Chapter 11

Liam

Life Before

Raucous music and uproarious conversationalists resound from the eye-catching, wood slatted roadhouse; its green and gold wrought iron sign board intermittently glows and illuminates the pubs dark, hunkered ambience.

Tearing off my clothes, I stuffed them into a holdall in exchange for the suit Rex purchased.

Buttoning up my shirt, I fixed silver cufflinks to white silk selves, stomped into leather shoes and sprayed myself with pine-scented cologne.

Respiring a choppy breath, I zipped and left both holdalls inside the communal skip, opting for the embolised Gucci faux-leather backpack I bought this afternoon.

Armed and stacked with cash, I gait along the pebbled pathway, embracing the whispering wind and rustling leaves issuing from over-matured trees.

Social drinkers occupy the spacious, imposing stone beer garden, chain-smoking and consuming an exotic range of cocktails.

I waded between unvarnished wooden tables and pretentious conversing and hesitated near the back door.

Shit, I need to regroup, consider impending actions and possible outcomes.

“You look lost.” Putting us shoulder-to-shoulder, a mature-looking Junoesque blonde, curled her fingers around my bicep, giving it an investigating squeeze. “Nice.”

I scowled at her. “Can I fucking help you?”

“I think you need this more than me,” she slurred, pushing a half-consumed ale in my hand. “Loosen up a bit.” Opening the door, defeating us with music, she stormed indoors. “Jackass.”

Tossing her drink into the shrubbery, I raked a hand over my hair, inhaled a deep, inducement breath and joined the commotion.

Slithering through sweltering throngs of rowdy socialisers, I searched for an empty seat amongst hastiness and parading bodies.

Since the bustling place offers scarce accommodation, I settled for a barstool and waited for the mixologist to finish colourful concoctions.

“Howdy.” Palming residue from his palms with a tea towel, the barman assisted, offering a tattered drinks menu. “I recommend the Bloody Mary.” He whips the towel over one shoulder. “It’s a personal favourite.”

“No,” I quipped, declining mixed-classics. “Whiskey. Neat.”

“Ah,” he chimes, snatching a bottle of Johnnie Walker. “You like the strong stuff, huh? I am a self-proclaimed whiskey-tasting professional and aficionado, so let me offer one of our finest collections.” Unscrewing the cap, he splashed amber liquid into a crystal glass. “Go ahead.”

Cocking an eyebrow, I reached for the glass and knocked back a shot. “Fuck,” I sighed, swallowing its distilled taste. “Do you drink that often? It burns like a motherfucker.”

“I wouldn’t know.” He flashed me a toothy grin. “My prior speech was complete and utter bullshit.”

I couldn’t understand his logic. “So, you’re not a whiskey fan?”

“Oh, sure,” he said, and I wasn’t sure if I believed him. “I can’t afford the Blue Label, though. I’ll stick to Jack Daniels and Jameson.” He set an unopened bottle of Macallan onto the glass bar top. “Now, I hear this is the dog’s bollocks.”

“You work here,” I pointed out with a puzzled grimace. “Doesn’t your boss allow his employees to sample the goods?”

His amber-coloured eyes broadened. “Fuck. No.” He refills my glass with a different blend. “Are you familiarised with barbaric discipline? Ever heard of thieving punishments in Sharia-controlled areas?” I shook my head. “In such countries, law enforcement uses a sharp knife, not a sword,” he adds, resting his elbows onto the glass, lowering his voice. “If you’re caught stealing, they sever your hand—at the wrist.”

“Sounds inhumane,” I agreed, nursing the glass. “What does drinking whiskey have to do with amputated body parts and petty pilfering?”

“It means,” he said, handing two beers to another customer, “sampling fine-tasting spirits isn’t worth decapitation or vasectomy. I happen to like my face.” His lips puckered. “And my cock, actually.”

I downed a Macallan shot, appreciating the warm, vibrant flavour. “It’s certainly one to boast about.” Sliding off the stool, I opened my wallet and set three fifty pound notes onto the beermat. “Buy yourself a bottle.”

Before he could protest, I disappeared through dancing crowds, invested on the end goal. I located a male bathroom, locked the door behind me and studied my reflection in the mirror. I hardly recognise the young man staring back at me. He’s tall now, broad-shouldered, tailored with ice-diamonds that most never luxuriate or model.

When did I get taller?

Where did these muscular arms spawn from?

Since when did shaving become a daily routine?

Will I ever become accustomed to such superfluously expensive jewellery and designer attire?

After tonight, if I defeat or outlive premeditated extortion, what’s in store for me?

I turned on the tap, cupped cold water and doused my face.

With a commanding appearance yet no sense of direction, I exited the bathroom and summoned inner demons. I needed those dark, twisted voices more than ever to beguile and incentivise perseverance.

I passed two women fondling and almost missed the locked door they’re dry humping against. “Move,” I barked, and they regarded me with swollen lips and heavy-lidded eyes.

“Do you want to join?” one purred, caressing my chest with pink-varnished fingernails.

“No.” Not even two bodacious lesbians with thick thighs can steer me from tunnel-vision. “Where does that door lead?”

The woman huddled against the wall studied the red-painted door. “Jerry’s lair.”

Fucking beautiful. “Leave.”

Giggling under direct command, they stumbled down the hallway, readjusting their hiked leather skirts and bralette tops.

Flattening two palms across my head, I tidy my appearance, open the private door and descend the dangerously precipitous drop underground.

Cigar smoke and marijuana fumes cloaked the dingy room, irritating my eyes. I gravitated toward a round table, stationed in the middle of the room—encircled by numerous males participating in a poker game—self-assured and impenitent, justifying imminent callousness.

Positioned on a high back leather chair, Jerry, I assume, tossed bankrolls onto the table, raising stakes. “What can I do for you?” he asked without looking up from his cards.

He’s an older male, wearing a pristine black three-piece. Solid-gold curb necklaces and bracelets adorn his neck and wrists; a cigar balanced between his pinched lips. His friends also bear fashionable suits, real leather footwear and gold St Christopher chains. It’s a nice touch, I thought, eyeing those medallions, lounged upon their grey-haired chests.

Eagle-eyed, I furtively enumerate possible threats: seven men at the table, two meat-heads, harping on from the uncomfortable-looking sofa and one man reading a newspaper beside the old-fashioned television. I had not, however, foreseen or considered female company. Each seated gambler has a stunning woman mounted on their thighs. As if sensing my unspoken predicament, a brunette peered up at me beneath fluttering eyelashes, lips stretching into an approving smile.

“I want to play,” I spoke with husked unease.

Jerry glared at me over the rim of his gold-framed glasses. “You?” He mocked, easing back in his chair. “You got the stakes, lad?”

Lowering my backpack, I unzipped, partly, fished out enough sterling to allure his interest. “Here.” I dropped stacks onto the mounted money pile, dragged a chair across the room and rudely joined their game. “That should cut it, right?”

Toking his cigar, cloaking himself in thick smog, Jerry fingered the cash, considering counterfeit bills. “Check this.” He holds up a fifty-pound note, and a burly minion heads to his request. “Well?”

“Authentic,” the guy confirmed, returning the money.

“Splendid,” exclaims Jerry, setting his cigar onto an ashtray. “Beretta, come over here and keep my friend company.”

Fuck. I didn’t need a hindering distraction. “That’s not necessary.”

To my left, the chubby, overheating man coughed into a tight fist. “You prefer some cock, huh?”

“No,” I said, sangfroid and composed. “I got a girl at home.” It’s a lie. “I don’t need your leftover merchandise.”

“Nonsense,” Jerry insists, and a woman collapsed onto my lap. “Beretta doesn’t kiss and tell. Right, darlin’?”

Beretta drapes an arm across my shoulders and teases my ear with whispering kisses.

I glance at Jerry’s hand. He’s married. “Fair enough.”

“Do you want me to go down?” she breathed against my cheek, cupping my trouser-clad manhood. “I swallow.”

Jerry supervised our exchange through sliced, sceptical eyes. He hadn’t requested a name, and he’s yet to deal out cards. I knew he didn’t trust me, sensed his uneasiness coming off him in waves.

He scratched the scruff of his jaw. “Are you going to take her up on that kind offer?”

He thought I was mince-meat. “No,” I said, schooling my features. “Her hand will suffice.”

“So, what’s your name?” asked the blond gentleman. “I recognise your face from somewhere.”

“Likewise,” Jerry intercedes, tapping his companion’s thigh. “Why don’t you and the ladies go upstairs and warm up a bed for me?”

Kissing his cheek, she slipped off his thigh, gesturing for the women to follow orders.

Beneath the table, I extracted two Glocks from the bag with unnoticeable finesse.

Vacating through the door, the females giggled when a friendly, rough voice complimented them with flirtatious undertones.

“What took you so long?” Jerry snapped, and the blond barman from earlier advanced with three unopened Macallan bottles. “I demanded them over an hour ago.”

“It’s busy,” he replied, tucking many-hued blond tendrils behind his ears. “It’s only just calmed down.”

“I don’t know why I tolerate you.” Jerry jerked his chin, and the lad set the bottles onto the table. “You’re damn lazy—fucking worthless.”

I’ll kill anyone who stands in my way, so that lad needs to leave—now. “If it were my joint? I’d have him on cleaning duties for the next twenty-four hours to make up for tardiness.”

“Indeed.” Jerry seemingly liked my suggestion. “Well, off you go. Clean those damn bogs while you’re at it.”

He steeled his jaw, briefly pinning me with baffled, disappointed eyes. “Sure, boss.”

I only breathe when the door slams behind him—and then I hear a click before the dickhead to my right presses the barrel of a gun to my temple. “Warren,” he croaked, shoving my shoulder. “I used to be a fan. You’re quite the boxer.”

Jerry drummed his fingers on the table. “Explain.”

“He’s one of Rex O’Sullivan’s fighters,” he enlightens, leaning closer in an attempt to provoke or intimidate me. “Ain’t that right?”

“So?” I faced him, hoping he didn’t notice the sweat trickling down my neck. “What the fuck does my old trainer have to do with poker games?”

I had two options: shoot Jerry first or disarm this tool.

I chose the latter.

Releasing one Glock, I abruptly sucker-punched him with an upper-cut, aimed a gun at his head and pulled the trigger.

“Motherfucker!” Jerry roared, jumping from his chair while reaching for a firearm.

I booted the table, shattering whiskey bottles and tumblers, scattering poker chips and money across the floor.

Taking aim again, I diverted the gun to Jerry, knowing he’s the fundamental problem and released an ear-piercing shot to his chest.

His body slumps on the floor, but he’s still breathing. “Don’t kill him,” he croaked an order, rolling onto his side. “I want the son of a bitch in my chambers!”

Foolish, I thought, shoving my elbow into someone’s face, wrestling with my opponents.

Lean arms wrapped around my neck, hurling my back against my attackers chest. I wrestled in his inflexible hold and sank my teeth into his bicep, digging for blood.

“Fuck,” he growled, loosening his restraint.

Jerry’s men aimed to capture my legs. I kicked, threw my head back and crushed my handler’s nose. He dropped me in a state of painful shock and collided into the wall on impact.

Turning onto my back, I snatched the other gun from the floor and blindly aimed fire until shrieks, groans and thumps repeated inside my humming ears.

Untamed pleasure steadied heavy breathing. I staggered to my feet, stepped over strewn, semi-unconscious bodies and frisked them for weapons.

“I’m disappointed,” I said, alternatively putting a bullet between their eyes. “Such tyrannical men who put irresolute fear into the streets, yet I outsmarted—outmanoeuvred all of you in less than five minutes.”

I stood over a dead guy, ripped the chain from his neck. “It’s unfathomable,” I continued, saving the best for last. “I think your notoriety is questionable.”

Sprawled across the floor, Jerry wheezes for breath, outstretching his arm, fingers shaking as he strives to claim a discarded firearm.

“Enough of that.” I kicked the gun out of his reach, crouched before him. “You came after someone that I love,” I tell him, and blood and saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth. “I’m not okay with that.”

Except for Jerry, everyone’s dead; their puddle gore ruins these splendid-looking floor tiles. “I thought long and hard this morning.” Unzipping my bag, I gathered their money, jewellery and weaponry. “I mean, I kinda like the idea of owning cities, and killing people became second-nature after I killed my father.”

Opening a switchblade, I wielded the sharpest point and caught his hand. “I am no saint. I doubt people will ever identify me as a patriotic benefactor or an honourable person with superlative tendencies and noble characteristics. Much like yourself, I love women.” I slammed the blade across his finger, amputating his gold wedding band from his hand. His torn flesh oozes with crimson delight. “And I don’t plan to settle—ever.” Snapping his brittle bones, I unheeded his stomach-wrenching shrieks and begging howls, repossessing the jewellery. “But, if I were idiotic enough to let another take ownership of my heart, I’d show her some fucking respect.”

Rising to my full height, I located a fire alarm on the masonry wall, punched my knuckles through the glass and instigated deafening sirens.

Gripping Jerry’s ankles, I drag his bloodied body to the fragmented whiskey bottles, light a cigarette and drop the smouldering flame onto the floor. I heard a whooshing sound as the fire licked across flammable moisture, but didn’t hand around to watch his melting flesh or agonising screams.

Returning to the main room, I dodged frantic, dispersing customers, feeling misted showers from aloft sprinkler systems.

Lifting the bar latch, I round the narrow space, unlock the tills and empty loose change and notes into my bag.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the barman cowering on the floor, hiding behind his hands.

Why the fuck is he still here?

“You,” I yelled, and he withered. “Don’t fucking ignore me. Get the hell out of here. Now.”

Overcome with immobilising astonishment, he hiked his knees and ignored escalating commotion.

“Fuck’s sake.” Shutting the till drawer, I marched toward him, gripped his T-shirt and hauled him onto his feet. “Look at me!” Flinching and trembling, he peered at me through sweat-slicked strands, sweat dews greased across his furrowed forehead. “It’s gonna blow.” Cajoling him toward the exit, I hold his elbow in a firm grip, dragging his protesting body through the beer garden.

“Oh, fuck,” he complains, staggering beside the communal skip, watching black smoke and burning hues claim the building. “What have you done?”

“Mind your fucking business.” Grabbing the other holdall, I fasted the straps across my chest, urging him to keep walking. “We need…” The pub wailed in anguish as the wooden beams arched, exploding windows and saturating the air with chemical scented haze. “Fuck!”

Ebbing into overgrowth and dense trees, I staggered across miry grounds and muddied slopes, eager to avoid the fulmination, reverberating into the starless night.

“What the fuck was that?” He spun around at the sound of tumultuous bangs, walking backwards in evident outrage. “Did it explode? Why did you do that?”

I don’t answer; I see the fires orange, red and amber reflection dancing in his wide eyes though.

Shoes impaling brittle branches and wet leaves, I fumble with a bag and chuck stolen chains and money on the floor. “Take that,” I ordered, shouldering past him. “Pawn it for all I care.”

He entrenched on the spot. “Where are you going?” He shouts, chucking up his arms. “I didn’t even get a name.”

My short peregrination is one I’d never forget. I followed the soaring sunrise with a strong-minded plan.

Today, I shower, eat and sleep.

Tomorrow, I slap a full-payment down on a new home just because I can.

“Hey,” I called, turning back to face him. “If I were to reside permanently in London? Where would I go?”

His brows met. “You’d live in the sky.” The nameless lad tucked money and chains into his pockets. “Penthouse.”

“Where can I get one of those?”

“Opposite the Tower Bridge,” he confirmed, grinning like a madman. “They don’t come cheap, though.”

I smirked and chased my future.

Let somebody stop me from setting the pace.

My naked body sticking to the leather sofa, I repositioned onto my side with a murmured, throaty groan. Beneath my palm, warmth radiated from off another body. I opened my eyes and adjusted to the gloomy room, outlining a feminine figure, sleeping peacefully beside me.

I recognised her. Kellie, she’d said. Kellie with an E.

Carefully unravelling myself from her body, I climbed off the sofa, plucked a Jameson bottle from the mini-car and fell onto the chair behind my desk.

Swigging straight from the bottle to quench thirst, I licked my dry lips and toyed with my phone, selecting an old voicemail. “Liam,” Alexa breathed, and I closed my eyes to listen. “I am drunk. Very drunk, actually. You were mad at me tonight.” I crushed the phone in my hand. “I hate it when you’re mad at me.”

Leaning back in my chair, I kicked my feet onto the desk and downed Jameson as though my life depended on it.

“Anyways, I wasn’t going to call because you hung up on me earlier and stubbornness seemed reasonable, but I had to hear your voice—”

Hating and torturing myself, I ended her pained words. Opening the browser, I typed Alexa’s name into the search bar, thumbing through old police reports and articles and a social media account gained my interest. I clicked onto the Instagram logo to load her page.

Lowering my legs to the floor, I swivelled in the chair and put my elbows onto the desk.

When did Alexa create an account?

Why am I only just seeing this?

I paid great attention to each portrait, friendship shots with Chloe and her former manager, Grayson, and read quirky captions alongside beverages and half-consumed pastries.

Her selfies were my favourite. Happiness dominated her beautiful face. Each image, she smiled with genuineness, and there’s an adoring glint in her warm gaze.

Narrowing my eyes, I clicked onto another. In the background, the River Thames brightened the dark atmosphere. Alexa stands beside the balustrade on my balcony, the chain I purchased hangs proudly around her neck.

With My Love, she captioned the selfie with two red hearts. Always.

Tears threatened my eyes. I tossed the phone onto my desk, hunched my shoulders forward and buried my head in my hands.

A soft hand touched my shoulder. “Hey,” Kellie whispered, stroking the back of my neck. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t,” I growled, snatching her wrist in a vice-like grip. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Her brown eyes slivered in puzzlement. “You weren’t saying that earlier, Warren.”

Flinging her arm away, easing back in my seat, I gulped numbing courage, liquid trickling down my chin. “What else did I have to say?”

Snuggling between my parted thighs, she gives me a kittenish grin. “I am not sure if you can handle candour,” she answered honestly, stroking my flaccid cock. “Let’s just say that you’re not over your ex.”

Removing an irritating itch from my nose, I looked away.

Of course, I am not over my ex-girlfriend.

I love her.

My eyes landed on the coffee table where spilt cocaine and cluttered alcohol bottles ruin its high-gloss finish.

Kellie sucked me into her warm mouth.

Fingers tousling in her hair, I dropped my head back, eyes trained on the ceiling.

I struggled to get hard.

After enough alcohol and two lines, though, I relinquished and surrendered to temptation.

Tearing a condom wrapper with my teeth, I sheathed my cock and mumbled for her to ride me. And she does. Her head nestling in the groove of my neck. Tight cunt engulfing my length, her ass cheeks slapping against my thighs.

She’s beautiful, I thought, cupping her cheeks and biting the tender flesh of her neck.

“I’m not Her,” she panted in my ear, and I silently agreed. “I can keep pretending, though.”

Fuck. Is that what I requested?

“Get off me,” I scolded, pushing her off my lap to dislodge us. “Take your shit and leave.”

Tumbling off my lap, Kellie blew out an aggravated breath, rounded the desk and began to collect her clothes. “How many times are we going to do this?”

I shrugged a noncommittal shoulder.

“You texted me,” she pointed out angrily, tugging on a black dress. “You keep demanding my services, Warren. You know it’s probably unwise to snort that shit all the time.” In the dark, she searched for her shoes. “You freak out every time you come down from a high or drunken stupor.”

Kellie’s not an escort. She’s a woman who parties at Club 11 with friends and her provocative dancing enticed me. It’s become a regular occurrence—us fucking. Fortunately for me, I seldom remember our encounters. Intoxication has its perks.

“What do you want from me?” Fingers tightening around the bottleneck, I took a long pull of burning alcohol. “I told you that I was in love with someone else. You accepted a no-strings-attached agreement just as long as I didn’t touch anyone else.”

“Are you?” she thought aloud, stomping her feet into black high-heeled shoes. “Sleeping with other women, I mean.”

Yes. I sleep with whoever, wherever, just as long as it helps me forget. “No,” I lied, and she believed me. “Are you still available when I need you?”

Trying to be cute, Kellie tapped her chin, pretending to determine a response. “Will you stop throwing me out whenever you freak out?”

No, I will continue to toss them aside because I can’t deal with the guilt subsequent to orgasmic release. “Yes,” I lied once more, scratching my bare chest. “Get one of my men to escort you outside, Kellie.”

Pulling on her leather jacket, she stepped forward to approach me but decided against it when discerning the distaste in my dark, hooded eyes. “Goodnight, Warren.”

I turned in my seat and stared at the empty dance room through the window. Grief and guilt iced my hot veins. Lunging the bottle at the wall, fragmenting the glass and showering the floor with fine shards, I lift the phone to my ear and further tormented myself to the sound of Her voice.

Chapter 12

Alexa

My impermanent cell offered scant, unsatisfactorily incommodious living conditions. I detest those sewage-dripping concrete walls, despise the partially barricaded enclosure and spring-protruding mattress.

Present distressing circumstances are akin to the foetid basement from my childhood, the most poignantly upsetting memory of lonesomeness, trepidation and all-consuming anxieties.

Pulling myself off the makeshift bed, I trudged across the floor, palmed chalk-like debris and sat cross-legged before the metal gate.

I stopped tallying days; I no longer care.

Dragging the stone across the ground, I sketch improbabilities and representations to keep myself occupied. I stare at the unprofessional imagery with a humoured grin on my face. I am no Paul Cadden, but the black chalked flower garden certainly added juvenile yet divine décor to this squalid dump.

Dusting off my dirty hands, I stood and went for a walk—ten steps forward and ten steps back—skirting around the short-lived circumference.

I stared at the cracked wall and repeated the journey once more. “God,” I groaned, shuffling through strewn rubble. “I am wasting away.”

Picking encrusted begrime from my fingernails, I marched around the small square until sweat clung to the nape of my neck. “Bored.”

Elongating my body across the floor, I yawned, stretching my arms overhead.

My stomach ached and knotted from hunger pangs. I need nourishment, water at best. Illusory strawberries melted on my tongue, and I tasted my dry, chapped lips.

Intense sorrow weighed heavily on my shoulders, and unendurable bereavement caved my chest. “I want to go home,” I whispered, feeling a loan tear tickle from my eye, wading over the bridge of my nose.

I missed the flat, rousing to the sound of Chloe’s honeyed voice and the smell of brewing coffee.

I missed the Coffee House, humoured and entertained by Gray’s genuine earnestness and side-splitting jester qualities. His whimsical sense of humour.

I missed Club 11. Josh, Brad and Nate.

Most of all, I missed Him. Liam Warren. I missed him to the point of sleep deprivation and all-consuming nostalgia. I missed him so much that it hurt to breathe. “Please don’t stop loving me.”

Surely, Liam has the resources and contacts to find me.

What’s taking him so long?

I foolishly believed he’d have rescued me by now.

It doesn’t make any sense.

Snagging my duvet, I tore the floral coverlet off, gathered shattered, random-shaped stones and stuffed them into the foul-smelling material. “Bored.”

What am I doing?

I am losing my damn mind.

Troubling considerations withered me on the spot.

What if Liam has forgotten me?

No, I refuse to believe he’d give up on me—on us.

“Fucking bored,” I yelled, hurling the sack-pilled rocks aside. “Jace!” Grasping the metal bars, I twisted my head to the side and glared at the stairway. “Jace, I know you can hear me, you fucking asshole. I need to use that bathroom—I need to eat.”

Three days, I thought, sliding down the partition. It’s been three days since he visited.

I smell worse than a rabid skunk.

I am ravenous, thirsty and humiliatingly enduring menstruation. “Please,” I whispered, locking my thighs together, hiding dry, caked blood. “Please, Jace. You’re killing me.”

Heavy footsteps echoed above. I looked up, blinking against almost invisible dust particles, hearing his frantic movements. The door unlocked and sharply swings open before he descended the steps.

Repositioning to my knees, I held onto the poles and watched him with intent interest.

He tossed his leather jacket onto the sofa, rolled up his jumper sleeves and unzipped a black gym bag. “Stand up,” he orders, and I acquiesced. “No talking.”

I nod, waiting for him to unlock the gate.

Whipping a towel over his shoulder, he avoided my seeking gaze, snatched my elbow and dragged me toward the bathroom. “Can I trust you not to run again?” he asked with a mocking undertone, slamming the door behind us. “Get in.”

Nodding numbly, I lifted the hoodie from my body, slipping it to the ground.

“I restocked the cabinet.” He closed the toilet lid and became seated. “Go ahead.”

I gingerly selected rose-scented shampoo and conditioner, rummaging for tampons or pads. “I am on my period, Jace.”

His gaze lowered to my blood-stained thighs and his lips parted. “Shit.” Adam’s apple shifting, he rubbed his pinched eyes. “I’ll go…” He cut himself off. “I think I purchased some. I’ll be right back.”

He locked the door behind him, leaving me unattended.

Ripping the stained plastic curtain aside, I stood under the showerhead and turned on the water. For a short while, I do nothing but relish under cascading warmth, eliminating sweat and other bodily odours.

Squirting shampoo into my palm, I lather my hair, comb through with my fingers and repeat with conditioning. Scrubbed raw and smelling pleasant, I wait for Jace’s return, flinching when scolding temperatures pierce my skin. “Shit.” I snag a towel and wrap it around me, lingering by the basin.

What the hell is taking him so long?

Puffing out my cheeks, I whistle melodious tunes and study my long, dirty fingernails. I’d give anything for a manicure right now. I swear, if I am lucky enough to outlive Jace’s hideaway, I will devotedly preserve red-painted talons and well-deserved pedicures.

Opening the cabinet, I search for something sharp, opt for a cotton bud and remove embedded filth. Pleased with the end result, I rewash my hands and sit on the closed toilet seat.

Jace doesn’t return for fifteen minutes.

I counted.

“Here,” he said, relatively breathless. “I got you a selection.”

An array of feminine hygiene items land on my lap.

He wears a jacket and rain droplets dance on his brown, dishevelled hair. I inhale his emitting scent, leather, sandalwood and pine. Earthy, I thought, selecting a tampon box. He left the building to purchase sanitary products, which means there’s a small shop or convenience store nearby.

Hope inflated my lungs. I idiotically presumed the coastal views and barren perimeters exemplified uninhabitable bleak emptiness. “Thank you.”

Lips pressing into a flat, grim line, he gave me a moment’s privacy, closing the door behind him.

I went about my business, washed my hands for the third time and exited the bathroom.

Jace rummages through a black holdall on the sofa. “Get dressed.”

I catch a grey tracksuit and change, lingering with the damp towel between clenched fists.

Tearing a porridge wrapper with his teeth, he empties oats into a mug, adds a splash of milk and sets unappetising fodder in the microwave. “Sit.”

Drawing back a wooden chair, I become seated at the small, round table.

The microwave chimed.

Extracting the mug, he adds extra milk, stirs with a plastic spoon and then sets it on the table. Sweet honey flavours greet my senses. I inhaled and moaned in a euphoric haze, salivating and devouring splodge with gusto. God, you’d think I was consuming a three-course meal, steak or salmon, herby potatoes or pungent ravioli.

“Same,” said Jace, sitting opposite me, stirring his unpalatable gruel.

Licking starch from my lips, I stared at him beneath hooded brows. “What?”

“Steak and herby potatoes?” He spooned oats into his mouth. “I could eat that right now.”

His unwelcome, rude empath gift needs to back off. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

He stared at me, dumbfounded. “Thinking?”

I decided to test his paranormal aptitudes. “What else did I think, huh?”

Jace tapped the spoon against the mug edge. “Ravioli.”

My lips parted in utter disbelief. “How are you doing that?”

“You are so fucking strange,” he rudely grated, cracking open a can of beer. “You talk to yourself, Alexa. I am not a medium or clairvoyant or whatever.” He scratched his stubble jaw, highlighting the fact he hasn’t shaved for a while. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He’s right. I do converse with myself—I need to work on that. “You’re starving me,” I point out the obvious, hugging myself. “I understand that I am in no position to demand or make orders, but feeding me every couple of days is going to result in premature death, Jace. Look at me.” Lifting the hoodie, I exhibited my slender waist and protruding ribcage. “I am wasting away down here. I’ll either die of starvation or represent a corpse-like skeleton.” He only stares, emotionless and infuriatingly aloof. “Flamur will kill you for callous neglect.”

I detest the Albanian. His obsession regarding me knows no bounds. I can, however, mislead Jace by using Flamur’s fascination against him. “He wouldn’t want me to starve.”

Jace tossed the spoon down and raked a hand through his hair. “Nice try, Alexa. Bajramovic’s first request was your vulnerability and weakness. I am obeying direct orders.”

Of course, the monster wants to weaken my body, mind and soul. He plans to control and possess everything about me. “Why are you doing this to me, Jace? I was kind to you—”

“Don’t do that,” he cuts my off, casting his eyes to the floor. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“You’re sending me to my death,” I grated, slamming my palms onto the table in maddening rage. “I offered to pay you—”

“It’s not about money,” he retorts, glaring at me through wide, murderous eyes. “Not everything in life revolves around money, Alexa. Do I look like a man who cares for gratuitous bullshit?” He madly gesticulates to himself. “I am not a pompous fucking tycoon who thinks the world owes him something. You’re getting me confused with your beloved Warren.” He scoffed in disapproval. “Fucking ridiculous.”

“You’re just jealous,” I said, deceptively nonchalant. “Liam didn’t murder your parents, Jace. In fact, I don’t believe the man warrants your judgemental—”

“Did you forget that he put a gun to my head?” Elbows positioning onto the table, he laced his fingers together. “If it weren’t for you? I’d be swimming with the goddamn fishes!”

“And I defended you,” I argued. “What a foolish decision that was, huh?”

He laughed with an unexpectedly sincere smile. “Yeah, I guess.”

I gave him a prolonged, immerse look.

“Don’t judge me,” he bantered, checking a message on his phone. “You don’t know what the fuck I’ve been through.”

I didn’t care for knowledge, either. “Yet you know everything about me,” I said, jutting my chin forward. “And still, you’d send me back to that vile, monstrous man.”

Jace peered up from his phone but masqueraded his features.

“My sister is dead,” I continued, and his eyebrows furrowed. “Kathy, I mean. She’s dead. My mother also. I loved them both very much.” I curled hair behind my ears, twisting at the waist to look at the blanked-screen television. “I don’t remember my father. I think he was around, but not often. I get flashbacks of his loud voice, hurtful words and obstreperous upheaval. Well, they’re either flashbacks, nightmares or figments of my imagination.”

He sets his phone onto the table, listening with piqued interest.

“Flamur raped and murdered my mother.”

I recall Liam stressing otherwise when attempting to shield my memory, leave it untainted.

“Before he kidnapped Kathy,” I said, blinking rapidly to cloak vivid evocations. “And then, me.”

“Why are you telling me this?” He eased back in his chair, folding his arms. “Quit trying to fuck with my head. Your sob story falls on deaf ears.” Pulling his barbell between gnarled teeth, he penetrated me with a cold, derisive glare. “Nothing you do or say will impact my decision.” He slid the phone toward me. “Just accept fate and get over it.”

I glanced at the screen.

Bajramovic: tomorrow.

I kept my evasive mask in place. “You’re all disgusting monsters.”

He smiled flatly. “Said by the woman who opens her legs for London’s most notorious crime lord.”

“Fuck you,” I spat, lobbing the phone at his chest, earning myself a vexing snicker. “Oh, I am glad my anguish enlivens you, asshole. Don’t you ever, ever, compare Liam to that sick son of a bitch. He might be dangerous, but he’d never harm a child!”

Jace wore a frozen, angry expression. “Let’s prepare you for—”

“No.” I stood, the chair legs scraping against the floor. “I am not going away with the twisted, demonic monster. I’d rather die a thousand deaths than let him touch me again.” Without orders, I returned to the enclosure and parked on the mattress.

Through the railing gaps, I watch Jace stand and clear the table.

How can he be so calm?

How can he pretend everything about this ordeal is normal?

Jace didn’t lock the gate. I suppose my departure tomorrow alleviated such needless limitation measures.

Opening the mini-fridge, he grabbed another beer, swigged thirstily, turned on the television and selected a melodious radio station.

I laid on my side, resting my head on flatted hands.

We watched each other with equal interest.

Breaking away from our unexplainable exchange, Jace lifted a cardboard box onto the table, flipped open a switchblade and tore through the seal. Forehead wrinkled, he thumbs through contents and downed further alcohol. “Can you return to the table, Alexa?”

Is he on drugs? “No.”

He tampered down irritation, setting an additional beer beside the box. “I’ll let you have some alcohol.”

“Is it open?” Okay, I might bend for mind-numbing substance. “I don’t trust you, Jace. You likely poisoned it.”

“It’s an unopened bottle.” He tapped the chair. “Come on.”

It’s not as though I had anything better to do.

Clambering off the mattress, I returned to my seat, crossed my legs and popped open the bottle. I sipped, apple flavours sloping down my throat. “Cider?”

Jace dipped his head, scribbling unreadable sentences into a small, leather-bound book.

“If I behave,” I said, and he flung me a sideward glance. “If I do as I am told and not fight you, can I make one request?”

Poised and modulated, he tossed the book into the box. “What’s the request?”

“A friendly conversation, omnipresent music and perhaps a movie later.”

“Your mathematical skills are atrocious,” he joked, slumping onto a chair. “That’s three demands, Alexa.”

My smile widened a fraction. “I held back on food,” I half-heartedly teased, picking the paper emblem from the cider bottle.

Setting his jaw in place, Jace nods.

“What do you do?” I asked, and he frowned in puzzlement. “I mean, before the Coffee House.”

He eyed me with a distrustful glimmer in his specious, enchanting green eyes. “I am a tattoo artist. I worked at a parlour for over four years. It didn’t pay much, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.”

“Will you return to the Coffee House once I am gone?”

He shook his head.

“You’ll reclaim your old job roll?”

Once more, he shook his head.

“What will you do?” God, it’s like drawing blood from an impenetrable stone. “Where will you go? I mean, I guess you have this place.” I swept disapproving eyes over the peeling wallpaper and old-fashioned, scarce furnishings. “A lick of bright paint and contemporary upgrades ought to do the trick, right?”

“You didn’t shave,” he said, changing the subject. “You’ll need to sort that tomorrow.” Digging inside the box, he presented lace underwear on the table. “Here are a few choices for you.”

I stared at the designer labels and white lace. “Did you buy these?”

“No,” he exclaims, unable to meet my gaze. “Bajramovic sent them.”

Setting the bottle down, I picked up a padded bra. “It’s not my size.”

“I know,” he whispered, chewing his thumbnail. “We’ll make it work.”

“An underwire bra is ineffective. I lack breasts despite bust support and accentuated cleavage. And this,” I lifted the French lace underwear, “will fall off. I think he’s confusing my physique with my sisters.”

Jace ceded in his seat, wiping sweat from his temples. “How did she die?”

I am not prepared to throw Liam into the firing line. “She killed herself—couldn’t live with her demons.”

He wanted elaborateness but refrained from asking. “Was she pretty?”

It was an odd question. It made me wonder if Jace considered our resemblances. “Yes,” I admit, fumbling with the underwear. We had similar features. The same eye colour, noses and we both had our mother’s horrendous laugh. “Kathy inherited such raw beauty. Sure, we’re alike, but she was something else. Her hair was so black it was blue, and her infectious smile gained awareness wherever we ventured. Unlike me, she had a flawless, curvaceous body, assets and a magnetising face that most men appreciated. I lived in her shadow, but I never resented her. I looked up to Kathy, admired and adored everything about her.”

Jace’s eyebrows met as he listened.

“Kathy was beautiful, Jace.” I smiled impishly at him. “Beautiful, fun, smart and…” Deceiving, I thought, swallowing a painful lump. “Anyway…”

“Your hair is dark, not almost blue, but has a brown shimmer,” he said, tapping his knuckles on his thigh. “Your eyes are incredible. At a glance, they look hazel, sometimes brown, but if you look closely,” he inched in, forearms resting on the table, “green speckles overshadow. Your gaze is most definitely your best feature. However, immaterial to how you perceive yourself, you’re beautiful, Alexa.”

“I’m working on self-love.” My throat was suddenly dry, and tears brimmed my eyes. “I guess it’ll take time.”

“No, you just need to stop comparing yourself to Kathy.”

Jace opened a rectangular leather box where a diamond choker laid on black padding. “I think these are real.”

I saw nothing but red. “I am not wearing that,” I protest, summoning fury. “I am not a dog, Jace. How dare he try and put a collar on my neck—”

“Alexa,” he growled, closing the jewellery box with a harsh snap. “You said that you’d behave.”

“And you said, you were gay,” I spat, lunging the bottle across the room. It smashed into the wall, showering glass and bubbly liquid. “You also claimed that Liam murdered your parents—before fooling me into believing you were a decent, humble man who wanted no more than friendship. Don’t you dare sit there and berate me for going back on my word, not after you lied to me, not after everything you’ve done.”

“I don’t have time for this,” he clipped, selecting a garment for me. “You need to try these on. I think the purple dress—”

I snatched it from his hand, stepped out of his jogging bottoms and tore off the hoodie. “No problem.” Fumbling with the satin material, I furiously tugged it over my head. “I shall present myself accordingly, my lordship.”

He rolled his eyes. “Quit with the melodramatics.”

“Hair up or down?” I demonstrated and then dropped matted locks over one shoulder. “You might need to brush the ends.”

A muscle popped in his jaw. “You don’t need me to brush your hair.”

“Incorrect. Nowadays, I rely on you for everything.”

My sarcasm irked him. “Do you want to go back in the cell? At this rate, you’ll be listening to that movie through the wall.”

“I mastered how to pleasure a man before my tenth birthday,” I said, and he stopped pacing. “It became a customary cycle. He’d unlock the door and enter the place that both shielded and terrified me. I counted Jace. I’d hide under the duvet and count his footsteps until he reached me—fifteen for the stairs and eight toward the bed.

“I was fortunate enough to reach eleven before he claimed my virtue,” I continued, and he put his back to the wall. “He tried beforehand, but I wasn’t able to accommodate him. You know, being underdeveloped.”

“Stop,” he rasped, breathing heavily into a clenched fist. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“I escaped, Jace,” I cried, throat thickening on sobs. “I unclipped my wings. Please reconsider and let me go. I won’t tell anyone what happened; I promise—”

“No,” he barked, slumping on the sofa. “It’s a non-negotiable transaction, Alexa. Quit trying to get inside my head and ready yourself for the morning.”

Transaction? What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Through momentarily impaired vision, I rounded the table with lackadaisical steps, towered above his hunched frame and straddled his thighs.

“What are you doing?” He ebbed away from me, capturing my wandering his hands in vice-like grips. “Alexa?”

“Please,” I cried, forcing him to embrace him. “Please, Jace. Don’t do this to me. I can’t survive any more heartbreak.” I kissed his jaw, and he protested. “Jace.”

“Stop,” he growled, shutting his eyes. “Alexa!”

“He’ll kill me!” I screamed, and he threw my body onto the ground. Palms flat to the floor, I see him searching for his keys, preparing to leave. “No, Jace. Please don’t do this. I beg you.”

He angrily tore on his leather jacket.

In brave mode, I lunged to my feet, charged at him and blindly pummelled my fists into his back.

He hissed, dodging my uncontrollable blows and soaring anger. “Stop fucking hitting me!”

“You are a cold-hearted monster!” I spat, not giving two shits about my gnarled features and unattractive appearance. “Imagine if it were your mother. Your sister. Your daughter. I might be worthless cargo to you, but I am loved by many and what you’re doing? Enabling that sick, child molester is sadistic and barbaric—”

Gripping my neck, he hauled me close, boring into me with fierce, promising eyes. “You are seriously testing my patience.”

I spit in his face.

Saliva slapped his chin and his fierce expression detonated. He flung my body across the table, the bottles and ceramic mugs fractured on forceful impact.

I contortion onto the floor, his merciless action knocked the wind from my lungs. “Jace,” I wheezed, futilely attempting to move. “My head…” Light-headedness blurred my vision, and painful ruptures burnt my face, hands and legs. “It hurts.”

Jace’s leather boots stepped onto broken glass. He spits out a curse and retreats, leaving me on the cold floor.

I heard the door slam and lock in place.

Exhaling harshly, I mustered enough strength to crawl away from the carnage and slumped, boneless, disordered, giving into darkened temptation.

Chapter 13

Alexa

Flamur Bajramovic conspired and kidnapped Summer Williams. His unconscionable, contemptible actions evoked distressing memories. While Jace further explained his daughter’s abduction, I compartmentalised scattered thoughts, reliving a gruesome nightmare.

Jace chased and strived to obtain the fleeing transit van when his phone chimed. He knew it was bad, he’d told me. His paternal instincts, too strong, too devastatingly profound. The unknown caller, Flamur, relayed uncooperative orders.

Call or involve the police, and I’ll kill your daughter, Flamur warned. If you want to see her again, unscathed and in one-piece, pull over and wait for instructions.

Unbearably morose, defeated and obsequious, Jace slammed a foot down on the break and listened to orders.

Later that night, after drinking enough vodka to numb his aching heart, Jace, as instructed, sat in a nearby dive bar, waiting for the Albanian’s arrival. As an alternative, Flamur sent a loyal subject: Rezart.

It took great willpower for Jace to sit with Rezart. He wanted to reach over the table, wrap his hands around the man’s throat and witness the longevity drain from his eyes.

Rezart communicated his boss’ instructions. He’d handed Jace an envelope and a list of orders.

Jace, studious and hopeful, thumbed through images of a young woman.

Alexa Haines, Rezart informed him.

Angry, powerless and slightly confused, Jace, with trembling hands, read the penmanship. He had to befriend this unacquainted woman, earn her trust and shake overbearing, overprotective security detail.

Jace had questioned why someone of her apparent, normal status received such lionising attention. She lived on the rough side of town in a council tenanted-building and worked full-time at the Coffee House for minimum wage. Those questions remained unanswered, though. He deemed unknowingness a more comfortable option. Understanding would merely revive his moral compass.

Rezart had stressed that she’s protected fiercely by Liam Warren’s men and insisted Jace must be vigilant at all costs.

Jace hadn’t commented on such warnings. He had, however, heard of Warren thoroughly while residing in London. He’d never spoken nor met the man personally, but whispering rumours and gruesome tales painted the perfect image.

Of course, the inhumane yet strategic plan ensued life-threatening stipulations. Jace, not only had to deceive, manipulate and abduct, in his eyes, an innocent woman. He had to watch his back in the hope that Warren or his men didn’t comprehend his fiendish motives and kill him.

First, Jace, calculated and friendly, introduced himself to his victim—yours truly. He wished for my awareness before applying for a job with Grayson. Meanwhile, my deceptively handsome and apparent, homosexual co-worker—even though, I had initially suspected his sexuality—fooled me into believing his desire for friendship and carefree smile. Hell, I genuinely deemed the man innocuous and harmless, defended him against the man I love.

Inconsequential past behaviour, I thought, scarfing down salted fries. Oh, God. I have never tasted such awesomeness in my life. “These are so good,” I moaned, licking residue from my chapped lips. “I need more.

Jace smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll eat more later,” he said, hands glued to the steering wheel. “Thank you, Alexa.”

I frowned. “For what?”

“For boarding the ferry without fuss.” He veered the Chevy onto the M4, dipping his head to look for oncoming cars in the rear-mirror. “You could have called for help the second I left you to use the bathroom.”

“I promised to help you find Summer,” I explained once more, adding a vodka shot to my Coke. “I never break promises.”

“I appreciate your kindness, especially after everything I put you through.”

Yes, he warrants a slap for neglect, malnourishment and lack of showers. “It’s done—we’re moving on,” I said instead, sipping Coke through a straw. “How did Flamur take the news?”

This morning, before leaving the cottage and boarding a ferry back to Liverpool, Jace sent Flamur a text message, requesting more time to “break me in.”

Dissatisfied but compliant, Flamur granted an additional two weeks and even detailed his recently complicated situation. He is due to fly back to Tirana with his wife and closest men—I assume there’s a seat on that plane with my name on it—but recent quandaries hindered prior arrangements. “Also,” I continued, helping myself to Jace’s hotdog. “What do you think is stopping him from departing London at the appointed time? I reckon Liam’s on the prowl.”

“Bajramovic had no reason to disbelieve me,” he said, cracking down the window. “He mentioned that recent quandaries hindered prior arrangements.”

I know. I sneakily read that message when Jace took a shower.

“He didn’t say anything else, though. Plus, he assured me that Summer’s okay, so that’s something. I just wish he’d let me talk to her.”

Stout-hearted and optimistic, Jace, understandably, wishes to see an auspicious development. Inveigled and misinformed by Flamur and his staunch men, he believes his daughter’s safe, unharmed and intact.

I wish I had his faith. Yes, indisputably, Summer’s breathing, sleeping and inadequately eating; however, I disbelieve Flamur, or his vile minions haven’t touched her.

The Albanian’s run an underground paedophile ring and are at the forefront of human trafficking. I ache for everyone who crosses paths with those monsters. I ache for a little girl who got caught in the crossfire because Flamur was obsessed with me.

Nonetheless, I do not voice concerns. It is crucial that I protect Jace from Flamur’s capabilities and pray his baby girl makes it home in one piece. “I think it has something to do with Liam.” I changed the topic, wanting to steer away from the horrific subject matter. “Flamur’s predicaments, I mean.”

Jace snorted, mildly shaking his head.

“What? You don’t think the ‘notorious crime lord,’” I imitated, caressing each sardonic word, “is capable of bringing down that fat old bastard.”

Jace flung me a stunned expression, eyebrows jumping to his hairline. “Profanity and insults sound insane coming from you.”

I squinted at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You rarely curse.” Hitting the indicators, he navigated the Chevy onto the main road. “Even when compromised, you’re demure, composed and often tight-lipped.”

“Are those bad qualities to possess?”

“Not really.” Hardly the response I was looking for. “Your bleeding heart is susceptible to ramifications and unfortunate consequences, though, specifically because of Warren’s lifestyle.”

I paused with the straw near my lips. “My trusting tendencies and natural kindness frustrated Liam,” I admit, chewing my lower lip. “He often reprimanded me for not getting a backbone.”

He glanced at me. “Is that what he said?”

“Not those exact words…” No, Liam refrained from insulting me, but I knew it’s how he secretly felt. “I think he wanted more from me. You know, like, he needed me to be somebody that I’m not.”

“It’s understandable,” he defended. “He loved you, right? Warren’s cold-hearted, corrupt, ruthless, unforgiving and despised by most. He’s also very fucking switched on—didn’t achieve his status by tactlessness or foolishness—and he knows loving you is dangerous. It’s not unreasonable, Alexa. If I were in his position? I’d want my woman to be fierce and strong. Fuck, she’d have to be vicious to outsmart enemies.”

I never thought of it like that. “Have you seen the size of me?” I curved an eyebrow, gesturing to my physique. “If a predator came at me? I’d have better luck playing dead.”

Jace’s raspy laughter deadened the soft rock music. He exited the M4 and was soon venturing through country roads. “You’re right.” He drums his fingers against the gearstick. “Most women are vulnerable to male predators. But,” he enunciated, speeding past vast greenery and beneath darkening skies, “there are other ways to outmanoeuvre and defeat possible threats or unpleasant situations.”

I beg to differ. “Go on…” In the distance, hunkered between tree-lined borders, I noticed a waist-length cobblestoned wall and wrought iron gates alongside horse-head stone-pillar sculptures. “Where are we?”

Jace parked the truck. “Pit stop.” He climbs out, slams the door and waits for me to join him. “Before we go in,” he unlocks the boot to take out a gym bag, “I want to show you something.”

I am wearing his oversized tracksuit, so the thermal material protects me from cold winds. “You want to show me something in the middle of nowhere?” I was suddenly unnerved by our eerie surroundings. “Jace…”

“So,” he tossed the bag on the floor, “if someone comes at you, either front on or behind, you need to stay calm. Now, I appreciate that it’s easier said than done.” He rolls up his hoodie sleeves, leaving them casually at the elbows. “Let’s say that I am an attacker. I see a young, vulnerable woman, walking alone at night, as a sexual predator or an opportunist, I am going to try my luck. I might just want your handbag.” He stepped forward, and I stepped backed. “Alexa, I’m not going to rob my clothes from your back. It’s a demonstration.”

“I knew that,” I lied, tucking unruly hair behind my ears. “What if you’re a rapist?”

His eyebrows welded harshly. “I hope that’s a figurative question.”

I nod.

“Okay, well, I am not a rapist, but I assume they’d try and grab you from behind. Turn around.” I obeyed, stiffening when his arms wrapped around my neck. “Don’t panic. I’m not using strength, Alexa. It’s an example.”

His cologne was oddly reassuring. “You smell nice,” I admit, and he puffed out a discouraged breath in my ear. “It’s not an insult, Jace. It’s a compliment.”

“First, you breathe and instinctively drop into a stance.” He nudged the backs of my thighs with his knee, urging me to follow instructions. “At this point, screaming is futile. And you only have a few seconds to release yourself from your attackers hold. Stomping on his foot will loosen his grip, but it’s ineffective without a mechanical combination. Follow up with a shift,” he twists my body slightly, angling my elbow to his lower stomach, “and shove a hard jab to the gut, and then throw your head back.”

He released me, and I faced him. “So, stomp on your foot, impale your ribs and break your nose.”

“Remember, you only have a few seconds. If those three shockwaves don’t loosen the attack, find some flesh and bite the fuck out of him.” He flattened his limps into a knowing smile. “Your cannibalism almost resulted in me dropping you on your head.”

I smirked triumphantly. “Did it nearly work?”

“Yes,” he reluctantly agreed, lifting his hoodie to show me the bruising bite mark.

“What if those defence techniques do not work?”

“Oh, they’ll work. He’ll release you to check the damage to his nose. In the meantime, you run like a bat of fucking hell and don’t look back. If he manages to obtain you again?” He winced, scratching his jaw. “He’ll likely muffle your cries, beat you into unconsciousness and you know how the story ends.” Leaning down, he snatches the bag, fixing the strap across his chest. “You only get one shot, Alexa. The rest is history.”

“That’s shocking,” I whispered, falling into step beside him. “And barbaric.”

“I agree with you. Our beliefs don’t change the way of the world, though. Alas, sexual assault and victimisation occurs more often than I care to acknowledge.” He unexpectedly seized my wrist. “Women are easy targets. Remember, if ever being followed, walk confidently at a steady pace and head for a well-lit area, or avoid late-night strolls alone if possible. Trust your gut instincts and vary your routes—being too predictable is risky.”

A shudder ascended my spine. “Are you going to teach me additional self-defence methods?”

He dipped his head, letting go of my hand. “Yes, but it’s late, and it’ll take more than one night to train you.”

“You’re going to train me,” I repeated in disbelief, following him toward those fancy wrought-iron gates. “What else is in store for our defence classes?” Ghostlike laughter echoed from beyond those walls. “Where are we going? And did you hear voices?”

“I’ll train you once we’re back in London.” Hand to the gate, he lingered before entering. “Although, once Warren gets his hands on you, I doubt he’ll ever let you leave his side again. Even if he did grant freedom? You exist at the side of his men. In his world, what you really need to learn is how to fire bullets and how to dodge them.” The gate groaned as he shoved it open. “Come on.”

I traipsed behind him. “I want that,” I said, struggling to keep up with his long strides. “I want to learn, Jace…” Rabid growling roused horripilation to the back of my neck. “What the hell was that?” It’s only then that I rationalise our blackout surroundings. “Jace, I cannot see anything!”

“Don’t panic,” he stressed, and then I felt his hand on my lower back. “Keep walking.”

“I am not joking, Jace.” Moulding to his side, I clung to his hoodie sleeve. “It’s completely black. How can you direct us without any light?” A myriad of dog barks resounded in the distance. “Oh, God! I’m going back to the truck before those wolves eat me.”

“Alexa,” Jace retorts, gripping me by the waistband and compelling me forward. “We’re fine. I come here all the time. And those dogs can just sense us, so they’re alerting the camp.”

“Alerting the what?” I shrieked, flapping like a madwoman in his uncompromising death-grip. “Jace, I’m scared.”

He stopped then, eyeing me sceptically. The soft moonlight outlines his stern face and green eyes, drawing additional attention to his unfaltering masculinity. I knew Jace had gorgeous and impressive features but drastically changed my opinion while enduring captivity. Now, though, I can admit to myself that he’s rather exquisite.

Addressing as much is new for me. I’ve only ever looked at men in a negative life, except for Liam.

My heart thudded.

Just thinking of Liam Warren uncaged those uncontrollable butterflies in my stomach.

I know little about Jace Williams. He’s twenty-three years old and has a seven-year-old daughter named Summer. She’s blonde whereas he’s dark, not black dark, chocolate brown hair, slightly longer on the top. He did mention they shared the same eye colour, but does she take after her mother? What was her name? Her name was Lucy, wasn’t it? Where is she in all this? I almost asked, but cleaved my tongue instead. I’m sure Jace will clarify once we’re back in London. We both need to trust the process—trust each other—before confining and elucidating history.

“It starts now,” Jace rasped, and I cocked my head in puzzlement. “I don’t know enough about you, but your relentless screaming back at the Isle of Man sufficiently helped me puzzle the pieces together.”

I blinked rapidly. “You took me to the Isle-of-fucking-Man?”

Jace groaned in exasperation. “Forget about that, Alexa. My point is that you had a seriously gruesome childhood, so fucked-up that I’m too afraid to ask questions. You survived, moved on and managed to gain the attention of Liam Warren. Do you have any idea what that means?” When I didn’t respond, he added, “It means the vast majority of London are terrified of Alexa Haines.”

I stared at him open-mouthed. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly,” he shoved me forward. “Nobody is messing with Warren’s woman unless they have a death wish. So, quit fucking jumping, fretting over harmless dogs and hold your damn chin up.”

I lifted my chin on impulse. “We’re not in London, though,” I remind him, sneakily gravitating to his side. “We’re in Liverpool.”

“Same horse.” He draped an arm around my shoulders, hand finding mine, interlacing our fingers. “I am welcome here, but they frown upon outsiders, so pretend.”

Howling dogs rattled my bones. I see a long-line of metal kennels, concealing those vicious blood-hounds. Two lunged and sabotaged the metal bars, vehemently barking as we pass. “Harmless dogs, my ass,” I said sarcastically. “They want to eat us.”

Our surroundings belatedly dawned on me. Encompassed by mobile homes, the caravan site and top-of-the-range Land Rovers instilled escalating trepidation. In the midst of dimly lit homes, a group of male gypsies occupy a campfire. They laugh together, drink bottled beers and permeate the air with marijuana. “Jace…” Fisting his hoodie, I came to a sharp stop, the blood in my body, sinking to my feet.

One of the men detected uninvited visitors. He slowly soared from the overturned crane, squaring his broad shoulders. “Who’s there?” he asked, and his friends collectively glanced in our direction. “Ye lost or somethin’? Ye won’t get any help from us.”

Jace ignored his question, dragging me reluctant backside to our premature death. “Tommy,” he said, I was too scared to make eye contact. “It’s Jace.”

“Jace?” Tommy, I think, asked. “What the fuck are ye doin’ all the way down here?”

I held my breath.

“Went on a romantic getaway with my girl,” Jace lied, releasing his hold on me to…hug the gypsy. “I couldn’t drive past without visiting.”

“Fuckin’ hell, man,” Tommy hugged Jace, tapping his back. “Aye, I’d have killed ye for not seein’ me.”

Speechless, dumbfounded, I watched Jace fist-pump the other men, some much older, others similar in age. He chucked the bag onto the floor, accepted a bottle beer and laughed at Tommy’s theatrical conversing.

I have entered the twilight zone—

“Alexa,” Jace said, hauling me to his side. “I’d like you to meet Tommy.” He kissed my temple. “My cousin.”

I seriously need to learn more about my mysteriously newfound friend. “It’s lovely to meet you.” I shake Tommy’s hand, admiring his well-built frame and extensive body art. I mean, it’s hard not to investigate. Him, much like the others, showcase intricate tattoos, similar to Jace.

“Likewise.” He looked at Jace “Why didn’t ye ask Ma to look after our girl?”

I felt Jace stiffen. He masked his devastation, though. “Alexa’s sister offered. You know I don’t like putting on your mother.”

Okay, it’s my turn to straighten. “My sister loves kids.”

Nodding in agreement, Jace snatched a beer from one of the guys, forced it in my hand. “Drink with me.”

“Put some bangers on the barbecue,” Tommy orders, motioning for us to follow. “Ye can use my van for the night. I’ll stay with Sheila.”

“Thanks, man.” Jace held my hand, and we shadowed Tommy to a long-stretched caravan. “I appreciate it.”

Ascending three concrete steps, Tommy shoved the door open and entered, turning on the lights. I warily joined the two men, fumbling with my hoodie drawstrings. It’s a beautiful layout, extra-wide with contemporary furnishings, modernised with high-grade entertainment systems and kitchen appliances. I don’t know what I expected, but a chesterfield corner sofa, grey hues and a marble dining table to accommodate six people were not it.

I rest my hip to the kitchen counter, disregarding their brotherly laughter.

“Ye should both change,” Tommy advised, wandering down the intersecting hallway, opening a door. “Ye know where everythin’ is Jace. Shower ye girl. Don’t fuck on my couch. Take the spare bedroom.”

An impossible blush burnt my cheeks.

“Try not to be too long.” Tommy tugged on a navy jumper, fumbling with the blond braid irritating the nape of his neck. “We’ll eat and catch up.” Winking at me as he passed, he descended the steps to return to his…friends? “And get drunk, of course.”

I don’t like the sound of being drunken disorderly around people I didn’t know.

Jace waited until Tommy left. “Calm down, Alexa.” He failed to hide his amused smirk, selecting the bedroom facing the shared bathroom. “I’m not really going to fuck you.”

“I wasn’t worried about that,” I clipped, peering into his chosen bedroom. “I’m not sharing a bed with you, Jace.”

“Grab another one.” Poised, uninsulated, he unzipped the bag, rummaged for clean clothes. “I grabbed you some stuff on the Ferry. They had a killer confectionery store and a selection of spirits.”

My eyes rounded at the sight of jarred sweets. “I could demolish some of those boiled mints.”

He gave me a jar, a beach towel and new clothes. I fingered the black jeans and tight-fitted long-sleeved top with investigatory fingertips. Beneath the folded clothes was a pink lingerie set. He’d selected items in my exact size. I know I am supposed to hate him, but his kindness and thoughtful gift brought tears to my eyes. “I hate pink,” I said, swallowing a painful lump. “Red is my favourite colour.”

“I know.” His hand hovered above another folded pile. “I got you two red sets, but I didn’t want you to think…” He shook whatever thoughts festered inside his head, passing me the additional items without a glance. “Red lace is sexy on a woman, so I thought that you might…”

“It’s okay,” I interject, grasping his uncomfortable posture. “I don’t think you’re insinuating or imagining my underwear on your bedroom floor, Jace,” I joked, attempting to lighten the mood. I turned to shower, stopped, glimpsed over my shoulder. “Are you a gypsy, too?”

He reached behind his neck and pulled the hoodie off from over his head. “No.”

How can he be related to Tommy without gypsy blood?

“I’m not overly hungry, so would you mind if I went straight to bed?”

“Sure.” Opening a door inside his room, he entered an en-suite bathroom and began stripping. “Unless you’re hanging around to watch me release some tension, I suggest you close the door and take that shower.”

Blinking owlishly, I closed the door, found the other bathroom and luxuriated in the best shower to date.

Chapter 14

Liam

I am standing in the queue at the Coffee House, muting rushing commuters and dramatic conversationalists. Glimpsing at the time on my wristwatch, I stepped forward, sighed in frustration, too impatient for the over-talkative barista and lonely customers who seemingly have nothing better to do than discuss roasted beans.

On impulse, I looked around. Alexa’s not here, but I scoured regardless. I seldom visited the Coffee House when she laboriously occupied those machines or worked those tables for minimum wage. Her employment status infuriated me. I hated those long hours and demanding shifts—hated how she chose to be here, instead of returning to the club and earning a decent wage. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t frown upon common occupations. I did, however, repudiate her slaving away for a pittance.

Alexa deserved more, so much more.

Irrelevant to her stubborn tendencies and my blatant disapproval, I should’ve visited more.

Why didn’t I make an effort? I could have checked in from time-to-time, ordered a beverage and sat in one of those corner booths. I could have watched her work, or waited until she took a break and ordered us a late-lunch.

I missed too many opportunities to spend time with her—time I will never get back.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

I checked Brad’s endless line of text messages.

Brad: Where are you?

Brad: Bossman, you didn’t come back to work last night.

Brad: Should I be worried? You’re seriously starting to piss me off.

Brad: Don’t kill me for that last one.

Brad: Do you want me to bring in some coffee?

Brad: I am inside your office. Where the fuck are you?

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Nate: I found something interesting. I think it’s best to show you in person, though.

My interest piqued. I dialled his number, set the phone to my ear.

“Sir,” Nate drawled, hushing the men in the background. “I see you received my message.”

A customer left with two coffees, so I took a step closer to the main counter. “What do you have for me?”

“Are you familiarised with the name Hellen Bennett?”

I stimulated past encounters. “No.”

Nate snorted. “Try again.”

Another step forward. “Nate, get to the goddamn point.”

“Approximately three years ago, you attended a charity event at—”

“Conway Hall,” I interject, hand crushing the phone. “Go on.”

“You met a feisty blonde? Left the function early and checked into a hotel…”

I rolled my eyes. “What about her?”

“Oh, so you do remember that disastrous night.”

I recall a statuesque blonde-haired woman with great tits whose libidinousness put the male population to shame. “Disastrous in what sense? The woman gave great head, let me fuck her and left my bed with no obligations. Sounds pretty fucking perfect to me.”

“She also stalked you for eight months.”

My eyebrows meshed in perplexity. Yes, Miss Bennett had expressed her fondness the night we slept together, but she hadn’t pestered to see me again, not after I made it abundantly clear to part ways. It’s not my style, rendezvousing with female encounters to pick up where we left off. No, I am a fuck-and-forget-about-them kind of man, or so I was until Alexa stumbled into my life.

Thoughts of Her caved my chest. I pressed a palm to my thudding heart, kneading the ever-present pain with the heel of my hand. “I wasn’t aware that Miss Bennett was a problem.”

“You pay us a significant amount of money to rid such taxing dilemmas,” he reminded me. “I had to blackmail her ass.”

“Why not a body bag?” I mused, next in line. “Since when was the syndicate so lenient?” In front of me, a curious female, listening to my conversation, passes me a disapproving glance across one shoulder. “Can I fucking help you?”

She bristled, derailing her discontentment.

“I can hear that you’re busy,” Nate said, muffling the receiver to assuage Brad in his rancour state. “Are you due back any time soon? I’d rather show you the documents.”

“Yes,” I assured, stationing before the cash register. “And tell Brad to pipe the fuck down.” Killing the call, I stuffed the phone in my pocket and waited patiently for Grayson to take my order.

He wipes spillage from the counter with a stained tea towel and grabs a black marker. “What can I get you…?” His cheerfulness plummeted. “Warren.”

I ignored his heated glare. “Black coffee.”

Popping a jaw muscle, he snags a takeaway cup, scribbling my name onto the bright green cardboard. He frequently shoots lightning bolts in my direction, intense disapproval radiating off his shaking body.

It’s not fear, emitting from his protective bubble. It’s sheer hatred. “Is there something you’d like to get off your chest?” Out of respect for Alexa, I won’t reach over and stuff his hand in the fruit blender.

Coffee prepared, he slammed it down before me, swishing brown liquid across the counter.

I inhale a deep breath, respiring through my nose. I am trying exceptionally hard not to lose my cool.

“If it wasn’t for you,” he points the marker in my face, “kicking off and upsetting Alexa that night? She’d be alive right now—”

“You better shut your fucking mouth,” I snarled through gritted teeth, hands curling into fists inside my trouser pockets. “I appreciate that you’re upset. But if you dare insult me or insinuate that her death is on my shoulders, I’ll hack off your vindictive, wayward tongue and lodge it down your goddamn throat. You,” I barked, an angry flush clambering my neck, “got no right to stand there and fucking judge me. No fucking right.” I eyed the coffee cup with the words “wanker” scribbled in permanent black marker. “You ignorant cunt.”

Before Grayson could retract or apologise, I picked up the cardboard cup and lunged it at him, shrouding myself with theatrical inhalations from horrified spectators. He jumped back to evade dousing, the thoughtless act ruining his stark-white polo shirt and ostentatious apron.

“Good job it was fucking cold, huh?” Laughing dryly to myself, I shook my head in disdain, stormed past the long queue of thunderstruck customers and stumbled away from the building.

Although incomparable to what I am inured to, his insensitive words hit me straight in the chest. I love her, I thought, ambling around the street corner, putting my back to a wall for a momentary breather. I love her so fucking much and his cold-hearted, upbraiding shook me to the core.

Balancing a cigarette between my lips, I ignited a flame on the chrome Clipper, inhaling a soothing drag. I espied Grayson across the road, frantically searching—his eyes land on me, and he jogs over with determined strides.

For fuck’s sake. “Unless you’re seeking a premature death,” I warned, and paused, keeping a safe distance between us, “I’d be careful what you say to me.”

He thrust a hand through his blond, untamed hair. “My unprofessional behaviour was completely uncalled for,” he somewhat apologised, eyes cast to the floor. “I’m upset, hurt and angry at life. Nobody deserved to die like that.” He cupped his mouth. Eyes brimmed red and glassy. “Our Alexa didn’t deserve to die in a burning building.”

I looked away, concentrated on omnipresent traffic and eccentric commuters.

“Chloe’s still in bits,” he tells me, thinking I give a shit about the bodacious blonde. “She barely leaves the house and has lost too much weight. I am so worried about her, but I got the Coffee House to contend with and can’t afford to take any more time off work. I desperately need to hire new employees.” He groaned under his breath. “It’s inconsiderate, though, right?”

“I’m sure one death hasn’t improvised lucrativeness that much.” Sarcasm rolled off my tongue. “If you require new staff? Hire and be done with it.”

“Well, I lost them both—but that’s irrelevant,” he quickly adds, raising two hands. “Sorry, I’m just trying to apologise. I tend to become a motormouth when compromised.”

Smoke rolled around my mouth. I digested his one-way conversation, cocked my head, facing him. “What did you say?”

He sank his cheeks, rocking back on the heels of his leather shoes. “I tend to be a motormouth when compromised.”

“No, you said that you lost them both.” I tossed the cigarette, stuffing my hands inside my pockets to refrain from pummelling him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, Jace…” He ebbed, comprehending my confusion. “Why wouldn’t you know that?”

I saw red. I snatched his throat in an iron grip, shoving his back to the wall. “Are you mocking me?” I applied pressure, fingers pinching his reddened neck. “You are seriously testing my fucking patience, you son of a bitch—”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Eyes bulging from their sockets, he clawed at my wrist, eyes pleading with me to release him. “You’re hurting me!”

“Why was Jace inside her apartment building?” I asked, but he barely mustered a shrug, complexion turning beet-red. “Answer me!”

“Please,” he gasped, wrestling for breath. “It hurts—”

I thrust him aside, hearing his choked inhalation.

Positioning two hands to the wall, I lowered my head, quelling my frenetic heartbeat, fearing the worst. “Was she fucking him?” No, Alexa loved me—only me. She’d never let another man touch her. “Make me understand, Grayson.”

“I don’t think so,” he futilely reassured, massaging his sore throat. “I mean, I doubt it. Jace preferred men. I had more chance of getting him into bed.”

“His declared homosexuality is the biggest lie of the goddamn century,” I snapped, and he didn’t barter. “We both know that motherfucker wasn’t into cock.”

“Impossible.” He utilised his ruffled-up polo shirt to dab sweat from his forehead. “Alexa loved you.”

It doesn’t explain why Jace went down in that fire. “Not enough, apparently.”

“Don’t do that,” he said, and I shot him a murderous glare. “Alexa was pathetically in love with you. Truthfully, she made me want to hurl my breakfast whenever she doted on you. I know it might sound hard to believe, but she paid no attention to male proximity.” Hands to his hips, he rolled his bottom lip between his teeth. “I don’t know why Jace entered her flat that night. However, I have no reason to suspect or disbelieve that he only spent time with Alexa as a friend. Contrary to what you think, Jace was a decent guy.”

No, something wasn’t right. I felt it—something inside me screamed to ask more questions and unearth answers.

Alexa and I expressed our love and made unspoken promises.

Then why the fuck was she in her flat, spending the night with him?

***

I avoided Club 11 until I knew the men were out handling business. Nate had something important to discuss with me, but I needed some alone time, a whiskey bottle, cocaine, and darkness after today’s revelation.

Dragging on a half-smoked joint, I exhale smoke, listening to the club’s loud music, belting beneath me.

Clink. Clink. Clink

I tapped the Desert Eagle against the tiled floor in the bathroom, traced the trigger with my forefinger and made a popping sound with my tongue. I blinked to clear temporary blindness, finishing the euphoric haze and pulled a drink from the bottle.

I am lost, so fucking lost.

Stretching out my legs, back resting to the wall, I whistle tunes, blindly trace the engraving on my gun. I closed my eyes, searched for Her, needing one moment, needing to see her beautiful face. “Alexa,” I groaned, and two soft palms touched my cheeks. “Baby.”

“It’s okay, Liam,” she whispered, straddling my thighs, kissing the crease between my furrowed brows. “You need to stop drinking.”

“I can’t,” I mumbled, licking whiskey from my dry lips. “It’s the only time I get to see you.”

“You’re endangering yourself, the syndicate and your men.” Wrapping her arms around my neck, she brushed her lips across mine, teased the corner of my mouth. “People are talking—”

“Fuck hearsay,” I barked, and her spine straightened. “I’m sorry, baby.” I curled a protective arm around her slender waist. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You know that, right?”

“You always shout at me,” she breathes, forehead laid on my shoulder. “I hate it when you’re mad at me.”

“And I hate that you fear me,” I admit, kissing the spot beneath her ear. “Forgive me. I lose rationality when it comes to you.” Placing the gun down, I piano my fingertips along her thigh, her waistline, earning myself a stifled chuckle. “Are you ticklish, Alexa?”

“No,” she lies, capturing my wandering hand, interlacing our fingers. “Don’t you dare.”

“I can’t help it.” I smiled, wishing I could see her beautiful face midst our black sphere. “I love it when you laugh.” Lifting her hand to my mouth, I pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her wrist. “Your happiness soothes me.” I blinked, and her arcane form disappeared like an apparition, leaving me in a state of abandonment and unforgiving pain. “I miss you.”

Blurry-eyed, I downed enough alcohol to numb my body, licking rich flavours from my lips. I rolled a bullet between three fingers, clasped it with my thumb and forefinger. Loading the gun, cocking it, I gulped another gallant shot, positioned the barrel to my temple and closed my eyes. I can do it, I thought, finger tracing the trigger. One-shot and it’ll be over.

Hollowing my cheeks, panting for breath, I sank my teeth into my lower lip, blood shrieking in my ears. “Fuck.” Repositioning the gun, I tried again, convinced myself it’d end my suffering. “Ah, shit.” Craven, I respired a guttural sob, felt warm tears on my cheeks. I dropped my arm, released my tight grip around the handle. “Fucking hell.”

Torpid, I bring the bottle to my lips, shaking two droplets on my tongue. I need more. Eyeing the doorway, I contemplated how long it’d take me to venture inside my office. No, I am too tired. Setting the empty Jameson on the floor, I tapped the label with a pointer finger, listened to the glass roll across the tiles—it stopped too soon. I frowned, tilted my head, waiting for the glass to meet the wall or skirting board.

The office suddenly brightened. Brad’s tall frame filled the bathroom doorway, resplendent in his royal blue three-piece suit and embellished solid gold jewellery. I glanced at his leather shoe; the bottle captured beneath it. Breathing out a frustrated sigh, he collected my discarded waste, retreated inside the office and returned moments later with an unopened bottle of Macallan.

It’s still dark inside the en-suite, but the office’s soft light generates enough glow to make out his twisted features. He slipped down the wall opposite me, unscrewed the bottle, tossed the cap across the floor.

I wait for his vitriolic attack. Instead, he looked at me with genuine pathos and venerated me with ingenuous eyes. “Do you want to do the honours?” Extending an arm, he offers me the bottle. “After all, it is your stash.”

I warily curled my fingers around the bottleneck. “What’s the occasion?”

He shrugged a noncommittal shoulder.

“I think Alexa was fucking Jace.”

Brad regards me with a stoic expression, masking any unspoken questions. “She only had eyes for you,” he said, failing to assuage me. “And you know it.”

“I visited the Coffee House this morning,” I explain, picking the Macallan label. “Grayson claimed Jace went down in that fire. Tell me, Brad. Why weren’t I made aware of his death?”

Forehead furrowing, he diverted his bemused gaze. “His death wasn’t in the police reports from Reginald,” he stresses, scratching his jaw. “Trust, I’d have seen it—and told you instantly. Where did Grayson receive that information?”

Inarticulate, I blinked twice. “I never thought to ask.”

Brad’s eyes rounded. “Seriously, Bossman. Since when do we forgo interrogations? If that unhinged barista spouted off unsubstantiated statements, you should have questioned it.” I don’t respond. “You need to get your head back in the game—”

“And you need to watch the way you speak to me,” I cautioned, sipping from the bottle. “I am grieving, Brad. I didn’t lose my fucking balls. Run your mouth one more time, and I’ll be forced to do something about it.”

He rubbed a hand down his face, hiding his eye-roll. “I’ll call Reginald,” he assures, adjusting his wristwatch. “If Jace died in that fire, then we need to know why the metropolitan kept that information from us.”

“Why are you here?” I rudely asked. “Go downstairs with the men. I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

It’s silent for a nanosecond. “Boss, do you remember what happened the first time we met?”

Yeah, I remember the night I met Brad Jones exceptionally well.

Inundated with reflective nostalgia, I returned to that cold, winters night. I was celebrating a successful year since opening Club 11, searching the streets of London for a light-night banquet; a decent burger or fish and chips, if I remember correctly. Rosie, a twenty-two-year-old college student, had been my flavour of the month. I liked her, I thought, envisioning her wild, untamed red hair and captivating green eyes. She often waited for me to finish at the office, inviting me back to her two-bedroom apartment for mind-blowing blowjobs and senseless fucking. The night in question, she escorted me to a local chip shop, declined fodder but opted for a cherry cola as I eagerly scarfed down battered produce while the chips fried.

“Why don’t we go to your place tonight?” Rosie asked, snaking her arms around my waist, resting her head on my back. “Three months, Warren, and I’ve yet to see this spectacular penthouse.”

I shared an amused look with the shop owner. “No.”

Had it really been three months? Shit, I need to let this one go before she gets all clinger on my ass.

Rosie growled, dropping her arms, stepping away from me. “You have to let me visit at some point.”

I don’t have to do anything. “No.”

Setting her back to the counter, she crossed her arms, craning her neck to look at me. “You got tomato sauce,” she tapped the corner of her mouth, “right there.”

I licked my lips, biting into a potato fritter.

Smiling fondly, she wrapped her hand around my wrist. “Please.” Her pouted lips and puerile begging only irritated me. “Just one night?”

No amount of sex is worth petulance demands. “No.”

“No,” she mimicked sarcastically. “You need to work on that vocabulary, Warren. Your one word, brainless responses concern me.”

“Under no circumstances,” I said, dipping my head so that we’re eye-level, “do I require a feebleminded, imbecilic red-head in her tawdry attire and tasteless lingerie sprawled across my expensive silk sheets, or ruining my three thousand pound suit jacket with her chipped polished fingernails.” I uncurled her hand from my sleeve. “Was my response adequate for you, Rosie? Do I need to use many sesquipedalian words in my daily terminology to compare and compete with such a resourceful intellectualist?”

Her mouth opened and closed. “You conceited prick!”

I dropped change into the shop owners hand, accepting a tray of freshly cooked fish and chips. “I never claimed to be a saint.”

“You’re no better than me,” she argues, following me outside in those damn fuck-me high-heeled shoes. “You’re just a bully, Warren. Without those guns and your army of goons,” she waved a flippant hand behind us, gesturing to the camouflaged men who regularly patrol my whereabouts, “you’d be nothing but a jobless, lowlife bum.”

I paused with a chip near my lips. “Careful, Rosie. I don’t take kindly to insults.”

She witnessed the murderous glint in my eyes. “Get someone else to suck your dick,” she stutters, the heels of her shoes scraping across the floor as she rushes across the street. “I am over this, Warren. You’re dead to me.”

Returning to my food, I stuffed my face with famished delight, contemplating between a wank before bed or alluring another conquest.

“Fucking scumbag,” someone yelled, and I glanced around the barren streets. “If I ever catch you here again, I’ll spark you clean out.”

“Screw your fucking mother,” another male retorted, and I turned the street corner to see a tall drunk fall backwards from a pub, flipping two burly bouncers the bird. “You fat motherfuckers, boning the back arse off of their mothers—and probably their sisters,” he adds, hands to his hips, nodding vigorously. “Disgusting.”

His drunken slurs and nonsensical comeback humoured me. I chucked my half-eaten food in the bin, lit a cigarette and observed their truculent exchange with genuine interest.

Drunken fool stumbles across the street, almost losing his footing. He stuffs his hands inside his jeans pockets, whistling annoying tunes as he ventured down the road.

I pulled the zipper of my coat to my chin, briefly checked for oncoming traffic, crossed the road and serendipitously followed his footsteps. I never understand why I make such random decisions, but I am somewhat nosey and curious.

Twenty minutes later and the stupid fucker has yet to notice another person traipses behind him. He’s too busy serenading to the black heavens. “Go toora loora, toora loo-rye-aye,” he sings, wobbling on his feet. “And we can sing just like our fathers. Come on, Eileen. Oh, I swear what he means—you mean everything.”

He vocalised that exact song for the entire duration.

What the fuck am I doing?

“But I would walk five hundred miles. And I would walk five hundred more.”

I shake my head in bewilderment. At least he knows more than one tune.

“Da da da,” he bellows in a homeless man’s face, bending at the waist to converse.

I stopped, considered turning around and going home.

Wiring his mouth shut, the idiot proceeds ahead, singing and dancing.

Ten painful minutes later, he rounds a corner, entering a cul-de-sac of council houses. I lingered, furtively watching him misstep, open a waist-high garden gate. He pauses near the front door, fumbling with keys. His procrastinating had sparked my curiosity. It seems he’s in no rush to enter his unbecoming home. With what looked like great reluctance, he unlocked the door and dragged himself inside. I expected him to lock-up, but once more, the inebriated fool hesitated, head cocking to the side, listening, as it seems. He vanished, leaving the door wide open.

Seriously, Warren? What the fuck are you doing, following an unidentifiable, intoxicated fool to his house?

The gravitational pull, too immense, urged me closer. I guardedly pushed through the gate, stared at the discarded house keys in the hallway, peered into the shadows. Fuck it, I thought, closing the door behind me, mentally inventorying the commodious dwelling with impaired furnishings. Excluding the two-seater leather sofa in the living room, old-fashioned portable television balanced on a wooden coffee table and well-worn runners utilised as floor coverage, his cold living conditions left an unsettled knot in my stomach.

Inside the narrow kitchen, dirty dishes piled high in the sink, takeaway boxes and empty beer bottles on the counter. I picked up a metal grinder on the tray, smoothed dry buds between my fingers, flicked the half-smoked joint aside.

“Why?” He groans from upstairs. “How could you do this to me?” A loud bang followed his whimpered question. “I hate you!”

Above, the floorboards creaked, filtering dust particles. I remained poised as he wandered around. Another loud bang reiterated around the house, and an iron unexpectedly landed in the hallway. It’s shattered plastic casing was the least of my worries. I stood over it, examined the fresh blood splattered across the rug.

Eyeing the staircase with intense curiosity, I decided to welcome myself into the quarrelsome commotion. I only reached the fourth step when I spotted his crouched form atop the stairs, head buried in his hands, knees hiked to his chest.

He notably flinched, sensing a presence. Through parted fingers, he peered at me, licking tears from my lips. “Fucking hell.” Idly dropping his arms at his sides, he tilted his chin, almost goading me to do or say something. “The devil quite literally walked through my back door.”

I don’t respond.

“I went out on a bit of a bender tonight.” He chuckled, though, there’s nothing funny about the blood submerging his white polo shirt. “She wasn’t expecting my ass home yet.”

I stepped into the bedroom. On the once white bed, an unrecognisable male whose head meshes into the sheets, lifelessly drips with clotted crimson. The woman, her body, twisted on the floor, beaten gruesomely in a barbaric act of mercilessness. It’s a grotesque image, yet I smiled, admiring his handiwork.

“Brutal.” I squat beside her naked body, lift blood-matted hair from her face. It’s hard to decipher her image, as he’s savagely disorganised her face with that iron, but her striking dead eyes stare back at me. Pretty, I thought, admiring her shimmering jade hues. “Did you love her?”

“Five years I was with the bitch,” he croaked, not looking at me. “I found her in bed, fucking my best mate.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I may as well call the police and hand myself in.” He soared to his feet, which highlighted his amazonian tallness. “So, what brings Warren to my humble abode?”

I kicked abandoned lace aside. “I followed your arse.”

“Why?” His judgemental eyes narrowed. “Did someone put a hit on me or something?”

“I’m not a fucking hitman.” I despise people calling me a hired contract killer. I mean, sure, back in the day, before establishing myself, I’d accept dirty money to eliminate a problem. Usually, a female married to a sugar daddy that’s sick of waiting for him to pop, or a scorned husband who’s tired of his nagging wife and wants to settle with his young mistress. Now, though, I don’t need people to buy my services or line my pocket. I kill for no one but myself; I thrive for no one but myself. “Don’t fucking insult me,” I warned, and he squared his shoulders. “I got more money than sense.” His hopeful eyes lowered to the floor. “Moreover,” I raked my criticising eyes around his bedroom, “I don’t think you could afford me.”

“I wasn’t going to ask…” He paused, rubbing dry blood from his face.

I removed the leather gloves from my pocket. “Did anyone see you come home?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Go and find some petrol.”

“Petrol?” His eyebrows welded. “Why do I need petrol?”

“I don’t fucking have time for this,” I snarled, stepping over the dead woman. “Move it.”

In his absence, I look around, open the canvas wardrobe, find a half-packed suitcase hidden at the back. I unzipped it, emptied her glad rags onto the floorboard. She was leaving him. I conclude, opening a box filled with old photos. I turn one over, read the date and penned names: Bradley, Brian and Tiffany. I study his younger self in the picture, notice Brian’s closeness to Tiffany. It’s unarguable evidence. His traitorous friend gazes at the woman like she’s his reason to breathe.

“I found these,” he said breathlessly. “What are you doing?”

I set the photos back without him noticing. “So, you never suspected their romance before?”

“No.” He placed two petrol canisters on the floor. “I don’t think it was serious or anything.” Regret flashed in his eyes. “Tonight was probably their first time. We haven’t been in a good place,” he looked at his former girlfriend with puckered lips, “lately.”

Unscrewing the canisters, I passed him one. “Douse the room.”

He didn’t seem repulsed by the order. In actuality, Brad assisted, helping me drench the room, furniture, clothes, walls and bodies.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” I assured him, tossing the empty canister on the floor. “They’ve been at it for years.”

“How can you be so sure?”

I popped a cigarette between my lips, matched a flame and inhaled a deep drag. “I’m never wrong.”

He smothered a scoff.

Letting smoke roll around my mouth, I blew out a calming breath and chucked the cigarette onto the bed. The petrol caught, instantly spreading across the soaked material, flames licking Brian’s body, clambering the walls and ceiling.

I turned and walked away, descended the stairs and drifted to the back door.

Unsteady on his feet, Brad shadowed behind me, pulling his hoodie up, covering his face somewhat. “Where are we going?”

“I’m going home,” I confirmed, halting to face him head-on. “Fuck knows what’s in store for you.”

“What?” Horror-stricken, he glances back to the house where thick, black smoke leaks from open windows. “My house is seconds away from blowing up.”

“Correct.” I moved ahead. “So, fleeing is probably a sensible option.” Ducking into a gully, I sprinted throughout, entering the next street. “Why the fuck are you following me?”

He snatched my arm, bringing me to an abrupt stop. “What am I supposed to do?” He discerns my furious expression and releases me. “Come on, Warren. Help me out.”

Brad Jones played right into my hands. “Why would I help you?” I want him on-board. It’s not often I stumble into a ruthless killer who shows little or no remorse, all while bearing a cruel smile. He’s cold-hearted, recklessly unpredictable.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked, spearing a hand through his dishevelled blond hair. “I got nowhere to go—nobody to turn to…”

His curriculum vitae becomes more appealing by the second. “Do you feel any remorse for what you did?”

“Nope,” he confesses, warily falling into step beside me. “In my defence, I am half-cut. I’m sure tonight’s actions will weigh heavily on me in the morning.”

No, he sobered up the moment he entered his home tonight. “You can work for me,” I acquiesced, and he shot me a questioning glance. “After we go over the rules, of course.”

Smiling gleefully, he offered me a fist to bump, which I spurned by turning my head. “Bradley Jones,” he introduces, rubbing his palms together. “Although, I don’t like it when people call me Bradley. I prefer Brad, or sinfully fucking gorgeous will suffice. I’m not too picky.”

He’s bastard unhinged. “Let’s go.”

“Christ.” He draped an arm across my shoulders. “I always wanted a fucking brother.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Brad.” I whacked his arm away, strode past speeding emergency vehicles, marking security detail across the road. “I’m just helping out a loser, that’s all.”

“Whatever.” His arm returned to my shoulder, and this time, I didn’t chastise his overly friendly advances. “I wanted a brother, and now I got one.”

“Dexys midnight runners,” I rasped, smiling at the ludicrous memory.

“Ah, good old Eileen.” He burst out laughing, stealing the bottle of Macallan from me. “She never fucking failed me.” I know my right-hand man like the back of my hand, so when he thirsty downs buck courage, eyes trained on me, I recognise he’s building up to something. “You didn’t recognise me.”

I stayed composed. “What are you talking about?”

He stared at me with intense pensiveness. “I half wondered if you came back to finish the job.”

“Quit the evasiveness,” I scolded, unease sprouting goosebumps to my skin. “Spit it out.”

“Twice,” he enunciated, tucking blonde tendrils behind his ears. “Twice you saved me from self-destruction. You didn’t have to help me cover those murders, Bossman.” His Adam’s apple jived in his throat. “You didn’t have to show leniency the night you turned over Jerry’s bar.”

His confession compelled me to sit taller. “That was you,” I whispered, rigidly shocked. “Brad?”

“The night you entered my home,” he continues, the muscle in his jaw pulsing, “I thought that perhaps you returned to finish the job. Let’s be real for a second. I witnessed everything you did to Jerry and his establishment. I could’ve snitched, ratted you out in a heartbeat. I guess I always thought you’d rectify your mistake. I did not, however, anticipate your services or lifeline.

“This silent truth encumbered me for many years,” he admits, cracking his knuckles. “I didn’t want any secrets between us, but I feared you’d see my previous actions as a betrayal. And, although death comes to us all eventually, I kind of like working alongside you and I’m not quite ready to give that up yet.

“You protected me from either suicide or life imprisonment. You took me into your fold, gave me the best life and a reason to live; I swore fealty to you and the syndicate; I bare your chain proudly; I am indebted to you, and that’ll never change. I am a founding member of The Brotherhood. But,” he adds, nodding to himself. “I called you my brother that night, and I meant it. So, I’ll answer your original question. No, I don’t want to be downstairs with the men. You need me right now,” he breathed, his eyes holding mine. “You need your brother.”

Brad’s words tugged on my heartstrings. He mightn’t express his concerns, but he recognises my despair and bereavement.

Tears threatened my eyes. “It’s killing me,” I tell him, and he nods. “Her death is fucking killing me, Brad.”

“I have sat back and allowed you time to mourn, drink yourself into a dark hole of self-destruction and fuck your way through a long-line of women—carelessly, and without non-disclosures, I might add, which was exceptionally taxing and infuriating for Nate—but enough is enough.” He stood, rocked back on the heels of his shoes. “Let Alexa’s death mean something. Don’t wallow away and let that son of a bitch get away with her murder. Nail him to the cross.”

I matched his stance, listening to his every word.

“Alexa’s gone,” he proceeds, and excruciating pain enwreathed my thunderous heartbeat. “And I know this hurts you. Christ, I ache for you, but sitting here, fucked off sniff and alcohol isn’t going to fix this.” He grasped my shoulders, fingers pinching my skin. “The city of vice belongs to one man and one man only. It’s time Liam Warren painted the town red.”

Desert Eagle clenched in one hand. I smoothed my thumb over the Warren engraving.

Acceptance is where I struggle. “I don’t want to say goodbye to her.” Shouldering past him, I entered the office, rounded my desk and collapsed onto the leather chair.

Brad remains in the doorway, shoulder resting on the doorframe.

I carefully set the gun onto the desk, uprooted my phone and opened the messenger folder.

Alexa: I can’t sleep.

Alexa: Fancy some company?

Alexa: I bought new lingerie…

Alexa: If you’re kind to me, I’ll wear it under my dress tonight.

Alexa: I miss you.

Alexa: Guess how much ice cream I polished off this morning? You’d be so proud!

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

Alexa: I love you so much.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

Delete.

I repeated the process, eliminated messages, voicemails and her social media account from my page. Before exiting her Instagram profile, I took a screenshot of my favourite image, the one where she stands on the balcony, overseeing the Thames.

Brad slides a crystal glass filled with amber liquid toward me. “Would you have really done it?”

“Always the perspicacious one,” I half-joked, eyeing the Desert Eagle. “If it meant seeing her again?” Leaning back in my chair, I kicked my feet onto the desk, downing Macallan in one. “Yes.”

Chapter 15

Alexa

I rolled around in the world’s comfiest bed, snuggling against duck feather pillows and stark-white sheets. “Amazing,” I hummed, kicking and thrashing my freshly shaved legs, immersing myself with lavender-scented silk and balls of cosiness. “I’m living here forever.”

Through the ajar blinds, soft morning rays drifted into the box-shaped bedroom, something so normal yet unprecedented for someone who spent God knows how long in captivity.

Yawning, I sit taller, letting the duvet fall to my waist and stretch my arms high.

“Nice tits,” a rough voice drawled, and I shrieked, burying myself under the comforters in a panicked frenzy. “Calm down, lass. I was only pullin’ ye leg.”

Tommy, I believed, closing my eyes. I am hardly naked. In actuality, Jace’s oversized hoodie entombs my frame, so his lecherousness and the lewd remark is absurdly comical. “I wish I had a nice rack.”

His throaty laughter tugged a smile to my lips. “Anythin’ more than a handful is too much,” he futilely salvages himself. “Well, for me, rather. I’m a nipple admiring kind of guy.”

I threw the covers from my face. “Are we seriously conversing about nipples?”

The bare-chested troglodyte openly stares at my cotton-clad chest. “There’s a half-naked woman in my bed,” he said, and I spied the room and its spotless state. “Surely, ye cannot blame me for tryin’ my luck?”

I suppose he had a point. I am, after all, hauled-up in his incredible bed and tranquilising space. “I didn’t know this was your room.” Rolling out of bed, I whipped unruly hair from my face, feet sinking into the plush cream carpet. “I thought Jace claimed your room…” Shut up, Alexa. Tommy thinks Jace’s my boyfriend. He’d assume I shared the man’s bed.

Tommy sliced his eyes, adjusting his grey low-hung jogging bottoms. “Was there a question?”

“Where’s Jace?” I asked, tugging my hoodie sleeves.

“He’s in the kitchen, making his woman breakfast.” He brushed past me, opened a wall-mounted cupboard, searching for a clean T-shirt. “His words.”

I find it hard to believe Jace referred to me as “his woman”, and I highly doubt the man is making me breakfast. Gunky porridge comes to mind. “I’ll come back and change the sheets—”

“It’s no problem,” Tommy assures, putting his back to me. “I quite like ye smell.”

“My smell,” I repeated, sneakily sniffing the hoodie collar; it’s his coconut-scented gel from last night’s shower. “I smell like you.”

He winked, the muscles in his arms flexing as he pulled on a T-shirt. “Jace isn’t gonna appreciate that, lass.”

Beneath his top, he scratched his chest, exposing his washboard of abs. I vacillated my gaze from his muscular abdomen to his lips—the lips he’s currently pulling between clenched teeth.

Itching the back of my neck, I blinked under knitted brows.

Eyes fixated on mine, he released his lower lip and slowly dragged his tongue across it.

What on earth is going on?

Tommy closed in, his dominant frame towering over me. “Do ye like what ye see, lass?”

Is he flirting with me? God, I am senseless, clueless to male advances. “No.”

His brows jumped. “No?”

“I mean,” I stuttered, wrangling my fingers. “Well, you’re a nice-looking guy, but I’m with your…Jace”

“Cousin,” he fills in the gaps, deliberately smothering my breathing space.

How can they be cousins if they’re not related? “I only have eyes for Jace,” I said with conviction, tilting a defiant chin. “So, you can stop testing my loyalties now.”

Ever so slowly, Tommy cracked a wolfish smirk, clanking his titanium tongue piercing across his upper teeth. “Good, lass.” And with those departing words, the incorrigible human exited the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

“What the fuck?” Massaging my temples, I lingered to collect my dispersed thoughts, opened the door and slipped straight into the bathroom.

Through the thin walls, I hear Jace laughing and reminiscing with his cousin-who-he-is-not-related-to and agree to another barbecue this evening.

I alleviate my bladder, wash my hands in the basin and open a sealed toothbrush my pretend boyfriend left out for me. Teeth gleaming with minty freshness, I joined the men inside the open-plan layout, stopping to inspect Jace’s frying skills at the cooker.

“Hey,” he rasped, dropping a kiss to my shoulder. “I hope you’re hungry.”

Heat flushed to my cheeks. “You’re burning the bacon.”

“Nonsense.” He flipped rashers over with an egg flip while simultaneously handing me a coffee. “Nice and sweet. I know how much you love your sugar.”

I felt Tommy’s inquisitiveness radiating across the spacious room. “Thank you, Jace,” I whispered, relaxing my back to the counter, sipping brewed deliciousness.

“What’s ye poison, lass?” Tommy asked, stomping into a pair of heavy-duty boots. “I assume ye’d rather more than a beer tonight.”

“Vodka,” Jace confirmed, buttering two pieces of white bread. “Russian.”

I smiled affectionately, pinching his stubble cheek. “You know me so well.”

Jace bowed a scarred eyebrow. I suddenly felt guilty for tearing his piercing. “We’re alike,” he said, and I lowered my gaze to the sweet coffee. “Quite compatible, actually.” He passed me a plate that offers the most mind-blowing bacon butty, or my lack of food recently magnifies basic comestibles. “Tomato sauce is in the cupboard.”

“So, Russian vodka,” said Tommy, fishing out his car keys, toying with the Irish emblem keyring. “Meat for the grill. I’ll grab some steaks, too.”

I squirted ketchup in my sandwich. “What about skewers?”

Tommy pondered my suggestion. “Lamb or chicken?”

I lifted a shoulder. “Both?”

Tommy jerked his chin. He unlocked the front door and left without another word, leaving me alone with Jace. I bite into my food, savouring the pungent flavours on my tongue. “Oh, God,” I groaned, eyes theatrically rolling to the back of my head. “This is so good.”

Jace turned off the stove. “I’m glad you approve.” He raised his hand, and I flinched, anticipating what? A backhander? A cruel ridiculing? “Shit, Alexa. I’m not going to hurt you.” From the corner of my mouth, he wiped sauce from my lips with his thumb. “Do you want to talk about it?”

About what? The fact he cruelly kidnapped and locked me away for all this time. Perhaps we need to address that he virtually starved me and omitted bathroom breaks. I opened my mouth to respond, but his morose, sickly grey complexion and guilt-filled stare prevented me from doing so. Jace is a father. He has a daughter who bores those captivating green eyes.

“No,” I relinquished, setting my half-eaten food onto the counter. “No, I don’t need any more details, Jace. I understand your reasoning.” I have dealt with Flamur Bajramovic. I know how he operates. He’s a disgustingly vile human with inborn barbarity, cold-blooded viciousness and manipulative tendencies. Jace and Summer didn’t stand a chance against the Albanian and his devoted allies. “When do we return to London?”

“Possibly tomorrow,” he assures, dusting off his hands with a chequered tea towel. “I’m waiting for Tommy to deliver the goods.”

Oh, that sounded intriguing. “What goods?”

“A new vehicle.” He lowers the television volume before sinking onto the encircling cream leather seating accommodation. “Counterfeit identification.”

My forehead creased. I sat on the bench beside him, nursing a warm mug of coffee. “Residing incognito,” I mused, sipping my drink. “It’s a little extreme.”

“Aliases are necessary,” he stressed, checking a message on his phone. “We’ll come up with a double-barrelled and organisational plan tomorrow.”

I mentally prepared for any contingency but prayed for an adventurous outcome. “Sure, Jace.” I nibbled my lower lip. “So, barbecue with your non-related cousins?”

He gave me a low, lopsided smirk. “It’ll be fun.”

***

I met a myriad of Tommy’s relatives and friends. His mother only made an appearance to offer salad bowls before excusing herself to a caravan for the evening. She seemed nice, friendly, but didn’t stop for small talk. His girlfriend, Sheila, a beautiful brunette with glossy waist-length hair and silver hooped earrings which presently swing from my lobes, has to be my favourite person to date. On arrival, she snagged me into her home, discarded Jace’s hoodie from my body and glamorised me for tonight’s festivities. Okay, so the denim shorts expose a little too much back side, and white lace bralette leaves little to the imagination, but I am uncontrollably drunk. I care not for white trainers and exposed skin.

“Here.” Sheila hands me a clear shot glass. “Knock ’em back.”

I put the rim to my mouth, swallowing fiery poison. “Oh, damn.” Shivering from head-to-toe, I licked sambuca from lips and sought out Jace, perched on a steel crane beside Tommy. He must sense me watching him through the dancing flames soaring from the campfire. His stare settled on my face, a reassuring smile stretching across his face. “I’m fine,” I mouthed, and he nods, appeased, returning to his conversation with non-related family members.

“How long have ye been seein’ our Jace?” asked Sheila, giving a vodka refill in a plastic tumbler.

“It’s new,” I lied, diverting my gaze to dark skies, counting the intermittently flickering stars.

“He’s smitten,” she probes, and I automatically glanced back to my former captor. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night.”

Sheila’s right. Although Jace pretends to engage with others, he’s continuously eagle-eyed, seeking my gaze amid the roaring fire.

I gave her a flat smile, tongue fixing to my inner cheek.

“I’m sorry for pryin’,” she coos, pressing a hand to my knee. “It’s just nice to see him happy. Jace’s been in a dark place since losing Lucy.”

Lucy, I thought, recalling a time where Jace had mentioned her name. I guess there’s much for us to discuss. Right now, however, I’d rather enjoy an evening without problematic conversations or depressing topics. It’s selfish, though. I gulp down vodka, quenching unbearable thirst and curiosity. “Those burgers were heavenly.”

“Ye barely touched ye burger.” She pointed to the dismantled burger bap that I left on the beer keg, paper plate precariously balancing with dripping sauce. “Not a big eater, huh?”

I scowled, swishing vodka around the tumbler base. “I had a big breakfast.” No, I think Jace’s starvation methods shrank my stomach. “I’ll take leftovers to bed, though.”

Tommy slumps beside Sheila, draping an arm over her shoulders. Between lethargic fingers dangles a beer bottle. “Ye ladies havin’ a good night?”

Puckering her lips for a smooch, she set a hand to his jawline, tracing detailed ink with her fingernails. “I love ye.”

He was all smiles, returning her affections with a firm kiss. “Likewise.”

One of the cousins changed the music, opting for clamorous, defining base tunes. Seated in a half-circle, the men chatter amongst themselves, and a few females discuss an approaching wedding. I am not privy to any of these conversations, or the animated snogging session, courtesy of Tommy and Sheila.

I watch Jace laugh with a female friend. I say “friend” because there’s no way those lascivious smiles exemplify relative. Well done, Jace. Tommy speculated our bogus relationship before tonight’s gathering. I bet, after seeing his “cousin” fawning over another woman, he will read our phoney relationship status and call bullshit.

Sighing despondently into my cup, I finished the remainder of my drink and stood, leaving the happy couple snickering to my right. Meandering between variegated coloured trailers, I head to Tommy’s caravan to grab another vodka bottle. I might stay indoors. The gypsy community is wonderfully affable, pleasantly accommodating and expressively cordial, but I felt low-spirited and dreadfully homesick. I miss my friends, Chloe and Gray. I miss the Suits, Brad, Josh and Nate.

I miss Liam. I yearn to see his face again, to curl onto his lap and snuggle into his protective arms. Our separation is quite literally killing me, suffocating and demoralising. God, I cannot wait to be back in London. I just hope my resurrection doesn’t give the poor sod a heart attack.

Teary-eyed and lachrymose, I snivelled, opening the trailer door, barricading myself inside. Washing the tumbler in the sink, I set it on the drainer, snatch an unopened vodka bottle and stumble into Tommy’s bedroom.

I disrobe and fold Sheila’s clothes into a neat pile onto the high-glass vanity table. Lifting the duvet, I search for Jace’s clothes, coming unstuck. “Fuck a duck.” Vodka bottle in hand, I creep into the open-plan hallway and duck into Jace’s room, shutting the door behind me.

His room is surprisingly bigger, commodious, with a double-window and modernised furnishings, a black bedspread sheathing the double-bed. I swig from the bottle while half-heartedly rummaging through a gym bag.

My hand lands on a steel-cold, familiar object. A gun, I thought, lifting the semi-automatic, weighing it in my hand. I shake away foolish thoughts and any ideas of fleeing into the night, stuff it back in a gathered jumper and select a grey hoodie. Before pulling it over my head, I stare at the old burner phone, leather wallet and loose change on the bedside table. I double-checked that nobody was standing at the door, parked my backside on the bed and picked up the wallet. Inside the compartments, stuffed notes, random items of jewellery, debit and credit cards—a photo. I bring the old image closer, examining a younger version of Jace. On his lap, a beautiful blonde with her arms enveloped around his neck. Lucy, I wondered, admiring her infectious smile and deep-set brown eyes.

I felt a wave of despair and overwhelming sadness. Jace loved her. He truly idolised this girl. His genuine happiness and enamoured expression, spellbinding, fascinating, the type of contentment I have yet to witness from Jace.

Still blurry from tears, I tucked the image back into the compartment, finding another. Jace almost dominates the photo, but it’s the little girl on his shoulder who steals the oxygen from my lungs. Summer’s chin rests atop his head, arms locked around his neck. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, manifesting with remorseful feelings, deep-rooted regret, wretchedness and culpability. “I’m so sorry.” Her green eyes sparkled under the sun. Her genuine smile warmed my chest.

I must save her. I am entirely blameworthy for her abduction, and I will never forgive myself if something bad happens to her.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jace barked, and I physically jumped out of my skin. His eyes lingered on the image in my hand, and I noted his confused expression morph into escalating flare and fuming anger.

“I’m sorry,” I flustered, rushing to my feet. “I wasn’t snooping—”

“You had no right.” Snatching the photo from my hand, he shoved me away, frantically returning his family to the back of his wallet. “No fucking right to go through my stuff, Alexa. You…” He silenced an impending lambasting, eyes trailing the length of my body. “You’re not dressed.”

I fought against rolling my eyes. Jace, unfortunately, had front row seats to my private areas. Seeing me in lace is hardly challenging or morally conflicting for the man, not after cataloguing all I have to offer. “I was looking for a hoodie.”

“I gave you clothes,” he reminded me, rubbing a hand over his weary features. “You had no reason to come in here.”

I nod, understanding. “I like wearing…” Liam’s T-shirts. “I like wearing your clothes to bed. It’s comforting.” Chastened, I rushed past him on shaky legs, wishing the floor would create a vortex and swallow me whole.

Inside the safety of Tommy’s room, I paced the narrowed floor space, scolding myself for prying. “No,” I muttered under my breath, tousling my wild mane. “How dare he yell at me? I’ve been nothing but nice to that man, considering the circumstances. I have been,” I opened the door and marched back to his bedroom, “nothing but a nice person.” I fling open his door and rudely invite myself into his private space. “How fucking dare you?”

Topless and relaxing on the bed, Jace slowly sat up, raising two hands, showing me he’s not ready to pounce. “Alexa—”

“No,” I interject, pointing at him with a determined finger. “You stole me. You actually picked me up, chucked me in a car boot, drove my comatose ass onto a ferry and locked me away in a squalid basement. At the Isle of Man, I am inclined to remind you. You starved me. You left me to rot and smell and sleep in my vomit. You humiliated, degraded, bad-mouthed and dragged me back to a heinous memory—”

“Alexa—”

“Stop interrupting me,” I snapped, finding the nearest scatter cushion and lunging it at his head. “You treated me like an animal, yet I stayed. I stayed because I promised to help you find your baby girl,” I cried, hiccoughing into my palm. “So, I looked at your photos. That doesn’t make me a bad person. It makes me human, Jace. Unlike some people that I know, I have a damn heart, and it beats for you. It beats for your baby—”

“Alexa,” he reprimands, seizing my wrists in one hand, hauling me closer. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to shout at you, but I didn’t expect to walk in and see you going through my belongings.”

A firm knot lodged in my throat. I flattened my wobbling lips, refusing to shed any more tears. “For this to work,” I whispered, chest heaving at an unsteady pace, “we need to be on the same team, Jace. I am not your enemy. You want someone as loyal as me fighting your corner.” Not Flamur, I grimaced. “I’ll never put my nose where it doesn’t belong again.”

“Don’t do that,” he groaned, his unyielding grip immobilising me. “I apologised Alexa.”

Huffing hair from my face, I wiggled my fingers, reminding him of my restricted situation. He released me and collapsed onto the bed, ruffling his brown, unruly hair. “Can I share yours?” I asked, gesturing to the vodka bottle on the floor. “I left mine in the bedroom.”

He nods, passing it over.

I sat beside him, guzzled vodka like water. “What’s that?”

Jace followed my line of vision, collecting the leather case from the bedside table. “Tattoo gun.” He unzips his equipment, nocturnal inks, sterile gloves and other items I had no concept of. “One of the lads asked me to do his knuckles earlier.”

“Did you do it?”

“No, he chickened out.” Before he could zip up the bag, I placed a hand atop his. He studied my fingers, the muscles in shoulders coiling. “What are you doing?”

“Will you do something for me?”

Jace’s intense stare penetrated me. “Depends,” he said roughly, squirting hand sanitiser onto his palms, preparing. “I’m not into small and dainty, Alexa. If you want a piece? Give me something worthy of my time.”

I downed another shot, put my back to him and unclasped my bra. I heard him inhale a deep breath, snapping on a pair of sterile gloves. “Wings.”

He gathered my hair into a messy knot, bobbling it atop my head with tender thoughtfulness. “Wings?” he rasped, his warm breath tickling the back of my neck. He curled wayward strands behind my ears. “Are we talking about an outline decorating your shoulder blades?” He traced his fingers down my spine, stopping at my lower back. “Or are we talking an intricate design, shading and feathers,” his fingers whispered against my skin, sprouting goosebumps all over my body, “dominating your entire back.”

“Dominating,” I breathed, smiling secretly to myself. “Give me wings, Jace.”

Chapter 16

Liam

Sartorially tailored in a royal blue two-piece, I stand alongside fatigued commuters in the London Underground like a spare part, chest swelling on a turmoil of emotional riots.

It’s no secret that Alexa’s death affected me in more ways than one. I am not ashamed to admit as much, either. In saying that, granted I shall never overcome or move on with another, but I must find a resolution and learn to live with this insufferable ache in my chest.

Last night, after Brad’s determined lecture, I remained in the office until sunrise, pondering between intoxicated obliteration or a trip down memory lane. Once showered and overdosed on a concerning amount of caffeine, I chose the latter.

I stepped onto the train, sardined between strident gossipmongers and enlivened consumers. To my right, a blatant transsexual modelling a pale pink designer skirt suit and a straight, jet black synthetic hairpiece flagrantly appraising me.

I diverted my attention to the short blonde woman standing directly opposite me. Yes, she’s eye-catching, heart-shaped face and blue almond-shaped eyes. I’m not too sure about those beige winkle pickers, though. I love nothing more than a sophisticatedly beautiful woman gaiting and swaying her hips, elevated on six-inch heels. For me, a woman’s confident stride is utterly captivating, presentably attractive and boldly sexy.

Sensing a brazen admirer, she lifts her head and smiles meekly at me.

Her fondness is unreciprocated. Sure, I can appreciate a fine woman when I see one. Those flawless white teeth, catching smile, and dazzling eyes are undeniably praiseworthy features.

Yet I feel absolutely nothing. Even when I try to see past all the reasons why I need to move on, something screams inside the darkest valley of my head to hang fire, relax, take a breather and concentrate on the syndicate.

I struggle to lose myself In the arms of another woman. It puts the functionality of my cock to the test, and welcoming their lubricious sensuality proves to be complicated. I compare every touch, whispered moan and adeptly covetous desires to Alexa.

At this rate, the only satisfying dates I’ll be attending is with my right hand. Fuck, I’m not one to masturbate or pleasure myself. Since living up to the “Warren” title, women have dutifully thrown themselves at my feet. If I craved a release, alluring an eager conquest became a standardised way of living. And that unashamed lifestyle worked for me. Meaningless sex was uncomplicated, physically untaxing and consumingly rewarding. Now, though, a quick-release before work might be a safer option, or until I get my head straight.

I shouldn’t have looked at the blonde. Her unwavering gaze hasn’t deterred since I foolishly scrutinised her. I load my phone, pretend to read text messages when Kellie’s name flashes on my screen. Another problematic hindrance to my life. I am entirely blamable, though. I saw her the night she partied with friends at Club 11 and coaxed her to join me in the office. Our first time together is a blur. I sniffed and consumed too much intoxication to remember if I finished the deed or even returned summit carnality. Henceforth, she shifted into my go-to woman. No romantic dates. No reassuring promises. No passionate kissing. Just unadulterated fucking and someone surprisingly pleasant to fill the void in my life.

Kellie’s a nice woman, decent on the eye, but I voiced and stressed that our late-night clandestine sexual encounters wouldn’t surmount to anything. And this resolute declaration suited Kellie until this morning when she asked if I’d accompany her to a family party.

“Warren,” I answered flatly, the phone set to my ear.

“You didn’t respond to my messages,” Kellie purred, a futile attempt at flirting. “I was worried about you.”

“I’m a busy man.” I peered at the geezer over my shoulder, spurning his appraising stare with an arrogant look. “Besides, I already told you that dating isn’t on the table.”

She huffed out an exasperated breath. “Not even for one night?”

“No.” Occupying oneself is pointless. I cannot sustain the intensity of that man’s favourably approving gaze. As if focalising on my dead girlfriend’s ghost wasn’t vigorously enervating enough. Add unwanted male attention to my clusterfuck of rampaging indecisiveness. “Can I fucking help you?”

He bristled, slapping a Michael Kors purse to his chest. “Rude.”

I’ll give him fucking rude in a minute.

“Warren,” she warned, but I was still reeling from the guy gaping at my crotch. “Is that any way to speak to me?”

I don’t bother correcting her. “Listen, I am attending a meeting in five minutes,” I lied, relieved to see my stop is next. “I’m not accompanying you to family festivities. End of. If you want to see me later? You know where I am.” I ended the call, stuffed the phone in my pocket and squared up to the infuriated male. “If I ever catch you, obsessing over my cock again,” I threatened, curving a sardonic eyebrow, “you’ll be choking on yours.”

The blonde female from earlier choked on a shock-inhaled gasp. I adjusted my cufflink, shouldered past the staggering transsexual and welcomed the stuffy Underground.

***

I rested my back to the bricked wall, demolishing a tray of fish and chips. I haven’t eaten one of these bad boys in many years. Nowadays, existence epitomises unrivalled extravagance, superfluous excessiveness and the finesse of nouvelle cuisine. Even sealed takeaway meals emanate from gourmet cuisines.

Chewing down battered fish, I watched boisterous lads light-heartedly shove into each other as they disperse down the alleyway. Beneath the red sporadic business sign, the fire exit door wavers almost invitingly.

Dabbing my lips with a silk napkin, discarding leftovers in the steel communal bin, I beeline toward the entrance and seal the door behind me.

Setting two palms on the wooden guardrails, I put one foot on the bottom step and grew restive. Overhearing nostalgic music and curmudgeon complaining, I found myself in an imbroglio.

What the fuck am I doing here?

I left this place, walked away and never looked back.

What good does trudging down memory lane do to one’s sanity?

I reviewed my decision and, slowly but surely, the unwavering anticipation trounced me. Climbing the steps two at a time, anticipating the uneven floorboard groaning under my weight, I entered the boxing gym.

Hands tucked inside my trouser pockets, I stepped onto a blue mat and stationed, scoping the outdated furnishings and time-worn equipment. It smells the same: frayed leather, permeated perspiration and emitting domestic chemicals, all cloaked with lingering colognes.

“We’re closed,” Rex yelled behind me. “Ye got an issue with readin’ signs, eejit?”

A ghost of a smile curved my lips. Upholding amusement, I turned to face him. “I’m hardly illiterate, Rex.”

Leaning onto his cane, Rex blinked at a rapid pace. Upon recognising me, his jaw slackened in sheer astonishment. “Holy shite,” he bellowed, rubbing his eyes as if to clear an imaginary presence. “Liam fuckin’ Warren. What the hell are ye doin’ back in the East Ends?”

I shrugged a shoulder.

Evidently speechless, he stared for a short while. “Aye,” he whispered, fixing his black fedora cap, tousling grey strands to cover his receding hairline. “Ye bigger on that television. Quite disappointin’, in person like.” Limping toward the benches, he balanced the cane to the wall and stumbled into a seated position. “Sorry, lad. I’m in shock.” Coughing into a tight fist, he pinched his tear brimmed eyes, sighing heavily to himself. “One moment.”

My nerves wreaked havoc. I took cautious steps in his direction and joined him on the bench. Thigh pressed up against his leg, elbows to the knees, I clasped my hands, weaving my fingers together. “I’ve been a little lost lately,” I admitted, rotating my gold thumb ring. “For some reason, aimless confusion brought me here.”

Eyes focusing on the chain dangling from my neck, Rex listened. “Ye still wear that, huh?”

I nodded.

He suppressed a pleased yet sad smile. “I wrote to ye once.”

Frowning, I dipped my head to look at him. “I never received any letters.”

He pulled a face. “Aye, that’s because I never fuckin’ sent ’em.”

Rough laughter vibrated in my throat. “Christ, you haven’t changed one bit.”

His chuckling segues with mine. “I am not much of a writer—couldn’t express what I needed to say with a pen.” Utilising my shoulder for support, he soared to his feet and snatched the cane. “I got a bottle of rum in the office with our name on it.”

Unbuttoning my suit jacket, I followed him into the office, draped it over the back of a chair and seated comfortably before his desk.

Rex sits opposite me, unscrewing a bottle of Captain Morgan. “That’s a fine suit ye wearin’,” he compliments, pouring a dangerous amount of alcohol into ceramic mugs. “How much paper do ye spend for one of those?”

The price of a Dormeuil Vanquish will render him in a state of cardiac arrest. “Only a few hundred.”

“Only a few hundred,” he mimicked in disbelief, sliding a mug across the desk. “I bet it’s worth more than my rent bill, huh?”

I suddenly regretted my attire choice. “I do well for myself,” I said as he lifted the drink to his lips. “Sue me.”

He cracked a toothy grin. “Aye, I always knew ye would. So,” he sighed, staring into his mug, “ye mentioned feelin’ lost. I assume ye came here for help?”

Truthfully, I don’t know why I returned. I miss Alexa. I miss my unproblematic life before her. “I’m in a rut and can’t shake it.”

Rex eyed me with a suspicious glint. “Who was she?”

The crazy old fool never ceased to amaze me. “What makes you think my problems stem from a woman?”

“Ye eyes,” he said, and my hues automatically darkened. “Ye eyes are empty.” Sipping rum, he leaned back in his chair, seeking relaxation. “I know a heartbroken face when I see one.”

Pointing to the makeshift bed on the tattered two-seater sofa, I prevaricate. “Why do you sleep here?”

“Don’t change the subject,” he berated, and my eyes shot to the ceiling. “And don’t roll those bastard eyes at me, lad. I don’t care how fuckin’ big ye are. I’ll still give ye a slap on the chin.”

His errant audacity inwardly humoured me. “I’ll slap back.”

“Good,” he quipped, and I stared at him dumbfounded. “‘Bout time ye stopped bein’ a pussy.”

“I was never a…” Am I seriously entertaining his foolishness? “Answer the question.”

“Answer mine,” he retorted.

I was seconds away from decking him.

“Yes,” I said affirmatively, downing rum in one shot. “Yes, I am goddamn heartbroken, alright? I buried the love of my life. It hurts me. Her demise has left a hollowness in my stomach, and it’s killing me.” I shoved the mug across the desk, and he caught it deftly. “My men admire me. Those loyal subjects depend on me to get up in the morning and lead, yet I cannot see beyond a bottle of Macallan and fucking blow.

“And what’s worse? When she was here, I treated her like shit. Do you know how much that’s fucking with my head? The last time I saw her, I chastised her for throwing me a surprise party. I had her in a state of tears just because she loved me. What kind of monster am I? I am an ungrateful asshole who hurt the only woman that’s ever genuinely cared about me—a woman who I’d quite literally die for if it meant restoring her breath.” My chest expanded on deep breaths. “A woman who never stood a chance against a man like me, yet I pursued her regardless.”

Rex looked expressionlessly inscrutable.

“I need to fix this,” I said fiercely, thrusting a hand through my hair. “I need to let go and rid myself of this harbouring guilt.”

He pondered. “Get ye head out of ye arse?”

I nodded grimly.

He refilled our drinks. “My Ma,” he begins, screwing up the bottle, “God rest her soul, was an odd old mare. She often chewed my ears off with a pearl of wisdom. One aphorism, in particular, resonated after Bronagh’s meltdown.”

I sank back in my chair, masquerading uneasiness.

“I love my grandbaby, but I spent more time here with the lads, trainin’ and whatnot. Let’s just say she never quite forgave me for neglectin’ her,” he adds, giving me a clear vision of B’s juvenile outburst.

I am all too familiar with how psychotic the Irish bird can be.

“Anyway, back to the point. My Ma used to say that the book of knowledge comes too late in life. Stupid, right? No,” he emphasised, igniting his pipe. “Truer words have never been spoken. Everyone reaches a point in life, wishin’ they could turn back the hands of time, wishin’ they could rectify past mistakes and meddle with fate. If we were fortunate enough to see into the future, we’d steer course and change direction.

“Unfortunately, no such cultivated book exists for the young and inexperienced. Ye need to meet a rotten egg to know when ye got a good one. Ye need to feel heartbreak to appreciate a second chance in life. Ye need to endure bereavement to solidify ye heart, learn, educate, remould and become the best version of yourself.

“Ye,” he points at me, “of all people know that I am right. Ye didn’t share or burden my shoulders, though, I know ye suffered an ordeal.” Holding my stoic gaze, he puffed clouds of smog around his face. “Ye hardened to pain a long time ago, Warren, and ye didn’t get thus far bein’ a fuckin’ pansy. Learn from this, close the book, open another and start again.”

Eyebrows snapping together, I cast my eyes to the mug, swirling amber liquid at the bottom. Tough love, I thought, downing another soothing shot. “So the letter?”

“Aye,” he sighed, respiring slews of smoke. “I wrote many a letter. Just sayin’ thank you for dealin’ with those loan sharks back all ’em years ago.”

I stayed impassive. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rex hiked a bushy grey eyebrow. “The streets talk.”

“You mentioned Bronagh spat her dummy out,” I clipped, lighting a cigarette. “Are you going to listen to your own advice and show her the door?”

“I did, aye,” he confirmed, checking the time on the wall-mounted clock. “Told her to stop actin’ like a brat and to grow up. Ye know how much I love her, but that girl needs a serious wake-up call. Always frettin’ over Conor and his lyin’, cheatin’ arse.”

And B so passionately exclaimed it’d be me slumming and penny-pinching, and that I would never leave the East End and better my future. A good for nothing bum, she once called me. You will never, ever, get better than me, Liam. You are making a huge mistake.

I smirked to myself.

If only B could see me now. I wonder how she would react to my invigorating, prosperous lifestyle while she’s grappling with her cheating boyfriend.

“It infuriates me.” Rx relights his pipe. “I want Bronagh to concentrate on the little lad, not Conor the prostitute fuckin’ bellend.”

His innocuous comment had taken me aback. “Bronagh is a mother?”

“Aye, and a shite one at that. The poor whippersnapper spends more time at my daughter’s house than with his damn Ma. And Conor? Well, he is too busy squanderin’, instead of fundin’ his kid.” He wafted a faint veil from his face. “So, what do ye do when ye need to blow off some steam? Do ye still box?”

“I kill people,” I answered in a bored voice. “Fighting is part and parcel.”

Rex’s tongue fused to the roof of his mouth. “Aye, well, I suspected as much. What, after witnessin’ ye blow holes in Jerry’s men that night, nothin’ stuns me, lad. Plus, gossip travels fast. Ye got quite an established name for yourself in London…” He wavered, a question dangling on the end of his tongue.

“Spit it out.” I set the mug onto the desk. “I can see those wheels turning inside your head.”

“Well if ye insist.” Opening the desk drawer, he pulled out an envelope and slid it to me. “I need a favour. If ye willin’, of course.”

Tearing through the envelope, expecting to see a debt letter, I unfolded the paper and briefly scanned an address. “What is it?”

“Ryan Scott,” he said, pinching his lips together. “He’s been with me for a few years; a good lad who works hard and trains harder. I see potential in him, Warren. With the right guidance, he’s goin’ somewhere.”

I eyed him blankly. “So, what’s the problem?”

“His Ma,” he spits, pouring another rum. “That junkie bitch will be the death of him. She makes him work part-time to fund her fix. She forces him to play house while she’s comatose in bed. Day and night, he’s seein’ random punters waltzin’ in and out of his house for sex. He told me once that he has to wear earphones to bed so that he can drown out moanin’ Minnie in the next bedroom.

“One afternoon, Scott came here earlier than usual. He does that sometimes. He’ll mop the floors and organise the locker rooms to keep busy. Anyway, he’s in the ring with another lad, trainin’ for a fight when his Ma rocks up—as if she owned the bastard place—yellin’ at him for not leavin’ any money on the kitchen counter. It’s bad enough that she gave him a black eye the night before. Now the irredeemable mutt thinks she got the right to come here, in my gym, and point an admonitory finger at one of my lads.” He growled, lips twisting in disgust. “He’s thirteen years old. How the hell does a minor get a cash-in-hand job, Warren? I mean, I am inclined to report it, but I know he slips a few sneaky notes in his boot for fodder. I can’t cripple him just to take her kneecaps.”

He stood then, unlocked the filing cabinet and conveyed a mason jar to the desk. “What I require is unjustifiable. If Scott finds out, well, he’ll never forgive me, Warren. But with a Ma like that, he doesn’t stand a chance in hell.” Unscrewing the cap, he retrieved rolled up notes and offered payment. “I’ll find the rest.”

“Put that away,” I snarled, whacking his hand from my face. “Don’t ever fucking insult me again. I do not accept cash from anybody. I don’t need people’s blood money or bribery tickets. Favour-for-favour, Rex. That’s how I operate.” Rising from the chair, I loomed over him, leaving my half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He offered a flat smile, tightening the jar. “I owe ye so much.”

No, I am indebted to this man. He gave me a home after Bill died. I squeezed his shoulder and walked away, phone vibrating in my trouser pocket.

“Wait,” Rex called, and I paused near the exit door, not sparing him a second glance. “Times a healer, Warren. Take care of yourself.”

I digested his words, exited into the alleyway and stuffed the address in my pocket.

My phone continued to jitter.

“Fuck’s sake.” Unlocking the home screen, I accepted Nate’s call. “Warren.”

“Sir,” he drawled, lowering the clamorous music volume in the background. “I waited for you this morning to show you those documents…”

I rounded the street corner and flagged down a taxi. “I am not interested in Miss Bennett.” The black cab came to a stop. I opened the door and ducked into the backseats. “Take me here,” I ordered, handing the driver the address. “Cut corners, and I’ll double the fare price.”

“Are you hailing a cab? Where’s security? Actually, don’t answer that. I want to keep my balls. I sent an email,” Nate prattled one, talking over my garrulous taxi driver. “I advise you to open the attachment.”

Muting the call, I loaded the email and downloaded the attachment. I read the first three lines and impossible rage ignited something punishing and vicious inside me. “Nate,” I took him off mute, hand crushing the phone. Unfastening Alexa’s tag from my chain, I slipped it into the back of my wallet. “Invite Miss Bennett to the club tonight.”

I sensed his triumphant smile transmitting through the receiver. “Anything else, sir?”

“Yes, I want an update on Jace’s death.”

“Brad received information from Reginald this afternoon,” he said, and my interest heightened. “He looked into Brad’s claims, so he did a little digging. According to the Chief, Jace boarded a ferry the night in question. There’s no way he went down in that fire.”

My heart palpitated, and a red veil fell over my eyes. “I want you to pay Grayson a visit. Find out why he lied to me, or rather, who deceived him.”

Chapter 17

Liam

I am standing inside a small kitchen, the black veneered counters, scattered with avoidable rubbish and unwashed dinnerware. Old newspaper articles case the windows, preventing natural light from entering the insalubrious, unwholesome council home—thorough squalid replicates throughout. The narrow space confined in the cramped living room presents negligible furnishings; one frayed corner sofa, portable television and strewn cardboard boxes hoarding miscellaneous items and accumulated magazines with highlighted gossip columns.

What a filthy, shambolic residence, I pondered, nudging a box with my shoe, startling and disturbing an unexpected rodent. Scurrying across the floorboards, the mouse collapsed its spine and crawled beneath a gnawed baseboard next to the condemned fireplace.

Lips twisting in repulsion, I stepped across strewn clothes and shoes, entered the box-shaped hallway and, foot by foot, ascended the narrow stairway.

I moved through a place that felt cold and unlived, unprepossessing, neglected and unloved. Not one family picture mounted these undecorated walls, and the uncarpeted floors illustrated further uncaring neglect.

Bypassing the bathroom, I opened a door and peered inside a bedroom. Before the window, a single bed presented with a chequered blue comforter and a shabby rug adorns the scarce walking space. It’s somewhat tidy compared to downstairs. I looked inside the wardrobe. He folded clean towels, spartan clothing and stored cleaning bottles in a plastic container.

I unclasped my Rolex Oyster Perpetual wristwatch and stuffed it inside a hoodie pocket. It’s worth a mint. He can model and boast, or pawn for a fresh financial start.

Shutting the bedroom door behind me, I extract gloves from my trouser pocket and wriggle my fingers into the worn leather.

The second I entered the mother’s room, stale cigarette smoke and pungent urination wafted down my throat.

Previously, she collapsed face down on the double-bed and blanketed the bedside lamp with sheer pink fabric to dim the room. She only wears a black thong, revealing her pale derriere. Her discarded clothes tossed on a nearby chest of drawers.

I sloped my gaze to the used condom on the floor and breathed out a sedative sigh.

Sensing a presence, she squinted her bloodshot eyes open and stared at me for longer than necessary. “Who are you?” she croaked, rolling onto her back, exposing saggy her breasts and taut nipples. “You’re new, huh?”

Standing at the foot of her bed, I smirked, looming over her stretching frame. “Something like that.”

She reached for a cigarette with blind determination, opened the box and groaned. “I thought I had some left.”

I opened my packet, extended my arm and offered to share. She pinched two fingers around a cigarette, balanced it between pouty lips, and leaned close for me to light the end. “Did you bring enough money?” she asked, eyeing my solid gold curb bracelets and diamond rings. “I’m not cheap.”

Tucking my lighter away, I stifled a disbelieving laugh. “I can afford you.”

Half-drunk from her afternoon of carousing, she laid back on the mattress, respiring smoke to the ceiling. In her hand, the cigarette lingers precariously close to the coverlet, a devastating hazard waiting to happen. I can ignite a fire and let her burn inside the sanctuary of her destructive ambience. No, it means the entire house will aflame. I had to consider the lad.

Unbuckling my belt buckle, I held her eyes while tugging the leather through my trouser loops.

She followed the movement with dilated eyes, moaning her approval. “Where do you want me?” Wafting smoke from her face, she leaned over the bed, tossed the cigarette in an ashtray, kicking off her thong. “Men ain’t looking like you these days.” She slipped a hand between her thighs, fingers stroking her unshaven cunt. “Will you eat my pussy?”

I couldn’t think of anything worse than putting my head in those thighs. “Are you paying?” I positioned a knee on the mattress, snapped the belt and fastened it to her upper arm. “How does your son feel about his mother selling her ass?”

“Ryan,” she purred, licking her chapped lips. “How do you know my son? Is that little asswipe playing up again?”

Securing the belt around her arm, I opened the bedside drawer and searched for the requisite narcotics for fatal consequences.

When I didn’t respond, she rolled her eyes. “Don’t be worrying about my Ryan,” she clipped, reaching up and cupping her breast. “There are some toys in the ottoman. I prefer the rabbit. It helps me squirt.”

I put the lighter under a spoon, liquifying excessive heroin. “Why don’t we have a little fun first?” I mused, offering her a daring smile. “I’m feeling generous.”

“Oh, I love your voice,” she purred, pinching her aching clit with begrimed fingernails. “So gravelly and rough—woof.”

I refrained from sneering, preparing a syringe.

“I deep throat for a tenner,” she tells me, moaning while chasing her pleasure. “I can take that cock to the back of my throat. I swallow, too. I bet you love that, huh? Shooting your cum on a woman’s face, ordering her to lick it up.”

Her seductiveness requires honing. “Nice to know.” I can’t believe this woman only charges ten pounds for a blowjob. At Club 11, clients pay seventy-five for a lousy handjob. My women charge extortionate hourly rates. You wouldn’t even cop a grope for ten quid.

“How about you let me suck on that juicy cock first?” She ran her tongue across tar, stained teeth and gums. “I love sucking on a thick cock.”

She tried to snatch my crotch, and I caught her wrist. “Let’s shoot first.” Massaging her palm, I draped her arm above her head, tracing my leather-clad fingertips across crusted track marks. “Don’t be stroppy,” I rasped, discerning her pouty lips and furrowed brows. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Her untidy blonde hair fanned across the stained sheets. I noticed a faint bruising beneath her left eye and pondered whether a client used unrestrained force amid their last encounter. I reckon she was a looker prior to hardcore drugs. I looked beyond her jet, black roots, gaunt cheeks and distasteful smile, envisioning a younger version—a blithe, attractive woman who once lived accordingly, worked full-time and dated decent men. I could picture someone who took pride in their appearance and demanded respect.

Those blue eyes told many sad stories. You don’t hit rock bottom without a cause. “Where’s Scott’s father?” I pressed a thumb to her inner elbow, prodding for a vein.

She flinched but thought I hadn’t noticed. “Who knows, huh?” Her voice broke, lips puckering. “Fuck ’em.”

I am a sharp-witted man. I didn’t get thus far in life without exceptional perceptiveness. “Born of rape,” I conclude he forcibly impregnated, and her doe eyes narrowed. “It’s a painful legacy for him. Does he know?”

She bit her tongue, refusing to respond.

“You see a monster in your son’s eyes,” I continue, lining the needle. “The same eyes of his father. Such striking features that you can’t ignore—a painful and prominent reminder of what his father did to you.” I inject heroin into her protruding vein. “I understand, although counterfactual resemblance doesn’t mean he inherited his father’s villainousness.”

“I try,” she groaned, heroin taking effect. “I raised him; I fed him; I kept a damn roof over his head. What more could he possibly want, huh?” She blinked against euphoric pleasure. “You don’t know what the fuck I’ve been through, so don’t judge me.”

I applied pressure to the syringe. “Why do women birth children and then neglect them?” I asked, quenching interest. “He didn’t ask to be here.” I didn’t ask to be here, I thought, leaving the needle in her arm, rising to my feet. “It’s not his fault.”

Her shallow, irregular breathing thwarted her response. Limpness and semi-unconsciousness coincided with choked gurgling. Her addiction asserted to a typical heroin junkie who overdosed. I unbuckled the belt from her arm, ignored her gargled whimpers and shut the door.

I waited on the landing, back to the wall, whistling tunes while she wrestled her last breath. I had no shame or compunction; I had to kill.

Scott’s mother’s condition evoked unsettling memories, though. I do not recall the woman who birthed me. I had no concept of what she looked like or if her dire situation replicated this one. For the first time in my adult life, I deliberated and considered her.

Irked by undesired conclusions, I tampered down unspoken, unasked and unanswered questions, descended the stairs and powered to the back door. I didn’t reach the exit. I paused, contemplated how to approach the young lad with his back to me. He wears over the head headphones, listening to music while washing the dishes at the sink.

Ryan Scott.

I noted his straightening spine. He glimpsed over his shoulder, eyes rounding. “What the hell?” he barked, tugging the headphones to his neck, stumbling toward the stove. I hadn’t foreseen his impulsiveness. He snatched open the drawer, retrieved and brandished a serrated kitchen knife. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

His fear puzzled me. Rex claimed Scott’s used to his mother’s degrading lifestyle, so why the hostility? Am I not just another man swinging through for sexual gratification?

“Warren,” he said in the blandest undertone, his eyes never straying from mine. “What do you want?”

He recognises me. “You’re tall for a thirteen-year-old,” I pointed out in a monotone voice, my hands buried in my trouser pockets. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, Scott?”

With fostered gallantry, he squared his shoulders, jutting his bare chest. “Get out,” he ordered, and a dry laugh fell from my lips. “I don’t want any trouble.” His rounded blue eyes dart to the living room door. “What did she do? Does she owe you money or something? Listen, I can get it back. Give me a few weeks—”

“Shut up,” I scold, sensing an emerging headache. “Yes.” I began my web of lies. “Your mother owed me money. I checked in to collect what’s rightfully mine. She has a severe problem with heavy drugs, which I am sure doesn’t come as a surprise to you.”

He tousled his brown hair with a trembling hand.

“I will be leaving empty-handed,” I continued, resting an elbow on the kitchen counter. “Overdose.”

Scott withered on the spot, unhinging his jaw. “What?”

“It’s unacceptable. I am inclined to overturn this property and claim valuables…” I raked my disapproving gaze over the furniture. “However, It is unlikely that I’ll find anything of significant value.” He’s yet to shed a tear. Interesting. “I guess her debt falls on your shoulders.”

His Adam’s apple jived in his throat. “Please don’t kill me.”

I fixed my cufflink. “I don’t know, Scott. Twenty grand is a lot of money to overlook.” I settled my eyes on his holey trainers. “It is not unreasonable to feel upset and offended.”

Nodding in agreement, he dropped the knife back into the drawer. “Can you at least make it quick?”

Boldfaced and dauntless, I thought, opening the back door. “I was never here,” I said, and he listened with sharp attentiveness. “You have never met Liam Warren, let alone shared a conversation with him. If you so much as breathe my name around the East End? Expect a visit. I don’t play nice, Scott. I’ll beat you within an inch of your life only to let you heal and repeat the torture all over again. By the time I’m through with you, death will be your only saviour. Have I made myself abundantly fucking clear?”

I had gotten inside his head. He swallowed what seemed like a punishing knot, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Yes.”

“Good lad.” I smiled with sardonic optimism. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

He muttered his breath, “I’d rather eat my shit.”

“It would be inadvisable to do so,” I retort, tone laced in sarcasm. “Careful Scott. I get the impression you’re going to need me in your corner someday.”

Eyebrows joining in irritation, he spat out a venomous response. “I don’t need anybody but myself.”

His arrogance and warlike temperament suggest otherwise.

Ryan Scott is an impending detonation.

I cannot wait for the day he wreaks mass destruction and pleads for my help.

Shutting the back door, I wander down the garden path, light a cigarette and respire smoke to the night sky.

I fulfilled my good deed of the day.

***

“Bossman,” Brad chimes, swinging an arm over my shoulders. “I missed you.”

“Get the fuck off me,” I snapped, spurning his playful advances. “You’re cruising for a backhander.”

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, he slipped a toothpick to the corner of his mouth. “Where did you go?” he asked, following me into the prestige suite. “I called you.” He sought Cherry across the room. She’s the head female at Club 11. It’s her job to lead and command the dancers, keep them in check and collect payments after each shift ready to leave on my desk. “I will cave tonight. Cherry’s looking sinful.”

Yes, the vivacious redhead screams concupiscent in her skin-tight corset, diamante G-string and lecherous gaze.

Brad has danced around Cherry since he joined the syndicate. She is his go-to woman if you may. They have a love/hate relationship. She literally worships the ground he walks on, whereas he only tolerates her for libidinous purposes. Once they fuck, he palms her off, regretting his sex-induced mistake.

“You’ll only regret it,” I said imperiously, accepting a crystal glass topped with Macallan from Nate. “Where’s Josh?”

Nate gestures toward the back. Josh, intoxicated, rested on the leather sofa, drapes his arms around two women, immersing himself with their carnal kisses and greedy hands. Cora, a fresh-faced recruit, kneels between his parted thighs, rubbing a palm over his trouser-clad groin, easing his arousal.

“Christ,” said Brad. “He’s in fanny heaven right now.”

I burst out laughing.

Nate shot him a disparaging look. “He had a superlative teacher.”

“I am not that bad,” Brad lies, knocking down a whiskey shot. “You’re no better.”

“I got more dignity,” Nate drawled in a condescending tone. “And self-control.”

Affronted, Brad blew out a long breath. “Why don’t you crawl back up the ass you fell from?”

“What the fuck did you say to me?” Nate jerked Brad, which only humoured the jester more. “I should pummel your white ass.”

“No, thanks.” He grimaced, slipping between us to reach the bar. “I don’t want you touching my virginal bottom.”

Nate, lost for words, puffed out his cheeks. “That’s not what I meant,” he assured me, and I arched an eyebrow. “Come on now. You know I don’t play like that.”

He’s a straight, warm-blooded male. I upheld indifference, though. “It’s none of my business.” While he defended his sexuality, I noticed Kellie at the bar, observing me with intense adoration. “Why the fuck is she here?”

“Oh,” Nate winced, itching his jawline. “Yeah, she rocked up here about an hour ago. Also,” he tipped his head, indicating to the blonde woman headed in our direction, “Miss Bennett arrived at the appointed time.”

I grapple for words. “Nate,” I whispered, turning my head away from prying eyes and perked ears, “escort Miss Bennett to my office. I’ll be there in a moment.”

Leaving him to clean my mess, I walked to Kellie, poised and unperturbed. I can feel Hellen’s curiosity, clawing at the back of my head, but paid her no heed. Stationed beside the bar, I clicked my fingers, ordering the barman to refill my glass.

I scrutinised her from head-to-toe, marvelled at her slender legs, purple, figure-hugging dress and ample cleavage.

Sat tall and elegant on a leather padded bar stool, she twisted at the waist to face, a question on her tongue. “Are you not delighted to see me?” Her brown eyes, sliced, questioning. “Warren…?”

I peered over her head, watched security settle an argument between two dancers. Acclimated to the raucousness and sultry ambience, tonight, however, I am too anxious. I’d rather be in my office, drinking Macallan and thinking—I prevented my wandering thoughts. No, I shan’t return to that dark place. It’s done. I am over it—over her. Moving on. “Get one of my men to drive you home.” Curling a hand around the glass, I brought it to my lips and swallowed liquid courage. “I’ll call you.”

“What?” she asked, lengthening in her spine. “You’re kicking me out?”

“Something came up.” She snatched my suit sleeve. “Kellie,” I said curtly. “Remove your hand.”

Obsequious, she released me, sinking back a touch. “I want to spend time with you.” Her rueful smile and increasing dejection foiled future appointments. “What if I wait until you finish?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” I said with impatient harshness, neatening my appearance. “This no longer works for me. You’re too attached.”

“No, I am not,” she lies, slipping off the stool. “Am I allowed to fancy the man I am shagging?”

Every punctuated syllable aggravated me. “I made myself clear,” I said, lowering my voice. “I was straight with you, Kellie. I am not looking for anything serious—somebody to pass the time with. And you agreed. You also assured me, in the event we parted ways, you wouldn’t be a problem. It’s our first setback, Kellie and, as predicted, you’re a fucking problem.”

“Surely, Alexa would want you to live, Liam,” she sniped, and impossible rage clawed from the pit of my stomach. “I doubt your dead girlfriend—”

“Warren,” I spat, snatching her throat in a firm grip. “You do not address me informally, Kellie.” Her watery eyes protruded. “If you ever, ever, mention her name in my presence again?” I thrust the barrel of my Desert Eagle under her chin, sensing the unnerving shift in the room. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Warren,” she whispered, her eyes pleading with me for relief. “You’re hurting me.”

“Bossman.” Brad squeezed my elbow, urging me to stand down. “Let me handle it.”

Applying pressure to her throat, I snarled, thrust her into the bar and stormed through gathered security and dancers. Deafening music fades as I ambled down the hallway. I lingered outside my office door, disarmed and smoothed two hands over my head, correcting my ruffled state. “No one enters this office,” I said, and posted security dipped their heads.

I found myself in a state of resigned ataraxia.

Perched on the desk edge, Hellen smokes a cigarette, crossing her legs in a graceful movement. “Mr Warren,” she purred, respiring a train of veils. “I must say that your unexpected invitation astonished me.”

I outlined her curvaceous physique and attractive features. Yes, I remember our night. She’d been fierce in bed, unselfish, sexually gratifying. “Miss Bennett.” I offered an open palm, and she accepted, flattening a hand over mine. “You look ravishing.”

That compliment earned me a satisfied grin. “As do you,” she murmurs, and I pressed a soft kiss to her inner wrist. “I am thrilled for this second-chance, Mr Warren, though, I do wonder why the sudden interest?”

“There’s no hidden agenda, Hellen.”

She stood to her full height, placing us eye-to-eye. “Really?”

“I saw your face on the news.” I unbutton my suit jacket and sit on the desk edge. “Your fight for women empowerment is riveting.”

“I am glad you approve.” She leaned over me to snub the cigarette, leaving it half-smouldering in the ashtray. “And?”

“And,” I mulled over a response, “I wanted to see if another night was on the table.”

She splayed her hands over my chest. “I am not interested in a night of passion,” she purred, lowering her head to my shoulder, nipping my earlobe with her teeth. “I am worth more than a quick fumble in the sheets.”

“Of course.” Encircling her waist with one arm, I fisted the back of her gold dress, tugging her in. “I can be lenient.”

“You’ll make an exception?”

“Why don’t we see if there’s any chemistry first?” I played into her hands, cupping her ass cheek. “What do you say?” Her lips peppered along my jaw, near my mouth. I evaded, sank my teeth into her shoulder, hiked the dress to her waist. “Hellen?”

Fumbling with my belt and zipper, she groped my arousing cock, humming in appreciation. “I can’t wait for you to fill me again.”

I opened my wallet and slipped a foil packet in her hand. “It’s yours.” I eliminate my suit jacket, the shirt follows.

Hellen lowers her dress, exposing her voluminous breasts and perked nipples. “Let me show you a good time,” she promises, tearing the wrapper with her teeth.

I stroked myself, released for her to sheath me.

Condom in place, she loses her French knickers and saddles my thighs. I watched her sink on my length, cunt parting to accommodate me. “Fuck,” I groaned, hands clinging to her curvy waist. “Ride me.”

I’ll be a sycophant if it gets me what I want.

Chapter 18

Alexa

Tommy delivered the goods. On Jace’s request, the gypsy king provided keys to a panther black Land Rover and fraudulent identification cards. Of course, I am a typical, nosey female. I asked to see my impermanent identity. “Victoria,” I read, spurning the blonde mugshot. “Victoria Rose. Seriously, Jace?” I reached for his card, dodging his hand as he worked the gearstick. “Nathan?” I laughed. Oh, God, I laugh. “These are insane. This dude has long hair, Nath,” I enunciated, and his lip twitched. “Long, black hair.”

On instinct, Jace combed a hand through his brown mane. “Grab the holdall from the back.”

Arching a tweezer-required eyebrow, I obeyed, hauling the bag onto my lap. “My girl has chubby cheeks.” Tugging the zipper, I fossick through glad rags, synthetic wigs and killer high heels. “And she has blue eyes…” I opened blue, disposable contact lenses. “Shit.” When I look at him, I find him watching me. “You were serious about living incognito, huh?”

Jace merged the vehicle across the M4, powering through the fast lane. “I don’t think you’re taking it seriously enough, Victoria.” Adjusting his sunglasses, he lowers the music, so that we can talk. “One, Flamur Bajramovic believes I’m beating you into submission back on the Isle of Man. Two, he has custody of my baby girl. If I mess up? I’ll lose her. I am not risking her life for negligence. Three, Warren will turn London upside down if he gets a whiff that you’re not dead—”

“Liam will find out, eventually,” I said, and his knuckles whitened, his fingers gripping the steering wheel. “What? I can’t help that I miss him, Jace.”

“Not yet, though.” He applies force to the accelerator. “You can go back to your perfect life with Warren. But give me a chance to board a plane with Summer first. He’ll kill me. You know it; I know it.”

He’s right. If Liam uncovers the truth behind my death, he’ll torture Jace, dismantle his body and feed his limbs to wild boars.

“Vick.” I lift the waist-length blonde wig, examining the bouncy curls. “If I must change my name? Call me, Vick.”

“Vick,” he repeated, lips pursing in a refrained smirk. “It kinda has a ring to it.”

Snapping the bobble from my wrist, I drag my hair back into a messy knot and arrange the wig on my head. Pulling down the visor mirror, I study my reflection and pick the white bandage from my face. I touch the jagged scar beneath my eye, pleased to see it’s healed nicely. “What else did Tommy pack?” I opened a cosmetic case and suppressed a smile. “Makeup.”

“Sheila organised it for you.”

After tweezing the eyebrows, I applied a thin layer of foundation to my face, added a speck of shimmering dust to my cheeks and then spent a ridiculous amount of time fixing the contact lenses. I groaned, complained, and almost threw those rubbery bastards out of the window. “I did it!” Blinking to clear my stinging vision, I showed him my right eye. “Now I have to spend half an hour doing the other one.”

Jace guffaws, veering the Land Rover off the M4. “I like the whole heterochromia look.”

“Do you have to wear contacts?” I asked, rechecking his identification card. “Oh, of course, Nathan has green eyes. How convenient for you?” The second contact fell into place without much fuss. Finalised with eyeliner, mascara and nude-coloured lipstick, I shimmied out of the jogging pants, pulled on high-waist skinny jeans, lost the hoodie and tucked a figure-hugging white shirt into the trouser waistband. I tweaked my lace bra, slipped my feet into nude stilettos and doused myself in divine-smelling perfume. “I feel human again.”

“Shit,” Jace whistles, cracking his knuckles. “You look hot, Vick.”

“Thank you.” A hopeless shade heated my cheeks. “Can you see the real me beneath the disguise, though?”

Driving into London, Jace threw many sidelong glances my way. “I know you’re alive,” he said, evaluating my question. “If I thought Alexa was truly dead, and then you sauntered past me in the street…” Clicking his tongue, he studied me over the sunglasses border. “No. I wouldn’t see it.”

I smiled flatly. “So, what’s the plan?”

“We’ll head into Victoria,” he explains, stopping at the traffic lights. “I think a shopping trip is in order. After that, let’s grab a pizza and find somewhere to stay. Are you opposed to sleeping at a bed-and-breakfast?”

“I don’t mind where I sleep as long as it’s not on the floor,” I joked, and his smile faded. “Nath, I am kidding. You need to get used to my senseless humour.”

“How’s the back?”

“A little sore,” I fibbed. Those angel wings almost killed me. I had six breaks and passed out when he shaded the feathers. “I’ll live.” This morning, I looked at my raw, inflamed back, admiring Jace’s talented artwork. It’s a beautiful piece, but I cannot wait until it’s healed.

“I need food.” He took a sharp turn, almost ran a red light. “Burrito?” Diverting into a drive-thru, he orders two burritos and caramel lattes. “What do you want?”

I blinked. Twice. “Am I not sharing that huge order?”

He cracked a wicked smirk. “You assume the ‘Big Daddy’ burritos are for you?”

“No, I thought one burrito was for me.” Is he seriously going to scarf down two? I later noticed his tickled expression. “Oh. Ha. Ha,” I mocked, folding my arms. “And I thought I was a terrible raconteur.”

“I am a fabulous storyteller.” He chucked a brown paper bag on my lap. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re also full of yourself.” I opened the bag, unravelled heady goodness and sank my teeth into chicken-licking perfection. “Shit. It’s hot.” I retract my statement. “Oh, it’s disgusting.” Hand covering my mouth, I searched for a napkin, my eyes watering. “What on earth do they use to marinate the chicken?”

“Extra hot sauce,” he clarifies, caving his food without so much as a blink. “No good with spice, huh?”

“Apparently,” I muttered, dumping the burrito with resolute disrespect. “I’ll stick to the latte.” I blew over the surface of my coffee. “What’s on the shopping agenda?”

“New clothes. No comfortable footwear and slouch pants, Vick. You need to think big, different but unsuspecting. The polar opposite of Alexa Haines.”

“I only wore slouch pants because I had no clothes,” I said, a tad bit defensive. “Plus, look at my feet.” Hiking my leg onto the dash, I exhibit such evidence. “Do they look comfortable to you? Hm? I am going to break an ankle.”

“Thanks to Sheila.” He crumpled up his rubbish, talking with a mouthful. “Don’t pretend that you live-and-die in high-heeled shoes, Vick.”

Jace’s right again. Fuck. Him. “Oh, I can live-and-die in ankle-breakers, Nathan.” Dropping my leg in a huff, I folded my arms and stabbed my bottom lip with gritted teeth. “You’re going down.”

He caught me in his bewildered stare. “Are you done?”

“Nope.” Bored, I studied my fingernails when a light-bulb moment sparked an idea. “Can I get a manicure?”

***

“I love them,” I squeal, awe-stricken by my polished red fingernails. “I am in heaven.”

“I am in hell,” Jace grumbled, dragging himself from store-to-store.

“It’s hard to take you seriously in that ridiculous outfit.” He wears an ankle-length leather coat, black aviators and a shoulder-length men’s wig. “I think I’ll start calling you ‘Arnold.'”

“Don’t start—”

“I’ll be back,” I quoted in a baritone voice.

He shot me a disgruntled snarl, shadowing me into another cosmetics store. “What are you buying now?”

“Hair products.” Skimming the shelves, I alternate bottles, inhaling various scents. “Lavender?”

He shook his head.

I sniffed another. “Buttercream?”

“Buttercream,” he moaned into a clenched fist. “Who cares if your hair smells like butter?”

“I care,” I stated the obvious, selecting raspberries and cream. “What about blueberry?”

“I can’t take much more,” he complains, pushing a hand through his hair. “Vick, I am a guy. I can tolerate a bit of window-shopping, but your gruelling, dangerous spending is nauseating.”

I waggled my threaded eyebrows. “Come with me if you want to live.”

“Stop quoting The fucking Terminator!”

“Hasta la vista.” Hip to the counter, I winked. “Baby.”

His lips meshed into a tight line. “Vick…”

“Well, you don’t need to babysit me.” I wait for the cashier to bag up my purchases. “Why don’t I finish shopping and meet you back at the car?”

Jace handed her rolled-up notes.

I drummed my fingernails on the counter. “Nath?”

“What?” he drones, conveying my new treats outside. “I don’t know, Vick. What if…?”

I deliberated his unfinished inquiry. “I promised,” I emphasised, tucking blonde hair behind my ears. “I thought we agreed to trust each other.”

“I do trust you…”

Jace’s conflicting emotions stabbed me in the heart. I appreciate how I must seem like a liability, but a little girl’s life is at stake. I am not a monster. I’d never turn my back on Summer, not when I am the catalyst to her abduction. “I promise,” I said once more, interlacing our fingers together, “to come back. I am not going to run, Nath…” His scepticism earned a lambasting. “I am a product of child abduction. Do not insult me. I’d never stand back and let Summer suffer. She might be your daughter, but I am invested, determined, and royally pissed. That sick asshole is not going to ruin her life. Not with me around. Not with me fighting your corner. And if he finds out what we did, I’ll hand myself over without a fuss. Either way, immaterial to strategies, Summer’s coming home.”

“Fuck,” he whispered, clasping a hand to his mouth. “I know, Vick. Shit. I’m sorry. I’m paranoid.”

I gave him a reassuring smile. “Give me twenty minutes to buy some underwear, Nath.”

He released my hand with great reluctance, stuffing cash in my jeans pocket. I wait for him to fade into the crowd, then breathe. Riding the escalator to the next floor, I locate a lingerie store and immerse myself with beautiful lace and push-up bras. I asked the assistant to take measurements before selecting items. “Thirty-six,” I told her, waiting inside the changing room. “B.”

Two minutes later, the friendly assistant returns with countless bras. “I picked a thirty-four for you to try, too.”

I frowned, outstretching my arms for her to encircle a tape measure across my bust. “A-cup,” she said, and my chin hit the floor. “Not what you expected?”

“I can’t afford to lose a boob-size.”

What in the world?

Rubbing my temples, I asked, “Are you sure?”

Nodding, she tightened the tape, counting the inches. “Thirty.”

Impossible. “I’m a thirty-fucking-A?” I am going to murder Jace Williams. “But I bought…” New clothes that I hadn’t tried on. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Do you need me to measure again?”

“No.” Offering a faux smile, I gathered my discarded blouse and redressed. “Thank you; I can handle the rest.”

Alone, I sit on the purple chair, examining Sheila’s bralette. I stuffed the pointless fabric in my handbag, plastered on a cheerful expression and exited the changing room.

On the glistening shop floor, I wandered through aisles, choosing size eight underwear. I snarled with each choice of fabric, hauling multiple styles, heels alternatively clicking against the tiled floor.

I conclude, at this moment, that Jace is a dead man. His caveman tendencies and outlandish porridge diet resulted in me dropping two dress sizes. I wasn’t appealing on the eye before this terrible quandary. Now I’ll be lucky to gain attention again— “Hell no,” a familiar voice drawled, and the hairs on my neck stood to attention. “It ain’t about that.”

Working on a tight swallow, I peered around the aisle, underwear glued to my chest. Outside the shop’s double doors, Brad and Nate, stand tall in their pristine suits, bickering to…Is that Josh? Since when did my favourite human get a promotion? What, he’s a stuck-up Suit now?

I wrinkled my nose, tongue flatted against my upper teeth.

Brad throws his head back on heavy chuckles, theatrically slapping a hand to his chest. His eyes, watered from uncontrollable laughter, found mine. I jumped back, praying he didn’t see me. Of course, he saw me! It’s Brad. That man sniffs out vaginas like an amped-up bloodhound.

I spun on my heel to hide in the changing room and crashed straight into someone’s chest. “Oh, shit,” I squeak, almost toppling over my feet, scattering lace in the air like taunting confetti. Two hands seized my elbows, steadying and breaking my fall—I stopped breathing. His cologne, a mixture of sandalwood and spice, permeated my breathing space.

What breathing space?

I didn’t have any. I am practically collapsed atop of him, palms stationed to his hard, muscular chest. I snatched my hands back, fell to my knees and gathered underwear off the floor. He lowered to one knee, and all I could do was stare at his black leather shoe. “Are you okay?” I closed my eyes, unable to meet his gaze. I reached for the final thong; he beat me to it, curling a finger under the delicate lace, holding it between us. “I believe this belongs to you.”

Clambering to my feet, I cowered away from him, terrified that he’ll recognise me.

Tailored in a pristine black three-piece, he soared to his full, intimidating height, towering and indomitable.

I need to look away. Impossible. His piercing blue eyes search mine with such breath-taking intensity, a day’s growth of stubble dusting his strong jaw. He’s not angry. He’s not depressed. He’s not hurt, confused or cognisant. He’s just… Him.

Liam Warren.

My Liam.

“Assuming you still plan to purchase such detailed lace,” he mused, his gravelled voice sheathing my skin in goosebumps and horripilation.

I opened my mouth to respond—he’d recognise my voice. I nod.

Eyebrows cinching slightly, he stepped closer, forehead creasing. “Do I know you?”

Shy and gauche, I shook my head.

Giving me a winsome smile, he absently rotated his thumb over the lace thong. “I like this colour,” he said in a thick, gravelled voice. “It’ll look good on you.”

Face burning up, I nod, claiming the red underwear from his hand. He stroked my knuckles with a deliberate brush of the finger, sending a powerful wave of fulfilment through my trembling body. He blinked, studying his hand atop of mine. It’s still there, I thought, watching him mask his flirtatiousness with guarded indifference.

Our eyes aligned. “What’s your name?” he rasped, eyes focusing on my lips. “Are you sure we’ve never met?”

“No,” I whispered, attempting to pull my hand from his.

His grip tautened, restraining me to his proximity. “So you’re not a mute?”

Don’t smile at his teasing, Alexa. I smiled, shaking my head.

Why is he still here?

It’s unlike him.

As if hearing my curious thoughts, Liam released his tight hold on me. He buried his hands into his trouser pockets, rocking back on the heels of his shoes.

Move along, Alexa. You can come back. It’s not time.

I achieved one step, hesitated, placing us shoulder-to-shoulder.

Our heads turned in unison, facing each other head-on.

I allowed myself to catalogue his striking features, admire his full lips and prominent jawline.

I allowed myself to look deep into his eyes, to appreciate his closeness and all-consuming dominance. His all-encompassing superiority, suffocating in the most satisfying way.

It’s no good.

I am head over heels, foolishly in love with this man.

Every perfection. Every imperfection. Everything about him.

And I am not ready to say goodbye.

“I…” He dipped his head, smoothing a thumb across his lower lip.

His lack of confidence somewhat pleased me. It’s a selfish requirement. He believes I died, but I don’t want him fawning over another woman. I want him to wait for me. I want him to wait for Alexa.

How is he supposed to do that? Be reasonable, Alexa. It’s not as though you took a vacation, and he’s anticipating your return.

You died.

You left him.

“I recognise you,” he finally said, and panic sprouted inside me. “It’s uncanny…” He glanced over his shoulder, searching, as it seemed. “Give me a name. I’d like to—”

“Liam?” A female voice shrills into our protective bubble, killing the fluttering butterflies in my chest. “Liam? Oh, there you are.”

“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the back of his neck.

Each flutter died. I held the underwear to my chest, hoping he wouldn’t notice my erratic breathing and straining chest. Blonde, curvaceous and downright beautiful, the woman melted into his side—and pressed a lingering kiss to his jaw. I jerked my eyes to his. He’s still studying me, searching, reading.

Why is he watching me?

Why isn’t he returning her affections?

Who is she?

She addressed him informally.

It is prohibited for inferiors to address him on first name bases.

Warren. Liam didn’t demand veneration.

She means something to him…

I can’t inhale. An imaginary hand seizes my throat, strangling the oxygen from my lungs, the air I breathe.

“Hello,” she chimes, extending an arm, coaxing me to shake her hand. “Hellen. And you are?”

Her fingers crush mine, a silent but threatening warning.

I still can’t breathe.

Why did I leave Jace?

Uncompromising heat flushed my chest and face, and sweat trickled down the nape of my neck.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I am going to have a panic attack.

No. No. No. Not right now.

“Is she okay?” Hellen asked him condescendingly, presuming I didn’t hear. “I think she’s going to pass out.”

I dropped everything on the floor, staggered backwards, knocking into three mannequins. Please don’t—They tauntingly wrestled on the display unit before crashing to the floor. Loud rioting noise reverberated throughout the lingerie store, magnetising the awareness of every customer. Flustered, the assistant wobbled toward me. “I’m so sorry,” I blurted, gripping my throat, my heart painfully slamming against my breastbone. “It was an accident.”

Alexa, stop talking.

My eyes flickered from Hellen to Liam.

I am humiliated, mortified.

Liam stiffened visibly, gaze darkening before my eyes.

“You might want to get a tissue.” Hellen pouted, gesturing to my nose. “You got a wee nose bleed.”

I pressed two fingers to my nostril, smearing blood on my fingertips. Out the corner of my eyes, I see him closing in—I dashed. I sped through the bustling aisles, hearing his heavy footsteps belting behind me. I speared through customers like a bowling ball into pins, shoving them into stands and units.

“Breathe,” I gasped, praying to God that these heels don’t snap under my weight.

At the entrance, all three Suits’ glance when discerning a commotion. I barrelled through their united front, gravitated to the escalator and rudely waded through stationed shoppers. One chastised me, or, so I believed, until looking back and seeing Liam hot on my heels.

Holy. Fuck. Two seconds as Victoria and I blew my cover.

I picked up the pace, hurrying to the exit. Evening winds slapped me in the face as I fell through the rotational doors. I didn’t have time to find Jace. I didn’t even know which direction was safe.

Making an obvious choice, I sat on a bench overlooking the eventful square, squishing between a couple. Slipping on a pair of big-framed sunglasses, tucking hair underneath my blouse, I remained poised, statue-like.

Liam shoves his way through the door. In the middle of the square, he came to an abrupt stop, clasping two hands at the back of his head. He glances between possible exit routes; the cinema, shopping phase two, car park, bus stop, Underground and a side street offering various fast food chains.

Furious, he dropped his arms, used the back of his hand to wipe sweat from his brow. Above the centre’s main doors, he marks a security camera. He’ll own that footage within half an hour.

And then he’s gone, returning to his… Hellen.

Who is Hellen?

I am not going to sleep tonight.

Apologising to the disturbed couple, I stood, collected my scattered thoughts, and joined Jace in the car park. I locate the Land Rover and knock the window, disturbing his random nap. He reached over and unlocked the car door. I sank onto the leather seat, my head buried on my lap.

“Hey,” he breathed, squeezing my neck. “Vick, what’s wrong?”

I broke.

Wrenching on a guttural sob, I fell apart, heart-shattering into tiny fragments. “Nath,” I cried, heartbreak pouring into my hands. “Oh, God. I can’t…” I put my back to him, dabbed my cheeks with my shirt sleeves, smudging mascara. “I hurt. I hurt so much.”

“Fuck.” Snatching my elbow, he forced me closer, snaking me in his arms. “Vick, talk to me. Why are you so upset? I shouldn’t have left you—”

“Liam,” I whimpered, hiding my head on his chest. “He was shopping…” He was inside a lingerie store buying her lace. “And Hellen—I wasn’t gone that long,” I snapped, bolting upright, tearing the wig off my head. “Fuck it.” It landed on my feet. “No, actually. You know what?” Fisting the blonde nest, I repositioned it on my head. “Fuck him. Fuck everyone. Fuck my life. Fuck my old life. Just—ah!”

“Calm down.” He massaged my neck, fingers loosening tension. “As much as I love hearing the word ‘fuck’ on your tongue, I need you to be a bit more specific. What happened?” He passed me a tissue packet. “Vick?”

I folded a few pieces, wiped my cheeks and nose. “I’m tired,” I whispered, snivelling in despondency. “I love so hard, Nath. Friends, family…” Liam, I thought, glancing out the window. “I had a shitty time growing up, but it didn’t change me for the worst. I still grew with morals, respect, empathy and compassion. I still treated people how I wanted to be treated.” Puffy eyed and lachrymose, I stared at him, both pensive. “I have no reason to be mad at Liam. He believes I’m dead. But to move on…” I shifted the knot in my throat. “To…forget about me,” I clicked my fingers, “just like that. Like I meant nothing—like what we had meant nothing to him.”

Jace pulled away from my gaze.

Gelid numbness immobilised me. I rested on the seat, lethargic, devastated. “That’s it for me,” I said quietly, releasing a shuddered breath. “Without him, I have no reason to go back.”

“Vick…”

“I’m serious, Nath.” My life flashed before my eyes. Blessed memories. Upsetting memories. Gruesome memories. Loving memories. “Adaline Haines is dead. Kathy Haines is dead.” I tilted my head, caught his stunned expression. “Alexa Haines is dead.” I gave him an imperceptible shake of the head. “It’s over. It’s time to move on.”

Offering me his hand, he threaded our fingers together. “What do you want, Vick?”

Heartbroken, I felt a tear roll down my cheek. “To be free.”

Chapter 19

Liam

Hunkered in sky-scraping commercial buildings, industrial units, departmental stores, theatres and bars and restaurants, I oscillated, hands clasped to the back of my head, scanning several departure routes.

Teeming with white-knuckled tourists, keen sightseers and aimless shoppers, London, the great city, all of a sudden, felt too small and discomforting.

Blood rushing in my ears, I lowered my arms, mentally lost in the bustling vicinage.

My heart beats so violently, so painfully.

I kneaded my chest with the heel of my hand, but the pulsation of my heart intensified.

The gravitational surge in my indistinct surroundings strengthened. I looked, hard, thoroughly. Although insurmountable and demanding, I listened to increasing intuition. It’s too powerful, enthralling and compulsive. Disillusionment arose, subjugating grounds for hope and optimistic belief, a logical voice inside my head, uncompromising with his unarguable facts.

I darkened my eyes, soft winds brushing hair strands across closed lids.

Alexa Haines is dead.

Why is my heart beating so fast?

Why do I feel her closeness?

The blonde damsel evoked me with pleasant yet heartrending memories. I see and feel Alexa, vividly exhausting. Fallen tears, unresolved arguments, and pointless separations. Beautiful smiles, stolen kisses and whispered sentiments. I still feel her body shattering beneath me. Her hand on my back, head on my shoulder, lips to my jawline. I touched my mouth with almost investigatory fingers, the vodka on her tongue, pungent to mine.

I am losing my mind. I am grieving.

No, I am in love.

The gyrating surveillance camera surveying the shopping centre’s layby square beckoned me. I don’t know who that woman is or why I am so insanely invested, but I want possession of that footage.

I force through the rotational doors in coinciding with Brad. He calls upon me, throws his hands in the air, frustrated. I fostered angered mutism, powered up the escalator and sprinted amid throngs of shoppers to inconvenience the centre’s security guards. I barged into the control room.

Seating and indulging pastries, three guards jerked gazes, one stood. “You’re not—”

“I need access to surveillance,” I interjected, pressing my palms on the partitioning desk. “All of it. Start from this morning too,” I glimpsed at my watch, “five-thirty. Give me access to the stores, elevators, facilities, restrooms and car parks.”

Momentarily stunned, the guard folded his arms, curving a thick eyebrow. “You do not have the jurisdiction for such imperious demands.”

I will murder him. “Wrong.” Fuming, I snatched the collar of his shirt, ripped him across the desk, his legs thrashing into monitors and telecommunication servers. “Do you know who the fuck I am?” His co-workers, frenetic yet slothful, jolted to their feet. “One more move,” I warned, cocking the Eagle, ramming the barrel under this geezer’s double-chin, “and I’ll blow his fucking brains out.”

Nate entered, closing and locking the door. He stationed himself like an impenetrable wall, black shirt tautening against his folded muscular arms.

I gave the guards a wicked smirk, fisted the guy’s shirt collar and smashed his face against the visitors’ desk.

Three minutes later, I walked away with cracked knuckles and two days worth of footage.

***

I alleviated myself from procrastinating shopping duties with Miss Bennett under the solid advice that I’d escort her to dinner sometime this week. I couldn’t think of anything worse, candlelit dinners, romanticism and false-hearted amorousness, especially with an uppish woman who believes her shit doesn’t stink.

Throned at the end of a conference table at Club 11, I nurse a whiskey-topped crystal glass, listening to the men, and Chief Superintendent Reginald Burton, hashing out theories regarding Jace Williams. To my left, Nate slaves away at the laptop, decrypting surveillance from the town’s shopping centre. He’s yet to deliver from studious investigating; however, I wait with nail-biting impatience, needing to know what today’s indecipherable encounter with the blonde means.

Reginald lights his cigar, hands me one. “There is no footage from the fire,” he explained, as I stroke the glass circumference, listening with razor-sharp attentiveness, “as surveillance went down before the arson attack.”

“And what of Jace?” asked Brad, pinching a toothpick, slipping it in his mouth. “Where does he stand in all this?”

“Nowhere,” Reginald said, puffing smoke. “He’s not a suspect, Warren. He was nowhere near the tenanted-building that night. In fact, your guy has an alibi. He was here when the fire started, enjoying your birthday celebrations.”

Don’t remind me. “Why did he board a ferry to the Isle of Man?” I tossed an envelope onto the desk, evidence he stole from Liverpool’s passenger terminal. Thanks to my most trusted men, a stockpile of gathered probabilities scattered among this private meeting.

Tearing through printed documentation, Reginald fixed his reading glasses and sliced his eyes. “Again, this means nothing. So, the man took a trip, visited friends and family. It doesn’t make him a suspect. It certainly doesn’t suggest he’s the man responsible for Miss Haines’ death.”

My heart ached at the sheer mention of her name. Cigar wedged between my teeth, igniting a matched flame, I leaned back in my chair. “How long have you known me, Reginald?”

He pondered my question. “Since that day, your younger self, so generously offered me a lifeline.”

“And in all the years you’ve worked for me,” I continued, respiring a veil of smoke, “when has my gut ever failed me?”

Pressing his lips into a grim line, he set the notes aside. “Never.”

“Never,” I repeated with an arrogant shrug. “Yet you question my judgement. You are not attending a meeting with peers or inferiors. Leave that law book at the door and get down to business. Man-to-man, Reginald. What do you speculate happened the night London’s fire commenced?”

“The Albanian mafia is solely responsible,” he stands by previous speculations. “I do not, however, think Jace acted as an accomplice during the time in question. Don’t waste valuable time looking into unsubstantiated evidence based on anecdotal research, Warren. I understand,” he enunciated, pinching the bridge between his eyes. “You need a reason for Miss Haines’ death, someone blameworthy to alleviate distress, but It is discreditable and counterproductive to go after the wrong guy.”

“I don’t care for credibility,” I snapped, blowing smoke to the ceiling. “And I don’t care what you say—that man knows something. Why didn’t he return to work the following morning, huh? Why did that son of a bitch flee London at the crack of dawn to avoid the aftermath of that fateful night? It’s senseless—or is it clever? I am yet to understand, of course.” I glanced at Brad. “What do we know about him?”

“Twenty-three-year-old Jace Williams relocated to London two years ago,” he gives me a run down, reading from a folder Nate put together. “Previous addresses fluctuate from Liverpool, Manchester and Scotland. It seems our vagabond almost never sets roots. At sixteen, Jace lost his girlfriend, Lucy O’Riley,” he slid an image down the table, “at childbirth due to severe bleeding and obstructed labour when delivering their daughter, Summer Williams.”

Frowning, I examined the image of a Jace kissing the top of a newborn baby’s head. “How old is the girl?”

“She’d be seven,” Josh added, highlighting passages with a green marker. “Did she board the ferry with her father?”

“No,” said Nate, passing me Jace’s one-way ticket receipt. “He made the trip alone.”

“Where’s the girl?” I asked, and everyone shared a dubious look. “And what of Grayson? What did he have to say about Jace’s bogus death?”

“My question floored him.” Brad raked a hand through his hair. “He claimed two officers visited the Coffee House after the fire and offered sincere condolences for his loss.”

Reginald eased back in his seat. “I didn’t send officials to the Coffee House. Whoever approached Mr Turner wasn’t law enforcement.”

Josh refilled everyone’s glasses with Macallan, a neat gin for Nate. “So, Bajramovic sent his men to the Coffee House, two guys portraying to be officers, to ensure Grayson didn’t raise awareness or become anxious and suspicious. Meanwhile, Jace, who seemingly has nothing to do with Alexa’s death, departs London at sunrise. He’s currently lying low, or hiding so that Warren doesn’t smell bullshit.” Loading a laptop, he taps the keyboard and searches primary schools within our vicinity. “Let’s start with Summer’s school.”

Impressed by Josh’s conscientious work ethic, I hiked a surprised eyebrow.

“It’s too late to call the reception desk,” he hummed, finding an alternative landline number. “I’ll try the headmasters mobile.” Clearing his throat, he put the phone to his ear. “Apologies for calling at unsociable hours. Joshua Fitzpatrick here, a homicide detective from the metropolitan police station in the Victoria Embankment, Westminster, London, regarding one of your pupils, seven-year-old Summer Williams.”

Reginald stared at him slack-jawed. “I reckon he’s working in the wrong field.”

Curbing a gloating grin, Josh listened to the headmaster’s response. “When was the last time she attended?” He paused, scribbling notes with a parker pen. “And did Mr Williams explain his reasoning?” Another scribbled line. “Yes, of course. Thank you for your time. I will be in touch if necessary.” He ended the call. “Get this. Summer hasn’t attended school for over two months. Jace pulled her out, claiming they were moving back to Scotland. Obviously, the education board didn’t question his decision. But,” he tapped the keyboard, sending information to the print, “Jace hasn’t enrolled Summer to another school. We know he never returned to Scotland, either.”

“What the fuck did he do with his kid?” Nate deliberated aloud. “No, man. Something is not right.” Tilting the laptop, he showed me the screen. “Your lady friend.”

I refrained from clipping him.

Zooming in on the woman, i watch the woman exiting a designer clothing store. It’s irrational and illogical, I thought, outlining her slender legs, paying great attention to her unsuspecting smile and waist-length blonde hair.

Brad bickered with Nate. Josh, on occasion, intervened. I, however, remained engrossed, clicking through various images and recordings. I paused the video. Inside a cosmetics store, opposite a makeup counter, the woman inhales fragrances, a tall male looming beside her. “Is he in the other shots?”

Nate drew a box around the guy’s head, clicked search and loaded additional footage. “Yes,” he confirmed as we watched the unknown man meander from shop-to-shop. “Interesting.”

“What?” I asked, glancing from him to the screen. “What am I missing?”

“He’s aware of the cameras,” Nate pointed out the guy’s surreptitious skulking. “Head lowered and eyes cast downward. His back to rotational camcorders and loitering security guards.” He unstiffened his spine, cracking his knuckles. “He’s crafty. I’ll give him that. What reason does he have to hide, though?”

Good question. “And their nearness,” I probed, showing him a close-up of the man’s hand on the woman’s lower back. “Their alliance is evident.”

Nate nodded in agreement. “I mean,” he winced, his gaze drifting to Brad, who’s drilling into me with a heated, cynical glare. “I don’t know, Sir. His shiftiness is questionable—he’s probably robbing those stores—but pilfering has nothing to do with us, right? I don’t even know why we’re looking into this.”

Resting an elbow on the table, I smoothed my thumb across my lower lip. Her image kindles something fierce and impossibly possessive inside me. “I want names,” I ordered, and Nate began to jot down notes. “I want to know who that man is.” I need to know who she is. “Where’s the footage of her absconding the centre?”

Nate mutes the volume Inserting another screen, and we watch her darting across the town square, the same woman I chased down with mechanical impulse. Guarded and unsteady on her shoes, she slips into the multi-storey car park—the screen glitched. Her still figure shelved next to the ticket station. “What happened?”

Nate contortions his puzzled features. He tapped his fingers on the keyboard, skimming surveillance, confused by the sudden technical difficulty. “Motherfucker,” he spat, and I sat straighter. “Someone’s hacked the organisation.” Jumping to his feet, he snatched Josh’s laptop, bashing the keyboard. “Shut everything down!” he barked, and the men stumbled into action, disengaging computer systems and software. “Shit.”

“What the hell is going on?” Reginald snubbed his cigar in the ceramic ashtray.

Unplugging the printer, Josh assessed print-outs, mirroring Nate’s puzzlement. “Printer jam,” he whispered, and I stood, fixing my cufflink. “Someone doesn’t want us sniffing around.”

I stared Nate down beneath gnarled eyebrows. “Do you still believe the lawless duo shouldn’t be on our radar?”

He’s flummoxed, tongue-tied.

My phone vibrated.

Kellie: Are you busy?

Me: Yes.

Kellie: I could swing by after work…?

My thumb hovered above the screen, Hellen’s face in mind.

Me: I don’t want to see you anymore.

Three dots danced across the screen.

Kellie: Are you dumping me over a text message?

Me: I can’t finish with a woman that I shared no commitments with.

Kellie: That’s a copout! What changed, Warren? We have a clear understanding, so why ruin it?

Me: I’m seeing someone else.

I awaited her response. Concluding she’d gotten my resolute, unarguable message, I put my phone away and slipped my arms into a coat. “Reginald,” I drawled, toking my cigar. “You can leave.”

“Thank you, Warren. A pleasure as always.” Accustomed to my rude and indifferent behaviour, he nodded, shook hands with the men and exited the conference room with two men escorting.

I wait until he’s gone to address my closest allies. “Josh, I want you to make restaurant reservations on my behalf; I am to accompany Miss Bennett to a romantic meal tomorrow night. In the meantime, I am to pay our white-supremacist hate group a friendly visit. It’s time somebody gave me Flamur Bajramovic’s whereabouts.” My hands fisting inside my trouser pockets, I smiled knowingly at my men. “I am more than capable of getting one of those bitches to squeal.”

Brad cracked a toothy grin. “The boss is back in the game.”

“Nate,” I clasped his shoulder, “I want you to take six men and fly to the Isle of Man tonight. Start with the sea terminal. See if there’s a link to Jace’s location and a possible hideout.”

“Sir,” he drawled, packing away his laptop. “Anything else?”

“Relay information when necessary.” I watch him leave and seek my right-hand man. “A moment alone, Brad.”

Comprehending requirements, obedient and poised, Josh dipped his head and ducked out the room with the security detail. “I believe Jace returned to London,” I voiced my concerns, and he rolled his shoulders back, a toothpick pinned at the corner of his mouth. “For peace of mind and irrefutable facts, I await Nate’s conformation.”

Occupying the minibar, Brad opened a crystal decanter to pour two stiff drinks. “So, you sent him on a wild goose chase?”

“No,” I clipped, inhaling and appreciating the whisky’s leather and wood aroma. “I appeased reservations. Yours, of course.”

Miffed, Brad ingested hard spirits with a sigh. “Mine?” he repeated, staring at me with a deadpan eyebrow curve. “You might need to spell it out for me, Bossman.”

I picked up one of the unspoilt print-outs, admiring the woman’s captivating smile. “For months, I have been dead inside. I am too familiar with grief and the destruction of guilt. Alexa’s death left me in a state of painful devastation. I knew she was different. When I lost her, though, such sentiments intensified—the love I have for that woman intensified, rather. And it hasn’t diminished, not once since her demise. Numb,” I continued, knocking back my drink. “Numbness became my best friend until this afternoon when this woman stared back at me.”

Brad took the image from my hand. “You think this woman can help you overcome bereavement? She looks nothing like Alexa. Kellie’s got more of a chance at winning your affections than this bird.” He chucked the image on the table. “What?”

I unclenched my jaw, the veins in my neck throbbing. “Her voice,” I whispered, staring into my empty glass. “She sounded like…” Alexa, I thought. I hated how the ridiculousness of my reservations. “Yes, I perceive their lack of resemblance…”

Brad provided silence.

I said the unthinkable. “I don’t think Alexa’s dead.”

“I knew it.” He huffed out a weary breath. “You’re losing your damn mind—”

“Shut up.” Settling my back to the sideboard, one hand in my pocket, I crossed my ankles. “I appreciate how ludicrous this may seem, but you didn’t see that woman, Brad.”

“I saw enough,” he said impatiently, fussing with his shirt collar. “One, that nut case is blonde, rake-thin and has blue eyes. Sure, let’s pretend there’s a chance that woman is Alexa. She dyed her hair and got some of those colour contact lenses to mask her appearance. And for argument’s sake, I suppose she went on a fad diet to lose weight. But,” he stressed, waggling three fingers, “Alexa would never wander past Liam Warren, never mind run from him.”

My chest caved. “She stayed,” I corrected, forgoing the part where she couldn’t wait to get away from me. “She made no effort to leave until Hellen arrived.”

Brad considered my comeback. “I don’t see it,” he answered honestly, extinguishing any slither of hope. “Listen, I get it, boss. You’d love nothing more than Alexa walking through those doors right now, putting the world to rights. Christ, I’d be fucking thrilled if she rocked up, too. But she’s dead, and tussling probabilities isn’t going to bring her back.” He motioned to the images. “If you’re searching for this unidentifiable woman in the hope she’s Alexa Haines? Leave it. You’re asking for further disappointment. If you’re keen to find her because you genuinely believe she’s a threat to you or the syndicate, I’ll track her down before the week is out.”

I rolled cigar smoke around my mouth, respiring a long veil. “You’re right,” I relented with reluctance. “Alexa would never run from me, not in this life or the next.”

Still, something didn’t feel right. That woman, whoever she may be, unearthed a dangerous, feral entity, one that’s on the brink of unleashing unavoidable genocide. I am angry, confused and unpredictable. I must know more about her. I must see and understand, for my sanity, why such intense gravity compelled our closeness and why her unassuming smile awakened the beast inside me.

“Unfortunately, no such cultivated book exists for the young and inexperienced. Ye need to meet a rotten egg to know when ye got a good one. Ye need to feel heartbreak to appreciate a second chance in life. Ye need to endure bereavement to solidify ye heart, learn, educate, remould and become the best version of yourself.

“Ye,” he points at me, “of all people know that I am right. Ye didn’t share or burden my shoulders, though, I know ye suffered an ordeal.” He puffed clouds of smog around his face, holding my stoic gaze. “Ye hardened to pain a long time ago, Warren, and ye didn’t get thus far bein’ a fuckin’ pansy. Learn from this, close the book, open another and start again.”

Rex’s lecture repeated inside my head. Perhaps this woman is my salvation. “Find her,” I ordered, and Brad dipped his head in grudging acknowledgement. “Let’s settle this dispute with the Nazi’s first.”

It’s time Flamur Bajromovic met his maker.

Ch 20

Liam

I willingly confronted a mob of segregationists with nothing to lose. The white supremacists hadn’t predicted my arrival. They sat inside the sanctuary of their protective four walls, imbibing harsh alcohol and snorting cocaine like it was to be extinct.

Held up behind the brass-railed bar, one male noted my arrival and blew the whistle, calling upon the Nazi’s arrogant leadership.

Overweight, bald, pierced and inked, Mortiz regarded Brad with a quizzical squint, recollecting a time when my right-hand man checked in for solitude and a bottle of Blue Label. It came as no surprise to me when Moritz addressed me formally and with the utmost respect, understanding in his soulless eyes. He offered me a firm handshake and exquisite tasting malt, cleared a corner table, and joined me for an overdue conversation.

Moritz expressed veneration. He didn’t want hostility or warring between the white supremacist hate group and the syndicate. In actuality, the foolish man wished for amalgamation.

I laughed, insulting his original proposal.

Nathaniel Alzaim is biracial. He’s from Trinidadian origin and deserves paramount respect, irrelevant to his skin colour.

He’s also my brother. I love him.

Moritz warranted a bullet between the eyes for such nonsensical disrespect.

My impromptu decision to cut our meeting short kindled the awareness of his men. The second Moritz’s brain shattered and scattered up the walls, cacophonous upheaval commenced.

Brad fought alongside me until the final body dropped to the ground.

I clenched the knife handle, blood dripping down my fingers. Encircled by strewn dead bodies, a gruesome bloodbath, I wiped the blade over my trousers, rolled up my shirt sleeves and ambled around the bar. On the floor, hiding, a middle-aged man cowered behind trembling hands. I voiced commands, ordered him to stand, removed three digits and whistled tunes while he shrieked and pleaded for compassion.

The coward always squeals truths.

Stealing his final breath, I extracted his heart and burnt the building to the ground.

I shan’t be getting any sleep tonight.

***

Showered and changed into a new suit, I stand in the belly of Club 11′s alleyway, awaiting Nate’s arrival. Brad, bored and cold, complains religiously under his breath. “Relax,” I sighed, lighting a cigarette. “He’ll be here.”

“Nate’s taking the fucking piss. It’s cold and bitter.” He fixed his crotch. “I swear, my balls have shrivelled up to the back of my ass.”

I exhaled a ribbon of smoke to the night sky, propping my foot to the wall behind me.

He tugs on a grey beanie hat, spots Cherry, grunting his disapproval. “Ah, fucking Christ.” His lip ticked in disgust. “Get rid of her.”

“Gentlemen.” Her sultry voice raked my flesh, the heels of her six-inch heels alternately clicking on the floor. She bestowed me a warm, fond smile, but the adoration in her crystal blue eyes heightened for the man to my right. “Brad.” She snuggled into her faux fur coat. “You ain’t been around lately. Is the Boss working you too hard?”

That’s code for “Are you fucking someone else?”

“I have a life outside of the whore house, Cher.” He eyed her with haughty disdain. “And better pussy.”

Pretending not to eavesdrop, I stifled a wince. I have never claimed to be a gentleman. I am far from chivalrous, but his delivery can be brutal.

Everyone’s gone to town on Cherry, including me. It’s Brad, though. He’s the end goal. The guy she’d choose if he were willing. Senseless, I thought, tossing my cigarette to the floor, snubbing it under my shoe. Brad’s never going to settle down, not after everything he’s endured. She holds out for him, though, in the hope he’ll reciprocate such affections—pointless.

“What about you, Mr Warren?” she sniped, but her terseness isn’t for me. “Do you require any assistance?”

Cherry’s plan to rouse Brad’s jealousy has the opposite desired effect. He pays no heed, too busy checking messages on his phone. “No,” I respond in a bored tone. “Go home, Cher.”

Hallowing her cheeks, she clicked her tongue, eyed Brad once more, and then sauntered down the alleyway.

Knowing it’s safe to return, Brad stuffed his phone into his back pocket and lifted his head. “She’s doing my fucking nut it.”

I fought against rolling my eyes. “If the idea of Cherry repulses you, quit sleeping with her.”

“I try,” he lied, fixing his shirt buttons. “Her tongue piercing makes it difficult to stay away…” He smiled mischievously. “You understand.”

Cherry gives decent head—usedto give decent head. I haven’t spared her any time in months, and that’s not changing anytime soon. I’d trade blowjobs and meaningless fucking to have Alexa in my arms, anyway.

Again, thinking about Alexa accelerates my heartbeat. It’s usually a painful ache, but after my encounter… It is different. I am not angry, grieving, mournful or guilt-ridden.

I might be losing my goddamn mind.

Brad’s weak argument might hold grounds.

But that violent urge and all-consuming desire to need someone as much as I needed Alexa… That is what passed with that blonde this afternoon—the same magnetism every time I held the woman I loved.

I am not careless or stupid. My woman, disguised for reasons unfathomable, stared directly back at me. No amount of deliberating with the men will tell me otherwise.

I felt it.

But what does this mean?

Why would Alexa hide from me? It doesn’t make any sense… Brad’s right. Is he right? Am I looking into purposeless details, hoping for precision?

No. Today means something.

Why did she run?

What reason did she have to flee?

I was thoughtful, charming and winsome. Yes, I flirted a touch, testing the waters. Not enough to frighten or offend the woman. She didn’t want to leave. We equally valued and appreciated our proximity—

“Bossman?” Brad sliced through my indecisive thoughts and mental blathering. “Are you okay over there?”

Inhaling deep breaths to calm frantic breathing, I wiped beaded sweat from my eyebrow. “Nate has arrived.”

Disregarding ponderous concepts, I lead Brad to Nate’s vehicle. He flung open the driver’s door, demanding to drive. Honestly, his idiosyncrasy for chauffeuring is comical.

Nate should slap him, but a confrontation with the brothers is uncharacteristic. He’d rather hand the reins to Brad and reside in peace and quiet.

I collapsed on the passenger seat. “Why do you allow Brad to order you around?”

Relaxing beside Josh, Nate lifts a noncommittal shoulder.

“Don’t side with him,” Brad half-joked, winking at Nate via the rear-view mirror. “I get itchy feet in the back. Ain’t that right, Nate?”

Nate shook his head, falling into conversation with Josh.

“You equipped Josh?” I asked, loading the Desert Eagle with bullets.

Josh paled, nodding his head vigorously. He needs to snap those moralities, or else he won’t last two minutes alongside these men.

Brad drove at piston speed, wading the Bentley through slow-moving vehicles.

Only forty-five minutes passed until he steered the car down long country roads, shrouding us in overgrowth, tranquillisation and darkness. He cut off the headlights, the engine followed shortly after.

Mounting the car onto miry grounds, Brad fixed the handbrake, and we climbed out in unison, doors slamming behind us. “I hate fields,” exclaimed Brad, rubbing his frozen palms together. “It gives me the shudders.”

Readjusting his ball cap, Nate scoffed. “Quit complaining all the damn time.”

Quiet yet vigilant, Josh shadows in our footsteps, checking the weight of his firearm.

Wandering in an area of a sown wheat field, the men whacked obstructing spears aside, shoes sloshing into the mud and stagnant filled potholes. “I swear I can hear fucking hissing,” Brad husks, eager to reach the other side. “Christ, do we have rattlesnakes in London?”

Nate’s throaty laughter reverberated. “Surely, you ain’t scared of no garden worms.”

“Worms?” Brad mused, tugging his beanie to his brows. “No, I’m not scared of any worms. Snakes? Yeah, I am most definitely terrified of those slithering cock biters.”

“You presumptuous wanker.” Josh pulls a hand down his face. “What makes you think those snakes would be interested in your pecker?”

“Don’t ever insult my chopper,” Brad warned, pausing to point a reproachful finger. “There’s nothing pecker-ish about what’s swinging between my legs.”

“So you continuously tell me.” Josh uses a twig to smack his way through long wheat spears. “Every fucking day.”

“Yet you doubt me.” Brad outstretched his arms. “Do you need me to satiate?”

“If he flaunts his cock, I’ll rip it off,” Josh whispered to Nate, and they both snickered.

“I don’t like Josh,” Brad lied, pulling a displeased face. “I think you should kill him.”

Nate exited the field first, heading straight to the rickety bridge, ambling carelessly over a slow-paced ravine, water cascading in rock crevices.

I am right behind him, stopping to ask Brad why he’s procrastinating near moss-covered boulders. “Are you coming or what?”

Shifting the lump in his throat, Brad shoved Josh aside, causing the poor lad to almost slip down the muddy bank and then gripped the rope, advancing with cautious treads.

Nate missed a step, caught his footing.

“Stop rocking the fucking boat,” Brad barked, holding onto the ropes with agitated firmness. “I mean it, Nate.”

Nate ignored him, arming himself and returning to dry grounds.

Accepting a pre-rolled joint from Josh, I balanced the roach in my mouth, lit the end and inhaled a lungful.

Nestled between obscuring woodlands and black skies, a cottage-like home crouched low into the rock-strewn embankment, made up of grey stones, dirty panes, a thatched roof and smoking chimney.

I exhaled a slither of smoke and handed the joint to Brad.

“If I’m not back in fifteen minutes?” I said, directing to the building. “Wreak havoc.” I leave the men, their conversation fading into the distance.

Fallen leaves crunch under my weight as I pace. I climbed over the three-inch cobbled wall, entering the garden. Pin in hand, I inserted the sharpest point into the lock, picked it and granted myself entrance.

Silence and blackness greeted me. I closed the door, tossed the pin and strode through the adorned wooden-slatted hallway. It’s oddly accommodating, considering the diabolical exterior.

I almost put a foot into the kitchen, noted the uneven floorboard and sidestepped, dodging. It feels cold, unlived. Opening the fridge-freezer, checking produce dates and leftover meals, I place a palm atop the terracotta casserole dish on the stove—warm.

Snapping on a pair of leather gloves, fingers stretching the leather, I hunt the property, room-by-room, finding nothing but fusty, smelling furniture and threadbare runners. Assured it’s a dead end, I returned to the hallway, ready to leave, when a padlocked cupboard door summoned me.

Rattling the lock, tugging, I lengthened another pin and keyed the deadbolt. It popped open, falling to the floor with a loud thump. Descending the haunted ambience, hand blindly coming to the wall for light, I found it and illuminated the basement. I stopped at the bottom of the insecure stairs and looked around. Adjacent shelving units mounted the walls on either side of the room, showcasing countless key-locked boxes.

My inquisitiveness intensified.

Again, I picked a lock, selecting the first box. Cracking open the lid, tossing it to the side, I delved through miscellaneous items, including half-used cosmetics, makeup, hairbrushes and hair rollers, a blood-stained negligee.

An unnerving shiver crept along my spine.

Dropping the box, I selected another, repeating the process. Colouring books, dried-up felt tips, crayons and craft supplies. I emptied everything onto the floor, scattering children’s toys, odd shoes—junior, Peyton shoes and soiled frilly socks.

I felt sick.

Spearing two hands through my tousled hair, I inhaled a sharp breath, unable to calm my increasing anxieties. “Dates,” I read aloud, 2005, scribbled across a box in a permanent black marker. “Fuck.” I counted through timelines, searching for the 80s and 90s collectables.

Bracing on one knee, I removed layers of dust from the bottom shelves, rummaged through each container, close to relenting. The lid popped off. I paused, a white and yellow summer dress slipping into my hands. I thumbed the daisy stitch work.

“My mother loved to dress us up,” Alexa told me, climbing onto the bed in my oversized T-shirt, straddling my waist. “Hideous dresses, Kathy claimed. My sister was a ‘jeans and shirt’ type of girl.”

Repulsed, I scrunched the little girl’s dress into a tight fist.

“Why are you smiling?” I asked, my hands curling around her neck.

“I just am, Liam,” she whispered, all-smiles against my lips. “Can I kiss you?”

I unclipped a Victorian aesthetic etched silver locket. It is an old portrait of a beautiful woman, dark pin-up hair and prominent cheekbones, full lips yet a misleading smile. She’s miserable, I thought, smoothing my thumb over the image.

“So, your mother is to thank for this smile,” I rasped, tracing Alexa’s lips with a finger. “I assume you inherited her beauty.”

“She was a very attractive woman,” she admits with an edge of coyness in her voice. “I have her eyes, but it’s Kathy who received all my mother’s good genes.”

I loathed her sister with a passion. “Stop living in Kathy’s shadow,” I said, and I meant it. “She’s unworthy.” Her hands to my cheeks, she peppered her lips along my jawline. “You’re beautiful.”

She hid in the groove of my neck. “You always say that.”

I turned my head, facing her. “That’s because I always fucking mean it.”

Tucking the locket into my pocket, I stood, kicked the box across the room, dispersing Alexa and Kathy’s childhood—an old, leather-worn photo album knocked into the bottom shelf. I shouldn’t look. I should walk away.

Crouching, I gingerly lifted the album, composed myself. It belonged to Adaline Haines. It’s her collection of memories, some images with, who I speculate were friends, but mostly, her daughter’s stare back at me. From garden picnics, festive seasons to seaside trips, the trio went everywhere together while Adaline crafted her pictorial memoir. And, although all three share unarguably flawless features, the youngest, Alexa, dominates the images. Even as a child, her genuine smile and pretty face, brings light to their darkness.

I smiled, removing a photo of Alexa and her mother, sliding it into my wallet.

Resoluteness soared. I refuse to let him keep this sick, twisted shrine. I light a cigarette, balance it between my lips, crammed boxes with clothes—children’s clothes, ones that belonged to many victims—and set the room ablaze. I collected camcorders and dated tapes and conveyed the box to the stairs, and that’s when I noticed a trap door, concealed beneath an oriental rug. “Fuck.” I put the cameras on the bottom step, kicked the rug aside, yanked the rusted handle and peered underground.

I don’t have long before the fire spreads.

Unlocking my phone, selecting the torch option, I shone a light into the hidden cellar. What smelled like rotten flesh and decomposed bodies wafted. The stark stench brought tears to my eyes.

Coughing into my arm, I shoved the phone in my mouth, latched onto the square ledge and lowered myself in the low-hung floor cavity. I had to crouch, haunch my shoulders to wander through. Threaded gossamer clung to wooden beams, and airborne dust particles misted past my face.

Out the corner of my eye, a ghostlike form crawled into a dark alcove. Temples thudding, heart sinking to my stomach, I held the phone, illuminated the…shivering, naked girl. Hollow-cheeked and skin-and-bones, the girl glimpses at me through filthy fingers, hissing like a feral animal as I close in. “I am not going to hurt you,” I assured, slowly declining to one knee. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Puffy eyed, timid and lachrymose, she lowered her guard, letting me see her face. Aquiver with fear, she whimpered. Her dry, blue lips, wobbling. She was uncomfortable under my intense gaze and, in a state of speechless shock, I bored into those hazel-coloured eyes. “What’s your name?” I whispered, mesmerised by her. “How old are you?” Young, I thought. In her early twenties, maybe. “Here.” Taking off my suit jacket, I lifted it between us. “Put this on.”

“He’ll kill me,” she murmured, flinching away from me.

“Bajramovic will have to get through me first.” I tossed the suit jacket at her filthy feet. “Put it on.” At my commanding voice, she snatched the jacket, threading the material over her arms—I looked away when she stood, not wanting to see her naked breasts. “Let’s go.”

“How do I know you aren’t like him?” She asked in a shaky voice, and I refrained from berating her. “I don’t trust men anymore.”

Her disgusted misandry isn’t my problem. “You don’t have to trust me,” I said, pointing to the ceiling. “However, this place is minutes away from burning to the ground, so, unless you want to burn to death, I suggest you follow my lead.”

I left her with those heinous thoughts, scuffling back to the latch. Warm coloured pallets licked the walls above and blanketing smoke impeded vision. “Come on,” I coaxed, sensing her behind me. “I’ll lift you through.”

Taking my hand with vibrating fingers, she focused on my chest, avoiding my eyes. I gripped her waist, blocking persistent body odours and urination, elevating her above. She choked on thick smoke, scattered backwards, and waited for me to resurface. I pulled myself up and across the entranceway. “Get up.”

The roaring fire and licking flames clambered the walls, claiming every gruesome story in its wake. I snatched the box and took the steps two-at-a-time, shoving her into the hallway. “Keep moving.” I closed the door to conceal and slow down the burning process. “Stop delaying. Just move.”

She latched onto my shirt sleeve. I frowned, biting my tongue to stop myself from chastising her. Her fingernails pierced my elbow, bare feet pattering against the floorboards.

I forced her to keep up with my long strides, reaching the front door—and she flinched, hands flying to her face, blocking the frigid breeze and full moon.

Brad discerned us first, cocking his head, slicing his judgemental eyes “Bossman,” he said warily, ditching Nate and Josh, leaving them by the rickety bridge. “Who the fuck is that?”

I had no reasonable response. “I found her beneath a trap door—”

“Blaire,” she whispered in a quiet voice I almost missed. “My name is Blaire.”

Josh and Nate ambled closed. While Nate raked his concerned eyes over the girl’s petite frame, Brad murdered her with a disproving snarl.

“Blaire.” I scowled, taking her by the elbow. “Go with Nate.”

“No.” She protested, shaking her head, backing up. “I don’t want to be with too many men. If you let me go, I promise not to tell anyone—”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Brad barked, ripping the beanie hat from off his head. “We ain’t done fuck all wrong, Blaire. You should be thanking the Boss for saving your ass.”

“I’m sorry—and thank you,” she cried, holding out her hands, creating an imaginary wall between us. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I am scared. I don’t want to hurt anymore.” She tripped over a moss-topped rock, her backside colliding to the floor, a pained whimper from her lips. “I’m broken.”

“No. Liam, please,” Alexa sobbed, face scrunched up in frustration. “I need to leave.”

“No.” I stand my ground, hating how she perceives herself.

“Why do you even care?” she screamed, spinning in my arms, glaring up at me with such devastating despondency. “Can’t you see that I’m not worth this shit? I’m broken, Liam! I’m fucking broken!”

I’ve had enough. “You’re not fucking broken!” Before another protest escaped those pretty lips, I fisted her hair and shut her up with my mouth. I had to have her—couldn’t get enough of her. “Baby,” I groaned, tongue coaxing her lips to part. “Alexa, kiss

“Christ,” Brad complains, seizing Blaire’s wrist. “She’s a bastard nut case.”

“Let me handle this,” Nate intercedes before Brad lunges the girl into the river. “Blaire, I am not going to hurt you. As you can see,” he motioned to the burning cottage, highlighting its uncontrollable state, “that fire is getting a little out of hand. It’s time to get the hell out of dodge.” Before Blaire protested, he picked her up like a rag doll, hurling her over one shoulder. She screamed, thrashed and kicked, punching his backside with closed fists. He didn’t flinch or blink. He simply marched ahead with Josh traipsing close.

I kneaded my chest, requiring hard drugs or alcohol. I don’t know what to do about the girl. I’ll let her stay with us, for a short while, until I find her a place or get her back on her feet.

Blaire’s heinous condition mirrors Alexa’s past. In actuality, their likeness is uncanny. Not only their similar backgrounds, but they bear a strong resemblance: lustrous dark hair and striking hazel-coloured eyes. Perhaps Blaire can counterbalance—

“No,” Brad snapped, wearied and jaded. “What the fuck is that look?”

His wayward tongue is starting to hit a nerve. “You better watch how you speak to me, Brad,” I spat, shoving his shoulder, stepping up to him. “The last I checked? I was Command. I was the Boss. I sit on that fucking chair, dictating to you, not the other way around. Do I need to remind you who runs shit around here? Do I need to show you the level of my forbearance? You,” I point, biting down on my knuckles. “You need to learn your fucking place before you lose it.”

Resigned yet fuming, Brad shook his head, the muscles in his jaw ticking. “She won’t replace Alexa,” he said the unthinkable, daring me to deny subconscious thoughts. “No amount of drugs and alcohol and women and meaningless fucking is going to bring her back. You mightn’t appreciate my emphatic mouth, Bossman. But that’s who I am. That’s the reason you hired me because I don’t have any qualms standing up to you and bearing truths. Sure, you don’t always appreciate honesty, but you seek mine, regardless, and that fucked-up bitch is going to be nothing but a goddamn thorn in your side. Let me take her to the nearest hospital and ditch. She’s not our problem.”

Blaire’s one of Flamur’s victims. “Alexa would want me to help her.”

“Alexa’s dead!” he yelled, anger and impatience, clawing at his flushed features. “When are you going to get that inside your head—”

I jawed him with a right hook.

Brad stumbled, back knocking into a tree. He didn’t touch his busted lip—wouldn’t dream of showing me vulnerability. Instead, he licked pooling blood, veneering his upper teeth with fresh crimson.

I glared at him with bated breath. “Where’s your compassion?”

Brad glowered in disgust. “The same place yours used to be.” He stormed off, hands burrowing inside his trouser pockets.

I stared at the place he once stood, needing Her voice of reasoning more than ever.