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Sonny Marchant is a young, cocky little shit from Haringay with an overconfident swagger and almost as much gold hanging from his neck as Mr T, which screams look at me, but he’s reasonably smart, andifhe makes it through the next few months, there’s a chance he’ll make it out the other side.
He laughs at something one of his little lapdogs says, keeping his eyes on me the whole time. His cold, hard stare would be impressive if I was fifteen years younger and trying to work out where I belonged in a world full of gangs and drug lords. But I’m not afraid of Marchant. I’m not afraid of Rogers or Bonner or Laskin.
I’ve spent my whole life around men like them and guys like Marchant, hell I used to be him.
“Maddox, good to see you again,” Marchant greets, turning to Lila and ordering a drink. The fact he doesn’t wait for an invitation irks me, but as I said, cocky and overconfident. In his defence, you won’t get far in this world without those two traits, however fucking irritating they are.
Once Lila has served them their drinks, I lead them to one of the private rooms. When I reach the first room, I open the door and gesture for Marchant and his guys to enter. I look to Ripley, giving him a nod and holding up three fingers before stepping inside and closing the door. There’s a reason why I use this room.
Inside the room, Marchant takes a seat at one end of the curved sofa that surrounds the stripper pole in the centre of the room, while the other two stand at the end.
I sip my drink, my eyes on Marchant the whole time. I’ve not said a word to him yet, so when he shifts in his chair, I know he’s beginning to feel uneasy, and it brings a small smile to my face.
He clears his throat before finally getting to the reason he’s here. “Same deal as last time?”
I cross my legs, taking a mouthful of my drink languidly. “No, not this time.” He hides his irritation well at the idea I’m about to move the goal posts on him, which I am. “I want you to switch locations.”
His eyes narrow, jaw ticking. “To where?”
“I want you to hit up Camden.”
His eyes widen. “Are you fucking kidding me? You want me to send my guys to deal right on Rogers’ doorstep?”
“No, I’m not ‘fucking kidding’, and yes, that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”
“That wasn’t our deal, Maddox.” He pauses, weighing up his options. “Okay”—I hear the smaller of Marchant’s men give a little gasp—“but I want a bigger cut, both cash and territory.”
It’s my turn to pause, as though contemplating his terms and placing my drink on the small table at the end of the sofa. When a flash of movement behind Marchant’s men catches my eye, I know it’s time. “The terms stay the same,” I tell Marchant firmly.
His nostrils flare and that tic in his jaw is back. “Then the deal is off.” He leans forward, resting a hand on the sofa. “If you think I’m sending my men to their deaths without some sort of compensation, then you’re—” His words are cut off as I swipe the arm he’s leaning on from under him and clutch his wrist as his head hits the sofa with a dull thud. I place my hand on his head, keeping him in place. There’s an audible click that has me raising my eyes and looking down the barrel of a gun.
Lifting my head. I meet the wide, alarmed eyes of a tall, skinny lad with a shaved head.
“Sonny?” the skinny lad pointing the gun at me grits out behind clenched teeth, his hand shaky lightly.
Another click echoes in the frigid silence as I give Sonny’s wrist a little twist, causing him to cry out. His eyes flick between me, his mate and my man, who is now standing behind both his men with a gun in each hand and trained on the back of their heads.
“Fuck! Put the fucking gun down, Wes. Jesus Christ,” Marchant calls out.
“That’s the best idea you’ve had tonight, Marchant. And I’d hurry up and have your man, Wes, here stand down real fucking sharpish unless he wants a bullet shaped hole in his head.”
Wes finally catches on and begins to lower his weapon, but not fast enough for Ripley, who steps forward and cracks him over the head. He goes down like a sack of shit, hitting the floor hard. The gun skitters across the floor out of reach, and Ripley gestures to the other guy to take a seat at the end of the sofa.
“Now, let’s try this again, shall we? You will move your dealing to Camden, and you will do it for the same share as before. But as a gesture of goodwill, which your fucking lucky to get after your little buddy here pulled a fucking gun on me, I’ll promise not to kill you when I’m finished with you. How does that sound?” When he doesn’t answer, I give his wrist another little twist, feeling the bones grind beneath my fingers.
“Ahhh, fuck! Okay, okay.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t quite hear that? Did you say,yes, Maddox, thank you, Maddox”
“Yes, yes. Thank you, Maddox.” His voice is laced with pain and muffled from where I’m squashing his face against the soft blood red fabric of the sofa.
“Good. But before I let you get to work, there’s a couple more things we need to discuss.” Wes groans from his position on the floor as I release Marchant.
He rights himself, straightening his shirt, but keeping his eyes down. “What do you want?” he asks bitterly.
By the time Marchant is leaving, it’s been almost an hour and still no word from Zak. I’m at the bar talking to Ripley when Candi strolls over, stepping up beside me.
I ignore her, even when she rests her hand on my thigh and leans in to whisper in my ear.
