Page 102 of Crave

Friday dinner at the Hale-Fitzroys was an exercise in control.

Silver laid like armour, crystal gleaming, conversation rehearsed to the note.

I’d thought about skipping it. Even had my excuse ready. Something about work or a paper due. But Mother called. And had that tone. The one that meant appearances matter, darling.

Father sat at the head of the table, papers stacked beside his plate because even Dover sole meunière wasn’t exempt from his courtroom rituals. Marcus was halfway through a glass of claret, gesturing grandly as he filled the air with talk of markets and mergers. Eloise, his wife, abstained. Something about hormones and “trying again,” as if conception were a performance for polite applause. Amelia picked at her potatoes, phone hidden under the table until Mother hissed her name with the precision of a sniper.

I hadn’t seen them in weeks. I’d been avoiding it. Guilt, mostly. And fear.

Fear that I’d drifted too close to the things that landed squarely in my father’s jurisdiction. It would be quite the scandal if Charles Hale-Fitzroy KC ever found himself prosecuting his own son.

Yes, I wanted to stand opposite him in court one day.

But as counsel, not the accused.

I’d heard what had gone down, of course. The papers couldn’t shut up about it: Massive East London drug sting. Fifteen arrests. Two dead. They’d called it one of the most significant operations in years. I’d read enough headlines to piece together the broad strokes. A turf war between rival crews, a suspected leak inside the network, and a carefully timed police raid gutting the Ghost Crew overnight. No other major players named. No leader identified. Which meant someone had walked away clean.

And part of me, the part that couldn’t sleep, already knew who.

Not that I knew where he was.

Razor had been staying away from me in the same way I had my family.

Of course, unless Razor was dead.

Father prodded his Dover sole, not eating, just rearranging it, as if perfect symmetry might make it taste like something. Across the table, Marcus dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin, eager to fill the silence and, as always, to perform for Father’s appraisal.

“It’s been chaos all week at work.” He pitched his voice towards our father. “Home Office’s thrilled. Half the papers are calling it a flagship operation. Minister’s been dining out on it ever since.”

Father’s smile was thin. “As he should be. Multi-agency coordination on that scale doesn’t happen often. MIU, NCA, Met, CPS. For once, everyone remembered they’re on the same side. We’ll be using it as a template for future enforcement.”

“So it’s official then?” Marcus asked. “The network’s down?”

“Largely.” Father took a sip of wine. “Two fatalities, fifteen in custody. They’re calling it a complete dismantling of the organisation. Lines seized, communications frozen. There’s talk of further arrests once the statements are verified.”

Two fatalities. Unnamed. My stomach clenched.

Marcus leant back, satisfied. “They always talk once they see what’s ahead.”

Father’s tone cooled. “One of the detainees has indicated a willingness to cooperate. If the CPS confirms material assistance, he may see leniency as he’s still technically a minor at seventeen. He’s described an extended supply chain across borough lines. Hackney, Bethnal Green, Roman Road. Early intelligence suggests overlap with O’Rourke’s network.”

Marcus refilled his glass. “If that holds, that’s a headline case. Nice work.”

“It’s ongoing.” Father suddenly coughed, reaching for his napkin. “But we’re confident. The digital evidence is consistent. Once the analysts finalise correlation, we’ll have a clear picture.”

Marcus chuckled. “You make it sound like a chess match.”

“It is.” Father suddenly coughed into a napkin, then wiped his mouth and scrunched the cloth into his pocket. “The law always is.”

I sat there, fork in hand, stomach hollow.

“Tristan.” Mother tapped my hand. “You’ve barely touched your food.”

I forced a smile. “Just tired.”

Father carried on. “Next phase is asset recovery. Property, vehicles, financials. It’s remarkable how efficient justice becomes when everyone stops moralising and simply enforces.”

Marcus raised his glass. “A good week for the system.”