| 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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Emma: Forget the woman you once knew. She is gone.
Me: Then, I will wait until she comes back to me.
I read our text thread for the umpteenth time this week. I took our friendship for granted, Emma's and mine. I did not love her, not the way she desired, the way I craved, but I admired her, appreciated and respected her. I enjoyed our time together, late nights at Ben's Cafe, infrequent sleepovers, random conversations and innocuous touches, a kiss, here and there, a heartbeat, in our story.
It seemed like a lifetime ago, in the alley, insults and compliments, frowns and smiles, tears and laughs.
We were friends, and then we were strangers.
My reason for missing her is nonsensical.
I hardly know her.
Yet, I did miss her, a huge piece of me was missing, lost, and I felt oddly incomplete, disorientated and unfocused. I have work to do, people to visit, people to see, confined animals to re-examine and torture and a well-paid job to execute.
Distraction is pure evil. Sinister. A barrel of deadly humourlessness and unpreventable mass destruction. I had two choices: Emma's retribution or the syndicate. The Warren Empire was my number one focus, without exception, until she happened.
This conundrum tested loyalty, hard work and razor-sharp focus. It tested everything I thought I knew.
"Always unsociable hours." The therapist's slippered feet paced the room. "You have yet to stump up the cash for the last session. In fact, for such a wealthy man, you are very tight-fisted when it comes to sterling."
My body folded into the armchair.
"Fine." Fern eased into the chair directly opposite. "I am all ears."
I studied her for a hot minute.
"You look bemused." Rich black hair, twisted heaps of rich braids and wooden beads, descended her spine. "Do you want to talk about it?" Her little black book of notes sat on the side table, untouched and uninked during private meetings. "Mr Jones?"
Fern's home office, located in the heart of Kensington, on one of the prestigious streets in the area, is inviting and cosy, with wooden furniture and artificial plants and an uncomfortable high-back armchair. I liked it here. It's starting to feel familiar.
"Mr Jones?" she mused. "I am here. You got me out of bed. Talk."
My eyes had yet to adjust to the bright lamp in the corner. "Have I made any progress?" I had attended enumerable therapy sessions. "Surely, I am close to termination?"
Fern's eyes, cold and disinterested, looked down the length of my body. "I cannot fix over thirty years of damage in a few measly therapy sessions." When I huffed an impatient breath, she went in for another round of small-talk. "It doesn't have to be about the past. It can be about recent life events, small issues, present feelings, avoided thoughts or conflicts. Income," she added comically, her amused stare inventorying the gold and ice jewellery I sported. "I am a good listener, Mr Jones."
