Page 2 of Knights Game

The Covenant. What a stupid, ridiculous waste of space. Four families, London, split into four territories: North, South, East, and West; an agreement that goes back to the 1900s.

“You. I’m loyal to you, Mr Knight.” His face is red, and he’s covered in sweat, his white shirt clinging to his bulging stomach.He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a red cloth, rubbing it across his face with shaking hands.

I lean back into my chair and unbutton my suit jacket. The rhythmic bass of the music from my club downstairs drifts to my office, the patrons oblivious to the events that are unfolding mere metres from them.

“But how can that be? When I’ve got it on good authority that you’re lying to me—” The fucker goes to talk but I hold up my hand again. “Not completely mind you, not everything you spout is bullshit. You are in fact working for the Covenant. But you see, Steven, you’re also working with the Albanians. The question I still can’t quite work out is why?”

“Mr Knight, Luca. No, why would I do that? I have my family, my children. No no no, this isn’t right. Your information is wrong.”

Family.

Of course, he’d play the family card. The poor fuck drops to his knees, his hands together. Give me strength.

“Do you know how much you just lost me? How much was in that shipment?”

“No, sir, Luca, you must understand.”

“One hundred and fifty million pounds.” I say it slowly. The words calm but deadly as they pass my lips. “One hundred and fifty million, Steven. You understand what the Covenant is trying to do, no? You understand whatweare trying to do? Yet here you are, in the pockets of the fucking poison that is trying to push us out of London. Out of our town.” I stand and take off my suit jacket, draping it over my leather wingback chair, a gift from my uncle.

The chair had been my father’s and the only thing I have from him, with the exception of my looks and eyes. Or at least so I’m told.

I roll up my sleeves while he snivels on the floor, practically kissing my polished leather dress shoes.

“On this occasion, it would seem my uncle and I don’t share the same ideals—he sees your worth and your value.”

He peers up at me towering over him, and clumsily clambers to his feet. I hold my hand out and he takes it, his sweaty, clammy paw clasping mine.

“Oh, thank you, Luca. Thank you, Mr Knight.” He furiously pumps my hand as he continues to mutter his thank you.

I grip his hand tightly and pull him to me roughly, his fat body barrelling into my chest. I drop my face to his ear, his musky smell nearly choking me. “But I’m not my uncle.” It’s like a switch has been flicked inside, he starts to grapple with me, but I’m a solid wall of muscle, and I’m raging.

Raging at his incompetence, raging at his insubordination, at his lies.

I reach into my pocket, pull out my switchblade, and ram it into his neck. Steven’s poor brain has barely caught up with what’s happening. My knife slices through skin, tendons, and muscle, warm blood spurts out and coats my hand. I flick my wrist, extending the gash to do maximum damage before wrenching my knife out.

His brown bloodshot eyes widen as I push him to the floor; the poor sod grips his neck in a desperate attempt to hold the severed pieces of tissue together to stem the blood that is now pooling on the ground around his bulging body.

I turn and walk to my desk, passing Roman the bloody blade; the gurgles and moans of the dying man create a dark and deadly soundtrack to the beat of the music downstairs.

A soundtrack I’d dance in the rain to.

“They’re not going to be happy,” Roman muses, pulling out a napkin and wiping the knife before placing it in a Ziplock bag he takes out of his other pocket.

“When are they ever happy?” All they have done recently is question me. Pinning their inadequacies on me, they need a scape goat, and I am that person right now. “I’ll deal with them. Can you deal with that?” I point to the now still and very dead Steven. “Make it look like suicide.”

“A suicide?” He raises his eyebrows, and I shrug.

Steven’s blood is still spurting onto the floor. I reach over and grab my tumbler, sipping my whiskey. “Such a shame. I really liked that rug.”

Roman snorts, pulling on surgical gloves, and kneels next to the grotesque piece of shit that was once my head of shipments at the Freeport in Liverpool. I can’t quite decide whether to be in awe that he walks around with a set of surgical gloves in his pocket like it’s a pack of chewing gum or concerned for Roman’s mental health.

“Always be prepared, Luca,” he says, snapping the last one in place in response to the thoughts I never vocalised. That’s the thing about Roman, he’s paying attention when no one else is. Senses like a predator, a vicious and ruthless killer, which is why he’s my right-hand man.

Where I go, he goes, and it’s been that way since we met in primary school.

This is as much his plan as it is mine.

“Jesus, Knight, you practically decapitated the poor bastard.”

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