| BOOK SIX | 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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The overall impression of the historic estate is that it smelled disgustingly ripe, old and fusty, as though it hadn't seen a cleaner or bathed in nature's fresh air in aeons. Stone mullioned windows, encased in sheets of plywood, obstructed natural lighting and views of the landscaped gardens.
It might be considered architectural magnificence, but I'd rather live in a rodent-infested flat in the London borough than walk the ghosted halls of lost souls and disembodied eeriness.
Towering spires and stonework turrets domed the ironwork balustrades, sweeping stone staircases and prominent architraves. The dramatic Renaissance interior, frescoed ceilings and Grecian-inspired columns gave Josh's gothic-revival home a run for its money. And that is not a compliment. The lad's castle of the Dark Ages is nothing to brag about.
The halls reminded me of an endless labyrinth that led to nowhere, a dead-end, back to where I started, in a chamber of embossed wallpaper, oak furniture, ebonised armchairs and far too much history to endure.
Lost between wrought iron wall sconces and decorative fireplaces, I turned off the hand torch and strode across the flagstoned floor to explore the old-fashioned desk pushed up to the bookcase.
A key sat waiting in the wooden storage tray. I plucked it up, tried each drawer until one creaked open and found myself combing through pointless documents. I had no reason to examine printed information, but I left everything on the chair for when Reginald arrived. I imagined he'd collect evidence for the metropolitan police department once I had finished the assignment.
It was only when I amassed said documents into a pile that I noticed a list of names and photos, many of whom I recognised from tonight's online auction. I scanned each individual eagerly, desperate for answers, when a print-out of Carter, stolen from the school's website, landed on the desk.
Carter smiled in the photo, an innocent smile, the type of ebullience that brightened his eyes and coloured his cheeks.
I considered the young lad afraid, hopeless and trapped in the dark. If he hid in the corner, watching the locked door avidly, praying it never opened. I know the feeling all too well, misery and despair and existential dread. You want it to hurry up and come to an end, the sickening pain and unstoppable torture.
Buried anger slowly resurfaced. I folded the flimsy sheet of paper in half, stuffed it into the pocket of my jogging bottoms and proceeded to the narrow staircase in the former servants' quarters, where antique fixtures with gilded elements lined the wood-panelled walls.
The odoriferous melange of soot and death reoccurred. Christ, I might die from pollution, dust inhalation or a phantom-triggered heart attack. I hate anything cold and stuffy, the feel of particles on my skin or home-abandoned cobwebs in my hair.
I shivered as the muscles in my body tried to relax.
A precariously nailed floorboard creaked under my foot. I paused, ears perked up, not a breath of air escaping the flattened line of my lips. I could never be a silent assassin. I am too fucking obvious.
