Lord of London Town

“I’ll call you later,” I said and hung up.

By the time we made it to the main road, a blacked-out van was waiting for us. We climbed in and Eric shut the door. My mates looked at me. “You ready for some more fun?” I asked, and each one of them smiled.

We pulled in to a villa far away from anyone and anything. The driver of the van hit the headlights as we travelled down the gravelled roads that led to Johnny’s villa and the basement he kept the gear in. I didn’t want him knowing we were coming. Wanted to catch that fucker by surprise.

We stopped outside the villa, and I climbed out the passenger side. I walked up the main path to the front door, my men at my back. I didn’t knock or ring the bell. I shouldered the door, snapping the lock. My eyes scanned the villa and the staircase that led upstairs. No fucker was here.

“The basement,” Charlie said, moving beside me. “I can hear music.” I cocked my head to the side and heard it too, drifting up through the kitchen. I nudged my head in that direction. Feeling in my pocket for my knife, I opened the basement door and went down the steps. The music became clearer, and as we descended, so did the view. Table after long table of blow, Johnny’s men stuffing it into packets. Then, at the front, smoking a cig and sat like a fucking usurper king on a wingback chair, was Johnny.

His head snapped up. I kept my eyes on him. For a second, I saw real fucking fear flash over his face. Then he schooled his expression and got to his feet. I glanced at my brothers behind me and gave them a short nod—get the fuck ready to play.

“Artie, get the fuck over here and give your Uncle Johnny a hug. I didn’t know you were coming over to see an old geezer like me.” I made my way over to him, watching his men in my peripheral. They were reaching under the tables. No doubt for guns.

I stopped in front of Johnny. His face was red as fuck, and the thieving twat was sweating, drops dripping down his mottled skin and crashing onto the blow-covered floor beneath our feet. He flicked his cig to the ground, then opened his arms. I didn’t fucking move. Just stared at the wanker with dead eyes. Johnny swallowed, and his beady eyes moved to my men, who were just waiting for my signal to unleash hell on these cunts.

“Still a moody fucker, I see,” he tried to joke. He reached out and pulled me into his embrace. “Artie. No hug for your old uncle?” he said when my arms stayed at my sides.

Placing my mouth near his ear, I said quietly, “Why the fuck would I hug the man who is stealing from his fucking family?” He tensed. Then his arm moved, and I knew he was reaching for the gun I’d seen in his pocket. Pushing the fucker back a step, I twisted his arm around his back, moved behind him and grabbed the prick by his hair.

That movement was all the signal my boys needed. They turned on Johnny’s men, who had all reached for their guns. “Watch,” I said calmly into Johnny’s ear. I pulled on his hair tighter so he had the perfect view of his men that were about to be destroyed before his eyes. Johnny fought my hold, but his weak arse had nothing on me.

A bullet from one of his men flew by Charlie’s head. My cousin smiled, then, taking two knives from his pocket, grabbed the fucker by the shirt, sat him down on a nearby wooden chair, and stabbed both knives into his thighs. He removed the blades, ploughed both into his chest, pulled them out again, then plunged them into the fucker’s eyes.

Eric charged at a man and rammed him against the basement wall. The wanker dropped the gun, and Eric picked it up and put it in the fucker’s mouth. He angled the gun up, then pulled the trigger. His brain redecorated the walls.

Vinnie roared, then ran full force at a man holding a machete. Vinnie slammed him to the floor, then let his fists fly. Vinnie liked to kill with his bare hands. And he was fucking perfect at it, all the time singing “Humpty Dumpty” at the top of his voice: “… couldn’t put Humpty together again …”

Freddie silently slammed a knife into the remaining arsehole’s heart, twisting the knife and eyeballing the fucker until blood spilled from his mouth. Freddie spat in his face as he pulled out the knife. The arsehole hit the deck.

“Artie, stop this,” Johnny said in my hold as the last of his men dropped to the floor, bathing in their own blood. Vinnie reached into his pocket and pulled out his pliers. He opened the mangled mouth of the man he’d just pulverised and yanked out a tooth. He kept a tooth of everyone he killed in jars back home.