| BOOK TWO | 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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I have a severe spending problem or perhaps an addiction. Yes, the latter seems more conceivable. I blame recent expenditure on utter boredom and uncharacteristic routine.
Before residing as Victoria, Alexa had traits. She loved lazy pyjama days on the sofa and eating her weight in ice cream. Cleaning her home was an enjoyable task when harmonious music accompanied. She'd eat high-calorie food and ingest cheap beer with her friend and roommate, Chloe. They'd spend hours conversing about work, life, co-workers and handsome actors following movie marathons or television series.
Now, though, Alexa is non-existent.
Sure, I still eat far too much ice cream; whipped, frozen deliciousness is the staff of life. But I had no reason to wake up in the morning, to shower early and prepare myself for the day ahead. Working for a pittance is a thing of the past. Slaving away behind a cash register is slowly becoming a distant memory and Jace, who's absent due to visiting family, has no desire to watch old movies or discuss hot, carved, male goodness. He couldn't think of anything worse than gushing for the likes of Brad Pitt or George Clooney.
Sigh...
Portraying Victoria is quite lonely. The dawn after Jace's late-night departure, I concluded basic structure to be imperative. So, Saturday morning, I spruced our impermanent bedroom. Heather kindly offered domestic supplies and was fantastic with the kettle. She delivered warm coffees throughout the day, quenching moments of thirst. I vacuumed and dusted, scrubbed bathroom tiles and floors, changed the duvet cover and sheets—I stood in a window breezed, clean, lemon smelling room an hour later, with no further direction.
I cried a few tears, a little overly emotional or oversensitive. I have yet to decide, changed into unnecessarily glamorous attire and headed into town.
Presently, I stand inside an all-mirrored velour-curtained changing room, modelling dress after dress, designer shoes and ostentatious accessories.
Over the weeks, Jace handpicked suitable applicants for me to tempt into my web of sin and lies. It's a straightforward, effectual strategy with plentiful benefits—money. I'm talking money in abundance, the type of cash you hide overseas or in phantom bank accounts. It's also hidden in a knife-slashed mattress, beneath floorboards, nailed-vents and bursting the seams of my purse.
As I have nothing better to do, I use expensive retail therapy as a distraction.
Alexa spent many years window shopping, admiring high-priced glad rags and designer brands. While commuting, she'd stop on occasion, watching beautiful women venture in their six-inch Louboutin heels and fashionable Burberry trench coats explicitly bought for work. Such sophisticated ladies often visited the hair salon on Fridays for keratin smoothing treatments or dry styling ready for their evening dates or women's night out.
Why hadn't Alexa prioritised beautifying or specialised manicures?
Why hadn't she treated herself to more than second-hand clothing or hand-me-down shoes that once belonged to her older sister, Kathy?
