Page 10 of Taunting Tarran
But the meeting to secure my fate wasn’t for a few months, and right now I have other business to attend to. I adjust my cufflinks - a small, almost absentminded gesture before I straighten my jacket, and I bury the thoughts raging beneath the surface of my calm exterior – something I’ve practiced my entire life. I can’t afford to show weakness. In this world, any sign of doubt or hesitation is like a drop of blood in shark infested waters.
My mind wanders to the impending meeting – a mere rubber stamp of my ascendency. But I know until then, deals are being made, alliances are being forged and broken, and those who stand in my way seeing my rise to power as an opportunity to strike. The target on my back is inevitable, a reality I have to accept being the sole heir to the Sanchez-Lewis family, and I’m not about to let a few disgruntled old men stand in my way.
I swirl the amber liquid in its glass, and allow a moment of retrospection, raising my glass to my reflection in the darkened window of the room.
‘Let them come,’ I toast in the empty room. ‘Because in the wake of my ascent I shall unleash a storm of chaos, and they who stand in my way won’t know what’s hit them. Their order will be shattered, the very fabric of their world torn asunder.’
A faint knock at the door has me turning towards it.
‘Yes?’ I call.
‘Guv’, just wanted to let ya know, I saw a couple of our guys talkin’ with the outsiders.’
I nod, my nonverbal way showing satisfaction at Mickey’s very capable ways of dealing with a situation.
As Mickey leaves, I glance at the portrait of my father hanging on the wall. His untimely death has caused a significant shift in power, and the void left behind is causing some members to seek opportunities to test their limits and carve their own piece of the pie.
Maribel, the club manager who had also been my father’s trusted advisor follows in after Mickey. Since my father’s death, her sharp tongue and backchat has tested my nerves, her tone just short of insolent as she questions all my decisions.
Leaving my office to view the newly reformed rooms, I pass the VIP room where Sal and his crew are deep in a game of poker.
The smoky room is alive with laughter, clinking glasses, and an occasional outburst. The game is in full swing by the looks of it, and the stakes are high.
Sal notices me and waves me over.
‘Mr Lewis!’ he calls out. As I approach the table, Sal leans inclose to my ear. ‘Word on the street is; you’ve got a target on your back. There are whispers some factions aren’t happy.’ Tommy with the chipped tooth and a cheeky grin leans back in his chair and chuckles. ‘Cor blimey, I’ll see your tenner and raise ya five.’
‘I’ll call, let’s see what you’re all made of,’ another player says. Laughter and banter continues as Sal stands, and I interrupt by tapping him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, Sal.’
Tommy’s loud voice breaks the air. ‘That slimy git scarpered with my dough. All of it! That heap with the mars on his boat...’
‘Who?’ Sal frowns.
Tommy huffs, ‘The one who was sitting at my Cain and able last night, he must’ve cheated. I could see it in his beady mincers. I’ve been playin’ poker long enough to spot a cheat.’
‘What’s he moaning about, Sal?’ I ask.
‘He got screwed last night; some bloke with a scar took all his winnings.’
‘Couldn’t he have just said that? For fuck’s sake, this country gave birth to the language and he still can’t speak it.’
‘He’s from the East End, and a bit old in the tooth to change now,’ Sal shrugs.
‘Don’t you start!’
Tommy looks up, ‘Hey, Sal, chuck us a fag!’
Sal hesitates as I lean in, my movements deliberate and laced with irritation. With a flick of my wrist, I yank open his jacket. The disdain in my eyes mirroring the contemptuous curl of my lip, as I grab the packet of cigarettes with a sharp tug and toss them on the table.
‘Helpyourself, Tommy. Sal is giving up, right, Sal?’
Tommy lets out a thunderous burp, shaking the air with unapologetic gusto.
‘Fucking hell, Sal. Get him out of here before he breaks a chair.’
‘B-but it’s Tommy. “Wheels” is our best getaway driver.’
I look at Tommy, leaning into Sal’s ear. ‘What’s he going to get away from? A tortoise? Look at the size of him! He’d only fit in a transit van, and they’re hardly built for speed. And who does he think he is, Van Diesel living the van-life taking a leisurely Sunday drive with the family petting zoo in the back?’
