| 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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Impenetrable hazy grey fog and atmospheric droplets of condensation enshrouded the dark woodland forest, where nocturnal birds aflutter in the distance, hooted predatorily, and shrubs, laden with hoar frost, rustled as omnivorous mammals foraged the wilted vegetation in pursuit of edible plants or, by chance, wild rabbits. A long-tailed red fox, with pointy, upright ears and a sharp, upturned snout, sat on the leaf-strewn floor. Her attentive eyes, with an intense, super reflective green glow, followed the cigarette's ribbon of smoke whilst her cubs rolled playfully in the mud.
I breathed through my teeth, whistling a tune of contemplative ominousness.
The fox's ears twitched to the unfamiliar sound. Her startled cubs, hesitant yet fearful, dispersed into the cold night. Then, just as frightened, submissive, on agile feet, the mother fox vanished, leaving me in the profundity of melancholic desolation.
My lips pinched the cigarette butt, taking a long drag.
A full moon graced the night sky, wondrously bright and silently impassive, bereft of judgement and divulgence. Its tireless energy shone faint light on the walkway to perpetration, tempting the voice in my head to finish what she started.
Exhaling smoke through my nostrils, I tossed the cancer stick on the floor in a pothole of rainwater, rounded the vehicle and unlocked the boot.
"I am worried about you." Lynette, quick on her feet, closed the car boot with an aggressive slam. "You should have never dragged me into this mess. What if we get caught? Do you want to spend the rest of your life in prison? An asylum? I certainly do not. I am not mentally equipped to survive isolation. Neither are you."
I studied Lynette with prolonged intenseness. Her beauty, albeit maturely aged and imperceptibly wizened, is rare and unprecedented. She is the most graceful and exquisite female I have ever met. I almost envied her proportioned slenderness and attractive tallness. Her crystal blue eyes, short, ash-blonde hair, heart-shaped lips and prominent cheekbones accentuated prettiness. Honest, patient, kind, forgiving, compassionate and sagacious is a fair characterisation: a white blouse, denim jeans, ankle boots and boring accessories.
In the beginning, I did not like Lynette. I had wanted to be alone to wallow about the patheticness that is my life when this middle-aged woman, vivacious and full of life, out of nowhere, slipped onto the padded bar stool next to mine and ordered a gin and tonic. Then, as if her attendance had not irritated me nearly enough, she talked to me, acknowledged me, and asked questions of trivial importance: thoughts on the pub's not-so-posh grub, the live, energetic show and the collection of memorabilia.
I did respond, having discerned she'd never leave without an answer. I hated rock music with a passion. It is not musical or harmonious; it is too loud, too repetitive, too jarring and downright meaningless. I loathed wall-mounted collectables like something chronic. It is not impressive nor interesting; it is cheap, tacky, old-fashioned and utterly valueless.
