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

━━━september 1928

September 1928

Monte-Carlo, Cannes, Saint-Tropez, Paris, Madrid, Amalfi, Positano, Portofino.

It didn't seem a lot until Thomas and Alfie compiled the pictures, and there were no less than five, fifteen-centimetre stacks. Shots of the socialites on boats, living their best lives. Laying around on white sandy beaches, Old Fashioned in hand. Skimpy swim attire adorning their figures, a new yet frustrating change from the regular boring ones he would see women flaunt proudly.

Thomas almost flew to Positano himself once he saw those.

For however long it's been, and for whatever happened between the two of them, Tommy's not ready to share even an inch of Irene Grosvenor with anyone. Yet, she keeps driving him into lunacy.

Alfie rubbed the back of his neck as he leaned back, "You would think when you leave a girl to be kidnapped by your rival, thus breaking her heart would make her devastated. But look at them,"

Both their eyes drifted to the smiling heiresses, playing a game of ball with their aristocratic peers. Not a care in the world. "Smiling and shit. Let me tell you, right; it doesn't make an older man like me feel good. All the guilt. And somehow, she's smiling again."

Tommy chuckled, "You've gone soft."

"No, no. I've been the same, alright. They're heartless."

Frankly, Alfie Solomons was speaking the truth.

Irene had been pretty much this prepossessing porcelain doll during the span of their 'work' relationship. Majestic and solid to look at from the outside, fragile to the touch. It wasn't that she was weak in any way. No, his woman was not a weakling. She could cut you out with just one opening of her mouth and dance of her tongue. But the heiress lacked this sense of street smartness. A soft skill required to survive this dark, dark world. Something that he recognized in her younger sisters too.

And for a porcelain doll to immediately tape herself back into normalcy without a hint of desolation was something to be applauded and offended for. At least for the two criminal warlords.

Tommy stubbed his cigarette on the mahogany table with little patience before rising to his feet. Sliding on his coat, he heard Alfie's voice boomed, "Where you goin', treacle?"

The Brummie rolled his oceanic orbs, "Business."

"Right, you're a busy man. Just leave me here, right, to mourn and fend for myself as I stare at Isabelle's photos until I die."

Alfie Solomons was turning into a dramatic little arse.

Without another turn of his head, Tommy headed out the door. Disregarding the loud and theatrical sigh escaping his friend's mouth.

≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺

It wasn't until past midnight when Tommy arrived at Warwickshire.

The looming estate felt cold ever since Irene Grosvenor ran out of the soiree he threw to celebrate his winning. Every trace of the heiress was terminated when Lizzie Stark moved in, bringing her flair to the house.

The bone-white violin, ties Irene had bought for him during one of her previous visits to London, even the throw blanket the socialite gifted him when they finished a significant takeover.

Tommy slammed his palms on the horn, the memory flooding back.

"Tada!" Irene made a grand gesture toward the throw she'd set on top of the scattered documents. It was grey coloured, large enough to engulf the entirety of Irene, made with a luxurious material from its looks. The gangster stretched out his hand to feel the texture. Oh.