CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

               NEWS SPREAD QUICKLY AROUND the wretched city of Birmingham, which was not an unknown fact amongst its residences. . . but surprise, surprise, Tommy Shelby was not about to let his wife's little heart get shattered all because the washerwomen down at Garrison Court could not for the life of them keep their mouths shut. Hence why had requested his brothers to take her out for the day — somewhere far, somewhere she could not accidentally gain wind of the secret that was not, in all fairness, a secret. It was a fact that would cause Felicity to feel ridiculously sorry for the other man, to feel pity for the bloke that most certainly did not deserve any ounce of her sweet—hearted sympathy.

Tommy hadn't the slightest idea as to just how John Woods had found himself thrown through a car window, and that was a fact that infuriated him as he was longing to take credit for the event. Nevertheless, he had decided to to take to the hospital the man now resided in, keen to fulfil his old desire for revenge against the man whom had pointed a pistol at his blonde wife and fired without hesitation. So that was what he did, and that was how he found himself pulling up outside the greying building.

"Visiting hours are yet to open, Mister Shelby," the kind, evidently tentative nurse at the front desk alerted him, cutting him momentarily from his pursuit of the Woods' room within the ward.

Tommy, figuring it would be best to remain polite, moved over towards her. "I'm here for my father in—law," he told her, leaning over the desk to point to the little clipboard in front of her, and dragging his finger down the page as to mark out the words 'John Woods' on it.

"I'm afraid we can't. . ."

"My wife's going out of her mind with worry, nurse," he cut through her sentence easily. "I promised I'd see to him this morning, and I'd be out of my mind to break a promise to me wife."

The woman smiled shyly before sighing; she took a pen to the paper and cut through a box beside the name, before handing Tommy a slip of paper.

"Mind you don't tell any other of this," she said, her voice slight.

He laughed, the slightest bit of arrogance showing through, for he knew that no one would dare bring it up to him should they find out. "I'm sure no other would mind, even if I did."

Not sharing his certainty, the young woman frowned, with the anxiety on her face as clear as day. "Mister Shelby. . ."

But the man was already off, tucking the folded paper into his coat pocket and walking away from the woman. "Thank you, nurse."

She didn't try to call after him any longer — perhaps she had begun to realise that it was futile, or perhaps she knew of the man's reputation and was as fearful of him as the rest of Birmingham was — and he didn't bother to listen for her calls should she try again. Instead, Tommy made his way briskly down the too—bright corridor of the hospital, offering little more than a short, sharp nod at any others that passed him. His shadow cast itself on the walls of endless whitewash, with the infamous silhouette of his peaked cap and his fingers curling in on one another, forming tight fists of frustration before he stretched them out once again, figuring it'd be better to keep his temper for at least the length of time it took to walk the hallways towards John Woods' room.

"I might have guessed you'd come by," the older man spoke up, his words echoing the minute Tommy stepped over the room's threshold.

"And why'd you think that would be?" Tommy returned, immediately keen to keep the current power he had over the man as he stood over him — physically stronger as of now.

John Woods chuckled darkly, before stopping abruptly and coughing, his breathing rattled. "I'm weak, so as far as you're concerned, I'm at your mercy," was his simple answer, sounding far more confident and self—assured given his prior statement that Tommy would have thought possible. . . although he understood it, knowing that his own arrogance most likely matched that of the man before him, and even when faced with the threat of death at the hands of an enemy, he would still find a way to feel more at peace with that than anyone would ever expect. Because to throw someone off incredibly gave you an enormous amount of power; an amount that both Tommy Shelby and John Woods knew both they and the other craved deeply.

Tommy took a step forwards, folding his hands over one another, his stance wide as he regarded John with an ice cold stare that lacked all traces of humanity for that slight period.

"And what did you expect me to do once I realised I could come for you as you're a fucking sitting duck in here, eh?"

John held his stare, blinked once, then held it once more. "You want to avenge it all, don't you?" He spoke, and then clarified it himself without giving the other man a chance. "You want to avenge your wife and the bullet wound on her breast. . . the one just an inch below her collarbone, and two above her heart. And because you Shelby's are wild fucking dogs — don't deny it, Mr Shelby, your brothers have proved it perfectly well time and time again —, you'd be happy to blow my blood and brains out onto the clean walls of a hospital. A hospital you no—doubt donate to, what with you taking in twice what you were last year."

Tommy kept his face emotionless. "You're right," he noted, confirming it immediately before briefly pausing, to allow the man to recognise how Tommy had apparently realised John Woods' revelation. Once that second was up, Tommy took another step forwards and pulled a box of cigarettes from his coat pocket. The act of lighting it was one he did in silence, as he struck the match, set alight the tip of the object, before sucking on it for yet another second. Once the dirty fumes were dispersed into the air, Tommy turned his attention back to the man before him.

"You're perfectly right," he repeated. "I have every right to want to fire a bullet through your rotten brains here and now, and if I did so, I'm sure I'd be able to justify to any passing man why I did it."

He may have been imagining it, in all of his quietly building fury towards the man, but Tommy swore he saw John hold his breath.

"So why aren't you?" John asked after a moment, and his voice was surprisingly calm.

"Why aren't I?" Tommy echoed.

The other man nodded. "You aren't one for making empty threats, are you?"

"I don't recall this being an empty threat, Mr Woods," Tommy spoke. Within a second he had his hand curling around the butt of a pistol and pulling it from his pocket, wrapping his index finger around the trigger as he wasted no time in pointing it at the man before him. Straight—armed, he could see the man at a range he had longed to do for the most of twelve months, from the minute he had wound up in their lives. Lying at the end of a gun barrel, with nothing but a foot of empty air between the bullet and his poor twisted brain that had done nothing but weasel rotten deals out of those around it.

"You shot my wife when she was just as vulnerable as you are now," Tommy took to saying, forcing himself to keep calm and to keep his voice from rattling all over the place as he fought to keep down his rage. "You stood up and shot her point blank, with the very same intentions as I have to you now. You aimed at her heart and sure, I'm aiming at your head. But get it right, and both shots will do the job. It'll kill you, just like yours could've killed her."

"And here I thought you Shelby's were a clan of few words," John mocked, somehow trying to grasp onto whatever power he had left.

"Shut up!" Tommy yelled, his calmness breaking like shattered glass as his anger rose and took over him.

John Woods raised his eyebrows at the drop of the façade, almost amused.

"You don't get a word in any of this," the other continued fiercely, the gun shaking in his grasp. "I couldn't care less that you tried to kill your daughter — I care that you tried to kill my fucking wife. It is taking everything in me to not pull this trigger, not to splatter your brains behind you because believe me, I want to."

Oh, how badly he wanted to: he wanted John Woods to get one final end that would be a sort of payment for everything he had done, and he wanted it to be final. A bullet to the head was final: entering from one temple and exiting from the other, a straight route as the blood ceased to pump through that wicked man's veins. Tommy was cold—hearted, he knew that, but this was not a cold—hearted act, this was not one he did with the only benefits being for himself. Of all the men who's lives he had cut short or ruined ceremoniously, this was one who's impact upon the world would be far greater in death than in life, because only then would he be able to stop wreaking havoc down upon Felicity Woods' life.

"Well, you've got me here," John noted. "A sitting duck, just as you said."

"It'd be too easy to do it here."

This was enough to startle the man — John Woods hadn't feared his fate, as arrogant as he was, hence why he had not expected Thomas Shelby to not act on his rage and paint the room crimson.

"No, I'm not about to kill any man today," Tommy went on, taking the pistol and emptying the bullets into his palm, before dropping it back into the heavy pocket into his coat so that only the butt stuck out. "I'm not about to end a man's life who could easily have it prolonged just enough to see his daughter staring back at him. The daughter that is my wife and is the woman I respect enough to ask whether she would like to pull the trigger on her damned father's head, or whether she'd rather have me do it, so her pretty hands wouldn't get blood on them and her soul wouldn't be any more tainted than you made it to be in the first place."

He wanted to kill him. He wanted to get it out of the way so he would never hurt another hair upon Felicity's head ever again, or attempt to, for that matter. He wanted it all over.

But John Woods dying was not his decision to make, and for once, he was realising that.

So Tommy left the room with clean hands and returned back home to the blonde—haired girl, the girl who unknowingly held more power in one hand than she could have ever known.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

wee woo i want to marry this man! currently writing this whilst waiting for the bus laugh out loud, really out here living my best life.

also it's really rushed!! bur I had to get it out for you bc i haven't updated in weeks, sorry!

anyway — thank you so much for reading! i love you so much