| 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 Hughes blanched ashen white when he gained access to his private suite and came across a sacred deity of superior exquisiteness reposed in the magnificent four-poster bed.
Who could blame him for the silent bemusement? I am a fine specimen of a man, the creme de la creme of prime importance. He ought to be grateful for stumbling across true godliness.
A rare find.
"I know that look," I said with an accusatory finger aimed at the unhappy duo. "You want to know how a magnanimous human like myself fell into the chasm of royal prerogative."
A question flirted with the end of Hamish's tongue as he placed a key onto the wooden sideboard: How did I unlock the door without a metal instrument? I am not that good at breaking and entering.
Or am I?
Tossing a misshaped bobby pin by his feet, the self-explanatory mechanism skittering along the floor, I tucked my arms behind my head and crossed my legs at the ankles.
Enjoyable relaxation activated.
The four-poster bed bedecked with majestic drapes was ultra-rich and extremely comfortable. I could fall asleep on my nose. But I am not here to hit the snooze button. I had a new assignment to execute.
It shall be bloody marvellous.
"What are you doing in my room?" A series of heavy footsteps carried Hamish toward the old wooden door, where Martha, the frail, timid wife, dawdled with bouts of fear and doubt. "I asked you a question, boy."
And I answered, to no one, Peasant.
"Just so you are aware, I will be pressing charges against everyone involved in this morning's assault." Hamish gripped his wife by the elbow, dragged her inside the room and slammed the door on its rusty hinges. "I have a panel of witnesses who will provide evidence of the brutality."
I am unfazed by the man's idle threat. Anyone stupid enough to testify against me in the court of law will be exiled by The Warren Syndicate. I will order an unmerciful hit: concrete shoes to the bottomless ocean or butchered skin and a barrel of hydrofluoric acid.
Besides, I merely roughed him up earlier. A brawl circumvented by a mob of moral subjects is hardly an act of savage physical violence.
How many blows to the face did I accomplish? One? Two? Three at a push.
It was me that should be angry. I suffered an ordeal. Some unknown folk waded through the affray, snatched my throat from behind and tried to rip out my voice box, all because I had the upper hand.
Shock fucking horror.
Poppa Hughes might be high-and-mighty, but he is not strong enough to take on a man like me. I had him on the floor with my foot on his neck before his youngest son could get across the table.
