| 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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Precipitation overspread the moss-topped cobblestone path as I walked barefoot past acres of flat graves and granite headstones.
Heeled shoes with intricate rhinestones were dangling from my fingertips. The little black dress, leaving nothing to the imagination, is a regrettable choice of well-dressed fashion.
It seemed like a good idea when I imagined myself wearing it, looking beautiful, glamorous and desirable.
Now, in the frigid depths of the deathly quiet cemetery, with winter's ice-cold chill and light rain on my bare skin, I could not help but question rationality.
Only self-appointed, pretentious imbeciles undertook frostbite, profound hypothermia and graveyard shifts: thrill seekers, adrenaline junkies and paranormal investigators, not normal people with mundane lives.
I should be at home, freshly showered, with a mug of hot chocolate dredged in cocoa powder and mini marshmallows. New pyjamas, perhaps. One of Mabel's famous shortbread cookies.
Heedless of miserable weather and spine-tingling locations, I am glad I executed tonight's plan to claw under Emma's skin. It was the least I could do to the woman sleeping with my baby's father.
Yes, I know of the inarticulacy shameless affair. I saw them together, Bradley and Emma. I had popped to Hush Mayfair to meet Elijah for a noisome beetroot, goat cheese and balsamic glaze salad when the invidious pair strolled into the ground floor brasserie with luxury ribbon-tied gift bags of expensive purchases and asked for a quiet table.
If Bradley weren't so infatuated with Emma, he'd have noticed me at the back of the restaurant, watching them interact like fools in love.
I hated seeing them together, or rather, him fawning over another woman. He behaved like a true gentleman, removing her coat and handing it to the conciliatory waiter, pulling the chair back for her to become seated, and ordering a bottle of white wine, even though he preferred whiskey.
Emma is a natural conversationalist. Throughout the entire lunch date, she talked enough for the two of them. Not that he seemed to mind her enthusiastic loquaciousness. If anything, he quite enjoyed the sound of her irritating voice, the way her eyes brightened when she smiled at him and how her cheeks flushed when he kissed her shoulder.
He looked at her as though no other woman mattered.
No. I stand corrected.
He looked at her like a man in love.
And I was sick with jealousy.
Bradley visited Emma's place most nights after work. The Bentley is parked in the street, where it stayed until the next morning. He sleeps there, in her flat, in her bedroom and in her bed.
Having tried the stolen key to gain access to Emma's flat multiple times (when she left for work with the burly bodyguard in tow) and to no avail, I somehow developed an obsession. I wanted to understand why Emma took precedence over the man's growing family. He had a pregnant woman at home. A baby is on the way. Dominic is on standby. Yet he chose her in the mornings, her in the nights.
