| 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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Liam's Suits followed me to the reggae bar. Beyond the euphonious toned wooden walls and aesthetically beautiful wall-mounted memorabilia, the loyal mob of men guard the perimeters. What's laughable? They think I am none the wiser to their surreptitious arrival. I assume Liam hadn't relayed our phone conversation to his men, so they pose obliviousness when I glance from my glass and see them amble through crowds for a bathroom break.
I am not the only person cognisant of their proximity. Local tipplers and alcoholics, although wearing bored expressions, watch the nameless, unspecifiable suited men, utilising the restroom and ordering cheap ales at the bar.
Sitting at a friendless table, drinking incognito, I sway to the rough sounding vocalist strumming his guitar, encircled by a drunken line of impressively dressed good-time girls and one-track minded males, not in control of their increasing testosterone levels.
I sensed eyes on me the entire time. Without a shadow of a doubt, the Suits, tracking my every move, relayed updates to their boss.
A small fraction of me felt downright defiant and rebellious. I missed Liam. I didn't want his suffocating men acting on his behalf. Frankly, it took a lot of effort for me to not climb onto the table and flash my nipples sans breasts to punters. I am confident that'd be a remarkable update to Mr Warren.
I wonder how long it'd be before his furious-self bulldozed through the door and lambasted me for all to bear witness?
Laughter rippled out of me. God, if I were brave enough, I'd lose the clothes and dance nonsensically to prove myself right.
Liam, furious and sick with jealousy, makes me hot.
Oh, I needed sex, or another vodka to quench insatiable thirst. My wayward, petulant thought process was ridiculous, even for an idiosyncratically vocalising solivagant like myself.
I stumbled off the chair, giggling under my breath. Okay, the vodka is strong tonight.
How much did I have to drink?
Through blurred vision, I tried tallying the uncountable empty glasses ruining my table. "Two," I lied aloud, overlooking the ones with shrivelling citrus fruits and melting ice blocks. "Those aren't mine," I told a passing male, who merely puckered an eyebrow in response. "I am not a lying drunk!"
In the distance, a glass fell from someone's table, shattering on the floor. The room ruptured, applauding and serenading.
Well, that's certainly new.
I was half-tempted to flick mine to see the outcome.
Zigzagging towards the bar, I slapped my clutch purse on the countertop, leaning forward and waving to the curmudgeon old bastard who seemingly hates my guts.
Sheathed in faded denim and restricting leather, the barman wiped his hands with a chequered tea towel, whipped it over one shoulder and, from memory, reached for a vodka bottle.
