𝑵𝑶 𝑴𝑬𝑹𝑪𝒀 | 𝐓.𝐒 |

𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 : 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚜

THOMAS SHELBY HAS QUITE A FEW IRONS IN THE FIRE, and for the past months, these irons on his shoulder have been weighing him down. The IRA and that fucking Campbell, they were all shackles on his feet, and refusing them would have been suicide for the Shelby family—worst-case scenario, Mercedes would also get dragged into the mess. But he's Thomas Shelby, and being him means keeping everything and everyone together or else everything he'd worked hard for—the family had worked hard for would fall apart.

The wisp of his smoke trailed around the office and he watched it until it disappeared as he picked up the letter lying on the wooden table. Here he was, sitting on his office, contemplating whether he'd dial Grace Burgess or not, while Mercedes was trying to cling to her life and escape death. On the same night, the blinders who were supposed to keep an eye on Mercy were both thrown to jail for theft, Michael Gray was arrested for burning down the Marquis pub, and Arthur Shelby was framed for Billy Kitchen's murder.

He finally decided to do it after nearly a minute of thought and consideration, but as the other line answered his call, an image of the raven-haired woman flashed right before his eyes, as if she were standing right in front of him—it must have been the whiskey he was drinking or his guilty conscience that made him think of Mercy. "Fuck," he grumbled, slamming the phone handset down on the table.

This was wrong from the very beginning, calling that woman would meant consequences, and he's not prepared to face those consequences. If Mercy found out, who knows what she'd do to him—perhaps she'd leave him for good, which was the last thing he wanted. Mercedes de Silva was the glue that held him together, and without her, he'd crumble back down to the shattered remains of the war.

Thomas rested the back of his head against the chair, massaging his left temple as he felt the familiar electric pain behind his eyes. He needs Mercy, he wants Mercy next to him. She was his drug, and his addiction to her cannot be cured. 

Suddenly, the door to his office was flung open and John stormed inside with an alarmed look, "Ada's been calling the fuck outta ya! Why the fuck ain't ya pickin' up the damned phone?" he exclaimed, inhaling sharply through his mouth. He was out of breath because he had been running from his house as soon as he heard from Ada that the de Silva woman was in a life or death situation. 

Thomas shifted his gaze from his brother down to the telephone handset that's been facing the table the entire time, "What is it?" he asked in a calm manner yet a flickering wave of tension had already washed over him the moment John barged in with the alarmed look on his face. 

"Mercy was attacked," as those words escaped John's mouth, it felt like his entire world crashed down on him. Thomas stared at John, unable to blink as the realization dawned on him, his lips pursed with rage. His jaw muscles clenched, and a hard knot constricted his throat, making it difficult for him to breathe.

In a blink of an eye, Thomas wore his shoulder holster and left the office in a rush, panicked pace. His heart stammered against his chest and the certain coldness crawled its way to his neck, Thomas kept on cursing under his breath as he gripped the steering wheel until his fingers turned pale and numb.