| BOOK SIX | 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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Vincent Warren is on the warpath. He never said two words to Alexa upon arrival. He stormed into the Manor, doors crashing into walls, leather shoes striking marble floors, and headed straight to the gym to confront his nephew.
Logan is in the dog house. It wouldn't be the first time, either, because lately, the lad has been a glutton for punishment. He is going out of his way to ruffle people's feathers, to bite off the hand that feeds him, behaving badly and ungratefully for reasons too unfathomable to compartmentalise.
Teenagers tend to be rebellious and problematic. Smoking marijuana is to be expected. Ransacking the mini bar is a petty crime. Getting a tattoo is a pardonable offence. But there is no excuse to steal a car worth over two million to joyride in the street. That's too far, an unforgivable act of defiance, and Alexa had every right to be upset and disappointed.
Warren will have a stroke when he finds out. Sure, he utilised the Bentley vehicles to drive to-and-fro London and relied on armed chaperones for safe journeys, but the monochromatic panoply of ultra-expensive grey and black cars stored underneath the Warren Manor is the man's prize possession.
He was just eighteen years old when he bought the Bugatti Veyron. It had to be customised, shipped from France to London and delivered to the man's personal home with a protective security team. He drove it once, took the wheels for a spin, boasted about the exterior, interior, sound system and high speed, then parked it next to the empty space that later homed the Lamborghini Reventón, the most extreme car in the history of its brand. He has been collecting luxury automobiles ever since.
I remember the day Warren officially moved into the Warren Manor. He had the entire institution running around like headless chickens, sweating, panting and complaining, so everything, from the decor to the furniture to the well-stocked American-style fridge freezer, was perfect for Alexa.
The conveyance of supercars and sports cars was a close second, the utmost priority for a man who sat on a goldmine of million-pound motors. He ordered transporters to get high-performance vehicles from the penthouse to the Manor in one piece, had them lowered underground separately and in succession, and used biometric recognition technology to power lock the aircraft hangar-style garage door.
Only three people can be identified on the authentication system: the boss, the boss's wife, and their chosen successor, Logan, who took liberties with them, abusing their kindness and generosity for the sole reason of looking cool in front of his friends.
Well, I hope the quick trip around the block in his drunken stupor was worth it. He's lost everyone's patience and respect in the bat of an eyelid. And to think Alexa had planned to give him a brand-new Cadillac Escalade, the most powerful full-size SUV in the industry (that had to be exported from the U.S) for his eighteenth birthday. He will be lucky to own a Ford Fiesta at this rate. He can have a pushbike instead.
"The Rimac is a write-off." Alexa, red-eyed and pink-cheeked from hours of crying, sat on the chesterfield high back wing chair in the billiard room. "Logan crushed the bonnet and shattered the offside rear. It's not even drivable. It's in the scrap yard." She used the back of her hand to wipe tears off her cheeks. "What am I supposed to say to him? Liam, I mean. He will know the car is gone once he comes home."
