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"... 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐈𝐌. There was no fire in this room but a man was crouching over the empty stove-"
A soft snore interrupted her narration. She glanced down at the sleeping boy in her lap and smiled, brushing away the stray curls from his forehead affectionately. He stirred, but only to snuggle further into her warm embrace.
Closing her eyes she let herself imagine, if for a moment, he was her own.
Children were a dangerous luxury in her line of work and consequently she never actually thought about having one. Most of the girls she went to school with were all married by now, with a baby in a crib or on the way. In a year or two she'll be considered an old maid, but it would be foolish of her to think Robert would let her off like that.
Her dearestpapà grumbled at her stubbornness and constant refusal of potential arranged marriages. I shall never marry someone who doesn't know my heart and soul.
Behind the self imposed mask she put on every morning, of an elegant business woman with a cold, unyielding façade hid a heart of a girl. A hopeless romantic that would not settle for anything less than a man who appreciated her for all her quirks and flaws, one who would not judge her for the way she lived - with blood on her hands, smoke in her lungs and gin in her veins.
Truthfully, she was terrified. Absolutely, gut-wrenchingly terrified of the possibility of ruining her child's life with the morally straying way of life she enjoyed, a danger she could never truly abandon. Could, she thought, or wanted to?
It was undeniable to anyone who meddled with the murky side of the world that it held a consuming attraction, a certain pull intoxicating enough to wrench the angels from the Heaven's grasp.
The front doors of the house rattled. Caterina's eyes snapped open, hand flying for the knife hidden underneath the coffee table. But it was too far for her to reach, not without moving and waking Finn in the process. Where is Maria when I need her?
Shuffling, soles of shoes hitting the wooden floorboards in an uneven rhythm. Instead of an unwanted intruder or a burglar, Thomas Shelby emerged from the dark of the hallway. With a breath of relief she relaxed her shoulders.
"I thought Polly or John were coming to get him. He just fell asleep."
"I don't mind."
It had to be raining outside, she noted. His dark hair was pushed back, damp from the rain. The fabric of his shirt clung tightly to his skin. It gave a brief, sinful, idea of what could be beneath it. He leaned on the doorframe, cigarette hanging lazily from his hand, ash tumbling to the floor and piling onto the soft carpet of the hallway.
