Christ darling, you look like you’re about to shit out an elephant. Come on sweetheart, I expected better of you. What’s there to be glum about? Okay, okay, I know there’s a little bit of trouble bubbling about but nothing you can’t handle. Vaughn! Come on doll. Where you’ve got breath you’ve got a smile. Vaughnie baby, give old Lola a smile.’
Vaughn glared at Lola. He could feel his face turning red as he tried to keep down his temper. Although Lola’s antics hadn’t brought him out in a smile, it’d certainly brought the others out in one, or rather, it’d brought them out in smirks. And it pissed him off no end – especially as the person who was grinning the most was Alfie Jennings, who was sitting opposite him in the dingy café.
Being anywhere near Alfie pissed him off. They had history. Too much history. Alfie’s daughter, Emmie – Vaughn’s goddaughter – had come to live with him and his partner, Casey a while back, and for a short time life had been peaceful; he’d even go so far as saying it’d been idyllic, something he’d never experienced nor could have ever imagined before, but then this had happened. This shit which had hit Soho, smashing his peace like a big brass fucking band.
Vaughn sighed, rubbing his head as his hair flopped over his handsome sun-kissed face, giving him the appearance of a man twenty years his junior. Jesus, he wished he was back in his place in Surrey, tending his roses, making love to Casey or even listening to Emmie’s teenage strops. Anything. Anything, would be better than fucking this.
He’d left Soho life and all it entailed a long time ago, really only coming up for social gatherings and to catch up with old acquaintances and that had suited him well. It was on his terms. Vaughn had spent too many years looking over his shoulder with his life revolving around money and violence, and finally he thought it was over. But then he’d had the call. The code of honour call from another face. The call which meant no matter how much he didn’t want to be here, he really had no choice.
The call had come from Greg Bradley, an old face who still lived in Soho after seventy-eight years. Although Greg had retired a long time ago and now chose an early night and a drink of Ovaltine over any form of ructions, all his faculties were still intact and he was the ears and eyes of the place.
When Vaughn had picked up the call from Greg, he’d had no time for small talk, simply saying. ‘It’s Soho. We’re in trouble.’
In all his time as a face around London Vaughn had only had the call, once. A long time ago, when he’d temporarily settled in Spain, needing to hang low after a multi-million-pound heist, and then, like now, he’d been forced to return to Soho.
Back then it’d been the Yardies, a group of tough and ambitious Jamaicans who’d wanted to add Soho to their takeover of London. There’d been a lot of violence, a lot of claret spilt, but eventually after a few weeks, the turf war had come to an end. Soho had been reclaimed and Vaughn had gone back to Spain for a while, whilst the other faces who’d also got the call had crawled back to wherever they’d come from.
And now twenty-odd years later, the call had come through, but not because of the Yardies or any other group who thought they were tough enough to take the faces of London on. No, this time the enemy were bigger, more dangerous, more ruthless and they needed all the manpower they could get. Because, this time … this time the triads had come.
The triads were at one time the largest criminal organisation in the world with over half a million members, based mainly in Hong Kong and China with roots dating back to centuries-old secret societies. Over the years the triads had branched out and started to operate in smaller groups, though this regrouping hadn’t lessened any of their violence or criminal activities.
Groups such as the deadly Wong Shing Ho and the infamous 14k gang had exploded onto the British scene in the 1980s, bringing with them fear and intimidation, specialising in armed robbery, racketeering, smuggling, drugs trafficking and selling, as well as prostitution and gambling.
The fear that surrounded them was justified, with torture being commonplace to anyone who refused to comply or anyone foolish enough to try to stand up to them or inform the authorities. And up until now, Soho had been free from the rule of triads, with Shaftesbury Avenue serving as the invisible line dividing Chinatown from Soho. But now, everything had changed.
Vaughn tried to muster a smile for Lola but even he could feel it was crooked, a bit like the rest of the men sitting in the café. No matter how fond of her he was, the last thing he felt like doing was being drawn into any sort of conversation. All he wanted to do was decide on a plan then get the hell home.
As if reading his thoughts, Alfie Jennings piped up, a cheeky grin spreading across his face.
‘Got somewhere else to go, have we mate?’
Vaughn snarled at Alfie, ‘I ain’t your mate, I thought I made that clear to you a long time ago.’
Alfie stared at Vaughn and although he didn’t show it, what Vaughn had said cut him deeply. They once had been best friends, inseparable, and with one thing or another, no thanks to his ex-missus, he’d lost everything. His money, Emmie his daughter, and most of his friends. The money hadn’t mattered; well not really, Alfie was a born wheeler and dealer, a born survivor, and he’d always known one way or another he would climb back up. The friends hadn’t really mattered, most of them had been a bunch of muppets anyway. What had mattered was Emmie and Vaughn. His best mate and his daughter had given him the brush-off when he’d needed them the most.
He knew they’d say the reason they’d turned their backs on him was because of things he’d done in the past; mistakes he’d made with the people he’d got involved with, compromising all their beliefs, but everyone made bad judgements, hadn’t they? Everyone got it wrong from time to time, but it seemed only ever to be him, Alfie Jennings who was punished for it.
He could forgive Emmie. She was his princess and always would be, no matter what. But Vaughn. Vaughn-fucking-yesterday’s-news-Sadler, well he was different. He was a piss take, one that he, Alfie Jennings would never forgive.
Alfie stood up, his six-foot-plus well-built frame looming towards Vaughn. ‘Oh you made it clear. Very clear, mate. Leaving me with fuck all while you and that bird of yours waltzed off with me daughter like you were a contestant on fucking Strictly.’
Vaughn, not in the least intimidated by Alfie, stood up, so that he was nose to nose with him.
‘Do yourself a service, Alf. Turn it in, and stop embarrassing yourself in front of everyone.’
‘I ain’t the embarrassment, but you’d like me to be wouldn’t you? Oh, didn’t you just love it when I was down on me friggin’ hind. But that ain’t the case now, sunshine. ’Cos Alfie is back. Alfie Jennings is back on top.’
‘Alf, you sound like a fucking muppet. For fuck’s sake do us all a turn will ya and do what Vaughn says, or at least keep it tight will ya; I don’t need me ears chewing off with all this schoolgirl shit.’ It was Del Williams who spoke. A big player in Soho as well as the Costa.
Alfie swivelled round, his face turning up into a sneer. ‘When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.’
Del barked back. ‘No, son, I’m just going to give it to you. Wise up mate.’
Alfie’s contempt was palpable. ‘To quote Vaughn here, I ain’t your mate.’
Del rolled up his sleeves. ‘Which will make it all the more easy to knock yer fucking head off.’
‘Hold
