Bad Blood Empire (Cold Blooded Series Book 2)

by Hale Chamberlain

  But apologetically admitting one’s wrongdoings was not how the Mansouris dealt with a falling out. Instead, they would let the anger run its course and die out, and eventually, they would be back to normal, as if nothing had ever happened.

  As he sank into his snug leathery office chair, Zakariya turned his thoughts to his stunning woman. He sensed he would need to send Chloe a clear sign of the depth of his commitment to her. He would have to show a glaring proof of love, but a non-superficial one – he had used up those cards long ago – and presto. What he needed was to buy time and rekindle the faltering fire, and knew exactly how to do that.

  CHAPTER 23

  The smoky ambiance of the makeshift gambling room was making it even more challenging to read other players. From the bar counter, Samuel Wilkinson and Teddy Harper could tell that the poker game playing out before their eyes was unlikely to end in an orderly manner. They observed with amusement that two of the men sat at the table were obvious accomplices, while two others were hiding cards. To be sure, all of them showed utter disregard to the rules of poker. There would be no walking away peacefully from this. In such claustrophobic settings, the slightest suspicion of fraud often gave rise to massive spiteful free-for-alls once the cheaters were exposed.

  Leaned against the bar, Teddy surveyed the smoke-filled room. He had to squint hard to properly distinguish individual facial features of each of the brown-skinned men populating the cloistered illegal casino. His gaze stalled on a slug-like human mountain, a morbidly fat man dressed impeccably in three-piece suit. He observed that none of the others players dared taking him one-on-one, even with superior hands. They would systematically fold at the prospect of a face-off with the big man.

  For a former pro like Teddy, the appalling spectacle was painful to watch. A bunch of amateurs he would strip of their sterlings in just a few hands. But he knew better than confront a slew of intoxicated gangsters in their den.

  “Who’s fat titties in the middle? His suit is threatening to explode," he asked with a noticeable Cockney accent, only slightly more muted than Samuel's.

  “Watch your language in here, Teddy. Those guys are not joking,” Samuel warned, glinting around nervously. “That’s Erol. One of the heads of the Aydin family.” Then, stepping one step closer to Teddy, he whispered, “A lazy bastard looked down upon by his brothers. Feared by everyone, appreciated by no one.” Samuel’s sneer gave away the profound disdain he entertained for the man.

  “That’s where being so fat gets you. The fucker must weigh five hundred pounds. God, the chair’s gonna break any moment!” Teddy ordered his second Guinness of the evening.

  “He’s also a millionaire and the third in line to succeed the current leader, Kemal.”

  “What do you mean he’s a millionaire? He looks like a bum rolled in his winter quilt. If it wasn’t for the suit, I’d throw a few bills at him.”

  “The man’s well-fed, I’ll give you that, but don’t be fooled by his slothful demeanor. The Aydins brothers own dozens of unregulated housing estates all over London, underground gambling parlors, brothels. They’re bigger than my old man and his mates in the drug business. You shouldn’t take the piss, he’s a powerful man. Even if he looks like he needs a fat scooter”

  Teddy Harper had spent over a decade in Miami working for a local drug lord, and rumor had it that he got over excited with his last job and now had half the Cuban mob after his ass. He was a man in demand because of the rare set of skills he possessed. The bone breaker, that’s how he came to be known. His foolhardy temperament had caused him a few shattered bones as well. Not least his protruding knuckles which were bulging out so badly that they looked like weapons in their own right.

  Yet if Samuel and his father had been so keen on having Teddy on board, it wasn’t for his combat skills. Teddy was at its deadliest with a firearm. His physique was far from imposing, but he had a noticeably lean muscle mass, and most important of all, once he had granted his allegiance – like he had just done to the Wilkinson family – he would pour his heart and soul into their cause. Teddy had once avenged Samuel’s younger brother’s death, and for that he would be eternally grateful to the man.

  Samuel Wilkinson had jumped on the opportunity to add the mad dog to his squad, as he looked to make final preparations ahead of the power transition. It would be a matter of months before his father passed the baton and transfer the leadership of the family business to him, and he hoped he would become the new head of the Wilkinson family in a year’s time at the most. Adam Wilkinson had set his sight on retirement and he had judged that the alliance with the Aydins was a strategic necessity at that point.

  “So, your old man is making deals with the Turkish now. When I met your father, over twenty years ago, he was a raging racist. Worst one I’ve seen. He would hate everybody, no discrimination, all nationalities.”

  Samuel chuckled. "Believe me; he's still railing against every last immigrant. He's just become realist. The Mansouris are controlling a large part of the cocaine trade in London, and almost by extension, most high-margin black-market activities."

  “Bollocks. Those bloody French have nothing against us.” Teddy could barely conceal his excitement, “I have restored a few ancient connections since my return. Real soldiers. Mercenaries, ready to fight by our side on my command if compensated right.”

  “Good, we might need them quicker than we think. Things will be set in motion soon enough.”

  Teddy wet his lips with his black ale, and said, “Care to share more? I need to visualize, that’s how I do my best work.”

  “Not just now, mate. Right now, the least people in the know, the better the chances that things go according to plan.”

  Teddy shrugged and swallowed his beer dry. He let out a loud burp, which was almost instantaneously covered by the sound of a chair being smashed. The mammoth needs a fucking bench for himself, he thought. He spun around as his eyes tracked the origin of the din, expecting to see the fat Turk on his buttocks on the floor.

  He caught the projectile just in time, tilting his head to avoid a flying jug catapulted from across the room. The glass pitcher splintered against the bar’s mirror. Teddy’s muscles tensed instantly, prepping him for the upcoming wrangle, but the brawl ended before he could jump in. The Aydin brother was indeed on his ass, but right next to him, another man was getting a beating by what he imagined were the fat Turk’s bodyguards. They carried the pistol-whip cheater out, and the whole ordeal was over in a heartbeat.

  Teddy stood motionless, immersed in a feeling of intense frustration. Let the bloody fight happen, for fuck’s sake! He despised an unfair fight, and wondered how long fat titties would have lasted in a slugfest against that man.

  Samuel was watching from the corner, unfazed by the agitation and happy to step aside. Hell, they hadn’t built relationship with the Turks at all, but it was definitely time to go. He motioned to Teddy to join him, and they silently left the room.

  “Wankers, we should take care of them once we’re done with the French.” Teddy was still seething, as they walked back to their car across the street. He plucked the keys from his pocket and unlocked the doors.

  Samuel Wilkinson smiled at him proudly, as he sat in the passenger’s seat. His mad dog was definitely eager to get his hands dirty, which was exactly what the Wilkinsons needed. “Patience my friend,” he said. “One gang at a time.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Lola Chambers was adding the finishing touch to their new living room’s decoration. She carefully hooked the massive artwork on the wall opposite the TV. The canvas might have been slightly oversized to blend seamlessly in the room, but she had finally found something she was gifted at and she wanted to showcase her talent to the world. The imitation of the famous Banksy’s street art was stunning.

  She had hesitated with the Thug for life graffiti opposite the Brixton Academy for a several days – it would have been a fitting tribute to their new neighborhood. But in the end, she had fallen in l
ove with the artist’s iconic Balloon Girl. It had to be this one. With its almost life-sized child, the painting gave some presence to the room. And it looked like the little girl was blowing a kiss across the room. Another hint, another seed.

  In the spur of the moment, she had taken the liberty of drawing a few additional heart-shaped balloons directly on the wall, to give the artwork a new dimension and set it apart from the original. The landlord wouldn’t mind the minor breach of contract, she figured, as Lloyd and her would be good tenants. A valuable commodity in London. Plus, she could easily paint back over it. And for all she knew, she might just change it on a whim anyway, spontaneous as she was.

  When Lloyd got back from work, he stood in front of the artwork for several seconds, perplexed and unable to decide whether he sort of liked it, or if he wouldn't be able to live with the sight of that overwhelming red heart right in his face. Who wants to see that while eating breakfast?

  Lola was on the sofa absorbed by the latest issue of the Sun, the popular British gossip newspaper. Lloyd couldn’t fathom why she deigned read such fear-mongering privacy-invading rubbish, and clutter her mind with made-up stories about wannabe celebrities. For her part, Lola found in the British tabloid a perfect way to finish her day on a lighter note, especially since her man had declared a ban on her favorite shows Eastenders and Made in Chelsea.

  So instead, she would slump in their couch as soon as she came back from work, grab the tabloid and indulge in her guilty pleasure. Peering into the troubled lives of famed people gave some perspective to her own life. By the newspaper standards, she was living a dull life, but she found solace in the fact that she had managed to keep her existence scandal-free so far. Today however her face tightened as she reached the local section.

  “Oh, baby. Did you hear what happened in Islington a few days ago? How appalling!” Her crinkled expression gave away a blend of sadness and anger. “The poor man was stabbed over and over, and left for dead on the side of the road.” Tears were rushing to her eyes at the thought of the man’s agony, but she fought them off.

  Lloyd walked over to her, and gently took away the tabloid from her hands. “Lola, you shouldn’t read these things, there’s nothing positive nor uplifting in there. There’s always more to a story than what they give away.” The deceased was involved in drugs, he was almost sure of it. In fact, he had hung out with the man multiple times. Mehmet Aydin was a spoiled brat, but he was a good kid and Lloyd felt sympathy for his family and his community. And he knew that whoever committed this unspeakable act would pay. The Aydins were not to mess with.

  . . .

  Over a week had passed since Zakariya last spoke to his brother. The argument had been mild by their standards, but this extended silence showed he had probably underestimated Mustafa’s resentment. He would deal with it later thought. The bitter bastard can sulk in his corner one more day.

  Zakariya focused his thoughts on a more immediate concern. He had been held at the office longer than he intended, but he would make it. Tonight was to be devoted to his woman and entirely so. For the first in years, he would ditch his bodyguards and spend a whole evening with Chloe throughout the city. His lieutenants had voiced their concern and weren't happy about it, particularly in the current poisonous climate between clans. They insisted that he kept them abreast of his night out, but Zakariya was in uncompromising mood. If he told them his whereabouts, he was certain that sooner or later he would feel the presence of his lieutenants' henchman in his stride.

  He had pulled a few strings to get a reservation at the mesmerizing conservatory room of the most sought-after restaurant in the capital, circumventing the compulsory five-month waiting list. Clos Maggiore was the most romantic restaurant in London, if the culinary press was to be believed. An award-winning French establishment, lit up by a bedazzling log fire and subtly perfumed with flower-starred branches intertwined with little white fairy lights

  Chloe walked in the main room of the restaurant at eight P.M. sharp. The look of wonderment on her face, as she slid off her coat, becalmed Zakariya’s apprehensive mood. This was going to be an evening to remember, he thought.

  “This place looks fabulous!” she said as she greeted her man with a languorous and somewhat inappropriate kiss. “How come we’ve never been here after all that time?”

  “London’s full of exquisite restaurants baby, I would be amazed if anyone had ever been able to try them all.”

  Chloe’s glittering eyes were burning with awe as she took in the sheer beauty of the place. Her gaze was filled with appreciation. And it was obvious that she was profoundly touched by the gesture of attention. Even if the restaurant messed up the food, this moment would remain engraved in her memory for months, maybe even years. Zakariya had vowed to disconnect from his business obligations, but for some reason he couldn’t pinpoint, something in the fanciful decor reminded him of work.

  In any case, this profusion of aesthetic wonderments wasn’t meant to be the end of it. Around eleven o’clock, the night would kick into gear with late drinks at the top of the Shard. They would end their romantic escapade in one of Mayfair’s hippest club. She had been bitching for years for him to take her dancing, and he was pleased to finally be able to grant her that wish, even if he had stiff hips.

  Food had always been the way to her heart, and she liked to remind him about it. Well tonight, she was in for a treat, Zakariya thought, as he peered into his woman’s glossy eyes. The menu was as good as it got, anywhere in the world. This was meant to be European cuisine at its finest, full of flavors, and presumably with a faultless service.

  If anything, the challenge would be to remain sober until they reached the Shard. The restaurant had one of the most extensive wine cellar of the city, and Chloe’s Mediterranean heritage certainly had something to do with her fondness for Merlot and Malbec. She abhorred most white wines – too dry and bitter for her palate – and was puzzled by its popularity amongst young female professionals looking to unwind at the end of the day. She theorized that most British women were simply superficial beasts, seduced by the alluring promise of a cheap, golden and sugary high. Throw in some fizziness and you got a winner, she thought. The sudden, massive success of Prosecco – the poor man’s Champagne – certainly gave credence to that intuition.

  When their order arrived, Chloe was in famished mood, and she dived right in her pan-roasted Les Landes duck foie gras. Zakariya gazed at her shameless voraciousness with delectation. The waiter had warned them that the mouth-watering seafood platter he had set his sight on might be served after Chloe’s dish. Thirty minutes earlier, he had felt impartial about it, but now that he was witnessing first-hand the culinary genius of the cooks, across the table, his stomach was suddenly clenching. He glared up in search of the waiter, and realized that the restaurant had filled up considerably.

  He had been oblivious to the influx of patrons, engulfed as he was in his mission to woo his girl. Everyone seemed to be from London’s high society, which was unsurprising for a restaurant of that standing. The memories of his modest origins re-surfaced as he observed with amusement Chloe dissect her foie gras, and for a split-second he felt out-of-place.

  He surveyed the room further, and the nagging feeling of familiarity made him tick again. He couldn’t help but sense that something looked off in that perfect picture. The fireplace was blazing. Right in front of it, an old aristocrat-looking couple was enjoying coffee and petits fours. In the far-right corner, a larger party was celebrating a birthday, while on the left two men dressed in suit were sharing drinks. Directly on their left, a man with round spectacles seemed to be waiting for someone. The rest of the crowd was just as distinguished. He couldn’t put his finger on the source of that feeling of foreboding, and turned back his attention to the handsome plate of Alaskan red king crab tortellini waiting to be devoured right before him.

  CHAPTER 25

  Zakariya swallowed the last bite of his heart-melting cinnamon shortbread, and excused hims
elf. He strode to the bathroom, where he took a leak and poured some water on his face to wake up his senses ahead of the impending post-meal energy slump. The ripe and smooth 2008 Le Macchiole had put them in a jovial mood, so much so that they had ordered a second bottle of the Tuscan wine.

  Now peering at his reflection in the mirror, Zakariya felt confident he had been at his seductive best. The woman he loved had even promised to address any destructive behavior and seek medical help, which he was all too happy to arrange for her. And in exchange, they would endeavor to find her a rewarding occupation in the art world, on the condition that it was low-key. Zakariya had always displayed an over-the-top cautiousness when it came to Chloe. The terrible trespassing incident a few years back – when a filthy Slavic hitman almost got him – had only exacerbated that feeling of insecurity.

  In the end, it is just a matter of re-establishing that special connection, he thought, rekindle that sweet fire that had us smitten with adoration for each other. And what he had in mind for the rest of the night would undoubtedly finish mending any broken bond. What he ambitioned was nothing less than a return to the honeymoon phase of the early days.

  Before making his way back to the Conservatory room, he sized up his well-groomed hair for undisciplined strands, and readjusted his navy-blue jacket. The piece of bespoke clothing would have to go to the dry laundry tomorrow, it looked tired. He pulled on the lapels on both sides to restore the fit, but felt an almost-imperceptible bulging from the inside. He searched his interior pocket, and to his surprise, he withdrew a small pill-sized metallic device. He paused for a moment to scrutinize the object. There was no socket, no port to plug a cable into it, it looked like a self-sufficient compressed electronic key.