| 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 never thought I would see the day when syndicate business and personal matters were almost unendurable. I used to work better under pressure (stress and inconvenience mostly powered performance), but lately, I could not think of anything worse than punctuality, reliability, or dependability.
Truth be told, I lacked all of the above and more: unusual lethargy, questionable amnesia, inherent self-destructiveness and a general sense of directionlessness. I am what the boss would call an incompetent imbecile.
A short break is requisite to overcome mental exhaustion. I can go away for a couple of days, clear brain fog, eliminate multiple stressors, find positive ways to distract myself, and, in the process of stress recovery, restore energy, decrease fatigue and get my head back in the game.
Christ, I could see it so vividly: five-star luxury hotel, relaxing space, maximum comfort, aromatherapy oils, mineral-rich body formulas and leisure facilities. A nice gym to work out. A bevvy or three. Moreish congenital breakfast delivered straight to my suite.
Three days of sheer bliss is a no-brainer. I will return to London with fresh vitality, magisterial enthusiasm and impetus to the rise of Warren Enterprise.
The Italians won the first battle, but victory will descend on The Syndicate. I have to pick up the fragments of mass destruction to rebuild Liam Warren's empire, but each brick will be golden, expertly placed and virtually impenetrable.
Ignazio Corrazzo is misinformed. He is under the illusion that Liam Warren's men were brought to their knees in a pitiful display of cowardice and acquiescence and that every fallen soldier decamped to no man's land in the wake of self-pity, defeatism and humiliation.
The end of the criminal war could not be further from the truth. I am not dead yet—and until the day I am pushing up the daisies, I still have a lot of fight left in me. I did not get thus far in the syndicate by playing all my cards at once. Sure, I have to reshuffle the deck of devious stratagems, but opportunities are endless, and the power of hierarchy is inevitable.
Mark my words: I will have the last laugh.
Assignment One: Steal Joslynn.
"No." Josh, who lived in a gothic building guarded by concrete gargoyles, is by the church-style doors in nothing but grey jogging bottoms and gold jewellery. "You texted. I said no. You called. I said no. You turned up, uninvited, to my home, and I continued to say no." He regarded me with an icy stare. "I am not easily persuaded, Brad. You can beg until the cows come home, but I will not change my mind."
My back leaned against the parked Bentley. "I need a wingman."
"The fuck you do," Josh bickered pointlessly. We both know, come hell or high water, when all is said and done, I will be driving to Yorkshire this afternoon with him strapped to the passenger seat. "An overconfident man in need of a hand-holder?" He snorted indignantly. "Yeah, I do not buy it."
