"Tommy Shelby, you have done well for yourself," Florence smirked to herself as she stepped out of her car and onto the driveway of his house.

It was far larger or grander than Florence had imagined when George gave her the address but it was all that Tommy had ever dreamt of. He wanted to be great, and she had always known that he would stop at nothing until she got there.

She closed her car door and made her way to the front door, knocking gently. The door quickly opened and she was met with the face of an older woman, who she assumed was Tommy's housekeeper.

"I'm here to see Mr Shelby, I'm an old friend." Florence smiled at the lady.

"I don't know you, and Mr Shelby isn't expecting guests." Tommy's housekeeper replied calmly, yet seeming on edge.

"You can tell him that Mrs Harrington is here to see him," Florence told her, and from the look on the housekeeper's face, she knew just what that name meant.

"This way, Mrs Harrington," She smiled nervously, welcoming her into the house and leading her towards Tommy's study.

Frances knocked on the door, to which Tommy quickly responded with, "Come."

Frances pushed the door open, letting Florence wait in the hallway, "Mrs Harrington is here to see you, sir."

"Mrs Harrington?" Tommy muttered, assuming that perhaps Margaret wanted to give him an earful for involving her youngest son in his work.

Frances glanced at Florence, nodding at her to enter the room. Florence obliged and crossed the threshold, preparing herself to come face to face with the man she had spent six years avoiding. She looked up to see Tommy standing at his desk, the look on his face was a picture, no doubt never expecting to ever see the woman who stood before him ever again.

"Hello, Mr Shelby," Florence smiled as Frances left the room.

"Florence," Tommy whispered in disbelief as Frances closed the door, leaving the two of them alone, "What are you doing here?"

"Spreading festive cheer," Florence answered sarcastically, her new found confidence surprising Tommy, "Oh, and I received some post that I thought might interest you."

"You came all this way to tell me about some post?" Tommy remarked, slowly coming to realise what she was referring to.

"Yes, I did," Florence replied, approaching him and slamming the envelope on the desk, "Do you want to tell me why the Changrettas have sent a six year old girl a black hand?"

Tommy looked down at the envelope, reading the name 'Daisy Shelby', two words he never quite imagined he would see side by side. He removed the card from the envelope to see the same card that he had been sent. When he told Florence he couldn't marry her all those years ago it was because he feared a moment like this, but even without being publicly tied to him, those girls were still unsafe.

"Where is she?" Tommy muttered, looking up at Florence who's entire demeanour he hardly recognised.

"George and Vinnie are watching the children," Florence told him, "They're both armed, I assume you've all had one."

"Yeah, we have," Tommy replied, "Who's Vinnie?"

"Polly didn't tell you, did she?" Florence replied, watching the confusion on the Shelby man's face.

"Polly doesn't tell me much these days," Tommy frowned.

"Do you remember my mother being pregnant about three years after I was born?" Florence asked, knowing that their age gap meant Tommy might have some sort of memory of that year.

"I thought she lost the baby," Tommy replied.

"He was put up for adoption, my grandparents lied," Florence told him, "Which isn't important right now, I need to know who Luca Changretta is and whether he'd harm my children."

"You had more children?" Tommy replied.

"Polly really doesn't tell you anything, does she?" Florence sighed as she took a seat opposite Tommy's desk, "We have a son, his name is Oliver, he's three."

"I won't let Changretta lay a hand on you or your children," Tommy assured her, knowing that there was far more than just a vendetta behind Changretta sending a black hand to Florence.

"Why would he send my daughter a black hand?" Florence asked firmly.

"This is Luca Changretta and the Sicilian fucking mafia, I don't know how his twisted mind works," Tommy sighed, "But what this does mean is that the whole family needs to return to Small Heath, we're not safe unless we're all together."

"You don't think Elijah will have a few questions when I tell him that we're moving back to my childhood home?" Florence scoffed.

"I don't really give a fuck what your husband says, we're all at risk if we aren't together," Tommy warned her, "And somehow the Changrettas know more about us than they should, if they know that Daisy is a Shelby, that's just the tip of the iceberg."

"Well then," Florence sighed, leaning towards the desk and pouring herself a glass of whiskey, "You better tell me what I've missed while I've been away."

"I thought that Polly writes to you," Tommy muttered, sitting in his seat at the desk, holding out a cigarette to which she shook her head.

"I've given them up. Polly does write, but I want to hear it from you," Florence remarked, taking a swig of whiskey, "We could start with how four of your family ended up with nooses around their necks?"

"I made a deal," Tommy muttered, "They were meant to be pardoned before they were due to be hanged."

"But you must realise what that did to them, up there," Florence sighed, tapping the side of her head.

"They're fine," Tommy replied, even though they both knew he was lying to himself, "Even if only one of them is talking to me."

"Polly had a lot of colourful words to say about that in her letters," Florence smirked, "She told me you found Michael, she also told me that he works for you."

"Is there anything else she told you that I should know about?" Tommy scoffed, intrigued by just how much the woman who sat across from him had changed.

"She told me about Grace," Florence muttered, "I might not have had much time for her, especially after what she did to the both of us, but I'd never wish that on anyone. I would've come back for the funeral."

"So why didn't you?" Tommy replied.

"I didn't think that you'd want me there, you didn't need that while you grieved." Florence told him, having never spoken about it to anyone.

"But it could've eased my pain, seeing you, seeing Daisy," Tommy sighed, wondering what his little girl might look like.

"Why did you marry her, if you couldn't marry me?" Florence asked the question had been on her mind since the day she burnt the wedding invite.

"I've spent the last two years asking myself the same question," Tommy answered, "In the end I only proved the point I made when I didn't marry you."

"And you forgave her?" Florence muttered, noticing an absence behind his eyes that had never been there before.

"I did."

"I suppose love will do that to you." Florence sighed, reminded of how hard she had found it to hate Tommy for her mother's death, any resentment that lingered within in the years that followed was reserved just for Grace.

"I still think about that day, and what happened to your mother," Tommy replied, keeping his eyes on Florence, "I've never forgiven myself for that day."

"I have." Florence whispered.

"You have?"

"I see you when I look at Daisy," Florence let the words slip carelessly, not stopping to think about how it might sound in an attempt to divert from the previous topic of conversation, "She smiles the way you did, it's quite hard not to forgive a man who you see everyday in your daughter's eyes."

"Will you bring the children back to Watery Lane?" Tommy asked, wondering whether he'd have the chance to meet his daughter again.

"I don't think I've got a choice," Florence sighed, "We're much safer when we're all together, aren't we?"

"We are," Tommy nodded in agreement, "So tell me, how's life in London, the only thing Polly ever told me is that you opened a club."

"You know how the club's going, you put peaky boys on my security team," Florence smirked, watching shock cover Tommy's face.

"How did you know?" Tommy asked.

"The haircuts are a bit of a giveaway," Florence sighed, "They're also the only ones who don't give me grief for being a female business owner."

"I hear business is booming," Tommy replied. He might have known that the club was doing well, but he didn't know the true extent of Florence's business endeavours, she had been incredibly meticulous with carefully choosing who she trusted with such information.

"We're comfortable," Florence replied as someone knocked gently against the door.

"Come in," Tommy called out.

Florence looked over her shoulder to see Tommy's housekeeper, Frances, who's face suggested that she was nervous as she approached Tommy's desk, "I'm really sorry to bother you again sir, but Chef insists on knowing what time the guests will arrive."

"Frances," Tommy sighed, "For the last time, it's Johnny Dogs, they're gypsies, they camp down by the river, when they're ready they'll walk up, alright?"

"He says it's about preparation, sir," Frances replied, seeming anxious.

"What is?" Tommy asked.

"He's asked specifically, will they arrive before the King's speech or after?" Frances told him.

"You said he was new, this chef, when did he join us?" Tommy replied, with the kind of look that Florence knew he was beginning to anticipate trouble.

"October." Frances answered.

"October," Tommy muttered, "And he's foreign?"

"He's Italian, sir," Frances replied and Florence watched as the cogs slowly began to turn inside Tommy's mind, "He's the best chef we've ever had in the house, no shouting or swearing or blaspheming."

"Do we have his references?" Tommy asked.

"Yes," Frances nodded, "The only problem has been his assistant."

"What assistant?" Tommy replied.

"He bought an assistant with him," Frances explained, "He calls him his sous chef."

"Are they still working, Frances?" Tommy asked.

"They'll be there till midnight, sir," Frances nodded.

"Alright, thank you, good night, you can go to bed," Tommy told her softly.

"Merry Christmas, sir," Frances smiled, "And I thought about your offer, I'd be happy to sit at your table."

"Right, thank you," Tommy nodded, as though his mind weren't focused on the conversation.

"What do you think?" Florence asked as Frances left the room, closing the door behind her.

"I don't know," Tommy muttered, running a hand through his hair.

"Well I'd argue that it were a bit fucking convenient that two months before the Sicilian Mafia sent you a black hand, an Italian chef and his little assistant started working in your kitchen," Florence sighed as Tommy rummaged through his drawers for the chef's employment references.

"It could easily be a coincidence," Tommy sighed, choosing to ignore all the obvious signs in the hope it might buy him some time.

"You've gone soft," Florence smirked, looking the man up and down, "The Tommy I knew would've put a bullet in both their brains by now, I suppose with an OBE you have a reputation to consider."

"Does that look legit to you?" Tommy asked, handing her the file of references.

"San Marcos on Fleet Street?" Florence muttered as she glanced at the letterhead before skimming the rest of the letter, "It's owned by Darby Sabini, we've eaten there a few times, but I wouldn't trust him."

"I think you might be right," Tommy sighed, "This is more than just coincidental."

"So, what'll it be?" Florence asked, standing up from her seat.

"I'll handle it, just wait here," Tommy told her, making his way around the desk and towards the study door.

"Not a fucking chance," Florence replied, following after him.

"Florence, just stay up here, where it's safe," Tommy said firmly.

"I'm not going to do that," Florence sighed, pulling back her jacket to show him her gun that was strapped into its holster, "You're not the only one who's changed, Tommy."

"You're still as stubborn as you've always been." Tommy smirked, opening the study door and leading her along the corridor towards the staff quarters.

They made their way into the kitchen, two men seemed to be working tirelessly, while one man was sitting at the end of the table, peeling potatoes. Tommy made his way into the room, Florence a few paces behind him, the heels of her boots tapping against the tile floor.

"What's your name?" Tommy asked the first man, placing a hand on his back.

"Max, Mr Shelby," He told Tommy.

"Max," Tommy nodded before making his way over to the man who was supposedly peeling potatoes, "It's alright, don't get up."

"Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry, yes," The man mumbled as he stood up and shook his hand, glancing at Florence, "Your wife?"

"The one that got away," Florence answered before Tommy had the chance.

"You're new, I'm Mr Shelby," Tommy told him, frustrated by the way he was looking Florence up and down.

"Hello, sir."

"I haven't taken time to introduce myself," Tommy muttered.

"Antonio." The man answered.

"What have you done that's so wrong, eh?" Tommy remarked.

"A sous-chef peeling potatoes," Florence added from where she stood beside Tommy.

"It's an emergency, late notice," Antonio insisted, but Florence could see straight through it. She knew what it looked like when a man was attempting to disguise his lies and she sensed that Tommy could see it too.

"Oh, late notice," Tommy sighed, glancing at Florence, "Right, right; carry on."

Florence watched as Tommy slowly strolled away from the table as Antonio returned to sitting down. She caught up with Tommy, grabbing onto his wrist to stop him.

"Have you got a tenner?" She whispered, ensuring that Antonio couldn't hear her words.

"What?" Tommy frowned.

"The Changrettas will be paying him ten times the average kitchen wage, just watch his face, it'll be in his eyes," Florence insisted.

"Alright," Tommy sighed, handing her a ten pound note as she turned on her heel and strutted back to Antonio.

"Antonio, here," Florence smiled, holding out the money, "Ten pounds, for the late notice."

She inspected his face as he took the money, he didn't bat an eyelid, which told her everything she needed to know. If she had given that money to either of the other men in that kitchen it would've made their Christmas.

As she made her way back to Tommy she simply mouthed the words, "I'm right," putting whatever sordid plan they had into action as Tommy led her  round the corner, further into the abattoir where the man that Florence presumed was the head chef was preparing the meat for Tommy's Christmas dinner.

They entered the room and Tommy firmly closed the door, alerting the chef to their presence, "You wanted to know if my guests would arrive before or after the King's speech?"

The chef stayed silent, carrying the lifeless goose from one table to another, keeping his eyes on Florence and Tommy.

"He just asked you a question, show some respect." Florence warned the man, resting her hands on her hips.

"Yes." He nodded.

"It'll be after," Tommy told him as the man proceeded to sharpen his knife, "How are you?"

"I'm just worried about tomorrow," The man smiled nervously.

"Yeah? We're worried about Antonio," Florence told him, to which the chef awkwardly shrugged.

"You've been here two months and we've not met before," Tommy told him as he paced back and forth, "It's my fault, I've been busy."

"Thomas Shelby," Tommy held his hand out as he approached the man.

"My hand has blood," The chef sighed uncomfortably.

"Oh mine too," Tommy muttered, taking hold of his hand and shaking it, pulling him closer, "Hey, how much do you pay Antonio?"

"I forget," The man whispered.

"You forget?" Tommy remarked, looking over his shoulder at Florence, "He forgets."

"Must be a lot," Florence sighed, stepping closer to the conversation, "I just gave him ten pound, didn't mean a fucking thing to him."

"Maybe it isn't you that pays him," Tommy muttered as the chef stared back at him in fear, stepping back as he continued to pace the kitchen.

"We've been reading up on you," Florence told the chef as he busied himself with the geese he had to prepare for Christmas dinner, "Bertorelli, Claridge's, you used to work in a place called San Marco's, on Fleet Street."

"I used to know the man that owned San Marco's," Tommy told him, "A man called Darby Sabini."

"I never met him," The chef stuttered.

"No?" Tommy sighed, "Maybe your assistant, Antonio, maybe he met him."

As the chef tried to walk past Tommy, Tommy grabbed ahold of him, shoving him up against the wall, "Here's how it is, Antonio was sent from New York."

"I don't know, please," The chef pleaded as Tommy held him against the wall.

"Darby Sabini facilitated, he passed him on to you and told you to bring him into my house, they threatened to kill you if you didn't do it," Tommy muttered, "You want me to dress you like you dressed that fucking stag?"

"Please," The man pleaded.

"You know about me, right?" Tommy whispered.

"Mmhm," The chef nodded.

"You know what I do?" Tommy continued.

"Mmhm," He nodded again.

"You wanted to know when my guests would arrive because Antonio needed me alone, he's an assassin, the plan is to kill me tomorrow," Tommy whispered firmly.

"I don't know," The man replied, his voice riddled with fear, "They just said to bring him here."

"Well, bring him here," Tommy answered as he stepped back from the man, turning his attention to Florence as he guided her towards the back wall so that when the door opened, Antonio would be taken by surprise.

"Antonio," The chef called out, rambling some words in Italian.

"Is it fully loaded?" Tommy asked, gesturing towards her gun as she retrieved it from its holster.

"Indeed," Florence nodded, unlocking the safety catch, "Just say the word."

Tommy reached across her, retrieving a metal hook from the workbench, gripping it in his hand as the door slowly opened. Antonio spoke in indistinctive Italian, meaning neither Florence nor Tommy could understand and he spoke to the head chef who stood tentatively in the opposite corner.

Not daring to wait a moment longer, Tommy took his chance, swinging around the door and digging the large metal hook straight into Antonio's chest, causing him to let out a guttural scream of pain.

Tommy used the hook to shove Antonio against the wall before swinging him across the centre table that was covered in blood and chops of various animals. The man fell onto the floor and Tommy made his way around the room, picking up the man and dragging him up to the table so that his head was pressed against it.

Florence cocked her gun, pressing it against Antonio's temple while Tommy did the same as the man wriggled in his grip.

"You're a black hand! You're a black hand!" Tommy shouted at the man, "How many came from New York? How many fucking came from New York?"

"Vaffanculo!" Antonio spoke back, attempting to grab at Tommy.

"What did he say?" Tommy asked, pointing his gun at the head chef who stood quivering in the corner while Florence kept her gun pressed against Antonio's skull, "Is that a curse or a number?"

"What did he fucking say?" Florence shouted.

"He said 'fuck you'" The chef told them both.

"Yeah?" Florence exhaled, pressing her gun to the man's temple and shooting him point blank as blood splattered both Tommy and Florence while the head chef crumbled in fear in the corner.

Tommy let the body fall onto the floor in disbelief that the girl he once knew could kill a man so effortlessly, looking up at the chef, "The black hand means kill or be killed, you go back to London, you tell Darby Sabini he picked the wrong side in this war."

"Once we've dealt with the Americans we're coming for him," Tommy added as he came to her side, "Go on, go."

As the head chef scrambled from the floor, Tommy kept his gun pointed at him, "Oi! You tell anyone else, I'll come and find you."

The terrified man hurried out of the room, leaving behind a breathless Tommy and Florence, blood soaking their skin and their clothes. Tommy turned to look at Florence who's eyes were on the wall ahead of her. Despite the blood covering her skin she appeared completely composed. The girl he knew six years ago would've been cowering in the corner of the room, he concluded that there must have been more going on in London than she first let on.

Once Tommy had taken a moment to catch his breath he made a call to Johnny Dogs, and within an hour the three of them were standing in the blood soaked room, staring at Antonio's lifeless body.

"Oh fuck, Tom," Johnny Dogs exclaimed, "I thought these sporting days were over."

"Yeah, so did I, but they keep coming back at us," Tommy sighed, "There's a black stallion in the stables, he's invisible at night, use him. Take the body across the river to the rough ground."

"Burn him?" Johnny Dogs asked.

"No," Florence spoke before Tommy could, "This one's a message."

"She's right." Tommy nodded.

"Will there still be geese for dinner?" Johnny Dogs asked.

"Only if you can steal them on the way," Tommy muttered.

"On the way where?" Johnny Dogs asked.

"We're going back, Johnny," Tommy replied, "Back to Small Heath."

"Back where you both belong," Johnny Dogs smiled as Tommy made his way out of the room, closely followed by Florence.

"Merry Christmas," Tommy called out, "You can keep the stallion."

"What's the plan?" Florence asked as the pair made their way back upstairs.

"We've gotta get out of here," Tommy sighed, "Get yourself cleaned up, there'll be some spare clothes upstairs in the spare room, third door on the left, I'll call George and tell him to bring the children to Watery Lane, and I'll get everything else sorted, I assume you drove?"

"My car's parked on the driveway," Florence told him.

"Right, well we'll take yours, I'll have someone drive mine down later," Tommy told her.

"Alright." Florence nodded.

Once she had almost completely clean skin and was dressed in clothes that she assumed were either once Grace's or the belongings of one of Tommy's whores, Florence hurried down the stairs to be met by the sight of Tommy, holding onto his son, the son Polly had told her about.

"You ready?" Tommy asked.

"Yeah."

"Charles, this is my friend, Florence, say hello." Tommy told the little boy.

"Hello," Charles waved, clearly shy and confused, "Is it Christmas?"

"Not just yet, let's go, eh?" Tommy told them both, "The bags are in the car."

"Have you called George?" Florence asked as the pair made their way out of the house, "How much did you tell him?"

"Enough for him to understand that this is a matter of life and death," Tommy told her, "With some truth redacted for the sake of your husband."

author's note: my heartbreakers are reunited (you are not ready for the next chapter...)