The morning air bites just enough to wake you up, but it’s nothing new. I’m walking through Bethnal Green Market again, the rhythm of it all familiar like clockwork. The stalls are just starting to come to life, crates of fruit piled high, the odd tarp still flicking in the wind. The vendors are setting up, half awake themselves, adjusting their stock with tired but practiced hands. It’s still quiet, but it won’t be for long. The market’s in that halfway state—just before it bursts into its full, noisy chaos.

  As I make my way down the narrow alley between the stalls, I know exactly where I’m headed. The coffee stand’s up ahead, a small corner of warmth and familiarity. The guy behind the counter doesn’t even look up; he knows the drill. He’s already got my two flat whites ready, steaming just right, the cups clinking together with that satisfying sound. No words exchanged, just a quick nod as I grab them, smooth as you like. It’s a fluid motion—grab, go. I don’t slow down. The crowd’s starting to fill in now, and the market’s picking up its pace, but I’m already moving past it, the warmth from the cups seeping into my fingers as I step into the flow of the morning. Same as it ever was. Same as it always will be. You don’t stop here. You just keep going.

  The coffee’s warmth in my hands becomes a steady pulse as I move through the growing crowd, heading towards the familiar arches. The sound of the market fills the air now—people haggling, crates being stacked, the clatter of metal on metal. It’s the kind of noise that sinks into the bones of the place, the kind of noise that’s always there. But I’m focused. My feet carry me towards the brick arches that mark the entrance to another world, the one beneath where the market stalls sit tucked away. These arches are older than anyone cares to count, their weathered stone telling stories in every crack, in every crevice, as though they’ve seen it all.

  Underneath, tucked in like it’s part of the stone itself, is the bakery. My mum’s bakery. The wooden sign hanging from above sways gently in the breeze, a slight creak marking its motion. The aroma of freshly baked bread and pastries floods the air long before I reach the stall, pulling me in like it always does. It's not just a stall; it’s built into the brick arch itself—part of it, almost as if the archway has wrapped itself around her, giving her a permanent place in this old structure. The stone walls curve inward, cradling the bakery, with shelves stacked high with loaves, trays of warm croissants, and golden pies lined up in neat rows. The arch gives it a kind of rustic charm, like it’s both ancient and timeless, perfectly settled in this little slice of East London history.

  She’s there, as always, bent over her work, hands flour-dusted and moving with a practiced rhythm—rolling, kneading, shaping dough with the precision of someone who’s done it a thousand times. The oven behind her hums gently, its warmth filling the space, the heat of it mingling with the scent of yeast and butter in the air. The market may be chaotic, but here, under the arch, there’s a stillness to it, a calm that only comes from years of routine.

  I don’t need to say anything. She glances up as I approach, the corners of her lips lifting in a soft smile. Her eyes light up when she sees the coffee. I pass one to her without missing a beat, and she takes it, that quiet moment between us, like nothing’s changed. The chatter around us fades into the background as she sips, nodding her approval, before sliding into the flow of the day’s work. For a second, everything is right—just the two of us in this little corner of the market, tucked under these old brick arches, like it’s always been.

  I hand my mum the coffee, the warmth of it steadying her hands as she takes a sip. For a moment, it’s just the two of us, as always, the market’s clamor falling away. But then, just as I’m about to pull back into the routine, a soft ping rings in my pocket. A familiar sound, one that I’d hoped I wouldn’t hear. My phone flashes to life, a text appearing directly in my line of sight, quiet but insistent.

  The message is simple. It’s from the last person I want to hear from right now. I close my eyes, breathing in deep, trying to push away the gnawing anxiety. I’d been avoiding this, hiding from it like the fool I am. But there’s no running now. I mentally pull up the call and, as the interface loads, the name flickers across the screen. Tommy 'Two Fingers' Renetti. The bastard’s been after me for weeks, ever since I missed the last payment. Not that he’s ever been a patient man, but today, I know, it’s crunch time.

  A bead of sweat forms at the back of my neck as I glance around. The market’s busy, people moving, milling about, but I know what’s waiting for me just outside the arch. Tommy doesn’t make calls—he makes statements, he makes threats. He wants his money, and he wants it now. The debt’s long overdue, and the interest? Well, it’s been piling up fast.

  I take another breath, forcing the nervousness back into the pit of my stomach, and step away from the stall. Mum doesn’t notice, too busy with her customers. But I know what I have to do now. I’m walking into the storm, and there’s no backing out. One last deep breath, then I step out from under the arch and into the heart of it. Tommy’s waiting. And I’m not sure how this is going to go.

  I step out into the cold, and there he is—Tommy 'Two Fingers' Renetti, leaning against the arch like he’s king of the bloody market. Smart as a whip, he is, dressed in a tailored suit that costs more than my rent for a year, all sharp edges and silk. But his face? That’s a different story—scarred, rough, like he’s lived through a few too many scrapes. And that bloody stare, like he’s looking through you, weighing you up, deciding what kind of trouble he’s gonna cause.

  I try to hold my ground, even though I feel like a rabbit in headlights. “Tommy, listen, mate... I’m a bit short, yeah? I know I said I’d have it, but things got a bit... well, messy. Just need a little bit more time, a few more days. You know how it is.”

  Tommy tilts his head, raising a brow, lips curling into that mocking smile. “Messy, yeah? You’ve been messin’ me around for weeks, mate. You think I’m gonna swallow that load of cobblers?” He steps in close, that glint in his eye sharper than a razor. “Nah, nah, nah. You’ve had your time, you’re out of it. I’m a patient man, but even I’ve got limits, see? You’ve got twenty-four hours, and that’s your lot. No more dilly-dallying.”

  I try to push, though I know it’s a bad idea. “Tommy, please, just a couple more days, yeah? I’m good for it, I swear. I’ll have it, I just need a bit more time to sort it out. C’mon, I’m not some mug.”

  He laughs, low and slow, like I’m a joke to him. “Mug? Nah, mate, you’re not a mug, you’re a bleedin' liability. You think I’ve got time for that? You’ve had enough time to sort your gear out, and now you’re tryin’ to play the fool. I’m not a soft touch, I ain’t your bleedin' uncle.”

  I gulp, sweating a bit. “Tommy, just... twenty-four hours. That’s all I’m askin’. Please.”

  He pauses, sizing me up, and for a second, it’s like he’s actually thinkin’ it over. Then, with a slow grin, he shakes his head. “Alright, alright. Twenty-four hours, that’s it. You don’t show, you don’t pay? Well, let’s just say your next walk through the market’s gonna be a right ‘mare, won’t it?” He flicks his cigar, and I swear, the embers nearly land in my lap.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Cheers, Tommy,” I mutter, relief flooding me, but I know it’s temporary.

  “Don’t make me come lookin’ for ya, yeah?” he says with a wink, before turning on his heel, his polished shoes clicking down the cobbles.

  Tommy stops for a second, looking over his shoulder, that sly grin of his stretching wider. “And let’s get one thing straight, yeah?” he says, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “If you can’t cough up by tomorrow, maybe I’’ll need to live up to that moniker of mine. You know, 'Two Finger's'. But hey, I got a better idea, yeah? If you can’t pay, maybe I’ll take something else as collateral. Something real valuable, like your mum’s little bakery. You get what I’m sayin’, yeah? Those buns she’s been bakin’, that fresh bread of hers... I’m sure I could find a use for ‘em, yeah?” He lets out a laugh, a low chuckle that sends a chill down my spine, the kind that makes you wonder how far he’s really willing to go.

  He leans in closer, his breath hot with the smell of smoke, eyes gleaming as he sizes me up. "Think about it, yeah? A nice little piece of East End real estate, tucked under the arches. Might just suit me better than a shifty little debtor who can’t keep his promises." He steps back, eyes narrowing, his voice dropping low, thick with threat. "I wouldn’t mind a taste of those buns, either mate... if you get me.”

  I freeze, a cold sweat running down the back of my neck. He’s not just talking about money now—he’s making it personal, and the thought of him touching my mum or the stall, of him using it as leverage, makes my blood run cold. It’s not just the debt anymore; it’s my family, my whole world, right there in his hands.

  Tommy gives me one last look, that grin of his stretched like a cat that’s just caught a mouse. Then he turns and strolls off, his shoes clicking against the cobbles like he’s the one that owns the whole bloody place. It’s like he’s done with me, done with the whole situation, and now he’s leaving me to stew in it. The market noise swallows him up as I stand there, frozen, staring after him. That was it. He’s laid down the law, and I’m out of time. No prayer, no last-minute miracle. Just me, the pavement, and a mountain of debt I’m never gonna climb in twenty-four hours.

  Five grand in a day? Not a chance. You don’t just pull that out of your back pocket, no matter how sharp your hustle is. Not unless you’re playing a game that’s way over my head. I’m standing there, letting it all hit me—the weight of the words, the pressure, the fact that he’s got his grubby hands on my mum’s bakery. He’s not just after the money, is he? He’s taken the bloody thing hostage, like he’s got some claim on it now. And I’m standing there, stuck, with no bloody clue how I’m gonna make this right. I take a breath, push the panic down, and turn back toward the arch. No point in standing around like a muppet. I’ve got one option left, and that’s to get back inside, back to mum, back to my coffee.

  It’s the only thing that still feels normal in this madhouse. I walk under the arch, the smell of fresh-baked bread and coffee punching me in the face, a little slice of home. Mum looks up from her work, that soft smile of hers lighting up her face, and for a second, everything slows down. I grab the other coffee, my hands shaking a bit, and I’m back in the game.

  For now, it’s just me, mum, and a couple of flat whites. But deep down, I know it won’t be enough. Time’s running out, and I’ve got no idea how I’m gonna make Tommy's deadline. But one thing’s for sure—I can’t back down now.

  I sit there, the coffee warming my hands, watching Mum move around the bakery like she owns the place. She’s in her element, humming to herself, handling the dough and the ovens like it’s second nature. For a split second, I almost forget about the mess I’m in. But then, the weight of it hits me again. I stare into my cup, wishing things were different. Wishing Dad was still here to put his foot down, to sort this whole thing out. But he’s not. He’s doing a solid ten in prison, locked up tight, paying for all the things he did when he was running the show.

  Charlie Block. The Charlie Block. A name that still carries weight in this city, even if it’s buried behind bars. My old man was a living legend, a proper London gangster. There was nothing he couldn’t nick, no job he couldn’t pull off. People still talk about him, even with him gone. His name meant something. But mine? Mine doesn’t mean a bloody thing. I’m just Charlie Block’s son, the kid trying to live up to a ghost. A ghost that’s taller than the bloody Shard, hanging over me like an albatross.

  I take a drag of my coffee, the bitterness matching the taste in my mouth. I’m not at the bottom of the ladder, but I sure as hell ain’t at the top either. I’m scraping by, hustling for the next score, always looking for a way up, but it’s like the ladder keeps getting steeper the higher I climb. And now here I am—deep in the red, neck-deep in debt, and my dad’s name can’t do a damn thing for me. Not anymore. My family name doesn’t mean squat when you're staring down the barrel of a loan shark’s gun.

  I take another sip, wishing for a miracle. But deep down, I know there’s only one way out of this, and it’s not gonna come easy. Taking out my phone again I pull up my banking app, got maybe ￡ 500 left, thats not going to cut it. My fingers dance on the keypad as I send a text, to my mate Tim my partner in crime if you will to see what if anything he had in the pipeline. But a quick text back said even Tim couldnt help. I was screwed. I sit there, staring at the phone, trying to keep my face straight.

  No point in showing panic, not with Mum right there, her back turned as she works the counter. She’s got no clue what’s going on—never has, never will. She’s too busy with her dough and her ovens, baking away in her little world. Bless her, she doesn’t need to know the mess I’m in, the hole I’ve dug for myself.

  But it’s hard, isn’t it? Trying to play it cool when everything’s falling apart. I try to focus on the phone, my hands gripping it a little too tight as I tap out another text—this time to a few other mates, seeing if anyone’s got anything cooking. Maybe a quick job, a quick score. Hell, at this point, I’ll take anything. But the replies are slow, and when they do come in, they’re just as bleak as Tim’s. “Not much, mate. Same old,” one says. “You’re on your own, bruv,” says another. Not a bloody thing to help.

  I shove the phone back in my pocket and take another sip of the coffee, trying to keep my hands steady, trying to hide the storm brewing in my chest. I look up at Mum, her face glowing in the soft light of the bakery, completely unaware of the ticking time bomb I’m holding onto. She hums to herself, rolling out dough like she hasn’t got a care in the world. I force a smile, keeping it casual. “Everything alright, Mum?” I ask, as if nothing’s wrong. She looks up, a bit of flour dusting her cheek. “Always, love. Just another day in paradise.” She laughs, the sound light, carefree.

  I swallow the lump in my throat, nodding. “Yeah, right. Paradise,” I mumble, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. Inside, I’m screaming. Outside? I’m just her son, holding it together. But for how long?

  An hour passes, but it feels like I’ve been stuck in that bakery for days. Mum’s none the wiser, still humming away in her little bubble, oblivious to the storm about to hit. I kiss her goodbye, making it look like any other day, giving her a half-hearted smile as I head out the door. But inside? I’m anything but calm. The second I step back onto the gritty streets of Bethnal Green, the weight hits me again. Tommy ‘Two Fingers’ Renetti’s got his hands around my throat, and I’ve got less than twenty-four hours to find a way out.

  I pace down the road, dodging the early morning crowds, the hum of the market ringing in my ears. I need something—anything—that could solve this mess. A job, a connection, a bloody miracle. My mind races as I slip through back alleys, trying to clear my head, but all I can think of is Tommy’s smug face and that cold promise.

  It’s like I’m chasing shadows, trying to find an answer that isn’t there. The clock’s ticking, and I’ve got nowhere to turn. It’s not just the money anymore. It’s survival. And I’m running out of time.