Chapter 3 – Smoke and Razors
The week after the alley fight, Birmingham buzzed like a wasp's nest struck by a stick. Word of the stranger spread from the muddy canals to the polished mahogany tables of the upper gangs.
The man with devil's eyes who never bowed, never begged, and dropped Shelbys like children. Men whispered his name when they thought no one listened. Women sharpened blades with his face in mind.
And the Shelbys?
They watched.
Every night Alexander returned to the Garrison, smoke curling like scripture around him. He said little, did less, but somehow drew every gaze. Men leaned closer when he moved. Women measured him like an enemy worth fearing—or claiming.
Alexander noticed. He noticed everything.
The rain had cleared that evening. A dry chill bit the air, the kind that sank into bones and made whiskey taste sharper. The Garrison glowed with warmth, alive with chatter, but in the far corner the world seemed quieter.
Alexander sat alone, his back to the wall, cigar ember burning slow. He wasn't drinking. He rarely did. He preferred the stillness, the bite of tobacco, the clarity that came when others dulled their senses.
That's when Johanna Shelby slid into the seat across from him, like a cat slipping through a half-open door.
She wore her suit loose, tie undone, hair falling in wild curls. Her smile carried danger and delight, the look of someone who enjoyed throwing oil on fire just to see how high it burned.
"You've got Birmingham upside down," she purred, resting her chin on her hand.
Alexander's eyes lifted, smoke rising between them. "Didn't know it was standing straight to begin with."
She laughed, low and smooth. "Sharp tongue for a quiet man."
"I talk when it matters." He flicked ash into the tray, gaze steady on hers. "This doesn't."
Her grin widened. "Oh, it matters. My sisters think you're a problem."
"And you?"
Johanna leaned closer, her perfume sweet beneath the smoke. "I think you're a challenge."
Alexander took a slow draw, the cigar's ember flaring, his silence heavier than words. She held his gaze, waiting, testing, searching for weakness. None came.
Finally, she leaned back with a sly chuckle. "Careful, stranger. In this world, wolves who don't pick a pack get hunted."
Alexander exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. "Let them hunt."
Later that night, outside the Garrison, Artie Shelby waited.
She was drunk, as usual, whiskey clinging to her like sweat. Her cap sat low, her fists clenched, and her eyes burned like coal.
"You think you can walk into our city," she slurred, voice rising, "beat our people, mock our order, and sit in our bar like a bloody king?"
Alexander lit another cigar, the match flaring briefly against the dark. He didn't answer.
Artie stepped closer, teeth bared, spitting fury. "Say something, you bastard!"
He looked at her then, eyes glowing pale against the night. His voice came low, measured, like gravel dragged across stone.
"Kings need crowns. I need nothing."
Her blade was half out before the door banged open behind her.
"Artie."
Thomisia's voice cut like steel. Artie froze, jaw tight, but didn't sheathe the knife.
Thomisia stepped into the cold, coat draped across her shoulders, cigarette between her lips. She studied Alexander for a long moment, then looked at her sister.
"Not tonight."
Artie growled but obeyed, storming back inside. Thomisia stayed, smoke drifting from her lips, her eyes sharp on Alexander.
"You don't bow, you don't bend, you don't run," she said quietly. "That makes you dangerous. But more dangerous than me?"
Alexander's smirk flickered like a shadow. "I'll let you find out."
She smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in it. "Careful, stranger. Even wolves end up with razors in their throats."
Two days later, the first move was made.
Not by the Shelbys. By Sabini's men.
They'd heard the whispers too. They saw cracks in Shelby control—this stranger, this anomaly, upsetting balance. They wanted to test the storm.
It happened in the markets, broad daylight, muddy streets packed with stalls and shouting vendors. Alexander was walking, cigar smoke trailing behind him, when four men closed in. Not subtle, not smart—London muscle never was.
"Oi, devil-eyes," one jeered, knife flashing in the sun. "Time you learned your place."
Alexander didn't break stride. He flicked ash from his cigar, gaze sweeping over them with calm contempt.
"Four of you," he murmured. "Not enough."
They lunged.
The first went down with a fist to the throat, choking on crushed cartilage. The second's nose shattered beneath a backhand, blood spraying across the muddy street. The third tried to grapple, but Alexander's knee drove into his gut, folding him in half before a brutal elbow dropped him cold.
The last one froze, blade trembling. Alexander stepped close, his smoke curling around the man's face, his eyes glowing like cold fire.
"Run," he said softly.
The man did.
By nightfall, the story was everywhere.
The stranger had beaten Sabini's men in daylight, in public, and walked away untouched.
And for the first time, the Shelby sisters weren't furious. They were intrigued.
That evening, Thomisia summoned him.
The Garrison backroom was thick with smoke, whiskey glasses half-drained on the table. Artie scowled in the corner, Johanna lounged with a smirk, and Thomisia sat like a queen behind her desk, razor-sharp eyes locked on him.
"You humiliated Sabini's men," she said.
Alexander leaned against the wall, cigar glowing in the dim. "They humiliated themselves."
Artie slammed her fist on the table. "Cocky bastard!"
"Quiet," Thomisia snapped. Her eyes never left Alexander.
"You're not just some stray," she said. "You're something else. And I don't like mysteries in my city."
Alexander exhaled smoke slowly. "Then stop asking questions you're not ready to hear answered."
Johanna laughed softly, her grin wicked. "He's perfect, Thomisia. Let him in."
Thomisia ignored her. She leaned forward, voice dropping. "Work with me. Or against me. But decide now."
The silence stretched. The air thickened. Even Artie stilled, waiting for his answer.
Alexander took a final draw, crushed the cigar in the tray, and looked at her with eyes like burning frost.
"I don't work for anyone," he said. "But I'll stand with you… until you give me a reason not to."
The tension broke like glass. Johanna clapped, delighted. Artie cursed, storming out. And Thomisia?
For the first time, she smiled.
That night, Birmingham shifted again.
The stranger wasn't just a wolf in the dark anymore. He was at the Shelby table.
And the city would burn for it.