SACRIFICE | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Reclined on the reverse facing leather seat, luxuriated by soft Italian leather, tinted black windows and walnut veneered interior, I ran a finger along the crystal glass circumference, considering scenarios.

My dependable security detail fenced off the casino's alleyway with Bentley vehicles, obviating a possible ambuscade. Josh joined them while Brad and Nate presented themselves to Timothy Andino, the founder and chairman of The Cardinal Crown. From Greek origin, he is one of London's wealthiest tycoons and tight-fisted bachelors.

The car doors opened in unison.

Flexing, shrieking and lambasting, Timothy, wearing navy chinos, brown leather loafers and a white shirt, lunged into position, courtesy of Nate's impatient tolerance level, putting us face-to-face. "Warren," he snarled, correcting his slanted, copper framed glasses, his death-glare shielded by brown grad lenses. "What a pleasant surprise? How long has it been?" He weaved his fingers together, flinching when Brad and Nate slumped onto the backseat beside him. "Five years?"

The last time I saw Andino was at the auction society of fundraising, a standalone event with grandiloquent auctioneer speeches and pompous plutocrats. He offered me a friendly handshake and a personal invite to his luxurious penthouse to enjoy a night of debauchery with glamorous women. I declined. His need to impress proved to be counterproductive as I loathe bogus lionising from perfidious, two-faced fools with ulterior motives.

Timothy thrives and prospers; however, his high-status and wealth has nothing on the syndicate or me.

After I rejected his invitation, he got straight to business. He wanted my constabularies and supreme court connections, Gateway and contraband trade participation in exchange for a beneficially rewarding alliance.

Unfortunately for Andino, I am a selfish, ungenerous man. You cannot buy or borrow my services.

"Who's counting?" I quipped, ankle resting on my knee. "Drive."

The Bentley Mulliner hummed to life, the driver steering us away from the casino.

Timothy looked frail and defenceless, sandwiched between two sinewy men. His gaze ping-ponged from Nate to Brad, wonder in his wary eyes. "Why, after all this time, have you come for me?"

I clicked my neck, releasing tension. "Friendly visit."

"There is nothing friendly about you, Warren," he sibilated, tousling his black, oily hair. He thanked Brad for the glass of Jameson, his fingers strumming the Royal Doulton crystal cut pattern. "I came into big money." Despite investments, he is loaded. "I can pay you."

"Your nervousness concerns me, Tim," I hummed, sipping Macallan. "Why so desperate? I haven't made demands or threatened your life."

His sharp eyes homed in on my blank face. "Then, do share the reason for this wonderful abduction."

Amused by his chimed sarcasm, I laughed. "What's your involvement with Flamur Bajramovic?"

He smiled to hide displeasure. "Define involvement."

Not reaching over and beating him within an inch of his life proved to be difficult. "Personal association or participation," I drawled, schooling my features. "Human trafficking, for example."

Timothy's Adam's apple jived in his throat. "Obtaining and selling commodities can be remunerative." When Nate shifted, he flinched. "It's not personal, Warren. It is business. Of all people, you understand the tricks of the underworld. You practically laid the foundations."

"Sexual slavery has never appealed to me," I mused, dropping two ice blocks into my glass. "Do you test the merchandise beforehand?"

"No," he lied with feigned offence. "I find stock and arrange drop-offs with the Albanians. Once the...merchandise sells at auction, I receive a cut."