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  By day, the place was best described as a fashionable cafe accessible to city professionals with a decent social status and in exchange for a small fifteen-pound entry charge. Located in the heart of Mayfair, it was now a regular gathering spot for successful Fund managers, show-off financial advisors, and real estate speculators. In the past few years, the crowd had morphed into an unrecognizable melting pot of professions and walks of life. Tech wizards were enjoying the laid-back and unpretentious yet sophisticated atmosphere of the club. Writers and artists reveled in the place which provided an ideal setting to spur men's artistic ambitions and creative minds.

  When night fell, however, the profile of the clientele changed radically. Zakariya had decided to leverage the place's location and former fame to create one of London's most exclusive nighttime membership club. He introduced a hefty three-thousand annual membership fee and instituted stringent selection criteria. To the extent that on a weekend night, it wasn't infrequent that the total net worth of the club exceeded one billion pounds sterling. Famous sportsmen, foreign heads of state, TV producers, and up-and-coming actors – the crème de la crème – could all be spotted by less famous star-struck patrons.

  Of course, Zakariya had a hidden agenda. The ulterior motive for this shift in the establishment's business strategy was that his organization could now tap into another more valuable type of relationships. He was aiming at the country's top decision-makers and saw this effort as a critical step to building a lasting empire. It had been shrewd judgment, as his address book rapidly had expanded to include international businessmen, high-ranking civil servants, and those politicians that work in the shadows and hold the nation in their hands. Yet, he often deplored, we are still lacking judges and decision makers at the top of the police organs.

  . . .

  Mustafa pulled over, and they rushed out of the car, their heavy steps splashing into water-filled recesses on the pavement. Torrential rains had replaced the night's dry, cloudy weather and were now sweeping central London.

  They hurried to the rear entrance door and were greeted in the dark hallway by the four remaining lieutenants. Their faces were conspicuously bleak, but also dead set on avenging their friend’s death by any means necessary. Before his sudden death, Jamal had been the youngest of the band, and each one of them felt some form of responsibility in this brazen murder.

  Blood ties formed the basis of other clans' togetherness, and caring for each other was instinctual, but at the end of the day, they had little choice in the matter. The weight of their shared DNA dictated their behaviors toward each other, and the elders would settle disputes when they arose and keep the family together.

  The Mantes-la-jolie boys, on the other hand, had been brought together by a childhood of struggles and swindles in a violent suburban district only a few miles away from Paris’ vibrant intra-muros center.

  Contrary to the Aydins, the Wilkinsons and others, the Mantes-la-jolie boys had created their own reality; they had chosen each other willingly and had relied on one another to survive practically since childbirth. Through treason and strife, their circle of trust had been pruned to a core of individuals that would die for each other and not show the slightest regret. They had no need for a patriarch, and they all considered it their duty to ensure the clan not only survived but prospered. Those were unbreakable bonds that had been tested on many dire occasions and had got stronger after each resounding victory.

  They were now walking down the stairs without uttering a word, knowing exactly what had to be done. Although the lieutenants had a license to manage their activities as fully independent satellite cells, they were required to follow agreed-upon strategic directions that were dictated in the basement boardroom of club Lucky 77. And now, they were about to decide how much blood would have to be shed to see justice done.

  CHAPTER 7

  Each member of the Mantes-la-jolie boys invariably felt a profound, somewhat condescending sense of wonderment upon stepping into the solemn boardroom. Zakariya had left the place untouched after purchasing the club, but all his lieutenants agreed that an actual council chamber – comparable to those seen in the largest, most austere corporations – was completely at odds with their personalities. They had forged their character in the streets and had learned to take momentous decisions on the go. This was their edge, adapting to shifting circumstances and turn around any situation however desperate in their favor.

  They found the oh-so-comfortable luxury leather chairs of the boardroom over-the-top and the intricate deliberations on every little detail of their organization’s operations egregious. For those reasons, board meetings were often little more than a formality to spread the word about decisions that were already made.

  The lieutenants were all men of few words, and any attempt at non-essential conversation was inevitably shrugged off by the rest of the group. This was no place for fanciful chatter and small talk, and they usually honored this duty only to show respect to Zakariya – the man who had brought them all together for the adventure of a lifetime,

  They were all men of power in their own right, feared and respected throughout London’s underworld. And tonight, was no ordinary council meeting. That much became glaringly obvious the moment they found out one of them had been singled out and brutally murdered.

  They all sat at the gleaming red oak table in random order. The Mansouri brothers were surrounded by their four closest associates, men that were in charge of the clan's operations across London. On Zakariya's left, Rayyan was the one who had alerted Mustafa after Jamal and his driver failed to report. The Mansouri brothers had devised a system whereby the lieutenants were all accountable to each other, and each one of them was compelled to debrief to a specific peer on a daily basis. This ensured a second degree of oversight, in addition to their duty to report to Zakariya every other day.

  The lieutenants had vehemently pushed back on the idea, denouncing an unconcealed attempt at micromanagement and a shocking lack of trust, but they eventually saw the benefit of it when one of their own went missing years ago, only to be found grossly dismembered at the mouth of a municipal sewer weeks later.

  Rayyan was the most experienced of the group by some margin. His slim and toned frame was a testament to his devotion to the ruthless workout regimen he had adopted in the wake of Zakariya's call for arms. He was the one the Mansouri brothers would rely on for long haul, endurance missions, and he had carried out countless treacherous raids in enemy territory in the early days of the organization. His skin had turned pale from years of working in the shadows on the notoriously sun-deprived island, and it would have been hard to identify him as Algerian were it not for his slender facial features and his short curly black hair. He was supervising operations in the in the main financial centers of the capital, the City, and Canary Wharf. Two strategic areas insofar as they were home to the largest consumer groups of cocaine – the insomniac investment bankers, the bodacious money managers, the insolent overambitious executives and so forth.

  The contrast with the man sitting next to him could not have been more blatant. Djibril was an eccentric six feet two powerhouse from Ivorian ancestry, always dressed à la mode and with an obsession for everything shiny and flashy. This wasn’t exactly to the taste of the rest of the group, but Djibril was as reliably lethal as it got, and he was an irrefutable asset to the family. Fittingly, he was in charge of the clan’s business operations in West London, from Earl Court all the way to Notting Hill. He had become a famed figure in the alternative clubbing scene there, and always seemed to be in overdrive mode, constantly on the phone or looking to make contact with people he deemed worthy.

  Opposite Mustafa, Zinedine collapsed in his leather seat. He projected a lanky and oddly delicate figure. Like Rayyan, he was Algerian, and had a work capacity that outshined most top executives in Zakariya’s investment firm and other FTSE corporations. He was covering the extensive sector of East London, spreading from Stratford and Hackney, all the way down
to Woolwich south of the river.

  On Zakariya’s immediate right, Ismael was an elusive character that revealed little about himself, even to his closest companions. None of the lieutenants were sure where he was from, and as if to perpetuate the confusion, he had altered his hairstyle many times over the years. He now sported a bleached blond buzz cut, admittedly to make him look more tanned than he actually was. More confusion. Nobody around the table had ever pressed Ismael for more information, as the man had proven his dedication to the clan more times than they could recount. He had managed to increase the organization’s presence in his North London sector from nothing to a quasi-monopoly in a matter of months, thanks to a mercilessness and leadership skills only rivaled by Zakariya’s.

  They all waited for one of the Mansouri brothers to break the silence. Moments later, Zakariya gave a swift but comprehensive update on the defining events of the night and how the assault had played out. As a closing statement to his briefing, he said, “It’s down to us to make sure Jamal didn’t die in vain. We all have men on the streets gathering intelligence as we speak, but I think it’s safe to say that we all know the identity of the clan responsible for that execution.” He paused for an instant, and announced like an absolute truth, “The Aydins will pay.”

  Jamal’s men had slowly gained ground on the Aydins’ turf down in South London, and the massacre was a clear attempt to prevent further loss of territory. Their revenues had suffered terribly in the years following the Mantes-la-jolie boys’ appearance in the capital, over fifteen years ago. The Turkish-Cypriot patriarch, Kemal Aydin, was desperate to restore their clan’s former hold on London, and intelligence gleaned from one of the Aydin family’s unsatisfied-turned-informant member had pointed to an imminent attack. Jamal had refused to take stock of the impending menace and paid the consequences dearly.

  Rayyan was the first lieutenant to speak. “We are all deeply angered about Jamal’s death,” he said, “but this is no time to start an all-out war. The organization is enjoying a dominant position in most boroughs, and there is no chance the Aydins would be able to sustain a prolonged conflict.”

  "Agreed." Zakariya resonated like a death sentence. He exchanged rapid glances with each of his lieutenants. "South London is their historical ground, and this obscene act is the result of Jamal's recent breakthrough in a number of neighborhoods. He has been careless." His beaming black eyes were showing no compassion.

  Djibril looked taken aback by that remark, but he swallowed his urge to interrupt just yet.

  Mustafa interjected, “Granted, they felt threatened, but we can’t exercise mercy here, we can’t let this assassination go unpunished. We have to show strength.” Zinedine nodded in agreement, while Ismael seemed reluctant to get involved in the conversation just yet.

  “And they will pay, that much is clear,” Zakariya said. “But it’s imperative we do not act rashly here. This is the last gasp of a dying dog, remember this. They are expecting us to retaliate with full force and disrupt the status quo. They will be prepared accordingly. If we move now to cut the serpent’s head, the Aydins will have a perfect case to seek help from the other criminal gangs.”

  “For fuck’s sake Zak!” Djibril finally shouted in disbelief. “One of us has been slaughtered! And we won’t retaliate? I get the risks...breaking off the equilibrium of powers and all that.” His voice trailed off. “But this is an act of war. I can mobilize twenty reliable men right now and take out half of the Aydins’ brethren in under a month.” His pitch-black complexion was now showing shades of red.

  Mustafa spoke up, “Djib, I don’t think I need to remind you that most families still hold a grudge against us for our rapid and brutal ascent. The Aydins have deeper relationships with other decision-makers of the underworld than we do.”

  “They have a history of teaming up with the Jamaicans and other British gangs,” Rayyan added. “Combined, they would wipe us out in less than a year.”

  Djibril was still fuming, but he understood the implacable logic of that reasoning. Besides, he held Rayyan’s opinion in high regards. He stared at Zakariya bluntly for a second, and said, “Alright, no all-out war for now. But blood for blood.”

  Zakariya nodded. "This is settled then. We'll allocate further resources to each one of you so you can beef up your armed forces. It goes without saying – recruit trustworthy guys only, bring them from home if necessary." Zakariya scanned the room for any hint of dissent. "And I'll see to it that one of their key members disappear. Blood for blood," he added, before adjourning the meeting.

  CHAPTER 8

  The lieutenants left the premises of club Lucky 77 in complete silence, ready to carry out the game plan just uttered, while Zakariya Mansouri stood alone in the empty boardroom. He had instructed Mustafa to identify a high-profile target to eliminate within the Aydin family in retaliation for Jamal’s assassination. A seasoned executioner would then be chosen to exact revenge. This would be the first step in a more elaborate response to the broad disruption the Aydins’ reckless attack entailed. “They want to shake us off...Jamal for fuck’s sake...we’ll use the opportunity to take out a few bad, rotting apples. Fucking bastards,” Zakariya mumbled to himself, as he reviewed the details of his plan.

  The old family heads from other powerful local mafias were aging and would have to pass the baton sooner rather than later. Zakariya understood that they would do everything in their powers to bolster their own organizations before passing away and to leave a lasting legacy for the young generation to build upon. The chaos that irremediably followed such transfers of powers was both a threat and an opportunity, but he already knew how to come out even stronger from that transition. It was only a matter of weathering the storms that would inevitably precede the death of the old men while stifling any nascent criminal ring of disproportionate ambitions. That was, of course, easier said than done, and if he failed to play his cards right, the next couple years could put his entire organization in jeopardy.

  As he collected his files and prepared to exit club Lucky 77, he thought back at everything they had achieved in the past decade. Saying that London had been good to them was an understatement. Only now could he fully fathom the significance of his decision to move to the United Kingdom years ago. London, the original land of opportunities, he pondered. His business interests spanned numerous industries, and his enterprise had colossal stakes in the most lucrative black-market activities. Early on, the Mantes-la-jolie boys had decided to focus their efforts on the cocaine business. It made the most sense given their rare experience building contraband operations from the ground up, their network that included some of the larger regional suppliers, and their youthful exuberance. All necessary feats in order to revolutionize an entire unregulated local industry.

  By the 1990s, the cocaine trade had become eminently easier to penetrate for well-coordinated criminal gangs. Although the heydays of the mighty Colombian drug cartels were bygone, global cocaine trafficking remained far larger in scale and better-structured than other opiate trades.

  As a matter of fact, the global cocaine market had peaked in value by the turn of the century. Although the drug use had spread across the globe in the 2000s, the value of the market has stagnated ever since. This however masked substantial variations amongst regions, and the Mantes-la-jolie boys’ move to London had been predicated on the realization that the European market would inevitably experience a catch-up after the maturing of the US market in the late 1990s.

  As it happened, the single largest cocaine market within Europe was the United Kingdom, with almost a million users – concentrated in the Greater London area – by the time the clan flew over the Channel. By the mid-2000s cocaine consumption had more than doubled in value in the high-value European market, with London’s opioid crime rings benefiting the most from the windfall. The decision to focus on high-margin powder cocaine, foregoing crack and other smoked or injected derivatives of the drug, had been another stroke of inspiration. Consumption from
chronic crack users had stabilized, while a clientele of hard-working young professionals looking for an effective performance-enhancing substance had emerged. Along with the recreational weekend party-goers, they had accounted for most of the revenue growth within the coke market.

  The lieutenants couldn’t believe their good fortunes, and Zakariya rapidly gained the nickname of lucky bastard inside his own organization, before it spread to the rest of the underworld. He didn’t think much of it at first as he saw it as a reference to club Lucky 77, but he had to laugh when it became clear that most of his enemies took the moniker at face value. Please underestimate me, Zakariya had thought.

  What outside observers perceived as luck, the Mansouri brothers considered superior business acumen. If anything, their good fortune was due to Zakariya’s uncanny sense of timing – a transferable skill that had served him well in his asset management business – and his associates’ outstanding ability to execute on even the most challenging directives.

  On his way out, Zakariya slammed the door of his private club shut and double-locked it. As he dropped the key in his coat pocket, he reeled at the unexpected vibration. He drew out his work BlackBerry from his trousers’ pocket and hit connect.

  “Zak, I wanted you to be the first to know.” It was his executive vice president of business development. “The Swiss are just out of their investment committee. They have decided to move on with a hundred and fifty million cash injection in the absolute return fund.”

  Lately, Zakariya had found great joy in running his investment firm and with almost one billion pounds in assets under management, it had proved a far better business venture than expected. The intellectual challenge financial markets provided, while nowhere near as thrilling as running a black-market enterprise, was highly stimulating. The astute recruitments of some of the brightest minds in Europe, combined with a focus on systematic, contrarian investment strategies, had ensured the success of the firm.