Chapter 2 – The First Cigars
The alley still smelled of cordite.
The three thugs lay sprawled across the cobblestones, groaning but alive. The summoned enforcer stood calmly by Alexander's side, smoke rising from the barrel of his Thompson submachine gun. His cloak and hat gave him the presence of a phantom from Chicago's darkest nights.
Alexander tapped his cigar against the wall and inhaled, watching the thick smoke curl. "Efficient."
The man didn't speak unless spoken to. His eyes were cold, unblinking, but the respect in his silence was obvious.
"System," Alexander murmured lazily, testing the words on his tongue. "Open stats."
[Mafia System Status]
Funds: £100
Influence: 0
Reputation: 0
Summons: 1 Enforcer (Free Starter)
Loyalty: Absolute
He grinned. Absolute loyalty. No betrayal, no hesitation. Better than any man alive.
The glow in his vision pulsed again.
[New Option Available – Establish Base of Operations]
Cost: £50
Reward: Safehouse, Storage, Summon Room
"Fifty pounds, huh?" He chuckled, flicking his lighter. "Looks like I know where my first hundred is going."
He confirmed.
The system whispered in his head, guiding his steps out of the alley, through narrow winding streets, until he reached a half-abandoned tailor shop. Its windows were boarded up, but the backdoor opened like it had been waiting for him.
Inside was dust, silence, and potential. The system's glow shimmered briefly—then the air shifted. Crates appeared in the corner, a heavy oak desk materialized against the wall, and a trapdoor revealed itself beneath a rug.
He descended.
The underground chamber smelled of old stone. A long table, chairs, weapon racks, and a vault for cash appeared, solid and real.
[Safehouse Established.]
Alexander dropped lazily into a chair at the head of the table, cigar smoke curling from his lips. The enforcer stood guard silently behind him, a perfect statue of menace.
"Let's test the rest of you…" He exhaled. "System—summon smuggler."
Cost: £700
Funds Insufficient.
"Tch." He smirked. "Broke already. Guess even gods want their cut."
But the system pulsed again.
[Starter Loan Available – £1,000 credit, no interest. Must repay within 7 days.]
Alexander laughed. "A loan shark system? I like it." He accepted.
The room shimmered. Another figure stepped out of the shadows — a smuggler. He was lean, dressed sharp in a long cloak and fedora, gloves on his hands, cigarette dangling from his lips. He carried a crate stamped Kentucky Whiskey.
"Boss," the smuggler said smoothly, American accent curling. "Shipment ready. Straight from the docks. I've got contacts in Whitechapel."
Alexander leaned back, grinning. Now this… this is power.
[Smuggler Ability: Generates £50–£100 per day in passive income through black market trades. Can upgrade routes.]
Money. Influence. Empire. All within reach.
Alexander tapped ash into a tray, silently mocking the very air. Thomas Shelby, eh? Birmingham might think it owns the streets. But London is mine now.
And in the dim light of the safehouse, the Devil of London began to build his empire.
Chapter 3 – The Devil's First Deal
Two days later, the rain fell heavy on London. The gaslights flickered across Whitechapel's broken streets, and whispers carried on the wet wind.
At the back of a smoke-filled pub, Alexander sat with his enforcer at his shoulder. Across the table, a jittery dockworker shuffled nervously, eyes darting between the sharp-dressed stranger and the cloak-wrapped figure behind him.
"So," Alexander murmured, cigar smoke drifting lazily. "You've got a shipment problem."
The man nodded quickly. "Rival gangs—Ratskins, sir. They've been stealing the crates. Whiskey, tobacco, even opium sometimes. I… I can't get them past the docks anymore."
Alexander smirked. "Lucky for you, I enjoy solving problems."
He flicked ash into the tray.
The smuggler leaned forward, placing a small ledger on the table. "We've already secured half the docks, Boss. All we need is a demonstration."
Alexander raised an eyebrow. "Demonstration?"
The door burst open. Five Ratskins stormed in, knives flashing, eyes wild with desperation. The pub's regulars scrambled out of the way.
The enforcer didn't move until Alexander exhaled smoke and gave a lazy nod.
Then the Tommy gun roared.
Wood splintered, glasses shattered, and the Ratskins dove for cover — but three were cut down before they hit the floor. The others bolted, screaming into the rain.
Silence fell. The smell of gunpowder mixed with cigar smoke.
Alexander stood slowly, his tall figure cutting through the haze. He looked around the stunned pub, eyes glittering with cold amusement.
"London belongs to me," he said softly, yet every soul heard it.
The dockworker swallowed hard, then nodded frantically. "Y-yes, Boss. From now on… you'll get the shipments."
[Territory Acquired: Whitechapel Docks (Partial).]
Funds: +£500
Reputation: +5 – Whispers spread: "The Devil in London."
Alexander smirked, puffing his cigar. "Good. Now pour me a drink."
As the night bled on, men whispered his name. Not Shelby. Not Sabini. Not any of the old guard.
No, this was someone new. A man with devilish charm, an army of shadows, and guns that spat thunder.
The Devil in London.
And far away in Birmingham, Thomisina Shelby received the first whispers.
Her cold blue eyes narrowed as she poured herself whiskey. "A new player…?" She smiled thinly. "Then let's see how long he lasts."