Page 53 of Crave

If Ollie and Benji had crossed a line they didn’t even know was one, Razor’s line, and taken what wasn’t theirs, Razor wouldn’t let that slide. He wasn’t built that way. I knew this. Knew this from textbooks and the cases my father prosecuted. He wouldn’t care about Ollie’s excuses, or his perfect smile, or how expensive his coat was.

Razor dealt in balance.

Proof. Payment. Blood, if it came to it.

And there was some part of me desperate to see it.

CHapter twelve

Razor

I’d crashed on Mum’s sofa again after the clusterfuck of last night.

Hadn’t sleep worth a shit, though.

I would have preferred that my tossing and turning had been down to replaying that alley scene in my head. Pretty little thing with the soft eyes and split lip. But nah. That weren’t all of it. He took up space, sure. More than I wanted him to. But what currently took up way more room than him and the Bethnal Green shit, was that stupid double buggy Layton had brought round for Keeley and the baby.

Double. Meaning twin.

When I’d said “double,” I meant one of them jobbies that’s a car seat and buggy in one. Not some side-by-side monstrosity barely fitting in the lift. Thing looked as if it belonged on a motorway. Keeley was fuming, obviously. So now I had to shift that heap of junk, find another one, and deal with the rest of the day’s crap before noon.

No time to sit about thinking of some posh bloke who’d got too far under my skin.

House rule’s simple. Never the same bloke twice. Not unless he’s paid for, properly vetted, knows the score. Paid means silence. Paid means control. And what happened in that alley? That was neither.

So I started early, head down, mind working. First thing was Tyler. He was meant to be overseeing stash for my line, not leaving the Bethnal Green place wide open. And definitely not leaving a seventeen-year-old on it alone. That kid was still missing.

That sat wrong in my chest, heavy and cold. I didn’t run kids. Never had. They still had a chance. A real one. They could do anything else rather than end up bleeding on concrete or rotting inside for someone else’s profit. This life eats what it can, and the younger you are, the faster it chews. And yeah, gangs liked to talk about loyalty. Family. All that bullshit. But when things went loud, when doors came off and sirens cut the air, it was always the kids who got dropped first. Forgotten. Written off as collateral.

I only hired men who knew exactly what they were stepping into. Men who’d already burnt their exits. Who weren’t pretending this was temporary or clever or fixable.

Men like me.

Problem was, that code didn’t mean shit to Cormac. All he saw was his gear gone. Stash stripped bare. Scales smashed, baggies everywhere, cash box lifted. Tiny vanished. No cameras. No witnesses. Just a single glove left on the floor. And Ghost’s boys signing their work. A quiet fuck-you, aimed straight at me.

My mess, my debt.

So that’s what I needed to sort.

I didn’t bother giving him a heads up.

I went round the back of his place with the duffel Cormac’s lot had passed down yesterday. His door’s never locked as the police had kicked it in too many times to bother fixing it. Meaning I walked straight into the usual circus. Tyler, trousers half mast, getting his dick sucked by some bird who weren’t his girlfriend. Another one kneeling close, waiting her turn. Obvious junkies. All bones and bad choices.

“Jesus fuck, Tyler.” I dropped the bag.

He jumped as if I’d pushed him. The girl in his lap scrambled off, fingers at her mouth, eyes hollow and wide; she wiped her lips as if tasting nothing but regret. Tyler’s trousers hung open, wet dick out, and nowhere near as nice as the one I’d had in my gob last night.

“What the fuck, Razor!” He scrambled to tuck himself in.

I looked at the two girls pressed into the wall, shivering in too-thin clothes. “Courtney know you’re playing away?”

Tyler tried to paste on that stupid half-grin he thought made him look charming instead of thick. “They’re paying off a bit they owe. Nothing big. You want one?” He nodded towards the girls. “Take your pick.”

That was the last thing he managed before I crossed the room in two strides and cracked him with an open hand. Loud. Palm to cheek. He reeled back, catching himself on the sofa arm as though he’d nearly gone over a cliff. The shock on his face was almost funny. He should’ve known better.

I didn’t waste slaps on things I forgave.

“Paying off how?” I snapped. “You taking your cut in blowjobs now? Since when did we take scraps instead of cash?”