I presided over the assemblage of syndicate men in Club 11's underground conference room to plan a comprehensive manoeuvre against the Italians. Anthony Costello's dead and buried, pushing up the daisies, and Johnny Cazale, the disreputable nightclub owner, undergoes systematic torture in the chambers. Taking Cazale into custody went better than expected. I anticipated an Italian brigade of biddable minions and a fusillade of gunfire. Cazale was defenceless. He enjoyed neat scotch and orgasmic sex before I shot the female riding his cock, and Vincent knocked him into unconsciousness with his gun handle.
Cazale's excruciating screams echoed down the hall.
I stared at the unclosed door, wondering which torture method Nate used to amplify the man's accentuated beseeching.
"What of Alberto's cousin, Bernardo Russo?"
I answered Josh's question. "I want his beating heart in the palm of my hand."
Brad revised notes. "I don't believe Russo's in Sicily." Chewing a toothpick, he closed the folder and slid it across the table to Josh. "Permission to put an idea forward." I blinked once, and he continued, "If Cazale takes Moretti's location to the grave, send a group of female decoys to Russo's Billiard House. Keep it short and sweet. A game of pool, a round of shots, and the occasional flirting with punters. If Russo's in the building, he'll rear his ugly head and introduce himself. Meanwhile," he watched the buxom redhead arrange delivered beverages and premade deli sandwiches on the table, "Cherry can give us the heads up when he arrives. I'll be on standby with Josh."
Cherry stood ramrod straight. "You want to send me?"
"Accomplishable." Vincent uncapped coffee to let it cool. "You should make an entrance, though." He leaned back in his chair and goaded me with challenging eyes. "You have loyal, dedicated men keen to fight on your behalf. However, desperate times call for desperate measures. Bernardo's had you on a wild goose chase for long enough. Who better to knee-cap the bastard in his natural habitat than you?"
"Affirmative." I then addressed the only female in the room. "Do you associate with friends outside of work?"
She risked a glance at Brad. "Yes."
"Two will suffice. Invite them here to attend a confidential meeting with Brad. He can explain what I expect from them. And yourself, of course." I selected a black coffee and removed the plastic lid. "Preferably in the next few days."
Brad's pensive as he looked from one person to the other. "Thoughts on Angelo's lover, Diego?"
"Funny you should ask. I did a little bit of research with the information you provided." Josh chewed into a peanut butter protein bar. "Diego Serafini. He's the youngest of seven. All boys. Left his family home at the age of sixteen."
My second in command glared daggers. "Who is the reliable source?"
"Pamina Serafini." Unclipping a ring binder, Josh strewed printed documents around the table for everyone. "His mother."
"Alright, Einstein." Brad ignored the paperwork. "How did you get in touch with his mother?"
"Well, I used my due diligence, typed names into Google and called possible leads until satisfied." His lips twisted into a sardonic grin. "Any other questions?"
"Diego's mother is a homophobic bigot." Vincent's still reading the man's file. "She alienated her son for being gay."
"Yeah, Pamina's a vitriolic blabbermouth," Josh said. "In fact, she was vociferously informative. Diego calls his older brother biweekly with updates on his whereabouts and whatnot. I jotted down two locations and some names. Get this. Angelo has a daughter." He provided copies of birth certificates. "Milana D'Agostino. Her mother, Ingrid, filed her abduction in Treviso, Vento last year. Is it possible Angelo kidnapped Milana, and she's someplace in London?"
"Perhaps." I pondered his question. "Why so many family secrets?"
"According to Pamina, Angelo's mentally unbalanced. He dishonoured his family on several occasions, which explains why Moretti's reluctant to have a relationship with him."
"Alberto's ashamed of his first-born son," Vincent carried on the conversation. "Surely, Diego informed Alberto of Angelo's disappearance. Why hasn't the old man made contact?"
Brad licked a toothpick to the corner of his mouth. "Maybe he's glad to see the back of him."
"I have an eventful week planned and many people to visit." I sipped coffee. "Let's start with Bernardo Russo. In the meantime, hunt down Diego Serafini. I'd like to sit with him." My chin jerked to Josh. "Proceed."
Josh clicked the top of a pen. "Are you familiar with the name Leighton Lynch?"
His name rang zero bells. "No."
"He's one of your errand boys in Hackney." Josh leant over the table to hand me the printout. "We haven't received one payment from him in over six months, yet he continues to sell and profit. Nate cut off his drug supply and cornered him three weeks ago. He promised to clear his outstanding balance but failed to deliver. We can arrange a meeting for you to speak with him directly or tie up loose ends ourselves."
I paid scarce attention to details. "I want you and Nate to recover what is rightfully mine to clear Lynch's arrears: money, jewellery, vehicles and so forth. He will argue his case in craven opportunism." My lips broke into a slow smirk. "But I am not feeling very forgiving right now." Scrunching the sheet into a ball, I tossed it in the bin behind me. "Bury him."
Josh's head dipped. "Alexa authorised additional security while you were in the hospital." He gave us the names of the syndicate's new security detail. "Nate said they are ready to leave the army barracks." He pushed off the chair and came to my side, placing the contract on the table for me to sign. "Brad designated them strategically. Unless you disagree with the system, I need you to finalise details before they arrive."
With the pen pinched between my fingers, I signed with cursive handwriting. "Cherry?" I returned the contract. "Tell Nate I need to speak with him before you head back to the kitchen."
Her blue eyes dazzled in curiosity. "Sir."
I eyed the stationed men in the room. "Leave," I ordered, and the low-ranked individuals dispersed down the hall. "Where are you going?"
Vincent paused by the door. "I am to attend a lunch date."
"A lunch date?" Brad tucked into a colourful salad. "Is she dog-ugly?"
My brother wore a bored expression. "Is that a serious question, Jones?"
"I don't know, Vinny Boy." He reached for bottled water. "I am trying to understand how someone so plain-looking pegged a hot date. Unless, of course, she's buck-toothed and sporting a poxy monobrow."
Vincent frowned over the rim of his coffee cup. "I would love to put you in a room with misandrist feminists."
"Do it." Brad accepted the challenge. "Who better than Brad fucking Jones to corrupt all those rug-munching cock haters."
Josh choked on his coffee.
My right-hand man's quirkiness exhausted Vincent. He blinked to mask baffled speechlessness and exited the conference room.
I accepted a pre-rolled blunt from Brad and smoked in reverie. Nate's due to join us any moment. Before I left him in the chambers, he asked if his lover, Blaire, had made an appearance. I disregarded his question, which carved a permanent frown across his face. He knows something is wrong. Even now, as he enters the room, his white apron, bespattered in Cazale's blood, I can see he's on edge and dreading the worst.
"Sir." Nate became seated between Brad and Josh. "Did you kill her?"
"Since when were you authorised to ask me questions?" Rotating the blunt in the ashtray, I minimised the smouldered ash. "All night, I considered how to approach this situation. You are a founding member of The Brotherhood. You are fanatically loyal and irreplaceably valuable to the syndicate. Above all, you are someone I respect, admire and love."
Brad and Josh exchanged confused glances.
"Lately, though, I am inclined to question your allegiance to the brothers and your pusillanimous behaviour. You allowed a woman to come between you and your confrères. This same woman insulted my wife and caused an unnecessary strain on my marriage."
Nate's eyes closed.
"Blaire fired a gun on my wedding night to kill fabricated mice. Do you comprehend the ridiculousness of her statement?" I asked, and he nodded. "Yet you defended her honour. If truth be told, you often pardon her insubordinate conduct, and I fail to understand why. Is your love for our skittish runaway so profound?"
Tapping a pen on the table, Brad, oblivious to recent events, assessed the meeting closely.
I blew out two smoke halos. "Do you believe she loves you?"
"Yes," Nate said positively. "Blaire's past trauma haunts her present, but she is stable—"
"She is unstable." I went for the jugular. "Neither is she in love with you. Let me ask you another question. Do you beat or manhandle your partner?"
"What?" The question offended him. "No, I would never—"
"Blaire suggested that you require help. I will recite from the horse's mouth. Nathaniel loses his temper. He wasn't always aggressive. His violence is too frequent to ignore." Although empathetic, I acted insensitive and cruel. "Your lover proceeded to expose her newly augmented breasts."
Nate sagged in the chair, the muscle in his jaw pulsing.
"I lowered my guard. I imbibed alcohol and drugs to..." My tongue felt heavy. "Blaire successfully handcuffed me to the chair, stole commodities before my very eyes, insulted my marriage further and then stressed how much she loved me." I sipped coffee to moisten the dryness in my throat. "Do you question my authority?"
Nate looked soul-destroyed. "No, Sir."
"You know what's expected of you," I said calmly, and he rubbed irritation from his left eye. "Am I right to assume she went off the grid?"
He nodded in sullen silence.
"Blaire, Jessica Pearce, whatever the fuck you wish to call her, is your responsibility. You will find her," I ordered as everyone stood. "You will be viciously unforgiving. I want her dead and buried. Understand?"
His trembling hands cupped the back of his head. "Of course, Sir."
I pointed to the door, and Nate seized the opportunity to leave. "Go with him," I told Josh, and the lad, concerned for his brother, obeyed. "Is there something you wish to get off your chest?"
Brad's owl-eyed in stupefaction. "Blaire had a tit job?"
My unimpressed glare honed.
"Christ, how did they look?" His hands bounced imaginary breasts. "I can't imagine her with killer nipples. Not that I want to," he's eager to add. "Out of curiosity, did you tell Alexa about Blaire's sexual advances? If not, I want to be there when you do."
"Not a word to Alexa." If Alexa hears of Blaire's coquettishness, she will be on the warpath until the woman's blood has tarnished her hands, which, under different circumstances, I would encourage because there is nothing more riveting than my scorned wife. It has to be Nate, though. I have never questioned his loyalty, and it would be a shameful dereliction of duty, but if he fails to deliver, I am compelled to dismiss his position. "I am serious, Brad. Keep Alexa out of this."
I went to the dank chambers to see the aftermath of Nate's viciousness. He used corroded nails (one in each palm and six for the feet) to hammer Johnny Cazale's body to the wooden workbench. I stood over the man's naked form to examine the punctures in his legs, the dark, purple bruising on his ribcage and the trickling blood in his right ear. "Infection." I pointed to his lacerated thigh, oozing with thick, yellow discharge and clotted blood. "Put him on a short course of antibiotics. I need him alive."
Brad unzipped Nate's holdall and took out a box of antibiotics.
If Cazale's awake, I wouldn't know as he wears an eye mask. His shallow yet controlled breathing soon gave away feigned sleeping, though. "Are you ready to talk?"
Cazale bristled.
"Get these down you." Brad held the man's jaw and forced two pills into his squirming mouth. "Good doggy." Uncapping bottled water with his teeth, he spat the lid on the floor and poured fluids down his throat, which caused him to writhe and choke. "Bossman asked you a question."
"I am no rat." Thrashing his head from side to side, he spat water on his chest. "Kill me."
An unrecognisable number flashed across my phone screen. "Warren," I answered, using a stained towel to cover the man's flaccid member.
"Good afternoon, Mr Warren. It is Cassandra Young, the secretary from Governor High School." Her tone sweetened. "I tried Mrs Warren's number but to no avail. Is it possible for you to attend a meeting with the headmaster, Mr Hewitt, to avoid Logan's exclusion?"
My face contorted. "Exclusion?"
"Physical violence and aggressive behavioural patterns," she elucidated. "He spends more time in isolation than any other pupil."
I glimpsed at my wristwatch. "You will not address this matter until I arrive."
Mrs Young paused and then replied, "We look forward to meeting you, Mr Warren."
I cannot express the same enthusiasm.
Ending the call, I tucked the phone in my trouser pocket and fished out the Bentley keys. "Aggressive behavioural patterns," I explained, and Brad's eyes rolled. "I'll believe it when I fucking see it."
***
I am sitting in the headmaster's office, listening to the man's humdrum voice as he harped on about Logan's disruptive behaviour in class, which often leads to uncontainable aggressiveness and/or physical violence with other pupils. Hewitt's an older gent with rimless glasses, a receding hairline and underarm sweat patches. He's also an ignorant fool with an unfashionable taste for tawdriness.
How am I supposed to take him seriously?
"I understand your parents fled the country recently," Hewitt spoke to Logan directly. "However, abandonment aside, I will not condone bullying in my school, young man."
Logan's slumped in the chair beside me, his arms crossed, an impenetrable scowl. I inspected his angry, bedraggled image: torn polo shirt, dishevelled hair, split eyebrow, busted lip and cheek scrapes.
I tapped my fist on the armrest. "From where I am sitting, Logan drew the short straw. Intrigue me, Hewitt. The boy he so violently pulverised, is he equally scathed?" The man did not appreciate my ill-mannered boldness. "Logan, you are old enough to speak for yourself. Did you gratuitously accost the boy in question?"
Logan first looked at Brad, who is standing by the closed door, and then veered his attention to me. "Archie hit me first—"
"You are not authorised to mention his name in the meeting," Hewitt scolded, and I saw red. "He is not in attendance to defend himself."
"You see the brass letter opener on your cluttered desk," I said, and his searching eyes lowered to said object. "It is an improvised weapon. I strongly recommend that you place in the drawer." His face blanched. "Heaven forbid I slip and ram it down your throat." Head tilting to the side, I hunched forward and weaved my fingers. "I do not believe Logan is capable of confrontation unjustifiably. I do, however, believe he is an easy target for certain tormentors, and you, Hewitt, turn a blind eye for whatever purpose I care not about."
"With all due respect, Mr Warren, Logan is blameworthy for most scuffles. Even his mother attested to his belligerence. You cannot excuse his misbehaviour just because he is living under your roof."
"Quite frankly, Roxanne Bowen's neglect is not my problem. Logan is no longer an impressionable teenager who lives on a council estate with drug-abusing parents. He resides in the Warren Manor on billionaire's row. His guardians are high-net-worth individuals who can afford academic education in London," I spoke condescendingly. "He is eligible for Westminster."
Hewitt's jowls jiggled as his head reared back.
"To end this meeting on a lighter note," I soared to my feet, and Logan followed suit, "I am removing Logan from your underperforming state school as I fear your risible stupidity might influence him." Fixing my diamond cufflinks, I stared at him imperiously. "And for the record. If your beloved son, Archie, comes within ten miles of Logan again, I will snap his fucking neck. You might not condone violence, Hewitt." I opened the door, and the lad exited the office with Brad. "But I kill for sport."
I walked away before the man responded.
Logan's hot on my heels. "Holy shit—"
"Watch your mouth." I strolled down the corridor towards the exit. "You will not sit at home all day, twiddling your thumbs. You can go to a different school, or I will hire a tutor. Either way, I need an answer by the end of the week." Brad caught the Bentley keys and sprinted across the car park to bring the vehicle around while I lit a cigarette near the entrance. "Well," I prompted. "What's the real reason behind your conflict with Archie?"
His cheeks pinkened. "He called me a pufta."
I stared at him. "Are you?"
"No," he said indignantly.
I slipped Cartier shades over my eyes. "I am not here to judge you."
"I like girls." He is red-cheeked and abashed. "Look, I got a crush on Christie. A pretty blonde girl," he enunciated slowly, "who goes to the youth centre." He gestured to the approaching Bentley. "I'm not very good at...flirting."
"Howdy motherfuckers." Brad rolled down the car window, sunglasses parked on the bridge of his nose. "I am Hank fucking Marvin. Let's go somewhere so that I can smash a burger in my face." Logan chucked his backpack in the car boot before climbing into the backseat. "What crawled up his arse?"
"Logan wants Christie." I relaxed in the passenger seat. "He's too unconfident to pursue, though."
"What?" Brad drove through the car park, checked for oncoming traffic, and sped onto the main road. "It's not hard. If you like the bird, take her to the bathroom—"
"Brad," I cautioned as he stuck his arm through the window to wave pedestrians across the zebra crossing. "He's fifteen."
"What lad ignores his cock at fifteen?" Drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, he searched the street for a decent restaurant. "You know I am right, Bossman. How old were you when you did the dirty?"
I watched Logan's face turn three shades of red in the wing mirror. "Irrelevant."
"I bet you were a right toe-rag." He whipped through cars to claim a space between two parked vehicles and braked in the middle of the road. "Christ, If I bump into the Merc, I will fuck up its owner." Grasping my headrest, he peered over one shoulder and reversed into the tight spot. "I can't see anything with his big head."
Audibly huffing, Logan pushed open the car door and slammed it with the deliberate force of a petulant child.
Brad's mouth puckered. "What's his problem?"
My eyes landed on the restaurant's rustic-looking sign. "Wetherspoons?"
"I love their Mexican burgers."
Logan dawdled whilst I asked the waiter for a private table. He placed us by the windows, provided laminated menus and returned moments later with our drinks. "Where are you going?" Brad asked, and the dumbfounded waiter paused. "I want to order."
"You order meals at the bar."
"The fucking liberty." Brad's jaw slackened. "And you wonder why folks dine in Ramsay's instead."
Taken aback, the man tweaked his name badge. "I have never given Ramsay's a second's thought—"
"Don't try and justify yourself. I stopped listening half an hour ago." Knocking back distilled whiskey, Brad gathered the menus and headed for the bar. "Go back to work, Oliver."
Oliver made a face. "That's not my name."
Logan is texting someone on his phone.
"I thought you were friendless."
"It's Alexa." He tilted the screen away from curious eyes. "She wants me to meet her at the youth centre."
At the mention of my wife, I curled my thumb under my palm to rotate my wedding band. "What time?"
"Half five."
I ought to drive Logan to Inseparable Youths. If I avoid Alexa for much longer, she will show her face at the club and scream blue murder. It's not as though she is responsible for recent vexation. I am entirely culpable. I let Valerie Wentworth's admittance weave its way inside my head to resprout the seeds of doubt I spent years uprooting.
Hitting the brakes on rumination, I rubbed my tired eyes and exhaled to rid the thoughts of my mother.
Why did I agree to dinner?
Why am I playing happy families with Logan?
I should be in the chambers torturing Cazale.
No, I need intoxicants. It's the only time I can resist nostalgia.
"Sorted." Brad draped his suit jacket over the chair and took a seat. "Oliver gave us free beer-battered onion rings. It feels like I haven't eaten in aeons, so the chef needs to deliver, or I'll write a formal complaint letter to their corporate head office, starting with the rude, obnoxious waiter." The pair confabbed briefly, and then, teamed with senseless ideas, Brad advised, "Invite her to the Warren Manor. Privacy, soundproof walls and Egyptian cotton." His brows waggled. "Infallible."
Oliver sent a different waiter to our table to distribute meals.
Logan raised the bun to sneer at the garnished patties. "I wanted a normal cheeseburger."
"Well, you got brie and smoky chilli jam instead." Squirting ketchup on the blue patterned plate, Brad seasoned the chunky chips. "Don't be ungrateful." His teeth sank into the bun. "So, back to Christie. What must we do tonight?"
Logan's cheeks hollowed. "Invite her to the bathroom—"
"No. You do not coax the girl into the restroom." I sent Brad the death glare, and his broad shoulders hiked. "If you like Christie, ignore her but show interest in everyone else."
"How do I do that?" Logan sucked ketchup off his thumb. "I don't know how to talk to people."
"Really?" I curved a sarcastic brow. "You have done nothing but run your fucking mouth since I met you."
"It's different with you," he said almost inaudibly. "I have Alexa in my corner."
"Nice." Brad popped a cherry tomato in his mouth. "Only Alexa can't be there to hold your hand every day."
Enough of this nonsense. "You need to lose this emotional timidness, or you won't last two minutes in our world. You wear designer clothes and live like royalty." I unclasped the gold and encrusted diamond curb bracelet on my wrist and slid it across the table. "Add ice, and you are good to go. Eyes up," I instructed, and his blue gaze lifted to my face. "Always uphold eye contact. Never lose your voice. Remember that, and you won't go far wrong in life."
Brad nodded in agreement. "People will thrive on your fear," he breathed out. "You have been a doormat for long enough. You're not here for other's to wipe their third-class shoes on you."
He listened. "So, what's the advice?"
"Superiority," I said in light conversation. "Play basketball. Make friends. Give Christie the cold shoulder."
Logan chewed his inner cheek.
Brad, noticing the boy's nervousness, flung the burger on his plate and speared a hand through his hair. "I will come with you."
"What?" Logan's forehead wrinkled. "Why?"
Typing a quick message on his phone, Brad polished off the remainder of his drink. "To show those holier-than-thou hoodlums who they'll deal with if they so much as look at you in the wrong way." His phone jittered, and he rubbed his palms together. "There you go. Nate and Josh. I'd ask good old Alfred, but he's useless with one hand."
"What's happening?" the lad asked.
"I need to learn how to play basketball." Brad sucked his upper teeth. "Fast."————————————————
I will come back to fix any typos. ❤️
Thoughts on the chapter?
—Liam?
—Brad?
—Vincent?
—Josh?
—Nate?
—Logan?
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