| 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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I had a lunch date with Mabel and Dominic at The Araki, New Burlington Street, Mayfair, London. My son's live-in Nanny is a raw fish virgin. I decided to pop her cherry with world-renowned edomae sushi for three hundred and ten pounds a pop.
According to the restaurant's website, the dexterous itamae prided himself on care and preparation to give every customer at the table the most intimate and luxurious dining experience.
I am not a massive fan of sushi because the minimal ingredients of cold stickiness, bland mushiness, flavourless crunchiness and savourless chewiness are not a bit of me, but I could make an allowance for the old mare's birthday.
As I could not get the Bentley down the pedestrianised street, I drove around for ten minutes in search of a decent space. It would be a stream of involuntary expletives when exasperated by mindless perambulators before I found parkability between two stationary vehicles and sat there for a mental health break to reduce stress and practice affirmations.
After I dropped Emma home, not a word between us, I returned to the estate, showered, changed and caffeinated. I could have stayed behind to catch up on beauty sleep and re-energise for the day ahead (it is not like I am needed at the club or had a list of errands to run), but I craved some alone time.
In view of avowed gastronomes, sartorial moguls and trendy shopaholics, I opened the glove compartment and retrieved the bag of stowed cocaine. I had to pump stimulants in my veins to get through the day sans the hindrance of drowsiness.
Pouring two haphazard lines of sniff on the dorsal side of my hand, I inhaled a double dose of euphoria and rubbed leftover residue on my gums for rapid absorption.
When I espied my reflection in the rearview mirror, I winced at the quintessential coke whore staring back at me. I might look like a million dollars, suit and tie, to vamp up the image, but I felt like thirty cents.
Decidedly overtired, I stuffed the small, empty plastic bag in the leather wallet's side compartment, ready for the bin later, and grabbed the iconic Tiffany Blue Box® on the passenger seat.
Dominic's security detail, placed strategically and inconspicuously, came into view as I strode toward The Araki. All six men, albeit gathered in crisp suits akin to every other businessman in the proximity of Mayfair, stood outside Capstone Investment Advisors with beverages and cigarettes.
Mabel, wearing the brightest coral two-piece trouser suit, is by the restaurant's main door. Her brittle hands, bespattered with age spots, clung to the handles of Dominic's pushchair.
"I thought you forgot about me," she said as I leaned in to place a chaste kiss on her cheek. "I'd have strung you up by the balls if you did."
"Do not be so soft." My head dipped inside the pushchair to kiss the top of my son's head. He was out for the count, his face scrunching at the slight contact. "How long has he been asleep?"
