| 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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Halloween gave street jesters an excuse to lob eggs and flour at vehicles, vandalise the neighbourhood and empty rubbish onto the road. I copped it every year, no matter the time, place or area—an egged car bonnet or a bog roll through the window—and I had to show restraint, be the bigger person, sensible and mature, pityingly cheerful, which can be difficult, considering revenge was a mere acceleration away. All I had to do was run them over, one tosser heavenward, the other prick flapping in the wind. I bet they'd think twice about destroying people's property after spending a month or two in the hospitable.
No, seriously. I loathed Halloween. Men dressed like oversized hotdogs or bastard Teletubbies, and women modelled neck-breaking heels and PVC nun costumes to chunder on the side of the road—alcohol and dinner down the gutter.
Then, the one house at the end of every street that pissed people right off. You know the one I am talking about. The owner gets carried away and overspends on ghastly decorations: fake spiderwebs, stuffed animals, slaughtered sadistically, hung from branches, motion-activated skeletons charging down the garden path whilst the Bride of Chucky rolled around in the mud. The same delirious person carves pumpkins a week early, then leaves said pumpkins by the front door to rot, decay, mould and spawn midge flies.
God, salvage whatever sanity I have left.
Assignment one:Have the Bentley washed and serviced.
"'Tis the season for pumpkin spice latte." Nate placed two cardboard coffee cups emblazoned with green mythological sirens onto the stainless-steel counter. "I got side-tracked by the seasonal menu at Starbucks. Man, I was sold on whipped cream and steamed milk." He noticed my disinterested expression and snarled. "Don't knock it until you try it."
I explained aversion. "Pumpkin spice is too sweet."
Assignment two:Kill the person responsible for pumpkin spice.
"How do you know?" He pulled a red and white bandana across his forehead and knotted it at the back. "You haven't tried it yet."
"I tasted it last year." Facts. Josh overhyped until I succumbed to temptation. Let's just say I was sorely disappointed. "Sailor insisted."
"I don't care for your unpopular opinion. Josh raved. I will take his word on it." He sipped, licking whipped cream on his top lip. "Damn." His mouth gnarled in repugnance. "That's pumpkin onslaught in a cup."
"Right." I am glad we are on the same page. The autumn-inspired beverage lacked logicalness—and palatability. "It's like an overplayed ballad. You hear it everywhere. You know the lyrics, word-for-word. Christ, it's on repeat in your bastard head all day. But you hate it. It's a mood killer. It's the type of song that makes you want to go home and slit your wrists. That's how I feel about the omnipresent pumpkin spice latte, depressed and suicidal."
"I have yet to decide if that was confessional or theatrical." Nate blinked, owlish yet studious. "Either way, I will never trust marketing campaigns again."
