‘What would that be?’ The ice melts slowly in my glass. I don’t drink to forget. I drink to sharpen. Across from me, Sal leans in, eyes narrowed.
‘It’s a pity,’ I say, knocking it back. ‘I was starting to enjoy the silence.’
Sal smirks. ‘And I always thought you preferred the chaos.’
‘I do!’ I reply. ‘As long as I’m the one creating it.’ I set my glass down. ‘Mickey sent a message. London’s bleeding again.’
‘What do we do about St- the Curator?’
‘Waylynn is breaking her in.’
‘Waylynn?’ he scoffs. ‘That girl is unstable. You know that!’
‘Now, Sal, you make unstable sound like unpredictable.’
‘She is! She once carved a man’s confession into his own arm. Smiled through it like she was writing a love letter.’
‘Hmm. Crazy, maybe. But she gets results. Fast ones,’ I murmur. ‘Besides, Curator isn’t a saint herself.’
Sal was right, if you gave Waylynn enough time, she’d turn a ballerina into a body bag carrier. Sal arches his brow.
‘Right, I need Waylynn back in London. You remember that arms broker you dealt with in Manchester?’
‘Yes...the one who threw dinner parties with five bodyguards at his side?’
‘Yes, him. Waylynn danced with him. Right there. Then she off’d his entire security team before dessert. That’s something neither you nor I could do. She understands not everyone is dirty on the outside. Some wear suits, sit on boards, and finds the enemy in five-star offices. According to Mickey, factions are splintering, allies are panicking. They’ll have to kneel or vanish. With us, out of the country, chaos is eroding trust. If we don’t go back now, opportunists will build their own empires on my foundation, and we’re as good as dead.’
The silence stretches. I don’t mention that Mickey had caught wind of a rival gang near Tarran’s house. Nor do I mention the 24hr surveillance van I have parked two blocks down. I don’t tell Sal everything. Instead, I let him sip his whiskey. Let him believe this trip back to London is about factions fracturing and reputation upkeep. That’s the story he needs. Strategy, legacy. Not where heads will roll. After what happened with the Wilderness Warfare games, I know he’d be pissed. Let him be. Plans change. That’s the nature of power, and I don’t need to ask permission to shift the tide or take a shit. I move, and they follow. If myconsigliere’s…cousin’sloyalty hinges on being looped in every time I pivot, then he’s not loyal. He’s comfortable, and comfortable breeds softness. He’s yet to use the Dessert Eagle. Still pristine. Still untouched. That’s going to be a museum piece in his holster. After what Charlie told me, Sal’s going to have to stain his hands if he wants to keep a seat at my table. I don’t need a suit with a gun he doesn’t know how to use.
I saw the photo Mickey sent. The rival gang’s insignia etched into the street pavement across from Tarran’s place. That wasn’t marking turf. It was whispering violence where I keep my little lamb safe. They crossed a line. They got near her. That house isn’t just bricks and mortar – it’s where the last good part of me resides.
I know what Sal would say; thinkit through. Don’t make it personal.
But it is personal. I feel it in my jaw. In my ribs. So I keep quiet. I let him plan the operation. Let him run logistics, and book the jet. Meanwhile, I’m counting how many heads will roll.
I’ll take Waylynn, because sometimes chaos leaves the deepest message. I don’t need help pulling triggers. What I need is precision behind a pretty face. Waylynn doesn’t storm gates, she gets invited in. Looks like she dropped out of heaven, draped in silk and perfume. Men trust her. Women underestimate her. No one sees the blade until it’s partway through their throats.
This time, it isn’t about fear – it’s about influence. Sometimes you infiltrate not with force but with a face the devil himself would mistake for an angel’s.
EXTENDED EPILOGUE
THE DIPLOMAT
The plane lands in London, the sky the kind of grey that makes your bones ache. Waylynn is pacing like she wants to punch the weather, and Gabriel just scans the streets like he’s calculating how many bodies it would take to make the city behave.
We pull up at Tarran’s house at 03:00 am. The street is quiet, too quiet. Gabriel steps out first, his coat flaring like a warning.
‘Sal,’ he murmurs, ‘take Waylynn. Two blocks down you’ll find Mickey. He’ll take it from there.’
I nod, already moving, leaving Gabriel lingering in the doorway with eyes on Tarran.
Our footsteps sound louder than they should, heavy with the scent of rain-soaked concrete. The street lights cast a jaundiced glow, a kebab wrapper dances across the pavement, and a taxi glides past, it’s driver half-asleep, half-listening to late-night radio. The street is quiet, in that eerie, post-midnight way, that is until Waylynn pipes up.
‘I hate it here,’ she mutters, yanking her coat tighter round herself as the drizzle turns to sideways sleet. ‘The uneven pavement and the permanently hung-over sky just make it unbearable,’ she continues. ‘And what’s with the beans on toast?’ she groans. Waylynn’s voice is a rasp of disdain. I don’t look at her.
‘You do realise youareBritish!’
She shoots me a glare. ‘I’m a lot of things.’ There’s a pause, then she adds, ‘but that’s culinary sabotage. The toast gets soggy-’
