of his way as the stallion skidded to a stop, hooves like thunder against the cold ground, and Lizzie was screeching with laughter as she almost tripped over her shoes.

It was the danger that distracted her from her Italian boyfriend and the fact that it'd been the Shelby brothers who'd threatened him away. It was danger that drew everything together. Even at a wedding, outside a fire roared, covering the dark shouts of men and the screeching of horses and the trickiness of gambling.

Even then I was made to think about why Amir had brought us there, to a world risk like I had not been exposed to before. It was only later in bed, the night so late that the sky was growing lighter, that I voiced my anxiety.

"You need not worry about that. We'll be moving on soon once business is done and I have my share. You can pick our next destination if you like," he said, expression brushing past my concern.

I was brought little comfort by his words but remained quiet then, head against his chest, hair wrapped back because he hated it when I left it down. But if I'd looked harder I might've found worry behind his eyes. Yet in truth, I was comforted only by a small sense of ignorance I held. If I remained unknowing, there would be danger in everything except Amir. I could live with that.

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