Page 98 of Crave

“Alright,” she whispered. “Be careful, Richie. Maisie’s teething. She needs that cream stuff.”

“Then I’ll get it.” I ended the call before my voice could crack.

For a moment, I sat there, phone heavy in my hand, heart drumming too loud in the quiet car. I could feel it in the air. That crackle before a storm, the tension familiar from years living under it. Then I started the engine and rang Tyler from my real phone, burners gone. Meaning I had to use the code.

“You got the tickets sorted for the away day?”

“Yeah, bruv. Just need the coin off Kyan and Rio. They reckon they’re still up for it, but you know them—don’t fancy Millwall.”

“Right. Make sure it’s all boxed before tonight. And tell ’em if they don’t sort it, they ain’t coming Chelsea next week.”

“Say less. You grabbing brekkie?”

“Starving, mate. See you there.”

I hung up. Same code we’d been running since forever. No one outside the circle ever knew “tickets” meant product, “away day” meant stash run, “Chelsea” meant the next drop. Just football talk. Safe as houses.

Except it wasn’t.

I drove to Hackney and parked up across from the caff. The windows were steamed, full house for that time of morning. Cormac sat dead centre. Table by the back wall, same as always. His two heavies flanked him. Tyler off to the side. Joe by the counter. There were a couple others dotted about pretending to eat fry-ups, all wrong for the place. Clean shoes. No chatter. Cormac’s watchers, there in case I didn’t make it back out. The real threat wasn’t the muscle. Oh no, that was for show. The real worry was the old Irish bloke by the window. The one reading the paper. Doyle. He could open my throat with a butter knife and go back to his crossword before the sirens came.

I pulled on a hoodie from the boot, covering the T-shirt smelling faintly of Tricky’s soap, wrong scent for this room, and walked in.

“Razor,” Cormac drawled, slick as fryer grease, spreading his arms wide as if this were some long-lost family reunion. “Nice of you to grace us.” He flicked two fingers toward the chair opposite him. “Sit.” Then he called behind him. “Joe, get him a coffee. Looks like he’s had a rough couple of nights.”

I sat. Gave Tyler a single nod. Quiet. Precise. I got this.

Cormac watched me the way a snake watches movement it’s already decided to strike at. He lifted his tea and sipped without losing eye contact and Joe set a chipped mug in front of me. He dumped a hand on my shoulder, held it there a beat too long with a gentle squeeze saying I’m with you right before the pressure shifted to but I can’t save you. Message received. They all liked me well enough. Some even cared. They’d be pissed if I ended up in the ground. But nobody in this café, no one in the whole bloody borough, would raise a finger against Cormac O’Rourke.

His legend wasn’t myth. It was history. Living, breathing, razor-edged. Not even embellished like my own. We’d all heard it directly from someone who’d been there. Years back, one of Cormac’s lieutenants had fucked up. Not a small slip. A betrayal. Making Cormac go still and quiet in that awful way of his. So he took the man out to an old warehouse and opened him up chest to belly. No shouting. No theatrics. A controlled, methodical dissection while the rest of the crew watched and learnt. He bagged the offal himself. Sold it to a local pig farm. Made sure the animals were fed well.

Then at the next summer barbecue for his loyal foot soldiers?

He bought the sausages made from those pigs. Cooked them. Everyone ate. And everyone understood. Cormac didn’t threaten. Cormac promised.

And he always kept his promises.

“Drink up.” Cormac tapped the rim of the mug with his fork, a lazy little command feeling like a gun to my skull. “Need your head straight for this, don’t we, laddo?”

I lifted it, drank. Bitter. Cold.

“Good lad.” He leant forward, knuckles pressed together on the table. “Apparently, there’s not a scrap of my food left out east. Not a single bite on the street. That sound right to you?”

“I can—”

He cut across, sharp enough to draw blood. “Not as big a problem as you still walking while Ghost’s head’s still on his shoulders. His gear still out there. My name’s lookin’ weak.” He dipped closer, lowering his voice for a proper threat. “You better have a good fucking explanation for not having a bag full of cash with you. Or Joe here’s gonna start serving a different kind of sausage.”

“I do.” I waited. Cause I didn’t want Cormac to think I was weak. That I was scared. He hated weakness. So I took another sip of coffee. Made him wait for it. Enough for the paper to rustle behind me and yeah, course, I felt that. I flinched enough I could feel it, but not for anyone to see it.

Then the heavy beside me leant in. “He’s waiting for an answer, bruv.”

“I get that.” I put the mug down. “But I got a bit of a bad throat from having taken a knife and a bullet the other day. So give me a sec, yeah?”

I looked the bloke straight in the eye.

Cormac chuckled.

I turned back to the Irish madman. “Feds been on Ghost proper. Got a rat in his crew. They’re setting a sting. Friday. Cameras, vans, the whole theatre. If he moves like he thinks, he walks straight into the net with everything on him. He don’t even clock he’s boxed.”