| 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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Vincent's Jacobean wood-panelled reggae joint is empty, except for the older man togged up in studs and leather behind the bar. Clayton Warren paused with a dishcloth on the wooden countertop when our eyes connected. And judging by the whiff of condescension, he is not impressed by the magnificent entrance of the syndicate.
Men in tailored suits stepped around me and dispersed through the visitors' lounge in a timely fashion to take the weight off their feet and relax in leather-worn booths. Most of them sparked up within minutes, the room permeating with plumes of white smoke and boisterous laughter.
Ska music amplified in the background, the heavy base vibrating beneath my feet as I strolled toward the bar for a drink.
Grandpa Warren, who lacked social polish, was not happy to see me. His voice was thick and strained when offering to open a bar tab for the brothers. "Jones," he grunted. "What can I get you?"
"Johnnie Walker," I said, chipper, thumbing through prestigious debit cards, and he automatically reached for the gold-label reserve whiskey bottle on the wall-mounted liquor shelf. "Blue."
Clayton vacillated between the bottles before he selected the rightful alcoholic beverage. He splashed exquisitely blended scotch whiskey into a rauk heavy tumbler, ripped the card to pre-authorise the transaction out of my hand, then moseyed along to distance himself from the obligation of exchanging pleasantries.
Wanker.
My phone vibrated.
Emma: I feel guilty.
Slipping a toothpick through my lips, I licked it to the corner of my mouth and typed a monosyllabic response.
Me: Why?
Emma: I am at the estate, unpacking an overnight bag.
Me: And?
Emma: My father is dead. I should be crying, not stressing over which lingerie set I should wear to bed.
Before I drove away from the wedding venue this morning, Emma rushed back to the car, her eyes wet with tears, her face ghostly white, and word-vomited the tragedy of her father's death. Her mother, Martha, witnessed the ghastly ordeal. Hamish had what could only be described as a mental breakdown and threw himself out the window: blunt force trauma to the head. He died before his brain registered the impact.
Yes, I feigned surprise and comforted Emma with protective hugs and forehead kisses because silent affection was the only apology I could offer without losing her in the process. I have done that dance already, the back and forth.
Emma never broke down, though. If anything, she looked partially relieved, like a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders, like she could breathe properly for the first time.
My girl's relief provided solace. I know—what I did not in the Hughes' suite—that killing Hamish was the right decision.
Let's hope Martha is not an issue in the foreseeable future.
