Lord of London Town

Thinking of her back then, and seeing her now, it took all my strength not to climb into bed beside her and fuck her like old times. But I forced myself to my feet. I wouldn’t do this. I wouldn’t get fucking caught up in this again.

But as I went to leave, I saw her hand. That bloody left hand. The crack in my chest that had never fucking closed started to ache, to fucking widen at the sight of that left ring finger without that bloody diamond wrapped around it. It was gone. That shackle to Hugo the shitstain was gone. I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t look away from that bare finger.

Leave. Right the fuck now, dickhead, I told myself and took my bastard head from the clouds. I was tired. I was just fucking tired. That’s all this was.

I left the bedroom and showered off the past few days of making new contracts with dealers and chasing leads on who the fuck thought it would be a good idea to fuck with my docks. Nothing. Just like what we were finding on the cunts that tried to take Cheska.

A pile of sweet fuck all. And it was doing my nut in.

I wiped through the steam on the bathroom mirror and stared at my reflection. I had to keep my fucking head in the game. I would find the pricks who took Cheska, and then let her go. The bird had filled my head too many times over the past few days. Betsy was checking in too fucking much, giving me updates.

The porcelain of the sink creaked. When I looked down, my hands were clenched on the lip, almost cracking it in two. I moved my hands and ran them down my face. I slipped on my glasses and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I couldn’t let myself do this. I had my family to protect. A fuck-ton of people to keep from our doors.

Cheska was a distraction I couldn’t afford.

“Who the fuck else is here?” Eric asked as we walked toward the abandoned warehouse just outside Essex. Eric stopped beside a Mercedes. “And what tasteless fucker would take a German car over a British one? Haven’t they heard of Bentleys? Aston Martins? Unpatriotic twats.”

“Old Sammy said he had one other group he was considering selling the dock to,” Charlie said, keeping by my side. “Arthur here said he respected the old geezer too much to strong-arm him into giving it to us.” Charlie smiled and nudged me. “Of course, it’s fucking game on if Old Sam goes with the other buyer. They’ll be wishing they never met us.”

A steroid-bloated bloke from Old Sammy’s syndicate opened the door to the warehouse. The meeting table was directly in front of us. Old Sammy was sat at the head of the table, and to his left was—

“The fucking Lawsons. Of course it is,” Freddie hissed from beside me. Ollie fucking Lawson stood from the table, his right-hand twat, Nick, following his gaffer’s lead.

Ollie was all smiles, his veneered teeth offending my eyes. “Here they are, King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.”

“I’d better be Lancelot in this scenario,” Eric said, flanking Freddie. “He was the good-looking fella, right?”

“And what does that make you?” Charlie said to Ollie. “The plebeians beneath us?” Charlie fixed his cufflink, and I saw Ollie’s jaw clench. The fucker hated us as much as we hated him.

Almost.

We were oil and water. Our businesses were night and day. We didn’t mix.

“Sit, sit,” Old Sammy said, gesturing to the chairs on the free side of the table. I pulled out my seat beside Sammy and sat down. That put me directly opposite Lawson.

He glared at me, and it took all I had not to pull out my revolver and pierce a hole in his forehead. But as my father taught me, I didn’t react. I didn’t give fuck all away. Stayed neutral. He wasn’t even worth the wasted bullet.

“What’s going on, Sammy?” Charlie asked. “You going legit on us?” Charlie turned to Ollie. “Or are you lot going rogue and selling your soul to the dark side?”

“My business is legit,” Ollie said. “In fact, it’s doing so well, I need more docks to keep up with demand. Some of us don’t need to turn to crime to be successful.”

I sparked up a cig and blew the smoke across the table, right in Ollie’s face. The prick’s nostrils flared. “What do you want for it, Sammy?” I asked. I wanted to get this over and fucking done with. “Cut the bloody theatrics and make your choice—this pathetic cunt or us.”

“More drugs to supply to the masses?” Ollie asked, smirking.

A gun fired. Old Sammy’s men came crawling from their posts, their own weapons drawn. I flicked my eyes down the table toward Vinnie, who had fired a shot into the air. He laughed out loud. “Just checking it was stocked with bullets.” Vinnie aimed the gun right at Lawson’s head. Ollie froze as Vinnie cocked his head, closing one eye as he aimed. Ollie jumped out of his fucking skin when Vinnie slammed his hand on the table and screamed, “BANG!”