𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒂 ➶ [ t. shelby ]

i. | ❝ new money. ❞

ARABELLA.
i.  |  ❝ new money. ❞

✧

THREE FIGURES, clad in tweed suits and the signature peaked flat-caps of the working classes, strode through the front doors of the most debauched, vice-ridden establishment in London. With their cocky swagger and their careless arrogance, they felt as though they ruled the world.

They watched, torn between disgust and amusement, as men groped one another openly, half-clothed women straddled the thighs of the wealthy and the powerful, and couples, drunk on lust and high on cocaine, danced together until they were dizzy.

"It's a fucking freak-show," spat the eldest Shelby brother, his cobalt blue eyes scanning his surroundings in disbelief. Arthur's anxious gaze flitted over the mahogany-skinned gods whose long-fingered hands coaxed the most extraordinary melodies from the instruments that they cradled against their lean, suited bodies, and he gripped Tommy's muscular arm, evidently terrified by the noise that the jazz band emitted. "What the fuck is that racket?"

A broad smirk threatened to twitch at the corners of Tommy's lips. "It's what they call music, these days, brother," he replied, his voice low and his Birmingham accent unmistakable.

The trio approached a table that was occupied by a dark-haired, crimson-lipped youth, whose hand had disappeared down the front of her companion's trousers. "Oi, oi! Put it away!" Arthur roared at the pair, who practically fell out of their chairs in their haste. The Shelby boys were not a force to be reckoned with - their demeanour alone could tell you that much.

Tommy, in the meantime, beckoned towards a passing waiter while he lowered himself into one of the still disconcertingly warm seats. "Irish whiskey. Bottle."

A smug expression curled across John's boyish countenance as he, too, collapsed into one of the chairs and leaned back, one hand poised at the peak of his cap, his ankle resting on his knee, and his keen eyes roaming across the faces that surrounded them; completely unabashed. "Fuck, 'alf the Titanic are in 'ere."

"Those are Darby Sabini's cousins," Arthur informed them, nodding towards a cluster of dark-haired, swarthy-looking men in tuxedos, whose eyes never once left the newcomers.

The whiskey bottle arrived promptly, and within seconds, Tommy had unscrewed the cap and was pouring the amber liquid into three small, crystal glasses. Their table had acquired more attention than they had intended, for the three of them were incongruous to the London nightclub scene, with their Brum accents, their peaked caps, and the aggression that seemed to ooze out of their every pore.

"Jesus, Tommy... Everybody in 'ere is somebody..."

Just as those words left John's lips, Tommy set the bottle down and lifted his empty, cobalt blue eyes, only to find them snagged by the gaze of a lone blonde standing by the bar. She was unlike the other women at the Eden Club, who practically reeked of sin and the clap.

No... This one was different.

With her wild, back-combed, champagne-coloured curls, swept up and pinned back with an expensive-looking clasp studded with diamonds, and the loose, blood-red shift-dress that encircled her form like the arms of a lover and masked the porcelain curves that resided beneath the rippling fabric, she radiated class. Not much was capable of mesmerising Thomas Shelby, and yet, as he allowed his cold, harsh hues to roam over her pert, angelic features and settle on the molten chocolate whorls that drew him in like onyx set in marble, he felt his heart flutter for the first time since before the war.

The alluring stranger took the fleeting moment of intense eye contact that they had shared as an invitation to approach the gangster's table; one small, gloved hand resting on the cocked arc of her hip confidently. "May I sit?" she inquired, her voice light and refined, and clear as a bell.

Tommy, with his cool, calculating gaze never once leaving her elegant physiognomy, simply nodded silently, gesturing to the empty seat that stood beside him.

Once she had made herself comfortable, he slid a hand into the breast pocket of his jacket - perfectly tailored to fit his broad physique - and produced a small metal case of cigarettes, which he flipped open and proceeded to offer to the honey-haired beauty. Within moments, she was balancing one of the proffered Camels against the rosy petal of her full bottom lip, leaning in as Tommy flicked his silver lighter and allowed the flame to lick at the tip of her cigarette, first, and then his own.

"So, tell me... What is it that you boys do?"

Tommy's pause was careful; almost calculated.

"We're businessmen."

The blonde took a sharp drag on her cigarette, swinging one long, stockinged leg over the other as she leaned in a little and tapped the ash off the side of the table. "New money?"

"You ask a lot of questions, don't you?" Arthur scoffed, though she chose to ignore his interruption.

The gangster remained mute, his eyes steely and unblinking.

"What's your name?" he asked finally.

"Arabella Crawford. And you?"

"Shelby. Thomas Shelby."

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