Chapter 2: The Pawn's Gambit
The market was a cacophony of sound and a whirlwind of smells. The shouts of vendors hawking their wares mingled with the laughter of children and the low rumble of cart wheels on cobblestone. The air was a rich tapestry of odors: the sharp tang of fresh fish, the cloying sweetness of boiled sweets, the savory aroma of fried onions and grilled sausages. It was a world alive, bustling, and indifferent to the strange new player in its midst. Luca, guided by the System, pushed his way through the crowd, a small handful of coins jangling in his pocket. He was on the hunt for Mr. Finch, the bookie who was too proud to bow to the Shelbys.
He found him on a corner, a small, unassuming stall tucked between a fishmonger and a flower seller. Mr. Finch was a wiry man with a face like a wrinkled map and eyes that held a deep, weary cynicism. He was hunched over his ledger, his pen scratching away, oblivious to the world around him. Luca stood in front of the stall, a small, quiet presence in the chaos.
"You looking to lose some money, lad?" Mr. Finch asked, not bothering to look up. "It's a beautiful day for it."
Luca took a moment to pull up the Probability Grid. He'd been getting a stream of data from the System all morning—race schedules, horse stats, jockey performance—a firehose of information that was both overwhelming and exhilarating.
Luca's mind, ever the analyst, immediately started cross-referencing. The jockey's injury, a broken wrist, wasn't publicly known. The horse, Highland Ghost, was a long shot, a definite underdog. But with a bit of a Nudge…
The numbers on the grid shifted, a small, satisfying victory. Highland Ghost's win chance jumped to 32%. Still a long shot, but a much better one.
"I'll take Highland Ghost," Luca said, his voice as calm as a summer lake.
Mr. Finch's pen stilled. He looked up, his weary eyes appraising Luca. "Highland Ghost? That's a fool's bet, lad. That horse hasn't won a race in a year."
"Just a feeling, mate," Luca said, pulling out a couple of shillings. "A gut feeling."
Mr. Finch stared at him for a long moment, a flicker of something, curiosity perhaps, in his eyes. He took the shillings, his fingers dry and calloused, and wrote out the ticket. "A gut feeling that just cost you two shillings. You're either a liar or a bloody prophet."
Luca just smiled. "We'll see."
He stepped back from the stall, but didn't leave. He stood there, watching the crowd, a strange knot of anticipation tightening in his gut. The numbers on his internal grid were now counting down, the probability of his win ticking up slowly. He felt the familiar, detached calmness that was the Gambler's Calm settle over him. It was a strange sensation, this feeling of control in a world that was so clearly out of control. It was the feeling he'd been missing since he'd lost his old life, the comforting certainty of a winning strategy.
A little over an hour later, the shout went up. "Highland Ghost! Highland Ghost wins!" The news, like a wave, swept through the market. Mr. Finch's head snapped up, his eyes wide. He looked at Luca, who stood calmly, his hands in his pockets. Luca offered a small nod, a silent victory. He wasn't a prophet. He was just a man with a better set of numbers.
The next day, Luca returned. The market was a little less chaotic, the air a little cooler, but Mr. Finch's stall was in the same spot, and he was hunched over his ledger, just as before. But this time, he looked up as Luca approached. He was a man of routines, and Luca's return was an anomaly.
"Back for more gut feelings?" Mr. Finch asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
Luca, with the System's guidance, selected another long-shot horse. "You could say that."
Mr. Finch watched him as he placed his bet. He didn't write it down immediately. He just watched, his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing every tiny movement, every flicker of expression on Luca's face. But there were none. Gambler's Calm was a perfect mask.
"You've got a face like a stone, lad," Mr. Finch said finally, his voice a low growl. "Don't even flinch. It's unnatural."
"Just don't get worked up over things you can't control, Mr. Finch," Luca replied, a perfectly calm lie on his tongue. "A wise man once told me that."
"A wise man from the future, with a very useful System," Luca added silently to himself. He felt a sliver of his humanity slipping away, replaced by the cold, hard logic of the System. He was grateful for the control, the calm, but there was a part of him that missed the thrill, the fear, the raw, unadulterated emotion of a genuine gamble. It was a trade-off, he knew. And in this world, he'd take control over thrill any day.
As Luca was about to leave, a loud crash echoed through the alley. A man, red-faced and reeking of cheap booze, stumbled into the small back room of Mr. Finch's stall, shouting about a lost bet. He tripped over his own feet and went down, sending a stack of ledgers flying across the floor. Mr. Finch, with a profound sigh of exasperation, calmly handed the man his winnings—a small, measly sum. "Here's your quid, you fool," he said. "Now clean up your mess. And for God's sake, learn to hold your liquor." The man, cowed, scrambled to his feet and began gathering the scattered books. Mr. Finch's calm in the face of chaos was a testament to his character, and it was a trait Luca found himself admiring.
It was then that the air in the narrow alley shifted. A new presence, a new data point, entered the grid. The probability of danger, which had been low, spiked a few points. Luca looked up and saw him—a Shelby runner, a lanky man with a sharp, predatory look in his eyes. He was watching them. Watching Luca, specifically. He was a new and unsettling variable.
The Garrison was an ugly, brutal place, but it was also a place of power. It reeked of stale beer, sawdust, and the simmering threat of violence. Arthur Shelby was there, hunched over a table, his massive shoulders coiled with a restless energy that made everyone around him nervous.
Alfie, the lanky runner, approached him, his voice low and respectful. "Arthur. There's a new face in town."
Arthur didn't look up from his drink. "And?"
"He's an Irish fella. Hangin' around old Finch's stall. Won two days in a row. On long shots."
Arthur's head snapped up. His eyes, clouded by drink and something else, something wild, were fixed on Alfie's face. "Lucky, you say?"
"Too lucky, if you ask me."
Arthur took a long, slow swallow of his whiskey. "There's no such thing as luck, Alfie," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "There's just the Shelbys and those who get in our way. And those who get in our way… well, they don't stay lucky for long." He slammed his glass down on the table, the sound a sharp punctuation in the murky air. His words were a statement of his family's core belief, a brutal, simple creed that Luca's complex, analytical mind could never fully comprehend. He saw the world as a game of odds, a series of probabilities to be manipulated. The Shelbys saw the world as their own personal kingdom, a place where they made their own luck, and where anyone else's was a direct affront.
Alfie, knowing better than to argue, simply nodded. "What do you want me to do, Arthur?"
"Keep an eye on him," Arthur said, the command as sharp and final as a dropped blade. "Find out who he is. And see if his luck holds up when we're the ones holding the cards."
Love [ Peaky Blinders: Luca's Gambit ]? Unlock More Chapters and Support the Story!
Dive deeper into the world of [ Peaky Blinders: Luca's Gambit ] with exclusive access to 35+ chapters on my Patreon, plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $5/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes like [Grimm, Teen Wolf ,blacklist,Game Of Throne ,MCU and Arrowverse].
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!