Disobey

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Jacqui Rose (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE (#u7ff195e5-cf84-59b5-b946-dbd52548faf3)

At four in the morning the door of the Turkish restaurant in Greek Street was kicked open. Careering into the wall, it caused the glass to smash into tiny fragments on the tiled floor. Three men waving baseball bats charged in, smashing everything in their way.

The sound of the chairs being kicked over and the tables being thrown woke the sleeping proprietor, Sarp, who’d seen and caused enough trouble throughout his own life to not hesitate to rush downstairs, cosh in hand, to face whatever danger awaited him.

Although Sarp had just had his fifty-sixth birthday, with adrenaline racing round his body he stood tall, sounding like a man much younger than his years.

‘What the fucking hell?’ The sight of the three Chinese men standing in the middle of his vandalised restaurant made Sarp see red and unwisely, he threw his full weight behind a punch, landing it directly in the smallest of the three men’s face. The blood splattered across the room, patterning the whitewashed wall with a sea of tiny red dots.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the men easily grabbed hold of the overweight Sarp, pushing him down against the sharp metal side of the bar’s counter. He cried out as the steel ripped into his bulbous flesh. ‘What … what do you want?’

The cold stare of the men sent a chill of fear through him.

‘We’ve warned you before. We told you there were no second chances. None. This time you pay up.’

‘I ain’t got the sort of money you’re asking for. The business isn’t doing that well.’

‘I’m not interested in your problems. You’ve had long enough; I’m sure you wouldn’t want anything happening to your restaurant or want your clientele to be too afraid to come here. The money’s to make sure these things don’t happen. To keep you safe.’

Sarp snarled at the men; his lip curling up in hatred. ‘Ain’t no need for protection mate; those days are long gone. We look after ourselves round here or we look after our own. Either way, we don’t need the likes of you thinking yer China’s answer to the Krays.’

‘You’re a very foolish man. Don’t you understand we’ll get our money one way or another; either which you’ll end up paying. Don’t make it difficult for yourself.’

Sarp leaned forward, wincing at the pain in his torn flesh. ‘Ain’t no way in the world I’m giving my hard-earned money to the likes of you. You can’t just go around doing this. There are rules; laws against this kind of stuff.’

‘Really? You want to talk about rules – perhaps you should be speaking to Alfie Jennings then.’

‘What are you talking about? What’s he got to do with it?’

‘You need to ask him, but in the meantime …’ The Chinese man spoke with a sarcastic tone as a smirk began to pass across his face. He pulled a blade out of his pocket. With a quick movement, he slashed Sarp across the cheek, drawing a five-inch gash on his face. The largest of the men pushed past him, disappearing out of the main area and upstairs into the living quarters. A couple of minutes later he returned, dragging a screaming woman through by her hair. She cried out to the owner in Turkish, her eyes wide with terror.

Sarp shouted loudly, fear in his voice. ‘Leave her alone! Leave her alone! She ain’t got nothing to do with this.’ He paused, seeing the look of terror in her eyes as she shook with dread. He turned to face the men directly. His voice was breathless; his words staggered.

‘Okay … okay, what do you want me to do?’

‘You have forty-eight hours and then we’ll be back. If you don’t have our money then; kiss your wife goodbye.’

SOHO (#u7ff195e5-cf84-59b5-b946-dbd52548faf3)

1 (#u7ff195e5-cf84-59b5-b946-dbd52548faf3)

They were all there. All of them. The faces of London coming together, putting their differences aside to sort out the problems hitting the streets of Soho. But as Alfie Jennings sat staring hard at Vaughn Sadler, who in turn was staring hard at Johnny and Frankie Taylor who sat belligerently in the corner with their backs turned on Tommy Donaldson who was refusing to converse with Del Williams, putting their differences aside looked like it was going to prove more difficult than any of them could have imagined.

‘Bleedin’ hell, anyone would think this is a flipping wake from the looks on your faces.’ Lola Harding cackled out her words as she served them chipped mugs of over-milked tea in her café in Bateman Street. She smiled an almost-toothless grin but only received deep scowls in return, which only served to make her laugh harder.

‘Come on gentlemen, it ain’t that bad. Look at you all! Frankie, you look like a wet weekend in Margate, and Del, cop on to yourself, sitting hunched up in the corner like a crack-addicted little Jack Horner.’

She exploded into another raucous laugh, making Del scowl and mutter under his breath. ‘Do me a favour.’

Lola – who was now on a roll and enjoying every moment – continued, not being put off by anyone’s lack of enthusiasm towards her. She shuffled over to another of the London faces, poking him playfully in the chest. ‘Then you, Vaughn; 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.