CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Emma

Stephanie stormed out of the cafe like a bat out of hell. I watched her from the safety of my car, stomping down the alleyway, kicking up dirty rainwater, screaming profanity at my brother, who stood by the fire exit door, too calm and untalkative for my liking.

My boy is upstairs.

Carter can see their public dispute from the living room window. He could most likely hear everything from any room in the flat. In fact, every neighbour within our vicinage can tune into this madness. It was out in the open for all to witness, which is no surprise because it’s what Stephanie does best. She drags their private disagreements to the door, knowing Ben will feel guilty and follow, and then she throws it all out in the street, in the open, airing their dirty laundry—every unpleasant detail of their cringe-worthy relationship.

Furious by the woman’s insensitive behaviour, I kicked open the driver’s side door, slammed it behind me, and threw myself into their heated argument. “You better back off,” I snapped, and two pairs of eyes swung to me. “My son is inside, and he can hear everything.”

She’d stood in the rain for two minutes and resembled a drowned rat.

I was nowhere near finished. “You two are toxic. You argue every day, inside and outside of work, in front of everyone, including my little boy. Well, I have had it up to here.” My hand flew above my head. “If you want to beat the living shit out of each other? Do it down the fucking street away from my son.”

“Excuse me?” Stephanie, the stuck-up wench, baulked. “Who the hell are you talking to?”

Benjamin’s lips pursed.

“This is none of your business.” She had more to say, and I welcomed it. “Do yourself a favour, go inside and leave the grown-up talk to the adults.”

Ben scrubbed a hand down his face. “Steph, that’s enough.”

“Fuck you, Stephanie.” My blood boiled had already boiled over. Ben might talk shit about me—he wouldn’t be human if he didn’t—but I am not falling for that crap. It’s petty, immature, and a failed attempt of her trying to cause a rift between us siblings. “Do not talk to me like I am a child, and do not use my brother against me. We shared the same womb, for fuck’s sake. It will take more than a bitter cow to tear us apart.”

“Are you going to let her speak to me like that?” Her imploring glare zoned in on my brother. “See, this is why we argue. Your sister treats me like complete and utter crap, and you do nothing.”

“Hey, don’t blame me for your petty bullshit. Your crazy relationship,” I gesticulated frantically between them, “If you can even call it a relationship, has run its course. Take responsibility for your actions and leave everyone else out of it.”

“Again,” she clipped, hands to her hips, “I never asked for your opinion. This is none of your business.”

“Where my family is concerned, I will make it my business.” Wiping rain out of my eyes, I shouldered past my brother to get inside. “Carter is upstairs, and he can probably hear everything. Now, I am asking you nicely to take this elsewhere.”

I took one step into the kitchen when Stephanie muttered, “Ugly whore.”

A fire lit in my belly.

Ben lashed out verbally, defending his sister, but I had to deal with her myself. Blood roared in my ears as I shot out behind him and attacked her, leaving responsible parenting with the filthy puddles on the floor.

I cursed at the heavens above for the arm-cast. I am right-handed, so swinging with my left fist gave her an advantage.

Unluckily for her, I am seething, stark crazy, and hella defensive for the ones I love. I’d happily fight the mare on my knees if I had to.

I had dutifully ignored her insults to my brother and her need to emasculate him before an audience because he made it quite clear that I am not allowed to get up in his business—unless she got personal with me.

Well, the maniacal bitch with her senseless scorn just got personal.

Stephanie never anticipated the attack. My fist connected with her face, and she cried out, stumbling into the brick wall, taking me with her. Her fingers snatched my hair, pulling at the scalp, sending a burning sensation down my neck.

We fought like cat and dog, slapping, punching, kneeing and shoving. Thanks to her ringed fingers, I saw stars on more than one occasion, but I never backed down. I had to put her in her place once and for all.

Damn it. I am too small, too short and unskilled.

Chuck me in the ring with a teacup chihuahua, and I am dog meat. I might have a sharp tongue and a bad attitude when poked and prodded, but I cannot fight to save my life.

Where was Quinn when I needed her?

Fisting the side of her head, I grappled a handful of hair, ripping shreds from the roots, while my left fist punched aimlessly between us.

Her forehead burrowed on my shoulder.

I was not prepared.

Her teeth sunk into my skin, drawing blood like a cannibalistic horror movie, the bloodthirsty freak of nature.

We lost our footing, staggering into the communal skip with the cold downpour wreaking havoc on our horizon and airborne rubbish crashing overboard.

I lost any sense of sensibility, drew my right arm back, cast be-damned, and smashed a fist in her face. Her nose cracked open, spraying blood all over the two of us.

She released the unmerciful grip on my hair for no more than three seconds before her hands snatched my head and bounced it around like a volleyball.

I could not see straight or think clearly.

My scalp was on fire, and my temples pounded. I bet I have bald patches. I am too scared to look in the mirror. I must be a state.

It was a bitch-fight. Plain and simple. Hardly any punches, too much hair-tugging and too much blood-sucking. I will need a bloody tetanus shot, thanks to muttley.

Then, in one swift movement, Ben’s arm locked around my waist to untangle us. I saw nothing but red through the matted locks shielding my wild, bouncing eyes. I flailed, flapping like slippery fish, kicking her in the shins as he stumbled back with me in his arms.

“Enough,” he demanded, but I was like a feral cat, scratching and hissing to rearrange her face. “Emma!”

“You are not welcome here,” I spat, whipping hair out of my face to glare at her. “If you come back, even for work, I will lunge you straight through the fucking window. You are out, Stephanie. I will not stand back and watch you make a mockery out of my brother any longer!”

“Yeah?” Stephanie’s pale face was caked in blood, hot with tears and red-raw fingernail marks. “Watch me press charges, Emma!”

My fingernails clawed at my brother’s forearm to break free. I was pumped up, ready to go again. Months and months of pent-up frustration breached the surface. I have listened to this woman ridicule, demean and take the first man I fell in love with for granted for too long.

Ben deserved better, so much more than she could ever give him. I wanted to see a decent woman on his arm, someone who respected him, appreciated him, loved him for all that he is. Not some on-way-street, cripplingly insecure, dreadfully insipid, micromanaging halfwit that only cared when he’s got money in his hand or attention from other females. Not to mention the fact she has no time or patience for my son, her lover’s nephew. Carter is an inconvenience. He is a burden to their relationship.

I might be biased, but Quinn would never get between family. She idolised my son. Hell, she treated him like a blood-related nephew. Whatever his heart desired, she made damn sure he had it. She is an amazing auntie to Carter, the best friend I could have wished for, and she has the patience of a saint, where Benjamin, the brooding, temperamental chef, is concerned.

“Let’s see how tough you are then, huh?” Steph’s eyes were wide and goading. “My solicitor will slam you with GBH charges! And you have the nerve to call yourself a good mother! I hope prison chews your arse inside out!”

My heart dropped to the pits of my stomach.

I never considered the consequences of hitting her first.

It won’t matter that she gave as good as she got.

It’s self-defence.

All of a sudden, I am holding a familiar toddler. I don’t know how it happened or where he came from, but beautiful doe-eyes, fringed in long, dark eyelashes, blinked up at me. He is beautiful, the most adorable baby I have seen in a long time.

My chest expanded on a deep inhalation.

A puffy all-in-one coat protected him from the ever-present rain, the despicable affray, the shameful situation.

Dominic.

Maternal instincts kicked in. I inhaled, exhaled, wrapped him in the thrall of my arms, his head to my shoulder, his mouth sucking on a blue pacifier, and looked up to see Brad, in his all-consuming dominance, mouthing something in Stephanie’s ear. Her face was whiter than white, sickly pale like she’d seen a ghost. His hand gripped her upper arm, holding her in place whilst he delivered a message.

Ben’s mouth moved as he spoke to me, not that I heard a word he said, then he joined the pair, tapping Brad’s back to calm him down, pointing down the alleyway for Stephanie to leave—and never come back, I hope and pray and wish for each day.

Carrying the baby inside, out of the hellacious weather, I lowered his padded hood, unzipped the all-in-one and dried his rosy cheeks with a clean tea towel. I was a little shaken up, too adrenalised to stand.

Inhaling big breaths to calm down, I sat on the stool, perched the little guy on the counter and held his waist for support. He looked tired, like he’d recently roused from a nap, and when he smiled, I caught the faint glimmer of a bottom tooth.

A shiver descended my spine.

I peered over one shoulder to see the man himself come inside.

Brad shut the fire door, locking out the cold night.

I had to look away to hide my appreciation.

He is too much on a normal day, but tonight, boasting a saturated suit and wet hair that edged his image, making him more desirable, I fell harder.

His cologne, soft spice with a hint of sandalwood, hit me first. His large, strong hand squeezed my shoulder, a supportive, comforting gesture, and then his palm scorched the nape of my neck. His thumb massaged my skin in small circular motions, unknotting the tightness, the tenseness.

Against my better judgment, I melted to his touch.

I felt his lips, soft and chaste, to the line of my shoulder before he lifted his son into his arms.

My mouth dried.

When I stood to grab a glass of water, anything to generate a safe distance between us, I stumbled. Wracked with nerves and adrenaline, I clipped the end of the counter with my hip, wincing as the pain shot up my side.

“Easy tiger,” he joked in that smooth, manly voice I had grown to love. “What do you need? I can get it for you.”

I had no reasonable response. “Where is Ben?”

“He popped out to see someone.” He was deliberately evasive. His eyes traced the lines of my face, and I knew, without verbal confirmation, he was assessing the damage to decide if I should pay a visit to the hospital. “Do you want to talk about it?”

No, I never wanted to speak of Stephanie again. If Ben goes back to her after tonight, I will be shocked. It’s not as though he is in love with the woman. She is a bed-mate, an easy booty call who seemingly gives the best blowjobs in London (I cannot think of any other reason why he’d keep the leech around).

“Did she deserve it?” Back leaning on the counter, he crossed his legs at the ankles. “Blondie.”

Yes, and it made me feel better. “Does it matter?”

“No,” he said with an uncaring shrug. “You look regretful, though.”

“I can assure you,” I responded with a dry laugh, “I am not. It’s been a long time coming. I hate her. She is a lousy worker, and she treats my brother like shit. She’s lucky I didn’t snap sooner.”

He gave me a wolfish smirk. “I have never seen you go raggo before.”

“Shit.” I hid behind my hands. “She kicked my arse, right?”

“No,” he stressed, but I am sure it is a lie to make me feel better. “Did you see her face? You got in some decent hits. And with a weak arm, too.”

I appreciated his efforts to pick up my spirits. “What did you say to her?”

Brad contemplated whether to conceal the truth. “I will disjoint every bone in her body if she brings trouble to your door. I meant it, Emma.” He never broke eye contact. He wanted me to see the truth in his eyes, the threat. “I will quite literally put her head on the block.”

I chilled to the core. “You’d cut off her head.”

“Yes,” he said, nonchalant and unapologetic. “You don’t need confirmation. You know what I am. My question is: do you care?”

My moral compass is broken.

Dominic babbled, tugging on his father’s ear. He is clean, smartly dressed, happy and content—no signs of bruises, marks or abuse. There is no irrefutable evidence that Brad’s son is in harm’s way, only hearsay and gossip from a woman with questionable motives.

Still, I should probably mention the conversation. Brad had the right to know if the nanny spread tales and wild rumours. Defamation is no joke and can seriously harm someone’s reputation.

I collected myself. “I need to check on Carter.”

Tucking the stool beneath the counter, I headed for the door to our flat, knowing he’d follow. I ascended the stairs two steps at a time, and when I looked back, the man’s approving eyes were glued to my arse.

A blush tinged my cheeks.

My son is lying on the sofa in the living room, buried in layers of cushions and throw blankets, watching the first Transformers movie. “About time,” he called out without looking at me. “I am starving. Uncle Ben said I had to wait for you.” He glanced once, twice, from Brad to the baby. “Aren’t you the binman?”

“Ouch.” Brad slapped a hand on his chest. “Binman? Is that what you call me?”

“You clean the alley, right?” Carter chucked a smartie in the air and caught it in his mouth. “Oh, thank you for the money. Mum said I had to show appreciation,” he struggled to pronounce the word, “the next time I saw you. So, yeah. I ’preciate it. I bought new wheels, didn’t I, mum? It’s on the shelf in my bedroom if you want to take a look. Or I can show you? I don’t mind.” His face paled. “My room is a mess, though.”

“Carter loves the new model. And he is going to pause the movie to clean his bedroom before you see the dirty socks all over the floor.” Paying no heed to my son’s complaints, I curled locks of hair behind my ears and grabbed a takeaway menu from the sideboard drawer. “Do you fancy pizza for tea?” I am not cooking with Brad in the building. I’d probably show myself up, drop the pans, scold him, or me, one or the other. “I bet there are some good deals on the app. What do you think?”

With an arm draped over his eyes, Carter huffed a grunt. “Chinese.”

I cannot afford those prices tonight. “Pizza is good, though. You love pepperoni. I will ask them to add extra slices, too.”

“We had pizza last week.” My son was less than impressed. “I will be looking like a pizza if I eat another slice.”

And I thought I was the drama queen of the family. “Well, this is a new week…”

“I could eat Chinese food.” Brad stuffed a hand in his trouser pocket, extracting a leather wallet to place in my hands. “Go ahead. My treat. Order whatever he wants. I will share with you.”

Why is he so incredible?

How can I take anything Alice said to heart when he has been so good to me?

“Is that right?” I bit my bottom lip to suppress the smile threatening to light up my face. “Who invited you to stay for dinner?”

“Mum…” Carter’s eyes bugged out of his head. “You can’t speak like that in front of our guests. It’s rude, and it’s mean.”

My attention reverted to Brad, making himself at home in the kitchen. He popped the kettle on, prepared two mugs of coffee and eased onto the rickety chair with his little boy on his lap. His eyes were on me the entire time. His apparent interest should have pleased me—it did please me—but the sight of father and son pleased me more. They are perfect together, made for one another, the mirror-image of each other. I know he doubted himself, his capabilities as a father, as a loving parent, but intense protectiveness emitted through the facade.

I should never have doubted him.

Denting the takeaway menu with trembling fingers, I sat on the chair opposite them, the leather wallet balancing on my thigh.

Yes, I could love him. I could love him and his son if he chose to love me and mine in return.

They made it easy for me.

I am already smitten with both.

Brad reached for the black felt on top of the colouring book left on the spare chair. Uncapping it with his teeth, he leaned over the table, grabbed my arm and put the nib to my cast.

Brad’s bitch.

“Really?” I deadpanned, and he smirked. “Where is the creativity? You wrote that last time.”

Brad’s annoying friend.

A smile tickled my lips.

Brad’s favourite person—all of the time.

I watched him sign the cast with an ache in my chest.

Brad’s woman, if she allows it.

Maybe not today.

Definitely tomorrow.

He finalised the signing with a small black heart, recapped the pen, tossed it on the table and waited. Despite the dismissive shrug and the angry pulse in his neck, he wore a serious expression, the type of vulnerability that begged me to meet him halfway.

This man will be the death of me. “Why are you here, Big Guy?”

Brad’s smile uncaged butterflies. “To talk about us.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Brad

My son is the quintessential wind-up merchant with the dispositions of a playground bully. He spared no effort to target the other kid in the room. He scaled the lad’s head for the sole purpose of one’s amusement because standing in front of the television, hurling magazine back issues across the room and kicking cushions on the floor is nowhere near enough entertainment.

Carter had numerous roles: punch bag, slap bag, bouncy castle, trampoline, space-hopper. He is currently the human version of a climbing frame. The poor fucker is playing the console, ready to complete a serious mission, but Dominic, ever so demanding and mischievous, thought playtime outweighed The Legend of Zelda.

“Shit!” Carter shot upright on the sofa, the controller slipping through his fingers. “Great. How will I get Link’s spin-attack now? I have to go all the way back to the fairy fountain.” His arms folded surlily, but he faced the wrath of Dominic’s raspberry kisses without a fuss. “This sucks.”

I scratched my brow. “You cursed.”

Is that allowed?

“No, I never,” the boy fibbed, and I stared at him in stupefaction. “Okay, I might have said a bad word. I can’t help it. Everyone swears in front of me.”

“That is no excuse. Besides, no swearing rules do not apply to adults.” I am in no position to parent someone else’s child. “Don’t let your mother hear you.”

“Sure.” He faked naïveté. “I guess I have a lot to learn.”

Crafty little bugger.

“Babba, babba.” Dominic’s white sleepsuit restricted movements. “Babba-mum.”

“Brad.” Carter’s patience is wearing thin. “Your kid is suffocating me. Why?”

Any response is unreasonable. I know nothing about children, babies, the spawn of satan. “He is not my kid.”

“Yeah?” Carter’s neck tilted to ebb away from the baby’s arms. “He looks like you. That must count for something.”

“No,” I disagreed with his logic. “All that bad behaviour? Inherited from his mother. I blame her entirely.”

“Where is she?” he asked, and I wanted to kick myself for mentioning Chloe. “Will I meet her? My mother is desperate for friends.”

“Hey,” Emma scolded, and I was grateful for her return. She is by the living room doorway, freshly showered, the takeaway bag hanging from idle fingers. “I am not desperate for friends. I have Quinn.”

“Wow.” Carter’s eyes protruded dramatically. “One friend. Aunt Quinn must be exhausted.”

I laughed at his dry sense of humour. “Quinn is the red-head, right?”

“She is ginger,” Carter confirmed, and his mother told him off. “What? It’s true. She told me herself.”

“Quinn can say whatever she wants. It’s her hair.” Emma is in the kitchen now, arranging clean plates on the table. “You, on the other hand, can be less tactless. Red-haired, auburn-haired, strawberry-blonde. All acceptable.”

“Why is ginger unacceptable?” He is very inquisitive for a young lad. “I like that word. And the colour of her hair.”

“Some people consider the term offensive or pejorative,” I told him, and he simply scowled in response. “Objectification, in whatever context, is insensitive.” My advice reeked of hypocrisy. I am the most insensitive tosser in London. “So, what’s on the menu? I am Hank fucking Marvin. I can eat a horse and its foal.”

“Gross.” Carter plonked the baby on my lap. “I’m vegan now. Thanks for that.”

A plant-based diet. I can’t think of anything worse. “Veganism is boring.”

He made a beeline for the kitchen. “You’re boring.”

“How am I boring?” I took great umbrage to his verbal humour. “I just spent thirty minutes on the game with you.”

“Yeah.” He snorted out loud. “And got slain by the first boss, Gohma. That’s just embarrassing. I can’t wait to tell Uncle Ben.”

I have decided that Carter is unlikable. “Whatever.”

“Brad,” Emma called, and I got to my feet, the baby slapping the shit out of my face. “Do you want me to dish up for you?”

“No, I can manage.” My nose followed the scent of aromatic dishes to the kitchen, where plentiful portions of Chinese cuisine beckoned taste-testers. “Carter can have the crispy seaweed. He is vegan.”

“No,” the lad protested. “Prawn toast is my favourite.”

And that’s why I bit into a piece of prawn toast.

“Mum…” He watched me eat with an empty plate in his hands. “Your binman is gullible.”

My brows weaved. “How am I gullible?”

“You will believe anything.” He spooned a heap of fried rice onto the plate. “I thought you were smart.”

I am lost.

“I hate fish.” He poured the sweet and sour sauce over the chips. “Especially prawns.”

Reverse psychology, huh?

I educated him. “Prawn is not fish.” Dominic hurled the dummy across the kitchen. “What is your problem? I will put the dummy in the bastard bin if you keep it up.”

“Here.” Emma took the baby, his arms and legs thrashing with excitement. “It’s the food, isn’t it?” Her voice, soft and motherly, tugged a smile to his lips. “You want to eat like everyone else.”

My chest expanded as I watched them interact.

“Prawns live in the ocean.” Carter sat down to eat. “That makes them a fish.”

“Prawn is a crustacean, part of the arthropod family.” Still, I studied the woman and her natural ability to multitask. She alternated between appetisers, handed her son a juice carton, held my son on her hip and slid a drink in my direction with fascinating simultaneousness. “An aquatic group. Lobster, for instance.”

“Lobsters are boiled alive. I could never be so cruel.” Emma cringed at the dire thought. “What about you? Do you eat lobster?”

I have dined at the Grape and Vine for ten years, and the popular, decadent dish is generally preferred. “Yes, I am quite partial to lobster, specifically ravioli.” I am also a hired contract killer with an unmemorable body count in my closet. “Not much phases me.” Excluding deep waters. “I am not a fan of water, though.”

“Really?” Carter spoke with a mouthful of noodles. “How do you wash?”

I cracked open the can of cola. “I shower like a normal person.”

“What about the tub?” He spoke urgently. “You gotta like a bubble bath.”

I’d rather slit my own throat.

“I can teach you how to swim.” His fork stabbed into a slippery mushroom. “We used to live in Doncaster. I did lessons every Tuesday and won galas all the time. Mostly third place…” His forehead furrowed. “Maybe, I am not the best teacher.”

I had no reason to swim. “Why did you stop?”

“We moved around, remember?” Emma’s round eyes told me to drop the subject. “Anyway, I think Little Guy is looking for a bottle.” Dominic rubbed his eyes with a curled-up fist. He mumbled into the groove of Emma’s neck, his exhausted body slumping on her chest. “What do you want to do? Feed him now or when you get home?”

I wanted to stay. “We could crash here for the night.”

Emma kissed the frown above the baby’s brow. “I don’t have a cot for him.”

“I might have a travel cot in the boot.” Alexa packed an overnight bag for Dominic whilst I loaded the Bentley—after a period of prolonged, exhaustive questioning. She had to know more about Emma before she agreed to help. I gave her the short version of our story. I met Emma during community service. We started as unlikely friends until my heart responded to the beautiful curve of her smile. I wanted to taste those lips at night, in the morning, the here and now and henceforth. That’s all it took for her to sing detestable wedding songs as she followed me around the estate, the pestiferous mare. “That’s if there is an invite.”

Her eyes brightened. “You planned this.”

Hopeful.

You can achieve the unachievable with the right amount of hope.

If Emma is the one, then I am grateful.

I have waited too long for the right person to come along and love what’s broken. Even the most heartless of criminals craved company. It’s not about growing old alone, whether lonesomeness is customary or not. I will fix myself first, be better—do better. For now, we can get to know each other and explore one another.

Warren’s a reformed philanderer with a past darker than sin. Yet, he changed for the sake of happiness, the reciprocation of love. If he can do it, I can do it. It won’t be easy. I will get it wrong more often than not. If nothing else, I will have fun trying and possibly find myself along the way.

“So?” I gave her my cheekiest smile. “What do you say?”

“I say, it’s okay.” Carter slurped orange juice through a green straw. “What do you think, Mum?”

“Sure.” Emma looked unsure. “We should talk later.”

When the kids are asleep.

I cleared the table with a tight, perfunctory smile, dreading the conversation already. Talking is unavoidable. We had to communicate, clear the air, and address grey areas. Is one uncomplicated night too much to ask, though? All those problems will still be there in the morning.

Emma offered to settle Dominic once I assembled the unused travel cot in her bedroom. I left essentials on the bedside table: nappies, wipes, a sleepsuit, a vest, and a bottle of formula milk.

Carter cleaned the living room without complaint. His loquaciousness accelerated when his uncle walked through the door. “Crazy, right? How can someone lose to Gohma? He’s the easiest boss in the game.”

Christ, give me a break. I am not an avid gamer.

“Carter, go and brush your teeth.” Ben looked surprised to see me. He thought I’d have left by now. “Staying?” he asked, and I nodded. “What’s that smell?”

“Chinese.” Carter lunged Aztec patterned display cushions in all directions, a haphazard attempt to arrange the sofa. “Brad paid.”

“Thanks, man.” Ben placed his wallet, keys and phone on the coffee table. “I appreciate it.”

I replied to text messages on my phone. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“Brush your teeth,” Ben ordered, and the kid groused with a churlish stomp of the foot. “I don’t care. It’s late. Teeth, pyjamas, bed. Now.”

Carter’s eyes rolled as he marched out of the room.

Ben collapsed on the sofa once his nephew’s bedroom door slammed. “Where’s Emma?”

I lingered by the curtained window. “In the bedroom.”

He glared with firm, prying eyes.

“Get it out of your system,” I said, and a judgemental scowl replaced his usual frown. “You want to know my intentions—give me the whole overprotective brother speech. I will be frank with you because it’s the only way I know how. I am not a fucking rapist. I’d never take a woman without consent.”

He looked down at the boots on his feet.

“Killian damaged this family and, as the man of the house, it is your job to protect loved ones, and I come along, upsetting the balance.” I tucked the phone into my trouser pocket. “It was a smart move, jumping with the noose over his neck. I’d have hung, drawn and quartered if I got my hands on him.”

Ben’s apprehensiveness heightened.

It would seem excessive reassurance is a must.

“I appreciate your concern.” My body lowered to the armchair. “Don’t let history decide, though.”

“The past is not my only concern,” he said, and I listened. “There are seven Bentley vehicles parked outside of my home.” He sat forward, shoulders hunched, fingers threaded. “Am I supposed to pretend that level of security is normal? My sister is not safe with you.”

Those Bentley vehicles are here for me. It’s their job to ensure the safety of Command whilst Warren is in Belmarsh. Once he is released, I will be back with the brothers, where I belong. Until then, I have to outlive possible threats and sustain the boss’s empire.

“Fearlessly trained soldiers,” I corrected, and he tsked under his breath. “They give the Royal Gurkhas a run for their money. They are not a threat to you or this family.”

“I don’t want that,” he motioned to the window, “or you to bring trouble to the ones I love. I am not a criminologist, but I have seen and heard enough shit to know you walk around with a target on your back. Tell me it will not have a fatal impact on Emma—on Carter.”

“I am not the target.” I am at risk of collateral damage. “Emma could be my everything, but to the enemy, she is nothing. Warren is the kill shot. His wife and children have permanent bounties on their heads.”

If anything happens to Alexa whilst he’s in the nick, I won’t live to talk about it. He’d abscond prison walls to skin me alive. No, he’d do worse. He’d drown me, the sadistic fucker.

Ben’s tense body relaxed. “I’d love to meet her someday.”

“Alexa?” I frowned at that. “Why?”

“Are you kidding? Alexa is like a saint in the Boroughs of London. Everyone loves her. Her survival story has an empowering effect on people.” He must have noticed my confusion because he elucidated. “She is an inspiration.” Then, he gave me a soft, boyish smile. “Easy on the eyes, too.”

“Tosser,” I half-heartedly chastised. “You might want to keep those thoughts to yourself. Warren has eyes and ears everywhere. He has killed for much less.”

“You’re close, huh?” His smirk reduced in size. “Alexa, I mean.”

I am not sure if he is fishing for information or genuinely curious. “Alexa is beautiful, but I have never looked at her inappropriately.” If that’s what you are worried about, I thought. “I see her like you see Emma.”

Alexa is family.

He stared for a beat. “So, good intentions, right? You won’t hurt my sister.”

“Absolutely.” I pledged with a raised hand. “Who knows? Emma might make an honest man out of me someday—”

“I highly doubt anyone can make an honest man out of you, Big Guy.” Emma’s unexpected voice dropped my hand quicker than I lost the trousers on a Saturday night. “Are you both okay?”

“Yes,” we replied in tight-mouthed unison.

“Right.” Her eyes, aflame with suspicion, screwed up. “Ben, I left a plate of Chinese food in the microwave for you.”

“I’d rather not.” He shot me an apologetic glance. “No offence.”

Why would I be offended? I never cooked.

“Ben frowns upon most takeaway places since he got a taste for gourmet,” she teased, and he looked askance at her. “You two have something in common. Killing innocent lobsters for ravioli.”

“Cliche is overrated,” he said simply. “I’d rather prepare lobster than cream-based sauce.”

My eyes turned to him. “You can make lobster ravioli?”

His head bopped.

I am impressed. “From scratch?”

“Yeah,” he said like it’s not a big deal. “Make the filling, roast lobster shells, prep the poaching stock—I add lemongrass for an extra twist—tomato chutney and lemon vinaigrette. Then, roll pasta dough into sheets, bing, bang, bosh, poach the ravioli and compose the dish. It’s pretty straightforward. I’ll knock it together the next time you visit.”

“Nice.” The geezer went and gave me an entire rundown of the recipe. “Here is a good question: which dish is doomed to failure?”

“Doomed to failure,” he repeated with burrowed eyebrows. “I am pretty dab-hand at every dish. If not, I accept the challenge.”

I admired his confidence.

Emma’s backside fell to the arm of the sofa. “Stephanie?”

“It’s over,” Ben assured her. “It was over before you wigged out. I didn’t know you had it in you.” He smiled proudly. “You’re more like our sister than I thought.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she disagreed, yet pride honed her eyes. “For real, though. If you go back to Stephanie, that’s your prerogative. But she is not welcome here anymore. Just wait until Quinn finds out,” she added, her tone edged with teasing playfulness. “Steph should be very afraid.”

“Emma,” Ben cautioned, and she laughed at the seriousness of his expression. “Behave. You made your point. Keep Quinn out of it.” He stood then, eager to turn in for the night. “It’s been a long day. I’ll catch you guys in the morning.” His arm slid across Emma’s shoulders as he leaned down to whisper, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Yes, I had caught the almost inaudible worry in his voice. I never commented, though. I addressed matters earlier, respected his concerns and raised a hand of reassurance. Proving myself is all I had left. Time will tell.

My phone blew up with text messages. I responded to everyone and then changed the settings to silent.

Life can wait for one night.

In the bathroom, whilst Emma busied herself in the kitchen, I brushed my teeth twice and stored the new toothbrush in the bamboo Tumblr, where all the other toothbrushes stuck out, and studied the state of my reflection in the mirror above the handbasin. I looked the same yet felt completely different. Pinching an elastic bobble from the botanical bird patterned wash bag, I tied my hair back in a scruffy knot, gave myself a once over, and retreated to the bedroom.

I checked on Dominic. He is fast asleep, the soft, embroidered blanket tucked between his legs, blue dummy abandoned to the pillow. Smoothing a hand over the delicate strands of his hair, I leaned over the travel cot to dim the lamp, the atmosphere calm and relaxing.

My holdall landed on the chair. I doffed the suit, folded each item of clothing into a neat pile, and pulled on grey sweatpants.

Random crystals twinkled on the bedside table. Picking the turquoise gemstone, I thumbed its surface lustre, bemused by its qualities.

“It’s for spiritual groundedness,” Emma said behind me, and I returned the gemstone to its glass dish. “It’s supposed to have healing properties.”

I am not a fan of lapidary hobbies.

“Here.” Opening the drawer, she rummaged through beaded bracelets, found the one she was looking for, and held it up between us. “Black obsidian. I think it suits you.”

My cynical eyes held her green hues.

“Don’t look so offended,” she half-joked, sliding the beads over my hand, settling them on my wrist between gold curb bracelets. “Ancient Sumerians included crystals in their magic. They believed in their healing powers.”

I examined the black beads on my wrist.

“This particular stone absorbs negative energy.” She rearranged the cushions on the bed. “Heal old wounds and abolish self-limitations and emotional blockage. Some believe it is strong enough to resurrect clarity after trauma.”

Highly doubtful. “What do you believe?”

“I believe in optimism.” Pulling the duvet back, she climbed onto the bed. “You think I am strange.”

I think she is beautifully enigmatic. “Did you like the dress?”

Her eyes darted to the gold gift box on the dresser. “I never intended on keeping it.”

My brows welded. “Why?”

“We fell out.” She swallowed hard. “Plus, I cannot accept something so expensive. I don’t want to know how much you spent.”

The price is unimportant and irrelevant. “Did you try it on?”

“No,” she said with an air of astonishment. “Big Guy, I am not one to flaunt. I hate anything too revealing.”

Emma’s affirmation is not consistent with someone who wore short shorts and tight-fitted vest tops. “You wear shorts.”

Her cheeks pinkened. “Shorts have material between the legs.”

Her ambivalence was interpretable. “You could have worn a straight jacket that night. Killian would have committed the crime regardless.” Popping open the gift box, I reached for the dress and, with determined eyes, beckoned her closer. “The problem is with the man, not the woman.”

For sexual predators, it’s not even about sex or scant clothing. It’s about their need to take, to smash their victims’ dignity into pieces.

They thrive on fear, pain and dominance.

Emma came to me, nervously hesitant. “Yes,” she agreed, as she attempted to put the dress back in the box, not that I allowed it. “We become targets, though. I won’t give them easy access.”

“Okay.” I had to respect her boundaries somewhat. “What about me, though?”

Her nose crinkled. “What about you?”

“Do you trust me to protect you?” My mouth lowered to her shoulder as I reached behind her to remove the clip in her hair. “With me,” I whispered, my lips dangerously close to her ear, “you can wear what you want when you want. I will kill if someone looks at you with nothing less than respect.”

“Brad…” Gooseflesh crept over every inch of her arms. “You can’t always be there to protect me.”

“Hiding your beauty is a sin.” Pulling the T-shirt over her head, I fixated on her lips to stop myself from admiring her naked chest. “Don’t let him win.”

Emma studied the planes of my face and then, at low, almost seductive speed, stepped out of the black leggings, letting the material pool at her feet.

This time, I had to marvel. It was impossible not to. Her body was far from the stereotypical ideologies of perfection. She is not model thin. Her toned stomach had faded stretch marks, and her arms, legs and chest were besprinkled in beauty spots akin to the marks on her neck and shoulders.

Yet, I had never felt so mesmerised by the nearness of a beautiful woman.

My thumb traced the dark birthmark on her upper thigh.

Her chest began to rise and fall as she struggled to breathe. Her approval emitted. Under different circumstances, she’d make a move and touch me in return, but we had unfinished business to discuss and a sleeping baby in the room.

“Raise your arms,” I said whispery, and she did as instructed, her wrists crossing as she extended her arms toward the ceiling. “You were right before. I see naked women daily.” Sliding the spaghetti straps down her arms, I gently pulled the neckline over her head and watched, with bated breath, as the material cascaded down her body like a second skin. “They don’t look like you, though.”

Her hands immediately fell to her stomach in discomfort.

Lowering to one knee, I unbuckled the gold stiletto shoes and encased her feet one foot at a time. My palm dipped under the dress to tour the length of her leg beneath the slit as I stood. Elegant footwear elevated her height. Still, her neck craned to look at me. “You drew the short straw, huh?”

Emma’s nervous smile broadened. “My twin got lucky.”

Ben is Amazonian tall compared to his sister.

“You look hideous,” I lied, and she burst out laughing. “The dress does absolutely nothing for your figure, and the shoes are fit for the bin.” My hands encouraged her arms to wrap around my neck. “You might be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

“Is that another lie?” she whispered against my lips.

It’s a scary truth.

Her lips paid homage to my stubble cheek.

I trapped her in my hold, one arm locking behind her back, and my lips lowered to hers for a soft, gentle kiss. Her breath stalled. Then her mouth cooperated, parting for our tongues to reacquaint. Slow, painfully slow, our tongues caressed in a sensual dance. My hand moved to the nape of her neck, holding her firmly to dominate the kiss as we backed up to the dresser. Her arse braced the impact, the harsh crash sending perfume bottles and cosmetics on the floor.

“The baby,” she murmured between kisses, her fingernails digging into my back, wracking my body with shivers. “Big Guy.”

My lips peppered her jawline, teeth nipping her skin. “I know.”

“And we should talk first.” Her palms smoothed over my bare chest. “To avoid miscommunication.”

“I know,” I agreed once more. “Not tonight, though. We still have tomorrow.” Grabbing the first T-shirt in the drawer, I planted it in her hands. “I want you to wear the dress to our date.”

Her bottom lip rolled between her teeth. “There is a date?”

“There will be many dates.” Leaving her to change, I flopped onto the bed with a raging hard-on. “And more dresses.”

Her lips turned at the corners. “You are impossible.”

“I am optimistic,” I quoted from our previous conversation, watching her strip through hooded eyes. “I like this picture. I like it a lot.”

Emma folded the dress and placed it in the box, and then her knee sank onto the mattress as she crawled toward me. My arm stretched out to the side, inviting her in for pillow-talk sans sex. Her hair, damp from the shower, fanned across the pillow as her cheek rested on my shoulder.

“Your phone doesn’t stop,” she said and, lo and behold, the phone screen brightened on the bedside table. “How do you cope?”

“What can I say? I’m a popular guy.” My heart raced as we studied one another. “Although, if it vibrates for more than three minutes, I have to answer.” Nate is persistent in the event of an emergency. “Christ, I might have to leave.” If duty calls, I thought. “Dominic…”

“He can stay with me,” she said, her voice tired and sleepy. “Maybe you can come back to bed after work.”

My phone screen darkened.

When the phone remained silent, I breathed out a sigh of relief. I wanted to stay for one night, without interruption, and wake up with her in my arms. With little effort, I pulled her closer to feel the heat of her skin against mine. Her cheek moved to my chest, her arm falling over my lower waist, and I held my breath, counted inside my head, and forced myself to give intimacy a chance.

“Emma,” I whispered, and she made a humming sound. “Do not seduce me in the dark.” I am psychologically at my worst when I sleep. “Okay?”

Her eyelids peeled open in confusion. “I just want to hold you, Big Guy.”

“I know.” Inhaling the scent of shampoo in her hair, I kissed the crease between her brows. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Once she had fallen asleep, I eased out the arm under her neck gingerly, not wanting to disturb her, leaned over her body and checked the message on my phone.

Nate: I need you at the crematorium.

I replied.

Me: Can it wait until the morning?

He responded instantly.

Nate: You don’t want to miss this.

My thumbs tapped the screen.

Me: What do you have for me?

Nate: David Michaels.

Detective David Michaels.

I had big plans for that tosser.

Me: I’m on my way.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Brad

High-speed windshield wipers reduced rain obstruction as I drove down the dark, dust-covered road. I had the bright headlights on full beam, not for the visibility of onrushing vehicles or other drivers, but for the simple fact that total darkness impaired vision. Overgrown hedges clipped the Bentley’s exterior during the bumpy drive. I decelerated before the rear overtook the front when faced with oversteering, skirted the sharp corner and powered ahead.

Driving in bad weather conditions is a death trap.

I will be lucky if I make it out of peregrination alive.

Security trailed in the background. I left the majority of syndicate members outside the cafe to watch over my son. I do not believe he is in peril. It’s better to be safe than sorry, though.

I spotted the timber chapel with a corroded crucifix on the roof through thickets of trees. Mother nature’s destruction of vegetation reclaimed the cracked, stained-glass windows.

Parking on the grassy knoll, I killed the engine, grabbed the beanie hat in the glove compartment and rose from the car in time to see the rest of the vehicles pull up by the old garden shed. The drivers will gather for a short break now, a quick confab to smoke a few joints and sip late-night coffee.

Eli, the apparent Ukrainian, is amongst brothers. He did well to ignore the perceivable dislike of Command. He conducted himself in a professional manner, tipping his chin to greet silently, then averting his eyes to make idle small talk with Cole.

Pair of fucking boffins.

Tugging the beanie on my head, keeping the lugs nice and warm, I reached the entrance of the crematorium. Nate swung the door open before I could knock. He wore a black, heavy-duty apron to match the nitrile gloves.

“You took your time,” he said, making room for me to enter the unlit foyer, the floor littered with debris and crisp, wind-swept leaves. “Do you want the grand tour?”

I’d rather get straight down to business. “No.”

“I will show you, anyway,” he said in a flippant manner. “So, the chapel is old and dilapidated. I bet it was nice back in the day. It’s got an antique pipe organ, a big, octangular wooden pulpit, damaged pews, peeling wallpaper and lichen-covered floor tiles.” He fixed his nose ring. “I don’t know if we need the chapel, but I hired contractors to renovate it. What do you think?”

I think the chapel should be abolished. “Why would we need a chapel?”

He simpered at the question. “To repent for all the people we kill.”

I sparked a pre-rolled blunt. “You can do that whilst I get stoned.”

“I got you a set of keys cut.” He tossed spare keys into my hands, and I buried them in my trouser pocket. “I might give some to Josh, too. That’s if he’s back in the game.”

Sailor will do a stint of probation until he’s proven reliable again. As it stands, the lad is susceptible to relapse. I eyed another locked door in the hallway, the brass handle hanging precariously. “What’s in there?”

“It leads to the morgue.” He seemed pretty excited. “The room is fully equipped with stainless steel furniture and oversized refrigerators.” We turned the corner as he spoke. “We need somewhere to store decomposing corpses, right? Or, in our case, to house squealing rats.”

I followed him into a windowless room of high ceilings and stark walls.

“Okay,” he drawled, bespoke stations coming into view. “The door at the back leads to the cold room. This,” he tapped an electric trolley, “is to convey bodies. I have a delivery due for raking trays, head blocks, cabinets, lockers, shelves, sluices and sinks. You name it. I got it.” His arms folded over his chest. “I did research beforehand.”

“Right.” He is taking the forensic/crematorium technician job quite literally. “What is the small refrigerator for? Hacked up body parts? Dismantled heads?” My wild eyes danced. “A jar of eyes?”

“Foetal storage.” He effaced a sheen of dust on the miniature fridge. “We don’t need those. I will chuck them on the skip.”

Yes, because killing children has never been part of the job description.

“In here,” he crossed the hall to the next room, “is the cremation chamber.” Lights turned on automatically above. “I can hurl bodies into the furnace and expose them to a column of flames. Finalise the remains and dump the ashes someplace.” He regarded the half-opened coffin on the floor. “It’s a three-hour job, but we can use non-flammable liquid to speed up the process. Water or alkali should work. I will probably send the place up in smoke if I use flammable products.”

I am speechless. “Right.”

We returned to the hall in tandem.

He locked the door, the keys jangling in deft fingers, and finalised the tour with a pit stop at the torture chamber. Moisture burned my eyes due to the room’s humid odiferousness. I forced myself to acclimatise, to breathe through it. “Christ,” I kvetched until blue in the face, dropping the blunt on the floor and putting it out under my shoe. “How can you stand it? Spray some bastard air freshener.”

“You get used to it,” he said nonchalantly, and I gave him an incredulous look. “Hey, I ain’t responsible for smelly drains.” His leather shoe scraped across the stainless steel drainage channel in the middle of the room. “Maybe I should call a plumber. I bet there are all sorts down there.”

I need a face mask.

A box of nose clips.

Loss of smell.

“Do you want some coffee?” he asked, and I was too repulsed to respond. “Take a look.” He unfolded a myriad of velvet cloths on the counter: gloves, knives, saws, rope, garrote, tape, pliers, clamps, autotransformers. “It’s a voltage regulator,” he explained as I examined the electromotive harness. “Or we can use the stun belts and neck cuffs. I am easy.”

The crematorium is a miasma of impending butchery. Dr Death, the well-provisioned toolbox psycho, is in his bastard element. “I thought I was a terrifying serial killer.” My voice had a tint of sarcasm. “You are an entirely different species.”

“Chill.” Nate pointed to one of many plastic barrels of sulfuric acid. “I started to store them in the shed. You can help me to convey the rest later.”

“I should think not.” My chest shuddered. “Where is David?”

Nate mopped the sweat off his brow. “In the cupboard.”

Pinching a pair of gloves, I snapped them over my hands and wiggled my fingers. Removing the suit jacket and draping it on the back of a random computer chair, I went to the storage cupboard to uncover David.

His red, bloodshot eyes squinted, the bright light challenging his vision. He was bedraggled, roughed up, and moisture-laden. Beads of sweat roamed the length of his long, disproportionate nose.

Nate had strapped him to a wheelchair, slapped duct tape over his mouth and left sore-looking abrasions on his wrists and ankles.

His body quivered with emotional stress.

“Howdy motherfucker.” After a long-awaited victory, I brought an arm back and punched him straight in the face, the unmerciful blow shattering his nose. “You deserved that.”

Tears flooded the man’s eyes as blood gushed out of his nostrils. He strived for leniency, but his repeated imploring went over my head. His death was final the second he targeted Warren.

“How did you find him?” My question was for Nate. “Oh, don’t cry.” David’s muffled sobs wracked his entire body. “Christ, reel it in. Why cause such a pother? I am not going to kill you.” My smile widened. “Yet.”

“Wheel him out,” Nate said, and I grabbed the tosser by the tie, rolling the wheelchair out of the cupboard. “And it’s a long story. You won’t like it.”

“Well, that sounds ominous.” Holding the wheelchair’s push handles, I whistled an annoyingly upbeat tune. “Try me.”

Nate selected “Criticise” by Alexander O’Neal on his phone. Then he prepared the extendable trolley for our patient. “So, I got into it with Blaire. We argued this morning and this afternoon. Basically, every time I entered the guest bedroom, she had something to say. I get it, though. The bitch is scared and lashing out.”

Mulling over tools, I picked up the Stanley knife.

“Blaire seems to think I still harbour feelings,” he said flatly, and I aimed to mask reservations but failed miserably. “Hand on my heart. It is not what you think. I care about the baby. He is all that matters right now.”

“Hey, I am not one to insinuate. I deduce. You cannot question our scepticism, not with your track record.” Of course, I talked on behalf of the institution. “You let the syphilitic bitch ascend even when everyone tried to warn you. Warren is doing time for rape, for fuck’s sake.”

“Come on, man.” He fumbled with the pliers. “Don’t guilt-trip me. You think that shit doesn’t keep me awake at night? You think I don’t feel everyone else’s bitterness when I enter the room? I have to live with her betrayal for the rest of my life.” His neck vein pulsed. “We both know I will face Warren’s wrath someday. He is inevitable. That’s cool. I deserve it. I vouched for the wrong woman and doubted the brothers.” He sucked his upper teeth. “But I hate that he will never forgive me. It’s not his style, right?”

“Nate,” I got on a level with him. “Why did you go there? You knew something wasn’t quite right with her. You saw the way she behaved at the penthouse. You are not stupid. You are too smart for your own good.”

“I ask myself this question all the time.” He put the pliers back on the counter. “Empathy is living vicariously through others and asking yourself if it hurts.”

My back rested against the counter.

“I don’t know what it’s like to be taken or locked in a room to be used for another person’s disposal. I don’t know how it feels to be shackled, starved, beaten and raped by a sexual predator.”

I felt goosebumps on my arms.

“I imagine death becomes your only salvation.” He gazed off in deep thought. “Do I agree with the way Blaire behaved at the penthouse? No. Do I understand it? Yes. She lived with Bajramovic and learnt to be submissive to survive. In her eyes, Warren is like a knight in shining armour. He saved her.”

I listened intently.

“I felt bad for her. I wanted her to recover.” He licked the seam between his lips. “You got to look at the situation from my point of view. I only experienced good times with her. She lived in my home, cooked, cleaned, ironed my shirts and prepared baths after gym sessions…I jumped too quickly. It’s no secret that I am looking to settle down. I had my years of fun. I played the game. Now, I want a decent woman, someone to raise my kids. Call it desperation, but I thought she was the one.”

I never liked Blaire, nor did I believe her sob story. Her obsession with Warren made me feel uneasy. I knew she was trouble, and no one listened to me.

“Blaire never loved me. I got played.” He fake-smiled. “She loved Warren the entire time. Fuck, she is still chirping in my ear about him. At least, she was until I flipped the switch.”

Right, he had something to tell me. “Go on.”

“So, as previously mentioned, Blaire thinks I am in love with her. The bitch had the audacity to call me pathetic.” His arms outstretched. “Hey, I am out here, living my best life. She’s the one destined for Hades. Initially, I thought, I can take shit lying down, put up and shut up, do whatever it takes until my son is born. If that means three-ton of insults along the way, I can handle it.” He rolled out a sheet of plastic on the wheeled trolley. “She got me thinking, though.” His head nodded in thought. “I can use this situation to my advantage. All I have to do is play along. Yeah, I am pathetic. I love you. I miss you. I am putty in your hands.” His pierced eyebrow curved. “It’s good, right? I can be acquiescent and let her think she is manipulating me.”

I’d hate to think he is prone to her manipulations.

Unlocking the Stanley knife, I pushed the yellow button, disengaged the sharp blade, and sliced through the cable ties on David’s wrists with deliberate carelessness. His sore skin split open. A muffled scream drained his pained voice. Blood gushed over his curled up fists, streaming between clenched knuckles.

“I guzzle down a protein shake.” He is in full-story mode. “I take my ass back upstairs, unlock her bedroom door and find her curled up on the bed, crying like a little girl. I asked if she was okay. I noted the mistrust in her eyes. She thought I was up to something. But I am not part of the elite for nothing. I was trained by a master of manipulation. I got on the bed, looking like someone that gave a damn, and she came to me, desperate for love, attention and affection. Most importantly, she wanted to get inside my head. And I allowed her to think it was possible.”

I went to one knee to cut the ties on David’s ankles.

“She kissed me.” He brandished a cordless, hand-held drill. “At first, I pretended to be hesitant. Then, I was all on that shit. I haven’t fucked anyone since you. You were made for me.” His sardonicism had dimples denting my cheeks. “Why did you hurt me like that? She seized the opportunity to beguile. There might be a chance of freedom if she can get me on her side.”

David leapt out of the chair to make a run for it, but we had him on the trolley, thrashing and whimpering within a blink of an eye.

“Oh, I caved,” Nate drawled as we chained the former detective to the trolley. “I let her think she had me in the bag. We slept together.”

“Nice.” A shudder rippled through me. “Remind me to replace all of the furniture in the guestroom and to hire a fumigator. I know she contaminated everything.”

“I have never felt so repulsed whilst fucking a chick before,” he drawled, and for the first time in a long time, I believed him. “I regretted her the second it started, but I knew it’d be worth it in the long run. She laid across my chest after, drawing patterns on my chest, talking all this nonsense about us running away together to be a proper family.” His cheek muscles throbbed. “I mentioned The Brotherhood. I had to, or she would have become suspicious. She knows how much I love you guys.”

I whacked a hand on my chest. “Am I your favourite?”

“You wish,” he replied with a hint of a smile. “The brothers will never stand back and watch me leave. They will come for me—for us. Life on the run is no life at all.”

Tearing the duct tape off David’s mouth, I shoved my fingers through his cracked lips, extracted the soaked sock and hurled it over one shoulder.

“Please,” he begged, choking on blood and saliva. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Nate slapped the tear-induced prick across the cheek, the brutal clip to the face leaving an instant handprint. “I ain’t got time for this bitch.” He passed me the drill. “So, I tell Blaire, I need leverage. If she can disclose David’s whereabouts, I can send Brad the location and distract him and the brothers for a couple of hours whilst I pack our suitcases.”

I revved the drill, the loud, piercing noise echoing throughout. “And she fell for it?”

“Hook, line and sinker. She snitched, told me how to find the detective, then hurried around the room to pack.” He is by the sink now, filling the red bucket with cold water. “David hid in plain sight. He’s been living in a guesthouse three blocks away from the Met for weeks. Don’t ask how he stayed off our radar because I don’t have the answer.” He carried the bucket to our station. “I drove over, broke into his bedroom and found him naked, in bed, watching porn on an Ipad: two sweet females going to town on each other.” Laughter rumbled in his chest. “The motherfucker is blessed. I tackled him to the floor, and he almost took my fucking eye out with his swinging cock.”

A smile hurt my cheeks.

“So, what’s good with you?” he asked, changing the music to “Build Me Up Buttercup” by The Foundations. “It’s like I don’t see you anymore.”

I glared at the phone. “Seriously?”

“What? You don’t like it?” he teased, and I stared deadpan at him. “Why do you build me up? Buttercup baby, just to let me down,” he belted out the lyrics, and I snarled. “And mess me around, and then, worst of all. You never call, baby, when you say you will. I need you.” His two fingers pointed at me. “More than anyone, darling.”

It pained me to admit that he had a decent singing voice.

“So build me up.” His body moved to the music. “Buttercup, don’t break my heart.”

“Are you finished?” I asked, and his eyes glistened with mirth. “And, I have nothing much to relay. Life is life.”

“Life is life,” he parodied. “You ain’t going to open up about the cafe girl, huh? What’s her name? Mildred.”

My fingers twirled a drill bit. “Emma.”

“Emma from the cafe.” He gave me a knowing look. “You have been spending a lot of time with this girl. And her kid, I guess.”

I am not surprised by his knowingness. “Yes.”

“Is it going somewhere?” His brows met in the middle. “It’s not like you to invest. Should I be worried? Is this a midlife crisis or something?”

“I am too young for a midlife crisis,” I said defensively. “Can we not make a big deal out of this? I want to let it happen without unwanted attention from everyone.”

“Oh, damn.” His grimace morphed into a shit-eating smirk. “You got it bad.”

“What? I don’t have anything.” The son of a bitch went and put Usher on. “Nate, I will fuck you up.”

“When you’re on the phone.” He is in bedroom mode with slow hip thrusts and cringeworthy lip bites. “Hang up, and you call right back.”

“I hate you,” I said with so much conviction. “You’re a cunt.”

He keeled over at the waist and put his head on David’s thigh.

Feeling impossibly hot, I watched his shoulders quake as he laughed at my expense.

“I got real tears.” He used both hands to wipe the moisture under his eyes. “You should invite her to the Warren Manor for dinner. Alexa can play fairy godmother.”

“Yeah?” Tergiversation is necessary. “I will invite Emma to the manor for dinner when you show up with a bird on your arm. How does that sound?”

“I might have someone in mind.” His tone lowered. “Celine. She is a qualified beautician. I met her at the gym.”

My eyes rounded. “You held out on me.”

“Testing the waters.” He looked at David on the trolley. “You good?”

David’s mouth blubbered nonsense.

“David doesn’t talk much.” Nate secured David’s feet to the foot of the trolley. “He is a screamer, though.”

“He will talk.” Twisting a spade bit to the jaws of the chuck, I squeezed the trigger, the rotating metal gears sending David’s body into panic mode. His back anchoring on the trolley, he howled for help, as if someone, anyone, within the expanse of nothingness cared enough to intervene. “I want to know why you sent my boss to prison.” Placing a firm hand on his lower leg, holding him still, I sank the sharp bit into his kneecap, drilling holes through his flesh. “But mostly, I want to know where the fuck Ignazio fits in the scheme of things.”

Intense pain took control of David’s body. In a hyperactive state, he turned his head to the side and vomited violently, the strained motion threatening to empty the contents of his stomach on the floor.

“Alexa’s put on weight.” Nate’s hands latched onto David’s shoulders to keep him pinned to the trolley. “And it’s gone straight to her ass.”

“I might have looked a couple of times.” Repeating the process on the opposite knee, I spattered gore, dislocating the shinbone from the disrupted knee joint, and he cried out in excruciating pain, promising to talk, the dirty snitch. “You can talk when I am ready to listen,” I said in a bored voice, setting the blood-covered power tool on the counter. “She always had a nice arse. Well, she did until she starved herself to anorexia.”

Nate made a non-committal sound in the back of his throat. “Warren’s partial to a thick rear.”

“Yes.” Bossman loved voluptuous women. “Alexa will have him down on one knee if she keeps it up. We got to make sure she doesn’t revert to her old ways in the meantime.”

“I miss him.” Somberness softened the hard lines around his eyes. “It’s just not the same without him. It’s cold and empty. It feels like…”

My heart squeezed. “Bereavement.”

“Yeah,” he agreed with a nod of the head. “He might as well be dead. How can we operate for five years if he is not here to rule? It’s too long. And it’ll get harder before it gets easier. There will be more enemies. More opportunists. More casualties.” He stared right through me. “Do you disagree?”

“No, I am on the same page.” Initially, I had to see the boss. I’d have dragged the governor (still no update from the wanker) to the gutter and back to get what I wanted, but Warren declined visitations for a reason. He needs our silence and cooperation. He’s never failed us before, so I had to trust him. “Do you have eyes on Blaire?”

“Yeah.” Nate held a cloth over David’s face tightly, his foot adjusting the trolley so that the man’s upper body sloped toward the ground. “Josh is at the estate.” His shoulders sagged, knowing he had yet to convince me. “She will die, Brad.”

I gave him another look.

“What the fuck?” One hand went up in the air. “You still don’t trust me with her.”

I jerked one shoulder. “You fucked the bitch a few hours ago.”

“Don’t twist my words. I sacrificed myself to get David.” His lips twisted in exasperation. “You think I wanted to touch her after everything that’s happened? No, I told you. I got my eyes on someone else.”

I challenged him. “Do you have any evidence on the contrary?”

“Not yet. But I will. You will see. Once Blaire has delivered the baby, I will take him out of the room, ensure his safety, and then return to kill. She will die in the wake of our son’s birth. How does that sound?”

Protectors become monsters.

Let’s hope the baby is enough motivation for the man to execute. If not, I will happily end Blaire, but Nate must rectify past errors and reform himself. He has to err on the side of caution and prove loyalty to the brothers—the boss. Nothing can be more redemptive. If he fails the assignment, if emotion clouds his judgement, I will be left with the most difficult conundrum. I love him. He is my day one. I do not want to be the reason he is face-down in the dirt. It will hurt less if I carry out the assignment, though.

Warren would make him suffer.

I poured a bucket of water over David’s face, prolonging his punishment. His mouth and nose filled with water. Extreme physical pain tormented the recess of his mind. His head whipped beneath Nate’s hand as he drowned in asphyxiating hell.

We paused and repeated his torment. Then, we carried out the method again until the man lost the urge to fight, the will to stay alive.

Tossing the soaked cloth on the ground, Nate readjusted the trolley until David was restrained yet upright.

The snake dry heaved in stark horror. Water dripped from his pale face in beads, the discolouration of his chattering lips beseeching warmth. “I beg you to reconsider.” He hiccupped, saliva dribbling on his chin. “If I knew of Ignazio’s whereabouts, I’d tell you. You’d be doing me a favour. I loathe the man.”

David reeked of ersatz sycophantism.

Isn’t it ironic how the fear of death restructures one’s priorities?

I checked the time on my phone. I had less than three hours until sunrise. “Lock him up until tomorrow,” I ordered, and Nate reached for the roll of duct tape. “I need you at the estate. Josh is a liability.” He is the weakest component in the team until he’s proved otherwise. “I won’t lose Blaire to negligence.”

Nate agreed to handle business.

I had to run an errand.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Brad

Empathy is living vicariously through others and asking yourself if it hurts. I don’t know what it’s like to be taken or locked in a room to be used for another person’s disposal. I don’t know how it feels to be shackled, starved, beaten and raped by a sexual predator.

Nate’s long-winded, convoluted speech played on a continuous loop in my head. Isn’t it funny how someone can make an indirect statement that resonates with you because it hits on an emotional level?

I imagine death becomes your only salvation.

Yes. Suicide seems to be the only remedy when life is not worth living because the cessation of existence must be less painful than surrendering to the reality of truth.

Nightmares.

Flashbacks.

Blackouts.

Trauma is debilitating when unresolved. Everything I felt in childhood and adolescence is present in adulthood. Warren recognised the signs and the symptoms and normalised survival mode. Learn to control the voices in your head If you cannot vanquish them—quoted by the wisest man I have ever met. Remember who you are, not who you were, if and when fight-or-flight is triggered. He forced his way into the darkest valley of my mind and showed me how to dance with my demons. And it worked until it didn’t work, which he predicted. He told me that I’d have to face the reality of my past when I was good and ready.

You see, Warren is my safety net, the angel on my shoulder, the devil in my ear. He had the answers and techniques to help me to stay level-headed. But he is not here to catch me when I fall. I have to fend for myself, stand on my own two feet and face the facts—the music—to secure my future.

Fern’s home office, located in the heart of Kensington, on one of the most prestigious streets in the area, had one parking space for visitors. I steered the Bentley onto the mounted driveway, pulled up the handbrake and sat there for a few minutes with the engine running.

I had researched the woman. Fern is a qualified, experienced psychotherapist. She is specialised in psychological trauma and EMDR therapy and has worked for numerous agencies throughout London to consult with private clients. She might be able to help, but without an initial consultation, the outcome remained a mystery.

In the dim recess of predawn, I climbed out of the car, hurled the beanie hat onto the backseat and fixed my hair to smarten my appearance.

The air smelt cleaner, crisper before sunrise, the distinctive, dewy scent of petrichor replacing torrential downpour.

Bracing myself, I inhaled a lungful of oxygen, stopped by the front door, the blue paint chipped and weather-worn, curled my fingers around the brass knocker and startled the therapist to the land of the living.

Soon, the bedroom light turned on upstairs.

Then, a silhouette appeared by the window.

Moments later, the door unlocked and opened slightly to reveal a short, rather plump, black woman in a floor-length dressing gown with a satin, leopard print bonnet on her head. “Can I help you?”

“Brad Jones,” I introduced myself, and she scowled at my outstretched hand in bafflement. “I saw your website online after reading pamphlets I found in a nearby clinic…”

Her unimpressed glare travelled the expanse of my body.

I cannot leave here without answers. “You provide tailored solutions for clients and have the tools to help people overcome certain problems…”

“I am perfectly aware of my job description, Mr Jones.” Fern opened the door fully to step forward, and I dropped back to leave space between us. “I want to know why you thought it was acceptable to knock on my door at unsociable hours without an agreement, preparation, or relationship-building prior to psychoeducation.”

My face heated.

“It is four o’clock in the morning,” she emphasised, and I looked down at the floor. “Is this unexpected visit an emergency? Are you a danger to yourself or others?”

“Look, I apologise.” My hands slid into my trouser pockets. “I am not the most considerate person. I’m an impromptu man. I tend to act before I think.”

“Well, I tend to sleep for eight hours per night to prevent tiredness.” Her hands latched onto the side of the door as she started to retreat. “Arrange an appointment like everyone else.”

“Wait.” My palm struck the door before she could shut it in my face. “I have waited my entire life to use my voice.”

Her stare narrowed fractionally.

“Don’t close the door in my face and send me away.” My gaze cast to her slippered feet. “I don’t think I will find it in me to come back if you do.”

Deep-cut wrinkles collected around her beady eyes, and dark, age spots mottled her nose and cheeks. “My service is not cheap.”

I can afford the best shrink in London. “Money is not a problem.”

“I expect commitment,” she added, and I agreed with a sharp nod. “Healthy boundaries are non-negotiable. It is important for you, the client, and myself, the therapist, to establish structured communication to prevent mishaps in the future. You have to consider my emotional health alongside your own.”

My lips flattened.

“Do you drink tea?” she asked, opening the door wide for me to enter. “Come inside and wipe your feet on the mat. I will not have mud traipsing through the house.”

My shoes wiped the welcome mat as she locked the front door behind us. I had no desire to look around. From this angle, the place seemed warm, inviting and cosy, with its wooden furniture and artificial plants.

Into the first room on the left she went. I moved in her shadow, almost popped open the buttons of my suit jacket, then I remembered the dry blood on my shirt and decided against it. “Everything discussed is confidential, right?” I asked, the room small and lavender-infused with scant furniture.

“Our conversations are completely private.” Fern had a set up in the corner, a round table with a kettle, clean mugs, tea bags, sugar cubes and UHT milk. “Please, take a seat.”

I sat in the high-backed armchair, the padded seat uncomfortable and unaccommodating. “We need to wrap this up in one meeting,” I said, not that she spared me a glance. She is too busy ruining the tea with warm milk. “Do I pay now or later?”

“Therapy session. Counselling. Psychotherapy,” she tweaked the use of an incorrect word. “And, just so we are clear, I am a trauma therapist.”

Yes, I am aware.

Fern added sugar cubes to the mugs. “How old are you, Mr Jones?”

What does age have to do with anything?

“Early thirties,” she mused, and I deliberately sighed. “You have lived with trauma for what? Ten years? Twenty years? Most of your life.” She gave me a quizzical look to summarise or form an opinion. “Yet, you expect me to help you overcome fears and anxious thoughts in one session.”

My jaw steeled.

“If you want me to challenge anxious thoughts,” she tapped the side of the mug with a teaspoon, “and confront feared situations, then, I am sorry, but one hour is nowhere near enough.”

“You don’t know my story.” I accepted the proffered mug of tea. “For all you know, this visit is a complete waste of time. You cannot estimate the time required based on experiences with past clients.”

Fern’s body folded into the chair opposite me. “Why do you seek therapy?”

My throat cleared. “Normalcy.”

“And what does normalcy mean to you?” She opened a purple notepad, clicked the top of a pen, and scribbled something onto the lined page. “Mr Jones, I need to evaluate the appropriateness of time management.”

Fern is quirky, albeit sarcastic, but I liked it.

Placing the untouched mug of lukewarm tea on the side table, I untrapped my tongue from my teeth. “To live a normal life.”

“In what aspect?” She looked up from the page. “Work? Health? Financial? Friendship? Love?”

“Relationship difficulties.” I sounded more nervous than I’d have liked. “Particularly sexual intimacy issues. I want to be with someone without the fear of…” My face had never felt so hot. “Is there something you can give me? Medication perhaps.”

“That’s not how this works.” Fern’s hands folded on the notepad. “Mr Jones, why don’t we start with establishing a rapport? First and foremost, I will need you to fill out a few forms. You can do it now or wait until you go home. Clients tend to bring the paperwork with them in preparation.”

I will sign the paperwork at home. “It can wait.”

“Alright.” Still, she handed over a slim folder, and I tucked it behind my back. “I need to cover the basics before we begin. Are you having suicidal thoughts?”

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. “No.”

The sound of the pen scratching continued. “Have you had suicidal thoughts in the past month?”

“No.” I had to steer this subject. “I am not suicidal in any way, shape or form.”

“Okay.” Her head nodded. “Do you have homicidal thoughts?”

“No.” I am a career criminal. I kill for the benefits of affluence. “A bit of a temper problem, perhaps. Nothing too serious.”

“Do you have a support network?” Her skewed bonnet shielded her eyes as she filled the sheet of paper. “People you trust. Friends and family.”

I have a family of misfits. “Yes.”

She sipped tea. “How do you cope with stress?”

I am a glutton for debauchery. I overindulge in drugs, sex and alcohol. “I smoke weed.”

“Okay.” She twirled the pen between pinched fingers. “What are your strengths?”

“Trustworthiness,” I said without hesitation. “Determination. I am not overly respectful or patient. I might be creative, though.”

Her eyes expressed nothing. “In what sense?”

I believe all killers have a creative pattern. “I will get back to you on that question.”

“You mentioned relationship difficulties,” she said, and I made a note of how she distracted my brain for fifteen minutes before addressing the initial problem. “Are you currently in a relationship?”

No, but I have blue balls for the first time in my adult life. “No.”

Her pen scribbles proceeded. “When was your last relationship?”

“I don’t know.” Tiffany is not a memory I treasure. “Late teens, early twenties.”

Her serious expression slipped into place. “Were there any relationships beforehand?”

My lips puckered. “No.”

Fern never pushed for elaboration. “Can you tell me about the relationship?”

“Tiffany Fisher.” A red-haired, green-eyed bombshell. “I met her at work. I served pints at a bar, and she was a regular customer. I liked her the moment I saw her. It was her smile. She had the prettiest smile and natural curls that she straightened. I was in awe of her, but I never had the guts to speak to her or compliment her when she ordered drinks at the bar. Christ, I acted like some weird, frightened introvert with communication difficulties.”

Fern listened.

“Anyway, Tiffany had one too many during her friend’s birthday celebrations. She ignored the other barman and deliberately sought my attention. The next thing I know, she is flirting and laughing and asking me out.”

When I paused, Fern picked up the pen. “Did you make arrangements?”

“No, I ignored her and served someone else. She looked sad, offended and returned to the table empty-handed, with no date, instantly sober. I mean, who the fuck does that? Here is some beautiful girl, asking you out on a date, and you freak out and fuck her off, even though she is everything you want.”

The pen nib stilled on the page.

“Why was she interested in a guy like that? He was nothing but an unsociable twat, working for the minimum wage in a dead-end job, living in some seedy flat with his only friend, eating tinned food most days because it’s all he could afford. She wasn’t about that lifestyle. She was born into money, wore designer labels and lived in one of those big, fancy mansions with her rich parents.”

Fern took notes.

“Tiff was persistent, though. She never took no for an answer. She came back every weekend and pestered me until I agreed to one date. I remember my friend, Brian, telling me to suck it up and enjoy life. You might find this hard to believe, but the first time I sat across the table from Tiffany Fisher, I trembled to the bone. I said the wrong shit, insulted people for no reason whatsoever and got more food on my shirt than I did in my actual gob. It was shambolic. A living nightmare. I do not miss those days.”

Fern is a good listener.

“Apparently, I did something right. Tiffany came back for more. We started dating weeks later.” I must open up for the therapist to understand. “We encountered problems almost instantaneously.”

Fern hummed. “What kind of problems?”

“I hadn’t experienced a normal situation with a woman before…” My knuckles tapped the armchair’s armrest. “I had no issues becoming aroused, but I struggled with maintaining an erection.” Brian joked that I might have been gay. “It had nothing to do with attraction or lack of desire.”

Fern scribbled another note. “Did masturbation play a role in helping with erectile dysfunction?”

“You know, I have never been one to masturbate,” I admitted, and again, her expression showed nothing. “In fact, I refused.”

“Before I address that,” she said with a lifted hand, “can I ask how you overcame erectile dysfunction with Tiffany?”

“Lots and lots of practice,” I half-joked, evoked by memories of us in bed together. “Foreplay mostly.”

Tiffany would give me head until I passed out.

“We had an unhealthy sex life. Sexual intercourse became almost non-existent once the honeymoon period was over.” If you can even call it a fucking honeymoon period. “I slept on my side of the bed. She slept on her side of the bed.” She often gave me the silent treatment. “I will be real with you because I refuse to exhaust too much energy on the woman. I told her at the very beginning that I had issues. I never lied to her or feigned to be the perfect guy. I gave her a choice to decide. I’d have understood if she wanted to leave me to be with someone more loving, romantic, and reciprocal. But she stayed. She wanted to be with me, even if it meant accepting the worst part of me.”

I studied the floor for a moment.

“I should have known better.” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I kicked my legs out and crossed them at the ankles. “Of course, she wanted to stay. My best friend and roommate slept in the bedroom opposite ours, and she warmed his bed whilst I worked all the hours under the sun.”

Fern’s brows knitted as she licked the seam of her inner lips. “They had an affair.”

“When I found out, I thought it might be a one-off.” But there are details about that night I have revisited over the years. Warren had crouched by a suitcase in the bedroom. He never told me what he found inside, but he was privy to something I disregarded. “I caught them in bed together.” They made love in my bed. “I think they planned to leave that night. Runaway together.”

Fern’s head tilted. “Is this when the relationship came to an end?”

“Yes, I walked away and never looked back.” I omitted gruesome details, the events of their murder, the fire and Warren’s involvement. “Hey, I am not mad. I met good people, started a new life and flourished. Everything happens for a reason, right?”

“What about adolescence?” She jotted something down. “Did you experiment growing up? Normative sexual behaviour includes anything from an interest in media content with nudity to sexual events with others. You previously mentioned that self-exploration is not something you often partake in. Does this apply in adult years and adolescence?”

“I had a very dysfunctional childhood. My house operated like a military operation: school, tea, bath, bed. I never played outside or mingled with the kids in our street.” Yolanda beat me if I talked to certain children in school. “Obviously, as I matured, I started to notice girls, but I never had the opportunity to befriend them.” Mary is the only girl I spent time with, and it happened in secret. “In regard to media content, I had no access to adult material.”

Fern waited.

My throat swelled. “Can we put self-exploration on the back burner for one moment?”

“Of course.” She made a note of what I had said. “Your house operated like a military operation. Could you explain this to me?”

It was an open-ended question. “Imagine waking up on Christmas morning, and everything is how it should be: excitement in full swing, presents under the tree, music on the radio, turkey in the oven and an adorned table. You think nothing can go wrong. Your father is happy, drinking beer. Your mother is smiling, singing carols. You become seated after unwrapping parcels, and suddenly, all hell breaks loose. I am talking, the food is on the walls, the dinnerware is on the floor, the table is upside down, and your parents are screaming at each other. That was the early years of my childhood in a nutshell. In the morning, life is normal. By the evening, life is carnage. They were volatile. Toxic. I never knew what to expect.”

She took a sip of tea. “Did you witness domestic violence in the home?”

“Somewhat.” Arlo was a good man. “My mother would attack my father, screaming, yelling, kicking and punching. Christ, she’d hurt herself, too. She’d hit herself in the face, scratch her arms and chest, throw herself into walls and roll down the stairs.” It was madness. “She hurled dishes at him once for coming home too late, and she often accused him of extramarital affairs.” Although, they never married. “He denied her unsubstantiated statements. “

“Would you consider her an abusive woman?”

You have no idea. “Yes.”

“What about your father?” Her question was merited. “Did he become violent or abusive toward your mother?”

“No.” Arlo showed great restraint when Yolanda exploded. “Not that I remember.”

“Your father never retaliated,” she mused, and my head shook again. “And how did their volatile behaviour affect you?”

I decided to wear my heart on my sleeve. “Arlo loved me. He never even raised his voice or threatened me. When my mother lashed out, he’d take me to the garage whilst he fixed cars—to remove me from the situation, I guess. Sometimes, I helped. I handed him tools and…” Christ, I missed the geezer. “He stayed for longer than he should have. With Yolanda, I mean. I never noticed at the time. But, looking back, he was miserable. He had to get out of there.”

Fern neglected notes to look at me whilst I spoke.

“My memory is all over the place. I recall certain instances but not the time, the day, or what colour shoes I had on my fucking feet. I know my father lived with us, but not when he left. I think my mother suffered from some sort of mental disorder, but I couldn’t tell you if she was diagnosed.” Yet, there was medication and drugs all over the house. “She had manic episodes all the time. Her impulsiveness is definitely a trait I inherited.”

Fern wrote a short paragraph on the page. “Can we discuss the extent and the nature of your mother’s actions for one moment? You described her behaviour as ‘manic.’ Did her extreme change in cognition affect you? Either physically or emotionally.”

Yolanda’s voice echoed in the back of my mind.

What’s wrong with you, Bradley?

Why do you act like a girl, Bradley?

Where is your father, Bradley?

You’re a fucking queer, Bradley.

I hate you, Bradley.

I love you, Bradley.

Bradley. Bradley. Fucking Bradley.

I should have aborted you when I had the chance.

“Mr Jones?” Fern probed, and I blinked back to the present. “Did her extreme change in cognition affect you? Either physically or emotionally.”

I wanted to be a better father to my son, Dominic. I wanted to have a relationship with Emma. Maybe someday, I can have a relationship with her son, too. But I had to bare my soul to this woman first; it’s the only way for us, Emma and the kids, to be happy together.

“I hate her,” I said, and she looked up from the notepad. “No, I despise her.”

I will never forgive her for what she did to me.

“Did her behaviour affect me? It fucking ruined me.” My shoulders squared as I hunched forward. “She reached into my chest and ripped out my fucking heart. I am half the man I should be because of that woman.”

Fern toyed with the delicate gold chain around her neck.

“My mother did not bring me up. She dragged me up by the fucking neck. She exposed me to the darkest, evilest parts of this world—a place where young, innocent children had no business.”

Fern’s piercing eyes stared into the depths of my soul.

“I…” Tears beaded on my lower lashes. “Years of depression, helplessness, self-loathing and self-harming as a consequence.”

I have lived with shame and guilt for long enough.

“Yolanda Kelleher did not deserve to be a mother. Fuck the beatings, long periods of starvation, verbal abuse and the disturbing game of drowning me in the bath because I so happened to look at her the wrong way.” My face twisted in anguish. “I will even waver all the medication she used to ram down my fucking throat. Maybe I was sick. How the fuck should I know?”

Everything shut down.

My heart stopped beating.

My breath slowed down.

My mind flashed with memories.

The ringing in my ears reduced to a low pitch as I blinked to regain consciousness. Dabbing the sweat on my forehead, I studied the painting on the wall.

“Tiffany wasted months trying to arouse me,” I said quietly. “She went down on me all the time, and all I could do was stare at the ceiling and count the cracks in the paint. When we had sex the first time, I never orgasmed. I spent the entire moment reading the canvas above the bed: forget what hurt you, but never forget what it taught you. I memorised the stupid quote. I remember thinking, how can I forget? It’s in here.” My finger tapped the side of my head. “It’s never left me. It will die with me.”

Fern placed the pen down on the notepad.

“To get a handle on one’s frenetic mind, I had to switch it all off. I buried my emotions. It’s how I got through it. Multiple sexual partners. Meaningless sex. Drugs and alcohol.”

Warren taught me how.

“You name it. I fucking did it. It’s easier than commitment. I can feel good about myself without the complications of a needy, demanding, expectant significant other or the guilt I felt whenever I tried to be the epitome of chivalrous or perfection. It beats hating myself, hurting myself, blaming myself.”

Fern closed the notepad.

“I still focus on pointless shit.” My clammy hands rubbed my cotton clad thighs. “If it feels wrong with a woman, if she is saying things or doing things I disfavour, I latch onto something until it’s over.” Biting the corner of my lip, I pointed to the plant on the bookshelf. “I will focus on anything to stay present. In the present, I am in control. If I let myself wander back to the past, I am reminded that life’s suffering is all because of her. How does that even begin to make sense, huh? Why the fuck am I built this way?”

Humiliation weighed me down like a heavy sedative.

“When did sex become a chore? When did self-objectification become a cure? Why do I need to be this person? Who am I trying to impress? Myself? I have to prove that I am okay—that I can fuck my way through women without a care in the world because I am Brad Jones. And Brad Jones is not some weak, emotional victim. He is emotionless, detached, the most conceited womaniser within the city of London.”

Fern set the notepad on the side table.

“It’s all a lie,” I rasped, feeling something wet trace paths down my cheek. “I never wanted to be the bad guy. I wanted to be the good guy. I wanted to hold the woman I loved at night without the image of a monster climbing into my bed.” Wiping my nose with the back of my hand, I turned to hide the shame in my eyes. “Yes, the beatings hurt. Yes, the ridicules left indelible scars. But nothing, and I mean nothing, hits harder than the memories of us.” My eyes became too blurry to see her face. “She was supposed to protect me.”

When Fern reached for the box of tissues, I raised a dismissive hand.

“There aren’t enough showers in the world to remove her touch from my body.” Or enough drugs and alcohol to help me to forget. “Her voice keeps me awake at night. Her face turns my dreams into nightmares.”

Fern’s head nodded imperceptibly.

“Self-exploration.” Looking at her despairingly, I tasted salt on my lips. “Boys get curious, right? I suppose they notice things and go to their dads for advice. I bet they give in to impulses when they realise how good it feels to explore. It’s normal behaviour. I don’t need a therapist to tell me that. I skipped that part, though. I have no memories of even being curious. All I have is her voice, telling me it’s our secret. And her face, disappearing under the blanket.”

Fern is professionally non-judgmental.

“Why would I masturbate? Yolanda did it for me.” As I watched her, hoping for answers, I felt a trickle leak from the corner of my eye. “Why would I enjoy sex when she made sure I hated it before I even understood what it meant to be intimate? You want to know why I struggled to maintain an erection growing up. Maybe it’s because I associate pleasurable feelings with her. I do not have the tools or the answers to prevent that.”

I dried my cheeks. “For me, the worst part came after the abuse when she laid in bed with me, holding me, kissing me, loving me.” My hands shook as I gestured to my chest. “I wanted it to be gone. I didn’t want to feel it, smell it, taste it, touch it. I wanted it all to disappear as if it never fucking happened.”

Fern’s gaze held mine.

“As I got older, I built this huge barrier between me and other people, specifically women, because I feared that tight, sickening feeling in my gut. I made such a big deal out of it. Now, it’s not just an undesired emotion. It is a coping mechanism, an instinctual reaction. If you are foolish enough to climb into my bed and seduce me whilst I sleep? I won’t hurt this time. But you will.”

Her eyebrows cinched.

“I found someone that I think is worth fighting for, but I am terrified of hurting her. And before you say something illogical, I will tell you that I have done it before. I have hurt women during sex. I have woken up with their necks in my hand in a blind rage.” The last time I felt my mother’s hands on me, I roused in the dark, snatched her throat and put her beneath me. I had this strong urge to kill her. And she was scared. She realised that I was not a young, timid little boy anymore—that I was big enough to fight back. “I will not lay there and take it again.”

My thumb and forefinger rubbed the dampness from my eyes.

“I won’t go on my back for no one.” Leaving the folder on the chair, I rose to my feet. “Men can be sexually objectified, too, and it’s not fun. At least, it wasn’t until I owned it. This is my body. If I want to abuse it, that’s on me.” Her stare lingered on my shoes, and sudden humiliation crawled to my cheeks. I exposed every dirty detail to someone I didn’t even know. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Mr Jones,” she said as I headed for the door. “Do you love this woman?”

My footsteps flattered.

I have never loved anyone.

“The only person I learnt to love is myself.” I snivelled into the palm of my hand. “You can burn the notepad. Don’t think I won’t come for you if it gets out.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said brazenly, not that I had the energy to turn and berate her. “Name one other person, male or female, that has a special place in your heart.”

Liam Warren.

And I fucking missed him.

“Warren is the brother I never had,” I whispered, the lump in my throat too big to swallow. “His imprisonment is justifiably mourned by those he impacted.”

“Is there anyone else?” I heard the chair creak as she stood. “Another close friend, perhaps.”

I had many close friends.

“I have a son.” He is half of me, the best part of me. “Dominic.”

“What about female friends?”

“Yes.” I could hear Alexa shouting at me for not naming her already. “Alexa. My boss’s wife.”

A rope of silence unravelled before she spoke up. “Hurt the brother you never had.” She strolled with determined strides until our eyes reacquainted. “Wrap your hands around his neck.”

My eyebrows snapped together.

“Put Alexa underneath you and watch life evaporate from her eyes.” Her chin tiled as she stared up at me. “Grab your son, the boy who loves you unconditionally, and remove him from the world.”

I felt an odd tightening in my chest.

No, I could never harm Dominic.

I am his father—his protector.

“Feel those emotions. Feel it here.” Her hand touched my chest, where my heart thudded painfully in response. “If you can control this pain and anguish for them, you can control it for her.”

I listened closely.

“You have convinced yourself that women will suffer. Therefore, you cannot be intimate in a relationship. I wonder, if you practised the same self-control in the bedroom as you do outside of the bedroom will you surprise yourself.” Her eyes glittered with a challenge. “As you said, you are in the driver’s seat. Find ways to demonstrate self-control and change the narrative.”

I stared at the empty spot where she once stood, even when she returned to the chair.

“Consider this unexpected session free of charge and without obligation.” Her calmness took me aback. “If you decide to come back and commit to private therapy, I charge, by your standards, affordable monthly rates.”

Barely cognizant of what she said, I ducked out of the room as the walls closed in on me.

The fresh air had never felt so luxurious. I wiped my eyes, breathing in the early hours, and unlocked the Bentley.

Falling behind the steering wheel, I started the engine, grasped the back of the passenger side headrest and reversed onto the main road.

I drove to the cafe with Fern’s voice in my head.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Brad

I stood under the faucet, where the steady stream of hot water splashed on my face like shards of glass. In blissful relaxation, I squirted Ben’s molten brown, pepper-scented shower gel onto Emma’s pale green loofah, the layered textures lathered in suds, and scrubbed myself raw. Kneading my neck, shoulders, chest and back, I worked through the lengthy process until every inch of skin felt silky smooth to touch, unsoiled, unstained, unblemished, immaculate, faultless, flawless.

The continual reputation of cleansing was never too much. I used to believe compulsive showering was normal, basic hygiene practice, but I later learned excessive cleanliness is a cognitive tactic to manage anxieties. I washed three times a day, and that’s on a good day. I washed more if the situation demanded it. Suppose I wake up in a bath of sweat, for example. It could be three o’clock in the morning, and I will strip the bed, ready for laundry service, and head straight to the en-suite to efface cold sweats and expunge unpleasant dreams.

Turning off the water, I drew the new shower curtain back, the colourful, flower-patterned border sending my brain into a bastard riot (she got bored of the leaves, I suppose). Foamy, tepid suds trickling down my legs, I stepped onto the diamond tufted bathmat, the anti-slip qualities soft underfoot.

Acclimatised to high atmospheric humidity, I watched droplets of condensation on the mirror above the sink and wiped the glass to reveal my reflection. I looked exhausted yet felt oddly energised.

Frowning deeply at the ambiguities of my thought process, I popped a toothbrush in my mouth, brushed my teeth, flossed, rinsed, repeated, knotted the towel around my waist and exited the bathroom.

Dawn illuminated the hallway, the sun’s early morning rays whispering a golden path to Emma’s bedroom door. With a swift towel dry, I crept into the room, unzipped the holdall, changed into a clean pair of boxer briefs and sat on the clothes-strewn chair.

Emma’s bedroom is not unclean by any standard, but the overdone exhibition of textiles, tapestries, oversized furniture and storage boxes left me open-mouthed with profound discombobulation.

Her private space is aesthetically unappealing.

Less is more.

My girl needs to arrange belongings systematically, hurl unwanted garbage in the skip and find better storage solutions.

My brain cannot handle this level of craziness.

Even in the chair, I practically sat on top of the wardrobe because the room only boasted compactness. I leaned down to open one drawer and jostled open the second drawer to inventory her clothes, or lack thereof. Impecuniousness is prevalent here. Her portmanteau of attractiveness, kindness, uniqueness and stout-heartedness outweighed materialistic wealth.

Ruminating on her living conditions, I gave the room a final once-over and gazed upon the bed. Emma slept on the side, her back to me, the duvet kicked into a multilayered mountain on the floor, and breathing peacefully next to her, Dominic clad in animal print cotton.

An empty bottle of milk sat on the bedside table.

He must have woken up for a feed whilst I visited Nate. And Fern.

Unfolding from the chair, I gathered Dominic into my arms with the gentleness of a man that did not want to hurt him or disturb his restful slumber. I held him for a while, admiring his sweet, angelic features. His lips were bottom-heavy, which I hadn’t noticed before. His arms and legs were short and soft, but his hands and feet looked disproportionately big. Is that normal? Why are his fingers so long? When was the last time Alice trimmed his fingernails?

Alice Montgomery.

Termination of employment.

I had dismissed the nanny without a backup plan.

Now, I must start the hiring process all over again.

Impulsiveness will be the death of me.

“What are you doing?” Emma asked in a tired, croaky voice, and I turned with the baby in the safety of my arms to face her. “Little Guy loves his milk, by the way. He cleared eight ounces and looked for more. I had to pacify him with the dummy.” Her arms extended above her head as she stretched out on the bed, the slight raise of her T-shirt exposing two prominent hip bones. Yes, I approved. “What?” She misinterpreted fondness for disapproval. “Did something happen?”

I am amazed by you. “No.”

Emma disappeared to the bathroom whilst I settled Dominic in the cot. His rosebud lips pouted as the pillow braced his head. Draping the blanket over his legs, keeping him warm, I grabbed the duvet on the floor and star-fished the bed.

“Are Dominic’s hands too big?” I asked, hearing the bedroom door click shut upon her return. “What about his feet?”

“No.” Her light laughter soothed my chest. “His hands and feet are perfectly normal. Paranoid dad syndrome, huh?”

Clueless dad syndrome.

Rolling onto my back, I reached for her hand when her knee fell to the mattress, interlaced our fingers and coaxed her in. My arm supported the weight of her beautiful body as she curled onto her side, her head to my shoulder, and I pulled the duvet over us to sustain heat, not that I was cold. If anything, I am hot, inside and out, but privacy is the exactness of what she and I needed.

Practice self-control.

When Emma’s eyelids risked closure, I wrapped an arm around her waist, lowered my head to her shoulder and kissed the line of her jaw until the soft shell of her ear greeted my lips.

Investigatory fingers creeping under her T-shirt, tracing the distance of her anchored spine, where I knew the constellation of beauty marks decorated her silken skin, I whispered sweet nothings in her ear with acute breathlessness.

Her mussed hair fell into my hand as her neck elongated for my lips. Teeth nipping the feminine curve of her throat, I grasped the back of her knee, wound her leg over my thigh, hips rolling steadily against her sex to let her feel the strain of my arousal. I palmed the swell of her arse, heart beating double time in my chest.

I refused to look elsewhere.

I refused to focus on anything but her.

“What’s happening?” she asked with a lip-bite, a half-smile, and her kittenish charm made me wonder if harmless teasing is how most couples behaved in bed. “Do you need help with him?”

My cock ached for attention. I moved her wandering hand to the area between my legs to satiate her curiosity.

Her agile fingers flexed at the unexpectant act.

Our eyes locked as our joint hands dipped beneath the waistband of my boxer briefs. My palm rested on her curled-up fist as she took possession of my heavy shaft, her fingers tightening around the base to deliver one fluent upstroke.

After the conversation with the therapist, I wanted to touch myself to the image of Emma and have a bit of naughty fun together, but even with the woman’s encouraging strokes to my length and thumb sweeps to the swollen crown, where pre-cum beaded, I could not summon the enthusiasm to participate.

Instead, I pulled back and ceded to the bad habit of selfishness. Under normal circumstances, I’d sit back now, wait for the woman’s head to go south and lose one’s presence of mind to orgasmic contentment. But I did not want to be selfish with Emma. I wanted to reciprocate pleasure and satisfy her sexual needs. Otherwise, what’s the point? I may as well leave, regress to vice and never see her again.

“Christ,” I virtually growled into the groove of her neck, her dexterous hand working the length of my cock.

Her green eyes, fascinatingly beautiful, watched me watching her.

Pinching the hem of her T-shirt, I raised the material to her waistline. My fingertips outlined the rippled, fine, semi-transparent grooves on her stomach until the delicate fabric of her cotton underwear grazed my palm.

Her thighs widened for me.

In breathless anticipation, I moved the cotton thong to the side to feel the warmth of her cunt in my hand. Two fingers slipped through her wet folds. Her lips parted on a breathy hitch when I made contact with her tender, aching clit.

Her hand clenched the root of my shaft. “Brad.”

I liked the sound of my name on her lips.

Thumb circling her bundle of nerves with precision, I sank two fingers inside her, straight to the knuckles, to locate her G-spot, and when I found it, I tantalised her, applied pressure with circular motions.

My lips met hers for a long, sensual kiss. She tasted like mint from her quick trip to the bathroom. I pecked her kissable lips, once, twice, corner to corner, separating her mouth with the tip of my tongue, soft and hard, desperate yet controlled.

“My neck,” I instructed, and she stared, confused by the demand. “Put your hands on my neck.”

Pausing for a nanosecond, she released the grip on my cock, withdrew her arm and captured my neck in both hands. Her palms were gentle on my skin. I put our foreheads together, closed my eyes and forced myself to concentrate. I was rock hard, painfully so, but the urge to witness her burning desire and listen to her erotic moans kept amorousness in check.

Thumb swiping her throbbing, rigid clit, I shoved my fingers deep, in and out, and a small moan escaped her lips. I captured her plea with my mouth, devouring her with starved, hungry kisses.

Her fingertips whispered along the side of my neck, and as if reading my mind, her nails dented my skin with the type of soreness that had my entire body tightening.

I rolled toward her on instinct, trapped her body beneath me, hips positioned between her wide, slackened thighs. I savoured the feel of her juices, her wetness dripping down my fingers.

Sex was not even on the table, yet the two of us glistened in sweat.

Pulling the duvet over our bodies, our heads, she locked us in the dark, away from possible exposure, in our safety bubble, and fastened her hands to the top of my back.

“Brad.” Her thrusting hips matched the tantalising speed of my fingers as I buried them deep within her folds. “Don’t stop. I have pictured this moment for weeks.”

I shuddered in response, turned on by the knowledge of her fantasising about us. My mouth found her throat in the dark. In the heat of the moment, I suckled and bit hard enough to leave a mark. The delivered pain intensified the experience. Her hiss slipped into my mouth as she kissed me with abandon.

Securing one hand above her head on the pillow, I braced myself above her, wishing for light, even if dim, for the opportunity to watch her cunt strangle my fingers. I’d love to witness the second she lets go, to see her gush on the sheets beneath us.

I settled for senses as an alternative, the combination of her hitched whimpers and wet pussy.

Her inner walls started to throb in response to being teased, and I knew she was close.

She murmured something endearing, so unassumingly triggering, and I flinched, fuming with myself for being responsive.

“Emma,” I said aloud, then lowered my face to her shoulder. “Stop talking.” My hand covered her mouth, cutting off her air supply and silencing her voice. “You better come for me.”

Finding a surge of confidence, she dipped her hands under my boxer briefs, took my arse into her hands and held onto me.

I fucked her with my fingers. Her restless thighs, tremoring against my hips, rocked up and down as she chased her release.

With a come-hither motion, I worked her G-spot at a punishing pace, recognising the signs of a highly sensitive woman. Her head thrashed from side to side, fighting for oxygen. I released the firm hold to her mouth, her breath respiring raggedly, and fisted her hair at the top of the head, just enough sharpness to heighten her delectation.

Heat poured into my bloodstream. I had never lost composure without the actual touch of a woman before. Yet, I felt that I’d come by simply giving in to temptation if I allowed myself to let go.

Emma’s hand reached between us to latch onto my wrist. “Wait,” she said, her timorousness palpable. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“Trust me,” I said with a touch of levity. “You’re going to love it.”

Opening her legs wider to take what I gave her, she let go of my wrist, slid her palms up my arms and clung to my shoulders.

I had paced myself for her benefit.

Now, I had to reap the rewards.

Her body was afire beneath me.

Leaving no visible gap between our misted bodies, I stimulated her, felt her unravel, and drew my fingers out of her cunt as she writhed in unbearable ecstasy. Her sex was spread open, needier than sin, drenching the heel of my hand in sweet, captivating combustion as she gushed.

Fucking Christ.

I don’t even think she breathed until it was over.

My lips sought hers for a kiss.

Her breaths came in harsh. “What did you just do to me?”

I will let Google explain this one.

Falling onto the mattress next to her, I threw the duvet off our heads, relieved by the cool, unstuffy air, and stared at the ceiling.

My cock had not reduced in size, not by thickness nor length, but this morning felt like a huge, monumental achievement. I had prioritised her desires and placed her sexual needs above my own.

Emma pulled herself upright, the gathered T-shirt falling to her hips, and studied the wall with an odd, peculiar look on her face. Part of me wanted to ask questions, to know what was on her mind, but I admired her flushed cheeks and tangled hair instead. My hand coasted to her thigh, feeling her heated, goose-pimpled skin under my palm. “Do I want to ask what bothers you, or will I regret curiosity if you speak?”

“I am fine,” she said with a reassuring smile.

I regarded the light bruises on her cheek and shoulder, the result of Stephanie’s scornfulness. I did not like it one bit. “It is within her best interest to never show her face here again. If I catch her inside this building, I will not be the one to suffer the consequences. I will put her in her place. Know that my approach will be far from civil or interceptive.”

Her stare came to me. “And where is her place?”

“Why do you ask questions that you don’t want the answers to?” Yes, I challenged her moral sense because we both know the equilibrium of our closeness is antithetical, whether addressed or not. “I am a killer. I am paid to kill people.”

Her jaw unhinged.

“Sometimes, I kill because I want to. Stephanie, the woman who marked your skin, I want to return the favour. I want to ensure that she never, ever reencounters you. How does that sound for honesty?”

“Why do you do that?”

I frowned. “Do what?”

“You try to push me away.”

Yes, I’d have strived for detachment before but not anymore. Pushing her away is the least favourable outcome. However, for us to work, she had to bury apprehensiveness, rightly or wrongly, and accept the reality of what I am, of who I am to the core. I do not expect her to defend my honour, fight alongside me, or commit crimes alike, but I need her to turn a blind eye to nefarious activities.

I moved in to ravish the column of her neck with lips.

“What did I do?” she asked, not that I understood the question. “Just now. You tensed up and smothered me.”

Emma had aimed for light-heartedness, as if the occurrence unperturbed her, but the avoidance of eye contact suggested anxiousness.

You called me baby.

Yolanda called me sweet baby.

“I prefer Big Guy,” I answered with earnestness. “It strokes my ego.”

Of course, I winked to lighten the mood.

I won’t ruin the moment with sordid backstories.

“Sorry.” Her cheeks flushed crimson. “I don’t know why I said that.”

It’s not your fault that I am a colossal fuck up. “Don’t apologise.”

“Babba.” Dominic’s happiness knifed through the tension. “Babba-mum.”

I peered over Emma’s head to see him standing in the cot, perched on his tip-toes, stuffed animal in one hand, blue dummy in the other hand. He tossed said dummy on the floor, and I succumbed to defeat. He had a serious issue with abandoning his favourite objects.

Emma gave him a sweet smile. “I think he misses his mother.”

“No,” I disagreed wholeheartedly. “He talks gibberish, and nothing is said in context.”

She made an unsure face. “Would your opinion change if he called you daddy?”

I gave her a low smirk. “You can call me daddy.”

She shoved me in the shoulder, flirtishly harmless, and I caught her wrist, yanking her close for another kiss. “Neanderthal,” she whispered against my lips, lips that stretched into the biggest smile. “I should shower.”

My hand skirted to the nape of her neck. “You should change the sheets, too.”

“And get my son ready for school,” she said between kisses. “Are you staying?”

No, I had to drive to the Warren Manor. Alexa can babysit whilst I hunt down a new nanny. I had to check in on Logan, too. My boss will murder me if he comes home to find his kid is not on the straight and narrow. Then, I might treat Nate to breakfast because I am Hank Marvin—I could smash a full English or two and still eat some bacon butties slathered in HP—before we head back to the crematorium to string David up by his saggy bollocks. And I should probably swing by Sailor’s house to see if he is alive and kicking…

Why am I lazing in bed?

I don’t have time to be unmotivated, to sit around doing nothing.

I had to manage the underworld.

“Big Guy?” Emma’s finger lifted my chin for us to look at one another. “Do you need any help with Dominic before I go for a shower?”

“No, I’m good.” I climbed out of bed, went to the cot, lifted the baby out and searched for a space to change his nappy. “Do you have any plans this afternoon?”

“Except work?” Emma began to strip the bed. “No, not really. I have to collect Carter from school at three, but that’s about it.”

I played our game, which might be tactless. “You have a great wardrobe,” I lied, and she peered up from beneath her lashes, the bunched-up bed sheet hanging from her arms. “Clothes aplenty. Nightwear by the dozen. Underwear in abundance.”

Her spine straightened. “Do you have an issue with my fashion sense, Big Guy?”

Astute.

Fashion sense is synonymous with those who dress fashionably, but I stopped myself from correcting her. “I don’t have an issue with your style, sweetheart.” Her heated cheeks of embarrassment made me feel like a right tosser. “Listen, I am attracted to you. I think you’re beautiful.”

She focused on the wriggling baby in my arms.

“Am I wrong to assume that you struggle, though? Financially.” I might be digging myself a bigger hole. “I want to help if you will allow it.”

“No,” she said, her voice brusque with annoyance. “I’m okay, thank you.”

Insensitiveness is a bad trait I adopted. “I offended you.”

“No, shit.” Leaving the sheets on the floor in messy heaps, she stalked toward the door, wanting to get away, it seemed. “I am not a bloody charity case.”

“Emma, wait,” I called out, but her furious strides continued. “Will you just wait?” My hand nabbed the back of her T-shirt, and her clumsy, uncoordinated footsteps came to an abrupt halt. “If you’re a charity case, I am a charity case. I have been living off Warren’s wealth since I met him.”

There was an infinitesimal pause.

“That’s not a fair comparison.” She turned to face me but never uncurled the fingers latched to her T-shirt. “You work for him. You earned that money.”

Dominic’s hands slapped the top of my head, speared through my hair with curious fingers and latched onto the roots to yank, twist and pull strands.

I ignored the delivered pain to my scalp. “I am overpaid.” Warren takes care of the elite. He could pay much less for our services—for men who’d work for the bare minimum. “I won’t apologise for looking out for your best interest. I know it’s not official between us, I know there is much to discuss, but I care about you. I don’t want you to be stressed or to settle for second-best. Put stubbornness aside and let me help you.”

Her gaze dropped to the floor.

“What do you say?” My arm slid around her waist as I hauled her close. “I can come back later, after you collect Carter from school, and drive you both into town. We can do some shopping.” Her son more than likely necessitated a wardrobe upgrade, too. “As a matter of fact, you will be doing me a solid. I absolutely love retail. It’s my favourite pastime. Then, we can dine somewhere, because I am a fat bastard, and I love my food. How does that sound?”

Emma’s mouth opened to protest, and then she sighed. “You are not fat. You are a connoisseur of food and the proud owner of an impressive six-pack.” Her fingernail traced the hard lines of my abdomen. “Okay, I will agree to a shopping trip if you let me pay the restaurant bill. And do not try to negotiate with me. Those are my terms and conditions.”

My tone stayed low. “Fine.”

“Fine,” she said whilst stealing a kiss. “Are you sure you don’t need help with Little Guy? Only, he’s halfway down your leg and ready to flee the bedroom.”

“What?” I jerked back, watching in astonishment as the baby waddled like a penguin toward the door; I never even noticed the fact he escaped my arms. “How did he do that?”

“He is mischievous.” She gave me a gentle flick to the nose. “Who does that remind me of?”

Dominic got to the door. He looked into the hallway, back to me, as if to check whether I’d follow if he absconded. Once he decided on the next course of action, he clapped his hands, chuckled at the possibility of playtime, dashed down the hall and headed straight for the kitchen.

Yes, I suppose he is mischievous like his father.

I smiled to myself.

Having a son is not so bad.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Emma

My son devoured two cereal bars, a small carton of full-fat milk and a waxy red apple for breakfast. Licking crumbs off his lips, he stuffed the rubbish into a carrier bag, kicked his feet onto the dashboard and gazed out of the window to watch the world pass on by in a murkily coloured blur.

“Carter,” I said, driving toward the school. “Do you like Brad?”

His brows joined in the middle. “Why?”

Your opinion is relevant. “Just wondering.”

“I guess.” His frown held firmly in place. “What’s not to like? He gave me money to buy new wheels, and he paid for Chinese food. I think I like him. Dominic is cool, too.”

I sensed his curious eyes on me.

He coughed. “Are you dating?”

I slid him a glance. “What do you know about dating?”

“I know that adults do it sometimes.” He stared deadpan at me. “My friends’ parents date every weekend.”

“Lucky for some, huh?” A smile touched my lips. “Would it bother you if he and I dated?”

“I don’t think so?” His uncertainty sounded like a question. “It’s not like you can date my dad.”

At the mention of his father, of Killian, I felt a sickening twinge in my stomach.

“You can date him if you want to.” His feet dropped from the dashboard as he reached for the backpack on the floor. “Does this mean Dominic is my brother now? Will I have to share my bedroom? My cars?”

I parked by the curbside. “It’s early days.”

He sat there, waiting in unbreathable dread.

“It’s too soon for serious changes. In the future, if everything works out for the best, we can have this conversation. In the meantime, I’d be happy if the two of you bonded over your love for disorderliness.”

“Disorderliness?” His face twisted in bafflement. “What the heck?”

“You are both equally messy and destructive.”

“That’s a lie. I clean all the time.” He spoke with such passion. “Plus, he makes a mess for no reason. I don’t throw books on the floor just for the sake of it.”

“No, you lunge dirty socks across the room for the cleaning fairy.” I pointed out, rising from the car to steal a moment with him outside. “Come on. You’re going to be late.”

“Who is picking me up later?” He rounded the bonnet to meet me halfway for a hug. “You or Uncle Ben?”

“Me.” Dropping a kiss on his head, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, holding him for a long squeeze. “We might go shopping this evening. With Brad,” I added, and he peered up at me, the stark white ball cap shielding his eyes. “Is that okay? We can get a bite to eat afterwards.”

“Sure.” He pushed off his tip-toes to kiss my cheek. “I love you, mum.”

“I love you, too.” I drew an imaginary heart in the air between us, and his eyes rounded as if to say, do not embarrass me when there are people around. “Be good for your teacher.”

“Did you bring a football?” one of the boys stood by the wrought iron gates shouted over, and Carter shook his head. “What about baseball?”

My son joined the cluster of boys. “I don’t play baseball.”

Surrounded by doting mothers alike, I watched them walk away. Carter trudged through the school grounds alongside energetic friends with varicoloured backpacks. His classmates vanished indoors, but he stopped and waved by the archway door before heading to the classroom. Communication with hand gestures is tradition. We never departed without non-verbal goodbyes. I can only hope he is not too cool to love his mother in public when he is older. I have noticed that he’s easily embarrassed lately, as he doesn’t want his friends to laugh at him for showing affection in front of an audience.

Feeling spatters of rain on my face, I unlocked the car, wrestled open the driver’s side door and slumped onto the squeaky chair behind the steering wheel.

Ominous clouds loomed dangerously above as thunder crackled and rumbled in the distance. I do not hate the rain. I dreaded the aftermath of torrential weather conditions, though.

I texted my brother.

Me: It’s starting to rain again.

His reply came seconds later.

Ben: I know. It’s a fucking nightmare.

Me: We should grab the sandbags in the basement as a precaution.

Ben: Lol. Too late. The basement flooded last night.

My brother will hire professionals to remove the flood-damaged timber and hoarded furniture. He is prepared for the pricey consequence of rainfall intensity, but preparation never makes it less exasperating.

Me: Well, shall I drive to a local supplier and buy more? I am worried about the cafe. If the weather continues at this rate, we’ll be forced to stay indoors.

Ben: You are not lifting sandbags by yourself.

Me: I can ask the customer advisor to help.

Ben: No, I will sort it out later.

Me: You are impossible.

Ben: I care about my sister.

Ben: Big difference.

Me: Are you sure? I really don’t mind.

Ben: Positive.

Me: Okay, I have to run to the supermarket. I will be home soon.

Ben: No rush.

Chucking the phone onto the passenger seat, I shoved the key in the ignition, fought with the gear stick and toed the accelerator. Soon, heavy rain poured down on the windshield. I hit the wipers on full speed for essential visibility and drove to the nearest store to stock up on weekly essentials.

***

Popping open an apple juice seal, I placed the plastic rim to my lips and guzzled to slake my thirst whilst flicking through the magazine rack for this week’s newest edition of National Geographic for Carter. It came with a stuffed animal, a miniature sea turtle, which I very much doubt he’ll enjoy playing with.

The magazine landed in the trolley.

Wading through busy aisles, I located the clothes section and eyed new arrivals. Brad offered to upgrade my wardrobe (an altruistic way of saying I looked like shit), and it’s pretty much consumed my thoughts since we parted ways this morning. I am not a proud fashionista. I learnt to settle for adequate due to insignificant funds.

Self-consciousness crept in.

I pondered whether to buy denim jeans, a long-sleeved, belted jumper and maybe the suede ankle boots. The purchase will take me over budget, but I wanted to make an effort for our trip to town this evening.

Deciding to buy all three items, I dumped them in the trolley, convincing myself that I deserved to splurge every once in a while.

“I can give you my staff discount,” came a familiar voice, and I jumped on the spot. “Easy.” Hugo’s hands came to my arms to steady clumsiness. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay,” I lied, short of breath. “And you don’t have to do that. I’d hate for you to get fired because of me.”

“You sure?” He followed me into the next aisle, where people fought over the bargain-labelled eat-me-today-or-have-food-poisoning produce. “I don’t mind.”

I gave him a tentative smile.

“So, what happened?” he asked the ultimate question I had hoped to avoid. “Did I do something wrong?” His cheeks reddened as he awaited my response. “It was the date, right? You hated the picnic.”

I loved the old-school picnic. It was an inexpensive experience but no less romantic. “I agreed to a second date.”

Hugo’s lips smacked together. “Yes, then I replied with plans, and you cancelled.”

My face blanched.

“You told me not to text anymore…” His brow elevated slowly. “You said, and I quote, ‘Fuck off, Tool. I will message when I am good and ready.’”

I nearly fainted. “I did not say that.”

“Yes, you did.” He extracted the phone from his trouser pocket. “I still have the messages.”

He angled the screen for me to read the message thread.

Emma: Fuck off, Tool.

Emma: I will message when I am good and ready.

My chin hit the floor. “Hughie…”

“Hugo,” he corrected sheepishly.

I bellied abashment. “I did not send those messages. I would never treat someone like that. If I did not want another date, I’d have been honest with you.”

“Oh?” He stuffed the phone into his pocket. “Well, if you didn’t text me, who did?”

Brad Jones. “I cannot be too sure.”

He stared.

I stared.

Our sudden wordlessness became extremely awkward.

“Does this mean you do want a second date?” He knifed through the seal of our silence. “We don’t have to go to the movies. You can decide. Although, I hear the theatre is fun. I could buy us tickets for a late-night show.”

When in bed with Big Guy this morning, I thought I might be onto something good. My feelings have not changed. I am still insanely attracted to the man. How dare he go on my phone and send Hugo a spiteful message, though? And before our friendship moved to the next level, I might add. I cannot ignore those glaring red flags. “I never lied before. I did want a second date. However, my life is a little complicated right now…”

“I understand.” His soft eyes pinched with disappointment. “When should I expect to hear from you? It’s not to be too pushy, but it’s not about waiting around if you have no intention of seeing me again. Breadcrumbing is not fair on either of us.”

Hugo’s dubiousness is comprehendible.

I reached for the bag of smarties on the shelf. “I think it’s best to stay friends. I am not in any position to date you, so it would be selfishly unfair to make idle promises.”

“Right.” He smiled sadly. “Well, I guess I will see you around.” He stayed, awkwardly unmoving, the quagmire of gawkiness, then something inside of him splintered, and he remembered his feet. “Goodbye.”

Hugo’s arm clipped my shoulder as he walked off, leaving me in the aisle, surrounded by nosey people, feeling like a complete and utter bitch.

Tossing the smarties in the trolley, I respired a wearisome breath, finalised the shopping trip with a bottle of rum for Benjamin and paid full price at the self-service checkout.

***

I parked the car in the alleyway behind the cafe and watched with a sense of foreboding as blocked drains streamed a mixture of persistent rain and odoriferous sewage down the bricked street.

Jerking open the car door, I braved sheets of downpour, unlocked the boot and gathered overpacked carrier bags, which snapped and threatened to burst with each step toward the cafe. My clothes had stuck to my skin by the time I knocked on the fire exit door.

Ben appeared, seemingly angrier than I felt. He took the bags out of my hands, dumped them on the stainless-steel counter, hurled a towel in my face and speared a hand through his messy hair, hair that had been tugged at, by the looks of it.

I dried off. “I should have bought the sandbags.”

“What’s the point?” His heavy-duty boots kicked up dirty, shallow water as he paced back and forth. “The Met Office issued severe weather warnings. We can’t prevent this shit.” He stacked stools onto the counter and busied himself, taking his mind off impending doom. “I sent everyone home and closed the cafe until further notice. You should pack a case. We might have to spend a few nights in a hotel.”

My brother lingered by the fridge freezer, his arms akimbo, his expression crestfallen, as water rivulets seeped under the steel door. He put his heart and soul into the cafe, yet life hit him with every setback under the sun and made it impossible for him to prosper.

I went to his side, enveloped my arms around his waist and put my cheek on his chest. He inhaled, held his breath, and then reciprocated love and devotion. His strong arms locked around my shoulders, holding me close as he found comfort in our wordless exchange.

“Ben,” I said warily. “I think it’s time to relocate.”

His head dipped.

“I know you love it here.” My arms tightened around his middle section. “You have worked so hard to stay in business, but the location–”

“I know,” he interjected, and my mouth wired shut. “Fuck the bad weather. I lost the cafe beforehand. We both know it. I was just too stubborn to accept it.”

My brows snapped together. “No, I am not saying to ditch the cafe completely. We can find a new building and start again.”

“No.” He untangled my arms from his waist. “It’s over, Em. My dream of being a chef is over.”

My brother’s hopelessness brought tears to my eyes.

“Don’t say that,” I said, not that he paid attention. “I get it, okay? It’s a bad day, and everything feels pointless, but tomorrow will be brighter. We can hire professionals to fix any damages and regroup—”

“No,” he snapped with uncompromising vexation, and I automatically flinched. “What do you not understand?” His anger and aberrant behaviour worsened. “I cannot fix this.”

I swallowed.

“You want me to hire professionals,” he said with a mocking laugh. “Yeah, alright. I will hire someone to come in here and remove the water. I will go online and buy replacement furniture because those tables will be floating upside down by the morning. Maybe, just maybe, I will call an electrician to sort the circuit breakers once the power goes out. With what money?” His tense arms folded. “Go ahead. Tell me, how did I pay these guys?”

I had no response.

He picked up the cold mug of coffee on the counter and lunged it at the wall, shattering it into pieces. “I am fucking broke!”

Powerlessness is the most distressing emotion I have ever felt. If I could wave a magic wand to make life easier for my brother, I would do it in a heartbeat.

“Okay,” I whispered, and his wet eyes lowered to the water-covered floor. “I don’t want to argue with you. Whatever you decide, I am here to support you.”

I left Ben in the kitchen with only his thoughts to contend with. Taking the stairs two at a time, I unlocked the door to our flat, chucked the keys onto the nearby dresser, bypassed the bedrooms and searched the kitchen for essentials: tea bags.

Before I packed everyone’s suitcases, I made a sweet cup of tea with extra sugar and sat at the table, alone and ruminative. I loaded the browser on my phone, typed loan agencies into the search bar, clicked on the first website, read representative examples and checked eligibility.

Declined.

Sipping lukewarm tea, I thumbed through websites, applied for quotes and left contact details. Almost instantly, emails pinged, and each agency declined my application. My credit score is not too low. My income is insufficient and unstable.

I sent a text message to Brad.

Me: So, I bumped into Hugo at the supermarket.

Message delivered.

Me: He said that I texted him. He proceeded to show me the message. Apparently, I called him a tool. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Big Guy?

Message delivered.

I stared at the phone.

Brad read the message twelve minutes later, but he never responded. I tucked the phone into my pocket and went to Carter’s bedroom to pack spare clothes, pyjamas, briefs and toiletries.

Leaving the unzipped case on the floor, I made the bed, folded the duvet down in the corners, and plumped up the cushions. I felt something hard inside the pillow cover and shook it until the item fell out and landed on the duvet.

It is a rustic medallion engraved with the Gaelic Tree of Life.

It belonged to Killian.

Fuming by the hidden object, I was back on my phone to chastise the man responsible.

Me: Why?

Message delivered.

Message read.

Tommy: Eh?

My thumbs tapped the screen furiously.

Me: Why would you give Killian’s medallion to Carter? You never even asked if I’d be okay with it.

Tommy: What the fuck? I ain’t done shite.

Me: Well, it’s here, Tommy.

Me: I found it under his pillow.

Tommy: Emma, I swear, I never gave it to him.

Me: Then, who did?

Tommy: Not me.

Me: Someone did.

Tommy: It ain’t me.

Infuriated by the man’s useless attitude, I sat on the edge of the bed, the medallion rolling between my fingers.

Carter had secrets.

My question is simply why?

Is he afraid to talk to me? If so, since when? That’s not our relationship. We have always been open and honest with one another. Even when it pained me to talk about his father, I slapped a huge, fake smile on my face and endured question after question for the sake of my son’s inquisitiveness.

I lied.

I told Carter that his father was a heroic soldier, which Killian did not deserve, because boys love their daddies, whether they meet them or not, and I would never burden my son with the horrific truth of who his father had become before his suicide.

My phone vibrated.

Big Guy: Hughie is desperate.

My anger resurfaced.

Me: You had no right to reply on my behalf.

Big Guy: I am not sorry.

Me: You allowed him to think I am a heartless bitch.

Big Guy: So? Why do you care?

Me: I am not a bitch.

Big Guy: I never said you were.

Me: Brad…

Big Guy: What does it matter?

Big Guy: You are my girl. You belong to me, not him.

Butterflies uncaged.

I am falling for this man.

***

Ben loaded the car with our cases whilst I ran around the flat, securing the windows, turning off the plug sockets and grabbing last-minute items.

Dashing downstairs at breakneck speed, I locked the front door, juggling juice bottles, healthy snacks and pre-made sandwiches, and gallantly faced the rain once more.

I might have squealed, sprinting through the alleyway, losing two bananas en route, but I made it to the car and collapsed in the passenger seat unscathed.

Ben’s hand rested on the handbrake. “You should be on stage.” His leather jacket strained to accommodate his upper body as he shifted in the seat for comfort. “That was comical.”

My teeth released an unopened packet of crisps onto my lap. “Why should I be on stage? And there was nothing comical about that hellacious journey.”

“Dramatiser. You never tried to run in a straight line. You ran in circles to get to the car.” He started the engine. “I know the wind is strong, but not enough to make you dance like that.”

I uncapped a bottle of orange juice. “Like what?”

“Like an idiot.” Gripping the steering wheel tightly, he drove with extra caution down the alley. “We need a new car.”

Yes, I know the car is a piece of crap.

I downed juice in two gulps. “What about the motorcycle? You can’t leave it there.”

“Wyatt borrowed it. He’ll store it at his place.” Ben eased onto the accelerator once we got on the main road. “I reckon we should drive to the school and grab Carter. I know it’s early, but the weather is an issue.” His finger flicked on the windshield wipers. “I say we check into a hotel as soon as possible and wait for the storm to pass.”

I ripped open a bag of smarties. “Sure.”

“I’ll drive to the cashpoint after the school run.” His fingers tapped the steering wheel along to the music. “Normally, breakfast is included with accommodation, but I am worried about dinner. Maybe we can order a pizza later.”

I chucked two smarties in my mouth. “I am supposed to meet Brad.”

“You should double-check.” He paused by the red traffic light. “No one is stupid enough to go out in this.”

Unlocking my phone and licking melted chocolate off my teeth, I sent Brad another text message.

Me: Are we still on for tonight?

Brad must have been on his phone because he read the message within seconds.

Big Guy: Yes.

Me: What about the storm?

Big Guy: What storm?

Me: Do you sleep during the day or something?

Big Guy: No. I worked underground today.

I scowled at his reply.

Me: Underground?

Big Guy: Yes.

There is a pregnant woman locked up inside the estate. Nate Alzaim is waiting for her to give birth to their child before he kills her. He promised as much this morning.

My thumbs hovered over the phone screen.

They had another victim caged underground a few weeks ago. I think she was Italian. I don’t know. But she was a mother, and she begged for mercy. My boss killed her and buried her in the garden.

Alice’s voice maundered.

Me: At the estate?

Message read.

Big Guy: No.

Why am I relieved?

Why am I glorifying, normalising and romanticising gangsterism?

When did I start looking for reasons to excuse his career?

It was from the very beginning. Brad told me that his community service officer more than likely snuffed it in the skip. I overlooked the remark, the warning bells, and I have overlooked every wicked thing he has said or done since because I like him.

I more than like him.

I am mere kisses away from falling in love with him.

Big Guy: Do you want to reschedule?

Ben is almost at the school gates.

Me: No, but I might leave Carter at the hotel if that’s okay? I won’t drag him around in this weather.

Big Guy: Hotel?

Me: Long story.

I dialled the school’s number to prepare them for our arrival. Phone to my ear, I unbuckled the seat belt, listened to the answering machine options and pressed one for the reception team.

“Good afternoon,” the chipper female answered. “How can I help?”

“It’s Emma Hughes,” I said as Ben parked the car, ready for me to jump out. “Is Mrs Lang about?”

“She’s in a meeting,” the woman enlightened. “Is there anything I can help with? Are you calling to report Carter’s absence?”

Glancing at my reflection in the wing mirror, I fussed with my hair to smarten my appearance. “Absence? No, I dropped him to school this morning. I need to collect him early, though. Personal reasons.”

Ben tucked into a ham and cheese sandwich.

“Oh?” She called someone in the background. “One moment.”

Lowering the phone so that I was not forced to listen to hold music, I regarded my brother warily. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

He sucked mayonnaise off his thumbs. “Depends on the question.”

I chewed my inner cheek. “It’s a sexual question.”

“Fuck off,” he berated, and I laughed at him squirming. “What you do in the bedroom is of no interest to me. I thought we established boundaries already.”

“No, I need to ask something that’s embarrassing for me,” I stressed, and he looked ready to throw up. “Please, Ben. Don’t make me ask Quinn. She will never let me live it down.”

Having lost his appetite, he secured the half-eaten sandwich with the plastic wrap. “Hurry up before I change my mind.”

“Brad touched me, right?” I mused, and he banged the back of his head against the headrest. “Well, it felt really good–”

“Emma.” His stern voice held a warning. “Spare me the details.”

“Okay.” Turning in the seat to face him fully, I put the phone to my ear to ensure the receptionist was not on the line. “I think I pissed myself.”

Ben’s eyebrows lifted in amusement.

“It was a lot,” I said with dramatic hand gestures, and the corner of his mouth curled. “I soaked the sheet. Don’t get me wrong. Brad never said anything to embarrass me. I was mortified, though. I had to strip the bed–”

“Emma.” His hand raised to silence me. “Stop. Did you, like, you know?”

“No.” My breath abandoned me. “I don’t know, actually. That’s why I asked you.”

He rubbed his eyes in agitation. “Did you orgasm?”

“Yes.” In fact, I had never orgasmed so hard in my life. “It was amazing.”

“You squirted. Female ejaculation. Well done. A for effort.” He was too repulsed to look at me. “Now, can we never have this conversation again?”

“Female ejaculation?” I repeated, hearing the woman’s voice in my ear. I shot him the death glare to stay quiet. “Sorry about that. What did you say?”

“It’s Mrs Lang.” Carter’s deputy head. “Miss Hughes, I left the meeting instantly to discuss the matter. You told our receptionist that you dropped Carter to school this morning. Did I understand correctly?”

Mother’s instinct kicked in.

“What the hell is going on?” Pushing open the car door, I stepped onto the pavement, drowning out Ben’s concerned voice behind me, and started to sprint toward the school entrance. “Why has this become a matter of urgency?”

“Miss Hughes, if you could calm down—”

“What’s wrong with my son?” My slippery, rain-laden fingers gripped the phone. “I am headed to the office right now.”

She exhaled into the receiver. “I will unlock the doors.”

Ending the call, I thrust the phone into my pocket, wiping rainwater out of my eyes. I heard Ben’s heavy footsteps behind me as I ascended the steps to the entrance. Behind the glass door stood too many people for my liking. I stared, unblinking, watching their jittery movements, their mouths moving subtly, and their feet tapping anxiously.

“What happened?” Ben caught up, keeled over at the waist and panted for breath. “Is he in trouble? I’ll whoop his arse.”

“I don’t know,” I said as the curvy deputy headteacher, clad in pinstripes and bedecked in fashion jewellery, swung the door open. “Where is he?”

“Miss Hughes.” A short, bewhiskered male came from nowhere to put a hand on the small of my back as if to mollify me with his sympathetic eyes and lowered tone of voice. “If you could step into my office.”

“I don’t want to step into your office.” Panic became too much. It touched every nerve in my body, and I could hardly withstand it. “Can you get my son for me, please? I’d like to speak with him beforehand.”

Everyone, males and females, exchanged anxious glances.

“What the fuck is going on?” Ben lost composure. “Where is my nephew?”

“We haven’t seen him.” Mrs Lang was sickly pale with what can only be described as worry. “He was not in school today.”

“What are you talking about?” My mouth was aghast with horror. “I drove him here. I stood outside and watched him enter the building with his friends.”

Mrs Lang, unable to provide answers, looked upon the short male for guidance. But he, too, remained tight-lipped. Every coward-faced staff member, taciturn and uncongenial, oozed unprofessionalism. I trusted these people with the most important person in my life, with my absolute heart, my baby boy, and they had nothing to say to me.

“Where is my son?” My voice broke into a hoarse whisper. “Where the hell is my little boy? You–”

“Emma.” Ben seized my elbow, and suddenly, I was in his arms, caged to his chest, listening to the frantic thump of his heartbeat. “Have you checked the surveillance?” he asked them, and someone murmured something indecipherable. “Then, why are you just standing there? Carter is missing. He is not here, and he is not with us. Do something. Anything. But we are not leaving this school until you provide answers.”

Carter is missing.

“No.” My head shook vehemently. “Ben, he is here. I saw him. They haven’t looked hard enough.” Yet, I felt cold, empty inside. “He’s probably in the school somewhere with his friends. Have you checked the library?”

Carter is not an ill-behaved child. He’d never go on the mitch, so I don’t know why I even considered the concept.

It would be thirty minutes before Mrs Lang returned, flustered and apprehensive, with sheets of paper in her hand. Her colleagues made themselves scarce for us to talk privately.

Tears I hadn’t felt prior fell to the floor.

Dabbing my cheeks with the sleeve of my jumper, I tapped Ben’s back, and he let me go. Hugging myself to stay warm, to get a handle on the tremors, I blinked back tears, the pain in my chest intensifying, and readied myself for whatever Mrs Lang had to show us.

“You were right,” she said, and a snarky comment teased the tip of my tongue. “Carter was here, but he never entered the classroom.” With trembling frightfulness, she exhibited the printouts for us to examine. “Carter left the school grounds. Here is an image of him by the gates. You can see him leave in the footage. He hangs around for three minutes before he walks to the gully.”

My son left the school. “I don’t understand. Why would he do this?”

“What’s that?” Ben took the image out of my hand and pointed at something near the gully opposite the school. “Emma, we need to call the police.”

“What?” My eyes narrowed as I studied the image, not that I found anything noteworthy. “I can’t see anything.”

His finger outlined something blurry by the bushes. “That’s a person.”

When it finally hit me, the realisation of what the image displayed, the man in the shadows, I staggered with nauseating light-headedness. “No.”

“Emma, don’t panic.” Ben sounded terrified, though. “We don’t know anything. Carter might be at the park, playing football with friends. Let’s wait for the police to get here.”

Yet, I knew it was bad.

I felt it with every fibre of my being.

“I found Killian’s medallion inside Carter’s pillowcase earlier,” I told my brother, who held the phone to his ear to report Carter’s disappearance to the police. “Tommy swore that he never gave it to him.”

It had to be them, the O’Shea family. It’s the only thing that made sense. I refused to believe some random person snatched my son.

“Police,” Ben said to the operator, then to me, “You don’t know that, though. You cannot trust Tommy. He is an O’Shea. I bet it’s him. I bet he fucking showed up and got in Carter’s head. No, I am listening,” he said angrily, directing his abhor to the person on the phone. “Carter Hughes.”

I dialled Tommy’s number. He never answered the first time, so I continued to ring and ring and pester until he picked up. “I’m at work,” he said the second our lines connected. “Can I call you back?”

“Carter is missing,” I sobbed, the sound raw and too painful, and he went completely silent. “I dropped him at school this morning. I watched him go inside with my own eyes. They have footage of him leaving the school grounds just after I left. And there is a person in the photo. I don’t know for sure if Carter knew the person or even walked away with the person…Tommy, if you have him–”

“No.” His accent is stronger when enraged. “I ain’t seen the lad since I visited. Where is the school? Emma, I swear to ye on everythin’ I have, I ain’t done this. I will come to ye and prove it. Ye can send the police to my home and check.”

I believed him, which is undeniably terrifying.

If Carter is not with Tommy, where is he?

What if the shadow took him? I tasted bile on my tongue. I am going to be sick.

“If somethin’ happened to the lad, I need to know.” He cursed at someone in the background. “Emma, snap out of it. Call the police. I am on my way to London as we speak.”

My phone pinged with a notification.

I glanced at the screen to see an unrecognisable number. Ending the call with Tommy, I clicked on the message.

Unknown: Do I have your attention now?

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Bleu

Pain acknowledgement, emotional support or grief therapy cannot repair the void in my heart. Part of me died with my father, departed with him, but the eyes of his killer, free of guilt and burden, sat high atop of the stairs inside Elijah’s home, watching two distressed, ungainly doctors stride, with dizzying swiftness, from one corner of the living room to the other.

They proposed abrogating their responsibilities as authoritative figures by concealing medical malpractice, which is absurd because they had already risked their professional credibility and medical licence the night they abandoned moralities and abetted the vanishment of ‘diagnosed dementia patient’, Mr Murphy.

It is delusional to think virtuousness is innate. Even the most glorified souls are susceptible to impressionability when in the eye of judgement because pride and selfishness overshadow the humiliation of accountability.

I should know. I spent many a dark night in isolation until forced to make amends for wrongdoing. I learned rather quickly that infallibility would only get me so far in life. I had to meet certain expectations and show traits of agreeableness and sorrowfulness in order to breathe freely again.

Maybe astuteness is the reason why I have survived this long. I have a clear understanding of how the world operates, and I am not stupid enough to believe that people care more about others instead of themselves.

Elijah’s relationship with self-abasement is tiresome. He believed in taking ownership for gross misconduct. However, he’s made no effort to pick up the phone and report Mr Murphy’s death.

Hypocrite.

Mrs Gill (Celeste) is on the opposite side of the principle spectrum. She wanted to cover up their involvement in the unknown whereabouts of an incapacitated, elderly man.

Sweep it under the carpet.

Pretend it never happened.

Allow his daughter the responsibility of reparation. After all, we would not be in this mess had she not stolen money from a notorious criminal.

Celeste’s spiteful comments touched a nerve. I never asked her for help. Elijah handled the situation fine without her, so why is she here? Oh, that’s right. He called her after finding Mr Murphy’s cold, lifeless body. Thirty minutes later, she showed up, pasty-faced and hysterical, overwrought with the dreaded prospect of employment termination because her occupation was more important than the deceased man upstairs, and her integrity took precedence over the distraught daughter.

Employment termination is the least of her worries. If the police uncover the truth behind Mr Murphy’s mysterious disappearance from the care home, the doctors may very well land in jail. Poor Elijah. He is incapable of surviving prison. Inmates target the weakest link, and sadly, he is too nice for his own good. Celeste is an iron lady. I am sure she will adapt and thrive, despite the circumstance, because stubbornness will make damn sure of it.

My attention returned to Elijah and Celeste in the living room. I might be out of sight, but I can hear their heated argument and see the celerity of their movements, thanks to the stair’s slatted balustrade.

“I am concerned.” Then, with the half-eaten bowl of spinach and mushroom carbonara in her hand, she teetered to the curtained window and peered outside to confirm, for the umpteenth time, that the man next door, smoking a cigarette by his parked Volkswagen, was not privy to tonight’s dilemma. “Bleu Murphy has the inability to distinguish right and wrong.”

Celeste is convinced that I suffer from a chronic mental disorder.

“She is a psychopath.” Celeste must be spending the night because she is wearing green, tropical palm print pyjamas and chunky slipper socks and is on her third glass of red wine. “Her lack of conscience is staggeringly terrifying. Have you noticed any signs or symptoms of deep, poignant distress? I have yet to see any tears of bereavement because she is not capable of expressing remorse and is hopelessly out of touch with reality. Her father is dead. He is lying cold in the room upstairs, and she is in the bathroom, luxuriating in a bubble bath, waiting to be rescued, whilst you and I reconstruct the disorganisation of her life.”

“Your attitude is appalling.” Elijah popped the cork of an expensive bottle of red wine and refilled their wine glasses. It’s their second bottle. I counted. “You know, more than anyone, that people handle grief differently. Emotional numbness is associated with depression. You’d diagnose depersonalisation, prescribe antidepressants and advise cognitive behavioural therapy if Bleu were a patient. You would never judge or diagnose someone in the initial hours of their loved one’s death as it’s considered unprofessional, downright rude and completely unacceptable.”

“This is not a case of grief and bereavement.” Celeste approached the situation with laughable graveness. “Let me break it down for you: a false superiority complex, self-serving victimhood, high-level irresponsibility and letting other people do her dirty work.” She guzzled wine and all but slammed the empty glass down on the coffee table to exaggerate the severity of the problem. “Is that a fair characterisation?”

I think it’s an unfair characterisation.

“Celeste,” Elijah said solemnly, “I think your behaviour is wildly inappropriate.”

“Please, tell me, you are not serious.” She pointed to the ceiling. “What’s inappropriate is that narcissist upstairs.”

“Oh, she is a narcissist now.” He laughed to hide astonishment. “Your indecisiveness is flabbergasting. Should I be concerned?”

“Narcissism, psychopathy and Machiavellianism fall under the same umbrella.” She scoffed at him. “Honestly, Elijah. Whose side are you on?”

He jabbed his chest with a pointer finger. “I am on my own side.”

What did I tell you?

Selfishness prevailed.

Deciding to grace them with my presence, I held onto the guardrail and descended the stairs. To prove Celeste wrong, I willed tears to my eyes, lowered my tone of voice and beguiled sympathy from them.

“Hey,” I croaked, and their heads whipped in my direction, panic ablaze in their bulbous eyes. “Thank you for allowing me the chance to bathe. It helped to reduce the shakes.”

Her chin elevated, an almost imperceptible motion of agitation, as she swept her disapproving eyes down the length of my body. “Shakes?”

“I was cold,” I said softly, and Elijah, so eager to please, removed his cable knit jumper for me to wear, leaving himself in a white, tight-fitted T-shirt and faded denim jeans. “Thank you.”

He breathed raggedly. “How are you feeling?”

“I think I am still in shock.” Head pushing through the jumper’s neckline, I tugged the thick material down my upper body, the scent of his masculine cologne reminding me of our time in bed together. “I refuse to believe he is gone.”

Celeste struggled to look at me. Instead, she poured yet another glass of red wine and faced the canvas on the wall as if the piece of art had the power to provide answers. “I am not okay.”

“Celeste.” Elijah put an arm around her waist and whispered something undetectable in her ear. “Right?”

I studied them together, their body language, their intimate closeness, and wondered if their professional relationship had overstepped boundaries over the years. I had never noticed before, but she was easily pacified by him, and he felt comfortable enough to touch her without consent. His large hand rested on her hip as his thumb circled the exposed slither of her skin, somewhat lovingly, until her eyes met his, and they shared a silent moment.

I felt a twinge of jealousy.

How dare he comfort her?

I lost my father.

Celeste is only here for entertainment purposes, a little bit of excitement for her mundane life.

Helping myself to the wine, I sat on the edge of the sofa, uncorked the bottle with my teeth and, without a glass, lined my stomach, the astringent taste flavoursome on my tongue.

Elijah and Celeste pulled away from each other.

I re-corked the wine bottle. “We need to contact the police.”

Her lips parted in utter disbelief. “They will arrest us.”

Yes, I know, but pretending for a different outcome got the wench off my back. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“I agree,” Elijah said, and I pitied him. “If we hold our hands up and confess–”

“No.” She bared her teeth. “I have worked too damn hard in my career to lose it to one error of judgement. There must be another way.”

I had a good plan.

“Are you listening to yourself?” He gasped greedily. “What do you want us to do? Mummify him and bury him in the pissing garden? There is a former patient upstairs–a dead patient who should not be in my home–that requires coroner service.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Elijah.” She snatched the bottle out of my hand to top up the glass. “Both options are out of the question. No, I do not wish to bury the man in the garden. He deserves better. But I will not risk everything I have built.”

His arms slackened at his sides. “Where does that leave us?”

“May I intervene?” My hand raised timidly. “You speak of the man as if he is not my father. I am his daughter. It is my responsibility to decide.”

“What do you propose?” Celeste looked hopeful, which is insane because I promise nothing. “Perhaps you will go to Vincent Warren and beg for forgiveness. Be sure to leave our names out of it.”

Elijah huffed out a breath. “Celeste…”

“Oh, get out of her arse.” Her animadversion slackened the man’s jaw. “I will not apologise for bitterness. This is all her fault. I hate that we have become victims of her shameless manipulation. Let her take Mr Murphy to her place. She can contact the police and report his death whilst we get our lives back on track. Why I have to suggest as much is beyond me. You’d think she’d have offered support after everything we have done for her.” Then, she glared down at me. “Do you weaponise charm, Miss Murphy? Prey on kindness to suit one’s benefit?”

I will not be embroiled in vigorous debates and undue worries. “I am sorry for putting you in this situation. My intention was never to harm either of your careers. However, we are in this together, and disagreements will get us nowhere. Now, I do have a suggestion. It is not ideal but practicable. If you are willing to listen.”

Celeste became seated on the ledge of the coffee table.

“Okay.” Elijah joined me on the sofa. “What is your suggestion?”

“My father’s soul transcended the cycle of death and rebirth. His body is a shell. Yes, he deserved a traditional funeral service, but given the current situation, I think preventing the lawful burial of his body is our only hope.”

His hand trembled as he picked up the glass of wine. “You want us to bury him in an unmarked grave.”

My heart raced. “I want to bury him in secret.”

“How?” Celeste had smudged mascara under her eyes. “What if we get caught? There is no way we can pull this off.”

“We are not suspects in my father’s disappearance.” The metropolitan police department had more serious cases on its hands. Finding an old, moribund man is not on their list of priorities. “Let’s be honest. The police do not care. If they did, they’d have linked the events back to here already.”

He stared ahead. “I am not sure if I want to hear the rest of this conversation.”

“Elijah, you have risked so much.” My hand touched his knee sympathetically. “You both have.” I gave the insufferable woman an apologetic smile. “Need I remind you that taking my father from the care home was for the greater good. At least, under your roof, he could live his final days in peace. If we’d have left him at the care home, unguarded and vulnerable, he’d have been murdered, and wickedly so. You said it yourself. Vincent Warren is dangerous.”

Celeste visibly shivered. “She has a point.”

“Her point does not lessen the severity of our crime.” He gripped strands of hair at the back of his head. “Let’s pretend I am on board. What is the plan of action for moving forward?”

I blinked for the single tear to roll down my cheek. “We drive to a remote woodland area…”

In the hours leading up to Mr Murphy’s burial, I excused myself to the kitchen to be alone whilst Elijah and Celeste made the preparations for yet another unspeakable crime. I heard them upstairs, rearranging the spare bedroom, dropping items on the floor in a kerfuffle and because I could not see, only visualise, I imagined their tenderness as they swaddled the man’s body in multiple sheets and used the duct tape previously extracted from the drawer in the living room.

Much later, they conveyed the sheathed body downstairs, each step laborious and tear-provoking, and then they placed it on the sofa temporarily to assess our surroundings beyond the front door. It was dark outside, not a cloud or a star in the sky, such tenebrous depths of ever-increasing coldness, and neither of them plucked up the courage to confront the inevitable.

What if the neighbours witnessed their sinful act?

What if they dropped Mr Murphy on the ground?

What if he does not fit in the car boot?

What if the police pulled them over before they reached their final destination?

In spite of dreadful possibilities, they mustered the courage and strength to unlock Elijah’s vehicle and carry the body to the opened boot, concealing the immoral act so quickly that even I missed the incident.

Then, everyone waited in deathly silence as if to anticipate the aftermath of wickedness. We had to leave before the sun threatened to expose us. Elijah went to the garden to grab shovels from the shed. Celeste studied a smouldering cigarette in the glass ashtray. I prepared two insulated thermos flasks, strong tea with plentiful sugar, to keep us warm whilst in the woods.

Celeste is presumptuous. She climbed into the front of the car and got comfortable in the passenger seat, which meant I had to get into the back. Elijah might have preferred if I sat in the front as he drove, not that she cared to ask.

Glaring at the egotistical woman with such venomous dislike, I buckled up in the seat behind him. I barely noticed her existence before tonight. Now, I am engrossed with her overbearingness, as I cannot understand why it has taken me so long to recognise the signs of self-absorption. She had to call the shots, be the centre of attention, and manipulate everyone within her presence: the gullible male doctor, the judicious female competition.

Elijah bypassed busy roads for the first half of our journey to avoid potential mishaps. Then he drove for nearly two hours to the ancient woodlands of Hampshire, where the sea of bluebells and the sprigs of wild thyme effused the rural area with tranquil picturesqueness. Berries ripped in leafy bushes. Amazonian trees, thriving in their natural habitat, obscured the moon. Buttress roots existed in directionless chaos with the fallen, rustic leaves, breakable branches and delicate twigs.

We found the perfect place to bury Mr Murphy’s body. Elijah and Celeste needed rest, too breathless from the hike. Lowering the man’s body onto the prepared bed of leaves, they expressed gratitude for the tea, sipped generously, and got to work, shovelling into the dirt to create a sanctuary for the man’s resting place.

It looked exhausting, digging into the rocky earth. I watched them perform whilst picking bluebells for Mr Murphy to hold. I hate the thought of him underground without a token of respect.

They dug through the first layer of the ground successfully, but Celeste became too tired to continue. Elijah had to dig the second layer by himself, which prolonged the process. His work ethic was admirable. He never gave up, only pausing for the occasional sip of tea.

He ploughed into the mud with the sharp-edged tool, two hands on the handle, one boot on the metal blade, and tossed mounds of soil onto the mountain of dirt behind him, which grew increasingly bigger over the next three hours.

Elijah’s sweat-soaked T-shirt clung to him as he climbed out of the hole with begrimed hands and fingers. Thick dirt caked his pale face. His warm breath fogged up his black-framed glasses. He hurled the shovel aside, shook droplets of tea onto his tongue and examined the durableness of Mr Murphy’s sheet-encased body.

Once satisfied that every inch of skin was covered, he dropped to his knees, rolled the body into the single plot, the heavy drop echoing with dusty hollowness, and fell back on his haunches to stare. “Well, I can tick the disposal of a body off my bucket list.”

Celeste lost the colour on her face. “This was not an experience nor an achievement.”

“No fucking shit,” he said with an angry curl of his lip. “I’ll have nightmares after this. He was a good man. He deserved better.”

I fumbled with the bouquet of bluebells. “It’s never too late to correct mistakes. We can still call the police and hand ourselves in.”

He brushed a muddy hand down his face. “Just put the flowers in, Bleu.”

“Sunrise is among us.” I kissed one of the heart-shaped tips and threw the bluebells into the man’s grave. “We must finish what we started before someone sees us.”

I lingered by the graveside in the wake of Mr Murphy’s burial. Elijah and Celeste walked back to the car. I gathered nearby leaves in abundance, scattering them aimlessly on the ground to conceal any indication of excavation.

My father was sound of mind but often forgetful, so he’d visited the hospital on the doctor’s order to be tested for early-onset dementia. During the final visit, after an array of medical tests, they diagnosed him with early symptoms of dementia. He was devastated. He must have consumed an entire bottle of sherry that night. He later found me in the bedroom, red-eyed and lachrymose, and cried on my shoulder. I had never witnessed him in such a weak, helpless state. He needed reassurance that I’d be okay without him, as he did not trust me enough to roam the streets unsupervised. I was, after all, unpredictable. How will I conduct myself if he is not here to pick up the pieces? I made him a promise. If there is a drastic decline in his cognitive function, I’d end his suffering and return to…

No, I will never go back there.

I paid for my sins.

I am at peace with myself.

Early morning birds were aflutter in the sky as I trekked back to the car, the leaves beneath my feet crunching with each footstep. Elijah smoked a cigarette, which surprised me, as I hadn’t seen him smoke before. I guess Celeste had started to rub off on him with her bad habits. “Hey,” I said, closing in. “Where is Celeste?”

“Down there somewhere.” He aimed a thumb over his shoulder toward the dense woodland area in the background. “Bathroom.”

“Urinating in public?” To think he found the woman–who is out there in the wilderness, leg cocked to piss on a tree like a dog–attractive. “Nice.”

“Bleu,” he scolded half-heartedly. “Be kind. Celeste is a nice person. She put her neck on the line for you.”

No, Elijah. She put her neck on the line for you. “How long have you been sleeping together?”

He was taken aback by the direct question. “What?”

“I am not stupid.” My voice was calm for someone who loathed the idea of his hands on her. “It’s obvious that she is in love with you.”

He flicked cigarette ash on the floor. “It’s casual.”

My insides curdled with enviousness. “Does she know that?”

“I am not having this conversation with you.” He respired a thin veil of smoke. “It is insensitive, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Insensitive toward who?”

He gave me a pointed look. “You.”

“Why?” A smile lit up my face. “Is it because we had sex? Don’t worry. I am mature enough to differentiate between a meaningless one-night stand and a romantic love affair.”

“Bleu.” He glanced over one shoulder to check our surroundings. “It was not meaningless. I enjoyed my time with you.”

Yes, I am attentive, confident and eager to please. I know I am good in bed. I never leave an aroused man unsatisfied. And Elijah was satisfied. I rode him until he passed out.

He stared at me with pinched lips. “Can we not mention that in front of her?”

“Sure.” I shrugged uncaringly. “I am not here to cause any problems for you.”

He chucked the cigarette on the floor and put it out under his boot. “Where will you go?”

My amusement plummeted. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you lost your job at the estate.” He wafted expelled smoke out of his face. “You cannot stay in London. Vincent—“

“Screw Vincent.” I might have lost my job, but I had every intention of getting back. Besides, I can handle those low-life criminals. I have outsmarted and outmanoeuvred them more times than I cared to count. “Is it okay for me to stay at your place for a bit? Just until I get back on my feet. I need some time to grieve and…” My eyelashes fluttered as I looked upon the heavens. “Sorry, I don’t want to cry every two minutes.” Then, eventually, when my stare lowered to assess the awkwardness between us, I found him studying me. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he lied, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “You seem to be handling everything really well, that is all.”

Celeste had gotten inside his head.

I never blinked. “My father taught me to save tears for bedtime.”

Elijah’s cold stare bore into me. He had something to say and get off his chest but opted for ignorance because the woman who had a predilection for pissing on trees in public had reemerged.

“I almost got lost,” she shouted, her feet sinking in the mud as she clambered the mucky slope. “Please, can we get out of here? I am almost sure there are deer back there.”

Giving her a two-finger salute, I opened the passenger side door, not leaving room for her to call shot-gun, and relaxed in the seat. If Celeste disapproved, I never noticed because I never bothered to look when she crawled into the backseat.

Elijah drove away from the crime scene.

Not looking forward to the long, lengthy drive home, I crossed my arms, put my head to the window and succumbed to slumber. I was exhausted and prepared to sleep for the entire journey, but Celeste’s irritating voice prevented rest. I drowned her out for most of her ramblings. Then, she said something that captured my full- attention.

“I hate headlines like this,” she whispered, and I peeled one eye open. “‘Alarms raised as missing boy, Carter Hughes, vanished by a nearby school.’”

Emma Hughes.

Both eyes snapped open. “When did this happen?”

“The time frame is not specific,” she said whilst thumbing through the online article on her phone. “It’s breaking news. My guess would be yesterday for it to be online this morning. Urgent appeal launched as the police become increasingly concerned.”

I listened as she read the article.

“Shit.” Elijah worked the gearstick. “I hope they find him.”

Emma must be soul-destroyed.

I felt nothing for her. “I am sure he is fine.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Emma

We haven’t seen him.

He was not in school today.

That’s a person.

Do I have your attention now?

Child abduction is every parent’s worst nightmare. You read about missing children’s cases online and in the papers, but you never think it will happen to you. In my case, I have feared the possible plight of losing my son since Quintin O’Shea vowed revenge. I am responsible for Killian’s death. If it weren’t for the filed rape allegations, he’d be alive. He committed suicide by hanging himself in the holding cell, and his father blamed me entirely.

I sympathise with the man, the O’Shea family and the traveller community because they believed in Killian’s innocence. In their eyes, I falsely accused him of sexual assault. I ruined his life. I ended his life. I deserved to pay the price for his suffering.

I did not lie. I loved Killian O’Shea. He was my best friend. His betrayal left me with irremovable scars. I will never be the woman I should have been. That night in the woods will torment me for the rest of my life, and I only had one person, one monster, to thank for that.

I’d do it all over again, though. I’d relive the unutterable if it protected my son. He is not blameworthy for the events of my past. I will meet Quintin at any time, at any place, and trade myself for Carter. What the man does subsequent to the exchange makes no difference to me as long as my little person is safe.

Quintin’s involvement in Carter’s disappearance has yet to be ascertained by the metropolitan police department, but I know he is responsible. I trusted my gut instinct. I believed his former threat to break my heart, as I had broken his, and what better way to destroy a mother than to target her pride and joy, her reason to breathe and get out of bed in the morning, her precious baby boy.

Bustling activity filled the hotel room. Yet, I locked myself in the en-suite for privacy. I’ve had no alone time since yesterday when Benjamin contacted the police, and the preliminary investigation ensued to determine the facts of the case. I never held back. I answered every question, significant or insignificant, for the crime analyst unit to gather vital information: age, description, characteristics, clothes, footwear and close friends.

Condensation trickled down the rustic wall tiles in strings of beads. Hot water flared my skin. I have stayed beneath the faucet for longer than initially planned because I could not face the commotion next door.

I had to be alone with fathomless thoughts.

Listening to the officers in the next room, I stared into space and felt the dreaded sensation in my chest. I placed a hand to my mouth to suppress an agonising, gut-wrenching sob that threatened to disassemble every bone in my body. It shook me to the bitter core, the desperation, the misery, the torment. I had never experienced such painful powerlessness.

Someone knocked on the bathroom door. “Emma?”

My brother.

“Just one second.” It took all my energy to sound calm. “I’m almost done.”

He never replied straight away. “There are two family liaison officers here to see you.”

I wiped the tears on my cheeks.

“Take your time,” he said, and I sensed his concern through the door. “I’ll talk to them.”

Foamy water swivelled like a vortex by my feet. I turned off the shower, ripped the plastic curtain aside and stepped onto the bath mat. Picking up the folded towel on the freestanding shelf, I wrapped the soft fibres around my body, took a seat on the edge of the bath and watched shadows dance beneath the door as people moved around in the bedroom.

Time wore on. I am exhausted, having not slept, but climbing into bed and surrendering to sleep felt like a huge betrayal. How can I close my eyes and dream? How can I pour coffee and drink it? How can I buy food and eat? How can I turn on the television and keep my mind occupied? Does Carter have access to a bed? Is he warm, with pillows and a duvet? Is he hungry or satiated? Is he thirsty or hydrated? Is he allowed any form of entertainment, or is he locked up and frightened?

I am sick with worry, so much so that I fell to my knees, fumbled with the toilet seat, and dry heaved until choking became violent bursts of vomit. Each wretch knotted my stomach. I emptied until corrosive bile burnt the walls of my throat.

Hash strains watered my eyes. I dabbed my cheeks with the corner of the towel, pulled the toilet flush and dropped back on my haunches to calm down. I had to get a handle on panicked breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Then, once twitchiness reduced and the urge to vomit decreased, I rose to my feet, squirted toothpaste onto the toothbrush and scrubbed the acidic taste out of my mouth.

Towel drying required strenuous effort. I changed into leggings, a loose fitted T-shirt and plain black socks, skin slightly wet, and belatedly remembered underwear. I never checked the suitcase when hunting for something to wear. I am not even sure I packed any bras, and I had misplaced the one previously worn. I don’t know why it mattered.

Nothing mattered.

Unlocking the bathroom door, I braved the hustle and bustle next door, expecting to see numerous faces. One person lingered by the window, a bespectacled, raven-haired female wearing a smart trouser suit. I glanced at the lanyard around her neck. “Kaiya Zhang,” she introduced herself with a friendly smile. “Family liaison. My colleague, Frazer Collins, stepped outside whilst you showered.”

I opened the room door to let the man come in. He, too, dressed smartly, trousers, shirt and leather shoes. He spoke to me, and then he addressed Kaiya, not that I heard anything. I studied the patterned carpet, the slanted light shade and the stained coffee mugs on the wooden dresser. I should take them downstairs to the front desk. It’s not fair to leave the room in a mess for housekeeping.

“Miss Hughes?” Frazer’s deep voice lured me out of musings. “Is that okay?”

Why am I sitting on the bed?

I jumped to my feet. “Pardon?”

“It’s our job to keep you informed throughout the investigation.” He had the softest of eyes and tousled blond hair with low volume sides. “Anything you need, do not be afraid to ask.”

I needed my brother. “Where is Benjamin?”

“Mr Hughes is in the conference room with law enforcement.” Kaiya grabbed my black trainers and placed them on the floor by my socked feet. “The meeting hasn’t started yet. I know it’s a lot to ask, as you have provided so much information already, but do you think it’ll be okay for us to take you downstairs for further communications?”

I nodded.

“It might be a bit intimidating,” Frazer picked up where she left off. “You have nothing to worry about, though. Everyone involved is here to help. At any point, if you feel overwhelmed or uncomfortable, let one of us know, and we’ll escort you to a quiet space.”

I toyed with the rings on my fingers. “Who is downstairs?”

“Investigative coordinators, search coordinators, media specialists, communications specialists and logistics specialists.” Kaiya gave me time to digest the team of specialists. “I believe Chief Superintendent Burton has arrived.”

“Yes,” Frazer confirmed. “Do you need help with the footwear, Miss Hughes?”

My feet slipped into the trainers. “My name is Emma.”

He gave me a puzzled look.

“Just call me Emma,” I said, and he nodded sharply. “Do I need to take anything downstairs with me?”

“No,” Kaiya assured, tucking a ring binder under her arm. “Are you ready?”

I headed to the ground floor with Frazer and Kaiya. If we passed anyone along the way, I wouldn’t know. I was too numb to care if people looked at me or if hotel workers sympathised. I think I entered the private conference room first, but even that piece of uncertainty went over my head along with the mob of officers, the horde of specialists and the practised silence.

A large hand found mine.

My brother.

Our fingers interlaced as I peered up at him. I searched his dejected eyes, looking for comfort and reassurance. Just one glance in his direction and tears threatened to re-emerge. “Ben…”

“It’s okay,” he whispered in my ear, the sound of his gravelled voice so soothing. “You got this.”

Nodding half-heartedly, I dried my eyes and breathed. I needed that, the increased supply of oxygen to induce calmness. I am no good to Carter as an emotional wreck. I might be sad, the saddest I had ever felt, but my little human needed his mother to stay strong, to have faith in his safe return.

“Chief Superintendent Reginald Burton.” The high-ranked officer wore uniform epaulettes, a single crown and a pip insignia on the shoulder piece of his jacket. “Go and grab some coffee,” he ordered, and I thought he meant that I should leave for a beverage until everyone stood. “The meeting will start in fifteen minutes. Miss Hughes, if you’ll take a seat.”

Letting go of Ben’s hand, I perched on the blue cushioned chair by the wall, as the table, scattered in files and documents, was far too unnerving for someone like me to handle.

Reginald is an older male with grey hair and under eye wrinkles, yet he walked around the room with the energy of a young man. He oozed authority and experience, so in touch with reality but professionally detached from emotion. He pressed two hands on the long-stretched wooden table to read notes, his fingers clustered in gold and diamonds, his wrists equally bejewelled and bedazzled, and then he tossed the pen down and got to business. “Quintin O’Shea has a parole hearing in ten months.”

Yesterday, I told the first response team everything regarding the O’Shea family. The Met have access to our past police reports, so I know they’d have looked into Quintin, as advised, to see if he is responsible for Carter’s disappearance. “Right.”

“He’s had one visitor. His eldest son, Tommy O’Shea.” Floorboards cracked under the man’s weight as he rounded the table. “That visitation transpired two weeks after Quintin’s sentencing. Other than that, there has been no visitors or mail to concoct an abduction beyond prison walls.”

I refused to believe some random person targeted my boy.

“At this moment in time, Quintin O’Shea is not a suspect,” he said, and Ben’s head began to shake in disagreement. “Non-family abductions are the least common but the most dreaded high-risk cases. I have an obligation as a senior officer to prepare you for the appropriate resources provided before this morning’s meeting proceeds. Carter is a potential victim of suspected foul play. I have authorised an intensive search operation, which includes air searches using aerial photography, ground searches with police dogs and water searches with expert divers in two non-tidal rivers, all within the area of his last whereabouts, alongside on-foot officers who have worked throughout the night, knocking on doors to speak with neighbourhood residents about potential sightings.”

A strangled sound crept up my throat.

“Officers have visited every hospital and medical centre within our vicinity and will continue to do so, just in case Carter, for whatever reason, seeks medical attention.” He tossed the folder on the table. “It’s better to hear everything from me than to see it in the media. Now, the intuitive search investigation is not an indication that we believe Carter is no longer with us.” He was sensitive with his choice of words. “However, because it is a high-risk case, I will not leave a stone unturned. I will not rest until you have answers and, most importantly, the whereabouts of your son.”

The whereabouts of your son.

He never promised to return him.

“Your phone will stay in police custody whilst the criminal investigation department attempts to trace the suspect.” He became seated on the chair in front of us. “I have to ask, aside from Quintin O’Shea, is there anyone else capable of targeting Carter? Is there someone who is a potential threat to you or your family that we should know about?”

“Only them,” Ben said vaguely. “Quintin’s family and friends. I mean, have you bothered to visit his community to ask questions? One of them knows something.” My brother’s anger peaked. “They have him. I fucking know it.”

“Mr Hughes.” Reginald laced his fingers, forearms resting on his thighs. “There are officers at Stable Way as we speak. They did not provide a search warrant, yet the community welcomed them onto the site and indoors to conduct a search. In my professional opinion, people with something to hide deliberately pervert the course of justice. They do not willingly provide easy access. As previously stated, I have every reason to treat this case as a non-family member abduction.”

“What does that mean?” Tears of distress streamed down my cheeks. “The person on the surveillance. Is it a male or a female? Is that even relevant?”

Reginald’s lips flattened in a grim line.

“Why him?” I asked despairingly. “Why Carter? Why my son? Was he selected at random, or did the person plan to take him beforehand?”

The Chief Superintendent considered the multidude of questions. “Currently, there is no evidence to suggest that Carter disappeared with the person on the surveillance. However, because of the text message, I suspect there is a connection between both instances.” His chest expanded on a deep inhalation. It was the type of courage he needed to say something we might not appreciate. “A man is in police custody and will be released under investigation. We cannot determine whether or not he is the person on the surveillance, but there is photo evidence to prove he was in the area around the time of Carter’s disappearance.”

“Why?” Ben’s knee bobbed anxiously. “Who is this man? What’s his name?”

“I am afraid I can’t tell you that,” Reginald spoke with an air of ruefulness. “I will not, however, rule him out as a potential suspect.”

“Why is he a suspect?” My eyes implored him to be open and honest with us. “You said he was in the area, but so were many others. Is everyone under investigation, or is he special?”

The man ignored my bitterness. “He is a committed sex offender.”

I swallowed vomit. “A sex offender.”

“A paedophile,” he said apologetically, and I lurched to my feet. “Miss Hughes, It’s always best to hear it from us before the media–”

“I don’t want to hear this,” I cried, and when my brother stood to console me, I whacked his hands away. “No, Ben. No. I refuse. I fucking refuse.”

“Emma.” His arms locked around my wiggling body, and usually, he’d overpower me, but at that moment, I escaped him, the officer, the room, the tension, and stormed down the hall. “Emma!”

My brother’s plea drifted into nothingness.

I broke into a light-headed sprint, the faces of nearby specialists too blurry to identify, and gravitated to the hotel’s main entrance. I don’t know if I opened the door to leave or if someone did it for me. I don’t know if Ben followed or continued to call.

I made it outside, the weather conditions a mystery, and ran full pelt down the street. It was magical. I had never experienced motivation quite like it.

My trainers pounded along the concrete, the pavement bumpy and uneven, and I ran with no sense of where I was going or what awaited me. I concentrated on the burn in my calves, the stitch in my sides, the sweat trickling down my temples.

I focused on anything other than my son.

And it worked until it did not work.

My son is not someone I wanted to forget, not even a little bit, not even for a short while, not even for selfish reasons.

But I was too scared to consider the pain he might suffer.

Tears mixed with perspiration touched my lips. My legs cried out for a break, for me to slow down and rest, but my heart forbade it.

I powered through languidness, the cold breeze in my hair, the soft drizzles on my face, and found myself outside the pallor much later.

I stood there, panting, sweating, the rumble of moving cars in the distance, wondering how I managed to reach the place without transport.

My eyes started to sting.

All I had to do was walk to the door.

I had exhausted energy.

Ankles giving out, I collapsed to my knees on the floor, the small, strewn stones piercing the palms of my hands. I began to sob. Perhaps sobbing had never ceased. But the tears falling on the concrete were different.

Everything about these all-consuming emotions was different.

I had hope before.

Quintin hated me, and he’d be heavy-handed with his grandson, if his past behaviour is anything to go by, but he’d never touch him inappropriately.

I hadn’t considered unspeakable concerns until now. If a committed sex offender abducted my son–I heaved, retching without any substance. I had emptied my stomach in the bathroom. There is no more to purge. Yet, I felt incurably sick with bouts of nausea.

Jace’s black heavy-duty boots came into haziness. He crouched down and, tenderly, swept strands of hair out of my face, and thumbed tears across my cheeks. His small act of kindness had my eyes closing in momentary repose.

My trembling hands latched onto his wrists, and I felt the immense guilt and torment he carried. It emanated through our bodies in powerful waves. “I don’t know who else to talk to,” I said, the raw, scratchy noise in my throat unrecognisable. “You understand.”

“Tommy called. He told me about Carter.” His devoted fingers kneaded the nape of my neck. “It’s not them, Emma.”

I know he meant the O’Shea family. “The police brought a man in for questioning.”

His fingers stilled.

“A committed sex offender. He was by Carter’s school around the time of his disappearance.” My neck sagged back for me to stare at the billowing clouds above. “Am I delusional to think it’s only a coincidence? Must I be hopeful, Jace?” Then, slowly, I dropped my gaze to look at him, to see the truth in his sad eyes. “Do these situations always end badly?”

“No.” His shoulders drooped. “You are not delusional. You have every right to be concerned. No case is the same, though. Summer…” His lips pushed out in a sombre pout as he willed himself to stay strong, to not give into tears. “Shit. It still fucking hurts.” He cupped his mouth with an inked hand, breathed through his nose and visibly relaxed. “Take it from someone who, if given the opportunity, would go back in time, crawl on his hands and knees and plead for the book of knowledge. I’d handle everything differently. I’d ask Alexa for help. I’d beg for Warren’s compassion. I’d find my baby girl and spend the rest of my life earning her forgiveness. I’d avoid all the tragedies in between.”

I stared at him like he was my lifeline. “Jace,” I said, my voice hollow and desperate. “I need that book of knowledge.”

“The metropolitan police department is bound by red tape. They have to follow the rules and regulations, which result in delay and inaction.” He spoke with somnolent seriousness. “The syndicate will go to the darkest depths of the underworld to bring him home. You need that right now. Time,” he added hoarsely, a lone tear blinking from the corner of his eye. “You don’t have it.”

I respired shakily. “What are the darkest depths?”

“You won’t be able to unhear it. You won’t be able to unsee it.” He chose abstruseness to protect my sanity. “So, I refuse to tell you.” When he glanced over one shoulder, I followed his line of vision to see a recognisable face. “Just know that you couldn’t ask for more experienced individuals.”

Alexa Warren watched us from the doorway.

Jace’s eyes came back to me. “Does he know?”

I frowned. “Who?”

“Brad,” he said as if the question was obvious. “Call him.”

The police had my phone.

His hands curled around my fingers to help me stand. Unlocking his phone, he placed it in my hand, Big Guy’s name on the screen, and trudged toward his friend by the door.

The two of them communicated with their eyes, the exchange bizarre to watch, then her face turned to me, and I felt impossibly insecure by the intenseness in her hard stare.

Dialling Brad’s number, I set the phone to my ear, turned around, giving them my back, and waited with bated breath for him to answer. Then, on the fifth ring, he accepted the call. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I need your help.” My hand clung to the phone. “Someone took my son. The police have a committed paedophile in custody, but they won’t tell me anything else.”

“Emma?” He excused himself from what sounded like a busy meeting. I heard a door open and close and the steady pace of his footsteps. “Who is the leading officer?”

I licked my dry lips. “Chief Superintendent Reginald Burton. Big Guy, he’s a lovely man. I don’t want any trouble for him.”

“Are you kidding? Burton’s been in Warren’s back pocket for years,” he told me, and for the first time since Carter vanished, I felt immense relief. “He reports back to the institution. If I want answers, he’ll provide them. About the nonce. When is he due to be released from police custody?”

“I don’t know.” Teary-eyed, I studied two pigeons across the streets as they pecked the floor for scraps of food. “I am scared, Big Guy. If someone hurts him like that…” Sexual abuse does not bear consideration. “He’s such a sweetheart.”

“Hey,” he said roughly, and I wished he was here. “No one is hurting that kid. I’ll make damn fucking sure of it.”

I wanted to believe him.

“Emma, I will bring him home.” He seemed as desperate as I felt. “I won’t stop until I find him. I promise.”

My lips quivered. “Thank you.”

“I care about you and Carter. I care so much it fucks with my head.” He paused to give me a moment to process his straightforwardness. “So, don’t thank me for doing right by the people that give me hope.” His exhale came out harsh. “You’re my future, Emma.”

I breathed in an unexpectedly quick breath.

“You, Carter and Dominic. Maybe some kids of our own someday.”

I muffled a sob. “You make it really hard to not fall in love with you.”

“I have never been in love, but you are the closest I have felt to home,” he whispered, and I glanced toward the heavens to see the first ray of sunshine through the clouds. “I choose you.”

I choose you, too.

“I need you to stay with Benjamin. Tell no one of this conversation. Reginald is the only person you can trust until I touch base.” Then, a door swung open in the background, and as he belted out orders to the men, I experienced first-hand the inexorable weight of Warren Enterprise. No one asked questions. No one dared to challenge him. He handed them an assignment. They dutifully obeyed Command. “Stay safe, sweetheart.”

The call dropped.

The phone nearly slipped through my limp fingers. Immersed with reassurance, I shut my eyes to feel the sun on my face.

Big Guy sent an army out to find my little boy.

People will die tonight.

I was too selfish to care.

I am a mother first.

And protective mothers always prioritise their children.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Emma

I never said goodbye to Jace, which is rude and thoughtless. I turned up on his doorstep without invitation, so the least I could have done is told him I had to leave. It is all I thought about whilst trudging down the street, the souls of my feet afire as a consequence of impetuous running. I still had the man’s phone. It vibrated with notifications from Tommy, not that I could see the messages on the lock screen.

A black Mercedes-Benz with a personalised number plate drove past. The driver braked by the street corner, waiting there on the sharp bend, and then the tail lights beamed as the person reversed.

I paused on the spot.

Only then did I notice the panoply of security vehicles in the foreground. I recognised the luxurious pinnacle of Bentley’s craftsmanship, as the distinctive wheels resembled Big Guy’s bespoke car.

Brad is not amongst the drivers, though. In fact, I don’t know any of the besuited men or why they’d pulled over. At least, I had no understanding until Alexa Warren rolled down the Mercedes window and swept her curious gaze over me.

The staunched, armed myrmidons who donned all-black designer suits were here for her. Her safety was obligatory as the perks of being Liam Warren’s wife or perhaps twenty-four-hour security is not a perk but a hindrance.

All I had were unspoken assumptions.

“Emma, right?” Her expression is free of emotion. “You took Jace’s phone.”

“I’m sorry.” I held out the phone with other whispers of apologies, and she reached through the ajar window to take it from me. “I never meant to walk off with it.” I’d planned to return it once I checked in with Benjamin. My brother must be stressed to the max. I never told him anything before leaving the hotel. “I was going to bring it back later.”

Alexa placed the phone in the glove compartment. “I will drive you home.”

“Oh, I am okay,” I lied, knowing damn well I was anything but okay. “I could do with the exercise.”

Diamond encrusted sunglasses covered her eyes. Lugano emblazoned the frame’s temples. “I wasn’t asking,” she said, and her unexplainable coldness triggered uneasiness. “Come on.” The passenger door popped open, and she tapped the burgundy leather seat. “Get in.”

Arguing the matter was futile.

I lowered myself into the vehicle.

Jo Malone’s car diffuser left the subtlest touch of peonies in the air. I buckled up, afraid to move or touch anything, as the interior looked too costly for one’s eyes, never mind one’s covetousness. “Thank you.”

Alexa’s hand stayed on the gearstick as she accelerated across the main road into the next street, the never-ending queue of Bentley vehicles following close behind. “Jace is worried,” she said, the scintillating diamonds on her delicate fingers stealing my attention. “You were friends, huh?”

Yes, once upon a time. “We grew up in the same neighbourhood.”

Her red-painted lips moved as she spoke, but I zoned out, unable to process anything or uphold a conversation. I had never noticed so many children roaming the streets before. Today, they were omnipresent, groups of girls, gangs of boys, fathers and toddlers, mothers and babies. It was an undeserving reality check. I did not have my son. I had no knowledge of his whereabouts or his safety. He must be scared, though. He doesn’t know life beyond us, Ben and I. The furthest he’s travelled without us is to Quinn’s place for the occasional sleepover and movie night.

“Emma?” Alexa prompted, and I hummed in response. “What do you think?”

I glanced at the feather keychain dangling from the car key. “I’m sorry. What did you ask?”

“Stop apologising,” she said lightly. “Your head is mush right now. It’s okay to be disorientated.”

I nodded.

“Jace and Tommy will help with the surveillance footage by the school. In case the police missed something.” She checked the wing mirror and slowed the vehicle down when one of the Bentley drivers flashed the headlights. Their method of communication puzzled me, as I had no idea what she’d done to merit a warning from him. “Alfie thinks I drive too fast. He is an employee for Warren Enterprise.” She made driving in red-bottomed heels look effortless. “A bodyguard, to be more exact. I love the overbearing brute. Mostly.”

I smiled to hide my downheartedness. “Mostly?”

“Well, I might like the Suits, but around-the-clock security can be suffocating.” Her Mercedes waded through vehicles to reach our destination quicker. “I am a nudist at heart. I’d like to walk around the house in my birthday suit every now and then.”

I appreciated her attempt to lighten the mood.

“Brad called,” she informed me, and I stared out of the window in numb silence. “He authorised an underground search operation.”

Yes, I heard the orders whilst we had spoken on the phone. “Underground?”

Her hands weaved the steering wheel as she turned the street corner. “Does he confide in you?”

I know she meant Brad. He has opened up to me. Not completely, I imagined. But enough to conclude whether or not I am trustworthy. “Sometimes.”

“So, you know what he does for a living?” When she glanced at me, I nodded imperceptibly. “Do you understand the criminal underworld?”

People involved in organised crime. “Why?”

“I don’t know what’s acceptable or unacceptable,” she answered honestly, which I admired. “I wanted to reassure you without causing waves for him.”

I loved that she was concerned about him. He must be important to her. “Brad adores you.”

Her smile was genuine. “He is the brother I never had.”

“He talks about you all the time.” Brad spoke very highly of Alexa and Liam. It’s evident for all to witness how much they mean to him.

My mouth was suddenly dry.

After the gruelling jog across the city, I needed a cold drink of water.

“Listen, I am not here to cause any drama for him.” My breath came out ragged. “I know that he is a criminal. I know there is nothing he wouldn’t do to protect the people he cares about.” Brad has said as much on more than one occasion. He is a killer. He is paid to kill people. Sometimes, he kills because he wants to. Isn’t that what he’d told me the morning in bed together? “He’s very open and honest. So, there is no reason for you to be concerned. Whatever you have to tell me, I can handle it.”

I hope I can handle it.

“My son’s safety is all that matters.” I side-eyed her. “Innocent people may get caught in the crossfire with the syndicate involved. That’s what you wish to tell me, right? That Brad will do the unspeakable to bring my son home.”

Alexa listened intently. “Yes.”

I thought as much.

“However, not everyone is irreprehensible.” Her thumbs tapped the steering wheel. “Your son is missing. The police will look for one suspect whereas the syndicate will weed out the person responsible and his accomplices.”

Why is she under the impression that more than one person is involved?

“A lot happens in the criminal underworld. We hear about it, but we rarely get involved unless it is detrimental to us.” She spoke cryptically. “I mean, why would we? Warren Enterprise is legitimate, but what occurs behind closed doors is illegitimate. Every criminal within the city of London is no stranger to the institution’s predominance in the underworld and the overworld. People turn on you when they feel threatened. If we step on their toes, they will step on ours. It can damage the entire organisation, and honestly, we are not in a position to handle renegades right now.”

I understand.

“The suspect in police custody,” she picked up where she left off. “If he is responsible for Carter’s disappearance, the syndicate will oppress an admittance out of him. We have to be optimistic, though. In my opinion, your little boy is alive, and he will come home. He might be by himself at this moment in time, as the accused is detained, and that’s the best-case scenario for us. This man, whoever he is, will be followed home this evening before the men bring him in.”

I breathed shakily. “Bring him in?”

“For questioning,” she confirmed, and I looked away. “They will inflict enough pain to squeal a confession out of him. If there is a confession to be made.”

I refused to feel sorry for the suspect. Even if he is not involved in Carter’s disappearance, he is a convicted paedophile. He hurts innocent children.

“Back to our initial conversation.” She switched gears, drove through the amber traffic light and headed toward the hotel. I don’t recall telling her where I was staying. “The reason I mentioned the possibility of the underworld is that, aside from the detained suspect, we cannot rule out the participation of other criminals. Someone knows something. Someone will snitch for the right price.”

What could the underworld possibly want with my son?

I must have asked the question aloud because she suppressed a sad smile. “It doesn’t mean they necessarily want anything to do with him.” She steered the car by the hotel’s entrance. “But the streets talk. They might have overheard something crucial in the last twenty-four hours. They could point us in the right direction.”

My eyes dampened.

Alexa turned off the car engine. “Do you know if Reginald is still inside?”

“No.” My stomach was in knots. “You said to be optimistic, but that is impossible for any mother when her child is in potential danger. I am worried sick about him. I am terrified that something really bad is going to happen…” I tried to blink back tears but to no avail. “That something bad is already happening, and I am just sitting here, doing nothing. What kind of mother does that make me? I failed to protect the most important person in my life.” Inconsolable sobs rose to my throat. “Oh, God. Alexa, please. I need him to come home.”

Her chest deflated as she exhaled. “Carter’s disappearance is not your fault.”

“Then, why do I feel so guilty?” I used the hem of my T-shirt to efface the tears on my face. “I am supposed to be his protector. I let him down.”

Alexa scrutinised me. “You know, I learnt a long time ago that predators rarely prey on others unpremeditatedly. They strategise beforehand.” The car keys landed in the Birkin handbag. “Do I hold my mother responsible for the man who abducted my sister and me? Do I blame her for not protecting us that day? No, I love my mother. She was a good woman. She adored her children.” Pushing the sunglasses to the top of her head, she looked at me, her hazel-coloured eyes exposing dark, painful secrets. “His name was Flamur Bajramovic. He was the head of an Albanian mafia. He trafficked in drugs, firearms and humans.” Her mouth twitched into a half-smile. “For whatever reason, he took a liking to us, Kathy and I. Alas, I spent the majority of my childhood at his secret compound.”

My heart squeezed for those two young girls. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She shrugged it off. “I am at peace with my past.”

Still, it must be awful to live with the memories.

“My point is Flamur planned to abduct us. He’d have taken us the moment the opportunity occurred, whether it be at home, in the local park, at the supermarket or outside of our school.” Her stern stare softened. “There is nothing my mother could have done to prevent that.”

I snivelled into the back of my hand.

“I know it is easier said than done.” Her hand touched my knee. “But an admission of guilt will not help matters. Hope is all you have. If you lose that, where does it leave your son?” Jerking open the driver’s side door, she stepped out of the vehicle onto the asphalt. “Come on.”

Blinking back tears, I unbuckled the seat belt and braved reality. I followed her to the hotel’s entrance, where security awaited her, and then everyone headed inside.

Most of the police officers had left the building, but the liaison officers, Frazer and Kaiya, sipped beverages at the hotel bar. I did not have the heart to converse with them, so when Frazer rose from the stool with a curt nod, ready for a meet and greet, Alexa ordered two burly men to intervene on my behalf. “Where is Reginald?” she asked the female receptionist whilst I watched security close in on the liaison officers. “No, he is expecting my arrival.”

Drifting to the water dispenser, I grabbed a plastic cup, filled it to the rim and drank greedily to slake my thirst. Three cups later, I am back in the conference room, pretending to listen to important conversations. Reginald, the chief superintendent, had dismissed most of the people working on the case so that he and Alexa could speak freely, leaving only a handful of reputable men in the room.

Where is my brother?

I stood from the chair and floated to the door to the indistinctness of Alexa’s voice. Her expostulation with current arrangements distracted the chief. He never even noticed my departure.

I returned to an empty bedroom. In the hope of finding Ben, I knocked on the locked interconnected door adjacent to his room. Placing an ear to the wall, I listened for any sounds of movement on the other side. He’d never ignore me, not intentionally, so I knew he’d escaped the hotel to steal a breather when he never appeared.

If I knew my twin, he’d have returned to the school to look for clues that could lead us to Carter. I doubt he will be back any time soon, not without logical understating. Much like myself, he required adequate comprehension and a reasonable explanation.

I showered to remove the stench of sweat on my body. Muscles aching all over, I changed into Ben’s grey jogging bottoms and a plain vest before drawing the curtains and crawling into bed. It was a comfortable bed, much better than the one I owned at home, but even the comfiest textures thwarted sleep.

I closed my tired eyes and told myself to think of anything other than my son: the weather, the cafe, photography, music. It was pointless. Carter’s face forced its way to the forefront of my mind. His laughter evoked happy memories: birthday celebrations, Christmas dinners, afternoons at the beach, cheap caravan holidays, amateur camping trips. His childhood played on repeat as he led me through events with a mischievous smile on his face.

I must have fallen asleep because I had never heard the door unlock or seen anyone enter the room. Yet, when my eyes flickered open, the dim lamp casting shadows on the wall, I found Big Guy by the wooden dresser.

Brad is sending a text message on the phone. Responding to messages seemed to go on for hours before he peeled off his suit jacket and draped it on the back of the upholstered high back armchair.

One button at a time, he doffed his shirt, folded it with precision, and then he lost the leather shoes and tailored trousers.

There, in immaculate white boxer briefs, he shook a small clear bag, emptied what looked like cocaine onto his inner wrist and snorted two uneven lines.

I eyed the pre-rolled blunt tucked behind his ear. “You will have to smoke that in the bathroom, or the fumes might set off the fire alarm.”

“It’s for the morning.” Brad tossed the blunt onto the dresser. “Your brother swung by earlier. You were asleep. He didn’t want to disturb you.”

Rolling onto my back, I rubbed my eyes. “Where is he now?”

“Nate gave him a lift to Wyatt’s place. He will be back in a couple of hours.” His shadow fell over me before he sat on the edge of the bed with wary hesitation. “It will do him good. Take his mind off everything.”

I nodded in agreement.

“I called.” He placed an exhibition of expensive gold bracelets and rings on the bedside table, but he kept the beads I had gifted him on his wrist. “Yesterday, I mean. I called and texted. I thought that maybe you had changed your mind about us.”

No, I felt no different toward him. But I’d be lying if I said I did not forget about our shopping trip. “My phone is in police custody.” I studied his bruised knuckles, the knot in my throat too swollen to swallow. “What happened to the suspect?”

“It’s not him.” He swept a thumb over his damaged knuckles absentmindedly, which confirmed what I already knew. He’d beaten the man to get answers. “It carries no weight, though.” He threw me a cold stare. “He was still a fucking nonce.”

As told in the past tense by the assailant.

The suspect is dead.

“Big Guy,” I whispered, and he lowered his forearms to the mattress to level with me. “Alexa mentioned the criminal underworld.”

His forehead furrowed.

“What’s the end goal?” I licked my dry lips. “Will they know something? Will they tell you if they do?”

Brad’s thumb grazed his bottom lip. “No.”

I sighed defeatedly. “Then, why did you authorise an underground search operation?”

He grew reflective and introspective. “Precautionary measures.”

“Right…” Our eyes met as I considered the previous conversation I had with Alexa. “What are you trying to prevent?”

Loose strands of blond hair fell over his gathered eyebrows. “I won’t spell it out, Emma.”

I pushed my hair back and sat up in bed. “Tell me the greatest concern.”

He held my gaze for a minute too long. “Why?”

“Carter is my son.” I needed the worst-case scenario. I wanted to hear it directly from him. “You would not send the syndicate underground without grave concerns. Just be honest with me.”

“If a child is taken to the underworld, there is only a small time frame for their retrieval before the procurer hands them over to a potential buyer.” His response was abrupt, which is the exactness of what I demanded, yet I was unprepared for the potentiality of child trafficking, and it knocked me for six. “I am not saying that Carter is in the process of exploitation indefinitely. I am not, however, inclined to gamble on uncertainties. You have the force in the overworld and the syndicate in the underworld working collectively to find him.” Sympathy dilated his eyes. “There is no in-between, sweetheart.”

“You will get him back, right?” My whimper fell into his rough hands as he cupped my cheeks and eased my head to the mattress until I had no choice but to stare at his bare chest. “I am scared.” His cracked knuckles grazed my cheek with soft, tender strokes. “I am so scared, Big Guy.”

His legs stretched out on the bed, propped on one elbow, and he stared down at me, not that I looked up to capture his eyes. Thumbing a stray tear on my cheek, he dipped his head, lips delicate to my skin, and kissed the ubiquitous beauty marks on my cheek.

“Even if worlds apart,” he said raspily, “I promise to do right by you.” His hand found mine, and he interlaced our fingers. “I will never stop looking for him, not until he is home with his mother.”

Brad’s face was inches away from mine. I leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose, the slight bow in his upper lip, the curve of his stubble chin.

His palm carried the weight of my neck. He closed the space between us and kissed me. It was the softest of kisses, the type of kiss that expected nothing but closeness.

His mouth moved against mine, our tongues infrequently reacquainting, as his heavy body shifted on top of me until I sprawled beneath him.

I wanted an escape from reality, to forget the pain in my chest, in my heart, if only for a short while.

Hands smoothing down his strong, muscular back, I wrapped my legs around his waist, the intense power of his passionate kiss spreading through me as he tasted the tears on my lips.

A sob broke forth. My hands traced his ripped arms, the cords of muscle flexing beneath my fingertips.

“I hate that you are sad,” he whispered against my mouth. “I hate that you hurt. But mostly, I hate that life punishes the most beautiful people.” He brought my hand to his lips to kiss the tips of my fingers. “If I could take away your pain, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Raising our laced fingers to the mattress above my head, he dropped his forehead to my shoulder and kissed the sensitive area beneath my ear.

This man was massive compared to me, but the pressure of him on top of me did not suffocate me. His nearness felt personal and familiar, which is rare and unusual for someone who had not experienced the effects of intimacy since I fell in love with Tommy O’Shea.

“You are my favourite person all of the time,” he breathed in my ear, and I gave him a sad smile. “I have never felt this way about a woman before.”

I studied his handsome features. “I think the drugs cloud your judgement.”

“Maybe,” he half-joked as his thumb drew circles on my palm. “Or, perhaps I see clearly for the first time in my life.”

I ignored the silent tears on my cheeks. “I am falling for you, Big Guy.”

He swallowed audibly. “I know the feeling, sweetheart.”

CHAPTER SIXTY

The London C

How is this year for you? Mine is far from perfect. Memorable but not perfect. I have grieved mostly, for the best friend I had lost, for the sister I would never see again, for the irreplaceable man I love with all my heart and soul.

Chloe Stone. I remember the first time I met the girl who would later become my best friend as if it were yesterday. High school was not fun for someone like me. I avoided the halls during break and only ate in the cafeteria ten minutes before afternoon registration to circumvent public shame and humiliation because teenagers were unapologetically and, sadly, unsympathetically cruel. I became the cynosure of unwanted attention, vitriolic torment and inconceivable conversation.

It was a normal day to have spiteful notes hurled at my head, to hear people whisper behind my back, and see the repulsion in their eyes as I passed on by. I was not one of the missing Haines sisters, deserving of pity and sorrow. I was the gawky, awkward freak, the uneducated, illiterate misfit, the chubby weirdo with secret fetishes for older men, the oddity of our generation, as they believed, for a host of reasons, that I secretly loved the life of captivity, that humans should be used and abused at the disposal of barbaric, sadistic, licentious men.

The rumours were false and slanderous. I never enjoyed captivity, starvation, punishment, violence and assault. I never fetishised paedophiles or became irrationally devoted to the person responsible for childhood trauma. I was not uneducated, illiterate or simple-minded. I travelled the world through books to escape reality, befriended the shadows to be less lonely and used my imagination to create ever-lasting memories.

I often wonder if those bullies reflect on how they treated me. I wonder if they look at their innocent children and pray that karma, the decider of fate and future existences, is understanding and forgiving.

Chloe appeared from nowhere. I do not recall her before we became acquainted, just that she burst into sight one afternoon and ended incessant bullying. I was mesmerised by her boldness and fierceness. I was stunned by her selfless actions and her unwavering commitment to shine light into someone else’s darkness. Like a true defender, she threw herself in the firing line and put bullies in their place. She stuck up for me, the friendless girl, and treated me like a human being rather than belittle me with cruelty and lies.

I found someone special.

Irreplaceable.

My life seemed less depressing.

The world seemed less scary.

And it was all thanks to her, Chloe.

I never thought, not in a million years, that she, the girl I loved like a sister, the person I trusted more than anyone, was capable of subterfuge. I reached out and begged for forgiveness, a second chance at proving that I was still worthy of her friendship and, in the process, I hurt you, even unknowingly, by falling for the craftiest of trickery, as naiveté blinkered wisdom. I trusted her and, subsequently, disappointed the most important person in my life.

You.

My husband.

My Liam.

Are you mine?

I am not so sure anymore.

Anyway, I promised sweet revenge the day Chloe had lied under oath. I meant it. I wanted her to pay for what she did to you, for her participation in the most unfair trial in history. I wanted her to experience the pain I had felt when she looked me in the eye and betrayed me.

Chloe beat me to it, though. Her miserable, loveless marriage drove her to suicide. Or, maybe she could not live with the guilt and the lies.

I guess I will never know for sure.

Is it wrong that I still cry in her absence? I know she wronged us, but I cannot help but feel responsible for her fragility. If only I had intervened. If only I had told you about Harold. Maybe I could have prevented her downfall. I could have saved her from herself.

A lot happened in the wake of her death.

Brad became a father.

Crazy, right?

Dominic Jones.

He is one in October. And honestly, he is the most beautiful baby. Adorable. Rapscallion. Content. Happy. Strong. A younger version of his strong-willed daddy.

Brad juggles the responsibilities of being a single father, the laboriousness of temporary management, and the stress of handling his boss’s personal affairs, but he is determined, industrious and loyal. Now that I have seen him in action, I understand why he is second in command. He would never let you down, not on purpose, and his love for you is incomparable.

Nate has been quiet lately. He shows up to work every day, listens to instructions, trains newly hired employees, and handles business in all areas, but he is not his usual self. He has lost his spark, his drive and his motivation. His patent unhappiness is worrisome. I have tried to speak with him over the last few weeks, but he clams up if I ask questions or show concerns and insists that all is well in the world.

I hope, when his son arrives, he will be in better spirits.

I will keep you updated.

Josh is a complicated subject. We recently found out that he is an addict. He lost his grandmother, and it drove him over the edge. I mean, I do not know much about his personal life, as he tends to be quite private, but I know he and Nanna had a very close relationship since he had lost his parents at a young age, and she pretty much rolled mum, dad and grandparent, into one.

Nanna’s death was the ultimate heartbreak. Josh never recovered. He spiralled out of control until Brad intervened and slammed him with an intervention. It was painful to watch Josh go through withdrawals. He acted out of character, verbally abused himself and others, cried himself to sleep most nights, vomited during violent hallucinations and swore that death was the answer.

Josh made it through the rain, though. He beat his addiction with the people he loved surrounding him. He is not completely out of the woods, but he is under the watchful eye of the brothers.

Vincent misses you like something chronic. He is too proud to admit wistfulness aloud, but he always seems to find a way to mention you. He is frequently at the manor, just checking in, I guess. He will spend quality time with Logan. He will share a bottle of rum with Tony. He will ridicule me from the kitchen door whilst I try to cook (I will master culinary skills).

Sometimes, Vincent falls asleep on the sofa as he is too exhausted from life. Valerie Wentworth is on her deathbed, and he is incapable of witnessing her deterioration. He is most definitely struggling with her terminal condition because, no matter what, she was an excellent mother to him.

I am sorry.

I know you refused to accept the woman, but she is still your mother. You never found it in your heart to forgive her after she abandoned you. You never accepted her apology when she wept at your feet and begged for forgiveness. Yet, I know, deep down, her death will punish you. I know, inside, you will grieve the mother you never had–as you always have.

Logan is lost without you. He said the manor is empty because you are not here. You had each other for a short while, yet he is in awe of you. He looks up to you. He respects and admires you. He is determined to make you proud by attending college, keeping his head down and working out at the gym. He is a good kid. He does not bring any trouble to our door. I love him so much it hurts.

His friend, Tre, is probably the only person he trusts outside of the family. They are like two peas in a pod, the best of friends, a pair of harmless mischiefs.

I could not be more thrilled.

His happiness is my happiness.

His contentment is my contentment.

As long as he is smiling, I can sleep without any concerns at night.

Logan is in the garden every night practising basketball. I hear the ball on the concrete whilst lying in bed. I hear the skilful resoluteness in his strides as he masters techniques. I decided to hire contractors to build an indoor basketball court. He has no idea. It is a surprise. I will keep you posted on this also.

The little shit is out to put me in an early grave—either premature death or a full head of grey hair. Logan might kill me for telling you this (he hates the thought of disappointing you), but he lost his virginity recently, and, although he promised to practice safe sex (he never lied. I checked his condom stash), I fear he will impregnate someone. I am too young to be a grandma. And what is worse, I know if sex is on the agenda. It is almost as if I unmindfully worked out his routine. If he goes in the shower at nine o’clock in the night and takes more than forty minutes to manscape before Tre knocks on the front door, I know the duo is headed to a party and has their sights on someone.

I am not ashamed to admit that I warn him (them) thoroughly before they leave the manor. And he hates it when I embarrass him in front of his friend. So, I do it, anyway, in typical Alexa fashion. Maybe the thought of dealing with my vitriolic tongue is enough motivation to keep the boy’s manhood in check.

Grandma.

Just let that sink in for a moment.

I shivered writing that.

My life is boring. Camilla and Tony live in the pool house, the Suits wander the halls, and the elite take care of me, yet I have never felt so lonely. I see Jace on occasion. I visit Grayson at the Coffee House. I swing by Heather’s to help with the garden.

But I have no focus or purpose.

Sure, I attend meetings with the brothers to discuss business ventures, etcetera.

I force Alfie to escort me to Bond Street, where I waste money on shoes and handbags.

Sometimes, I trick him into afternoon tea at Ritz (he abhors crustless sandwiches and shortbread biscuits) because stuffing my face with somewhat edible pastries and sipping overpriced tea is better than twiddling my thumbs at the manor.

What is the end goal?

What is expected of me?

Who am I?

Why am I here?

Where am I going?

I know there is more to life than money and extravagance.

I have so much to offer if only I could channel it.

Am I boring you?

You do not respond to my letters.

You declined visitations.

You deny me reassurance.

Are you angry?

Are you unwilling?

Have I lost you forever?

Please, do not say it is forever.

Brad said to trust your silence. I wish it were that easy. My world revolves around you. You are the centre of everything, the reason I breathe, smile and laugh, the cause of most teary nights and the root of great heartbreak.

I suppose if I stop crying, I stop caring. If I stop caring, I stop loving.

I refuse to allow distance and rejection to come between us, to break us apart, to take my love away from you.

Words cannot express the sadness in my heart, the guilt I live with every day when reminded of your undeserving punishment. I will never forgive myself, even if, magnanimously, you accepted sincere apologies for the part I played in the court’s decision to sentence you to life imprisonment.

I wish I could rewrite the past.

I wish I could rectify errors.

I wish I could be there for you.

Regrets. Regrets. Regrets.

You do not believe in the act of atonement.

You believe in learning from one’s mistakes.

Honourability is a mixture of both.

Remorse is life’s greatest lesson.

You might be surprised to know that I would change very little of my childhood, as the little girl of yesterday made me the strong woman I am today. However, If I knew then what I know now, I would have helped my sister, Kathy. I would have recognised the signs of Stockholm Syndrome and the extreme lengths she went to hurt others. I would have reported her to the police for her own good.

Perhaps, because of her distressing background and her unwillingness to detach from Flamur Bajramovic, they might have addressed her psychological condition and helped with trauma recovery.

Maybe, if I had noticed her pain instead of focussing on my own, like the selfish mare I tend to be, she would still be here today.

I would indisputably change the events leading up to our encounter, yours and mine. I wonder, did we ever speak of the assignment? I called it “The Warren Exploration”, and you should know I cringed writing that, but I am in bed, alone, missing you, feeling nostalgic, so bear with me.

Your name was all I had when Kathy disappeared. I knew if anyone had answers, it would be you.

I was so scared of you. I was told to steer clear of you, to keep you at arm’s length, to never approach you in the light, never mind the dark. Yet, in order to find my sister, I had to put on my “big girl” pants (in my case, the most horrifically childish jumper to date; what was I thinking?), corner you in a public place (I figured I had a winning shot at survival if there were witnesses), and flirt my way into Club 11.

And I repeatedly failed because, heaven forbid, I got to my feet and talked to you like a sane person.

I spent months telling myself that it was not the right time to approach you, and then it happened. I stole your attention with dishonesties, and there was no going back.

You made it impossible to look away.

I drowned in the oceanic depths of your blue eyes.

In those initial moments, I forgot all the reasons why because I had officially met the man who would later become the love of my life.

You were as beautiful then as you are now.

I hounded you for a job, and you handed me a new lifeline. I lied by omission, and you forgave me. I came with so much baggage and stress, and you opened your arms and held me during those darkest of hours until the appreciation I felt became irrevocable love.

Embarrassing, right? According to empirical evidence, men are more likely to say I love you first, but I have never been one to follow the rules, and we both know I tend to talk before I think.

So, I confessed to loving you. You told me that you were overrated (which is an absolute insult, by the way. You are incredible, and let someone try to tell me otherwise), but eventually, absurdly, I discovered you loved me, too.

I used to think I never deserved you.

Time and time again, I asked myself, why would he choose someone like me to be his significant other when he could have any woman his heart desired.

Even when in bed together, which felt perfectly suitable for the occasion, when he read my mother’s letter and pushed an engagement ring onto my finger before I accepted his hand in marriage, I could not fathom why he would vow to love me and me only for all of eternity.

I could not understand why this man, the one people admired yet feared, would provide a fairytale wedding (money was of no importance) just because his fiancee pictured romantic perfection or why he would fly me across the world to exist in momentary paradise with powder white sand, picturesque views and crystalline waters, or why he would spend every day of his life promising to love me, to call me beautiful, to give me everything I ever wanted

And then, somewhere along the way, it finally registered.

He chose me because, through the good times and the bad times, I am worthy of his love.

I understood the darkest parts of him and never judged.

I embraced his dark world rather than shied away from it.

I learned to challenge his inner demons instead of vanquishing them.

I proved that love is enough to stay and never abandoned him like every other person that claimed to care and still disappointed him.

Fate decided.

Our souls paired.

Our hearts knew long before we did.

It is my favourite love story, yours and mine.

I earned the chain around my neck.

I earned the rings on my finger.

I earned the right to write this letter.

So, you can ignore me and pretend that I do not exist, but I will continue to send letters, reminding you of the promises we made, the vows we took, and the future we have yet to live because I am in love with you, and not even a life sentence will change that.

Even if we grow old apart, I will count down the hours until death to see you again.

There is no one else.

You are it for me.

I cannot look at another man without comparing him to you. I cannot think straight, or breathe properly, or sleep without you by my side. I cannot picture a future when you are not in it.

That is how much I care.

That is how much I love you.

Always,

Your wife,

Alexa.

P.s I inserted some sexy pictures of myself in nothing but lace and six-inch heels.

I may or may not have posed for the camera more than one hundred times to snap the best images. And I might have exhausted a lot of energy in perfecting hair and makeup.

Please, do not laugh at me.

Even the simplest of tasks make me nervous when it comes to you.

You better appreciate the effort, Mr Warren.

Is referring to oneself as sexy too conceited?

Well, I learnt from the best of them.

You taught me how.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

The London Crime King

Jodie Capwell is a senior staff member at the thirty-three inpatient healthcare unit who had previously diagnosed me with borderline personality disorder throughout the course of individual psychotherapy.

To get a better sense of how I should control thoughts and feelings, she built a report, provided coping strategies and prescribed a series of mood stabilisers to reduce depressive episodes and improve functioning and atypical antipsychotics to minimise impulsivity, aggression and anger—on the record. By all accounts, the drugs are effective. I would not know for sure. I have never taken them—off the record.

My mental health is perfectly normal under the circumstances. However, if acquiescence is the key to an ideal situation, I will happily play the system.

Jodie wore a grey, rib-knit jumper dress to work today with brown, sling-back kitten heels. Silky, straight black hair, weaved into a thick braid, fell down her back. Transparent green glasses sat on her aquiline nose. “Did you get much sleep last night?”

It is impossible to switch off with the unruliness of riotous men and the discordant chorus of unchaste lovers at midnight. “Yes.”

She tucked the stethoscope’s rubber earpieces into her ears. “Remove the hoodie for me, please.”

I did as instructed.

“How did you get the scars?” Her eyes raked over my bare chest and settled on my firm set of abs. “You never disappoint.”

Intentionally disregarding the woman’s playful flirtatiousness, I relaxed on the leather examination table. “Knife-enabled offences are rife in London.”

“What about this one?” Her manicured fingernail outlined raised skin on my shoulder. “It looks like an incision scar.”

Bullet extraction. “I suppose gun crime is prevalent.” My muscles tensed when she placed the cold chest piece on my skin to listen to my heart. “Any concerns?”

“No.” Her green eyes sparkled knowingly. “Blurred vision?”

My head shook.

“Drowsiness? Muscle spasms or tremors?” she probed, and I stared pointedly. “I see weight gain is not an issue for you.” Her approving stare took in the hard lines of my stomach. “When was the last time you worked out?”

I used the gym facilities daily. “Often.”

Jodie picked up a pen to write something down in my notes. “What about hallucinations?”

“Why the farcical inquisition?” I asked, and she lowered the stethoscope to her neck. “We both know I do not take the medication.” I do not have a personality disorder. “It is a waste of time, is it not?”

“I cannot authorise weekly healthcare visits without medical evidence.” The pen landed on the file. “Do you no longer require healthcare?” Her hand moved to my thigh as she sat on the examination table. She never missed the opportunity to touch me. “Friday is my favourite day of the week.” A shade of pink coloured her honed cheeks. “It is the only time I get to see you.”

When her hand crept to my crotch, I grabbed her wrist, applying enough pressure to convey a warning. “There are guards outside,” I reminded her. “I don’t fancy a night in segregation.”

“They will not come in the room until I finish the assessment.” Her sigh was loud and forced. “How long will you and I dance around sexual tension? I have needs.”

And I had a wife at home. “I am married.”

“For how long?” She pushed to her feet in a strop. “You said the marriage is over. Will the lawyer finalise the divorce papers anytime soon?”

I have not filed for a divorce. I only said as much to get this woman off my back. “He is working on it.”

Jodie studied me with a furious pout. Flinging the braid over one shoulder, she hiked up the grey dress, exposing the flimsy pink lace that barely concealed her cunt. “It is yours if you want it.”

My jaw muscles clenched.

Reaching for the discarded grey hoodie on the stainless-steel counter, I rose from the examination table and, in three strides, towered above her. She is short, too short to withstand the imperial height of her patient. My eyes never left hers. “Do not play games with me,” I said lowly, and her chin jutted out in defiance. “You will lose.” I shoved my head through the hoodie’s neckline, the thick material gathered around my shoulders, and put an upward-facing palm between us. “Hand it over.”

She licked her pink-tinted lips with seductive precision. “I might report you to the governor.”

Dane Russell knows better than to step on my toes. “For what purpose?” I am here to serve the maximum prison sentence. There is no more the Ministry of Justice can do to a man like me. “I have nothing to lose, unlike someone I know.”

She went poker-faced. “You would never.”

“Inform the governor of your scandalous behaviour behind closed doors?” My brow arched. “Have you met me?”

“Fine.” Fingers dipping behind the lace of her underwear, she extracted a foil package and slapped it on my palm. “That’s the last one. I will not smuggle drugs for you any longer, so get someone else to do your dirty work.”

I unfolded the tin foil to examine its contents. “What the fuck is this?”

“Marijuana.” She slumped into the leather armchair. “Don’t be so ungrateful.”

“I can get kush from one of the lads.” My jaw hardened in exasperation. “I asked for sniff.”

“Well, I am out of resources.” She picked her fingernails with silent fury. “Look, do you want it or not?”

My hand crushed the cheap-quality bud. “You could not pay me to smoke that shit.” Tossing the unwanted drugs onto her lap, I slid my arms through the hoodie sleeves and dressed accordingly. “I want another visit.”

Her eyes lit up. “Why?”

“To get what I asked for.” It has been nearly two weeks since the last dose of cocaine. I am irritable and restless. “Pen me down for another appointment. Be sure to please me next time.”

Her heeled feet kicked onto the low table. “No.”

“Female doctor has sex with a drug lord.” My impish glare goaded her to retaliate. “Willful misconduct by medical professional Jodie Capwell scandalised the city of London. Just imagine. Ruined career. Jail time.”

“Sinful.” A rush of air expelled from her lungs. “You play dirty.”

I gave her a sly smirk. “Manipulative.”

“Yes, I see that.” She observed with intense unctuousness. “I cannot make any promises, but I will see what I can do.” Her eyes sparkled with conceited confidence as she strode toward me. “It could be a splendid affair. Why prolong the inevitable?”

My eyes fixated on the floor.

“Am I a joke? You won’t divorce her, will you?” Her hands explored the length of my arms. “Do you still love her?”

You have no fucking idea. “No.”

“Then, what is the problem?” Her kittenish charm heightened. “You don’t have to do any work. You can sit down whilst I mount and ride.”

Jodie is sexually indiscrete.

I smiled at her efforts. “I doubt I could handle you.”

“Nonsense.” Her finger caressed the line of my jaw. “You have yet to kiss me. I think about it far too often.”

Breathing in some sense, I studied her beneath furrowed eyebrows.

“Very well.” Jodie opened the room door. “He is all yours.”

Two uniformed officers stepped forward, and I turned automatically, hands behind my back, for the one guard to handcuff my wrists. “Anything to report?” Bronwyn, the youngest of two males, asked, and, irked by his unfaltering conceitedness, I gave Jodie an eye roll. “You should have him transferred to HSU. He does not belong in the main prison. Don’t you agree?”

Ren, the silver-haired, wizened old man of four foot nothing, avoided his co-worker’s question with a meek turn of the head.

I liked Ren. He’s worked here for too long, though. Institutionalisation comes to mind. Instead of the contemplation of deserving retirement, he decided to double the workload. Ren once mentioned that he had nothing to live for, no friends or family outside his profession.

Tonight, when it’s time to hang up the uniform, he will go home to feed the cats, catch up on missed sleep, and then return to work with an old, retro-looking lunch box stuffed with spam sandwiches to start the mundane process all over again.

“Ren.” Bronwyn clipped the old man around the back of the head, and I felt a familiar sensation in my closed-up fists. “Do you need a new battery in that hearing aid, or what?”

Ren’s chest visibly deflated as he sighed.

“I said,” Bronwyn’s voice raised an octave, “Warren should be in HSU.”

HSU is the most infamous part of Belmarsh, a high-security prison within the actual prison housing the most dangerous inmates that posed an escape risk. It also contained high-risk criminals to prevent the continuation of organised crime, including global drugs, the illicit trade of contraband and crime syndicates.

Perhaps I do belong at HSU. I could easily use my connections to abscond, but I will not live life on the run. I am more than capable of using said connections to manage the underworld from behind prison walls.

Yet, I am stuck here, in the main prison, with the most insufferable convicts, thanks to the Russian, Nikolai Vasiliev, to babysit the defenceless brother.

“Growing strawberries in isolation is beneath me,” I stepped in to draw Bronwyn’s attention away from Ren, the fragile old man. “You have plentiful people in HSU praised for their expert gardening skills. I would only upset the balance.”

“He is too dangerous to be here.” Bronwyn looked from Jodie to Ren. “I’d have him relocated to Wakefield.” He tightened the handcuffs on my wrist, checking the links’ durability. “What do you think? A nice trip to the English version of Alcatraz might be good for you.”

How could I argue the unarguable?

I am not the friendliest of humans.

“I’d end up in the glass prison cell with Robert Maudsley,” I taunted, and the officer jabbed me in the back with his pointer finger, an unspoken order to stay quiet. “You do not expect me to socialise with child sex offenders and do nothing?” I have yet to make an example out of paedophiles as the guards shelter them in a different House block, but I know many inmates who had the privilege of taking the law into their own hands. Tiny, another four foot nothing, with double homicide under his belt, jugged a child killer whilst working at the canteen once. The hot water, sugar and syrup peeled the pervert’s skin right off, leaving his face disfigured for life. I might try that method in the future if I ever get close enough to the segregated suites of unmerited luxury. “Dangerous men have the proclivity to carry out capital punishments.”

“Really?” Bronwyn’s mouth came to my ear as he spoke with purposeful fanfaronade. “Said by the convicted rapist.”

My lips twisted.

I will gut the motherfucker like a fish.

Jodie’s lips flattened. She had questioned me about the charges once. I told her the truth. Blaire is an opportunistic bitch. I am not guilty of the crimes she accused me of. And Jodie believed me because the doctor had enough common sense to distinguish facts versus hearsay.

“I am never getting out,” I responded with a dark glare, and Bronwyn backed up two steps. “What is another murder to one’s criminal record?”

“Ignore him,” Jodie intervened with a flippant hand wave. “He deliberately irritates people for a reaction. It is a common symptom with personality disorders.” Her lie raised multiple eyebrows. “Return him to the wing.”

Yet, I meant what I said. “I am merely defending myself under subjective judgement.”

“Please.” She smoothed down her dress skirt. “That will be all for today.”

I am escorted out of the healthcare unit back to the central jail, one iron-barred gate to another.

It is dinner time. Inmates dine within the confines of their cells, out of sight, but I can hear them communicating with tap codes to the walls.

Four House-blocks housed the prisoners. Each storey had three spurs and a combination of single or double cells. I ascended the spiral metal staircase to proceed the circumnavigation to House-block one, where older criminals serving life sentences resided behind hollow steel doors. I waited for the corpulent, weasel-faced Bronwyn to unlock the door to my dreary cell. It crashed into the concrete wall with a jarring bang, the noise echoing throughout.

“Get in.” Bronwyn tapped on the open door with the tip of a baton–the same baton I plan to beat him with once the opportunity presents itself. “I have places to go, people to see.”

My left eye twitched. “Your peevish voice is starting to grate on me.”

“Yeah?” His thick, meaty arms folded as he closed in on me. “And your arrogance irritates the fuck out of me.”

Words whispered through the prison bars.

“The opinion of others is extraneous.” I mastered insouciance long before I understood the definition. “I have never been one to give a fuck.”

He rubbed the fluff he dared to call a goatee with the tip of his fingers. “Cockiness will get you killed in a place like this.” His sinister smile widened. “I would sleep with one eye open if I were you.”

I descried the movements of overworked correctional officers below. It’s how they operated. If one of their colleagues found themselves in a potentially harmful situation, they observed in silence as involvement might be necessary. “You might want to take your own advice.” My eyes slowly, deliberately, lifted to him. “Monsters are deities in Belmarsh.”

Jerome, the Peckham Boy, togged in titanium piercings and intricate tattoos, who lived in the cell next to mine, laughed alongside other inmates as they all tuned in to hearken the ridiculousness of our conversation.

Bronwyn looked pleased with himself.

“They laugh at you,” I took pleasure in telling him. “Not me.”

His smugness faded. “Be quiet,” he scolded them, banging the baton with brute force on Jermone’s door. “All of you. Keep your goddamn mouths shut.” Then, spinning on the heel of his leather shoe, he squared up to me. “You are not above the others. You think I don’t notice all the special treatment you receive?” His two fingers motioned from his eyes to mine. “I got my eyes on you.”

“You’re everything that I see,” Jerome chimed, and Bronwyn’s vexation redirected to Ren, who hadn’t said two words since we left the healthcare unit. “I want your hot love and emotion—“

“Endlessly,” another inmate intoned. “I can’t get over you.”

“Infractions result in extra work duty,” Bronwyn snapped, and the raucous prisoners, lampooned by dogmatic despotism and tyrannical regime, instantly quietened down. “Do you want to be restricted to your bunks?”

A shadow crossed Ren’s face. He might be a screw, but he had a decent relationship with most inmates. He was clement and treated them like human beings, unlike Bronwyn, who would go to great lengths to commit unimaginable acts to rile them up.

Last week, Bronwyn planted drugs in someone’s cell three days before the guy’s release date, resulting in new charges. He is evil, the worst of his kind. I stopped myself from beating seven shades of shit out of him almost daily. It is okay, though. Inevitability bides its time. He will get the comeuppance he so richly deserved once I am free to roam. Let’s see how long undue vaingloriousness prevails once he is forced to his knees to regard me.

“Lose recreation time, visitation rights and commissary privileges?” Bronwyn verbally reprimanded. “I will write up rule violations for all of you. You know, I will do it, so don’t test me.”

Disciplinary hearings damaged their records and ruined their chances of jobs and programmes. It could also result in denied parole for short sentenced or remanded individuals.

I inhaled to collect oneself. “May I enter the room?”

“That’s right.” He wrenched my arms disjointedly behind my back to unfasten the handcuffs on my wrist. “Get in the slammer where you belong.”

I rubbed my raw, inflamed wrists. “Bronwyn?”

Hooking the handcuffs onto his leather belt, he drummed the baton on his palm. “What?”

“You are right. I should be segregated from the main prison population.” My hands were stuffed inside my jogging bottoms’ pockets as I closed in. We glared with inflexible embitterment. “You would agree that my name belongs in the hall of notoriety.” Yes, I liked to torment victims before I attacked. “Which leads me to wonder, how did a criminal nonentity evade twenty-four-hour maximum security? A single cell alongside lifers for the most dangerous man in London? Sounds like corruption to me.”

Bronwyn glanced at Ren, then back to me. “Who is in your pocket?”

“Who is not in my pocket?” I replied dryly, and his face purpled in complexion. He has no idea who he is fucking with. “Do your diligence before you speak. Your naïveté is embarrassing.”

“You can afford to miss lunch.” Bronwyn locked the cell door behind me. “I’ll drop a tray of splodge later if you ask nicely.”

Unlimited vegetables.

Instant soups.

Plain sandwiches.

Tasteless potatoes.

Dry chicken.

How will I possibly contain excitement?

I hated the unwholesome food served on plastic trays, handled by unsightly, unhygienic looking guards. I will be sure to dine at the Grape and Vine the second I am released from this hellhole. Perhaps the Shard. At this point, I’d demolish street food without complaint.

I have tropical fruit and delicacies smuggled into the prison. I ate avocados and mangos last week for dirt cheap, the cost of thirty pounds.

I am blessed to have a single cell on the lifers’ spur.

Cell life.

I spend a significant amount of time in the stone-coloured cell. In the corner, pushed up the wall, is a single bed positioned three feet away from the toilet and washbasin.

Everyone bar those on basic had access to small televisions with limitless channel selection. I never watched movies on the best of days.

No radio facilities, which is disadvantageous for any self-confessed music lover. I’d give anything to place a phonograph disc on the turntable, relax whilst classical or jazz ensued, as a sequence of fluctuations in anfractuous grooves inscribed on its revolving surface by the stylus.

Electronic gadgets with wifi capacities are forbidden. I had a burner phone, designed for maximum privacy, so traceable internet went amiss. I had no knowledge of life beyond the prison. I could read the newspaper and watch the news concurrently with socialisation, but incognizance obviated persecution complex and anticipatory anxiety.

Powerlessness.

I am incapable of protecting the ones I love.

I am unable to provide leadership in the underworld.

It is better for everyone that I remained ignorant of life’s predicaments.

Some game consoles are allowed, not that I cared for video games and user interaction. My old model console collected dust under the bed.

I am an avid user of the library within the facilities. John Steinback and William Faulkner are current favourites, but not limited to baroque writing and historical literature. Autobiographies triumphed. If overwhelmed, reading about other people’s hardships helped educate and inspire.

Smoking is unpermitted in enclosed spaces, yet prisoners largely disregard the rule. Everyone lights up after dark when confined to their beds. Numerous officers ignore the guidelines, too. They smell billowing cigarette smoke or haze, but they rarely impose themselves. I doubt it’s worth the backlash. It doesn’t take much for inmates to respond to what they deem as unfair treatment.

Prisoners bickered over levels: basic, standard and enhanced. We all started at basic, but good behaviour guaranteed promotions and privileges. You are downgraded and lose said privileges if you misbehave. At least for people with the chance of an early release. In my case, the way I conduct myself is not important. I am here for life. I might as well do what I want when I want.

Only, I am not here for life. I will be released in ten years, whether I fuck shit up or not.

Grey tracksuits.

White socks.

Black sliders.

Obligatory attire.

Let’s hope I don’t get too comfortable with casual wear.

I had Weetabix and UHT milk for breakfast. I don’t recall ever eating Weetabix, not even as a child.

Orange juice and forty grams of unpalatable cereal are not enough for a man of my size.

I am always hungry.

My right-hand man would have a coronary if forced to eat here, the fat bastard.

Brad Jones.

I missed the son of a bitch.

Wherever I went, he was sure to follow. If I dined at a five-star restaurant, he invited himself. If I stayed at a hotel, he booked the room opposite. If I upgraded the wardrobe, he did one better. He rocked up ten hours later in Italy’s finest tailoring. I gave him the key to a brand new apartment, and still, he found his way back to the penthouse every night to sleep in the guest bedroom. Then, I bought the Warren Manor. He moved in the same week. He’s been my shadow for as long as I remember. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. He was right, the night I took him under my wing and showed him a new world. I did need a brother, someone I could depend on, rely on. He was the missing piece of the puzzle, the glue to hold the syndicate together, the voice of reasoning in my ear.

Life is boring without him.

The sun filtered through the barred window.

I picked up the canteen list on the bed: shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, chocolate, biscuits, spices and noodles. I ticked items, slid the sheet of paper under the door for the guards, and collapsed on the bed with an autobiography book I had borrowed from the library last month.

Jerome tapped the wall.

“Fuck off.” I stared at the ceiling. “I am tired.”

His knuckles rapped harder. “How did it go?”

I know he meant the trip to the doctor’s office. “Inefficacious.”

“Inner-what?” he asked cluelessly, but I had no desire to educate him. “Did you let her…?”

Jerome is convinced I have a soft spot for the doctor. He is wrong. I don’t dislike the woman, but I am not interested sexually. I used her to sneak drugs into the prison. In return, I had to pretend to be mentally unstable and pay her the occasional compliment. It’s a straightforward act of harmless sycophancy to get what I want. “Do you expect me to answer a half-asked question?”

“Jodie Capwell.” His deep voice thundered. “We all know it’s happening. What do I have to do to get a confession out of you?”

I smiled to myself. “All?”

“You know,” he said, and I remained untalkative until he elaborated. “Sire and stuff.”

Sire is anything but imperial. I’d love to know how he acquired a royal title. His lengthy history of methamphetamine abuse caused permanent disfigurement in his appearance. He had pitted facial scars, unsightly crooked teeth, neglected dental decay and the skeletal fragility of an old, dying man. “Sire knows where to find me.”

“Yeah,” he responded hesitantly. “Sire ain’t asking shit directly.”

“Are you his lap dog?” I spoke to the wall between us. “How much does he pay you to do his dirty work?”

Jerome’s knuckle taps continued. “I ain’t no one’s bitch.”

“Yet, he acts on another’s behalf.” I never passed at the chance of sarcasm. “I am a married man.”

He chortled. “I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

My wedding band was confiscated because of the encrusted diamonds and intricate markings. Property is kept in possession of the prison service. “When did you get the tattoos on your knuckles?”

“Why?” He moved around in the cell. “You want one?”

I considered the question. “Do you do them yourself?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Self-mutilation is punishable, though. You could wind up in solitary confinement.”

I do not fear the hole. “So, where do I sign up?”

“See? This is why I like you.” He is too chipper. “It will take me a few weeks to get the equipment. Is that good for you?”

Everything came at a price in prison. “What do you want in return?”

“Shit, I don’t know.” His hand claps ricocheted. “You are rich. I should capitalise on your fortune, right?”

Tucking an arm behind my head, I fluffed up the rock-hard pillow, opened the autobiography paperback and extracted the hidden photos of my wife. “Do your worst.”

“What’s in the corner shop?” he asked, and I eyed the packaged food stockpiled by the television. “Do you have any explicit magazines? I could do with some new posters on the wall.”

My scowl deepened. “No.”

“What?” He seemed to be offended. “Why not? You don’t need material?”

Alexa sent letters weekly. I read them every day to feel the power of her words as she reminded me of all the reasons why I fell in love with her.

My favourite letters came with polaroids of her in underwear with elaborate passementerie. I selected the most recent photo, the one with her in our bed, her dark hair fanned across the sheets, and her lace, the colour of sinful red, covering intimate areas.

I swept a thumb over her beautiful face. “I have a vivid imagination.”

“Whatever.” Jerome snorted. “Get me a nude poster of Hilda Dias Pimentel, and you got yourself a deal.”

“Who the fuck is Hilda Dis Pimentel?”

“Warren,” he groaned approvingly, and I shifted away from the wall. “Hilda is a Brazilian-born model. Her photoshoot for Playmate is lodged in my brain. I will marry her someday.”

“Right.” He is stark raving mad. He executed nine armed robberies and pleaded guilty to possessing firearms to raid off-licences and building societies. The Old Bailey hit him with life behind bars under the “two strikes, and you’re out” rule for committing multiple offences. He is a reoffending criminal who had spent most of his time in and out of Belmarsh before the law permanently placed him on the lifers’ spur. Hybristophilia is his only shot at happiness, and that’s if any of his female correspondents agree to be a prison bride. “Is this after you get out of nick?”

There was a pregnant pause. “I guess I have a vivid imagination, too.”

Jerome is only six years younger than me. He has made questionable decisions, but he is not a bad guy. Life for what I considered petty crimes is unfair. “Hilda Dias Pimentel,” I rasped, sensing the man’s disheartenment through the wall. “I will get the poster.”

He tapped the wall once. “I appreciate it.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

The London Crime King

How is this year for me? It is one to remember. I lost my brothers, beautiful wife, chosen son and sovereign empire in a matter of seconds.

Rumination occurs all too often here. I write to you within the confines of prison walls. Yet, I bin the letters rather than send them. I cannot be myself and share my innermost thoughts or feelings as my words are not for your eyes only. Prison staff open, search and read. You know how I feel about outsiders.

I have never been one for hobbies. However, I have considered tasks or activities to treat anhedonia in recent months as nothing is pleasurable. I play a game of cards and zone out. I move the most important piece in a game of chess, the king, and lose to an infuriating checkmate.

What do you advise?

Prisoners’ Education Trust.

Workshops.

Orderly jobs.

Maintain the jail.

I mopped floors.

I maintained gardens.

I helped with laundry once.

Vaping is customary.

Cigarettes are far and few.

Cheap whiskey is a rare treat.

Reading is part of my daily regime.

Writing is somewhat therapeutic.

I take advantage of gym facilities.

I have a newfound interest in callisthenics.

I do laps around the yard.

Discipline is a way to kill time.

Time is all I have.

Muscle gain was inevitable.

You would approve 😉

Drugs are commonplace.

Spice is the perpetrator.

Zombified inmates fall to the ground unanticipatedly. It is disturbing to watch. Most of the culprits are young, impressionable lads susceptible to mendaciousness. They score to fit in with the “big boys”, to look cool and earn respect, when, in retrospect, they become the butt end of a joke.

Prison food is an issue.

Three meals of absolute shit per day. Yes, I am a picky eater. I am an epicure, a connoisseur of food, and if it does not look appetising, I will not eat it. Meat is a provender for canines. It is safer to ingest plant-based meals for the foreseeable future. I can enjoy a three-course meal, steak or salmon, the day I walk out of here.

Hygiene is an even bigger issue.

I am not shy. I certainly have nothing to hide. But standing next to malodorous people whilst showering is the lowest of existence.

Belmarsh is overcrowded.

Infections.

Diseases.

A bar of soap will not cut it.

I need a bottle of hand sanitiser.

Gang-related violence is at its all-time highest.

Historical conflict from outside of prison is the root cause of animosities.

Prisoners exert on other prisoners.

I am mostly anti-social.

I like the yard. It is the only time I feel the sun on my face. If I am lucky, the light and warmth brightened the cell (I tend to stand by the window when this happens). It gives me the chance to listen to my mind, reflect on the possibilities of freedom, stay optimistic about the future, and visualise complete silence whilst my fingertips outline the wings on your back as you lay on my chest.

About your letter,

Chloe Stone.

I never liked her.

I tolerated her yapping for you.

I overlooked her disrespect for you.

I have very little to say on the matter because thoughts of your old friend burn from the inside out. Just know that I am glad she made high school more bearable for you.

Future eventualities are unpredictable. I do not possess the power of prognostication. If I did, I would have been there for you. If I knew of your pain and your struggles, I would have tracked you down and protected you as a defender, if nothing else.

You should be careful. You talk freely about your painful experience in high school, about the endless suffering endured when in captivity, to make conversation with your husband, but know that I, Liam Warren, take your words very seriously. If anyone is foolish enough to upset my wife, I will punish them viciously, as I am less forgiving than you (Forgiveness is alien to me. I do not possess such tendencies). Perhaps, in the next letter, you will provide the names of all the people responsible for your misery, and I will be sure to pay them a visit someday. Or, you can refrain from sharing truths to avoid gruesome bloodshed.

Uncultivated individuals whisper untruths to conform to the mundanities of everyday life, whereas the wise and intelligent regard facts only.

If believing that you did not deserve pity and sorrow made their lives purposeful, I can only laugh at their warpedness.

If believing that you were an awkward, uneducated, illiterate, chubby misfit provided entertainment to those mindless idiots, I can only thank them for strengthening the woman you are today.

You.

My woman.

My wife.

Am I yours?

Is forever long enough?

You are allowed to grieve for those lost. Your compassion for others is something I admire about you. Mourn your friend. Mourn your sister. Mourn everybody until your heart heals and you learn to smile again.

Brad is a father.

Who is the mother?

I am speechless, taken aback. Not because I think Brad is incapable of looking after anyone other than himself (the jury is still out on that one), but for the simple fact that I never pictured him with children.

I suppose I have never imagined any of us becoming parents.

Then again, Logan happened.

My chosen successor.

My son and heir.

My blue-eyed boy.

If I can fall in love with someone else’s child and call him my own, I am sure Brad has the ability to make his son proud. He has so much love to offer. If only he could trust himself to bring it to fruition.

You should know that my right-hand man features many facets and levels. He has a complex personality. He might be strong-hearted, but he is also susceptible to the conscious mind. I trust him indefinitely; however, I fear that he might lose himself in my absence. I worry about him the most. I know how easy it is for him to regress as an unconscious defence mechanism. Help him find an anchor or feel the wrath of his agony.

Nate is eloquently taciturn. He might be silent, but he is a deep thinker and a good listener. Do not confuse reservedness for unhappiness. He is a founding member of The Brotherhood. I selected him for a reason. Unlike Brad, who does not know when to shut the fuck up, Nate is quiet and observant but no less dangerous. If you doubt him, you doubt me.

Remember that.

Josh is wet behind the ears. I saw potential in him, but he has much to learn. Maturity comes with age and experience. Have faith in him and his capabilities.

His grandmother died.

Drugs are an escape from reality.

Who am I to judge a man in despair?

I am guilty of vice.

Josh’s pain will not break him.

It will make him stronger.

I have no doubt that he will be worth the gamble.

Vincent, the unwanted sibling, the estranged brother, is the bane of my life.

When I was younger, I pleaded with the heavens to give me a brother. I watched siblings in the park (sisters on the swings, brothers playing football) with an emptiness in my chest. I almost wanted a sidekick more than a loving parent.

By the time pubescence commenced, I had accepted a life without a family. I learnt to be selfishly motivated and ruthlessly ambitious (You might find it hard to believe, but I was not always a miscreant runaway. I used to care and worry with pointless excessiveness).

I never considered the possibility of fallen siblings. I had certainly not prepared for the likelihood of finding them, Serena and Vincent.

I do wonder about Serena from time to time. Perhaps if she had chosen a different side, I could have provided a home for her.

Vincent is an entirely different matter. I hate how much I love him. I hate how much he reminds me of myself. I hate that I do not hate him at all, not even in the smallest of measures, as he is the only person left in the world to share my blood.

It means something, does it not?

We have the same black hair, blue eyes and pale skin. We are equally evil, yet we existed in different worlds until the darker side of fate restored the absence of our estrangement.

I am weak to Valerie Wentworth’s indifference.

I loved her for giving me life.

I loved her, even when she abandoned me.

I loved her, even when she lived without me.

I loved her, even when she forgot about me.

I loved her, even when she did not deserve my love.

She is, after all, my mother.

She is the reason I exist.

Her selfishness taught me that happiness is defined by self-reliance.

I never truly hated her until Vincent. If all of the above mentioned is not enough to put the final nail in her coffin, then surely, keeping two brothers apart should be. I can forgive her for being too weak to handle a man like me. I cannot, however, pardon lost time where brothers bond and make memories.

For Vincent, I express sympathy for the pain he shall endure in the hours of his mother’s death. I hurt for him. I wish I could be there to support him. I trust that you will do so on my behalf.

From my standpoint, Valerie Wentworth died long before I knew a mother inhabited the role of bearing children and loving them.

You joke about grey hair and the duties of a grandmother. Do not concern yourself with Logan’s sexual activity. I never said it enough, but he is a good lad. He is a prodigy with a wise head on young shoulders. He is mature, responsible, assertive and disciplined. I do not doubt him for even a nanosecond. Yes, his desire for sex has increased, but that does not precipitate debauchery. Let him live. Trust him to do right by you. You will reap the rewards as his chosen guardian.

Your life is far from boring and purposeless.

You have the entirety of my empire in the palm of your hand.

Do what you will with that knowledge.

You are right. You have more to offer, and there is more to life than money and extravagance. Instead of writing down pessimistic thoughts, why not use your strengths against your weaknesses to be the best version of yourself?

I will make it easier for you.

Alexa Warren is a survivor of child abduction.

She lives to speak of her tragedies.

Now, she is ready to share her story.

Use your voice.

Tell the world.

Embrace survivors alike.

Whatever you decide, I am proud of you.

You could never bore me.

I live for everything that is you.

You will forever be my favourite pastime.

I do not respond to your letters, but I read them until I memorise them. Every night, before bed, I learn your words by heart and study your pictures with the most unbearable ache in my chest.

I declined visitations to protect you. In the eye of London, I have neglected responsibilities and abandoned my loved ones.

Enemies will move on.

Opportitsts will look for weakness.

I am the only target.

Italians.

Russians.

Ukrainians.

I am caught in a web of lies and sin.

I hold the crown as the puppet master, though.

I deny reassurance because my wife thrives on assertiveness.

If I tell you to go left, you will go right. If I tell you not to intervene, you will do it regardless. If I ask you to trust me, you will question me until the distance between us becomes too much to bear, and I buckle.

Does your forceful personality make it harder to love you?

No, I hit the jackpot when I met you.

Am I angry?

Yes, but anger is for those deserving.

Have you lost me forever?

I ask myself similar questions every night.

Dark thoughts are all-consuming.

Will she grow tired of waiting?

Will she forget about me?

Will she meet someone else and move on?

The last one does not bear consideration.

All I know for certain is no one will love you with the same intense passion that I do.

Do not blame yourself for current circumstances. I am in prison for the crimes I committed. I am in prison to atone for my sins.

You concern yourself with the accountability of others. Yes, I might carry the load for criminals alike, but I would rather face punishment than see you locked up and shackled.

My dark, beautiful seraph,

You are too wild to be caged.

The Warren Exploration.

Wife, I might have smiled.

What did you do bar stalk the arse of me for months?

Here is an admittance.

I cannot believe I never noticed you sooner. How is it possible that you sat in the exact coffee shop I visited every week and I never saw you?

Here is another admittance.

I drowned in the depths of your haunted eyes, too.

Crazy but beautiful.

Talkative but mesmeric.

Frightened but determined.

She was chaos.

She was perfect.

She was my future wife.

Can you even begin to imagine how confused I felt when walking away from you that day? I wanted to help you, yet I could not comprehend why.

You hounded for a job.

I gave in.

I wanted to see you again.

You lied by omission.

I forgave you.

I knew you were harmless.

You did not come with baggage or stress.

I wanted to hold you in those darkest hours because something about you made me feel complete.

You told me that you loved me first.

Do not underestimate or undermine your fearlessness.

I once said: “Nothing scares me more than you.”

To which you replied: “You fear nothing.”

I was lost in your eyes. “I fear losing you.”

For lack of better words, it was an admission of love by a cowardly man.

If only I had braved the storm like you.

I could have prevented a lot of heartbreak.

Our love story is not over.

It will never be over.

You can send your letters, but you do not have to remind me of the promises we intend to keep or the vows we have made because my love for you is the only reason I survive imprisonment.

My most treasured memories belong to us.

I read your mother’s letter because I have profound respect and admiration for the woman who gave me you.

I pushed an engagement ring on your finger before you accepted my hand in marriage because, whether you like it or not, I am a man who knows what he wants, and you, Alexa Warren, are what my heart desires.

I vowed to love you for all of eternity because life without you is no life at all.

I provided a fairytale wedding because my queen deserved nothing but the best. I treated you the way you deserved to be treated. Royalty.

I flew you to momentary paradise because, selfishly, I wanted you to myself. North Island Seychelles is the best decision I have ever made.

I think about our honeymoon often, how your eyes brightened when you smiled, and how you laughed when I complained needlessly. How you wore next to nothing and still took my breath away.

Your dark, wild hair, blowing to the subtlest of winds. Your beautiful, wide-eyed fascination with the blue water, the white sand and the tropical wilderness. Your love for Brutas. For those bastard environmentalists and their extreme values.

I would do it all again, just to see you smile, to be alone with you in elysian quintessence, to feel your perfect body in my arms, to smell the scent of sweet perfume on your skin, to kiss the fullness of your sensuous lips, to taste your tongue with insatiableness reserved for me.

I earned your loyalty.

I earned your reverence.

I earned your love.

Do you doubt me?

Alexa, baby,

I am in love with you.

Always,

Your husband,

Liam.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

The London Crime King

I studied the letter’s cursive handwriting and hurled it straight in the bin. I packed away writing materials and stored everything in the wall-mounted cupboard above the bed, including Alexa’s photos. I did not trust other inmates to sneak in and ransack during association.

A fresh-faced guard delivered a tray of food: shrivelled fish, overcooked potatoes, wilted vegetables and stale bread. Once he relocked the door, I dumped the tray on the desk, having no desire to indulge. I delved into two packets of ready salted crisps, sipped a can of whiskey topped cola and smoked a cigarette.

Much later, the doors unlocked for inmates to socialise. I stayed on the bed for a while, hearing the same old arguments break out downstairs, which was almost as annoying as the obstreperously aggressive Alsatians growling and barking at the crack of dawn.

I exited the cell and leaned onto the iron railing to watch the commotion through the aluminium mesh net. There was an unusual air of overabundant exhilaration this evening. Several men played cards, dominos, pool (no balls or cues, so dice sufficed), read newspapers and watched this evening’s movie simultaneously with the barrage of cons quarrelling on trivial matters: sexual prowess, financial superiority and pilfered contraband. It would have provided amusement if Simon—the wing’s dry snitch, who cosied up to one of the guards—had not piqued curiosity. It does not pay to be a snitch (there is no honour among thieves), but for the right price, prisoners will happily tell tales. It is the crux of disputes among men and it often resulted in violence.

Simon is dumber than he looked. He did not belong here with serious crime offenders. He belonged to Broadmoor for highly specialised care for whatever mental illness slurred speech and reduced concentration. The slack-jawed kleptomaniac ordered fries at a popular fast food outlet before snatching eighty pounds from the cash register.

He is a walking disaster.

“What do you think?” Jerome sidled up to me, glaring at Simon from across the way. “Stupid motherfucker wants to die.”

Tiny emerged. His short stature is the result of epiphyseal disease. He had no excuse for the shaved head and non-prescription reading glasses. He opted for unattractiveness. He piled on weight, omitted regular showers and wore stained clothes to ward off male observation. “Who is stupid? Oh.” His thin moustache bristled. “Him.”

“Him?” Sire gave me an indignant look as he edged toward me. “Warren.”

I dismissed him with a low grunt.

Tiny’s short finger aimed afar. “Simon, the snitch.”

“Fuck him.” Jerome juggled two green apples. “I bet he will be screaming for his mamma tonight. Why does he cause shit for himself?”

I snatched an apple out of Jerome’s hand.

“He shouldn’t be here,” Tiny said, and I agreed. “He didn’t rob any burger joint. The guy can’t even tie up his own shoe laces.”

No, I think Simon is a qualified swindler.

“Simon pleaded guilty.” Jerome fumbled with a cheap vape pen. “Unlike me. I didn’t do shit.”

My eyes rolled again.

“Same,” Sire lied, knowing damn well he mugged an elderly woman in broad daylight. “Innocent until proven guilty.”

I studied the green apple in nostalgic musings. “You were proven guilty.”

“No.” Sire was in denial. “I never hurt that old lady.”

Prevarication is ubiquitous here—that and denial.

“Self-enhancement motive, huh?” Coolly impassive, I stuffed the apple into the pocket of my jogging bottoms. “I suppose I am innocent, too.”

“Innocent, my ass.” Tiny snorted like a pig. “I am surprised he ain’t in HSU for that fucking rap sheet.”

I will be permanently cock-eyed if I roll my eyes anymore today.

Jerome observed quietly. “Are you guilty?”

Everyone looked at me.

From my vantage point, I could see a conglomeration of convicts.

Armed robbery.

Abduction.

Homicide.

Mass-murder

Terrorism.

Pathological liars.

Outstanding actors.

Internalised misogyny.

Morally corrupt.

Belmarsh is a cesspit of villains with dark empath traits and criminal tendencies. Yet, the inquisitive men concerned themselves with my extracurricular activities. At least I had a sense of propriety, unlike some people. “On what counts?”

“True.” Jerome’s hands rubbed together. “Multiple offences, right?”

Sire flushed when I caught him in the process of scrutinisation.

I took a steady breath. “Problem?”

“Did you rape her?” His prolonged stare speared into me. “Jessica Pearce. It was on the news. We all saw it.” He glimpsed at the others for moral support. “Just be real with us.”

My hands tightened on the railing. “I am not a rapist.”

“That’s what they all say.” Sire snickered slyly. “Cunt crippler.”

If he wants a slap, he is going the right way about it. “Look at my face. Look at yours,” I pointed out cruelly, and the stained-tooth prick slammed his lips together in humiliation. “Why would I pry on helpless females? Women throw themselves at me. A handsome face has its perks.”

“Swell-head.” Tiny had a sneaky puff on the vape pen. “Where is the lie, though?” His small, chubby hand patted my cheek. “You got good genes, huh? Who do we have to thank? Your mother? Send her in for a visit. I am a romantic man. I promise to be good to her.”

I am immune to mother jokes.

Sire is back on my hit list.

“You, on the other hand, have little to no options,” I said in a bored voice, and the herpes-looking son of a bitch clicked his knuckles. “You’d have to take it by force. No woman, in their right mind, is touching someone that resembles Shane Macgowan.”

Sire feigned nonchalance, but his bright cheeks and jaw ticks betrayed him.

“I have never been sex-deprived. I am married to a fucking goddess. Jessica Pearce is an ex-employee. My lawyer exposed her lies in a court of law. Unfortunately, justice is not always on our side.” My eyes roved over his sunken features. “I committed many unspeakable crimes, but they had no evidence. The Jury favoured hearsay. Crown prosecution made an example out of me.”

“Fuck the system.” Tiny watched two prisoners mosey along. “Hey, I got to talk to you. Hang tight for one second.”

My gaze gravitated to Lyov by the stairwell. He is a curly-haired, lanky young man with grey, stormy eyes, the fusion of fear and menace. I loathed the weak-minded sleaze. He raped a teenage girl and left her for dead.

Boomer, the gang-affiliated racist, is in front of Lyov. He is a thick-chested man, relatively tall and heavily muscled. Boomer had a penchant for baby-faced, submissive weaklings. The younger, the better. Lyov, with the pretty boy image and the effeminate voice, is the embodiment of attractiveness to sexual predators.

Boomer ascended the stairs.

Lyov followed.

“Hey, Warren?” Jerome’s fingers gripped the paint-chipped railing. “I believe in your innocence. You ain’t no rapist. That bitch who falsely accused you? She’s scorned, huh?”

Boomer entered his single cell.

Lyov followed.

Why does the Russian take shit lying down? I cannot be there to forestall brutalisation at every corner. He must stand up for himself. I decided to ignore the closed door. The easily ascertained act of sexual assault will occur at any given moment. It is not my problem. Lyov is not my problem. Nikolai had not called or visited in weeks. He reneged on our mutual accord, so why should I stick to my end of the deal?

“You good?” Jerome waved a hand in my face. “You don’t talk much.”

There is little room for conversation with such a loquacious man. “You talk enough for the two of us.”

What happened to Tiny and Sire?

I did not see them leave.

“What?” Jerome chuckled, not that I aimed to be humorous. “See? This is why I like you.”

And you feel the need to tell me as much repeatedly.

“So, I was thinking.” Jerome’s arms hung over the railing idly. “What are your thoughts about attending the business scheme? For me, I mean.”

Prisoners are naturally entrepreneurial.

Resourceful risk-takers will do anything to generate money.

“You are a businessman, right?” His head dipped to look me in the eye. “Why don’t you put your name forward? Two pounds an hour ain’t much, but your contribution might help.”

I scratched my jaw. “Two pounds an hour?”

His pearly whites flashed. “Truthfully, I could use the company.”

I am bored. “I decline.”

“Aw, come on. You’re intelligent. Experienced.” Jerome sought to gorgonise, but I simply levelled him with a stony stare. “What’s so funny?”

“I am a businessman, but I highly doubt that my level of expertise will win over the guards.” What do I teach? How to build relationships with gangsters abroad to smuggle illegal drugs into the country, or how money laundering is synonymous with wealth management in our world. “Empty talk. You will never get out of prison.”

“I can dream,” he replied irritably. “It beats sitting around, doing nothing all day, right? Besides, I got the chance of parole. I could see the other side someday.”

Jermone is too set in his ways to change for the greater good. He is a violent recidivist, gregarious yet sequacious, with no ambition and no motivation.

I’d rather save my breath.

“Come on, man.” His serious tone conveyed desperation. “Help a brother out. I want to turn my life around. I mean it this time.”

There is nothing the prison program can teach that I don’t already know. “I am not interested in the Enterprise Exchange.”

“Fine.” He droned on like a petulant child. “You can give me some free advice, though. Make life easier for me.”

I should have stayed in the cell.

“I am not above begging,” he joked, and I stepped to the side to get away from him. “Just tell me how the get-rich-quick scheme works.”

I wearily rubbed my eyes. “It sounds too good to be true.”

“You proved that it can be done.”

“Who am I to challenge such an ignorant assertion?” I said with hostile deliberateness. “Are you quite finished?”

“No.” He concentrated on the men below. “You know, I am indispensable. I can get my hands on pretty much anything.”

Look at him, trying to bribe me. “Except Hilda Dias Pimentel.”

“Except Hilda.” He gave me a long, cool look. “Tiny mentioned that you liked music…” I slid him an anticipatory glance. “You wanted a cassette player with headphones, right?”

I put my back to the railing. “Go on.”

“I might know someone who knows someone.”

“How many cassette tapes?”

“One.”

“Il Divo.”

“Done.”

“Frank Sinatra.”

“What?” He counted to two on his fingers. “That’s two requests.”

“Well done.” I stared blankly. “We have established that you depend on digits to outsmart preschoolers. How long must I wait for the cassette player?”

“A week or two.” He fixed me with an affronted scowl. “Your turn. What must I do to have full control of a business?”

I will never get wasted time back. “You want to be an entrepreneur? Pick up a book and read. Autodidacticism is the key to success when dealt the wrong cards in life. I am a man of millions because mediocrity was unacceptable.” A self-made billionaire if I wanted to be technical. “Aim higher than the competition.”

“Read?” He looked nonplussed. “Yeah, okay. I will read.”

My stare swung back to Boomer’s door.

“What do I read?” he probed, and I sighed in frustration. “What? You asked, and I answered.”

“I never opened my fucking mouth.” My stern, icy glare swept over him. “Educational books will positively affect your life. It will increase brain connectivity, refine comprehension and improve vocabulary. How can you be your own boss if you are not intelligent enough to wipe your fucking arse? Do you have the skillset and mindset to launch a profitable business? Do you even have a business plan?”

“Yeah.” His head nodded vigorously. “I want to be a drug baron like you.”

I blinked owlishly. “You wish to step on my toes.”

“No, I want to learn from you. Maybe be as successful as you.” I don’t know whether he is trying to convince himself or me. “Why brain connectivity?”

“Positive mindset.” I turned around again to watch the inmates on the ground floor. “Optimistic attitude.”

“Right.” His expression narrowed. “And, what’s wrong with my vocabulary?”

“The use of abbreviations is not too bad, but a disproportionate amount of colloquialisms are frowned upon and, quite frankly, it can make you sound stupid. You want to be a successful drug baron who presides over an assembled multitude involved in the illegal drug trade. You struggle with basic maths.” He is not intelligent enough to swindle a deal. He will not last five minutes in the underworld. “Colombians dominate the global drug market. You want to build a good relationship with a potential seller. He knows his stuff. He’s been in the game for a long time. He is working on a shady business deal to manipulate the situation for his benefit. You are an ill-educated amateur, so you accept the deal blindly. Or, you get clued-up and play him at his own game.”

Jerome, surprisingly, digested advice avidly.

“The prison program will only offer so much to an inmate. You know it. I know it.” Prisons are ineffective for rehabilitation. “Ask for numeracy and literacy tests instead. Business will come with experience.”

He banged his chest to alleviate the strained chuckle. “And vocab?”

“A vocabularian manipulates sesquipedalian words,” I said pretentiously, and his eyes grew in size. “It confuses the opposition, does it not?”

“Shit.” He scratched the parting of his mini coils. “You got all that from a book?”

“I grew up in the system. A good education is essential for a child’s development. Alas, where I came from, success is not universal. What chance did I have? If not for self-education, self-improvement, self-knowledge and self-cultivation. I refused to be a victim of my parents’ poor decision making. I wanted to be better.”

Jerome frowned for a moment.

“I read a quote once.” Pushing away from the railing, I made a beeline for Boomer’s cell. “Diligence is the mother of good fortune.”

In spite of better judgement and all the protests, on the contrary, I do believe Jerome had potential. He had leadership qualities. He is charismatic and streetwise. Anything is possible with the right amount of determination.

I did not knock on Boomer’s door before I threw it open. I will never get used to the sordid sight of a young man, forced to pleasure and please a sexual deviant. Lyov, at the behest of violation, knelt by Boomer’s feet to perform non-consensual fellatio. I met the lad’s watery eyes, and indignation boiled. “How many fucking times do I have to warn you?” My anger dislodged the pair with skittish unexpectedness. “He is off-limits.”

“Fuck you.” Bloomer’s teeth gnashed as he watched Lyov crawl on all fours to hide behind me. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Don’t be selfish. There is plenty of him to go around.” He almost tucked himself away, but I gripped his testicles forcibly, squeezing with all my might. He gasped, his wet, bulbous eyes threatening to burst. “Warren…”

“I warned you.” Testicular trauma by blunt force is an impulsive decision made by a man wanting to avoid yet another bloodbath. I have killed and hospitalised many men under an obligation. “You must be a glutton for punishment. And you.” Keeping a firm grip on the panting man, I turned to Lyov, who had not spluttered a word since I entered the cell. He dry heaved to expunge the taste of semen in his throat. He is the perfect example of a prison bitch: coward, vulnerable and tractable. I bet he never put up a fight. He simply fell to his knees and obeyed with unquestioning meekness, the spineless idiot. “Self-preservation should take precedence in such a place. Grow a fucking backbone.”

“Please.” Bloomer doubled over at the waist in excruciating pain. “He is a child rapist! He is at the bottom of the pecking order!”

Yes, I am aware.

“Get out,” I said calmly, and the craven Russian climbed to his feet. “Close the door behind you.”

I felt a sickening pop in my hand, which resulted in a loud, guttural howl from Boomer. His knees sagged to the ground as I withdrew. I could only hope I caused enough damage to shame the functionality of his cock.

Holding himself between the legs, he tumbled to the cold floor, the weight of his body spasming unrhythmically with aftershocks as the edge of pain decreased. “You son of a whore,” he wheezed as I washed the odour of his fusty cock off my hands in the handbasin. “What’s the deal? You fucking him? He’s your bitch. Is that it? You don’t want to share. Fine. You might want to put the word out to everyone so they know he is spoken for.”

I answer to no one.

“We could have been friends.” He limped into stance. “You don’t want to make an enemy out of me, Warren.”

My shoulders squared as I turned to him.

“There is a rise in violence lately.” He dripped in sweat. “Have you noticed? Did you hear about Wyte? I don’t think he’ll be back.”

Wyte defaced the Quran.

His Muslim cellmate returned the favour.

“I thought you’d be one of us.” He is referring to gang rivalry. “I see you with the Peckham Boy. Bit of an odd mix.”

“Why?” Jerome is a young black male. “Am I supposed to amalgamate with a white supremacist group?”

“I don’t know racism.” He rubbed the ache between his legs. “Do you?”

Racial equality is non-existent. Prison staff face racial harassment. Inmates, black and Asian, had a tough fight on their hands: victimisation, brutalisation and discrimination.

I believed in equality for everyone.

Good versus evil.

Boomer’s foot dragged on the floor as he hobbled closer. “Belmarsh leaves its mark on prisoners.” His warm puffed in my face. “That’s a stark warning of what’s to come.”

My hands slowly balled into fists. “Are you threatening me?”

“Me? Threaten you?” He gave me a tight-jawed smile. “Why the hell would I go and do something like that?”

“I don’t like being threatened.”

“Take it how you will.”

“Oh, I fucking will.” Then, without warning, I laid the head on him, the forceful blow striking him in the most sensitive area. “I wanted to be civil.”

Bloomer’s nosebleed trickled into his mouth as he backed up against the desk. His fingertips examined the damage, the fresh blood on his skin. “You lousy fucking bitch—“

I drew my fist back and jawed him clean across the face. He howled, having not anticipated staggering force. I had to be quick because someone must have heard his cry for help. I will not leave until I have sent a message, though.

He came at me like a clumsy sloth, tackled me to the ground and wrestled for an upper hand. “You fat fucker.” My hips bucked beneath him to regain control but to no avail. “Get off me and fight like a man.”

“Screw your mother!” His spittle sprayed in my face—I delivered an uppercut to his chin. “Ah, you little bitch!”

His open-palmed slap nearly clipped my cheek. I outmanoeuvred him, caught his wrist, struck him in the cheek with my left fist and, locking my legs around his waist, forced his back to the ground.

Boomer had a nice old grip on my hair and had no intention of letting go.

I landed a few body shots to escape his control, but his fingers dug deeper, ripping at the scalp. A red veil fell over my eyes when my head began to burn. In a blind rage, I sank my teeth into the top of his ear, slicing through flappy skin until blood filled my mouth.

He roared out as the pain, too much to endure, shook his body violently beneath me. With an inescapable hand pressing firmly on the man’s face, I sat straight and spat a chunk of cartilage on the flood. Knees straddling his waist, I reached for the apple in my pocket, snapped it in half and wrangled his lips apart. I pried the man’s mouth open, wedged a slice of apple into the back of his throat, then another. “Rule number seventy-two.” Our noses touched. “You do not threaten me and live to talk about it.”

Boomer’s grubby hands took hold of my throat with pitiful strength. His glassy, protuberant eyes begged for mercy as severe choking cost him the ability to speak.

No, I will not show mercy.

I do not take kindly to threats,

Insults will get a rise out of me.

Silent tears streamed down the side of his pale face. His fingernails, ineffectively clawing at my neck, fought vigorously for salvation.

My hand covered his nose and mouth to suppress gurgling sounds and speed up the process. I overpowered him and bludgeoned him into unconsciousness without an ounce of remorse.

His arms alternately fell to the floor.

Asphyxiation.

Hurling the apple stump under the bed, I returned to the hand basin to wash the man’s blood, saliva and vomit down the drain. I stepped over the Bloomer’s lifeless body and paused by the door.

I had to tidy my appearance. Fix the bedraggled image.

Men roamed the wing.

I uncovered Lyov at the bottom of the staircase. He sat there, watching everyone, chin balanced on the heel of his hand. You’d never think he just spent the better of association with a man’s cock in his mouth.

Unfazed.

Unbothered.

Psychotic.

“Where did you go?” Jerome stepped alongside me as I walked back to the cell with calm steps. “Football is on the box if you want to watch it. Whoa!” His hands shot up in surrender when Ren appeared. “What’s good, pops?”

“Are you behaving yourself?” His croaked question was for Jerome. Then, supine and inert, his eyes set on me. “Governor Russell wants to see you in his office. I will show you the way.”

“Governor Russell.” Jerome whistled an ominous tune. “What did you do this time?”

“Nothing.” Dane Rusell is a friend of mine. I am not worried. “I will catch you later.”

I walked in Ren’s shadow from one iron-barred gate to another. Soon, he led me to the long-stretched corridor to the governor’s office. He later remembered restraints. “Shit, I forgot the handcuffs.” With the clumsy ineptness of a toddler, he secured the handcuffs to my wrists. His cold, frail, translucent hands trembled. It was not fear—he had no reason to fear me—but something troubled the old man. “Don’t move,” he instructed, not that I planned to breathe a word, let alone a muscle. “Through the blue door.”

“Blue?” My gaze flickered to the red door belonging to Dane. “Not the governor’s office.”

“No.” Ren’s exhausted body eased into the visitors’ chair by the potted Madagascar Dragon Tree. “Go in and sit down, Warren.”

I hesitated by the unlocked door. “What is it?”

Hands resting on his knees, he looked up. “Pardon?”

“You are shaking,” I said, and he examined his hands. “Do you need me to call someone?” There are no other guards in the hall. “Is Russel inside his office?”

“No.” His frangible arms folded to stifle jitters. “You needn’t bother yourself with that. I am tired, is all.”

I felt reluctant to leave him alone. “You should retire.”

His grey, ungroomed eyebrows drew close.

“You are an old man.” My voice was purposely low. “How long do you have left? Hang up the uniform. Travel the world. Explore paradise.”

He listened intently.

“Who knows?” My lips curled into a smirk. “You might find a decent bird on the beach. I hear happy hour is every hour in sweet haven.”

“I have never been on a plane.” He stared at the door with idle nods of the head. “Oh, the door.” Almost tripping over his feet, he handled a set of keys clumsily. “Come on. Let’s get you seated.”

I shouldered the door open, the room a murky palette of mustard yellow and pale blue, and used the tip of my foot to pull a chair out.

Exhaling feelings of irritability, I sat down with respectful obedience.

Ren unfasted the handcuffs momentarily. Then, he secured my hands to the steel table to be sure I had limited mobility.

“I am not a threat to the governor.” Dane Russell seldom left me in handcuffs during meetings. He is nice enough to pour the occasional mug of coffee, too. “Have I ever behaved violently?”

“Warren,” Ren half-scolded, and I laughed under my breath. “I like you, but I know of your capabilities.”

I will take that as a compliment.

“Right.” Testing the handcuff’s durability, he squeezed my shoulder. “I will be outside if you need anything.”

Ren walked out without a backward glance.

I heard an indistinct conversation in the hallway.

Door hinges complained behind me.

“You took your time.” My stare homed in on the wall’s chipped paint. “Do taxpayers cover renovations in prisons? I have noticed something. The paintwork is an issue throughout…”

Italian leather shoes.

A Corneliani three-piece suit.

Gold and ice diamonds.

An unlit cigar.

Alberto Moretti.

On instinct, I lunged to my feet, the chair crashing to the floor. “Do you have a fucking death wish, old man?” Uncontrollable anger coursed through my body like molten lava. “Is this what it takes?” My arms jerked at the handcuffs, the cold steel reinforcing on my wrists. “You come to a man in chains. You fucking coward.”

Moretti kept his distance.

I spit on his shoe. “How’s that for disrespect?”

He overlooked the saliva on his shoe. Rubbing his bearded jaw, he lowered his gaze to the floor to mentally ponder how to initiate an amicable conversation. “Warren—“

“Do not mistake incarceration for vulnerability.” My heart pounded in protest. “I might be shackled, but I can still outsmart the mafia’s greatest disappointment. You are a laughing stock. You are at the bottom of the food chain, the lowest level of hierarchy. Everything you lived for is gone. How does it feel to be ostracised by the necessities of life? Worthless scum.”

His gold tooth bared. “You cannot hurt me.”

My precarious adrenaline levels shook every bone in my body. “Come closer and find out.” His neck will be manacled within seconds. “I am compromised, not soft.”

“You might find this hard to believe,” he said with understandable wariness, “but I come to you with good intentions.”

Once a snake, always a snake. “There is no conversation to be had.”

“Warren.” He took off the custom grey gradient lenses. “If you allow me to speak, I can explain the nature of my visit.”

“Ren,” I called for the old man’s attention. “Get in here. Remove irritants.”

“No one is prepared to interrupt.” Moretti studied me closely. “You are not the only person with power cards.”

I sat down.

He followed suit.

Tapping an unlit cigar on the table, he tipped the wide-brimmed fedora as a sign of respect. “Bosqui betrayed me. They all did.”

The Italians are not on the list of priorities.

“Ignazio,” he drawled, and I slid him an impatient glance. “He is coming for the two of us.”

“Really?” I eyed the five-star accommodation. “Does he plan to scale prison walls?”

“No.” His voice is rougher than I remembered. “He will target your loved ones.”

The syndicate is well-regulated, well-trained and well-armed. They will take care of enemies. “I have no contact with the outside world.” With the exception of Nikolai, of course. “I have disowned everyone.”

He looked around before he asked, “Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Must I uproot the metaphorical knife in my back?” My forearms leaned onto the table. “You were not the only person betrayed by the people you cared about. I rot in a prison cell because of them. Ignazio, whoever the fuck he is, can do his worst. I will not lose sleep. If anything, he will be doing me a favour.”

“You lie,” he snarled, and I blinked in response. “The Warren Syndicate is of vital importance to you. The Brotherhood is indispensable. Your wife is irreplaceable. You want outsiders to believe that you have washed your hands with la famiglia because you fear the impending catastrophe of dethronement. The institution has never looked more destructible.”

My Adam’s apple shifted.

“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.” He leaned back in the chair, the cheap plastic squeaking under his weight. “You do not trust your right-hand man.”

Brad, I trusted him with my life. “Inarguably.”

His head tilted. “But?”

There is only one Liam Warren. “No reservations.”

“If you say so.” The cigar taps to the table proceeded. “I know them better than anyone, Bosqui and Ignazio. I know how they think. I know how they operate. I know how to make them bleed and suffer.” He moved in the seat like an overstuffed animal. “I can take them down.”

“Why come to me?” My tremors lessened through quick breathing exercises. “You seem to have the situation under control.”

He looked at me with an ersatz ambience of genuineness. “Incorrect.”

My stare narrowed.

I searched for a glimmer of deceit in his eyes. “Interesting.” A low smirk raised my lips. “You have exhausted allies.”

“Correct,” he answered honestly. “I am a traitor. I am a dead man walking.” His arms folded onto the table. “Unless, by some miracle, I socialise and build alliances.”

At this point, I am merely entertained. “I will not consociate with a renegade.”

“We could forge an unbreakable bond.”

“You can do whatever the fuck you want.” My legs stretched out beneath the table as my arms crossed. “I am not interested.”

“Ignazio blackmailed the jurors,” he informed me, and I grunted with disinterest. “He paid them all off: Judge, Jury and Prosecution. It was the plan all along. The diamond heist was nothing but a ruse to earn your trust.”

Undeniably confused, I sat taller. “You stole the diamonds. You shot my brother. You shot me. Pray tell, how is that act of betrayal a ruse to earn trust? You fucked up before we could reach an accord.”

“I wanted the diamonds for myself.”

Yes, I was there. “And Bosqui?”

“Bosqui thought the order came from the Don.” He is surprisingly informative. “Look, I got greedy. I made a rash decision—an emotional decision. My Rosa lives in fear. She won’t leave the house just in case someone drives by and whacks her off. My children refuse to go to school. They study at home.” He stared at me with regretful eyes. “This is no life for la mia famiglia.”

I had no sympathy. “Your family is not my problem.”

“You have no idea of what’s to come.” His hands stayed firmly on the table as he stood. “Italians board planes as we speak. They will hunt me down. They will kill me. Mia carissima mogile. I miei bellissimi bambini. They will spare the lives of no one.”

Moretti’s words caused horripilation.

“Ignazio waged war.” His diamond rings glittered. “He will tear down the Warren Empire once I am dead and buried. Frankly, I am the least of your worries.”

My fingers curled and uncurled to generate blood flow. “Why?”

His head tilted in confusion.

“Ignazio wants a war with the institution.” I had never suffered from anxiety before, but lately, it emerged too often, tormentingly so. “Why?”

“You’re in his way,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I have a backup plan, If I do not have you on my side. I will fly mia la famiglia out of Scotland.”

Moretti lived in Scotland.

“Ignazio will find me, eventually.” He held onto the brim of his hat and adjusted it on his head. “I will run until running is no longer an option.”

He advanced toward the door.

“Wait,” I said quietly, and his footsteps abruptly stopped. “You want my trust? Earn it.”

Moretti’s shadow fell over me. Then, with one hand on the back of my chair, he took off his hat, lowered to one knee and bowed his head. “I swear fealty to you, the syndicate and your family.”

I tsked him. “You will have to do better than that.”

He extracted an old, vintage wedding band from his inner suit jacket. “Angelica,” he said hoarsely. “She is yours.”

My thumb circled the item of jewellery. “You wish to hand over your only daughter in a business transaction.”

He nodded.

I laughed once. “I am married.”

“Yes.” His cold eyes raised. “Vincent, however, is not.”