Ch 1-10

Summary

Brad’s second instalment. Synopsis coming soon.

PROLOGUE

The London Crime King

I loved early mornings. I could have less than four hours of sleep and still summon an unfathomable amount of energy to climb out of bed at the crack of dawn to witness the incarnadine tinctures of sunrise.

Suppose you travelled further afield, three miles north, where acres of woodland unfurled behind the street of unneighbourly occupants. In that case, you will find me near the steady stream, perched on a coarse-grained rock, Arlo’s Sony Walkman cassette player and headphones in possession, relaxing in mother nature’s palm, escaping the realities of life.

It is the best part of any day, alone time, blissful quietude and simplicity itself. Everyone else is asleep, except the cawing birds rustling above in the highest branches of trees, leaving me alone with my thoughts to contend with, the only opportunity for self-reflection. It is necessary for change, to step back and think of ways to put the world to rights, to get my life in order, to try and understand why I mess up all the time.

I should be kinder to myself, but I am prone to anxiety, and when I fail to meet expectations, I hold myself accountable. I overthink whenever I fall short of perfectionism, when I disappoint the hand that feeds me, because I am a people pleaser, and people pleasers worry too much about the opinions of others, especially those responsible for your existence.

I want to be better if only I knew how.

Guilt and shame have eaten away at whatever confidence I had. I used to be happy, grateful, and full of life, but lately, morning, noon, and night, I feel unhappy, ungrateful and spiritless.

Worthless.

Dead inside.

A huge disappointment.

I don’t see the point in living anymore, not when I am so miserable, not when the light at the end of the tunnel has turned into ominous darkness.

How will my story end?

Will I face the river, the turbulent flow of water, to eliminate suffering once and for all?

Will I find the courage to swallow my mother’s pills instead of counting them every night before bed?

Will I step out in front of a moving vehicle rather than imagine how impactful the bonnet would feel against my body?

Will I ever be brave enough to defeat those who continue to hurt me?

A soft wind whispered through the scraggly ends of my hair. I pinched a blond strand between my thumb and forefinger, wondering why Yolanda hadn’t taken the hair clippers to it yet. It’s unlike her to let it grow to this length without making a fuss.

Yolanda.

My mother.

Is it possible to love and hate someone at the same time?

Is it wrong to visualise and crave the freedom I’d endure if she ceased to exist?

Is it weird that I care too much to find out?

I hate her.

But I love her.

I hate her.

But I don’t want anything bad to happen to her.

I hate her.

But I would never forgive myself for exposing her.

How do I heal from a toxic parent?

Will I be around long enough to find out?

I do love her, oddly enough, and I would never want anything bad to happen to her. I would cry if she died. I would mourn if she left me. I would miss the better side of her that I knew was still in there somewhere. But without her, there would be a light, even if faint, in the tunnel; without her, there would be oxygen, even if slight, in the here and now.

As the sun crested the horizon, I walked along the edge of the stream, hurling pebbles across the crystalline water. I never get too close for fear of falling and drowning. I might have experience with being held under the surface, but I don’t know how to swim.

“Town Called Malice” played on the cassette player, which seemed to throw a spring in my step. I amped the volume to full blast. The danceable beat had my feet moving on their own accord as I skirted the river bank. I loved music, preferably my father’s playlist, as it’s the only reminder of him I had, and when I am lonely or sad, there is something strangely satisfying about our memories. It’s a connection, a treasured keepsake locked away in the subconscious mind, for mornings like this one, when I am allowed to miss him. I could almost hear his voice as the lyrics belted in my ears. His low, gravelly voice. His wild, impish eyes. His wide, genuine smile.

“Better stop dreaming of the quiet life.” With an unshakable smile on my face, the type of smile that ached the cheekbones, I jumped boulders to cross the river, one slippery obstacle at a time, palms landing on the wet, grassy knoll when I reached the other side. I looked back, after a breather, impressed by the efforts to undertake what seemed like an impossible task. Dusting off my hands, I climbed the muddy slope into the forest through the thicket of trees. “And quit running from the runaway bus.”

Tweeting birds, navigating feathery wings, dispersed heavenward upon my abrupt arrival. Debris crunched beneath my feet as I watched them fly into the distance, the two spindly branches on the floor becoming improvised drumsticks.

“Cos time is short, and life is cruel.” Beating the sticks on nearby tree trunks, whipping through rooted shrubs and huge vines, I side-bounced to nowhere, lost in the beat. “But it’s up to us to change this town called malice.”

I remember when my father first bought the cassette. He took me to the garage and sat me on the workbench whilst playing with the newly purchased portable boombox. He put the song on repeat, a cold can of beer on standby, and told me how the lyrics evoked pleasant memories of his hometown. It would be his go-to song for months later when he worked on vehicles under the evening sun, for hard-earned cash, I am sure, all while I sat back and watched in fascination. I would give anything to go back there, to a time where he worked in oil-stained overalls, tools in hand, music in the background, away from the evil, prying eyes of Yolanda Kelleher.

“Bah-bah-bah-ba-baba-bah, oh.” The souls of my feet take the brunt of a jump as I take flight from a slanted mound of dry dirt and jagged rocks. “Bah-bah—” Brian appeared from nowhere, straight into my line of vision, hand waving like a madman, and fuck, If I didn’t almost piss myself. “Holy shit!” Tugging the headphones down from my ears, leaving them around my neck, I turned off the music, panting and out of breath. “What the hell?” My voice, I am embarrassed to admit, trembled with unease. “You scared the living crap out of me. I thought I was beaver meat.”

“Beavers are herbivores.” He snatched the twigs out of my hands and juggled them between us. “They eat twigs and leaves, not meat.”

“Yeah, I knew that,” I lied because I would not give him the satisfaction of being smarter than me. “Why are you here?” My old boots trudged through dry, rustling leaves as I moseyed along to hide red-cheeked mortification. “Are you following me or something?”

He chucked the twigs into an overgrown bush. “Where else would you be if not locked up in that tower of yours?”

I hate that he referred to my bedroom as a tower. “You didn’t knock on the front door, did you?”

“And wake up Yolanda Kelleher?” He snorted to exaggerate my mother’s certifiable condition. “Are you mad?”

Yeah, I am mad.

I am mad at Brian for disturbing my quiet, peaceful, alone time.

I am mad at Yolanda for indirectly keeping me away from the house.

I am mad at the universe for dealing me the worst cards in bastard history.

“If you didn’t knock on the front door, how did you know where to find me?” My stare roved the expanse of the forest. “I snuck off for a reason.”

Brian chewed his thumbnail. “What’s the reason?”

To be alone. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Anyway.” He kicked leaves aside for no apparent reason. “You never answered the window.”

I understood his logic.

Hurling stones at each other’s windows is how we communicated. I never knocked on his front door and vice versa. It was not worth our parents’ chastisement. So, stone-throwing, sneakily, to get one another’s attention is how we operated. It worked like a charm. Either that or our parents are dumber than they looked.

“So, I figured you’d be down here somewhere.” His eyes squinted against the intensity of the sun’s morning rays. “Getting eaten by beavers.”

He will never let me live that blunder down.

I thought of a quick, witty comeback.“Fuck you, you ugly—” A twig snapped in the distance, and our eyes popped wide in sheer panic. “Did you hear that?”

Brian nodded vehemently.

We hunkered behind a fallen, moss-covered tree in the rapidity of unified trepidation. Neither of us vocalised concerns, as exposing fear in front of one another was embarrassing on both of our parts.

My heart leapt to my throat.

Another eerie sound echoed through the forest.

“What was that?” Brian peered over the tree’s rough bark to pinpoint the source of our sudden anxieties. “Beavers are small, right?”

“How should I know, Einstein?” My breath came out in small, hitched bursts. “You are the genius around here, so you tell me.”

“Why be a smartass?” His muddy hands clung to the tree’s rough bark. “We are on their territory. It is possible that they might become aggressive.”

“Great.” All I could think about was an army of brown, furry, heavy-tailed rodents feasting on my skin. “I should have stayed by the river, where it was safe and free from beavers.”

“Beavers are semi-aquatic rodents.” His dark, bushy brow elevated. “They like slow-moving water. You are no safer there than you are here.”

I had never felt more foolish. “You are doing a number on my intellect, by the way.”

He smiled widely. “I like the discovery channel.”

Another twig snapped.

My head dropped behind the tree. “You better hope that step-father of yours didn’t follow you.”

“No, he was passed out on the sofa when I left,” he assured me with the uncertainty of a careless idiot. “You know what he’s like once the alcohol kicks in. He could sleep for a week…”

Then, as Brian prattled on about the worthless, lazy man at home, and I pretended to listen, Mary, the pretty, green-eyed blonde that lived in the old, detached house across the street from us, appeared near the enormous weeping willow tree, the long, supple branches grazing the floor. Yeah, I blushed and died on the inside because Mary, well, she was something special. I had the biggest crush on her and have done for as long as I can remember, and seeing her out here, in the wilderness, like an angel gifted by God, might be the highlight of my week.

Mary’s eyes found mine across the stretch of detritus, and, with a meek wave of the hand, she smiled the prettiest of smiles.

“…I reckon he will still be where I left him, on the sofa, snoring his arse off, when I get home.” Brian is now chewing on a random liquorice stick that seemed to have materialised from thin air. “And…” His eyes slithered into slits upon noticing our unexpected visitor. “Why is Mary skulking in the forest by herself?′

I shrugged.

“Damn.” He fell back on his haunches. All doe-eyed in pathetic wonderment. “I am in love.”

I will punch him in the throat. “No, you’re not. I am.”

“No.” He shoved me in the shoulder, and I retaliated like a churlish prick. “I saw her first, and you know it!”

“Screw you, pillock,” I said nastily, as our hands pushed into each other, every shove becoming more and more aggressive. “You have loads of girlfriends already. Let me have one crush without you ruining it.”

“I kissed one girl,” he argued, and our shoulder shoves turned into repetitive whacks to each other’s flailing hands. “Come on, Brad. You know how much I like her. Whatever happened to bro-code?”

“You lie.” I threw leaves in his face. “You never, not once, ever, mentioned Mary like that. You only said it when I did. Don’t be so competitive—”

“I see,” Mary said with a soft, humorous laugh, and the pair of us jerked back like a bunch of gawky, embarrassing halfwits. I mean, it’s not like we never saw her approaching, so why the bloody dramatics? “Sneaking off without me?” Her hands slid to her hips, and I followed the movement like the lovesick teenager that I am. “I should disown you.”

“Disown him.” Brian threw a thumb in my direction, and I shot him a displeased glare. “He deserves it.”

“Really?” Mary glanced at me, a twinkle in her eye, and I swear, my face was hotter than an iron-smelting furnace. “How so?”

“I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for him.” Brian pushed to his feet, removing blades of leaves from his hair. “I’d be tucked up in bed, nice and warm.”

I rose to my feet. “I never asked you to follow me.”

“Yet, I do it anyway because I am a good friend.” He eye-balled me knowingly, and I knew, if I so much as retorted, he’d expose my secret crush to Mary just to be a complete tool. “Unlike someone, I know.”

I squeezed the nape of my neck and turned my attention to the pretty blonde girl. “What are you doing out this early?”

“I was in the garden, smoking a cigarette when I spotted this tearaway,” Mary pointed at Brian, “dashing into the woods. I didn’t want to miss out on all the fun.”

“You could have just called out my name,” Brian deadpanned. “You didn’t need to follow me like a creeper. Wait!” His face scrunched up in puzzlement. “You smoke?”

“Kind of,” she said with pink-cheeked bashfulness. “I might have stolen a packet of cigarettes out of my dad’s drawer.”

“And you had the cheek to ask if I am mad?” My bewildered look diverted to Brian. “She is batshit crazy.”

“Hey!” Mary’s hand thrust me in the shoulder, and I hate to admit it, but the unexpected force almost knocked me down. “I am not crazy. Do not call me that.”

“No?” Tampering down the urge to wince, I rubbed the ache from my upper arm. “Your old man is a fucking nutter. He will beat seven shades of shit out of you when he finds out what you did.”

Mary looked worried for all of three painstaking seconds. “Whatever.”

“What?” My eyes bugged out in disbelief. “Your funeral.”

“Be nice.” Brian’s scrawny arm slid across Mary’s slender shoulders, the opportunist, and I had to stop myself from reaching out and snapping his grubby fingers. “You’re not supposed to scare her. You’re supposed to encourage her. It’s more fun.”

“Encourage her to piss off the old man?” And sport black eyes and bruised cheeks for days. “Next joke.”

“No, Brian is right,” Mary said, and Brian, the gloating prick, beamed like a Cheshire cat. “Who cares if I stole a packet of cigarettes? What’s the worst that can happen? He will ground me for a month.”

And throw fists until you pass out, I thought. “Well, if we are being reckless, I want to try one.”

“Yeah?” Mary bit her bottom lip with the mischievousness of a nothing-to-lose daredevil. “Brian?”

Brian eyed the stolen packet of cigarettes in her hand. “What if our parents smell it on us?”

I doubt Yolanda could smell anything over the stench of alcohol on her breath.

“You can spray with perfume.” Mary dropped the backpack to the ground and unzipped it. “Or I have deodorant. Either should work.”

“I don’t know what’s worse. Going home, bumping of cigarettes, or smelling like I just fell into bed with a girl.” Brian accepted a cigarette, placed it between his lips and borrowed a lighter from Mary’s bag. “I better not choke to death.”

I watched him inhale a drag effortlessly. “Well?”

Although Brian’s eyes watered, he respired fumes with the ease of a chain smoker. “It’s all right.” His lips slapped together to remove the taste of nicotine on his tongue. “I don’t like the aftertaste, though.”

Mary sparked her own cigarette before handing me a third. Watching the pair of them blow smoke toward the directionless branches high up in the trees, I rolled the lighter between my fingers, hesitating to join them. After a short pause, I lit the end and took a long, deep drag, only to cough, splutter and humiliate myself in the process.

“Oh, fuck,” I croaked, banging my chest to ease the merciless blockage in my throat. “How do you both make it look so easy?” I swear I had tears in my eyes and smoke stuck in the back of my mouth. “That shit is rank.”

“You don’t like it?” Mary wondered aloud, and I shook my head. “Give it another try. You will get used to it after a while.”

I highly doubt it. Still, I put the cigarette to my lips, inhaled a gentle drag, and blew out smoke instantaneously.

“You have to inhale,” Brian decided to educate me, not that I gave two shits. “What’s the point otherwise?”

“There isn’t one.” I dropped the barely smoked cigarette to the ground and put it out under my boot. “Hey, I am not stopping you two from clogging up your arteries. I just don’t want any part of it.”

Brian’s hands threw up in the air. “You are the one that suggested smoking.”

Yeah, and I regretted it—obviously.

Mary’s jaw steeled in disappointment, but she soon smiled to make me feel better. “It’s a good job that I didn’t steal the alcohol, huh?”

Before Brain spoke up, I intervened. “Don’t give her any ideas,” I warned, knowing damn well he’d encourage such reckless behaviour. “Mary has to be a good girl to avoid daddy’s wrath.”

“Screw you,” she snapped, and every hair on my body stood to attention. “Like your mother is anything to brag about.”

Her words slammed me straight in the chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Please.” She pulled in a deep breath. “My father isn’t the only parent in the street that likes to backhand his kids.”

I never confirmed nor denied her confident belief. “Yolanda’s never taken a belt to my arse.”

“No, she beats you with your father’s baseball bat instead,” Mary retorted, and my eyebrows sprang to my hairline in shock. “What? I live in the house directly opposite yours. I can see everything from my bedroom window.”

A shiver of dread travelled the length of my spine.

How much of my house can Mary see from her bedroom window?

Does she watch from the shadows often?

Does she know my darkest secret?

No, I refused to believe it.

“Don’t be talking shit about us.” I paid scant attention to Brian because she was trapped in my determined sights. “What goes on behind closed doors is none of your business.”

“Likewise,” she replied, and rightly so. “So, we have strict parents. Big deal. At least, it’s something the three of us have in common.” She flicked cigarette ash on the floor. “Right?”

A beating is the least of my concerns. “Right.”

“Right.” Brian gave us a toothy smile. “My mum isn’t so bad. It’s that arsehole who pretends to be my father that I have issues with. I mean, who takes on another woman’s kid and reminds him every day that he’s a worthless piece of shit?” Dry leaves crepitated under his feet as he searched for something on the floor. “I don’t think he ever liked me.”

“I can somewhat relate,” Mary said, and all I could do was listen. “I often wonder why my father chose to have kids. It’s like he doesn’t have patience for any of us, including my mother.” Her lips pinched tight on the cigarette as she sucked in a lungful of smoke. “That’s why I went to the garden this morning. It’s quiet out there. I am not forced to listen to her cries.”

We all became seated around an abandoned campfire. I sprawled out by the uneven ring of stones buried in ashes and charcoal and hearkened to Mary’s prolonged speech about the aftermath of her father’s wickedness.

“I am scared for Martin,” she said, chucking the half-smoked cigarette into the dark pit. “My brother can’t seem to get it right lately. He is always on the receiving end of our father’s tyranny. Miles too. And don’t even start me on the twins. If I had somewhere to go, someplace safe, I’d run away with those babies to protect them from him. It’s only a matter of time.” She looked hopelessly dejected. “He will hurt them, too.”

I fumbled with a piece of wood. “My morning has turned into a therapy session.”

“Don’t be an arse,” Brian said softly, and I looked away. “We’re friends. Best friends,” he added. “We have to be there for each other, right?”

I nodded reluctantly, but inside, I wanted to steer clear of uncomfortable subjects. Once they have offloaded and discussed the tales of their depressing home life, I will be expected to share mine, and opening up about anything where Yolanda is concerned is a big fat no in my book.

“My step-father won’t let me eat when my mum is on the night shift,” Brian said, for Mary’s sake, not mine, as I am already aware of the travesties next door. “He lets me starve and then lies to my mother, saying I refuse to eat and whatnot.”

“Dick,” Mary said, and everyone chuckled airily. “Let me guess? She believes him over you.”

“Every damn time.” Brian repressed a coy smile. “It’s all good. We got a game plan, isn’t that right, Brad?”

My muscles tensed.

Why would he bring that up?

It’s supposed to be a secret.

“Really?” Mary expelled a ragged breath. “What’s the game plan?”

“Once we hit sixteen, the ripe age of adulthood,” Brian explained with a twitch in the cheek, “we are packing a bag and heading for the hills.” Her eyes grew progressively wider as he spoke. “We ain’t never coming back.”

Mary’s stare came to me. “You will run away from here.”

I nodded.

“And leave me behind,” she said quietly, and guilt started to creep in. “Where will you go?”

“We don’t know yet.” Brain ran a hand down his face. “I mean, there is Manchester or Liverpool. I hear Edinburgh is nice.”

“And freezing cold,” she countered with a hint of jealousy. “I can’t believe you planned this without me. Were you even going to tell me? Or did you plan to leave in the middle of the night without saying goodbye?”

I stared at her in a moment of pensiveness. “Would you run?”

“I don’t know. I’d hate to leave my brothers and sister behind…” Her cheeks hollowed. “God, I envy both of you, already.”

“You don’t have to stay here,” Brain tried to level with her, but we all know that she’d never agree to escape her father’s clutches. “Hey, we’re the three amigos. What’s good for us is good for you.”

“Edinburgh.” Her bottom lip rolled between her teeth. “Maybe I can track you down someday, huh?”

Brian’s hopeful expression fell, whereas I am not surprised that she would subtly decline the offer to run away. I knew she had too much to lose.

“Is it so bad?” Mary asked me, not that I understood the question. “At home. Must you rush to leave? I know Yolanda is a bit…eccentric at times, but it will get easier. You will get older and—”

“I can’t stay here forever,” I cut in before she could waste her breath by trying to persuade me. “Yolanda is not eccentric. She is pure evil, the most insidious scale of wickedness.” I never told anyone, not even Brian, about the monsters at night, the multiple personalities, the shadows in bed, in fear of judgement. “I will die if I stay here. She will kill me.”

Mary paled in complexion. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“I do.” Brian’s hand squeezed my shoulder. “Yolanda’s got a couple of screws loose since Arlo walked out. Ain’t that right, Brad?”

My heart ached at the mention of my father.

“Where did he go?” Mary stared into space as if the secret lay for all to see in the forest. “It’s like he vanished into thin air.”

I wish I had the answers. “I wouldn’t be here if I knew.”

Her eyes, soft and sympathetic, came back to me. “You’d look for him.”

“Yes.” If only I were older. If only I had the right resources. I’d travel to the end of the world to find him. “He’s waiting for me. I know it.”

Brian grunted under his breath. “Pie in the sky. Arlo doesn’t want to be found, so get stupid ideas out of your head.” He sprayed Mary’s perfume on his hoodie to mask the smell of cigarette smoke. “He left you behind. Fuck him.”

My jaw muscle ticked. “He’s my father.”

“He’s a deadbeat.” Stuffing the perfume bottle back in Mary’s bag, he re-zipped the zipper. “A no-good waste of space.”

My blood boiled. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

“Why defend him?” Brian breathed out a short, caustic laugh. “Dude, he fucked off and never looked back. Do not waste any time on the prick. You are better than that.”

I know he is right. “I love him.”

“You love a ghost.” Brian looked at Mary for moral support, but she kept her head down, not wanting to get involved. “He does not exist.”

Arlo’s vanishment does not expunge treasured memories. “He was a good dad,” I told them, thumbing the dented scrapes on the old cassette player. “No, he was the best dad. I don’t know why he left or why he never came back.” My voice was low and dispirited. “But there must be a valid reason.”

Brian offered a tight smile. “You excuse his behaviour.”

“Maybe.” My shoulders lifted uncaringly. “It doesn’t change my opinion, though.”

“Wow.” He respired a weary breath. “Dude, don’t be so soft.”

“Brian,” Mary spoke up for the first time in minutes. “It’s not your place.”

“Hey,” he waved a hand in my direction, “I am only looking out for him.”

“Yeah, well, it’s starting to sound very opinionated.” Her fierce expression commanded silence. “Drop it.”

“Fine.” He plucked a spear of grass from the ground. “Whatever.”

We left the forest shortly after, venturing back to our neighbourhood, at the right time, by all accounts, because the milkman had arrived. If he’s out and about, delivering dairy floats, inhabitants would soon arise, which is a massive problem for us.

The three of us hid in the neighbour’s garden at the end of the street. The owner was older than Jesus, blind as a bat and deaf as a post. Even if she sipped tea on the doorstep behind us, she’d have no knowledge of trespassers.

“Shit.” Mary held the backpack straps tight to her shoulders. “My dad is by the front door.”

Her father never missed an opportunity to greet the milkman. Luckily for Mary, he looked calmer than usual. It’s probably the only time I get to see the man, at daybreak, before his morning brew. He never opened the door in pyjamas or casualwear, unlike the rest of the neighbours. He only meets and greets in tailored clothes, leather shoes and a vintage-looking pocket watch with a T-bar chain. “I don’t think he knows.”

Her fingernails dug into the palm of her hand. “How can you be so sure?”

“Would he be smiling like that if he did?” I gave her a pointed look. “He thinks you are tucked up in bed. Just go around the back once he’s inside and sneak through the window. He will never know.”

Unfortunately for Mary, daddy dearest placed delivered milk bottles on the floor in the hallway, and then he returned to the doorstep to continue the conversation with the milkman.

“Guys, I hate to leave you stranded, but I need to get inside before my mother’s car pulls up.” Brian crawled out of the garden and, very slowly, scoured our surroundings before breaking into a sprint. His hand waved in the air aimlessly. “I’ll catch you later.”

Mary’s head lowered behind the wall. “He has a bell on every tooth.”

I was in no rush to get home. I’d be in trouble no matter what. If I am caught sneaking in? Yolanda will punish me. If I slept in my room all night and came down for breakfast like a well-behaved teenager? Yolanda will still find a reason to punish me. I quite literally had nothing to lose.

“Amigos,” Mary said, and when she turned to me and caught me staring, I averted my gaze to the floor. “If there were not three of us, what would we call ourselves?”

“I don’t know.” Brian’s my day one, so I had never thought about it. “Friends?”

“That’s basically the same as amigos,” she emphasised, and I blushed again. “What about best friends forever?”

I cringed at the cheesiness.

“What?” Her eyes glittered like rare diamonds. “Does being my close friend repulse you?”

“Never,” I said whispery, unable to look at her as I spoke. “I happen to think that you are pretty incredible. And, well, pretty in general.”

“Yeah, I am.” She curled a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “You are not so bad, either.”

I choked out a laugh. “I wish I had your confidence.”

“You don’t think you’re pretty?”

“Do we call lads pretty?”

“I think you’re pretty.”

I suddenly hated the word ‘pretty.’

Her hand rested on my knee as she peeked over the wall. I flinched at the unexpected contact, and she panicked, withdrawing her arm, but I caught her wrist, needing to feel her soft palm in mine. “Sorry, I get a little jumpy,” I whispered, interlacing our fingers together. “Mary…”

“Yes?” Her eyes searched mine. “What is it?”

I am beyond nervous. “What would you say if I asked for a kiss?”

Please, do not backfire on me.

“Oh?” Her fingers twitched anxiously. “Well, I have never been kissed before…Have you?”

I chose not to answer. “Would you say yes?”

“I don’t know.” Her cheeks, dusted in rosiness, puffed out. “I might embarrass myself if I tried.”

Our noses grazed as our eyes aligned.

I wanted to see how it felt to be kissed by someone I cared about, someone I had feelings for, an actual kiss that gave me butterflies rather than bouts of nausea. I leaned in and waited for our lips to connect. Seconds passed in awkward silence before I accepted defeat. My head reared back in time to see the reluctance in her eyes, and honestly, I hated myself for the pitiful attempt. Of course, she would never agree to kiss a lad like me. Why did I contemplate otherwise?

“Right.” I let go of her hand and stood. “Sorry, I don’t know why I did that. I won’t do it again.”

“Wait.” Her hand gripped mine to stop me from running away, which was all I could think about to evade the humiliation of rejection. “Don’t be embarrassed. I am just nervous, that is all. It has nothing to do with you. I meant what I said.” Then, I lifted my eyes to hers, timid and cautious. “I think you are really pretty. But I am not ready to go around kissing boys.”

Yet, everything she said sounded like a lie. “That’s fair enough.”

She glimpsed at her house to find that her father had gone inside. “I should get home before he notices I am not in bed.”

I nodded.

Mary reached the side entrance of the garden, looked back, waved once, and then disappeared down the side of the house. Once she was home safely, I walked to the place that no longer felt like home, the Victorian-style house with the crazy village lady. My mud-layered boots thumped up the concrete steps to the front door, the ajar door, and I simply stared at the gap, knowing Yolanda would be sitting on the wooden chair in the kitchen, waiting for me, tea and cigarettes on the table.

Picking up the glass bottle of milk on the step, I opened the door fully, feeling the woman’s eyes on me as I kicked off the muddy boots and placed them on the bottom of the stairs. If I looked up, I’d see her in my peripheral vision. But I opted for cowardice instead, avoiding her accusatory glare at all costs.

“I went out to get the milk,” I lied, feigning indifference, whilst unsuccessfully dodging the mess on the floor: dirty laundry, empty containers, strewn magazines, damaged CDs and empty handbags. “Do you want a cup of tea?” In the small, box-sized kitchen, I cracked open the cupboard in search of tea bags but came unstuck. The shelves were empty bar a few tins of beans and tomatoes and a half-filled salt grinder. “We need to go shopping.”

I heard the exhale of cigarette smoke behind me. “I got no money.”

Yolanda received benefits every week. If she stopped drinking and taking drugs, she could afford to put some damn food in the fridge. “Maybe I should get a paper round.”

“No kid of mine is delivering newspapers.” Her tone was thick and rough from too many cigarettes. “You are a Kelleher. We are better than some lousy, rolled-up articles. Those lazy neighbours can get their own papers. They got legs.”

I am not a Kelleher.

I am Arlo Jones’ first-born son.

I am Brad Jones.

“Put the milk in the fridge before it curdles,” she instructed, and I did as I was told. “You locked your bedroom door last night. I was worried about you.” The chair creaked when she stood, a bit wobbly in the knees. “You look tired, sweet baby. Are you not getting enough sleep?” Her hand touched my upper back, and the muscles beneath my skin rippled in displeasure. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?” Her palm touched my forehead. “Hold on. I will get your medication—”

“I am fine.” Ripping away from her, I went to the sink, squirted cheap washing-up liquid into the bowl and busied myself with the dirty dishes. “I am not sick. I don’t need medication.”

“What about your epilepsy?” She flicked cigarette ash onto the kitchen floor. “Your allergies? Your sleep apnea? You will die if you don’t take the medication.”

Every word that comes out of her mouth is a lie. I don’t know what pills she stuffed down my throat, but I started spitting the medication a few months ago, when her back turned, of course. Yet, here I am, no fits or seizures, no itchy skin or wheezing or trips to the doctor’s office. If anything, I am cured of whatever sickness she had inflicted on me.

I balanced clean dishes on the drainer.

“Here.” Cigarette dangling between her lips, she uncapped a bottle of tablets. “Take two of these.”

“No,” I said, short and sharp, and her angry, red-rimmed eyes, circled in dark shadows, peered up at me in spine-chilling slow-motion. “I am not sick.” Needing a distraction, I took in all the mess on the kitchen counters. You’d never think there was a rubbish bin by the back door. I began to collect empty beer cans and alcohol bottles. “If you leave the cup on the side, I will wash it for you—” Her palm stuck me in the jaw, and even though I had prepared for the repercussions of insolence, the sharp sting effectively took me aback. Two glass bottles slipped through my hands, crashing on the floor, yet the glass remained intact. “I—“Another two painful clips to my cheek had me whispering a slew of apologies. “I am sorry.”

“For what?” She slammed the pill bottle onto the kitchen counter with unnecessary vigour. “For answering back? For being disrespectful?” Her green hair-rollers barely held curls together, as unruly strands, greyer in recent days, unravelled by her fierce eyes and pink-tipped ears. “Or is it because you snuck out of the house this morning to whore around with the preacher’s daughter?”

My cheek was on fire.

“Did you behave yourself?” she asked in a subtle undertone as her trembling hands splayed across my chest and shoulders. “You didn’t let her touch you, did you?”

I studied the patterned wall tiles above the sink. “No.”

“My sweet baby.” Her thumbs rubbed the hollow skin beneath my eyes. “Out there, in the big world, pretending to be a man,” she said, her voice mocking and belittling. “Tell me, Bradley. Did you please her? Did she enjoy it?”

My eyes watered involuntarily. “It’s not like that between us.”

“Liar.” Her hand snatched the hair at the nape of my neck, and I winced as pain lanced through my head. “Did you lay her down beneath you in the forest? Take her on the ground?” Her sickening excitement had my stomach rolling. “What is she like down there?” When her mouth teased the shell of my ear, I tried to turn my head but to no avail. “How did she taste?”

“Stop.” My hands curled around her wrists to pry her hands down from my face. “You are not supposed to talk like this, Mum.”

“What do you mean?” Her brows incurved in perplexity. “You are not shy. Do not hide from me.”

“Mum,” I croaked, feeling sick to my stomach. “I think…” My palms slid down her bare arms gingerly, somewhat caringly. “I think you need help. You have not been yourself since Arlo left.”

“Do not mention that man’s name.” Her tight grip on my hair softened. “I am fine. I don’t need some man to make me feel good about myself.” Then, her bare feet, cracked at the heels, stepped over the glass bottles on the floor, her robe parted at the centre, exposing the flimsy, satin nightdress and skeletal figure. “I do good all by myself.” Unscrewing bottled rum, she poured a dangerous amount of strong alcohol into a ceramic mug. “Besides,” she said with a wicked smirk, “I have you, Bradley.”

I have you.

I have you.

I have you.

I counted the wall tiles.

Three.

Two.

One.

Inhale.

Exhale.

It is no use.

I had to get away from her.

“Bradley?” Her voice faded as I stumbled out of the kitchen. “Hey, I am talking to you! Where the hell are you going?” My socked feet pounded up the stairs. “Get back here right now! I have more to say!”

Unlocking my bedroom door, I kicked it open and slammed it behind me. Within seconds, her palms struck the old wood, the door handle rattling rapidly, as she tried to gain access to my private space.

“Sweet baby,” she cried loudly, and I almost felt sorry for her. “Why must you lock the door? I never said it was okay! I never agreed to any of this!”

Staring at the closed door, I collapsed on the floor, back to the single bed, face hidden behind my hands, and waited for her to exhaust herself. Yet, the banging, screaming, yelling and belittling never seemed to end. If anything, her anger heightened. Her verbal abuse intensified. It’s not easy to drown out if it’s omnipresent, especially if it’s perceived as normal in the eye of an undiagnosed maniac.

My ferociously thumping heart threatened to stop beating.

The hot temperature of my blood tightened the skin on my body.

I felt trapped.

Lost.

Lonely.

Miserable.

Always miserable.

Peeling out of the hoodie, I tossed it somewhere behind me, and the socks and grey jogging bottoms followed. To the raucousness that would be my mother’s shrieking voice, I reached under the bed to find my father’s Stanley knife. It had electrical tape wrapped around the handle and his name written on the grooves in Tipp-Ex. To regulate negative emotions, I used my thumb to slide the sharp blade out and searching for a space of unmarked skin on my thigh. Between two faded scars, I drew a line and pierced the skin, the sharpest point, the unimaginable pain stealing all of my attention.

I am in control of my own suffering.

Biting back a harsh groan, I dropped my head back to the bed, eyes locked in darkness, as waves of adrenaline passed through me. Each slice of the blade helped me to escape. My heart rate slowed down. My anxieties were reduced. Two cuts, I counted before dropping the knife to the ground with a metal clank. My thumb swept across ruptured flesh to feel the heat of blood, to enjoy the tremble in my bones, the aftershock, the anticipated calmness of my heart.

Footsteps receded down the hall.

I laid down on the floor, the curled-up, bloodied fist in my sights, and listened to crashing saucepans below.

Yolanda will threaten to set fire to the house now.

Maybe she will follow through with it this time.

***

The softest of cold winds blew through my hair as I catalogued the place that stored gruesome memories with a steady stare. The house of horrors, where did it begin and end? I was once the main actor, the leading man, the star of the show, the son of the neighbourhood’s crazy bin lady, the victim of the monster’s reprehensible abuse. It looked the same with its architectural revival style, as frightening as I remembered: privacy trees, dark windows and chipped wood, and an abandoned vehicle parked outside the locked garage.

Naturally, I glanced at the old tire swing in the next-door neighbour’s back garden. The rope was frayed, tattered and weather-worn, the rubber ring hanging on by a snappable thread. “Brian lived there with his mother and his step-father.”

Warren blew cigarette smoke toward the dark, starless sky. He looked fit for the occasion in an all-black three-piece suit, and the only stark colour was that of his intense blue eyes and ice diamond jewellery. “Regretful?”

“Never,” I said, and, strangely enough, I meant it. “Brian got what he deserved.”

“Indeed.” Small stones crunched under the man’s expensive leather shoes as he stepped up alongside me. He scrutinised the state of Yolanda’s ancient-looking house. “So, this is what home represented.”

“It was never my home.” I bellied indignation. “I was merely a squatter.”

He hummed, low and deep in thought. “Are you ready to face your past?”

I will never be ready to face Her.

No, I had to get away from here, back to London, where I belonged. My retreating footsteps only managed three steps before his leather-clad hand seized the front of my new white shirt. “Bossman,” I whispered, my eyes pleading with him to let me go. “I walked away for a reason.”

Warren’s impatient glare burnt into me. “Did I order you to leave?”

No, but I would rather face this man’s wrath than take another step toward that house. “I’m not doing this.”

The corner of his mouth curled into a sinister smirk. “You are afraid.”

My throat swelled.

“You fear a pitiful woman’s capabilities more than your own.” His head cocked to the side. “You disappoint me. I thought you were ready.”

“What good will come of this?” My hand latched onto his gloved hand, not that he took the hint. His inexorable hold on my shirt hardened. “You will never understand my humiliation.”

His glare assessed every inch of my face. “Affirmative.”

I expelled a relieved breath.

“However, I do understand the thirst for revenge.” A second-hand baseball bat appeared between us. “You want to move on?” He forced the bat into my hand. “Make her bleed or stand back and watch as I do it for you.”

With one final drag on the cigarette, he tossed it on the muddy ground, tucked his hands in his trouser pockets and advanced toward the house. I drew the outline of a car in the dirt with the tip of the bat. I was almost sure he’d wait for me on the step, but when I looked up, only a wide-open door into the shadows awaited.

Of course, the man entered without me.

Liam Warren feared nothing.

Not even the devil himself.

My fingers curled around the bat.

Through the dense fog, I drifted to the house at a funeral’s pace, ascended the chipped, concrete steps one foot at a time, one breath at a time, and hesitated by the threadbare welcome mat. I swallowed the bile in my throat, stepped over the mat, floorboards in the hallway creaking under the weight of my body, and slowly closed the front door behind me, the lock clicking into place in finality.

It’s time Yolanda Kelleher paid the piper.

CHAPTER ONE

Brad

The dark side of globalisation, where good and bad co-existed, is the port in the storm for criminal organisations. Warren Enterprise is not exempt. In fact, the syndicate has used anonymising software to communicate and cryptocurrencies to trade since the beginning of time. It’s how Warren built close relationships, wartime allies and strong connections with some of the world’s most notorious drug dealers.

Although untraceable web operators are useful to buy and sell contraband and obfuscate internet protocol addresses, the submerged mass of maleficence, a place of sin and evil, where it is easy, unchallenging and inexpensive to buy and exploit young, vulnerable women and innocent children, is not somewhere the syndicate visited desirably.

Until recently, the intricate nature of the dark web was uncharted territory. However, in the aftermath of Carter Hughes’ disappearance, browsing online auctions to raid local modern-slavery endeavours is an everyday requirement for the innovative, tech-savvy Nate Alzaim.

I have been forced to watch the unimaginable, the unspeakable tragedies of illicitness, in the hope of tracking down and identifying nine-year-old Carter and, in doing so, the inexpungible images of indecent children and sickening collection of child pornography spun an incessant wheel of atrocities at the forefront of my mind. Not even vice, drugs and alcohol had the effective power to let me forget. It is a permanent reminder of the gruesome realities of the criminal underworld, of all who have suffered and continue to suffer at the hands of unquenchable traffickers.

I think about the videos, the nameless, unidentifiable boys, glassy-eyed and soulless, pleading for their fathers, and the sad, scared little girls, pale-faced and roughed up, crying for their mothers, every night when I lie awake in bed, unsettled with too much left unsaid, studying the imaginary cracks in the ceiling, wondering if they had ever made it out of enslavement alive, if their kidnappers had sold them to the highest bidder yet, or if the angel of death had touched on their last breath.

I used to believe I had experienced the greatest ordeal, that Yolanda Kelleher, the drug-taking, alcohol-imbibing headcase and paedophile, who had a penchant for incest, was the pinnacle of pain, deviltry and deception, that living with the ghosts of my past, post-traumatic stress, as a result, was the epitome of misery and dashed hopes. But I drew strength from the vicissitudes of life and lived to smile for another day. I cannot, unfortunately, say the same for the missing children of our world, for the boys and girls in those recorded videos on invisible internet projects.

How do I unsee it?

How do I extirpate the bilious bile in my throat?

How do I turn a blind eye to salvage my sanity?

Ignorance is bliss.

Nate’s laptop sat on the roof of the Bentley. He watched a burgeoning live trade of human trafficking taking place clandestinely, in the heavily guarded historic estate, with an extensive country house and acres, on the edge of London. And, by an unlikely coincidence, I just so happened to be in the same neighbourhood with an entourage of heavily armed soldiers.

Nate sparked a lighter, the blue flame and incandescent glow flickering in the night wind. He lit the end of a pre-rolled blunt, toked three hits, and then passed it over. “Have you spoken to Vincent?”

Valerie Wentworth died, having lost her battle with cancer. Vincent headed straight to London Biggin Hill Airport, borrowed Warren’s private jet, cabin crew and aircraft pilot and took a one-way flight to Spain shortly after the woman’s funeral for a well-needed break to adjust to loss and bereavement. I haven’t heard from him since. He will, however, check in with Alexa from time to time, a late-night phone call to listen to a friendly voice.

I wondered if Warren read the letters from Alexa, if he knew of his mother’s passing or if he cared enough to grieve. Even if he hadn’t bothered to open the letters, I imagined an informer or two shared the news.

Expelling a cloud of smoke, I returned the blunt to Nate. “Nada,” I said, a touch bitter. “It’s been months now. I am starting to think he will never come back.”

Vincent’s sudden departure left an additional strain on the syndicate. After all, he’s been the face of Club 11 since the boss proposed a business partnership.

Warren’s in prison, Vincent’s out of the country, so I work double-time in Bossman’s old office, dealing with club whores, deep-pocketed clients and nightclub brawls.

I love the club. It’s the point of convergence for Warren Enterprise, the den of iniquity, the place where all the magic happens, but I am overworked, overstretched and overburdened. The Brotherhood, fortunately, is stronger than ever. The Grape and Vine is a lucrative sideline. London Gateway is running efficiently without mishaps or obstructions. The casino is weeks away from an anticipated grand opening. Street trade is normal if you exclude the occasionally bumped-off opportunist.

Then, I have the downfalls, the pressures of responsibilities on my back and shoulders. Alexa, I avoided her more often than not because the grouchy, pregnant woman is too much to endure as of late. Logan is testing the waters, staying out after curfew, shacking up with random girls, stealing alcohol from Warren’s mini-bar and joy-riding with friend and bad-influence, Tre. Bean, who had yet to leave the utero, is due to land in a few months. Blaire, the raving lunatic, who swears bloody murder every time I enter the estate, is near the end of life and, last but not least, the hunt for nine-year-old Carter, Emma’s little boy.

Emma Hughes.

Feeling a rush of exasperation, I unboxed recently purchased toothpicks, slipped one between my lips and chewed the apex of sharp wood.

Not tonight, Jones.

I had to have my wits about me.

Business might be in fine shape, but there are not enough minutes on the clock or hours in the week to keep the club afloat by myself, not when in the throes of warring gangsters, which threatened the demise of the syndicate. Not when Warren’s unpredictable family members are determined to put me in an early grave. If not for Alexa’s horrendous cooking skills and unavoidable food poisoning, then Logan’s reckless heart and thoughtless acts of delinquency.

I will never fully understand how Warren juggled and circumnavigated with such effortless indifference to pressure. Sure, I worked hard, if not just as hard as the boss himself, but I liked beauty sleep, three decent meals a day, unwinding after a long shift with women, alcohol or drugs, whatever vice I fancied at that moment in time.

Lately, I ran on empty, sleep-deprived, ate on the go, indigestion came to mind. Entertainment is a thing of the past. I barely had time for home-cooked meals or intense sessions at the gym, never mind some downtime with the men, a good night’s rest or decent head from one of the club whores. I am lucky to get laid and even luckier to orgasm.

Time is precious. I made an exception for Fern, though. I never arranged an appointment or showed up at sociable hours, as promised, but I always, without fail, turned up on the therapist’s doorstep to resolve problematic behaviours, overwhelming feelings and relationship issues. If I am in a good mood or feeling generous, I bear gifts, fresh coffee and salad bowls.

Nate shot someone a text message.

I stared at the phone. “Celine?”

“Yes, sir,” he drawled, tucking the phone into the back pocket of his black jogging bottoms. “I asked her to move in with me last night.” His smile stretched from ear to ear until he noticed the bafflement in my eyes. “What? Do you disapprove? I have dated her for a while now. I think she is the one.”

My disapproving expression must have given me away. “You said the same shit about Blaire and look where that got you.”

“Fuck Blaire.” He stood in front of me, with his arms folded neatly across his chest, his cold, green eyes straight ahead. “Celine is different. You have to trust me.”

Jessica “Blaire” Pearce is locked up in one of the guest bedrooms at the estate, and honestly, Blaire, as a prisoner, is one of the worst experiences of my life. Imagine the high-pitched, blood-curdling scream of a bolshy banshee at five o’clock in the morning, when your head has barely touched the pillow after a long night at the office, or the unhinged ramblings of a suicidal mental patient echoing in the dark halls the second your eyelids shut. That’s right. Blaire is on periodic suicide watch after she hacked her wrists with a razor blade in a desperate plea for deliverance. Exsanguination could have been fatal if it weren’t for Nate, the self-certified doctor, who happened to be downstairs at the time of the incident. My friend was less than impressed by her selfishness. Premature delivery and neonatal death are not an option for Nate. He believed, without a shadow of a doubt, that he fathered Blaire’s unborn child.

As a consequence of Blaire’s unforgivable self-centeredness, I removed everything considered hazardous or dangerous from her bedroom, installed bars to the windows, locked and barricaded the en-suite door, and even handcuffed her to the bed, when necessary, to avoid further attempts of suicide or self-destruction, to ensure that Nate’s son—a mootable topic, if I do say so myself—is delivered without complication, unharmed and unscathed.

As for Celine, the blonde bombshell, I have yet to have the privilege of meeting her. I have seen plenty of pictures because this man is borderline obsessed and excessively boastful about the female keep-fit-fanatic. “Have you told her yet?”

Nate’s eyes squeezed shut on a pitiful wince.

I laughed at the absurdity. “You will never learn.”

“It’s complicated.” He watched the cold, pale-faced brothers converse near parked vehicles, the Amazonian tall and dense trees shielding everyone from possible exposure. “Celine is a good girl.”

Celine is under the illusion that her goody-two-shoes boyfriend is a fitness instructor. The day she uncovers the truth about Nate’s extracurricular activities, I better be there to witness, refreshments ready. Toffee-flavoured popcorn will suffice. “When do I get to meet her?”

He grumbled a disgruntled laugh. “Fuck you, Brad.”

“What?” My innocent hands, clad in black nitrile gloves, raised in the air. “Hey, I am trying to be a good friend. I am happy to give her a warm welcome and all that malarkey.” Of course, my inner mischievousness kicked up a notch. “You should probably vouch for her, just in case the brothers step out of line. Oh, wait. You wasted the immunity card already.” I sighed dramatically. It was a forced exhale to get under his skin. “It must suck to be you.”

His ringed finger pointed in my face. “No.”

“No?” I put a hand on his puffed-up chest to hedge him back a few steps. “No, what?”

“Keep your dick in your pants, or I will snap it,” he warned, and laughter flew out of me. “I mean it, Brad.”

“Why am I such a threat to you?” Yes, I am sinfully fucking gorgeous and irresistible to the female population, but I have moral standards. I would never swoop in and steal someone else’s girl on purpose. “I haven’t even met the bird.” To assuage his innermost concerns, I tapped his elbow with gentle fingers. “I am only fucking with you,” I said, and he nodded with the gratefulness of a gullible teenage boy. “Bros before hoes, right?”

“You know, I want to believe you,” he said seriously, and I inched back in confusion. “But with your track record? It ain’t very promising.”

I took umbrage at the overt disapproval. “My track record?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.” He unravelled a blueprint for the rest of the brothers to assess and rolled it out on top of the car. “You know what I am talking about.”

No, I had no idea.

He stroked his chin. “Cora.”

My mouth formed a small circle. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he said with a pointed look. “Oh.”

“I mean, did you like her that much?” Feeling impossibly hot all of a sudden, I tugged at the neckline of my black hoodie. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. If you liked her so damn much, why didn’t you say something?”

“I did say something.” His London accent came out stronger when he was angry or frustrated. “I continued to tell you, but you didn’t fucking listen.”

Cora is unmemorable. I don’t recall any of our sexual encounters. “Well, what a right cunt I turned out to be.”

“Hell, yeah,” he agreed, and I could hardly argue the matter, not after I pissed all over the laws of bro-code. “I loved that woman.”

Enough with the melodrama. “You love anyone with a pair of tits.”

“Said by the biggest manwhore in womanising history.” His full lips pursed. “The hypocrisy blows my mind.”

Back in the day, I would have beamed with honour and pride. At present, it left a bad taste in my mouth. “I am not a manwhore.”

“Yeah?” He gave me a half-smile. “You could have fooled me.”

My insides cringed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You were with Cherry two nights ago.”

Since Vincent took over the reins, I am not acquainted with the majority of exotic dancers and working girls at Club 11. Cherry is a friendly face, someone I trust to no end. I spend a lot of time with her. She is good company and more bearable than most. And yes, we have fallen into bad habits, drugs and sex, but said habits are few and far between, a blowjob here, rushed sex there, because time is money, and drunken dissipations will not keep the syndicate afloat.

“Ah, you didn’t think I knew about that, huh?” Nate gave me a prolonged, intense stare. “See, you’re not the only one with eyes and ears everywhere.”

Although I came across as displeased, I am not remotely shocked or surprised. Nate is the watchful, silent, but deadly type. He is paid a helluva lot of money to be the omniscient Jack-of-all-trades. “Are you spying on me?”

His eyes grew wider. “Don’t be disgusting.”

“Then, why do you track the whereabouts of my cock?” I asked, side-tracked by the arrival of Josh, who wasted far too much time and energy to park the Bentley between two other stationed vehicles.

Nate, too, watched from over one shoulder as Josh rose from the car in a grey tracksuit, stark white trainers and a snapback cap, with a bottle of water in hand. “Hey, I am only responding to rumours.”

Tugging a black bobble hat over my head, I side-eyed the man. “What rumours?”

“Oh, you know?” He gave Josh a fist bump before he elucidated. “Just that you are a little distracted with the red-head lately.”

“What’s new?” Josh’s shoulder nudged mine, and then he rested against the parked car with folded arms and legs crossed at the ankles, the water bottle left atop the unzipped holdall on the floor. “Brad’s secretly in love with the woman. I am waiting for wedding bells.”

I would rather die a thousand deaths than meet Cherry at the altar. “You are late.” Diverting their attention, I scrutinised the lad from head to toe. “Tardiness is not good enough, Sailor.”

Josh has been in a precarious position lately. He might have knocked the drugs on the head, but he never quite recovered from addiction. He is forgetful, unpunctual, full of excuses, and idle when on the job.

Fortunately for Josh, I hold him in high regard. I love him like a brother and only want what’s best for him. Aside from Nate, if Josh were anyone else, any other syndicate member, I’d have fired his overpaid, worthless arse.

“I slept through the alarm.” Josh’s wary eyes skittered between us. “Look, I apologise. It won’t happen again.”

Nate stepped in on my behalf. “You sound like a broken record.”

“I fell into bed at three o’clock this afternoon. That’s what time I got home after working for two days, back to back,” Josh argued, and I listened. “Naturally, I overslept. I am fucking tired.” His eyes were on the puffy side. “Look, I am not here to complain. I know the pressure is on. I know times are hard. But give me a break. I am not a machine. I need food and sleep like the rest of them, or else I cannot deliver.”

Josh had a valid argument. In the initial weeks of Warren’s imprisonment, I struggled to keep my head above the water; however, as hours ticked away and months rolled into one, it was almost impossible to break the surface. I am permanently in the abyss, the bottomless chasm, waiting for everything to go back to normal. But life will never be the same again, not without the boss. The syndicate obliterated the opposition, yet snakes continued to spawn. The brothers plucked off the Italians, one friend and family member at a time, but the root of tribulation, Ignazio Corrazzo, hidden from the audience, a ghost of a man, prevailed in an alternate universe.

I felt like a failure.

Yes, I have preserved the entire organisation, wrapped every establishment and loved one in a protective bubble, but the dimensionless sphere of security and strength cracked during battle.

The Warren Empire is susceptible to conquer. One bad decision, one wrong move, and the boss’s hard work is up in smoke, dust and ashes in the wind.

My head hung in shame.

“Brad?” Josh tapped my shoulder, and I dismissed reflective musings. “Are you okay? You spaced out a bit there.”

My unconcerned mask fell back into place. “Let’s get on with the assignment.”

Nate watched me closely, almost intrusively, and then he gathered the brothers with listless hand gestures. “There is one side entrance,” he told the well-equipped men in all-black attire whilst I stood back in silence, the estate’s unlit country house, within the scope of tonight’s meticulously planned assignment. “Two fire exit routes, underground tunnels, a visitors parking lot and a rooftop helipad.” He highlighted the blueprint’s mentioned areas with a handheld torch and a permanent black marker. “We discussed strategies already. Work collectively within your group. If any of you step out without the authorisation of Command, I will personally beat the living shit out of you before throwing you in an incinerator. Do not be the hero. Do not risk or expose your team. Do not, under any circumstances, fire your weapons unless it’s in the main room. If you shoot too early, it will give the buyers a chance to get away. If you encounter problems beforehand, I suggest an old-school tussle.” He slapped a fixed blade hunting knife with a saw back onto the car bonnet. “Hand-to-hand combat is the only way to slip through the building unnoticed.”

The syndicate’s newly promoted Ukrainian appeared through the mob. Eli dropped another holdall onto the floor for the brothers to select weapons. He sidled up next to me, never spoke, though. He stood there, arms akimbo, listening to Nate’s orders, whilst his brother, Cole, and close friend, Terrance, equipped themselves with army knives and switchblades.

I am no longer suspicious of the Ukrainian trio. They have proven their loyalty, gone to battle, never missed a meeting, listened to instructions and obeyed Command. Eli, in particular, is the strongest, the most astute of the three males.

Eli is months away from promotion, that much, I am sure. It won’t be long before he attends close-door conclaves or sits at the elite table as an honorary member of The Brotherhood.

I cannot say the same for Eli’s younger brother, Cole. He is too wet behind the ears, too indecisive when on the job and too reliant on his older brother when under pressure. Maybe in a couple of years, he will prove to be a worthy asset, but for now, he will stand back with the lower ranks and wait for his turn.

“Why do they do this shit?” Josh muttered, studying the laptop screen, where an emaciated girl dressed in pale pink lace lingered in the middle of the stage beneath the blinding spotlights. “If trading women and children were part of the job description, I don’t think I could work for you.”

“Enslavement is a multi-billion-dollar industry.” Pulling on a ribbed beanie hat, Nate checked the Glock’s chamber and then loaded a nine-millimetre magazine. “Traffickers are motivated by money. They will sell anything for the right price. People like her,” he pointed to the young girl on the screen, “are nothing but merchandise for the international market.”

“Shit.” Josh shivered. “How old is she?”

Nate squinted as he read the girl’s details at the bottom of the laptop screen. “Twelve.”

I watched the girl in her drug-induced stupor blink with the unfocused eyes of a dissociative individual. Purple bruises marked her wrists and ankles, and delicate, transparent cotton scarcely covered her protuberant ribcage.

“Do we have time to save her?” Eli asked, and I shrugged. “This is our third raid in a month. We have walked away with many survivors, but Carter Hughes is not one of them. What makes you think that tonight will be any different?”

Nate minimised the live auction to zoom in on the site’s recently uploaded picture of Carter. Having no desire to look at the image, I turned my head whilst he explained lurid sex tourism packages. “They even have a brochure of his capabilities,” he said in a low, angry voice. “An anonymous seller updated his portfolio two days ago. He will be sold here tonight. It’s our last shot at retrieval. God only knows where he’ll end up if we don’t intervene.”

Josh respired a shaky breath. “Have you told his mother?”

Even though I looked elsewhere, I knew the question was for me. “No.”

“No?” Josh stepped into my line of vision. “Why? She has the right to know.”

Emma is unreachable. I have called and texted her phone and sent songs and lyrics. I visited her new flat, knocked on the door and shouted through the letterbox. I have gone to her work address and spoken to co-workers and employers. Christ, I even swung by Quinn’s place for a cup of tea and cornered Benjamin in the street once or twice.

Emma closed the door and locked everyone out, including her twin brother, who is worried sick, I might add. Except for the occasional text message, he has not had any contact with his sister.

Of course, I had the power to break down Emma’s front door to demand answers. I could follow her to work and force her to speak to me. But I will not pressurise the woman to do anything that she doesn’t want to, not when life is already too dark and distressing for her fragile heart.

“What the fuck am I supposed to say, huh?” My voice raised angrily. “Hey, it’s been months since we last spoke, but I might have found your kid on the dark web being sold to the highest bidder during a live auction. Maybe I could plunge the knife deeper and tell her about his capabilities. I am sure that will gain her fucking attention.”

Josh stepped back with a resigned twitch of the cheek.

“I am not willing to poison Emma’s mind with this sordid bullshit,” I added, the men standing around, listening carefully. “Carter Hughes is coming home tonight. I am here to make damn sure of it. Only then will I inform her as I refuse to restore the hopes of a grieving mother. If not for closure only.” Burning up from the inside out, I glimpsed at my wristwatch. “You all know what is expected of you. Move out.”

Everyone dispersed into the night to locate their stations. With the exception of Nate, I stayed back to pile unused stock into the boot of the Bentley. With two loaded firearms tucked into the waistband of my jogging bottoms, I pocketed knuckle dusters and a folding knife and gave myself a minute or two to think. I had to think.

Nate squeezed my shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I acted cluelessly. “About what?”

“Emma,” he said knowingly, and I felt a twinge in my chest. “What is it that bothers you the most? The thought of never seeing her again.”

“I would love nothing more than to hear her voice right now,” I rasped, studying the stars above. “Carter’s safe return exceeds the desires of a troubled man, though. You want to know what bothers me the most. It’s looking in her eyes and admitting that I failed, that I broke my promise, that she will never see her son again.” I closed and locked the car boot. “That shit right there? It’s a new demon to keep me awake at night.”

Nate secured a muted earpiece to his right ear. “You are not responsible for Carter’s abduction.”

Yet, I lived with guilt. “I won’t rest until I have answers.”

“Good.” He had my back. “You have my full support.”

Needing to drop the subject of Emma, I fixed an earpiece to my left ear. “We have twenty minutes to get in and out,” I said to the men, hearing indistinct conversations via the aural device. “Eli?

His throat cleared. “Command.”

“Set fire to every vehicle. Start with the helicopters.” Gravel crunched beneath my boots as I walked toward the building. “I don’t want any of those motherfuckers getting out of here alive.”

CHAPTER TWO

Brad

The overall impression of the historic estate is that it smelled disgustingly ripe, old and fusty, as though it hadn’t seen a cleaner or bathed in nature’s fresh air in aeons. Stone mullioned windows, encased in sheets of plywood, obstructed natural lighting and views of the landscaped gardens.

It might be considered architectural magnificence, but I’d rather live in a rodent-infested flat in the London borough than walk the ghosted halls of lost souls and disembodied eeriness.

Towering spires and stonework turrets domed the ironwork balustrades, sweeping stone staircases and prominent architraves. The dramatic Renaissance interior, frescoed ceilings and Grecian-inspired columns gave Josh’s gothic-revival home a run for its money. And that is not a compliment. The lad’s castle of the Dark Ages is nothing to brag about.

The halls reminded me of an endless labyrinth that led to nowhere, a dead-end, back to where I started, in a chamber of embossed wallpaper, oak furniture, ebonised armchairs and far too much history to endure.

Lost between wrought iron wall sconces and decorative fireplaces, I turned off the hand torch and strode across the flagstoned floor to explore the old-fashioned desk pushed up to the bookcase.

A key sat waiting in the wooden storage tray. I plucked it up, tried each drawer until one creaked open and found myself combing through pointless documents. I had no reason to examine printed information, but I left everything on the chair for when Reginald arrived. I imagined he’d collect evidence for the metropolitan police department once I had finished the assignment.

It was only when I amassed said documents into a pile that I noticed a list of names and photos, many of whom I recognised from tonight’s online auction. I scanned each individual eagerly, desperate for answers, when a print-out of Carter, stolen from the school’s website, landed on the desk.

Carter smiled in the photo, an innocent smile, the type of ebullience that brightened his eyes and coloured his cheeks.

I considered the young lad afraid, hopeless and trapped in the dark. If he hid in the corner, watching the locked door avidly, praying it never opened. I know the feeling all too well, misery and despair and existential dread. You want it to hurry up and come to an end, the sickening pain and unstoppable torture.

Buried anger slowly resurfaced. I folded the flimsy sheet of paper in half, stuffed it into the pocket of my jogging bottoms and proceeded to the narrow staircase in the former servants’ quarters, where antique fixtures with gilded elements lined the wood-panelled walls.

The odoriferous melange of soot and death reoccurred. Christ, I might die from pollution, dust inhalation or a phantom-triggered heart attack. I hate anything cold and stuffy, the feel of particles on my skin or home-abandoned cobwebs in my hair.

I shivered as the muscles in my body tried to relax.

A precariously nailed floorboard creaked under my foot. I paused, ears perked up, not a breath of air escaping the flattened line of my lips. I could never be a silent assassin. I am too fucking obvious.

I went through many a Tudor door and trudged across just as many medieval rugs to locate the first bedroom. I was surprised to see the room unlocked and unguarded, but with no sign of movement or inhabitants, accessibility made sense.

It was the first room without a boarded-up window. I used a random pillow case, effacing the layer of dust on the glass pane to see the stationed helicopters in the distance.

Unmuting the earpiece, I drowned out the hushed confabulation of Warren’s men and spoke directly to Eli, “What is the problem?”

“There are two men on the roof, guarding the helipad.” His honeyed voice segued into the low whisper of tonight’s wind. “I have secured a vehicle-borne to every car within the vicinity, but I will not detonate hastily, as the explosion will alert the enemy. Perhaps I can throw the men off the building before setting the helicopters alight. The shortest male looks very fragile.”

A round of canned laughter pierced my ear, the men amused by Eli’s witticism. Only Eli is not joking. One thing I have learnt about the Ukrainian is that he prides himself on impulsivity and ruthlessness. He is cut-throat, straight to the point, and if he makes a threat, even in the most humoured voice, he delivers without an ounce of remorse or regret. Hence, the man is an asset to the syndicate. I am in no rush to lose him.

“Hang tight for a while longer.” A shelf full of round-eyed porcelain dolls, bedecked in elaborate frocks and stained ribbons, watched my every move. “Thoughts on the creepy old house?”

“I like it,” Josh said predictably, and I grunted a jargon of disapproval. “It’s big, spacious and private. I could live here.”

“I suppose it’s better than The Addams House,” I bantered, not that Josh cared to retort. He could not argue the truth. He did, after all, live in a gothic building guarded by concrete gargoyles that posed more of a threat than half of Warren’s men. “Isn’t that right, Sailor?”

“There is nothing wrong with my house.” Josh only convinced himself, as everyone else knew, that Nanna Fitzpatrick’s dilapidated abode should have been condemned decades ago. “Not to be a buzzkill, but I have found nothing.”

“The building is empty,” Nate said as I retreated to the darkened corners of the hallway. “Where are you?”

Nobody replied to Nate because the question was obviously for me. “Tower block,” I confirmed, retracing my footsteps. “Perhaps everyone went underground.”

I returned to the grand foyer, the gilt-bronze chandeliers and stable metal candle holders webbed in gossamer.

Hearing indistinct conversations, I pondered whether some of the men had lost their bearings when three unidentifiable geezers, burly and unshaven, in casual clothes, denim jeans and muddy boots, appeared in the sitting room by the ancient grandfather clock.

Falling into the shadows, back pressed to the wall, I muted the earpiece, slipped the knuckle dusters over my fingers and forced the switchblade open. I was not expecting company, having got too comfortable in the empty halls.

Still, I marked each male—two of whom possessed gun holsters, cigars and rum, the third too preoccupied with a phone to be present or talkative—and mentally strategised to unarm and kill without coming out of the situation scarred or wounded. I swear, if one of those tools put so much as a graze on my beautiful face, on my recently exfoliated skin, I will throw all three of them out of the bastard window.

I waited with bated breath. It was impossible to predict the outcome. Three against one without the use of a firearm is a complicated task, but blowing our cover too early is not up for debate. I had captives to consider.

The guy on his phone excused himself to take an incoming call, which provided the utmost convenience—dealing with the first problem allowed time for the others.

My hand tightened on the knife handle.

His mud-spattered boots stepped onto the medieval patterned rug in the foyer, and I stopped breathing in anticipation. He shilly-shallied as if to determine whether to go left, the main entrance, or right, to the old-fashioned kitchen.

The moment he decided, I knew what I had to do. Kill, discard, next.

He settled for the kitchen, walked straight on by in the dark, and I re-emerged from the shadows, slapped a hand over his mouth to suppress the anguished imploration for help, and stabbed the knife into the side of his neck, the thick rend of flesh tough to the blade.

Blood seeped between my fingers, and all I could think about was the crimson spray on my newly purchased trainers. I loathed stains, especially on expensive fashion.

The model in me protested amidst the brawl. His body threw into my chest. My back collided with the wall, cracking the glass of an old, one-person portrait. Teeth sinking into my glove-clad fingers on instinct, he tore the synthetic copolymer like a rabid dog.

Spittle and blood oozed down my wrist as the blade deepened, but body fluids could not prevent the unpreventable. My arms enveloped his upper body inescapably, as I readied myself. In one artistic movement, I sliced the man’s throat from ear to ear, a fatal slash to his windpipe, an adrenalised jolt for the killer.

Drifting into semi-unconsciousness, he slackened in my arms, the life he once knew floating into nothingness. My hand stayed on his mouth until he collapsed like deadweight, lifeless and immobile, the encumberment of an extremely corpulent man.

Wiping the bloodied blade on the back of my jogging bottoms, I balanced the handle in my mouth, gripped him underneath the arms and dragged him back into an ostentatiously decorated bathroom—the phone joined him.

I left a trail of blood on the floor.

Irked by carelessness, I dodged the graphicness of gore, hesitated by the sitting-room, where the grandfather clock ticked and chimed noisily, and tuned into the loud, unabashed devotion of two disreputable males as they vocalised partiality for virginal women.

If Alexa were here, she’d be seething mad. The woman has barely held herself together the last few months—too many painful memories, perhaps.

When I visited the Warren Manor, the boss’s wife expected updates on-demand, asking the names of all the victims saved during raids, men, women and children, for a clearer picture and a better understanding of what human trafficking looked like.

It’s almost like an obsession for Alexa, the need to know the difference between captivity and enslavement. Not that a stark contrast existed as both realities are one and the same.

I am glad Alexa is pregnant. I know, indubitably, she’d be here, in this creepy old house, with the brothers, armed and ready to raise hell on earth for what these low-life individuals do to the casualties of inexpiable barbarity. Frankly, I had enough worries on my plate. Her compromised safety should never be one of them.

Perhaps it’s Alexa’s calling, as a survivor, to help the tormented people of historic abuse, to prove to the sad and hopeless that light did belong in our world. The woman has made it her life’s mission to visit every human saved from sexual servitude since Warren Enterprise overturned the criminal underworld. I don’t know the nature of those visits, what’s discussed or what’s promised, but Alexa is slowly becoming a saint in The City of London. The public adored her.

Removing the blade handle from clenched teeth, I spat the taste of blood out of my mouth and spied a set of nineteenth-century fireplace tools by the mantle. I could nearly feel the gunmetal handle in my hand. If I can get a hold of the stoker and spark one pleb out before pummeling the other, I might be able to get underground without any complications.

But then, in true syndicate fashion, gunfire crescendoed in the distance, and the two geezers, mid-smoke and mid-conversation, jolted into action.

Well, that pissed on my plan.

I unmuted the earpiece. “Tossers.”

Throwing myself into the room, I reached for the stoker, tested the weight in my hand and walloped one male in the face before his jacksie could even fly out of the armchair. I had neither the time nor patience to witness the knockout because Tweedledee speared into my legs like a bowling ball, taking my unprepared arse across an oriental rug.

The stoker landed somewhere.

My cheek was afire.

Carpet burn.

Oh, I will eviscerate the tool with my bare hands.

“Command?” Cole probed, but I could merely groan in response. “Where are you?”

“Flat as a fucking pancake,” I grunted, the man mounting me as though I was a horse, his alcohol breath warming my cheek. “Who aimed fire?”

“You shouldn’t be here!” Tweedie’s one hand latched onto my throat, his fingers twitching and bending restlessly, whilst his other hand worked the buttons of a portable walkie-talkie. “All units in range—” I punched him in the jaw, the bladed dusters sinking into his hollow flesh. “Ah, shit!”

I could fight him, get my hands dirtier, but every second counted now that someone broadcasted our arrival. Hand landing on one of two Glocks, I ripped it out of the waistband of my bottoms, shoved the barrel into his stomach and pulled the trigger. He never saw it coming—never had the chance to consider his next more or attempt to run away. His bulbous eyes, watery and shocked, lazily lowered between us to where the smoking gun pressed into his opened flesh.

My breath came out harsh. “I was a little impatient.” He collapsed on top of me, his body smothering and suffocating, and I freaked out, agitated by the chest-to-chest contact. “Get off me—”

Suddenly, Josh gripped the man by the back of the shirt, tossed him onto the floor beside me, and offered a hand for me to get up. “Are you okay down there?”

“Fuck off, Sailor.” I scrubbed two hands up and down my sweaty face. “Who blew the whistle? You?” My legs had a slight tremor as I stood and dusted down the front of my hoodie. “Fuck, I need to get down there.”

Tapping Josh on the back, I brushed past him, knowing he’d stay close, and followed the unremitting sound of gunfire below. Men yelled and belted instructions in my ear, too sharp and penetrating for the brain to decipher under pressure. It was irresponsible to mute the earpiece, but I had to hear my own voice, to be razor-focused on the task ahead.

Into the darkest depths of the building, I went. Yet, I am no closer to the men, the bombardment, the gunshots. If anything, the reverberation beneath my footsteps seemed to dwindle.

Blocking out the miasma of raw sewage, I crossed the slippery brick floor, espying a furry rat at the end of the hall.

Josh mouthed something, screamed my name, and pointed to the locked doors in what could only be described as a breakthrough.

Frowning in concentration, I pointed the gun at the lock, fired three bullets, disengaged the bolt and kicked through the heavy wood until it fractured. It swung open and banged into the wall on impact, revealing strewn mattresses on the cold floor, steel buckets, scattered newspaper articles and locked up captives.

Josh worked on the other doors, unlocking them one by one, whilst I traipsed into the first room, examining the violently abducted young females, grouped in timid huddles on the filthy floor, drugged and beaten. If they were scared, they did not show it. Their eyes were completely empty, unfocused. “It’s okay.” I crouched in front of the oldest-looking girl, knowing her mental strength surpassed the others. “You are safe now.”

“Brad,” Josh called by the doorway, and I peered over one shoulder. “They are in every room. Hundreds of them.”

Pleased by the discovery, I scratched the stubble of my jaw. “Kids?”

“No,” he confirmed, and I bellied perturbation. “Terrance is en route. Leave the girls to us. Go and find the lad.”

Nodding appreciatively, I removed my hoodie, leaving myself in a black T-shirt, and draped the oversized material onto the head of our youngest survivor to date. “How old are you?”

The little girl accepted the hoodie for warmth but did not speak to me. She curled up against one of the teenagers, whimpering beneath the harshly gathered planes of her fair eyebrows. Her feet were pale and small, thick with dirt and dry blood. I wanted socks on her toes. I demanded as much when one of the men entered the girls’ impermanent cell.

“Five,” the first woman I had approached vocalised huskily, and I shot her a subtle smile. “She is just five years old. Don’t worry. They did not hurt her.” Her hardened expression failed to comfort me. “I let them take me instead.”

Extracting the print-out from my pocket, I unfolded the page and held it up for the woman to see. “This boy,” I said, and her bloodshot eyes sliced into inquisitive slits. “His name is Carter Hughes. Have you seen him?”

Studying the image closely, she toyed with her fingers, picking at her bloodied cuticles. “No.”

“Are you sure?” I asked desperately. “Take a good look. He is supposed to be here tonight.”

“I don’t recognise him.” Her cautious eyes watched soldiers emerge in the hallway. “Please, don’t hurt us.”

“They are here to help you,” I assured her, not that she believed me. “The picture. I need to find him. Even the most pointless details could send us in the right direction. If you know something, anything, I need you to tell me.”

Once more, she examined the photo, and cluelessness softened her tired eyes. “I’m sorry.”

With a tight, resigned smile, I stood, the chain around my neck swinging lowly, and stalked down the dimly lit hall. I entered every room, checked every bed, lifted every blanket, and found many broken smiles and fractured hearts, except for the familiar eyes of Carter Hughes.

The auction room, what’s left of it, laid in the throes of war and bloodshed. I lingered by the majestic stage, where ruby red curtains swathed in gold tassels grazed the polished floor, and bright spotlights produced intense illumination on the gilded podium.

I disarmed, stepped over dead bodies, casually dressed men, deceptively suited men, lost to the hands of Warren’s dexterous allies, and zoned in on Nate. He stood by the syndicate, praising them for their efforts this evening. With a slight eyebrow raise, he tapped my shoulder and gestured to the audience of young, multicultural faces.

It was a heartwarming sight. I don’t know what they suffered or how long it’ll take them to recover, but tonight, they go home to their loved ones.

“We got him,” Nate confirmed, and every muscle inside my body turned to mush. “Back row—”

I had already darted up the stairs, dashing past uncountable youngsters on the way. Yes, I am pleased for their survival, and I cannot wait for Reginald to arrive, take them home and return them to their parents. However, one particular mother out there, dying with each passing second, needed to be reconnected with her favourite human.

My heart had never thumped so loudly.

I vaguely spotted his face through the crowd, and an unstoppable smile worked its way to my lips.

Reaching the last row, I grasped the back of the red chair, unable to hide emotion, breathing properly for the first in months.

Our eyes connected.

My stomach dropped.

Brown to amber.

Not green.

It felt like someone’s hand had speared into my chest, snapped the vessels and ripped out my heart. “Fuck!” Fisting my hair by the roots, I stepped back, almost losing my balance, and kicked an imaginary pebble across the room. “Fucking Christ.”

Dropping into squatted position, I gripped the back of my head, held on for dear life, working on my strained breathing.

“Brad?” Nate’s worried voice travelled the expanse of the auction room. “What happened? We got him.”

“It’s not him,” I said hoarsely, staring at the stains on the threadbare carpet. “That’s not Carter Hughes.”

Eerie silence stretched throughout. Everyone is perplexed, speechless and despondent. They thought we had him this time, that he was safe, ready to go home to his mother, that we could walk away from the dark side of the underworld for good.

I don’t remember leaving the room or which route I took to get outside, but when the cold night air hit me, I blinked into awareness, the billowing flames of vehicles torching the black sky.

My back hit a wall. I slid down uneven bricks, sat on the floor, knees drawn up, and stared ahead like a boy lost. I have done everything within my power to find him, everything within my capabilities to bring him home, but it’s no use. I am a practical man, a realist who can see beyond the scope. Hope did not exist in our world.

Wiping sweat from my brow, I unlocked my phone and loaded my pinned contacts. Inhaling a deep, encouraging breath, I dialled her number, placed the phone to my ear and awaited her voicemail box. It chimed after twenty seconds. “Hey, sweetheart,” I said in a somewhat soft voice, not wanting her to worry. “Just checking in to see if you are still poisoning people with shit-tasting coffee.” Not the best sentence to come out of your mouth, you tactless idiot. “So, it would seem that I am stalking you now. I think this is the third voicemail this week?” My eyes closed in all-consuming dejection. “I get it.”

Warren’s men started to abscond the building. I am out of time. Bluecoats will arrive any minute now.

“No, I don’t get it. I don’t even know why I said that. I have absolutely no idea how it feels to be you. I can only imagine if it were Dominic…” Pain lanced my chest. “I refuse to imagine.”

Eli jogged across the asphalt to recover the Bentley. He gave me a two-finger salute, climbed into the vehicle and accelerated down the tree-lined road.

“It’s wrong to call you. It’s wrong to leave messages every day. But I miss you.” My throat sealed shut. “I miss my favourite person.”

“We have to get out of here,” Nate informed everyone, and my hand quickly covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “The Met is on the move.”

I waited for him to quieten down before I finished the phone call. “Sorry about that,” I said with a fake laugh. “The club is busy tonight.”

Bentley vehicles came to life, the engines vibrating, headlights sweeping across the car park, men quick to flee the crime scene.

“You are in pain. I want to be selfless and give you space, but would it kill you to answer, just once, even if it’s to tell me not to call you again?” My lips twisted in frustration. “Would it fucking kill you, Emma?”

I ended the call before I said something unforgivable.

Nate’s shadow fell over me. “You good?”

I studied the boy misidentified as Carter by the Tudor-style entranceway. He looked elsewhere, but I could not take my eyes off him. It’s uncanny how much he resembled Emma’s son. I’d have sworn it was him if not for the brown eyes.

“I am getting desperate,” I admitted, and Nate’s silence was the unspoken agreement I needed. “So desperate that I failed to identify the right kid.”

“You need to cut yourself some slack,” He stood there, arms folded, legs in a wide stance. “Give yourself a damn break. You are killing everybody with this shit.”

In a daze, I nodded.

“Brad, the kid is gone,” he added as I rose to my fullheight. “We both know it. Sure, I will search every house in London if I have to—anything for you—but Carter Hughes is not coming back. You need to prepare for the worst.”

My breathing stalled. “I can’t give up on him.”

“You can’t give up on him?” He levelled me with a stare. “Or, you can’t give up on her?”

I rubbed my dry lips. “Is it wrong to say both?”

Nate shook his head.

“Let’s regroup.” Grabbing the nape of his neck, I give him a firm squeeze, a piss-poor effort to reassure him. “I have a baby shower to prepare for.”

His mouth ticked up at the corner. “Mrs Warren is going to tear you a new asshole.”

I scoffed, walking away. “She can try.”

CHAPTER THREE

Emma

I embarked on the uncomplicated route of London’s most incredible landmarks every day, where the imposing Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey and Big Ben, the iconic clock tower, provided panoramic views of crested calmness and morning at sunrise.

Running required mental toughness and physical endurance, both of which I lacked two months ago. I neither planned nor trained to get anywhere fast or commit to the pace of scenic trails. It became a daily habit, along the way, the willingness to control depression, settle one’s nerves and immerse in sweet moments of clarity.

The city is relatively steady on the pavement, a perfect place to lose track of time and be unaware of the world around you, but the heart of London’s cultural scene lost its attraction eventually. It wouldn’t be long before I started to travel further afield, to nearby parks with green space, leafy trees and boundless footpaths.

Determined-looking joggers and a portion of cyclists, spread out evenly and exuberantly, bypassed in a ghostlike blur and vanished into the hazy grey fog. They never looked at me. I did not exist in their world.

Eyes closing in momentary ecstasy, I inhaled the scent of autumn leaves and earthy aromas through my nose and exhaled slowly through parted lips.

Damp hair irritated my brows. I pushed it back with trembling fingers, the sweat on my forehead trickling down my temples, neck and spine. Hands were cold, bluish and curled into tight fists.

With a penetrative sense of motivation, I fell into a comfortable jog, the aesthetic backdrop of brownish-orange foliage crunching beneath my feet. A cool breeze washed over me, teasing the unruly strands of my hair. I followed the pale light at the end of the trail, feet pounding at the dirt path, exited the park and continued down the street until an early riser opened a convenience store to the public.

Doubling over at the waist, I gripped my knees, breathing heavily to catch my breath. My chest hurt more than usual. I might have pushed myself too far this time.

Turning off the music app, I removed the headphones, left them draped around my neck and headed into the corner store. A bell chimed above to announce my arrival. I waded through aisles, selected the exact items purchased during every visit and carried everything to the unsmiling man by the cash register.

He gave me the total price.

I paid for the goods and walked away.

The reality of public transport descended on me as I jumped on the bus. I am hot and clammy, undoubtedly unattractive in bizarrely patterned workout leggings, and I am almost certain the waft of perspiration came from me, but I blamed the foul-smelling seats.

Forty-five minutes later, I am unlocking the front door to my two-bedroom flat, the carrier bag hanging from my listless fingers.

Chucking the keys onto the rustic sideboard in the hallway, I unstrapped the phone from my upper arm, stripped out of workout gear and dumped dirty washing into the wicker basket under the kitchen counter.

In mismatched cotton underwear, I opened the balcony door to let the cold air filter inside, the beaded curtain scraping the parquet floor. Dumping shop-bought items onto the round, two-seater table, I stacked everything in the fridge: two cartons of orange juice, two apples, two bananas, two oranges, and two pears.

A grey tabby cat landed on the balcony, leapt from the metal balustrade to wooden deck tiles and sniffed by the kitchen door. His eyes, stormy grey and piercingly curious, peered into my home. “Go away,” I said with a pointed finger, but she ignored me. “Where is your owner? Why do you always come here?” I am not good with animals. And I hate cats. “Leave.”

Purring along the potted plants on the floor, the ball of fur glared back at me, whipped her tail in an evident strop of defiance and sprawled out beneath the bistro table to shade herself from the non-existent sun.

“Cleo,” I decided to name her, “I will have to shut the door.” If I left the kitchen door open, she’d sneak inside and make herself comfortable. I have caught the rebel on my counters in the past, investigating the concealed biscuit jars as she foraged for food. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You are not my pet.”

Her head lifted to watch the door close, rejection in her unblinking eyes. I almost felt guilty for leaving her, but she is not mine. She belonged to another tenant living in the building, oblivious to her tearaway’s afternoon adventures. Besides, I am not the most responsible person. I’d forget to feed her within a few days, and she’d more than likely keel over from acute starvation and unjustified neglection.

Tearing into a bag of Smarties without exercising any degree of self-control, I scarfed down sugar-coated chocolate confectionery in heavenly delight and teetered down the hall to Carter’s bedroom. The door is open fully, never closed or locked. His room mirrored the exact layout of our old place with Benjamin. I might have relocated and transported furniture and belongings from one place to another, but I kept everything the same as he left it. It was the only room I decorated when I moved in. Blue walls and white furniture, a single bed, the sheet and duvet tucked neatly at four corners. Model cars on the floating shelves: Mercedes, Ferrari, Lamborghini and Porsche.

A National Geographic magazine joined the other eight on the bedside table, another packet of Smarties went in the drawer, and five-pound coins went into the saving jar.

I stared at the bed, the boxed board games under the desk, the unwanted teddies atop the wardrobe and the folded clothes on the chest of drawers.

Touching the navy dressing gown hung on the back of the door with investigatory fingertips, I pulled it into my waiting hands, bunched up the fluffy fibres, brought it to my nose and smothered an unexpected sob. Just as quickly, I breathed deeply to calm down, to regulate my irregular heartbeat.

Nuzzling my cheek against the remaining scent of my son, I sought comfort, closeness, and a random series of flash cards unlocked in the deepest depths of my mind. I spaced out, travelled to the past and watched as three-year-old Carter Hughes, wearing animal print pyjamas, jumped on Benjamin’s double bed. Even though his uncle told him not to, he kicked pillows overboard, laughing at his own mischievousness.

Then, he scurried down from the bed, brushed right past me like a breath of fresh air, his small hand grazing my thigh, and wobbled down the hall.

Breath abandoning me, I watched as Ben ran after the little terror with feigned peevishness. He caught up, wrapped Carter in his arms and lunged across the sofa in a chuckling heap of happiness.

I stared down the empty hall to the sound of their disembodied laughter, remembering the occurrence as though it happened yesterday, the feeling of joy and fulfilment as if they were present.

My son.

My only child.

My little human.

I had no answers, understanding or closure. He could be in pain, scared and alone, beaten or starved. Or worse, he could be dead, thrown in a ditch, a filthy gutter, and here I stand, safe and warm, eating fucking Smarties.

My memories will not be sullied. I hurled the bag of sugar-coated buttons on the floor, and one drifted astray, rolled beneath the relic credenza, out of sight, out of mind. I thought about going to my knees to clean up the mess I had caused.

It’s not important.

Taking my phone off do-not-disturb, I prepared for the barrage of text messages and missed calls. Twenty-three missed calls. Some of the callers had left voicemails.

Listening to the messages on the loudspeaker, I put the phone on the windowsill and started to clean my bedroom. I climbed out of bed this morning like a half-brained lurdan, without so much as kicking the quilt back or fixing the sheet.

“Hey, girl!” Quinn’s chipper voice came first. “I called twice and got diverted to your voicemail box, which is normal because you never answer my calls anymore.”

Drawing open the curtains, I opened the window to generate fresh air.

“Anyway, I will be going out with the work girls this weekend and wondered if you’d like to come with us?” It sounded like a question. “I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. You probably don’t want to drink or dance right now. Or, maybe you do want that. Perhaps that’s exactly what you need.”

Puffing the pillows on the bed, I sprayed the linen with a blossom-and-breeze-scented fabric freshener.

“Unless you’d rather have a quiet night in?” Her despondency turned into hopefulness. “I could come over for a sleepover for old times’ sake. I would love that so much. I haven’t seen your new place yet.”

Quinn visited once a week, but I never opened the door. She sits outside on the floor, her back to the wall, and has a one-way conversation with the letterbox.

“We can order takeout, make some cocktails, watch a scary movie and even put on some face masks.” She exhaled loudly through the phone. “What do you say?”

I had no interest in takeout, cocktails, movies or self-care. I barely made time to brush my hair in the morning.

“Please return my call.” A long pause. “I am worried about you.”

Dumping clean laundry onto the Moroccan-inspired rug, I sat cross-legged on the floor and put fresh-smelling pyjamas into the solid oak-wood storage chest.

“Hi, Emma. It’s Mrs Zhang, Family Liaison Officer.” Kaiya acted as though we’d never met. “My colleague, Frazer Collins, tried to contact you last week to arrange an appointment. If you could call me back on this number, I will follow up with an email. I look forward to hearing from you.”

I had no reason to meet with Kayia or Frazer. Carter is not the subject of current criminal investigations. His abduction is a cold, unresolved case that’s not actively pursued due to insufficient evidence.

“What’s good?” Ethan’s merriment was unexpected. I hadn’t heard from him in a while. “I am going to an open mic night on Saturday. Just wondering if you’d like to come with me. Be my fake date or something.”

My eyebrows incurved.

“Or, we can hang out and eat pizza,” he said after a moment of thought. “I will even throw in a couple of cheap beers.”

Closing the storage chest, I dropped the empty laundry basket in the hallway, opened the airing cupboard and stockpiled folded towels.

“Hey, chick,” said a familiar voice, and I had to look at the phone twice to be sure I had heard correctly. “It’s Stephanie. I, um, know it’s a little awkward between us because of the whole bitch fight and stuff, but I have been thinking about you a lot lately. I called Benjamin to get your number.”

My brother will never learn. I wonder how long it took for him to welcome the mare back into his bed.

“Benjamin was reluctant until I assured him that I had good intentions,” she rambled on for a bit longer. “Okay, I am jibber-jabbing now. But I do come from a good place.”

I set work clothes onto the upholstered armchair: a black pencil skirt, skin-toned tights, flat shoes, a long-sleeved white shirt and a single-breasted waistcoat.

“Look, I am sorry it’s taken this long to reach out, but I didn’t know what to say to you. You were super angry the last time I saw you. A lot happened, right?”

Picking up a bottle of nude nail varnish, I pondered whether to paint my toenails. No, I had to be at work soon. I can beautify another day.

“I am sorry about Carter,” she whispered, and my lips pursed grimly. “I am so sorry, Emma.”

I plugged the bath in the en-suite, turned on the taps, and added rose-scented oil to the water.

“It’s Ethan.” A loud bang in the background. “Call me back.”

I took the bobble out of my hair.

“Do you remember when you stole ten pounds from mum’s handbag and didn’t tell me about it until after we spent the money on candy floss and slush puppies? I threatened to never speak to you again. I thought dad might find out.”

Holding onto the hand basin, I stared at the girl in the wall-mounted mirror, her face sickly pale, her eyes puffy and tired.

“You promised he’d never know, that we’d be safe, that I was safe, and I believed you because twins never lied to each other. Well, Mum counted the money that afternoon, and something didn’t add up. Dad summoned me to the office and asked if I knew anything. He blamed you. You left the evidence in your bedroom. An empty wrapper in the drawer. He wanted me to snitch.”

My brows met in confusion.

What is Benjamin talking about?

“I’d never snitch on my siblings, especially you. Never you,” he husked out, and I imagined him stretched out on the bed, glaring at the ceiling, phone to the ear as he spoke to someone who never seemed to listen. “I suffered the consequences. I told him I stole the money. I spent it. I hid the wrapper in your bedroom because I panicked. He got angry, which is no surprise. I expected as much. I got myself a nice shiner that night.”

Guilt tugged on my heartstrings.

“You thought I had a fight at school and went crazy. You’d have fought with the entire football team if I allowed it. Always the first to have my back.”

It’s a twin thing.

If one hurts, the other one feels it.

“I lied to you. I lied to my twin and told her some bullshit story about high school bullies so that she wouldn’t feel guilty, to stop her from walking into our father’s office and owning up to the truth. I couldn’t see her with bruises as a result. It would break me.”

A lump pushed its way up my throat.

“I took a lot of bruises for you,” he said huskily. “You were rebellious. You misbehaved. And I stepped in to protect you. That’s what big brothers do, right?”

Actually, I am older than him by eight seconds. But he is taller, bigger and stronger, so I will let him lord the big brother title over me.

“Then, you decided to befriend the traveller community, even though I told you not to. Killian happened, and we left one sad life and traded it for another. Only we had Carter to consider. I had to step up. I had to take care of my sister and my nephew. They depended on me. And that’s been my life ever since–making sure Carter is safe and happy and growing up in a loving environment.” His voice broke, so he breathed shakily to compose himself. “What about Emma? Is she safe? Is she happy? Is she loved? Yeah, she’s got this. I made damn sure of it.”

My lower lip trembled.

“I have been protecting you for as long as I can remember. Fuck, I got the scars on my back to prove it,” he added angrily. “And then, overnight, you shut me out. You close the door in my fucking face and act like I don’t exist anymore. Do you know how much that hurts? Do you know what this shit is doing to me?”

Tasting salty tears on my lips, I grabbed the hand towel to dry my eyes.

“I lost my nephew and my best friend on the same day,” he croaked, and I felt guilty, so guilty, but I could not bring myself to call him and apologise. “Everything I lived for is gone. Hell, without him or you, I don’t see the point.”

Turning off the bath taps, I dragged myself back to the bedroom and stretched onto the bed to listen to my brother’s voice.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked as my head buried in the pillow, smothering tears. “I am lost. I am so fucking lost.”

You have all accepted Carter’s disappearance. You continue to live as though it never happened. Not me. I will never accept it, Ben.

Crawling onto the bed, I curled onto my side to look at the window, hugging the pillow to my chest.

“Carter is gone, Emma,” he said, and raw sobs began to wrack my body. “I don’t want to believe it, either.”

Benjamin never said goodbye.

Shoving my face in the pillow, I screamed to reduce pain, confusion, tension levels and pent-up frustration. Strangely, with a sore throat and a headache later, I felt somewhat better, the therapeutic strategy bestowing a sense of relief that is short-lived but no less appreciated.

“It’s me again, Hugo. I came over last night to see if you wanted to do something, but you were out?” It sounded like a question. “The hallway light was on, though. Maybe you didn’t want to see me. That’s fine. I understand. You could have been at work. I don’t know. Ignore me. I am babbling. I thought I would call to see if you were okay. Obviously, you are not okay. Shit,” he mumbled under his breath. “Erase everything I said and give me a call or a text, or I will annoy you.”

Exhausted by the emotional outburst, I closed my eyes for a couple of minutes. If I didn’t have work, I’d pull the duvet over my head and sleep for a week.

“No, I won’t really annoy you. I only said that because I didn’t know what else to say. I am a friend, Emma,” Hugo stressed. “You could do with one of those.”

No, I preferred loneliness. In a room full of people, family and friends, I had to laugh, smile, carouse, overindulge in food or alcohol and enjoy myself. I had to listen to the wearisomeness of discourse whilst everyone debated trivial matters for the sheer benefit of socialisation.

Here, I can be myself.

Alone, I do not have to pretend.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Heart precariously in conflict, I opened my eyes and stared at the phone on the windowsill. How selfish am I to hope he’d leave a message? That his deep, authoritative voice would be among many to assuage. If truth be told, I anticipated longingly, a yearning desire, for the man to reach out and tell me about his day.

Brad’s adventures were never wild or foolhardy, oddly enough, but boring, dull, and questionably normal–nothing out of the ordinary. He bought new leather shoes last Thursday, Berluti, Valentino and Christian Louboutin, and treated himself to a Vacheron Constantin wristwatch, not that I had a clue about fashion or designer brands. He worked double-time at his boss’s club and combated insomnia attacks and insatiable hunger pangs. By all accounts, he is living on drive-through fast-food instead of nouvelle cuisine and blissful freshness–his words–and cocaine is the chosen stimulant for boosted alertness, physical stamina and everyday functioning.

I don’t know what I expected–tales of mass murder on a gruesome scale, perhaps, or updates about my son’s whereabouts, maybe–but normal chit-chat, albeit appreciated, is almost flabbergasting. Or, it’s an intentionally false statement, a wicked deception, a lie to make me feel better, a cruel deception to hide the hurtful truth, that everything is not okay, it will never be okay, that my son is gone, never coming back, and everyone knows it, including Brad Jones, so let’s delude the mother, take her mind off reality, in the hope she will accept the finality of unutterable anguish and come back to us.

“Just checking in to see if you are still poisoning people with shit-tasting coffee,” Brad said, and I rolled onto my back with a permanent ache in my chest. Only one face, one smile, one sweet little voice can fill the emptiness in my heart, in my soul. “So, it would seem that I am stalking you now. I think this is the third voicemail this week?”

Fourth, I thought.

“I get it,” he said hoarsely, and my head shook imperceptibly. “No, I don’t get it. I don’t even know why I said that. I have absolutely no idea how it feels to be you. I can only imagine if it were Dominic…” No, I would never wish this pain on my worst enemy. “I refuse to imagine.”

I sat up, brushing hair out of my face and looked at the phone more determinedly. Brad left the message hours ago, but it felt present, like he is somewhere in London right now, thinking about me. And I am ignoring him, which is unforgivably wicked because I could not muster the strength to face him, converse with him, or thank him for all he has said and done.

“It’s wrong to call you. It’s wrong to leave messages every day. But I miss you,” he said with sincere conviction. “I miss my favourite person.”

Moving to the edge of the bed, I reached for the phone and studied the brightly lit screen as seconds ticked and people yelled indistinctly in the background.

“Sorry about that.” He laughed to quell annoyance, but I never caught much of the raucousness beyond the man. I paid no heed to anything or anyone except him. “The club is busy tonight.”

My thumbs outlined the phone’s rectangular circumference.

“You are in pain. I want to be selfless and give you space, but would it kill you to answer, just once, even if it’s to tell me not to call you again?” he asked angrily, and I jerked back in shock, unprepared for the man’s emotionally charged words. He’d never lost his cool in a message before. “Would it fucking kill you, Emma?”

My heart warred riotously.

I am not allowed to be happy, Big Guy.

CHAPTER FOUR

Brad

London Zoo, formally known as Zoological Gardens, is the last place on the planet I wanted to visit on a cold, wintry afternoon, but Alexa Warren, ever so tenacious and inflexibly austere, demanded only the best for Dominic’s first birthday.

On my behalf, Alexa took celebrations to the extreme, with an overabundance of carefully wrapped presents, an insane amount of designer clothes, an ostentatious cake with fulsome layers of dense sponge, butter icing, creme Chantilly and fondant creatures and a well-planned day trip for the vast majority of the syndicate.

It started with private dining at The Ritz restaurant, continental breakfast and overpriced specialities. Then, as if overrated food was not nearly enough torture for one day, the little minx dragged everyone to the Sealife Centre to explore aquarium zones, ocean invaders, rainforest adventures and coral reef inhabitants.

I will see venomous jellyfish and bastard sea anemones in my sleep. If gawking at aquatic plants is Alexa’s idea of fun, I needed to get her out of the house more. And I know Dominic is on the same page. The little toe rag fell asleep in the pushchair before we even made it to the destination of gentoo penguins.

That’s boredom in a nutshell.

Alexa is not afraid to vaunt her pregnant bump. In a grey long-sleeved dress that stretched to accommodate Bean, black knee-high boots and a classic trench coat, she walked alongside me, one hand on her stomach protectively, the other hand gesticulating to an array of exotic animals.

The zoo-the glorification of wilderness in a cage-is hardly anosmic. It reeked of wet fur and shit, exotic manure, whatever zookeepers wished to call animal excrement. Trees fringed the concrete footpath, knobbed bamboo, thick shrubbery, and fenced enclosures took an indirect course to the designated picnic tables. People talked. Children whined. Birds tweeted. Mufasa roared from somewhere. I almost fainted from sheer fright.

Dead leaves braced the weight of my footsteps. Fingers rolling a two-pound coin in my trouser pocket, I curled an arm around Alexa’s waist, leaning down to whisper in her ear, the sweet smell of her perfume delicate to her soft skin. “You look good enough to eat.”

“I think we are a bit overdressed.” Her eyes, a storm of green, brown and gold, glittered impishly. “People stare.”

My eyes jerked up, and, sure enough, park visitors locked the syndicate in careful observation.

“What can I say? I am sensational,” I said with a godlike smirk as she linked our arms to huddle close. “Let them stare. It makes their day all that more interesting.”

In all fairness, if I stretched out, relaxed on picnic blankets, wearing casual clothes akin to other tourists whilst admiring the Land of the Lions, and a group of sartorially tailored individuals strolled past, I’d probably stare, too. After all, the zoo is not a place for discreetly armed glamour or conceited prestigiousness. It is safe to assume that people more than likely questioned our rationale.

“I am sweating buckets,” Josh complained about the imaginary heat. “All this walking just to see the lousy butterflies.” His red-flustered face, misted in sweat, scrunched up in evident discontent. “I do not get paid enough for this shit.”

“No, you get paid for doing fuck all.” Nate’s leather shoes trudged past large enclosures, where two giant Galápagos tortoises settled on an island pad, overlooking lagoon pools and mud wallows. “Look at him, rocking up late and complaining. Is he due a performance review yet or what?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I am evaluated daily.” Josh bit into a wedge of watermelon. “Isn’t that right, Brad?”

Josh made it difficult for me not to pull him into line. He is always late, never on time, and full of excuses. “Sailor is on his last warning,” I spoke to Nate directly to undermine Josh’s position. “Three strikes and out. The tosser will be back behind the bar by the end of the month. I guarantee it.”

Alexa did not like the thought of demoting Josh. Having no desire to come between the brothers, to witness the dejection in Josh’s eyes, she looked upon Mabel, Dominic’s new nanny. “Is Dominic awake?”

Mabel peered inside the pushchair, where Dominic slept peacefully, with a thin, cotton blanket draped over his legs. “He is snoring like a trooper.” Her floral, floor-length skirt blew in the wind, the slight reveal of nude-coloured sandals peeking out from underneath pleated textures. “It’s best to let him rest.”

I neither agree nor disagree. I am still relatively new to the life and times of fatherhood. I take every day as it comes where my son is concerned. It’s gotten easier, though. I am more hands-on and involved in Dominic’s daily routine. I do my utmost to be present in the morning, to dedicate thirty minutes in the evening to read him a book until he falls asleep.

Sometimes, the job gets between father and son time, but I no longer make excuses-and If I have to rush out or stay at the office, I make it up to him the following morning.

Dominic is my number one priority. I will spend the rest of my life proving to him how much I care because I do care. I care more than people realise, more than people perceive. There is not a night where I do not go to his bedroom and stand over the cot, watching, listening and admiring with prideful accomplishment. He is my only achievement, the one thing I did right.

Lately, I have pondered intensely about Dominic’s mother, Chloe Stone. I lived freely, without remorse or regret, but I cannot help but wonder if our son, in adolescence or adulthood, will blame me for her death, her suicide, if he will hate me for not protecting her that night, for not interceding before she slashed her throat.

Dominic likes to fall asleep in my arms before I put him to bed. He has to feel the blanket on his cheek while sucking a pacifier.

To the sound of Chloe’s faded voice, I glanced at the pushchair. His mother was right. He loves to sleep with the corner of a blanket on his cheek, soft and cuddlesome, with a dummy in his mouth, to somniferous rocking motions, either in someone’s protective arms or as the pram’s wheels coasted bumpy, uneven floors.

He loves bath time. Every time his feet crash against the water, he laughs so loudly. It’s his favourite time of the day. Bath time.

I would not know, as I have yet to bathe him. I do everything that is required of me, changing and feeding and playtime, but the bathroom, the tub and bubbles, are Mabel’s forte. Perhaps I could make an effort to help out more with his nightly routine. If it is his favourite time of the day, I should be there to witness his fun, to overcome aquaphobia, to ensure that my fears do not become his.

“Oh, look!” Mabel pointed at the giraffe. “Did you see the size of his tongue?”

Mabel applied for the live-in nanny position at the estate, and I knew within seconds of the interview that she was the right fit for the job. With thirty years of experience and previous employer references coming out of her arse, she is committed to making a positive difference and understands the importance of privacy. And most importantly, with an instinctive maternal side, diligence, patience and professionalism, Mabel loved her job.

I liked the old bird. She is the quintessential nanny, ticking all the right boxes: motivated, respectful, supportive, creative, proactive, energetic and strong-minded. Initially, Dominic never warmed up to Mabel, the grey-haired mare, as he had formed a bond with the previous employee, Alice Montgomery. Now, that’s someone I haven’t thought about in a while. Alice and her strange sense of humour. Alice and her old-fashioned wardrobe. Alice and her raffish seduction technique. I should probably ask Nate to keep tabs on her. Or, maybe I should forget her entirely and concentrate on more pressing issues like Emma Hughes. Emma and her outlandish dress sense and lack of structure. Emma and her love for spiritual crystals and talent for photography. Emma and her positive outlook in life, so carefree, unassuming and appreciative, a breath of fresh air, a smile for every emotion, a laugh for every situation. Emma and her perfect imperfections, her non-judgmental stance toward the unknown and her unbiased approach to the unfamiliar.

Myannoyingfriend.

Myfavouriteperson.

Mymomentaryhappiness.

Mypossiblefuture.

Maybe one day.

Just Emma.

“What is it?” Alexa’s hand patted my forearm. “You look sad.”

I frowned, not wanting to broach the subject. “No.”

“Really?” She studied me for a few seconds. “Are we not close?”

“Of course.” My fingers grazed the phone in my pocket. “But some things are better left unsaid.”

“And some things should never be left unspoken,” she quoted, and I nudged her shoulder with mine. “It is Emma, is it not?”

My gaze averted to the floor.

“You are the percussionist of heartstrings.” Her tone was low with apprehension. “How many hearts have you broken over the years? Can you count on one hand? Two hands, perhaps.”

I had no reasonable grounds to defend myself.

Alfie walked ahead to give us privacy, catching up to the other men for a round of bottled water and overpriced snacks at concession stand.

“How is she?” Alexa probed, and I simply shrugged in response. “You did not abandon her in the darkest of hours, did you?”

“No, I did not abandon her.” I am still here, sleep-deprived and mentally exhausted, capsizing London to find her son. “I am trying, Alexa.” My throat swelled with unspeakable thoughts. “Is he dead?”

Alexa’s expressionlessness worsened my innermost anxieties. “You assume I have the answers.”

“You lived it,” I rasped, coming to a stop in front of her. “I need awareness.”

“You know my story.”

“What about them?” The pad of my thumb traced the faded scar beneath her eye. “The others.”

“Others,” she whispered to test the inoffensive word on her tongue. “What do you hope to achieve? Carter’s fate will not guarantee a life with Emma. You must know that.”

“I am invested in Carter,” I told her, and her head tilted, listening. “Even if there were no Emma, I would still look for him. Everyone else ceased the search. They wait for the universe to intervene. Not me. I made a promise.”

Alexa’s lip twitched. “Since when did you care for promises?”

“Since I met her,” I said passionately, and she arched a perfectly defined eyebrow. “What?”

“Brad.” Her hands grasped my shoulders. “Love has no limits.”

I made a tsking sound of disapproval. “It’s not love.”

“Not yet.” She stepped around me to perambulate. “As for the others,” she added, and I broke into a short jog to catch up. “I am not so sure. I only have assumptions. I met many children during captivity and witnessed the most unimaginable, absolutely reprehensible, but I am ignorant to the denouement of villainousness. Even if they survived, their souls departed. You do not re-emerge from the darkness as the same person who entered.”

I am aware. “Emma needs her son.”

“Every mother needs their son.”

“Every mother is not my priority,” I said frankly, not that she blinked or had an opinion. “Be straight with me. Do you think he is dead?”

Alexa’s footsteps faltered. In silent reverie, she looked heavenward to watch the clouds accumulate. “How long has he been missing?”

I thought off the top of my head. “Just over two months.”

“You have overturned the underworld?” she asked, and I gave her a curt nod. “And not one person has the ability to put you out of misery?”

Everyone questioned and tortured is incognizant.

“Not a shred of evidence?” she inquired, and I stared unblinkingly. “A solid lead?”

“I found Carter’s details on the dark web,” I explained, and she listened intently. “Auction. I sent out an attack. Took over the entire fort. He was not amongst the survivors. He is never there for salvation or deliverance. I leave, wounded, dejected, without answers or good news.”

“But someone uploaded Carter’s details.” A line formed between her brows. “Perhaps the buyer had time to escape prior to bombardment.”

“No,” I disagreed with her theory. “None of those sleazy fuckers made it out alive.”

“Brad.” My name left her lips like a hollow whisper. “What does one do to alleviate pressure when the possibility of death or exposure is too close to home?”

My scowl hardened.

“Distraction.” Her eyes widened in revelation. “You mentioned that someone texted Emma subsequent to Carter’s disappearance. Did Reginald track down the IMEI number?”

The sender discarded the burner phone.

“He is playing you,” she spoke with an air of confidence. “He wants the syndicate to believe that Carter is in the underworld.” Her stare travelled the expanse of the zoo as if in search of validation. “You must go to Emma. Ask her about friends and family, enemies or recent acquaintances. Even the delivery guy is a suspect. Ben’s Cafe? Rule out all of the customers. One of them lies to her. A master of deception.”

“Your belief is plausible. I have a few untrustworthy individuals in mind. Tonight, once Dominic is settled, I will go to them. Or rather, I will break into their safe havens whilst they sleep.” My cheek muscle throbbed. “Emma is unreachable, though. The syndicate is not permitted to approach her with any unsubstantiated information. Unless her son is in the arms of liberation, I want everyone to stay the fuck away from her. That rule applies to you, too,” I warned, and her chin elevated in defiance. “False hope is dangerously detrimental to the heart. Do not meddle. I mean it.”

Alexa re-linked our arms and led us toward the men. “Why is she unreachable?”

“She did not provide an explanation.” No, she vanished off the face of the earth, never answered calls or text messages or opened the door when I knocked. Benjamin is keeping tabs on her, even though he has yet to nail her down for one conversation. “Her brother is informative. We text almost daily.”

Alexa’s gaze swivelled in my direction. “You have a relationship with her brother.”

“I would not call it a relationship, per se. Maybe acquaintances with a mutual interest?” Although I must admit, Ben is not the worst person to be in the company of, and he is a dab hand in the kitchen. Extra bonus point for the container of sous vide duck he shoved through my car window one afternoon. I can still taste all that blissful freshness on my tongue. “He is not one of us.”

“You mean, he is not an irredeemable criminal,” she said with light laughter. “The question is, is the man corruptible?”

“Do not be an importunate minx.” My finger flicked her in the chin. “Let’s not convert the Hughes family. I like them.”

Alexa was offended.

“I like you, too.” My arm draped across her shoulders. “But their dynamics are refreshing. When I was seeing Emma,” I said, knowing damn well that labels of exclusivity or stamps of ownership were not set in stone or predetermined. “I don’t fucking know. She was easy to talk to. She never judged me or expected more from me. We just hit it off, understood each other and…”

My boss’s wife waited.

“I have something in here.” My hand flattened on my chest, where an irremovable strain made the days gloomier and the nights lonelier. “There is a connection. I feel it.”

“Brad?” Nate’s voice echoed throughout the zoo. “What the hell is this? Mother’s fucking meeting.” He is by the zebra enclosure with the rest of the men. “If I am expected to go through this torturous experience, so are you.”

“Don’t give up on her.” Ignoring Nate’s irritability and moodiness, Alexa stepped out before me, and, with something unreadable in her transfixing eyes, she tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Emma, I mean. I think she might be the one.”

One can dream.

Her eyes searched mine. “Any updates on Liam?”

I shook my head.

“I will not heal. But I will get stronger, with or without him.” Her breath stuttered as she leaned down to pluck a wilted flower out of the ground. “I fear that someday I will hate him for ignorance, that I will be bitter and unforgiving.” Her cold eyes reacquainted with mine. “I no longer cry.”

For better or worse, I understood her scorn.

“What does that mean for us?” she asked, twirling the stem between pinched fingers. “It means that I am learning to live without him.”

If Warren heard this conversation, he’d have a stroke. He loves Alexa more than life itself. Forever and always lies with her. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“Isn’t it?” Her expression darkened. “And when he comes home? Am I supposed to open the door and forgive him for the pain he’s put me through? For the lonely, sleepless nights? For the rejection and heartbreak? Am I expected to bow down to authority just because I agreed to be his wife? No,” she said, her tone cold and uncompromising. “I am worth more than a man who disregards me.”

I offered a flat smile. “Warren is only trying to protect you. The bottles of Macallan and morse code proved it.”

“From whom?” There was a challenge in her eyes. “The only person I need protecting from is him.” She tossed the now petalless flower to the side. It landed in a pothole of stagnant rainwater, floating in ripples of finality. “One letter. That’s all I needed from him.”

I had no words of wisdom or comfort.

“Anyway,” she said with a sharp clap of the hands. “Vincent called last night. He is renting a private estate in the municipality of San Roque. By all accounts, he has set sail twice and played golf.” Her eyebrows rose with mirthful enlivenment. “I struggle to see him with a golf club.”

Vincent with a potential weapon? I see it vividly.

“When does he plan to return to London?”

“He never mentioned London.”

“Perhaps you could prompt him.”

“Why would I prompt him?”

“I need him at Club 11.” The thought of going to the office tonight slammed with insurmountable weariness. “Why is a line of communication only extended to you?” I asked, suspicious of his motives. “I sent two emails last week with no correspondence. Ignorance runs in the family, huh?”

“Oh?” she said, and the commotion around us became gravely silent. “You know Vincent. Always one to cause annoyance or upset.”

“Do me a solid. Next time he calls, tell him to touch base or I will personally fly the jet to no man’s land to fuck him up.” I dropped a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Thank you, Sugar Tits.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Brad

Alexa smiled politely at people as we strode near Tiger Territory. Her eyes lit up upon seeing excitable Sumatran cubs rolling in the dirt whilst the mother, throned majestically on peaks of rocky mountains in the summit of deciduous trees, sank razor-sharp teeth into chunks of raw, bloody meat.

“They are so cute and fluffy. I want one.” Her fingers splayed on the transparent floor-to-ceiling glass window. “Dominic is missing all of the fun.”

“Fun?” I barked out a laugh. “The smell of gorilla shit is your idea of fun, huh?”

“Oh, behave.” Alexa jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow. “If it were left to you, Dominic would have spent the entire day at the estate, running amok in his nappy.”

“The boy is a nudist at heart,” Mabel said in amusement. “I have to button up his sleepsuits at the back to prevent any mishaps. He strips out his clothes quicker than I can get him dressed.”

It’s damn foolish that I beamed with pride.

“Nothing wrong with sleeping naked.” Biting open a tube of sherbet, I poured sugary goodness down my throat, the crystal-like grains sticking to the roof of my mouth. “Lads need room to fly about.” My eyes dipped down to my cotton-clad cock. “If you know what I mean.”

Alexa glimpsed at my crotch, then at Dominic sleeping peacefully in the safety of his pushchair. “He is too young to be flying anywhere.”

“You are a woman.” I trashed the sherbet tube in a nearby bin. “You have no right to comment on the struggles of colossal phalluses.”

“Brad’s right,” Nate, of course, agreed, and her eyes rolled at our unspoken bond of agreeableness, no matter the topic. “Sometimes, we just need a bit of freedom down there.”

“I suppose the same rule should apply to females,” Alexa countered, and even though I did not understand her logic, as it was perfectlyillogical, I would never complain about gorgeous women falling into bed completely starkers. “If nakedness is excused for the man, then it should be excused for the woman.” Her eyebrow curved as she looked up at me. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

I will not be lynched by the feminazi. I will plunge them into next week with all of the misogynistic grotesqueries of our world. “Do not start with all the feminist bullshit.”

Alexa is itching to lamp me over the head. I can see it. “One of us has to speak out for women’s rights.”

“You have a vagina,” I punctuated every syllable to get the message across effectively. “There is a huge difference.”

“Brad has a point.” Nate scratched his chin with ring-laden fingers, the solid gold curb bracelets around his wrist clanking. “He ain’t saying that you can’t go to bed naked, just that you ain’t got shit to tuck away each morning.”

“Actually,” Alexa said with a smug smile. “My breasts have gone up two cup sizes since I got pregnant. I have to tuck those babies into a support bra every morning now. Gone are the days of flaunting non-existent boobs. Hello to busty bikini hours by the swimming pool.”

“No shit?” My stare went to her chest, and, lo and behold, she does look top-heavy. “Where the fuck did they come from?”

Mabel invited herself into our conversation. “Milk.”

My brain exploded into a million pieces of utter bemusement. “Milk?” Exchanging odd, flabbergasted looks with the men, I pointed at the woman’s chest. “You have milk in those?”

“I guess so?” Alexa’s face turned bright red in mortification. “It’s not like I have squeezed them to find out or anything.”

My mouth hung open in disgust. “You totally fucking squeezed.”

“I did,” Alexa admitted, and I cringed. “What’s that look on your face?” She blew a gasket, and I gestured for her to stay back. “I was curious. I have never had big boobs before. And this?” Flicking up the back of her trench coat, she motioned to her voluptuous backside. “Tell me that did not grow.”

Nate whistled teasingly. “Our girl got mad bunda.”

“Right?” Alexa’s ego inflated. “I am so happy.”

I guess I hadn’t noticed before, but Alexa-who battled anorexia in denial, adopted an emotional eating disorder and lived on an unhealthy diet of vodka and sugar-had filled out recently. Her thighs are thicker. Her face is rounder. Her skin glowed. Her hair shone.

Christ, if Warren had a glimpse of his wife’s progression, he would not be able to contain himself, keep his hands to himself. I know as much because the boss loves nothing more than a curvaceous woman. He never looked sideways at girls without assets, big-breasted, full-figured females with curves in all the right places, and then Alexa happened. Tall, slender, flat-chested Alexa. And it was love at first sight. Admiration in abundance. Inexhaustible protectiveness. Deep-rooted reverence. She could not afford to lose weight, and when she did, when she collapsed into a dark hole of self-destruction, he held on tighter, refused to give up on her, on them.

Their marriage remains fraught, but Alexa’s determination soars for the sake of Warren’s first-born child, and I know, the day he comes home and sees her face for the first time in years, he will fall in love all over again. I can only hope that when she blew off steam earlier, it was simply that. Pent up emotions. That she will wait for him just like he waited for her.

“What does it, like, shoot out?” Josh made hand-spray gestures between us. “Did you drink it?”

“What?” Alexa glared at Josh in bewilderment. “No, I did not drink it. I just pressed down and it…trickled.”

Josh’s lips meshed together to forestall humorousness.

“Sometimes, I just really want to slap you,” she said, not a hint of hilarity, and he snort-laughed. “You are such a bona fide jackass.”

“Look, I apologise,” Josh said, minus genuineness, the jokester. “Whoa. Hold the phone. A bona fide jackass? Seriously?”

“Can we rewind for one second? Trickled,” Nate intentionally deadpanned. “This is the weirdest conversation I have ever had.”

“Oh, it’s quite normal.” Mabel downplayed the significance of breast anatomy. “How else do you expect her to feed the baby?”

Alexa paled at the mere concept of feeding the baby milk from her breast. “I don’t think I will be breastfeeding. I am already unfortunate in the boob department. Can you imagine what I will be left with if I don’t use formula milk or bottles? It doesn’t bear thinking about. Save me from the monstrosity of skin and sag.”

“Yeah, let her stick to bottles.” Josh inspected the creepy crawlies, an entire gallery dedicated to spiders in the walkthrough exhibition. “I will never look at tits the same way again.”

“You are so immature.” Alexa’s hand fell to the bottom of Josh’s back as she studied black widow spiders over his shoulder. “I hate bugs.”

“That motherfucker has eight legs.” My pointer finger banged the glass pane to startle the web-weaving spider. “She belongs to the arthropod family. I happen to despise anything that crawls or looks like that, so can we move along?” Someone tapped my shoulder, and I turned to see, late but presentable, Logan had decided to join us. “Where the fuck have you been? You were supposed to meet us at the Ritz hours ago.”

“I got caught up.” His voice is deeper, huskier lately. He overlooked everyone in attendance and immediately sought out Alexa, who did not look pleased to see him, not in the slightest. “I was going to grab myself a coffee. Do you want anything?”

“You are still on my shit list,” Alexa said without looking at him. “You do not get to come here and pretend everything is okay.”

Nate’s quizzical stare came to me.

“Can we talk?” Logan asked somewhat desperately, and I moved aside for him to go to Alexa’s side. He tugged the sleeve of her trench coat subtly, almost timidly, but she remained tight-lipped and unforthcoming. “Please. I hate it when we fight.”

“Do you?” Her fierce eyes landed on him for the first time since he had arrived. “Only, your recent actions suggest otherwise.”

“What did I miss?” I asked, and Alexa glared at Logan, waiting for him to do the honours and divulge. “Did you hit the minibar again?”

“No,” he said with a curse. “No, I didn’t steal any alcohol.”

Nate’s tall frame soared from behind Alexa. “What about the Bentley?”

“I didn’t take the car, either.” Logan’s jaw steeled in indignation. “Look, I got a tattoo, and she freaked out.”

“She?” My hand squeezed Logan’s shoulder, not too hard, a little warning to mind his manners. “It’s rude to use pronouns in conversation when the person is present. Alexa has a name. Use it.”

“Alexa,” Logan rectified his error, “freaked out because I got a tattoo on my chest. Now, she won’t even look at me, never mind speak to me.”

“Well, I am disappointed in you.” Alexa did struggle to keep eye contact with the lad. “You keep doing all this stuff to upset me. All I have ever done is try to do right by you, look out for you, have your best interest at heart when making decisions, and you continuously misbehave. I don’t understand why. I am not too strict. I don’t lock you up or stop you from living life. I have been your biggest advocate since the very first day we met. And what do I get in return? A ton of attitude, backchat, disrespect and unapologetic disobedience.” Her hands went to her hips. “You are pushing boundaries. I did not agree to tattoos, Logan.”

“They have tattoos.” He eyed the men as if that diverting tactic could save him from consequences. “And you. Those wings cover your entire back.”

“We are adults,” she reminded him, and he huffed in frustration. “You are still a child. You are not old enough to make decisions you might regret when you are older. The best laugh is you haven’t even apologised. You got what you wanted, and that’s final. A wise man once told me that drastic times call for drastic measures. I have cancelled all three of your debit cards until you prove to be more responsible. And grateful,” she added, and he paled in complexion. “You want to be the big man? Go ahead. Find yourself a job. I refuse to enable recklessness.”

Logan was speechless. “Yeah, but Tre said…”

“I don’t care what your propagandas have to say,” she cut him off before he could even hit the ground running.

Logan’s jaw clenched.

“And whilst we are on the subject.” She stepped up to him with folded arms. “You are very, very lucky that Liam is not here to watch you self-destruct. He’d have beaten the living crap out of you by now.”

I concurred.

Alexa stormed out of the enclosure like a bat out of hell, the sound of her heels fading into the distance. I stared at the place where she once stood, contemplating how to get through to the lad.

“The Warrens have been good to you, Logan,” I said sternly, and regret pinched his eyes. “Alexa, in particular. She deserves better than disrespect. You know that, right?”

“I didn’t get a tattoo to upset her,” he said, and deep down, I believed him. “I never thought about asking her. I just did it, hoping she’d be cool, I guess.”

“Logan,” Nate called, and the lad peered up from beneath harshly gathered brows. “You and me, let’s take a walk.”

Logan’s shoulders squared. “You’re not going to bump me off, are you?”

“Not yet.” Nate’s seriousness masked harmlessness. “Come on. I ain’t got all day.”

Logan’s tall for a sixteen-year-old. He exited the enclosure, shoulder to shoulder with Nate, and the pair trekked toward a nearby picnic table to have a heart-to-heart.

Josh watched them interact from afar. “What’s his deal?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, frustrated by the lad’s newfound insubordination. “Alexa has reached the end of her tether, though. Logan is not himself lately.”

Nate leaned over the wooden table to tap the boy’s shoulder, motioned between them, and then he pointed to Alexa, who conversed with Alfie by the wing-jerking pelicans. Warren’s wife was oblivious to their close, candid conversation, to the visible, undisguised display of beratement. With forced smiles, she pretended to enjoy the tour with her friend and bodyguard, Alfie.

“Mr Jones.” Mabel unstrapped Dominic from the pushchair and lifted him into her arms, holding the cotton blanket to his back. “The birthday boy is up and alert.” My son’s sleepy eyes adjusted to the light as he suckled on a blue pacifier. Messy blond hair stuck out from behind his ears. Rosy cheeks coloured his skin. He spotted me, let out a long, high-pitched cry and tried to escape the nanny’s arms. “Oh, I think he wants his father.”

Taking Dominic from Mabel’s arms, I pulled him to my chest. “What’s all the fuss about?” His cheek rested on my shoulder, his small, chubby fingers touching the shell of my ear. “Wait for it.”

Josh side-eyed me. “What am I waiting for?”

“He’s awake!” Alexa’s voice knifed through the air, and I gave Josh a knowing look. “Hand over the goods. I know he is looking for his favourite aunt.” The woman appeared at my side like an apparition, her hand on the top of my back as she peppered the baby’s cheek with loving kisses. “Hey, Pudding. I missed you.”

“One, do not refer to him as a pudding. It is not cute. Two, he slept for a few hours, not a damn month. You had him on your hip all morning, so quit with the dramatics.”

“I am allowed to miss him.” Alexa embraced the baby, his arms locking listlessly around her neck, his legs hanging on either side of her pregnant belly. “I love him so much.” Her lips puckered in mischievous musing. “I think we should take him to see the penguins. He loves the water.”

“He is not interested in the bastard penguins.” Christ, I cannot endure another tour of flightless seabirds. “Alexa, I am done. If I have to look at one more animal, or reptiles, or two-toed fucking sloths, I might actually top myself.”

She glanced at Josh. “And he had the audacity to call me dramatic.”

“You are dramatic. I mean, who books the Ritz for a baby’s first birthday, huh? Who buys a six-tier cake just for him to smash up?” My pointed expression held firmly in place. “What sound-of-mind person tries to book out an entire zoo for one clueless kid?”

Josh’s face was a painting of incredulous disbelief. “You attempted to book out the whole zoo?”

“Yes,” Alexa said, unbothered and unembarrassed. “So, what? I thought It would be nice and peaceful for everyone.”

Mabel’s intrigued. “They declined?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Alexa tapped Dominic’s back. “They only offer the venue for private hire.”

“Bossman called her batshit crazy long ago,” I pointed out, and she muttered something offensive under her breath. “He was right. She is insane. Full-fledged fucking bonkers.”

“Oh, piss off,” Alexa retorted airily. “Excuse me for trying to make Dominic’s day memorable.”

“I hate to break it to you, Mrs Warren.” Mabel toyed with the beads dangling from her neck. “It is very unlikely the little one will remember anything from early years. Most memories stem from the age of five.”

“Dominic had a wonderful day.” Alfie, such a lick arse, rubbed the small of his boss’s spine with his mechanical hand. “That’s all that matters.”

“Thank you, Alfie.” The woman had the nerve to eyeball me. “Well, it’s nice to know that someone around here appreciates all that I do.”

“I do appreciate you,” I said honestly. “But there is no denying that you go overboard when enthusiastic.”

“Passionate,” Alexa corrected, and I smiled at her efforts. “Fine. Let’s regroup and head out. Hey, why don’t everyone swing by the estate this evening? I have zero plans. I could use some company.”

Alfie and Josh failed to hide the immediate panic.

“What is it?” Her inquisitive eyes darted from one male to another. “Brad?”

“I think it’s a great idea.” No, it is the worst idea. Alexa is not welcome at the estate until further notice. “Why don’t we come to manor instead? I have to swing by to check the boss’s computer anyway.”

Alexa’s eyes sliced in suspicion. “You are hiding something from me. What is it?”

“No,” I lied effortlessly. “Dominic will be tired after today’s shenanigans. Let him go home and rest. I can come to your place.”

Her hip jutted out. “I don’t believe you.”

“Fuck a duck,” Josh spat out without any logical reasoning. “Alexa, why must you be so nosey all the time? Just drop it.”

Alexa stared at him, slack-jawed and wholly affronted. “You planned something,” she said whispery, her stare slowly returning to me. “Do I need to buy a dress? New shoes?”

“For fuck’s sake. Look what you did.” My animosity was aimed at Josh. “This is why I don’t tell you anything these days. You don’t know when to shut the fuck up.”

“Me?” Josh placed a hand on his chest. “Oh, I see. Alexa complicates the situation, and it’s my fault. Duly noted.”

“Guys,” Alexa reasoned with us. “It’s okay. I will pretend to be shocked.”

I pinned her with a glare. “Shocked over what?”

“It’s a Christmas party, right?” Her smile was bright and genuine. “It has to be. You all know how much I love the festive season.”

Alexa could not be further from the truth. And Christmas? Does sheactuallybelieve I have that much time on my hands? I have months to figure out evergreen trees and bowed presents.

“Yeah,” I lied with good intentions. “A Christmas party. That’s our sneaky plan. Sucks that you ruined it.”

“What is she smiling about?” Nate returned with a cone of chocolate ice cream. “Should I be worried?”

“Mrs Warren is looking forward to Christmas celebrations,” Alfie explained tightly, and Nate’s hard, stony eyes revealed nothing. “Now, I imagine, she is thinking of all the ways she’d love to kill you for eating soft-serve ice cream in front of her.”

“It’s very thoughtless.” Alexa watched Nate lick the ice cream with smoke coming from her ears. “Seriously? What’s with the tongue? I think he’s trying to seduce me.”

Nate taunted with a flick of his tongue, sucking melted ice cream off his upper lip-whoever thought eating frozen dessert could look so aphrodisiacal. “I didn’t know you were seducible.”

“I hate him,” Alexa said, and it was devastatingly meaningful. “He does it on purpose.”

“I don’t get it.” A look of confusion crossed Logan’s face. “You eat ice cream all the time.”

Alfie spoke on Alexa’s behalf. “Mrs Warren was advised to eat pasteurised ice cream only to avoid salmonella food poisoning.”

“Right.” Logan studied the sour-faced woman closely. “Well, I guess I can grab you some on the way home.” His hopeful eyes sought her wary ones. “Come on, Alexa. I am trying.”

Holding the baby on her hip, Alexa pushed off her tiptoes to wrap an arm across Logan’s neck. I caught the tail end of her whispered endearments, enough to make out what she shared with him. Basically, she loves him no matter what, but he had some serious shaping up to do.

“Okay?” she mused, and, with a slight nod, he kissed the side of her head and lingered to be sure all was right in their impenetrable bubble. “Last chance, Logan.”

“I’ll do better,” he said quietly. “I promise.”

That time, I did not believe him.

But I kept my mouth shut.

CHAPTER SIX

Emma

The disadvantages of waitress service are dealing with complex or demanding customers, loud-mouthed, hypercritical individuals, who talked over everyone, complained about napkins and silverware, room temperature-too hot, too cold-and harmless music-too loud, too quiet. Then, overstepping boundaries in drunken insensibility, for example, inappropriate comments about my breasts or placing a palm on the back of my thigh whilst assessing the leather-bound menu for an unnecessarily long time. Insert silver-haired cologne-infused millionaire businessman in a royal blue three-piece suit whose disrobing eyes and wandering hands overemphasised the definition of shameless pervertedness.

“Such a wide selection.” He lowered the menu marginally to look up at me, his gaze a turbulent blend of red-brimmed perversion and aroused covetousness. “Are you the head sommelier?”

No, I am not a trained wine expert. I prepared tables, linen, silverware and glasses. I have the responsibility of welcoming guests, taking orders and communicating with the kitchen. Sure, I can pour a glass of wine and uncork a bottle, but if he is looking for someone to recommend flavours and varieties, I am not the right woman for the job.

“Menu five,” he placed an order, and I clicked the top of a pen, bored and idle. “Advice on pairings?”

“Well, I know beef is accompanied by red and something light like chardonnay compliments scallops,” I told him with very little knowledge or experience. My rap sheet consists of green juice, carrot juice, prune juice-a dose of whatever-the-fuck-you-fancy juice. “You selected the traditional tasting menu: beef, pork and fish. I suppose you could drink either or both.”

His entourage, a party of suavely besuited males and fascinatingly glamorous females, awaited his response before they reeled off demands.

“Very well.” He gave me the most revolting bedroom eyes as his tongue smoothed out his bow-shaped upper lip. “Then, I shall order Ruchottes Chambertin, Domaine Roumier, Burgundy, France.” The Englishman accented a Frenchman. “Corton-Charlemagne, Maison Louis Latour, Burgundy, France.”

His purred, flirtatiousness had the opposite effect.

I found him most disgusting.

“Great.” I smiled with the same politeness of a churlish child, scribbling down the order. “Anything else?”

“Perhaps.” His expression, crude and lascivious, sent a cold, stomach-churning shiver down my back. “Feel free to take their order, then return to me.”

Feel free? Of course, Sir. I am neither shy nor hesitant to do my job, as it is, in fact, my job to wait on people for minimum wage, but thank you for permission.

Damn it. I wanted to stab the pen into my sockets, gauge my eyes out and expunge such nauseating sleaziness from vision.

Or better yet, swat the wayward hand at the back of my knee in a final warning. I mean, what is he doing with the pointer finger? Every three seconds, jab, jab, jab, flick, prod, poke. Is it supposed to be suggestive? A turn-on? What is going through his head right now? He might have a knee fetish. Is there such a thing as a knee fetish?

Whatever floated that man’s boat.

Maybe he’s confused me with an instrument or mistaken the knee pit as an unmentionable.

Either way, I hope he falls over and humiliates himself the next time he stands up, flat on his face, snaps an arm, an elbow, or the old joystick.

Jotting down everyone’s order, I sidestepped, an unsubtle hint for him to back off, to experience overt rejection in the eye of judgement, and compressed the all-consuming urge to cry.

I do not have the faintest idea why his inappropriateness bothered me so much. I have experienced far worse than an unwanted touch before.

Yet, I felt violated, intruded upon, and extremely disrespected. I am not here to be palmed and pawed by deviant men of expectations.

So ignorant and warped to assume prosperousness sealed the deal or guaranteed a good time.

Last I checked, lower-class folks did not prance around with “desperate” or “freebie” slapped on their forehead.

“And what of the desert?” His pale hand moved to the white linen tablecloth to feel the fibres under his fingertips. “I have an insatiable taste forglacéwith a hint ofsalt.”

Please, I mightactuallyvomit.

“Strawberry, fennel seed and rose,” I blurted out from memory, the sexual innuendo flying straight over my head. “Lemon and passionfruit tart.” And a slap in the face if you do not contain yourself. “I will send thesommelierover with your wine.”

To think, I had to tend to a table of pretentiousness for two hours. If I survive another thirty minutes in the man’s presence, I will reward myself with a bottle of wine-bought on the cheap at the corner store as an alternative to the extortionately priced restaurant-to celebrate or see what the fuss is about. I hadn’t quite decided the reasoning, just that his eagerness to imbibe grape-flavoured effervescence piqued interest.

The unrivalled restaurant, established in a popular five-star hotel in Knightsbridge, offered fine dining in a warm, welcoming environment of modern luxury, floor-to-ceiling windows, views of the city and a renowned network of Michelin-starred chefs.

I headed to the busy kitchen with an emotional lump of sadness and nostalgia in my throat and tears of regret in my eyes. Benjamin, my brother, my twin, the brilliant yet undiscovered chef, sprung to mind as I read customer orders to head chef Garret.

My brother belonged to the values of excellence and talent alongside the most respected and acclaimed chefs in London. Not me. I am underqualified, talentless and passionless-a fraudster in formal, tight-fitted uniform and toe-pinching shoes (I definitely outpaced myself this morning, too much jogging, not enough sleep or hydration, blisters for days).

I do not have what it takes to be in the service of wealthy people, to cook professionally or serve drinks without splashing champagne onto someone’s lap. I am mediocre. Average. Forgettable. A woman whose only experience is stocking chillers with fresh fruit smoothies, pouring coffee into Sandrine mugs, prepping deli counters and leaving cryptic messages on chalkboard menus. I liked to decorate, hang suncatchers in the window and tapestries on the wall and polaroid photos on the door, a story for each customer through the eye of the lens.

“I just earned the best tip.” Sade followed me to the long-stretched walnut veneered bar. “Hey, what’s wrong with your leg? You walk with a limp. Did something happen?”

“I ran too hard this morning and have friction blisters to prove it.” My poor toes were on fire, each step painful and effortful. “It’s okay. I will soak my feet in Epson salt and warm water when I get home.”

“Ouch.” Her wild, corkscrew hair and septum piercing gave major style envy. I had to do something fashionably drastic with my wardrobe. My current dress sense puts the female population to shame. “I am far too lazy to run anywhere. How do you do it?”

It should have been an easy question to answer, but I had no response. What do I tell Sade? My life is meaningless, boring and dull. I’d exist in silent solitude if I did not exercise between shifts. I run to find purpose, answers, an explanation-to transcend the body and mind and escape reality. “I had to lose weight.”

“Huh?” Her cursory glance swept over my body. “But you have the perfect waist-to-hip ratio.”

“Yes, no,” I stuttered, tripping over my words. “Well, I look okay now because I shed some pounds. But I started off frumpy and wobbly and stuff.”

Sade is naturally tall, lean and slender. I’d have to wear six-inch heels for my head to reach her shoulders and live on low-carb meals to match her waistline.

The skin around my stomach lost elasticity and had silver stretch marks. I must tuck myself into legwear, jeans, trousers, leggings, yoga pants and pyjama bottoms to secrete the old mamma pouch.

“I don’t believe you.” She uncorked a bottle of red wine and set it on the bar top. “Girl, I would sell my soul to the Devil to have a body like yours. Give yourself some credit.”

When Laurence, the head waiter and qualifiedsommelier, strode past, I asked if he’d be kind enough to deliver two bottles of wine to Pervert’s table. Okay, I never called the customer apervertin front of everyone else, but private thoughts screamed and exposed the man’s undisciplined behaviour. It sounded damn good to embarrass him in my head.

Laurence did the honours, a bottle of red in one hand, a bottle of white in the other. “I need you both to clear suite three. The customers left quite a mess.”

Quite a messis synonymous with inconsiderate, thoughtless and entitlement. Rich people seem to forget that we are human beings, that we have feelings, that we are not paid enough to crawl on our hands and knees to loosen pulverised food on marble floors. For sanctimonious people with stiff upper lips, deep-pocketed handbags and bespoke clothes worth more than every organ in my body, they sure as hell misinterpreted the customary code of decorum and lacked common sense.

“Sure.” In all honesty, I’d rather scrape mashed-up potatoes on the floor than live through the torment of Pervert’s imaginative disrobement. “I will grab the sweeping brush.”

***

Hugo, wearing faded denim jeans, black heavy-duty boots and an overworn leather jacket, stood by a pick-up truck across the road. His spine straightened when our eyes connected. He waved, geekish and unsure, possibly regretful, and turned his attention to a passing car whilst I bid co-workers farewell.

What is he doing here? And how does he know where I work?

“Oh?” Sade’s recently topped-up mocha-glossed lips pursed. “You have been holding out on me. Who is that fine specimen of a man?”

“Get home safe, ladies,” Laurence shouted as he jogged toward a parked Nissan. “And Sade, do not forget the double shift tomorrow. You agreed and promised.”

“As if you’d let me forget,” she yelled back, then, under her breath, she muttered flirtatiously, for my ears only. “I shook hands for the extra money. And for thewell-neededandwell-deservedworkoutsessionin Laurence’s office.”

Sade and Laurence’s no-strings-attached relationship was the worst kept secret in history, the most popular gossip during staff break. I had no opinion on them or the others, so I never commented. Hell, I barely knew the people I worked with. I catalogued names and faces.

“I hear sex is the best form of exercise,” I said, making shit up on the spot. “Who needs to run for ten miles when they can saddle a very handsome man to burn off calories?”

“I agree,” she chimed proudly. “Sexercise is my jam.” Her intrusive eyes, chocolate brown and lashed thickly, assessed the potential importance of Hugo’s unexpected arrival. “You get laid, right? At least, with a guy like that, I should hope so.”

My face heated.

Sex is the last thing on my mind.

How do I integrate Carter’s disappearance into the life narrative?

How do I live to my fullest without closure or conclusion?

According to bereavement advice, normalising grief is the universal part of the natural healing process. Learning to be happy again, letting go of the past and knowing I am incapable of fixing the situation is considered a huge milestone, the greatest achievement. But my heart has suffered the ultimate loss. A parent should never have to say goodbye to their child. It’s supposed to be the other way around.

“Emma?” Sade’s hand touched my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

No, I am not okay. I willneverbe okay.

“I avoid memories of him.” A hum rose in my throat, demoralised and heartsick. “I avoid anyone that reminds me of him. Friends, family, people I love.”

Sade watched the news and read newspaper columns and articles online, but she has never approached thepublicisedstages of my private life. With skills in sensitivity and tactfulness, she sympathised instead, left inspirational books and motivational verses in my handbag for me to read when in the privacy of my home and bought iced coffees and dragon fruit lemonades in the hope of a smile, even if imperceptible, graced my lips.

“Am I allowed to be intimate?” I whispered, and her conflicted expression softened. “Am I allowed to be happy? Normal? To act as though it never happened?”

Guilt makes you suffer.

Guilt is accountability.

Guilt is punishment.

Guilt is debilitation.

“Emma…” She frowned slightly. “There is no blame or shame in happiness. Listen, I know it’s not something we talk about, but it’s okay to smile, laugh when appropriate, socialise with friends and family, climb into bed with a gorgeous man, and feel good inside.” Her hands rubbed my arms. “It’s okay to be human.”

Happiness is forgetting. “What would you do in my situation?”

“It would be extremely insensitive to answer that,” she said in a subdued voice. “I am not a mother.”

“Likewise.” I sensed Hugo’s watchfulness but never turned to him. “My son is gone.” Tears pricked the back of my eyes, and I blinked them away. “My biggest fear is that he continues to suffer whilst the people he depends on more than anyone else in the world live their best life, that his mother, the person who carried him for nine months, is considering a night of meaningless sex to help her forget. I am no longer attracted to him,” I said quietly, and she glanced at Hugo in perplexity. “I don’t even know why he is here.”

Sade focused on the man across the street. “Is he stalking you? Do I need to shove my size eight foot up his arse? Rearrange his face?”

“No.” My lips almost stretched into a smile. “Hugo is a really nice guy.”

“Nice does not possess the power to get your rocks off,” she spoke like a professional ventriloquist. “What you need is phenomenal. I know you said sex is off the table, but I know some pretty incredible guys that can change your mind-no pressure or expectations-just the occasional one-night stand to give you a little confidence boost. Hey, if you are into it, I could even join in. I prefer red-heads, but I will make an exception for you.”

Assuming the last part was a joke, I wiped strands of hair out of my face. “I am straight.”

“I like both,” she said with pride. “Emma, you asked what I would do in your situation, and I chose not to answer because I am nervous about giving the wrong advice. I might not be a mother, but I am a daughter, a sister and a friend. I lost my dad six years ago and experienced the most unimaginable pain. I remember lying in bed every night, thinking I’d never see the light of another day. Luckily, I have a strong mother who would not take no for an answer. She forced me to shower, get my arse to work and spend time with friends. She taught me to live with his memory rather than his loss. Do I feel guilty for existing when he is not here to experience life with me? Of course, I do. I miss him with everything I have. And I will cherish and carry our memories until the day I die. But I am not a villain for choosing the easy route. You are not bad for letting go every once in a while.” Then, unexpectedly, she kissed my cheek and walked away. “If she is not in your bed tonight, I will happily volunteer as tribute!”

I died on the spot.

I’d exhort her to the spiritual realm if eyeballs could shoot bullets.

In the midnight hour, I gravitated toward Hugo, wordlessly uncomfortable, humiliated beyond measure, and waited for him to explain the impromptu decision to be here. It’s not like I had responded to his phone calls or text messages. Truthfully, I was happy never to see him again.

“Emma.” He tapped a car key on the palm of his hand. “Your friend is a wild card, huh?”

I stared.

“Okay, hear me out. I was super worried about you. A lot happened…” He winced. “Don’t hate me. I drove past earlier. You were outside, in inform, so I figured you worked here.”

Sade’s headlights flashed in our direction, followed by the honk of a car horn and law-breaking acceleration.

“I am not here for sex. And I am not a stalker. I don’t know why your friend said that.” He grasped the nape of his neck. “Yeah, I heard. She is not exactly quiet-or subtle.”

My stare sharpened.

“Shit, I had this entire speech figured out whilst driving, but now I am at a loss for words.” He fixed the overturned collar of his leather jacket. “Can I be there for you? Can I be someone for you? An annoying friend? A punching bag?” he joked, and the corner of my lip ticked. “I want to be available, that’s all. Supportive. Emotional help. Whatever you need.”

I let out an exhausted sigh. “Hughie, I am not really in the mood for socialising. I want to go home and sleep for a week.”

“Hugo,” he corrected, and I died for the second time tonight. “And I meant supportive in general. It can be tonight, tomorrow or next week. A trip to the coffee shop. A late-night cinema viewing. A walk around the park. Anything to take your mind off everything.”

I appreciated the man’s thoughtfulness.

“Or, I could pick you up after work and drop you home. That’s better than public transport, right? And safer.” His knee nudged my thigh. “What do you say? We can even set ground rules. I am not allowed to talk unless you give me the go-ahead.” He pretended to zip his lips. “Private taxi service. No charge for transportation. Old classics on the radio.”

“You would pick me up from work every night?” I asked, and his head dipped. “Why? You don’t have to do that. I am not your responsibility.”

“I know what it’s like to be around you. I might miss that.” He gave me a shy, boyish smile. “Sure, it’s not exactly how I imagined our relationship. I wanted more picnics and goodbye kisses, but, first and foremost, I liked you as a friend. And you, being a friend, is better than nothing.”

I made no promises.

I did, however, climb into the passenger seat and let him drive me home. Anything is better than the London Underground at this time of night.

It was a silent journey, with no conversation, music, or eye contact. I watched his hands, though. How he shifted the gearstick, worked the steering wheel, wiped condensation on the window and made clicking noises with his fingers.

Much later, Hugo pulled up outside the tenant building, the engine running, and leaned over me to unlock the passenger side door. He smelt nice, like winter spice for darker months. “I’d offer to walk you to the door, but I feel you would decline.” Then, worse still, he opened the driver’s side door. “I’ll do it anyway.”

“No.” My hand latched onto the back of his leather jacket. “Honestly, Hugo. I appreciate the lift, but I am tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Okay.” Shutting the car door, he got comfortable in his set, arms folded, thighs parted. “Go ahead. I will wait for you to get inside and then drive off.”

I grabbed the handbag on the floor between my feet, stepped onto the pavement and shut the door behind me.

With Hugo’s worried eyes on me, I pushed through the metal gate, drifted down the garden path to the entrance, fished out my keys and unlocked the main door.

Into the all-concrete foyer I went. My back rested on the closed door for a moment to listen to Hugo’s pick-up truck speed down the street, to give myself a breather.

I did not bother to hang around and check if there were letters in the mailbox. I took the staircase to my flat, barricaded myself indoors-shoes and uniform hurled in all directions-and walked my semi-naked backside to the kitchen for late-night snacks.

Tearing into a bag of toffee-flavoured popcorn, I poured kernels into a plastic bowl, ready to wallow in front of the television, when scratching captured my interest.

Drawing the beaded curtain aside, I peered down to see Cleo, the unwanted cat, prowling on the balcony.

A defeated sigh escaped my lips. I cracked open the door, a one-time offer, and soft, grey fur darted between my legs into the kitchen. “You better not have fleas.”

A pair of stormy grey eyes showed as she sniffed her way around the kitchen, on the hunt for food, I imagined.

“I don’t buy cat food.” Checking the cupboards for something suitable for her to eat, I settled for the tub of cooked chicken in the fridge. “Here.” I nearly placed her meal on the floor, but the cheeky sod jumped onto the kitchen counter. “No, that is not okay. I prepare food on those counters.” Her bottom perched with ease and finality, and I lost the will to fight. “Fine.”

I will let Cleo sleep inside for one night, safe and warm, but tomorrow, she can return to her owners. I left the kitchen to grab a new pillow for Cleo. She can have a bed in the hallway. Having finished her chicken, she looked more than grateful to settle down.

I stopped by Carter’s bedroom, the door open fully, just as I liked it. Bed untouched. Always untouched. Not a toy out of place or a particle of dust on the furniture.

Emptying tips into my son’s money jar, I carried the bowl of popcorn to my room, turned on the lamp and sprawled across the double bed.

Chewing kernels half-heartedly, I loaded my phone, listened to voicemails and read text messages.

Wyatt: Can we talk?

Ethan: I am having a barbeque next week. I know the weather is shit, but that’s never an excuse to forgo grilled steaks.

Ethan: Your brother will be here.

Ethan: We miss you.

Quinn: I just bumped into a Henry Cavill lookalike and got pregnant.

Quinn: Literally pregnant!

Unknown: Emma, it’s me, your mother. I tried to call you. Twice, actually. I am probably the last person you wish to hear from, but news travels fast…

My eyes fell out of their sockets.

How the hell did she get my number?

Unknown: Oh, Darling. I haven’t slept in days. I am so worried about you and my grandson. Please, call me or text me.

My grandson.

Is she deranged?

The same grandson she refused to acknowledge, love, protect, hold and comfort. The same little boy she condemned to hell, to the Devil himself.

Too numb to digest my mother’s message, I read it repeatedly, unable to decipher what’s transferred. Surely, after all these years, she didn’t believe it would bethateasy. To just pick up where she left off? Like I cared. Like she mattered. Like I had any room in my heart for her.

I deleted and blocked her number.

Sade: Are you home safe?

No messages from Benjamin.

Hugo: Thanks for tonight.

Lyrics from Big Guy.

I felt flutters in my stomach as I typed the title into Spotify. I liked to hear the song whilst reading the lyrics.

Standing here looking out my window.

My nights are long, and my days are cold ’cause I don’t have you.

How can I be so damn demanding?

I know you said that it’s over now, but I can’t let go.

Every day I want to pick up the phone.

And tell you that you’re everything I need and more.

If only I could find you.

Like a cold summer afternoon, like the snow coming down in June, like a wedding without a groom,

I’m missing you.

I’m the desert without the sand.

You’re the woman without a man.

I’m a ring without a hand.

I’m missing you.

Headphones plugged in my ears, I relaxed on the pillow to the vocal range of Case’s voice, Brad’s borrowed words on repeat, and watched rain bespatter the window.

Popcorn is an afterthought.

I forgot to buy cheap wine.

Drawing imaginary hearts on the phone screen, I typed a text message before I could change my mind. I regretted it instantly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Cleo skulking into the room, revealing herself unintentionally, tail whipping at the foot of the bed.

“No,” I said in a tired voice, not that she paid me any attention. “I gave you food and a pillow. Do not take liberties. Go back to the hallway, or I will kick you out.”

Cleo, the ball of fluff, lurched forward, right onto the bed, and, ever so cheekily, rubbed herself against my arm.

“Is that supposed to be a badge of honour?”

The cat stretched out next to me in search of a cosy spot, snuggled and comfortable, tail low between her legs.

“I am not the best caregiver, Cleo.” My hand smoothed the bend of her spine and stroked her chin, which she seemed to relish, judging by the low hum of her contented purr. “I lose everything I love.”

But Cleo is not mine.

And I did not love her.

“Okay.” Tucking my folded arms beneath the pillow, I shut my eyes and yawned into the duvet. “You can stay until then.”

My phone screen brightened with a heart-stopping notification.

Big Guy: Then, I will wait for her to come back to me.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Brad

Emma: Forget the woman you once knew. She is gone.

Me: Then, I will wait until she comes back to me.

I read our text thread for the umpteenth time this week. I took our friendship for granted, Emma’s and mine. I did not love her, not the way she desired, the way I craved, but I admired her, appreciated and respected her. I enjoyed our time together, late nights at Ben’s Cafe, infrequent sleepovers, random conversations and innocuous touches, a kiss, here and there, a heartbeat, in our story.

It seemed like a lifetime ago, in the alley, insults and compliments, frowns and smiles, tears and laughs.

We were friends, and then we were strangers.

My reason for missing her is nonsensical.

I hardly know her.

Yet, I did miss her, a huge piece of me was missing, lost, and I felt oddly incomplete, disorientated and unfocused. I have work to do, people to visit, people to see, confined animals to re-examine and torture and a well-paid job to execute.

Distraction is pure evil. Sinister. A barrel of deadly humourlessness and unpreventable mass destruction. I had two choices: Emma’s retribution or the syndicate. The Warren Empire was my number one focus, without exception, until she happened.

This conundrum tested loyalty, hard work and razor-sharp focus. It testedeverythingI thought I knew.

“Always unsociable hours.” The therapist’s slippered feet paced the room. “You have yet to stump up the cash for the last session. In fact, for such a wealthy man, you are very tight-fisted when it comes to sterling.”

My body folded into the armchair.

“Fine.” Fern eased into the chair directly opposite. “I am all ears.”

I studied her for a hot minute.

“You look bemused.” Rich black hair, twisted heaps of rich braids and wooden beads, descended her spine. “Do you want to talk about it?” Her little black book of notes sat on the side table, untouched and uninked during private meetings. “Mr Jones?”

Fern’s home office, located in the heart of Kensington, on one of the prestigious streets in the area, is inviting and cosy, with wooden furniture and artificial plants and an uncomfortable high-back armchair. I liked it here. It’s starting to feel familiar.

“Mr Jones?” she mused. “I am here. You got me out of bed. Talk.”

My eyes had yet to adjust to the bright lamp in the corner. “Have I made any progress?” I had attended enumerable therapy sessions. “Surely, I am close to termination?”

Fern’s eyes, cold and disinterested, looked down the length of my body. “I cannot fix over thirty years of damage in a few measly therapy sessions.” When I huffed an impatient breath, she went in for another round of small-talk. “It doesn’t have to be about the past. It can be about recent life events, small issues, present feelings, avoided thoughts or conflicts. Income,” she added comically, her amused stare inventorying the gold and ice jewellery I sported. “I am a good listener, Mr Jones.”

Yes, I agreed. “I am richer than sin,” I said, which is old news. “I do not know hardship or poverty.”

Her legs crossed at the knees with elegant grace. “Born into wealth.”

“Born into penury is more accurate.” My shoulders hunched forward, forearms rested on my thighs, as I counted the black obsidian beads on my wrist. “I refuse to acknowledge it.”

“Why?” she probed, and I lifted one shoulder. “Your past shaped the man in the mirror. Former misfortune is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I am not ashamed,” I answered defensively. “Why must I dwell on it, though? I am living my best life now.”

“Are you?” Her eyes narrowed to a limited extent. “Living your best life.”

“I own a private estate fit for royalty. I have a son who loves me unconditionally. A family of non-blood-related brothers, an adopted sister who shares my love for fashion, a nephew who reminds me so much of his father.” My treasured talisman. “I am blessed beyond measure. Of course, I live my best life. It would be martyrish to imply otherwise.”

“Ah, Master Dominic,” she joked, and I let out a ragged laugh. “Do tell me about his wondrous first birthday celebrations.”

“It was a day of precise flamboyance and exotic excrement.” Then, a late night at the Warren Manor to distract the boss’s wife, the ultimate charcuterie board: meat, cheese, crackers, bread, fruit and non-alcoholic wine. “Alexa likes to show off.”

Fern sipped a cup of steamy hot tea. “Alexa is married to your boss.”

I nodded.

“You really love her,” she said, without a shadow of a doubt. “You smile whenever we talk about her. Tell me more.”

Relaxing in the chair, I put an ankle to the knee. “What do you want to know?”

“Why is she so special?”

“Alexa is Warren’s wife.” If I treated her like an inferior, I would not live to talk about it. “It matters.”

“Yes, I understand that.” She set the cup of ten aside. “But I am not interested in why she is special to Warren. I am interested in why she is special toyou.”

“Alexa is the sister I never had.” My fingers threaded, thumbs tapping the dorsal side of my hands. “And older brothers protect their younger sisters, do they not?”

Fern waited in tight-lipped curiousness.

“Alexa had a rough childhood.” Rough is an understatement. “I don’t know. We understand each other, I guess.”

“Do you talk to one another about the past?”

No, I do not recall an instance where she and I trekked down memory lane-not into her past or mine. “Our relationship is easy-going-no stress or triggering conversations.”

“That’s nice.” Her finely crafted eyebrow lifted. “Do you trust anyone with your past? Friends? Co-workers?”

I love how she sneakily backpedalled to historical events. “I speak to you,” I pointed out, and she remained impassive. “Warren is aware.”

“Right.” She was purposely obtuse. “You told him everything.”

“Warren is an astute man.” My boss normalised survival mode. He showed me how to control the voices in my head, to remember who I am, not who I used to be, when fight-or-flight is triggered. “He pretty much figured it out by himself.” He forced his way into the darkest valley of my mind and showed me how to dance with my demons. “We have forty-five minutes left.”

“Yes, I can tell the time-not that time means anything to you.” Her foot taps on the floor ceased. “Explain the past few months to me.”

I am overburdened by the stress of everyday life. My week consisted of challenging assignments suggested by none other than Alexa Warren. I will admit to slight stalkerish behaviour, breaking into Ben’s abandoned, padlocked cafe, stealing surveillance footage to hunt down regular customers and random stragglers and helping myself to an unopened bottle of rum left in the kitchen.

Alcohol is not the only thing the Hughes twins ditched before absconding from their old life. Emma’s car was clamped for impoundment. Photography equipment collected dust in the airing cupboard: personal belongings, unwanted furniture, discarded clothes and photo albums.

In a rush, it would seem, to start afresh.

I worked my bollocks off, conveyed valuables to the Bentley boot to store at the estate, then a long, sleepless night in the kitchen, laptop loaded, notepad and pen, writing down names and addresses and texting information to the syndicate’s uncertified yet professional investigator, Nate Alzaim.

Soon enough, I had potential suspects, a list of possible offenders. And I visited all of them, broke into their properties during the witch’s hour. Through every nook and cranny, I searched and examined. I was almost sure someone had information on Carter’s whereabouts. But, no. The customers, old and new, checked out.

That led me to Stephanie, Benjamin’s former employee and wicked bed-mate, the same inbred that took a swing at my girl. Oh, Stephanie slept like a gooden as I ransacked her three-bedroom home down in North East London. Until she heard a startling bang-I dropped a torch on the floor in the kitchen-and burnt with curiosity. Shemight havelocated the intruder, screamed like a banshee and threatened to call the police. Imight havepulled the gun on her, fired impulsively and left her for dead on the mosaic floor.

What’s worse than unpremeditated murder? A wasted journey.

No clues or footprints at Stephanie’s place. Nought. Nada. Zilch. Not a shred of evidence led me to Carter.

I suppose the woman died in vain.

Another pointless body to be dumped at Dr Death’s crematorium.

Hughie played on game consoles until midnight. I should know. I watched him mosey in the third-floor apartment-curtainless windows giving the most unrestricted views of his late-night adventures-from the warm, comfortable solitude of the Bentley.

At five in the morning, Hughie went to the gym, worked out, and then an oven-roasted breakfast, replete with cold-pressed fruit juices, in an ocean-liner restaurant. Shortly after, he returned to the apartment, showered, took the bins out, texted on the phone and napped on the sofa.

How tedious is life if gaming is the ultimate pastime?

I had managed to pick the locks to the man’s front door when he evacuated the tenant building for thirty minutes to collect takeaway cuisine, which I only learnt upon hisexpectedreturn.

Fortunately, I did not have to kill Hughie. At least, not yet. I examined his private home, not a drawer or cupboard overlooked, and made it back to the car in one piece, unnoticed and unsuspected, before his old pick-up truck revisited the curbside.

Quinn is a tricky suspect. Carter’s presence thrived in the two-bedroom flat of animal print decor, faux fur and abstract objects. I found pictures of them together, containers of his belongings and licensed Marvel costumes and superhero action figures.

As I am in no position to leave London, I sent Eli and Cole, well-armed and well-provisioned, to Liverpool for the weekend. They checked into a three-star hotel-a stone’s throw away from Tommy’s community.

Last I checked, the Ukrainian duo had followed Tommy to a local pub, where he imbibed liquor and played a game of pool. He was alone, unguarded and vulnerable. He was there for the taking. Just one click of the fingers, and the man is dog meat.

But, if innocent, Tommy’s death would be yet anotherpointlessbody at the crematorium. I had to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt to close Carter’s case officially. I had to provide evidence, beat a confession out of him-or uncover the missing boy’s body in his proximity.

As it stands, Tommy O’Shea is not guilty of child abduction. I have found not one connection. Sure, there is a motive-Carter is the guy’s nephew. Emma used to be Killian’s friend-but he did not fit the criteria.

The Warren Empire is in a strong position, though. At the very minimum, I did not have to stress about syndicate business. “The most tumultuous months of my life.”

“Really?” Fern pushed braids behind her ears. “How so?”

I flashed her a wicked smile. “My response was more or less self-explanatory.”

“I disagree.” Her voice had an edge of wariness. “I cannot understand without an explanation.”

“Simplification will not make it any less cryptic. I can only tell you so much to avoid self-incrimination. I like you. You are a wise old bird. But client confidentiality only extends so far. You will expose me to the gavers if I offload.”

“You can trust me,” she promised, and I scoffed. “I know what you are. Am I right to assume homicidal thoughts get carried away?”

My eyebrows cinched.

“I have always known.” Tapping the tea cup with a teaspoon, she sipped in moreish delight. “Your reputation precedes you. I knew what I had signed up for when I agreed to private therapy. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I do not live under a rock. I read the paper. I watch the news. You are part of the criminal underworld.”

“Allegedcriminal underworld.” A deceptive veil fell over my eyes so she could not read the unexplainable emotions I felt. “Are you spying on me?”

“Please, I am too lazy to spy on anallegedcriminal. I think it’s better to lay all our cards on the table. Perhaps, in doing so, you might learn to trust outsiders, to have faith in your therapist.”

I trusted a handful of people. Fern is not one of them. Her position risked possible criminal liability. “It’s been a shitty couple of weeks.” I laughed to conceal discomfort. “Boring.”

Fern was restive. “Mr Jones!”

“What?” My guard flew up. “Why the fuck are you yelling at me? You do it all the time-every damn visit. It drives me around the fucking bend.”

“I do not raise my voice.” She is easily offended. “I am a professional, trustworthy, non-judgmental, optimistic, an excellent listener and a strong communicator. You will not ruin my reputation with churlish lies.”

I blinked once. “Are you done?”

“No, I am not done. I have barely scratched the surface.” Exasperation blemished her cheeks. “I can only help people who want to be helped. If you have it all figured out, then I suggest you stop wasting both of our time and leave.”

My knee bopped restlessly.

“Will you desist?” Her hand landed on my knee to forestall discomposure. “What is it that bothers you so much?”

“I slept with Cherry,” I admitted, not that she is familiar with the name. “And a random woman. I met her at the club. I should probably mention the chick at the petrol station, too. We fucked in the backseat of the Bentley.” I still had the nail marks on my back to prove it. “Do I mention blowjobs? Some bird gave me neck at the local diner the other day. I only went in there for a bag of chips. I don’t know how to explain it. I am like an irresistible sex magnet. Women fall from the sky and land at my feet.” You see, I am an unabashed player, and sex is a good distraction when life is too much for the brain. “Can hypersexuality be sanitised? Is there medication for this shit?”

“Mr Jones, I do not need a sexual itinerary. You are not a married man. You are free to make adult decisions.” Her hands folded on her lap. “Do you consider yourself a sex addict?”

“No, I am not a sex addict. But I slept with Cherry on more than one occasion, and I will likely do it again. Right now, sex is my only option. And alcohol.” My lips pushed into a guilty pout. “And drugs. I was stoned for the first thirty minutes of our session.”

Fern’s eyes were sharp. “You still smoke weed?”

“Yes.” I have never implied otherwise. “I am partial to cocaine, too.”

“Have you ever considered a life without drugs?” she asked, and I gave her an odd look. “How often do you abuse drugs?”

“Enough to walk in a straight line without collapsing from exhaustion.” My words weighed cautiously. “Enough to space the fuck out.”

Her look was stern but non-judgmental. “Why do you believe sex to be the ultimate punishment?”

“Sex is not a punishment. I never said that. It’s a short-lived release, a moment of sheer fucking bliss and exhilaration. Much like any other male, I chase intensely pleasurable feelings.”

“Yet, through the eyes of guilt, you look upon me to understand recent encounters.” She picked imaginary lint on her trousers. “I assume it is because of your relationship with Emma.”

Emma consumed the space in my head. “Her son is missing, and she is closed off. She is a damn good mother, doing what any other grieving person would do in this situation. I am selfish, though. I want her to look for me, to need me the way I need her. She has never been further out of reach, and I hate it.”

Fern’s eyes expressed nothing.

“Is it weird?” My teeth dug into my bottom lip. “Emma and I never had sex.” Despite our non-existent sex life, I have often imagined her waist in my hands as I pounded into her. “We never committed to a relationship. We just carried on without special preparation. Yet, when I lay down with other women, it feels like I am cheating on her.”

“You are not involved with Emma. Therefore, you did not cheat or betray.” She scrutinised with keen interest. “Facts are easy to tackle and explain. In the future, if Emma requires reassurance, identify, acknowledge and validate her feelings.”

I stared pensively. “Why won’t she let me help her?”

“Mr Jones,” she approached with care. “I am extremely sad for Emma. However, it is my job to prioritiseyou, the client.Youare in no position to help someone in the early stages of bereavement. Not whenyouare in the early stages of therapy for complex post-traumatic stress from childhood trauma. If you two have a future together, I suggest bettering yourself first. As of now, you are not emotionally available.”

It’s not what I wanted to hear. “Thus, I am fucking other women.”

“You have committed no crime.” Her eyes twitched. “However, casual, consensual sex outside of commitment, whether periodically or spontaneously, can impact your mental state if you are not careful. You have a bad relationship with sex and unhealthy views about intimacy.”

Yes, I am aware.

“I have a suggestion. And no, it does not involve Emma.” Flipping open a leather-bound folder, she thumbed through documents. “Can you get close to someone with intimacy issues? The answer is no-unless the person is ready to address their anxiety.”

Licking a toothpick to the corner of my mouth, I eased back in the chair to get comfortable.

“You fear emotional closeness, not physical.” Fern placed a stack of leaflets onto the low coffee table. “Deep down, you cannot accept yourself.” Her voice was a mere whisper. “We need to rectify that.”

Picking my thumbnail, I eyed her from head to toe.

“Did you know people with intimacy issues crave love like no other?” Her eyes rounded with a challenge. “Yet, they deem themselves unworthy.”

Honestly, at this stage of my life, fuck love.

“People who think they are unlovable are very good at hiding how they truly feel and suffer in silence. They convince themselves that lonesomeness is better, less bothersome and less stressful.” She took another sip of tea. “Have you considered meditation?”

I made a non-committal noise in my throat. “Do not pull my bastard leg.”

“Sex is impersonal.” Fern is a determined old mare. “You are dispassionate, disinterested, unsatisfied and unfulfilled. Is that a fair characterisation?”

One hundred percent. “Yes.”

“Depersonalisation is common,” she hedged, and I looked away. “It can be robotic, dreamlike or triggered by extreme stress.”

You have no idea.

“You prioritise physical technique and deduce the significance of your partner’s experience.” Her jaw tightened as she sought answers. “Your focus is only self-gratification.”

I have admitted as much with immense frankness.

“You go through motions mechanically. Is it fear of abandonment?” She leaned back in the chair. “Or is it fear of engulfment?”

Christ, what is this? The third degree.

“We both know the answer.” She spoke from previous sessions. “Do you make eye contact?”

My gaze found the wall-mounted canvas painting. “No.”

“And you have never experienced synchrony sex?”

Fern knows the answer to that question, too.

“Synchrony sex is the most satisfying,” she said with an air of experience. “It’s when we can be open, confident, responsive, vulnerable and playful. It can be rewarding and last for hours on end, passionate and spontaneous, emotionally connected and favourably unabandoned.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I husked out. “I might be a confident man but never impassioned.”

She sat forward. “Now, tell me why.”

“You know why,” I fired back, and her shoulders slumped. “Christ, Fern. What do you want from me? Blood? A vision? Details?”

“I want everything you fear,” she said fiercely. “I want you to unburden, to declutter your mind and put it all on the table between us. I want you to leave it here when you walk out the door. It is unwanted garbage. You do not need it.”

I glared at the uncluttered coffee table. “It will not work.”

“How do you know? You have carried it on your shoulders since childhood. I am here to help you reconstruct your beliefs about life, to feel safe in the process of remembering, for you to face the past and be empowered, to let go and forgive.”

My blood fired hot. “I will never forgive her.”

“Forgiveyourself,” she amended, and I restrained her with an irritated glare. “Forgive the little boy you punished so unmercifully for the life he had no control of, for matters beyond his capabilities.”

“I should have stopped it.” My head fell slightly. “I should have said no. I should have told someone.” A teacher, a neighbour, a friend. “I allowed it to happen. I gave her whatever she wanted.”

Fern blew out a long exhale. “Explain why you associate intimacy with the offender rather than abuse.”

Yolanda was intimate.

Contented.

Passionate.

Appreciative.

Reciprocal.

Fern shot me a warning look. “Mr Jones-”

“I enjoyed how good it felt,” I snapped, and she flinched. “There you have it. The big fucking reveal. Ienjoyedit.” My hands clapped, loud and resounding. “Are you happy now? Do you have everything you need for that stupid notebook? Do you want to know if penetration was involved or if ejaculation transpired?”

Her expression was unreadable.

“What is it you seek, Fern?” My cynical eyes bore into her inscrutable ones. “The levels of victimisation? The accuracy of particularisation? The root cause of philophobia? Here, I will classify, for you, the prevalence of intra-familial CSA. I was molested by my mother. I endured traumatic sexualisation, betrayal, powerlessness and stigmatisation-all within the secrecy of my childhood home, which internalised behaviours such as substance abuse and an unhealthy relationship with sex in adulthood. Why do I struggle with intimacy? Yolanda treated me like I was her lover. Her lover,” I emphasised. “Like I was of age-like I was her boyfriend. No. Like I was myfather.”

Fern reached for the teacup.

“I associate sweet touches and cringeworthy terms of endearments with her. In the past, when I tried to lie on my back with a random woman on top, I could see Yolanda looking down on me, her hands on my chest to pin me to the bed, her eyes between my thighs, her hand and mouth on my cock. Her disgusting groans in my ear. I see her everywhere.” Anger and distress sluiced through my veins. “So, I built a wall between me and women. A shield. A barrier. A place where they stayed on one side of the wall, and I stayed on the other, where I felt safe and powerful and in control. I am in charge, not them.”

Her lips flattened.

“I never always hated it,” I said throatily, a huge weight lifting off my shoulders. “I liked Yolanda’s kind, loving side. It was better than bath time, insults and beatings.” Humiliation heated my face. I could not look at her. “Then, when I got older and understood our dysfunctional family rules and secrets, I dreaded the feelings of repulsiveness. I tried to prevent it-studied ceilings and counted in my head until it was over-to stop myself, but it happened-every time. I orgasmed.” My Adam’s apple soared. “I was sick. I should have died.”

“Mr Jones.” Her frown was heavy with comprehension. “Arousal is a psychological reaction. You feel guilt, shame and confusion. Your emotions seem incomprehensible but no less valid. It is quite normal for victims of sexual abuse to experience complex pleasure and to normalise incidents.”

“I do notnormalisewhat Yolanda did to me. It was far from fucking normal. I struggled with the fact Iwillinglyparticipated, that Iclimaxedduring intercourse, that Iwitnessedher dedication amid sexual perversion.”

“You are subjected to flashbacks-painful, disruptive flashbacks because you have this unrealistic belief that you should always be in control of your body as opposed to evaluating yourself and managing emotions better.” She paused. “Your past is not your present.”

My penetrative stare lowered to the floor. I rubbed a hand down my face to wipe the sweat from my brow, to grant myself a short breather, not that I could get a handle on breathlessness. I was hungry for air, my chest too tight to exhale, skin cold, clammy to touch.

“Breathe slowly and deeply,” she instructed, and I did so reluctantly. “Fear can reduce oxygen and result in psychological distress. Let’s address that first.” My shoulders rose on a deep inhalation. “Good. Now, remove the toothpick.”

My eyes snapped up.

“We want to avoid self-inflicted pain,” she said as I licked the taste of blood across my teeth. “You can buy more later.”

Not moving from the sofa, I tossed the toothpick into the bin next to the sideboard.

“Close your eyes. Hand to your chest.” Her palms, soft and timid, touched my upper arms. “What do you feel?”

My irregular heartbeat. “Alive.”

“Ground yourself to the present. You see those images in the distance. You hear the loud noise,” she murmured, and I nodded. “Turn it off. Turn it down. You have no business there.”

Lost in the darkness, I listened to her voice as it echoed to the back of my mind and laid dormant.

“Open your eyes,” she said quietly, and my eyelids peeled open until her face was all I could see. “Focus on everything around you. You smell burning incense. What is it? Ah, that’s right. Sage. You feel the friendly touch of a woman. Is it dangerous? No, it’s innocent. You see her face as she speaks to you. It’s an old but harmless face. An acquaintance.”

I nodded again.

“You sit in a room perfectly safe and painless. You wear clothes chosen by you. You have a mug of untouched tea on the side,” she half-joked, and my lips nearly stretched into a smile. “What else do you notice?”

My regular heartbeat.

“You have identified triggers. That’s good.” Her voice was raspier when impressed. “You have proven that acute panic can subside with simple breathing techniques. You have pinpointed difficulties expertly and recognised the importance of honesty. You are ready to be the man I know is in there somewhere.” Her finger tapped the gap between my pectoral muscles. “First, I want you to understand. Your younger self is not accountable for the wrongdoing of others.”

Not agreeing with her, I played with the beads on my wrist. “I understand.”

“We know the manifestations of underlying concerns are the opposite of what you wish to achieve. You desire a close, intimate relationship. You have someone in mind,” she slipped in. “Multiple sexual partners is not the answer. You will fall back into old habits because that’s where you are most comfortable. We need you to practice intimacy with someone you trust. Look at your goals. Give yourself time. Forget about instant gratification. Explore. Enjoy. Admire.” The corners of her mouth curled upward. “Learn to love yourself.”

I huffed out a short laugh. “I do love myself.”

“No, you loathe all that you are,” she dared to say, and a sharp remark sat on the end of my tongue, not that I had it in me to unleash it. “Your image is a mask. Your conceitedness is a facade. Your impassiveness is a coping mechanism. Yes, I am very good at my job. You do not fool me, Mr Jones.”

My cheek muscles pulsed.

“We have established in past sessions that you do not wish to be objectified. You crave intimacy and serious commitment. So, I want you to work on three things for me, ready for our next session; intimate sex with one partner in a safe environment and dissociation avoidance; self-pleasure to manage masturbation-induced anxiety; and, last but not least, affirmation practice to reduce self-sabotaging thoughts.” Fern must have noted my displeasure because she elucidated. “Affirmations are designed to promote self-confidence and reduce negative thoughts. Affirming worthiness will condition the brain to make healthier choices and increase positive feelings. For example, believing is achieving.”

I smiled at that. “My boss loves that quote.”

“Your boss is an intelligent man,” she complimented, and my smile widened proudly. “You have the ability to make long-lasting relationships with the right amount of focus and dedication.”

“Masturbation?” No, I have deep-seated issues with manual stimulation. “Why?”

“Physical and mental benefits. Feelings of pleasure and satisfaction, easing stress-related tension. A greater understanding of your body and a better connection for sexual preferences. Some people think self-exploration helps to reclaim power.” Her arms crossed over her knees. “Masturbation is not a sin or a shameful act. It is perfectly normal, healthy, pleasant and harmless. It can even improve sexual health and relationships.”

Why would I entertain self-exploration when I can get someone to do it for me? Fern had a better chance of winning the lottery. I am ego-driven, incurious and uninterested.

“You told me to stay away from Emma, so how can I practice intimate sex?” Though I won’t lie, I am more than happy to accept the challenge. “Not that she is available. I hope that changes.”

“Not Emma.” Her eyes were sympathetic. “Just someone you trust.”

My brow bent. “You encourage womanising?”

“Absolutely not,” she said with a vehement flick of the braids. “I am not a sex therapist. But, off the record, I encourage safe sex with someone you trust to handle casual dating. It is a good way to explore and develop new skills and techniques. Hone your performance. Who knows? You might have fun.” Her daring eyes glittered. “I will not encourage multiple partners for instant gratification-or leaning on an emotionally unavailable woman. At this moment in time, you need to be selfish to progress forward.” Her mouth kicked up at the corner. “If it is meant to be, it will be.”

Usually, I hated therapy.

Not today.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Brad

Halloween gave street jesters an excuse to lob eggs and flour at vehicles, vandalise the neighbourhood and empty rubbish onto the road. I copped it every year, no matter the time, place or area-an egged car bonnet or a bog roll through the window-and I had to show restraint, be the bigger person, sensible and mature, pityingly cheerful, which can be difficult, considering revenge was a mere acceleration away. All I had to do was run them over, one tosser heavenward, the other prick flapping in the wind. I bet they’d think twice about destroying people’s property after spending a month or two in the hospitable.

No, seriously. I loathed Halloween. Men dressed like oversized hotdogs or bastard Teletubbies, and women modelled neck-breaking heels and PVC nun costumes to chunder on the side of the road-alcohol and dinner down the gutter.

Then, the one house at the end of every street that pissed people right off. You know the one I am talking about. The owner gets carried away and overspends on ghastly decorations: fake spiderwebs, stuffed animals, slaughtered sadistically, hung from branches, motion-activated skeletons charging down the garden path whilst the Bride of Chucky rolled around in the mud. The same delirious person carves pumpkins a week early, then leaves said pumpkins by the front door to rot, decay, mould and spawn midge flies.

God, salvage whatever sanity I have left.

Assignment one:Have the Bentley washed and serviced.

“’Tis the season for pumpkin spice latte.” Nate placed two cardboard coffee cups emblazoned with green mythological sirens onto the stainless-steel counter. “I got side-tracked by the seasonal menu at Starbucks. Man, I was sold on whipped cream and steamed milk.” He noticed my disinterested expression and snarled. “Don’t knock it until you try it.”

I explained aversion. “Pumpkin spice is too sweet.”

Assignment two:Kill the person responsible for pumpkin spice.

“How do you know?” He pulled a red and white bandana across his forehead and knotted it at the back. “You haven’t tried it yet.”

“I tasted it last year.” Facts. Josh overhyped until I succumbed to temptation. Let’s just say I was sorely disappointed. “Sailor insisted.”

“I don’t care for yourunpopularopinion. Josh raved. I will take his word on it.” He sipped, licking whipped cream on his top lip. “Damn.” His mouth gnarled in repugnance. “That’s pumpkin onslaught in a cup.”

“Right.” I am glad we are on the same page. The autumn-inspired beverage lacked logicalness-and palatability. “It’s like an overplayed ballad. You hear it everywhere. You know the lyrics, word-for-word. Christ, it’s on repeat in your bastard head all day. But you hate it. It’s a mood killer. It’s the type of song that makes you want to go home and slit your wrists. That’s how I feel about the omnipresent pumpkin spice latte, depressed and suicidal.”

“I have yet to decide if that was confessional or theatrical.” Nate blinked, owlish yet studious. “Either way, I will never trust marketing campaigns again.”

I pointed at him. “Or Sailor.”

“Josh lied. I feel robbed. I wasted money on this shit.” Pouring coffee into the commercial sink, he turned on the taps. “Did you ransack the lockers?”

“Yes.” I borrowed a black, cross-back heavy-duty apron to protect the three-thousand-pound suit. “I look good, right?”

“No. Not really.” His judgmental gaze swept over me. “What’s up with the hair? Are those bags under your eyes? Have you slept?”

“No. Not really,” I replied sarcastically. “Like you can talk. Look at the zit on your cheek. It has six heads. And have you seen the state ofyourhair?”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with waves and dimensions.” He palmed his head with staggering boastfulness. “It’s short and stylish.”

I snorted derisively. “It’s boring.”

Assignment three:Throw Nate’s barber over a bridge or a cliff to an inescapable death.

“As opposed to what?” He yanked my ponytail-Christ, he almost snapped my neck. “Fiddly and overly feminine? Is that supposed to be a fashion statement?”

“Hey, I embody modern masculinity.” Fixing the ponytail into a messy top knot, I put my back to the counter. “My hair is versatile and requires minimal effort. I think it works.” David Michaels lamented past transgressions in the background. “Hush your gums, Detective. No one cares about you.”

“I need to check out at midday.” Nate wheeled an ash processing table with a vacuum mechanism to the middle of the spacious room. “I have a tailoring appointment.”

“You bought a new suit?” Then, with a sense of enviousness, I flipped open the small book I carried around. “Why?”

“To feel good about myself.” He is unapologetically sarcastic whenhangry. “Is that cool with you?”

Making a mental note to purchase a new suit on the way home, I clicked the top of a pen. “Well, I have to take Dominic trick-or-treating with Mabel.”

“You? Door knocking for sweets?” His shoulders shook with laughter. “What’s his costume?”

“I don’t know.” Tapping the pen on the page, I popped a chewing gum bubble. “Dominic’s wardrobe is Mabel’s area. I am only here to stump up the cash.”

My eyes fell to the notepad.

Jessica Pearce.

Chloe Stone.

Harold Stone.

Gia Bosqui.

Saverio Bosqui.

David Michaels.

Alberto Moretti.

Ignazio Corrazzo.

Beverly Bennet.

Juror number eight, Helga.

The other grand jurors.

The Judge.

Well, the jurors are long gone, dead, cremated, scattered, dust and ashes. The judge is the witness protection, by all accounts. I am not overly concerned, though. I have all the time in the world to collect a debt. “Thoughts on Bennet?”

“Beverly Bennet is a ghost.” His tongue piercing scraped along his upper teeth. “Is she a problem? Doubtful. Warren got life. That’s justice.” He opened a container of prepared breakfast: wilted spinach and scrambled eggs. “You know the rules, though. Treachery is punishable by death. You can’t let her walk away scot-free.”

“I guess.” The Italians had trivialised Bennet’s former actions. “Get Sailor on it, then. It will give him something more productive to do.”

“Expectations?” Nate types a text message on his phone. “Do you want him to toss her somewhere or bring her in?”

“No, make it look like a suicide.” My creative side can take a back seat on this one. “Tell him to be sure she leaves a note.”

His thumbs pounded at the screen.

“Something on the lines of a dying heart.” Yes, she could not go on without her husband and her daughter. “The more believable, the better. I don’t want the Met hot on our heels.”

“Got it.” Nate stuffed the phone in his trouser pocket. “Can I finish breakfast now or what?”

Why is he so sensitive?

My face twisted in annoyance. “Smash it in your face for all I care.”

“I will smash it in your face if you don’t curb the sarcasm.” Nate carried the container to the recliner, where David, strapped by the wrists and ankles, awaited this week’s torture regime. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Not again.” David’s bloodshot eyes sliced. Dews of sweat trickled the length of his long, disproportionate nose. “Please, I cannot go through anymore.”

“I amputated his foot.” Nate set the container aside to examine David’s bandaged stump-once a foot-dry blood and greenish pus seeping through the absorbent pad. “Sepsis. I had no other choice. His skin looked mottled. His toes were discoloured. I unpeeled dead tissue to prevent spreading, but extensive damage precipitated surgery.” He squeezed the man’s leg and earned himself a pained whimper in response. “I don’t think it worked, though. I should have hacked from the knee.”

Assignment four:Take an additional shower-preferably scolding hot-to eradicate airborne infections.

Nice one, Detective.

“Right.” My vibrating phone went unanswered. “David is a dead man, anyway.”

“Then, let me die,” David muttered, and I cut him a bored glance. He is semi-unconsciousness, his words slurred and indistinct. “I have told you everything. There are no more secrets.”

“Enough of that.” Disentangling a roll of duct tape with my teeth, I slapped a strip over the detective’s chapped lips. “What’s the verdict?”

“I believe him.” Nate pondered whether to unbox the toolkit or use the Glock for a clean kill shot. “The Italians are behind everything, specifically Ignazio Corrazzo. If David genuinely knew Ignazio’s whereabouts, he’d have sent us packing months ago. This little bitch shrieks for Britain.” He patted the geezer’s blood-stained T-shirt. “And still, Ignazio is safe.”

“I don’t get it.” I watched sweat trickle-down David’s temples in bulbous droplets. “Why is he protecting Ignazio?”

“David is not protecting anyone. He has no idea where to find the guy. I don’t like the son of a bitch, but he is embroiled in Italian mayhem like the rest of us. He’s got no more secrets to spill.” After opting for the Glock, Nate rolled one bullet between his thumb and forefinger. “I never thought I’d say this, but he’s suffered enough. Let me put the dog down.”

“Fine.” My phone vibrated-again. “For fuck’s sake. Get rid of him while I take care of this.” Turning my back to the station of impending death, I slipped the phone out of my pocket and frowned at the screen. “Jones,” I answered as a gunshot resounded throughout. “Only annoying people pester. Thoughtful people leave a message.”

“Mr Jones,” the man replied. “I am calling on behalf of Bespoke Catering London.”

“Why?” My back rested on the wall. “It’s all good. I received deliveries yesterday. Everything you need is in the kitchen. Have one of the guards let you in if I am not home in time.”

“About that…” He hesitated-for mind-boggling suspense, apparently. “We have to cancel due to a vehicle breakdown. It is impossible for us to be at the Jones Estate on time. But do not stress,” he added, quick to reassure me but to no avail. “You can expect a full refund.”

“What?” My foot, propped-up to the wall, dropped to the floor. “Are you mad? I don’t want a fucking refund. I want eight chefs in my kitchen to prepare for the party. You better send those chefs, or I will lunge you into the fucking afterlife. Don’t test me. I’m an unmerciful twat when pissed.”

“Sir, I apologise for the short notice. Sadly, I cannot send any employees to the Jones Estate this evening. Feel free to write a formal complaint to our team at head office.”

“Quality and professionalism-my fucking ass.” In a rising temper, I ended the call and stopped myself from hurling the phone across the room. “Motherfucker. He cancelled. I have no caterers for tonight’s event.”

Nate paled in complexion. “No way.”

“Yes, way.” I watched him roll David’s lifeless body onto a sheet of plastic, a bullet hole between wide, soulless eyes. “Fuck. This is not good. What am I going to do, huh? I have over two hundred people attending this event. I need chefs.”

My phone vibrated.

Another company called.

“What?” My intolerable voice boomed into the speaker. “If you are calling to cancel on me…”

“Mr Jones.” The woman, alarmed by hostility, tripped over herself to appease me. “No! Of course, not. I mean, why would I cancel?”

“Who are you?” Immobilised with disappointment, I glared at the ceiling. “What do you want?”

“All That Glitters,” she said, and my tense shoulders relaxed. “I am at the estate, ready to start the balloon arch.”

“Good.” My stomach dropped to my feet. “Can I trust you to continue in my absence?”

“Yes, absolutely.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “But I need to know where to put the cake. In the foyer? The kitchen? The ballroom? Do you want it on the dessert table? A centrepiece, perhaps.”

I am not ashamed to admit that I pondered forhoursbefore ordering the centrepiece, the height of delectableness. A five-tiered black, white and silver marble cake, with cascading ombre roses, iridescent leaves and piped woodland animals, is to be placed in the centre of a magical dessert table, the main focal point for attendees, enriched by customisable sweet treats: macrons, fondant cupcakes, mini tartlets, pistachio canapes and iced madeleines.

Why did I waste three and a half hours of my life on cakes and confectionaries? Well, Alexa loved a good old celebration. When it came to party planning and special occasions, she went above and beyond to ensure the memorable moment had a positive impact and exhilarated others.

I returned the favour.

Only perfection for our girl.

Most important assignment of the day: Confirm Mrs Warren’s bump-to-baby photoshoot.

“Yes, to the centrepiece.” When she never replied, I glimpsed at the phone screen to check if our line was still connected. “Yes, to the ballroom.”

Nate bound David’s plastic-wrapped body in strong adhesive tape.

“Brilliant. Oh, the party consultant wanted a word with you,” she said, and then, as if I hadn’t experienced enough emotional turmoil this morning, another female jumped onto the chat. “Mr Jones, I have two delivery vans outside. Now, I know the flower wall is for the foyer, but we never discussed the light-up letters or the LED dancefloor.”

“The ballroom-and do not scratch the hardwood floor. I had it polished recently.” I forced my attention back to Nate, who was in the process of forking scrambled eggs into his wide-open gob. “Listen, I left a list of instructions in the kitchen. Read them and crack on. You don’t need me on speed dial.”

Irked by Nate’s impassiveness, I killed the call. “Hey,” I barked, and he flinched, the fork landing inside the container. “Are you stoned or what? Where is your head at?”

“Will you chill the fuck out?” Then, he set the food aside, stepped over the man’s wrapped-up body and softened his voice. “How can I be of service, My Lord?”

I shot him a warning look.

“Alright.” His hand raised to calm me down. “Chill. It’s all good. Go and find another team of chefs. Sorted.”

“Sure. I will just pull a team of chefs out of my fucking ass…” My stomach churned with possibilities. “I have a brain wave.”

“Yeah?” Nate went to the sink and washed his hands with excessive lavation. “Are you gonna explain or continue to stare at me like a brainless dickhead?”

I tore myself out of the apron. “I will meet you at the estate.”

***

Ben answered the front door, freshly showered but in desperate need of a shave. His ungroomed beard made it almost impossible to look elsewhere. His creased clothes, tired eyes and sunken cheekbones raised red flags.

His apartment was bright yet cold, with a bog-standard reception room adjacent to the modern kitchen and a sizable double bedroom.

Hands slipping in my trouser pockets, I lingered by a stack of unpacked cardboard boxes in the middle of the room, a dead plant hanging precariously on the mantle.

Ben gestured to the two-seater leather sofa. Then he walked barefoot to the single fridge freezer in search of beer.

Collapsing on the sofa, I kicked my feet onto the crane compromised as a coffee table and eyed the muted television in the corner. “I thought you’d be at work.”

“Later.” Ben uncapped two bottles of beer. “Five until close.” He handed over a bottle and slumped onto the sofa beside me, guzzling suds thirstily. “So, what’s with the visit? I don’t remember inviting you over.”

“I invited myself.” Empty rum bottles, takeaway containers and newspaper articles littered the carpeted floor. “I thought you hated convenient food.”

He looked at the pizza box, and something akin to pain dampened his narrowed eyes. “Things change.”

“I see that.” There was not a plate, dish or saucepan in sight. “What, you don’t cook anymore? Where are all the frying pans gone?”

“I left most of them at the cafe. And I cook when in the mood to do so. But I don’t see the point in dirtying the oven for one person.” He shrugged like a man who had nothing to lose, which, technically, is true. “Why? Are you hungry? I can knock something together if you want.”

“I’m good.” Picking the bottle’s label, I leaned into the sofa. “Besides, I don’t trust all that shit on the floor. You are asking for mice.”

He spaced out for a moment. “Has Emma reached out?”

“Once,” I confirmed, and his red-brimmed eyes slid in my direction. “She told me to forget about the girl I once knew-that she is gone.”

“Huh,” he breathed out, tone slightly strained. “Well, you got a response, so that’s something.” He pulled a swing of beer. “I am only her fucking twin, but what does that matter?”

It never occurred to me how Carter’s disappearance and Emma’s uncommunicativeness might affect him more than people stopped to perceive. “Benjamin,” I rasped, and he waited with mute anxiousness. “Do you have someone to talk to? A close friend that you can offload to.”

“Yeah.” He swallowed the remainder of his beer. “Sure, I do.”

I studied the man’s cracked knuckles. “Are you okay, though?”

“I have been better.” Leaning forward, he grabbed the remote control and turned off the television. “No, I am not okay.”

My ears perked up.

“It’s almost as if my nephew and my sister died that day. Yet, I haven’t laid them to rest or had the chance to say goodbye.” His circling thumb kneaded the tension in his wrist. “Do you want to know what I think? What thoughts unsettle me at night? I am bitter, numb, unfocussed and withdrawn. I have to work to keep a roof over my head but struggle to carry out a normal routine, to shake fatigue and lack of motivation.”

I allowed him to talk, to unburden himself without interruption.

“Life has no purpose.” His watery eyes looked at the empty bottle on the floor between his feet. “Emma and Carter? That’s all I have known since I was like sixteen years old. Sure, she and I were always close. She is my twin. My better half. But I grew up overnight to be the man they needed me to be. And now, I am here, and they are gone.” He stared into space once more. “I wish I could go back to that morning. I’d keep him home from school. I wouldn’t let my sister out of my sight. I’d pack a fucking bag and take our asses abroad, just like I promised.”

“Hindsight is a bitch,” I said, and he grunted in agreement. “I wish I had the power of foresight. But I do not. And neither do you or anyone else, for that matter. Your sister is lost right now. It might not be today or tomorrow, but you will find her and bring her home. As for Carter, you will get closure because I will make damn sure of it.”

He nodded, brusque yet solemn. “I think he is dead.”

Yes, I am starting to believe the same.

“I can’t talk about this.” He scrubbed two hands up and down his face. “I have work in a couple of hours. No customer wants to deal with grumpy-and-miserable, right?”

“You could call in sick.” My thumb tapped the bottleneck. “Tell them you have a twenty-four-hour sickness bug. The doctor advised you to stay in bed.”

“Why would I do that?” He passed me a harsh glance. “I’d rather go to work than be cooped up here all night.”

Extracting the envelope from the inner pocket of my suit jacket, I tossed it on his lap and waited with bated breath.

“What’s this?” Shoulders hunching forward, he unsealed the envelope and thumbed through uncountable fifty-pound notes. “Brad?”

“I am to host a surprise baby shower at the estate this evening for my boss’s wife.” My arm slid across the back of the sofa. “The catering company cancelled at the last minute. So, I have a kitchen full of unprepared food and no chefs. Well, if you exclude Gilbert, the in-house cook. He is good. I love his food. But he is incapable of cooking for a party of this size and magnitude.”

His mouth hung open. “How much are you offering?”

“Fifteen grand,” I confirmed, and his eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets. “You are the hierarchy of the professional kitchen. Take the money, pay yourself generously, and then get a team on board. It’s only for one night. I cannot promise future events. But this is a huge opportunity for you to demonstrate dexterousness and professionalism. High net worth individuals will be in attendance. I am talking about wealthy moguls and magnates, tycoons and politicians. If they love the service? They will ask for business cards. Do you have those handy?”

“No, I have never thought about business cards before…” His eyebrowed pulled tautly. “Fifteen grand? That’s way too much. I’d have worked for free.”

I blinked in puzzlement. “Why?”

“After everything you have done to help find my nephew?” He handed over the envelope. “No, I can’t accept this. It’s wrong.”

“You are not indebted to me.” My hand crushed the money. “I helped because I care about him. I want him to be safe. I want to return him to his mother.” I forced him to accept the money. “Take the payment,” I insisted, and he did, humming and hawing. “Do you have a chef or five that might be willing to earn a quick buck?”

He rubbed weariness from his eyes. “What’s the headcount?”

“Two hundred,” I replied, and his head shook in dismay. “Two hundred and fifty-give or take a few cancellations.”

“Shit. No, I have never cooked for that many people before. Hell, I haven’t even seen the menu. I need practice and to do some research,” he stammered and stuttered and soon succumbed to painful silence. “I don’t think I am the right man for the job.”

I had faith in his abilities. “You cooked at the cafe.”

“Yeah, that was throughout the course of an entire day, not three hours of constant entrées leaving the kitchen. You cannot compare cooked breakfast and beans on toast with Michelin Star recipes.”

“Emma believes in your talent. She told me that you were the best chef in London. Plus, you provided an entire rundown of lobster ravioli once-prepared from scratch, with a daring twist. You are not an amateur. You have worked your bollocks off for years, knocking together unique recipes and breaking culinary rules. You know, I am right. I appreciate that you are nervous, but with the right amount of support and a solid team, I think you could nail this event with your eyes closed.”

I am desperate for a chef. I came here for selfish reasons. However, as I stared at the man in anticipation, praying he would take me up on the offer, I wanted him to accept for the endless opportunities only. Suddenly, his future took precedence over a dinner party.

Ben’s hand hid the saccharine smile on his face. “Emma said that?”

“I swear to God.” My finger pointed toward the heavens. “Emma is your biggest supporter. Christ, it’s all she ever talked about. Your future success. A Michelin Star or two under your belt.”

His bottom lip rolled between his teeth as he tapered down pride. “Well, do you have a copy of the menu?”

Yes, I came prepared.

I placed another envelope on the man’s lap.

With shaky hands, he unfolded the sheet of paper and assessed tonight’s menu. “You hired sommeliers.” His gaze glided over the page. “Mandarin, chicken liver parfait and grilled bread. Pickled lemon and salad. Lamb and cucumber. Triple cooked chips and ribeye.” I could not differentiate whether or not he was impressed or unimpressed. “Spit roast pineapple. This menu is adequate at best. Are these your only options?”

Now, because of his disapproval, I regretted hastiness. “I selected the taster menu as advised by the catering company.”

“You want opulence, not overindulgence. You want guests to feel pleasantly satisfied, not bloated or enervated.” He let go of the paper as if it offended him to hold it. “Wait. The estate? As in, your house? Can you fit that many people in there? In one room?”

I have unlocked the grand ballroom. “Yes.”

“No, shit.” He scratched his bearded jaw. “I can work with the menu if you trust me to be creative. You said this is a chance for me to showcase talent, modern techniques and elevated preparations. I am prepared to demonstrate whatever skills required for the quests to experience the best dinner service.” He glimpsed at his wristwatch. “I don’t have uniforms, though. You’ll want everyone to wear the same clothes, right? Will black trousers and T-shirts work for you? That’s something everyone has in the bottom of their wardrobe.”

I gave him a curt nod.

“How about this?” A pen materialised out of thin air. He turned over the page to write down ideas. “Remove the pineapple dish. Chocolate is comforting if light, and it compliments caramelised bananas-a fine crumb: a shard or two of rich biscuits. And for the non-chocolate lovers? Passion fruit delice with a smidgen of coconut.”

I smiled to myself.

“Pâté is a safe option. I will go out on a whim here and say ribeye with chips is replaceable.” He scribbled notes, circled and underlined. “Sous vide fillet of beef served with mushroom purée and a wedge of salted, overlapped potatoes. It’s a smaller portion but no less adventurous or elegant.”

“Experimentation is your niche.” I was somewhat pleased to hear the passion and enthusiasm in his tone of voice. “Pursue and achieve. It is what I am paying you for.”

“I need to text the lads.” Uprooting his phone, he used thumb identification to unlock the screen and sent a group message to Wyatt and Ethan. “I only have two guys on standby. If you want me to pull this off, I will need your in-house chef in the kitchen with us.”

No problem.

“Okay.” He left the phone on the arm of the sofa. “I will call in sick.”

I stood, collected empty bottles and dropped them in the bin. “Where do you work?”

“Sainsbury’s,” he said with an embarrassed tsk. “It pays the bills. Plus, I work the late shift, so customers are far and few. I stack shelves mostly.” Then, as if realising the state of his apartment, he began to clear the mess on the floor. “Hey, about tonight. Once I complete the menu, is it okay for me and the guys to join the event? I know it’s a big ask, but I could do with a little pick me up.”

“Of course.” I hadn’t considered it, but it’s not an issue. “If any guests wish to meet you in person, should I nudge the waiter or have them pass on compliments?” Seemingly, confidence and assurance rendered him speechless. “Well?”

“Why would guests want to meet someone like me in person?” It became clear to Benjamin how characteristic timorousness and a vestige of self-doubt might look to potential clients. “You know what? I will be too busy overseeing the entire kitchen. If they want to shake hands, it can wait until later.” His lips pressed into a firm line. “Now, I sound like a pompous jackass.”

“No.” My hands grasped his shoulders. “You sound like a big deal. Your time is hard to come by. Why waste energy on people who are not valuable to you? If they are not sliding money into your hand? Disregard them.” Tapping his upper arm, I shoved him in the chest. “And shave that bastard beard off. It’s unbecoming.”

“Yeah, obviously, I will freshen up.” Backing up a step or two, he massaged his arm with slight laughter. “Can I invite a friend?”

“A friend?” Stephanie’s face flashed before my eyes. I bellied apprehension. “What, like a date?”

“Kind of?” He dumped rubbish into a black bin liner. “She stays up really late to text me and pops over every day to see if I am okay.” His jaw tightened and untightened as he thought about her. “Not this week, though. Too busy, I guess.”

“You never went back to Stephanie, did you?” I asked, hoping to turn him off the dead girl. “Christ, Ben. After what she did to Emma? Why would you entertain that fucking nutter?”

“Wait-what?” Leaning against the kitchen counter in silence, he crossed his arms tightly at his chest. “No, I am over her. I meant someone else.”

“Well, in that case, invite whoever you want.” Off the hook, I breathed out a stuttered breath. “Oh, black tie dress code for guests. It can be a cocktail dress, an evening gown, or her dearest little black number. Just give her the heads up, or the guards will turn her away at the gates.”

“Nice one. I appreciate it.” He scrutinised with arms akimbo. “Also, how will you pull this off with Mrs Warren? If it’s a surprise event, I mean.”

“Alexa is attending the Royal Opera House to watch Salome with her bodyguard, Alfie, this evening.” She purchased Giambattista Valli’s black, strapless dress, asymmetric bodice encrusted with crystals, cinched waistline and voluptuous skirt. After sending an array of picture messages of herself trying it on in the Warren Manor’s master bedroom, she forwarded selfies of Alfie in the gym because I needed a visual of the man’s gluteus maximus, apparently. “Alfie will drive her to the estate later.”

Ben harrumphed. “What’s the excuse?”

Interesting question. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“I will text her and say something bad happened.” Concocting a simple plan in my head, I scratched the scruff of my jaw. “Alexa’s son, Logan. He is my excuse.”

The final assignment for the day: Lie to my boss’s wife.

Logan is here, drunk and disorderly, with beautiful women surrounding him-and Bruno is in the dog house. The God-awful mutt chewed a pair of Salvatore Ferragamo shoes; I will send you the bill.

Yes, that will send the woman into a crazy riot.

You do not mess with a pregnant woman.

Or Mamma Warren.

CHAPTER NINE

Brad

A proliferation of swanky vehicles gridlocked the estate, yet the house appeared deserted, with no sign of activity or movement. I had cars hidden around the back of the house, employees strategically stationed, and decorations confined to where the main event was due to transpire.

Inactivity is misleading, though. If I went further afield, to the prohibited halls of locked chambers, I would find the once forbidden ballroom bedecked in luxuriousness, guests in abundance and a mellifluous stretch of instrumental music.

Edith, the manager of household affairs, greeted visitors with rosy-cheeked politeness, whilst Iris and Lilith, the identical brunettes in slate-grey button tunics, black tights, laced loafers and loosely weaved braids, proffered flutes of sparkling, delectable champagne.

Dominic had the grandest time trick-or-treating. In the most adorable Halloween costume (a naughty minion), he knocked on doors within the area, accumulating an entire bucket of freebies, which he shared with his father for dad tax; I might have experienced a momentary sugar overdose as punishment.

We returned to the estate shortly after. I showered in record-breaking time and dolled myself up for excitable shenanigans whilst Mabel fixed Dominic a bottle of warm milk.

Nate purchased a new suit for tonight’s occasion; therefore, Ipurchaseda new suit for tonight’s occasion, down Savile Row, in the heart of Mayfair, London, where the famous street in menswear and art of bespoke tailoring prevailed.

As I had to stand out in the crowd, make a fashionable statement and look better than Mr Competitive, I selected a quintessentially British style suit, double-breasted jacket buttons strategically placed, paired with slim-fit trousers, an essential waistcoat, a white Marcella cotton shirt, double-cuffed and secured with cufflinks, designer leather shoes and the vital bow tie…Well, a pre-tied bow tie, to be exact. Nobody has to know.

My chosen attire is synonymous with handsomely debonair. Nate does not stand a chance of winning the fashionista vote-or any other besuited male, for that matter. I made stylishness seem effortless: confident, sophisticated, legendary and iconic. I am a good catch. A rare find, if I do say so myself.

“Mr Jones.” Mabel is by the master bedroom doorway, holding Dominic to her hip. “Are you talking to me or yourself?”

“Myself.” Spraying Creed cologne on my neck and wrists, I admired the man in the mirror. “Should I wear Jaeger-LeCoultre or Patek Philippe?”

She eyed both watches. “Patek Philippe.”

I did as instructed.

“It’s time for Dominic’s bath.” Yet, the bespectacled woman made no attempt to leave the bedroom. “May I ask a question?”

My eyes found hers in the mirror. “You may.”

“It’s about the water system,” she said warily. “A member of security has to adjust the valves before I can run cold or hot water in the bath. I checked the shower, and it works fine…” Her body shifted weight from one foot to another in uncomfortable silence. “Is there a reason behind bizarre restrictedness?”

Somewhat peeved by her bold disrespectfulness, I recapped the cologne bottle and placed it on the black vanity table. “Mabel, I pay you to work, not to ask inane questions.”

“There is nothing silly about needing bath water on demand with a little one. Have you seen the way he eats breakfast?” Her eyes flickered to the baby. “He rips the porridge bowl out of my hands and throws soggy oats in his face. Every morning, I must enter the kitchen prepared with bibs and towels. Meal time equals instant bath time.”

Ignoring her newfound frostiness, I sat on the edge of the king-sized bed to slip on a pair of leather shoes. “Hence on-demand security to help with any mishaps or dilemmas.”

“It is an inconvenience,” she stressed, and I inwardly agreed. “Expecting me to dart around the estate, looking for workers, just to run the poor lad a bath is unfair. And, whilst I am on the subject, I enjoy a long soak at the end of a working day. It would be more convenient to lock my bedroom door and rejuvenate in peace. Instead, I hunt for assistance. It is not good enough. I want to bathe without limitations.”

“Get off my back,” I scolded, and the old mare scoffed at the warning in my tone of voice. “Safety precautions are non-negotiable.”

Mabel stared bitterly but never vocalised annoyance.

Pleased by her sudden deference, I plucked up three gold rings on the bedside table and slipped them onto my fingers.

“Your fears will influence Dominic,” she said, and my stare snapped back in her direction. Horror in my eyes, I am sure. “If you want your son to fear deep water, you are going about it the right way.”

With those departing words, Mabel disappeared down the hall.

Glaring at the empty doorway, where she once stood with Dominic, I mentally considered phobias, how Yolanda’s behaviour made something as simple as taking a bath claustrophobic and unbearable.

Inexhaustible water caused excessive anxiety and irrational fear of drowning, nausea, dizziness and chest pains, which only occurred when too close to bottomless depths. I swore never to go near a filled bath or ease into a swimming poolwillinglyor test the tempestuous waves of the ocean.

On terra firma, I am safe. I can breathe easily without experiencing odious flashbacks or raging hot sweats and trembling limbs.

What if Mabel is right, though?

What if Dominic walked in his father’s footsteps?

Much later, I found myself in Dominic’s bedroom, listening to Mabel sing in the en-suite. My son chuckled, splashed water and threw floating toys on the floor. I know of his mischievousness because the woman playfully chastised him from behind the ajar door.

Tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, I took cautious steps toward the door, touched the gilded handle and, with bated breath, welcomed myself into the brightly lit en-suite.

Mabel looked up from her crouched position on the floor.

I never made eye contact, not when popping open the button of my suit jacket, not when going to one knee by the bath.

I reached for the blue dolphin toy with a slight tremor in my hand. It slipped from my fingers, plopping into the water. I watched it sink, a bead of sweat on my brow-and Dominic, fierce, brave and fortunately clueless, delved in to save the day. He mumbled indecipherable words, stood on unsteady legs, his body slathered in suds, and thrust the toy into my possession. His blond hair, wet and growing, stuck to his rosy cheeks. He clapped, waited, stomped, waited.

“Terror,” I whispered, and he giggled, finding a dummy and suckling the teat. “You are too naughty for your own good.”

Mabel almost stood.

I gripped her wrist.

“Surely, you can manage for five minutes whilst I grab the boy a towel and some pyjamas.” Her arm withdrew from my iron grip. “I won’t be too long.”

A folded towel sat on the marble dresser, though.

Not wanting to leave Dominic unattended, I quashed pessimistic thoughts, lowered my hand into the bath and squeezed the toy dolphin, the pointed mouth suctioning water.

I squirted my son’s tummy, which he seemed to love, judging by his thunderous foot stomps.

“Careful.” My hand flew to his back to prevent slipping or sliding. “I don’t want you to fall.”

“Babba!” He spat the dummy into the water. “Babba-mum.”

Feeling an unfamiliar twinge in my chest, I studied his angelic features. “I see her in you.” He is the head off my shoulders, but if you regarded him from a different angle, you could see her, Chloe, in the distance of his innocent eyes. “Your mother, I mean.”

Grabbing soft bubbles, Dominic clapped excitedly as airy flakes fluttered in our midst. He liked that, so he did it repeatedly until suds coated the wall tiles and the sleeves of my suit jacket.

Mabel has yet to return.

Pulling the plug and hanging it over the cold tap, I emptied the water and lifted Dominic out of the bath. He stood on the fluffy mat, fascinated by his soapy footprints.

Unfolding the towel, I wrapped it around his tiny body. Of course, he whacked it off within seconds and, in a rapid blur, dashed into the bedroom as naked as the day he was born.

“What is this madness?” I followed him into the room, the curtains drawn, a lamp on in the corner. “You are dragging bubbles across the carpet.” Dominic, soaking wet, climbed onto the sofa, kicked stuffed animals onto the floor and tried to look out the window. “Your nanny slacked on the job.”

His tiny hand banged on the glass windowpane.

To the sound of emptying water and my son spitting raspberries, I prepared the changing table, which he is more than likely too big to use now.

As an alternative, I slumped onto the sofa next to him, a towel, nappy, matching pyjamas and a pair of socks in hand.

“Butterfly skincare,” I read the lotion bottle’s label. “Dewdrops at dawn.”

He snatched the bottle out of my hand and chucked it somewhere.

“Well, that was aggressive.” Pulling him onto my lap, I towel-dried his skin and tugged a pull-up nappy over his backside. “Do you not like the smell of papaya?”

Dominic behaved whilst I dressed him.

“You have curly hair,” I stated, not that he understood. “Perhaps your mother was naturally curly. I don’t know.” His socks came next. “I suppose I could ask Alexa for you. If anyone has the answer, it will be her.”

Rubbing his tired eyes with a curled-up fist, he crawled into my arms and slumped against my chest.

My arm cradled his weight as I leaned over the sofa to select a book on the bookshelf. Then, hesitating, I decided to tell him a story about us, Chloe and me, by choice. “Your mother had a beautiful smile and a contagious laugh,” I told him. “And I really, really liked her legs. Sinful. Lickable. I wanted to wrap them…”

My son peered up at me, quiet, doe-eyed and beautifully charming.

Yes, I should probably keep it PG-13.

“She was quirky, funny, unapologetically opinionated-and fiercely passionate, where the people she loved and cared about were concerned. I mean, she adored Alexa. And she had her back.” That is until she met Harold Stone. “She looked good, effortlessly so. I remember her in mismatched pyjamas, odd socks and messy hair, stealing the last of Warren’s coffee.” That happened when she lived in the penthouse. “I knew she liked me. It was obvious. She would stutter whenever I walked into a room.”

Dominic’s fingers traced the shadow of stubble on my jaw.

“I might have gone there.” No, Idefinitelywent there. “And for the wrong reasons. I told myself that I was ‘taking one for the team’ when, in hindsight, I was being my typical self: arrogant, selfish and uncaring.”

His cheek nuzzled on my chest.

“Looking back, I can honestly say your mother deserved better. Perhaps if I had behaved differently, she’d have come to me…” And asked for help. Or, if I hadn’t been so careless, insensitive and blind to the rejection in her eyes, she’d have talked to me that night. Maybe she’d have dodged the bullet with Harold and evaded an abusive, controlling marriage.Maybe,if she hadn’t felt useless and unloved, she’d have made better choices, too. Her contribution to Warren’s life sentence and the lies to deceive and betray Alexa, her best friend, could have been avoided. Or, maybe, she’d have allowed me in our son’s life from the very beginning. I guess the two of us have a lot to answer for. “So many possibilities.”

Dominic’s socked toes twitched as I counted them with my thumb and forefinger.

“I used to regret our encounter,” I said quietly. “But then, you happened. And you were meant to be here. You were sent to me for a reason. I truly believe that.” My lips paid homage to his wrist. “Every father needs a son, right?”

And every son needs a father.

My throat swelled.

“Your mother might be gone, but I will never leave you. I am here for the long run-you and me against the world. Well, until I pop my clogs. Then you are left to pick up the pieces of my riches. You will never know poverty. You will never experience hardship. You will live life to the fullest because I will make damn sure of it. And love…” His eyelashes fluttered shut as he listened. “Is that what I feel when I look at you? I have never been more protective about someone.”

His breathing evened out.

“You will grow up without her. My greatest fear is that you will hold me responsible.” My thumb outlined his eyebrow. “You are too young to understand, but you will come to me one day and demand answers. Tonight, I will be honest with you. I could have saved her that night. I could have stopped her suicide. I could have rushed her to the emergency unit. In the future, I will lie to you. I was too late to prevent the inevitable. I will say this selfishly, as I am not strong enough to handle your disappointment and hatred. I will, however, remind you, every day, for the rest of your life, that she loved you more than anything else in this world and, although love was not enough to keep you both together, you were her only concern, her only reason before and after death.”

I stood with the baby in my arms. Kissing the crease between his furrowed eyebrows, I eased him into the cot and draped a light cotton blanket over his legs.

Mabel came to my side. This woman is damn good at going unnoticed and sneaking up on people.

“I got side-tracked in the kitchen,” she lied, not that I called her out on bullshit. I knew why she had left-and why she had indirectly forced me to overcome one of my fears this evening. Don’t get me wrong. I am far from healed. I will still loathe deep water when I wake up in the morning-with a hangover from Hell, I bet. But helping to bathe my son was a start in the right direction. “He adores you. He spends the majority of the day looking for you.”

I laughed once. “You don’t know that.”

“Well, it’s not me he calls ‘dad’ when running to the front door,” she said calmly, as if that bit of information was not staggeringly unexpected. “Oh, don’t look at me like that.” She turned on the baby monitor. “You are his favourite person. Everyone can see it, except for you.”

A meek smile twitched my lips.

“You might want to head downstairs,” she said as we exited the bedroom. “There is a commotion in the foyer. Something about uninvited guests-”

I sprinted away before she could finish her sentence.

Leather shoes crashing on the floor, I gravitated toward the foyer’s wrought iron bifurcated staircase and descended the Bianco Carrara marble steps to see Ben, his entourage in tow, standing beneath the colossal crystal chandelier.

Awe-inspired by the high-ceiling and graceful archways enriched in sculptural motifs, Ben tried to step forward when security, Eddie from Club 11, shot an arm out. “Chill.” Ben’s hands hiked in surrender. “Brad hired us for the kitchen.”

“You are not on the guest list.” Suited for tonight’s event, Eddie skimmed through sheets of names on the clipboard. “How did you get past the gates?”

“The guy out front let us in.” Wyatt’s all-black attire mirrored the rest of the kitchen staff. “Look, if you don’t want us here, that’s fine. We can leave.”

“Wait,” I called out, and a mixture of variegated coloured eyes swung in my direction. “Eddie, let them through. I hired them at the last minute and forgot to amend the guest list. Take the wedgie out of your arse.”

Eddie’s cheeks purpled.

“I came extra prepared.” Ben shook my hand, gesturing to a group of quiet men out front. “So, I lost a lot of business when this new restaurant opened down the street, right? Basically, every customer I had, started to eat shit grub instead.”

“Hey,” someone mock-berated outside, and I glanced over Ben’s shoulder to witness the man, whoever he may be, back up three steps. “Sorry.”

My brows welded.

“Anyway, I used some of the money you gave me for hired help, offering them a cash-in-hand deal to assist with tonight’s dinner service.” Ben adjusted his backwards-facing ballcap. “Like, I am pretty decent in the kitchen, but three men to prepare for a party of two-hundred and fifty guests? Yeah, that’s a suicide mission.”

I motioned for the borrowed employees to venture indoors. “I had temporary kitchen buildings delivered this morning. You can use the main kitchen, if necessary, but there will be more space in the catering complexes.”

Ben’s eyes lit up. “You went all out.”

No, I am avoiding a messy kitchen. They can take their culinary skills outdoors. “You might want to add your date’s name to the guest list.” I pointed at the clipboard. “Eddie is a tad territorial.”

“Sure.” Ben accepted a pen from Eddie and scribbledQuinn’sname onto the bottom of the page. “So, when do the guests arrive?”

“Thirty minutes ago,” I said, and he paled. “You have plenty of time, so don’t stress. Plus,” I nabbed two champagne flutes from Lilith as she walked past with a tray, “I supplied free alcohol. Everyone will be too focussed on getting shit-faced.”

“Right.” Ben stepped aside for people to wheel kitchen supplies through the foyer. “I invited Emma, too.”

“Yeah?” My heart skipped a beat at the mention of Emma’s name. “Did she get back to you?”

“No.” He blew warm breath into his cold hands and rubbed them together to generate heat. “Who knows? She might turn up and surprise us.”

One can only hope.

I switched topics. “Gilbert, the in-house chef is waiting for you.” Then, a thought occurred to me. “How much money did you spend on additional chefs?” I highly doubt fifteen grand covered everyone-or rather, left him with much of a payment. “You know what? Come and find me at the end of the night.” I will give Ben another generous envelope. “Now, fuck off. Your ugliness is offending housekeeping.”

Iris stifled light laughter.

Ben’s wide eyes conveyed a blend of confusion and mirth. He needs to get used to my sarcasm and dry sense of humour. “Prick,” he said with a shake of the head. “Alright, men. Let’s get this show on the road.”

I breathed for all of two seconds when-“Your favourite person has arrived.” Josh, wearing a black, three-piece suit, strode through the main doors like he owned the place. He was freshly shaved and neatly barbered. “Look at you.” He tweaked my bow tie, and I slapped his hand away. “I am almost jealous.”

“You should be.” I fixed my skewed bow tie. “I paid a lot of sterling for these shoes.”

His pointer finger aimed at my suit. “I meant the clothes.”

“Yes, the suit, too.” I flashed him a cheeky wink. “Where is Nate? I want to witness the man’s devastation when he sees me modelling Dormeuil.” My hands gesticulated passionately to the fine fabrics I vaunted. “Tom Ford doesn’t have shit on this bad boy.”

“Isn’t Nate already here?” Josh tugged the collar of his shirt. “He texted half an hour ago, told me to hurry up and to meet him at the bar.”

The son of a bitch made a grand entrance without me.

Red-faced and awkwardly sheepish, Lilith did an elegant curtsy before slipping a champagne flute into Josh’s fingers.

“Thank you, love.” His heavy-lidded gaze zoomed in on her arse as she greeted the next guest. “Fuck, I just died and went to heaven.”

I sipped champagne. “Why?”

“Brad…” His hand latched onto the back of my suit jacket for support. “You have a set of hot twins roaming the estate and never thought to share. How selfish.”

I suppose the identical brunettes are hotter than sin, not that I had any interest in them. One, I did not want to mix business with pleasure. I made that mistake too many times to count. Two, I felt nothing when looking at them, not a spark of enthusiasm or a glimmer of excitement.

“Luckily, I have a good imagination because those tunics are revolting,” he muttered beside me. “Uniformed as sexy maids. That’s how I see them right now: six-inch fuck-me heels, a backless top, a lacy thong and a skirt shaped like an apron with a big, biteable bow to give their derrières refinement.” His lips pursed. “And a feather duster.”

I gave him a long look of worriment. “Should I find you and your imagination a private room?”

He flipped me off. “Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it.”

No, I hadn’t considered them or feather dusters at all.

My eyes located Logan through the crowd by the main doors. For such a young lad, he towered above others imperially.

In a striking, three-piece suit, with meticulously styled hair and one diamond stud in his left ear, he snuck past the guards and stalked toward us.

Honestly, I had chills, goosebumps on my skin and an unswallowable lump in my throat.

Logan is the future of Warren Enterprise, of Warren’s empire, and that unspoken information of guaranteed sovereignty allured the eyes of all in attendance.

Clearing the itch in my throat, I did something I should have done long ago. I shook the lad’s hand and showed him respect. After all, everyone here needed to witness our devotedly loyal amalgamation.

“Nice suit,” I complimented, and his lips twitched with pride. “You scrubbed up well.”

“I have a good teacher.” In nostalgic rumination, he touched the solid gold and diamond encrusted curb bracelet on his wrist. “I feel bad. Alexa was in such a good mood earlier. Your text message is going to send her over a cliff.”

All for a good cause. “Alexa will get over it once she sees all the presents.”

“Which reminds me.” Logan extracted a small box adorned with gold wrapping paper and a red velvet bow from his trouser pocket. “Everyone is going to buy for the baby, right? I bought something for her instead.” His cheeks hollowed. “Technically, I used one of Liam’s cards to pay for it.” True. I had forgotten about the lad’s confiscated bank cards. “But I designed it, so that has to count for something.”

Josh eyed the box in the lad’s hand. “What did you get her?”

“Nope.” Logan stuffed the box back into his pocket. “You will probably get drunk and spoil it for me. I am saving this for later.”

“What?” Josh’s nose crinkled. “I am not a compulsive blabbermouth.”

“Everyone is a compulsive blabbermouth when under the influence.” Logan smiled at people as they passed. “Am I allowed to drink? It is a party. I promise to behave.”

I am in no position to meet Logan’s request. “You will have to ask Alexa later. In the meantime, stick to cola or lemonade-or non-alcoholic champagne. I ordered them specifically for Alexa, but sharing is caring, so knock yourself out.”

Logan tapped the top of my back as he moseyed along.

“Eddie,” I said, and the man turned to me. “Have all the guests arrived?”

He checked the guestlist. “Almost.”

Unlocking my phone, I clicked on Alexa’s name and thumbed the ultimate text message.

Me: You need to get over here immediately. Logan just turned up with all these girls-or should I say, older women (money-grabbing cougars)-and he is pissed as ten farts. I am going to string him up by the balls and amputate his pecker. I apologise in advance.

Message delivered.

Josh had a worried glint in his eyes. “I can already hear her shrieking.”

“Same.” I palmed the phone with clammy hands. “Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned cougars.”

“It’s all good.” Josh took the phone off me and sent another text message. “Okay, now I am excited to see her face.”

I read the message.

Me: One of them claims to be pregnant with his kid!

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I slapped him over the head, and he jumped back, rubbing the spot of pain I had inflicted on him. “Too far, Sailor. Alexa will be an untameable banshee when she arrives, thanks to you, you waste of bastard oxygen.”

My phone vibrated.

I was scared to look.

Josh did the honours. “Oh, shit.”

“Why shit?” I felt the blood drain from my body. “What did she say?”

He stared at the phone screen. “What?”

“What does that mean?” My temples began to throb. “I need some elucidation.”

“That’s all it says.” He handed over the phone. “‘What?’”

“Just ’what?’” My shoulders jerked up once. “What, that’s it? Why are you oh-shitting me, then?”

“Because one-word responses are never good…” His pallid cheeks became bright red. “She is calling. You can deal with that level of craziness. I am out.”

“No-wait.” I watched him walk away with a furious thrum in my veins. “Great. Leave me to tend to the crazy lady. I can handle it,” I lied, not that he stayed around long enough to hear the slight hitch of uneasiness in my voice. “Alexa.” Placing the phone to my ear, I squeezed my eyes shut. “Ignore the last text message. I am stoned.”

“Where is he?” she immediately asked to speak to Logan. “Brad, please tell me this is a joke. He is not at the estate with money-grabbing cougars. That’s you being a typical court fucking jester, right?”

“A court fucking jester? I am actually offended.” My hand tightened on the phone. “And, no. I am not joking. Logan is here, with all of these women, drunk as a fucking skunk. He might have mentioned drugs.”

“Drugs?” She all but screamed in my ear. “How? Why? And when? Who supplied him with drugs? It was you, wasn’t it? You corrupted my son, you asshole.”

I slapped a hand to my chest. “I would never supply drugs to a teenager.”

“Are you shitting me?” Her angry voice accelerated to dangerous heights. “Warren Enterprise distributes drugs to errand boys, Brad! Some of thoseboysare no more than fourteen years old!”

“Fair enough.” My throat cleared again. “But, for your information, keeping tabs on inferiors is below my paygrade. I don’t poke my nose where it does not belong.”

“I don’t understand.” Alexa overlooked my sarcasm. “Why is Logan behaving like this? I have given him everything,everything, and still, it is not enough.” She sounded on the verge of tears. “Brad, I am not good at this mum stuff.”

My jaw locked.

“I am a huge embarrassment.” Her sniffles felt like minuscule stabs to my heart. “If I cannot raise a teenage boy correctly, how, pray tell, can I take care of a new baby? I am not built for motherhood. Let’s be honest with each other. You know it. I know it. Hell, Liam knew it, too. He only agreed to children to shut me up and-”

“Alexa, stop.” Christ almighty, I wanted to surprise the woman, not cause her to have a mental breakdown. “Look, can we calm down for two seconds? Just come over and have a chat with him. I will send the women home.”

“No, let those money-grabbing cougars stay,” she said, and she meant it. “I am about to give them a piece of my mind. Who do they think they are, prying on young, impressionable boys? It is disgusting-deplorable. They ought to be ashamed of themselves.”

I stayed quiet.

“Okay.” She expelled a shaky breath. “I am leaving the Royal Opera House immediately. Alfie will drive me to your place.”

“Hey, man.” Jace chose that exact moment to barrel through the door. “What’s good?”

Ishushedhim with a finger to my lips.

“Wait.” Alexa’s despondency morphed into instantaneous inquisitiveness. “Why is Jace at the estate?”

“What? Jace is not here.” My murderous glare condemned the idiot to Hell. “Why would I invite thatintolerabletwat over? I am better than that.”

Iris placed a champagne flute in Jace’s hand.

“Brad, I know Jace’s voice,” Alexa said fiercely, tears and sniffles gone with the wind. “He just spoke to you.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” Ending the call before she could coax confessions out of me, I flung the man a scathing look. “Really? You couldn’t have been more obvious if you tried. And, to top it off, you are late-and wearing a leather jacket. Seriously? What bunch of docile inbreds birthed you?”

“I had to deal with a client.” He guzzled champagne thirstily. “Better late than never, right?”

I am still frowning at him.

“What?” He used the back of his hand to wipe moisture from his lips. “You expected a response to those insults, huh?” Fortunately for him, he removed the leather jacket and boasted a four-piece suit before I could lamp him over the head with a nearby ornament. “Happy?”

Itskedhim. “Exhilarated.”

My phone pinged with a text message.

Alfie: Twenty minutes.

Me: Get Alexa to freshen up. She will go berserk if she walks in here all panda-eyed and deranged.

Alfie: Of course.

I was about to put my phone away when another text message appeared on my screen.

Emma: I did something stupid.

“Walk down the hall and take a sharp right,” I instructed, and Jace paced ahead. “Follow the wall-mounted art sculptures. I think a doorman is lurking about somewhere. He will lead you to the ballroom.”

Me: Yeah? Do enlighten me.

Message read.

Three dots bounced on the screen.

Emma: I adopted a stray cat.

Emma: It might be theft. He belonged to someone.

Emma: I think.

Emma: I don’t even like cats.

Me: Then, why did you adopt it?

Me: Or rather, why did you steal it?

Emma: I don’t know.

Sensing curious eyes on me, I glanced at the entranceway. Edith, Lilith, Iris and Eddie lowered their probing stares instantly. Nosy fuckers.

I walked down the hall to get some privacy.

Emma: I think I might be lonely.

My footsteps faltered.

Me: You don’t have to be lonely, sweetheart.

Holding my breath, I awaited her response.

Emma: I am miserable twenty-four seven, morning, noon and night. The last thing I want to do is drag other people down to my level.

When I never replied, she sent another.

Emma: Benjamin texted. You hired him for a private function, right? I guess I wanted to thank you for giving him a chance. It means a lot to me.

Me: Truthfully, I didn’t do it for you. I did it because Ben is good enough to preside over the kitchen.

Emma: I agree. I am so proud of him.

Me: Does he know that?

Message read.

Emma: Yes.

Emma: At least, I think he does.

Me: Maybe you should tell him again, just in case.

I got to a quiet hallway, put my back to the wall and looked fixedly at the phone screen.

Me: Why not come over and watch him in action? It would mean a lot to him to see your face in the crowd. And it gives you an excuse to wear the dress and shoes I bought you.

Message delivered.

Emma ghosted me.

Again.

CHAPTER TEN

Brad

Alexa arrived at the estate at the appointed time. The photos she had sent previously did no justice to her beautiful image. She was resplendent in a newly purchased black strapless dress and Giuseppe Zanotti high-heel sandals. Her styled hair, glamorous waves, framed one side of her flawless face. Her earrings, perfect pear-shaped diamond droplets, coruscated with light, and the Cuban micro chain of white gold tags bedazzled with authentic ice diamonds and ruby halo settled beneath her breasts, above her navel.

In slow-spaced politesse and requisite suavity, Alfie, attired in an all-black dinner suit, reached for Alexa’s hand and interlaced their fingers.

To be of service, Alfie supported her up the front steps, his hand clad in leather on the small of her spine, his eyes solely focused on her noticeable baby bump.

“Mind your step,” he said lightly, not that she expressed amusement. “Command will kill me if you fall.”

“If any harm is to come to Warren’s firstborn child, I will be the least of your concerns.” I gave the man a look of contempt. “Hisartisticcapabilities exceed my own.”

“Yes.” He ungloved his bionic hand and, alternately, uncurled his fingers. “I am well aware of our boss’s easily angered characteristics. Though, I must say, you are not one to be frowned at.”

I smiled proudly.

“Well?” Slipping a quilted clutch bag under her arm, Alexa took furious strides into the foyer. “Where is he?” The devilish colour of red stained her unsmiling lips. “I must speak to him at once.”

“Logan passed out in the ballroom,” I lied unpremeditatedly, and her face screwed up in overt puzzlement. “By all accounts, he loves nothing more than an evening nap on the cold floor. He really is a troublesome young lad.”

“What of the cougars?” Her arms crossed and rested atop her protruding pregnant belly. “Assuming they continue to leech the estate.”

“Is that what we call them?” My eyes narrowed fractionally. “Leeching is an exaggeration.”

Alexa’s left eyebrow curved. “It is the precision of what you described.”

Yes, I suppose I did.

“Have I missed something?” Her quizzical stare roved over the grand foyer, where uniformed employees strolled without a care in the world. “Why do they carry empty bottles of champagne to the kitchen?” When I remained unforthcoming, her eyes returned to me. “And why do you wear a tux?”

I fixed a cufflink. “I have a date.”

“A date?” Her right eyebrow joined the left one. “Really?”

“Yes.” I sneered down at her. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“You, Brad Jones, the biggest playboy in London, are going on a date.” She passed Alfie a disbelieving look. “And in a tux, no less.”

“You have this habit of offending me lately.” Still moderately affronted, I slipped a toothpick between my lips. “I’ll have you know that I am an outstanding date: chivalrous, courteous, gracious and well-mannered. I am never late. Always on time. For any woman fortunate enough to attend dinner with me, I dress to impress, open doors, pull out chairs and pour glasses of wine.” My glare travelled the length of her body with deliberate conceitedness. “And I am not shy about complimenting a bird or inviting her to my bed.”

“Pigs will fly before a female spends the night in your bed,” she said knowingly. “As for being an exemplary date, I very much doubt that you know how to pour a glass of wine, let alone preferential treatment to women by holding doors open. Chivalry quite literally died the day you embarked on British soil.”

“Am I allowed to perceive that as an insult?” I asked Alfie, who opted for mute indifference. “You proceed to nit-pick. Is it hormones? It better be hormones-or prepare for reciprocated callousness.”

Her head cocked. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.” My face inched closer until our noses touched. “Careful, Mrs Warren. I make grown men plead for the whores that birthed them. What’s a young, feeble woman to a man of many artisticallysavagetalents?”

“You lied to me.” Alexa secured my lopsided bow tie. “I wish to know why?”

I fixed her twisted chain. “When did I lie?”

“From the very first text message, I believe.” Her fingers splayed over my chest. “You almost had me fooled.”

My cheek muscle throbbed.

“Housemaids impersonating servers might have blown your cover.” Her thumbs straightened the collar of my shirt. “If not the housemaids, then the cute bow on your neck. You do not wear ties on a normal day. Your wardrobe choice, in this current state, is unprecedented.”

In the most suasive manner, I linked our arms and led her down the hall. “I fancied a change.”

Alfie walked four steps ahead.

“If you say so.” Her hand tapped my upper arm. “Now, what is the real reason behind emergency summoning?”

I had the urge to fire housekeeping just for existing. “I might have a dilemma.”

Alexa’s halted footsteps demanded an immediate explanation.

“I will explain everything soon,” I promised, and her shoulders tensed awkwardly. “Tell me about the Royal Opera House first?”

“Why?” She walked some distance toward the ballroom. “You are disinterested in musical drama.”

It will give Alfie time to alert the others. “Is Salome as insatiable as critics articulate?”

“Salome’s lasciviousness and sensuousness contribute to the grotesqueries of the plot. She is a beautiful yet entitled woman bedecked in red, with an unquenchable thirst for blood.” Alexa regarded me with a glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes. “I have mixed feelings. King Herod admired her, gave her exactly what she wanted and then killed her in sheer outrage. She deserved death, I think. After all, her prize for seduction was the prophet’s head. Still, a minuscule part of me sympathised.”

Not remotely interested in Salome’s emotional state, I checked my phone.

Alfie: Everyone is on standby.

“Unrequited love and hopeless dejection.” Her hands smoothed the expense of her pregnant belly protectively. “It’s enough to drive any woman over the edge.”

I waited for her to finish.

“We secured future ballet and opera with a donation.” It was only then that I noticed she walked with a slight wobble. “Do you think I might carry twins?”

“The syndicate is under enough pressure.” I laughed, raw and husky. “Let’s not jinx ourselves.” Pausing by the medieval-style door, I swung it open and motioned for her to enter the dark hall first. “After you, my lady.”

“I thought this side of the estate was a forbidden domain.” Her heels clicked on the floor. “Are you going to lock me in one of the chambers? Be warned. I am the most annoying captive.”

“Alexa,” I objurgated, and she snorted. “Do not treat your past with such flippancy. It’s not funny.”

“It’s my past. I can joke if I want to.” Her hand found mine in the dark. “No, seriously. Where are we going? The walls feel like they are closing in on me. Oh!” Her high-pitched voice rocked bones out of joint. “Brad, quick. Put your hands on my stomach.”

“Are you mad?” Yes, she is certifiable. “I am not touching you inappropriately. One, I consider you to be an annoying, unwanted sister. And two, Warren will give me the Alfie Treatment. I happen to like my hands. They are deft, skilful.” My hand squeezed hers. “Expert, too. If you include the fingers.”

“You are disgusting.” She forced my hands to her stomach and held them in place. “He is moving.”

“This is ludicrous.” Then, ever so subtly, I felt a rippling sensation beneath my palms. “Christ, I think he is swimming in there.”

I sensed her satisfied smile.

“Does it hurt?” My hands moved to the stretch of skin above her navel. “Did your stomach just change shape?”

“He is stretching.” Her voice sounded pained. “That has to be a knee or a foot, right?”

“Fuck.” Spellbound, I traced the lines of rhinestones crystals on the bodice of her dress. “I think he’s having a scrap with the umbilical cord.”

“Probably.” Her delighted laughter echoed down the hall. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

And, on that note, I had a room full of guests to entertain. “You need to tell him before someone else does it for you.”

Alexa’s merriment diminished.

“Warren is motivated by spite.” My hands withdrew. “He will never forgive you.”

“No,” she insisted. “I will not make him suffer anymore. Put yourself in Liam’s shoes. Imagine being in prison, locked away from the people you love and overnight, you are a father.”

It sounded oddly familiar. “Pretty sure that’s what your crazy friend did to me, but we can pretend it never happened.”

“It was different. You had a choice. You were able to meet Dominic almost immediately. Liam is looking at five years, and that’s only if our plan with the Russians comes to fruition. If Nikolai breaches the terms and conditions of our alliance, Liam is stuck in Belmarsh for the rest of his life. He will never get to hold his son, watch him grow or create memories. He will only learn of his achievements from behind barred windows.”

“Alexa.” My hands fell to her shoulders. “Breathe.”

She blew out a shaky breath.

“I appreciate what you are saying,” I whispered for her ears only. “However, it’s becoming harder to hide. Someone will report back to him, whether it be before or after the birth. He will learn the truth either way. Let him accept difficult situations onyourterms. He can handle it from you. But if you sit back and allow someone to act on your behalf? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

There was a pause.

“Okay,” she resigned, and I squeezed her shoulders comfortingly before stepping back to give her space. “I will write to him. Maybe it will be enough for him to reply.”

We made it to the double doors of the ballroom.

“Is Logan even here?” she asked, absolutely clueless to what awaited her behind those double doors. “You have yet to explain tonight’s foolery.”

“Shit.” I pretended to jiggle the door handle. “Why won’t it open?”

“Oh, for goodness sake.” Her hip nudged mine, and I moved to the side. “Never let a man do a woman’s job.” Disengaging the gilded handle, she slapped two hands onto the rustic wood, separated the double doors and placed one foot into the bright ballroom. “I swear-”

“Surprise!” everyone belted out in unison.

Alexa jumped back in stark shock. Like a deer in the headlights, she stood there, slack-jawed and unblinking, unable to decipher the fusion of power, love and grandeur, all for the celebratory excitement of Warren’s unborn child, for the photo-worthy smile on his wife’s astonished face.

Honestly, I put my heart and soul into tonight. I know how much Alexa loved to celebrate and go all out for others, and I had to return the favour.

From my peripheral vision, I could see how hard the event planners had worked. The black, white and silver balloon arch, which complemented the five-tiered woodland animal cake and customisable sweet treats, domed the region of the imposing stage, where instrumentalists tailored in all white, overlooked the LED dancefloor. Light-up letters spelt Baby Warren. Eight-seater tables with starched white linen tablecloths, polished silverware, silvered tableware, embroidered napkins and cherry blossom centrepieces. Men in suits and women in cocktail dresses gathered in large groups whilst smartly dressed sommeliers distributed wine.

“Oh, God.” Alexa’s eyes welled up as she looked to the ceiling. “You guys.” She fanned herself. “You did this for me.”

“Of course.” I dropped a chaste kiss on her cheek. “Only the best for our vixen.”

“Mrs Warren.” With a glass of gin in hand, Nate slid an arm around her back. “Dressed to impress, I see.”

“I could kill you.” A bashful smile followed her lie. “My entire life just flashed before my eyes. I knew you were up to something.” She pinched the underside of my arm with gentle fingers. “I never expected a surprise baby shower, though. I think I might cry.”

“No more tears.” Josh came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her back to his chest. “I love the dress.”

“Thank you,” she politely replied as he uncaged her from his arms. “Wait. You threw a baby shower on Devil’s night?”

I never thought of it like that.

Alexa waved it off. “Where is my person?”

“Right here.” Logan appeared from behind one of the men. “Hey.”

She smiled at him. “Hey.”

“Here.” He held out a flute of non-alcoholic champagne. “I took the liberty of stealing you a drink.”

There were at least two metres of awkwardness between them. They had bounteous patience and love for one another but had lost themselves since Warren’s sentencing. Both adored him immensely and struggled separately in his absence. Naturally, they grieved and took their pain and sadness out on each other because that’s the reality of humanity. You hurt the ones closest to you when stitching the tears of a broken heart.

“Come here, silly.” Alexa’s arms outstretched, and the lad rushed into her embrace, his massive body smothering her half to death. “You are very lucky that I never found cougars here tonight.”

Assuming Alexa is armed, I spied a slither of lace on her thigh, the thick holster practically concealed beneath the train of her dress.

Logan’s spine straightened. “Cougars?”

“Yes, Brad mentioned older women and possible pregnancies,” she told him, and I stared deadpan at Josh, who, flat-lipped and unabashed, shrugged uncaringly. “I was primed for a bloodbath.”

Everyone chuckled at her supposed witticism.

I never even blinked.

Alexa was deadly serious.

Do not let her pretty face and saccharine voice fool you. This is the same person who extracted a beating heart from a woman’s chest with her bare hands. Let’s not forget Kellie (assumed to be pregnant) with an E. Alexa fired at point-blank range and, in frozen rage and pathological jealousy, watched her bleed out on the cold floor of a dark alleyway. Her demons are psychotic enough to dance with mine. The only difference between us is that she is better at holding them prisoner.

“You look wonderful.” Tony, Alexa’s father, kissed both of her cheeks. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“Yes, it was somewhat relatable,” she explained, and I mentally questioned her rationale. “There are so many familiar faces here. I don’t know where to begin.”

I glanced at the conductor with a request in my eyes.

Nodding sharply, he climbed onto the stage to instruct the musicians. The pianist’s fingers danced along the piano keys with precision and orchestral sensuality. Then, for carnivalesque vigour, tenor saxophonists and impressive percussionists collaborated and stole the show.

Alexa devoted the better of two hours tending, meeting and greeting guests, thanking them for the gifts she’d open much later, their attendance and their unfaltering allegiance to her husband. She reached the long-stretched table at the back of the ballroom, where her closest friends and congenial allies waited patiently for her attention.

From the well-stocked and well-operated bar, I observed her closely to be sure she had a good time.

Jace stood to kiss her on the cheek and helped her to become seated in the midst of vivaciousness. His roommates, Jared and Shane, had her laughing crazily within two seconds.

I knocked back a whiskey shot and ordered another.

Grayson, modelling the silkiest of white shirts, smothered Alexa’s face in wet kisses before he introduced her to a male friend. And Heather, the owner of a local bed-and-breakfast, who once provided safe accommodation for Alexa and Jace when they were incognito, presented gifts, whispered endearments and wept tears of nostalgia.

“I suppose my invitation got lost in the mail.”

My eyes rolled to the back of my head. “You can fuck right off.”

“Your rudeness is intolerable.” Vincent’s elbow leaned onto the bar. “You organised a party to bestow lavishness to my sister-in-law and celebrate the anticipated birth of my nephew.” He stared at the side of my face, prolonged and intense. “One might deem insensitivity and thoughtlessness intentional.”

This bastard tool hasn’t replied to emails and text messages or returned phone calls in months and has the cheek to question moralities. “Andonewould have to give a flying fuck to dignify that with a response.”

He hummed, low and throaty. “My mother died.”

“So, I have heard. Do not expect sympathy. I am ardently loyal to Warren.” My face turned to him. “Valerie Wentworth was a selfish bitch. No offence.” His tanned skin raised eyebrows. “Nice tan.”

His lips cracked into a dark smirk. “I am cognizant of Valerie’s inconsiderateness.”

I sipped distilled whiskey. “You trivialise the severity of her piss-poor decision-making.”

“My mother’s neglect of her firstborn son is disappointing. In reality, Valerie and Raymond were a match made in Heaven.” He clicked down the waitress to order whiskey on the rocks. “Neither of them deserved him.”

I agreed.

“Nevertheless, I loved and grieved her.” He thanked the waitress for the drink and took a generous sip. “I needed time to come to terms with her death.”

“Two months perambulating through Spanish islands is overly dramatic. Your mother died. Big deal. She is not the first woman to expire. You have responsibilities. You are the underboss by default. Meet the institution’s expectations or voluntarily leave the office.”

“You are second-in-command.” He lit a cigarette with a gold zippo lighter. “I am all but a glorified advisor.”

“Incorrect. I am Command. I am anactingboss until further notice. I will return to the rightful position ofunderbosssubsequent to Warren’s exoneration. In the meantime, whilst in power, I need the most powerful individual to be an indispensable helper for the organisation.”

He exhaled smoke. “What of Alzaim?”

Nate is a multifaceted diamond. He is an expert in his field, competent, proficient and assured. He does not possess leadership qualities, though. “Who mentioned Nate?”

His cold stare bore into me before his attention shifted elsewhere. “Why the sudden change of heart?” He blew out a veil of smoke. “You have never valued my opinion.”

Vincent might not be my favourite person. However, ego aside, from a professional point of view, I recognise that I cannot operate alone, and someone behind-the-scenes is essential to keep me level-headed and ease the pressures of overburdened exasperation. Warren had me in his ear during the years of his reign. I am not ashamed to admit that facilitation to lighten the load is of vital importance.

I drew in a strained breath. “Look, will you step up or not? I do not chase or beg. This is a one-time offer.”

“Very well.” A smug smile sat on his lips. “I am glad to be of assistance.”

“Great.” Raising a toast, I had the urge to slap the smugness out of him. “It’s good to have you on board-officially.”

Alexa rose from her seat at the family and friends’ table and coaxed her father to the dance floor. Tony, delightfully fresh-faced, followed her with the obsequiousness of an awe-inspired gentleman. He is enamoured of her.

“He is a lucky man,” Vincent said, and I knew he meant Warren. “To find someone as loyal and understanding as her.”

Once more, I agreed. Decent women avoided anything serious with criminals. It’s why the majority of syndicate men wasted years of their lives entertaining club whores as they had low expectations and thrived under the pressures of corruption. “Alexa’s blind eye is permanently turned to Warren’s nefariousness.”

Vincent pointed toward the dessert table. “Alzaim brought company.”

I trailed his line of vision. There, in a figure-hugging black dress, is the mysterious blonde bombshell he’d been secretly dating. Nate’s arm is locked around her waist as she plated iced madeleines and fondant cupcakes for them to sample.

“Celine,” I informed him. “She thinks he is a gym instructor.”

“Alzaim’s imprudence is worrisome.” Vincent’s cross earring scintillated. “He is a founding member of The Brotherhood, yet disappointingly, he is unwise and irresponsible. His insouciance could cost the syndicate gravely. He invited a clueless female to the estate whilst his pregnant ex-girlfriend was barricaded upstairs. And this new woman, as attractive as she may be, is an untrustworthy deceiver. Do you truly believe she is unaware of her surroundings? My brother is London’s most eminent gangster. You are lionised by association. She would have to live under a rock to be ignorant to such superiority.”

I hated that he was right.

“Alzaim is without power cards.” Ice cubes clanked as he swigged from the crystal whiskey glass. “What are the rules if he terminates someone currently in receipt of immunity? Will the syndicate provide protection for his new love interest?”

“No.” You only get one choice. “Unless your name is Alexa. She managed to convince Warren to show mercy. Alfie and Jace should be dead.”

He hummed in reverie. “Perhaps Alzaim will lean on Alexa’s shoulder for moral support.”

“I am surprised you care.”

“I do not. I am merely making conversation.” Vincent straightened to his full height when the boss’s wife hurried over. “Angel,” he greeted with a soft kiss on her temple. “Did you change your hair?”

“My stylist went for airy waves instead of wild curls.” Her hands rubbed his arms as she eased out of their short-lived hug. “I am bored with unruliness. I wanted something sophisticated. Mature. A new me,” she added with a shy smile. “I am glad you came back. You stayed away for long enough. We missed him, right?”

“Like a hole in my arse,” I muttered into the glass.

Her eyes visited the ceiling.

“We discussed Nathaniel’s date.” Vincent’s back rested against the bar. “Are you acquainted?”

“Not yet.” Alexa briefly glanced at the pair from across the room. “She is beautiful. And Nate looks really happy.”

“He lookedreallyhappy with Blaire,” I said contemplatively. “And look where that got us.”

“We also discussed Alfie and Jace.” He outstared the men to their very bones. “You obtained two immunity cards.”

“Yes.” Alexa schooled her features. “What of it?”

“Serious question: If Alzaim went to my brother and asked if Celine could be exempt from punishment, do you think because the man is a founding member, Liam would be merciful?”

Eye to eye, they glared.

“No,” she answered after a short pause. “Nate wasted immunity on Blaire.”

“What if Alzaim asked you to speak to Liam on his behalf?” Vincent scanned her face. “Is my brother capable of leniency if his wife demands it?”

“Vincent,” she said tightly. “Is satiating curiosity necessary?”

“I wish to understand the levels of hierarchy.”

“You understand them perfectly well.”

“Correct me if I am wrong.” He swept hair off her shoulder to expose her feminine collar bone. “You are the only one with the power to influence him.”

It was time to intervene. “Where are you going with this?”

“Not anymore,” Alexa replied regardless. “My husband might as well be dead. As you are aware, he blocked all means of communication. If he cared for anything I had to say, he’d have responded by now. I might be married to the man, but ultimately, he is the head of vice, whether you like it or not. His decision is final. I am powerless to him.”

“You have lost faith.” Vincent was oddly quiet, and then, rotating the crystal glass, he downed the liquid in one mouthful. “I might need you to get that back.”

“Leave business for a closed-door conclave,” I warned, belatedly reading between the lines. “Whatever you need from Alexa can wait. Tonight is about the baby.” My eyes turned into slits. “Is that the only reason you came home? To play puppet-master? You selfish prick.”

“I returned to London for multiple reasons,” he said, calm and collected. “Firstly, I missed the people I love. Secondly, I have to get back to business. Thirdly, I need my brother’s chain.”

“Warren’s property is kept in possession of the prison service.” My bewildered stare intensified. “Without his consent, Governor Dane Russell will not hand over any belongings. What do you not understand? Your brother pulls rank.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Vincent’s tether snapped. “My brother is without dictatorial power.”

“Wait.” Alexa’s hand shot up to silence us. “Why do you want his chain?”

“You are unnumbered.” Vincent upturned Alexa’s military tag to read the engraving. “Why?”

She weighed the tag in her hand. “Liam did not know how to position me, so he decided to engrave the tag instead.”

My lips parted to speak.

“I have been looking everywhere for you.” Josh, with the worst timing in history, re-emerged from the sea of bodies. He slid amother-to-besash over Alexa’s shoulder and plonked a diamond tiara on her head. “Perfecto.” He noticed Vincent and did a double take. “Well, look who decided to crawl out of the woodwork and join us. I started to think your sojourn in Spain might become a permanent place of residence. Nice glow, by the way. You sparkle radiantly.”

Vincent skinned Josh alive with a contemptuous scowl.

“Guys.” Alexa touched the tiara with investigatory fingertips. “Do I look as stupid as I feel?”

“Yes,” I said, and she gave me the middle finger. “You look hideously out of place.”

“Brad.” Josh’s arm hung over the woman’s shoulders. “Not cool.”

“It was a joke.” My eyes wandered to the dance floor. “Christ, I have been around you muppets for how long? And everyone has the audacity to act shocked when I engage.”

“I never even opened my mouth.” Alexa fumbled with a glass flute, clumsy and unhandy. “Someone needs a time out.”

An ache settled in my jaw. “Oh, how I loathe peasants.”

“Brad is uncharacteristically temperamental,” Josh spoke as if I weren’t present. “Why so high-strung? Trouble in the bedroom?”

“Yes, it has been six days since I got my cock out,” I mumbled in a sarcastic, icy undertone. “How will I ever survive?”

“That’s long.” Josh eyeballed someone at the end of the bar. “Who is that woman? I do not recognise her.”

Everyone homed in on Josh’s field of vision to the familiar red-haired goddess accepting complimentary champagne. In a slinky black cocktail dress, Quinn strode to the nearest table, unaccompanied yet untroubled, and installed herself in a chiffon ribboned chair.

“I am not sure.” Alexa’s bemused frown transformed into an unconcerned smile. “Brad, I assume she is a friend of yours.”

“Not quite.” When Quinn’s eyes collided with mine, I withstood her penetrative stare with cool aloofness. “Friend of a friend.”

Quinn broke eye contact first.

“Her name is Quinn,” I enlightened them. “She is close to Emma. And she is currently dating Emma’s brother, Benjamin Hughes.”

“Oh?” Alexa outstretched her hand for the sommelier to splash alcohol-free champagne into the glass flute. “Is Emma here?” Her neck craned as she peered around the room. “Perhaps you can introduce her to the others.”

“No, Emma is unable to attend.” Although, I had hoped she’d show her face at some point. “Quinn is off-limits, Sailor. I don’t need you pissing off the head chef.”

Josh never argued the matter.

“You hired Emma’s brother to oversee the kitchen.” Alexa stared in astonishment. “Are you sure that’s a wise idea? Does he have experience in large quantities? He only worked in a small cafe, right?” Her concern steered to the guests. “It might be too overwhelming for him.”

Impressive hors d’oeuvre trays left the kitchen earlier, so I had no reason to doubt him. “Ben is irreproachable. Enjoy tonight’s meal before you raise concerns.”

Alexa trusted my judgement.

Nate headed in our direction.

“This should be fun,” Vincent whispered in my ear. “Permission to determine the objective.”

Feeling mischievous, I nodded once.