A/N: As many of you know, Tom Hardy is currently on season 2 of Peaky Blinders. Unfortunately, we don't get this here in the States, but my lovely Nik sent me a short clip of one of his scenes. And those few minutes inspired a short story that is flowing like I don't know what. This is going to be short, violent, and sexy...just the way we likes it. Please read and review, darlings. MWAH.

Chapter 1

Alfie Solomons was not a man who was afraid of hard work. He'd worked very hard as a young child in the textile factories growing up, trying to provide a little extra for his mother and his siblings. His father had been killed when Alfie had just been a wee boy of two, and he had no memory of the man. If it weren't for the photograph that Mother had kept in her locket, Alfie would have had no idea what the man even looked like.

He'd worked for many years, for many long hours, and went to school when he was able, which wasn't very often. As a result he knew nothing beyond basic reading, writing, and arithmetic, but that was fine. Alfie had grown into a keen, sharp, intelligent man anyway, and bugger all the books in the world. They'd taught him nothing of the sort of smarts that really mattered. He had learned everything he needed to know from the streets.

Of course, going to war in 1915 had certainly only added to his breadth of knowledge where staying alive was concerned. War was a bloody, miserable business; there was nothing glamorous or easy about fighting in cold, muddy trenches with another bastard who wanted to stay alive just as much as he did. He'd never forget about the Italian man he'd encountered in the trenches during the final year of the war. That had been a bloody duel, one that had been strangely silent – the silence was what Alfie remembered the most about that fight, not winning it or the method he'd used to win it – and full of desperation. He'd recounted it to Tommy Shelby with a bit more bluster and swagger than was accurate. True, slamming a nail up a man's nostril into his brain cavity was pretty "fucking Biblical", as he'd stated to Tommy. But at the time it had been an act borne of desperation to stay alive, not one to create fond memories upon which to look back and laugh.

He shook his head quickly, finding his thoughts wandering far away from the kitchen inside his bakery in which he stood, kneading a hearty loaf of white bread. He was covered in flour up to his elbows and it caked on the front of his apron like powder on a prostitute's face. There was even a bit of flour sprinkled in his beard.

Though his bakery was a true, operating bakery, it was merely a front for his real operation – rum. The still was set up in the back of the bakery and he made both white and dark rum. He enjoyed it, and thought that his product was one of the finest available in London. He could pretty easily tell his bread customers from his rum customers; for one, he had regulars of both. But if he had new customers, he could tell quite easily who was here for what. The women, the children – they came for his warm, crusty brown and white loaves, fresh from the oven, wrapped with paper and tied with twine. Sometimes even men came for bread. But there were others, others with knowing faces and a glimmer in their eye, and they meant something entirely different when they asked for some of his finest brown or white.

He served them all – middle class, poor. The well-off and the outright posh never came here, of course, not even for the rum – that he had delivered to them, and for a pretty penny – but most others did. He was easy-going with his clients, pleasant even, and he toiled tirelessly day and night between baking and distilling.

He liked hard work, because it brought money. And he liked money very, very much.

It was only his love for money that had made him reluctantly join up with that Irish gypsy, Tommy Shelby. At first, Alfie had outright refused. Why should he work together with anyone? He was Alfie Solomons, after all, a self-made man, and he needed help from no one. The boy – though he was the leader of a respected gang, he was still a boy in Alfie's eyes – had been insulting when he made his offer of men and guns and police protection. It was what had made Alfie point a gun at him, and follow up the physical threat of violence with a veiled one, just to make sure the chap knew he meant business.

But following his initial annoyance, Alfie had forced himself to stop and think. It was true that only a fraction of his income came from booze, because his sellers were being chased off the street by cops – cops that sod Darby Sabini held in his back pocket. It was true that his money from protection was practically nothing these days, because his "protection" kept getting hauled off to jail, again by said Sabini-paid cops. He was losing money, he was losing the street-gang war, and he was getting rather tired of it.

Perhaps the gypsy boy had been onto something, after all.

Well, results spoke for themselves. Alfie had seen his profit margin increasing these past several weeks, and now he and the men that Tommy had given him were striking back at the oppression, at the enemy. Rum sales were back up, protection money was increasing. People trusted his protection once more, because there were actually men around to do some protecting.

He had seen neither hide nor hair of Darby Sabini out on the streets lately, but he knew that the man was getting nervous. And he should be; when the time was right, Alfie had every intention of hitting the man hard. As soon as that wop-Englishman turned his back, Alfie would put a knife into it.

The thought made him smile.

"Boss, it's 'bout time to close, ain't it?"

Alfie looked up from where he was covering his kneaded loaf and setting it aside to rise. He glanced at the clock and saw that the hour of lunchtime – the hour of closing – was indeed upon them. He nodded to the counter boy.

"Go on," he said. "Lock the door. Flip the sign. Wash your 'ands."

As the boy went to secure the door Alfie untied his apron and washed his hands clean at the sink. He dried them, wondering what the lads had cooked up today, and then swiped the flour out of his beard. He hooked his thumbs through his suspenders and went whistling down the hall, nodding to some of his men. They found him a sight more cheerful these days, now that they were making money again. It pleased him, that. Making money.

"What 'ave we today, lads?" he called out, his deep voice rumbling. He reached out to smack one of his men on the back, eyeing the table set with dishes and flatware.

"Boiled chicken and potatoes," a York man replied from the stove. "Fine bread, of course. Beans."

"That'll do," Alfie said with an approving nod, sitting down at his place at the head of the table. "Thanks, Will."

They were halfway through the meal, murmuring quietly amongst themselves, when the bell at the front door rang. A customer.

Alfie glanced over his shoulder and frowned. Was the bloody "Closed" sign on the door not enough indication that they weren't open for business? The counter boy gave him a questioning look, starting to rise from his chair. Alfie shook his head at him.

"Ignore it," he said. "Eat your food." He resumed doing the same. The customer could wait thirty more bloody minutes while the men took their meal.

When the bell insistently rang again a few moments later, Alfie dropped his fork in annoyance. He looked at the boy. "Go on and see who it is," he said bitingly, thinking that it had better be a liquor sale. "Tell 'em it better be urgent as we don't appreciate bein' interrupted at mealtime."

"You deserve a break, too, boss," one of his men said from further down the table. "Hardest workin' bloke here, you are."

Alfie acknowledged the praise with a nod of his head and held up a hand. "It's all right, Bob. Business never sleeps, eh?"

"Oi," he heard from behind him, urgently. Alfie turned around and saw the counter boy leaning around the corner, something like confusion and concern on his face. "Mr. Alfie. It's – it's some lady 'ere to see ya –"

"I can find my own way, thank you," a frosty female voice said. It was posher than the slums of London but not so posh as to be of someone well-off. Perhaps a maid from a nice household, he thought, rising to his feet.

The woman that came around the corner was certainly not a maid, at least not one from a fancy posh house by the look of her dress. It wasn't that she was unclean or unkempt – she clearly kept herself very tidy – but her clothes looked far too fashionable to be worn by a servant. Beneath a pale yellow wool coat she wore a pale pink silk blouse, embroidered intricately, a heavy beaded waist-belt, and a very slim gray skirt. Her feet were covered in black leather ankle boots that were so shiny, Alfie was willing to bet they were brand-new.

His eyes traveled slowly up her body to her face, where large gray eyes framed by thick black lashes peered at him beneath the brim of black cloche hat. Silky dark hair was twisted into a sleek knot at the nape of her neck, and her cheeks were rosy pink on pale skin that was tinged with an olive hue. Alfie thought she was quite fetching.

His eyes next fastened on her lips – soft pillowy things that appealed to him immensely – as they parted to speak.

"Are you Alfie Solomons?"

Her voice was low with a sweet tone to it, perhaps a little raspy. It was also a little snobbish, and full of the same sort of swagger that filled him. He leaned against the table, noting that the room had gone silent with all eyes on the pretty new stranger.

He folded his arms over his chest and tilted his head. "Depends on who's askin', love," he replied evenly, his eyes scanning her face. Damn comely, she was.

"Obviously, I'm asking," she replied snippily. "I work for Mr. Sabini. He's asked me to deliver you a package."

Alfie made a show of letting his eyes slip down her frame again in as insulting and undressing a manner as he could manage, which was quite a bit considering it was him, and nodded at her empty hands.

"What package might that be, darling?" he drawled, unable to keep some cheek off the word "package". "I don't see nothin' but your pretty, pretty face and your pretty, pretty clothes."

She glanced at the counter boy and idly waved a small, black-gloved hand toward him. For the first time since she'd walked in and commanded the attention of the room, Alfie noticed that the boy held a large box wrapped in butcher's paper and tied with string between his hands.

"It's 'eavy," he complained.

Alfie eyed the box, then glanced over his shoulder. "Oi. Mates. Clear off, yeah? Harry and Jim – you two stay behind."

Harry and Jim were two of his most reliable men, and since the package and the woman were sent by or belonged to Mr. Sabini, he didn't trust either one. He reached out and took the woman by the arm, feeling her stiffen immediately beneath her heavy coat. He smiled into her face, knowing it was a bit of a nasty smile.

"Please," he said, falsely saccharine. "'Ave a seat. You're my guest, ain't ya? Care for a drink?"

"No," the woman said icily.

"No?" He shrugged, full of mock-regret, and pulled out a chair and thrust her down unceremoniously into it. Then he pointed at the table, looking at the counter boy. "Set it down and then you clear off as well."

"Aw, c'mon, Mr. Solomons," the boy whined. "Why can't I stay? Why must I always leave?"

"When I want your presence, I'll ask ya for it," Alfie replied sternly. "Now go. And shut the door behind ya."

When the sullen boy was gone and the door was shut once more, Alfie turned back to the package on the table. The woman had crossed her legs and was putting forth a very admirable effort at not looking nervous, but he could see it. Hell, he could smell it.

He approached the edge of the table, and began deliberately untying the string and carefully pulling the wrapping paper open. Beneath the butcher's paper was a wooden box. Alfie frowned and pulled out his switchblade, flicking it open with a quick, sharp snap. He took a brief moment to enjoy the way the woman's gray eyes went wide for an instant before she lifted her chin haughtily and glanced away.

"Spirited one, ain't ya," he commented, wedging the tip of the blade beneath the lid of the box. "Always liked that in a lady."

"What you fancy in a lady interests me not at all," she said, still refusing to meet his gaze. "Now, if you would be so kind as to open the package so I can be on my way, that would be smashing."

Alfie smirked a little to himself and finally popped the lid open. It sprang upward like a jack-in-the-box and he stared down at the contents inside the box, momentarily stunned.

Nestled among the mounds of white cheesecloth wadded at the bottom of the box, stained red, was the head of Niles Jameson, one of the policemen that Tommy Shelby had so thoughtfully given over to him, plucked naughtily from Sabini's back pocket. Niles had been a favorite of Alfie's, because the man was positively without scruples and did anything Alfie told him to do. They got on well enough, the chap was a funny sort, and he had been instrumental in helping Alfie take back what was his.

And now he was dead.

Fury rose in his chest but Alfie fought it down. He looked up, fixing his gaze on the woman, who was now staring uncertainly at him, her large eyes going wider. He stroked his beard thoughtfully as he studied her.

"Might as well take off your 'at and coat, love," he said finally, his voice dangerously low and quiet. "Looks like you ain't goin' nowhere."

Lillian Sybil Hammersley was, and had been, many things throughout her young life. Some of them she was proud of, others, less so. But one thing she had never been, under any circumstances, was a coward.

From her chair, she sat staring up at the man, the Jew baker, of whom everyone from the streets seemed to be frightened as of late. Word on the street was that he had very recently joined forces with Tommy Shelby's gang, the Peaky Blinders, and now had Shelby's men, weapons, and paid policemen securely behind him as he took control of London and continued to wage a brutal war against her boss, Darby Sabini.

The tale of how she had come to find employ with such a man as Mr. Sabini was a convoluted one, to be sure; one borne from necessity and, frankly, desperation. She wasn't like the other girls he employed, and he treated her specially, almost deferentially, with respect, as if she were a man herself. That had unfortunately changed as of recent, which was why he had sent her on this ridiculous, insulting errand that had now put her into what was rapidly becoming quite the pickle.

She didn't know what was in the package she'd been instructed to deliver to Alfie Solomons. She didn't ask questions; she did what she was told and then she got her money and went about her business until her next task. She had heard of Alfie Solomons, but she hadn't been impressed by what she'd heard. She'd been around dangerous men all her life, and Darby Sabini was one of the worst. She could and did handle Sabini, and she knew she could handle anyone else like him, not the least of which some Jewish bootlegger.

Lillie hadn't expected Alfie Solomons to be so young. Of course, Tommy Shelby had a rep for being the "boy gang leader" due to his extremely youthful and borderline pretty face, but most of the other gangs' leaders were older. Sabini was coasting toward fifty years of age himself. Alfie Solomons couldn't be a day over thirty-five, at the very outside. He wasn't very tall either, but his build was solid and muscular, and the way he squared his broad shoulders, coupled with the cold gleam in his pewter eyes, made him seem far taller than he really was and very imposing. He was dressed in fashion as befit a baker – simple shirt, black pants, black vest. She was sure that before the mealtime she'd interrupted he'd had on a flour-covered apron, since it was said he did a majority of the baking himself. There was even a little bit of flour in his ginger-colored beard, which was a little bushy but strangely neat and tidy. He was actually rather handsome, or he would have been, had he not been looking down at her with that malevolent gleam in his eye. She held his gaze for what felt like an eternity, watching him as he watched her, one large hand stroking at his beard.

She immediately felt her hackles rise with his next words.

"Might as well take off your 'at and coat, love," he said, his voice deep and gravelly and sending chills down her spine. "You ain't goin' nowhere."

Lesser men would probably have been reduced to a quivering pile on the floor at his words and the ominous sound of his voice, but Lillie frowned at him hard enough to give herself a headache. She hadn't liked the way he had spoken to or looked at her earlier, and now he had the audacity to threaten her.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, sir," she replied coolly. "I have other appointments today I will shortly be late for. I don't have time to subject myself to your foolishness any longer. Good day."

She rose to her feet, lifting her chin, and barely caught the quick move of his hand as he gestured to one of the two men standing behind her. Instantly she felt a hand on her shoulder, shoving her roughly back down into the seat. She landed with a little grunt and stared up at Solomons furiously.

He was approaching her now, his thumbs hooked into his suspenders, his pewter eyes intense and unwavering. She felt her heart begin to pound as he leaned down in front of her, but she set her jaw, refusing to look away. He braced his hands on the arms of her chair and leaned into her face, causing her to lean back away from him. He pushed the chair backward so that the front legs left the floor and Lillie jerked instinctively, afraid he was going to topple her over. He didn't.

"What I said was," he said very quietly, not looking away from her eyes. "You ain't goin' nowhere. An' I meant that, love."

"You can't keep me here," she replied, hating the way her voice came out in a whisper.

His eyes moved all over her face, landing for a moment on her mouth, before returning to her eyes. "You're on my turf now, love. And I can do whatever I damn well please with you. D'you know what's in that box?"

Lillie slowly shook her head.

"No? Your boss, he don't let you in on what he asks you to deliver when he sends you out on these little errands?"

"No," Lillie replied through clenched teeth.

His beard shifted, moving upward on one side, and she knew there was a smirk on his lips. "I find that very 'ard to b'lieve, darling. Very 'ard, indeed."

"I don't care what you believe," she hissed. "Get out of my face and turn me loose."

He smiled wider, his eyes crinkling with amusement at the corners, and backed away from her, letting the chair drop back to the floor abruptly. She gripped the arms to keep from falling forward out of it.

"Boys," he said to his men, but still staring at Lillie. "Send a telegram to Mr. Sabini. Let 'im know I received his package and I'm less than pleased with its contents. Tell 'im I'm holding onto his little messenger until he can find a way to make me feel better about all of this. Somewhere to the tune of…a hundred thousand pounds."

He said the last part so casually, almost flippantly, but Lillie gasped and stared up at him. He was going to ransom her? And for one hundred thousand pounds? He may as well have said a million for all the good it was going to do either one of them. She was as good as dead. There was no way she was worth that much to Sabini, even if he could somehow come up with that sum, especially not after she had stoked his temper so badly a few days ago.

Solomons' beard twitched again as he smiled down at her. "What d'ya think, love? Are you worth that to your boss?"

Lillie just glared up at him.

"Oh, and include in the telegram," he added lightly, "that he has until nine o'clock tomorrow morning to deliver. Or else drastic measures will 'ave to be taken." He leaned down in her face again to speak quietly to her. "And it will be your 'ead, love, that I'll be sendin' back in a box."

Lillie spat in his face.

He hardly batted an eye as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and lightly wiped his face. "You get that one for free," he said cheerfully. "Next time, I'm takin' the payment outta your sweet, pretty flesh."

He held her gaze for a long moment and she refused to look away. Suddenly his hands closed around her elbows and he yanked her to her feet, spinning her around so that her back was to his front. His left arm was like a vise as it snaked through her left arm, pinning it behind her back, and his right forearm tightened over her throat.

"Take the box out back and burn it," he instructed his men, as one of them hurried to open the door for him. He began steering her down a dank back hallway, and Lillie felt real fear claw at her throat.

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded, trying in vain to squirm against him. His body felt completely solid behind hers and his strength was overpowering, though Lillie wagered that he wasn't even exerting a fraction of it at the moment. Strangely enough though, his grips on her were only tight enough to keep her in place, not tight enough to cause her pain.

"Takin' you somewhere I can keep an eye on you all night," he said, his deep voice rumbling quietly into her ear. "I ain't lettin' my precious ransom outta my sight for one second."