CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Emma

The commodious tepee with hand-stitched scalloped trim and fairy lights domed the bed of mandala embroidered duvets, Aztec patterned pillows and tasselled scatter cushions. A brass double-tier chandelier with multi-coloured glass holders and battery-operated candles hung from the centre poles to give our makeshift home a romantic touch. The lap-sized wooden tray on the knitted pouffe, with rolling papers, crushed marijuana and a box of matches, is a bit of an eye sore.

My date smoked weed when I met him. I will not influence his attitude to life. I have no desire to. If neurotic habits reduce stress, then routine patterns are justifiable.

Hell, I might take his systematic approach to life to distress.

God knows I could do with an escape from reality.

According to Brad, who had never camped a day in his life, an indoor camping party in the living room is the epitome of fun.

He bought supplies at Boutique Glamping to set the idyllic scene whilst I popped to the store across the road to overbuy refreshments.

I might have laughed when he threatened to lunge the uncompromising tepee out the window earlier. I had never seen anyone get so worked up over basic instructions before. I even offered to give him a hand-hold one side of the material for him to assemble the framework-but his ego did not appreciate the assistance of another. He wanted to prove to himself that he could do it. And he did, after three failed attempts. He is very proud of his efforts and gloated for the rest of the night.

Brad’s friend and co-worker, Joshua, swung by earlier to drop off an overnight bag. I am guilty of lingering in the hallway when the pair conversed indistinctly in the foyer. I am unapologetic for listening to their tête-à-tête. If you want to act suspicious in the vicinage of other people, you can bet your ass that I am going to be intrigued.

Alas, I did not understand syndicate jargon. The men talked in code, a secret language to confuse potential eavesdroppers, or most specifically, yours truly.

I left them to it and ordered pizza on the takeaway app.

Still, as I rearranged the pillows on the floor and chose a movie for us to watch, I could not shake the fact that Big Guy was keeping something from me.

I started to wonder why, despite the efforts of probing, he’d look me in the eye and lie when I asked if everything was okay.

Perhaps it is a white lie, though, to protect my feelings. I had lost Cleo this afternoon in the most barbaric act of theriocide.

Brad had mentioned DNA profiling to establish the cat’s killer. Josh may have a lead. It is feasible that he relayed updates.

But I should know if there is a potential suspect.

It is my right to be aware of lurking danger if it is life-threatening.

Or, maybe I am overthinking the matter.

Brad’s suspicious behaviour might involve Carter.

No, that’s highly unlikely.

His dishonesty is not about my son. He would never leave me in the dark if he had answers. Which brings me back to the initial question: what is he keeping from me? Or rather, what could be so bad that he is afraid to tell me the truth?

Plucking a mushroom off the pizza slice, I put it in my mouth and chewed meditatively.

If it’s not about Carter or Cleo, it must be something to do with the man’s private life, and the thought made me feel really anxious and slightly worried. If I find out he is secretly married, I will beat him over the head with something and inform the wife of his extracurricular activities.

Big Guy, bare-chested in low-hanging tracksuit bottoms, is lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, hand supporting his head.

The man on the television got pulled underwater by an unseen force. I am ninety nine percent sure that a fleshy body part resurfaced.

“Shark-proof cage, my ass,” Brad said, unimpressed. “Why do people make illogical decisions in movies?” His eyes bounced between the television and the board game as he contemplated his next move. “They know the chance of survival is slim once they go into the water.”

Having lost my appetite, I closed the pizza box and placed it on the coffee table outside the tepee.

I slumped into the soft pile of pillows beside Brad, so comfortable and relaxed in his company, and counted how much Monopoly money I had left.

“Acrobatic sharks.” Brad watched the man get eaten alive with an incredulous expression. “I have never seen such nonsense in all my life.”

I am going to lose the game. “It’s only a movie.”

“Jaws is an underrepresentation of great white sharks for reasons I will gladly explain.” Licking his thumb, he swiped through paper notes and tossed five pounds onto my nonexistent stack of cash. “Firstly, sharks do not endanger humans. They prey on juicer edibles like dolphins and sea lions.”

I smiled broadly. “Do you mean to tell me, if I happened to land in shark-infested waters, I would live long enough to tell people about it?”

“You’d be dead in a flash, but that’s an improbable scenario because the odds of you ever swimming with a large number of sharks is one in a jillion.” He rolled the dice and moved the race car across the board game, rubbing his hands together with a gleeful grin. “I am about to take over the fort.”

I tossed the dice, the thimble landing in jail again. “What is the second reason Jaws underrepresented great white sharks?”

“Well, secondly, sharks cannot backflip onto fishing boats to escape the seabed. The entire movie is overdramatised for gullible people like you.” He collected two hundred pounds from the bank. “Thirdly, I spoke with enough intellect to rest my case.”

I laughed in merriment. “If you say so.”

“I say so.” His lips pursed as he pondered whether to invest in more houses. “Banker, I will have two grand hotels on Piccadilly, Coventry Street and Leicester Square.” He remained financially solvent whilst I teetered on the edge of bankruptcy. He owned most of the streets, including the railroads. “Any time this evening.”

I lined up the red hotel pieces. “I feel like you cheated somewhere.”

“Have a day off.” He made a show of counting his Monopoly money. “I did not cheat.”

“Then, how did you acquire the electric company, the railroads, Regent Street, Oxford Street, Bond Street, Boardwalk, Park Lane, houses and hotels-and the above-mentioned yellow cards-whilst I am propertyless, penniless and stuck in jail for the umpteenth time tonight?” I think he stole money from the bank when I wasn’t looking. “Be honest.”

His eyebrows danced. “I am just great like that.”

“Brad…” Calling it quits on the game, I flicked the thimble across the floor bed. “I still think you cheated.”

“I am an astute businessman with a strong determination to succeed,” he said with a suppressed smirk. “Hey, don’t judge. A hustler’s ambition is limitless. You can’t knock a guy for trying.”

“Rephrase.” Uncapping two cold bottles of beer, I handed him one. “You are acorruptbusinessman.”

“Astute? Corrupt?” Shrugging nonchalantly, he packed up the board game. “Semantics.”

I swigged beer. “I am inclined to disagree.”

“You can disagree all you want.” He kicked the plethora of cushions out of our tepee. “I am still thesexiestbusinessman you have ever clapped eyes on.”

“You are incorrigible.” Taking the repackaged board game out of his hand, I stuffed it under the pillow until I could be bothered to put it back in the cupboard. “And you are notthatsexy. I think raven-haired men are ten times sexier.”

He let out a disbelieving scoff. “You will meet my boss-never.”

“Does the boss have blue eyes?” Liam is a blue-eyed man. I saw pictures of him online when looking for information about Brad. The reminder made my stomach turn. I had to figure out a way of telling him about Mostyn Avenue. “What about tattoos? I am a sucker for men covered in ink.”

“I am going to leave a nice handprint on your ass in a minute.”

“I am kidding.”

“And I am wounded.”

“You are a liar.” Throwing popcorn kernels into my mouth, I sat crossed-legged on the duvet. “There is not an offendable bone in your body.”

“That’s not even a real word.” He reached for the laptop and loaded the screen. “Do you really prefer dark-haired men, or are you winding me up?”

I was surprised by his sudden lack of confidence. “No, I like blond-haired, big-chested gentlemen with well-defined jawlines, sculptured shoulders and a nice butt.”

He gave me a weird look. “Well, that was strangely specific.”

“Hey, what can I say?” I also liked the man’s amber-coloured eyes. “I am observant.”

“I suppose I am an impressive specimen.” He loaded the laptop’s internet browser, ready for me to spend his hard-earned money, which felt wrong on so many levels. “A nice butt, huh? I can dig that.”

I downed beer, the effects of alcohol sluicing into my bloodstream. “Why are you on the Louboutin website?”

“Every woman is entitled to at least one pair of red-bottomed heels,” he said, and I choked on the beer mid-swig. The prodigality of rich folks is staggering. “What is your shoe size?”

“None of your business.” I am not letting him spend seven hundred and fifty pounds on peep-toe shoes when I could buy knock-offs down the market. “I am low-maintenance, so you can keep your money and do something more productive with it-” He seized my ankle in his inescapable hands, the animalistic abruptness taking me off guard. “Brad!” A squeal of laughter fell out of me. “Give me back my foot.”

“No.” Wrestling for my leg, he ripped off my fluffy sock and stared at my foot in perplexity. “Christ, Emma. I am dating a pocket-sized woman. Your feet are too small.”

“I apologise,” I said snarkily. “It’s not like I had a choice or anything.”

He itched the frown between his brows. “Five?”

“Four and a half.” Pulling the sock back on my foot, I tucked my feet under my thighs, away from wandering hands, and finished the rest of my beer. “Well, technically, the left foot is a four, but the right foot grew an extra inch.”

“I did not need to know that.” He placed the peep-toe shoes into the basket. “Alexa is the best person for this task. Her shoe collection is pretty impressive. I think she will have fun shopping with you. I will ask her when I visit the manor next.”

It is a lovely gesture but arranging shopping dates on someone else’s behalf is impolite and inconsiderate. “Alexa might feel obligated to spend time with me because you demanded it.”

“Are you kidding? Buying shoes is Alexa’s favourite pastime.” A pair of nude sandals joined the peep-toe shoes in the online basket. “What about the clutch purses? Or would you rather have a shoulder bag?” He clicked onValentino Garavani. “You can have both if you want.”

“Where do I go with bags like that?” I’d feel out of place with four-ring crystal-embellished designs, intrecciato leather, shearling or suede. I am too basic. “I have an unkempt approach to fashion. There is also a huge chance I will not be able to walk in those shoes, let alone model designer handbags.”

Brad typed debit card details into the website.

My shoulders sagged. “You are not even listening to me, are you?”

“Nope.” Once he filled out the delivery address and confirmed the order, he signed into the Harrods website. “You don’t wear short dresses, do you?”

I gave him a demure shake of the head.

“What of the green one I bought you?” His stare drifted along the edge of my shoulder, where the loose jumper expressed a slither of skin. “Will I ever get to see you wearing it?”

“Maybe,” I said with the unconvincingness of an apprehensive teenager. “Yes, I will definitely wear it for you.” My tone of voice is more confident and certain for the purpose of appeasement. “Depending on the occasion.”

Brad nodded absentmindedly. “These dresses are hideous. I am not a fan of old-fashioned frills and floral-patterned ruffles.” He exited the website in disgust. “Emma, I need help. I am a suit enthusiast, not a personal stylist. I don’t know where to start.”

“Why don’t I go on the New Look website?” I suggested, and he looked decidedly nonplussed. “It’s cheap and cheerful. You might approve.”

“I doubt it.” He let me take over the laptop. “Is there any more beer going?”

I opened another two bottles, leaving the crown caps on the wooden tray of marijuana buds. It reminded him to roll a blunt. “I really like the jumpsuit. What do you think?”

“No.” He trashed the idea of pink sequins. “Thirty-five quid for a playsuit. What is this place?”

“It’s where people that live within their means shop.” Filtering through options, I selected the green leopard print blouse with ruffled sleeves. “This one is nice.”

“No,” he said obstinately. “I hate animal print clothing. In fact, I hate this bastard website. It is worse than Harrods. Try Selfridges.”

Sighing out loud, I did as instructed. “You are impossible.”

“Actually, I am very possible.” He licked the rizla seam with a playful twinkle in his eyes. “If and when you are ready to take me.”

This man will be the death of me. “Teasing will get you nowhere.”

“I am adept at utilising flirting tactics for the prevalence of sexual gratification.” His smirk was suggestive. “However, I am willing to negotiate the height of your pleasure.”

“How chivalrous of you?” I felt him studying me as I riffled through the website, and then, with heart-stopping unpredictability, he pressed a kiss to the side of my arm and returned his attention to the laptop screen. It was sweet and quite passionate. It denoted physical and emotional intimacy, one of his greatest struggles, and I didn’t know what to make of it. “Where shall I start?”

“Buy a bit of everything.” He eyed the television in time to see Brody lodge a pressurised scuba cylinder into the shark’s mouth. “Jeans, tops, jackets, sweatshirts and accessories. Get whatever you want.”

I am hesitant about the price of singular items, though. This place charged over a grand for a cashmere scarf. That is daylight robbery. I could buy a replica in Primark for six quid.

“If you don’t do this, I will do it for you.” He scraped a matchstick along the matchbox’s striking surface, lit the end of the blunt and slid an ashtray on the wooden tray. “Hurry up, woman. I want to check out Victoria’s Secret.”

My fingers hovered above the keyboard.

Victoria’s Secret?

Surely, he is not stupid enough to believe I would purchase lingerie at his discretion.

This man will have me in chains and patent leather next.

“Give it to me.” Reclaiming the laptop, he selected all clothing for women and sent uncountable items to the basket. “Do not argue with me, Emma.”

“I haven’t opened my mouth.” It felt less expectant if he chose clothes for me. “Can I have some?”

His eyes came over the laptop, the bright screen casting a shadow over his handsome features. “What?”

I pointed to the blunt.

“Really?” Smoke rolling down his throat, he extended the blunt to me. “You won’t pass out on me, will you?”

I hadn’t smoked weed since the years of being a rebellious teenager. “I give you permission to slap me if I do.”

His brow bent. “Oh, this should be fun.” Not as fun as him buying everything and anything on the Selfridges website. “Do you like garter belts?”

I blew out a strip of smoke. “You are taking the piss.”

“Hopeful,” he said with a cheeky smile. “Come over here and help me choose.”

When I nuzzled closer to him, I spotted a dark green one-piece with delicate lace and side cut-outs in the basket. “That is not within the scope of our agreement.”

“It has no back coverage.” He handpicked G-strings, thongs and bras, ended up in the sports department and decked out splendiferously for me to have comfortable running gear. “No more baggy pants,” he joked, but I did not smile. “What is it? Have I upset you?”

“No.” Passing the blunt to him, I swallowed hard. “Your generosity is overwhelming, I guess.”

“Money is just paper. You cannot take it with you when you die.” He finalised the payment method with a poke of the enter key. “Plus, I think generosity is an investment. I will be rewarded tenfold.”

I depreciated the practice of philanthropy. “I promise to pay back every penny. It may take forever, but I accept the challenge.”

“If it makes you feel better,” he agreed with the intention of not fulfilling the agreement. “I have to slip out for five minutes.” Reading a message on his phone, he clambered out of the tepee. “You can pick another movie.”

I nearly asked where he was going, bare-footed and half-dressed, but I stopped myself from prying.

Crawling out of the tepee with the pizza box, I pushed to my feet, the front door slamming in the hallway, and carried leftover food and rubbish to the kitchen.

Trashing unwanted takeaway, I stacked half-eaten snacks in the fridge, grabbing four ice-cold beer bottles for the next movie. I had to pick something scary, more realistic and praiseworthy. I don’t think I can handle another film with a running commentary of derision in the background.

Turning off the living room light for the ominous setting, I picked up the television remote, ready to select a movie, when tyres screeched outside. From behind the curtain, I peered into the street to see a gunmetal grey Bugatti reversing between two parked Bentley vehicles. The driver’s leather shoe graced the pavement first. He is a tall, broad-shouldered, besuited man with sharp facial features, wavy yet stylish jet-black hair and a smooth-shaven jaw. This handsome man, whoever he may be, is the personification of masculinity. His conceited omnipotence was absolutely terrifying. I thought Big Guy was scary, but the unknown visitor made the hair on the back of my neck stand and the blood in my veins cold. He met Brad by the front gate, starting what looked like an in-depth conversation.

Muting the television, I placed the beer bottles on the bed, cracked open the window and tried to listen in on their exchange when the man, with the ice-blue eyes of a predatory wolf, caught me in his sights. I had never freaked out so quickly in my life. My knees dropped to the floor, where I stayed for five heart-pounding minutes until brave enough to crawl into the tepee.

I should have minded my business.

The front door opened and closed.

Heart falling to my feet, I pulled myself upright.

Brad’s shadow drifted past the tepee before he reappeared. He dropped the phone on the coffee table, grabbed the remote control on the floor and dived into our makeshift bed. Then, with a finger flick to the end of my nose, he kissed my cheek and unmuted the television. “Nosy.”

I died. “I am sorry.”

“It’s all good.” He flicked through movies. “Although, I should warn you. Vincent is intolerant of newbies. You might want to get on his good side to avoid misjudgement. He is a proper grudge-bearer.”

A shallow breath escaped my lips. “That man is terrifying.”

“No,” he said with a snort. “Vincent is relatively harmless. His older brother is an entirely different story, though.”

“His older brother?”

He decided on Hellraiser. “Warren.”

Oh, God. There are two of them.

Brad got comfortable on the bed of duvets and cushions, tucked an arm behind his head and studied me with hooded eyes. His hand outstretched, inviting me to come closer.

I did, gingerly, curling into the man’s side. Cheek resting on his defined chest, I slid my leg between his parted legs, locking us together, the throw blanket tangled by our feet.

It felt familiar, holding him, needing him, almost as if I belonged to him.

His heartbeat quickened beneath my ear when my fingernails grazed the V-shaped muscular grooves of his abdomen, where the faintest of dark hair led to his groin. I wanted to please him like he had done for me in the past, but the fear of rejection prevented further hand movements. I would never just assume or be spontaneous, not without his consent and not until the man overcame emotional triggers.

“I don’t like you,” he lied, and I bit back a smile. “I don’t like you at all.”

“I don’t like you, either.” I had a stomach full of fluttering butterflies. “Not even a little bit.”

The pads of his fingers descended the length of my spine. “You can’t fall asleep on me.” Kissing the top of my head, he leaned in and nipped the shell of my ear. “I don’t trust myself not to hurt you.”

I left a trail of kisses on his chest. “I trust you, Big Guy.”

His finger circled my hip. “Emma…”

“I trust you.” I looked up, placing a palm on his cheek. “You won’t hurt me.”

“You give me too much credit.” His lips peppered the side of my face, the edge of my jaw, the tender spot behind my ear and the column of my throat. “Christ,” he whispered, his face hiding by my neck. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

Brad nodded off ten minutes later.

I am sure he forced himself to fall asleep to block out intimacy issues. I am no sex expert, but when a man is unresponsive to a woman’s touch at the beginning of a “relationship”, it highlights the magnitude of his struggles.

I had a long road ahead of me with Big Guy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Emma

I woke up alone in the tepee, with the fear of loss and the early morning’s dark silence. A few seconds of demoralisation and embarrassment passed before I rolled onto my back and stared at the hanging collection of unlit candles.

Perhaps it was demanding of me to expect the man I fell asleep with to still be here at dawn.

We never discussed boundaries, limitations or expectations because the first stage of our relationship came very suddenly for the two of us. I told him to walk away the last time I saw him. He agreed with the bitter attitude of an affronted man.

But defying the laws of gravity is hard. I am drawn to him, no matter the circumstance, and the thought of existing without him broke my heart. I had to fix the damage I had caused, make it right between us, apologise for what may appear insensitive or thoughtless and extend an olive branch.

Big Guy made it easy for me. I primed myself for his unamiable coldness and unforgiving haughtiness. He could have sent rude, insulting text messages and cut all lines of communication. Instead, he gave me a free pass, the right to be in his life without repercussions for past mistakes.

I kind of loved the man’s tolerant side.

Rubbing tiredness out of my eyes, I slipped out of the tepee to check the time on my phone and squinted at the screen.

Why am I alive and kicking at the witching hour?

Throwing the phone somewhere in the dark, I dragged myself into the hallway with the intention of making a cup of tea when the soft veil of light and the faint ripple of steam under the bathroom door stopped me in my tracks.

Brad never left.

He is taking a shower.

It was rather confusing to bathe under the hot spray at this time of night.

Imbued with a strong sense of curiosity, I backtracked into the living room with noiseless footsteps, sprawled out inside the tepee and had a mental chat with myself.

Again, I felt like something was wrong, but without asking him outright, I remained clueless.

The wanderer returned in what felt like hours later. With a towel knotted around his waist, he sat on the edge of the coffee table, messaging someone on his phone, and reached for the unzipped holdall on the floor. He found a clean pair of boxer shorts, towel-dried haphazardly, but never rushed to get dressed. His stare went to the window, where the ajar curtains made room for the streetlight.

As I did not want to startle him or invade his privacy, I turned on my side, with my back to him, snuggled into the pillow and let out a soft sigh.

I heard the sound of a zipper fastening as he closed the holdall, followed by the groan of the coffee table’s rickety frame when he stood to cover himself.

His weight flattened the duck feather duvet when he crawled into the tepee. He turned on a couple of the battery-operated lights, the plastic flames flickering shadows on the tepee’s thin fabric. His hand slid onto my middle section as he pulled my back to his chest. He was freshly showered, with hot, misted skin and coconut-scented wet hair. His soft lips, feather-light to my skin, placed open-mouthed kisses on my neck.

“I thought you might have left,” I whispered, his palm smoothing down my stomach. “What are you doing, Big Guy?”

His hand crept under the waistband of my pyjama shorts. “I don’t know.”

My breath caught when his fingers grazed the most intimate part of my body. He teased the flimsy material of my underwear, the pace slow and steady. He decided then, what would happen, by giving into temptation and coaxing a suppressed moan from me. The middle and index finger slid between my lips and, with tantalising strokes and rhythmic technique, stimulated the area around my clit. He rubbed, applied pressure, coated himself with arousal, and then pressed nerve endings with the heel of his hand.

My hips rocked involuntarily. “Brad.”

“I want your mouth.” He gently took my earlobe between his teeth. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

Enraptured by the man, I turned to face him and draped a leg over his hip. My parted thighs gave him more room. His thumb teased my clit with light circular motions as his fingers disappeared into my sex.

Reaching up to hold onto his neck, I moaned into his mouth, which he took as an invitation to kiss me. His lips, charged with the desperation of an insatiable man, devoured mine. I deepened the kiss, the heart in my chest thrashing against my breastbone.

“Touch me,” he groaned, and I lowered a hand between us. “I want it to be you.”

Trying not to overanalyse the situation, I outlined the ridges of his abdomen, wanting to make this good for him. I tugged down his boxer briefs, leaving the waistband mid-thigh. I freed him from restriction. He fell into my hand, the thick, heavy weight of his throbbing length reawakening fears of the inevitable. I had every intention of sleeping with his man someday, and I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was going to ruin me for other men.

My nipples pressed into his chest as I kissed him more urgently. With shortness of breath, I stroked him from base to tip, and he hissed through gritted teeth. I almost stopped, hesitant to continue and concerned that he might lose himself, when a warm bead of pre-cum leaked onto my palm.

“Emma.” His knuckle-deep fingers searched for my G-spot. “I need you to use your words.”

Even though I did not understand, I nodded. “Make it good for me,” I said, and Brad groaned, his fingers caressing the sensitive walls of my pussy. “I am soaking for you.” He finger fucked me expertly. “Oh, shit.”

“You fuck with my head.” His arm tightened around my waist as he pulled me closer. “I question everything I once knew because of you.”

My left hand clung to his muscular back as I worked his length. Then, with curious fingertips, I traced the series of four deep lines on the top of his shoulder. I hadn’t noticed them earlier. Maybe they are not visible to the eye. But the more I felt around, the more I found. He was covered in another woman’s scratch marks. I won’t lie. It hurt more than It should have. I had the urge to cry and pull away.

“What is it?” Kissing the edge of my jaw, he grasped a handful of my ass. “Emma?”

How can I be upset?

He poured his heart out.

I sent him away.

Who he bedded that night is none of my business.

Yet, I felt impossibly devastated.

Brad interlaced our fingers, pulled my hand between us and thumbed each of my knuckles. I think he knew what I discerned but was not prepared to ask. He might think of himself as paranoid. After all, with the worst timing in history, he could be honest with me and ruin the moment, and then I could be taken by complete surprise with the obliviousness of an unmindful idiot.

“Emma.” He swallowed audibly. “I-”

I cut him off with a long, passionate kiss.

Yes, I had questions.

Cherry’s text message is now ever-present. But I am mature enough to see the bigger picture. I am allowed to be sad because I am human. That does not give me the right to criticise the man, though. He promised exclusivity. I told him that loyalty and devotion would not change my mind.

“Kiss me back,” I pleaded softly, and his lips parted for my tongue. “Please, I need more.”

In a sudden movement, he took my body in his arm and rolled me beneath him. With breathless lust, he removed my T-shirt, ripped the shorts down my legs and kneed my thighs apart to accommodate him. I was naked and vulnerable within seconds. Not one complaint left my mouth. I am not like the flawless women he is used to, but I am comfortable enough in my skin to feel worshipped by him.

Our eyes locked.

With a playful smile, I grabbed the root of his cock and pulled him toward me.

His one hand landed on the pillow above my head, the force of his huge, muscular body falling on mine, knocking the air out of me.

I laughed nervously against his mouth, tasting the smile on his lips.

Hooking one of my legs around his waist, he glided a hand to the back of my knee, to the curve of my thigh, to the prominent bone of my hip.

“I can’t wait to fuck you.” His deep, throaty voice raked goosebumps across my flesh. “It’s all I have thought about for months.”

His cock throbbed in my hand. I gripped him firmly, watching through lust-filled eyes as he sucked the taste of me on his fingers, then he eased them back inside me, stretching me to his liking. My pussy clenched around him. I had to reciprocate pleasure, but all I could think about was the heat in my body.

His breathing became more stertorous as our tongues danced. I felt him thicken in my hand, swollen, hard and dripping with cum.

Thumb circling the silky soft crown of his cock, I stroked him, up and down, slow and fast, until the muscular arm by the side of my head rippled as he braced himself for the satisfaction of mutual foreplay.

“Emma.” It sounded like a desperate plea. “Christ, I can’t do it.”

“I am close,” I breathed in his ear, refusing to let him yield to the voices in his head. “Make me come undone for you, Big Guy.”

Finger fucking me to the hilt, he let out a low, savage growl and forced me to handle the onslaught. I gripped the side of his arm for support, squirming beneath him, thighs moving up and down restlessly, and cried out as waves of pleasure coursed through me.

Head pushing into the pillow, I came all over his fingers, soaking him unashamedly. Before I could open my eyes or catch my breath, the man’s strong hand seized my jaw, and he kissed me. His arousal-coated fingers dug into my cheek as his overpowering mouth bruised my lips.

My wrist started to ache, but determination conquered all. I gave him an upstroke, picked up the pace and confessed how much I wanted him in a moment of sentimental attachment. I might be post-orgasm and reeling from the unexplainable emotions I felt, but I meant every word.

Snatching the back of his hair, I tugged hard at the scalp. He groaned in approval, palming the swell of my breast in a painful grip.

Teeth sinking into my shoulder, he suckled me there, leaving a mark, I am sure, and then he kissed the pain away with a flick of the tongue.

His hand suddenly closed around mine.

Dread settled over me.

If he pulled away from me, I might just burst into tears.

There is only so much rejection a woman can take before she starts to question herself.

Brad did not detach himself from me, though. His hand replaced mine. He gripped his thick length and wanked slowly. The scene is so erotic that I could come again by simply watching.

“Is it just an obsession, or am I crazy about you?” His head dipped as he leaned down to steal a kiss from me. His lips were gentle, delicate and warm. He never used his tongue. It was a mutual caress of an unspoken bond. “Yeah, It’s fucking insanity at its finest.”

I placed a hand over his chest and felt the rapid intensity of his heart rate as he orgasmed. He never moaned, not the way men did in movies. His breath was ragged but controlled as ribbons of warm ejaculation streaked across my lower stomach.

Inwardly, I wanted to cry happy tears for him.

Outwardly, I wrapped an arm around his shoulders and acted as though successful masturbation was not a big deal.

I think he appreciated the silence on my part. He might be a bold, confident man, but not when it concerned innermost struggles.

“I could get used to feeling like this,” I teased, tickling the nape of his neck with my fingernails. “You should be worried. I might do something stupid and fall in love with you.”

His thumb swept over my lips. “You promise?”

My heart threatened to burst out of my chest. I never thought it was possible to feel this way for another man. It had always been Tommy O’Shea. Even when I hated him, I still harboured strong feelings for years and years after our parting of the ways.

And then, Big Guy. He came out of nowhere, flirtatious, charming and winsome, the eyes of an undistracted man as he talked straight to my heart. I never even saw him coming. He brought out the best of me without even trying. How did it take this long for me to see that he was sent to me for a reason? A reason too great and completely out of our control.

The gravity of us.

I am where I am supposed to be.

“I don’t make promises,” I lied with pursed lips, and he couldn’t help but kiss me again. “You are so heavy. It’s not even funny.”

With a burst of deep, weighted laughter, he rolled off me and yanked up the boxer briefs, the waistband snapping against his stomach. “I will be right back.”

Brad slipped out of the tepee. He was only gone for five minutes. He returned with a warm hand towel, cleaned the mess on my stomach, carried discarded clothes to the kitchen and dumped them in the laundry basket.

I was halfway out of the tepee to pinch one of the spare T-shirts in his holdall when he placed me on a clothing ban.

“You can get dressed in a minute,” he said uncompromisingly, and I had never experienced puzzlement quite like it. “Turn the rest of the candles on.”

He really is an unreformable man.

I switched on every battery-operated candle until a delightful glow of tranquillity and peace permeated the air.

Lying on my stomach, I rested my chin on folded arms and offered the semi-naked man a saccharine smile.

“Why do you get to wear boxers?” Then, I eyed the digital camera in his hands with furrowed eyebrows. “Where did you get that?” No, he never found it here. I left photography equipment at the old flat. “What did you do?”

“I broke into the cafe one night.” Switching through the camera settings, he located the power button and sprawled across the bed. “I want to document the second stage of our situationship.”

“Is that all I am to you?” I gave him a conspicuous look. “An informal bedmate.”

“You know that is not true.” Familiarising himself with the buttons, he raised the camera and snapped a picture of me, the ascending-pitch sound and flash of light momentarily blinding. He looked at the captured image with a serious expression. “You are beautiful.”

“And you are feeding my soul.” I blushed a deep scarlet. “You know, I am not very photogenic. Here.” Holding out my hand, I accepted the camera from him. “Let me have a go.”

He gave me a low, sexy smirk. “This is getting naughty.”

“No, it’s not.” Sitting back on my haunches, I moved the selector to monochrome, adjusted the settings and captured his movements. “Do not hide from me. You are not one to shy away from the camera.”

“I am not a fucking poser.” He laid on his back, tucking his arms behind his head. “Okay, I might be a bit of a poser. Be sure to take a good angle of my facial structure. What you see here is the hallmark of jaws.”

“You are so vain.” My thumb tapped the button. “Turn your head slightly to the right.”

“Why?” He turned his head with a scowl. “What’s wrong with the other side?”

“Your nose is less bumpy from this angle,” I lied, knowing his nose had the perfect masculine appeal. “Will you stop sulking?”

“No, I am good in my sulky corner,” he responded sarcastically. “I thought I was Adonis incarnate until I met you.”

“Adonis might have had the perfectly proportioned body and the handsome face of a Greek god, but he was also a selfish snob.” Do not overthink this move, I thought to myself as I confidently straddled the man’s lower body to take a picture of him lying beneath me. “You should not insult yourself, Big Guy.” He stiffened to the bone, his hands shooting out, ready to throw me into the next apartment, but instead, with a noticeable twitch in his fingers, he held onto my waist. “You are better than him.”

“Yeah,” he said with a raspy exhale. “I guess I am, huh?”

I lowered the camera from my face. If I placed a hand on his chest, I would feel the erraticness of his racing heartbeat. He did not like to be at the bottom of someone. It was painfully obvious.

Perhaps I was trying too hard.

I had to admire his efforts, though. He withstood the heat in my eyes, never looked elsewhere, and even utilised his hands to explore my naked body. He grasped my breasts, thumbed my nipples sensuously, took the width of my waist in his hands and rocked his hips with lip-biting curiosity.

“I wouldn’t mind having this image on camera.” His throaty voice vibrated his chest. “Christ, Emma. What are you doing to me?”

Holding the camera high above, I took a shot of us, the image of erotically entwined lovers for the documented stages of a painful relationship.

When I checked the screen and studied the beautiful man in the photo, I felt something in my chest. It was tight, time-stopping and soul-consuming. I had the most indescribable desire to kiss him, touch him, hold him and…

“What’s that face?” His hand ascended the centre of my body to catch my throat. “You blanched. I am not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad sign.”

Pushing a hand through my hair, I slid off his lap, left the camera on the floor and grabbed a T-shirt from his bag.

Brad watched me intently as I covered myself. He sat upright, his lips thin with bemusement. “Emma?”

I stayed by the tepee’s exit route with the sudden urge to flee. “Yes?”

“Put the mental brakes on and come here,” he ordered, and I went to him like a fool at the mercy of another being. “You think too much.”

I nodded.

“I get it.” His hands were on me again, exploring the length of my spine. “One day at a time, right?”

I nodded again.

“Daylight is among us.” He smiled boyishly. “I have to leave soon.”

“Likewise.” I had to be at the restaurant in a couple of hours. Plus, I had to do the morning run. “I am really glad that you stayed, Big Guy.”

“I would be here every night if you allowed it.” His tone of voice was calm, but worry lines marred his forehead. He regarded me with an air of cautiousness. “I have to consider Dominic, though.”

“Little Guy,” I said with hollow throatiness. “How is he?”

Brad fixed me with a cagey look. “I am not doing that with you.”

“What?” I probed, and he shook his head. “You are allowed to talk about your son.”

He drew in a gulp of air. “It’s insensitive.”

“I have to normalise being in the company of children again.” Although, I would be lying If I said I were ready to jump over that hurdle. I am most certainly not prepared to play happy families right now. But Dominic is his son. I have to mentally prepare to see the little cutie in order to move forward in our relationship. Having a brief conversation about him is the easiest part of this hodgepodge of mixed emotions. “Honestly, Brad. I will be offended if you deliberately hide him from me, and that includes conversations.”

“Okay,” he said, too quickly for my liking. “I will openly talk when I am with you. Dominic is fine. He has a new nanny. Her name is Mabel. He is running amok around the estate and trashing anything of value. I am happy with his progression.”

I gave him a genuine smile. “He is a credit to you.”

“Yes,” he agreed, stone-faced and increasingly tense. “We should save the equipment for a real camping trip. I will probably complain about cold weather conditions and inadequate bathroom facilities, but the concept of a wilderness adventure sounds fun.”

“I would like that.” Holding the nape of his neck, I kissed him tenderly to the sweet sensation of his fingertips kneading the skin on the bottom of my back. “I think it’s time to leave our protective bubble.”

He grappled my backside with covetous hands. “I wish I could stay for longer.”

Thirty minutes later, I walked him to the front door in nothing but the man’s T-shirt. Brad looked ready for the day, though. He showered once more, changed into a grey three-piece suit with dress shoes and gold accessories and helped himself to coffee.

“I will return the mug,” he said, whispering a kiss on my cheek. “It’s an excuse to come back.”

I fixed the collar of his shirt. “My door is always open to you.” A tall, broad-shouldered black man with short dark curls and a faded beard came into my peripheral vision. He boasted a royal blue suit, scintillating diamond studs in his ears and gold rings on most of his fingers. “Who is that?”

“Emma, I want you to meet Terrence,” Brad introduced me to his friend. “He is your assigned bodyguard until further notice. He is not allowed in the flat, not even for a toilet break.”

“Brad,” I scolded, and the insufferable man shrugged. “You can’t expect me to leave the poor sod in the foyer.”

“It’s okay, Ma’am.” Terrence fixed a cufflink. “My station is the car unless duty demands otherwise.” He slid something into Brad’s trouser pocket. “I will meet you out front.”

I waited for Terrence to leave the apartment complex before I wiped the floor with Big Guy. “That was rude. You cannot assign people to care for me and leave them out in the cold whilst I slum it in my pyjamas.”

“I am not okay with you being alone with another man.” His candidness toward the matter floored me. “What? Do not judge me. I will kick off, Emma.”

“We started dating less than twenty-four hours ago.” By the power of fury, I followed him to the stairwell. “Brad, I think you need to calm down. I have given you no reason to be angry with me.” When he ignored me, I gripped the sleeve of his suit jacket. “Trust issues are sabotaging.”

“Yeah, well, the last man I trusted around my girl ended up in her bed, fucking the memory of me right out of her.” His jaw muscles pulsed as he slammed the coffee mug onto the windowsill. “Excuse me for not leaping at the possibility of you and one of the brothers. I am still pissed at past betrayals.”

“I am sorry that your ex-girlfriend and ex-friend fooled around behind your back. But I do not deserve to be punished for their unfaithfulness to moral obligation. I am not her,” I stressed, and his angry stare crashed into me. “If you can make space and give me the chance to prove that I can be in the proximity of other males without falling and landing on their dicks, then I might still have a place for you in my life. Until then, you can kiss my ass.”

“Wait,” he called before I could leave him standing there by himself. “You are right. I am a fucking prick.” He cupped my cheeks with devoted hands. “Terrence is a decent guy. He works damn hard for the institution. And you, I know that you’d never hurt me like that. I should never have doubted you, not even for a second.” His forehead touched mine. “Be patient with me. I am learning.”

Of course, I gave in too easily. I wanted to protect our little bubble for a while longer. “Just this once, though. I will not be compared to ex-girlfriends, Big Guy.”

“You have my word.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “I will text you later.”

I walked on cloud nine for the rest of the day. It was the first time in months that I hadn’t locked myself in the bathroom at work and cried in the cubicle.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Brad

Club 11 is unprecedentedly quiet this morning. Uniformed employees waited on empty tables, and tailored guards lounged in leather booths. Two female customers sat at the long-stretched bar, enjoying a round of coffee and gourmet English-style breakfast. One scruffy-looking male by the abandoned podiums, who engaged in dreamy contemplation, looked as though he’d slept rough on the streets last night.

Walking through the main dance room with the reservations of a discombobulated man, I paused by the door labelledemployees onlyto re-evaluate the extremity of vast emptiness. Yes, the club’s “hustle and bustle” is calmer during the day compared to the dark hours because nocturnal pleasure-seekers come out at night, but vacantness, at any hour, is completely out of the ordinary.

The top floor, however, is swamped with rumbustious dancers dressed in casual clothes: T-shirts, jeans, boots and jackets. It is odd to see the girls togged up in anything but ostentatious glamour.

As I only visited the club periodically, I was not up-to-date with everyone’s work schedules or possible changes in the workplace. Naturally, I meandered forward in a state of further confusion.

“Good morning, peasants,” I joked, and canned laughter replenished the air. “What have I missed?”

“Emergency testing.” Cherry, flanked by beaming co-workers, stood in line by the private medical room. “One of the girls called in sick last night. Chlamydia.”

My brows jumped to my hairline. “No shit?”

“Yep.” Cherry hummed emphatically. “She caught it off one of our regulars, too.”

Club 11 paid concierge doctors to test the girls every month in a safe, non-judgmental environment to prevent the spread of venereal diseases. Routine testing is professional, strictly confidential and comes hand-in-hand with prostitution to protect the girls and the clients. It is very rare that one of our sex workers came into contact with a sexually transmitted disease, though.

“That’s what happens if you go bareback with male whores.” Cora examined her manicured fingernails with a bored expression. “I bet her client fucked multiple women this week, and now she has to pay the price.”

“She would have consented to unprotected sex,” I explained to Cora, and Cherry made a disagreeable sound in the back of her throat. “Did I miss something?”

“I have not encountered one moralist while working at the club.” Cherry’s sly smile turned at the corners of her lips. “Most clients think ‘no’ means ‘keep trying’ until they achieve. The girls are often targets of violent crime.”

“Is that an accusation?” I asked in a terse tone. “If you know something, tell me. I will handle it.”

“Some of the men can get heavy-handed,” she said, and I made a mental note to look into this week’s visitation list. “They want to fuck without anything between us. It feels good for them. No is not always enough.”

Cora elbowed Cherry in the side.

“What?” Cherry lashed out, and her ride-or-die paled in comparison. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Janine was violated. Everyone needs to know the truth.”

“Janine?” I mused, unfamiliar with the name. “Is she new?”

“Yes.” Cherry’s tongue piercing clanked against her upper teeth. “And I doubt she will be back any time soon. You need to speak to Vincent. He has zero respect for call girls. His contributory negligence is giving clients room to take advantage of us. Well, I am not okay with it anymore. Warren put me in charge for a reason. He trusts me to do right by our women. I am here to look after them, to make sure they are safe, respected and appreciated.” Her false eyelashes cast shadows on her upper cheeks. “I take my job role very seriously. I want better safety measures in place.”

A grim-faced female doctor appeared by the door to a private room. “Cora Adeleke?”

“That’s my cue.” Cora’s propped-up foot dropped from the wall. “See you on the other side, Cher.”

“Later.” Cherry watched her friend enter the private room, the door closing tightly behind her. “You know what’s crazy? The stigmatisation behind sex work. We are dirty, disease-ridden whores, just because we sleep with people for money.” She scoffed at one of the guards as he moseyed along. “Yet, I have never had an STD in my life. My health is crucial to pay the bills. Every month, I am in the clinic to keep my vagina in check.” Her eyes came to me for the first time since I arrived. “I wonder how many wives stopped in the doctor’s office after their cheating husbands’ bed hopped. My guess is never.”

I concurred.

“Vincent is the worst.” Strands of flaming red hair irritated her sparkling blue eyes. “His view of sex work is clouded by arrogance. It’s obvious why security is weak and unreliable. He thinks women who sleep with men for money are beneath him.”

I eyed her suspiciously.

Vincent is not here to defend himself, so I will not play into subjective matters and hearsay until I have spoken to him.

“You look exhausted,” she said, and I gave her a faint smile. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Actually, I felt imbued with life and vitality. I am in a good mood, happier than a pig in shit. I might look tired but spending the night with Emma after months and months of waiting for her to notice me again is the strength and energy I needed to put one foot in front of the other. “I am good.”

Cherry glared at me with a furious pout.

“I will speak to Vincent.” If he was overlooking the safety of our girls, I had to pull him into line. “Do I need an early check-up?”

“We used condoms,” she told me, and I let out a sigh of relief. “Plus, I am clean. I don’t need a piss or blood test as confirmation.”

“Right.” I will check her doctor’s notes regardless. “Good luck in the doctor’s office. I will catch you later.”

Vincent and Josh confabulated in the spacious conference room. Their brows raised in silent acknowledgement when I entered.

“You are late,” Vincent said, not that I owed him an explanation. “It would seem that unorthodoxy is prevalent lately.” He talked to Josh whilst I poured coffee. “Jones is showing an interest in one particular female. I fear that perhaps he is under the weather.”

“Fuck off,” I muttered into a mug of steamy coffee. “It is not unusual for me to stay at a woman’s house. I have woken up in many a bed. Granted, I was hungover and confused on most occasions…”

Vincent bore an insipid smile. “Miss Hughes is not an exception?” he asked, and I was not even surprised by the man’s knowledge. He took a deep interest in the particulars of outsiders. “Why the bemusement? You demanded updates about France. I delivered.”

“You did.” Previously, at my request, Vincent drove to Emma’s place and briefly conversed about a virtual conference call with Louis Brasseur, the patron de la mafia in Marseille. I bet he came straight back to the club and phoned his good friend Detective Donny Stevens for information on the woman. “Then you got distracted by unnecessary investigations. Is curiosity satiated?”

“I have yet to decide.” He twisted an apple on the table by its pliant stem. “Your little damsel has an interesting past.”

Sitting on the chair next to Josh, I unbuttoned the suit jacket. “Don’t we all?”

“I suppose.” Vincent hummed lowly. “Miss Hughes is an elaborate creature. The bad blood between families has never been resolved.” His fingertips traced the bottom of a beige folder labelledHughes. “The traveller community has a strong relationship with Jace Williams. Your closeness to Emma might complicate matters.”

I disagreed.

“You swore fealty to my brother. Your formal acknowledgement prioritised his wife by default. Alexa will choose Jace and his Irish allies. Will this not set a chain of tragic events in motion?” He lifted a coffee mug to his lips and sipped. “What if you are forced to declare allegiance? Whose side are you on?”

“The Warrens’ safety is paramount. However, I am not a fresh-faced, carefree young man anymore. I have responsibilities outside of the syndicate. A son, for example. I hope to God that I never have to choose between loyalty and blood. I am a father. Dominic will come first every single time.” Sucking in an exasperated breath, I tousled the top of my hair. “I am not saying that Emma is the end game because I don’t know what the feature holds for me. But if she is the final piece of the puzzle, I am within my rights to hierarchise the levels of importance.”

Vincent frowned in thought. “And the traveller community?”

“Tommy O’Shea is nothing to me,” I said to dispel any doubts, and he listened in patient satisfaction. “If he oversteps the mark, I will take care of him.”

“Appeased.” He slipped Emma’s folded to the bottom of the pile. “It might be wise to keep her under surveillance, though. We do not want another Jessica Pearce, do we?”

“Terrence will serve as a bodyguard. If he detects anything untoward, I am sure he will make me aware.” Besides, I know this woman is harmless. “Until then, I have no reason to distrust her.”

“Is Emma a problem, though?” Josh asked, and Vincent’s shoulder lazily raised as he stared me down with an insouciant glint in his eyes. “I think she is ditzier than anything else. Twenty-four-hour observation for the sake of improbabilities is a waste of resources. The syndicate is already under a huge amount of stress and pressure. Let’s avoid the exhaustion of our men.”

“Emma is not a threat to the institution.” In no mood to argue her case, I reached for the black folder in the middle of the table. “Vincent is simply bored and looking for trouble.”

“Jones’ opinion is based on falsities,” Vincent addressed Josh directly. “I am cautious of my brother’s empire and those who might threaten it. In saying that, who am I to question the woman’s trustworthiness if he believes, beyond any doubt, that her motives are unquestionable? No further discussion is required.”

“Firstly, do not talk about me as though I am not present.” I gave him a perfunctory glance. “Secondly, motive is desire, which means she’d have to want something from me to succeed. There is no hidden agenda. I forced my way into that woman’s life. I did that. Not her. Me,” I punctured each syllable. “So, do us all a favour. Keep your nose out of my fucking business. My personal life is none of your concern.”

Vincent stared blankly at me. “Are you finished?”

“Am I ever?” My eyes fell on Josh’s plated breakfast: thick-sliced, well-toasted bread topped with sweet potato fritters, bacon, egg, tomato and basil. “What are you eating? I am Hank fucking Marvin. Share the love.”

“Nope.” Josh’s fingers curled along the plate’s gilded edge as he slid across multiple chairs to get away from me. “I only bought one portion.”

“Cheapskate.” My stomach rocked with hunger pangs. “Miserliness is embarrassing.”

Josh stared at me with hardened eyes. “I am not saving pennies.”

“You could have fooled me with the state of grease rolling around the plate. Where did you buy that, anyway?” Acting gratuitously peevish, I grabbed a pen and scribbled the time and date onto a clean page in the folder. “A back-alley food truck, by the looks of it.” Truthfully, I am jealous. I could murder a bacon butty slapped with ketchup or a sausage sarnie slathered in HP. “Food served on the street is a pauper’s paradise. I want no part of it.”

“What’s wrong with street food?” Josh released a curt laugh. “It brings back good memories of my childhood. My Nanna took me to the market every Sunday to meet vendors and sample globally inspired dishes from all over the world. I used to love brown stew chicken. I’d have a month’s supply stacked in the freezer. You cannot beat hearty meals on a cold, winters day.”

Great. Now, I am dying of starvation. “I have never tried brown stew chicken.”

“It is a five-star dish without question.” Josh, with evoked emotions of pleasant times, let out a nostalgic groan. “What about you?” His question was for Vincent. “What’s your favourite dish?”

“Ironically, I have a prediction for Italian cuisine.” Vincent breathed out a melodramatic sigh. “Locanda Locatelli serves exemplary food and incredible wine. Pasta in moderation is utter perfection.”

“Traitor.” My skin pricked with heat. “Do not bring any of that distasteful fodder around me. I will not line the pockets of Italian snakes. Furthermore, if cash is unimportant, spend it at The Grape and Vine. I am pretty sure the pasta menu will meet the requirement.”

Josh binned leftover breakfast. “What time is this meeting?”

“Soon,” I said, checking the time on my wristwatch. “Vincent, before we begin, I wanted to bring something to your attention. The dancers, with their manifold grievances, feel mistreated and underappreciated in the workplace.”

Vincent’s forehead creased. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do not play dumb.” A pen rolled between my fingers. “One of the newbies took a sabbatical.”

“Janine Lark.” Vincent made an affirmative sound. “She is receiving treatment for a contagious bacterial infection.”

Josh’s nose crinkled.

Craving a caffeine boost, I sipped coffee. “Janine acquired the infection at work during a private session with one of our clients. Rumour has it the man in question assaulted her whilst the guards were seemingly off-duty,” I spoke with articulation and deliberate snark. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Is the red-haired termagant causing trouble again?” Vincent’s jaw locked in displeasure as he fussed with a sheet of paper. “You know, I am growing rather tired of Bianca Stratton and her defiant appearance. Her impulse to accost men of authority is punishable under the rubric of the institution, The Brotherhood and the boss himself.” His eyebrows beetled as he leaned closer, shoulders hunched forward, and fingers interlaced. “At which point do I make an example out of her? We all know that I am more than capable of doing so.”

I overlooked the man’s irascibility. “Do you judge sex workers rather than protect them? Do you let the clients treat the girls cruelly and unfairly as a consequence?”

“An apathetic person is disinterested in the life choices of others.” Popping a cigarette between his lips, Vincent lit the end with a matched flame, then he folded the random sheet of paper to the centre line. “It is the woman’s prerogative if she wishes to sell her body for a pittance. I want to remind you that I once engaged in sexual activity for money. I was quite the silver-tongued escort if I do say so myself. I am also the proud owner of a very interesting nightclub where uninhibited sex is the cynosure of eyes: wild orgies, sexual kinks and bizarre fetishes.” His lip twitched into a half smile. “It’s kind of my thing.”

Relaxing in the chair, I slipped a toothpick between my lips.

“Do I want to settle down with a woman on standby for other men? No. Absolutely not.” Vincent’s mouth dispersed cigarette smoke. “However, I have no opinion on anyone, male or female, who copulates for money, not when I fuck masked women for the simple fact that it turns me on. No payment required.”

The pin-drop silence was disturbed by Josh’s whistled tune of perturbation.

Vincent placed a perfectly folded origami swan onto the table. “Your unreliable source is a renowned troublemaker. Do us all a favour and pull her into line, or she will face immediate defenestration. It will be so cold, abrupt and unmerciful.” He gave me an impish smirk. “I imagine that all in attendance will hear the fading screams of trepidation in the deep satiation of their dreams.”

It was not an idle threat.

Vincent will quite literally throw the woman out the window without batting an eyelid.

“I see that you have mastered the skill of folding paper into decorative figures now,” I pointed out to change the subject. “Do you have a taste for recreational art?”

“If and when boredom strikes.” Vincent’s laptop pinged from an email notification. “Mr Brasseur is due to call. Dial it down!” he said authoritatively, and the feminine giggles of the once joyous dancers muffled into submissive silence. “Insubordination is objectionable.” Flinging open a leather-bound folder, he aimed the remote control at the wall-mounted television, and a blue and white logo lit up the screen. “I hate undisciplined behaviour.”

Josh, with a face of suppressed astonishment, popped a bright blue chewing gum bubble.

“Are you ready?” Vincent’s finger hovered above the laptop’s enter button, and when I nodded sharply, he accepted an international call. “Take notes, Fitzpatrick.”

“Of course, your lordship.” Josh uncapped a fountain pen. “Anything else?”

Laughing at the lad’s witty sarcasm, I climbed to my feet and stood at the head of the table to be in the webcam’s optical axis. Still, the incoming caller had a clear view of the other attendees in the conference room.

The communication platform is connected. Louis Brasseur, the patron de la mafia in Marseille, is a rather sprightly yet corpulent man with bewhiskered cheeks, a high-domed forehead, receding grey hair meticulously combed to the side and round glasses perched on the tip of his aquiline nose. His slate grey suit jacket hung on the back of the chair he throned upon. His crisp white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposed thick, tanned forearms.

An impressively tall, Junoesque female, who looked thirty or forty years younger than him, stood to the left with her hands stacked on his shoulder. Her expressionless mask slipped momentarily to admire the men on camera.

“Mr Brasseur,” I said, ready to introduce myself. “Brad Jones, the underboss of Warren Enterprise and, in place of Warren’s recent imprisonment, temporary front boss to ensure that business is running smoothly in the hiatus of leadership. I appreciate your willingness to debate with us. Mr Fitzpatrick is an elite member of the institution.” My hand gestured between Josh and Vincent. “I believe you are already acquainted with Warren’s younger brother, Vincent.”

Louis glanced at Vincent with keen interest. “He could be Warren’s doppelgänger.” Puffing on a thick cigar, he blew out heavy clouds of smoke. “But do you have coequal goals and possess the same qualities and values?”

Vincent looked particularly miffed but smiled for the camera. “I might be young but not impressionable.” His hand crushed the origami swan. “I am my own person, without restrictions and dictatorial influences, if that’s where this line of questioning is heading.”

“I am a simpatico friend.” Louis regarded the room with an inscrutable endurance. “Hostilities are not necessary.”

“We did not receive a shipment,” I got straight down to business, the man’s head nodding slowly. “You can imagine our confusion when unpacking crates of bananas. I was half-tempted to redirect and have them dumped on your doorstep.”

Louis’ imperturbable face set off alarm bells. “Well,” he said after a long, mind-numbing pause, “I have reservations.”

My blood boiled.

It was the worst-case scenario.

Louis Brasseur had deliberately withheld contraband.

“Warren Enterprise is, shall I say, compromised?” Louis’ ungroomed eyebrows joined in the middle. “What is it the British people say? London Bridge is falling down.” He was the only person to laugh at the illogical metaphor. Then, with the eeriness of an unhinged man, he glared pointedly at the camera. All signs of ebullience and mockery were dust in the wind. “Death and decay. I want no part of it, Jones.”

If I could reach through the screen and rip him into the conference room by the scruff, I’d do it in a nanosecond. “Warren’s empire is stronger than It’s ever been,” I lied with unwavering eyes. “We have given you no reason to cut ties with the institution.”

“I was told otherwise.” Louis jabbed the cigar toward the camera. “Warren is to spend the rest of his life in prison. He did not have the decency to alert business partners of his downfall. Why should I risk everything I have built for an ignorant man? Yes, I will continue to do business with London. Unfortunately, it will be with a more reliable confederate. I must protect my assets and my reputation.”

I repressed a snark. “Ignazio?”

“The man’s identity is not relevant.” Louis peered up at the bodacious blonde massaging his angular shoulders. “I wish you the best of luck with all your future endeavours.” He returned an icy stare. “You are going to need the Lord on your side to get through the demise of Warren’s empire.”

My heart thumped alarmingly with dread. “Warren Enterprise is not at the behest of France.”

“Correct. But your entire world is at the behest of Italy.” His cheeks scorched red. “It was great doing business with you. No hard feelings.”

“Fuck you,” I said as anger erupted in my body. “Fuck you! Fuck you!” Gripping the laptop, I hurled it at the television, the screen cracking in multiple directions. “You fat piece of fucking shit! Fuck. You.”

Josh rushed to the broken television and switched it off.

“Fuck.” Grasping hair by the root of my head, I tugged painfully, sharply, waiting for the overpowering and overwhelming feelings of rage, disgust, sadness and bitterness to dissipate. “Okay.” Ignoring the raggedness of my empty breathing, I became seated to compose myself. “We prepared ourselves for France’s betrayal. Am I shocked that Ignazio is behind the collapse of global trade? No, I am not. He waged war against the syndicate and lent a hand in the accomplishment of Warren’s life imprisonment. Now he threatens to assume control of the underworld.”

Vincent listened but deigned not to reply.

“We still have alternative plans for the future: Afghanistan, Colombia and Spain.” Tearing through another file, I slid printouts to each of the men. “Will your allies in Algeciras agree to do business with us?”

“Yes.” Vincent’s head bowed as he read the portfolio of a possible associate. “For what purpose, though?”

“We combine efforts.” With the fine nib of a pen, I circled three areas on the map. “The head of vice can transport goods to the Port of Algeciras Bay. Your guy can ship said goods to the Port of Southampton. Business will resume as normal by the end of the month. What do you say? Can we make this happen?”

“Of course.” Vincent unlocked his phone and snapped a picture of the printout. “My brother cannot lose Gateway. He is emotionally attached.”

I will pay Chaplin Jefferson a visit, explain recent events and keep him in our back pocket. “Gateway is not a problem.”

Josh closed folders. “What shall we do about Ignazio?”

“Ignazio might as well be anonymous,” Vincent said with resigned tiredness. “How can we handle a ghost of a man? He is impossible to pin down. Trust me. I have tried and failed pathetically.”

“What if we lure him out?” In contemplative silence, I traced the outline of my lips with a pointer finger. “Let’s put a stratagem in motion to trick him into revealing himself. There must be someone close to him that we can use as bait. An old flame, perhaps. A secret lover.”

“I am the man for the job.” Josh rubbed his hands together excitedly. “Plus, I mastered the Italian accent to fool Pamina, Diego Serafini’s mother. I will have Ignazio’s bitch eating out the palm of my hand within a week.”

“If Ignazio is spoken for,” Vincent said with a hint of vacillation. “What if he prefers men?” Then, with an amused smirk, he looked at me. “I wonder if the baby-faced casanova is capable of seducing the same sex.”

I bellied mirth when Josh blanched in dismay.

“What do you think, Sailor?” My cheeks ached from the steadiness of my teasing smile. “Can you take one for the team?”

Vincent laughed out loud.

My smile dropped at the rarity of the man’s unbridled merriment.

Well, I’ll be damned.

I never thought he could do more than grunt.

“Nope.” Josh uncapped a bottle of water. “I am attracted to women only. If you think there is a chance that Ignazio is gay? Ask Alfie to step in. In the meantime, I will make some calls to see if there is a siren to explore.”

“Okay.” Glimpsing at my wristwatch, I signed documents, agreeing to business ventures and new plans, chucked the pen down and rose to my feet. “I will schedule another meeting for next Friday. Hopefully, Joshy Boy will have stellar updates for us. Meanwhile, I am expected at the Warren Manor. Logan is misbehaving again.”

Vincent made a face of disapproval. “What did he do this time?”

“Logan and Tre broke into the Manor’s underground garage, stole Warren’s Rimac Nevera, took it for a late-night spin and crashed into the back of a parked Beemer. Luckily, no one got hurt,” I said lightly, and both men winced. “But Alexa is at the end of her tether.”

“I will come with you.” Vincent snatched the black trench coat hanging on the chair’s rear. “I know how to get through to the little shit.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Brad

Vincent Warren is on the warpath. He never said two words to Alexa upon arrival. He stormed into the Manor, doors crashing into walls, leather shoes striking marble floors, and headed straight to the gym to confront his nephew.

Logan is in the dog house. It wouldn’t be the first time, either, because lately, the lad has been a glutton for punishment. He is going out of his way to ruffle people’s feathers, to bite off the hand that feeds him, behaving badly and ungratefully for reasons too unfathomable to compartmentalise.

Teenagers tend to be rebellious and problematic. Smoking marijuana is to be expected. Ransacking the mini bar is a petty crime. Getting a tattoo is a pardonable offence. But there is no excuse to steal a car worth over two million to joyride in the street. That’s too far, an unforgivable act of defiance, and Alexa had every right to be upset and disappointed.

Warren will have a stroke when he finds out. Sure, he utilised the Bentley vehicles to drive to-and-fro London and relied on armed chaperones for safe journeys, but the monochromatic panoply of ultra-expensive grey and black cars stored underneath the Warren Manor is the man’s prize possession.

He was just eighteen years old when he bought the Bugatti Veyron. It had to be customised, shipped from France to London and delivered to the man’s personal home with a protective security team. He drove it once, took the wheels for a spin, boasted about the exterior, interior, sound system and high speed, then parked it next to the empty space that later homed the Lamborghini Reventón, the most extreme car in the history of its brand. He has been collecting luxury automobiles ever since.

I remember the day Warren officially moved into the Warren Manor. He had the entire institution running around like headless chickens, sweating, panting and complaining, so everything, from the decor to the furniture to the well-stocked American-style fridge freezer, was perfect for Alexa.

The conveyance of supercars and sports cars was a close second, the utmost priority for a man who sat on a goldmine of million-pound motors. He ordered transporters to get high-performance vehicles from the penthouse to the Manor in one piece, had them lowered underground separately and in succession, and used biometric recognition technology to power lock the aircraft hangar-style garage door.

Only three people can be identified on the authentication system: the boss, the boss’s wife, and their chosen successor, Logan, who took liberties with them, abusing their kindness and generosity for the sole reason of lookingcoolin front of his friends.

Well, I hope the quick trip around the block in his drunken stupor was worth it. He’s lost everyone’s patience and respect in the bat of an eyelid. And to think Alexa had planned to give him a brand-new Cadillac Escalade, the most powerful full-size SUV in the industry (that had to be exported from the U.S) for his eighteenth birthday. He will be lucky to own a Ford Fiesta at this rate. He can have a pushbike instead.

“The Rimac is a write-off.” Alexa, red-eyed and pink-cheeked from hours of crying, sat on the chesterfield high back wing chair in the billiard room. “Logan crushed the bonnet and shattered the offside rear. It’s not even drivable. It’s in the scrap yard.” She used the back of her hand to wipe tears off her cheeks. “What am I supposed to say to him? Liam, I mean. He will know the car is gone once he comes home.”

Warren is omniscient. Of course, he will notice the car is gone. He would be within his rights to punish Logan for this avoidable blunder. We are not talking about a bargain-bought Kia Pride. The Rimac is one of the greatest supercars of the twenty-first century, and it is currently in a pile of unsalvageable metal, ready to be pulverised by industrial machines.

“Perhaps I can replace it,” she wondered out loud. “Is that a possibility?”

“One, replacing the car will not teach Logan anything. You are basically saying he can do whatever he wants and get away with it. Two, I very much doubt that you can fool the boss with a replacement. No Rimac is the same. Personalisation,” I explained, and she slumped further into the chair, faintly woebegone, with an infinitesimal breath of disgruntlement. “Each vehicle is unique to its owner.”

“Then, what am I going to do?” A laptop is on the low mahogany table with the Rimac Group’s website typed into the search engine. “Logan promised to start behaving himself. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He is a good kid. But lately, he is really, really out to cause a rift between us. I have tried everything to understand recent misbehaviours. He is probably sad that Liam is not home, so he is taking his anger out on me. He might be worried that the new baby will replace him. He is still adjusting to his new lifestyle. All this luxury is overwhelming for him…” Her vacant eyes stared back at me as she spoke speculatively. “It’s finally registered, the fact his biological parents are dead. Maybe he is resentful towards the people that put them in the ground.”

All of the aforementioned are plausible. Logan might be struggling to adapt to new surroundings, family and friends. But it would be extremely ungrateful and downright unfair to take advantage of the only people that’s ever truly cared about him. Yes, Warren killed the lad’s parents, which is only what they deserved after years of abuse, neglect and poverty.

Warren also removed Logan from a life of trials and tribulations and moved him to the Manor on Billionaires Row, with all its fine luxuries and layers of richness. He is loved, cherished and cared for by chosen guardians.

What does he have to complain about?

Logan doesn’t know hardship anymore.

I’d have given anything for people like Warren and Alexa to appear on my doorstep during childhood to save me from a life of misery and torment. Christ, I’d have shown them where to find the kitchen knives, pointed them in the direction of Yolanda’s bedroom, packed a bag of belongings and followed them to my new home wittingly. Threats or coercion would not have been necessary. I most certainly would have behaved myself if, by some miracle, I had been handed a new lifeline.

I nursed a mug of delectable coffee. “Only Logan can put your mind at ease.”

“Yes,” Alexa agreed with a sullen smile. “It’s not just about the car, though. He could have died.” Her teary gaze lowered to the floor. “I have lost so many people that I love.”

Forcing myself to stay calm for her sake, I placed the coffee mug on the sideboard.

“But not him.” Her lips quivered in distress, but her voice was fiercely strong. “Not my Logan. I would never survive it.”

Footsteps echoed in the foyer.

Alexa stood, wiping her cheeks, mentally preparing herself for approaching altercations.

I think we both anticipated Logan’s appearance. Instead, Vincent is in the doorway with an expression too impossible to read. “Logan will come and stay with me,” he said, and I half expected Alexa to protest. “Too much stress is dangerous. You must consider the baby, Angel.”

“No, I will not send him away.” Alexa is now ready to battle Vincent. “He is not a hindrance to me. I want him to be here. I am his…” Her lips pursed in a doleful way. “I am not his mother.”

“Do not undermine yourself.” My hand took possession of her elbow. “You have been a better mother to him than she who birthed him, and he bloody well knows it.”

“Logan will never forgive me if I send him packing.” Her eyes drifted back to Vincent. “He hates me, doesn’t he?”

“No.” Vincent grimaced harshly. “Logan loves you.”

Alexa waited for him to finish.

“But there is no father figure in the house,” he said after a short pause of awkward silence. “Logan might look like a young man, but he is still a child. He needs rules and discipline. Who better than his uncle to be of service until Liam is home? I know my brother. He’d want me to help.”

It’s not the worst idea. Alexa had to prepare for Bean’s safe arrival. The presents from the baby shower have yet to be unpackaged. The nursery is empty, without furniture or supplies. “You have waited a long time for this baby,” I reminded her, and she looked away as if the baby’s impending arrival was insignificant. “You wanted one person to call your own, remember? You got your wish. Warren’s child will soon be in your arms.”

Her eyebrows bowed. “A baby will not replace Logan.”

“I know that.” I glanced between her and Vincent. “No one is suggesting as much. Let Logan stay with Vincent for a couple of weeks whilst you get the Manor organised. I am sure Camilla and Tony will assist.”

“Logan will be safe with me.” Vincent strode toward her with bated breath. “Mark my words. I will get through to him. All you have to do is trust me.” Then, his stony glare came to me. “Trustbothof us to do right by you.”

Alexa breathed out a shaky breath of dread and perplexity. “Let me do right by you,” she said with the nonsensicalness of an unstable woman. “That’s what…” Her odd stare roved the expanse of the ceiling. “Do you think it will be purposeful?”

“It’s a final shot at solidarity,” I said, and Vincent nodded with the like-mindedness of an amenable soul. “It’s now or never, Sugar Tits. Logan will be eighteen quicker than you can blink. Then what? You have an uncontrollablemanon your hands? That’s fucking dangerous.”

Alexa opened the tall wine cooler and grabbed herself a bottle of water on the bottom shelf. “What if Logan doesn’t want to stay with you?”

“Like he has a choice.” Vincent’s icy stare marked her every movement. “He will come with me, either willingly or unwillingly. It makes no difference.”

“I want to be updated daily.” She sipped water to quench her thirst. “You will let him call and text.”

“Of course.” He rocked back on the heels of his leather shoes. “I shall even allow him the occasional visit if he behaves himself.”

Alexa knuckled a tear from under her eye furtively. “Do whatever it takes,” she whispered, unable to meet the man’s gaze. “I cannot watch him leave, though. I will drive to Jace’s for the afternoon.” Her feet carried her across the billiard room’s threshold. “Please don’t forget to call.”

Mrs Warren left the Manor, the front door slamming seconds later.

I reached for the coffee mug. “Keep me posted.”

“Yes.” Vincent moved around the pool table in a sangfroid manner. “Can I interest you in a game before I pounce?” He gave me a devilish smile. “Although, I should warn you. I am skilled enough to outperform Keith Brewer.”

“Have a bastard day off.” I selected my favourite pool cue from the walnut and gilded cue rack. “Be prepared to be slaughtered, Vincy Boy. I cheat when I am angry.”

***

Logan did not put up a fight. He accepted Vincent’s offer to leave the Manor temporarily. He packed a large holdall and walked through the main doors more despondent than when he first entered.

I sympathised with the young lad. His entire world tilted on its axis the morning Warren authorised the premature death of his parents. Life has been emotionally challenging and unapologetically traumatic ever since.

Warren’s life sentence made him a prisoner of his own ignorance, which, understandably, had a distressing domino effect on the institution, allies and loved ones. It would be stupid to think his silence is not hurting the young lad. In Logan’s eyes, the man he chose to be his father no longer cared. Perhaps he never did. He only agreed to take care of him to keep Alexa happy. Are those not coherent thoughts for the lad to contemplate in a state of disconsolateness? I imagine Logan wide awake in bed most nights, telling himself that he is a burden to this family, that he is unwanted or more trouble than he is worth. I didn’t agree with it, but I understood it.

It was eleven thirty-eight p.m. when I navigated toward the restaurant where Emma worked. I have heard of the place through the grapevine but never had the pleasure of dining there. I’d have ordered a plate or two if it weren’t so late. It would have given me a good excuse to slip a decent tip in her pocket. Her scarcity of money had started to bother me.

I should be on the job, with the men, or at home, with my son, but it was late, the day, too long, tedious and unrewarding, and all I could think about was her beautiful face, her pretty smile and her contagious laughter.

A familiar pick-up- truck is parked by the curbside on the opposite side of the road, the headlights glowing, the engine running.

Weaving the steering wheel through deft hands, I swerved into the space behind the driver, bumper to boot, and contemplated whether I should sit tight or formally introduce myself.

Well, I am Brad Jones. I am not one to stay in the corner, all coy and squeamish. No, I am the type of guy that invited himself into private conversations and helped himself to other people’s shit, like the spare coffee he had purchased and placed in the cup holder for Emma, I assumed. He can go and fuck himself. Cheap beverages will not challenge the competition or win over her heart. I am here for the journey, whether he likes it or not.

So, I chose the latter, turning off the car engine, thrusting the driver’s side door open and stepping onto the rain-sprinkled road. I had an unlit, pre-lit joint in one hand, a box of matches in the other, and wore the type of conceited smiles that emasculated the rest of the male population.

Yes, I am a cocky son of a whore.

At least I owned it.

My knuckles rapped on Hugo’s window.

He peered up from the phone in his hands, stared for a considerable amount of time, and then rolled down the window. “Hey,” he said with furrowed eyebrows. “I recognise you. You did a stint at community service.” He watched Bentley vehicles clog every space in the street. “You bought coffee at Emma’s old place.”

“The cons of getting on the wrong side of the law.” My folded arms rested on the door as I leaned through the window. “You pick litter, scrub graffiti and woo the cafe girl. Hughie, right?” Lighting the end of the joint with a flaming match, I pointed at the beverage in the cup holder. “Is that coffee?” Before he could respond, I reached into the vehicle and claimed it as mine with a cheeky wink and naughty sip. “You are too kind.”

“Oh, that was for Emma…” His lips meshed together. “It doesn’t matter. You can have it.” He looked at me with open-mouthed aversion. “And it’s Hugo. My name, I mean.”

My brow arched as I pretended to think for a second or two. “Why are you here?”

“I often swing by.” The poor sod, with unblinking eyes and tousled brown hair, is on the verge of throwing up. He did not want to talk to me or be in my presence. “I like to drive Emma home. Just to be sure that she is inside safely. I hate the idea of her using the tube at this time of night. Anything could happen. You know what those pocket-pickers are like.”

I hated the chivalrous prick, with his pretty boy features and unassumingly sheepish personality. I wanted to take said smile into my hand and make him heave on it, choke on it, die on it. I am not even sure if a complete mouth extraction is surgically possible. I would have fun trying, though.

“You needn’t bother, Hughie. I am here to save the day.” My hand tapped the man’s shoulder with faux appreciation. “I will drive my girl home and tuck her into bed. You run along now. It’s way past your bedtime.”

“Oh?” Hugo is obviously disappointed. “Pardon my procrastination, but Emma never mentioned that you were picking her up from work or that you were both an item…” He paused as if the break in his long-winded speech granted an opportunity for me to explain matters, which I did not because I owed him nothing. “Are you an item?”

“Are we dating?” I tweaked, and he nodded his head like a nerdish halfwit. “I am romantically and sexually interested in her and vice versa. I think that passes as exclusivity.”

The muscles in his tight jaw pulsated furiously.

“And then we have Terrence.” Grasping security’s shoulder without turning to look at him, I silently thanked the Ukrainian for making an appearance. “Terrence is Emma’s assigned bodyguard. It is his job to take care of her, which includes chauffeured transportation and around-the-clock surveillance. See? Your service is no longer required. Don’t forget the car magazine.” Hugo’s bright red face effaced sweat and the heat of a furnace when I gestured to theTop Gearmagazineon the passenger seat. “You like window shopping, huh? I hear the Škoda is reasonably priced. Is that within your budget? No, that piece of junk will probably break the bank.”

Terrence snorted.

“Why do you make fun of me?” Hugo was aghast and thunderstricken. “And what do you mean? A bodyguard?” His round, horror-filled eyes swung to Terrence, then back to me in overt demurral. “Isn’t that a bit extreme? Why on earth does she need someone to escort and protect her? Is there something I should be aware of? I don’t own any of those.” His chin jutted to the Glock tucked into the waistband of my trousers. “Hell, I am too clumsy. I’d shoot myself first. But I have a good left hook, and I am a smooth-talker. You can count on me for anything. I will gladly be of service if it benefits Emma.”

I stared at the docile man, mumchance and bewildered.

“Or not, I guess.” Hugo blew hot breath into his cupped hands. “Unless, of course, you do want my help. Is that an option?”

“Stop talking,” I said, and he agreed with a reel of discomfited grunts. “Why is he jibber-jabbering?” My question was for Terrence. “He is difficult to understand.”

“I believe the man is nervous.” Terrence translated Hugo’s feverish speech. “And perhaps a sandwich short of a picnic.”

“I am right here.” Hugo gesticulated hysterically to himself. “I can hear what you are saying about me. It is rude and belittling.”

“Rudeness is subjective.” I gave him an antagonistic smile, and his pallid face seemed to age by the second. Then he did something stupid. He insulted me under his breath. “Did you just call me arrogant?”

“No.” Hugo, coughing dramatically, wafted a thick plume of smoke out of his face. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

“You talk to yourself when anxious.” Terrence dropped a half-smoked cigarette on the floor and scraped his shoe across it. “You called the boss a smug twat.”

My face soured.

“Command.” Terrence amended the error, knowing that I had no intention of claiming Bossman’s title. “You have a lot of eyes on you, Hugo. Perhaps you should apologise.”

“I do apologise,” Hugo said with sincere conviction. “I never meant to insult anyone.”

I beg to differ.

“Brad?” Emma’s sweet, distinctive voice sliced through the tension with a knife, and I stood taller, bracing myself against the strong wind, the judgement in her eyes. But there was no judgement in her forest green stare as she bridged the gap between us. Her lips slowly stretched into a pleased smile. “What are you doing here?” Feet carrying her across the road, she glanced at Terrence, Hugo and the Bentley vehicles in the background, then she came to my side, a coat folded over her arms. “Hey.” She fidgeted with her red tie and single-breasted waistcoat. “Did I miss something?”

I shook my head.

“Emma?” A tall, uniformed woman with facial piercings lingered by the restaurant’s main door. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” Emma yelled back reassuringly, not that the woman looked reassured. She stayed by the door, glaring daggers at everyone. “My co-worker, Sade.” A suited, bespectacled gentleman with polished leather shoes exited the restaurant. “And my boss, Laurence.”

“Why do they stare?” Speaking like a ventriloquist, I gave the pair a two-finger salute. “Your co-worker plans to murder me in my sleep.”

“No.” Emma laughed lightly. “Sade is a nice person. I’d be more concerned if she didn’t hang around to see if I was okay. There is a lot of testosterone in this street.”

“Are you sure?” Sade asked, and Laurence nudged her elbow. “What? I am not leaving Emma alone with those guys. They could be serial killers,” she whisper-shouted, and Emma eyeballed the floor like she wanted it to open up and swallow her whole. “I only recognise the one.”

Laurence mouthed something to the woman.

Hugo’s hand appeared through the driver’s side window. He waved foolishly at Sade, and I had to stop myself from ramming an elbow in his pretty-boy face. Or, I could steal Emma’s tie and strangle him. Or, I could throw him down and put a foot on his neck. “Hi, Sade.” His frantic wave ceased. “It’s okay. You can go home. We are all friendly neighbours.”

“Yeah?” Sade gave me a dirty look. “What’s with the resting bitch face?”

I am not opposed to backhanding an ill-mannered woman across the head. It will wipe the smirk off her face. “I know you are not talking to me.”

Sade puckered an eyebrow. “So what if I am?”

“Okay!” Emma’s hands shot up in the air to defuse a possible situation. “Sade, I am fine. Brad is a friend of mine,” she said, and I shot her a questioning glance. “I will text you when I get home to let you know I am safe.”

Sade walked to Laurence’s car with reluctant footsteps. She decided to gather evidence, taking pictures of everyone on her phone, including the vehicles and the number plates, before the man drove them in the opposite direction.

Nonetheless, I am left with a bad taste in my mouth. “You can go with Hughie if you want. It’s not like I gave you any notice.”

“Just give me one second,” Emma said, and I knew she meant Hughie. “Hugo, I am…”

I never hung around to hear their conversation. Although, If I had listened carefully enough, I could have eavesdropped. I practically parked on top of him, so it wasn’t hard. But I did not care for their small talk. I don’t know what it means, their friendship or their late-night car journeys. His nearness made my skin crawl and itch persistently. His boyish charm and lopsided smile had my stomach knotted and cramped.

Who the fuck is this geezer, anyway? Hughie is nobody. A forgettable schmuck. A blunt tool. He is not in my league, not by a long shot. He flaunted leather Jesus walkers with white sports socks, for fuck’s sake. I bet he wore briefs to bed-a man’s thong with a removable pouch.

Unlocking the Bentley, I fell behind the steering wheel.

Hugo’s tall frame towered Emma. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, hugging her tightly. His hand rested on the small of her back, too low, and he whispered in her ear, too intimate. I assessed him closely, something I hadn’t done until now. He is a decent-looking guy, if you are into the whole windswept, surfer boy image, with his bedraggled dark hair and his butter-soft jaw. He is lean and somewhat toned, not an ounce of fat, but he is not packing muscles. He dressed in casual clothes on the best days and resembled an idle down-and-out on the worst days. He also donned stackable leather bracelets, a pendant chain and a feather stud.

It suddenly dawned on me.

Hughie shared Emma’s bohemian taste in fashion.

They are minimalists.

I am high maintenance.

A fashionista.

A maximalist.

She is calm.

I am chaos.

She is light.

I am dark.

She is good.

I am evil.

We do not fit together.

Still, I reached across the centre console to open the passenger side door for her, and she sat down, leather handbag pressed to her chest, with a small smile on her lips that killed me not to taste. She must have seen something in my eyes because her happiness faded, a frown taking its place. “Big Guy?” Lowering the bag to the floor, she shifted on the seat, leaning closer, and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “What is it?”

“Who is he to you?” I asked, and her frown sharpened. “Hughie. Is he more than a friend?”

“You know he is not,” she said, and I had no reason to disbelieve her. “Are we seriously going to argue about trust again?”

“No.” I never came here to argue. “I wanted to see you. I never expected to rock up and see him as a substitute.”

Emma picked imaginary lint on her pencil skirt. “Who is Cherry?”

My tongue tripped over itself as I pondered how to answer. “Why?”

“I saw her name on your phone,” she said, and I inwardly scolded myself. “I felt her fingernail marks on your back, didn’t I?”

Trying to be calm and unruffled, I turned in my seat, inched closer, gripped the back of her headrest and kissed the spot beneath her ear, feeling her pulse on my lips. “I am sorry.”

“Why?” Her nose grazed mine as she searched for answers in my eyes. “You are not my boyfriend. I have no say in what you do in your spare time.”

“All I want to do in myspare timeis you,” I half-joked, and her lips almost cracked into a smile. “Cherry is a friend. A friend I slept with from time to time. That changed recently.”

“Hugo is a friend. A friend I haveneverslept with,” she tried to appease me. “That will never change.”

My hand moved from the headrest to her neck. “Are you not all hot for the surfer? Is it the man’s Jesus sandals, and his novelty boxer briefs?”

“What?” She laughed weakly. “Must you be so judgemental?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t be me otherwise.” My finger drew a heart on the nape of her neck. “That could change, by the way. Just say the words, and I am yours.”

Emma’s hand slid along my forearm until our hands touched. Interlacing our fingers, she brought my wrist to her lips and kissed me there, then her eyes, so green and intense, came back to me. “You might need to spell it out for me.”

“I could be your man,” I rasped, and she sucked in a jagged breath. “Come on, sweetheart. We have danced around this for long enough. Let’s make it official and work toward a serious relationship. I know what I want. You. Only you. Every day, for as long as you will have me.”

Emma’s breathing quickened. “You mean that?”

I drew a cross over my chest.

“You will break my heart.”

“You will break mine first.”

“Lies.” She wiped the smile from her lips. It was almost as if nothing had the power to destroy her happiness, but darkness soon crept in and slammed her with guilt. All it took was her reflection in the window to bring tears to her eyes. She did not cry, though. She blinked them back, thinking I hadn’t noticed, unzipped her handbag and uprooted her phone. “Do you want to spend a few days at my place? I know you have to work, but I booked time off to do some Christmas shopping. It’ll be nice to have fun with Dominic until you get back. Maybe I can take him on a trip to Harrods? I know you like that store. Or is it Selfridges? I am still learning.”

My heart sank to the pit of my stomach.

Emma mentioned my son, Dominic.

Her, in the same room as my little boy, is revolutionary, a monumental breakthrough.

Juggling my personal life and work life is tough, and lately, I have prioritised this woman to compensate for the lost time. It’s all been about her, every day, every night, and that’s fine because it’s new and fresh. It’s finding our way back to each other. But if I can have quality time with Emma and Dominic, collectively and separately, it will ease the pressure of facilitation and obligation.

“Christmas shopping in November?” Yes, I played down the scenario of her and my son in the same room together again. “Christ, I thought Alexa was bad.” Mrs Warren ordered a box of personalised baubles the other day for three hundred and ninety pounds a pop. I swear, I better see some gold-plated stars in those showy trinkets. “It’s too early to buy presents. Now, I feel pressured to go out and buy you a huge gift.” My hands smoothed along the circumference of the steering wheel. “Do you know what the men will say to me when they find out? They will call me pussy-whipped. It’s not a good look, sweetheart.”

Emma’s shoulders straightened. “You went off on a tangent.”

“I did,” I said without shame. “What I really wanted to say is that I’d love to stay with you for a couple of days and that seeing you and my boy together, especially in the morning, might just make me the happiest man in the world.” My throat swelled. “Is that okay, though? You and him? I don’t want to force or pressurise the situation.”

“It’s more than okay.” She sounded certain, but I had reservations. “Honestly, Big Guy. I was going to text you about it earlier. Then, you showed up and beat me to it. I have it all figured out. If you bring the pram, I will take him on the bus for a tour of the city. He can help me pick up some gifts before we swing by the supermarket to buy snacks. We can camp in the living room and watch movies until we fall asleep.” Her rambling came to a halt, and then she inhaled, held it, and exhaled to collect scattered thoughts. “Maybe if you don’t finish work too late, I can have a kiss goodnight.”

“You can have that right now,” I said before stealing a kiss, our tongues meeting for passionate caress. Her fingers touched my cheek, gentle and exploratory, as her hand slid to the back of my neck and her body somehow shifted closer until she fell into my lap and straddled my thighs. It was too quick, her innocuous instinct to come to me, and every muscle and nerve ending inside of me pulled in opposite directions. But I reminded myself why I am here, who she is, and the importance of us, and slowly, almost naturally, I welcomed her with the wholeheartedness of a devoted man.

This is Emma.

This is us.

It’s all I had wanted since the moment I realised she was the voice I wanted to hear in the morning, the smile I wanted to see in the night, the person I had to hear moaning my name when I finally took her to bed. There is no one else, not anymore, not even for a night of meaningless fun, stupidity and forgetfulness. I am all in. No holds barred for a future with this woman.

Emma’s tongue danced with mine for what felt like an eternity before her lips moved to the tip of my nose. She kissed me there, then on the bridge, the crease between my knitted brows and my temples in a symphony of unreserved admiration. “You make me happy, Big Guy,” she whispered against my lips as her forehead lowered to mine and her arms locked around my shoulders. “I never want this feeling to end.”

“It doesn’t have to.” My hands caressed the bountiful swells of her arse, and her hips rolled forward without conscious control. “I am so fucking hard.”

Her lips paid homage to my jaw. “I know.”

Our first time will not be in a car.

“Have you eaten?” My fingers crawled up her back. “I have a key to The Grape and Vine. Compliment me enough, and I might cook for you.”

“Isn’t it a bit late to eat?” She sat back on her haunches. “I normally go home after work and fall straight into bed.”

“It’s never too late for decent fodder.” Lifting her off my lap, I placed her on the passenger seat and adjusted my trousers to give my hard-on some room to breathe. “Come on. Live a little. Tell me that you don’t want to see what all the hype is about.”

“The restaurant does have an impeccable reputation.” Slipping the seatbelt across her chest, she buckled up. “But you are not a chef. So, I won’t hold my breath.”

“Correct.” Revving the engine, I disengage the handbrake. “However, I am still pretty decent in the kitchen. I can make a mean steak. I perfected the art of beans on toast. Christ, I am a master of cheese. Ask nicely. I will grate the cheddar.”

“So, I have the opportunity to dine at The Grape and Vine, where they serve scallops and ravioli, and you expect me to overindulge in Heinz Beans and Cathedral City. Big Guy, I am sold.” Her cheeks were rosy and bespattered with beauty spots. “You are lucky that I am a cheap and cheerful date.”

“Hey, I might be able to find some leftover dessert in the fridge?” Glimpsing in the wing mirror, I steered onto the main road, and the Bentley vehicles came to life in the background, headlights flashing in the rear-view mirror. “And if you are extra grateful, I can serve a glass of wine. How does that sound?”

Emma’s eyes closed briefly. “Perfect.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Bleu

Elijah Smith’s failure to commit to a relationship precipitated the alternative strategy of returning to the Jones Estate, where the main house of regal magnificence accommodated the owner, his beloved son and the hired help, and the commodious outbuildings homed stone-faced security guards, unfriendly housekeepers, trained chefs, proud gardeners and service technicians.

Mr Jones’ superficial standards of living separated the estate into two different worlds: rich versus poor. If you wore fancy clothes and had serious sterling in the bank, you had an invitation to the main house and a seat at the big boy’s table. If you scuttled around in cheap frocks and counted pennies in your purse, you stayed in a separate building and had no business in the man’s private space.

Overpowered by musings of nostalgia, I constantly caught myself looking at the main house with regret. I once lived in the art of bespoke. I had a luxurious bedroom in the East Wing with beautiful garden views and picturesque skies.

Plush cushions and faux fur bedecked the king-size bed. Seductive dark hues papered the walls. Lush rugs spread across undulated marble floors. Modern furniture with gold accents stored belongings. Private bathroom facilities provided hours of replenishing downtime.

The bedroom epitomised architectural splendour-much like the rest of the estate if you omit the servants’ quarters-and it used to belong to me. It was all mine: maximised space, sensational opulence and rightful solitariness.

I lost everything overnight, thanks to the owner’s scornful sidepiece: Emma, the blabbermouth who had to insert herself into other people’s business and cause problems.

I wonder how much Emma gloated over the successful exclusion of Dominic’s former nanny. She probably rubbed her hands together, the sly, manipulative cow.

Mr Jones threw me into the street and onto the cold floor like a worthless vagabond. And to think he attempted to kill me because of her crocodile tears.

Unbelievable.

Unforgivable.

Emma will most certainly have her comeuppance. After all, I still had a key to the woman’s flat. I am only biding my time before I go around there and reciprocate emotional damage.

I longed for the day of return, where I’d roam the halls in the main house freely and easily in the absence of security and housemates. I did not belong with the cleaners, scrubbing dirty dishes, buffing marble floors and folding clean laundry. I had no reason to be in the kitchen, cooking for his lordship and the camaraderie of syndicate men.

Ideservedluxuriousness.

I wanted the East Wing.

No. Iwantedthe West Wing.

The master bedroom.

Mabel, the wrinkled, rotund nanny, with her hideous taste in fashion and her innate prowess to abate others, had gained control of my old place and my old job.

Mabel, the bedroom thief, lounging on my sheets and relaxing in my chairs, is permitted to roam the estate without an array of sentinels watching her every move.

Mabel, the complacent scrounger, is the person in the nursery and playroom, having fun with Dominic.

To thinkI had to loan that gorgeous king-size bed to someone so rude and disrespectful.

To thinkI had to share Dominic with such a disdainful human being.

Mabel, I wouldn’t get too comfortable in my shoes.

I slept on the right side of the courtyard’s annexe building with Edith, the household affairs manager, and the mirror image brunettes, Iris and Lilith. Gilbert, the cantankerous chef, and Jonah, the cute, able-bodied landscape gardener and swimming pool service technician, also slept here, but on the left side of the annexe building.

Everyone shared the tiled bathroom, fitted kitchen, spacious living room and smallish dining room.

It was impossible to avoid housemates at any time of day. There is always nuisances skulking about, which is particularly maddening for someone who loathed people with a passion.

Privacy is a thing of the past, so I mostly stayed in the bedroom, where it is peaceful and less stressful.

I had a box room, which contained a cottage-style single bed, a freestanding double wardrobe and a bedside table to match the chest of drawers.

The small room with dirty, frosted glass windows resembled a prison cell without metal bars and bolted doors. What’s worse is the window barely opened. When I tried to force the rusty hinges to budge during the stuffy hour of midnight, the wooden frame cracked, splintered, and threatened to break. I settled for a table fan I bought two weeks ago, when shopping at The Brunswick Centre, to compensate for the lack of oxygen and fresh air.

I had eyes on me whenever I ventured through the aesthetically manicured gardens that belonged to the owner. Mr Jones’ loyal subjects did not trust me. If I got too close to the main house, they’d step out from the shadows and simply stare. It was the type of death stare predators gave prey before they attacked.

Alas, I had the same problem when in the company of ex-co-workers. They tolerated me at best, dipping heads when I entered a room or grunting when I asked a question.

I was suddenly beneath them, not worthy of their time, patience or attention.

If I joined unlikely friends at the dining table for dinner, I ate mutely, listening as they talked about matters of trivialities.

Gilbert was the head cook, the Master of Culinary exquisiteness, and he despised me and the very ground I walked upon, so I was lucky to be served the same warm, hearty meals alongside everyone else.

If Gilbert had his way, I’d eat leftovers from out of the bin or starve to death. He practically threw bowls of vegetable stew at me, never offering home-cooked bread.

Most nights, I sat alone in the safeness of my bedroom, reading old books I had found on the cherrywood bookcase in the foyer, whereas the others got comfortable in the living room, imbibing non-alcoholic wine and digesting dark chocolate puritanically. I never received an invitation to enjoy small doses of pleasure with them or to carouse until the early hours, not that I’d welcome the reluctance of friendships.

I have been a lone wolf for as long as I can remember.

I did not needfakefriends or their bullshit.

But there is always a silver lining.

Jonah had taken it upon himself to knock on my bedroom door one evening, having sat in the other room, wondering if the outcast needed to see a friendly face. He felt sorry for me, I guess. He put a glass of fizz on the bedside table, where the lamp glowed, and asked if I’d like to help him clean the pool the following morning.

As I had nothing better to do, I arranged to meet Jonah by the pool house before sunrise.

I don’t think I slept a wink that night. I was over-excited about the prospect of male company, specifically a stunningly handsome male with fine features: olive-skinned, brown-haired and dark-eyed.

Jonah is beautiful. I can’t believe it has taken me so long to notice. Yes, I thought about him thoroughly before sleep took precedence over daydreaming.

The day I set off to meet Jonah, he came prepared with warm coffees, fresh pastries and a sneaky joint for us to share.

I had gone without weed since returning to the estate, so every marijuana-infused inhale had the desired effect. My body felt like a bag of weightless feathers as the numbness seeped into my joints and controlled the overactive facet of my brain.

Jonah had a slightly rugged quality. He mostly dressed in faded denim jeans, stark white polo shirts and backwards-facing ball caps. He is the complete opposite of my ex-employer, who would not be seen dead in anything other than tailored suits and leather shoes.

Mr Jones is about designer labels. In contrast, Jonah liked simplicity and affordability.

I wasn’t much help for Jonah the morning I promised to be of service. I sat crossed-legged on the garden chair, observing as he removed debris from the pool, swept leaves off the deck and pumped chemicals into the water. He seemed to enjoy his job. He worked tirelessly, without complaint, and seldom took a break.

It was seven thirty a.m. when I spotted one of the morning guards by the dilapidated stables of non-existent horses. I recognised the conscientious man from when I used to pass him in the grand foyer en route to the kitchen with Dominic, but I could not identify him with an actual name.

I know the guard remembered me, too, because raw recognition was ablaze in his hawk-like eyes as he stared at me from across the garden, making me feel utterly powerless and unsettled.

Jonah noticed the guard’s sour look of disapprobation, too. He decided to finish pool duties later, took my elbow and led me back to the annexe building.

Housekeeping occupied the kitchen, which meant I had to sneak through the vestibule at the end of the hall to avoid awkwardness.

We found ourselves locked in my bedroom that day, Jonah and I, laughing foolishly at our stealthy efforts until humour died down and serious chit-chat commenced.

Perhaps Jonah will be a good, reliable friend in the future.

Time will tell, I am sure.

Everyone’s overt dislike granted hours of unchaperoned leisure time. I left the estate on a regular basis to visit the gym to get some form of exercise, to dine at nearby restaurants and eat my weight in carbohydrates, and to swing by the local town centre to buy new clothes, shoes and handbags.

Elijah always looked pleased to see me, especially if Celeste was out of town with her husband and boredom got the better of him. He sulked in her absence, though, torturing himself with distressing nightmares of the married couple in bed together, kissing passionately or having rampant sex.

I had to hold my tongue, which is uncharacteristic because I am not afraid to give people a piece of my mind or tell someone exactly how I feel. However, I did have a soft spot for the doctor. Hurting his feelings is not an avenue I wished to go down. Inwardly, I lectured him relentlessly about the woman who wanted the best of both worlds, but I never shot him down, not when he was already depressed.

Celeste is never going to leave her rich husband or her affluent life, nor will she give up stolen hours with the doctor. Elijah is a fantasy, an escape for the greedy bitch. She will juggle both men until one of them grows a backbone and slams the door in her smug-looking face.

Elijah did not want a serious relationship with anyone, including me, because his heart belonged to another, but broken-heartedness never prevented hours of uninhibited sex with the fiery redhead he hated to love.

It was the best part of my week, walking through the man’s door and falling into his waiting arms. We very rarely made it up the stairs into the bedroom. We fucked hard in the living room, on the cold floor, over the coffee table and on the sofa, and then we lain in each other’s arms, tangled and sweaty, discussing the shambles that is our lives.

As much as I loved to see Elijah, I never stayed the night. I had to return to the estate, just in case Mabel or Edith became suspicious of my whereabouts and snitched to their boss. I know they will celebrate if Mr Jones sends me away for good.

The old pair had a vendetta against me. I see them gossiping over a mug of English tea in the courtyard.

They talked in collusion to eliminate pests and irritants (that would be me, by the way).

I think they’d come for me in the night and wash their hands of me if they could get away with it.

I have yet to determine which mare is worse: the wise old nanny or the watchful manager of household affairs.

Both women are threatened by me. I am not even sure what I did to offend them so much. All I know is I had to avoid them and watch my back.

Still, I smiled at the old duo whenever we happened to cross paths. Jealous people did not exist in my world or put a cinch in my impenetrable armour. I am stronger than them, physically and mentally. And I am always ahead of enemies.

Mr Jones made a rare appearance yesterday morning. He booked a sonogram appointment in a private hospital. The prenatal paternity test would come shortly after.

When Mr Jones, cold and distant, stood in front of me, searching for a smidgen of deceit in my eyes, I had no reason to put up a fight or argue. I nodded acquiescently, agreeing to be dressed and ready for our drive to the hospital.

My confidence unnerved him. Another child is not on the agenda for a man with very little time on his hands.

It takes a certain level of crazy to understand a psychotic person’s thought process, so when his dark eyes lowered to the small of my stomach, I knew what he was thinking-what he contemplated doing to me. He considered the elimination of our child. He debated whether or not he should listen to the devil on his shoulder by ending this madness with cold-blooded murder.

If I died, the baby would die, and then he’d get to live his life as though it never happened.

The voice of reasoning triumphed, though. He stormed out of my bedroom, his leather shoes striking the hardwood floor in the hallway, and I got to live for another day.

I am glad Mr Jones never did something stupid, but I hated the sight of his back as he walked away from me. He’s made no effort to dedicate time to me since I moved back to the estate.

Hell, I never saw him from one week to the next because he worked all the hours under the sun.

The personalised Bentley is never parked outside with the rest of the syndicate vehicles.

I couldn’t help but wonder if the man ever stopped to sleep. If he did rest in between work, doting on the Warren family and fucking his way through the female population, he did it elsewhere, in another woman’s bed, and it sickened me to the marrow of my soul.

It should be me on his arm in public.

It should be me in his bed at night.

It should be me he made love to until the early hours of wintry mornings.

For now, I will ignore the man’s wayward tendencies. I will let women pleasure him and keep him occupied. But once the baby is born, I expect exclusivity and respect.

I had to be patient, though. I had to stick to the plan. As it stands, I am only at phase two.

Now, where was I? Ah, the doctor. I told Elijah I worked in a three-star hotel and rented a two-bedroom apartment in Knightsbridge when I made a pit stop at his house yesterday afternoon. He was pleased for me. He asked if he could come over to see my new place and offered to buy ingredients to cook for me, and I declined, right before I informed him of the pregnancy.

To say Elijah was shocked would be an understatement. He looked distraught, with shortness of breath, begging for the child to belong to another.

My heart fractured.

Yes, I am aware of the man’s current situation of unrequited love, but to outright dismiss the chance at fatherhood hurt more than I cared to admit out loud.

Nonetheless, I cooed to him softly, explaining the dilemma I had on my hands: I did not know who fathered my child.

Yes, the lie rolled off my tongue.

I have never known a man to be so accommodating in the wake of devastation.

Elijah drove to the care home for one of the nurses to take a blood sample and returned an hour later with an envelope.

I had a yellow-top tube of the man’s blood.

Elijah is unperturbed by the impending paternity results. He is adamant Mr Jones is the father of my unborn child. He had the nerve to express as much as he poured himself a shot of bourbon.

For a doctor, he really is pathetically stupid. I almost pitied him.

I knew this day would come. Mr Jones is not a stupid man. Of course, he’d want proof of the baby’s existence and demand a paternity test.

Elijah’s blood sample is ready to send to the laboratory for testing. The vial, having been stored at the back of the refrigerator all night, is now hidden at the bottom of my handbag.

My phone vibrated on the bed.

A withheld number.

I know it’s Lynette. It’s what she did when I ignored her. She privatised her number to trick me into answering. I can return her call or text her later once the coast is clear.

Slathering my arms with emollient cream, I layered my face with makeup and dressed elegantly in pursuit of graceful pulchritude.

Mr Jones admired Mrs Warren’s glamorous taste in fashion. I suppose, with a few skimpy outfits and high heels, I could learn a thing or two from her.

To settle one’s jittery nerves, I headed to the shared kitchen for a spot of breakfast and a mug of sweet tea.

Thirty minutes ago, everyone had vacated the annexe building to start their daily chores in the main house.

Whilst I had the place to myself, I fried bacon and eggs and sliced half an avocado.

My mouth watered as the butter melted in all its rich, unctuousness across the toast.

Pouring myself a cup of tea, I carried everything to the wooden table and tucked in with delight.

I had only eaten two morsels of the avocado when Jonah, bare-chested and bare-footed in chequered pyjama bottoms, pushed through the Tudor-style door.

“Morning,” he said in a gruff, sleepy voice. “I thought I smelt bacon. Are there any spare rashes going?”

I pointed at the stove, where a frying pan was balanced on the switched-off hob.

“Sweet.” Grabbing a porcelain plate, he picked up the frying pan and scraped bacon onto a pile of fluffy scrambled eggs. He ruined his breakfast with a river of brown sauce. “You look nice.”

I wore a brand-new faux fur coat, skinny jeans, ankle boots and a high-neck bodysuit.

“Do you have plans?” Yanking out a chair, he sat at the table and seasoned the eggs with salt and pepper. “Earth to Alice.” His hand waved in my face. “Have you lost your voice or something?”

Clearing my throat, I went in for the penultimate piece of toast. “I have a scan appointment.”

“Huh?” He paused with forked scrambled eggs in his mouth. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that? I could have sworn you mentioned a scan appointment.”

I swigged at the tea mug. “I did.”

“Are you joking?” His eyebrows crashed together. “Since when did you get pregnant?”

Tapping my chin with a pointer finger, I poured at him. “Since I bent over and let your boss fuck the living shit out of me.”

His fork dropped onto the plate with a loud clunk. “Am I dreaming?”

I glimpsed over my left shoulder, then my right shoulder. “I don’t think so.”

“You slept with the boss?” His voice was a mere whisper. “As in, you had sex with Mr Jones?”

“Why are you surprised?” Scratching the nape of my neck, I put the mug of tea on the table. “He sleeps with all of the female workers.”

“What?” To such careful observation, he leaned over the table and palmed my forehead. “Are you feeling okay? Do you have a fever? You sound a tad bit delusional.”

I slapped his hand away. “I am not delusional.”

“I disagree. You must have taken a trip to la-la land to believe any of the staff can get that close to the boss.” He chewed on a rasher of bacon. “Shit, I don’t think he’s said two words to me since I started working on the estate. As for the girls? Go ahead and ask them. They will laugh at such rumours. Yeah, I think Iris has a crush on him. But he’s never looked at her unprofessionally-or any of the others. Trust me. I would know. I talk to everyone. I am a shameless scandalmonger. Nobody is in bed with the boss. Well, except for you, it would seem.”

I stifled a proud smile.

So, I am the only woman on the estate that he’s entertained. It means I still have a shot at a relationship with him.

My hands went to my stomach protectively.

Bradley, Dominic, the baby, and I can be a family.

“I can’t believe you are pregnant.” Jonah swigged coffee in between bites of buttery toast. “You sure know how to keep a secret…” Then, with an audible gulp, he placed the mug on the table and eased back in the rickety wooden chair. “Sir.”

My eyes bounced to the kitchen doorway.

Mr Jones stood there, wearing a royal blue three-piece suit, watching our little exchange through judgmental eyes. “Alice.”

“Good morning,” I said with a chipper smile. “I trust you slept well.”

“Yes, under the circumstances.” Mr Jones held the door open and, with a conciliatory hand gesture, stood back for me to enter the hallway first. “Jonah, I expect the brambles by the stables to be gone by the time I get back.”

“Of course.” Pushing to his feet, Jonah began to clear the mess on the table. “Anything else?”

Brad blinked aloofly. “Just stay out of my way.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “You are supposed to be pregnant. Concentrate onthat, not the gardener.”

My insides twisted with excitement.

Am I right to assume the man sounded jealous?

The realisation of what I needed to do struck me like a tsunami.

My fingers twitched to get the pen and notebook out of my bag so that I could amend the game plan. The best way to get under Mr Jones’ skin is to rub Jonah in his face. I will have to pen it down later when prying eyes are out of the way and quiet time ensued.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Mr Jones drove to a private hospital, but he never uttered a word, not in the car, not in the waiting area, not when I had blood taken, not in the sonogram room. He deliberately kept his distance, withdrawn and unforthcoming, studying the ultrasound machine with folded arms and reluctant eyes. He did not care for the baby’s heartbeat or the beautiful image on the screen. He never even asked for a scan photo when the sonographer handed printouts to me with a congratulatory smile.

“Wait here,” the bossy man ordered before he disappeared into the room I had previously gone in to give blood to the nurse.

I obeyed orders, lingering by visitors’ chairs with the most enormous lump in my throat. I had lost the ability to swallow, to breathe. My anxieties were through the roof.

Five minutes later, Mr Jones exited the room, rolling down his shirt sleeve and tidying up his image. “Let’s bounce.”

“Wait,” I said, and his eyes rolled back. “I need to use the ladies’ room.”

“Seriously?” His arms stuffed into the suit jacket’s sleeves angrily. “You couldn’t have done that whilst I had my blood done?”

I gave him a look of recalcitrance. “I will only be in there for five minutes.”

“Fine.” Glimpsing at his wristwatch, he sighed heavily. “Make it quick.”

He almost walked away.

“Where are you going?” I asked, latching onto the back of his suit jacket with fake neediness. “I don’t want you to leave me.”

“Alice.” Peeling my fingers off his jacket, he turned to face me. “I am only going to the car. I am not leaving you. Stop acting like a child and use the bathroom.”

With pleasure, I thought. “Okay.”

Mr Jones strode down the hall. He never looked back or lifted his gaze from the phone in his hands. He is texting someone, and whoever that someone might be, sure knew how to steal all of his attention.

The nurse, with a clipboard tucked under her arm, came out of the room in search of her next patient.

Double-checking my surroundings, I dashed through the door and rushed to the stainless-steel station next to the leather patient’s bed.

I could not breathe properly or think of anything else, only the switch over and scarcity of time.

Carefully unsticking the clear bag’s seal, the one labelledMr Jones, I extracted the yellow-top tube of thick, crimson blood and stuffed it in my handbag.

Damn, I made it look easy.

Replacing the stolen vial with Elijah’s blood, I slipped the bag at the back of the basket next to my sample in preparation for laboratory testing.

It was done. I pulled it off. I put a plan in motion and nailed it.

Heart pounding ferociously in my chest, I made sure everything looked how the nurse had left it and retreated with cautious footsteps.

My life is months away from changing for the better. I breathed for what felt like the first time in years.

A cold breeze blew through my hair as I descended the concrete hospital steps to the car park.

Mr Jones is by the parked Bentley, smoking a blunt. He looked at me, his eyes sweeping from the boots on my feet to the gemstone necklace around my neck. His interest had the power to turn me into mush.

“Get in the car,” he instructed, and I rounded the bonnet. “I will drop you back to the estate before I go to work. And Alice?”

My hand stilled the door handle.

“If I find out that all of this unnecessary stress is an act of trickery?” His lips grimaced into a snarl. “I will shove a nine millimetre down your throat and blow your fucking brains out.”

My heart fell to the floor, but I looked at him with the unwavering eyes of a confident woman.

His brow arched in what appeared to be a challenge.

It is rare to find such a formidable man. Now that I have him, I will never let him go. He doesn’t know it yet, but I am the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

A soft smile graced my lips. “I do not plan to deceive anyone, Mr Jones.”

Blowing out a veil of smoke, he threw the joint on the ground, opening the driver’s side door. “I will be the judge of deception.”

Mr Jones ducked into the car, fired the engine and revved impatiently.

Losing the smile dancing on my lips, I lowered myself onto the passenger seat, clicked the seatbelt in place and inhaled the sweet scent of victory.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Emma

Decorating the flat with sleigh bells, scented candles, candy canes, hand-knitted stockings, pre-lit garlands, and snow-flocked wreaths is not how I imagined the festive season.

Initially, I planned a low-key Christmas with a small popup tree for the handful of gifts I had wrapped and labelled, but Dominic’s goggle-eyed excitement challenged my inner Scrooge.

Yes, I surrendered to the pucker-lipped boy. He already knew how to play the system to get what he wanted.

Little Guy loved shopping far more than the average toddler, stealing traditional nutcrackers and embellished baubles at Harrods, tearing through decorative crackers and unboxing advent calendars in Selfridges.

I dreaded the bill when handing tampered merchandise to the cashier.

I will never get my head around the prodigality of unrestrained wealth, not when I can buy similar items at discount stores for half the price.

However, Big Guy slipped aCouttsbank card in my purse last week and offered to pay for everything, whateverhis sondesired, whateverIdesired, without limitation. No questions asked.

Yet, when Terrence stacked purchases in the boot of the Bentley, I felt like a freeloader. I am not cash-rich. I do not earn six or seven figures. I struggled to make ends meet and lived within my means. So, the pale pink silk kimono robe with lace trim and matching camisole and short set remained in the green with gold logo gift box at the bottom of the wardrobe next to the green dress and gold sandals he’d once bought for me.

Maybe someday, I will muster the courage to wear the designer labels the generous man had bestowed on me. Until then, I pretended the world of lavishness was all but a mere figment of my imagination.

I bespangled the six-foot tree in the living room with twinkling lights, glittering ribbons and a cluster of trinkets and baubles whilst listening to Christmas music on the radio.

Little Guy helped by removing ornaments from branches and stashing them in the washing machine.

He thought I never noticed the missing candy canes or the shredded tinsel.

It was the terror’s idea of fun, running up and down the hall, half-dressed and sockless, to hide accessories. I let him believe he had the better of me, acting shocked and confused as I searched for (not so cleverly concealed) misplacements.

Two weeks later, I am still finding lost property around the flat.

I woke up with a melted piece of chocolate stuck to my back the other morning.

I stepped on pine cones in the shower.

I found the nativity set in the fridge.

Dominic stayed at the estate when I had work. When I had time off, which is a minimum of two days a week-an extra day if Laurence is in a good mood-Little Guy slept at the flat. He had a travel cot with plentiful stuffed animals in the corner of my bedroom. His happy voice in the morning is the best alarm clock.

We started our mornings with breakfast and thirty minutes of preschool animated television, followed by quick baths and a lengthy stroll to nearby parks.

Dominic loved to feed the ducks. He’d jump into the lake and swim with them if I allowed it. He also enjoyed darting across fields for me to chase him. I am ashamed to admit I belly laughed when the pair of us tumbled head-first into spears of overgrown grass.

This little boy, this tiny human being with the happiest of smiles, left me in a state of exhilaration whenever we set off on an adventure. He liked to hold my hand and walk beside me in well-enclosed areas. He used my body as a climbing frame when we stopped at a local cafe for a spot of lunch. He blew raspberries on my cheek and pushed crustless sandwiches in my mouth when amused. He touched my ear lobe for stimulation when tired. He never settled in the cot without cuddles.

Dominic had to be rocked to sleep with a pacifier in his mouth and the corner of a cotton blanket on his cheek. Even when he dozed off, I stood by his bed, holding him for a while longer. I had this nurturing urge toprotecthim, tomotherhim, tolovehim, and then, having settled him for the night, I’d go to my son’s bedroom, lie on the bed and cry on the pillow that no longer smelt like him.

Yes, I attended weekly bereavement meetings and accepted life where Carter is not there to make me smile, but I will never, not even in death, be able to fill the void in my heart.

A mother’s love is forever and unconditional.

I will be incomplete until I turn this dark corner and see him staring back at me. I have dreamt it repeatedly, running frantically through shadows to the sound of his echoing voice. Then, when the fog lifts and I see the light, I wake up in a bath of sweat, wondering how the story ends for us.

Even though Dominic’s father fell asleep with me, I rarely woke up to see him in bed, as he left early to meet the brothers.

Brad always checked in, though. He texted throughout the day, asking for updates on his son. He called at midnight to see if I wanted anything to eat before he drove over. His meal times were all over the place. I had never consumed convenient food in the early hours before. But I agreed, nonetheless. It meant an extra hour with my favourite person.

Big Guy showered at different intervals throughout the night. I used to take it personally, the man’s incessant need to wash fifteen minutes after we’d fooled around in bed. It’s like he had to scrub away my touch. But I soon realised that compulsive hygiene traits are the result of post-traumatic stress disorder. He unconsciously adopted repetitive behaviours to reduce stress and anxiety.

As I am familiar with the signs, having gone through vigorous cleanliness routines in the past, I pretended to be clueless when he returned to the bedroom. I rested on my side, waiting for him to crawl into bed behind me.

“You are my reason,” he whispered in my ear once, kissing the nape of my neck as his finger drew patterns on the bottom of my stomach. “I think about you when you are not with me. I can’t stop looking at you when we are together.” He thought I had nodded off when he said it. “You might be it for me, sweetheart.” Then, he rolled to the edge of the bed, his back to me, and drifted into dreamland. He did this with one hand beneath the pillow, where a Glock pistol stayed in his tightly gripped possession throughout the night.

So much, I wanted to curl behind him, to hold him lovingly, to feel the warmth of his skin on mine as I surrendered to sleep, but I never pushed boundaries. He warned me in the past not to touch him in the dark. I respected him too much to overstep.

Something else I have started to love about Big Guy is his love for Dominic.

Brad showered and dressed almost noiselessly in the morning to avoid any disturbance.

I am a light sleeper, though. I might not open my eyes, but I listen to the man tiptoeing through the flat.

He never, even if strapped for time, forgot to kiss the top of his son’s head. He had to say goodbye, whether Dominic was awake to witness his token of affection or not. He needed to remind Little Guy every day that he loved him.

The bond between father and son is heart-warming and tear-inducing. It made me feel giddy inside. It uncaged butterflies in my tummy, more so than the man’s whispered kiss to my cheek straight after. Not that I had any complaints. It was nice to see that he cared for me, too. But I came second as I should. I don’t think he truly knows how wonderful he is.

I have always worked. So long, gruelling hours on my feet per customer demands is not new to me. However, lately, I have been disinclined to put in any overtime. Hell, Laurence is lucky if I am at the restaurant on time.

I wanted to be rebellious and throw the towel in the ring, tell the man I quit, walk out of the door and never look back. I could concentrate on myself and pursue a dream or ambition.

I guess I did that sometimes. I stood by the South Bank of the River Thames at night with the Canon strapped around my chest, snapping shots of unsuspecting tourists as they promenaded along the lively strip in sweet euphoria.

I captured random incidents, chance encounters and romantic moments through the eye of the lens. Then I deleted every image as I had no purpose for them.

Quinn knocked on my door one morning sans coffee. It was her shortest visit to date. She never sat on thewelcome mator told me about her weekly antics. Instead, she posted a note through the letter box and exited the apartment building quicker than she had entered.

Emma,

You are my best friend, and I love you like a sister, but I can’t do this to myself anymore.

I come by every week, hoping to catch a glimpse of you, praying that you will open the door and welcome me back into your life with open arms.

I long for an invitation to your new place, to sit down with you and drink coffee, to talk about life, happy memories, bad memories, funny memories and sad memories.

I wait for a call that never happens and a text message that never appears.

You are stubborn and unwilling to meet me halfway. I know you are in pain. I understand. I feel the same pain when looking at Carter’s sleepover box in the spare bedroom.

I cry every day in the wake of his absence because I miss him, too.

Did you have to shutmeout, though?

What about yourbrother, Ben?

Did hedeservethe cold shoulder treatment?

Have you stopped to think, for even one second, how Carter’s disappearance has affected him? He drinks rum almost every day, by the way. I have found him passed out on the bathroom floor many a night subsequent to intoxication.

Numbing himself toforgetis the only way he knows how to get through thepain.

Losing hisnephew,the boy he raised like ason, is hard enough. But losing hisbestfriend-hissister, histwin-is the catalyst for self-destruction.

He misses you so much, Emma.

If you can’t find the strength to make it right between us, then don’t. I might not like it, but I can live with it. Please find the strength for Ben, though. Heneedshis better half more than ever.

So I ask kindly, if youloveyour brother, if you stillcareabout him, reach out and, if nothing else, let him know that you areokay. He has spent most of his life protecting you. It is all he knows.

Put him out of his misery.

End his suffering.

I beg you.

Always your friend,

Quinn.

Quinn’s letter is in the drawer of the bedside table. I read it every night before bed to remind myself of what an awful person I am.

I have unsent text messages on my phone, an array of excuses and bullshit apologies.

One for each of my old friends: Quinn, Ethan and Wyatt.

I even typed a draft for Stephanie.

Benjamin’s is the only message I struggle to type, though. I cannot get past the first sentence without bursting into tears.

I have too much to say.

A small text is nowhere near enough. And it is a piss poor effort on my part.

He did deserve better. I am his sister, and the best I can come up with is “forgive me.”

Really?

Where is the heartfelt apology?

Where is the explanation?

What valid reason did I have to shut him out?

Me: Ben, I love you so much…

Delete.

Me: Hey, Big Brother (technically, younger by eight seconds!), I hope you’re okay.

Delete.

Me: Ben, I want to send you a message, but I don’t know what to say.

Delete.

Me: Okay, I am going to babble through this, so please be patient with me.

Delete.

Me: You are not okay. You miss Carter. I miss Carter.

Delete.

Me: It hurts to talk about Carter.

Delete.

Me: I bought a bottle of wine tonight on the way home from work. It’s something I have been meaning to do for a while. Don’t ask me why I thought this was a good idea because I don’t have a reasonable answer. I just saw actors on the television ordering champagne and stuff and wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

I decided to try white wine because of the fancy-looking label (I paid five quid for it), and I might have sipped from the bottle before I got to the flat earlier.

See, I can be a rebel.

Yes, I am drunk!

That’s what rebellious people do when they are depressed. They run for miles on end, work for the minimum wage, steal people’s cats, take photos of strangers and drink alcohol whilst fully clothed in the bathtub for the simple fact that boredom kicks their asses!

This is what happens when Brad and Dominic are not here. I sit alone in the dark, thinking about how lonely I am. At least, when they visited, I had a reason to smile, laugh and get up in the morning.

It feels good to be needed by them. Or, more specifically, Little Guy. I get to take care of him, feed him, bathe him and play with him.

Ben, I only wrapped presents because he loved the sound of Sellotape tearing as I stuck bows on top of penned labels. Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have unpacked the carrier bags.

Don’t worry, brother.

Dominic will not replace the son I have lost.

But I am hopelessly in awe of him.

And what’s even scarier is that I think I am falling in love with his father.

I am not okay, Ben.

I. Am. Not. Okay.

My thumb hovered over the send bubble.

Message deleted.

***

Dominic hurled the nutcracker across the living room. It landed on the floor with a splintering crash, the poor soldier’s arms and legs dispersing underneath the furniture.

Toddling around in stark white ankle socks emblazoned withGucciand a clean disposable nappy, the little mischief maker picked up the nutcracker’s head-what’s left of it, rather-and tried to hang it on the Christmas tree.

When it never worked, he got frustrated, slapping the Hell out of branches, which ruined the meticulously draped lights and embellished baubles.

“Dadda!” The wooden head, an afterthought, took an unplanned flight to the sofa. “Dadda-mum!”

“You are so naughty,” I joked, going to my hands and knees to collect pieces of broken wood. “I liked that nutcracker. He looked good by the fireplace.” His father paid one hundred and forty pounds for that hand-painted decoration. “What did he do to deserve such a punishment?”

Dominic’s arm enveloped my neck as he attempted to climb onto my back.

“Careful.” As I did not want him to fall, I pried his arm down and went to the kitchen to bin the nutcracker. Of course, the small human followed my every move. “We should go for a walk and get some fresh air.”

Whilst dumping damaged ornaments in the bin, I overheard raised voices in the communal garden.

I unlocked the back door, taking the boy’s hand before he did something stupid like scale the balustrade, and stepped outside, the cold, wintry morning harsh on the bare skin of my legs.

A handful of neighbours verbally communicated from their balconies. I passed them a tight-mouthed smile, then spotted Kirk, the old, wrinkled pervert that occupied the ground floor flat, searching for something by the shed, whacking the rickety door with a wooden baseball bat.

“Roger,” kirk called, and a round of snickers segued into the whistling wind. “Where are you? I bought salmon.” One hand slid to his hip. “I know how much you love salmon. Just come out and see me, please.”

My eyes sliced in befuddlement.

“Roger?” Kirk’s legs wobbled as he hunted through the overgrown grass. “Well, what is everyone looking at? If you want to be nosey, come downstairs and help.” The baseball bat aimed at people wildly. “I haven’t seen my cat in weeks. Something is very wrong.”

I glanced at the surrounding flats, where occupants lingered with mugs of tea and coffee.

“Roger?” I asked the young couple sharing a plate of burnt toast, and then my gaze returned to the man who liked to study people’s windows at night as they showered. “Since when did you have more than one cat?”

“I do not,” the grumpy old man chided. “I have one cat, and he is missing.”

“He?” My confusion heightened, whereas my heart shrank in worriment. “I thought…Roger was a female.”

“Yes.He,” the man spat, and the chain-smoker who liked to relax in the rainbow-coloured deckchair on the balcony opposite mine glared knowingly at me. Yes, she knew my secret. I stole a cat that is no longer with us. “I bought him down at the local flea market. He is gone. I know one of you stole him from me. I want him back in this instance.”

Cleo was amalecat namedRoger.

I had never felt more foolish.

Guilt slithered bone deep.

Roger (Cleo) is dead. Someone broke into my flat and tore him limb from limb, then stuffed mutilated fragments in my underwear drawer to send a message, apparently.

I never had the heart to admit the truth, to be honest with Kirk.

“Roger,” Kirk bellowed, and I slowly walked back into the flat with the little man’s tiny hand secured in mine. “Please come home. I miss you…”

Closing the back door, I bolted the lock and chain and drew the beaded curtain across the glass windowpane.

“Okay,” I said whispery, letting the baby rush off down the hall. “I think that’s enough madness for one morning. Let’s get you out of the flat for a couple of hours.”

In the bathroom, I plugged the bath, turned on both of the taps for the accurate temperature and balanced a folded towel on the radiator to ensure it was nice and warm for when Dominic was ready to get out of the water.

Listening to Dominic’s excitable voice as he bounced on my bed, kicking pillows and cushions onto the floor, I paused in the hallway, the wind knocking right out of me.

Carter’s bedroom door is shut.

I blinked rapidly to eliminate tiredness, to check that my eyes were not playing tricks on me.

My son’s door was open this morning when Big Guy left for work. I know because I checked twice when I walked Brad to the front door, kissing him goodbye.

Dominic was tall enough to reach the handle but did not know how to close the doors. In fact, he barely paid attention to doors as they were of no interest to him.

In a momentary haze of perplexity, I carried myself to Carter’s door and glared at the handle.

No, I looked at this door every time I traipsed down the hall. It was definitely open before I took Dominic to the living room to obliterate Christmas decorations.

I entered Carter’s room.

A higher force told me to look around. I checked inside the built-in closet, sweeping through board games and keepsake boxes. I inspected the wardrobe, under the bed and behind the curtains.

What am I looking for? This is silly. I’d know if someone was in here.

Everything is exactly the way it should be. Nothing is out of place. Only the door raised alarm bells.

My back hit the wall in defeat. Perhaps I am overtired. I lost hours of sleep when babysitting Dominic or staying up late with Big Guy.

“What’s happening to me?” I whispered to myself, tugging on the hem of Brad’s oversize T-shirt. It drowned my small frame, and I probably looked ridiculous wearing it, but I loved falling asleep to the masculine scent of him. His cologne lingered on the cotton fibres. “I am losing my mind.”

Or am I right to be concerned?

Yes, I should be very concerned.

My son’s money jar is not on the bedside table.

Panic came at me in waves.

“Terrence,” I yelled as I ran down the hall in a frantic state. “Terrence, I think someone has been inside the flat.” Unlocking the front door, I swung it upon and came face to face with a concerned-looking bodyguard. “Someone-” He shouldered past me, entering the flat with long strides that ate up the narrow space in the hallway. “My son’s door has to stay open.” Locking the front door, just in case Dominic tried to flee the building, I chased Terrence down the hall. “I refuse to believe that I am insane. It’s not the first time it’s happened. I wake up in the middle of the night with the same problem. I keep telling myself that my mind is playing tricks on me. But the money jar is gone.”

In all his suited armour, Terrence strode into my son’s bedroom, the floorboards creaking painfully beneath his heavy footsteps.

The first place he examined was the windowsill. His thumb grazed the seal. He tested the handle with a frown. “There is a slight draught coming through the window.” His tense shoulders sagged with relief. “It’s nothing a bit of silicone cannot fix.”

My head shook in denial.

“Miss Emma.” He took one step forward, and I took one step back. “You don’t look so good. Maybe a glass of water might help.”

“No, Terrence.” My eyes were saturated with tears. “Even if the draught is responsible for the closed door, wouldn’t I hear a loud bang when the wind blew it shut? And what about Carter’s money jar?” I gestured to the bedside table, where the jar of coins and notes used to be. “Everything has to stay the same for when he comes home. He always had the jar by his bed. He liked to count the money before he fell asleep. I would never move it. Never. Someone did this to scare me. I know it.”

“Are you talking about that money jar?” He pointed to the freestanding shelves of model cars. “It’s the one you are looking for, right?”

Carter’s money jar is on the shelf between the Lamborghini and the Porsche. “Terrence, I did not put it there…” Maybe I did, and I can’t remember. No, I am not crazy. “Someone must have moved it.”

“Who?” His mouth twisted with a grimace of regret. “No one comes here, Miss Emma. So, unless you think the baby can scale walls or that Command is out to fuck with your head, I have to question your sanity.”

I flinched as though he had slapped me.

“Look, I don’t want to kick you when you are down, but the only explanation for flyaway objects is you.” He stood there with arms akimbo. “Now, if you believe in ghosts, which is out of my jurisdiction, I will contact a demonologist or a paranormal investigator. Other than that, I don’t know what to say to you.”

I blinked back the tears that were threatening to fall down my cheeks.

“Shall I call Command for you? He might know what to do…” Terrence’s lips thinned sympathetically. “I am sorry, Miss Emma. I wish I could be more helpful…” He thinks I am crazy but offending me is not the solution here. “You drink alcohol sometimes. Maybe you moved the jar and forgot.”

My face heated.

I have invited Terrence inside the flat for both of our benefits. One, I could use the company. Two, I feel sorry for him, standing in the foyer by himself. He declined every time, though. It’s not personal. He had to obey Command. And Command’s order is to safeguard at an unobtrusive distance.

Terrence, mostly, kept an eye on me from the parked Bentley, but when his legs needed a stretch, he’d pace outside in the foyer. At some point over the last few weeks, he must have caught wind of my midnight madness. He probably heard the rants and tears, too, but never mentioned it the next day.

My bodyguard rarely spoke to me. He is a polite gentleman, making idle small talk with me when I left the flat and headed to work. He held doors open for me when I returned with groceries. But he never stepped over the line of professionalism. He had a job to do, and as far as I could tell, he took said job very seriously.

“I only drink now and then,” I explained, not that an ounce of judgement glimmered in his soft eyes. “And when I do, I stay in the bath or on the sofa. I never come into my son’s room when under the influence. My heart is not strong enough during weak instances.” I’d crack and do something stupid if I did. “I have thought about it, though.” The admittance came out as a regretful whisper. “I have imagined myself on Carter’s bed, dropping an empty pill bottle on the floor, falling asleep and never waking up.”

Terrence listened intently.

“The irrational part of my brain insists that I will see him again if I end it all. But then I remind myself that Carter is still out there somewhere. If I kill myself, what will happen to him? He will come home to an empty flat and no mother. I might be sad, but I am not selfish enough to leave him alone in the world.” I gave the winsome man a fraction of a sad smile. “So, the answer to your unspoken question is no. I did not get too drunk one night and rearrange his bedroom. I would never sully his memories when inebriated.”

He stood tall, glaring down at me.

“I might not come back out if I did have a moment or weakness.” People tend to behave illogically when blind drunk. Grief and overconsumption are not a sensible mix. “I stay in my bedroom and cry myself to sleep, which is what mothers do when hiding the truth from their children because they do not want to burden them. My maternal side did not switch off after his disappearance. I behave accordingly, regardless of his absence.”

Terrence placed Carter’s money jar on the bedside table. He unzipped his wallet, took out two fifty-pound notes and dropped them atop the saved cash.

I tasted salty moisture on my lips. “Thank you, Terrence.”

“You are most welcome, Miss Emma.” His large hand, fingers laden with gold rings, squeezed my shoulder. “I will be outside if you need me.”

Terrence’s footsteps retreated down the hall.

Wiping a single tear from my cheek, I walked out of my son’s bedroom with five painstaking steps when an unfamiliar burning sensation knotted the base of my stomach.

I stilled in the hallway, the presence of fear and trepidation replacing grief and despair.

The front door is shut now, so Terrence cannot see me, yet I had an indescribable sense that someone waswatchingme,smilingat me,laughingat me.

Goosebumps rose to the top layer of my skin, the breath of optimism sticking to my lungs.

Benumbed with irrational thoughts, I peered over my shoulder and studied Carter’s room again, the cold, empty place tingling the hair on the nape of my neck.

I am surrounded and protected by some of the most dangerous men in London.

I had a well-equipped bodyguard on standby.

Yet, I felt unsafe in my own home.

Kicking the overturned corner of the rug back into place, I eyed the stack of childhood teddies on top of the wardrobe. I selected the penguin and the crocodile-two stuffed animals Benjamin had won at a carnival when Carter was six-and put them on the bed with careful thought and strategic intent. I made sure their eyes faced the ceiling. Once I arranged the first scene of allurement, I rotated the money jar so that the peeled label was in line with the lamp.

With fake calmness and purposeful emotionlessness, I shut the wardrobe doors and “accidentally” knocked the dressing gown on the floor. I left it there, bridged the gap between the rug and the door and drifted down the hallway with my chin lifted.

In the kitchen, I grabbed one of the chairs, carried it to Carter’s bedroom and wedged it against the door. I don’t care how strong the winds are tonight. There is no way in Hell a draught can move sizable objects or pick up clothes on the floor.

I had to check everything later to be sure the teddies were still in their rightful positions on the bed and the dressing gown was still in a heap on the floor.

Right now, though, Dominic’s fun time was my utmost priority.

Little Guy had a quick bath. He loved bubbles almost as much as he loved splashing me with water. I dressed him for the day, prepared him a bottle of formula milk and waited for him to take a nap before I showered.

Washing conditioner out of my hair, I considered local place centres for Dominic. It’s too cold to visit the park and feed the ducks, so killing time in a ball pit sounded like the perfect play date.

Luxuriated and pampered from head to toe, I stepped out of the bath onto the drenched mat and wrapped a fluffy towel around my body.

Wiping condensation on the wall-mounted mirror, I spurned my reflection, tweezered stray hairs from my brows and swung the bathroom door open.

Stopping dead in my tracks, I encountered a kitchen chair.

It’s thesamechair I wedged by Carter’s door.

My son’s door is closed.

Holding the towel tight to my chest, I walked down the hall, leaving a trail of foamy footsteps behind me.

I came to a halt by the sealed bedroom door.

A chill climbed up and down my spine.

Rubbing my wet hand in the towel, I gripped the handle and eased the door open, the hinges groaning eerily.

The teddies are on the bed where I left them, the money jar is facing the lamp, but the dressing gown is hanging on the corner of the wardrobe door.

I never screamed or panicked.

Inhaling deeply through my nose, I bypassed the chair in the hallway and went straight to the travel cot.

Dominic is asleep, the cotton sheet tangled between his legs, a pacifier suckling in his mouth.

Relieved to see he was safe and unharmed, I smoothed a hand over his head and ran my fingers through his soft curls.

Not bothering to dry, I chucked the towel on the floor, yanked an oversized T-shirt over my head and pulled on a pair of Big Guy’s jogging bottoms.

I sent a text message.

Me: I need you.

Message delivered.

My heart was in my throat.

I refused to move from Dominic’s travel cot. I might not be in danger. All this might be an illusion. But I would never risk it, not when a tiny human depended on me.

My phone vibrated. Big Guy’s name flashed across the screen.

I ended the call

Big Guy: Answer the phone.

Me: I am not sure if it’s safe to do so.

Message read.

Big Guy: What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Me: I think someone is trying to scare me. I leave Carter’s door open on purpose, yet I find it shut daily.

Me: Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night to the same problem.

Me: His money jar was moved to the shelf. I called Terrence in to check. He mentioned a window draught.

Message read.

Me: Big Guy, I know I am not crazy. I put a chair by the door before I went into the shower. When I came out of the bathroom, the chair was in the middle of the hallway. Someone moved it, then closed the door again.

Me: Now, I think this person might be watching me. I don’t know what to do.

Big Guy: Where is my son?

Me: He is asleep in the travel cot.

Big Guy: Where is Terrence?

Me: He was in the foyer when I last checked. He might have gone back to the car.

Message delivered.

Impatiently, I waited for him to reply. The front door knocked two minutes later instead.

“Miss Emma?” Terrence called, but my feet cemented to the floor. “Open the door for me. I have to wait inside until Command arrives.”

I stood there, immobilised with anxiety.

My eyes went to the holdall on the floor. I reached for the switchblade in the side compartment, hoping I wouldn’t have to use it.

Leaning into the travel cot, I picked up the baby and brought him to my chest. He groaned in his sleep, his face nuzzling against my chest.

“It’s okay,” I cooed, kissing the side of my head. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

With the switchblade locked in my tight fist, I carried him down the hall, unlocked the front door and stepped back for Terrence to re-enter the flat.

“I am not crazy,” I whispered, and he shot me a confused glance. “I put the chair by the door, and someone moved it.”

Terrence’s lips lowered to my ear. “Miss Emma, I need you to step out of the flat and come with me.” His murmured voice put the fear of God into me. “Act normal. We don’t want to raise any suspicion. I will walk you to the car. You will sit in the passenger seat with Dominic. We will wait for everyone to arrive.” He spoke as if reading off a list of bullet points. “Got it?”

I could not breathe. I liked Terrence, but at that particular moment, I trusted no one. “Are you going to hurt me?”

“No, I am here to help,” he mouthed, and I nodded gratefully. “I don’t know what the fuck is happening any more than you do. All I know is that you must leave this flat immediately.”

I vacated the flat gladly.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Emma

Terrence is vindicated by Command.

At the time of the incident, when I took a shower and the intruder infringed on my privacy, Terrence was in the foyer on the phone with Eli, one of the brothers, who corroborated in order to permit Terrence’s exculpation.

My bodyguard is not a suspect.

Terrence is a nice man. He is paid generously to protect me. It would be uncharacteristic, illogical and motiveless to sneak into my home and play tricks on me.

If not Terrence, then who?

Whilst pondering the possibilities of dangerous observers, I started to second-guess myself.

Brad hired a locksmith to change the locks on the doors and windows.

I had two keys to this place. I gave the spare one to Big Guy.

No one else had access.

Even if someone had tried to sneak inside, they’d have to get past the bodyguard of stalwart muscle.

I am not ground-level, either. It is virtually impossible to gain entry through the windows without a double-extension ladder.

Let us hypothetically assume that skilful mountaineers lived nearby. What are the chances of climbers scaling the wall in broad daylight, inconspicuously, without attracting attention? It would be unfeasible. Therefore, it never happened.

Maybe I have lost my marbles.

Perhaps I am seeing things that are not really there.

Then, who rehomed Carter’s money jar?

Who moved the kitchen chair?

Who picked up the dressing gown and hung it on the wardrobe door?

Staring at the rain-spattered window, I languished on the sofa with a lukewarm cup of sweet tea.

I had work tonight. I should get dressed, slap some makeup on my face, but detaching myself from Brad and the others frightened me to death. I feel safe in their custody, with the men on guard and Brad in my corner.

Ithoughtthe days of looking over my shoulder had come to an end when I moved to London.

Ithoughtthe life of cowering before adversaries had become a thing of the past when Tommy O’Shea called a truce.

My stomach clenched into a tight knot.

Tommy O’Sheacalled a true, not his friends and family.

I had to reach out, reply to the man’s text messages and seek advice.

If someone in the traveller community is hellbent on continuing the use of threats and harassment, I had to make Tommy aware of it.

But then, what if the intruder is not connected to the travellers? Is it fair to make assumptions without facts or evidence?

I mentally unpacked the file cabinet of certainties.

When severe weather conditions hit the streets of London, threatening to flood Ben’s Cafe, I went to Carter’s bedroom to pack spare clothes, pyjamas, briefs and toiletries, ready for the impromptu trip to a hotel.

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

Killian’s rustic medallion.

The Gaelic Tree of Life.

An ancient Irish Symbol.

I received a text message from an unknown sender on the day of Carter’s abduction.

I viewed printouts of my son leaving the school premises to meet a shadowy figure by the narrow gully.

There are grounds to believe he knew the person that took him.

A sigh of long-suffering left my lips.

Reginald Burton, a senior officer, working at The Metropolitan Police Department, claimed that Carter was a potential victim of suspected foul play. He treated the case as a non-family member abduction.

My son was targeted at random.

Yet, I cannot shake this nagging feeling of scepticism.

I relied on gut instinct.

Carter’s unsolved disappearance is somehow connected to the unexplained mysteries in the flat.

In my opinion, breaking into my home to play hide-and-seek in my son’s bedroom is an asinine attempt at coercion.

Is it possible the intruder, the kidnapper, is the same person? If yes, why is he maintaining anonymity?

My thought process was like a scattered jigsaw puzzle. I contemplated various pieces and different shapes and tried to fit them together. I could see the picture clearly as if it were on the coffee table in front of me. Tommy O’Shea, either knowingly or unknowingly, is the missing piece of the puzzle, the link between the past and the present. His brother’s medallion is crucial evidence in the investigation.

All roads lead to the traveller community.

Now, I had to think of how to contact Tommy without offending Big Guy. He is not overly fond of the O’Shea family, which is understandable, considering the shitstorm of past catastrophes I had encountered. He’d die by the sword before he asked Tommy for help.

Dominic is playing with a stack of colourful building blocks on the floor. I changed him into a safari print sleepsuit earlier, as a date at the play centre is not on the agenda after this morning’s fiasco.

Nameless men donning expensive suits with designer labels overturned the flat, seeking carefully and thoroughly for the intruder or for any signs of breaking and entering.

Terrence is adamant that this person could not have escaped without exposure. He did, after all, stand watch whilst I sat in the Bentley with Dominic, twiddling my thumbs.

By all accounts, if there is an intruder, he is still in the flat. Yet, the mystery remained unsolved. There are only so many places the man could hide. I am pretty sure the men would have found him by now if he existed.

The syndicate were luminaries of fearlessness. They seemed to walk on water with insouciant strides when under pressure. Even when Big Guy, the intransigent man, upbraided them unapologetically for idleness, they moved around in a nonchalant manner.

If only I could be as intrepid as the sedulous brothers. Sometimes, I hate how weak I am. It is a disadvantage I adopted in childhood when my father, the unlovable, tyrannical bastard, weaponised the unconditional love of his children to run the house like a military boot camp. I was terrified of him before I even understood the emotional reaction to danger. I learnt at a young age to beseenand notheard.

An effusion of manly laughter ricocheted in the kitchen, ripping me out of distressing musings.

Two besuited men I did not recognise entered the living room as I put the empty cup on the coffee table.

“Hello.” The dark-haired man with a charming smile tousled the baby’s hair. “You like to make a mess, huh?” He looked at me through the stormiest of grey eyes. “Eli.” Then, with a grunt, he pointed a screwdriver at the fair-haired gentleman. “My brother, Cole.”

“Emma,” I introduced myself with a gentle handshake. “It’s nice to put a face to the voice.” When his mouth twitched in confusion, I explained myself. “I heard you on the phone with Brad earlier.”

“Right,” Eli spoke with maximum effect. He had a very strong accent, deep, slick and manly. Maybe he is from Russia. I don’t know. I am not very good at telling accents apart. “You thought Terrence had it in for you, huh?”

My spine straightened. I did not think the bodyguard had it in for me. I really liked him. “I concluded that everyone except the baby was a suspect, so don’t take it personally. I am not out to damage your friend’s reputation,” I promised, and he smiled innocently. “You were joking, weren’t you?”

“You would be crazy not to suspect the temperamental swine. Terrence is a damn good comrade-in-arms, but to you, he is a stranger.” Eli kneeled on the floor to unscrew the wall-vent cover by the wooden sideboard. “And Terrence is not my friend. He is my cousin.” He fiddled with the screws. “Cole, I need gloves.”

Cole, who hadn’t taken his eyes off me since strolling into the room behind his brother, tossed a pair of nitrile gloves to his brother. “Ви їй довіряєте?” Then, with his arms folded, he scowled at the man on the floor. “Я хвилююся за Терренса.”

Although I was mesmerised by the language, I did not understand a word he had just said.

“Розмовляй англійською.” Eli came across as acerbically candid. “Cole is a gentle giant. But he has poor social skills.” With the gloves stretched over his hands, he placed the vent cover on the floor and felt inside the hole in the wall. “I blame the language barrier.”

A tremulous smile curled the end of my lips. “What are you looking for?”

Neither of the men replied. Cole, however, glanced at the doorway, where Josh, the brown-haired, brown-eyed man with very prominent cheekbones, watched the brothers work in silence. Disapproval came off him in waves. He appeared to be undecided about the brothers.

“Hidden cameras,” Josh answered on their behalf, thirty-eight alarming seconds later. I should know. I counted. “Protocol.”

My eyes rounded. “You think the intruder is spying on me through cameras.” Great. I never even considered a Peeping Tom. Imagine if he has been watching me this whole time. I have undressed and walked around this flat completely naked at times. “Now, I feel sick.”

“We considered it.” Eli, having found nothing in the hole, re-screwed the cover to the vent. “I have checked every room in the flat, including stuffed animals, electrical outlets, smoke detectors, picture frames and mirrors. But I have found no invisible eyes.” He stood then, snapping off the nitrile gloves. “Only cobwebs and a few dead spiders.”

Relieved to know the intruder hadn’t stashed hidden cameras throughout the flat, I pushed a hand through my hair and rose to my feet.

Finding no hidden cameras is good news, but now I had visions of a man looming in the hallway, doing God knows what, whilst I showered and washed.

“Do you want us to inspect the garden?” Eli asked, and Josh’s head dipped curtly. “Also, I have a suggestion. We should knock on a couple of the neighbours’ doors and ask questions. Someone might have seen something.”

“Spoken like a true brother,” Josh replied with a pleased smile. “I like you, Eli. Let’s see if you can sustain this level of astuteness for when Warren is home. You might be in with a shot, after all.”

Syndicate jargon is incomprehensible.

I hear words with no meaning.

“Come here.” Josh squatted when Dominic waddled like a penguin toward him. “What do you have for me?” Reclipping the dummy strap to the sleepsuit, he stopped the baby from shoving a wooden alphabet block in his mouth. “No, don’t eat that. It’s been on the floor.”

Grabbing the empty cup on the coffee table, I excused myself from the living room and headed down the hall to locate their boss.

It was no surprise to see Brad in Carter’s bedroom alongside associates. He stood by the window whilst everyone emptied cupboards, drawers and boxes.

Dropping the foot propped against the wall to the floor, he reached for my hand, interlacing our fingers, stepped over the mess on the floor, led me to the kitchen and shut the door behind us.

Taking the cup out of my hand, he placed it in the sink to be washed. He tied his hair back into a messy knot, leaving strands behind his ears.

My bottom lip rolled between my teeth.

“You have work soon,” he said, his thumb sweeping across my knuckles. “I can drop you off.”

I sensed something was off. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

He rubbed a hand down his face. “No.”

Yet, I felt an uneasy tension between us. “You think I am crazy, don’t you?”

“You are not crazy.” His palms, rough to my cheeks, cupped my face. “You are grief-stricken.” There was a pause, and I knew, before he opened his mouth, where this conversation was going. “I get it.”

I am not sure that I did, though. “Get what?”

He swallowed audibly. “Sometimes, people experience hallucinations during the time of grief.”

Of course, he doubted me. I thought as much when he ransacked the bedrooms, uncovered nothing and whispered something in Josh’s ear.

“I did not hallucinate moving objects.” Tearing his hands down from my face, I tried to step past him, escape him, but he took my waist into his hands and drew me in. “Big Guy, I have nothing to say to you…” His lips, soft to mine, kissed the corner of my mouth. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” he murmured against my lips. “But there is no evidence to prove someone broke in. I have looked in every nook and cranny.” He respired through his mouth heavily. “It doesn’t help that you haven’t actually seen someone with yourowneyes.”

No, I am not crazy. There is something unexplainable happening in this flat.

“If an intruder managed to slip past Terrence, I’d have found him by now.” He let out a huge sigh. “Sweetheart, I ordered the men to look for hidden cameras and listening devices. I have checked theuntamperedlocks.” His thumb caught a tear on my cheek. “Christ, I don’t want you to cry.”

I cannot look at him. “So, that’s what this is? You think it’s all in my head. It’s not like someone got in before and mutilated the cat or anything. I guess I imagined the blood and bones falling out of my drawer.”

His jaw hardened.

“I don’t care what anyone has to say. I amnotcrazy,” I punctuated every word. “Someone is going to hurt me, with or without bodyguards and protection. I am not safe in my own home.”

“I know someone tested the waters and tried to send a message by killing Cleo.” Frustration flickered in his eyes. “Her death is why I assigned Terrence to be your bodyguard. But Emma, I can only work with facts. Unfortunately, as it stands, there is no concrete evidence, except for a few misplaced objects, to indicate an intruder.” His fingers latched at the nape of my neck as his thumbs circled my jawline. “You can move for a fresh start, though. I will sort out a decent apartment in central London and stay over more. I can be there every night of the week. You don’t have to sleep alone.”

This morning’s events were indubitable, but I conceded that grief played a part in apparent hallucinations to reserve whatever dignity I had left.

I will not force people to see where I am coming from.

“That’s not fair to Dominic. You are his father. You have to be home.” The baby could only sleep over when I had a day off work. He spent the majority of his time with the nanny. “Besides, I don’t think relocating will fix the problem. You are right. I am grief-stricken. My mind is playing tricks on me.” I folded my arms stubbornly. “I am not moving again, though. If I have nothing to fear, I can stay here, right?”

“Fair enough.” He looked more nonplussed than I felt. “What about a hotel and spa? You can relax and enjoy room service for a couple of weeks. It might be good for you.”

I never mentioned affordability because this manindirectlyoffered to pay for everything when making suggestions. “You think massage therapy will ease stress.”

“It can’t hurt.” His forehead creased into a heavy frown as he pondered solutions. “Emma, I want to fix this for you…” His hands toured the expanse of my waist as he pulled me closer. “Terrence mentioned alcohol. Maybe you should knock it on the head for a while.”

Terrence overheard one moment of weakness through the door and concluded that I was unhinged.

Maybe I didn’t like him after this bullshit.

“I am not an alcoholic.” Alcohol is not a vice, not for me. “I had wine on two occasions.”

“I know that you do not have a drinking problem.” He brushed an unruly strand of hair out of his eye. “But alcohol and depression? It does not mix. Just…Take your foot off the accelerator for a couple of weeks. Let everything blow over.” His hands massaged the deep muscles in my shoulders. “In the meantime, I want you to stay in a hotel. One, it will make you feel safer. Two, I can station guards here to see if anything suspicious happens whilst you are gone.”

“Why do I have to go to a hotel?” It was cheeky, but I’d rather be on the estate until further notice. “Can I stay with you instead? I won’t be overbearing or needy. I won’t get in your way…” His pale face waved red flags. “What? Am I not allowed to be in your private space anymore? Why have you paled?”

“Emma, I love spending time with you.” He slipped a toothpick between his lips. “That’s not the issue.”

My brow arched. “There is an issue.”

Brad’s tongue nipped the end of the toothpick. “We’re good, right?”

“Yes,” I half-lied to save an argument. If truth be told, I am royally pissed. I could deal with everyone else’s doubts, but I expected more from him. I thought he’d believe me, no matter what. I am only calm for the sake of my sanity. “Why?”

His forehead fell to my shoulder, and then, with whispered caresses, he kissed the side of my neck. “When I am with you, I shut out the rest of the world to concentrate on us. But then, every day, when I leave you, I have to face reality.” Putting a closed-up fist to his mouth, he reared his head back to meet my gaze. “Reality is not so pleasant, sweetheart.”

Yes, I am aware that he’s a career criminal.

He is the right-hand man to Liam Warren.

A syndicate member.

A hired contract killer.

I suppose killing people for money is not the easiest job in the world.

If I had to carry out hits and slaughter people, I’d likely be in church every week, in a confessional booth, for the priest to forgive me, to pronounce a blessing.

Brad’s lifestyle is not for the faint-hearted. He is dangerous. He supported a corrupt dictatorship that controlled the criminal underworld.

Hell, I know this man dumped his community service manager in the skip and went about his day like an unfazed psychopath.

But then, he is also kind, loving and tender-hearted where it counts.

How can Iunseethe best side of him?

I am here for him, hook, line and sinker.

It would take a cataclysmic event for me to walk away now.

My eyes closed briefly.

Did I just glamorise the life and times of a modern-day gangster?

Yes, I did.

Shamelessly.

“There are things I haven’t told you about…” His hesitancy had my stomach in bits. “I mean, I have been waiting for the right opportunity to do so, but after months and months of not seeing you, I will be honest, I am scared.”

Okay, I might be a little concerned.

What is making him so nervous?

If this penitent thinks I am electing myself to hear the unsettling confessions of a serial killer, he’s got another thing coming. I prefer ignorance. I don’t want to know the man’s disreputable character traits or what the job role entails.

“Scared?” I asked warily, and the muscles in his jaw flexed. “Why?”

“I won’t lose you.” He searched my eyes, like the answer to all his problems would be there. “So, I will ask you again. Are we good?”

“See, I am inclined to ask why reassurance is imperative.” The sudden change in his behaviour wracked me with nerves. “Will you withhold this truth from me if I have doubts?”

Josh barrelled into the kitchen before Brad could answer. “Sorry to break this up, lovebirds.” Holding Dominic out of his reach, he dumped him in Big Guy’s arms. “Your boy had a shit. I would offer to help. However, the last time I got too close to this kid, he puked in my mouth. It was disgusting. I still have nightmares about it.”

I laughed. “You are such a drama queen.”

“Have you ever licked regurgitated formula milk off your lips before?” Josh is indisputably traumatised. “I have. It’s not pretty.”

“As opposed to what?” Brad flashed two dimples. “Licking off someone’s brain?

My laughter flat-lined in a nanosecond.

Did he say licking off someone’s brain?

“Ha Ha,” Josh mocked with a disgusted tsk. “You are so fucking funny. Ignore him, Emma. That never happened.”

Something told me that’sexactlywhat happened.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Brad

Warren’s new office on the top floor of the casino is the crème de la crème of modern luxury. The undulated black and gold marble entryway, with gilded light fixtures and glass ceiling, is the warm welcoming of contemporary design and masculine opulence.

Christ, I earned huge sterling, big money in the bank, but I felt like a successfulbillionaire-which, sadly, I am not-when bridging the airy entrance to the open floor layout of kingly magnificence.

Yes, I am worth millions because I fell into the hands of Liam Warren, who lined my pockets charitably for no reason other than love, but when it comes to net worth, there is no comparison.

He beat me hands down.

The corrupt business magnate is immensely wealthy per multiple lines of enterprise alone, not taking the institution into consideration.

At night, when good citizens go to bed and evildoers soar from the underworld, Warren is a crime lord, the head of London’s most powerful syndicate, who transformed an unquantifiable amount of drugs and firearms into profits that successful people envied.

His assets, legal and illegal, amassed an impressive fortune.

I suppose his income is relatively modest compared to rival billionaires.

There is no jealousy or bitterness.

I am a strong supporter.

The more he succeeded, the happier I felt.

Warren deserved wealth after the road he walked just to eat a good, decent meal or find somewhere safe and warm to sleep. He lived on the streets, scrounged for money and survived hardship and abandonment. This man sold his soul for one shot of acknowledgement, to be seen, to be heard, to be taken seriously. He paid his dues.

Five common areas stretched across stain-resistant floors. The office, with bold yet elegant furniture and walls of floor-to-ceiling windows, had a secret door that embarked on the wraparound rooftop terrace with mesmerising panoramic views of London.

Ceiling lights, holding thirty-eight high-gloss black and gold lacquered brass spheres, illuminated the fully-furnished lounge adjacent to the polished stone rectangular conference table.

The sunken sitting room, with bespoke U-shaped chesterfield leather sofa and matching button pouffe table, is my personal favourite. I can already see it, the late-night congregation of brothers, everyone lounging around, enjoying a tipple of whiskey. Bossman will be present, with his draconian rules yet missed leadership. The son of a bitch.

Two scenarios played in my head whenever thoughts of him took over my mind. First, I hug the shit out of him because I love him like a brother, and life is boring without him. Second, I kick his ass for playing God with my emotions.

He warranted a nice little shiner.

Either way, I end up forgiving him.

Warren’s new office resembled the Thames-side penthouse he once owned, without guest bedrooms and a monochrome kitchen.

Honestly, I loved it. I could get used to working from here, with the well-stocked minibar and wall-mounted television screens.

I might buy a pool table for the billiard region. It will give Roy Petley’s one-of-a-kind Tower Bridge painting company. Yes, it’s back home, where it belongs. Alexa nailed it to the feature wall behind the desk.

“Timothy Andino’s casino is no more.” Alexa, wearing a white long-sleeved blouse tucked into a black high-waisted maternity pencil skirt paired with open-toe high heels and statement jewellery, slid envelopes with examples of gold-plated three-dimensional company signs isolated on black backgrounds down the conference table. “Sovereign is now the legally registered business name and the syndicate’s official port of call.”

“I approve.” Tonight, Vincent is a slightly more relaxed version of his usual professional business style, with sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a suit jacket flung onto the back of a chair. “Is the casino licensed to sell alcohol and provide gambling facilities yet?”

“Nate sorted the gambling licence.” Alexa read Nate’s handwritten notes. “He also left safety and hygiene certificates and a copy of the liquor licence for us to check.” Her stare skittered over the brothers. “It is strange without Nate present. He loves fatherhood, though. I visited yesterday to lend a hand with the baby.”

I nursed a glass of Jameson, but a joint would be preferable. “Will he hire a nanny?”

“I imagine so.” Her sleek, long dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. “He has to get back to work eventually.”

Nate is missed amongst the brothers. A man of his remarkable skill set is incomparable. When he is unavailable, tricky tasks and work-based responsibilities weigh heavily on the shoulders of others. His curriculum vitae is unrivalled, and without him, the institution suffered. I had to rely on temps to conduct assignments he’d normally handle.

Josh’s cursory eyes swept over the certificates. “Where do you plan on storing important documents and, for lack of better words, unmentionables.”

He meant drugs and firearms.

“There is a clandestine panic room behind the bookcase,” Alexa informed everyone, and naturally, the antique walnut bookcase, carved with ornate decorations, showcasing classic hardback editions, became the cynosure of inquisitiveness. “Ignore the paperless books. They serve misdirection purposes only.”

A panic room.

I am impressed.

“The safe is in here.” Alexa unlocked the secret door disguised as bookshelves to reveal yet another door. “It is bullet resistant, with ballistic steel discreetly infused inside. It can only be opened with biometric scanning and locks automatically.” Then, with her back holding the door open, she let us have a glimpse of the panic room: solid mahogany furniture, gilded fixtures and dark leather chesterfield sofas parallel to the office’s masculine interior. Warren is going to love the new man cave. “Brad, Vincent, I want you both on the biometric system. No one else is permitted access without my husband’s authorisation.”

“Rude.” Josh handed her the certificates, and she dumped them inside the panic room until later. “I earned my bloody stripes. Why can’t I pose for the scanner?”

“You have no reason to go in the panic room without Brad present anyway.” She entertained the lad’s witty remarks. “I am sure, when necessary, you will be in there with your feet on the coffee table.”

“Absolutely.” Josh picked up the pattern sample book. “What is this for? If you plan to repaint the office, I vote for pink walls, white furniture and soft, fluffy rugs.”

“Josh, be serious for once in your life.” Alexa gave Vincent a burgundy red velvet swatch. “And to answer your question, I am not redecorating the office. The sample book is for the casino. Think regal and majestic: floor-to-ceiling curtains, crystal chandeliers and jazz music.”

Accepting the swatch from Vincent, I thumbed its rich fibres. “Sinatra.”

“Only the best for my dearly beloved.” Alexa uncapped a bottle of water. “I hired a muralist. He will paint the ceilings: efflorescent skies, baroque cloudscapes, rosy-cheeked cherubs and winged creatures. I fear that my enthusiasm will send me into early labour.”

Christ, if she goes into early labour, I will throw hands. Having to work without Nate is bad enough. I cannot lose Alexa’s input as well.

“Renaissance architecture.” Vincent’s brows furrowed in deep rumination. “My brother would approve.”

“Iapprove.” Alexa scoffed, and if he was disgruntled by her brusqueness, he did not show it. If anything, his lips curved into an amused smirk. “Do not spill alcohol on the textiles.” Her hysteria was directed at Cole, who sipped vodka whilst toying with a piece of black fabric. “The interior designer will have a stroke if you damage any of his work.”

“Do not trouble yourself, Mrs Warren.” Alfie, who stood by the locked office door, glared threateningly at Cole. “If he upsets you, even in the slightest, I will personally put him through the window.”

Cole, with hike brows, moved the fabric out of his reach.

“Oh, Alfie,” she stuttered, flush-cheeked and carmine-lipped. “That won’t be necessary.”

Alfie never blinked.

Feeling too hot and mildly concerned by the man’s possessive behaviour, I popped open the top button of my shirt. “Is it safe to assume the casino will be open for business soon?”

“I am undecided.” Alexa eased into the chair, Vincent to her left and Donny to her right. “The casino belongs to Liam. Ultimately, when all is said and done, he has the final say.”

Donny doodled on a piece of paper.

“Angel.” Vincent swivelled in the chair to level with Alexa. “Warren Enterprise has taken a major financial hit recently. It is within my brother’s best interest to open the casino for business to recuperate losses in revenue.”

“Right.” Alexa paused, looked around to scrutinise the brothers and reached for the folder labelledGateway. “How bad are we talking?”

I rasped a gravely exhale. “Warren’s business partner, Louis Brasseur, the patron de la mafia in Marseille, France, retained 3.7 million worth of contraband from us. I think he jumped ship to be with the Italians.” I got an instant headache whenever I thought about Louis’ betrayal. “The distribution of drugs and firearms collapsed weeks ago.”

“Hmm.” An angry scowl replaced her pursed lips. “What’s the solution?”

“I have close connections with Spain.” Vincent’s exasperation resurfaced. “Transoceanic cargo ships depart Port of Algeciras Bay in the morning. I could only get my hands on a small amount of stock. Nevertheless, it will be enough to distribute for two or three weeks.” He inclined in the leather chair to stretch his legs out beneath the table. “We need long-term suppliers.”

“I am in the process of forming business partnerships with Afghanistan and Colombia. I have sent proposal emails to cut out inefficient middlemen.” Now is a good time to mention non-correspondence, but I want to be absolutely certain that prospective business partners are disinterested first. “Hypothetically speaking, if prospects are unwilling to work alongside Warren Enterprise, is there a contingency plan in place?”

Everyone’s eyes swung to me in discombobulation.

I might have sunk into the chair.

“I don’t know, Brad.” Alexa’s red-painted lips pouted ruefully. “You are Command. You tell us.”

Frankly, I am out of resources.

Eli and Cole shared an unreadable look before the older brother, with caution, approached me. “We have connections in Ukraine and Russia.” Eli is uncomfortable with the suggestion. His sense of fight-or-flight kicked in as he gestured and talked rapidly to the brothers. “…It is only an idea for you to consider. I will not be offended if you politely refuse.”

“I am not a polite person. Your idea is rubbish. I decline.” Pretending to read a file, I made a mental note to invite Eli to the estate for a private meeting. It’s not like I am spoiled for options. “Any other suggestions?” No one answered. “Josh, highlight trade. I will come back to contraband in the next meeting.”

Josh penned notes.

“A quick update on Chaplin Jefferson, London Gateway’s quay crane foreman, terminal controller and long-term business associate to Warren Enterprise,” I brought everyone up to speed. “He will keep the door open for business if we continue to pay him for his services.” Dumping the folder, I selected another. “Ignazio Corrazzo. What’s the verdict?”

“You are going to love me. I deserve a medal of honour.” Josh speared a hand through his hair. “Story time. I paid my good old friend Google a visit and typed all these different names into the search engine. I started with Ignazio, then Moretti, Bosqui and so forth. Initially, I found nothing noteworthy. A measly photo here and there. One or two news articles about an arrest for drug trafficking. It felt like a complete waste of time.” He sent a large brown envelope down the table into my hand. “Then, I stumbled across Saverio Bosqui Sr. He died three years ago.”

Tearing through the envelope, eager to see what he uncovered, I flicked through photos of a funeral cortège with black-plumed horses and a gilded coach hailed with white rose petals.

“Thousands of Italians gathered at this church to pay their respects and to send condolences to Bosqui’s family.” Josh came to my side, one hand on my shoulder, and leaned down to circle a group of men holding a silent vigil by an old, wrought-iron gate. “Alberto Moretti. Johnny Cazale. Saverio Bosqui. Anthony Costello. I thought, surely I am not this lucky. How did I manage to get my hands on these beauties? There might be a website link or something.”

Sailor is quite the raconteur when enthusiastic.

“Then, I set my sights on this guy.” Josh tapped on the face of a man with salt and pepper hair and haunting dark brown eyes. “He may be important,” he conjectured possible connections. “But he might also be irrelevant. Let us get back to him in a moment.”

Mentally processing information, I passed the photo to Vincent.

“I did an image search on every female in this photo.” Josh exhibited Italian women attired in black dresses and fascinators by the same gate. “Only one chick stood out for me, though.” He circled the youngest woman, with bewitching dark eyes, dark brown hair and olive skin. “Thirty-eight-year-old Christina Moschini.”

Alexa examined the woman’s profile from across the table. “She is beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful,” Vincent whispered for her ears only, but I caught it and frowned puzzledly. “Do not feel sorry for Christina Moschini. You are not acquaintances.”

“I can see where the conversation is heading, and it troubles me,” she replied to him. “This innocent Italian woman will be collateral damage.”

Vincent hummed, low and throaty. “To prevail, sacrifices must be made.”

“I understand.” Alexa sounded calmer than she looked. “I don’t like it, though.”

Josh waited for them to finish, and then he continued. “Christina is addicted to social media. You can see her entire life story online. I scrolled through her Instagram account. Plentiful mentions of date nights withamore mio.” He sipped from a mug of coffee. “Never any pictures of him, though. See, for someone like Christina, who loves to pose for the camera, I thought that was fishy. Who is the mystery lover? Why hasn’t she posted any shots of them together?”

His questions were thought-provoking.

“Look at the comparability of uploads on her Instagram.” He laid out pictures of her on nights out in the town. “This place, Rapture, is designed to the highest level of luxury and exclusivity, with waitresses prancing around in fuchsia-coloured plumes. You can see feathers in the background of every one of these printouts. I figured Christina must be a regular, right? Now, this is where it gets interesting.” With the nib of the pen, he pointed to throngs of blurry individuals by the bar. “Christina is kissing this man’s cheek.”

My eyes squinted to get a more precise look but to no avail. “It’s pixelated.”

“I know. So, I got to work and de-pixelated.” He placed a clearer copy of Christina and her mystery man on top of the original. “You see that? It is the same guy in the funeral photos with Moretti and his entourage.”

A faint smile set on my lips.

Josh tossed the pen down like a mic drop. “I will sell my ass to the whole of fucking London if this prick is not Ignazio Corrazzo.”

I could kiss him.

“If you want to lure Ignazio into our lair?” His lips compressed into a grim line. “You need to fetch Christina Moschini and bring her fine ass to the underworld.”

“You are a fucking legend.” Taking Josh’s face into my hands, I planted a huge, appreciative kiss on his forehead. “I need three men on a flight to Sicily by the morning.” This is absolute bliss. I can barely contain my excitement. I will pop, burst and shoot a motherfucker. “Who wants to volunteer?”

“I will go,” Eli offered to be of service, and his younger brother, Cole, followed suit. “Eddie?”

“Yeah, alright.” Eddie nodded agreeably. “Someone will have to take my place at the estate, though. The youngers are too distracted by housekeeping to do their jobs properly.” He gave me the heads-up. “You might want to keep an eye on that.”

“Noted.” Dumping Ignazio’s beige folder, I read the label of another one. “Sheila Ayres. Eli, I would appreciate an update on John Doe.”

“Hold up.” Alexa, holding onto the armrests of her chair, sat taller to make inquiries. “Why is there an open case on Sheila?”

Josh tore into a packet of raspberry-flavoured Bon Bons. “We think she might be involved in the disappearance of Carter Hughes.”

“What?” Alexa’s acrimoniousness rocketed. “No, I refuse to believe Sheila had anything to do with that little boy’s disappearance. I met her. She is a lovely woman, and she adores Tommy O’Shea…” Her eyes zoned in on me. “Tommy is not a suspect, is he?”

“No.” I validated Tommy’s vindication during the last meeting. “I closed O’Shea’s file. He is not our guy.”

“Monitoring Sheila is pointless, then.” Alexa blew loose strands of hair out her face. “She loves Tommy. Targeting his nephew is nonsensical. I vote to close the case.”

“Why be difficult?” I swear, I had a love-hate relationship with this woman. “Can Eli provide updates before you have a temper tantrum?”

“Temper tantrum?” Alexa’s mouth dropped open. “You can talk. No one throws a hissy fit better than you.”

My entire body flinched in dismay. “Back me up, fellas.” Yes, I am highly affronted. “I do not have emotional outbursts, do I?”

Vincent gave me a pointed look.

Sailor cleared his throat.

Donny smiled to himself.

Alfie stared at the ceiling.

Eli drank bottled water.

Cole scratched his head.

Eddie rubbed his eyes.

Everyone else opted for unforthcoming silence.

Not one person stood up for me or had my back.

Alexa gloated as I squirmed in the seat.

Well, I will be fucking damned. “You bunch of disloyal wankers.”

“Come on, Brad. Alexa has a point.” Josh threw me right under the bus. “You do respond to situations in a melodramatic way.”

“You are fired,” I lied, missing Nate more than ever. Even when irritated by the sight of me, he always, without fail, stepped to bat for me. “Tools, the lot of you.” Against Alexa’s better judgement, I removed the elastic band from Sheila’s file and read Eli’s notes. “Eli, you have asked for a termination of proceedings.”

“Yes.” Eli regarded me with stony eyes. “I made a bad judgement call. Sheila is not an accomplice in Carter’s disappearance. She is just a lonely, miserable woman, looking for attention in the wrong areas.”

I was nonplussed by the whole conversation. “Do you think you could elaborate?”

“John Doe.” Eli slung an arm over the back of Cole’s chair. “Forty-one-year-old Adrian Dempsey, born and raised in Erdington, Birmingham. He lives in a two-bedroom flat, works full-time as a mechanic, attends judo classes on Fridays and eats too many chip sandwiches on Sundays.” His haunted grey eyes raised questions about the assignment. “Previously, Cole had witnessed an argument between Sheila and Adrian. We might havemisinterpretedthe point of that argument.”

My head cocked.

“Adrian was upset because Sheila ended their affair,” Cole divulged delicately for Alexa’s sake. “I broke into his flat when he left for work. There were explicit photos of them together in the bedroom.”

Alexa is decidedly miffed. “Is there any evidence to back up your claim?”

Cole unlocked his phone, clicked on a password-protected folder and showed Alexa screenshots of polaroid images scattered on Adrian’s bed. “There is also a woman’s wardrobe in the bedroom. I believe the clothes belong to Sheila.”

Alexa eyed the phone screen beneath harshly gathered eyebrows. “You have got to be shitting me.”

The unexpected turn of events put a permanent red line through Sheila’s file. Yes, she is guilty of infidelity, but she is not a criminal, nor did she conspire to have Carter kidnapped. “And I am back to the drawing board.”

“I hate closed-door conclaves.” Alexa glared at Sheila’s file with sheer disgust. “Jace is my best friend. Keeping this information from him is a form of betrayal. Tommy is like a brother to him. He’d want to make him aware of what she’s done.”

I slipped Sheila’s folder to the bottom of the pile. “What happens in this room stays in this room.”

“Hence why I hate closed-door conclaves.” Her scrutinisation soaked up the Ukrainian brothers. “I cannot take secrets with me, and that sucks because the truth will come out in the end, and I have to pretend to be shocked when Jace opens up to me.”

“This is why monogamy is unrealistic.” Donny stroked his chin in thought. “People get bored of the same old repetitive shit. Eventually, they look for excitement elsewhere. It would serve well to avoid unnecessary heartbreak and accept as much.”

“Alright, Mr Polygamous.” Alexa thumbed the military tags hanging from her neck. “Not everyone is in a boring, loveless relationship. Do not preach the practice of having more than one partner around me just because you like to fuck everything that walks.” When Vincent’s stern countenance reflected a smidgen of disagreement, she aimed a finger at him. “You can keep opinions to yourself. I have seen what goes on inside your office, Casanova.”

He grunted, flicking his hand dismissively. “You married aCasanova.”

“I married a man with apast,” she said with contemptuous snark. “In regard to Sheila Ayres, I will not enlighten Jace. Know that I do this because I am morally bound to the syndicate.” A glimmer of sadness dampened her eyes. “I feel guilty already. Tommy is a nice guy. He deserves better.”

“May I speak freely whilst the subject of the travellers is on the table?” Vincent wielded Emma’s folder. “This is not the first time I have broached this topic,” he pointed out, and indignation sluiced through my tense body. “Miss Hughes has an interesting past.”

“Emma’s private life is not open for conversation.” Not in front of an audience. “I am not willing to discuss sensitive matters about her background.”

Vincent’s eyes homed in on my face. “Her background could be the very reason why her son is missing.”

“I agree.” Alexa sided with him, and I had the urge to kick her beneath the table. “You capsized the underworld and came out empty-handed. We must, as previously advised, look closer to home.”

I have looked closerto home.

“I don’t want to read that.” My girl is allowed to have privacy. “Emma communicates with me. If I need to know something, she will openly tell me. I will lose her trust if I stick my nose where it doesn’t belong.” I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted, though. “You have obviously read it. Does anything stand out?”

“Quintin O’Shea.” Vincent’s two hands flattened on the table. “He was sentenced to life imprisonment for attempted murder. He has an upcoming parole hearing in the new year, though.”

I pondered for a second. “Attempted murder?”

“Domestic violence.” Vincent drew in a rattly breath. “He went too far with his wife and a belt.”

“Pig.” Alexa’s legs crossed elegantly underneath the table. “Women should never have to withstand a torrent of abuse from their husbands. I hope Quintin is released on parole. If I know Tommy, he will return the favour.” A knowing smile slowly spread across her face. “You do not upset Mamma O’Shea and get away with it. She is fiercely protected by her son.”

“I have read Quintin’s file.” Reginald sent a PDF via email in the initial weeks of Carter’s disappearance. “He’s only had one visitor since the Crown Prosecution Service passed judgement on him. Tommy O’Shea had unfinished business with him. He hasn’t touched base with his father since.”

Donny, scratching the frown between his eyebrows, stared intently at me. “Do you have Quintin’s visitor list handy?”

“Yes.” Unlocking my phone, I clicked on emails, located the file and forwarded it to Donny’s email. “Why?”

“I want to check the dates.” Donny is straight on his phone, checking the email I sent across. “This list is two months old. When I get to the station, I will download an updated version and send it over. You never know. Someone might have visited recently.”

“I owe you one.” I highly doubt the prick had any recent visitors, but there is no harm in double-checking. “What do you propose, Vincent?”

“We should visit Wormwood Prison notwithstanding the visitors’ list.” Vincent droned in a weary voice. “An inquisition will hardly do any damage. Quintin is to face the consequences of past misbehaviours. Who better than us to induce the man to sing like a canary?”

Alexa’s chin rested on the heel of her hand. “You are convinced that he knows something.”

“Quintin made threats to have Carter taken away from his mother.” Vincent’s pointer finger tapped Emma’s file. “Incarceration will not hinder the course of action for vengeful inmates. He can operate from behind prison walls.”

“Visitation approved,” I agreed to the meeting with Tommy O’Shea’s father. “Is there anything else? I would love to feed myself sometime this evening.”

“Yes.” Josh waved a pink folder above his head. “Cleo, the cat.”

That bastard cat will be the death of me.

Alexa’s dark eyebrow bent. “You are investigating a cat?”

I sighed. “No, I am investigating the person who killed the cat.”

“You have a cat?”

“No.” For the love of everything bastard holy. This woman is determined to give me grey hair. “Emma had a cat.”

“Someone killed Emma’s cat?”

“Christ, Alexa.” My temples started to ache. “What’s with the interrogation?”

“Excuse me for showing an interest.” Alexa slid me a dirty look. “You may continue.”

My jaw slackened. “I am glad I have your permission.”

Alexa gave me the middle finger.

“You two bicker like an old married couple,” Josh interjected with a shit-eating grin. “The lab performed a standard necropsy on Cleo to determine the exact cause of death. He was euthanised before the killer dismembered his body. The technician found pentobarbital in his blood system.”

I sat taller. “He?”

“Tomcat.” Josh’s face was impassive. “Emma needs a lesson or two on determining gender.”

Christ, I let the woman lead me down the road of absurdities. I even told her the male cat might have been pregnant. What a mug I turned out to be.

“DNA is a great investigative tool, but in this case, the technician did not uncover any biological evidence.” Josh read the lab report. “No traces of hair, blood, skin cells or semen.”

Alexa shot him a double-take. “Semen?”

“Yes.” Josh never so much as flinched. “An official procedure to rule out bestiality.”

Alexa is horrified.

“I have to speak up.” Donny put an empty whiskey glass on the table. “Why haven’t you asked for my help?”

I pinned him with quizzical eyes. “Why the fuck would I need your help?”

“I am a homicide detective versed in forensic technologies.” Donny touched his lightly stubbled jaw. “Collecting evidence and solving crime is the specific area of my expertise.”

And I thought I was a cocky son of a bitch. “Well, I don’t need yourexpertiseto ascertain the cause of the cat’s death.”

“I concur.” Donny fixed the small gold hoop irritating his earlobe. “But hunting down dangerous killers and putting them behind bars is kinda my thing. I can assist.”

“Noted.” I smiled flatly. “Any more questions from anyone other than the detective?”

“You said the cause of death was animal euthanasia.” Alexa’s playing with her military tags again. “How is that possible? Did this person drive past and steal the cat? Can someone get me up to speed?”

“Someone broke into Emma’s flat, injected the cat, then disembowelled and dismembered the body and stuffed amputated limbs in the drawer.” It was a ghastly sight: gore, blood, flesh and bones. “In addition, with safety measures strategically in place, I assigned Terrence to Emma’s security detail until further notice and hired a locksmith to change all the locks.”

“Oh, God. Is Emma okay? Is someone staying with her? A friend, perhaps.” Alexa pressed a hand to her mouth. “She must be terrified, living on her nerves every day.”

I will be there every night of the week until whateverthis isblows over.

“Funny you should mention that.” Josh spun a pen on the table. “I think the incident made her paranoid because she is adamant this person is co-existing with her or something.”

I will throat-punch him. “Do not ridicule her.”

“I am not ridiculing her. I am stating facts.” Josh’s face was rubicund. “Brad, you have to admit the whole paranormal activity is a little far-fetched.”

Donny’s head tilted. “Paranormal activity?”

“Moving objects.Misplacedobjects.” Josh is unapologetically detached from the entire ordeal. “Semantics.”

“Are physical disturbances witnessed first-hand?” Donny fixed Josh a long, contemplative look. “Or is this a classic sign of clinical depression?”

“Of course, she is depressed.” My blood was suddenly afire. “She lost her son, for fuck’s sake.”

Donny, hands raised in surrender, slumped back in the chair.

“So, what’s the conclusion?” Alexa’s expression morphed into anxiousness. “Did someone break into her flat again with a bodyguard present? Were there any paranormal disturbances?” She did not believe in ghosts. “Or is Emma pending an intervention?”

“This is not a mysterious circumstance.” Eli’s pen drummed against the table. “We carried out a thorough search of the premises to rule out an intruder. I even questioned all the residents in the apartment complex. The only thing happening in her flat is acute paranoia.”

Donny, with his detective hat on, probed deeper into Eli’s investigation. “What did the other residents have to say?”

“Not much.” Eli’s shoulders thrust forward. “They mostly keep themselves to themselves.”

Donny’s lips parted to speak, but he decided against it.

“Have you considered a dog?” Alexa rotated her wedding band. “I have a protective service detail. Their commitment and sense of duty to the Warren family is mandatory but no less comforting. However, having a guard dog on the property to ward off intruders is oddly reassuring. Bruno is bold, confident, fearless and territorial. He has a remarkable sense of smell and can identify people with ease. If someone he has never met approaches the gates, he goes absolutely ballistic to alert everyone. I know, with strong conviction, if he senses any danger or threat to his owners, he will attack and incapacitate the person stupid enough to encroach on the property.”

It’s not the worst idea. If anything, a dog might be good company for Emma while I am at work. I think it’s why she bonded with Cleo, the male cat, so quickly. My girl, the beautiful, confident, well-liked, loud-mouthed, quick-witted cafe girl with so much love and ample personality, is lonely. She has lost her spark since her son vanished without a trace. “I will think about it.”

Donny lost the battle of silence. “Again, why haven’t you asked for my help.”

“Your services do not surpass that of the elite.” My stomach grumbled, reminding me to feed myself. “Besides, you are responsible for solving murder cases. Emma is not dead. Having you on board would be a waste of resources.”

A muscle in Vincent’s jaw popped. “Can a fresh pair of eyes hurt?”

“Any investigation carried out by the Met lessens the power, ability and effectiveness of the syndicate.” Eli provoked the man effectively. “Donny has not sworn fealty to Warren or The Brotherhood. He is a bent copper, working on the wrong side of the law.”

“Are you listening to yourself?” Donny’s head whipped in Eli’s direction. “You are the criminal, not me.”

“In our world, the people in white hats are therealcriminals.” Eli primed himself for an argument. “And, whilst I am on the subject of what a lousy, untrustworthy detective you are, isn’t it fair to say law enforcement failed to conduct a proper criminal investigation to find Carter Hughes? Your poor-quality service will only hinder the institution.”

Donny’s jaw steeled. “I am not on The Hughes case.”

“Case? What case?” Eli’s face twisted in disgust. “Carter’s file is in a box, gathering dirt and dust.”

“Pending the discovery of new evidence,” Donny made himself at home, relaxing in the chair, arms folding across his chest. “Unsolved crimes are never officially closed. You have to allow for suspect identification unless the goal is to charge any Tom, Dick or Harry, in which case, I will go outside and arrest someone right now. But there is no justice in wrongful convictions, not for the victim or the person besmirched and punished for a crime they did not commit.”

I was rather fascinated by their heated debate.

“There is no room for error when dealing with a complex case.” Donny tried to reason with the man. “Yes, Emma Hughes might be depressed and paranoid, but if she is sound of mind, you have to accept and believe what she says. Have you seen the number of police reports in this file?” He tossed a thumb toward Emma’s folder. “The Hughes twins underwent years of harassment. It is not the first time someone has broken into their private home. This is a recurring cycle of abuse and intimidation. Benjamin almost died.” His judgmental eyes came to me. “I would hate for Emma to undergo the same treatment because of negligence.”

“Do not put this on his shoulders.” Eli got defensive for me. “Command has gone above and beyond to ensure Emma Hughes’ safety.”

“Pardon my rudeness, but who is the myrmidon tweeting drivel in the corner?” Vincent, with the tolerance of an inflexible dictator, stared down at the Ukrainian stormily. “Don’s position in conclave exceeds yours.”

“Donny did not attend the barracks or give a formal acknowledgement of loyalty to Warren,” Eli spat through snarled teeth. “Not like the rest of us.”

“Liam is my brother. Do not speak of him as if you fucking know him!” Vincent’s fist slammed down on the table, and Alexa, quick to calm him down, palmed his forearm. His eyes, wild and angry, lowered to the place where she touched him, and something remarkable occurred. He inhaled shakily, squeezed her hand, and then forced himself to simmer down. “It would seem that I got ahead of myself.”

Well, I’ll be damned.

Alexa had the Warren brothers under her thumb.

She can be my secret weapon.

“You are dismissed from the syndicate conference on the Hughes case.” Vincent is in no mood for syndicate politics. “If you so much as breathe in my direction, I will terminate your position, which would be a shame, as I know Jones is considering you for the elite.”

Eli, for the sake of his future at Warren Enterprise, surrendered to defeat.

“If I were you, I’d do background checks on everyone living in that building.” Donny acted as though tension had not risen in the room. “In my professional opinion, I think your Doe is lying dormant in that building, and he is just waiting for an opportunity to execute whatever plan he has in place.”

Although I had to agree with Donny, I did not want to belittle Eli further, so I remained unapproachable. “I will take your advice on board.” What I really wanted to say isI will have the residents’ background check on my desk by the morning. “Last but not least, Warren. Are there any updates from anyone?”

A round of grunts passed around the room.

“Your brother is still an ignorant fucker,” I spelt out, and Vincent, less than impressed, hummed lowly. “Alexa?”

“I wrote the letter,” she said with vague demureness, her hands tumbling onto her lap. “I am still waiting for a response.”

If Warren ignores the letter about Bean, I will personally rock up to Belmarsh to wipe the floor with him. “I have faith in him.”

My phone screen brightened with a notification.

Emma: Do you have time to talk?

“Can I end the meeting on a light note?” Alexa collected her handbag underneath the table. “Christmas is around the corner. Now, I am not in the most festive of moods because, well, I miss my husband.” Her lips puckered. “But I would like to invite everyone to the Manor on Christmas Day for a celebratory meal. I will need confirmation of who is attending, as Camilla needs a head count before she can construct the menu.”

I replied to Emma.

Me: For you? Of course.

Her response shot back in seconds.

Emma: In person.

Me: Aren’t you at work?

Emma: Yes, but I will ask Laurence if I can leave early.

Me: I am due at the flat in a few hours.

Emma: I can’t wait until later. It’s important.

My muscles tautened.

Something didn’t feel right.

Me: I am at the casino. Can you get Terrence to drop you here?

Emma: Will there be people at the casino?

Me: Just the brothers.

Alexa burst out laughing.

Me: And Alexa.

Emma: I don’t think I can have this conversation in front of others.

Me: Relax. I will meet you at the entrance and take you to the bar. Everyone else can stay in the office.

Emma: Okay. I will be there in thirty minutes.

Looking at the phone in perplexity, I sent a heart emoji, unsure why, but it seemed like the right thing to do. Then I closed our message thread and clicked on Terrence’s name.

Me: Do you have anything to report?

Terrence: Like what?

Me: Just a hunch.

Terrence: Miss Emma?

Me: Yes.

Terrence: No.

Me: Why is she leaving work early to come and see me? She is supposed to be attending an art exhibition tonight with Hughie.

No, I did not like it.

No, I did not want to talk about it.

Terrence: Would you like me to ask her?

Me: Is she with you right now?

Terrence: Yes.

My brows incurved.

Me: How does she look?

Terrence: She looks like Miss Emma.

Me: Don’t make me spark you out.

Terrence: Yeah, all right. Sad, I guess.

Me: Sad? Why the fuck is she sad?

Terrence: Is that a request for me to ask her?

Me: No.

Terrence: Then I can’t answer that question.

“Brad?” Alexa called, and my eyes jerked to find everyone in attendance staring at me with questioning scowls. “Are you okay?”

I am not sure.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Emma

Hugo, the serial outfit-repeater in faded denim jeans, black heavy-duty boots and an overworn leather jacket, pushed through the restaurant’s main doors, spoke to the impeccably uniformed hostess, thanked her for the leather-bound menu and meandered through a series of well-decorated tables.

I smiled at him.

He smiled back.

Gravitating to the long-stretched walnut veneered bar, he sat on the barstool opposite the master mixologist concocting a series of varicoloured cocktails, ordered a neat whiskey and basked in the scenic essence of romance: dim lights, soft jazz, tuxedoed gentlemen and glamoured women.

Hugo texted earlier, asking when I finished work and If I’d like to attend a late-night art exhibition.

I am not a connoisseur of artwork, galleries or museums, but I had nothing better to do than go through the motions of life. If I went home, I’d vegetate in front of the television or go for another run to overcome the fight of incurable restlessness.

Before I agreed to the display of artwork, I had to check with Big Guy first. No, it’s not because he is overbearing or controlling. Yes, he groused and made a fuss. Then he gave up the fight and told me to have a nice time-begrudgingly.

Believe it or not, the man with excessive confidence and an exaggerated sense of self-worth is secretly battling feelings of worthlessness. He has trust issues. He is insecure in our relationship, thanks to his ex-girlfriend, Tiffany, cheating on him with his best friend.

I think the traumatic image of them in bed together will forever be imprinted in his mind.

To top it off, BraddespisedHugo just as much as hedespisedbargain stores and counterfeit labels, which says it all because the devoted follower of fashion seldom stressed over anything but Salvatore Ferragamo shoes and Ermenegildo Zegna bespoke.He had to look the part.

Trust me when I say you do not want to suggest cheaper brands to save money when he’s in the process of contemplating Giorgio Armani’s iconic tailoring.

He will be offended.

He will throw a hissy fit.

He will make you wish you’d never been born.

When I accompanied him to Bond Street, and he snuck into Givenchy to buy a new coat, I stayed outside, sipping coffee, as a safety precaution, to protect myself from extenuating circumstances or one of his famous meltdowns.

And I amstillcrazy about him.

When did that happen?

Big Guy is not happy about our friendship, Hugo’s and mine. If he could wave a magic wand and make the man disappear-send him to the nether region of hellfire and eternal torment-he would do it without any delay or remorse. In actual fact, he would do all of the above with boastful satisfaction.

However, as he is determined to alter his behaviour in a positive way, he is learning how not to tarnish me with Tiffany’s brush of unfaithfulness. I never lied, cheated or broke the man’s heart. It is not fair to punish me for someone else’s actions.

All things considered, I am allowed to have male friends, Hugo included, but I have to make a conscious effort not to bewooedby them.

Not difficult.

Easy challenge.

Fidelity is compulsory in a committed relationship, anyway.

If I emulated Tiffany’s disrespect and fell into the arms of another man, Brad might lose faith in the female population altogether. I would never hurt him like she did, not intentionally. If it does not work out between us, for whatever reason, I will end the relationship maturely and amicably. I would not find a replacement to keep me company whilst he is busy at work.

It’s not aboutprovingto him that not all women are prone to cheat. It’s aboutprovingto himIam a good partner, with self-respect and an impenetrable conscience, that I appreciate what I have and that I value him for simply beinghim.

Thanking a customer for the tip, I stuffed a five-pound note into the pocket of my single-breasted waistcoat and moved to the next table of vociferous businesswomen.

“Menu three.” The female customer, resplendent in diamonds and pearls, peered over the leather-bound menu to relay the table’s order. “Four bottles of Poderi Morini, Nadél.”

I jotted down a list of to-dos.

“If the chef is on time, I will give you a generous tip.” She winked at me, her curiosity steering to the succession of debonair gentlemen enjoying a three-course meal. One gent had his eyes on her. They will wind up in bed together by the end of the night. “And send a round of whatever they are drinking to their table. You can put it on my tab.”

“Of course.” Taking the menus, I stacked them into a neat pile on the hostess stand at the front of the restaurant, ready for the next wave of customers.

If I can get everyone’s drinks out swiftly, I might be able to take a quick break. Lord knows I needed one. I have been on my feet for over three hours.

My phone vibrated.

Making sure Laurence was not in sight, I unlocked my phone to read Tommy’s reply.

I had texted him earlier, asking if he could call me tomorrow for a catch-up. Depending on his response, I had every intention of meeting up with him. What I had to ask cannot be relayed over the phone.

Tommy: I thought ye died.

Me: I am not dead.

Message read.

Tommy: Ignorant.

Yes, I had been ignorant. Tommy, much like everyone else in my life, did his best to keep a line of communication open between us. He texted, left voicemails and even threatened to turn up at my door once. I never responded. I threw myself a pity party instead.

Me: I was not in a good place.

Tommy: I get it.

Me: So, about tomorrow…

Tommy: Depends.

Me: On what?

Tommy: What’s the urgency?

Me: Asking you to call is considered an urgency?

Tommy: Ye blanked me for months, and now ye reach out? Yeah, I think there is more to this than ye lettin’ on.

Touché, O’Shea.

Me: Okay, I might need something from you.

Tommy: Ye got some nerve.

I deserved his coldness.

Me: It’s about Carter.

The message stayed on “read” for three whole minutes.

Tommy: Is it bad?

I understood the question. He wants to know if any new evidence has come to light.

Me: It’s a cold case.

Tommy: The gavvers are useless arseholes.

Me: Tell me about it.

Tommy: For Carter, I will call.

Me: Thank you, Tommy.

Tommy: No problem, Em.

I tucked my phone away.

“Young lady.” The silver-haired, cologne-infused millionaire businessman with bedroom eyes, wandering hands and shameless pervertedness-that liked to pester me with his company every damn week-called me over to his table with demanding hand gestures. “You have yet to take my order.”

“I am not working in the premium lounge this evening.” Thankfully, having noticed his arrival, Sade offered to switch places with me earlier so that I could tend to the prestige lounge and avoid him like the plague. “I can call someone to help you, though,” I proffered a substitute waiter or waitress as I closed in on the man’s table. “Sir?”

“I want you to serve me.” His tongue slithered across his bow-shaped upper lip. “I shall order my favourite: Corton-Charlemagne, Maison Louis Latour, Burgundy, France. Perhaps, if approved by the manager, I can tempt you to join me.” He motioned to the empty chair, where a woman half his age sat prior, and then he tapped his thigh. “Or, you can sit here. I have a penchant for penurious waitresses.”

His lasciviousness struck a chord of exasperation, only mild annoyance because I am used to his perverted obscenities, but his smug conceitedness felt like a forceful kick to the gut.

I am not poverty-stricken.

I might not drive swanky vehicles or live in a million-pound penthouse, but I am proudly grounded. I was raised by strict parents in the pious heart of Mostyn Avenue, with a mother-albeit weakened by her husband’s anachronistic rules and regulations-who taught me right from wrong, to refrain from bad manners, talking obscenely and judging others.

You most certainly did not insult someone kind enough to deal with your needs.

This obnoxious, pig-headed, idiotic individual, in receipt of table service, is about to feel my foot up his ass. He won’t be able to shit for a week by the time I am through with him.

My finger flew in his face. “You-”

“Miss Emma.” Terrence, by some miracle, interjected before I did something stupid or regretful. Hand grazing my lower back, he stepped around me, becoming an indomitable barrier between me and the silver-haired asswipe. I never asked why he left the Bentley and came into the restaurant. I know how the role of a bodyguard works. He must have been watching the exchange ahead of impending controversy. “You are not allowed to talk to this woman.”

Blowing tresses of hair out of my face, I shuffled nervously on the spot as he spoke.

Not content with the distance, Terrence grasped the back of the man’s chair, lowered to one knee, and glared at eye level to intimidate him. “You like money, right?”

The guy stared narrowly. “Indeed.”

“Good. Something we have in common. I like money, too. So, I have to do my job properly if I want to get paid at the end of the month.” Terrence fiddled with the man’s grey tie, deliberately tightening the knot to his neck, anunfriendlychoking method. “I will never miss an opportunity to please Command.”

Imbued with apprehension, I chewed the inside of my cheek.

“In accordance with Command’s rules, Imustensure his girl’s safety at all times.” Terrence brushed a fallen strand of hair off the man’s shoulder. “If she is threatened or compromised, Imustremove the person intending to inflict pain or upset. You understand the problem?”

Wishing the floor would open up and swallow me, I stared blankly at the bodyguard’s back, ignoring the piqued interest of nearby customers.

“The three-strikes-and-out rule is not obligatory to the syndicate’s code and conduct. It doesn’t even exist in our world.You,” Terrence pointed at the red-faced man, “get one shot-two if Warren is feeling generous.” He let that sink in for a moment. “Warren is not here to authorise an appeal for leniency, though. So, I am torn. I don’t know whether to give you a tap on the wrist or spoon your fucking eyes out.”

My jaw dropped to the floor. “Terrence…”

He silenced me with a raised hand.

“You will not lay one finger on me,” the silver-haired man warned. “Not in front of all these witnesses.” A sleazy smile lit up his face as he stood in tandem with Terrence. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a flight to catch in the morning.”

Terrence’s hand flattened on the man’s chest, preventing him from taking another step. “You fucked with the wrong people tonight,” he said in a low, savage voice, and the hairs on my arms stood to attention. “You might want to lock your doors. I have a feeling this will end very badly for you.”

His nostrils, thick with grey hairs, bristled angrily. “Are you threatening me?”

“Yes, Sir.” Terrence’s indifference to the tension attacked my body with pins and needles. “I believe I am.” Then, with the force of an unforgiving caveman, he shoved the guy into a passing waitress, knocking a tray of uncorked wine bottles all over the floor. “Piece of shit.”

Shattering glass crescendoed jarringly as the duo spun, slipped and tumbled over each other’s feet until they lay in a web of saturated clothes and tangled limbs.

“What’s the matter?” Terrence taunted, the customer crawling on his hands and knees toward the door. “Buy some new clothes. You soiled the trousers.”

I wanted to fade into the background.

I will be shocked if I am not fired after that public display.

Suddenly, I smelt the pungency of masculine fragrance.

Laurence had arrived.

Anticipating the man’s lambasting, I turned on my heel to face him, to explain myself, but apologies and explanations died on my tongue. I had no words, no voice.

What could I say? My bodyguard is a killing machine. Put the knives away before he stabs someone to death. Yes, because that’s normal for an everyday citizen. I am just a mediocre waitress. I am not supposed to have a security detail, let alone date one of Liam Warren’s men.

Laurence looked from the mess on the floor to the female waitress brushing shards of glass off her pencil skirt, and then his gaze came to me. “Miss Hughes?”

“I am a dissatisfied customer,” Terrence intervened in the hope of salvaging my job. “I am not happy about the scallops. They were raw. I ordered a glass of gin thirty minutes ago. I am still waiting. Moreover, I had to sit there,” he motioned to the silver-haired man’s table, “and watch some creep paw at this female waitress and make inappropriate remarks. When I told him to knock it off, leave this poor lady alone and let her do her job in peace, he threw a glass at me.”

Laurence is speechless.

“You need better security measures in this dump.” Terrence tossed a fifty-pound note on the table to pay for the dinner service he did not receive. “Women deserve more respect.”

“I cannot apologise enough, Sir.” Laurence, red-faced and flustered, failed to appease Terrence. “I will give you a fifty percent discount the next time you visit as a goodwill gesture.”

Terrence tsked. “You could not pay me to come back to this shit hole.”

Laurence’s mouth slammed shut.

My bodyguard left the building.

I, however, could not get my feet to move. I stood in open-mouthed astonishment, waiting for the admonishment that never came.

“Are you alright?” Laurence’s hands smoothed up and down my arms. “I am so sorry that happened to you. I will check the customer’s booking reference and update the system. He will never step foot inside the restaurant again.”

“I am fine.” Although, I am stunned by the lion-hearted bodyguard’s loyalty to the job. It was the first time I had witnessed him in action. He did not disappoint. I underestimated him. “I have to get drinks for the lady at table thirty.” And put the neighbours’ round on her tab. “Can I take a break soon? I only need five minutes to get some fresh air.”

“Absolutely.” Laurence cleared the customer’s table. “Give Sade the heads up. She will be looking for you otherwise.”

Nodding, I dabbed sweat from my brow and hunted the restaurant for Sade. I found her by the equipment station, restocking the cutlery compartments.

“Laurence said I can have five minutes to cool off,” I said, and her eyes drifted past my eyes to perv on the boss. “You are not even trying to be discreet.”

“Discreteness is boring.” She adjusted the knot of her waitress apron. “I want the man to know I am feeling him.”

Oh, I think everyone with a pair of eyes can see that she isfeeling him. That’s if the indiscreet lip bites and rosy cheeks are anything to go by. “I thought it was just an arrangement between you two.”

Sade hummed. “That’s right.”

Yet, I saw sparks in her eyes. “You like him, don’t you?”

“Laurence?” Her nose crinkled in repugnance. “Girl, please. I have enough battery-operated boyfriends to keep myself busy. I don’t need that man’s drama in my life.”

I am not buying it. “You should invite him on a date.”

“Why would I do that?” She used a microfiber cloth to polish forks. “If he wanted to go on a date, he’d have asked me by now.”

Laurence is far too shy to ask her out. He doesn’t know how to navigate women smoothly. I have witnessed as much when female customers flirt with him. He becomes closed off and disinterested, which can be misconstrued as boorish.

Sade and Laurence wouldn’t even have anarrangementIf it weren’t for her heightened sense of confidence.

“Well, I think you will be waiting forever.” I planted a seed in her head-food for thought. “Laurence is not an assertive man. You know that.”

Her mouth stammered.

“Anyway,” I said chipperly. “I will leave you to it.”

Feeling Sade’s eyes on me as I waded through occupied tables, I went to the bar to grab four bottles of Poderi Morini, Nadél.

The barman offered to deliver the wine to the customer’s table for me whilst I amended her bar tab.

As I hadn’t spoken to Hugo yet, I bypassed the endless cue of entertainment-seekers and stopped dead in my tracks.

Hugo is not alone.

He had female company.

Not wanting to be a third wheel, I started to backpedal to give the lovebirds some privacy when unforgettable ice-blue eyes crashed into mine.

Dominic’s former Nanny.

I almost did not recognise her, with volumised red hair and a skimpy black dress. In the past, when she and I stumbled into each other, she modelled cable knit clothes, red-framed reading glasses and a messy peroxide bob cut.

Bradley tried to kill me.

I encountered a stream of flashbacks.

He put a gun to my head and threatened to end it all.

I am so scared.

I know he is a violent man, but I have never seen him behave so cruelly. Poor Dominic. His father is not in a good place.

You should have seen how Bradley treated that little boy just because he was angry at me. I am scared to leave. How can a father be so heavy-handed with his son?

It’s a good job that his voice of reasoning is there. Alexa, I mean. She is the only woman that can calm him down. God knows what’ll happen once her husband is released, though. A small, rather selfish part of me hopes she will choose them instead.

Choose them, I thought.

Isn’t that what she had said to me?

Well, they have become embroiled in a sticky affair. According to Nate, Bradley’s close friend, the pair have been in bed together for months.

Alice had the cheek to smile and wave at me as I approached.

You are dealing with dangerous, corrupt, irredeemable criminals here. Do not let the designer clothes and friendly smiles fool you. We are nothing but small fish in a sea of sharks. Everyone, who is anyone, is on their side. If we contact the police to raise awareness? Or report that man’s abusive behaviour toward his son? Kiss your arse goodbye. They will come for you and everyone you love. Take that from someone who has witnessed their nefariousness first-hand. I have seen the unimaginable take place behind those closed doors.

I drifted toward them, the room around me spinning into blurriness.

You must be selfish. Do not be another victim of that man’s villainous ways. Leave whilst you have the chance.

“Emma,” Hugo said with enthusiasm and keenness as I saddled up to them. “I want to introduce you to my new friend.” His speech was slurred. “Meet Alice Montgomery. I found her by the bathroom, looking lost and lonely.”

“Oh, stop.” Alice tapped the man’s shoulder with a patronising display of friendliness. “I was not lonely. I just couldn’t find the restroom.” Inhaling a deep breath, as if needing additional strength and valour to speak to me. “Emma, I didn’t know you worked here. What a small world?”

I failed to hide my displeasure. “Why are you here, Alice?”

“Wait?” Hugo’s hands shot up in the air theatrically. “You two know each other? What a small, tiny, minuscule world of remarkable coincidences?”

How much did he have to drink? “No-”

“Yes, I met Emma through a mutual friend.” Her tongue pushed into her cheek. “Don’t worry. I am not stalking you. I went to the movies and fancied a bite to eat afterwards. You happen to work here.”

“Amutualfriend,” I repeated with a lump the size of a tennis ball in my throat. “Is that what he was to you? A friend. See, I thought he was the villain.”

Alice stared right through me, her eyes piercingly sharp.

“Anyway!” Hugo burped and apologised, then ordered another round. “I am too drunk to understand this, so can I try the cocktails? I will have whatever you suggest.”

I am not a bartender or a mixologist. I can barely select the right wine brand on demand. “I don’t know how to make cocktails.”

“Sex on the beach is easy and fun.” Alice emptied her purse, and coppers bounced along the countertop. “Just water for me, though.”

“Here.” Hugo slid the cocktail menu across the bar. “You can read the ingredients. Omit the oranges and cherries. It is Cheat Day. Fruit is not on the table.”

Reading the instructions, I grabbed two tall glasses, topped them with ice cubes and placed vodka, peach schnapps, orange juice and cranberry juice on the counter.

Filling Alice’s glass with bottled water, I mixed Hugo’s cocktail and left both drinks on the counter for them.

“Hugo, that will be eight pounds and seventy-five pence.” Tapping their order into the digital cash register, I held my hand out to accept the money. “Alice, two pounds.”

Alice counted change, overlooking the pound coins and fifty pence pieces. As an alternative, she paid with an accumulation of five pence pieces. “Thank you, Emma.”

I dropped the money in the drawer. “No problem.”

“For you, my fair lady.” Hugo brandished a ten-pound note. “Keep the change.”

I put the change under the counter. It’s where bar staff stored tips until the end of the night.

“You said sex on the beach was fun-fucking-tastic.” Hugo, three sheets to the wind, turned at the waist to face the buxom redhead. “Yet, she drinks water. Go figure?”

“Well, I can’t drink alcohol.” Her two fingers extracted an ice cube from the glass for her to suck on. “I am pregnant.”

And that is my cue to leave. I might sound selfish but hearing about a woman’s pregnancy is the last thing I need.

For months, I avoided family zones in London. I even walked back on myself to dodge mothers and children standing at bus stops. I’d rather travel the longest route to steer clear of little ones.

Even the television channel switched over if boyish smiles appeared on the screen. It’s not about blubbering into tissues because young actors aced the movies they starred in.

I had to force myself to be around Dominic again. Not because I had any ill feelings toward him. He is an adorable baby. But after Carter, it felt too soon, doting on someone else’s Little Guy when mine had been fed to the wolves.

“Woah!” Hugo’s bulbous eyes, bloodshot from the overconsumption of alcohol, stared unblinkingly at her. “The lost, lonely woman drinking water is pregnant. That’s insane. You don’t look very pregnant.”

“It’s neat, right?” Her hands went to her stomach, where the tiniest bump homed her growing baby. “Sex is clearly a good form of exercise. Lucky for me, I get it on a regular basis.”

I felt a twinge in my chest.

Envy.

Ienviedthis woman, this expectant mother.

Shit, I am such an awful person.

“You should be at home, resting your feet.” Hugo sipped the cocktail through a straw. “I hear pregnancy is tough on the old calves, too.”

Having no desire to listen to this conversation, I started to walk away.

“Oh, I don’t get much rest with Dominic running around twenty-four-seven,” she told him, and I slowed down to listen. Apparently, I had to know the rest of that story. “I don’t mind, though. He keeps me on my toes.”

Convinced I had misheard, I rushed back to them. “Dominic?” I asked, and she flinched, spilling water down the front of her dress. “Dominic Jones? As in, Brad’s little boy?”

“Yes.” Alice, irked by the spillage, rubbed her dress with a napkin. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

“You told me he put a gun to your head and threatened to kill you.” Possessiveness took over my body, the same body that ought to lunge across the bar top so I could wrap my hands around her throat and strangle her to death. “You said he was having an affair with his boss’s wife.”

Hugo’s eyebrows darted to his hairline.

“Bitch, you told me he was heavy-handed with his son,” I snapped, and Hugo wilted on the bar stool. “I have seen them together. He absolutely idolises that little boy. You lied to me. You lied about everything.”

Her lips pursed together.

I am nowhere near finished.

“If he is such a horrible person, why did you reapply for your old job?” My body shook with a mixture of indignation and defensiveness. “Go on. Answer the question. Let’s sit back and laugh at the lies you love to spin.”

“He asked me to come back.” Then, without warning, she broke down into a hot, blubbering mess. I did not buy her emotional appeal. Her acting skills were top-tier, though. I will give her that. But it will take a lot more than fake tears to stir me with regret. “Bradley, I mean. He wanted me to live on the estate with them.”

What is she talking about?

Brad hasn’t mentioned Alice in months.

Mabel is the new nanny.

“Emma…” Hugo glimpsed at the watchful customers in the background. “People are staring.”

“I don’t understand the confusion.” Alice placed the water glass on the bar top with trembling fingers. “You are both friends, right? Why wouldn’t he tell you?”

A prickling sensation slithered down my spine.

Hugo’s lips flattened as I looked helplessly between them. He knew, with or without confirmation, I was paralysed with dread and anxiety. It must have been evident because his hand reached over the bar to cover my curled-up fist.

“Friends?” Ominous thoughts spun my brain out of control. “What the hell is going on here? Have I missed something? Can someone spell it out for me?”

“Emma, I live there in preparation for our baby.” Alice mopped her tear-stained cheeks with a bunched-up napkin. “Bradley asked me to go back. He wants to do right by the baby and for us to be a proper family.”

My heart palpitated painfully in my chest.

Alice’s head tipped to one side. “He didn’t tell you, did he?”

No, I refused to heed a word she had to say.

“We are expecting our first child.” Even when the words left her lying, vindictive mouth, I struggled to believe her. It’s not like she had a good track record of being honest with me. “I am due in March of next year.”

“You are lying,” I said with a shaky breath. “Brad is not the father. You do not live on the estate. You are trying to cause trouble again.”

Alice gave me a sympathetic look.

An ache settled in my stomach. In numbed horror, I felt the walls closing in around me, the floor beneath my feet seemingly moving.

“You should go.” Hugo, who had sobered up after the colossal bombshell she had dropped on us, chucked the sparkly clutch bag onto her lap. “Anytime this evening.”

A vein in the side of her neck throbbed. “Are you dismissing me?”

Hugo’s lips curled inwards. “You are just some random piece of ass I found down the hall,” he said in a deep, grating voice that I did not recognise. “Emma is my friend. My loyalties lie with her, not you.”

“Right.” Alice’s cold, insincere manner twisted the knife deeper into my chest as she slid down from the bar stool, the heels of her shoes scraping on the floor. “Emma, I am sorry for upsetting you. If it is any consolation, I, too, feel betrayed.”

Tears filled my eyes. “Do you share his bed?”

Her mouth pressed into a firm line.

I had to get out of there.

My feet hardly touched the floor due to unbreathing hastiness. Disappearing down theemployees-onlyhallway, I went through the fire exit at the back of the restaurant and stepped into the belly of the alleyway.

A choked sob, mixed with the frigid night air, caught in the back of my throat.

Everything hurts to the very core, body, mind and heart. I wanted to scream for a natural high and let every ounce of pain fade into the background.

Taking the phone out of my pocket, I put my back to the wall and stifled silent tears.

I had to speak to Big Guy. It’s unfair to judge him before I have heard his side of the story. For all I know, Alice is lying to me again.

Me: Do you have time to talk?

Message delivered.

I know him, the good, the bad and the ugly. He is honest and open with me.

Even when he lied-the game we played-his sad yet beautiful eyes told the truth.

That’s what I have to do, go to him, face him head-on and ask him outright. If there is any credence to Alice’s claims of him fathering her child, of her living on the estate, I will know by simply looking at him.

Big Guy: For you? Of course.

My heart ached.

Me: In person.

Message read.

Three dots bounced on the screen.

Big Guy: Aren’t you at work?

Me: Yes, but I will ask Laurence if I can leave early.

Big Guy: I am due at the flat in a few hours.

Me: I can’t wait until later. It’s important.

Big Guy: I am at the casino. Can you get Terrence to drop you here?

Me: Will there be people at the casino?

Big Guy: Just the brothers.

Big Guy: And Alexa.

Me: I don’t think I can have this conversation in front of others.

Big Guy: Relax. I will meet you at the entrance and take you to the bar. Everyone else can stay in the conference room.

It’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing. I cannot sit on this until later. I will drive myself crazy otherwise.

Me: Okay. I will be there in thirty minutes.

Big Guy sent a heart emoji.

He had never done that before.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Brad

Sovereign–the syndicate’s new home and base of operations–is only weeks away from completion. Once the interior designer transforms the gambling hall, replacing old-fashioned designs with majestic grandeur, I can open for business.

That’s if the boss’s wife will accede to the request and grant permission to unlock the doors.

Warren Enterprise’s decline in reputation and business performance might be the kick up the backside she needed to prevent long-term financial impact.

Vincent, akin to his older brother, is a smooth operator. His persuasiveness is the perfect solution for stubborn individuals like Alexa. He challenged her with efficiency and grace to make the casino accessible to the general public, whereas I’d have bickered until she acquiesced in the decision of Command.

Let’s face it. I am an impatient, problematic soul. I do not have the time or the energy to cajole someone with sustained fawning. I am forthright in my opinions and expect instant results.

Leaving the private office, I trekked downstairs, ready for the unplanned visit from Emma and Terrence.

I felt slightly distorted as I descended to ground level. Urgency is never a good sign. What could be so bad that she couldn’t wait until later? And worse, why does the impending get-together intensify gut-wrenching nerves?

I bypassed unopened boxes of crystal chandeliers in the corridor. Alexa exceeded expectations. I knew she’d spare no expense to achieve splendid lavishness because her husband’s name was above the door, but I could never have imagined such regality before this monumental moment.

Flanked by Roman pillars and restored Greek sculptures, the bifurcated concrete staircase, with blood-red carpet runners, gold stair rods and ornate spindles, opened into the casino’s main room. Private indoor balconies overlooked the entirety of the first floor. I could already see the men stood up there, dressed to the nines, watching spendthrift pleasure-seekers below.

The casino will be a stark contrast to Club 11. Gone are the days of ear-splitting clubland music, semi-naked dancers, glamorised prostitutes and drunken brawls. Say hello to the hotspot of world-class architecture, elaborate entertainment displays, cocktail and black-tie attire and the best champagne money can buy.

I am here for a change in lifestyle, for new beginnings and gateways to lucrative sidelines. Christ, I will never settle for mediocrity, not when money is there for the taking, not when life is so munificently rewarding.

Terrence appeared by the rear end of the stage, a private door for employees. He probably used the casino’s back entrance to come indoors after parking underground alongside Bentley vehicles. All of the brothers had coded access to the syndicate’s establishments.

“Well?” I sat on a barstool across from the unfinished bar, the liquor shelves empty, the double-door coolers half-stocked. I suppose the random bottle of bourbon will go down a treat. “What have I missed?”

Emma stepped out from behind the impenetrable wall that is her bodyguard before his lips could move to respond. She is uniformed in a black pencil skirt, skin-toned tights, flat shoes, a long-sleeved white shirt and a single-breasted waistcoat. Her hair, styled in a loose braid, hung over one shoulder. Her face was breathtakingly beautiful but paler than usual.

An airy inhalation got trapped in my throat.

Even when overworked, tired-looking and undeniably crestfallen, I thought she was the most transfixing woman I had ever met.

My heart told me to stand and greet, to round the bar and let my arms fall around her body for a hug. But my mind told me to hang fire, to wait for an opening or an invitation. Do not overstep boundaries.

Until this moment, where she stood standoffish and unapproachable, I never knew this unnervingly dividing line between us existed.

What should I do?

What should I say?

How am I supposed to act?

It’s not as though she and I discussed the elements of personal boundaries, except for expectations around physical intimacy, where specific comments and unwanted touches triggered traumatic experiences.

Am I expected to read between the lines?

Do I reciprocate standoffishness and unapproachability?

Do I ignore the elephant in the room and kiss her regardless?

Terrence, with eyes like shards of cognac diamonds, disappeared through the private door without any form of communication, leaving us alone to converse.

I wondered why the bodyguard fled so hastily. Perhaps the woman he is paid generously to look after had divulged en route to the casino. Maybe he knew something that I did not but had no desire to facilitate on either side, whether it be in Emma’s favour or mine.

Lulled into a false sense of security, I suddenly craved a stiff drink. I reached over the top of the counter and seized a bourbon bottle. “You good?”

“No,” she answered honestly. “No, I am not, Big Guy.”

Although unflustered in demeanour, I found myself frozen in place. Emma was angry, hurt and upset. I had yet to understand why. We had been fine, both happy and smiling foolishly, when I dropped her to work earlier. I received two selfies of her hiding in the staff room before I joined Alexa and the brothers for a closed-door conclave.

Maybe I am overly suspicious. Her aloofness might not be about me. It might have everything to do with the stressors of work, the grief of Carter, or the unlikeliness of Hugo.

Thanks to unforeseen circumstances, I uncapped the bourbon bottle without an ounce of cognisance and braced myself for whatever she had in store for me. “You changed your mind.”

Disconcertment rested behind her sad eyes. “About what?”

“About Hughie and the late-night art exhibition.” Hugo, the malefriend, who, according to Emma, the delusional female, had no romantic feelings towards her whatsoever. Personally, I think he is full of shit. He is sniffing around like a sleazy dog for a reason, to prove to her that, in the long run, he is the better catch, that I am only someone to pass the time with. He reckons I am replaceable, the senseless idiot. He is in for a rude awakening. I have never been one to play by the rules. I will gladly receive demerit points for bad sportsmanship to win the girl. “Have you lost your voice?”

“I should text him…” Her hand ran through tresses of unruly hair by her creased forehead. “Hugo, I mean. He waited for me by the bar…I left without saying goodbye.”

Good, I thought, taking a swig straight from the bottle, the sweet, smooth flavour rich on my tongue. I needed that, the burning, stinging sensation in my throat, the warmth in my chest. If I drink enough alcohol, I will reap the rewards of short-term relaxation and subdued nervousness.

My knuckles rapped on the bar top somewhat nervously before my hand upturned, inviting her to come closer. I had to touch her, feel her skin on mine and know that she was with me no matter what.

After eight whole seconds of simply glaring at my hand as if the thought of my skin on hers would be detrimental, she came to me with tentative footsteps, slipped her palm onto mine and locked our fingers together. The tip of her thumb outlined the gold rings lining my knuckles. “Tell me a lie, Big Guy.”

My stomach knotted. “You have not consumed my mind.” Paralysed with pessimistic thoughts, I searched her face for any warning signs. “Not once, not even a little bit.”

Her head turned to hide the tear on her cheek.

“What did I do?” I asked, knowing I was the root of her sadness. “Tell me. I will fix it.”

“I am scared to ask.” Her whispery voice jarred the heart in my chest. “Is it selfish to want a blessing to be untrue?”

“It depends.” My thumb traced her knuckles in circular motions. “There is very little in life that I consider blessings.”

Her fingers wrenched out of mine. “What about a child?”

“A child?” My brain tripped over itself. “I am not sure that I understand the question.”

“Is Dominic conducive to happiness?”

“Dominic is my son.” Irked by the cryptic conversation, I thrust my hands into my trouser pockets, the heels of my leather shoes rocking back and forth on the floor. “There is no greater gift.”

“If not Dominic?” she mused, and the realisation of her evasiveness hit me like a freight train. “Is there room in your heart for more?”

A barrage of unpleasant emotions came forth: guilt, anger, fear, frustration, resentment and helplessness. Still, I did not jump to conclusions. “You might need to break it down for me, sweetheart.”

She put the rim of the bourbon bottle to her lips. “Do you want more children?” She thirstily guzzled as if alcohol was the answer to her prayers. “Sooner rather than later.”

Yes, I was right to assume the worst. “I was going to tell you.” A cold tremor ran through my body. “That’s what this is about, right? Alice Montgomery.”

She frowned, then shrugged her shoulders.

“Just be real with me.” My stomach muscles contracted when she looked away dismissively. “Go ahead. The floor is yours.”

“Do not patronise me.” Her fierce voice scraped her throat. “You got another woman pregnant and didn’t have the decency to tell me. You have the nerve to get defensive.”

I am not defensive.

I amnervous.

And I amseriouslyangry. “Who told you?”

“Why?” Her eyes, lashed in teary dews, lifted to mine. “What will you do if I tell you?”

I had yet to decide. “Did Alice come to you?”

Emma contemplated lying to me. “The news would have been less painful had it come from you,” she said in a low, broken voice, as if I could not hate myself anymore for inflicting emotional pain on such a heartbroken woman. “You should have told me the truth, Big Guy.”

I had zero time to think about what Alice had done or why she thought inserting herself into my private life would be anything but life-threatening. “I had every intention of telling you.”

“Really? When?” Emma’s miserable yet disappointed glare dared me to lie. “Were you going to tell me after the baby is born? Or, were you waiting until I walked past you in the street, pushing a buggy, playing happy families with your other half? Perhaps you thought it would be better if I never found out.”

“Do not be so ridiculous,” I argued, and she said nothing. “This is not a black-and-white situation. What happened with Alice is far more complex than you think.” Christ, I only wanted a shot at happiness with you. “Emma, I lost you. Ilostyou, and ithurt. I never want to experience those days without you again.”

Recapping the bourbon bottle, she placed it on the counter. “Explain it to me.”

A breath shuddered from my lips. “I slept with her once.”

“The night I called your phone, and she answered?” she asked, and I had to jog my memory. “I know that already. That was the only time you slept together?”

Yes, I slept with her after leaving Emma in the hotel room. “And I regretted it the same night.”

Her mouth pursed tightly.

“You mentioned Leeds,” I whispered as she eyed the exit route. “Mostyn Avenue.” We grew up in the same area. “The conversation triggered some really unpleasant memories. I freaked out and left.”

“I remember.” She came to my side, only to place a hand on the bar top, the distance between us uninviting. “You said that you were not cut out for anything serious and then proceeded to tell me what a horrible person you are.”

I am one of the worst. “I hated the thought of you knowing where I came from.”

Something unreadable flashed in her eyes. “Big Guy…”

“I meant what I said that night. Yet, when I left, when I drove to the club to find a replacement, someone to make me feel good inside, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I wanted you. Only you.” I drew in a breathless sigh. “I went home, drunk out of my mind, but with good intentions.”

How much had I had to drink?

How many lines did I snort?

Ialmostcrashed the car at the end of the street.

Ialmosttook the electronic gates off the estate’s entranceway.

I was hurt.

My head.

My chest.

My heart.

I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and hated the person staring back at me. He was unrecognisable, an embarrassment, a disgrace. I punched him repeatedly, broke his face, shattered the glass, ruptured my knuckles and watched blood pour down the sink.

Alice’s blurry figure appeared by the en-suite door. She spoke to me, although I do not remember what she said. I never looked up or acknowledged her. All I know is Emma’s face was in my mind when I touched my chest to feel my irregular heartbeat…

Alice got to her knees.

My cock was in her mouth.

How did we move so quickly?

Did I want her to touch me?

Did it feel good?

I had vague memories of us in bed together.

My bare chest pressed against her naked back.

Her unrealistic moans echoed into the darkest recess of my mind.

I stopped.

I felt sick.

“I had a moment of weakness,” I told her the truth to avoid further upset. “I won’t blame the drugs or the alcohol or evenher. My stupidity led me to distress. It was one time. I haven’t looked at her since.”

Even though we have crossed this bridge before, Emma seemed more troubled by it now than she did in the past. “Why was I not enough for you?”

Christ, I have dreamt of us together every night since the second I realised I had feelings for her. “You are more than enough for me.”

Another tear rolled down her cheek. “Just not that night.”

“I wasn’t ready.” It took almost losing her to realise how much I wanted to change. “You know of my demons. I introduced you to them. I thought I was set in my ways, that I could never be anything more than someone’s fuck toy. Women served one purpose: to fulfil my sexual needs. It might be hard to believe, but I didn’t want you to be one of them.”

Emma stared at me like she did not recognise me.

“I never finished. It lasted for a few minutes, and I stopped.” At least, I am ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure that I pulled out and asked her not to speak of what happened between us ever again. “I never thought about her or that night until recently, when she came to the estate to inform me of the pregnancy. I called her a liar. Any man could father her child.”

Her face softened.

“Alice also expressed regret. She doesn’t want the reminder of us, either. I think she secretly hates me,” I said with a humourless laugh. “But she was adamant that her kid was mine and willingly agreed to a paternity test. I won’t lie to you. Her confidence took me aback…” I prayed for negative results and received positive results as an alternative. It was probably the worst email I had ever received. “I am the father of her unborn child. For multiple reasons, I haven’t given myself time to consider it. You, being one of them.”

“I bumped into her this evening.” Her eyelashes cast dark shadows on her cheeks. “I upset her, I think. She had visited the movies and swung by the restaurant for a bite to eat.”

How convenient, I thought.

Alice Montgomery is slowly becoming my number one enemy. Whenever something inconvenient happens, she is in the background somewhere, pretending to mind her own business.

“Anyway, she told me the wonderful news and seemed confused that I was upset about it.” Emma’s eyes held mine as she waited for a reasonable explanation, not that I had one. “I guess you forgot to tell her that you and I are dating.”

“Why would I tell her?” I owed Alice nothing except commitment, support and maintenance for our child. “She has no business in my private life.”

Emma chuckled dryly. “Yet, she lives on the estate.”

Of course, Alice mentioned that tidbit of information. It would seem the nanny went out of her way to make this as difficult as possible for me. “I asked her to stay until the results came in.” That way, the guards at the estate could keep an eye on her. “I had convinced myself that she was lying to me, and I would have punished her for it.”

“What did you say?” Her mouth stuttered in sheer disbelief. “You would punish a pregnant woman.”

I have done far worse than sending a pregnant woman to the afterlife. “I chose to be civil instead.”

“Well, you have the results.” She glared at me with incredulous repulsion. “Why does she stay?”

A wise man once told mehonesty is the best policy.

“Chloe did a number on me, sweetheart,” I said, and she tuned in to listen. “She kept Dominic from me. I missed everything, the pregnancy, the birth. His first steps. His first word. You name it. I never got to see it. I will not experience the aftermath of taciturn again. I want to be there for the baby. Alice living at the estate is not permanent…” I haven’t contemplated the future yet. I do not want the former nanny to stay for too long, as I had no intention of us pretending to be one big, happy family, but at the same time, separating Dominic from his brother or sister is not an option. “Emma, this does not have to change anything between us. You will always be my first choice.”

Tears threatened to re-emerge. “It’s changed everything.”

“Why? I already have a son.” Her reaction is why I was disinclined, to be honest with her. I knew she’d turn her back on me if I told her about the baby. I guess, in my own warped way, I thought ignoring the reality of my shambolic life would give us more time together. “You have accepted him.”

“That’s different. Dominic was here before Carter…” Her lips straightened. “I had already bonded with him. You cannot expect me to open up to the idea of you living on the estate with your small family whilst I wait for you to squeeze me into your busy schedule. It’s no better than being someone’s side-piece. I am just the woman who waits for you to visit in the middle of the night.”

“You will never be a side-piece. You are my future.” My fingers tousled through her hair. I angled her face until our eyes reacquainted. “You, living in my home. You, raising my children. Not her. Not any other woman. You, Emma Hughes. I choose you every time.”

A string of painful silence unravelled between us.

“I am so mad at you,” she cried, then she pushed off her tiptoes, wrapped an arm around my neck and pressed a rough kiss to my lips.

It was soft yet firm, mixed with passion and hate. A kiss I will never forget.

My hand slid to her cheek, thumb rubbing stray tears away. I wanted more from her, so much more than an unspoken goodbye.

Emma tore her mouth away, breathless and sorrowful. “Does she share your bed?”

“What?” My lips grimaced against her cheek. “Is that what she said? Emma, I barely see the woman.”

“No…” Her nose was bright red. “I have to go.”

“Why?” My hand grasped a handful of material by her waist. “Are you asking for space?” It was a stupid question. I know she pre-planned a non-messy break-up. “What do you need? A couple of days to come to terms with the baby. Is there anything I can do in the meantime?”

Yes, I sounded like a desperate, lovesick idiot.

I know it is too much of me to ask, but I was not above pleading for forgiveness and a second chance at proving myself to her.

“Dominic is the most amazing little boy in the world.” She was teary-eyed and unmistakably devastated. “I could love him like a son…” A huge sob left her throat, and she slipped a hand over her mouth to suppress the urge to break down into hysteria. Then, she croaked, “Even if my own son never comes home.”

I hated to see her so upset. The fact that I am the cause of her pain made the situation ten times worse. “People get in relationships and take on someone else’s kid all the time. It’s not unheard of.”

“Maybe. But are those heroic people in the initial months of their son’s disappearance? Are they still trying to exist in a world of grief and lack of closure, Big Guy?” Taking a huge breath, she willed herself not to fall apart. “I am not prepared to stand back and watch your family grow. I am sorry if that makes me sound selfish. But I am not strong enough to do it.”

My throat tightened.

I am aware of my emotions.

I trust myself and my decisions.

I know everything will be okay.

I can face whatever life throws at me.

I am allowed to demand more from life.

I am a stronger version of the man I used to be.

I am proud of myself for the changes I have made.

I am choosing to stay calm. “Emma, I ask you not to leave me.”

She looked soul-destroyed. “I don’t want this.”

“I don’t want this, either. I have only just learnt how to love my first son. I had no plans for more kids, especially with someone like her.” When Emma stubbornly resisted, I saw red. “I am going to fucking kill her.”

“You can’t do that!” Her hand latched onto my suit jacket as I tried to walk toward the exit. “Big Guy!”

I unhooked her fingers from my jacket. “Watch me.”

“You will regret it.” She chased behind me, her clumsy footsteps knocking into strewn boxes on the floor. “Do not walk away from me!”

I laughed at the woman’s brazenness. “You taught me how.”

“That’s not fair,” Emma sobbed, but I was done with her tears, with the entirety of this chaotic fucking night. “Dominic will never forgive you.”

I paused in the middle of the room.

Emma hit me where it hurt.

My son.

“Your Little Guy will grow up someday and ask questions.” Her voice echoed behind me. “Are you prepared to tell him the truth? He could have had a younger brother or sister, but you decided to kill the mother. And for a piece of ass, no less. Is that the type of conversation you want to have with your son?” Then, she was in front of me, her hands on my chest, urging me to step back and carefully consider my actions. “Think about it before you do something irrational and unforgivable.”

Glassy hazel-coloured eyes stared up at me. Lost in all that is her, I lowered my forehead to her shoulder. “If you leave me, I will-”

“You will what?” She ripped herself away from me with a disgusted twist of her lips. “Do not emotionally blackmail me!”

“How am I emotionally blackmailing you? What kind of monster do you think I am? I care about you!” Anger burnt the back of my eyes, where tears of my own pooled. “Fucking with your head is not what I am trying to do here!”

Emma, knocked back by my sudden coldness, snivelled into the palm of her hand.

“If you leave me, I will never get over you,” I finished my sentence, as this may very well be the last chance I had to fight for us. “Look, I get it. You are mad at me, hurt and disappointed. I kept you in the dark, which gave someone else room to blindside you. You deserved to hear about the baby from me, not some bitter, scornful woman seemingly hell-bent on ruining my life.”

She stared helplessly at me.

“I apologise for what happened tonight. You were in a good mood, looking forward to the art exhibition with your friend.” I took her face into my hands. “You can punish me however you see fit. You can give me the silent treatment and the refusal of communication for as long as you deem necessary. I will not like it, but I will respect it.”

Her tear-moisturised lips flattened.

“Just don’t give up on me.” Please, do not give up on us, I almost begged. “I will find a way to make this work for everyone.”

Emma’s broken-hearted countenance will forever be engrained into my mind. “I am sorry, Big Guy.” Her dismissiveness threw me off my equilibrium. “But I have to do what’s right for me. And watching you spending time with another woman in preparation for your child is the opposite of what my heart can handle.”

I felt suffocatingly weak. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? I finally found a woman worth fighting for, and she is beyond my reach.” Embittered defiance cemented my feet to the ground. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Wiping her cheeks, she nodded without a second thought. I was rejected, dismissed and cast aside with a snap of the fingers.

Rendered into bitter acrimony, I stepped back as blithe indifference fell onto my body like a comfort blanket. “Terrence,” I called, and the dependable man reappeared by the private door. He most likely heard the entire conversation from his secret post in the employees-only hallway. “Take Emma home.” My eyes never steered from her beautiful face. “Your duty to her will remain steadfast until further notice.”

“Big Guy…” Her sentence flat-lined when I turned my back and reclaimed the bourbon bottle. “I do not hate you.”

That’s very fucking reassuring, I thought bitterly. Tossing the bottle’s cap across the bar top, I poured alcohol down my throat. “Well, I hate you,” I lied, incapable of disregarding the tightness in my chest.I hate you so much it hurts.

Emma expelled a shaky breath. Not willing to spend another five seconds in my proximity, she went to Terrence without so much as a glance in my direction. Christ, she pushed through the door and never looked back or second-guessed her decision to leave me. It was done. Final. Finito. I am now a bad memory, a once upon a fucking time, a huge bastard regret.

My veins warmed with the kind of vengeance that guaranteed some unfortunate fuckers death.

Alice Montgomery will be lucky to live another day. I wanted death, blood on my hands, bones on the floor, her dismantled body tossed into an unmarked grave like a worthless carcass.

Her behaviour tonight had to be purposeful. I bet she deliberately chose Emma’s place of work to deliver the news, to ruin whatever chance I had at normalcy.

And for what reason?

Did she honestly think I’d entertain her if single?

Delusional.

I’d rather learn to masturbate again than pretend to be in a happy, loving relationship with that crazy bitch. I would never force family dynamics, not even for the sake of my children.

I am a product of a broken home. My parents staying together did more damage than good.

For years, I had grandstand seats to domestic violence and verbal abuse. I resented them, Yolanda and Arlo, for dragging me through emotional turmoil.

The pathetic excuse of a father.

The bitch who fucking birthed me.

My children will never endure the same omnishambles.

The unsubtle movement of watchers above caught my attention. I peered up from beneath angrily gathered eyebrows to see Alexa and some of the brothers by the private balcony, their arms resting on the gilded balustrade, their perceptions buried deep.

My eyes dropped to the bottle in my hand. I might drink myself unconscious, swallow a cocktail of drugs and deal with the aftermath of tonight’s dilemma in the morning.

An accumulation of leathered footsteps retreated, but one pair of heeled shoes advanced. Alexa, with one hand on her well-proportioned pregnant bump, came down the bifurcated stairs.

From the corner of my eye, I watched Alexa slide onto a bar stool. Great. If she overheard the argument, she would be pissed and itching to read me the riot act.

“I am not in the mood for a lecture,” I mumbled into the bourbon bottle, then sipped alcohol greedily to line my stomach with courage. “I mean it, Alexa.”

“I am not here to lecture you.” Her hand came to the bottom of my spine, where she rubbed tenderly and comfortingly. “I am here because I love you. If you don’t want to talk about it, then we can sit in silence. God knows I have talked enough for everyone for one night.”

Drinking bourbon from the bottle, I draped an arm over her shoulders and hid my face in the groove of her neck. Her scent, a soft combination of tuberose, lilies and magnolia, is what I could taste on my lips as I pressed a chaste kiss to her throat. “You heard everything, right?”

“Yes.” Her hand continued to rub my back. “I did. It was messy.”

“You understand me,” I said in a low, dejected voice, and she nodded. “Tell me you understand, Alexa.”

“What are you asking me, Brad?” She tapped the stool between my legs, demanding I sit down and look at her whilst she spoke. “My assumptions are not enough.”

My backside slumped onto the stool. “You turned out so much better than I did.” You’d never think she suffered years of sexual slavery. “Yet, you went through far worse. How is it possible for you to be so well-rounded? I am a fucking disappointment.”

Alexa glared at me with unfaltering narrow eyes. I witnessed it, the puzzle pieces in her mind fitting together as she comprehended what a colossal fuck up I am. “What’s your mother’s name?”

I once vowed never to speak of it. “Yolanda.”

Her elbow leaned onto the bar top. “Yolanda Jones?”

“Kelleher,” I corrected, neglecting the bourbon bottle before I did something stupid, like, drink myself to death. “Jones is my father’s name. He never gave it to me, though. I don’t know why.”

“How bad was it?” she asked, not that I could bring myself to answer. “What she did to you…Does it still control your life?”

I am working toward a happier future. “It doesn’t matter. Just know that my mother instilled poisonous darkness in me as a child, and I have lived with it ever since. It’s why I am in this mess with Emma. I chose vice instead of her. None of this would have happened if I’d stayed with her that night. I opted for a measly fuck with the nanny because I was too scared to face my past. I am fucking coward.”

“You are not a coward. Wenevercall ourselves that,” she said with the fierceness of a determined woman. “We are survivors. We live to talk about our pain. Can we say the same for many others?”

I let out a breathy laugh. “Came up with that one by yourself, did you?”

“I might have married one of the most intelligent men I have ever met.” She gave me a proud smile. “Liam is not the most tactful, but he is sagacious. I listened to the man’s every word, even when I tried to resist. He knew how to make everything easier and less painful.”

An unswallowable lump lodged in my throat. “I miss him.”

“Yes,” she said with a sombre expression on her face. Then, shaking the memories out of her head, she touched upon a more pressing issue. “So, you reverted to old habits and slept with the nanny. And this woman is back on the estate and pregnant with your baby. And you failed to tell me.”

Yes, I am a prick. Noted.

“Honestly, Brad. I am insulted.” Her perfectly defined eyebrow arched. “I thought we were closer than that.”

“I am ashamed of myself.” If I could make the nanny disappear, I’d do it in a heartbeat. “Why didn’t I sleep it off? Why did I have to go there with her? I don’t even like her. This is the part of myself that I absolutely fucking despise. It’s what I have always done. I fuck anything that walks just to feel…”

How am I supposed to explain my irrational thought process?

“I like to be in control of sex.” My face heated. “If I bend her over and take her the way I want, I feel this sense of power and dominance. I get to fuck away all this pain inside of me.” My hands gestured frantically to my chest. “It has worked for as long as I can remember.”

And then, I met my match. Now, meaningless sex is exactly that.Meaningless.Unfavourable.Disillusioning.

“Emma is the polar opposite of the women I have slept with. She wants things in the bedroom to be a certain way: romance, intimacy and love.” I am used to wild, detached, emotionless females with no expectations. “A domain I have avoided since I understood what it meant to have sex. And she deserves that in abundance. I never thought I could be that man for her, hence, the reason I ran away that night and encountered Alice. But lately, having started therapy with Fern and addressing my problems, I am noticing positive changes. I can fix myself, Alexa.”

“You do not need fixing.” Her hands came to my cheeks. “Do not talk such nonsense. Any woman would be lucky to have a man like you on her arm.”

“I don’t want any woman,” I said hoarsely, and she gave me a sympathetic smile. “I want Emma.”

Alexa let out a deep sigh.

“What would you do?” I asked, and she winced. “If you were in her shoes and the boss got a woman pregnant, would you forgive him? Would you stay? Can you see yourself taking care of another woman’s kid?”

She picked her thumbnail. “Do you want me to lie to you?”

My head shook.

“No, I am too selfish to share him with another family.” Her face wrinkled in contempt. “I want him for myself, for my children. Now, ask yourself the same question. What would you do?”

Carter’s face came to mind. “I accepted her son. And when I find him, because I will find him, I will welcome him into my life with open arms.”

“Carter is different,” she replied with a shadow of dismay on her face. “He was here before you came along. You ask her to smile whilst you nurture a pregnant woman into motherhood. I could never.” Her eyes squeezed shut momentarily. “I cannot believe that you have another baby on the way. You barely have time to be a father to Dominic.”

Yes, I am aware.

Alexa scanned my face. “Did Alice go out of her way to cause upset this evening?”

I believe so. “I question her motives.”

“Perhaps she is attention seeking and looking for a reaction from you. Do not feed into her manipulations. It’s what she wants.” She stared longingly at the bourbon bottle. I know she missed her late-night dates with her old friend Vodka. “Let me handle her on your behalf.”

My hand played with the packet of toothpicks in my trouser pocket. “What will you do if I allow it?”

“I am the boss’s wife.” Sliding down from the stool, she straightened the creases out of her pencil skirt. “Who better than me to pull that opportunistic bitch into line?”

A smile curved my lips. “Vixen.”

“You love it.” Accepting a faux fur coat off Alife, who materialised from nowhere, she stuffed her arms into the thick sleeves. “Come on. Let’s go and see what this woman has to say for herself.”

Gripping her elbow, I encouraged her to stop walking. “What should I do about Emma? I am not good at this stuff, Sugar Tits.”

“You have to respect her decision.” Her hand raised to catch a set of keys Vincent threw in her direction. “What is meant to be will be.”

I wanted to fight for her, though.

“Give her time to come to terms with pregnancy,” she advised, and I hung onto every word. “It might take weeks or months. Who knows? Maybe it’s best to stay apart until the baby is here. At least, with everything out in the open, she can decide whether or not it’s something she can handle.”

The baby is not due until March. “For Christ’s sake.”

“Use this time to work on yourself,” she said for my ears only. “Do not jump into bed with the first woman that throws herself at you. It will only make matters worse.”

“I am saving my next time for her,” I whispered, and she winked furtively. “What is everyone looking at?” My authoritative voice boomed, and the men, who had dared to eavesdrop, began to focus on random objects. “I am pissed off, Hank Marvin and on the brink of snapping a neck or two. So, do yourselves a favour, get back to work and mind your fucking business.”

“Oh, God.” Alexa linked our arms together in a futile effort to assuage. “Someone get this man a burger.”

“Morsel.” This woman must be crazy if she thinks fried mince in a soggy bap will cut it. “I need more than one burger to satiate my appetite.”

“You can have whatever you want.” Her arm wound around my waist as her head leaned into me. “My treat.”

Unlocking the main doors, I stepped back for everyone to exit, turned off the lights and locked up behind us. “Alexa, I think we should buy Thai cuisine in honour of Nate.”

Beneath the dark, cloudy skies and through the whistling winds of winter, we walked side by side toward the brothers loitering at the bottom of the concrete steps to go underground and collect the Bentley vehicles.

“We both know he will be jealous.” Yes, Nate will shit a brick if he is at home on bottle duty whilst everyone else is digesting his favourite food. “I will send photos to wind him up on purpose.”

“Yes.” When Alexa’s agreeable smile turned into a panicked frown, I was not prepared. “Brad…”

Not for the advancing black cars with tinted windows.

Not for the sound of sporadic gunfire flooding the street.

Not for the second attempt of obliteration on the syndicate.

I broke into action. “Everyone get down!