Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started in New York.

Emilia slips on her gown, it’s a deep navy blue, glitzy number, that sets off her eyes. If all goes according to plan, it’s the same colour she will be wearing when they meet officially for the first time, so she needs it to be memorable. She gives herself a quick once-over before heading out, acceptable, if a bit much.

She gives the cab driver the address in a broad, sort of general American accent. New York may be a melting pot of culture but some places it’s just easier to blend in. 

The party was a big affair, it seemed. She recognised a myriad of faces, the who’s who of Manhattan culture had come out tonight. Emilia had promised Ada she would take her to all the big parties and events in town, when she arrived in a few months, but honestly, they weren’t her scene and tonight was quickly becoming a chore. She had worked too many nights, just like this, all basically amounting to nothing.

She shows the doorman her forged invite, affecting an air of vague annoyance, something these people had perfected into an art form, and heads straight for the bar. Luca Changretta is already here, and she already knows where he will be sitting. This wasn’t the Garrison, where everybody knew who owned it, and where they liked to sit, and acted accordingly. But Emilia happened to know the Changretta’s did own this particular ballroom, and the hotel above it, and had been observed by one of her colleagues as keeping the table on the far side of the room unofficially reserved. This put the bar, and by association her, in their direct line of sight. 

She orders a gin and tonic, because why the fuck not? She was here to be seen and that was it, not exactly her most difficult mission. She makes idle chit-chat with the other guests at the bar, keeping the accent, also because why not? She’d always found that part of the job fun.

She steals a glance over at their table. Luca Changretta has his dark hair slicked back fashionably, he’s wearing a three-piece suit just as dark and lavish, adorned with all the accoutrements of a wealthy man. He’s chatting animatedly with a companion, waving his hands around, gesticulating in that particularly Italian way. He’s an imposing man, she notices. Not big like muscly, but tall and broad through the shoulders, with a reach that would impress if he were a boxer. Claims all the space around himself almost incidentally. A large shadow of a man.

He’s not looking her way, but she notices one of his other companions is, one of his cronies. She smiles sheepishly, pretending to have been caught and quickly looks away, burying her face in her glass.

The same man appears beside her a moment later, elbows on the bar, almost pressed against her shoulder. “My boss would like to meet you,” he says into her ear, over the din of the party. She nearly laughs, because of course this is how these things are done. Luca Changretta is a man who holds such significant influence here. He has men to do everything for him, including it seems, pick up women. 

She decides to play dumb instead. “That’s nice,” she replies, voice indifferent.

The man does laugh, “You don’t know who he is, do you?” His voice is American, with a hint of something else. It would be nearly undetectable if she didn’t know what to listen for.

She looks up at him, and then turns to look back at Changretta. He’s still talking but does glance over, they make eye contact for a brief second, before he turns away again. That’s more than enough, she thinks.

“If your boss wanted to meet me, why doesn’t he come over himself?” She replies, just a little nasty. As if this would work on a nice, self-respecting girl like the one she was imitating. 

She finishes her drink and gets up and leaves without another word. Goes back to her apartment, lets her hair down out of its elaborate updo and wonders how long she should wait before showing up again.

In the end, she lays low for a few days. 

There's a restaurant on Bleeker, no owner’s name on the official books but the Spinietta family own the whole block, and almost all the men who work for Changretta have been spotted coming and going from the building at some point. A more casual meeting place for the families than the bawdy hotel from the other night.

She decides to hang around outside, across the street. The Manhattan public mill about, trudging up and down the subway platform steps she stands by, going about their days. She smokes, watches them, and waits to be seen. She keeps her hair out, just for extra effect, it whips around her in the cool wind, she can’t wait to cut it all off. Emilia plucks the collar of her navy coat, pulling it up higher about her neck.

The colour thing’s a little weak in her opinion, but it had worked in the past, and she was going to need every bit of help she could get.

A couple of dark-dressed men exit the restaurant all together, with Luca Changretta at the middle of them. He's the tallest of the lot, aquiline nose, and pair of deep-set eyes shining out from under the brim of his hat.

She blows out a large puff of smoke, lets it billow around her, and turns to face the group full on. It all couldn't unfold more perfectly; a car drives by honking, just as Changretta's group pass parallel to her. 

Luca looks up at the sound and their eyes meet across the street.

His step falters and he looks at her like he can’t quite place her, his eyebrows pulling together in the middle. She takes another drag of her cigarette and holds his gaze. He’s momentarily distracted by one of his companions, and in the second that he looks away, Emilia disappears down the subway steps. She looks back, half submerged down the steps, half hidden by a pylon, knowing she’s completely out of his sight.

Luca Changretta looks up and down the street, visibly searching for her, and hopefully that’ll do it. Emilia turns and wanders completely down the stairs, gets on a train, and heads for home.

Technically, it had started before that for her. For all of them.

She decodes the message from her employer and phones Tommy immediately. She’s mostly surprised when he actually answers.

“Evening, Tom. Very sorry for your loss,” and she was, that part needed no lie. She had always liked Grace; she had a noble reason for becoming a double agent, something Emilia had always respected. Or envied, she wasn’t sure sometimes.

She hears him sigh on the other end of the line. Not in the mood to talk, which was understandable.

She decides to just go for it. “Listen, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but it’s about the old man—”

“How do you know about that?” He cuts her off.

“How could I not?” She questions back, Tommy’s next moves were often unpredictable, but not this one. “Besides,” she counters, “Your men are all over the fucking docks.”

Tommy makes a low grumble sound, “I don’t want to know anything about him. They killed her, that’s it.” His voice is strained with emotion. She finds it almost hard to listen to.

“There’s another son, an older one,” she says, evenly, unsure how he’ll react, “We’ve been watching these Italian families in New York, and they’re—”

“I don’t care how many fucking sons Vicente Changretta has. They’re all dead, Em!” He yells, cutting her off again.

It’s Emilia’s turn to sigh. She’s seen Tommy mad, heard about his fury from the others. This feels different, but of course it is, he’s alone now.

“Okay, Tom,” is all she can say, in the end. “Oh, don’t use the phones from tomorrow on, they’ll be listening,” she adds on, he always appreciates that kind of insider info.

“Yep,” he says, and hangs up.

And then, Vicente Changretta had shown up dead in a factory somewhere and everything went to shit.

Luca Changretta climbs the steps to his suite, nodding at the usual housekeeper as she leaves the room.

“Your guest is waiting inside for you, Sir,” she says, passing him on her way out.

Guest? Luca stays silent, but his face must have balked, staring back at the door.

The housekeeper looks nervous, “The woman? She said you would know her.”

Luca waves her away, and she scurries down the hall. His ears trained on the door, listening for a hint of who or what might be inside. He had just sent Matteo and the others over to the other side of town, he wouldn’t have back-up for hours. Besides, nobody should even know he was here. They had only just moved into the hotel, and Luca didn’t relish doing the background work to change again so soon.

Bite the bullet, as they say. 

Luca places a hand on the holster inside his jacket, takes a deep breath, and slowly pushes open the door to his suite.

He peers to the right as something catches his eye.

And there she was: the dark-haired looker from the party, the same one that was loitering around the subway stop outside his restaurant. Sitting in his tearoom, stockinged legs crossed delicately over one another, idly reading the newspaper set on the table in front of her. She looks up when he enters and smiles. She’s got a pleasantly round face, set off by an angular jaw, and sharp cheekbones.

Luca takes a few more steps inside, shutting the door behind him. “The fuck are you doing inside my room?”

“You’re a hard man to get an audience with,” is all she says. Her hair is shorter than it was a few months ago, a more fashionable length, hitting just at the edge of her jaw. She’s got a local accent and a deeper, raspier voice than he was expecting.

They stare at each other for a moment.

Luca hums under his breath, nodding vaguely, “For good reason.”

She watches as he apparently decides the danger is less than he had expected and turns to throw his coat and hat on a chair. 

He walks towards the seating area, coming around to stand across the low table from her. Making slow, considered movements, he undoes his shoulder holster. Placing it, gun and all, on the table between them, as he slowly sits on the lounge opposite her. She doesn't even glance down at it, apparently unconcerned.

“Who are you?” He asks, pulling a toothpick from his waistcoat pocket, and placing it carefully between his lips.

“I work for the Crown,” she says, matter of fact. Changretta’s eyes narrow.

Luca takes in her navy-blue ensemble. It’s cut relatively low across her shoulders, clinging to all the right places. The colour, teamed with the dark framing of her hair, makes the light blue of her eyes almost glow. He could recognise a honeytrap when he saw one. He clears his throat lightly.

“And for an up-and-coming enterprise I believe you are acquainted with. Shelby Company Limited.” 

That he didn’t see coming.

Luca’s teeth clench down on the pick in his mouth, but the rest of his face remains impassive. She had named the Crown foremost because she didn’t particularly feel like being gunned down on the spot. This approach was still a gamble, no matter how safely she played it.

He makes a low, ‘Hm’ sound, “Well, I don’t talk to police or gypsies, so.” He motions for her to leave. She wonders if he would actually let her but stays where she is regardless.

She’s still smiling. This girl has got a fucking death wish, he thinks idly. “I’m not police,” she replies, “My agency has been watching you since your father died.”

His eyes flash in the low light of the sitting room. “My father was murdered,” Luca says, quiet but deadly.

She nods, quickly. “Since your father was murdered,” she corrects, adding, “Sorry.”

He tilts his head, watching her, “Why are you sorry? Did you have something to do with it?” He’s antagonising on purpose, trying to see what might slip. If he might have to amend his list.

She looks down at her lap, uncertain for the first time since she has been here. “No,” she replies, voice holding steady, “There are precisely three men responsible for your father’s murder.” 

His jaw clenches and unclenches rapidly, and he finds himself running one hand over the knuckles of the other. 

“You work for him,” Luca says, his voice stiff. “You here to plead for their lives?”

A knock at the door jolts them both.

How many more fucking surprises today? Luca clears his throat, and calls over his shoulder, “Yeah?”

The maid opens the door, “You had some mail arrive today, Sir,”

“Just leave it on the desk there, thanks,” he waves her off again, impatient.

The maid pauses, looking between the two of them, “Can I get you anything else, sir?”

Luca opens his mouth to reply ‘No’, when the girl answers. 

“We’ll take some tea and biscuits,” she says smiling, exaggerated, “Thank you.” Emilia doesn’t need the maid thinking anything suspicious. She must be able to get back into the hotel, no matter how this next part of the conversation goes.

The maid nods and rushes out of the room.

He looks back at her, incredulous. The audacity. He readjusts his waistcoat slightly. “Faccia come se fosse a casa sua,” he says under his breath. Make yourself at home.

She gives a small smile. 

“I’m not here to plead for anything,” she adds, continuing on from their previous conversation, “Or anyone.” She half shrugs. “I’m here because Tommy Shelby said he wanted me in the room on this one, not just as an informant. And, my other employers didn’t think it was such a bad idea.”

Luca cocks his head, “You say you work for the Crown, but you’re not a cop.” 

His drawl is surprisingly pleasant to listen to, she finds herself thinking. A lot of New Yorker’s were over-the-top-loud she had realised, just like their city. Not him. Luca Changretta had found more malice, more meaning in the quiet. He raises his eyebrows, apparently waiting for her to answer a question that hasn’t been asked. She decides she can wait.

He exhales, raising his hands in mock surrender, “Alright,” he gives in. “Your area of expertise?”

“International affairs,” she replies, pragmatic, “Specifically diplomacy.” She motions between the two of them on the last word.

“Me?” He mouths, mock surprise

She tuts slightly, eyes flitting about the room, “When the head of a New York crime family dies, at the hands of a Brummie gang, certain surveillance is needed.” And despite her local accent she spits out the word ‘Brummie’ like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. “Believe it or not, the government does have a vested interest in such matters. National security and all that.” She waves her hand around in the air, vaguely.

He is silent for a moment, but his eyes crinkle in the corners and his face appears bemused for the first time. “International diplomacy, indeed,” he says, finally. 

Luca’s elbow is resting on the arm of the chair. He lifts his hand and stretches his fingers out. The gold of his rings catching her eye. “So, why tell me all this instead of continuing to—” he pauses, mimicking her vague hand gesture, “— sneak around New York, badly?”

She smirks, she’ll play his game.

“Sometimes it’s easier to get what you want if you’re up front about it.” She nods in his direction, “You want to kill the Shelbys: you tell them so with a black hand.” 

Luca huffs. She had not intended to come in here and make things difficult but finds herself enjoying his little moments of exasperation more, and more.

Luca makes a low sound in his throat. He sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and shakes his head lightly. “I’m not buying it,” he drawls, watching her from under his lashes.

She raises her eyebrows, sitting up straighter.

“See spies are supposed to be discreta,” he waves his hand around, searching for another word. “Unassuming,” he settles on, in his deep New York accent. “You,” Luca points a long ringed finger at her whole getup, “I noticed you.”

An involuntary shiver runs down her spine.

“Maybe, I wanted you to notice me,” she replies, even toned. Immediately becoming hyper aware of her every muscle, every movement.

Luca laughs suddenly, it’s a deep, rumbly sound that catches her off-guard. He leans back, spreading an arm out over the back of his lounge. He was so large up close, seemingly taking up twice the space he needed to.

“And then, you followed me over here,” he says, still smirking to himself.

“I think you’ll find you followed me.” She replies, avoiding his gaze, playing with the material of her skirt. She can’t let him know that she’s enjoying this.

“Excuse me?” He takes the pick from his mouth.

“I sailed back months ago, for other matters, before you even sent the black hands.” She can feel his eyes on her, intense. “Before you called your men over from Italy and boarded your ship to Liverpool.” There, let him know how closely his movements have been watched. Get him off guard.

The maid comes back in with tea and fancy looking biscuits held out on an ornate tray. She places it on the table between them.

“Thank you,” they both say at the same time, and the maid curtsies and leaves them once more. His eyes never leave hers, assessing.

Emilia breaks away first, leaning forward, busying herself pouring the tea and milk.

“So, they both know you’re here, huh? Both King and Country?” He asks, finally, twirling the toothpick in his fingers. Emilia sips her tea and nods, making a small affirmative noise. 

“Well,” she corrects, “probably not the King, but definitely one of his many underlings.” 

He carries on like she hadn’t said anything. “Tell me, what does Thomas Shelby think you’re doing here?” Luca rasps out the name, like it pains him.

“Spreading false information, planted by him, under the alibi of the government.”

“And, what does the King’s underling think you’re doing?” Was he enjoying this too?

“Informing on the Blinders. In a, uh— the enemy of my enemy is my friend sort of capacity.” It comes easy, because it’s the truth.

“Hmm,” Luca rubs his jaw idly, “And, what are you doing here?”

“Having tea and biscuits,” she pops a biscuit into her mouth, and chews deliberately.

Luca watches her, scrutinising. She was good at this, confident in the very least. This was her day job. “You got a name?”

“Emilia Turner.” Easy.

“Emilia?” He repeats, drawing it out. Almost like he’s trying it on. She nods. “And, you know me,” Luca says, self-assured, gesturing to himself.

Emilia flutters her lashes at him, “Pleasure, Mr. Changretta.” His eyes flash.

“And, you want to sell me information on both of them?” He cocks his head, his eyebrows drawing together in suspicion. “You know, I don’t trust a single fucking one of you limeys,” he almost chuckles.

“You don’t have to,” she half shrugs, draining the last of her tea.

Luca tilts his head back, considering for a long minute. “Sorry, Ms. Turner,” he clasps his hands together, “I don’t work with the law. It’s a code where I’m from.”

Emilia clears her throat. “I know,” she places her cup back on the table, and stands. “But you might want to rethink that. Because Tommy Shelby does work with the law, Mr. Changretta. He owns half the fucking cops in this part of the country. I could be —” she pauses inhaling a little, and strategically, straightening her skirt, “— useful to you.” She gazes down at him.

Luca doesn’t reply, just leans back. Letting his eyes meander up her form, in an almost lewd manner, before settling on her bright blue, cat-like ones. Apparently completely at his leisure. 

She sucks her teeth briefly, breaking eye contact with him, “Okay.” She gathers her purse from beside her and moves around the table, heading towards the doorway. Luca scoffs a slight laugh.

“Prove it.”

Emilia stops and turns. Luca’s head is half turned as he calls out over the back of the lounge to her retreating figure.

“How do I get to Tommy Shelby?”

Out the corner of his eye he sees her grin, wide, “Easy.”

She gives Changretta what he wants, a private audience with Tommy Shelby, and then doesn’t hear anything for days. She’s almost given up on the Italian, and is contemplating how to re-enter the situation, without getting herself on a hitlist. If she wasn’t already. Until, early one morning, she draws the curtains of her home, and her heart rate doubles, as she finds the man himself sitting in her back courtyard. 

He’s dressed to the nines, in his usual dark, pinstriped suit and hat. His legs are crossed, one hand drumming the metal top of the table in front of him. He appears entirely too comfortable to be sitting on a wrought-iron outdoor table setting that she knew was painful at best to be seated at.

He looks up at her through the window, and waves his palm, a little half-hearted wave. She can see his breath curling out in the cold air around him.

She’s still in her pyjama slip. She holds her index finger up to him. One minute. He nods in return, as she looks around for her dressing gown, a coat, anything to put on and keep the cold out.

She walks out to meet him in the courtyard not a full minute later, having thrown on some untied boots and her thick winter coat that was hanging by the door.

He watches her approach, face unreadable. “I was going to let myself in, but I didn’t think that would be polite.”

She hides her smile, wrapping her coat around herself more firmly. “You’re right, it wouldn’t have been.” Her voice is still croaky from sleep.

He grins, popping a toothpick into his mouth. He motions towards the metal chair next to him, “Sit down, why don’t you?” He drawls, all one word.

Emilia balks at the idea of being asked to do anything in her own yard but sits regardless. The iron cold against her lower half even through the coat. She draws her legs in tightly.

Luca watches her idly, “Looked you up,” he says, “You don’t exist. You’re a ghost.” He whispers over the last word and raises his eyebrows at her.

She shrugs, “I’m sitting right here.”

He smirks in reply. “If you work for them, and you got here before me, why didn’t you warn them?” He asks, because it still doesn’t entirely line up in his mind.

Emilia hears the implied ‘Why did you let one of them die?’ loud and clear. It’s too early for this kind of shit, she thinks, which is probably why he’s here. “I knew you were coming to Birmingham, so I got here,” she sighs, “Couldn’t know you were going to send the hands, until when you did. Figured I’d bide my time.” 

This one might be entirely fucking crazy, he thinks. “You know,” he spreads his hands, open palms, “I am not used to someone giving up all their secrets so easily.” 

Showing their hand as it were, she thinks, watching the black hand tattoo on his wrist. “Yeah,” she replies, bristling a little, her voice low, “I’ve heard your people developed other methods for getting someone to give up their secrets.”

Luca chuckles darkly, caught off guard.

“If I had anything to hide from you, Mr. Changretta, I would not be here. Easiest way to not get caught out in a lie is to not tell any.” She shrugs one shoulder. Her body language is giving nothing away, her arms still wrapped around herself, but her words ring true.

He resumes his drumming on the table. “Still,” is all he says, letting his head tilt away from her.

“I have more loyalty to my actual job than I do to the Shelbys.” It wasn’t technically a lie, for a girl with no prospects, her career had given her more opportunities, the chance to see new places, new people. The chance to lead an extraordinary life. If she had stayed, gone back and just worked for the Blinders she probably would have ended up like Lizzie. Content, but cowed.

Luca pulls an ‘I guess,’ sort of face. “And, your government wants to— what? Create chaos?”

“My government wants to eliminate the Shelby’s before Tommy can blackmail them into giving him a fucking knighthood.” She laughs, open and loud in the cold morning air. “Before he gets too big for his boots,” she clarifies, “Politics and crime, they’re the same thing.” 

Yeah, definitely crazy, but that has never bothered Luca before, so he asks the only thing left to ask, “What would you have me do next?”

Her eyes meet his, light meeting dark. She ponders on it for a moment. “What I said the other day, about a common enemy? You already got in touch with Sabini, but the Shelby’s have a lot of enemies.”

They set up a schedule and fall into a natural rhythm. She devotes her time between the hospital to visit Michael, the hotel to visit Luca, and the shop to check in with Tommy. Absurdly out of all, she felt like she was gaining the most, getting the most done in her encounters with Changretta. She only ever meets him at the hotel, it’s a long commute from Birmingham, but ultimately safer for both of them that way. And, it’s easy, surprisingly easy, to sell out her only family to the Italian mafia. But Emilia is all too aware that things never stay easy for long, especially where the Shelby’s are concerned.

Luca tells his men he’s got a man on the inside of the Peaky Blinders. Specifically, doesn’t tell them it’s a woman. Specifically, doesn’t tell them it’s a woman he wouldn’t mind seeing more of, every time that they meet.

She comes to his room the day after Arthur is attacked in the factory. The bed in the corner is neatly made, like it hasn’t been slept in. She finds Luca in thought, standing just behind his desk. It’s early but he’s dressed immaculately, as usual. He’s wearing a dark suit, gold pocket watch glittering up from his waistcoat, and he’s replaced his usual tie with a silky ascot. He’s got no jacket on and his shirt sleeves are rolled up, showing off his tattoos, and the lean muscles that they wrap around. Her eyes trail the delicate rosary tattooed around his wrist and forearm. Overall, it’s a good look on him, she finds herself thinking.

He catches her looking and must read her expression.

“Well,” he spreads his arms, showing off the look, “It is the birthplace of Shakespeare, I’m just trying to look the part.” He tugs on the lapels of his waistcoat, proudly.

He’s in a good mood. He doesn’t know yet.

Emilia bites the inside of her cheek. “The cravat might be a bit much,” she mutters, as she sits down in the chair opposite the desk.

Luca’s eyes narrow and he lets his head bob to the side, but as he watches her, his mouth twitches, he’s amused.

She rummages through her bag, producing a handful of files. “Here’s some of Tommy’s official files,” she holds them out to Luca. 

He moves around to her side and takes them, rifling through them lightly, as he leans back against the desk in front of her. 

“There’s a fair amount of —” she hesitates, wondering how to word it, “— personal info that can be gleaned from these documents.” The way he’s positioned himself forces her to look up at him. “In addition to what your mother has given you, I’d say this is a reasonably comprehensive overview of the man.”

She’s sitting too straight, too still. Her voice is tight, and her manner professional. All the playfulness of their earlier meetings gone. He finds himself missing it. Luca holds the files closed in front of him, and crosses one ankle over the other, giving her an appraising look. 

“You look nervous,” he says in a low voice, “You don’t have to be.” 

He knows he really should be focussed on things other than the tension emanating from her form. But if he was being honest with himself, he had noticed her all the way back at the bar in New York, and he didn’t think he could stop now if he tried. Had noticed her ass on the high bar stool, her long legs. There was an elegance, a confidence in her movements. It was disarming, she was. And, it was missing today. 

She shakes her head lightly, her short hair swishing about her jaw. He likes that she doesn’t curl it, just lets it fall in its natural wave. “Not nervous, necessarily,” she says slowly, letting her eyes wander up his long form. “I’m more curious as to how you’re going to take the next bit of news.”

He raises his eyebrows, the rest of him remaining still.

She clears her throat, best just go for it, “Arthur is still alive, and your men didn’t come home yesterday because they are… gone.” She hesitates over the last word, ‘dead’ seems a little callous at the time.

His face falls, and he seems to age before her eyes. His sleeplessness catching up with him all at once. 

Emilia had happened to be dining at Ada’s the previous day, when Arthur Shelby had come stumbling in literally red-handed; covered in blood, and paint, and God knows what else. He had not been happy to see Emilia, either. Ranting and raving as they cleaned him up, that she should have known, should have told them, and ‘What good was she?’ That one hardly even hurt these days, she had heard it so often.

She keeps her eyes on Luca’s tense frame, “I came as soon as I could. Not sure Tommy even knows yet.”

Luca’s head droops, he closes his eyes and holds the bridge of his nose tightly between his thumb and forefinger. “Gone?” He asks, through gritted teeth.

“I saw Arthur, afterwards. He mentioned there were going to be ‘no bodies to worry about’.”

Luca murmurs something in Italian and, looking skyward, crosses himself. 

He pushes off the desk and moves back around the other side, dropping into the armchair there. He rests his temple on his fingers and looks back at her. He looks— sad. Emilia wasn’t prepared for that. 

She leans forward, holding his eye contact. “I know you probably thought, 'Small time English gangsters, should be pretty easy to kill',” she starts, because Luca needs to know this, “But I’ve seen these men cheat death a thousand times.” Luca begins to tap his fingers on the side of his face, his mouth a thin straight line. 

He’d cheated death a few times himself.

Emilia continues, “They went to France, and got to come home. They want to live.” She punctuates her last four words seriously. She’s not sure Luca can say the same for himself, not sure what he had left besides his vendetta. And maybe, having something to fight for was half the challenge.

He inhales deeply. “Thanks for letting me know,” he says slowly.

She nods, taking this as her signal to leave. He watches the swish of her skirt as she gets up, the bow of her head.

“Emilia,” he calls out, and the sound sends an unexpected thrill down her spine. She turns back, halfway to the door. 

“Thank you,” he says, genuinely. There’s a tenderness to his parting words that she’s not expecting. There was something to be said for doing all your own intel and background work on a mark, to feel like you have the measure of them. But it was something else entirely to be faced with that person in relatively close quarters every other day. Every meeting with Luca Changretta was showing her something new and surprising about the man.

She was beginning to look forward to their meetings. Damn him.

Emilia almost doesn’t see him, she’s in such a hurry to get to Changretta’s hotel. As her car rounds the corner to the High Street to drop her off a couple blocks away from the entrance as usual, she spies a familiar face in the Stratford town centre. Average height, tawny brown hair, nothing specifically remarkable about him, but it’s her job to notice things. And she does not miss the way he pointedly does not look at her as she slows down to pass the shopfront he’s lingering in. What the fuck is Anderson doing in Stratford-upon-Avon?

She doubles her pace to the hotel and is up the stairs letting herself into the room before she knows it, Luca apparently nowhere to be seen.

“Mr. Changretta?” She calls out. No answer. She hangs her coat up and wanders further into the room, “Luca?” 

“Here,” she hears him call from the other end of the suite. She follows the voice and notices it emanated from a room she hadn’t been into. What she had assumed must be the bathroom. The door is wide open, so she steps through. 

As she enters the vast, golden-tiled room, the first thing she notices is a rich, woody aroma permeating the steamy air. The second thing is a very wet, very naked Luca Changretta sitting in the deep, matching gold bathtub. 

“Oh, shi—”, Emilia stops in her tracks, nearly dropping everything in her arms. She’s going to turn about face and walk right back out, maybe pretend this had never happened, maybe move countries. But she notices the small smile playing on Luca’s face and its assuredness stays her. Today was already off to a strange start, why not continue it, she figures.

“Sorry,” she stutters out, “I just assumed you were decent.”

“Not in a long time, Darlin’,” Luca drawls.

The tub is centred in the room and is deep enough that water comes up to his mid chest. There’s soap clouding the water so she cannot see into it, thank God, but it does not stop her from taking in the expanse of olive skin still available on show. There were more tattoos, too. Dotted here and there, up his arms, scrawling their way to the dark cross inked into his neck.

She skims them all, not wanting to be seen leering. More Catholic imagery, a Madonna and child by the looks of it, some names and phrases, what appeared to be a coat of arms, and even a memento mori. She could tell her face was going red, as his grin kept getting bigger and bigger.

Can’t have that, she thinks. She looks around, the toilet is a couple feet to the side of the tub, she closes the lid and sits herself down, crossing her legs. She opens the diary in her lap and looks up.

Luca’s watching her, eyebrows raised.

“What? You invited me in, I assume you’re ready to talk business.”

He shrugs, spreading his arms out over the sides of the tub. He leans his head back, letting his eyes fall closed, “Talk to me, Doll.” Luca was in a surprisingly chipper mood.

It’s more than a little shocking to see the man who was always so put together, so immaculate, seemingly without his armour on. And he did wear a suit like it was no one’s business. But it doesn’t seem to matter to him, which is somehow so much worse, that this man doesn’t even need the protection of his slick suits to intimidate, to unnerve.

She adds it to the list of things she knows about him, to the list of things she absolutely didn’t need to know. Like the fact that Luca Changretta bathes with his jewellery on.

She drags her eyes away from the gold-chained cross hanging around his neck and looks at her notes, adopting her most pragmatic official-sounding voice. “I have a message for you, a ‘reply’, I was told,” she pauses, a little bit to watch for his reaction, a little bit for dramatic effect. Luca keeps his eyes closed but frowns partially. “Polly Gray would like to meet with you. In person, somewhere public.”

Luca’s eyes snap open. He lets out a troubled, “Hmm.”

“She wouldn’t say about what,” Emilia continues. Something she’s cooked up, sure to throw a spanner in the works, no doubt.

He peers over at her, through half-lidded eyes, “You have an idea?”

“You can never be sure with that one.” Or you for that matter, she thinks idly. Emilia leans forward, putting an elbow on her knee and resting her head in her hand. “You put something specific in her letter, something neither you nor she is willing to disclose.” Luca runs a wet hand through his already slick hair, pressing it down at the back. She unashamedly watches the muscles of his bicep flex as his arm bends. She drums her fingers along her face, carrying on, “It’s fine, we’re all playing our cards close to our chest.” And you two are dealing under the table, she thinks, but it’s still fine, Emilia’s confident she’ll find out what it is sooner rather than later.

Luca looks up at the steam curling around the ceiling and contemplates.

“There’s a bar on Bridge street, just outside of town,” he waves his hand, splashing the water in the tub around slightly, “I’ve been there before. Should be safe neutral ground.”

“Well, alright then.” Is all she says. She decides it's time to leave. Finding herself focusing more on the black ink scrawled across his form, than what he was saying.

“Any words of advice?” He asks, as she’s on her way out.

Emilia stands at the foot of the bathtub, Luca completely relaxed, smirking back up at her. Advice on a meeting with Pol? “Yeah, don’t.”

Emilia trots down the steps outside the hotel, her mind still on the meeting she had just had. Her mind still on the broad shoulders and olive skin and shark-like smile.

And, — she halts on the footpath, right next to an alley because that had definitely been what she thought it had been. “Anderson,” she says out loud, not bothering to turn back.

He sidles up alongside her a moment later. “Morning, Em.”

“Is it?” She glares. She was nearly willing to dismiss this morning’s sighting as coincidence, but this was too much. He was here specifically for her.

He pulls out his timepiece to check, “Well, actually n—”

“Shut the fuck up,” she turns on the tawny-haired man. “What are you doing here?” She demands, all too aware that she was still in view of the hotel and that Luca's men were all over this town. She knows they should keep walking but her desire to spend as little time as possible with Anderson overpowers it. 

He shoves his hands into his pockets, nonchalant. “Would have thought that would be obvious by now,” his thick northern Irish accent grates on her nerves. She shoves him back into the alley, out of view of the street. This close she can see he’s got a black eye, a real shiner. It’s not out of the ordinary for Anderson, last time she had seen him he had been sporting a broken arm. She’s mostly kind of jealous of whoever gave it to him.

“Careful,” he grins, leaning back against the alley wall, completely unperturbed by her manhandling of him.

Emilia crosses her arms, glaring over at him, and waits for him to explain.

“Just here to keep an eye out,” he shrugs, “What with your Thomas seeking help from outside sources. There are lots of forces at play here, not even including you and me.”

She doesn’t know what outside forces he’s talking about, but she doesn’t like the way his brow arches as his voice lilts over ‘at play’.

Emilia refrains from rolling her eyes, but only just. “London?” She asks.

“Among many,” Anderson replies, fishing a cigarette out of the tin in his jacket pocket.

He’s not going to give her anything, the asshole, he was just riling her up.

“How did you get to be so annoying?” Emilia mumbles under her breath.

He offers her a cigarette which she pointedly ignores. “Trained, just like you,” he replies, chuckling, and lighting his own cigarette. The worst part is he did train like her, and if she saw him it meant he wanted to be seen. Emilia tightens her arms over her chest a little, she didn’t know what to do about this. She looks down at her feet, thinking for a moment.

“You having fun up there?” Anderson asks, motioning with the lit end back up at the hotel.

Emilia huffs a surprised laugh at the ground and takes a step closer to the man in front of her. She looks up at him from under her furrowed brow, jabbing a finger at his chest, “This is my job, Anderson.” 

He breathes a puff of smoke in her face. 

“I don’t want to fucking see you here again,” she finishes.

Emilia glares, before stalking off, leaving her colleague standing alone in the alleyway. She wasn’t getting to the bottom of this anytime soon.

“How’s your man?” Luca asks, first thing their next meeting. He’s lounging on the sofa in the sitting room, too tall for it by half, his feet hanging over the end. Apparently on a mission to be as reclined as possible, for every meeting they have. She knows it’s supposed to be a subtle intimidation technique, a gesture of confidence, of surety in his standing, but all Emilia can see is an obedient animal showing its belly.

Emilia carefully keeps her face blank, sitting across the small coffee table from him.

“The one from the other day,” he waves his hand around, “The one with the black eye.” He says it with a dark undertone to his voice, like he had been the one to give it to Anderson, like he had wanted to, even though she knows that’s impossible.

She inclines her head slightly, “What about him?” She keeps her voice impassive. If he had been watching that closely, what else had he seen?

“You didn’t mention a man in your life,” Luca says, like that’s an answer. Emilia stays silent, trying to gauge his motivations here.

Luca continues, “Now, I know he’s not a Shelby, ‘cause we got a list of those about a mile long.” Not that long, she thinks. “And, correct me if I’m mistaken but covert operatives, such as yourself, aren’t usually ones for public daytime meetings. At least not in the middle of the street.”  

Shit, she thinks. Fucking Anderson, even the Americans thought they were slipping now. 

“Luca,” she jumps in, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation. “We here to talk Shelby’s or no?”

He lets it slide.

He pointedly doesn’t tell her how his meeting with Polly went. And she doesn’t ask, apparently okay with whatever level of disclosure he is willing to give. Inside, she’s desperate to know but asking too many questions gives too much away. She had learned that the hard way and couldn’t afford to slip like that right now. She was barely holding on to her grasp as it was, worried that it was beginning to show.

And with how close Luca was sitting to her now, it was definitely going to show. She had laid a map out on the coffee table, pointing out the general Blinders territory, so he could familiarise himself with it. He had jumped up and moved to sit around her side of the table immediately. The same rich, warm smell of the air from the bathroom hits her. He points at the map, his arm cutting across her, and it’s all she can do to keep her hard-won composure. He was bordering on inappropriately close.

He leans forward and their knees bump. She hasn’t decided whether it was entirely intentional or happenstance just yet, but it was a reoccurring theme of their meetings these days.

“He’s not my man,” she says finally, on her way out. Luca gets up to see her to the door.

He smirks down at her, “But you want him to be.” 

Maybe once upon a time, Emilia muses.

She stands in the open door, shaking her head. She can hardly believe she’s even having this conversation with him. “He’s not my type,” she replies, deadpan.

Luca rests one hand on the door high above her head, “What’s not your type?” In his eyes, a playful gleam. What is he hoping for here? She wonders, not for the first time.

Emilia looks up at his arm above her, at the way he’s deliberately placed himself in her space, again. She thinks for a second, “Cocky.”

Luca’s face splits in a massive grin, “Now, I don’t believe that for a second.”

She grins back at him, shrugs offhandedly before making her way down the hall. She hazards a glance back right as she turns the corner to the stairs, and he’s still there, silently watching her go.

When Michael’s attacked in the hospital, Emilia knows she shouldn’t be shocked, but can’t help it. She had assumed she was more in the know than this. Rookie mistake, Turner.

She hadn’t told Tommy about the setup, guessing he would figure out Mrs. Ross’ true intentions on his own. But she, like Tommy, had missed Luca’s obvious double bluff. The second she hears word that Michael’s okay, she’s on her way over to the hotel. It doesn’t occur to her that she might get there before him.

She waits for about an hour before he arrives.

Luca storms into the room, there’s blood on his hands, and a wild look in his eyes. He’s lost his hat somewhere and is in the process of throwing his coat forcefully onto the desk.

“Where have you been?” She demands of him.

He's not surprised to see her in his room. “Where the fuck have I been?” He stomps past her, heading to the sink in the bathroom. He rolls up his sleeves, washing the errant blood off his hands. “I’ve been getting fucking shot at, on a fucking bridge,” he grabs a towel, drying his hands, his actions belaying the fervent rage colouring his voice. “And now,” Luca turns back to her, brandishing the towel, “I gotta send two more of my men home in caskets!” His voice turns up at the end. 

They stare at each other, their faces mirroring displeasure, Luca breathing hard through his nose.

"What bridge?" She asks, finally.

Luca scoffs and turns away, pacing around the room. "The only fucking bridge outta town," he replies, throwing a hand up in exasperation.

Emilia knows the one, even from his vague description. She had passed over it herself earlier in the day, without any hassle. A roadblock set up that quickly, that efficiently, could only really be one person. Was this what Anderson was talking about? Today's events had done nothing to halt her growing paranoia.

She eyes the blood on the towel, “Who did they kill?”

He follows her gaze and throws the garment over to the other side of the room, needing to be rid of it. “Killed Frankie,” Luca spits out, “My driver, he's my fuckin’ cousin.” He’s still pacing slowly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, the tension coming off him in waves, “Well, second cousin. Slit his throat.”

Emilia is quietly stunned, she had been mad about Michael, concerned for her own cousin. And Luca's had just been killed right in front of him. Of course, Luca didn’t know, couldn’t know how much Michael meant to her. 

He continues, talking about the accuracy of the bullets that had killed his other man, that had also shot the police officer there.

“Now that’s interesting.” She leans against the back of the couch, crossing her ankles. 

Luca stops pacing and looks over at her angrily. “Sorry,” she clarifies, “But slitting his throat doesn’t really sound like Tommy, and shooting an innocent police officer definitely doesn’t sound like Tommy, or any of his men, which means — “

Luca face is still an unimpressed mask.

“Look, if it was someone that efficient, I think I can take a guess as to who it was. Aberama Gold; proper old school traveller, lives in a caravan the whole bit. He's got a bad reputation around these parts,” she rattles off, only half trying to appease Luca after his anger. “Probably why him and Tommy get along.”

He turns away again, seemingly not even listening, rubbing one hand over his mouth. “Ambushed by gypsies out in the fucking open,” he shakes his head.

The accusation from him rankles in a way she hadn't expected. The implication that she should have known, should have told him. She had put up with that for too long elsewhere. Emilia pushes off the lounge.

“If he had someone on your trail that quick that means he was ready for you as well,” she snaps at him. “They know you've got to take one of a handful of ways out of the city.” She takes a few steps forward.

Luca watches her out the corner of his eye, “And?” He has the gall to sound uninterested.

She throws her hands up in exasperation, “Don’t fucking go next time?” 

Luca scoffs, muttering under his breath in Italian.

Something else is bothering her. “How did you even know which hospital he was in?” She asks, she was on a roll now, might as well go for broke. And the lingering thought in the back of her mind that she might have led him there, right to her cousin, is too much to handle right now.

Luca’s eyes roll skywards for a second before he answers. “Same way I knew the nurse would let us in, that there was only gonna be one guy guarding.”

She waits with bated breath.

“People talk,” Luca finishes casually, throwing one hand out.

It’s Emilia’s turn to roll her eyes. She was nearly positive he hadn’t had anyone follow her since that first meeting, but she can’t say it without giving away that she didn’t have a good reason to be visiting Michael as often as she was.

Luca turns on her sharply, “What? You think I couldn’t come up with that? A lousy double-cross, like I’m some two-bit gangster —”

“You’re the one who just got snuck up on right out in the open,” she cuts him off harshly. It stops him in his tracks. 

He frowns, his mouth slightly parted. “No thanks to you,” he mumbles quietly, but there’s nothing behind it, like he doesn’t really mean it.

“I’m not in his fucking head, they don’t tell me everything, alright?” She continues, sighing, “Just like you don’t.” Emilia crosses her arms, chewing the inside of her cheek to stop from going any further.

His face drops a little.

Luca tilts his face down to her, and she hadn’t realised how close she had gotten to him until now; they’re standing mere inches apart. She juts her chin out, holding his stare. 

“Maybe I could have helped if I knew what you were planning.” She waits a beat, then earnestly: “What am I fucking doing here, Luca?”

His eyes are half-lidded, and he presses his lips together, like he wants her to be doing something else entirely. A look she had seen on his face more and more lately.

He doesn’t answer immediately. 

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit impressed. People don’t usually talk back to him, and she’d pushed back, she’d finally gotten mad. He’d fished an emotion other than her usual ambivalent composure out and suddenly found he wanted more. 

Luca would also be lying if he said he hadn’t seen it going a little differently, the first time she was waiting for him in his room, at the end of a long day. 

He looks down at her wide eyes, and endearingly flushed face. He had forgotten just how slight she was compared to him. Her natural presence gave her the impression of being taller than she actually was, but this close it was undeniable.

“You know,” he starts, rubbing his jaw lightly, “I’m not supposed to— could be fucking excommunicated just for talking to you.” He keeps his voice low and serious, “My guys, they don’t know what you do.”

He made it sound sordid in that tone of voice. It gives her pause, and ashamedly she found she didn’t mind being his dirty little secret.

“I told them you work for the Blinders, that’s it,” he finishes.

She tries to keep her face still, but she’s sure the confusion registers on it, especially this close. She knew he wasn’t joking about there being a code, but was it really the reason he hadn’t given her anything useful, anything she could use, in all their weeks of meeting? Why meet with her at all then?

“You and I want the same thing,” she tries. And the building heat in his eyes forces her to clarify, “You want to not get shot at, I want to help.” 

Emilia shakes her head, laughing a little despite herself. “If I’m not helping you, or him, and I apparently don’t know a fucking thing that’s going on,” she raises her hands in exasperation. “I might as well go home. Might as well sit this one out.” She finishes and props her hands on her hips, looking up at him.

It shocks Luca how much he really doesn't want that to happen. “I need a drink,” he mutters to himself, turning away from her finally, breaking their stare first.

She could sympathise. 

He loosens his tie efficiently, tossing it down onto a table. It shouldn’t draw her eye as quickly as it does. She watches him wander over to the liquor cabinet on the far side of the room, pour himself a glass of something and chuck it back.

Emilia waits, hands still on hips.

“She agreed to make a deal with me,” he says quietly, pouring himself another, “Spare the kid’s life.” 

Emilia’s awash with emotion, relief for Michael’s sake, but can’t help the overriding sudden flash of anger, of resentment. A mother’s love. She had thought she was over all that. She looks over at Luca; a man here for the exact same reason. Wonders, if she had had the same, would she have ended up here, in the lion’s den regardless?

“In exchange for what?” She asks, finally.

“Tommy.” That, she can’t even be mad about.

She stares at him wide-eyed.

“Yeah, pretty sure I had the same expression when she told me.” He sips his drink, casually.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Polly.” She puts her head in her hand.

“Decided the kid was the best way to get it back to her,” Luca continues, “Little intimidation, keep her honest.”

Yeah, good luck, Emilia thinks. That also means Michael probably knows by now. 

“I’ve got to go see Michael, see what he knows.”

She starts towards the door, to gather her things.

“No,” Luca all but exclaims, then catching himself, continues in a more measured voice, “Wait, c’mon, it’s late. Stay a while.”

He reaches out and touches her arm as she passes by him. And in truth it’s nothing more than a finger or two grazing her inner elbow, but he’s never touched her bare skin before, it’s enough to stop her in her tracks.

“It’s been a long day, for both of us.” He keeps his hand there.

Then, almost tenderly, “Have a drink with me.”

Have a drink, he had said. Here was a man who was used to getting everything he wanted with the slightest tilt of his head. A simple drink is all it was. And Emilia found, she didn’t mind letting him get his way. 

Now, thanks to that, here they were practically sitting on top of each other they were so close. He had left his waistcoat somewhere around the room, and they had both kicked off their shoes. They were on the lounge in the sitting room, shoulders pressed together, drinks in hand. Emilia was beginning to feel pleasantly buzzed.

“You know your name’s actually Italian.” She’s not sure what they were just talking about, but the change in subject, from Luca, seems abrupt.

She chuckles, the hand gesture, and dropped initial letter on ‘talian, always get her. “Turner?” She asks, playing dumb.

He snorts, “Emilia. It’s a region, named after a, uh— consul, Marcus,” he gestures down her body, “Aemilius.” 

He angles his head nearer hers, “In America they would shorten it to Mia.” The words come out a low grumble. Through their pressed together shoulders, the sound reverberates through her own body.

The nickname fills her with a warm, fuzzy feeling she's sure isn't the booze. A memory from her childhood. A female voice.

“Anybody ever call you Mia before?”

“Hmm,” she frowns, the memory nearly impossible to hold on to. “Yeah, I think so,” her voice comes out strained.

She takes another sip from her glass, clearing her throat, and turning to face him again. His eyes watch the movement of her mouth and throat as she swallows. “I always just thought, because of the spelling, that my mum was a Shakespeare fan.”

Luca makes a sound in the back of his throat. He's right up on her now.

His eyes flicker around, as he considers that. “Does that make me Iago?”

She guesses it does.

This close she can see his eyes are actually much lighter than she had initially suspected. More of a green hazel than brown at all. There’s something in that. 

She can also see he’s never going to make the next move. Would be content to leave her hanging here forever. Her lips tingle in anticipation for what she’s about to do. And honestly, they’ve been skirting around this too long as it is.

She surges forward, closing the distance between them, and presses her lips against his. It’s too hard and quick, and she retreats just as quickly as she had advanced. Sitting up straighter, she looks at Luca, trying to assess the damage. 

His face is a picture of composure, while Emilia can feel her heart beating in her throat. He looks unruffled, if a little bit charmed, like he had been waiting for this the whole time. 

Slowly, like he doesn’t want to spook her, Luca takes her glass from her hand and places it, with his own, on the table in front of them. Then, even slower, he raises his hand bringing it to rest on the side of her face. The heat of his palm is a comfort, and she turns her face slightly into it. He moves forward, his eyes roaming her entire face before settling on her lips, as he closes the distance between them again. 

The kiss is warm and soft, but brief, his lips moving against hers for only a few moments before he pulls back again. This time he stays close, letting their noses rub against each other. His eyes delve into hers, as he brings his other hand up to brush a lock of hair behind her ear. Settling his hand on the hinge of her jaw there, Luca effectively cradles her head in his large hands. She shivers at the intimacy of it, it had been a long while since someone looked at her like this. Luca’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and he whispers, “Mia Cara,” against her mouth before kissing her again.

She’s never heard anyone say it like that before. Reverent.

A flood of warmth rushes through her, and she opens her mouth to him, deepening the kiss. She reaches out to him, pushing his suspenders down his strong shoulders and arms in an effort to get closer. She’s pulling and pushing at him all over, apparently very handsy when it comes to this. Emilia grips the muscles of his arms, moaning into his mouth when he flexes in return. Luca laughs into her mouth, “Okay.” He presses her back into the lounge, murmuring into her lips again, “Okay.” 

Luca settles his weight over her and continues to explore her mouth with his. Her mouth is soft and reciprocate, and just like her legs, opens so nicely to accommodate him.

He tightens his hands in her hair when he feels her deft fingers around his abdomen. Grasping his shirt in her hands, she pulls at it, quickly untucking it, and getting her hands inside. She unbuttons it nimbly and runs her hands over the warm skin, through the smattering of hair there.

Luca pulls back to look at her, and Emilia grins up at him, the minx. 

“You sure about this?” He asks, his voice gravelly. He asks because he has to, has to know if she’s sure about him, about this situation. 

She’s a little shocked by the question. Nothing in Luca’s personality or interactions with her had ever indicated he would be anything other than completely respectful in this regard, but still. She was not used to men hesitating, to men questioning, when it came to these things. She’s a little turned on by it, if she’s being honest.

“Oh, I’m sure,” she tilts her head up and sucks on his lower lip. “Are you?” She throws back at him, because it can’t hurt to be sure, too.

Luca’s brows pull up in the middle, and he murmurs, “Dio,” staring intently at her reddened lips. He brings their lips together again, meeting open-mouthed, “Sì.” This time trailing kisses all along her cheek and down her neck, mumbling, “Sì, sì, certo sì,” into her skin the whole way. And every single one makes Emilia shiver.

He makes his way down her body and runs his hands up her stockinged legs from his place situated between them.

“Hm, what is this?” He asks, voice lilting, amused.

His hands have reached the top of her thighs, and subsequently the knife stuffed into the top of her right stocking. It’s a small dagger, no bigger than a letter opener. She had been wearing one for nearly as long as she could remember. 

“Huh, oh yeah,” she looks down, watching him carefully running his fingers over the blade through the sheer material. “I forgot that was there,” she mumbles.

Luca laughs into the material bunched around her hips. “Remind me to get you a gun.”

She grins down at him, “Oh, I keep that in my purse. Besides,” she pulls the knife out of her stocking, “Knives are better for close quarters.” She slowly turns it towards him. Luca’s eyes light up and, holding her gaze, he tilts his head back, exposing the skin of his neck. She shudders, and for a brief second considers pressing the blade up against his jaw, against the cross tattoo of his neck. Just resting it there, let him feel how quickly she could do it. 

She decides against it, his immediate surrender satisfying enough for now. She goes to toss the knife aside and he grabs her hand. 

“No, leave it on,” he all but growls, and together they place the dagger back into the hem of her stocking. Luca’s hand carries on upward, his palm nearly spanning half the circumference of her thigh, as he continues to expose more of her. On her bare flesh now, his hands feel too warm by half, and when his mouth follows their path, kissing his way across the fleshy tops of her thighs, she feels as though she could combust. 

“Luca,” she rasps out. Emilia digs her hands into his hair, subconsciously pulling him to where she wants his mouth most. 

He kisses his way up to her underwear, mouthing his way over the satiny material and inhaling the heady scent there. He runs his hands up over her hips and, looking up to make eye contact with her, drags the material down her thighs, pulling them off. She’s completely exposed and can feel herself getting wetter under Luca’s intent gaze, but he does not linger. He leaves her untouched as he moves back up her body, burying his face in her neck, mouthing at the skin there instead. 

Emilia groans, tilting her head back to give him more access. She gets her hands inside his open shirt and drags her nails lightly across his lower back in frustration, “You’re a tease,” she grits out. She feels him grin into her skin, apparently pleased with that assessment, as he positions his hips between her open legs, running one hand up and down her stockings. Even the pressure of his clothed hips against her core feels amazing right now, and she grinds into him trying to get more friction.

Luca inhales sharply, lifts himself up on one elbow and stares down at her. Her icy blue eyes are blown wide, her lips are swollen, and her neck is coming up red where his face was just buried. Her dark hair fanned out on the cushion below her is quickly becoming a mess, and he definitely wants to see how far he can push her. 

Luca’s hand trails back up the inside of her thigh, he briefly rubs the soft skin at the hollow where her thigh meets her crotch, before he runs a finger up her slit. Emilia gasps, loudly. He noses across her cheek, watching her expression, as he replaces one finger with two. Tracing up and down her wetness before he settles them at her clit, sliding his fingertips over the bundle of nerves. Emilia’s reaction is immediate, her mouth falls open in a silent moan, and she throws her head back. Luca mouths his way across her jaw, lightly nipping, he could watch this all day. 

Her nails dig into the flesh of his arm, as he continues his circling movements. But just as she feels herself climbing, Luca changes his course again. This time plunging his two long fingers inside her. It pulls all the breath out of her, and she snaps her eyes closed.

Luca moves his fingers in and out of her in an exquisite rhythm. Like he’s learning her, committing it all to memory, and when he sucks at the sensitive skin just below her ear at the same time, she clenches hard around his hand with a moan. He groans into her neck in response and doubles his speed.

She uses one hand to pull his face back down to hers, and he feels the other at the button of his trousers. She has them open swiftly and is pushing them, and his underwear, down in seconds.

Luca shudders and has to pull out of her grasp, he brings his hands up as well, holding them steady on her ribs. Emilia squirms at the sudden loss.

He makes sure they’re face to face, breathing in the same air. He inhales deeply a couple of times, letting his eyes fall closed. “Tu non sai cosa mi fai,” he breathes out, and presses a kiss to the hollow of her throat, before sitting up. She watches him go, her brows furrowing. But he sits back against the lounge and pulls his pants the rest of the way off, spreads his legs a little and holds out a hand to bring her up with him. She lets herself be pulled up and straddles his thighs, settling down against him with a small smirk.

Luca’s face mirrors hers, and he skims his hands across her thighs and bare hips, grabbing the hem of her dress along the way and pulling it up. Emilia lifts her arms to help him get it completely off. Luca throws the dress across the room. She’s not wearing a brassiere of any kind, hadn’t needed it with that dress, so Luca suddenly finds himself with a lap full of naked woman. Well, except for her thigh high stockings, which somehow only seems to enhance the visual. He sighs, taking in the sight. Emilia raises her brows expectantly, still smirking down at him.

Luca nods, like she’s right. He pulls his own shirt off his shoulders and winds his hands around her waist. He leans forward and alternates between kissing and biting his way down her neck and chest. He meanders his way across her skin, like he has all the time in the world. Emilia is more impatient as she grunts and grinds into his lap. She gets her hands in his hair, desperate to mess it up, to see it out of its usual slicked-back style.

“Dio mio,” he says, hushed. He’s gazing intently at something on her ribcage. Oh, she remembers.

He’s level with her ribs, which makes him level with the swirl of a tattoo she has on her side. Luca holds her arm out slightly, so he can inspect more fully. From afar it looks like a circle, with filigree, but upon closer inspection he can see it’s actually a snake eating its own tail, adorned by small, delicate flowers. The whole thing is inked in black lines and running behind it on the delicate skin of her ribs is a long, faded scar.

He sighs, looking back up to meet her eyes, a small smile playing on his face, “You’re full of secrets under here, huh? You forget about this, too?”

She kind of had, “Nobody ever sees this, so.” She lets out a breath she didn’t realise she had been holding in.

He purses his lips slightly, looks at her, then the tattoo, very deliberately. 

“It’s an Ouroboros,” she explains. She’s not sure how he’ll take it. She knew his were, for all their religious iconography, a sign of a criminal. A man who didn’t play by laws, who didn’t have to, which is why they were mostly visible. Maybe this is how he saw her now, too. Among the working class of Britain, tattoos were usually a sign of a prostitute, but among the higher classes they were a rare show of feminist strength. A hang-up from Victorian times. Neither implication bothered her, neither being entirely inaccurate, but she still couldn’t be sure where Luca stood. Even when seated upon his lap. 

“I saw one in a picture, in the tomb that Howard Carter uncovered in Egypt, but it’s also seen in other ancient cultures— it's the cyclical nature of life,” she can hear herself rambling under his dark gaze. “Something constantly destroying and recreating itself,” she stops herself rather abruptly, feeling sheepish, like she may have given too much away. She knew having an identifying mark was bad enough, but she didn’t have to give him the whole spiel.

“I know what it is,” Luca whispers. He reaches up and fits his hand over her ribs. She watches as his own tattooed hand covers the snake. The cross on his knuckles moving as his fingers trace over the scar behind it. The sight sends a full body shiver through her. “L'infinità,” he finishes, voice still a whisper, before sliding both his hands up her back and pulling her down to meet his mouth again. Her breasts press into his own hard, naked chest, and their tongues slide against each other.

Emilia gently nips at his lips, she wants more, wants more of him, wants more of everything. She trails her hands down his chest, over his various smatterings of tattoos, to where his hard cock is resting up against his stomach. She takes it in her hand, and Luca grunts into her mouth. It’s generously sized, what she would have expected from a man of his dimensions. She adds her other hand, holding and pumping with one, the other thumbing over the sensitive head. Luca’s hands grip her ass painfully tight, and he mumbles something unintelligible in Italian through hard, clenched teeth.

He lifts her up a little, and then gently pulls his cock out of her hands. He grasps it in one hand, giving it a quick pump, and rubbing it along the length of her. They moan in unison, Emilia digging her fingers into his shoulders. Luca positions himself at her entrance and looks up at Emilia’s face for confirmation.

She takes control, lowering herself down incrementally, getting about halfway before tensing her thighs and rising back up again. She repeats this move a couple of times, stretching herself out, acclimating to the feel of him. She looks down at him the whole time, mouth hanging open slightly, eyes half-lidded, it’s a beautiful sight. Luca tries to keep still, let her set a pace, but her slow press against him is its own special kind of torture. He digs his fingers into the flesh of her ass, and when she finally sinks down fully onto him, it’s all he can do not to lose it right there.

Emilia leans down and brings their mouths together, as she begins to glide up and down on his cock with merciful purpose. He moans open-mouthed into the kiss, flexing his hips to meet her thrusts. Together they lean into a rhythm, that feels more like a confession than anything they had ever discussed before tonight.

Luca’s hands are everywhere, and he murmurs into her ear in Italian the whole time and, fuck, she really needed to get that Italian-English dictionary from New York out again.

And, it’s so good, her position against him the perfect angle to grind her clit into his pelvic bone on the downward thrust. Emilia knows she won’t last long like this.

She presses a hand into his chest, desperate to hold him in place, as she bounces in his lap. Her entire being focussed solely on her own pleasure, on the pleasure radiating out from between her legs, from where Luca is between her legs. And, fuck, she’s nearly there.  

He’s more than happy to be used like this, and just as he feels her clenching hard around him, he leans into her ear. “Andiamo, Mia,” he just about chokes out, she’s so tight on him. Her eyes roll back into her head and she does as he says and comes hard. Her thigh muscles shaking on top of his, as she shudders to a near-stop. 

Still rocking slightly back and forth over him, he doesn’t give her time to recover. Luca takes over, thrusting his hips up into hers. He sets a brutal pace, so close to his own release now.

He’s holding her up now, her orgasm having seemingly left her boneless with pleasure. He has a hand on her jaw, tilting her face down to his, and another around her waist. She’s making sharp little inhales into his face, on every thrust, delightfully over-stimulated. “Luca,” she whines, breathy, and it’s this that sends him over the edge. He sinks his teeth into her shoulder, groaning as he unloads into her. Rocking his hips slower and slower until it hurts too much. Hurts too good.

They breathe together for a minute, still joined, still one being. 

Until, sitting upright becomes too much effort, and Luca lets them fall to the side, lying back down on the lounge. She lands atop him, resting her head on his rising and falling chest. He brings a hand up, stroking it through her hair. 

“Jesus, fuck,” is all she can think to say, her brain not quite back on yet. Luca makes a soft, ‘Mm’ noise in response.

Emilia shuts her eyes, she’s not sure if she falls asleep, but the next time she opens her eyes they have barely shifted.

Luca is still awake too, his fingers idly drumming over the spot where the scar is on her ribs. Too early to be asking about scars, he thinks. “Gotta say, I did not see this actually happening,” he murmurs out into the dark room.

She thinks about that for a second, “But you did think about it happening?” She asks, voice muffled as her face is still half-pressed into Luca’s torso.

Luca’s chest bounces a little as he chuckles. Then, “How’d you get into this room that first day?” Always with the questions, even now, she thinks. Can’t even fuck it out of him.

She lifts her head, and pulls a face, like it’s entirely obvious, “I broke in.”

He huffs a small laugh up at the ceiling, because, yeah, that was pretty obvious. “I bluffed my way through the doorman, snuck past the front desk, got all the way up in here, and the fucking housekeeper walks in.” He’s laughing fully now. “Thought I was made. No word of a lie. I’ve never made up a story so quickly. That you’d let me in and were coming back any second.” She looks down at him, his eyes are shut but he’s still grinning.

“And then I did,” he murmurs.

“Stroke of luck that was,” she says, pressing her mouth into his shoulder.

“With you? Nah,” he drawls, his voice growing heavy. He pulls his arm around her tighter, “I think you planned this all, down to every last detail.”

She doesn’t say anything, just listens to his breathing slow down, and even out.

She leaves in the night. His men follow her in another car all the way back to Small Heath. Figures.

“You got back late last night,” Tommy says, entirely too chipper, when he finds her in the betting shop the next morning.

Her head hurts too much for an interrogation this early. Not to mention other parts of her.

“I don’t need you to watch me when I’m with him, Thomas.” Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up, apparently not missing the ‘with him’ implication. “I have enough people watching me already: His men, the coppers, my own fucking agency,” she carries on, letting her throbbing head fall into her palms.

“Hey?” He questions.

Emilia nods, head still in her palm. “Spotted an old colleague in town, too close for comfort. He definitely doesn’t live there, shouldn’t even be in the fucking country as far as I know.”

Tommy makes a soft, ‘Hm’ sort of sound, and ponders, “Now, why’d you think they’d be watching you?”

She had a couple of ideas.

She looks up at him, “No idea.”

The thought plays on her mind though. That is, whenever her thoughts haven’t drifted to the lounge in Luca Changretta’s hotel room. 

She’s becoming increasingly paranoid about her colleague’s presence in the city, and decides to arrange a contact with her bosses, something which is generally discouraged when ‘undercover’.

They agree to meet with her, picking the local art gallery & museum as their spot. It’s so obvious it mostly feels like a complete brushing off before the thing’s even begun.

She’s staring at a Rossetti painting of Proserpine when an older gentleman, and a woman about Polly’s age sidle up next to her. Emilia doesn’t bother with any idle chat; she comes right out and asks about Anderson.

They share a look, “Why would you ask that?”

And, Jesus, if they thought that he was a triple agent, or he had defected in anyway, then she might have just painted a target on her own back by asking about him at all.

Emilia plays it off, tells them she’s already closely associated with Anderson and if they needed another pair of eyes on him, she was there.

“You have a job to do here,” the woman asserts.

“I know, and I’m doing it —”

“You’re in there to undermine both their efforts, gather information, stop major casualties, Turner,” she continues quietly, “You know we don’t need the Americans on our back right now.”

“I know.”

“Your job is not to worry about other agents,” the older man says, pretending to be focussed on the painting in front of him.

Emilia sighs, “But if you’re worried about him, shouldn’t I be— If we don’t know how many sides he’s playing?”

“How many sides are you playing?”

“One.” Mine.

They nod.

She leaves, no more confident in her position than when she arrived. Emilia doesn’t know what she expected.

Luca waits. He had a clear afternoon for this particular meeting. He had wanted one more moment, one more day with her before his plan with Shelby hopefully fell into place. But she never shows. He waits. Sends some men off to the outside of town, report back if there was another accident or diversion or whatever stopping her from getting out here. Nothing.

He even walks down the street to a public phone box and calls the Shelby company line again. Pretending to be a punter, asking around. She’s not there either. He feels like an idiot. He had been with women who he had never seen again, for sure, but this was different. He thought there was a level of trust between the two of them.

His mind races; did he scare her away? She didn’t even stay the night. Did he hurt her? And a small niggling thought in the back: was it all a ploy? Had she gotten enough information from him and was now satisfied.

He has never been the type of man to sit around waiting for answers. So, he goes out and gets them.

She gets back late, immediately peeling off her stockings, and letting her coat and shoes fall where they may. Emilia’s been home about 10 minutes when she hears a knock at the door. She had been so preoccupied trying to digest the information, or lack thereof, from her meeting, the sound shocks her. Jumping up, she decides it’s too late for any sort of polite house call and grabs her gun before approaching the door. The person knocks again. The thought briefly occurs to her that it could be Anderson himself. 

She cocks her pistol in her hand and opens the door a crack.

Luca Changretta is standing on her doorstep, hat in his hands, looking entirely impatient. Because, of course he is.

She swings the door the rest of the way open, “Luca, what the fuck?” He raises an eyebrow, glancing down at the gun in her hand. She doesn’t wait for him to reply, just grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him through the doorway. Emilia sticks her head outside, looking up and down the street. She can’t see another soul, and even though it’s dark, Luca had been lit up by the streetlamp enough that if someone was watching they could give a vague description. 

She shuts the door quickly and rounds on him, “Did you come by yourself?” She asks, concerned. 

His mouth has a small, amused lilt to it, “Yeah, I —” 

“Jesus, I know I live on the edge of town, but this is still in heavy Shelby territory, Luca,” she cuts him off, motioning back to the street.

It was a modest little house by his standards but, he guesses, could be seen as extravagant for a single woman in this area. The houses were further apart out here. Still lined up in rows, but each with a little garden in front and a yard out back that looked out onto a green pasture.  

“If anyone had seen you, they could easily make a call and Tommy could have a bunch of men over here in no time.” Emilia hurries over to the front window, drawing the curtain over tighter. She shuts the main light off in the room as well, just to be safe, leaving them lit by only a far lamp and the glow of her fireplace. 

Luca watches her fuss about still clutching her weapon and has to bite his lip to keep from smiling fully. “Nobody saw me,” he replies his voice even and relaxed. He maintains a casual stance, hands in his pockets. 

Emilia doesn’t appreciate his nonchalance, crossing her arms, and therefore her gun, over her chest. “I could make a call and have a bunch of men over here then,” she responds dryly.

He does smile now, raises his hands, and backs further into the room, “Well, I’d better wait here and see if you’re gonna sell me out, then. Bet it’ll be thrilling.” He rasps out the last couple of words in his usual American drawl and begins to wander around the room.

She watches him, gun now dangling at her side, “What are you doing here?”

He’s inspecting a photo frame on the mantelpiece, “We had a meeting,” he says, almost absent-minded.

Her mind whirs. “Shit,” she lets out on a long breath.

He’s right, they had. Between the Anderson thing, and the fact that her last visit to the hotel had been a completely impromptu decision after Michael’s incident, Emilia had plain forgotten that they had a pre-scheduled meeting set up for today. She was going to kill Anderson herself, next time she saw him. 

“Shit,” she reiterates, chastising herself. “I’m sorry, I forgot.” 

She seems genuinely dismayed at having forgotten, her brows knitting together in a frown. And, after her concern over him being seen in the street, Luca feels his mood lifting. The worry of earlier abating. “It’s okay,” he replies, picking up a book she had strewn on the sofa and leafing through it.

It’s almost funny, Emilia thinks. He’s been inside her but being inside her house is somehow more intimate in her mind, makes her nervous in a way the other thing hadn't. She doesn't need to examine why that might be. She puts away her gun finally, trying not to watch him so carefully. She was vaguely glad her relationship with the Shelby’s was so frosty, it meant there were no photos of them hanging around that she would have to hide. 

Luca’s eyes flitter about the room, deliberating over something. Emilia decides to try and explain, “I had another meeting crop up,” she begins, wearily.

Luca shakes his head, holding up a hand briefly like she doesn’t have to explain. “Just wanted to make sure we were still, you were still, after —” he motions to himself, then to the two of them, “You know,” he clears his throat a little.

Emilia’s face is blank for a second, before: “Oh fuck!” Her eyebrows shoot up. 

“Yeah, it’s fine. Of course, I’m fine,” she quickly assures him, chuckling and waving him off. “Like I didn’t show up out of fear of what— awkwardness?” She wanders past him to the other side of the room, continuing, “No, no, I had a whole other something going on.” 

She was different here, in her house, surrounded by all her things, people always were. Somehow more confident, and more nervous all at once. 

He continues looking around, taking in her surroundings. Maybe the house would help him get a better impression of the woman herself. The room they were currently in had a cosy feel, despite being quite large. The first part that looked out onto the garden was dedicated to a main living room, complete with grand fireplace. The floor was covered in thick, lush looking carpets, and bookcases lined the walls. Either side of the fireplace were a set of dark, velvet armchairs. The room carried on into a raised dining area, and beyond that a small decorative kitchenette with a stove, cupboard, and liquor cabinet on the far side of the room. Probably in addition to a grander full kitchen downstairs.

It was homey but still looked high-end. Luca was quietly impressed. Not that he would expect anything less from a woman who was so put together. From a woman who had drawn his own eye so fiercely.

“You want a drink? Tea?” She asks him, because that’s what British people do when they don’t know what else to do. 

Luca pulls a face, “Had more than my share of tea, already, thanks.”

She smiles, the idea of too much tea a foreign one to her. She doesn’t dare offer alcohol yet, not after how quickly things devolved last time. Emilia has a thought, “Coffee?”

Luca’s whole face perks up, “You’ve got coffee?” He can scarcely believe it.

“Oh, I’ve got coffee. You forget, I spent all those months living in New York, too.” She gives him a conspiratorial smile, and grabs it out of the far cupboard, “Brought this over with me.”

He follows her over and takes it from her when offered, holding the jar in his hands like it was a newborn child. “Oh, Dio mio,” he breathes out, all one long sound.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” 

Luca smiles wide, his eyes crinkling endearingly at the corners. She reluctantly pulls her gaze away from his and sets about making the coffee over the small stovetop.

Luca resumes his idle spying; he notices a book on her side table. He holds it up to her, smirking, “You trying to infiltrate my other meetings too?”

Emilia looks around, he’s holding up her Italian-English dictionary. Her face colours slightly, and she turns back to the coffees she's making so he doesn't see. “No,” she drags out the ‘oo’ sound, deciding whether she’ll tell him.

Fuck it. “Just trying to figure out what you were saying the other night.” 

He grins, lascivious, immediately remembering. 

“Had that from when I was trying to infiltrate you lot in New York, anyway,” she carries on. 

Luca makes a deep, ‘Hmm’ sound, sitting slowly down on the small sofa in the lounge. “So, you should be pretty good by now,” he jokes.

Emilia appears holding a mug of coffee in each hand. She shrugs, smiling. “Sto migliorando, Capo,” she intones quickly. She had heard some of the men call him that. It was a title: boss.

Luca freezes halfway to pulling his jacket off, his eyes on her, wide. Three things hit him all at once: the way her tongue rolls so confidently around the language, the epithet and its playful insinuation of power, and the smell of the goddamn coffee. Luca swallows hard and throws his jacket over the arm of the chair, gently taking the mug from her. He’s not sure which part has turned him on more. Either way, he burns his tongue sipping the coffee down too fast, trying to hide the tell on his face. Fuck, she was designed to ruin him.

She sits in the cosy looking armchair across from him, tucking her bare legs up underneath her. The position exposes more thigh than a lady ought to in company and Luca thinks she knows that. Smiling sweetly over her mug at him. He coughs to clear his throat, “How many languages you actually speak?” He asks, just for something to say.

“Well,” she begins, thinking, “Bit of Italian now, bit of Welsh, Romani, you know gypsy,” she rattles off, waving her hand like that’s nothing. Luca nods, impressed. “Petit peu de Français,” she squints and holds up her hand to indicate a small amount. She pauses a moment, finally finishing with, “A lot of Russian.” She frowns, a far-off look filling her eyes.

He decides to press, “So, if those men come barging in the door right now, and we had to run away to Russia, we could?” 

“We could, theoretically,” Emilia smiles through thin lips, “It’s too bad the sound of the language makes me nauseous.” She takes a long sip of her coffee, averting her eyes from him.

Luca could take it as a slight dig at the Russians, but inside he’s sure there’s more to it than just that. Story for another time, he thinks, just like the scar. He wanted them all.

They drink in silence for a moment.

Luca inhales deeply, letting the rich, earthy aroma fill his lungs. He feels a tiny bit guilty, he had lambasted Matteo for not wanting to eat like them, and the first taste of home Luca had got he jumped at it. But it was coffee, and it was Emilia, so fuck Matteo.

It’s unsurprisingly pleasant, being sat in her presence, warm drink in hand, but there’s a gnawing thought at the back of his mind. “You don’t seem concerned that I know where you live,” he begins, “You didn't even way back when.” He thinks of her trudging out to meet him in her courtyard, at the crack of dawn. The hour of day upsetting her more than his unannounced presence.

“What do you take me for?” She looks at him, a small half-smile playing on her face.

Her amusement puzzles him, like she was asking why a young lady should be concerned a dangerous mobster knew her home address? Luca had thought that would be fairly obvious.

“I don’t know yet, but I plan to,” Luca mumbles in reply, trailing his eyes up and down her form.

Her eyes widen ever so slightly, before she averts them, staring into the fire beside them. “I know where you live, why shouldn't you know my address?” She asks, quietly.

The simple equality of it strikes him; she didn’t expect special treatment from him, from anyone perhaps.

Luca purses his lips, it’s not the same thing, “It’s a hotel, lots of people know where it is.”

She quickly rattles off his private address in New York, keeping her eyes on the flames. Luca doesn’t even try to hide his astonishment; he’s thrown, half his men don’t even know that address.

She looks over finally, and shrugs a little, like she’s sorry.

He finds he’s not mad, though. Can’t bring himself to feel anything other than a growing appreciation for her sheer competence. He had felt something building between them these past few weeks, and he had always respected those who were aggressively good at what they did. He’s only just now beginning to realise those two things were not so unrelated, either that or the coffee had made him especially complacent tonight.

He leans back in the chair, eyes appraising her again.

“Did you uh— did you have anything you particularly needed from me?” She asks, innocently enough. Luca’s mind races, taking in her rosy lips, the way her bare legs shift together ever so slightly as she readjusts herself on the chair. Yes. Ti prego, Dio, sì.

But she’s asking why he even needed a meeting with her today, he reminds himself, because of course she is. She’s actually here to do a job, unlike himself who had been thinking with his dick this whole time.

He scrubs his face with one hand, “No, I’m sorry, Mia. I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here like this, in the middle of the night.”

Luca’s mind whirls over the mountains of other things he could be doing, should have been doing with his time. 

“I do.” She puts her cup down on the side table, and gets up abruptly, coming to stand before him. Heart beating wildly in her chest. Looking down at Luca, she raises her hands slowly up underneath her skirt, and pulls her undergarment down. Bending at the waist to draw them down her legs and stepping delicately out of them once they hit the floor. 

Luca’s eyes leave hers, trailing the movement of the silky fabric. Her whole body thrums with excitement, with anticipation.

“You do?” He croaks out.

Emilia simply nods, confidently standing there above him, panty-less and apparently ready for the taking. He nearly loses consciousness all the blood in his body redirects so fast.

He rises just as she lowers herself to meet him, and together they end up on the floor. 

Definitely not a polite house call, she thinks. As he practically rips open her blouse, grazing burning kisses across her bare flesh there. Emilia hitches her legs up around his waist. It felt like their last encounter had evolved so quickly, but it’s truly frantic this time. They’re both still kind of half-dressed when he enters her, warm and ready.

He keeps his attention on her chest, takes one breast in his hand, nips and sucks at the other. He had been so caught up in it all last time he didn’t pay the right amount of attention, too focussed on having her at all. Her heat enveloping him, her soft flesh filling his hand, skin under his mouth, he takes it all in this time. And she keeps making these little noises, little hitched gasps with every rolling movement of him inside her. One thing that’s the same, that he hopes is always like this: she’s so sweet. He wants to know what she tastes like everywhere.

He mouths back up to her panting lips. Slides his hands under her, up to neck, where he cradles her head in his palms, keeping her there. Something he seems to enjoy doing, and honestly, she’s not complaining. 

She gasps into his mouth. There’s an underlying taste of coffee there, that he wants to just drink in until it tastes only like her. He licks hungrily into her mouth, kissing her in a way that makes her whimper, high and needy in the back of her throat.

For a moment, it’s dreamily reminiscent of one of those romance novels she used to read, Emilia thinks. Being made love to on a soft rug on the floor, in front of the warmth and glow of a roaring fire. Then Luca hitches his elbow behind one of her knees, drawing it up higher, allowing him to penetrate deeper, harder, and she can’t think much at all.

Emilia feels something cold and metallic brush against her chin and looks down to see Luca’s golden cross necklace. She had gotten the top half of his shirt unbuttoned when they first started, and it was hanging down from its place around his neck, dangling in the haste of his thrusts. She opens her mouth, taking the little cross in, and bites down on it. Holding it between her teeth to stop it from hitting her.

Luca watches this unfold, and has to slow down, shutting his eyes briefly, just so he doesn’t lose it on the spot. And he’s sure it’s blasphemy, but he makes a silent prayer for strength, just to be sure. What was wrong with him? She made him lose all his hard-won control.

He’s still grinding his hips into hers, and she tosses her head back, still holding onto the cross, groaning around it. Maybe she was having the same problem?

He leans in close to her ear, “You wanna know what I was saying yesterday, dolcezza?” 

“Mm,” she answers in a moan around the metal in her mouth.

“You have no clue what you do to me. You make me need, amore. And I never need anything. From anyone.” Every sentence is punctuated with a thrust.

And, God, it’s nowhere near as dirty as she had thought but it touches the same place inside her. She digs her fingers into his biceps, as it sets her aflame deep from within. He fucks her through her shivering, full-body tremors. His own orgasm hurtling headlong behind.

He’s ready for it this time, pulling out and coming on her instead, warmth hitting the inside of her thigh.

They don’t move for what seems like an age. Emilia caged in on all sides by Luca, catching their breath.

It takes everything he has not to just fall forward, bury his face in her neck, let sleep take him. Thinks she might even be amenable to such a thing. Instead, Luca summons the last of his strength, leans down slowly, kisses the hollow of her throat, and then sits up, tucking himself back in his trousers.

Emilia sits up too, discreetly pulling the front of her blouse back over her exposed chest. She rummages around in the side table next to them and succeeds in pulling out a tin of pre-rolled cigarettes and a lighter. She taps one out, and lights the end, quickly inhaling.

Luca leans back against the couch, jaw tilted up lightly as he watches her somewhat affably. She doesn’t offer him one, he doesn’t ask. She reaches out and grabs her mug off the table too, finishing off her now-cold coffee in between puffs, avoiding his luxuriating gaze.

“Why don’t you smoke?” She asks. She had seen nearly everyone in New York smoking, and she was sure people in Italy smoked, but she had never seen Luca touch one, always just that toothpick or match instead.

She was avoiding what had just happened, so Luca gives her an answer he knows will annoy her. “Didn’t know I was supposed to.”

She glances sidelong at him and raises an eyebrow.

He bobs his head from side to side, like he doesn’t really know what to say. Finally settling on, “I don’t like the taste.”

She laughs, it’s almost a cute answer. “Nobody likes the taste,” she tells him, chuckling.

He smiles, he knows. “Why do you then?” He throws back at her, good-naturedly.

“It started out by accident,” she pauses, “Good excuse for loitering somewhere, watching someone. Nobody asks why you’re hanging around if you’re just smoking.”

Luca nods, impressed. His girl was smart and fucking good at her job. He suddenly wishes he could tell her the truth, what he was planning for tomorrow. Maybe get her objective opinion.

Luca looks down, purses his lips slightly. “I’m glad that you were okay today,” he says quietly. 

“Thanks for coming by to check,” she replies, haltingly, unsure where this is going.

He looks like he’s going to say something else, like he has something important to say.

“Well,” she blurts out, ashing her cigarette, and making like she’s going to stand up, “I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

Luca frowns suddenly. “Me too,” he murmurs, moving to stand up as well. As he does, he leans forward, angling his face towards hers but freezes, inches away from her, apparently second guessing himself. She watches his eyes flicker down to her mouth and after a second that feels like a lifetime, he places a quick peck on the corner of her mouth, before just as quickly standing up and moving towards the door.

Emilia stands too, adjusting her skirt. Ignoring the wetness on her upper thighs, ignoring the fact that she’s going to need to take a bath tonight now.

He’s got his jacket and coat on when she meets him by the front door.

She stands alongside the door and waits for him to say something else, waits for him to say anything. He straightens his lapels, and gets one hand on the door handle, but pauses there. She can nearly see his thoughts ticking over. His jaw clenches briefly, and he straightens up, stepping over to stand directly in front of her, his eyes intense.

He puts a hand on her abdomen, just resting it there inside her half-unbuttoned shirt, barely holding her in place. He bends down, watches her eyes fall closed, and presses his lips to hers. Kissing her with such force that she is pushed back, her head stopped by the wall she’s leaning against. She responds almost immediately. Her jaw tilting up to hold the kiss, as he rises again slightly, angling his whole body in her space.

Her body surges against his, almost of its own accord. And Luca opens his mouth against hers, breathing her in, the barest brush of tongue. Considering the, quite frankly, frantic sex they'd just had, the kiss was so, so soft it was practically demure.

He doesn’t mind the taste of smoke on her, he finds.

Ever so slowly, he pulls back. She follows him, her head lifting off the wall to chase the press of his lips. Luca’s large hand on her stomach eventually halts her movement forward, and they separate. 

Emilia looks up at him with wide, clear eyes, and faintly parted lips. They just stare at each other for a moment.

Luca looks down at her, tilting his head, almost like he’s going to rest his forehead against hers, but doesn’t, he keeps his slight distance. Emilia watches his downcast eyes, the tiny crinkle in his forehead. There’s something sombre in his expression, something almost sad about it. Before she can say anything, Luca takes a deep breath and nods and turns away. Opening the door and leaving, without another word. 

What was all that about? She thinks.

She doesn’t have to wonder long.

In the end, she learns about the ambush just in time to alert the police. Just in time to tell them to have a large team ready to mobilise. She’s not sure if Tommy has told them himself but she figures she better, just to be safe.

She can’t even be mad about it. Luca had come to her the night before, hot-blooded and ready, and she still hadn’t figured it out. Had been so preoccupied by him in her house, she’d lost it. Had he been about to tell her, and she had practically jumped him, and ruined it? Or more likely he was just not telling her, had maybe hoped she would figure it out on her own. But Tommy and Polly had kept this one wrapped up tight, so she had no idea until almost too late.

She opens the door to his suite a few hours later. It’s quite late, but he’s still up. Luca’s sitting on the lounge, lit hazily by the dying embers glowing in the fireplace. One hand rubbing his temple, toothpick working overtime. He looks up as she comes in.

He doesn’t ask, ‘Did you know?’ And she’s grateful. Hopefully they were past that. 

What he does say is, “You heard, then?”

Truth is, she had learned about the shootout by pure chance. She had gone into town that morning and heard murmurs of ‘that Shelby man’ seen moving a large case onto a council estate in the dead of night. There’s really only one thing it can be, but she hopes otherwise. Until, she comes home to a large bouquet of flowers on her doorstep, left there in the short time she had popped out. They’re white lilies. What do lilies symbolise? Death? Forgiveness? Either way it’s a blatant sign from Luca. She knows where Tommy keeps the stolen gun; the Lewis machine gun she technically had no professional knowledge of. She races and finds it gone and her blood runs cold. Only then did she call in reinforcements.

She sits on the edge of the coffee table, placing herself directly in front of him.

She can’t tell him just how relieved she had felt to hear that he survived, that the police had stopped he and Tommy just in time. Can’t tell him because she wasn’t even sure how to put it into words for herself yet. Didn’t want to think about what that meant. 

“You should have told me,” she says in its place.

Luca looks at her like she’s right, but she knows he can’t say it.

He looks around the room, his eyes never resting in any spot for too long, his body still thrumming from the comedown of adrenaline. 

“Nearly fucking had him,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, shaking his head. 

She reaches a hand out, resting it on his knee. Emilia can feel the tension coming off him in waves. 

His gaze settles on her hand on him, before he places his own atop it. “They killed Federico,” he says, the statement at odds with the soft, gentle rubbing of his fingers over her knuckles.

She knew the numbers, from Tommy, from the angry coppers she had dealt with. 3 Italians dead, no Blinders.

She also knew Federico was important to him, had helped him plan a lot of their mission so far. 

“He knew what he was getting into,” Emilia tries quietly.

Luca gives a small half-nod, then rubs a hand over his brow, “That fucking bitch sold me out.”

She really doesn’t want to say, ‘I told you so,’ but she did say not to trust Polly. Emilia would know, but he can’t know that. So, instead, a little flirty, she says, “Did you send me flowers?”

She expected him to give a wry smile, to maybe wink, laugh it off, but he doesn’t. He sighs deeply and nods once. And, white lilies might be for something in particular but, she realises, he had meant them as goodbye. Thank you and goodbye, thinking he was about to be done here.

“You look like you need to sleep, Luca.”

She reaches out and runs her other hand along his jaw, her thumb tracing the faint white line of the scar that runs down the hollow of his cheek. He leans into her touch, eyes falling half closed.

“Let me take you to bed this time,” he replies, his voice hoarse.

He takes his time with her, stripping them both down, and working out all his tension from the day. Like they have all the time in the world, when they clearly don’t, when he nearly died multiple times today.

Luca ends up behind her on the mattress, his arms wrapped securely around her, clinging to her, clinging to life. One arm tucked under her neck and crossing her chest to grasp one breast, the other reaching up over her ribs to hold her other. It had been a long time since she had felt so secure in someone’s grip. If ever, she thinks alarmingly.

She reaches her own hand back, grabbing the nape of his neck. And turning her head, pulls his mouth to hers, trying to put all that emotion into a kiss, all that she can’t say. She gasps into it, her torso pulled back against his like this, forcing her to bow her back. This new angle allowing him to reach somewhere deep inside her that sends her quivering all over with every thrust.

He has to grip her tighter to hold on, to keep it going. His brows pull together, and he groans loudly into her mouth, almost completely gone.

His hand not under her, drops to her hipbone, gripping painfully tight. She finds herself hoping they’ll leave a mark. Something she could press on later and be pleasantly reminded of this, because there’s no way something this good can last.

Later, after they’ve caught their breath, Luca is pressed up against her back, his arms still entwined around her. He picks up her right hand and holds it palm-to-palm with his, the difference in size is nearly comical. 

He takes off his pinkie ring and deftly slides it onto her middle finger. She turns her hand over in his and observes the piece of jewellery. It’s a gold signet ring, with an intricate ‘L’ carved into the face.

“Hm, I don’t know,” Emilia intones, “Doesn’t really go with the rest of my look.”

Luca scoffs into her neck, punctuating the joke with a thrust of his hips against her. The big tease.

His deep voice rumbles into her shoulder, “I want you to have something to look at and remember me.” And it’s like he’s inside her head because hadn’t she just been hoping for that?

Emilia bites her lip, “I think you want to look at me, and see something of yours.” She’s still teasing, because actually acknowledging what was happening right now might overload her already overwrought brain. “So typical of a man,” she sighs, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Luca bites hard into the sensitive muscle between her neck and shoulder. Emilia gasps in response. “I can see plenty of things of mine, la Mia,” he whispers there. And yeah, she was aware of the bilingual double-entendre of a nickname he had given her.  

“This,” he nips at the mark he had just pressed into her shoulder. “This,” he runs his hand along her side, over various bruises and marks he had littered her with in their passion. Pressing into the bruises like she had hoped for it out loud. His hand drifts lower, and Emilia’s mouth drops open. “This,” he growls out, reaching between her legs, through the mess he left there.

He slides his fingers through the wetness of her opening, gathering some up and swirling it over her most sensitive spot. He feels a deep moan vibrate through her and attaches his mouth to her neck. He places a fingertip either side of her clit and rubs up and down. She squirms and he continues until she grasps at his forearm, pulling at it, panting, still too tender yet. Luca concedes, kissing up and down her neck, nevertheless.

“Something to remember you by, huh?” She asks, once she’s got her breathing back in order, “You going somewhere, Capo?”

He hums in the affirmative, “I’m going to London.”

Emilia nods, realising, “Going to see that old geezer, are you?”

“You know Solomons?”

She snorts, “No. If I had ever been introduced to Alfie Solomons, I would never have been able to work again. Man doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut,” she chuckles.

Luca makes a noise of understanding behind her.

The bed is nice, an upgrade from the couch or the floor for sure, but she still leaves in the early hours of the morning. She doesn’t wish him good luck, wouldn’t want to presume, knows he doesn’t need it. But where Solomons was concerned, you could never be sure. 

She drives herself back, her eyes catching the gold of the ring on her hand on the steering wheel, glinting in the light of the streetlamps. She decides she’s going to wear it, but she desperately needs to clear her head. Three times in three nights was a little much, by anyone’s standards. She’s going to use this time away from him to de-stress, to de-Luca, get some perspective on the situation.

Best laid plans, and all that.

Ada storms into Polly’s one day when Emilia and Lizzie are working there, fuming mad. She’s a mess, yelling about being strip-searched, and humiliated by the army. 

She rounds on Emilia, “And, why didn’t you tell me about this?”

Emilia nearly double takes, how was this her fault now? But, Ada’s serious. 

“I don’t deal with fucking communists,” she looks up at the other woman, trying not to roll her eyes, “Not my department, Ada.” At least not anymore, she thinks. From the other side of the room Polly cackles.

Ada carries on, she was always secretly the most dramatic of the lot. 

Emilia decides she’s had enough, she’d finished her work for Tommy for the night, she packs up. Was it too presumptuous of her to just show up at Luca’s hotel? Especially in the middle of the night, especially if she didn’t even know if he was back yet? The fact that it was the only place she even felt like going, meant she was in enough trouble as it was. As she pulls on her coat and bag, she notices Lizzie, who looks just as restless as Emilia feels. “Do you want to get out of here?” She asks, “Maybe grab a drink? I know a place.”

Lizzie agrees, and they wind up at an old pub, filled mostly with old spinsters, on the other side of town. “Lovely,” Lizzie remarks upon entering.

Emilia laughs, “Hey, but at least it’s better than the Garrison.” And, at least they could drink here without a man present.

Lizzie orders their drinks, and they sit themselves at a small table at the back, and it’s nice. It reminds Emilia of a time, before all this, before razor gangs, and spies, and Italian mafias. The same way the men all talk about the time before the war. When old friends could just sit and talk for hours, about meaningless shit. 

Inevitably though, things do crop back up.

“Think I might be pregnant,” Lizzie drops on her, seemingly out of nowhere after a couple of hours.

“Fuck!” She covers her mouth, just as quickly as it had come out. Several people at nearby tables turn their way. “I mean,” she whispers it behind her hand in Lizzie’s direction, “Fuck.” 

“Yeah, fuck.” Lizzie laughs, “It’s Tommy’s too.”

Emilia sits back, letting that little nugget of gold sink in. Of course, it was. The man had a habit of sinking his claws in.

“I’m happy for you,” she can barely rasp the words out. She can’t quite pinpoint why, but her voice is suddenly choked with emotion.

Lizzie’s brows pull together, and she chuckles a little in disbelief, “You don’t sound it.”

“I’m sorry,” Emilia replies, earnestly, “Things are just complicated right now.” It all comes flooding back in a rush, the past few weeks, she had thought she could sweep under an emotional rug, maybe forget about for a few hours.

“You don’t need to tell me.” Lizzie smiles over at her. She knows better than to ask Emilia about her own love life. The lines between work and personal were so often blurred, Lizzie was one of the few who had first-hand knowledge of that. She also knew better than anyone what it was like to be involved with a Changretta, so Emilia feels genuinely comforted.

Emilia smiles widely back across at her friend, “Well, we better be getting you home then, I can’t be keeping a pregnant lady up drinking all night!” She slaps a hand down on the table. “I won’t have that on my conscience.”

It’s not late, and it’s such a nice night out, that they both decide to walk. They leave the pub and set off down the street. 

They’re about halfway back to Watery Lane when they encounter a couple of men. They’re loud, and visibly drunk. They notice Lizzie first, apparently recognising her from her earlier working days. The whole area is Shelby territory, so Emilia’s barely worried.

“Just keep walking, Lizzie.”

The men start to follow them, hurling lewd abuse their way. Emilia turns around to tell them where to shove it, knows she’s armed if it came down to it, when she notices the men’s uniforms. Under the streetlamp, she can see they’re both police. Police who were drunk and off duty, never a good mix at the best of times. “Shit,” she says under her breath.

She thinks of the ambush with Tommy and Luca shooting up the estate, of the copper shot on the bridge. These men weren’t going to care both her and Lizzie were essentially Peaky Blinders. It might even be an incentive for them. The force wasn’t in Tommy’s pocket anymore due to the Italians. 

Emilia doubles their pace.

The coppers are getting louder and more violent, more vehement, and there are no other people around, not even any cars on the road. Emilia can almost see what’s about to happen before it does.

One of them reaches out and grabs at Lizzie from behind, and it all ends up happening in a blur after that.

There’s yelling, Lizzie lashes out at one of them and gets a hit in return, more yelling, Emilia ends up shoved against a wall at one point. Her knife’s in her hands before she knows it, and then it’s nearly completely in the man nearest her before he knows it. There’s blood now, and it still doesn’t seem like they’re going to back off, if anything they look more upset, more vicious. Emilia draws her gun from her purse and brandishes it, relieved as she finally sees fear enter the men’s faces. They take off back the direction they came, stumbling, swearing.

“Jesus, Em, why do you have that?” Lizzie pants, watching her put the gun away again.

“Are you okay?” Emilia asks her friend. Lizzie’s clutching her stomach.

“I don’t know.”

She helps Lizzie to Polly’s. She’s a little bruised and battered but mostly okay. Emilia’s the same, but doesn’t stay to rest like Lizzie, she makes for her car. She ignores Lizzie’s pleas to stay. She can’t handle the fucking air in there, the eyes on her when they ask what happened. Polly’s belated maternal instincts towards her only made her resentful these days, which she didn’t need.

Emilia says she’ll be fine, makes her excuses. And drives to him, to the hotel, wiping the blood off her hands on the way, off her steering wheel. So much for perspective.

Luca wanders into his hotel room feeling like death warmed up, it’s late and the drive back from London felt like it had taken three times as long as it should have. The meeting with Solomons had gone well, he was going to get what he wanted, but at the expense of mutilating a couple of his men. Luca stands just inside the door and lets his eyes fall shut, resting his brain for just a moment, that’s all he needs. He pulls off his coat and hat, going to hang them up, when he notices another coat already hung on the stand. A woman’s coat. He looks down, there’s a purse strewn at his feet too.

“Mia?” She’s not in the bed, or at the desk. He rounds the corner; not in the next room either.

“Luca?” She answers, voice coming from the bathroom. He grins, remembering when he had done the same thing to her. His mind conjuring up images of an expanse of warm, wet skin; naked and waiting for him.

What he finds is Emilia standing crookedly at the sink, bloodied towel in the basin, stockings ripped but still fully clothed, inspecting a large cut on her head in the mirror. She looks over when he appears in the doorway, her face pallid except for the redness on her forehead.

“Hi,” she says meekly.

Luca’s by her side in one stride. He lets loose a barrage of questions. 

She might have hit her head harder than she’d previously thought, because she takes a minute before realising they’re in Italian. Emilia doesn’t even think he knows he’s doing it. She can decipher a ‘What are you doing?’ in there, so she answers that one.

"Just cursing the fact that head wounds bleed like a motherfucker," she gestures to her head and the towel in the sink. She had only just stifled the blood flow.

Luca frowns, reaching up slowly with both hands. Before they get to her though, he looks into her eyes, asking a silent permission. Emilia nods. He tucks his large hands around the base of her head, thumbs running over the edge of her jaw. He tilts her head back a bit, holding her in place and inspecting.

Emilia just sighs under his touch.

“I’ll kill them.”

He doesn’t even know who they are yet, she muses. She might have fallen and hit her head for all he knew, but she appreciated his intuition.

“Got one pretty good myself,” she leans over and pulls the knife from her stocking. It’s blade still reddened to three quarters of the way up. She’s right, no matter where she got him, that was going to hurt. Luca takes the dagger from her, placing it on the sink, expecting to see her hands shaking, even a little, but there’s nothing. They’re steady as ever.

He stays in her space, looking down at her. “What happened?” His voice is sharp and teeming with anger, but she knows it’s not for her.

She takes a deep breath. She tells him how she and Lizzie had been at Polly’s, had decided to get a drink, had been having fun, had decided to walk home.

Luca’s stomach drops a little, he could see where this was going. Why she looks disappointed with herself, she had seen it coming too, and hadn’t been able to avoid it. Which was fucked, was probably the worst thing of it all; that someone could put that look on her face. Could make his capable, firecracker of a girl, feel like anything less.

Then she mentions that they were police and a cold, raw anger shoots through him. This fucking place.

Luca holds her, mostly to stop himself from doing anything else. She’s stiff, a steady bundle of tensed nerves under his hands. He presses a kiss into her hair, just above where the cut was. 

Emilia shivers under his touch, lets him warm her up. “Took her back to Aunt Pol’s, and everyone there— I couldn’t handle it,” she confesses. He pulls back slightly to look at her face again.

She continues on, rambling now, details about the men, about the night before that. Trying to avoid thinking about running out on everyone at the house. Is it that she didn’t want to be there? Or she just wanted to be here more? They must have known she was coming here. She was practically caught out. She was getting sloppy and couldn’t quite bring herself to care. 

Luca’s eyes have glazed over, like he’s looking through her rather than at her.

“What?” She questions.

He focuses up, eyes fixing on her intently. He’s quiet a moment longer, then says in a dark voice, “You said ‘Aunt Pol’.”

She freezes. Momentarily, but enough that Luca notices.

His eyes narrow, and he straightens up, “That’s why they trust you, huh. 'Cause you’re fucking family?” 

Emilia forces a casual smile. “It’s just what they call her,” she says trying to play it off.

“You don’t. You’ve never called her that before, not in front of me,” he says it slowly, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

“You’re being —” 

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” he’s backing away from her now, his voice deadly. 

She feels like she has whiplash. She tries to reach out for him again, “Luca —”. He pulls out of her grasp, keeping his hands up, to keep her at bay. 

She pointedly does not deny his accusation. 

“How easy was it?” He’s livid now, his voice clipped, barely above a whisper, “You come in here, tell me you work for them and I just fucking believe you.”

“I’m not one of them.” It’s not a lie, she wasn’t officially, not like Lizzie was, and she had never felt like one of them, especially not since him. Emilia sighs, letting her arms fall to her side. “But yes— technically Polly is my Aunt,” she admits, because fuck, he already knows.

And God, she had been so careful. So careful, and it’s all coming unravelled in one goddamn night.

Luca’s whole face drops. She carries on anyway, needing to be understood, to clarify, “Her husband— her dead husband, was my uncle.”

It had all seemed so serious, so crucial, a few weeks ago to keep the secret. Then, whatever had happened between them, had happened, and now, it doesn’t seem so important. 

“She nearly got me fucking killed,” he growls, “Or were you in on that, too? Was that bullshit as well?” He turns away from her, his face disgusted. He carries on before she can reply, “Bet you all had a good fucking laugh about it, huh?” He sneers, rubbing a hand over his brow, still not facing her.

“No —”

“You know, my mother was right about you,” he whirls around, pointing at her, nearly yelling now. “She said not to trust you, no matter what you said. That there wasn’t a soul in this city she wouldn’t know about.” His accent becomes more pronounced when he’s angry, somehow more Italian and more American all at once, “That your whole act was a fake, a plot!” He’s on such a roll now, she doesn’t even get a chance to reply. 

“What are you even doing here? Why are you here— in my room?” His questions hurt, edging too close to something she couldn’t explain. “You want me to go after them, get some more of my men killed? Why would you come all this way?”

She breathes deep, “I came here because I feel safe here.” He rolls his eyes at that, but she carries on. “I don’t know who those men were, who they really work for. This could have been a targeted attack, could have been arranged by anyone.” 

Luca nearly laughs, “You’re fucking paranoid, you know that?”

“Give me a reason not to be, ‘cause I’m the one who just got jumped in the middle of the street at nine thirty, on a weeknight!” She might be yelling too.

He glares at her across the small room. Running a twitching hand through his hair, Luca speaks to the floor, more than her when he says, “I should shoot you where you fucking stand.” He spits it out, full of fire, but it still sounds like he’s mostly trying to convince himself. 

Emilia wants to laugh suddenly, the hysteria of the situation maybe setting in. She had brandished her own gun only a few hours ago and doesn’t believe for a second that he would even dare to do the same. Not to her. She had met all manner of dangerous men and had always found the ones who were truly violent, who were willing to be so even in private, had tells. And, were rarely ever subtle about them. Luca had never struck her as one of them, leaning more towards an old-fashioned sense of chivalry than anything else. Emilia doesn’t have time to explore the dichotomy of a man who’ll shoot a stranger point-blank in the face, but would never put his hands on a woman, but remains thankful.

Luca is still going, his ranting morphed into Italian now, so she could hardly defend herself even if she knew how. She doesn’t know where to start, what to do, her head throbs. She wants to explain herself but can’t stand the stifling, windowless bathroom. She had been caught out, it was too late to diffuse, and all of her training was telling her to get out, get as far out as soon as possible. She feels like she’s drowning. She pushes off where she had been leaning against the bathroom sink, moving towards the door.

“So, you’re a Gray,” Luca says watching her go, his mouth twisted and his voice full of contempt, “Emilia Gray?”

“No, that wasn’t a lie —” she trips as her leg gives out from underneath her, and she has to grab a nearby wall for support. She looks down and notices a large gash on her lower leg. She doesn’t know how she didn’t notice it until now. Her stockings are ripped and there’s blood streaming profusely down her calf. There’s some dirt and other detritus in there, probably got caught on something when she was pushed against the wall.

Pain suddenly shoots up her leg, now that she’s noticed it. She must have gotten here on pure adrenaline. She tries to walk again, but her knee crumples under the pain. Emilia inhales sharply, “Fuck, shit,” as she has to grasp the wall again. Her heart rate shoots up out of pure habit, last time she had been injured and had to make a getaway had not ended well for her— hadn't ended well for anyone.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Luca curses from where he’s watching from the other side of the room. He appears next to her, lifting one strong arm under hers, around her back. It shocks a gasp out of her. “Come here,” he murmurs close to her.

Together they hobble over to his desk, where he sits her down on the edge hard.

“Sit,” he brandishes a long finger in her face, “Stay here.” His face is still drawn tight and serious, but all the ire seems to have disappeared out of it. He departs back into the bathroom, returning with a damp washcloth and a towel. He settles on the chair in front of her and lifts her injured leg up onto the arm of it. 

It’s a far cry from throwing her out on her ass, like she had thought he might. She doesn’t dare say a word. Doesn’t know what to say, anyway.

Luca reaches up, grasps either side of the tear in her stocking and rips, disposing of the material completely. She has to bite her lip not to react. 

He applies pressure to the wound with the wet cloth, and this time Emilia can’t help her gasp at the sudden sting. Luca’s shoulders tense a little, but he does not remove the cloth. There’s a set to his jaw that tells her he’s still entirely mad. Though, she can’t tell anymore if it’s at her, or the coppers, or just in general.

Little by little, he manoeuvres the cloth around, wiping at the blood, and stifling its flow until he hears Emilia’s breathing even out. His fingers are gentle on the tender skin of the back of her leg. He tilts his head around to better inspect the gash, and begins to clean the dirt out of it, apparently focussed entirely on the task at hand.

She stares down the slope of his nose, taking in the stern profile and chances an explanation, “You want the whole sad story?” Emilia asks him, her voice quiet, and a little shaky.

He clicks his tongue and doesn’t say anything for a moment. He’s still breathing heavy, fuming down at her leg. Eventually, he mumbles a response, “While I’m here, sure.”

She tells him.

Polly’s husband was her maternal uncle, her mother’s brother. Meaning she was still a Turner, after her father’s side. She doesn’t pause to ponder why she had given Luca her real name from the start. She had given plenty of fakes in the past, but it hadn’t seemed right with him. She was at least thankful for that now. After her parents both died, her uncle and Pol had looked after her. Then he died too, and Polly went a bit mad.

“I didn’t see them again until I was grown-up. Already had my job, already fought hard for it. I mean, I was an orphan I had to. It was either that or,” she half shrugs, not wanting to over-emphasise this part, “Live on the street. Work on the street.” 

Luca doesn’t miss it, his head lifting to meet her gaze for the first time since she began her story. The lines of his face were set in a harsh scowl, apparently implying she could have easily become a prostitute was not the best path of explanation. 

Emilia tries to deflect, “It wasn’t entirely Polly’s fault, she had her own things going on, her own kids being taken off her.”

Luca had known that. It was what made her especially susceptible to his threatening of Michael.

“It was kind of about my own mother, it — it’s hard to explain,” she stops.

“Try.”

She’s shocked to hear the sharp response, had apparently gotten his attention now, and he wanted answers. She stares into his deep-set eyes, fixed on hers. He looks tired.

Emilia thinks about it for a moment, deciding on how exactly to tell it.

“She ran away, married a man outside of her class, educated herself. Everyone here, her family, thought she thought she was better than them.” 

Emilia sighs, “Maybe she did, I don’t know, she died young.” Saying it out loud felt not-quite wrong but almost too much. Too intense. She carries on. “Then, her rogue child shows up, — I wasn’t an easy kid to deal with,” she adds as an aside. 

“And, I left as soon as I could too. What were they to think, except that I thought the same as she had? That I was better than them.”

The worst part for Emilia was she knew she wasn’t. She was just like them, just as condemnable as even a man like Luca himself. She just had the official title to ratify it.

“I’m not a Shelby,” she reiterates, ploughing on while she still had his direct attention. “Michael is my only blood relative. He’s my cousin and I never really met him until he was already a man.”

Luca’s mind races back to the day he had threatened the kid, her anger then, scolds himself for not picking up on it sooner. It was so obvious in hindsight.

“Nobody knows this. Half the fucking Shelby’s don’t even know this. Tommy found out what I did, and came to me a few years ago, with an offer of working together. He thinks he can trust me, because he thinks they’re the family that I’ve always longed for. That I was so desperate for.”

“You let him think this,” Luca grumbles, letting his head fall, turning his focus back to her injury.

Her brows pull together, “Why do you think I ended up with a job with the bloody government? I decided a long time ago —” she shakes her head, a few strands of hair falling into her face. “I wanted to be more than they are. Than he could ever be. More than my mother ever dreamed of.” 

Her ambition had always been palpable. It was nice to know where it came from, that it was fought for tooth and nail.

“Slowly they got under my skin like family does, but I’m not them. Especially not in their eyes, I’ll never be.” 

He couldn’t blame them for being insular, it was the smart thing to do, and a tight-knit family was fundamental in his world.

“I’m not in the will, I don’t go to family meetings,” she exhales a short laugh, though Luca hears no real mirth in it.

But he couldn’t imagine that being someone’s only sense of familiarity in life; how useful they were. A love of convenience. A love that was so visibly conditional. He feels a burst of anger for Tommy Shelby, for all the Shelby’s. How could they not see her for what she was? 

"They're using you,” he mutters.

And she knows, of course she knows that, has already decided she can live with it. "Everybody's using someone for something,” she replies, looking down at him through half-lidded eyes.

Then again, he had underestimated her too. A brief tinge of guilt colours his anger. What were they using each other for?

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand any of it, Mamma’s boy,” she mumbles, pouting. It’s a risk, antagonising him so soon after such a revelation, but she sees the tiniest flash of a smile cross his face. A strange thought occurs to her; that he might not like her in spite of these small ills but because of them.

He’s finished digging the dirt out of her leg and goes to wipe it. The cool cloth stings and she involuntarily flinches away from him, inhaling sharply.

Luca sits back quickly, letting his hands fall to the wayside. She panics slightly, was it all for nought? She had borne her soul. Would he still leave her hanging here? Untethered and alone. It shocks her how much she doesn’t want that to happen. How much emotional stock she had put into this, into them.

“Non riesco a pensare bene,” he murmurs to himself. He reaches around her grabs the phone off the desk and speaks quickly into the mouthpiece. Emilia purses her lips, she can tell he’s using Italian specifically, so she doesn’t decipher exactly what he’s saying, however she catches: ‘Polizia’, and ‘Uccidili’, and gets the gist. 

He hangs up, closes his eyes and sighs, deeply. Emilia sits in silence, trying to get her own heart rate to settle.

He picks up the washcloth and resumes his ministrations, this time moving the clean part of the cloth in circular motions. Moving up her leg, away from the cut. She frowns, a little confused, though it feels nice.

He tucks the chair in surreptitiously closer, his left hand resting on her other leg.

“So perché non me l'hai detto. Ma non mi piace,” he mumbles, and she feels his cool breath on the inside of her thigh, his face suddenly very close to her.

“You know I’m still not fluent, right?” She tries for joking.

Luca leans down and places a kiss just above where his hand is on her inner thigh, “Sì.”

He looks up at her briefly before continuing to kiss and nip his way upwards. Her breath catches in her throat and her mind races. Is he really about to — 

“I’ve wanted to do this since I first laid eyes on you.” And, yeah, he is.

She subconsciously spreads her thighs wider, his eyes light up, and he brings his face down directly between her legs. 

He still wanted her so badly he couldn’t quite figure it out, so he decides to show her the only way he could be sure of.

His mouth is hot through the fabric of her underwear, as he kisses his way across the airy silk. Emilia must have thrown her head back, or shut her eyes, or God knows what, because the next thing she knows is his lips across her bare skin there; she hadn’t even felt him removing anything. He tongues her slit, spreading her lips, and flattening his tongue, and she might have forgotten how to breathe.

“Oh,” she moans out. And how did this even happen, again? Any of this? She can’t remember. Maybe this is his fucked-up way of saying goodbye, and fuck, if it wasn’t— she was never going to be able to look at him with one of those goddamned toothpicks ever again without imagining this. 

He splays a large hand over her abdomen and pushes her back to lie against the desk, allowing himself more room to manoeuvre. He does this like he does all things: with a quiet confidence. His lips and tongue travelling up and down her, seemingly everywhere, all at once. Emilia doesn’t know what to do with her own hands, grabbing his, latching onto his shoulders, holding onto the edge of the desk above her head. 

Luca brings his hand down to her thigh, keeping her legs from closing on his head completely, and feeling for the tension there, a tell he had picked up for when she was at her end. His other is pressing at the delicate skin of the inside of her thigh. 

He hears her breathing double in pace. 

His hands spread her even wider, allowing him to inspect every last inch of her with his mouth. His fingertips keep teasing her entrance, barely threatening to slide in, spreading the wetness there, before moving again. She’s moving her hips more now, pressing herself down onto his face.

He attaches his mouth to her clit and sucks, pursing his lips around the bud, his own moans vibrating through her. 

“Jesus Christ!” And he might be an abject sinner most of the time, especially tonight, but in her prayer, in this prayer, he was absolved.

She comes, a writhing heap of pleasure in his arms, back bowing, her hands scrambling for purchase anywhere they can. 

He doesn’t stop, and she thinks she might actually die if he tries to make her come again without putting any part of himself inside her.

“Luca, fuck me,” she grasps at his hair, making a mess of it. She pulls herself back up into a sitting position.

He rises out of the chair, standing so they’re level, wiping a hand over his mouth. 

“You’re not too hurt?” He asks, his eyes flicking up to the cut on her forehead. The concern is truly touching, but all she wants is to feel him.

“No,” she leans in, trying to kiss him, but he tilts his head back, lips staying just out of her reach.

“Good,” he says, the corner of his mouth turning up, “Cause I’m gonna bend you over this desk and fuck you so hard you won’t be able to think straight.”

Before Emilia can react, he’s gripped her hips, and spun her around. Her front is pressed into the wooden top of the desk, and he pushes the hem of her dress up exposing the swell of her ass. She digs her fingers into the desk and arches her back, pushing her lower half out, trying to get more of his touch. She barely gets anywhere though, as her toes only just reach the floor from this position. She hears Luca swear under his breath, then the sound fabric rustling, his own pants being pushed down.

He slides the head of his cock up and down her slit, lubricating himself up. Emilia inhales sharply, she’s so ready for it she could scream. And when Luca finally slides home, she does cry out, her nails clawing at the desk top. He enters her fully in one smooth thrust, pausing there for a moment, unmoving, leaving her panting heavily. When he eventually decides to end her suffering and thrust, he keeps them shallow. He digs his fingers into her hip bones and only slides about halfway out before slamming himself back in, and repeats. Keeping her full and stuffed with his hardness.

She turns her head to the side to get some more air; Luca’s hurried pace apparently robbing her of all her other bodily impulses. Not to mention her grace, as she bumps her forehead against the table, the dull ache of her cut briefly becoming a sharp sting again. She’s almost glad for the momentary distraction away from the satisfying stretch of her lower half, she wants this to last for as long as it could.

She must have made a sound, as Luca’s pace slows, and he leans over her form, trying to gauge her readiness. Emilia looks over her shoulder at him and using the desk for purchase presses her ass back against him, setting her own pace of thrusts. Luca moans roughly into her neck and brings one hand up from her hip to her jaw. He pulls her upright with him, grinding against her, just barely moving his cock in and out of her.

“You like this?” He growls into her ear, his tone sending shivers all over her body. She can only nod in response, his hand still gripping her jaw tightly. 

“Tell me,” he continues, “Tell me the truth.” 

Emilia grunts, “I want you.” His hand not on her jaw, travels downwards to where they are joined. Feeling himself there. She abandons her grip on the desk, content to let him hold her up, and holds onto his arm wrapped around her. “Only you,” she pants.

“That’s it,” he lets his fingertips ghost over her clit. Gliding over it, before quickly retreating. He does this multiple times, leaving her a gasping mess in his arms. “No more secrets, tesoro.”

And those Italian nicknames only coming out when they were just at the edge, just so close to falling, really did it for her.

 “Fuck, Luca. Please.”

The dichotomy strikes her again. A man who had been mad, furious even, at her not even an hour ago, who probably wanted to hate-fuck her, who had intended this as such, but couldn’t. Couldn’t do it without pleasuring her first, getting her to a place where she was begging to be taken hard. There’s a tenderness in the forethought there, a level of care indicated that pushes all thought of it being a goodbye from her mind.

Somehow her dress ends up being pulled off, Luca grasping her breasts through the material of her bra, pushing it down as much as he could. Emilia can hear his breath starting to catch in his throat and knows he’s close.

She doubles her efforts, thrusting back on him, moaning, telling him how good it is, demanding more, and she’s going to make him come like this. He drives in and out, speeding up, his movements becoming more desperate. 

And, when she feels him give one final, punishing thrust and come inside her, his choked half-groans muffled into her neck, she feels like a goddess. She loves it; Luca coming unravelled, losing control because of her.

Luca’s not done though. He stays inside her and gives her clit the full attention he only teased before. Rubbing his fingers in circling motions over it, applying the perfect amount of pressure. She inhales harshly, throwing her head back over his shoulder, and her whole body tenses.

He keeps going until she tightens around him to a painful degree, and he feels her throb under his fingertips. They groan in unison one last time, and Emilia practically slumps in his arms; completely drained. She feels both safe, and completely fucked in his arms. In all possible meanings of the phrase.

Luca doesn’t know how he gets them to the bed, but he does. He brings the washcloth over, too, wiping them both off before falling face first into a pillow. After a while, he feels her wriggle against him on the bed. He throws out an arm, pulling her spent body against him, tucking her into his side. 

He squints one eye open, watching her as she lays quietly next to him. Her eyes are closed, her face and chest still flushed with colour. She looks perfect, like this. His eyes flicker up to the cut on her head and worry floods through him. She’s not saying much, what if he had taken it too far? 

“You know what else my mother said?” He asks, barely hinting at their earlier quarrel.

“Not to talk to women you’re in bed with about your mother?” She replies, keeping her eyes shut. 

Nope, she was definitely doing okay. He bites at her shoulder, lightly. “Anyone that that family has to keep secret, would be most dangerous of all.”

Emilia pretends to snore a little.

Luca’s just as spent, but he doesn’t sleep a wink that night. And when she leaves in the night, he doesn't even pretend to be asleep this time. Just watches her get up, gather her things, and leave, without even a glance back.

“These meetings are for family only,” Arthur grumbles at her, when Emilia wanders into the betting shop a few hours later. 

She makes a show of looking around, “Who the fuck are you talking to?”

Arthur harrumphs but does not reply, as Tommy breezes past the two of them to the head of the table. The whole extended Shelby clan is there, sorely missing Michael’s presence, in her opinion. Tommy clears his throat, “Official business first; the match…”

Emilia stays standing, mostly tuning the meeting out. Tommy had already discussed the Peaky’s plans for the fight night with her. And, while she was sure he hadn’t told her the full extent of them, she was sure he wasn’t about to reveal them in front of the rest of the family. She had only come today to touch base after the incident with Lizzie last night but finds herself preoccupied. The stress of the last few hours, and lack of any real sleep catching up with her. 

“Now the matter of the coppers who roughed up Lizzie and Emilia.” 

She perks up at that. “Don’t need to worry about that. They’re being taken care of,” Emilia calls out.

“Emilia, if you report them to your higher ups —” Tommy begins but is cut off.

“Didn’t report them to my higher-ups,” she says, only a little snide, “The bloody Italians are going after them.”

Tommy is silent. Polly looks up at Emilia from her place at the other end of the table, blowing smoke out of her smirking mouth. Nobody says anything for a minute.

Emilia gestures towards her head. “He saw my fucking head wound, didn’t he,” she says finally, breaking the silence. “Had to tell him.”

Tommy straightens up, “And all it takes is your say so to get Luca Changretta to go up against the police.” It wasn’t a question, Tommy looked vaguely proud.

“Don’t act dumb, Tom,” she folds her arms over her chest. “It’s the reason you wanted me specifically for this job, isn’t it?”

“Not the only reason, but I had hopes.”

She glares over the room at his smiling face.

“Okay!” He begins again, “So, the Italians will take care of the Police, we’ll take care of the Italians, and suddenly the Police are back in our pocket and we’ll make sure they never touch you again, ‘ey Lizzie?”

Once again, Tommy Shelby’s plan comes together without a hitch.

She leaves Watery lane and heads straight back to the hotel, straight back to him. Only a little guilty that she had raced off to a family meeting the very next day after telling him she didn’t go to them. She wonders briefly if this is the right move, if Luca had watched her leave the night before trusting she wouldn’t come back. But she remembers the way his hands had held her, how his voice had sounded when he gasped, 'No more secrets', and her worry dissipates. 

She sees Tony and Matteo on their way out, as she approaches the room. 

“We got them, Mia,” Tony whispers conspiratorially to her, as they pass. He gives a little wink and a smile. She liked Tony, he had become their impromptu driver, after the first one was killed by Aberama Gold, and he was the only one of Luca’s men who actually addressed her. The rest never talked to her. She was sure for the same reason Arthur had snapped at her this morning: distrust. It came with the job, with letting people know what she really did. 

“You got them already?” She asks, looking between him and Matteo. It’s barely noon.

“Hey,” Tony continues, “Couple of drunk, dirty sbirri ain’t no match for us.” He pats himself in the chest.

Matteo rolls his eyes and drags Tony the rest of the way down the hall, chastising him in Italian the whole way. Emilia smiles, quietly impressed.

She opens the door, and Luca is standing almost directly on the other side, clearly listening. He’s dressed down, for him: button-down shirt with suspenders over, and trousers. His hands are in front of him, one playing with a ring on the other. Toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth. 

She limps inside and clicks the door shut behind her, “Did you actually kill them? Or just —”

“What?” He asks softly, head bobbing to the side, “You’re saying you think a pair of filthy cops who’re skulking around the streets of Birmingham at night, ready to attack any woman who walks past deserve to live?” He bites down on the toothpick.

She smiles, his pronunciation of the city always gets her: Burr-ming-ham, the hard ‘r’, every syllable getting equal attention.

She takes in his slightly dishevelled appearance, fiddling, like he’s a little keyed-up. It leaves no doubt in her mind what he had just been doing, that Tony was not exaggerating. She guesses she should feel honoured that Luca would deign to deal with the two police himself, and not just send his lackeys. She doesn’t know what she feels about it.

“That’s not what I said.”

He doesn’t reply.

“Any woman?” She reiterates, turning away and hanging up her coat.

“Mm, don’t think they knew who you were, just unlucky,” he eyes her form, “And stupid.” How could they not see it? The unyielding sense of self-preservation she couldn’t lose if she tried; the rage, the knife, and the complete confidence to use it. The fact that she was back here at all, proved it.

Selfishly, it made him feel more confident in turn.

“Didn’t know if you’d come back after last night,” he says, keeping his eyes on the floor in front of where she’s standing, as she turns back around.

She steps into his space, eyeing his chest through the first few open buttons of his shirt, eyeing the ink peeking out.

“Didn’t know if I’d be welcome.”

Luca looks down at her, the top of her head only just comes up to his chin standing this close. He wants to laugh suddenly, how did she do that? He twirls the pick from one side of his mouth to the other, smirking around it. “Why do I feel so much better with you around?” He asks, playfully suspicious.

Emilia thinks for a second, “Maybe I just tire you out, so you actually fucking sleep for once.” Which, if that’s the case, she’s honestly jealous. She can practically feel the bags under her eyes.

He chuckles lightly, laugh lines appearing. “No,” he draws out, eyes roaming over her face, “I can feel it immediately.”

Emilia doesn’t know what to say to that, she changes the subject.

“Luca, we have to talk about the match.” Tommy’s meeting reminding her they hadn’t had a chance to discuss it yet. 

He never mentioned his plans to make a move at the fight to her, but of course she would have presumed. She’s avoiding his slightly more serious topic though, but it’s alright. For once in his life, he’s happy to wait, more than happy, as long as she stays right where she is. He tosses the toothpick, his eyes on hers, serious. He reaches out and strokes a thumb over the cut on her head, gingerly. The only problem is, he’s not sure how long they have.

“I want you to stay with me now, after this.” He rests his hand on the side of her head, cradling it.

She wants to argue, to let him know she didn’t need coddling after she was inadvertently captured by Russians. But, there’s something about the way he’s looking at her. Something about the pleading of the phrase, stay with me, that stops her. That makes her nod and sink forward into him.

“Restare.” He whispers it into her hair over and over, like a fucking prayer.

The next morning, she’s sitting with one leg up on her chair, resting a bowl of porridge between her knee and her chest. Holding the paper in one hand, and her spoon in the other. 

Luca eyes the bowl warily from over her shoulder. “This country and it’s fucking food,” he snorts softly, as he moves to sit opposite her at the desk. Reclining slowly, spreading himself out in the chair like a large cat. “Although, I must say, I’m finding it strangely appealing today,” Luca smirks, hiding it behind his hand.

Emilia looks down at the bowl, situated directly in her cleavage. She rolls her eyes, but offers him a spoonful which he takes, chewing apprehensively. A mixture of emotions cross his face before he settles on a pouty sort of pleasantly surprised face.

“Not bad.”

She grins over at him. Things felt different today for a myriad of reasons. There was nothing between them now. Emilia hadn’t expected to feel such a relief at the reveal of her secret, but it was unmistakable. She felt like she could breathe in front of him for the first time. 

On a more domestic level, she had never slept the night before, and had therefore never seen him in his morning routine. He was an early riser. Luca had washed and shaved already and was in the process of doing up the buttons on his crisp, white shirt that had been dropped off that morning. He smelled like freshly cleaned linen.

“Matteo’s gonna be here soon,” he hums. 

She looks up, trying to gauge his meaning. She was only in her satin slip, her hair unbound and unbrushed.

“Should I go?” She asks tentatively.

“No,” he replies immediately, too quick maybe, “No— uh, stay here.” He puts his hand out to emphasise ‘here’, before resting his jaw on it again, hiding another small smile.

She puts her bowl down and gets up to pull on her dress from yesterday, “You know Matteo doesn't trust me.”

“Well, he can be a smart guy sometimes,” Luca grins wider. She glares at him from the other side of the room. “Matteo doesn't trust you because it's kind of his job to dig up things on people,” Luca clarifies, “And, he couldn't find anything on you.”

She combs her fingers through her dark waves, “You tell him that it's kind of my job to be un-dig-up-able.”

A knock on the door.

“You tell him yourself,” Luca replies, sly.

She doesn’t know where to stand, so she puts herself behind the desk too, next to Luca still seated in his chair.

Matteo enters. His eyes narrow when he notices her still here, immediately suspicious. Emilia stares him down. She won’t be made to feel unwelcome, not here.

Luca reaches his hand out and rests it on the small of her back, just holding her next to him. He nods at Matteo to continue. He does, but his voice wavers at the start. Emilia can’t help but enjoy it. Was he embarrassed?

Matteo speaks to him in Italian, and Luca replies in English.

Emilia picks up on snippets of the conversation but is becoming increasingly distracted by Luca’s hand trailing up and down the small of her back. She looks down at the desk, trying to collect her thoughts, and is hit with a visual of what happened directly on this desk only a few days ago. Jesus, if Matteo was embarrassed now, she thinks, trying not to laugh suddenly.

She must make a noise because Luca looks over, still nodding along with Matteo’s conversation. His face is serious but there’s something in his eyes and she can tell he’s thinking the same thing. She shuffles her feet. 

Luca looks up at her, she’s standing tall, her arms folded confidently; presenting a united front, despite her eyes frequently flickering down to the desk. She looks good standing next to him, too good.

Luca’s hand tightens on her back and in one swift movement, he pulls her down to sit directly in his lap. Muttering a little, “Sit down,” on the way, so it comes out as more of a ‘siddown’. 

Matteo’s eyes widen, but he says nothing, even he wouldn’t dare.

Emilia stifles her gasp, only just. It’s jarring at first, but Luca keeps his hand on her and carries on his discussion like nothing has even happened. And gradually, she relaxes into it, into him. She rests an elbow over his shoulder, and levels her gaze back at the man standing across from them.

She leans back against his arm and chest, settling her form into his, and the sheer proximity sends a thrill through him. Luca finds he desperately wants to whisper all sorts of nasty shit into her ear, while she’s this close. But he also knows she wouldn’t want to be compromised like that in front of Matteo of all people, so he refrains. Maybe another time.

Apparently, Emilia has the same idea, though.

She knows it’s a power move on Luca’s part, to drape her over himself like this, but perhaps most surprisingly, she does feel more powerful in turn. Which is probably why, when Matteo ends one of his replies with a casual, “Certo, Capo,” Emilia can’t help herself.

She turns her face slightly, angling her mouth toward Luca’s ear and repeats the Italian. “Certo, Capo,” she whispers, only barely loud enough for him to hear. She whispers it into his ear but keeps her eyes on Matteo. Luca’s hand tightens on her side and he turns his face to watch her. She can feel the intensity of his gaze, and squirms against him for good measure.

Something flashes across Matteo’s face, when Luca looks at her. Something like apprehension, something in the vein of ‘that can’t be good’. Which she could understand, she did feel a little like the snake in the garden, a little like Lady Macbeth, literally whispering in his ear. While she knows Matteo can’t even glare at her for fear of retribution. File that away for future use, she thinks.

Eventually, Matteo says something that makes Luca twist his head back in his direction. Luca nods, “Okay. Bring a car around for me downstairs.”

Matteo gratefully rushes out of the room without saying another word.

Luca turns back, pressing a kiss into her cheek. “I gotta go,” he sighs. She hadn’t really expected anything else since hearing Matteo was arriving.

She looks down at him, pragmatic. He’ll tell her later. “If you gotta go, you gotta go,” she replies, in a scarily accurate impression of his accent. Luca laughs into her shoulder. 

He nips at her jaw, then with firm hands on her hips, stands them both up. Luca moves away to continue getting dressed, as Emilia sits back down in the desk chair warmed by him. She watches him, resting her head on her hand. He strides around the room confidently, throwing on a waistcoat, pocket watch, tie, cuff-links. It was much more involved than her throwing her silk dress about her shoulders. She secretly liked it.

He’s tying his tie in the mirror when he sees her watching him. Luca’s reflection smirks at her in the mirror. Okay, not so secretly, she guesses. He tucks the tie into his waistcoat and grabs his jacket off the dresser, quickly pulling it on. She gets up, meeting him at the dresser. There’s an array of pocket squares placed on top of it. She picks the one that matches his tie the most and folds it delicately before placing it in his jacket pocket. She lets her hands linger on his chest. Luca stands tall, his eyes warm as he gazes down at her, but she can see him slowly closing off. A mask of indifference falling over his face, prepping for the world outside, for the Luca Changretta everyone else gets to see.

“Good choice,” he says, quietly. He leans forwards, places a quick kiss on the top of her forehead, next to her cut there. He makes his way for the door.

She folds her arms in front of her and leans against the dresser.

He picks his hat off the stand and opens the door, looking back at her, “We’ll finish this later.”

“I’ll be here.” 

He winks and turns and leaves.

She goes to the window, to inspect. It looks directly down onto the street below. Luca gets into a car, she can see Tony driving, and two other men in there. No trace of the good-natured, near-constantly smirking man she had been living up here with. He was all business, the second he left.

Matteo stays behind, he mills about on the street for a little while, completely unaware she’s watching. Maybe he had been put on guard duty outside the hotel? That would piss him off for sure, Emilia thinks. Then, another car pulls up, this one she doesn’t recognise the driver of. The two of them chat through the passenger window for a while, before Matteo opens the door to get in.

Emilia has never moved so fast, she’s got her shoes and coat on, and is out the door in less than five seconds. She’s down on the street before she has a chance to second guess her actions, but she was here now, and she had always been taught to follow a hunch. She jumps into the nearest cab and tells the driver to follow that black car.

“Mia?” Is the first thing he calls out upon entering the room.

“Yeah,” she replies, from her place on the lounge where she was reading.

“One second, Doll,” he rushes to his desk, “Wanna get this down.”

She gets up, following him into the room, standing just by the desk, letting her hip rest against the edge of it. He’s dropped his hat and coat by the door but has kept his jacket on in his haste. His furious scrawling stops, and he picks up his note to re-read it. “We can order up some dinner, in a minute, if you like. You’re probably starved,” he says, still reading. He hasn’t looked over at her yet, and Emilia bites her lip, waiting for the moment he does.

In the spirit of honesty, she decides to tell him about her day.

“I followed Matteo today,” she tells him. Letting her fingers idly trace along the design in the wood of the desk.

“I thought you stayed here today?” Luca glances over but ends up doing a double take. Finally looking at what she’s wearing, he spins around to face her, taking it all in. She had come back from her snooping expedition, decided to have a bath, and instead of putting her dirty clothes back on had plucked one of his white dress shirts from the dresser. She knew he was particular about his fashion, but somehow, she didn’t think he would mind too much. The shirt was too big for her, obviously, so she had to roll up the sleeves a couple of times. And while the length covered her, it was only just, letting him know she couldn’t have anything else on underneath. She had left the first couple of buttons undone, just for fun. 

“I did. Until I, you know, just happened to be looking out the window,” Luca’s eyebrows furrow at her response. “He got into a strange car, and I thought, I can’t not follow him. So, I did.”

Luca leans back in his ornate desk chair, eyes appraising, “And?”

“And nothing.” She crosses her arms. “He went exactly where you told him to, did exactly what you said,” she says this like it annoys her. A smirk creeps over Luca’s face. He holds a hand out to her, still smiling, and pulls her closer towards him. Her bare legs stepping into the space between his open thighs. 

“Only juicy thing I got was him shit-talking me to the other men.” She’s pouting a little.

Luca laughs out loud at that. She turns in his space, and sits in his lap again, just like this morning.

His hands go to her hips immediately, warming the skin there through the thin material. “What did he say?” He teases.

She leans back against Luca’s chest, leans into his touch. “Oh, you know the usual, can’t be trusted, all that. And, then something I couldn’t quite understand.”

Luca makes a questioning ‘Hm?’ sound into the side of her throat.

“Something per le palle? I don’t know that word.”

Luca nearly chokes, “Tenere qualcuno per le palle?” He asks, incredulous.

As usual, the muttering of Italian in her ear, sends a shudder down her spine. Mixed with the rumble of his chest pressed against her back, it has her squirming in his lap. 

“Yeah, something like that,” she replies, a little breathy.

“Well, I can imagine that’s not in the textbooks. Means he thinks, you’ve got me by the balls.”

It’s her turn to laugh at that.

He mouths at her ear, breathing into it, “You follow him looking like this?” His large hands trail up the soft skin of her thighs, toying with the hem of his shirt.

“No, not like this.” The rough skin of his jaw rubs against her neck, and she puts her hand up behind his head to hold him there. “This is for you.”

Luca groans, “He might be right about you, you know that?” He grinds his hips up into hers.

And, yeah. She had thought of him asking her to wear his ring and had just known the shirt would do the trick. 

A moan escapes her lips, “Ugh, Capo.” 

Luca's not even going to pretend being called boss by her doesn't completely do it for him.

They fuck right there in the desk chair. Luca peeling his shirt off her, leaving her completely naked in his lap. While she just undoes his fly and presses his hardness inside her, leaving him otherwise fully clothed. It’s a slow grind, the friction and contrast of his suit all up against her back. His large thighs keep hers open, as his hands roam freely across her chest and torso. 

She wonders when she’ll ever get sick of this.

They order up food afterwards, and eat it in the bed, both sitting back against the headboard. A tray spread out between them. Luca is a picker of food, she realises. Mostly ignoring the food on his plate but will distractedly pluck a piece off every now and then. She even catches him doing it from her side, doesn’t even think he knows he’s doing it. It spoke of abundant family meals, everyone taking a bit of what they wanted. The formality of the English teatime, nowhere to be found.

She says as much, and Luca’s face goes still like he’s remembering something.

"Can I ask —" he begins, "How did it happen?"

"What?" She asks.

"Angel," he says in a quiet voice.

It’s so out of left field, it takes her a moment to figure out what he means: his brother’s death.

Emilia's voice stutters at the start, "Luca, you must know how it happened."

"I know what my father told me, whatever the police told him probably." He's not quite looking at her. She doesn't say anything, doesn't even know how to begin.

Luca continues, his voice a low murmur, "I was gonna come over the second I heard, already had my guys assembled, but my father didn’t want me to, insisted he had it handled." He sighs, "And I had to respect his wishes." A beat. "And now he’s dead too."

The guilt, she can’t imagine.

"But you know her right, the girl? You mentioned her." Lizzie, he means. 

He does look up at her now, large hazel eyes, almost pleading, "I want to hear it from you— from your perspective."

And if she couldn't give him anything else, she would give him this.

She tells him how it started, how it started with John really. Doesn’t tell him how she was hoping it would end with John, too.

He got back from war, no wife, and it turns out it’s shit to raise a bunch of kids on your own, so everyone decided he needed a wife. John had always liked Lizzie, he decided he was going to marry her. Until the rest of the family intervened.

"They objected to Lizzie’s— um, line of work should we say," she hesitates over the correct phrasing.

Luca frowns for a moment, then it dawns on him, "Oh."

Then, he rolls his head back against the headboard with a thud, "Oh shit." He almost laughs, "Angel always had the worst taste in women."

"Runs in the family, does it?" She waggles her eyebrows at him.

Luca smirks over at her.

“So, Tommy arranges a marriage for John that is mutually beneficial to all parties, especially the Tommy Shelby party. But John, he never let it go. Never let go of whatever he had for Lizzie.”

She wasn’t in the country for the next part but tells him how she understood it to have happened. Lizzie had started seeing Angel, innocent enough. Only John, being married himself, doesn’t really have any reason to object, so he drunkenly convinces Arthur to help him burn down Angel's restaurant.

“To send him a message, I guess. And also, just keep him away.”

Luca nods, he keeps his face placid, but he remembered. He remembered Angel calling after the fire, he had been proud of the place. To finally have his own establishment, somewhere not their father’s, not Luca’s, just his.

“Lizzie won’t let it go, so they look deeper into Angel. Decide he has enough nefarious connections to be an unsuitable match for her, now that she works for the company officially.”

Luca scowls.

John's motivations are essentially 'If I can’t have you, nobody can'. "It’s too bad really, he didn’t know Tommy had been fucking Lizzie for years," she tells Luca. "Too bad, she’s literally pregnant with his child right now."

Luca's eyes widen. 

"Yeah,” Emilia agrees, “Anyway, your father objected to that, they objected to being confronted about that, and decide to be giant children about it and cut up Angel.” She knows he knows this part. “The rest is history: Tommy’s wife, your father, us here now.”

He stays silent, thinking over what she has just said.

“What was today?” She asks.

He sighs, kicking his legs out across the bed, crossing them at the ankles.

“Solomons is helping us with the fight.” She had figured as much. “And he asked for something,” Luca leans his head fully back against the wall and rubs a hand over his eyes. “Something which is well— y’know,” he finishes rather unconvincingly.

She pushes the tray away, and tucks her legs up under her, so she’s angled more towards him. She was back in his shirt from before, and so follows his gaze as it trails up her bare legs.

“You don’t say? Alfie Solomons asked you for something and it’s turned out to be a complete hassle?” She snorts.

Luca laughs softly, raising one eyebrow at her, “Are you sure you’ve never met him?”

She waits a beat, but can’t help herself, now that he brought it up. “About the fight,” she begins, gently.

His face drops. “I don’t wanna talk to you about the fight,” Luca replies obstinate. He turns his head away, towards the fireplace on the far wall.

The dismissal stings a little coming from him, she knew the nature of their relationship had changed since the beginning, but she wasn’t about to be completely domesticated just yet. “C’mon, Luca,” she tries, “No secrets anymore.” 

He looks over at her with a guilty sort-of ‘don’t use that against me’ expression.

“Are you going to be there at least?” She asks.

Luca contemplates a moment, before answering. “No,” he sighs, “And, neither are you.”

And, if she wasn’t going to put up with being rebuffed, she definitely wasn’t going to put up with him outright ordering her around. Never mind, she hadn’t planned on going, anyway. Luca must see her expression change bitterly, because just as she opens her mouth to argue he grabs her hand, placating.

“Please, Mia. Just stay away from it, trust me.” And she did these days, which was maybe worst of all. Her mouth snaps closed.

“I don’t trust them not to blame you if something goes down,” Luca holds her hand up to his mouth, kissing her knuckles.

“If?” She repeats. Who did he think he was kidding? 

“Don’t ask it of me,” he presses into her hand, “'Cause I wanna give you everything, I want to give you everything you ask for.” He looks up at her, pleading, “But I can’t tell you some things.”

She leaves her hand in his grip, but her eyes are still intense on his. “I think the fight’s a misdirect,” she grumbles, voice not bothering to hide her frustration.

He lets his head fall back against the wall, giving in, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t think Tommy actually wants to get into training boxers. I think he just needs the stage, and Solomons is supplying it.” She waves her hand in front of them, emphasising. “You’re going to make a move there and I don’t think you should because he’s expecting it.” Luca opens his mouth to retort, but she ploughs on. “Just like on the estate. Neither of you told anyone about it and he was still ready with his fucking submachine gun—”

“You know, you could have told me about the gun,” he intercedes.

“How was I supposed to drop that in? 'Oh, by the way he has a fuck-off big gun, you might want to watch out for that’,” she replies, sarcastic.

He carries on, seemingly ignoring her quip.

“— could have told me about the kid."

Emilia turns to face him fully. “There’s a lot of things I could have told you,” she answers pointedly. Luca’s jaw twitches, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t agree. “So what? You want to kill his unborn child?”

“No,” he shrugs, cagey, “But, you know, maybe we could meet her.” Emilia stares at him, face unimpressed. “Just have a chat,” Luca finishes casually, but she hears the underlying implication. She was much better at reading him these days.

She turns away from him, again. “I know it might seem like it, but I'm not in the business of threatening my friends,” she grumbles, “What happened to honour?” She knew the terms of the vendetta Luca had proposed, knew how these things were supposed to be fought, in theory.

“These people have no honour,” Luca glares, “They already broke that. They broke that when they killed my brother for no fucking reason.” He thinks of Solomons, of his request. “They have no morals, betray one another at the drop of a hat, and I’m in this shit with them. We both are,” he spits out, “There’s no honour here.”

She rolls her eyes, she didn’t care that he fought dirty. But Lizzie was a step too far, and he knew it. “Believe it or not, I'm not with you because I think you're a bastion of morality,” she scoffs.

“Why then?” He asks, just a little too forcefully. 

She doesn’t answer. Luca breathes deep, sighing.

“Where else should I make my move then, huh?” He asks, more gently. “’Cause this is great,” he gestures between the two of them, “I mean, you got me beat, doll. I could do this forever.” His voice goes deep in implication, and her thigh twitches in response.

“But I’ve got a life outside of this, outside of the vendetta, people I work for, people that depend on me, a mother, all wondering where the fuck I am,” he stops himself, before he can’t. She didn’t need to know every little one of his internal problems. She had a habit of opening him up, of prying out what was in there, and had probably guessed most of what he had to say, anyway. “I came here with a job to do, and I haven’t done it.” If he didn’t get it done soon, Luca was sure he was going to lose his mind.

“That, and I could never stand this shit.” Frustrated, he gently kicks at the tray at the end of the bed knocking it off its precarious balance. It clatters to the floor noisily.

She shakes her head, “Italians and their fucking food,” she says, trying to tamp down her smirk.

He huffs a small laugh, “I’m American.”

Emilia shrugs, “More’s the pity.”

She scoots down the bed now that it’s unobstructed and lays down, her head on the pillow looking up at him.

“Tell me,” she begins, and Luca nearly rolls his eyes, she was determined to get some sort of information out of him tonight. “If your parents are Brummies why didn’t you grow up here?” She asks.

He thinks about it for a while then answers, “When my brother and I were very small, my father decided we should be raised in America.” His face grew softer as he reminisced over his childhood, in a way she was sure hers did not. 

“His extended family were already split between New York and Italy at the time. Made sure we grew up knowing the culture, knowing the city, the other families, I guess. But they couldn’t leave this place behind.” His mother, specifically, couldn’t leave behind the place where they had met. It hurts a little to think of her now, in a place she never really wanted to be, all alone.

Luca carries on, “We would come over to England occasionally. As we grew up, Angel took more of a liking to it over here, whereas I, uh— did not.” He presses his lips together.

“Ah yes,” Emilia says, from her place down beside him, her voice lilting. “I think I’ve heard that one from the others. Something about a bad robbery and some potential jail time?”

Luca smirks, remembering. “You know, when you’re young and stupid, and everything seems like a good idea? Until it ain’t. Anyway, my father decided I couldn’t come back after that. And I was mostly thankful for it.”

“And now, because of all that you’re the very man I see before me.” 

He exhales a scoff, “Yeah, I’m the guy who can’t even avenge his brother and father.” He lies down beside her, with a soft grunt, and stretches his arms up underneath his head.

She wants to argue that; she had meant it as a compliment, but Luca continues on before she can.

“I resented my father for wanting to stay though, I think. We would have been stronger together, maybe none of this would have happened.” And he’s right, the strength of the family unit had always been the Shelby’s biggest advantage, and her biggest grievance.

Luca stares up into the ceiling, his voice becoming soft and distant, “But then he was gone too, and all that resentment just became regret.” That he never got to make amends really, with any of them.

Emilia examines his profile, glad he was telling her, but didn’t like this far-off look on him. She was at least familiar with this one though; the same deep-rooted, familial grief she had seen on her own face many times.

“Well, if you feel that way,” she begins, trying to lighten the mood again, “I have an idea. Maybe fuck the vendetta?” 

Luca looks at her out the corner of his eye with a small grin, “You would say that, you fuckin’ Shelby.”

Before she can reply he rolls over onto her, tucking his head against her chest.

Her hand comes up instinctively to the back of his head. “I just— you mentioned all these people, all this shit, why put yourself through it?” She trails off, knowing the answer before she even finishes her sentence. His regret was his fuel, he wouldn’t be the person he was without that, without that drive.

They lay together, Luca’s head rising and falling with the beat of her breathing.

“All this over some puttana,” he murmurs eventually, into the fabric covering her chest, referring to her earlier story about Lizzie.

“Hey, that puttana’s one of my oldest friends,” she scolds softly, running her nails through the short hair at the nape of his neck. “Besides, I think you and Angel might actually have the same bad taste in women; Lizzie and I used to get asked if we were sisters all the time if we were out together.” The blue eyes and dark hair had been enough for most people who assumed that connection, but that was where it ended really.

“Oh yeah?” Luca eyes the bare bit of chest he can see through her open shirt neck. “You wanna give me her number?” He moves up, pressing a kiss to the skin there.

“Oh, yeah,” Emilia replies, breathy, “She’s lovely. Imagine me, but taller, —”

He cuts her off, “I don’t want her, I want you.”

It stops her for a second, her hand tightening inadvertently on the back of his neck. He was simmeringly close to saying something else.

He settles himself half on top of her, mouthing his way tenderly up her chest to her neck. They fit together so nicely. “I like you just the way that you are,” he sighs. 

She tries to play it off, “Well, we already know how fucked-up you are.”

“You gonna try to fix me?” He says, half into her neck, half into the pillow.

She breathes for a beat, then, “I don’t want to fix you. I like you the fucked-up way that you are.”

It’s as close as they can come to a true declaration right now, to the other thing, so they take it.

“Are you coming, Emilia?”

Emilia was simmering with frustration. She feels unsettled about how they left things the other night, something in the pit of her stomach gnaws away at her.

She can’t believe it’s fight day and she has no idea what the fuck is going on. She was back in Small Heath, at Polly’s, watching the other women getting excitedly dressed up for the match. Luca had gone back down to London, probably to officially end Alfie Solomons, now that they had what they wanted, if his mood the other night was any indication. But she knew he was planning something for tonight, and she can’t even warn the others because she doesn’t fucking know how.

“No.”

“Where are you going to be? Off with your Italian?”

She glares, “No.” Ada and Linda totter out of the room together, cackling the whole way about: “Trouble in paradise.”

Lizzie follows them out, leaving only Polly behind. She’s hesitating in the doorway. “I’ve a meeting to get to, Pol,” Emilia lies.

Polly’s face is all scrunched up, she looks concerned. “He doesn’t hurt you, does he?”

Emilia could laugh. Now she cares. Still, the more rational part of her brain supposes it’s better late than never. “No,” she answers with a sigh. Polly still hasn’t moved, her eyes flicker like she’s remembering something.

Emilia tries to be more convincing, “You’ve met him. You’ve seen how he can be. He’s —” she searches for the appropriate word, “— charming, when he wants to be.” 

She hides a smile behind her palm. The word seems so lacklustre for everything she had ever felt in Luca’s presence. She also knew Polly's meeting with him had been brief but she was confident Luca could charm the pants off anyone, if given the chance.

“Yeah, he’s also proven he can be entirely dangerous when he wants to be.”

Emilia looks seriously up at her aunt, “I’m doing okay, Pol.”

Finally convinced, Polly nods solemnly and leaves.

“We’re going to be okay,” she whispers aloud to no one.

Then, everything goes to shit. Again.