Page 27 of Crave

“Right.” I leant in until my breath was a cold thing on his face. “You tell whoever it is you don’t know that I’ve got it. If they want it, they come straight to me. Any bouncing through someone else to get at me, including Darren, I take that personal. And I have the evidence to make it worth eight to ten.” I let my eyes go wide, slow, spelling out a sentence. “We clear? Or you want me to write that down for ya?”

He looked at me as if expecting a biro. He didn’t get one. By “write it down” I meant make him show up bruised. A message that lives on the skin. ‘Cause that tends to last longer than a scribbled note torn to shreds on delivery.

He nodded. Legs shaky. So I let him walk off into the rain, shoulders hunched, phone and Amex gone from his pocket and the name Tripper tucked into my head. Ghost could make noise if he wanted. Least now he’d know I was onto him.

I thumbed the burner out of my pocket and dialled Tyler.

“Razor?”

“I got intel.” I walked back up the alley, rain spattering the leather on my shoulders. “You were right. Tripper’s running mep on our patch. There’s a drop tonight, behind the takeaway, yard by the bins.”

Silence, then, “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” I kept it flat. “You go watch it. Eyes only at first. Don’t touch nothin’ unless you’re certain. If it’s runners doing the drop, deal with them how we taught you. If Tripper shows up himself, don’t start beef. Nick the stash and pull back. No fireworks. Clear?”

“Yeah. Sound.”

“Good. Be smart. No shows, no loud moves. Phone me if it’s anything else.”

I killed the line and slid the burner back into my waistband. Business done. Personal shit still simmered under my skin, but I tucked it where it belonged. I had other things to get done. But before I did anything else, I went home to make sure everything still stood where I left it. Eighteenth floor, same lift stinking of weed and chip grease. Lights flashing once, twice. Mum was out on a night shift. Saturday night at the drive-thru would be a tough one. Keeley was in the bedroom, though. Her and the baby dead to the world. And Darren was glued to the Xbox, sound turned down low. He waved his college enrolment form at me as I passed. I nodded.

Then I slipped out to the balcony, night air hitting cold and sharp and lit a cigarette. Leaning on the rusted rail, I glanced out at the estate sprawled in sodium orange. Concrete veins, broken glass glinting under the streetlamps, sirens cutting through the wind. The city hummed beneath me, alive and rotting all at once.

From up here, London looked split in two.

The skyline cut sharp against the dark. Glass towers, cranes, the clean white glow of the west. All that money stacked on top of itself until it scraped the clouds. Somewhere in all that shine was him.

I pulled out the iPhone Luca had handed over. Thumbed it awake. Locked, of course. Needed a code. A face. Neither of which I had. But the photo on the screen told me enough. Four of them, posing as if they’d never known a bad day. Tuxedos, champagne, some mansion behind them lit up like a film set. The girl wore one of those ballgown numbers probably costing more than I made in a week. And I did alright, considering I shifted gear for a living.

But there, at the back, half in shadow was my gutter boy.

The pretty poison I already wanted another hit of.

I knew he’d ruin me. Could feel it in the pull behind my ribs. That ache never meant anything good.

So I shoved the phone back in my pocket, leant on the railing, took a drag, and blew the smoke out. Then I watched it curl into the night until it vanished into the same sky he lived under and wondered why the fuck he’d come into my borough.

Chapter seven

Tristan

By the time the cab pulled into Mayfair, the city had changed its skin.

Hackney had been noise and rain and cigarette smoke. Bodies pressed too close, with the stink of the street baking into my jacket. Mayfair was different. Polished to a shine. An expensive shine. The pavements might have been slick from the same downpour, but here the air smelt faintly of Chanel and clean tarmac, with the hum of black cabs idling only long enough so as not to dirty the kerb.

I’d dropped Benji back at the house share in Clerkenwell, leaving Zara and Henry with a vague excuse about needing space. Truth was, I couldn’t breathe there. Not after pressing Benji about the club, about the two thugs who said he owed them money, and whether he’d known Ollie had been going there. I’d watched him glaze over, that trained Rothwell blankness settling in. He’d learnt from the best how to turn deceit into art.

So I went home.

Back to where the Hale-Fitzroys belonged.

My parents’ townhouse stood on the corner of Charles Street, six storeys of Georgian stone and generational guilt. White columns, wrought-iron balconies, windows wide and watchful as if they’d spent centuries judging everyone beneath them. The brass plate still read The Hale-Fitzroys. A name worth more than half the street combined. My childhood home came complete with a swimming pool, a private garden, and a rooftop terrace, where we could really look down on London. On a good day, I could probably see Hackney from up there. I used to spend nights on that roof as a teenager, vaping and pretending I was anywhere else.

Probably not Hackney.

I hadn’t even heard of Hackney.

I keyed in the code at the gate. The lock clicked; motion lights bleeding across the gravel, bleaching it pale as bone. I walked through the garden my mother kept immaculate and stepped into the house that had built me.