“It was theft, Islington,” says one of the men.
“Well, Dalston stole six streets of my territory.” Islington doesn’t sound terribly upset, leaning back in his chair and shooting a challenging look over to another man, who I assume to be Dalston.
The table goes silent.
I stiffen with fear.
“It’s okay,” Kirill reassures me as he drops a kiss next to my ear, and takes my hand to rest on his knee. “You’re safe with me, whatever these idiots do.”
“Ah fuck,” Westminster says under his breath. “Dalston, give him the territory back. This isn’t okay.”
“I have a solution,” says Angel, his Russian accent thick.
“No murder,” Westminster responds, pointing over his shoulder to Angel without looking.
“I don’t have a solution,” Angel mutters, scowling.
I see Kirill catch Angel’s eye and shrug. The kingpin of Angel is known as the Angel of Death for his murderous tendencies. Seems like he’d have something in common with Kirill.
“It wasn’t theft,” Dalston gives an irritable sigh. “It was part of a deal with our mutual neighbour, Highbury, my brother-in-law, and some issues occurred. I admit I shouldn’t have smoke bombed?—”
“It’s alright. I retaliated.” Islington smiles evilly, his green eyes flashing.
Westminster pales. “We can sort this amicably.”
“What did you retaliate with?” Mayfair asks.
“He sent my son a drum kit,” says Dalston, tightly.
“Oh no,” another man says.
“God help you,” mutters one of the women.
A bubble of laughter rises up my chest, and I look up at Kirill, who is watching this exchange intently. His eyes soften when they meet mine.
“And I’m not swapping back.” Islington crosses his arms, looking utterly smug.
Kirill strokes my hand under the table, keeping it on his knee throughout the conflict, and it’s so nice.
He’s faking.
But as I gaze at the big, scary mafia boss who kidnapped me, I realise something.
I’m not. Every touch, every smile. I’m not pretending.
Call me Stockholm syndrome, because I’m in love with my kidnapper.
The realisation flows through me, invigorating and warming, like sipping hot chocolate on a cold day. But it also burns, because this is fake. Every kiss, his smiles that look as though they’re only for me, the possessive touches. It’s not for me, it’s for them.
“That seems fair,” Westminster says mildly. “Which just leaves us with one question to resolve this evening.”
Everyone turns to him.
“Why are you really here, Blackfen?”
I’ve been wondering the same thing. Kirill gives the other man a measured look.
“To take up your offer of joining the London Maths Club.”
