Disobey. Jacqui Rose

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       PROLOGUE

      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.’