Artem, the kingpin of Mayfair, sighs. “She’s here, da?”
“Yes,” I grit out.
“Her brothers want to talk to her, and negotiate with you,” says Westminster.
“Well, you can all fuck off. That is rather how kidnapping works.” She’s mine.
“And then you talk to someone about the price of their family member’s return.” Westminster shakes his head like I’m being deliberately difficult.
“You only met her yesterday, so this isn’t about her, is it?” Mayfair says.
They don’t understand. This isallabout Willow. There are soft footsteps across the room from where I left my girl straightening her clothes after I nearly mauled her.
“Be civilised and demand the ransom, Bethnal.” Westminster states this as though it’s the only ending he can imagine.
“I have everything I want.” I reach my hand backwards without looking, and for a second, I think she’s going to leave me hanging. Then Willow’s palm slides over mine, soft and warm. I interlock our fingers and give them a little squeeze to say,Good girl.
Neither of the two mafia bosses miss the gesture, and they exchange a look.
“Fun fact, Artem and I met because of a hostage situation. You might become friends with the Maldons,” Westminster says.
“I do not need a fucking bromance,” I snap. Brother-in-laws, maybe. But after hearing about the ways they have controlled and kept her down, I’m not very inclined to spend time with Willow’s family.
“It’s not a bromance,” they say in perfect unison, and Willow smothers a laugh.
“It is a bromance,” says a woman, strolling up, eyes twinkling.
“I told you to wait, darling, because it’s dangerous.” Westminster pulls the woman under his arm with a scowl.
Snuggling into him, the woman regards Willow and me curiously.
“I’m Anwyn, Ben’s wife. And you should definitely come to this meeting,” she chirps. “You might start a maths club together.”
“I don’t know why you think that would be appealing,” I reply, my irritation seeping into my voice. My gaze flicks towards the street. My men are there, of course. They let Mayfair and Westminster past because they’re allies of Bethnal Green. I can’t blame them for this shitshow.
“I hear it’s popular,” Mayfair deadpans.
“Not. Maths,” I bite out. “For fuck’s sake you guys already expect me to keep count of how many people I’ve killed, and now you want to mess up a debt collection. Witham owed me.”
“Do we collect murder stats?” Mayfair asks Westminster, ignoring my second point.
“Just for baselining purposes. I thought it would be good to have an idea of the trend and aim for death reduction in future years.”
“No, I draw the line there.” Mayfair shakes his head firmly. “Ben, that’s too far. We are not actually a maths club or a government.”
“Well then, I guess the kidnapping is fine,” Westminster huffs impatiently. “And we don’t object to Bethnal’s little private security thing he has going on. It’s like the bloody 1950s, but the Bobbies have tattoos.”
Mayfair shakes his head, baffled. “Do you mean boobies?”
“No, Bobbies.” Westminster sighs. “It’s an old-fashioned name for the police, dating back to the founding of the force by?—”
“Will you be standing around discussing history when the bookshop is open, and I hit you over the head with a history hardback?” I snap. This is enough. “Why are you still here?”
“Her family approached me about resolving this.” Westminster folds his arms and his gaze flicks between Willow, our joined hands, and my face. “The London Mafia Syndicate was founded to resolve kidnap situations more amicably. And although I admit we’ve branched out?—”
“Into fucking mathematics and road maintenance,” Mayfair grumbles.
“The welfare of vulnerable young people remains a core part of our organisation.” Westminster doesn’t pause, speaking over Mayfair.
