The Rose of Birmingham | ᴘᴇᴀᴋʏ ʙʟɪɴᴅᴇʀꜱ

Thirty-Two | ᴛᴏᴍᴍʏ

Tommy retreated back around his desk and searched the cluttered surface for his cigarette case. Finding it, he freed a lone fag and lit the end with an aggressive flick to his lighter.

Fuck. What the fuck was that? Why had he allowed Rose to get such a rise out of him? And what had possessed him to react that way?

He'd had far too much whiskey. Latent effect of spending so much time in the company of his brothers and the other Peaky Blinders. For the past two days, all they'd done was strategize. That meant all manner of heated discussions, outlandish ideas, and drinking. Lots of drinking.

Still, instead of one of that lot, it was bloody Rose who challenged him on his orders. Sweet, do-gooder Lady Rose who told him his plan was rubbish and she should be utilized in a more effective way.

Amidst his inner ramblings, Rose's voice met his ears, remorseful and breathy, "I shouldn't have spoken out of turn about your wife. I'm sorry, Thomas."

He exhaled smoke forcefully out through his nostrils and ran a hand across his brow.

"Don't apologize," Tommy instructed. He looked over at Rose where she still stood against the wall. "Not to me, or anyone else."

"I shouldn't have brought up Grace," Rose repeated.

Tommy held up a hand to silence her. "Doesn't matter," he said, taking an impatient drag off his cigarette. "I brought up Atticus, didn't I? I had no right, but ya don't hear me apologizin', d'ya?"

"No," she murmured. Her pretty mouth was turned down in a solemn line.

"Right," he said, pivoting to the side so that he wouldn't exhale smoke toward her. "And ya won't. It's not a thing that I do. It's a bad habit. Apologize once, and you do it again, and again, and again. Like takin' bricks outta the wall of your fuckin' house. Ya give yo'self away, little by little, piece by piece. Well, no one gets a piece of Thomas Shelby without earnin' it, Rose. Ya shouldn't let anyone take a piece of you either."

He watched Rose out of the corner of his eye while she appeared to mull over his words. At last she said, "I'll take that under advisement."

He nodded. "Good. Now, before Charlie interrupted ya and we had our little tiff, you were sayin' somethin' about chipping away at Gallagher's armor in a way he won't notice."

"Until it's too late," Rose supplied. "Yes."

Tommy nodded again and collapsed onto his desk chair. "What'd ya have in mind?" he prompted, motioning for her to sit as well.

She lowered herself onto the chair opposite him and smoothed her skirt beneath her. So graceful. Every action of hers was graceful, her posture perpetually poised and elegant. He'd noticed that about her immediately, but his awareness of it had become more pronounced since the benefit.

"I take it the gathering of information is paramount to your success," Rose began.

"A critical piece of the puzzle, aye."

Rose bobbed her head. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't have nearly as much information on James Gallagher as you'd prefer. His schedule, his associates, his day-to-day activities, etcetera. Those are areas of mystery to you. Is that right?"

Tommy exhaled a swirling baluster of smoke and flicked the ash from his cigarette. "They are. Aye," he confirmed. "But we can't use our usual tactics on him. He has eyes and ears in nearly as many nooks and crannies around Birmingham as I do. And he recognizes anyone I send to tail him. Sent me brother Finn and his mate Archie two weeks back. Couple o' sixteen-year-olds. Hardly conspicuous, right?"