SACRIFICE | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Raucous music and uproarious conversationalists resound from the eye-catching, wood slated roadhouse; its green and gold wrought iron signboard intermittently glows and illuminates the pubs dark, hunkered ambience.

Tearing off my clothes, I stuffed them into a holdall in exchange for the suit Rex purchased.

Buttoning up my shirt, I fixed silver cufflinks to white silk selves, stomped into leather shoes and sprayed myself with pine-scented cologne.

Respiring a choppy breath, I zipped and left both holdalls inside the communal skip, opting for the embolised Gucci faux-leather backpack I bought this afternoon.

Armed and stacked with cash, I gait along the pebbled pathway, embracing the whispering wind and rustling leaves issuing from over-matured trees.

Social drinkers occupy the spacious, imposing stone beer garden, chain-smoking and consuming an exotic range of cocktails.

I waded between unvarnished wooden tables and pretentious conversing and hesitated near the back door.

Shit, I need to regroup, consider impending actions and possible outcomes.

"You look lost." Putting us shoulder-to-shoulder, a mature-looking Junoesque blonde, curled her fingers around my bicep, giving it an investigating squeeze. "Nice."

I scowled at her. "Can I fucking help you?"

"I think you need this more than me," she slurred, pushing a half-consumed ale in my hand. "Loosen up a bit." Opening the door, defeating us with music, she stormed indoors. "Jackass."

Tossing her drink into the shrubbery, I raked a hand over my hair, inhaled a deep, inducement breath and joined the commotion.

Slithering through sweltering throngs of rowdy socialisers, I searched for an empty seat amongst hastiness and parading bodies.

Since the bustling place offers scarce accommodation, I settled for a barstool and waited for the mixologist to finish colourful concoctions.

"Howdy." Palming residue from his palms with a tea towel, the barman assisted, offering a tattered drinks menu. "I recommend the Bloody Mary." He whips the towel over one shoulder. "It's a personal favourite."

"No," I quipped, declining mixed-classics. "Whiskey. Neat."

"Ah," he chimes, snatching a bottle of Johnnie Walker. "You like the strong stuff, huh? I am a self-proclaimed whiskey-tasting professional and aficionado, so let me offer one of our finest collections." Unscrewing the cap, he splashed amber liquid into a crystal glass. "Go ahead."

Cocking an eyebrow, I reached for the glass and knocked back a shot. "Fuck," I sighed, swallowing its distilled taste. "Do you drink that often? It burns like a motherfucker."

"I wouldn't know." He flashed me a toothy grin. "My prior speech was complete and utter bullshit."

I couldn't understand his logic. "So, you're not a whiskey fan?"

"Oh, sure," he said, and I wasn't sure if I believed him. "I can't afford the Blue Label, though. I'll stick to Jack Daniels and Jameson." He set an unopened bottle of Macallan onto the glass bar top. "Now, I hear this is the dog's bollocks."

"You work here," I pointed out with a puzzled grimace. "Doesn't your boss allow his employees to sample the goods?"

His amber-coloured eyes broadened. "Fuck. No." He refills my glass with a different blend. "Are you familiarised with barbaric discipline? Ever heard of thieving punishments in Sharia-controlled areas?" I shook my head. "In such countries, law enforcement uses a sharp knife, not a sword," he adds, resting his elbows onto the glass, lowering his voice. "If you're caught stealing, they sever your hand—at the wrist."