Page 29 of The Beast's Broken Angel

DEVIL'S BARGAIN

ADRIAN

B lood still stained the sleeves of my shirt as Ravenswood's formal dining room transformed into something resembling a military war room.

The mahogany table where my ancestors had once entertained politicians and foreign dignitaries now bore the weight of tactical maps, surveillance photos, and weapons inventory sheets.

Red pins marked Turner territory like infected wounds across London's sprawl, each one representing a piece of the puzzle that would determine how we responded to last night's attack.

The morning light filtering through bulletproof windows cast harsh shadows across the faces of my assembled lieutenants.

Viktor stood at military attention despite his civilian clothes, the former Russian operative's bearing never quite losing that rigid discipline that had kept him alive through two decades of violence.

Harrison occupied his usual position at my right hand, silver hair immaculate despite the early hour, his tailored suit a stark contrast to the blood-stained clothing the rest of us still wore from the previous night's carnage .

A dozen other key players filled the remaining chairs, territory captains, financial advisors, the specialists who kept my empire running smoothly beneath London's civilised surface.

They'd been summoned at dawn, pulled from their beds or whatever holes they'd been hiding in since news of the Raven's Nest attack spread through our network like wildfire.

Noah stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching the proceedings with that clinical detachment that was starting to slip around the edges.

His presence wasn't exactly required for strategic planning, but something about having him witness this felt necessary.

Maybe it was territorial, marking him as mine in front of the others.

Maybe it was darker than that, a desire to see how far his moral flexibility could stretch before it snapped entirely.

“Right, the Wolves of Brixton have claimed responsibility,” I began, circling locations on the map with a red marker that left crimson streaks across the paper like dried blood.

Each dot represented a business under Turner protection, a source of revenue that kept their ramshackle operation running.

“Isaiah and Michael Turner, used to be street-level dealers, now they reckon they're empire builders.”

I paused, letting my gaze sweep across the assembled faces. Fear, anger, and calculation warred in their expressions. Good. They should be afraid. Fear kept people sharp, kept them alive in a business where complacency meant death.

“Their operation's still small compared to the established families,” I continued, moving to the next cluster of marked locations.

“But last night proved they've got proper tactical capability. Military-grade accelerants, coordinated assault, knowledge of our security protocols.” The implications hung heavy in the air.

Someone had fed them information. Someone close enough to know our weaknesses.

Dominic should have been here, his blunt counsel balancing Viktor's cold calculation and Harrison's corporate strategising.

Instead, he was laid up in our private medical facility, metal fragments carved out of his flesh by Noah's skilled hands.

The reminder of his injuries sent fresh anger coursing through my veins, the kind of rage that demanded blood in return.

“Five of our people are dead,” I stated, letting that fact settle over the room like a funeral shroud. “James the bartender, carved up like a Christmas turkey. Sarah, the new waitress, burned alive in the storage room. Tommy, Big Jim, and Crazy Eddie, shot execution-style in the back alley.”

I watched faces harden as I recited the casualty list, saw hands clench into fists, jaws tighten with barely contained fury. These weren't just statistics to the people in this room. They were friends, colleagues, family in the only way that mattered in our world.

“The Raven's Nest is fucked,” I continued, moving to display crime scene photos on the wall-mounted screens. “Hundred grand in damages, minimum. Two weeks to rebuild, assuming we can get the permits pushed through without the Old Bill sniffing around.”

The photographs showed the devastation in brutal detail, charred furniture, broken glass, the spray of blood where our people had made their final stands.

The Turner brothers had sent a message with last night's attack, but they'd also made a critical error.

They'd declared war on the Calloway family.

Now we'd give them exactly what they were asking for.

Harrison cleared his throat, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with characteristic deliberation. The gesture was so familiar it was almost comforting, Harrison had been making that same movement for as long as I could remember, a tell that preceded his most calculated suggestions.

“Perhaps we should consider a more measured response,” he began, his cultured voice cutting through the tension.

“Financial strangulation, strategic property acquisition to limit their movement.” He traced potential acquisition points on the map with his manicured finger, each touch precise and deliberate.

“Surgical rather than explosive. Minimise collateral attention from the authorities.”

The suggestion had merit from a business perspective, but it ignored the fundamental reality of what we were dealing with.

Respect in our world came through strength, not clever accounting tricks.

The Turners had spilled blood, and blood demanded blood in return.

Any other response would be seen as weakness, an invitation for every two-bit crew in London to take their shot at the Calloway empire.

“With respect, Mr Blackwood,” Viktor interjected, his Russian accent thickening as it always did when he disagreed with Harrison's corporate approach, “such methods reward their aggression. Five of our people are dead. Traditional response requires blood equivalent.”

Viktor's scarred hands spread across the map, thick fingers tracing the boundaries of Turner territory with methodical precision.

The man had personally killed thirty-seven people in service to the Russian state before circumstances forced him to seek employment in London's underworld.

His opinions on retaliation carried weight that went beyond mere experience.

“Blood for blood creates cycles of violence that benefit no one,” Harrison countered smoothly, never raising his voice but somehow commanding attention.

“Met Police have gang units specifically designed to capitalise on such escalation.

We give them a war, they'll use it to justify increased surveillance, asset seizure, RICO prosecutions.”

“Fuck the Met,” Viktor spat, his usual restraint cracking. “They kill five, we kill ten. Send message that cannot be misunderstood. Anything less, we look weak. Other crews start thinking Calloways are soft.”

“And trigger a gang war that brings armed police into our territory,” Harrison replied with infuriating calm.

“Armed response units, surveillance helicopters, the whole bloody circus. Bad for business, bad for our political connections, bad for everyone except the Turners, who get to play victim while we look like the aggressors.”

I watched the debate unfold, noting the familiar divisions in my organisation. Viktor represented the old school—direct, brutal, effective in the short term. Harrison preferred the long game, corporate warfare that destroyed enemies through legal channels and financial pressure.

Throughout the discussion, I found myself watching Noah's reactions.

His clinical detachment was cracking as casualty figures and revenge scenarios escalated, professional composure fracturing under the weight of moral implications.

When Harrison mentioned targeting Turner family members, wives, children, elderly parents, Noah's flinch was barely perceptible, but I caught it.

“Their primary revenue stream is smack distribution through council estates,” Harrison continued, spreading financial intelligence across the table.

“Turnover approximately fifty grand per week, split between street sales and bulk distribution to smaller dealers. We could acquire the properties, evict their customer base, force them into less profitable territory.”

“Too fucking slow,” Viktor argued, stabbing the map with thick fingers. “Is simple mathematics - they spill blood of five, we spill blood of ten. Clear message. Show weakness now, every crew in London thinks we are soft target.”

The debate continued for another hour, strategies proposed and discarded, alliances within my organisation revealing themselves through tactical disagreements. By the time I finally dismissed them, morning sun had burned away the shadows in the room.

Viktor lingered briefly, his expression troubled. “Boss, about the response to Turner attack...”

“Your concerns are noted,” I cut him off. “But the decision hasn't been made yet. I want all options fully developed before we commit.”

He nodded reluctantly and left. Harrison departed with his usual efficiency, gathering documents before disappearing into London traffic. Only Noah remained, discomfort obvious in how he avoided meeting my eyes.

The east wing corridor felt different when it was just the two of us. I found him in the medical supply room, mechanically organising antibiotics with movements that betrayed his agitation.

“You disapprove of our methods,” I observed, closing the door behind me.

Noah didn't turn around, shoulders rigid beneath his blood-stained shirt. “You're planning to kill people who weren't involved in the attack. Family members whose only crime is being related to your enemies. It's not justice—it's terrorism.”