| 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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The slender crescent moon shimmered behind the altostratus clouds of a night sky. A star so bright, I could have mistaken it for Sirius, twinkling on a velvety black bed.
The scene reminded me of The Princess and the Frog's Evangeline, the spirit of Ray's former love, who people wished upon in the hopes of dreams coming true and becoming new realities.
Velleities may never come into fruition, but indue discouragement will not stand in the way of an overachiever. I pulled myself across the backseat and stargazed until dark thoughts segued into wishes. It's not a rare shooting star, but it's the brightest star in the sky.
The universe might be good to me.
I wish I could press the reset button and start again. I wish I could turn back the hands of time. I wish I had offered my life for yours. I wish that you were here with me instead of there with them. I wish I could take away your pain, silence and sadness and replace it with strength, braveness and courageousness. I wish we could follow the stars and find our way back to each other.
I hope you have a safe place that feels like home. I hope you see the light in the darkness. I hope you know that you are always in my thoughts. I hope you know that I could never forget about you or replace you. I hope you know that I love you more than anything else in this world. I hope you love me, too, even though it's not what I deserve.
Recognising that I had lost my marbles to humour fleeting madness, I crawled into the front compartment and sat beneath the glittering pattern of starlight above.
Either the world has gone nuts, or I am positively unhinged. I will go with the latter, a crazy, certifiable woman praying to the universe to reconstruct her life and fix her problems. There is no hope left for me or the people surrounding me.
Parked on one of the most prestigious streets in Kensington, I marvelled at the terraces of townhouses in immaculate condition overlooking Knightsbridge garden square. I am almost ninety-nine point nine percent sure, Mary lives ten minutes down the road, and she would throw a hissy fit if she found out I never swung by for a visit.
My stomach grumbled. I might pass out if I do not eat soon. I can't even remember the last time I had something to drink.
If Big Guy is in a better mood, when he returns, I can ask him to drive by a local convenience store for me to grab a pre-made sandwich. I will settle for a packet of salt and pepper crisps if he is not feeling generous.
The mysterious occupant from townhouse six—a short black woman with goddess-style locs, white-framed spectacles and leopard print leisure wear—unlocked the front door and went to the side for Big Guy to leave. He was in no rush to return, though. He lingered on the second step, arms folded and face bleak and downcast in the moonlight.
Minutes passed. The woman glanced over at the Bentley, and then her attention went back to him. I was not close enough to hear the conversation. From this angle, I could tell he was much calmer and more emotionally stable. He also smiled, such a lovely yet mischievous smile, when she talked lowly, rubbing the side of his arm. The acquaintanceship seemed platonic and professional but close and familial. I wondered about them, how they knew each other and what she meant to him.
