| 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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My brother had moved to one of the most dangerous boroughs in London, the worst on record for violent knife crimes and gang-related murders.
Just last week, six gunmen brutally attacked two young lads near the high street and left them for dead. It was all over the news, the announcement of gangsters fuelled by drugs, weapons and turf wars.
Benjamin chose affordability over security and safety. I will never get a peaceful night's sleep again because I will be too busy worrying about his well-being until he relocates to a safer neighbourhood.
The vast skyscraper, with bronze wave coiling from the podium to the top of the tower, is a stone's throw away from East Croydon Station, where youths donned in designer tracksuits loitered by the fast-food truck.
Terrence parked the Bentley three blocks over. He never mentioned why the skyscraper's car park was of no use to him. But when he pulled a cover made of revolutionary fabrics over the vehicle, protecting the exterior and the private number plate, I figured vandalizers leapt to mind.
The youngsters ordering sweet-smelling burgers to go are unintentionally intimidating. Maybe it's the black snoods and heavy gold chains, the characteristics of violence, audacious arrogance and fierce defiance. Or perhaps it's the aggressive ear-cropped chain-collared American bullies paraded like four-legged weapons, barking with malicious intent as people walked on by.
Even with one of London's burliest bodyguards in tow, I kept my eyes down to avoid the prospect of controversy. It's unfair to judge, but mobs of obstreperous tormentors frightened the living daylights out of me.
The cold night burrowed into the marrow of my bones as the two of us walked side by side toward the skyscraper. It is snuggle season, fluffy socks, cosy blankets, hot chocolates and wood-burning fires—a good book.
To my surprise, considering the disadvantages of urban living, the high-rise building is aesthetically pleasing. The clean, bright lobby, with an unstaffed reception desk, office-style black benches and sleek, high-gloss furniture, is warm, inviting and of a high standard.
Once we reached the top floor, Terrence left gifts in abundance on the home-sweet-home doormat in front of the paint-peeled door.
"It's cold," I mused, rubbing the icy chill from my arms. Not even the petite, double-breasted trench coat repelled frostbite. "Do you want to hang around?"
Terrence declined politely. He told me to have a good night and disappeared down the hall, the systematic sound of inconspicuous footsteps echoing upward. He will wait in the car until later. Hopefully, he came prepared: snacks galore and digital entertainment. He might be in for a long, boring night otherwise.
An endless grind of excessive background noise had my eyes darting in all directions. Flat number seventy-eight had a broken letterbox, the metal plate hanging on by one nail precariously. A crying baby and growling dogs.
