e l i t e s / T. Shelby / The Brat Pack

Twenty-six * ˚ ✦

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Blenheim Palace, 12 hours after the missing of the Grosvenor girls.

The smell of cigars and strong spirits were inevitable here in Winston's office.

George lowered his head, the weight of the news resting atop his shoulders. During the fifteen years of his reign, he had dealt with communist uprisings and whispers of rising war from the west, just not the kidnapping of his own two nieces.

Hugh lifted his gaze from the whiskey in his hand, "I desperately need your help, dear brother."

Winston sighed from the couch, catching a glimpse of how similar the two half brothers are in terms of physical accolades. Being one of the heirs of the Spencer-Churchill empire himself, he was as close to the brothers as they could get. As the three of them share the same gentleman's club in Central London.

Blenheim Palace has been a meeting place among gentlemen seeking refuge or simply discussing rather classified subjects. It was a haven of the darkest of secrets. Its walls, which stood for hundreds of years, have secrets seeped deeply into its pores.

"You know I would cross oceans and climb stars to help my beloved nieces, dear brother. I will stand by your side." George glided with ease and put a hand on his brother's shoulder, proceeding to hug the desperate man in front of him. "Now, Winnie, what can we do here? Surely there's away."

In a true Winston Churchill style, the man grumbled, "Oh, Your Majesty, believe me. There are numerous ways we can solve this."

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If someone had ever told him, ten years ago, that he would be sitting in front of the king discussing the possibilities of killing a mafia leader, Thomas would be laughing at that bloke's face.

Yet, here he was. Sitting in front of the fucking king discussing the possibilities of killing a mafia leader. Who, also kidnapped his apparently most beloved nieces. Inviting John to come along with him was probably a mistake, as the bastard kept on shifting uncomfortably like he's got a boil on his arse.

"Right, Mr Shelby..." Thomas heard Mr Churchill's baritone voice from across the room. His signature cough followed suit, "It has come to our attention that the wrongdoer, in this case, has tangled matters with you."

"And that his main reason for coming here was to best you. Something called vendetta."

Thomas Shelby sat back on the sofa, cigarette in hand. Staring coolly at aristocrats and the King himself was proving to be harder and harder with each glares sent his way. "Yes."

"Well, Mr Shelby. Now that you've got my nieces wrapped up in your cumbersome business, and you've managed to get them kidnapped, it's time we discuss the solution to solve this." The king was much more roguish than Tommy thought.

Hugh Grosvenor looked at his brother, "Easy, brother."

King George set down his glass, "No, I will not calm down! It is your fault, to begin with, David! You letting those poor girls work in the first place, what's wrong with letting them do whatever, eh?"

It was odd to hear Hugh Grosvenor being called by his middle name, something that he said only the closes of his folks could do.

"They're my children, Georgie! I will tell them to do whatever I see fit-"

It was even stranger to see two of the most powerful men in this country bicker.

Churchill stands up with a bang of his cane, "Right, Your Majesties. Please."

The two half-brothers sighed before turning their attention back to the blue-eyed devil in front of them. Winston approached his desk, returning with a big pile of folders and throwing it on the coffee table.

The Shelby Brothers stared at him, puzzled.

"Those play a pivotal role in beating Luca Changretta." Winston pointed his cigar at the folders. Each one is thicker than the next.

Folders? How are they going to get rid of Changretta with folders?

The king was refilling his whiskey as he croaked, "I suggest you get a crack on, Mr Shelby."

Ah, nothing like taking orders from the fucking King.

Something he was tired of doing.

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Tomorrow. Tomorrow everything will come together.

Tomorrow Tommy put an end to Luca Changretta. Once and for fucking all. The five men had stayed at Winston's house a little later than they had planned. Planning a war is never easy. It takes finesse, something the brains of Winston Churchill, King George, Hugh Grosvenor, and Thomas Shelby could make happen when combined. John was omitted, as the bloke was only emptying Churchill's whiskey inventory.

The gang leader closed his eyes and summoned.

Summoned his dead wife.

The dope he had ingested is starting to kick in. The habit of shooting down dopes was something he would always do when he's feeling uneasy. Conjuring Grace's company was as close as Thomas Shelby could get to feeling comfortable.

Grace.

Grace.

Grace.

Maybe his dope dosage was off, or maybe it was him. Maybe it was the half-lidded moon staring back at, but his dear Grace didn't show. Yet a name was screaming back at him, lingering on his tongue. Sour and sweet at the same time, begging to be called. To be remembered, to be loved and to finally be recognized.

The name called out to him. And as much Thomas prevailed, it kept screaming back. A name he hated and always tried to ignore, yet it would find its way back to him. Always there. And by God, he wants to call out to her.

Irene.