Ch 1-10

Summary

This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers. This series is NOT a typical romance. It’s NOT for the young or the faint-hearted. If you hate toxicity, disturbing situations, dubious consent, excessive violence and dark triggers, please do not read this series. The London Crime King series is a work of fiction intended for mature, 18+ audiences only. COMMAND Brad embodied masculinity to perfection, a handsome blond with whiskey-coloured eyes that would not be seen dead in anything other than a timeless Valentino suit. Women fall for his mischievous flirtatiousness, unknowledgeable to the demons keeping him awake at night, the monsters who invade his thoughts and the disembodied voices whispering in his ear, trying to stop him from leading a normal life. Since meeting his boss, best friend and brother, Brad has learnt to ignore the people torturing his soul by drowning in drugs, alcohol and women. He devoted himself to the only person that mattered. Liam Warren. For most of his adult life, working alongside Liam kept Brad on the straight and narrow. However, following Liam’s life imprisonment, Brad has no choice but to step into duty as Command. After all, Warren Enterprise depended on him. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown”

PROLOGUE

Do I like beer?

No, it tasted like cat’s piss, at least, if I knew what cat’s piss actually tasted like, I imagined it was this warm, bubbleless substance in a bottle. Yet, I drink beer daily like a fool who became an alcoholic since I had nothing better to do. Well, that’s a lie. I have plenty to do, places to go, people to see, but feigning to be an unambitious fool sounded better than admitting the truth.

Fabrication versus reality hurt less.

Am I an alcoholic?

I mean, sometimes I consider myself a pisshead because, well, here I am, yet again, in some seedy, rundown bar, drinking my weight in cat’s piss.

But I function without alcohol, too.

I can say no.

I can smoke weed instead.

Come to think of it. Where is the joint, I rolled earlier? I patted down my leather jacket, the one I nabbed from the charity shop last weekend. It’s old, faded, tattered and smelt worse than a wet dog, rotten food and smelly feet combined. “For fuck’s sake,” I mumbled, coming out of the short search party empty-handed. “I left it on the kitchen counter.”

The corpulent barman arched a pierced eyebrow.

“What?” His one head became two heads thirty minutes ago. “Are we not having a conversation?”

“No, Brad. You are talking to yourself.” Dropping change into the cash register, he slid a shot of whiskey to the male customer on my right. “I am tending to customers.”

“Well, good for you, sunshine.” I polished off the remainder of beer from the bottle, shaking droplets onto my tongue. “Be a good barman and get me a refill.”

He snatched the empty bottle out of my hand.

“Easy,” I said, relatively offended by his lack of people skills. “I am still a paying customer.”

“Yeah.” He tossed the bottle cap over one shoulder, and it landed on the floor, spinning in annoying circles. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

My finger pointed somewhere in his direction–basically fucking aimless. “You need to get laid.”

His cheeks were puce with discomfiture. “You need to find a new bar.”

“Why the hell would I do that?” My nose wrinkled. “I only just got my foot back through the door.”

You see, I have the type of face that pisses people off. I barely opened my mouth the first time I rocked up here, yet I managed to earn myself a nice shiner from the doorman and a six-week ban, which only lasted five weeks because, well, I can be charmingly persuasive. “How’s the wife?”

He dried recently steamed pint glasses with a chequered tea towel and stacked them under the wooden counter. “She is still a lazy bitch.”

“Harsh.” And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why he is a moody old fucker with an overhanging gut. Hell, if i were his wife, I wouldn’t want to roll around in the sheets with him, either. I mean, look at the size of that zit on his cheek. Look at the pendulous double chin flapping in the wind and wispy grey nostril hairs going to town on his upper lip. He is a diabolical mess togged-up in bleach-stained denim, leather boots and unruly chest hair. Christ, he made me look like a model, which, sadly for me, I was not. Perhaps in the next life, or maybe the future, I will walk a runway. Time will tell. “I bet she fucks the milkman.”

“Probably.” He shrugged. “Let’s see if I care?”

“Fair enough.” Mrs Annoying, Haggard and Bodacious returned to the stool to my left, her ample breasts practically on full display. “What do you want?”

“Hi.” Her eyelashes, caked in layers of mascara, fluttered like dying butterflies. “So, you are still here.”

I paid for the beer. “No, I left.”

Her thick, raspy voice rattled as she laughed. “You are so funny.”

If I could see my facial expression right now, I bet it is a mixture of dumbfoundedness and emphasised perplexity. “No offence, Lady. But I like to drink alone.”

Damn, I sounded like a broken record.

I swear, I said that already.

“But you knew that because we had this conversation earlier, right?” When you tried to crawl onto my lap and lick my face. “But hey, Benny is interested.” Benny, the ancient, expressionless geezer who sat at the end of the bar, raised his head, his eyes shielded by the threadbare ball cap. “Isn’t that right, Benny Boy?”

Benny groaned in displeasure.

“Really?” The woman leaned in, and her breath emitted stale cigarettes onto my cheek. “I got my eyes on something better than constipated Benny.”

I eyed Benny to find him already glaring at me. “Is that what we call him?”

“Yes,” she said quietly, and when her lips stretched into a smile, the red lipstick stains on her off-white teeth had unpleasant shivers rippling under my skin. “So, what do you say, handsome? You won’t regret it.”

Yes, I will.

I am uninterested in cougars. In fact, they do absolutely nothing for me. If I wanted to be extra technical, I felt nothing for the female population in general. Hell, if I were not so repulsed by the thought of touching cock, I’d probably consider myself gay.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate women, but I am what you’d call awkward. I struggled with females, and flirtatiousness does not come easy for a man like me. I swear, I met Tiff, my girlfriend, by sheer luck. If it weren’t for her unfaltering persistence, I’d still be single. And, trust me when I say that’s not an over-exaggeration. When I met Tiffany Fisher five years ago, I could barely string a sentence together.

She smiled.

I scowled.

She talked.

I scowled.

She stalked.

I scowled until I stopped scowling.

Woman with the razor-sharp talons placed her hand on my thigh, her fingers stroking back and forth in an attempt to bring the cock to life.

I sighed a heavy breath, making it known that I was frustrated by her coquettishness. When she continued to push, to flirt, to murmur lewdness in my ear, I gripped her wrist. “I’m not interested in fucking a fifty-year-old cougar,” I said in a low, angry voice. “For the fourth fucking time, I have a girlfriend.”

Snarling, she snatched her arm out of my punishing grasp. “Screw you, tosser.”

“You wish,” I mumbled into the beer bottle, taking a long swing. “Pull the skirt down, woman. Everyone can see your arse.”

Adjusting the skirt of her raised dress, she snatched the diamante clutch purse from the bar top and, flinging me the middle finger, sauntered to the back of the dark, smoke-filled room to find another victim.

Amongst the crowd, sitting in a corner booth with friends, I spotted a pretty face which very much sembled the girl waiting for me back home. Her rosy cheeks, her unassuming smile and green eyes brightened the room. Her sweet-sounding laughter put a smile on my face. She was slimmer, though. And her hair was poker straight and less vibrant.

My girl had wild red hair.

My girl was curvy and lucky in the breast department.

My girl, I thought.

It sounded ridiculous in my head, never mind aloud, because somewhere in our relationship, I had lost her. We might live in the same house and share the same room and grunt at each other while passing in the halls, but we were a far cry from okay. We argued more often than not, and lately, going home was almost unbearable.

Who wanted to work a fifteen-hour shift to go home and argue about pointless shit?

You left a dish in the sink.

You haven’t mowed the lawn.

It’s your turn to cook tea.

And then…

You do not appreciate me.

You are not affectionate enough.

You are a passionless arsehole.

Why can’t you say it?

Just say it!

The response she yearned to hear dangled on the tip of my tongue. “I can’t,” I whispered, knowing it would be wrong to do so. “I would be lying.”

My head began to pound at the temples.

One, I cleaned the kitchen this morning, did you even notice?

Two, I prepared food when I came in from work last night and left it in the fridge for us to prevent further arguments. I apologise for the lack of freshness.

Three, I will mow the lawn next weekend after I finish decorating the walk-in wardrobe you had to have.

Four, I do appreciate you, I do care about you, and I try to be passionate and affectionate, but you know it’s easier said than done for a man like me. We talked about my issues right at the very beginning, when you determined I was the love of your life, and I told you to walk away because I could never be good enough for you. Yet, here we are, fighting and bickering over the same concerns I had raised before we agreed to exclusivity.

Five, I finished my beer.

When did that happen?

I wielded the empty bottle above my head. “Can I get another?”

The barman’s hands splayed across the bar top. “I ran out of bottled beer. Lucky for you, I got some Guinness left in the pump or some liquor in the back.”

Flipping open the leather wallet, I shook loose change in the broken compartment. “How much for a single shot of bourbon?”

He tapped the twenty-pound note tucked into the back of my wallet. “That’ll get you a few rounds.”

Christ, I have been saving that for two weeks. It’s Tiffany’s birthday on Monday. I had to buy flowers or something. Maybe a card and a box of chocolates.

I placed four-pound coins on the counter. “I will give Guinness a bash.”

“Jesus, Brad.” He began to pour the drink. “If you can’t afford to drink, go home and save pennies.”

“Did I ask for your bastard opinion?” I asked angrily. “No. I didn’t. So, pour the drink and mind your business.”

I checked my phone to see if there were any missed calls or text messages from Tiffany. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Not one message from the woman since I left for work this morning.

Typing out a short text, I thanked the barman for the Guinness.

Me: Are you still angry?

Me: Look, maybe we should talk? It’s getting quite nasty between us and personal. And I don’t like it. I assume you don’t like it, either.

After a short pause, I fired another one.

Me: The Boss let me go home early. I should have been at the house, but I stayed at the bar all evening instead because I could not face you, not after this morning. I know I am no walk in the park, but Tiff, you are downright spiteful. The shit you say to me, it hurts. You make me feel pathetic, worthless. You emasculate me to the point I question myself.

Should I go?

Should I stay?

What do you want from me?

Tell me how to fix this?

How to fix us.

“Listen.” A familiar clutch purse landed on the countertop. “This back and forth is driving me around the bend.” It’s the cougar from earlier. “At this point, I am willing to pay.” Sliding a hand to her hip, she cocked her head and, with her eyes alone, pleaded with me to scratch the unceasing ache between her thighs. “Whatever the cost,” she added whispery. “I just need a good fucking before I go home tonight.”

Even if I was a sleazy arsehole who cheated on his girlfriend, I had an irregular functioning cock.

It only stirred for Tiffany.

At the beginning of our relationship, I couldn’t get hard for over four months, and even then, it flopped within five minutes. Imagine my horror every time she and I fell into bed, or the backseat of a car, or whatever unfortunate item of furniture had to brace our bodies when sex may have been on the cards for the night to end, well, floppily soft. It resulted in my fingers working overtime because my dick decided to be a twat and not cooperate.

My poor girl overworked her jaw for months, sucking, bopping, licking and stroking in a failed attempt to stimulate arousal while I stared at the ceiling with raised brows and pinched lips in premature mortification.

Knowing the cougar would not go down without a fight, I stood, hands in my pockets, and rocked back on the heels of my tan boots. “I am gay.”

Christ, that made me cringe. However, lying was better than explaining, especially to a woman who did not understand the meaning of no.

“That’s okay…” Her face scrunched up. “Just bend me over and pretend I am a guy.”

Oh, for the love of everything bastard holy.

“I feel sick just looking at you,” I said unapologetically, and her jaw slackened. “I would not fuck you if you were the last hole on earth–“

“Brad!” The barman scolded, and I flung him a double-take. “You cannot speak to my customers like that!”

“What, but it’s okay for her to hound the males in your bar like a bitch in heat!” I felt a sharp clip to the cheek and belatedly realised that she’d slapped me. “What the actual fuck?” My cheek began to heat from the aftershock. “You hit me!”

“Yeah?” Her chest touched mine as she invaded my personal space to reprimand. “And you liked it, didn’t you?”

This bitch is crazy. “This bitch is crazy,” I said aloud, throwing up my hands in utter disbelief. “I should press charges.”

“Come on.” To my left, the barman appeared alongside two burly doormen, gesturing for me to leave. “Go home, Brad. Sleep it off.”

“Fuck, no.” Shirking out of his grip, I reached for the Guinness and sipped, masking distaste as the disgusting flavour slathered my tongue. “I am enjoying a drink. Can’t a man be left alone to enjoy an uninterrupted,” I side-eyed the cougar, “drink without hostilities?”

“No.” He wrestled the pint glass from my hand, which resulted in T-shirts drenched in Irish dry stout. “Brad, hand over the goddamn glass!”

It fell through our hands and shattered across the floor.

My lips thinned. “That was an accident.”

He was puce with rage. “Get out before I throw you out.”

Okay, his disrespectful attitude began to piss me off.

“Well.” My arms folded. “I guess you will need to throw me out.”

Ten seconds later, the two bouncers launched me through the front door and onto the pavement. My arse numbed from the impact, and I swear I saw fucking stars. “Christ,” I groaned, rolling onto my side. “That was unnecessary.”

I felt their threatening eyes on me when the barman said, “You are banned for five months.”

Even my arms ached as I pushed myself off the cold ground. “Twat,” I said, unsure if I was insulting him, the bouncers, or myself. “You.” Pointing to the man who is no longer my friend, I squinted through the misted rain splattering against my cheeks. “Fuck. You.”

“No, Brad. Fuck you.” His lips twisted into a snarl. “And don’t even think about coming back here, you piece of shit.”

“Screw your fucking mother.” Staggering backwards, almost falling into a rain-filled pothole, I flipped him the bird. “You fat fuck.”

“You lowlife loser!”

“Yeah?” Spinning back around to face him, I licked the front of my upper teeth. “Insult me all you want, old man.” I tapped my chest. “You can’t hurt someone that feels nothing.”

If he hung around, if his lapdogs stood back to watch me leave, I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t even tell you if I was drunk or sober.

Well, I am walking sideways, so that confirmed reservations.

Each step down the dark, mostly barren street seemed to exhaust energy and to go back home was growing less appealing by the second.

Tiffany.

Christ, I had to face her eventually.

Maybe she’ll be in a good mood.

Maybe she’ll be willing to talk about us.

I rechecked my phone.

Still, there were no text messages.

“I care about you,” I said, practising a little speech before my arrival. “You are unlike any other woman I have met.” Wincing, I rubbed rain droplets off my face. “When you entered my life…When you smiled at me…” Just open up, Jones. “I was smitten, but I knew it wouldn’t work because I am…strange.”

Well, that sounded about right.

“I am not completely strange. I have my wits and a good sense of humour, and I am a good talker.” Drunk Dave peered up from his squatted position at the street corner, the flagon of cider in his hands, landing on the floor between his bare feet. “Are you good, Dave?”

He blinked.

“I’m a decent guy, right?” I stood there, hands on the hips. “Do you think I’m a good talker? Any girl would be lucky to have me.”

Once more, he blinked.

“Oh, you don’t talk to strangers, huh?” I swept wet strands of hair out of my eyes. “It’s all good. I am not a stranger. I walk past you every night on the way home from work.”

He growled like a feral animal. “My name is Bob. You fuckin’ halfwit.”

I stand corrected. “Alright.” Stepping away from the crazy person, I proceeded ahead. “Keep your knickers on. I was only trying to be friendly.”

My sheer existence affronted everybody.

My gregariousness rubbed people up the wrong way.

My sense of humour often rendered me friendless.

I like to think that I am a people person, but, in reality, I don’t fit in.

I never have.

“Sounded sad upon the radio,” I sang in a husky voice. “Moved a million hearts in mono. Our mothers cried. Sang along, who’d blame them?” Double-checking for oncoming vehicles, I jogged across the road and jumped onto the brick pavement. “You’re grown. So, grown. Now I must say more than ever.” Grabbing the lamppost, I kicked out a leg and swung around it. “Toora loora toora loo rye aye.” Lightheadedness almost took me off my feet. “And we can sing just like our fathers!” A loud burp escaped my lips. “Oh, that’s disgusting.”

It would be fifteen minutes later when I unlocked the front door to my house, entering the unlit hallway to sounds that would haunt me forever. Pleasure filled moans echoed from upstairs, the repetitive thump of the headboard crashing into the wall as someone, another man, who groaned just as loudly, pleasured the girl I shared a bed with at night.

Slowly, the keychain slipped between my fingers, landing on the uncarpeted floor. Assured I was drunk and hallucinating, I shut the front door and listened intently. Still, the moans continued, loud and clear for all to hear.

Pushing down the lump in my throat, I took cautious steps towards the stairs and, prolonging my torture, listened to the sound of her voice keen as she pleaded with him for more.

“You didn’t believe me,” the voice whispered inside my head. “I told you, didn’t I? No one could ever love you the same way I do.”

I covered my ears.

Think clearly, Jones.

“Yes,” Tiffany cried, and my eyes snapped open. “Oh, yes. Right there.”

I walked away.

“Brian,” she screamed, and I came to an abrupt stop. “Yes, shit. Make me come.”

I don’t know why the room greyed or why everything became quiet.

I don’t even know why I thought it was a good idea to climb the stairs, bridge the landing, or stand in the doorway to my bedroom to watch my girl with another man.

Not just any man, though.

My best friend.

My only friend.

Brian and I, we grew up together, lived on the same street back when we were kids. Neither of us had the best home life, the best childhood, but we were happy because we had each other.

How could he do this to me?

How could she do this to me?

Tiffany’s red waist-length hair clung to her back, where dews of sweat trickled down to her flexing arse. Both of them fucked as though time was of the essence, as though someone could come home at any given moment, so they had to be quick. His fingers, lined with silver rings, held her waist, her breasts, touring every ounce of naked skin before clasping to her thighs. “Tiff,” he groaned, his head pushing back into the pillow. “I love you.”

My jaw steeled.

“Yes.” Her body convulsed above him. Collapsing across his chest to ride through intimate waves of ecstasy, she whispered in his ear, “I love you more.”

My body vibrated. I had the sudden urge to say something—do something. And I did. With an outstretched arm, I grabbed the closest item on the vanity table, fingers curling around the handle, and, in a warped haze, moved through the room, towards the bed, imagining how good those white sheets would look with a deep, primary shade of red.

Tiffany sat up, still saddling his lower body, and swept bangs of red, sweat-slicked hair out of her face. When our eyes collided and she screamed something indecipherable in panic, I brought the iron back and struck her across the head. I knew it was bad because when she toppled off the bed—off him—and landed on the floor in a heap, she never cried, or moved, or attempted to run and talk. She laid boneless, lifeless, blood seeping into the once white carpet. Her green eyes, wide open and glassy, stared back at me, but they were empty, gone. She was gone.

“Brad, what have you done?” Brian sat upright. He was not looking at me, though. He was staring at the floor, where she laid, sprawled out disjointedly. Catching the gut-wrenching cry from the depths of his stomach with his hand, he burst into tears. “Brad…”

“It’s not okay.” My fingers tightened around the iron’s handle. “I am sick of people taking the piss out of me.”

“No.” Falling to his knees beside her, he thumbed tears from her hollow cheeks. “It wasn’t…Brad, it just happened. We fell in love, but we never wanted to hurt you.”

My lips wobbled. “I don’t believe you.”

“Tiff,” he whispered, and something inside me snapped. “Wake up, baby. Please, wake up.” Falling back on his haunches, he stared at his bloodied hands through wide, terrified eyes. “I don’t understand. This is not you. You wouldn’t hurt anyone, especially her.” When he perceived the anger in my eyes, he stood, albeit gingerly, and raised his palms in surrender. “Brad, what is going through your head right now? Remember what we talked about? You have to ignore it. You cannot—”

“Do not reason with me,” I spat, tasting tears on my lips. “Do not take me for an idiot. How could you do this to me? To us? Fuck her,” I added angrily, and he stared at me in disbelief. “Girls come and go. But us? You and me. That’s supposed to be legit. You were my day one.”

“We will always be friends.” His brown eyes squeezed shut. “That’s our motto, right?”

My chest hurts. “Friends don’t betray one another.”

“I am sorry.” Lips pressing into a firm line, he peeled his eyes open and stared disparagingly at me. “I wanted to tell you. We were going to tell you. But this,” he gesticulated frantically to Tiffany’s dead body, “was not the answer, Brad. Violence is never the answer. Have you learnt nothing?” He cupped his mouth, smearing her blood over his pale features. “I have to call the police.”

Before Brian could grab the mobile phone on the floor, I whacked the iron across his face in an unforgivable act of vengeance. His body spun around, dropped to the ground on impact, but he groaned, breathed, and strived to stand.

I could not let it happen.

So, I hit him again and again. His blood spattered across the carpets, painted the white walls in gruesome slashes. Through short belts, I reduced anger, resentment and bitterness until his unrecognisable face, his hacked flash, and crushed bones told me to stand down.

Flinging the iron across the room, I let out a harsh wail, resting my head on his chest where his heart once beat. “Why?” My cries resounded throughout the house. “Why did you do this to me?”

Adrenaline pumped blood through my veins. In devastating madness, I crawled across the bloodied floor, slipping through pools of their blood and collapsed onto the landing to cry some more.

Christ, I was pathetic.

If I was drunk before, I am undoubtedly sober now.

“I hate you.” My stare found Tiffany’s from across the dark hallway. “I fucking hate you.”

I repositioned, back to the wall, and drew my knees to my chest. Burying my head on my hands, cringing at the taste of metallic copper on my lips, I rubbed my face and cheeks, doing my utmost to efface their blood from my skin.

What have I done?

I killed my girlfriend.

I killed my best friend.

Prison, I thought. Double homicide will land me in jail. A dingy, tiny cell with an annoying cellmate who likes to watch me while I sleep. Unpalatable food. Shared bathroom. Daytime television. Oversized clothes.

Fucking hell, I had to get out of here. I could pack a bag and flee to Mexico, find myself a nice place to live and be a loner for the remainder of my existence. It beats incarceration…

No, there are no escaping consequences.

I’ll have to kill myself.

End it all once and for all…

“Don’t be silly,” the voice taunted in my head. “Remember what happened the last time you were silly, Bradley?”

“Stop.” Fisting hair by the roots, I pulled until pain sliced through my skin. “Get out of my fucking head.”

A floorboard creaked downstairs.

I stopped breathing.

My heart rate accelerated from the sudden change in the air. Either the temperature dropped drastically in the last few seconds, or there was an uninvited visitor in my house.

At the bottom of the stairs stood a tall figure. It was too dark to see and identify the person, but I sensed his intense watchfulness.

He was staring at me.

He knew I committed murder.

“Who are you?” I asked, ignoring the sight hitch in my voice. “What do you want?”

With unhurried steps, he climbed the stairs until the soft light from the bedroom’s lamp outlined his honed features.

I’d recognise his face anywhere.

You do not want a man like him standing in front of you.

And you most certainly did not want a man like him entering your house.

Liam Warren.

His name alone churned my stomach.

“Fucking hell,” I said almost inaudibly as his ice-cold blue eyes came into vision. “The devil quite literally walked through my back door.”

His leather shoes, one by one, stepped onto the landing, where a cheap, fringed rug adorned the old floorboards.

I studied his shoes first, wondering how good it felt to splurge out on such expensive clothes and jewellery items. The man’s suit is probably worth more than my house, and his diamonds gave local jewellers a run for their money.

When he took another step closer, I flinched, sticking myself to the wall.

My nervousness amused him.

Tilting his head to the side, he smirked wolfishly but said nothing.

“I went out on a bit of a bender tonight.” Chuckling nervously, I adjusted the collar of my white polo shirt. Well, it’s white if you exclude the blood. “She wasn’t expecting my arse home yet.”

Without a word, Warren stepped into the bedroom to assess the damage. After a glance in multiple directions, he stood over Tiffany’s dead body. “Brutal,” he said, his voice deep and unintentionally terrifying. “Did you love her?”

No, I don’t love anyone. “Five years I was with the bitch,” I croaked, looking away to hide the embarrassment I felt. “I found her in bed, fucking my best mate.” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I forced myself to stand. “I may as well call the police and hand myself in.”

Confessing to The Met was the last thing I wanted to do, but I had to pretend to be apologetic for my sins, I guess. Plus, what choice did I have? There is a witness here…A renowned criminal who most likely arrived here after a massacre, but still, a witness who could sail my arse down the damn river.

Unless I killed him, too, but killing him would be unjust. After all, this man once spared my life. He might not recognise me, but I remember the night he let me go. “So, what brings Warren to my humble abode?”

He kicked Tiffany’s abandoned lace aside. “I followed your ass.”

“Why?” Oh, shit. I have a bounty on my head. “Did someone put a hit on me or something?”

My question irked him. “I’m not a fucking hitman.”

Then, what the fuck does he call himself? The streets are terrified of him. You don’t even say his name around these ends without repercussions. Too much chin wagging could lose you a tongue or limb. And if you do stumble into a problem with him? You are better off committing suicide because I hear he’s pretty fucking sadistic.

“So, don’t fucking insult me,” he warned, and my gaze lowered to the floor. “I got more money than sense.”

Yes, I know. I know more about this man than I cared to admit.

“Moreover,” his judgmental eyes raked over the room, “I don’t think you could afford me.”

Okay, that was a bit rude. “I wasn’t going to ask…”

He removed leather gloves from inside his trouser pocket. “Did anyone see you come home?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Go and find some petrol.”

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

“I don’t fucking have time for this.” He crouched next to Tiffany. “Move it.”

Hastening downstairs, I checked the kitchen first and came unstuck because why the fuck would I have petrol in this bastard shithole?

Gripping the counter, I stared out the window, remembering the kid next door stored petrol canisters in the shed for his motorbike. Hurrying out to the garden, making sure no one’s watching me, I unlock the shed door, steal two canisters, fall twice as I head back for the house, and manage to make it back upstairs in one piece.

Liam is squatting in front of clothes piled high on the floor.

“I found these.” I was panting upon my return. “What are you doing?”

He stuffed something under the bed. “So, you never suspected their romance before?”

“No.” I placed two petrol canisters on the floor. “I don’t think it was serious or anything,” I lied, knowing damn well they’d fallen for each other. I was too proud to admit anything, though. “Tonight was probably their first time. We haven’t been in a good place lately.”

Unscrewing the canisters, he forced one into my hands. “Douse the room.”

“Right,” I said tightly, uncapping the bottle, dousing everything in sight, including the bodies.

“It wasn’t a mistake.” He hurled the empty canister across the floor. “They’ve been at it for years.”

Yes, and now I look like an idiot. He must think I am pathetic. “How can you be so sure?”

Popping a cigarette between his lips, he matched a flame and inhaled a deep drag. “I’m never wrong.”

I smothered a scoff.

Letting smoke roll around his mouth, he blew out a calming breath and chucked the cigarette onto the bed. The petrol caught, instantly spreading across the soaked material, flames licking the bodies, clambering the walls and ceiling and, too soon, black smoke began to thicken through the room.

Warren exited the room to descend the stairs with one final glance in my direction. I waited for a moment, watching the flames claim Tiff’s body before I yanked a discarded hoodie over my head and chased him.

“Wait,” I called, dashing down the garden path in his footsteps. “Where are we going?”

“I am going home.” He faced me head-on. “Fuck knows what’s in store for you.”

“What?” Horror-stricken, I glanced back to the house where smoke rippled from open windows. “My house is seconds away from blowing up.”

“Correct.” He moved ahead. “So, fleeing is probably a sensible option.” Ducking into the gully across the street, he sprinted through the maze-like lane to locate another street, somewhere safe and away from prying eyes. “Why the fuck are you following me?”

I snatched his arm, bringing him to an abrupt stop. “What am I supposed to do?” When I discerned his furiousness, I released him. “Come on, Warren. Help me out.”

He stared, long and pensive. “Why would I help you?”

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

As if pleased by my depressing life story, he closed the small gap between us. Our noses touched. “Do you feel any remorse for what you did?”

I feared chains and isolation more. “Nope. I feel betrayed. In my defence, I am half-cut. I’m sure tonight’s actions will weigh heavily on me in the morning.”

Warren hummed in reverie. “You can work for me,” he clipped, and I had to pinch my neck to be sure I was not dreaming. “After we go over the rules, of course.”

I might have pissed myself with excitement.

I almost smiled.

Christ, Inside, I was screaming at the top of my lungs.

But let’s stay calm, Jones. Try to be cool, less needy and inoffensive. “Brad Jones,” I introduced myself. “Or sinfully fucking gorgeous will suffice. I’m not too picky.”

He looked at me like I was unhinged. “Let’s go.”

“Christ.” Draping an arm across his shoulders, I walked alongside him. “I always wanted a fucking brother.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Brad.” Whacking my arm aside, he exited into the next street in time to see emergency vehicles speeding down the road. “I’m just helping out a loser, that’s all.”

“Whatever.” My arm returned to his shoulder, and this time, he did not chastise. “I wanted a brother, and now I have one. Oh, and whilst we are on the subject, what are these rules?”

Warren paused at the street corner. “We were not on the subject of rules.”

“Right, I get it. Wrong context and all that malarkey. But, going back to previous conversations, can I ask about these rules?”

He was expressionless. “Rule number twelve: never question the boss.”

I sucked my cheeks in. “Right, so, how do I find stuff out without asking questions? Let’s pretend that wasn’t a question.”

He texted someone on his phone before giving me his full attention. “There are many rules, Brad.” A black Bentley pulled up behind him. “Now, come with me, and we shall discuss terms and conditions.”

I struggled to swallow. “What If I get in the car and your driver searches for the nearest ditch to bury me?”

His jaw muscle ticked. “Was that another question?”

I sucked my upper lip. “Definitely not another question.”

“Good,” he said huskily, gesturing for me to climb into the back of the vehicle. “Do you like Macallan?”

“Me? Macallan?” Next joke. “Yeah, it’s an all-time favourite.”

“Then you shall join me at the penthouse for a drink.”

“Okay, one more question,” I chanced to say, and he sighed under his breath. “Will I regret this?”

Warren fixed the collar of my polo shirt. “Regret is for the weak. And you, Brad, are far from weak.”

For the first time in my life, I had hope.

CHAPTER ONE

Brad

Her pale feet teetered across sacred grounds, the rust-coloured leaves and upturned soil crepitating underneath frenetic footfalls. Mud bespattered her creme floor-length satin dressing gown as she continuously stumbled face-first in the dirt.

Oh, how she wept in pathetic gracelessness, her body sprawled between marble and concrete gravestones beneath the full moon, her tears of hopelessness wading through dense, leafless trees, where nocturnal birds of prey hooted.

Rime ice glittered her scraggly blonde hair. Frost tinted her lips blue. It was rock-bottom, for her, the lowest, most depressing point in her purposeless existence.

Rubbing begrimed palms across her dirty mouth, she crawled until she stood. Then, like a deer in the headlight, she found my gaze amidst the cemetery’s low-hanging fog. Mist formed between us, her warm breath greeting mine. Her glassy green eyes shined like magnificent emeralds. Her porcelain skin and rose-tinted cheeks quaked emotional defeat and heartache. Not acute fear. Not horrible dread.

My head cocked.

Instant acceptance transpired.

Her murmured apologies.

My selective muteness.

When she walked through inscribed headstones, her cracked, bloodied fingernails outlining gilded carvings of the deceased, I shadowed in her footsteps, feeling the tree’s rough bark beneath my fingertips. I was cold as ice. Not even the cashmere jacquard scarf and pompom-embellished ribbed wool beanie hat could protect me from the freezing winds of encroaching winter.

Inside the deep pocket of my black trench coat, I extracted bottled Macallan and thumbed the half-torn label. I drink whiskey every night. Sometimes, I take a shot for breakfast or guzzle liquid in between missions. But this bottle, I struggled to pop the cap. The same bottle used to converse with Bossman before his prison sentence. I found it in the Warren Manor’s kitchen last Friday, stashed behind unopened bottles of whiskey, gin and vodka as if he’d hidden it from the brothers for one of his late-night musings.

The arteries around my thumping heart tightened.

Christ, I missed him. His incarceration brought tears to my eyes. You would think, because of our criminal lifestyle, I’d have mentally prepared for the possibilities of atonement, whether it be the brothers, the boss, or myself. At some point, one of us had to make amends for incessant wrongdoings. One of us had to answer to the court of law. But it never occurred to me, not once since I signed my life away to Warren Enterprise, to The Brotherhood, the consequences of our unlawfulness.

I thought we were indestructible, indomitable and unconquerable.

I thought Liam Warren was impossible to defeat, to subdue.

I suppose if he took the ones he loved down with him, his wife, his organisation, he’d feel the sun on his face sooner rather than later.

Warren was a true leader until the very end, though.

Even in the face of the defaming media with the world stacked against him, he incurred blame for everyone else’s transgressions.

He will die in chains for his sins and ours.

The thought boiled my blood.

I looked heavenward to see twinkling stars behind semi-transparent clouds billowing across the midnight moon.

Rule number eighteen: Never give up hope.

Our unfaltering sense of purpose made us the men we are today.

Damn, I could hear his voice, his wise words and strong determination.

He always had the answers.

He always knew the right thing to say.

Without him, I am lost.

Yet, I had to lead his army of vengeful men.

I had to execute those who wronged him.

Most importantly, I had to keep a smile on his wife’s face.

My eyes closed.

But Alexa no longer smiles without him, so how do I effectuate?

Do I force her to leave the bedroom?

Do I hold her when she cries?

Do I make empty promises to hear her laughter again?

“Why are you following me?” The throatiness of her voice suggested uneasiness. “What do you want?”

Such stupid questions from such a stupid woman.

Isn’t it obvious?

I am here to kill you.

“You reminded me of an angel,” I whispered roughly. “So pure and angelic. Beautiful.” But you changed. You are not the person I thought you were. You are the worst of our kind, the serpent in the grass, the pain in our chests, the knife in our hearts. “What happened to you?”

“Do not pretend to care about me.” Her soft voice trembled. “I was all but a notch on your bedpost. I was unprepared.”

I frowned at that.

“I was naive.” Holding the lace of her white nightgown to the waist, she descended to her knees and looked longingly at someone’s grave. “You fed me to the wolves. You all did. Alexa included.”

I grew defensive of the boss’s wife. “You will not bad-mouth Alexa in my presence.”

Sadness saturated her close-set eyes. “She is very fortunate.”

Alexa Warren is far from fortunate. She was not born under a lucky star or blessed with advantageousness. Her childhood consisted of distressing neglect, physical, sexual and emotional abuse. She cried in the arms of her dead mother of whom she loved unreservedly. She grieved Kathy, her older sister, on more occasions than one. She existed in darkness, cried when lurking monsters and despicable predators resurfaced, and then as if longing for her father’s love and affection was not enough, she learnt of his scandalous involvement with Flamur Bajramovic and the Albanian mafia. Patrick Haines’ hatred towards his wife and children hurt more than years of sexual slavery and harrowing captivity.

It was the ultimate betrayal. It was the catalyst to her breaking point. It was the reason behind her indecisiveness and wild confusion.

Patrick Haines’ perfidiousness led to Newquay, Cornwall, where Alexa searched for answers, understanding and closure, which almost destroyed her relationship with Warren.

In the wake of her supposed death, they had already spent too much time apart. However, in lieu of separation, they found their way back to each other because true love waits for no one, and soulmates cannot stay worlds apart. They moved mountains to be together, fought against the odds and achieved the impossible.

They lost a child along the way.

They almost lost each other in the throes of Warren’s past.

They eloped in the name of love, Mr and Mrs Warren.

They found Logan, the lost boy they never knew they needed.

They tried to replace the baby they’d lost and failed repeatedly.

But then…

They said goodbye to each other through unbreakable glass whilst the miracle of growth blossomed between them.

Through tears of sadness, pain and suffering, there is a silver lining. This time next year, with or without my beloved brother, there will be another in his wake.

His son or daughter will be the direct line to Warren’s empire.

I studied the Macallan bottle.

It felt wrong, drinking without you.

Your absence is worse than bereavement.

You are not dead, yet I grieve you.

I cry for you.

I plead for you.

A single tear rolled down my cheek.

Uncapping the bottle, hurling the cap into nearby brambles, I licked my dry lips and sipped enough liquor to pump warm blood through my veins

How can you expect me to walk in your shoes?

How can you expect me to sit in your chair?

I am not worthy, Bossman.

No. I could never be you.

Screaming into the night, I lunged the bottle at the Amazonian tall weeping willow tree, its lance-shaped leaves shivering in the wind.

You are over-emotional, Jones.

Slipping a toothpick between my lips, I licked it to the corner of my mouth and let the sharpest point nick my tongue until the blood in my mouth reduced anxieties.

Once more, I shut my eyes and counted inside my head.

“I miss her,” she cried, her voice peeling my eyelids open. “Is it true? Did she have an affair? I could never bring myself to ask him, my father. I guess I didn’t want to believe it.”

I glanced at the headstone: Her mother’s place of rest.

Warren is one step ahead of potential adversaries. It’s within his best interest to know everything about everyone around him, including their friends, loved ones and even enemies.

“If he said it,” I rasped, circling the small, helpless damsel, “then it’s true.”

“He is so cruel,” she whimpered, her knees submerged in the miry ground of her mother’s graveside. “Liam, I mean—”

“Warren,” I said calmly, and teary doe eyes jerked up at me. “His name is Warren. You will speak of him respectfully or not at all.”

Her blue-tinted lips quivered. “He is worse than the devil himself.”

I smirked devilishly. “That’s quite the compliment.”

“You all make me sick,” she spat, spittle spraying through wicked belts of her unruly tongue. “It pleases you, doesn’t it? Hurting others. Humiliating others. Exposing the darkest secrets of their family lineage.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault Mother Dearest climbed into bed with your uncle.” My hands raised in mocking surrender. “Why do you even care? You hate your father, so go and build a relationship with Uncle John.”

“Fuck you.” Thin, clear mucus pumped from her nose. “You have no intention of letting me live.”

“Correct.” I crouched beside her, threading my fingers together. “You can hardly blame me. After all, you did send my boss to prison.”

Her eyes were lost on me. “Yes.”

Gently grasping her jaw, I thumbed dirt on her sunken cheek, where deep purple bruising cracked her beautiful complexion. “Why do you let him hurt you?”

She laughed incredulously. “I suppose you were the better choice.”

“I was never a choice,” I reminded her. “Frankly, I don’t know what possessed me to look at you, never mind touch you.”Yes, I am guilty of ignoring the boss’s stern warning. He told me not to go there. Hell, he forbade it because he knew I had little respect for women and sleeping with this fruit loop may have fucked up his plans to win over Alexa.

In my defence, on Warren’s thirtieth birthday, blondie was determined to storm into his office at Club 11 to reprimand him for upsetting her best friend. I took one for the team by distracting her for twenty minutes. If it weren’t for me, she’d have broken the door down and meddled.

Plus, Bossman was seething mad that night. He’d have put a bullet between her eyes quicker than she could blink, Alexa’s devastated tears be-damned.

See, I am a good Samaritan.

The level of sportsmanship delivered was magnanimous.

These ungrateful fuckers should be thanking me.

Fierceness blazed in her eyes. “I regretted you the same night.”

I slapped a hand to my chest. “Wounded.”

“You made me bleed.” She cringed. “Yet you never so much as asked if I was okay after we did the deed.”

Did the deed is not what I called hardcore fucking, but whatever floats your boat.

One, I had no idea that she was a virgin.

I mean, give me a break. I might not like the woman, but I can admit beauty when I see it, and this blonde broad is gorgeous.

At least, she was gorgeous before she hacked her hair and opted for grandma rags instead of those tight-fitted dresses she once modelled.

Two, she was confident, loud-mouthed and walked with an air of seductiveness.

When I coaxed her into the VIP suite, backed her up against the wall, she was on me like wildfire. Not once, while doffing clothes and fucking like wild animals, did she cry virtuousness.

Three, God’s honest truth, I do not fuck naive, innocent or inexperienced women.

That is a huge red flag.

I am attracted to sensual and promiscuous.

There is nothing sexier than a woman who wants nothing more than a good, hard fucking. No strings attached. An emotionless distraction from life. It’s one of the biggest reasons why I love the club women. It’s what they signed up for, money and a good time. Although, I don’t pay for sex because, well, I am Brad Jones. And Brad Jones is a far cry from being neglected. In fact, the club whores idolise me, some more than others. Take Cherry, for example. That hot mess can’t get enough of my cock. And truthfully, as much as I hate to admit it, my cock can’t get enough of the red-head and her painstaking tongue piercing.

Tresses of blonde hair blew across her face. “He rapes me,” she said in a low, hitched voice. “Harold. He holds me down and forces me to take him.”

If I had a heart, I’d feel empathy. But I am a cold, uncompassionate bastard. “You allow it.”

Her head snapped in my direction. “You think because I am fearful of my husband that I deserve his wrath.”

“I think,” I said whispery, curling a strand of hair behind her ear, “I don’t care about you or your tribulations. Perhaps if you’d have come to me before throwing my boss in the slammer, I might have been kind enough to lend a hand. Sadly, for you, you did not. You chose to abet the mean-spirited twat you call husband instead, which I find completely unfathomable. It’s not as though he and the boss ever held a conversation, let alone differences of opinions. Tell me, why the huge vendetta?”

“David,” she answered honestly. “It was mostly for David.”

Detective David Michaels is on my radar.

“Alexa,” she added, and my distracted gaze returned. “Harold loathes Alexa.” Thinking about Alexa slammed her with what appeared to be guilt. Fresh tears broke through the dam, cascading down her blotchy cheeks. “I’m sorry.” Her raw, pained sobs ricocheted throughout the cemetery. “I’m so sorry, Brad.”

“Why do you apologise to me? I am not rotting in a prison cell right now. I am not home alone, crying in bed because I cannot see the love of my life. But Warren is behind bars. And Alexa is grieving her husband beneath the covers. It is them who deserve acknowledgement for what you did.”

Her finger drew images in the damp soil. “I have a son.”

My head shook slightly. “Not my problem.”

“If you kill me, he will grow up without a mother.” I felt her eyes on me. “Do you hurt children? Will you go to him once my blood seeps into the ground?”

For my sins, I am destined for Hades. I have committed the unspeakable and carried out the most gruesome of murders. But I would never purposely harm a child. “I guess you will never know.”

“You cannot.” Her breath caught. “Alexa would never allow it.”

“Alexa is not Command,” I said cruelly, and her red-brimmed eyes rounded. “I am.”

“Please.” Her filthy hands latched onto my white shirt. “I beg you. Kill everyone involved in Warren’s case. It’s only fair. But please, spare Dominic. He is innocent. He is…” Tears of misery trickled from the corners of her eyes. “He is my everything.”

I held her stare.

“Please,” she begged. “Please, Brad. Spare my son.”

“What do you seek?” My voice was a mere whisper. “Reassurance? I owe you nothing.”

In silent defeat, she nodded.

“You will cross over without knowing.” Rising to my feet, I reached for the gun in the waistband of my trousers. “It is only what you deserve.”

Into the back of her hand, she sobbed, smearing soiled blood across her split lips. “Dominic likes to fall asleep in my arms before I put him to bed. He has to feel the blanket on his cheek while sucking a pacifier.”

My eyes sliced. “Why are you telling me this?”

Her hand effaced splattered mud on her mother’s headstone. “He loves bath time. Every time his feet crash against the water, he laughs so loudly. It’s his favourite time of the day. Bath time.”

I cocked the gun.

“Harold kept him from me.” Her whimpers heightened. “He would deliberately take him to my father’s house for days on end just to punish me. Those nights were the worst. I sat next to my son’s empty bed until sunrise, wishing I was brave enough to pack up and leave.”

I caught a slight glimmer in her hands.

Revealing a sharp kitchen knife, she stared at the honed edge like it was the answer to all her prayers. “If you do find it in your heart to spare him, please don’t leave him with Harold. His father only tolerated him in public.”

“Drop it,” I warned as her hands fumbled with the knife. “I mean it, Chloe. Drop the knife.”

From her knees, she peered up at me. “I do not fear death, Brad.” In haste recklessness, she placed the knife to her elongated throat. “At least, in death,” she croaked, “I am free.”

My eyes widened. “Chloe—” She ripped the blade from left to right, slicing her throat in one fluid movement. Flinging the gun aside, I dropped to my knees, catching her boneless body in my arms before her head crashed into strewn stones. “Fucking Christ.”

Watching the life drain from her eyes, I rested her head on my thigh as her blood rivulets down her chest, where fresh and old bruising marred her creamy skin.

“I should staunch the blood,” I said tightly. “You were supposed to die at my hands, not yours.”

Her short gasps hitched between us. Fisting the collar of my shirt, she tried to pull me in, but her lack of strength made communication impossible. Her mouth stuttered open and shut. Her ever-present tears soaked my hand as it braced the nape of her neck.

“A bullet to the head is quick and painless,” I explained, listening to her short intake of breath. “Your way? Yeah, that’s pretty fucking painful, and it lasts a helluva lot longer if you miss the jugular vein and carotid arteries. Unfortunately for you, by the looks of it, you skimmed the windpipe, and you will die from deprived oxygen or haemorrhagic shock. So, I am debating whether or not I should leave you here to bleed out by yourself or hang around until your last breath.” When I looked down, I found her glassy eyes on me. “I am not sure which avenue to walk. Any preference?”

“Dom…” Her trembling hand fell from my collar and landed idly on the ground. “He…” Her choked gargles spritzed blood onto my ringed fingers, where I kept a palm on her clavicle. “He…is…” Deep red dribbled from the corner of her mouth. “Not…”

Refraining from an eye-roll, I placed a hand over her eyes, the other hand over her mouth and nose. “Let’s get this over with.”

Even though she struggled for oxygen, she did not flinch when I cut off her air supply. She was too weak, feeble, fluttering between death and semi-consciousness. But when her legs jerked once, I knew she was gone. It was as though her soul leapt from her body and disappeared into the night. Lowering my hands to catalogue her face, I stared into her wide green eyes, closed her lids and tossed her lifeless body onto her mother’s grave.

It’s where she wanted to be. I suppose she believed her mother would be on the other side, waiting for her.

I stood, took out my phone and dialled Nate’s number.

“Is it done?” he said after one ring.

“She’s gone.” My hand crushed the phone. “Change of plans, though. She slashed her throat before I could pull the trigger.

“Will you drive her to the crematorium? I am almost there. I will fire the chamber ready.”

I stared down at the woman’s disjointed looking body. “I have a better idea.”

“Yeah?” he drawled.

“Let the media get a whiff of her suicide,” I enunciated, stuffing the gun in the waistband of my trousers. “It screams guilt.”

I end the call and walk away with a spring in my step.

CHAPTER TWO

Brad

I hate tweed suits. It’s the fuzziness, the coarse textures and measureless layers of thick wool. I don’t care if it’s high-quality, versatile and durable. You will not see me dead in chambray hideousness. There is something extremely offensive about the hand-woven fabrics used to produce such monstrous garbage.

Men think it’s voguish if you throw in a volumised flat cap and a gold-plated waistcoat chain. It’s not fashionable. It’s unfashionable. We are not the remodelled aristocracies of the eighteenth century. We live in London, the iconic British fashion capital. If Oxford Street does not get the taste buds flowing, take a trip to the concentrated area of sophistication and splash out in Bond Street, the heart of luxuriousness, a fashionista’s haven.

I just bought Valentino Garavani leather shoes and three signature belts, hence why I was late for the meeting this morning. I guess I am what you’d call fashion-conscious. Designer labels convey wealth, whereas bargain-store clothes screamed cheap and cheerless.

Life was not always about great panache and unrivalled style. There were depressing times where hand-me-down clothes lasted twenty-four months and inexpensive jewellery tarnished within weeks of purchase. I paid extortionate money to rent insalubrious backstreet housing where light fixtures dangled precariously from ceilings and indoor mould stubbornly surfaced through freshly painted walls.

What’s the phrase? One step forward and two steps back.

As soon as I fixed one problem, I encountered another one.

Let’s carpet throughout. It sounded like a good idea to cover the hardwood floors, make the place feel homier, but then Stuart Little decided to pay a visit and chew indiscriminately through the underlay for its ever-present nest of furless vermin to venture out from next door.

Let’s overturn the back garden. I could imagine Tiffany, the fucking worst mistake of my life, sunbathing on loungers, sipping her favourite cocktails. Three days, I shovelled soil into the wheelbarrow. I caught the best sun-tan. I also discovered an infestation of lawn grubs.

I shivered at the memory.

Christ, I had six hot showers that evening. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt one of those slimy, wiggling grubs on my skin.

I’d never, not even for the right price, cultivate gardens again.

The above mentioned is not even half of the problems I experienced. Life was hard. Times were tough. I often sat in the pub after work, wondering when I’d catch a break or, I don’t know, win the lottery.

Hell, I worked long, hard and industriously to save money, from serving pints at Jerry’s Bar to assembling furniture in factories and slaving away at unsociable hours in industrial plants. I was assiduous in every job just for a pittance because I could see the bigger picture, a bright future, the light at the end of the tunnel.

Three grand. That’s all I had managed to save in four years because, well, life and bills. That shoebox stashed with rolled-up cash under the bed was my ticket out of misery. I counted those notes every Saturday night whilst imbibing inexpensive beer.

My brows incurved.

Come to think of it. I never did grab the box before Warren set the house alight. It never even crossed my mind. I walked away from my old life empty-handed and trusted a man who I once feared more than the devil himself to secure my future.

To this day, I will never truly understand why I reached for Warren’s hand and pledged alliance. He might have saved me from life imprisonment, but the man was a heartless bastard who barely tolerated employees, myself included. He never let me forget that I was beholden to him, indebted to him. I was his bitch, his pathetic leach and shame-faced skivvy. If he told me to jump, I jumped. If he told me to get him coffee, I sprinted through the streets to buy him the best black coffee in London. I was a menial—a low-paid, unskilled errand boy.

Everything is one big game to Liam Warren. It took me five months to realise the man purposely overworked his newly hired. It was a test. He wanted to see how far he could push me or if I was a quitter. He wanted to know if I was trustworthy or if I’d blow the whistle when ensnared into nefariousness.

You see, Warren is perspicacious. He has the fortunate ability to assess situations and judge people’s intentions by merely looking at them. But guess what? So do I. I know when someone’s trying to deceive me. I could walk into a busy room and sense that I was the topic of conversations three seconds prior. So, when Warren placed a bat in my hand and, with his eyes alone, told me to kill the person I once called mother, I knew it was time to prove loyalty because brotherhood blood is thicker than family ties.

I flinched, recalling the painful sounds of my mother’s screams.

My first kill changed everything. It was surreal. I spent months trying to get on Warren’s good side, falling over myself to be the best, when all it took was death by my hands. One kill. It’s all he required.

We celebrated with a bottle of whiskey that night. He gave me the keys to a brand new, personalised Bentley and the three-bedroom apartment I rarely visited. He provided money in abundance, suits and shoes galore, diamonds and jewellery—the Glock. But nothing, not even the Patek watch on my wrist, surmounted the inscribed military tags around my neck: number one. I was his chosen right-hand man. I was the guy he selected amongst hundreds of dutiful men to stand by his side. Me. Brad Jones. I bypassed soldiers who had been with him since the very beginning. Back then, I never understood why. I was not unique or important. I barely knew how to fire a gun. But he saw something in me that no one else did.

“When you hurt, I feel it.” He crouched before me. “Your pain is my pain.”

Licking blood and tears from my lips, I raised a fisted hand between us, and he grasped it, his fingers curling around mine. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand.”

“You will,” he rasped, his thumb sweeping over my cracked knuckles. “All in good time.”

My eyes landed on the mahogany conference table, where suited men talked about me as if I were not present. There is an empty chair to my right. Through trials and tribulations, that’s where he’d sit. No, that’s where he’d preside over the meeting. And all these pretentious twats wouldn’t so much as look at me the wrong way.

“I think we can all agree that, due to the unprecedented heights of Mr Jones’ stressful circumstances, his community service breach order is defensible.” Carl Bishop looked at the judge. “He has acknowledged failed compliance and is willing to renegotiate terms and conditions.”

The judge, an older man with a stiff upper lip, turned his gaze to me. “Are you apologetic?”

I frowned. “For what?”

Carl nudged me beneath the table.

“I mean, yes.” My throat cleared. “I apologise for behaving unacceptably towards the supervisor.”

The judge’s grey, ungroomed eyebrow arched.

My lips flattened. “And I apologise for not providing acceptable reasons for non-appearance.” His glare hardened. “For not collecting enough litter…” When his head tilted, I mimicked. “For lashing out at the public? Christ, help me out here.”

Carl removed black-framed glasses to rub the bridge between his eyes. “What Mr Jones is trying to say is that he will behave accordingly next time.”

The judge harrumphed. “Maybe there won’t be a ‘next time.'”

Oh, I liked the sound of that. “Tap on the wrist then?”

“I could revoke the community service order and re-sentence you to full-time jail.” He was a short man with a loose-fitting tweed suit. And he expected me to take him seriously. Tweed. “You understand the consequences of your actions.”

“That’s fine with me.” My eyes widened in glee. “Can I select the building of punishment? Preferably Her Majesty’s prison of Belmarsh.”

Truthfully, I’d sell my soul to the devil if it guaranteed a stint with Warren. I love the son of bitch, but since the jury came back with a guilty verdict, he hasn’t returned one letter or accepted visitations. He’s ghosted everyone, his wife included. He has not picked up the phone, either. I need to know why.

The judge smiled. It was the mocking smile I liked to peel off one’s lips with a Stanley knife. “Do you take me for a fool?”

Carl’s hand fell to my shoulder. It’s a silent order to keep my damn mouth shut. “As already discussed, Mr Jones is extremely stressed due to work-related occurrences. He is, after all, managing Mr Warren’s affairs.” As he talked, the judge’s eyes bounced between us. “He is juggling multiple businesses, which, I must add, includes over six hundred employees, not to mention Mr Warren’s bank accounts, savings, investments and other financial affairs.” He flicked through print-outs. “And he has taken full responsibility for Mr Warren’s pregnant wife, emotionally and financially, until the baby is born.”

See? I’m a fucking saint. “It’s hard,” I lied, knowing damn well Alexa was not a job for me. I love the red-lipped vixen. “Sometimes, I forget what day it is.”

The judge eased back in the leather chair. “You were given three hundred hours of community service for drug use.”

“Technically, it was an empty baggie,” I corrected, and the rosiness in his cheeks turned an awful shade of purple. “But there was residue, so I admitted fault.”

Carl’s lips pursed in frustration.

“You paid the Magistrates’ court fine in the previous hearing,” the judge said while reading past notes in the folder. “There will be another charge for today.”

“Of course.” Taking out a cheque book, I clicked the top of a pen. “How much?”

He told me the figure, then, licking the pad of his thumb, turned to the next page. “You will do another two hundred hours of community service for wasting my time.”

“Another two hundred hours,” I said tightly, the pen snapping in my fingers. “Did you not pay any attention to Carl’s argument. I am already overworked.”

“Six hundred hours of unpaid work,” he added, scribbling something down.

“Is this motherfucker serious?” I asked Carl, whose protruding eyes told me to stand down. “He’s just throwing additional hours around like it’s nothing. Listen, old man. I have a lot on my plate right now. I could really use some compassion.”

“Would you like me to throw the entire rule book at your head?” The judge’s bewhiskered cheeks puffed in exasperation. “My next appointment is in three hours, Jones. I have plenty of time to make an example out of you.”

So help me, God, I will kill you. “Six hundred hours of unpaid work for a petty crime.” My clasped hands rested on the table. “How fucking blissful.”

***

Nate’s Audi Q7 mounted the curbside. He rolled the window down, chortling at my expense. “You got fucked all the way to Shantytown.”

Fuming from the inside out, I fumbled with the mechanical litter gripper. After six attempts, I secured the crushed beer can between rubber prongs and stuffed it in the half-filled black sack. “You should be at the club.”

“I am en-route.” He lowered the vehicle’s ear-splitting music. “Listen, I kinda feel bad for you. Picking up rubbish in the borough? It’s tough.”

My eyes rolled.

“And the bright yellow Hi-Vis vest?” His hand smothered snorts. “I mean, it’s blinding.”

“Will you fuck off?” Bending down to grab an empty bottle of coke, I lunged it at him through the window, and he ducked in time for it to fall on the passenger seat. “Christ, I don’t need this shit. Go to the club and prepare for Reginald.”

Nate’s inked fingers drummed the steering wheel. “Did you read the paper?”

My head shook.

“Chloe’s suicide is all over the news,” he tells me. “You might want to turn off the phone for a few hours. Apparently, Alexa left the bedroom.”

I had mixed feelings about that information. Sure, I am glad Alexa finally climbed out of bed, but Chloe’s death will send her back to drawn curtains and deprived showers, so I am not holding my breath. “Her death is not my fault.” Three chewing gum wrappers went into the black sack. “She took her own life. That’s on her.”

Nate’s head dipped in agreement. “But you were there. Alexa will demand answers.”

“Chloe’s death was inevitable.” Tossing equipment aside, I accepted bottled water from him through the driver’s side window. “Grief aside, Alexa knows it is what the bint deserved.”

His teeth sank into a peanut butter protein bar. “I’d still avoid her for a few hours. It’ll give her the chance to calm down.”

No, I am not scared to face the wrath of Mrs Warren. “You should get to the club.” Pulling my hair into a messy top knot, I pushed away from the Audi to resume duties. “I will be there in a few hours.”

“Alright.” He revved the engine. “I’ll catch you later.”

Listening to the vehicle screech down the road, I obtained the litter gripper and stabbed empty packets of foil crisp packets on the pavement.

In over forty-five minutes, I made zero difference to the street’s littered road. And don’t even start me on the overflowing communal bins. It smelt worse than rotten corpses over there.

This is beneath me, I groaned in displeasure.

Keeping an eye on the male supervisor, the one who is more interested in the fresh-faced eighteen-year-old girl by the newsagents, I slipped into the brick alleyway to spark a blunt.

The job’s worth might crack me over the head with his clipboard if he catches me, but haze was worth the unpreventable headache.

Inhaling a lungful, I respired marijuana-infused smoke through my nose and, back rested to the graffitied wall, watched the group of middle-aged contract builders fall in and out of some grubby looking cafe. When the front door opened, the stomach-grumbling scent of cooked meat wafted past me. Smoke rolled down my throat. I took another drag and lost myself to momentary fuzziness. Damn, I could murder a sausage bap. I was due to finish in one hour, and with the supervisor occupied, I could sneak some greasy fodder.

My thought process plummeted.

After today’s scolding from the judge, sneaking off for an early lunch was probably senseless. Christ, I might die in the upcoming months. Six hundred hours of unpaid work is not something to joke about. I won’t survive any more hours, that’s for sure—an old, rusty piece of metal sped past me, and I jerked in acute panic, the erratic heart in my chest falling to the pit of my stomach. Through the rain-filled potholes, the worn-down tyres went, spraying filthy, disgusting water all over me. I was so shocked, so taken aback, that when the soaked blunt snapped in half, the roach still wedged between my teeth, I could only blink. Slowly, I glanced down at my appearance. Not even the Hi-Vis vest prevented damage. I looked like a drowned rat. Water dripped from my hair in taunting dews and, oh, fuck, is that dog shit on my shoe?

My eyes closed.

Think clearly, Jones.

You can buy new leather shoes. You have the exact pair at the Warren Manor. They are in the box, tucked neatly in the walk-in wardrobe of the guest bedroom.

“I am so sorry,” the female driver said upon stumbling out of the dump she dared to call a car. “I am late for work. I was driving too fast, then I saw you, and it was too late to slow down, so I panicked and braked and…”

Spitting the roach from my lips, I rubbed what reeked of sewage water from my eyes and faced the babbling woman. I had to drop the gaze because she stood at four feet nothing. “Is there shit on my face?”

“No, I mean, I don’t think so…” Her green eyes squinted. “It’s the neighbour’s fault,” she shifted blame. “He lets the dog out without a leash every morning, and the damn thing shits all over the place. It rained this morning…” A set of noisy keys dangled between her delicate fingers. “Hey, I have baby wipes in the car.” Tripping over her feet, she unlocked the car boot, rummaged through an insane amount of carrier bags and retrieved an item branded Pampers. “See? These smell divine. You just,” she ripped wet wipes out of the packet frantically, “rub them across your skin and…” Christ, her awkwardness sent my brain to riot. “I’m sorry.”

My fingers clicked. “You said that already.”

“I did.” Hand to her hip, she craned her neck to look up at me. “You are freakishly tall.”

My stare sharpened.

“Or I am freakishly short,” she added with a wince. “Let’s go with the latter.” The baby wipes raised between us. “For you.”

After a short pause, I snatched the packet from her hands. It had a wide-eyed baby on the front with a fluffy towel over its shoulders. “Why not facial wipes from the beauty store?” She looked far too young to be a mother, but who the hell stored scentless baby items in the back of their car unless they had a kid, or a nephew, or something. “Baby?”

Her lips parted. “I—what?”

Cleaning the unthinkable off my face, I tossed the dirty wipes on the floor, knowing I’d have to pick them up in twenty minutes. “Do you have a baby?”

“Oh,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “No, Carter’s nine. He’s hardly a baby. Well, he will always be my baby…” A blush crept to her cheeks. “Seriously, I cannot apologise enough for almost killing you.”

My stare went from her to the parked car. It’s mere inches away from the wall—from me. In fact, when did the strange broad squeeze into my personal space? She was virtually stood on my shoes, her hands far too close to my chest. “Fucking Christ.” Stepping to the side, being sure not to make any physical contact, I moved around to the front of the car. “You came close.”

“You were more concerned with your shoes,” she said with a slight laugh. “But yeah, one step in the wrong direction, and you’d be roadwork.”

That’s not even remotely funny. “How old are you?”

Her guard flew up. “Why?”

“You look too young to be a mother,” I voiced curious thoughts. “Especially a nine-year-old.”

“Age does not define a good mother,” she said defensively.

“Hey, it’s all good. I am not here to judge you.” I was only curious. “Twenty-one?”

She looked away as if the question made her uncomfortable. “Twenty-four.”

My fingers investigated the car bonnet’s peeled paintwork. She drove an old, green Saxo. It is fit for scrap metal, the junkyard, and I am almost sure it would fail if she put the car through for an MOT.

When I finished circling the car, I paused beside the girl. Again, something I said or did seemed to make her uncomfortable. Subtly, she moved away, not wanting to be too close to the man she had approached. “Anyway, I should get inside…”

I eyed the cafe. “You work there?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “Why?”

“It’s diabolical.”

“Hey,” she chastised, and she meant it. “Do not call it diabolical.”

“Well, what would you call it?”

“My home.”

“You live in a cafe?”

“No, I live above the cafe in a two-bedroom flat with my son and brother.”

My curiosity went to the flat above the small business. “You must struggle.”

I must have said the wrong thing because the girl turned into a full-blown psycho. “Fuck you,” she spat, her once pretty face twisted in repulsion. “How dare you judge me? You, of all people. You do not fool me with your fancy suit. What’s the identification card for, huh?” When she reached for the lanyard around my neck, I whacked her hand away. “Community worker? It sounds like a polite way of saying you pissed off the law.”

“Look who’s judging now,” I argued, following her down the alley. “I’d rather piss off the law than reside in squalor.”

“Really?” She stopped at the cafe’s closed door. “I would like to withdraw my previous apologies. You are an insensitive prick.” Her finger jabbed me in the chest. “And insensitive pricks warrant clothes ruined with runny dog shit.”

“Is that the best you can do, sweetheart?” My trembling hands itched to snatch her breakable throat. “If you want to offend a man like me, you’ll need to delve deeper than replaceable designer labels. The shitty clothes?” I pulled the vest apart and gestured to the Valentino three-piece suit and gold for days. “I have duplicates at home. I guess being an insensitive prick has its pros, right?”

“A beautiful heart is worth more than money, big guy.” Her eyes welled up. “Have a nice day.”

Into the building she went, the front door slamming behind her. Blowing out a tired breath, I pushed away from the wall to the unrelenting sound of my phone ringing.

Alexa Warren.

Can my day get any worse?

Spitting out a curse, I drew in a calming breath and put the phone to my ear. “Sugar tits.”

“What did you do?”

“Moi?” I slid sunglasses over my eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Do not lie to me, Brad,” she warned, and I peered around the wall to find the supervisor. “It’s all over the news.” And then, inconsolable tears blubbered into the receiver. “Did you do it? Did you kill Chloe?”

My jaw muscle ticked. “She was on the list.”

“I vouched for her—”

“You cannot vouch for someone who betrays the syndicate,” I fired back, but she was too emotional to listen. “Besides, I didn’t get the chance to do anything. Your friend took a blade to her throat.”

“No,” she cried, doubting the words I spoke. “Chloe would never take her own life. I refuse to believe it.”

“Well, she did,” I said uncaringly. “I won’t lie to you, Alexa. I followed her with the intent to kill. But she beat me to it.”

Her tears morphed into snivels. “Why?”

“What’s the question?”

“Why would she commit suicide?”

“To be free,” I said, a matter of fact, recalling her despair. “Your girl was miserable.”

“Harold.” She released a stuttered breath. “He drove her to it. I know he did.”

Stone is on the list. “I’ll handle it.”

“She was my friend,” she said, her voice fierce yet weak. “Bring him to me.”

“You are pregnant.”

“I can still fire a gun.”

“Fine,” I lied, picking up the discarded litter picker from the ground. “I will bring him to you.” When she remained quiet, I asked, “Have you eaten?”

“Alfie made omelettes this morning.”

“Will you eat with me?”

“You are not here.”

“Tonight,” I said, and she sighed. “I will come home with your favourite. Maybe we can watch a movie.”

“My favourite?”

“Beef noodles,” I tempted, imagining her forced smile. “If you are lucky, I will get some ice cream.”

The girl from the cafe exited the building to toss bins into the communal skip. I am not sure what she wore earlier, but I know it was not all black. Now, she sported leggings, a fitted T-shirt and a bottle green apron. Her hair was an ombre of browns and caramels, shoved atop her head with a biro pen sticking out.

“Okay,” Alexa agreed to dinner. “We should talk.”

Yes, we should. “Sugar tits?

When she laughed, I felt a surge of relief. “Brad?”

“I love the arse off you.”

“I love you, too.”

I ended the call.

The girl from the cafe caught me in her sights.

I flashed two dimples.

She threw me the middle finger.

Well, what a rude bitch.

CHAPTER THREE

Brad

Club 11’s underground rooms shared semblance to the convoluted catacombs of Paris. But, instead of showcasing the human remains of deceased Parisians, damask coverage and expensive paintings concealed Warren’s victims. You’d unearth enough bones to congest a morgue if you jackhammered through these concrete walls, these very floors, the torture chambers.

For the men, if we listened carefully, to souls lost, we heard their canned pain, the hollowness in their voice as they wept from beneath. You could still see the sanguine drainage in their eyes every time you laid to rest at night.

Those macabre incidents kept us awake at night. Not because we cared. We are unremorseful. Free of sin. But it never left you, the responsibilities of another’s death, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.

The eeriness of their disembodied whimpers were brutal reminders of what’s in store for me—what’s waiting for me. I am an atheist. I disbelieved the existence of deities and gods because if the almighty reined so much power, why is there hell on earth? I believed in the afterlife, though—the stream between life and death. And the ghosts of my past, well, they couldn’t wait to get their hands on me and deservingly so.

I killed people for sport. I took lives for the sheer wealthiness of a gangster’s life. It is what I deserved, money and power. I did time for penury. I paid my dues as a penniless nobody. And whilst murder guaranteed wealth and riches, I will continue to slaughter my way through London because life before was no life at all, and I had no intention of going back there.

Before reaching the conference room, I paused outside the door to give myself a short breather. I had millions of concerns in mind. “How do you do it?” I wondered aloud, doing my utmost to stay strong, to take the methodical approach. “I used to envy him.”

Five Hundred and Thirty-One looked up. “Sir?”

He alternated with Two Hundred and Twenty-Three. Both men worked a tight shift to guard the chambers. It is a strictly prohibited area. It is where people went to squeal truths before a member of the syndicate discarded their bodies. Someone had to stand watch at all times just in case uninvited busybodies decided to venture beneath the club’s surface.

“I am not Warren.” A toothpick wedged between my teeth. “I am second in command.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Command.”

“Warren,” I said, and sadness crossed his features. “I used to envy him. But he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. I don’t know how he did it.”

He held my stare. “Are we having a conversation?”

“No, I don’t want your advice or opinion.” Spearing a hand through my hair, I glanced from him to the door. “Just a moment of wonderment, I guess.”

“Of course.” He gave me an insipid smile. “I understand.”

Emotionless mask falling into place, I opened the conference room door and listened to instructions.

I know how to handle situations.

You taught me how.

“Howdy motherfuckers.” Bypassing the boss’s chair at the head of the table, I pulled out my usual seat and clicked Cherry down for a drink. “Don’t be stingy.”

Her eyes shone like beacons whenever I entered a room. “Macallan?”

I opened the folder. “Jameson.”

Nate glared at me from across the table. “You took your time.” A pen rolled between his ice-laden fingers. “Reginald is three minutes away from the club.”

Besuited men filled the room, but there was a missing person. “Where is Josh?”

“He called in sick.” Nate thanked Cherry for the gin refill. “He sounded pretty rough.”

Cherry’s voluptuous breasts fell into my direct line of vision when she leaned in to place a glass of distilled whiskey in front of me. “Hi.” Her purple and black corset belonged on the floor. Her seven-inch heels looked good on her feet, but they’d look even better over my shoulders. “I called you.”

“Later,” I whispered, lost in her crystal blues. “Get to work.”

Chippendale sterling silver tray to her chest, she sauntered around the table, back to the mini bar, and restocked the shelves for upcoming meetings.

Vincent sent her a sidelong glance before his attention returned. “Should we proceed without the Superintendent?”

“Yes.” I regarded his pale complexion, the dark circles around his eyes and unkempt hair. “Are you sleep-deprived?”

“Valerie.” An untouched green apple awaited his pocketknife. He never palmed or peeled it, which was unusual. “Her death,” he added, looking into space. “It shan’t be too much longer.”

Valerie Wentworth has terminal cancer. Sure, I know the score—her condition. It is my job to know anything and everything where Warren and the syndicate are concerned. Bossman is emotionally disconnected, though. And I could hardly blame him. Valerie might have been the best mother to Vincent, but she was a downright cunt to her eldest son.

When social services threw Warren into the system, she never tracked him down or fought for a relationship. He was left to fend for himself while she played Little House on the Prairie, so when the brazen mare stormed back into his life, it was no surprise that he gave her the cold shoulder.

If he were here, he’d sympathise with his younger brother because—It pains me to admit it—he loves every hair on the man’s head. He’d feel absolutely nothing for the woman who birthed him, though. Hell, he wouldn’t even attend her funeral.

So, I feigned empathy on behalf of my boss, but deep down, I couldn’t wait for the old bitch to pop her clogs. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Vincent nodded in appreciation.

“Okay.” Draping the suit jacket over the back of the chair, I rolled my shirt sleeves up to the elbows. “Alberto Moretti. Where is he?”

Nate slipped on black-framed reading glasses. “He is doing what he does best: hiding.”

“Did we find out if there is another boss?”

“Not yet.” Nate slid a sheet of paper across the table. “I uncovered Bosqui’s location, though.”

“Beautiful.” I scanned the document. “Do I bring him in or welcome myself into his humble abode?”

“Let’s pay him a visit.” He turned over another sheet of paper. “If all else fails, I have a backup plan. I uncovered another restaurant in Essex. His daughter’s restaurant.”

“Family is everything to Italians, right?” I examined the woman’s photo. “Send someone to Essex. I want her in London. We won’t need to look for Bosqui if he knows she is here. He will come to us willingly.” Tossing the file aside, I downed the Jameson shot. “What’s next?”

“We received an email from a solicitor.” Nate flicked through printouts. “Her name is Lorna. She wants a meeting with you.”

“Me?” My brows furrowed. “Why?”

“No idea. I made a call, but she refused to speak over the phone.” He tore into a packet of roasted peanuts. “It has to be in person.”

“Well, I don’t have the time nor energy to deal with solicitors.” When he handed me the printout, I scrunched it into a ball and hurled it in the bin. “What of the Russians?”

“You were right.” Vincent made an exasperated sound in the back of his throat. “I received an email from Nikolai.”

My tongue rolled the toothpick to the corner of my lips. “What does he want?”

“A meeting,” he said calmly, yet my heartbeat took flight. “His brother, Alessio, will attend.”

I hummed, low and raspy. “I don’t like it.”

Vincent lifted an insouciant shoulder. “Likewise.”

“What’s the order?” Nate was ready for action. “I can haul his white ass to the club if it’s what you want.”

“No,” I said, having mere seconds to deliberate. “Let’s put a prolific cyber-espionage plan in motion. Breach his organisations and business networks. Tap into his emails.” Rubbing the scruff of my jaw, I eased back in the leather chair. “Meanwhile, Josh can follow his movements. I want to know where he resides and where he commutes. I want the names of his associates and close friends. Where does he eat? Drink? Work out? We need to know this man better than he knows himself.”

“I can be of assistance.” The younger Warren brother straightened in his seat. “I operate quietly and without incident. Truthfully, I could use the distraction.”

Nate and I shared a look.

“Fine.” Closing the folder, I slid it into Vincent’s possession. “Don’t let us down, Vincy Boy.” Heavy footsteps resounded in the hallway. “I can hear Reginald.”

Moments later, Chief Superintendent Reginald Burton strode into the conference room. “Sorry, I’m late.” He helped himself to the minibar, pouring neat scotch, then sat next to Vincent. “I got eyes all over me.” His suit jacket landed on the table. “Everywhere I go, I see someone from the station. I think they are building a case against me.”

I remained impassive.

“Brad, I am fucking neck-deep in this shit.” He was red-faced and panting for oxygen. “If we don’t do something about Michaels, the Met will revoke my badge. I worked too damn hard for some jumped up fucking jester to take it from me. Shit, I’m of two minds about whacking the son of a bitch myself.”

“Calm down,” I said airily. “I’ll handle the detective.”

“When?” His anger soared. “What’s taking so long? I thought he’d be dead already.”

“If I send the syndicate on a fucking killing spree, the law will be on our doorstep in a heartbeat. I have to play smart. And smart means taking our time to nail those bitches in an orderly, systematic manner.

“Now, I want everyone that betrayed Warren pushing up the daisies as much as you do, but reckless haste is foolish and, quite frankly, amateur. We are professionals, not incompetent idiots.

“Let the dust settle,” I said with a hint of a smile. “It’s the calm before the storm, Reginald. Imperturbability is the presage to mass destruction. In due course, I will shovel the heads of those snakes until I get what I want, and what I want is the boss unbound from shackles and chains.

“So, the metropolitan better send their best army because when I come for them, I will not rest, yield or cease-fire.” My throat swelled. “If unmerciful lengths are prerequisites for Warren’s exoneration, I will travel to the darkest realms of insanity to accomplish.”

Everyone listened.

“You trusted Warren. Now, I ask that you trust me. If you doubt me?” My gaze swept over every man in the room until my eyes settled on the boss’s empty chair. “If you question my rationality or capabilities? Say it now, or forever hold your peace. If you challenge me in the foreseeable future? Know that there is no one to hold me back.”

Reginald Burton’s throat worked on a tight swallow. “In you,” he said, sliding an envelope across the table, “I trust.”

I glanced at Nate.

Rule number sixteen: Have faith in the hands of those who braced you.

My relationship with Nate was often messy, argumentative and belligerent, but we never got thus far in life without love and respect. I’m his day one. He’s the light to my dark. If everyone walked out of the room, I know he’d be the last man standing because brothers are not defined by the colour of their skin or the blood in their veins. They are bound by choice. We are bound by choice. So, articulation was unnecessary. Nodding imperceptibly, he reached across the table, gave my balled-up fist a tight squeeze and fell back in his chair, ready for whatever awaited us.

And, last but not least, Vincent Warren.

“I do not like you,” he said in straightforward unpretentiousness. “However, I do trust that you have my brother’s best interest. For that alone, I will work tirelessly, for what many would consider imprudent, to support you and the institution.” His folded arms leaned onto the table. “We are on the same side, Jones. I am unaccustomed to subordination.” He smirked marginally. “But I do love a challenge, so use me and exhaust my resources.”

I touched the brown envelope labelled confidential with the pads of my fingers. When I break the seam, I will see the names and addresses of the jurors, the prosecution team, the witnesses and the judge. Excitement bubbled from within. Each will receive punishing deaths. Each will wish they’d never been born. “Thrilled is an understatement,” I said, and the men chuckled. “I should put their names in a hat and pick at random.”

Having swallowed scotch in one mouthful, Reginald raised the empty glass above his head for Cherry to deliver. “Thank you, darling.” He ogled at her lace-trimmed breasts. “Are you free this evening?”

“Burton.” She patted his head. “You know, I don’t do private sessions anymore.” Her eyes briefly came to me. “Besides, I am seeing someone.”

My eyebrows raised. “Is it serious?”

“I don’t know yet.” Her lips cinched at the corners. “Is it?”

It took three seconds to realise she meant me. “Nothing in life is that serious.”

“Have you hired any newbies recently?” Reginald asked, and the red-haired woman smiled to hide disappointment. “My wife is out of town.”

“Perhaps in a month or two.” Vincent lit a cigarette. “New employees are not on my list of priorities right now.”

“Ah, yes.” Reginald puffed a cigar. “You share co-ownership of the club, huh? How’s it going for you?”

“We haven’t worked out the details yet,” I interjected on Vincent’s behalf. “It’s something we will discuss in private.” In Warren’s absence, I had no valid reason to come here anymore. His younger brother is diligent enough to hold the fort. Meanwhile, Andino’s casino will serve well as a port-of-call. “Right?”

Vincent gave me a sharp nod.

Tearing through the envelope, I arranged mugshots across the table. “Number eight?”

“You were right.” Smoke gyrated above Reginald’s head as he puffed on the cigar. “She was on the fence about Warren. She battled the panel to the very end because she believed his innocence.”

Eager to examine details, Nate rounded the table to stand behind me. “Helga.” He tapped her photo. “I say we start with her to get a clear understanding of what happened during deliberations.”

“It sounds strategic.” Reginald’s legs stretched out beneath the table. “But what if she refuses to talk?”

Vincent’s teeth sank into the waxy green apple. “We make her scream.”

***

I arrived at the Warren Manor later than expected. But I came bearing gifts, so I hoped thoughtfulness kept me in Alexa’s good graces. In the regal foyer, I stood, listening to the men pot balls in the billiard room and Tony laughing with Camilla in the kitchen.

Instinctively, I walked the dark halls until locating the boss’s office. When I last checked, the door was unlocked, the room was how he’d left it, not a speck of dust on the grand furniture or an intrinsic ornament out of place, but now, the door was locked. The gilded key was nowhere in sight. I rattled the handle, somewhat desperately, because sitting on the sofa inside his office made me feel closer to him.

My forehead lowered to the door. “Shit”

Why would Alexa lock the door?

Does she not trust me inside his private space?

I had to understand.

Logan was in the underground gym, beating the hell out of the punching bag. He was flushed, sweating and panting, and his wet workout gear clung to his taut body. When he sensed another’s presence, he latched onto the heavy-duty bag and glared at me from across the air-conditioned room.

I tossed a bone across the floor.

Bruno, the well-trained mutt, perched on the mat. Drooling saliva onto his giant paws, he stared longingly at the raw, meaty bone I had purchased from the local butchers. He should not be here. He belonged with his original owner. But Logan had other ideas.

Logan’s fingers clicked.

Bruno snatched the bone with gnarled teeth and skulked behind the boxing ring for privacy.

“Have you informed Alexa yet?”

Logan threw a combination at the punching bag. “Nope.”

My arms crossed. “Why not?”

“Alexa hasn’t said two words to me since Warren’s sentencing,” he said bitterly. “Having a dog is the least of her worries.”

“It’s her house,” I reminded him, and he pushed away from the bag to jump on the treadmill. “Which means it’s her choice whether or not to keep the dog.”

“I am not sending him back.” He broke into a light jog. “I paid good money for him.”

“You did not pay for shit,” I said, and his feet jumped onto the running deck for a short break. “You are jobless, remember?”

His jaw steeled. “Alexa told me to continue with my studies. If getting a job is what it takes to keep Bruno, then I’ll send out applications.”

“You are missing the point. Your education is more important than stacking shelves in a superstore.” He refused to look at me. “But you used Alexa’s money to pay for Bruno. If nothing else, she deserved a choice. You don’t just adopt animals and expect her to be okay with it.”

“Fine.” He stormed off the treadmill. “I will ask Alexa if I can keep the dog.”

“See? That’s more like it,” I said light-heartedly. “So, what have we learnt?”

He guzzled water from a sport’s bottle. “To hide whenever Brad comes around.”

I will let his snide remark go over my head—just this once.

“It’s called respect, Logan.” I am not in the mood for his churlishness. “Have the decency to ask before you assume.”

If Logan regretted anything, I wouldn’t know. I left him alone in the gym to hunt down Alexa. I found her in the dark theatre room, sleeping on the double chaise lounge, the glittering wall lights twinkling in the background.

Julia Roberts’ “You Hurt Me Scene” was on the cinema screen, and the argument between Edward and Vivian evoked unpleasant memories. There were times where I’d watch pointless shit on the television so that she-who-will-not-be-named smiled more. She loved romantic movies: The Bodyguard, Ghost, Endless Love, Dirty Dancing and Flashdance.

I am ashamed to admit that I watched them all. I can recite Johnny Castle’s “You Wanna Hear Somethin’ Crazy?” speech in my sleep, and it’s disgustingly cringeworthy. I did all that and more for her because her happiness surpassed mine, and if changing everything about myself uplifted her spirits, I thought I was on the right track in life. But it was a lie. Everything I did back then was for her benefit, not mine. I was never happy. Not really. I was pretending to be someone I am not, and what did I get in return? Where did romantic movies and her unaffordable spending sprees get me? What did I achieve from her extreme imperiousness and petulant demands? Oh, that’s right. Obsequiousness got me nowhere. I worked while she painted her toenails and wasted my hard-earned cash in retail stores. I grafted for a better life while she fucked my best friend six ways from Sunday.

I turned off the movie.

Kicking off my leather shoes, I lost the suit jacket and crawled onto the sofa. I had to move bunched up tissues and snacks onto the low table to make extra room.

Raising the fluffy throw blanket slightly, revealing her curled up body, I wrapped an arm around her slender waist and pulled her close. “Alexa,” I whispered, and she murmured. “I hate Pretty Woman. It is overrated.”

Her head rested on my outstretched arm. “It’s the last movie I watched with Liam.”

My brows jumped to my hairline. “You convinced Bossman to watch that pile of wank?”

Although sleepy, she cracked a small smile. “I know how to handle my husband.”

Her eyes opened and devastation darkened her hazel hues.

I frowned. “Are you crying?”

“No,” she lied, knuckling a stray tear away. “Oh, God. I am pathetic. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m so emotional, Brad.”

Her fingers untangled the military chain around her neck. When the rare red diamond glittered, her lips wobbled.

My chest felt heavy.

Alexa mightn’t voice her pain, but I wasn’t stupid. She was hurting. She was missing Warren.

“I think Warren all but died when he first met you.” My finger traced her defined eyebrow. “You were his missing piece.” I thumbed the tear from her cheek. “He will come back to you, Alexa. You are what his heart desires.”

She snivelled into the groove of my arm. “He hasn’t called.”

I need to sit with him. “He will.”

“No, he won’t.” She rolled onto her back to stare at the star-lit ceiling. “I know him, Brad. He is going to distance himself from us.” A stream of tears leaked from the corner of her eyes. “From me.” When I stayed tight-lipped, her head turned to look at me. “My question is why?”

“I don’t have the answers yet.” Propped onto one elbow, I rested a hand on her stomach. “But I will get them, Alexa. I will go to Belmarsh every Friday if need be. He will come to the table eventually.”

Alexa’s hand fell atop of mine and her thumb outlined the gold rings on my fingers. “The baby is draining the life out of me.”

My cheek ticked. “I expected no less from Warren’s son and heir.”

Her eyes rolled. “I think we are having a girl.”

“No way.” My forehead creased. “It’s a boy.”

“Why are you all so against girls?” She threaded our fingers. “When I was pregnant the first time, Liam said God would never be so cruel.” Her smile stretched. “To burden him with a miniature version of myself.”

I mean, he’s got a point.

“I don’t mind either way.” A content sigh escaped her lips. “I cannot wait to hold the baby in my arms.” She sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

“Noodles as promised.” My fingers combed through her dark locks of hair. “And four different flavours of ice cream.”

Turning onto her side, she unpackaged two containers and slipped a plastic fork in my hand. “It smells lovely,” she said, forking noodles into her mouth. “Did you get anything for Logan?”

“Your boy is fine. He can fend for himself.” Twirling noodles around the fork, I hesitated with the four prongs near my lips. “Bruno is here.”

Her eyes jerked up in surprise. “What?”

“Logan went back for the dog. I told him to tell you, but he said you barely speak to him nowadays.” Licking dark soy sauce from my lips, I asked, “Is that true?”

“No.” Her eyebrows drew in. “At least, I don’t think so. I have slept so much lately…”

“You need to get your shit together.” Cracking open a can of lemonade, I sipped to quench my thirst. “You wanted Logan. Now you have to take care of him.”

“I do take care of him,” she retorted. “Jesus, Brad. Am I allowed some time to digest everything? I have lost my husband. I have lost my best friend. And,” she added, retrieving a document from behind the pillow, “pathologists are waiting to release Kathy’s body. I have to sign these and plan her funeral.”

I will quite happily toss Kathy’s remains over a cliff.

Dropping the fork into the takeaway container, Alexa rubbed her eyes, blowing out a long, tired breath. “So what if I take some time for myself. Look at all the shit I have to deal with. I am not ready to understand Chloe’s deceit or her suicide. I am not ready to grieve my sister all over again.” Her eyes squeezed shut. “And I am most definitely not ready to live without Liam.”

“Alexa, I am saddled with many troubles and responsibilities.” I had to be honest with her. It’s the only way forward. “I really need you to power through this for me.” Recapping the containers, I put them aside and helped her sit up. We faced each other, and I smoothed my hands over her thighs. “Look at me.”

Her eyes lifted.

“You will take a shower and spend time with Logan. Tomorrow, you will officially register Kathy’s death and ask Camilla to help with funeral arrangements. Do not leave the house tawdrily. I want you to put on your best clothes, do your hair, makeup and all that malarkey, and brave reality.”

She nodded numbly.

“We will get to the bottom of Chloe’s betrayal. Until then, what’s happening under this roof is all that matters. Be there for Logan. Be there for the baby.” My hands hugged her shoulder. “Prioritise yourself. Your father is upstairs. Have you checked in? Have you thanked him for travelling from Newquay to be with you?”

Regret pooled in her eyes.

“You are stronger than woe-is-me,” I said fiercely, and she hung onto every single word. “If Kathy were still here, you’d have no relationship with her. Not after treachery. If Chloe hadn’t killed herself, you’d have sent me there to fire a bullet eventually.”

Her mouth opened to disagree, but she simmered down, knowing I was right.

“You loved them, but you love Warren more. And what they did to him—what they did to you, us, the entire organisation—was unforgivable.”

Her shoulders raised on a deep inhalation.

“Come back to me already.” I popped open the tub of strawberry ice cream. “I miss you.”

Stabbing the ice cream with a plastic spoon, she pursed her lips. “I’ll get over myself. It’s just hard, Brad. I feel so alone.”

“Why?” My throat thickened. “You are surrounded by men who love you.”

“I am,” she whispered, using the spoon to draw patterns across the ice cream’s top layer—a melting method, it would seem. “Tell me what to do.”

The fierceness in her voice made me smile. “Just turn up.” Holding her wrist, I brought the spoon to my mouth and sucked flavoured cream into my mouth. “I prefer mint.”

“I don’t have a preference.”

“I never asked for your opinion.”

She punched me in the shoulder. “Asshole.”

My phone chimed.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?”

Cherry’s name flashed on the screen.

“No.” Turning the phone to silent, I left it on the low table and sprawled across the chaise lounge. “Pick another movie.”

“I like Pretty Woman.”

“Well, I like Monster’s Ball.”

“I have never seen it.”

“It’s an all-time favourite.”

Her eyes sliced suspiciously. “Why?”

I winked. “Hallie Berry.”

She thumped me over the head with a bejewelled cushion. “Perv.”

Arms tucking behind my head, I crossed my legs at the ankles. “Judge me after you watch it.”

An hour and fifty-two minutes later, Alexa paused the movie to fan herself. “Wow.”

I gave her a shit-eating grin. “Right?”

CHAPTER FOUR

Bleu

The opening movement of Beethoven’s “Für Elise” is not my favourite. Even though the deeply melodic tone was classy and sophisticated, I preferred the disarming naturalness of large chords and arpeggios, the obstreperous chaos between A Minor and E Major. Somewhere throughout my artistic existence, I adopted the art of musical spontaneity, the exhilarating fusion of magisterial eloquence, and who could blame me? Life would be far too boring if I shared the same air as those who walked undeviating paths of mediocrity.

Delightful impishness kicked in. I broke acoustical laws and switched to Rondo Alla Turca, which startled the sedentary, elderly residents. The care assistants and support workers, who are dilettantes where the art of music is concerned, were taken aback by the sudden change of tuneful direction.

Excitement poured from my fingers as they swept across the keys in golden-toned virtuosity. Playing interpretations from memory—from the heart—I lowered my ear to the piano and let musical intuitiveness lead the pads of my fingers.

Music was like oxygen to my lungs. I needed it to breathe, to lose myself in momentary escapism. Freed in nostalgic reverie, I revisited The Royal College of Music’s Britten Theatre, where an appreciative audience, mesmerised and captivated by the performance, applauded from their red velvet chairs. In due course, I bowed before a standing ovation, reaping the rewards of conscientiousness.

A ghost of a smile teased my lips as my eyelashes fluttered open.

The somnolent, inexpressive people in the room replaced the vestige of life before. Their overt disinterest brought me back to reality. I might be creative and passionate but, to my dismay, I am not an undergraduate or professional musician. I left The Royal College of Music early, without degrees and diplomas, and settled for changed circumstances instead.

The piano keys chimed beneath adept fingers. Perspiration dewed at the nape of my neck. With steady hands, I sustained the same level of avidity, but disillusionment and wretchedness had wormed into cogitation.

My biggest supporter sat in the upholstered armchair. I stared for a breath too long. He is old now, not the fresh-faced man I once knew. Receding grey hair curled beneath his ears, and deep wrinkles seemed to have worsened recently. He still wore last night’s classic flannel pyjamas, the buttons clipped to his throat, and navy moccasin slippers warmed his feet.

I longed for his blue eyes to greet mine, but like every other visit, he stared out of the window, watching the world pass on by. He never blinked, yet there was a permanent frown on his face. He was lost, and it broke me. So much, I wanted to see his smile, hear his voice and reminisce about what used to be.

My fingers eased off the piano keys. “Should I continue?”

He said nothing.

“Perhaps I could sing for you.” Adjusting the black and white paisley scarf around my neck, I removed my foot from the piano’s sustain pedal. “We could even sing together.”

Mrs Gill lingered by the old-fashioned bookcase. Her coral pencil skirt left no room for movement, and the chunky cable knit sweatshirt suffocated her floral blouse. Authentic pearls adorned her neck. Black kitten heels braced her elegant posture. Her wardrobe malfunction sent my brain into overdrive. I am no fashion designer, but surely it is illegal to wear distracting fascinators to the workplace.

Gill tapped her wristwatch.

Alright, Margaret Thatcher. You can wait another five minutes.

A lump formed in my throat. “You could sit with me. I know how much you love to play.”

His eyebrows curled inward.

Rising from the cushioned bench, I drifted to the window to watch residents enjoy afternoon tea in the sun. It was neither hot nor cold outside. If he wore a light jacket, he could brace the slight chill in the air and enjoy the afternoon warmth with fellow residents. “Do you want to go outside?” People gathered around picnic tables to indulge in sandwiches and colourful fruit baskets. “You could eat with the others. I hear Mr Davies is still looking for a chess partner. Plus, they have strawberries and cream.” His lips grimaced. “I thought you liked strawberries.”

“Why are you talking?” His authoritative voice sliced through the room’s silence. “I don’t have any money, so stop pestering me.”

Unshed tears filled my eyes. “I do not want your money.”

He scowled sceptically.

Picking up the handbag from the sofa, I hiked the strap over one shoulder. “I would like to come back and see you tomorrow.”

“No.” His hard eyes drilled into me. “I don’t want to see you again. I don’t even like you…” He regards me with a look of vulnerable confusion. “I don’t…”

“It’s okay.” When I crouched between his slackened thighs and peered up at him, his sad, teary gaze lowered. “You don’t remember me, but I remember you. I cannot pretend you do not exist.”

His jaw set in studious cautiousness.

“You are wary. I understand. I am not here to trouble you, though. Even if you don’t talk to me, I am filled with joy by simply looking at you.” Gingerly, I touched his knee, and he recoiled, whacking my hand aside. “I’m sorry. Frightening you is not my intention.”

“You talk too much,” he said grumpily.

“Yes,” I agreed with a sad smile. “I had a great teacher.”

He toyed with the drawstring tassels of his pyjama bottoms. Solar lentigines and brown freckles blemished the thin, pale skin of his hands, and there was a slight tremor in his fingers. He used to pride himself on mental resilience. He was the type of man who walked into a room and brightened it with his contagious laughter alone. He was too intelligent for his own good, cheerful, happy, and unconcerned about the future. I guess, back then, he had no reason to stress. He was, after all, a British business magnate and nothing can change that, not even the loss of cognitive functioning determined to take him away from me.

But he is not the owner of multiple businesses anymore, I thought. I sold his assets and any remaining stakes to avoid bankruptcy—and fund his residential care. I had no choice. Looking after an unwell man whilst working and studying was exhaustingly impossible. I barely had time to eat, sleep and shower, yet I had a vulnerable person at home who demanded so much attention. Too often, he fell out of bed or urinated on the mattress in shamefaced sadness. In the bathroom, before the crack of dawn, he cried for reasons I never entirely understood. He would leave the bubbling frying pan on the stove and fall asleep on the sofa, almost setting the house on fire. He’d awaken in the early hours to go for a walk, and I’d have to track him down without any sense of direction. Sometimes, I’d find him in a nearby park, sitting on the bench in nothing but a T-shirt and thin shorts. Other times, he’d stand by the bus stop, his cold feet covered in dirt, his body drenched from torrential downpours, as he waited for a bus that never came. Where he was heading, I couldn’t tell you. But the last time he lashed out and bruised my arms as I tried to help him, I knew drastic measures were necessary.

“Daddy,” I whispered, and his frown sharpened. “I love you.”

His dry lips pursed. “I haven’t eaten in three days.”

There is an empty cup of tea on the coffee table and crumb-dusted side plates from breakfast. He ate two bacon sandwiches and an entire punnet of grapes. “That is unacceptable.”

“They do not like me.” He gave the nearby care worker a disgruntled look. “She hides the kettle.”

In her defence, he is a liability. The last time he was left unattended in the kitchen, he poured boiling hot water all over his hand, which damaged the top layer of his skin. If he wanted tea or cold drinks, they’d deliver. All he had to do was ask. “I will be sure to speak with them before I leave.”

“Leave?” His forehead creased with deep-cut wrinkles. “I thought you lived here.”

No, I lived in a shared house in Croydon. It’s nothing to brag about, but it’s a roof over my head and a warm bed at night. “I must leave.” Placing a hand on his shoulder, I hesitated by his side. “Will you wait for me?”

Nervously, he reached up and gave my hand a soft squeeze. “Goodbye.”

I walked away with tears in my eyes. Leaving him was the most challenging part of the visitation. Under different circumstances, I’d take him home and care for him until his last breath. But I had to be cruel to be kind. Residential living provided around the clock safety, and his well-being was the utmost priority.

“Miss Murphy.” Gill’s heels scratched the wooden floor as she hurried behind me. “I request a moment of your time.”

“Not today.” I am already forty-five minutes late for work. “I will try and fit you in tomorrow.”

“No.” Her hand slapped the main door before I could push it open. “Now is a perfect time. In fact, I insist.”

My head tilted. “Well, if you insist, I better take a seat in your office.”

“Precisely.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “If you will follow me.”

“Sure.” My eyes rolled to the back of my head when her back turned. “Do I have anything to worry about?”

Mrs Gill unlocked the door to her cold, stuffy office and gestured for me to become seated. Yanking out the plastic chair, I pulled up to the glass desk and watched her spray fertiliser on the indoor plant. Her procrastination diverted to the bookshelf, where she rehomed fifteen—I counted—paperbacks, then to her phone to reply to a text message, then her wrist to realign twisted bracelets.

I cleared my throat. “Shall we begin?”

Fixing gold-framed glasses over her eyes, she examined the plant once more to test my patient levels, then she uncapped sparkling water and poured herself a drink. “Thirsty?”

I slapped on a fake smile. “No.”

Her backside eased into the wing chair. “Did you receive my emails?”

Yes, and I deleted every one of them. “No.”

“What about voicemails?” Her hum lengthened jarringly. “Text messages?”

My bored expression stayed firmly in place. “I lost my phone.”

“We need to re-evaluate your father’s care package.” A lilac folder landed on the desk. “You understand that dementia is a progressive condition which worsens over a short period of time.”

Indignation clawed from within.

“When we first accepted the application for Mr Murphy’s care, he was in the early stages of dementia. His symptoms were quite mild. Despite frequent spells of forgetfulness, he was moderately self-sufficient.” She opened the folder. “We were able to control his disease with manageable care as he only required simplicities with very little assistance.”

I peeled silver nail varnish from my fingernails.

“Care workers operate around the clock to sustain Mr Murphy’s happiness. They keep him calm yet stimulated with everyday life. They help him with communication skills and encourage him to interact with other residents.”

I became restlessly agitated. “And what do you do?”

Her chin lifted. “Observe.”

“Right,” I said tightly. “Can we just cut to the chase? As I said, I am late for work.”

“Mr Murphy has trouble sleeping. He shows signs of repetitive and obsessive behaviour, increased paranoia and anxiety.” She turned the page. “Does he recognise you?”

In vexatious musing, I expelled a dramatic breath. “Is that a serious question?”

She was straight-faced. “A valid one.”

“I am his daughter,” I said, the disdain in my tone evident. “Of course, he recognises me.”

Her lips meshed. “Miss Murphy—”

I was suddenly claustrophobic. “Why does it matter?”

Ignoring the question, she proceeded with the file. “Mr Murphy needs full-time daily and nightly assistance. He cannot stand unaided or walk three steps without losing his breath. We managed urinary incontinence; however, faecal incontinence involves additional solicitude. You understand.”

My gaze averted.

“He cannot bathe himself, Miss Murphy.” Her sympathetic eyes toured every inch of my face. “He has become further aggressive towards medical staff, sharp-tongued to residents, and he has lost sexual inhibition in public.”

“Please, stop.” My hand raised to end the conversation. “He is my father. Do not tarnish how I see him.”

Her shoulders sagged. “It is my job as a professional to be open and honest, Miss Murphy.”

I flung her a sharp look. “Well, you could be less tactless.”

“Mr Murphy cannot stay on this wing any longer.” Another folder dropped onto the desk between us. “The top floor offers twenty-four-hour care and highly trained nursing staff.”

My mouth gaped. “But the figures…”

“Your account is in arrears.” Confliction was apparent in her close-set eyes. “Listen, I want to help you and your father, but I am merely the go-between for you and our head office. There are only so many strings I can pull, and I fear I have snapped them already. I have given you so much time to clear the balance. Four months of unpaid care is hard to overlook for the cooperation.” She slid leaflets across the desk. “You could apply for NHS funding and comfortable relocation.”

“No.” My father’s only wish when agreeing to care was private hospice. “No, I will find the money. I will not let him down.”

“And his additional care?” Her threaded fingers rested on her lap. “Will you have the affordability to meet his requirements?”

I will beg, borrow, steal and trample over anyone and everyone to keep him here. “Yes.”

“Alright.” Gill opened the desk drawer, retrieved an envelope and handed it to me. “You will need to fill out this form and return it to the front desk by next week. Pay the existing balance within two weeks. In the meantime, I will transfer your father to the top floor and expect another payment for his new care plan.”

I tucked the envelope into the handbag.

“Miss Murphy,” she hedged with timid vacillation. “Try not to put too much pressure on yourself.”

“I am fine.” The doorknob couldn’t get in my hand quick enough. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

***

Eugene was in the kitchen when I came home from work. Usually, I liked the hot, angry nerd look, but tonight was different. It was the whiteness in his clenched knuckles, the tightness in his sharp jaw and the defined furrow of his brows. His glasses balanced on the tip of his nose, and his shirt was questionably creased. Damn, what happened to his socks? One rolled up. The other rolled down.

“Bleu.” He was primed for a heated argument, not rough sex. “I have been waiting for you.”

I set the grocery bags on the round wooden table amidst dirty dishes, empty beer bottles and oily takeaway containers. Four of everything left for the cleaning fairy, courtesy of four housemates.

Indignation resurfaced. Tossing their rubbish in the bin, I cleared the table, rearranged the placemats and loaded the temperamental dishwasher. I turned the machine on and off three times before I managed to get the cycle in motion.

“It’s not your job to clean up after everyone.” He never offered to help, though. “Someone can do it later.”

Later is synonymous with “never” in this house. Nobody pulled their weight. Nobody stuck to the rota. If I were stubborn and overlooked untidiness, it would still be in a state when I got up in the morning. It’s how they lived, Eugene and the others. It’s a real shame because the house was relaxing, eclectically inviting and aesthetically beautiful when I first moved in. Now, the clutter, the lack of space and the musty smell in the air reminded me of a hoarders house.

“There is pizza for you in the microwave.” He sipped bottled beer. “And there is extra beer in the fridge if you want one.”

Opening the fridge freezer, I unpackaged groceries onto the bottom shelf, where it’s safe from out of date produce and cross-contamination. “I ate earlier.”

“Suit yourself.” His stare followed my every movement. “Just finished work?”

“Yes.” When placing tinned tomatoes in the cupboard, I felt his eyes stabbing into the back of my head. His forced seriousness was laughable. I bet he paced the room for hours, pondering how to approach me. It’s how he handled pending confrontations: too much beer and fake disputes with his reflection. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

His face darkened. “Like what?”

“Like you want to dismantle my head.” Stuffing empty carrier bags in the bin, I flicked on the kettle and prepared a mug of coffee. “I am not in the mood for your lecture right now.”

Like every other day, I was tired from life. I set off at dawn to help co-workers unbox deliveries at the library and endured five hours of Arabella’s bitchiness (she is a professional librarian who takes her job seriously until I walk into the building). Then, after a quick bite to eat, I headed to the care home to spend the afternoon with my father. Another quick snack later, I rushed to the diner and waited tables, serving greasy food to rude, impolite, expectant customers. I have less than two hours to shower, change, and head to the pub to serve pints until midnight.

I earned some headspace before job three commenced.

He tousled his mousy brown hair. “Can we talk?”

“Let’s talk later?” I mused, splashing milk into the mug. “Or next week?”

“No.” His mouth drew into a sneer. “We need to have this conversation before you leave for work.”

I liked Eugene—when his head was between my thighs—but when alcohol and weed were not on the agenda and chit chat transpired outside of the bedroom, he irritated me to the bone. “Where are the others?”

He stared blankly.

“The other housemates?” Adding two sugars to the mug, I stirred hot coffee. “Jesus, Eugene. It’s a simple question.”

“I don’t know, Bleu.” His lips curled into a half-smile. “What does it matter? You don’t even like our roommates.”

I don’t like people in general. “That’s not true.”

His eyes bulged in disbelief. “Cassie is scared to leave her room when you are home.”

Which one is Cassie?

I racked my brain and came unstuck.

“The artist,” he said, discerning my puzzlement. “The one who decorated the hallway last month?”

Oh, the blonde pixie.

Well, the artist should have asked everyone if they liked the colour purple before she splashed it all over the walls—not to mention the zebra print rug in the living room. Honestly, the woman used the weirdest part of her mind all too often, and it sickened me. Not everyone shared the same unorthodox taste in decor. “I will not apologise.”

He gave me a pointed look.

Tossing Rizla papers onto the kitchen counter, I built a deck, sprinkled an even amount of tobacco and ground a small bud of marijuana.

Eugene’s throaty laughter reverberated in the kitchen. “You humiliated Jeffery last weekend.”

Jeffery leaves a trail of dirty boxer briefs all over the landing.

Someone had to pull him into line.

He placed a hand on the small of my back. “And Harriet?”

I shot him a disgusted look.

“Hey, I am in agreement. She is lazy around the house. But you got too personal, Bleu. I doubt she will ever eat again because of what you called her.”

Unfazed, I shrugged. “Perhaps it motivated her to sort her act out.”

“You made impertinent comments about her weight.” He never broke eye contact. “It’s not cool.”

“I only asked why she was crying about being overweight when she refuses to change bad habits.” I licked the Rizla seam, pinched the papers between rigid fingers and rolled a joint. “Eugene, the girl lives on takeout.”

Eugene respired through his nose. “It’s not your problem.”

I set the roach to my lips. “Did you seriously wait in the kitchen all evening just to argue on behalf of the others? Tell them to come to me directly if they have an issue with me. You are not the voice of reason for the house.”

He peeled the bottle’s label. “That’s not the only reason I waited.”

Sparking a lighter flame, I lit the end of the joint, inhaling two long drags. “I got my period.”

“What?” He stared narrowly at me. “It’s not about sex.”

Well, I liked him more in the bedroom and less in conversation, so I wish that’s what this unexpected meeting was about. “Then, what is it about?”

“You haven’t paid rent for over five months.” He looked coy and apologetic, but his voice remained stern. “Nor have you contributed to the household bills. Your share is coming out of my pocket.”

Putting my back to the counter, I blew out a veil of smoke. “I’ll get the money.”

“The others…” His cheeks hollowed as he sucked in a breath. “Shit, they want you out, Bleu.”

Of course, they wanted to throw me into the gutter. They can continue to be lazy pigs if I am out of the picture. “Too bad,” I said with smugly raised eyebrows. “I’m not going anywhere. Besides, who would warm your bed if I left? You’d miss me too much.”

Eugene blushed.

He might not admit it to the others, but he liked having me around. I was the spring in his step, the excitement in his life and the fun in his bedsheets.

Eugene is a cute, chivalrous man, and his intelligence puts the intellect of others to shame, but he is socially awkward and—sorry to sound harsh—boring. He watched daytime television and completed sudoku puzzles for fun. His idea of romantic dates was taking tours around history and science museums or discussing comic books. He is not very skilled or experienced in the female department, either. Even when women throw themselves at him, he loses their interest within five minutes, the poor sod. He tried his luck with Cassie and Harriet on separate occasions, too, and both drunken disasters resulted in doors slammed in his face.

My bedroom door is always open, though. He can come to me any time of night, and I will happily ride his arse until sunrise because there is something very arousing about an inexperienced man who is fascinated by my voice alone. And I happen to find his virgin-like demeanour very attractive.

Leaving the half-smoked joint in the ashtray, I swayed into his personal space, wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders and, with the subtlest flick of my tongue, teased his earlobe. “Eugene,” I whispered, and his cheeks flushed crimson. “I don’t want to leave. I have nowhere else to go.”

He grasped the counter ledge to refrain from touching me. “Bleu…”

“Please.” My lips paid homage to his neck, and his throat swelled as he swallowed. “I will find the money.”

“The housemates…” He was torn, not wanting to upset me or the others. “How will you find the money?”

I thought of an answer on the spot. “Jewellery,” I said, and his eyebrows tugged inwards. “I have some old gold. It belonged to my mother. I can weigh it at the local jewellers.”

“What?” His hands came to my waistline. “No, I will not let you sell your mother’s belongings. It’s not right.” Ever so cautiously, his hands roamed to my backside for a sneaky squeeze. “Bleu, your contract ended last month.”

Full-fledged panic spiked to dangerous heights. “I can sign another tenancy agreement.”

“No.” With caution, he eased me away to put space between us. “No, it’s not working. You, them—us.” He ran a palm down his face. “There is a divide in the house. They voted you out.”

Counting down the minutes to work, I picked up the coffee mug. “It’s nice to know how everyone truly feels about me.”

His eyes squinted shut. “I am not accountable for their dislike towards you.”

“You never fought my honour,” I said, and his head hung in regret. “Nice, Eugene.” My feet tipped towards the door to flee. “At least I know where I stand with you.”

“Should I fight your honour?” He snatched me by the elbow. “Should I go upstairs and tell everyone you are here to stay—with me? Hell, If you want more, I can move us into a different house by the end of the month.” His optimistic eyes searched mine. “I have offered to set us up somewhere else numerous times. You’re the one who said no. You only wanted sex, remember?”

I chewed my lower lip.

“Has it changed? Between us, I mean.” He palmed my cheeks. “Come on, Bleu. Help me out.”

My face turned before he could kiss me. “I am not interested in a relationship.”

Hurt flashed in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” I grasped his wrists and pried his hands from my cheeks. “Eugene, you are such a great guy, but you’re not my guy.” Inwardly, I winced. “If you know what I mean.”

He laughed once. “I am just someone to pass the time with, right? Someone to kick back with when life fucks with your plans.” He nodded, slow and dejected. “And you have the nerve to demand my support—vocally and financially.”

I grew defensive. “I never asked for money.”

“But you take it,” he pointed out with a disdainful glare. “You let me pay for shit and accept handouts all the time. You were prepared to let me go upstairs and lose face with the others just to get your own way. To hell with me, right? If they start to hate me, would you even care? If roles were reversed? If everyone voted for me to leave, would you argue my case? Would you fight for me to stay?”

A tickling sensation slithered down my spine. “Where the fuck is this conversation going?”

“I don’t know.” He exhaled breathlessly. “I guess I was trying to figure you out.”

“You are wasting your time.” When his face turned further shades of red with disappointment, I eased back three steps. “You were invested.”

“No, I was hopeful.” He stared longingly at me. “Foolishly hopeful.”

“I slept with a guy at work two nights ago,” I decided to be honest with him, and his face turned sickly pale. “I am someone to have fun with, Eugene. That’s it.” Pouring the lukewarm coffee down the sink, I grabbed my handbag and paused by the door. “Do not exhaust your energy on someone like me.” My sad smile was genuine. “You deserve better.”

Eugene looked sucker punched.

With an apologetic glance in his direction, I exited the kitchen, bypassed the downstairs bathroom and unlocked the front door. Mentally adumbrating what my depressing future looked like, I rushed down the garden path and trekked to the omnipresent sound of passing vehicles.

I’d rather be early for work than spend another minute in that house.

CHAPTER FIVE

Brad

I approached the ingeniously reconstructed 19th century stone cottage through the main garden onto the cobblestone terrace, where intricate railings and ivy-draped columns travelled onto the diamond-shaped lattice entrance porch. I looked up to the double-arched window. Helga’s dark silhouette stood behind the scalloped net curtain. I wondered if she anticipated our arrival or if the plethora of Bentley vehicles piqued inquisitiveness, so she unmindfully climbed to the crest of the house to spy. When the net oscillated, her eyes peering around the material’s semi-transparent trim, I concluded it was that of the former. Her slender shoulders were stiff, pushed back into a defensive posture as if primed for life-or-death combat, but her pallid face, cloudy eyes, and unsmiling countenance suggested inward dread. Her close attentiveness, guarded watchfulness and nervous foot switching tugged a taunting smile to my lips. In playful schadenfreude, I waved at the hypersensitive woman, and she jolted backwards, the net slipping from her fingers.

“What do you think?” Nate’s black ribbed beanie hat sat just above pinched brows. “Will she open the door?”

Helga’s shadow never budged.

My lips puckered in contemplation. “She doesn’t want us inside.”

Who could blame her? A visit from one of Warren’s men is almost as bad as a visit from Warren himself. If we came knocking on your door, nine times out of ten, predestined death occurred. Blood. Tears. Torture. It’s our job to make you sing like canaries on behalf of the boss. Or, in Helga’s case, in exchange for quantitative information.

Helga played an active role in Warren’s trial. Her knowledge is invaluable. Without her help, I lacked a clear understanding of what went down in the deliberation room. She knew something that could help us, that much I am certain.

Her eyes peeked through the net once more.

I am not here to hurt her.

Well, that’s if she acted in accordance with the syndicate.

“Understandable.” Nate slid a pen behind his ear and unravelled elastic bands from the brown folder. “Do you need me to unlock the door?”

“No.” Jerking open the wrought iron gate to the lawned back garden, I roamed to the rear of the house, the path lined with raised flowerbeds, dying rose bushes and rusty solar lights. “It’s bastard freezing.”

A sturdy metal-framed six-seater table and chairs with waterproof cushions sat in front of the airy looking conservatory. Popping open the button of my suit jacket, I pulled out a chair and settled into highly durable comfort. It was a great spot to dine alfresco or fire the barbeque, the garden’s all-encompassing blossom trees and enclosed fences providing privacy from meddlesome neighbours—eye-witnesses.

Nate sat directly opposite me. “Do you want the others to join us?”

My head shook.

“Stay by the cars,” he said into his earpiece.

Helga lurked in the shadows. I side-eyed the conservatory for movement, but she knew every nook, cranny and alcove in the house and did well to hide.

“I’m starving.” Opening the file onto the table, he penned notes onto the page. “I need to eat. It can be a sushi restaurant or a juice bar. I am easy.”

We can eat later. Besides, if we plan to indulge, I will need more than blended fruit or vinegared rice to satisfy hunger. “I have to swing by Josh’s place first.”

Nate’s gaze lifted. “Are you concerned?”

“Yes, actually.” It’s unlike Josh to take a leave of absence, not short-term or long-term. I have known him to come to work irrespective of family commitments, headaches and hangovers, medical appointments and inconvenient sickness bugs. The lad could be puking one minute and shitting the next, but his arse is always on time, always behind the steering wheel and always on the gun. “How long does he need to grieve?”

He pondered the question. “Josh loved Nanna.”

Nanna Fitzpatrick was a delightful old mare. I met her once when collecting Josh for an early morning gym session. He told me to wait outside while he ran around at the last minute to pack workout gear.

Of course, I did the exact opposite. I left the Bentley on his drive, walked through the front door and enjoyed warm cocoa with whipped cream, edible stars and grated chocolate, courtesy of Nanna. Not that I like anything remotely sweet. I hate sugar-infused indulgences. I only drank it to be polite.

Nanna told entertaining tales and fabricated stories of Josh’s uncomplicated childhood. His love for football and how he was the captain of the team. Christ, she even brought out the photo album and vaunted said football trophies. Man of the Match. Team Captain. Player of the Year.

Teacher’s pet.

Grade A student.

Fucking boffin.

When Josh decided to grace us, he was enraged. I am the last person he wanted privy to his personal life—his past. I could use those chunky baby photos against him or tease him in front of the brothers when his unruly tongue got carried away.

He scolded Nanna for letting strangers in the house, then warned her to never converse with me again. If I weren’t so entertained by the ordeal, I’d have slapped him. I am not a stranger. I am unquestionably the best friend he never knew he needed. Pillock.

Josh’s humiliation soon diminished, though. Nanna only had to raise one eyebrow, and he had enough respect to pipe down and apologise for raising his voice. He even hugged her before we left, which was wholesome—that’s if you are into the ideology of lovey-dovey stuff.

Yeah, Nanna Fitzpatrick’s death must be tough for the lad. With the exception of the brothers, she was the only family he had. His parents died way before I came along. Suppose there were any estranged siblings (anything is possible. Have you met Vincent?) he sure as hell didn’t know about them. I guess it’s lonely, depressing, waking up in a big old house to memories of the dead.

I trapped my bottom lip between my teeth. “Wallowing in self-pity never helped anybody.”

Nate looked conflicted. “He’ll come around.”

“I will drag him out by the ear.” A toothpick rolled between my fingers. “It pisses him off.”

He half-smiled. “You bully him.”

Josh was always self-assured, cockily confident, but his innate kindness and compassion towards others necessitated serious refinement. He’d cry if a dead bird fell from the sky and mourn fictional characters in movies and harp on about their death for months.

Warren demanded cold-blooded, hard-hearted ruthlessness, not overly emotional beings who sympathised with the enemy. He paid good money for pitiless soldiers. Josh was expected to operate alongside the elite, but his flawed characteristics did not meet the requirement, so I forced him to adopt an entirely new personality with some good old tough love. I was hard on him—that’ll never change—but constructive criticism was worthwhile.

His personal growth saved him from instant dismissal.

Now, Josh walked into all types of situations with thick-skinned indifference.

Besides, he can handle innocuous provocation.

He gives as good as he gets.

I do not bully, Josh.

I strengthen him.

Hell, I am fucking good for him.

“Our girl is watching.” Nate’s nose piercing glimmered. “Tell me it ain’t creepy.”

My stare went to the conservatory, and, lo and behold, Helga stood there indolently, studying the two men in her garden. It’s not every day you find unwanted visitors on your property. It’s even worse when said men recently attended the criminal trial—supporting the man you passed judgment on—re-emerged for the satisfaction of vengeance.

I stared blankly. “Do I need to come inside?”

Helga’s mulberry embroidered long-sleeved blouse was tucked into stone grey trousers, and stark white waffle slippers sheathed her feet. Braided black hair hung loosely down her back, and uneven bangs framed her bright blue eyes. She wears no makeup. No fancy gold or diamonds. Just a delicate ankle bracelet.

Unlocking the conservatory doors, pushing them wide open, she reached for something on the wooden table, then conveyed a midnight blue pitcher set into the garden, the tinted glassware trimmed with gold-plated precision. Her homemade lemonade will quench thirst. Not sure how I felt about the three-tiered silver-plated cake stand, though. I might live in London, where the quaintest of English dining customs and beverage-sipping took place, but afternoon tea with pretentious foodies never quite tickled my fancy.

Menu: almond slices, Bramley apple pies, French fancies, Viennese whirls and jam tarts. Crustless sandwiches. Cheese scones. Danish pastries. Fucking kill me.

My nose closed up.

She can keep those unappetising tuna sarnies away from my gob.

A Victoria sandwich cake and a dessert fork landed on my lap. It was unusual to see the favoured traditional sponge embellished with the thinnest layer of white icing and edible jelly diamonds.

Nate looked devastated. He gazed open-mouthed at unhealthy pretentiousness served on fine china plates.

I sucked buttercream off my thumb. “Is this a date?”

Helga’s flushed cheeks illustrated coyness. “Friendly hospitality.”

Nate’s insatiableness overpowered willpower. Tucking the file behind his back, he snatched pastries and ploughed through calories like a voracious animal.

“You’ll regret intemperance later.” Placing the plate on the table, I helped myself to lemonade, pouring icy citrus into a glass—a wedge of lemon. “Don’t complain to me about fatigue when the treadmill knocks you down.”

“I can handle overindulgence.” He was like a fat kid in Wonka’s chocolate factory, stuffing morsels of stodgy, sticky, sugary food in his mouth. “Pass the sandwiches.”

Holding the cake stand’s looped handle, I lowered it to the ground. “Control yourself.”

“Brad.” His eyes fell out of their sockets. “Give me the sandwiches.”

“Do you remember the last time you ate junk before cheat day?” My muscles began to throb in remembrance of the unmerciful training sessions. “You fasted for three days and worked out excessively to burn it all off.”

His lips flattened. “And?”

“And you took my underserving arse down with you. I am not sweating my balls off because you lack self-control.”

Helga stepped back.

“I can afford to eat what I want when I want.” He was impossibly argumentative, and I loved it. “It’s training season.”

When is it not training season in Nate’s world?

“Brad.” The hangry man was seconds away from hurling me across the garden—right in that prime bush over there. “Hand over the sandwiches.”

My teeth sank into a ham sandwich just to ruffle his feathers. “Nope.”

His fist slammed onto the table, the forceful exhilaration having a shaking effect on the dinnerware. “Brad, I will fuck you up!”

When Helga began to skulk towards the conservatory, we whipped out our Glocks and aimed them at her head in unison.

She slapped two hands over her mouth.

My brow bent. “Going somewhere?”

“Oh, have mercy,” she said to the heavens, her finger drawing the sign of the cross over her chest. “I—”

“Sit down!” Kicking out a spare chair, I tipped the gun and, cautiously, she took a seat between us. “Did I say she could leave?” My question was for Nate. “Maybe I did.”

“No.” His arm stretched across the back of her chair as he drawled in her ear. “I don’t believe you did.”

“See, I didn’t think so, either,” I said conversationally. “But there she goes, trying to slip away, thinking I wouldn’t notice.”

“I’m sorry.” Her wide, fearful eyes zapped between us. “You were fighting, and I didn’t know what to do.”

“Fighting?” Impish sardonicism worked a treat. “We merely enjoyed banter for no practical purpose.” When Nate retreated for another round of danish pastries, I hooked my foot around the leg of her chair and tugged her closer. “Tell me, who did you plan to call?”

“He warned me.” Her lips parted on hitched breaths. “You might visit. But I won’t involve him. I want nothing more to do with Mr Warren’s trial.”

“Who?” I needed a name—any name. “Who asked you to call, Helga?”

“Please.” Helga trembled from head to toe, her eyes never leaving the barrel of the gun. “I have suffered enough.”

The fucking nerve of this bitch.

Incensed by her narcissistic self-centeredness, I snatched her hair by the scruff, and she bellowed, her watery eyes leaking tears of guilt, her lips whispering words of regret. “You have suffered enough,” I repeated in a state of incredulousness. “My boss serves life in prison for crimes he did not commit, and you dare to spit victimisation.”

Her body thrashed for an advantage in a disadvantageously vulnerable situation.

“I was in a good mood, Helga.” Wrapping her hair around my fist, I yanked her down from the chair. Her grazed knees skid across the floor as I forced her to buckle at my feet. “Now, I am pissed off.”

“What do you want from me?” Her trepidation poured onto my lap. “If I wanted to cause any trouble, I’d have called the police the second you arrived.”

I placed the loaded gun on the table, and she stared at it helplessly.

“But you didn’t call them.” Nate squatted beside her and, ever so softly, caressed a strand of her hair between his fingers. “You chose to greet us. Why did you second guess yourself?”

Helga looked confused.

“You came out here to what? Distract us?” My fingers unravelled her bobble until long, lustrous hair cascaded down her back in loose tresses. “Are we playing games?”

“No.” She flinched as our investigative hands teased the sheer fabric of her blouse. “Please, I am not looking for any trouble. I never even accepted the money.”

My breath stuck in my throat.

The unplanned meeting was well-established now. Enlightenment is possible if I break through her impenetrable walls and earn her trust. All I had to do was pretend for a little while longer, and she’d reveal all for immunity.

“Money.” My fingers smoothed along her collarbone. “What money?”

“During the trial, I had to isolate myself at night.” Her fingers wrangled. “It was to avoid inappropriate influences until the trial resumed.”

“Jury sequestration is pretty bog-standard during high-profile trials.” After all, preventing undue persuasion, threats and bribes were imperative for a fair, unbiased trial. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Helga grimaced at the overt sarcasm in my voice. “I half-expected someone to approach me.”

I listened.

“I saw you,” she said to me, then she looked at Nate. “All of you. You were all there, day in and day out, supporting Mr Warren. Your calmness worried the jurors. I think, deep down, we all lived in fear. And who could blame us? The prosecution claimed that Mr Warren’s associates were known to act on his behalf, viciously so.” She sighed deeply. “What if the trial enraged them? What if jurors went missing?”

They will go missing. Each and every last one of them.

“You might find it hard to believe, but we don’t want to hurt you, Helga.” Nate rubbed the small of her back. “Prosecutorial misconduct is illegal. Throughout the entire trial, the prosecution attempted to sway you and the other jurors to wrongly convict our boss while defaming the reputation of his associates, hence your fear. However, food for thought. If Warren Enterprise posed a threat to the jurors, why hasn’t the Protected Persons Service aligned with the Metropolitan Police Department to ensure your safety? According to David Michaels, Warren’s allies will lash out to protect him and his organisation. Yet, you kneel for the very men he slandered, unsafe, unguarded, unprotected.”

Her eyebrows cinched.

“The law is not interested in you.” Nate swiped a single tear from her cheek. “They got what they wanted. You served your purpose. But for us, it’s far from over. It’s only the beginning. Help us.” He sounded so sincere. “Please.”

Her throat swelled.

I tipped her chin. “Who asked you to call?”

“You are right.” Helga gave Nate a sidelong glance. “I haven’t heard from Detective Michaels since Mr Warren’s sentencing.”

I was starting to get a little impatient. “Who asked you to call, Helga?”

“About three days before deliberations, I woke up to someone standing over my bed.” Her breath came in short, harsh gasps. “Oh, I was so scared. I thought he’d kill me.”

Nate looked sympathetic, but his slight finger taps to the knee meant he was frustrated by Helga’s tedious narrative.

“He had a gun.” Her eyes went to the Glock on the table. “He threatened to kill me.”

“Who?” My hands gripped her shoulders. “Who threatened to kill you?”

“David’s friend.” She sneered contemptuously at the memory. “He didn’t tell me his name.”

“Is he the same guy who offered you and the jurors money?”

“No.” She snivelled into the back of her hand. “It was David’s brother who offered money.”

“Slow down.” My hands raised in irritation. “You keep fluctuating between different encounters. David’s brother bribed the jury during the trial to convict Warren.”

She nodded.

“You said no,” I said, and she nodded again. “How do you know David’s brother spoke with the other jurors? Did they tell you?”

“No, but it was obvious that he’d spoken to them. Everyone bar two males thought Mr Warren was not guilty. We did not reach a unanimous vote. The following morning, everyone had changed their tune. Screw the lack of evidence. Forget unreliable witnesses. Warren was guilty. It was final.” She sniffled and wiped tears away. “He got to them. Money meant more than justice.”

Nate’s folder is open. “You got a name?”

“Yes.” Her chest inflated on a deep breath. “Harold Stone.”

“Stone?” I shot her a double-take. “You sure?”

She watched Nate scribble something down. “Positive.”

“How did we miss the connection?” I asked Nate. “Did you do a background check on Michaels?”

“Yes.” He pointed to previous notes at the back of the folder. “No siblings, either biological or adopted.”

“I am not lying,” she blurted out. “Mr Stone addressed the detective as his brother.”

He smiled flatly. “We will look into it.”

“So, the guy in your bedroom.” I reigned in agitation. “Tell us about him.”

“He was a middle-aged white male.” When she glanced at Nate, her bulbous eyes rounded theatrically. “No offence.”

Nate closed the folder and tucked it under his arm. “Why would I take offence?”

“He had an accent.” She ignored the question, pinching the frown between her brows. “And he was at the trial.” Her voice rose in recollection. “Yes, he was definitely there. I remember he sat near the back.”

Nikolai Vasiliev.

Nate’s head dipped once. “Got it.”

“He asked if anyone from Warren Enterprise visited. When I answered, he proceeded to tell me that someone would visit, and I had to hide—from you. If hiding was unachievable, I was instructed to stay calm and lie. Nobody bribed the jurors. Nobody came to my home and threatened me. That’s what he told me to tell you.”

I am livid.

“Is there anything else you think we should know?” I tucked hair behind her ear. “Even the smallest details might help.”

Helga paused to consider anything she may have overlooked. “No, I think that’s it.”

“Helga,” I said whispery. “A judge cannot force the jury to return a verdict. You know that, right?”

Her mind seemed to wander for a moment.

“There would have been a mistrial if you told someone what happened.” Mentioning the judge was futile. His name is on the list. He was paid to give an unmerciful prison sentence. “Christ, if we were lucky, due to prosecutorial misconduct and the evident lack of evidence, there would be no plausible reason for a retrial. Warren would be a free man.”

I stood.

Nate stood.

Helga stood.

“I don’t know how I feel about that.” Mixed emotions threatened to choke me. “I mean, I want to be grateful. You could have accepted the money. You could have lied to us, as instructed by others. But you didn’t. Today, you chose honesty instead.”

“It was eating me alive,” she said to us. “The guilt, I feel. I believe Mr Warren is innocent.”

Yet, she was coerced to withdraw reasonable doubt to pacify the enemy.

My blood was afire.

“Here.” Taking her hand, I helped her sit down. “You should eat.”

She looked happy, perhaps relieved, when opting for a glass of lemonade. “Oh, I am not overly hungry.”

“We insist.” Nate leaned over her to grab the plated Victoria sandwich cake. “The least we can do is show our appreciation.”

“Thank you.” She sliced jam and cream sponge with the fork. “Would you both like to stay for dinner?”

I fixed the silencer to the Glock.

“My shepherd’s pie is divine.” Her shoulders bounced with excitement. “Or would you rather have some cottage pie? I can mash carrots and swede.”

I aimed the gun to the back of her head.

“And peas,” she said while chewing. “We must have peas.”

Tracing the trigger with the pad of my finger, I clicked my tongue and pulled the trigger. Direct penetration of Helga’s brain bespattered the table in clumps of bloody tissue and skull fragments. The plate slipped off her lap, shattering on the floor as her body slumped forward in a boneless heap.

I sat on the chair, rested the gun on my lap and used three Rizla papers to build a deck while Nate popped to the Audi to grab supplies.

Flipping open the folder, I uncapped the pen with my teeth and put a line through two names.

Chloe Stone.

Helga Singh.

I had many people to visit.

It’s easier to pluck off the females first.

Jessica Pearce.

My eyes jerked up.

Nate’s fingers wriggled into gloves.

“Blaire is next,” I said, and he looked toward the sky with knitted brows. “We had to address it eventually.”

“Brad.” His jaw unclenched. “What about the kid?”

“It’s your call.” I tossed the pen in his bag. “Are you sure it’s even yours?”

“I ain’t sure about anything where she is concerned.” Kneeling on the floor, he dragged Helga’s body onto the plastic sheet, bent an elbow behind her back and snapped bones. “Am I ready to be a dad? Hell, no.” Another fractured bone. “Are you ever ready, though? To be a parent?”

I suppose not.

“If the kid’s mine,” he said in a subdued voice. “Then it’s my responsibility to step up.” Her neck splintered in his unyielding hands. “Can we see it through? Blaire, I mean. I can do a paternity test. You can kill her whatever the outcome.”

Whilst Nate separated Helga’s bones to stuff her disjointed body into a large case, I kicked my feet out and smoked haze until veins cooled. “We can see it through,” I agreed, taking a drag from the blunt. “For your sake, I hope the kid isn’t yours.”

“Likewise.” Nate clogged Helga’s throat with tissues, then crammed her body into the case, and the sight of blood on the patio was a massive inconvenience to us. “You’ll need to get clean-up over here tonight.”

We should probably be less messy next time.

CHAPTER SIX

Brad

Josh’s slippered feet scuffed the old black and white mosaic floor tiles as he whistled through the wood-panelled lobby. Versace’s opulent robe with the gold statement medusa prints and iconic motif embroideries hung in a haphazard fashion from his semi-naked body. Perspiration trickled down his bare chest from a gruelling workout session. His dark brown hair was unwashed and dishevelled, and his dreadful, untidy beard very much resembled Chuck Noland’s physical transformation when stranded on the island of Monuriki.

He foraged the fridge freezer in search of midnight snacks. Squirted whipped cream and maraschino cherries flavoured his tongue, thick chocolate milk lined his stomach.

A tiny-waisted, big-breasted blonde with tight coils sidled up to his side and snaked an arm around his waist. Her pink diamante thong unsuccessfully concealed natural blonde curls between her thighs, where red handprints and distinct bite marks blemished her pale white skin. Purple bruises smirched her slender neck, where Josh—or perhaps the pug-nosed brunette who just entered the kitchen—suckled her skin during intense fornication.

I sipped coffee.

“Let’s order pizza,” the brunette suggested, the fridge’s dim light outlining her disproportionately large head and augmented lips in the dark. “Pepperoni.”

“No,” the blonde purred, pawing Josh’s cotton-clad cock. “Let’s get the mighty meaty.”

They both giggled.

Cheesy pizza puns? Savage.

“Behave,” Josh said throatily, throwing grapes in his mouth. “I could smash the absolute banger.”

“You can ‘absolute banger’ me if you want,” one of the women moaned, the blonde, as she straddled the chair. “Does Josh Junior want to come out and play?”

Josh Junior?

My cheeks puffed.

Do not laugh, Jones.

Pull yourself together.

“It’s all he wants.” The brunette’s tongue flicked out and licked the column of his neck. “Isn’t that right, Sailor?”

I seemed to have unwittingly entered a parallel universe, where unbecoming females suckled each other’s toes and a man, who goes by the name of Sailor, popped a dangerous amount of ecstasy tablets to rationalise the unprovocative sequence of events that led to their idiosyncratic behaviour.

Now would be an excellent time to speak up before rampant sex landed on the wooden table. The raunchy females might burst a blood vessel if they rolled onto an intruder’s lap. Or, judging by their hypersexual promiscuousness, the sight of said intruder might titillate their inner deviousness, and the dire thought had my stomach in knots.

It was dark again, the fridge door closed, but I heard enough salaciousness to know erotic scenes unravelled. I liked sex. Christ, I fucking craved sex just as much as forty-year-old virgins. I am not opposed to multiple females joining me in the bedroom, either. One is fun. Two is exhilarating. Three is an eventful crowd. I am not into sexually dominating women, though, and these two liked to dominate, rough each other up, and wrestle for the upper hand, which, in my personal opinion, was a huge turn-off. I might have a misogynist attitude, but I preferred an assertive yet manageable woman—or women—who bent to my will. If they dare to overpower me or mount me like a bike, I will throw them into next week—literally.

Fuck that for a barrel of laughs.

Josh tossed the empty carton of milk somewhere and staggered into the nearby saucepan stand, the cacophonous blend of violently crashing stainless steel frying pans and cooking utensils dispersing in different directions. He vomited undigested food down the sink, all while his female companions twat-twiddled on the cold floor.

“This is getting naughty,” I said hoarsely, and Josh choked mid-puke. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Joshy Junior.”

“Brad,” he groaned, his head buried in the sink. “Fuck off.”

“Who is Brad?” his friend asked, and I blanked her. “Is he here to play?”

I skirted around the table, dodged the naked bodies on the floor, and switched on the light until bright beams highlighted every angle of the room.

Overlooking the females caressing each other’s breasts on the floor, I tucked my hands in my trouser pockets and watched Josh, who recoiled from the light’s starkness, snatch a towel from the drawer to dab his lips.

The blonde sat up, wiping her friend’s glistening arousal from her puffy lips. Pink lipstick smeared her cheeks, and dry bodily fluids matted her scraggly hair. “I hope he’s big,” she said, and the brunette propped up on her elbows, her untrimmed stench trench on full display. “Sailor never disappoints.”

Josh died on the spot. “Ignore them.”

To hell with Josh’s nausea. I am on the verge of retching from the odoriferous fetor in the air and cringe-worthy pet names. “Is this what rock bottom looks like?” I asked him before questioning the others. “Is he paying you?”

“No,” they uttered in unison.

“Brad.” He sighed heavily. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to make sure you hadn’t snuffed it. But this shit right here?” I gesticulated overmuch to the bored-into-semi-consciousness women. “Is worse than death. You brought sex to your house. Do you even know them? Can you trust them to roam around while your head’s down the bog?”

“Can you not talk about us like we are not here?” Pug-nose staggered to her feet, flipping sweat-slicked hair over one lipstick-stained shoulder. “You ruined the mood. You could always leave if we don’t live up to your standards.”

My fingers twitched. “Are you going to let her talk to me like that?”

“Stop,” Josh chastised, knowing I’d lunge the brazen-faced bitch through the window without a second thought. “We had our fun. It’s time you both left.”

The blonde and the brunette were surprisingly unperturbed by Josh’s dismissal. They did, however, peck his cheek, leave digits written carelessly on the wall-mounted chalkboard and sauntered their half-naked backsides to the app-booked Addison Lee cab out front.

I refilled the kettle and popped it on the boil. “Allowing employees to take time off work for mental health conditions is unprecedented at Club 11. Honestly, I don’t recall a time where Warren considered depression or anxiety in the workplace.”

Josh knuckled irritation from his nostrils.

“Christ, I am not even sure if there are health-related policies for depression at the club.”

He was quiet.

“If such procedures exist, I have never seen nor heard of them.” Pouring boiled water into the mug, I stirred the tea, then added two sugars. “Is that the reason behind self-destruction? Are you depressed?”

“What?” He lowered the hands covering his face so that he could scowl at me. “No, I am not depressed. Why would I be depressed?”

“Time off work. Binge drinking. Excessive substance abuse. Dead Nanna,” I added warily, and his hardened expression softened. “Emphasis on the dead Nanna.”

“Alright, Brad. I get the picture.” He collapsed in the chair, his shoulders hunching forward. “I am struggling.”

I remained straight-faced. “With all of the above?”

He pulled a face. “With my grandmother’s death.”

Yes, I figured as much while conversing with Nate earlier. If she were my grandmother, I’d be over her death by now, but people grieve in different ways, and I had to respect that.

A thought occurred. “When’s the funeral?”

“I did that already.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I set the mug of tea on the table in front of him. “I’d have come with you.”

His eyes closed as he willed himself not to fall apart.

My hushed voice came. “You wanted to do it alone.”

“Yes.” He scratched his bare chest, absentmindedly adjusting the barbell in his left nipple. “Not everything in life requires fucking company, Brad.”

Josh’s terseness was hardly warranted. I could retaliate, be harsh, kill him with spiteful words, rip his heart into shreds with insensitiveness, but I took the moral high ground. I relayed syndicate orders with strained patience rather than lose my temper or verbally attack him. “If you are not at work tomorrow, I will have no choice but to revoke your high-ranking position.”

“What?” He lunged to his feet. “Are you fucking with me?”

I was deadly serious. “You will be replaced by another brother and returned to your former position at the bar.”

His face was beet-red. “That’s a fucking copout, and you know it.”

“Is it, though? I am pretty sure if Warren were here, he’d have wiped the goddamn floor with you by now.” At the mention of our boss, he simpered down, albeit angry and upset. “You are part of the elite. I should be able to depend on you.”

Josh choked back incredulousness. “Unbelievable.”

“No, you know what’s unbelievable? I have to represent Warren until he gets out of nick. I have to direct his employees and manage his affairs and establishments while simultaneously operating Gateway to ensure importation distribution is on street corners every night of the damn week.” I sighed in vexation. “Add the pregnant wife, the adopted son, the dying mother and the never-ending list of enemies that want us buried six feet under. Hell, I might fucking drown, Josh. Your sad, moping bullshit is the last thing I need right now.”

Josh ignored the tear on his cheek.

I dropped onto the chair, sliding an arm around his shoulders. “Everyone is missing the most important person in our organisation, but do you see anyone slacking on the job?”

He wiped the moisture from his nose.

“If I adopted your attitude towards heartbreak, where would that leave us?” Because I feel, too. I miss the person who taught me how to live in this cruel world rather than survive. Warren is gone. And if the law has anything to do with it, he won’t be coming back. It would be easier to succumb to the heaviness of my heart, to the mercilessness of the law, and lock myself away from everyone. But I won’t. I will never give in to defeat because many people depend on me. Bossman included. “We have to get up every morning and put one foot in front of the other. Warren worked too damn hard to lose everything.” I used a tea towel to rub lipstick stains from his cheek. “He has lost enough.”

Josh rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

“You lost Nanna,” I said, and he expelled a stuttered breath. “It’s okay to miss her. I mean, it’s hard not to miss her. Even I thought she was pretty impressive for an old bird.”

He smiled for the first time since I arrived.

“Pain is an advantage,” I said roughly. “Weaponize it.”

The clock above the kitchen stove ticked with each passing second. He stared at the mug, curled his fingers around it and sipped thirstily, unfazed by the heat in his throat.

“So, we can sit around and cry and drink ourselves into oblivion to ease the pain, or we can do what we do best and raise hell on earth.” My stare roamed his face. “What do you say, Joshy Boy?”

“Yes,” he agreed, and I sat back in relief. “Can I ask a favour, though?”

I nodded.

His cheeks were scorching red. “Will you pretend tonight never happened?”

My brows furrowed in puzzlement.

“The women?” he mused, and a small smile teased my lips. “I am serious, Brad. If the brothers find out, they’ll terrorise me for months.”

“Hey, you have nothing to be ashamed of,” I said, and his eyes sliced in suspicion. “I mean, who am I to judge? If you get off on lesbian toe sucking—” He punched me in the shoulder, and I jumped back, laughing from the depths of my stomach. “Put me out of my misery. Is that what you are into?”

“What? No, I am not into whatever you just said.” He refused to acknowledge prior oddities. “It was sex, that’s all. What they do in their free time has nothing to do with me.”

“Right.” My voice was serious. “You just like to spectate, right?”

He did not appreciate my deadpan humour. “No.”

I itched my brow. “No?”

“No,” he repeated vehemently. “I do not have a sexual interest in feet. Why am I accountable for their foot fetish?”

“I am only trying to understand you.”

“You have witnessed me with women enough times to know I am better than that.”

I believed him. But I enjoyed his embarrassment far too much to drop the subject. “Whatever you say.” I paused. “Sailor.”

***

My supervisor had multicoloured braces, and every few seconds, he’d admire those braces in a matte black compact mirror while using a matte black travel-sized toothbrush to scrub his pearly white gnashers. Three minutes later, he’d scarf down food, knowing damn well incessant eating meant additional reflection admiration.

What a fucking tool.

I never thought I’d meet someone who loved themselves more than I do. If the egotistical prick wasn’t absorbed by his dog ugly countenance, he was hitting on girls who couldn’t be more than fifteen years old. Their white polo shirts were emblazoned with their school badge. If the gold embroidery didn’t give their age away, then the pleated, high-waisted miniskirts sure as hell did. Or their high-pitched giggles.

I hurled trash into the nearby skip.

He is distracted again, talking to four fresh-faced, impressionable young girls by the newsagents. They looked at ease in presence, but that’s because they never suspected sleazy behaviour from a supervision officer. Yet, the girls scowled at the litter-picking, graffiti-scrubbing criminals like they were filth under their shoes. Little did they know that people like me kept guys like disreputable Tool off the streets. I have hacked off more cocks than I cared to remember due to the owner’s sexual deviance, and I will happily do it again if he cannot get a handle on his lustful urges.

Another filled black bag landed in the skip.

I almost sparked a smoke.

“What are you doing?” Tool snatched the blunt and stamped it under his leather shoe. “Marijuana is illegal, Jones.”

“Never.” My eyes rounded in feigned shock. “You learn something new every day.”

He pointed to the alleyway behind the bookies. “I want those floors sparkling by the time you have finished.”

“I did the alley last week.” I am not mentally strong enough to tackle another hour of litter duties. “What’s the point in any of this? We clean the floors,” I said on behalf of myself and the other criminals, “in this exact area every day, but it makes no difference. People continue to hurl their rubbish around, regardless of the bins and the evident cleaners picking up after them. They don’t care if the street is a mess, so why should we?”

His arms folded. “Would you rather remove the graffiti?”

I moaned under my breath. “No.”

“Then, that’s your job for the next hour,” he said, and I stepped up to him. “Careful, Jones. I have yet to finish your report.”

“I am a nice person,” I said with a wide-eyed smile. “Just remember that when you fall asleep at night.”

He expelled through his nose, fogging up his black-framed glasses. “Was that a threat?”

“Moi? Make threats.” I chucked the Hi-Vis vest, suit jacket and diamond cufflinks into the boot of the Bentley, then unbuttoned the Valentino shirt. “I would never.”

His beady eyes drilled into me. “Are you stripping?”

“Why? Did you want to watch?” Standing in boxer briefs and black socks, I pulled on grey jogging bottoms and stomped into Timberland boots. “What?”

He harrumphed. “I see you decided to join the real world.”

“I won’t even pretend to understand you.”

“Take a look around, Jones?” His outstretched arms gestured to the other workers. “Nobody rocks up in a suit to scrape bubble gum off the floor.”

“Hence the outfit change,” I spat through gritted teeth. “Now, if you will excuse me. I have a tan to catch.”

“I beg your pardon,” he spluttered. “You will put on a T-shirt.”

“Why?” My pecs flexed. “Are you scared that I might distract your little groupies?”

His neck reined in. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

I waved him off. “Sure, you don’t.”

Crowded House helped to pass the time. Securing AirPods in my ears, I mouthed lyrics, dousing the brick wall in graffiti remover.

After twenty minutes, varicoloured paint dissolved in bubbling strips. Not even the strong chemicals and pressure washer fixed the problem, though. If anything, it left patches of melted paint in the masonry joints.

Coldwater and colourful particles splattered my face—my hair. I dropped the flow hose on the ground to knot my beloved hair atop my head. When reclaiming the bane of my life, I angled the nozzle and, as cack-handed as ever, sprayed skin-shedding pain across my chest. “Ah, fuck.” Hell, I shrieked, wrestling the overpowering force in the air as water came down on me like a catastrophic tsunami. “Tool! Shit—fuck.” A burning sensation slashed my face. “Cunt—bollocks.”

“Do you have Tourette Syndrome?—Hey! Watch it!” A familiar voice shouted. “How do you turn it off?”

Damn, she sounded pissed.

Panting for my dear life, I gripped the hose with both hands, and when the machine’s ridiculous noise reduced to nothing, the water disappearing with a blink of an eye, I sagged against the wall. “I have never, ever, suffered from a near-death experience before.”

I had soaked the cafe girl. Her clothes dripped. Her hair stuck to every inch of skin on her heart-shaped face. And she is fuming. Alright.

My lips meshed together. “Retaliation, I guess.”

Her mouth opened wide. “You have got to be kidding me.”

I am not overly bothered by past encounters, so I don’t know why I said that.

“I came over to help you.” Wet hair accentuated her jade-green eyes. “You should be grateful.”

I placed the hose on the floor, half expecting it to come alive and attack me. “I never asked.”

“It’s common courtesy.” When she erased smeared mascara beneath her eyes, I studied the vintage style statement rings on her fingers. She wore them on her thumbs, knuckles: base, middle and top—very boho. “If someone swoops in to save the day, you should thank them, big guy.”

My head tipped to the side to give facet joints a click and a stretch.

“Fine.” She stepped over the machine—I choked on air, thinking she’d be vicious and turn the damn thing back on—and headed towards the cafe. “Jerk.”

Listening to her retreating footsteps, I ran a hand down my face. “Wait,” I called, and she stopped just shy of the cafe’s door. “Thank you.”

Hands to her hips, she asked, “For what?”

“For…” I motioned to the mess on the floor. “You know—swooping in and saving the day.”

Her lips stretched into a pleased smile.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Her stare went from me to the door. “Do you want a towel?”

It’s not like I had anything better to do.

Plywood sheets flanked the walls and the floor. Two hanging bulbs buzzed overhead. “I thought this was a cafe.” There was a door on either side of the hallway. “Where are the tables?” Plus, it’s narrow, leaving barely any room to move. “I am not stoned enough for this.”

She pulled a face. “Are you here for food?”

“No.” You couldn’t pay me to dine here. “Curious.”

“It’s through there.” She pointed to the door nailed in polaroid pictures. “Hurry up, or Ben will put my head on the chopping board.”

Into the other door, she went.

I was close behind.

Cardboard boxes took up most of the kitchenette’s space: two-seater sofa, round coffee table, an old radio. “Who’s Ben?”

She meandered through boxes until I could no longer see her. “Why?”

“Conversation.” Gathering torn envelopes on the coffee table, I slid them onto the cluttered counter and sat on said table, hoping it never shattered beneath me. “Well?”

“My brother,” she shouted from somewhere, then her face came into view. “I might have to look upstairs.”

I eyed the threadbare sofa. “Do you sleep in here?”

“No, I sleep upstairs.”

“Then, why would you store towels here?”

“We don’t store our towels here.”

Am I losing my mind? Is she not looking for clean towels as we speak?

“We buy spare for the winter.” Her body squeezed through boxes until she stood before me. “Flood risks?”

I blinked.

“It’s a threatened area,” she explained, and I listened. “Extensive rainfall?”

My shoulders lifted.

“Have you noticed there is significant steepness in our street?”

“I am aware that extreme weather conditions can cause floods, sweetheart.”

“Then, why do you look at me like I speak a foreign language?”

“Why not relocate if the cafe’s prone to an inundation of rainwater?”

She stared for a moment.

I stared back.

“For you.” She proffered a towel wrapped in cellophane. “I hope the calico fibres meet your high expectations.”

Hunching forward with the towel over my head, I squeezed filthy water out of my hair. “Are we fighting again?” When she never answered, I peered up and caught the glimmer of frustration in her tired eyes. “Am I right to assume you find me arrogant?”

Although satirical, her laughter was soft and somniferous. “What gave you that impression?”

“You speak with an air of derision.” The towel scrubbed over my face to eliminate stubborn paint. “Is such contempt served to everyone, or am I special?”

“I might make an exception for you.” She parked on the arm of the sofa, her chin resting on a hiked knee. “Do they hurt?”

My brow bent. “What?”

She pointed to something behind me. “The scars on your back?”

I soared from the box with an unreadable expression and placed the folded towel on an empty box. “No.”

I expected her to pry, but she changed the subject. “What are you listening to?”

“Weather With You.” I removed the AirPods from my ears. “At least, I was until the water fiasco. I think they are broken.”

“I am not familiar with the song.”

“Take out your phone.”

She had a cracked Samsung.

“Google the song,” I said, and her thumbs tapped the screen. “Found it?”

Selecting the song, she listened with a slight frown.

“What?”

“It’s old.”

I pointed out the brick in her hands. “Your phone is old.”

Her eyes rolled.

“Well, what shit do you listen to?”

“Usher,” she said, as cliche as ever. “What?”

“Usher?” My scowl deepened. “Really?”

“I like other artists,” she said defensively.

“Let me guess.” When I grasped the nape of my neck, I didn’t miss the way her eyes absorbed the expense of my chest. “Tyrese Gibson. Joe Thomas. Keith Sweat.”

She touched her chest. “How did you know?”

Nate’s love for Motown and R&B tends to invade my life—and ears. “Lucky guess.”

“You forgot Ne-Yo,” she said, and I must have expressed distaste because she felt the need to defend herself. “Hey, what’s wrong with Ne-Yo?”

Ne-Yo is too depressing for my liking. “Everything.”

Her jaw set. “Well, I happen to think he is a lyrical genius.”

Good for you, I thought.

Why am I still here?

I headed for the exit. “Thanks for the towel.”

“Yeah.” She stumbled to her feet. “No problem.”

Hand pausing on the door, I peered over one shoulder. “Which song?”

Ducking under my arm, she pushed the door open fully and slipped into the hallway. “Huh?”

“Ne-Yo,” I rasped, and her brows elevated in surprise. “What’s your favourite song?”

She nibbled her lower lip. “When You’re Mad. Definitely.”

“Not So-Sick?”

Her hip jutted out. “Oh, so you do listen to his music.”

“I might have heard his songs on the radio over the years.”

“I rinsed that song when I was younger,” she told me. “I’m over it.” Her gaze lingered on my face for longer than necessary. “What’s your name?”

It was my turn to act surprised. “You don’t recognise me?”

Her head jerked back. “Am I supposed to?”

No, I guess not. “Brad.”

“Brad,” she tested the name on her tongue. “Thanks for the company, big guy.”

She turned for the other door, and I grabbed her elbow. “Aren’t you going to tell me yours?”

“No,” she said with a puff-cheeked smile. “I think I will keep that tad bit of information for myself so that you don’t use it against me in the foreseeable future.”

“Why?” Christ, I bet her mother named her Gretchen or Gertrude. “Do you have a weird name or something?”

She stared right through me. “Mildred.”

Mildred? That’s child abuse.

My dry laugh came before I could stop it. “I mean, yeah. It’s a pretty name.”

Her hands threw up. “And your reaction is the exact reason why I will never confide in you.”

“One, it’s just a name. Two, we are not friends, so there won’t be any personal chit-chat. Three, keep your knickers on.” My hands sat on my hips. “You are too high-strung, and it’s exhausting.”

With another eye-roll, she detached from our unforeseen bonding session and entered the door decorated in those hideous polaroid pictures. “Until next time, big guy.”

There won’t be a next time, sweetheart.

I stepped into the humid alleyway, the sun’s rays hot on the top of my head. Foot propping to the brick wall, I pulled out my phone, typed something into the search bar and waited for the music to start.

Could it be the little wrinkle over your nose when you make your angry face? That makes me wanna just take off all your clothes and sex you all over the place.

Pleasantly surprised by the song, I killed the music.

There might be hope for Mildred after all.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Brad

Nate is a callous drill sergeant. If the non-commissioned martinet demands any more enthusiasm from bruised, weary soldiers, he’ll be left with empty barracks before the week is out. He dragged exhausted men out of the comfort of their beds at three o’clock this morning, the devil’s hour, for a well-intentioned segmented run in the mesic woodland area behind the historical compound.

The shivering cold of dawn crept among us when the enervated men returned, the clothes on their overworked bodies streaked in sweat, the trainers on their feet caked in dirt. Thirty-five prospects hit the deck, collapsed in short-winded, boneless stacks, some vomiting through violent episodes of dizziness, but only twenty-nine got back up for technique and progression.

According to ex-military colonel Eddie (he’s managed the barracks since the very beginning), the old, hard-bitten grump who lived separately from the enlisted, the British army used the site to train during the second world war. The abandoned, war-damaged area soon fuelled investors online. It was later auctioned, however, to none other than Liam Warren.

It’s been in the boss’s possession ever since.

In earlier years, Bossman had a wise head on young shoulders. He was new to the game, a novice compared to other business magnates, but inexperience never stopped him from achieving.

Warren was like a dog with a bone when something caught his interest. He saw potential in the ravaged barracks. He stood in the middle of the deserted, debris strewed courtyard one night and expressed so much passion for what I perceived as an unnerving burial ground. The visionary, however, closed his eyes and mentally painted blank canvases to actualise dreams.

“I can hire contractors.” His dark, windswept hair irritated his brow. “We can restore the barracks, but the dilapidated outbuilding has to go.”

The destroyed expanse of unrestored buildings was unappealing. Honestly, I would never waste money on such dreadfulness. And what of the ghosts of foot soldiers? Are they here? Is the place haunted? Do those trapped souls terrorise the halls at night? Yeah, no thanks. Paranormal activity is not my idea of a good time. I’d rather sleep on the streets for the rest of my life.

“Yeah,” I agreed, albeit sceptical. “If you say so.”

“If I say so,” he said whispery, the Romanesque bell tower trapped in his piercing stare. “You cannot see it.”

I tried damn hard to envision greatness, but I clearly wasn’t drunk enough, unlike some people. “Historians will love the place.”

“I never bought it for historians.” He swigged Macallan from the bottle. “It’s for my men.”

My protrusive eyes skirted over the windowless buildings. “There isn’t enough money on earth to put me in one of those flea-ridden bunk beds.”

He laughed, low and raspy. “Your perception is utterly presumptuous. During which part of our conversation did I offer you any money?”

“Whatever.” If I were not terrified of the geezer, I’d have backhanded him for sarcasm. “I won’t sleep here.”

“I never offered.” He crouched to examine a dust-layered shard of glass. “You will train here, though. It’s non-negotiable.”

Honestly, at that particular moment, I hated him. But hate was nowhere near enough to describe how I felt after renovations and remodelling.

I still remember our first boot camp session like it happened yesterday. Electric gates slid open for men to enter the grounds. Unlike the others, I was awe-inspired by the architectural reconstruction. It was not the same place I had visited prior. There was life and light and activity. I studied the pigeon lined bell tower in a state of open-mouthed admiration, wondering how the son of a bitch had managed to pull it off.

“Catching flies.” The man himself appeared. “You can close your mouth now.”

My lips snapped together. “You were right.”

Pebbles scraped under his leather shoes as he walked alongside me. “You doubted me.”

“No,” I lied, the bag strap weighing heavily on my shoulder. “Why are you wearing a suit?”

He paused by parked trucks to light a cigarette. “Is it unusual for me to wear suits?”

No, he modelled tailored fabrics every day, but surely, he cannot train in such costly limitations. “More fool you, then.”

His brow arched. “Do elaborate.”

“Mud.” I gestured to the field, where recruits huddled in dreaded preparation. “Grass. Mud. More mud.”

He looked nonplussed. “Mud?”

“Oh, I see.” The bag fell to my feet. “You are not prepared to get your hands dirty with the rest of us.”

Birds chirped while he scrutinised.

“You lack ambition, discipline and self-control.” His face was far too close for my liking. “You are dangerously predictable, cockily so,” he added with haughty sarcasm. “Why would I elect myself for something mastered at the lowest point of existence?”

“I think it’s only fair that you train with us,” I said, unfazed by the tick in his jaw.

There was an infinitesimal pause.

“I knew exactly who I was and where I wanted to be.” His chafed undertone and displeased face put me back on a leash. “I did not stand around and wait for opportunities to fall onto my lap or rely on others to better my future.”

My throat swelled.

“As a child, I thought I was worthless. I will be a man someday, yet I know nothing about life,” he talked from the mind of his younger self. “He cannot talk, read nor write. He is reclusive and unapproachable and seemingly affected by institutionalisation.”

Warren seldom discussed his past, but on the rarest occasion, when he divulged, I listened with keen interest.

“Imagine having to listen to those very words, day in, day out, knowing that perhaps it was true.” He chuckled once. “Maybe I am illiterate, introverted and antisocial. They are professionals, of course, so what do I know? Who am I to question their qualifications?”

I had no idea where the conversation was going, but one thing I have learnt about this man is there were meaningful reasons behind every word he spoke.

“So, I can accept their analysation, or I can prove them wrong.” He expelled smoke. “If I cannot read, I will read every book in the library until I can recite paragraphs from memory. If I cannot write, I will practice lines every night until italic handwriting fills the very last page. If impermanent residency is holding me back, I will walk this godforsaken earth freely until I know my worth.”

With harshly gathered eyebrows, I glared in fixated concentration.

“I did my time. I spent nights in a squalid bedsit down in East London. I trained morning, noon and night in a back-alley boxing gym to improve muscularity.” His gaze cast to the floor. “I had to learn the differentiation between undisciplined impulsiveness and disciplined rumination, for the latter is far more powerful when compromised.”

I swallowed parchedness. “Boss…”

“I was arrogant,” he said with a slight smile. “I am still arrogant. I will die arrogant.”

I looked away.

“Muscular strength and sharp-tongued arrogance only got me so far in life.” His hands took my head, and his thumbs pressed into my temples. “Independence, astuteness and tenaciousness are what made me unstoppable.”

My fingers curled around his wrists.

“Do you still need me to hold your hand?” he asked, and I shook my head. “I am relying on you. I don’t need any more disappointment. You understand.”

“What the hell was that?” Nate paced the sideline with furious strides. “Pick up your feet, for fuck’s sake.” Even amidst dense fogs, I could see the steam coming out of his ears. “Pussios, the fucking lot of them.”

Trainees fell over each other as they slugged through slippery hurdles.

Eddie guffawed. “They are not ready.”

“Well, that ain’t going to work for us.” Nate ripped the beanie off his head. “What the fuck is wrong with these idiots? It’s foolproof,” he lambasted the troops from across the foggy field. “Where have you been for the last few months, huh? Competent, my ass.”

“They need more time.” Eddie’s lips moved behind the burgundy scarf swaddled around his neck. “It’s only been a couple of months. I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

“We ain’t got time.” Nate’s uncharacteristically perturbed. It’s unlike him to lose faith so quickly—that’s my job. “I am going to fuck these bitches up. Get off the court,” he ordered, and two exhausted lads hauled themselves out of the mud. “Pack your shit and leave.”

Eddie side-eyed him. “Do you need to take a break?”

“He’s fine,” I said, and the man griped to himself. “Problem?”

“Nope.” Eddie’s stare never left the field. “He’s just a little high strung, that is all.”

Only fifteen men surpassed the sloping wall; the rest surrendered at the network of wires. It was done for them. Once they picked themselves off the floor, they had to collect their bags, leave and never look back. If there is hope for the others, there’ll be military chains and a new life at the end. All they had to do was cross the finish line, the last hurdle.

I landed face-first in the mood.

It hurt like a bitch.

My muscles cannot take much more.

Rolling onto my back, I gazed at the dark, gloomy, depressing sky, where black clouds threatened a severe downpour.

Men stepped over my body.

They never gave up.

My head turned to the side.

Warren mouthed something.

I had to get up.

Of course, I obeyed. I twisted onto all fours, crawled through the slippery mud and latched onto the rope. With bated breath, I pulled myself out of the begrimed grass, one foot on either side of the wooden slope, and scaled to the other side.

It happened again.

My body rolled across sludge.

My brain told me to stop.

Hell, I was too ashamed to meet his eyes.

I will fail.

He knows it.

I know it.

Months and months of intense military training served no purpose.

“We have already lost the majority of men during guns and weapons training.” Nate crouched to the floor in tired defeat. “It’s pointless, Brad. We’ll be lucky to get six men out of these idiots.”

“He’s good.” I watched the pale-faced, grey-eyed male clamber the assault wall. “What’s his name?”

Eddie looked from under the brim of his baseball cap. “Eli Adams.”

Nate checked the clipboard. “He’s a sharp-shooter. Hopefully, he’s resilient enough to see this through.”

“Yes.” Eddie’s hands rubbed together to generate heat. “You see the one on the wooden beams? That’s Eli’s younger brother, Cole.”

Cole was the polar opposite of his older brother. He was shorter but no less muscular, and his blond hair was a stark contrast to Eli’s jet black.

Eli scaled the court effortlessly, but Cole struggled. He could barely keep up, his feet submerged in more grounds, his palms sore and bloody. Taking the rope into his hands, he set one foot onto the wall and clawed his way to the top. He never lowered to the other side. He fell, stood with arms akimbo, then fell once more.

Nate spat out a slew of profanities.

Eli hesitated by the vertical ladder. He was close to the finish line, but his brother’s dispiritedness held him back. With an agitated curse, he pushed away from the ladder, retraced his steps and tackled each obstacle again until Cole was back on his feet.

Nate assessed the men as they hobbled to the closest wall. “Ankle.”

Cole’s ankle pain slowed them down, but with Eli’s determination for victory, they powered through hand-in-hand.

My eyes closed.

“Get up.” His hand snatched the back of my T-shirt. “Do not capitulate.”

“I am so fucking done with this shit,” I muttered, spitting mud and saliva on the ground—I swear, I lost a bastard tooth back there. “I don’t know why you picked me for the job. We both know I don’t have what it takes to command the syndicate.”

“You are stronger than you think.” He kneeled on the filthy floor. “Remember what I said: muscular strength will only get you so far.”

“Yeah?” I wiped the sweat from my brow. “And stubborn individualism is fucking lonely, and it’s poor sportsmanship.”

It was a sarcastic snide, yet he frowned in contemplation.

“Don’t kill me.” Clumps of clay stuck to my eyelashes. “It was a bad joke.”

When the heavens opened, I was hardly surprised. It was forecasted to rain thirty minutes ago.

His hand covered mine.

I studied his ringed fingers.

“You have never needed anyone,” he reminded me. “Sure, I can help you to the bitter end, but unassisted achievement is far more satisfying.”

Heavy rain befell on us.

“What’s the point in any of this?”

“It helps to eliminate burdens and restraints.”

Men crumpled ahead.

Quitters bemoaned aback.

Pushing down the lump in my throat, I forced myself to stand. With a powerful take-off jump, I gripped the top of the wall, my arm rested on the brick and swung my leg over. Ignoring the lower pain in my body, I listened to the words of encouragement in my head and used mental resilience to scale the brick.

I dropped to the other side.

Christ, I had to plough through another eighteen minutes of this shit.

“Him.” Nate pointed to the dark-skinned male by the rope ladder. “What’s his name?”

“That’s Terrence Bartlett.” Eddie nodded approvingly. “He is a bloody machine.”

Terrance is built like a brick shithouse. He was Amazonian tall, packed with muscles and had the face of an American bulldog.

“He’s heavy-footed, though.” Wrinkles marred the man’s aged face. “And he’s a bit of a lone ranger. Not sure if that’ll be a problem.”

Eli tugged Cole over the finish line with Terrance on their heels.

I thumbed the engraved military tags hanging from my neck.

“You good?” Nate stepped in front of me. “You look lost. What did I miss?”

“Nothing,” I said, spotting Josh’s car near the courtyard. “Looks like Sailor got his arse out of bed.”

Nate blinked owlishly. “Who?”

Josh pulled the fur-lined black parka hood over his head. He traipsed toward us with unstyled hair, dark circles under his eyes and creased clothes.

What a fucking write off.

“You are late,” I clipped out. “I told you to be here at seven a.m.”

“I know.” Josh’s voice was thick and husky from lack of sleep. “I couldn’t find my car keys.” He fist-bumped Nate. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Nate’s eyes toured Josh’s bedraggled appearance. “Are you?”

Nodding, Josh sipped takeaway coffee.

Time stood still, Eddie took a hike and conversations hushed when Eli and Cole joined our circle.

“Brad Jones.” Eli shook my hand. “I have heard so much about you.”

His strong accent and sibilant pronunciations took me aback. “Where are you from?”

It was Eli’s turn to look surprised. “Ukraine.”

“Why did you hesitate?”

“What?” He bit back a nervous smile. “I never hesitated.”

My teeth sank into my bottom lip. “Yes, you did.”

He was tight-lipped.

I bellied reservations. “Which part of Ukraine?”

“The capital.”

“Which is?”

“Kyiv.”

“Which area?”

“Shevchenkivs’kyi district.”

I glanced at Cole.

“Oh,” he stuttered. “I lived in another district.”

“Yes.” My arms crossed. “Which one?”

The brother’s exchanged quizzical looks.

Cole schooled his features. “Smolyansky.”

Still, I was unsatisfied. “Why are you here?”

“It’s on our application forms.”

I accepted the clipboard from Nate to scan their details. “You owned a bar,” I said to Eli, and his head dipped. “Cole worked at a pet shop.” My tongue clicked. “Lover of animals?”

Cole tousled his wet hair. “Yes.”

I handed the clipboard to Nate. “Family?”

“No, Sir,” they answered in unison.

“Wealthy?”

The older brother looked bewildered. “I guess.”

“You guess,” I repeated, and his jaw hardened. “How long have you lived in London?”

Eli’s spine straightened. “Three months.”

“Where do you reside?”

“We share a two-bedroom apartment in Mayfair.”

“Mayfair?” Impressive. “You must think you’re the dog’s bollocks.”

Cole’s ashen-faced.

Eli’s aggravated.

I tongue a toothpick to the corner of my lips. “Previous employment?”

“We vacationed for a while.” Eli scrubbed a hand down his face. “Enjoying tourist attractions and whatnot.”

So, they haven’t worked in three months. “How did you hear about Warren Enterprise?”

Eli scratched his shoulder. “We saw an ad online.”

“We don’t advertise online,” Josh stepped in. “I call bullshit.”

“There is nothing untoward here. I saw an article online about shift work at Club 11. I almost applied for the bar, having experience and all, but I overheard the doorman mention security benefits. I did a little research.” Eli avoided my gaze. “It soon led me here.”

“And I jumped on the bandwagon.” Cole gulped. “Eli can’t do anything without me; I won’t allow it.”

Nate hummed.

My eyes sliced in distrust. “See, I can’t help but wonder why two Ukrainian men would leave their homes, jobs and country to run errands for a man they have never even met.”

“We wanted a fresh start.” Eli’s lips moved, but the words he spoke made no sense. “So, what happens next?”

I shrugged. “You leave.”

Once more, the brothers shared confused glances.

“Warren Enterprise will be in contact if you are successful.”

“But we completed the course.” Eli tried to hide furiousness but failed miserably. “We have trained for months.”

Pensive, I stared.

“Fine.” Eli’s throat bobbed on a tight swallow. “We look forward to hearing from you.”

I watched them limp towards the barracks.

Nate waited until they were out of earshot. “What was that about?”

“They are from Ukraine.”

His brows furrowed. “So?”

“It’s too close to Russia,” I pointed out the obvious. “We need to make sure there are no connections to the Vasiliev brothers before we hire them.”

“Fine.” A joint balanced between his pinched lips. “I will look into it.”

Josh shuddered, the cold gust of wind chattering his blue-tinted lips. “Community service?”

“Later.” Hot rage built up. “Christ, why did you remind me? There is nothing worse than plucking litter from the gutter. My supervisor is the biggest twat to roam London. If he steps out of line, one more time, expect his body at the Crem. You can burn him alive.”

Nate laughed loudly.

“I had to use a pressure washer to zap my way through graffiti.” My chest and face throbbed at the god-awful memory. “Oh, and there is this woman—”

“There are always women where Brad’s lurking,” Josh joked, and Nate’s chuckling crescendoed. “Come on. How long did it take for you to haul her arse into the cleaning cupboard?”

“What the fuck?” The tip of my ears started to burn. “Hey, this is my story. Not yours. Plus, I’d be careful if I were you, Sailor.” My accusatory finger pointed in Josh’s flushed face. “You might want to stay in my good books.”

Nate’s lip curled at the corner. “What did he do?”

“Just know that it involves Joshy Boy and two rug munching toe suckers.”

“Brad!” Josh speared a hand through his hair. “Get off my fucking dick.”

“I will,” I said chipperly. “When you get off mine.”

He shot me the middle finger.

“So…” Nate tucked the clipboard under his arms. “Who’s the girl?”

An odd bird. “Mildred—”

Josh dry heaved. “You fucked someone by the name of Mildred?”

“Right, because sleeping with a woman named Mildred is far worse than sailing vessels.” I deadpanned, and his eyes squeezed shut. “No, I did not sleep with Mildred, Josh. Thanks for asking.” Accepting the joint, I put it to my lips and took a long drag. “Mildred lives in the cafe just down the street from where I work. Anyway, the first time we met, she almost ran me over and dumped dog shit all over me. We exchanged a few choice words, then she bounced. In our next encounter, she managed to offend me. Again.” My lips meshed. “But she’s kinda growing on me, I think. She’s entertaining if nothing else.”

Nate’s straight white teeth flashed impishly. “She’ll be under him within a month.”

Both men laughed at my expense.

“No,” I disagreed, and I meant it. “Mildred’s too much for my brain to handle. Besides, I think she’d have more fun tearing my eyes out. She’s a feisty little fucker.”

Josh sipped coffee. “Maybe we should go there for breakfast.”

“Maybe we should not,” I fired back. “I bet the place serves food on paper plates. I won’t dine for less than fine china.”

“You eat back-alley kebabs on Saturday nights.” Nate faffed with his brow piercing. “Those carton tubs satiate, then.”

I love doner kebabs. Add salad, every sauce under the sun, and Bob’s your uncle. “Yeah, well, by that point, I am too cock-eyed to give a shit.”

Nate’s smile held. “You have a full-time job. Why is the supervision officer slave-driving? There are laws.”

“It’s my choice to cram hours together.” I rocked back on the heels of my shoes. “I want to power through quicker, or else I will still be litter-picking this time next year.”

“Fair enough.” He picked up the holdall on the floor. “Do you need a lift?”

“No, I’ll drive the Bentley,” I said, walking alongside them to the all-concrete car park. “Valerie?”

“Still breathing.” Nate tossed the bag in the Audi. “Where will I catch you?”

“I’ll be at the club later,” I told them. “I can’t stay out too late, though. I need to swing by Warren Manor to check in on Alexa.”

Leaving the men, I unlocked the Bentley and climbed behind the steering wheel.

I had six missed calls, one voice message.

Adjusting the heated leather seat, I fired the engine and placed the phone to my ear. “Hi, this is Lorna Brante. I am calling on behalf of Principle Law. I need to discuss a rather urgent matter with you. If you could call me back on this number, it would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.”

To listen to the message again—Deleting the voicemail, I dropped the handbrake, eased onto the accelerator and drove away from the compound.

Tool better not step on my toes this afternoon.

It might cost him some teeth.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Brad

Tool’s diamond-shaped chin rested in the palm of his left hand as his downturned eyes monitored the ins and outs of my arse. His contemptuous scowl set above high cheekbones and sharp, cupid bow lips. His relaxed body language was forced and insincere. His shoulder leaning on the brick wall, he folded his arms and whistled tuneful songs, one being the infamous “Twisted Nerve” by Bernard Herrmann.

He dithered at the end of the alleyway.

I collected litter by the bright yellow communal skip.

His head tilted.

My frown darkened.

If this is a game of cat and mouse, he better prepare for rodenticide.

I eat people like him for breakfast.

“New tracksuit?” His deep voice thundered from afar. “And, where do you buy the headbands? Or are they on loan from your little sister?”

Tool is not worth my time or energy.

“Perhaps you take them from your mother.” he mused, and the extended gripper almost slipped from my hand. “Do you wear her clothes, too?”

Think clearly, Jones.

They’ll only send another tool to replace him if you kill him.

“Did I touch a nerve?” he asked, having noticed my uneasiness. “I have a degree in psychology. You could always entrust the hand that serves you.”

“I would never reveal the darkest side of myself to a man like you,” I said as his footsteps closed in. “So, shove your psychoanalytic bullshit where the sun doesn’t shine.”

Tool’s leather shoes came into my line of sight. Yet, I kept my head down to stab empty packets on the ground. I may or may not ram the gripper’s metal pin in his eye if I look up.

The man read my file, so he thinks he got me all figured out. But he doesn’t know me. He has a warped opinion of me. If he realised just how villainous I could be, he’d think twice about pestering me. He’d sure as hell avoid eye contact, wire his damn mouth shut and stay on my blissful side because I can be dangerously impulsive when provoked.

I have skinned men, extracted teeth, broken bones, dismembered, disembowelled, decapitated and castrated for less.

There are no limits to my artistic abilities. I will quite happily use his blood to paint these very walls.

His impatient foot-tapping echoed throughout. “Is it true?”

Sweat dripping down my temples, I knotted the black sack and hurled it next to the other filled bags for discarding. “Is what true?”

“Are you a closet queen?” He revelled in the pleasure of tormenting me. “A female impersonator? Crossdresser?”

“Why do you synonymise?” Although the image of him hanging from the lamppost excited me, I tapered down wayward thoughts and shouldered past him to unravel another sack. “I understood the question the first time.”

“I could see you in a dress.” He followed me down the alleyway, grinning like a fucking pervert at a gentleman’s bar. “Would it be pink to match your bobble or white to enhance your highlights?”

The angel on my shoulder strived to reason with me while the devil on my shoulder chortled mockingly.

“Lipstick?” he teased, and unbridled rage bubbled up within. “I bet magenta is your favourite colour.”

My shoulders rolled back. “Tool?”

He was overconfident and brazenly satisfied. “Yes?”

I snatched him by the throat, and he gasped. “How far do you want to push me?” I asked in a low, threatening voice as his fingers grappled the front of my shirt. “Enough for me to cull your fucking neck?”

His glare was unwavering in my inexorable hands. “I have yet to finish your behavioural report, Jones. Think carefully about your actions.”

“Fuck the report,” I spat, and his eyes watered behind fogged up spectacles. “Now, I came here with good intentions, but this unwarranted animosity is starting to piss me off. Is it personal? I don’t care. Will it get a rise out of me? You bet your fucking arse it will.”

“You are out of your depth.” His throat swelled under my hand. “Go ahead. Give it your best shot. Let’s see how long it takes officials to throw you behind bars once I talk. I promise to make an example out of you.”

“You know what? I am pretty much done with your ugly mug.” Provoked into blind-rage, I seized the nape of his neck, smashed his face into the metal skip—the crack of his broken nose sprouting goosebumps to my flesh—and lunged his squealing, thrashing body into the garbage where he belonged. “Have a nice trip.”

“No.” Blood oozed from his nostrils as he wrangled through rustling black bags to climb out. “I will sue you!”

The clipboard joined him.

“Good luck with that.” Yanking down the heavy lid, trapping Tool inside, I slid the hand-held trash picker through the bars to conceal him and whistled his annoying song as I retreated. His muffled screams reduced the further afield I travelled. He should thank his lucky stars if someone so happens to find him because I had no intention of releasing him back into the wild.

Fucking nonce.

Mildred tried to park outside the cafe. The rusted car chugged, jolted forward and backwards, as exhaust fumes billowed clouds of black smoke. Wrestling the notchy, noisy gear stick, she reversed, knocking straight into a hooded top bin, which bestrewn recyclables into the gutter.

Deciding to be a dickhead driver, she parked asymmetrically on the pavement, jerked the driver’s side door open, rounded the bonnet at a frenetic pace and disappeared indoors.

I stopped next to the empty bottles of pop.

Oh, I will skin her alive.

Upon reaching the door tacked in polaroid pictures, I unpinned the black and white image of an older man—whose fingernails were blackened and ingrained with dirt—cupping a ceramic mug. He was not looking at the person responsible for the photo.

His eyes stared ahead.

Many plain-featured prints decorated the rustic wood accompanied by preserved, dry flowers. Beaded bracelets tied in satin bows. Feather keychains and embroidered hoops threaded with old-fashioned yarn.

Pinning the image back on the door, I welcomed myself into the addicting aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Plywood floors graced my feet. A high wooden ceiling domed the cafe’s unconventional layout, and cascading plants obscured light fixtures aloft. Regulars sat on cushioned benches, ate colourful meals on tapestried tables and sipped beverages from Sandrine mugs.

Mildred was nowhere in sight.

“Table for one?” Plaited golden bronze hair hung loosely down the waitress’s back. “Sir?”

“No,” I said after a beat. “Actually, I am here to see Mildred.” My gaze bounced around the room in search of the pest. “Is she about?”

Her sable eyes flicked up and down. “Who?”

“Mildred?” My scrutinisation soaked up her all-black attire: tight fitted jeans, knee-high boots, skin-tight T-shirt and a nice little tongue piercing. “Well?”

“Mildred…” Her lips parted in bafflement. “I mean, does she eat here?”

“She works here.” With a puzzled expression, I pointed to the ceiling. “And she lives upstairs with her brother, Ben.” The girl’s glossed lips puckered. “She mentioned a son. I think his name’s Carlos.”

“Carter,” she corrected, and my eyes lit up. “Eh, yeah. I know Mildred.” Thrusting an empty tray on my chest, she scurried away with a flapping hand wave, the heels of her boots scraping across the wooden floor. “Just give me five seconds! I will be right back!”

The waitress fell through the door at the back of the restaurant.

Placing the tray onto a nearby table, I strode to the red brick counter, where two baristas, togged up in black work-gear and olive-green aprons, prepared fresh fruit smoothies.

Opening the leather wallet, I pulled out a fifty-pound note and ordered the rejuvenating green smoothie. It was garnished in crystallised edible flowers, and a reusable bamboo straw stuck out of the mason jar.

“Can I tempt you to buy lunch?” The brunette wiped down the counter. “Our chipotle chicken salad is to die for.”

I shook my head.

“Oh, okay.” Her spirits dampened. “What about the sun-dried tomato and mozzarella panini?”

My exasperation heightened.

“Right.” Her cheeks pinkened. “Well, enjoy your smoothie.”

Winking, I raised the glass to my lips for a sip. “I plan to.”

I tasted the drink.

It was disgusting.

Mildred reappeared. Her examining eyes toured the expanse of the cafe until she spotted her visitor and something akin to annoyance etched her unsmiling countenance when she recognised the person demanding her attention.

“Brad?” She slipped behind the counter, and with one fierce look, her two co-workers relocated to the cafe floor to clean tables. “What can I do for you?”

“You cannot drive.” My folded arms leaned onto the counter. “You smashed into a bin out there and left garbage for the cleaners. That would be moi, in case you were wondering.”

She gave me a full-blown smile. “Thanks for bringing the matter to my attention. I will be sure to clean it after work.”

I sipped the smoothie. “As you should.”

Her shoulders lifted on a deep inhalation. “Okay.”

“Okay,” I chimed.

Mildred stared prolongedly.

Of course, I glared in return, not a hint of humour between us.

Curling hair behind her ears, where stone-amazonite earrings dangled, she wiggled her fingers into disposable gloves and tonged two slices of cake from the delicatessen counter: frosted carrot and butter pecan. “For you.”

I studied the baked goods. “Did you make them yourself?”

“Why?” She took umbrage to the innocuous question. “Actually, do not answer that. If you say something untoward or offensive, I might beat the ever-living shit out of you.”

My brows jumped to my hairline. “I didn’t think you had it in you, sweetheart.”

“Oh, don’t underestimate me.” She uncapped bottled orange juice. “That will be ten quid.”

“Ten pounds for back-alley kuchen?” Unzipping the wallet, I slid twenty quid across the counter. “This is daylight robbery for something I never even ordered.”

“I know.” She tapped the order into the digital cash register, stuffed the note inside, slammed the drawer shut and continued to sip orange juice. “Enjoy.”

My curiosity went from her to the till. “Where is my change?”

“Compensation for rudeness.” She looked at me with fierceness in her eyes. “Are you going to sit down?”

I gave the cafe a disapproving sweep over. “No, I am not here to eat.”

“You bought cakes.”

“I never asked.”

“Then, why did you buy them?”

I shrugged.

“Emma?” A tall, muscular man stood in the kitchen doorway, his white apron bespattered in various cooking oils, his brown, unruly hair, crying out for a visit at the barbers. “I need you in the kitchen.”

Four women waited on occupied tables. None of them paid any heed to the guy’s—chef’s?—demands. They smiled, laughed and engaged with customers while he lingered in short-tempered restlessness.

His eyes were on Mildred, though. And Mildred’s face was suddenly darker in complexion.

Confused by their silent interaction, I looked between them.

The guy’s impatience hit its pinnacle. “Emma?”

“Alright,” Mildred answered, and I shot her a double-take. “I will be there in a second.”

He disappeared, slamming the door behind him.

I watched her in deep thought. “You lied to me.”

“I did,” she said unregretfully.

It was my turn to look offended. “Why?”

Her shoulders pushed back. “Well, I have yet to determine whether or not I trust you.”

“Trust is a two-way street.” I was baffled by her odd perception. “So, is that how you introduce yourself to new people? You give them a fake name.”

“No.” Her breath stuttered. “Just non sentenced criminals who collect rubbish down the street.”

My eyes rounded. “Brutal.”

“Look, I am sorry, okay?” Her apology sounded genuine. “But I have trust issues. And honestly, I never expected to see you again after the jet-wash nonsense.”

I was too stunned to hang around.

“You know what? A wise man once told me that a liar is worse than a thief,” I said, and regret flashed in her eyes. “See you never, Emma.”

I felt her watchfulness as I walked away.

Stepping into the belly of the alleyway, I kicked scattered rubbish aside, having no intention of cleaning up after her, and headed to the parked Bentley. I am done. Over and out. I know enough influential people to get me out of this mess. Christ, all I had to do was chuck money at the right person. I will never have to pick rubbish or scrub graffiti again.

Leaving the Bentley door open, I slumped behind the steering wheel and sparked a pre-rolled blunt. Mind-numbing haze soon de-stressed—that and quietly played music.

I spot the cafe girl in the internal rear-view mirror.

“Brad?” She crouched by the open door with a cardboard food box. “You forgot the cakes.”

I whacked the box out of her hands.

Her eyes briefly flicked to the sky. “I deserved that.”

“You should never judge someone without knowing their story.”

“I know.” There is a single beauty spot above her pursed lips. “Can we start over?”

“Why?” My face scrunched up. “We are not friends.”

Embarrassment warmed her cheeks. “You have to serve the community until further notice, right?”

Not for much longer, I thought. “Right.”

“Then it makes sense for us to get along,” she said, hopeful and optimistic. “And because I feel really shitty for lying to you, I will give you free coffee for two weeks. How does that sound?”

I blew out marijuana-infused smoke. “Make it a month.”

“A month?” She adjusted the black strap across her chest, and I noticed the Canon camera belatedly. “Fine. One month. Free coffee. Do not tell Ben.”

“Your brother?” I asked, and she nodded. “He is the chef?”

“Yes, and the bane of my life,” she said under her breath. “It’s his cafe. Ben, I mean. He owns the building. I simply help out when time allows it.”

I lowered the music to a soothing tone. “Single mother?”

If my question annoyed her, she never showed it. “Yes.”

The blunt rolled between my pinched fingers. “Where is he?”

“School.” Her folded arms relaxed over her thighs. “I’ll pick him up at three.”

I proffered the blunt, and she declined politely. “What’s with the camera?”

“Oh, I like to take pictures in my spare time.” She sucked in another breath. “It’s just a hobby.”

Many interests piqued. “What type of pictures?”

“Mostly the grit and grime of everyday life,” she explained. “Lifestyle photography, I guess. I love unposed naturalness and working out their stories through the eye of the lens.”

“So, you’re the creep stealing snaps of people in the underground, huh?” I joked, and she smiled to mask mortification. “Nice. I will remember that the next time I bend over.”

“Behave,” she scolded lightly. “I would never.”

“No?” My brow bent. “What’s wrong with my arse?”

“Nothing is wrong with your arse,” she said, and I smirked with an air of flirtatiousness. “Not that I look at your arse.”

My shoulder lifted. “If you say so.”

“I say so.” Her voice sounded cautious. “So, friends?”

“I am not good with female company.”

“No?” She scratched her neck. “Why not?”

Easing back in the leather seat, I smoothed a hand over the steering wheel. “I end up fucking them.”

“Oh?” Her mouth formed a small circle. “Well, that is never going to happen with us, so you are safe.”

As it stands, I am not interested. But I never say no to women, so if she decided to like me as more than a friend, I’d happily comply. And therein lies the problem. “We can tolerate each other moving forward.”

“Okay.” She glimpsed at her wristwatch. “I will see you tomorrow. Nice and early for that free coffee.”

Yeah, the green smoothie was almost as bad as Nate’s protein shakes; I’d rather not sample the coffee. “Emma?”

Her green eyes were brighter out in the open. “Yes?”

“Since our friendship was built on lies, I have a good one for you: I was not caught with an empty bag of cocaine,” I said as though drugs were not something to frown upon. “And I did not dump my supervision officer in a dumpster back there.”

“What?” With a stunned expression, she glanced over one shoulder and face-palmed. “I am too scared to ask.”

Smoke crawled from my mouth. “Do you still want to be friends?”

“I might be having second thoughts.” Her voice was devoid of frolicsomeness, but her smile suggested playfulness. “Maybe,” she enunciated, “I will see you tomorrow.”

Emma squeezed my shoulder in awkward departure and hurried back to the cafe.

Her sweet perfume lingered, though.

I quite liked it.

***

I found Alexa in the grand dining room at the Manor. Since Warren’s sentencing, she has sported creased pyjamas and oversized T-shirts and forgot the purpose of hairbrushes. Tonight, she wore a black cloak sleeve blazer with a gold embellished belt, a tight-fitted dress and red-bottomed heels while she looked over multiple files on the candlelit table.

It was nice to see—a relief.

My shoulder leaned on the door frame. “You look good.”

Alexa looked up. “And you are home early.”

Home, I thought. I owned an apartment, yet I never stayed there. In fact, the majority of my belongings are here in the guest bedroom, and I have taken over the walk-in wardrobe.

You see, I hate living alone. I have always struggled with loneliness, so when the boss offered spare keys to the penthouse, I seized the opportunity with both hands (only swinging by the apartment at the end of each month to ensure squatters hadn’t gained proprietorship).

When Bossman moved into the Manor, I followed. My living with him and tagging along was not even up for debate. Now, I stay in his house and enjoy his facilities, but he is nowhere to be seen. His absence is depressing, but I still didn’t want to be anywhere else.

I pulled out a chair. “What are you doing?”

“Finalising Kathy’s funeral arrangements.” Her red-painted lips meshed beneath gathered brows. “Harold will bury Chloe tomorrow.”

I should throw his body in her grave before the gravedigger secures the plot. “That’s nice.”

She sipped flavoured water. “Will you attend?”

“No.” I eyed her with disbelief. “Will you?”

“We should pay our respects,” she said indifferently. “It will be worth it to witness the fear in Harold’s eyes.” Her wicked smile rioted inward excitement. “Ask Vincent to join our harmless visit. In the eye of London, we are to be a united front.”

Making a mental note to message the tosser, I tapped the leather-bound folder. “What is this?”

“Intent for the casino.” She flipped open the file. “It was under construction before Liam went away. I would like to pursue his plans.”

I scoured the blueprints. “He never finalised the underground.”

“I noticed.” She read his perfectly penned notes on the page. “What did he see?”

My head tilted as I studied the outlines. “No fucking idea.”

“Then, we shall leave the underground as an open space until his return.” Tucking the page into the back of the folder, she signed two contracts. “In the meantime, I want the rest of the building cleared, decorated and furnished. Let’s lock the office for now.”

“Why?” I wondered, and her eyes jerked up. “You locked his home office, too.”

She discerned my affronted tone of voice. “It is not personal to you or the others.”

My forced smile wavered. “Then, why the secrecy?”

Her eyes welled up, but she willed herself to remain sangfroid. “One, I want everything to stay the same until he comes home.”

With an unswallowable lump in my throat, I focused on her glassy eyes.

“Two, I cannot bear to walk past the office, knowing he is not there.” She looked away, chewing her thumbnail. “For a little while, I tortured myself every night. I would stare at his desk or sit in his chair with this outrageous belief that he’d somehow walk through the door and…” The wick burnt and flickered as candle wax melted down the pillar. “I could feel him, but I could not see him, Brad.”

I reached for her hand across the table and laced our fingers together.

No words were exchanged between us.

We caught ourselves in silent observation as neither of us had the right answer.

“I cooked,” she changed the subject, her hand slipping away from mine. “That’s if you plan to eat.”

“I will eat later.” I stole her water glass. “How’s Bean?”

“Quiet.” Her hands lowered to her stomach instinctively. “I have a scan appointment next week.”

Peach flavoured water slaked my thirst. “Do you need company?”

“Logan offered.” She crossed her legs at the knees. “Rest assured that if there are any problems, I will tell you. You have so much to contend with. I should be the least of your worries.” Her smile did not reach her eyes. “Just concentrate on the syndicate.”

“You are the boss’s wife,” I said, and her shoulders sagged. “Do you think he will care about the syndicate if anything bad happens to you or the baby? You are the utmost priority. So, learn to deal with my overbearingness because I am not going anywhere.”

A shiver passed through her. “I have yet to tell him.”

“When do you plan on doing so?”

“Perhaps when he responds to my letters or accepts visitations.”

There was an edge of scorn in her voice. “Alexa,” I whispered, and her eyes closed. “Warren is an intransigent man.”

Her devastation emitted between us. “But I am his wife. Are there no exceptions for me?”

I was unforthcoming.

“What is the reason for his ignorance?” She stared hopelessly at me. “He blames us, doesn’t he?”

“No.” Without his confirmation, however, I am not entirely sure. “At least, I don’t think he blames us.”

“Still, I will write every day,” she said weakly. “It will give him something to read if nothing else, right?”

“Right,” I said throatily.

Alexa cupped my cheek. Her thumb stroked the stubble of my jaw before she kissed my temple and left me alone in the dining room.

I glared at the flickering candle, pinched the wick between my fingers and encased myself in imperial darkness.

CHAPTER NINE

Brad

She is on the bed, wearing heated pink hair curlers, skin-toned stockings and a loose-fitting chemise, the colour of her lips reminding me of the plums downstairs in the wicker-thatched fruit basket. She reached for the cigarette packet on the bedside table, unpeeled the plastic film and stared at the narrow cylinders with furrowed eyebrows.

He told her not to smoke anymore, which is why she was hesitant. If he caught her smoking, they’d argue again, and she hated arguing almost as much as she hated laundry day.

Still, she popped the cigarette between her pinched lips and lit a lighter flame. Taking a long drag, she blew out disgusting smelling fumes and wafted clouds away from her face.

Her interest went to the window. She cracked open the glass pane, drew the net and watched the neighbours’ kids play in the street.

I could hear their laughter and the sound of their noisy bikes as they raced and pedalled. If I sit with her for a while longer, she might let me go outside. I don’t like hopscotch very much, but I sure as hell loved to watch Mary, the pretty blonde girl across the street, and her friends, Irene and Maisie, skip across multicoloured squares chalked on the floor.

British Bulldog is my favourite sporting game. I could chase and tag for hours on the street’s grassy island. I am not the best runner, though. Or the quickest. That’s Brain’s speciality. He is faster than every kid on our block. He said it’s because of all the vegetables his step-father told him to eat.

Maybe I should eat more carrots. I could try broccoli and cabbage, just like Brian, but I might be sick again. The last time I chewed boiled greens, I spent two days in bed, sweating and crying, and I knew those gross, salty stems were the reason I nearly died.

“I knew it.” Biting her fingernails, she mumbled under her breath. “No,” she said quietly, the cigarette balanced between her lips while she tugged drawers out of the dresser. “He is late again.”

He is always late, I thought as two toy cars wheeled out of my hands and crashed into the leg of the wooden vanity table.

“What time did he come home last night?” she asked, but I kept my head down, knowing she’d be even more upset if I answered. “Bradley?”

If she never fell asleep so early, she’d see him more. She loved long naps, especially in the summer. It’s normal to come home from school and find her in the garden, sleeping on the sun lounger. It’s a miracle when she wakes up to make dinner, and even cooking requires the alcohol she hides in old perfume bottles.

“Do not ignore me when I am speaking to you.”

I flinched, the toy cars falling from my fingers. “Yes.”

“Did you wait for him to come home?” Tears streamed down her cheeks, and I felt bad for her. “Did he come to your room before work? Answer me. I need to know.”

He never went to bed without saying goodnight. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Her tense shoulders dropped in relief. “He was not in bed this morning.”

I think he watched the television.

“The drawers are empty,” she told me, and I glanced at the hurled furniture on the double bed. “He has left us.”

He would never leave me. “No, he promised to be home for dinner.”

“Then, where is he?” Her feet sank into the carpet as she paced the room. “He was supposed to finish work two hours ago. He missed lunch.”

He worked very hard. “Maybe he’ll bring flowers.” Whenever she cries, he buys her lovely gifts from the corner store. “He always brings flowers when you are sad.”

She laughed, but it sounded unreal like she was pretending to find me funny. “You are so naive.”

My lips puckered.

Why does she call me that? It’s not the first time, either. Whenever we talk about him, and I say something nice to cheer her up, she says that word. Naive. I don’t even know what it means.

“It’s called overcompensating and masking guilt,” she said angrily. “It is what vile men do to win over their wives after…” Her wet eyes cast to the floor. “Oh, you are too young to understand.”

I collected the colourful cars around the bedroom and arranged them neatly inside the rusty toolbox.

“Where did I go wrong?” She spoke to herself, something she does all too often. “Have I not done everything he has ever asked of me? I work, cook, iron, clean…” Her cigarette burnt until ash dropped on the floor in flakes. “I support his business ventures.”

Her snivels made me feel bad.

“I gave him a son,” she said, her eyes following me around the bedroom. “Do you think I am worthy of his love and fidelity?”

I wrangled my fingers.

“No, I don’t suppose you do.” Her lips twisted. “You’d never say anything bad about him, would you, Bradley?”

Why would I say anything bad about him? He makes me happy.

“He is so wonderful, isn’t he? Your favourite person in the world.” She fell back on the bed, propped onto two elbows, and crossed one leg over the opposite knee. “You think because he throws a few measly magazines at you on Fridays, it makes him a good father.” This time, when she laughed, I knew it was real. “His beer is worth more than those cheap matchbox cars. You know that, don’t you?”

I almost put the metallic green Chevrolet Nova in the toolbox.

“Let me see it.” She held out her hand. “Come. Bring it to me.”

Holding the Nova in a tight fist, I walked to the foot of the bed.

Her fingers wriggled.

I set the toy on her palm.

Respiring cigarette smoke, she touched the car’s green and white striped bonnet. “You love this one, don’t you?” When a single tear rolled down her cheek, I reached out to catch it with my thumb, and she captured my wrist. “What about you? Am I worthy of your loyalty?”

Pretending to understand, I nodded.

“I can always count on you,” she said with a small smile. “Such a good little boy.”

My chest filled with happiness. “I love you, mummy.”

Her breath hitched. “At least someone does.” Pushing the car into my hands, she rose from the bed, the skin-tone stockings rolling down to her knees. “Perhaps you’d like to play outside for the rest of the afternoon.”

I stood taller.

“You need new friends, though.” She was back by the window, glaring at the kids below. “Brian is a bad influence on you.”

No, I don’t want new friends. “What does a bad influence mean?”

“Someone who encourages you to do very, very bad things,” she explained, and I pulled a face. “He will get you in trouble.”

No, I would never do something to get me in trouble with my parents. If they tell me to be in at a specific time, I make sure to leave wherever I am to be home early. If they forbid me from doing something, anything, whether it be a trip to the park or an afternoon at the local arcades, I stay in the street, sometimes alone, watching all the others leave because I listened to my parents no matter what. Plus, Brian never forced me to do anything that upset my parents. He is a good friend. He is my best friend, the brother I never had.

“Besides, Brian’s mother has quite the reputation.” The camisole slipped to her elbows. “He who lies with dogs will catch fleas.”

With bunched up eyebrows, I locked the toolbox.

Her soft palm came to my cheek. “Did I upset you?”

I shook my head.

“I am only looking out for you, Bradley.” Her hands went to my shoulders as she kneeled on the floor to peer up at me. “Mothers need to take care of their children.”

My lower lip wobbled. “But I like playing with Brian.”

“Yes, well, you can always find a new ‘Brian.’” Grabbing her leather handbag on the chair, she searched for something. “Here.” Uncapping allergy tablets, she popped one small pill in my mouth. “The pollen count is at its highest.”

“It’s fine.” I swallowed the tablet. “The grass doesn’t affect me all that much.”

“We can never be too sure.” She gave me something else to swallow. “It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Okay,” I whispered, itching to get outside.

“You will be home no later than five p.m.” Uncapping the third bottle, she put the white pill on my tongue. “We must be in the kitchen ready for your father.”

I nodded.

She rezipped the handbag. “What if he is really gone this time? What if she got to him?”

“Who?” I asked, picking my fingernails.

“The woman’s name is not important.” She rested on her haunches. “Perhaps you should talk to him.”

“What would I say?”

“You could cry,” she suggested, but I didn’t know how to make myself cry. “If he sees how upset you are, he will think twice about leaving us for them.”

How many women got to him?

“Because it would make you sad, wouldn’t it?” Her hands hugged my waist. “If he left this house and never came back.”

I nodded again.

“Imagine if he left us to take care of another family,” she said whispery. “Another man’s children. You would barely see him. He would be too busy taking them to the track to watch race cars.”

My lips parted. “But that’s where he takes me.”

“It’ll be them.” Her fingers tucked strands of hair behind my ears. “They’ll be with him instead. Are you going to let that happen?”

“But I think…” My mouth stuttered. “What if he lets me go with them, too? It’ll be like having brothers and sisters. Maybe we could all visit the tracks.”

“What about me?” She looked heartbroken. “You’d both leave me alone in this house.”

I never thought about it like that. “You could come with us.”

“There’ll be no room for me.” Her nose was red. “It’ll be with your new mother. Is that what you want?”

“No, I don’t want a new mummy. That’s not…” My arms wrapped around her neck for a really long hug. “I won’t leave you. I will be with you forever. I swear.”

Her hands rubbed my back. “I cannot lose the two of you. My heart would break.”

“He will stay.” I clung to her. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Her lips whispered across my cheek. “Thank you, Bradley.”

The bed groaned, and someone’s hand touched the bottom of my back.

My eyes snapped open.

It was too dark, the blackout blinds drawn, but good instinct never failed me. My hand shot out, latched onto the target’s neck and threw him beneath me. When he thrashed, squealed and swore blasphemy under my overpowering frame, I respired a choked breath, having recognised the person’s voice. “Alexa,” I murmured in the dark as her fingernails clawed down my arms. “What the fuck are you doing in my room?”

Her frantic hand covered mine. “Please, let go.”

My fingers softened around her neck, and she choked, her knees curling upward.

“I thought…” My head dropped to her slender shoulder. “I don’t know what I thought.” Sweat trickled from my brow and fell onto her skin. “Forgive me.”

Her arm stretched to the left to turn on the lamp on the bedside table.

Dim light soon revealed us.

I stared down.

She stared up.

I was angry.

She was confused.

“Nightmare?” she asked, and I shook my head. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Alexa’s long, dark hair fanned across the stark white pillow. Even though she wore a flimsy pyjama set, she had a full face of makeup.

“Chloe’s funeral?” Her hands held my biceps. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

No, I texted Vincent the brothers and arranged transportation. “I had too much to drink last night.”

When Alexa left me in the dining room, I decided to polish off an entire bottle of Jameson, smoke far too many blunts and face-plant the bed minutes before sunrise. It was foolish and reckless because now I have a pounding headache and errands for days.

Kill me.

I scrubbed a hand down my face and later noticed her revealed nipple. “For fuck’s sake.” Rolling off her sprawled out body, I landed on my back beside her. “Cover-up, sugar tits. You’re giving me a peep show.”

Unfazed, Alexa lifted the vest to cover her chest. “It’s not like you haven’t seen them before.”

Yes, once upon a time, Alexa was seething at Warren (shock fucking horror), and she came to Club 11, cleared the glass podiums, sent paid dancers to the balconies, and stripped down into all her naked glory to get a rise out of my boss. It was sexy, sinful, and downright forbidden. Yet, I could not look away. Neither could Vincent or the brothers.

“I remember thinking,” I said throatily, “Alexa’s probably the most unfortunate woman on the stage tonight. I mean, she is a flat-chested mare.” My cheeks began to ache from smirking. “But Christ, she has a nice arse.”

Alexa sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. “It was wrong,” she said, and I craned my neck to look at her. “What I did to Liam that night. I should have handled him differently.”

Yes, but we are all guilty of rash decision making when hurt. “Do you want to know what I think?”

She nodded.

“Warren loves you far too much to care about impulsiveness. You are human. He would expect no less from angry women, especially the woman he chose to marry.”

Brief silence settled among us.

“Still, it was immature.” She chewed her bottom lip. “Lately, self-reflection is a nightly task. It’s when I climb into bed and lay there without him. I only have thoughts to contend with. And often, I find myself wondering about the past. I ruminate on pointless contretemps and illogical arguments, and it saddens me. We wasted so much time disagreeing with each other and avoiding commitment when, in hindsight, we were always on the same side.”

Propping onto one elbow, I stretched out on my side.

She toyed with her military tags absentmindedly. “I must change for the better,” she said in a subdued voice. “I am ready to be the woman he always needed.”

Alexa has the characteristics of a disobedient heart. Her behaviour can be dangerous, unpredictable and problematic, but it’s also defensible. You cannot cage someone for the majority of their childhood and expect submissiveness when they are finally free to flourish.

“I can do this, Brad.” She moved onto her knees to cup my cheeks. “I promise not to fail him.”

Before Alexa slipped away, I took her hand.

We locked eyes.

“Bean is in the utero,” I half-joked, her thumb sweeping over my knuckles. “You can drain souls with your bare hands for all I care, but let’s put the baby in safe arms first.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I have enough men to exterminate on my behalf.” She went into the walk-in wardrobe and returned moments later with appropriate funeral attire: a black shirt, black trousers, black suit jacket, black leather shoes and a black patternless tie. “If my calculations are correct, Blaire’s due date is only a few months before mine.” She laid everything out on the chaise lounge. “Her death will be the best way to celebrate the new year.”

Quickly making the bed and arranging the ridiculous amount of bejewelled scatter cushions, I snagged a thick towel from the drawer and hung it over my shoulders. “I bet you envision her death daily.”

“Yes.” She gave me a wicked smile. “It’s long overdue, that’s for sure.”

Once I turned on the shower in the en-suite, I returned to the bedroom to spread jewellery onto the vanity table. “What will you do?”

“Is that a serious question?” She ripped open the curtains, and bright light spilt into the room. “Punitive tongue extraction for those who double-crosses the syndicate.” Her robe hung loosely from one shoulder. “Let her love the man she betrayed without her heart.”

***

Bentley vehicles slowed down to enter the cemetery through wrought iron gates, the drivers’ parking in an orderly fashion near the memorial garden.

Everyone stepped onto the pavement, the concrete strewn in brown, fallen leaves and clustered pinecones.

The brothers grouped together while Alexa took her sweet arse time to grace us with her appearance.

Having lost patience, Vincent, who would rather be anywhere else but here, strode to her vehicle, swung open the door and reached in for her hand.

Her black heel met the floor first, then her head appeared. Her black, wide-brim hat with Horsebit shielded her expression, and when she looked up, the square sunglasses embellished in gold trim concealed the truth in her eyes, the sadness she inwardly felt.

Adjusting the top button of her belted wrap coat, she unclasped the rectangular white box to extract the single black rose, inhaled the delicate petals and strode through the brothers with her head held high.

Nate slipped Louis Vuitton shades over his eyes, the gold monogram pattern scintillating from the sun’s hot rays. “Is she good?”

Shrugging, I chewed the tip of a toothpick.

Alfie’s brows raised in silent greeting before he chased behind the boss’s wife. He brought her to a stop, whispering something in her ear.

Vincent joined our circle. “Someone remind me why I dragged myself out of bed for this nonsense.”

“Nice suit,” I said, eyeing his navy three-piece. “You know it’s a funeral, right?”

“Yes.” He peeled an apple with a switchblade. “Black is so depressing, though.”

My brow raised. “You wear black all the time.”

“I know.” He chewed sliced apple peel. “I felt rebellious.”

“And people have the nerve to call me antagonistic.”

“You are antagonistic.”

“Said by the purposefully malicious estranged brother.”

Vincent peered up from the hacked fruit. “Jones.”

I flashed two dimples. “Vincy Boy.”

“Come on.” Nate’s arms stretched across our shoulders in an endeavour of peace-making. “Let’s go one day without trying to rip each other’s throats out.”

“Remove it.” The younger Warren brother glared at the inked hand on his shoulder. “Or I will stab it.”

“What the fuck?” Nate’s hand fell to his side. “I hope Brad mauls you to death.”

Vincent’s eyes rolled.

“We should catch up.” Josh’s gaze marked Alexa’s movements. “I don’t want her alone with Stone.”

Vincent tossed the apple stump into a nearby bin. “Harold is not brave enough to overstep.”

“Actually, he is.” Josh’s hands tucked into his trouser pockets. “I, well, I might have stumbled into a confrontation with him once.”

Everyone’s inquisitive eyes swung to him.

His hands shot up in surrender. “He called Alexa’ vermin.′ I had to defend her.”

“Vermin.” Vincent’s anger resurfaced. “I’ll give him fucking vermin.”

Family, friends and loved ones huddled by Chloe’s open grave while the priest, who wore a white vestment, prayed for her eternal happiness. With a crucifix in hand, he did the sign of the cross, then doused the lowering casket in holy water.

When I caught sight of Harold Stone, I sprinted ahead to catch up with Alexa.

Of course, as Harold’s head lifted, as tears leaked from his eyes, he detected the syndicate’s arrival. But it was Alexa’s face that infuriated him most. He handed the baby, swaddled in thick, white blankets, to the older male on his right. “You cannot be here,” he spat, shoving through people, who whimpered in grief and devastation, to get to her. “You will leave the service at one.”

My mouth opened to defend Alexa, but she put two fingers to my lips. “It’s okay,” she whispered, and I held my tongue. “I can handle Stone.”

He was foaming from the mouth. “My wife despised you,” he said venomously, which caused everyone, including the priest, to quieten down and listen. “How could you be so disrespectful? You come here to pay your respects, knowing it’s the last thing my wife would have wanted. Where is your compassion? For her? For me? For her family?” When Vincent came to his sister-in-law’s side, Harold stepped back. “You are on dangerous grounds, Vincent.”

Men in black suits alternately came into view until the united front Alexa desired circled the burial ground.

“Would you look at that?” Vincent smiled at me. “We made quite the entrance.”

Harold’s head swung in multiple directions as he grasped the seriousness of the institution’s emergence. “No.” His panicked voice stammered. “You must leave—all of you,” he shouted, but the men never so much as blinked. “Now is not the time nor place.”

“As if you ever truly cared about her.” Alexa’s acrimoniousness was only loud enough for us to hear, not the pale-faced mourners. “Are you happy?” she spat through gritted teeth. “My friend is gone, and she is never coming back. I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

Harold shook in anger.

“You can stand here and play the victim, the doting husband, but I know the truth behind your marriage, and by god,” she said bitterly, her voice trembling, “I will fucking expose you.”

“How dare you?” His face was beet-red with rage and fury. “I loved my wife.”

With a pitiful scoff, Alexa walked straight past him. “Keep telling yourself that.”

His entire body stiffened. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

When Harold snatched Alexa by the elbow, the brothers primed for daylight murder, but the boss’s wife was right. She could handle Stone. Her open-palm slap to his face had vicarious effects on everyone. We all felt the sting, the shame-faced humiliation and the pain in his lanced cheek.

Harold released her arm on reflex to touch the soreness inflicted by another. His friends and family were repulsively stunned by their unpreventable affray—some whimpering louder as if they’d never witnessed controversy before.

Alexa grasped the collar of his shirt and whispered, “We are coming for you.”

Her jerk to his chest landed him against the tree.

People scattered and tripped over their feet when she strolled closer, not wanting to be near someone they deemed condemnable.

Twirling the rose between her fingers, Alexa squatted by the priest’s leather shoes and bowed her head in reverence.

Vincent’s jaw hardened. “What is she doing?”

“I don’t know.” The toothpick nicked my tongue. “But who am I to intervene?”

With red-faced panic, Harold grabbed the swaddled baby from the grey-haired man, eager to leave the cemetery before mourners dispersed and enemies outnumbered.

Watching Harold rush to his vehicle, Nate hummed lowly. “I can follow him.”

“Not yet.” My eyes never left the pathetic coward. “Let him stew for a while longer.”

The priest placed a frail, wrinkled hand atop Alexa’s head and mouthed something.

“May Almighty God have mercy on you.” Vincent lip-read. “And having forgiven your sins, lead you to eternal life.”

I side-eyed the cross dangling from Vincent’s earlobe.

Alexa rose to her feet, stood in front of Chloe’s plot and threw the black rose onto her coffin.

Her closure was the dawn of a new era.

CHAPTER TEN

Emma

On Ben’s daily demand, I ordered wholesale milk, fresh meat and seasonal produce from online greengrocers and local butchers to ensure customers ingested raw, organic meals rather than cheap, convenient meals. Delivery drivers conveyed brim-full crates to the cafe’s side entrance, where Ben awaited to sign proof-of-delivery forms while tired, ashen-faced employees rolled everything into the kitchen for stock rotation.

Still, I visited the grocery store once a week to pick up products unrelated to my brother’s business. Additional shopping was unnecessary—given the fact I could purchase almost everything I buy in-store online with our grocery hauls—but I loved nothing more than a leisurely stroll around the aisles. It allows me to think clearly, to sample strawberry laces and, well, have some alone time.

I am sure most mothers would agree that time is of the essence where kids are concerned. I only had one child to contend with, which was mentally exhausting. Imagine having to collect two children after school. Imagine having to bathe three children after dinner. Imagine having to wake up four grouchy children for breakfast in the morning? Imagine having to prepare five packed lunches for five picky eaters?

One bambino is enough.

Nine-year-old Carter Hughes was more than enough.

Chocolate coated pretzels landed in the trolley.

Smarties are my favourite.

Breaking the orange juice seal, I put the plastic rim to my lips and drank to parch thirst while eyeing the magazine rack. Carter loved anything National Geographic, and this week’s edition came with an inflatable globe.

Tossing the magazine in the trolley, I meandered through aisles until I found myself lingering near the clothes department. I wanted new pyjamas, but frugal spending forbade such wastefulness. I could make do for a few more months.

Carter’s desperate for new clothes, though. He’s gotten taller.

After counting notes in the back of my purse, I selected three pairs of pyjamas, a pack of ankle socks, plain white T-shirts and denim jeans. His gear definitely took me over budget, but there is nothing more satisfying than decking out your kid. He preferred branded tracksuits from the sports store, but he never complained or made me feel guilty for saving more expensive items for birthdays. He’s a good kid—a grateful kid. He’ll appreciate the non-branded gear all the same.

I dropped the white baseball cap on the floor.

“Here.” A fresh-faced male store attendant picked it up. “Looking for a boyfriend?”

My eyes narrowed.

“The clothes?” His smile was cheeky. “Are you looking for a boyfriend or buying for yourself?”

I put the cap on top of the folded pile of clothes in the trolley. “My son.”

“Oh.” His arms folded across his broad chest. “You should wait until tomorrow. All these,” he gestured to a rack of hoodies, “will be on sale. Fifty percent off everything.”

I wish I’d known about the sale before everything went into the trolley. I will not embarrass myself by putting it all back, though. “Oh, it’s okay. I might as well grab it whilst I’m here.”

“Makes sense.” He followed me into the next aisle. “So, do you shop here often?”

“I alternate between superstores,” I said, and he feigned offence. “What?”

“Lining our competitors’ pockets.” His brown eyes glittered in amusement. “I should kick you out for disloyalty.”

I smiled, but his bizarre flirtatiousness was hardly funny.

Tousling his brown hair, he paused by the accessories. “Hey, maybe I could take you out sometime?” Beaded necklaces slipped through his fingers, scattering across the tiled floor, and when he bent over to grab them, his head clipped on the shelf, sending another batch of jewellery to the ground. “Shit. Let’s pretend that didn’t happen.”

“Straight to the point, huh?” My eyes focused on the home section. “Actually, I don’t date.”

His chin elevated. “Ever?”

“Ever,” I repeated, and he gave me a brooding look. “It was lovely meeting you, though.”

I walked away.

“Hey,” he called, and I reluctantly looked back. “I didn’t get your name.”

I fake-smiled. “Emma.”

“Hugo,” he introduced himself with a wolfish grin. “I’ll see you around, Emma.”

Not likely.

I wheeled to the self-service checkout, shook out a few carrier bags and hurled everything onto the conveyor belt. I scanned two items before the store intervention light flashed, and the robotic voice declared an unexpected item in the bagging area.

As instructed, I removed the item before continuing, then apologised to the straight-faced store manager. “It happens every time,” I told him, but he simply groused in response. “It’s ridiculous, really. I’d hardly steal a box of eggs.”

“You’d be surprised.” His code overrides the transaction. “People will steal just about anything when desperate.”

“Right,” I said tightly. “Well, it’s a good job that I am not desperate.”

He waved a flippant hand. “Sure.”

I packed bags and paid for groceries without any more mishaps.

Dragging the trolley outside, I trekked across the car park and, feeling vibrations in my pocket, unlocked the boot of my car.

Carter’s school was calling.

“Hi,” I answered the phone while juggling pears and hair products. “Yes?”

“Hello, Miss Hughes,” she said, and I recognised her scratchy voice. “It’s Mrs Lang calling. Carter’s deputy head.”

Yanking the boot’s door down, I returned the trolley to the front of the store. “Is everything okay?”

“Carter is complaining about tummy pains.” She sounded sceptical. “It’s the fourth time this month.”

Yes, I am aware of Carter’s active imagination.

“Do you want us to keep an eye on him, or would you rather pick him up?”

I fell behind the steering wheel. “What do you advise? I mean, I can bring him home. That’s not a problem. But I don’t want this to become a bad habit.” Not again, I thought. “I worry that he’ll pretend to be sick often if it guarantees days off school.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Perhaps you could collect him and have a chat this afternoon—find out why he doesn’t want to be here.”

My fingers drummed on the steering wheel. “Has he made any friends yet?”

“The children love him,” she assured me. “Alas, he prefers to play alone.”

My heart squeezed. “I will be there in fifteen minutes.”

***

Carter is tucking into the strawberry laces I forgot to pay for—I guess I am a desperate leech, after all. Licking sugar from his fingers, he rolled down the window, letting the cold air sweep around us, and flicked through radio stations. He opted for classic rock music, Ben’s preferred genre, and kicked his feet onto the dashboard.

I braked at the red traffic light. “Your stomach stopped hurting, huh?”

Carter looked at me, and I melted. I know I am biased, but my son is the most handsome little boy I have ever clapped eyes on. His facial features are perfectly shaped and flawless. He had brown, quirky hair, which fell slightly messier on the top, and cute, fused lips that often pouted when he sulked. He had a dry personality and an odd sense of humour. Except for his green eyes, he very much resembled his father.

I love him.

Even when I was mad at him for lying in school, leaving his dirty pyjamas all over the bedroom floor, or spitting toothpaste on the bathroom mirror above the sink, I loved him more than life itself.

“I think I was hungry.” He shrugged. “I feel much better now.”

Indicating to the right, I worked the gearstick and accelerated into the next street. “Maybe I should take you back to school then.”

His face paled.

“Carter,” I said with a small sigh. “You were never sick. You lied to come home early.”

He never denied it.

“Why?” The steering wheel threaded through my hands. “Are you unhappy at school? Is anyone picking on you? Do I need to kick someone’s arse?”

“No,” he said morosely.

“Because I will,” I said, and I meant it. “If people upset my boy, I will wreak havoc.”

He cracked a toothy smile. “What if it’s a kid?”

“I’ll beat his mother instead.” Not literally. I very much doubt I could fight my way through a paper bag, but he doesn’t need to know that. “How does that sound?”

Carter flicked through the new magazine, reading about cheetah cubs.

I gnawed my lower lip. “Hey, so, shall we watch a movie later?”

He closed the magazine. “Mum, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” I gave his knee a reassuring squeeze. “Fire away. I am all ears.”

“How come Uncle Ben never picks me up from school?”

I frowned at that. “Well, it’s my job to get you. Plus, Ben is busy in the cafe all day.” His gloominess triggered questions. “Why? Do you not like me picking you up?”

“No, it’s just…” His tongue pushed into his cheek. “Henry’s dad always picks him up.”

My hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Okay.”

“Arthur’s dad gets him, too.” He turned in the seat to face me fully. “And Caleb’s dad. And Abbie’s dad. And even Kaleem’s dad.”

“Ben’s your uncle, Carter.” A knot formed in my throat. “He’s not your dad.”

“I know.” His dark eyebrows drew in. “But, maybe, Ben could pretend to be my dad sometimes? We have to play football next week, and he could be there…”

Steering into the tight alleyway, I slowed down to pass community service workers and parked behind the yellow skip, the tyres mounting on the curbside. Turning off the engine with shaky fingers, I eased back in the seat. “Ben wouldn’t be anywhere else, Carter.” His hopeful eyes met mine. “He’s the best uncle, right?”

He nodded.

“But I don’t think he should pretend to be someone he’s not,” I said carefully, and he slumped in the seat. “It’s not cool to lie.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” His voice raised. “You see your dad all the time.”

“Carter, that’s not true, and you know it.” When I reached for his hand, he jerked away from me. “Baby, I haven’t seen my dad in over ten years.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, because of me.”

Panic seized my heart. “No, my relationship with him has nothing to do with you—”

“I heard you,” he argued, kicking the passenger side door open. “You told Uncle Ben that he’ll never visit because of me.”

Scurrying out of the car, he slammed the door in my face.

“No—wait.” Stumbling out of the driver’s side, I locked the door and chased him towards the cafe. “Carter, let me explain.”

“I don’t care, mum.” His bag dragged on the floor as his feet stomped across puddles. “You’ll keep lying anyway.”

Gripping him by the shoulder, I spun him around to face me. “Do not raise your voice to me.” Blinking back tears, I crouched down to put us eye-level. “You are upset, and I want to talk about that. But I am still your mother.”

When a tear fell down his cheek, he broke eye contact.

“My father is a jerk,” I told him, and he snivelled. “There is so much you don’t understand, baby. I don’t lie to hurt you. I choose not to say something that’ll upset you.”

“I am not a baby anymore, mum.” He huffed out a breath. “I am old enough to understand.”

My palm touched his cheek. “Knowing is not understanding.”

He pulled a face. “Says you.”

Words died on my tongue.

“You know where I come from?” His deep voice came from behind, and Carter peered over my head. “Ignorance is bliss.”

Interlacing our fingers, I slapped on a brave face and turned to look at Brad. He had tucked his white t-shirt into the waistband of his grey jogging bottoms and thrown his blond hair into a messy knot. I might not like the guy very much, but I appreciated his efforts with Carter—and his glorious washboard abs.

“Brad.” I ruffled my son’s hair. “This is Carter and…” He released my hand, shot Brad a dirty look and stormed into the cafe. “He is not my friend right now.”

Brad knotted two black sacks. “What did you do to him?”

“I don’t know…” Picking up one of the rubbish bags, I walked alongside him to the next skip. “I think Carter wants to know about his dad, but he doesn’t know how to ask me.”

Brad hurled bins into the skip. “Make it easier for him.”

I handed over the black sack. “What do you mean?”

“Why wait for him to ask?” He closed the steel lid once all the sacks were inside. “You’re his mother. Sit him down and tell him what he wants to hear.”

If only life were that simple. “I cannot.”

He pulled off black gloves. “Why?”

“No good will come from such conversations. Carter’s father…” I will not burden my son with that knowledge. “You never came back for free coffee.” As I walked back to the car to unload the boot, he lingered by my side, hiding from the new female supervisor, it would seem. “Do we not meet your standards?”

“What’s the deal there, anyway?” He glanced at the cafe. “It’s got the whole hippy vibe going on.”

“Hippy vibe?” Overloading my arms with bags, I reached in for another when he began to slip carrier straps over his own arms. “You don’t like bohemian decor?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Is that what you call it?”

My eyes rolled. “Look, do you want free coffee or not?”

I led the guy to the side entrance to avoid Quinn’s inquisitiveness. Ben was in the kitchen with friends and employees, Wyatt and Ethan. “What happened?” Flinging a tea towel over one shoulder, Ben slid a judgmental glance in Brad’s direction. “Who’s this geezer?”

I shot him a warning glare. “Ben, this is Brad. He’s one of the community workers.”

Brad placed carrier bags on the empty workstation. “Emma’s big brother, right?”

“Big?” I laughed. “He’s younger than me.”

“By eight seconds.” Ben shook Brad’s hand. “Twins.”

“No shit?” Brad looked between us. “You look nothing alike.”

“I am the better-looking twin,” I joked, and Ben grunted in disagreement. “What? It’s true.”

Ben’s head tilted as he scrutinised our guest. “I recognise you from somewhere.”

“Yeah?” Brad’s merriment morphed into guarded expressionlessness. “Well, you walk past me every morning to take the bike out for a spin.”

Ben loved his motorbike.

My brother harrumphed. “What’s your surname?”

“Ben.” My eyes were murderous. “Do not interrogate my friend.”

He tsked. “It’s hardly an interrogation, Em.”

My hands slid to my hips. “It’s rude, though.”

“Hey, it’s no biggie.” Brad tapped Ben’s shoulder. “You’re just looking out for your sister, right?”

Ben’s uncharacteristically unapproachable. “Something like that.”

Brad gave me a two-finger salute and slipped through the fire door, returning to his duties outside. At this rate, he’ll never get free coffee.

“Ben.” My shoulders sagged. “What the hell was that about?”

“You know who that is, right?” His cheeks were flushed. “That’s Brad Jones.”

“Yes, I am aware of his name.”

Ethan and Wyatt shared concerned looks.

Ben ran a hand down his face. “Then you know he’s close friends with Warren.”

Liam Warren was recently sentenced to life imprisonment at a maximum-security prison for unspeakable crimes. It was all over the news and in every newspaper. “Okay…”

“He’s not someone you want to welcome into our lives, Em.” Ben returned to his station to chop red onions. “Think about Carter.”

Yes, I suppose he does make a valid point. “It’s unfair to judge someone based on the fact they were once associated with a criminal.”

“Once associated. What, you think because his friend is locked up, he no longer has a relationship with him?” He chuckled, and his male employees joined in, all three chortling at my expense. “My sister is so naive.”

“Hey,” I scolded, but his attention never wavered from the chopping board. “I am not naive. He’s a nice guy.” When he’s not acting like a spoiled brat. “Mostly.”

Ben paced the kitchen. “Until he’s not.”

“Jesus, Ben.” I eyed the snickering duo entertained by their boss’ spats. “I am not dating him.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” He cracked two eggs into the frying pan. “What’s up with Carter, anyway? He’s in a foul mood.”

Wyatt extracted baked baguettes out of the oven. “Shouldn’t he be in school?”

Nodding, I poured coffee into a mug. “They asked me to bring him home.”

Ethan emptied chips into the fryer. “Why?”

“Bad tummy,” I said, and everyone grunted. “Yes, I know he is lying. I got it handled.”

The kitchen door flew open.

Quinn, the customer’s favourite redhead and my best friend, began to reel off a long order. “Okay, can we get two Keesy Chins, three filthy fries, beaten-up onion rings, Caesar’s salad for gods, four Cish and Fips.”

“Quinn, for fuck’s sake.” Ben speared a hand through his hair. “Just give us the proper order. I don’t understand that jargon.”

She winked at me. “Bacun and Cado butty.”

Uncapping the sugar pot, I spooned two heaps into the mug. “Not even I understood that one.”

“Avocado?” Ethan mused, and she nodded. “In a bacon bap?”

“Yes.” She slapped the papered note on Ben’s chest. “Get cooking, chef. It’s wild out there.” With a sharp head tilt, she asked me to go outside. “Cigarette break.”

I was more than happy to get away from hawk-eyed Ben.

Quinn sparked a cigarette in the alley. “What’s up with our kid?”

Sipping hot coffee, I leaned against the brick wall. “Where is he?”

“Upstairs, watching television.” My friend had a great relationship with my son. “Carter said he was sick, so I got him a blanket. But he doesn’t have a temperature or anything.”

“Carter’s not sick,” I said, but she was not surprised. “I don’t know, Quinn. He’s been playing up lately.”

She blew out smoke halos. “Carter mentioned his grandpa.”

“Grandpa?” My body shivered. “The man is not worthy of such honorary titles.”

Watching two community workers stroll past, she squatted to flick ash on the concrete.

“What do I tell him?” I asked, and she let out a long sigh. “Should I make something up?”

She picked red polish off her fingernails. “Are we talking about poppa Hughes or poppa O’Shea?”

Both men made my skin crawl. “I am talking about his father.”

Quinn winced. “Just tell him that his father was a hero. He lost his life in battle.”

Strands of hair blew over my face. “He sounds like someone to be proud of.”

“It beats the truth,” she said quietly, and I nodded. “Just go and make friends with him already. I hate seeing you both so sad.”

I mustered courage and faced my son. Carter is on the sofa in the living room, curled up in a blue chequered duvet, bingeing daytime television and eating his weight in smarties.

Wrangling my fingers, I eased onto the seat beside him and held out an upward-facing palm.

Carter put two green smarties in my hand.

“I think you like school. I think you like the kids in your class. But three o’clock ruins your day. It’s when you see their dads and not yours.”

He continued to watch the movie.

“You want to ask me about your daddy, but you are scared it might upset me.” Tears filled my eyes, so I turned to the window, not wanting him to witness my discomfort. “Am I right?”

The blankets rustled as he came to me. Wrapping his arms around my waist, he buried his head on my thigh, and I lowered my hand to his hair, combing through dark strands. “What’s his name?” he asked as silent tears spilt down my cheeks. “Did you love him?”

“Killian,” I whispered, swallowing a strangled moan. “And I loved him very much.”

Wiping his nose, he rested his cheek on my thigh. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Unable to speak, I nodded.

Carter peered up at me. “How did he die?”

Killian yanked a noose around his neck and jumped. “Your father was a hero,” I lied, and his teary eyes brightened. “He lost his life in battle.”

“Really?” He moved on to his haunches. “My daddy knew how to fire a gun.”

“Oh, yes.” Drying my eyes, I popped a smarty in my mouth. “He was one of the bravest soldiers in the British army.”

My son was awe-inspired. “Do you have any pictures?”

I stored a few childhood photos of us, knowing that Carter might appreciate them someday.

Kissing his cheek, I went to the old dresser, unlocked the glass door and pulled out the faded shoe box. “For you.”

Carter took the box.

“Baby,” I said, but he was too engrossed in the black and white polaroid images. “Your daddy had a big family, so that’s something we need to discuss.”

He was admiring the photo of us as teenagers. “Who is that guy?”

When perceiving the guy’s face underneath his pointer finger, I released a shuddered breath. “That’s Tommy. Killian’s older brother.”

“I have another uncle?” He was bouncing with excitement. “Where is he? Can I meet him?”

Ben appeared in the doorway. He studied the box in Carter’s hands and looked to the ceiling in momentary distress.

“And who is that woman?” Carter pointed to Brigid, Killian’s mother. “She looks like my dad.”

My eyes pleaded with Ben to intervene.

“Hey, Buddy.” In six strides, Ben was across the room and joining Carter on the sofa. “What are you looking at?”

“Mum told me about my dad.” He was hurling photos at Ben. “Look! That’s him! He was a hero, Uncle Ben! He could fire a gun—just like you on grand theft auto!”

“Yeah.” Ben’s jaw ticked when forced to praise Killian. “He was something.”

“So, can we meet them?” My son’s eyes darted between us. “Please, Uncle Ben! It would be the best birthday present ever!”

“It’s not your birthday yet.” Ben placed the photos back in the box. “Carter, I have to tell you something, and you might not like it.”

Carter’s excitement plummeted. “What is it?”

“Your dad’s family…” Ben rubbed his eyes. “They are not good people, Buddy.”

“What?” Carter’s voice broke. “Why? What did they do?”

Ben’s sympathetic eyes briefly locked with mine. “Well, they don’t like your mum very much.”

“Why?” Carter’s face fell. “Mum is not a bad person.”

“We know that.” Ben’s arm slid across the back of the sofa. “It’s complicated. Maybe when you’re older, we can talk about this properly. But you’re still so young, Buddy.”

My son’s hand crushed the photo of Killian. “I want to know now.”

“They don’t know where we live, Carter.” I inhaled a deep breath. “We must keep it that way.”

He looked stunned. “Why?”

To my knees, I went. “Do you trust us?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Then, trust me, baby.” Smoothing out his father’s photo, I placed it in his hands. “We are better off without them.”

“Okay.” Carter’s thumb brushed over his father’s face. “But you promise to tell me someday, right?”

“Absolutely.” Ben kissed Carter’s cheek after a few seconds of silence, then delved in for a tickle attack. “Now,” he growled as his nephew withered beneath him. “Let’s put a smile back on his face!”

“No!” Carter bucked under the onslaught of his uncle’s fingers, his legs kicking out and thrashing in breath-snatching hysteria. “Uncle Ben—stop!”

His giggled ebullience was like music to my ears.

Carter rolled off the sofa, landing disjointedly on the floor, and Ben gave him a five seconds head start to run.

“Quick, Emma!” Ben chased a squealing Carter down the hall. “Get him! It’s time for Carter soup!”

“Mum!” Carter bellowed, but I was rooted to the floor. “Help me, mum! He’s going to eat me!”

I picked up the photo of Tommy. His boyish smile, dazzling eyes and manly physique still pulled on my heartstrings, even after years of pretending to hate him.

In the next photo, I sat between the O’Shea brothers. It was a trip to the pier, an evening at the beach, a campfire by the ocean and memories I never quite forgot.

I loved both boys in different ways.

Killian was my best friend.

Tommy was my childhood crush.

And I was the ruination of their entire family.

Returning the polaroid images to the box, I put everything back on the shelf and locked the door.

The Canon beckoned attention.

Pulling the strap over my head, I took a seat on the window ledge and, adjusting the lens, zoomed in on two females in the alley whilst they scrubbed graffiti off the wall.

I captured six shots, examined the pictures, deleted them, and searched for another. I tried multiple angles, but nothing about their expressions told me anything.

Eyes squinting, I searched for someone else, a different community worker, and saw a familiar pair of tan boots. Touring the length of his body, I paused on his face and watched him watching the birds gyrate above. Although brief, I captured his microexpression, his rugged jaw and sad, hopeless eyes in time to look at the image closely.

My breath caught.

His haunted whiskey-coloured eyes stirred so many questions.

Re-adjusting the lens, I homed in on his beautiful face. Horizontal lines gathered above knitted brows. His eyelids are open, but his stare is lost to the world.

Putting his back to the brick wall, he glimpsed at the window and caught me spying on him. He gave me the middle finger.

Smiling to myself, I snapped two shots, then burst out laughing when his arms and pecs alternately flexed. “Show off,” I yelled through the ajar window, and he shrugged one shoulder. “What’s your story?”

His intense stare held mine for a moment. “You’re the photographer.” He kicked away from the wall. “You tell me.”

Challenge accepted, Big Guy.

“You need to help the girls.” Ben’s accusatory voice came from the doorway, and I flinched. “It’s manic downstairs.”

“Sure.” Drawing back the net, I climbed down from the window. “Give me two minutes to change.”

Ben returned to the kitchen.

I had an overwhelming urge to haul myself in the basement and develop light-sensitive photos. Instead, I left the camera on the sideboard and waited tables until the cafe closed.