Arthur stirred with the glass in his hands clinking. "You're at my ledger, Finn," he rasped, his eyes clearer now.
Elliot didn't flinch. He kept his pencil moving, but slower now. "Just keeping it in order, Arthur. Didn't mean to step on your toes."
Arthur straightened a little, shoulders squaring despite the ache. "Books matter, lad. Don't let them run wild, not in this place." He nodded toward the crowd and said, "They cheat with a smile. Always have." It was a tip, rough but real, a crack in his shame.
Elliot glanced up. "I see them. I'm watching."
A pause. Arthur watched him, something unspoken shifting. "Good. That's good. Keep watching." Arthur grunted, sank back, muttering, "Bloody coppers," but the thread held.
John caught it, grin fading. "What's this, Arthur turning soft?" he teased, voice cutting.
Arthur snapped, "Shut it John, or I'll belt ya proper!"
John stepped closer, eyes flashing. "Try it, you old wreck!"
Polly's pen stopped, her voice slicing through. "Enough, both of ya, or I'll knock your heads together!"
John backed off, muttering, "Just a laugh," but his jaw was tight, the brothers' rift raw.
John turned to Elliot, grabbing a slip. "This right, Finn?" he asked with a low voice and grumbling, "Arthur's no use tonight, bloody mess he is."
Elliot handed him the slip, steady. "It's right, John." John squinted, then nodded. "Not half bad, Finn, unlike some," he said, a flicker of warmth, like he saw Elliot as more than a kid.
Polly's eyes flicked to Arthur, then to the door as Tommy entered, a subtle tilt of her head—Arthur's worse tonight.
Tommy caught it, showing the deep trust and understanding between them.
Tommy Shelby stepped in with his cap low and cigarette glowing. He moved slow, like time bent for him with hands in pockets, suit crisp, and every step deliberate.
His eyes, unblinking, swept the shop—Arthur's tremble, Polly's note, Elliot at the ledger, John's tension.
He paused with cigarette to his lips, staring at Ned till the bloke shifted, uneasy.
Tommy stood straight owning the room.
He spoke quietly, with a sarcastic tone. Silence came first. "You all out of money for bets tonight?" he said.
His voice was sharp. His eyes locked on Ned, then Alfie, making them shift uncomfortably.
He flicked his cigarette, the ash falling slowly, and leaned in. "Campbell's hitting shops that give in. Not us. Bet right, or get lost."
His voice was quiet, but menacing.
The shop exploded with noise—people pushing, coins clinking and voices shouting.
Tommy's words crushed the doubt, his stare and slow moves sealing it.
Polly called, "Get them bets in!" her voice hard but warm.
John laughed and slapped Ned's shoulder. "Told you, mate—Tommy doesn't mess around!"
Tommy stopped by Polly, voice a whisper. "Is he worse than last time?"
She slid him a note—Alfie's debt, with "Watch A."—her eyes steady. "Bad enough. Keep him out of trouble, Tommy."
He gave a small nod, slipping the note away. Their trust was solid as steel. He tipped his cap. "Garrison, tomorrow. Have the books ready."
Polly flipped a page, already on it.
Then Tommy and Polly stepped into the backroom, lamplight dim, air thick with paper and smoke.
Polly closed the door softly, her voice low. "He's a loose cannon, Tommy. Pull him back before he tears us apart."
Tommy lit a cigarette slowly, his eyes firm. "Loose cannons still fire, Pol. Sometimes that's all you've got when the fight starts. I'll keep him at the Garrison, keep him sharp."
Polly's lips tightened, but she nodded, trusting his call. "You watch him close, then. We can't lose him."
Tommy exhaled, smoke curling around him. "We won't. Not Arthur."
Their eyes locked, a silent vow—Polly holding the heart, Tommy the blade, both carrying the family forward.