Chapter 7: Rumors of a Phantom
The Garrison, usually a bastion of loud, boisterous men, was uncharacteristically quiet. The air, thick with cigar smoke and the scent of stale beer, was heavy with a low hum of paranoia. Tommy Shelby sat at his usual table, a half-empty glass of whiskey in front of him. He was a man who saw the world in patterns, in probabilities, and the current state of things was an anomaly.
He had been hearing whispers. Whispers about "the lucky one," the Irish bastard who had been winning at the tables, who had been paying off debts with clean, crisp bills. He was an unknown variable, a glitch in the system.
"Lucky?" Tommy said, his voice quiet, but with a dangerous undertone. "There's no such thing as luck. Just people who take advantage and people who get taken advantage of."
One of his men, a seasoned runner, shifted uncomfortably. "He just seems… to know. Like he's got eyes on the inside. He knew about Billy's skimming, Tommy. Before we even did."
Tommy's mind, a complex web of strategy and paranoia, saw Luca not as a petty gambler but as a potential threat. He started to form a mental profile of his new enemy. A man who moved in shadows. A man who used information as a weapon.
Tommy's hand, a white-knuckled fist, clenched on his glass. He was a man who built his empire on control, on knowledge. This new player, this phantom, was a direct challenge to everything he had built. He pulled a map of Birmingham from his coat, a new mechanic that showed the scale of his strategic mind and his intent to hunt down this unknown threat.
"Find him," Tommy said, his voice a low, chilling whisper. "And when you do, don't kill him. Bring him to me. I want to look this lucky bastard in the eye and find out how he's cheating." The conversation ended with Tommy sending out his most trusted men, a clear escalation of the conflict.
The empty warehouse was no longer just a place of secrets; it was a place of fear. Finn met Luca there, his small body a bundle of raw nerves, his eyes wide with a frantic, animalistic fear.
"They know," Finn said, his voice barely a whisper. "They're asking questions. About you. About the money."
Luca's calm demeanor didn't waver. "What did you see?"
"Billy," Finn said. "He's an idiot. Been flashing money around. Said it was 'found' money. He's a dead man, mister."
"An idiot with a secret. That's a powerful combination." Luca's thought process was cold and calculating. He saw Billy's greed not as a moral failing but as a weakness to be exploited, a crack in the Shelby's armor. It was the perfect opportunity.
The data confirmed Finn's story. The boy was a valuable source. His loyalty, once a fragile thing, was now growing. It was a genuine human connection, a small, genuine thing that contrasted with Luca's cold, calculating purpose.
As Finn tried to mimic Billy's swagger, he tripped over a stray box, sending it clattering across the floor. "Bloody hell!" he said, his face flushed with embarrassment. Luca, for the first time, let out a genuine, unforced laugh, a sharp, barking sound that was more of a surprise to him than to Finn. It was a brief, human moment in a world of cold calculations.
"He's a fool," Luca said, the laughter dying in his throat. "And fools are dangerous. But they're also predictable." He had a new piece of intel. Now, he just needed to use it.
Luca returned to his safehouse, a grim determination settling over him. He unrolled a map of Birmingham and laid it flat on the dusty floorboards. The System, a constant presence, was already providing him with a list of probabilities and potential outcomes.
"Direct retaliation? I'm not a bloody pawn, am I? This is a chess game. And I'm the one moving the pieces." His confidence was growing, a dangerous, thrilling thing that filled him with a reckless energy. He was no longer just a survivor; he was a player. He was actively shaping the game, and the thought was both exhilarating and terrifying.
He took out a quill and a piece of paper. He had a plan, and it was as simple as it was risky: he would anonymously expose Billy's betrayal. A coded note, a simple message, a small act of sabotage. He would let the Shelbys do his dirty work for him. The System's warnings, the flashing red alerts, were a testament to the danger, but he pushed them aside. He had a goal, a purpose.
He began to draft the note, his pen scratching against the paper. The note was a tangible representation of his shadow war. It was a piece of a larger puzzle, a small act of rebellion. He was no longer just reacting; he was acting. He was no longer just a phantom; he was a force. The note was a tangible representation of his shadow war .
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