CHAPTER 3 - RED
CHAPTER
Red
M Y LIP CURLS WITH irritation as my brother guides his latest conquest’s hand onto his crotch.
I say his “latest conquest”, but Liam and Oscar don’t have “conquests”.
They never bother with a woman more than once because there’s plenty of choice.
Most of the birds around here fancy their chances of getting their feet under the table with one of our family, and I don’t expect it matters much which one of us it is.
A Bateman is a Bateman - a name well known this side of the river.
All over London, in fact.
And rightly so.
We’ve worked hard for our place in this city. Very hard.
But our father had the hardest job. Establishing a firm back in the 60s was no mean feat.
My jaw tenses. As time passes, I can sometimes think of my parents without rage and resentment hitting boiling point. But that rage and resentment will never disappear completely.
How can it?
I take a swig from my crystal tumbler and savor the burn of the spirit. Only the best glasses for the Batemans. Only the best whiskey too. Not that our enemies see it that way. They believe swigging from cans of supermarket-own lager is more up our street.
I drag the back of my hand across my forehead and tighten my hair in the elastic band.
Having longish hair doesn’t go with my position, but I don’t give a toss.
Neither will I tie it back with one of those poncy things.
An elastic band does just fine, thank you.
Besides, I’ve never cared whether I tick all or any of the boxes of what someone who runs a ‘business’ should look like - especially a business like mine.
What am I supposed to do? Sit in the corner of an office, chewing the ends of cigars, supping whiskey and speaking with an Italian accent or an American drawl?
Or should I be what I am: a Londoner?
Yes, I’ve got a cockney accent, so what? Being cockney didn’t hurt the Krays, did it?
But I hate the Italians more than life itself. Their withered brains have done them no favors, deluding them into a sense of superiority over us, even though our actions, territories and clout shout the very opposite.
Make no mistake, the Batemans take no prisoners. I take no prisoners, and woe betide anyone who forgets that.
Reaching for my packet of cigarettes, I push away the hand of the lingering waitress brushing against my skin. Whatever outcome she’s angling for, she’ll fail. My eyes swivel briefly in her direction. “Fuck off, love. You’ve brought the drinks, so do one.”
As she scurries away wearing a distinct glow of humiliation on her cheeks, my brothers stare at me. “What?” I snap, knowing they’d already earmarked that waitress as a suitable candidate for their beds - especially Liam.
A small growl rises from the back of my throat, stopping any cocky remark either of them might think to make. They know better than to fuck with me. They may have the inclination to dip their cock into anything that moves, but I do not. Not anymore.
Not after Lorna.
I pull down the cuffs of my Savile Row shirt. It’s not that I’m ashamed of the tattoos covering my body - far from it.
One in particular was the muse for renaming the casino: The Scorpio Lounge.
One of the many chicks I’ve bedded remarked once that the black and red scorpion on my chest was like me: deadly with a sting. A red sting, like my name.
And I am Red. Plain old Redmond Bateman. That’s the way I like it. But the scorpion, or rather Scorpio , seemed fitting for calling the casino of the firm I took the reins of.
I double-check my shirt cuffs. My attention to detail stems from preferring perfect alignment. Now that my cuffs are at the right level below the sleeves of my expensive, tailored suit jacket, I’m happy .
All of us brothers wear nice clothes. It took a long time to reach the place where we warranted them.
The general consensus from firms like the Galvatores and Bristonis is that we have no right to this finery and should remain in oil-stained denim - a more fitting attire to our station.
But we’ve more than earned our place in this city, and when the time is right, I intend to further that position and, most importantly, orchestrate payback.
Suddenly, I catch sight of something I don’t like the look of.
Plunging over the table, ignoring the drinks I’ve sent flying, I grab Liam around the throat, my fingers crumpling the starched collar of his shirt.
Before his shock registers, my other hand yanks his out from up the skirt of the woman on his lap.
The woman looks at me with what could be gratitude, although it could be resentment.
She can save either emotion for someone who cares.
I am not that person. “Shove off,” I mumble.
She doesn’t need telling twice, and with her stilettos crunching in the broken glass underneath the table, she skitters across the glossy floor.
It’s only then that I release my hand from Liam’s throat.
Liam indignantly straightens his shirt. “What did you do that for?”
“It’s not how we roll.” My words spit between my teeth, my eyes drilling into my brother.
“This isn’t a fucking knocking shop. Keep whatever you do behind closed doors, not in here.
I won’t tolerate anything backing up our reputation of being cheap, in-bred wankers, running half of London with mindless violence and no brains.
I won’t give those Italian bastards ammo for the bullshit they speak about us. ”
Liam has the good grace to look contrite, but he’s thirty-one now, not fourteen, therefore I expect him to have a mode of decorum, and he damn well knows it.
“Come on.” Oscar gets to his feet, his hand on our youngest brother’s shoulder. “Let’s go and sort out the shit needed for tomorrow.”
When Oscar glances at me for approval, I give a slight nod, realizing a small part of him resents okaying everything he does with me, but that’s just the way it is.
He also knows I’m not happy with Liam’s show of disrespect.
It’s unlikely that woman will complain. Having a Bateman’s hands down her panties in public brings kudos.
But that isn’t happening here. It’s not a look I want associated with my firm.
And it is my firm now, and therefore it’s time my brothers, especially Liam, remembered that.
Our parents dying six months ago, forcing me to step into the helm, was a surprise to all of us - none more so than me.
We’d all figured our father had many more years ahead of him before he dropped off this mortal coil, but the fatal car accident which killed our parents, cut us to the quick. It was devastating.
It became much more than that when I discovered, purely by chance, that it wasn’t an accident.
It was then my anger had no mercy - especially when I found out the last person I’d expected engineered the accident.
My hatred fires up to heat steadily through my veins, but I keep it at bay like I’ve quickly learned to do on this subject.
I removed the culprit - one of them - but not without allowing a false assumption to run to conceal the truth, along with my additional suspicions from my brothers. If they knew, then they’d react the same way that I’ve wanted to react every second of every day since.
But when the time is right, I’ll tell them that my own fiancée was behind it. I will tell them about Lorna’s part in our parents’ death when I finally prove who she was working for. And when I do, I need to ensure the firm is up to the level it needs to be to unleash a full-blown war.
Taking another mouthful of whiskey, I force my rising fury to remain under wraps.
The important thing is keeping the reputation intact of what our father fought so hard to achieve, paving the way for us to continue.
As is the big delivery tomorrow. And that must pull off perfectly because it will bring an additional chunk of territory, as well as a shitload of drugs.
In the grime of the backstreets, my father built up this firm from scratch. He’d done well, and now it’s my turn.
But regardless of the situation and me and my brothers’ foibles, me, Liam and Oscar are a team. We work well together, and when push comes to shove, we’re on the same page which is a vital part of success.
A smile pushes the frown off my face. The fresh territory we’re about to gain will stick an additional finger up to the Bristoni and Galvatore bastards.
Both those Italian firms have been after our slice of London for as long as I can remember.
Our father got nothing but grief from them for years and fought tooth and nail to keep his place.
He lost much - far too much at the hands of those conniving, slimy cunts, but they’ve been quiet the past few years and I’m happy to let it remain that way.
For now.
They’re waiting for an opportunity to strike and expected us to fold after our father’s death, but we didn’t. Far from it. This unnerved them, so they haven’t yet made their move .
Likewise, neither have I.
But I will. Because my driving force to prove my suspicions and take them down, makes any reason they have for winning this battle, which hasn’t even started yet, look like chicken shit.
We’re stronger than they expected, and that’s something I’ll nurture until the day comes, hopefully sooner rather than later, when we move on them first .
My scowl returns as a barman brushes my designer leather shoes while cleaning the broken glass from underneath the table. I’m just about to voice my displeasure at his carelessness when I spot Del weaving his way towards me through the crowd.
Tensing, I yank the barman out from under the table by his shirt. ‘That’s enough.’
As the man hurriedly retreats behind one of the four bars in my casino, my mind scrolls through reasons why one of my inner circle has deserted their post. Aside from my brothers, there’s only two other men who are privy to being inside the nucleus.
Del Carter and Steve Farrow. For one of them to be here when he should be elsewhere, wearing a look I recognize as not positive doesn’t happen unless it’s important.
My teeth chew the inside of my cheek as I reach for my replacement glass of whiskey. I’m casually sipping it when Del reaches my table. I give him the nod to sit down.
Taking a seat, he leans into me. I don’t appreciate anyone, even my best men, in my personal space, but sometimes needs must. And this is one of those times.
“I’ve just had word that Bristoni is dead.”
I blink. Bristoni? Dead? One of my arch-nemeses carking it isn’t particularly gutting, but that the bastard head of the Bristoni firm is dead and I’m not responsible for it, is. I feel robbed. “I didn’t realize the old boy was ill,” I force myself to mutter.
“He wasn’t. It’s murder.”
Now I sit bolt upright. Someone murdered the Bristoni boss and stole my vengeance?
“And it’s not the old man - it’s the son.”
I stare at Del like he’s just dropped in from another planet. “Roberto Bristoni? Where did you hear this? That psycho has security coming out of his fucking ears. It’s got to be a wind-up.”
Del helps himself to a cigarette from my packet on the table.
Anyone else doing that would lose their hand.
“It’s kosher. I heard it from my scout placed inside the Bristoni warehouse.
He got word from the inside, but now it’s traveling through London like wildfire.
Someone’s gone and murdered Bristoni in his fucking bed, and it seems the wife’s been snatched too. It’s got to be a blackmail job.”
I want to punch somebody. The Bristonis will go batshit over this.
That fuckhead, Roberto, had aspirations - many of which included overriding his father in wanting to tread on my toes, as well as my territory, therefore it doesn’t take rocket science to work out the eyes of suspicion will land on me.
For that reason alone, I don’t reckon it’s blackmail; it’s a setup. But by who?
Who the fuck else is trying their hand?
I turn to Del silently awaiting further instructions. “Filter the news through the ranks and put everyone on standby. This could turn into a war, and if it does, we must be ready. I’ll let my brothers know the situation.”
Fuck. I’m more than happy to wage war on those fuckers - for everything , but we’re not quite ready. However, it looks as though that no longer matters because someone else has lit the fuse.
Slapping Del on the back, I stand up and make my way across the club to the corridor leading to our offices when I spot Oscar coming the other way. He looks agitated, so he must have already heard. News travels fast in this city.
“I already know,” I mutter, continuing up the corridor.
Oscar follows me. “I don’t know how because I’m the only one who’s seen her.”
“ Her ?” I stop walking.
“She turned up at the delivery door, banging and banging on it. It’s a good job it was me who fucking opened it and no one else saw the bitch. I’ve taken her to your office.”