Page 17 of Knights Game

“I think you have the meaning of legitimate mixed up.”

“Needs must, brother. Needs must.”

She’s dancing. And she looks free. Free from worry, free from restraint.

Her arms are above her head in the dim light of the small café, the door locked and music loud. The methodical beats muffled from where I stand in the shadows of the bus stop across the road. She moves gracefully from table to table, spraying pink liquid, before spinning on the spot and then wiping the tabletop. Once one is clean, she spins to the next one.

Spin, spray, wipe, repeat.

Methodical, planned, yet so free.

My heart is beating wildly in my chest, adrenaline coursing through me. I don’t know what drew me here. But as I comedown from the high of my meeting with the Colombians, the need to see her in the flesh consumed me.

The pictures Rome had snapped of her over the past seven days were like a ray of sunshine in the otherwise dark debauchery of my life.

I saw everything I needed to know about Layla Johnson in the file Rome handed me. But it didn’t tell me enough. It didn’t tell me why she wasn’t scared of me that night. It didn’t tell me what body wash she used to make her smell so fucking delicious. It didn’t tell me why I can still feel her soft touch on my skin.

What it did tell me is that she works for Alec Morelli.

And that is not fucking acceptable.

I watch my ray of light dance like no one’s watching, mesmerised by her beauty. She has become my obsession.

She consumes my thoughts, consumes my dreams, consumes me.

I rub my jaw; I need to shave. Leaning against the side of the sheltered bus stop, I pull my packet of cigarettes from my pocket. Taking a long drag, enjoying the burning smoke filling my lungs, I puff it out, the cloud snaking away through the darkness.

The meeting with the Colombians went well. They had Steven’s arm on the table, middle finger sticking up. It was a nice touch, and I can’t help but smirk as I take another long pull. They’re sick motherfuckers just like me.

We’ve come to an understanding, and that’s important.

Six weeks to sort a warehouse by the Thames, six weeks until the first shipment. Six weeks until I start to really move on my plan, use the Covenant to push the Albanians out, while they turn their attention to them, I’ll start shipping the Colombians' product into London.

I’ll start to compete with the Albanians, and I’ll do what the Covenant can’t.

Take back control of London.

I blow out a perfect ring, which spirals up to create a halo above Layla in the distance. Still dancing.

Like a fucking angel.

My angel.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Flicking the cigarette, I pull it out and see John’s name on the screen.

And I’m back.

Shrouded in the darkness, and although it was nice for a moment to stand in the light, I answer and disappear into the shadows.

6

Layla

I scrub the toiletbowl like it’s never been cleaned. The smell of bleach overwhelming, the sound of the toilet brush scrubbing barely resonates in the chaotic-ness of my mind.

It’s been two weeks since Luca’s crash. It’s been two weeks of pretending I’m fine, and it’s been two weeks of nursing many glasses of wine while I push down the vivid memories of the car crash that killed my parents.

Trauma is a strange thing.

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