Ch 21

Alexa

Jace rented us a room at a bed-and-breakfast. Heather, the innkeeper, welcomed us with open arms, too eccentric and hospitable. Within five minutes, I worked out why. Heather’s strapped for business. Each room, unoccupied and in dire need of DIY—unappealing to potential customers.

Not for hiding runaways, though.

Emptiness and solitude exemplify heavenly bliss. I had the best night’s sleep, curled up in a ball on that double-bed, smothered by duck feather pillows, inhaling rose-scented sheets and fresh laundry, roasted coffee beans radiating from the dated kitchen.

Jace created a makeshift bed on the floor without complaints. I felt a tad bit guilty. He’s far too tall, too big, to sleep on the floor with a toddler duvet.

Nevertheless, I slept like a baby, out like a lightbulb.

This morning, before Jace ordered me to leave the bed, he pointed to the en-suite, told me to shower and wear something unrestrictive and comfortable for commencing warfare sessions.

I was going to kick his ass…

“Come on, Vick,” Jace coaxed, nudging my hip with his boot. “Where’s your fight?

Positioned like a lifeless starfish, I laid face down on the rain-sprinkled grass, a bead of sweat trickling down my forehead. “I died,” I croaked, fingers splayed on the ground, the yoga pants and saturated vest, tight-fitting to my body. “I need water.”

Jace huffed out a breath of annoyance, snagged my elbow and compelled me to stand. “Quit complaining,” he scolds, lifting my lethargic arms, forming tight fists. “Let’s work on your punching.” He clasped a big, inked hand over my balled-up fist, his other fingers elongating my arm. “Thumbs over your knuckles. Squared-off, facing your target. Make sure you’re happy with your stance.” He tapped the backs of my knees, jolting me into a defensive posture. “What did I tell you?”

I chased my memory. “Hands up, guarding my face when I’m not in mid-punch.”

He jerked his chin, pleased with my response. “When you come at me?” Dropping back, he readied himself. “Extend your arm toward the target.” He gestures to himself. “It’s all in the shoulder, Vick. Throwing aimless fists is ineffective. It’s about the power behind those jabs. Got it?”

I nod, licking perspiration from my lips. I was the most obsequious student. I followed his lead, throwing a combination of combative punches. I underwent a strict training regime beneath the incarnadine embers of sunrise. The lake’s still waters glowing like an endless mirror, a picturesque view with a palette of mountainous frondescence and earthy tones. Variable birds tweeting, rising from wild habitats.

Jace dodged my punch, side-stepping, resulting in me face-planting the floor again. “Vick,” he chastised, hauling me into a stance. “Revenge or defeatism? Consider that every time you feel like giving up. Fight-or-flight response.”

“You’re too big,” I complained, throwing my arms up in defeat. “I don’t stand a chance, Nath.”

“You’re making excuses.” His forest green eyes held my angered glare, daring me to deny it. “What did I teach you?”

I furrowed my eyebrows. “Hand up, guarding—”

“No.” He interrupted my rehearsed speech. “In Liverpool, outside of Tommy’s compound. What did I tell you?”

Frowning, I pucker my lips. “If I am lucky enough to break free from my attacker, run for my damn life.”

Jace suppressed a smirk, rubbing sweat from his forehead. “What else?”

“If in a compromising position,” I said, recalling his uplifting words, “target pain or sore spots.”

“Good. Well done.” He twisted a finger between us. “Turn around.”

I obeyed, putting my back to him. “Now—” He unexpectedly wrapped his strong, muscular arms around me “—Nathan!” Back fused to his chest, I wriggled, kicked and bucked my hips. “I can’t do it!”

“Yes,” he whispered, his lips brushing my earlobe, “you can.” Tightening his hold, he restricted my panicked fight. “Go for the jugular, Vick.”

Closing my eyes and inhaling a deep breath, I elbowed him in the ribs. His grip eased, only a touch, but my jab wasn’t enough. I strived, fought, sought the tender skin under his arms and pinched. He winced, and I persisted, digging into his flesh with sharp fingernails. Arms slackening, he released his vice-like grip. I donkey-kicked, caught his groin and dashed across the field, a triumphal smile on my face.

I made it to the river edge, doubled over at the waist, catching my breath.

“You did good.” He tugs my braid, passing me a water bottle. “Run faster the next time.”

I concur. “I am no Usain Bolt.” I guzzled water, quenching my thirst. “I’ll work on it, though.”

He dipped his head, hands hugging his waist. “Do you think the water is cold?”

“I don’t know.” Squatting, I splayed fingers across the cold surface. “It’s bearable.”

Jace reached behind his head, tugging off his black T-shirt. Shirtless, bare-chested, he kicked off his boots and socks, unzipping his jeans. I could make out his perfect, well-built physique. I marvel at his glorious washboard of abs, eye-catching V-line and a vertical strip of dark hair leading south.

I recapped the water bottle, parked on a formless boulder and watched him wade into the still lake.

With his back to me, Jace cupped water, doused his face and neck, appreciating the morning sun, beating down on his tired face. He splashed glistening liquid over his shoulders and beads formed, clinging to his tattooed skin.

Jace embodies striking masculinity, a spectacular, handsome yet unassuming male who doesn’t give himself enough credit. I can give credence, though. In silence, of course. I’ll never admit such favourable thoughts aloud.

“Are you going to join me for a swim?”

I glared at him, mouth agape. “I am not swimming in that?”

“Why not?” He gave me a low, mischievous smirk. “You’re not scared of a few fishes?”

I flattened my tongue on my upper teeth. “You’re not allowed to drown me,” I warned, standing up to lose my trainers and yoga pants. “Are your feet touching the floor, or are you floating?” Dipping my toes into the water, I found the bottom, arms outstretched as I strode toward him. “It’s warm.”

Jace levelled his palms, skimming the water’s surface. “Nice, right?”

I relaxed, bathed and soothed to my shoulders.

“I like putting my head under,” he admits, dewdrops dance on his eyelashes, “to drown it all out.”

“Does it work?” I asked as we drifted farther.

“Sometimes,” he rasped, his chin floating, keeping him upright.

I smiled, pinched my nose and ducked my head under the water. I closed my eyes, listened, basked in assuaging quietness, stillness and taciturnity. My senses heightened. I felt a wave of vibrations and effervesces caressing my toes and fingers.

Absorbing a serene oasis with only my thoughts to contend with, I searched for a happy place and the people I love. I contemplate them all, but it’s his face, overpowering my visions.

“Liam,” I half-scolded, shoving his chest. “Stop biting me.”

Positioning his hands astride my head, Liam trapped me in the thrall of his powerful arms, whispering a kiss on my shoulder, soothing the bite mark he put there. “You love it when I mark you,” he said, cocky and self-assured. “Deny it.”

I am not playing his game. “You’re too big to shower with me,” I pointed out, squirting gel onto his grey loofah.

Liam eyed the spacious glass-framed cubicle with a cocked brow. He grasped my hip bone, his thumb circling me there. “My bathroom accommodates the two of us.”

His utilitarian space is impossibly luxurious. Skylights, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking beautiful London views. Undulating black marble used for vanity, walls and floors. “I suppose it’ll suffice,” I said, lifting an uncaring shoulder. “If strapped for cash, I mean.”

Resting his forehead to mine, his hand toured the length of my body, pinning me to the tiles. Steam and heat emitted from the shower, misting us. He held my jaw in his hand, his lips teasing the corner of my mouth.

I anticipated his kiss. My lips parted, waiting to feel his tongue on mine. He turned me in an abrupt manner, glueing his chest to my back. “Am I not meeting standards, baby?” Lacing our fingers together, he pinned our joint hands on either side of my head. “Tell me how to fix it?” He dragged my earlobe between his teeth, flicking with gentle strokes of his tongue. “Anything you want. It’s yours.”

My eyes fluttered shut. “Materialism doesn’t appeal to me,” I breathed, my body sprouted with goosebumps. “You are more than enough, Liam.”

Snaking an arm around my waist, he reached up, fastening a hand around my jaw. He angled my head, thumb and fingers, clinging to my cheeks. “Kiss me,” he whispered his demands, soft mouth attentive to my lower lip. He fused his lips to mine, breathing me in. “I don’t think I’ll ever tire of you.”

Flutters pirouette in my stomach. “I love you.”

Jace’s hand curled around my wrist, hauling me back to the surface. I gasped a lungful of air, blurred eyes tuning to the morning light.

“Fucking hell, Vick,” he snapped, thrusting a hand through his tousled damp hair. “You scared me.”

I blinked myself back to the present, respiring a shuddering breath. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stay under that long.” I spread a hand over my chest, massaged an ever-present ache, overburdened with an air of haunting regret and increasing sentimentalism.

Braced for an argument, Jace squared his shoulders and spat out a curse. “Where the hell did your mind wander?”

“I searched for a happy place,” I admit, shrugging an insouciant shoulder. Before he can ask any more innocuous questions, I splash him.

He jerked back, evading thorough soaking.

I laughed, flexing my legs, swimming away from him.

“Oh, you think it’s funny?” he taunted, diving underneath the water, leaving me alone.

I halted, a knot clogging my throat. “Nathan,” I said, a cautious hitch in my voice. “Don’t you dare scare me. I’ll never forgive—” A violent force lunged me in the air, sending my body crashing down into a whirlpool of choking-suspense. I kicked my legs with an unsynchronised breaststroke, resurfacing and attacking the irredeemable caveman. “You almost killed me!”

“You’re so dramatic.” He matched my attack, whipping water in my face, a playful sparkle in his eyes. “Plus, you started it.”

“Oh, God.” I ducked under his arm, kicking his backside with intent. “Hey—” He snatched my ankle, yanking me in. “I surrender! You win, okay?”

I don’t know how it happened or what shifted between us. I didn’t realise our silence or closeness until I felt his erratic heartbeat under my palms. I stared at his defined chest, his strained breathing in my ear.

“What’s wrong with me?” He husked. “How can I be out here, laughing with you? Summer’s alone, scared and waiting for her father to save her.”

I held my breath, heart collapsing in my chest.

He gripped my waist, keeping me close. “How bad is it, Vick?”

I kicked my feet forward.

I kicked my feet back.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

“I mean,” he continued, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “He imprisons them, right? Like a bargaining chip? He doesn’t actually harm them?”

“I want to go home,” I sobbed into my hiked knees, cowering in a corner. “Please let me go home. I want my mum.” I am eleven years old. I am starved, beaten, abused and raped. “I need my mum.”

It’s too much. I have endured and suffered enough.

My jaw hurts.

He might have broken it, caused serious damage.

How hard did he hit me?

It knocked me into unconsciousness.

I must’ve slept for a while.

I’m sore, though.

Dry blood and stomach-churning semen, sticking to my inner thighs.

I sobbed harder, harsher, crying for Kathy.

“You need to wash that off.” Dropping a steel bucket on the floor, he points to the dirty sponge. “Clean up, Lexi. You fucking stink.”

Jace knows Flamur abused me. I spouted as much back on the Isle of Man. I can preserve him from grim reality, though.

I fake-smiled. “He only hurt me.” It’s partly true. In a deranged, abstruse way, I am Flamur’s favourite. “When it came to other children, he held onto them for money purposes—used them to blackmail the parents and…” I am an awful person. “Has he contacted you?”

Eyes embracing our warm sunrise, Jace shook his head. “What about the others? His men. Did they…?”

The noises and screams—terrifying screams that lasted minutes, other times, those cries were omnipresent for many hours. This place is like a slaughterhouse, gut-wrenching and side-splitting.

I often watch the ceiling when I hear loud thumps and scraping sounds, indicating a scuffle, almost like a game of hide-and-seek. Those children run, crying for their mothers, pleading with those monsters not to hurt them.

At first, I presumed it was only Kathy and myself in this place. I was wrong. There are more. Sometimes they let kids sleep down here with me. It’s nice to have some company. It’s never for more than two nights before the guards return and take them away from me, though.

“No,” I lie, protecting his uninformed mindset. “No, Nathan. Summer’s fine. Well, she’s not fine. I mean, she’s frightened, lonely and missing you, but she’s safe from harm.” I was incapable of making promises, not for her wellbeing or safety. “So, has he messaged you?”

Jace cast his gaze to the silver of water between us. “No,” he confirmed, his tone clipped. “I keep texting him, though. I am freaking out, Vick.”

Odd, I thought, watching birds whisper through trees.

“I am hungry.” Realising our closeness, Jace released me, pushing his hair from off his brow. “What do you fancy?”

“Anything that comes with coffee.” Soaked from head-to-toe, I hiked behind him, trainers and pants to my chest. I hope he packed spare clothes for me. “Why do you keep changing the licence plate?” He’s substituted them three times since we landed in London.

“I am not taking any chances.” Previously, he parked the Land Rover, obscured from overgrowth. “Warren’s dangerous, Vick. He knows people. If I am not careful, he’ll uncover everything and kill me.” He whacked and separated branches, unlocking the rear door. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

I tore the sodden vest from my body, wrung the material. “Sure.”

Toying with a set of keys, he adopted momentary mutism. “If anything happens to me,” he whispered, popping his jaw muscles, “will you find her? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I need assurance. I need to know she’ll be safe if I…”

I thanked him for the towel and dried my body. “You’re not dying, Nath.” I won’t allow it. “But, if in the event such tragic events occur, I promise to, not only save Summer, but I will keep her. I might be bad at guardianship. I love pretty damn hard, so she’ll be more than loved, living with me.”

He smiled a rare smile, one that swelled my chest. “You know what?” He rubbed a towel over his head. “You’re not so bad, Vick.”

I grinned, waggling my eyebrows. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s an unarguable fact.” He turned, lost his boxer briefs. His inked, decorative ass cheeks clenched as he tugged on a fresh pair.

I caught sight of something glimmering between his thighs as he dressed. He’s big, long and thick. And he’s pierced. Holy. Shit.

Snatching my eyes away, I put on a faded black Rolling Stones T-shirt and denim jean shorts. Hair a messy knot atop my head. “Did that hurt?” I asked, wanting to slap myself. “Don’t answer that.”

Jace kept sneaking sidelong glances. “Did what hurt?”

Great. Now I have to admit my perverted tendencies. “Your barbell.”

T-shirt in a balled-up fist, he rolls his tongue piercing. “No. Why? Do you want one?”

Did I? No, I am far too much of a coward for tongue stabbing. “I mean your other one,” I said meekly, a shade of humiliation, staining my cheeks.

His eyebrows shot up. “Oh?” He scratched the back of his neck. “You saw that, huh?”

“Well, you practically bent over in front of me,” I defended myself. “It was…hanging there.”

He itched the end of his nose with a knuckle. “Prince Albert,” he said, and I gave him a blank expression. “The piercing? That’s what it’s called. And yes. It hurt like fucking hell.”

A ghost of a smile tweaked my lips. “Why torture yourself?”

“It’s pleasurable,” he tells me, and I listened, committed. “For us both, or who I sleep with, rather.” He amended his error, clearing his throat. “During sex, the barbell stimulates the G-spot… I get no complaints.”

I should expunge this knowledge and abandon this strange occurrence of uncharted territory, but I was too fascinated. “It sounds wonderful,” I whispered, kicking a pebble under my trainer. “And euphoric.” Shut up, Alexa. “Like a sequence of spectacular climaxes.”

Forearm to the vehicle, Jace laughed, hard, burying his head in the groove of his elbow.

“Why are you making fun of me?” My cheeks were scorching. “What?”

“I think someone’s exceeding their celibacy limit.” Rubbing humoured tears from his eyes, he stomped into heavy-duty boots.

“I didn’t take a vow of celibacy,” I remind him, opening the passenger side door. “And I am fine. I don’t need sex.” Did I need sex? If Liam were here, I most certainly wouldn’t oppose the idea. I’d tackle him onto those backseats and ride my way through a wave of orgasms.

I sank against the heated leather, humming to myself.

Jace’s right. I am lustful and aroused. I will purchase a vibrator. I can masturbate until I see Liam again, pleasure myself. He fired the engine, ripping the SUV out of the mud.

Impossible. I have a roommate. He’ll know. He’ll hear me. I am not the quietest pleasure seeker. In fact, I’m loud, especially when hitting my pinnacle.

My thighs clenched together instinctively, easing a throbbing ache. I can seek a release in the shower—

“Stop.” Jace’s authoritative tone invaded my sexual thought process. “I’m a warm-blooded male, Vick. I know when a woman’s turned on.”

My eyes rounded.

He shifted in his seat, adjusting his denim-clad groin, relieving himself.

I slipped a glance down there. He’s aroused, hard, straining.

Disordered and ashamed of myself, I gazed out the window, unravelling my braid. I loosen my hair, a protective curtain to shield my face.

I need some alone time.

Ch 22

Alexa

Jace spends a lot of time on his laptop.

He’s also bossy and domineering.

With a towel swaddled around my body, I peered into our bedroom, the usual magnolia walls, plain wooden floors and upholstered furnishings.

Jace has his back propped up against the headboard, almost dressed, ripped black jeans, an unbuttoned black shirt to match his black heavy-duty boots.

It’s safe to say, black is Jace’s favourite shade.

“What are you doing?” I pried, hand latching to the doorframe. “You haven’t come up for air.”

Tapping the keyboard with one hand, he lifted a vodka bottle to his lips. “Get dressed.”

What did I tell you? Bossy and domineering.

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled under my breath, leaving wet footprints in my wake.

I emptied shopping bags on the bed, strewing high-heeled shoes, ostentatious dresses, discounted miniskirts, off-the-shoulder blouses and fake eyelashes. “I don’t know how to do these.” I opened a packet, snapped the strip. “Shit. I broke it.” I relented, opting for Fiber mascara. “Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

Jace glimpsed at me over the laptop screen. “What?”

“I am an embarrassment to the female population.” I sat on the bed, crossed my legs and squirted a dollop of foundation on my hand. “It’s Chloe’s speciality.” I motion to my face with a beauty blender. “She slaps on the war paint, glamorising and whatnot. I’m not too good at this stuff. And these,” I hold up the oversized clothes, “are too big for me.”

His eyes went from the heaped clothes to me. “Then why didn’t you buy smaller sizes?”

I hadn’t realised until the lingerie store. “What am I going to wear? It’d help if I knew where you were taking me.”

“Something sexy” is his unhelpful response.

I selected a black bodycon dress with spaghetti straps. It’s skin-tight, so no worries about indecent exposure. I’ll return the rest or exchange.

Blonde wig and full-faced makeup sorted, I slip on strappy heels, complementing my chosen attire and stuff a clutch bag with essentials. I finalised my image with a stroke of red matte lipstick. “I’m ready.”

“I need another hour,” Jace said, engrossed by whatever is on that damn laptop. “Drink.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I am not sitting here, getting pissed while you’re busy roaming the net.” He ignored me—again. “Nathan—”

“Fuck, Vick!” he barked, rubbing his irate features. “I need a fucking minute!”

His biliousness was unnecessary. “Fine,” I clipped, unlocking the bedroom door. “I am going to that bar around the corner. When you’re ready to apologise? Come and find me.” I slam the door, deliberate and with a wall-shattering bang. “Asshole.”

Holding the wooden guardrail to descend the stairs, I espied Heather hauled up behind the reception desk. She’s an older woman, late fifties. And she’s pleasant, friendly and gregarious. Her overbearing social skills need tweaking, though. In less than five hours this woman has knocked our door eight times, offering baked goods, reading material or chuntering me into immobilising hypnosis.

Don’t get me wrong, Heather’s a lovely woman, but after Jace’s impatient rudeness this evening, I am not in the mood for small talk or discussing trivial matters.

“Miss Rose,” exclaims Heather, rounding her vintage-style desk, resting to admire an orchid plant. “You look ravishing, darling. I love the dress.”

My shoulders sagged. It’s no use. Disrespectful is uncharacteristic for someone like me. I laugh when they smile. I ache when people hurt. I cry when others weep. Unfailing considerateness and compulsive politeness, ingrained and deep-rooted, thanks to the short-lived time I spent with my mother.

I offered a jovial smile. “Thank you, Heather.”

Heather had short, straight, grey hair and skin akin to old parchment. Pearl earrings hanging from her earlobes, she wore a hand-knitted, monochromatic pink cardigan with a sparkling brooch and brown, pinstripe trousers. She is the quintessential grandmother—only, she doesn’t have children or grandchildren…

“Is your brother joining you?”

Jace misinformed Heather on arrival.

“Soon,” I said, ebbing to the front door. “I’d avoid him, Heather. He’s moody tonight.”

“I’ll take a ruler to his bottom,” she promised, and I giggled, opening the door. “Do you need me to call a cab?”

“No, I’m fine.” Strong winds almost threw me into the raised flower bed. “Thank you, though.”

Strolling down the path, beyond the gate, I journeyed past snug houses and Heather’s bed-and-breakfast competitors.

“Shit.” I predict a broken ankle or fractured head tonight. I’ll flash my ass to the whole of London if these precarious, deadly shoes do not certify distressing misfortune or casualty.

Windswept and friendless, I enter the bar, on the street corner, meandering through carousing crowds, with plentiful craic, enjoying a live segue of reggae music and vocalists impersonating legendary artists and musicians.

Wedging onto a stool between two, on the face of it, antisocial gents, I set my purse onto the wooden bar top, studying the colourful chalkboard menu.

“What can I get you?” Whipping a terry tea towel over his shoulder, the barman, modelling intimidating, vintage-looking skull jewellery, faded denim and leather cut over his wife-beater, tapped an impatient finger on the cash register. “I ain’t got all day, lady.”

“Vodka,” I confirmed, sliding ten pounds into his hand. “Make it a double.”

Tossing loose change into my purse, he unscrewed a bottle of Russian vodka, poured a glass and told me to “enjoy.”

Plucking out the straw, I sipped, appreciating its smooth, subtle flavour.

Turning on my seat, facing the centre stage, I crossed my legs elegantly, the vocalist singing “Wild World” by Maxi Priest.

To my left, drunk and tawdry, stumbled off his stool, hitting the deck—passed out. He laid unconscious, snoring amid a cacophonous blend of drunken heart-to-hearts, frolic dancing and unfaltering instrumentalists.

I blinked, downed my drink and ordered another.

Burly bouncers made an appearance. Three bald men, one had a goatee. They lifted the intoxicated male, conveying him outdoors where an impending taxi loomed near the entrance.

I knocked the drink back, starting to unwind, relax. Repositioning, seeking out the barman, I raised a hand to order one more when a large hand clasped my wrist. I froze, eyed the solid-gold square curb bracelets and oval-diamond cufflink.

“Cheap and cheerful,” a rough, modulated voice said. “It’s a dangerous combination.”

“Really?” I asked, withdrawing my arm, the empty glass falling into his possession. “What’s the alternative…?” I cleaved my tongue to my inner cheek, stunned by his magnificent appearance.

He towered beside me with tasteful poise. In a pristine gunmetal grey suit and a crisp black shirt with a designer emblem on the collar, a captivating, handsome man, rotates my crystal glass between his gold and diamond ring-clustered fingers. His defined, chiselled jaw, dusted in that five o’clock shadow, accentuating his soft-looking lips. Lustrous, jet black, styled, long enough to run your hands through it. And his eyes. I can’t look away. It’s impossible. Breath-taking, piercing blue eyes adorned in thick eyelashes.

He watches, expressionless, unsmiling. “Exclusive,” he said in that baritone voice, exposing goosebumps to my overheating skin. “And unparalleled.”

I still struggled to breathe. “Sounds boring.”

Repressing a smile, he clicked his fingers, once, and the barman laid two napkins down, before the glasses, handing the unnamed man a bottle. “Try this,” he hummed, splashing far too much liquid courage into my glass. “Beluga gold line.”

I rest my elbow on the bar, facing him head-on. “Is this particular brand your idea of splurging out?”

“What a fatuous question?” He mused, and I grew affronted. “Unless you obtain rare, limited editions, vodka’s not the wealthiest of drinks. Although, compared to your initial choice, the premium line must taste like royalty in a bottle.”

He’s arrogant and conceited, but it suited him. “How much will the Beluga cost me?”

“Nought,” he assured, and I arched a defined eyebrow. Nothing in life is free. “What? Can’t a man buy you a drink without obligation?

In his ear, a glimmering white-gold crucifix. “Are you religious?”

“No.” Downing a shot sans flinch or wince, he pointed to my back. “Are you?”

“What?” My eyebrows drew close. “Are we playing question-for-question?”

I still don’t know his name.

His enthralling, sapphire eyes darkened. He placed a hand on my shoulder, and I uncurled my spine, inhaling a sharp breath. “Angel wings,” he whispered, the pads of his fingers, outlining the detailed feathers on my back. “Why such a sacramental statement otherwise?”

I pondered a response, deciding to be honest. “It is a permanent declaration of liberty,” I said, and he didn’t blink, listening. “There were times in life where I felt alone, miserable, restricted and…” Caged, I thought. He must think I am speaking figuratively, not from experience.

He gave me a low, lopsided smirk. “I suppose even the saddest of birds fly high, Angel.”

I blushed, gesturing around the room with a flippant hand. “Aren’t you a little out of your depth?”

“How so?” He mirrored my position, relaxing on the stool, balancing an elbow on the bar top.

“You look like someone that belongs in a high-class bar with all the other business tycoons and eligible bachelors.” His suit screams prosperity.

“Oh, look who’s superficially judging now?” he half-joked, and I regretted probing. “Quite the stereotypical assessment, Angel. Wealth and designer suits don’t define me. I like a run-down bar and,” he tilted his glass, “cheap spirits as much as the next person.”

I thanked him for the refill.

“Why do you presume I am available?”

Well, he wouldn’t be here, talking to me if there was a woman at home.

I scolded myself in secret. I am psychoanalysing and casting judgement again! He hasn’t said anything untoward or remotely suggestive. He’s been nothing more than polite, pleasant and affable—somewhat self-assured—but it’s not personal. His way, inclined.

“Vick?” Jace’s voice carved the thick, humid air.

My drinking partner watched Jace close-in over the rim of his glass, composed, cool as a cucumber.

Jace’s incognito, sporting his all-black attire and ankle-length leather coat. His dark, shoulder-length hair and bizarre-looking mirrored-aviators, a drastic change to his appearance.

“Hey,” I chimed, perceiving his stoic expression. “Are you okay?”

He enveloped an arm across my shoulders. His harsh gaze settled on the nameless man. “I’m fine, Vick,” he answered, not staring at me. “You ready to get out of here?”

My eyes flickered between the soaring testosterone. “Yes.” I slid off the stool, finished my drink and grabbed my bag. “Thank you.” Mr Nameless’ blue eyes unearthed something inside me. I struggled to avert. “It was nice talking to you.”

He didn’t respond, disregarding my good manners. “I recognise you,” he said to Jace, glass in hand, pointing.

I jerked back. “Nathan’s not from around here,” I intervened, eager to retreat. “He’s new to London.”

“And yourself?” he asked, pushing onto his feet. “I noticed a cinch in your accent.”

Jace said something similar once. I was born in Newquay, so I don’t speak like typical Londoners. “I moved here as a teenager.” Why am I flustered under interrogation? He’s not a police officer. I don’t have to answer this line of questioning. “Anyway, let’s go.”

Free of coercion, I strode the exit, hearing Jace curse behind me.

Underneath the blackness of our night sky, Jace led me to his parked SUV, unlocked the doors and waited until I buckled up before accelerating with anxious haste.

For thirty minutes, Jace drove in silence. I almost fell asleep from boredom. He didn’t speak until veering the SUV off the road, sloping the tires down miry mounds and encircling woodlands.

He loaded his laptop.

I was losing my patience.

Elbow on the window ledge, I pressed two fingers to my temple, massaging. “Why are you on that stupid laptop again? I thought tonight was about drinking and letting loose?”

Jace left the car, swapped the licence plate and returned.

I blew out a long breath. “Nath?” I probed, and he tapped, tapped, tapped. “Nathan!”

“Vick,” he whispered, pressing a tender kiss to my shoulder. “I apologise for biting off your head.” Tap, tap, tap. “Give me two seconds.”

On the screen, a lime-green encrypted algorithm. I puckered an eyebrow, lips thinning in a grim line. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Alzaim,” he said, and I sat taller. “He’s determined.”

Why are we discussing Nate?

I chewed my lower lip. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” he retorted, agitated and defensive. “I found a backdoor into Warren’s communication services, phones and surveillance, so,” he lifted a shoulder, “I hacked their system.”

“You did what?” I barked. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“What choice did I have?” he argued, coding and decoding. “For some reason, Alzaim’s chasing down your meltdown with Warren at the centre.” He glanced at me. “I knew he’d recognise you. I am glad I went with my gut.”

“Liam didn’t recognise me,” I said, unconvinced by my reassuring words. “No, it’s impossible.” Plus, how on earth is Jace doing this? “Are you an ex-government spy?”

“No, a self-taught hacker. Stay on course, Vick. Why do you think Warren followed you?”

I am too speechless to touch upon his self-proclaimed hacktivism. “Liam…” I sighed, my stomach sinking. “As much as it pains me to admit, Liam is a notorious womaniser. He has a predilection for leggy blondes.” Not undeveloped, unattractive, rake-thin blondes, though. “I reckon I intrigued him. That’s all.”

“I am not buying it,” he countered. “You said it yourself. Warren’s a hypocritical philanderer.” He’s putting words in my mouth. “Going through all this effort for a bit of pussy?” He snorted. “It’s beneath him.”

He makes a valid point.

“I sent two viruses to the syndicate software,” he informed me, closing the screen. “Bajramovic called.”

A shiver clambered my spine. “What did he say?”

“He’s booked a private jet to fly him and his wife back to Tirana.”

I swallowed a painful lump. “For when?”

“Three days,” he confirmed, and nausea waved through me. “So, I used my due diligence to strategise.” He tilts the laptop, pointing to an intermittent red dot. “Dalmat Sula. Flamur’s second in command and dutiful accession. Alongside Flamur, Rezart and Dalmat assisted me in your abduction. He’s also responsible for the fire that night. He burnt that tenant-building to the ground prior to Club 11’s bombardment.”

“What? You didn’t tell me Liam’s club took a hit.”

Plugging a wire into the computer, he attached it to his phone, downloading something. “Flamur gave Warren a distraction. How else was I supposed to get you away from that tight-knit security detail?”

I gave him a tight smile. “Why don’t we stop discussing your involvement, Nath. Each time this topic arises, I forget why I am helping you. In actuality, I have to stop myself from pummelling you.”

He rolled his eyes, unscrewing a vodka bottle.

“Are you seriously going to drive under the influence?”

“Isn’t conforming to the highest standards of submissive morality tedious? So what if I decrypted Warren’s servers? So what if I drink and drive? So what if I track down Dalmat tonight and snap his fucking neck? Who cares, Vick? You? Me?” He scoffed, swigging from the bottle. “Quit acting like an austere formalist and a servant to society.” He offers me the vodka. “Where does it get you?”

“I can’t just change who I am. It’s not that simple.”

“You keep making excuses,” he disputes, his rough voice slicing over my skin. “Anyone can change with the exact amount of willpower. You’re an open book. You bear your soul for all to taint. You trust without reservations, and your unarguable, evident vulnerability is susceptible for devastation or even premature death.”

I crushed the bottleneck, weighed down by unpleasant memories of how I trusted so many people in the past and most of them betrayed me.

Jace cocks his head, a crease formed between knitted brows. “Where did you go?”

I snatched his holdall from the backseat, ransacked various weapons. I curled my hand around firearm handle, admired and appreciated the aluminium-framed semi-automatic. “Liam uses Glocks,” I mused, smoothing my fingers along the barrel. “He has a favourite, though.”

“Yeah?” Jace rested his back to the window, folding his arms. “That Eagle, right?”

I nod. “What type of gun is this?”

“Colt Commander,” he said, carefully extracting the gun from my hand. “What are you doing, Vick?”

“Hunting down Dalmat can lead us to Summer, right?”

He steeled his jaw, glancing out the windshield.

“And Flamur,” I add, and he didn’t deny it. “When were you going to tell me, Nath? You expected me to wander back into hell, ignorant and unarmed? Are you going to teach me how to defend myself?” I point to the gun firmly grasped in his hand. “Is that what all the ammunition is for? You and me.”

“I have faith in you, Vick,” he whispered, and tears burned my eyes. “Put the bullshit aside for a moment and realise—no, accept—how strong-minded and powerful you are.”

“I hate the darkness,” I whispered, giving him a slight head shake. “Irrelevant to how you perceive me, I don’t want it.”

“Too bad,” he fired back, and I shot him a condemning glare. “You blossomed in darkness. It’s integrated, weaved in your soul. Stop hiding from the shadows and own them.”

Pushing open the car door, he rounded the bonnet and came to my side. He unbuckled my belt, drew me out by the elbow.

“What are you doing?” I asked, rubbing the night chill from my arms.

Jace oscillated between two guns, tucked one in the waistband of his jeans. “Turn around.”

Huffing out a tired breath, I obeyed, facing bleak, vastness and barren roads.

“Right or left-handed?” Chest to my back, he put his chin on my shoulder. “Or ambidextrous?”

I curbed a smile. “Right.”

“Arms in front,” he said. “Two-handed grip for control.” Covering my arms with his, he positioned the gun between my hands, demonstrating. “Firm hold with your dominant hand, though.” Manoeuvring, he searches for a target, pointing at a tree. “Your finger should never be on that trigger unless you’re aiming to kill.”

I wracked with nerves. “What if I miss?”

“I’m helping you,” he assures, using his finger to coax mine onto the trigger. “No gun is the same and practice makes perfect. You select a choice of weapon, learn how to use it and then stick with it.”

I breathed out a shuddered breath, mist forming before me. “Okay.”

Jace tapped my finger.

I closed my eyes, inhaled and pulled the trigger. Ears ringing, I recoiled, knocked into his chest, overcome with excitement. “Did I get the shot?”

“First,” he clipped, tugging me back into position, “you don’t aimlessly lower your guard with a loaded gun. Composure is key, Vick. Two, you panic as the bullet leaves the chamber. So,” he adjusted my grip, firm, “keep your non-dominant hand underneath, opposite thumb against the frame. It means you have a sturdy grip and effective aim control.” With his arms hugging mine, he marked a target. “Leave a slight bend in your elbows and don’t ever close your eyes, Vick. Razor-sharp focus. One-shot. No second-guessing. Aim to kill.”

I swallowed, levelled with the tree—I pulled the trigger, determined in my firm stance. The bullet chipped and splintered the dense bark, and I didn’t flinch, or panic, or melt under pressure. “I did it,” I whispered, and he dropped a chaste kiss to my shoulder. “I killed the tree, Nath!” He retrieved the gun, pulling me in for a hug. “I can’t stop shaking.”

He laughed, raspy and thick. “I’m getting my baby girl back, Vick,” he said throatily. “I found his compound.”

Staring into space over his shoulder, I hugged him back, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Where is it?”

Jace tilted my chin. “Behind you.”

Neurotic fear cemented my feet to the floor. I glared at the dark, spine-chilling, gnarled woodlands, thick with pea-souper fogs and blood-curdling memories.

Losing his long coat and hairpiece, Jace opens the boot, puts on his ball cap. He straps both ankles, waistline, arming, and tugs a holster to my waist.

I conclude I’ll die tonight.

“Loaded,” he said, but I am clueless. “8-round magazine for ammunition. Plus, arsenal restock. On empty,” he exhibits, in-and-out, cocking, “lock the slide and insert the magazine in place. Pull it back and let go.”

I am definitely going to die tonight.

“Don’t waste any ammo,” he proceeds, mobilising me with Colt’s, braiding my blonde hair. “At the compound, we’ll separate and ambush on either side.”

I rocked my jaw. “It’s hardly an ambush with me as your wingman.”

Slapping a ball cap on my head, he locked the car, took my elbow and dragged me to hellfire.

Ch 23

Alexa

At a loss for words, Jace studied the insurmountable lake. It taunts us with its filamentous algae and blanketing fog. “How did you get out?” he asked, hitched defeatism in his low whisper. “Vick?”

“Alexa, don’t panic.”

Kathy’s concerned voice failed to mollify my apprehensions. Water invades my throat. I coughed, spluttered, choking for breath. “Kathy!” My head dunked under the water, causing momentary deafness, blindness. For a split-second, while sinking into the unknown, I feared she’d leave me behind, forget about me, relieve herself from this encumbering indebtedness, but then her hand found mine, fingers tight on my skin, drawing me back to the surface.

Head flinging back on a refuelling gasp, I braced my hands on her shoulders, breathless, sticky and salty. I stared deep into her eyes, beads of water dancing on her lashes, blue, chafed lips slow-moving as she murmurs muffled words. “Understand?” she asked, and I nodded regardless of incomprehension, teeth clattering together. Her eyes veered past my head at the sound of advancing, animalistic howls. “Now is not the time to panic.”

“We swam,” I told him, and haunted eyes glared back at me.

“You and your sister?” he asked. I tipped my head. “You were a kid, though, right?”

“A determined teenager,” I corrected, remembering the night like it was yesterday. “Besides, I had Kathy.”

“Your sister?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “How did she die, Vick? You told me she killed herself, but I could tell you were lying to me.”

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. I touch my skin and lift my hands, the sight of blood clinging to my fingers, sending me over the edge.

Her dead body sank back into the mattress, and a silent roar reiterated inside my head. “Kathy.” Grasping her shoulders, I rested my forehead on her chest. Blood pressure increases with intense grief, the pain in my chest too much to endure.

I rolled onto my side, vomiting on the floor, body wrenching forward. Head buried into the mattress, I screamed, loud, painful, agonising screams. “No,” I sobbed, staring at the wall, tears flowing down my cheeks. “No,” I mumble, body numb, dead inside, feeling his hand on my head. “It’s not real.”

“Alexa,” Liam’s rough voice breathed in my ear. “Look at me.”

I held Jace’s hand, interlaced our fingers, equally benumbed. “Kathy was sick,” I said, overwhelmed by ghastly, hair-raising flashbacks. “She developed Stockholm syndrome and battled alcoholism and heroin addiction.” Amongst other drugs, I thought. “The girl I grew up with was not the same girl who left the compound that night. At first, I didn’t see it—didn’t notice. I had no reason to believe he’d gotten inside her head. But he did. And,” I breathed, sickened by the notion, “Kathy started to resent me.”

Eyes locked on mine, Jace put his back to the lake, thumb stroking my knuckles. “What did she do?”

“She wanted to ‘eliminate the threat’,” I quoted her final words, pointing to myself. “And she almost achieved it. The night my sister returned from months of disappearance, she beat me into semi-unconsciousness and wrapped her hands around my throat.” I gave him a dull smile. “Fortunately for me, I had Liam on my side.” Kathy’s guttural shrieks resounded inside my ears. “He killed her, right there, in front of me.”

I unravelled our fingers, dipped my head back and embraced the constellation of radiant stars above.

“Sorry, give me a second,” I snivelled, unshed tears depriving me of vision. “God, I don’t even know why it upsets me. I hate her.” No, I love her. I will always love her. “You must think less of me for letting her go to such a tragic death.”

“No,” he said, and I looked at him. “You’re one of the toughest people I have ever met, Vick.” He nudged my chin with his knuckles. “For what’s it worth? I’m glad Warren took accountability. He freed you from guilt.”

Liam’s the centre of everything.

“I’m not opposed to swimming again.” It’s freezing and the disturbing, unappealing water condition sheaths my body in goose-pimpled dread, but if Jace needs me to walk over hot coals tonight, I’ll do it. I will undergo everything and anything to save Summer. “How do you want to do this?”

“There must be another way.” His boots mined in the mud-spattered bank. He skirted the border coalescing onto a low, flat area of land. “Keep walking, Vick.”

I contemplated removing my high-heeled shoes so that I didn’t sink. I traced his footsteps, heels submerging, hampering the journey.

Latching onto a tree, Jace, indecisive, scowled at the floor as if offended him.

I cleared my throat. “Everything okay?”

He crouched, swept fallen leaves from the rusted-steel gateway-to-some-type-of-sewage.

“Is that a drain?” I wondered aloud, squatting beside him. “It smells like death…” Meshing my lips together, I scratched my upper brow, ready to rip out my wayward tongue. “Nath?”

“It’s a ventilation shaft. London’s best-kept secret,” he jests, rolling up his shirt sleeves, leaving them at the elbows. “A ‘hidden city’ of tunnels, bunkers, sewers and subterranean spaces.”

My ears perked up. “For real?”

“You’ll find many clandestine shafts in London,” he informs me, fingers gliding the grill-side for an opening. “Similar to this one.” It screeched as he slid it across, ear-splitting and grating. “I’ll go first.”

I built a fortified wall around me, exhaling a long breath. “How do we get down?”

Perching onto the concrete ledge, he unlocked his phone, utilising the light as a torch. “Ladder.” With gallant effort, he seized the metal handle and sloped underground, on occasion, whistling for me to trail.

“Okay,” I talk to myself, a little pat on the back. “You can do this.” Dropping a leg into the manhole, I fumbled around for a step, braced a foot and climbed down the ladder. “Where’s your torch?”

“What?” Jace shouted, his voice echoing. “I can’t hear you.”

For the love of God. It’s like experiencing a blackout. I cannot make out anything, which, in one regard, suits me fine. I mean, if I saw skulking bugs or disease-ridden parasites, I’ll lose grip and plummet to my death. “Can you see anything with that torch?” I yelled a bit louder. “It’s getting darker.”

The light illuminated me. “I can see fine.”

I stiffened, clinging to the rail, fingers whitening. “Can you not shine the light up here?”

“I can’t win with you.”

“I am wearing a dress, Nath.”

“I have witnessed it all before, Vick.

I snorted, stepped down, repeated. “Not because I threw myself at you,” I remind him. “You forced me to flash my bits.”

I detected his stark exhale. “I asked if you wanted to talk about that and you said no. I apologise for seeing your…bits,” he dwindled, and I grinned like a madwoman who looks possessed. “And for all the times I’ve seen them since.”

My jaw loosened. “Perv.”

“Are you sure you want to discuss the definition of a pervert, Vick? Considering you did nothing but ‘perv’ on my ass this morning.”

Oh, how humiliating. I can’t believe he caught me. “I wasn’t ogling,” I lied, another six steps. “I was admiring your tattoos.”

“And Prince Albert?”

Is he flirting with me?

“That so happened to slap me in the face.” My cheeks were scorching, burning up. “Can we get off this topic, please? Are we there yet?”

“I’ve been standing here the whole time, Vick. It’s you that’s procrastinating.” He flashes the torch, and I glimpsed over my shoulder. “Hey.” Waving, he gestures to the obvious—land. “Fifteen minutes to climb down thirty steps. That has got to be a record.”

Wide-eyed, I gazed up at the manhole, belated awareness washing over me. “You have got to be shitting me.” I am beyond melodramatic. I thought it was going to be a much bigger drop. “So,” I return my feet to terra firma, dusting off my hands with a palm sweep, “what do we have?

Jace zapped the light, highlighting stoned-alcoves, ashlar masonry moss-covered walls akin to an old architectural castle. On the floor, strewn debris and ruptured disintegrated stonework. “We’ll head north,” he said, bypassing east-and-west passages. “Come on, Vick. Keep up.”

I wafted malodour and sewerage stench from my nose, scouring narrow tunnels, evading overhead drips and leakage. “Imagine if that lake inundated.” I rub an icy chill from the backs of my thighs. “Sorry, I babble when nervous.”

“It’s cool, Vick.” His tense shoulders and rigid spine deceived his confident equanimity. “Fuck. It really does smell down here.”

Yes, it’s frighteningly concerning. I don’t express or dramatise innermost fears and rioting anxieties, though.

“What do you think it is?” he asked, crushing a hand to his nose. “Fuck.”

“Clogged up excrement.” I struggled with queasiness—each step, gruelling, laborious, forced and jittery. Increasing fear slithered in my veins and tension attacked my limbs, preventing dauntless strides.

Fogginess crept across the cracked stone and unshaped crevices, honing rising torment. My breathing became more rapid and shallow, making my heart thud at a sporadic speed.

“You okay?” asked Jace, glancing back to check on me. “Vick?”

“I’m fine,” I promised, rubbing my sweaty palms together. “How much farther?” I scuffed and crushed something under my shoe, almost tripping in the process. Spinning on my heel, I examined the floor, the light fading as Jace retreats.

In the midst of stagnant sewage and weathered wreckage, the incontrovertible remains and impacted friable bones of someone’s skull.

Acidic bile rose in my throat, putrid vomit induced a dry-heave. “Nath…” Stumbling sideways, I set off to run, bumped an ankle and rolled into a sea of shattering, fragile skeletons—decomposing-smelling and flesh-like objects.

Darkness became my friend. I screamed inside my head. Don’t frighten, Jace. Don’t frighten, Jace.

“Vick?” he called, thumping footsteps closing in. “Where the hell did you go?”

Knees grazed, torn and stinging with blood, I pushed myself up, cringing with each snap and disjointed crunch. “Oh, God,” I whispered, shirking whatever unidentifiable fluids clung to my raw skin.

“Vick this isn’t funny.”

Locating the wall, I slapped a palm to the rough stonework, ignoring every snap under my weight. I slithered to the passage entrance, the dim light leading the way.

I don’t call Jace. I wait until it’s safe, not wanting him to see the gruesome massacre of fresh and putrefied corpses. I pray Summer isn’t amongst those decaying bodies. My eyes welled up, just thinking about it. “I’m okay,” I croaked, tumbling into his readied arms. “Sorry, I got side-tracked—”

He blinded me with the torch, eyes protruding. “What the fuck, Vick?” Taking my jaw, he inspected my scuffed cheek. “Is that blood?”

“I banged my head and grazed my knees,” I deflected, grappling airless breaths. “I’m okay, Nath.” Hugging his elbow, I moved him along. “We must be close.”

I had unnerved Jace. He relents, eyes bouncing from me to the passageway.

Turning the corner, holding me upright, he splashed lighting, troubled by the low battery life. “Look,” he jerked his chin, urging me to hurry. “This is it, Vick.” Posted beneath a second hole, he grasped the wall ladder, tested resilience. “I’ll go first to scope the perimeters and make sure it’s safe. If we’re good to go? We’ll separate. Got it?”

“Hey,” I whispered, gripping his T-shirt. “Ride-or-die, huh?”

Jace tilted his head to kiss my cheek, fixing his cap. “Cloak and dagger.”

I giggled, teary-eyed, holding up a tight fist. “Once and for all.”

“Odds and ends.”

“Down and out.”

He mirrored my smile, giving me a fist-pump. “One and the same.”

A single tear rolled down my cheek. He swept it away with his thumb, respired a shivered breath and clambered the ladder.

I gripped the rails and soared in his shadow.

At the summit point, he pushed the metal slide across the floor, granting our intrusion. “Don’t forget, Vick. If anything happens to me, grab Summer and get to safety.” He pulls himself up, disappears.

My perfume mingled with sweat. I owned reckless courage, scaled the final stage, glided over the threshold and crawled on my hands and knees.

Jace helped me stand, his chest heaving. He tapped a finger to his lips, an order of silence.

I nod, wiping ever-present dampness from my forehead.

Pointing to the right, he missions me in one direction and then falls into the opposite.

I stand, frozen, watching him vanish into blackness. Keeping my back to the wall, I stepped sideways, retrieving the Colt, locking the handle in a stable grip.

My shoulder hit something hard. A turning point, I thought, transferring my back to another solid partition. I must get a hold of my frantic breathing. It’s too loud, jarring and thick.

In the dark, I found a door, checked the handle and cracked it open. I entered a corridor, undecorated with smoke-stained walls, dusty floorboard and boarded up windows, sifting soft, natural moonlight between the wooden cracks.

Relief administered oxygen. I drew in a revitalising breath, lowered my guard, tiptoed into the next door. I peered into the small window, checking the other side—a brighter hallway.

I stole a moment to assuage myself, alternatively wiped my sweaty palms on my dress skirt and proceeded with painstaking diligence.

Extending my arms, I point the gun from door-to-door, marking vacant, desolate rooms. In a state of claustrophobia, I rise to the next floor, wondering how far we had travelled below the surface.

I stumbled upon a kitchen. It’s not the same kitchen from when Kathy and I fled this place. It’s newer, modernised with top-of-the-range appliances, filthy yet expensive-looking floor tiles and a large, eight-seater cherry-wood table. Two ceramic mugs on the granite counter evaporated coffee stains and a newspaper.

As I wandered, I considered Jace. I pray he killed besieging enemies and found his baby girl. I pray he reappears soon and gets us the hell out of this place.

In the living quarters, an L-shaped sofa, coffee table, magazines and wall-mounted televisions, or, so I thought, until examining closely.

I picked up the remote, clicked random buttons. Two men prowl, armed, suited and booted, mouths moving in rapid haste as they spoke.

“Where are you?” I watched them stroll, heart thrashing against my ribcage. I pressed the blue button, and I stared at myself on the screen, stood inside this room, vulnerable, alone, and behind me, in the doorway, stood a tall silhouette.

Working on a tight gulp, I stared at the screen, watching him creep behind me, the remote control slipping through my clammy fingers. “Get away from me,” I screamed, spinning and impaling his face with the gun.

Groaning on impact, he capitalised on my mechanical rashness, seized my wrist, knocked the Colt from my hand and spear tackled me to the ground.

I whacked my head on the coffee table leg, body sprawled on the ground in transient feverishness. His weight crushed my frame, breath warm to my cheek, stale cigarettes. “You,” he groaned in my ear, locking a meaty hand around my throat. “I remember.” He disarmed me, tossing the spare Colt on the sofa. “Alexa Haines. It’s been too long.”

Salvation was virtually non-existent here. I gasped, bucking beneath him in a useless attempt to gain the upper hand.

Bleary-eyed and frozen in fear, I heard the familiar sound of a clanking belt buckle and violently thrashed my head. The room span and darkness …

“What’s happening to me?”

Liam used force to untangle my fingers. I clung to him, hands to his forearms, fingernails pinching his skin. “Breathe, Alexa,” he said, but all I heard was Him. “Slowly. In and out.”

His eyes focus on mine, not breaking contact.

“Deep breaths. Bring yourself back, Alexa.” He held my jaw in one hand, his ice-cold blues searing through me. “Don’t allow yourself to go there. It’s you and me,” he rasped, fisting my hair, causing a sharp sting. “You and me.”

“You…and…me,” I repeated, my voice breaking. “You…and me.”

“That’s right.” He nods, inhale, exhale. “Just us.”

My attacker ripped my thighs apart, nestling his waist between them. “Mëluftoni,” he growled. “Eja!”

“I hate the darkness, Liam,” I whispered, resting in the safety of his arms. His black silk sheets weaved between our tangled legs. “It’s when everything comes back. It’s when I see him or my mother.” Pleasant reminiscences until she alters into something frightening, tormenting our happiness. “Maybe I need help.”

“Don’t do that,” he berates, tracing my lips with the pads of his fingers. “I said it before, and I’ll say it again. It’s not real. Whatever invades your thoughts, isn’t real.”

I placed a hand to his bare chest. His thunderous heartbeat confused me. Why, if it’s only sex between us, does he react so fervently under my touch? Why does he lose himself in me? Every breathless kiss, tender touch and whispered assurance seems like a promise. “I only feel safe with you.”

Liam’s arm beneath my neck tensed. “Fear life and death will come for you.” He wrapped it around my shoulders, pulling my naked body across his chest. “Fear death,” he said, kissing my bottom lip, “and you’ll do anything to overcome it.”

I pressed a kiss to his jawline. “You make everything sound so easy.”

His dilated blue eyes were brighter against the magical lights of London’s nightlife. He drew me beneath him, positioning his forearms on either side of my head.

I curled my fingers around his chain, pulled him down and kissed him. He entered me, and my breath hitched. “Liam,” I moaned, wilting underneath him.

Liam ravished my neck with scorching kisses. “Baby.” He moved back, drove forward. “Fight back. You must fight back, every single fucking time.”

I choked on a whimper, weighed down by the frantic lunatic hiking up my dress. I extended an arm, fingers trembling to reach the Colt. It’s too far; I’ll never obtain it.

Remembering Jace’s advice, I tried to pinch the guy under his arm, bite his moving arms and knee him between the legs. He evaded each hit, unzipping his jeans, tugging them mid-thigh.

No, I will not endure victimisation again. Survival instinct kicked in. He’s a criminal and criminals carry weapons. I frisked him with frantic hands, throat searing in his unmerciful grip, and touched a cold object with my fingers. I snatched the handle of his gun, shoved the barrel into his side and pulled the trigger. One-shot. No second-guessing. Aim to kill.

His body slacked atop mine, boneless, lifeless, blood splurging down my fingers. His hold on my throat softened, and I refuelled my lungs.

“Get off me,” I groaned, using all my strength to roll him away. He thumped beside me, dead weight, a trail of gore splashed between us.

I yanked my dress down, twisted onto my side and crawled on my hands and knees. Reclaiming the Colt’s, I re-equipped, pretending there wasn’t a dead guy in the room or his vile blood dripping down my legs.

I killed someone.

Bile clogged my throat.

Tumbling into a different room, I neatened my ball cap and stopped. I met a steel door, unbolted, unchained, left ajar. It seemed to retreat, walls elongating and closing in.

I heard my hysterical, muffled breaths and nervous snivels. It’s all I can listen to amid deathly silence and unnerving eeriness. “I’m coming, Summer.”

In a trance, I crept the door open and faced my greatest fear: my childhood. Dark and precipitous, the basement stored many painful secrets. It called me, allured me back with the soughing of coldness and distant wailing.

I descended one step at a time, heels grating on the concrete. “It’s okay,” I said, aquiver with trepidation. “It’s okay. I’m here.” I lingered on the bottom step, blinking rapidly to clear murky depths. I heard nothing—smelt everything. “Shit.” Thrusting my back to the wall, I slapped a hand over my nose and mouth, eyes watering.

It’s no good. The odoriferous decomposing stench surged a vicious upsurge of vomit. I retched vodka, the pungent taste sweltering inside my throat.

Spittle hung from my dry lips. I wiped it with the back of my hand, frisked the wall for the light switch. It’s here. I know it’s here because he used to blind me when visiting. “Summer,” I called, listening for any sounds of movements or frightened tears. “Are you in here?”

I mauled the fractured wall with probing fingers, outlined plastic casing. I smiled, pushed the switch and fluorescent light tubes hummed above and, one by one, whitened the room…

A crescendo of gunfire thundered somewhere in the compound. I was too numb to care anymore. The gun glided through my fingers, hitting the ground.

Tear-streaked, I lowered to my knees in defeat, snaked an arm under her neck and brought her to my chest. “It’s okay. Daddy’s coming, baby.” Fingers buried in her blood-streaked blonde hair, I lamented, guttural cries ripping from my throat.

I glued to her frail body, swaddling her body in a stained, fleece blanket, hiding her bruised skin, the over decomposion. “Somewhere over the rainbow,” I whispered, tucking hair behind her ear, “way up high. There’s a land that I’ve heard of once in a lullaby.”

Footsteps advanced above. Someone is coming. I slumped against the wall, refusing to let her go. “Someday I’ll wish upon a star,” I croaked, lifting the spare Colt, finger parked on the trigger. I had no idea how to war with guns, but it was either me, or whoever was coming down those stairs. “And wake up where the clouds are far behind me.”

The basement door crashed into the wall. Filthy trainers and denim jeans coming into my peripheral vision, I don’t know the man—never seen him before—but he’s one of them. He’s a monster. “Where troubles melt like lemon drops.”

I raised the gun in his direction before he could see me and pulled the trigger. I aimed for his chest, but only clipped his leg. Shit.

“Shkërdhatë!” he roared, clasping his wounded thigh, body lurching back. He tumbled down the steps, crashing into the wall.

“If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow.” I shoot again, blowing through ammunition, bullets ripping his flesh until he slumped, unmoving, and I knew he’d passed out. I shoot until the gun clicks—until it’s empty–until I know he is dead. “Why, can’t I?”

Snivelling into her hair, I snuggled her in, to keep her warm, to keep her safe, protect her. “I’m sorry,” I cried in a hollow voice. “I’m so sorry.”

I still hadn’t seen her face. I’m not sure I can.

Dead inside, I held her hand in mine, thumb circling her palm. “Mum,” I whispered, closing my eyes, searching for her beautiful face, her disembodied voice. “She’s alone. I don’t know what to do,” I sobbed, lips wobbling. “He—”

“Vick?” Jace called, and my mouth opened and closed.

His footsteps were loud above. I felt his feverish panic and heard his laboured breathing as he gravitated to the basement.

“Vick?” he shouted down, hesitating near the door. “Are you down there?”

A lump knotted in my throat. I tried to respond, tried to tell him.

Jace hurries down the steps, arms raised, pointing his gun. “Vick, I can’t find her…” His gaze lowered to my lap, and he stared, long and hard, as the colour drained from his face. “No,” he rasped, shaking his head vehemently. He rushed over, lost the gun, fell to his knees. “Summer,” he cooed, dragging her dead body into his arms, cupping her head. “Baby girl?” kissing her cheek, smoothing back her hair, lips trembling. “Wake up.”

I hid behind my hands, his choked sob tearing my heart.”Daddy’s here.” He shook her small body in a violent outburst. “I said, wake up!”

“Nath.” I touched his shoulder, and he spurned me, jerking away, rocking her body with force. “Nathan, stop!” He ignored me. I can’t take it. He’s too brutal, too forceful. Her limp body like a rag doll in his arms. “That’s enough!” I yelled, trying to pry her off him. “Jace!” I slapped him, hard.

His head whipped to the side. Pain and shock etched his twisted features, fingers tangled in his daughter’s hair.

“Please stop shaking her.” I held his mournful eyes, rubbing his back. “Please.”

His bottom lip quivered. “Hmm,” he mumbled, letting her body drop.

I caught her head under my palm before she landed on the ground.

Jace stood, hands clasped to the back of his head. His legs gave way, and he fell on his backside. Bemoaned, he sobbed into his hands, the most painful, gut-wrenching screams.

Tasting tears on my lips, I stared at his daughter, unable to drown out or lessen his heartbreak. Her dead, green eyes bore into mine. Her vivid diamonds mask her busted, chapped lips, decaying skin and sunken cheekbones.

Summer had her father’s eyes. I kissed my fingertips and closed her lids, gentle touches.

“Alexa,” he cried, and I suddenly hated my real name—hated everything about myself. “Fuck, Alexa. Please help her. Help my baby girl.”

I was helpless. “She doesn’t belong down here,” I said, and his red-brimmed eyes implored me. “Call the police. You need to take her home.”

“Yes,” he ululated, agony in his hooded gaze. “I’ll be outside.”

I stood on unbalanced feet, lifting her. I kissed her forehead, wrapped her in the blanket and eased her into his waiting arms. I didn’t look when he strode away. I stayed, collected the Colt’s and headed to the kitchen.

Panting and sweating, I clung to the sink, turned on the tap and scrubbed the blood from my arms.

Chucking the ball cap on the counter, I dabbed mascara from my cheeks, wavering with no sense of direction.

I screamed, fisting my hair, paralysed and grief-stricken. I snatched a chair, shattered it up the wall. Wood splintered, and the legs disassembled. I picked one up and destroyed everything.

Sweeping dinnerware from the cupboards, I broke and fragmented glasses, tore the small appliances off the counters, hurled them across the room.

Enough, I thought, clicking open a beer, drinking for that burning sensation. Tilting the can, I poured a stream on the rug, soaking it.

Bursting at the seams, I unscrewed whisky bottles, doused the walls, furniture and floors. I open drawers, snatch a matchbox and stuff bottles in my waistband.

Scratching the match, I ignite a flame, drop it on the sofa. It catches, a blue and orange creek meanders between the cushions.

I light another, flames licking and whooshing. I swigged Jack Daniels, enough to make me light-headed and trickle liquid as I head out front.

Cold winds greet me. I shut the door, stabilised on the weather-worn veranda, looked heavenward, felt soft drizzles on my face. Tears mingled with rain. I held onto the guardrail, saying goodbye to my nightmare.

I hurt more this time. I grieve for the little girl who died. I ache for the man who has become a fundamental part of my life…

But I am not scared anymore.

“Shh!” Kathy scolds, pressing two fingers to my lips. “We have to be quiet.”

I nodded, holding teddy tight to my chest. “Where are you taking me?”

She crept toward the door, pointing to the loft. “It’s a surprise.”

“It’s scary up here, Kathy,” I whined, ducking from cobwebs. “And it’s dark.”

“Look,” Kathy points near the roof window. “I can see the moon.”

“You can?” I gripped her nightgown, craning my neck to see the dark sky. “Wow.”

“Crazy, huh?” Banging a torch against her palm, she shone the light onto the makeshift bed on the floor. “It’s bigger than the world.”

“No way,” I said in disbelief, slumping onto the beanbag. “Will mummy get mad?”

Kathy opened the window, snuggled in close and aimed the torch toward the sky. “Watch.”

Fascinated, I curled an arm around her waist. “What are you doing?”

“Saying hello,” she glimmered the torch to the sky, “to the stars.”

“This is the best birthday ever.” I watched the stars twinkle and smiled. “Thank you, Kathy.”

“I’m your sister, Alexa.” She laced our fingers together. “You don’t have to thank me.” She nudged my nose with hers. “How much do you love me?”

“Too much,” I smiled a sad smile, meeting the distant flicker of stars. I cast my eyes to the floor, put my hand on Jace’s shoulder. “I love you, Nath.”

He’s too deadened, his daughter embosomed in his protective arms.

Flamur Bajramovic’s compound exploded. Flames billowed to the night sky, freeing trapped souls, including mine.

“I called the police,” Jace said, unable to stand the sight of me. “Now is your chance, Vick. Hang around and return to your old life,” he suggested, the fire blazing in his eyes, “or you can go can go back to hiding.”

I parted my lips, hurt by his callousness. In the distance, a gyrating helicopter assaulted my ears. I drop back, arms lethargic at my sides. “There’s nothing left for her.”

His cold, murderous stare felt like a slap in the mouth.

Reduced to tears, I wiped my face and left him to find myself.

CH 24

Liam

Wearing a charcoal suit and a burgundy coloured silk shirt, Brad stands directly from my desk, toothpick in place. He runs me through this week’s cash takings at Club 11 and The Grape and Vine before our meticulous discussion regarding prohibited trade. I have reliant partners in France, Germany and Belgium, the nexus between the importation of illegal goods, drugs, weapons and alcohol cranes to avoid tax evasion.

“Belgium no longer wishes to do business with us.” Brad slides an email print out across the desk. “Leadership has decided to step down and emigrate to Australia with his family.”

“Close the account,” I ordered, knocking down a whiskey shot. “I don’t care for Belgium’s liquor trade and preposterous gangsterism anyway. Speak to headship in France to negotiate initial agreements. I want in on their counterfeit alcohol enterprise as a lucrative sideline. If they refuse to regularise commerce, I’ll cut ties and move all overseas business to Germany.” I tossed the email in the bin. “Updates.”

Nate popped open the button of his suit jacket and perched onto the desk edge. “I located Jace’s hideaway.” He passed me receipts from the Isle of Man Sea Terminal, printed surveillance footage and camera angles from convenient stores within the vicinage of Jace’s rented holiday home. “He boarded the Ferry and waited on the deck until disembarkment. He drove his vehicle eight miles to this place,” he points to a weather-beaten cottage overlooking coastal views, “and resided for almost two months.”

I thumbed through the images. “What’s this?”

“It is an underground living quarter,” he said, circling a manmade railed enclosure, separating the open-plan kitchen and reception room. “It kinda gave me the chills, so, after a thorough investigation, I spoke to a few locals and asked if ‘the subterrestrial cage was orthodox in Douglas’?”

Josh scoffed. “What did they say?”

“Apparently their forefathers built them back in the early 1940s for reassurance.” He pulled a face. “Confinement for when the Germans invaded.”

“What were they going to do?” Brad’s voice went up a notch. “Capture and starve any Wehrmacht that so happened to fall from the sky?” He snorted. “Savage.”

The corner of Nate’s mouth twitched. “Not everyone takes torture methods to the extreme, Brad.”

“I don’t know,” Josh winced, kneading his stomach. “Famishment can be pretty brutal.”

Nate folded his arms. “Yeah, well, for a fat cunt like you maybe.”

His comment offended Josh. The lad isn’t the bulkiest of men, but he’s lean, ripped and shredded. He doesn’t need to argue the obvious. “I hate Nate,” Josh informed me. “My diet consists of spinach and ginger protein shakes or those goddamn pennant butter Carb-Killa bars.”

Nate grinned with pride-filled eyes.

“He only authorises cheat-meals on a Friday, which is now my favourite day of the week.” Josh glared at Brad. “How come you get to eat whatever you want?”

“Quit complaining,” Brad defended Nate’s honour. “We all had gruelling training regimes at the beginning, Joshy boy. Nate will ease up when he’s satisfied with your progress.”

Resigned, Josh sank on the sofa.

Relaxing in my leather chair, I light a cigarette. “What else did you find at Jace’s holiday retreat?”

Clearing his throat, Nate fixed his glasses. “No,” he confirmed, and we all bore equally puzzled expressions. “Not even an empty beer bottle. It was dusty but uncluttered. No signs of temporary living or forgotten belongings. If it weren’t for receipts and surveillance, I’d of had trouble believing he even visited that place.”

Nothing about Jace’s behaviour made sense.

Where did he go the night I kicked him out of Club 11?

Why did he leave the Coffee House without notice?

Evidence suggests it was Flamur’s men who misinformed Grayson of Jace’s and Alexa’s death. Not Reginald Burton or the metropolitan. “It’s plausible Jace is one of Bajramovic’s allies,” I mused, respiring a slew of cigarette smoke. “Such strategic efforts on the Albanians behalf.”

Before I wiped out the white supremacists, a traitorous coward squealed one of Flamur’s sanctuaries. It was unfortunate that neither Bajramovic nor his wife, Zamira, reared their heads. Instead, I stumbled upon a chilling shrine he hoarded from past victims and a young woman.

Blaire’s hospitalised. I paid for treatment at a private clinic to keep her name out of the papers. I have yet to pay her a visit, but Nate reassured her health and mental condition were stable. Doctors provided bloodstream malnourishment and administered intravenous antibiotics to treat severe bacterial infections, so she’s safe, stable and supervised.

While the men conjectured many theories, I turned in my seat to face the floor-to-ceiling window, overseeing the club’s active engagement.

If Jace worked alongside Flamur, it means he’s an accessory to Alexa’s death. “Any leads on the daughter?” I asked, rolling smoke around my mouth. “Staying with a friend?”

“Nada,” Nate said, and I grew restless. “Again, if it weren’t for her birth certificate and previous schooling confirmation, I’d argue he even had a child.”

I had dinner arrangements with Hellen.

Rubbing my eyes, I considered cancelling when my phone vibrated, and Hellen’s name flashed across the screen. I diverted the call and sent a text message, explaining that something came up.

Hellen: You cannot be serious?

Me: Business.

Hellen: What’s more important than delicious steak and a good shag?

I had an endless list of better pastimes.

Me: I’ll make it up to you.

Hellen: Yes, you will. Why don’t I swing by in the morning? Nice and early. I think there is a spot between your thighs with my name on it.

Her flirtatiousness required serious work.

Me: Sounds delightful.

Kellie: We need to talk.

My hand crushing the phone, I inhaled a deep breath through my nose.

Kellie: Don’t ignore me, Warren. It shows when you read the message.

Me: What do you want?

Kellie: In person.

How did I end up here? I’m unaccustomed to women dramas. I haven’t experienced such hounding since Bronagh.

Me: I have nothing to say to you.

Kellie: Really? Well, I have plenty to say to you.

“I never thought I’d say this,” I hummed into my glass, and the men’s conversation diminished, “but I can’t think of anything worse than female attention and meaningless fucking.”

Brad glared at me in sheer horror. “Was that a joke?”

I ignored his question.

He sighed in exasperation. “What’s the problem?”

Kellie: It’s a priority, Warren.

I stood to refill my drink with Jameson. “I never lie to them,” I said, and the men listened. “I don’t need to. Honesty is the best policy. I live by that pithy. It’s easier and straightforward.” Putting my back to the minibar, crossing my ankles, I sipped my drink. “If you speak to women with candidness, they cannot scream misconception.”

Nate closed collected evidence, storing them in a folder. “Sir?”

“I don’t even know Kellie that much,” I said, but they’re aware. “The majority of our time together was under the influence of drugs and alcohol. Not an excuse. I’d have fucked her regardless. We stayed in here or one of the private rooms down the hall. She’d share a few lines with me or smoke a draw.” I leave out the miserable, depressing conversations about Alexa. “I explained the situation, told her I was looking for no more than sex, and she agreed.” I finished my drink, set the glass down. “Now Kellie’s pestering me. Missed calls, text messages and prattling voicemails.”

Hellen: I’ll wear your favourite colour.

I grimaced.

Me: And what might that be?

Hellen: White, of course.

I am a man who appreciates all shades of lace on a woman, but only one colour comes to mind when envisioning a beauty beneath me and it’s not white.

I fired a response.

Me: You sure know how to please me.

Brad clicked his tongue. “Is there an order here, Bossman?”

“No.” My eyes darted to Brad. “If Kellie becomes problematic, I’ll order a hit.” I don’t need complications, not while striving to get in Hellen’s good books. “When will the hospital discharge Blaire?”

“Tomorrow morning.” Josh laid a deck on the coffee table, grinding a bud. “Where am I driving her? She got no family, right?”

How the fuck am I supposed to know?

I clicked my neck, releasing tension. “Did she say that?”

Nate nodded.

“Give her a guest room at the penthouse. I haven’t decided how to handle her, but she spent time with the Albanian, which means she’s our first, solid lead.”

Refraining from giving me his opinion, Brad tongued a toothpick to the corner of his lips.

Upon noticing “Breaking News” on the wall-mounted television, I ordered, “Hit up the TV volume.”

Sat on a blue high back chair in a news studio, the female presenter fixed her headpiece, reporting with a man to her right. “Detective, thank you for joining us this evening. Human trafficking in Britain is on the increase according to the new government’s qualitative retrospective. The study states organised criminal gangs are behind immigration, commercial sexual exploitation and domestic slavery. Tonight, there was a huge development for the metropolitan police.”

Hands clasping together, forearms resting to his knees, the Detective leans forward. “Yes, tonight has been a colossal breakthrough for law enforcement.” He motions to the screen behind them, where issued helicopters capture live footage of emergency services cordoned off a burnt building. “Officials overturned the crime scene following an anonymous tip-off. This find has, not only exposed us to the magnitude of human trafficking here in London, but it has reopened multiple unresolved historical cases.”

“Throughout the search,” the broadcaster said, “forensics discovered a significant amount of evidence that helped identify many, sadly, deceased victims. Those who have been missing for as much as fifteen years.”

“Christ,” Brad exhaled, parking beside me.

“Absolutely,” the Detective responded. “Of course, until pathologists confirm the victims’ identities, I am not authorised to represent or validate for the senior officer leading this case; however, I can confirm this investigation corroborates documented evidence regarding one particular case, and that’s of the missing Haines sisters.”

An image of Kathy and Alexa appeared on the screen.

The crystal glass slipped through my fingers and scattered across the hardwood floor.

“The non-family abduction of Kathy and Alexa Haines shook leading officials,” he continued, and the broadcaster nodded. “The two girls disappeared from their family home in Newquay, Cornwall after their abductor murdered their mother, Adaline Haines.”

Behind the conversing duo, on the video monitor, photos of Alexa as a child segued.

Unable to withstand her childhood, I dropped my eyes to the floor.

“Following a three-month intensive investigation of ground, air and water searches with no leads or substantial evidence, Chief Investigators enlisted Scotland Yard, who launched another extensive search.”

“And the Haines case remained unsolved until the two girls reappeared in London almost seven years later,” she stepped in, bewildered. “Surely, between the sisters, there was enough evidence to prevent future travesties.”

“Unfortunately not,” he said incredulously, and my jaw locked. “Due to years of confinement, abuse and sexual servitude, neither Kathy nor Alexa had the mental capacity to support the case farther.”

The woman crossed her legs. “Is there a prime suspect?”

“Yes, the metropolitan has concrete evidence and a primary witness. Suspects cannot be named for legal purposes; however, forensics confirmed one of which is a repeat sexual offender.”

“Turn it off.” I palmed my phone and dialled Reginald’s number, chastising him the second he answered. “What the fuck am I paying you for? Why am I funding your gambling addiction and covering-up your affairs with overpriced harlots?”

Burton stuttered. “Warren—”

“I could take it from you in a fucking heartbeat,” I yelled, snatching a stiff drink from Nate. “Too comfortable, Reginald. That’s what you are. I shouldn’t have to find out that you located Bajramovic’s hidden compound by the goddamn television.”

“I am neck-deep in bastard homicides,” he barked, slamming a door in the background. “I was going to call you.”

I didn’t answer; I waited for elaboration.

“You already know the compound belongs to the Bajramovics. You also know I haven’t been able to find Mr and Mrs Bajramovic since the death of Alexa Haines. I am trying,” he emphasised, the chair he sits on creaking. “That son of a bitch knows people, Warren. I reckon he’s got allies in London and Albania.”

My knuckles tapped the desk. “I know.”

“You do?” He asked for validation. “Christ, Warren. And you didn’t think to share this knowledge with me?”

“I don’t answer to you, Reginald,” I remind him, loosening the collar of my shirt.

My phone vibrated. I checked the screen.

Kellie: I apologise for coming across too strong. I still need to see you, though.

Tapering down abhorrence, I set the phone back to my ear. “While we’re on the subject, Nate chased leads on Jace, and he overturned the guy’s safe haven but came unstuck—”

“We got him,” he interjected, and I felt a sharp twinge in my stomach. “Jace was the one who called. He’s given a full statement this evening.”

My blood heated. “Go on.”

“Bajramovic and his men kidnapped, molested and murdered his seven-year-old daughter, Summer Williams. Jace explained that Flamur promised to kill the girl if he involved the police. He was ordered to carry out many illegal dealings in exchange for his daughter’s safe return. Alas, it didn’t plan out.”

I had no words.

“He’s knocked for six, Warren. The guy raided the compound to save his girl—found her decomposed body in one of the slave chambers. He carried her outside and then burnt the building to the ground in a state of traumatised shock.”

“Accomplice?” I asked, and he verified Jace acted alone.

Rendered speechless, I cut the phone call short.

“What did he say?” Brad asked, his voice low, calm. “Bossman?”

“Get the hospital to discharge Blaire tonight. She and I need to have a chat.”

***

Blaire showered on arrival. She ate a midnight meal with the men at the dining room table but seldom involved herself while they joked and polished off Macallan.

Nate organised a guest room on the east wing, furthest from the master suite. Blaire’s not ready to face the outside world yet, so he ordered mandatory necessities online, cosmetics products, footwear, nightwear, casual and formal clothing and lace unmentionables. In the meantime, I’ll provide her respite, impermanent accommodation and a private therapist.

Surrounded by 360-degree panoramas of London’s iconic views at night, I am standing on the balcony, forearms braced on the balustrade, valuing the taste of spiced Cognac. City lights glittered between skyscrapers. Faint music sounded from the touristic streets, and a savoury aroma wafted through the air.

Unlocking my phone, I coded the password to a private folder and loaded the image of Alexa. She’d stood right here, hip to the railing, posing for the camera. She’d captioned her photo, an indication of visiting me.

I set a fist to my mouth with a contemplative frown.

Why did the Albanians delude Grayson into believing Jace and Alexa died that night? Wasn’t her death estabished subsequent to the fire? Hadn’t the police confirmed the arson attack started inside her flat?

Bajramovic’s masterminding left a bad taste in my mouth. Maybe his over performance was a tactic to ward off possible investigation. He knew I’d look for Alexa if the Met never confirmed her dead, right? Am I living in fool’s paradise? Why does nothing make any sense to me?

Cognac warmed my throat. I slowly licked its dark, rich flavours from my lips, trying to assemble and piece together improbabilities for the simple fact that I had hope.

“Sir?” Blaire whispered behind me.

I watched omnipresent traffic motor across the London bridge. “Did you finish online shopping?”

“I did,” she said in a quiet, gentle voice. “Mr Alzaim left a moment ago to meet with…” She doesn’t know Brad’s name, which is probably for the best. “I can’t thank you enough for helping me.” Side-by-side we stood. Her head barely to my shoulder. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes,” I agreed, her jasmine scent drifting between us. “It’s the precision behind purchasing the penthouse.”

Her unwavering eyes and smile expressed admiration. “It smells good up here.” Holding onto the balustrade, she peered down below. “Restaurants?”

I popped a cigarette in my mouth. “Many.”

Blaire moved to face me, hip to the rails. “Will he find me?”

Flamur Bajramovic.

“Who?” I feigned unawareness.

“My mast…” Her lips thinned. “Mr Bajramovic.”

“No, you’re safe with me,” I reassured, blowing smoke toward the night sky. “How did you fall into the hands of that man?”

“Zamira.” Nate’s gym hoodie buried her petite frame. “I was walking somewhere when she drove past and offered me a ride. I thought she felt sorry for me because it was raining. I was upset from arguing with…”

I side-eyed her. “Arguing with whom?”

“An ex-boyfriend.” She chewed her thumbnail. “Zamira was kind and talkative. I sat beside her while she drove, discussing the weather, and that is when I felt something sharp on the side of my neck.” She touched the spot beneath her ear. “Everything was just dark after that.”

I wondered if she knew about the other victims and the compound. “Are you the only victim?”

“God, no.” She shook her head. “I saw so many young women and little…” Her eyes were glassy. “Little girls. But he didn’t keep them down there with me for too long—a few days, at best. I don’t know what he did with them, but I can only imagine how unbearable it’s been for them.”

“Why keep you at his retreat and not them?”

“He said, I reminded him of someone,” she confirmed my thoughts. “Lexi or something.”

I crushed the glass in my hand. “Is that right?”

Nodding, she blinked up at me. “Your phone keeps ringing.”

Knocking back the reminder of Cognac, I put the glass on the bistro table and contoured the mosaic gems with my fingertips. “Do you have any idea where I might find him?”

Blaire stared into my eyes. I hated and loved those transfixing hazel-coloured hues. It’s no lie that I sought out females who reminded me of the woman I love, but not one, not even Kellie, resembles Alexa like Blaire.

It’s uncanny yet fascinating.

“He was going to smuggle me into Tirana tomorrow,” she said, and every muscle in my body corded, bunched up. “I think it’s a private jet. I shouldn’t have listened to his telephone conversations.”

I masked fury and excitement. “Flying from where?”

She scratched the crease between her meshed eyebrows. “I don’t remember the name,” she whispered, and I sank my cheeks in annoyance. “His friend, Timothy, owns the jet, though. If that helps.”

“Is Timothy from London or Albania?”

“Neither,” she said, massaging her temples. “Sorry, my head hurts.”

I gripped the guard rail tightly to de-stress. “Do you know where I can find Timothy?”

“I don’t like him.” Her face twisted, distressed by thoughts of him. “Plus, he doesn’t speak English much, so I don’t understand half of what he says.”

“Appearance?” My voice lowered. “Nationality?”

“Oh,” she said, fumbling with a chain around her neck. “Greek.”

“Timothy Andino?” I mused, and her frown sharpens. “A tall, lanky motherfucker with greasy hair? Owns a casino near Leicester Square?”

“Yes,” she stuttered, yanking on the chain. “I’m not certain of the address, but he definitely owns a casino.”

I’m going to nail those bastards to the cross.

I grabbed my phone, deleted Kellie’s message thread and shot orders to Brad.

Me: I got a lead on Bajramovic.

While waiting for his response, my eyes magnetised to Blaire’s slender fingers as she rolled the chain between them, catching a glimpse of a rare but familiar rectangular set-cut ruby and intricate white diamonds. “Where the fuck did you get that necklace?” My low tone deceived bubbling rage. “Answer me, Blaire!”

Freeing the tag from her fingers, she jumped back. “I—”

I snatched the forty-two-inch chain, breaking the clasp. Anger flared an unapologetic snarl. “This doesn’t belong to you.” The diamonds pierced my palm. “Alexa…” My mouth dry, tongue cumbersome, I stumbled back. “Go to your room. Now.”

Blaire whimpered, dashing past me and into the penthouse.

I uncurled my rigid fingers and smoothed my thumb across the Warren engraving.

Holding Alexa’s waist in my hands, I lowered my forehead to her shoulder. “That is how much I care,” I whispered, my hearting beating so fast I feared she’d hear it. “That is how much I love you.”

An unrecognisable sound escaped her lips. She fisted my shirt, breathing heavily in my ear. “You can’t take it back.”

“I don’t plan to,” I said humorously, kissing the sweet spot beneath her ear. “I am taking the weekend off—spending it with you.” I neatened her dress strap, knuckles brushing across her collarbone. “What do you say? Nobody else. Just you and me.” Her in my arms, in my bed, all weekend, was my idea of perfect. “If you behave, I might even cook for you.”

She pretends to consider, tapping her chin with a pointer finger. “Will there be lots of sex?”

I smirked, rolling my lower lips between my teeth. “Of course.”

Resting her head against the door, she unclasped the emblem from her necklace and held it between us. “For you.”

My forehead wrinkled. “You got me a present.” I accepted her gift, admiring the white gold military-style tag where she engraved her name on the back. “You branding me, baby?”

She responded with a gleeful smile. “You bet, I am.” I leaned in to kiss to the corner of my mouth. “I mean, it’s only my name. I stopped myself from being too possessive and, I don’t know, claiming you as my property.”

“I’ll wear it proudly.” I fastened the link to my chain, above the tag Rex purchased all those years ago. “I’ll get one of my men to drive you home—”

“That’s not necessary, Liam,” she said, and I opened my mouth to argue. “I promised Chloe late-night noodles. And before you protest,” she lifted her slender leg to point to her shoe, “I’ll remind you that Brad bugged my favourite footwear, so I’ll be fine. Let me stuff my face, and then I’ll meet you back at the penthouse.”

Let her live, Warren. Haven’t you argued with her enough for one night? “Fine,” I gave in, unappeased. “Okay.”

“And Liam?” She lingered in the hallway, under securities scrutiny. “What you said earlier…” Her beautiful smile was soon to be a haunting image I’d never forget. “I feel the same way.”

Brad: I am on my way.

Trembling with impossible fury, I dialled Reginald’s number.

“Warren,” he sighed. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m going to need you to put me in a room with that motherfucker.”

CH 25

Liam

Reclined on the reverse facing leather seat, luxuriated by soft Italian leather, tinted black windows and walnut veneered interior, I ran a finger along the crystal glass circumference, considering scenarios.

My dependable security detail fenced off the casino’s alleyway with their Bentleys, obviating a possible ambuscade. Josh joined them while Brad and Nate presented themselves to Timothy Andino, the founder and chairman of The Cardinal Crown. From Greek origin, he’s one of London’s wealthiest tycoons and tight-fisted bachelors.

The doors opened in unison.

Flexing, shrieking and lambasting, Timothy, wearing navy chinos, brown leather loafers and a white shirt, lunged into position, courtesy of Nate’s impatient tolerance level, putting us face-to-face. “Warren,” he snarled, correcting his slanted, copper framed glasses, death-glare shielded by brown grad lenses. “What a pleasant surprise? How long has it been?” He weaved his fingers together, flinching as Brad and Nate slumped onto the seats beside him. “Five years?”

The last time I saw Andino was at the auction society of fundraising, a standalone event with grandiloquent auctioneer speeches and pompous plutocrats. He offered me a friendly handshake and a personal invite to his luxurious penthouse to enjoy a night of debauchery with glamorous women. I declined. His need to impress proved to be counterproductive as I loathe bogus lionising from two-faced fools with ulterior motives.

Timothy thrives and prospers; however, his high-status and wealth has nothing on the syndicate or me.

After I rejected his invitation, he got straight to business. He wanted my constabularies and supreme court connections, Gateway and contraband trade participation in exchange for a beneficially rewarding alliance.

Unfortunately for Andino, I am a selfish, ungenerous man. You cannot buy or borrow my services.

“Who’s counting?” I quipped, ankle resting on my knee. “Drive.”

The Bentley Mulliner hummed to life, the driver steering us away from the casino.

Timothy looked frail and defenceless, sandwiched between two sinewy men. His gaze ping-ponged from Nate to Brad, shoulders slumping, wonder in his wary eyes. “Why, after all this time, have you come for me?”

I clicked my neck, releasing tension. “Friendly visit.”

“There is nothing friendly about you, Warren,” he sibilated, tousling his black, oily hair. He thanked Brad for the Jameson, fingers strumming the Royal Doulton crystal cut pattern. “I came into big money.” Despite investments, he’s loaded. “I can pay you.”

“Your nervousness concerns me, Tim,” I hummed, sipping Macallan. “Why so desperate? I haven’t made demands or threatened your life.”

His sharp eyes homed in on my blank face. “Then, do share the reason for this wonderful abduction.”

I laughed, amused by his chimed sarcasm. “What’s your involvement with Flamur Bajramovic?”

He smiled to hide displeasure. “Define involvement.”

Not reaching over and beating him within an inch of his life proved to be difficult. “Personal association or participation,” I drawled, schooling my features. “Abetting human trafficking, for example.”

Adam’s apple jiving in his throat, he gulped. “Obtaining and selling commodities can be remunerative.” Nate shifted, and Timothy flinched. “It’s not personal, Warren. It is business. Of all people, you understand the tricks of the underworld. You practically laid the foundations.”

“Sexual slavery has never appealed to me,” I mused, dropping two ice blocks into my glass. “Do you test the merchandise beforehand?”

“No,” he lies, feigning offence. “I find stock and arrange drop-offs with the Albanians. Once the…merchandise sells at auction, I receive a cut.”

“You and Bajramovic are business partners, not friends?” I asked, and he nods. “So, why is he borrowing your private jet to flee from London tonight?”

My question flummoxed him. “How do you…?” Mouth agape, he guzzled alcohol, quenching his parched throat. “Why don’t you get down to business, Warren? What do you really want?”

I knocked the passenger compartment, a silent order for the driver to accelerate, add some horsepower. “I want the Bajramovics’ whereabouts effective immediately,” I demand, the opposite of composed. “In case I don’t track him down in time, I am going to need his home location or possible hideouts. While on the subject of involuntary servitude, I’d like the address to undisclosed compounds operating or enslaving women and children, or any young males.”

Nate put a phone to his ear. “Reginald,” he said, and Tim squared his quivering posture. “Someone wishes to speak to you.”

Brad pinned the guy in his seat, flipping open a switchblade. “Resort to dilatory measures, and I’ll start with the ears.”

Making a strange noise, Tim snatched the phone from Nate. “Yes, hello,” he whispered, licking his dry lips. “I am sitting here with Warren…” He paled. “Oh, right. I wasn’t going to…” Sickly grey, he raised his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “I wasn’t aware of your alliance—not that it’s any of my business, of course.” Brad nicked his earlobe, and he squealed. “I am a punctual man, Mr Jones! Your promising violence is unnecessary!”

Humoured by Tim’s theatrical eccentricities, Nate chortled. “Oh, man—what the fuck?” He bucked his hips to evade the stream of urination on the seat. “Did you piss yourself?”

Bashed and humiliated, Tim pinched his lips, the wrinkles around his eyes tightening. “This is so degrading,” he whimpered, on the verge of hyperventilating. “Fifteen stations from Croydon to Sutton, scattering off the A232.” He snivelled. “Fake names and private properties. Yes, Scylla Charybdis.” He holds out the phone to Nate. “He wants to speak to you.”

I wait with an impatient glare.

“Flamur changed the flight for six a.m., but he’s looking for…” Tim hesitated, itching his flushed chest. “I can write down the address.” Brad passed Tim his phone. He typed directions. “I’ll need your protection for ratting out. A lot of pissed off men will come looking for me after this.”

The Bentley waded and swerved between vehicles. I pressed the button, lowering the window, watching the tree-lined motorway intermix with bright headlights. “I don’t hate the man that I am,” I said, sweeping my thumb over my lower lip. “I condone lawbreaking for self-regarding purposes and kill for the simple fact that I can drain someone’s life and get away with it. Nefariousness gave me this suit, the diamonds and top-of-the-range vehicles. It gave me unlimited funds, infinite resources and omnipotent power to dictate and control.”

Timothy slivered his eyes to Brad, who fakes boredom, studying his fingernails.

“Most hate all that I am.” I polished off the remainder of my drink. “Like-minded people and organisations treat me like a deity. And why wouldn’t they? I am a man of my word. I get shit done and spawn hell on earth if serpents double-cross me or target the people I care about.”

“And I admire that about you,” said Tim, bopping his knee up and down.

“See, that’s what everyone claims in these situations.” I accept a pre-lit joint from Brad. “‘I prefer straight shooters’ and ’I’d rather you square up than talk jargon behind my back.’” I snorted a laugh, inhaling a lungful of haze. “Yet if I take the direct approach, society claims that I am a dishonourable man and they defame me. It’s quite insulting, actually.” I blew smoke out the window. “People forget and overlook my good qualities. The lives I restored. The people I salvaged and helped along the way. The generous financial handouts and crime concealments.” I leaned close, elbows on my knees. “Yet there are monsters like yourself—a fucking nonce and kiddy fiddler—roaming the world whose worshipped and treated with the utmost respect.”

His strained, hitched breathing filled my ears.

I removed Alexa’s chain from my pocket, thumbing the untarnished, glistening white gold and diamonds. “This belonged to Alexa Haines.” I peered up at him beneath a furrowed scowl. “You might have heard of her.”

Brad and Nate shared a concerned glance.

Dabbing sweat from his brows, Timothy budges in his seat to get comfortable. “No. I mean, I know of her because I hear names from time-to-time,” he stuttered, terror pooling in his wide eyes. “I saw her name splashed over the news recently, too.”

I outlined the engraving with my fingernail. “Did you know most house fires burn at less than one thousand, two hundred degrees Fahrenheit?” He shook his head. “It’s rare for gold to melt beyond repair.” I laced the chain through my fingers. “Diamonds are flammable, though, but can be re-polished and scorched.”

Brad cleared his throat.

I didn’t look at him.

“The last time I saw her…” My calmness cloaked furiousness. “Tell me, Tim. If the woman I loved burnt in flames, how did this pristine chain fall in my possession when it was wrapped around her goddamn neck?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, the truth painting his hopeless features. “Bajramovic hasn’t mentioned Alexa Haines for a long time. Only he can answer your questions.”

Bajramovic will squeal like a bitch by the time I finish with him. “Between Scylla and Charybdis,” I repeated the idiom, “to choose the lesser of two evils.”

Tim stared at me.

“For someone who had hardly any involvement with Bajramovic’s business deals, I find it rather odd that he named hidden compounds after Greek mythology.”

Discerning his mistake, he closed his eyes.

Alternating from nonchalance and uneasiness, I sat back, tucked the chain away. “I appreciate your bountousness, Mr Andino. I never pictured myself operating a casino, but I assure you, it’s in good hands.”

“What?” His skin, pasty and sallow. “I never signed over the casino!”

“You signed it over before writing a suicide note,” I tell him arrogantly as Brad shoved and held open the car door, letting powerful winds storm inside. “Enjoy your trip.”

“No, please—no!” he screamed, lashing Nate with brutal kicks. “I beg you!”

Nate slapped a hand over Tim’s wailing mouth, hauled him to the open door and tossed him straight into speeding, oncoming vehicles. Horns blared together with screeching tires. His body crashed into a windshield, rolled over the top of a car and plummeted beneath another.

“Close the door,” I ordered, pouring myself another drink. “And put some Sinatra on. I feel like celebrating.”

***

A private jet lingered on private lands, awaiting the Bajramovics’ arrival. The pilot rested in the cockpit, snoring after an early morning coffee and croissant feast. Brad snatched him out of slumber, beat him to a pulp and tossed him into the Bentley boot, battered, restrained and unconscious.

Since the pilot is no longer available to fly, Brad stole his uniform to impersonate. His longish hair pokes out beneath a white baseball cap, and he puts on the man’s aviator skytec sunglasses.

Brad, relaxed with his feet up, listens to music in the cockpit while I sit beside Nate in the Bentley. Nate parked further back, but it’s likely the Albanian might spot us. It’s too open, elongated asphalt concrete, the morning sun soaring across the horizon.

Nate fidgets. He taps the steering wheel, hums to whatever music plays inside his head, fiddles with the indicators.

I watched him with judgemental eyes, unamused. “Will you stop.”

“Sorry, Sir.” He coughed, stealing quizzical glances.

“What?” I bite, losing patience. “Spit it out, Nate.”

“I know I am not supposed to ask questions,” he said, shifting the steering wheel again, “but how did you get Alexa’s necklace? And why didn’t you bring this to our attention?”

I let my mind wander. She had blonde hair and blue eyes. Attractively tall but distastefully underweight, she smiled at me, coy and mute. Her clavicle protruded yet invited my lips. Flawed, I thought, remembering the fresh, pink scar beneath her eye, above her sunken cheekbone. And her gravitational pull, too powerful and irresistible. “My heart found hers,” I rasped, and I sensed his confusion. “It’s odd and hard to explain, but whenever Alexa called or texted me, or when she showed up for work and swung by my office before shift…my heart raced.”

His arms swaddled over his chest, Nate relaxed his back to the window.

“I tackled an emotion I never experienced before. I refused to believe or accept that she meant something until I no longer wished to fight it.”

Brad descends the jet, stations his back to us and alleviates his bladder.

“I can never take him seriously.” Nate’s lip curled at the corner. “He’s too much.”

Brad is my lethal weapon. “I recognised her voice—Alexa’s voice. And before you latch onto Brad’s disparaging parade, let me finish. I get how ridiculous it sounds. I appreciate that grief can trigger emotional, visual hallucinations and delusions, but I am no longer in a certain condition or under the influence. I am clear-headed and, day by day, overcoming her loss. It’s not easy. I hate that she’s not here, and I miss her to the point it hurts to think about her. Life moves on, though, right?”

Providing quietness, he twirled his thumb ring.

“And you guys made some valid points. Alexa loved me, so, hypothetically, let’s pretend she didn’t die that night and it was her standing directly from me in that store, it’s uncharacteristic for her to run from me. I am not saying this to sound boastful or conceited. It’s a fact. With this in mind, crossing paths is impossible because she’d have stayed.”

Relief honed his once tight features. “Exactly—”

“Unless she was hiding from something bigger than me.”

“I thought you were speaking from figurative authority,” he sighed, looking at me with unreserved concern. “Sir—”

“Don’t you dare insinuate that I am mentally unstable,” I spat, my muscles tense, searing. “When has my gut ever failed me?”

Nate doesn’t answer. He knows I am onto something.

“Add Alexa’s necklace that appeared around Blaire’s neck to Bajramovic’s unmitigated omnishambles and what have we learnt?”

Pressing a tattooed hand to his grim lips, Nate bore into me with worried eyes.

“Alexa is not dead,” I said gravely, ignoring the ache weighing down my thumping heart. “She is fucking hiding from me.” Extracting the Eagle, I pushed a magazine into the chamber. “I don’t know how to feel about it. I’m happy she’s alive, but I’m upset that she didn’t come to me.”

“If you believe her existence is so then I got no reason to doubt you, Sir.”

I spot an advancing vehicle. “I arranged with Reginald to sit in a room with Jace. If anyone knows why Alexa chooses to live in death, it’s him.” Him of all people, I thought. “I fear that I’ll kill him. In fact, the way I feel at this moment in time, I’ll hurt them both.”

Nate regarded me with disdain. “You are the boss,” he drawled, dipping his head, seeking my eyes. “Whatever you say? Its law. But I am going to request future intervening. You’ll regret it, Sir. Give me orders to prevent devastation.”

“I love Alexa, but that doesn’t mean I have to like her right now.” I clasped his shoulder, squeezed. “Knowing she’s out there unencumbered me. I can sleep peacefully at night and finish what I set out to do with Hellen. For the time being, I want you to follow Jace and see if he leads you to her. Don’t reveal yourself or allow his arrogance to provoke impetuousness.”

The jaguar parked beside the private jet, and Flamur’s driver soared to assist with luggage. Zamira, our modern-day Myra Hindley, gesticulated to her designer suitcase, sunglasses perched atop her head.

Flamur laid a palm on the other man’s shoulder, mouthing something in his ear. He’s an overweight bastard in a pinstripe suit and shiny loafers. Hand to his wife’s lower back, he steered her to the jet, each footstep blundered, panicked and unstable.

“He’s terrified,” I said, lips stretching into a devious smirk. “I wonder why.”

Nate extends his arm through the cracked window, hand tight to his Glock as he marked aim.

“Our conversation will remain confidential. I don’t need Brad and his opinions getting inside my head.”

Ready to aim fire, Nate closed one eye. “Of course, Sir.”

Waving to the pilot, not knowing it’s Brad, Zamira ascends the steps. He returned with a shoulder roll, whipped out his firearm and fired a close-range shot simultaneous to Nate’s gunfire. Zamira’s head snapped back on an echoing crack, the two snipes reflecting. The driver dropped to his knees, chest levelling to the ground. Flamur roared and, in slow motion, moved to save his wife, who seemed to fall to her death in a graceful manner, arms wide, pleated skirt blowing in the wind.

“What is it that Brad says?” Nate blew smoke from the barrel of his gun. “Fucking blissful.”

Zamira trundled to her husband’s feet, disjointed and spasmodic. He didn’t watch Brad close in. He captured her face, bellowing pathetic tears on her chest.

I climbed out of the car, buttoning my suit jacket and slipping on a pair of sunglasses. Hands nestling in my trouser pockets, I walked together with Nate until I towered above Flamur and his dead wife. He knows I am here, hasn’t glanced, though. Face scrunched up, heartbroken, he stared at his bloodied hands, heaving on throat-tearing sobs—all for a depraved, diabolic woman unworthy of mourning.

“You know,” I crouched beside him, cocking an eyebrow, “I am somewhat surprised to see a man like yourself in such a distressing state given the fact you predilections lean more toward five-year-old little girls.” I took out a silk napkin and dabbed blood from the bullet hole between Zamira’s eyes. “Nice shot, Brad.”

“Obviously.” He winked, tipping his pilot hat.

“Kill me,” Flamur whispered, accepting defeat. Looking to the heavens, he collapsed on his haunches. “Rid yourself.”

I put my mouth to his ear. “You’re not my burden to rid. Although I promise to take good care of you until judgment day.” I stood, tossing the soiled napkin. “Put him to sleep.”

Nate landed a brutal punch to Flamur’s jaw, knocking the man into peaceful submission. His weighty body scraped across the floor, a beautiful image.

“Brad, chuck the bitch inside the jet and burn it.”

I stride to our vehicle and send Reginald a text message, cancelling prior arrangements to sit with Jace. I want to end him—I will end him, but I am to bide some time for now.

Unlocking the car boot, I smiled at the bounded, thrashing pilot. “Nice of you to join us.” I tore duct tape from his lips, and spittle flew out. “Now, I am in a good mood, so I’ll let you hop along. How lucky for you?”

Eyes bulging out of his head, he murmured expletives, pleading with some sort of God in his foreign language.

“What’s your name?” I grabbed ahold of the rope that’s fastened around his arms and waistline, hauling him out of the boot. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

“Rezart,” he cried, watching Nate toss Flamur into the vehicle. “Ju e vrau.”

He’s with the Albanians. “Brad,” I called, jerking the guy forward, the restraints to his ankles, assisting his dramatic fall. “I changed my mind. Put this motherfucker on board.”

“Ju nuk mund ta bëni këtë!” Rezart yelled, flapping on the ground like a fish. “Where is your humanity?” Brad snatched his ankles. “No, I beg you! I don’t want to die…”

I ignored his shrieks and dialled Hellen.

“Liam?” she yawned, the coverlets rustling as she repositioned in bed. “Is something wrong? It’s six o’clock in the morning.”

“I’m free for a few hours if you want some company.”

“Really?” Her excitement piqued. “Where shall I meet you?”

I want her to invite me to her place. “Why don’t I come to yours?”

She considered. “No, you can’t. Larry’s home. How about I buy us some breakfast and meet you at the office?”

You would assume I am fucking a married woman. “Sure.”

CH 26

Alexa

Heather thinks my brother, Nathan, left to tend to a family emergency. And she continued to believe this lie until this morning when forcing me to leave the sanctuary of my bedroom. I had spent almost three weeks hauled-up in bed, ordering fast food and consuming alcohol to the point of inebriation.

According to Heather, I take the life of a solivagant and wander the halls at night, half-naked, fluffy knee-high socks and a bottle of vodka in hand.

Thank God this place has no occupants bar me.

She said I am quite the storyteller when drunk. I was amazed and on the verge of vomiting when enjoying a sugar-infused beverage with the innkeeper who enjoyed making me squirm in my seat. She knows I am an unnatural blonde and that my eyes tend to change colour, depending on what mood I am in. She concluded I am a married woman, running away from her husband to rendezvous with Nathan who’s now left me and that’s why I cry so much.

If only the intrusive woman and her theories were true. Escaping a violent husband to hide with my lover would be the least of my worries. I’d sell my soul to the devil for that existence if it meant resurrecting Summer.

Summer Williams was laid to rest last Thursday. Her tragic death captured the headlines, catalysing hundreds of mourners, all wearing black and pale pink, to gather at the church and show their respects. Five hearses brimming with floral tributes from London led the carriage, four black horses with feather plumes.

Devastatingly morose and heartbroken, I attended and watched from the sidelines, blonde hair pinned back, black sunglasses concealing my eyes. I didn’t enter the church. No one did, except for Jace and his family, Tommy and the gypsy community, who travelled from Liverpool.

Tommy and Jace huddled together under the church’s archway, their backs to newscasters. The gypsy king handled Jace’s bereavement with composed understanding and spiritual elevation.

I wasn’t privy to their heart-to-heart, not close enough to hear. I sensed Jace, at that moment, venerated Tommy, riveted by his every encouraging and assured word. They share something most blood-related families do not: dedicated adoration, resolute respect and unitised emotions. When one smiles, the other laughs. When one hurts, the other aches. When one cries, the other promises vengeance and tribulation.

Jace left with his family after Summer’s burial. I stood back—showing my face was thoughtless and inappropriately disrespectful—until only the squawking crows and drizzled smog welcomed me.

I bought pink roses from the florist and bound ribbon around the stems, nestled and weaved them between tear drop sprays, casket adornments and beautiful-shaped tributes.

It was cold, depressing and raining, but I sat beside Summer’s sleeping place, telling her stories from my childhood. Happy memories of how I used to love stuffed animals and fruit picking and the times where I helped my mother paint and craft.

I unravelled a heart-shaped dream catcher, weaving beautiful metallic bells and beads and draped it from a chrome lantern border. “My mum used to say a dreamcatcher is a protective talisman,” I’d whispered, the wind softly blowing the fine threads, clinking the chimes together. “It helps to protect us from nightmares and bad dreams.”

Leaving Summer broke my heart. I never slept that night. Benumbed, I laid alone in bed, the rain thrashing against the window. The miserable weather and dark skies magnified regret and anguish.

How can I sleep knowing she had nobody?

How can I sleep when she’s never going to wake up?

How can I sleep in a comfortable bed, while she’s out there, cold and isolated?

I showered instead. I sat on the floor, steam and warmth cascading over my head, downing enough vodka to block it all out. In the morning, I shivered from head-to-toe, body sprawled across the floor tiles, the once warm water felt like frozen shards to my ice skin.

Everything went downhill for me after that. It’s when the alcohol and concealment commenced. It’s when Heather grew anxious and concerned about my wellbeing.

One afternoon, Heather forced me to extract weeds from her garden. I was horrified. Rubber gloves to the elbows and socks to the knees, I trampled through the vibrant lawn and low shrubbery, sweat clinging to my T-shirt. I knotted the material and tucked it under my bralette, soaking up the sun’s rays, chucked my hair atop my head and listened to her sing from the kitchen.

Heather had a lovely garden, tenacious blossoms and air scented herbs, an extensive patio, glass-topped tables and cream-cushioned rattan furniture. It hardly required maintenance, so I think she was trying to keep me busy. She handed me diluted, soluble fertiliser with a stern warning not to over fertilise the basil. I didn’t trust myself, so one squirt to the aromatic plants sufficed.

“Take a shower,” she told me, shooing me from the kitchen. “You’re filthy.”

Yes, dry, crusted mud, grass stains and perspiration besmeared my body. I showered, cleaned, changed into yoga pants and a vest, returned to the kitchen and learnt how to bake.

Okay, baking isn’t my strongest suit. I handled the rolling pin, added too much water or flour, dropped utensils and ate hazelnut chocolate spread from the jar with a spoon.

Heather scolded me for that last one.

“Use the cutter, Victoria.”

I arranged star-shaped cookie cutters on the rolled out pastry—the pastry Heather salvaged after I tore it to shreds—and carefully transported uncooked sugar biscuits onto greaseproof paper. “Can I decorate them?”

“Not yet,” she said, conveying the tray to the oven. “They need to bake and cool down first.”

I sucked chocolate frosting from my fingers. “I love anything sugar.”

“I wish I had your metabolism,” she sighed, washing her hands at the sink. “I only have to look at unhealthy produce, and I gain ten pounds.”

Yeah, well, my apparent overactive thyroid needs to do one. I am desperate to gain weight. “It’s so quiet here.” I folded my arms, resting on the counter to look through the serving hatch, overlooking the communal dining room: pale blue walls, oak hardwood floors, two and four-seater wooden tables and rickety chairs adorned in porcelain plates, bamboo style placemats and bud vases for false dandelions. It has a bohemian quality with wood vigas overhead, international-inspired tapestry and Moroccan design rugs. Guests can enjoy a full-English or continental breakfast while sitting by the windows to watch the wildlife outside. “Where are the guests, Heather? This place is beautiful, yet it’s so quiet.”

She prepares white icing for the biscuits. “I, uh…” Dusting off her hands in her green apron, she set the bowl aside. “I am not open for business.”

Frowning, I slipped onto an unsteady stool next to the wooden veneered island. “Then why am I here?”

“Nathan gave a compelling argument.” She offered a fake laugh. “I couldn’t bring myself to open shop after Henry died.”

I rest my chin on my hand. “Is Henry your…?”

“Husband,” she explained, a little flustered. “He died last year—heart attack.” Her eyes welled up. “Sorry, I am acting silly.”

“No,” I whispered, laying a hand atop her curled-up one. “It’s okay to be sad, Heather. You lost someone you loved.”

“It’s supposed to get easier,” she snivelled, tucking grey tendrils around her ears. “I don’t see how. You don’t forget and move on that easily, not if losing your true love.”

Her innocuousness hit me straight in the chest. I squeezed her hand, withdrew and looked out the window. Liam claimed he loved me. He didn’t meet my eyes when he said it, though. His head buried in my neck, he expressed how he felt, promised not to take it back. Well, he doesn’t make promises, but I believed his meaningful affirmation. “Do you think you’ll ever find it in you, to seek comfort or love again?”

“Oh, no,” she strongly protested, scooping icing into a piping bag. “Not anytime soon, Victoria. In a few years, I can meet another, but, as it stands, I’d rather be alone and grieve properly.”

I gave myself an imperceptible shake of the head. Liam didn’t wait or grieve. He lost himself in the first woman to throw herself at him, or contrariwise. Yeah, the latter sounds more plausible.

“Are you alright, darling?” She palmed my cheek, wiping a loan tear with her thumb. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t,” I reassure her, wanting to kick myself. “Sorry, I don’t know what’s come over me.”

“You’re very emotional.” She put the piping bag in my hand.

Overly emotional and sentimental, I thought, icing a blob on the cooled cookie. I squinted tears away, took my frustration out on the piping bag. Glutinous white frosting squirted out the other end, snaking between my stiff fingers. I licked my knuckles, and Heather had a go at me, alleviating me from technical decorating.

I helped clean the kitchen and retreated to the bedroom. Heather settles early once caught up with the soaps. I paced the room, bored and lonely.

In the mirror, I tackled makeup, determined to master those eyeshadow palettes and foundation brushes. Satisfied by my image, I lost the yoga pants and shimmied into a mid-thigh tartan skirt and a black long-sleeved top to go with the peep-toe heels.

My brows jumped. I fussed with the waistline, impressed by the accentuated bust. I mightn’t model DD breasts, but the top worked wonders with my chest.

Curled blond hair bouncing in the wind, I stalked toward the corner bar, purse in hand. I borrowed more money from Jace’s holdall. I need to replace funds, so job hunting…How am I meant to get a job? I live in a bed-and-breakfast and possess a counterfeit identification card.

What do I say when a potential employer asks for my curriculum vitae?

How will I respond to questions regarding previous employers?

Say I am lucky enough to obtain a job, do I work incognito?

“Ah, shit,” I muttered, opening the pub door, thick cigarette smoke and permeated marijuana smacking me in the face.

I sneak between crowds of loud conversationalists and partygoers, reclaiming my spot at the bar. The comatose drunk from last time sits to my left, drowning his sorrows in a bottomless rum bottle.

Unclasping my purse, I shake loose coins, pay the expressionless, unfriendly barman for two vodka shots and consider options.

I might leave London. There’s nothing left for me here. I mean, Chloe’s out there somewhere, but I’m not ready to face her, not after everything that’s transpired. And Grayson, he’d welcome me with open arms and offer to put a roof over my head, but it’s all too close to Liam. I struggled to live with that man, and I struggle to live without him. Plus, he’d never forgive me for running away. Well, I didn’t run away. Jace snatched me. I didn’t return, though. I journeyed ahead without everyone, and that’s an unforgivable act.

“Why do you talk to yourself?” a familiar, deep voice asked.

I died once more. “I do that sometimes,” I groaned into my shot glass, tilting my head back to down impending toilet vomiting and a pounding hangover.

The nameless man with beguiling blue eyes joined me. He sat on a stool, nursing a Norlan glass. It’s warm, spice-infused aroma drifted between us, and I closed my eyes, remembering how it tasted on my lips. I am not a fan of whiskey, but it reminds me of Liam. His soft lips to mine, a night of Macallan on his tongue. Nostalgia refused to leave my subconscious mind. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to forget that man. He’s ingrained on my heart, an all-consuming love.

And I hate it.

“Back to the cheap stuff, I see.” He lifted a shot glass to his nose, inhaling and spurning.

I rolled my eyes. “Not everyone can afford the best of the best.” I side-eyed him. “Unlike some mysterious person.”

He laughed, raspy. “You think I’m mysterious?”

“You will remain a mystery until I know your name.”

“I don’t recall you asking, Angel.”

He’s right. I didn’t. “Well, what’s your name?”

“John Smith,” he lied, his eyes daring me to call him out on it.

“John Smith.” I punctuated his false name. “Again, Mr Smith, why is a man like yourself entertaining a squalid dive bar?”

His suit-clad forearm touched my arm on the bar top, staying there, too close, yet It didn’t rustle any embarrassing flushes or panicked breathing. “Does that same question apply for yourself? You are far too magnificent to be sitting alone, drinking cheap spirits and surrounding yourself with middle-aged alcoholics.”

The habitually drunk man to my left scoffed.

My eyes rounded. “He heard you,” I whisper-shout, and Mr Smith bestowed an unfazed smirk. “God, you’re impossible.”

The barman slid an unopened bottle of Grey Goose across the bar, oddly taking care of the man who doesn’t seem to pay for anything in here. “You have beautiful eyes,” Mr Smith said, pouring vodka into fresh glasses. “What colour are they?”

I bent a brow. “Blue.” Is he blind? “Cornflower blue?”

“Blue?” he repeated, though, it sounded like a question. “You should assess a colour chart, Angel. Brown and green define hazel, in my opinion.”

Fuck. I neglected the contact lenses. “If you knew my eyes were hazel, why ask the question?”

He shrugged. It was an insouciant or noncommittal gesture. It had me wondering if he’d known I bore blue eyes before and his seemingly innocent question was a test.

I snorted.

The absurdities of my thought process were comical. Mr Smith isn’t testing me. He doesn’t even know you, so quit looking for malicious falsehood and fault-finding, Alexa. He’s harmless—very perceptive and astute—but harmless, nonetheless.

His phone beeped, and he checked a message. “I must leave.” He sounded deflated. “Another time, Angel.”

I watched him disappear into the crowd. He left the vodka in my possession, but I can’t afford the asking price, not for high-priced alcohol; it’s wasteful. “Excuse me?” I called the barman. “I’m ready to leave, and that gentleman left the Grey Goose…Is the bill on me?”

Stomping to the cash register in his heavy-duty boots, he snatched a napkin, wiped the bottleneck, screwed the lid, tight, nudged it across. “It’s yours.”

I cupped my face. “I can’t afford—”

“Mr Smith,” he emphasised, and I took note of his sarcasm, “paid in full. It belongs to you. Take it and chunder for all I care.”

Shit, he’s so rude and miserable and downright grouchy. “I didn’t see him make a payment.”

He blinked, drumming his fingers on the counter.

I chewed my lower lip. “No problem.” Tucking the bottle in the nook of my arm, I stepped down from the stool, clutch in hand. “Thank you for such wonderful service.”

He blew out an agitated sigh, grey moustache bristling under his hairy nostrils.

I give him a flat smile and exit the bar with caution. His rudeness confused me. I don’t know how I managed to rub him up the wrong way, or why I care.

It’s dark outside, cold yet tolerable. I lingered, gaze flicking from one end of the street to the other. I had no concept of where to go. I lack a wingman, so roaming London alone at night wasn’t a wise decision. I didn’t fancy barricading myself at the bed-and-breakfast. Without Jace to keep me company, those impounding four walls are unbearable, depressing and tedious.

“Addison Lee?” the bouncer asked, and I nod. “Rank across the road.”

I stepped off the curbside, checked for oncoming vehicles and beelined the taxi. I ducked into the backseat, asked the driver to venture and found myself landing at Club 11.

The club burst at the seams, a mile-long queue, loud club music and unapproachable Suits. I thanked the driver, paid the fare and closed the door behind me.

I don’t wait in line with customers. As a bizarre alternative, I put my back to the wall, keeping a fortress of passing vehicles and roads between us.

Unrefined and tasteless, I swigged vodka, mentally battling the urge to go inside and expose myself. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? My appearance might render Liam speechless, which doesn’t hurt; the man doesn’t experience stupefaction often. He’ll freeze me from chastisement and break my heart further with his uncontrollable tongue and spiteful resentment. But he’ll know I am alive and it’s his choice whether to toss me onto the sidewalk.

Who knows? Liam could wrap me in his arms and warn me never to leave his side again. He’ll want answers—no, he’ll demand answers. No, I can’t risk Jace, not after all he’s suffered.

I sacrificed my relationship with Liam the second I agreed to help Jace. It’s unfair, but that’s life. You don’t always get what you want, and it’s not for being undeserving. It’s an ephemeral compromise until fate decides the longevity of our unforeseeable future.

By the time I finished the vodka and wallowing in self-pity, I saw double and the wall imprinted grooves to my back. I left the bottle on the floor, licked my dry lips and zigzagged across the road. There is an endless line of takeaways in the next street.

I deliberated between beef noodles and fried rice, gaited past the alleyway and overheard raised voices. I’d recognise his lack of forbearance and belligerence anywhere. That hot-tempered man should concern me, but his dictatorial aggressiveness has a paradoxical effect on the lovesick fool over here.

Coming to an abrupt stop, I eased my shoulders back, snooping down the dark, mist radiating alley. Near the fire exit door, Liam, unmonitored by his security detail, argues with a woman. Hellen, I bet. I crept to the wall, balanced on the balls of my feet and skulk behind the communal bins, which smell horrendous. I puffed out my cheeks, held my breath and, uninvited, welcomed myself into their disagreement. And I smiled because a childish, fraction of me relished the idea of him insulting her.

“I don’t need to justify myself to you,” Liam spat, and I picked my fingernails, listening. “It’s irrational, Kellie. You don’t show up at my office and lay down the law—”

“You don’t answer my calls,” she fired back, her high-heeled shoes scraping on the floor. “You do not respond to my messages, Warren. What choice did I have?”

Okay, who is Kellie? I thought he was seeing a woman named Hellen, or did I get that wrong?

I fumed. That womanising asshole is playing the field.

Why am I not surprised? And why am I torturing myself? I don’t need to witness their lovers quarrel.

“We’re not doing this anymore,” he vowed. I narrowed my eyes, sharpening his silhouette, a more precise visual. “I already told you that I’m with someone else—”

“I’m pregnant,” she snapped.

Snatching in a choked breath, I fell onto my backside and smashed my head on the wall. Stifling a wince, I touched the burning sensation rising behind my ear, unstoppable tears flooding my eyes.

Well, that sobered me right up.

An eerie silence settled over them. I didn’t look, but I continued to eavesdrop, awaiting his response.

How can Liam be so reckless and irresponsible? He never took me to bed without protection, not until I assured him of contraception, so why is she any different?

“Desperate,” he snarled, but there’s a touch of concern and uncertainty in his voice. “Is that what you’ve succumbed to, fabricating a pregnancy to try and mislead me? Do I look fucking stupid to you? I never, ever, fucked you without a condom, so don’t stand there and ram responsibilities down my goddamn throat. If you’re knocked-up? It’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Oh, you think I’m lying?” she argued, and my heart couldn’t take it. “That’s fine, Warren—storm inside and ignore the problem. I’ll be seeing your sorry ass in court in nine months for child support!” Upon his haste departure, the fire door slammed, sending a loud echo down the alley. “You’re a coward, Warren! I fucking hate you!”

Likewise, I thought, dabbing warm tears from my cheeks.

“The good for nothing,” she mumbled, and I raised my head, watching her storm ahead.

I followed in her footsteps. It’s weird, but I had to get a close image of her. She’s tall, shorter than me, but tall, and has a killer physique. How insufferable and taunting for me, I scoffed, purse bending in my iron grip.

Kellie paused.

My spine straightened, and I thought she’d cottoned on to my prowling until light sifted between her fingers as she tapped a phone with furious thumbs. “The police,” she said, sprouting fine hairs to the back of my neck. “I would like to report a crime. His name is Liam Warren.”

My jaw hit the floor. Oh, I don’t think so, bitch. I might really, really, loathe that man right now, but I will not stand back and let this opportunist ruin his life because she didn’t get her wicked way with him.

“It isn’t hard. Look him up on the system,” she barked, and I crept up behind her. “He is a renowned criminal and drugs come hand-in-hand—I’m not talking about some lousy dope,” she prattled over the communication division. “Take it however you want. I am telling you that if you raid his office in the next twenty minutes, you will uncover imported cocaine—three tons to be exact. Listen,” she sighed, raising a frustrated hand. “I am not going back and forth all night. I gave you a big tipoff. Act or don’t. But those criminals will distribute tonight.”

Ending the call, she thrust a hand through her brown hair.

I put Jace’s Colt to the nape of her neck, and she bristled, horripilation clambering her skin. “You shouldn’t have done that,” I said fiercely, and her body slowly twisted to face me. “I got nothing to lose, Kellie, so ending your life is too tempting.”

“Listen, lady.” Her jutted eyes twitched, hands raising in surrender. “I don’t know who you are or how I offended you—”

“You offended me when you came after the man I love.” Without a seconds thought, I lowered the gun to her chest and pulled the trigger.

The bullet zipped through her chest and, on impact, her body thumped to the ground. I stole her phone, ignoring her whimpering pleas and hitched, gargled breaths, and dialled Liam’s number.

“I’m filing a restraining order,” Liam answered, and I shut my eyes to listen to his rough voice. “If that doesn’t work…?” He’s not stupid enough to threaten her over the phone, not when she can record and use it as evidence against him.

My eyelashes fluttered open. “You have less than ten minutes to hide everything before the police raid the club,” I whispered, working on a strained swallow. “Kellie’s bleeding to death. She’ll die soon, but if someone finds her, there is a chance of survival. I don’t know what you intend to do about that.”

His muteness concerned me. I laid on a thick voice, so he didn’t put two-and-two together, but an enthusiastic response for the advance warning wouldn’t go amiss.

“Who’s calling?”

Isn’t he going to acknowledge the fact I killed pregnant Kellie?

Oh, God! I killed a pregnant woman.

“Vick,” I lied.

“Victoria,” he altered, which is such a conceited thing for Liam to do. “I don’t expect anyone to clear up my mess, least of all a beautiful woman.”

I spotted the rotating camera on the wall and smiled. “You can’t see if I’m decent on the eye from that angle.” His quietness only accelerated my thumping heartbeat. “Nice try, though.”

“Leave the gun,” he ordered, and I shook my head. “You don’t want the law catching you with a weapon, Victoria. Let me handle it for you.”

“No.” Law enforcement cannot track down a dead person. “You’re running out of time.”

“I can spare five minutes to listen to your voice.”

I frowned, back sinking to the wall.

We listened to the sound of each other’s quiet breathing. I missed him, too much than I cared to admit. He’s a stone throw away from me. Revealing myself and confessing—

Kellie inhaled her final breath, blood pooling underneath her body, handbag contents scattered on the floor. She’s pretty, striking brown eyes and defined cheekbones: long, glossy hair and full, thick lips.

What type of awful person have I become?

Sickness overcame me. I killed her, for him, for a man who impregnated another woman—stop judging him, I inwardly told myself. Yes, it hurts that he’s invested with women who aren’t me, but our relationship ended. It’s over—we are over. It’s unjust to hold his compulsive philandering against him.

I can’t see past it, though. His careless, unsympathetic behaviour demonstrates our predictable failure, irrelevant to my demise. I can virtually see it. He’d get bored of me and seek pleasure elsewhere and regard me with arrogant contempt. I’d be nothing. I’d be another Kellie, or Hellen, or whoever else occupies him.

Although tragic and sad, I made the right choice, leaving this world behind. I don’t have Kathy, Chloe, Jace, or Liam to hold my hand anymore. I am sick of living in peoples shadows and relying on them to preserve my sanity. No, I am a strong-minded, empowered, independent woman. It’s time I showed the world the precision of my capabilities. Moral righteousness can go straight to the dungeons of hell.

I end the call. “Goodbye, Mr Warren.” Rigged with a pang of conscience and impossible heartbreak, I shoved the Colt in my purse and ran away before the army of Suits and emergency vehicles arrived.

I hate how much I love that man.

CH 27

Liam

Flamur Bajramovic’s existence hangs on by a thread. At this stage in his ongoing torture, his lifeline might end sooner than anticipated.

Three weeks before excruciating torment and suffering—thanks to Blaire for coordinating me to Timothy Andino—I located Bajramovic and brought him to secreted vaults beneath Club 11’s cellar.

Soundproof walls, windowless exterior and reinforced concrete compartments with electronic steel gates, the incommodious structure, utilised for uninterrupted oppression.

It’s where hyperventilating starvation induces paranoid delusions, hallucinations and imaginary friends become your voice of reasoning.

It’s also entertaining to watch.

Bajramovic suffered systematic, sadistic beatings until his swollen, unrecognisable face required medical assistance. His immobilised jaw compromised breathing. Nate administered intravenous antibiotics to clear infections and performed maxillomandibular fixation. It’ll be six weeks before wire removal—how inconvenient.

I could end his misery right now, put a bullet in his skull, wrap my hands around his throat, snap his neck. It’s too easy, though. And unfulfilling. What’s satisfying about a quick death? Men like Bajramovic merits an unbearable departure. Sadistic violence and merciless, barbarous torture methods are more appropriate.

Crouching beside his semi-unconscious body, I raked my eyes over his naked, trampled form, blocking out the urination, excrement and vomit stench. “I can take it away,” I whispered, listening to his hitched breathing. “I have the power to put an end to your suffering, Bajramovic.” I used my finger to drag hair from his brow. “If you give me what I want.”

His bloodshot eyes lolled, sweat-slicked hair sticking to his discoloured face. “I…do not…know…” He gasped, his chest-rattling. “Kill me.”

I stood, nudged his hip with my shoe, rolling his groaning, lethargic body across the concrete. “Wedge something up this fuckers ass,” I ordered Nate, and Flamur barked a slew of foreign lingo. “I want him squealing like a bitch by the time I come back.”

With Brad in tow, I leave Nate and Josh to deal with the frenetic Albanian, ascend the steel staircase and enter the cellar.

Brad closed the door, muting Bajramovic’s inconsolable screams. Good. I hope he suffers. I want him to feel every sharp object, every peeled layer of skin and every penetrated wound. It’s his comeuppance for the traumatised victims and parents left with the aftermath. He’ll encounter harrowing affliction for the ones who lost their lives. And, at the heart of it, he will bellow apologies and regrets for touching Alexa.

“Flamur is not going to talk.” Brad ruffled his hair. “He’s going to die with those secrets.”

“He will,” I assured, tearing through a whiskey crate, picking two Macallan bottles. “I got it all figured out, Brad. Trust my judgment.”

He popped a chewing gum bubble. “Are you going to clue me in?”

“I will reveal it all soon.” Unlocking the cellar door, I enter the hallway adjacent to the bar. “I’m waiting for the final pieces first.”

Ambling through the bar, passing half-naked dancers and well-dressed male servers, I head to the office. Loud clubland music and customers, enjoying a night of carousing. Strobe lights and techno reverberations sporadic the walkway, which suits Brad and his wandering eyes.

He falls back to work his charm on assembled, glamorised females, his skilful lasciviousness guaranteeing an eventful night. He remembered me and jerked his chin, an offer to join him. To his right, a bodacious redhead sips through a straw, winking her approval.

I pinned her with superior derision, gave her my back and proceeded ahead. The long line of security straightened as I rounded the corner, impeccable discipline.

Cherry and her favourite alliance, Cora, await my arrival at the door. I punched the code, opened the door and set the Macallan stock on the minibar. “What can I do for you?” Losing my suit jacket, I drop it over the chair rear and become seated.

“Tonight’s takings, Sir.” Cherry organises bundled cash across the desk. “And Cora needs to report sexual misconduct and inappropriate behaviour with a client.”

“Are you incapable of filing a complaint by yourself, Cora?” I eased back in my chair, lighting a cigarette.

Cora reddened under my questioning glare. “Yes, Sir.”

“So, why is Cherry discussing this matter on your behalf?”

Clearing her throat, Cherry plucked imaginary lint from her corset. “Sir—”

“That’ll be all,” I cut her off, signalling to the door.

Cherry brushed a palm down Cora’s arm, leaving and closing the door.

“Sit.” I open the drawer and slide a piece of paper across the desk. “Did you fear for your life, Cora, or were you uncomfortable with the client’s advances?”

“Uncomfortable, Sir.” Sitting, she picked up a pen and rolled it between her fingers. “She’s not a regular, Mr Warren. Tonight is our first encounter.”

“She?” I asked for clarification, and she dipped her head. “Interesting. How did she pass security and enter private suites without signing a nondisclosure agreement?”

“I don’t know, but she had an exclusive gold membership card, so I had no reason to suspect her or anything…” Straightening in her seat, she fixed her olive green balconette, a satin piece that complements her dark, oiled and glitter-shimmered complexion. “Am I in trouble?”

“Did you say or do anything you shouldn’t?”

She shook her head. “But I did decline her booking.”

“Is that when she made unsuitable comments or gestures?”

“Yes, she groped my breast while exposing hers and then became aggressive when I threatened to call security. I know it sounds ludicrous, but it felt staged, Sir. I am not convinced she’s attracted to women.”

Cora’s bisexual. She’s one of few women who work for me that’ll accommodate female clients, and it’s unlike her to raise concerns. “Do you think she had an ulterior motive, Cora? I sense that’s where this conversation is leading.”

“Yes, Sir. I reckon there’s a hidden agenda—”

A member of security knocked on the door, poking his head inside. “Kellie’s downstairs, Boss. She’s causing quite a scene, so how do you want us to handle her?”

“I’ll handle Kellie.” I put out the cigarette, calling him inside. “Stay here with Cora until I get back.”

Buttoning up my suit jacket, I leave the office, hearing Kellie’s ranting expletives echoing from downstairs. “Fuck’s sake.” Taking the stairs two at a time, I reach ground level.

Encircling security blocked Kellie’s aggressive onslaught, preventing her from landing idle slaps and ungraceful kicks. “That’s enough,” I snapped, and the men stepped aside, poised yet frustrated. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I shoved her shoulder, backing her up against the wall. “Quit fucking hounding me, Kellie. It’s unbecoming.”

“I am sick to the high heavens of you avoiding me!” she shrieked, landing a powerless fist to my chest. “You can’t do this to me, Warren. I am invested!”

My men sliced secret glances to each other, not uttering a word.

“We need to talk—and before you rudely interrupt me, know that I don’t give two shits about these men. I will say what I have to say in front of them, and you will regret what comes out of my mouth, Warren. That’s a damn promise.”

Her devious grin increased any reservations I had. I snatched her elbow and dragged her down the hall with unnecessary force. “You are starting to make my skin crawl,” I snarled through gritted teeth, flinging open the fire exit door, lunging her into the cold night. “I don’t have regrets, Kellie. I own past mistakes and sleep peacefully at night. You are a mistake. I don’t feel contrite about fucking you because you’re a decent lay, nothing special, but enough to have filled a void in my life. It ended,” I added, and her lower lip wobbled. “Now it’s time to move onto the next man and leave me the fuck alone.”

“Who is she?” she asked, and I growled under my breath. “I want a name, Warren. I want to know how you managed to pursue another woman when you assured me nobody else entered our relationship.”

“Our relationship?” I said in disbelief, spearing a hand through my hair. “I don’t need to justify myself to you. You are insane.” I knocked her forehead with the heel of my hand, and she whacked my mockery away. “It’s irrational, Kellie. You don’t show up at my office and lay down the law—”

“You don’t answer my calls,” she roared, shoving my chest, almost losing her footing. “You do not respond to my messages, Warren. What choice did I have?”

My blood fired hot. “We’re not doing this anymore.” Hands in my trouser pockets, I jerked into her breathing space, a deadly promise in my sharp eyes. “I already told you that I’m with someone else—”

“I’m pregnant,” she spat, folding her arms and tapping her foot.

Her gleeful confession was a harsh slap to the face, a well-needed reality check. I don’t want children. Fatherhood isn’t on the table for me. In saying that, if I were foolish enough to impregnate someone, it wouldn’t be the likes of Kellie. I am not tying myself to this nutcase for the rest of my life.

“Desperate,” I grimaced, unsure if I protected myself each time we were together. “Is that what you’ve succumbed to, fabricating a pregnancy to try and mislead me? Do I look fucking stupid to you? I never, ever, fucked you without a condom, so don’t stand there and ram responsibilities down my goddamn throat. If you’re knocked-up? It’s got nothing to do with me—”

“Oh, you think I’m lying?” she goaded, and her triumphant expression sent my emotions into a chaotic riot.

Needing to be away from her, I flung open the door.

“That’s right, Warren—storm inside and ignore the problem. I’ll be seeing your sorry ass in court in nine months for child support.” I slammed the door in her face, muffling her beating fists and wild antagonism. “You’re a coward, Warren! I fucking hate you!”

Closed fist to my mouth, I slumped my back to the wall to regulate my breathing. “Not a word,” I ordered, and security nods. “Back to your stations.”

I returned to the office in a state of confusion. Cora stands on my arrival, holding the signed complaint out for me. “I filled in the details—” I snatched it from her hand, chucked it in the drawer. “Do you need anything else before I leave?”

“Get out—both of you.” I loosened my shirt collar and sat on the desk edge, watching the club in full-swing through the window.

Behind me, the door clicked, the two co-workers providing me with soothing silence. “Fuck.” Nerves shot to hell, I fumbled with the contents in the drawer, grabbed Rizla and rolled a blunt. I need to stop shaking. Rage spikes at my insides, a painful reminder of my carelessness. “Bitch.”

Balancing the roach between my lips, I lit the end, taking a drag, inhaling momentary detachment. It’s enough to take the edge off, to clear my thoughts and calculate my next move.

My phone jerked on the desk, and Kellie’s name flashed on the screen. Forcing myself to calm down, I answered the call. “I’m filing a restraining order,” I lied, envisioning a blade slicing across her throat. “If that doesn’t work…?”

You are dead, bitch.

Expelling smoke to the ceiling, I collapsed on my chair and kicked my feet onto the desk.

“You have less than ten minutes to hide everything before the police raid the club,” Alexa whispered, and I bolted upright, my heart sinking to the hollowness of my stomach. “Kellie’s bleeding to death.” While she spoke, I loaded perimeter surveillance on the monitor and located Kellie’s sprawled body at the rear alleyway, a tall figure looming above her. “She’ll die soon, but if someone finds her, there is a chance of survival. I don’t know what you intend to do about that?”

I eased my vice-like grip to the mouse, a genuine smile on my face. Clicking the codes, I zoomed in, outlined her guarded yet beautiful features. I knew it—I felt the intensity between us the day she bumped into me. “Who’s calling?” I said in a soft voice, wanting nothing more than to hold her, to protect her from whatever mess she’s gotten herself into.

Alexa glimpsed over one shoulder, checking her surroundings. “Vick.”

I had countless questions. I need to know the lies behind her fake death; I need to understand why she hasn’t come to me and why she’s portraying to be someone else. I narrowed my eyes to the gun clasped in her tight fingers and cursed. No, I cannot summarise any of this. Her uncharacteristic behaviour is indecipherable and perplexing.

My jaw aches from grinding my teeth so hard.

Soon, I thought, unable to steer my longing gaze from the screen.

“Victoria,” I lengthened the name she’d provided, knowing how much my haughtiness peeves her. “I don’t expect anyone to clear up my mess, least of all a beautiful woman.”

Her head snapped up, spotting the camera. “You can’t see me from that angle.” Yes, I can. My eyes toured the length of her body, admiring her chosen outfit and slender legs. “Nice try, though.”

You have no idea, baby. “Leave the gun,” I ordered; I’ll hide the evidence, so nothing falls back on her. “You don’t want the law catching you with a weapon, Victoria. Let me handle it for you.”

“No,” she responds with stubborn unwillingness. “You’re running out of time.”

I am itching to leave this office and bolt in her direction. It hurts. Seeing her this close and doing nothing hurts. “I can spare five minutes to listen to your voice.”

On the screen, Alexa put her back to the wall. Her eyes revisit the camera, and it had me wondering what she was thinking. I am “oblivious” to her existence, so if she has no plans to “inform” me, why did she come here tonight? What is she hoping to gain from her recklessness? It’s almost as if she wants me to uncover the truth, to reassure her that everything is going to be okay.

I don’t make promises, but for Alexa Haines, I’ll overturn London to ensure she’s safe and has the answers she deserves.

While watching her, I send camera shots to the printer for Nate to uncover her location, to give me a sense of clarity.

She ended the call—ended our conversation—and it struck me to the core. It felt too final, too decided.

I watch her walk away.

Beneath the desk, I retrieve the print outs and place them in a folder on the tiered filing tray for the morning.

On the surveillance, I see Brad and the head bouncer arguing with two suited men.

I sighed, tightening my cufflink as I paced to the entrance. Authoritative arrival inconveniences me. I don’t need this level of scrutiny while the club’s packed to the rafters.

Smoothing two hands over my head, I neaten my hair, slipped between gathered security, guarding the main doors, and attached myself to the pointless commotion. “Officers,” I clipped, undermining their detective status. “What can I do for you?” In the background, wailing sirens and police vehicles mount the curbside, the customers, social smoking and observing the disturbance. “All this for little old me?” Rocking on the heels of my feet, I tucked my hands in my pockets to stop myself from impulsive fist throwing. “How astonishing.”

The leading detective, brassy in his cord textile suit, crossed his muscular arms, an apparent gesture to instil fear, I presume. “We have strong indications that you committed an indictable offence, and there is illegal material on these premises, which is of substantial value. If we do not enter the premises it can hinder the search and place citizens in danger, or, in your case,” he said with a sardonic lip twitch, “it’ll launch conspiratorial promptitude of drug distribution to which is a felon.”

Detective number two pipes into the tedious conversation. “Do you know the verdict for a charged drug baron, Warren? The maximum sentence for intent to supply drugs is up to life imprisonment, specifically Class A substances, for example, cocaine and heroin. That’s a lot of years for you to be playing about with.”

“I’m familiar with the Drug Trafficking Act 1994,” I said sardonically. “And my rights.”

“Then isn’t it within your best interest to co-operate and avoid maximum charges?”

I didn’t obtain delivery from Gateway tonight. Is that what Kellie reported? Is that why Alexa killed her? Shit, did she witness our argument and Kellie’s pregnancy bullshit? Fuck’s sake. She didn’t need to hear that.

“It’s within my rights to say,” I put us nose-to-nose, “fuck you.”

Brad squeezed my shoulder, keeping it there. “You must have reasonable grounds to search Warren’s property, i.e. reliable information, hard facts, suspected terrorist activity, or witnessing his illegitimate act with your own beady little eyes,” he said, wiggling two fingers across the detective’s face. “Even if your hunch tells you there’s material in this building, you cannot conduct a search without an issued warrant from Magistrates’ Court, which takes,” he glimpsed at his wristwatch, “only three hours. How blissfully liberating.” Winking, he tongued a toothpick to the corner of his lips. “I’ll make some coffee when you get back.”

Holding up my hands in mock surrender, I forced a smirk. “I promise to keep it clean until your return, detective.”

“Son of a whore,” he seethed, stepping up to me. He pushed his nose on mine, probing me to use aggression. “You are not indestructible, Warren. You’ll face the law, eventually.”

“You’re right. My mother was a whore,” I said, not concerned or perturbed by his offensive vitriol. “Your insult has zero effect on me. I care not for my mother nor her whoring ways. Now,” I point to his humming SUV, “do yourself a favour and get the fuck away from me.”

“Or you’ll what?” he inquired, praying he can noose my fucking neck with “assaulting an officer” charges. “You don’t scare me, Warren. You’re small-time compared to us.”

He is an opprobrious, foolish old man. I own the metropolitan and the justice department. Besides, if I encounter disadvantageous consequences, I know many judges who owe me a favour; however, keeping my head above water is becoming cumbersome. I am already tackling problematic situations. Magniloquent men in substandard suits should be an afterthought.

I succumbed to effortless ennui. “I’ll see you in three hours, gentleman.”

Knowing I had the right to refuse entry, the detectives masquerade their furiousness and fall back, yelling for their pointless team of officers to retreat.

I watched each member of the law sink into cars while murmuring in Brad’s ear to take care of Kellie’s dead body. He didn’t ask questions. It was not applicable under the circumstance. He’d more than likely raise this conversation tomorrow, though. “Nate,” I said, and he stood alongside me. “I want those two detectives dead before the weeks out.”

He clicked his earpiece. “Of course, Sir.”

Goosebumps misted along the length of my spine. Across the street, beneath a stationed lamppost, Victoria lingers at the corner, her back to the wall, foot propped up behind her. I took one step forward, and her leg dropped, ready to run.

What the hell happened to us?

I rub a hand along my stubble jaw and elevate my brows, a silent gesture to show I appreciated her input tonight.

“Isn’t that…?” Nate bored into me with bulging eyes. “Holy shit.”

Confident that I wouldn’t follow, Alexa curbed a smile and disappeared into the night.

“I’m beyond confused,” said Nate, scratching his brow. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, finger rotating my thumb ring. “I fucking love that woman, regardless.”

CH 28

Alexa

I buried the Colt. I stood in the middle of the Tower Bridge, listening to the world pass me by and dropped the only evidence that could link me to Kellie’s murder at the bottom of the Thames. The firearm joined multiple killings and untold syndicate secrets. And that’s how it’ll remain, eroding, residing, non-existent.

Killing a pregnant woman soon tugged on my heartstrings. I am not a ruthless killer or an immoral person who can conflict suffering and live without remorse. However, the conspiring universe forced me to change into someone I am not. Its unrelenting obstacles and wicked challenges catalysed self-destruction. Continuous misfortune and sustained disappointment spawned inner loathing, hatred and anger. I am sick of being the kind and caring and generous human. Such characteristics lead me to the land of nowhere. I get trampled on, derided, humiliated and taken for granted.

I was born with a loving heart, but that doesn’t mean I have to keep it. Disguised immunity offered me a second chance, a fresh start and a prospering lifeline. It’s given me the keys to set different foundations.

Yes, Kellie’s demise wasn’t my finest hour, and her breathless whimpers will forever invade my subconscious mind, but what’s another tortured soul to my everlasting nightmares? I learnt to live with the other dark creatures, so I am sure I can withstand her final plea.

I travelled on foot to the sound of driving vehicles and London’s kaleidoscope of colours against the dark, starless sky.

Before returning to Heather’s bed-and-breakfast, I made a pit stop to a twenty-four-hour bargain booze store and paid for two bottles of vodka and strawberry laces. I chewed each stem and sipped harsh alcohol, seeking prior sluggish numbness.

Vodka is gradually becoming my best friend—my only friend. I quite like the depriving feeling it has on me.

“Fuck life,” I vowed, opening the garden gate, stumbling to the front door. “Fuck Liam and his pregnant…woman.” I fetch my keys from my purse, unlock the door and stagger inside. “Hello, darkness.” Kicking off my shoes, leaving them in the foyer, I round the stairs, floorboards creaking under each thudded step. “Fuck Jace for abandoning me.”

I guzzle vodka while shimmying out of my skirt, find my bedroom and barricade myself inside.

Humming to myself, I blindly feel around for the sideboard, settle my belongings on top and tear the blonde wig off my head. Its bouncy curls land somewhere on the floor, meeting my discarded top and accessory jewellery.

Oddly comforted by the shadows, I fall on the bed and stare at the ceiling, hacking bites of sugary laces to satisfy hunger pangs.

“I know it’s dark,” Jace said, and a panicked scream tore from my chest, “but the street lights exhibit a clear visual, Vick.”

I rolled off the bed and landed in an awkward heap on the ground. “Holy shit.” Snatching an unwashed T-shirt from the floor, I pulled it over my head. “You almost gave me a heart attack.” It buried my frame, covering my once exposed breasts and lace thong. “Asshole.”

Jace turned on the lamp, dimming us with soft glows.

Back to the magnolia painted wall, I lift my knees to my chest, stretching the material to cover my legs. I persisted in apathy, but his rough appearance concerned me. His green eyes, tired and bloodshot. Pale and pallid under his dark hood, he sported an ungroomed beard, and his dishevelled hair typified many frustrated root tugs. “Nath,” I mumbled, throat too tight to swallow. “I didn’t think you were going to come back.”

Rising to his full, unnerving height, he picked up a vodka bottle, spurning the sale sticker. “How did you afford this?”

His cold aloofness felt like deep lacerations to my broken heart. “I borrowed money from your holdall.”

“I have to fend for you, huh?” he slurred, and I belatedly discerned he’s drunk. “You don’t mind if I share, right?” No, I didn’t care, but he unscrewed and drank thirstily anyway. “I mean, considering I have to upkeep you and all.”

What the hell is his problem?

I stood up, rubbing my sweaty palms down the T-shirt. “I’m exhausted, Nath.” Tugging the covers back, I positioned my knee on the bed. “Maybe you should sleep, too. We can talk in the morning—”

He unexpectedly lunged the bottle at the wall, sprinkling fragmented shards across the floor. “Get the fuck out of bed, Vick,” he barked, and I jerked to the wall, generating a safe distance between us. “I don’t want to talk in the morning. I want to thrash it out right now.” He shoved out of his coat, flinging it on the floor. “Let’s go, Vick.”

My owlish eyes zapped from the broken glass to him. “What’s going on?” His murderous, loathing scowl sliced across my skin. The sheer sight of me unearthed pure disgust—I can see it. “What did I do?”

“I can’t sleep,” he whispered, misty-eyed and lachrymose. “I can’t eat or think or do anything.” Lolled to the wall, he posted directly from me, defeat ablaze in his eyes. “Even if I am lucky enough to rest, I mentally wander to these places, Vick. I revisit the compound but alone. I don’t see you at my side. It’s me who finds Summer. And she’s not dead. She’s just sitting on the floor, clean, unblemished and so fucking beautiful, playing with something and singing to herself.”

I closed my eyes.

“I call her name, but she doesn’t look at me,” he croaked. “Why doesn’t she look at me?”

Guilt, I thought, using a knuckle to wipe a tear from my cheek.

“I kneel and grab her face, yelling at her to look at me. And she does—after elevating her intestines between us,” he whimpered, and I opened my eyes. “I scream, and nothing comes out. Her black, soulless eyes stare into mine and then she roars in this preternatural, demonic voice. It’s at the forefront of my mind.” He licked tears from his lips. “I think she hates me.”

“Summer doesn’t hate you,” I reassured in a soft voice, wanting to go to him, but too nervous he’d shun me. “It’s your subconscious mind playing tricks on you—”

“The autopsy revealed she suffered molestation, but the cause of death was a head injury.” He flattened a hand to his chest, over his heart. “I failed her, Vick. I failed my baby girl.” I went to move closer, and he recoiled. “Don’t you dare come near me. I don’t even know why I’m here—with you of all people.”

I urged myself to respect and accept his feverish bitterness.

“Summer didn’t deserve to die like that.” His lips grimaced in abhorrence. “No child deserves to leave the world the way she did. I was a good father. I made sure she never cried or wished for Lucy because I played two important roles in her life. I did that!” He banged a fist to his chest. “I was just a sixteen-year-old kid when Summer came into my life, but I moved mountains to ensure she never went without and…” He snivelled, dragging a sleeve over his red nose. “I’m the father that doesn’t let his baby girl play in the street or go to sleepovers or welcome anyone but trusted family inside my home. I was overbearingly protective because I never, ever, wanted her to be one of those kids, to suffer at the hands of a paedophile—every parent’s worst fucking nightmare!”

He growled, booting the bedside drawer, sending miscellaneous cosmetics airborne. “It should have been you,” he said, cruel and uncaring. “Alexa Haines.”

I held his disgusted gaze. “I know,” I murmured, my bottom lip quivering. “I know, Nath.”

“Do you, though?” he hummed, rounding the double-bed, slapping two hands to the wall, either side of my head. “Do you really think that, Vick? Or are you trying to make me feel better? You don’t look that sad,” he said, and I flinched when he curled a tendril of dark hair behind my ear. “You went out tonight, drinking and having a good time—living with no remorse.”

“You are wrong.” My body trembled within his angered nearness. “If I could go back—”

“I hate you,” he said angrily. “I hate you, Alexa.”

“You couldn’t possibly hate me more than I hate myself.” I thrust a hand to his chest, but he didn’t budge. “I’m leaving.” I ducked under his arm, and he snatched my wrist, hauling me back. “I mean it, Nath. I am not staying here with you behaving like this.”

He flung my arm out if his grip. “Where’s your compassion?”

“I live with it every fucking day!” I screamed, rage replacing distressing discomfort. “Don’t you get it? I was Summer once, too. I experienced every inappropriate touch and cruel beating. I remember how disgusting it felt and how much it hurt. I remember lying on a filthy mattress at night, crying for my mother.” He squared his stance, listening intently. “I live with those memories and will continue to live with them for the rest of my life. No amount of therapeutic conversations or scolding showers is enough to remove my disgusting past. So don’t you dare tell me that I don’t care or show compassion because I understand more than anybody, what Summer went through and it breaks my heart.”

He heaved in a choked breath, clasping two hands over his mouth.

I grabbed the untouched vodka bottle and down enough to burn my throat and chest. “I’m sorry,” I said, drying spillage from my chin. “I’m sorry it was her and not me, Nathan.”

Opening the bathroom door, I close it behind me, turn on the light and enter the shower cubicle. I hit on the water, letting it soak my body, the T-shirt sticking to my overheating flesh. Catching a sob in my hand, I sank down the tiled-wall, backside hitting the floor.

Steam and hot water belted on the floor and enshrouded me. I heard the door click open and the sound of Jace’s footsteps advancing. He stepped out of his heavy-duty boots, removed his jumper and chucked his phone.

Towing the shower curtain aside, he sat in front of me, his spine straight to the other tiles, knees hiked but jean-clothed legs leaving minimal room for the two of us. “I’m sorry you went through all that.”

Tears and water streamed down my cheeks. “It’s not your fault, Nath. Nobody is responsible for what happened to me.”

“I don’t believe that,” he said throatily, curling his fingers on the bottleneck, putting the rim to his lips. “I think there is an answer for everything.”

I never thought about it like that. “I think Kathy and I were just unfortunate that day.” Our abduction wasn’t premeditated or calculated.

Jace stared at me, long and hard. He opened his mouth to say something, but anguish consumed his weary features. The bottle slipped through his fingers, clunking on the floor. He hid his head in his hands, crying on choppy breaths.

“Nath.” Repositioning to my knees, I captured his head in my hands, forcing him to look at me, prying his hands away. “Please, don’t cry. I don’t like seeing you like this.”

“I hurt, Vick,” Jace rasped against my lips, a night of vodka on his warm breath. “God, I fucking hurt.”

Despair flooded my eyes. “I know,” I whispered, cradling his stubble jaw in my hands. “I’m sorry.”

He lowered his head to my shoulder, his guttural sob shattering my heart. “Help me.”

How do I fix this?

I did the unimaginable.

I kissed him.

Fingers tousled through his hair, I brushed my lips on his, and something inside him snapped. He fisted my soaked T-shirt, tugging me in. His mouth chapped but pleasant, beard tickling my cheek.

Parting my lips, I welcomed his seeking tongue, straddled his thighs and enveloped my arms on his shoulders. I pressed my chest to him, feeling his muscles harden.

“Alexa,” he groaned, and I shook my head. “Vick.” He ripped the T-shirt off my body, and it landed on the floor with a wet thud. “Shit.” He palmed my breasts, not even a handful, thumbs stimulating my taut nipples.

I couldn’t stop kissing him. I didn’t want to consider the consequences of the aftermath. He needed me—I needed him.

Jace abruptly stood, lifting me into his arms and encouraging me to wrap my legs around his waist. I don’t know how we ended up in the bedroom, but he eased me onto the bed, crawled across my waiting body and delved in for another bruising kiss.

Fingers dipping under my thong, he stroked my wet cleft with a sweep of the thumb, and then ripped the delicate lace down my legs. He nestled his waist between my parted thighs, braced his forearms astride my head, lips scorching on my neck. He sucked the column of my throat with open mouth kisses, descending the length of my body, circling a nipple with his pierced tongue. It felt good—too good. But it’s his mouth on my warm pussy that gained him the strangled moan that fell from my lips. He licked my folds, slow, taunting, outlining and teasing.

I bucked my hips, and he let me, hands pushing the backs of my thighs apart, opening me to him. He dragged his piercing over my sensitive clit, suckling me into his mouth.

“Oh, God,” I whimpered, fisting his hair, body misted in our sweat. “Nathan.”

He pushed two fingers inside, filling me, circling and searching for my G-spot. Kicking off his drenched jeans and boxer briefs, he settled, pumped knuckle-deep, teeth sinking into the tender flesh of my inner thigh, kissing the mark he’d left there.

I grappled the sheets, fingers whitening, aching for him. He smeared my juices, licked them from my sex and enticed a breath-snatching orgasm from me. I cried out as pleasure vibrated through me, unable to catch my breath.

Sucking my arousal from his fingers, he soared from the bed, opened his holdall on the floor and searched for something—a condom.

Teary-eyed, I looked away, catching up with my flustered breathing. I heard the wrapper tear and him sheathing himself.

The bed dipped from his weight as he stretched out beside me, stroking his well-proportioned cock. He kissed my collarbone, lips roaming to my neck and jawline. “I’m not going to hurt you, Vick,” he breathed, sucking my earlobe between his teeth, nibbling. “It’s just us.” He pushed an arm underneath my neck, positioned above me. “Tomorrow can wait.”

I nod, hands to his jaw, tracing his lips with my thumbs. I opened my legs, inviting him to take whatever he wants from me.

His cock nudged my entrance, and he pushed forward, groaning as I accommodated him. I snatched in a breath, held it, fingernails clinging to the back of his neck.

Our kiss, light but soon demanding and urgent, he rocked into me, unhurried, deep and meaningful. I synchronised his thrusts, feeling too small under his large frame. “Nath,” I moaned, suffocating my mouth on his sweat-misted chest. “Oh, shit.”

“I got you.” He protected me in his muscular arms, holding me close. I tasted his tears—he tasted mine. It’s not two people in love. It’s not an impossible passion. It’s coming together and losing ourselves in a moment of dangerous heartbreak.

Something indescribable passed between us as we stared in each other’s eyes. He dropped his head to the nook of my neck, breathing heavily in my ear as he chased his orgasm.

His piercing felt minimal with the condom, and part of me was thrilled about that. It’s new, sleeping with someone who wasn’t Liam. I wasn’t sure if I could handle probing objects…Jace is not Liam. I allowed myself to consider and compare both men and hated myself for cheating on the man I love. Only Liam is not mine anymore. He doesn’t belong to me—and he impregnated another woman. No, I am not upsetting myself further.

My heart still aches, though.

Jace’s attentive, fervent and satisfying, but I want the rough touches, the throaty demands, consuming kisses, bruising hold and spine-shattering orgasms.

Mouth fused to my lips, Jace tore me away from memories of Liam, his tongue coaxing mine with soft flicks and strokes.

I sank my fingernails in his back, tore them down his spine. He starts to pound into me, burying to the hilt. Yes, I need hard, unforgiving and punishing.

He let out a rough moan of ecstasy, hand pinning my body to the bed by my hip bone. He rotates his hips, doubling his pleasure.

I catalogued his gloriously artistic physique and spectacular patterns of intricate ink and defined muscles. He really is an astonishing work of art.

A familiar tingle starts in my lower stomach, and I drop my head to the pillow, letting myself have this moment. He shoved himself in and out of me, and an intense wave limped my body. I came, hard, hands seized to his tense biceps. He followed behind me, slowing his paced movements, sharing my breathing space.

Jace didn’t hurry to retreat. He blew out a shuddered breath, the pads of his fingers sweeping damp hair from my brow. Lethargic and despondent, he put his forehead to my chest, hips easing back a touch to slip out. I covered him with my arms, massaging his head with kneading fingers.

I heard his breathing even out as I watched the rain splatter on the windowpane, feeling no better than I did thirty minutes ago.

***

“Good morning, darling,” Heather chimes, joining me on the wraparound veranda. “You are up bright and early this morning. Does it have anything to do with Nathan’s drunken return last night?”

I held a steaming mug of coffee in my hands. “I’m sorry if our argument disturbed you, Heather. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Yes,” she said, getting comfortable on the rattan chair. “You were rather loud.”

A dreaded flush spread to my cheeks.

Did she hear us having sex?

“It’s okay. I knew you weren’t really brother and sister,” she continued, and I felt a mortified heat on my cheeks. “Luckily, I am the proud owner of headphones.”

“I am so sorry.” Oh, God. I wanted to die. I wanted the floor to create a gigantic hole and engulf me. “We didn’t want to lie to you, Heather, but life…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

It still seemed wrong. “I truly am sorry.”

“Nonsense,” she gave me a flippant wave. “I was young once, too, Victoria. I might be old, but I am not a prude. Hey,” she arched a brow, “if I can’t get some nookie, it doesn’t mean others can’t, right?”

I had no words.

Instead, I mumbled a weird noise, sipping from my cup.

“Oh, no.” Snuggling in a stark white fluffy dressing gown, she fixed her sunglasses. “I know that look.”

“What look?” I asked.

“Regret,” she said, and I cast my eyes to the slabbed floor. “Are you still holding a torch for that violent ex-husband?”

She convinced herself that I am a battered wife. “No, and he wasn’t violent, Heather. I don’t even know where you come up with these theories.”

“Maury Povich,” she tells me, nibbling buttered toast. “Watch it for yourself, and you’ll see nothing is ludicrous or outlandish.”

Giggling softly, I smiled. “I don’t regret being with Nathan,” I muttered into my mug, and she tilted her head, ears perked up. “But I miss him—my heart misses him.”

Heather chewed her fingernails. “I had an affair once.”

Her admittance stunned me. She loved Henry. “Why?”

“I’d been married to Henry for almost nine years,” she explained, crossing one leg over the other knee, “but we reached a point in our marriage where it became tediously mundane and too comfortable. We opted for routine television and convenient meals. We slept in the same bed but rarely sought comfort in each other’s arms—even sex was pencilled in for a Wednesday. I was lonely, Victoria. And I breached the conversation with Henry, and, well, he acted out and was defensive and chose darts with the men and fishing trips rather than facing the fact our marriage was falling apart.”

I felt her sadness. “How did you fix it?”

“I didn’t,” she said, brazen and uncaring. “I fell into the arms of the first man who paid me attention. He was astonishing, Victoria. He reminded me of a young Alec Baldwin.”

Nice, I thought, pinching a piece of her toast. “So, what happened?”

“I left my husband for another man—a man who promised me the world, all those couples holidays and romantic weekends away…” She drifted into memories, jutting out her lips. “I lived with him for six months, and that’s when those irritating bad traits came into play. He’d leave socks on the floor and snap my head off if I mentioned it. He’d never take the bins out or even attempt to assemble furniture. I know it sounds silly, but I suddenly felt cumbered down. Henry never let me pick up a paintbrush, never mind paper and decorate walls. He’d mow the grass without prompt or fuss and be the first to pick up a screwdriver when new furniture arrived.”

I chewed toast in silence.

“I missed my old life. It took a lazy sod with empty promises to realise the grass wasn’t greener. I also concluded that I hadn’t fallen out of love with Henry, but missed the man I met on the pier that night. The young boy who claimed me and refused to let me go.”

She set the plate on the table. “Relationships are hard, and sometimes, you feel like giving up. If you love someone enough, you’ll work through it. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday, you’ll find a way back to each other because your heart decides for you.” She absently twirled her wedding ring. “Henry pardoned adultery for the sake of our love—Hello, Nathan.”

Not expecting Jace’s arrival, I flinched, spilling coffee over my fingers.

Dressed for the day in all black, Jace joined us on the veranda, avoiding my curious gaze. He sat down, weaving his fingers together.

Heather noticed the tension. “Anyway,” she sang, rising to her feet and dusting crumbs of her dressing gown, “I got plenty of chores to contend with. You two eat some breakfast, and I’ll see you in a jiffy.”

Uneasy by whatever prepared speech he had conducted, Jace waited until Heather entered the kitchen. “Vick,” he said, unsmiling and nervous. “About last night—”

“Please don’t,” I interrupted, placing the mug on the table. “I don’t need an explanation or a subtle dismissal. I am not jumping to conclusions and thinking sex means a relationship or anything like that, so please don’t insult me.” His scowl vanished. “I love you, Nath. I don’t know when it happened or why you mean so much to me, but you do. I care about you, and I want you in my life,” I whispered the last part, caged embarrassment in my hollow voice. “But you are not Liam.”

“And you’re not Lucy,” he replied under his breath, relief in his sad eyes. “I don’t regret what we shared, though. If anything? I care about you, Vick. That’s why I wanted us to have this conversation because I’m kinda hoping you’ll stick around.” His weak smile matched mine. “That’s if you can forgive me after the bullshit that I spewed last night.”

I think it’s safe to say I forgave him the second we slept together. “People can be hurtful when upset. I won’t hold that against you.”

He shook his head, a slow movement, barely noticeable. “You’re too nice, Vick. It makes me wonder how someone as angelic as you attracted a man like Warren. It’s an odd combination.”

I daren’t tell him what I did before returning to Heather’s last night. “Or it’s a force to be reckoned with,” I jokingly imply, and he responds with a dubious grin. “Besides, I am taking a different approach to life. I don’t wish to be boring, considerately helpful and oversensitive anymore.”

Jace smirked, low and mischievous. “What do you have in mind?”

“I want a piece of that pie,” I pointed to the imaginary tart on the table, and his brows meshed. “Everyone else seems to disobey the law and flourish, so why can’t I? Being a moral citizen hasn’t gotten me anywhere…”

He rubbed his palms together, eager to broach a topic. “I search for susceptibilities in web applications or access internal networks to find a gateway. In doing so, I can access most financial applications and move money to controlled accounts and even manipulate the balance of card accounts by simply phishing.”

I blinked, wide-eyed and bewildered. “What the hell are your rambling about?”

He has taken my idea and outlandishly ran in the other direction.

“I break down the backdoor to encrypted communication services, phones, surveillances,” he speaks with such passion and experience, “software and computers.”

Yes, he mentioned this the night he hijacked the syndicate software. “And?”

“And I possess the tools and skills to line our bank accounts.”

Speechless, I gawked at him.

“If you want a step on the corruption ladder,” he mused, clicking his knuckles, “I can make it happen.”

I set my feet to the ground and stood. “You want to rob a bank?”

“No, I’m not robbing a bank, Vick. Fuck.” He jumped up, clasping my shoulders. “How do you feel about becoming a seductress?”

“A bloody what?” I barked, hitting his hands off my arms. “Oh, God. You’re serious?” He nods. “You want to whore my ass out?”

“What? No!” He followed me indoors, tugging my T-shirt hem. “Vick, I am not suggesting you follow through with it. However, if you can use your appeal to lure fat cats into a hotel room, I can take care of the rest.”

“And then what?” I asked, stopping at the breakfast bar, hands to my hips. “What if the guy goes too far?”

“I won’t let that happen,” he stressed, rubbing my arm, the sound of Heather’s vacuuming ricocheted off the walls. “I can get access to some knock-out drugs. You get him in a vulnerable position—a quick stab of a syringe and I’ll swing in, access his online banking and the rest is history.”

I am seriously considering our unlawful plan. “What if the guy wakes up and calls the police?”

“What is he going to do? Make statements about nearly sleeping with an escort who tested his masculinity and robbed him blind?” He touched my nose with a finger. “I wonder how he’ll explain that to his wife.”

A naughty smile danced on my lips. “You are evil.”

He shrugged.

“The only way I can condone this is if we select worthy prospects.”

“Married tycoons and bent politicians?” he hints, and I nodded. “So, what do you say? Fancy hitting the town tonight?”

I acquiesced. “I know the perfect place.”

CH 29

Alexa

Victoria Rose is a bodacious blonde enchantress, a bewitching siren who comes out at night and lures eligible candidates, scandalous politicians, corrupt estate moguls, business tycoons and avaricious, unpatriotic millionaires.

Miss Rose sits at a regal bar, sipping margaritas, admiring the stunning room with an idyllic layout, surrounded by jaw-dropping contemporary designs, high ceilings, concierge lounges, undulating black and gold marble, opulent crystal chandeliers, scarlet velour seating accommodation and a featured menu proposing a list of nearly fifty cocktails.

Yes, the deceitful damsel certainly felt out of place in her discounted red dress and affordable high-heeled shoes. She decided while scrutinising John Doe, a married baron who Nathan methodically hand-picked, that a trip to Bond Street mightn’t hurt. She required elegance, exclusive brands, designer fashion and fine jewels to fit in around here.

John Doe sought Victoria. He left his partners with pre-drinks and stood alongside the lonely woman at the bar, ordered himself a neat scotch and worked his charm.

He was a handsome man, lean, groomed, tailored and chivalrous. Before complimenting the woman’s blue eyes, he’d slipped his wedding band inside his trouser pocket and loosened the top buttons of his white shirt.

Without sexual inhibitions, Victoria conspired, brushing a finger along Doe’s knuckles, always maintaining eye contact and upholding a lascivious appeal.

Unabashed and impudent, he approved with heavy-lidded eyes and whispered vulgar promises in her ear.

It’d be only fifteen minutes later when Doe led Miss Rose to a private hotel room he routinely booked above the cocktail bar for his prognosticate clandestine affairs with available women or dependable escorts.

Inside his luxuriously hired penthouse suite, Doe shut the door and grappled Miss Rose with greedy hands. It had stunned her, the impromptu dress tear and alcohol tasting lips seeking her unwilling mouth.

She almost regretted the whole charade but managed to steady her breathing and cool his advances by coaxing him to the master bedroom.

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

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

Three seconds into his craving jouissance, she stabbed his muscular thigh, the prepared syringe, courtesy of Nathan. Doe felt the sharp pinch and flinched, but the drugs took effect, knocking into a transient state of oblivion.

Thank God.

Victoria utilised the phone supplied by Nathan and made the call. Within seconds, he knocked on the door—disguised in his all-black attire and shoulder-length wig, a ball cap shielding his profile—entered the suite, borrowed Doe’s phone and wired it to his laptop. She didn’t watch him in action. She helped herself to the mini bar, waiting for the entire ordeal to be over.

Job one: prosperously complete.

I loved my new life. I loved portraying Miss Rose and vicariously living through her wondrous travels.

“That last one almost suffocated me,” I told Jace, stepping out of an opulent hotel and spa, the cold London winds blowing through my hair. “I can’t handle the big guys. Keep them lean and short.”

“Six was a good applicant, Vick.” He flung his leather satchel over one shoulder. “He’s filthy rich, baby!”

I shoved his shoulder, laughing at his peculiar excitement. “Quit screaming in my ear!”

He positioned his cap on backwards, hand on my lower back, coercing me into the hectic Underground. “You are a fucking ace at this. I don’t know how you manage to swindle them, Vick.”

I snorted. “There is no secret remedy, Nath. It’s called a vagina.”

Liam

“Updates?” I strolled across the office and draped my suit jacket on the rear of my leather chair.

Brad soared from the leather sofa, smoothing a hand down his shirt. “We got a problem,” he hedged, avoiding my intense gaze. “Your guy snuffed it last night—collapsed lung.”

I shot out of my chair and sprinted to the cellar. The afternoon quietness inside Club 11 meant a sharp, unhindered scurry to the underground chambers.

Nate, alongside my suited men, looms above Bajramovic’s body, hand clasped to his mouth, hiding his gnarled frustration.

“What the fuck happened?” I barked, and the men parted, giving me space to advance. “Tell me you didn’t let that motherfucker die, Nate?”

“I didn’t know this bitch was bleeding out,” he argued, chucking bottled water across the floor in distress. “I didn’t know, Sir.”

I squatted next to Flamur, slapped his cheek. Nothing. Pale. Lifeless. Bruised. Grotesque. Dead. “fuck,” I snapped, standing upright, pacing. “Fuck, Nate!”

“He sustained a lot of injuries and torture, Sir,” he reminds me. “His body couldn’t take anymore.”

“I needed him alive,” I stressed, blood heating in my pulsating veins. “I needed that son of a bitch alive!”

Nate exchanged worried glances with the men, relieved to see Brad arriving for the commotion.

“Come on, Bossman.” Brad held the back of my neck and squeezed. “It’s not the end of the world, right? We made sure that the asshole suffered. He died in brutality.”

Jaw clenching and unclenching, I stared at the dead body. “I wanted…” Alexa to finish him, I thought, lips pressing in a tight line. “Feed him to the fishes.”

Flamur Bajramovic’s accidental death infuriated me. He faced judgment day, yet bothersome dissatisfaction kept me awake that night. I had a visual, one where his victim hammered the final nail in his coffin.

The following morning, I met Hellen for brunch. I still hadn’t shaken my mood from the night before. Bajramovic’s demise was maddeningly displeasing.

“Are you going to be stroppy all day?” Hellen masters etiquette table manners and politeness (when in public).

“I’m fine.” Relaxed with a Macallan in hand, I witnessed her well-rehearsed routine, dabbing a napkin across her mouth between bite-size mouthfuls, soothing her palate with sipped effervesces, holding a wine glass while graciously praising the waiters. “You look nice by the way.”

That reaped me a delighted smile. “Thank you, Liam.” She blushed, uncurling her spine, sitting sophisticatedly. “I do try.”

Heads turned when Hellen swayed into the restaurant. She’s an attractive bombshell who models couturier designer dresses and six-inch heels—the full package—striking features, flawless white teeth complementing her infectious smile and crystal blue eyes.

Most men would appreciate someone like her on their arm.

But I am not most men.

And she’s got nothing on Alexa Haines.

“Well, you cannot deny the sourness, Liam,” she continued, and I knocked back alcohol. “Did I offend you somehow?”

What is she rambling about now?

“You proceed to cancel arrangements,” she said, settling her cutlery to the plate, “and you seldom respond to any messages I send.”

I clicked for the waiter and covered the bill. “I’m a busy man, Hellen. Don’t look for things that aren’t there.”

“Yes, well,” she stood in sync with me, collecting her jewelled handbag, “your behaviour makes it difficult not to.”

Placing a hand on her back, I escorted her outside to an impending Bentley. I held open the door like a true gentleman, signalling for her to climb into the backseat.

“It’s disappointing.” Popping open a compact mirror, she admired her reflection, lips pouting. “I need more from you, Liam. You cannot call one restaurant visit a week dating. What about functions and charity events? An overnight hotel stay would suffice.”

I rapt my knuckles on the partition, ordering the driver to give us some privacy and drive. “Am I not meeting expectations, Hellen?”

“You are completely flunking them,” she said humorously. “My friends disbelieve my relationship status. I spent the majority of my evening assuring them of your existence.”

I wiped my face to hide a smirk.

Hellen placed her handbag on the leather seat, fell to her knees and crawled to me. Hands splayed across my thighs, she nuzzled her cheek on my crotch and mewled. “I want more, Liam.” She slowly lowered her blouse, unclipped a white bra and revealed her ample breasts. “I want more dates,” she purred, circling her taut, pink nipples with delicate fingertips. “I want more shags. I want to spend the night in your bed.”

I hated that last request just as much as I hated the sight of her. “Nobody shares my bed.”

Huffing out an exasperated breath, she retrieved her wandering hands. “Liam if you cannot meet me halfway, we might as well call it a day now. I am not doing this back and forth with you. I am a mature woman who demands better respect and fawning.”

I’m too close to fuck this up at the final hurdle. “Fine,” I relented, popping an unlit joint to my lips “I’ll make myself more available to you.”

“Liam,” she complained, fixing her blouse and slumping onto the leather seat beside me. “Is the occasional sleepover too much to ask?”

I ignored her fluttering, doleful eyes. “I work.”

“That’s not a good enough excuse.” She threw her hands up in frustration. “Where’s the compromise?”

“I’ll organise a hotel visit,” I lied, and she squealed, clapping her hands infuriatingly. “Want some?” Lighting the joint and inhaling a lungful, i held it between us. “Well?”

“Sure.” Putting it to her pinched lips, she took a drag, wafting marijuana-infused smoke from her face. “I might pass out from this.”

I should fucking hope so.

Alexa

I used Jace’s phone to listen to music, selecting “Mother We Just Can’t Get Enough” by New Radicals.

Shaped in an oversized T-shirt, knee-high socks and bug-eyed sunglasses, I shoved my hair into a messy bird’s nest, snagged a vodka bottle and jumped on the bed.

Jace, chilling in a high-back chair, feet propped up on the sideboard, popped a “what the fuck?” eyebrow over his laptop screen. “Don’t break Heather’s bed.”

I ignored him. “There’s something about you,” I sing, bouncing pillows to the floor. “Tears me inside and out whenever you’re around. There’s something about, speeding through my veins until we hit the ground.”

“Vick,” Jace complains, rubbing his eyes. “Are you drunk?”

“I am fookin’ mortal,” I lied in a Newcastle twang. “Take it away. It made me feel so good. I got a feeling like we could die!” I kicked mounds of cash, sending fifty-pound notes into the air. “Mother, we just can’t get enough.” His eyes fell out of their sockets, and I laughed, wiggling my hips. “Come on, Nath. Let’s build a castle and live in enchanted realms.”

He set the laptop on the ground, stole the bottle from me. “You are losing your damn mind—” I seized his wrist, yanking him onto the bed. “Victoria!”

I bundled up cash and threw it above us. “Fly with me, Nath.” The crazy fool wrapped his arms around my waist and spear tackled me across the mattress. “Oh, God! Get off me you big lump.” I wriggled beneath him. “Stop crushing me.”

He smothered my face with wet kisses, eyelids, cheeks, chin and nose.

“Nathan,” I scold, thrashing my head from side to side. “Will you stop?”

Propping onto an elbow, he captured a feather-like note falling from our imaginary blue skies, holding it to the sun. “If you could do anything right now, what would you choose?”

I looked at the ceiling, thinking about a night in Liam’s penthouse. I’d wait for him on the balcony, feel his closeness before he wrapped me in his arms and rested his chin to my shoulder. He’d turn me to face him, hold my jaw and demand a meaningful kiss. Of course, I’d never turn him down. I am a fool for that man. I’d reciprocate such affections as he lifted me onto the table, tugging my legs around his waist, his mouth stealing the air that I breathe.

We’d fall into his bed shortly after, him above my writhing body, enticing multiple orgasms out of me. And he’d fuck me, hard yet passionate. We’d collapse in each other’s arm, dusted in sweat, listening to our thunderous heartbeats—all while I stare at his reflection in the ceiling mirror.

“Shopping,” I fibbed.

Jace accompanied me to the town centre where I hauled his complaining backside from store-to-store, buying designer shoes and glamorous attire. He loathes retail and cosmetic browsing, but I gave a convincing argument about essential glamour to seduce the fat cats. It didn’t work, though. He’d rather stand outside the store, the representation of a miserable, cranky old sod.

I had the best time, assembling my wardrobe, overly friendly shopping assistants offering champagne flutes an uplifting approbation.

“Get ice cream.” Parked inside a trolley as he pushed me, I pointed to the supermarket freezer. “Every flavour, so we can celebrate.”

Jace tossed a tub onto my stomach alongside a can of whipped cream. “What about some of these apple pies, Vick?”

“No, Heather will take offence.” Popping the cap from the can, I squirt cream onto my tongue. “Why don’t we buy ingredients and she can bake instead?” Our innkeeper loves baking. She spends hours slaving away in that kitchen, knocking up fresh muffins, cookies, biscuits and sponge cakes. “Hey, do you think we should buy her a new coffee machine for the dining room?”

“What’s the point?” He added litres of variated flavoured ice cream into the trolley. “She’s not open for business.”

I had a light bulb moment. “What if we help refurbish the bed-and-breakfast?”

“Again,” he pinched the whipped cream from my hand and swirled foam in his mouth, “what’s the point?”

“I reckon she lost business due to the neglected, insalubrious look. Let’s test her patience with the function room first. Those walls need serious damp treatment and a lick of paint. If she’s happy, then we’ll work our way through and improvise.” Gripping the handlebars, he unexpectedly bolted down the aisle, ripping a fit of laughter from me. “Nathan, you big lump. You’re drawing too much attention.”

“Says the woman sprawled inside a trolly,” he patted my head, “wearing sunglasses indoors.”

I unscrewed an unpurchased vodka bottle. “Amen to that.”

Tuesday morning, Jace drove to a DIY store and returned with decorating supplies.

Heather hadn’t asked questions, but I caught her snooping when Jace treated the damp. He laboured the next day, too, rolling light grey paint on the walls in between beer breaks and bacon sarnies, thanks to our wonderful innkeeper.

I helped Jace hammer nails in the uneven, raising floorboards. Sat on my haunches, I dry the sweat from my brow, drink lemonade and brush varnish to the sanded down wood.

Heather brought a tray of fresh homemade lemonade and cookies into the function room. “It smells lovely and clean in here.”

Jace, balancing precariously on a ladder, fixing the ceiling lights, shot me a relieved grin.

“How much will all this cost me?” she asked, snubbing her old chairs and cabinets, looking for price tags on the paint tins. “I might upgrade all this furniture if we’re reconstructing.”

“Give it a week, heather,” Jace said, and she sagged her despondent shoulders. “Just until we finish.”

Wednesday morning, white transit vans parked outside the guest house to deliver furniture for Heather’s newly decorated room.

Bursting with tearful excitement, she shadowed the movers and organised space for them. Two men removed and conveyed old and beaten furnishings into their van for an additional charge, leaving us to unwrap and assemble sofa suites, coffee tables, bookcases and televisions.

Jace busied himself with constructing, so I added the finishing touches, plants, photo frames, ornaments and gorgeous rugs.

Heather spent all night in her function room, drinking sweet tea and reading a book in an upholstered high back chair by the window.

I glanced at Jace knowingly and bumped his fist. “I think it’s safe to reconstruct the entire building.”

Covered in paint, dust and wood shards, Jace nods. “Agree.”

“Heather’s Bed-and-breakfast offers luxurious accommodation with historical charms, queen-sized pillow-top mattresses adorned in triple-sheeted, high-quality Egyptian cotton linens, high-definition flat-screen televisions and en-suite bathrooms. From the windows, admire the gardens’, picturesque views and London’s multicoloured lights at night with complimentary champagne and/or fresh strawberries…” Heather dropped the brochure, trembling fingers to her flattened lips. “Victoria this is too much.”

“I mean, we,” I signalled to Jace who stuffs his face at the fridge, “don’t expect you to open for business, but at least it’s prepared just in case you decide to welcome guests again.”

Heather hugged me. I hugged her back. “You two are diamonds,” she sniffled. “Thank you.”

I grab a shower after Heather’s steak pie for tea. Jace packs a case as I change into pyjamas. He’s journeying to Liverpool tonight to spend the weekend with Tommy. I received a personal invite but declined. I intend on eating my weight in ice cream and watching old movies with Heather.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Jace stuffed his case, hiding a gun in the compartment. “I left one for you underneath the mattress.”

“I’m sure.” I tore the covers back, crawled onto the mattress and snuggled under the blanket. “It’s been a hectic few weeks, Nath. I need some beauty sleep and lazy days.”

Pulling on a black parka coat, Jace zipped to the chin, tossed the bag strap over his shoulder. “I put a spare phone in the drawer.” He dropped a chaste kiss to my temple. “Only use it for emergencies, Vick. I’ll be back in three days.”

I closed my eyes, half-heartedly waving him off. “Stay safe.”

The door clicked behind him. I cracked a tried eye open, leaned over the bed to turn off the lamp and repositioned to my side, hands tucked under my cheek.

Enshrouded by thick clouds and black skies, the moon glows through the window, casting shadows to the walls and furniture.

I sat up in bed, letting the blanket fall to my waist. Feet sinking into the plush carpet, I retrieve the phone from the bedside drawer and ponder dialling his number.

Clearing my throat, I thumbed the digits from memory, set the phone to my ear and moved to the window.

“Warren,” he answered, his voice throaty, sleepy.

I opened my mouth, unable to formulate a sentence.

Why do I keep torturing myself?

My heart thrashed so violently against my breastbone. I inhaled a soft breath through my nose, respiring it in intervals. I end the call, switch off the phone and chuck it on the chair. “Shit,” I growled, massaging my forehead.

I faceplant the bed starfish style, groaning into the coverlets.

Why must I love such an asshole?

Liam

Incapable of rest or a good night’s sleep, I looked at myself in the ceiling mirror, feeling empty inside. Rubbing my tired eyes, pulling back the silk coverlet, I walked my naked backside to the bathroom, relieved my bladder, washed my hands and studied my reflection in the mirror above the basin. I don’t like the man staring back at me. He’s new, in dire need of a shave and has dark circles under his eyes. Detached, depressed and lonely, he casts judgements and taunts me with his grim expression.

I closed my eyes, splashed cold water on my face and towel-dried.

In the bedroom, I enter the walk-in wardrobe, pull on a pair of boxer briefs and slouch pants. I go to the kitchen, pour a coffee, open the balcony doors and sit on the chair in scenic silence.

Balancing a cigarette between my lips, I light the end, inhale and exhale smoke, rotating my phone in my hand. I stare at the descending moon, hearing singing birds as they prepare for sunrise.

My phone vibrated, but I didn’t recognise the number.

“Warren,” I answered, throat tight.

I wait, blowing a slew of smoke to the dark sky.

The phone clicked, ending the call.

Eyebrows merging, I lowered the phone from my ear, dialled the number and got diverted to a robotic answerphone message.

Hellen’s name bounced across my screen.

Having no patience, I answered the call and bit out, “What?”

“Liam?” Hellen’s confused tone vibrated in the receiver, and I hollowed my cheeks. “Is everything okay? You told me to call you for early morning breakfast.”

“I’m fine, Hellen” I clipped, unnecessarily curt. “It’s still early. Go back to sleep, and I’ll meet you in a few hours.”

“Is something bothering you?” she probed. “I can come over.”

Fuck, anything but that. “No.”

“Very well,” she sighed. “Oh, before I hang up, I wanted to tell you something.”

I cannot stomach another phone conversation about Hellen’s uninteresting life. “I’m about to leave for work.”

“It’s regarding Larry,” she said, and I sat straighter. “Baby–”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Liam, how obnoxiously rude,” she growled, and I rolled my eyes. “Yes, he’s open to the idea of you accompanying me…”

I sensed her reservations. “But?”

“Will you behave?” she asked, and my eyebrows welded. “And I don’t want your horrible men attending, either. Brad’s too eccentrically intolerable for me.”

I refrained from defending my right-hand man. “You can’t expect me to attend alone.”

“You can bring Nate.”

I’ll get what I want, eventually. “Let’s discuss this later.”

“Okay,” she let out a long breath. “What time shall I be ready?”

“I’ll text you.” Cutting off the call before she can ask more questions, I dragged on the cigarette and then balanced it on the ashtray.

I eyed the phone once more.

Expecting the unknown caller to divert me to a voicemail box, I hit the call button and held my breath when a familiar voice picked up. “I’m sorry,” Alexa croaked, sounding half-asleep, sending me into a nervous wreck. “I didn’t mean to use the phone, so please don’t yell at me—I blame the vodka.”

I massaged my chest with the heel of my hand. “Who’s complaining?”

She choked on an alarmed inhale. “I think you have the wrong number—”

“No, I returned your call,” I said, and she listened with bated breath. “As I said, I am not complaining, Victoria. I like the sound of your voice.”

“Do you always flirt with women you don’t know?”

My fingers tightening around the phone, I smirked. “If she’s beautiful.”

She scoffed. “The majority of London then.”

Why does she have such a negative perception of me?

“No, it is rare for a woman to gain my attention on this level of intensity.”

I heard bedsheets rustle as she changed position. “Are you trying to delude me into thinking our one conversation led to an infatuation, Mr Warren?”

No, it’s different because I fell in love with you. “Where are you?”

“In bed,” she replied dryly. “You?”

Okay, we’re playing another game. “Admiring the views of London from my balcony. I am rather fortunate enough to own a penthouse.” I know the next remark will irk her because I claimed no women luxuriated in my private space. “Perhaps you could visit sometime.”

“I’ll pass.” She gave me a humourless laugh. ” Keep your glorious penthouse for the harem of women you string along.”

“Why the disparagement, Victoria?” My forehead creased. “Should I ask why you’re conversant with my dating schedule?”

Her silence wasn’t reassuring. “Pardon my assumptions, Mr Warren,” she reigned herself in. “I’m half asleep.”

No, you hate me. I feel it, and it fucks with my head. “Give me a visual to help me sleep.”

She was silent for a moment. “A what?”

“A visual.” I kicked my feet onto the table. “What are you wearing?”

“I am not telling…” She hesitated, and a small smile crept on my lips. “Why do you care what I wear to bed?”

I fucking care. “Lace,” I whispered, contouring the armrest grooves with my fingertips. “I imagine red lace and some hideous jumper.”

“It’s not hideous,” she argued playfully. “It’s big, warm and fluffy to match my socks.”

Soothed by her voice, I closed my eyes. “What about that blonde hair?”

She considered a comeback. “Messy but passable.”

Knotted then, I thought, picturing Alexa’s dark hair thrown atop her head. “I might say something inappropriate.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“How much I want to fuck you right now.” No regrets. “How much I want your body trembling beneath mine. I’d taste you first, though.”

She held her breath. “You can’t say something like that to someone you barely know.”

I couldn’t lose my smile if I tried. “I just did.”

“What if I protest the idea?”

“What if you didn’t?” I hunched my shoulders forward, elbows positioning on my knees. “What if you let it happen, Victoria?”

“Let what happen, exactly?”

I poked the bear. “Touch yourself.”

“No,” she disputed, but her shallow breathing, contradicting her feigned disapproval. “Liam, I mean, Mr Warren this is unacceptable behaviour.” Hearing my name whispered from her lips, thudded my heart. “For the two of us. And it’s weird, don’t you think? Under the odd circumstances.”

“There’s nothing weird nor unacceptable about two consensual adults who find each other attractive participating in a bit of foreplay.” And I do know you, Alexa. I know what makes you breathless, what makes you whimper and how you react to my body against yours. You like rough sex as long as I am passionate. You love how I respond to your hands on me—how much control you have over me. It’s my name you moan when you are high. It’s me that you allowed to enter your life and break down those impenetrable walls. “Give yourself to me,” I whispered, seconds away from blowing my cover and tracking her down.

“Who said I find you attractive?”

“Tell me otherwise.”

“I think,” she said, turning over in bed, “you are egotistical.”

“And I think you’re fucking beautiful.” Again, she stayed quiet. “Where did you go?”

“I’m still here, listening to your voice.”

No, where did you go, baby? “Touch for me.”

“I am,” she said, and my cock jerked to life. “I started the second you called.”

Fuck, she’s naughty. “Tell me how wet you are.”

“I’m soaking for you.”

I ground down on my teeth, hand crushing the phone. “Taste your fingers. Tell me how sweet that cunt tastes.”

“God, why are you so crass?” she asked, her voice almost normal. She’s lowering her guard, forgetting to sustain her ridiculous cover.

“Well?” I probed, and she laughed, embarrassed. “What?”

“I am not answering that.”

My cheeks ached from smiling so hard. “Why not?”

“It is—yeah, fine. I taste—whatever.”

I chuckled, imagining her flushed cheeks, head buried in a pillow to conceal humiliation.

My smile faded. I wanted to be there, in bed with her, touching and kissing. I didn’t want this barrier of incomprehensible lies and unknowingness between us. “Stop touching,” I ordered, evoked by beautiful memories, consumed by her. “The next time you cum, it’s with me.” I am done entertaining this façade. “Got it?”

“That’s a remarkable assumption, Mr Warren. Only I don’t think it is wise to arrange a meeting.”

Why is she insistent on hiding from me? “Do you know who I am, Victoria? You are stepping into dangerous territory with a man like me. I can locate you in a heartbeat if need be.”

“But you haven’t.” She sounded disappointed. “This conversation is absurd.”

“No, you’re fucking childish,” I spat, knowing it’ll infuriate her. “You rock up at my club and kill a woman—on what grounds? What possessed someone who doesn’t know me to commit such a merciless crime? And then you call. You hang up. I ring you back, and you answer.”

“Are you angry?” Alexa’s voice blasted in the receiver. “I helped clean up your mess, Mr Warren. You should be thanking me.”

“I can deal with a scorned woman. You had no reason to intervene.”

“You omitted the part where you impregnated her.”

Fuck. I was hoping she hadn’t caught that. “Kellie lied.” Fact. Nate examined her and ruled out pregnancy before burying her in an unmarked grave. “Not that it’s any of your business, Victoria. I don’t answer to you.” I caught her hitched inhale and cursed. “I apologise for upsetting you.”

“I thought regretful acknowledgements were beneath you.”

For Alexa, I’d do just about anything. Besides, I don’t like the sound of her suppressing tears.

“I enjoyed our random call, Victoria.” I watched the sun mount between skyscrapers, lightening our horizon in a warm palette of burnt orange and red hues. “Will I be fortunate enough to receive another?”

“I don’t maker promises,” she used my words against me, killing the call.

Chucking the phone onto the table, I rose from the chair and grasped the balustrade, feeling the rising sun on my face. “You can’t hide from me forever.”

CH 30

Liam

Blaire screams and wanders in her sleep. Fortunately, I am almost never at the penthouse to experience her late-night hysteria and increasing paranoia propensity.

I cannot say the same for the lobby positioned security. It’s on them to intervene by distressing the overanxious girl who nakedly scuttles through the halls and return her to bed.

According to the men, It’s common for Blaire to undergo realistic nightmares and demonstrate unsuppressed misandry and venomous loathing when they strive to placate her.

I receive updates from the head of security via email, an endless list of grievances and failed assuaging regarding Blaire’s certifiably questionable behaviour.

Brad isn’t privy to my private life nowadays, which is unusual as I normally rely on his judgement when conflicted; however, considering his scarcity of patience regarding certain predicaments, Nate has momentarily adopted his role.

This doesn’t mean that Nate Alzaim has a softer side. No, he’s as ruthless as the best of them, but he shows more respect and trusts my judgement, whereas Brad Jones tends to be a royal pain in my ass.

“Why are we swinging by the penthouse?” Brad asked, arms crossing at his chest, a suspicious glimmer in his sliced eyes. “I am Hank fucking Marvin, Bossman. I didn’t agree to fawn over the psychotic mental case before our lads night out. Why not let the men deal with her fucked-up ass.”

Josh hides his mirth behind a closed fist.

“You got something to get off your chest, Josh?” He squirmed under my haughty glare.

“No, Sir,” he said, shooting Brad a double-take. “Quit trying to get inside my head, Brad.”

Brad holds up his hands in surrender, pretending he hadn’t encouraged or provoked Josh with that shit-eating grin. “Don’t blame me for your disrespect, Joshy Boy. I am just sitting here, minding my own business.”

Nate barked a laugh, buttoning his shirt sleeve. “You don’t know the meaning of keeping to yourself, Brad. You always put that poky nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Incorrigible curiosity comes hand in hand with Brad.

Offended, Brad touched the bridge between his eyes. “Poky nose? What are you saying, Nate? We are picking flaws now?”

Eyebrows dipping into a frown, Nate paused on his buttons. “Who’s picking flaws? You’re misconceiving a common metaphor, Brad. I am merely pointing out that you’re a nosey motherfucker.”

“I know what a bastard metaphor is, Nate,” he spits, teeth grinding, “but you slyly slipped in a nose-bump comment, thinking I wouldn’t notice.”

Face hidden behind inked hands, Nate chortles. “If you think that nose requires some plastic surgery that’s on you.”

“I don’t think that,” Brad retorts, fingertips contouring his faultless facial structure. “Have you fucking seen me?” He waves to himself. “Your insults are ineffectual, brother. I am Adonis reincarnated, and you are simply a jealous tool with shocking banter.”

Brad’s also narcissistic and boastful, I thought, glimpsing at my wristwatch. “Brad, stay with Josh.” Opening the Bentley door, I stepped onto the footpath. “Nate, come with me.”

“Yeah, Nate,” Brad chirps, waggling his mischievous eyebrows. “Go and have fun locking up the deranged madwoman upstairs.”

Nate walks alongside me, opens the building’s main door and follows me inside. I bypass the reception desk and take a lift to the top floor where Blair’s loud shrieks drone. I passed Nate an aggravated glance and entered the regal foyer, discerning the men’s exhausted, incensed countenances.

Security sidesteps for me to enter the penthouse.

Previously, Blaire roused to the sound of her master’s voice and freaked-out. She became explosively angry and uncontrollably inconsolable, trashed her impermanent bedroom, attacked three of the men and threatened suicide by holding a serrated kitchen knife to her throat. They managed to disarm and convey her kicking body back to the bedroom, but she’s been restless ever since.

Leaving Nate in the living quarter, I strode down the hall, shoved open Blaire’s bedroom door and conceptualised how to handle an unhinged female.

Blaire sits in the corner of the room, knees bent, head buried, rocking back and forth. I dodge strewn carnage, broken furniture, tossed clothing, fragmented glass and station at the foot of the bed. It’s unmade, sheets askew and crumpled. She’d torn the pillows and ripped out the feathers. It’s a preventable diabolical shambles that she’ll indisputably rectify once I calm her down. “Blaire,” I said, and she wilted, quivering all over. “I am not going to hurt you.”

“Everyone hurts me,” she whimpered, tear-streaked and melancholy. “I am beginning to wonder if I was put on this earth as a pleasurable plaything for men like you,” she spat, face screwing up, aversion emanating from her shaking body.

“Men like me?” I enquired, squatting in front of her. “I don’t recall harming you, Blaire.”

She peered up at me beneath fanned eyelashes, greasy hair tendrils pasted to her forehead.

“In actuality, I saved and accommodated you. I put you under the fierce protection of my men, clothed and fed you. I haven’t touched you inappropriately or made lewd remarks. I imagine the men bestowed equal respect?”

Grimacing, she cowered away from me.

“I appreciate that you suffered an ordeal, Blaire. I offered to provide a therapist who has the expertise and knowledge to deal with traumatised patients and even administer aiding medication. You declined. You persuaded me into believing and accepting that you’d cope and put the past behind you. Flourishing isn’t the case, no?”

Bashed, Blaire chewed her lower lip. “I try, but it’s hard…”

I nod, understandable. “I won’t facilitate or mollycoddle you. It’s not my style. I will, however, extend generosity further under the stern warning that you accept medical assistance.” Her mouth quivered, and I held up a hand, silencing her. “If you’re not ready to confide in a therapist, I can be lenient providing you address post-traumatic stress disorder and improvise.”

“What must I do?” she whispered, easing back into her protective shell.

I sense Nate before he comes into my peripheral vision. He drops a holdall on the floor, crouches beside me and rummages through contents. He arranges a blister pack to leave with security, unscrews bottled water. “Two a day,” he explains, extending an open palm to the girl. “One every morning, and then another at noon.”

“One of the men will assist, Blaire.” I watch her fumble with a tablet. “I cannot trust that you won’t do something reckless if left unattended with medication. If you show any signs of unwillingness or suicidal behaviour again, I will have no choice but to send you to a loony asylum.”

Fear crippled her. She put the tablet on her tongue and washed it down with water.

“Your condition doesn’t excuse your outburst, either. You will shower,” I said, listening to Nate’s drifting footsteps as he returned to the men. “Once you represent a hygienic human again, I expect you to clean this room and remove any destruction. If you wish to replace certain furnishings for personal use, then you will earn your stay by cleaning the penthouse. It’s neither taxing nor draining, Blaire. You can start with the kitchen and work your way through.” It is never messy or cluttered, but chores will keep her busy. “You are not, however, permitted to enter the master suite. It’s strictly off-limits.”

We stood in tandem.

Nodding shamefacedly, she rubbed a chill from her bare arms.

“It’ll be good for you.” I tuck my hands in my suit jacket pockets, rocking back on the heels of my shoes. “Perhaps in a few weeks, I can ask Nate to escort you into town. I’m sure you’d enjoy retail therapy and a change of scenery.”

Doe-eyed and appreciative, she nodded again. And then surprised me, wrapping her arms around my waist, head nuzzled on my chest. “Thank you, Mr Warren.”

I pried her hands off me. “Go and shower, Blaire.”

***

It’s been too long since I treated the men to fine dining and celebratory drinks. They know how much I appreciate their dedicated loyalty and hard work, but I seldom express gratitude, so tonight, I guaranteed them a night off the job.

I head inside the bar and restaurant, a combination of jovial laughter, instrumental and vocal classical music, the conviviality ambience of rustic décor, dark wooden floors, elegant table cloths, muted lighting and remarkable vintage features.

Mario emigrated from Italy as a teenager. He’s an old gent, late-sixties, a diligent automaton who upholds Italian authenticity with his love for fine wines and traditional cuisine. He also hates my guts. “Warren,” he bellowed, snaking between superbly tailored employees. “I don’t want any trouble.”

I didn’t take umbrage at his bitterness and dislike. I do, however, find it comical that he bears grudges against the teenage version of myself.

In my youthful days, eighteen to be exact, I brought a date here to share bottled wine and calzone. Mario welcomed us in and offered a romantic table, delivered dishes fifteen minutes later—exceptional customer service.

The night started well, and then my date broached the relationship status topic. I had forewarned her of my distaste for serious companionship before we started fucking. I was a young lad, living the dream. I didn’t want to settle down or shackle myself to one woman. And she’d concurred, or so I thought until a bowl of ravioli landed on my lap, ruining a Tom Ford shirt in the process.

I was seething, considering lobbing the wine bottle at her head when Mario reappeared, yelling blasphemy in his spoken language. He’d told us to leave and pay for damages. I had questioned his demands as the only occurring destructions were on my bastard shirt. We’d gotten into a confrontation. He’d banned me for life.

Back to the present, It seems Mario remembers our churlish spat and chose this moment to draw unwanted attention from curious customers my way.

“Warren,” he stops dead in his tracks, sweat beading above his furrowed brow, “please. I am a good man. I work extremely hard for my business.”

I blinked, available, well-stuffed wallet in hand. I stand corrected.

He doesn’t remember our belligerent encounter. He’s mindful of my status and passing judgement.

Public hostility and disparagement from outsiders often occur for me. Tonight wouldn’t be the first time a business owner tried to shut the door in my face. They read a couple of shambolic, speculative, unsubstantiated newspaper articles defaming my character and think they know me.

“Who said I was looking for trouble?” I stood to an imperial height, rolling chewing gum under my tongue. “Cut me a fucking break, Mario. I just want a bite to eat with male associates.”

I heard his indrawn of breath. “Lo Scoglio,” he motions to his establishment, “is a family run business, Warren. The customers,” he leaned in, lowering his voice, “they won’t like you being here.”

He requires reassurance.

Brad, offended by Mario’s lack of respect, put us shoulder-to-shoulder, cocking his head. “We don’t care about you mindless gastronomes, Mario,” he said, tone riddled in sarcasm. “Bossman promises to be on his best behaviour.” I shot him the glare. “Plus, he is prodigal on the old wallet, so quit delaying and give us a table, or I’ll find one myself.”

Mario had a strong disinclination to offer us service. He flung a tea towel over one shoulder, waded between the occupied dinner setting and gestured to a four-seater beside the panoramic windows.

“Two bottles of Barbaresco.” I slip a card onto Mario’s open palm. “Start a tab.” Popping open the button of my suit jacket, I pull a chair back, wait for Brad to settle and sit beside him.

Situated directly from me, Nate rolled up his shirt sleeves, opens a leather-bound menu and scours appetisers.

“What are you ordering?” Josh wondered, peering at Nate’s menu when he has one in front of him. “Bruschetta?”

“Nah, I fancy the salsiccia,” he twangs, fixing his nose ring.

Josh hummed, scratching his jaw. “Same.”

“Actually,” Nate pinned Josh with a quizzical look, turning the pace, “the steamed mussels and pizza Bianca might work.”

“Oh, yeah,” Josh agreed, and Nate’s scathing scowl deepened. “I’ll order the same.”

“Joshy boy?” Brad’s eyes danced between them in wonder. “Get your head out of Nate’s ass.”

“It’s not in his ass,” he disputed, fingers disarranging his styled hair. “What, Brad? I’ll be jealous and want to share otherwise. It’s easier this way.”

I selected a dish, closed the menu. “You were late for this morning’s meeting, Nate,” I said, pinching and snubbing the tealight flame. “Tardiness is unlike you.”

“Ah,” Brad chimes, elbows crossing on the table, “Nate’s been busy eating out Cora—”

“Brad,” Nate admonished, his glare lethal. “What the fuck, man? Why not invite all these dinner guests to our table and tell them how she tastes, too?”

“Salty,” Josh winked, biting a breadstick. “And bitter.”

Nate stared deadpan at him. “Oh, and you’d know that how?”

“She rode my face last week,” he shares, unembarrassed and delusional to Nate’s liking for Cora.

I waited, perceiving the subdued perplexity in Nate’s eyes.

“What?” Josh asked, clueless. “You told me to sample the merchandise, Brad, so why are you shaking your head?”

Brad scratched the crease between his pinched eyes. “Quit running your gums, Josh.” He furtively indicated a side-eye glimpse to an enraged Nate

“Uh, Nate.” Josh paled, mouth forming a circle. “Fuck, I didn’t know you two were…”

“Nothing.” Nate received bottled wine from the waiter and poured our glasses. “Club whores,” he muttered under his breath, ignoring our watchfulness. “I don’t care for that bitch. She fucks punters anyhow, so you’re no different.”

No, it’s personal if a dancer entertains the syndicate men. It’s unpaid and pleasurable, not business. If Cora pledged Nate preferential treatment, in the mistaken belief that he’d be unknowledgeable to Josh, more fool her. He’s a warm-blooded male, loves women, but he’s no womanising Brad Jones. He’s deferential. Unequivocally, in secret, he’d put her on a pedestal.

“Are you ready to order?” The waiter opens a notepad, clicks a pen.

“Fettuccine,” I said, handing him the menu. “And bring me the Caprese salad.”

Brad reads an endless list of appetisers, the men shortly after.

I sat back, sipping red wine, savoured its fruity flavours.

Unlocking my phone and checking the messages, I deleted unopened sentiments from Hellen, clicked the number Alexa used to call me and sent a message.

Me: How did you sleep?

It didn’t deliver.

She’s either switched off her phone or extracted the sim card. Judging by her recent performance, I’d go with the latter. Our separation, although it’s not what I want, might be for the best. I am neck-deep with Hellen, too close to answers, salvation.

What if Alexa understands?

It’s implausible, but if I find her, explain the strategy, she may hang fire and trust me to pull through.

What if Alexa doesn’t understand, though? Am I prepared to lose everything for her to come in at the end and ruin it?

“What are you thinking about, Bossman?” Brad draped an arm on the back of my chair.

“It’s good wine,” I lied, licking my lips. “I think—Get down!” Brad speared me onto the ground, coinciding with a crescendo of panicked screams and shattering windows.

I smashed onto the floor, face pressed to broken glass, his heavy body shielding mine. Oppressive, sporadic gunfire and clanking bullets erupt in the restaurant, slicing and chipping overturned furniture, blanketing us in darkness and ruptured dust.

Collapsed on the floor, a woman, open-mouthed and lifeless, stares into me with dead eyes. I extended an arm, closed her eyelids, inhaled a deep, encouraging breath. “Nate?”

“I’m good, Sir,” he responds, tone muffled. “Keep your head down.”

Empty bullet casings clattered across the floor, loud pops and gunshots lasered the rustic interior, deafening my ears. I covered them to extinguish the unremitting ringing, espying Josh crawling behind the bar, taking cover.

My men are safe, I thought, feeling Brad’s thunderous heartbeat on my back.

Retreading tyres shrieked out front, fleeing the crime scene.

Brad peeled himself from off my body, landing on his back. “Fuck,” he barked, flicking shards off his suit. “Boss…” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Christ that was close.”

I pushed myself off the floor, patted down my suit, clearing dirt. Countless dead bodies littered the floor; bullet punctures shredded their skin and clothes. I raked fingers through my hair, combing it off my wrinkled forehead. “Fucking hell.”

Mario carefully lifts his head from over the countertop. “Warren,” he blubbered, devastated by the carnage. “Why? I did nothing to you, yet you bring this trouble to my place…” His crinkled, tear-filled eyes fell on the dead bodies. “Li hai uccisi,” he snarled. “Cazzo Bastardo! Perche? You leave right now and never come back!”

I paid no heed to whatever insults he spewed, opened the hazardously hinged door and stepped outside. Bystanders and eyewitnesses amassed from other wine bars and brasseries, pointing or mouthing into phones.

Unwrapping a cigarette packet, I popped one in my mouth, needing more than nicotine to quench apprehension.

Glass crunched under Brad’s shoes. He snatched the cigarette from my mouth, replaced it with a joint. “Bajramovic died,” he said, and I scowled, rubbing blood from my cheek. “We overturned the Albanian mafia. Gone. Bye. Finito. So, why the fuck did I experience a drive-by in the middle of London? We got rid of the problem.”

A row of blue flashing emergency vehicles snaked between cars through the two-way street, a cacophony of wailing sirens ricocheted into the night.

I spotted a familiar CID car, respired smoke and dropped the joint down the drain.

Reginald soared, slamming the passenger door behind me. He orders the men to corner off the street, his fingers stretching into latex gloves.

Checking if it’s safe to cross, he ambled toward me, an unspoken question in his eyes. “Mr Warren,” he said, shaking my hand, a misleading show for fellow officers. “Do you require medical attention?”

“No,” I assured him, watching Nate and Josh head back to the Bentley. “It’s a slaughterhouse in there.” I toss a thumb over my shoulder. “Drive-by shooting.”

He steeled his jaw, tightening wrinkled skin around his lips. “Warren,” he dipped his mouth to my ear, “you know I can’t help if you withhold information from me.”

I growled under my breath. “I don’t know anything.”

“Come on,” he barked, realising his raised tone, correcting himself. “It’s a quiet neighbourhood. The crime rate around these ends is virtually non-existent. You show up for one night, and all hell breaks loose. Do you seriously expect me to believe you had no part to play in this?”

“I don’t know fucking shit,” I rebuffed, reeling in my rising aggression. “In case you missed the goddamn memo, Reginald, somebody took a hit at me tonight. Do you honestly think it’d gotten this far if I knew I had a fucking bounty on my head?” He sceptical eyes searched mine. “You know I am right. Trust me. When I find out who did this…?”

He nods, short and sharp. “Mr Jones.” He tapped Brad’s back, examined his scraped jaw. “You need stitches.”

“Motherfucker,” Brad spits, touching his lacerated skin. “Oh, I am not cool with this, Bossman. Not the face.”

I curbed a smirk.

Paramedics wheeled stretchers out of Mario’s restaurant while police officials evacuated the street.

Rubbing my eyes, I shouldered past Reginald, Brad in tow, heading to the humming Bentley. I drop onto the passenger seat, close the door and order Nate to drive.

While working the steering wheel, Nate secretively dropped his phone on my lap. I read the message he typed on notes.

I think I found Alexa.