Small Heath sits heavy in the late morning—coal smoke clinging low, grit underfoot, the street outside the betting shop worn thin by boots and business alike.

Duke Shelby stands just outside the door with a cigarette tucked between his fingers, shoulders loose but posture unmistakably coiled. To his left, Arthur Shelby leans against the brick, already halfway through his own smoke, while John Shelby hovers closer to the door, one eye always drifting back toward it.

—I’m just sayin’, Arthur mutters, exhaling sharp through his nose, if you’re gonna do it, do it proper. None of that rushed nonsense.

John snorts. Since when are you the authority on proper, eh?

Arthur gestures vaguely with his cigarette. Since always.

Duke doesn’t bite. His attention is elsewhere, gaze distant for a moment before he flicks ash to the pavement. Got somethin’ upstairs, he says, voice low, almost absent. Pol’s got a box of old things. Might be somethin’ in it worth—

He stops. It isn’t dramatic. No stiffening. Just… stillness. Arthur notices first, brow creasing. What?

Duke doesn’t answer immediately. Because he’s looking at a man who does not belong on this street. Tall—not as tall as him—composed, dressed in a tailored suit that looks like it has never seen soot in its life. The kind of man who walks like the ground should adjust for him, not the other way around.

Luca Ballardi—doesn’t clock them right away. His gaze moves past, scanning signage, windows, doorways—calculating. Then, casually, like this is any other street in any other city: Excuse me, he says, stepping closer. His accent is clean, measured. Am I in the right place?

Arthur’s mouth twitches. John straightens. Duke finally looks at him fully. Luca continues, unbothered. Shelby Company Limited. I was told it would be— he gestures loosely, glancing around, faint distaste flickering —here.

A beat. No one answers. So Luca adds, almost conversationally: I’m looking for my fiancée.

That’s the moment the air shifts. Arthur’s cigarette lowers slowly. John exhales once, sharp, already weighing how long it’ll take to drag a body off this street without a scene. Duke smiles. Not wide nor friendly. Just enough to show teeth.

You’re a very brave man, he says, tone almost thoughtful. Very brave, but… A slight tilt of his head, eyes narrowing just a fraction, very foolish.

Luca finally sees him then—really sees him. And something in his expression sharpens, not fear, not yet, but recognition of resistance. Of ownership challenged. Before either of them can move another inch, the door behind Duke creaks open.

Light spills out from the stairwell above, warm and domestic, cutting through the grit of the street. Noemi Madara appears in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, the other still dusted faintly with flour. Her voice is already halfway formed, Do you want—

She stops when she sees him. Luca. Everything in her stills. Duke doesn’t turn fully, doesn’t look back at her. He doesn’t need to. His hand lifts slightly, pointing over his shoulder—firm, immediate.

Inside, darlin’, he murmurs, quieter now, but sharper. Go back inside.

Not a suggestion. An instruction. Behind him, Arthur shifts his stance. John cracks his knuckles once. And Luca—smiles.