Lord of London Town

There would be no attempt to hide her identity at the place we were going. The people there wouldn’t give a fuck who she was anyway. And they knew better than to fuck with me. They might be my associates in business, but I had dirt for fucking days on all of them. The place we were going to was my motherfucking domain. No one would dare fuck with any of us Adleys there. And if they did, then it was the perfect place for retribution.

“Ready, old boy?” Charlie asked. I knew he wasn’t referring to tonight by the cocky look on his face. It was about Cheska. But I wasn’t talking about her right now. She’d see one of our enterprises tonight and fucking leave. Out of my life and back to her world. Then I’d be back to bloody breathing right. Because I wasn’t sure I’d taken a full fucking breath since she’d burst back into my life.

The cars stopped at the old warehouse in Mile End. I flicked the collar of my coat up and lit a cig, the freezing cold wrapping around me, then led the way toward the warehouse. To normal people, it was just that—a warehouse, filled with car parts and other mechanical shite. To us and those in my world, it was a gateway to fucking sin.

I threw open the door, then descended the staircase. Adley soldiers opened the steel doors that led to the dungeon.

“Alright, guv,” they said as they opened the doors. “Full house tonight.” The minute the soundproof doors were open, the sound of fists hitting flesh came barrelling into the East End night. I glanced over my shoulder to see Cheska walking with Betsy, Ronnie and Vera. I flicked my chin at Eric. He nodded back at me, getting my order to keep an eye on her and the women.

Sweat and blood filled the air as we stepped into the warehouse’s lair. This was my real fucking club, not the Sparrow Room full of pretentious pricks. This was the club that made me the real money. “Arthur,” men greeted as I passed by them. The room was crowded with men and women. All from the crime syndicates that didn’t fuck with us. Associates. Acquaintances, and ones I hadn’t had an excuse to kill just yet.

Pit after sunken pit was filled with fighters. Bare-knuckle, of course, no fucking pussies in the rings. The seats around the pits swelled with spectators, Caesars looking down on their gladiators.

I led my family through the gathered spectators, as Adley soldiers ran the pits and bets and kept everyone in check. We walked to the back of the warehouse until the real fucking pits came into view. The headliners. The big-money tickets. The ones where the only way out was to be carried out in a fucking coffin.

My men had made sure things were in order and our seats were ready. They were prime viewing, ensuring everyone could see us. See who ran this fucking castle. Who was the real emperor, ruling over them all.

I tossed my coat off and lit a cig, looking down into the main pit to see two men ripping each other apart. One had a smashed jaw and couldn’t see from one eye, but the wanker wasn’t giving up.

He was close to the coffin.

Betsy and Cheska sat down behind me, a few seats to my right. I looked over at Chelsea Girl. Her eyes were fucking wide as she drank in the room, but she hadn’t run yet. As if feeling me watching her, she looked over at me and straightened her shoulders. She then focused on the pit, just as the heavily beaten fighter’s neck snapped and he dropped to the floor. The ref gave the signal that it was over and held up the arm of the victor. Cheska swallowed, but other than that made no sign that what she was witnessing was too much.

The wannabe dark queen sucking it up to play in the vicious court.

“Arthur, you fucking twat,” a familiar voice said. I turned, taking a drag of my cig, only to see Royal, the president of the Hades Hangmen MC, London chapter. “Long time no see.”

“Royal.” I looked behind him to see his men watching the fights. My eyes narrowed on the bikers as I noticed someone pretty fucking vital to us was missing. Royal shook my hand and pulled back.

“Where fuck is Rudge?” I asked, not seeing the mouthy tosser anywhere.

“Prick’s fucking left us for Texas,” Royal said, pushing back his shoulder-length brown hair. He was dressed—as always—in jeans, shitkicker boots, white t-shirt and his Hangmen cut. The Hangmen were among our closest associates. And Royal was one of the people I knew best outside my family. One of the only people I could tolerate who didn’t represent the Adley name. Our history was long, and the fucker currently owed me a favour for bringing back one of the club’s kidnapped bitches.