| 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 trip to the shopping centre started with the right intentions. I would overcome innermost fears and protracted anxieties and walk into Harrods with my head held high to buy the perfect gift in preparation for Benjamin's firstborn child, but the juxtaposition of beauty, clothing, accessories, homeware and baby fever central was the exemplar of the Devil versus the Angel technique.
The uninvited phantasm of light and dark is entirely incorporeal, dualistically defined, forcefully persuasive and destructively accurate.
I had to choose between baneful selfishness and sheer selflessness.
Did I want to be in the vicinity of newborn babies whilst blithesome mothers contemplated nursery furniture?
Is it really that bad if I listen to the dourness of evil and ignore the reality of truth? I could pretend for a while longer, go about my day being deliberately obtuse on the matter in the name of broken-heartedness.
Or I could heed the plea of good and face the shadow of pain. Not only for Benjamin's benefit. For mine. For the baby. For the relationship I will, someday, crave and cherish.
I had to pave the way for the little person's auntie because I knew when my twin brother's newly born child, with the eyes of an evergreen forest, was swaddled in the safety of my arms, I would forget all the reasons why I feared our family's new addition and experience the true meaning of love at first sight.
"I have a crazy aunt and I am not afraid to use her" is what the ever so chatty embroiderer stitched onto the stark white vest I purchased to go inside the neutral-coloured gift bag alongside sleepsuits, blankets, cuddly toys and soft books.
I got carried away and almost bought everything in sight until Terrence, the permanent bodyguard and impermanent roommate, interjected on behalf of my bank balance and advised against wasteful expenditure. "It might be wise to double-check with your brother" is what he suggested whilst I stood in the middle of the store and designed the baby's nursery.
I might have died of embarrassment. I mean, who does that? Who takes it upon themselves to rearrange someone else's home? I do, apparently. I got over-excited and lost one's sense of proportion.
My heart was in the right place, though. I wanted to prove to Benjamin and Quinn that I cared about them and the new baby and that I wanted to be present, kind, loving, considerate and thoughtful rolled into one perfect package.
Irrespective of insuppressible mortification, I left the store happier than when I entered, with a bag of goodies in hand and the largest of smiles on my face.
One down, two to go.
Free of guilt, I peregrinated nomadically throughout London until I mustered up the courage to make an appearance at the restaurant like an apparitional body of wide-eyed dumbfoundedness.
There was a time when the thought of returning to work seemed like an impossible task, when the responsibility of waitress service, welcoming guests, taking orders and communicating with the kitchen was like murky waters, too deep to stand in and beyond the capabilities of someone struggling with mental health.
