It's the roaring twenties in Birmingham, the Peaky Blinders exist alongside God but they were much, much closer at hand than Him. Mercedes de Silva, thornless withered rose, petals filled with sorrow. Thomas Shelby, ruthlessly ambitious, conflicted...
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London, 1919
The bustling road of Islington, the gossips of rumormongers, the shouting of this particular blonde paperboy. The woman can hear the booming noises through the slits of the house's gigantic window. Or maybe, it was not the townspeople's voice she was hearing but the voices inside her head.
It was too loud.
It was chaos.
She can even hear the pumping of her own blood.
There is a rumbling wheel of fire in her mind and no matter how hard she tried to shut her brain down for a second, it was still going on. It kept going on, and on, and on. Reading the letter felt like a punch to her stomach, it made her want to vomit.
"Mierda..." she muttered under her breath as she read the letter that she found underneath her doorway. Mercedes crumpled the paper and threw it straight on the fireplace, watching it turn to ashes.
"Te encontré."
The woman tried her best to calm herself, with trembling hands, she took several deep breaths. She needs to go. She knows her Papá, she knows how he thinks, how wicked he is. Her father is many things, vile is one of them.
Then, she found herself running away again.
Mercedes was not born a gambler, yet this is the risk she's willing to take.
· • -- ٠ ✤ ٠ -- • ·
𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊 : 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝
𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛é : 𝚒 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞
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