Chapter 15: The Fog Over London and the Razor Gang’s Smoke

In the mirror, the graceful silhouette twisted again and again, her movements hypnotic. The woman's gaze was fixed solely on her black lingerie. Lace, lift…

All these elements combined, creating a deadly allure for her. She even cast a greedy glance at her own body, her hands gliding lightly over her curves. She bit her lip softly, her eyes growing hazy with desire. When she turned back, she shot a sultry look at the man lying on the bed.

Pierre's gaze followed her intently, drawn to the alluring form before him. Since returning from New York, he had come straight here, bringing her this gift. Although it wasn't easy to find the right size among the local shops—few sold anything for women this voluptuous—the slight mismatch only made the visual impact even more stunning.

"I can hardly believe it..."

"Believe what?"

"That I can be so beautiful!"

The woman stepped lightly toward him, her sparkling eyes brimming with tenderness, a look that could drive any man to distraction.

"Thank you for the gift," she murmured.

To Stana, the black lingerie was simply a token from the man who had returned from New York. It was enough to make her utterly enraptured — and ready to offer herself as a gift in return for his days of absence.

As she approached the bed, she suddenly seemed to remember something. She turned, bent gracefully over a drawer, and rummaged for something.

"Darling, while you were away, I attended a few gatherings... I recommended our seamless stockings to some of the ladies."

Watching her bent over like that, Pierre swallowed hard.

Such a temptress — she was ruining the mood!

Self-control... self-control...

Money matters.

They could talk about that later.

…

Finally, when everything had quieted down, she lay lazily atop him, and the two began to chat.

"So the reason you went to America was... for cigarettes?"

"Not just cigarettes. Other goods in high demand too. Stockings, for example. And if I get the chance, I'll bring back even more."

"I see," Stana murmured, finally understanding the origin of the stockings she wore.

Her fingers tapped lightly on his solid chest as she spoke in a soft, warning tone.

"But you need to be careful. Cigarettes and coffee beans aren't like stockings. Stockings are bought by wealthy ladies. Cigarettes, though… they attract attention from the authorities."

"The authorities?"

Pierre asked, puzzled.

"Do you think otherwise?"

Rolling her eyes, Stana stretched her long, shapely legs, resting them casually against the bed's headboard as she relaxed.

"If the authorities didn't crack down, it wouldn't be called a black market, would it? Since the war began, they've sent out countless inspectors across the country. If a black market dealer gets caught, it's not just a fine. They could end up serving two years in prison."

As she spoke, she flipped herself over and pressed him into the mattress, staring into his eyes seriously.

"Promise me — you'll stay safe. I don't want... to have to visit you in prison."

…

Above London, the thick fog was the smoke exhaled by the Razor Gang.

If New York's underworld belonged to the Mafia, then London's belonged to the Razors.

The moment Pierre walked into the bar, he felt the weight of the stares landing on him.

Sharp suits, bowties, newsboy caps… and, hidden under the brim, razor blades stitched neatly into the fabric.

A gang of well-dressed hooligans.

They had carved their way from Birmingham to London, eventually becoming the city's most dominant syndicate.

While most British men were away in the army, these gangsters still prowled the streets in immaculate suits and ties.

While many Britons could no longer afford proper beer — brewing poor substitutes with potatoes instead — these men still drank the finest Scotch whisky.

They alone had the means to secure supplies in bulk.

Anderson, the street vendor who introduced him here, was one of theirs. After leading him inside, Anderson went to sit by the bar. Now it was up to Pierre to act.

"You're French?"

John asked bluntly.

"I am," Pierre answered.

"When did the French start getting involved in this business?"

John asked without preamble.

"That's not what matters," Pierre replied coolly. "What matters is, I can offer 5,000 cartons of Lucky Strikes and Camels, and 2,000 pounds of coffee beans."

As his words fell, everyone, including John, turned toward him in astonishment.

One of the younger men spoke up immediately.

"Impossible. No one could get their hands on that much right now."

"But I can,"

Pierre said with a faint smile.

"And this is just the beginning. I can supply even more later — assuming, of course, the price is right."

John studied him carefully.

"You have your own ship?"

Pierre didn't answer.

Both sides already knew the truth.

Right now, every ship capable of crossing the ocean — cargo vessels, fishing boats, even private yachts — had been requisitioned for wartime service.

No one had private shipping anymore.

So how had he gotten these goods?

Military stores?

Black market channels?

John did a quick mental calculation before naming his price.

"Three pounds per carton of cigarettes. Two and a half pounds per pound of coffee. I can offer you twenty thousand pounds in total."

"I don't want money,"

Pierre said.

That statement alone shocked them even more.

"What? No money? What are you playing at?"

John frowned, while the others in the bar instinctively touched the brims of their caps — where the stitched-in blades waited, easily drawn if needed.

The razors were cheap, sold openly in shops, and ideal for street fighting — small, vicious, and unobtrusive.

"Boy, you'd better explain yourself,"

Carl growled.

"Calm down, Carl. Let the man speak,"

John said with quiet authority.

"I want goods,"

Pierre said, smiling as he glanced at the glinting razors.

"Oh? What sort of goods?"

"Cars,"

Pierre said bluntly.

"Luxury cars — almost new."

"What? Cars?"

Even Anderson, who had brought him here, looked stunned.

Carl practically leapt out of his seat in excitement.

Cars!

He actually wanted cars!

It was almost absurd.

Everyone knew that, in wartime Britain, cars were practically worthless.

Fuel was scarce and prohibitively expensive. Without petrol, cars were just rusting metal, yet owners still had to pay taxes on them.

Many people would have loved to get rid of their cars just to stop paying those fees — but nobody was buying.

Now, suddenly, someone wanted them?

"Of course, not just any cars,"

Pierre added with a smirk.

"I want high-end cars."

In the classified sections of American newspapers, desperate buyers posted ad after ad seeking automobiles. Unlike Britain, the United States had long made the car a household necessity. Yet war production had halted civilian car sales completely — new cars weren't being manufactured anymore. If an American's car broke down now, they had only one option: buy second-hand.

But the second-hand market had dried up fast. Any vehicle still in decent condition could fetch higher prices than a brand-new one once did.

The difference between Britain's unwanted cars and America's desperate need for them spelled one thing: opportunity.

A goldmine.

John considered him carefully, then said, "deal. I can get you a few luxury models — some of them practically brand-new."