| 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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Hamish is formidably muscle-bound and Amazonian tall, over six foot in height, akin to the heavily built Hughes brothers.
I suspected, by the aura of entitlement and officiousness, that he was the sort of man that ventured through crowded rooms and magnetised the observational attention of listeners and onlookers with his distinctive appearance alone.
A real silver fox, if you may, grey-haired, steely-eyed, iron-jawed and impeccably styled. If only people knew what the detestable hypocrite was like behind closed doors: piss-head, serial adulterer, wife-beater and child-abuser.
Emma loathed the pharisaical piece of shit, or so I thought, until the unmistakable stench of longingness for fatherly love permeated the long, narrow hallway.
People are biologically programmed to care about those who raised them, so when Emma recoiled into her shell and bowed her head submissively to pay homage to her father, I did not like it, but I could see where she was coming from. I used to behave in the same manner when Yolanda Kelleher walked into a room until I wised up and rid myself of the bitch.
No regrets. No love lost.
If Emma can take a leaf out of my book and disown her parents for good, she will be happier in life, that much I can guarantee, because we might share the same blood as those who gave birth to us, but we are under no obligation whatsoever to reimburse them for our existence.
Martha—the gaunt-looking woman with spindly arms and legs, wearing a long-sleeved, ankle-length dress, a hand-knitted cardigan, cross-strap flats and a timorous smile—is a different kettle of fish.
Unlike Hamish, who reeked of self-assurance and superiority, Martha lacked courage and boldness. In the shadow of her husband is where she stayed, wringing her fingers and looking at the floor to avoid eye contact with her estranged daughter.
You would think, after years of separation, with no line of communication, Mummy Dearest would have been thrilled to see her blood in the flesh. But Martha is a weak, inveterate coward, too fearful of her tyrannical husband's wrath to act on her mother's instinct and welcome her daughter back with open arms. She would rather fade into the background, which is all you can expect from someone beaten into submission.
Perhaps Martha's customary timidness and sense of self-preservation were natural defence mechanisms. It only took a cursory glance for me to work out that she walked around in life like an empty shell, blank-faced and concerningly depersonalised.
Who am I to criticise victims of domestic violence? I might have experienced physical and sexual abuse in childhood, but I outgrew my abuser and embarked on the journey of pain-free freedom, whereas isolated women like Martha feared the consequence of non-compliance far too much to elect themselves for happiness and contentment.
Trapped is the only word that sprung to mind.
As I know how to ruffle a dictator's feathers, I decided to give Hamish a taste of his own medicine by disregarding his not-so-important presence and introducing myself to his wife first. Polite gentlemanliness is the perfect solution for misogynistic wankers with a male superiority complex.
