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Lloyd Davies was pensive, standing erect in front of an enticing display of cranberry brie puff pops. He picked up one pastry and took a tentative bite, wondering if the short trade he had just placed on the largest British cheese producer would pay off. He didn't have a chance to finish his train of thoughts, as someone clutched his arm from behind. He reeled in surprised, and a whiff of alcohol teased his nostrils.

  “Baby, not the cheese popsicles! Think about your waistline, think about me.” As joyful as she was when sober, Lola was a depressed drunkard. “Let’s go find the carrot and celery sticks. Come, baby. Come with me.” She pulled on Lloyd’s arm with a strength that he had trouble containing.

  He resisted as best as he could and glanced over at Chloe, who was pacing in their direction. He warned, “What have you done to my adorable girlfriend? When I left her this morning, she was docile like a lamb. And now, she looks more like a raging alcoholic.” He placed the half-eaten appetizer carefully back on the table, and announced, “I think we’ll have to break our custody arrangement,” sending Chloe in an eruption of laughter.

  Lola reached up and twisted his nipple to expunge the affront. He wiggled and escaped her light-headed hold. For a second, they were the center of attention in the room, but the other employees rapidly turned the other way, taking position for the much-anticipated speech.

  Across the cheering room, Zakariya raised his champagne glass at his troops. He contemplated the countless eyeballs glaring at him for a few short instants, taking the measure of what they had accomplished together, and begun, “When I launched the Castellane Investments over a decade ago, I never would have imagined how successful this business venture would come to be. I can honestly say that I trust every one of you to do the right thing for our clients, and I am amazed every day at how smart you guys all are."

  He went on to give a historical account of the firm’s triumphs and challenges, from their first ten-million-pound client to the muted outflows immediately in the wake of the 2008 financial disaster. Lola and Chloe struggled to maintain their composure as boredom set in, but they noticed in disbelief that all employees around them appeared mesmerized, completely absorbed by the corporate speech.

  “We are now in a stronger competitive position than ever before, and I see a bright future for the company. To give some of it back to you guys, we’ll promote twenty new Managing Directors, and do expect a big-hearted Christmas bonus this year.” The crowd erupted in loud cheers. “On that note, please, everyone, enjoy the buffet. No excess will be punished tonight.” A burst of applause and whistles engulfed the room.

  Next to the seafood table, Chloe and Lola could feel the eyes of the unconcealed creeps in suits on them, and they chortled each time another hardy middle-aged male attempted a cold approach bound to fail miserably.

  Zakariya Mansouri eventually made his way to the girls and smacked Chloe on the cheek.

  Lola gulped down a calamari enchilada. “Good speech Zak, I wouldn’t have done better myself,” she said, still chewing. “Don’t get me wrong, it would have been way funnier, but then again this is not a comedy show.”

  As he heard those words, Lloyd Davis was stricken with horror. Granted, she knew the boss, but this type of comment would reflect badly on him. He was working so hard to try and establish himself in the company. In the year since he had joined the firm, he never had a proper chance to work with Zakariya Mansouri. The man spent his time meeting clients and prospects, while all of his own time was spent following markets and devising elaborate trades with the help of proprietary algorithms. He was understandably cut from all investor contacts, under a Chinese wall, and yet he relished his job every day a little more, striving as a strategist.

  He glanced tentatively at his employer, hoping he would consider her tipsiness a mitigating factor.

  Zakariya stared at Lola intently for a second, with an intensity that pulled her out of her Sauternes-induced high, and chuckled. "You never disappoint Lola. I'll think of you next time we have a corporate event."

  Her eyes widened. "Geez, I'm not that funny...”

  "I beg to differ. Why do you think I let you join our little gathering tonight? My old VPs need some entertainment; they're working hard." He winked at her brashly.

  Lloyd wasn't sure whether he should feel outraged by that comment on his future fiancé, or relieved that his girlfriend's rude behavior wouldn't have any consequence on his own employment within the firm. He had been silent for a while and was fighting the urge to clean his glasses, something he would invariably do when he felt left out of a conversation. The epitome of an alpha male that was standing right next to him seemed to draw everyone's attention to him in the most natural way. He had only briefly spoken to Zakariya Mansouri during his final interview, but the man's charisma had made a lasting impression on him.

  Oh shit, he thought, as he felt his boss’s eyes turning to him. Zakariya said, “Lloyd, great job on the iron ore trade last week. Nobody saw that one coming. And the algorithm could clearly do with an upgrade on the commodities space. I’ll come speak to you about it next week.”

  Lloyds was dumbfounded. Zakariya Mansouri not only seemed to have a detailed knowledge of his work, but he had hinted at bringing him on board with the quant wizards, the ultimate acknowledgment for the geeks in the company. He tried to hide his surprise, nodded, and then proceeded to swipe his spectacles with his sleeve.

  CHAPTER 12

  Two months had passed since the tragic death of their youngest lieutenant. No further blood had been shed since then, very much to the disappointment of an aging Turkish-Cypriot patriarch and an ailing gangster of South London who was but a former shell of himself.

  Hardcore party-goers and other regular consumers of coke certainly hadn't noticed any difference. As far as they were aware, the supply chain was unaltered, and the cascade of baton changes necessary to deliver the white candy from producers to the end users was as smooth as ever. They certainly couldn't have been aware of the major manpower reinforcement that had occurred along the Mansouri organization's chain of command. And by extension, along with all other clans' chains of command.

  Mid- to low-level dealers, those most vulnerable to sudden assaults from other bands on the ground, had received unequivocal instructions to exercise special caution in their daily dealings. The upper echelons of the Mansouri enterprise were on constant alert for further senseless onslaughts.

  Planning for the worst was second nature to Rayyan. He was the oldest dog within the organization, reveled in the pitch-black shadows of the underworld, and had never been caught off guard in the firing line. He loathed raucous jaunts in his sector, but there he stood, seemingly in deep conversation with one of the owners of the most exclusive clubs in Canary Wharf. His eyes were intermittently screening his immediate surroundings, and he eventually patted the man on the shoulder with a firm hand, finished his glass in one go and walked away. He acknowledged four of his men dispatched on-site with rapid glances as he exited the establishment, his face tensed all the way. He then headed toward the nearby docks, escorted by two heavily-armed henchmen.

  The gigantic Canada Square towers loomed in the distance, forming a contained but majestic blinkering skyline. He thought of the army of corporate slaves in suits pulling all-nighters, and for a fleeting moment, he felt empathy for them. He wondered if any distraught corporate sheep was snorting a white line right at this instant, maybe hidden in the toilets, or even shamelessly on their desk between two piles of reports they would have to submit by dawn.

  The nearby Billingsgate wholesale seafood market was gearing up for an early opening, and the ammonia-filled stench of freshly deceased fish emanating from the Market Hall pulled Rayyan out of his daydreaming. He had spent more time in the Poplar-based fish commerce house than most patrons, and yet he was desperately unable to distinguish a plaice from a cod. In truth, he never ate fish and was repulsed at the very thought of it. That’s what spending all that time in a cloistered space in between slimy mollusks an
d heaps of fish remains does to a man, he thought.

  He reminded himself that he was there for business and shrugged off the nasty whiff that tickled in his olfactory sense. He was expecting the delivery of another type of goods, much more lucrative than fish mongering. First-hand oversight on all your operations, Zakariya had ordered. That's why he was there. Nothing left to chance.

  Direct operational surveillance had never been as much of a pain for Djibril, whose persistent inclination to hang out in the dirtiest and less advisable corners had not vanished as his social status and wealth had broken loose. He would stride past the colorful houses of Ladbroke Grove and Notting Hill, observing the trade happening, making his presence known like the old American gangsters. Catchy suits, inclined fedora hats, gold chain shining, melanin poppin'. The overdone exuberance wasn't to the taste of the Mansouri brothers, who feared he was losing touch with the harsh reality of the opioid business, but the fact was, Djibril's methods were paying off in these high-value neighborhoods.

  If there was one thing lieutenants had learned over the years, it was that opioid consumers in London came in all forms and shapes. East London's cocaine addicts were pragmatic and tended to flee unwanted attention like the plague. South-enders, for their parts, were a patchwork of nationalities and personalities who would see anyone too noisy or standing out too much as suspicious. The financiers of the City and the Wharf were more concerned about their reputation than anything else and needed to be cared for like little kids, with a lot of behind the scene work. As for the West End crowd, Djibril's client base, it was a different animal altogether. Only someone articulate, captivating and sardonically engaging would have any chance of succeeding there.

  The West End consumers came with lofty expectations around customer service. They were an artistic bunch who bought dope for the sheer joy of it. Not to escape a gloomy reality, not to stimulate one's performance and hope to get that promotion, not to fuel a nasty addition. No, the West End crowd was in it plainly for the psychedelic experience. And they were picky. They needed convincing, but they were happy to try out new products. Djibril had taken the sector by storm, and the area was a salesman’s realm. He felt he had a free pass, with competition less intense there, certainly less confrontational. His big mouth had caused him troubles with the other lieutenants, but on Portobello Road and the adjacent streets of Notting Hill, and more broadly Kensington, Djibril was the man.

  Zinedine was much less hands-on in managing his sector. He had followed Zakariya's guidance to the letter and had posted hired guns at strategic junctions in Hackney, Shoreditch and all the way down to the London City Airport. The increased armed presence made sense from a business viewpoint, but also for his own safety and that of his direct reports. He had daily meetings with his underlings, and would always drive around in procession of two cars or more. His years as a go-fast runner had been enlightening in that respect. He knew that an ambush on the road, if carefully planned, could be the easiest way to eliminate someone with minimal evidence. But he estimated that a spontaneous attack on the street was just as likely. The Aydins were masters at ambuscades.

  He tucked his loaded handgun into his jeans, motioned to the two men standing next to him, and sprung behind the wheel of his silver Audi A5.

  The Mantes-la-jolie clan had instituted a paring system between the lieutenants, an extra layer of security, whereby two lieutenants would be accountable to each other and would provide first support in case of emergency. Obviously, that hadn't been enough to prevent Jamal's' blood-smeared demise, but the arrangement had not been introduced for protection only. They had set up other fail-safes for that purpose.

  First and foremost, the pairing system was the organization’s take on corporate checks and balances, a countervailing force that would allow rapid course correction should one lieutenant lose its way and become rogue.

  Each lieutenant had pledged to act in the group's best interest, which basically meant reporting any suspicious behaviors that had the potential to endanger the whole organization. While he was unable to fathom a traitor amongst his close associates, Zakariya had built his life around contingencies, and it had served him well. Jamal was with Rayyan, Djibril with Mustafa, and Zinedine with Ismael.

  As he drove toward the rendezvous point for an informal meeting with his paired lieutenant, Zinedine reflected on this duo system, silently praying that he would never have to act on inside knowledge against his childhood friend.

  CHAPTER 13

  The countless Jamie Oliver cookbooks stacked on her living room's shelves were all smoke and mirrors. She was fuming because she just couldn't get the hang of it.

  Lola Chambers was always intent on having dinner ready for her man as soon as he got back home from work. Despite her loose code of conduct in social settings, when it came to male-female relationships, she was old-fashioned. There was an unwavering resolve, a stubbornness even, about her behavior around her boyfriend of five years. She had worked hard to prove to him that she was wife material, marriage-ready. But he seemed oblivious to it, and the very idea of wedlock – despite her subtly-calculated moves – had starkly failed to bloom in her man’s mind.

  And it was not her latest attempt at a juicy pot roast dinner that would give her another shot at planting the seed. The meat was cold and raw in its center, and she had managed to burn it on the outside. It was an unsavory disaster. "For heaven's sake!" she cursed at her oven, and, utterly distraught, heaved the meat into the bin. Then, she swore at her absent mother for failing to educate her on the art of turning boring ingredients into delicious mouth-watering dishes. She leaned against the counter for a while, and once her frustration had gone a notch down, she walked to the salon and slumped on the couch. She picked up her laptop in disbelief, opened the machine and proceeded to log into her Deliveroo account.

  When Lloyd got home an hour later, two still-smoking Papa John pizzas were waiting to be sliced and devoured on the table. "Yay, chicken BBQ, my absolute favorite!" he enthused as soon as he noticed her disheartened pout. "What a legendary woman." He winked, and she smiled awkwardly in response, certain she had failed at being a wife even before being presented the golden ring.

  By all accounts, the love of her life was skinny-fat. Lloyd cut a relatively decent-looking silhouette, but he possessed a weak frame and a manifest absence of muscles. The saggy outline of his oversized shirt was not doing much in the way of hiding the fact that he was probably all brains and no brawn.

  Lola's mood brightened instantly as soon as she munched on her first bite of pizza, and dinner conversation kicked off. They ardently debated who of Prince Charles or David Beckham was the most stylish Briton alive, and Lloyd eventually convinced her that true elegance was as much a testament to a man’s poise as it was a product of an innate sense of fashion. And the Prince of Wales had plenty of poise.

  Lloyd Davies displayed just the right amount of empathy to please a woman, but what Lola was most in awe of was his uncanny ability to turn around a bleak conversation and make her lose her thread of thoughts. Which was particularly convenient for someone used to brood over every little flaw like Lola.

  The man would often speak with authority, although not forcefully, as if the words coming out of his thin-lipped heart-shaped mouth were the most important ones ever uttered. He achieved this by maintaining his neck perfectly. Lola had also noticed after a while that his eyes moved along with his speech, breaking up his vocalization and distributing his words in sound bites.

  This conferred him an omniscient demeanor in group settings, when he deigned overcome his initial shyness, but definitely played against him when the time came to seduce a girl. And Lola would be lying if she said that her first impression of him had been convincing. Thankfully, after a few further delightful encounters and memorable nights at his apartment of Islington, she had been left captivated and unable to keep him off her mind.

  Only four months into their relationship, she had accepted to move in with him – out
of lust more than anything else, she had reasoned, we’ll only know if it is true love after a year. In spite of his distinctly frail body, Lloyd had proved resourceful beyond imagination in the bedroom. The very thought of their first night together still sent chills up her spine. Neither of them would dare admit it, even to their closest friends, but she had born witness of a man that had mastered the art of circumventing nature’s foul play. He was less than well-endowed, that was a hard-to-swallow reality, but his tongue game was a dimension above what she had experienced up to that point.

  The reasons why all of Lloyd ex-girlfriends, all three of them, unanimously agreed that he was in a league of his own, had nothing to do with nature. Recognizing early on his beta attributes, he had found solace in technology, and would systematically spice up his carnal intercourses with a pocket-sized vibrator that he plied masterfully. He wielded the tiny device like a virtuoso conductor directing a symphony. On that first night in his modest bachelor pad of Islington, Lola got a glimpse of the wave of organismic pleasure she would enjoy on an almost daily basis in the following half-decade.

  Tonight, however, sex was off the cards. They were about to sign a contract making them the co-owners of a brand new flat, a momentous decision in the life of the young couple if it was to be enacted. She had convinced him that a move out of Islington was long overdue. He had lived there for over a decade, half of it with Lola, and she had finally convinced him to move into a place more reflective of their current financial status. One step at a time, she thought. Another seed.

  After months of arduous research, they had found the perfect abode – a cozy new build only moments away from the heart of Brixton Village, one of the oldest neighborhoods in London. They had agreed to conduct their final due diligence that very night.

  To that end, they now seated opposite to each other, laptops firing, each staring at their own screen with intent. While Lloyds examined the fine prints of the twenty-page-long contract, Lola nonchalantly browsed through TimeOut London, daydreaming about the vintage shops along Electric Avenue they would be local to, the local market, the art galleries, and pop-up restaurants. Yet, it was the proximity to Brixton Academy's concert hall and the Ritzy Picturehouse – the largest independent cinema in the UK – that had been the decisive factor for her. She simply forgot to mention it, and sold the area to Lloyd quite differently. Brixton was supposedly behind the curve in the gentrification process compared to other attractive boroughs, and they would apparently have more space for their bucks there, plus the transport links were as good as it got with numerous tube and bus lines spanning every block of the vibrant neighborhood.