Page 25 of Knights Game

“Here’s the latest intel,” John says. “Arben Marku met with Gregor Garcia earlier this morning.” At the mention of the Garcia name, I stop looking at the numbers and pay closer attention, maintaining the facade of disinterest.

“For?” Terrance Langley asks, and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Considering he is responsible for shipments in the banking district, the man isn’t that smart. These men who sit at the table used to be ruthless. They used to be feared. They used to be so much more than just lazy, aging men. And don’t get me started on their fucking heirs, they are all just power-hungry idiots, in love with the idea of it all.

I rub at the stubble on my chin, glancing over at Levi.

He’s John’s son, no mistaking it. His huge muscles bulge beneath the crisp white shirt he wears, tattoos poking out from under it. His calculating blue eyes scan the men around the table, including me. We make eye contact before he turns his attention to the others.

I’m nothing but a cockroach to him.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Levi replies, his lofty posture screaming arrogance in the chair next to my uncle. He pulls out a cigar and cuts off the end. They all wait for him to light the thing. “The Garcia Cartel supply the Dutch, who in turn supply us. They are fucking with our supply chain.”

Murmurs erupt around the table and my uncle holds up his hand.

“What do you know, John?” Terrance Langley asks, the seat next to him filled by his irritating brother, Ricardo. Terrance’s heir, his daughter, won’t ever take a seat at the table, simply for having the wrong chromosomes.

“Luca,” my uncle says.

I stand and Roman passes me his black laptop, which I tuck under my arm and walk to the front of the conference room. Plugging in the laptop, I wait for the screen to present to the four large TVs.

“Gentleman, I give you the forecast of the Covenant for the next three years.”

I press a button and one of the screens changes. You don’t need to be an accountant to read the graph and see that the line is going down not up.

“If we continue on this current trajectory of fuckups and inaction, we can say goodbye to London.” I don’t mince my words, there’s no point.

“Nonsense, we have controlled London since the 1900s. We won’t let these Eastern European bastards take over.”

“Let them take over?” I stare at Terrance, dumbfounded. “You need to wake up Terrance— they’ve already taken over. You may as well have pulled your pants down, lubed up your arsehole, and bent over. They have fucked all of you up the arse.”

“Who do you think you're talking to like that?” snaps Robert Kenton.

Robert waste of space Kenton. The lanky bastard can choke on his red pocket square for all I care. Owner of multiple gambling houses and horse racetracks.

The main money launderer for the Covenant.

He thinks he’s irreplaceable, but in my world, anyone is replaceable. Including his dear darling seventeen-year-old snivelling little cocksucker of a son, William.

“Your product costs are too high,” I state calmly, ignoring Robert’s outburst. “Arben Marku was meeting with the Italians because, gentlemen, the Italians don’t care who gets their product on the market, they care that they are making money, and to do that their product needs to be on the streets.”

“But our product's the lowest it’s been in a decade,” Levi says, and the men in the room nod and mutter their agreement.

I click another slide to bring up the Albanians costs and overlay ours on top.

“Theirs is lower, and thanks to them, cocaine is the cheapest and purest it’s been since the 90’s. The Albanians product is superior to ours. You need to face facts—we have lost London, gentleman. The question I ask you all is, what are you going to do about it?”

“How are they paying four thousand times less than us?” Asher Black asks, studying the file Roman has passed round as I’ve talked.

“They have their own supply chain, which they control from start to finish. They have direct relationships with Cartels that source them, they have business deals. Which is exactly what they want to do with the Italians. The Garcia Cartel will provide the goods, they will ship it and sell it.”

I show several pictures on the screen. “Roman,” Roman stands and joins me at the front.

“Matteus Garcia,” Roman states.

“For those of you unfamiliar with Matteus, he controls mainland Europe’s drug trade, including the UK and European ports. With the exception of Liverpool, which is ours.”

“Which we are now losing,” William Kenton mutters.

I pull up a map and circle Belgium and Netherland nexus ports. “The Albanians want these two ports.”

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