"Why do we even bother to say that anymore? I mean, look at us- surrounded by a graveyard of broken promises."
Esther Solomons- the woman that had held Thomas Shelby's heart from the time they were mere children. The woman he had loved. The woman he...
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*~*~*~*
Darby Sabini's lips were turned downwards as he skimmed over the articles in the day's paper. The sun having managed to break through some of the clouds and filter in through the restaurant window as the man sat in the otherwise empty dining room.
"Mr. Sabini?" One of his men cleared his throat as he lingered in the doorway. "The police are here."
"Tell them to wipe their feet," Sabini didn't bother looking up from his paper. Simply listening to the approaching footsteps as the man led an officer over to his table. It was only once both of the other men were sitting that Sabini set his paper aside to look at the inspector sitting across from him. "So why do I have to tell you everything?"
"We can't search every train that comes into London," the inspector scoffed.
"They don't use trains. They use boats," Sabini corrected him. "The boatmen are all Gypsies. He's a fucking Gypsy. Why do we have to tell them everything?"
"Okay, we can't search every boat." The inspector amended his previous statement.
"Lucky for me, I have a boy in the Jew's rum house." Sabini ran his tongue across his lips, sharing the latest news he'd heard. "The Gypsy went to meet Solomons, along with a woman. And after, they drank whiskey, shook hands. And then Alfie gave him some salt or some such kike thing that means peace."
"What exactly do you want us to do, Mr. Sabini?" The inspector asked.
Sabini pressed his lips together at the question. His tongue running over his teeth as he sniffed. Dark eyes shifting around the room, as if searching for a source of some foul scent.
"Did you bring dog shit in here on your shoes?" Sabini questioned the copper. The inspector scoffed at the question, looking to Sabini's man as if wondering if this was all a joke. "Check. Have a look. I can smell something."
"You've got photographs of this Tommy Shelby, though, right?" Sabini's man asked.
"We have military ID photographs from his time with the Warwickshire Yeomanry." The inspector opened the file he'd brought along, skimming over the papers. "Shelby won medals."
"Dio... Ascolta questi fottuti soldati che si uniscono. Perche dobbiamo ascoltare questa merda inglese?" Sabini muttered in Italian to his man before shifting his attention back to the Englishman before him. "Okay. So you've got his fucking photo. If he shows his face in Camden Town, your coppers lift him. All right? You know...sometimes when I smell something, it's, it's something that's not real. It's something more like a... like a premonition. It's like sometimes, I smell something, but it's not a smell, it's just... Something isn't right."
"Mr. Sabini, we'll do everything we can to deal with this man," the inspector promised.
"Deal?" Sabini's brows rose at the man's word choice. "Did you say, "Do a deal"?"
