Tommy's office smelled like gun oil, paper, and the stale remains of yesterday's whiskey.
The door creaked closed behind James, and silence settled like dust.
Tommy stood behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the map pinned to the wall.
"Ever hear of the Garvey boys?" he asked without turning.
"Travellers," James said. "Used to run numbers through Liverpool. Then through us."
Tommy glanced back, just a little.
"You're well-informed for a man raised by campfires."
James shrugged. "I listen. That's all it takes."
Tommy nodded once. "They've stopped paying. Think we're weak. They've got muscle now—three new lads from Manchester, all hopped up on pride and poor decisions."
He moved to the desk, dropped a file.
"I want you to collect what they owe. And make it clear: there is no negotiating with a Shelby."
James didn't flinch. "Am I going alone?"
Tommy smirked. "No. You'll take John."
Of course.
As if summoned, John Shelby leaned against the doorway with a grin and a bottle in hand.
"Well, well," he said. "I was starting to wonder when the golden boy would get his first bloody nose."
James met his gaze without blinking. "I'm not here to impress you."
John laughed. "Good. You won't."
They rode out just before sunset, the streets whispering with drizzle and dying light. Birmingham blurred past—wet cobbles, old drunks, gaslight halos over streetlamps. The Garveys operated out of a butcher's yard in Small Heath, just behind a shuttered market.
John lit a cigarette as they parked the car.
"Tommy's testing you, you know. This isn't just about money. He wants to see if you've got bite to match the bark."
James stepped out without a word, rolling his shoulders. His coat flared in the wind, long and dark.
John followed with a grin. "God, you really are the dramatic one."
Inside, the butcher's yard was all steel hooks and rust. Three men stood near a hanging carcass, laughing over beer. A fourth sat counting notes at a blood-slicked table.
The Garvey boys.
James stepped forward first.
"We're here for what's owed."
The laughter stopped.
One of the lads—broad, greasy hair, tattoos crawling up his neck—grinned and cracked his knuckles. "And who the f**k are you supposed to be?"
"James Shelby," he said.
The name dropped like a hammer.
Tattooed Neck spat. "Another Shelby? Tommy running out of brothers now?"
James stepped forward. "I'm not here to threaten you."
The man smirked. "Good."
"I'm here to make sure you never have to be reminded again."
The first punch came fast—James caught it mid-air. A twist, a snap. The man screamed as his arm bent backward.
John was already moving—his blade catching one man in the thigh while James disarmed another with a single, brutal strike to the ribs.
It wasn't a fight. It was a demonstration.
Two minutes.
Four men down.
James wiped blood from his cheek with a handkerchief.
John looked at the wreckage, breathing heavy but grinning. "Well f**k me... Tommy's going to love this."
James looked at the man still conscious and kneeling in pain.
"Tell your boss," he said. "We don't ask twice."
Back at the Shelby house, the news had arrived before they did.
Ada sat on the stairs, arms crossed, watching him walk in.
"You enjoyed it," she said.
James didn't answer.
"Tommy did too, once," she said. "Before it cost him everything."
"I don't enjoy violence," James replied. "But I'm good at it. That's not the same thing."
Polly appeared from the parlor. "He did well?"
John sauntered in, grinning. "Didn't even need me. Just turned the lads into red mist."
Polly looked at James. "Did you kill them?"
"No."
She gave a small, approving nod. "Good. That's the difference."
Tommy was waiting in the study. He closed the door behind them as James entered.
"Well?"
"They'll pay. On time. From now on."
Tommy poured two whiskeys and handed one over.
"You made an impression."
"I wasn't trying to."
"Doesn't matter. You did. Now they'll talk. Which means others will listen."
James drank slowly.
Tommy leaned against the desk. "You're not like the rest of us, James. You don't carry the weight. Not yet."
"I carry other things."
Tommy studied him for a long, quiet moment.
"There's something inside you," he said. "Still and dangerous. Like a weapon waiting to be drawn."
"Then don't reach for it," James replied.
Tommy smiled. "I won't. Not unless I have to."
Later, James stood in the back courtyard again, watching the moon rise above the chimneys.
He didn't feel pride. Not victory.
He felt the pull again—the slow gravity of fate threading its way through every street and every name spoken in fear or awe.
He was one of them now.
But soon, the world would know that he was more.