Lord of London Town Page 18

  Sweat and blood filled the air as we stepped into the warehouse’s lair. This was my real fucking club, not the Sparrow Room full of pretentious pricks. This was the club that made me the real money. “Arthur,” men greeted as I passed by them. The room was crowded with men and women. All from the crime syndicates that didn’t fuck with us. Associates. Acquaintances, and ones I hadn’t had an excuse to kill just yet.

  Pit after sunken pit was filled with fighters. Bare-knuckle, of course, no fucking pussies in the rings. The seats around the pits swelled with spectators, Caesars looking down on their gladiators.

  I led my family through the gathered spectators, as Adley soldiers ran the pits and bets and kept everyone in check. We walked to the back of the warehouse until the real fucking pits came into view. The headliners. The big-money tickets. The ones where the only way out was to be carried out in a fucking coffin.

  My men had made sure things were in order and our seats were ready. They were prime viewing, ensuring everyone could see us. See who ran this fucking castle. Who was the real emperor, ruling over them all.

  I tossed my coat off and lit a cig, looking down into the main pit to see two men ripping each other apart. One had a smashed jaw and couldn’t see from one eye, but the wanker wasn’t giving up.

  He was close to the coffin.

  Betsy and Cheska sat down behind me, a few seats to my right. I looked over at Chelsea Girl. Her eyes were fucking wide as she drank in the room, but she hadn’t run yet. As if feeling me watching her, she looked over at me and straightened her shoulders. She then focused on the pit, just as the heavily beaten fighter’s neck snapped and he dropped to the floor. The ref gave the signal that it was over and held up the arm of the victor. Cheska swallowed, but other than that made no sign that what she was witnessing was too much.

  The wannabe dark queen sucking it up to play in the vicious court.

  “Arthur, you fucking twat,” a familiar voice said. I turned, taking a drag of my cig, only to see Royal, the president of the Hades Hangmen MC, London chapter. “Long time no see.”

  “Royal.” I looked behind him to see his men watching the fights. My eyes narrowed on the bikers as I noticed someone pretty fucking vital to us was missing. Royal shook my hand and pulled back.

  “Where fuck is Rudge?” I asked, not seeing the mouthy tosser anywhere.

  “Prick’s fucking left us for Texas,” Royal said, pushing back his shoulder-length brown hair. He was dressed—as always—in jeans, shitkicker boots, white t-shirt and his Hangmen cut. The Hangmen were among our closest associates. And Royal was one of the people I knew best outside my family. One of the only people I could tolerate who didn’t represent the Adley name. Our history was long, and the fucker currently owed me a favour for bringing back one of the club’s kidnapped bitches.

  “Texas?” I asked. “What the fuck is in Texas?”

  “The Hangmen mother chapter,” Royal said, shaking his head. “Arsehole went over there to do a bare-knuckle circuit and never came back. The bloody brown-nose is so far up the mother chapter’s president’s arse he’s practically cleaning his motherfucking teeth.”

  “He’s going to leave us a fighter down,” I said.

  “No, he ain’t.” Royal nudged his chin toward his vice president, Jag.

  Jag came over and shook my hand. A bloke about my age, maybe younger, came out from behind him. Lithe, tattooed head to toe, with dark eyes that promised fucking death. “Rudge’s cousin, Chrome.”

  “Chrome?” Charlie asked from beside me, shaking hands with the Hangmen and sizing up the new fighter.

  “As in Chromium, one of the hardest fucking metals in the world,” Jag said. “You thought Rudge was the best bare-knuckle fighter you’ve ever seen? Wait until you see this little fucker. Makes me glad his cousin has pissed off to Austin. Now we’ve got an upgrade.”

  A ref called the next fight, and Royal tapped me on the arm. “That’s us.” The Hangmen went back to their seats, and Chrome jumped down into the pit. I sat down and watched with vested interest as Chrome killed his opponent in thirty seconds flat, and twenty of those fuckers were just him toying with his prey.

  “All I see are pound signs when I look at that fella,” Freddie said. “No idea why the fuck anyone would choose Texas over London, but I’m glad Rudge did. I was one stupid joke away from knocking out his teeth myself.”

  The ref signalled the next fight. Eric got up from his seat and stripped down to his trousers. Cheska’s eyes widened and she whispered something to Betsy. Before Betsy could reply, Eric walked up to my cousin.

  “Kiss for good luck?” Eric said to Betsy.

  Betsy leaned in, and Eric’s eyes widened. She stopped before his lips. “Eat shit and die, Mason.” She slapped his cheek, the sound loud enough for the spectators to hear.

  “Cold-hearted bitch,” Eric said, smiling. He pointed at her. “I’m fucking you after I win this.” Betsy rolled her eyes, and Eric climbed down to the pit. His sadistically smiling clown tattoos covered every inch of his skin. He was against the Chechen’s new fighter. Ten minutes later, Eric was fucking supercharged, with blood on his hands and in his mouth, a dead Chechen eating the sand at his feet.

  Vinnie jumped up next. He smiled and leaned down to the hallucination of my sister, the nearby Italians watching him like he was fucking insane. He was. And that’s why he’d beat anyone we put in front of him. I never bet against him.

  The minute he was in the pit, Vinnie became the animal we knew him to be. The fucker who lived for blood and guts embraced the urge to kill. The only leash he had these days was the ghost of my sister. If she ever left him, there’d be more than me to fucking worry about in London Town.

  Vinnie ripped his Manchurian opponent apart, his knives hacking his opponent to smithereens long after he was dead. By the time Vinnie was done, the Manc fighter was just a mangled heap of shredded flesh and bones. Vinnie threw his head back and screamed when the ref finally called the fight.

  Vinnie jumped out of the pit, eyes black from adrenaline. “Where now?” he said to me. I tipped my chin at the ref in the next pit. He called Vinnie over, and Vinnie went off to fight again.

  I checked on Cheska, who was still as a fucking statue in her seat. My chest pulled. Chelsea Girl wasn’t handling the lair well. She caught my eye. Then, with her gaze still locked on mine, she pulled a wad of cash from her bra and handed it to the dealer stood beside us.

  “All of it,” she said, making sure I heard her fancy fucking voice give the command. “On the Irish.” The dealer gave her a betting slip, and Betsy smirked my way. Cheska looked at me again, a fucking challenge in her eyes. I didn’t know where this bird had been hiding all these years, but the princess was shaking off her pink dress and owning those fucking leather trousers she’d squeezed her perfect arse into.

  Seamus, the head of the Irish mob, came over. Vano, the head of the Romani joined us. These fuckers and the Hangmen were as close I let anyone get to me and my family.

  The fights drew on until the middle of the night. When the final ones had been won, my soldiers escorted the last of the fighters and the gamblers out of the warehouse. The only people remaining were us, the Hangmen, the Irish, and Vano’s family.

  “What’s happening?” I heard Cheska ask someone.

  Getting up from my seat, I looked over at Chelsea Girl. I shed my jacket and shirt, leaving my torso bare. Her eyes fixed on my chest, then slipped up to my eyes. “We caught some beasts trying to get into my kingdom,” I said, knowing only she would get the reference. “And now the king has to rip them apart.” Cheska’s eyes widened, and I jumped down into the pit.

  One of my men pulled out a chain taken from one of our docks. A heavy one, one that helped anchor our haulage boats. The chain fell at my feet, and a bloke was dragged into the pit, a black hessian bag over his head. One of my soldiers kicked away his legs and tossed him to the ground. The prick fell, and then pulled off the bag. He snapped his head back and forth, trying to
figure out where he was. Then his eyes latched on to me, and the blood drained from his face.

  “Mr Adley.” He scurried backwards on his arse like the fucking rat he was. I lit a cig and exhaled the smoke into the air.

  “You told the Yakuza where one of my ships would be coming from.” The twat on the ground started shaking his head, but one look at his trembling bottom lip told me he was guilty. That and the fucking voice recording of his phone call with Hiro, the leader of the Yakuza, that Ronnie had secured. “And they sank the ship, and all of the gear that was being smuggled inside it and took the deal instead.”

  I nodded at Ronnie, and she came to the lip of the pit. She pulled out her mobile and played the scumbag’s voice for all my witnesses to hear.

  “Arthur,” the twat said, then smacked his own head like a bloody psycho. “I fucked up. I really fucked up. Please …” I circled him, smelling the fucking stench of lies and fear slipping off his sweat-laden skin.

  I held out my arms. “You were an Adley. Protected by our name.” I pointed at his ugly fucking mug. “You should have worn our name with pride. Instead you shat on it. You fucking pissed on everything we are when you sold us out to Hiro and his men.” The wanker shook his head, but I didn’t want to hear fuck-all else from his mouth. If I had to hear anymore, I’d sew the fucker shut. The fire in my blood was already boiling, the evil inside me salivating for the kill, whispering to me to begin.

  I looked at Seamus, Royal, Vano and their men, then finally at Cheska, who was sitting on the edge of her seat. I put my cig between my fingers, spread my arms wide, and said, “This is the Adley Court!” Charlie nodded in approval; he lived for this shit as much as I did. Vinnie bounced on his fucking seat, laughing, waiting for the blood to spill. Freddie watched with a quiet smirk on his face, and Eric clapped his hands in the air. “Where traitors are tried. And they fight for their lives.”

  I turned and addressed the shitstain on the already blood-drenched sand. “Dennis Short,” I said loudly, my voice carrying around the pit and the empty warehouse. “Welcome to the Adley Court. You have been charged with being a traitor.” The fucker flinched. “An Adley’s word is his bond. A bond you have broken. And I am here to collect.”

  I stopped right in front of the sniffling wanker and bent down. I pushed the end of my cig against his forehead and watched the fucker cry out. Straightening, I let the anger frothing inside me burst free.

  “Mr Adley, please,” Dennis the rat begged from his knees.

  “Choose your weapon,” I said, gesturing to the table filled with weapons.

  Dennis whipped his head in that direction. “Arthur, please …”

  “One more fucking word and I’ll cut off your tongue,” I warned, and at least the fucker was switched on enough to shut his fat trap. “Choose a fucking weapon, then face me.” Dennis shook his head. “You turned against us. Now you’ll fucking dance with the devil.” I pointed at my chest. “Meet the fucking devil.” I picked up the chain at my feet. The metal was heavy in my hand, and my dick got hard at the ache in my muscles, at the fact that blood was about to be spilled at my feet.

  Dennis ran to the table and picked up a long metal pole. I sparked up another cig, letting the nicotine keep me from just killing this prick outright. He needed to pay. The men around me needed to see that when it came to London, it was my fucking town. Everyone else was just a tenant. The minute anyone stepped out of line, they’d be evicted.

  The cig hung from my bottom lip as I pushed my hair back from my eyes. The low light of the pit reflected off my glasses. I started swinging the end of the chain in small circles. Dennis’s jaw dropped as I began to circle him too.

  He held the pole like a fucking lifeline. I lifted my hand and, with my fingers still on the chain, beckoned him to strike. I saw the moment the rat decided to fight. I saw the gritting of his teeth and the tightening of his grip around the pole. He charged at me, pole in the air. When I drew close, he brought it down toward me. I stepped out of the way and, swinging the chain, slammed the heavy metal against his back, smirking when I heard a rib crack.

  Dennis dropped to the ground, the pole clattering off the floor. I inhaled on my cig and blew out the smoke. “Get to your fucking feet,” I demanded as he rolled around on the floor. Dennis groaned and ignored my command. “I said get to your bloody traitorous feet!” The sound of my raised voice had Dennis scrambling to stand.

  I stood stock-still, dropping my arms so the chain hung low. After picking the pole off the floor, he whirled around. I stood completely fucking still as he charged. I didn’t even move as he ploughed the pole against my stomach. Dennis blew out a breath as he stumbled across the pit. I turned, the throbbing in my stomach only stoking my flames higher.

  “You’re insane.” He looked around the room at the spectators all getting off on his slow and drawn-out death.

  “My turn,” I said and, hoisting the chain, slammed the thick links across his face. I heard another crack and knew his jaw had been broken. Dennis screamed and tried to come at me again. But the fucker had lost what little composure he had. He charged, trying to lift the pole to my face, but my chain got to him first, slamming into his stomach, and the pole clattered to the ground. The blow brought him to his knees, saliva and blood mixing as he spat it out on the sand.

  My cig was still resting on my lip, so I took a much-needed drag, exhaling the smoke through my nose. Dennis had blood on his face; the chain had bust his lip wide open. “Please,” he begged, and his pissant weakness made my skin crawl with disgust.

  I swung the chain around in wide circles and walked around him. Dennis shot his hand out, trying to grab the pole and hit me with it. But I was done with his rat face and lying mouth. It was time for the twat to fuck off and die.

  Standing right in front of his face, I waited until he met my eyes. I changed the angle of the chain, released it, and watched it wrap around his neck like an iron boa constrictor. Dennis clawed at the chain as it began to choke him, his pale face swelling with red as he fought for breath. As his weak arms were unable to pull the heavy chain away from his throat.

  I never turned my gaze away, watching and smoking as the turncoat prick fought to stay alive. He didn’t fight long. He reached out toward me, one final move for mercy.

  I kicked his fucking hand away, snapping his wrist, and the arsehole toppled over, his eyes retreating behind the glaze only death could bring. I lifted my hand to my mouth, pulled one last drag from my cig, and flicked the ash on his still-warm corpse.

  In that moment, I thought of Cheska’s ivory queen and the ash stain that had smudged across her pristine chest. I looked up at my family and sought out the only one I needed to see. She was already watching me. She’d lost some colour in her face, but her shoulders were still high, that regal fucking toffee nose still in the air, daring me to bring on more darkness.

  I smirked at her challenge. She didn’t know fuck all. Because the twat dead at my feet was just the starter course.

  I clicked my fingers at one of my soldiers. Still holding Cheska’s confused gaze, I moved to the table, picked up a medieval cat o’ nine tails and said, “Bring me the next.”

  Chapter Eleven

  CHESKA

  This is Arthur Adley, I silently said to myself as I watched yet another man die at his hands. His very fucked-up and sadistic hands. The sand he stood on was no longer beige but a crimson carpet. Arthur’s skin was no longer lightly tanned; no natural colour could be seen under the evidence of his insatiable appetite for death. His tattoo of the Victorian London skyline was now sullied with bits of flesh and bone that he had torn from his victims. Victims who had screamed and cried and pleaded for mercy.

  No mercy was ever given. In fact, if they begged to be spared, their death and the pain Arthur inflicted was only drawn out more.

  This was him pushing me.

  Ronnie, Vera and Betsy had told me it would be the case. Arthur had brought me here to see the very darkest side of him. He wanted
me here so I would run away, leave him to his festering wickedness and the evil that had become his safety. Leave him in the sinful cage he locked himself inside.

  I kept my eyes on the pit as he struck his fourth “traitor” with a sword to the top of his skull. I forced back the nausea creeping up my throat as the man fell backwards to the ground. Arthur turned, sword in hand. King Arthur. I couldn’t help but make that comparison as my fucked-up king’s blue gaze bored into mine. As he stood, torso exposed, but wearing armour of his victims’ lifeblood and lies over his bloodthirsty heart.

  And in his murdering hands, he held his very own Excalibur.

  Betsy squeezed my knee in support, a silent request to be strong. When we’d entered these pits, I had not been prepared for how the night would end. The blood, the fights, the death.

  So much death.

  And then there were the “associates”. The infamous bikers that rode through London like they were a law unto themselves. The Irish and Romani mafias that everyone had heard of but no one I knew had ever had dealings with. All of them terrifying in their own right, and all of them looking down at Arthur like he really was the dark lord he had been titled.

  Royal, the man Betsy told me was the president of the Hangmen, got to his feet. “A fucking show as always, Adley.” His men started heading for the exit. “Until next time, mate.”

  Arthur nodded at each of his “mates” as they left, leaving only the Adleys. But Arthur hadn’t moved from the pit. His wild eyes stayed on mine, and I couldn’t move. I was a rabbit in his snare, locked in place.

  “I take it that’s our cue to go,” Eric said sarcastically, then pointed in Betsy’s face. “You and me have an appointment, treasure.”

  “Fuck off, Eric,” Betsy bit back, but there was a hint of something like excitement in her voice, and she got to her feet, her lips curling up. Eric grabbed her and spun her around. “You’re fucking riding my dick the minute we’re in that car.” He had put his shirt on over his bloodied chest, and red seeped through the expensive material. “It’s been too fucking long.”