𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐒
❝ They're the French Kissers,
that's what they do.
They will lure you in
and then they'll kill you
with a kiss. ❞
━ in which the leader of the french kissers
...
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One could have thought it smelled like death inside La Petite Mort, but truly it smelled of vanilla candles, anise star and the purple mallow petals scattered throughout the rooms of the French brothel. Rose scrunched her nose at the candied scent when she walked in. She didn't like sweet scents; they often hid what was rotten.
The clear morning light seeped through the silk curtains like syrup down a cake, the delicate drapery turning the place into a game of light and shadows, so that the costumers could come in and fall into an ambiance they would not want to come out of with a heavy wallet. So that they could come in and see the ladies in the light while hiding their shame in the shadows.
There was a man climbing the stairs to the rooms; Rose merely saw his back before he disappeared. She turned to Arwen, who was still putting out the lamps from the night before. Arwen was the best person to run the brothel; she could as easily charm the clients as chase them out with a broken bottle might a drunk one decide to mistreat her ladies.
"Anything new?" Rose asked, lighting a cigarette and throwing the match into the bin. Her nostrils welcomed the pungent smell of smoke against the sweetened aroma of the room.
"Some new costumers, but nothing of concern. I'm goin' to grab breakfast real quick, take care of this for me, will ya?"
Rose nodded, soon finding herself alone between the lights and the shadows, unable to decide which one she was more drawn to. She never got to an answer, for the bells above the door jingled, and Thomas Shelby walked in.
A man who didn't give a damn about the light or the shadows or the fragrance of the place, and instead sank his eyes into her, impeccable suit and well-behaved cigarette hanging loose from his fingers.
"You know, most people fuck at night, not at seven in the morning." She talked because she hated the churning in her stomach at the thought he might attend the brothel. But the Thomas in front of her was no longer Charlie's father; it was the crime boss who killed faster than he blinked. Another person wouldn't have talked.
"I just came back from Small Heath." He stopped on the counter next to her, taking the cap out and placing it down next to the case. Raindrops fell from his brows to his lids. "Someone shot me fookin' bartender in cold blood."
Rose's cigarette halted halfway to her lips. "A bar brawl?"
Thomas shook his head, in that slow, languid way that seemed to be moving against time itself. His eyes were hooded, and Rose couldn't take off the veil. "No. If it were a brawl, people would've talked. But no one wants to fookin' talk. Apparently, no one knows what happened, meanin' someone has either bribed them well or scared them well. Or both. And it takes a lot to scare the people of Small Heath."
