| 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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A proliferation of Bentley Flying Spurs and debonair men in sharply tailored three-piece suits besieged the tenant building like a mob of elite marksmen specialised in high-risk tasks.
With a lump the size of a hot-air balloon stuck in my windpipe, I watched the scene unfold behind the obscurity of the bedroom window. Dread penetrated every cell in my body. I had to meet and greet, but limbs had malfunctioned.
A recognisable face emerged from the final vehicle. Big Guy slammed the driver's side door and had an in-depth conversation with the immaculately besuited males by the communal gate. Then, with the top of his shirt left unbuttoned in a physique-flattering strategy, he walked with precision to the entrance hall.
Paralysed with unexplainable nervousness, I adopted dauntless bravery, forced myself to move to the wooden dresser and selected cosy loungewear. I did well to keep the dress and shoes on all night, but now I am eager to strip it all back and get comfortable. My feet are blistered like something chronic.
A series of footsteps reverberated as people raced up the stairs. The neighbours must be scared out of their wits by the noisy disturbance. It's not often that armed men, renowned for unscrupulous acts, walk the same paths as ordinary people.
Stripping down into my underwear, I placed discarded clothes on the bed and shimmied into elasticated high-waisted trousers, an ankle-length cardigan and a cropped tank top.
"I want a dossier on him." Brad's stentorian tone of voice echoed in the foyer before I got to see him in the flesh. "I don't care how you do it. Just have a file in my hand by tomorrow morning."
I sympathised with Liam Warren's men. Brad had good intentions but made unreasonable demands. He will achieve nothing with unrealistic expectations of instant success. Surely, that being said, it is impossible to identify the man in the hole overnight.
Peering at the ajar bedroom door, where dark shadows danced along the walls in the hallway, I speared a hand through my hair and gravitated toward the upheaval of syndicate matters.
Stern-faced security, with no time for chit-chat with a preliminary investigation underway, took long, decisive steps toward my son's bedroom, which is cordoned off by inexorable watchmen. I recognised one or two males from previous encounters and offered tight smiles when they brushed past, but I never uttered a single word and vice versa. Work mode is set in motion.
In a temporary blur of mental derangement, I let the disruptiveness of heavy-footed workers, vociferous mirth and overturned furniture strike home as if the harrowing ordeal was a typical day at the office for them.
I have dealt with some crazy shit in my life. The travellers' wreaked vengeance on me in honour of Killian O'Shea. My parents kicked me out of my childhood home and disowned me for having a child out of wedlock. But creepy phrogging? Someone sneaking through walls and crawling spaces to secretly observe whilst I went about my daily or nightly business? Yes, that is unprecedented and downright terrifying.
