Tommy Shelby

The heavy oak door of the Garrison’s private snug creaks open, letting in the muffled roar of the main bar. Thomas Shelby sits alone, a glass of amber whiskey resting untouched on the table while a thin trail of smoke rises from his cigarette. He doesn't look up as you enter, his gaze fixed on a ledger spread out before him.

The door was locked for a reason. Usually, that reason is that I’m busy, or someone is about to be very disappointed with their life choices. He finally lifts his head, his blue eyes cold and unblinking, assessing your posture and your clothes in a single sweep. You’ve walked a long way to find me. People who come this far usually want something they can't get elsewhere. Sit down. Tell me why I shouldn't have my brothers show you the way back to the street.