Chapter 12
Small Heath didn't celebrate.
It held its breath.
The bodies of Campbell's Belfast men had barely cooled before the streets emptied.
The police, now leaderless and terrified, retreated to their stations.
The rival gangs pulled back into shadows.
Even the local press — usually eager for blood-soaked headlines — printed soft stories about "unexplained disappearances" and "urban unrest" with careful, fearful words.
No one named the Shelbys.
No one dared.
Inside the Garrison, however, life tried to resume.
The bar filled each night with laughter and heavy smoke.
Whiskey flowed freely.
Coins clinked across the counter.
And for the first time in months, the Shelby family allowed themselves to breathe.
Arthur, still bruised and stitched from his time in Steelhouse Lane, roared with laughter over stupid jokes.
John leaned back in his chair, teaching young Michael how to cheat at cards.
Polly held court over the finances, snapping at any boy who dared hand her bad books.
And Tommy—
Tommy sat at the end of the bar, nursing a glass of Irish whiskey, one hand tapping slowly against the wood.
His sharp blue eyes didn't move from the barmaid.
Grace.
Grace moved through the crowd like a soft breeze —
Smiling.
Laughing.
Balancing trays heavy with ale and coin.
But every few minutes, her eyes flicked toward Tommy.
Measuring him.
Testing him.
Waiting for the moment he might crack.
James leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching it all with the quiet amusement of a man who had seen a hundred dramas play out before.
He didn't trust Grace.
Not completely.
Her story was too neat.
Her accent too clean.
Her hands — strong and careful — too experienced for a girl who claimed to be running from a simple Belfast scandal.
But he said nothing.
For now.
Tommy would see it himself —
Or he wouldn't.
And either way, James was ready.
Across the bar, Grace finally approached Tommy.
Placed a new whiskey glass in front of him.
"You look like you could use a refill, Mr. Shelby," she said, voice soft but steady.
Tommy looked up at her, slow and thoughtful.
"I could use a lot of things," he said.
His voice — usually sharp, dangerous — was quieter now.
Almost... tired.
Grace smiled.
The kind of smile that could crack walls.
And for the first time in weeks, Tommy Shelby smiled back.
Just a little.
Just enough.
James saw it.
And filed it away like a knife behind his back.
The crowd inside the Garrison thickened as the night wore on, voices rising with drink and reckless laughter.
But Tommy and James slipped out the back unnoticed, into the cool misty night.
The alley behind the Garrison smelled of wet brick and tobacco smoke.
A faint fog drifted around them, curling under the gaslights.
Neither spoke for a long moment.
Just two brothers standing in the dark, sharing a cigarette between them like soldiers on leave.
Finally, James broke the silence.
"You're looking soft," he said, flicking ash into the gutter.
Tommy smirked without humor.
"You're looking for a slap."
James chuckled low.
But there was weight behind his words.
"You're looking at her like a man ready to make mistakes."
Tommy's smile faded.
He stared out at the empty street, the cigarette burning low between his fingers.
"Maybe I am," he said finally.
James shrugged.
"It's your life," he said. "Just don't let it cost ours."
Tommy didn't answer right away.
He watched the mist swirl under the streetlamps.
"You think she's lying?" he asked quietly.
James thought about it.
Carefully.
"I think everyone's lying," he said. "Question is whether you can live with the reason why."
Tommy nodded slowly, as if that was exactly the answer he expected.
Not comfort.
Not certainty.
Just fact.
They stood there a while longer, silent except for the soft sound of the city breathing around them.
Finally, Tommy stubbed out the cigarette under his heel.
"We need to move," he said.
"Small Heath's ours. Birmingham's watching. Sabini's waiting. The coppers are cowed but not dead."
He glanced sideways at James.
"We don't hold ground by standing still."
James smiled faintly.
"Then let's start walking."
The next week passed quietly.
Too quietly.
The Garrison rebuilt — new windows, fresh paint, fresh glasses.
Shelby boys moved through the streets like kings — no longer harassed, no longer questioned.
Money rolled in from the racecourses.
Bookies who had once sworn to Kimber now lined up to pay tribute.
And yet—
In the quiet corners of Birmingham, James could feel the tension pulling tighter.
A storm was coming.
Not from the police.
Not from Sabini.
Something else.
Something slower.
Deadlier.
And when it came—
The Shelbys would either rise higher than ever before.
Or burn everything they had built to the ground.