| BOOK FIVE | 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 dumped the duffle in the communal skip down Club 11's back alley before joining the nameless flock of females in the mile-long queue to head indoors. If the eccentric ladies introduced themselves, I never listened or cared to take notice. I came here for a financial miracle, not to meet new friends or have a good time.
A series of strobe lights illuminated the sea of people cavorting on the dance floor in conjunction with atmospherics such as flashy stage pyrotechnics, which glorified the ghastliness of semi-naked dancers, and the opalescent haze that curtained dark corners and omnipresent security.
Dry ice misted across the all-glass bar, where rowdy customers had money to waste, and unflustered female bartenders watered-down drinks to increase the profit ratio.
The mixologist presented radiant cocktails topped with mixers and sliced fruits with an effusive smile. I paid for one drink, sipped generously, then peeled away from my unlikely friends to hunt down prospects.
Pitbull's "Hey, Baby" reverberated from the series of passive speakers, the powerful baseline pounding beneath each footstep. I descended the glass stairwell to what could only be called a sweatbox. Inebriated people danced in an unbreakable bubble of hard drugs and inexhaustible alcohol.
Two full-breasted dancers sauntered past like they owned the place, their perfect heads held high, their flawless bodies painted in scintillating rhinestones.
The prettiest of two made her way to the corner booth, where drooling men decked in suits had their wallets out ready.
With a flick of her long, sleek ponytail, she stepped onto the bench between a guy's slackened thighs, grasped the table's soaring pole and, using her dominant hand, twirled effortlessly around it as though such strenuous tasks required minimal upper body strength.
Her co-worker entertained another table with paired finesse.
Money rained down on them aplenty.
Scrutinising their faultless agility, their lithe, acrobatic techniques, I sipped the cocktail through a black straw, regretting the choice to rock up here looking like a scally. I was only in their impactful proximity for thirty seconds, yet I had this desirable need to be one of them. They breathed physical attractiveness, graceful confidence and fascinating allurement, which is everything I am not, and every male in the room seemed to take them seriously.
Embittered for no reason whatsoever, I left the glass on a nearby table and beelined the female restroom, making a mental note of the burly bouncers en-route. In the cubicle, I peeled off the shirt dress and tied it around my waist. I could make it work with upraised breasts and knee-high boots. It is still more coverage than what the strippers vaunted.
I went to the basin to study the girl in the mirror. Her skin was too pale. Her eyes were sunken and tired. Her hair necessitated deep conditioning treatment. She is desperate for love and attention. All she needed was someone to see her, just one person to take her hand and tell her everything was going to be okay, to catch her before she self-destructs.
