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...
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September 1927
Thomas was nine years of age when he saw his father strike his mother across the cheek.
It had been one of his drunken episodes, fuelled by cheap beer and rage and empty coffers. He hid behind the small kitchen door, blue eyes wide. Arthur stood tall behind him, seemingly tense as he clutched the four-year-old John by the shoulder. Ada was crying in the other room, wondering why no one was tending to her hunger. When she wobbled her way through the small corridor toward her brothers, Thomas yanked her behind him. Making sure his body was shielding her eyes.
She wailed and wailed, of course. She was only so young.
That's when the constant fist on skin stopped. The Shelbys' mother whimpered as Arthur Sr threw her to the ground. The sound of boots crunching on broken glass was getting nearer; their father was finally done.
The eyes that matched Tommy's so well moved through his children as he swung open the door huddled in front of the kitchen like some kind of lost puppies.
He huffed before snatching the whiskey on the dining table and walking out.
Arthur, John, and Ada ran to their mother. But not Thomas, no. He stood his ground, balling his fists as his oceanic blue eyes turned to a thunderstorm. They roved over his mother's body. Blue, purple, and yellow marred her rough skin. Rough from all the side jobs she had to endure to help the family afloat.
Young Tommy took in the sight of his mother's blackened eye and busted lip. The same lips that would pepper him and his siblings with kisses before sleep. The same eyes that would shine so green; they were like forests in mid-July. When their mother extended a loving hand, aware of how his father's action has made him boil in rage, Tommy didn't take it.
Instead, he walked outside and kicked Arthur Sr in the shin. Which earned him a slap and a hit afterwards, but it was worth it.
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Ada jumped when Tommy threw a punch at the innocent window behind him.
He repeated the action again and again. When he turned, the Shelby sister could see how wrecked and bloodied his hands were. Shards of minuscule glass sticking on his knuckles. She glanced at her other two brothers. The ones who were responsible for the episode Tommy's having right now.
Ada tried to mouth her words coherently, "Why would you show the pictures now?"
John shrugged as Arthur whispered yelled, "He wanted to see them right away!"
Of course, it just had to be today. When the business was going very well, Tommy's politics was starting to thrive, and the expansion to Southern America was going excellent. The day all of them were supposed to rejoice and drink tons of booze at the Garrison. She swore she could see a hint of a smile forming for the first time in the year Irene had been gone.
But the second his eyes landed on those pictures, his expression darkened. Into this God awful look, Ada had only seen a few times in her lifetime. His breaths trembled, jaw muscles tightening. He rubbed his face before slamming his hands on the table. His face contorted into this – this fury induced look that made her shiver. Thomas has not made that face in a while. The last time was Grace's death.
He looked like he was about to start a rampage. The Blue Eyed Devil threw the pictures for her to see.
Ada gasped, hand clasping around her mouth.
There she was, Irene fucking Grosvenor.
But that wasn't what made her gasp. Irene was alive and ... fucked all over.
Bruises of all shapes and colours marred her body, standing out against her pale skin. Ada was sure Irene was smart enough to cover these atrocities with a tad of powder, but it seems like the solution was not helpful as she could see those bruises as clear as day.
She let out a shaky breath; the sight of a frail Irene was something very much new to her. The eldest daughter of the Grosvenors has been emanating that sense of easy confidence in anything she does from the first time they met. She wasn't someone who takes shit quickly, especially from men.
Yet, that purpling dent on Irene's wrist as she was seen loading up her baggage into a Rolls Royce made Ada doubt her intuition about her dear friend.
The sister of the Shelbys set down the pictures before leaning onto the chair behind her, feeling somehow lightheaded. "Who?"
"Who else."
"It's that fucking JP Morgan arse."
She shook her head, half hoping the act would undo everything she witnessed. "Y-You have to do something, Tommy. You must. What he did-"
Her blue-eyed brother, notorious for his everlasting grudge toward his enemies, tightened his grip on the table. His eyes shone with something so evil - unholy and out of this world that it made the siblings cower in their places.
