CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Alexa

Vincent’s reggae club was empty, except for the older man togged up in leather behind the bar. I recognised him from previous nights out. While living at Heather’s bed-and-breakfast with Jace, I often came here, and the moody, unapproachable barman always slaved away behind the draught pumps. He paused with a dishcloth on the wooden countertop when our eyes connected. And, judging by his air of condescension, he remembered our infrequent yet strained encounters, too.

I gulped. “Where is everyone?”

“Vincent is upstairs.” He dumped beer mats in the plastic bowl of soapy water. “I can’t talk for anyone else.”

Alfie removed the faux fur coat from my body and folded it over his arm. “Would you like me to order you a drink, Ma’am?”

“No, thank you.” I almost told him to treat himself to a gin, but his bionic hand kindled traumatic emotions when my husband docked his actual fingers as an unmerciful punishment. “You should order some orange juice and take a seat.”

His head dipped.

Ignoring the barman’s evident repugnance, I pushed through the private door at the back of the room and ascended the narrow stairs to the bar’s first floor, where many locked doors lined the dimly lit hall. Through one ajar door, I went. It opened into a large, cluttered room. Sealed cardboard boxes littered the wooden floor. Dirty dishes are mounted in the sink. The moon’s light shone through the uncurtained window, where a tall silhouette stood. When I stepped forward, Vincent’s head turned slightly. “It’s me,” I said before he instinctively reached for his gun. “Brad texted. He told me to come here.”

Vincent’s stare returned to the window to oversee the streets below.

“Do you live here?” My fingertips collected besprinkled soot on the wooden dresser, the cotton dust sheet hanging precariously over the edge. “It’s unaccommodating.”

After a long pause, he respired marijuana-infused smoke. “No, I reside elsewhere, Angel.”

I rubbed goosebumps from my arms. “Where is the light switch?”

“No bulbs.” He put his back to the window so that he could look at me from across the room. “I prefer the dark.”

“Deity of darkness,” I said playfully, but his graveness remained. “It’s how I saw you, the night you chased me through the alley.”

“Correction. I cornered a blue-eyed blonde.” His upper lip curled. “Where is the little vixen these days?”

I stopped in front of him. “You tell me, Smith.”

He gave me an insipid smile. “You don’t look like a ‘Victoria.'”

“And you don’t look like a ‘John.'”

Scratching his shadowed jaw, he proffered the half-smoke blunt. “Can I tempt you?”

I declined politely.

We both turned to the window to watch the black Bentley vehicles park along the curbside. Alfie jogged across the street to converse with Brad. Both men glanced at the window and, although they could not see anything, I stepped back. “Sometimes, I feel too exposed to the eyes of the syndicate. I love them, especially the elite. But there is no privacy. I am constantly in the spotlight.”

Vincent’s shoulder lent on the window frame. “It’s for your protection.”

“I know.” If nothing else, it placated Liam. “Still, it would be nice to roam the earth without bodyguards every now and then.”

His blue eyes brightened in the moon’s glow.

More often than not, I could see so much of Liam in this man. If not for their resemblances, then their unparalleled mannerisms.

My gaze cast to the floor. “You look so much like your brother.”

“Yes.” His eyes were hard. “It bothers you.”

“No.” I mean, it never used to bother me, but lately, upholding eye contact with somebody who reminded me so much of the man I love was painful. “I just miss him, Vincent.” My voice was a mere whisper. “I miss him so much.”

Life was no life at all without Liam. The bed was empty. The Manor was cold. I felt him everywhere yet saw him nowhere. And I hated it. I’d give anything to bring him home. If given the opportunity, I would never let him leave my sight ever again.

“I want Seychelles.” I drew a heart through the drips of condensation on the window. “It was the first and only time we lived freely.”

Vincent was a good listener. “The life of crime is all he knows, Angel.”

“I know.” Not once in our relationship, Liam’s and mine, did I demand a new way of life. I fell in love with a career criminal. And I am okay with that. “But right now, I want to go back to a time where life was good, and my husband was happy.” My brows knotted. “Hindsight really is a fucking bitch.”

He raised a dark eyebrow. “Have you quite finished?”

“Yes.” My breath stuttered. “Enough of my pity party.”

“Do not underestimate Carl.” He dropped the blunt out of the window. “He is unrivalled.”

“Irrespective of Carl’s jurisdictional competence, Liam pleaded guilty to Kreshnik Bektashi’s murder. He will do time behind prison walls for my sins.” My cheeks sank. “However, there is something I wish to discuss with Carl prior to Liam’s hearing. How can the Colt casings match the bullets in Krasnik’s chest when I shot him with a different gun?”

Vincent’s spine straightened. “Tell me that I am not deceived, Angel?”

“I remember the night like it happened yesterday. Granted, I did not know Kreshnik by name when he attacked me from behind, but if I close my eyes, I can still hear his voice and feel his hands on my skin.” A shiver washed over me. “He outmanoeuvred me, Vincent. He whacked the Colt out of my hand and pinned me to the ground.”

His jaw flexed. “Did he hurt you?”

“I refused to be his victim. Unarmed or not, I knew I had to outsmart him. I seized the gun from his ankle holster and pulled the trigger. Now, I am no gunsmith. I am unknowledgeable about the differentiation of firearms.” I smiled at him. “That’s your niche. However, the gun resembled a Glock. It was not a Colt, so how can there be a match?”

Vincent went to the two-seater sofa to unzip a large holdall. “Closer.”

I sat on the sheet-covered coffee table.

He arranged several guns onto the sofa. “Show me.”

Tucking hair behind my ears, I inched in and gave each pistol investigative consideration. “No.” I weighed a stainless-steel gun in my hand. “These are too light. It was heavier.”

Selecting three more pistols, he alternately handed them to me. When I gripped the third gun, I curled my fingers around the handle. “I’d hate to be wrong.”

He crouched before me. “Trust your gut.”

My fingers smoothed along the cold barrel. “This one.”

“The Beretta?” he mused, and I shrugged. “Inconsistencies in evidence. Still, how do we determine corruption in prosecution without exposing you?” He rose to his feet. “And thus, the ultimate question: How did David come into the possession of the Colt?”

“I chucked one in the Thames.” It was the night I killed Kellie for threatening Liam with the authorities. “I misplaced the other one.”

He stroked his chin. “Misplaced or stolen?”

I mulled over the question. “Blaire was in the background. I believe she took it as evidence.”

“Miss Pearce.” He sat on the coffee table. “I tried to warn my brother.”

“There are rules, Vincent.” My shoulder nudged his arm. “Nate vouched for Blaire as her bondsman.”

“Why must there be any rules?” He had a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Uninhibitedness is far more fun.”

“Rules and regulations” My smile widened. “How can Liam preside over the syndicate without law and order? Dictatorship solidified The Brotherhood. His men need direction and leadership. Imagine the havoc they’d cause without consequence.”

His gaze swept over my features. “You have impish tendencies.”

I scoffed. “I do not.”

He hummed lightly. “I beg to differ.”

“Where was the impishness in our conversation?”

His finger circled in front of my face. “There is a naughty streak in your eyes.”

I choked on a laugh. “You got all that from my personal observation of the syndicate, did you?”

“No.” He slipped an unruly curl behind my ear. “However, I did detect terse authoritarianism in your passionate speech.”

Sarcastic, I thought.

“I see,” said Brad, and we both looked up to see him lingering by the doorway. “Having a flirt without me.” His scowl bore into the younger Warren brother. “You look comfortable, Vincy Boy.”

Vincent’s eyebrows lifted. “Am I supposed to be uncomfortable in my surroundings?”

Floorboards creaked under Brad’s casual strides as he crossed the room. “Sugar tits.” He popped a white chewing gum bubble. “We ordered takeout.”

I wasn’t overly hungry. “I ate earlier.”

Brad gave me an accusatory glance. “What did you eat?”

I am beyond tired of his interrogational treatment. “Caesar salad.”

“Rabbit food is unsustainable.”

Vincent’s arms crossed. “Healthy women prefer a balanced eating pattern.”

“Does Alexa look healthy to you?” He spoke about me like I was not present. “She is the epitome of unhealthy.”

“Brad, I am right here.” I pushed to my feet. “I find your recent behaviour insulting.”

“Why?” He jangled loose change in his trouser pocket. “Because you can’t handle honesty.”

“There is a difference between honesty and rudeness,” I pointed out. “Plus, I am not unhealthy. I just won’t eat if I am not hungry.”

He blinked. “Which is basically never.”

“As opposed to what?” I squinted. “Eating everything in sight like you, you gluttonous pig.”

“Hey, I eat what I want, when I want.” He tapped his tight abdomen. “And I train hard to keep the abs in check. I don’t need to starve to look good. You should take some notes.”

I will not shed one tear for this man or his offensiveness. “I am not starving myself for vanity purposes.”

His eyes widened in triumph. “So, you admit to food deprivation for other unarticulated purposes?”

I was taken aback by his thought process. “That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

“I should probably stop pestering, but I kinda like how this conversion is flowing.” He towered above me. “What do you weigh these days, Alexa? Less than eighty pounds? I mean, no offence, but you are half the woman you used to be.”

My face heated from embarrassment.

“Jones.” Vincent soared to his full height. “That’s a little audacious, don’t you think?”

“Hey, if she agrees to eat more?” He shrugged uncaringly. “I’ll get off her back.”

My hands went to my hips. “Do we have a problem?”

“I don’t know.” His lazy stare fell to my bare legs. “Do we?”

“You know what? I do not have to answer to you.” My finger jabbed him in the chest. “Don’t even think about coming to me later to apologise.”

He gripped my elbow. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

Vincent’s hand flattened on Brad’s chest. “Stop this nonsense.”

Brad disregarded the other person in the room. I was his sole focus. “Eat.”

The concern in his eyes filled mine with tears.

“Fine,” I said abashedly. “Anything to keep you quiet.”

His grip on my elbow softened. Yet his fingers remained, subtly rubbing the soreness away from my skin. “Three meals per day.”

I nodded.

“And the beef noodles waiting for you downstairs.”

My tongue felt heavy. “Okay.”

He released me. “Now, what did I miss?”

***

“Ub40’s Cherry oh baby,” Nate shouted across the bar, and Brad snarled, selecting Kingston Town instead. “Just admit it. You love the redhead.”

“I love that the redhead can deepthroat.” A military chain dangled between Brad’s unbuttoned shirt. “But there is not enough money in the world to convince me to date the minx. You see, Nate. I am a proud womaniser. I love women. Christ, give me a different flavour every night of the week? I will die a very satisfied man.”

Josh utilised his mixologist skills behind the bar. “Who wants a blue margarita?”

Nate’s hands splayed onto the bar top. “What’s in it?”

“Rum.” Josh held up the aqua-hued cocktail glass. “Cream of coconut and a dash of curaçao meets pineapple juice.” He winked. “And I might have added some Gordan’s for the gin aficionado.”

Nate looked horrified. “It sounds like poison in a glass.”

“Give it to me.” Brad flicked the pineapple slice off the glass lip and took a long sip. “Christ, that’s probably the most disgusting drink ever to grace my throat.”

Josh’s brows danced. “Lethal, right?”

“Noxious.” Brad licked foam from his upper lip. “If I am a no-show at work tomorrow? Search the local dumpsters.” To his dismay, he continued to drink the random concoction Josh dared to call a margarita. “Vincent, why reggae?”

Vincent turned on the barstool. “Why not reggae?”

“I am an eighties fan myself.” Brad’s rolled up shirt sleeves sat casually at the elbows. “I love a bit of prince.”

Nate’s eyes lit up. “Put on a banger, Brad.”

“You put on a banger.” Brad gestured to the jukebox. “I have been running back and forth all night. I’m not a fucking DJ.”

“Could you be,” Nate chimed, “the most beautiful girl in the world?”

Brad visibly shuddered. “Someone get him a bastard drink.”

“It’s plain to see.” Nate slapped two hands on his chest. “You’re the reason that God made a girl.” His head whipped to the side on an eye-squint. “Oh, yes, you are.”

Chuckling to myself, I accepted a container of moreish noodles from Donny. “Thank you.”

He perched onto the stool next to me. “Vincent’s never hosted a lock-in before.”

“No?” Forking noodles into my mouth, I chewed slowly and swallowed. “Why?”

“It’s not his scene,” he said quietly. “We spend more time at his other place.”

My ears perked up. “What other place?”

His head shook.

“God, you lot are insufferable.” I stabbed a mushroom. “Everything is cryptic. I have to guess constantly.”

“You could always ask him directly.” Don thanked Josh for the bottled beer. “He favours straightforwardness.”

I peered over to Vincent, who sat on the tattered stool with his back to the bar. “Vincent?”

His eyes came to me.

“Where do you reside?”

He looked away.

Donny snorted.

“Asshole.” I elbowed him in the ribs. “Vincent?”

With an exasperated huff, Vincent looked at me once more.

I pointed at him with a mushroom-stabbed fork. “How many businesses do you own?”

He respired cigarette smoke. “Enough.”

“See?” I looked pointedly at Don. “Cryptic.”

His lips tickled my ear. “You asked the wrong question.”

“Vincent?” I called, and the impatient man side-eyed me. “What is your favourite business?”

An apple rolled in his hand. “My vineyard.”

“Oh?” I crossed one leg over the opposite knee. “So, you are a winemaker?”

He snubbed the cigarette in a glass ashtray. “Yes, I am a connoisseur of wine.”

I was intrigued. “Red or white?”

“Red.” He wore a wicked smile. “You?”

“I am not a lover of either.” I set the noodles aside. “Where do you spend most of your time?”

His eyes were blank for a second. “What is with the inquisition?”

Well, I don’t know, actually. But Donny planted a seed in my head, so I had to pry. “I’m curious.”

He bit off an apple chunk. “Eyes Wide Shut.”

“What?” My stare narrowed. “And what does said business involve? Is it a luxury spa?”

Donny choked mid-chew.

I frowned at him. “Are you okay?”

“Spicy.” He wheezed, rubbing his chest. “Ignore me.”

Vincent watched our interaction closely. “You are not ready for such conversations, Angel.”

“Well, I am.” Brad chose that exact moment to earwig. “Feel free to share this private conversation with the rest of us.”

Josh scowled at his phone. “It’s not on Google.”

Vincent looked bored. “Why must everyone Google?”

Guilty as charged, I withered on the seat.

Hell, I am the worst for said search engine. I Google everything from “unsolved mysteries” to “How do I grow herbs in the garden?”, which generally transpired after another unsuccessful cookout.

“You will not find it on Google, Fitzpatrick.” Vincent poured bourbon down his throat. “I like privacy.”

“Donny?” I whispered, and he neglected food for all of three seconds. “Is it a gentleman’s bar?”

His cheek muscle popped. “Somewhat.”

“Somewhat,” I repeated in a honeyed undertone. “Are you making fun of me?”

He snorted through intervals of heavy laughter. “No, I just remembered a thing from before that made me laugh.”

“Don,” Vincent warned, and the detective’s mouth wired shut. “We came here to talk business, not my sex life.”

My eyes rounded.

Vincent read information from a folder provided by the now silent man to my right. “The Vasiliev brothers were born and raised in Moscow, Russia. Nikolai has a net worth of twenty-nine billion. He is one of Russia’s richest businessmen and has political connections.”

Everyone piped down to listen.

“His brother, Alessio, is also successful. He owns approximately thirty-five percent of the publicly traded oil giant.” Vincent selected another file. “Now, let’s move on to the youngest Vasiliev brother, Lyov. He did a detention stint in an educational, correctional facility for intent to supply stimulant drugs. He was released from the facility eight months ago and applied for a visa to the United Kingdom, where he planned to study pharmaceutical science. Authorisation granted him territory. It would be merely three months before the British authorities arrested him His crime is currently disclosed from the general public.”

Brad was pensive. “How old is Lyov?”

“Twenty.” Vincent nursed a glass of bourbon. “He pleaded guilty.” His ringed finger circled the circumference of the glass. “Nikolai and Alessio will reside in London until their younger brother is released from prison.”

“Lyov will do a minimum of five years.” Brad flicked through the file. “Or worse, life imprisonment. Immigration enforcement will send the Russian’s packing with or without their brother.” His eyes brightened in conceptualisation. “Unless the politically connected brother has the House of Commons or the House of Lords in his back pocket.”

“Both.” Vincent sparked a cigarette. “Our prime minister permitted permanent British citizenship.”

Nate’s scowl hardened. “Why?”

Vincent shrugged. “Donny, what are their views on Lyov’s trial? I assume they made a statement to the press.”

Donny tucked into takeaway fried rice. “Both brothers have silently supported Lyov throughout his ongoing trial.”

My stomach twisted into knots. “Must we consider the Vasiliev brothers?”

“Yes.” Vincent tossed the apple stump in the bin behind the bar. “Their attendance in court was not for Lyov.”

I drew in a lungful of air. “I did not see them in the courtroom.”

“A listener attended on their behalf,” Brad said knowingly, and Vincent nodded. “Alright. They got our attention. What do they want with Warren?”

Donny pulled a swig of beer from the bottle. “Only they can answer that question.”

“Then, what are we waiting for?” Josh tossed a folder onto the bar top. “We should bring them in.”

“Not yet.” Brad had his thinking hat on. “I want to see how this plays out. Besides, if their intention is to lure in the syndicate? They can fuck right off. They know where to find us.”

“I agree with Jones,” Vincent said, and everyone fell silent. “Let them come to us.”

“Well, there has to be a plan of action moving forward,” I said, noting their despondency. “We need answers. Screw the Russians. I want to know the names of these so-called witnesses. And what’s the deal with David? I know I sound like a broken record, but his involvement in Liam’s case feels like a personal vendetta, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I am not sure if this is relevant, but Michaels was having an affair with one of our missing detectives.” Donny glared openly at Brad. “Are you familiar with the name Taylor Johnson?”

Silence settled.

Brad glanced at me before saying, “Yes.”

I had a thought. “Isn’t she the woman who conducted the interrogation with you when I was arrested?”

“Yes.” Donny looked pointedly at the group. “David has reason to believe Warren is responsible for her disappearance.”

“Okay.” I sat taller. “So, what’s the rundown on Taylor?”

Nate grasped the nape of his neck. “Johnson was an addict,” he explained, “before she became a homicide detective. The boss gave freebies for…” His lips flattened. “You know?”

I suddenly craved alcohol. “Do I want to hear where this conversation is heading?”

“Warren enabled Taylor,” Brad stepped in. “She lost her husband, who was the primary income provider and property magnate. Impecuniousness resulted in desperate measures. She hit rock bottom.”

“She visited Warren one night at the club and asked for heroin,” Nate continued. “Rather than hand her the goods, he made her an offer.”

“You scratch my back,” Brad said, “and I will scratch yours.”

Nate nodded. “Favour for favour.”

“Trusted association based on reciprocation.” Brad removed the toothpick from his mouth. “Warren handed her a new lifeline. He signed her into a rehabilitation centre to get clean. In the hope of long-term success and long-lasting sobriety, she finished the program six days later to find an identifiable yet unacquainted man waiting for her in the car park.”

“Reginald,” Donny filled in the gaps. “He helped her to transcend from a low-paid police officer role to a well-paid detectives’ program.”

“Exactly,” Nate drawled. “You’d think Taylor would be grateful. She was the complete opposite. She became unreasonably importunate.”

“Warren handed her the keys to success.” Brad poured whiskey into a glass. “But all she cared about was him. She wanted exclusivity. When he showed her the door, her promise to whistleblow went straight out the window. The stuck-up bitch never once came to the table. Not like Burton.”

“Taylor arrested Alexa and seized an opportunity to get even.” Nate adjusted his nose ring. “The woman questioned Warren’s relationship with Alexa.”

“I remember. She wore a wire that night.” Donny swigged beer. “Where is she? Will the prosecution be able to uncover her body?”

Nate’s eyes blackened. “No can do, detective.”

Donny threw up his hands. “What does a guy have to do to earn some trust around here?”

“Trust is what got us in this mess.” Josh splashed sparkling water in a glass for me. “Taylor’s location is not relevant, Donny. We can proceed without that knowledge.”

Donny spoke to Vincent with his eyes. “Fair enough.”

“So, David wants to avenge his what?” My fingers threaded. “Ex-girlfriend?”

“His side-piece,” Donny corrected. “Michaels is married.”

“But there was not enough evidence to arrest Liam on suspicion of murder, so he watched the institution from the shadows while building a case against him.” My lips pursed. “Meanwhile, Blaire, our damsel, fell into his hands and falsely accused my husband of multiple offences.”

The men grew restive.

“But there are others.” My head swam. “We need some names.”

“Alexa, if I had information on the other witnesses?” Brad chucked the toothpick on the floor. “They’d be dead already.”

“Can we narrow down possibilities?”

“Impossible.” Vincent’s Adam’s apple wedge on a tight swallow. “Liam has too many enemies.”

“Turn those frowns upside down.” Brad knocked back a shot of whiskey. “Warren is not dead. He will come back to us. I’ll make damn sure of it.”

Yet, everyone grieved in his absence.

“No more depressing chit chat.” In six strides, Brad was back by the jukebox. “I say, we get fucking hammered.”

Wild Cherry’s Play That Funky Music replaced reggae music.

“What did I tell you?” Nate watched Brad sidestep back to the bar. “He’s got Cherry on the membrane.”

“Once, I was a boogie singer.” Brad paid no attention to Nate. He closed in on the gang with a sequence of effortless side steps. “Playing in a rock and roll band.”

Amusement flared in my wide eyes. “Brad, no.”

“I never had no problems.” His hips rocked from side to side. “Burning down the one-night stands.”

“Oh, hell no.” Nate’s face scrunched up in utter disgust. “Not the two-step.”

“Yeah, they were dancing and singing. And moving to the grooving.” Josh mirrored Brad’s movements from behind the bar. “And just when it hit me, somebody turned around and shouted—”

“Play that funky music, white boy,” Brad shrieked in Nate’s ear, and the offended man almost punched him between the legs. “Play that funky music right.”

“Someone shoot the motherfucker,” Nate said, and he was dead serious. “I ain’t playing.”

I went behind the bar for a water refill.

“Lay down the boogie and play that funky music ’til you die.” Josh whipped me in the leg with a tea towel. “Nostalgia. It feels like old times, doesn’t it, Alexa?”

I stifled an eye roll. “I certainly do not miss the tea towel.”

Vincent’s shadow fell over me. “Another refill, Angel.”

Reaching for the bourbon bottle, I poured a generous amount into the empty glass. Only the amber liquid splashed the counter instead. I watched it trickle across the polished wood onto the floor in droplets.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

“Sorry.” My senses heightened, yet I felt detached from the room. “I…”

I saw double. Two glasses. Four gold-adorned hands. Brad danced slowly. Donny mouthed something to Nate. Alfie is watching me from across the room.

Burning up from the inside out, I felt sweat trickle down the back of my neck. “Vincent?”

The barman from before exited the bar.

He was angry.

Why would he be angry?

With trembling hands, I tried to grab the glass. It rolled across the counter like cargo on a capsizing ship and crashed on the ground.

“‘Til you die.” Brad’s voice was unusually quiet. “Woah, ’til you die.”

“Angel.” Vincent sounded a million miles away. “Are you okay?”

His hand touched mine.

Debilitated in the midst of fogginess, blurriness, I licked my dry lips, the burning taste of acidic bile slathered across my tongue. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Alexa?” I vaguely saw blonde hair through momentarily impaired vision. “Talk to us.”

Why does it feel like I am drowning underwater?

The wavelengths of their voices delayed somewhere beyond the surface.

I lost the strength to stand upright.

My knees gave way.

Pulse racing through ice-cold veins, I descended to the floor in slow motion. I heard nothing, felt everything, the crack to my cheek, the panic-stricken beat of my heart and the instantaneous fear of darkness.

Nobody was there to catch me.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Alexa

My eyes peeled open.I was not familiar with the stark white surroundings. Strong chemicals wafted into my nose. Wiping irritation from my nostrils, I belatedly noticed the intravenous needle in my arm. Panic-stricken, I bolted upright, the thin, paper-like sheet falling to my waistline. Two hands landed on my shoulders. “Brad,” I whispered as he eased my back to the pillow. “What happened? Why am I in the hospital?”

Vincent soared from the visitors’ chair.

Josh stood by the window.

Nate opened the room door and mentioned something about a doctor.

I wore yesterday’s pencil skirt, but someone had swapped the blouse—which hung messily on the back of Vincent’s chair—for a skin-tight vest top. Instinctively, I covered my braless chest. “Can someone talk to me?”

Brad’s hands clapped to the back of his head.

“I understand,” the male doctor said to Nate as the pair re-entered the room. “Good morning, Miss Warren.” He was youngish, his late forties, perhaps. “I trust you slept well.”

My glare sharpened.

“Artificial hydration and nutrients.” His pen pointed to the intravenous needle. “It’ll help with dehydration by pumping nutrients directly into the bloodstream. It is necessary.”

“Right.” My confusion peaked. “I’m sorry. Can someone tell me what happened?”

“Mr Jones explained that last night was the second time you fainted.”

I fainted, I thought. “Okay.”

“Fainting is a temporary loss of consciousness, usually caused by low blood pressure and lack of oxygen to the brain.” He sat on the foot of the bed, the clipboard and leaflets tucked away from prying eyes. “Shall we talk about that?”

When the men refused to make eye contact, I cleared my throat. “I guess.”

He clicked the top of the pen. “Would you like to have this conversation in private?”

“What?” My head began to pound. “No, I want them to stay. They are family.”

When the doctor gestured to the spare chairs, the Suits took a seat. “Mrs Warren, when was the last time you ate?”

Embarrassed by the evident concern in his eyes, I breathed through my nose to control breathing. “I had takeout with the men last night.”

He penned something down. “How much did you finish?”

I shrugged. “I only left a few mouthfuls.”

“She ate one mouthful and toyed with the rest until she put the container aside.” Brad was unapologetic when he spoke. “I deliberately watched.”

My eyes rounded. “No, I finished—”

“You did not,” Brad argued, and heat clung to my cheeks. “Doctor, she barely eats. The woman goes hours without food until forced. Even then, she consumes morsels to get everyone off her back.”

I fumed. “Fuck you, Brad.”

He overlooked my scorn. “Her husband believes she developed an eating disorder.”

“No,” I cried, willing myself to calm down. “That’s not true. I do not have any issues with food.” When the men exchanged glances, I eyed them individually. “Guys, come on. Brad’s being a little overdramatic, right?” Not one of them spoke up for me. “Josh?”

Josh’s head shook slowly. “I’m sorry, Alexa.”

My throat tightened. “Nate?”

Nate’s apologetic gaze went to the window.

I am incapable of sustaining their coldness. “Vincent?”

Vincent’s hand found mine on the bed. He studied our threatened fingers. “You need help, Angel.”

“I don’t need help. I am fine.” Tears of shame hazed everyone. “Please don’t humiliate me,” I whimpered. “Not like this.”

“There is nothing to be ashamed of,” The doctor’s head tilted. “Mrs Warren, acceptance is the first step to recovery.” He saw denial in my fierce stare. “Eating disorders, like anorexia, can lead to abnormally low hypotension. In case you are not aware, anorexia is a restricted diet caused by a compulsive desire to achieve a specific body image. Failing to consume enough calories can cause the body to break down its tissue for fuel. The heart struggles to pump blood without fuel provided by food. As a result, the heart can become malnourished, and low blood pressure can occur. I imagine episodes of dizziness, nausea and fatigue are symptoms you encounter quite often. Furthermore, lack of nutrients impedes the body from producing red blood cells, which can set in anaemia. So that you know, anaemia and anorexia are closely related.”

I felt sick.

He nearly handed me a leaflet. “Now, binging and purging can be as vital as vomiting can deplete the body of electrolytes and—”

“You are all wrong.” Yanking the intravenous needle out of my arm, I climbed off the bed as blood sprinkled the paper sheets. “I do not make myself sick.”

Silence stretched throughout the confined room.

“I have never hated you as much as I do right now.” My glare zoned in on Brad. “Especially you.”

“Why?” His voice was thick. “Because I fucking care about you.”

“I do not want to achieve a specific body image. Don’t you get it, Brad? I hate everything about the way I look. I am nothing compared to the woman at the club. See!” I waved wildly to my flat chest. “Why would I deliberately forgo food to lose more weight? I look like a fifteen-year-old girl!”

His lips grimaced.

“Do you think that makes me happy?” At this point, it was only the two of us in the room. “Do you think I don’t fear my husband’s judgement every time he looks at me?” A painful sob hurt my chest. “It’s the same look in your eyes right now. Disgust.”

“Warren loves you.” He took one step closer, albeit cautious. “We all do.”

I trembled from head to toe.

Brad’s was voice low in my ear. “Sugar tits.”

Hugging myself, I cowered from him.

“Let us help you,” he whispered, thumbing a tear from my cheek. “Let me help you.”

“I do not purge.”

He spoke, and dubiousness lurked in his tone.

“I do not,” I said with more conviction. “Why won’t you believe me?”

Josh’s hand touched my shoulder, and I recoiled, my back pressing to the wall as I moved away from him. “Alexa,” he said throatily. “I would never hurt you.”

“May I intervene?” The doctor was on his feet again. “Mrs Warren, the last thing I want to do is upset you further. But I would like to provide additional help.” He placed the leaflets in my hands. “Licenced professional counsellors are available. Without treatment, your condition can be life-threatening.”

I wiped the tears from my cheeks.

“There are options.” He held the clipboard to his chest. “Intensive outpatient programs may vary in intensity. You can choose sessions once or twice per week or opt for more intensive programs, which are normally longer and more frequent. I can provide enhanced cognitive behavioural therapy to identify the thought patterns and beliefs contributing to your eating disorder or interpersonal psychotherapy. A specialist will use a variety of exercises and tasks to help address the rigid thinking patterns that are often associated with anorexia. Lastly, psychodynamic psychotherapy. This will help you understand the underlying cause of your eating disorder.”

“I am not anorexic.” The leaflets slipped through my fingers. “I would like to be discharged immediately.”

Brad cursed. “Alexa—”

“Do not touch me,” I warned, tears rolling down my cheeks. “I mean it, Brad. You are suffocating me—all of you.”

“I read your hospital notes.” The doctor opened a folder. “You underwent unilateral salpingo-oophorectomy surgery.”

“Yes.” My heart split in two. “The attacker ripped the baby out of my stomach.” Rubbing tears from my eyes, I snivelled against the back of my hand. “She made sure I could never conceive again.” My backside slumped onto the bed. “Let me guess? It’s the root cause of my eating disorder.”

“No.” The doctor unheeded the snark in my voice. “If both fallopian tubes are missing, then the fertilised egg is unable to travel toward the uterus, and the sperm is unable to travel towards the egg. In your case, one ovary and one fallopian tube are functioning, although non optimally, as long as the solo tube allows healthy sperm into the uterus.”

“Right.” I jerked one shoulder. “Tell me something I don’t know, doctor.”

His outstretched arm proffered a sheet of paper. “We detected human chorionic gonadotropin in your blood test.”

“What?” I found the notes indecipherable. “Am I sick?”

“No, Mrs Warren.” The doctor inserted the stethoscope’s ear tips in his ears and held the chest piece on my chest. “Good,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “Can you raise your top for me, please? Just tuck the material under your breasts.”

Silent tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, I did as instructed.

Lowering the stethoscope to his neck, he palmed a small, hand-held object and then placed the connected transducer to my lower stomach, and then, a strong thunder of galloping horses. “What’s that?” I asked, and Brad, paler than usual, collapsed on the chair. “Is something wrong with me?”

“You know,” the doctor said calmly, “fainting is mostly harmless in pregnancy; however, in some cases, it may indicate issues for both the baby and the mother’s help, especially in the first trimester.”

It took several seconds for the doctor’s response to register. “What?”

He kept the transducer in place for us to listen. “It’s your baby’s heartbeat, Mrs Warren. A healthy heartbeat, I might add.”

My hands flew to my mouth. “Please don’t lie to me.”

“Pregnancy is a miracle.” The gloves snapped as he removed them. “In your case, it’s a second chance at happiness.”

Tears of disbelief poured down my cheek. I peered down at my exposed stomach and sobbed. It was a raw, guttural sob, the type of sob that made your throat sore and your mouth dry.

I am pregnant.

Half of Liam, half of me, blossomed in my stomach.

“Mrs Warren?” The doctor’s hand squeezed my shoulder. “As I said, acceptance is the first step to recovery. Would you like help with your eating disorder?”

Crying behind two hands, I nodded.

A collection of relieved exhales echoed in the room.

Brad came to my side and gathered me in his protective arms. “She got this,” he told the doctor. “We will make damn sure of it.”

My tears soaked his neck. “Brad.”

His hand tightened around the nape of my neck. “Instructions.”

“Due to low blood pressure, Mrs Warren must avoid getting up too quickly when seated or lying down. She must avoid standing for long periods of time. Encourage her to eat small meals throughout the day. She must avoid taking very hot baths or showers and drink more water. If possible, she must wear loose clothing.” He paused. “I cannot prescribe medication to help with hypotension; however, I can provide prenatal vitamins while she is on the road to recovery.”

“I am so sorry.” My fisted hands clung to the front of Brad’s shirt. “I didn’t mean it, Brad.”

“Same.” He released me, and I pulled away, feeling the Suits’ intense scrutiny. “Anything else?”

“Insufficient nutrients have adversely affected the functioning of her body. We must avoid any further issues, Mrs Warren. If you proceed without help and continue to faint due to lack of nutrients, it can lead to stillborn, premature birth or even birth defects and brain damage. So, consuming balanced meals can prevent further complications and ensure a safe pregnancy for mum and baby. I will ask a physician for health supplements.”

“I’m the man for the job.” Nate shook the doctor’s hand. “I have a healthcare degree. She won’t find a better dietician.”

“Mrs Warren, will you attend one of the options as mentioned above?”

“Yes,” I agreed, and the doctor smiled. “I will do whatever it takes to protect my baby.”

After a brief conversation with Nate, the doctor left the room to sign discharge papers. I dried my eyes and stood to join the men, who gathered by the window to converse while watching the torrential downpour outside. “Don’t let me wake up,” I whispered, and Josh’s hand splayed on my upper back. “If it’s a dream, I want to sleep forever.”

“Christ.” Brad wiped condensation across the window. “Warren is going to be a father. Let that sink in, brothers.”

Nate whistled lowly. “When will you break the news, Alexa?”

“I will wait until the trial is over.” Of course, I wanted to share the pregnancy with Liam, but it’s cruel when he has to consider us from his prison cell. “He has to stay focused. His freedom depends on it.”

Vincent fixed his tie. “We will respect your wishes, Angel.”

A friendly looking nurse pushed through the door. “Hello,” she chimed, her casual strides bridging the gap between us. “The doctor is almost finished with the discharge papers.” A pre-made sandwich appeared. “You have to eat first.”

Respectfully, the men looked away.

Gingerly, I took the sandwich out of her hand. Tearing through the see-through seal, I grabbed the first half and brought it to my lips. Teeth sinking into ham, lettuce and tomato, I licked crumbs from my lips and forced a wedge down my throat. Two, three, four bites later, I lost my appetite, and as food poured down my throat, biliousness began to curdle in my stomach.

Vincent handed me bottled water.

Respiring a stuttered breath, I uncapped the bottle and guzzled fluids until the urge to vomit passed. “Thank you.” Cramming another bite into my mouth, I chewed, added another bite, and used additional water to wash it down. “Can I leave the other half for later?”

The nurse shook her head.

Fingers curling around the second part of the sandwich, I bite into the seeded crust. I ate. I ate some more. I never stopped until the package sat empty in my hand.

Rubbing my back, the nurse discarded the rubbish and swung the door open to leave.

Brad squatted in front of me until eye-level with my abdomen. “How’s it going in there?” He smiled up at me. “What? I have to make sure Bean recognises my voice.”

My hands fell to my stomach.

I have long-awaited for you.

***

“Magistrates’ put me on litter picking.” Brad hasn’t steered from this topic in over an hour. “Me? On litter duty for an empty bag of drugs. And because I am fortunate enough to live on the right side of town, they force me to stab empty crisp packets on the floor in the favelas of the borough. It’s fucking blasphemous. Three hundred hours of community service for the bastard dwellings of Shantytown. I will get mugged. Beaten. Or worse, preyed upon by homeless folks that want to steal the very shoes off my feet.”

I was beyond entertained.

“Christ, I feel sick.” He was appalled and ashen-white. “I might actually be sick”.

I tapped his tummy. “You will survive.”

“Absolutely not.” He cringed, scrubbing two hands down his face. “I can already see—and feel—premature violation. I will die out there.”

Josh’s dark, windswept brown hair was messy from rolling out of bed too late this morning. He had black circles around his tired, bloodshot eyes, and his white shirt was creased as if he’d fallen asleep atop the coverlets last night in complete exhaustion. “Brad, in a bright, luminous yellow visor vest.”

Brad covered his agape mouth with rigid fingers. “I’m better than some underpaid binman.”

My jaw unhinged. “Your excessive conceitedness is staggering.”

“Hey, there is nothing wrong with egotism. I look after numero uno.” He sipped bottled water. “What? Is self-love reproachful? Should I hate myself instead?”

I stared blankly.

“Ignore Alexa.” Tapping Brad’s back, Josh winked. “She is pregnant. Hormonal.”

Pregnancy had nothing to do with our current conversation. Yet, I smiled guiltily. “You have to put up with me until the baby is here.”

“I don’t have to do shit.” Brad gave me a pointed look. “Fucking nada.”

“Yes.” My head rested on his shoulder. “You do.”

“Do not bat those eyelashes at me.” He shoved me aside weakly. “It might work on Warren, but it has zero effect on me.”

My eyelashes fluttered.

He stared deadpan at me.

“Admit it,” I cooed, pinching his red cheek. “You love me.”

“I do not.” Another sip of water. “Have a bastard day off.”

I huffed in defeat. “What crawled up your arse this morning?”

“Community service.” His arms folded. “I am livid. If you hear of any missing judges next week, know that I had everything to do with it. He will regret this moment for the rest of his life.” He glimpsed at his wristwatch. “Which is approximately ninety-six hours. Pillock. I’ll show litter when I shove it up his fucking backside.”

I laughed lightly. “How’s your grandmother, Josh?”

“Hip replacement surgery in two days. Honestly, I can’t wait until this week is over. I just want her home.”

Brad simpered down. “Do you need anything?”

“No, I got it handled.” His stare softened. “I might hire a professional care worker for when I’m at work. Someone to pop in a few times a day to keep an eye on her and whatnot.”

“I could do it,” I suggested, and both men frowned. “I mean, I have plenty of time on my hands. I’d be more than happy to help.”

Josh was sceptical. “What about the youth centre?”

I sent Matthew an email this morning to apologise for my absence recently. Rather than respond, he called, asking if he could do anything to make life less stressful. He never mentioned the news articles slandering my husband, but there was a touch of empathy in his subdued voice, which meant he was cognisant of my situation.

I declined his offer politely and then explained why I would not return.

As much as I loved working at Inseparable Youths, I had to make some serious decisions in preparation for the future. Logan’s in the process of applying for college; I had to prioritise his needs before the teens at the centre.

But, most importantly, I had to prioritise my health. If not for myself, then for the sake of the baby. I have been given a second chance at motherhood. I would not risk another loss for anything or anyone. Even if I pass out from overindulgence, I will consume three meals a day to protect my unb0rn child.

Third but not least, I had to consider Liam’s businesses: Club 11, The Grape and Vine and Timothy Andino’s casino.

His criminal underground.

My days at the youth centre are over.

“I left Inseparable Youths,” I told the men. “So, I can step in for you with nanna. At least, until the baby is born.”

“Alexa, you are a diamond.” Josh kissed my cheek. “I’ll set up a subscription for, like, meals on wheels or something. If you could just bang them in the microwave, I’d be grateful.”

I nodded.

Josh blew out a relieved sigh. “She will have you knitting cardigans in a few months.”

I’ll do whatever is necessary to make her smile. “That’s fine.”

Brad pointed to the arched entrance. “It’s unlike him to be late.”

Through the raucous mobs of people, I saw forest-green eyes. Nate looked smart, as usual, but the stylish cut of his three-piece suit did not surmount the excitement in his bright eyes. It’s been too long since I witnessed genuine happiness in his forced smiles, and today, fulfilment and hope seemed to radiate from his strides. “I found a decent restaurant around the corner if you fancy it after the hearing.”

Brad’s palms smoothed together. “What’s on the menu?”

“Everything.” Nate flashed two dimples. “It’ll be my treat.”

“Look at money bags.” Brad jerked Nate’s shoulder. “What’s got you all generous and grinning like a pervert.”

Nate’s smirk dropped.

“It was a joke.” Brad’s hands flew up in surrender. “Christ, you need to get laid.”

“Brad,” Nate chastised. “I am trying to tell you something. It’s important.”

Blond Suit’s posture straightened. “Right.”

“So, I had an epiphany.” A cheeky smile replaced grimness. “I am the syndicate’s primary undertaker, right? I have to discard dead bodies, which is fine. I can deal. But to un-grave decomposed corpses is something else entirely. It made me think I don’t particularly like this job.” He counted on his fingers. “One, it fucking stinks. I am talking eye-watering. Rancid. Enough to keel over and vomit every five seconds. Two, I have to constantly look over my shoulders because some lurking motherfucker could be watching. Three, once I dispose of the bodies, I throw designer suits in the incinerator, which is not only cost-efficient but downright begrudged. I like my damn suits.”

Brad’s amber-coloured eyes rolled to the back of his head. “Where the fuck is this conversation going?”

Nate brandished a set of keys. “You are looking at the proud owner of a crematorium.”

“A what?” Josh shrieked piercingly. “Why the hell would you go and do that?”

“To house and burn dead bodies.” Nate’s nostrils bristled. “Hey, don’t fucking judge me. I don’t see any of you fairies with dirt on your manicured hands.”

“Why drag me into this squabble? I never opened my mouth.” Brad snatched the keys. “I quite like it. ‘Dr Death cremates victims in a ghastly act of savageness.’”

“‘Evil undertaker scatters ashes in adjacent burial site to hide mass murder.’” Josh jumped on the bandwagon. “You really are the Jack of all trades.”

“I think it’s genius,” I spoke up for the first time in ten minutes. “I like it, too—oh.” I flinched when someone’s fingers grazed the length of my spine. “Vincent. You scared me.”

“Apologies for the tardiness.” Akin to Josh, Vincent seemed exhausted. “Rough night.”

Brad’s finger aimed at the barely noticeable bruise-like mark on Vincent’s throat. “You mean ‘fun night.’”

“Well,” Vincent touched what very much resembled a love bite on his neck, “I was less than impressed.”

“Why?” I teased, and his cold stare shifted to me. “Do you not like it when someone claims you?”

“I am not hers to claim.” He addressed everyone with an aura of aloofness. “Alas, it will be our last encounter.” A woman’s voice echoed around the expansive marble foyer as she informed every one of the Warren trial in courtroom one. “Here we go.”

Last time, I was not ready.

This morning, I am ready for anything.

I have waited four weeks for this moment, four weeks at the Manor to prevent hospitalisation, four weeks of frequent visits to an eating disorder counsellor to try and determine why I do not prioritise food, four weeks of crying into my pillow at night because I missed my husband.

Yes, I was ready to face the music, to see the man I loved more than life itself.

We had to squeeze onto the bench in the oak-panelled courtroom because the media took up much space. Today, the Judge wore a black and purple robe with a red sash and a tie wig that sported horizontal curls along the sides and the back of his head.

The Clerk loomed in front of the Judge to coordinate the trial, the stenographer and shorthand writer was at the table, recording everything. Twelve expressionless jurors observed in silence.

When the door to the dock unlocked, I held my breath in anticipation. It’s been four long weeks since I saw Liam. The room was silent as he came into view, and, at the sight of him, butterflies uncaged in my chest. The distance between us evoked memories of when I watched him from afar. It was before he knew I existed, so when his eyes roamed the coffee shop, he never once found me amid the crowd. Today was different. Although we were miles apart, he looked for me.

Our eyes collided—his blue hues to hazel.

Giving him a reassuring smile, I fervently drew a cross over my heart.

I am in love with you, he mouthed.

Even when faced with trials and tribulations, he entered the situation with unsusceptible indifference and refined suavity. A grey, patternless tie donned his single-breasted black suit and days of stubble shadowed his sharp jaw.

He was beautiful.

I fell in love all over again.

Liam’s gaze settled on the Judge as the two police officers unfastened the handcuffs attached to his wrists. With a hand smoothing down the front of his shirt, he sat on the upholstered chair and readied himself for the court’s onslaught.

“Repeat after me,” The Clerk said to the male foreperson. “I solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that I will faithfully trial the defendant and give a true verdict, according to the evidence.”

The male juror’s hand raised. “I solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that I will faithfully trial the defendant and give a true verdict, according to the evidence.”

Each Juror alternatively stood to affirm before the trial commenced.

I drowned them out.

The Judge regarded the jurors. “Affirmed.”

The Clerk’s head was down while he assessed notes on the mahogany table. “Twelve sworn, your honour.”

“Members of the jury, you have been sworn to trial Liam Warren, who is the defendant in this case.” The Judge was calm. “He lives in Bishops Avenue in North London.”

From my vantage point, I spotted the Vasiliev brothers take a seat at the back of the courtroom. Subtly, I nudged Brad’s knee. His arm slipped across the back of the bench as he swept a cursory glance toward the Russians.

“Liam Warren is charged with dealing in firearms, making threats to kill, putting people in fear of violence and living on earnings of prostitution,” the Judge repeated from memory. “He is charged with false imprisonment, rape and sexual assault. Aggravated burglary using weapons of offence and firearms, taking vehicles and other conveyances without authority, resulting in the Safety Deposit Limited heist and mass murder.”

I sucked in my cheeks.

“Procurement of intercourse by threats and procurement of a girl under the age of twenty-one.” He allowed the jurors a moment to digest the multitude of charges. “If you know the defendant or any of the witnesses, in this case, it is important that you tell the court now.”

All twelve jurors remained silent.

“If not, we will proceed with the case.” The judge banged the gavel. “Mr Wilson, would you like to give an opening speech?”

David Michaels handed the enrobed prosecution a folder.

“Yes, your honour.” The male barrister stood to regard the jurors. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. As you may have realised by now, I represent the prosecution in this criminal lawsuit. I’m here today because fundamental safety laws that were meant to protect everyone were violated. You will see the evidence with your own eyes when I present this case to you.” He walked before the benched jurors. “This is not just a case for what London recognises,” he gestured to the dock, “as a renowned criminal. It’s about highly centralised enterprises run by offenders at the behest of the defendant, Liam Warren. Our first witness, Jessica Pearce, walked down the street when the defendant slowed his vehicle and compelled Miss Pearce to get inside his car. When Miss Pearce attempted to run, the defendant wielded a gun and threatened her life. He drove Miss Pearce to his penthouse and locked her in the bedroom. Furthermore, the defendant beat, starved and raped Miss Pearce repeatedly until bored.”

Inwardly, I cringed.

Mr Wilson flipped the page. “Although Miss Pearce feared for her life, she was often permitted to join the defendant in the living quarters where he took private telephone calls regarding his illegitimate organisation. Miss Pearce overheard some very uncomfortable conversations where he admitted to the murder of Miss Hellen Bennet and Miss Kellie Crawford. She even provided the burial grounds.”

I saw Nate’s headshake out the corner of my eye.

“Miss Pearce overheard Mr Warren converse with friends about the diamond heist. She was even forced to hide the evidence with one of Mr Warren’s employees. Miss Bennet,” he added, reading from the folder, “Hellen Bennet’s mother is our second witness. You will hear her struggles as a grieving mother and a grieving wife. After a recess, you will hear from our third witness. The facts are clear and will enable you to convict, Mr Warren.” His head dipped. “Thank you, your honour.”

The Judge waited for the barrister to sit down. “Mr Bishop, would you like to give an opening speech?”

Carl stood when addressed. “No, your honour.”

“Members of the Jury,” the Judge said. “It is for you to decide if the evidence you are going to hear proves the defendant guilty. I am informing you that it is your job to consider the evidence, not the law. I will guide you if and when it is necessary.”

Anxious, I chewed my thumbnail.

“Miss Pearce was in witness protection whilst the prosecution built a case against the defendant.” Mr Wilson opened a folder onto the table. “To reduce Miss Pearce’s anxiety, CPS authorised remote live link. Miss Pearce, accompanied by a supporter, will give evidence by means of live television link.”

“Coward,” I muttered, and Brad’s elbow nudged my arm. “What?’

He put a finger to his lips.

The Clerk switched on the television screen on the wheeled table. In the live link room, Blaire sat in front of the camera. Her fragile timidness left acid on my tongue. Her skin was white, so white it could have been caked in powder. No mascara. No bright lipstick or deviousness in her eyes. Just a soft, mint green cardigan bedecked in rhinestones and caramel and brown highlights rather than ebony black hair. Someone adjusted the microphone on the collar of her lace shirt dress, and she thanked them demurely.

“Miss Pearce.” Mr Wilson’s tone of voice raised. “You should only be able to see me until the defence wishes to cross-examine. Raise your hand and affirm.”

“Yes,” she said meekly. “I, Jessica Pearce, solemnly affirm that the evidence given shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

“In your own words, I would like you to tell the jury what happened the morning you met the defendant.”

“I was walking down Sanderstead Hill when I noticed a black Bentley following me. I felt uneasy, so I picked up the pace. He drove a little fast until he pulled over in front of me.” Her eyes lowered. “He got out of the car but left the ignition running. I do not recall everything he said. It’s a blur. He had a gun, though. He aimed it at my face and told me he would shoot me right there if I did not comply. I should have run, but instead, I listened. I let him drive me away.”

“And where did he take you?”

“To his penthouse.”

“What happened in the penthouse?”

Her eyes welled up. “Liam led me to the bedroom.”

“Can you describe the defendant’s behaviour?”

“He was terrifying. He threatened to kill me if I did not remove my clothes.”

Mr Wilson jotted something down in the folder. “When was the first time he hit you, Miss Pearce?”

“The first night was in his penthouse.” She visibly swallowed. “He struck me with the back of his hand for refusing to shower. It knocked me out completely.”

“When was the first time the defendant sexually assaulted you?”

“I don’t know,” she said through a sniffle. “The only thing I remember after that moment was waking up inside his bedroom on the floor. I was confused. My head was pounding.” Her lips wobbled. “I was completely nude. He had torn my dress. There was blood smeared between my thighs.”

“What happened next?”

“He came back and pinned me to the floor.” Her whimper deserved an Oscar. “He dragged me into the shower by my hair” Tears leaked from her eyes. “And then….”

Mr Wilson gave her a sympathetic smile. “Take your time, Miss Pearce.”

“After I showered, he tied me to the bed and performed sexual acts on me throughout the night. And vice versa.”

“Was penetration involved?”

“Yes,” she cried. “In all three areas.”

“Fucking bitch,” Brad said in an almost undetectable voice.

“At what point did sexual coercion end?”

“It felt constant. I was raped every morning before he left for work and then at night when he returned. Sometimes,” she hesitated, “he made me do unspeakable acts on him. I had to kneel on the floor upon his arrival. He was angry after work, tired and irritable. He demanded oral until satiated.”

Mr Wilson nodded in thought. “Did you try to escape when the defendant was at work?”

“Impossible.” She tore chunks of tissue on her lap. “He strapped me to the bed. Plus, he is surrounded by loyal men. They guarded the penthouses religiously.”

“When did the abuse stop, Miss Pearce?”

“It was when Alexa Haines came back.”

“Did Miss Haines—”

“Your honour,” Carl interjected. “I would like to state that the woman in question is now married to the defendant. We should address her as Miss Warren.”

The Judge leaned back in the chair. “I agree.”

“Did Miss Warren,” Mr Wilson amended, “know that the defendant confined you to the penthouse.”

“No,” she said, and my eyes almost fell out of their sockets. “She had no idea.”

When I scoffed, Brad’s fair brow hiked.

Mr Wilson proceeded to question Blaire. I, however, studied Liam from across the courtroom. He paid no real attention. His eyes were too unfocused.

After what felt like hours, his gaze met mine and, ever so subtly, he smiled. I kissed my fingertips, and his hand on the wooden rail curled into a fist as if to capture expressed love.

Mr Wilson sat down. “Thank you, your honour.”

“Mr Bishop,” The Judge said. “Would you like to cross-examine?”

“Yes, your honour.” Carl tossed a pen down on the folder and stood. “Miss Pearce, what was the weather like the day Mr Warren cornered you?”

Blaire thought about the question. “It was a miserable day. It seemed to go on all night, too. It kept me awake.”

“Rain?” he mused, and she nodded. “Thunderstorms?”

“No.” She blew her nose into balls of tissue. “Just heavy rain.”

“At what point in the night did Mr Warren remove your jacket?”

“Liam took the jacket off in the car before we got to the penthouse.”

Carl hummed. “Was it waterproof?”

Deep cut furrows marred her forehead. “It was a light jacket.”

“Where were you headed that day?”

“I had left home after an argument with my mother.”

“So, you were directionless.”

“Yes.”

“Did you get dressed before or after the argument with your mother?”

Her cheeks puffed. “Before.”

“Did you plan to leave the house before the argument?”

“Yes, I planned to meet my boyfriend.”

“To do what?”

“Your honour,” Mr Wilson stood. “Is this line of questioning relevant?”

“Yes,” Carl spoke. “It is relevant, your honour.”

The Judge raised a hand. “Answer the question, Miss Pearce.”

If Blaire could reach through the screen and strangle Carl, she would do it in a heartbeat. “My ex-boyfriend was taking me to dinner.”

Carl’s lips pursed. “Reservations?”

Nodding, she spoke into the microphone. “Yes.”

“What restaurant?”

“The Royal Garden near Coombe Road.”

“Did you get side-tracked?”

Blaire was confused.

“Mr Warren threatened you in Sanderstead Hill, but the restaurant is three hours and nineteen minutes in the opposite direction by train.” He flung the folder back on the table. “So, I will ask you again. Did you get side-tracked, Miss Pearce?”

The Judge stared at the screen. “Answer the question.”

“I must have,” she stuttered. “I was upset and not thinking clearly.”

“Do you often wear summer clothes in adverse weather conditions?”

“Your honour, how is Miss Pearce’s choice of outfit for a date with an ex-boyfriend relevant?”

“Counsellor,” the judge warned.

“Withdrawn.” Carl’s arms folded. “Miss Pearce, you claimed that Mr Warren tied you to the bed while he worked. Correct?”

She nodded.

“I am intrigued. How did Mr Warren react when he found you kneeling on the floor?”

Her brows incurved. “I don’t understand the question.”

“You must have escaped bonds to kneel for him,” he prompted. “What was his reaction?”

She tucked hair behind her ears. “I had to perform oral.”

Carl outstretched his arms. “Where were the loyal guards?”

“They stayed in the hallway at all times to ensure no one entered the property.”

“Did any of the guards enter the property to eat or use the bathroom?”

“No, they would alternately go downstairs to use the public restroom.”

“So, when free from bonds, how many times did you load the laptop to send emails?” He stepped closer to the screen. “How many times did you open the balcony doors or the windows to scream for help?”

Blaire remained silent.

Carl reached for another folder on the table. Removing evidence, he clipped street view images onto the brown board utilised for exhibition. “My client lived in a penthouse on the bank of the River Thames. From the panoramic windows,” his pointer finger showed the distance from Liam’s penthouse to the streets of London, “the witness had unobscured views to the streets below. As you know, the address is situated in the heart of tourist central.”

“I tried to call for help on one occasion and learned how foolish I had been. When I screamed to the people below, the guards heard.” Blaire was grasping straws. “Liam beat me the same night. I knew better than to scream again.”

“But if the guards heard you, then the people who worked in the building would have also heard you. And if they never heard you, then the tourists walking past the building would have most definitely heard you. Yet, no one is here to testify, Miss Pearce. I have no police records of anyone making distressed phone calls. Surely, if you screamed for help, someone would have documented it.”

She used scrunched up tissue to wipe under her eyes.

“Miss Pearce.” He selected another file. “Is it true that you are pregnant?”

Blaire’s hard-faced demeanour began to crack.

He stared at the screen thoughtfully. “How far along?’

Protectively, her hands lowered to her rotund stomach. “Fourteen weeks.”

“And my client is the father.”

She nodded again.

He tucked the folder under his arm. “Why did you deny a paternity test?”

Like a deer in the headlight, she eased back in the chair. “I wanted to wait until the baby was born.”

“Where does Mr Alzaim fit? You were in a relationship.” He looked at the jurors. “Mr Alzaim is an employee at Warren Enterprise. He is also a close friend to the defendant. According to my client, Miss Pearce was in a relationship with Mr Alzaim. The two of them even attended his wedding.”

“Liam tossed me to Nathaniel once he finished with me.”

“Did Mr Alzaim also hold you against your will?”

She chose not to answer.

“Let me tell a different story.” Carl’s elbow lent onto the jurors’ bench as his fingers laced together. “Mr Warren fell in love with nineteen-year-old Alexa Haines. As I am sure most of you are aware, Alexa is one of the girls whose return from captivity and sexual slavery broke news headlines. For whatever reason, the department of justice never found the man responsible for her abduction. Years later, Alexa applied for a job at Club 11. Mr Warren hired the girl. In actuality, Mr Warren, in his words, was smitten.” He eyed the dock. “He promised Alexa security due to ongoing encounters with what she might consider sleazy men. Men who very much reminded her of her time in captivity. Men who may or may not have been connected to the man responsible for her abduction. In order to protect Alexa, Mr Warren spent a lot of time with her. Naturally, the pair formed a bond. Naturally, their friendship became intimate.” He paused. “They fell in love.”

Jurors penned notes.

“On Mr Warren’s thirtieth birthday, the unthinkable happened. Alexa’s apartment building was burnt to the ground in an unforgivable arson attack that killed hundreds of victims.” He let that sink in. “The metropolitan later pronounced Alexa dead. Mr Warren lived in denial. Her death was unimaginable, too painful to endure. He did not want to believe it. In fact, he refused to believe it. He knew there was more to this story. He knew she was still out there somewhere. So, he decided to use his resources to uncover the truth behind that fateful night. He was led to an old cottage in the woods.” Pinning an old image onto the board, he stepped back and gave the jurors a moment to eye the evidence. “Mr Warren’s friends accompanied him. He believed Alexa would be there alongside her captor. Instead, he found another girl.” He never looked at the screen when he asked, “Isn’t that right, Miss Pearce?”

Her head shook. “No.”

“Miss Pearce was underweight, naked, and, in his words, quite feral. He covered her with his suit jacket, helped her off the ground and, when she fainted in his arms, carried her to his vehicle. His men, who are all here to witness, joined him and Miss Pearce at Club 11. When she woke up, he asked her name. Blaire was the name provided. He asked if there was anyone he could call, she said no. He offered to take her somewhere, and she begged him to let her stay.”

Blaire’s body trembled. “That is not true.”

“Mr Warren let her stay at the penthouse, even though her stay would be an inconvenience. She had free reign in the penthouse. She showered, cooked, slept and even used the computer to buy new clothes.” He pinned bank statements on the board. “Why did Mr Warren ask you to leave, Miss Pearce?”

Her paleness accentuated the panic in her wide eyes. “Liam threw me out when Alexa came back.”

“It wasn’t because you left the guest bedroom one night, walked down the hall, entered his bedroom uninvitedly, climbed under the duvet and, knowing my client was intoxicated, took advantage of the situation by performing oral sex.”

I had never been prouder of Liam. He once refused to accept what she did was abuse. Pride and stubbornness would not allow it. He was shame-faced now.

It was the right choice to speak up. After all, it’s Warren versus Blaire. The gloves had to come off, even if acknowledgement and acceptance made him uncomfortable.

“No,” Blaire lied. “That did not happen.”

“When Mr Warren roused, albeit disorientated, he thought he was dreaming of another woman. Members of the jury,” Carl spoke to the panel directly. “Mr Warren drank himself stupid to help with bereavement. To his dismay, he frequently hallucinated due to excessive alcohol and substance abuse, so it was not unusual for him when he woke up, sensing the presence of his dead girlfriend. However, he soon realised that Alexa was not in bed with him. It was not her, moaning under the covers. It was this woman.” He motioned to the screen. “He should have gone to the police and filed sexual assault charges. He should have filed a restraining order.”

Blaire tried to speak, but Carl ignored her.

“Mr Alzaim offered to take care of you, Miss Pearce. Yet another mistake by Warren Enterprise. Mr Alzaim housed you, nursed you through mental health problems and provided unlimited access to his bank account where you racked up almost five hundred thousand pounds worth of debt, which you later left in his name.”

My arm slid Brad’s back to graze Nate’s nape with a thumb. When my hand fell to his shoulder, he reached up, grasped my fingers and left a feather-light kiss to my knuckles.

“That’s not what happened—”

“Your honour, I would like to exhibit evidence.” He held up a memory stick. “Surveillance footage from Club 11.”

The Judge’s pen tapped on the table. “Proceed.”

Accepting the memory stick from Carl, The Clerk plugged it into another screen and Liam, dishevelled and sprawled on the leather sofa in his office, appeared before the court. His eyes were closed when Blaire entered the room. Black leather sheathed her body like a second skin. Knee-high boots elevated her elegant posture. Her long, dark hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail.

“What do you want?” Liam mumbled.

“I am looking for Nathaniel.” Blaire picked up the Macallan bottle on the high gloss coffee table and read the label. “Can you send me in the right direction?”

He rubbed two hands down his face. “Leave.”

Blaire swigged from the bottle. “You look like shit.”

He gave her a scathing glare. “Did I ask for your opinion?”

“Actually, there is something I wish to discuss with you, Sir.” She sat on the sofa. “It’s about Nathaniel. I am worried about him.”

He sat upright. “Proceed.”

“Oh, shit.” Her fingers fumbled nervously on her lap. “I feel guilty.”

His frown hardened. “Why?”

“Talking to you betrays his trust. He needs help.”

He blinked rapidly to regain clear-sightedness. “What happened to your face?”

Blaire stifled sniffles. “Nathaniel. He loses his temper. He wasn’t always this aggressive. Lately, his violence has been too frequent to ignore. I know he doesn’t mean to hurt me, but I fear if I don’t seek help—”

“Blaire,” Liam raised a silencing hand. “Your relationship is none of my business.” He staggered toward the desk. “Close the door on your way out.” When he fell behind the desk to cut lines of cocaine, I winced. “Why are you still here?”

Blaire is standing in front of the desk now.

Rolling a fifty-pound note, he placed the end to his nose and snorted two lines. “You…” Blaire revealed her perfectly augmented breasts. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I understand, Liam.” Her voice lowered into a sultry whisper as she moved across the desk. “You crave illicitness and relational transgressions. I can help you.” She brazenly crawled onto my lap. “You don’t have to be the perfect husband with me. You can do whatever you want with whoever you want.” Her fingers smeared cocaine across his lips. “With me, you can stay true to yourself.”

My blood boiled.

He smirked. ’You are one crazy fucking bitch.”

Her red-painted lips twitched with a kittenish purr. “I am what I am.”

“I love my wife,” he rasped, and goosebumps sprouted on my arms. “Even if there were no Alexa Warren, I’d acquiesce to asexuality. You, Jessica Pearce, committed treason. You betrayed your bondsman.” When he lifted his arms from the armrests, the handcuffs she snapped on his wrist restrained his movements. “Impressive.”

Blaire stood between his slackened thighs. “I had a feeling you’d get all sentimental on me.” Sitting cross-legged on the desk, she sparked a lighter flame and lit the pre-rolled blunt. “Your soft side is disappointing. I prefer your viciousness.”

“By all means, unlock the handcuffs for me to fulfil such desires.”

“I don’t love him,” she admitted unsympathetically. “I can barely even stomach him. He’s overbearingly needy, expectant and all the lovey-dovey crap?” She stuck two fingers in her mouth. “Gross. I tried for the sake of normalcy.”

I had a chance to look at Nate. He had to stare at the floor and listen to the woman he loved ridicule him in front of a room full of people.

“I figured if you saw us together, you would…” Blaire redid her halter neck top to conceal her breasts. “I thought you’d come back for me. I thought you’d remember what we shared and stake your claim.” Respiring a veil of smoke towards the ceiling, she slid off the desk and helped herself to cash. “But you don’t care. It’s all about Alexa and what she wants and what she needs.” Bitterness iced her tone. “Truthfully, I cannot fathom your devotion. Beautiful, flawless women surround you, yet you choose to lie down with someone so repulsively beneath you.”

“I hit the jackpot when I married Alexa Warren.” My husband’s face was inexpressive. “You don’t need to understand.” His wrists twisted to alleviate the tight pain caused by handcuffs. “You cannot escape the inevitable. Your tongue will be the first extraction.”

Stealing packaged drugs, bounded cash and bottled liquor, Blaire bid him farewell and strolled to the door. “Give Nathaniel my kind regards.”

Liam watched her leave. “Why?”

Blaire twisted on her heel to flutter her lashes at him. “What’s the question?”

“Why did you delude him?”

“Nathaniel’s desperation made it easy.” Her lips puckered in deliberation. “If it makes you feel better, I thought of you every time he and I fucked. It made fake orgasms more believable. I don’t think he suspects anything.” Brandishing a silver key, she hurled it across the floor. “Look, he’s a nice guy. I am sure he’ll find another woman he can bore to death.” She yanked the door open, and the slumped guard fell onto his back. “He’s not dead. I stabbed him with one of those vitals Nathaniel stores in his gym bag.” Stepping over the man’s comatose body, she exited the office. “Oh, before I go. What I feel for you is real. You will never reciprocate, but I do love you, Liam. You need to remember that.”

Carl raised the remote to pause the screen. “Miss Pearce, can you confirm that it is you on the surveillance.”

“Nathaniel.” Blaire’s mouth was agape. “He put me up to it. He told me to do it, or else he would kill me.”

Carl looked pityingly at the screen. “Are you in love with my client, Miss Pearce?”

“No, I do not love that sick, twisted, vile man. He raped me. Nathanial raped me. I am the victim here. Not them.”

“Miss Pearce, the room heard your admittance on the surveillance footage.” He wore a cocky smile. “Footage does not lie. You are in love with Mr Warren. You love him so much that it pained you to see him happy with another woman. You are so obsessed with Mr Warren that you went to great lengths to hinder his marriage. You fabricated mice on the night of his wedding because hearing him in bed with his wife sickened you. Isn’t that right, Miss Pearce?”

Her eyes closed. “No.”

“You practically begged Mr Warren to have an affair. You wanted him to cheat on his wife. You wanted to be the person he chose to lie down with.”

Detective David Michaels jumped off the chair, the legs shrieking on the wooden floor, and hastened toward the double doors. When he exited the courtroom, the slam resounded in his wake.

“It is palpable for everyone to see.” Carl was not finished. “You went to Mr Warren’s office. You told him that Mr Alzaim beat you. Yet you left Club 11 that night and walked straight into the police station, crying for protection.” When she began to shout, he waved a flippant hand. “I am only interested in facts. Did Mr Warren and Mr Alzaim beat you? Did they both rape you? Did they both force you into unlawful activity? Facts, Miss Pearce. Facts.”

“Yes,” the bitch lied. “Yes, they forced everything on me.”

“Is Mr Warren the father of your unborn child?”

“Yes—”

“How can you be so sure?” Carl challenged. “Two men raped you. Not one.”

I suppressed a triumphant smile.

“Miss Pearce is an inherently unreliable witness who regarded truth as a transitory, flexible concept.” He motioned to pinned evidence. “There are inconsistencies in her accusations. There is video evidence of her contradicting herself. She refused the rights of paternity, which, I believe, without a shadow of a doubt, would have vindicated Mr Warren because Miss Pearce, the father to your unborn child, is the man at the back of the room.”

The Jurors studied Nate from afar.

“Mr Alzaim, in your words,” he pointed at the screen, “was desperate for your love and attention. You said, in no particular order, that he was a nice guy. He can find another woman to bore to death. He is unsuspecting of your true feelings toward Mr Warren. He is overbearingly needy, expectant and lovey-dovey.”

Nate’s face was puce in humiliation.

“According to Miss Pearce, she overheard conversations regarding Miss Bennet’s disappearance. Bennet’s step-father, Mr Larry Fagan, is also missing.” He read from notes. “And there is more.” Kellie Crawford’s picture joined the others on the board. “My client’s former lover, Miss Crawford.”

“What evidence did you hide? Where is the evidence?” Carl paced languidly. “Where are the bodies? Opinion or belief is inadmissible in the court of law. To trial the defendant fairly, Her Majesty’s Counsel requires demonstrative evidence provided by you, the witness.” He took a moment to breathe. “I do not see any type of evidence that could help document the abuse.”

“Your honour.” Mr Wilson pushed to his feet. “Need I remind the defence that the witness is in the link room due to anxiety. I would like to request a short recess so that I can sit with my client.”

Carl gave the Judge a curt nod. “I have no further questions, your honour.”

“Thank you, Mr Bishop.” Removing his silver-framed reading glasses, The Judge banged the gavel. “We will take a short break for lunch.”

I would love to be a fly on the wall of the live link room.

I’d shit all over the bitch.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

Alexa

Beverly Bennet is the quintessential lady of leisure. She might wear white diamonds and authenticated pearls, but her wealth is that of old money. Her father was one of the wealthiest aristocrats in Britain. From a young age, she acquired calm graciousness, fashionable refinement and an elegant posture. Her etiquette is integrated and demonstrated with every poised movement. She occupied the stand like an unmovable mannequin. Crossing her legs at the knees, she braced her threaded fingers on her lap. Her ash-blonde hair weaved into a loose criss-cross bun. Her sky-blue eyes, piercingly judgmental, complemented her regal trouser suit and cerulean suede kitten heels.

“When did you broach the subject with your daughter, Mrs Bennet?”

The prosecution barrister was in her sights. “Almost instantly.”

“Can you share those concerns with the courtroom?”

“Well, I found my daughter wailing one evening.” Her stare went to the jurors. “My Hellen seldom expressed emotion, especially tears. Her father was out of town for the weekend, so his absence encouraged her to unbosom freely.”

Her father, I thought.

Why did that hurt?

I never cared for Patrick Haines.

He never cared for me, either.

Get a grip, Alexa.

You hormonal mess.

“She had fallen in love with the defendant.” Her upper lip curled at the corner. “Her love was, of course, unrequited.”

The reporters to my right held their thumbs down on the hand-held recording device.

“You did not approve of their relationship?”

“Absolutely not.” She grimaced in disgust. “I was less than impressed.”

The barrister lingered by the jurors. “Why?”

“Mr Warren is a well-known businessman in London. The Grape and Vine’s gargantuan conglomeration of rare wine is worth ten million,” she spoke pompously. “I hear the titillating stage shows at his exclusive niterie produce a stupendous amount of money. It earned five hundred and fifty million in revenue last year alone.”

Okay, I had to pay more attention to Club 11’s annual profit margin.

“In spite of Mr Warren’s legitimate businesses, there are question marks over the man’s moral standards.” Her stare lazily flickered to Liam, who watched the show unfold through narrowed eyes. “It is no secret that he is heavily involved in the London underworld. By all accounts, he is the leader of an organised crime group. What mother, in her right mind, would give their blessing to a renowned criminal? I expected more for my Hellen.”

The barrister waited for the jurors to scribble in their notepads. “Did you share these concerns with your daughter?”

“Yes, I told her, under no circumstance, should she see the man again.” Her lips, injected with dermal filler, puckered. “To my disappointment, she continued to date him.”

“Then, what happened?”

“Well, Hellen was always stubborn. She defended Mr Warren when Larry questioned their relationship the following Monday. Although deeply displeased, he was susceptible to her crocodile tears. If it made her happy, he would pretend to tolerate the man. Hellen was like a bottle of pop leading up to City Hall’s jamboree.” Her eyes rolled. “She so foolishly believed Mr Warren would ask her hand in marriage.”

Liam’s head shook almost imperceptibly.

“I was greatly unsatisfied. I wanted so much more for my Hellen.” She expelled an airy breath. “However, Mr Warren’s attendance at City Hall would provide an opportunity to see them together. Perhaps I was too quick to judge him.”

“Did your opinion of him change?”

“No, I have no respect for a man with wandering eyes. Mr Warren spent the majority of the night ogling other women. Also, he looked distracted. I am not an empath, but it was clear to everyone that he was mentally preoccupied.” Her eyes were lost in thought. “He was scheming.”

The wigged barrister strolled. “Masked men bombarded City Hall. During the night in question, Mr Larry Fagan was snatched by armed men and hurled into an unlicensed vehicle.” He addressed the jury directly. “His whereabouts have yet to be determined.”

“Hellen had an inkling,” Beverly informed the jurors. “She mentioned as much when we spoke the next day. She thought that perhaps her lover was responsible for her father’s disappearance. It was quite traumatic for her.”

The barrister’s footsteps halted before the stand. “Why did she meet with the defendant after Mr Fagan’s disappearance if she felt uneasy?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Had I known, I’d have prevented their arrangement. All I know is she left our family home to meet Mr Warren and never returned.” A tear trickled down her cheek, and she knuckled it away. “My Hellen was pronounced dead the same evening. Forensics uncovered her remains at the crime scene.”

The prosecution pinned an image of a burnt building on the board. “For clarity, Miss Bennet died in a tragic arson attack after someone deliberately set the Ivory Vale Hotel on fire.”

“Your honour.” Carl rose to his full height. “How can the prosecution trial my client for Miss Bennet’s murder when another man previously admitted to setting fire to the Ivory Vale Hotel? The perpetrator was charged, convicted and sentenced by The Ministry of Justice.”

Beverly’s head turned to the Judge. “I have every reason to believe the man currently stuck behind prison walls was blackmailed for hush money. He admitted to a crime he did not commit.”

Carl slumped on the chair.

“I visited him in prison,” she told the jurors. “He told me that a high-rank police officer offered him one million pounds to serve time on behalf of Liam Warren. He will not, however, confirm their agreement in court while anticipating payment.”

“This is a diabolical sham,” Carl said, jumping to his feet, and The Judge cautioned him. “Your honour, where is the factual information? The unarguable evidence? At this point in the trial, I demand a statement about the prosecution’s mental state. You cannot convict the defendant based on second-hand hearsay. This evidence from said hearsay is so unconvincing that given its importance, a conviction would be unsafe and deserving of acquittal.”

“Mr Bishop.” The Judge looked bored. “Are you telling me how to do my job?”

“No, your honour. I am simply highlighting the magnitude of illegalities. The prosecution has provided unreliable witnesses, theories and personal interpretations rather than tangible or documentary evidence.” His anger soared with every articulated syllable. “My client is entitled to a fair trial.”

“Mr Bishop,” the Judge cautioned. “You will remain seated until the prosecution is finished.”

Carl’s backside returned to the chair.

“Apologies, Mrs Bennet.” The barrister relished in the fact Carl was reprimanded. “I have one more question. Do you believe, without a shadow of a doubt, the defendant, Mr Warren, is responsible for the murder of your daughter, Hellen Bennet? If so, tell the jurors why.”

She never missed a beat. “I believe Mr Warren is responsible because he threatened to kill her during their hostile telephone conversation before she agreed to meet him.”

“Thank you, Mrs Bennet.” He gave her a friendly smile. “No further questions, your honour.”

“Mr Bishop.” The Judge, too, noted something in a leather-bound notepad. “If you have calmed down, would you like to cross-examine the witness?”

“Absolutely, your honour.” Carl was back on his feet in a flash. “By all accounts is synonymous to allegedly. By all accounts means according to what one has heard or read. According to popular belief, good things take time. For example, I can do anything, but I can’t do everything.” He strolled past the jurors with his hands clasped behind his back. “Ostensibly, it appears or is stated to be true, though not necessarily so. Rumour has it,” his finger pointed heavenward, “Mr Warren is the leader of a criminal underworld, so he must be a bona fide assassin. According to popular belief,” he added sarcastically. “Mrs Bennet, by all accounts, you had an affair with James Greenwood from the mayoral team.”

Beverly was aghast. “I should think not.”

“But it is no secret that you are intimately involved with James Greenwood,” Carl countered. “It leaves question marks over your moral standards, Mrs Bennet.”

“I did not have an affair.” Her cheeks heated. “I love my husband.”

“Why do you speak of Mr Fagan in the present tense?” He challenged her. “Is Mr Warren not on trial for his murder?”

“Dead or alive,” she retorted, “I still love Larry very much.”

“Larry?” His eyebrows creased. “You mean, Patrick Haines.”

Beverly’s fingers pinched her pearl necklace.

“Patrick Haines, born and raised in Newquay, Cornwall.” He pinned an image of The Major on the board. It is not how London perceived him. There are no expensive designer suit jackets, groomed eyebrows or styled grey hair. The man in the photo looked younger and unshowered. He had messy, shoulder-length hair and an ungroomed beard. He wore a tight-fitted T-shirt, faded denim jeans and heavy-duty boots. “Also known as Mr Larry Fagan, the former Mayor of London.”

The Mayor’s wife refused to look at the images.

Carl’s arms crossed at his chest. “How did you and Mr Haines meet, Mrs Bennet?”

She considered lying. “The London International Horse Show.”

“And when was the first time you were intimate with Mr Haines?”

“Your honour,” the prosecution interjected. “Relevance.”

“I can assure you, it is very relevant, your honour.”

The Judge nodded. “Proceed.”

“The same night.” Her face was speckled red. “He escorted me to the hotel. I invited him in for late-night champagne.”

His fingers toyed with his white collar’s folded lapels. “Were you aware of his marital status?”

She was silent.

The Judge intervened. “Answer the question, Mrs Bennet.”

Ever so quietly, she whispered, “Yes.”

Lowering his head, he picked his fingernails. “Were you aware that he was violent to his wife?”

Her perfectly defined eyebrows jumped. “Larry is not a violent man.”

“Patrick Haines was a very violent man.” Carl exhibited evidence. “This is an old medical file belonging to Adaline Haines. As you can see on the passages I previously highlighted, Adaline suffered years of physical and sexual abuse.”

Each juror accepted photocopied evidence of Patrick’s history of domestic violence.

“Adaline Haines was hospitalised on many occasions for broken ribs and even a fractured skull subsequent to the man’s short temper.” Carl recited from memory. “Domestic violence was omnipresent in the Haines household. Their daughters, Kathy and Alexa, were often present during his outbursts.” When Beverly stayed tight-lipped, he lifted an image of Patrick Haines. “The evidence is clear, Mrs Bennet. Now, can you confirm that it is, in fact, your husband in the photo?”

“Yes,” she said in a relatively subdued voice. “It is.”

“So, I will ask again.” He tossed the folder onto the table. “Were you aware that Mr Fagan, formerly known as Patrick Haines, was violent to his ex-wife, Adaline Haines?”

Beverly’s sole focus was the untouched evidence on Carl’s desk. “Yes.”

The Jurors scribbled something down.

“Were you aware that Patrick Haines was in a loveless marriage?”

She nodded.

Carl’s fingers drummed on the table. “I need you to use your voice, Mrs Bennet.”

“Yes.” Her eyes briefly squeezed shut. “My Larry was miserable.”

He walked leisurely past the benches. “Did you use your connections to help Patrick divorce his ex-wife so that he could move to London and live with you?”

Still, her stare stabbed the unexhibited evidence on his desk. “Yes.”

Carl swivelled on the heel of his leather shoe to throw an accusatory glare in her direction. “What was the exactness of your involvement, Mrs Bennet?”

She eyed the prosecution for guidance. “I provided money and keys to a vehicle.”

“Money?” His face was twisted. “For what purpose?”

“To ensure his ex-wife had enough money to provide for their daughters.” Her voice cracked. “To alleviate the pressure of guilt in which he felt for leaving them behind.”

He tacked another image to the disorganised board. “Your honour, the evidence provided is a bank transfer between Patrick Haines and Flamur Bajramovic. You see, Mr Bajramovic was not just a high net worth individual. He was not just a public figure. He led a double life. In actuality, his night job differed strikingly from his day job.” He glanced at the dock. “Mrs Bennet, you are an intelligent woman. What is the meaning of child abduction?”

Her lips thinned. “The unauthorised removal of a child.”

“And what is the definition of sexual slavery?”

Horripilation pricked the nape of my neck.

“It’s a form of enslavement.”

“What is the definition of sexual abuse in children?”

“When a perpetrator intentionally harms a minor sexually,” she answered unpretentiously, which was a first.

“Child sexual abuse in children is broader than most people realise.” He selected another file. “I am curious, what are your thoughts on child trafficking, Mrs Bennet?”

She was offended by the question. “I do not condone child trafficking, counsellor.”

“But what are your innermost thoughts regarding the exploitation of a minor?”

“Well, it’s dreadful.” Her cheeks pinkened. “Children are so innocent. Why would anyone hurt them?”

Carl harrumphed. “Are you aware that the money provided to Patrick was transferred to Mr Bajramovic to murder Adaline Haines?”

Her head jerked back. “No.”

“The money was also used to tie up loose ends.” He shut the folder. “Mr Bajramovic snatched those young girls and hid them in the basement of his compound. He followed Patrick’s order, Mrs Bennet.”

“As you kindly pointed out, by all accounts is mere hearsay.” Her tears dried up. “We do not know if Mr Bajramovic abducted those girls.”

“That’s a fair response,” Carl agreed. “Only Alexa is present in court today. I am sure she would happily take the stand and tell everyone Mr Bajramovic is the man responsible for her mother’s murder as she was the one who discovered Adaline’s bloodied body on the kitchen floor before he abducted her and her sister, Kathy, from their childhood home.” He pinned an old image of Flamur’s squalid storehouse on the board. “A place where they spent seven years confined to dark, airless, uninhabitable rooms to be starved, beaten and raped, repeatedly, until they circumvented precautions to escape. What happened to them is an unarguable certitude of historical abuse, Mrs Bennet. I now need to prove whether or not you were an accomplice.”

“Your honour.” The bewigged male representing the prosecution glared at the defence counsel. “Who is on trial here?”

“What irritates you, counsellor?” Carl conversed in a sangfroid manner. “My thirst for the truth or the fact your uncredible witness lied under oath?”

From my standpoint, the jurors were pliant. They seemed to acknowledge Carl’s argument, noting information in their notepads.

Beverly emoted distress. “When did I lie?”

“When you displayed traits of deceitfulness before the jurors.” Carl is hyper-aware of the jurors’ sharp watchfulness. “How can anyone take you seriously, Mrs Bennet? You cannot differentiate the truth from lies.”

“Take a seat, counsellor,” the Judge said to the prosecution barrister. “Mr Bishop, have you finished cross-examination?”

“No, your honour.” His breathing was low and controlled. “I have proven to the court with factual evidence that Mr Fagan and Mr Bajramovic combined efforts to have Adaline Haines murdered. I have proven that the men in question had Kathy and Alexa Haines abducted. I have expressed that Mrs Bennet, who funded their disgraceful operation, either mindfully or unmindfully, may or may not have contributed to the death of Adaline Haines and the abduction of the Haines sisters, which brings me to my next question. Mrs Bennet, are you responsible for the disappearance of Mr and Mrs Bajramovic? As there is no evidence to determine their death, I will proceed to question their whereabouts rather than their murders.”

“No,” she croaked. “Why would I be responsible for their disappearance?”

“Mr Fagan is missing,” Carl spoke in a clear, enunciated tone of a man who took his job very seriously. “His disappearance is not that of a low-class individual. We are discussing the Mayor of London. It is a high-profile case. In order for Scotland Yard to do their jobs effectively, they must strip it back to their bare minimum, starting with the possible adversaries of Mr Fagan’s past.”

Beverly’s eyes screwed up at the corners.

“It might not be public knowledge yet, but everyone involved in this case knows Mr Fagan had a close relationship with Mr Bajramovic. In a few months, their reprehensible, scandalous, menacing behaviour will hit the headlines. Even if you have told the truth, even if you did not conspire against the Haines family, you would face trial by association.”

“I am not responsible for Kathy’s and Alexa’s abduction. I am most certainly not responsible for Mr and Mrs Bajramovics disappearance.” She was red-faced in exasperation. “You twist the truth, counsellor. Everyone knows Mr Warren is blameworthy.”

“In your opinion,” he corrected smugly. “In my opinion, you are neck-deep in unspeakable transgressions, and you, Mrs Bennet, will do anything and everything to vindicate yourself, even if an innocent man is to suffer the consequences of your wrongdoing.”

“I know he did this! He was the last person to see my daughter alive. He killed her. That man over there.” She pointed to the dock. “He is the monster here. Not me.”

Liam’s unfazed by her vituperation.

“One could argue that you exposed Hellen to modern slavery and human trafficking.” Carl oozed sarcasm. “After all, you chose to marry a man who quite willingly sold his actual daughters to a paedophile. How can you be sure that Mr Fagan did not offer Helen as a parting gift to Mr Bajramovic before he fled the country?”

She was sickly pale in complexion. “Larry would never—”

“Mr Fagan is more than capable of such crimes.” Carl motioned to me at the back of the room. “His daughter, Mrs Warren, can attest to his wickedness.”

“No, he loved my daughter.” Her teary eyes roved over my face. “He never cared for those girls.”

I felt a twinge in my chest.

“I think,” Carl continued his vitriolic onslaught, “Mrs Bennet and Mr Fagan conspired to have Miss Hellen Bennet murdered. I think Mr Fagan is hiding alongside Mr Bajramovic to evade justice for the crimes of their past. I think Mrs Bennet has proven to be more than capable of such ghastliness, given her involvement with the Haines family. I think,” he said angrily, “Mr Warren is being punished for other people’s nefarious schemes to cheat the justice system.”

“No.” She burst into a blubbering mess. “I would never hurt my Hellen.”

Carl was pleased with himself. “No further questions, your honour.”

The Judge asked the prosecution if he would like to re-examine the witness.

He declined.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Alexa

The Judge throned the wooden podium. His stern scowl swept from the eccentric media to the expressionless public, and lastly, the cold-faced jurors. He never acknowledged the defendant. It’s as though the man in the dock was a complete nonentity.

Brad was quieter than usual. He’s been like it all morning, contemplative, the world around us an afterthought.

I wondered what intrigued him, where he travelled. “What’s bothering you?”

“Thinking,” he said, which was most obvious. “Taking notes.”

A pen rolled between his fingers.

What did the scribbles mean on his forearm?

Number eight.

I hovered. “Why did you draw on yourself?”

Brad smirked wolfishly.

Honestly, he is the worst kind of confident.

“Mind your business.” He gave me a tight smile. “Focus.”

Easier said than done.

“Your honour, I call the final witness.” The robed barrister stood with a folder in hand. “Mrs Chloe Stone.”

The air sucked out of me when the prosecution called upon the girl I once called sister. Her unforeseen attendance at court felt like the aftermath of being sucker-punched in the stomach.

Oxygen abandoned my body.

I tried to swallow, the tight lump in my throat increasing in size.

Her blonde hair drifted past at a funeral pace. With a crippling look of regret, she slid behind the elevated stand and splayed her trembling fingers onto the wooden countertop, the adjusted microphone raised for her height.

Tears hung to my lower lashes. I blinked to regain clear-sightedness and listened to the girl from my past affirm to the Judge.

My entire chest caved.

Alexa, breathe.

You must breathe.

Wheezing with dyspnoea, I keeled over, head buried on my thighs, and clutched the nape of my neck. Each hitched sob caught in the back of my throat. If I did not calm down, if I gave into hyperventilation, I risked the loss of consciousness. I cannot afford to faint. Not again.

The Judge banged the gavel. “Does Mrs Warren require medical assistance?”

“Angel?” Vincent’s hand clutched my shoulder. “What do you need?”

It hurt to breathe.

“Alexa.” Brad’s on his knees in front of me. He cupped my hands and held them to my mouth. “Breathe,” he whispered, and I drew in a strained breath. “Hold it.”

A spell of dizziness accelerated shivers.

“Now, breathe out,” he said in a low, commanding voice, and I did as instructed, blowing warm air into my cupped hands. “Repeat.”

Nodding, I upheld eye contact, taking in measured breaths.

“Mrs Warren?” The Judge called, but my sole focus was the whiskey-eyed man. “Mrs Warren, do you require medical assistance?”

It has to be a nightmare.

Chloe would never betray me.

Yet, she is here for the ultimate betrayal.

Inconsolable pain ripped my heart in two.

When her husband, Harold Stone, insulted me, threatened me, I deliberately withheld it from Liam. I did that for her, Chloe. It wasn’t an act of kindness for Harold’s benefit. I cared not for the man. But for her, for the girl I once loved like a sister, I could overlook the contemptible man she married. Hell, I even pleaded with Josh to lie to his boss, knowing he’d face punishment if Liam ever uncovered the truth behind the night Stone ridiculed me and almost lost his life to a nine millimetre. Yet, she could do this to me without remorse. She could testify and paint my husband in dark hues and, in the process, break my heart.

Well, more fool me for being a trusting person.

Another hard lesson learned.

“You have to be strong for my brother.” Vincent’s hand touched the small of my back. “He is worried.”

Teary-eyed, I peered at the dock. Liam is not interested in Chloe. He is watching me, seething mad. If I did not get a handle on emotions, he’d lash out to reach me.

His eyes.

My eyes.

Their judgments.

Inhale.

Exhale.

I breathed.

“I’m okay,” I lied through snivels and hiccups. “Honestly, I will be fine.”

Liam lip-read from the dock.

Helplessness flared in his searching blue eyes.

He was unconvinced.

Unassuaged.

Breathing through my nose, I smiled reassuringly.

It was not enough, though.

Liam knew me better than I knew myself. And in this moment of time, he perceived that I was far from okay.

“Mrs Warren.” The Judge’s impatient voice echoed throughout. “For the last time, do you require medical assistance?”

I shake my head. “I am okay, your honour.”

He banged the gavel. “Proceed.”

“Mrs Stone,” the prosecution barrister began. “You were close friend’s to the defendant’s wife, correct?”

“Yes,” she said into the microphone.

“Can you clarify Mrs Warren’s name for the court?”

She nodded grimly. “Alexa.”

“Mrs Stone.” He approached the stand. “How did you and Alexa become friends?”

“I met her in high school.” Her blonde hair was shorter. It reminded me of a pixie with a nape undercut. “She enrolled in our second or third year, I think.”

Great. I had to sit here and listen to the humiliations of my past.

“Everyone knew Alexa before she showed up.” Her lips curved into a sympathetic smile. “The Haines case was no secret in London. We all watched it unfold on the news and read newspaper articles. I remember seeing her photo online and, I don’t know, I felt sorry for her. And her sister, I guess. What they went through, it doesn’t bear consideration.”

Carl was primed for a rigorous cross-examination. He sponged every word, the pen in his pinched fingers, tapping the wooden table.

“Alexa’s first day in school lasted three hours before she hid in the headmaster’s office. If I remember correctly, her sister had to collect her.”

I eased back on the bench.

The barrister took a deep breath. “Why?”

“Someone dumped food on Alexa’s head in the cafeteria.” She detailed the events as I lived vicariously through the old Alexa, feeling melted cheese and baked beans trickling down my forehead. “Another person threw a textile book at her back in science class.”

I picked imaginary lint on my pencil skirt.

Yes, it was in religious studies.

He lunged a bible at me, the boy she had a huge crush on.

I never liked him.

Whatever his poor parents named him.

“For weeks, people taped unrepeatable notes in the halls and left old newspaper articles about her abduction in the girl’s bathroom. You’d think people would be more sympathetic, but that wasn’t the case.”

In the crowd, Chloe found her husband, Harold Stone. He looked deceivingly handsome. A resurrected Ted Bundy, sent back to earth to pry on vulnerable women. Look at him, pretending to be a civilised human, the monstrous wife beater. If I could lob my shoe at the back of his head, I’d do it in a heartbeat, unregretfully so. I loathed him with a passion. I bet he is behind this, Chloe’s testimony.

Chloe broke away from Harold’s authoritative stare. “Alexa was bullied.”

Bullied is an understatement. I will never forget the sick notes those teens hurled at my head. I fell asleep many a night, crying in my sister’s arms. People hated me, which was incomprehensible. It’s not as though I asked to be taken.

I had no reason to go back there, though. The past is the past for a reason. It had no place in the present.

Her throat worked on a swallow. “I was a coward for not speaking up sooner. But eventually, I did defend her. I was sick of seeing her mistreated, especially because it was obvious how traumatised she was from captivity.”

My lips puckered as I fought against tears.

Traumatised is another understatement. It’s not like I fell off a bike and feared cycling again. I went from living with two humans that I absolutely adored to hiding in the shadows of a locked basement while an unfamiliar man—who claimed to love me—touched me in ways that made my skin crawl. Post-traumatic stress is more fitting. Try reliving the heinousness of your past every time your eyes shut. You’ll soon realise, sleep is overrated.

“We were inseparable.” Chloe dabbed her nose with bundles of tissue. “I spent most of my time at Alexa’s place. Her older sister, Kathy, worked long hours, so we often had the flat to ourselves.”

The prosecution barrister strolled.

“On my sixteenth birthday,” she said, “I left home and moved into the Haines property.”

He hesitated. “Why did you leave home at such a young age, Mrs Stone?”

“I was unhappy. My mother died, and my father moved on quite quickly.” Thinking of her mother brought tears to her eyes. “We never saw eye to eye, dad and I. He was strict; I was rebellious.” Her large, floppy shoulder pads made her head look disproportionate. “I was happy at Alexa’s place. It felt like home.”

My breathing evened out.

“Over the years, we grew closer.”

“When did it change?” the prosecution asked. “In your statement, you claimed that something shifted.”

“Kathy went missing.” Her nose was red. “Or, so we thought, at the time.”

He walked past the defence table. “Tell us about Kathy Haines.”

“Where do I begin?” she laughed somewhat mockingly. “Kathy was a candid individual. What-you-see-is-what you-get comes to mind. I was not overly fond, but I tolerated her for Alexa. Kathy became stressed,” she added. “Her younger sister had frequent panic attacks and nightmares that kept everyone awake at night.”

He eyed me, too brave, too comfortable. “You mean, Alexa?”

Liam’s head cocked.

My husband was the type of man who entered a room and commanded it with his stare alone. He needn’t raise his voice with menace. You see the baleful indication in his eyes. And right now, he is envisioning the barrister’s death on repeat for the disdainful glance to his wife.

“Yes, Alexa was not in a good place,” she told the jurors. “She was on prescription drugs to reduce depression and anxiety.”

“I never took those,” I murmured to Brad. “I swear. I had them in the bathroom cupboard, but I refused to be on medication. My mother was addicted to antidepressants. She popped them like sweets.”

You must never touch the bathroom cupboard, is what she used to say.

My stomach cramped. “I would not follow in her footsteps.”

“It’s all good,” he said hoarsely. “No one is here to judge you.”

I huffed in exasperation.

“Kathy wanted answers.” Her gentle voice started to grate on me. “She wanted to track down their childhood captor.”

The bewigged barrister studied notes. “In your witness statement, you claimed Kathy had lost faith in the justice system.”

Chloe’s head dipped.

He put the folder on the table. “Why?”

My ex-best friend lifted one shoulder. “All I know is she had other ideas.”

His backside parked on the desk. “And what were Kathy’s other ideas?”

“She was given the impression that the owner of Club 11 could help.”

“Kathy applied for a job at the defendant’s nightclub, correct?”

She nodded.

“Did the defendant give her the job?”

“Yes, Kathy started working for Mr Warren the following day.”

He smiled weakly. “What did she hope to achieve from the defendant?”

“Kathy believed Mr Warren could track down the man responsible for her sister’s trauma.”

He glimpsed at the dock. “Please continue, Mrs Stone.”

“Kathy told Alexa that she had started dating Mr Warren.” She choked down a laugh. “In fact, she was quite descriptive.”

He bypassed the jurors. “About their relationship?”

“Yes.” Her face was heated. “They were very intimate.”

“As opposed to what?” My stare whipped to Brad. “Being very un-intimate. They had sex. Big deal. Why is the prosecution obsessed with his sex life?”

Brad chewed the end of a toothpick. “No idea.”

The barrister probed. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Chloe nibbled her lower lip. “Well, before Kathy asked for help, she went missing. I mean, she just vanished off the face of the earth.”

His face relaxed. “How did Alexa handle her sister’s disappearance?”

“Alexa was devastated,” she said woefully. “She loved her sister very much.”

“What happened next?”

“I convinced Alexa to finish what Kathy had started. It took months of research and preparation before she built up the courage to contact Mr Warren directly.”

“Why would she need buck courage, Mrs Stone?”

“According to the streets of London, Mr Warren is not someone you want to align with.”

“Because of his notorious reputation?”

“Your honour,” Carl gestured to the prosecution. “Leading the witness.”

“Counsellor,” the Judge cautioned.

“Withdrawn.” His ear lowered to Detective David Michaels before he asked the next question. “The defendant hired Alexa. What happened next?”

“Alexa would search empty rooms at Club 11 for any traces of Kathy.”

I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

“Sometimes, Alexa twigged conversations to see if other members of staff mentioned her sister. I think she even asked Josh, an employee at Warren Enterprise, if he recalled anyone by the name of Kathy.”

Josh’s disbelieving gaze swerved to me.

I sank into my shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes, Josh informed Alexa that Kathy worked at Club 11, but she went by the name of Pearl. Apparently, Kathy Pearl was a club favourite. Mr Warren treated her differently to the others.”

I winced.

Josh’s inked hand covered the majority of his face.

“Alexa found Kathy’s handbag in the lost-and-found cupboard once.” Her lips pouted. “There were receipts from a nearby hotel. By all accounts, Kathy stayed there regularly with Mr Warren.”

No, Kathy stayed there with Flamur Bajramovic.

“So, to the best of your knowledge, to the best of Alexa Haines’ knowledge, the defendant, Liam Warren, was seemingly responsible for Kathy Haines’ disappearance.”

Her cheeks puffed. “Yes.”

“But you had a change of opinion.”

Her eyes peeled open. “Kathy came back.”

Only some of the jurors scribbled notes. The others were too engrossed.

“To be honest, I am not sure if Kathy ever truly left. For months, items went missing in our home. I would buy a new handbag, leave it on the floor in my bedroom, then return hours later to have misplaced it. Or so I thought until Kathy broke into the flat one night and admitted to tormenting us. She rehoused ornaments, hid condiments. It was like a big game to her.”

“Did she admit this to you directly, Mrs Stone?”

“No, I was unconscious down the street when Kathy approached Alexa.”

He was emotionless. “Why were you unconscious?”

“Kathy had attacked me whilst I walked toward the local shop. I don’t remember the exactness. I only remember waking up on the floor with a sore head.”

“According to your statement,” he read another file, “Kathy arrived at the flat, dressed in tawdry clothing and reeked of alcohol.”

Chloe nodded again.

Another folder was tossed on the table. “What happened in the flat, Mrs Stone?”

“Kathy and Alexa argued.”

“Why did they argue?”

“I am not completely sure as I wasn’t present. I guess Alexa wanted answers. In her defence, Kathy up and left without explanation. Alexa deserved the truth.”

He paused by the stand. “Go on.”

“All I know is Kathy tried to kill Alexa.” Her comment surprised the jurors. “She had a knife.”

“Do you think Mrs Warren would corroborate those assertions?”

Still, she could not look at me. “Yes.”

“Mrs Stone,” he said loudly, “tell the jurors what happened next.”

Her gaze flickered to the dock. “Mr Warren found Kathy and Alexa struggling in the bedroom.”

“Was Mr Warren already in the property when Kathy arrived?”

“No.” Her face scrunched. “He was always there at the right time—conveniently. It wouldn’t surprise me if he installed cameras or something. Nobody is that omniscient. I know his men moseyed along from time to time, too. I saw them lurking.”

I picked my fingernails.

“Mr Warren pulled out a gun and shot Kathy in the head.” Her eyes glazed over. “He killed Kathy Haines.”

My eyes closed.

“Take your time, Mrs Stone,” the barrister said while she snivelled into balls of tissue. “How did Alexa react at the time of her sister’s murder?”

“Alexa was distraught.” Her stare was softer now. “Death was not the answer, is what she said. She believed Kathy was unwell.”

“Can you explain the extremity of Kathy’s sickness to the jurors, Mrs Stone?”

“Kathy developed Stockholm syndrome while in captivity. It’s something we uncovered many years later. I think the best way to explain it is that Kathy entered the Bajramovic compound as a sweet, unassumingly impressionable young woman, but she escaped as someone else entirely.” Her breath caught. “Older Kathy was scary. Intimidating. Hot-tempered and confrontational. I used to feel sorry for Alexa, having to put up with such an unpredictable person.”

I was not okay with them openly discussing Kathy’s certifiable condition. Yes, she upset many people, but she was still my sister. And she is not here to defend herself.

“How did you and Mrs Warren come to live in Mr Warren’s private home?”

“Mr Warren was apprehensive. He thought one of us might talk. He forced us to live in the penthouse until the dust settled. I hated it.” Her lips twisted. “I hated him. He was so manipulative. He had Alexa wrapped around his little finger. She saw no wrong in him. She believed everything he told her. Hell, she even excused Kathy’s murder because she loved him.”

“Love,” I corrected, earning the attention of everyone’s curious eyes. “I married the man you so falsely accuse.” Her eyes locked with mine across the expanse of the courtroom. “I am very much in love with my husband.”

“Mrs Warren,” the Judge banged the gavel. “You are not allowed to disrespect my court. Be quiet, or I will have two officers escort you out of Her Majesty’s court.”

Brad pinched my elbow.

I shot him a pained look.

“Mrs Stone, in your statement, you said that Alexa fell in love with the defendant under duress?”

“Yes,” Chloe said, and I scoffed. “Alexa won’t believe it. Not now. But that’s exactly what happened. He pried on a vulnerable girl. I witnessed it with my own eyes. He’s a master manipulator. He likes to control everyone around him, especially his wife. My friend…” Her lips wobbled. “The number of times I held her while she cried because of the heartache he put her through.”

Frowning, Liam looked at the floor.

“He would deliberately play with her emotions.” Her laughter crescendoed. “He didn’t want her, not respectfully. He only came running back when he felt threatened. Alexa is a beautiful woman. She had options. And he did not like that one bit.”

Vincent was murderous.

He tapped his bobbing knee with a closed-up fist, his knuckles bleach white from tension.

If Chloe had any sense, she’d take the first flight out of London before the syndicate tracked her down—before Vincent tracked her down.

“Your honour,” the prosecution said, “I would like to show evidence of Alexa’s mental health record.”

“They speak about me as though I am not in the room,” I said to Vincent. “How dare they use my past to strengthen their case. The mental health of a teenage girl is hardly relevant.”

Vincent’s jaw locked.

My temples throbbed. “I want to be called upon.”

“No,” he said under his breath. “My brother will never permit it.”

I was becoming agitated. “I should be allowed to defend myself and my husband.”

He caught my chin between his fingers. “Not against his wishes.”

“Screw Liam’s wishes.” My body shook from anger. “I am taking that stand come hell or high water.”

“Mrs Stone,” the barrister said, and our attention returned to the stand, “can you tell the jury where the defendant buried Kathy Haines’ body?”

Chloe regarded the panel. “Saddleworth Moor.”

David Michaels beamed in delight. He sat straight behind the prosecution table, the woman testifying to send Liam away, tugging a gleeful smile to his face.

The tired-looking barrister’s arms crossed. “Are you one hundred percent sure?”

“Yes,” she answered honestly. “Mr Warren allowed one of his employees to drive Alexa to the burial ground where she laid flowers.”

Anger replaced devastation.

How dare she do this to me?

I trusted her. I brought her on the trip, helped her with Dominic and offered to be a shoulder to lean on if she needed to cry.

Whilst I worked towards rebuilding our friendship, Chloe conspired with Harold to deceive me.

It was not real, those rare moments together, talking, laughing, reminiscing about the good old days.

I was simply a pawn in their wicked game.

“Your honour,” the prosecution pinned forensic images to the board. “I have exhibited Kathy Haines’ remains before the jurors. Pathologists could not confirm the cause of death due to dismembered body parts that were later dumped in sulfuric acid.”

Nate’s cheek muscle popped.

“Dental evidence in forensic identification of the human remains is, in fact, Kathy Haines.” He used a highlighter to circle the shape of my sister’s disfigured skull. “Mrs Stone, who is responsible for Kathy’s death?”

Chloe pointed to the dock. “Mr Warren.”

“In your statement,” he picked up the folder, “you mentioned that Alexa talked quite openly about Mr Bajramovic’s murder.”

My heart thudded harder.

For the first time during the trial, Liam looked troubled, disappointed. He was disappointed in me, his wife. Although unintentional, I had betrayed him. I trusted Chloe with information that could penalise him, evidence that could send him to prison for a very long time. So much, I wanted to apologise for my constant disobedience. Yet again, I have shown, I cannot cooperate with syndicate business—with their inflexible rules.

I played Chinese whispers.

My once best friend told the jury how Jace kidnapped me for the sake of his abducted daughter. She told them, I convinced Jace to unshackle me if I promised to find Summer.

I felt even more culpable when I looked at Jace, who sat beside Josh, absorbing everything through wide, fearful eyes.

Tears of guilt streamed down my cheeks.

How could I be so stupid?

“Alexa and Jace went to the compound incognito.” Her excitable voice raised. “Their alias names were Nathan and Victoria.”

I felt broken beyond repair.

“I don’t know who started the fire,” she lied to protect me. “Mr Warren murdered Flamur and Zamira Bajramovic to avenge Alexa.”

Chloe’s betrayal spiralled out of control.

She told them everything.

Everything.

Dashing into the female restroom, I pushed the cubicle door open, fell to my knees and vomited down the toilet. Each strained retch brought tears to my eyes. I had to keep food in my stomach for the baby, yet the violent spurge of vomit was unavoidable.

I sobbed.

Tears landed in the toilet between intervals of biliousness.

Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, eliminating saliva from my lips, I pulled the flush, listening to the water whirlpool down the drain.

Vincent appeared by the cubicle.

I never looked up.

Instead, I stared at his leather shoes. “Why would she do this to me?”

He squatted before me.

“I let him down, Vincent.” Salty tears coated my quivering lips. “It would have been less painful if I ripped his heart out with my hand.”

A fierce rage shivered behind his eyes. “My brother is not angry with you.”

“I know my husband. He’s hurting right now.” I sat on the floor. “I did that to him. Me.”

Vincent’s fingers hugged as his arms relaxed idly across his crouched thighs. “You are not responsible for someone else’s behaviour, Angel.”

“There are two people that must speak up for him,” I said furiously, and judging by his wordlessness, he agreed. “You know, I am right.”

His eyes blackened. “Brad will never allow it.”

“The prosecution dares to speak of my family in the presence of the last remaining Haines. And David? Don’t even start me on that sanctimonious piece of shit. No, I have to do something.” I went to the basin, washed my hands and double-checked the state of my appearance. “They will not drag my name through the mud to discredit my husband. I am taking the stand. Let somebody try and stop me.”

The bathroom door opened.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

My eyes jerked to the mirror.

Tony Roberts.

My father.

He wore a black suit, a satin tie. He’d combed his dark hair and shaved his beard. “Hello, my love.”

“Tony.” Sobbing, I rushed to my side. “What are you doing here?”

Vincent tapped the man’s back. “I will give you two a moment.”

My cheek pressed to Tony’s chest as his protective arms wrapped around me. I never wanted to let go. In his fatherly arms, I felt safe.

“I saw the news,” he said, as I clung to him for dear life. “I got on the first train to London. Alexa, why didn’t you call me?”

“I’m sorry.” My tears soaked his white shirt. “You have no idea how relieved I am to see you.”

Tony’s arms tightened. “Is it true?”

I understood the question.” Of course, it is not true. Liam is innocent.”

His tense body relaxed.

I counted the wall tiles. “Did you travel alone?”

“No, Camilla is at the Manor.” He released me to splash water on paper towels. “By the way, when were you going to tell me that I adopted a grandson?”

Accepting doused paper towels, I rubbed mascara streaks from my cheeks. “You met Logan.”

“He is a quirky young man.” His thumbs effaced tears from under my eyes. “I might like him.”

I dumped the dirty tissues in the bin. “How long will you stay?”

“For as long as you need me.” He fixed his tie. “We can book a hotel.”

“No, you must stay at the Manor.” My hands smoothed over his shoulders. “I will prepare a guest room for you and Camilla.”

His finger tipped my chin.

“Tony, I should warn you.” My tongue felt thick. “They mentioned Adelaide.”

A puzzled frown marred his forehead. “Why?”

“The defence trudged down memory lane to strengthen their case.” I hugged myself. “It’s because they believe Liam is responsible for Patrick Haines’ murder.”

“What? Is Patrick dead? When?” His mouth stuttered. “How?”

It is a long story. “He got his comeuppance.”

Tony needed a few minutes to recuperate. “Surely, Liam is not capable of murder?” He studied my reaction with growing horror. “Alexa, tell me it is not true.”

“After what Patrick did to my mother, would you have killed him?” My fingers wrangled. “If you could have gotten away with it.”

He looked conflicted. “There is nothing I wouldn’t have done for Adaline.”

“Then you should understand. But Liam is not responsible for Patrick’s murder. He did not kill him, Tony.” Braving the truth, I admitted, “I did.”

“What? No, I do not believe you. You would never…” He cupped his mouth. “Dear God. What did you do?”

My heart raced. “I shot him three times. One bullet for my mother, one bullet for Kathy.” I swallowed a painful lump. “And one bullet for me. I am not sorry. He ripped my family apart.”

“It’s okay.” His hands grasped my neck softly. He had so much to say, but something stopped him. “Paddy never deserved any of you,” is all he mustered.

“I apologise for disappointing you.”

His eyebrows pinched. “You could never disappoint me.”

My forehead rested on his chest. “Will you attend court?”

“Well, I never bought a suit for nothing.” His thumbs massaged the spot under my ears. “Whatever I hear, I will not judge. I am on your side, Alexa.”

We exited the bathroom during franticness. People spilt into the majestic foyer; the courtrooms would still be there later. Brad and the others talked near the wooden benches. I might have missed the second stage of the trial. Carl is with them, so I could ask him if cross-examination served any purpose. Technically, Chloe’s testimony is partially true if you discount exaggeration, but that would not prevent his onslaught.

“Carl?” I called, and his eyes narrowed behind black-framed glasses. “How did it go with Mrs Stone?”

“Mrs Warren.” He shook my hand. “The Judge authorised a short lunch break. I will be sure to find holes in her testimony.”

“I would like you to meet my father…” With my hand on Tony’s chest, I watched Chloe and Harold beeline the exit. “Excuse me, for a moment.”

Brad called.

Vincent called.

I ignored everyone.

My only focus was them.

Harold held Chloe’s elbow as he dragged her outside. His fingers were so tight around her arm. I feared he’d snap bones.

They descended concrete steps to the pavement when I snapped, “Hey.” Their heads turned. “What? So, that’s it? You ignore me for weeks and then show up here to testify against my husband.”

Flashing cameras captured my every move, the media swarming the courthouse.

Chloe looked like she had seen a ghost.

“How could you do this to me?” Someone tried to grab my arm, and I jerked out of his reach. “I was your best friend.”

Harold put himself in front of Chloe. “You will not intimidate my wife.”

“Fuck you,” I spat, and he inhaled deeply. “You hypocritical piece of shit. You dare to stand there and judge us.” Angry tears welled up. “Yet you beat your wife into submission. You slander my husband yet plough your fists into a woman that you claim to love!”

“Alexa,” Chloe pleaded. “Stop.”

“No, I will not stop.” I felt intrusive eyes on me, but the Suits in the background were all that mattered. “You lied in a court of law.”

“That’s not true.” She threw her hands up. “Warren killed your sister! Alexa, wake up! He brainwashed you!”

“Liam did not hurt my sister.” My eyes squinted against flashing cameras. “Flamur Bajramovic is responsible for her death. And I’ll make damn sure everyone knows it.”

Her eyes protruded. “Why are you protecting him?”

“Do not lower yourself,” Harold warned, and his obedient little wife quietened. “Alexa Warren.” He came closer, enough to make my neck crane. “Do yourself a favour,” he said in a voice so quiet, I almost missed it. “Walk your trashy arse back to the borough where it belongs.”

My blood boiled.

I slapped him hard, the force leaving a burning sensation on my palm.

His head whooshed to the side. Licking the corner of his lips, he tightened his fists and squared up to me when two hands, different shades, slapped his chest.

Brad fisted the man’s shirt. “Where are you going, sunshine?”

“You did not step up to the boss’s wife,” Nate drawled. “Right?”

Harold gave me an arch look. “You will regret that.”

“It’s you versus them.”

Protective men surround me: the elite, the low-ranks.

My smile broadened. “Let that sink in for a moment.”

“Alexa?” Chloe was on the verge of tears. “Please.”

I felt fragments of my heart disintegrate. “I will never forgive you.”

Jace squeezed my shoulder.

My friend was soul-destroyed.

I mean, what did she expect?

She must have known her actions would hurt me.

“Run away, Chloe.” There was a warning in my tone. “A wise man once told me, monsters come out at night.”

“You would put them on me?” Her lips parted in shock. “Alexa, what has gotten into you? How can you stand there and justify their behaviour?” Her piercing stare stabbed Josh. “They are repulsive.”

Josh was disgruntled. “Still a raging bitch, then?”

“Screw you,” she fired back.

My disgusted glare swept her from head to toe. “You just became my number one enemy.”

When I turned, she shouted, “That’s right. Walk away. It’s what you are good at.”

I stared at the door.

“It’s what you do best, right?” Her shouting accelerated. “Hide from responsibility.”

I faced her. “Get over yourself.”

Her beautiful green eyes rounded.

“Your bitterness is exhausting.” I tucked the clutch purse under my arm. “Is that what this is about? Me, not coming home?” My anger soared. “I was protecting a child!”

She quirked a tight smile. “You stayed away long after Summer’s death.”

“Shut up,” Jace snarled, and she flinched. “Don’t talk about my baby girl. You didn’t fucking know her.”

Chloe disregarded Jace. “You chose to stay away.”

“Yes, I did,” I said, unapologetic. “I put myself first. I will not apologise. Not anymore.”

“Scram.” Nate shoved Harold into the metal railing. “I’ll even give you a head start.”

Harold tidied his rumpled appearance. “This is only the beginning, Mrs Warren.” He led Chloe away to sporadic, flashing lights as cameramen caught the action. “Riptide.”

They dodged cars to get to the café across the street. Not once did they look back. No, they fulfilled their duty for the day. They’ll enjoy coffee in the midst of our devastation.

Vincent peeled an apple with a newly bought pocketknife. “I am going to flay him alive.”

“No.” Brad’s head tipped back as he stared at grey clouds. “I am.”

I re-entered the courthouse.

Carl was still by the benches.

He saw the determination in my eyes. “Shit.” He rubbed his eyes underneath specs. “I better prepare you.”

“That’s not necessary,” I assured him. “Defending my husband is hardly taxing.”

“I am not worried about that.” He scrubbed his jaw. “But the prosecution will not hold back, Mrs Warren.”

“Good.” My voice remained low, though I was anything but even-tempered. “Neither will I.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Alexa

Harold and Chloe hogged the nearest cafe, so everyone ventured further afield to avoid controversy. We uncovered a hidden gem, De Vine, a sandwich bar and restaurant near the Tower of London. The hospital owner welcomed us with open arms. He pulled three square wooden tables together to extend our dining experience and provided complimentary coffee while the uniformed men behind the deli counter prepared fresh salad bowls, toasted paninis and cold pasta dishes.

It had never occurred to me until the hospital visit how often I subconsciously disregarded food. It’s not like I sat there one day and fixated on caloric consumption or how I looked, aesthetically, in the eye of others. I never obtained an unhealthy obsession to be thin or had episodes of binge-eating to regurgitate minutes later.

Sustenance was not a priority.

It’s as simple as that.

I had more important things to worry about.

My marriage.

Inseparable Youths.

Logan’s well-being.

Now, though, three healthy meals per day are the utmost priority.

Eating for two is an old myth. Nonetheless, I increased the quality and quantity of my diet to gain the appropriate amount of weight.

Alas, four mouthfuls of penne arrabbiata felt like an overindulgence. My stomach bloated, leaving no room for additional portions. While the men consumed everything in sight, I settled for ice-cold water and snacked on exotic fruit.

I texted Logan.

Me: Are you okay?

He replied after a few minutes.

Logan: I’m fine.

Logan: Liam?

Me: I’ll give you an update when I get home.

Logan: Okay.

Logan: Btw, I just helped Camilla bake jam tarts.

Logan: You owe me big time.

Me: What’s wrong with Camilla?

Logan: Nothing is wrong with Camilla.

Me: Then, what’s the problem?

Logan: I hate sticky jam.

Me: You are such a drama queen.

Logan: Remind me to hide the next time she visits.

Me: Are you hiding right now?

Logan: Yes.

Me: Why?

Logan: She mentioned apple crumble.

Me: Go to the kitchen and help!

Logan: I can’t. It’s traumatising. I still have flowery gunk in my hair.

Me: See? Drama queen.

Logan: I have to go.

Logan: Duty calls.

He sent a gif of some dude rolling his eyes.

Me: Have fun.

Logan: I’ll catch you later.

Me: I love you.

Logan: Ditto.

Carl waited for us inside the courthouse. He briefed Nate, who listened with rapt interest, then led us inside courtroom one, where people shimmied to fill the benches. At this point during the ongoing trial, I knew what to expect. The jurors would come out in a moment alongside two jury keepers, then the Judge, who silenced everyone with his officious entrance alone. The prosecution and the defence would remain seated until The Clerk awaited the defendant, the last person to join the room. Two correctional officers will escort him. He will be handcuffed yet unhostile. Of course, I studied the dock with hopeful eyes. I yearned for these small moments. It’s the only time I got to see him.

Liam Warren.

My Liam.

Once freed from restraint, he rubbed his sore wrists and became seated in the glass cage. He was ostracised from society, treated like a pariah. Still, he sat there with imperturbable equanimity. He would not give the prosecution the satisfaction of victory. Even if he is sentenced, he will leave the courtroom with his head held high: pride and self-assurance.

Carl called his first witness to the stand.

Nate Alzaim.

Liam was displeased.

We are not allowed to fight the boss’s honour.

We are not allowed to disobey the boss.

We are not allowed to challenge the boss.

Those are the rules.

According to Brad, there are many inflexible rules in which the syndicate agreed upon when swearing fealty to Liam.

Disobedience came at a high price.

Alfie can attest to the graveness of their boss’s tyranny.

Today, for one time only, everyone agreed to infract the rubrics of The Brotherhood. Liam was in no position to command or deliver consequences, which we used to our advantage. It’s not as though he can punish anyone while shackled in Her Majesty’s court.

I sat in compunctious musings.

We overruled Liam, which, for his benefit, was the right thing to do. Still, it felt like a betrayal. His disappointed countenance left a dull ache in my chest, an unspoken apology on my lips. When he turned to me, his sharp, questioning scowl flaying the skin off my very body, I lifted my chin in defiance.

You asked me to rule with you.

You wanted power vested in diarchies.

He blinked under furrowed eyebrows.

Well, here I am, taking charge of your destiny.

His glare honed.

Nate popped open the button of his black suit jacket. With an apologetic glance at the dock, he affirmed to the court and, relaxing in the chair, mentally equipped himself for the prosecution’s brigade of questions.

“Mr Alzaim.” Carl slipped on black-framed glasses. “I want to keep this short and sweet. Please, in your own words, tell the jury how you met Miss Pearce.”

Nate’s shoulders hiked as he drew in a deep breath. “Mr Warren thought there was something fishy about Alexa’s death. He believed Mr Bajramovic held her prisoner in that cottage.” He pointed to the old, dilapidated cottage in the woods previously pinned to the board. “When we got there, we found Blaire underground.”

“What was Miss Pearce’s condition when you found her?”

“Undomesticated.” His eyes cut to the jurors. “She was naked, beaten black and blue. You could see her protuberant ribcage. I don’t think she saw a shower in months. She was unhygienic. Filthy.”

Carl skirted around the wooden table. “What happened next?”

“Mr Warren wrapped her in his suit jacket and carried her to the car.”

“Why didn’t Miss Pearce walk to the vehicle?”

“Fatigue.” He shrugged. “She passed out in his arms.”

“According to Mr Warren, Miss Pearce awakened at Club 11 and answered to the sobriquet ‘Blaire.’”

“Correct.” Nate glowered at the prosecution team. “Mr Warren offered to call Blaire’s next of kin, but she asked to stay. Under different circumstances, he might have driven her somewhere else, but he figured Alexa would want him to help the girl because of their similar background. He let her live in the penthouse temporarily.”

Carl was expressionlessly inscrutable. “To be clear, did Mr Warren impel Miss Pearce to live in his private home?”

“No, Sir. It was a generous offer which she accepted.” Nate sank back in the chair. “Meanwhile, he provided clothes, food and, when she recovered, a job at the club.”

“Did Mr Pearce feel compelled to work at the nightclub?”

His eyebrows snapped together. “No, she enjoyed her job.”

“Why did Mrs Pearce leave the penthouse?”

“I was there on the night in question.” Nate scoured the courtroom with a blank expression. “Mr Warren was inebriated and fell asleep relatively early. Blaire had gone to her room. I stayed in the living room, working on the laptop. I must have fallen asleep. All I remember was waking up to raised voices before Blaire ran down the hallway, screaming and crying. To be honest, it wasn’t the first time she’d freaked out after a nightmare. So, when I jumped up to help, I was going to calm her down and lead her back to the bedroom, when Mr Warren stormed into the living room, red-faced and angry.”

“Why was Mr Warren angry?”

“He wanted her to leave the penthouse.”

“Why did he want her to leave the penthouse?”

“Blaire had snuck into his bedroom and performed oral sex on him while he slept.”

Nate’s testimony chilled me to the core.

“Did Mr Warren call the police?”

“No, he just wanted her gone.”

“Why did you take her to your place, Mr Alzaim?”

“You know, I still felt bad for the girl.” He scratched his jaw with inked, ring-laden fingers. “What she did was wrong, but it was damn obvious captivity had confused her. I think, in her warped mind, she thought pleasing Mr Warren was the right thing to do.”

Carl’s eyes reflected nothing. “Did Miss Pearce move into your apartment willingly?”

“Yes.” His gaze sloped to the floor. “Blaire stayed in the guestroom for a few days. I left her to it. Eventually, she came out and started cooking whilst I was at work.”

“In your statement, you claimed to have developed feelings for Miss Pearce.”

“We started to hang out. I’d come home from work to a clean apartment and tea on the table. She was starting to put on some weight and would sing while cooking and stuff.” He looked so uncomfortable. “I never pursued her, though. I only kissed her when she leaned into me. Everything was her choice. There was no pressure on my end.”

“Would you say the relationship was serious?”

“Yes. The first time we slept together, I felt something intimate. I never so much as looked at another girl while she and I dated. I was happy.” His lips thinned. “Blaire made me happy.”

Carl’s mouth puckered. “Did you love Miss Pearce?”

“Yes.” His jaw steeled. “I would have married her someday.”

“When did the relationship turn sour?”

“The last time I saw Blaire, she told me she loved me.” His throat cleared. “You saw the tape. It was all a lie. She used me to get closer to the boss.”

“Did you force Mrs Pearce to have sex with you?”

“No, Sir.”

“Did you beat her for compliance?”

“Nope.”

“Did Mr Warren sexually assault Mrs Pearce?”

“No, Sir,” he drawled.

“Did Mr Warren physically abuse Mrs Pearce?”

“No.” He looked at the jurors. “Blaire is a compulsive liar. She is not the victim here. She is the assailant.”

“Thank you, Mr Alzaim.” Carl returned to his station behind the wooden table. “No further questions, your honour.”

The Judge looked upon the prosecution. “Mr Wilson, would you like to cross-examine the witness?”

“Yes, your honour.” The barrister soared. “Why should we believe you, Mr Alzaim?”

Nate leaned into the microphone. “I am a man of my word.”

“But you are also heavily involved in the defendant criminal underworld.”

His pierced brow arched. “Am I?”

Mr Wilson’s hands flattened on the table. “You are a contract killer.”

“Really?” His green eyes widened fractionally. “Then, why haven’t you arrested me?”

“You kill people and bury their bodies on behalf of your boss.”

“No, I empty cash registers and change empty beer kegs.”

A knowing smirk tugged the corner of Mr Wilson’s lips. “You are a biased witness.”

Nate blinked twice.

“You defend the perpetrator because he lines your pocket.”

“No, I am defending him because he does not deserve to be on trial.” He tackled conversation masterfully. “Mr Warren is a good man.”

Mr Wilson wore a sarcastic smile. “According to his accomplice.”

“According to over six hundred people.” Carl pushed to his feet. “Your honour, I have character references emailed to me every minute. Here are some I received yesterday.” He held up sheets of paper. “Respected authorities, I, William Henderson, am writing this letter to you to provide a character reference for Mr Liam Warren. He has been my boss for several years. I can tell you that he has been kind, polite and generous. He has never made me feel threatened.” He delved into another letter. “The Honourable Judge, I have known Mr Warren for over ten years. He found me on the streets. I was a drug addict and prostitute. I thought my life was over. He gave me a job when I was at my lowest and saved me from myself.”

Mr Wilson’s lips parted.

“I, Gregory Millan, met Mr Warren when he came to the jewellers and asked for personalised items. I had to decline his order because the family business was lost to overdependence on big customers who sought diamonds elsewhere. I was broke, humiliated. The shop belonged to my great grandfather. Mr Warren asked if I was okay. I am ashamed to admit, I cried. When he left, I locked up and went to bed. I received a cheque the following day to keep the business. He returned three weeks later to collect his order.” He looked up. “Mr Warren never mentioned the donation.”

My cheeks warmed in adoration.

“Your honour, I could go on all day.” Carl thumbed through printed emails. “People praise Mr Warren. People thank Mr Warren. If what the prosecution claimed was correct, that this man is feared by many, why would they vouch for him?”

“Those character references are biased,” Mr Wilson retorted. “He probably paid them.”

“All six-hundred?” Carl tossed the folder down. “Do I need to call upon every sender for further validation?”

“Mr Wilson,” The Judge intervened. “Have you finished cross-examination?”

“Yes, your honour.” The prosecutor glared furiously at Nate. “Have a blessed day.”

Nate’s eyebrows pinned upright as he stepped down from the stand.

“Wilson hates you,” I spoke like a ventriloquist as he eased onto the bench next to me. “Liam will get over it.”

“I ain’t worried about the boss.” Nate’s arm draped over my shoulders in a proprietorial way. “Do we need another recap?”

Here we bloody go. “No, I will be fine.”

“Do not lose your cool.”

“I won’t lose my cool.”

“Do not raise your voice.”

“I won’t raise my voice.”

“Do not act or sound bitter.”

“I will not act or sound bitter.”

“Stop repeating everything I say.”

“I didn’t realise I was repeating everything you say.”

“If anyone can sway those jurors?” He flicked my chin. “It’s you.”

“Your honour, I would like to call my next witness.”

My stomach dropped.

Carl rounded the wooden table. “Mrs Alexa Warren.”

I rose to my feet.

Rather than walk past the dock, I strolled down the middle of the benches to avoid Liam. Hell, I felt his furiousness from across the room. He demanded no one’s involvement. I was supposed to stay quiet. Yet, here I am, not listening to instruction.

The Clerk adjusted the podium’s microphone for me. “Do you wish to affirm?”

“Oath.” I stood with a hand on the bible. “I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give to the court, in this case, shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

“Be seated,” The Clerk said. “State your full name and address.”

“Alexa Warren.” Holding the back of the pencil skirt down, I became seated. “Bishop Avenue, North London.”

Carl strolled. “Why did you ask to be called upon, Mrs Warren?”

“I am not dead. I am very much alive and can speak for myself” I stared at the prosecution team. “This is my story. Not theirs.”

His back rested against the table. “How did you meet Mr Warren?”

“I stalked him,” I said with a half-smile. “He was my sister’s former boss and lover. He visited a local coffee shop on Fridays. I would watch him from afar, trying to build up the courage to speak to him.”

“Why did you want to speak to him?”

“My sister was missing. His name was the only lead I had.”

“What happened the first time you spoke?”

My fingers laced together. “I spilt coffee over his shirt.”

“Did this aggravate, Mr Warren?”

“Yes,” I answered honestly. “I scolded the poor sod.”

“Then, what happened?”

“I asked him for a job, and then I blacked out.”

“You blacked out?” He regarded the jurors. “Can you extend on that, Mrs Warren?”

“As the prosecution pointed out, I was prescribed medication for depression and anxiety. I refused to take them, which resulted in embarrassing episodes of panic attacks. I would literally drop where I stood.” I would revisit the past. “When I woke up, Liam was kneeling in front of me, asking if I was okay. I assured him I was fine and asked him for a job.”

“Why did you ask him for a job?”

“So that I could search the club for any traces of my sister.”

“Why not ask Mr Warren about your sister instead?”

Honesty is the best policy. “I was scared.”

“Why were you scared?”

I feared he might kill me. “I was scared of men in general.”

His arms folded. “Why?”

“Because of my past.” My stare visited the jurors. “I was molested from a very young age. I trusted no one, especially men.”

Carl revisited notes. “Did Mr Warren hire you?”

“No, it took some convincing and a lot of hounding.” Flashbacks of our initial encounters crossed my mind. “He told me to go to college.”

“What changed Mr Warren’s mind?”

“I think I got on his nerves.” No, he was intoxicated by lust. He was weak for me in the interview, but I was too unconfident to notice. “In the end, he offered me a job to shut me up.”

“What did the job role entail?”

Pouring pints alongside the head barman, Josh. “I was a barmaid.”

“Did you notice any illegal activity whilst working at Club 11?”

I feigned confusion. “No.”

“Did the stripers sleep with clients?”

“No.” My brows slowly climbed. “Not to my knowledge.”

Carl moved onto another folder. Mrs Warren, was Mr Warren aware of your past?”

Liam had no idea. “No.”

“Even though it’s a famous case?” Carl peered up from the notes. “It’s public knowledge.”

“Not anymore,” I said whispery. “Someone erased my records at the National Archives.”

Mr Wilson gave Detective David Michaels an inquisitive look.

Carl acknowledged this with a slight nod. “Who?”

“Mr Bajramovic is close friends with officials.” Honestly, I had no explanation. “I think he is responsible for the missing data.”

“Hypothetically speaking?”

It’s the only hypothesis that made sense. “Yes.”

“We will come back to Mr Bajramovic.” He moved on. “So, we have determined, Mr Warren was unaware of your past. Was he aware of your anxieties?”

I had to answer carefully. “He witnessed panic attacks from time to time.”

“Did he pry on your vulnerable state of mind?”

“No.” My smile was genuine. “He was strictly professional.”

Carl’s voice lowered. “How did you start dating?”

“I wanted to be like a normal girl who never freaked out every time a guy stood too close or tried to start a conversation.” The room seemed to fade. “Liam was the first male to make me feel safe. I was attracted to him. I liked how good he made me feel about myself.”

If only you could see yourself through my eyes.

“He told me it was okay to be sad but never to give up.”

It’s okay to hurt sometimes. It’s okay not to be okay, but you don’t look for a way out. You fight back every fucking time.

“Liam became my friend.” I guess, in some sense, we did become friends. He was there for me in the face of adversity, devotedly and constantly. “We grew close. It happens.” He called me beautiful when I doubted myself, and I believed him. “We fell in love.”

Carl lingered by the stand. “But was it under duress?”

“No, it was not under duress.” It was completely consensual. “It was an unexpected love that paired our souls.”

I stared at the dock.

Liam watched me watching him.

I smiled.

He smiled back.

“Mrs Stone claimed he forced you to move in with him.”

“My sister tried to kill me. I was traumatised. I loved her very much—I still love her.” My gaze returned to the defence barrister. “Kathy was not the first person to attack me. I was followed by vehicles regularly and chased by unidentifiable men. The same men would stand outside the apartment building and stare at my windows. I was basically on borrowed time. My home was unsafe. Liam offered to protect us, Chloe and me. He never forced us to move in with him. He provided safety measures.”

“Would you be able to identify these alleged attackers?”

“If I saw pictures? Probably. It’s no coincidence. They are Albanian. They work for Mr Bajramovic.”

“Why would they follow you, Mrs Warren?”

“Kathy told me that Mr Bajramovic wanted to bring me home.”

Carl scowled. “Home?”

“The Bajramovic compound. My sister believed he was in love with me.”

“Why involve Mr Warren? He stroked his chin. “Why not call the police?”

“I did call the police after someone chased me in the street with a knife,” I said, and the jurors jotted down notes. “Not one officer visited for a statement. I stayed home all day, waiting for the authorities. By nightfall, Kathy returned. In less than twenty-four hours, I almost lost my life twice. The police let me down, Mr Bishop.”

He paused. “So, willingly, you and Mrs Stone moved into Mr Warren’s penthouse the same night.”

I spoke into the microphone, “Yes.”

“Why did you relocate to Notting Hill?”

“Like most relationships, ours came to an end. I left the penthouse after a few months, moved into a new apartment and landed a job at the Coffee House. I mean, I couldn’t exactly work at the club anymore. It would be too painful.”

He paced again. “Why would it be painful?”

I looked at Liam. “I fell in love with him.”

“When did you rekindle?”

My lips widened. “When the stubborn man realised, he loved me, too.”

“On Mr Warren’s thirtieth birthday, you left Club 11 to pack a bag,” Carl said, after a long pause. “You were to spend the weekend at your boyfriend’s penthouse. What happened?”

Here is where lies spiralled. “I was taken by an Albanian male.”

“You never reached the apartment building?”

“No. I later learned someone set fire to the building, and the metropolitan announced my death.”

“So, nobody knew you were missing.” His footsteps creaked along the floorboards. “Not even Mr Warren?”

“Everyone thought I was dead.”

“Did Mr Williams work for Mr Bajramovic? Mrs Stone believes he helped abduct you.”

“I woke up at the Bajramovic compound,” I lied. “Jace was asleep on the floor.”

“Mr Williams was not an accomplice?”

“No, Jace was taken, too, alongside his daughter, Summer Williams.”

Carl’s unblinking glare told me to cooperate. “How did you escape?”

“One of the guards left the door open. When everyone fell asleep upstairs, we crept out of the room to look for his daughter.”

He looked up sharply. “Did you find her?”

Summer was already dead when I found her in the basement. “Yes.”

“Where was she?”

“She was in the same basement.” Tears developed, and I blinked them away. “It’s where Mr Bajramovic stored me as a child. Only, I lived to tell my story. Summer died. Jace was heartbroken.”

“Summer.” Pulling her small, lifeless body into his arms, he kissed her bruised cheek. “Baby girl?” he sobbed, his gut-wrenching screams echoing in the darkest valley of my mind. “Wake up.”

I swallowed, forcing the swollen knot down my throat. “Jace carried his baby girl outside and just collapsed with her in his arms. His pained sobs haunt me.” I swiftly wiped the single tear from my cheek. “We called the police. When the Albanians heard the sirens, they set fire to the building and fled from the crime scene. By the time the police arrived, I had left. I don’t know what possessed me to stay dead, but that’s exactly what I did. I just wanted to be alone to think.”

“It’s okay, Mrs Warren.” Carl’s hand touched mine. “Take a moment.”

Grateful, I inhaled, exhaled, then composed myself. “I can continue.”

He edged carefully by the stand. “When was the last time you saw Mr Bajramovic?”

“It was at a charity dinner I attended with Liam.” At least, I think that’s the last time I saw him. “He was there with his wife, Zamira.”

“In your record, you stated that you could not remember the man responsible for your abduction when later questioned by a detective working on your case.”

“It’s true. I remembered how he smelt and what boots he wore, but everything else was a blur. Even at the gala, I talked to him before I realised it was him. He called me Lexi as a child. Those were his parting words to me before he exited the venue with his wife.”

“This confirmed his identity.”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Did Mr Warren kill Mr and Mrs Bajramovic to avenge you?”

“I never told Liam. He had no concept of who took us, my sister and me.”

“Why did you withhold such vital information from the man you dated?”

I considered the question. “Liam never looked at me like I was a meek victim. He looked at me like I was the most powerful woman to walk the streets of London. Of course, that was far from the truth.” I laughed once. “But with him, I could be anyone I wanted to be. I could be a strong, empowered survivor who never feared her shadows.” Everyone listened intently. “With him, the past was a mere figment of my imagination, and the present was living in the moment.”

He granted the jurors a few minutes to write details into their leather-bound notepads. “Do you believe Mr Bajramovic is dead?”

“No, I think he is hiding with Patrick Haines. I was arrested for seemingly faking my death.” My throat was dry. “They knew I’d talk.”

“According to Mrs Stone, Mr Warren killed your sister.”

“Kathy left me for dead.” My sister’s wide, teary eyes flashed in mind as she collapsed on the bedroom floor. “She went back to him.”

Carl gestured for me to continue. “She went back to who?”

My tongue pushed into my cheek. “Mr Bajramovic.”

He blinked at my speedy responses. “How can you be so sure?”

“Kathy was in love with him.”

“Did she tell you this?”

“Yes.” My chest felt tight. “And I read it in her journal.”

“When did you find out she was dead.”

“Just recently.” I smiled sadly. “When the prosecution exhibited images of her corpse.”

Carl’s stare softened. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Warren.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

After a short pause, he proceeded with questions. “So, you never visited her graveside?”

“No.” My voice was a strained murmur. “I believed Kathy would come back to me someday. I never gave up hope.”

“You honour.” Mr Wilson lunged to his feet. “An item of jewellery that belonged to Mrs Warren was found at Kathy Haines’ graveside.”

Carl stood at one end of the room with a concerned expression. “What item of jewellery?”

“This!” Mr Wilson brandished a vintage-looking bracelet. “Mrs Stone confirmed that it belonged to the witness.”

I studied the plastic bag in his waving hand. “That bracelet belonged to my mother.”

“Really?” He oozed mean-spirited snark. “How did it land on your sister’s grave, Mrs Warren?”

“Probably the same way photographs of me, as a child, pleasuring an older man, landed on my doorstep,” I replied, a touch bitter. “Mr Bajramovic is certifiable. Our fear enthralled him. He likely put it there. After he buried her, of course.”

His moustache bristled. “Mr Bajramovic is not here to confirm that.”

“Counsellor,” the Judge warned. “Return to your seat.”

Mr Wilson slumped onto the chair.

“Mr Bishop.” The Judge turned in the seat. “Have you finished questioning the witness?”

I became the cynosure of all eyes.

“Yes, your honour.” Carl took a tiny step closer. “Thank you, Mrs Warren. Remain seated.”

Mr Wilson was eager to cross-examine. “Mrs Warren, you are the defendant’s wife. How can we, the prosecution, trust anything you have to say?”

“Well, you trusted Miss Pearce, who the defence proved to be a liar. You trusted Mrs Bennet, who provided second-hand hearsay rather than hard facts.”

“And Mrs Stone?” He pushed and probed. “What are your thoughts regarding her witness statement?”

“Counsellor, Chloe is on antidepressants. I saw her swallowing pills with my own eyes. It’s funny, really. You were quick to throw my medical records at the jury. But you never told them your key witness had a track record for clinical depression. You wish to know my thoughts regarding Chloe’s statement,” I added. “Well, first and foremost, I am utterly gobsmacked. I feel upset, disappointed. I want to understand why she’d stand before a judge and lie. Secondly, I am concerned. My friend is unwell. I worry about her well-being. After all, she is in a loveless marriage with a bully of a man. Did you know, the last time I visited the Stone property, Harold threatened me. For no apparent reason, I might add. I had never even met him before, yet he had an opinion of me. He said I was vermin. He said I was to stay away from his wife. I soon learned that he was a manipulative, controlling, aggressive psychopath who beat his wife. How odd, right? Chloe sat here and accused the man I love of being an abusive husband when, in reality, she is the abused wife.”

“Mrs Stone is not here to corroborate.” Mr Wilson flustered with multiple folders. “Moreover, she did not, at any point, claim to be in a domestic partnership.”

“Right? Neither did I. Yet, here I am, justifying my marriage because you led the jurors to believe I was procured by Liam Warren while under duress which is a complete and utter fabrication of the truth. If anything, Counsellor, I was a nuisance to Mr Warren. He knew I was younger. He knew I had baggage. He knew dating someone like me was an unpreventable disaster. But I persisted until I got my own way. So, who is at fault here? The man who tried to do the right thing. Or the spoiled girl who could not take no for an answer?”

His forehead creased with deep cut furrows. “You paint yourself in an awfully negative light, Mrs Warren.”

“Honesty is the best policy.” I looked at my husband, who stared pensively. “Loving me is his only crime.”

The barrister flicked through pages. “Did the defendant kill your sister?”

“Your honour,” Carl said in a bored tone. “Mrs Warren already answered the question during evidence-in-chief.”

The Judge’s head tilted. “Counsellor.”

“Right.” He loosened his white collar. “Mrs Warren, the witness, Mrs Stone, told the court, Mr Warren forced you to live in his penthouse.”

“Your honour.” Carl rose to his full height. “Need I remind the prosecution that Mrs Warren already answered the question during evidence-in-chief.”

“Mr Wilson.” The grey-haired Judge grew impatient. “Do you have anything unasked for the witness?”

“Yes.” He coughed into a fist. “Mrs Warren, did the defendant force you to…?” At a loss for words, he flipped through pages. “What I mean is did the defendant kill Mr Bajramovic in the act of vengefulness?”

Carl has yet to sit back down. “Your honour, the prosecution is still repeating previously answered questions.”

The pale-faced barrister looked lost.

Well, confusing the man was the game plan.

If Carl asked the hard questions before the prosecution, I evaded an intense interrogation. I was fuming from the inside, but in front of the jury panel, I seemed unruffled, respectful, polite and, in some vantage points, sympathetic.

“Mr Wilson,” The Judge cautioned. “Have you finished cross-examining the witness?”

His mouth stuttered.

I sat in an elegant, sangfroid manner, the walls around me impenetrable.

They said the eyes are windows to your soul, and, in that quiet moment, he saw right through me.

I was capable of deceit.

I would do everything within my power to protect the man I love, even if it meant lying under oath.

“No,” he whispered, falling onto the chair in defeat. “That will be all, your honour.”

“Thank you, Mrs Warren.” The Judge banged the gavel. “Hearing adjourned for tomorrow morning.”

Liam was escorted out of the dock before we had the chance to whisper goodbyes.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

Alexa

Matthew stood by the Manor’s roman style entrance with a beribboned gift basket. He watched the Mercedes roll down the extensive driveway, the array of black Bentley vehicles line up around the ancient fountain, and he shifted anxiously on his leather-clad feet.

Mutely, Jax gestured for him to step back for the men to enter the property without obstruction. Each man from the syndicate scrutinised the unexpected visitor from head to toe as they ploughed through the front door.

Brad was the last man to climb the steps. He paused, had a brief conversation with Jax—whose eyes lingered on an approaching Alfie—and then his attention turned to Matthew.

Poor Matt looked sickly pale under Blond Suits brusque interrogation. He moved aside, albeit skittish, and raised the wicker basket to say, ‘I come in peace,’ which Brad took as an invitation. He helped himself to the vodka bottle, tapped the man’s shoulder a little bit harder than necessary and joined the others inside.

Only Jax and Alfie lingered for me to rise from the car. Rather than join everyone indoors, I flashed the headlights, killed the engine and reclined in the heated leather seat.

Matthew held the basket to his chest, his eyes on the stars above as his leather shoes scuffed along the tarmacadam. He opened the passenger side door, juggling the adorned gifts, and his body heavily eased into the seat.

“Hey.” I squeezed his shoulder. “You can breathe now.”

“Shit,” he said, his breath whooshing out. “Those men are so intense. Is he always so inhospitable and unwelcoming?”

I feigned cluelessness. “Who?”

His fingers grappled the plastic-covered hamper. “Brad Jones.”

“What did he say to you?”

A red blush tinted his cheeks. “To keep my hands in my pockets.”

I laughed lightly.

“What?” His voice was low and gruff. “How did I manage to offend him in less than fifteen seconds?”

I daren’t tell Matthew that Brad is probably snooping from the office window right now. He must think my old boss is here to offer more than departing presents. “Brad’s harmless.”

Matthew chuckled disbelievingly. “No, he’s not.”

I never had the energy to disagree. “So, what’s with the basket?”

“Oh.” He pinched the satin ribbon. “Everyone clubbed together to buy leaving gifts for our favourite colleague. Trudy wrapped.” The basket landed on my lap. “Jesminder baked cookies. I bought vodka, but your friend swiped it.”

My smile stretched. “Thank you, Matthew.”

His eyes revisited the Manor. “How’s Logan?”

“Happy,” I said, and he nodded as if already aware. “I love him.”

“Evident.” His arms crossed. “Will he come back?”

I understood the question. “No, I don’t think he will go to the centre anymore. At least, not unless I am there.”

“It’s a real shame, Alexa.” His stare toured the side of my face. “You will be missed.”

I felt over-emotional.

“Are you sure I cannot convince you to stay?”

“No,” I said, short and resolute. “I have to get my priorities in check.”

“Your service to the youth centre is invaluable, though.”

I overstayed my welcome at Inseparable Youths. Now, I had to move on to bigger and better things. “Maybe I’ll see you in the future.”

His lips flattened.

With a heavy sigh, I opened the car door and stepped out of the vehicle. When I turned, basket in arms, I found his sad gaze across the hood of the car. “I am replaceable.”

“No.” He walked away. “You are irreplaceable.”

I watched him climb into the parked Honda. Headlights beamed across the Manor’s manicured lawn as he eased onto the accelerator. He braked for the guards to grant exit by the wrought iron gates, then steered onto the main road.

Of course, when I entered the property, Brad was standing by the foyer’s marble sideboard. “What did he want?”

I stepped out of my heeled shoes. “To say goodbye.”

He grunted. “I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like anyone.” Leaving the hamper on the stairs, I strolled to the kitchen, where the men gathered to enjoy baked goods, courtesy of Camilla’s fine culinary skills. “Has anyone seen Logan?”

Nate’s at the stove, frying rib-eye steak. “He’s in the pool.”

Swinging open the fridge door, I reached for the orange juice carton. Pouring a generous amount into a tall glass, I sipped thirstily, listening to the men arrange plans for the rest of the evening. Some will return to Club 11, while the others agreed to meet for late-night drinks at a local casino. Josh was not amongst the crowd. Instead of asking questions, I pulled out my phone and sent him a text message.

Me: Where are you?

Message delivered.

Nate placed plated steak and steamed greens in front of me, then cutlery. Thanking him under my breath, I tucked in, taking my time between mouthfuls. I knew the men would be unsatisfied if I never cleared the plate, so I persisted, alternating between tenderised meat and garlic-infused runner beans.

One by one, the men left the kitchen until I was alone with an empty plate. I loaded the dishwasher, wiped my hands in a tea towel and hunted the halls to find Tony. He was in the guest bedroom with Camilla. From the other side of the door, I heard their low voices and occasional spurts of laughter. I almost knocked, hesitated, and decided to leave them to it.

Logan’s body sliced through the water. He swam lengths for what felt like hours while I sat crossed-legged on the edge of the poolside. His head breached the surface on a deep inhale. Rubbing water dews from his eyes, he waded toward me, a look of concern on his face. “You good?”

I nodded.

Grabbing the towel from my outstretched hand, he dried his face. “Liam?”

Liam is a million miles away. “I’ll know more tomorrow.”

His chest inflated as he panted for breath. “It sucks, right?”

I saw two-night guards walk past the panoramic windows.

Logan pulled himself out of the swimming pool. “I might hit the gym for a few hours.”

“Nate’s down there,” I told him. “Don’t go to bed too late.”

Draping the towel over his shoulders, he dropped a kiss on the top of my head. “Likewise.”

“Was that a polite way of saying I look like shit?”

“No.” His lip twitched at the corner. “Just tired.”

Yes, I was exhausted. “Goodnight, Logan.”

He headed to the indoor gym, leaving wet footprints in his wake.

I studied the calm waters.

Unbuttoning the blouse, the pencil skirt, I let the material gather on the side and stepped into the pool in nothing but lace underwear. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I closed my eyes and ducked my head beneath the surface.

Silence.

I basked in sheer silence.

I met his stare face-on for the first time and held my breath. His ice-blue eyes were penetrating. He is insanely gorgeous. Not that I wasn’t already aware. I have gawked long enough to discern his handsomeness but standing close to him intensified his powerful image. He’s fascinating yet intimidating. He embodied perfect and unfaltering masculinity. “Do I know you?” His brows met in a dark scowl as he stepped closer. I was feeble and small as I gazed up at his towering presence. “I feel like I have seen you before.”

My feet touched the tiled floor.

His palms toured my waistline. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“Who?” My fingers curled around his wrists, stopping his hands from hiking further. “You mean the guy on the dance floor?

He gave me a devilish smirk. “Yes.”

“No.” My nose wrinkled. “I don’t do ‘boyfriends’.”

His mouth moved dangerously close to my ear. “What do you do?”

Tears pricked the back of my eyes.

“Kneel,” he ordered, and I nearly lowered to the ground. “No, Miss Haines. Stand between my legs and kneel.” I did as he instructed. “Slowly. Eyes on the client.” Our eyes locked as I went to my knees. “Good. You want him to be lost in you. You are in control.” His fingers weaved through mine. He coaxed me to crawl across his relaxed body. “Men are susceptible to confident women.” My spine dipped as I reached for the back of his chair. “Good girl.”

I covered my ears.

“Come here.” His arm slid around my lower body. I stopped breathing. “Breathe.” His whispered tone warmed my cheek. “I might kiss you.”

My breath caught. “Why?”

“Why?” He suppressed amusement. “What, you require a scientific explanation as to why kissing is instinctual?”

I have never willingly kissed a guy before. I am inexperienced. “I am sure there are much better females down the hall.”

“Yet,” he whispered against my lips, “I am here with you. And you, Miss Haines, look far too tempting to overlook.”

I yearned to feel his hands on me.

His finger tilted my chin, encouraging me to maintain eye contact. Locked in each other’s intense gaze, we turned to the fading sound of the vocalist’s light baritone voice. Everything in the background sailed, the twirling couples, the instrumentalists and attentive servers.

I only saw him.

“There are a lot of women here tonight.” His chin rested atop my head. “Yet my eyes found you.” Our eyes aligned. “You’re beautiful.”

I waded through flashbacks.

“For what it’s worth,” he rasped into my mouth. “I thought about you, too.”

My eyelashes fluttered open. “I cannot handle another heartbreak.”

His thumb brushed across my cheek. “Do you want to know a secret?”

Nodding, I smiled. “Yes.”

He stared deep into my eyes. “Nothing scares me more than you.”

When I touched his chest, I felt his heart palpitate. “You fear nothing.”

His lips almost touched mine. “I fear losing you.”

Love was not enough to keep us together.

His head fell to my shoulder, his warm breath to my ear. “Feel it.” He placed my fingers over his chest. “That is how much I care.” His thudding heart rapt against my palm. “That is how much I love you.”

My breath hitched. “It’s not love.”

His lips, soft to my cheek, whispered, “It’s love, baby. It scares me. But it is real. I feel it when you look at me,” he said quietly. “I am irrevocably in love with you.”

Light-headedness eased the pain in my chest.

My heart almost burst out of my chest. “Liam?”

“You, being here with me, in our bed. It felt right.” He lifted our joint hands to his lips to trace a kiss to my knuckles. “Alexa, I am everything you shouldn’t want. I’m an asshole. I’m as corrupt as they come, and there is no doubt in my mind that I don’t deserve a woman like you,” he said huskily, and I stared at him with bated breath. “But there is no man alive that’ll love you the way I do. Baby, will you make me the happiest man alive by becoming my wife?”

I blew bubbles from my nose.

His hands slid around my neck as he angled my head. I tasted his lips, soft and tender. “Liam, I love you.”

“You have no idea, Alexa.” Our mouths touched, firm and strong with a lifetime of promises. I struggled to disconnect. “Baby,” he whispered, his forehead resting on mine. “Open your eyes.”

My eyelashes fluttered open to find deep-set blues staring back at me. “I’m Alexa Warren.”

“No.” The pad of his thumb traced my lips. “You’re my wife.”

Hands covering my ears, I screamed under the water.

Yet, I heard nothing except the blood whistling in my ears, the loud thump of my heartbeat as my lungs galloped for oxygen. A spasmodic breath dragged water into my throat. Pushing off my feet, I kicked to the surface and, head whipping back on a loud gasp, I choked back sobs, tears of misery. Palms slapping the poolside, I dragged myself across the floor and collapsed in a heap.

The silence was no more.

My raw, throaty sobs ruined tranquillity. Rolling onto my back, I racked and hiccupped, the pain in my chest returning tenfold. Water droplets dried into goosebumps on my cold skin, the air in the room too frigid to endure. I wiped the moisture from my eyes, yanked on the blouse haphazardly and stumbled to my feet. If there were guards, I never saw them. I collected the hamper basket on the stairs, rushed to the master bedroom and locked the door behind me.

I needed to be alone.

Drawing the curtains, I tossed the soaked blouse into the laundry basket and selected one of Liam’s oversized T-shirts from the walk-in wardrobe. The material buried my frame and smelt like clean laundry. Snivelling, I uncapped the gilded bottle of Clive Christian and sprayed myself in cologne. Lifting the hem of the T-shirt to my nose, I inhaled his masculine scent until the ridiculous act soothed my erratic heartbeat. When I opened my eyes, I stared at the diabolic mess in the mirror. Mascara streaked her cheeks, and foundation blotched her complexion. Her straightened hair was slowly turning into wet curls, where droplets saturated the front of her shirt.

My stare lowered to the ground.

No, Alexa. You must be strong for everyone. If you fall, what happens to the others? To Logan? To Liam? Brad?

Ripping open a packet of facial wipes, I scrubbed my face, removing every spec of makeup and then teetered to the bedroom. I climbed onto the king-sized bed, sat in the middle of the adorned duvet, the ridiculous amount of display cushions, and unwrapped the hamper. I had scented candles, bath oils and bath bombs, an assortment of many-flavoured hot chocolate sachets, face masks and strawberry laces. It was a thoughtful gift from Inseparable Youths’ team members.

Popping open the chocolate box, I selected a truffle while simultaneously slapping a cherry-blossom face mask on.

If I weren’t pregnant, I’d hunt down Brad to reclaim the vodka.

Alcohol would certainly appease.

Sugar did the trick, though. I chewed through strings of red liquorice and chocolate confectionery until the ganache quenched cravings.

Everyone signed the leaving book. I had lovely, thoughtful messages from the catering staff, Tricia and Dave, an entire verse from Andrew. Even Susanne signed the book. It was short but pleasant. Matthew’s was the longest. Each line included subtle hints for me to change my mind.

One message rendered me speechless.

Thank you for taking care of my boy.

Tammy Ashworth.

Closing the book, I tucked it in the bedside table’s drawer and sprawled across the satin comforter. His side was cold under my palm. This was the worst part of my day, coming to bed alone, knowing he would not be here in the morning.

Every time I closed my eyes, I prayed he would visit in my dreams.

I am still waiting for that moment to happen.

***

Courtroom one was eerily quiet while the Queen’s counsel prepared for closing speech. Robed, bewigged barristers sat before the Judge in methodical precision. Detective David Michaels was last to enter the room. He was late and sweating from a hasty commute, and when he stumbled behind the prosecution table, clipping his knee on the wooden bench in the process, I glared without so much as a blink. I was going to kill this man, so help me, God. I will excoriate and rind the flesh from his chest, extract his thumping heart with my fingers and crush his life source unmercifully for his participation in the Warren case.

David is first on my list.

Blaire is second.

Instead of falling asleep last night, I turned on the lamp, tore blank pages out of the message book gifted from the youth centre and penned names until sunrise.

Brad knocked on the bedroom door at six o’clock in the morning. He made coffee for himself and sweet tea for the grumpy mare scribbling frantically on the pages. He never asked any questions. He simply extracted the paper from my rigid hands, uncapped a pen with his teeth and added names.

Juror number eight.

Keith Chapman was corpulent, grey-haired, bespectacled and miserable. He wore a creased shirt beneath the brown cord two-piece suit and a skewed tie around his thick neck.

According to Brad, Keith, not once throughout the trial, jotted down notes. He never so much as lifted the leather-bound notepad. He only twirled the capped pen in his fingers while assessing the defendant.

Mr Chapman will give a guilty verdict.

Brad made a note of juror number three, too.

She is a middle-aged woman with a tight upper lip. Soft brown bangs framed her pale face and her eyes sliced behind red-framed spectacles. I mean, she looked like a sour-puss, but I don’t know what she did to get on Brad’s bad side. It’s not as though she is inactive like juror eight—or pre-judged the defendant, is what Brad mentioned. She wrote everything down and hearkened to the prosecution and the defence.

Well, I am not the most astute member of the syndicate. I read people incorrectly, trusted them at face value, and often learned the hard way.

I had faith in Brad’s perspicacious mind. Juror number three—alongside everyone else that found my husband guilty—will pay with their life. Honestly, I am counting down the hours until the time occurs. I have never craved blood on my hands at this level of ferocity before.

I will strike back.

Revenge will override fairness.

Compensation will effectuate.

Victims will be severely punished.

Is it unfair? Yes, killing people might be undeserved, but in the eyes of The Brotherhood, their death was justifiable. It’s all the men could do to avenge their boss, to seek closure in tragedy. It’s all I could do to take vengeance for my husband. Hell, they should count themselves lucky. If it were left to Liam to carry out the punishment, it would be far more painful, gruesomely horrific. He’d wear their blood like a second skin to exact satisfaction for wronging his wife. He’d sever their flesh, torture them to near-death, then stitch their wounds, whisper taunting words in their ears, bring them back to life and repeat the process all over again.

I smiled to myself.

He really is a sadistic asshole.

Yet, I loved him with every fibre of my being.

“Counsellor.” The prosecution was in the Judge’s line of vision. “Are you ready?”

Mr Wilson rose from the chair. “Yes, your honour.”

Twelve jury members sat taller as the barrister approached.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have heard all the evidence in a case of such horrifically violent crimes, with such nightmarish grotesqueries that even I struggled to deliver on behalf of the prosecution service. The defendant, Mr Warren, pleaded guilty to two crimes: the possession of an illegal firearm and the murder of forty-one-year-old Kreshnik Bektashi. That man,” he pointed to the dock, where Liam sat expressionlessly, “shot the victim six times before authorities arrived at the crime scene. Mr Warren has not, however, pleaded guilty for any other crimes presented by the prosecution.”

Carl tapped into the man’s speech, but his stare remained on the table.

“Three witnesses affirmed for the Judge. Miss Jessica Pearce, terrified of the defendant, had to give evidence from the live link room. She told us a chilling story of how the defendant confined her to his penthouse, where he physically and sexually abused her repeatedly until bored. She told us how the defendant forced her to perform illegal activities such as aggravated burglary using weapons of offence and firearms, taking vehicles and other conveyances without authority, which effectuated the Safety Deposit Limited Heist and resulted in mass murder. She told us how she witnessed prostitution inside Club 11 with her very own eyes and how the defendant profited from working girls and their earnings.”

Brad reached for my hand to stop nervous jitters.

“Mrs Bennet explained in great detail the impact the defendant’s callousness had on her daughter’s mental state,” Mr Wilson continued. “Hellen was in love with the defendant, but even she doubted his moralities. In actuality, both women questioned his motives the night masked men bombarded City Hall. They believed the defendant orchestrated the attack. They believed he was responsible for Mr Larry Fagan’s abduction on the night in question. In her statement,” he flipped open a folder, “Miss Pearce claimed that Mr Warren planned the attack to kill our former Mayor of London to exact retribution for Alexa Haines—now formally known as Mrs Warren. Miss Pearce was overly confident when explaining how the defendant murdered Mr and Mrs Bajramovic to right-the-wrongs of Alexa’s past in captivity.”

The courtroom door creaked open, and I espied Nikolai Vasiliev. Today, he was unaccompanied. He wore a pristine suit and tie and sat at the back of the room. He must have sensed my watchfulness because he looked at me, dark and piercing. His grey eyes bore into mine, sending a goosebump-inducing shiver through my body.

“Mrs Stone provided the exact location of Kathy Haines’ body,” Mr Wilson said, and I broke eye contact with Vasiliev to listen to the rest of the man’s speech. “Mrs Stone knew how Kathy died and who fired the bullet.” He glanced at the dock. “Mr Warren is responsible for her death. In his eyes, he was protecting the victim’s younger sister. However, in the eyes of the law, he took it upon himself to carry out yet another unspeakable crime. He is not God. He is not the Lord of Justice. He is a renowned criminal who ran out of lifelines.”

Liam’s cheek muscles throbbed.

“The defence has alleged that Mr Warren is incapable of such crimes. His trusted allies lied in the court of law to protect him and, even now, they pose a threat to every person who stands against him.”

“Counsellor,” the Judge warned.

Mr Wilson apologised to the Judge, and then, staring longingly at the jurors, he breathed out a long, tired sigh. “For the sake of the victims, let justice be served.” His head dipped. “Thank you, your honour.”

Throughout the trial, Carl was sensible, reasonable and straightforward. He walked with an air of calmness and connectedness and spoke with such eloquence. “Jurors,” he said with a friendly smile. “On the day of arrest—which, I must add, was an unlawful restraint of Mr Warren’s personal liberty because there was no probable cause or reasonable basis for officers to confine him—he was found in possession of an illegal firearm. It was a custom-designed Desert Eagle. For that crime alone, Mr Warren will face a maximum of ten years in Her Majesty’s prison.”

My stomach sank.

“However, when Mr Warren pleaded guilty to the murder of Kreshnik Bektashi, he was under oppressive interrogation. Initially, he denied the murder. But Detective David Michaels violated civil rights, exercised extreme police misconduct, and abused his power until the suspect admitted to a crime he did not commit. I should know. I was present. In fact, I asked the detective for multiple breaks to talk to my client, and, not conforming to the law, he disregarded the suspect’s legal advice. I want to point out the metropolitan police department should have removed David from the case as it was a conflict of interest. His judgment was compromised. He disliked the suspect and jumped to conclusions. He had an ulterior motive.”

I released Brad’s hand to cup my mouth.

“Detective David Michaels had an affair with co-worker Miss Taylor Johnson who is missing. Once upon a time, the same woman had a sexual relationship with the suspect. Therefore, the suspect must be responsible for her disappearance. Therefore,” he added sarcastically, “the suspect must be brought to justice. You understand the endlessness of police misconduct here.”

David’s face was beet-red.

“With the exception of firearm possession, Mr Warren is not guilty. How can I be so sure?” He rocked back on the heels of his shoes. “Well, glossing over the lack of tangible and documentative evidence, we are left with three unreliable witnesses who provided second-hand hearsay and inadmissible opinions. Miss Pearce lied. She was not held against her will. She was not starved, beaten and raped. Mr Warren moved her into his home at her request. He gave her a job and a steady income. He even invited her to his wedding ceremony. In the video evidence provided by Mr Alzaim, you saw Miss Pearce belittle her lover, handcuff the suspect to a leather chair, steal money and other miscellaneous items from his desk and then confess her undying love. If the woman was so terrified of the suspect, why did she all but beg him to cheat on his wife?”

The jurors digested every word.

“Hellen died in a tragic fire. The man responsible for the arson attack serves time in prison. Yet, Mrs Bennet told us because her daughter was irrationally in love with the suspect, he is the man blameworthy for her death.” He faced the spokesperson. “I have read Mrs Stone’s witness statement. She handed in the Colt; the weapon used to murder Kreshnik Bektashi.”

I shared a confused look with Brad.

“Where did she get the gun? Did the suspect give it to her? Did the suspect’s wife? How did she come into possession of a weapon that seemingly belonged to the Warrens? How can we be sure the firearm in question even belonged to the Warrens?”

This entire ordeal made me nauseous.

“Mrs Stone sat on the stand and told the court how Mr Warren procured his wife. He forced her to live with him. He forced her to be in a sexual relationship with him. He pried on a vulnerable woman and controlled her every movement until she willingly walked down the aisle and agreed to be his wife. Mrs Warren counteracted Mrs Stone’s testimony. She testified under oath and gave her side of the story. Mr Warren did not force her to do anything. She entered the relationship with willingness and agreed to marry him because she was in love with him. They are happily married,” he enunciated with faultless diction. “Mrs Warren told the court how her sister tried to kill her. Kathy Haines was unwell and formed a bond with their childhood captor. She was not thinking clearly because of the number of illegal drugs injected into her body.”

I rubbed the chill from my arms.

“Kathy Haines left and never looked back.” Carl rubbed dryness from his lips. “It’s sad, really. She was lost, and she trusted a very dangerous individual. It cost her greatly. Mr Bajramovic is not here to tell his side of events, which is expected, but I wonder, where was he the night Kathy Haines was murdered?”

Juror number eleven nodded in a delicate manner.

“There is so much wrong with this case.” He glanced at the dock. “Numerous people should be brought to justice. Mr Warren is not one of them.” He gave the Judge a curt nod. “Thank you, your honour.”

The Judge studied the jury panel. “It is desirable for all jurors to reach a unanimous verdict. If you fail to reach a unanimous decision, I will declare a mistrial due to insufficient evidence and dismiss the case unless the prosecution decides to try the case again.” He banged the gavel. “You are dismissed.”

Liam’s gaze found mine across the room. He smiled, but this time, it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked utterly deflated, discouraged.

I wanted to unlock the glass cage and take him into my arms.

An officer tapped Liam’s shoulder. He stood, put his arms behind his back and let them handcuff his wrists. When they led him through the door, I held back tears, grabbed my handbag and hurried out of the courtroom.

It was getting harder and harder to watch him walk away. It was becoming more painful to see the discouragement in his eyes.

I took deep breaths of cold wind as I rushed outdoors. Fine droplets of rain splattered my face as the gentle breeze rustled through my hair. In the middle of the concrete steps, amidst hordes of people, I collapsed against the metal railing, using it to keep myself upright. I studied the constellations of stars through watery vision. I had a gaping hole in my chest. It would not heal, not until I felt him again.

“You look like you could do with a drink.”

I recognised his voice. “I am taking a break from alcohol.”

“Really?” Donny’s folded arms rested on the railing. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

A single tear fell down my cheek, but it was unperceivable in the light rain. “I am not an alcoholic.”

“You live on a vodka diet.” He popped a bright blue chewing gum bubble. “As stated by my source.”

Strands of hair drifted across my face. “Vincent?”

“The one and only.” He winked at me. “Anyway, why so sad?”

“Seriously?” I gave him a pointed look. “My husband is looking at a minimum of ten years for that fucking Eagle. Never mind the never-ending list of other charges.”

Donny stared ahead. “Do you want to know a secret?”

I stared at him like he was my lifeline.

“A little birdie told me the prosecution are chomping at the bit.” His spine straightened, which made him a few inches taller than me. “That bogus evidence is not going to stick. You know it. They know it.”

I chewed my lower lip.

“Sure, Warren will do time for the gun.” His finger curled hair behind my ear. “But they’ll release him on good behaviour. I give him three years.”

“Three years,” I whispered into the cold night. “No, it’s too long. I need him to come home, Don.” Tears of grief beaded on my eyelashes. “I don’t know life without him. Not anymore.”

“What choice do you have?” His gold chains glittered in the moon’s light. “Hey, it beats life imprisonment, right?” When I never replied, he blew another chewing gum bubble, the loud pop resounding throughout the city’s mirrored skyscrapers. “Alexa?”

Reporters gathered near the Bentley vehicles for the defendant’s loved ones. Cameras and macro zoom lenses analysed current events, the flashing lights illuminating the courthouse. Through the raucous crowd, I saw a familiar face. It was an illusion, her face, her dejected frown. I knew she wasn’t there, not really. But I still pushed away from the railing, descended the reminder of concrete steps and, synchronising her movements, walked past the media to the sound of her disembodied voice.

People called my name and yelled questions.

I only saw her, Kathy.

It was the old Kathy, the one I loved and cherished more than life itself. It was not the unrecognisable woman who loathed my very existence. It was the beautiful girl from treasured memories, the girl who idolised the ground I walked upon, the girl who taught me how to fly and sing in the light.

Faces blurred as I slowly drifted along the pavement.

Vitriolic voices faded into the distance as her sternness became a reassuring smile.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” I cried, hiding beneath the duvet. “I didn’t, Kathy. I swear.”

My sister climbed under the blanket, so I shut my eyes. “Alexa,” she whispered, and I shook my head. “The evidence is on your cheek.”

I scowled. “What evidence?”

Her thumb grazed my cheek. “The chocolate.”

My bottom lip jutted out.

“Alexa,” she said quietly. “I would have given you some anyway. All you had to do was save a piece for me.”

I sobbed into tiny fists. “Please don’t hate me.”

“Alexa.” Kathy pulled me in for a hug. “I could never hate you. You’re my favourite person in the entire world.”

Peering at her through my fingers, I swallowed another whimper. “I am?”

“Yes.” She pinched the tip of my nose. “Just promise not to be so greedy next time.”

“I promise.” I snuggled closer, my eyelids threatening to close. “Will you sleep in my bed tonight?”

Her arm tightened around me. “Why?”

“I miss you,” I said with a big yawn. “You don’t sleep here much.”

“That’s because I have my own bedroom.”

My eyes squinted open. “Or it’s because you sneak out to see Benjamin.”

“Alexa,” she whisper-shouts, and I grinned. “Don’t mention Ben in front of mum and dad. Swear it.”

“I swear.” My lips pursed. “Why not?”

Her eyebrow arched. “Because I will get in trouble for having a boyfriend.”

“Oh.” My cheeks puffed. “Will you move in with him someday?”

She laughed as if I had made a joke. “I wish.”

“You wish?” Chucking the covers back, I sat up in a huff. “You can’t leave me to be with Benjamin!”

“Ben,” she corrected, and I scowled harder, making my utmost efforts to pull an ugly face. “And I would never leave you. If I move out of this dump, I am taking you with me.”

My heart stuttered. “What about mummy?”

Kathy studied the dreamcatcher above my bed. “You’re all that matters.”

I wish mummy and Kathy would be friends again.

“So, no more stealing chocolate from my bedroom,” she cautioned with a pointer finger. “Or I will never forgive you.”

My eyes welled up. “What?”

“Jesus, Alexa. I am kidding.” She tugged me down to lie beside her. “You need to grow a backbone.”

I sneakily touched my spine. “I got a bone.”

“It’s a phrase, Alexa.” Her eyes rolled. “It means you have to learn to stay in power in controversial issues.”

I had no idea what that meant. “Okay?”

She propped onto one elbow. “You don’t get it, do you?”

I chose not to answer.

“It means don’t let people take advantage of you. You must always stand up for yourself and do what feels right.” Our surroundings began to dissolve into the present. “Stand up for yourself.”

Kathy disappeared along with the memory.

Flinching at the sporadic camera flashes, I wiped my dry lips with the back of my hand and, noting the advancing Suits, faced the media for the first time since the trial started.

Mrs Warren, did your husband murder your sister?

How do you feel about the rape charges?

Is he responsible for Hellen Bennet’s death?

Is Larry Fagan your biological father?

Are you in any danger?

Brad appeared from nowhere. He snatched a camera from the young male, dropped it on the ground and slammed a foot over the lens. It cracked, shattered, splintered the lens across the concrete in shards.

But the questions intensified.

“Mrs Warren,” someone called, and I looked up. “Is your husband responsible for your sister’s death?”

Vincent fisted the back of my blouse. “Ignore them.”

“No,” I said, silencing everyone. “Liam is not responsible for my sister’s pain. Flamur Bajramovic and our father, Patrick Haines, are accountable for her suffering.”

Intermittent lights blinded me.

“You want a story?” I said, and cameras snapped at every angle. “Larry Fagan conspired with Flamur Bajramovic to kill my mother before the Albanian mafia abducted her daughters, Kathy and me. I survived. I escaped. I sought closure while she existed in heartbreak. Our father molested my sister, so it’s no surprise that she fell in love with our captor. He promised her love and protection, and she bought it because it’s all she ever wanted.” I swallowed to take a quick breather. “My sister died in the Bajramovic compound.”

“How can you be certain?”

“The girl who escaped the compound that night was not Kathy Haines,” I said fiercely, and everyone lifted their recorders, their cameras, to catch every detail. “You can condemn me to fucking hell and back. I will defend my husband because he is innocent. If the jury returns with a guilty verdict, I will continue to defend that man until he is exonerated. This is not it for him.” My tears dried up. “This is not the end of Liam Warren.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Alexa

I walked the route of a meandering cobblestone path, the grey, unshaped brickwork laborious in six-inch heels. Moss-covered trees finely fringed the edges of the walkway, blocking out the early morning sun. Insidious ravens cawed near the timber-framed outbuildings near the eldritch yet historically aesthetic mausoleum, which had a beautiful design of twisting ivy vines and dead flowers. Beyond the enchanted garden and gravel driveway is the fourteenth-century house. It had pointed arch windows boxed in rickety shutters, gothic revival entrance, honed roof gables and the eeriest of dense fogs.

The perpendicular architecture was splendorous.

Frost enriched the gelid air, and crisp, fallen leaves crunched under my footsteps. Despite the bitterly cold weather, I felt rejuvenated, reawakened. I wandered with a spring in my step, a radiant smile on my face, a tuneful song in mind.

Peeling black suede gloves from my fingers, I wiped the rime-formed windshield of the black Bentley vehicle mounted on the grassy knoll. There are empty bottles of Jameson on the passenger seat, crushed beer cans on the floor, which macerated the carpet.

Respiring a misted breath, I gazed from the car to the house. It very much reminded me of the medieval mansions nobleman’s inhabited in the Middle Ages.

Passing the waist-high brick wall to the wooden, church-style door adorned in intricate metalwork, I banged the antique door knocker, listening for any sidled movements on the other side.

Shading my eyes, I swept my gaze over the shrieking faces of gargoyles, their clawed feet grasping crenellated turrets.

Stepping over the pruned shrubs, the weathered gnomes, I crept to the front window, separated the drooping shutters and peeked through the glass. Cataloguing the wood-panelled lobby, the old, black and white mosaic floor tiles and Edwardian dresser exhibiting an arrangement of mismatched hollow plates, rustic ornaments and miniature jam jars, I banged a fist on the glass.

I skirted the perimeter of the building until I located another window and, awe-inspired, wiped tiny particles of dust from the criss-cross pane to see the enormous corridor, the walls clad in red damask and gilded leaves. It had ornate stained-glass windows, wrought-iron balconies and a frescoed ceiling with a domed skyline, which soared above the imperial staircase.

Assured it was the wrong address, I checked the message on my phone.

It was definitely the location provided by Alfie.

I dialled his number.

“Ma’am,” Alfie answered. “Are you lost?”

“Can you see me?” I tried to find his car through the hazy grey fog. “This is a joke, right?”

“Freezing my arse off is hardly humorous, Ma’am.”

The man owned a brand-new Bentley, so he had no reason to be cold. “You could always turn the heater on.”

“It is on.” His teeth chattered. “Still, I might die from hypothermia.”

Walking ahead, I dodged unbalanced flowerpots, the stems and roots brittle. “You can join me indoors if you wish.”

“I’d rather avoid Mr Fitzpatrick, Ma’am. He is not the friendliest of men.”

I paused mid-step. “Josh is not unfriendly.”

“To you, perhaps,” he replied testily. “He has zero respect for underlings.”

Well, I had no response to that. “Maybe I can talk to him.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

I descended three concrete steps, which led to the back of the house. “Are you sure he is home?”

He expelled smoke. “Positive.”

“Okay, I will see you soon.” Ending the call, I tucked the phone in my bag and, turning a sharp corner, disturbed an eating raven. It squawked, ploughed into me almost viciously, driving and striking as if I threatened its recently fledged nest. “Shit.” Whacking him with aimless slaps, I shouted in a state of panic, dashing through the unkempt flower bed. “Get away from me.”

In a moment of dreadful hysteria, I stumbled over scattered shrubs and struck the ground headfirst, clipping my head on a small boulder.

Pain shot through my temple.

Wincing through momentary dizziness, I ground my teeth, rolled onto my side and cowered into my elbow.

Above, the raven gyrated with predacious squawks until its fanned feathers rustled into a nearby tree.

Releasing a caged breath, I examined my cheek, where a wet trickle of blood dampened my fingertips.

Pushing myself onto all fours, I fell back on my haunches and, holding my breath, touched my stomach with investigative hands.

My palms and face captured the fall. I worried about the baby, though.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, hugging myself protectively. “I never meant to frighten you.”

Of course, I felt nothing. It was the first trimester, so the baby was probably the sheer size of a strawberry.

I stayed in the filthy shrubs for a while longer, not wanting to get up too quick or strain further. When more relaxed, I slapped a hand on the damp wall and stood to test the waters. I was a little shaken up, slightly nauseous—the aftershock of almost being beaked to death—but, once breathing evened out, the trembles and giddiness subsided.

Each bypassed window earned open-palmed belts. I pounded everything in sight to gain his awareness, the clacked sound startling the flapping birds above.

Tender climbing vines unadorned an old, padlocked door. It was the side entrance to the broken-windowed vestibule. I rattled the broken handle. It was easily breakable, the house close to accessible. Extracting the Eagle from my thigh holster, I aimed fire, the single-shot echoing into the sky, and disengaged the lock.

Swallowing to dampen my parched throat, I dabbed the blood on my cheek with the heel of my hand and strolled through the long, dank hall to the outdated kitchen. Leaving the gun near the solid fuel stove, I drifted from one cathedral-style room to another, the heels of my shoes clicking on the timber boards.

By the time I reached the foyer, I had forgotten all the reasons why I had visited. I am a spec in medieval grandness.

“Josh,” I called, my stunned voice resounding throughout. “I know you are here.”

My fingers grazed the tapestried wall as I strode from the dining area to the interconnecting living quarters. There is a melange of empty pill bottles on the coffee table, unfilled alcohol bottles, rolling papers and strewn tobacco.

I picked up one bottle to read the label. “Josh?”

Tossing it on the black leather wing chair, I separated the large double doors at the back of the room and saw Josh’s lifeless, breathless body on the sofa, the thin cotton sheet tangled between his legs.

“Josh?” With a racing heartbeat, I hurried towards him. “Wake up.” Holding his pallid face in my hands, I tapped his cheek. “Josh.” My breath came out harsh and short. “Please, I cannot handle any more heartbreak.”

Tears welled from deep inside.

“Please,” I said on a wretched sob. “Josh, I need you to wake up. I need to see your eyes.” Putting my ear to his lips, I listened to his shallow breaths and thanked the heavens. “Oh, thank God.” My forehead landed on his bare chest. “You drunken idiot.”

Unlocking my phone, I searched through contacts and dialled Nate’s number.

“Mrs Warren,” he drawled into the receiver. “What can I do for you?”

“Nate, It’s Josh.” I speared a hand through my hair. “I came to his house. He’s on the sofa, and he won’t wake up and—”

“Woah,” he interrupted, his voice spiked in dread. “Calm down. Is he breathing?”

“Yes.” My face scrunched up. “Barely.”

He spat out a slew of curse words. “What did he take this time?”

My heart stopped. “This time?”

He went quiet. “Listen, I need you to get some water and soak the shit out of him. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Wait. What?” Sadness morphed into fury. “What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t have time to explain,” he shouted, and I withered back into my defensive shell. “Just get some water.”

Nate ended the call.

I stared at the phone screen with incredulous disgust.

Chucking the phone on the coffee table, I returned to the kitchen and hunted the disorganised cabinets for a plastic bowl. When I came unstuck, I used a large saucepan, filled it with cold tap water and juggled it to the living room. Not wanting to drown the poor sod, I sprinkled drips onto his face with my fingers.

He never flinched.

Sucking in my cheeks, I raised the pan above his head and, eyes squeezing shut, emptied the water all over his head.

Josh groaned lethargically, his lips parting on a shallow intake of breath. “What?” His muffled voice failed to mollify me. “I’ll do it in a minute.”

My blood boiled. “You asshole!”

He blinked owlishly.

“I thought you were fucking dead,” I chastised, and he yawned. “I will murder you.”

His fingers splayed over his water-misted chest. “Did I piss myself?”

My eyes rounded.

“Well, that’s embarrassing.” Grasping the back of the sofa, he awkwardly pulled himself upright. “What time is it?” He eyeballed the saucepan. “Did you cook?”

“No, I soaked you.” Plonking the pan on the floor, I made room on the cluttered coffee table and took a seat on the wooden ledge. “Yet, you ask if you urinated and if I cooked.”

He rubbed the scruff of his jaw. “I woke up with wet pants. Obviously, I assumed the worst.”

I picked my fingernails. “Do you often wet the bed?”

“No.” He was disgusted. “Alexa, what the fuck?”

“Then, why ask such illogical questions?”

When his head tilted, I heard bones click.

I fumbled with a coaster. “Nate is en-route.”

“For real?” Oh, now he looked concerned. “Did you call him?”

I nodded.

“Fuck.” Reaching for the pill bottles, the small clear bags and evidence of alcohol consumption, he lifted the sofa’s cushion and stored everything like a hibernating hamster. “Do I look okay?”

Surely, I imagined his little stunt. “You know there is a bin in the kitchen, right?”

He shrugged.

“Jesus, Josh.” I palmed his forehead to feel his temperature. “What’s gotten into you?”

Opening the drawer of the coffee table, he took out a pre-rolled blunt.

My fingers clicked. “You cannot smoke that in front of me.”

He scowled in annoyance. “Since when?′

“Since I got pregnant, you halfwit.” I snatched the blunt from his pinched lips, and he slumped against the sofa in a strop. “Did you drink all this in one night?” Picking up the bottle of Macallan on the floor, the one hiding under the fallen scatter cushion, I read the label. “And the drugs? How much did you take? There is alcohol and pills in the other room, too. And in the car,” I prattled on. “All this extravagance for one person?”

“Does it matter?” He tousled his hair in exasperation. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be home, taking care of Logan?”

“I was worried about you,” I said with genuine concern. “You haven’t responded to any text messages. I called, too.”

“Maybe I wanted some fucking headspace, Alexa.” His brows lifted. “Ever thought about that? Am I allowed to be alone every once in a while? Must I always answer the Warrens?”

I paled and saw traces of regret in his eyes. “Are you serious?”

He was tongue-tied.

“I married Liam and adopted annoying brothers by default,” I retorted, and he sucked his upper teeth. “Yet, I say nothing. I never complain or make any of you feel uncomfortable. Do you know how difficult it can be to rouse in the presence of visitors every damn morning? Hell, I have to dress accordingly before I even leave the bedroom. Heaven forbid, I walked around starkers in my own house. You are everywhere. Everywhere,” I repeated for emphasis. “So, you do not get to upbraid me for visiting. Not when you invade every aspect of my life.”

“Shit.” He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

My face burnt in anger.

“I got a sore head.” He gave me puppy dog eyes. “You know I love you.”

My brow curved. “Do I?”

“Yes.” His hands cupped my knees as he leant forward. “Forgive me?”

I was too weak for these men. His desperation made it too difficult to stay mad at him. “Fine,” I relinquished. “But you owe me a new pair of shoes.”

He scratched the back of his head. “That’s a little extreme.”

I pointed to the scuffed Sophia Webster. “I almost broke my neck trying to get inside. And your army of birds attacked me.”

His lips twisted. “What birds?”

“Well, it was one aggressive bird. I interrupted his lunch.”

Licking his thumb, he leaned in and swept the dry blood on my cheek. “Warren would wring my fucking neck if he saw you like this.”

“As if I would snitch.” At the mention of my husband, my heart squeezed. “Besides, you are not accountable for my clumsiness.”

“He’d still blame me.” Josh smiled faintly. “You can do no wrong in his eyes.”

“Oh, Liam knows, I am more than capable of mischief.” Instinctively, I thumbed the white gold tags around my neck. “But I suppose he turns a blind eye. He cannot stay mad at me for long.” My attention went to the staircase by the bookshelf. “What’s up there?”

He shared my line of vision. “Bathroom.”

“You have a bathroom tower?”

Nodding, he scratched his chest.

Josh’s home was outmoded but unique. Honestly, I had never seen anything quite like it.

My legs crossed elegantly. “It’s not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Modernisation.” I imagined him in a luxury apartment. “The quintessential bachelor pad.”

“I am a man of great originality,” he said, though something in his voice told me he did not believe his own assessment. “Plus, who cares if it lacks modern ideas and design? I have a bed upstairs fit for royalty. That’s all I need to bone a bird.”

“A carved four-posted bed suitable for a king, yet he drools on the sofa.”

“How do you know it’s a four-poster? It might be a metal bunk bed with cheap mattresses and protruding springs.”

Judging by the mansion, I found anything other than bespoke furniture hard to believe.

He pulled on a pair of discarded jogging bottoms. “I had a rough night.”

An old cast iron candle chandelier hung from the ceiling. “It really is magnificent.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.” Floorboards groaned under his weight as he ambled around the room. “It’s a dump.”

My expression narrowed. “In your opinion.”

His feet dragged to the window. “It belonged to my great-great-grandfather or some shit. Nanna loved this place.” Grasping the top of the wooden window frame, flexing the carved muscles in his back, he scoured the extensive garden. “I could move uptown and live in one of those big penthouses. I got the money. But I like it here. It’s where I grew up. It stores a lot of good memories.”

Loved, I thought. “How was Nanna’s hip replacement operation?”

His prolonged silence unravelled like an endless yarn of string. “There is always a risk of complications, right?” He was devoid of emotion. “Cardiorespiratory collapse.”

I was overwhelmed by inarticulate empathy.

My eyes closed. “Josh…”

“It’s cool.” His deep voice rasped. “Everyone dies eventually.”

You hear stories of death daily, but it is a different pain when someone you love, someone you cannot live without, fades into the afterlife.

He’s an only child.

His parents died.

There are no aunties, uncles, cousins or relatives.

It was only them, Josh and Nanna.

More than most, I understand what it’s like to lose everyone you care about.

You feel lost. At least, it seems lonesome, but in retrospect, you realise blood does not define family. So, he can mourn and grieve and lose himself to the bottom of a bottle. He can ingest recreational drugs to numb his brain, rob his senses and switch it all off. He can stare out of the window, feeling more alone than he’s ever felt in his entire life. But he is not by himself. He has a loyal, unrelated family that loves him and wants to take care of him.

When he hurts, we all feel his pain. And right now, my heart ached for him.

My hands touched his shoulder blades.

Josh reached up, grasped one of my hands and squeezed. “I’m good.”

I kissed the nape of his neck, the gold curb chain cold to my lips. “No, you’re not.”

His bottom lip quivered. “Alexa…”

Turning him to face me, I enveloped his neck with my arms and brought his head to my clavicle. He was tense, at first, his hands clenching and unclenching at his side. And then, breaking into a teary mess, he sobbed against my chest like a little boy, his tight fists grappling the front of my dress, his tears soaking the material.

“It’s okay,” I whispered, and he clung to me. “I got you.”

“Alexa.” His hoarse cries rose feverishly. “Ah, make it stop.” He pressed a hand to his chest as if to ease the pain. “Please, make it stop.”

All I could do was hold him tighter.

In a slate grey two-piece suit, Nate appeared in the doorway with a black holdall. Lips pressed firmly together, he assessed the patent situation and soon interpreted the room’s mournfulness.

Josh’s tears gave everyone vicarious sadness.

Even Brad, who stood back in the shadows, head hung low, hands in his trouser pockets, looked melancholic.

Nate walked away.

Brad’s inexpressive mask slipped back in place upon entering the room. “Turn that frown upside down, Joshy boy.” His deep voice tore Josh away from my hold. In six strides, he’d closed in. “Save your tears for the shower so nobody can see them,” he whispered close to Josh’s ear, but I caught it. “It works for me.”

Unable to visualise Brad in tears, I frowned marginally.

Josh was soul-destroyed, utterly heartbroken. His eyes were red raw, and puffy. “I’ll be okay.” He wiped snivels from his nose. “Hungover.”

Brad fixed Josh’s twisted chain. “Take a moment.”

“Can I have the blunt?” Josh tugged a hoodie over his head. “I’ll go outside.”

Not having the heart to reprimand, I handed him the rolled blunt and the Clipper lighter. “Take your time.”

He balanced the roach between his lips. “I can hear Nate.”

“I think he’s in the kitchen,” I said apologetically. “Josh, I had to call them. I thought…”

“I get it.” Rather than go toward the back of the house, he tugged on a pair of stark white trainers and headed for the front door. “I’ll see you in a minute.”

The door slammed behind him.

Blowing bangs of unruly hair out of my face, I wiped my eyes and, walking silently beside Brad, followed the cacophonous sound of clattering pans in the kitchen. Nate prepared scrambled eggs and bacon in a rustic frying pan.

Pulling out a chair by the round table, I sat down. “I love how you two just help yourselves to everyone’s houses.”

“I bought the eggs,” Nate said defensively, and Brad snorted. “Alright, I found them in Josh’s fridge.”

“Of course, you did.” I watched Brad unbutton his suit jacket, drape it over the back of the chair and become seated. “You look nice.” He sported a brand-new three-piece suit. “Hot date?”

“No.” His jaw set. “I treated myself.”

I pinched a slice of buttered toast from the plate. “Josh’s nanna died.”

Nate’s bulbous eyes swept from me to Brad. “Is he okay?”

“No.” Brad salted boiled eggs and dipped serrated toast into the runny yolks. “Did you ask him about the drugs?”

It took a few minutes for me to realise the question was for me. “Oh, yes. I mentioned them.” When the two men exchanged worried glances, I sat taller. “What? Is something wrong?”

“It’s a lot of empty bottles,” Brad said under his breath. “Should we be concerned?”

I toyed with my bracelets. “You don’t think he tried to kill himself, do you?”

“No.” Nate sliced avocado. “It’s getting worse, though.”

“Worse?” I nibbled morsels of toast. “Can someone tell me what’s going on? Why are we nervous? It’s not uncommon for Josh to take drugs. Hell, you taught him the ropes.”

Brad looked highly affronted. “I didn’t do shit,” he scolded me for effrontery. “You got some nerve, woman.”

“Really?” Thanking Nate for the mug of sweet tea, I sat back and sipped. “Will you pretend the syndicate did not abet his bad habit? You are no saint. You snort coke for breakfast.”

“I’m not a fucking addict or an enabler.” Brad chewed into crispy bacon. “I function just fine. And I can say no.”

“What?” My eyes darted between them. “Is Josh incapable of saying no?”

Nate carried plated breakfast to the table. “It’s not the first time he’s gotten himself in a mess.” Forking blanched spinach into his mouth, he chewed, swallowed, and reached for the coffee. “It’s noteworthy.”

My fingers curled around the mug. “I think he earned a free pass for bereavement.”

Brad’s pointer finger pushed the plated toast closer.

Having eaten the penultimate toast, I went in for the last piece.

Nate’s fork wielded in from of my face. “What happened to your cheek?”

“I tripped.” I no longer felt the pain. “It’s only a scratch.”

Josh suddenly reappeared, his alcohol scent diffusing through the room. “I hope you bought those eggs.”

Nate scooped scrambled egg topped with chunks of avocado into his mouth. “Why?”

“If you stole them from the fridge, expect severe diarrhoea.” Josh sat next to me. “I bought them like six months ago.”

Nate and Brad heaved in unison, spitting undigested food onto their plates.

My cheeks ached from smiling so hard. “Serves you right for unconsented consumption.”

“It’s just a bastard egg!” Brad wiped his mouth. “I might vomit.”

Nate hurled all the food into an overflowing bin. “My stomach hurts already.”

“I have a fever.” Blond Suit used a tea towel to dab his dry forehead. “You poisoned us, you prick.”

Josh’s mouth dropped open. “I never forced you to eat stale bread.”

Nate guzzled bottled water. “I ain’t had food poisoning before.”

“I have,” Brad said airily. “I spent twenty-four hours on the bog while hacking up my lungs in the tub. It was the most odoriferous moment of my life.”

“Shit.” The staleness of buttered toast belatedly occurred, and I grasped my middle section. “I ate the bread, too.”

“It’s okay.” Josh poured coffee into a mug. “I went shopping two days ago.”

I stared, the air becoming unbreathable. “What are you saying?”

“I lied.” He added sugar to the coffee. “It was fun to fuck with them, though.”

Brad’s round, bulging eyes threatened bloody murder. “Are you taking the fucking piss?”

“I just admitted that I was,” Josh said, humour brightening his weary eyes. “What? It made me laugh.”

Nate’s inked hands rested on the table. “It’s not funny if no one else is laughing.”

I fake-laughed to quell their belligerence.

Three pairs of different coloured eyes swung to me.

I sipped tea. “As I said, he gets a free pass.”

“Give me some whiskey,” Brad asked, and Nate slid a bottle of Jameson across the table. “It’s too early for this shit.” He swallowed a shot from the bottle while reading a text message from his phone. “Christ.”

I set the mug aside. “What’s wrong?”

His terrified gaze lifted. “The jury reached a verdict.”

“What?′ Nate’s brows furrowed. “Already?”

Brad tucked the phone in his pocket. “I guess.”

A sigh slipped past my lips.

Immeasurable dread and ineffableness settled over us.

We came to a mutual accord.

No one is ready for the outcome.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Liam

Carl unclasped the black suitcase on the table and exhibited six patternless ties. I selected silk grey to compliment the black two-piece and looped it around my neck, weaving an Eldredge knot. Fixing canary diamond cufflinks to the shirt’s sleeves, I sprayed cologne, returned essentials to the attentive barrister and stood by the window to watch rain lash the streets of London. It is said that bad weather looked worse through the window, and from my standpoint, it does not get any more depressing than this. Thick, nimbostratus clouds loomed dangerously overhead, resulting in torrential rain and termed gusts of wind, which drenched the city’s pedestrians and stationed journalists.

“The level of farcicality, in this case, is astronomical.” Carl, robed for the occasion, adjusted the off-white wig on his head. “I am telling you, Warren. Whatever the outcome, once I have finished, the Judge will summon the witnesses to court to face the consequences. It is only what those perjurers deserve for falsifying an affirmation of trustworthiness.” He went quiet for a beat. “Why so glum?”

Rain splattered the windowpane. “I miss my wife.”

Her inedible cooking in the kitchen.

Admittedly, the store purchased convenient meals compensated for the gastronomical privations, but her culinary endeavours merited recognition.

Her inharmonious singing in the shower.

It is an over-generalisation, but she breaks morphological rules when inventing words under the warm spray. The woman cannot sing to save her life. Yet, I listened from the comfort of our king-sized bed with a smile on my face.

Her discarded shoes, strewn on the bedroom floor.

You’d never believe designer shoes were so paramount to the woman. Nightly, she kicked them aside, left them on the carpet, and then walked past them every morning to step into a new pair. I spend too many hours returning said shoes to their rightful place in the walk-in wardrobe.

Not that she’s ever noticed.

Her beautiful face in the morning.

I awaken before sunrise to shower and change for work, and she sleeps through unflinchingly. Before I even contemplate leaving the bed, I wrap an arm around her, thanking whatever force brought us together, and marvel at her flawless features, her soft, kissable lips, her lustrous dark hair, her heart-shaped face and the silver scar beneath her eye. In the eye of the beholder, she is perfection, and she is all mine.

Her contagious laughter at the most inappropriate moments.

Often, I stared at her in silent wonderment, pondering how she managed to enter difficult situations unknowingly and calm hostilities with her smile alone.

Her whispered endearments when we made love.

My eyes shut as I imagined her in front of me. My wife is tall, especially in heels, and when I closed in, caged her between me and the wall, her neck craned just slightly to place a delicate kiss on my lips. Her hands, when they felt me, smoothed along my shoulders and arms, the muscles in my body tightened to her silent calling. She had the power, with her voice and her touch, to bring me to my knees. I was weak for her in the worst possible way, but I loved her far too much to challenge the weakness she instilled. If anything, I surrendered to the inevitable many years ago, even before I allowed myself to acknowledge it, to acknowledge her.

Now, I sleep in a dank prison cell, on the top bunk, the portly inmate, snoring from the bed below. I eat meals with an uninventive combination of ingredients, such as unbuttered mash potato, stodgy pasta bake, fish in watery parsley sauce and spicy vegetable patties. I shower with an audience, too many oscillating cocks and hirsute backsides. I watch daytime television alone while listening to prisoners bicker over supply and possession and prison commissary. I returned to bed, alone, wishing my wife was sleeping by my side.

Although I had become acclimated to new surroundings, I laid awake at night, thinking about life beyond four walls and all the things I took for granted. My loyal subjects, for example. I’d kill each and every inmate for an afternoon with Brad. He knew how to handle me, in all situations, come rain or come shine, against all odds, at any sacrifice, through thick and thin, come hell or high water.

He’s not my right-hand man for nothing.

I chose him because I saw myself in him.

Granted, I mightn’t admit innermost thoughts aloud, but I missed the son of a bitch. I missed his blissful jubilance, his amusing eccentricities and his unapologetic smugness.

I did not frown upon leisurewear. In actuality, I owned plentiful designer tracksuits at home. However, I preferred formalwear, leather shoes, business suits, matching vests, dress shirts and a panoply of ice diamonds. Instead, excluding court visits, I lived in grey tracksuits. I slept in grey tracksuits. My only purpose in life was to roam halls in nothing but those godforsaken grey tracksuits.

How the mighty have fallen in the midst of unsatisfactory impoverishment.

Carl stood next to me. “Mr Jones insisted that Alexa was fine.”

“My wife looks unwell.” In the courtroom, she feigned smiles and dressed accordingly. She sat tall and elegantly imperturbable, but no amount of makeup, glitz and glamour concealed the truth in her sad eyes. “I worry about her.”

If I am sentenced, if the jury gives a guilty verdict, I will not be there to look after Alexa, to protect her, and it is debilitating, physically and emotionally. Yes, I entrusted the men with ensuring her safety. Still, it was not enough. No one, not even the elite, will defend her honour better than me.

“It’s almost time.” He repacked the suitcase. “Do you need another cigarette?”

I stepped away from the window. “No.”

Carl seemed to stare for longer than necessary. “May I ask a question?”

I smiled blandly. “If you must.”

He was taken aback by my cooperativeness. “Are you guilty?”

“Which offence?”

“All of them.”

The false report of rape is slanderously unforgivable. Even if exonerated and proved innocent, the stigma of such allegations will forever tarnish my reputation. I am not prone to public ridicule or emotional harm, but my wife will have to bear the vitriolic repercussions of those who choose to believe, with or without acquittal, that I am guilty of sexual offences. “I am not a rapist.”

He squeezed my shoulder. “I believe you.”

I might need a cigarette, after all. “You know what I am.”

His head dipped. “Yes.”

“Then you know I am more than capable of murder.”

“But the Colt does not belong to you.” He stifled irritation. “Why did you admit to someone else’s murder.”

“Not someone else.” I’d rot in jail for eternity to protect Alexa. “My wife.”

“Shit.” He overanalysed. “You incur blame for yourself and others.”

I never replied.

“What is the saying? The captain goes down the ship.” His throat cleared. “It’s very noble of you.”

“I shall take the fall for the entire institution if it means protecting the ones I love.” A knock on the door. “It is time to face the music.”

Carl grabbed the suitcase. “Once acquitted, you should sue the witnesses for defamation.”

“No.” I turned for the approaching officer to handcuff my wrists. “Taking legal action is not my style.” My glare was enough for him to understand. “There are more ways to shuffle a deck of cards.”

“Of course, Mr Warren.” He slipped on black-framed glasses. “I will see you shortly.”

Carl headed to the courtroom while I waited to be called upon. In reverie, I rested my back on the unpapered wall and took a moment to reflect. I self-reflect before every trial to analyse certain aspects of my life. It helped to remind me of how far I have come, even in the most unfavourable instances, because nothing, not even imprisonment, is worse than the struggles of a young boy looking for acceptance. I walked many a road, not knowing where I would sleep that night or if it was safe to bathe in the river at sunrise. I rode the same bicycle to the same park bench, hoping somebody would notice me and say good morning.

I survived isolation and loneliness before, so you can be damn sure I will survive it again.

Two uniformed officers led me out of the court cell until we reached the door to the dock. It opened for me to enter. As per usual, people occupied the room, the Queen’s Counsel, the crown prosecution service, the public and the media. My loved ones are at the back of the room. I never spared anyone a glance, not even my wife, who stared disparagingly.

Officer one locked the door and took a seat.

Officer two removed the handcuffs and stayed on his feet.

It was deathly silent. You could hear a pin drop.

The Clerk addressed the room, “All rise.”

Popping open the button of my suit jacket, I stood before the glass and upheld eye contact with the Judge as he sat down. It was the first time the man had looked at me since the Warren trial began.

A door opened.

Two jury keepers entered the courtroom, the jury panel hot on their heels.

Everyone sat down, the wooden benches creaking beneath their weight.

Inwardly, I struggled to breathe.

Outwardly, I remained sangfroid.

“Jurors.” The Judge’s threaded fingers rested on the desk. “Have you reached a decision?”

The foreperson rose to his feet. “Yes, your honour.”

“Mr Warren.” The Judge accepted a document from The Clerk and read it thoroughly. “Step forward.”

I did as instructed.

The Judge handed the document back to The Clerk, who then returned it to the foreperson. “Spokesperson, you may proceed.”

His prolonged silence was all the confirmation I needed. With bated breath, I turned to my wife, who was already looking at me in complete devastation.

Ignoring everyone around her, Alexa squeezed past the brothers, the overbearing media and disparaging grunts of the public until her palms flattened on the glass.

Dislodging the painful lump in my throat, I placed one hand on hers, pretending to feel her warmth beneath my palm. “Don’t cry,” I whispered, and her forehead touched the glass while she hid tears. “I hate it.”

Alexa tried her utmost to suppress tears, but the thought of us separating broke her heart nearly as much as it broke mine. “Liam,” she mouthed, and my eyes closed. “I love you.”

The spokesperson took a deep breath. “Guilty on all counts on the indictment.”

“No.” Alexa cupped her mouth as the room’s outburst began to intensify. “No, Liam.” Her palms slapped the glass vigorously. “Oh, God.”

“Mr Warren,” the dishonourable Judge cautioned, but I no longer cared for his approval.

When the officer gripped my wrist, I lost all sense of calmness. “Let me say goodbye to my wife!”

My strident voice took him off guard, but he continued to wrestle me against the glass.

“Stop,” Alexa cried, her palms striking the glass furiously. “Stop it! You’re hurting him!”

Cheek pressing to the glass, I grunted as both men tugged my arms backwards to handcuff my wrists.

“Please,” I asked quietly, unable to control the heated furiousness boiling in my veins. “Please, let me say goodbye to my wife.”

“Mr Warren,” The Judge said as they yanked me away from the glass. “You are a despot, and today, you will face the consequence of your unlawfulness.”

Carl slumped onto the chair in pale-faced shock.

My head lowered.

Alexa’s inconsolable tears and angered belts to the glass repeated inside my head. “Liam,” she whimpered, and I couldn’t bear to look at her. “Liam, please look at me.”

It hurt too much.

“Liam!” Her emotional pain, I felt it to the bone. “Liam, please!”

The Judge banged the gavel. “Will somebody escort Mrs Warren out of my courtroom!”

“No.” Something inside me snapped. “Don’t fucking touch her.” My stentorian voice was meaningless in a room full of law-abiding citizens. Wriggling out of the officer’s tight hold, I thrust myself against the glass. “Baby, breathe,” I said softly, but she was too far gone, her painful sobs ripping out my heart. “Eyes to me.”

Hearing my indistinct voice, she lifted her glassy eyes and splayed her fingers on the glass.

“It’s just you and me,” I mouthed, and she nodded numbly. “Always.”

Her lips parted on a breathless exhale. “I can’t do this without you.”

“You are Alexa Warren,” I reminded her as the journalists rushed to pen everything down. “There is nothing unachievable for my wife.”

Brad, teary-eyed and shattered, wrapped an arm around Alexa’s waist, but her stare stayed on me. I was her only focus. The six approaching officers slowed their pace when Brad’s hand raised, a polite way of expressing surrender.

“Silence.” The gavel crashed on the desk. “Mr Warren, the jurors, have spoken, and the deliberation has been made. I hereby sentence you to life imprisonment without parole.”

Everything silenced around me.

I turned everyone off.

In slow motion, Alexa’s legs gave out, and Brad almost lost her in his arms. He captured her before she collapsed on the floor in complete hysteria. Despite her pain, her sadness, I stepped away from the glass and gave the brothers one final glance before I turned away and accepted my fate.

Exiting the dock, two officers behind me, I walked down the hall to the sound of my wife’s heartbreak, to my name on her lips as her unsuccessful plea for retrial delved into the darkest segments of my mind.

Inhale.

Exhale.

You got this, Warren.

Before I ventured to the exit door leading to the prison’s transportation vehicle, the officer’s arm shot out in front of me. “Not yet,” he said, unfastening the handcuffs on my wrists. “You have a meeting.”

My shoulders squared. “I have a meeting?”

“In there.” He pointed to a private door. “Thirty minutes.”

I watched the two men line up against the wall. “Do I have a say on the matter?”

“No.” He shoved me toward the door, and I tapered down vexation. “Go ahead.”

Rubbing the ever-present abrasions on my wrists, I pushed through the door.

It locked behind me.

In the middle of the unspacious room, an unacquainted yet recognisable individual sat by the small steel table. He is the besuited man who attended the trial with another suited male.

“Nikolai Vasiliev.” He gestured to the spare plastic chair. “Be seated.

I eased onto the chair opposite him. For a quiet moment, I eyed him from head to toe. He was pale-skinned, dark-haired and misty-eyed. His orbs were that of depressing grey. With a beguiling smile, he arranged items onto the table: cigarettes, an ashtray, a box of matches.

“It’s fresh.” He gesticulated between the coffee mugs. “Do you prefer milk?”

Stealing his cigarettes, I popped one in my mouth and, matching a flame, lit the end. Head dropping back, I expelled smoke towards the ceiling.

“The jury’s guilty verdict confounded the courtroom nearly as much as the Judge’s unmerciful sentencing.” He had a strong Russian accent. “I, myself, thought fifteen years was more than warranted.”

My men will drain the lives of every juror within a month.

Nikolai sipped coffee. “Perhaps they wanted to make an example out of you.” When I never replied, he loosened his tie. “What are your thoughts?”

Mute, I glared at him beneath screwed up eyebrows.

He searched for something in my eyes. “Will you appeal for a retrial?”

Irritated by his voice, I blew out smoke halos.

He wafted them out of his face. “You have quite the reputation.”

I craved whiskey like no tomorrow.

“You are the topic of conversation. I hear your name everywhere: public transport, bars and restaurants. Your face is on the front page of every newspaper.”

Nikolai lost my attention with his natural garrulousness.

“Inquisitiveness got the better of me. As I am not one to listen to gossipmongers, I made numerous phone calls and asked credible confidants the real story behind Warren Enterprise. According to several politicians, you are, in their words, the worst of our kind.”

Our kind, I thought.

“No crime is beneath you.” He grinned at me. “Am I right?”

Dragging on the cigarette, I respired through my nose.

His ringed fingers drummed on the table. “The Warren syndicate is a disreputable organisation.”

I downed cold coffee. “I prefer ambitious.”

“Oh, so you do speak,” he said with a devilish smile. “I have anticipated this encounter for quite some time.”

“Why do you smile?” I asked, short and sharp. “This is not a convivial moment between friends.”

“Mr Warren.” His chin tilted. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

I gave him another frown. “I despise outsiders.”

“You are very direct.” He regarded me with a head slant. “It’s quite unpleasant.”

“Unfazed.”

“Do you plan to engage in conversation?”

“Unlikely.”

“Are you always this unfriendly?”

“Indeed.”

“What If I said I wanted to help you.”

My stare honed. “Motive?”

He sparked a cigarette. “Characterised terseness?”

It was my turn to smirk. “Laconic.”

“Your lack of interest is rather off-putting.”

No, he is not asking the right questions.

Nikolai held the coffee mug with the cigarette balancing between rigid fingers. He sipped, staring at me over the mug’s ceramic rim. “Are you guilty of any crimes?”

My mouth curved into a half-smile.

“I see.” Smoke seeped through his thin lips. “Was murderous cupidity worth it?”

“I have an insatiable predilection for affluence and power.” My diamond cufflinks boasted over twenty karats of canary diamonds and approximately ten karats of white. “Of course, it was worth it.”

“Honestly, Warren. What are your thoughts on the verdict?” His voice was serious. “The Judge’s final rule?”

“Through me, they wish to enervate the glorification of modern gangsterism. Unfortunately for them, organised crime will not end with me. I have loyal soldiers ready to effectuate on my behalf.”

“Yes,” he said almost agreeably. “Can you blame them? The jurors, I mean. It is their job to put criminals behind bars, to salvage the streets.”

Again, I remained mute.

He was straight-faced. “I heard you are loathed by many.”

“Redoubtable characteristics kept opponents at bay.”

“Rape is one of the most flagrant offences,” he dared to say. “Was it an impetuous decision? An unpremeditated crime?”

“Blaire is a mendacious cunt. I did not commit the crime in which she accused me. I am guilty of injudicious gullibility only.” Twirling the cigarette between pinched fingers, I reduced slowly burnt residue along the ashtray’s inner rim. “Police and prosecutorial misconduct is often the root cause of wrongful convictions–that and false confessions by key witnesses and biased jurors. You see, I prepared for a guilty verdict. I saw the panel’s unwarrantable prejudgments and distorted preconceptions the first morning I stepped into the dock. The Judge said if you know the defendant or any of the witnesses, in this case, it is important that you tell the court now. If not, we will proceed with the case, and not one member of the jury raised a hand to admit awareness. In the next breath, Mr Wilson told the jury, I am a renowned criminal. Renowned is synonymous with famous. It means I am known and talked about by many, so how can prospective jurors claim unknowingness? I faced preconceived judgment. Life imprisonment, in my opinion, is unfair but inevitable.”

His molten grey eyes darkened. “Are you responsible for any wrongdoing?”

“Even If I was,” I said huskily, and his groomed eyebrows drew in, “I would not tell a man like you.”

“A man like me,” he repeated in a whispery undertone. “It would seem the jurors are not the only judgmental people in the building.”

“Touche.” Easing back in the plastic chair, I crossed my arms. “But I know deceitfulness when I see it. And you, Russian, reek of high-level deception.”

“Correct. In different circumstances, I am monstrously selfish, power-hungry and untrustworthy.” His folded arms leaned onto the table. “However, I do not wish to mislead you, Warren. If there is a way to prove genuineness, I shall do it.”

I might like him. “Are you a family man?”

Instinctively, he thumbed his wedding band. “I have a wife and three children.”

“Where are they?”

He looked reluctant to share personal information. “Moscow.”

“You did not bring them to London.”

“It is unsafe for them here.”

I heard the officers’ humdrum voices in the hallway. “Why?”

“My time in London is strictly business.” He checked the time on his wristwatch. “I will return to them eventually.”

I had no respect for men who outright prevaricated. “You did not answer the question.”

“In Moscow, I have allies.” His white-knuckle grip relinquished the mug. “In London, I do not.”

“You have political connections,” I said with overtly fake astonishment. “I am sure parliament offered the Vasiliev family protection from potential adversaries.”

“Yes.” His eyes cinched into disdainful slits. “However, we both know I cannot trust parliamentarians.”

I stared right through him. “Do you love them?”

His brow bent. “Politicians?”

I grew impatient.

“Yes.” He levelled our unblinking standoff. “I love my family unconditionally.”

My lip twitched. “Then you should know, if there is an ulterior motive, I will send my strongest army to Moscow to kill everyone you hold dear.”

“I believe you.” He never broke eye contact. “I have a proposition for you.”

And this is when I lob him through the window. “I am not interested.”

“I can pay,” he said desperately. “Whatever the cost.”

“You insult me, Russian. I am a man of millions. I am beyond price. You are impecunious.” My ridiculing dusted his cheeks in shame-faced humiliation. ”You could not afford me.”

“I meant no irreverence.” His jaw clenched. “Desperation breeds illogicalness.”

I put the cigarette out in the ashtray.

“My younger brother, Lyov, was sentenced to ten years at Her Majesty’s Prison Belmarsh.”

I forced my attention back to him. “What did he do?”

Nikolai sighed heavily. “Lyov raped a young woman.”

My body stiffened. “What is her name?”

“Madison Chambers.”

“How old is she?”

“Thirteen.” He cringed, scrubbing two hands up and down his face. “He pleaded guilty.”

Admitting responsibility does not mean Lyov is repentant for what he did to the young girl. It simply means he was caught. It’s also likely that he’ll re-offend. “Are you ashamed?”

“Lyov dishonoured our family.” His fingers thrust through dark wavy hair. “Of course, I am ashamed.”

“Imprisonment should be the least of his concerns.” Well, that’s not entirely true. He will be lucky to leave prison alive if prisoners get a whiff of his crime. “If Madison were my daughter, I’d castrate the motherfucker.”

Nikolai lit another cigarette. “Lyov is brutally sodomised.”

I laughed insensitively. “Who is the perpetrator?”

His lips thinned. “There is more than one.”

“Well, where I come from, that’s called retribution.” Legs kicking out beneath the table, I crossed them at the ankles. “Your brother is a sexual predator. Inmates will take it upon themselves to make him pay for what he did to that young girl.”

“I know. Lyov will do time for his sins and deservingly so, but he is still my little brother, Warren.” He inhaled, bracing himself for whatever this conversation was really about. “I cannot stand by and watch him be brutalised further.”

I read between the lines. “I am not a fucking babysitter.”

“I ask you to reconsider,” he said politely. “Your contribution would be philanthropic and very generous. In return, I would be wholeheartedly indebted to you.”

“I will not elect myself for such an onerous task.” Rising from the chair, I downed the remainder of cold coffee and strode to the door. “It was nice doing business with you, Russian.”

“Will you not miss your family?” His taunting brought me to an immediate stop. “Your wife?”

Rendered into transient anger, I was back at the table in a flash. “You dare to threaten me.” Snatching the front of his shirt, I yanked him upright. “If you go near my wife…”

His palms flattened on my chest. “I have yet to make any threats.”

“Stay away from my wife,” I said angrily, and his hands shot up in surrender. “You do not go within ten miles of Alexa Warren, or so help me fucking God, I will scale prison walls, haunt you down and tear you apart, starting with your head.” Grasping his hair by the roots, I put my mouth to his ear. “Have I made myself abundantly fucking clear?”

“Yes,” he said sharply. “Loud and clear.”

Pushing him onto the chair, I composed myself. “Good boy.”

Nikolai was not finished, though. “You live a quarantine life like a caged pariah.”

My arms outstretched. “I do not fear ostracism.”

Tidying his appearance, he picked the half-smoked cigarette off the floor. “Your solipsistic view of life precipitated incarceration.”

Confinement had nothing to do with solipsism. “It is not so bad.” Besides, I have plentiful friends and family. “Plus, from the cell window, I can see the pellucid blue sky.” Palms to the table, I leaned in until our noses touched. “Are you trying to piss me off? Do you think I am incapacitated by these four walls? What’s another murder to an endless rap sheet? I could kill you right now.”

“Your wife walks with an air of pulchritude and angelicness.” His taunting intensified. “Remember the ubiquitous officers before you strike.”

“My wife is unreachable, Russian,” I spat through gritted teeth. “My men will gut you like a fish.”

“Oh, yes. I heard Jones is worthy of extolling.” He dabbed his lips with the satin napkin extracted from his suit pocket. “He seems like a very friendly character—much like yourself.”

I smiled at his sarcasm. “He is one of a kind.”

He stared knowingly. “Your secret weapon.”

Brad Jones is dangerously unpredictable. “Maniacal.”

Humming, he stuffed the napkin in his pocket. “Yet, he listens to you.”

“As you pointed out, I am imprisoned. Now, without me at his side, he will be uncontrollable, obstreperously perilous. Consider this kind warning when you pay him a visit.”

He pushed to his feet. “Why do you assume I wish to speak with him?”

I had a good eye for reading people. “Intuition.”

His leather shoes squeaked as he rounded the table. “Well, visiting the syndicate depends on their boss.”

Surely, it’s time for the officers to free me from this tiresome meeting. “As I said, I am not interested.”

“You are a pertinacious conversationalist.” He perched onto the edge of the table. “Why so argumentative?”

My hands itched to snap his neck. “It is merely a contentious debate.”

“Yes.” Stroking his chin, he scrutinised me. “I think I like you.”

Well, I almost liked him until he all but begged for me to be a fucking childminder. “Your ambition for approbation concerns me.”

He breathed out smoke. “I will run for office.”

“Good for you.”

“I could launch an innocence project.” He was supremely phlegmatic. “It could prevent future injustices.”

“I don’t see how the prevention of future injustices would be beneficial to me.”

“I will have the jurisdiction to exonerate wrongfully convicted criminals. Imagine that.” His smile widened. “There might be hope for you, after all.”

“Why should I trust you?” I drew back in time to witness his confusion. “How do I know this is not an attempt to arrogate power for yourself?”

“Warren, the day Lyov is released from prison, I will board a plane and fly home. I do not intend to stay in London forever.” He looked defeated. “All I ask is you prevent prison rape. In exchange, I will fight for your exoneration.”

It was a tempting offer. “Exoneration is not guaranteed.”

“Nothing in life is guaranteed.” He was on his feet again. “However, that does not mean vindication is impossible.”

No, the last time I trusted an outsider, I almost lost my brother. “No.”

His hands threw up in frustration. “Imagine if it were you.”

Once more, I laughed with deliberate insensitiveness. “But it’s not me.”

“Would you survive brutal gang rape?” He tried to get inside my head. “How could you outmanoeuvre licentious men?”

“Here is a better question: would a conglomeration of rapists, paedophiles and murderers survive the incursion of a man who has absolutely nothing to lose. If those imprudent inmates are foolish enough to put me on the floor, they better keep me there because if I stand, I will extract their fucking organs with my bare hands.” I upturned my palms. “Do you see it?”

He fixated on my clean palms. “See what?”

“Ineffaceable blood of souls I have banished is immeasurable.” My palms were coarse yet unmarred to him, but when I looked, I saw dark wet crimson, a constant reminder of what I am. “What are more lives to a man like me? I stopped counting years ago, Russian. I am a heartless criminal. I am a cold-blooded killer,” I added, and his grey eyes turned to me. “I will spend the remainder of my life behind prison walls. What a tragedy?” Mischievousness thickened my voice. “I will not, however, adopt a new personality. I will kill every day if necessary, so don’t worry that little head of yours. I am capable of taking care of myself.”

His hands clasped together. “I beg you to reconsider.”

I swallowed exasperation. “Lyov is not my problem.”

“He is not equipped to gain an advantage here.” Anger burned in his eyes. “If someone is not in his corner, he will die.”

“Why should I defend a rapist?” I tapped the side of his head. “Use your fucking brain, Russian. He is not worthy of protection.”

“Perhaps I overestimated your capabilities.” His tongue caressed every syllable. “It would seem you are incapable of warding off the inexorable strikes of barbarous inmates.”

“I have been in Belmarsh for months now, and not one inmate dares to look me in the eye. Licentiousness cannot prevail craziness. I am borderline fucking psychotic. Those crack-brained imbeciles value their lives far too much to goad the demon in me. So, take your ineffectual reverse psychology elsewhere.”

“Exactly!” His fist slammed on the table. “You will not tolerate disobedience. I bet those men eat out of your hand.”

My backside returned to the chair.

He followed suit, slouching onto the chair directly opposite me. “Alongside correctional officers.”

“Careful,” I advised, an unspoken threat dangling on the tip of my tongue. “That sounded like an accusation.”

There was a pregnant pause. “Do you deny it?”

I stared, expressionless.

His head shook in sheer disbelief. “Yet, they overlook the rape of inmates.”

I shrugged.

“Ten years,” he said, and my ears perked up. “Do ten years for illegal firearms, and I will do everything in my power to exonerate you of all charges. You will go home to your family. All you have to do is protect my brother.”

After this year’s debacle, I might consider his generosity. After all, ten years is better than life. “You are not guaranteed office.”

His hands clapped once. “Fixed election.”

I’d sell my soul to the devil to return to my wife. “Why not exonerate your brother.”

“Lyov will pay for his crime for the sake of Madison Chambers. She deserved justice.”

I studied the smouldering cigarette in the ashtray. “What if Lyov is due to be released before me?”

His desperation heightened. “I will not leave London until your exoneration.”

“You see, that’s not very reassuring. I will never trust you, Russian. If you want Lyov’s protection, I demand freedom on the day of his release. If you fail to comply, I will slit his throat before he is discharged.”

His mouth stuttered open. “Please refrain from doing so.”

I tsked him. “It’s non-negotiable.”

“Then, I shall be sure to exonerate you before his release.” His hand gingerly touched mine. “What do you say, Warren? Do we have a deal?′

I finally capitulated.

The End..