| BOOK ONE | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
2020 Fiction Award winner for The Best Protagonist, The Best Supporting Character, The Best Friendship and The Best Plot.
2020 Choice Award winner for The Best Series.
A Wattpad Exc...
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Life Before I do not recall my mother. I couldn't tell you whether I inherited her black hair or sociopathic tendencies. I don't know where she lived or if her parents were alive.
I don't even know her name.
By all accounts, my mother was an alcoholic, prostitute and drug addict. It was the social worker's statement. I sat outside her office on one of those tattered blue chairs, listening to her explain my background to the Irish couple that wanted to adopt me. They will file a petition to reverse parental rights within two months. I guarantee it.
"Liam is a sweet but damaged little boy," she said. "He only needs routine and love."
The plump receptionist looked at me over the computer monitor, and I shot her an ugly face.
"Perhaps we can offer him temporary fostering," the man responded. "Until you find him permanent care."
I was six years old.
My impermanent family returned their unwanted and unsatisfying merchandise to Briar House seven weeks later.
"You didn't tell us Liam was mute," the woman whisper-shouts at the caseworker. "He hasn't said one word since we kindly offered him a roof."
The plump receptionist offered me a sympathetic smile over the computer monitor, and I pinned her with a determined glower.
"He is upsettin' our children," the husband intervened. "Having him in our home has been such a traumatic experience for them."
They made me sleep on the sofa.
"He tried to kill the dog!"
Their Rottweiler tried to eat me.
"He opened the front door, knowin' the dog has no road sense and left him out there all night."
"And it was rainin'," she added. "The poor animal had to visit the vet."
"It is unhealthy for both us and Liam to take him home with us."
They left without a sideward glance.
My legs dangled off the chair. I alternatively kicked them, wishing I was tall enough to touch the floor with my toes.
Three weeks later, the social worker sat with another couple. "Liam just needs routine." Her recitation and emotional peroration never failed to make me smile. "His distress and anxiety caused selective mutism."
The plump receptionist arched her eyebrow over the computer monitor, and I gave her a knowing grin.
"Why did Liam's previous foster parents withdraw the application? Is it common for susceptible children to develop reactive attachment disorder?"
I am not vulnerable.
"Like any child who has suffered an ordeal, Liam is fearful, sad and moderately irritable. He fails to smile. He doesn't seek consolation and shows little response when receiving comfort. He never seeks support or guidance. He has no interest in engaging or social interaction or participating in any interactive games."
