| 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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St Mary's Hospital in Paddington, the city of Westminster, London, is only thirty minutes away from Warren Manor, Bishops Avenue, if you avoid motorway tolls and traffic congestion. Alexa, a patient of Imperial Private Healthcare, is due to arrive at The Lindo Wing. The ward of choice, equipped with obstetricians, top medical staff and a team of dedicated midwives, prepared a personalised care plan prior to the anticipated accouchement of Liam Warren's firstborn child. The highest quality of care for the underworld's royal heir and rightful successor is of vital importance.
As pre-agreed and pre-planned, Alexa, in accord with the chief midwifery officer, should be in the modern, private suite or taking advantage of the ward's state-of-the-art facilities. Instead, she is slumbered in the Bentley Mulsanne's heated leather seat, the material of her dress hiked to the apex of her thighs, the sole of her bare feet balancing on the chair between my thighs and the hair of an infuriated goddess thrown into a shabby bird's nest.
I have spent the preceding hours speculating about life, the silent observer in the physical presence of a maniacal pregnant woman threatening to emasculate every man within her reach, as if everyone unfortunate enough to be the owner of a fantabulous cock, with the exception of Warren, the solipsistic wanker, is solely responsible for her current miserable state.
Trust me to try and make time for important reflection when the coarse-mannered banshee of London is weathering the storm of unspoken rejection, somatic pain and inchoate furry. I should be attentive to Warren's wife, not preoccupied with visions of how to manifest the law of attraction.
"What is taking so long?" Alexa whimpered in discomfort, her knees lifting restlessly as hard contractions and muffled sobs racked her body. "Please, I need some pain relief. Are we almost at the hospital?"
The gridlocked motorway is a nightmarish vision of what lies ahead. Hundreds of motorists in traffic and travel chaos fought with car horns, filthy obscenities and vile profanities to make it home for New Year's Eve celebrations.
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we are not moving any time soon. The Bentley is stuck between articulated lorries loaded with freight transport, overcrowded motorcoaches and impatient city cars.
The hard shoulder is an exit route. Even then, the emergency stopover will only provide a temporary solution, a short break from the long, calamitous queue of stationary traffic.
"Can someone roll down the window, please?" Alexa asked, but no one moved a muscle. The men, relatively immobile and silently perturbed, opted for blissful ignorance. "I cannot see anything through the privacy glass."
It is better for everyone if the boss's wife is incognizant of the motorway's standstill. If she sees the long delays outside, she will climb out of the limousine and walk to the hospital in a pitiful attempt of bare-footed stubbornness. I would rather save myself the hours of melodrama.
"Brad?" A pretence of calmness and collectedness masqueraded Alexa's no-nonsense approach. "Why are you so quiet?" Her hips rocked back and forth, the seat squeaking in protest as she stretched for relaxation and comfort. "What is wrong with your voice? Are you present?"
