| 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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Decorating the flat with sleigh bells, scented candles, candy canes, hand-knitted stockings, pre-lit garlands, and snow-flocked wreaths is not how I imagined the festive season.
Initially, I planned a low-key Christmas with a small popup tree for the handful of gifts I had wrapped and labelled, but Dominic's goggle-eyed excitement challenged my inner Scrooge.
Yes, I surrendered to the pucker-lipped boy. He already knew how to play the system to get what he wanted.
Little Guy loved shopping far more than the average toddler, stealing traditional nutcrackers and embellished baubles at Harrods, tearing through decorative crackers and unboxing advent calendars in Selfridges.
I dreaded the bill when handing tampered merchandise to the cashier.
I will never get my head around the prodigality of unrestrained wealth, not when I can buy similar items at discount stores for half the price.
However, Big Guy slipped a Coutts bank card in my purse last week and offered to pay for everything, whatever his son desired, whatever I desired, without limitation. No questions asked.
Yet, when Terrence stacked purchases in the boot of the Bentley, I felt like a freeloader. I am not cash-rich. I do not earn six or seven figures. I struggled to make ends meet and lived within my means. So, the pale pink silk kimono robe with lace trim and matching camisole and short set remained in the green with gold logo gift box at the bottom of the wardrobe next to the green dress and gold sandals he'd once bought for me.
Maybe someday, I will muster the courage to wear the designer labels the generous man had bestowed on me. Until then, I pretended the world of lavishness was all but a mere figment of my imagination.
I bespangled the six-foot tree in the living room with twinkling lights, glittering ribbons and a cluster of trinkets and baubles whilst listening to Christmas music on the radio.
Little Guy helped by removing ornaments from branches and stashing them in the washing machine.
He thought I never noticed the missing candy canes or the shredded tinsel.
It was the terror's idea of fun, running up and down the hall, half-dressed and sockless, to hide accessories. I let him believe he had the better of me, acting shocked and confused as I searched for (not so cleverly concealed) misplacements.
Two weeks later, I am still finding lost property around the flat.
I woke up with a melted piece of chocolate stuck to my back the other morning.
I stepped on pine cones in the shower.
I found the nativity set in the fridge.
Dominic stayed at the estate when I had work. When I had time off, which is a minimum of two days a week—an extra day if Laurence is in a good mood—Little Guy slept at the flat. He had a travel cot with plentiful stuffed animals in the corner of my bedroom. His happy voice in the morning is the best alarm clock.
