CHAPTER ELEVEN

Bleu

I studied the girl in the tri-fold vanity mirror. Her waist-length turquoise-coloured hair complemented her refulgent blue eyes. Her high cheekbones, carved to perfection, emphasised her heart-shaped face and sharply outlined lips. She is the epitome of beauty. Yet, the sight of her repulsed me.

Twirling the powder brush, I swept the fine bristles across the pale pink palette and strategically accented my pale skin, applying the right amount to hone bone structure—pink liquid lipstick coated lips. Layers of mascara lengthened eyelashes.

I still hated her.

Turning on the rickety stool, I swept my gaze over the box-sized bedroom. Posters from previous tenants disfeatured the plain walls. Fringed oriental rugs cluttered the wooden floorboards. Mosaic tapestries hung haphazardly from the bay windows. A single bed decked in various patterned cushions and multiple textured throw blankets sat near the door. It was my bedroom, but it felt loaned to me, as though the occupant leased the room until she returned from peregrination.

It is six o’clock in the morning.

Housemates held a secret meeting in the kitchen.

Yanking on a pair of knee-high boots, I crept to the bedroom door, eased it open, and sidled to the bannister. It’s rude to eavesdrop, but I am the topic of conversation, so tuning in was justifiable.

Cassie said: “I will be glad to see the back of her.”

Jeffery said: “This is my home, but I never want to be here, and that’s because of her. I cannot bear any more confrontation. Either she leaves, or I leave.”

Eugene mumbled something indecipherable.

Harriet said: “That’s not our problem, Eugene. Bleu is not our problem. Look, I appreciate how uncomfortable this situation is for you, but you need to consider the rest of your housemates. Bleu is not a team player. She is selfish, spoiled and downright spiteful.”

A few groans passed around the kitchen.

Harriet continued: “We reached a unanimous vote. Ask her to leave, or we’ll wait until she goes to work, toss her belongings into the street and call a locksmith to change the locks. Are we all happy with the final decision?”

Everyone voiced agreements.

I tiptoed across the hall, pushed open the door to Eugene’s bedroom and crawled onto the unmade double bed. His duck feather pillows emitted transmitted cologne. Sunrise dappled the satin sheets. I watched the floor-length voile oscillate by the window, the early morning breeze gentle on my skin.

Floorboards creaked.

My eyes closed.

Eugene came into the room. He sighed, locked the door and slumped onto the upholstered armchair.

My eyes squinted open.

His head was buried in his hands.

His shoulders were hunched forward.

Yawning, I stretched the limbs.

Eugene peered up, relieved and unrelieved to see I had joined him in the land of the living. “Bleu.” He rubbed the ache from his temples. “Why are you in my bed?”

“I had a nightmare,” I lied, and he moaned as I undid the buttons of my shirtdress. “I thought you could make me feel better.”

He removed the black-framed spectacles. “We need to talk.”

“Later,” I whispered, revealing my breasts clad in midnight blue lace. “I missed you.”

“Missed me?” His brown hair fell over his tight-knit brows. “You had me two nights ago.” He watched my hips sway as I sauntered to him. “Please do not weaponize sex. You know I am too weak to say no.”

Fisting his hair by the roots, I craned his neck and straddled his thighs. “I can do all the work.”

Fumbling with his zipper, he freed his cock, which was already hard and weeping, and ogled in open-mouthed lust as I slid my underwear aside to engulf him. His thick, glistening head bridged the mere gap between us until I rested at the base of him.

His half-lidded eyes stared deep into mine.

Nipping his bottom lip, I unbuttoned his shirt, fingers splaying across his broad chest, and made slow movements, up and down, feeling every inch of him inside me. With a tentative smile, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, put our foreheads together, and rolled my hips forward.

His hands on my arse tightened. “Not too fast,” he groaned, and I stifled an eye roll. “I never see this side of you. Keep it slow.”

Still, I thrust harder, and a surge of triumph washed over me as he writhed beneath me. I was in complete control, taking what I wanted. My cheeks struck his thighs, the sound of our slapping bodies echoed throughout.

Everyone could hear us.

Cassie.

Harriet.

Jeffery.

Hell, I wanted them to hear Eugene’s pleasure.

I hope it disgruntled them.

“Ah, Bleu.” His eyes rolled back. “I’ll come.”

Sucking the spot beneath his ear, I bounced until he combusted. His fingers dented my side as he held me to the root of him, his warm ejaculation leaking between us. With the tips of my fingers, I touched his throbbing length, gathered our mixed arousals and smeared juices across his parted lips.

“Bleu.” His head wrenched to the side. “Don’t do that.”

“Why?” I sucked my fingers, and his lips stuttered open in rapture. “I love how good we taste together.”

Standing on trembling legs, I fixed my underwear, redid the buttons of my shirtdress and sat on the edge of his bed.

Eugene tucked himself away. “That was amazing.”

No, it was mediocre sex.

I grabbed a pre-rolled joint from the bedside drawer. “Do you want some?”

“Yes.” Heaving for breath, he lost the shirt, tossed it on the laundry hamper, and pulled on a Batman T-shirt. “I’m starving.”

I curled an eyebrow.

“I meant actual food.” He stretched across the bed. “That was not a sexual innuendo.”

Matching a flame, I lit the joint, took three drags and handed over the goods. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Oh?” Inhaling a lungful of haze, he expelled smoke. “Right, yeah. I forgot about that.”

I waited.

“Shit.” He rubbed his weary eyes. “It’s not so easy when you’re looking like that.”

My lips stretched into a smile. “Like what?”

“So beautiful.” He pinched a strand of my hair between his fingers. “Why couldn’t it be different for us?”

I seized the opportunity. “Well, it could be different.”

“What?” He sat cross-legged. “How so?”

“I thought about what you said.” Another lie. “And I think you were right. We should move elsewhere.”

His lips jutted out in a pout. “Why the change of heart?”

“Well, I haven’t given our relationship a fair chance. We both clearly like each other. We can barely keep our hands to ourselves.” Knots formed in my stomach. “This house is full of toxic people. Let’s pack up and leave today. We can stay in a hotel for a few weeks until we find permanent accommodation. What do you say?”

Eugene looked optimistic. “I love it.”

My heart leapt out of my chest. “You do?”

“Yes.” He cupped my cheeks, the joint balancing between his lips. “Go and pack. I’ll order us a taxi in twenty minutes.”

I scurried off the bed and hurried down the hall. In the bedroom, I flung open the wardrobe doors, selected three outfits, underwear and socks, makeup and hair products, stuffing essentials into a duffle. Everything else meant nothing to me. Most of it belonged to other people anyway.

Cassie, the blonde-haired pixie, stood at the threshold. “So, no hard feelings?”

I ignored her.

“It was long overdue,” she said, filing her fingernails. “You, leaving, I mean. It’s not as though we all tolerate each other, right? This is the best decision moving forward.”

“Oh, I know exactly how you feel.” Bag strap dangling from one shoulder, I picked up the phone and purse. “You will be glad to see the back of me.”

Her eyes rounded.

“I am not a team player. I am selfish, spoiled and downright spiteful.” I blinked rapidly. “Did I miss anything out?”

“You spied on us,” she seethed. “If we wanted you to be a part of that conversation, we’d have invited you, Bleu.”

My shoulder rammed into hers as I passed. “See you never, bitch.”

I stormed into Eugene’s bedroom to the unrelenting complaints of Cassie and her motormouth. He was standing in the middle of the room, half-dressed, an unpacked suitcase on the bed, folded clothes on the floor.

“Come on,” I prompted, hurling random manscape products in his case. “Let’s get out of here.” When he never budged, I hiked the duffle strap higher. “What’s wrong? Did you forget something? Do you need help?”

He could not look at me. “You are an opportunist.”

There is not a human on this planet that doesn’t have opportunistic tendencies. “Am I?”

“You used me, Bleu.” He was soul destroyed. “You don’t want to be with me. You couldn’t care less about the house, or moving in together, or an official relationship. This is not about us. This is about you and what you can get out of the situation.” He licked his dry lips. “What you can get out of me.”

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

“You overheard the meeting, huh?” He whipped a towel over his shoulder. “You knew they’d kick you out today.”

Of course, he heard the argument, Cassie’s and mine. “What do you want me to say?” I found my voice and unleashed it. “That I am thrilled over the idea of coming home to a locked door—or to finding my shit all over the street. How can you expect me to be okay with that? It’s horrible. I have feelings, Eugene.”

“What, and I don’t? I feel absolutely nothing?” His cheeks reddened. “To Hell with you, Bleu. Take your shit and get out. Nobody wants you here.”

My head started to pound. “And you?”

“Especially me!” Cramming the case back under the bed, he spat out a slew of expletives. “I am done. I am so fucking done.” He came closer, his lips almost touching my ear. “I am not your plaything.”

The bedroom door slammed on his departure.

Puffing out my cheeks, I climbed onto the bed, reached for the jar on the shelf and emptied the elastic-bound notes into my bag.

I never want to see these arseholes ever again.

***

Arabella hated my guts.

In the last forty-five minutes, she has made it her life’s mission to pester me. If she gives me the stink-eye one more time, I will not be held accountable for my actions. You see this limited-edition Charles Dickens book in my hand? It will be imprinted on her face. Scrooge’s name will be italicised on her forehead.

“You need to serve customers.” Her kitten heels chipped the wooden floor. “Hurry up, Bleu! People should not have to wait for your lazy arse to get moving!”

“Alright.” Leaving the unboxed paperbacks on the pop-up table, I went to the disorganised front desk, logged into the cash register and served customers. “Next.”

One person limped to the desk.

Nicole Scott’s Back to Earth.

“Have you read it before?” he asked.

“No.” I slid the paperback into a brown paper bag. “That’s twenty-five pounds.”

With a friendly smile, he paid for the goods. “Do you have any other recommendations?”

“No.” I gave him change, a five-pound note. “Is that it? I have to go back to the history section.”

His jowls shook. “No, Ma’am.”

“Great.” I closed the cash register. “Have a nice life.”

Duty calls.

Rehoming paperbacks, I ticked through the checklist and slowly made my way to Modern and Contemporary. Whilst relining the books on the middle shelf, I espied Arabella. Her glare came from the other side of the bookcase, just between the spines of War of the Worlds and The Metamorphosis.

My annoyance flared. “Can I fucking help you?”

“I want you to hand in your notice.” Her left eye twitched. “I should not be forced to work with you, not in these hostile conditions, not after what you did.”

“What I did,” I said incredulously. “Tell me, Arabella. Why, when the man cheats on his partner, is the other woman blameworthy? I was not aware of any scornful girlfriends. He owed you everything. I owe you nothing.” My whisper-shout earned a round of hushes from nearby logophiles. “Quit hounding me about the past. You forgave him. You took him back. Leave me alone.”

Shit, I misremembered the guy’s name. He was a random hook-up, someone I found at the bar—an unmemorable one-night stand. Yet, I still pay for past mistakes on a daily basis because this woman is the worst type of grudge-bearer.

Her fingers combed through locks of auburn hair. “Has he tried to contact you?”

Would it matter if he did? It would change nothing. She’d still go home to him later.

I face-palmed. “No.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Believe what you want to believe.”

“You are such a heartless cow!”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

It will be a miracle if I survive another day in this hellhole.

I had a quick bite to eat before heading to the insalubrious diner. If I had to choose, the diner was probably my favourite job. Employees were far too busy to converse, which made for a peaceful shift, and vociferous customers entertained me with outlandish stories of their weekend antics.

I earned some decent tips and collected digits from potential dates.

Maybe there was hope for me after all.

Lateness almost cost me the bar job. I fell through the main door, the duffle hanging from my arm, and skulked to the employees’ lounge for two protein bars and a cold coffee.

I did not have the mental capacity to deal with any more confrontation. But my boss, the overweight sleaze who sat in the office all night, jerking off to ear-splitting pornography, had other ideas.

“I am docking your pay,” he said, the half-eaten hot dog in his mouth, mustard and ketchup trickling down his double-chin. “You never get to work on time. You are late every night. Well, I’ve had enough. You won’t make a mockery out of me.”

No hope. I got overexcited.

“Scoundrel.” He sucked grease off his thumb. “Where have you been anyway? Waltzing ’round London in that short dress. Asking for trouble if you ask me.”

I should be behind the bar, but my feet refused to cooperate. “I never asked.”

“Quit the day job.” His thighs rubbed and chaffed as he waddled closer. “Concentrate on the night job and earn extra tips. Hell, if you take the job more seriously, I will pay double. How does that sound? Tempting, right?”

When his licentious gaze searched for the gap between my legs, I sat down and crossed my legs, hiding my most intimate area. “What are you offering?”

His stained teeth flashed. “I can help you out, Bleu. Just like I help the other females. I expect very little in return.”

My head cocked. “Did you just proposition me?”

“Well, would you look at that?” He scratched his chest. “I guess I did, didn’t I?”

Was I desperate enough to earn extra cash by sleeping with my boss? No, I was not. I might have considered the idea if he was more attractive. But I cannot think of anything worse than his large body mounting mine.

“What do you say?” He fell onto the sofa beside me, the weight of him jerking me upright. “I can make it feel so good for you,” he purred, his begrimed fingernail caressing my jawline. “All you have to do is ask, Bleu. Ask if I can be good to you.”

Blood roared in my ears.

His meaty hand journeyed the length of my spine. “I have been waiting too long for this.” He was panting. “Far too long. Come over here.”

Ten seconds later, I am running down the street, choking on the cold night air.

Taking the sharp street corner, I dashed across the busy road, the blazing ring of car horns belting all around, and descended into the London underground.

With a swipe of the Oyster card, I carried myself to the hectic platform, holding my breath until the train shrieked to a stop.

Slipping through hordes of commuters and loud-mouthed tourists, I collapsed on the first available seat, holding the duffle to my chest.

Where will you go? The voice inside my head asked. Who will help you now?

It was almost midnight when I caught the kebab shop in time to order late-night food. Takeaway container in hand, I forked shredded lettuce, cucumber and onions, all doused in garlic and chilli sauce, and stabbed a piece of donner meat. Flavours burst on my tongue. I practically inhaled my food before the nearest bench braced my backside.

Pulling out my phone, I dialled Mrs Gill’s number.

“Miss Murphy?” Her voice croaked. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“You are home,” I whispered, and she confirmed as much with a harsh grunt. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

The bed groaned as she shifted for comfort. “What do you want?”

“I couldn’t get off work in time to visit my dad.” Thoughts of my father sitting alone by the window slammed me with guilt. “I just wanted to be sure he was okay. I’ll definitely visit tomorrow. I’ll even bring some apple pie. He used to love apple pie.”

Gill sighed into the receiver. “Mr Murphy was content this afternoon before I left. Try not to worry too much, Bleu. He is in good hands.”

I will always worry about him.

He is my father.

“I hate to broach the subject, but will you bring any money for your father’s care tomorrow?”

I swallowed. “Yes.”

“Oh, thank God. At least, I can appease the board members.”

I am starting to think my father would be better off without me. “Goodnight, Gill.”

Putting the phone in my bag, I tossed the takeaway container in the bin and strolled down the quiet street. I had no sense of direction or purpose. I could sleep in a bed-and-breakfast tonight, but where will I sleep tomorrow? Where will I find the money for daddy’s care? Should I return to the bar, or should I search for another job?

Laughter escaped my lips.

I am losing the will to live.

Life is not supposed to be this hard.

A group of females glammed up in sequins and full-faced makeup skipped past me. They reeked of harsh liquor and excessive perfume, and they could barely walk in those high heels.

“Where are you going?” I asked, and the short-haired raven goddess came to an abrupt stop, her friends, one by one, awaiting her company. “It looks like a fun night.”

“You should come with us!” The excitable blonde clapped her hands. “It will be so much fun.”

“Yes,” the dark-haired female chimed. “The more, the merrier, right?”

I caught up to them. “What’s on the agenda?”

“There is a club down the street.” The curviest girl pointed aimlessly. “But you might need to change,” she slurred, her breath laced with vodka. “The dress is cute,” she tugged the hem of my dress, “but it’s not sexy enough.”

Against my better judgement, I laughed. “Well, I can pop open a few buttons.” Revealing a slither of my chest, enough for the door attendants to get an eyeful, I hiked the dress and knotted the material mid-thigh. “How does that look?”

“Slamming,” one said, and I inwardly cringed. “Now, let’s get wasted!”

“Sounds fun,” I fibbed, staying within their long strides. “So, what’s the name of the club?”

The raven-haired beauty hooked our arms together. “Club 11.”

I pondered for a minute. “Can I bag myself a rich guy?”

They all cackled at my joke, but little did they know I was deadly serious.

“Girl,” the blonde said. “Club 11 is like baron central. You will definitely find deep pocket magnates in the suites.”

Yes, I could hold onto hope for a while longer.

Now, where can I hide the duffle?

CHAPTER TWELVE

Bleu

I dumped the duffle in the communal skip down Club 11’s back alley before joining the nameless flock of females in the mile-long queue to head indoors. If the eccentric ladies introduced themselves, I never listened or cared to take notice. I came here for a financial miracle, not to meet new friends or have a good time.

A series of strobe lights illuminated the sea of people cavorting on the dance floor in conjunction with atmospherics such as flashy stage pyrotechnics, which glorified the ghastliness of semi-naked dancers, and the opalescent haze that curtained dark corners and omnipresent security.

Dry ice misted across the all-glass bar, where rowdy customers had money to waste, and unflustered female bartenders watered-down drinks to increase the profit ratio.

The mixologist presented radiant cocktails topped with mixers and sliced fruits with an effusive smile. I paid for one drink, sipped generously, then peeled away from my unlikely friends to hunt down prospects.

Pitbull’s “Hey, Baby” reverberated from the series of passive speakers, the powerful baseline pounding beneath each footstep. I descended the glass stairwell to what could only be called a sweatbox. Inebriated people danced in an unbreakable bubble of hard drugs and inexhaustible alcohol.

Two full-breasted dancers sauntered past like they owned the place, their perfect heads held high, their flawless bodies painted in scintillating rhinestones.

The prettiest of two made her way to the corner booth, where drooling men decked in suits had their wallets out ready.

With a flick of her long, sleek ponytail, she stepped onto the bench between a guy’s slackened thighs, grasped the table’s soaring pole and, using her dominant hand, twirled effortlessly around it as though such strenuous tasks required minimal upper body strength.

Her co-worker entertained another table with paired finesse.

Money rained down on them aplenty.

Scrutinising their faultless agility, their lithe, acrobatic techniques, I sipped the cocktail through a black straw, regretting the choice to rock up here looking like a scally. I was only in their impactful proximity for thirty seconds, yet I had this desirable need to be one of them. They breathed physical attractiveness, graceful confidence and fascinating allurement, which is everything I am not, and every male in the room seemed to take them seriously.

Embittered for no reason whatsoever, I left the glass on a nearby table and beelined the female restroom, making a mental note of the burly bouncers en-route. In the cubicle, I peeled off the shirt dress and tied it around my waist. I could make it work with upraised breasts and knee-high boots. It is still more coverage than what the strippers vaunted.

I went to the basin to study the girl in the mirror. Her skin was too pale. Her eyes were sunken and tired. Her hair necessitated deep conditioning treatment. She is desperate for love and attention. All she needed was someone to see her, just one person to take her hand and tell her everything was going to be okay, to catch her before she self-destructs.

Cupping cold water in two palms, I splashed my face and neck to cool down. I will never pass as an erotic dancer, not in this state, not in tacky boots and sale brought lingerie. Yet, I had outlandish thoughts of working poles to generate money.

Someone left a black coat near the hand dryers. Stuffing my arms through the sleeves, I pulled the fur hood over my head, shielding my eyes, and headed back to the main dance room.

I got side-tracked.

Besuited men strode down the regal hallway, albeit high-strung and stoical, and ascended the stairs to the next level. They oozed money and power and everything I should avoid, yet I inched behind them, hand on the guardrail, speculating whether the aforementioned suites were on the journey.

If it weren’t for the tailored men, I’d have never made it past the assigned security guards, but those blind idiots were too busy conversing to notice little old me slip through their fingers.

The suited men stepped onto the thick, lush carpet and strolled towards a private room, where pleasant-sounding music played, and soft light glowed.

Peering around the corner, I pondered following them and belatedly noted the rotating security camera above.

My head dropped in stark panic.

I did not want whoever monitors these halls to see my face or uncover my identity.

Keeping the hood over my head, I inhaled, exhaled, then hurried in the opposite direction. If someone bumps into me, I will say I was searching for the bathroom and got lost. It’s partly true. I am lost. I don’t know why I am here or what I intend to do now that I am free to roam the halls.

Nerves abound, I opened the first door that fell into my line of vision and hurled myself into a dark room.

Utilising the phone as a torch, I swept the light over the exquisite furniture and, grateful for no unexpected guests, breathed out bated breath. It bumped of sweat and sex here. In fact, the stench was so pungent it made me wonder if I missed copulation by mere seconds.

Male voices sounded outside.

Tucking the phone in my pocket, I cracked the door ajar and searched for the owners of said voices. There are two bouncers there now, both talking in low undertones. “I would never,” the man with a goatee said as his large, muscular frame lingered by the room. “Besides, you’d miss me.” His inked knuckles rapped on the door opposite before he jerked it open. “There is someone downstairs looking for Jones.”

The man throned behind the desk looked up. His sharp, piercing blue eyes quite literally took my breath away. His supreme dominance and intimidating presence were that of a dark, hungry wolf. He looked ready to pounce, to skin the poor men alive. He was tall, freakishly so. His bladed jaw and sensuous lips honed his masculine features. Arrogance radiated off his every movement as he rounded the mahogany desk. Even his slow strides were menacing.

“Why do you stare?” he asked in an intolerable voice, and I jumped back, assured the question was for me. “It irritates me.”

The leaner male’s shoulders rolled back. “I apologise, Vincent.”

“For what?” Vincent rolled an apple in his hand. “Your lack of respect.”

Blood drained from my body. I do not know this man, but it doesn’t take Einstein to realise he is not someone you want to upset.

“I do respect you.” The man stumbled over his words. “We all do.”

It was too quiet, the dehumidifying air crackling between them.

“But I am not my brother,” he said, and the men gulped. “Do you think I am unworthy of his chair? Am I not man enough to fill his shoes?”

Both men chose not to answer.

“I hate the club,” he said conversationally, but even I knew he was giving them a false sense of security. “Almost as much as I loathe this office.” When I peered back through the gap, I saw him studying wall art. “Nowhere near as much as I detest this fucking painting.”

Jesus, who pissed on him? Did I miss something? Did the men undermine him whilst I had digits pressed in my ears?

“I might be speaking out of term, Vincent,” the bearded male said. “But that’s Warren’s most prized possession.”

Vincent peeled an apple with a switchblade. “Not his wife?”

“Mrs Warren is his utmost priority.” His hands clasped behind his back. “Not his possession.”

“Incorrect.” Vincent sucked apple peel from the blade. “My brother’s wife is a precious commodity. She is more valuable than the hideous painting he dared to call art.” He unclipped the canvas from the wall and studied the thick layers of paint like it was the most repulsive thing to ever fall into his palms. “It is depressing, is it not?”

Both bouncers shifted on their feet.

“A cruel reminder of how he slept whilst I existed in comfort.” His dark eyebrows incurved. “It troubles me.”

I held my breath.

Tossing the canvas on the floor, Vincent strode to the minibar and poured a decent shot of amber liquid into a crystal glass. “Get rid of it.”

My eyes lowered to the painting, to the name of the artist.

I wonder how much it’s worth.

“Vincent.” The man with the beard scrubbed his features. “I cannot—”

I never saw the gun or the man’s quick reflex, but I most certainly heard the loud shrill as the bullet released from the chamber and punctured the bearded man’s head. His back crashed into the wall on impact. Body sliding to the ground in lifeless gruesomeness, he sagged to the side until the weight of his loose-jointed body sprawled across the carpet, blood pooling beneath his ruptured head.

Inhaling a sharp breath, I slapped two hands over my mouth, unable to look away from the scene in front of me. He killed him. And for what purpose? Because they stood up for their other boss. I might throw up. I can taste acidic bile in the back of my throat.

Vincent aimed the gun at the other bouncer. “Must it always end in violence?”

“No.” The male employee was too calm for someone who had witnessed unpremeditated murder. “I can discard the painting, Vincent.”

“Good.” Vincent placed the gun on the desk, tapping the gold handle with his pointer finger. “Now, the person downstairs. He asked for Jones, did he not?”

Tucking the canvas under his arm, the guard stepped over the dead man’s leg, the same man he once considered a friend. “Yes.”

Vincent hummed, low and throaty. “Did he provide a name?”

“No,” the man replied.

Vincent said with a bored flick of his hand. “I will be down when I am good and ready.”

My body shook from head to toe.

Knife crime is at its all-time highest in London. You hear the chilling stories of knife-enabled defences daily, but guns are an entirely different story. It’s very rare to see gun-related violence on the news, never mind witnessing it in plain sight.

I swallowed vomit.

This man—this Vincent—killed a man without an ounce of remorse or a shred of hesitation. He is pure evil, the wickedest of sin. If he could shoot a man, an employee, and go about his evening like nothing happened, leaving his victim bleeding out on the cold floor while he sat behind the desk to imbibe whiskey, imagine what he could do to someone like me? I had no business snooping around in his club. I was not invited.

“Oh, shit.” A vibrant redhead in seven-inch stripper heels dodged the deceased man on the floor. “What did he do?”

Vincent eased back in the leather chair. “Cherry.”

“Tonight’s money haul.” She shook huge wads of cash. “Do you want me to count it now or later?”

Cherry was inside Vincent’s office, but there was no sign of the other bouncer, the one who held onto the canvas. Her lustrous red hair cascaded down her back in waves, and Vincent seemed to like her quirky style because when she perched onto the desk edge, his fingers uncurled glossy locks.

“Later,” he said icily, and she stacked the money next to the monitor. “Is Jones about?”

“I wish.” Her slender shoulders lifted when she inhaled. “Nate is downstairs, though. Do you want me to get him for you?”

“No.” He hurled the apple stump across the office, and it landed in the bin. “Ask someone to clean the mess in the hall. I will be displeased if the man’s blood stains the carpet.”

“Of course.” She lit a cigarette and handed it to him. “You got rid of Warren’s painting.”

He inhaled a drag. “Does it bother you?”

Applying gloss to her lips, she stared at the plain wall where the painting belonged. “A little.”

His eyes were ablaze with anger. “Why?”

“He loved it for a reason.”

“And I hate it for a reason,” he clipped, twirling idly in the leather chair. “If there is nothing else, see yourself out.”

Cherry slipped off the desk, tugging down her raised skirt. “You look tense, Vincent. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Please,” he said with a contemptuous smirk. “I am immune to your advances.”

If Cherry was insulted, she never let on. “I could send someone up? The new barmaid is already looking for a pay rise.”

Turning in the leather chair, he looked through the floor to ceiling window, which overlooked the main room, and, seemingly, assessed the new girl in question. “She is blonde.” Smoke clawed out of his mouth. “And skittishly unattractive.”

Cherry scratched the nape of her neck. “What’s wrong with blondes?”

“I prefer brunettes.” His lip curled at the corner. “Do you know of any?”

Her laughter crescendoed. “You Warren brothers are so transparent.”

“Careful.” Vincent’s murderous glare deceived the calmness in his voice. “I have zero tolerance for insubordination.”

“I am harmless,” she said, but honestly, the woman sounded like a viper. “Unless you demand otherwise.”

“I demand respect.” His raspy voice coiled every muscle in my body. “How many men will die before they venerate?”

Well, he’s an uptight jackass, so I highly doubt anyone will hold him in high regard, not with that haughty attitude.

“They are terrified of you. That’s all that matters, Vincent.” After a long, awkward silence, the redhead pulled herself away from him. “Anyway, I will be downstairs if you change your mind.”

I listened to her heels fade down the hall.

Sliding down the wall onto my backside, I pulled my knees to my chest, arms enveloping my shins, and anticipated the cleaners. But no one came. The dead guy remained on the floor.

It felt like hours before I detected any more sounds from the man’s office.

“Angel,” Vincent murmured, so I peeked through the gap to see him on the phone. “Did I wake you?”

Whatever she said made him smile. It was a nice smile, too, the type of smile a man showed when enamoured. Interesting.

“Tedious, as always,” he said, his tone of voice a lot smoother, calmer. “How did it go?”

I chewed my thumbnail.

“Will you send a picture?” His feet kicked onto the desk. “Of course, I want to see. Alexa, you are carrying my nephew.” He chuckled dryly. “Or niece.”

Ah, so the heart of two brothers is pregnant.

“No, I visited Belmarsh yesterday. He refused to see me.” His eyes squeezed shut. “Do not upset yourself with such foolishness. My brother is not thinking clearly.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I know.”

My phone vibrated.

With white-knuckle panic, I fumbled with the phone, switched it off, and stuffed it back in my pocket. Praying the man never heard the low vibrations, I glanced at his office and released the breath I was holding. He is still talking to Alexa.

“You could always sit with her whilst I’m at work.” His hopefulness switched to dispiritedness. “Of course, I understand. Your loyalties lie with my brother.”

I picked imaginary lint off the coat.

“She is our mother.” His features hardened. “Liam can deny it all he wants, but it changes nothing. Valerie Wentworth brought him into the world.”

He went silent whilst she talked.

“Valerie will die with a broken heart, Angel.” He stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray. “She needs closure. She needs his forgiveness.”

My head rested on the wall.

“I understand. No, I could never be angry with you. I am saddened by the entire situation. I wish it were different.”

I closed my eyes to listen.

“I will drive over in the morning,” he told her. “I can take you. It’s no issue, Angel.”

When I double-checked the office, Vincent was no longer on the phone to Alexa, but it was still in his hands while he read something. He placed it to his ear. “Where are you?” He waited for the person’s response. “There is someone here looking for you. No, I did not get a name.” Another pause. “I will meet you downstairs in ten minutes.”

Vincent ended the call and ambled towards the door—the door he left unlocked to head downstairs. It was millimetres away from closing behind him, but the opening was there for anyone to enter.

I did not have time to second-guess myself.

Re-emerging from the dim room, I stepped over the dead body, sprinted across the office and swiped the cash on the desk. I was not brave enough to estimate the amount—I will count later—but there was enough here to cover my father’s care bill, that much I knew for sure.

Weighed down by stolen money and sickening guilt, I kept my head down and sprinted toward the staircase.

Of course, absconding from the building could never be so straightforward. There were two guards by the fire exit and one by the door to the main room.

Without thinking rationally, I slid into another dark room. Pungent chemicals burnt my nostrils. With the phone’s light brightening the shelves, I flicked through boxes until something on the wall caught my attention: the club’s main electrical panel.

I pulled the fuse box.

Reverberating music ended.

Every room in the entire building blackened.

Knowing the guards would come here immediately, I put my back to the wall and waited in anxious dread.

The door flew open, crashed into the wall, and someone, a bouncer, perhaps, trudged across the room to locate the circuit breakers.

I was out of the room, down the hall, and through the fire exit before anyone could bear witness.

Too breathless to catch my breath, I forced myself to walk down the alley and retrieve the duffle from the communal skip. I hid the cash in zipper compartments. Now, I had to make myself disappear without a trace.

The canvas painting was on the floor, discarded by the skip, ready for disposal. I picked it up, held it to my chest and vanished into the night.

I walked for over an hour to find the seediest bed-and-breakfast in London. I had to think methodically, not irrationally. Vincent will expect the person who stole from him to waste the money in five-star accommodation. He will hunt properties that offer clients exorbitant levels of sumptuousness.

Unfortunately for him, I will not be luxuriating in fine champagne and Egyptian cotton.

I paid thirty-five pounds for a single room. There was a window, a double bed, a television and packaged biscuits. What more could I need?

My skin burnt in the shower. I scrubbed away my sins, let them wash down the drain, then sat in a coarse towel on the wicker chair for too long, staring at the duffle.

Changing into cotton shorts and an old, oversized T-shirt, I blow-dried my hair, emptied store-purchased essentials onto the bed and began the transformation.

Unpackaging scissors, I went to the wall-mounted mirror, snatched a handful of blue hair and, regretting the inevitable, hacked. Tresses floated to my feet in devastating finality.

My long hair soon sat below my jawline.

Tears pricked my eyes.

Wiggling my fingers into latex gloves, I applied bleach to the ends of my hair to lift the blue, waited for ten minutes, then applied more chemicals to the roots.

Stripping the pigments from hair strands took much longer than I’d have liked. Three applications later, I washed the chemicals in the bath, head thrown over the edge with the showerhead above, and towel-dried the dry, brittle ends.

I looked in the mirror.

Bleu Murphy had beautiful blonde hair growing up.

Now, her hair was so blonde it could be white. It was so short that she could pass as a boy. Maybe she could visit the hair salon next week for them to tidy up the ends.

Squirting leftover hair dye on the mirror, I smudged the glass until I could no longer see the woman staring back at me.

Bleu Murphy does not exist.

She died a long time ago.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I unzipped the duffle and poured mounds of cash onto the comforter.

I placed a pre-rolled joint between my lips and sparked a lighter flame, inhaling drugs until trepidation subsided. I had to find a new dealer before I ran out of supplies.

Counting fifty-pound notes, I stacked them into piles on the satin covered pillows until forty grand amassed for the taking.

I laughed like a crazy woman.

It’s okay, daddy.

I’d never let you down.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Brad

Ubiquitous club music segued into deathly silence, the thunderous bass beneath our feet suspending into nothingness. I stared at the concrete floor, the nonplussed doormen, an even more puzzled-looking Nate. If it were not for the sudden rowdiness of partygoers echoing indoors, I’d doubt Club 11 was open for business.

Nate’s neck craned as he looked over the guards’ heads into the dark entrance hall. “Who fucked with the DJ?”

Terry, Vincent’s recently hired bouncer, touched his earpiece to listen to updates. “Local power cut.”

I eyed the functioning streetlights. “I suppose the club is the only business affected by tonight’s failed electrical power supply, huh?”

“I have reason to believe it’s a vicinage issue.”

I pointed to the brightly lit takeaway down the street. “What is that?”

Terry’s throat cleared. “It’s a kebab shop, sir.”

“A well-lit kebab shop,” I corrected, and his cheeks flushed. “This is a club issue, Terry Boy. It has nothing to do with our vicinage. Not once, in all the years I have worked for the boss, have I experienced electrical failures and blackouts here. Get back on your earpiece and find out what the fuck is going on.”

Security dispersed to fix the problem.

I headed inside, the alcohol spillage on the floor sticking to my shoes. “Is our commercial electrical certificate up to date?”

Nate took out his phone and loaded a PDF file. “The unit is compliant. No damage to the electrical systems. No defects, malfunctions or deterioration in the electrical equipment. In actual fact, Warren had the entire building rewired less than three years ago.” He showed me the phone screen. “And he upgraded the panel board.”

Pushing through the double doors, entering the blackened room, I shoved throngs of obstreperous customers aside and, without vision, headed toward the bar.

Bright lights suddenly flashed across the entire club.

I stopped, the club’s unruliness soaring to unpredictable heights. “What is going on?”

“At least the lights are back on.” Nate’s wide eyes sent threats to the DJ. “He better get back to work.”

Adjusting his headphones, the DJ raised a hand, utilised two turntables and, bright lights be-damned, blared Roll Deep’s “Good Times” throughout. People stood still, slack-jawed, pie-eyed and utterly deflated. But our dancers did what they do best. They embraced unprecedented conditions, returned to their stations and entertained until everyone overlooked the blinding lights to have a good night.

Nate’s inked hand clasped his grimaced lips.

Flashing lights threw everyone off balance until sporadic strobes overpowered, and darkness soon crawled up the walls.

I watched with bated breath.

Green stroboscopic streaks cut through the dance floor. Everything was back to normal, but amelioration did not explain why the blackout occurred.

Nate squeezed my shoulder. “That could have been worse.”

I side-eyed him. “What’s worse than a stampede of steaming twats, right?”

His eyes rolled heavenward. “Beware of the redhead.”

I frowned. “What?—”

“Hey, Brad.” Cherry’s red-painted nails curled around my forearm. “Did you find out what happened?” Her blue eyes briefly scoured the club. “Weird, right?”

“I need to find Vincent.” Nate tapped my back. “I’ll catch you later.”

Nodding, I clicked down the barman, who neglected customers to sort shots of Jameson. “Nice skirt,” I said, as her fingers outlined the skirt’s polyester lace-up. “New?”

“Yes.” Her elbows rested on the glass bar top. “It’s quiet without you and the guys. The club, I mean.” When I never replied, she peered up from beneath flutter statement eyelashes. “You were at the casino.”

It was a statement, not a question. “No, Alexa’s working through last-minute details before we relocate.”

The barman arranged shot glasses in front of us.

“I never thought I’d say this.” She took a shot. “But I really miss Warren.”

My heart palpitated.

Yeah, Cher.

I miss the son of a bitch, too.

“Vincent’s good,” she reassured. “He’s got the guys shitting in their pants. I don’t know, though. He’s kinda moody.”

I downed a shot of amber liquid.

“Brad,” she whispered, and our eyes collided. “Can I come with you? I don’t want to be here without the original gang. It’s like I don’t fit in anymore.”

I had never seen her act so demure and vulnerable. “We need you here.”

Her shoulders drooped. “Why?”

“Cher,” I spoke into her ear. “You are the only dancer Warren trusts. You’d leave us hanging if you walked. Who’d keep the ladies in check, huh?”

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath. “I want the casino, though. I would trade stripper heels for cocktail dresses.”

It’s not my call to make. “Write to Warren. If he’s cool with the idea, I’ll put you on the roulette tables.”

“I did write,” she said, and my brows lifted. “He hasn’t responded yet.”

Even if Warren hadn’t shut everyone out, he’d never entertain Cherry’s demands. He might trust the minx to whip the dancers into shape, to appease clientele and bank money, but that’s as far as their friendship extends. He’s always treated her somewhat differently from the others because she was the first girl he hired back when Club 11 launched.

Cherry might disagree, but she’s privileged in comparison. With the exception of the brothers, the boss’s wife, she has free reign of the club and pretty much does whatever she wants, within reason, and she’s paid an insane amount of money to stand around and look pretty.

Yeah, they might not be friends, but they drew up an understanding way before I came along, and she still reaps the rewards financially.

Vincent appeared from nowhere and swiped a shot from the bar top. He knocked it back in one mouthful.

My brow arched. “Rough night?”

“Get busy,” he said, and Cherry, stifling an exasperated eye roll, excused herself. “I hate her.”

“Why?” I asked, her arse swaying as she sauntered to a nearby table to offer drinks to male customers. “You don’t have to like her, Vincent. She’s good at her job. That’s all that matters.”

“Cherry is an egotistical sycophant.” He put his back to the bar. “I do not trust her.”

The barman refilled the shot glasses.

I polished off another gulp of harsh liquor.

“Do you both screw often?” he asked, and I shrugged. “Is she worth the regret?”

I do not regret sleeping with Cherry. The woman is convenient, always there when I need a release. Excluding the newly hired dancers, the new, fresh-faced barmaids, I have fucked my way through club whores and, hand on my heart, none of them compared to the redhead. If you crave sheet-clawing, mind-blowing sex, she is the person to deliver, not to mention her skilful mouth and tongue. “Why don’t you find out if she’s worth it?”

“I’d rather fuck my fist for eternity than entertain that unsightly feline.” His lip twisted at the corner. “Raise the bar, Jones.”

Truthfully, I have tried to avoid the woman in question, but she is a facilitator who makes it easy to exploit bad habits. It’s not as though she’s grown a backbone in the last ten years.

I am a warm-blooded male.

She is a renowned doormat.

Of course, I will use her at my disposal because she allows it. “Nate is looking for you.”

“Sorted,” he said evasively. “He is currently testing the electrical panel.” His jaw hardened. “He believes somebody flipped the switch.”

I scowled slightly. “Have you checked the surveillance?”

“Soon,” he said whispery. “We have an audience.”

I followed his field of view to a recognisable male lingering at the end of the bar. “What the fuck is he doing here?” Alessio winked over the rim of his glass. “I will disembowel the cunt.”

Vincent studied the faded scar on my neck, the one he put there, then his gaze lifted until something indescribable passed between us. “I don’t like you.”

I gave him a Cheshire smile. “Likewise.”

“But I dislike him more.” He watched Alessio Vasiliev stalk toward us. “If he disrespects you or the syndicate, I will kill him with my bare hands.”

I believed him. “I can take care of myself, Vincy Boy.”

His smile was wicked.

Maybe the pillock was starting to grow on me.

“Brad Jones.” Alessio, one of three Vasiliev brothers, extended a hand, the gold curb bracelets around his wrist clanking together. “You are a hard man to pin down.”

Whiskey rolled down my throat as I stared at his outstretched hand. “What do you want?”

“I come in peace.” His hands disappeared inside his trouser pockets. “Vincent, I am armed.”

Vincent’s disapproving glare swept over the Russian. “Terrified.”

The fair-haired man never blinked. “You should be.”

When Vincent’s relaxed posture straightened, I slapped a hand on his chest, urging him to stay calm. “This is Warren territory,” I said, and the Russian’s determination slid to me. “All I have to do is click my fingers, and you’ll be gunned down.”

His stormy grey eyes assessed our surroundings. “What of the witnesses?”

“They are on our side, Russian.” I laughed hoarsely. “Not yours.”

“As I said, I come in peace.”

“Your passive-aggressiveness suggests otherwise.” Vincent towered above the breakable man. “You were not invited here. If you want to sit down with the institution, get in line with every other inferior demanding attention because we yield to no one.”

Alessio digested Vincent’s words. “Do you know who I am?”

I’m about to give him a one-way ticket to hell. “You could be the Queen of fucking England for all I care.”

“I am one of the wealthiest men in Russia,” he spat through clenched teeth. “Do not question the omnipotence of a dangerous man, Jones. I, too, have the capabilities and the resources to wipe out the entire brotherhood.”

“And I earn millions for whacking off pompous fuckers like you.” My round, wild eyes dared him to taunt the demon in me. “As it goes, I have never put a hit on anyone, though. Vincent, how much would you charge to bury this fucking tool?”

Vincent sized the man up and down. “I’ll do it for free.”

I flashed two dimples. “Do you still want to do business with us?”

“Warren has a burner phone,” he said cockily, and, assured I heard incorrectly, my spine uncurled. “Has he called yet?”

My blood fired hot. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

“He is working closely with my brother,” he continued, and everything around us transpired in slow motion. “We are supposed to leave you out of it, but I came here regardless.”

Vincent refrained from looking at me, but his narrowed eyes had a burning question. “My brother is not desperate enough to align with Russian scum.”

My mouth was dry.

“Your brother has never been more desperate.” Alessio rocked back on his leather shoes. “In case you missed the memo, he is in prison for life.”

My hands curled into fists. “Why would Warren work alongside…” I was too proud to admit the truth aloud, to ask why the boss is on their side while we exist in ostracised obscurity. “You know what? Fuck you. Go and gloat elsewhere. Warren’s order doesn’t mean shit out here, anyway.”

That’s a complete lie. If the boss called right now, we’d march to his drum, but the Russian tool doesn’t need to know that.

“Nikolai will run for Office,” Alessio said as if we cared. “He plans to exonerate Warren of all charges.”

Vincent is speechless. I never knew the pasty-looking motherfucker could get any paler.

“We plan to reduce his sentence to ten years,” Alessio said, and, much to my dismay, I listened with keen interest. “All we ask is that he takes care of our younger brother, Lyov.”

I reached for a shot of Jameson. “Why did Warren send you to deliver this message?”

“He did not send me.” His grey eyes roved over me. “I came out of the goodness of my heart.”

I scoffed. “Do not pretend to have readable qualities, Alessio. You want something from us.”

“My brother, Nikolai, might need some support.” His ringed fingers scratched the scruff of his jaw. “If you will agree to sit with him, we can discuss this matter properly.”

“Get out of here,” I rasped, the pain in my chest intensifying. “Warren might be desperate, but we are not.”

Alessio looked through me. “We must be on the same side for this to work.”

We stared blankly at him.

“Fine.” Extracting a black and gold business card from his snake-skinned wallet, he slid it onto the bar top. “Call me if you change your mind.”

I was too angry to watch him walk away. “Vincent?” The furious man turned to me. “What the fuck was that?”

Vincent’s Adam’s apple bopped. “I want to kill him.”

I know the feeling. “Alessio?”

“Not Alessio.” His rigid shoulders visibly relaxed. “My brother.”

We made our way to his office, the business card tucked safely inside my trouser pocket.

Helping myself to the minibar, I poured Jameson into a glass. “Why is there a dead guy on the floor in the hall?”

Vincent collapsed in the leather chair behind the desk. “I need to sit with him.” He ignored the question. “I need to understand what the fuck is going on!” His fist slammed onto the desk. “You know him better than anyone, Jones. Explain this to me.”

I had assumptions. “My word is speculative only.”

“Conjectural reasons are far better than unspoken thoughts and uncertainties.” His feet kicked onto the desk. “If he will not come to the table, why should I?”

I know he meant the club. It’s obvious he’d rather be anywhere else but here. “Warren was sentenced to life imprisonment. He can hope for an early release, but the odds are stacked against him.”

Vincent’s hands clasped behind this head.

“Why do you think he’s cut everyone off, Vincent?” I sat on the chair opposite him. “He loves his wife, right?”

He nodded.

“So, what does he do? He stays married to her, even though he may never see her beyond prison walls, or he cuts off all ties until she files for divorce.”

His eyes doubled in size. “My brother would never divorce that woman.”

“Warren is a selfish bastard, but not where Alexa is concerned. Her happiness outweighs everything.” I nursed the whiskey glass. “A prison sentence for him is a prison sentence for her. I think he wants her to walk away.”

Vincent’s nostrils flared. “He will not die in chains.”

“We don’t know that,” I argued, and pain flared in his eyes. “Hey, I can be optimistic in front of others, but this is you and me talking, Vincent. I will kill every person who played a part in sentencing him—I have repeated it like a mantra—and I will take great pleasure in doing so, but no amount of killing and suffering guarantees victory. We both know it.”

Vincent’s eyes glazed over. “Don’t say that to me.” His voice was a mere whisper. “If you lose hope, where does that leave him?” His eyes briefly closed. “Where does that leave me?”

“I will fight for his freedom,” I assured him, the lump in my throat too thick to swallow. “But deep down, I’m scared, Vincent. He might never come home, and I don’t know a world without him, either.”

He sat in reverie. “So, let’s say Alexa walks away from him, eventually. Does he truly believe we will turn our backs on him? That we will not be here until the bitter end? He is my brother!” His raised voice hitched. “Yet he denies me. He denies us all.”

“How can I answer those questions? I am not him.” I placed the glass on the desk. “Why don’t we strip this back for a second. Let’s put ourselves in his shoes. How would I feel if the people I loved came to visit for a measly hour a week, to have to sit there and watch them walk away and go about their lives whilst I slept in a fucking cell at night? Could I handle it? Is that visit worth the unavoidable pain I’d feel every time they say goodbye?”

He listened intently.

“Or is it easier to get used to loneliness and avoid the inevitable? Christ, I think I’d turn my back on everyone, too. At least I can get used to my new life without the constant reminder of what I have lost.”

He broke eye contact first.

“So, by all accounts, Warren is in contact with the Russians. How does that make me feel? I am not overly ecstatic by the revelation because I don’t handle a bruised ego so well. But do you want to know what their amalgamation tells me? He couldn’t give a flying fuck about them. It doesn’t hurt to watch them leave.” Flashbacks invaded thoughts. “If I marched in there and took his hand…”

“That’s all I hear.” I slid down the wall, slumping onto my backside, the bottle of Macallan landing on the concrete between my slackened thighs. “It’s never going to leave me. I try so hard, but it’s there.” I tapped the side of my head. “Every time I shut my eyes, I can hear it. I can see it.” My bottom lip trembled. “I can feel it.”

He descended to one knee in front of me. “You are not that little boy anymore.”

I looked up at the starlit sky. “Yet, he cries.”

Tapping my cheek, he forced me to face him. “Look at me when I talk to you,” he instructed, and our eyes aligned. “Do you think I forgot where I came from? That I am not sad for the boy in here.” He flattened a hand on his chest. “He lives in me. And that’s okay. I am strong enough to protect him.” Interlacing our fingers, he put our joint hands to the ache in my chest. “You are strong enough to protect him.”

My shoulders shook as humiliating tears poured down my cheeks.

“You can cry every day if it helps to piece you back together.” He fisted the collar of my shirt. “But you save those tears for the shower where nobody else can see them.”

Snivelling, I wiped the moisture from my nose. “Do you think I am pathetic?” When his hand dropped, I snatched his wrist. “Don’t let go.”

“I could never.” His ice-laden fingers closed around my fist. “You are my brother.”

I raised the Macallan bottle between us. “I only drink this because of you. I like Jameson.”

“I have an expensive taste.” He grabbed the bottleneck, the side of his mouth twitching. “Sue me.”

I stared at the Macallan bottle on the desk. “…He won’t be able to let go.”

“Jones?” Vincent’s feet lowered from the desk. “You were lost.”

Nodding, I dabbed beaded sweat from my brow.

“It’s too soon to fall apart,” he said, and I agreed. “I think it is safe to assume that we are mentally exhausted. We should regroup. Let’s sleep tonight and meet in the morning.” He did not believe the words he spoke. “I fear the only way I will feel like myself again is if I snap something.”

“Killing is a good way to release pent up anger.” I smiled, but it was forced. “Fuck, I think I need sex. It’s been a while.”

“I might shut the club early.” He poured himself a whiskey. “You all forget that I have three businesses to run. Not to mention the night job.”

This hitman owned a gentleman’s bar, the reggae bar, and a sex club, which I have yet to visit. “Take me with you. I could use a change of scenery.”

Vincent recapped the bottle. “You are not interested in Clay’s wooden shack.”

“No, I am interested in Eyes Wide Shut.” Yeah, I could get kinky for one night if it helps me forget for a while. “If there are decent looking women there, I am down to play.”

He rolled his neck until bones clicked. “What’s your kink?”

“Brad.” Nate’s knock on the door killed our conversation. “Am I interrupting?”

“No.” Vincent popped an unlit cigarette between his lips. “Is that body still on the floor?” He pushed to his feet. “Why do they defy me? I told the cleaners to remove that piece of shit over an hour ago.”

“I’ll do it.” Nate slipped on black-framed reading glasses. “I need to bank tonight’s takings first, though.”

Vincent motioned to the uncluttered desk. “It’s on the…” Instant rage dilated his pupils. “Where is it?”

I looked between both men. “Are you talking to me?”

“No, I am talking to the other imbecile sitting in my office.” His blue eyes smouldered with hatred. “It was right there. What did you do?”

“Okay, that sounded like an accusation.” I soared to my feet. “I hope you are not insinuating that I took money from the club, Vincent. That’s not fucking cool.”

“Fuck, no,” Nate drawled, having my back. “Brad would never. Are you sure it was here?”

Vincent stared wordlessly.

“Who clocked in?” My disgusted scowl toured his pallid countenance. “Vincent, wake the fuck up. We need to know who clocked in.”

“Cherry.” He perceived the dubiousness in my eyes. “She was the last person in my office.”

Taking out my phone, I clicked on her message thread and typed a quick text.

Me: Come to Vincent’s office.

Message delivered.

Message read.

Three bubbles bounced on the screen.

Red: I am not fucking you in Warren’s office.

Me: Just come here!

Message read.

Nate’s jaw muscles twitched. “You saw her with the money.”

“Yes.” Vincent swept hair off his brow. “She put it on the desk. I remember…” Tiredness had him questioning rationality. “It was a lot of money.”

“Will someone please get rid of the dead guy?” Cherry dodged the man on the floor, her eyes protruding fractionally. “Oh, everyone is here. It’s been a while since I was passed around.”

“Shut up,” I berated, and her forehead wrinkled. “What did you do with the money?”

“Money?” She waved a languid hand. “I gave it to Vincent.”

“It’s not here.” Vincent’s two hands flattened on the desk. “You were the last person in my office, Cherry. You know something.”

“Don’t you dare.” Her teeth gritted at the younger Warren brother. “I have worked at this club longer than you, you fucking arsewipe. I would never pick your pockets—” Vincent was on her in a flash, her throat seized by his hand. “Vincent, stop! I never touched the money! Why would I bring it here, then come back to take it?”

“Vincent,” I snarled, but his fingers around her throat dug in. “Let her go.”

“Why?” He backed her up against the wall. “You might fancy the arse off her, Jones. But I’d happily dispose of this desperate layabout.”

“Have a fucking day off,” I snapped, and his furiousness swung to me. “Kill her if it makes you feel better.” Her eyes pleaded with me to intervene. “But you will not be satisfied.”

“You don’t actually believe her?” His fingers will undoubtedly bruise her flesh. “Do you?”

“Yeah, I do,” I said, and she whimpered in his punishing grip. “Seriously, Vincent. Let her go—” He flung her aside, her body spearing across the floor. “Was that necessary?”

Cherry groaned, rolling onto her stomach.

“If not you, then who?” He stood over the red-faced woman. “Which one of your whores dared to come in here and take from me?”

Her mouth stuttered. “I don’t know.”

“Let me check the surveillance.” Nate loaded the computer, his fingers tapping the keyboard. “What time did you bring it in, Cher?”

Unable to take her eyes off Vincent, she sat upright and glued her back to the wall. “It was just before the blackout.” Red patches marred her neck, and she rubbed them, feeling the aftermath of her boss’s short-fuse. “You owe me an apology.”

“Cher,” I said calmly, and her glassy eyes came to me. “Quit whilst you’re ahead.”

She nodded.

“Pathetic.” Vincent gave her a haughty look of disdain. “You kneel for a man who’d trade you like that.” His fingers clicked. “You do not work for him anymore. You work for me. Respect my authority or get the fuck out.”

Tears dripped from her chin.

“Do not look at him for guidance. He will not save you from me. Unless I am wrong.” His curiosity piqued. “Will you vouch for her, Jones?”

Christ, I avoided her longing stare. “No.”

My response pleased Vincent. “Now, by all means, express how you truly feel.” He toyed with the beaded onyx bracelet on his wrist. “I am an arsewipe, correct?”

“No, Vincent.” She drew in a rattly breath. “I should not have called you that.”

“If you disrespect me again, I will cut out your tongue.” It was a promise, not an idle threat. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Her swallow looked painful. “Boss.”

“Well?” His attention returned to Nate. “Who was it?”

Nate’s shoulders squared. “It’s like Pearl all over again.”

“Who?” Vincent strode behind the desk. “Who is Pearl? Why is the name familiar?”

“Alexa’s older sister.” Nate tilted the computer monitor for us to get a better look. “She worked at the club.”

“Gross.” Cherry stood on knobbly knees. “I hated the cow.”

I examined the girl on the screen. Her fur coat buried her frame, the puffy hood concealing her face as she swiped bounded-up cash straight into her pockets. “Who is this woman?”

Vincent’s fingers clicked again.

“Oh.” Cherry rushed to his side. “I mean, I will break her myself if I have to…” Her eyes squinted beneath weaved brows. “Who the hell is that?”

Nate zoomed in on the woman’s hands. “Do you recognise her ring?”

“I know my girls,” she said confidently. “That bitch is an imposter.”

“Are you telling me this imposter managed to outmanoeuvre the guards and ransack my office?” Vincent bristled with rage. “Get the head of security upstairs.” She jerked into action, hurrying out of the room. “Now.”

Nate sent images to the printer.

“We need to send men to every business within the vicinity,” I instructed, as Nate slipped printout copies of the woman into individual case files. “Do you think she is working for the Russians?”

Vincent pulled on his suit jacket. “Possibly.”

“Christ.” I was conflicted. “We need all of tonight’s footage.”

The head of security knocked on the door.

“If we can track her movements, it might lead us to her whereabouts.” Knowing Vincent was out for blood, I followed Nate into the hallway and tapped the guard’s shoulder. “Your funeral, buddy.”

I closed the door behind us.

Vincent fired a gun five seconds later.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Brad

Seven tailored men entered Club 11’s underground conference room with an array of store-bought coffees, fresh fruit punnets and daily greens juice bottles. They arranged early morning breakfast on the long-stretched table for the brothers, then selected produce and beverages for themselves before lining up against the wall.

I had started to see double of everything half an hour ago.

Call it ennui, but If I do not hit the sack soon, I will burn out and fall asleep on my nose.

Fuck breakfast and caffeinated beverages. The only reprieve I had from lack of sleep was cocaine, and that stimulant drug was currently setting my veins alight.

Yesterday, I thought I might be able to tolerate Vincent Warren. Today, I am not so sure. He’s been recalcitrant since Doña Marina—the sobriquet of the club’s imposter—purloined riches from under his very nose.

I can handle rude and unapologetic individuals.

Have you met Liam Warren?

But patience only stretched so far, and that pasty, pale-complexioned, short-fused, grouchy son of a bitch was getting on my last nerves. “Will you shut your fucking mouth?” I scolded him for effrontery, and the man, inured to affray and animosity, slowly turned to me. “You are angry. I get it. But this is our world, Vincent. Not yours. Either get with the program or see yourself out.”

“You expect me to take shit lying down.” His argumentativeness mirrored my own. “Doña did not empty your pockets. She emptied mine. I told them.” His hand flicked to the men in the room. “I want everyone on this case. Find her. Bring her to me. Beat her within an inch of her life for all I fucking care, but I want the bitch alive. Did they locate her whereabouts? Did they drag her to our unit?” His pointer finger jabbed the table. “What the fuck is the institution paying them for? These men are not dangerous soldiers. They are unskilled, unqualified, undeserving schmucks who warrant deleterious consequences. They skite top of the range vehicles, designer clothes and twenty-four-carat diamonds, yet they cannot execute the simplicity of hunting down a self-righteous novice.”

My glare exhorted the brothers to work harder.

“What is the idiom?” Vincent sent the man standing closest to him a sidelong glance. “It is better to do something yourself than to rely on others to do it well.”

“Command.” Three-hundred and thirty-two cleared his throat. “Permission to speak.”

“Do not shoot.” My finger aimed at Vincent. “There are enough dead bodies downstairs to torch a bonfire of corpses.” Fixing the knot of my satin tie, I eased back in the leather chair. “Go ahead.”

“We tracked Doña’s whereabouts until four in the morning.” He came forward to slide documents down the table. “She walked through the streets of London, occasionally trekking through parks and gated communities. As you can see in the images, she was cautious and alert. Not one camera caught a glimpse of her profile.”

I flicked through printouts. Doña trekked everywhere on foot, bypassing tube stations and other means of public transport. Her head was down the entire time. I stared at the penultimate image of her ducking into a convenience store. “Did you interrogate the shop owner?”

He squeezed the nape of his neck. “No, sir.”

“How farcical?” Vincent frowned in utter bemusement. “He was quite possibly the last person to speak with our Doña. Is the feasibility of his knowledge that unimportant to you?”

I studied the final image. Doña is last seen by Brampton Park, Newham. “We can take it from here.” Passing the printouts to Nate, I uncapped black coffee and sipped. “Am I speaking Spanish? Why the fuck are you still here?”

Murmuring apologies, the low ranks scuttled out of the room, eager to avoid the fractiousness of Vincent and the brothers.

Vincent’s thumb smoothed across his lips. “You need to replace them.”

“Do not tell me what to do.” Vexation sluiced through me. “What do you not understand, Vincent? I might be Command, but those men are not my employees. I do not have the jurisdiction to decide.”

“Bullshit,” the strident man bickered. “My brother put you in charge for a reason. He trusts that you will do right by him.”

My gut soured. “When I want your opinion, I will ask for it.”

He tsked. “There is no mutually beneficial accord without freedom of speech.”

I bite into my knuckles. “Vincent—”

“What is going on here?” Alexa’s soft yet firm voice had the brothers flinching in their seats. “Well?”

Everyone stood in unified respect, the legs of our chairs scraping on the wooden floor.

A black fur coat draped over her shoulders. Her dark brown hair was loose and untamed, just the way she liked it, and her dress, skin-tight and hugging her physique like a glove, sat mid-thigh.

“I leave you all unattended for five minutes,” she castigated, “and you fight like cat and dog.”

Bruno, the collar studded rottweiler, trotted into the conference room.

“You all look like shit.” Her hand rested on the back of the boss’s chair in nostalgic musings. “Shall we discuss it?”

Nobody sat down until she gestured for us to become seated.

Chairs creaked as our bodies relaxed into the leather.

“You are glowing, Angel.” A parker pen rolled between Vincent’s fingers. “I assume the ultrasound went accordingly.”

Alexa would not sit in the boss’s chair. Hanging her coat on the back of the seat next to mine, she put two hands on her stomach, where a slight, almost unnoticeable bump began to take shape. “I can confirm that there is one very healthy baby.” Her eyes dazzled with so much joy and happiness. “Would you like to see the scan photo?”

“Hand it over,” I said, and she extracted the sonogram out of her purse and placed it on my upturned palm. “Christ, this makes it real.” I could make out the baby’s head and body, and a leg was sticking out. “I still cannot believe Warren is going to be a father.”

“A fantastic father,” Alexa corrected, and I nodded in agreement. “He never wanted children.” Her story was for the others. “He feared enemies would target them to hurt him. But when I miscarried…” No, when Serena, Warren’s unhinged half-sister, knifed the baby out of her stomach. “He made it his life’s mission to replace the one we’d lost.”

Everyone listened closely.

Alexa slipped onto the chair, her legs crossing elegantly beneath the table. “We tried and failed to the point it almost ruined our marriage. Eventually, I accepted that I would never be a mother and concentrated on the only person that mattered.” Her infectious smile lit up the room. “Him.”

I put the sonogram in the folder in front of me.

“Fate has a funny way of retracing its steps. I lost my husband to incarceration and found out I was pregnant in the same week.” Her lips pursed as she willed her tears away. “The gravitational powers of love grow inside me to ensure that, no matter what happens, we will reunite for our precious miracle.”

Alfie uncapped bottled water and poured her glass.

“And I will wait for him. Always.” She tipped her glass to the brothers. “Destiny wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Bruno’s circling the table, sniffing everything in sight.

“Don’t worry, sugar tits.” My arm stretched across the chair’s rear behind her. “Bossman will be home before you know it.”

“I will count down the days.” Clicking the top of a pen, she opened a leather-bound folder. “So, can someone explain the tension in the room? It’s suffocating.”

“No tension,” I lied, and Vincent looked grateful. “We encountered a little problem at the club, that is all.”

“What problem?” she asked, belatedly noticing the unoccupied chair by Nate. “Where is Josh?”

Nate was looking at Josh’s untouched case file on the table. “Not here.”

“Yes, I can see he is absent.” Her fingernails strummed the folder. “But what’s the reason? Did he call or leave a message?”

“Nope.” I decided coffee was a good idea, after all. “He is forcing my hand, Alexa. We have given him time to grieve, but I warned him at our last meeting. If he does not come to the table and act in accordance with the syndicate, I will have no choice but to revoke his privileged position.”

“Do not take his chain.” Her voice was fiercely defensive for the lad. “Speaking freely, I think Josh might require professional treatment for alcohol dependence. He is borderline drunk every time I see him, yet he tries to hide the obvious with showers and cologne.” She absently rotated her wedding ring. “What are your thoughts?”

“Drugs.” My feelings were discordant amid their accordance in opinion. “It is not alcohol, Alexa. It is excessive use of nose candy and a cocktail of pills.”

Alexa was incredulous. “Are you certain?”

I gave her a sharp nod.

“Well, what is the plan of action?” Her authoritative voice quelled their loquaciousness. “We will not sit back and watch while he destroys himself.”

“You could lock him up and throw away the key.” Vincent’s invidious suggestion earned objections. “Control yourselves.” His head shook with a conciliatory smile. “Always violence with this lot.”

“Contradictory tosser.” I scoffed. “No one results in violence more than you. Need I remind you that there are more corpses downstairs than in Fred West’s house of fucking horrors.”

“I’m an artist,” he said, unfazed by the blood on his hands. “I happen to think it was a great idea. Why so sensitive?”

Nate shifted in the chair. “We will not cage one of the brothers.”

“Do not over dramatise such dilemmas.” Vincent’s finger outlined the coffee cup’s circumference. “Put Fitzpatrick in a safe—preferably padded room with bare necessities: bed, toilet, sink, shower.” He hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe bottled water and a bucket.”

Alexa’s eyelashes fluttered. “A bucket?”

“He is an addict, is he not?” Vincent waited for everyone to mumble a round of affirmatives. “Even if he agreed to isolation, he would clamber the walls within a few hours. The cons of withdrawals. You might want to handcuff him to the bed and let him vomit where he lies.” His seriousness had us by the tongue. “Hence the bucket.”

My eyes sliced. “Do you speak from experience, Vincent?”

“Observation.” His face was impassive. “Valerie was an addict. She has suffered many relapses over the years.”

“I don’t know.” Nate adjusted his nose ring. “Josh will never agree to seclusion.”

Alexa sucked in a choppy breath. “What if seclusion is for the greater good?”

“If he is not mentally strong enough to fight addiction, do it for him.” Vincent cradled his now cold coffee. “You know what to do.”

Mental note: lure Josh to a safe environment and throw away the key.

“Agreed,” I conceded, and Alexa’s hand squeezed my knee beneath the table. “Can we make use of the Manor’s underground halls? One of the guards’ layby rooms, perhaps.”

Alexa pondered the idea. “Security has spent more time in the Manor since Tony and Camilla took over the pool house.” Her eyes went to Alfie, her main bodyguard. “Maybe you and Jax could share a room until further notice.”

I refrained from snorting. “They already top and tail.”

“No, I sleep in my bed only.” A red blush attacked Alfie’s cheeks. “I would never disrespect the Warrens.”

“You are lovers.” Nate’s brows wrinkled. “You expect us to believe you don’t sneak in and out of each other’s gaffs?”

“Guys.” Alexa sighed. “It is none of our business. Alfie, will you agree to relocate for us to handle Josh?”

Alfie crouched down to smooth Bruno’s head, the furry mutt lapping at his paws. “If it does not discomfort you, Ma’am.”

“Your relationship with Jax could never trouble me,” she said, and his appreciative smile broadened. “Then it is settled. Nate will inveigle Josh to the Manor. I will prepare the room. Brad will lock him up.” Her hands rubbed together. “Now, tell me about the club’s encountered quandary.”

Nate showed Alexa the printouts.

“Right.” She swiped through images. “I see a woman walking around at night. What did she do?”

“Our Doña Marina snuck into the club, flipped the electoral panel and stole money from Vincent’s office.”

Alexa set the photos aside. “Doña Marina?”

“Her true name is unknown.” Vincent popped a red grape in his mouth. “She is quite the mystery. I cannot decide whether I am impressed or unimpressed. Either way, I want my money back and her head on the chopping block.”

She toyed with her military tags. “I bet Doña’s already splurged.”

“Then I shall enforce unmerciful torture methods as compensation and interest.” He was deadly serious. “It was not her money to spend, Angel. Do not be a sympathiser.”

“I do not sympathise with an opportunist.” Her chin lifted. “When someone steals from you, they steal from Liam. I will watch with a gratified smile while you gut her like a fish.”

“Callous.” Excitement flared in Vincent’s eyes. “My sister-in-law never ceases to amaze me.”

Nate looked at me and hiked his eyebrows. “Shall we get down to business or?”

“I have community service,” I remind them, and myself, then I die all over again. “Oh, for the love of everything bastard holy. What has my life amounted to? Empty crisp packets and some other twat’s chewing gum. I cannot suffer any longer.”

Vincent laughed huskily. “I do not envy you, Jones.”

Reginald needs to come through for me. If he can pull a few strings, I can get my life back in order and never pick litter again. “Doña Marina’s last documented location was in Brampton Park, Newham.”

Nate pinned the image in question on the front of the folder.

“I can see right through her transparent attempt at fooling us.” I stood, ready to leave. “She has not spent a penny yet, because she knows we are looking for her. My guess is she rocked up at some cheap hostel within the vicinity of Brampton Park. Knock a few doors. You’ll find her by the end of the day. Meanwhile, I will be in the borough, fucking my supervision officer.”

Alexa pulled a face. “Isn’t your supervision officer a male?”

“No, she is a leggy blonde.” When I never elaborated, her fingers twirled as if to prompt me to continue. “Oh, you got her confused with Tool. Yeah, he’s not coming back.”

“Why?” She gave me a pointed look. “What did you do?”

“I trapped him in the dumpster. The cause of death is unknown, though. He either suffocated, or the garbage collectors compacted his body in the back of their lorry.”

***



Carter went to school this morning without any fuss. Still, I held onto the phone all day, half-expecting the deputy head to call me back to collect him. But she never had anything to report, not when three o’clock chimed and I waited outside the wrought iron gates for my son to bound towards me.

He was happy, smiling from ear to ear, and even had a friend on either side of him. Now, he is upstairs in his room doing homework so that he can go on the XBOX and play with said friends online.

Listening to his canned laughter above, I sat on the bottom of the stairs with a flurry of mixed emotions. Nothing pleases me more than my son’s exhilaration on a rainy day, but knowing his newfound happiness likely stemmed from the story of his father left a bad taste in my mouth.

Killian, the boy I grew up with, did not deserve his son’s love and adoration. He was not a hero or man of honour. He was a monster, the worst of mankind.

Carter will never know the sickening truth, though. I could never burden my son with such wickedness. Even if it breaks my heart, even if it makes me sad, I will pretend the man in the photo was someone to be proud of, someone to commemorate, because my son did deserve love and adoration, and I will give it to him tenfold.

Quinn popped her head around the doorframe. “This is a very long lunch break.”

“Sorry.” Carter’s voice faded as I moved away from the stairs. “I just wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“Who? Carter?” She crept into the poorly lit hall, keeping the door closed behind her. “He’s like a bottle of pop. Aren’t you glad?”

A sullen smile crossed my lips. “Of course, I am.”

“Em,” she whispered, her beautiful, sympathetic eyes straining marginally. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Impenetrable walls flew up around me. “About what?”

“You know.” Her voice stayed low in case Ben was about. “Killian.”

“No,” I said sternly, having relived sickening memories all too often. “He has exhausted enough energy out of me lately.”

“Okay.” Her eyes skated over me. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I insisted.

“Alright,” she sang, her voice light and bubbly. “Then, can we switch? I need coffee, cigarettes and celebrity gossip.”

“Yeah, take a break. I’ll see you in a bit.”

The cafe was tranquil this afternoon. A young family sat at one table, and a group of contract builders, the regulars, sat at another. Four newbies were near the window, tucking into English breakfast and chugging their weight in black coffee. I recognised the handsome male in the stark white T-shirt as Hugo, the sales assistant from Tesco’s. He never made eye contact or even glanced in my direction. He had no idea that I worked here.

With a choppy breath, I put my back to the occupied tables and emptied one of the half-filled chillers. Domestic scrubbing was long overdue. I will restock shelves and begin a colour-coded system.

Spraying the shelves with disinfectant, I unpackaged a new, unused cloth and wiped the ledges, ready for the glass cleaner.

The chiller sparkled by the time I finished.

I left the floor unattended for two minutes to grab boxed stock in the hallway. Using a key to break the box’s seal, I extracted bottled water and loaded the shelves.

Hell, I must be bored to fuss about with the chillers.

That is usually Quinn’s favourite job.

Nevertheless, I started from the right: still water, sparkling water, orange juice, apple juice, pineapple juice—you catch my drift—and finalised the coloured coordinated assemblage with carrot juice.

Someone’s palms drummed on the wooden counter behind me.

Wiping my hands in a tea towel, I faced customer demands. “What can I get you?”

Hugo’s eyebrows climbed in surprise.

“Oh, hey.” Logging onto the cash register, I smiled back at him. “Hugo, right?”

“Emma.” His sinewy arms folded, the cords of musical straining beneath the fabrics of his fitted T-shirt. “What a coincidence?”

Well, initially, I thought it was a chance encounter, but his witticism made me wonder if he knew I’d be here. Or, I am completely paranoid. “I guess.”

“Uh, just a coffee refill.” He put an empty mug on the counter. “So, Ben’s Cafe, huh?”

Ben’s Cafe is the unoriginal name chosen by my egotistical brother when he bought the building.

Pushing the button down on the cafetière, I poured ground coffee into the mug. “My boss is very self-centred.”

Hugo blanched at my witty remark.

“It was a joke.” Partly-true. “I love my brother.” He is my favourite sibling. “Can I interest you in a free muffin? If no one eats them by closing time, I have to toss them in the bin.”

“No, thank you.” His coffee was ready, but he hung around for small-talk. “There is a soup kitchen around the corner. Have you considered donating unsold produce to the volunteers? I bet they’d be grateful for additional contributions.”

“I wasn’t aware of any soup kitchens.” I tonged a free lemon and poppyseed muffin onto a plate for him. “I will keep that in mind, Hugo. It’s a thoughtful idea.”

He paid for the coffee, telling me to keep the change. “So, about that date.”

I never agreed to a date. “Presumptuous.”

“Brunch with a new friend?” A smile teased his lips. “Oh, come on. It will be fun.”

My lips pressed together. “Maybe?”

“Maybe?” His brows waggled. “You sound unsure.”

I was one hundred percent unsure. “I will consider brunch.”

“Hugo,” the older man by the window called. “Your food is getting cold.”

“I’ll leave my number.” Taking the pen on the counter, he scribbled digits onto a white napkin. “In case our ‘maybe’ brunch comes into fruition.”

I hated to admit it, but I smiled way too hard as he walked away.

“In case our ‘maybe’ brunch comes into fruition.” Brad appeared like an apparition behind the counter, which was strictly prohibited. His back was to the customers when he asked, “You didn’t fall for that cringe-worthy proposition, did you?”

“What are you doing back here?” I stuffed the napkin in the back of my jean’s pocket. “Ben will have an aneurysm if he sees you.”

He helped himself to a chocolate muffin. “Fuck Ben.”

“I hope you are going to pay for that.”

“Why?” he asked, chewing lumps of food like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. “How come Hughey Boy got a free muffin?”

“Brad, I am serious. You do not work here. You have to stand on the other side and wait like everyone else.”

Of course, the wind-up merchant never budged.

“I could use coffee,” he hinted, and I pointed to the cafetiere. “Oh, now I have to pour my own beverage. This is slave labour.”

He is such a drama queen.

“So, did you?” He poured black coffee into a ceramic mug. “Fall for Hughey’s pretentious bullshit, I mean.”

Brad is not a quiet man. He spoke with an air of loud, conceited cockiness, not caring if everyone around him overheard. And there is no doubt in my mind that Hugo is listening to this conversation because this man is making damn sure of it.

“Tone it down,” I whispered, turning away from the occupied tables, so nobody sat there and lipread. “Everyone can hear you.”

“Who is everyone?” He peered over the mug’s rim to scour the tables. “I see no one of importance here.”

I elbowed him in the ribs. “Brad!”

“Ah!” He squealed, rubbing the ache in his side. “Do not violate me.”

“Oh, for goodness sake.” My cheeks were burning. “That was hardly a violation.”

His elbow rested on the counter while I tore apart all my hard work in the chiller to mix up colour coded juices.

“You did that already,” he pointed out, and I shot him a quizzical glance. “What?” He touched his lightly stubbled jawline. “Do I have something on my face?”

It took me fifteen minutes to rearrange the chiller. “How long have you been watching me?”

He grinned.

“Noted.” I will never be stupid enough to think eyes are not on me at all times in the future. “Shouldn’t you be outside with your new supervisor?”

Brad frowned sharply.

Yes, Big Guy.

I saw.

“You voyeuristic pervert,” he said in a deafening voice, and I wanted the floor to open up and eat me alive. “I will have you know that it was a private moment between questionable allies.”

I do not think my cheeks could get any hotter.

“Hey, if you wanted a peepshow?” His lazy gaze toured the length of my body. “All you had to do was ask.”

“I did not want a peepshow, nor am I a voyeuristic pervert. I was taking out the trash and saw…” Him in the Bentley’s driver seat and a blonde head bobbing on his lap. “Something I wish I could erase from my memory.”

“Relax, sweetheart.” His voice lowered to a teasing whisper. “It was only a blowjob. And it was certainly nothing to write home about.”

I had to change the topic of conversation. “Carrot juice?”

His nose crinkled.

I slotted the juice bottle back in place. “Never mind.”

“Make him work for it,” he rasped, and I looked up, confused. “Hughey?”

“Hugo,” I tweaked his deliberate error. “His name is Hugo.”

“If he’s interested in more than a sleazy lay in the back of his pick-up truck?” he said, and I glimpsed at the window to see a rusted old pick-up truck parked outside the cafe. “He will work for it.”

My stare was still on the truck. “Are you giving me advice on how to date?”

“I am giving you advice on how to get under the right man.” He fixed my earring, the soft brush of his knuckles on my cheek warming me within. “You don’t peg me as the type of woman who hands it around so freely.”

I almost laughed.

My rap sheet tallied at two males, which was a long time ago.

“I have to get back to the dumpsters before Uma Thurman comes looking for me.” He rounded the counter with carefree confidence, and then he paused by the unstocked breadbasket with the kind of smirk I knew not to take seriously. “I could be wrong, though. You are not easy to read.”

Refusing to satiate Brad’s curiosity, I watched him exit the cafe with a smug smile on his face.

“Okay, I want all the juicy details.” Quinn came to my side. “Who is that guy? Are you interested? Is he married?”

I glanced at Hugo, who was engrossed in conversation. “His name is Hugo. I am undecided. And he better not be married.”

“Not him.” Her chin jerked to the window. “Him.”

Brad hadn’t made it far because the blonde supervision officer nabbed him for a discussion, which must bore him; the man paid more interest in his leather shoes.

“Oh, Brad?” He wears a lot of gold rings, but I never noticed a wedding band. Plus, he was in the car merely a few hours ago with his supervisor. “You know what? I don’t know enough about him.”

Quinn sighed dreamily. “I want to mount him.”

Her almost kiss with my brother, Ben, came to mind. “I thought you were crushing on my brother.”

“Oh, that old chestnut.” Her eyes rolled. “I might stand a chance when he’s finished with Steff.”

Steffanie worked part-time at the cafe. “Do you want me to sack her for you?”

Quinn knew I was joking. “I will throw a party the day you kick her to the curb.” She waved at Brad, and the man’s face twisted in what very much looked like disgust. “Rude.”

Yes, Brad was a complex character. “You will get used to him.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Bleu

I played the first piece of Eric Satie’s “Gymnopédie” in the entertainment room of my father’s care home. The painfully melancholic performance reflected innermost sadness. Music should never be unendurable. It is supposed to invigorate the purpose of life. Yet broken-heartedness manifested with each slip of the finger and missed piano note.

A tear trickled down my cheek.

My father sits in his favourite chair by the rain-splattered window, where the floral curtains hung, and the draught whistled. He looked so miserable, so weary and disinterested. In his world, nobody else existed. His forgotten daughter never visited, played his favourite music or sang his treasured songs.

“My love, there is only you in my life.” Inhaling an encouraging breath, I put my fingers to the keys and walked through notes. “The only thing that’s right.”

He is staring at me now, his teeth gritted in effort and glower sombre.

I might be detached from society, but I am solicitous where my father is concerned. I had to be sure he was comfortable and happy at all times, and the magic of music always put a smile on his face, so I will continue to play the piano until something from his past resonated with him.

“You could smile more.” Arms folding on my lap, I turned on the padded stool to face him. “I know how much you love that song.”

“I like the piano,” he said, and so much, I wanted to tell him that he bought my first upright Yamaha and taught me how to play. “It is the king of instruments.”

I smiled fondly at him.

My father just stared at me for a moment. “I knew a girl like you once.” He spoke with shortness of breath and hoarseness. “Her eyes were like rare blue diamond’s found at the bottom of the Indian ocean.”

My heart thumped harder.

“My God, she could sing.” Tears pooled in his confused eyes. “She had the voice of an angel. There were no limits to her chords. She did not push or scream her resonant belts. Her octaves were distinctive and utterly mesmerising.”

I shut the piano’s fallboard. “What was her name?”

“It was…” His curled-up fist tapped the chair’s armrest. “It’s there. I can almost hear myself saying it.”

I will not push his memory.

“Bleu,” he said, and I drew in a sharp breath. “Her name was Bleu. A rather reckless young woman, too. If I told her to go left, she’d go right. If I said the sky was blue, she would say, ‘no, daddy. It is grey.” Deep-cut wrinkles furrowed his forehead. “I never had any children.” The evocation of our past unnerved him. “I don’t know why I said that.”

My stomach was in bits. “Maybe she lived in the neighbourhood.”

“Yes,” he agreed, albeit unconfident and uncertain. “She dyed her hair blue because I told her not to….” He grabbed the mug of cold tea with trembling fingers. “I am tired. I want to go to bed now.”

“Of course.” Hiking the duffle strap over my shoulder, I went to his side and placed a hesitant hand on his shoulder. “You look very handsome today, Mr Murphy.”

He grumbled in disagreement.

“I will come back to visit.” My thumb brushed his sunken cheek. “Maybe we could play together next time.”

“That would be nice.” He brought my wrist to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss to my pulse. “Take care of yourself.”

Nodding numbly, I slipped my hand through his cold fingers, missing his fatherly touch, and retreated from the entertainment room. I had to go back downstairs to the first floor to see Mrs Gill, but I was too emotional to move beyond the vacant reception desk. A loud, guttural sob quivered my shoulders as I collapsed against the wall for support. Leaving him here racked me with guilt. Each visit is more challenging than the last. I wish I could expunge his suffering, cure his sickness and take him back to the place we once lived, the beautiful colonial-style house with picturesque views and the lake’s still waters, where he could take out the fishing boat and enjoy a beer under the sun.

My eyes began to sting from crying.

“Miss Murphy?” A suited, bespeckled male in an unbuttoned white overcoat strode towards me.

I stood taller, wiping the tears from my cheeks.

“Elijah Smith.” He gave me a firm handshake. “I wanted to introduce myself. I am your father’s primary doctor.”

I smiled flatly.

“Are you alright?” His concern was heartfelt. “Do you need to sit down? A glass of water, perhaps.”

“No.” Terseness was a defence mechanism. “I should go.”

“Wait.” He hand-signalled to the door at the end of the hall. “Would you like to step into my office?”

“Why?” His nearness sparked suspicion. “What do you want?”

He was mildly irritated. “To discuss your father.”

I was not in the right frame of mind for an intense discussion. “Actually, I have to go downstairs and see Mrs Gill.”

“Well, I won’t keep you for too long.” His blond hair was gelled to the side. “I merely wanted to hear your thoughts on Mr Murphy’s condition.”

I felt a twinge in my chest. “You can say dementia, Elijah. And the only thoughts I have are unrealistic expectations and unlikely miracles. He is unwell. I have to accept that.”

He put a shoulder to the wall. “How was his behaviour this evening?”

I regarded him with wariness. “He recalled some memories.”

“I have to broach a rather uncomfortable subject.” His angular jawline clenched. “You know sexual disinhibition correlates with the clinical severity of dementia.”

Dread swelled my chest. “What did he do?”

“Do not be alarmed. Although disruptive and problematic, Mr Murphy’s behaviour is quite normal.” My father’s folder was tucked under his arm. “However, it is a matter of urgency. We must do our utmost to sustain a comfortable workplace for our nurses when dealing with behavioural disturbances.”

I told myself to be polite. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Mr Murphy fondled a nurse and demanded genital care while she tried to put him to bed last night.” He stared with non-judgmental professionalism. “He became physically and verbally aggressive.”

“I’m sorry.” I made an uncomfortable sound in the back of my throat. “Did he hurt her? Is she okay?”

“She is competent and assured. Your father’s wellbeing is all that matters.” He rubbed my arm sympathetically. “What are your thoughts on pharmacologic management?”

“I am not a doctor, Elijah.” My back rested on the wall beside him. “I hear big words without definitions.”

“I would like to administer hormonal agents to treat his sexual disinhibition.” He unclasped the folder. “Antiandrogens can reduce serum testosterone levels. With your authorisation, I will proceed with psychotropic medication and document its possible effectiveness. You will need to read the possible side effects and sign the agreement form.”

The main side effects of medroxyprogesterone acetate and sexual inappropriateness.

—Sedation
—Weight gain
—Fatigue
—Hot and cold flushes
—Mild diabetes
—Depression
—Alopecia Universalis

I studied the dotted line through blurred vision. “My father was such a gentleman.”

He would never touch a woman inappropriately. He was the type of man who held doors open for the opposite sex and tilted his cap with humble graciousness. He rarely dated after my mother died, but when the occasional female gained his awareness, he went above and beyond to ensure she had the most romantic evening of her life.

He swore by old school values and traditions. He would knock on her door two minutes early in a pristine suit, hold out a bouquet of roses, and take her to a lovely restaurant for a fine dining experience and bottled champagne.

Midnight was the latest he’d come home, and I’d be waiting for him in the kitchen to hear all about his wonderful travels.

It was never love, though.

My father had no intention of replacing his wife.

“He never brought women home.” My eyes skimmed over the doctor’s broad shoulders. “That’s not to say he never visited her place while I was out of the way. He is still a man, after all.”

Elijah only listened.

“God, he never even raised his voice to a woman. If someone knocked on our front door after he ended their summer fling and swore blasphemy in the street, he’d stay calm and apologise continuously for breaking their hearts. He prided himself on chivalrousness.”

Accepting his proffered pen, I signed the form.

His eyes bored into mine.

“My father taught me what it takes to be a real man.” Returning the folder to the doctor, I adjusted the duffle strap on my shoulder. “I am glad he has no memory of what he did to the nurse. He couldn’t bear the truth. It would kill him.”

Mrs Gill was ready to leave her office when I knocked on her door. I unzipped the duffle bag and emptied forty grand on the desk.

Her eyes popped out of their sockets as she took in the stolen cash. “Miss Murphy.” She gasped out loud. “A cheque would have sufficed.”

I folded the empty bag.

“Good heavens, child.” Her backside landed on the chair. “Where did you get this?”

Well, I went clubbing with people I met seconds before, latched onto clueless men in suits to get upstairs, hid in a musty room for what felt like an eternity and stole rolls of fifty-pound notes from a dangerously impulsive man who likes to shoot employees. “Is that question relevant?”

She chortled mockingly. “Yes, I think it’s very bloody pertinent, actually.”

“What does it matter?” A guileless smile tickled my lips. “You wanted money, and I got it.”

Unbundling the first wad of cash, she thumbed through layers whilst counting. “It’s not black money, is it?”

“Seriously?” The inchoate desire to cover my father’s medical care was dangerous, especially because the man from Club 11 was a ruthless killer, but the haste gambit paid off. When someone has nothing to lose, they can outsmart everyone and outplay the system. I do not regret desperate measures. I do whatever it takes to survive. “I am not a criminal, Gill.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Bleu. You cannot blame me for asking questions.” She rubbed her forehead. “Who, in their right mind, carries this amount of money on their back? Normal people use a bank.”

“I got a loan from a friend.” I ignored her glare. “That’s all there is to it. I swear.”

“Friend?” Her defined eyebrow bowed. “Pardon my rudeness, but you don’t look like the sort of woman with a wealthy friendship circle. Who is this friend?”

I was becoming increasingly pissed at the miserable old shrew. “How is that any of your business?”

“It will be my business when loan sharks knock on my door.” She flattened two hands to her face. “Are you in trouble? Will I be in trouble?”

Telling her the truth is not an option. If she knew what it took to clear my father’s nursing bill, she’d throw every penny back in my face. What if she called the bobby on me? What if they returned the bag to the club owner? What if the hot-headed jackass comes looking for me to amputate a hand or two?

I exhaled. “Look, do you want the money or not?”

Mrs Gill relaxed in the chair. “How much is here?”

“Forty grand,” I confirmed, which amplified her reservations. “It’s enough to keep you guys off my back for a few years, right?”

“This better not come back and bite me in the arse.” She filled out a form and threw a receipt at me. “How are you feeling? You sounded upset when you called.”

Well, I was regulated to jobless homelessness because of life’s challenges, but I still got out of bed this morning. “I am alive.”

I left the office before she could ask any more questions.

***

I experienced the deleterious effects of running on a full stomach and vomited everywhere. Keeling over at the waist, I choked up tonight’s tea on the pavement between my feet, the acidic, half-digested food bespattering the side of my trainers.

Wiping my lips with the back of my hand, I stood taller and luxuriated in encroaching winter’s ice-cold breeze. I had overworked my body. Muscles ached, throbbed and pleaded for stretch therapy.

I walked back to the bed-and-breakfast expecting to see the chain-smoker from room fifteen by the porch, but when I turned the street corner, the air suddenly humid, the deathly silence too unnerving to decipher, I came face to face with uncountable vehicles instead. Black Bentley cars with private number plates lined both sides of the road, parked perpendicularly on the pavements.

Instinct told me the owners of those vehicles were here for me.

Ducking behind the street’s red post-box, I yanked the jumper’s hood over my head and crawled into the neighbour’s front garden, rustling through brown, fallen leaves and overturned soil, to unearth something I could use as a weapon.

Finding a broken piece of concrete from the flowerbed’s edging, I sidled back to the rickety, unlocked gate and hunkered low in the dark.

Tailored men gathered by the bed-and-breakfasts entryway, and their blathering presence was nettlesome. In between their feigned gentlemanliness stood the female manager, the lonely woman who would do anything to spark conversations.

“She is normally back by now,” she told them, the little snitch. “Yes, she goes for a quick jog around the block to get some exercise. She is on a diet and needs to shed some pounds or something.”

I never said anything of the sort. I like to run to clear my head, not to lose weight. Hell, I had the type of figure rich folks pay thousands for—slim-waist, ample assets and curves in all the right places—so what is the lying wench talking about? Honestly, I hate gossipmongers. They put two and two together and come up with twenty.

“You do have a nice arse,” came a man’s honeyed voice as his crouched form appeared to my left, but I daren’t turn to him. “Do you plan to do something with that rock?”

My body trembled involuntarily.

“Your hustle is impressive.” His pungent cologne quashed the stench of petrichor in the air. “Foolish but impressive.”

Vomit threatened to resurface.

I felt his eyes on me when he asked, “Did you spend the money?”

My head shook slightly.

“Smart.” He inched closer, trying to get a more detailed look at my face beneath the hood. “What is your name?”

If I run full pelt down the street, I can head for the nearest tube station.

“You will stand without making a scene,” he ordered, but I plan to flee the second he disarms. “You will take me to your room and get the money.”

I nodded.

“You will get in the car and return to the club.”

No, buddy. I am not going anywhere with you. And I am most definitely avoiding the club owner at all costs.

“You will face Vincent and deal with the consequences of your actions,” he said, and I side-eyed him: blonde hair and chains encrusted in ice. “Hey, if you apologise, he might give you a tap on the wrist and send you on your merry way. Pretty fucking blissful, right?”

Vincent will kill me. He is a killer.

“Or, he might stand in his brother’s footsteps and tear you limb from limb.” He sounded excited by the thought of his boss dismantling my head. “Are you ready?”

Nodding, I slowly stood to my full height.

He reached for my elbow, but I was already two steps ahead of him. I smashed the slab of concrete across his head, the impact ripping a groan from him, and ran as fast as my legs could carry.

Sporadic gunfire echoed into the night within seconds.

With such legerity of mind, I dashed down the street to flee the beleaguered bed-and-breakfast and evade their vengeful wrath.

Headlights soon slewed across the dark road as Bentley vehicles roared to life and shrieked toward me. The cars were the least of my concerns, though. The man with an unshatterable jaw was approaching. Judging by the infuriated thumps of his footsteps, he was close to pouncing.

He was fast, but I was faster.

Sliding across the bonnet of a parked car, I landed on two feet on the road and sprinted deeper into the dark abyss until Upton Park Tube Station became visible.

My chest caved.

On the verge of hyperventilation, I scaled the metal fence, where people loitered without a care in the world on the other side, and threw myself into the underground. It was heaving with tourists, commuters and security. Screaming for help would only worsen matters. I had no knowledge of who the kidnappers were, but men with guns, threatening violence, were the type of criminals you do not want to fuck with.

Snitches end up in ditches.

They are out for blood.

My blood.

Hordes of people swiped their Oyster cards on the ticket readers. I squeezed through, waited for someone to crack open the ticket barrier and stole his spot, lunging forward before the guard rails closed in on him.

Fear had my stomach in knots.

With the hood pulled right over my head, hiding from ever-present security cameras, I peered over one shoulder and saw the guy, his furious face enflamed and bloodied, accompanied by other men in suits, amble indoors.

One thing I love about the underground is the swift turnaround of trains. The moment I stepped onto the platform, the means to my departure was available.

I embarked on the train through the electric sliding doors and only breathed once reaching the final carriage, the one closest to the driver.

Holding onto the guardrail, I squatted to catch my breath. Sweat trickled down my spine. I was already exhausted from tonight’s jog.

My body swayed as the train travelled along the tracks.

I am screwed.

Going back to the bed-and-breakfast was suicidal. They’ll go back, or wait for me, or send Vincent. I am not sure which outcome is worse, but I still had a phone in my pocket, which means help is only one call away.

Spare cash was under the mattress in my room.

The canvas painting was in the basement.

I could forget the clothes and loose change, but selling the painting was the only way to earn a quick buck. At some point this week, I had to sneak back into the building unobtrusively and regain the rights to Vincent’s discarded art. It meant avoiding his allies until I had a stellar plan. Maybe I could sleep in a homeless shelter for a few nights to stay safe.

“Did you see this woman?” someone asked in the next carriage, and my ears perked up. “Yeah, she was wearing this exact hoodie.” There was a pause. “I saw her get on board. Where is she?”

My lungs prepared for another round of oxygen deprivation.

The train stopped.

The doors opened.

I was gone like the wind, sprinting out the carriage, dodging huddled individuals, and ascending the concrete steps with furious armed men in tow. Of all the places in London to be, tourist central was not one of them. The bright lights and raucous partygoers enjoying favoured amusements would not slow me down, though. And something told me the men chasing me toward the Tower Bridge would not expose illegal weapons in front of thousands of witnesses…

Light strands of hair blew in my face. I paused in the middle of the bridge.

The strategic bastards closed in on me.

Men to the left.

Men to the right.

I had no escape route.

Panic clogged my throat.

Staggering into the railing, I watched omnipresent cars drive past.

What can I do?

Where can I go?

I am a dead woman walking.

“Are you done?” the man from earlier said as he strolled in my direction. Every measured footstep was calm yet menacing. “This was fun, but I am fucking beat. You got five seconds to get your sweet behind over here, or I’m throwing you into the Thames.”

Horripilation slithered down my spine.

I stared ahead.

“Come on, love,” one of the men to my right drawled. “We are not so bad once you get to know us.”

With a resolute smile on my face, I stepped onto the road, the nearing cars blaring their horns, and gravitated to the prospect of death. In slow motion, I put one foot in front of the other, broke into a sprint, cleared the fence and, hearing their vociferous protests all around me, jumped straight into the freezing cold river.

My body speared feet-first into the hollowness of the Thames.

Willing myself not to freak out or choke disgusting water, I kicked my legs to evade the bottomless pit but refused to resurface too hastily in fear they might aim fire. I held my breath for as long as humanly possible, then waded to the surface directly beneath the bridge.

The murky waters were an impenetrable fortress, protecting me from the truculent villains above who leaned over the barrier to cachinnate heartlessly.

“Where did she go?” The blond was close to bursting a blood vessel. “Where is she? Get some fucking light down there!”

My teeth chattered together.

Lowering my head to the water until my nose rested on the surface, I let the current pull me deeper beneath the bridge, the frigid temperature hitting me to the bone.

“She is not down there.”

“Well, she ain’t up here.”

“Maybe the water took her under.”

“Do you think she drowned?”

My entire body shook.

“She would float,” the blond said. “Someone jump in and take a look.”

“Hell, no,” the other male snapped. “You fucking jump.”

Silence settled among the men.

“I think she snuffed it.”

“What about Vincent?”

“Fuck Vincent.”

It is uncanny how I can pinpoint the blond’s voice amidst the others.

“If he wants the bitch, let him come down here and pull her body out. I got bigger fish to fry.”

A small whimper escaped my lips.

They were leaving.

I could live another day.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Brad

Tony’s bird, Camilla, can knock together a mean roast. Her menu included: roast beef, honey-glazed parsnips, crispy roasties, Yorkshire puddings, sage and onion stuffing, garlic-buttered carrots, minted peas, sauteed cabbage, cauliflower cheese and runner beans, all bedecked in sprinkles of green garnish. It was the ultimate banquet of champions, and I was Hank fucking Marvin.

I caned roast potatoes until the miserable old mare slapped a piping hot Yorkshire pudding out of my covetous fingers. “Not yet,” she admonished, shooing me away from the never-ending feast of ambrosial dishes. “Do not pinch one more vegetable. Go and help Alexa prepare the table.”

“One, I am not interested in veggies, so save your threats. Two, organise cutlery? I am not a fucking skivvy who waits on tables for a bastard pittance.” I hurled a stuffing ball in my mouth, the flavoursome herbs exploding on my tongue. “That’s below my paygrade.”

“Oh, get over yourself.” Her ash-blonde straw-like hair reminded me of Sia Furler’s iconic bowl cut wig. “You are never too spoiled to polish silverware.”

“Polish silverware,” I muttered in absolute disgust. “You won’t catch me sprucing.”

“He is impossible.” Her Roger Vivier brooch buckle pumps used to belong in Alexa’s walk-in wardrobe, yet this mare flaunted around the kitchen in those borrowed heels like she owned the place. “Such an ungrateful little toerag.”

Licking a toothpick to the corner of my mouth, I gave her a cheeky wink. “There is nothing little about what I am packing, doll.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “You are repulsive.”

“I am honest,” I said with cheerful banter. “Don’t knock it until you try it.”

“Will you behave?” Her face was rubicund. “You are far too young for a woman of my age.”

True. I am not one to entertain cougars, but that’s not to say I have never thrown one or two beneath me when desperate. “Tony, your bird is flirting with me.”

Tony is dressed for tonight’s occasion in his light grey flannel suit. “Brad, give the poor woman a break.”

“Always my fault.” Uncapping a bottle of Jameson, I poured a decent amount of amber liquid into a crystal glass. “She needs a clipped rear-end for those wandering eyeballs.”

“Oh, will you piss off?” She overlooked the second stuffing ball going into my mouth. “Don’t you have something more productive to do?”

I thought about her question and came unstuck. “Not really.”

Tony uncorked a bottle of Louis Latour Mâcon-Lugny. “Do you want a glass of white wine?”

There is nothing worse than cheap wine on an almost empty stomach. “You could not pay me to drink that piss water.”

He tossed the cork in the bin. “What’s wrong with chardonnay?”

I am more of a whiskey fan. “I’m partial to the occasional chardonnay.”

“Then, why the distaste?” He handed Camilla a glass of sparkling wine. “It does the trick.”

“His Royal Highness frowns upon inadequacy.” Alexa strode into the undulated marble kitchen, her long, sleek legs looking as sinful as ever. “Isn’t that right, Your Lordship?”

I flung her a dirty look. “If he wanted decent wine, I’d have grabbed him a bottle or three from the cellar.”

Tony slid onto the island’s stool. “You have a wine cellar.”

“The Grape and Vine.” Alexa placed two glass bottles of Fillico water on the kitchen marble counter. “You went there once to dine with Camilla.”

“Ah, yes.” Tony watched his daughter make her way around the kitchen. He was so besotted and engrossed in her every movement. “You look radiant tonight, my dear. I am glad you are taking care of yourself again.”

“Well, one step at a time.” Her eyes sought mine across the island. “We are all learning to adjust.”

I will never adjust to not seeing Warren every morning. In all honesty, I might find his exclusion less painful if we talked about him less because hearing his name in conversations left me in a silent state of gut-wrenching consternation. I worry for him. Sure, he’s a callous man who can take care of himself, but without evidential proof, I could only envisage the worst scenarios of possible circumstances.

What if prison officers are brutal to inmates and not held accountable?

What if they lock violent convicts in solitary confinement for months on end?

What if sexual victimisation is a daily occurrence?

I will fall asleep with these worries every night because he will not come to the table and convince me otherwise.

Maybe the above mentioned is the reason why he is hiding from me. After all, he cannot lose face in front of the brothers. He’d rather protect his image. Even if cruel, inhumane treatment haunts him for the rest of his life, he will never reveal the trauma of exploitation. He will suffer in silence instead.

Alexa went to the regal dining room at the front of the Manor. While she arranged the table, I stuffed taper candles in the tall, ornate candelabras until soft glows twinkled throughout the elaborate dinner setting.

“I like Camilla.” I unboxed Argentiere Pagliai’s hand-crafted napkin rings, each piece depicting a different gold leaf. “She is quirky.”

“Yes.” Alexa folded bead-embellished napkins. “As long as Tony’s happy, I am happy. He deserves so much.”

I never asked Warren if Tony was Alexa’s biological father. I know he paid for their paternity test, but he never showed me the results. Not that it matters. They love each other regardless. I was intrigued, though. “Did you ever read the results?”

Alexa understood the question. “No.”

I thought as much. “How come?”

“Two seconds.” She closed the grand double doors to ensure nobody was in the hallway twigging. “Tony loved my mother. If she were here, he’d be at her side. You know that, right?”

I only know what people tell me. “What about Camilla?”

She winced. “I don’t believe Camilla would be in the picture.”

Well, second best is not my idea of love, but who am I to judge? I have never loved anyone but myself. “Brutal.”

“I am Adaline’s daughter,” she said quietly. “Tony wanted to be part of my life because he knows, if she were here, he’d have a relationship with me anyway. Why complicate the future with certainties? I love and respect him for making my mother happy in her darkest hours. He loves me because her blood is in my veins.” Her arse landed on the chair opposite me. “What if the truth was disappointing? Some things are better left unsaid.”

The glass of whiskey twirled in my hand.

“What about you?” she asked, and I stared in gauche cluelessness. “Where is your deadbeat father?”

I smiled at her unapologetic brazenness. “Why do you assume he neglected his responsibilities as a parent?”

Alexa’s eyes flickered in subtle knowingness. She is probably the only woman on this planet to question me and get away with it. “I don’t see him anywhere,” she whispered, and a lump the size of a baseball lodged in my throat. “Do you?”

My mind would play tricks on me if I searched for answers. “I don’t remember him.”

Her chin rested on the heel of her hand. “You recall nothing.”

I recall a faceless man who bought me toy cars and broke my mother’s heart. “My father lived with me.” His muddy boots sat in the hallway of my childhood home. “But he was never around. Mum often cried in his absence.” He was with other women and spending time with other children. “Who gives a fuck?” My upper lip curled as I swigged whiskey. “I certainly don’t.”

“Do you miss him?”

“You cannot miss an unmemorable person.”

“What about her?” she asked, and the whiskey glass felt weightier in my hand. “Your mother, I mean. Where is she?”

“Not here.” I gave her a long, contemplative look. “Why do you care, sugar tits? You’d hate her.”

Alexa is invested in our conversation. “There are only a few people I hate.”

“She would be one of them,” I assured her, and she hummed sombrely. “Any other skeletons you want to pry out of my dusty old closet.”

“What’s her name?” She sipped water from a wine glass. “Your mother.”

It was suddenly too muggy in the room. “I won’t speak of it.”

“That bad, huh?” The woman is immune to the ghastliness of unspeakable childhoods. “Do you want me to kill her for you?”

“Vixen,” I teased, and she smiled through the candle’s crackling wicks. “I already did that.”

Alexa never batted an eyelid. “How?”

I refuse to revisit that night. “You don’t want to know.”

“Maybe I do.” Her pondering presumed. “Was Liam in attendance?”

Warren is the reason I went there. “Yes.”

She exhaled breathily. “Did her death help?”

No, I never found peace or closure. “Did killing Patrick mend your broken heart?”

“Not entirely.” Her expression was blank. “I wish I could go back in time and prolong his pain and suffering. It was too easy, three bullets. He warranted the ultimate death for what he did to my family.”

“Why three bullets?”

“One for my mother.” Her black spaghetti strap slid down from one shoulder. “One for Kathy. And one for me.”

Logan’s voice echoed in the foyer, and Alexa’s tight smile told me it was the end of our random discussion.

“Alexa?” His heavy footsteps thumped against the marble floor. “Are you in here?” The double doors pushed open, and Logan, slicked in sweat from working out, hesitated by the threshold. “Were you both talking?”

“No.” Alexa’s eyes sparkled whenever Logan appeared. “We were preparing the table for Camilla.”

“Look at you all puffed up like Arnold Schwarzenegger.” Scrutinising the boy, I rolled distilled whiskey down my throat. “Did you hit the gym without me?”

“Basketball training.” Logan reached for Alexa’s hand and pulled her out of her seat for a quick hug. “New shoes?”

“Yes.” she smiled up at him, her hand tapping his torso. “Alfie bought them for me.”

I eyed the black and gold Joyce Echols on her feet. “Alfie is such a lick arse.”

“Are you jealous because my shoes are worth more than your entire Salvatore Ferragamo collection?” Her backside returned to the chair. “Honestly, Brad. Green with envy is a hideous look on you.”

I am not jealous.

Tre, the roadman who gets on my bastard nerves, inched into the room. “Hey, Mrs Warren.” A flirtatious undertone smoothed his voice. “You look really good.”

“Shut up.” Logan clipped the lad around the back of the head. “Keep looking at her like that. I dare you.”

“Chill.” Tre scratched his bare chest. “Why you gotta be so hard on me? She ain’t your real mom.”

“Alexa is better than the bitch who popped me out.” Logan collapsed onto an empty chair and held a silent conversation with the only woman in the room. “You’re my person, right?”

“I am your favourite person.” She was doe-eyed and smitten. “But I’ll kick your teeth in if you continue to curse in front of me.”

His boyish smile maintained until he remembered his friend’s previous coquetry. “Tre, stop eye-fucking my person.”

“Logan.” Alexa’s chastisement fell on deaf ears. “Please do not speak like that in front of me.”

Tre chose to sit next to Alexa, knowing it would vex his mucker. “Hey.” His arm slid across the back of her chair. “You good?”

“I’m gonna kick your ass,” Logan promised, and Tre grinned, unbothered by his friend’s idle threats. “Put your hands where I can see them.”

“Tre, pick another chair and stop winding him up.” Alexa polished off the rest of her water. “Or don’t bother coming to me when he beats the shit out of you.”

“As if.” Tre’s chest puffed out. “I can take him.”

“You wish.” Logan was texting someone on his phone. “I can put you on the floor in the first round.”

Tre used his discarded T-shirt to wipe dews of sweat on his creased forehead. “Yeah, because you box like a little bitch.”

Logan was a force to be reckoned with. The lad was always bigger than the average teenager, tall, broad, brawny and hands the size of a fully developed man, but he’s become a tank since moving into the Warren Manor. He is in the gym five days a week, lifting weights and strengthening core muscles, and if he’s not on the bench, giving himself an upper-body workout, he is in the boxing ring with Nate, or pounding fists at the bag, to perfect skills and techniques.

Christ, in a few years’ time, I wouldn’t want to fuck with him. He might not share Warren’s blood, but he is the heir to Warren Enterprise by choice. That means something. If he’s not in the boss’s chair someday, presiding over the syndicate, I will flog my arse.

“Sit down, bitch,” I punctuated, and Tre, sucking in his cheeks, obeyed instructions. “You won’t need to worry about Logan if you paw my boss’s wife again because you’ll have me to deal with.”

“Alright.” Tre eased back in the chair. “No need to threaten me.”

“Bruno,” Alexa clipped before the teeth bearing Rottweiler snuck into the dining room to steal food. “Stay.”

Bruno huffed from the doorway, his huge, furry body slumping on the marble floor in sullen defeat. The ugly bastard only wanted meaty offcuts.

“Logan, can you put him out for an hour?” she asked. “I don’t want the dog slobbering on everyone while they try to eat.”

“If I put him out the back, the guards will have a fit.” He got to his feet. “You know they’re scared of him, right?”

I rubbed a hand down my face. “Do as your fucking told.”

He sent me a sidelong glance. “Who pissed in your milk this morning?”

I will string him up by the balls one day. “And take a shower. You fucking stink.”

He adjusted his low hanging jogging bottoms. “What, because you don’t fucking stink when you work out?”

“Logan.” Alexa was seething with frustration. “Remove the dog. Take a quick shower. Come back with less profanity.” When the lads left the dining room, her exasperation everted to me. “Must you antagonise him?”

“Yeah.” I slipped a toothpick between my lips. “Forget about it. What’s the plan?”

“Well, Nate is on his way over with Josh.” Her voice was too quiet for old lovebirds, Tony and Camilla, to eavesdrop as they scuttled into the room to place dishes of delicious smelling food on the table. “Let him enjoy dinner first. Once Camilla and Tony retreat to the pool house,” she mouthed, “I will sit him down and offer to help.”

I was in for a fun night. “Josh will not agree to isolation.”

“But Josh is entitled to choose self-isolation rather than physical besiegement.”

Josh will kick off the second we approach him. “And if he says no?”

Her lips compressed into a grim line. “Then, do whatever it takes to save him from himself.”

“One more dish,” Camilla exclaimed as she hurried out of the dining room. “Prepare for a feast—oh, hello.” Her ebullience heightened in the foyer. “Yes, they are already seated. Go ahead.”

Vincent’s shadow cast on the floor before his imperiousness dampened the mood. The sight of him had my eyes rolling to the back of my head.

“Am I late?” He bridged the gap between him and Alexa. “Jones,” he said firmly as his hands grasped her slender shoulders from behind. “You look ravishing, Angel.”

Alexa squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

Popping open the button of his slate grey suit jacket, he eased onto a chair and helped himself to a bottle of red wine. “Alzaim is outside with Fitzpatrick.”

I needed more whiskey to deal with this tosser. “Who invited you?”

“My sister-in-law.” He half-smiled. “Why? Is there an issue?”

“Your face is my biggest issue.”

“Can we get through one occasion without you two tearing at each other’s throats?” Alexa’s teeth clenched. “Your belligerence is exhausting.”

Vincent’s legs stretched out beneath the table. “Pardon our rudeness, Angel.”

“Why do you call her that?” I asked, having heard the pet name too many times to tolerate. “It’s fucking weird.”

His dark brow curved. “You find polite endearments vomitous?”

I aimed a fork in his direction. “The only vomitous thing in this room is Warren’s contentious brother.”

Alexa’s hands slammed down on the table. “Brad.”

“What?” I seriously considered killing the arrogant prick with or without Bossman’s blessing. “Warren will flip his shit.”

Her tongue pushed into her cheek. “Liam is not here.”

My skin pricked in agitation. “What, so that gives him the right to fawn over you?”

“He is not fawning.”

“That’s not how I see it.”

Nate showed up in a new suit and a fresh trim straight from the barbers. “What did I miss?”

Not waiting for Camilla’s permission, I scraped sliced beef onto my plate. “Just Vincent being his usual self. A twat.”

“Why do you hate him so much?” Alexa demanded, and I had to bite my tongue. “Vincent is Liam’s younger brother. Why not make him feel more welcome instead of pushing him to the outskirts like an unwanted runt.”

“It’s no bother.” Vincent’s eyes shoot daggers at me over the rim of the wine glass. “Angel.”

My nostrils flared as I inhaled deeply through my nose.

“It smells heavenly here.” In what appeared to be yesterday’s clothes, Josh rocked in with a spring in his step. “I haven’t eaten yet.”

“Then, you’ll enjoy Camilla’s cooking.” Alexa watched the lad closely, then turned to Alfie, who stood by the curtain drawn window. “You can join us. Take a seat and indulge.”

“I am okay, Ma’am,” he declined her offer. “I clock off at midnight to watch a late movie with Jax.”

“Nice.” She accepted a bottle of water from Tony to top up her glass. “I don’t expect you back until tomorrow, then.”

Alfie nodded appreciatively.

“Right.” Camilla’s shoes clicked along the floor as she swayed toward the table in her belted jumpsuit. “Everyone tuck in and enjoy themselves.”

“Hallelujah.” Everything but the serving dishes went on my plate. “Dinner on a Tuesday.”

“What?” Alexa forked green beans into her mouth. “It’s not Tuesday.”

“Club going up.” Stabbing the wayward sprout trying to roll onto my plate with the knife, I flicked it back in the serving dish. “On a Tuesday.”

Alexa blinked owlishly. “It’s not Tuesday, Brad.”

“Got your girl in the cut.” Stealing the gravy boat before Vincent could drench his dinner, I soaked the endless layers of meat and mounds of Yorkshire puddings on my plate. “And she choosey.”

“What in the world?” Alexa watched me exhaust the gravy supply. “Where is he going with the gravy?”

“Squad going up.” Nate sucked apple sauce from his thumb. “Nobody flipping packs now.”

Alexa looked like a deer in the headlight. “You worry me at times.”

“Shit is crazy back at home,” Nate belted out the song’s lyrics. “It kills me that I’m not around.”

“And when I’m putting work in on the weekend,” I sang with all my heart, hand slapped to my chest and all. “I’ll look back on this and think we have the club going up.”

“On a Tuesday,” Alexa deadpanned. “Right, I got the picture. You should work on your vocals.”

Nate’s glare raised from the plate. “Are you saying I can’t sing, Alexa?”

“Well, your vocal cords are better than Brad’s, so there is that.”

If she continues to take swings at me, I’ll bite her arse. “I am sitting right here, sugar tits.”

Alexa flicked long, wavy hair over one shoulder. “I know.”

“You started without us.” Freshly showered, Logan picked up a plate and made his way through the serving dishes. “There better be some Yorkshire puddings left.”

I hid my plate—and the gluttonous heap of Yorkshire puddings before he got any nonsensical ideas about swiping them off my plate.

“Thanks for inviting me.” Tre marvelled at the moreish comestibles. “Will there be any leftovers?”

Alexa chewed morsels of carrots. “Most likely.”

“I’ll take some home for my Ma.” Tre shovelled peas onto his plate. “If that’s okay?”

“Of course.” Alexa stood to grab Tupperware from the kitchen, and Tre protested. “No, It’s better if you container it now before these scavengers scarf everything in sight.”

I frowned. “I’m not a scavenger.”

“Brad.” Camilla’s fingers twirled the stem of her wine glass. “Whatever happened to your face?”

Doña Marina has a death wish. “I got clouted by an ugly mongrel.”

Tony’s forearms leaned onto the table. “Did you press charges?”

That’s not how we operate, buddy. We don’t invite the law to our doorstep. We take matters into our own hands. Doña will be punished for leaving a lovely shiner on my face, and I will enjoy her pathetic cries with my hands wrapped around her throat. “She struck my cheek with a slab of concrete. I swear I almost lost a bastard tooth.”

Nate laughed huskily. “He was fuming.”

My eyes were bigger than my belly. I could not eat another scrap of food if you paid me. “I am still fucking fuming.”

“Harsh.” Logan eyed my inflamed cheek. “When did that happen?”

Nate hollered behind his hand, “About a week ago!”

Tre flashed his white teeth, the bottom row slightly crooked. “You are way too old for Shmurda.”

“I ain’t too old for shit.” Nate looked the boy up and down. “Sit back in your quiet corner and leave conversations for the men, little boy.”

Tre pulled a face.

“Sorted.” Alexa returned with promised Tupperware and passed it to Tre. “Help yourself.”

Tony uncorked another bottle of white wine. “How can a woman be so vicious? To just hit a man so violently.”

I shot him a stern look. “Have you met your daughter?”

He was confused. “My girl would not hurt a fly.”

A round of snorts passed around the table.

“My boss has a permanent handprint on his jaw because of that vixen,” I snitched, and Alexa’s eyes enlarged. “Isn’t that right, sugar tits?”

Tony lowered his knife and fork to the table. “Are you an abusive wife?”

“For crying out loud.” She kicked me in the shin underneath the table, and I jerked upright as pain shot up my leg. “I do not abuse my husband. If I slapped him, he very well deserved it.”

“My brother provokes contention.” Vincent had barely touched his food. “You cannot blame Alexa for keeping him in line.”

“Oh, would you look at that,” I said airily. “Alfie is not the only arse licking lapdog in the building.”

Alexa was ready to lunge across the table to stake me with the fork.

“Still, I disagree with physical violence, Alexa.” Tony sipped wine to stifle disconcertment. “Has he ever retaliated?”

The brothers slowly peered up from their plates with a clank of their cutlery. The silence was expected when another person dared to speak about the boss in overt dislike.

“Never.” Nipping the possibility of controversy in the bud, I dabbed my lips with a napkin. “Warren worships the ground she walks on.”

Alexa’s thumb twirled her wedding band. “Ask me if the magnitude of reverence still exists once he replies to my letters.”

“Perhaps you should forgo letters for a while.” Vincent provided unsolicited advice. “It cannot hurt.”

“Why?” My eyes slithered into slits. “Ever wondered if those letters slammed the brakes on his overactive imagination.”

“You should never reward ignorance.” He shoved a hand through his inky black hair. “Distance is not powerful enough to lose sight of love, but complete absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

My head cocked. “Aren’t you quite the poet?”

“Liam is stubborn.” Alexa looked at the younger Warren brother. “I fear if I cut all ties, I will lose him forever.”

“Perhaps.” Vincent had enough grace to act unbiased. “Or he might very well pull the stick out of his arse and pick up a pen.”

It’s not the worst idea, but we are not dealing with a normal person here. Warren is the master of mind games and perception manipulation. He would never entertain their psychological ploy. Even if he did, they would not get the response they hoped for. “I disagree.”

“Of course, you disagree.” Vincent’s cheek twitched as he blatantly wrestled for composure. “It was my suggestion, after all.”

“It’s not about you.” I felt everyone’s close observation. “Look, Warren’s got enough shit to contend with. Why overburden him with such pettiness. If Alexa wants to distance herself because uncommunicativeness hurts her, then she has to do what’s best for her sanity. But do not play games with someone as unpredictable as Warren unless you are prepared to undertake the aftermath. He is in prison, that doesn’t mean he’s lost himself. He is still the same man she married. Toying with his emotions will get the wrong type of reaction. His outrage might very well land him in the fucking hole for six months.”

Vincent laughed once. “Do not be dramatic, Jones.”

“I know him,” I said fiercely. “Alexa has proven time and time again how easy it is for her to coax uncharacteristic outbursts. He is unable to think clearly when it comes to her. Love?” Tapping the side of my head, I reached for the whiskey glass. “It fucks with his head.”

Nate set his half-eaten dinner aside. “Fuck love.”

“Yeah.” Alexa gazed into an empty water glass. “Fuck feelings. Fuck emotions. Fuck life.”

Recognising the anger aflame in her eyes, I readied myself for her onslaught.

“Fuck this food.” Her dropped fork clanked on the table. “Fuck this plate.” The plate heaped with food landed on the floor with a shattering crash. “Fuck this house.” Her chair scraped as she stood. “And fuck him.”

My pulse pounded in my ears. “Do not say something you might regret,” I warned, and she tsked me. “Alexa, I love you. You are the sister I never had. But if you fuck with him? You’ll see a different side of me.”

Vincent’s eyes posed blue murder. “Do not threaten her.”

Her palms struck the table as her face inched closer. “Fuck you, Brad.”

“No.” Lunging to my feet, I shoved a finger in her face. “Fuck you for acting like a crazy bitch.”

“Brad, that’s enough!” Tony rose from the chair. “Can everybody calm down?”

“Who the hell are you calling a crazy bitch?” Her lips curled in repugnance. “Don’t act like I am exempt from all the craziness sitting around this table!”

“I speak facts.” My arms outstretched. “And you, Mrs Warren, are out of your damn mind!”

Alexa picked up an empty wine glass and hurled it at me.

I ducked it time for it to fragment on the wall. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Enough!” Throwing a napkin down on the table, Camilla rose to her feet. “I appreciate that you want to express annoyance, but can we not curse around the table with teenagers present?”

Logan was relaxed in the chair, his arms folded across his chest. “I am used to it.”

“Same,” Tre said over a mouthful of food. “My Ma swears like a drunk pirate once the sherry kicks in.”

“Why are we arguing? We are supposed to be on the same side. And you,” I said to the smug-looking tosser peeling an apple. “What crawled up your arse, huh? Your knickers are all bunched up because brother dearest gave you the cold shoulder, so you decided to rile up his wife.”

Josh’s chair groaned as he staggered to his feet. “I’m out.”

“You ain’t going anywhere.” Nate grasped Josh’s shirtsleeve and yanked him down on the chair. “It’s intervention time.”

“What?” Josh regarded the brothers. “Nobody mentioned an intervention.”

Vincent studied me with heated intent. “I was trying to help.”

“You were meddling,” I said, but we did not see eye to eye. “It’s not your business to get between them.”

“I am not interfering in some random person’s affairs.” He tilted back the wine glass and sipped. “This is my family.”

“If you knew Warren even half as much as you depict, you’d understand that sending Alexa to the deep end is not the right answer.”

“I am in attendance, guys.” Alexa’s hands slid to her hips. “I can speak for myself.”

Vincent is too thick-skinned to crack under the watchful eyes of the brothers. “Telling her to sustain broken-hearted rejection is not the appropriate conclusion, either.”

“Is that what this is?” Ignoring his very existence, I regarded the root of tonight’s outburst. “Am I forcing your hand?”

Alexa hated to be in the throes of warring brothers. “Nobody is forcing me to do anything.” Her sullenness moved from me to Vincent. “You are both on the same page, but you get lost within the lines. You love Liam. You love me. You want the best possible outcome for both of us. You just have different ways of showing it.”

Tony refilled his wine glass.

“I apologise for ruining dinner.” Her hand fell to her father’s shoulder. “We are very passionate about the people we love, and it spouts at the most inappropriate occasions.”

I am done with family gatherings. I’d rather spend the night with Cherry, the needy redhead, than be in a room with Vincent for another second.

Josh broke the silence first. “Brad, what happened to your face?”

“You’d know if you bothered to show up,” I snapped, and he withered in the seat. “I got my arse handed to me by a bitch. You caught up?”

His lazy gaze settled on his plate of slaughtered vegetables. “I hope you dealt with it.”

Alexa’s eyes ordered him not to discuss syndicate business with her father present. “Tony,” she said with a tight jaw. “Why don’t you and Camilla go and rest your feet. We can take care of the mess.”

“Are you sure?” He was in the process of collecting dirty plates. “I like to pay my way. It’s not your job to take care of us.”

“You have done more than enough.” She took the plates from his hands. “Logan, you and Tre can go out for a few hours.”

“What?” His hands curled into fists. “I don’t want to go out. It’s late.”

“Logan,” I cautioned, and the boy stood up in a strop. “I am sure you can both find someplace to chill for a few hours.”

“Yeah.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “There is a theatre room downstairs.”

“There is also some chick looking for company,” I said simply. “Go and find her.”

“It’s all good, Logs.” Tre shoved Logan’s chest. “I can get us into a party tonight.”

Alexa’s lips turned down. “What party? We never agreed to any parties.”

“Oh, just some chick’s house.” Logan grinned at me from across the room, the colossal prick. “Lots of friends, too.”

“Just…” Alexa hated the idea of him being alone with girls. “Promise to be safe.”

“Safe.” Camilla spluttered wine. “I hope these young lads aren’t out there having sex.”

“I am.” Tre gloated about the notches on his belt. “Logan is still a virgin.”

Logan’s smugness diminished. “Fuck off, Tre.”

“That’s fine by me.” Alexa was pallid by the thought of him behaving recklessly. “You better keep it that way.”

“Hey, I am destined for lifelong celibacy.” His face was flushed. “The cons of being Warren’s kid.”

Alexa’s stiff body relaxed. “Suits me.”

“Well, it doesn’t suit me. If I want to shake the V-card, I’ll have to drive five hundred miles south just to get laid.”

“What do you mean, cons of being Warren’s kid?” I asked, knowing damn well the surname has clout. “Girls should be throwing themselves at you.”

“Not when parents warn them to avoid me at all cost. My dad is a sentenced criminal,” he said jokingly. “Nobody wants in my pants if it’ll cost them.”

Tony’s uninterested in sensitive subjects. He is aware of his son-in-law’s extracurricular activities, but the life of crime is not the road he had in mind for his daughter. “I will be in the pool house if you need me.” Tucking a bottle of corked wine under his arm, he led an appalled Camilla to the foyer. “Goodnight, everyone.”

Vincent waited until Tony was out of earshot. “Logan, perhaps you should own the name rather than hide from it.” A smirk touched his lips. “Every good girl wants a bad boy.”

Alexa looked as though she regretted our family get-together. “Do not corrupt him.”

Logan hung on to Vincent’s every word. “So, to get laid, I have to treat a girl like shit? Brad once told me to ignore them.”

“No.” Alexa’s hands threw up in the air. “That is not okay. I cannot believe we are pretending this conversation is normal.”

I was team Vincent for this one. “It totally fucking works.”

“Brad,” Alexa shouted. “Enough. Women are not here for the disposal of men.”

“Do not mantra your feminist bullshit to me, woman.” I pointed at her. “I have barely said ten words in the last five minutes.”

“You will embarrass yourselves if you take any advice from those idiotic men.” Alexa shimmied the lads towards the exit. “They can’t even hold a woman down for five minutes.”

All the men protested.

Christ, I had women on speed dial. “By choice. I could bag a bird if I wanted to.”

“Pigs will fly before that ever happens.” Alexa dared me to challenge her opinion. “Right, Brad?”

I was mildly offended.

Logan waved us off. “I’m fucking off out of here.”

“Watch your language,” Alexa said, but the two lads were already halfway up the bifurcated stairs. “Well, family dinner went better than expected.”

Everyone became silent.

All eyes on Josh.

“What?” Josh glimpsed at every person in the room. “Why are you glaring at me?” His question was for Alexa. “I never told Logan to get his leg over. That was Brad.”

I drank whiskey straight from the bottle. “That was Vincent, actually.”

“It was both of you.” Alexa pulled up a chair next to Josh. “We need to talk.”

Josh took a deep breath. “I don’t like the fact that everyone is looking at me.”

She interlaced their fingers. “You know we love you, right?”

He nodded.

“And you know that everyone has your best interest,” she said, but this time, he never moved a muscle. “We only want what’s best for you.”

His inked hands slipped from her fingers. “What’s going on?”

“Whatever happens tonight…” Her palm touched his jaw softly. “We promise to do right by you.”

Nate put a capped sedative injection on the table.

“What is that?” Josh jumped to his feet. “You fucking renegades!”

Alexa stood warily. “Nobody is turning their back on you.”

“That’s not how I see it!” He was breathless, motioning to the syringe wildly. “You’re going to kill me! Why? What did I do? I am fucking loyal to you!”

“We don’t want to use it, man.” Nate could not face the acute fear in Josh’s round, wet eyes. “We want you to go downstairs willingly.”

“Why would I go downstairs?” Josh wiped the moisture from his cheeks. “What do you plan to do to me, huh? Are you going to deepen the knife in my fucking back?”

I sat on the table ledge when I reached him, threading my fingers together. “Are you an addict?”

“What?” Tears beaded on his lashes. “No, I’m not an addict. Fuck you, Brad.”

My frown softened.

“Brad,” he croaked, his voice hoarse as tears filled his eyes. “Don’t hurt me. I love you like a brother.”

My chest ached for him. “I am not here to hurt you, Sailor.”

“Then, what’s with the ambush?” He flinched when Vincent joined forces. “Put the knife away.”

Vincent paused with the apple peel near his lips. He disengaged the switchblade and tucked it into his trouser pocket. “Fret not. I’m only here to show support.”

Josh’s chest rose and fell in breathless exhalations. “I’m fine. Alexa, look at me,” he pleaded and, watery-eyed, she faced him. “I’m all good, right? You know me better than that.”

Alexa was lost to the pain in Josh’s deep brown eyes, but she stood her ground. “You’re not okay, Josh.”

A single tear trickled down his cheek. Nodding numbly, he looked at me. “Are you done with me?”

I wanted to put my arms around him. “I have already lost one brother. I refuse to lose another one.”

Josh choked back a sob.

“You have options.” Nate slid a leaflet for rehabilitation on the table. “They only accept voluntary commitments, though.”

Josh hiccupped. “I am not an addict.”

No one responded.

“And if I say no because I don’t need it?” Josh asked, and everyone watched him fall apart with sorrowful eyes. “Nice. You’ll toss me in the trash with or without willingness. You know what? Fuck you.” His resentfulness aimed at me. “You don’t know the meaning of brotherhood. You care about no one but yourself.”

“I care about you.” Anger pumped heated blood through my veins. “If pulling the rug from under your feet fixes whatever the fuck is going on in there?” I got in his face, nose-to-nose, and tapped the side of his head. “Then I’m here to put you on your back.”

He looked so lost, so young and vulnerable. “I’m not an addict, Brad.”

“Yes, you are.” I blurred out the other people in the room. “You take drugs to function. You can’t even get to work on time because your head is constantly with the goddamn fairies. You are here in person, but your mind is elsewhere. I will not sit back and do nothing whilst you ruin your life.”

Josh was in denial.

I forced myself to calm down. “Empty your pockets.”

“No.” He visibly struggled to hold eye contact. “I shouldn’t have to prove myself to you.”

I will pin him down if I have to. “Empty your pockets, or I’ll do it for you.”

“Brad,” he whimpered as my hand curled around the nape of his neck, his fingers grappling the collar of my shirt. “Please don’t humiliate me.” His whispered voice tickled my ear. “Not like this.”

“Sailor,” I said for only him to hear. “Do you need help?”

His warm tears fell on my shoulder. “I don’t know,” he sobbed, fisting the front of my shirt, holding me to him. “I get up every day and tell myself there won’t be a repeat of the night before, but it’s the comedown. I can’t hack it. I have to take something to get through it, then before I know it, I’m back on the floor, not knowing what day it is.” His body racked in my firm hold as he cried like a little boy. “I still don’t know what fucking day it is.”

“It’s okay,” I rasped, hearing Alexa snivel behind me. “Last week is already a forgotten memory. Yesterday was not important. What matters is this moment right here. You don’t have to wake up tomorrow on the cold floor without the people you love. Everyone is ready to pick you up.” My head dipped for our eyes to align. “We wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

His head nodded in my clasped hands.

“You got this, Joshy Boy.” My thumbs wiped tears from his sunken cheeks. “Come on. I miss my wingman.”

His bottom lip quivered. “I let you down.”

“No.” If anything, I am partly to blame for supplying him drugs, to begin with. He never even smoked a joint before he joined The Brotherhood. “Do you want rehabilitation? We can take you there right now, or we can go downstairs and do this as a family.”

“I don’t want to go there.” He tried to smile at the others, but the sight of them intensified his humiliation. “Can I stay here?”

Alexa took his hand and gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze. “The bedroom is ready for you, Josh.”

He looked at her, then to me, then his sad gaze settled on Nate. “This is between us, right? You won’t tell the others, will you?”

“You know us better than that.” Nate grasped the back of Josh’s shirt to give him brotherly support. “Ain’t nobody talking shit about you. Got it?”

Josh respired a stuttered breath. He emptied his pockets and placed everything on the table: wallet, keys, phone, knuckle dusters and three-ton of small, clear bags. “Valium is my kryptonite,” he admitted, leaving a packet of unprescribed benzodiazepines. “I take them to feel normal.”

Vincent discarded the drugs while Nate slid Josh’s belongings into a sealed bag.

Josh dried his eyes. “Let’s get this over with.”

Alexa had turned Alfie’s lay-by room into a momentary cell: single bed next to the wall, folded towels, additional bed linen and bottled water. She even left a steel bucket by the boarded-up window, just like Vincent advised.

“Alfie completely emptied the en-suite,” she told me. “He took the cabinet off the wall to avoid any damages. I mean, we don’t know how Josh will behave in a few hours. He might have smashed the mirror and hurt himself.”

Josh was on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched forward as he listened to Nate’s rundown of what unpleasant withdrawal symptoms he may have to endure.

“Do we need to use these?” Nate brandished handcuffs, and Josh shook his head. “We will be back in a few hours to be with you. We got to take care of Stone first. Alexa will be here, but she is pregnant. Do you trust yourself not to lash out?”

Josh adored every hair on Alexa’s head. He would never deliberately hurt her, so he picked up the handcuffs, attached them to the metal headboard, then to his left wrist and secured himself to one place. “Take the key.” He laid back on the bed to get comfortable. “Alexa, you have my permission to beat me black and blue if I so much as raise my voice to you.”

Nate put the bucket on the floor right by the single bed. When Josh had the urge to vomit, he could roll onto his side and do it from where he lay.

I bumped Josh’s knuckles. “You ready to kick arse?”

He smiled weakly.

My hand tapped his cheek. “I’ll come back for you.”

Before I walked away, he grabbed my wrist and whispered, “I’m sorry for letting you down.”

“You didn’t let me down, Sailor.” I held his searching eyes as our hands clasped. “Besides, what are big brothers for, huh? I’m supposed to take care of you.”

A small tear leaked out the corner of his eye. “Stop calling me Sailor.”

With a slanted smile, I slowly shook my head.

“Can you bring me the armchair from the master bedroom?” Alexa asked the security guard waiting to lock up in the narrow hallway. “And some throw blankets. Thank you.”

Josh licked his chapped lips. “You don’t have to stay with me, Alexa. I’m a big boy.”

“And miss out on all the fun?” she joked, taking a seat on the bed beside him. “Come here, silly.”

Josh curled up on his side and laid his head on her thighs.

“You can go,” she said as her fingers combed through his hair gently. “If there are any problems, I will call you.”

I turned to leave.

“Brad?” she called, and I paused by the door. “Will you kill Harold?”

Stone is on the list. “Yes.”

“What if Dominic is there?”

I hadn’t considered the kid. “I’ll call Reginald.”

Alexa was unsettled. “Don’t leave him alone in the house until Reginald arrives.”

“Alexa, I cannot stay at the crime scene. I have to get myself out of there as soon as it’s done.”

“Please,” she asked, and my shoulders sagged. “I know you hated Chloe. What she did to Liam was unforgivable. But she was my best friend once. We were like sisters. Her son did not ask for any of this, and, as much as her deception broke me, I cannot pretend that he does not exist. He is half of her, which makes him part of our family by default.”

“I’m about to make him an orphan.”

Determination flared in her eyes. “Do you honestly think I’d let that happen?”

Christ, by the time Warren comes home, he’ll have an entire house of strays to look after, thanks to his wife. “Fine,” I clipped. “I’ll wait with him until Reginald arrives.”

She gave me a soft, grateful smile. “Will you grab a picture for me, too?”

Nate slid into the hallway to wait for me.

“A picture?” My shoulder leaned on the doorframe. “You want me to steal a picture of the kid?”

“I want you to grab a picture of Dominic and his mother. Avoid any of Harold.” Her lips snarled. “Just the two of them as it should be.”

I will never understand women. “I make no promises.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Brad

First Assignment: Medical supplies.

I pulled up outside St George’s Hospital, left the engine running and waited for our runner to make an appearance. He was given strict orders not to procrastinate on the ward or draw regrettable attention from the medical staff.

Let’s see if he can get the job done competently.

Decreasing the music volume, I slid the vehicle’s logbook onto my thighs to build a deck and, without squeezing too tightly, licked the seal and rolled a blunt. I lit the twisted end with a clipper flame, toked a long drag and luxuriated in the euphoric effects of haze.

My eyes closed in monetary peacefulness and repose.

I had never craved slumber this much in my entire life. If Nate wasn’t in the vehicle, talking gibberish, I might have suspended reality for one minute and submitted to tiredness because I could barely string a sentence together.

“Get this.” Nate’s elbow gave me a nudge. “Alessio and Nikolai use the same email address to communicate.”

Peeling my eyelids open, I reached for the coffee I’d purchased at the drive-through and swigged for a caffeine boost. “Why?”

“To eliminate network traffic and data servers.” He scratched his jaw. “It’s nigh on impossible for any intelligence team to trace unsent emails if they are hidden in the draft folder.”

Well, he looked pretty damn pleased with himself. “Did you unearth anything interesting?”

“Political scandals,” he said with a sadistic smile. “Hey, it can’t be bad. It might work in our favour someday.”

Warren had judges and politicians in his pocket. Did their alliance mean shit when his back was up against the wall? Did they show face or lose integrity when he was sentenced to life imprisonment or lend a hand with the final verdict? No, they turned a blind eye, walked in the opposite direction, and protected themselves. “So?”

He took off his black-framed reading glasses. “So, it’s worth paying attention to.”

I will entertain this garbage to appease him. “Unprosecuted scandals?”

“Flagrant bribery. Active soliciting. Lobbying activities. Extortion rackets and financial embezzlement.” He showed me saved highlights and the names of politicians on his phone. “Police misconduct and violence concealment. Human trafficking, drugs, sexual affairs. Shit, It’s an infinite inventory of tyranny and misrule.”

“And they have the nerve to call us criminals.” Rolling down the driver’s side window, I respired a veil of smoke through the slight gap. “What does it matter? We are privy to the breadth of political corruption. It’s not newsworthy for us.”

Nate put his phone away.

A thought occurred. “Why is Nikolai keeping a record of political misconduct? I thought he had his sights set on the Mayor’s Office.”

“Fuck if I know.” He chewed his thumbnail. “The Russians are smart, Brad. I think we underestimated them just as much as they underestimated us.”

You can never be too sure of someone’s capabilities. “How did you work out their little email trick, anyway?”

He grinned, waggling his eyebrows. “I might not work for MI6, but I figured out their technique within fifteen minutes. You don’t call me the jack of all trades and the master of none for nothing.” He gave me fist-bump. “I know how to get shit done.”

Yes, Nate is, unarguably, the best polymath I had ever encountered.

“They have separate IP addresses,” he told me. “It’s not rocket science. They use different computers and locations to log into the email server. It’s how they conduct master plans without exposure.”

It made sense.

“So, I broke into Apple servers to access their phone records, too.” His back rested against the passenger window. “There is no call or text history between Nikolai and Eli.”

I was surprised by that. “What about Cole and Alessio?”

“Nope. On the face of it, these guys have never met. So, I took it upon myself to work out Nikolai’s family tree and discovered an active phone contract in Ivan Vasiliev’s name.” He paused for suspenseful purposes. “In London.”

I swear the man was a cryptographer in a previous life. “Nikolai’s father?”

Nate nodded.

“He lives here. In London?”

“Ivan Vasiliev is dead.” He was riding the wave of combustive excitement. “Still, I traced the IP address to a nice, seven-bedroom house down in Tregunter Road. Nikolai and Alessio co-own the property. One of them is using their father’s name to secrete the depths of serpentine underhandedness.”

“Crafty buggers.” My thumb tapped the steering wheel in tune with the music. “Who is the puppet master?”

“My bets are on Nikolai,” he said, and I agreed. “He’s only called one number on the phone, Brad.”

“Let me guess?” I bellied bitterness. “The IP address led you to Her Majesty’s Prison of Belmarsh.”

His silence was the only answer I needed.

“Did you save the number?”

“Yes.”

“Did you call?”

“Yes.”

“Did he answer?”

“No.”

“Why is he doing this to us?” I asked, and he made a face. “What the fuck is his problem? I am starting to think Alexa was right.”

His jaw muscle flexed. “What do you mean?”

“Warren’s angry. He did not commit all the crimes in which he was accused, yet he took the rap for everyone. Perhaps he is regretful about the fact he is in prison for the sins of others.”

“No.” His full lips pursed. “Warren is responsible for the syndicate and everyone who embarked upon The Brotherhood. He prides himself on true leadership. If he wanted us to go down, he’d have taken us with him. He wouldn’t dwell on it months later. That’s not how he operates.” His eyes pinned me in place. “Besides, he wasn’t completely innocent. We know the truth.”

I studied the half-filled coffee cup in the holder. “Return to the Russians,” I said, having no desire to discuss the boss. “What else did you find?”

“Nothing noteworthy.” He popped a chewing gum bubble under his tongue. “Shit, I went all the way back to past flight details. The Adams brothers arrived in Heathrow subsequent to the Vasiliev brothers. I ain’t found any connections or links between both families, though. If these motherfuckers know each other? They’re doing a good job of keeping it lowkey.”

I am sceptical.

We have three Ukrainians sniffing the barracks and two Russians prowling Warren Enterprise. Am I supposed to believe their coexistence is not consequential?

The man himself knocked on the passenger side window.

Nate gestured for him to climb into the back.

“I did as instructed.” Eli slid into the backseat of the Bentley, leaving the black holdall on the floor by his feet. “Your friend,” he said to Nate, “is anxious. Even with your reassuring text message, he did not trust me. But I got everything you asked for.”

Nate leaned into the back to unzip the bag.

I nosed at the contents. “What did you get?”

“Clonidine.” Nate counted boxes of prescribed medication and IV bags. “Precautionary dehydration treatment.”

“Detoxification.” Eli’s jet-black hair was a stark contrast to his pale face. “Who is the patient?”

Nate re-zipped the bag. “That ain’t your fucking business.”

“Right.” Eli yanked up the hood of his black hoodie to shield his face. “Is my work here done?”

We both ignored him.

Grasping the back of Nate’s headrest, I reversed around the street corner, realigned the steering wheel and ripped away from the hospital.

I drove for forty-five minutes in absolute silence.

Second Assignment: Harold Stone.

Dropping into second gear, I killed the headlights and rolled the car towards Harold’s unlit property. A white Fiat 500 was parked in front of the garage. It’s not Stone’s vehicle. It might have belonged to Chloe. “He has a guest,” I said, voicing thoughts aloud. “That’s not part of the plan.”

Nate eyed the car. “Does it matter?”

“No.” The neighbouring terraced houses might be a problem, though. “Can you get the garage door open?” I asked to avoid parking by a residential row of possible witnesses. “Well?”

Nate lifted the jumper’s hood over his head, the beanie hat peeking underneath. “Park around the corner.”

Cruising into the next street, I paused by the parked Mercedes, put the Bentley in reverse and steered sharply into position, the rear bumper mere inches away from the Audi.

“That’s a tight fit,” Nate pointed out, not that I cared. “Let’s get this over with.”

Harold’s garage door unlocked in one attempt. The three of us ducked under the upraised shutter, not a word passed between us, and hesitated in darkness. It smelt like gone off fish. “That’s rank,” I said with a dry-heave. “What is that smell?”

Nate turned on the hand torch, flickering light across metal shelving units and an array of chest freezers. “Fishing equipment.” He highlighted wall-mounted fishing rods. “I bet there’s some salmon on ice.”

I liked cooked fish, but raw, uncooked fillets can stay the fuck away from my gob. “It reeks.”

Eli groaned in agreement.

“Nice.” Nate aimed the light on a grey Lexus convertible. “What are you thinking?”

I gave the vehicle’s door handle an investigatory tug, but it’s locked. “Empty Stone’s wardrobe, pack a suitcase and fill the boot. Eli can dump the Lexus in the Thames.”

“What?” Eli was aghast and thunderstricken. “I cannot encroach on the River Thames. The North Bank is one of the most iconic parts of London. I will get caught.”

“Ain’t nobody dumping shit in North Bank.” Nate shone the torch in Eli’s face, and he squinted, the blinding light irritating his eyes. “What the fuck did you smoke? Just take it down to Teddington Lock and let it nose-dive into the water.” He tapped the Lexus’ bonnet. “Stone drives to Plymouth tonight for a little ferry trip to France. He ain’t coming back.”

“Hypothetically?” Eli’s fingers wiggled in black nitrile gloves. “Will there be a paper trail?”

“Did Stone buy tickets for his last-minute holiday?” Nate’s cheeks dented into a wide smile. “Obviously. He also emptied his bank account this afternoon. Any more questions?”

“It will take nearly an hour to drive to Teddington.” Eli regarded us with stony eyes. “Cole can tailgate.”

His deep voice bored me to death. “What, do you need someone to hold your hand?”

“No,” he said, the muscles in his jaw locking. “But a return ticket on the train is not going to work for me.”

“Involve your brother. It’s no skin off my sack.” Rounding the Lexus, I ascended the three concrete steps adjacent to the house and, hand on the handle, creaked the door open. “Just get the job done.”

Two tumble dryers motorised in the utility room, the scent of fresh lavender permeating the small space. I accepted gloves from Nate, stretched them over my hands and glanced into the modernised kitchen with an open-plan dining room. It was too dark to check our surroundings, that’s when senses arose to heightened alarm, so I walked into the house blindly, the men in my shadow, and lent an ear to the distant sound of conversations and a song by… “Is that Enrique?” My brows furrowed. “Fucking Christ.”

Nate snorted. “Someone is suicidal.”

I tapped Eli’s back. “Go and pack Harold’s suitcase.”

Eli disappeared down the hall.

Harold enjoyed alcohol and music in the dimly lit living room, the stonework fireplace crackling light and smouldering embers in the background. He sat in the scroll, wingback Chesterfield armchair, sipping red wine, whilst the honey-haired female in a skin-tight green dress teetered bare-foot. He was too mesmerised by her elegance and Junoesque figure to notice two armed men watching their interaction unfold by the internal, glass panelled French doors.

Attaching a silencer to the gun, I smoothed a hand over my head, combing unruly tresses behind the ears, and booted open the double doors. Of course, the female screamed first. It’s not generalisation or sexism, but women always took fright first because instinct tells them to alert danger, whereas men automatically resign to discouragement.

“Jones…” Harold put the wine glass on the wooden table next to his chair with the gingerliness of a man strained to the point of no return. “Put down the gun.”

“I don’t take orders from you,” I said darkly, the woman’s terrified screams popping a bastard eardrum. “I listen to one man and one man only, and, unfortunately for you, he cannot be here to be the voice of reasoning this evening. Karma is a bitch, right?

Harold’s hands raised in surrender as he stood. “Put down the gun.”

Still, the woman’s sobs shuddered throughout. “Tell your bitch to be quiet.”

His eyes grew wide. “You are not here to hurt her.”

“See, that’s where you are wrong.” Cocking the Glock, I aimed at the frenetic woman and pulled the trigger, the bullet whistling through the air, taking out her right leg, which, of course, heightened her terror. She crumbled onto the floor, screaming in excruciating agony. “I’ll aim for the head next time,” I warned, and she whimpered, her teeth gritted as she grasped her weeping wound. “Be quiet.”

Harold bristled when Nate strode across the room to drop the holdall on the sofa. “What is he doing?” Blue eyes dilated behind black-framed glasses. “I am ready to talk. Just…let her go.”

Nate kneeled on the floor by the woman and, with or without her compliance, secured duct tape to her mouth. “That ought to shut you up,” he joked, tousling her hair. “What do you want me to do with him?”

“I am undecided.” Christ, I wanted to end his pathetic existence right now, but merciful death is too easy, unrewarding and very undeserved. “Is it love?”

Harold’s hand trembled as he cupped his mouth. Yes, he looked like a man in love. “Does it matter?”

No, it was completely irrelevant. I was curious, though. “Do you not miss your wife?” A huge family portrait adorned the accent wall, the shelf beneath lined with additional photo frames and ornaments. “Hey, I am not here to judge. Everyone deals with grief differently.”

Christ, when Warren thought Alexa died, he ploughed through faceless, nameless females every other night. He never mentioned why meaningless sex helped with bereavement or if he even enjoyed the touch of another woman, but he hated himself when the drugs wore off and the alcohol left his system. You could see the guilt in his eyes and hear the pain in his voice the following morning.

You see, in our world, sex, drugs, and alcohol fixed everything. Those three vices guaranteed stress relief. Old habits die hard. And for Warren, falling back into the long-standing habits of debauchery was all he knew. It’s how he shaped himself and survived a life of rejection. It was not a shock to see him self-destruct in midst of broken-heartedness.

Maybe Harold desired sexual intimacy, too. His wife committed suicide, after all.

Does it hurt? Is he guilt-stricken? Is he blameworthy for not knowing how she secretly felt or why she chose death rather than life?

I wish I could empathise. Yes, I am responsible for Tiffany’s death. I was not in love, but I did care about her. I had pictured our future before I blacked out and murdered her on the white sheets of our bed.

Even after all this time, I don’t feel anything for the only woman I ever allowed to hold me while I slept, which, deep down, concerned me.

Emotionlessness was somewhat emasculating.

Warren said depersonalisation is not my life, but it was forced upon me as a child. Yet, I still stand back and watch myself in situations, wondering if I will ever be the man I was supposed to be.

“Brad.” Nate’s hand touched my elbow. “You good, man?”

Tears fell down the woman’s cheeks in relentless dews of fear and sadness. I stared at her, knowing she would die tonight for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I could prolong her trepidation.

Instead, I pulled the gun on her and watched as her lifeless body drifted to the floor in abrupt finality.

No one survived a point-blank shot to the forehead. Not even the beautiful woman whose soulless eyes stared back at me.

“No.” Harold caught the wretched sob in his hand. “You…I loved her.”

“Your wife is barely fucking cold,” I said unapologetically, knowing I am the most hypocritical man to walk the streets of London. “Hey, I did the girl a favour. You know how this story ends.”

He collapsed next to her dead body. Heartbreak poured from his fingers as his hands skimmed across her exposed thigh, where blood oozed from the bullet wound. “My son…”

“Fuck your son.” Nate grabbed him by the scruff of his hair. “You wanted to play with the big guns, Stone. You had no business in our world. Yet, here you are, crying over spilt milk.” He forced the man to his feet. “It’s not so fun, is it? Losing the people you love.”

Harold’s hands flattened on Nate’s chest.

“Brad…” Nate’s emotions never got the better of him, but Harold’s face had demons rattling the cage to come out and play. “Tell me what to do, or I will rip his heart out with my bare hands.”

“I want answers first.” Extracting zip ties from the holdall, I wrestled Harold’s arms behind his back and fastened them to his wrists—nice and tight to cut off his blood circulation. “You get to live another day.” My hand squeezed his shoulder, and a low, muffled whimper escaped his quivering lips. “Do you know what happens to rats in the criminal underworld?”

Harold’s head dropped back as he stared at the ceiling.

“Since you made it your life’s mission to bring Warren’s empire to the ground, I will let you experience it first-hand.” I shoved Harold in the back, and Nate caught him before the lackadaisical steps knocked him to the ground. “Now, where is the kid?”

His eyes closed on a ragged exhale. “Leave my son out of this.”

“No,” I said, and his murderous glare snapped in my direction. “I could leave the boy unscathed…” My unblinking eyes fixated on him. “It depends on you, I guess.”

“Dominic is innocent.” His face blanched. “Please, you cannot make him an orphan. I am all he has left.”

“Alexa is pregnant. Another Warren to wreak havoc,” I added, but only Nate found me funny. “My boss has no idea.”

Harold’s Adam’s apple worked on a tight swallow.

“Thanks to you and David, he will not be there when his wife goes into labour. Christ, it’ll be a good day if he’s home in time to watch his kid go to prom. It’s not likely, though. Life imprisonment for crimes you did not commit. It might as well be a death sentence.”

Nate rolled the woman’s dead body into a plastic sheet.

“Warren’s kid shouldn’t have to grow up without a father, either.” Holding the man’s nape, I led him to the unlit hallway, where Eli awaited with the packed suitcase. “You cannot reason with crazy, Harold. And I am fucking senile. Save your negotiation tactics, bitch. I stopped listening.”

Eli never blinked nor asked questions. He behaved like a loyal syndicate member, taking Harold’s arm by force. “You will climb into the Lexus without hassle or complication,” he advised, his accent strong. “If you try to run or scream for help, I will personally take it upon myself to snap your baby’s neck.” His grey eyes swerved to me. “He is upstairs in the cot.”

“Please…” Harold was starting to breathe rapidly. “I could help you—” Eli pushed him down the hall. “Where are you taking me?”

I returned to the living room.

Nate’s in the process of winding tape around the woman’s sheathed body. “What am I doing with this?”

“Chuck her in the basement,” I ordered, and he threw her over the shoulder, the plastic sheet rustling in his arms. “Bluecoats will swing by once someone reports Harold’s disappearance. Let them find a murdered woman in his home. There will be a warrant out for his arrest within a week.”

Taking the stairs two at a time, I uncapped the silencer on the Glock and tucked both items away before reaching the first door in the hallway. It was the bathroom.

The Master bedroom was through the door opposite.

Dominic was not here.

I gravitated toward the walk-in wardrobe for an unfathomable reason. It’s not like I considered Chloe a friend or an acquaintance. I think we had approximately five conversations when she was friends with Alexa.

I picked up one of the diamante purses. Loose change shook at the bottom.

Alexa wanted a photo.

I had to ransack the shelves and empty drawers to complete the task. I almost gave up when the cardboard box in the bottom of Harold’s wardrobe beckoned investigation.

Emptying the box’s contents on the floor, I flung perfume bottles, cosmetics and silk scarfs aside and picked up the framed photograph of Chloe and Dominic. Her lips touched his forehead as she cradled him in her loving arms. It is an all-white photo, but their porcelain skin was the exception.

Hearing the baby crying next door, I stepped over the mess on the floor and chased the inconsolable sound of his voice. He was in the small yet uncluttered bedroom. When he heard footsteps, he sat up in the white sleigh cot, rubbing his left eye with a tiny fist.

“What are you sucking on, huh?” He was chomping on a blue pacifier. “That can’t be good for your teeth.” I pulled the dummy out of his mouth, and his wobbling lips jutted out into a pout. “Dominic, right?”

I turned the lamp on, threw open the wardrobe doors and selected folded sleepsuits, two cotton blankets and a pile of nappies. Everything went into the leather changing bag, the photo frame included.

“Do you have a favourite toy?” Plucking up the teddy bear at the foot of his mattress, I stuffed it in the bag. “What’s that smell?”

Dominic snivelled, his tired, puffy eyes peering through the cot’s wooden slats to watch me invade his private space. That’s when I noticed the wet patch under his bottom.

“You have got to be fucking shitting me.” Scrubbing two hands down my face, I went to the door and yelled for Nate to come upstairs. “You are alien to me.”

The baby’s rosy wet lips parted as he looked up at me.

“Here.” I plopped the dummy back into his mouth. “Just…I don’t know what to do.”

Dominic’s head fell to his feet, and the position looked awfully uncomfortable.

“Doesn’t that hurt your back?”

He rolled onto his side, the white sleepsuit restricting his chunky legs.

“No, don’t do that.” Snapping off the gloves, tucking them into my trouser pocket, I leaned into the crib and slid my hands under his back. “What the fuck do you eat?”

I had never smelt anything more repulsive in my life. And that’s coming from a man who has dropped into shallow graves to bury decomposed corpses.

Laying him in on the weird-looking desk with wheels, I stepped back, hands to the waist, and pondered how to remove the sleepsuit without covering myself in shit.

“Oh, damn.” Nate pinched his nose. “What happened?”

I pointed to the culprit. “I think he shit himself.”

Dominic pulled his cotton-clad foot to his mouth.

“Fuck it.” I grabbed the car seat on the nursing chair. “Let’s just put him in this and leave him downstairs for Burton.”

“Clown.” Nate’s face screwed up. “I ain’t letting that older fucker in the baby’s sleepsuit. He doesn’t know how to take care of a baby.”

My eyes bugged out. “What, but we do?”

“Nope.” Doffing the suit jacket, Nate rolled his shirtsleeves to the forearms. “But we can do this.”

“I’m not doing shit.”

“I ain’t going in by myself.” Nate picked up the baby like he was disease-ridden, the gap between them almost tearing laughter from me. “How do I hold a baby?”

Right, because I am an expert. “I don’t know.”

Dominic started to cry.

“Shit.” Nate’s hands engulfed the baby’s back. “Why won’t he stop crying?”

“I don’t know, Nate,” I snapped, and his head thrashed to the side to evade the pungent stench. “What are you doing?”

“It’s by his leg.” He raised the baby higher to show me the bulge around his ankle. “This is not fucking good, Brad.”

I felt light-headed. “What?”

“The nappy.”

“The nappy is by his leg?”

“It fell straight down to the ankle.” With the baby outstretched in his hands, he dawdled in the middle of the room. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

I was scared to ask.

“It means this motherfucker is covered in shit.”

Dominic’s slobbered hand landed on Nate’s cheek.

Nate inhaled a lungful of air. “Get some gloves, Brad.”

I grabbed two pairs of clean gloves from the man’s holdall.

Equipped with armour, I took Dominic out of Nate’s hands and returned him to the table. There was a pillowy mat beneath the baby, so it should be comfortable. “Now, what?”

His brows met in the middle. “We need some water spray.”

I looked around the room. “For what?”

“To clean the shit.” He motioned to the baby as if to stress the obviousness. “Come on, man.”

Not even pretending to understand, I reopened the holdall and rummaged through weapons. “We are out of supplies. Can we use bleach?”

Nate shot me a double-take. “Seriously?”

“I don’t fucking know, Nate!” The vein in my neck throbbed in vexation. “You do realise this is my first rodeo, right? I know absolutely nothing about babies and shitty nappies.”

He peeled the sleepsuit off Dominic’s body. “Check the drawer.”

Tapering down exasperation, I yanked open the dresser’s drawer: cream, powder, extra nappies. “What about baby wipes?”

“No, that’s for his face.”

I read the instructions. “You can use the wipes to cleanse the sensitive skin of babies and infants.”

Nate harrumphed. “Well, toss them over.”

I picked a clean sleepsuit from the drawer; the patterns consisted of safari animals and bright green trees. “How are you holding up?”

“Barely.” His large, inked fingers swallowed the frail straps of Dominic’s nappy as he peeled it back to examine the damage within. “Oh, that’s not too bad.”

I scratched my brow. “No?”

“I mean, there’s a little shit down there.” He pointed aimlessly. “But it’s mostly urine. If I change his bum, you can put a clean sleepsuit on him.”

If the boss were here, I’d demand a pay rise. “No problem.”

Dominic was clean fifteen minutes later. Nate used three scented plastic bags to dispose of the soiled nappy.

It was my job to change him. I still had a purple and white bottle of bedtime cream in my hand. I figured it could help with the urine smell.

Slathering the baby’s kicking legs in moisturiser, I erased odours then worked on the sleepsuit.

He was pleasantly calm during the entire process.

I found myself watching him closely to see if he bore a resemblance to his mother. He’s far too young to understand why she is not here. Did he miss her, though? Does he look for her every morning? I bet he has wondered why she hadn’t been around to pick him up lately. He would soon forget that she ever existed, though.

Tucking the pale blue cotton blanket around his body, I wrapped him up and cradled him to my chest. He was quite heavy for a baby—too much milk, perhaps. I put the dummy to his lips, and he sucked the teat into his mouth, his cheeks working double-time to pacify himself.

“Burton is not happy.” Nate was by the open door. “He’s glad we called, though.”

Dominic’s eyelashes cast shadows on his pale cheeks. “Where will he take the kid?”

“He’ll drive him to the station tonight.” Tugging the holdall strap across his chest, he held the door open wide for me to step into the hallway. “Donny will take over from there.”

Discarding the gloves, I carried the baby downstairs. “Why did Harold leave him behind?”

“Panic,” Nate fabricated a story on the spot. “He drove him to Reginald’s house and left him on the doorstep. He even penned a note to apologise.”

It works.

“Jones.” Reginald Burton was at the bottom of the stairs with the car seat by his feet. “You got the letter ready for me?”

Nate slapped folded paper onto the man’s upturned hand. “Sorted.”

Crouching in front of the car seat, I adjusted the straps with one hand and carefully placed the kid inside. He had fallen asleep with my finger locked in the iron grip of his tiny fist. I gently separated our hands with mindful movements, secured the seat belt, and handed the changing bag to Reginald. “You caught up?”

Burton gave me a curt nod. “Harold murdered his mistress and fled to France. He left Dominic behind because he looked too much like the deceased wife. Now, what do you want me to do with the baby?”

Alexa will demand updates. “He has an extended family, right?”

“Mrs Stone’s father.” He lifted the car seat by the plastic handle. “I will make the call.”

Third Assignment: The detoxification of Joshua Fitzpatrick.

Maybe I can get some sleep before community service.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Brad

She was sick at the crack of dawn. I saw her sway into the bathroom and land on the cold floor tiles to projectile vomit into the toilet. Profuse sweat shed tiny droplets down her forehead, the gut-wrenching noise of her heaved spittle echoing throughout the house.

Her immobile body was sprawled across the clothes-covered double bed in the dimmed bedroom now, the floral-print scarf-draped lamp on the two-drawer nightstand glowing in the midst of disgusting cigarette smoke. Velcro rollers stuck in her matted hair. Her pastel pink nightgown, creased and unbuttoned, hung loosely down her pale arms.

A cigarette burned in the round, glass ashtray and the chipped mug of rum—her favourite drink—where fruit flies circled the ceramic rim, perched dangerously close to the edge of the desk.

I thought she was dead.

I thought she choked on her vomit.

Maybe that’s what she wanted, to die peacefully in her sleep after puking up her guts and swallowing too many skittles.

That’s what she called the tablets in the empty pill bottle on the floor.

Pretty skittles. Fun skittles. Happy skittles.

But the beloved skittles she used to store on the top shelf in the kitchen were not as colourful as the skittles I ate after school. Her button-shaped sweets were white and made her smile. Even when she was angry, sad, or miserable or depressed, she smiled like a kid in the candy store.

Depression.

That’s the word on the empty bottle. The word shrieked when she could not sleep at night.

It’s called depression, Bradley.

Don’t you understand?

I am depressed, Bradley.

You don’t see it, do you?

I hate myself, Bradley.

It hurts too much.

Why did he leave me, Bradley?

You look like him…

Him. Her husband. My dad.

He is gone and never coming back, but the movie clips of memories play on repeat inside my head.

His truck is not in the garage.

His voice is not downstairs.

He is not here to hold my hand.

His hands. He had really big hands.

I looked at my small palms.

My eyes welled up.

No tears.

Not today.

Maybe tonight or tomorrow.

I cried last night.

That’s enough sadness for now.

I stood at the foot of her bed.

“Mum,” I whispered, my heart thrashing painfully in my chest. “I don’t wish you were dead. I don’t even know why I said that.”

It’s your fault, Bradley.

You made her sad.

You made her cry.

You made her angry.

You made him leave.

I lay on the mattress beside her. I did that sometimes, climbed onto the bed to watch her sleep, to listen to her breathing.

With the pads of my fingers, I lifted wispy bangs out of her eyes to see her face.

Her eyes opened, and I caught my breath. No, she is not dead. She is here, looking at me.

Her croaked voice broke the silence. “You raised your voice at me.”

I spluttered a massive breath of relief.

“You told me to die.” Her chipped fingernail outlined my lips. “Is that what you want, Bradley?”

You were so mean last night. You called me names. You blamed me for dad leaving. You told me to die first—right before you threw a plate of spaghetti at me.

But I never meant it.

I love you. Even when I am scared of you, even when I hate you, I love you too much to wish you dead.

My lips pursed. “I’m sorry.”

“You hate me, don’t you?” She rolled onto her back, her exposed breasts peeking out beneath the torn nightgown. “I am a bad mother.”

I looked away, not wanting to see her private area. Sometimes, I think she forgets that I am a boy. It’s not like I have the same body parts. I age differently.

She grunted, yanking the flimsy material over her chest. “You ain’t seen a pair of tits before?”

My cheeks heated. “No.”

“What about the girl across the street? Mary, right?” She sat up and reached for the cigarette packet on the floor. “I bet you got a hold of those titty knockers, haven’t you?”

Mary is not like you. Mary wore clothes that covered most of her skin, and she was too freaked out by boys, so I’ll never see what she hides under her jumper. Not that I wanted to. I might like her pretty face, her sparkly eyes and that cute little thing she does with her hair, but I had no reason to see her half-naked. All I wanted was a kiss like those actors did in the movies. I’d happily hold her hand if she let me. “No, I never saw anything.”

A lit cigarette balanced on her bottom lip. “You really like her,” she cooed, and my cheeks became hotter. “Did you ask her out?”

My hands twist and rub together. “Why would I ask her out?”

“Don’t you want a cute little girlfriend?”

I’d have less time to hang with Brian if I played with girls all the time.

My nose crinkled. “No.”

“That’s right.” Her hand jerked my shoulder as she climbed off the bed. “Mary ain’t good enough for you, anyway.” Drawing the curtain back slightly, she peered out the window. “You should avoid them, Bradley.”

She is forever watching the neighbours. “Who?”

“Mary and her weird family.” Lips pinching the cigarette butt, she blew smoke through her nostrils. “I don’t know what it is yet, but there is something not quite right with them. Don’t you think? It’s odd, isn’t it? All those men back and forth, day in, day out. And that woman, the mother, is shitting out kids, left, right and centre. Ain’t she got something better to do?”

Mary does have a big family. I haven’t met all of her siblings. I saw her older brother once. He takes the car out for a spin at night. Her mother seems nice. She likes to sit in the garden and sip tea or bake cookies for all the kids in our neighbourhood. Her dad is not so nice. He shouts at everyone in the street for playing too loudly when he is trying to sleep. He does the night shift or something.

“Bunch of bible-bashing hillbillies, thinking they are better than us.” Her lip turned up. “They want to be more concerned about that rogue son of theirs, selling drugs to all those teenagers in Wigan.”

I tugged my ear. “What’s drugs?”

“Happy thrills.” Picking up the empty pill bottle on the floor, she checked inside to see if she missed any. “Shit. Where did I put them?”

I stared at the empty pill bottle in her hand. “Does he talk to you?”

Riffing through drawers, she emptied random crap all over the floor. “Why do you care?”

Her anxious footsteps told me to leave.

I walked out of the bedroom, and she didn’t even notice.

It was more peaceful in my room, anyway.

I closed the door behind me, opened the curtains and cleaned the desk. I had scratched CDs on the shabby rug that I used to listen to before the stereo broke. I should have put them in the bin a long time ago, but they belonged to my dad, and he might want them back one day.

I was stacking CDs in the drawer when I heard a stone clip the window.

Dropping dirty clothes into the laundry hamper first, I unlocked the window, a gust of wind hitting me straight in the face. I poked my head outside. It was nice out, the cloud-washed sun rising in the distance.

Brian, the boy who lived right next door with only overgrown rose bushes separating our gardens, leaned out his bedroom window. He is probably my favourite person. He’s lived in that big old house for as long as I can remember with his mum and step-father. I even know the first time he spoke to me. His football landed by my back door, and he told me not to steal it or else his mother would clip my rear end with her boot. I was so scared. I cried, ball in hand, waiting for the evil woman to come out of the kitchen and chase me with a shoe. Brian panicked. He said he was sorry. He even offered to be my friend. Yeah, I snivelled like a baby. Then I told him to eat shit because that’s what my dad screamed when bailiffs—whoever they are—beat the hell out of our front door to steal our television.

I don’t know how or why, but we have been inseparable ever since. I’d rather play with this ugly fool than sit alone on the porch like a loner.

“Stop throwing stones at my window,” I whisper-shout. “She will tear the roof down if the glass breaks.”

“It was a marble.” He speared another marble at the widow, the small yet lethal ball whooshing past my ear and spinning on the floor somewhere in the room behind me. “Dicky left for work.”

Dicky is his step-father. “So?”

“So, it’s Saturday. No school. Let’s hang out.” His smile slanted in mischief. “I got the entire house to myself. Mum went shopping, too. We can pinch some crisps and cola…What happened to your face?”

Instinctively, I touched the scabbed-over cut on my cheek. It’s not too bad. It was an accident. She threw the plate at the wall, not at me, and the broken china bounced and clipped tender skin. Yeah, it hurt yesterday. It’s better now, though. “I fell.”

“Come over.” He threw another marble. It took a chunk out of the windowpane. “We can sneak on Dicky’s Sega. Hey, I’ll even let you pick the Axe Battler instead of Gilius-Thunderhead,” he boomed, and I laughed a little. “What do you say?”

Golden Axe was better than hiding in the bedroom all day. Plus, Brian never let me play as the Axe Battler. I was always stuck with the old dude. “Do you want me to bring anything over?”

“An extra controller.”

“Got it.”

Locking the window, I threw the duvet over the bed to show her that I made an effort to tidy up, then changed into light grey jogging bottoms and an off-white T-shirt.

Pulling socks over my feet, I yanked on black trainers, grabbed the Sega controller inside the wardrobe, the one she threw in the trash after dad went to work and never came home, then hurried downstairs to find my hoodie.

She was in the kitchen now.

I paused in the foyer, the controller slipping into my pocket.

“Where are you going?” She had changed into a cotton dressing gown, the lacy frills hanging in webbed frays by her wrists. “It’s too early to go outside. And dark.”

No, it was light, the sun came up, and birds cawed. “Can I go over to Brian’s house?”

She wafted cigarette smoke out of her face. “No.”

I knew better than to act like a brat, but I wanted to go out. “Why not?”

“You are too young to be sneaking out of the house at night.”

I am nine years old. I am not too young to go next door and play with a friend. And it’s not night-time anymore. It’s Saturday morning, and every kid plays out in the street on weekends.

Why should I miss out on all the fun?

When did it change?

It’s moments like now that I wish dad never left. She was different when he was here. She never cared what time I went out or if I slept the night before. She was better. She was not sick. I hate sick Mum.

“Did you shower?”

“Yes.”

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yes.”

“Did you eat breakfast?”

I’d have eaten toast if she had gone shopping last week.

Her finger tapped the kitchen table.

Knowing I had to pick my battles, I slumped onto the wooden chair.

“Your hair is too long.” Her fingers combed strands of blond hair away from my eyebrows. “It was your dad’s job to take you to the barbers. That’s not on me. I have enough shit to do without worrying about your hair.”

I sat mutely.

“Your dad cut his hair. It’s smart. It looks better.” Her red brimmed gaze zoned in on my face as her hand smoothed the hair off my forehead. “Sometimes,” she whispered in a low, sad voice, “I see him in you.”

My breath caught. “Really?”

She nodded.

That made me smile.

I love my dad.

“Don’t move.” Leaving the cigarette in the ashtray, she waltzed around the kitchen, ripping open cupboard doors to find whatever she was looking for. “These should work.” She found scissors in the cutlery drawer. “I can do it. I don’t need a barber or your deadbeat father to do it for me.”

A feeling of dread had my stomach tensing. “I don’t want you to cut my hair, though—” Her palm struck my cheek, the quick yet sharp clip demanding silence. “Sorry.”

“It will look good.” With a snap of the scissors, she tugged clumps of hair and hacked the length. “You probably got nits from that freak next door, so I am doing you a favour.”

I watched blond strands fall onto my lap with blurry vision.

“Stop moving,” she said harshly, her fingers digging into my scalp to keep me in place. “You’ll lose an ear if you don’t keep still…Are you crying?”

I shook my head.

Her thumb caught the tear on my cheek. “What is this?”

“I didn’t want you to cut my hair.”

“What has gotten into you? You shouted at me last night for no damn reason, and I let that shit fly over my head. But now you want to sit in that chair and tell me how to be a mother?”

I never questioned her as a mother. “No.”

“What, you want long hair like a girl?” Her teeth bared. “You’ll be asking to wear a dress next, won’t you? That’s alright. I can wash those vile ideas of out of you.”

My throat swelled.

She yanked me off the chair by my elbow.

“No, it’s okay,” I stuttered. “I’ll get used to it.”

“You ungrateful boy,” she sobbed, thrusting me down the hall, the scissors crushed in her hand. “You never appreciate anything I do for you. It’s never enough. This is why he left. This is why he ain’t coming back. It’s your fault. You are spoiled, and he loathed you for it, Bradley. He fucking loathed you!”

“Your hand,” I cried, not wanting the scissors to cut her skin too deeply. “Don’t hurt yourself—”

“You are hurting me.” Her free hand whacked my back, the open-palmed wallops ripping whimpered apologies out of me. “Look at the state of you. Look,” she fisted my hair by the roots, “at this mess. Your hair. You ruined your hair!”

I hate it when she cries.

I hate it when she hits me.

I hate it when she yells at me.

But mostly, I hate how much I love her, even when she’s bad, even when she’s mad, even when she’s sad.

“Please.” My hands latched onto her forearms as she dragged me upstairs, kicking and screaming. “Don’t hit me again. I don’t care about my hair. You can cut it if you want to.”

I should have stayed in my bedroom.

I should have stayed asleep.

The bathroom door opened.

No. Not again.

My eyes snapped wide.

Acutely aware of the pitch-black surroundings, the familiar king-size bed, and bejewelled scatter cushions, I turned onto my side, the sweat on my back and shoulders dripping onto the white sheet beneath me.

Triggered by a surge of energy, I kneaded the ache in my chest, the impossible erratic heartbeat pushing blood to my ears and willed myself to get my shit together.

My breath came out in quick, raspy spurts.

Licking my dry lips, I moved to the edge of the bed, head in my hands, and gave myself a moment to calm down. It’s easy to overcome. Breathing techniques quashed agitation. I mastered the skill on my thirteenth birthday, right before…

Removing the cobwebs from my head, I snatched boxer briefs out of the drawer and tugged them on, tucking myself away. Yes, I slept naked. It’s less suffocating to shut your eyes at night without limitations.

I went to the en-suite, emptied my bladder and sat on the lidded toilet for a minute or thirty.

My hands turned over. They were impossibly big, the skin coarse to touch, the fingers long and masculine, lined in gold and ice. They are not small anymore. I have killed with these hands, drained blood in the precision of grip and decisiveness.

I huffed under my breath.

The younger version of myself would never raise his fist.

Freshly showered with a towel wrapped around my waist, I held the marble, free-standing basin, knuckles white and tight, and stared at the man in the mirror. I shakily ran a hand through shoulder-length wet hair, sweeping the side-part swept over to one side.

Stuffing the toothbrush in my mouth, I brushed my teeth, cupped water in my palm, swished my mouth out and returned to the bedroom.

Another clean pair of boxer briefs.

I ventured to Josh’s layby room once attired for the day. Upon reaching the locked door, I heard the violent strain in his throat as he vomited in the steel bucket.

Last night, when back at the Manor, I came to Josh’s room and told Alexa to go to bed. She had fallen asleep with him wrapped in her arms. Of course, she was reluctant to leave him, but I gave a compelling argument. Everyone had to rest in between his withdrawals. Nobody knew the exact time period or the severity of his addiction. He might be as bright as a button within a few days, or seething enough to rip down the walls by day ten.

I stepped inside the room, ignoring the odoriferous smell in the air. Nate kneeled on the floor by Josh’s bed. His gloved hands straightened Josh’s arm. He detected a vein, wiped his skin and inserted the cannula needle.

“Brad…” Josh’s eyes were dark and unfocused. “My stomach hurts.”

I observed anxiously.

“Just a little something to help you out.” Nate prepared the IV line, hanging the saline bag on the intravenous pole. “Here.” Ripping open the packet of clonidine, he forced medication into Josh’s mouth. “Drink some water.”

Heaving on dry air, Josh rolled onto his side, the handcuff secured to his wrist, and pushed his head into the bucket instead. His shoulders thrust forward as the rotten stench of vomit splattered.

Nate’s head sagged, the uncapped bottle of water squashing in his hands.

Taking a packet of wet wipes out of the bag on the floor, I went to Josh’s side, waited for the sickness to subside, and removed the saliva from his parted lips.

The bucket had more bile and fluids than digested food. I carried it to the en-suite and emptied the mess down the toilet.

“Get him a clean bucket,” I said to Alfie, who stood guard in the hallway. “Make it quick.”

Alfie’s head dipped.

“Ah, fuck.” Josh groaned into the pillow. “I am cold.”

He is also drenched in sweat.

“No, you have a high temperature. You could do with a cold shower and some clean clothes.” Nate put the bottle’s lip to Josh’s mouth, encouraging him to sip water. “Can you sit up for me, Josh?”

“Is he okay?” Alexa’s concerned voice had our eyes bouncing to the doorway. “Does he need anything? Maybe something to eat?”

“No offence,” Josh grumbled, his trembling hand circling his stomach. It was discomfort, not hunger. “But are you cooking? I don’t think I can handle food poisoning right now.”

I stifled laughter. “At least, he hasn’t lost his sense of humour.”

Alexa’s smile mirrored my own. “What about a shower?”

“Yes,” Josh said, his voice laced in heavenly delight. “And a toothbrush.”

Alfie dropped a new bucket by the bed.

My phone vibrated.

Checking caller identification, I silenced the others with a click of the fingers. “Give me a second.” I stepped into the hallway and accepted the call. “Jones.”

“Hello, Mr Jones,” the woman’s chipper voice chimed in my ear. “It’s Lorna Brante. I am calling on behalf of Principle Law.”

My teeth ground together.

This woman is a ravenous bloodhound.

“I have left numerous voicemails and sent countless emails. I even left a message with one of your co-workers.” Paper rustled in the background. “Mr Alzaim.”

“I know,” I said, and her prattling came to an abrupt stop. “If I wanted to sit with you, I’d have returned said calls and emails. But I am not interested in anything you have to offer.”

“It is a rather urgent matter.”

I provided silence.

“Are you familiar with the name Chloe Stone?”

“Why?”

“What about her son, Dominic Stone?”

A sudden rage consumed me. “Okay, what the fuck is going on?”

“Mr Jones, Mrs Stone left a handwritten letter with the firm. It is addressed to you.”

“So?” My face screwed up. “I barely knew the woman. Toss the letter in the bin for all I care—”

“Please, don’t hang up,” she said, just as I was about to cancel the call. “Look, I don’t normally handle sensitive subjects on the phone. I much rather face to face consultations. However unprofessional, I’d like to relay the details during our call to ensure I have done my job correctly.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Hit me.”

“Sadly, as I am sure you are aware, Mrs Stone passed away.”

No, she slashed her throat, but who am I to correct the know-it-all lawyer?

“Nevertheless, because of our agreement, hers and mine,” she continued, “I still have an obligation to pursue her case.”

Alexa exited Josh’s room.

“Mr Jones,” Lorna harped on. “Did you have sexual relations with my client, Mrs Stone?”

I could feel goosebumps upon my skin. “Why?”

Perceiving the uneasiness in my eyes, Alexa mouthed, “What’s wrong?”

“Mr Jones, I would like to invite you to the firm to take a paternity test,” Lorna said, and a sudden spell of dizziness almost buckled my knees. “Do not be alarmed. Nothing is final. But Mrs Stone believed, without a shadow of a doubt, that you were the father of her child.”

Chuckling dryly, I squeezed the back of my neck. “That’s impossible.”

“Is it?” Lorna countered. “So, you were never sexual partners? My client lied.”

I struggled to meet Alexa’s curious eyes. “Sexual partners is a bit extreme…” Fuck it to hell. My boss’s wife was going to kill me. “It was one time. The likelihood that he,” I omitted Dominic’s name, “was conceived that night is very unlikely. And, not that it’s any of your business, but I always wear a johnny.”

Alexa glanced down the hall with knitted brows.

“Then, you’ll be happy to do the paternity test so that I can rule you out as a potential father.”

“Rule me out? How many potentials are there? You said she put my name forward without a shadow of a doubt.”

“That’s correct, and I believe her.”

Of course, you do, you priggish bitch.

“No problem.” I am not concerned. “Text me the appointment details, and I will be sure to show up.”

Ending the call with feigned indifference, I stuffed the phone in my pocket.

“What did you do?” Alexa asked in that disappointed tone of voice. “You got someone knocked up, didn’t you?”

I smiled. “Do I look stupid to you?”

“Who is this woman?” Her fingers twirled the chain around her neck. “And why would she involve a solicitor? Why not come to you directly.”

Good question. If Chloe truly believed I fathered her kid, why did she wait until after suicide for lawyers to come forth?

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “We both know I am unapproachable.”

“You look unfazed.”

“I am.”

“Are you certain?”

“I am not the boy’s father, Alexa.”

Her eyes searched mine. “Will you tell me his mother’s name if you are the father?”

It’s not even a possibility. “I’ll tell you right now.”

“Oh,” she said softly, then her expression turned grave. “Cherry better not be the possible baby mother.”

“Worse.” I popped a toothpick in my mouth. “It’s Chloe.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Brad

Brad,

I have started this letter too many times to enumerate but desisted due to pusillanimity and cowardice. You might wonder why, at last, this particular moment is different from the contrary. You could blame it on the alcohol. I have consumed wine with regretful excessiveness. Or, you could say I have reached the end of my tether (the intemperance of Dom Pérignon aside) and concluded writing something is better than writing nothing.

Let’s go back to the beginning and consider the purpose of belated communication. I was familiar with your name but hadn’t met you personally until a mutual friend introduced us. It was not infatuation or love at first sight, but I was slightly disconcerted by your blithesome qualities and handsomeness. I never thought anyone could make me smile, not the way you did, with their unashamed flirtatiousness alone.

I am ashamed to admit I was foolish to believe the feelings I fought so hard to ignore were reciprocated. You visited the guest bedroom to converse on numerous occasions when I lived at the penthouse. You lingered by the door or sat on the edge of the bed, little to no space between us, and disrobed the clothes on my body with your eyes alone.

It was not in my head, was it? You did find me attractive. You complimented me with a well-practised smile. You did use sexual appeal to flirt.

Only, what I felt was unreciprocated, wasn’t it? I was not an exception. You are, unapologetically, a promiscuous man. You are a notoriously manipulative womaniser who’ll do just about anything to get what he wants, even if uncompassionate callousness causes offence or gives someone grief.

I learnt the hard way.

Irresponsible infatuation.

On Liam Warren’s thirtieth birthday, you stole something I had reserved for another. You took advantage of an emotional woman, knowing she was distressed and concerned for her friend’s well-being.

Alexa was my best friend. You might find it hard to believe, but I loved and adored her like a sister. I always had her best interest at heart. It was so difficult for me to sit back and watch her fall apart for someone unworthy of her love.

You will defend him because you see no wrong in his behaviour, past and present. But there are different sides to every story. You did not witness her anguish when he played with her emotions and stomped all over her heart. You did not see the tears when she laid in bed at night, crying herself to sleep. You did not hear the devastation in her voice when she longed for him to be a better man. I did. I held her hands when she broke down. I dried her eyes when she sobbed inconsolable tears. I listened to the story of their broken relationship until she learnt how to smile again.

It would not be the first time I pulled Alexa through hardship. When I first met her, she was a voiceless shadow in the corridors of our high school building. Everyone knew her name. Everyone talked about her as though she was hard of hearing. Not me. I ignored the sickening rumours of her unspeakable childhood, the cruel, whispered tales of her time in captivity, and watched her drift, painfully slow, from one classroom to another, friendless and alone, wondering why she continued to attend school when it was evident nobody liked her; their reasons, I could never quite understand.

Where was their empathy?

Where was their compassion?

How could people be so spiteful to someone who had already suffered enough?

My mother once told me kindness should be instinctual, not enforced.

One afternoon, I left the friends I grew up with in the cafeteria and practically compelled Alexa to be my sidekick. I wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. She needed just one person to speak up and have her back, and I elected myself to be her voice.

I never knew how much I needed her until gravity exerted a force upon us. Her problems became my problems. Her flat was my second home. Her unexpected friendship turned my world upside down. It was us against all, not taking Kathy into account, before she chased the convulsions of her sister’s disappearance, which, sooner or later, would lead her to him.

Liam Warren.

Her love.

Your friend.

My enemy.

Liam was, and will always be, the ultimate ruination of Alexa’s life. Her biggest mistake. Her greatest failure. Her eventual regret.

I blame myself for multiple reasons.

Why did I say that looking for Kathy was a good idea?

After every failed attempt to get a job at Club 11, why did I convince her to pursue him?

Why did I believe she was immune to his wickedness?

Why did I remain unforthcoming, in my opinion, when she allowed the heartless, pernicious man to roll the dice on the potentiality of their future?

Why did I say nothing when she accepted his insincere apology and rekindled the flame of unrequited love?

I ask myself these questions every day.

An honest friend would speak her mind.

I chose ignorance instead.

Repentance is punishing.

If I had been straightforward at the beginning, I could have saved her from herself. I could have prevented her relationship with him. I could have intervened before she went to his office that night after he threatened to kill her co-worker in the visible yet unbothered sights of witnesses. I could have disregarded the Academy Award performance, done by none other than yourself, whose ulterior motive was to inveigle those around him to preserve his boss’s privacy.

Your sudden interest was an abused distraction on your part to draw me away from the man’s office. You knew I’d storm in there and defend her honour.

Yet, I never so much as questioned the rationale behind the kiss of serendipity as you coaxed into the seducible part of me. I trusted you with the virginal lace on my body, but you ripped them at the seams. Yes, what we shared was consensual, but what changed between the hallway and the private room?

What happened to the taste of your soft lips?

Where did the comfort and tenderness of your investigatory hands go?

Why did you bend me over and avoid eye contact?

Did sleeping with me repulse you?

Was I not good enough to experience the best part of you?

You perceived the blood between us when you pulled out, but still, you never looked at me. You never asked if I was a virgin, if I was okay, or if I needed anything before you hurled the discarded dress on the floor at my chest and told me to leave.

I walked away from that night, shame-faced and humiliated. I never wanted to see you again. In actual fact, I could not wait to get home and wash every touch off my body and remove the mixture of blood and seminal fluid from between my thighs.

You never happened.

But you did happen.

I would be reminded of our unutterable night together in the wake of losing the apartment in Notting Hill to the conflagration of Alexa’s past meets present.

I would be reminded of what we did when grieving the loss of my best friend whilst holding a positive pregnancy test.

I would be reminded of our regrettable one-night stand when you did absolutely nothing to stop your boss from lashing out the day that he slapped me in the face and watched as I crumbled to the floor of the tragical memorial site for fire victims, the very place where Alexa’s engraved plaque soared amidst cinders, ash and debris.

I would be reminded of our unspoken night of engagement when Harold invited me on a date to a five-star restaurant, and I had to decline because of circumstances beyond his control.

I would be reminded of our deplorable secret when Harold, who, despite reservations and insecurities, was untroubled by the pregnancy and held my hand during labour and told me he loved me while holding our son in his arms.

I would be reminded of our disappointing involvement every day of Dominic’s life when I looked in his eyes, the same-coloured eyes as his biological father, and questioned whether or not I made the right choice to exclude you.

I knew you’d never be interested in making it work with me, not then, not now, but you did have the right to know your son.

At least, that’s what I tell myself when guilt creeps in.

But, in hindsight, would you have cared?

Would you have wanted a relationship with him?

Would you have been a good father? A better choice?

I think we both know the answer to those questions.

Let’s not glamorise the seriousness of your occupation. You are a career criminal. You are a contract killer. You work alongside the most dangerous mobster in London. You are in no position to raise a child. You would let him down. You would disappoint him. You would break his heart. Or worse, you’d drag him into the dangerousness of the underworld.

What about your son’s mother?

What about the man who raised him?

The same man who he shall call dad someday.

Will you punish them out of spite?

Will you kill him to stroke your ego?

Will you kill me for restricting the rights of father and son?

I know the truth. You’d seek revenge out of sheer spitefulness.

Maybe six months ago, I’d have already ripped this letter in half and chucked it in the fire. Tonight, whilst I drink to numb the pain and write to hold myself accountable for past decisions, whether right or wrong, I cannot help but wonder if the need to control the situation was drastically damaging.

What is the lesser of two evils?

The dastardly sins of a corrupt yet loyal man? Or the family man who should be home with his wife and son instead of his once-overlooked infidelities at the office? His once-ignored neglect for the boy he never truly cared about. His once-excused characteristics, to beat the woman he married with brutal, unmerciful fists until her face and body had suffered the bruises.

I don’t know how I got here.

I don’t know at what point in life I lost myself.

I don’t know if the decision to end it all is an act in good conscience or thoughtlessness on my part.

All I know is I am tired.

I am tired of pretending to be happy.

I am tired of pretending life is perfect.

I am tired of pretending domestic violence is the standardisation of marriage.

I am tired of pretending the weaponisation of our son will alleviate sometime in the future.

I am tired of pretending the woman I am forced to be today will be weaker and sadder than the woman of yesterday.

I am tired of pretending there isn’t a man out there who might very well be the key to salvation, the deliverance of my son’s destined misery and unhappiness.

It is never too late to right the wrong of insensible decisions.

Well, this letter, although far too late, is my way of apologising to you. I am sorry for letting my regrets, emotions, and resentments come between you and your son.

I had no right to make such a life-altering decision. You never missed significant events, but you were robbed of the chance to experience the pregnancy from a father’s eyes, to hold him subsequent to the regular contractions of prolonged labour, to feed him a bottle when he was day-old, to witness his first smile, to be on the floor when he started to crawl.

You never held him when he cried or rocked him to sleep when he was overtired. You never smiled against his cheek when he chuckled breathlessly in your ear.

I imagine you are too overwhelmed to compartmentalise the lines of disgrace throughout this letter.

You hate me for participating in Liam Warren’s trial. I suppose you wish to know if I regret the incidents that had preceded his long-term incineration.

Well, I have nothing to lose by attempting to give you clarity.

I will be dead and buried by the time you read this letter.

By now, I presume that you know David is Harold’s non-biological brother. At fifteen, he was fostered into the Stone family, hence the different surnames. They were never close, but when Harold’s father died, the pair seemed to have formed a brotherly bond at the wake (two bottles of scotch later) and have been entangled in precarious situations since.

I blame David for everything. I will never defend Harold, undeservingly, but the pressures of weekly meetings with David stressed him to the max. He became more angry, aggressive and violent. He imbibed alcohol frequently and lived in constant fear, distrust, suspicion and paranoia.

Harold sat me down one night and asked about Alexa. I had learnt of her return and shed tears in her absence of communication. I was drinking coffee when her face splashed all over the news. I stared out of the window daily, expecting her to appear. You’d think she’d have reached out. But she didn’t call. She didn’t knock on my door, not instantly. I was no longer her priority. I am just a forgotten memory.

When Harold asked if I was okay, knowing I had grieved the girl I once called a sister for months on end, I thought his concern was genuine. He had sympathised with his wife and provided a shoulder to cry on.

But Harold is a narcissist. He only cares about himself.

I should have known better.

My husband, if you can even call him that, did something unprecedented that night. He opened up. He told me about his meetings with David and another male (I will touch upon this in a moment) and how we will be debt-free in as little as twelve months.

I wasn’t aware of any debts. I thought he owned the house that the mortgage company threatened to repossess. I thought he owned the cars that trustworthy sellers promised to retake possession of due to unpaid financial obligations.

It was all a lie: the house, the cars, the borrowed money, the life of luxury.

It never belonged to him.

Harold was on the brink of failure, the verge of bankruptcy, so he sold his soul to the devil to reap the rewards of another man’s downfall, and I would be the person to help him.

I invited Alexa into my home with the intention of betrayal, not reminiscence.

I stole the gun from her handbag to provide evidence against her husband.

I planted a seed in her head by asking the location of Kathy’s dead body, the woman she loved, even after the incessant acts of treachery, knowing she’d demand answers from the very man who put her sister in the ground.

I travelled to Yorkshire, watched her place flowers on Kathy’s unmarked graveside, then sent the details to Harold for David and his team to unearth the body. Her mother’s bracelet was placed in an evidence bag.

I avoided her calls and text messages when the life she once knew crashed down around her.

I was the catalyst of her heartbreak when she sat in the courtroom as illegally obtained evidence was presented to the judge and the jury.

Not even in death will I forget the devastating look of betrayal on her face, the unpreventable tears in her eyes, when the prosecution called me to the stand. It was only then I realised that I hadn’t lost her before.

True friends might not see each other from one month to the next, but they are always there for each other when needed the most.

When I cried in the en-suite bathroom of our shared hotel room, Alexa’s hands pressed to one side of the door whilst my hands pressed to the other. I never told her that I didn’t want to be there, that I didn’t want to ruin her life because I was too terrified of losing my own or I was too scared to upset my abusive husband, but she sensed that I was hurting, and she wanted to mend the broken pieces of our hearts by doing what she does best with her selfless decisions to put others before herself.

If only I had talked to her like when we were young.

If only I had trusted the girl with a new personality enough to put my life in her hands.

If only I could go back in time and sit on the right side of the courtroom.

I lost my friend the day I helped sentence Liam Warren. That’s what broke us apart. That was the final nail in the coffin. Not distance. Not age or maturity. Betrayal.

It’s sad, really.

We got caught in the crossfire during the opposition of our unlawful husbands.

Harold and David want for nothing since Liam’s imprisonment. They were cash-rich overnight, courtesy of Ignazio Corrazzo. I have never met him personally, but Harold’s petrified of the man, so what does that tell you? All I know is he is vicious, powerful, connected and driven. He is someone to be feared, avoided and, if capable, exterminated.

If I knew more, I would tell you because this letter, albeit short, is the tragic story of love, hate, envy, war and atonement. It’s my final shot of redemption before I sacrifice myself for the revolution of my son’s future.

If you find it in yourself to understand or even forgive me on the smallest of measures, please fight for Dominic. He needs his father—his real father to right the wrongs of the past, to give him a fighting chance at survival.

You were once the biggest curse of my life.

Now, you are my only hope.

I am sorry for doubting you.

Sincerely,

Chloe.

P. S. Alexa, if you read this (I know you’ll read this because, even though it’s addressed to another, you are nosey, just like me) until the end without imaging all the ways you’d love to beat with those ankle-breaking shoes you now model (It’s too soon, but that was a joke), I commend you. I know it’s not what you want to hear, and I know actions speak louder than words, but truly, from the bottom of my heart, I am so, so sorry for ruining your life. I had no business in the politics of another couple’s marriage, especially when mine was the biggest shame in marital history.

I might disapprove of your husband (Truthfully, I wanted better for you. You are one of the strongest women I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. You have endured so much pain, heartbreak and trauma, and he is another tragedy waiting to happen. But he is your choice, and I should respect that because real friends don’t force their opinions on the ones they love; they support you, good or bad, happy or sad, until the very end), but maybe that’s because, deep down, I wish my husband loved me, even half as much, as Liam loves you. I saw it that day in the courtroom, the way he looked at you. You were the only person that mattered.

Yes, he’s dangerous (I fear the day he is released from prison, and It’s only a matter of time before the syndicate seeks revenge), and I know, beyond question, you will encounter more destruction than restoration while his ring is on your finger.

You battle hand in hand in opposition and against each other. But war with the one you love, no matter the severity, is not the same as fighting the enemy. It is vehement chaos between two scarred individuals who understands the darkest depths of one another. After all, love without an impassioned fight is the cessation of once-promised.

Maybe that’s why I never fought for myself—for our marriage, Harold’s and mine.

I never loved Harold enough, to begin with.

At least with Liam, through good times and bad times, he will always look at you like you are the only woman in the room.

I hope I was wrong about him.

I hope he is worth the sacrifices you made to be with him.

I hope, in the end, you will still be hand in hand, watching the world pass on by.

I hope this letter gives you closure and will help to bring him home someday.

I hope there is room in your heart to forgive me.

I hope you still love me enough, even if slight, to grant one wish.

Take my son home to his father.

Anyway, there is no right way to say goodbye.

Please replace bad memories with good memories.

Your friend,

Your sister,

Chloe.

Alexa’s tearful eyes lifted from the letter. Her mouth opened to speak, but the words died on her tongue. With a hitched breath, she covered her wobbling lips with the back of her hand, the sheets of paper crushed in her fist, and stared at the rain-splattered window.

Inwardly cursing, I buried my head in my hands and tugged the hair at the nape of my neck. I cannot, for the life of me, comprehend the earnestness of Chloe’s final thoughts. I came here today, confident in the enigmatic shades of nonsensicalness. Now, I can barely breathe, and I haven’t even taken the paternity test yet.

“Mr Jones.” Lorna re-emerged from her office. “Are you ready to do the test?”

I saw it, the self-satisfied glint in her eyes.

No, I am not ready.

Not for the test.

Not for the results.

Not for the son I never knew I had.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Brad

I crashed through the steel door to Club 11′s underground chambers. Life’s unexpectancies, such as premature death, can happen to anyone, especially hard, complacent opportunists, who will do whatever it takes, even if it puts them in fatal situations or is damaging to others, to get what they want. Harold Stone, the arrant coward, might sail-through time on earth, bullying weak individuals with undue coercion or abusing power and strength to beat timid women, but like any other incompetent, risible tormentor, when the clock of flourishment stops ticking, he is not immune to the misfortune ensued from one’s deplorable actions.

Vincent is standing by the unlocked door of Harold’s cage. And Harold looked far too comfortable for a man who warranted excruciating gruesomeness.

“Jones…” Vincent’s predator-like aloofness fractured when discerning the extreme, uncontrolled indignation aflame in my alert eyes. His relaxed posture straightened. He knew I was out for blood. “No, Brad. Not yet—”

Lashing out in blind rage, I shoved him away from the cage and, unperturbed by his vigorous objections, yanked Harold off the mattress by the ankles.

“Jones, wait—” The back of Harold’s head hit the floor on impact, the black-framed glasses crushing beneath his weight as his body thrashed and his arms flailed wildly. “Please, I will talk!”

Dragging him out of the enclosure, I snatched the leather shoes on his feet, the twist of his gangly legs clipping me in the shins, and, one by one, lunged them at his face, knocking the former smile right off his face.

Harold’s arms shot up to evade blows to the face. “Brad!”

Blocking his fluctuating arms, capturing his raised, clenched fist in my hand, I dropped a knee to his chest and, with every ounce of strength I possessed, bent his outstretched arm across my thigh and snapped. Bones crunched and cracked. His prolonged, high-pitched scream reverberated around the dank room as his broken arm sagged on the cold, wet floor.

He is not allowed to wallow in pain or choke on vomit.

I let him roll onto his side, let him think he had earned a breather, then brought my leg back and kicked him under the chin with implacable anger, hatred and bitterness. I did not bode well to an injured pride and shattered ego.

This is not syndicate business.

This is personal.

I had no say or input in Harold’s and Chloe’s previous decisions. They decided I was an unfit father while the boy was still in her utero. They did not give me options or a choice. No, I was a sperm donor, nothing more, nothing less.

“Jones.” Vincent’s snarled warning fell on deaf ears. “We need him to talk.”

With Harold’s hair fisted in one hand, I drew an arm back and jawed him, blow after blow, strike after strike, punch after punch. Each merciless slam of the fist knocked the man’s face to the side with punishing velocity. His head wobbled like a ragdoll. A defaced ragdoll. An unrecognisable piece of shit.

His weeping blood stained my cracked knuckles.

I beat him within an inch of his life, to the brink of no return, to the spine-chilling macabre of broken bones, cracked ribs and a dislocated jaw.

“Is he mine?” My bloodied hands sized his throat as I hauled the listless man to his feet, the tips of toes dragging along the floor. “Dominic,” I rasped, the lump in my throat too painful to swallow. “Is he my son? Is he my boy?”

Harold’s unfocused eyes toured the room in semi-consciousness.

“Did you keep him from me?” I asked, unbothered by the other people in the room. “Or is this part of your sick, twisted game to fuck with me? That’s what this is about, right? You play me like a goddam fiddle because you cannot handle the fact Chloe fucked a man who is not you. You understand how insane that sounds, don’t you?”

His breath whistled with each strained inhale, spittle dangling down his chin.

“Jones.” Vincent’s hand pressed to my chest. “We need him alive. Do not make an impulsive decision based on emotion.”

I released the vice-like grip to Harold’s throat. He collapsed to the ground, boneless and distorted.

Vincent tried to level with me. “Let me take it from here.”

“Do we, though?” I asked, and the younger Warren brother frowned. “Need him? I think David can fill the void.”

Vincent’s stare rounded.

My foot slammed on Harold’s neck, and he wailed, his trembling fingers latching onto the leather shoe in a pitiful attempt to eliminate compression.

Whipping out the Glock, I aimed the barrel at his face, revelling in the exquisite pleasure of torturing another’s soul. He was terrified. He did not want to die, not like this, not by the hands of the man who once bedded his wife—the man he loathed.

Vincent stepped back in resigned muteness.

“Your wife left me a little love note,” I half-lied, and Harold, although fighting for survival, mustered unspoken thoughts with a repulsed growl. “And she told me everything.”

Sucking the rivulets of blood and pain into his mouth, he held onto the shoe wedged between his chest and chin. “You…disgusted her.”

“Wounded.” Cocking the Glock, I gave him a crazy looking smile. “I might just cry myself to sleep tonight.”

His lips snarled. “You were never good enough for my wife…or my son.”

“True,” I agreed, the intensity of everyone’s eyes burning into me as they watched the scene unfold. “But the way I see it, I never wanted Chloe, so who got the last laugh? The one who chose suicide to get away from her abusive husband. Or is the man whose greed for power and wealth backfired? Maybe it will be me who benefits the most. I get to raise my kid without having to share him with vermin,” I punctuated the last part, remembering how Harold regarded Alexa as a parasite. “I seem to be the only one coming out of the situation unscathed.”

Without hesitation, I pulled the trigger.

In slow motion, Harold’s arms fell to the side in lifeless finality, the bullet to his head splattering blood and fragments of his brain across the concrete.

I breathed.

It was relief expelled through my lips.

I had to remove the gnawing pain in my chest. Killing Harold Stone was the only way forward. It is how people like me, vengeful killers, deal with mental anguish. Eliminate the problem, just like the boss taught us.

My hand lowered, the gun slipping through my fingers, thumping on the ground.

Vincent fumed, thrusting a hand through his hair. “We needed him.”

“I don’t care,” I snapped, and he backed up two steps. “Nobody, not even Warren himself, can force me to sit with that fucking cunt and simmer down. He had to go.”

My glare went to Eli. He hasn’t slept since the night we broke into the Stone property. I will relieve him from duty, but he can attend an unscheduled meeting in the conference room first.

Belting orders to every man in sight, I stormed down the hall with syndicate members in tow, the blood in my veins hot and feverish.

Nate was by the room door. “Alfie is on watch,” he said, referring to Josh’s unpleasant circumstances. “I got everything you asked for.”

I accepted the folders.

It was too loud in the room. I did my utmost to drown out conversations, but each punctuated syllable threw my head into the deep end. “Shut up.”

Everyone in the room quietened down.

Waiting for the men to become seated around the table or line up, I removed the framed painting on the back wall, flipped open the first folder and skimmed penned notes on each printout.

Nate poured neat gin into a crystal glass at the corner bar. His stare gave nothing away when I pinned Blaire’s picture to the right side of the wall. I guess he is over whatever obsession he adopted during her time at the institution.

Twirling a drawing pin between my thumb and forefinger, I secured Anthony Costello’s ugly mug in the middle of the wall, then worked through profiles to exhibit the ranks. “Deceased,” I informed the room, scribbling notes on the bottom of the page. “Capo.”

The men paid attention.

Johnny Cazale is next. “Deceased.”

I wrote capo on the notes.

“Consigliere.” Saverio Bosqui’s face entered the make-do board. “AWOL. You recognise this ugly fucker.” Showing them Alberto’s profile, I pinned him in place. “Underboss.”

Nate’s brows curled.

Uncapping the black marker with my teeth, I drew a question mark on the blank sheet of white paper. “Ignazio Corrazzo. Our Don, the missing piece of the puzzle.”

“What?” Nate was by the board in a flash, making a mental note of the display. “So, we got it, right? Alberto betrayed his men.”

I nodded.

His jaw steeled. “Shit.”

Anticipating Eli’s reaction, I fixed another three faces to the wall, but he remained cold and expressionless. “The Vasiliev brothers, Nikolai, Alessio and Lyov. All three men are from Moscow, Russia. Apparently, the oldest brother, Nikolai, is in cahoots with Warren.”

All the men were tight-lipped, but they communicated with their eyes. They will have a good old chinwag about that surprising information later.

“To what extent, I could not tell you. Are they friends or foes? Again, I have no fucking idea. All I can say is that I do not trust them or their motives. So, I want men on them at all times. Morning, noon and night.” I locked eyes with Eli. His visage betrayed nothing. “Put a fire under the Vasiliev house to smoke out any rats. Do it when they are sound asleep.”

Eli never blinked.

Perhaps, I am wrong about Eli, Cole and Terrence.

“They should go up in smoke.” I flashed Eli a half-smile. “Unless someone blows the whistle.”

He was stoic and unshakeable.

“What about their other establishments?” someone asked. “The ones that belong to the Italians.”

Holding Eli’s stare for five more seconds, I tossed duplicated folders onto the long-stretched table for the men to obtain. “Locate every building in these case files and burn the fuckers down to the ground. Memorise these people. Learn everything there is to know about them. Where do they live? Where do they sleep? Where do they eat? Occupation. Hobbies. Interests. Spending habits. Family members.” I pointed both pointer fingers at them with a click. “You know the drill.”

I peeled open another file.

“Moretti’s wife, Rosa.” The dark-haired beauty joined the wall. “He has four children. Angelo is dead, and so is his lover, Diego Serafini. Do not waste energy on dead leads.” Another two pictures. “His son, Lorenzo. The baby of the family, Romeo. His daughter, Angelica.” Her green eyes stared back at me as I fixed her to the board. “Angelica is the one to target. She is Moretti’s only daughter. His pride and joy. He is at war with Sicilians alike. He will need her to settle blood feuds between families in the future, so he cannot afford to lose her. I bet the poor bitch has already signed a marriage contract.”

Vincent respired cigarette smoke. “I have never felt prouder to be British.”

A syndicate member chuckled from the corner of the room.

“There are more children. More wives. More loved ones. If they want to play dirty? Give them the filthiest fucking shitstorm in gangster history. Fuck the rules.” My wild eyes toured the expanse of the room. “This is war.”

A pen rolled between Vincent’s fingers as he leaned back in the leather chair. “How far are you willing to go?”

“As far as those motherfuckers want to take us. First.” And then, I glanced at Eli. “I want to know if there are any connections between the Vasiliev family and the Italian families. Ignazio is a complete mystery. Do not misinterpret his nonappearance for weakness or cowardice. He is, in my opinion, the most dangerous man on the board. He fooled us into believing Moretti ran the show. He has traitors at the Metropolitan police department in his pocket. He is the puppet master behind every tragic event leading to Warren’s prison sentence. His men will take you out at any given opportunity. If you think the feud between Warren Enterprise and adversaries is over, you are more senile than you look. It is far from over. You are next on his list. You are not safe. I am not safe. Do not get complacent because It will cost you greatly.”

Nate focused on Ignazio. “Do we have any more details on the boss?”

“Nope.” I tongued a toothpick to the corner of my mouth. “He worked alongside Harold and David. Their amalgamation is one big witch hunt. Their beef with Warren is not a personal vendetta. Well, it might be personal to Moretti, but not the others. For them, it is strictly business.”

Nate hummed. “Motive?”

“Power,” Vincent said simply. “The Russian bratva and Italian mafia join forces to weed out advertisers in London.” It was a hypothetical scenario. “There can only be one king of the underworld. You cannot rule in the juxtaposition of knights and pawns. Someone has to lead.”

I listened intently.

“It is not only us against them.” Vincent’s voice was controlled. “It is them against each other.”

“Plus, we understand the rubrics of true allegiance.” Nate’s tongue smoothed across his teeth. “It is why, despite Warren’s incarceration, The Brotherhood is indomitable. These pasty looking fuckers ain’t loyal. Watch them cut off their nose to spite their face.”

“For how long, though?” I put my back to the wall. “If we do not pluck…” Carl mouthed an apology as he slipped into the meeting. “The associates are beams. The soldiers are rods. The people on top will crumble if we wipe out their legs.”

Nate assessed the men on the board. “We hit them where it hurts.”

All the men stood.

“Wait,” Vincent said, and the brothers hesitated. “I want someone to find this woman.” Tacking numerous photographs of Doña Marina on the wall, he stepped back to see which printout was less fuzzy. “I know it is challenging to visualise her look with such unsatisfactory imagery but use your initiative. Her head is down, and she is mindful of her surroundings and the cameras. Tacky peroxide shoulder-length hair and black, tasteless knee-high boots.” He stared pensively at the images. “Go back to the shop owner and ask questions. Interrogate the bed-and-breakfast owner again if you have to.”

“There is no way in hell Doña survived the jump,” I said, but he was not convinced. “It was dark, bastard freezing, and security patrolled the area until sunrise. That bitch did not resurface from the Thames.”

Vincent regarded the brothers. “Well, I suppose you better go and purchase some diving equipment because I want her. Dead or alive.”

“Sir,” they said in unison.

“Call your guy in Essex,” I ordered, and Nate pulled out his phone. “It is time to bring in Bosqui’s daughter. Toss her in the chambers. I will handle her when I get back. In the meantime, I want the rest of you to chase leads and the whereabouts of the Italian family members. Now is not the time to second guess yourself. Do not use brute force when handling the children. Just drive them here and wait for your next order.”

Carl eased into an empty chair once the room cleared out and unlocked his leather briefcase.

I poured a double whiskey, knocked it back and perched onto the ledge of the table. “Do you want a drink?”

“No, thank you.” Carl accepted Chloe’s letter, unfolded the pages and read each line studiously. After a short while, he removed his reading glasses. “I could apply to CPS for a retrial under the Criminal Justice Act 2003. However, when assessing the relevance or probative value of newly discovered evidence, it may very well incriminate Mrs Warren.”

Puffing on a blunt, I blew out smoke.

“Mrs Stone wrote an apologetic letter, which pinpointed all of Mrs Warren’s crimes: an illegal firearm linked to multiple homicides and perverting the course of justice. She will face two life sentences for murder charges alone.” His arms folded. “Mr Warren will not even consider it as a possibility, not at the cost of his wife. In fact, he’d probably kill me for suggesting an appeal.”

I will not throw Alexa under the bus, not even for Warren’s release. He can hang tight for a while longer. I am inclined to leave him there for a couple of years as punishment, the ignorant bastard.

“End of discussion, then,” I reassured him. “Before I forget.” Grabbing the purple file from the pile of folders, I dropped it on his thighs. “I need you to sell the apartment.”

His dark brow elevated.

I pointed to the printout. “And put an offer on that estate for me.”

“Feeling flush?” He stuffed the folder in the briefcase. “What is the occasion?”

“Investment,” I said evasively, and his inquisitiveness sharpened. “Listen, I cannot squat at the Warren Manor for the rest of my life. I need to put down roots.”

“Jesus, Brad.” He eyed the blunt. “What are you smoking?”

I smiled mischievously. “Nothing but kush in this bitch.”

“Well, it is having a psychological effect on your logical reasoning. Either that or my ears deceive me because there is no way, not in this lifetime or the next, that you, Brad Jones, decided to stand on your own two feet on your own accord.”

My stare stabbed imaginary daggers in his face. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

He stood, locking his leather briefcase. “You have tailgated Warren’s arse from pillar to post for as long as I have known you, which, to my dismay, is a decade far too long.”

“Warren loves me. What can I say?” Biting back amusement, I proffered the blunt, daring him to step into—what he perceived as—the dark side. “Do you want to puff-puff pass?”

Carl was horrified by the thought of smoking marijuana. Hand to his chest, his lips stuttered. “I am not corruptible, Brad.”

“I hate to break it to you, Bishop.” I watched him head to the door with a wide smirk on my face. “But a lawyer who turns a blind eye to criminal activity for profit is the epitome of corruption.”