Page 138 of Claim

We put them through drills first. Pads. Footwork. Ropes. Showed them how to hold their stance, how to breathe, how to channel all that restless energy into something that didn’t end in sirens. Then we did the workshops in the back room. Plastic chairs in a circle, whiteboard behind us. Real talk. No scare tactics, just the truth. What it costs. What it takes from you. How small your world gets when you think you’re running it. And we always spoke about Levi. Because drugs ruin lives in multiple ways.

Teachers hovered near the door, grateful and wary all at once. A couple of the lads hung back after, hands shoved in pockets, trying to look uninterested while asking what time we opened on Saturdays. Said they might come by. That they knew people who trained here.

That was a win.

A proper one.

By the time six rolled round, my shoulders were shot and my voice was rough from shouting over gloves hitting pads. The gym smelt the way it always did by evening. Rubber mats, metal, sweat, the faint citrus of whatever disinfectant Monica used. It was a good smell. Effort soaked into the walls.

Outside, the new tarmac in the car park still looked almost unreal to me. Fresh black surface, crisp white lines marking out proper spaces. Not the cracked concrete and puddles we’d started with. Slick enough for Tristan’s Merc to glide in and settle neatly into place. As it did then, and I leant back in my office chair, Lennon opposite in his place, watching him make his way into reception.

Then Lennon threw a soft stress ball at me. “Oi. We ain’t done talking!”

I picked up the ball from the floor.

He was right. We weren’t. We’d been mid-debate for days now, the stress ball flying back and forth between us as we argued about expansion. Lennon had this idea—one of his big ones. Get a proper coffee machine, the industrial kind you see in railway stations. Set it up out front or in one of the spare units nearby. Train those on probation to run it. Give them something real. A start. A job they could put on a CV.

I turned to him. “The streets are lined with coffee shops. This is Hackney. You cross into the Wick and it’s wall-to-wall gentrified cafés. We wouldn’t turn a profit. We’d bleed out before we even got going.”

Lennon chewed his lip. “We ain’t in it for the profit, though, are we, bruv?”

Old habits die hard.

I still thought in margins and overheads and risk. Still had money ticking away at the back of my head, especially now I lived with a bloke who moved through the world as if it was paved for him. Didn’t mean I wanted his money. Just meant I was painfully aware of what it cost to keep a place standing.

The stress ball sailed towards me again and never made it. Tristan caught it, closing his fingers around it as if he’d been part of the argument all along. “Working hard, I see.”

“Yes, your honour.” Lennon rolled his eyes.

“I’m your learned friend.” Tristan glanced between us then held up the ball in his hand. “What’s the argument about this time?”

I pointed at my business partner. Not my second in command, so no way could I slap him upside the head for not listening to me first time. Those days were gone.

“Lennon wants a fancy coffee machine. Stick it out front. Train the probies to run it. Serve lattes to school mums.”

Tristan tossed the ball once and caught it again, considering. “Good idea.”

Lennon shot me a look that said told you so.

“You know how much those things cost?” I angled my head at the man who was supposed to be on my side.

“Put in a bid to the board.” Tristan settled on the edge of my desk, twisting slightly so he still faced Lennon. “If you show a proper plan, I’m sure they’ll fund it.”

By the board, he meant Eloise. And I didn’t love the idea of going back to her again, hand out. I wanted the place to make its own money. Wanted to prove I could build something clean. Something that didn’t come from the sort of deals I used to make.

Tristan must’ve read my face, because he reached out and cupped my jaw. “To make money, you need money. That’s business.”

He could hear my thoughts before I’d even put them together.

Lennon chuckled. “Looks like you’ll be writing a proposal this weekend, bruv.” He pushed himself up, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair.

I stood, stepping between Tristan’s knees, and kissed him quick. “Traitor.” I then glanced over him to Lennon. “You still on for tomorrow?”

Lennon zipped his jacket. “We are. Amara is very much looking forward to her first high-society event.”

Tristan slid off the desk and turned his back on me with a faint sigh. “It’s not high society.”

Lennon arched an eyebrow. I snorted and moved in behind Tristan, sliding my hands to his hips, and dipped down to his ear. “Babe, it’s in a country mansion.”