Page 25 of Crave

“You ran. Took a blade to me. On my street. Tell me what I’m supposed to think about that.”

He blinked up at me, chest heaving, grime streaking down his cheek.

“Get up.” I jerked my chin.

He scrambled to his feet, skinny arms shaking as he stood there. He was about eighteen, maybe nineteen if I rounded him up. Pale under the streetlight, freckles buried under weeks of dirt. A half-finished buzz cut, fringe dyed piss-yellow, as if he’d tried to copy one of those drill kids off YouTube. Cheeks hollow from skipping meals, eyes darting like a rat cornered in the bin yard. Tracksuit too big for him, hanging off his shoulders.

A kid trying to play gangster.

That’s why I kept to my hard no of putting kids on my payroll.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Luca.”

“Right, Luca.” I slid the blade into my waistband and watched him flinch when it vanished. “We got a couple of problems, yeah? You gonna tell me what they are?”

Luca swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, and he darted his gaze down the alley where his mate had trotted off, as if the dark might cough him up an answer. Then he shrugged.

Shrugged.

So I punched him. Hard. Full fist. Straight to the nose. Quick as a switchblade. The snap was clean. Luca’s head jerked back, a high little yelp cutting through the drizzle. He hit the wall and slid down, spitting blood into the gutter.

Did I like it? Part of me did. There’s a rush to breaking someone’s nose, to reminding the road who owns it. Plus, this one had been behind my pretty boy. He’d been so close to him I wondered if he could smell my spunk on him. His on me. And that had me all sorts of riled. It was bound to manifest in violence. All my issues invariably did.

The other part of me hated it, though. I didn’t want to be a bully to kids. But disrespect’s a contagion; let it spread, and you wake up with strangers walking your block as if it’s theirs. Which was why I was surprised this was happening. Maybe Tyler was right. And Joe. My lenience was filtering through the estates and people were thinking I was a lighter touch than the rumours keeping me top boy for years had led them to believe.

So I didn’t shake out my hand. The sting tasted like victory and vinegar, same as a sweat-soaked alley fuck, same as too many nights I can’t ever let go of.

“Try that again.” I bent so my face was inches from his, looking down on him. My height, my bulk, the threat leaning over him right there for him to taste. “You only got one shot, bruv. Think proper before you try prove somethin’. What’s the point if you’re dead, innit?”

“This is your patch. I’m on your line.”

I clapped. Loud. Hard. It echoed down the street to make a dog bark. And probably wake all those from floors one to fifteen of the tower block behind us.

“I’m glad you noticed.” I scratched my chin. “Now, I know you’re low down the chain, yeah. I get that. But I’m gonna assume you did the play. Watched the intro vids when you signed up. Learnt your corner rules. So tell me, what’s the problem with you moving gear in Hackney?”

He drew a breath, and for a second, I thought he was gonna lie. Same script they teach on the corners: feign ignorance, blink big, act surprised. Pretend your pockets ain’t stuffed with cash and pills. Would’ve worked if I hadn’t seen him pinch those notes from my pretty boy’s hand, the same hand that’d tossed me off in the alley.

Ain’t no innocence in that move.

And there I went again, thinking that pretty boy was mine.

Luckily, Luca got me back on track by getting up from the ground. “Only your product moves on this patch.”

“Well done.” I knocked on his temple with my knuckles. “Good brain in there. Bright future, Luca. Now if you wanna move product I ain’t vetted, what should you do?”

“Ask you.”

“Could.” I nodded as if thinking about it. “Likely to say no, though. So if you don’t get my say, what happens to the bloke who wants in on my profit?”

He stared at the wet concrete, at his trainers. Anywhere but at me.

I leant in. “Let me make it easy. You give me my cut.”

He let out a long, resigned sigh and looked up. “Tripper’ll string me up if I go back empty-handed. He’ll—”

“—kill you?” I finished for him, shrugging as if it was a weather report. “Yeah. That’s the street. Sorry, not sorry.”