| BOOK FIVE | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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Empathy is living vicariously through others and asking yourself if it hurts. I don't know what it's like to be taken or locked in a room to be used for another person's disposal. I don't know how it feels to be shackled, starved, beaten and raped by a sexual predator.
Nate's long-winded, convoluted speech played on a continuous loop in my head. Isn't it funny how someone can make an indirect statement that resonates with you because it hits on an emotional level?
I imagine death becomes your only salvation.
Yes. Suicide seems to be the only remedy when life is not worth living because the cessation of existence must be less painful than surrendering to the reality of truth.
Nightmares.
Flashbacks.
Blackouts.
Trauma is debilitating when unresolved. Everything I felt in childhood and adolescence is present in adulthood. Warren recognised the signs and the symptoms and normalised survival mode. Learn to control the voices in your head If you cannot vanquish them—quoted by the wisest man I have ever met. Remember who you are, not who you were, if and when fight-or-flight is triggered. He forced his way into the darkest valley of my mind and showed me how to dance with my demons. And it worked until it didn't work, which he predicted. He told me that I'd have to face the reality of my past when I was good and ready.
You see, Warren is my safety net, the angel on my shoulder, the devil in my ear. He had the answers and techniques to help me to stay level-headed. But he is not here to catch me when I fall. I have to fend for myself, stand on my own two feet and face the facts—the music—to secure my future.
Fern's home office, located in the heart of Kensington, on one of the most prestigious streets in the area, had one parking space for visitors. I steered the Bentley onto the mounted driveway, pulled up the handbrake and sat there for a few minutes with the engine running.
I had researched the woman. Fern is a qualified, experienced psychotherapist. She is specialised in psychological trauma and EMDR therapy and has worked for numerous agencies throughout London to consult with private clients. She might be able to help, but without an initial consultation, the outcome remained a mystery.
In the dim recess of predawn, I climbed out of the car, hurled the beanie hat onto the backseat and fixed my hair to smarten my appearance.
The air smelt cleaner, crisper before sunrise, the distinctive, dewy scent of petrichor replacing torrential downpour.
Bracing myself, I inhaled a lungful of oxygen, stopped by the front door, the blue paint chipped and weather-worn, curled my fingers around the brass knocker and startled the therapist to the land of the living.
Soon, the bedroom light turned on upstairs.
Then, a silhouette appeared by the window.
Moments later, the door unlocked and opened slightly to reveal a short, rather plump, black woman in a floor-length dressing gown with a satin, leopard print bonnet on her head. "Can I help you?"
