Page 6 of Taunting Tarran (Wild at Heart #1)

THE PUNISHER

People fucking like Neanderthals isn’t really my thing, but it’s what draws a crowd. A crowd of all sorts . Some barely legal, while others are barely breathing – coming to The Lickerish Lounge to coffin-dodge and going out with a bang just takes on an entirely new meaning.

I’ve always prided myself on the classiness of my businesses, so having some horny, drunkard whip out his cock in the hallway of the club while watching a show is strictly prohibited.

As the man in question is escorted outside by the club’s bouncer, I take a glance around.

So far, so good. There was a couple at the bar, and before I could intervene, and throw him out, he was already walking off into a room.

So other than that, it’s been a quiet evening.

For me, dating is a no-go. On the surface, I play the role of a good respectable gentleman, a pillar of society some might say.

I own a string of successful clubs such as The Lickerish Lounge, lavish hotels, and residential properties.

Mr Lewis, the most eligible bachelor Sal would say.

But beneath this polished facade lies a cesspool of secrets, a shadowy existence cloaked in the filth of my father’s clandestine deeds, which, now that he’s dead, are all mine.

There’s only been one woman I have truly been able to rely on. One woman who saw me for me – my mother, but she was taken away from me in a fatal car accident when I was three, leaving a void many women have tried to fill.

Ironic, isn’t it? A man like me, the epitome of success and charm, feeling nothing. Emotions, connections – they’re all foreign concepts.

Eligible bachelor? I’m just empty.

Every day I feel more disconnected from the world. I go through the motions by playing the part, but the reality is I’m just a hollow shell pretending to be human.

I’m sitting in my newly appointed office at the back of the club, and I thumb through the contents of the desk drawers.

The whispers had started weeks ago – hushed conversations in backrooms, furtive glances exchanged over brandy glasses.

Now my father is dead, other heads of families are restless, and their discontent is bubbling like a pot about to boil over.

With my mother having died in a car accident when I was a young boy, my father brought me up.

He always said I was and am a figure to be reckoned with; His ironclad grip on power and ruthless efficiency descending to the next generation.

But now, as apparent heir to his throne, my status as the next don could be both my strength and my greatest vulnerability.

I’d been hearing rumours, of course, the whispered threats, the veiled promises of retribution.

My father had his enemies, and now they’re mine.

But the meeting to secure my fate wasn’t for a few months, and right now I have other business to attend to.

I adjust my cufflinks - a small, almost absentminded gesture before I straighten my jacket, and I bury the thoughts raging beneath the surface of my calm exterior – something I’ve practiced my entire life.

I can’t afford to show weakness. In this world, any sign of doubt or hesitation is like a drop of blood in shark infested waters.

My mind wanders to the impending meeting – a mere rubber stamp of my ascendency.

But I know until then, deals are being made, alliances are being forged and broken, and those who stand in my way seeing my rise to power as an opportunity to strike.

The target on my back is inevitable, a reality I have to accept being the sole heir to the Sanchez-Lewis family, and I’m not about to let a few disgruntled old men stand in my way.

I swirl the amber liquid in its glass, and allow a moment of retrospection, raising my glass to my reflection in the darkened window of the room .

‘Let them come,’ I toast in the empty room. ‘Because in the wake of my ascent I shall unleash a storm of chaos, and they who stand in my way won’t know what’s hit them. Their order will be shattered, the very fabric of their world torn asunder.’

A faint knock at the door has me turning towards it.

‘Yes?’ I call.

‘Guv’, just wanted to let ya know, I saw a couple of our guys talkin’ with the outsiders.’

I nod, my nonverbal way showing satisfaction at Mickey’s very capable ways of dealing with a situation.

As Mickey leaves, I glance at the portrait of my father hanging on the wall. His untimely death has caused a significant shift in power, and the void left behind is causing some members to seek opportunities to test their limits and carve their own piece of the pie.

Maribel, the club manager who had also been my father’s trusted advisor follows in after Mickey. Since my father’s death, her sharp tongue and backchat has tested my nerves, her tone just short of insolent as she questions all my decisions.

Leaving my office to view the newly reformed rooms, I pass the VIP room where Sal and his crew are deep in a game of poker.

The smoky room is alive with laughter, clinking glasses, and an occasional outburst. The game is in full swing by the looks of it, and the stakes are high.

Sal notices me and waves me over.

‘Mr Lewis!’ he calls out. As I approach the table, Sal leans in close to my ear.

‘Word on the street is; you’ve got a target on your back.

There are whispers some factions aren’t happy.

’ Tommy with the chipped tooth and a cheeky grin leans back in his chair and chuckles.

‘Cor blimey, I’ll see your tenner and raise ya five. ’

‘I’ll call, let’s see what you’re all made of,’ another player says. Laughter and banter continues as Sal stands, and I interrupt by tapping him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, Sal.’

Tommy’s loud voice breaks the air. ‘That slimy git scarpered with my dough. All of it! That heap with the mars on his boat...’

‘Who?’ Sal frowns.

Tommy huffs, ‘The one who was sitting at my Cain and able last night, he must’ve cheated. I could see it in his beady mincers. I’ve been playin’ poker long enough to spot a cheat.’

‘What’s he moaning about, Sal?’ I ask.

‘He got screwed last night; some bloke with a scar took all his winnings.’

‘Couldn’t he have just said that? For fuck’s sake, this country gave birth to the language and he still can’t speak it.’

‘He’s from the East End, and a bit old in the tooth to change now,’ Sal shrugs.

‘Don’t you start!’

Tommy looks up, ‘Hey, Sal, chuck us a fag!’

Sal hesitates as I lean in, my movements deliberate and laced with irritation. With a flick of my wrist, I yank open his jacket. The disdain in my eyes mirroring the contemptuous curl of my lip, as I grab the packet of cigarettes with a sharp tug and toss them on the table.

‘Help yourself, Tommy. Sal is giving up, right, Sal?’

Tommy lets out a thunderous burp, shaking the air with unapologetic gusto.

‘Fucking hell, Sal. Get him out of here before he breaks a chair.’

‘B-but it’s Tommy. “Wheels” is our best getaway driver.’

I look at Tommy, leaning into Sal’s ear.

‘What’s he going to get away from? A tortoise?

Look at the size of him! He’d only fit in a transit van, and they’re hardly built for speed.

And who does he think he is, Van Diesel living the van-life taking a leisurely Sunday drive with the family petting zoo in the back? ’

‘Boss, I’ve seen him crawl into a Mini Cooper like it’s an Olympic sport – surprised us all. Trust me!’

I groan. As I turn, Sal grabs my arm gently. ‘One more thing, boss. A few club members owe us money. Perhaps a little face-to-face reminder will clear up any misunderstandings about clearing their debt?’

‘I’ll leave it in your capable hands.’

Sal is a seasoned consigliere ; a distinguished man in his fifties, who serves me well as an advisor, as well as quietly and efficiently resolving disputes among family members.

I’ve known him the majority of my life, and despite his efficiency, he has a deep sense of honour. He was my father’s confidant, guiding our family through countless challenges and conflicts. His discretion in handling sensitive matters has earned him my utmost trust.

‘There’s another thing,’ he continues as he stands and nods his head towards a quiet corner of the room. ‘I know everything is all up in the air but…’

‘But?’

‘It’s the Albanians.’

I rub my jaw. The Albanians have always been a thorn in our side.

One minute they’re allies, the next they’re sending pictures of their dealings.

Some messages were sent to friends to brag, other times to their enemies.

Images and videos taken on encrypted and highly specialised mobile phones they thought were secure, never thinking the phones’ encryption could be broken, but it was.

And their dealings and organisation connects right up into law enforcement and high-ranking officials. I didn’t need that kind of attention.

‘What have they done now?’ I ask, dreading the answer.

I never agreed to my father’s involvement with the Albanians, and therefore never really knew what was going on.

After hearing European authorities decrypted the images, they shared the contents of the secret messages with the Albanian authorities.

Those clearly not associated with the organisation determined one of the operators was a well-know suspect by the name of Dardan Hoti – who is the leader of a group called the Hoti clan.

It’s mainly built up by local vandals, hooligans, street-level muscle enforcers, and they’re at war with another clan.

The two groups are setting off car bombs, hitmen, you name it, and this leads to bodies. Tens of bodies.

Sal shakes his head. ‘My inside source in the police tells me the police have just found and raided Hoti’s slaughterhouse, right here in London.

Three crew witnesses are giving their statements.

Authorities have evidence that Hoti believed his right-hand-man deceived him.

They reckon the guy set Dardan up, so the crew decided to share the photos of what they did to him. I’m telling you, this guy is sick.’

‘I’m failing to see the relevance here…’

‘I’m getting there, boss. CCTV captured the guy…

victim, arriving at the property, lured by false promises no doubt.

Then the crew hog tied him, carved traitor into his back before he was decapitated and chopped up.

Witnesses state he was fed into an industrial meat grinder, the mince was then bagged and dumped into the Thames. ’

‘So he’s fish food? And your point?’

‘The Hoti clan is pissed. Pissed at us! Their shipment is due to arrive and Carlos isn’t giving them an answer.’

‘Carlos? What is that old coot still doing around?’

‘He won’t retire, but I spoke to him, and he said your father did the deal with the Albanians, and due to their previous misunderstanding, he is now refusing to take shipment.

I have reviewed the contract, and it’s legit.

If we don’t accept the shipment, they’ll dispose of the cargo, and they’ll still want paying. And our buyers will be pissed too.’

‘Fuck!’

‘I know! My source sent me across some intel about the last group that crossed them. Fucking meat grinder. We reckon Dardan evaded arrest because he’s en route with the cargo to guarantee payment.’

By Sal’s reaction, it was evident that despite Sal’s close relationship with my father, he hadn’t shared all of the family’s secrets, but if I was going to win this battle, I needed someone on side.

‘A meat grinder, hey?’ I growl. ‘I think you and I need to have a little chat, and you’ll need to pack your toothbrush ‘cause you’re booking us both a flight.’

Sal struggles to catch his breath as he places his right hand over his heart to calm his nerves. His hands are trembling.

‘Hey, Sal, get a grip!’

‘I’m sorry, boss. I’ve always been the guy in the shadows, away from the blood and chaos. Now it feels like I’m being thrust into a battlefield. This isn’t about managing logistics or dealing with finances, you’re asking me to step into the line of fire. And what about George?’

I look at Sal as he composes himself. I’m not familiar with this kind of fear.

The mafia’s operations have always been brutal, and not a week would go by where I wasn’t in the thick of an operation knowing I might lose my sanity, or worse, my life.

Sal walks to the room’s far corner, seizing George by the cheeks.

The boxer dog grumbles, his tongue lolling out in a half-hearted attempt to lick Sal’s face.

‘I thought I said no bloody animals in the club?’

‘Yeah, boss, I thought you meant clients…. George is dead quiet.’

‘Keep it that way,’ I place my hands on his shoulders.

‘And make sure he doesn’t dribble on the carpet!

With regards to throwing you in the fire…

I am, Sal. That’s exactly what I’m asking of you, and where we’re going will test you in ways you can’t imagine.

But I’ve always admired your brains that have kept this family together.

Trust yourself, and your instincts. Just don’t lose your shit.

‘As for the rest of you, gentlemen, have a good evening.’