e·lite
/əˈlēt,āˈlēt/
noun
noun: elite; plural noun: elites
a group or class of people seen as having the greatest power and influence within a society, especially because of their wealth or privilege.
• in which the darkness-loathing heiress meets t...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
◣━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━◢
Four weeks have passed since the last time he beheld her.
Those usually warm brown eyes were filled with desolation as she ran out on him, emerald green dress rippling behind her.
And ever since that day, every minute that passed with her not beside him, pestering him, challenging him, driving him to the edge was another minute of his heart being ripped apart just to be plastered back together.
Taking bricks one by one from a perfectly standing house was probably how he would explain it.
Thomas Shelby had lost yet another rock in his life. One of the few ones that had grounded him. Reminded him of what's good in this God awful world, filling him with idle promises of what people could be. Good people. And yet, as if it is a recurring curse, he lost her.
He brought the whiskey to his lips, savouring the single malt as it swished in his mouth. Tommy couldn't find the strength to down the brown liquid through his throat. Either that or he's just incredibly intoxicated. His two brothers in front of him looked at each other, sharing silent words of pity and terror.
His older oaf of a brother cleared his throat, "Tom."
Thomas lifted his head, taking notice of the lack of buttons and cufflinks on his not-so-pristine shirt. If Irene were here, she would skim her fingers through his selection of cufflinks before giving him her best pick for the day. His eyebrows lifted, "Hm?"
His hand moved to the decanter in front of him. Yet, John was quicker than he was. The younger brother's hand snatched the glass before he could wrap his fingers around it. Tommy's eyes were deadly as he brought his fist hard on the mahogany table, "Give it."
"Lizzie, Tom. And Charlie, you haven't seen-"
The crystal glass hit the fireplace in a shrill; its tiny pieces sliced the side of John's cheek. Sweet John who's expecting a sweet baby with Sweet Ana. The thought made him laugh.
The looks on their faces made Tommy want to grab them and slap them out of their faces one by one. He didn't need their pity.
"We found her, Tom."
The black and white pictures were blurry at first. His drunk eyes adjusting to focus. Thomas clutched at the papers once he saw her. Clear as day, bright as the sun.
Clad in pearls, sunglasses, and a black dress was Irene. Lady Irene Celeste Deschanel-Grosvenor. Her arm linked with another woman's as they looked to their right toward the stopping vehicles. Isabelle Grosvenor was following close behind, smiling wide at the man beside her.
Both sisters were clearly unaware of how they made two men feel like shit for the past month.
Tommy's face told all his questions when his eyes met the – usually – two delinquents' in front of him. How? When? Where?
"They have an extremely close-knit circle. Though Ana, Tabitha, to their fuckin' brother and their fuckin' neighbours have sealed their lips as soon as they left. So we headed for someone who was in their realm and willing to inform us once she knew your... condition." John pointedly explained.
"Wasn't easy, Tom. The lady who gave us a tip didn't know shit, but it was enough for us to start somewhere."
"That, uh, there is Irene,"
No shit, Arthur. The oldest of the Shelbys retracted his finger once he saw the scowl plastered on Tommy's face.
"That's Grace Vanderbilt, and the ones is standing behind Izzie, wearing ridiculously fuckin' large hats are Vicky DuPont and uh, Miriam Rothschild,"
"The man embracing Izzie's called John. John Spencer-Churchill, the next Duke of Marlborough. And as you can tell by his name, a relative of Winston's."
Shit.
Thomas was sober enough to pluck a cigarette from his drawer, "So, in essence, the blue blood' who's who is the Grosvenors' intimate friends?"
He exhaled a puff of smoke. He spent days after the disappearances of the Grosvenor sisters to find where they were. He only needed to know. He needed to know where Irene was, where his Mountain of Adamant was. Who she's with.
And her father can't seem to help him. Or anyone from that cursed circle of theirs.
Yet every time his private investigator found a lead, it always led to dead ends.
No news was ever good. Hence Thomas Shelby drinking whiskey in the middle of the day. What was shocking to him was that his brothers seemed to be more useful in this than he thought.
John exhaled, "Yep," His fingers clutching to a piece of toothpick.
"Rulers of the fuckin' world economy," Chimed Arthur, sitting on the chair beside the sofa.
Tommy threw the pictures on the table in front of him, "Where was this?"
Eyes never leaving Irene, he was truly baffled. Here he was wrecked for fucking moaning another one of Grace's name while she was blowing him off to the fucking stars, while she looked unfazed by the whole ordeal. It was as if it never happened, and he never actually hurt her in the first place.
Which he knew he actually did.
Still, it was unfair how she looked striking when he looked like he'd just escaped prison.
The two exchanged glances. The blue-eyed devil rolled his eyes, clucking his tongue in the process, "I wouldn't exactly run out and drag them back, now would I? Where. The. Fuck. Was. This?"
They hesitated before John finally formed an answer that made Tommy feel the genuine excitement for the first time this month, "Paris."
Tommy's lips formed a satirical grin, "Well, boys. I just found what your fucking jobs will be."
"Get someone to follow them everywhere they go. And when I say everywhere, I expect this informant of yours to follow Irene to the fuckin' loo. Understood?"
