CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Alexa

I had to lose security without Liam’s awareness to meet with Vincent and Detective Donny Stevens. If I left the Manor through the front door, Alfie and his men would be right behind me, so I contrived an escape plan, which included hideous hiking boots, yoga pants, blonde locks, tinted, bug-eyed sunglasses and adequate climbing skills, or rather, rappelling down from the master bedroom’s window after I told Alfie I was to spend the afternoon in respite due to splitting headaches.

If the double-knotted sheets unravel from the bedpost, I will plummet to bone-shattering death or get torn apart by Tony’s planted rose bushes.

With the sheet secured around my waist, I abseil down the vertiginous wall. Feet planted to the brick, heart threatening to burst out of my chest, I descended gingerly, praying nobody spots me and suspects intrusion, or else I’ll be face-down in the dirt with a bullet wound to the back.

I almost made it feet first to the ground when I lost my grip and landed on my backside. Pain shot up my spine, and momentary dizziness had my eyes cocked inwards. Gnawing my teeth in discomfort, I unknotted the sheet from my waist and rolled onto my stomach, giving myself a moment to engage in conscious breathing to reduce uncomfortableness.

Hearing the static sound of someone’s radio transceiver, I peered through the unkempt jungle of bushes (Tony will faint when he revisits) to see two security members lingering by the garden furniture, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes.

“Great stuff,” I whispered to myself, rubbing soil off my knees.

Forearms positioned to the concrete slabs, I military crawled around the Manor, rustling the leaves of long-stemmed plants. Pool house in view, I double-checked my surroundings and moved like a four-legged animal across the expanse of green grass. Automatic lawn sprinklers came to life and soaked me in the process. I shot behind the annexe building, bum-shuffling towards the wrought-iron enclosure, and skulked out of sight.

Climbing the fence to abscond, I reached the summit of what felt like the highest mountain, tossed a leg over and dropped to the pavement on the other side. Dusting off my hands, I walked backwards, a smile of pure triumph and exhilaration dancing on my lips. I am a self-satisfied conqueror. Never in a million years did I believe I could break free from Alfie’s confinement, yet here I am, in the middle of the street, dancing my ass off.

It occurred to me that Alfie may knock on the bedroom door at some point to check-in, and if he does, then he’ll see the getaway sheets, or if not the intrusion of Alfie, another guard on duty will find evidence in the garden. Liam will have a stroke if he finds out I escaped his men, and those loyal, valiant soldiers were certainly undeserving of their boss’ tyrannical admonishment.

I had to trust the process, though. If Alfie’s smart, he’ll leave Warren’s wife to rest without interruption and wait for her to rise from the dead later on this evening.

In the meantime, I flagged down an Addison Lee and paid the driver to chauffeur to the designated café.

Portuguese patisseries and slow-roasted coffee permeated the air. Prices chalked the wall-mounted menu. Tasty looking refreshments laid on platters behind tiered glass. The old-fashioned café had a melange of cultural authenticity and British excellence. You could order Bola de Berlim alongside a Full-English breakfast and Yorkshire tea. “Latte,” I told the barista, extracting notes from my purse. “Lots of sugar.”

I paid for the coffee and selected a four-seater table beside the floor to ceiling windows, which separated me from the alfresco diners, yet the transparency of glass seemed to somewhat impinge on their privacy. The sunken-eyed old man with not a muscle in his face watched me until I finally lost the will to live. I soon reciprocated his contemptuous indifference. Without breaking eye contact, I sipped lukewarm coffee and contemplated giving him the middle finger when the bench opposite groaned beneath the weight of two strappingly tailored men. “Picking fights with seniors, Angel?” Vincent’s intense blue eyes robbed me of my ability to speak. “It’s unflattering.”

Jesus, I forget how much Vincent resembles his brother. He’s a carbon copy of Liam. It’s not just their inky black hair, sharp facial features and emotional expressions. It’s their conceited arrogance and excessive confidence. Akin to Liam, Vincent draws attention. If not for his undeniable attractiveness, then the suffocating nearness of his oppressive dominance. His eyes were neither soft nor unfocused. He stared people down to their very bones and disparaged or dismissed lionising with a glare of haughtiness.

“No problem,” the female waitress stuttered, receding from our table.

I watched her leave in puzzlement. “What did you say to make her panic like that?”

“Were you not present?” Donny stroked his chin in thought, the gold curb bracelets on his wrist clinking together. “And what’s with the blonde mane? You do realise there’s no sun, right? The sunglasses are a bit pointless.”

“She’s hiding from my brother.” Vincent flipped open the tattered menu to assess prices. “Isn’t that right, Angel?”

“Liam’s difficult,” I said as if both men were clueless to the man’s uncompromising despotism. “So, did you find anything?”

Previously, I called upon Vincent to help me track down Logan Broderick’s biological father. Donny Stevens works for the metropolitan police department and has access to criminal records. While digging up dirt on Logan’s step-father, Cyril Broderick, Donny discovered that Roxanne Bowen, Logan’s mother, had acquired a rap sheet that stretches back to her call girl days.

“She was arrested for prostitution,” Donny explained, handing me a printout. “Theft and drugs. Never prosecuted, though.” He’s perplexed-looking. “Bowen attacked a punter with a knife—claimed self-defence—yet never faced charges.”

Logan’s mother’s mugshot stared back at me. I believe she was a looker, once upon a time, but she reminded me of a worn-down homeless person in these images. Her ratty blonde dreadlocks rolled down her back, and the stained jumper buried her cadaverous frame. Remnants of dried blood stained her pale, gaunt cheeks.

Roxanne’s soulless eyes tugged on my heartstrings. I wondered what happened to make her choose a life of intoxicants and crime. You don’t wake up one day and decide to sell your body or stick a needle in your arm for shits and giggles. Someone’s responsible for her tragic downfall.

“Did you find a copy of Logan’s birth certificate?”

“Yes.” Donny exhibited vital documents. “Father unknown.”

I felt hopeless. “Well, what does that even mean? We can’t reconnect a father and son because the mother decided she didn’t need fatherly input? That’s bullshit. Someone knows something. Logan didn’t appear out of thin air. His father’s out there, and we need to find him.”

Vincent placed his hand on top of mine to relax the tension in my knuckles. “Why is this so important to you, Angel?”

“Cyril Broderick physically abuses his step-son,” I told them. “Roxanne’s aware yet turns a blind eye. Logan needs our help. I fear he’s in danger of his life.”

“I can pull a few strings and send crime stoppers in?” Donny accepted plated croissants from the waitress. “He’s fifteen, right? Child services will place him in temporary living for a few months. Once he’s of age, we can rehouse him. A hostel, perhaps? Don’t look so worried, Alexa. He’ll be provided with a social worker who’ll help him find work, etcetera. It beats a backhander.”

“No,” I whispered, dislodging the emotional lump in my throat. “Logan’s a child. He doesn’t belong in the system.”

Vincent’s eyes homed in on my face. “No child belongs in the system.”

“Logan’s different.”

“How so?” The younger Warren challenged. “What makes that lad any more special than other abused kids?”

I had no credible response. Tongue pushing to my inner cheek, I tapped a teaspoon against the white mug, creating a soft crescendo of chimes. I hate to think any child suffers, especially at the hands of the very person who should be protecting them, but I have an unexplainable connection with Logan. I want his happiness so much, his safety and security. But if he learns the truth behind social services involvement, if he discovers that I lent a helping hand, he’ll never forgive me. I can feel it in my gut. He’s stubborn to a fault. It’s beneath him, relying on others. He had to survive the hard way, and no amount of loving-kindness has the power to lower his walls. “If I asked Liam to intervene, he’d kill them,” I said despondently, staring into the mug. “With or without my permission, he’d put a bullet in their heads to free Logan from evil. And I’m cool with that. I’d rather see Roxanne and Cyril in a ditch somewhere. Will Logan be okay to see his mother shot down, though? She might be a neglectful, shameful excuse of a parent, but she is still his mother. It’s unconditional, the love he must carry for her, even if it’s unreciprocated.”

Both men listened mutely.

“Say Logan’s happy to see the back of them,” I continued, nursing the now cold coffee. “No more beatings or abusive slurs. He can go to bed at night without one eye open. Now, he’s alone. He’s living in a huge building with all these other teenagers, knowing that nobody’s coming to claim him or take him home. I mean, let’s be real. Foster parents want newborn babies and cute toddlers. They don’t care for the grown ass kids with an irremovable chip on their shoulders. That’s taxing, right? Too much stress and inconvenience.”

“What’s the alternative?” Vincent asked, and I shrugged. “We don’t know Logan’s father, so that option’s off the table. You don’t want Liam to exterminate the junkie guardians or have Logan set-up in care.” He cocked his head. “If you think my brother will welcome a stray into his home, then you are sorely mistaken.”

I took umbrage at Vincent’s assumption. “I never once said Logan belonged to me.”

“You didn’t need to. It’s written all over your fucking face.” Vincent reached across the table to snag my arm. Nose to nose, we glared. His anger diminished the fierceness in my eyes. “Leave him with the mother or have him put in care. Those are your only choices. Pick one, so we can be done with this nonsense.”

“There has to be another way,” I countered, and his grip on my arm tightened. “What of distant relatives? A grandmother or an uncle? Please, Vincent. I am losing sleep over this.”

“Bowen’s an only child.” Donny chewed buttered pastry. “Her parents died when she was seventeen. No aunts or uncles or fairy fucking godmothers. Vincent’s right. You have limited options.”

“Why don’t you get out of his ass, Don?” I fired back, ripping my arm out of dickhead’s hold. “Aren’t you the law? What’s the point in the gold badge if it only collects dust?”

“Cranky,” Donny muttered into his coffee cup. “Would it hurt you to be grateful, Mrs Warren? I bent the rules to get this shit,” he gestured to the folders, “for you.”

I won’t apologise for trying to do right by someone.

Smiling contemptuously, I faffed with the folders, slamming them shut for the sake of dramatics when a scribbled name on the bottom of a police report caught my attention. “Who is this man?” I asked, referring to DCI Morris. “He signed off on all these records.” I re-opened the folder to find the other signatures. “Look, he’s on this one, too.” Turning the page, I highlighted the name once more and Donny, scratching the frown between his eyebrows, examined the penmanship. “Surely, it’s no coincidence that the same detective sanctioned Roxanne’s custody release forms?”

“I am not familiar with the name…” Donny unlocked his phone and stood from the table. “I need to make a call. Give me five minutes.”

Hope burst inside of me. I glanced at Vincent to see he’s already looking at me. “What do you think this means?” I wondered aloud, and he pursed his lips. “Morris might know something, right?”

“Perhaps,” Vincent said evasively. “What are your thoughts?”

I nibbled my bottom lip. “I think Morris had a soft spot for Roxanne.”

He cracked a wolfish smirk. “Go-on.”

I gawked blankly at him. “Maybe he felt sorry for her…” His smile broadened. “Jesus, Vincent. What am I missing here?”

“On the face of it, Morris unlawfully protected Bowen to ensure she dodged deserving periods of imprisonment. Call me presumptuous, Angel. But no man puts his reputation and career on the line unless rewarded.” He settled his folded arms on the table and inched in. “I think you just found your guy.”

I was either dumb or naïve. “Our guy?”

“DCI Edward Morris,” Donny blurted upon collapsing beside Vincent. “Get this. Ed was forced to,” he uses air quotes, “hand in his resignation to avoid the embarrassing vilification of dismissal. He blew his undercover position to form a sexual relationship with someone he was employed to infiltrate.”

I never blinked. “Are you saying Morris had a sexual relationship with Roxanne?”

Donny brandished car keys. “Only one way to find out.”

***

Edward Morris owned a sandstone mansion within the safety of a gated community. Gilded pearls adorned the electric gates and well-tended gardens, which surrounded the property, homed white cherry blossom trees and common wildflowers. Butler Giles, I shall call him, stood by the opened door in a crisp white shirt and fitted black trousers. His bald head and unwelcoming countenance reflected his reserved personality.

Donny presented his badge, which Giles scrutinised for longer than necessary, then he welcomed us into the grand lobby of all-encompassing marble and rich opulence. Family portraits lined the walls, and antique-looking collectables showcased in glass cabinets. I am accustomed to affluence, yet I felt awfully uncomfortable.

Walking lightly to avoid heel marks on the polished floors, I stayed close to Vincent—who hasn’t said a word since leaving the café—waiting impatiently for Edward Morris to grace us. Instead, a tall, long-legged statuesque blonde woman drifted down the bifurcated staircase. Iced in jewellery, designer labels and full-faced makeup, she smoothed her hands down the seam of her skin-tight dress and asked Donny the reason behind his unexpected visit.

“It’s confidential,” Donny replied.

“Is my husband in trouble?” she asked.

“No, Ma’am,” he assured. “Is there somewhere we can wait?”

“In here.” Opening the double doors to a luxurious living room, she walked us inside and told us to take a seat. “I will prepare lemonade.”

I locked eyes with Vincent. He lifted his brows, silently mocking the snobbish mare. “From scratch?” he mused, and she flashed two dimples. “Do you squeeze those lemons by hand?”

Shaking my head at Vincent’s flirtatious undertone, I sat on the edge of a plastic-covered sofa. A painted portrait dominated the fireplace. Their three teenage sons and daughter, I assume. Ebullience coloured their smiles and puppy dog eyes. Branded knitwear cabled the boys jumpers, and lace frills prettified the little girl’s socks and white princess dress.

“Would you?” Donny asked, and my ears perked up to listen. “She’s older than my mother, Vincent. Don’t let the Botox fool you.”

Pretending not to earwig, I toyed with my military tags.

“I was merely profiling, Don.” Vincent sat next to me, so I crossed my leg over the other knee to give him space. “Nice boots, Angel.”

I eyed the fugly hiking boots. “They served a purpose.”

Donny picked up a glass snow globe and shook its glittering contents. When he detected advancing footsteps, he returned it to the coffee table and regained unfaltering posture. He’s in detective mode now, expressionless and unsociable.

Edward Morris appeared seconds later. He’s a dashing silver fox. Dressed in woollen trousers and a spotless white shirt, he closed the double doors, privatising the meeting, and gave Donny a firm handshake. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“My colleagues,” he lied, pointing in our direction. “Vincent Wentworth and Alexa Warren.”

It sounded odd to hear someone call Vincent ‘Wentworth.’ I mean, technically, it’s his birth name, but nobody from the syndicate dares to question grey areas. He’s Liam’s brother, which makes him a ‘Warren’ by default.

Edward’s fundamentally aware of the unsalvageable reputation that goes hand-in-hand with my married name. He’s staring at me now, expressed by distrust and wariness. Donny’s a calculated shithead. He title-bombed deliberately to wrack Ed’s nervous system.

“I need to ask you a few questions.” Donny made himself at home, sitting on the ledge of the coffee table, opening folders. “Roxanne Bowen.”

Silence stifled the room. You could hear a pin drop.

It took Ed a few moments to process Donny’s words. And soon, although red-faced and tongue-tied, he cleared his throat, glimpsed at the closed door, and said, “Is she dead?”

“No.” Donny’s eyebrow curved. “What’s the relationship between you two?”

“Relationship?” Edward said quietly, all too aware that his wife could be in the foyer listening. “I am a married man, Detective.”

“You played a huge part in Roxanne’s past, Mr Morris.” Donny proffered documents for the man to scan. “You don’t put your job on the line for nothing. Why did you help her evade criminal charges?”

“I paid the price,” he countered. “I lost my badge.”

“Correct, but these three names,” Donny pointed at the fine print at the bottom of the page, “have no connection to the woman in question. Your dismissal had nothing to do with Roxanne’s exemptions.”

His body language switched. “Am I under arrest, Detective?”

Donny remained impassive. “No.”

“Then, I’d like the three of you to leave—”

“You don’t have a relationship with your son,” Vincent interrupted, and my chin hit the floor. “Why?”

Rendered speechless, I shot him a questionable look.

Expecting Edward to clapback, I sank in awkward silence and waited for the man to snort, or laugh, or question Mr Arrogance’s rationality, when he asked, “How’s that any of your business?”

My world flipped upside down.

“Logan’s not my problem.”

In fact, I almost fell off the sofa.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Vincent squeezed my knee, demanding quietness. A small, hitched breath flew from my parted lips. Standing to let the blood flow, I placed a hand to my chest in an attempt to placate myself. It was pointless. Anger like never before disseminated through my pumping veins.

How dare he stand there unapologetically uncaring?

Calm down, Alexa. Don’t let your mind get ahead of itself. There are three sides to every story: his, hers and the truth. Give him a chance to clear the air—to defend himself before you jump to conclusions.

Perhaps Roxanne prevented Edward from building a relationship with his son.

Maybe he’s oblivious to his son’s dysfunctional, abusive environment.

Allow Donny to do his job.

Donny’s jaw tightened. “Do you cover child maintenance?”

“Can we please tone it down?” Edward gulped. “Sylvia’s unmindful.”

“Your wife’s not privy to the love child?” I asked bitterly, and he stared right through me. “Men.” I scoffed. “You are all—”

“I asked you a question, Mr Morris,” Donny talked over me. “Do you provide for your son?”

“You are way out of your jurisdiction.” Edward moved to the minibar to pour himself a neat scotch. “Need I remind you that I once possessed a badge.”

“Don’t feed us that crap,” I spat, and Donny’s eyes rounded, telepathically ordering me to hush my gums. “Either you provide answers, or I will march out of this room and tell the good old wife about your infidelities.”

Edward slammed the glass down on the dining table. “You cannot blackmail me.”

“I just did,” I said smugly. “Do you pay Roxanne Bowen to take care of your son?”

“Yes,” he whisper-shouts, dabbing sweat from his brow. “Yes, I pay child support. Now, if that’s all, I would like you to leave.”

Donny closed the folder. “Mr Morris, we have reason to believe Logan’s the victim of child abuse.”

“And evidence to back these claims,” I added, and Donny nodded in agreement. “We fear he may be in danger.”

“Child services are building a case for Logan’s removal; however, we’d like to discuss other possibilities to prevent Logan from entering the system. Now, I appreciate how uncomfortable this conversation will be for you and your wife, and you’d need to participate in a paternity test beforehand, but would you be willing to welcome him to your estate and provide a safe, loving home to avoid—”

“No,” Edward cut him off with a raised palm. “I am sorry, Detective. Truly, I am. But I want no involvement in that boy’s life. If Roxy’s too unfit to care for him? Send him away.”

“Send him away?” I whispered, and three pairs of eyes turned to me. “He’s not an animal, Mr Morris. He’s a child.”

His nostrils flared, the wisps of grey hair bristling. “I am not bringing that bastard into my house—”

“That bastard is your son.” My trembles stop. “You have four children living in this house. What’s another mouth to feed?”

“It’s not about money.” Edward’s eyes bounced from me to the door. His concern for his wife’s ears began to irk. “I will not let my past mistakes disrupt this family.”

I simpered. “Don’t say that.”

“Why is she so defensive of the boy?” Edward laughed resentfully. “You speak as though you know him.”

“I do know him.” I planted myself in front of him. “I could tell you Logan’s favourite colour, and what food he likes to eat, or how he makes the toughest feats in basketball look effortless with his slam dunks. He sings to the music in his ears, marches to his own drum and appreciates the bare minimum because it’s all he has. He’s intimidatingly tall but never throws his weight around. He’s handsome and has the most infectious laugh. He has the type of smile that makes you feel good inside.” My palms pressed to my chest. “It’s like…” Heart palpitating in realisation, I whispered, “It’s the smile he gives to someone he loves.”

Vincent’s hand touched my lower back. “Angel, I think we should leave.”

Edward resisted stubbornly. “Logan’s not my burden to bear.”

“Logan is neither a burden nor a mistake.” My lips twisted in repugnance. “If you are too much of a coward to face your wife, then more fool you, Asshole.”

“You,” he waggled a finger in my face, “Mrs Warren, are in no position to judge me.”

“You will regret the day you turned your back on him. He doesn’t need the Morris’ in his corner.” I tsked at the audacity. “He has the Warrens.”

I stormed away before I lamped him over the head with something, swung open the double doors and almost collided with Mrs Morris, who’s carrying a tray of freshly-squeezed lemonade. “Your husband is a jackass!” I yelled, and she wilted on the spot. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, Sylvia, but he fucked someone who wasn’t you, knocked her up, and then neglected his fatherly duties for over fifteen years!”

“You need to get out of my house!” Edward stalked towards me. “Leave. Right now—”

“Oh, don’t worry, Ed.” White-hot rage scorched my insides. We came face-to-face, his nose squished to mine, and when he took me by the elbows, I laughed in amusement. “I am not a certifiable doormat unlike he who stares back at me—”

“Release her. Now.” Vincent unexpectedly thrust the barrel of his gun to the man’s temple, and I didn’t even blink. “Five seconds.”

“Oh, Lord,” Sylvia cried, dropping the tray in fear and devastation, the shattering glass echoing throughout. “Edward, what’s happening?”

“Three,” Vincent droned in a bored voice, his finger tracing the trigger. “Two.”

“Alright.” Edward stumbled back in surrender. “Please, just leave. You have already caused enough upset.”

I was ready to unleash my wicked tongue, to deliver some harsh, home truths, when Donny slapped a hand over my mouth and dragged me outdoors. It’s entirely unnecessary. I was hardly putting up a fight, but the lack of oxygen earned him an elbow to the ribs. “Ah,” Donny cursed, uncaging me from his arms. “What was that for?”

“You are lucky I didn’t gnaw the fingers.” Flipping the coronal of blonde hair out of my face, I descended the concrete steps onto the grass and inhaled a deep breath to calm myself down. “Oh, God.” Falling into a crouched position, I cupped my face and tapered down distress. My chest hurt. My heart hurt. Everything hurt. “How can people be so cruel, Don? He’s a kid.”

Donny squatted beside me and rubbed my back. “Did you mean what you said back there?”

“I said a lot, Don.” I respired in intervals. “You need to be a bit more specific.”

“About Logan,” he said, tucking hair behind my ear. “Being there for him.”

My bottom lip quivered. “I want him so much.”

It’s the first time I have admitted that to someone. I would bring Logan home tomorrow, offer him a room, a safe haven, love in abundance, but only if Liam agreed.

I heard Vincent’s forced sigh. “My brother will never allow it.”

“I can try,” I argued futilely, rising to my feet. “If anyone can convince Liam? It’s me.”

Vincent’s jaw steeled. “Don’t be so foolish.”

“Liam walked a hard road to be where he is today. He understands what it’s like to be unwanted, unloved and abandoned. Surely, a small part of him remembers how that feels, Vincent. We could give Logan a new life. A better life.”

“You forget who you are dealing with.” Vincent tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers. “Liam will see the boy on the streets before he extends an invitation, and you know it.”

Placing sunglasses over my eyes, I rested my back on Donny’s parked car and glared at the sky. “I don’t know what to do,” I said downheartedly. “If someone tries to put Logan in care, I think he will run. If I ask Liam for help, he will break into the Brodericks’ house and kill Logan’s parents in their sleep. If I ignore Logan’s abuse, he will endure never-ending beatings and neglect.”

“You must extract emotions.” Vincent lights a cigarette. “Do right by the boy, Angel. Let Donny send child services in.”

I am selfish. “But then, I might not see him again.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Alexa

I paced around Inseparable Youths all evening in wait of Logan. He didn’t make an appearance yesterday, and he didn’t show up today. The quiet voice in the back of my mind told me that he would not return. After Samuel’s death and the gang-related attention Logan has received, I understand why the youth centre ceased to provide a safe environment for him.

With financial help from the council and donations from the community, Matthew hired rotational caretakers to bulwark against possible threats to our teenagers. He paid someone to install top-of-the-range security systems, and contractors worked tirelessly to reinforce the hub’s perimeter enclosure.

Notwithstanding the precautionary safety measures, Logan preserved with his nonattendance.

Tonight, once the teenagers left and security locked the main doors behind them, Matthew held an unscheduled meeting in the staffroom to discuss recent difficulties. Our teens mourn one of the most significant personalities to have graced the centre. Sure, Samuel had been challenging to manage, but his peers loved him; they will continue to miss him. We had to take their minds elsewhere and micromanage their activities. Tre’s a huge red flag. Christie’s a close second.

“If we don’t play it smart, judging by their shattered confidence and depressed moods, we could be looking at unpreventable suicides.”

“A suicide pact?” I asked, and Suzanne nodded. “It’s a little extreme, isn’t it?”

“I overheard Christie and Tre conversing by the court earlier.” Trudy sat beside Matthew on the blue sofa, which, due to her recent libidinousness, perturbed him. “They talked about articles on lover’s leap.”

Still, I found it hard to believe Tre and Christie plotted suicide together. Naturally, their friendship will consolidate because they share a common interest. When people lose someone they love, they confide in each other and lean on one another. It is all part of the grieving process.

“Let’s be vigilant,” Matthew advised, and everyone agreed. “If I lose another kid, I will hand in my notice.”

Normality felt out of reach.

Darkness doused whatever light remained at the end of the tunnel.

I started to hate my job.

Alfie’s tonight’s chauffeur. Sipping through the straw of a passion fruit smoothie, he drives with one hand on the wheel and sings along to the car radio. Bypassing restaurants and convenience stores, he eased to a stop by the red traffic light and furtively checked out the male driving a white Mazda on our right.

My eyebrows raised a touch.

You cannot conclude someone’s sexual orientation based on appearance; however, I had never suspected male preference, not from Alfie. “You should ask for his number.”

Alfie flinched out of his trance. “Who’s number?”

“Clark Kent,” I joked, and his face turned ashen-grey. “Hey, your secret is safe with me, Alfie. I am not here to make your life difficult.”

His Adam’s apple bopped up and down. “I am not gay, Ma’am.”

“Oh,” I said, unconvinced. “Well, I apologise. I thought…” He seemed interested. “It doesn’t matter what I thought.”

Red tinted Alfie’s cheeks. Flouting Clark’s curiousness, he angled himself closer to the window, somewhat blocking the other man’s view, and persistently checked the traffic lights for green.

Mentally kicking myself for discomposing Alfie, I stared out of the window to watch commuters rush along the pavement towards a tube zone. In the background of franticness, I see the outmoded corner store, the same bargain-basement that Logan formally heeded. “How many council estates within our vicinage?”

“You’d be lucky to find an estate that wasn’t part of the Borough down these ends,” he said in aversion. “Why?”

I rubbed stress from my temples. “What about community basketball courts?”

He snorted. “Any council estate in east London.”

I am getting nowhere fast. “Where would I find revellers?”

Alfie side-eyed me. “If I had to pick off my head, then, Tower Hamlets.”

“Take me there,” I ordered, and he shot me a double-take. “I need to see if someone’s okay.”

“Warren will crucify me.” He accelerated to the green light’s signal. “If he’s back at the Manor by the time we return, he will ask questions.”

I sighed in exasperation. “I am not a prisoner, Alfie.”

“Correct.” He dropped into second gear to veer around the street corner. “He worries about you, Ma’am. You knew what you were signing up for when you married him.”

“I married him for love, not suffocation.”

“Are you saying I smother you?”

“No, I really like you,” I admitted, and he smiled. “Is it necessary to report detailed itineraries of my travels? Does Liam need to know where I shop, who I talk to and what colour shoes I wear?”

Alfie lowered the music to listen to me.

“If I encounter any troubles, then report everything,” I continued, hoping he takes me seriously. “But why the inconsequential observations?”

“The person you wish to visit,” he said, and I turned at the waist to face him fully. “Will Warren blow a gasket if he finds out?”

My lips pursed. “Are you subtly asking if I am pursuing someone?”

He chose not to answer.

“He’s fifteen,” I explained, and his squared shoulders relaxed. “And no, I am not a cradle-snatcher. I am simply concerned for the welfare of a young boy. Liam has no reason to be mad.”

His eyes were almost black. “Why the secrecy then?”

Actually, I plan to broach the Logan topic tonight. “No secrecy. I am more than capable of holding a conversation with my husband.” In other words, stay in your lane and allow me the chance of elucidations. “So, how much farther?”

“Just down the road.” He applied pressure to the accelerator, swerved through moving vehicles, found a space near the lively park and mounted the street’s curbside. Parking on double red lines, he killed the engine and relaxed against the leather seat. “I will keep an eye.”

“Thank you, Alfie.” Disengaging the seat belt, I opened the passenger side door and stepped onto the pavement. “I won’t be too long.”

I strolled past the galvanised chain link fencing, where mobs of boys played basketball beneath the street lights. Flames of competitiveness burnt the soles of their feet as they dribbled across the cracked asphalt where weeds and grass blades germinated. One young male outsmarted his opponent with a left-handed crossover before his teammate landed the ball through the netless hoop. Boasting their win, the boys hauled atop each other, which the other side waved off like sore losers. With an amused smile on my face, I proceeded ahead, listening to the sound of their thunderous footsteps, the bouncing ball and witty wisecracks.

Even if I don’t find Logan in this neighbourhood, the walk decreased apprehensions. It felt good to stretch my legs, to soak up the evening amongst the very type of people I once neighboured.

Police sirens wailed in the distance, which appeared to be omnipresent hereabout. Numerous residents surveyed the narrow streets from their spaceless, wrought-iron balconies, and some gathered in each other’s gardens to drink bottled beer and social smoke. An older woman beating dust from an oriental rug strewn over the brick wall determined to outstare. Wiping her hands in the blue and white chequered apron, she furrowed her brows and jutted her chin forward. I didn’t need to be an empath to know what she thought. ‘I didn’t belong around here’ is what I saw in her cataractous eyes.

I guess I didn’t fit in, not anymore. Whilst the people around here struggled to make ends meet, I modelled Louboutin high heeled shoes, Dior fabrics and a Birkin handbag.

Empathy faltered footsteps.

Beating the rug exhausted the woman’s energy. She was dark-complexioned with solar lentigines dusted across her cheeks and far too old to be dragging something heavy back indoors.

Her black cat leapt onto the wall and purred for attention.

“Get down,” she said croakily, and the disobedient cat unfurled its tail. “You want food? I got you some food.”

I refrained from stroking him. “What’s his name?”

“She,” the woman snapped. “Don’t be stealing my cat, lady. I got a cane. I’ll pummel you with it.”

Rolling the rug across the hallway floor, she kept a hand on her lower spine and groaned whilst straightening her posture. Mismatched wallpaper peeled off the walls, smoke stains clung to the damp ceiling, and cardboard cut-outs boarded up the door’s broken window. I removed one of the Tiffany rings from my finger and clipped it to the cat’s collar. It’s something I bought whilst portraying Victoria, and, although unsentimental, it’s worth a small fortune. It can buy her a better rug and some new wallpaper if nothing else.

“Come on,” she rasped, coughing into a curled-up fist. “Get inside.”

The cat pounced onto the pathway and walked indoors.

“You should get out of here,” she warned, peering at me from behind the ajar door. “Pretty little thing like you? Dog meat.”

I mustered a small smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She slammed the door shut.

I almost retreated to the Bentley when raised voices from the second-floor flat captured my interest. Dark silhouettes moved behind the kitchen’s crème roller bind. Indistinct arguments and shattering objects exploded, yet no one from the outside concerned themselves or scoped. It’s habitual, the couple’s domestic disturbance. Her demonic shrieks. His severe tongue-lashings. When the paint-peeled front door flew open, the man’s vexation amplified, but his overhanging gut and sprayed spittle were the least of my worries. Aimlessly lunging glass beer bottles, he charged after a young boy. “Get back here!” he yelled as the runner ducked and dived from splintering glass. “You worthless good-for-nothing! I will…”

Muting the guy’s nonsensical outburst, I watched the boy scale the stainless-steel staircase until his trainers hit the ground running. In slow motion, I skirted the court’s enclosure, synchronising his pace from opposite sides. Basketball commenced, yet neither of us spared the throngs of players a glance. He slipped down another street, and I picked up my feet to catch him. I recognised his determined run, those beaten trainers and low hanging slouch pants.

Chasing full pelt behind him, I dashed across the busy road, waving apologetically to passing vehicles and blaring car horns. He got to the fenced park, thrust open the waist-high gate and trudged beneath the Pinus Sylvestris. Wood chippings softened the walkway, the barky smell of petrichor dried fields of grass. I drew in a deep inhalation to ease the strain on my chest and followed the squished imprints of his giant footsteps. He collapsed on the Barton bench, whereas I got distracted by the flat, steel swings. I curled my fingers around the heavy-duty chain, and condensation trickled down my wrist.

“I should file a complaint.” Logan’s strained voice broke the silence. “Why do you stalk people?”

“Habit,” I whispered, easing onto the seat. “If I point my toes, will I go higher?”

“What?” Logan scoffed at the randomness. “Whatever.”

I could almost envision the sun on my face.

I push my feet forward.

I push my feet backwards.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Pushing off my feet, I held onto the chains, dropped my head back and played with gravity. My stomach dipped from the height drop, and laughter ripped out of me. Evoked by timeless memories, I closed my eyes and let the wind blow through my hair.

“I can’t do it!” My feet do not reach the ground. “I am too little!”

Fingers adhered to the ropes, I thrashed my legs, in and out, back and forth, yet nothing happens. I barely moved a muscle. Dust kicked up behind my Peyton leather shoes. Mud splattered the frills of my white socks.

“Yes, you can.” Kathy jumped out in front of me, her long, black hair framing her pretty face. “Just kick your legs out, Alexa.” I was lost to her familiar eyes, in awe of her soft voice. “The wind can steer you.”

My mouth dried. “What if I fall?”

Her arms outstretched. “I will catch you.”

I didn’t want to land on my bum. “You promise?”

“Cross my heart.” She drew a kiss over her chest. “Now, trust your big sister,” she encouraged, and I wanted nothing more than to fall into her loving hold, to hug her one last time. “Release the ropes and jump, Alexa. I know you can do it!”

I released the chains and landed on my feet. Throwing hair out of my face, I turned around to see Kathy, to cherish that memory for a second longer. Empty. Alone. I never made it past the blue line, which means a child had better luck than I did. Nonetheless, I rubbed the smile off my lips, feeling a loan tear slide down my cheek.

Logan caught it with his knuckle. “You okay?”

I didn’t even see him move to stand beside me. “Yes.” I was more than okay. “I had a love/hate relationship with swings when I was younger. It didn’t matter how hard I tried. I couldn’t get past the framework.”

“You pull your legs back.” Lowering the brim of his ball cap, he dropped onto the seat and gripped the chains. “Right before you jump. It’s like you’re too afraid to let go.”

I sat on the seat next to him. “I don’t want to fall on my ass.”

Logan huffed out a heavy sigh. “It beats smashing your face on the ground.”

I never thought of it like that before.

Quietness stretched between us, and then he asked, “Why are you here, Alexa?”

“Do you want me to lie to you?”

His head shook.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” I answered honestly.

“About me?” He scuffed a pebble under his trainer. “Listen, you’re pretty hot, but I prefer girls my age—” I shoved his shoulder playfully, and he burst out laughing. “Ain’t that assault?”

“I would never, ever pry on someone, especially a minor.” Thickness laced my throat. “You know that’s not what this is about, right?”

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “You’re good people. I know that.”

My forehead rested on the chain. When I never responded, Logan dipped his head to look at me. It’s dark out here, but I could vaguely see discolouration on his cheek. It took practised sangfroid not to burst into tears or threaten bloody murder. I extended my arm and cupped his face, thumbing the trickle of blood on his chapped lips. “Tell me what to do, Logan,” I whispered, and for a nanosecond, he savoured my touch. “I want to help you.”

He jerked out of my reach. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

I approached him with defensiveness. “I never break promises—”

“Says everyone who never gave a shit,” he retorted, the chains complaining as he swayed back and forth. “We talked about it. Cyril gets mad from time to time, but he’ll be asleep when I get home. Don’t fret.”

“Does your mother know he puts his hands on you?” He ignored me. “Logan, does she stand up for you? Does she protect you the same way you protect her?”

His expression was murderous. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t speak up. Matthew’s asked if you need help, and you shut him out. And for what purpose? To protect your mother from the consequences—”

“Get out of my head, Alexa. I don’t expect you to understand.”

I snatched his chain and brought his swaying to an abrupt stop. “Then, educate me.”

“She’s all I have,” he spat, bolting off the swing in anger. “Not everyone falls in shit and comes out smelling like roses. Your story? It’s not mine.”

“That’s okay.” I climbed off the swing. “It’s supposed to be different. You and me? We don’t need to be the same people or share the same demons to understand pain.”

“In case you missed the memo, I got nowhere else to go. If I tell Matt that I hate living in that house, or how scared I am of Cyril when he’s had a bad day…” He looked pained and conflicted. “Or how Ma regrets and resents… Matt will have me chucked in the system quicker than I can blink. Fuck that. Nobody comes into my life and tells me to line up. I’d rather stay out of Cyril’s way for a while longer and keep on Ma’s good side for a few more months. And guess what? I am free of everyone.” He unlocked his phone and tapped the cracked screen. “If I go homeless at sixteen, the council will set me up.” Showing me the website, he scrolled through potential housing units. “I can get a one-bedroom flat and find a job, right? A place to call mine. No Cyril or drunken fights between him and my Ma. Hey, I can even invite girls over.”

I forced a smile. “You got everything figured out, huh?”

He licked wet blood from the corner of his mouth.

I was unsatisfied and unassured, but I entertained his plan because insouciance outweighed dampening optimism. “So, what colour shall we paint the walls?”

His eyes lit up. “You’d help me decorate?”

I waggled my brows. “Oh, yes.”

“Navy,” he said without hesitation. “It’ll be good with oak furniture, right?”

“Yes.” Stepping onto the roundabout, I held onto the metal bars and waited for him to join me. “I can assemble furniture.”

“Same.” Using his foot to gain momentum, he spun the base and light-headedness soon inhabited. “I put shelves up in my bedroom once.” He grimaced. “They came down two days later.”

“A-for-effort, Logan.” Headlights flickered in the distance. Alfie. If I don’t leave the park soon, the agitated Suit will go berserk. “Logan, why did those guys aim fire that day?” His shoulder lifted. “You can talk to me. I mean, it’s over now, right? You don’t need to watch your back anymore,” I said cautiously, and he buttoned his lip. Knowing he’s disinclined to open up, I asked, “Have you eaten?”

Logan slowed the roundabout for me to jump off. “Not yet.”

“Let’s get a bite to eat,” I suggested, and he didn’t put up a fight. “I know a great Indian restaurant.”

I loved spending time with Logan.

The night we dined together, he ordered everything on the menu and decided lamb Balti’s a second favourite to Madras. We shared papadum, pakoras, prawn cakes, buttered naan and sparkling water. “You’re my first date,” he’d told me. “But I might have to break the gentleman rules because I cannot afford the bill.”

“I feel honoured,” I said with a smile, and he blinked in perplexity. “To be your first date?” We clinked water glasses. “Hopefully, tonight’s the first of many.”

“Yeah.” Logan looked at me with an incredulous, narrowed stare. “Maybe.”

I worked five days a week.

I watched the main doors religiously.

Logan’s never amongst the crowd.

“Tre, can you help me hang posters?”

He slipped the overhead headphones to his neck. “I guess.”

“I hate climbing on ladders,” I lied, and he stood, rubbing his palms together. “What if I break a leg or something.”

Taking one poster and adhesive strips, Tre climbed up the ladder and positioned it to the wall. Securing the corners with tape, he peeled another from my hand and lined it beside the first one.

“You don’t like football?” Everyone’s on the field tonight in support of the youth division. Friends playing against friends. “It’s boring indoors. Why don’t you go outside and join one of the teams?”

Tre fixed another poster.

“Well, I promised to help Dave clean the kitchen,” I hinted, handing him more tape. “Tricia’s unwell. She won’t be here for the rest of the week. He could do with extra hands.” Tre gave me the cold shoulder. “I would offer to cook, but I wouldn’t want to give everyone food poisoning.” His upper lip curled. “Anyway, if you feel hospitable, feel free to offer a hand.”

The next day, I sat in the hub’s foyer and stared out of the window.

Logan didn’t show.

Neither did Tre.

“What do you buy someone who loves basketball?” I flicked through clothes rails. “Signed posters?”

“Depends.” Alfie strolled casually behind me. “Are you buying for a six-year-old?”

“Smarmy,” I teased, reading price tags. “I meant for Logan.”

“Ah, the fifteen-year-old.” He gave the sales assistant a polite smile. “Jordan’s.”

My nose wrinkled. “What?”

“Jordan footwear.” He pointed to the sports store across the shopping centre. “They sell tracksuits, too.”

That would be a great idea if I knew Logan’s size. “I can purchase a gift card.”

I wanted to witness Logan’s ebullience when I handed him the non-monetary gift, but he’s still a no-show at the centre. Posting an envelope through his letterbox was not an option. I had no faith in Cyril. He’d sell his stepson’s present for alcohol.

Behind the cash register, the fair-skinned gent peered up at me from over the brim of a newspaper.

“Hey, you don’t know me, but I was hoping you could help me with something.”

He folded the newspaper. “What can I do for you, Mrs Warren?”

“Oh.” I had to mask my surprise. “Are you familiar with the name Logan Broderick? I saw him lingering outside once and thought he might be a regular shopper.”

“Yeah, I know Logan.” His arms folded. “I banned the toerag for shoplifting.”

“Right.” My tongue felt heavy. “So, he stopped coming here?”

“No, he swings by every couple of days to restock.” A chewing gum bubble popped from his mouth. “I turn a blind eye every once and a while.”

“That’s very kind of you.” It’s surreal how people can sense vulnerableness in teenagers. “I’d like to leave this here.” I unzipped my handbag and placed the envelope on the counter. “It’s vouchers for him to spend. I would really appreciate it if you could ensure he gets this…Do you have another envelope?”

He reached under the counter to grab a brown envelope. “Fifty pence.”

Refraining from an eye-roll, I opened my purse, gave him a tenner and then stuffed wads of fifty-pound notes into the envelope. “An elastic band, too.” I accepted the band and wrapped both items together. “Don’t get any ideas. If Logan’s shy of pennies, my husband will pay you a visit.”

“Absolutely,” he stuttered, securing the goods in an under-counter safe. “I wouldn’t dream of mugging you off, Mrs Warren.”

I left after purchasing vodka.

Liam found me sat on the sofa in his office when he returned to the Manor. Peeling off his suit jacket, he tossed it on the back of a chair and went to the minibar to pour himself a drink. He eyed the vodka bottle in my hand. “Long day?”

I shrugged.

Liam put his back to the sideboard, crossed his legs at the ankles and sipped distilled whiskey. “I need a favour.” Whatever he had to ask made him uncomfortable. “Phillip Henry. He’s an honorary member of the London Diamond Bourse. I want you to portray Victoria and lure him to a private suite.”

So that’s what the perfect paragon conversation regarded. “It means provocativeness.”

“I know,” he said, his jaw harder than granite. “Spare me the visualisation, Alexa.”

I downed a shot straight from the bottle. “What’s the assignment?”

His fingers drummed against the Norlan glass. “As aforementioned, I need you to lure Henry to a private suite.”

“No, Liam. I want more details. Who is this man? Why is he on your shitlist? What does he look like? Where will I meet him?” I licked sharp-tasting vodka off my upper lip. “It takes more than revealing dresses to ensnare victims. Can you handle sultry whispers, lascivious promises and passionate kisses?”

“If you let that motherfucker put his mouth on you, you will see a different side of me,” he warned, and I laughed like an evil madwoman. “Why the fuck are you laughing?”

“You are so transparent.” My cheeks ached from smirking. “I’ll do my very best to maintain a level of frigidity.”

“Brad can share specifics.” Liam wiped the anger off his face. “Speak to your friend,” he said tightly. “We need Jace to decrypt advanced encryption algorithms once you tranquilise Henry.”

I don’t know what shocked me the most. Liam’s requirement of me pursuing another man, albeit Janus-faced, or him needing Jace’s participation. “I promise success.”

Liam closed his eyes. “Come here,” he rasped, and I set the bottle on his desk and walked to him acquiescently. Wrapping an arm around my waist, he buried his head on my shoulder and inhaled. “You were sad. Talk to me.”

I am a little sombre this evening. “I fuck up a lot.”

His fingers massaged my back. “Don’t we all?”

“Tre left the youth centre. I don’t think he’ll come back, not without Samuel.” I rest my cheek to his stubble. “Logan,” I croaked, holding my breath to brave the subject. “I tracked down his biological father.”

Liam’s head raised. “What?”

“Edward Morris,” I said, shying away from his penetrating scowl. “He doesn’t want a relationship with his son, though. It’ll disrupt his life, his perfect little family.” My lips twisted. “He lives in a mansion, yet he can’t spare a room for his son.”

Raking a hand through my hair, I stepped out of his iron grip. “His mother’s a drunk, his stepfather’s violent and his real father refuses to acknowledge him. Logan’s floats through life in wait for new beginnings, counting down the days to his sixteenth birthday so that he can leave the place that’s never felt like home. It breaks my heart.” I slumped onto a chair, and he set his drink aside to crouch before me. “Liam, I want to do something.”

“I offered,” he reminded me. “I can end his suffering tonight.”

“I don’t want you to kill them.”

His head cocked. “What do you want?”

No holding back, Alexa. “I want to bring Logan here.”

Liam’s expression darkened. “What?”

“We have plenty of room.” My hands grasped the armrests. “He can pick one of the guestrooms—”

“No.” His harshness caused me to flinch. “I will not bring someone else’s kid into my home. He’s not our reasonability.”

“Liam, please,” I implored as he fell onto the chair behind his desk. “Donny can pull some strings to have Logan sent here. You won’t even see him. I’ll make sure he stays out the way until—”

“Until what?” he barked, crumbling marijuana into a deck. “Until I warm up to him? That’ll never happen. I agreed to children for you, not because I need them. I couldn’t give two fucks’ about some fifteen-year-old lad with baggage.” He licked the rizla seam. “What doesn’t kill you strengthens you, so let the boy find his own way through life. We are not an open house for strays.”

I slammed two palms onto the desk, which only humoured him. “You forget where you came from.”

“No, I will never forget the road I walked,” he snarled, affronted by antagonism.

“Liam,” I whispered in defeat. “If you could go back? If you could change anything about your past, what would it be? Loving parents? Home Cooked meals after school? Siblings? Normalcy? Not having to sleep with one eye open?”

“I’d change nothing.” He lit the end of his joint. “I wouldn’t be the man that I am today without past tribulations.”

I shook with frustration. “We didn’t deserve those shit cards, Liam.”

“Affirmative,” he agreed, kicking his feet onto the desk.

“We cannot rewrite history, but we can steer the future,” I continued, and his eyes visited the ceiling. “Logan’s a good kid. Who better to help him than us?”

Smoke crawled from his mouth. “No.”

My scowl hardened. “Why are you so against him?”

He matched my furious stance. “It’s not about him.”

“Bill didn’t turn his back on you. He had nothing to offer, yet he took you under his wing and protected you because he saw something in your eyes that no one else did. You and Logan, you’re cut from the same cloth.”

“Do not compare us.” When I rounded the desk, he held a hand out. “No, don’t look at me like that, baby.”

“Liam, please.” I cupped his cheeks, and his head shook vehemently. “Please, I beg you—”

“I will not yield!” He snatched my jaw and watched a single tear roll down my cheek and over his fingers. “I. Do. Not. Want. Him.”

Liam stormed out of the office.

I didn’t have the heart to chase him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Alexa

Smoke alarms caterwauled.

Wafting thick, black smog from the air, I fumbled with a tea towel, pulled open the conventional oven door and extracted the baking tray of chocolate chip cookies.

Well, what’s left of their cremated remains.

At least they smell passable.

I could cover them in icing and sprinkle on some edible dust.

Disguising disastrousness is not an acceptable method, though.

I am a diabolical tragedy.

My lips pressed together.

Inspecting the desiccated delicacies, Dave bit the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know what to say.”

“We can dust them off.” I tried to pick one up, and ash disintegrated through my fingers. “Why am I so catastrophically stupid?”

“Lower the heat,” he said ever so matter-of-factly. “Better to be safe than sorry.” Adjusting the oven’s temperature, he placed a tray of newly arranged cookies onto the middle shelf. “If all else fails, keep your eyes on the window. It is foolproof.”

Easy for you to say, Chef Ramsay. I threaten whoever’s within reach when I enter a kitchen and ignite flames. If I am not burning everything in sight, I am risking the likelihood of poisoning taste-testers.

To prevent further failures, I stood in front of the oven and watched the cookie dough rise, the chocolate drops melting. Once the rocky heaps tinted brown, I gingerly pulled the door down, slipped on a pair of heat resistant gloves and conveyed the baked goods to the stainless-steel countertop.

“On the heat rack,” Dave advised, and I executed with a shit-eating grin on my face. “How do they look?”

I picked one up; it remained intact. “I did it.”

Dave snatched the cookie and sank his teeth into molten perfection. “Mm,” he groaned with a thumbs-up of approval. “Impeccable.”

I might be a culinary overachiever, after all.

Matthew found me in the staffroom three hours later. “I thought you’d left.” Loosening the collar of his polo shirt, he slumped onto the sofa next to me. “You didn’t fancy drinks with staff either, huh?”

“Not tonight.” Writing notes on this week’s schedule, I recapped the pen and returned the magnetic clipboard to the fridge freezer. “Coffee?”

He smiled widely. “Please.”

I prepared two mugs.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, and I mustered a tight head shake. “It’s not the same around here since Samuel passed away. It’s awful.”

“Quiet,” I added, and his head dipped. “Like everyone’s afraid to smile again.”

He blew out an audible sigh. “It bears guilt to move on and exist in the wake of another’s death.”

I unclogged my throat. “It was tragic what happened to Samuel, but we are not blameworthy. You are not to blame,” I stressed, knowing how much he needed reassurance.

Matthew rubbed the tiredness from his hallowed eyes. “I, uh, had a chat with Trudy.”

“Oh?” Stirring heaped sugars into our mugs, I handed him a coffee and sat with my legs crossed beside him. “How did she handle your dismissal?”

“Not good.” He winced. “Really bad, actually. Trudy thought I…” His cheeks pinkened. “That I had a thing for her.”

“A thing,” I repeated whispery. “What gave her that impression?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Going in for a sip of coffee, he sighed contentedly. When he turned his neck and our eyes aligned, Jace’s forewarning about Matthew’s infatuation sprang to mind.

His stare dropped to my lips.

Dread pooled in my stomach. I like Matt. He’s a nice guy, good-looking, amiable and soft-hearted, but I am married, and even if there were no Liam, I would never make the mistake of dating someone in the workplace again. It’s a cause for a highly uncomfortable environment. I love my job far too much to gamble; I love my husband far too much to stray from fidelity.

“Alexa.” Redness flared Matthew’s cheeks. “I—”

I shot off the sofa in a state of panic, spilling coffee over my hand in the midst of uncontainable anxiousness.

He looked taken aback. “Are you okay?”

“I am fine.” Leaving the mug in the sink, I plucked up my fur coat off the chair’s rear and thrust my arms through the sleeves. “I forgot about my date with Liam.” Why is it so hot in here? “He’s an impatient man, so I should leave.”

“Yes, of course.” Looking washed out, he rose to his feet. “Alexa, are you sure you’re okay? You look a bit pale.”

“Honestly, I am good.” Heart in my throat, I ebbed towards the door. “I will see you tomorrow.”

“Wait,” he called, and my footsteps faltered. “I forgot to mention something. I found mail on the floor addressed to you earlier.” He exited the staffroom, and I reluctantly followed. “It’s in my office.”

I scratched the crease between my knitted brows. “Why would I receive mail at the youth centre?”

“No idea.” He rummaged through the piled post behind his desk. “For you.”

“Thank you.” Accepting the white envelope, I smiled flatly. “So, tomorrow?”

His hands were stuffed in his jean pockets. “Tomorrow.”

“Yes,” I said awkwardly, drifting to the main doors. “Goodnight, Matt.” Not waiting around for his response, I stepped outdoors and luxuriated in the coolness of soft winds. Alfie’s parked across the street waiting for me. Raising a hand to indicate five more minutes, I tore through the envelope seal and extracted the folded lined paper.

Alexa, are you for real right now?

A JD gift card!

How did you know?

Okay, I have a confession to make.

I was not going to splash out, but I really needed new trainers, and damn, they look good on my feet.

I cannot thank you enough.

Like, for real? Jordan footwear!

You know everyone is jealous now, right?

With kicks like these, I whooped ass on the court today.

You did that.

I appreciate you,

Logan.

P. S. I left my number at the bottom in case you wanted to message me or something. It saves your from stalking, right?

P. P. S. Okay, I might like you more than I admit, so take this as an invitation.

P. P. P. S. Don’t worry. I know that is not what this is about.

Unlocking my phone, I typed in Logan’s digits and sent a text message.

Me: I am glad you like the trainers.

Message delivered.

Read receipt.

Dots bounced on the screen.

An image.

Logan sent me a picture of the Jordan’s on his feet.

Me: Jesus, how big are your feet?

Logan: 12

My jaw hit the floor.

Me: You bigfoot mammoth!

Logan: Har! Har!

Me: So, you kicked ass on the court today, huh?

Logan: Not to stroke my own ego, but yeah, I kinda did.

Logan: I bought new headphones 2.

Logan: Was that okay?

Me: Buy whatever you want. It’s your money.

Logan. Nah, I had a blowout. I will save the rest for a rainy day.

I put my back to the wall and tapped the screen with my thumbs.

Logan: I am so stoked.

Me: Why?

Logan: I have had my eye on these trainers for months.

Logan: I never thought it was possible.

Me: Did I make you smile?

Logan: I have been smiling all day, thanks to you.

Me: Good.

Logan began to reply, and then nothing…

I waited.

And waited.

Then I waited some more.

I sent him another message.

Me: What are you doing right now?

Logan: Me?

I rolled my eyes.

Me: No, the person sat next to you.

He sent the middle finger emoji.

Me: Rude…

Logan: Texting you.

Me: I mean, are you busy?

Logan: No.

Me: Namco Funscape?

Logan: Be there in twenty.

Alfie parked the Bentley behind Namco, and we headed indoors. Whilst I went to the café to order nibbles, he purchased three tickets for ten pin bowling. I found him on lane fifteen, drinking beer and lacing up red and blue footwear. With raised cheeks, I asked, “What are those?”

A pair landed at my feet. “Obligatory.”

“Gross.” Kicking the clown shoes aside, I arranged baskets of fries, breaded chicken and loaded potato skins on the high-table. “I am not putting my feet in those sweaty shoes.”

Alfie blinked. “You cannot bowl in heels, Ma’am.”

“Watch me.” I peeled off my faux fur coat and sat on the sticky bench. “It’s busy in here.” Entertainment seekers packed the lanes, competing for strikes. Boisterous teens assembled in the arcade section, pop music sounded from corner speakers, multi-coloured lights sprinkled above, and people caroused in the bar. I should embrace the gallimaufry of headache-inducing disorganisation and immature lewdness hailing from the lane to our left, but I work around naughty teenagers daily. Tonight, I had zero tolerance for uninhibited adults who lacked maturity. “Can you not?” I scolded the tallest, loudest of the bunch. “I am here to enjoy a quiet drink with family.” Besides, Logan’s accustomed to rowdiness. He deserved a day off. “Erratic behaviour and obscene language are not necessary.”

When the guy opened his mouth to give me a piece of his mind, Alfie stood to his full, imposing height, a feral warning in his wide eyes. “I did a background check on your boy,” he said, and the group quieted down. “I hope you understand.”

“What?” Alfie’s admission of truth pulled me away from thoughts. “Why?”

“I like you, Ma’am.” With no counterattack from the mob next door, his backside returned to the seat. “But I have to watch my back. If Warren finds out about you sneaking around, I need to prepare myself for interrogation.” Through the crowd, I see Logan at the main desk. He speaks to the receptionist for a couple of minutes and then mouths gratitude before heading in our direction. “Logan, he seems like a good kid.”

I felt suddenly nervous. “Yes.”

“I think it’s good that you want to help him.” Alfie sipped beer. “I just hope it doesn’t backfire on you.”

“Hey.” Wearing two dimples, Logan joined the lane. He almost sat beside me, but his walls flew up instantly when he spotted Alfie. “Who’s this?”

“Alfie,” the Suit introduced himself. “You must be Logan.”

Logan looked handsome in his newly purchased black Paris Saint-Germain tracksuit and high-top trainers. His ball cap worn backwards, he fell to the seat and folded his arms. “Are you, like, the husband?”

“Friend.” Alfie tested the weight of a dark blue bowling ball. “Are you any good?”

Pulling the hoodie over his head, tossing it on the table, Logan selected a green ball and rolled it down the lane. It smashed into the pins, knocking them in multiple directions. “Yeah,” he said, hitting a strike. “I’m decent.”

Alfie’s eyes got smaller. “It’s on, pretty boy.”

I sucked at bowling.

But I aced air hockey.

“Alexa, you can’t cover the slots.” Logan’s wide-eyed and dumbfounded. “That’s cheating!”

I smashed the puck across the cushion of air and scored. “I don’t care. I will not lose at everything.”

“You need to find something you’re good at.” Losing interest in the game, Logan gestured for me to follow him. “Try this.” Popping change into the merchandiser, he held the joystick and moved the claw up and across. Four metal prongs unlatched to slide over the stuffed animals head. It retreated empty-handed. “See?”

“You didn’t win anything,” I pointed out smugly. “If you can’t do it, neither can I.”

He slapped one pound on my hand. “You try.”

Inserting the money, I gripped the handle and gyrated above the grey elephant. The claw lowered into the glittering pits, curled around the ugliest of teddy bears and mechanically flopped it down the latch.

“Holy shit.” Logan’s brows jumped in surprise. “You did it.”

I retrieved the prize. “It has one eye.”

“Mike Wazowski?” He scratched the back of his neck. “Alexa, he’s awesome.”

I disagreed. “He’s green.”

“He’s hilarious.”

“He’s a monster.”

Logan draped an arm over my shoulders. “You need to get out more.”

“If you say so.” Scarfing down a handful of jelly beans, I mumbled, “I love the mango one.”

Stealing two blue sweets, he chucked them on his tongue. “Blueberry for me.”

I ate a blue one out of spite.

“Mature.” He stopped by the cafe to order drinks. “What do you want? I’m paying.”

I was not shy of cash, but when I unzipped my purse to pay, he seemed disappointed? Offended? “I’ll have a slush.” My purse dropped into my handbag. “Thank you, Logan.”

“Alexa.” He delivered the goods. “You are not so bad for a crazy stalker lady.”

***

According to the period tracker on my phone, I am ovulating. It is the optimum time to conceive, but the stubborn man I call husband has yet to talk to me, never mind fuck me. I logged out of the app and checked emails. I had a backlog of free quotes from plastic surgeons regarding breast augmentation surgery. And I received a text from Logan.

Logan: Can we meet up tomorrow?

Me: Sure.

Logan: Okay, see you then.

My lips stretched into a smile.

Me: Am I supposed to guess the destination?

Logan: Oh, yeah. Fuck.

Why must he swear so much?

Me: So…?

Logan: Jay’s diner?

Me: Why?

Logan: Um, I don’t know, Alexa. Why would we visit a diner?

Me: Was that sarcasm?

He sent me a face-palm emoji.

Me: What?

Logan: To eat…?

Me: Oh, yeah. Perfect.

Logan: You have issues.

My eyebrows cinched.

Me: Thanks.

Logan: That was not a compliment.

Me: Does Jay sell hot dogs?

Logan: I don’t think Jay’s an actual person…

Me: Can I buy a hot dog? Yes or no.

Logan: Yes. I’m paying.

Logan: Bring sensible footwear.

Logan: THAT MEANS NO HEELS.

Me: What’s wrong with the shoes I wear?

Logan: Nothing. But we can’t shoot hoops if you stomp around in those death traps.

Me: That is fair enough. I will come bearing sensible trainers.

He sent me a thumbs-up emoji.

I heard heavy footsteps.

Liam entered the kitchen, and when our eyes collided, he hesitated at the threshold. Looking deliciously edible in a royal blue three-piece suit and ice and gold for days, he cleared his throat and strode to the coffee machine.

I wanted to throw my beverage down the sink and fall to my knees before him. I won’t make the first move, though. If he is determined to stay on opposing sides, then I will be just as stubborn.

“Morning,” he said monotonously, the scent of his masculine cologne surrounding me. “You stayed up late.”

Yes, I viewed Monsters Inc in the theatre room and text Logan until three a.m. He said I would fall in love with the green monster if I watched the movie. Lo and behold, the boy was right. I now have a newfound interest in Disney.

Besides, I had nothing better to do. Alfie and the Suits stayed in the billiard room all night, drinking whiskey and smoking cigars. Liam came home late and avoided the master bedroom by locking himself in the office.

I live in a huge house surrounded by people, yet lately, I feel so lonely. If it were not for the youth centre and the occasional text message from Jace, I’d be psychologically disturbed. I need friends and a pastime before I end up stir crazy from boredom.

“You came home late,” I fired back, somewhat accusatory.

Liam’s cold eyes raised from the phone. “Is there something you wish to get off your chest?”

No, I am nit-picking for attention. I hate it when we fight, and since the night we quarrelled over Logan, it’s been different between us. He comes home late to avoid me and waits until he thinks I am asleep before climbing into bed. But what’s worse? He doesn’t touch me, and it is killing me. Even now, he’s aloof and distant. “No.”

“Good.” He poured himself coffee. “Did you receive the information from Brad?”

“Yes.” Brad sent Phillip Henry’s file via email. “Were you incapable of messaging me yourself?”

His lip twitched. “Shall we talk?”

“Depends.” Hands to my hips, I asked, “Can you make time for me?”

“Depends,” he mocked, fixing a cufflink. “Will the conversation regard a certain teenager?”

I ignored the acidity in his tone. “You never leave our bed without kissing my cheek.” He was staring out the window; the guards patrolling the gardens were seemingly more interesting than his wife. “Why the change of affection?”

“No change.” His hands flattened on the kitchen counter. “I am in love with my wife. I am not, however, fond of her recent behaviour.”

He speaks of me as though I am not in the room. “I will not apologise for trying to help a vulnerable young boy.” His face was emotionless, not a hint of anger. “Can we resolve disagreements?” My hand curled around his nape. “I hate the distance between us.”

Liam kissed my inner wrist. “Will you forget about the boy?”

I had to choose my battles carefully. “Yes.” For now, I thought. “You look tense.” Lifting myself onto the counter, parting my thighs, I held onto his shirt collar and coaxed him closer. “Maybe I can help?”

He fisted hair at the back of my head. “You weaponise sex.”

I fluttered my eyelashes innocently. “I do?”

“Yes,” he growled, his forehead touching mine. “I am inclined to reject you, but you’re right. I am tense. Incandescent. Frustrated.” All of a sudden, I am repositioned to my front, heeled feet to the ground, face pressed to the counter. His zip and belt buckle clanked as he undid his trousers. “I am not in the mood for anything passionate this morning, baby.” He hiked the skirt of my dress to the waist and lined his swollen cock to my entrance. “Keep that sassy mouth shut while I fuck you.”

When Liam impaled me, I hissed, grappling air to recuperate. He promised passionless sex and delivered. It was hard, fast and unforgiving. I felt oddly used and worthless. Each thrust sprung tears to my eyes, but I blinked them back and matched his mercilessness with moans of approval.

Sex with Liam can endure for hours. Today, though, he wasted no time. Five minutes of severe pummelling later, and he’s throbbing inside me, not so much as a groan on his end. He pulled out, and I winced, feeling hot spurts of semen on my lower back.

I am going to kill him.

“Liam?” Spinning around to face him, I watched in sheer horror as he slowed his strokes, cum leaking from the crested slit. “What did you do?”

“Get on the counter,” he ordered, releasing the knuckle-white grip to his shaft. “Go ahead. Open your legs, and I will finish you off.”

I slapped him so hard that even I saw stars. “Do not treat me like a whore.”

Head whipped to the side, he thumbed trickled blood from the corner of his lips and stared back at me through dark, murderous eyes. “What the fuck have I told you about hitting me?”

“Why did you do that? You purposefully pulled out to prevent…” I held my breath, the muscles in my body welded. “If you are still angry with me, that’s fine. I can handle some space. Do not use me to your convenience—”

“The audacity.” Tucking himself away, zipping up his pants, Liam grabbed my phone off the kitchen island and pressed it to my chest. “Who is using who, baby?”

Liam had absquatulated the Manor without looking back.

I checked my phone.

Ovulation notification.

A text message from Logan.

My eyes squeezed shut. “Shit.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Alexa

I emerged from the shadows in a figure-hugging red dress, the satin material hiding the angel wings on my back. With long puffy sleeves and wrists adorned in diamonds, I drifted through the grandeur jamboree of tuxedos, dazzling evening dresses and polite sommeliers. My six-inch heels clicked against the Emperador marble floor as I strolled to the long-stretched bar. I sat elegantly on the leather stool, ordered one margarita and admired the room’s idyllic layout.

Victoria Rose visited The Ice Bar from time to time. Encompassed by jaw-dropping contemporary designs, high-ceilings, opulent crystal chandeliers, scarlet velour seating accommodations and concierge lounges, the bewitching siren came out at night to lure eligible bachelors, scandalous politicians, corrupt estate moguls, business tycoons and avariciously unpatriotic millionaires.

I never thought I’d return, especially incognito. Yet here I sit to inveigle. To my right, the smartly dressed male offered a pleasant smile and clicked down the barman for refills. I had no interest in him or his closeness (he’s not the target), but I couldn’t shake the gnawing sensation in my stomach.

I sensed the intrusiveness of his glare.

Gearing up to reciprocate his former smile, I faced him, but he no longer looked approachable. Inquisitiveness traded friendliness. His eyes slithering into tiny slits, he examined me from head to toe.

My head cocked to the side.

Nameless reminded me of someone.

Our curious expressions mirrored.

Realisation dawned on me.

In a state of shock and panic, I put my back to him and downed the margarita in one gulp. “Shit,” I whispered under my breath. He’s a regular. I am almost sure he’d entered the bar with John Doe, the married baron Nathan had methodically hand-picked.

Rohan Wallace.

Why must the action of remembering come late in life?

Rohan excused himself from pre-drinks with partners to stand alongside the ‘lonely’ woman at the bar, ordered a neat scotch and worked his charm. He was a handsome man, lean, groomed, tailored and chivalrous. Before complimenting Victoria’s eyes, he’d slipped his wedding band inside his trouser pocket and loosened the top buttons of his white shirt.

I paled by the second.

Without sexual inhibitions, Victoria conspired, brushing a finger along Rohan’s knuckles, always maintaining eye contact and upholding a lascivious appeal. He approved with heavy-lidded eyes and whispered vulgar promises in her ear.

“H-hey.” A tap on my shoulder. “Don’t I k-know y-you from somewhere?”

I swallowed to avoid biliousness.

“No,” I squeaked.

Rohan led Miss Rose to the private hotel room he routinely booked above the bar for clandestine affairs with available women or dependable escorts.

“Nath,” I muttered behind a clenched fist.

Inside his luxuriously hired penthouse suite, Rohan shut the door and grappled Miss Rose with greedy hands. His forwardness had stunned her. The impromptu dress tear and alcohol tasting lips sought her unwilling mouth. She had almost regretted the whole charade but managed to steady her breathing and cool his advances by coaxing him to the master bedroom.

“Y-you l-look familiar,” the guy said with an edge of suspicion.

I wiped perspiration beads across my forehead.

Rohan fell on the bed, unbuttoning his shirt, mouthing disgusting, sexual innuendos.

I sat in full-fledged dread and trepidation.

Brazenly erotic, Victoria knelt between Rohan’s parted thighs and held his gaze while unzipping and unbuckling his trouser pants. When his eyes rolled back, his arms tucking behind his head, she knew she had him, hook, line and sinker.

My brain scattered in multiple directions.

Three seconds into jouissance, Victoria stabbed Rohan’s muscular thigh, the prepared syringe, courtesy of Nathan. He had felt the sharp pinch and flinched, but the drugs took effect, knocking him into a transient state of unconsciousness.

“Nath, we have a problem.” Speaking like a ventriloquist, I slipped off the stool and walked to the furthest side of the room. “Wallace’s partners are in the building.”

“Who?” Jace’s voice cracked in my ear.

“Remember the baron?” Finding an empty table free of wrath, I parked on the seat and kept my head down to avoid disturbance. “Messy hair? Boyish smile?” He’s infuriatingly wordless. “He tore my dress—”

“What about him?”

“When the police arrested me on suspicion of Rohan Wallace’s murder, I had no recollection of the guy…”

Jace spat out a curse. “Until now.”

“Yes,” I whispered, scratching the coaster to distract myself. “I think he recognised me.” Rohan’s friend glared at me from across the room. “Correction. He definitely recognises me.”

“Fuck,” Jace muttered expletives, and my anxieties skyrocketed. “Leave.”

I peered towards the boisterous table where Rohan’s former partners imbibe alcohol. Mr Nameless carried glassed shots to their station and, although he’s engaged in conversation, his distracted eyes foraged—me.

“Fucking, fuck.” I put my forehead to the table. “Give me one second.” Muting the earpiece, I blindly searched my clutch bag for the phone, flicked through contacts and dialled Brad’s number. Phone to my ear, I waited with bated breath for him to answer.

“Sugar tits,” Brad chimed.

“Brad,” I said quietly. “Where’s Liam?”

“Warren’s about.” For no apparent reason, he prevaricates. “Do you want me to put him on the phone?”

No, I did not want to deal with Liam.

He’s on my hitlist until further notice.

“Well?” Brad prompted. “What do you want?”

“I need a favour.” My head down, I muttered, “Rohan Wallace?”

There was an infinitesimal pause. “The guy you whacked?”

“His friends are in the building,” I said, low and hoarse. “One of them recognised me. He will blow my cover.”

“Calm down.” Brad covered the receiver, and I faintly heard him excusing himself from the others. “Profile?”

“Blonde. Green eyes.” I peered between rigid fingers. “Purple tie.”

“Lure him to the restroom.”

“What?” My face bunched up. “How am I supposed to do that, dipshit? I am barking up the wrong tree with that one.”

“Just—get his ass to the fucking bog,” were his final words before he hung up on me.

Growling like a certifiable mental patient, I soared from the table and let the fearless mask slip in place. Meandering through busy booths, I ambled straight past Mr Nameless, brushed my fingers along his arm and maintained a sultry pace. I overheard him disentangle from carousing and sensed the determination in his long, powerful strides as she shadowed in my footsteps.

Pushing open the heavy, mahogany door to the restrooms, forgoing the male and females, I stepped into the disabled cubicle and prepared for an onslaught. Nameless’ palms jolted the door before I could lock it. He barged into my breathing space.

My fake eyelashes fluttered. “Can I help you?” I asked sweetly. Judging by his vicious expression, he indisputably loathed yours truly. “I don’t urinate with an audience.”

“Y-you were h-here,” he said with an incriminatory point of the finger. “I saw y-you two together. It was y-you, wasn’t it? Y-you went b-back to Ro’s room and y-you…” His eyes welled up, and my heartstrings wrenched. “Did y-you k-kill him? Did y-you do that to, to my f-friend?”

I was an awful human. “Who’s Rohan?”

“You know!” he barked, spittle spraying from his mouth. “I am n-not, not senile. You, you, y-you were there that…night. Y-you led, led him to, to the r-room.”

I struggled to understand his stammering utterance. “I am sorry about your friend.” I meant every word. “I wish I could help you, but you mistake me for someone else—” A door crashed into the wall in the hallway. “I should leave.”

He fisted the side of my dress. “W-wait.”

Whatever Nameless had to say died on his tongue. Brad appeared like an apparition. “Howdy motherfuckers.” I had zero time to process anything. He snatched Nameless by the scruff, smashed his face against the wall tiles and flung his unconscious body into a heaped contortion on the ground. “Phillip’s in the building. He’s entertaining a blonde babe by the jukebox.” Biting off the tip of a syringe, he bent down and stabbed the guy’s neck. He backed out of the cubicle and utilised a twenty pence coin to engage the lock. “You got half an hour to nail the bastard before this geezer wakes up.”

I rubbed goosebumps from my arms. “Did anyone see you come in?”

“No.” He walked alongside me to the all-wooden hallway. “I’ll slip out the back. Nate’s on standby, so make it quick.”

We parted ways in opposite directions. I returned to the main function room and searched for the target. I locate him, Phillip Henry. He stands by the bar beside an attractive companion. Okay, she’s more than attractive. She’s insanely beautiful. Flawless. Everything I am not. “Impossible,” I murmured, and Jace snorted in my ear. “Her boobs are bigger than my head.”

“You are not dealing with a teenage boy, Vick. Men are looking for more than big breasts when pursuing a woman.”

My fingers outlined the jutted ribs beneath the skin-tight material that sheathed my upper body. “She’s curvy. Massive ass. Tight waist and legs for miles. Shit, what shall I do?”

“Confidence.” Jace’s keyboard tapped in the background. “It’s sexier than a pair of tits.”

With an authoritative aura of assertiveness, I strolled to the bar like I owned the place. Heads turned to marvel. Males openly raked their eyes down my legs. I offered a coquettish smile here and there, hoping they’d take the bait. By the time I stood next to Phillip, those inviting smirks had sealed the deal. On separate occasions, men of riches stopped by and offered to buy me a drink. I declined their generosity and purchased the most expensive champagne on the menu.

Phillip’s looking at me now, ignoring the bodacious beauty chewing his ear off.

He’s curious if nothing else.

Who is this woman?

Why do men fall at her feet?

Why do I care?

My date’s beautiful.

I could almost hear the questions inside his head.

“I need to use the restroom,” said the blonde seductress, and he watched her walk away.

Three. Two. One.

Phillip pointed to the champagne bottle. “Nice choice.”

Tongue on a leash, I side-eyed him and continued to drink in silence.

“Are you here with a friend?” He glimpsed around the room for a possible date. “Unaccompanied?” My muteness irked him. “Phillip Henry.” He held out a hand. “And you are…?”

I counted to five and then shook his hand gently. “Victoria.”

“Victoria,” he said in a velvety tone as if testing how the syllables rolled off his tongue. “That’s an exquisite dress, Victoria.”

Jace scoffed in my ear.

“Thank you.” Putting my hip to the counter, I deliberately eyed him from head to toe. “Tom Ford?”

“Yes.” He acted impressed, absently stroking his breast pocket napkin. “You know a thing or two about suits?”

“To a certain degree.” I married a suit aficionado. “I love designer labels.”

“Likewise.” Nervous that his female friend might return at any moment, his gaze revisited the restrooms. “Do you come here often?”

“No, tonight’s a first for me.” I sat on the stool and crossed my legs, which caused the material of my dress to rise. Adam’s apple shifting on a tight swallow, he stared at my thighs for a questionably inappropriate time and then knocked back a shot. “It’s boring here. It’s unlikely that I’ll be back.”

“That’s a shame—hey.” Upon noticing the other woman, Phillip’s voice reached a high-pitched crescendo. “You came back. I was just telling Victoria about you.”

I had to refrain from an eye-roll.

“Can we relocate?” Her back blocked my view. “Somewhere more private.”

“Vick,” Jace groused in my ear. “Intervene before she makes him leave. He’s interested.”

Phillip procrastinated.

He looked inside the empty shot glass.

His eyes sought mine.

A question dangled on the tip of his tongue.

“Well?” she prompted, and he flung me another glance. “Phillip?”

How do I stop him? Hey, I know we only just met, but why don’t you ditch the broad and fuck me sideways in the restroom?

I needed more time to win his affections.

“Yes, of course,” Phillip agreed, albeit reluctant. “Lead the way.”

“You idiot,” Jace barked, and I had to stop myself from muting him. “Vick, pull out the big guns.”

Respiring a stuttered breath, I stepped out before Phillip walked away and whispered, “I am staying in the hotel opposite.” His date began to retrace her footsteps. “If you decide to ditch the clinger, I am in room eighty-one.” Our eyes connected. His brown hues to my fake blues. “Penthouse.”

“Phillip?” Sending me a hateful look of disdain, she tugged his suit sleeve. “What’s her problem?”

I swallowed the remnants of champagne, picked up the clutch purse and headed for the entrance. Inclination told me he’d join me in a few hours. Right now, though, I had to regain some wits. Plus, if I hang around for a second longer, I get the feeling Clinger might smash a bottle over my head.

“Vick?” Jace’s panicked voice stabbed me in the ear. “Why are you leaving? Go back inside and finish the job.”

“He’s with someone,” I said behind a hand. “Just…let me think for a minute.”

“Don’t you dare mute—”

I switched off the earpiece, checked for any oncoming traffic, and darted across the road. Entering the hotel through the gilded revolving doors, I strode past the reception desk, omitting the grand staircase, and frantically pushed the elevator button.

Fringed by the corner-to-corner glass and gilded features, I tapped in the code for the penthouse, waited for the doors to shut and gave myself a well-needed breather. I was elevated to the fifth floor when someone called upon the lift. I shifted to the corner, expecting to see chambermaids or guests when the very person who makes me forget my name—who uncaged butterflies in my chest—stepped inside. “What are you doing here?”

Liam punched the emergency button, and the elevator jittered to an abrupt stop, terminating upward travels. “You left,” he snarled, his eyes roaming the length of my body. “You left the bar without warning. And don’t even start me on the dress.” Biting down on his clenched knuckles, he glared at me from beneath gnarled eyebrows. “I did not agree with you wearing something so provocative. I can practically see your fucking ass.”

“Thanks for the confidence boost, husband.” My head tipped to the side. “Go back to the Bentley, Liam. I cannot finish the assignment with you lording it over me.”

“You will go to the room and change expeditiously.” Anger flared in his eyes. “Understand?”

“I will do no such thing.” I am minutes away from lunging a shoe at his head. “Get your jealousy under control, or I will—”

“You’ll what?” His arms caged me in. “Finish your threat, baby, and there might be a place for you over my knee, after all.”

I held my breath. “I only agreed for you.”

Liam’s jaw sharpened. “I changed my mind. I don’t want this.” His breathing came in heavy and fast. “It’s not worth it.”

I stared unblinkingly. “The diamonds?”

“Fuck the diamonds,” he growled, slamming a hand to the glass above my head. “He wanted you.” His voice lowered to a gravelled whisper. “I saw it. He’ll come here, Henry.” With a strand of my hair pinched between his fingers, he lowered his head to my chest. “I cannot stomach the thought of his hands on you.” His lips paid respect to my throat. “Kissing what belongs to me. Touching what’s mine.”

“You treated me like shit this morning.” My palms pushed back on his chest. “You don’t get to come here and lay down the law without an apology. Oh, and whilst we are on the subject of how much of an insulting asshole you can be, maybe you can apologise for insinuating that I dress like a goddamn harlot.”

“An apology?” He spat out a curse. “You pretended to make amends for the sake of ovulation, baby. It is you who should express regret.”

Vulnerable moroseness dilated Liam’s searching eyes. Feeling regretful, I cupped his jaw and thumbed stubble. “I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. “Although I rarely discuss pregnancy, it’s often on my mind. If, at any point, I made you feel used, then I cannot apologise enough. My intention was never to hurt you.”

“Meaningless sex does not belong in our bed.” His lips pressed to my palm. “I know you love me because I feel it when you look at me,” he rasped, and I sensed a clause. “But I will not allow your obsession for motherhood ruin intimacy. I cherish those moments with you, baby.” His hand skirted under my dress to grasp a handful of my ass. “I want you to fuck me because you need it,” he emphasised, sinking his teeth in my shoulder. “Because you want me in a way that’s insatiable.”

“Liam,” I moaned, wilting in the thrall of his possessiveness.

“I want you to crave me the same way I crave you.” He lifted my feet off the ground, yanking my legs around him. “Fuck, this is a bad idea.”

Yes, Liam is close to tearing my dress and taking me against the wall. “You should put me down.”

“If it’s meant to be,” his kiss whispered over my lips, “it’ll be. In the meantime, we can have fun trying. Just don’t put a wedge between us in the process.”

My heart ached. “Okay.”

“Logan,” he said, studiously cataloguing every detail of my face. “I fear he’ll cause issues in our marriage. You are to block his number and forget he ever existed.” No, anything but that. “It’s non-negotiable, Alexa. It’s an ultimatum, so choose wisely.”

“It is never a choice when it comes to you,” I whispered, and his eyes closed in relief. “You are above everything and everyone, Liam. That’ll never change. But why must I decide? I am your wife. He’s a child—”

“Logan’s not ours.” His defensiveness postulated. “You risk attachment for a boy who, whether desired or not, has a family. A mother,” he emphasised, and every muscle inside me turned to ice. “He belongs to them, baby. He does not belong to you.”

The elevator revived.

Liam fixed my raised dress and returned my feet to the ground. Dragging two hands over his head, he neatened his hair and put his back to the opposite wall. He watched me watching him. His countenance was patently unamused.

The double doors chimed upon unsealing.

Phillip Henry.

“Victoria?” Pleased to see me, he entered the limited space. “I put Jenna in a taxi and came straight to your calling.”

I automatically glanced at Liam. It was the first time, in a long time, I saw the eyes of a dangerous killer. “Phillip,” I said on a tight swallow. “Perhaps—”

“It would be stupidly reckless to decline such an invitation.” Belatedly noticing another person, he straightened his spine. “Warren.”

The tightness in Liam’s jaw betrayed his composure. “Do I know you?”

“Not personally.” Phillip’s hands thrust into his trouser pockets. “Grapevine conversations.”

“Can be dangerous,” Liam said calmly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” With one final glance in my direction, he exited the lift. “I have a date with a beautiful brunette.”

My stomach dipped.

“Oh, enjoy your evening.” Phillip venerated with a nonsensical hand wave. “I know I will.” His eyebrows waggled. “So, Victoria, where do you want me?”

Liam wanted the diamonds enough to ask for my help, which, in itself, was a rarity, but jealousy improvised his initial decision. He peered over his shoulder, a silent order to abort the assignment. Unfortunately for him, I left the Manor tonight on a mission, and I will deliver.

I hit the button to the penthouse. “You are in for one hell of a ride.”

Phillip Henry pounced the second we stumbled into the master bedroom. I landed on the king-size bed with broad-shouldered handsomeness on top of me. His butter-soft hands smoothed the apex of my thighs. His hot tongue seared the skin of my throat. Feigning erotic mewls, I stared at the patternless ceiling, sickened by the frictional prod of his length on my lower stomach.

“I love your eyes,” he groaned in my ear, dry humping me against the mattress. “But I need you to roll over.”

It would seem the married man felt guilty. “I prefer to look at the man who enters me.” I extended my hand to reach for the discarded purse and fingered contents until the syringe fell into possession. “I like to watch a man’s expression when he drives forward.”

He growled, low and throaty. “Please don’t tease me.” His body trembled in anticipation. “I am holding on by a thread.”

My thumb flicked off the syringe’s cap. “Do you like it slow or fast?”

“I don’t know,” he susurrated, and my brows gathered. “It has been a long time since I invited a woman to bed.” It was then that I discerned his clumsy movements. His hands shook, and he’d seemed to have forgotten how to disrobe. “Almost,” he said airily, fumbling with his shirt buttons. “Should I remove my shoes and socks?”

I think my heart skipped a beat.

In accordance with Brad’s file, Phillip Henry is a womanising businessman who cheats on his disabled wife on weekends, yet he practically murmured celibacy in my ear. “You are on edge.” He nodded in the groove of my neck. “Why? You are a handsome man. I am sure women throw themselves at you.” It is not a lie. Phillip is beautiful. He had a strong, angular jaw and sharp, eye-catching features. With a boyish smile that was impossible to overlook, he’s smartly dressed, polite and chivalrous and even now, while a woman lays beneath him, he’s fighting ravenousness to show respect and to maintain dignity. “Phillip?”

“I am so nervous.” He kissed my temple. “Maybe you can take the lead, Victoria.”

Guilt weighed heavily on my shoulders. “Are you married?” I knew the answer yet had to ask. “You have a tan line on your fourth finger.”

I heard him gulp. “Yes.”

“Then, why did you agree to come here?”

Phillip didn’t answer, and then, he fell back on his haunches. “I don’t know.” His distressed expression made me feel sick to my stomach. “I normally decline sex, but you remind me so much of my wife. Well, the woman I once married. I miss that—us. Seeing her sprawled out across the bed, looking at me the way you are right now.” He stared longingly at me. “I am a terrible person.”

I was nonplussed. “But I saw you with another woman…”

“Who? Jenna?” His frown deepened. “Yes, I meet women on weekends for company. We talk or dine together. I never overstep, though. I kiss them goodnight and then return home to my wife.”

“Does she refuse you?” Hiding the syringe under the pillow, I pulled the hem of my dress down and sat up. “Your wife?”

“Yes.” He speared a hand through his unruly hair. “In her defence, she is bound to a wheelchair.” I listened intently, pretending obliviousness. “She used to want me. It was challenging at first, but we found a way around obstacles. She had the same desires regardless of disabilities…Until she didn’t.”

Great, I am supposed to con this man. Instead, I stand to pour him a stiff drink, ready to discuss marital difficulties.

What has my life come to?

“What changed?”

“We grew apart.” He sat on the foot of the bed. “We sleep in separate bedrooms. We rarely talk or watch movies or go on dates.”

I passed him a glass. “Why haven’t you left?”

“I keep praying for a miracle.” He nursed the glass. “I am waiting for her to remember me.”

Swallowing a shot of vodka, I perched onto the bed beside him. “Phillip?”

He turned his neck to look at me. “Yes?”

“You deserve to be happy.”

“I know,” he said gloomily.

“Straying is not the answer, though.” I licked vodka across my lips. “Is your marriage salvageable?”

He shook his head and a single tear fell down his cheek.

I braced myself for some home truths. “Okay, I have a confession to make.” Rubbing my clammy hands together, I paced the space between the bed and the dresser. “My name’s Alexa. I was sent to The Ice Bar to lure you back to the penthouse.”

His eyes rounded. “I beg your pardon?”

“Let me finish.” I amped up the volume on the earpiece in case the man flips out and attacks me and picked up the vodka bottle to pull a sip. “I am married to Liam Warren—”

“No,” Phillip interjected. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you?” I laughed at the ridiculousness. “Phillip, I could never overpower you—”

“He can,” he cut me off once more, dabbing sweat droplets on his forehead. “Warren. That’s why he was here in the hotel, wasn’t it?” His eyes visited the doorway. “Is he back there? Will he kill me? What did I do to upset him?”

“Will you let me finish?” I asked impatiently. “Yes, Liam’s nearby. He’s not here to hurt you, though. Not unless you do something stupid.” I let assurance sink in and then said, “We need your help.”

“How can someone like me help a man like him?” Phillip’s on the verge of vomiting. “Victoria—I mean, Alexa. I am not even rich. In actuality, I am facing bankruptcy. This suit?” He gestured to himself. “It belongs to my brother-in-law. I borrowed it for a job interview this morning.”

I felt the colour drain from my face. “Job interview?”

“Yes.” His palms rubbed up and down his face furiously. “I got fired last week.”

Jace muttered “shit” in my ear.

My tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. “Do you still have access to the Bourse’s systems?”

Phillip looked narrowly at me. “Why?”

“Answer the question,” Nate drawled, and having not anticipated the sound of his deep voice, the bottleneck slipped through my fingers, dispersing glass fragments across the floor. “Was that necessary?”

“What’s not necessary is you creeping upon us!” With aftershock trembles, I collapsed on the upholstered armchair. Nate’s muscular body consumed the entire doorway. He lowered a bag to the and snapped on a pair of black latex gloves. “You lot are determined to give me a heart attack.”

“Mr Alzaim.” Recognising Liam’s intolerable brute, Phillip jumped to his feet. “I did not hurt her, I promise. We talked about business ventures.”

My brow arched.

“And to answer your question. No, I can no longer access the Bourse,” Phillip continue, and I believed him. “Not anymore. I wish I could help—” Nate snatched the man’s wrist and examined his fingertips. “What are you doing?”

“Give me your phone.” Togged up in all-black attire, Jace shouldered past Nate and dropped a holdall on the bed. Shooting a condemning glare in my direction, he reached inside Phillip’s trouser pocket and switched on his phone. “Your details will still be on their systems.” Loading his laptop, he connected it to the phone. “I should disown you.”

It took me a few seconds to realise Jace was talking to me. “Why?”

“You turned me off.” Braced on one knee in front of the bed, Jace disconnected his earpiece, balanced the laptop on a pillow and tapped the keyboard. “That shit hurt.”

My eyes rolled heavenward.

“Rub your hands together,” Nate instructed, and Phillip obeyed until sweat glistened his palms. “Touch the dresser. Splayed fingers.”

“Why?” Phillip glanced from Jace to Nate. “I—”

“Move it,” Nate barked, and I cringed. “Flat palms.”

Uncomfortably submissive, Phillip splayed his hands on the dresser.

“Lift,” Nate ordered, and he did as instructed. “Touch the brass lamp. Good. Go by the window. Don’t talk.” He sprinkled powder onto the wood and brass surfaces and then dusted off excess. “Warren’s seething,” he tells me, utilising ultra-clear tape to collect the fingerprints. “Just a heads-up.”

“I obeyed commands,” I said in a bored tone. “He needs to get a handle on his jealousy.” I am a walking contradiction. I’m no better in the jealousy department. “Can we leave?”

“Soon,” Jace replied.

Phillip looked soul-destroyed, betrayed.

“I am sorry for deceiving you,” I mouthed.

“Why don’t you go and wait for me in the car park?” Nate offered innocently, but there was a threatening edge in his voice. “I can handle the rest.”

“No,” I responded suspiciously.

Nate readjusted his nose ring. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I exposed the syndicate, which means Phillip’s a liability. “It’s my fault,” I said in premature devastation, and Nate shrugged uncaringly. “We can pay for silence.”

“Pay for silence?” Phillip’s face was hard and drawn. “What does that mean?”

“I thought I told you to shut the fuck up?” Nate’s in work mode. “On your knees, bitch.”

“No.” I had to intervene. “He is not a threat to us.”

Nate was cold and indifferent. “We can’t be sure.”

“What?” Phillip’s throat thickened. “Listen, you can have whatever you want. I won’t say anything. I promise—” Nate whipped out a Glock and aimed. “Oh, shit. Please, I don’t want to die. I have everything to live for.”

“Let me handle this.” My hands throwing up, I walked towards Phillip. “Nate, we don’t—” Gunfire echoed throughout the penthouse, and the awful taste of warm blood splattered over my face.

Phillip’s knees crashed against the floor, and his lifeless body slumped forward.

Rage ignited. “You asshole!”

“Done.” Wiping Phillip’s phone with a cloth, Jace chucked it on the floor, tossed Nate the USB stick and shut down his laptop. “Alexa, let’s go.”

Blood pooled beneath Phillip’s head and stained the cream carpet crimson. “I have never hated the syndicate as much as I do right now. He did not deserve to die. We could have bought his silence—”

“At the cost of who?” Maddeningly hard-hearted, Nate towered above me. I had never seen his eyes so green. “Are you willing to gamble, Alexa? Because it won’t be your head on the chopping board; it’ll be Warren’s.”

Acidic bile slithered down my throat.

“Next time you agree to take on a job?” He proceeded to lecture. “Stick to the programme.”

Nate’s heavy footsteps retreated down the hall.

I stared at Phillip’s dead body, knowing I only had myself to blame.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Liam

Leather gloves stretching to accommodate my fingers, I extended a hand, and Nate slapped a threaded ten-inch barrel onto my upward facing palm alongside a Bowers 50-cal suppressor. Attaching both parts to the Desert Eagle, I loaded cartridges and affixed the magazine.

I sent Alexa a text message.

Me: Where are you?

Alexa: It doesn’t matter.

Me: It matters.

Alexa: I am pretty sure Alfie’s kept you posted.

Me: I haven’t messaged Alfie.

Alexa: Why?

Me: I wanted to give my wife the opportunity of elucidation.

Alexa: How chivalrous of you?

Me: Alexa, I am losing patience.

Alexa: I left the Manor at sunrise when I realised my husband stayed out all night. If you must know, I am spending the day at Jace’s place.

When I went home to shower this morning, the guards informed me of Alexa’s departure. She had left at the crack of dawn, her most trusted bodyguard, Alfie, in tow. I am not concerned for her safety, not while he stands by her side; however, even though it’s touch and go between us recently, I need her to know I still care.

Me: I spent the night at Club 11 with Brad and Josh.

Alexa: I never asked.

Me: Baby, I sensed your bitterness through the phone.

Me: I tried to dispel mistrust.

Alexa: What?

Me: You know what.

Alexa: In my defence, I think most women would not appreciate their husbands avoiding them or staying out all night – never mind the issue of sleeping in separate beds!

Alexa: I never accused you of extracurricular activity. Reassurance was sparked by self-reproach.

Me: I am guilty of many transgressions but cheating on you will never be an offence.

Alexa: Then, why didn’t you come home, Liam?

Me: I am angry with you.

Alexa: Ditto.

I dialled Alexa’s number.

“What?” she shouted the second our call connected.

I grind my teeth. “You better watch your mouth.”

“You don’t get to call and demand respect,” she argued, and Nate turned his head to shield mirth. “I ask very little of you, Liam. After we took vows, you promised to come to bed every night, even if it’s late or in the early hours. Why must I wake up alone because you’d rather avoid confrontation?”

“I hate arguing with you,” I defended myself, and she laughed bitterly. “It’s true. Nothing hurts me more than your despondency. So, I fucking evade interrogation. Sue me.”

“You’re the person causing me to feel this way,” she whispered crossly, and I rested my head on the headrest. “You sent me to Phillip. You asked for my help. I executed. Yet, I am treated like a pariah because of your uncontrollable jealousy. What bothers you most, husband? The act itself or the fact you elected me for the job?”

Nate climbed out of the car to grant privacy.

“You made an impromptu decision which cost the man his life.”

“Do not sell me empathetic bullshit. You did not care whether that man lived or died.” Cupboard doors flew open while she searched for something. “You are controlling,” she added, and I parted my lips to defend myself. “Go ahead. Deny it.”

“Yes.” It is impossible to debate the truth. “Where you are concerned, I can be dangerously irrational. I came to you. I told you, I changed my mind. You proceeded regardless.”

Alexa sighed a deep breath of relief. “Liam, I decoyed the poor sod to his death. I had to efface blood and gore off my face. Unlike you and your heartless men, I harbour guilt. I couldn’t sleep last night because I overthink and overanalyse everything. How will Phillip’s wife receive the news? Will daytime television splatter his murder across the screen? Who will attend his funeral? Can the wife even afford his funeral?”

My mind tells me to ease off the gas. “Alexa…”

“I wouldn’t care,” she proceeded to rant. “If Phillip deserved to die, I’d go about my day unsympathetically. But I cannot erase the terrified look in his eyes before Nate shot him. I did that. My recklessness sealed his fate.” I heard the bubbling sound of a kettle boiling. “And guess what, Liam?”

My chest tightened. “What, baby?”

“All I needed was support from you.” Her choked snivel felt like a cast iron vice around my heart. “I needed you to tell me that I wasn’t to blame. Not Alfie. Not Jace. My husband.”

“Alexa, I love you.” I tapped the lighter on my knee. “But take accountability for your actions. You made a choice. You fucked up. It’s done. Learn from this.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It’s my fault he’s dead.”

I stayed tight-lipped.

“Rightly or wrongly, I still needed you last night.”

“Allow me the chance of expiation,” I said, and she listened. “Why don’t I collect you from work later?” Nate opened the driver’s side door and gave me a curt nod. “We could go away for the weekend. Just you and me, to talk.” Her quiet laugh reduced any concerns. “How does that sound?”

Alexa hummed. “You are hiding something from me.”

My lips twist a little. “How does one conclude disingenuousness from an invitation to a romantic getaway?”

“Liam Warren, proposing to downtime voluntarily,” she stated the unarguable. “Yeah, because that’s normal.”

I ran a hand down my weary features. “You are ovulating, baby.” I can be unctuous to propitiate. “We can stay in bed all weekend.”

“And you had the nerve to say I am the manipulative one.” She scoffed, and I smirked. “Fine. I will pack our bags. Where do you plan to take me?”

Fuck, I had to think fast. “Hotel?”

“A hotel?” she droned, and I bashed the back of my head against the headrest. “Sure. And Liam?”

My eyes closed. “Yes?”

“I’m in love with you.”

Phone to my ear, I whispered, “Always.”

Alexa terminated the call.

Nate threw a pre-rolled joint on my lap.

“Fuck’s sake.” My blood heated in vexation. “Can you fucking believe this shit? Three days away from the office to keep my wife sweet.” Irritation induced a headache. “Reschedule the meeting with Moretti.” Nate extracted the laptop from the backseat and balanced it on his knee. “Somewhere exclusive. No televisions.”

“Sir.” Nate typed doable destinations into the google search bar. “What about a chalet in the woods?”

“Done,” I authorised, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Any luck?”

“To rent?” Lips pursed, he shook his head. “You could always put in an offer on one of these.” He presented a luxurious, fifteen-bedroom cabin retreat. “I mean, you can afford it.” Filtering the search bar, he narrowed down possibilities. “What do you think?”

I nodded.

“I will contact the seller once we finish.” Shutting his laptop, he slid it under the driver’s seat. “That kid left for high school five minutes ago. Now’s the time to strike.” Snapping on black latex gloves, he slid on his reading glasses and pulled up a file on his phone. “Second floor.” He pointed to the block of flats. “Twenty-eight.”

I glared at the paint-peeled door. “Are you positive?”

“Yes.” He sipped coffee from a takeaway cup. “Based on the details provided. I sent the other address to Brad.”

“Alexa mentioned his name once or twice; I vaguely remember conversations. Now, though, he’s becoming a problem. I caught her texting him yesterday morning.” Dialling Brad’s number, I set the phone to my ear. “Expound,” I said when he answered.

“Gated community,” he explained as Josh mumbled in the background. “No security.” Papers ruffled. “Wife and four kids.”

“Leave the family unharmed.” They are irrelevant. “Shoot that bastard point-blank.”

“Boss.” He ended the call.

Slipping the phone into my trouser pocket, I kicked open the passenger side door and soared from the vehicle. Lighting the joint, I glimpsed at my wristwatch and rubbed my leather-clad hands together.

Nate zipped the Bobbi Parka to his chin and pulled the fur hood over his head. “It’s cold,” he groused, walking beside me. “Nosey around here, ain’t they?”

Yes, curious neighbours peek from their windows. “Forget about them.” Hand to the guardrail, I ascended the steel staircase, the weight of my footsteps grating the bolts, and strolled to the lad’s front door.

Testing the door handle first, Nate inserted a rigged rake and scraped across the inside mechanism to disengage the lock. It clicked open, the hinges creaking. Swapping the tool for his gun, he twisted the silencer onto the end of the barrel and followed me indoors, kicking the door shut behind us.

Floorboards squelched beneath our footsteps.

Hearing pleasure-filled moans echoing from the back room, I left him alone in the dank, chaotic kitchen and moved to the ajar door. Through the crack, in the cluttered living room, I see a thin, pale-skinned woman fucking an overweight man on the couch. Her ass slapped against his hairy, parted thighs, the sound of phlegm rattling in her throat. The sight of his meaty hands adhered to her slim waist roused biliousness. “Amateur screwing,” I murmured, feeling Nate behind me. “Have you ever seen anything quite like it?”

Nate’s face contortions. “Listen to that white bitch moaning like a porn star.” He watched them for a while longer. His upper lip curled up at the corner. “My fucking toe’s bigger than what he’s got flapping.”

A low smirk slanted across my face. “All for the hype.”

“Damn right.” Popping a chewing gum bubble, he brandished a thick roll of duct tape. “I missed a gym session for these pricks, so let’s make it worthwhile.” Cocking his Glock, he booted the door open, the splintering wood cracking into the wall on impact. “Get on the ground!” His commanding voice boomed, and the woman shrieked, toppling over her lover’s legs to scurry across the threadbare carpet. “Move it, Pinguid!”

“I got the money!” The guy’s hands shot in the air. “I just need a few more weeks—” Nate punched the man square in the jaw. Flab ripped as his overweight body toppled on the ground, his flaccid pecker shrivelled amid masses of black netherhair and bedaubed in fluids. “I will do anything—”

Nate beat the man while I crouched in front of the skittish woman. Her chattering teeth dented her metaphorical veneer of demureness. Listening to the man’s sporadic whimpers, I touched the blunted dreadlock of her dry, ash-blonde hair. “You complicit in turning a blind eye to your son’s abuse,” I said knowingly, and her overgrown eyebrows snapped inwards. “Your display of callousness and apathy towards the very life you brought into this world warrants punishment.”

“We got the cash.” Her vacant, unfocused eyes swerved and veered. She’s three sheets to the wind, deliriously inebriated and mentally preoccupied. “I told Frankie to quit sending his roughnecks, yet here you are, ’bout to kill my husband.” Her scratchy voice congested catarrh. “He never goes back on his word.”

I am uninterested in Frankie—whoever the fuck he is—and his risible goons.

“Tell him, I agree,” she deadpanned. “Take the boy and bring him back next week or something.”

My head tilted. “Take him where?”

“To Orville?” Stealing the smouldering joint from my lips, she pinched the roach between wrinkled lips and dragged haze. “To settle the debt, remember? Just go easy on him. My Lo, he’s shy.”

“Are you suggesting sex slavery to clear unsettled commitments?”

“It was your boss’ idea.” She blew smoke in my face. “Why you lookin’ at me like that?”

We stood in unison.

“Okay,” she croaked, waving a flippant hand. “Quit bootin’ him. We settled it already.”

Fighting for breath, Cyril Broderick laid face down on the ground. He’s lost the energy to fight or implore. When Nate bends down to yank his arms behind his back and strap tape to his wrists, he barely summons a protest.

“Heavy motherfucker,” Nate groaned, dragging the man backwards by the ankles. “What the fuck do you eat?” He plonked Cyril on a rickety chair and bound him to the wood. Beneath the chair, a rolled-out plastic sheet. “If I weren’t here to kill you, I’d suggest a diet.”

The woman pulled a face. “What’s he talking about?”

I ignored her question. “What’s your name?”

“Roxy,” she said with an air of suspicion. “Did you fall on your head or somethin’?”

“Roxanne?” I mused, and she bowed her brows. “Do you let that scumbag put his hands on your son?”

“Oh, we’re back to that.” Grabbing a throw blanket off the sofa, she knotted it around her scrawny body. “Lo been complaining again, eh? He ain’t one of Frankie’s,” she tells Cyril. “He’s a social worker. Ain’t that right, dick?”

“I am far worse than any public servant,” I said with indifferent volubility. “In fact, let me demonstrate just how villainous I can be.” Nate handed over one of the knives he stores in the holdall. “Flayed alive.” Standing behind the flinching man, I snatched a handful of his sweat-slicked hair and yanked his head back, exposing the delicateness of his wide throat. “I like to start with the face.”

“No.” Cyril, unlike his clueless, intoxicated lover, understood. Head whipping from side to side, he pleaded for mercy. “I am a good man—”

Nate delivered a harsh backhander, which knocked out the man’s front tooth. “Want me to gag him?”

“No.” I held the woman’s protruding eyes. “She needs to hear everything.” Wielding the honed blade, I flattened it to the man’s cheekbone and nicked the skin. He drew in a sharp inhalation. “Witness,” I breathed in his ear, “everything.” Applying more pressure to his cheek, I curved the blade downward, and long, ear-splitting screams of agony ripped from his throat. Blood rivulets down my fingers, dousing the crispiness of my white shirt sleeve. “He survived your bullying.” Hacking off a chunked flesh, I flung it to the ground with a wet slap. “It’s unfortunate that we cannot say the same for you as I leave no room for clemency.”

“Cyril…” Cupping her mouth, Roxanne sobbed and slid her back down the wall.

Firing a power tool, Nate drilled a hole into Cyril’s metatarsal bones. Whistling sad tunes, he tested a hammer’s weight and mercilessly nailed corroded iron nails through his feet, pinning them to the ground.

“Ah,” the man cried and bewailed the unforgivable regrets of his past. “Please, it hurts.”

Cyril Broderick lamented.

His lover, however, beseeched for compassion.

I scalped the dying man, jettisoned tufts of greying hair and drained his sins by exsanguination. Coagulated blood dripped between the gorge of his sagging chest, and gargled sounds clogged his throat. I hacked, slashed and flayed viciously, excoriating skin from muscles.

Roxy’s lips quivered and blubbered. Mucus oozed from her nose. If it weren’t for the drugs pumping through her veins, she’d have fainted by now. Mascara-streaked tears coated her blotchy cheeks. Hoarse sobs strained her chest, where her pendulous breasts swayed. Positioned on all fours, she let the blanket untangle from her body and projectile vomited on the floor. Undigested food bespattered her rigid fingers.

Nate took the blade from my hand and, one by one, amputated the man’s toes. “Keep still.” Repositioned behind the chair, he forced Cyril’s hand back, snapping wrist bones, and severed the fingers.

Stepping around gore and blood, I returned to Roxanne’s side and put a hand to the dip in her spine. “I despise women like you.” Her round, blood-shot eyes met mine as the pungent stench of urination filled the room. Humiliated by her uncontainable bladder, she slapped a palm to her mouth, smearing vomit across her chapped lips. “He’s dead.”

“All this for money,” she cried.

“No.” My hand tightening around her throat, I hauled her upright, her legs kicking and thrashing, and thrust her back to the wall, knocking over shelved ornaments and fraudulent family portraits. “Your neglectful behaviour continues to upset my wife.” I pushed the eagle into her stomach. The silencer will suppress the blow. “That ends now.”

Confusion etched Roxanne’s apologetic features. “I am—”

I pulled the trigger.

Her deadweight body sagged in my arms.

Staring at the wall-nailed photo of her son, Logan, I released the tight grip to her throat, and her boneless body collapsed at my feet. He is young in the photograph. Five or six, perhaps. I unclipped it from the wall and studied the harsh lines of his face. It’s right here for all to perceive, his silent cry for help. You can see the desperation in his forced smile, the pain in his almond-shaped blue eyes.

Balancing an unlit cigarette on my bottom lip, I flipped open my leather wallet and tucked the photograph inside. Once Alexa forgives me for betraying her trust, I can give her the folded picture.

Fine dust particles seeped from the fractured floorboards above.

I slowly tilted my neck and glared at the ceiling, listening for movements. “Did you see that?”

“See what?” Following my line of vision, Nate rolled Cyril’s unrecognisable body in the plastic sheet. “Do you want me to go upstairs to check it out?”

“No.” Gun tucked into the waistband of my trousers, I ventured down the narrow hallway and peered up the stairway. Deathly silence greeted. I noticed cat food in the kitchen earlier, so it’s probably their pet, or so I thought until the floor complained again.

My right eye twitched.

Drawing out the silk napkin from my breast pocket, I wiped the besprinkled blood from my face and, one leather Ferragamo at a time, ascended the stairs. Muggy darkness soon cased the sphere. Stained sheets tapestried the landing windows and aloft light fixtures excluded bulbs. I paused by the bathroom’s doorway and spurned the filthy suite, the excrement malodour and graffitied slate-like walls. Opposite the washroom, the parents’ bedroom. Beside theirs, the door to their son’s quiet place. Twisting the door handle, I granted myself entry and mentally inventoried the scarce furnishings, the uncarpeted floor, and precariously hanging roller blind. At least, he liked the light. The morning sun veiled through the room, highlighting the few trophies on the wooden chest of drawers. I picked one up and read the engraving.

Basketball player of the year

Logan Broderick

I flicked the emblazoned medals secured to the damp wall.

A black journal sat neatly on the single bed.

Invading the lad’s privacy, I opened to the first page and read depressing tales of his life. If these entries were anything to go by, he never cared much for his mother or the man she chose to lay down with at night.

I know I have a dad, he wrote. I do not know if he knows about me, though.

I turned the page.

Am I weird?

I like to watch people.

Like Margrett, the woman across the road, she watches people, too.

All the time.

Weird woman.

Maybe I learnt from the best of them.

I mean, if I do not get caught, then I am not hurting anyone.

Unless I do get caught, which, in some cases, I do.

It is pretty embarrassing when that happens.

It is strange, right?

I am strange.

Fuck, I am crazy strange.

My cheek ticked.

I like her, Christie. I like her a lot.

She is pretty and kinda nice when she is not stomping her feet and yelling at everybody. I like her blonde hair. I like her eyes and her smile. I like her laugh and how her cheeks pinken when she is acting all shy and shit.

Why do I say ‘like’ so much?

Bad habit, I guess.

Shit, I wish Christie would look at me the way I look at her.

Just once, let her notice me.

But she does not see me.

Nobody sees me.

What is the point in any of this?

I checked the next page.

My nightmares are becoming more vivid.

Last night, I dreamt I killed Cyril. I took a knife to his throat and bled him dry. I woke up kinda freaked out, and I was covered in sweat. I had to shower twice. I could not even look at my Ma when I left for school.

Why do I always dream of murdering my stepdad?

Does it mean I might actually do it?

Am I a monster?

Is there something wrong with me?

Yeah, there is definitely something not right here.

I light the cigarette that’s still perched on my lip and exhale a trail of smoke. Skipping towards the end of the journal, I selected a random page and read another.

I have a stalker.

No, seriously. Our new youth worker follows me around like a doe-eyed puppy. I hate people creeping up on me, yet everywhere I turn, there she is, spiking conversation, irritating the hell out of me.

On a plus note, she is nice to look at. Her smile is super genuine, and she is friendly. And she is kinda funny…sometimes…If you consider her awful communication skills and the little snort she makes at the end of each giggle fit.

I think she feels sorry for me because she goes out of her way to be annoyingly talkative.

Anyway, I am eating microwave pasta for tea. I got it for a quid down at the corner store. It tastes better than last night’s lasagne, so that is a bonus, right?

I held smoke at the back of my throat.

I used to feel like I had nothing to live for.

And then I met her.

Her name is Alexa.

And Alexa is becoming my favourite person.

She sucks at basketball.

Who plays ball in high heels?

She laughs like a pig.

Why does she cover her nose?

She smiles with her eyes.

What colour are they?

Brown? Green? Both?

She makes time for me.

Why does she care so much?

She has the most beautiful face.

Why do I struggle to take my eyes off her?

I cannot handle any more disappointment.

Please do not hurt me.

His words slammed me in the chest. I flung the diary on the bed as if the pages could sear my fingertips. Dragging on the cigarette, I dropped the rest out of the window and respired smoke in intervals. Heart whooshing in my chest, I held my breath and said, “I don’t play hide and seek.” Abruptly lunging the bed across the squalid room, I reached for the lad’s T-shirt and ripped him to his feet. “You weren’t supposed to be here!”

Logan cowered into a fearful, fragile little boy before my very eyes. Pulsed with shivering fear and trepidation, he cautiously placed a palm on my chest and whispered, “Please.” His timid voice thickened with sobs. “I am not a product of them.” He spat out them like poison lanced his tongue. “Whatever they did, I am not at fault. I—”

“Shut up.” Fuck, Warren. “Were you here the entire time?” He was too scared to respond. “Answer me!”

Licking tears off his lips, Logan nodded.

I will murder Nate for this blunder.

“See, that’s a problem.” Wrapping Logan’s shirt around my fist, I shoved him to the wall. “What did you see?”

Hurt glazed his eyes. “I didn’t see anything.”

A thought occurred. “What did you hear?”

His lips flattened. “Everything.”

Manipulation can spare the lad’s life. “Your mother pimped you to the first available buyer,” I said candidly, and he just shook his head in utter anguish. “Orville.”

“Cyril’s cousin.” He’s disgusted. “Ma racked up so many debts. We got loan sharks coming here every night, banging on the door. But that’s their shit.” His hand flew towards the bedroom door. “It’s not my problem.”

“I disagree.” I produced the switchblade from my trouser pocket and taunted his chin with the razor-sharp edge. “You have a mouth. You could use it.”

Logan’s jaw clenched in moments of tension. He held his tongue, which I found most impressive, considering his life-threatening situation. Ingenious, I thought. Most men would be on their knees by now, kissing the shoes on my feet. If not blandishment, then pissed pants and upchuck. I looked deep into his glassy blue eyes, and for a split second, an unexplainable instant, I saw a younger version of myself. In actual fact, his circumstances bear several resemblances to the past I left behind. His junkie mother and deadbeat father. His unfortunate standard of living and fear of disappointment. I wondered if it weren’t for Alexa, my beautiful wife, was any other compassionate person helping or protecting him. Had his back in the same way Bill had mine. “Why didn’t child services help you out?”

Logan’s lips grimaced. “I am nobody’s burden.”

My Adam’s apple shifted. “Where do you think I’ve been?” I asked, licking seasoning from my lips. “They don’t help kids like me. They chuck us with all these different families who then decide they don’t want you anymore.” I omit the night Trevor snuck into my bed. “I was tired, Bill. If I went back? It’d start all over again. Not anymore. I want freedom, Bill. Ain’t no one’s burden.”

“Aye, well, it’s a good job ye found me then.” Bill smiled to himself. “Ye can be free with me, Liam.”

Blinded by rage, I latched a hand around Logan’s throat.

“No.” My entire world came crashing down. “You can’t have cancer.” I staggered to my feet, thrusting a hand through my hair. “That’s not fair! You can’t leave me, Bill! I don’t want to be alone! I can’t live without you!”

“Let me tell ye somethin’,” he berated. “You were put on this earth with goddamn nothin’, but that doesn’t define ye, Liam. Ye don’t need somebody to hold ye hand. Ye are a smart boy, and ye will figure it out.” He grabbed my head, his thumbs kneading my temples. “Don’t be worryin’ about old Bill, alright?”

The only person I ever loved deteriorated before my eyes.

“That’s a mean right hook ye got there, lad,” he said in an Irish accent. “What’s ye name?

My eyebrows meshed together. “Who’s asking?”

Correcting his chequered flat cap, he pointed to the sign above his head—Rex’s gym. “Get inside,” he rudely ordered. “It’s cold out here like.”

Logan’s fingers grappled my wrist.

Before I can respond, Rex jabs me straight in the jaw. I collapsed onto the ropes, tasting blood on my tongue. “You fucking hit me!

Rex’s fists shielded his face. “Well, come on.”

The old man is delusional. I’d spark him out. “I am not fighting you, Rex—” His fist connected with my jaw, and I dropped to my ass like a sack of shit. “What the fuck?” Rage escalating, I wiped the sweat off my brow. “Quit sucker-punching me.”

He charged at me with a combination. “Dodge, duck, bounce-back,” he ordered, and I listened, evading his flying fists. “Hands near ye head.” Again, I obeyed. “Don’t let the blood cool, Warren. Keep it pumpin’, aye?”

“Is she dead?” Logan whimpered. “Did you kill my mother?”

“To be indomitable, unconquerable and undefeated?” Rex tapped the side of his head. “Ye need to learn to use this.” He curled up his fists. “Ye can only get so far in life with these.”

I am going to snap the boy’s neck.

Rex grinned. I swear he secretly loved me. “I got ye a gift.” He unclipped a garment cover from the closed door. “Here. Try it on.”

“What is it?” I asked, accepting the protected clothing. “I got plenty of tracksuits, Rex. I don’t want you spending money on me.”

“Nonsense.” He waved a flippant hand. “I bet ye ain’t got one of those.”

I unzipped it over the desk, parted the enclosure and studied the pristine, navy three-piece suit with sincere adoration. “Shit,” I whispered, my fingertips tracing the white silk shirt. “I’ve never worn a suit before.”

“Please.” Eyes wide and tearful, Logan gasped, “I can’t breathe.”

I ran the mop across the hardwood floor. “Stop staring at me.”

“I can’t help it.” His shoulder resting against the doorframe, Rex smoked his pipe. “Ye ugly mug, it’s an eye-sore, aye.”

Rolling my eyes, I ducked the mop into the bucket and swashed water. “Can you not?”

He slowly elevated his shoulders. “What?”

“You keep looking at me,” I argued.

“Chopsy little shite,” he muttered under his breath. “Maybe—and don’t be takin’ this literal, Warren—I like ye company. Ever thought of that?” I kept my head down, cleaning the floors. “Ye know if I had a son, which thankfully, I don’t, I imagine he’d be just like ye. A fuckin’ pain in my arse.”

I gave him a toothy grin. “Was that a compliment?”

He suppressed amusement. “Ye fuckin’ wish, lad.”

“I think you love me,” I played along, anticipating his witty comeback. “Am I right?” When he never answered, I looked up to see his soft eyes on me. “Rex?”

“Aye,” he croaked, leaning on the wooden cane to venture back to the office. “I could get used to ye ugly face.”

Heart threatening to burst out my chest, I let the blade slip through my fingers, inhaled a shuddered breath and threw Logan aside. To his knees, he fell, coughing and gasping for air. Hand to his throat, massaging the pain I had inflicted, he rolled onto his backside and scuttled to the furthest end of the room, away from me.

Blood pulsating in my ears, I pressed a palm to the peeled wallpaper and breathed through my nose. “Do you know who I am?”

Logan’s chest rose and fell on hitched hiccups. “Yeah.”

Can I trust him enough to walk away?

If I leave him unharmed, will he call the police and expose me?

Alexa will never forgive me if I harm him.

I cannot bear thoughts of her hating me.

“You know my wife,” I said, and he slid me a confused look. “Alexa Warren.”

“What?” Logan’s fear morphed into shock. “No, Alexa…” He was incognizant of his youth workers surname. “No, Alexa is…she is not like you—”

“Alexa is my equal,” I said sternly, and devastation flooded his downcast eyes. “You feel betrayed?”

His jaw steeled. “I thought she was different.”

“If it weren’t for my wife, worrying herself sick over you, you ungrateful piece of shit, you’d be en-route to Orville’s right now, primed for a good ass-fucking.” I was harsh, but the lad required a serious reality check. “What other reason did I have to come here? Unsettled debts? Money? Do I look underprivileged and penniless? I came here to rid you of those no-good crackheads downstairs. So,” I snapped, and he flinched, “don’t sit there feeling sorry for yourself. Thank your lucky stars instead. Dry your fucking eyes, wipe your face and pack your shit.”

“I am not going in the system.” Fierceness gravelled Logan’s tone of voice, but the tremble in his legs as he stood deceived his feigned dauntlessness. “You’ll have to kill me first.” His shoulders rolled back. “Warren.”

I squared up to him. “Pack. Your. Shit.” His hand curled into a fist—brave lad. Thinking he’d caught me off-guard, he threw a right punch, and I captured it, inches away from my face. My fingernails pierced the skin of his knuckles, and his teeth bared. “Twice, I have repeated myself. An exception for my wife’s pitiful stray.”

He withdrew his arm. “If you take me there, I will run.” Something—or rather, someone—stole his attention behind me. “Who’s that?”

“Sir,” Nate drawled. “Instructions.”

“Call clean-up to remove the mess downstairs and then explain our situation to Reginald. Let’s avoid media coverage.” A tear rolled down the lad’s cheek. “How many tears of guilt did Roxanne spill when her husband beat her son?” He chose not to answer. “The streets whisper, so you think you know me. You don’t know me. You have no idea who I truly am or what road I walked to stand here today. I did not appear out of thin air. I had a mother and a father once. Where are they?” I let that thought sink in for a moment. “You have Roxanne’s blood pumping through your veins. Naturally, you feel obliged to love and cherish her memory. But you owe her absolutely nothing—I owe the woman who birthed me? Nothing,” I added, and he lifted his chin. “Now, you can leave this house with your head hung low, weeping like a fucking baby, or you can pack that bag and come with us. You decide.”

Logan used the heels of his hands to dry his eyes. With one final glance around the room, he opened the wardrobe and snagged his rucksack, stuffing it with clothes and essentials.

Trusting Logan would not attempt to flee, I exited the bedroom with Nate on my heels and headed to the living room. He had wrapped the bodies in durable plastic and rope. “Roxanne feared illegal lenders. In a state of panic, she packed her belongings and disappeared into the night. Cyril,” I nudged the bastard’s plasticated body with my foot, “accompanied his wife. No one knows where they went or why they left their son behind.”

Nate typed notes into his phone. “Brad killed Edward Morris.”

“Good.” I came out of the room, closing the door behind us. “Get Donny Stevens to my office. Midday tomorrow.” His thumbs tapped the phone screen. “Also, cancel my trip with Alexa this weekend.”

With one bag hanging off his shoulder, Logan came down the stairs. His gaze automatically visited the closed door. “Can I see her before we go?”

“No.” Nate spared his memory. “You don’t want to do that.”

Logan swallowed. “Okay.”

Towing the black holdall, Nate opened the front door, filtering light in the hallway, and jogged lightly to the parked Bentley.

Too anxious and uncomfortable to be near the man who murdered his mother, Logan stepped off the last step to leave his family home when I shot my arm out, blocking his escape. He glared at my hand on his chest. “Don’t worry,” he said unhappily. “I won’t make a scene.”

“I’m not worried,” I clipped, and his look turned to disdain. “Ground rules.”

He watched me warily. “What do you mean?”

“I am extending an invitation for you to live at the Warren Manor,” I said the unthinkable. “Temporarily, of course. Bring no problems to my front door. Respect boundaries and appreciate your accommodation.” His jaw unhinged. “You will thank my wife for vouching for you.”

Logan seemed to take in my serious expression. “Why would you do this for me?”

“It’s not about you,” I said cruelly. “It’s about her.”

Sucking his upper teeth, Logan shook today’s madness from his head. “If I say no?”

I wore a patronising smirk. “You have nowhere else to call home.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Alexa

I was running on empty by midday. At a deeply unenergetic pace, I drifted around the Manor to pack last-minute items into the large suitcase that’s currently unlatched and teeming with garments, lingerie, cosmetics and jewellery on the master bedroom’s floor. I lobbed an array of my most treasured stilettos onto the clothes pile, knelt on the case, overloading the recommended capacity to home unessential belongings, and tugged on the zipper until it clicked in place.

Falling back on my haunches, I unravelled the bobble from my wrist and pulled my hair into a sleek, tight ponytail. I get to work on Liam’s case next, folding comfortable casualwear and manscape products. Should it be necessary for him to leave the hotel room this weekend, I place two garment covered suits on the bed.

I go to the kitchen and prepare a coffee mug. Through the window, I see Alfie sat on the rattan chair, his shoulders hunched forward, a phone to his ear. I couldn’t see his face, not with his back to me, but his muscles looked most tense. He was bare-chested and greased in perspiration. Grey lounge pants sheathed his legs. He had excused himself the second we returned from Jace’s place to exhaust some tension in the Manor’s underground gym.

Pouring hot water into the ceramic mug, I added a splash of milk, two heaped spoons of sugar and stirred to taste.

Alfie ended the call and chugged down water from a sports bottle thirstily. His friend, the one who patrols the gardens on weekends, the impassively quiet gent who, to me, remains nameless, joined him at the patio station. Settled directly opposite, the man speaks stormily, gesticulating from one end of the garden to the other. Angry, they seemed. An emotion I had never witnessed on either male since they started working for Liam.

Alfie’s on his feet now, his hands clasped behind his head as he listened to the other man’s animated rant.

Intrigued, I rested two elbows on the counter and sipped coffee.

I wish I could lip-read.

Tapping a fist against his chest, the guy mirrored Alfie’s furious stance and stormed off, then, ever so subtly, brushed his fingers along the underside of Alfie’s hand. And my most trusted Suit, he watched his friend/enemy/possible lover walk away, a look of overwhelming dispiritedness greying his eyes.

Sucking sugar granules off my thumb, I mumbled, “Oh, damn.”

Massaging his forehead, Alfie powered towards the kitchen’s sliding doors.

Afraid he had caught me snooping, I dashed past the stonework island, down the marble steps to the adjacent dining and living quarters and lunged for the sofa. In my mind, I saw myself flopping on the cushions, unharmed and unsuspicious, graceful-ish, but I miscounted the last step and tumbled on the floor instead.

I winded myself.

Cheek squished to cold marble, I forced myself onto all fours and skulked past the coffee table— “Ma’am?” I froze mid-crawl. “What are you doing?”

“I fell off the sofa,” I groaned, rolling onto my backside to face him. “Hey.”

Alfie’s strapping arms folded at his chest. “Are you okay?”

I nodded light-headedly.

He pointed to his cheek. “That might leave a bruise.”

“I am sure I will live.” Pushing onto my feet, I blew hair tendrils off my brow and made it to the armchair in one piece. “Have you spoken to Liam recently?” I am waiting for updates on this weekend’s adventures. He has yet to respond to any of my messages. “I text him twice and nothing.”

“No.” Alfie swung open the fridge freezer door and selected bottled fruit juice. He set a glass on the island, poured himself a drink, and then eyed the half-sipped coffee on the counter. His stare bounced from the mug to the window, and apprehensions soon started to jitter his movements. He spilt juice, dropped the bottle cap, kneed the stool, winced, and stared at the floor in maudlin muteness.

My heart squeezed. “I should probably ice these.” I rubbed the imaginary ache in my knees. “It’s my fault for falling asleep. I don’t know what country I visited while dreaming, but after face planting the floor, it’s safe to assume I went skydiving or bungee jumping.”

Alfie extracted a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. “Did you nap for long?”

“Long enough to forget what day it is.” Arms stretching above my head, I fake-yawned. “How was the gym session?”

Abatement softened his features. “Good.” He kneeled before me, lifted my leg by the calf, and positioned the frozen package on my knee with thoughtful care. “Running helps to elevate stress. You should try it.”

“Yeah, no thanks. I attempted early morning jogs once,” I told him. “I like the idea of a healthy lifestyle, but I am far too unmotivated and unfit to run laps.”

His green eyes sparkled with merriment. “Do you want your coffee?”

It is a trick question to see if I know something. “No, it’s probably stone cold by now.” My face was unreadable. “I will make a fresh one later.”

Alfie’s head dipped. “Ma’am.”

I heard the front door slam.

Exhilaration burst in my chest. “Liam’s here.” I stood with a theatrical limp and trudged to the hallway. “I’ll see you in a few days, Alfie. Make yourself at home.”

I was beyond excited about our romantic getaway. I love having Liam to myself and staying at a hotel without interruptions, granted precisely that.

Emerging from one vestibule to the stately entrance hall, the huge, bifurcated stairway restricting views, I strolled lightly to greet the man and upon seeing his handsome face, his beautiful ice-blue eyes, I wore an effulgent smile, and then, a tsunami of emotions washed over me in tempestuous waves. I was no longer in the Manor. I had ventured into a parallel universe.

Logan’s here. In my house.

Nervousness emitted from Logan’s overwrought body. Timidness greyed his marvelling eyes. With one hand clasped to his rucksack strap, he catalogued the all-encompassing, resiliently rich marble, the gilded furnishings and perfectly polished chandelier crystals. And, ever so slowly, the bag slipped down his arm, fell to his feet in bewilderment. On the spot, he turned, ponderous and unhurried, immersing himself in unprecedented heights of wonderstruck. As if sensing another pair of eyes, he sought my gaze, and profound disenchantment replaced prior admiration.

“Go to the dining room.” Liam clicked to the room’s closed double doors. “Do not touch anything. I will be with you in a moment.”

Logan relocated submissively.

Immobilised by disappointment, I stared at the spot where he once stood. “What did you do?”

Peeling off his suit jacket, Liam strolled to the billiard room, away from prying eyes and rapt ears, and I followed. He arranged two crystal glasses at the fully stocked minibar, vodka for me, which I had no intention of imbibing, whiskey for him, and he relaxed in the high-back leather armchair. I became his sole focus as he sipped harsh liquor. He glared right through me, his expression unreadable, which unnerved and rattled every bone in my body. “Liam, I asked you a question.” I am torn between talking to my husband and checking in on Logan. “Why is he here?”

“I went to Cyril Broderick,” he said, and the room’s humidity condensed. “And killed him.”

“Of course, you did,” I said tightly. “What of Logan’s mother?” His arrogant smirk raised the hair on my skin. “Why? Liam, I specifically asked you not to get involved.”

“Initially, I wanted to help my wife.” He looked blankly inscrutable. “Neglectful parents, they rub me up the wrong way. I walk into a room, and they are on the sofa, stark naked, fucking and groaning, high on drugs, without a care in the world. Had she even kissed her son goodbye before he seemingly,” he hand gestured idily, “left for school? Implausible. I doubt she cared if he heard or witnessed salaciousness, either. Why do mother’s give life and then mistreat the very souls produced?” Mental torment honed his angry features. “What went through her mind when she looked at her son and chose narcotics over his welfare?”

Initial outrage dissolved into nothingness. “We cannot answer for those with rotten hearts.” Instinct told me, Logan’s imperfect life evoked unpleasant memories for Liam. “We can, however, ensure that, if we should be so lucky to have children, they’ll be loved fiercely. I mean, who better to protect the young and vulnerable than a man like yourself?”

Fingertip tracing his lower lip, Liam digested every word pensively. “You hold me in such high regard. Has it ever occurred to you that characteristics and similar qualities are inherited?”

“I refuse to believe you could ever be your father,” I said obdurately, and his jaw locked. “You were once beyond redemption. But you have proven, time and time again, that when you love, you love with everything you have. I can attest to your vindication. If not the woman you swore never to love, never mind espouse, then the boy who’s sitting in our dining room right now. Surely, he can give credence to your considerateness.”

Liam’s eyes beckoned me to kneel. I went to my knees between his parted legs and placed my hands on his thighs. He cupped my jaw, and his thumb softly circled my cheek. “I found him hiding under his bed. I don’t know why he’s here,” he said in perplexity. “I invited him to our family home, and he agreed.” I held my breath. “The end of his sojourn will be on his sixteenth birthday, which circumvents residential children’s homes. You understand?”

I nodded.

“You can help Logan rehome.” Liam downed the reminder of whiskey. “You can even continue to see him in the future; however, I ask one favour. Do not force him on me or expect anything more than the generosity I bestowed today. He is not my son. He is not your son. He will never be ours.”

My chest hurt. “I know.”

“You will speak to Logan this evening and provide regulations. While under my roof, he attends school and pulls his weight around the Manor. Nothing too strenuous. A few chores won’t hurt, though. He can venture throughout, excluding the master bedroom, office and billiard room.”

I agreed with a smile.

“I cancelled the trip,” he said, but I figured as much. “I made a last-minute decision to evade your inquisition. You were right. I planned to do something behind your back, so I suggested a romantic weekend to mislead you.”

Liam’s honesty took me aback. “And there’s me believing you actually wanted to spend time with me.”

“Alexa, I want nothing more.” He set the empty glass aside. “If we went away, I’d have to reschedule the meeting with Moretti. However, now would be the most inconvenient time to retreat. We swipe the diamonds on Sunday.”

Angst reawakened. I will dread the day until it is over. Liam’s a good judge of character. I had no reason to second-guess his commitment or his instilled faith in Alberto Moretti. I am not acute in perception, so who am I to advise? But something about the Italian rampaged butterflies and not the good, welcoming, soothing kind of flutters. It’s a quivering intenseness of foreshadowing.

“What’s wrong?” Liam’s hand slid to the nape of my neck. “Alexa?”

“I ask you to reconsider,” I whispered, and he frowned. “Liam, I don’t trust Alberto. Please, for me, pull the plug on this mission.” Before he could argue with me, I crawled onto his lap and straddled his thighs, whispering kisses on every inch of his face. “Liam.”

“Alexa.” His fingers dented my thighs. “Stop using sex to manipulate me.”

“It’s not about sex,” I spoke to his lips. “I know I hurt you before. You think I only want you when I need something or when I am ovulating; that’s a far cry from the truth. Yes, I will never be truly content,” I placed his hand on my stomach, “not until I replace what we lost. And I do use the power of love against you when certain instances demand it. But I never, not once since you and I started sleeping together, bed you for anything other than unexplainable obsessiveness because I have loved you from the very first moment you saw me.” My cheeks heated. “If admitting embarrassing truths dissipates reservations, then here I am, humiliating myself.” My eyes focused on his military chain. “Do you still believe I don’t crave you the way you crave me?”

Liam’s finger curled hair behind my ear. “You are so fucking beautiful.”

My eyes rolled.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me.” Liam’s arms wrapped around me, and he nuzzled my neck. “Keep talking.” His stubble rubbed my shoulder. “You were saying how much you love me.”

“God, you are so self-absorbed,” I teased, feeling him smile against my cheek. “I have talked enough. It is your turn. Do you not have anything nice to say?”

Gaze lifted to look at me, Liam laced our fingers together, and his large, calloused hands virtually enfolded mine. “I would kill for you,” he said hoarsely. “I would go to war for you. I would quite literally die for you.” He breathed those words across my forehead. “What I feel for you exceeds love. You have my eternal gratitude and veneration in the palm of your hand.” His fingers traced my knuckles. “Does that answer your question?”

“I think my head swelled a bit.”

Liam stares adoringly at me. “You should check on Logan.” Holding my cheek, he inched in, stealing a long, passionate kiss. “I need to make a few calls in the office. Show him to one of the guest rooms.”

Nodding, I whispered, “Liam?”

He thumbed a smidgen of transferred red lipstick from his lips. “Yes, baby?”

“I don’t need to know why Logan’s here or why you had a small change of heart.” We stood together, his hand sliding down my back. “It might not be forever, but it is something to appreciate.”

Liam smiled flatly. “Shall we order from Mario’s Italian this evening?” We walked hand in hand to the foyer. Before we parted, he brought my hand to his lips and kissed my wrist. “Unless you fancy something else?”

Logan loves Indian food. “What about curry for a change?”

He gave me a curt nod and retreated to his office.

Inhaling an encouraging breath, I rubbed my sweaty palms down my dress and went to the dining room. Logan stood by the window, teary-eyed and crestfallen. His backpack still hung from his shoulder. I harboured no guilt or regret for his mother and step-father. They got what they deserved.

Where does their death leave us, though?

Will Logan resent me? Blame me? Forgive me?

Should I be mad at Liam for intervening? For doing the opposite of what I asked. Perhaps if he left the boy behind, I might feel differently.

But Liam didn’t forget Logan. He brought him here, to our family home, to me. He’s providing a roof over the boy’s head. Inexhaustible privileges. Free reign to the Manor. Safety and security.

I felt it necessary to explain myself, to argue my case, but for now, I stood beside Logan and saved explanations for another day. Whether I loathed his mother or not, he had every right to mourn the woman he’d lost. “I should show you around.”

Logan’s head turned steadily.

To steer clear of his disparagement, I surveyed patrolling guards in the front garden. “Follow me.”

Although Logan’s quiet, as expected, he’s unashamedly filled with astonishment. He’s inventoried everything from the very floors we walk upon to the sweeping ceilings and majestic ambience. His absorption reminded me of the first time I visited Liam’s penthouse. I had lived in an insalubrious council estate, whereas he’d resided in absolute magnificence. “It takes a while to get used to,” I said, and his wandering eyes landed on my face. “Don’t let it overwhelm you, Logan. It’s just a house.”

“Just a house,” he repeated in wonderment. “Your back garden’s bigger than the youth centre.”

“You can use the outdoor pool whenever you want.” I bypassed the library. “There is an indoor pool downstairs, too, which I never put to good use, and the gym is down the hall. You might bump into Liam’s friends…” He side-eyed me questioningly. “Liam’s employees. Nice men, so do not be alarmed by their wanderings. If you talk to them, they might ignore you, but it’s not personal; they take their jobs very seriously. It is business. The Suits are here to ensure our safety only.”

Logan’s slack-jawed.

“If you sneak underground, you will uncover the theatre room and showcased vehicles. Liam buys top-of-the-range cars yet never drives them,” I added to lighten the sombre mood. “Here’s your room.” Unlocking the door to the biggest guest room on the west wing, I moved aside for him to enter first. “Go ahead.”

With cautious strides, Logan stepped over the threshold to inspect his bedroom. It is spacious, naturally decorated and provides plentiful space and storage. “What’s that?”

I entered the room to open the en-suite door. “It’s your bathroom.”

Logan glimpsed over my head to inspect further. “I got my own bathroom?” Prodigiousness subdued him. “And those double doors…?”

“It’s the balcony.” He’s drowning, and I hate it. “Honestly, Logan. It’s just a house.”

“You keep saying that.” Gnawing his bottom lip, Logan held the backpack tightly. “But it’s not. It’s a fucking palace. I am scared to sit or move just in case I knock something valuable over or ruin the furniture,” he prattled on nervously. “I ain’t leaving this room. It’s easier for everyone if I stay out of the way.”

I sighed. “Logan, barricading yourself in the bedroom is not an option. Everything is replaceable, so who cares if you knock something over?” Picking up the glass ornament from the vanity table, I pushed open the balcony doors, checked no one’s standing on the patio, and dropped the pointless decoration to its death. It shattered into tiny fragments. “See? Replaceable. Now,” I dusted off my hands, “I don’t want to order you around, but why don’t you grab a shower, change into something comfortable and…” And what? Join me downstairs? Eat with the people responsible for your mother’s demise? “If you need anything, call me.”

Logan said nothing when I left his bedroom.

I shut the door and hung my head in shame. It’s far too expectant of me to demand his time or attention. I am worried, though.

Do I knock on his door on occasion?

Do I offer him food or something to drink?

He only had one bag.

Do I go online and purchase new clothes?

When I barged into Liam’s office, he held up a hand, and I belatedly noticed the phone to his ear. “No,” he said, motioning for me to sit opposite his desk. “No.” My ears perked up. “I will provide details an hour before.” Great. Business talk. “It’s non-negotiable.” I sat crossed legged, and he openly swept his gaze to the shoes on my feet. “I’ll call you back.” He killed the call. “Is everything okay?”

“What do I do?” I asked, and his brow curved. “Logan, he’s grieving, right? Do I leave him to his own devices or provide a shoulder to cry on? Do I apologise now or wait until a later date? I want him to feel at home, but he’s too scared to even sit on his bed, let alone wander around the Manor—”

“Alexa, you are giving this too much thought. Let the boy settle in. He will come to you when he’s ready.”

I was unconvinced. “What if he doesn’t come to me, though?

“He will, I can assure you.”

I was still unconvinced. “How can you be sure?”

Liam’s gaze narrowed. “It’s hard to ignore someone you love.”

CHAPTER TWENTY- SEVEN

Alexa

I awoke with a start, the high-pitched, shrilling security alarm and inter-connected window shutters launching an immediate counterattack in the Manor. Suits blustered downstairs, a spine-chilling conglomeration of startling gunshots, panic-stricken arguments and hot-headed sentinels. Heavy-footed men scampered the halls, and someone ordered rapid voltage amplification of the perimeter gates, which meant trespassers roamed the property.

Liam’s eyes shot open. Reaching for the Desert Eagle he kept under the pillow, he lunged to his feet, drawing on grey jogging bottoms, flung the master bedroom’s door open and left to support his men.

Finding the first available T-shirt, I pushed my head through the neckline and went to the window to see the commotion outside. It was no use. I saw nothing through the retractable screen.

Knowing Logan must be terrified, I stomped my legs into knee-high socks and walked bare-footed down the unilluminated hallway to the west wing. Drumming my fist on his door, I stepped back to give him some space and rubbed the spiked horripilation off my arms. “Logan?” I called gently, not wanting him to be alarmed. “It’s Alexa.”

Clangorous sirens haunted the Manor. I was neither anxious nor frightened. The senseless idiot who thought it’d be a good idea to enter Liam Warren’s property deserved the unpreventable. Liam’s never brought trouble to our home (business stays in work and tortured souls die slowly in the subterranean chambers of Club 11), but blood will stain our walls tonight.

Those incompetent opportunists chose Logan’s first time staying here to break and enter. For that purpose alone, I hope Liam decapitates them.

I knocked on Logan’s door again. “I need to know you are okay.”

Mute, he persisted.

“Right, I do not want to invade your privacy.” Hearing gunfire in the distance, I put my hand to the door handle. “But it’s an emergency.” Cracking open the bedroom door, I peered through the gap and searched the dark bedroom. “Logan?”

An unutilised bed dominated the room, the sheets unwrinkled, the pillows propped in a decorative, orderly fashion. I moved to the en-suite. The unused super-plush towels remain folded on the vanity unit, and untouched toiletries hoard glass cabinets.

I felt a sharp jolt of fear in my gut.

“Liam!” Running full pelt out of the bedroom and down the hall, socked-feet slapping against the marble floor, I rushed down the stairs, the Manor’s wide-open double doors paving the way for cold, whistling winds. “Disarm!” In a frenetic blur of hysteria, I whacked the Colt from someone’s raised arms, the other men assembled outdoors, armed and shooting, disregarded protests. I might pull rank when Liam’s unavailable, but I became authoritatively pointless when he’s in the building. “Please, don’t shoot.”

Covering my ears to scale down the unremitting clangour of gunfire, I squeezed my eyes shut, adopted fearless courage and ran full throttle into the firing line. I knew the second I stepped out that they’d demobilise.

“Alexa!” Alfie yelled, breaking into a rapid sprint behind me. “Get down!”

Arms swinging at my side, I belted across the vastness of rain-watered grass to the guard’s stone house near the electric gates. Below the starless skies, amidst the raucousness and turbulence of upheaval, there would be a scared young boy in fear of his life.

Hair soaked and slicked to my face, I scurried around the bricked building, gravel and pebbles piercing the soles of my feet, and shouldered the bolstered door. It was heavy, the gap a mere torment. He’d put something there to prevent encroachment. “Logan, please. I am not here to hurt you.” Palms hammering the wood, I lowered my head and panted for breath. Torrential rain flooded the pathway, drenched the weeping flowerbeds. I stood beneath the angry heavens on the brink of tears. “You know me,” I whispered sullenly, my fingernails denting the doorframe. “You know the real me.”

Belatedly realising why I’d escaped the Manor, Alfie’s footing stumbled. Drenched from head to toe due to the downpour, he assessed the situation and dropped back, waving his arms above his head to signal a false alarm.

“I am still the same, annoying person from the youth centre, the one who cheats her way in basketball and forces you to be my friend.” My voice broke. “The one who saw a beautiful young boy and fell hopelessly in love.” Tears and rain intermixed down my cheeks. “It would break my heart if you feared me.”

I heard slight movement on the other side.

Logan’s watery eyes peered through the slightly ajar door, so blue and penetrating. “The guards took a shot at me.”

“You set off the alarms, Logan.” I upheld undeterrable eye contact. “They thought you were an intruder.”

Logan’s devastated. I was a foreign entity to him now. “You feel like a stranger.”

“No.” My bottom lip trembled. “I never pretended. Not with you.’

Using the back of his hand to wipe his nose, he stared at the floor. “I do not belong in a place like this, Alexa. I can’t stay here.”

“Please.” Wedging my arm through the door’s small aperture, I tried to reach for his hand. “Let me help you, Logan.”

“How many times do I have to say it?” He huffed out a small laugh. “I am no one’s burden.”

“No, you are a blessing,” I cried, and his eyes jerked up. “You being here does not impede the household. We want you here—”

“Not him.” His voice croaked. “Warren spared me for you, Alexa. He hates me. I saw it when he looked at me.”

I considered his assertion. “Liam doesn’t hate you—”

“Fuck him.” Tears stood in his eyes. “I don’t even care what the psychopath thinks of me. You? Yeah, I thought you were good people.”

I watched him pace the limited space. “I am a good person—”

“How can you say that and mean it?” His pacing faltered. “You married a notorious criminal. You know that, right? Warren does bad things to people. How can you condone his doings and say you’re a good person? That’s messed up.”

“That criminal saved your life,” I defended my husband. “You might struggle to believe it right now, but someday, you will thank him for giving you something no one else could. Freedom.”

“Freedom.” He mock-snorts. “From where I am standing, prison walls and electrocuting gates doesn’t exactly feel like liberation.” Hands covering his twisted features, he bemoaned, “I want to go home.”

I want to go home.

Logan’s words were a knife to my chest.

More than anyone, I know how it feels to be lost and directionless, to drift from one place to another, not knowing what tomorrow might bring or if anyone will be there to hold your hand. It is within abandonment that you lose the rational part of yourself. Your mind plays tricks on you; nobody wants you; everyone hates you; people are better off without you. I remember lying on the mattress in the basement of Flamur’s compound, thinking about my mother, how I had cherished her memories for so long until a time where I began to age, and then I realised, even though I never stopped loving her, I resented her for not standing up to the shadow (the man who I latterly learnt was my father), sobbing and exposing her greatest fears in front of her children, knowing they’d carry those painful remembrances for the rest of their lives. And even then, the child’s voice inside Alexa’s maturing mind cried out for depressed, pill-popping Adaline because surviving with her disconsolate mother was better than enduring darkness.

I respired a wisp of mist that vanished in the rain. “I’m sorry about your mum.” Living beside Roxanne outweighed existing without her. “No matter what, she was yours, and we took her from you.” It would be insensitive to preach the greater good or to vindicate oneself in the face of reproval. “I’m sorry for removing you from your family home and bringing you here.” I only ever wanted to protect you. “I’m sorry for everything.”

“I am not crying because she’s dead.” He sobbed into the groove of his elbow. “It hurts, though. My Ma accepted Orville’s offer, right? Like, she’d send me to him to settle her debts. I know she was a bitch, but fuck, I can’t wrap my head around it. Who does that? What mother puts her own kid in danger?”

My blood iced over. “What?”

“I heard,” he whispered to himself, and I made a mental note to revisit the Orville discussion with Liam. “‘My Lo, he’s shy. Just go easy on him.'” He tsked. “I ain’t shy. She’d know that if she had bothered to spend time with me. I don’t talk to people I dislike. What, so that makes me soft? Weak? Bashful? No, if someone doesn’t make an effort with me, then I don’t make an effort with them. It’s nothing to do with shyness.”

I smiled, but it was sad. “You are far too egotistical to be shy.”

“Right?” Logan glimpsed through the bullet-shattered window from over his shoulder to see the amassed Suits by the Manor’s entrance. Liam’s with them in wait for our return. I admired his non-participation. “You know, not once, in all the years we spent together, did she tell me, she loved me.” His dejection enhanced my wretchedness. “It’s all I ever wanted, Alexa. For her to just…love me.”

A small whimper escaped my lips. “It hurts, doesn’t it? To be unwanted by the person you love unconditionally. I understand. I live with the same pain every time I look in the mirror and see my father staring back at me. How often do you ask yourself what you could have done to make a difference? Smile more? Pretend to be happy? Fade into the background?” My pointer finger curled around his forefinger. “Why should we be grateful? Because they gave us life? Because without them, we wouldn’t be standing here today, embittered and encumbered with self-doubt. To hell with my dad. To hell with your mother. They didn’t want us, but what’s stopping us from wanting each other?”

My stiff fingers softened in the clutches of Logan’s large hand. Studying our laced fingers, he brushed his thumb over my knuckles. He kicked something aside, opened the door fully and tugged me indoors. I collided with his chest, and his arms enveloped my shoulders in a desperate plea of comfort. He’s too tall, and when his entire body weight sagged against me, I struggled to hold him upright. Loud, raspy sobs vibrated in my ear as we awkwardly descended to our knees. We held each other tightly, afraid one or the other might disappear. “It’s okay,” I crooned, albeit I cried, too. “You can cry, Logan. I am not going anywhere.” His body wracked. I felt his pain, his anguish and suffering. He fell apart in my arms. “I will hold you forever.”

I could barely see through momentarily impaired vision. Tears saturated my cheeks, both his and mine. He allowed himself to be human, to lose the straight-faced, emotionless façade, to fall apart in my arms. The fact he’s impressively tall, intimidating and often ill-mannered and aggressive was immaterial and irrelevant at this moment because you cannot argue that this impressionable boy was no different to any other child who needed love, who needed someone to be in his corner and to fight the world by his side. If there’s room for me in his life, then hand in hand, we shall walk. He’ll never roam alone again.

“Someday, I’ll wish upon a star.” My fingers wisped through his hair. “And wake up where the clouds are far behind me.”

Logan’s bloodshot eyes met mine.

“Where troubles melt like lemon drops. Away above the chimney tops,” I whispered, thumbing tears from his cheeks. “That’s where you’ll find me.” His brows furrowed. “My mother would sing that to me when I was sad or scared. It’s one of my most vivid memories of us together. Her sitting on the bed, braiding my hair and reciting lyrics in my ear.” He’d engrossed himself. “When I lived with my captor, and I knew I would never see her again, I’d close my eyes, sing our song and search for her. I’d start in our back garden and walk towards our house until her disembodied voice and face materialised. It was real. Me in her arms, hearing her voice. In my darkest moments, I could feel at peace.”

Logan falls back on his backside and looks off into space. “Why are you telling me this?”

“In order to survive the most difficult time of my life, I needed something to hold onto.” I sat cross-legged beside him. “What’s your favourite memory, Logan?”

He frowned. “Why?”

I rested my chin on the heel of my hand. “It’ll help you in your bad moments.”

“What’s my favourite memory?” His lips twitching into a smile, he picked imaginary lint on his jogging bottoms. “Meeting you.”

I looked away in time for a fresh tear to slide down my cheek. “I am your favourite memory?”

“I got nothing else worth holding onto,” he admitted quietly, and my eyelashes fluttered shut. “You restored my faith in humanity.” His joke had the opposite effect of lightening the mood. In silence, my heart broke into pieces. “I apologise for causing trouble. I didn’t know that opening the front door would trigger civil defence sirens.”

That time, I laughed. “I bet you pissed your pants.”

“For real.” His round eyes brightened. “I was expecting army tanks to come out of the ground and choppers to set beacons on me.”

We stood in tandem. I responded, “You are lucky they didn’t send the hellhounds.”

Logan turned white. “Hellhounds?”

“I’m kidding.”

When we exited the guardhouse, Alfie slipped indoors to reload the security systems. I retreated to the Manor with Logan at my side. He’s a little on edge. I imagine Liam’s the main factor for restlessness.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” Ignoring the maddened Suits, I gestured for Logan to come upstairs. “I can reheat some food if you want. We barely touched tonight’s takeaway delivery, so there are plenty of dishes to choose from.”

“Logan.” Liam’s stentorian voice told me he’s livid. He’s still bare-chested and barefoot, but his pants cling to his legs, courtesy of the rain. “A word.”

I faced another battle. If I speak on Logan’s behalf, Liam will go berserk for challenging him. If I stand by Liam’s obstinate pursuit to slam the rule book down on the boy’s head, Logan will think I am untouched by his prior meltdown. When all is said and done, I had to be there for both males, so, rather than participate or choose sides, I excused myself from the situation and disappeared to the kitchen. My absence gives them the ability to set their differences aside.

It’s two in the morning, and I am pouring coffee.

Well, I bet late night disruptiveness and physiological shock go hand in hand with teenagers. It is unusual for us, Liam and me, to tackle an unmanageable young boy. If a member of the syndicate steps out of line, or if enemies breach the surface, Liam simply authorises their death certificate, so disciplining Logan or giving him direction, yeah, I might need to use google tomorrow.

I sipped coffee.

Logan reappeared. He’s changed into dry tracksuit bottoms. Carrying wet clothes to the utility room, he loaded the washing machine, stuffed towels in the tumble dryer and closed the room’s door to reduce the repetitive sound of the drying process. “Can I warm up the food?”

“I’ll do it for you.” Pointing to the island’s stool, I unboxed leftovers from the fridge and plated a colourful mixture of rice, curry, sides, bread and dips. “Do you want a drink?” Food reheating in the microwave, I stuck my head inside the beverages cabinet and rummaged. “We have juice and milk in the fridge, or fizzy drinks in here, etcetera.”

“I don’t mind,” he said politely. “Are you eating with me?”

My hand stilled atop the lemonade bottle. “Sure.” I wasn’t hungry, but his question sounded desirous. “I can always make room for chips.” Although, rewarmed chips? Gross. “Here you go.” I placed a tall, ice-topped glass of lemonade onto the counter beside cutlery. “Do you want anything else?”

Logan stared at the drink as though it offended him. “I can get my own fork, Alexa.” His tense shoulders dropped. “You don’t need to wait on me.”

Right, Logan’s used to fending for himself. Not while he’s living in my house. I will show him what it’s like to live with someone who cares. “Well, I elected myself as mamma bear for all the men in my life.” I handed him the plate from the microwave. “I am overbearingly meddlesome yet invariably kind and considerate—yes, I blow my own trumpet.” Hand to my hip, I ruffled his hair. “You’ll get used to me. Besides, if you think accepting food and drink is debilitating, then wait until you meet Brad. That guy would have me massaging his feet if he thought I’d actually do it.”

Logan tucked into curry and rice. “Brad?”

“Liam’s best friend.” With a smaller portion of Indian cuisine, I perched on the stool. “You will love him. He’s one of my favourite people.” Forking seasoned chicken around his plate, he unceasingly eyed the kitchen’s archway as if anticipating someone. “Liam won’t come in here,” I assured him. “He’ll stay in the office now.”

Relief etched his tight features. “Warren said, ‘If I ever scare you again, he’ll take a bat to my knee caps.'”

If the fork in my hand weren’t made of stainless steel, I’d have snapped it in half. “Take Liam with a pinch of salt, Logan.” Honestly, the man cannot help himself. “He’s more than his bad reputation.”

Logan finished eating and kindly offered to clear the dishes. We owned a dishwasher, yet he scrubbed everything in the traditional sense—a sink loaded with hot, soapy water—and then relocated to his bedroom.

I went to Liam’s office to find a dark, empty room. Falling onto the leather chair behind the desk, I switched on the table lamp and loaded his computer. My T-shirt had almost dried. I had to peel off the socks, though. Tapping the keyboard, I clicked onto the browser and google home furnishings. Previously, Logan mentioned oak gear and navy walls, so I ordered emulsion and decorating supplies alongside a new king-sized bed. Nobody has ever occupied his room. The mattress was spanking new. I think he’ll enjoy redecorating and assembling furniture, though. Onto a separate search bar, I purchased clothes, boxer briefs, socks, footwear, manscape products, cologne and then pondered the jewellery store. I am tempted to buy him a watch or a gold chain to replace the silver one he wears, but I will save costly valuables for a later date.

Freshly showered with a towel draped around his shoulders, Liam strode into the office. He tossed a clear packet onto the desk, tucked his arms under my legs and collapsed onto the chair with me atop me. “What are you doing?” he asked, keeping one arm around my waist.

Minimising the browser, I clicked onto solitaire and busied myself with cards. “I bought a few bits for Logan.”

Liam emptied cocaine onto the desk and used a debit card to separate lines. “What he did tonight was reckless.” He rolled a fifty-pound note. “Did he mention our conversation?”

I shook my head.

“Good.” Hunching forward, he set the note to his nostril and sniffed two lines. “I cannot trust that he won’t run again, so I’ll stay awake.” He repositioned me until I faced him and crept a hand under my T-shirt to thumb my nipple. I recognise the amorousness in his heavy-lidded eyes. “Kiss me.”

Knees positioned on either side of Liam’s thighs, I pulled the T-shirt over my head, held onto the back of his chair and leaned in for a long, passionate kiss. His arousal teased my sex through the flimsy material of his slouch pants. Hard, eager and ready to fuck me, he smoothed my backside with rough palms. Kissing me ravenously, he freed his cock from restriction, tugged my lace to the side and held my waist as I sank onto his length. “Shit,” I mewled, settled to the base of him.

“I can go all night,” he promised, licking the shell of my ear. “Let’s get a baby inside you.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Liam

Chaplin Jefferson, London Gateway’s quay crane foreman, terminal controller and, clandestinely, long-term business associate to The Warren Enterprise, after scant palm-greasing, accepted an additional payment for his ceaseless staunchness in exchange for Russia’s inbound vessel schedule. In less than thirty minutes, once the terminal operatives transfer Russia’s cranes into transit, Chaplin will send one cryptographic email attachment to Nate, and he only has five minutes to decode route details before the relocating cranes depart.

“I hate the rain.” Brad tucked blond strands beneath the black toque hat atop his head. “It ruins my hair.”

Yes, cumulonimbus clouds and sporadic showers bide in the miserable skies. Inconveniently bad weather conditions will not suspend the mission, though. I want those diamonds hidden beneath the floors of Nate’s carefully selected abandoned building tonight (an old, unoccupied care home in Essex). If, for any reason, the metropolitan police department suspects our involvement, and they should so happen to brandish a search warrant, they will not uncover pillaged goods from any Warren establishment. In six months, I will return to Essex for the stolen goods and strike a deal with Gregory Million, the syndicate’s personal gemmologist, goldsmith, engraver and diamond settler from Richmond who has the keys to my underground jewellery, diamond and gold volt. In the volt, he will store the perfect paragons until further notice. I may never use them, or I may request personalised items and customised designs in the near future. Even if the stolen goods render nugatory, Alexa has permission to demand whatever her heart desires. If she wants handcrafted necklaces, rings or bracelets, Gregory will effectuate. “If for any reason certain stones are valueless or purposeless, distribute packages to errand bitches,” I instructed, unpackaging black balaclavas. “They can flog on my behalf and retain a percentage of sales.”

“Eighteen containers leave Gateway.” Nate read the email on his phone while simultaneously handing out loaded firearms to the men. My most trusted, Brad and Josh, deliver extra cartridges. “Chuck the Colts inside your vehicles and use the Glock 22’s. These pistols hold more rounds. For tonight’s assignment, you cannot afford to dry-fire. Transit vans disperse in three separate directions. I suggest that Brad lead team one.” He gestured to the group of five lads and then to the group of eight. “Josh and I will journey with team two. Are you happy to travel with Vincent?” he asked, and I gave a sharp nod. “Are you happy to lead team three?” I nodded again. “Okay. Once we receive updates from Chaplin, we can hit the road. Three Ford transit vans and drivers are waiting in the field behind the store. Leave the Bentleys in this car park overnight.”

I stuffed a switchblade into the pocket of my jogging bottoms.

“I paid the store owner three grand to switch perimeter surveillance off for twenty-four hours.” Nate placed empty packages inside the boot of his car. “Keep your phone handy,” he said to me, slapping a brand-new Glock on my upturned palm. “Precaution.”

I secured it to my ankle strap. “Why the sullen face?”

Nate’s eyes softened. “Just don’t get hurt on us.” His phone bleeped. He checked the message and respired a long, sedative breath. “It’s in motion.” Swapping his T-shirt for a black hoodie, he loaded his laptop, wired the phone to his computer and began to decode Jefferson’s email. “Get moving, guys.”

Pushing my arms into the black hoodie sleeves, yanking the neckline over my head, I laced up my black Timberland boots and folded the ski mask to my forehead. I scoured the car park in search of Vincent’s vehicle. Three times, I texted him. He’d received the messages but hadn’t read them. If he lets me down tonight, I will disown him for good. After all, the diamond heist was his idea.

Brad’s hand clasped my shoulder. “You good, Bossman?”

I put my mouth to his ear and lowered my voice. “Keep me posted.” Securing my earpiece, I selected option one, connecting me to Craig, the driver, and inserted a magazine into the Eagle. “Come back in one piece.”

“Don’t worry.” Pink bubble gum popped from his mouth. “I am not going anywhere.”

“Moretti’s men await our signal,” Nate whispered, keeping a close eye on the men. “He’s allocated teams as well, but he and Bosqui plan to meet you on route three.” He double-checked the laptop, viewing the loading bar, and unclipped the chrome briefcase. “Computerised gloves.” He passed a sterile bag with one glove inside: Phillip Henry’s fingertips. “Let’s hope they don’t fail us.”

I slipped the bag into the hoodie’s front pocket. “If the gloves malfunction, get as many cranes as you can into transit, drive to the closest pastureland and tear them apart with power tools. How many minutes before the police track them down?”

“Fifteen. Max.” Brad rubbed his chin. “We’ll be lucky to flee with one crane.”

It’s not what I want, but one crane’s better than none. “Go to the vehicles while I call Vincent.”

Everyone relocated to the field behind the store except for Nate. He’s typing on the laptop and scribbling notes on his unreadable notepad. I nearly dialled Vincent’s number when I heard gravel crepitating beneath tyres behind us. Glimpsing over one shoulder, I watched the unwanted sibling soar from the parked Maserati. He’s dressed for the occasion, black everything, jeans, turtle neck, lace-up boots and an overcoat.

“Are you scheming without me?” Vincent balanced a gold-monogrammed cigarette between his lips. “Alzaim.”

“Vincent.” Nate’s blasé and uninterested in friendly small-talk. “You ride with the boss.” He shut down the laptop, re-bagged electrical equipment and locked the Bentley. “It’ll take the drivers approximately fifty minutes to get from Gateway to the Bourse, excluding layby times for toll stops. Brad’s route, A13. We need him to strike on Alfred’s way. Transit two diverts onto A1013 and goes for a little adventure down South Stifford. I am going to tailgate and take over the vehicle on London Road.” His thumb and forefinger pinched the phone screen to enlarge the map. “Your vehicle goes completely off track and in the opposite direction, which tells me there’s something pretty spectacular inside those cranes. It drives down Lower Dunton road onto A127. My advice, let the driver bypass the first service station and then blow his wheels.” He stuffed the phone in his pocket and walked alongside me to the field. “We cannot afford one error, Sir.”

Knee-deep in fine grass, we walked through the field to where the institution’s Ford transit vehicles loom upon the greensward. It is conveniently dark here, with no sight of nocturnal birds or sweeping bats. Nate fell behind the steering wheel beside Josh and ordered his team to move in. Brad had a look on his face—we got this. Jumping onto the driver’s side seat, he closed the door, and the engine roared to life. Phone to my ear, I climbed into the back of our transit and sat on the metal box next to Vincent. “Warren,” Moretti answered. “I got the message. We’ll see you on Dunton road.”

“I should warn you,” I said threateningly. “If you, for any reason, stray by mountebank, indemnification shall be paid in the exsanguination of bodies.” His breathing slowed. “Have I made myself abundantly fucking clear?”

“We are business partners.” His Italian accentuated. “Nothing more. Nothing less.”

I ended the call and buried the phone in my pocket.

Soldiers sat listlessly on the boxes, their shoulders hunched forward. “Straighten up,” I tell the anxious-looking men and their spines uncurled into neat postures. “Lose the grim faces. You need to be on your best performance tonight.”

Forearms resting on his thighs, Vincent scalped a green apple with a switchblade. Licking juice from his lips, he chewed waxy peel and listened to the driver’s navigational device.

No one seemed to mind the silence among men. Rapt muteness was preferred. Everyone stared ahead in a state of bleakness, the uneven, bumpy roads vibrating underneath our boots.

Arms folding over my chest, I stretched my legs out and crossed them at the ankles. We had a fair old drive to Dunton. I am armed and ready to dispossess the Bourse’s imports and feel moderately calm for favourable and unfavourable outcomes. If I walk away empty-handed, I will still sleep peacefully tonight; if everything goes according to plan, I can celebrate with the men and text reassurance to Alexa.

If I know my wife, she’ll be pacing the Manor by now, talking to herself and drinking her weight in vodka. Alexa asked me to abort the mission again this morning. Even when I persisted in uncooperative muteness, she straddled my waist, beautifully naked and seductively tempting, and breathed naughty promises in my ear. All I had to do was choose a night in bed with her instead, and she’d make it worthwhile. Still, I declined her erotic invitation and hated the sadness in her eyes when I excused myself to the master bedroom’s en-suite.

Alexa’s second best to no one, but she felt unimportant at that moment in time. I saw it in the way she looked at me. She hadn’t joined me in the shower or hinted at morning coffee together. On the bed, she laid. Her lustrous dark hair fanned across the black sheets.

We had stayed awake all night, kissing and fucking until sunrise. How much she craved pregnancy to replace the baby she had lost. I fail every month. I exhaust myself with the aim of her conceiving, and then her period shows—another negative result. Her face always a blend of miserableness, disappointment and self-blame.

It is time to debate other options, yet I cannot muster the courage to suggest in-vitro-fertilisation or gestational surrogacy because the concept of another woman carrying our child in favour of Alexa repulses me. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth and guilt on my shoulders. I never wanted children, I can certainly live without them, but she is no different to any other female who seeks the bittersweetness of motherhood.

Who am I to deny her?

I love Alexa. I love her so fucking much. Her pain is my pain. I feel her sadness, her heartache, her insecurities and self-perpetuating defeatism.

I will move mountains to fulfil the promise of child-rearing.

And if medical procedures are the only answer for her happiness, then I will fight through every obstacle to make it happen.

I slid the phone onto my palm and stared at the internet browser. Fertility clinics in London, I typed, and an array of websites illuminated the homepage. Click here to arrange a free consultation, I read. Blowing my cheeks out, I entered personal details and requested a private call prior to possible meetings.

When I put the phone away, I learnt of Vincent’s mindfulness. “Is there something you wish to ask?”

“No.” His teeth sank into the apple. “Is there something you wish to discuss?”

I overlooked his sarcasm. “No.”

“Donny tells me the boy temporarily resides in the Warren Manor.” He threw the apple stump at one of the guard’s and the guy caught it before it clipped his face. “It’s very generous of you, brother.”

Yes, Donny’s due to attend a meeting on Monday to extirpate every scintilla of uneasiness. When agreeing to bring Logan to the Manor, I exposed the Brotherhood. I killed two people (our clean-up crew buried their remains), and even though law enforcement care not for the absent junkies, they need answers regarding Logan’s current living conditions.

According to Donny, the police department are aware that I am responsible for the “missing” couple, and they know Logan’s with me for the wrong reasons. How can they prove as much without evidence, though? Unless the boy squeals truths, they don’t have a leg to stand on.

Hearsay is inadmissible in criminal proceedings.

Suspicion cannot prevail in the eyes of a jury.

I tied up loose ends, except for the unpredictable teenager who had the power to noose my neck at any waking moment. Nevertheless, for Alexa, I will sign a short-term agreement for him to live with us until he’s of age. “An impermanent home for Logan,” I replied. “He leaves on his sixteenth birthday.”

“Why home the boy if you don’t plan to keep him?” There was a pause. “You should send him away before he becomes too attached.”

“Attached to whom?” I gave him a roguish smirk. “You needn’t worry yourself, Vincent. There is more chance of Logan killing me in my sleep than unwanted fondness.”

“You presume I meant you.” Eye to eye, we glared. “Alexa?”

Of course, I have considered Alexa’s devotion to the lad. She’s invested in Logan’s welfare, so detangling the duo might entail considerable debates. I shan’t worry myself, though. I can deal with said matters in the future. “Alexa’s agreed to let the lad move on.”

“What of Edward Morris?” He had a knowing twinkle in his amused eyes. “A little birdie tells me the man died of asphyxiation. Pathologists confirmed the time of death, too. Three for the price of one, brother. I admire your work ethic.”

“Donny’s got a big mouth,” I clipped, and he grinned. “Why the inquisition? Last I checked, you were no saint.”

“Intrigue.” Smoothly impassive, he folded his arms. “Fret not. I am glad to see the back of Edward Morris. He was impossibly bumptious.”

I schooled my features. “You speak as though you knew him.”

“Yes, I met him.” He itched his jawline. “Didn’t Alexa tell you? We visited Edward’s family home to educate him. Well, Alexa and Donny tried to reason with the man. I already knew by looking at old police records the probability of him being Logan’s biological father was relatively high.”

My blood simmered.

No, Alexa withheld the information specified above. She visited Edward Morris alongside Vincent and Donny and never thought to mention it, which I found most unfathomable. If she wanted to see the man, sit with him, discuss fatherly duties and responsibilities with him, I’d have taken her. She didn’t need outside help.

Maintaining straight-faced seriousness, I stared at the van’s windowless exterior with a strong, overpowering urge to throttle the smug bastard. Vincent’s good at getting under one’s skin. I’ll give him that. His monstrous cockiness and troublesome characteristics define his unlikable personality. With unwavering eye contact, he predicted hot-tempered impulsiveness. He wants me to fly off the handle, to question my wife’s prevarication in the eyes of bystanders.

“Sir.” Craig’s voice crackled in my ear. “Goods ahead. Four vehicles.”

I clicked my earpiece. “Moretti?”

“Approaching.”

Vincent stood, his head nearly touching the roof. “Liam?”

“Sir?” Craig’s anxiousness heightened. “I think they spotted us.”

I kept my fingertip to my ear. “Moretti’s position?”

“Full speed ahead.”

“He can tackle upfront. Let’s take those bitches from the side. You,” I point to the men,” buckle up.” I waited for Vincent to secure his position, reached for the door handle and dragged the side door wide open. Strong winds and thunderous rain battered the vehicle, splashing murky dews in our eyes. Expelling a meditative breath, I yanked the balaclava over my face, the driver speeding along the tortuous road, closing in on the other vehicle. “Now!”

Vincent extended his arm, and we aimed in coincide, ripping through belts of ammunition, the bullets shredding the exterior of our target. The tyres shrieked and swerved as they strived to evade ambush. Pressurised smoke escaped rubber seams. Their driver footed the accelerator, gaining an advantage, but our driver, Craig, was hot on their tail. “Hold on,” he barked in my ear.

I gripped the guardrail as he deliberately smashed our vehicle into theirs, fragmenting their windows on impactful collision, stripping layers of automotive paint, forcing them to reduce velocity.

His hand grasping the entryway, Vincent directed the gun to their back wheel and unremittingly triggered bullets. It popped the tyre, and the moving van sank on one side, the deafening shriek of scraping metal spitting sparks along the floor.

“Get upfront,” I ordered, my arm raised ready. “I want the driver.”

Inch by inch, our transit moved until he was there, and their driver, wide-eyed and shaking his head, begging me not to shoot. My fingers tracing the trigger, I released one bullet, and it whistled through the air, imploding his window. His head snapped to the side in an almost magnificent display of slow, bespattering blood-shed. Hands slipping from the steering wheel, he slumped forward, losing control of the wheel. The van jounced wildly, up and down, veered sharply to the left and subsided down the muddy slope into clustered trees, the loud crash startling dormant carrion crows to air-dash.

“Stop,” I said, and our tyres burnt rubber along the asphalt. Jumping out, I looked down the street, relieved to see the three other vans brought to a standstill. “Get out.” My men unclipped their waistbelts. “Rundown. Help Moretti.” Inserting another magazine into the Glock, I sprinted to the smoking vehicle that’s threatening to overturn, flung open the passenger side door.

“Please,” the other man whimpered, cowering in the midst of his friend’s blood and billowing engine smoke. “I—”

“It’s not personal.” I shot him from point-blank range. His head flung back as the bullet speared through his skull. Reaching over the dead bodies, I unfasted the keys from the ignition. “Vincent?”

“Here,” he called, and I met him around the back. “We need to get moving.” He caught the keys, unlocked the doors and stepped back. “Ten minutes.”

Ripping open the sterile bag, I climbed into the transit van and wiggled my hand into the computerised glove. Between eight crates, I stood. I selected the smallest, positioned my hand onto the touchpad and waited with bated breath. Green lights flickered on the digital screen, and a set of symbols, one by one, met in the middle like a finished jigsaw puzzle. “Welcome, Mr Henry,” said the robotic voice. “Lock deactivation.”

I whistled. “Well, I’ll be fucking damned.”

Vincent’s head appeared over my shoulder in curiosity.

Unlatching the crane, I popped the lid off, brushed void fill chips aside and revealed aluminium cases. Leather boxes laid on black padding. I opened one and a smirk slanted across my face. “Christ.” Pinching the brilliant-cut diamond between my thumb and forefinger, I examined its scintillating finish and delved in for another: diamond and emerald drop earrings. It is not Alexa’s favourite shade, but I imagined how beautiful they’d look draped from her ears. Kicking the small box beneath a crane, I slipped them into my trouser pocket and unlocked the other cranes.

“How’s it going?” Bosqui asked, having crept up to assess. “Do you need a hand?”

I eyed him through the balaclava’s slits.

“We cannot access the other cranes without the glove, Warren.” He is sheathed from head to toe in black. “We are running out of time.”

With the final crane accessible, I removed the glove and tossed it into his waiting hands. “We will get these cases into transit. I suggest you do the same.” Bosqui gave me a two-finger salute and retreated. “Come on, Vincent. Help me get these out.”

Vincent and I conveyed cases to our getaway transit. Not a stone left behind, we stockpiled until satisfied, continuously keeping an eye for any unwanted visitors. “Craig, come back and drive,” I said into the earpiece. “We need to get these vans off the road.”

I sent Moretti a text message.

Me: Did you receive layby details from Brad?

Balaclava pulled to his forehead, Vincent pinched a blunt between his lips and matched a flame. Inhaling a drag, he blew out smoke and observed the other transits from afar. “What’s taking them so long?”

I rubbed my palms together to generate heat. “No idea.” Clicking my earpiece, I berated the inattentive driver. “Is your hearing impaired? Get your ass to the fucking van.” My agitated half-sibling pulled his eyebrows into a dark frown. “What?”

“It is too quiet.” His voice was subdued. “Something’s wrong.”

I followed Vincent’s cautious line of vision. He’s right. Motor vehicles collectively sat tight, yet I cannot see any of the men and Moretti’s allies were nowhere in sight. It’s almost as though everyone had abandoned the mission, leaving us to pick up the pieces. “They must be down there,” I said congruently.

I sent another text message.

Me: Where are you?

Brad: Mission accomplished, Bossman.

Brad: I am en-route to lay by one.

Reservations settled in my stomach. I continued to assess the desolate road, the pending vehicles and dumped containers. If Moretti had made a run for it, we’d have seen as much in action.

Me: Where are the diamonds?

Brad: What?

Me: Where are the diamonds, Brad?

Brad: In transit.

Me: Yours?

Brad: No.

Brad: Cazale’s driving them ahead.

Brad. Don’t worry. I got my eye on him.

I shot the same message to Nate.

Me: Where are the diamonds?

Minutes passed before he responded.

Nate: Transit four.

“Fuck,” I spat, texting furiously.

Me: Costello?

Nate: Sir?

Me: They played us.

Nate: What?

Brad: What?

I replied to both.

Me: Take them out.

I tucked my phone away and muted the earpiece in case somebody’s listening. “It’s a ruse,” I said positively, and Vincent’s eyes drifted over my head. “I won’t leave my men behind.”

“What choice do we have, brother?” A muscle twitches in his cheek. “If we don’t get the truck off the road in the next three minutes, Moretti will be the least of our concerns because law enforcement will be here, reading us the Miranda rights. Be rational. Moretti is waiting for us to throw ourselves into defence mode. And the diamonds?” He tsked. “I will not risk billions for a bunch of inferiors. Let’s grab what we can and get the hell out of here.”

“I am their boss.” I squared up to him. “You don’t turn your back on those who fight your corner.” His features sharpened. “I…” I caught faint movement behind him and narrowed my gaze. “Vincent—” Something unexpectedly whacked me in the side of my head. Staggering pain took the very knees out from under me. I dropped to the floor, positioned on all fours and, light-headed and visually compromised, I touched my temple. Blood soaked my fingertips. I heard nothing. Felt nothing. Everything blurred around me, yet I knew, deep in my gut, the ache in my chest, it was fight or flight. “Vincent,” I croaked, blinking rapidly to regain clear eyesight. Eyes squeezing shut, I lowered my violently shaking head, and then, the most subtle sound of gunshots disgraced my ears. “No—” Someone kicked me beneath the chin, sending my body across the asphalt.

Ringing resounded in my ears. Gunfire jerked my heart back to life, and I waited for the burning sensation to rip through my body.

Moretti’s dark shadow fell over me.

He’d shot me, I thought. Yet, I felt no aftershock from the attack until the man bent down and shanked me in the stomach. And even then, I wondered if I had imagined shots as the only discomfort came from the blade twisting deeper and deeper. “Sanguina e muori,” he whispered in my ear, and I winced through excruciating intervals of flesh-searing pain. “In the next life.” Tipping his fedora cap, he stepped over my body and walked away. “Warren.”

I heard his retreating footsteps, the vehicles fleeing the crime scene.

Rolling onto my stomach, I lethargically raised my head and homed in on the dead bodies strewn across the concrete and briefly closed my eyes. Clutching the military chain around my neck, I put the tags to my lips and kissed the abraded engraving. “Vincent?” For a short, distressing moment, I thought he had left me behind in a vicious act of betrayal. “Not you,” I wondered aloud, my eyelashes tirelessly fighting for consciousness.

With little strength, I forced myself to stand, and soreness corded overworked muscles. I lifted my hoodie to determine the damage and swallowed back acidic bile. My hand covering the knife wound, I scoured the area for Vincent, but he’s gone. Disappointment weighed on my shoulders. I staggered down the road to where my men laid, bloodied and cast aside like joints of animal carcass. Step by step, I reclaimed the chains from their necks and crammed them in my pockets. I staggered in retreat, barely holding myself upright and upon limping determinedly to our van, I saw someone’s lifeless, blood-stained body on the ground.

Dread lanced my chest. “Vincent…” I drifted to his side in a blur. He’s too pale. His lips were blue-tinted and parted. I wasn’t ready to check his breathing. He is motionless, unconscious or… “I’ll come back for you.” Leaving him on the floor, I moved to our transit van and almost climbed into the driver’s side. I can grab the spare keys from the dashboard, fire the engine and chase behind Moretti and his men to regain the swiped diamonds…

My heart hurt.

Vincent is comatose on the floor. He’s too young and innocent to be out here with someone so irredeemably vicious like myself, someone who’s yet to give him the time of day.

It’s all Vincent’s ever wanted, for me to accept him, for me to love him as much as he loves me. And I would walk away, leave him here—for what? Needless diamonds. Bitterness and revenge.

I pushed myself away from the van. “Vincent.” Hand fixed to gash oozing blood, I descended to one knee beside him, unbuttoned his shirt down the middle and located the bullet wounds. I froze inside and out. He’s not going to make it. “It’s okay.” I placed two fingers on his neck and felt the strained beat of his pulse. “I got you.”

Peeling off my hoodie, I covered his punctures to staunch the bleeding and tied the sleeves behind his back. Growling as I stood, teeth-gritting in anguish, I gripped his arms and walked backwards off the main road, dragging him into the dense, towering woodlands to dome our safety.

Every muscle in my body ached and protested. I leave him on the bed of leaves for two seconds while I search for somewhere to hide. It’s no use. If law enforcement side-tracks into the woods, they’ll find us. “Don’t you fucking die on me.” I settled him behind the tree and lowered myself to the mud-spattered grounds beside him. “I mean it, Vincent.” Police sirens wailed from afar. “The Warren’s are indomitable, remember?”

Ignoring the burning discomfort in my side, the irremovable wrench on my heart, I stared down at my phone and, teary-eyed, tried to dial Brad’s number. Falling into semi-unconsciousness, I felt something wet roll down my cheek. “I guess it’s just you and me.” My palm laid on Vincent’s cheek as our foreheads touched. “Brother.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“It wasn’t easy to find you, not with your men patrolling every ward in the hospital. If someone came into the room, they’d see a professional-looking doctor who was going through patient observations. But I am not a doctor, or any medical professional, for that matter. I had to see you, though. I needed to know you were okay, too.”

She sat on the bed beside Liam and threaded their fingers. His hand had callouses, the sign of a grafting man, and solid gold she could only dream of owning adorned his knuckles. To her, he’d never been the man people defamed. He’s the boy with a golden heart that could never do any wrong. He was usually thick-skinned and dangerously lion-hearted, but as she stared at his unconscious body, so vulnerable and exposed to threats, she had an overwhelming urge to steal him from the ward, to take him home and to protect him.

Heart monitors beeped.

Her rare blood type transfused his veins.

She lifted his wrist to her mouth and kissed his pulse. How long, she had waited to hold his hand, to be this close to him and cherish every ticking second. He smelt like a blend of chemicals and masculine cologne.

Pressing his lifeless hand to her cheek, she closed her eyes and kept him there to savour every moment as it’s unlikely she will ever experience his unknowing tenderness again.

“You have been on the wildest of journeys,” she said, her throat clogged up. “This is all but a blunder. You will open your eyes. You will leave the room and brave the outside world again because you do it so well.” She leaned in to brush dark strands off his eyebrow. Up close, she could see his strong features, and pride inflated her lungs. He’s perfectly imperfect and handsome to a fault. If only she could see his eyes, the eyes that have haunted her for three decades. “You are stronger than this, Liam.”

Afraid to let go, she lowered her head to his shoulder, being mindful of the breathing tube and intravenous needles, and lingered a kiss on his stubble jaw. She heard arguments beyond the room door, a furious woman lambasting the nurses in the corridor. She recognised her voice and knew it was time to leave, to say goodbye forever. “I love you.”

With one last kiss to the man’s forehead, she wiped the tears from her cheeks, collected scattered thoughts and exited the room without looking back. Men in suits lined the walls, but one male, a man she recalled as Brad Jones, lingers beside Liam’s wife, Alexa Warren. Tears flooded the woman’s eyes. Her dark, messy hair stuck out in all directions. It’s evident she had rolled out of bed in the early hours to be here.

She skirted around the mob, and chills slithered down her spine. Alexa glared right through the unrecognisable woman. “Is he okay?” Her hand grabbed the woman’s elbow. “You were in his room.” Devastation constricted her gentle voice. “When can I see him?”

“He’s Liam Warren,” she said calmly, and too many eyes landed on her. “I think he’ll be fine.”

She felt their close scrutiny as she walked away.

That night, she said a prayer for her boys.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Alexa

Emotional discomfort prevented sleep. I wandered the Manor’s tenebrous halls in unease, phone in one hand, bottled vodka in the other and launched into a soliloquy. Engrossed by the double doors in the grand foyer, I rooted myself to the bottom of the bifurcated stairs in wait for Liam.

Seconds ticked. Minutes passed. Hours lanced my insides.

Liam never came home.

I called him, sent text messages and left worried voicemails.

When Brad’s name lit up my phone screen, I knew something terrible had happened. Blinded by sadness, I forwarded his call and drank vodka until the unendurable twinge in my chest segued into benumbed incredulousness.

I did not, however, predict the infuriated man’s arrival fifteen minutes later.

“Moretti double-crossed the syndicate,” Brad told me. “The Italian’s stole the diamonds and left everyone for dead. I found Liam and Vincent unconscious in the woods and drove them straight to the hospital. You need to get your shit together, Alexa. When Bossman wakes up? He’ll be looking for you.”

I was incapable of processing anything. If Brad hadn’t bound shoes to my feet, dragged me to Liam’s underground garage and thrown me into the Tesla, I would still be at home right now, in denial and three sheets to the wind.

The brother’s required an emergency blood transfusion.

“AB-Negative,” the surgeon informed.

Everyone from the high-ranked Suits to the low-ranked Suits almost fainted on the spot. We were uselessly incapable of helping. We each had common blood types, which meant Liam and Vincent were in peril of their lives unless, by some miracle, somebody—anybody—came forward with a match.

Brad demanded that hospitals within our vicinity transported donations from storage facilities. Nate made telephone call after telephone call to find possible donors. I knew I wasn’t a match but pleaded with the surgeons to test my blood regardless.

I sank down the wall and searched for my mother’s disembodied voice. It has been too long since I needed her reassurance and comfort. I have outlived more than most do in a lifetime, but I would never survive losing Liam. He is forever. Always. Even considering longevity without him ripped my heart into shreds.

Pain suffocated my chest, a familiar discomfort I knew so well. When a panic attack lurked, I excused myself from the commotion in the emergency unit, hunted down the nearest toilet facilities and held onto the basin for dear life.

Breathing slowly, in and out, I shut my eyes and inwardly talked myself through calming techniques. I had to be strong. I had to prepare, mentally and emotionally, to tackle whatever knocked on my door.

Splashing cold water over my face, I exhaled through intervals of chest tightness, through the high-pitched shrill in my ears and the deep, pessimistic voice inside my head screaming different permutations of what’s expected of me.

I stared at the woman in the mirror. She looked exhausted, cadaverous and depressed. On the brink of tears, she blinked droplets back and felt something sinister awaken.

My expression morphed into cold-blooded vanity before my very eyes.

Tossing bunched up tissue in the bin, I flung open the restroom door, ambled through the crowded waiting room and returned to the emergency unit where Brad and the others, all wearing worried expressions, waited for answers. I doubt anyone will take me seriously in satin pyjama shorts, six-inch heels and an oversized hoodie, but I no longer cared what people thought of me or how ridiculous I must look. “Any luck with a donor?” I asked Brad, espying Detective Donny Stevens by the nurses’ station. “What’s happening?” It’s not unusual for Donny to be here. He’s Vincent’s close friend, after all. “Who called him?

Brad licked a toothpick to the corner of his mouth. “Donny claims he’s a match,” he said with an aura of suspicion. “I don’t know why he’s here. I’ll question it later. For now, let’s pray for the best outcome.”

Donny relocated to a separate unit with two nurses.

Minutes felt like hours. Everyone amassed yet stood mutely. Josh ventured out twice to buy rounds of coffee, which most of us declined, and Nate occasionally answered phone calls to concerned syndicate members.

I sent Alfie text messages, asking him to take care of Logan.

Alfie: Logan is knocked out to the world, Ma’am.

Me: If he wakes up, just let him know I will be home later.

Me: And tell him not to panic.

Alife: Of course, Ma’am.

“What’s taking them so long?” Brad’s irritated voice hastened to a feverish pace. “You said the attacker missed vital organs, right?” The plump nurse peered up from behind the U-shaped desk. “Flesh wound?” Her eyebrow raised. “What the fuck is that face? Do you think this is funny? Look at us!” He signalled to the evident gloominess. “You need to get your ass to the surgeon and come back with updates.”

“Mr Jones.” She removed her overly large, black-framed reading glasses. “When I receive updates from the surgeons, I will put your mind at ease. Unfortunately, I cannot provide answers or reassurances at this moment in time.” The vile harridan curled her lip. “Step away from the desk and stand by your friends, or I will be inclined to call security.”

“Security?” Brad’s tone of voice lowered to a dangerously dark undertone. “Have you met me?” His hands positioned onto the desk, and she eased back in the tattered leather computer chair to distance herself from him. “We don’t take kindly to threats. That’s your first mistake.” Ripping the smartphone from her hand, he lunged it at the wall behind her. It rebounded with a loud bang and slid across the tiled floor, and she recoiled, glancing at her co-workers in astonishment. “They won’t help. They know better. Now, walk down the hall and get me some answers before I take you to the nearest window to throw you out on your goddamn ass!”

Her mouth formed a circle. “Mr Jones…” Nate joined Brad’s side. Together, they were an impenetrable force you didn’t want to mess with; the woman, noting the threat in their eyes, in their corded bodies, slowly soared to her feet and slid behind the chair as if it could protect her from them. “Yes, absolutely. I will be right back.”

I didn’t even have the energy to watch her beat a hasty retreat.

Josh gently pinched my elbow. “How are you holding up?”

I gave him a subtle head shake. “I feel sick.” Accepting bottled water from him, I downed enough to slake my thirst and kept a close eye on Brad, who’s pacing back and forth in irritation. “He’s seconds away from losing it.”

“Allow it.” Josh used his shirt sleeve to wipe dry blood from his cheek. “I dread the second Warren opens his eyes,” he said under his breath so that only I could hear. “He’ll declare war on the Italians.”

“I know.” I faced him head-on. “And so, he should. All in good time, though, Josh. He needs to rest before he flies off the handle.”

Our runaway nurse returns alongside one surgeon whose tie-back gown had blood stains caked to the middle section. His clog-like shoes squeaked against the floor, and tresses of blond hair stuck out beneath the bouffant-style cap. “Family?” His cautiousness raked over the countless heads. “I can only speak to the wife.”

I put a hand on Brad’s upper back. “You can talk openly in front of Liam’s brothers.”

The surgeon was too tired to argue. “Gabe,” he introduced himself. “Mr Warren’s not out of the woods, but the surgery was a success.”

Audible sighs of relief echoed down the corridor. Dropping his head back to glare at the ceiling, Brad cupped his mouth and took a moment to control his emotions. When he looked at me, he had tears in his eyes. Enveloping his arm around my shoulders, he pulled me into his hold and kissed the top of my head. I clung to his soiled shirt, listening to the franticness of his heartbeat.

“We relocated Mr Warren to a recovery room,” Gabe continued, “where he’ll be monitored by the night staff until the doctors change over in the morning.”

Wiping tears from my cheeks, I untangled myself from Brad. “And what of Vincent?”

Gabe’s arms folded. “Mr Wentworth’s still in theatre,” he said charily, and trepidations resurfaced. “I am not authorised to discuss his situation further, Mrs Warren. Where’s his next of kin?”

“I don’t know…” Donny’s face came to mind. “Detective Stevens, I think? He was here earlier to donate blood.”

“Where’s the donor’s file?” Gabe accepted a folder from the nurse. Face mask dangling from one ear, he snapped the elastic band keeping the pages intact and read recent documentation. “No, Detective Stevens escorted Mr Wentworth’s mother to the donor centre.” He closed the file. “Is she about?”

It felt as though the floor erupted beneath my feet. “What’s going on, Brad?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Brad’s perplexed. “Let me see the file.”

“Patient confidentiality.” Gabe put the file to his chest. “If you’ll excuse me—”

“Wait.” I grabbed him by the tunic. “Vincent’s to be transferred to this unit together with Liam. You cannot separate them.”

“Mrs Warren, with all due respect, Mr Wentworth’s in critical condition. He needs to stay in intensive care. Your husband’s in safer hands on the anaesthetic ward.”

“Then, you must bring Liam back to intensive care,” I argued, knowing the men will agree. “We need them together so that our security detail can guard their doors—”

“Guard their doors?” Gabe barked a laugh. “This is a hospital, Mrs Warren. You cannot horde the halls or make demands.”

Brad opened his mouth to speak, but I held my hand up. “You are not dealing with normal people, Gabe, which, judging by the sharpness in your voice when I mention my husband’s name, you are pretty clued up. In case you missed the memo, I will educate you. My husband and his brother were left for dead after being shot down by an Italian mafia.” His eyes rounded fractionally. “I appreciate that you are way out of your league, and this situation in itself is unprecedented, but while they lie unconscious, fighting for survival, there are enemies outside of these walls, waiting to come back to finish the job. So, no. You will not keep them apart. You will not deny their protection. You will put them back together and let the men in this room do their jobs, or so help me God, I will order the biggest hit on everyone you hold dear to your heart, and that’s not a threat. It’s a damn promise. Do you understand?”

Brad clicked his tongue. “Oh, he better understand, sugar tits.”

I refrained from lambasting him.

Gabe’s powerless to argue. He eyeballed every besuited member of the syndicate and gave an agreeable nod. “I will authorise the transfer.”

With Liam returned to intensive care, I could breathe freely again. Josh had fallen asleep on an uncomfortable-looking chair fifteen minutes ago, so I draped a suit jacket over his upper body and hunted down vending machines for fuel. I purchased snacks for the men, handed them out and revisited the nurses’ station for updates. Still, the medical team persisted stubbornly. Nobody can enter Liam’s room before the doctor arrives. “Mr Wentworth’s out of the emergency theatre,” she said, and I thanked the heavens for his second chance in life. “Please take a seat, Mrs Warren.”

Expelling an aggravated sigh, I raked a hand through tendrils of unruly hair. I glimpsed down the hall where four men guarded Liam’s door in time to see a doctor exit the room.

Confused, I looked to the nurse to ask why she withheld information from me, but cornering the doctor for updates outweighed inquisitiveness.

Clipboard wedged into the groove of her arm, the doctor, togged up in bottle green overalls, her salt and pepper hair clipped back in an elegant updo, dodged the sea of Suits in an endeavour to leave. I caught her by the elbow to demand answers. “Is he okay?” Her sliced brown eyes softened as she catalogued my features. “You were in his room. When can I see him?”

“He’s Liam Warren.” She pried my fingers off her arm. “I think he’ll be fine.”

The woman disappeared through the key-coded doors. “She’s not wearing an identification card,” I said to Nate, who, as well as Brad, studied the double doors she’d previously used to abscond in speculation. “Everyone is a suspect from now on. If a doctor visits Liam’s room, one of us attends to be sure it’s genuine. For all we know, the woman is Moretti’s informant…” My concerns revisited Liam’s door. “Fuck this hospital. I am staying by his side.” I stormed past the gossiping nurses. Immune to melancholic circumstances and heartbroken visitors, they unsympathetically chortled about a television series they had watched the night before. One lady glanced up to see me on a mission. “I dare you to try and stop me.”

If the nurses protested, I never hung around to listen or find out. The Suits stepped aside for me to enter the room. I pushed through the door, saw Liam’s unconscious body on the bed and broke into tears. “Liam,” I sobbed, rushing to his side. He’s too vulnerable, too weak and lifeless. I hate it. “Oh, God.”

A breathing tube balanced on his bottom lip where the surgeon applied stitches. Fresh bruises marred his cheek. Machines beeped. Blood and analgesic pumped into his veins. “I am scared to touch you.”

Perched onto the bed, I brushed the hair off his forehead and kissed him above the brow. “You scared me, Liam. This is why we don’t trust outsiders. You taught me that.”

Avoiding the intravenous needle, I brought his hand to my lips and kissed his knuckles. “I don’t want to live without you,” I whispered, curling up beside him. “If you go, I go, remember?”

I rested quietly beside Liam, thinking of the many ways I will make Moretti pay for his sins. I knew he couldn’t be trusted. It was the wicked glint in his eyes as he addressed me on the day of my wedding. He evoked terrible memories of the monster I have spent my entire life trying to forget. When faced with uncertainties, because of Flamur, I know not to ignore the strain in my stomach, the gut instinct reminding me what darkness entailed. “You should trust my judgment,” I said into nothingness. “You are not the only one who is good at reading people.”

The door clicked open. A woman, expressionless and sprayed in floral perfume, entered the room. Behind her, the short, smiling male eased apprehensions. “Don’t worry,” she said, picking up the clipboard from the foot of the bed. “I am not here to kick you out.”

“Good because I am not going anywhere.” Climbing off the bed, I moved to the window so that she can adjust Liam’s pain relief. “Are you a nurse?”

“Respiratory therapist.” She clicked the top of a pen. “I am here to extubate Mr Warren.”

“Why?” I asked distrustfully.

“He can breathe without a ventilator,” she assured, and I turned my head before witnessing the tube extraction. “He’s heavily sedated.” Her head tilted while she listened to his shallow breathing even out, and then she jotted something down.

The quiet male stood over Liam and something akin to admiration etched his countenance. I asked him, “He won’t lose consciousness, will he?”

“It’s a common concern for the patient’s family. Improbable, though.” He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. “I’m an anaesthesiologist.” He reeled off something medical that I did not understand. “I will monitor Mr Warren alongside my colleagues until tomorrow’s changeover.”

I chewed my thumbnail nervously.

“I should forewarn you,” he said. “Anaesthesia can lead to post-traumatic stress disorder.” He nabbed the clipboard from the therapist and, left-handed, wrote something down. “Mr Warren may wake up in an hour or two.”

“Oh, thank God.” Relief like never before filled my chest. “Is Vincent okay?”

“Mr Wentworth’s in the room next door.” Unclipping one of the machines, the therapist bundled wires and wheeled it to the door. “If you have any concerns, ring the alarm, and someone will be here within seconds.”

The door closed behind them.

Slumping onto the visitors’ chair beside Liam’s bed, I hiked my knees to my chest and watched him sleep until my eyelids felt too heavy.

***

Accelerated beeping invaded my ears. My eyes snapped wide and landed on the electrocardiogram. I am no nurse, but Liam’s heartbeat was far too high. I shot off the chair in panic and gripped the nurse call button when his hand captured my wrist with unforeseen abruptness.

Our eyes collided. His angry blues seared through me. I recognised the viciousness in blackening hues.

“No,” I said fiercely, and with lackadaisical energy, Liam tore the device from my hand and swung it over the bed. “Liam!” He wrenched the intravenous needle out of his hand, and blood sprayed onto the white sheets. “Don’t move, Liam. Let me call a doctor—”

“Alexa,” he said groggily, fisting the sheets as he strained to stand. “Where are my clothes?”

“Are you insane?” To his side, I went, wrapping an arm around his waist to hold him upright. “Liam, please—” Shoving me onto the bed, he ripped the paper gown in half and let it fall to the floor. “Brad!” Rolling off the mattress, I sprinted to the door, but before I could swing it open, Liam grasped the nape of my neck and spun me around to face him. “Liam…”

“My brother,” he whispered, and the tears in his searching eyes fractured my heart. “Where’s my brother?” I put my hands on his bare chest, and that’s when I see the bandages on his middle section. “Baby?”

“Vincent’s in recovery.” I cupped his cheeks, and his eyes, beneath harshly furrowed eyebrows, squeezed shut. “You both made it, Liam. You are safe. Vincent’s safe. Please get back into bed for me.”

“Remove them,” he ordered, steadying his palms to the wall on either side of my head. “The compression socks. Take them off.”

I shook my head. “Liam, you need to keep them on—”

“Take them off,” he barked, his body trembling with adrenaline. “Now, Alexa.”

“You are incorrigible.” I slide into a squat, roll the white socks down his legs and hurl them onto the chair. “Why must you be a difficult patient?”

Pleased by the sock removal, Liam pushed himself away from me and hunted the room for something to wear. He could barely walk, yet he ignored the pain, the fuzziness and the blood splurging over his knuckles. When he came unstuck, he powered towards the door.

I lost my temper. “Liam, get back into bed!” He threw the door open, and the Suits, wide-eyed and stunned into mutism, shot to their full heights. “Where’s Brad?” I asked anyone with a pair of ears, chasing the uncontrollable man down the hall. “Well, don’t just stand there. Help me—”

“Where is he?” Liam shouted, and the busybodies at the nurses’ station jerked off their chairs and unsuccessfully strived to reason with him. “Vincent. I need to see him.”

“Mr Warren…” A nurse raised her hands in an attempt to calm him down, not once glancing at his uncovered manhood. “You should rest—”

Liam’s fist slammed onto the desk. “Take me to my brother,” he said despairingly, and I stood down, knowing he’ll capsize the hospital if I fought him. “Please.”

My lips parted at his politeness. “Get me some clothes,” I said to one of the men, and he rushed off to find decent coverage. Peeking around the hall for Brad or Nate, I returned to Liam’s side, pinched a sheet of paper off the desk and concealed his manhood. “Just let him see that Vincent’s okay, and then I’ll get him back to the room.”

The nurses shared an unreadable look.

“Here.” Panting after his quick run, the Suit handed me a navy tracksuit. “It’s from my gym bag. You’re lucky I store shit in the boot.” He sought his boss. “Are you okay, Sir?”

Liam ignored him.

I offered the man a flat smile and coaxed Liam down the hall to help him change. His eyes closed as he wrestled for breath and sweat sheened his forehead in beads. I thought he’d need time alone with Vincent, but when I tried to walk away, he interlaced our fingers together and kept me close as the nurse directed us to the other room.

Refuelling his lungs on a deep inhalation, Liam licked the stitches that irritated his lower lip. His hold on my hand unstiffened when he saw his brother’s critical condition.

Once more, I had to look away. Vincent resembled a dying man. He’s grey-faced and inert to the bed, and it’s highly doubtful he will awaken any time soon.

Liam loomed beside the unconscious man. His insouciance was façade. Pain, guilt and regret saturated his worried eyes. He leaned in, whispered undetectable words in Vincent’s ear and, in a rare sight of compassionateness, he laid a delicate kiss on his brother’s cheek.

Hot tears streamed down my cheeks. Happiness replaced sadness, and warmth soothed my chest. I never acknowledged Liam’s brotherly affections. It might have taken catastrophic events for Liam to accept Vincent fully, but, late or not, he’s here now, kneeling beside the bed, grasping his brother’s hand. He never uttered a word for me to hear. It was a private moment between them. I knew he pleaded for the man’s survival, though.

I exited the room and put my back to the wall. I’d merely earned a two-second breather when the door whipped open, and Liam shot past in blurred velocity. “Liam?” Uneasiness hitched my voice. “Where are you going?” He stopped by the guard, frisked him for two firearms and the Bentley keys. “No, Liam. Go back to the room and rest. You are not thinking clearly!”

Brad and Nate repapered through the corridor doors, and I visibly relaxed. If anyone can prevent Liam from doing something stupid, it’s his closest men.

They stopped in their tracks, and the takeaway coffee cup in Brad’s hand nosedived to the floor. “Bossman,” he said warily, stepping over the spillage to close in on his boss. “Where are you going with those?” Liam shouldered past him without acknowledgement, and his lips flattened. “We almost lost you—”

“Do not fight me on this.” Guns tucked in the hoodie’s front pocket, Liam proceeded ahead. “I want six men on Vincent at all times,” he said authoritatively, and his men, excluding Brad, nodded in a submissive manner. “Moretti wants a war. I’ll give him a fucking war.”

“Liam, please,” I called out, and he disregarded me. “Brad, we must stop him. He’s irrational.”

“No,” Nate drawled, and I flung him a double-take. “Warren’s word is law, Alexa. We are not authorised to overrule. Ever.”

“He’s only just got off the operating table,” I cried, and Nate’s understanding gaze shifted to Brad. “So, what? That’s it? We let him drive alone to what could be an avoidable death!”

“No, we do what we always do.” Brad popped a chewing bubble in his mouth. “Obey command.”

“Fine.” I was nearing hyperventilation. “If Liam insists on spilling blood, then he can expect my input.” The two men followed me through the corridor. “Shit. We don’t know where he’s going.”

Nate held a door open for us, and we descended the spiral staircase in unison. “We can track the Bentley,” he assured. “Alexa, why don’t you let us deal with Warren. Go home. Get some rest.”

“Over my dead body.” We departed the hospital and went to the parked vehicles. “I am coming with you. Do not be difficult. If you drop me home, I will get behind the wheel and drive straight back out.” Brad unlocked the Tesla and climbed into the backseats while they got comfortable upfront. “Where’s Josh?”

“He mentioned something about his grandma,” Nate said evasively. “Are you armed?”

“No, I left my handbag at home,” I said, and Brad gave me the Glock from the dashboard. “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me yet.” Brad ripped the Tesla out of the car park and sped onto the main road. “Let’s go and kill some Italians.”