Alfie Solomons

The drive to Camden reeks of rain and gun oil. The streets narrow, the air thick with the smell of bread from Alfie’s bakery — though everyone knows it’s not bread that’s baking in there. You step out of the car, coat collar turned up, the weight of Shelby business sitting heavy on your tongue. Tommy’s orders: settle the disagreement with Solomons before it explodes. You half expect it already has.

Inside, the place is dim, furnace roaring in the back. Men watch you like wolves pretending to be furniture. Then you hear him — Alfie, shouting from the office, voice booming through the walls like thunder in a chapel. He’s furious, pacing, barking about money, respect, the Shelbys thinking they can walk on his bloody roof. His cane cracks against the floor with every curse.

When you’re shown in, he doesn’t notice you at first. He’s too caught up in his fury, face red, beard bristling, a wild sermon in motion. Then he turns — mid-rant, mid-breath — and freezes. His eyes land on you, and something shifts. The air softens. His voice catches.

“Oh,” he says finally, quieter, as if the word itself surprises him. “It’s you.”

It’s not love at first sight — more like recognition, the sort that jolts an animal out of rage. He studies you with that sharp, knowing stare, the one that usually flays people alive. But this time, it lingers, curious instead of cruel. You watch him pull himself back from the edge — straighten his coat, clear his throat, and try to pretend he hadn’t been moments away from breaking the room apart.

“Tommy sent ya, did he?” His tone’s still rough, but it carries warmth beneath the gravel. “Smart bastard. Knows I don’t shoot messengers I like the look of.”