Chapter Two.
Pretty Girls Make Graves

There was a girl Lucy Foster once knew. A pretty girl called Angelina Baranoski, she was Polish. She had eyes the color of emeralds, short, brown curls, and a smile that was about as contagious as the plague. Angelina said she wanted to be a film star— to be in the greatest picture ever known. She was made for that; someone as angelic as she was must have their beauty captured.

     She said she wanted to be immortal, and that if she were in a picture, she could never truly die. She'll live on through her work, through her art. When she's six feet below the ground, her voice will still be heard, her face will still be seen. She'll live on.

On Fridays, Lucy Foster likes to go to the pictures because it's what she and Angelina often did together. She likes sitting in empty theatres— just as they once did— and stuffing her face with popcorn. She likes throwing kernels at the screen in annoyance when an unwanted plot twist appears. Sometimes, she can still hear Angelina's commentary beside her (or perhaps that's the drugs speaking).

Angelina Baranoski mysteriously disappeared in August of 1914. She was on holiday in Italy with her family, and, though there were dozens of them, nobody saw what happened. Nobody noticed. It was as if she'd just vanished into thin air, like she'd never existed in the first place.

Lucy hasn't forgiven them for that. To this day, she holds a tight, unwavering grudge against every single member of that household. Their grief has come to her mind once or twice, but she knows that if they're truly grieving— if they truly care— then they'd never let Angelina out of their sight in the first place.

So, naturally, Lucy Foster is a bit too protective. But in a man-eat-man world, she ought to be territorial, lest someone takes what is hers.

She's a target for powerful men all over London. Everyone wants a bite from the forbidden fruit that is Lucy Foster, and who can blame them? Her family implore her to be more careful, knowing she has a tendency of jumping into things without careful thought or consideration. But there's no fun in that, is there? And who wants to live a boring, dull life?

This is what Rosemary Hyde is for— to be the cold, calculating monster hidden beneath Lucy Foster's golden ringlets and jovial smile. Rosemary Hyde is both defense and offense combined, a devilishly fearsome woman.

     It is for this reason, that the Fosters conduct business with Rosemary, and not Lucy. To give the illusion that there is is a woman born from the flames of Hell itself on their side.

      And though it is a Friday, and Lucy Foster originally planned on going to the pictures, there is a more pressing situation that requires her presence and attention. She alters her appearance— her blonde curls are now shoulder-length strands of deep brown and her face covered in cosmetics. She slides black satin gloves onto her arms and makes her way towards her cousin's club. It's quieter during the day, but not completely dead, though the lack of music and laughter makes the place feel eerie.

     There is a singular black, locked door in the back. She knocks on it thrice and it swings open. Inside, there is a large, wooden desk, covered in mounds of paperwork and empty glasses. Her eldest brother sits behind the desk, and he looks at her with surprise.

     "You're early," he chuckles, pouring them both a drink as she sits in front of him.

     "It's never too early for drinks," she says, saluting him with the cup in her hand. They take large, identical swigs of their drinks. "Tell me, what's so important that I had to miss Enid Bennett?"

      "Mum's been asking about you, you know," he says. "She wants to know when you're coming home. If  you're coming home."

      "I've got some things to sort out first," she responds vaguely. "Will you answer my question now?"

     "We have a special guest," he says. "Came all the way down from Birmingham."

     "Very specific, Nick. I admire your attention to detail," she rolls her eyes. "Who is it?"

     Nick doesn't respond. Instead, he grins at her and pulls out two cigarettes. He hands her one and lights it, "I need you to make sure he's being honest about his intentions, alright? If he's lying, call him out on it."

     She leaned back into her seat, taking a drag of her cigarette as he went on. "I fought with him and his brothers in France— he's a good bloke, he just gets in over his head sometimes."

     "What's he doing here, then?"

     "That's what we're about to find out," Nick says.

     The lock on the door clicks. Jack walks in, laughing like a madman as a scowling Roy trails in behind him. Jack's howls didn't cease, "You should've fuckin' seen him! He just walked right into a fuckin'—"

     "Shut the fuck up, will you?" Nick snaps, his grin completely disappearing. "He'll be here any minute."

     "Yeah, yeah, alright," Jack snorts as he sits down.

     There's a clock in the room, ticking loudly and cutting through the silence. Rosemary drinks her whiskey and smokes her cigarette while growing impatient. She looks at Jack, who's having a hard time sitting quietly. His leg is bobbing up and down, as if he's about to have one of his usual nervous fits. All the while, Nick and Roy sit stoically— they're born for this.

     And so is she.

    There's a knock at the door. Then another. And then another. Jack gets up and twists the doorknob, standing aside to let their guest in.

     The man who walks in has a strong presence. He's powerful, to be sure, his posture gives it away. He carries his head high, his shoulders back and his back straight, but his face is in a horrendous state. Cuts and bruises are splattered across his cheeks and jaw, and there's dried blood at his hairline. He walks with a limp and makes a conscious effort not to put his hand over his abdomen as he hobbles over to the empty seat beside Rosemary.

    Now she knows who she's looking at. The puzzle had been pieced together when she looked him in the eye. She'd seen him in pictures before, up on Nick's mantlepiece— back when they were young soldiers fighting for their lives. He was one of the characters in Nick and Roy's old war stories.

    He was none other than the notorious Thomas Shelby.

     "Nick," Thomas greets him, accent thick and voice deep.

    "Tommy!" Nick says excitedly, leaning over the desk to shake his hand. "It's been a long fucking time, yeah?"

    "Five years," Thomas nods.

    "Five fuckin' years. . ." Nick says, pouring his old friend a drink. "Half a decade's too long to go without seeing you, mate. How's Arthur?"

    "He's alright," Thomas says. "He's busy enjoying himself."

    "Glad to hear it," Nick smiles, relaxing into his seat. "You remember Roy, yeah? Fought with us at the Somme." Thomas nods curtly at Roy. "And my younger brother, Jack—"

     Rosemary is bored of the small talk, and decides to intervene. "What happened to you? You look fucking awful."

    Nick sends her a warning look, then to Thomas, an apologetic one, "Rosemary needs to work on her diplomacy—"

    "No, it's alright," Thomas waves dismissively, and turns to face her. "I've heard about you."

     Rosemary's red lips curl into a small smile, "Is that so?"

     "I hear you kill men for sport."

    "Only the ones who deserve it," Rosemary replies. "Not all of us are above playing God."

    At this, he gives her a thin-lipped smile, and turns back to her eldest brother. "I also hear the turf wars around here have been getting worse lately. I've seen what Sabini's men can do firsthand and, I've got to say, I'm not very impressed."

    Nick laughs, "Sabini's a little bitch cowering behind his mother's skirts. It's his coppers we've got to look out for."

     "Right, his coppers," Thomas says. "Neither you nor Alfie Solomons are on good terms with the police. Why is that?"

     "Nobody's ever benefitted from relying on coppers," Roy interjects.

     "I said nothing about relying on them," Thomas says, "but you can use them to your advantage."

     "Keep them on our payroll, you mean?" Rosemary asks, and Thomas nods.

     "Pay them, make them think they're your equals, and keep them satisfied," Thomas says. "Not enough for them to overpower you, but just enough to fool them."

      It seems that Rosemary is the only one to agree with his words; Nick and Roy are too distrusting and Jack is hardly paying any attention. She turns to him, "How does Mr Solomons feel about this?"

    "Haven't asked him yet," Thomas replies. "I know he values your advice. He'd listen to you if you'd suggested—"

    "Alfie's loyal," Nick says. "He's been our supplier for years now, he's a fantastic partner. But I don't think he'll agree to this. Hell, I'm not sure I do, mate!"

     "He'd be influenced by a mob mentality," Rosemary says pensively. "He'd be more willing to agree if the Fosters made the same decision."

     "Working against the coppers will cost you," Thomas warns Nick. "Nothing good will come of it. Strike a deal with them, control them. Keep them on a leash, eh?"

     "I'm not sure—"

     "We'll consider it," Rosemary interrupts, turning to Thomas. "You bring it up to Mr Solomons, and we'll consider it after speaking with him ourselves."

     Thomas simply nods, his expression dull.

     "But what'll you do about Sabini?" Rosemary asks. "You can't possibly be happy about looking like a bloody punching bag."

     "Sabini's time will come," Thomas says vaguely. Rosemary looks into his eyes, trying to detect a hint of a plan, a hint of emotion, but they've come up empty.

    She can't read him.

     "You can't let him get away with it," Rosemary says. "Teach him and his men a fucking lesson."

     "I know men like Sabini. They like to make a show of themselves to hide their insecurity."

     "So your plan is for him to think he's gotten away with it?"

     "For now."

     Rosemary disagrees. The Shelby brothers's arrival to London has already made quite the spectacle, and it'll surely get worse. "There was a fight at Sabini's a couple nights ago," Rosemary says. "Did you have anything to do with it?"

    It's come to her attention that Thomas Shelby's smile is a rare sight. The remnants of a small grin make their way to his lips, just barely lifting the corners. He doesn't need to speak, this is confirmation enough. It was he and his brothers that had a row with Daniel Carmichael's men, and now, she's well aware of where everyone's allegiances lie.

     The meeting concludes when all the cups are empty. Nick and Thomas shake hands, and Thomas limps out the door, shutting it behind him.

     "I'm not working with any fucking coppers," Nick scoffs.

     "Do you have any better ideas?" Rosemary asks him. "By all means, spit it out."

     "We'll figure something out," Roy says calmly, trying to ease the tension. "In the meantime, we won't make any decisions. We'll just. . . wait it out."

     Rosemary scoffs, "We'll be fucking waiting forever, then, won't we?"

     She storms out of the room at once. It's appalling to hear such cowardly speech coming from the people who share her blood. She knows it's difficult for men to make decisions that are based on anything other than their own feelings, but there's got to be some sort of line they're willing to cross.

     Rosemary Hyde and Lucy Foster have this in common— they are not above manipulation or lying or playing God. If something needs to be done, it will be; morality be damned.

     She walks through an alleyway with a lit cigarette between her fingers, not in the mood to be swallowed by a sea of rowdy people. She keeps to herself as she walks, but her head remains high. And in the corner of her eye, she sees a woman glaring daggers at her.

     Oh, if looks could kill, Rosemary would be lying in a pool of her own blood.

     The woman stays frozen in her stance, cowering behind an overflowing garbage bin. Her face and hair are hidden beneath a scarf, and her clothes are tattered and torn. Yet through all the dirt and grime, her anger blazes so brightly, it's almost illuminating. Just as Rosemary takes a step towards the woman, she scurries away.

     Rosemary Hyde doesn't pursue her prey, but lets her go. (Even the wicked can be merciful.)