| BOOK FOUR | 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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Thunderstorms hit this afternoon. Torrential rain hammered the hotel windows, flooded the streets and low-lying areas and leaked through the cracked, smoke-stained ceiling in driblets. I had emptied the room's dead plant in the dwarf-like bath and placed it beneath the porous crevice to capture rainwater.
Due to bad weather conditions, mechanics within our vicinage declined the drudgery of breakdown service, even though Nate offered to pay additional charges. Moreover, the hotel manager only had one room available, which meant four people and a baby had to spend the night together. As an overnight stay was unpredictable, I accepted the room incontestably.
That was a wrong move, Alexa.
Insufficient beds were the least of my worries. Josh and Chloe might kill each other if left unattended for too long.
Three hours into our insalubrious shelter, Josh, leaving trivial matters behind, wandered downstairs to smoke, which, thankfully, allowed Chloe to bathe Dominic in peace. Her husband, Harold, calls every ten minutes. I can hear his undisciplined vituperative threats through the en-suite door. "I'm sorry," she whimpered, and I had to bite my tongue. "You are right. It is my fault. I should have called you earlier."
As if Chloe's and Harrold's argument wasn't bad enough, Nate, who changed into grey jogging bottoms whilst his suit dries on the radiator, has Blaire in his ear. And she is tearing him a new asshole. "What do you want me to say?" he barked, and for the first time, in a long time, I inwardly commended him for standing his ground. "Yes, I have to share a room—I don't care!" His irritability increased rapidly. "I refuse to dignify that with a response—because it's fucking ridiculous. I. Love. You," he punctuated each syllable, and a small, minuscule part of me felt sorry for him. "How can that mean nothing to you?"
I sat on the threadbare armchair and sent Liam a text message.
Me: Hey, I am not sure if Nate touched base, but I wanted to let you know I am safe and possibly staying in a hotel until tomorrow. Depending on the weather, we should be back on the road by midday.
Reginald's letter weighed heavily on my shoulders. I want to be there for Liam, but I can only sit tight until he's open to conversation.
Me: I hope you are okay.
Me: I love you, Liam. X
"You need to take a long, hard look in the mirror." Nate's elbows rested on his knees. "I ain't playing that game no more." His hand crushed the phone. "No, Blaire. This ain't me. It's you. It's your issue. Your insecurities—" Her high-pitched voice interjected. "Do you want me to put her on the goddamn phone?"
Oh, hand me the phone. It would be my honour, Nate.
"Didn't think so." His shoulders are stiff and tense, the intricate tattoos on his defined back and arms bunched up as he clicked his neck from side to side to release tension. "Whatever." Humour replaced sourness. "Fucking bitch," he muttered, hanging up the phone. "Go ahead. Lay it on thick. You all tried to warn me, right?"
