CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Emma

Brillantina is a playground for filthy rich millionaires. The exclusive nightclub in Central London boasted titillating stage shows and incredible displays that left me breathless and, quite frankly, speechless for the vast majority of the night.

It amazed me how the wealthy people of our world lived. I could only dream of such magnificent splendour and majestic impressiveness.

Hell, most days, I barely had money to pay the utility bills, and that’s been my life for as long as I can remember. I was not born into privilege. I was not lucky enough to fall into a pot of gold.

No, I had to learn how to survive on a pittance. I only experienced absolute wealth via television, watching movies like Trading Places, The Great Gatsby and The Wolf of Wall Street. I lived vicariously through the fictional world of actors and actresses.

Traditional music played over the mezzanine floors of drugs, alcohol and pleasure-seekers. Hypnotic snake charmers, talented burlesque performers, little people and professional contortionists entertained partygoers. Beautiful models danced in giant champagne glasses of slippery bubbles and purple-hued lights.

The club is a theatre of salacious varieties if you catch my drift. Mary told me to be open-minded whilst stationed in the never-ending queue of flamboyant socialisers, not that her fair warning could have prepared me for the controversial style of nighttime entertainment.

Premium bottle service is obligatory for spendthrifts.

A strict dress code is non-negotiable.

Whatever happened in Brillantina stayed in Brillantina. It is scandalous, private and for our eyes and ears only. Not that I had anyone to gossip and spill the tea with. I have exhausted friends and family. Hell, these days, everybody hates me. I am an outcast, and I am entirely blameable. Incessant bitchiness bit me in the ass.

Brad’s big heart, beating with selfless love, abounding passion and the kind of thoughtfulness that turned jaded women into hopeless romantics, is the only reason I made it past the uncompromising, musclebound doormen earlier.

If it weren’t for the new stylish wardrobe of luxurious fabrics and designer shoes, I’d be at the end of the street, ostracised by the club’s security detail, ordering a mixed-meat kebab slathered in a shredded salad, hot chilli sauce and pickled peppers. Later, a wine bottle in a brown paper bag and a rustic-looking park bench.

Shit. Now, I am hungry.

Thanks to the man’s impeccable and unrivalled taste in fashion, I forewent back alley takeaway food and walked straight through the main door dressed in a black embroidered couture short dress with chain motif sparkling elements and ankle-strap high-heeled shoes that guaranteed an unwanted visit to the emergency room for toe injuries or sprained ankles.

Mary’s connections helped. I don’t know how she became good friends with the club owner. Let’s keep it real, I have no idea who my sister truly is or what she does with herself these days, but her close relationship with influential businessmen is the sole reason behind the six empty bottles of Armand de Brignac Champagne that are on the table and the overpriced glass flutes of effervescence in our hands.

My sister is crazy.

No, seriously.

Mary is away with the fairies. An eccentric appearance to match the multi-faceted personality. I learnt of her craziness when visiting, by coercion, the three-bedroom townhouse in Kings Road, Chelsea. I considered contemporary designs with simple, palatable colours and rich yet neutral materials. Instead, I stepped into bold and swanky, with marble accents and the brightest colours-a sensory overload. And the monochrome portraits of my semi-nude sister with her semi-nude lover plastered throughout the halls were a bit jarring.

If colourful pop-art-inspired dining rooms and hand-shaped sofas are not enough to convince you that she is an idiosyncratic individual, then surely, the homemade cocktail jug laced with ecstasy is enough evidence to prove insanity.

I am no saint. I have smoked weed, gotten blind drunk and fallen in a few malodorous gutters over the years, but hardcore drugs and visual hallucinations, well, that is uncharted territory for little ol’ me. I will never understand the logic behind narcotics. I do just fine without stupefying agents, thank you very much.

Coldplay’s “A Sky Full of Stars” belted out of the sound system, the lyrics trilling overhead, the floor vibrating beneath my feet. I came into possession of a princess heart charm tiara and a rainbow butterfly wand, not sure how, why or when, but I looked and felt as ridiculous as the acrobatic showgirls donned in hot pink feather plumes and crystal embellished underwear.

Sigh…

I am out of champagne.

“What’s wrong?” Hugo’s arm slid across my shoulders as he leaned in to talk directly into my ear. He went all out tonight with a fresh-shave, new cologne and a hairdo that probably required meticulous attention. “You look miserable.”

“I am not miserable.” My voice came out more defensive than I’d have liked. “I ran out of juice.”

God, why am I shouting? Probably because the music is so loud and deafening. I cannot hear my own thought process.

“We can fix that.” Hugo reached for the gold champagne bottle on the table. “Here. Top up and drink up. We have a long night ahead of us. You might as well drink insensibly.”

Truthfully, I would rather be at home with a snuggly blanket over my lap, a tub of popcorn on the coffee table and an old movie on the screen. Still, I accepted a refill of fizz. “So, what do you think of this place? A tad bit crazy, right?” Two little people, masked as happy clowns, moseyed in colourful costumes. “I feel like I have landed in a parallel universe, where centaurs exist, and pervertedness is acceptable.”

Hugo smiled, knocking back a whiskey shot with a tired sigh. “It’s different.”

“It’s outlandish,” I tweaked, and he chuckled in agreement. “I have never had front-row seats to a sex show before. I don’t know whether to be concerned or excited.”

“Same.” His throat worked on a tight swallow. “Although, I don’t think they are actually doing the deed.” He pointed to the women on the blanket-covered stage, primarily naked and eating each other’s faces off in an eye-catching display of uninhibitedness. “I stand corrected. There is definitely some finger action going on up there.”

Not knowing how I got here, I laughed out loud. “My sister promised a good night on the town.”

“Your sister is scary,” he retorted with pale-faced astonishment, and I had to agree with him. “And Patty? What’s her deal? She hasn’t said two words to me since I arrived.”

Patricia O’Shea is on the quiet side of life. You’d never think she was related to Tommy, the brash, loud-mouthed, no-fucks-given caveman, or that she was in a relationship with Mary, the brazen, foul-mouthed harridan.

However, quietness and reservedness aside, Patty is a sweet soul, friendly and polite. She offered to style my hair earlier and painted my fingernails bright purple.

I had no complaints.

Plus, Patty is the woman responsible for the huge smile plastered on my big sister’s face. That had to count for something.

“I think she is sweet.” As if sensing an admirer, Patty glanced at me from across the table and smiled flatly. “And now her ears are burning.”

“Shit.” Hugo’s cheeks pinkened to the tip of his ears. “Do you think she heard me?”

“Over the music?” Unless Patty had the ability to understand speech by carefully watching people’s lip movements, then I highly doubt she heard any more than Chris Martin’s baritone voice. “No. You are paranoid.”

“I don’t know.” A shudder racked through his body. He has been on the edge of his seat all night. “She is visualising my death. Look at the evil smile on her face.”

“Lord, will you chill out?” I have never known him to be so fidgety and obsessively anxious. He is usually cool, calm and collected. “Your paranoia is starting to rub off on me.”

“Good.” Hugo thanked the bodacious waitress for the bottle of Jack Daniels delivered with an eyeful of her heavy-breasted chest. Her ass is on full display with only a strap of satin material between her cheeks, yet he never paid any heed to the lustrousness of her curves. “You are too trusting. You need to be more vigilant, especially with people you hardly know. Even your sister is a stranger, Em.”

True. But I had no reason to distrust Mary, so it is a moot point to consider otherwise. “What are you getting at?”

“Well, don’t you think it’s weird?” He poured whiskey into a crystal glass. “You said Mary ran away back when you were kids, and not once, in all these years, did she try to reach out to you? Where does she live? Under a rock? Do you really believe that she never watched the news or heard of Carter’s disappearance? It took a phone call from Benjamin for her to track you down?” He sounded angry but refrained from losing his cool. “You can call me paranoid all you want, but something is not right about those two. I feel it when they look at you.”

A cold shiver slithered down my spine as a riptide of emotions burrowed bone deep. With Hugo’s advanced warning playing on repeat like an interminable loop inside my head, I eyed my sister, who was engaged in a heartfelt conversation with a random male that joined our table previously, then cast a cautious gaze on Patty.

Hugo, with a curl of the lip, looked pointedly at me.

“Stop,” I whispered to him. “It’s been a rough couple of months for me. I have started to put one foot in front of the other. If you put a seed of doubt in my head, it will grow into something ugly, and honestly, I do not have the mental capacity to deal with any more heartache or deception. I want to believe my sister is here because her younger brother cried out for help and her baby sister craved her love and reassurance. That’s what family is for, right?”

Hugo glared, long and pensive. “Yes, of course. Ignore me. It’s the whiskey talking.” His apologetic eyes lowered to the crystal glass filled with amber liquid. “I should probably knock alcohol on the head for one night.”

Yet, I felt deeply perturbed by the conversation. And the seed of doubt, whether intentional or unintentional, rooted firmly in place and sprouted concerns and anxieties.

“What are you two lovebirds whispering about?” Mary is on us in a flash, her rear end clad in jewels nearly skidding onto my lap as she slumped onto the leather bench next to me. “You better be a decent guy, Hogarth.” Her orange-painted talon, razor-sharp with gem design, aimed at the poor sod’s face. “Expect a visit if you do not treat her right. I have a killer left punch and a vicious little mouth. I will tear you to shreds, starting with your ass.”

Hugo failed to hide mortification. He is red in the face, much ruffled and undeniably dumbstruck. It is not every day that you face the possibility of anal fissures or rectal prolapse. “My name’s Hugo.”

Exactly! Why does everyone continue to misidentify him as someone else? His name is easy enough to remember, yet he’s accumulated the most bizarre nicknames recently, and I am convinced, you will not tell me otherwise, that it is deliberate ridicule on their part.

Big Guy is an intelligent man. Yet, he refused to be amiable and well-mannered. Hughie, he called my friend, and he did so with unabashed arrogance.

Mary has the memory of an elephant and can recall incidents with great accuracy. I introduced them earlier, with a quick hug here and a friendly smile there. And still, the woman treated him like shit on her shoe.

It makes you wonder if the mischievous pair got a kick out of other people’s embarrassment and discomfort because Brad and Mary are like two peas in a pod. If she weren’t a lesbian and I weren’t slightly obsessed with the man, I’d be inclined to introduce them to each other. They’d get on like a house on fire.

“Hugo. Hogarth.” My sister’s shoulders jerked once. “Semantics.”

“Mary,” I scolded under my breath. “Must you be hostile? Hugo is a friend. We are not an item, so you can save the threats for when it’s merited. And there will be no shredding of arses whilst I am present.”

“Really? But you both look so…” Her stare homed in on Hugo’s ringed fingers drawing patterns on my shoulder.“Intimate.”

“Intimate?” My eyes popped out of their sockets. “Have you noticed the masters of sex on the stage?” Two muscular, oil-soaked men, skin on skin and togged up in restricting leather, had replaced the masked female trio from earlier. “I would argue that we are the least intimate couple in the club.”

Mary’s frown held. “Couple?”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” Great. My face was hotter than an industrial furnace, and gnawing guilt crept into the unfathomable depths of my mind. “We should keep an eye on the bar tab.” I am brassic, and the pending bill is already giving me nightmares. “I can’t afford to overspend.”

“Do not be so soft.” Mary is flippant about the bar tab. “I invited you out tonight. The bill is on me.”

No, I am not comfortable with her paying for everyone’s drinks. “Mary, I am not a charity case.” Making a frustrated noise, I broke eye contact and extracted three ten-pound notes from the zipper part of my purse. “I can cover my share of the bill.”

Mary’s eyebrow puckered. “You won’t get far with thirty quid in a place like Brillantina.”

“How much are we talking about?” Hugo unzipped his leather wallet, and when I spotted uncountable fifty-pound notes tucked into the side compartment, I shot him a double take. “What?”

“That’s some big dollar for someone who stacks shelves in Tesco,” I half-joked, not that he found it funny. “Sorry, I overstepped. I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s okay,” he replied with a meek smile. “I am thrifty about what I spend. If it’s not essential, I do not buy it. That is more than likely why I struggle to make a dent in my bank balance.”

“Irrespective of the man’s questionable earnings, I will pay for everyone’s drinks.” Mary clicked down the half-dressed waitress to order another round of tequila shots. “Honestly, Emma. Please do not fight. I am your big sister. Let me treat you. It’s the least I can do for years of silence.”

Reluctantly, I slid the purse back into my handbag and slumped against the leather seat bedecked with rhinestones.

“So, if Hogarth is not on your radar for fun and sex, I assume you are available.” Mary thanked the waitress for the tequila shots and delved straight into mixing spirits, ready to line her stomach with earthy flavours. “Or do you have a man I am unaware of?” Then, with something in mind, her forehead furrowed. “You are straight, right?”

“Yes, I am attracted to men,” I explained before she went on a tangent. “Yes, technically, I am available, but I am not looking for a relationship or casual hookups. I am fine with the single life.”

Mary handed me a shot, not that I planned to drink it. I have consumed enough alcohol for one night. “Sounds boring,” she said with a flick of the wrist. “I have very wealthy and very handsome friends that may be of interest to you. Just say the word, and I will make some calls. You could do with a night of fine dining and old-fashioned chivalry.”

I declined with a tight shake of the head.

“If it’s any consolation, I think Hogarth is a lovely guy,” she murmured in my ear and, to my dismay, the man in question, albeit unmindful to the inaudible conversation, as a result of the club’s uproarious farce, turned to me and flashed a pretty boy smile. “And he is beautiful. Why are you not in bed together? He clearly likes you. That much is obvious.”

“I feel like you are both talking about me.” Hugo scratched the nape of his neck. “Do I want to know, or is it safer to be left out in the cold?”

“It’s safer for all of us if you are oblivious.” My brain scattered to the music. “Let’s just say she is trying to play cupid with my love life.”

“Oh?” His soft eyes toured the planes of my face. “Who is the lucky man?”

“It could be you.” Mary, the nosey wench, is determined to send me on a romantic date. “You have been friend-zoned, Hogarth. But fret not, as there is still hope for you yet. I doubt she’d be parked on your lap if there weren’t a chance in Hell.”

“Will you stop?” Good Lord, I take back anything positive I have said about the meddlesome mare. “Hugo is a really good friend. Your overbearing behaviour is grating on my last nerve.”

My sister’s mouth opened and closed.

“You know what? Thank you for the lovely night, but I have a bed at home with my name on it.” Leaving the tiara and wand on the table, I stood, collected my coat and bag and prepared for a speedy exit. “Maybe I can cook for you one evening. You are more than welcome to bring Patricia.”

“Wait.” Mary grabbed my elbow. “Have I upset you?”

Yes, I am miffed.

I am biologically programmed to love my family, which included the bossy, domineering older sister, but, with the exception of Benjamin, I have lived, laughed and learned without the input of Mary, Miles and Martin. My parents. And, as sad as it may seem, I don’t need them. I most certainly don’t care for their advice or interference. If Mary is back in my life for good? Brilliant. I can’t wait to make memories together. The officiousness had to go, though. I will not tolerate her thrusting herself into my private affairs.

Hugo is on his feet now, his leather jacket thrown over one shoulder. He waited for me to bid farewell but kept a respectable distance.

“I love you,” I told Mary, and the smile on her lips had the power to brighten up a thousand rooms. “But I ask you nicely to stay out of my business. I do not want you to hook me up with random men or to send Hugo packing because you are trying to force a romantic relationship on us.”

My sister’s face blanched.

“You will always be the big sister.” Without hesitation, I hugged her, and she hugged me back. “That will never change. However, I am not a child anymore. I am grown now. I see the world through my eyes, not yours. I have my own views and opinions and can make decisions for myself.”

Her hands splayed across my upper back.

“We share blood. We do not know each other. Not anymore. The relationship we had back then is gone. Instead of worrying about who might share my bed at night or what fancy restaurant I can dine in, let’s concentrate on rebuilding what’s lost.” My head pulled back to set us both at eye level. “On what’s broken.”

“My intention is never to upset you.” Mary’s glassy green eyes searched mine. “Em, I am scared. I have no idea who you are or what makes you smile, laugh, or cry. I want to get this right. You and me. I know I have a lot of making up to do.” Her delicate fingers curled strands of hair behind my ears. “Yes, I can be a little overbearing…” My brow lifted, and she smiled fractionally. “But my heart is in the right place. I want to help you, that is all. It hurts me to see you suffer. I will feel better knowing you have a decent man on your arm. Isolation is not the answer. It would be best if you had an anchor. I had to physically drag you out of the flat tonight and force you to invite afriend.”

Releasing her, I stepped back to generate a comfortable breathing space between us.

Mary’s stare flickered over my head. “Get my sister home safely, Hogarth, or I will-”

“Turn my ass inside out?” Hugo, rocking back on the heels of his shoes, deadpanned the response, and she winked cheekily at him. “Got it.”

“Do not be a stranger.” Patricia hauled me close for a quick hug, her sweet perfume swirling around us. “You are welcome to visit any time. Our door is always open for you.”

“Thank you, Patty.” I freed the woman from the bone-crunching squeeze, then tapped my sister’s upper arm somewhat awkwardly. “Be safe.”

“Darling, have you met me?” Her fingers, encrusted with scintillating diamonds, sparkled as she gestured to herself with an air of charming boastfulness. “I am untouchable. You needn’t worry about me. Just make sure that handsome fellow is true to his word.”

With one final smile, I waved to the table of binge drinkers and looked around the club for my bodyguard. In no time at all, Terrence appeared through the crowd and escorted me out of the building.

Welcoming the cold night air on my face, I walked silently with Hugo toward the parked Bentley across the street. I won’t lie. I am slightly buzzed-the aftermath of too much alcohol in my bloodstream faltering footsteps-but I made it to the car in one piece, buckled up and listened to music station for the entire journey home.

Thirty minutes later, Terrence steered into my street, threading the steering wheel through deft hands. “Mr Hugo,” he drawled, and my friend’s eyes snapped open, his slumped body straightening in the chair. I think he was comatose for a second. “Will I drive you home?”

Hugo looked at me for an invitation.

“You can crash on the sofa,” I suggested, and he nodded, appreciative of the hospitality. “Be warned, though. I am starving. I will smash three pizzas in my face before midnight.”

“I can eat pizza.” Hugo unbuckled, then paused for Terrence to park outside the tenant building before stepping onto the pavement. “Do we order? Or shall we throw a few frozen ones in the oven?”

“Frozen works for me.” Fishing out the keys to my flat, I traipsed down the garden path with two standoffish males in tow. “Terrence?”

My bodyguard opened the heavy door to the foyer. “Yes, Miss Emma.”

“Would you like to eat pizza with us and watch a late-night movie?” Rounding the spiral staircase, I clambered the concrete steps with a kick in my step. “I know it’s New Year’s Eve, but I am in no mood for fireworks.” With that, a big bang echoed into the night. Multicoloured sparks lit up the dark sky and filtered through the foyer’s floor-to-ceiling window. “Well, I might have to grin and bear it. People have started to celebrate.” Reaching my floor, I swivelled on my heel to face them. “Any New Year’s resolutions?”

Terrence, with eyes like bottomless pits, stiffened by the top step like he’d seen a ghost. “Don,” he said scathingly, and slowly, I turned to see an unfamiliar man wearing a royal blue three-piece suit and gold jewellery for days relaxing against my front door. “Why are you here?”

The man’s propped-up foot fell from the door to the floor. He stepped forward with hands in his trouser pockets, a slick hairstyle and a wolfish smirk. “Miss Hughes,” the polite male said, ignoring Terrence completely. “Detective Donny Stevens.” With the formal introduction came a firm handshake. His large hand dwarfed mine as he pinched my fingers. “Impeccable timing. I was ready to drive through town to find you.”

I could not help but ogle the man. He is admirable, suave and attractive, with an excellent eye for tailored fabrics. The pungent, masculine cologne suited the striking image. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I want access to the flat.” Donny had silky brown hair, beautiful eyes and a charming smile. “Be a gem and unlock the door.”

“No,” Terrence replied before I could even formulate a sentence. “Not without the authorisation of Command.”

Hugo’s hand touched the base of my spine comfortingly. He never uttered a word, though. He is simply offering moral support.

“I am not under-supported or without substantiation.” Donny’s stare skittered to Terrence with cool indifference. “Jones asked for a favour. I promised to deliver.”

Eyeing the unsociable pair, I rubbed the goosebumps from my arms. “Why do you need to check the flat?”

“Can a fresh pair of eyes hurt? You had an intruder. I was asked to swing by and utilise my detective skills.” Donny seemed to lack interest, but it was palpable that he wanted to get the job done. “Now, be a good hostess and unlock the front door, or I will use Hugo’s head to put the window through.” His inked hand, fingers decked with gold and diamond rings, tapped the door’s small frosted glass window. “Either way, I will check this property tonight, with or without your consent.”

Hugo’s mouth dropped open.

Touching the man’s chest reassuringly, I breathed out a nervous laugh. “Let’s not resort to violence.” Big Guy must have a valid reason for sending Donny over. “Terrence?”

My bodyguard peered up from the phone in his hand. “Okay,” he said, and I wondered what made him back peddle so swiftly. “I have the go-ahead.”

“Right.” Keys jangling, I unlocked the front door, turned on the hallway light and welcomed everyone inside. “Make yourselves at home. I will be in the kitchen eating everything in sight.”

“Miss Hughes?” Donny called, and I hesitated by the kitchen door. “Which room is prone to activity?”

I understood the question. “My son’s bedroom.” Then, without another word, I entered the kitchen, dumped my bag and coat on the kitchen table and hunted the freezer drawers for grub. Hugo is by the threshold, following my every move. “What?”

“Do you trust him?” His voice was a mere whisper. “The detective, I mean. He is shady.”

Big Guy trusted Donny. Therefore, I trusted Donny. “He is only doing his job.”

“And what, exactly, does the man’s job entail?” His hands flattened on the kitchen counter as he watched me stab through frozen pizza boxes with a serrated knife. “Em, I am seriously getting worried about you. You open your door to everyone and anyone without so much as blinking. Have you forgotten the last few months? The abduction? The threat? The intruder?”

How can I forget the most heartbreaking moment of my life? I live with the memories of what happened every day. It will never leave me.

“Terrence is with him.” If Donny does anything untoward, I am confident the bodyguard will throw him through the window. “Besides, Brad sent him. They must be allies.”

“Allies. Right,” he clipped, his jaw tighter than granite. “I don’t like this. Something doesn’t feel right.”

Transferring the frozen pizzas to an oven tray, I trashed the rubbish and flipped the kettle to boil. I could do with a sweet cup of tea. “Hugo, I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, but this newfound paranoia-”

“I am not by any stretch of the imagination authorised to act on behalf of Warren Enterprise.” Donny’s deep voice cut through the tension in the kitchen, and I jumped back to find him in the doorway. “But I am qualified enough to advise safety measures, and you, Miss Hughes, might want to stay elsewhere until further notice.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I am either drunk, or he just uncompromisingly told me to leave my home. “Can you speak English for me, please? I am reeling from a night of champagne.”

His finger curled with a silent request, and then he disappeared down the hallway.

In a state of confusion, I hurled the chequered tea towel onto the chair and chased the man’s footsteps to my son’s bedroom. When I got there, I glanced at Terrence, who was by the window, with hands grasping the back of his head. “What is going on?” Then, with belated breathlessness, I noticed the closet door was open wide, and Donny lingered by the wall-mounted shelves of dusty game boards and boxes of old toys. “Can someone communicate with me, please?”

Once more, Donny’s finger curled inwards, and he urged me to come closer.

Of course, curiosity got the better of me. I walked in a dreamlike state to the closet and eyeballed the remnants of my son’s childhood. “Well?” Nothing looked suspicious. Everything is in its rightful place. “What have I missed?”

Donny’s thumb and forefinger wiggled one of the wooden shelves. “It’s loose,” he said, as dust particles sprinkled down the wall. “Tampered.”

“Tampered,” I repeated in disbelief. “Perhaps I knocked it when stacking the shelves. I do have the tendency to hoard and weigh down furniture.”

“Or,” Donny said with a finger raised in the air, “I am the intruder living next door…” He pulled on the shelf with effortless ease, and miraculously, the shelves disconnected from the wall like a trap door to reveal a huge, gaping hole in the old brickwork. “And I use the closet to creep into my neighbour’s home at night.”

My stomach quite literally dropped to my feet. With a tremor in my fingers, I tucked hair behind my ear and dipped my head to peer inside the dark hole. It’s roomy and large enough for three people to get through. If I chucked something into its black depths, I would hear it land on the other side.

Breathing shakily, I stumbled back, knocking into the shelves behind me and cupped my mouth in utter devastation. “Why?” My eyes burn with unshed tears. “Who would do this to me?”

Hugo came to my side, his patience wearing thin. “We should call the police.”

Donnytskedhim. “I am the police.”

“Then, what comes of this revelation?” Hugo’s anger reached heights I had never witnessed. “Come on, Detective. Say something. It’s your job to console her!”

“I will call Command,” Terrence said from the bedroom, and at the possibility of seeing Big Guy tonight, I became instantly light-headed. “He will want to see this.”

A long silence stretched throughout the room. Terrence is still waiting for a response, so I somehow managed to find my voice in the throes of apprehensiveness. “Yes, sure. That makes sense.” God, I am nervous and freaking out. A maelstrom of emotions I cannot explain or decipher sent my brain into overdrive. “Do you think the intruder is next door now? If not, will he come back?”

“No.” Donny clicked the torch app on his phone to examine the vastness of the hole in the wall. “He knows I have found him now. I bet there are cameras back there, and he is watching us. We will soon find out.”

Honest to God, I wanted to cry. “What does that mean for me?”

“In order to answer that, I would have to determine the motive. I do not know this man, what he wants or what he is capable of, but it’s safe to assume that he is not done with you yet. Perhaps a sweep of the apartment might work.” Donny throatily hummed as if to encourage Terrence into action. “It is a crime scene. If the Metropolitan’s facilitation is unfavourable, call upon the institution for assistance. They are responsible for continuing the investigation and gathering evidence: fingerprints, footprints, fibres and hair.” Kneeling by the hole, he reached for the empty container of leftover food and shook its mouldy contents. “Saliva.”

“You don’t need to dumb it down for me, Don.” Terrence’s jaw locked into place as he shilly-shallied by the bedroom’s entryway. “I am not mentally impaired.”

“Then, why do you stand around like a spare part?” Donny left the container on the floor and rose to his full height. “You have people to call. A boss to inform.”

Hugo is pale and on the brink of an emotional outburst. “Em, I don’t want you to stay here tonight.” His soft hands rubbed along the expanse of my trembling arms. “You can sleep at my place. It’s safer for you there.”

“Are you okay?” Donny asked, but there was no concern in his voice. It was flat-out sarcasm. “Only, if you think this woman is safe outside of the flat, then you are dumber than you look. You can bet your arse this man iseverywhere. He is not ready to act, which is the only reason why she is unscathed. Taking her to your home will not make a blind bit of difference.”

“Am I not supposed to offer a safety net?” Hugo argued with the man. “Listen, I don’t know what the fuck this is,” his hand gesticulated to the hole frantically, “but I am not cool with her living here with a neighbour from Hell. You say he won’t be back. You can’t know that. You are not a mind-reader. You said it yourself. You don’t know what he is capable of. I want her out of this flat tonight because if anything happens to her, so help me, God, I will-”

“You will, what?” Donny did not rise to the occasion. He was oddly calm for someone that oozed danger. “Please threaten me, Hugo. It will be amusing if nothing else.”

Hugo’s teeth gritted. “I ought to-”

“Stop bickering.” Terrence’s shadow fell over all of us. I was grateful for his return because these two idiots were seconds away from strangling one another. “Miss Emma.” He outstretched the phone in his hand. “There is someone that would like to talk to you.”

I glanced at the brightly lit screen.

Command.

Clearing the tickle in my throat, I accepted the phone, squeezed through the horde of testosterone in the closet and escaped to the hallway for a moment of peace.

Back to the wall, I rubbed my stomach to relieve flutters, raised the phone to my ear and listened with bated breath. “Big Guy?”

A long pause. “Sweetheart.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Emma

A proliferation of Bentley Flying Spurs and debonair men in sharply tailored three-piece suits besieged the tenant building like a mob of elite marksmen specialised in high-risk tasks.

With a lump the size of a hot-air balloon stuck in my windpipe, I watched the scene unfold behind the obscurity of the bedroom window. Dread penetrated every cell in my body. I had to meet and greet, but limbs had malfunctioned.

A recognisable face emerged from the final vehicle. Big Guy slammed the driver’s side door and had an in-depth conversation with the immaculately besuited males by the communal gate. Then, with the top of his shirt left unbuttoned in a physique-flattering strategy, he walked with precision to the entrance hall.

Paralysed with unexplainable nervousness, I adopted dauntless bravery, forced myself to move to the wooden dresser and selected cosy loungewear. I did well to keep the dress and shoes on all night, but now I am eager to strip it all back and get comfortable. My feet are blistered like something chronic.

A series of footsteps reverberated as people raced up the stairs. The neighbours must be scared out of their wits by the noisy disturbance. It’s not often that armed men, renowned for unscrupulous acts, walk the same paths as ordinary people.

Stripping down into my underwear, I placed discarded clothes on the bed and shimmied into elasticated high-waisted trousers, an ankle-length cardigan and a cropped tank top.

“I want a dossier on him.” Brad’s stentorian tone of voice echoed in the foyer before I got to see him in the flesh. “I don’t care how you do it. Just have a file in my hand by tomorrow morning.”

I sympathised with Liam Warren’s men. Brad had good intentions but made unreasonable demands. He will achieve nothing with unrealistic expectations of instant success. Surely, that being said, it is impossible to identify the man in the hole overnight.

Peering at the ajar bedroom door, where dark shadows danced along the walls in the hallway, I speared a hand through my hair and gravitated toward the upheaval of syndicate matters.

Stern-faced security, with no time for chit-chat with a preliminary investigation underway, took long, decisive steps toward my son’s bedroom, which is cordoned off by inexorable watchmen. I recognised one or two males from previous encounters and offered tight smiles when they brushed past, but I never uttered a single word and vice versa. Work mode is set in motion.

In a temporary blur of mental derangement, I let the disruptiveness of heavy-footed workers, vociferous mirth and overturned furniture strike home as if the harrowing ordeal was a typical day at the office for them.

I have dealt with some crazy shit in my life. The travellers’ wreaked vengeance on me in honour of Killian O’Shea. My parents kicked me out of my childhood home and disowned me for having a child out of wedlock. But creepy phrogging? Someone sneaking through walls and crawling spaces to secretly observe whilst I went about my daily or nightly business? Yes, that is unprecedented and downright terrifying.

Bereft of speech, I tugged on the cardigan sleeves and meandered through the muscle and strength of withdrawn, uncommunicative men until I reached Hugo by the living room door frame. His fine-boned face had whitened drastically since the detective had arrived.

“Are you okay?” He gave my hand a weak squeeze. “I thought you fell asleep. You were gone for ages.”

“No, I just needed five minutes to collect myself.” Back to the wall, I thumbed the vintage-style rings on my fingers with unswallowable dread in my throat. “It feels surreal.”

Hugo nodded half-heartedly. “It’s not every day that you discover other occupants living in your home.” His cold stare fixated on something at the end of the hall, and when I followed his line of vision to determine the cause of expeditious distractedness, I locked eyes with Big Guy and horripilated with uneasiness. “Yourfriendloathes the sight of me.”

“I will pick you up in the morning.” Brad, with a phone to his ear, one hand tucked in a trouser pocket, strode toward me and only stopped when our bodies were inches apart. Angry eyes settled on my face. “It’s no issue, Sugar Tits.”

Big Guy’s appearance caused consternation. To avoid eye contact, I slowly averted my attention to the floor, where the men had previously misshaped the rug with chaotic footsteps. I had not seen the man since the night he entered the flat and found me asleep in the living room. If truth be told, I am embarrassed and genuinely regretful.

Frowning with displeasure, Hugo scrubbed a hand down his face. “Maybe we should check the pizzas.”

“You do that,” Brad advised, ending the call and stuffing the phone inside the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “Your piss poor service is unrequired, Hughie. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

“Brad,” I whispered, and he shrugged with unapologetic contemptuousness. “Be nice.”

Big Guy stared frostily at me. “A chaperoned party?” He eyed the men as they sauntered past. “I guess my invite got lost in the post.”

My lips tightened.

“Fun night?” Brad’s question was for Hugo. “I was in the process of ordering a round of Jameson. Butdutycalls,” he added with a sarcastic undertone. “Obligation and all that malarkey.”

“You are not obligated to be present.” His bitterness rubbed me up the wrong way. “Your team is doing a good job without you.”

“Sweetheart, without me, there is noteamat your disposal.” He stood before me, hands on his hips, the hard eyes of a wounded man. “By all means, if you want me to leave, I will close the case and let Hughie take it from here. I am sure he can afford an incompetent private investigator.”

Listening to our strained conversation from my son’s bedroom doorway, Donny decided to intervene before fists collided. “Jones.” He tapped the top of Brad’s back. “Vincent called. I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Save congratulatory messages for Mrs Warren.” Brad’s glare went over one shoulder to level with the detective. “What do you have for me, Don?”

“Perhaps I can show you and Miss Hughes what I have found so far.” Donny motioned to the bedroom of madness. “Hugo, I advise you to wait in another room.”

My friend choked on air. “But she needs me for consolation.”

“Kill me.” Big Guy’s eyes toured the entirety of the ceiling. “Go and make yourself busy, Hughie, or I will remove body parts and organs and feed them to stray dogs.” His calmness made the promise far more threatening. “Good boy.”

Hugo blinked rapidly as if to clear the cobwebs from his head. “Why do you insist on hurting my feelings?”

“Hurt your feelings. Christ, how old are you?” Brad is disgusted by the atrocious debate. “Is there such a thing as a brain transplant? If so, he fucking needs one.”

“You are such an entitled prick.” Hugo’s jaw muscles clenched. “I don’t know what she sees in you.”

I died on the spot.

“What’s got your knickers all bunched up around that sorry excuse of a pecker between your legs?” Big Guy’s shoulders squared as he thrust himself into Hugo’s visible horizon. “It will take more than an insult from you to put a cinch in my armour. You,” he flicked the nasion width of the man’s nose in a mortifying show of derision, “can spit vitriol all you want, but you are not welcome next door now that sole proprietorship is mine.” His head tilted with an accusatory click of the tongue. “Understand?”

Hugo glared silently, ashen-faced and stunned into slack-jawed immovability. “Why did that sound like an accusation?”

Big Guy’s stare swept over Hugo with evident disapproval. He all but scoffed at him. “Make of it what you will.”

“Fuck you.” Hugo’s chest puffed out as he strenuously denied all allegations. “I am not a suspect. I am a friend. A good friend, too. Not that you would understand.”

“Why do you stress?” Donny, with eyes flashing with mischievous exaggeration, hummed lowly. “The intruder will do anything to forestall discoverability. If you have nothing to hide, walk away and let me do my job. A crime scene is no place for civilians.”

“Em…” Hugo tapped my elbow. “I will go home if that’s what you want. But please do not fall for this bullshit. I swear to you on everything I have that I am not connected to whatever is happening next door. I am just as clueless as you.” He looked soul-destroyed. “You have to believe me.”

Of course, I believed him. Brad is punishing him because he is angry at me. “I do,” I assured him, and he blew out a relieved sigh. “But Donny is right. You should go home whilst he investigates. I can call you tomorrow with updates.”

“Sure.” Hugo proactively agreed to leave. Before I could say goodnight, he sealed the departure with a soft kiss on my cheek, something he often did when parting ways, but this time, with Big Guy at my side, furrowing his brows, I really wish he hadn’t poked the bear. “I will see myself out-”

“Obviously!” Brad jumped down the man’s throat. With a hostile glare and flared nostrils, he motioned violently at the front door. “Go on. Bounce along before I throw you out by the bastard ear.”

Hugo embarked on the moral high ground. He did not seize the opportunity to respond to critical remarks or unfair treatment. Instead, with a slight shake of the head, he swung the front door open and stormed out of the flat.

“You are impossible.” To diffuse the situation, I pushed myself away from the wall and headed to the closet in Carter’s bedroom, knowing Brad and Donny would follow me. “What is your problem? Hugo is a nice guy.” I felt the intensity of the man’s scowl at the back of my head. “He has only ever been polite to you, yet you cannot find it in yourself to reciprocate. You treat him so unfairly. You hyper-competitive asshole.”

“I have no issue with the addlebrained tosser.” Brad is too angry to look at me. “You have really tested my patience tonight, sweetheart. I hope you are satisfied.”

I will not lower myself to such foolery.

Men with biohazard bags and secured boxes parted to allow us to enter the closet without obstruction or delay. I glowered at the incandescent outline at the end of the hole. It chilled me to the bone, the thought of what lies beneath.

“Put these on your feet.” Donny handed over two sets of white disposable microporous overshoes. “Do not touch anything.” Then, without further ado, he stepped over uneven bricks one foot at a time and vanished through the hole. “Hurry up.”

Plastic overshoes strapped to my feet, I held onto a precariously hung shelf for support and climbed into the wall. Instantly, I am faced with stomach-churning darkness and throat-contracting claustrophobia. I took one clumsy step forward, tripped on pieces of debris and almost fell face-first into threads of gossamer when a strong arm captured my waistline and held me upright.

“Careful,” Big Guy whispered in my ear, his breath warm to my skin, his chest firm to my back. “You, without teeth, might be a turn-off.”

“Well, it’s a good job that I am not trying to impress anyone.” My hands clung to his form arm as my neck tilted to look at him. In the dark, I could barely make out the lines of what I know is a beautiful face. “Right?”

Brad made a low, raspy sound in the back of his throat. He wanted to reply, to murmur a smart remark and knock me down a peg, but something about our nearness prevented him from talking.

I smirked in the dark. “I never thought I’d see the day where the infamous Brad Jones had nothing to say.”

“Oh, I have plenty to say.” His chin rested on my shoulder. “But what goes on up here is more thanyoucan handle.”

Tempted to ask what was on his mind, I stood stock still in his arms. “You are right,” I breathed against his lips. “My tolerance is stretched too thin these days.”

“Jones?” Donny flashed a torch once he reached the finish line. “Are you both lost? It’s only a small hole, so what’s taking you so long?”

Although I could not see Big Guy’s eyes, as hushed dimness stole the light, I knew, beyond doubt, I was the cynosure of this man’s attention. The tip of his nose grazed my jawline in a slow, tortuous sweep before he buried his face in the groove of my neck. I became totally transfixed and almost hypnotised by the feel of his irregular heartbeat against my back, the way his breath came in sharp and short and how his fingers wrote something incomprehensible on the exposed part of my lower stomach. Then, grasping my hip with a gentle pinch of encouragement, he released me to pursue Donny’s voice in the other apartment.

My throat dried.

Holding my breath, I wiped my clammy hands in the cardigan and powered forward until Big Guy’s upward-facing palm came into view. He helped me climb into the neighbour’s bedroom, or rather, the makeshift room, with cardboard sheets in the window, fabric-covered lamps, uncarpeted floorboards, a dirty, threadbare sofa and a filthy, unmade mattress.

Big Guy and Donny held a caucus by the cluttered desk whilst I dodged household rubbish and mildew-stained dishes on the floor to locate the kitchen.

The neighbour’s flat had the same layout as mine, except he lived in squalid conditions, with appliances fallen into a terrible state of disrepair and once beautifully decorated walls encased in powdery mildew.

“It’s not very homely.” Hugging myself, I spurned the mould-infested saucepan on the stove. “And it is a sanctuary for vermin.”

Donny is by the doorway, marking my every move like a true bloodhound. “He does not live here.”

“No?” My nose twitched at the stench of decay. “It looks occupied to me.”

“Den of iniquity. A secret hideout.” His finger captured a layer of dust on the side of the kitchen counter bestrewed with unclean baking dishes.“Whichever you prefer.” He glimpsed into the hallway. “Did you see it?”

A confused pause.

“Yes,” Big Guy replied. “I want every photo incinerated.”

I left the kitchen to see what all the fuss was about. I had to physically squeeze past Brad to enter the living room (he did not want me to see whatever the intruder hoarded). I came face to face with an exhibition of photos. In a sickening display of obsession, my everyday life paraded for inspection.

Wiping my face, I swallowed tears and snapped an image off the make-do washing line. I am at work, clearing tables and delivering entrées. In the next photo, I am in the park, on the pavement for an early morning jog with headphones over my ears. Then, the third shot is of me at the supermarket, where I bought my son’s National Geographic magazines and his most favourite sweets. A corner store is dangling in front of me, a time where I pondered about which brand of milk to buy and what type of fruit I’d like to eat on the way to the bus stop.

My friends.

My family.

My co-workers.

Big Guy is meditative and quiet, focusing on the photo of my bedroom. I am in bed, sound asleep, and the secret photographer must have been near the window because the bedside table is clearly visible.

I had chills.

My insides screamed when I clapped my eyes on the motif-patterned shower curtain. You cannot see me in the photo, the warm palette concealed silhouettes, but there is fresh steam in the air and condensation on the wall-mounted mirror.

It is okay,is what I had written on the misted glass with my finger.

He watched me in the shower.

He studied me whilst I slept.

He followed me around London.

“I feel sick to my stomach.” This man, whoever he may be, not only broke into my home and invaded my privacy, he shadowed every step I had made for months. “I have a stalker.”

Big Guy rubbed the scruff of his jaw. “I want the evidence conveyed to Club 11.” His demand was for Donny. “You will attend a closed-door conclave next week.”

“Yes.” Donny took the photo out of my hand and slipped it into a clear bag. “Are you alright, Miss Hughes? Do you need a moment alone?”

“Emma is fine.” Brad’s hand closed around the washing line. In a very brusque and impatient manner, he broke the twine and watched as photos fluttered to the ground. “You will not stay in the flat tonight.”

Yes, I figured as much. I did not want to be anywhere near the unidentified squatter, anyway. God knows what he is prone to do if left to his own devices. “I can check into a hotel for the night.” Terrence is a gift. If it were not for him, I bet the intruder would have done far worse than document my life. “I will pack an overnight bag.”

“No, I want you with me until I figure this out.” Big Guy seized my elbow, dragging me out of the room with brute force. “My anger is not meant for you, but if you argue the matter, I will not be held accountable for my actions as I have warned you.” We got through the shambolic flat without killing each other. “Get in,” he ordered, shoving me toward the hole in the wall. “Move it, Emma.”

I huffed in annoyance, but arguing with him was an interminable waste of time-and I am not keen on airing our dirty laundry in front of the syndicate.

Practising self-control, I crept into the dark, dank hole and returned to my side of the tenant building. Not a trace of activity remained in the closet or my son’s bedroom. Most of the men had absquatulated to the foyer for a cigarette break.

Not waiting for Big Guy, I ventured to the kitchen to check the pizza damage. Josh sits at the table with a bottle of water on the coaster and Hugo’s pizza on a plate. “I was starving,” he told me. “It would be a shame to let them go to waste. With abs like mine, I can afford to overindulge.”

The other pizza is still on the oven tray, left on the kitchen counter, crisp, cooked but not cremated.

“Thank you.” Although, I am no longer hungry. “You can eat the other one, too. I have gone past it.”

He winked. “Thank you, love.”

Turning on my heel, ready to beeline to the bedroom and lock the door behind me, I collided with Brad’s chest. “I must pack a bag.”

Big Guy harrumphed. “That’s not necessary.”

“A bag of belongings is necessary.” My eyes zeroed in on the array of gold chains around the man’s neck. “And Brad, I really appreciate the offer, but I will not be spending one minute at the estate. You could not pay me to do so.” My breathing was steady for a woman veering towards a mental breakdown. “I will not be awkward. I agree to leave. A hotel room for one night will suffice.”

“No.” He never batted an eyelid. “You are coming with me whether you like it or not.” Going down on one knee, he ripped the plastic overshoes off my feet. “You do not require an overnight bag. Anything you need will be provided at the estate.”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

The man’s implacable amber-coloured eyes bore into me. Then, with the tips of our feet touching, he leaned in and rasped, “It’s a goddamn order.”

When Big Guy threatened to throw me over his shoulder if I complained, I knew not to cause a scene. I walked out of the flat willingly, with only the clothes on my back and the fluffy socks on my feet.

The long drive to Brad’s estate had quite a somniferous effect on me. I nearly fell asleep until the man grew tired of my silence and blasted the car radio.

Still, I chose muteness to detach myself from the reality of the dire situation. I did not want to stay at the estate because of the pregnant ex-employee by the name of Alice. I was chagrined at the probability of her in close proximity.

Big Guy steered the Bentley toward the wrought-iron gates festooned with gold accents. He lowered the driver’s side window, swiped a metal card on the card detector and waited for someone to grant access.

“Hughie is a petulant plonker.” He was so random at times. “I don’t know how you stomach it.”

Yet again, he is reduced to angriness. You’d think he’d have gotten over the little spat with Hugo by now. “Your standpoint is as misconstrued as it is unnecessary. Hugo is just a friend. I don’t know how many times I have to say it before people believe it.”

“Friend.Right.” His unreasonable choler had me at the end of my tether. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

I did not wish to fight with him. “You are upset.”

“No? Really?” With an icy glare, he shifted into first gear and accelerated onto the long-winding driveway of lined trees. Then, with a slam of the foot, he sped down the gravelled road until the estate lit up in the distance. “Whatever gave you that impression? It’s not like our friendship is fraught. You have not given me the cold shoulder for months or anything like that. No, I get to be in your life alongside that crackhead cunt.”

My eyes closed briefly.

He slammed a foot down on the brake, the tyres shrieking across the asphalt, and then he turned off the engine and just sat there, furious and primed for an argument. “Get out.”

I flinched at his coldness. “Do not speak to me like I am a piece of shit. I deserve better.”

“I need to shower,” he snarled, but I would not climb out of the car and go anywhere with him until he calmed down. “Emma, I swear on everything bastard Holy, I will lose my fucking shit.”

“That makes two of us.” Oh, he wanted a heated exchange. I will damn well give him one. “Your actions tonight are completely uncalled for. I have done nothing wrong…” There was only repulsion etched across his face. “Your behaviour is that of a controlling psychopath!”

He glared at me with murderous intent. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

“You heard what I said!” Pushing the passenger side door open with my shoulder, I practically fell out of the car and, dusting off my hands, stalked in the opposite direction of the estate. That’s when, with barely any steps forward, I detected approaching footsteps. “If you so much as-” My feet lifted off the ground simultaneously with my face crashing into the man’s ass. “Brad! I swear to God!” To my disgruntlement, he headed toward the house. “You better put me down right now!”

“Be quiet.” He ascended the steps to the front door with my body draped over his shoulder. “My son is in bed.”

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Yes, I had much to say, but I would not bring trouble to his home and upset Little Guy. “Please, I ask you kindly to put me down.”

Big Guy ignored my polite plea to land on solid ground.

Another set of stairs later, with a real marble shine, the blood dropping to my head is the focal point of upside-down dizziness. I succumbed to defeat by the time he reached the master bedroom. I had lost the battle, and we both knew it.

Once he unlocked the door, the motion sensor lights detected movement and brightened the room. Not that I had the chance to look at anything other than the floor.

A huge, ridiculously sized bed sheathed in expensive fabrics captured my fall when he threw me onto the mattress. The drop knocked the air out of my lungs. “You are crazy!” I spat, scuttling across the sheets until my back was glued to the headboard. “Why would I want to stay here with you after that caveman performance, huh?”

Brad is unfazed. If anything, he revelled in my protestations. He doffed the suit jacket in one fluent movement and draped it on the back of the chair, then stationed the unlaced shoes on one of the shelves in what appeared to be a very spacious and luxurious walk-in wardrobe.

“This is wrong,” I said despairingly, and when he caught the sibilant tremor in my voice, he paused on the third button of his shirt to look at me. “Alice is here. She is pregnant with your child.”

Not taking his eyes off me, he peeled out of the shirt like one of those godforsaken male strippers in Magic Mike. It took everything inside me not to marvel at the bare chest of chiselled muscle and the washboard abs. “Do you think of me heartless?” The intenseness of the man’s heated gaze dispersed butterflies in my chest. I hated how much of an effect he had on me. “My boss once told me that honesty is the best policy. So, do your worst. I can handle it.”

“Where Alice is concerned? Yes.” My knees tucked to my chest, and I wrapped my arms around my shins. “I think you are heartless, bringing another woman in the house whilst she is out there, somewhere, with your child baking in the oven.” I glimpsed at the door as if to anticipate the crazy lady’s arrival. “She won’t come in here, will she?”

Brad stripped down into tight-fitted boxer briefs emblazoned with Versace. “Why would she come to my bedroom?” Towel in hand, he unlocked the door to the all-marble en suite and studied his reflection in the mirror. “She does not share my bed.”

I had more questions, but when the man tugged the bobble out of his hair and stepped out of the boxer briefs, the world around me stopped revolving. I watched, fascinated, as he entered the glass cubicle and turned on the overhead shower, immersing himself in warm water, steam and suds. He knew I could see him, all naked and beautiful, a work of art, and that’s more than likely why he left the door open. But it felt wrong, invading his privacy, so I pushed myself off the bed and relocated to the leather corner sofa.

Waiting impatiently for his return, I took in the vastness of the man’s bedroom with absolute adoration in my wide eyes. Not an item of jewellery is out of place or chucked haphazardly onto unit space. Everything had a home: clothes, shoes, cologne, gold, diamonds and a phone. He was, for lack of better words, obsessed with cleanliness. A neat freak. A bloody inspiration. I had the urge to go home and rearrange my drawers and wardrobe space. He put my tidying skills to shame.

Much later, Big Guy came back to the bedroom with a towel knotted around his waist. “Go for a shower,” he instructed, and it felt like an insult. I almost raised an arm to check for sweat. “No, Emma. You do not smell. But you went out tonight. I want all that shit off your face before you get into bed.”

“Excuse me?” Right, I know I promised to behave for Little Guy, but this man is seriously getting under my skin. “What is wrong with you tonight? If you insult me one more time, I will pick up the nearest object and beat the crap out of you.”

“I can’t see you,” he said, and I frowned in confusion. “The eyeshadow? The extra long eyelashes? It’s not you. I don’t like it. In fact, I hate it.” He hurled a clean towel at me. “Scrub it off. Then we can talk.”

Tugging the eyelashes off my lids-the ones Mary had a job and a half to assemble-I slapped them onto the dresser and witnessed the moment sheer horror blazed in his bulbous eyes. I mean, in his defence, they looked like two dead spiders. “Happy?”

I never hung around to watch him throw a gasket. I undressed whilst walking to the ensuite cubicle-leaving a trail of clothes behind me-and stepped directly under the warm spray. Oh, shit. He was right to demand clean and fresh. I felt better with each lash of hot water as I scrubbed toxins out of my skin and dragged shampoo through my hair.

Smelling like a million dollars, I killed the hot water, wrapped a towel across my body, and pitter-pattered into the bedroom.

Big Guy sported stark white boxer briefs now-Emporio Armani on the waistband. He proffered an oversized T-shirt for me to wear alongside the underwear I had left here the night I turned up on his doorstep in the rain.

“Thank you,” I whispered, and he turned to face the wall, giving me his back to stare at. “Big Guy?”

“Get changed.” His arms folded, stretching the cords of muscle in his shoulders. “Unless you want me to watch. The decision is yours.”

Not bothering to dry, I dropped the towel on the floor and changed into the clothes and underwear provided. I loved wearing the man’s T-shirt. It would be even better if it smelt like his cologne instead of clean laundry.

As I had already pushed boundaries tonight, I ensured the wet towel went into the laundry basket with the clothes he had picked up off the floor whilst I showered.

“Alice resides in the annexe building.” He pulled back the blanket for us to get into bed. “She is not permitted to enter the main house. She is not allowed around my son or anywhere near me. For an emergency or a midwife appointment, I will be available to her.” He mulled over at length. “I do not recall the last time I saw her.”

It might be selfish, but I am relieved to hear she is not wandering freely throughout the main house.

“I do pay for essentials, though. Whatever she needs for the baby…” Once the sheet was exposed, he inspected the space that would grace our bodies in a few minutes. “She has twenty-four access to food, entertainment and chauffeur driven vehicles. I promised to attend hospital appointments, too.” He could not look at me. “I will be there for the birth.”

I felt a twinge in my chest.

“What Chloe did with Dominic was unjustified and unforgivable.” He stacked display cushions on the sofa. “You understand. I have told you, on more than one occasion, how much her decision to keep me away from my son affected me. I missed everything.”

I did understand.

“I won’t go through that again.” His eyes met mine from across the room. “I cannot turn back the hands of time. But I can rectify past mistakes by being present. It’s the least I can do for years of poor decision-making. I had to grow up eventually, right?”

I attempted a smile.

His lips pursed somewhat cheekily. He wanted to lighten the mood but did not know how to go about it.

“What?” I asked, unable to mask my amusement. “Those bedroom eyes will not work on me, Big Guy. I am immune to your advances.”

“I am Midas incarnate.” He jumped onto the bed, tapping the space beside him. “Anything I touch turns to gold.”

I bit my lower lip. “Not me.”

“Especially you,” he half-joked, and I moved onto the bed without fuss or fight. “Give me five minutes. You will be putty in my hands, and all will be forgiven.”

“Oh, give it a rest.” I collapsed onto the world’s most comfortable pillows. “Your ego is boundless.”

“I know. And I love it…” His arms folded behind his head. “You won’t wait until I fall asleep and leave posthaste, will you?”

No, I will not. Even if I tried to flee the estate, I doubt the guards would let me get past the gate.“You worry too much.”

“With you, I will always worry. It cannot be helped nor prevented.” He propped onto one elbow to look down at me. “Would you change me?”

My breath trembled into a yawn. “No.”

“You are tired.” His thumb and forefinger touched the end of my hair. “Why? It’s still early.”

“I think hypersomnolence is quite normal at four o’clock in the morning.” God, I wanted to reach out and touch his chest, run my fingers through his hair and kiss him breathlessly, but I abstained from leading him on. I have played with his emotions too much. I can be a friend, though, which is the most I can offer. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

As if the man possessed the ability to read minds, he dipped his head and stole a gentle kiss. I was not prepared. “Happiness can ease the sombreness of most mood disorders.” His thumb swept over my lips. “But you do not smile anymore. And sweetheart, I love your smile.”

“Fakeness is misleading.” My hand touched his chest before I could think better of it. “It gives people the wrong impression. I smile when appropriate, but we are two passing ships in the night. We catch each other at the wrong times.” His heart pounded against the palm of my hand. “Tonight, the state of being happy is unquestionably inappropriate. I am not sad, though. I am angry. A stalker has driven me out of my home.”

He lifted my hand to his lips, alternately kissed my fingertips and threaded our fingers together.

“I never considered myself murderous before, but if I ever get my hands on that man,” I said quietly, “I will not hesitate to hurt him.”

“You will have to go through me first, for I plan the ultimate penance, slow, painful and torturous. He will be thoroughly defeated and moribund in the midst of absolution.” His arm slid behind my back, tugging me close, skin on skin, with no breathing space between us. “And then, when death feels like the only option and life fades from his eyes, I will nurse him back to health and start the process all over again. This man,” he said in a low yet furious voice, “has hurt you in more ways than one. You do not need to say it. I know what you are thinking. Is he responsible for Carter’s disappearance? If so, why is he hellbent on torturing you? Why does he want you to suffer any more than you have?”

A single tear travelled down my cheek and landed on the sheet before I could stop it. Head resting on his outstretched arm, I rolled onto my back and studied the ceiling. I had to look elsewhere. If I hold his gaze for a second longer, I will dissolve into tears and sob my heart out.

“You are right to wonder about him. He is the syndicate’s prime suspect as of now.” His forehead touched my temple as he cuddled up against me. “I apologise for doubting you.” He reached up to grab my jaw and dragged my eyes to him. “I should have believed you.”

“Yes,” I croaked out a sad laugh. “But I will not hold it over you. I, too, thought I had lost my marbles.” A floorboard creaked in the hallway, putting me in a jittery jumpiness. “Oh, shit. Who is outside the bedroom?”

“No one is outside the bedroom.” His thumb circled my navel. “Mabel has insomnia. I doubt she sleeps much, if at all. I reckon she is on the hunt for a cup of Horlicks. The old bird loves malted milk powder.” He sensed that I was not easily convinced. “Emma, I promise you, Alice is not in the house. The guards have strict orders to keep her at arm’s length. But, for argument’s sake, let’s say she did outsmart security. Do you honestly believe I would let her within ten miles of you? I’d strangle her first.”

My stomach sank to uneasy depths.

“Now, where was I?” Twisting at the waist, somewhat disjointedly, he extended an arm to switch off the lamp on the bedside table. “A hug with afriendbefore I fall asleep.” He locked our legs together, the duvet tangled by our feet. “I won’t nod off until you are settled.”

I did not ask why because I already knew the answer. Big Guy would roll to the furthest side of the bed once I surrendered to tiredness and searched for dreams. He is convinced that he will hurt me if I startle him.

“You can hold me.” Facing him in the dark, I draped an arm over his shoulders and pressed my cheek to his chest.“I trust you, Big Guy.”

“For now.” He hummed, low and throaty. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Against my better judgement, I went out like a lightbulb in less than five minutes. However, when Mabel returned to her bedroom much later, a cup of Horlicks on standby, I imagine, I woke up and found myself in the same position.

In Big Guy’s strong arms.

And he was dead to the world.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

⚠️ Possible triggers. ⚠️

Reader discretion is advised.

Brad

My friend and neighbour, Blatherskite Brian, lost his virginity to Annmarie Speight-a cute brown-haired chick with bright-pink spectacles and dental braces-on a bed of hay flanked by straw brooms, metal rakes, pitchforks, wheelbarrows and feed buckets inside an old, agricultural building of pregnant ewes, new-born lambs and errant chickens.

Pursuing Annmarie was the best night of Brian’s life, or so the story of underage sex with a bottle of Tequila goes. He voiced achievements indefatigably every minute of every day, the pussy bragger, because, apparently, I had to know everything there is to know about the girl’s cherry-patterned knickers and tropical-flavoured lips.

Have a day off. I would rather watch paint dry or grass grow or objects that virtually had no movement: anything but the life and times of Braggart and Speight.

If I had to listen to how Annmarie The Great branded Brian’s breakable neck with hickeys one more time, I might die young, commit hari-kari and throw myself off a bridge. Adulthood looked overhyped anyway.

I mean, what does Brian want from me? Homage? A high-five? A round of applause? A slap on the back for a job well done? He had sex for the first time. Big deal. People do it all of the time. It is not uncommon.

Intimacy is an overrated, unpleasurable experience. I don’t know why people enjoy it so much. And it caused some pretty uncomfortable situations, for example, redness, irritation and the occasional bleeding.

Genital soreness is painful and not to be ignored. Just last week, I had to steal medicated cream from Yolanda’s drawer to reduce irritation. My dick, I am sure, had broken and lost blood circulation. Or malfunctioned. Or something. Whatever the reason, I could not wash my most sensitive area without crying like a little girl. It hurt that much.

I tried to ignore the pain for three whole days before I built up the courage to ask Yolanda for help.

After a trip to the doctor’s office, I walked out of the medical centre with a diagnosis of Balanitis, a course of antibiotics and a tube of steroid cream.

Thank the Lord above that I did not require surgery. That’s all I need, to be post-op and completely bed-bound, with Yolanda pretending to be a nurse.

Jesus, if you exist, I will obey God’s Law for all of eternity if you promise to spare my dick. I mean, the poor bugger is still in development. Give it a chance to grow before you smite it.

Yesterday, when I asked Brian if we could talk about anything other than copulation for one day, as it’s been the topic of conversation for nearly a month, he got defensive and accused me of being jealous.

Yeah, in most cases, I did feel resentment, bitterness and hostility toward others, even if I did not show it, because I desperately craved normalcy. A functional family, love and boundaries. A good Mum with the qualities of a patron saint. But, hand on my heart, I did not give a rat’s arse about Brian and Annmarie. They can bump uglies until the cows come home, for all I care. I am that disinterested.

Besides, Annmarie is no oil painting. Perhaps if he’d managed to deflower the beautiful blonde-haired girl across the street, I’d be more invested in the dos and don’ts of teenage sex-and I would be more than jealous because I am convinced Mary, the love of my life, is fated to be in my world.

I would have sold my soul to the highest bidder if Mary had promised a future with me. But I am not on her radar, no matter how hard I try to steal her attention.

In later years, Mary has grown fond of Brian, much like Annmarie The Great and every other girl within the vicinity of Mostyn Avenue. I don’t know how he does it, but pretty smiles flocked around him, the undeserving muppet.

Christ, these days, I am lucky to be invited anywhere with Brian. He is too busy juggling chicks to stress over friends. He also had to deal with an overworked, borderline neglectful mother and an alcoholic stepfather who used all forms of violence to achieve good behaviour.

I should be less salty.

Last night, when I sat by the bedroom window, wondering if the stars could see me in the dark, I spied movement in the overgrown garden and soon noticed Brian. He’d descended the splintering trellis, which is not unusual for the night owl, and crept on his hands and knees to the house across the street. And that’s where he waited, by the ancient sycamore tree, where Mary would find him once she’d escaped her tyrannical father’s vigilance.

I bet they had a grand old time, Mary and Brian.

Yes, for the above-mentioned, I was green with envy for multiple reasons.

Firstly, I did not have an open invitation for late-night antics.

Secondly, I knew Mary would be the next Annmarie Speight (another notch on Brian’s belt).

Thirdly, I wanted to be her First Time, the boy she chose to take her virginity-to make her happy.

I guess those stars had other plans for Brad Jones. I have issues the length of a marathon, but there is a whole world outside, waiting for me to come along and wreak havoc.

Still, I went to bed that night, realising how lonely I was.

Maybe I am not as fun as I used to be.

No more invites to the forest at night.

No more stones on my bedroom window at sunrise.

No more stealing milk from our neighbours’ doorstep.

No more knocking on people’s windows and running away.

The three musketeers are down by one.

I am on the outskirts, hoping they will remember me.

A loner.

A nobody.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

I am my mother’s son.

Three months of school, studies and restrictions later, I heard a stone on my bedroom window. Brian, with bruised eyes and busted lips, swung by to see if I wanted to go down to the river. I hated the water, but I hated the house more. So, I snuck out of Yolanda’s grip, catapulted through the back door and met him in the oak forest.

I had a lot to say to my best friend. Brian forgot about me. He prioritised girls over our friendship. But I chose to be a bigger person. I will not hold a grudge against him. Life is challenging enough without negative emotions.

“Admit it.” Brian squatted on the moss-covered boulder to toss pebbles into the crystalline stream. “You are pissed off. You wanted Mary for yourself. You wanted to be the one to pop her cherry.”

Yes, once upon a time, I set my heart on the girl across the street. That’s not the case anymore. Sure, if Mary is happy, then I am happy. I have accepted a life without her and will always carry a torch for her. But her attention no longer mattered.

Perhaps Mary’s closeness to Brian is the root of indifference. Or maybe Yolanda Kelleher is why I am broken beyond repair. Either way, at this point, I did not care about anything or anyone, least of all myself.

Brian hurled a pebble in my direction. “It must suck to be a virgin.”

Only I am not a virgin, am I? I had sex long before I knew what it meant to have sexual contact with another person and experienced intimate touches before I learnt the definition of inappropriateness.

“Yeah,” I spoke to the wind. “I must be missing out, huh?”

“One hundred percent.” He is proud of his accomplishments. “I can set you up with someone if you would like. I know a decent chick at the theatre. She wants to be an actress someday.”

I would rather not.

“You are not scared, are you?” He burst out laughing. “Come on, Brad. It’s not rocket science. All you have to do is shove your dick in her whisker biscuit and pound the hips several times. If she cries your name? Bob’s your uncle. You came and conquered.”

My face heated.

Truthfully, nowadays, the idea of sex nauseated me. I used to think I had it in me to make a girl feel special, to show her all the tricks I had learnt over the years, but I am older and wiser now. I have trust issues and anger problems because I have been shovelling through mountains of unexplainable abhorrence and embarrassment since the night my eyes opened in the dark, and I felt an unfamiliar sensation between my legs. The same night I found my mother’s head under the duvet.

At the time, I never understood what it meant, Yolanda’s love and attention. Or why I lost the feeling of connectedness when, naked and breathless, she climbed out of bed and changed back into the lace-trimmed nightgown. Or why she told me, no one could ever know about her touching me. Or why I suddenly feared the bedroom door and the power of darkness.

Confused.

Vulnerable.

Unknowledgeable.

Yet, I knew, with every set of predatory footsteps and each click of the door handle, that my mother’s newfound appreciation for keeping secrets was very wrong.

inappropriate

adjective

1. not appropriate; not suitable for the situation, time or place.

I recently acquired that information at the local library after an hour of sex education in school, where the teacher stressed the importance of safety and how to avoid coercion, sexually transmitted infections and unintended pregnancies.

However, something far worse raised alarm bells when the teacher lectured the assembly of excitable pupils: consent. The word stuck out to me like a sore thumb, as if she’d underlined the single, distinct, meaningful element of writing in permanent marker to prepare me for impending danger.

Without a positive role model in my life, I had nobody to depend on or anyone to provide answers to questions. I had to comprehend the significance of informed consent in silence and rely on the dictionary to self-educate, to acquire knowledge in specific subjects. Reading definitions became a favourite pastime.

consent

noun

1. permission for something to happen or agreement to do something.

Did I give permission for my mother to drag me on this soul-wrenching journey?

Did I agree to touch her the way she often touched me?

Did I ask for this to happen?

Did fearful silence and absolute catatonia imply consent?

sexual assault

noun

1. a physical attack of a sexual nature on another person or a sexual act committed without explicit consent, or any unwanted sexual behaviour which is threatening, violent, forced, or coercive.

2. sexual assault is most often used in reference to a single experience.

Maybe sexual assault did not apply to me. After all, Yolanda is a frequent visitor in my bedroom. A single experience was the least of my concerns.

I continued to read the dictionary for an accurate understanding of what life had amounted to, and sexual intercourse with family members caught my eye.

incest

noun

1. sexual relations between people classed as being too closely related to each other; having sexual intercourse with a parent, child, sibling, or grandchild.

2. the crime of sexual intercourse, cohabitation, or marriage between persons within the degrees of consanguinity or affinity wherein marriage is legally forbidden.

Sexual intercourse between a parent and child is a crime. I think I had unknowingly committed a criminal offence. I cannot be sure, though, not without confirmation.

child molestation

noun

1. involves forcing or enticing a child or young person to participate in sexual activities, not necessarily involving a high level of violence, whether or not the child is aware of what is happening.

2. sexual abuse is not solely perpetuated by adult males. Women can also commit acts of sexual abuse, as can other children.

In disbelief, I picked up the frayed book titled Early Prevention of Maternal Sexual Abuse, and I knew before I’d even scanned the dedication or the epigraph that whatever the author had written, the words and chapters would resonate with me.

Instinct told me to stuff the book under my jumper and run out of the library. I kept the copy close to my heart and read every page, word for word, within two days.

Life, as I once knew it, would never be the same again. I am a victim of child sexual abuse.

Severe domestic squalor, food deprivation, inhumane treatment and near-drowning torture? It was not enough for Yolanda. She had to steal my innocence and drown me with imperishable nightmares.

How can I leave my childhood behind?

I will be haunted by the sick, twisted secrets of our relationship forever.

Self-blame.

Self-hatred.

Self-disgust.

Self-torment.

Self-reproach.

Self-abasement.

Only one person came to mind when ink and tears landed on the torn-out paper of an old notebook. Arlo Jones.

Hey, Dad,

It has been a while since I wrote to you. I know you will never get this letter because I do not have an address for you (I store them in the vent above my bed in case I get to see you someday), but I still had to put words to the page to tell you how much I miss you.

Not a day goes by when I do not think about you. I hope-wherever you travel-you find peace and happiness. You deserved both in abundance for putting up with my mother for all these years. I know she is the reason why you ran away.

But you never did say goodbye.

You could have taken me with you. I would have chosen life on the road over years of having to accept the reality of what it meant to be Yolanda Kelleher’s only child. Her only son. You had to know, surely, when sitting behind the steering wheel and driving into the distance that I would have waited on the bottom of the stairs for you to return, just like I did every time you left the house.

Did you have second thoughts?

Did you even look back?

Did you not consider me at all?

The day you walked out the door changed my existence forever. I stopped being Arlo’s boy and became Arlo’s replacement. I had to grow up overnight, step into your shoes and master the art of submission.

Since you checked out, I have spent most of my childhood harbouring dark secrets, contradictory feelings and morrow-deep confusion. I carry the luggage of shame, guilt, fear, disgust and aversion on my back daily, wishing someone, anyone, would look into my eyes and confront the pain I refuse to disclose.

Fear is not a false impression of reality. I live with the threat of harm, danger and trepidation, day in, day out, as I have nowhere else to go, no one to wave a magic wand or to save me from fate.

A path of denial and lack of understanding led me here. I know now, with pristine clarity, thanks to hours of reading between the pages, that I have an unhealthy relationship with my mother.

Physical abuse, verbal abuse and mental abuse, I endure on a daily basis, but sexual victimisation is reserved for after hours when the sun goes down and neighbours retreat.

I can outgrow beatings. I can overcome insults. I can even outsmart psychological torture. But it is humanly impossible to overpower the consequence of sexual abuse.

I will never understand nor forgive the person I am supposed to love and trust for exposing me to the dark side of intimacy, a place where a young, vulnerable boy did not belong. I had my whole life ahead of me, dreams of summer romances and healthy relationships with girls.

Now, I have no hope for the future.

I will never crave the touch of a woman.

I will never trust someone with my heart.

How can I?

I have been burnt.

Once bitten, twice shy, right?

How is molestation even a thing? I read somewhere that predators target children because they are powerless and defenceless. I also read that some victims suffer more than others, that little girls get snatched off the street and face the aftermath of a paedophile’s sexual urges: death. Gone. Never coming back.

Maybe I should count myself lucky. I might be sad, but I am still breathing. I am not one of those girls on the television, partially buried on a roadside or dumped in a field, where dog walkers or cyclists would later find their remains in bedrock and soil.

Is it right to invalidate the abuse I have suffered? Because I am trying to be like you. You are strong, brave, and everything I aspire to be someday. You taught me that life would be no life at all without courage and that it is never too late to fix the past and change the course of direction.

But I hurt.

I hurt a lot.

If you miss me, find me.

I will wait forever.

Your son,

Brad.

Wiping the tears from my eyes, I folded the page, placed it in an envelope and climbed onto the bed. Locating the switch on the wall vent, I slid the grille cover aside, reached into the hole and grabbed the pile of preserved letters for my father.

Maybe someday, I can give them to him.

Yolanda called up the stairs.

Dinner is on the table.

Locking the wall vent, I jumped off the bed, cleared any evidence off the desk and headed to the kitchen. If I am lucky, she defrosted stew and chucked pre-cooked baguettes in the oven. If not, I will be served fried spam and scrambled eggs.

I despised spam.

Yolanda, with skin-toned stockings rolling down her knobbly knees and an orange loose-fitted chemise hanging off her bony shoulders, held a plate out as I entered the kitchen.

I thanked her, took the seat closest to the back door and examined the splodge she had the nerve to call food.

“You need a haircut.” Her fingers gently combed through my hair. “Why do you insist on growing it out? Only girls have long hair, Bradley.”

I sighed deeply.

If I ever escape this bitch’s lair, I will track down the nearest healthcare company and rob the entire shelf of hair growth products. I won’t be satisfied until I give Jon Bon Jovi a run for his money. Or Rapunzel by the Brothers Grimm. I am not bothered by which look I model. If it offends Yolanda, I can die a happy boy.

“Where did you go this afternoon?” Her dry fingers massaged the nape of my neck. “I missed you. The house is too quiet without you.”

When did sexual abuse overshadow physical and verbal abuse? When I hit puberty. No, it started long before pubescence.

The first time she touched me inappropriately was in the bath, after the head-dunk-under-water regime, when she “taught” me how to wash correctly.

I was none the wiser. I thought mothers were meant to show their sons how to clean private areas. It’s not like I had anyone around to tell me otherwise.

But the shift in her behaviour took place in the wake of an argument. I answered back. I am not allowed to be disobedient and back-chat. Misbehaviour equalled punishment.

I earned a nice little shiner for insolence.

Then, once the dust had settled, Yolanda came to me with a frozen bag of peas and held it on my face to minimise the swelling.

Her eyes had softened. I almost believed she regretted the tugs on my hair, the slaps to my back and the strikes to my head.

But my mother, with the characteristics of a true narcissist, is too proud to admit fault and apologise.

Instead, she mentioned my old man and how I looked just like him, knowing I would be happier than a pig in shit.

Arlo Jones is my favourite superhero. If you say his name whilst I am around, I can guarantee I will be in the background with a cheesy smile on my face.

A master-level manipulation of an impressionable child’s mind is how Yolanda operated. Her need to be in control, to achieve her goal and sway the emotions of those most vulnerable is how she got her own way and how she successfully led me to believe, for a short period of time, I actually resembled my father.

It was a lie. I do not look like Arlo. Or Yolanda. Not even a little bit.

Genetics are complicated, I guess. I must be the product of my ancestors. Either that or Arlo is not my real dad, which explains why he abandoned fatherly duties to be with another woman and her kids.

Yolanda weaponised the love I had for Arlo to prepare me for particular activities.

grooming

noun

1. the action of attempting to form a relationship with a child or young person, with the intention of sexually assaulting them or inducing them to commit an illegal act such as selling drugs or joining a terrorist organisation.

My mother is many things, but a terrorist is not one of them.

In the beginning, I experienced masturbation and oral sex. I had no clue what it meant, the sensations or the erections. It felt good, though, and that is the part I struggle with the most. I allowed it, enjoyed it, appreciated it. Wanted more of it. Until I knew better and wised up to the old bitch.

Why have I never told anyone?

It is our secret.

Four words-whispered by the most influential person in my life, the matriarch whose job is to teach, care and love. The person who quite literally gave me life. My mother.

Yolanda,

You were supposed to be my protector, not my perpetrator.

I will remember this forever.

And forgive you, never.

“Why haven’t you finished your sandwich?” Yolanda wafted cigarette smoke out of her face. “You used to love jam sandwiches. I made that special for you.”

I have never liked jam sandwiches. I barely stomached it on toast. But if slapping raspberry-flavoured muck with clumps of mildew onto stale bread helped Yolanda sleep better at night, who am I to complain? Anything for a peaceful life.

My eyes fixate on the blue and white football jersey with grease stains pinned on the wall above the stove. It was such a random place to nail memorabilia. The entire house hoarded mementoes and souvenirs courtesy of Arlo Jones.

“Did you take your medication?” Yolanda flicked cigarette ash onto the kitchen floor. “I left everything on the bedside table for you.”

No, I did not swallow medication because illnesses are fabricated in this house. I am not sick. I do not have allergies. I am a young, somewhat healthy boy, that’s if you discount malnourishment and lack of sleep.

“Yes,” I lied, knowing damn well I spat those pills down the toilet. “Did you take yours?”

Her left eye twitched. “I do not require medication.”

I had to refrain from laughing.

This woman is deranged to think medication is not essential to keep her on the straight and narrow.

Personally, I think prescription drugs are too forgiving. She needed a straitjacket and institutionalisation. A premature death. An early grave. Preferably at the bottomless pit of the ocean.

“You have to mow the lawn this weekend. Fix the roof, too. A few tiles fell off during the storm.” Her slippered feet trudged across the floor, her backside landing on the rickety chair directly opposite me. “And don’t answer back. You are the man of the house now. It is your job to do the maintenance work around here, Bradley.”

“Sure,” I whispered, having no desire to argue with her. It won’t get me anywhere. “I can do that.”

“You can cut the tree down.” Her chin jutted to the window. “That old tire swing? It has to go. The shade blocks the sun from my bedroom. I like the sun, Bradley. Always the sun.”

Liar, I thought, as I sprinkled lumps of gooey bread onto the floor. I will sweep it to the bin much later, when she is comatose or lazing in front of the television.

My mother hated the sun. Hence the boarded-up windows throughout the house.

“You look tired.” Her bloodshot eyes cast to the wall-mounted cabinets. “You should have an early night. Go to bed.”

“Okay.” I stood with the plate, the legs of the chair scratching the floor. “Do you want me to do the dishes first?”

“No.” Brushing tendrils of wispy hair out of her eyes, she respired a veil of smoke. “Just go to bed, Bradley. I will be up later to say goodnight.”

On instant alert, I froze with my back to her, the plate inches away from the bowl of soapy water. “I am older now,” I said lowly. “You don’t have to tuck me in anymore.”

“But it’s my job to take care of you.” Her voice had a stomach-twisting undertone, the kind of sultriness I knew not to ignore. “Can I trust you to take a bath? Or must I show you how to wash again?”

“No, I am capable.” I will not bathe in deep water willingly. A quick shower does the trick. “I will probably be asleep by the time you go to bed, so let’s say goodnight now.” When I reached her side, she turned her cheek for me to kiss. I did so with haste. “I love you, Mum.”

“Do you?” she asked, hopeful, and I nodded. “You are such a good boy, Bradley.” Her fingers curled around my wrist to keep me in place. “All grown up, so kind and thoughtful. You remind me so much of your father…” Untamed eyebrows drew into a frown. “He would be proud.”

I smiled in a very broad and self-satisfied way. It’s all I ever wanted, for my old man to be pleased with my efforts. “I miss him.”

“Yes,” she said, short and ponderous. “But nothing good comes from wallowing in self-pity. Go to bed, Bradley.”

It would be hours later when physical and mental entrapment commenced.

Although I had prepared myself for the late-night visit, I pretended to be asleep when the door handle moved, and the door creaked open.

Even when the blanket lifted for her to climb into bed behind me, I kept my eyes closed and controlled my breathing as if feigned slumber could have stopped her advances.

No, Yolanda Kelleher is too selfish to consider the consequence of maternal child abuse. She wanted what she wanted. That much was final. I had two choices. I could go to her willingly or unwillingly. But the result will end the same way.

“You are such a good boy.” Her hand slipped beneath the waistband of my pyjama bottoms. “Are you happy to see me?” A reclusive stroke to my shaft caused my eyes to squeeze tight. “My sweet baby.”

I will always struggle to come to terms with the instances forced upon me.

I never asked to fear the opened bedroom door, the dark hallway or the dreaded sound of footsteps.

I never asked to be disturbed in the middle of the night by my naked mother, for my boxer shorts to be dragged to my ankles or for a hand near my private area.

I never asked to explore and experiment whilst she watched as my name whispered from her lips.

I never asked.

I neverconsented.

“You like that, don’t you?” She pulled my hand to the wet, sticky spot between her legs. “Oh, Bradley. I love what you do to me and how you make me feel all good inside. Only you can be so perfect, so attentive.”

Yolanda liked to make me feel important and special; however, in recent years, I felt the complete opposite.

When I was younger, back when she first showed me how to pleasure myself, how to pleasure her, I liked the sensation of ejaculation. But then I grew up, compared our situation to other families, paid attention in school lectures and knew something was very, very wrong. I was just too afraid to speak of it.

“Sweet baby,” she breathed into my mouth as her hips rocked above me. “You know me so well, don’t you, Bradley?“

My wrists were pinned to the bed.

My body was not my own.

I counted the cracks on the ceiling, read imaginary writing on the wall and searched for happy memories in the deep recesses of my mind. They are there somewhere, beyond dark shadows and ominous voices. If I travelled farther, to a world outside of abuse and torment, I could see the light and feel the joys of freedom beneath my feet. All I had to do was disconnect from my body; absolution would be mine.

Yolanda took from me.

Over.

And over.

And over again.

It hurts just as much now as it did the first time.

I am grown now. I am taller, too. If I pushed hard enough, I could overpower her and submit to dark thoughts. That’s what the voices wanted, did they not? For me to wrap my hands around her throat and watch her soul leave her body, or for me to fight back and take control of my life, of my body, of my future.

But I could never kill my mother, no matter how much I wished she’d keel over and die.

Whenever I stood over her bed, where she slept in rivulets of stained satin and malodour, a weapon of choice gripped tightly in my trembling hand, I second-guessed myself and walked away.

I hated her more than anything else in the world, but she did not deserve to die, did she? She had mental health problems. She was unwell. I had to be more understanding.

Yolanda mewled.

It was almost over.

Or so I thought.

It was never enough, forcing me to have sex with her. I had to entertain her now, hold myself, stroke myself. And she observed. It’s her favourite part, the point of repulsion, where humiliation befell on me. I would orgasm whether I wanted to or not. I did not possess any power. I am not in control. I have never been in control. It’s Yolanda’s game. I am a pawn-a dirty secret.

“That’s a good boy, Bradley.” Teeth nipping my earlobe, she cocked her leg over me and saddled my thighs. “My sweet baby. Make it good for yourself. Tell me how it feels.”

I hate everything that I am.

“I need more.” Smacking my hand aside for me to release myself, she lifted herself higher and sank to the base of me before I could persuade her to do something else. “Be a man tonight. I want to feel this when I wake up in the morning.”

Depersonalisation. I aced the skill last year when her dirty fingers wrapped around my length and she took me into her disgusting mouth. My soul drifted down the hall, through the front door and into the street. I did not have to see or feel it. I could act as though it never happened.

It’s not real.

Detached.

Unemotional.

Dark secrets.

Gnarled scars.

A broken boy.

“It’s not okay,” I sobbed into my arm that hung listlessly over my eyes. Her hip movements slowed down in shock. “Our relationship is dysfunctional. This is not motherly love. It is wrong on so many levels.”

Her hands on my chest twitched.

“I was supposed to find out for myself! I was supposed to learn how to masturbate and practise safe sex without you!” My heart started to race, as anger, like never before, breached the surface. “I should have met a girl and trusted her with my virginity. It could have been special, but you stole it from me. I will never get that opportunity back.”

Her jaw slackened.

“This is abuse,” I spat through gritted teeth, and the muscles in her legs twitched around my waist. “I am your son, not your fucking lover.”

“Bradley,” she warned as her fingertips grazed my ribs. “Do not make me punish you.”

“You punish me every day!” A hot flush attacked my neck and cheeks. “When the bedroom door opens and you confuse my bed for yours!”

“How dare you?” Then, without warning, her hand snatched the hair behind my ear, sharp and tight. “Do I need to remind you what happens when you misbehave and tell lies?”

I wanted to die. If I took a razor blade to my wrists and hacked radial arteries instead of cutting my thighs like a pathetic coward, I would bleed out on the bathroom floor and free myself from sin.

“You are killing me, Mum,” I sobbed, and something unreadable flashed in her narrowed eyes. “It’s not too late. If you promise to get help, I won’t tell anyone what happened between us. I will even go with you to the hospital. I can support you. Whatever you need. But…Please, I don’t want to do this anymore.” A wobble stuttered my lips. “I just want to be normal.”

“Bradley…” Yolanda’s eyes, wet with tears, held mine. For a nanosecond, I thought she might listen to me and get help. “Hospitals are prisons in disguise. I am not sick. And neither are you.” Her hips, with gathered vigour and steadfast determination, rocked forward, and I cringed inside. “We make each other happy. That’s all that matters.”

I wanted to scream out, do not touch me. This is my body. It is mine to explore, to protect. But I am weak and powerless.

Intense feelings of guilt and shame washed over me once more. I closed my eyes and held my breath until it was over. It had to end, eventually. If I do what I am told, she will be satisfied and return to her bedroom. Then I can shower, once, twice, three times, to remove the smell of her on my skin and the scent of her on my dick. I can repress the memories of us together with scalding hot water and a bar of soap, just like I did yesterday when she pushed my head between her thighs.

Breathing rapidly and thickly into the groove of my neck, she did what she had to do with my body, the same body that betrayed me whenever she was around.

Fear mixed with arousal increased my heart rate and worsened my shallow breathing. This is when I ejaculate as a result of her never-ending selfishness. All I could think about when she slid off my body was sex education and unplanned pregnancies. I am not old enough to be a father, especially to a child that should not be conceived.

“It’s not abuse,” she whispered, not that I cared about anything she had to say to me. “Would you fuck me so good if it was killing you, huh? Would you cum and feel better if I pried on you? No, you would not be able to get it up. And you know it. You enjoy every second of what I do for you, you ugly, stupid mother fucker!”

I lied before.

Yolanda deserved death.

“Tell someone if you don’t believe me.” Grabbing the cigarette packet on the bedside table, she put one between her lips and sparked a lighter flame. “Go and explain how you lay on your back for your mother to fuck you. Let’s see what they have to say about that, shall we?”

Humiliated, I mopped the sweat off my forehead.

“I’ll tell you what to expect. You will be labelled as a vile, incestuous freak of nature that likes to fuck his mother! Everyone will know how you come inside me and touch my sweet pussy! You will be a fucking laughing stock!” Her sinister chuckle was raspy from chain smoking. “Is that what you want? For Brian to make fun of you? For the preacher’s daughter to know what you do at bedtime. She would be disgusted. You don’t stand a chance in Hell.”

Yolanda does not know me. I lost interest in Mary months ago. I am not over her. I will never be over her. But I have accepted that she is meant for another. Yolanda would know this if she’d bothered to be a normal mother who paid genuine interest in her son. She is more concerned with what she wants and needs.

“We love each other.” Yolanda’s hand, with tender fingerstrokes, drew shapes on my flushed cheeks. “It’s our special secret. Other people would never understand. You have to believe me, Bradley.”

I stopped believing her a long time ago.

Still, I will continue to suffer in silence. I have already lost Mary. I will not lose Brian, the only friend I had left, because of what I did with Yolanda.

“You think I am a liar.” When she stubbed her cigarette on the bedside table, leaving a smouldering hole in the wood, I inwardly snarled. She can live like a sloth, a lazy pig. That’s her prerogative. But I liked the bedroom-my personal space-to be clean, tidy and organised. “You have that look on your face…disappointment.”

Disappointment is an understatement.

“Go to sleep.” Her body swayed toward the door. “You have school in the morning.”

Another part of me died tonight. I am a shell of the boy I used to be. The tears in my eyes come straight from the heart, where the pain is vessel-deep, and sadness is an everlasting punishment. Even if I survive the despair of childhood, I will die an incurably broken man.

Pulling the duvet over my head, I rolled onto my side and cried like a baby. If God is merciful, he will let me dream tonight without mental torture and nightmarish memories.

Something cold under the pillow fell into my hand. When my fingers curled around the razor blade, I had this realisation that death was my only option.

Knowing what I had to do, I sat upright on the edge of the bed and, without hesitation, slashed the sharpest point down my forearm…

But I did not feel relieved…

And the blood seemed to evaporate…

Someone’s soft palm smoothed down the expanse of my back…

My eyes snapped open.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Emma

On a typical working day, when termination of employment due to poor performance is not awaiting discussion, I kick the covers back and embark on the road of positivity in replacement of negativity.

However, with a string of recent setbacks affecting my mental health, I have developed a case of toxic loneliness.

It worked for me, the belief that I controlled the rules of self-isolation by rationalising depression because severe despondency is only what I deserved for child neglect.

Punishing myself for Carter’s enforced disappearance normalised the antisocial personality I adopted. I can live a quiet, somewhat peaceful life without letting anyone else down. It’s right to distance myself if and when the people I love suffer.

Everyone is aware that emotional and behavioural issues can affect and impinge on loved ones. Even if I tried to hide the pain, they’d look into my eyes and see the horrible visions trapped in the back of my mind. I never wanted them to worry about me, to stop living their best life because of my temperamental.

Today, nonetheless, when faced with routine darkness, I felt oddly relieved to be in the arms of another, to be the first person to see Big Guy’s handsome face in the early dawn of the morning. I had this inexplicable desire to stay in bed forever, with him at my side, taking care of me, as promised-just the two of us. I also knew how much I meant to him, how much he cared about me and how mixed signals with a sign of hope is unfair to the both of us.

A soft, sourceless light glowed through the curtained window into the relatively dark bedroom. I heard indistinct conversations in the garden and figured security guards must be scouring the perimeter.

It’s probably time to get out of bed and face the world ahead. All I have to do is untangle our limbs and shift from Big Guy’s strong, unbendable arms without startling him. He had a remarkable sixth sense, where his core alerted him of potential danger. If I breathe the wrong way, he might confuse me with someone else.

Twisting onto my back, I brushed the scruffy crown of my hair across the pillow. I can only imagine what I resembled this morning. He will see my blotchy cheeks and puffy eyes and do a backward somersault out of bed. I am a horrific sight, I am sure.

Tapping the inner side of my arm to staunch pins and needles-the weight of his entire body crushed my forearm-I wiggled my numb fingers back to life.

If I do not free myself in the next ten seconds, I will be taking a trip to the emergency room to have broken bones treated. I am still recovering from a wrist fracture.

Funny, the common denominator was present when the skip’s massive, heavy lid slammed down on my hand, too. I am starting to notice a pattern.

Big Guy murmured what sounded like a different language in my ear.

I frowned for a moment.

His body was immovable and relaxed, but his flushed, sweat-soaked skin was hot and clammy.

With careful attention, I repositioned onto the side and grazed the man’s spine with the tip of my finger. Perspiration dripped down my palm in beads.

Surely, excessive sweat when stationary is abnormal. It’s not like he went for a run around the block or spent the last three hours in the gym.

In the deepest stage of sleep, rapid eye movement and harsh breaths occurred. I knew then, what I didn’t earlier, that bad dreams weaved into the recess of the man’s heart.

I wanted to be there for him, but the frightened voice of my subconscious mind insisted that I should leave whilst I had the chance.

Brad’s body is no longer immobilised by the peaceful sojourn of rest. He shook like a leaf. His profile, with deep furrows on the forehead, exposed the pain of a haunted man. I know he told me to stay on the other side of the bed, to let him rise naturally, without disturbance, but I could not lie here and do nothing.

As a woman, I am biologically driven to protect and nurture the men in my life, especially those I hold dear.

Timidly, I placed a hand on his chest, where his heart palpitated within him, and whispered for him to wake up. It’s what he’d want, is it not? To ignore the antagonised voices of demons and manifestations of evil. To return to the present.

“Big Guy,” I said quietly as short bursts of breath whooshed through my hair, the overwhelming power of vividly realistic dreams rattling him to the bone. “Come back.”

His head pushed into the pillow, the forceful movement drawing attention to the athrob veins in his throat.

“Brad…” My finger traced the angry line between his incurved eyebrows. “You don’t need to be there.”

His eyes, aflame with wrathful anger, flew open and collided with mine.

I should have been prepared, but stupidly, I thought, in spite of the warning not to get too close in the dark, he could never hurt me, even if his life depended on it.

Before I could recover from the switch in the man’s once boyish demeanour, he seized my throat, lunged across my body and practically buried me into the mattress.

I screamed, or rather, I cried out incapably, as the rigid fingers of an unforgiving man choked me to the dreadful reality of imminent death. He could snap my neck in two and think no more about it.

Brad’s heavy, muscular body was suffocating. He looked homicidal, bloodthirsty. “I said no!” He trapped me on the bed aggressively and determinedly. A defence mechanism against serious danger. “Get out of my fucking head!”

But I was not a threat to him. I did not have one harmful bone in my body. Even if I was capable of murder, I could never hurt him. I cared too much. “Brad…”

He was going to kill me.

Salty tears cascaded down my cheeks as strangled cries of discomfort ripped out of my throat. I told myself to trust the power of intimacy rather than focus on the possibility of asphyxiation.

Releasing the frantic, nail-clawing grip on his wrists, I reached up with shaky hands and smoothed my palms along his stubbled jaw.

“Please…” My legs thrashed beneath him. “Brad…please!”

My strained protestations of endured agony fell on deaf ears. He did not feel my heart beating rapidly or see the fright in my watery eyes. He did not hear my croaked whimper as I begged for him to come back to me.

No, he was too far gone, with the disembodied voices of his past and the agony of his darkest secrets.

His rough hands restrained me by the passage of my head and chest as he squeezed with every ounce of strength he had.

“Stop…” My sore throat, weakened by the onslaught of tears, worked on a tight swallow. “Brad, please…”

I did not recognise him. His brain had shut down. This is not the gentle giant I met in the alleyway all those months ago. He is not the sweet, charming man who took my hand and vowed never to lie to me whilst the truth laid bare in his honest eyes. He is not the same person who promised to be the reason why I smiled in the future. He is an imposter, and I will be damned if I let the poison inflicted by another win.

My head turned slightly to bide time and grapple for oxygen. I stared at the lamp on the bedside table through blurry eyes, wondering if I could weaponise it. It’s too far. I can’t do it.

Inconsolable trepidation replaced the concern I once felt as the bone-crushing agony in my neck intensified. I did not want to hurt him or leave any marks on his beautiful profile, but I had to divert his attention with immediate effect before he killed me. I sank my fingernails in his cheeks, enough to penetrate the skin, and dragged raw slices of desperation down his face.

Brad hissed through gritted teeth, his fingers flexing on my throat.

“Big Guy!” I bewailed with a tremor on my lips. Heart threatening to explode in my chest, I held onto his jaw, thumb skating across his parted lips, and suddenly, an odd calmness settled over us, like I had burst through the gilded shield of indomitableness to find him and succeeded by a hair’s breadth. “Please, I can’t breathe…”

The air around us turned blue. With the deep-set, tear-filled eyes of a wounded man, he finally looked at me, and whatever he saw on my face was enough for him to attempt an escape. On his knees, throned on his haunches, he uncaged my throat, glared at his upward-facing palms and scuttled to the end of the bed to get away from me.

I did not leave room for maximum guilt or self-reproach. I seized his hand, preventing him from leaving and, with my stare alone, beckoned him to come closer. And he did, like a broken man, a lost soul, with his head lowered in shame.

Whispering forgiveness, I brought his cheek to my chest, cradled his head and kissed his sweat-dusted forehead.

“It’s okay,” I half-lied to mollify him. Not that he believed me. His breath blew out in short, harsh pants and his hands, braced to the mattress on either side of my body, clenched the sheet with white-knuckled fingers. “It was just a bad dream. You are okay.” My throat was on fire. I had yet to catch my breath. “No one is hurt.”

“Youare hurt.” His voice rasped in his throat, where his prominent Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Emma…” He caught a tear on the tip of his thumb, wiping it across my cheek. “Irredeemability is in my blood. You should have run away the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Ears ringing and eyes stinging, I snivelled into his hair, inhaling the scent of masculine shampoo. “I believe everyone has redeemable qualities.”

“Do not pardon the belligerence of an unhinged man.” In a cold sweat, he thrust a hand through the dishevelled strands of his sweat-slicked hair. Then, without making eye contact, he crawled over my body and lowered his forehead to mine. “My behaviour is completely unacceptable.” A shadow crossed his grave countenance. “You have every right to disown me. I understand.”

No, I will not run away in the middle of an emotional crisis. He needed me. “Trauma-related disturbances,” I breathed in his ear. “I have them, too, sometimes, when forced to relieve the night of Killian’s attack.” Mentally reshuffling the deck of reverse psychology techniques, I drew a heart on the nape of his chain-laden neck. “Lately, I have started to see things differently.”

His sad eyes raised to greet me. He searched for something, a glimmer of light, perhaps.

“I want to face my fears head-on. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?” I asked for his benefit, even though optimism is a lie. I am the weakest I have ever been. But he doesn’t need to know that. Not right now. “I acknowledge inner demons, turn them into angels and make peace with my past.”

Brad’s stare roved over my face as he found my hand between our bodies. His fingers, trembling at the knuckles, interlocked with mine.

“Killian,” I said, and the man’s expression instantly darkened. “I will never understand why he turned into a monster and hurt me that night. But I can forgive the boy I once knew. I can spare him from shame and guilt so he can move on…So that I can live freely and happily without the weight of mental torture. I deserve that, Big Guy.” I tasted salty moisture on my lips. “I have suffered enough.”

Brad saw right through my bullshit. “I will not bend to the will of Yolanda Kelleher.” His cheek nuzzled into the palm of my hand, and he kissed me there, soft and loving. “I did that already. Look where it got me.”

I had to be cruel to be kind. “You lie to yourself,” I said with the fierceness of an overprotective woman. “You submit to the evil woman’s command every time you refuse to acknowledge the control she has over you.”

His angry yet inquisitive eyes bored into mine. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Sweetheart.”

“The invulnerability of males is nothing but dark poetry,” I stressed, and he scoffed under his breath. “You don’t have to pretend to be in control for the sake of looking weak or vulnerable. You will be so much stronger if you…” I thought of the little boy in Mostyn Avenue, waiting for someone to save him. “If you cut him some slack.” He understood what I meant. “You think you failed him. You could not be further from the truth. Would you be here today if you did?”

Brad listened intently. “How can you say that? I did not protect him. I left him behind.” His ragged breath stabilised. “A broken boy.”

“A surviving man,” I corrected, hands cupping his cheeks. “You saved him, Big Guy. If only you would let yourself believe it.”

His face moved to groove of my neck. “I thought if she died, if I killed her with my bare hands, I’d never have to worry about her again.” His fingers danced along the length of my back before he fisted the T-shirt at the base of my spine to tug me in. “Wishful thinking. The pain she suffered and the blood I spilt, it does not matter. She will haunt my dreams forever. I think I have to come to terms with it, if I want closure.”

“You have already found closure. Yolanda is dead. You have sought therapy. You have admitted out loud what she did to you.” My chin rested on top of his head. “Perhaps something else is holding you back, but you have yet to realise.”

Big Guy looked at me then, his stare shifting between my lips and eyes. “What could possibly hold me back except for her?”

“I don’t know,” I said warily, and his focus averted to the discreetly patterned duvet cover. “Only you can answer that question.”

Lost in thought-provoking reverie, he picked imaginary fibres on the sheet. “Arlo,” he responded in a quiet, subdued voice, so much so that I almost did not catch what he said. “I wonder about him often.” His lips curved into a grimace. “Although, I have never told anyone that.”

I have no recollection of the man. “Who?”

“My father.” His thumb circled the delicate skin of my ankle. “I have to shower-”

“Wait.” Holding his hand, I laced our fingers together. “Tell me about him.”

“Why?” An innocuous question. “He is anything but interesting.”

Another lie, I thought. “Is your father alive?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” He came across as indifferent, but I sensed there was more to this story. “Look, I don’t know that man. He left when I was a kid-and to be with another family, by all accounts. He has never searched for me. I have never searched for him. It’s as simple as that.”

Propped on my elbow, I watched the man’s jaw tick angrily. “Does he know how to find you?”

“I am not exactly under the radar,” he said with a sarcastic undertone. “Besides, I don’t know if I want him to find me. I do just fine without him.” He picked up the phone on the bedside table and sent someone a text message. “Housekeeping will knock soon.” Rolling off the bed, he tossed the phone onto the sofa. “Iris is on the small side, too. You can have her spare clothes.”

And then, the bathroom door slammed behind him, and the sound of shower water soon followed. He will be under the hot spray for a while, I imagine. I know from when he visited my home in the past that scrubbing his skin reduced stress and anxiety. He had to remove any trace of the abuser’s touch from his body. I get it. I had a similar routine after Killian. Anything to feel clean again.

I barely made it off the bed before a short, uniformed woman entered the master bedroom and placed a pile of folded clothes onto the dresser. For me, I suppose. I thanked her, but she never looked at me or welcomed any form of conversation. Instead, she drifted straight across the room, opened the curtains and cracked a few windows open.

The messy bed is on her morning tick list, too. Laundry basket hauled across the floor, she stripped the sheets and covers, remade the bed in record-breaking time, and then hurried down the hallway.

In silent bewilderment, I studied the immaculately prepared bed of expensive fabrics and decorative cushions, then stripped out of Big Guy’s T-shirt to change into a pale grey, tight-fitted lounge set and clean underwear.

Every item of clothing was brand new. I had pulled off the price tags, so I knew they did not belong to housekeeping as Big Guy had claimed. I bet he sent someone out at the crack of dawn to purchase an outfit for me.

I sat cross-legged on the foot of the bed in time for Brad to reappear from the bathroom. He wrapped the towel around his waist, went into the walk-in wardrobe, the motion sensor light, detecting movement, and prepared himself for a long day at the office.

Inside the steamy bathroom, I unwrapped the spare toothbrush left on the unit and squirted the bristles with toothpaste. I daren’t catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. I can freshen up, hair fixed, teeth brushed, face washed, without the visual of how tired and haggard I am.

Brad looked divine in a steel grey three-piece suit with a slim-fit waistcoat, the crisp white shirt left unbuttoned by the classic collar. Hair styled in a characteristic topknot, he finished his image with a spritz of cologne and shiny, black leather shoes.

“Wipe it up, Sweetheart,” he teased, and I became increasingly puzzled. “I can see your drool from across the room.”

And that’s it. Everything is forgotten, the nightmare and the conversation swept under the rug. “You are impossible.”

“Oh, I could not agree more.” His arrogant smirk had me feeling all kinds of warm and fuzzy. “I am insanely gorgeous to look at. The female attention I receive? Well, it is unrivalled.” He set the cologne bottle on the glass shelf. “You would think I’d be used to it by now.”

He is trying to make me jealous. I will admit it might be working. “As if I care.” My red-cheeked face must have betrayed me because the incorrigible man smiled wider. “Why do you smile?”

“You make it easy for me to smile.” He sounded deadly serious when he spoke, like I was genuinely the root of all his happiness. “I have to see Dominic before we leave.” Pausing by the bedroom door, he stepped back for me to exit the room, locked up behind us and led me toward the bifurcated staircase. “Are you hungry?”

I followed him through the house. “Not really.”

“Mabel is partial to pancakes in the morning. She will throw in a handful of blueberries if you are nice to her.” In no time, his large, bulky frame is blocking the kitchen’s entryway, and I am in his shadow, hiding like a scared little mouse. “Mabel. Emma is here. And she is hungry. Be a doll and keep her sweet for me.”

I could kill him at times.

“Good morning.” The wizened face of a woman in a black and white uniform flashed me a toothy smile. “Hello, Emma. Do you want syrup on your pancakes?” Her expression soured. “What on earth happened to your neck?” she asked, and my hand flew up to my throat in automatic response. “Do I need to call a doctor? Those red marks look terribly painful…”

Brad’s jaw flexed as he tapped a pre-rolled, unlit joint on the counter. He is desirous of stress relief. And an apparent digression.

“Good grief.” Mabel blanched at the sight of Big Guy’s inflamed face, where deep-cut scratches marred his once flawless skin. “You either like to get hot and heavy in the sheets, or you two had a good ol’ bitch fight.” Hands to her hips, she stared pointedly at me. “For his sake, you better have been a willing participant. I am not about a man who puts his hands on women. I simply will not stand for it.”

“Calm the fuck down, you old bint.” In a saturnine fashion, Brad berated his employee for being meddlesome when, in all fairness, she only showed concern for the wellbeing of others. “Emma likes rough sex. Mind your business.”

My face could not get any hotter. I haven’t even slept with him. I could not tell you what a night of sex with him entailed. Yet, here I am, looking as guilty as sin for a crime I did not commit-a crime I really wanted to commit, at times, because, well, look at him. But still, the presumption of innocence applied to me until further notice.

“I got you something.” Then, with his hand clasped to the back of the baby’s highchair, he leaned down to kiss his son on the forehead. “For you.” A tiny stuffed animal materialised out of thin air. “Larry Llama. Be nice to him. I know you have a tendency to lunge those animals overboard.”

Dominic chuckled when his father playfully peppered his cheek with noisy kisses. “Babba,” he babbled, yanking on Larry Llama’s disproportionately shaped head. “Babba-dad.”

Watching the heart-warming interaction of father and son, I felt a tight twinge in my chest.

“What is that?” Brad glared at the mug on the kitchen counter. “It looks like someone took a piss in my cup.”

“It’s pineapple juice.” Mabel sprinkled fresh blueberries into a frying pan. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have to boost the immune system.”

Big Guy kvetched about the older woman’s fad diets. “Honestly, I am not even joking.” He poured two mugs of black coffee and handed one to me. “I told her to hit the gym, lift some weights and eat more protein. Do you think she listens to me? Nope. She is too damn stubborn.”

“It’s my belly fat.” Mabel aimed a spatula in his direction like she wanted to beat him around the head with it. “You have no say on the matter.”

“I never mentioned belly fat.” Brad’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. “But you complain about weight issues every morning and continue to do nothing about it. And, just so you are fully aware, a high dosage of pineapple juice can cause diarrhoea. You might want to think about that when running to the bathroom later.”

“Brad,” I said softly, and he regarded me with a cold, uncaring attitude. “I know you mean well, but change the approach.”

“Thank you, Emma.” Mabel loaded the dishwasher. “He is unbearable to live with. If I did not adore Dominic so much, I’d have lunged my bloody slipper at the man’s head weeks ago.”

I belly laughed. “I would pay to see that.”

“Alright, enough of the melodrama, or I might take offence.” Brad eyed me over the rim of the coffee mug. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

I had to visit one of the most important men in my life. “I might pop into town.” That way, I can buy a gift before I track down my brother. He is more than likely at work. “And, depending on the traffic, I will go to the restaurant and beg Laurence for my job back.”

Brad slipped a hand into his trouser pocket. “I can have a chat with Laurence.”

“No,” I warned before he got any crazy ideas of killing my ex-boss. “Laurence is a lovely man. And very tolerant. Stay away from him, or I will permanently unfriend you.”

Big Guy winked. He made no such promise.

“Oh, that’s a smelly one.” Leaving plated pancakes on the kitchen island, Mabel wiped her hands with a chequered tea towel and unstrapped Dominic in the highchair. “His timing is impeccable.” Her nose wrinkled as she lifted the baby in the air, his short, chubby legs kicking out excitedly. “And you had the audacity to mention my bowel movements.” Holding the baby tightly to her hip, she scowled at her boss. “What, with a lad that takes a shite every hour of the day.”

Dominic’s chunky hands slapped Mabel on either side of her face. “Babba!”

“I will babba you in a minute.” She tickled him on the tummy, and he giggled, wriggling to escape her arms. “Emma, hold him for one second whilst I grab the changing bag.”

“Oh, I probably shouldn’t confuse him.” I am in and out of his life like a yo-yo. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea-”

“Nonsense.” Mabel snatched the mug out of my hand and replaced it with the baby. “Be warned. He smells worse than a rotten potato. It’s all those Farley’s biscuits, I tell you.”

I am not bothered by a soiled nappy. With a tight smile, I curled a lock of hair behind my ear, and no matter how hard I tried to avoid the baby’s eyes, I could not look elsewhere. Dominic, too cute for his own good, looked at me like he knew something I did not as he chomped on his curled-up fist. “Why are you so adorable?” I whispered, and his cheek fell to my chest for some downtime. “You make it extremely difficult to stay away.”

Big Guy might be sharp-eared, but there is no way he overheard what I had said from across the kitchen. Yet, when I peered up, I found him watching me, or rather, admiring the two of us together.

“Ah, he likes you.” Mabel strapped the changing bag across her chest. “See? It would help if you came over more. He would love that, wouldn’t you, Dominic?”

Handing over the baby, I gave her a weak smile.

“Maybe I will see you for dinner, Emma. I amalwayshopeful,” Mabel said under her breath. “He could use a good woman around the house, keeping him in check.” She subtly side-eyed the man in the room. “How does seven o’clock sound? Gilbert can roast a leg of lamb-”

“Mabel, that’s enough.” Brad placed the empty coffee mug in the sink. “Emma knows where I live. I will not beg for female company.”

Mabel’s lips puckered into a surly pout.

“You need to concentrate on my son,” he continued to talk down to the woman. “Leave the kitchen and do your job.”

“Fine.” Mabel waved a flippant hand, then crossed the kitchen without a backwards glance. “I look forward to seeing you again, Emma.”

Four became two in a matter of heartbeats.

Reclaiming the half-sipped coffee mug, I perched on the stool. “I never lied. I am not hungry.”

“Likewise. But Mabel loves to care for everyone, so I don’t have the heart to say no to her.” Leaning onto the counter, he picked up a fork, sliced through layers of fluffy pancakes and stuffed a morsel into his mouth. “The sourpuss drives me around the fucking bend, but she is mostly harmless.”

Mabel is pretty special. I liked her straight away.

“Donny texted,” Brad added, and I nearly dropped the cutlery. “He worked overnight at the apartment building. Alongside the syndicate, of course.”

I delved into a conversation. “Did they find anything else?”

Brad considered whether or not he should lie to me. “Yes.” He sucked maple syrup off his thumb. “Josh went across the street and knocked on some of the houses. One tenant has a hidden security camera overlooking the front garden.”

Too anxious to speak, I sat taller to listen.

“Anyway, the guy’s wheelie bin got knocked over a couple of weeks ago. He was somewhat pissed. The driver left rubbish all over the floor. He checked the recording hours later to write down the licence plate number. Whilst going through the tape, he noticed the same driver parked outside his house almost every night of the week, but he did not recognise him as a friendly neighbour.” He poured himself a glass of orange juice. “Now, as you can imagine, he is mega pissed. This geezer, whoever the fuck he is, did not ask for permission to use the man’s driveway. He reported it to the police, but what can they do about a knocked over bin?”

If someone drove into one of my bins and sent recycling bags all over my garden, I’d chase them down the street with said bin and dump it over their head.

“Plus, it is perfectly legal to park outside someone’s house unless the vehicle blocks the driveway.” He put the glass on the marble coaster. “Why make a fuss? It’s petty.”

Okay, but how does any of this information explain the intruder?

“Josh had a hunch. He asked for a copy of the licence plate and ran a search.” He set aside the plate of half-eaten pancakes and rested his folded arms on the counter. “Do you know anyone by the name of Macaulay O’Brien?”

Assured I had heard incorrectly, I sucked in a sharp breath. “Why?”

“Macaulay is the owner of the vehicle.” His stare sharpened. “So, he took out a bin whilst driving recklessly. Tap on the wrist for being an inconsiderate wanker.” His voice was darker now. “But why is he lurking down the street every night? Moreover, who is he visiting if he doesn’t know anyone in the apartment building? Why all the secrecy?”

I was too shocked, too appalled and too nauseated to utter a word. I might be sick right here, on the expensive marble floor.

“I have made an order.” He cleared the dishes, scraping leftover food in the bin. “He will be at Club 11 this afternoon, voluntarily or involuntarily. I will interrogate him.”

“Have you seen the footage yet?” A whoosh of blood sounded in my ears. “Are you absolutely certain that the man in the video is Macaulay O’Brien?”

“No, I have only read text messages, but I have no reservations. I trust Josh implicitly. If unconfident, he would not pass on information.” His hands smoothed along my arms to efface goosebumps. “Sweetheart, I should warn you. There is a big chance that Macaulay knows something about Carter’s disappearance.” When I never replied, he scratched the back of his head. “This is a colossal breakthrough. You understand.”

“Big Guy,” I said breathlessly, reaching for the bottled water and drinking to slake the dryness in my throat. “I knew him. He used to be Killian’s friend.” Needing to get out of there, I fixed my appearance and slid off the stool. “I will go with you. I have to talk to him. I need to hear what he has to say.”

“Emma, slow down.” His hands automatically gripped my waist to steady me. “You know this guy?”

“Once upon a time.” My muscles twitched anxiously. “I don’t know why I never mentioned him before now. It makes sense. He worshipped Killian. He looked up to Quintin. Plus, he never liked me. I was a pain in his ass, the annoying tag-along. He only tolerated me for his friend…” And he would do anything to avenge his best friend. “He called me a liar. He never believed the accusations I made against Killian. He doesn’t think Carter is that of Irish blood.” Tears flooded my eyes as hyperventilation threatened to consume me. “Oh, God. He has no love for my son. He will hurt him. I know he is capable-”

“Don’t think like that.” Brad snatched my jaw and brought my eyes to his face, so I could look into his eyes whilst he talked to me. “Your belief in Carter’s return got you this far. You cannot give up hope. Not now. Now when I am this close to uncovering the truth. You have to stay strong.” His eyes begged me to trust him. “Have faith in me, Sweetheart.”

“Carter is my son.” Although I did my utmost to blink tears back, I felt a warm trickle down the side of my face. “I have every right to be present. I need…” A shuddered breath whistled through my lips. “Even if it breaks my heart or puts me in an early grave, as that little boy’s mother, I have to know what happened to him. I will never ask anything of you again. Please put me in a room with Macaulay. Allow me the chance to fight for my baby.”

Big Guy thought about it. “And if he refuses to talk?”

“Do what you do best. I will not stop you.” My chest grew tight as thoughts of the syndicate torturing Killian’s childhood best friend played on repeat in my head. “You have my word.”3

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Emma

Brad took me on errands to the petrol station, the bank, the chemist and the supermarket by ten a.m. and even found the time to buy drive-through coffee and exotic fruit punnets, all before he used the pick-up and drop-off point directly outside the main entrance of St Mary’s Hospital to park the Bentley. He had to collect Alexa and the new baby from The Lindo Wing.

I had a feeling he would be gone for a while, so I climbed out of the car to stretch my legs. An entire morning in the passenger seat whilst the man perambulated through London had taken its toll on my limbs.

My phone vibrated.

Mary: Are you busy tomorrow?

I tapped a response.

Me: I will check the calendar.

Message read.

Mary: Seriously?

Me: What?

Mary: Is this your idea of a joke?

Me: An offensive joke, apparently.

Mary: Jesus, Emma. Are you busy or not?

Me: My life is boring. What do you think?

Mary: Then come over for dinner tomorrow night.

Me: Maybe.

Mary: This whole unapproachable visage is exhausting. Just accept the invite and offer to bring expensive wine.

Me: I will bring cheap wine.

Mary: See? Was that so hard?

Me: Extremely.

Mary: Bye, Emma!

Me: Adios, Mary!

My sister sent a middle finger emoji.

Smiling at the message thread, I locked the phone, ready to tuck it in my pocket, when a shadow fell over me. I peered up, and the familiar face of an old friend was right in front of me. “Hey.” Although the two of us had patched things up recently, I remained hypervigilant in his proximity. “Rough night?”

“Something like that.” Jace rubbed his eyes beneath Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses. “A dose of caffeine ought to do the trick.”

An awkward silence fell over us. “So, Brad told me about the baby,” I said conversationally to break the ice. “Alexa gave birth on the side of a motorway. I think he is still traumatised.”

“It was definitely an experience.” His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Alexa handled the pain like a soldier. I am so proud of her.” Shoving his arms into the sleeves of a leather jacket, he unscrewed the cap of a takeaway coffee cup and blew over the hot, steamy surface. “Do you want some?”

“I am okay.” A gentle breeze teased the hair out of my face. “Thank you, though.”

He stared for several seconds like something was on his mind. “Have you spoken to Tommy lately?”

Instantly guarded, I wore a mask of perfect impassiveness. “Why?”

“He texted out of the blue to let me know he would be in London tomorrow. I guess he will swing by the parlour.” Jace paused to allow room for an interruption. “It’s only a heads-up. Knowing Tommy, he’ll want to see you.”

In Tommy’s defence, I pestered him with text messages until he agreed to take me to Quintin. “Thank you for the advisory warning, but it’s nothing to worry about. I asked Tommy to come to London. He is doing me a favour.”

“Right…” He observed with genuine puzzlement. “Okay, why? You haven’t been on speaking terms for years. I don’t mean to come across as insensitive, but Carter is not…”Here, he stopped himself from saying. “After everything that’s happened, I would hate for this to blow up in your face.”

My arms crossed. “Since when do you care about my well-being? I never mattered before.”

“Since I grew up and learnt the truth aboutthatnight.” He sipped coffee with an apologetic gleam in his eyes. “Look, Tommy is a good guy. I love him like a brother. But with you back in his life, I worry. He’s like a dog with a bone when he wants something.”

He is in the wrong lane. “Jace-”

“You will never be accepted by them.” He meant the traveller community. “Put one foot on the site, and you will not come back out.”

My mouth opened to respond.

“Not to mention that you have Jones in the background.” Jace’s tone was vehement as he bridged the gap between us. “Brad will not think twice about bumping Tommy off. He won’t let any man step on his toes. Do you understand how damaging this can be?”

“Jace,” I said with a slight huff. “It’s not what you-”

“This whole situation is a recipe for disaster. Someone is going to get hurt.” His tongue piercing dragged across the bottom of his front teeth. “Just leave the past where it belongs.”

“You are way off base. Tommy is not looking to rekindle old flames and vice versa,” I put his mind at ease. “I asked him to accompany me to the prison to visit Quintin. That is why he is due in London.”

“What?” Jace’s eyes grew wide. “Are you out of your goddamn mind? You don’t provoke a fucking psychopath!”

“What choice do I have?” Unfazed by the man’s rant, I stood my ground. “Quintin might know something about Carter. I will do whatever it takes to find my son.”

“Have you forgotten?” He took pity on me. “Quintinhatesyou. You are hisarch-enemy. He will never forgive you for Killian’s death. If you rock up to the prison and beg him for help, he will laugh in your fucking face.”

“Tommy will be with me.” My back rested against the car door. “Surely, if Quintin does know something, he will speak openly to his son.”

“Quintin is not an altruist. He would rather cut off his nose to spite his face.” He re-capped the takeaway coffee cup. “Tommy’s attendance will carry no weight. If anything, it will make Quintin angrier. A son’s betrayal is not easy for any father to swallow.”

“You did the unthinkable to find your daughter,” I said with care, and his eyes briefly flickered toward the sky. “Tell me, I am wrong.”

Jace squeezed the nape of his neck. “We never stood a chance, Summer and I. I know that now.” A look of mournful regret crossed his features. “You can agree to another’s terms and conditions and play by the rules, but in the end, servile obedience will be your only accomplishment. Tragedy ends unhappily, Em.” His sigh was heavy. “You know I am right.”

My heart was not ready to let go. “What if it’s different this time?” I toyed with the chain around my neck, not expecting him to answer. “What if there is hope for us?”

Jace watched cars drive through the street with dull perfunctoriness. “Even if Quintin knows Carter’s whereabouts, he will take it to the grave.” His eyes came back to me. “But you are right. I became a necessary evil to save my daughter, so who am I to stand in the way of closure? I just…” He seemed to harbour mixed emotions. “I don’t want to see anyone else get hurt, that is all.”

“I appreciate your concern.” Kneading knots of tension in my left shoulder, I cast a weak, faint smile. “But I know what I am doing.”

Jace looked fixedly at me for a while, like he had more to say but decided against it. “I got a lift.” He gestured to the white Lexus parked on the curb across the street. A blonde female driver, relaxed behind the steering wheel, waved him over. “Do you need me to stay with you until they come out?”

“No,” I declined his offer politely.

Jace tapped my shoulder, an awkward goodbye, and then gravitated to the awaiting vehicle. Two-finger salute in my direction, he slid onto the passenger seat, leaned over the centre console and placed a soft kiss on the woman’s cheek.

Rubbing the chill from my arms, I watched her mouth move rapidly, angrily, almost hatefully, as she glared over to where I was standing.

Understandably confused by the air of animosity, I checked my surroundings, people, trees and vehicles, wondering what could have possibly infuriated her. Then it dawned on me. I am the root cause of her overt displeasure. I had somehow, unintentionally, driven her bonkers, and for merely existing, it would seem. I don’t know why. I have never met her. I couldn’t even tell you her name.

My attention was diverted when the car sped past with an ignominious screech of tires and a cloud of exhaust fumes. You’d think it was designed for motorsport racing the way she dashed out of the street and turned the corner on two wheels.

Good Lord, what is her problem?

“Charlotte,” came a feminine voice behind me, and I turned to see Alexa, wearing a smart, one-buttoned blazer-dress complete with glossy black heeled shoes and a grey leather handbag, standing on the side of the Bentley. “I am not her favourite person, either.” Her long, lustrous hair fell down her back in waves and black, oversized sunglasses with gold Medusa medallions shielded her eyes. You would never think she just had a baby. “But I love Jace far too much to run her over.”

I am not sure if she is absolutely serious or talking humorously. “Congratulations on the new arrival.”

“Thank you.” A proud smile lit up her face. “Alas, I will never put myself through that level of pain again. I am content with two kids.” I must have pulled a face because she felt the need to explain herself. “Logan. I found him at the youth centre and refused to give him back.”

I laughed a little.

“Brad is inside, signing documents for me,” she said cryptically, pointing to the hospital. A throng of syndicate men, marking her every move, gathered by the main doors. “He won’t be too long. In the meantime, I have strict orders to climb into the back and rest my feet.” Opening the passenger door, she ducked into the back of the Bentley and eased into the leather seat. “Come on. I do not bite.”

Wiping my clammy hands on the back of my trousers, I climbed into the passenger compartment and slid onto the chair next to her.

For some bizarre reason, I felt out of place and not myself in the woman’s presence. Rather than buckle up and relax like a normal person, I shot into a ramrod-straight position, with legs crossed, shoulders pushed back, joint hands clasped on the knee-an elegant posture to mirror the neighbour’s sophisticated image-and, what is worse, she noticed and gave me sideways glance of bewilderment. “Are you okay?” she asked, and I nodded like a bobblehead. “You have paled.”

“No, I am fine.” My foot tapped the floor when a surge of restlessness decided to pay a visit. “It’s warm today, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” She was quiet for a weighted minute. “I think it’s quite chilly.”

Yet, I burned in a hot flush of discomfiture. “I suppose.”

Alexa sat with one leg placed over the opposite knee. The red-bottom shoes on her feet were the cynosure of attention. I bet they cost a small fortune.

“How do you maintain equilibrium in high heels?” An innocuous question asked by someone desperate to master iconic pumps. “I would love to know your secret. I can’t seem to make it past the front door without falling flat on my face. It is embarrassing.”

Alexa laughed once. “Non-slip pads underneath the soles.”

I made a mental note to buy foot cushions and self-adhesive shoe grips. “I recently wore heels on a night out and held onto my friend’s arm all night for support. When I got to the club, I dropped into a booth, where I stayed until I left. I did not trust myself to get up and dance.”

“The most practical advice I can offer is practice makes perfect.” Her voice was a low hum. “Put one foot in front of the other and take your time.”

“I could wear them around the house,” I mused, and she agreed that it might prove to be effective. “What is the worst that can happen? I snap my ankle and regress to boots and trainers. No biggie.”

Despite her love for shoes, the discussion of mastering the art of wearing high heels fizzled out. I think she almost died from ennui. I quite literally bored her to death.

Great. Now the recrudescence of overthinking has gotten out of control. I never used to be this person, worrying about people’s opinions or judgements. However, lately, I am obsessed with trivial matters, for instance, lack of style. It might be toxic, but I compare myself to others. When didthatbecome a thing? I liked casual. It worked for me. It suited me. Yet, I envied fashion icons and craved approval more than ever. Add wanting everyone to like me to the mix, and you have got yourself a maelstrom of contradictory feelings and a preoccupation with people-pleasing. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

Alexa is silent, uncommunicative and lost in thought. My stare roved over her face. The under-eye scar visible through the foundation stuck out beneath oversized statement sunglasses. I wondered how she got it or if it bothered her that people could see it. It made no difference to her appearance, though. I happen to think she is beautiful, with flaws and all.

“An accident.” As if reading my mind, Alexa touched the scar with gentle fingertips, and I wanted to kick myself for being so transparent. “I think it healed quite nicely.”

I lost my voice.

“If you want to know something, all you have to do is ask.” Her serious tone of voice betrayed the calm demeanour. “Otherwise, it is impolite to stare. It might give me the wrong impression.”

I decided to be honest with her. “You make me nervous.”

“What?” Her head tilted. “Why?”

You are hardened,I thought.

“So, basically, I am a bitch,” she said, and I frowned in confusion. “I have ears, Emma. You weren’t exactly quiet.”

My face took the brunt of inescapable heat. “I am so sorry.” I prayed for the floor beneath my feet to swallow me whole. “I never meant to offend you. I actually think you are admirable, and, yes, I am anxious and on edge because you are you, and I am me…” I prattled on, embarrassed. “Big Guy is crazy about you. I mean, he idolises you. He talks about you all the time.” Her approval of me is important to him, and I have fucked it all up within a matter of seconds. “I wanted you to like me. I fear I have caused the opposite.”

Alexa stared at me, intrusively pensive, then looked away. “I suppose I can be a little standoffish.” Her voice was quieter now. “It’s a hard truth, but resilience and strength came with a hefty price. You, of all people, should understand.” She examined her manicured fingernails. “I like that you are honest to a fault. You will fit right in around here.”

Breaking eye contact, I released the breath I was holding.

“I am not above you, Emma,” she said in a whispered undertone. “In fact, I could argue that you are a much better woman than I am.” Pushing the sunglasses to the top of her head, she turned at the waist to face me. “Do you want to know a secret?” Her finger curled a lock of hair behind my ear. “Social comparison is a poison we have all tasted. I, too, compare myself to other women, especially when my husband is around. I am convinced he is too good for me and will, someday, replace me.”

“But you are everything a man could ever want.” My brows met in the middle. “He would be insane to leave you.”

“If Liam were here, he would agree with you.” Her eyes were downcast. “But reassurance does not prevent intrusive thoughts. I might come across like ahardenedbitch, but I can assure you, I battle self-deprecation too.” Her lips drew into a tight smile as if to suppress sadness. “We all have a vulnerable side.”

“You are not a bitch.” This is the same woman who picked me up, drove me home and offered to be a friend during the initial moments of Carter’s disappearance. “You told me your story. You gave me-someone you barely knew-a piece of you because you could feel my pain, and you wanted to take it away.‘An admission of guilt will not help matters. Hope is all you have. If you lose that, where does it leave your son?’Your words have gotten me through the darkest period of my life.”

Alexa’s lips parted with an owlish blink of her eyes. “You remembered.”

“I don’t think you realise how inspiring you are,” I whispered subtly, almost imperceptibly, and she knuckled a tear from beneath her eye. “Yes, I agree. You are standoffish, and it can be intimidating. But that does not change the fact that you are everything I aspire to be someday. A strong, confident woman.”

Alexa scrutinised me with unreadable intenseness. “Brad is crazy about you, too.” Not wanting to be the centre of attention, she lightened the mood with secrets and smiles. “But do not tell him I said that. His ego is unmanageable. He will not accept the truth until it is directly in his face.” A car door flew open, yet her eyes held mine, green, brown and fixated. “You might want to save that advice for a rainy day.” Her voice carried a hidden message, incomprehensible and ambiguous. “Did you get lost? I was ready to send the men after you.”

“That was an absolute fucking nightmare.” Brad adjusted the passenger chair. “Do you know how many documents I had to sign? You are not bastard incompetent. Next time, I am called upon to do your dirty work…” His onslaught of verbal irony trailed off when he detected tension in the air. He looked between us. “Whatever Alexa told you is a lie.”

Alexa’s eyes rolled.

“The vixen is hell-bent on causing trouble for me.” He deactivated all front airbags and placed a black framed car seat with bright white coverage and a respective gold emblem onto the passenger seat. “Isn’t that right, Alexa?”

“Have you fixed the seatbelt?” Alexa, leaning forward to check on the baby, ignored the man’s wisecracks. “Does she need a blanket? I have a spare in the changing bag.”

“Bean is fine.” A true precisionist, he draped a cotton blanket over the baby’s legs, tucking the corners into the car seat with care and conscientiousness. “She will overheat if you put too many layers on her. Just sit back and look pretty.”

The door closed. Brad rounded the vehicle, shouting orders to the men by the hospital, and lowered himself into the driver’s seat. He is more than ready to get back on the road.

Alexa eyes never left the baby in the car seat. If Brad allowed it, she’d hold her daughter for the entire journey home.

“She is beautiful.” The baby’s perfect little face, pink, rose-bud lips and seraphic beauty tugged on my heartstrings. “Do you have a name yet?”

“For our first date, Liam invited me to the penthouse in Southbank Tower,” she told me with a shy smile, and I masked wonderment. Some of those penthouses are on the market for fifty-three million. I can only imagine how it felt to live at the pinnacle of London’s iconic skyline. “We had a romantic meal on the balcony and shared a bottle of wine. Although, he opted for whiskey within minutes of my arrival. I had infuriated him with a barrage of questions.”

I was invested, lost in story mode.

Alexa reminisced about their past with what very much resembled a heartbroken expression. “Anyway, we headed inside for dessert. I took a brief look around and found his vinyl record collection. He introduced me to some of his most preferred genres. A predilection for classical, if you can believe it. It was the first time I had witnessed him in a state of complete relaxation. He was in his element.” Looking like a woman in love, she thumbed the white-gold military tags hanging from her neck. “Il Divo, Isabel.”

With one hand on the steering wheel and the other hand on his thigh, Big Guy glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

“So, as a compromise, I decided to name her Isabella.” Alexa twisted her wedding band absentmindedly. “After his favourite song.”

“Well, to me, she will always be known as Bean.” Brad switched gears and then curved the street corner. “And that’s non-negotiable. Bossman is an ignorant fucker, so he doesn’t have a say in the matter.”

“You argue with yourself. I haven’t opened my damn mouth.” Alexa gripped the man’s headrest to peer down at the car seat. “Do you think she is a bit too quiet? Maybe we should pull over so that I can check on her.”

“No.” His hand worked the gearstick. “She is fine.”

“Right, of course.” Pushing herself away from his chair with great reluctance, she folded her arms on her lap. “Are you sure another blanket is not necessary? It is quite cold today.”

Breathing out a massive sigh, he took the baby’s mitten-clad fist into his large hand. “Nope. Everything is fine.”

“Yes. Absolutely. I only wanted confirmation.” Alexa looked out the window for eight whole seconds before moving forward to stare into the car seat again. “Why is she breathing so quickly?”

“Alexa, there is nothing wrong with her breathing.” He is starting to lose his cool. “She is not too cold or too hot or too fucking anything. She will have a nice, peaceful sleep if you shut up and allow it.”

“Yes, I know. I just thought it might be wise to check. Again,” Alexa said with a flippant wave of the hand. “You should drive slower, though. It is too fast for her first car journey.”

“Are you taking the flat out piss? I am within the speed limit. Which, in case you were wondering, is thirty miles per hour.” His right arm relaxed on the window ledge. “The nervous Nellie regime is spinning me out. Do not be shocked when I shove a sock in your gob.”

Her jaw tensed. “Well, excuse me for being a concerned mother.”

“Chronic paranoia is more apt.” Brad paused by the traffic lights. “Besides, I am surrounded by syndicate vehicles,” he added, and I glanced through the tinted window to see an uncountable assortment of security-driven cars in neighbouring lanes. “Bean is safe. I promise.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Emma

Club 11 is one of the most prestigious and exclusive nightclubs in London. People travelled far and wide and paid extortionate prices to luxuriate in Liam Warren’s den of iniquity, the nocturnal playground for entertainment seekers and wealthy socialites. You are guaranteed to have one of the best experiences of your life if you are over the age of twenty-one, have a wad of fifty-pound notes in your wallet and own a yacht in the harbour.

Big Guy was adamant that no other hot spot compared. And I believed him to a certain degree, but I had to take everything he said with a pinch of salt. After all, he is biased toward the place considered to be his second home. I have never partied at Club 11. In saying that, I know there are plenty of night spots in central London that people rave about.

“No.” Brad’s hand raised to silence me. “Bar Ice is not a rival club. I cannot believe you said that.”

This man is so dramatic. I never once claimed that Bar Ice impacted Club 11′s performance. “Hey, I am not JonBonVoyage,” I reminded him whilst ingesting the reviewer’s drawn-out evaluation of The Best Bars and Clubs to Attend when in The Big Smoke. “Oh, he is not a happy bunny. Look at this. ‘Club 11 is quite possibly the worst nightclub I have ever visited. If disease-ridden strippers, sticky, overcrowded dance floors, vile, overpriced spirits and filthy, old-fashioned toilet facilities are a bit of you? Warren’s overhyped shack of cruelty, maltreatment, indecent acts and abuse of power, will tick all the right boxes. Hashtag: CorruptionCannotBeSanatised.’”

“Who is this tosser?” Brad snatched the phone out of my hand and scowled at the screen. “And to think, people actually believe this nonsense.” He flicked through the review’s agreeable comments. “What an absolute pillock. JonFuckingBon is next on my hit list.”

Taking the phone out of his hand, I stuffed it in my pocket.

“Club 11, as quoted by Tatler, is the king of nightclubs, the best of London.” He debated with a playful smile. “That has to count for something, right?

“You read Tatler,” I deadpanned the response. “Really?”

“What can I say? I am an erudite man.” He gestured to himself. “Look at the state of me. I am fucking beautiful, the embodiment of glamour, fashion and society. Tatler and I? A match made in Heaven.” Then, when he seemed to remember something, his lips grimaced. “And for your information, the strippers are not walking infections. Warren takes care of the girls. Monthly health checks are mandatory.”

My brow rose impishly. “Who am I to argue with facts?”

“As for the restroom.” He defended his boss and the club. “If high-end, luxury natural stone, wireless charging points, automatic induction doors, accessible washrooms, illuminated vanities and stretches for respite are considered unhygienic and obsolete, then I cannot help you.”

My gaze skimmed over his handsome face. “Overpriced alcohol?”

“Warren prides himself on quality.”

“And take unjust advantage of individuals?”

“The syndicate is the most dangerous criminal organisation in the history of Albion.” He spoke with a stern expression. “I will leave you to do the maths.”

I suppose there is a bit of truth in JonBonVoyage’s online review.

“JonFuckingBon.” Driving one-handedly down Club 11′s private alleyway, Brad slammed on the brake near the fire exit door, switched the gear to reverse mode and backed up between two stationary vehicles. “Petulant teenager. I bet he never made it past the main doors.” Turning off the engine, he eased back in the driver’s chair, with thighs parted in relaxation. “And now I can breathe.”

I studied the sharp line of the man’s jaw, defined cheekbones and sensuous lips. “You can be very irascible.”

“Only when twats like JonFuckingBon piss me off.” Relighting the end of a blunt with an incandescent Clipper flame, he inhaled a long, deep drag and respired precise smoke halos. “You good?”

I nodded.

“I am Hank Marvin. I could eat a scabby horse, a blue whale and a banquet.” His phone jittered on the dashboard. He slid me a concerned look. “It’s probably Alexa.”

My smile faded. “You do not answer to me, Big Guy.”

“It’s called reassurance.”

“Since when did I need to be reassured?”

An intense pause.

“You know, I lose all sense of who I truly am when I am with you.” It was an insult, not a compliment. “I try to be a good guy, show you that I can be kind, thoughtful and sensitive, when, in reality, I have only ever prioritised myself. A woman’s feelings havenevermattered.” Steely eyes looked back at me. ”Yourfeelings do not matter.”

He was trying to get a rise out of me, to prompt an angry, jealous reaction, but I chose not to bite. It’s clear that he is upset.

“Hey, if another bird is blowing up my phone with a plethora of nude pictures, what do I care? It’s not like you are my woman or all that malarkey.” He reached for the phone. “Your heart isirrelevant.”

Not bothering to reply, I picked my thumbnail. I had somehow offended him-a skill I have practised a lot today-and he is on the defence. If I look at him incorrectly, he will seize the opportunity to argue. He is the last person I wanted to hurt.

“What?” he asked, and I peeked to the side, anticipating a bombardment of unkind words, but he was talking to himself. “No. What the fuck?” Clicking out of the email, he dialled someone’s number and placed the phone to his ear. “Where are you? I have called ten times!”

He called once. The person answered straight away.

“Did you receive an email from Reginald?” He paused to listen to the other person speak. Nate, I think. “Governor Dane Russell is dead. I shit you not. The bastard snuffed it.”

Nate is speaking now, not that I can hear a word he is saying.

“A fisherman made the call last night.” Another long delay to provide room for a two-way conversation. “Birchmere Lake. The guy’s line got caught on a heavy object. He swam down to investigate.” His hand drummed on the steering wheel anxiously. “No, it’s another hobby or some shit. I don’t fucking know. He collects lost valuables. Who cares? That’s not the point.”

Parched, I swigged at the water bottle.

“Got more than he bargained for.” Brad gripped the phone tightly. “He found the car, panicked and resurfaced. No, he called the police the second he got out of the lake. The Met arrived with divers and recovered the vehicle.” Nate is asking a lot of questions. “The body was identified. It’s Russell. A suspected suicide.”

My stomach churned.

“Let me get back to you.” Brad squeezed the bridge between his eyes. “I will make the call. Stay near the phone.” In no time, he called upon another contact and demanded answers. “I got your email. What happened?”

I should not be listening, but it’s hard not to. I sat next to him, catching the one-sided conversation with inexplainable dread.

“This is bullshit.” Brad wiped a light layer of sweat on his forehead. “Then, how did the car get into the water?” Another suspenseful pause. “No, I do not buy it. He was living his best life, that’s why.” His tense shoulders were hunched forward. “That man did not release the handbrake, shoot himself and roll into a lake.”

There is never a dull moment when he is around. I overhear all sorts of gruesome stories.

“Wrong. Suicide is not preceded by warning-because suicidal people do not premeditate the disposal of their own goddamn bodies,” he whisper-shouted to get the message across. “If he wanted a way out, he’d have topped himself on the side of the road. Who, in the wrong frame of mind, worries about exposure or witnesses?”

I mean, I don’t know the whole story, but his argument made sense.

“He is no hero.” Brad breathed out a quiet laugh. “He got whacked.” His face was a portrait of incredulous disbelief. “How do I know? Because I am very good at my job.”

Again, I sipped water to quench my thirst and unpreventable inquisitiveness.

“I want a file in my hand by tomorrow morning.” Rudely, he hung up on the person and buzzed another friend. “Where have you been? I haven’t heard from you in weeks. It is not good enough.”

Unlocking my phone, I downloaded two games from the App Store to keep myself busy.

“I received an email.” Brad, riddled with nerves, is on the edge of his seat. “Dane Russell was found dead in a suspected suicide.” The man on the other end of the phone is much louder than the previous callers. He hit the roof, screaming blasphemous thoughts into Brad’s ear. “Exactly! You took the words right out of my mouth.” He beamed with a big smile as if to say, hallelujah, someone is listening to me. “A spring clean.”

A spring, what? I wish I understood criminal jargon.

“What does this mean for Warren?” Our eyes find each other for a brief second. “Russell was assigned to protect him.”

I felt the stress coming off him in waves.

“This has Italian blood all over it.” Brad’s face fell. “Warren is backed into a corner. Isolation.” A toothpick appeared, and he unconsciously stabbed the sharpest point into the tip of his thumb until spots of blood specked across his skin. “To put a hit on him.”

Removing the toothpick from his hand, earning myself a look of disapproval, I rolled down the window and chucked it on the floor.

“You need to visit Belmarsh. No, fuck that. Warren does not have a say in the matter. You are the law. Just wave an identity card and get in a room with him.Bishop,” he warned, and goosebumps raked all over my body. “I will wring your fucking neck. I want an update by tomorrow night, or I am coming for you.”

A sudden chill danced down my spine. I should have stepped out of the car and pretended to be interested in the brick wall. I am not cut out for death threats and potential homicides.

“Find out how long Russell’s been out of the office and if the prison hired a new governor recently.” He mused how to convey a message without the awareness of the red-faced passenger. “If so, I need an address…to swing by for a cup of tea.”

A cup of tea? That is code for being under investigation, isn’t it? Or worse. He will send someone to an early grave because, in his world, killing someone was expected, a typical day in the office.

“I will text you later.” Brad ended the call and stared out the window, owl-eyed and sickly pale. “I need you to completely erase that phone call. It never happened.”

My throat cleared. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Brad is still looking out the window. “My boss is in danger,” he said in a low, throaty voice. “And he won’t let me help him.” He rubbed a hand down his face to efface the expression of fear. “Shit.” He tapped the steering wheel once. “Fucking Christ!”

I almost reached for him. “Brad-”

“Fuck!” His fist taps became furious punches, and I jerked back, not knowing how to act or respond. If he shook the wheel any harder, it would come off in his trembling hands. “I am fucking powerless…” Hot, heavy pants escaped the man’s mouth. “I… Fuck’s sake. Why won’t he let me help him? I need to see him. I need to talk to him, Emma.”

“Big Guy…” My tentative fingers combed hair out of his face one cautious stroke at a time. “I want to be there for you, but I won’t pretend to understand what’s going on. You have to open up.”

“No.” His eyes closed as he collected himself. “This is syndicate business. The less you know, the better.”

My fingers drew symbols on the back of his neck. “If it’s any consolation, I have faith in you. I know you will do whatever it takes to protect him.”

Brad’s cheek turned into my palm, and before either of us could prevent it, he placed a soft kiss on the inside of my wrist. Then, just as quickly, he pulled away from me, and the butterflies I felt, the gravity in our breathing space, faded like a distant memory.

“It’s all good.” He ran two hands over his head to tidy his appearance. “Warren is smart. He is no one’s easy target.”

For the sake of his heart, I hope he is right. If anything bad happened to his brother, best friend and boss, I doubt he will ever recover.

“Your love for him is unlike any other.” And then, inaudibly, I whispered to myself, “I almost envy him.”

“What did you say?” He was distracted by the serried rows of armed men guarding the alley’s fire exit door. “Sorry, I was a million miles away.”

My lips curved into a knowing smile.

The man’s phone vibrated with separate notifications. This time, when the biometric recognition sensor unlocked the screen, he seemed more prepared to cope with bad news.

“My day is getting progressively worse.” He slid a toothpick between his lips. Where does he store them? They seemed to appear out of thin air. “Lorna Brante,” he grated out. “Principle Law. It’s about my son.”

Nonplussed, I sat there, crossed-legged on the chair, with thoughts on how to be of assistance.

“Christ, I might need more than kush to get through this shit storm of a day.” Tossing the phone onto the backseat, he relit the blunt and blew out a furious sigh of marijuana-infused smoke. “Francis Newton. Chloe’s father.” He laughed with ineffable disdain. “The son of a bitch is taking me to court to seek contact with Dominic. What a tool. As if I will ever let it get that far.”

“Why?” I asked, chary of offering any advice. “Did Francis need to go down the legal route? He could have emailed you directly to avoid court proceedings.”

“Francis sent an email to my lawyer.” An arrogant sneer crept over his face. “But I had nothing to say to him.”

“Oh?” I chewed the corner of my lip. “I mean, is it so bad? Francis might be an excellent grandfather to Dominic if given a chance.”

“What the fuck are you saying?” He scowled at me from beneath screwed-up eyebrows. “It is not happening. I will kill him first.”

“Why do you deny him access?” Honestly, this man’s temerarious heart will get him in trouble someday. “Is he a horrible person? What did he do to upset you so much?”

“I have never met him,” he said with an authoritative bite. “But he fathered an irredeemable bitch. I am a grudge-bearer.” His shoulders shrugged. “It cannot be helped. I am what I am.”

At this rate, with life turning a stressful corner, I will need to jump on the bandwagon and get stoned with him. “To be set in your ways is a choice.”

“Ichoosenot to forgive Chloe because I am an angry, bitter and resentful man.” He leaned in, dark and dangerous, personality traits I have started to love about him. “Is that better?”

“But Francis is not his daughter. He is an old man who misses his grandson.” Okay, I sounded like a hypocrite. “Listen, I know this is rich coming from me because I ran away from Killian’s family, but they never loved my son, nor did they want a relationship with him. They disowned him before I even gave birth to him.”

He fixed the collar of his shirt. “Digress.”

“Francis is willing to fight to be in Dominic’s life. Take emotions out of the equation for a minute. If the man agreed to sit with you to reach an accord and promised to abide by the rules, is that not enough reason to give him a chance? He might surprise you.”

“Dominic is fine without him.” Brad cannot be convinced to change his mind. “He will not benefit from grandparent contact.”

“I used to say the same about Carter,” I tiptoed around the conversation. “I thought I was enough for him. Hell, I thought Benjamin was the only father figure he’d ever need. But he wasn’t a baby for long. He grew up and asked questions. He knew a big part of him was missing.” Our chat evoked flashbacks of when my son asked about his father. “Carter, I told him Killian was dead. He was sad but understanding. He had never met him, so the emotional connection was not there. But it stirred more questions. He was interested in his father’s family.”

Brad dragged on the blunt, then dropped it out the window.

“I never wanted to share my son with Tommy, either. But, in the end, I had no choice. I had to give him a chance to prove that he could let bygones be bygones and concentrate on his nephew. To be fair, he stuck to his word. He came over to spend quality time with Carter. He bought gifts, too.” He would have continued supervised visitations if my little boy were still here. “At least Carter will always know that I tried.”

“You are a better person than I am.” He never touched upon the possibility of Dominic and Francis. “Macaulay is inside. Vincent offered to pick him up.”

I daren’t ask questions.

It was not the right time for a grand tour of the club, so I never got to see the famous function rooms or the private suites.

Brad led me through dark, private hallways, and even though I was safe, something about the cold air and empty space sent my brain into overdrive.

I thought about the rumours, what people whispered behind Liam Warren’s back, and a sudden fear came over me. I gripped the back of his suit jacket, and he physically recoiled, the unexpected contact troubling him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, pushing through the double doors at the end of the hall. “Why do you act like a timid little mouse?”

“Nothing.” I hoped he’d overlook the innocent lie. “Where is everyone?”

“Around.” He disconnected my hand from the suit jacket and encouraged me to walk alongside him. “Why are you shaking?” He stopped shy of another door and looked down at me. “Emma, I am right here. What are you afraid of?” He pondered for a beat. “O’Brien?”

No, I am terrified of The Lion’s Den and the deputised tyrant who occupied it. Vincent Warren. I had the pleasure of meeting him once. Well, if you can even call our eyes crashing in the night an official encounter. On the face of it, he is handsome, confident, stylish and charming, but a pretence of moral superiority masked his pleasant and friendly appearance. He is pure evil. A black heart. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. An illogical fear I had to avoid at all costs.

Less than ten minutes later, I am by a large, steel door with a multi-point locking system on the well-lit corridor richly decorated and occupied by huge, muscle-packed men in expensive-looking suits.

Brad never acknowledged anyone, not one member of security, nor did he knock before strolling into the office.

I first noticed the dark, masculine interior: leather seating accommodation, state-of-the-art furniture, top-of-the-range computer systems and panoramic views of the club’s main function room.

A tall, red-haired goddess in tight-fitted denim jeans and knee-high boots paired with a black turtleneck and a leather jacket is by the desk. The carefully applied makeup was flawless. Her statement jewellery was to die for.

And yet again, I questioned the state of my mind for not taking better care of myself. The beautiful, elegant and fashionable women popping in and out of my life have done a number on my confidence or lack thereof.

“Who’s your friend?” Her crystal blue eyes, framed by long, thick eyelashes, homed in on his hand on my lower back. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Brad’s hand withdrew from the base of my spine. He strolled across the office, helping himself to Macallan by the well-supplied mini bar. “What are you doing? You should be downstairs.”

“Scouting.” The woman brandished a pile of brown folders. “I need more night workers. Four girls handed in their notice last week. It’s a tough time for the industry.”

I stood in the middle of the room, not knowing where to place myself. The U-shaped leather sofa looked extremely comfortable and inviting, but I never moved a muscle without direction.

Big Guy knocked back a shot of whiskey. Back to the desk, he slid a hand into his trouser pocket and crossed his legs by the ankles. “Where is Vincent?”

“Your Lordship is enshrined in the cellar.” Tucking the folders under her arm, she strutted around the desk, hips swaying mesmerisingly. “I’m Cherry.” Her introduction landed with accuracy. “A club favourite.”

Cherry is the name I saw on the man’s phone once, and her deep, raw, and fresh claw marks laid claim on his back the night he and I camped out in the living room. Of course, the woman prone to keep his bed warm is drop-dead gorgeous. It’s not like he would settle for anything less.

Cherry waited for me to answer her.

A friend. A co-worker. A regular hookup. I don’t know the history behind their relationship, but judging by the assault of dirty looks when I walked in, she is still committed to him on some level.

“Emma,” I said somewhat meekly. To salvage my pathetic self, I complimented her footwear. “I love your boots.”

“Gianvito Rossi. I treated myself.” Her eyes slithered into mystified slits. “Are those Brunello Cucinelli?”

“Oh, I am not sure.” My trainer-clad feet shifted. “I borrowed them.”

“You put on someone else’s trainers.” Her eyes rounded in a theatrical attempt to embarrass me. “That is not advisable. Imagine all the bacterial infections. You will have athlete’s foot by the end of the week.” Her head cocked to the side with a feigned sigh of sympathy. “Treat yourself to anti-fungal cream.”

“That’s not necessary…” Okay, she is scrutinising what she suspected was competition whilst manipulating emotions. “They are brand new. I ripped the tags off this morning.”

“Nobody gives away unused footwear.” The insufferable woman scoffed at me. “Especially when the label comes with a hefty price tag. Who is the designer?”

Why have I been subjected to such a lengthy interrogation?

“Valentino Garavani.” Brad sent her a cold, dismissive look. “Not borrowed. A gift from me.”

“Really?” Cherry glared right through him. “How charitable of you. Personally, I favour independence. Nobody likes a bone-idle scrounger.” Another jab in my direction. “Providing for oneself is more rewarding.”

“Really?” Brad imitated the woman’s sarcasm. “Yet, Warren’s lined your pockets with freebies and hand-me-outs since you joined Warren Enterprise. How much did the apartment cost again?” He held a hand behind his ear. “Oh, that’s right. The boss purchased it before you even sat with a punter and cashed in your first paycheque. If that’s not fucking charity, I don’t know what is.”

Although Cherry stood with fierce brazenness, shame and humiliation etched across her face. I felt a pang of guilt in my chest. Brad defended my honour, and I appreciated it, but I hated to see women belittled and disregarded.

“And who was the first punter to bend me over and fuck the living daylights out of me, huh?” she fired back, and he slowly stood taller, with a dark, heavy stare and a subtle clench of the jaw. “Ah, I remember. It was you.”

“You are full of shit.” His forefinger lifted off the crystal glass to point in her face. “You were gobbling on cock long before I came along, so don’t fucking stand there and twist the knife in my back. You should know better.”

Why does it feel like I have interrupted a lover’s spat?

“Fuck you!” Her hand shoved him in the chest, and I stepped back vicariously, expecting him to retaliate. But, to my surprise, he laughed, short and sardonic, as if it were typical for her to lash out and for him to be unbothered. “Do not treat me like a whore! I have never been a working girl! Not to you!”

“A woman who engages in sexual activity for payment is the definition of a whore.” A smug smile sat on his lips. “I think that’s a fair characterisation, Cher.”

“You are such a hypocrite. At least, I make money by whoring around.” Hands were flying in all directions. “What is your excuse? You contemptible fuckboy. You have fucked every bitch that’s ever walked through the front door and have the cheek to brag about it. You are no better than I am, and we both know it!”

Brad’s back returned with the desk for rest. His fingers were white from clenching the whiskey glass so tightly.

“What? You got nothing more to say.” Cherry is in his face, looking for an argument. “Oh, that’s comical. The institution’s court fucking jester is at a loss for words. I never thought I would see the day. Come on!” She delivered a series of open-hand strikes to the man’s chest, all whilst he stood there and took it. “Open your mouth! Tell me how you really feel!” A high-pitched scream rattled her throat. “Answer me, goddammit!”

“Get over it already!” Uncontrollable anger reached dangerous heights. He fisted the front of her top and tugged her close, nose-to-nose, uncaring of the consequence of her fragile heart. “I have.”

Big Guy’s sharp remark carried so much weight. I am not privy to past terms and conditions, but I can read between the lines. He is moving on. She is not handling it very well.

Fading into the background, I watched dispassionately as the two of them ripped each other apart-an intruder who should retreat in high dudgeon. I should not be here to witness this-whatever this is-and I certainly did not deserve the backlash of rejection, the heat of dirty looks and sneered ridicule.

“No, this is not fair.” In the face of devastation, Cherry wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her jacket. “Why does she get to reap the rewards of my hard work? I invested in you-in us. I deserve the happy ending. Not some strange hippy making ends meet in the fucking Borough! I won’t accept it!”

And I thought Quinn was tough as nails. Cherry would eat me alive and spit out my bones.

“So, that’s it?” Her head nodded in acceptance and finality. “Brad Jones, slumming it with the unprivileged damsels of public squalor.”

“Will you desist?” My calm voice sliced through the vapid argument, and two heads snapped in my direction. Yes, Big Guy. I am still here with grandstand tickets to wide-open craziness. “I appreciate that you are upset, but women should never tear each other down. The world is hard enough without female rivalry. Insulting me to make yourself feel better is downright rude. You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t need to know you to have an opinion.” Cherry laughed viciously to conceal emotions, but broken-heartedness seemed permanent and ineradicable. “You are dull, mediocre, and, quite frankly, underqualified. Do you think you have what it takes to keep that man from other women?”

“At what point did I claim to have essential relationship skills? I have barely opened my mouth, yet I have stood back and sustained hatred, insults and derision by a woman who makes false accusations because I can see that she is distressed…” A harsh breath came out of my nose when she snickered. “This is hardly a laughing matter.”

“I think it’s funny that you expect me to believe the bullshit coming out of your mouth.” God, if she could kill me and get away with it, I would be hung and quartered in a nanosecond. “If he is not with me and he is not with you, which ugly ass bitch is warming his bed at night?” Her impatient stare goes to him. “We all know you have a sex addiction.”

“A badge of honour.” Brad’s smirk flashed two dimples. “It’s not my fault that women find me irresistible.” His insensitive sarcasm seemed to hit her straight in the chest. Her face was whiter than a ghost. “Your words cannot hurt me, Cher. I can do this shit all night.”

“Right.” Her jaw worked back and forth. “Well, I pass the baton to you.” Ever so slowly, her eyes collided with mine. “You might want to get a notepad to write all this down. He likes rough sex: choking, hair-pulling and the occasional spanking–”

“I will fuck you up,” he snapped, the thick vein in his neck protruding, and she laughed like a deranged woman. “What is wrong with you? You are acting like a crazy bitch.”

“The longer you bite, the harder he comes,” she said to me, but her stare never strayed from the man’s furious face. “Do not look into his eyes when he is fucking you. That’s a big no. Do not attempt to ride him. He will quite literally put you through a wall. If you go down on him, be sure to use some teeth. Not too hard. Just enough to keep his attention.” She tapped her chin with a pointer finger. “Check page three for tips on how to scratch and nail-mark effectively during oral. If the thighs bleed? If the back weeps? You understood the assignment.”

Big Guy is disappointed. He glared down at her, silently begging her to stop.

“Avoid intimate touches and pillow talk. He might confuse concern for dominance and beat the shit out of you.” The whispered voice of a heartbroken woman caught them both in a distressing face-off. “But don’t worry. He willalwaysapologise for losing control.”

“I hate you,” he said, and worst of all, he meant it. “I fucking hate you, Bianca.”

Her body flinched.

“You want to throw my issues around to humiliate me? Good for you. I hope that made you feel good inside. But you forgot to mention something. I, too, know your darkest secrets.” He was prepared to air every dirty secret they ever shared. “Perhaps I acquired certain information during one of your famous meltdowns. What did you tell me one night? Your cousin Jimmy, wasn’t it? How often did he play doctors and nurses with you, huh?”

“Brad…” Cherry’s eyes watered. “I will never forgive you.”

“We had that in common, right?” His voice is so sore and rough. He could break down at any given moment. “I was hurt by someone I loved. You were abused by your father’s nephew. We understood each other.”

“We are not the same people.” Indignation replaced wretchedness. “I worked on myself to be a better woman. You still hide in your abuser’s shadow and piss all over everyone in the process!”

“And you could do this to me.” His lip twisted at the corner. “Ruin something that might be good for me out of spite. How would you like it if I walked into the next closed-door conclave and told every man in attendance how you encourage aggressive and degrading acts during sex because you have secret rape fantasies?”

Her face was murderously purple.

“You are literally a victim of gang rape. Your pimp, Calvin, sat there and watched as cruel, inhumane and barbaric practice took place. He never protected you. He cashed in whilst you cried on the floor in your own piss and blood. Yet, it’s what you crave, to be taken advantage of.” Brad is disgusted with her. “And you dare to make me feel cheap and worthless like I am fucking freak show beckoning shame and ignominy when you beg to be coerced and ravished into sexual activities. Moral standards?” He flicked a hand passed her face. “Fuck off. You are an imposter.”

My heart hurt for him. “Big Guy…”

“I have had your back since the inception of The Brotherhood and Warren Enterprise. When every other brother begged the boss to chuck your ass over a cliff…” He stared at her for what felt like a lifetime. “I spoke up for you.”

Cherry’s chin lifted stubbornly. “You never vouched for me.”

“Youweremy friend.” He dealt with disillusionment with valiance. “Not my future. There is a huge difference. But that’s done. You are on your own.” His finger tapped the centre of her forehead. “And don’t think for one second that Warren will defend your honour. You made your bed. Now fucking lie in it.”

“I will not be punished by ostracism!” Cherry is ready to go to war with him. “You cannot do that! I earned my place! Club 11 would be nothing without me!”

“I am Command. I can do whatever the fuck I want. And you, Bianca Stratton, just lost your only ally.” Brad gripped her jaw with punishing fingers, forcing her to meet his icy stare as he spoke. “Pack your shit and get out.” He shoved her so hard into the desk she almost toppled over it, her arms and legs flapping amidst airborne objects and fluttering documents. “You are not welcome here.”

“You will never be good enough to sit in the boss’s chair!” Her teeth gritted as she rolled across the desk and stumbled to her feet. “You know, I don’t even know why I fucking bother with you. Half the people in the club can’t even stomach you.”

“Are you mad? The men tolerate you, at best. The women talk smack behind your back.” He gave her a cold stare. “Do not get it twisted. You cease to exist without me.”

“Oh, please. Is that what you are telling yourself these days?” Her eyes bored into him with daring boldness. “I am Warren’s day one. My relationship with him has nothing to do with you, you egotistical cocksucker!”

“The art of war,” he spoke in a low tone so I did not overhear, but I caught it. “A coherent strategy to fix the problem. That’s why he kept you around. You were the only bitch stupid enough to ride out wilful disrespect. Do you see any of the other girls putting up with my bullshit?”

Cherry’s mouth stuttered.

“Didn’t think so.” He swallowed whiskey in one mouthful and went to the mini bar for a refill. “Walk away, Cher.” His back was to the room. “Or your arse is fucking history.”

“Who are you?” she asked despairingly, and he turned around to face the aftermath of death threats. “I don’t even recognise you anymore. You are not the man I fell in…” Her eyes shot daggers at me. “This is all your fault. I despise women like you coming to our club, thinking you can change our men. Is it the thrill of danger? The excitement of dating a criminal? Reality check, bitch. Bad guy’s don’t need fixing. They want facilitation.”

“What? Why would I want to change him?” I felt his eyes on me as I spoke. “He is perfect just the way he is.”

“Loving him was the hardest decade of my life.” Cherry took six determined strides in my direction. “Do you see the ring on my finger? No, I never even got one date, never mind a fucking proposal. That’s the type of man you are falling for, Emma. A huge disappointment. A selfish, self-righteous son of a whore!”

For a split second, I really wanted to hug her and tell her everything would be okay, that she deserved a man of passion, love and respect, that someone will come along and treat her like a princess. But then she reverted to hostility, sarcasm and cynicism and I lost whatever shred of respect I had left for her.

“You are quite possibly the ugliest bitch I have ever met. I almost pity him.” Her hand tapped my shoulder with feigned compassion. “Be vigilant. His boredom can manifest within months. If he doesn’t return your calls? He is in one of the private suites down the hall with other women. Yes, I said,women. The more, the better.”

My lips thinned. “I am not playing this game.”

“You can hardly blame him for wandering tendencies.” Her lips puckered as her gaze swept over me. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

“And people dare to call me heartless,” came a deep, throaty voice, and I turned to see Vincent is by the doorway, suit and tie, gold and ice. His jet-black hair was slicked back. His blue, wolf-like eyes were cold with contempt. “Do not stop on my account. It was about to get interesting.”

Cherry’s posture straightened under the raw intensity of his hard stare. The anger and sadness she felt had dissipated. Now, the only emotion shown is total fear. “Vincent.”

Two other people entered the office with an ersatz aura of friendliness and trustworthiness. Josh, a familiar face I have grown to appreciate lately, smiled flatly at Brad, then slouched on the leather sofa. The curvaceous woman, with peroxide-dyed, poker-straight, waist-length hair, wearing a smart, pinstripe trouser suit, decided the desk would be more appropriate to sit on.

“I believe you were ordered to leave.” Vincent is next to me now, his stare so penetratingly sinister that Cherry, red-faced and tongue-tied, had to look away. “Tick tock.”

Cherry’s eyes shifted to him. “If Warren were here, you would not get away with this. I am irreplaceable to him.”

“My brother’s official authorisation to obviate the unpleasantness of an embittered termagant is redundant. I am and will always be independent.” He twirled a green apple by its brittle stem. “Jones made a decision. I stand by it. You are of no use to the institution. You should have been handled years ago.”

“Then, why haven’t you killed me already?” Cherry got in his face, wide-armed and eager to fight. “Go ahead! Hit me where it hurts! Take my blood! It is yours!”

“And contract the human immunodeficiency virus.” Vincent levelled her with a bored look. “I would rather not.”

“Again, with hypocrisy. You are no saint. Shall we talk about your extracurricular activities? Yes, let’s do that.” Cherry’s hands rubbed together excitedly, ready to spill secrets. “You go to private sex clubs to fuck masked women whilst men in leather and chains are present and have the audacity to insinuate I am a good-for-nothing tramp.” Her fake laughter crescendoed. “The only whores around here are the criminals in suits. Do you hear any lies,Boss?“

Vincent is unfazed. “A man dominated by concupiscence is neither a sin nor crime.”

“And women brave enough to get in a room with highly reprehensible villains for hard-earned cash deserve a damn medal.” She was on a roll, but she completely lost it when he laughed. “Fuck you, Vincent. Fuck all of you. Let’s see who is laughing when Warren gets out to find his empire in the rubble.”

The men in the room immediately stood to their full heights. They took her rant as a threat. Hell, that’s exactly how it sounded, but I am in no position to make assumptions around here.

“No, I did not make a threat.” She could sense the sudden shift in the air. “That’s not how I operate. I have merely pointed out what a piss poor job Warren’s most trusted men have done with everything he’s worked so damn hard for.” Her feet carried her over the threshold. Then, with one final glance into the office, she waved her departure. “Good luck,boys. You are going to need it.”

The room was deadly silent for an uncomfortable time before the blonde woman perched on the desk dissolved into laughter. “Vincent,” she said with a sultry undertone. “You never told me the women here were so unhinged. You should have warned me. I would have come better prepared to gauge some eyes out.”

Vincent ignored her. “Why is Miss Hughes in my office?”

“An exploratory visit.” Brad nursed a glass of whiskey. “Emma is here to see Macaulay.”

“Mute of malice.” Vincent hummed in reverie. “He is, in a manner of speaking, fettered by maltreatment.”

“We can talk about that later. Are you in bed with the gavvers?” Brad looked at the other woman in the room like he wanted to dismantle her head. “DCI Spencer. A pleasure as always.”

“Hello, Brad.” Her radiant smile could light up a thousand rooms. “Did you miss me?”

“Like a hole in the head.” He drained the rest of his whiskey, leaving the empty glass on the desk. “Donny is an exception, Vincent. Bernadette is not on the list.”

“Keep your knickers on.” She wagged her finger at him. “I am not here in an official capacity. I have a lunch date with a very good friend of mine.” Her eyes gestured to the dark-haired man peeling an apple with a switchblade. “Vincent, you did not tell them about me. I am soul-destroyed. How could you?”

“What is there to tell?” Vincent licked apple juice over his lower lip. “You are like a ball and chain. I cannot get rid of you.”

“See?” Her shoulders danced. “He loves me so much. Get used to seeing me around, fellas. I am not leaving any time soon.”

Vincent’s eyes rolled back.

“Yeah-no. That’s unfathomably shit. I do not approve.” Brad extended a hand, and Vincent tossed a set of keys onto his upward-facing palm. “Josh, I will be downstairs with Emma. Make sure the she-devil is gone by the time I get back.”

“Downstairs?” I asked as he took me by the elbow and led me out of the office. “Big Guy, I think we should talk.” Into the security-lined hallway, he dragged me. “A lot happened this morning.” My eyebrows tautened. “A lot of hurtful conversations. I am worried about you.”

“Don’t do that.” His face scrunched up in frustration. “Don’t pretend to be that loving, caring person. You have made yourself clear, on more than one occasion, where I stand in the scheme of things. So don’t…” He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “All I did earlier was try and remove any doubts, and you shut me down. You, being here, is business. That’s all there is to it.”

Big Guy never gave me a chance to respond. He stormed ahead, knowing I would follow him. Yet, I just stood there, staring at the space where he once stood, with a feeling of emptiness in my chest. I could think about that later, though. Right now, I have to face my past.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Emma

The miasma of pain and death carried through the air like medals of honour as I passed the prison-like cells of moribund prisoners in the secret world of Club 11′s dark underground chambers. Huge, well-muscled men, bodies welted, contused and bloodied, lay motionless on the bitterly cold floor. A strict, ruthless and violent disciplinarian boasting evil propensities preempted the defiant reprisal of unfortunate souls by ensuring the success of law and order and behavioural compliance with mental and physical torture.

No eye contact, cry for help or foul-mouthed broadside. The acceptance of systematic torture is the only option for those imprisoned. If they speak out or protest, which I am sure they have done before, it will be the final nail in the coffin. A death warrant. A premeditated murder.

My moral compass oscillated like an indecisive swing of the pendulum. In an active state of agitated uneasiness and nervous apprehension, I eyed the dead body of a bruised and battered middle-aged man left on the heavy-duty steel workbench of cordless power tools and instruments of maltreatment.

I never voiced my innermost anxieties, but Brad, who had the daily pressures of leading a double life, seemed to know when something troubled me.

“Do not be a sympathiser.” Brad bypassed boxes of stainless steel shackles, metal fetters, rot-proof ropes, maximum restraint chains and forged steel manacles with screw mechanisms. “Mountebank. Renegade. Whistle-blower.” He pointed to the unbecoming blond male with third-degree burns on his face. “A bastard pederast.”

Listening to him reel off the perpetrators’ names and the severity of their crimes, I stand aside with aches and pains in my stomach, nausea aggravated by the rivulets of blood and gore on the floor.

“Where did I find you?” Brad stopped by a padlocked cage with an impression of ponderousness. An older male is facedown on the makeshift bed: filthy cardboard sheets and the soiled articles of The Guardian Newspaper. His arms and legs roped together behind his back, flopped helplessly about. “Ah, that’s right. Human trafficking. I stole him in a raid.” His lips puckered for a moment. “A knave with a penchant for little girls: pale, petite, supple, blonde hair and blue eyes. His vision is sacrosanct in the underworld. His requirements areinviolable.”

My mouth parted in absolute abhorrence.

“As I said, do not feel sorry for them.” He proceeded down the chilly mile of the wickedest-looking villains. The irredeemable monsters, I shall call them, kept under lock and key, leered and sneered ominously in sudden detestation. If they could free themselves from the reign of sin to obliterate the institution, they would do so with pleasure. “Those creatures are here for a good reason.”

The magnitude of the situation burrowed deep as I traipsed in his dark, looming shadow with timid footsteps. “Are they all guilty of major crimes?”

“No.” The expressionless tone mirrored the man’s remarkable equanimity. “Some of them are pests and nuisances. Eight’s in a serious amount of debt. You do not steal from a drug baron and embezzle funds for extra profit. That’s not your hustle.”

The conversation tied me up in knots. I inhaled a sharp, audible breath and blew it out like the wind. The underworld is an alternate universe where I had no business, but to be his friend, I accepted the reality of criminal activity. Now, I have to learn how to be less noticeable when discomfited.

“Twelve, by all accounts, caused a ruckus upstairs the other night. He got too handsy with the female bar staff.” His fingers wiggled demonstratively. “Club 11 has zero tolerance for sexual harassment. If you want to touch one of our girls, pay the piper or get the fuck out of our club.”

“Does punishment for insubordination apply to everyone?” I asked before I could think better of it. “Cherry must be an exemption from usual consequences.”

He shot me a look of haughty sharpness. “You are angry.”

“Disappointed.” The resentful woman became apoplectic and ripped my confidence to shreds. He was too distracted by his own venom and bitterness to notice. “You allowed it to get out of control. I need to know why.”

He harrumphed to indicate disgruntlement. “You think cruel punishment is justified.”

“No.” God, I do not wish death on the heartbroken woman, irrespective of malicious claims. “But you could have nipped the nonsensical argument in the bud. I never came here to be treated with contempt and exposed to ridicule.”

A bearded man, semi-naked and blood-soaked, is handcuffed to a sewage pipe inside the penultimate cage. He was not asleep, but his half-closed eyes, puffy and swollen, struggled against the light as he looked upon us analytically.

Brad jangled a set of keys and disengaged the padlock on the heavy iron gate. “I do not expect you to understand.” The bottom of the gate dragged along the floor with a deafening scrape as he swung it open. “We have a history together, Cherry and I. It’s the worst kept secret, how much she loves me.”

“You always knew that she loved you and still went there.” My heart’s yet to normalise in rhythm because of the predominance of men, in extremis, growling at me. “Is that not cold and heartless?”

“Call it a bad habit.” He was unashamed and confessional. “I could never shake her. I think, for the most part, she was uncomplicated and not one to discourage self-destructive behaviour. I could be myself around her.”

That is a polite way of accusing her of enablement.

“I tried to be sensitive and break away gradually, amicably and respectfully. I should have known better. Let’s be commonsensical here.” His shoulder leaned on the cage’s wrought-iron pole as he gazed at me with fixed eyes. “I was not prepared for such an intense, secret-spilling argument. In other words, the humiliation of unrefreshing candour, in which, of course, you were present, triggered impetuous volubility. It put my nose out of joint, the disdain on her tongue, the disgust on your face.”

“Disgust is the opposite of how I felt,” I assured him, and he huffed out a breathy laugh of incredulousness. “You might walk around with imperturbable confidence, but I know there is a man with feelings beneath the surface who does an excellent job of pretending to be unbothered by life’s struggles. My heart ached for you when she betrayed your trust and revealed your secrets.”

His eyes catalogued every detail of my face. “Your pity is not what Ineed.”

“Who mentioned pity?” My brows tipped in perplexity. “I am under no obligation to treat you fairly. I care about you as it is natural for me to do so.”

An awkward silence draped over the moisture-laden chamber like a suffocating blanket. Yet our eyes fought for the upper hand. Not one of us looked away.

“I let you down earlier.” He exhaled a short, ragged breath. “But you were all I could think about when she resorted to unconscionable belittlement. You must know by now that your feelings matter-that I value your opinion. If you tell me that her unnamable tongue caused the rift between us towiden, I will break the rules and get rid of the problem.”

My neck craned painfully as I withstood the seriousness of the man’s frosty stare. “What does that even mean?”

“The crazy bitch is unclaimed.” His remark was mysterious and difficult to understand. “However, her position is a grey area. Ill-defined boundaries, if you may. Warren will never admit this out loud, but he is known to form an emotional attachment to the weak and vulnerable. Taking broken individuals under his wing is an investment. All he demands is loyalty in return. Bianca…” The tip of his tongue caught between his teeth. “Cherry is the first woman he brought into the fold. They go back a long way, memories, good and bad. It is not easy for him to sever ties.”

This is about life or death, not sex and relationships. “Warren must be the one to authorise the fate of existence?”

“Yes, where Cherry is concerned, I will need his permission if I truly want her out of the picture. It’s a soft spot no one dares to question. Why do you think she walks around here like she owns the fucking place? Bossman turns a blind eye, and she knows it.” He stared at me in thought for several seconds. “She is very loyal. In our world, strong allegiance is a rare find. It would take catastrophic levels of deliberate deception for him to put a bullet in her.”

I nodded along to the simplified explanation of syndicate rules and regulations.

“Or I can do as I please, throw the bitch overboard with concrete shoes and face the storm when the boss is released from prison.” His shoulders hiked with feigned nonchalance. “However, because I am self-absorbed and vanity means more to me than life with facial deformities, Warren will most likely knife my beautiful countenance out of spite.” He hummed to himself. “The boss can be sadistic like that.”

Now, with a better understanding of how things operate around here, I worried about the unmerciful redhead. I did not have to like Cherry to sympathise with her. I do not wish despondency on anyone. “Cherry seems to have the characteristics of a rebellious heart.”

“An impulsive soul,” Brad said with an agreeable nod of the head. “Hence, I should have known better.”

Another uncomfortable silence hung between us.

“The ordeal was badly mishandled.” Brad took a second before he looked at me. “Have you ever been caught off guard, dazed and confused like a deer in headlights? You don’t know how to act or respond. You want to escape and find instant relief from extreme mortification.”

I have put myself in one of those situations on multiple occasions. Just this morning, I insulted his boss’s wife with contemplative murmurs. “Yes, I often pray the floor will open up and swallow me in one gulp.”

“It’s madness.” Brad weighed the padlock in his hand. “I have behaved in ways I do not wish to speak of when left in a room with women. I never cared if they were disappointed, unsatisfied or judgmental.” He breathed out a short, hoarse laugh. “It is not my fault if a woman is guided by ideology. I never lied, gave false hope or promised a positive outcome. Yet, when things come to an end, they are surprised, indignant and dolorous.” He scrutinised me for a beat and then shook his head to clear distracting thoughts. “Christ, I will never understand the mind of a woman.”

To be fair, I could say the same about men. I think everyone has trouble understanding the opposite sex.

“It is what it is.” He tossed the padlock on the floor alongside the ring of keys. “I will not be held accountable for another person’s childish petulance and bad manners. Macaulay O’Brien.” His deep, stentorian voice demanded the terrified man to rise from the cold surface and come forth. “Sit up and look presentable. Show a little gumption.”

Macaulay stood in low-hanging jogging bottoms, full-bearded, bare-chested and bare-footed, with the rattling of fetters and the scraping of heavy iron chains. He is not the young, fresh-faced boy I remembered. In all honesty, I did not recognise him. I would not look sideways if he walked past me in the street. However, I soon experienced an uncanny sense of familiarity, especially when he glared at me like he wanted to skin me alive.

With the crisp, wintry air in my lungs, I jogged with brutal, unsparing swiftness along the pavement when suddenly, another jogger, who had appeared from nowhere, crashed into me. It knocked the wind out of my chest as I spun around to face him, to apologise for clumsiness, for not looking where I was going.

Taken aback, I marvelled at him in wonder. He is stoically attractive: tall, bearded, dark-haired, and broad-shouldered. And judging by the advancement of his footsteps, he is not in a rush to leave.

“My life flashed before my eyes.” He gave me a firm handshake. “You almost threw me into the road.” A not-so-funny joke. “Parked cars can do serious damage to a man’s face.”

“Sorry about the hit and run.” My smile was flat but genuine. “I was lost in thought. A million miles away.”

“It’s cool. I am kinda glad we bumped into each other.” His arms folded over his chest. “Hey, I know this is a bit forward, but fate might have brought us together. I was about to grab a coffee down the road. Do you want to join me?”

“No,” I declined the man’s offer with haste, and he looked surprised. I mean, I don’t even know him. Surely, that’s enough reason to turn him down. “Thank you, but I have work soon.”

He smiled broadly. “Another time, perhaps.”

“Yes. No.” My delivery was firm and not to be persuaded. “Really, I am just out here to clear my head and lose a couple of pounds.”

“It’s coffee.” He wiped the sweat off his brow. “Not a date.”

I frowned at him. “Modesty is how coffee breaks turn into late-night dates, right?”

“Wow.” He whacked a hand on his chest. “Am I that transparent?”

“Yes,” I said, and we both laughed airily. “So, thank you again for the invite, but I really must be going.”

We sprinted in opposite directions.

“I have seen him recently.”Rubbing the tears from my eyes, I willed myself to stand, brushing brown foliage off my clothes and pulling fragile sprigs out of my hair. I traipsed through trees that had somehow curved inwards to create an archway for the footpath.“He talked to me.”

Brad’s face remained hard.

I espied a tall, shadowy figure running steadily toward me. It was a determined-looking man garbed in sportswear. A regular, I thought, as I outlined the fine bone structure of his jaw and the turbulence of emotions in his deep-set eyes. He spoke to me once when I piledrived into him in the midst of an unfocused run. I did not know his name. He did not know my name. Yet, he seemed strangely familiar. I could not put my finger on it.

Acquaintanceship is not the worst-case scenario. It is better to be out here, surrounded by recognisable faces rather than unrecognisable faces. It dispelled irrational anxieties and made me feel less alone in the world.

Too aware of my pathetic, sodden appearance, I averted my gaze to the floor, pretending not to notice him. He drifted into the distance with a mere glance. And then, with every atom in my body radiating in wonder, I felt an inexplicable surge in my chest, where my heart beat unsteadily, and a gravitational force to explore the sudden calmness of mind. It washed over me in gentle showers, relief and rain.

“Some people believe raindrops are tears of compassionate angels,” I whispered, remembering the odd calmness I had felt when Big Guy arrived that night. “Other people think raindrops belong to the deceased.”

Brad looked away, jaw tightly clenched. “You believe in hope.”

“Yes.” This man is so diligent. He watched, listened and thought about everything I have ever said or done. “He was there before you arrived. He jogged into the distance…” My heartbeat kicked up a notch. “I thought it was a coincidence the night I saw him in the park.” A thousand questions slammed into me. “Sorry, I am going off the subject.”

“I will decide what’s on the subject.” Brad tapped my elbow lightly, encouraging me to continue. “A coincidence?”

“I collided with him during a morning jog. He invited me to a local coffee shop. You know, I thought he was trying his luck. Not once did I suspect him or consider him a professional stalker.” Lately, I have been too miserable and depressed to see the danger in front of me. “He orchestrated every encounter. He was probably in the background the whole time.”

To my confusion, Brad never asked any more questions. He entered the cell with slow, unhurried strides and stood before the man in chains. Macaulay was not short or scrawny, yet he looked impossibly small and emaciated compared to the opposition.

“How are you feeling?” Brad checked the raw, torn up gashes on Macauley’s chest and shoulders with attentive fingers. The inflamed tissue on his stomach oozed dark red blood. “Can I get you anything? A nice, cold drink, perhaps.”

Macaulay’s throat cleared. “Water.”

Big Guy neither blinked nor moved. Time stood still as he held the other man’s gaze with complete disregard. He had no intention of being friendly or hospitable.

“Right.” Macaulay’s lips grimaced. “You are fucking with me.”

“I apologise for being facetious in such dire circumstances.” Brad was robustly unapologetic. “But you like to play games. I thought I’d follow suit.”

“Why am I here?” Macaulay had yet to regard me. “I have done nothing to warrant the wrath of the syndicate. Still, I have been dragged underground against my will and suffered the most horrific beatings.” He tugged down one side of his jogging bottoms to show the large, deep laceration on his upper thigh. “Vincent threatened to cut off my dick.”

Brad cogitated for a hot second. “You are very astute for an outsider. Plebeians rarely understand what a visit from the syndicate entails until it is too late.” His face was set in a permanent scowl. “You have your fingers in many pies.”

Macaulay neither confirmed nor denied the accusation of covert observation. “I have a watchful yet harmless eye for public disturbance. Your face is often plastered over the front page of newspapers. It doesn’t take Albert Einstein to decode cryptic articles. I know what you are all about.”

“You followed Miss Hughes’ every move and took pictures without consent.” Brad referred to me respectfully, but it sounded like the first step toward change, less personal and more formal. “You broke into her apartment and rearranged her son’s bedroom. You came out in the middle of the night, watched her eat, shower and sleep.” He slapped the man with a salvo of accusations. “You are a stalker. A predator.”

Macaulay’s eyes were like black, bottomless holes, empty and remorseless. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“What happened to the Gaelige language?” I asked without thinking. “The Irish have a distinctive accent. That is not something you lose overnight.”

“Dia duit, Em. Conas atá tú?” A dark smile teased the man’s swollen lips. “Fillean an feall ar an bhfeallaire.”

“Treachery rebounds on the treacherous,” I whispered, and his smile widened. “Killian used to say that about his father.”

“Ye.” Macaulay mastered the foreign accent syndrome. “His old man is somethin’, but I am not here to talk ’bout Quintin O’Shea unless, of course, ye tell me otherwise. Brad Jones.” He reverted to the British accent. “I never touched her. Not one hair on her head. Sure, I bumped into her once or twice whilst on a morning run, but that does not make me a suspect for whatever fucking crime you think I have committed. As for the photos? Breaking and entering? You got the wrong guy.”

“You are a liar.” My voice trembled. “You knew who I was the day you invited me for coffee.”

His mouth flattened. “Inviting someone for coffee is not illegal.”

“Macauley, you hate me. You have always blamed me for Kilian’s death,” I said calmly, and his head bounced back and forth slightly as he mulled over whether or not he agreed with me. “You could see that I did not recognise you that morning and ran with it. Admit it. You have a hidden agenda.”

Words whispered through the other cages as Macauley stared down his nose at me. “Fine.” His shackled hands raised in mock surrender. “You got me. I was bemused by your lack of recognition. Out of curiosity, I invited you for coffee. Not sure how I planned to re-introduce myself after that. It was one of those spur-of-the-moment decisions.”

“You run the risk of further calamity.” Brad picked up where he had left off. “If you do not talk it will end badly for you.”

“Why would I entertain such a formidable idiot?” Macaulay had a death wish. “Even if I know more than I am letting on, I am not in a divulgatory mood.”

Josh, who had joined the commotion unobtrusively, handed Brad a folder. “For you.”

“Nice one.” Brad flicked through pages of evidence, stapled photographs and penned notes. “What do we have?”

“A dossier of reports.” Then, with a glance in my direction, Josh kicked an empty crane across the floor, and Brad captured it beneath his foot. He utilised it as a chair. “Donny left a summary at the back.”

“You mischaracterized the events.” Macauley wore a visage of confidence. He studied the folder in Big Guy’s hands. “Why is no one listening to me? I know you can hear me.”

“He is a funny peasant,” Brad talked directly to Josh, but his eyes never lifted off the folder. He scanned pages with the studiousness of a determined man. “I will miss his candour.”

“Glad I could be of service.” Macauley genuflected before the men with sardonic humour, the heavy-duty chains attached from his wrists to the sewage pipes clamouring in protest. “Emma’s problems will not end with my death. I hope you know that.”

“Your life makes me feel very successful.” Brad is reading a lengthy paragraph. “What is the average salary for mechanics? How can you afford to reside in London? You earn a pitiful pittance.”

Macauley chose silence.

“Fair enough.” Brad left the file on the floor to unzip a bag of tools. “Put him on the bench.”

Men re-emerged from the dark corners of the chamber to close in on Macauley. “Get away from me…” The man from my past flinched and recoiled when hands reached out to transport him across the room. “If ye touch me-” The burliest of males punched him clean in the jaw. He dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, his body folding like a rag doll. “No…” In a state of semi-unconsciousness, he rolled onto his side, crawling toward the cage’s entryway, when someone stomped on his back, pinning him to the floor whilst the other men unshackled him. “Please…”

Inhaling a dose of bravery, I watched, with a soldier’s mentality, as the scene unfolded in forensic detail.

Macauley’s legs and feet dragged along the floor as two members of security, holding him by the arms, relocated him to the steel work bench beneath the flickering light bulb.

Josh unchained the dead man on the table and pushed his hacked up body onto the floor, the stomach-churning sound of ruptured flesh and squelching blood ricocheting throughout the damp chambers.

Macauley is dumped on the workbench of scattered organs. He is too dazed to fight or attempt an escape.

“It reeks over here.” Josh attached metal cuffs to Macauley’s ankles and wrists to secure him to the table, to prevent reckless movement. A waist belt is locked mechanically. “Snap out of it.” He uncapped a glass bottle with his teeth, then poured straight vodka over the man’s face. “It burns like a bitch, huh?”

“Stop…” Macauley coughed, choked and spluttered, the strong taste of vodka invading his throat. “Please…”

“Let’s get down to business.” Brad snapped on a pair of black nitrile gloves. “You lose a digit every time you lie to me.” He lined up amputation equipment. “I will start with the pinky toe.”

To leave no room for doubt, Brad grabbed the front of Macauley’s foot and, in sheer horror, made a semilunar incision on the back of his small toe and sliced the blade beyond the joint.

“Ah! Shite!” Macauley screamed, froth and spittle spraying from his mouth, the arteries bleeding profusely down his foot. “You are fuckin’ dead!”

“I like it when you are mad.” With the head of the bone dislocated, Brad switched the scalpel for bone nippers, cut off the digit without a second’s thought and threw it over his shoulder somewhere. “It means I am doing the job correctly.”

Vomit pooled in the pit of my stomach. I had to turn around and count the disorganised pile of concrete bricks by the wooden crates in the corner of the room.

“Fuck! Oh, shite! Why would ye do that?” Macauley bellowed behind me, the legs of the workbench shaking beneath his weight. “Dear God! It hurts!”

The contents of my stomach threatened to project onto the floor. I had never felt so queasy in all my life.

“Interrogation starts now.” Brad placed the bone nippers on the workbench to lean over Macauley, whose chest rose up and down in a fast, almost irregular pace as he sought pain relief and oxygen. “Mr Mechanic, what else do you do for a living?”

Macauley’s dry chuckle was a mixture of pain and amusement. “I stalk mentally unstable women, apparently.”

“That’s incidental.” Brad used a clean towel to efface the blood on his gloved hands. “Why did you sign a six-month tenancy agreement to live next door to an old friend? Why did you spend over three thousand pounds on surveillance equipment and battery-powered tools? Why did you knock a hole in the bedroom wall to access your neighbour’s home? I got all the receipts, Macauley. I want answers. I am not leaving until I get them.”

A bead of sweat trickled down the nape of my neck. I sat on one of the wooden crates and faced the live torture event with acidic bile in the back of my throat.

Macauley’s eyes closed briefly. “I swear to you, I am not your guy.” When Brad gravitated toward the cordless disc cutter, he shrieked profanities. “Alright! Alright! Put that down. I will talk. I swear to fucking God. I will talk.”

Brad’s hand withdrew from the hand-held power tool.

“I don’t know nothin’ ’bout surveillance footage, power tools or holes in the wall.” Macauley licked his dry, chapped lips. “But I did visit that side of town from time to time. Not to seeher,” he snarled with a curl of his upper lip. “I went there to be with Nicola. My girlfriend.”

“Your girlfriend lives in the same apartment building as mine…” A faint blush warmed Big Guy’s face, the unfinished sentence becoming an afterthought. “Yeah, that is too coincidental. I do not buy it. Not for one second.”

“You can ask her.” Macauley breathed rapidly through intervals of agony. “Knock on her front door. She will confirm everything in one conversation.” His face had paled drastically since the amputation of his toes commenced. “You are right. I was shocked when Emma did not recognise me. I guess age and maturity did a number on my appearance.”

My ears perked up to listen.

“I was curious. In some odd, weird sense, I wanted to sit down with her and, I don’t know, catch up or something. It’s been a very long time since I saw her. I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Macauley rambled on. “I never hurt her or even considered hurting her. Sure, I still blame her for my best friend’s death. I will probably hate her until the day I die. But I am not a crazy, vengeful stalker. You have got the wrong guy.”

I did not believe him.

“Did this alleged girlfriend by the name of Nicola provide a witness statement?” Brad asked, and Josh re-obtained the file to check the notes. “The syndicate will know if she is a resident.”

Josh pointed to something inside the folder. Brad’s eyes dipped furtively to read it.

“You ask the wrong questions.” Macauley swallowed excess saliva. “Look, I know Nicola has no concept of any stalkers in the building. If she did, she would not be living there. She would have moved out the second the news dropped. Seriously, go to her, knock on the door and ask about me. I promise you. She will confirm what I have already told you.”

Unable to think clearly, I wiped the tears from my eyes. I never cried, though. I had to be brave, strong and impenetrable.

Suddenly, Macauley howled in breath-snatching pain. It took me a second to realise that Big Guy had cut off his big toe.

“Holy shit!” Macauley thrashed around on the bed like a breathless fish out of water. “What the fuck did you do that for?! I fucking spoke up! I told you the truth, you fucking nut case!”

“Point her out for me.” Brad chucked the amputated toe onto the workbench and exhibited photos of different women. “Girl with the big hair?” Another image. “Girl with the big tits?” A third copy of someone. “Guy with the big head?”

Macauley’s ruddy cheeks hollowed. “I am not gay.”

“Each to their own.” Brad shuffled through mugshots. “What about Blondie? Barbra, the brunette? Roxy, the redhead?”

“No, I don’t know any of those women. I already told you.” Macauley’s body, which shook like a leaf, is misted in sweat. “Nicola is my girlfriend. All you have to do is speak to her.”

“See, now you have lost me,” Brad said in a monotone voice. “The syndicate knocked on every door in that building, yet I have nothing, not one entry, about a woman named Nicola.”

Macauley’s head dropped against the workbench as he searched for momentary comfort.

“Fine.” Brad fossicked through the folder. “You like to fuck a fabricated tenant when in the building, but how do you explain the secret tunnel covered in your DNA?” He showed photo evidence. “This is your leftover pasta, right? Pizza? Fungus fried rice.”

“You are lying,” Macauley whisper-shouted in dismay. “You did not collect my DNA in that building. For starters, I have never eaten there. You are trying to set me up.” His brows welded into a stern scowl. “For the last fucking time. You have got the wrong guy.”

“No, I am pretty sure I have the right guy.” Brad selected another tool on the workbench. “I just need to torture a confession out of him.”

“If he removes one more bone in my body…” Macauley is looking right at me with the detached eyes of a cold-blooded killer. “I mean it, Emma. God, I fucking mean it.”

“Why would I stop him?” My knees promised to buckle as I stood on unsteady legs. “Give me one good reason why I should ask him to let you go.” Hell, I did not recognise myself or the fierceness in my voice. “You are nothing to me.”

“Are ye sure ’bout that?” Macaulay’s Irish accent thickened when he was angry. “Do ye want to bet on it? Test ye luck at Russian roulette.”

My heart pounded in my chest.

“Ignore him,” Brad interjected, but I could not look elsewhere. I was trapped, immobilised and dreading the worst. “A desperate man will say almost anything when in peril.”

“He is right.” Macaulay is ready to cooperate. “I guess I did pop next door often.” His vicious smirk sprouted my skin with goosebumps. “I mean, who can hardly blame me? Not every day I get to taunt the bitch who killed my best friend.” His face was puce with fury. “Oh, Emma. I do love the sound of an aroused woman.”

A cold chill descended the length of my spine. I had no voice, no logical thought process.

“Em likes hot showers,” he told the men whilst his disrobing eyes slithered over me, the blood in my body evaporating. “The hotter, the better. And she likes to stay in a warm, fluffy towel for at least thirty minutes once she is finished. If she is having a lazy evening, she will eat a microwave meal in bed, then change into cotton underwear. No bra. No thong.” His tongue peeped out to lick his bottom lip. “Lovely breasts. More than a handful.”

Brad stepped forward, the back of his hand raised to silence him, but I shook my head, wordlessly asking him to stand down and let me handle it.

“Sleep does not come easy for her.” Macauley never so much as blinked. “She cries first, staring across the hall into her son’s bedroom, waiting for him to appear by the door. It’s entertaining to watch. I have witnessed the best of times and the worst of times.”

An errant tear fell down my cheek. If he wanted to hurt me, he did so with great success. I am sad, humiliated, angry, disgusted and vengeful. He deserved everything the syndicate had in store for him.

“Sometimes, she climbs into bed and refuses to be upset. That’s when she talks to herself.” His dilated eyes blinked rapidly. “Or, on the rarest occasion, she will strip down until sinfully naked, all soft skin, curves and confidence, caressing that sweet bundle of nerves between her legs. You like those quiet moments to yourself, don’t you, Em? You like to make yourself feel good-”

“Watch it.” Brad’s tight, angry voice cut through the air like a knife. “Emma, you can wait for me outside.” Before I could protest, he flipped open a shiny switchblade, seized the man’s jaw and teased the outline of his lips. “Let’s see how well you talk without your tongue.” His once amber-coloured eyes lifted. Black and soulless glared at me from across the room. “Outside, Emma. Now.”

“If you kill me,” Macauley argued as I hurried toward the door, “I will never hand over the lad’s body.” He cachinnated manically when my footsteps faltered alongside my heartbeat. “Don’t ye want to bury him, Em? Your lad needs a proper burial. Am I right, or am I right?”

His cruel words felt like a knife in the chest, as if someone had reached into the deepest depths of my body and ripped out my heart. I turned to him, slow and hesitant, with a million and one questions in mind, the fear of every mother’s worst nightmare stabbing me in the skull.

“Emma, I ordered you to leave.” Big Guy is seconds away from removing the man’s tongue. “Get the fuck out!”

“No.” My head shook frantically. “He mentioned my son. He said-”

“Macauley is a goddamn liar.” Brad’s eyes begged me to believe him. “Wait for me upstairs.”

“I am not lyin’ to her,” Macauley mumbled, his head whipping from side to side to dislodge Brad’s gloved fingers. “Carter Hughes’ body, I can tell ye how to find it.”

My breath caught in my throat. Macauley had everyone in a chokehold. The armed, besuited men in the musty-smelling room stood back in sombre adagio. They trusted Command and would never question him, but the seed of doubt grew.

“I will not gamble on my son’s whereabouts,” I said firmly, and Brad let go of the man’s face with a brutal shove and great reluctance. “I will not…” Another tear cascaded down my cheek. “Did you hurt my baby?” My throat cracked, but I spoke urgently. “Is he dead?”

“The lad is long gone.” Macauley’s blood-stained teeth flashed. “I guess I will take the location to my grave, though.”

“You are a dead man.” Brad’s lips twisted in repugnance. “But you have options. Quick and painless. Or slow, tortuous and excruciatingly painful. I am an artist, Macaulay.” He teased the tip of the blade over the man’s trouser-clad groin. “I will paint the city red with your blood before I let you snuff it. All the feels, starting with your cock.”

Macauley spat in the Big Guy’s face.

Brad’s eyes shut in displeasure as he flicked the man’s saliva from his cheek. “Do not let this motherfucker out of your sight.” If looks could kill, Macauley would be dead. “Fetters and dog collars. Keep the bitch stabilised.”

“Get the fuck away from me!” Macauley lashed out when the men disconnected him from the workbench and conveyed him to the cell. “I am gonna fuckin’ kill ye, Jones!”

“Give him a shower,” Brad ordered with a cruel smirk. “He bastard reeks.”

Once Macauley was restrained inside the cage, Josh locked the gate, punched a code into the keypad on the wall, and a burst of hot, scalding water sprayed from the pipes above.

With a spine-shattering scream, Macauley darted into the corner and curled up in a ball, knees hiked to the chest, arms locked around his shins to evade the punishing lashes of skin-melting heat.

One of the men chuckled. “Save the tears for an appropriate audience, O’Brien.”

On the verge of hyperventilating, I slapped a hand over my mouth and shouldered the door open.

I never felt the floor beneath my feet or caught sight of anyone en route. I made it to theemployees-onlysection of the bar and collided with a wall of solid muscle. This person, this man, togged up in designer labels and tailored fabrics, captured my fall.

Vincent’s stare roved over my face. For some illogical reason, I thought I had stopped crying, that I had surpassed sadness, but his thumb caught a tear on my cheek before it could fall to the ground.

“You are too weak,” he whispered in my ear, and I dipped my head in shame. “Too pure and too naive to coexist in the dark planes of the underworld. Jones’ behaviour is uncharacteristically unfavourable.” His lips grazed the column of my neck. “You might be the death of him if you are not careful.”

His words felt like a kick to the stomach. Rendered speechless, I continued to look at him through blurry eyes, wondering how he could insult me in one breath and rub the small of my back comfortingly in the next breath.

“Did you not learn anything when downstairs?” He hummed, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “Those caged animals will succumb to irrational foolhardiness when exposed to life-threatening situations. I assume Macauley got inside your head.” His blue eyes, framed with thick, inky black lashes, drifted over my head. “Your damsel is causing quite a scene. Do not bring her around if she cannot handle what lies beneath.”

Big Guy stepped into my peripheral vision, hands tucked into his trouser pockets. He refused to meet my gaze. “You have to keep him alive. He is the intruder.”

My body trembled involuntarily. “Big Guy,” I said whispery, and he turned to me. “My son?”

“Carter Hughes is alive.” Vincent pieced a ponderous puzzle together. “And she is at the behest of Irish blood.”

Brad gave him a curt nod. “We have to be smart. As it stands, Macauley is the only link I have to the boy. Do not kill him, Vincent. I mean it.”

Silent tears streamed down my face. Rubbing my cheeks with the sleeves of my shirt, I stepped around Vincent and headed for the exit. I don’t know where I planned to go, but the walls inside the club felt like they were closing in on me. I needed fresh air, breathing space and a safe place to collect my thoughts.

“Emma,” Brad shouted, and it dawned on me that he no longer called mesweetheart. “Where are you going?” His hand snatched me by the elbow. “This is not over.” He towered above me like a force to be reckoned with. “We are so close to getting answers. You can’t back down. Not now. Not ever.”

Drying my sore eyes, I drew a breath of courage. “I won’t back down,” I promised him, and he breathed in relief. “Macauley got to me for a second. I thought…”My son was dead.“I am not weak, Big Guy. I can handle a lot more than people give me credit for, but unprecedented heights of grief can change a person. I am allowed to be lost for a while.”

His stare narrowed.

“I have accepted your lifestyle,” I said, vague, as I had no desire to stir the pot between brothers. Although, I did want to backpedal and slap Vincent, the antagonistic brute. “But it’s different from what I am used to. I rarely see fully grown men hanging upside down in cages of torture. Crying for their mothers, no less.”

“Brad?” An attractively tall, curvaceous black woman with extraordinary features barrelled toward us. Big Guy complained under his breath. “I got a bone to pick with you!”

“Well, I am in the middle of something.” Brad led me through another set of doors. “You can pick that bone later.”

“Brad!” Her hair was voluminous and lightweight with bouncy curls. “I mean it! I am not okay!” Her skin-tight grey T-shirt, high-waisted skinny jeans, Gucci embellished ankle boots, and faux fur bomber jacket gave me serious fashion envy. “Command!”

“What, Cora?” Brad’s voice boomed as he spun around to face her, the veins in his neck protruding angrily. “I am not in the mood for bullshit. Either spit it out or fuck off.” He did a double-take. “Who the fuck is this bitch?” He gestured to the woman hiding behind Cora. She is pretty but gaunt and panda-eyed, the truthiness of sleep deprivation. The lilac-dyed, choppy, textured pixie with undercut is modern, fresh and ultra-stylish. It accentuated her diamond-shaped face, high cheekbones and neck tattoos. “What? You have nothing to say?”

“Janine,” the girl introduced herself. “I work in suites four and five…” Her smile was meek. “I have spoken to you before…”

Brad was inert with confusion. His eyes darted between them for comprehension.

“You know why I am upset…” Cora adjusted her extra large crystal-encrusted hoop earrings. “It’s about Cherry.”

“No.” He waved her off, ready to leave. “I am not interested.”

“But we need her.” Cora is not giving up without a fight. “You can’t get rid of her! What about the girls? Who will manage the clients?”

I could barely keep up with the man’s long, powerful strides. He is not holding back for anyone.

“Brad…” Cora’s eyes were sad and wet. “Please, she is my best friend.”

“Your best friend fucked shit up for herself.” He descended a set of stairs. “Too comfortable, Cora. You might want to teach her a thing or two about respect.”

“I know she is difficult.” Cora almost reached for him but decided against it. “Please, I understand she can rub people up the wrong way, but the club is her life. If you take it away from her-”

“Like I give a flying fuck.” Brad scoffed at her. “Get back to work. I got shit to do.”

Janine gave me a sympathetic smile, rubbing the base of my spine as the two of us followed the argumentative bunch ahead. Maybe some of the people here are not so bad.

“Brad…” Cora’s pace slowed down in defeat and devastation. “Who will take care of us?”

Brad stopped shy of the fire exit door with his back to us. He flipped open a leather wallet, thumbed through uncountable fifty-pound notes and slapped a stack of cash onto Cora’s hand. “Promotion. Well done.” He stuffed the wallet in his pocket. “Now, get the girls ready for tonight.”

“Brad…” Cora gawked at the money in her hand like she had won the lottery. “I am not comfortable with having a promotion.”

“Why?” He ran a hand down his tired face. “You work hard. A promotion is long overdue.”

“Cherry is my best friend.” Her lips pushed forward into a pout. “It feels like a betrayal.”

“It’s business.” His shoulders shrugged. “Not personal.”

Minutes passed before Cora accepted defeat. “Janine, tell the others to meet me in the dressing room. Hurry up. I don’t have all day.” She waited until her friend scuttled down the hall. “You broke her heart, Brad.”

“Cora, I never lied.” He rubbed the scruff of his jaw. “I was honest every step of the way. She knew what I was all about.”

“I know.” Cora’s face softened. “It doesn’t make it hurt any less.” Then, belatedly noticing an unrecognisable person, she dabbed her cheeks and shook my hand. “I am Cora. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Emma,” I said warily, giving her hand a soft squeeze.

“I know my girl can be savage, but don’t take her behaviour to heart.” Cora never went into detail, but she must have spoken to Cherry about the argument. “She is just upset, that’s all.”

“Emma is not to blame.” Brad is hellbent on getting a message across to the other women at the club. “I ended shit with Cherry weeks ago. She had no right to behave like a madwoman earlier. No fucking right. If she thinks I will forgive her after that fucking performance, she’s got another thing coming.”

“Hey, I am not into it.” Cora tucked the money into her bra. “I love Cherry. She is my day one. But I know how irrational she can be whenever you are around.” Her eyebrow curved in accusation. “Do yourself a favour. Stay away for good this time. Let her get over you. And Brad, if there is even a small chance that you will consider re-hiring her, I beg you, do it for the girls.” She backed away one step at a time. “I don’t think you realise how much we need her.”

Brad never hung around to watch her leave. He jolted open the fire, dragging himself into the alleyway. “I have to run a few errands.” He unlocked the parked Bentley with a click of the button. “You can wait in the car.”

I hesitated by the door. “Where are we going?”

“Quintin.” His backside slid onto the driver’s seat. “Come on, Emma. I don’t have time for procrastination. We need to get moving.”

Brad was silent for the entire journey. When he mentioned errands, I did not anticipate being left alone for almost two hours whilst he visited someone in the heart of Kensington.

Having lost the fight for one day, I crawled into the backseat and fell asleep. It would be dark outside when he finally came back to me.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Emma

The slender crescent moon shimmered behind the altostratus clouds of a night sky. A star so bright, I could have mistaken it for Sirius, twinkling on a velvety black bed. It was a scene that reminded me of The Princess and the Frog’s Evangeline, the spirit of Ray’s former love, who people wished upon in the hopes of dreams coming true and becoming new realities.

Velleities may never come into fruition, but indue discouragement will not stand in the way of an overachiever. I pulled myself across the backseat and stargazed until dark thoughts segued into wishes. It’s not a rare shooting star, but it’s the brightest star in the sky.

The universe might be good to me.

I wish I could press the reset button and start again. I wish I could turn back the hands of time. I wish I had offered my life for yours. I wish that you were here with me instead of there with them. I wish I could take away your pain, silence and sadness and replace it with strength, braveness and courageousness. I wish we could follow the stars and find our way back to each other.

I hope you have a safe place that feels like home. I hope you see the light in the darkness. I hope you know that you are always in my thoughts. I hope you know that I could never forget about you or replace you. I hope you know that I love you more than anything else in this world. I hope you love me, too, even though it’s not what I deserve.

Recognising that I had lost my marbles to humour fleeting madness, I crawled into the front compartment and sat beneath the glittering pattern of starlight above.

Either the world has gone nuts, or I am positively unhinged. I will go with the latter, a crazy, certifiable woman praying to the universe to reconstruct her life and fix her problems. There is no hope left for me or the people surrounding me.

Parked on one of the most prestigious streets in Kensington, I marvelled at the terraces of townhouses in immaculate condition overlooking Knightsbridge garden square. I am almost ninety-nine point nine percent sure, Mary lives ten minutes down the road, and she would throw a hissy fit if she found out I never swung by for a visit.

My stomach grumbled. I might pass out if I do not eat soon. I can’t even remember the last time I had something to drink.

If Big Guy is in a better mood, when he returns, I can ask him to drive by a local convenience store for me to grab a pre-made sandwich. I will settle for a packet of salt and pepper crisps if he is not feeling generous.

The mysterious occupant from townhouse six-a short black woman with goddess-style locs, white-framed spectacles and leopard print leisure wear-unlocked the front door and went to the side for Big Guy to leave. He was in no rush to return, though. He lingered on the second step, arms folded and face bleak and downcast in the moonlight.

Minutes passed. The woman glanced over at the Bentley, and then her attention went back to him. I was not close enough to hear the conversation. From this angle, I could tell he was much calmer and more emotionally stable. He also smiled, such a lovely yet mischievous smile, when she talked lowly, rubbing the side of his arm. The acquaintanceship seemed platonic and professional but close and familial. I wondered about them, how they knew each other and what she meant to him.

Not wanting to be accused of downright nosiness, I unlocked my phone and downloaded a gaming application on the App Store.

Subway Surfers is an endless running game where my dude spent more time colliding with loud trains and relentless inspectors than collecting gyrating coins and mystery boxes.

“Oh, come on,” I complained to none other than myself as the young graffiti artist slammed into a barrier. “Use your brain, Kid. It’s not hard-”

“What are you doing?” The unexpectedness of Big Guy’s stentorian voice had the phone in my hand flying into the abyss. “Seriously? A video game?” His arm came through the half-opened window to grab the phone on the floor by the assortment of pedals. “How old are you?”

“Do not judge me.” Impossibly red-faced, I snatched the phone out of his hand before he got comfortable in the driver’s seat. “You have been gone for hours. I had to occupy myself during distressing times of neglect and starvation.”

Brad eyed the state of my appearance. “Your hair is a mess,” he pointed out, and I immediately ran my fingers through my hair. “And your eyes are puffy. You fell asleep.”

“I did.” God, I slept the day away with no dreams to contemplate. I must have been exhausted. “Shamelessly.

“You were not bored. You only just woke up.” Grasping the passenger side headrest, he threw the car in reverse and eased a foot onto the accelerator to drive down the street in the same direction he came in. “What’s the deal?”

“Fine.” My shoulders sagged guilty. “I saw you come out of the townhouse with that woman and didn’t want you both to think I was snooping or eavesdropping. I downloaded a game to keep my brain ticking over and curiosity at bay.”

Brad’s focus was on the road. “Starvation?”

“I will die from lack of food.”

“And people have the cheek to call me a drama queen.” His ringed fingers worked the gearstick. “Name a decent restaurant.”

The menu consisted of patties, cheese, lettuce, onion, pickles and a portion of cheesy garlic bites. “Chicken nuggets,” I all but groaned in pleasure. “A quarter pounder and large fries.”

“A McDonald’s implication? You can get fucked.” His overt disgust was both offensive and humorous. “I am not eating that shit.”

I could almost taste the melted cheese on my tongue whilst imagining crispy garlic bites dipped in a pot of ketchup. “You are not obligated to eat anything, but I will love you forever if you throw a few McChicken Sandwiches at me,” I joked, or even flirted, which, by the looks of it, he did not appreciate. “Please, Big Guy. I promise to be quiet if you let me eat.”

“For Christ’s sake.” He swerved into the next lane with the abruptness of a dickhead driver, undercutting vehicles and taking sharp turns. “You owe me for this one.”

Fifteen minutes later, an illuminated McDonald’s sign appeared straight ahead. My tummy growled in appreciation when the scent of fries and hamburgers wafted to my nose.

Brad embarked on the bumper-to-bumper vehicles of a twenty-four-hour drive-through and waited, high-strung and impatient, for an employee to speak on the intercom box.

“You could have chosen any restaurant in London but opted for the contaminable hole in the wall.” He pulled a leather wallet from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “What do you want? And don’t say, ‘I don’t mind’ because that is a response from a high-maintenance woman who knows exactly what she wants and decides to be difficult instead.”

My forehead creased. “What?”

“I will not sit here, confused and frustrated, whilst you reject every suggestion I throw out.” His arm relaxed on the window ledge as he examined the digital menu. “Nobody has time for that.”

Have I missed something?

Why is he so testy all of a sudden?

“Are we still talking about the McDonald’s order?” I asked him, and his eyes flared with unreserved annoyance. “Only, it sounds like there is an underlying issue here.”

An uneasy quietness settled in the car.

“What do you want, Emma?”

“A McChicken sandwich, Big Guy.”

“McChicken sandwich.” His head cosied on the headrest whilst he relayed the order to the women talking through the intercom box. “My girl loves to be awkward and indecisive, so chuck in a medley of greasy, unpalatable burgers and some filthy, undercooked sides. Maybe overconsumption will help her to decide.”

The female hollered at my expense. “Difficult damsels.”

I scoffed at the ridiculousness. That’s the second time someone has outright called me a damsel today.

“Right?” Brad’s deep, heavy laughter synchronised with the troublemaker’s merriment. “Are women deliberately difficult, or does it come naturally?”

“Hey!” The girl in the box put on the fake,Iam offended, act. “Do not put us all in the same category. I happen to be very laid back. You will not get any headaches from me.”

Big Guy is aware of the camera on the intercom box, where his new friend is most likely watching, dribbling and ogling. He smiled for the lens but never responded.

My blood boiled. “You are such an asswipe.”

“Thank you.” He drifted the car around the bend to the next window. “I try to be the best.”

“I don’t want food anymore.”

“Well, I paid for it now.”

“Well,” I mimicked the man’s frantic hand gestures and immature impulses, “I have lost my appetite.”

“Unfortunately for you, I do not appreciate rudeness, ungratefulness and constant vacillation.” At the next window, he paid for the order by card, accepted a brown paper bag of fast food and tossed it on my lap. “Enjoy.”

His flippant tone irked me. I dumped the McDonald’s order on his thighs. “You could not pay me to eat such begrudged sustenance.”

“You call a bag loaded with calories, sodium and unhealthy fat sustenance?” A vein of satirical anger throbbed at his temple. “From where I am from, those are key ingredients for atherosclerosis.”

I went ballistic. “I don’t care about potential heart attacks right now!”

“Why would you? You don’t care about anything these days!” Spearing a hand through his hair, he transferred the bag to my hands, slammed down on the accelerator and swerved back on the main road. He almost collided with a red car-the other driver honking the horn with furious fists-but he is not fazed or apologetic. Hell, he owned the damn road. If someone ends up in the hospital because of his reckless driving, I doubt he would even lose sleep over it, as long as nothing happens to him or his precious Bentley. “Eat the food, Emma.”

Refusing to shed one more tear in front of this man, I rolled down the window, threw the bag out for the seagulls to ravish and dusted off my hands. “I said it before, and I will say it again: you could not pay me to eat such begrudged sustenance. And before you start, I have every intention of paying you back. I will not let you hold the disposal ofatherosclerosisover my damn head in the future.”

His jaw muscle flexed. “Why the stubbornness?”

“Why the spitefulness?” My erratic heartbeat had yet to simmer down. “You are angry at me. You have not forgiven me for this morning. That much is obvious. So, why am I here?”

“Youwantedto be here. Youaskedme to put you in a room with Macauley. Youbeggedme for a chance to fight for your son. I was happy to interrogate him without you.” Brad is right. I did plead for the aforementioned. “Look, if you have changed your mind, I can drop you home and go to Quintin. Terrence moved into your flat on a temporary basis. You are safe there.”

“Why did you move Terrence into the flat?” No, I cannot handle a moody bodyguard first thing in morning. “And where is he supposed to sleep? It’s only a two-bedroom property. I am not okay with manscape products left all over the bathroom and clothes chucked on every item of furniture in the living room.” My demands were unreasonable, given the overall change of circumstances, but I was too angry and upset to care. “I never agreed to live with a man, full stop. I like my own space.”

“Are you done?” A storm brewed in his dark eyes. “Only, at this rate, I will be able to hear your long, high-pitched complaints in my goddamn sleep!”

My nostrils flared.

“Terrence is to sleep in Carter’s bedroom until further notice becausethatis the room Macauley used to get inside the apartment. Your bodyguard will live inside the property to ward off any threats.” His voice dripped with the type of venom that could poison someone. “This is not a negotiation, Emma. I made an order. You can protest all you want, but I will not be overruled.”

My phone vibrated non-stop. I will check the notification in a minute. “The animosity between us is almost unbearable.” I felt a pull on my heartstrings. “Tell me how to fix it, Big Guy.”

“You cannot fix what’s broken.” He resigned to the fact our friendship had run its course. “We both know it.”

“Oh.” I felt a pinch in my chest. “It makes me sad that you feel that way.”

An incredulous chuckle. “Would you prefer it if I lied?”

“Probably,” I said with a short, regretful laugh. “Your lies are less painful.”

Brad cast a stern glance at me, and then his eyes revisited the road. “When I met you, I did not think, not for one second, that you were crazy yet likeable. I did not want to see you again. I never looked at the cafe once to catch a glimpse of you.” His hand shifted the gearstick. “I never wanted to be your friend.”

My phone vibrated again. I ignored it.

“There was never a time where I stared at my new friend and thought, she is beautiful. Why has it taken me so long to notice? Are her eyes always that green? Have her lips always been so delectable?” He indicated to the right and travelled around the roundabout. “I did not wonder if she tasted as sweet as she looked.”

My face was on fire.

“You were complicated from the very beginning, Emma, if not more so, when Carter went missing,” he said, and I had to look away. “I knew that because we started as friends, and friends are not afraid to be themselves. We opened up to each other and allowed our internal victims to become acquainted. You shared your hurt. I shared mine.”

This man is breaking my heart.

“But the dynamics changed somewhere along the way. You wanted me. I wanted you.” His thumb tapped on the steering wheel. “Now, how do we fuck without triggering each other? Oh, that’s right. We don’t. We have to work on ourselves first.” He clicked his tongue a time or two. “Christ, I hope she is worth it. I have to open some dark, ugly scars for her.”

Although I could not face him, I listened to every single thing he had to say with bated breath.

“You are not easy on me. I thought, if we can be patient and earn each other’s trust, sooner or later, I will get the girl. But I guess there is a higher force out there determined to throw us worlds apart.” He took the vibrating phone out of my hand, reading the notifications on the screen. “One step forward, two steps back. It’s been one thing after another.”

Yet, here we are, close enough to touch. Perhaps, on the contrary, the universe is trying to keep us together irrespective of hardship. Surely, that has to count for something.

“I hunt, and you hide.” His throaty voice was a mere whisper now. “Why do I insist on being that guy for you? Is it the thrill of the chase? I am not used to women turning me down. Is it because I am too stubborn to give up? I am not a fan of going without. Or is it that I look at you and think, fuck, this woman is something. I could love her someday.”

My stomach was tight with butterflies.

“You had questions. Why did I stand there and allow Cherry to bully you? Shock. Humiliation. This cannot be happening.” He let out a short, caustic laugh. “I have done everything within my power to be different for this woman, and some scorned bitch can walk up in here and ruin everything. Late-night heart-to-hearts, solemn promises and therapy sessions for nothing.” His foot eased off the accelerator in time to turn another corner. “I lost my chance. Again.”

My fingers twitched restlessly on my lap.

“Let’s cut the bullshit for one second, shall we?” He gave me a long stare. I felt the heat of his eyes on the side of my face. “Cherry is not the reason for the breakdown of our relationship, friendship, whatever the fuck you want to call it. It’s not on her.”

I nodded because he was right. We have not bounced back since I found out Alice Montgomery was pregnant with his second child.

“It’s on you,” he accused with a tone that brooked no argument, and I sat there and took the frustration, the hurt and the rage like a champ. “You hide me from me. You shut me out. You play with my emotions.”

Big Guy is neither right nor wrong. I do not hide from him. I know, in my heart, that he could be the reason for my happiness someday. He only has to look at me, and I smile. But those rare moments of rapture come with guilt. My son could be locked in a dark room, crying for his mother, and where is she? She is distracted by the possibilities of a future with this man and his children.

“I haven’t looked at another woman since I promised to be yours. I can’t remember the last time I fucked and enjoyed it. If sex is not with you, I do not want it.” He stopped by the signalised crossing to let pedestrians traverse the road to the pavement. “I am quite literally the opposite of what you want, yet I am falling over myself to prove that I am everything you need.” He rubbed the scruff of his jaw with unease. “I don’t even recognise myself anymore.”

My eyes watered.

“I have been patient and understanding. I have danced to your tune and entertained this back-and-forth malarkey. And for what? The battle of commitment?” His words were negative and monitory, not soft or pleasant. “Frankly, I think you can be selfish. Is self-centeredness unintentional? Who the fuck knows? But when I do my utmost to prove to you that I have never felt this way about a woman before, and you retort with dismissals and rejections with no intention of actually letting me go, I have to take a huge step back, re-evaluate my life and end this fucked up situationship before I fall harder for someone destined to break my goddamn heart.”

I knuckled a tear beneath my eye.

“I hate you.” It was a lie. He could not hate me, no more than I could hate him. “I hate you for being so beautiful. I hate you for getting inside my head. I hate you for messing with my heart.”

Brad was harsh but honest. I respected him for that. But I wanted to defend myself and explain why our spiritual bond and emotional connection cracked at the surface.

“So don’t ask me how to fix this.” Driving one-handedly down the street, he replied to a text message on my phone. “I don’t think it can be fixed, Emma.”

“Big Guy, I am sorry for hurting you.” My throat was sore as I willed myself not to break down into a blubbering mess. “I do care. I care a lot. More than fear allows me to admit.”

“How long do you expect me to wait for you?” He is straight to the point with his argument. No-holds-barred. “For Carter? Is that what it takes for you to accept me as I am? Do you realise how unrealistic that sounds? I will never stop looking for that little boy. I want to save him. I want to bring him home. But there is a high fucking chance that he will never see the light of another day,” he spat, and I had to bite the corner of my lip to stifle tremors. “We both know it.”

“Regardless of Carter, I wanted to weather the storm with you,” I unleashed my tongue on him. “I wanted to be in this together.”

His palm struck the steering wheel. “You fucking walked away!”

“You impregnated another woman!”

“That happened before you!”

“Yeah, well, it changed everything. You have other commitments.” My anger resurfaced. “I am not part of the program.”

“By choice,” he growled, and I said nothing in return. “Youchoseto isolate yourself. I never turned my back on you. Not until today. You are on your own now.”

I laughed once. “Yet, I am still in the car with you.”

“You self-righteous bitch.” With that, he slammed on the brake, the tires screeching to a halt, the car jarring in the middle of the road. “Go on. Fuck off.” Holding the back of my headrest, he leaned over me to open the passenger’s side door, the cold breeze whispering through my hair. “Get back to that rock you crawled out from.”

My hand gripped the seatbelt. “Are you seriously going to leave me on the side of the road?”

“What do you want from me?” Even with anger ablaze in his eyes, he looked ridiculously handsome. It was impossible to stay mad at him. “Go ahead. I am all ears. Tell me how youreallyfeel because I am fucking done with pretending to understand you.”

Instead of arguing, I leaned in and made the impulsive decision to kiss him, as it may very well be the last time we shared a moment of intimacy.

His lips were soft, smooth, unmoving and unforthcoming, but his eyes closed to savour the connection. Rejection crept in when he never kissed me back.

With shame and guilt weighing heavily on my shoulders, I turned my head to the side, but before I could overanalyse the man’s disclination of affection, I felt the faintest graze of his lips on my cheek.

His hand, rough on the fingertips, palmed my jaw as he brought my mouth back to him for a long, breath-snatching kiss that demanded reciprocation and attention.

Captivated by him, I splayed my fingers over his chest and parted my lips for his tongue.

He came to me willingly, his tongue dancing with mine, the world around us blurring into nothingness.

His fingers held the weight of my nape as his thumb applied pressure to my throat. He gave my swollen lips a gentle peck, a hot caress, then came back hungrily, his other hand sliding to the back of my thigh.

My heart pounded.

With him in control, I could only mirror his demands. The lash of his tongue, either tentatively slow or passionately fierce, took the lead.

A car horn blared.

Our lips ripped apart.

“Emma,” Brad said in a shaky voice. “No.” His forehead rested on mine as he pulled on the door handle to shut the door. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Big Guy…” My sentence was cut short by the man’s firm shake of the head. “I can’t lose you, too.”

“I am done talking about this.” The car had stalled. Brad re-started the engine, dropped into first gear and accelerated forward. “Here.” He tossed the phone onto my lap. “It’s your ex-boyfriend. I told him to put a nine millimetre to his head and pull the trigger.”

My eyes rounded for a fraction of a second. “Brad…”

“Do not lecture me about Tommy O’Shea. I don’t need another reason to stab the fucker within an inch of his life.” The corners of his mouth lifted in a snarl. “He mentioned Quintin.”

I digressed from one issue to tackle another. “Before Christmas, I asked him to escort me to the prison for a visit. He is letting me know that he has arrived at Jace’s place.”

“Right.” An irritated expression crossed his face. “Do you want him to take you instead?”

“No, I want you to be there.” My eyes scanned over the message thread. “But I feel bad for dragging him across the country for no reason.”

“Text him.” Rather than wait for the green light, he veered into the next lane to change direction. “I will drive over there and pick him up. Jace, too.”

“Why?” My thumb hovered above the phone screen. “Can we not murder my son’s uncle? Much to your chagrin, I do not hate him and do not want his death on my conscience.”

“Oh, I won’t kill him,” he said, calm and casual. “Listen, I am not fond, but I do not have to like him to work alongside him.”

I typed a short text message to Tommy.

“What better way to get the old geezer’s hackles to rise?” Brad slipped a toothpick between his lips. “Tommy’s betrayal outweighs the re-emergence of an old friend.” By friend, he meantenemy. Quintin will burst a blood vessel when he sees me later. “As for Jace, I might be able to tolerate the Irish prick more if the tattoo junkie is present.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Emma

Dressed for the occasion in all-black attire, rugged boots, a timeless leather jacket and a sinewy body of intricate tattoos, Jace came to the driver’s side window, swept his eyes over me with curious laziness and gave Brad a fist bump.

“What’s good?” Jace asked, and Brad mumbled something unintelligible. “Tommy is unpacking.” He proffered a half-smoked joint. “He won’t be too much longer.”

“You might want to bring refreshments.” Brad used a white-hot Clipper flame to re-light the joint. When he inhaled, long and deep, I witnessed burning consolation in his eyes and serene calmness wash over him. His body instantly relaxed, the cords of muscle in his arms and shoulders unravelling. Marijuana is his most preferred vice. He functioned better with it intermixed with his blood. “Grendon is a two-hour drive.”

“Oh, I got the good stuff.” With a naughty twinkle in his eye, Jace flourished an expensive bottle of Russian vodka. “Do you want some?” His quizzical stare briefly flickered to me, then back to Brad. “You look like you could use a drink and a strong one at that.”

“No,” Brad declined after a slight pause. “I willoverdrinkif I put the bottle to my lips. Alcohol, drugs and emotional turmoil? It’s a bad mix.” He toyed with the infotainment system. “Besides, you don’t want me to crash the car now, do you?”

A door rattled on its hinges in the distance. Jace glanced over one shoulder to ask Tommy, advancing toward the car with measured strides, if he’d locked up the tattoo parlour.

The two men held a conversation, and soon, Big Guy joined in to confabulate about trivial matters, such as infamous bank robbers, fashion through the ages, fast food chains and urban legends, all whilst I sat in mute silence, feeling like I belonged anywhere but here.

In all honesty, I was so uncomfortable by today’s turn of events. I unbuckled the seatbelt and crept into the backseat. When I caught Big Guy’s eyes in the rearview mirror, he looked relieved. He also needed space, but he was not rude enough to ask.

Tommy, with an unlit cigarette tucked behind the ear, drew in my appearance greedily as he slipped into the back. He never buckled up. He sat there, thighs wide in relaxation.

As I did not want to bear the brunt of the well-documented short fuse of Brad Jones, I only smiled, then veered my gaze to the window. I would rather watch cars pass on by in the night than have another debate with the man prone to speed race and rip people to shreds when infuriated.

“I am a proud Queen fan.” Jace, who had claimed the front seat, is debating genres with Brad. “They are a global presence. Bohemian Rhapsody is a masterpiece.”

“The song has no continuity.” Brad is driving toward London’s Inner Ring road. “It does not make an iota of sense.”

My eyes felt sore and heavy, and soreness and heaviness were not due to tiredness but second-hand marijuana smoke and expensive cologne in the air.

“What about Nickelback?” Jace mused, and Brad sighed audibly. “Red? Cold? Foo Fighters?” Another complaint. “Red Hot Chilli Peppers? The Goo Goo Dolls?”

“Christ, Jace. Who fucking birthed you?” Brad yanked the phone out of Jace’s hand to thumb through the Spotify playlist. “What did these punks use? A name generator? Goo Goo Dolls. It is the worst, most outrageous band name in the history of rock music.”

I laughed under my breath. He is so dramatic.

“Okay, I dig Bryan Adams.” Brad, with one eye on the road and one eye on the phone, selected Summer of ’69, then amped up the volume. “Any protests? Good.” He never left room for a response. “Likewise.”

Jace’s head bobbed along to the music. I tapped his shoulder and pointed to the recently rolled joint pinched between his inked fingers. He pulled a drag. Then, with smoke expelled through the nostrils, he handed over the goods.

I felt Tommy’s eyes on me as I placed the roach to my lips, inhaling a well-deserved hit of mind-numbing haze and blowing it back out.

Why not? I had nowhere to be. No responsibilities or dependents waiting for me at home. I might as well live a little. God knows, I missed out on all the fun stuff growing up.

Vodka is not my best friend. Still, I accepted the bottle from Tommy and downed harsh liquid until my throat and chest burnt.

Big Guy’s eyes sought mine in the rearview mirror. I held my breath, expecting some form of interjection, a verbal lambasting, a look of disapproval, but he expressed nothing. He was in a better mood. The music and the drugs had cooled him down.

“This is Nate’s song.” Brad turned up the music even louder. “Superstition is an all-time favourite. I happen to think the man has excellent taste in music, unlike he-who-shall-not-be-named.”

“You approve of Stevie but not Queen?” Jace defended Queens’ honour. “How is that right? Both parties are legends.”

“Hey, do not ram words down my throat. I never said I disliked Queen.” Brad threw one of the joints out the window. “I said Bohemian Rhapsody is a pile of wank.”

Tommy tapped my elbow. “Ye have lost weight.”

“No, I have a mamma pouch,” I half-joked, and a boyish smile slanted across his face. “I run. A lot. It cost me a couple of pounds.”

“I guess you’d say,” Brad and Jace sing in unison at the top of their lungs. “What can make me feel this way?”

If they continue to skip songs mid-beat, I will probably spin out.

“My girl.” Jace’s hand landed on Brad’s shoulder as they serenaded. “Talkin’ ’bout my girl.”

“Shite,” Tommy muttered to himself. “Jace is comfortable around him, huh?”

“I suppose.” Blowing out a veil of smoke, I watched Brad and Jace in a world of their own, laughing, joking, singing and smoking. Tommy is right. They are comfortable with one another, very close and somewhat brotherly. “They share a common interest.”

“Ah, Miss Warren.” Although Tommy’s head was shaved at the back and sides, where Celtic tattoos marred the skin, a tightly knit braid ran down the centre of the man’s skull to the nape of his neck. “Ye don’t approve.”

“What?” My nose crinkled. “Actually, I think she is great. I am glad the three of them are friends. They have been through a lot together.”

Tommy hummed, the silver hoop with a feather dangling from his earlobe scintillating. “Are ye nervous ’bout tonight?”

Truthfully, I am terrified. Quintin O’Shea is the root of all evil. He will flip tables when I enter the room. And he will happily add years to his sentence to snap my neck. He threatened as much in the past.

“Don’t be.” Tommy stole the joint out of my hand and put the roach to his lips. “Da is all bark, no bite.”

Fingernails digging into the palm of my hand, I studied the side of his profile. “You hate him.”

“Loathe him,” he husked out with an Irish twang. “Ma never stood a chance, the fuckin’ wife beater.” His face, flushed and ruddy, contorted with aversion. “A man is no longer a man once he has raised his fist to a defenceless woman.”

Killian had beaten me to a pulp when I was barely old enough to walk around parentless. Yet, the strategic attack never truly occurred to me because the act of rape trivialised the hand of violence. “I concur.”

Tommy abided by the golden rule of two-puff-pass, extending the joint to Jace. “Quintin is no father of mine.” The whites of his eyes were bloodshot. “The day he is released from prison is the day I go down for murder.”

God, I believed him.

HMP Grendon, the category B prison near Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire, housed over two hundred inmates, most of which are violent recidivists with antisocial personality disorders and poor behaviour controls.

I only know of the prison’s bad reputation because the two-hour drive to Grendon-which felt like a long-haul flight to the Caribbean-included a dry history lesson.

“It’s a physiatric prison.” Brad is knowledgeable about the criminal justice system, the police, the courts and corrections. “Is Quintin redeemable?” It was a sarcastic question. “I think not. They should have thrown him in Wakefield. Or, better yet, Belmarsh. Warren is prone to use a little violence when motivated. He’d teach your old man a thing or two about manners.”

Tommy’s brow raised in disdain. “How are we gettin’ into the prison? It’s late, and visitations ended hours ago.”

“Oswald. He is egregiously venal.” Brad is in the process of explaining gross misconduct among prison officers. “For the right price, he is susceptible to bribery. However, if he feels threatened or exposed, he will close the door in our face and send us packing.” His eyes flashed about with mental restlessness in the rearview mirror. “Oswald might be corruptible and bribeable, but he will not jeopardise his job for anyone.”

Although intrigued, I have yet to ask questions. His connections and dirty dealings are none of my business.

“I have done all the donkey work.” Brad parked the Bentley by the simple wrought iron gate on the west side of the prison. “I am a dodgy fucker. Oswald knows that. We are cut from the same cloth. There is no issue here. But the three of you are enigmatic, which, from his perspective, is a cause for concern.”

The three of us tuned in.

“So, do me a solid. Keep your eyes down and your mouths shut. Let me do all the talking.” Brad leaned over Jace and stuffed two guns in the glove compartment. “At least, be reasonable until Oswald leaves us in a room with Quintin. Christ, I will sit back and have a cup of coffee when that happens. You guys can interrogate the smug bastard until blue in the face for all I fucking care.”

Jace smoothed the tip of his fingers along the carved line of his jaw. “What’s your problem?” An innocuous inquiry. “You are tetchy and uptight. It’s unlike you.” He glanced at me and smirked a bit. “Has she got you on a sex ban already?”

“Fuck off, Jace.” Brad twisted the cap from the vodka bottle and sipped generously. “Macauley O’Brien is in syndicate custody.” He tucked an envelope of money into the pocket of his suit jacket. It was the same money withdrawn from the bank this morning. “I thought you should know. Your pitiful tearaway is problematic.”

“O’Brien?” Tommy’s eyebrows furrowed into a heated scowl. “What did he do this time?”

“He broke into my home,” I explained, and Tommy and Jace shared an unreadable look. “Well, technically, he dug a hole through the wall to have twenty-four-hour access to my flat. He likes to come out and play whilst I sleep.”

“What?” Jace is flummoxed by the news. “Why is O’Brien back with a vengeance? Killian is dead. Everyone has moved on.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Brad checked his reflection in the visor mirror and tidied up his hair. “He is a threat to Emma. I trust that you have faith in me.”

“Of course.” I love how Jace never doubted Brad. He trusted him without reserve and took everything he said rather thoughtfully. “You know what you are doing.”

“Macauley isbelievedto be connected to Carter’s disappearance,” Brad picked up where I left off, and Tommy sat taller in the backseat, head cocked slightly, as he paid attention. “I am unsure if the confession was a ploy to bide more time for himself.”

Tommy listened to the conversation with perpetual confusion. “A confession?” he asked as everyone climbed out of the car and stepped into the cold, wintry night. “What did he say?”

“At first, he denied the allegations and defended himself,” I said, walking between three towering men of stoicism and muscle. “Then he admitted to being at the apartment building to meet with someone named Nicola.”

Brad blew warm breath into his hands. “A fake girlfriend.”

“He divulged when death was imminent.” Delicate fragments of gravel crunched beneath my trainers. “In the end, he acknowledged his crimes and told us Carter was dead.” My son’s name did not belong in the same sentence as thedeceased. “He could hand over the body or take the location to his grave.”

“Your son is alive.” Brad was communicating with me, but the bond had fractured, and the proxemics had shifted. He masked social awkwardness with physical distance, listless apathy and standoffishness. Our separation resulted from our conversation earlier when he ended oursituationship. I detested the definition of the word, that fine line between a committed relationship and a mutually enriching friendship. An anfractuous maze of negative factors like dynamic inconsistency, emotional detachment, and worse, the likelihood of seeing other people. “Macauley referred to Russian roulette when provoking Emma.”

Yes, the Irishman’s contradictory statements and inane comments were indecipherable. I left Club 11′s underground chambers more confused than when I went in.

“A threat.” Jace walked with hands buried in the pockets of his jeans. “The syndicate’s dangerous actions involve unpredictable risks…” He glared into space, and then comprehension dawned on him. “This is not a one-man band. There are others.”

“Exactly.” Brad dodged potholes of stagnant rainwater on the pavement. “Carter is part of a deadly game of chance. We might get him back if we play our cards right. But if we are not smart, if we nail the bastard impulsively, the others will strike back. A life for a life,” he added with a whispered undertone. “Macauley will be shown mercy until further notice.”

“Others?” I asked, perplexed. “Guys, can you break it down for me? I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“Macauley’s message was simple.” Brad decided to look heavenward when conversing with me. “Carter’s life depends on syndicate endeavours. In order to find your son, we have to ensure that fucking tool at the club is alive and kicking. It is our strongest bargaining chip in negotiations. This is not an act of ransoming. These arseholes are not incentivised by money.”

“Then, why are they doing this to us?” To my son, who is innocent. “If not revenge or money, what do they want?”

“I don’t know.” Brad is undeniably irritated with himself for not understanding Macauley’s motives. “But this impromptu trip could be worthwhile. Quintin might have the answer.”

“It’s not an impossibility.” Jace is the first person to reach the prison’sstaff-onlyside door. “Tommy’s surprise appearance could go one of two ways. A betrayed Quintin will either dig his heels in, out of spite, or he will redeem himself for Tommy’s sake.”

I looked at Tommy. “What do you think?”

“Quintin is a shite father. Still, there is love for his sons.” Tommy’s knuckles rapped on the church-style door. “He is stubborn to a fault and inexorable at best; however, when the dust settles and he has the chance to calm down, he will reflect on his behaviour and reach out. He is always tryin’ to extend an olive branch. I am all he has left. It matters to him.”

Breathing through my nose, I respired in short intervals to pacify the thunderous heart in my chest.

“What concerns me is the nature of the visit.” Tommy’s stormy grey eyes bore into mine. “I am not here to mend our relationship as father and son. I am here with the woman responsible for Killian’s suicide to beg for clemency. That won’t wash. Not for love. Not for money. Not for the deliverance of Carter Hughes.”

A bolt clattered behind the door as someone operated the locks on the other side.

My stomach churned. Now, with Quintin O’Shea a stone’s throw away, I had second thoughts.

There are only two people in the world that I fear. One of them is about to sit across the table from me. The other is at Mostyn Avenue and responded toFather.

Big Guy posted an envelope under the gap beneath the door. Only then did a man wearing a white shirt with epaulettes and smart black trousers to complement the shiny black shoes on his feet peer into the night.

“Two is company.” He scratched the several days’ growth of beard on his jaw. “Pick up a few stranglers on the way, did you?” He almost locked himself away, but Brad’s hand shot out and gripped the side of the door. “Easy, Jones. I never asked for any trouble.”

“I paid,” Brad said in a quiet yet urgent voice. “You got the money. Do not be difficult. It will only end badly for you.”

“What are you going to do?” The man adjusted his black-framed glasses. “Kill an officer on prison soil?” A knowing smirk danced on the man’s moustached lips. “You might be a touch crazy, Jones, but you are too smart to shoot yourself in the foot. Tell me, I am wrong.”

Brad’s hand never budged from the door. He was going inside the prison with or without the guard’s consent.

“If I let everyone in,” Oswald assessed the four of us individually, “there must be an adscititious douceur to compensate.”

“Seriously?” Brad jerked the door, thumping the man square in the head. “Gaberlunzie. The fucking liberty.” He talked to himself as he drew fifty-pound notes out of his wallet to compensate the opportunist in uniform. “Do you want anything else whilst I am at it? Facial reconstruction, perhaps. I am quite artistic with a knife.”

Oswald’s jaw slackened. “You would never.”

Brad’s brow lifted in challenge.

“Right. Come inside,” Oswald ordered, and, one by one, the four of us entered the old, unaired building. “Line up against the wall. Arms above your head whilst I frisk.”

In architectural style, the hallway is geometric, with brick-clad walls and concrete window surrounds.

I lined up, as instructed, with hands behind my head and legs slightly apart.

Once the heavy-duty door slammed, locked and bolted, Oswald alternately performed a stop and search. He patted everyone down to the ankles for potential weapons.

Brad stood beside me with hands clasped to the back of his neck. He is ridiculously tall. My head barely reached his chest.

I pushed off the front of my feet to elevate myself. Now, with the extra height, I looked old enough to stand near him whilst the officer frisked roughly yet thoroughly.

I swear, if leg-lengthening surgery is available in our country, I will arrange a free consultation with a surgeon.

“I knowyouhave a firearm lying about. You don’t go anywhere without a Glock.” Oswald’s gloved hands examined the area between Big Guy’s thighs. “What’s inside the trousers?” In a kneeled position on the floor, he peered up from beneath the aggressively gathered lines on his forehead with an accusatory finger aimed high. “I asked you a question,Jones.”

“That would be my cock,Oswald.” Brad’s lip twitched in amusement. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

Oswald’s bulbous eyes slowly lowered to Brad’s crotch area, where trousers obscured the prominent man-bulge. His surprise was not of a sexual nature but of the inability to accept that any man could be so blessed.

Entertained was an understatement. I laughed pointlessly to stifle second-hand embarrassment and flush-cheeked awareness.

“Step lightly.” With a belt of keys jangling at his side, Oswald led us to another locked door. “Mr O’Shea is not expecting visitors, but he is not a stupid man. He knows something is wrong.”

Tommy’s hand squeezed my shoulder supportively before he slipped past to catch up with Jace. The two talked amongst themselves whilst the officer unlocked the serried gates of inescapable wrought iron.

“Wait.” Brad took me by the elbow, slowing me down, then came in front of me with his back to the others. “Whatever happens, do not let Quintin inside your head. You have to be ten steps ahead: emotionless, detached and unruffled throughout the entire visit. He will say and do whatever it takes to get a rise out of you. Your tears will be the reason he falls asleep with a smile on his face. Do better,” he whispered, and I nodded. “Can I count on you?”

“Of course,” I said, subdued. “We all fight for the same cause.”

“Good.” His eyes searched mine for a glimmer of doubt. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Forty-five minutes.” Oswald’s shoes squeaked along the freshly bleached floor as he closed in on the room where Quintin was temporarily contained. “You promised to leave him unscathed, Jones. Do not let me down, or I will drag you to the gutter with me.”

Brad never acknowledged him. He shoved the door open without hesitancy or a backwards glance. Tommy and Jace followed. I nearly backed down. I almost turned around and ran away. But when my son’s laughter played like a sweet-sounding record in the recess of my mind, I stepped over the threshold.

I got you, Baby.

“Well, well, well,” Quintin drawled with no show of trepidation. “Look what the cat dragged in. I knew this was a special occasion. What, with the underhandedness among officers. I never suspected such a formal party.”

I fell into Big Guy’s shadow with overpowering fear, and that’s where I stayed. My hand grappled the bottom of his suit jacket for support. His stare came over one shoulder and locked eyes with mine.

“A nocturnal camisado executed by Liam Warren’s unprincipled myrmidons.” Quintin’s slow, montane voice recaptured Brad’s attention. “Jones, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Tommy and Jace sat on plastic chairs to constellate around the rectangular table. Quintin was so distracted by the testosterone in the room to notice me, hiding in Brad’s shadow, until I made the mistake of peeking around the man’s arm.

If looks could flay the skin of a woman, I would be skinned alive and fed to predatory animals. Quintin’s angular jaw, with sharp edges and faded tattoos, dropped in stupefaction, but a quick and ready smile soon replaced the state of being stupefied.

One thing I can say about the O’Shea men is they are all made of good stock. Even with a heavy-featured face and a scar from ear to mouth, Quintin had aged ruggedly yet handsomely.

“My son.” Quintin looked at me when he gestured to one of his damaged eyes. It was completely white, with no grey hue or black pupil to be seen. “He took a bat to my face. Ain’t that right, Tommy?”

Tommy’s legs stretched out beneath the table in a relaxed manner. He picked at his fingernails with a bored expression.

“Blunt force trauma. Globe rupture led to permanent monocular vision. I will tell ye, it fuckin’ hurt at the time. But that’s old news now.” Quintin’s fingertips rubbed the table ledge gently. “I am not mad, Tommy. Ye protected your Ma. I’d have done the same for mine.” His body eased back in the chair. “It is a good job that I have the other eye, huh?” Only silence greeted him. “What’s the matter, Jace? Ye don’t look happy to see me. Here, I thought, I was like a father to ye.”

Brad grabbed two spare chairs on the other side of the room. He set them out, placed me between him and Jace and popped open the top button of his suit jacket to sit down.

Quintin side-eyed Brad, but the conversation was directed at me. “Take away the threat of punishment, Miss Hughes.” He is not happy to be this close to a dutiful member of the syndicate. “Only then will I be willin’ to hear ye out.”

Assuming Quintin meant the officer in the hallway, Brad removed the toothpick from his mouth and tossed it at the man’s chest. It bounced off, landed on the floor and spun in mocking circular motions. “Fuck the gavvers.”

“Prison-related offences apply to visitors, Jones.” Quintin hummed speculatively. “The gavvers are the least of my concerns. If ye touch one hair on my head, I will have ye incarcerated. Now, what do ye want?”

Tommy’s spine straightened. “Do-”

“Not ye!” Quintin was ungainly, with twitchy fingers and jittery leg movements. “There is nothin’ ye can say to me, Tommy. My son. My own flesh and blood. Ye come to me after years of silence to demand what? I will never shake the hand of a traitor. Ye must be fuckin’ senile!”

Jace’s arm slid across the back of Tommy’s chair in an unspoken show of support.

“I’d have forgiven ye for the prison sentence, for the battery chargers and the unwillingness to meet me halfway, but a meetin’ with ye brother’s accuser-the lass who put him in the fuckin’ ground!” Quintin’s fist, knuckles inked and whitened, crashed on the table, and I inwardly flinched. “Ye are a disgrace amongst our community-a renegade,” he hissed, albeit incapable of facing his son to deliver the harangue. “Ye do not get to disown me. I disown ye!” His face was beet red. “From now on, I grieve the sons I once had as they are both dead to me!”

Tommy blinked rapidly to clear his head. “Where is the lad, Quintin?”

“What lad?” Quintin’s arms crossed over his chest as he leaned back in the chair, the cheap plastic squeaking beneath his weight and movements. “Ah, that’s what this visit is ’bout. Ye here for answers on the Hughes boy.”

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

“Ye think I have somethin’ to do with the lad’s kidnappin’?” A bout of laughter rattled the man’s chest. “Motive has to be proven for the crime to be established. In case ye have yet to notice, I am compromised. Unless ye think I am capable of child abduction from behind prison walls, there is no way I am responsible for his departure.”

Brad is uncharacteristically quiet, his expression giving nothing away. He watched the man intently, the cogs rotating inside his head.

“You have loyal subjects.” Jace talked to Quintin with a calmer approach. “To this day, some travellers refuse to yield to Tommy because of their sworn devotion to you. All you have to do is click your fingers. They will come running. Let’s say, Macauley O’Brien.”

Quintin never blinked.

“Killian’s childhood friend. He is angry, too. He wants revenge.” Jace is the calmest man in the room. “Is it wrong to assume you are working together to avenge your son?”

“Macauley is not my problem. I haven’t seen the bastard since Brigid got me arrested. How is the old bird?” His head cocked to the side. “Ye know, I thought she might have popped in once or twice to slap me if nothin’ else.”

“Don’t talk ‘bout her.” Tommy’s knuckles tapped the table. “If ye bad mouth Ma, I will kill ye, Quintin. Hell, I will fuckin’ go down for it.”

“Very well.” Quintin faked a yawn, his arms stretching above his head. “Isn’t the lad her responsibility?” He glared at me with the intent to gorgonise, but I levelled him with a stony stare. “Carter’s vanishment is a tragic twist of fate.” His smirk was bone-chilling. “But I have nothin’ on him.”

My heart pitter-pattered. “You are lying.”

“Am I?” His inked hands flattened on the table as he leaned across it to stare deep into my soul. “Do ye have any evidence to the contrary?”

Brad’s arm crept along the chair behind me, and then, furtively, his fingers brushed down the underside of my arm. His gentle touch successfully mollified me. “Motive is an aptitude that could not be contained.” His voice alone demanded respect. “Fuck the contrary. You have yet to convince me otherwise.”

“All I can hear is unfounded hearsay and bad manners.” Quintin disregarded Brad and trapped me in his sights. “Story time. Hamish and Martha Hughes produced a family of puritanical rejects. They believe in hard work, old-fashioned values, self-control and selflessness.” His eyes glittered with excitement. “Thatpleasureis wrong and unnecessary.”

My blood chilled. It’s the first time in years someone mentioned the names of my parents. I do not speak of them, and rightfully so.

“But what do ye call a toxic man who pretends to be godly durin’ the religious cantillation of The Lord Jesus Christ?” Quintin is on a roll. “Nonconformist? An intention of apostasy. Hypocrite? An ugly sin. Trickster? An agent of good and evil.” He flashed a gold tooth. “Hamish is a bigoted, homophobic, misogynistic, faithless wife beater-a pathetic excuse of a man-and thus, the impressionable children, products of their environment, influenced by cult-like beliefs, grew to be mighty acolytes.”

Although I wanted to avoid eye contact, I tilted my chin defiantly and mentally prepared myself for further humiliation.

Tommy and Jace are privy to the dark secrets surrounding my family, and, to some extent, so is Big Guy. But for reasons I wish to ignore, Brad, having front-row seats to my parents’ scandalous behaviour, left a bad taste in my mouth. I would hate for him to believe I am, as Quintin accused, a carbon copy of the man I once called father.

“Dishonesty is in their blood. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Emma is her father’s daughter. A bad egg.” Quintin eyed me up and down in sheer disrespect and overt repulsion. “Her father, if ye can even call him that, cheats on her mother and blames adulterousness on covetous women. He is never blameworthy. It is everyone else’s fault.”

The end of my comess will be getting out of the prison with my dignity intact, for I had the strongest, comminatory urge to pick up a chair and beat him with it.

“Hamish’s wicked sense of humour sounds familiar, does it not?” Quintin’s long fingers, woven with black ink, played the piano on the edge of the table. “His youngest daughter, so meek and quiet in the background, woke up one mornin’ and followed in her father’s footsteps. It was hard for her to live as a devout member of the church of Christ. So many unrealistic rules. Alcohol in moderation. Drugs in moderation. Sex in moderation.” His sneer was full of sarcasm alongside the words spraying out of his mouth like spittle. “However, temperance is unappreciated. If she wanted to live for another day, she had to abide by the rules. But what if she meets a young lad who wants to do naughty things with her, eh? Oh, daddy will punish her. He does not like disobedient children.”

Self-control, I thought. Do not let him get under your skin. Big Guy told you this would happen.

“What if she can get away with it?” Quintin gritted between his teeth. “What if she can pry on a vulnerable lad to have the best night of her life?”

“The best night of my life.” My bottom lip rolled between my teeth. “I was raped.”

“Ye were gaggin’ for it!” Quintin spat out in absolute detestation. “Ye took advantage of my son and played the victim to save face with your father! Killian is fuckin’ worm feed because of what ye did!”

Brad’s thumb circled my elbow with lazy strokes. It took so much willpower not to turn to him.

“Why did ye do it, huh?” Quintin’s functional eye was brimmed with tears. I hated him with every fibre of my being, but from one parent to another, I understood his pain and sympathised with him. He is, after all, a grieving father. “He was your friend. He loved ye. He was ready to leave the entire community behind for a future with ye.”

“I loved him, too. He was mybest friend.I’d have done anything for him…But notthat.” My throat worked on a tight swallow. “Friends do force each other to be intimate. No means no. My word should have been enough for him to stop. Instead, he pinned me to the floor on a bed of dirty leaves, ripped my clothes to shreds and took me over and over again!”

“Do not confuse rape with regret!” Quintin’s anger heightened progressively and aggressively. “Ye fucked him because ye wanted to, then ye had to go home, guilt-ridden and conscience-stricken and pretend it did not happen to appease your tosser of a father. Goddammit!” He pushed to his feet, the legs of the chair scraping on the floor, and jostled the table forward slightly in a fit of rage. “Admit what ye did to my boy!”

“Killian will always be my brother,” Tommy said, and Quintin slid him a look of pure hatred. “I still love him. That will never change. But what he did was wron’. And we were wron’ to defend his honour. He hurt a youn’ girl.” His hand motioned toward me. “If that were my daughter, I’d have fuckin’ buried her rapist after castratin’ him.”

“Tommy…” Quintin’s lips ticked in agitation as he contemplated a reasonable response. “Ye let her get to ye, just like she got to our Killian.”

“No.” Tommy’s head shook almost impeccably. “I let her open my eyes to the truth.”

“Of course, ye did.” Quintin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ye were always jealous of Killian. Ye know how much he loved the lass.” His chest heaved on a deep inhalation. “Is that what this is? Ye fuckin’ backstabber. Ye come in and save the day to get a taste of brother’s leftovers!”

“Emma was my first love.” Tommy’s admittance caused Quintin to blanch. “She had no reason to lean on Killian for sex when she was gettin’ it from me.”

Brad’s head tipped to the side to release the tension in his neck. Bones clicked.

“Lies…” Quintin was sickly pale and surged with denial. “Ye are full of shite, the lot of ye.”

“Quintin,” Jace interjected before things got out of hand. “Nothing can be more redemptive for you than your grandson’s safe return. Please, if you know something, anything, tell us so that we can sort it.”

“Carter is not my grandson.” Quintin’s paralanguage is a combination of anguish, anger and conflict. “Emma’s actions were inconsistent with someone who genuinely cared about the child. He would still be here if she did her job correctly as a mother. She only has herself to blame.” He proceeded with purposeful fanfaronade. “A hard lesson learnt. Perhaps, Emma, with your next child, ye will be more careful.”

I never saw it coming. Quintin had a conniption fit and lunged across the table to wrap his hands around my neck before I could even comprehend the menacing shift in his demeanour.

My eyes squeezed shut, and my body stiffened as a defence mechanism, but the man’s sharp fingernails only grazed my throat.

When I braved the storm, one eye at a time, to see what prevented the attack, I noticed that someone had snatched his wrist and pinned his forearm to the table.

“You don’t want to do that,” Brad said in a low, raspy voice. “I will extricate your heart whilst it beats if you ever raise your hand to this woman again.”

Quintin’s eyes shot daggers at him. “I am not afraid of ye, Jones.”

“Do not test me, old man.” A finality in his tone. “I eat schmucks like you for breakfast. Lay off the argle-fucking-bargle.” He pushed the man in the shoulder, sending his body into the chair. “You will be tortured in strappado from the confines of your cell if you do not work with us. I already have three officers on standby who will gladly put you to sleep and call it suicide.”

Quintin is entertained, his eyes dancing wildly, a shit-eating smirk on his face. He is insufferable.

“You will see a resurgence of fallen enemies if you do not comply.” Brad’s shoulders hunched forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, his fingers threading together. “I will personally ensure that you are bludgeoned to death.”

“An imposition of death threats.” Quintin deadpanned his response. “How will I ever survive?”

“You are not taking me seriously.” Brad soared to his feet and utilised the power of his height to intimidate Quintin-who also rose to his feet-as he put a spread of opportunities on the table. “Warren Enterprise will never beg for compliance. You have one shot to work with us, or I will hit you where it hurts. You are unfazed by violence because you come from a violent background. A cruel beating only takes you so far. You have disowned your family, but you love them and will do anything to protect them.”

Quintin’s shoulders squared. “Is this your idea of benignancy?”

“Unfortunately for you, you are in here, defenceless, and I am out there, merciless.” Everything that came out of Brad’s mouth was a threat, not a warning. “I have no love or connection to your community. If you want a war, then I will give you a fucking war. I will start with the site. Every one of them will bleed as a consequence of the former king’s selfishness and abdication. Your wife will burn to death in the sacrificial flames of Hell whilst I stand back and watch with an empty petrol canister in hand.”

Jace is on his feet in a flash. “Jones…”

“Do not fuck with me, Quintin.” In sudden viciousness, Brad seized Tommy’s throat, yanked him off the chair like he weighed nothing and dragged his body upright. “I will snap his neck right here and now!” Tommy’s back fused to Brad’s chest, the forearm around his throat restricting his movements and limiting his oxygen. “Hand over the boy!”

Fear slammed into me like a freight train. I looked at Jace to ask him to do something. He was already staring at me as if he expected interference. What shocked me was the wide eyes of warning. He is telling me to stay back, to be quiet, to let the aggression in the room play out.

“Fuck,” Tommy’s inked fingers clawed at Big Guy’s arm, the bracelets around his wrist jangling together as the pair wrestled for the upper hand. “Jones…” His groaned plea went unheeded. “Shite, I can’t…breathe…”

“Let him go.” Quintin is not amused. He took one cautious step forward and raised his hands in the air. “Not him,” he said in surrender. “Not my son.”

“Give me the boy.” A switchblade magically appeared. I am five seconds away from fainting. “Safe and unharmed,” Brad added, with the blade’s sharpest point digging into the hollow spot behind Tommy’s ear. “A life for a life, Quintin. You have been in the game long enough to understand how shit fucking works!”

“I am not responsible for Carter Hughes’ disappearance.” Quintin’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “I never orchestrated the lad’s vanishment. Ye have to believe me-”

In unforgivable haste, Brad slashed the blade down Tommy’s face, the gash raw, bloody, fleshy and crooked. Even Jace, whose eyes rounded in shock, was unprepared for the abruptness of ruthless practices. Blood gushed from the bottomless pit of the man’s wound in coincide with guttural moans of pain.

“Oh, my God.” I keeled over at the waist, head spinning with immediate flashbacks of Tommy’s skin tearing open. I was going to throw up. “Big Guy…”

Brad threw Tommy aside; luckily, Jace was there to capture his fall. I was appalled and disgusted with his penchant for knife crime. I cannot believe he would do that to someone who is only here to help us, especially because I stressed that I wanted no harm to come to my son’s uncle.

“Final warning.” Brad fisted Quintin by the scruff of the hair, the bloodied blade teasing the edge of his thinned lips. “Next time, I will be less forgiving and slash your son’s throat. Ten seconds.”

Jace kneeled on the floor by Tommy, keeping a firm hand on his ruptured flesh to staunch the bleeding. “Jones, I swear to fucking God.”

“Five seconds.” Brad’s eyes were the black holes of a soulless man. His fingers tangled in Quintin’s hair, holding him in place. “Three, two…”

“Alright,” Quintin snapped, and my panicked heart fell to the floor in tandem with my jaw. “I never lied. I ain’t got nothin’ to do with lad bein’ missin’, but I heard somethin’ recently ’bout Macauley and his cousin.”

“Silas?” Tommy staggered to his feet. “What ’bout him?”

“There is talk of ‘em in business together,” Quintin explained. “Don’t quote me on it, though. I could be wron’, but some of the lads here, when the lights go out, they whisper through the cells. I listen.” Brad pushed Quintin in the chest, and he dropped heavily into the chair. “If Macauley is hidin’ somethin’, Silas is ye best shot.”

Tommy, Jace and Brad had a brief conversation with their eyes. I glanced between them, head bouncing in three directions, but whatever they communicated was Morse code. Either that or I am dumber than I look.

“It could be ’em.” Quintin only had eyes for his son now. “Go to Silas and call his bluff.”

Brad tucked the switchblade into his trouser pocket and hightailed to the door. When he flung it open, Oswald, earwigging on the other side, stumbled into the room and landed on the floor in a disjointed heap.

I never stayed back. I chased behind Brad, but he was determined to get away from me. By the time I reached him, he was outside, with the cold air and the rustling trees. “Why did you do that?” My question echoed across the expanse of blackness. “You didn’t have to hurt Tommy. That was completely uncalled for-”

“Ye could have been less aggressive,” Tommy piped in, and I spun around to face him. “That stunt will leave a scar.” He touched the knife wound on his face. “Ye promised to take it easy on me.”

“It had to look believable.” Jace’s heavy-duty boots scuffed along the gravel. “Sorry, Em. We wanted to tell you, but you are not very good at hiding your emotions.”

“Hey, it was more realistic because of her.” Tommy winked at me. Not that I did anything but gawk with open-mouthed astonishment in return. “What are everyone’s thoughts? I don’t buy it. Silas is one of the good ones.”

“Same.” Jace rocked back on the heels of his boots. “Fuck, I am not even convinced Quintin is involved. I just have this nagging feeling that it’s closer to home.”

Tommy assessed the blood on his fingertips. “Who is gonna stitch me back together?”

“Come on.” Jace tapped him on the elbow. “There is bound to be atool kitin the boot.”

“Brad?” My adrenaline was sky-high. “You all planned for it to turn out like that…” He was closed-mouthed. “Well, what happens now? Was the trip worth it?”

“Let me handle it from here.” Big Guy coaxed me toward the Bentley-where Jace and Tommy ransacked the boot-by the tip of my elbow. “That shit in there? We don’t dwell on it. Life goes on. One foot in front of the other. Besides, you had plans, remember?”

I am sure it was against his better judgement when he curled a piece of hair behind my ear to stop it from irritating my eyes.

“You have to get some sleep.” His finger lifted my chin so that our eyes could reacquaint. “In the morning, take a hot shower and salvage your relationship with Benjamin. He misses you, Emma.”

Yes, I had to right a wrong with my brother. I also had to attend Mary’s for dinner and bring cheap wine.

Brad went to move past me. My hand gripped his fingers, pulling him back, and thankfully, he did not protest. He came to me, head low, and waited to see what I had to say.

“Thank you,” I said with a painfully beating heart. “Not for your undying support or your help in Carter’s case. For both, I am grateful, but that’s now what I meant.”

His eyes bore the weight of the world.

“Thank you for being beautiful. Thank you for getting inside my head. Thank you for messing with my heart,” I whispered, and his constricted throat muscles corded. “I do not regret any of it. Not one moment with you, good or bad. I know deep down, when all is said and done, you were worth the fall.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

Brad

I had a lunch date with Mabel and Dominic at The Araki, New Burlington Street, Mayfair, London. My son’s live-in Nanny is a raw fish virgin. I decided to pop her cherry with world-renowned edomae sushi for three hundred and ten pounds a pop.

According to the restaurant’s website, the dexterous itamae prided himself on care and preparation to give every customer at the table the most intimate and luxurious dining experience.

I am not a massive fan of sushi because the minimal ingredients of cold stickiness, bland mushiness, flavourless crunchiness and savourless chewiness are not a bit of me, but I could make an allowance for the old mare’s birthday.

As I could not get the Bentley down the pedestrianised street, I drove around for ten minutes in search of a decent space. It would be a stream of involuntary expletives when exasperated by mindless perambulators before I found parkability between two stationary vehicles and sat there for a mental health break to reduce stress and practice affirmations.

After I dropped Emma home, not a word between us, I returned to the estate, showered, changed and caffeinated. I could have stayed behind to catch up on beauty sleep and re-energise for the day ahead (it is not like I am needed at the club or had a list of errands to run), but I craved some alone time.

In view of avowed gastronomes, sartorial moguls and trendy shopaholics, I opened the glove compartment and retrieved the bag of stowed cocaine. I had to pump stimulants in my veins to get through the day sans the hindrance of drowsiness.

Pouring two haphazard lines of sniff on the dorsal side of my hand, I inhaled a double dose of euphoria and rubbed leftover residue on my gums for rapid absorption.

When I espied my reflection in the rearview mirror, I winced at the quintessential coke whore staring back at me. I might look like a million dollars, suit and tie, to vamp up the image, but I felt like thirty cents.

Decidedly overtired, I stuffed the small, empty plastic bag in the leather wallet’s side compartment, ready for the bin later, and grabbed the iconic Tiffany Blue Box® on the passenger seat.

Dominic’s security detail, placed strategically and inconspicuously, came into view as I strode toward The Araki. All six men, albeit gathered in crisp suits akin to every other businessman in the proximity of Mayfair, stood outside Capstone Investment Advisors with beverages and cigarettes.

Mabel, wearing the brightest coral two-piece trouser suit, is by the restaurant’s main door. Her brittle hands, bespattered with age spots, clung to the handles of Dominic’s pushchair.

“I thought you forgot about me,” she said as I leaned in to place a chaste kiss on her cheek. “I’d have strung you up by the balls if you did.”

“Do not be so soft.” My head dipped inside the pushchair to kiss the top of my son’s head. He was out for the count, his face scrunching at the slight contact. “How long has he been asleep?”

“Dominic nodded off in the car.” Mabel squirted sanitiser onto her palm, rubbing her hands together. “What is that building?”

I eyed the men down the street. “A global, alternative investment management firm.”

“Oh, that is impressive.” Her eyes squinted as she watched the serried ranks of syndicate members gathered for small talk. “Defenders and investors. It is always an adventure with them.”

Christ, this woman is gullible and clueless. “Experienced bodyguards know better than to draw attention to the job.” Fingers clicking, I pointed at my son. “They operate unobtrusively in the background.”

Her lips pursed in perplexity.

“Let me give you an example. Four Bentley vehicles will be parked down the road with separate security. All eyes on me. I do not see them. I do not speak to them. I do not associate myself with them. They are present for one purpose only, to ensure I do not get popped off in the middle of the street.”

Not that I am incompetent. I am a sharpshooter who can fire bullets like the best of them.

“One, me, not being present, would be a tragedy in itself. I am far too handsome to die young.” My wink was cheeky but light-humoured. “Two, me, as acting boss, leaving the big boss’s operation wide open for the taking just to cross the river of Styx, is downright selfish. Warren needs me to stay alive. At least until he is out of the pen.”

She attempted to smile.

“The encumbrance of the boss’s empire is an open invitation for enemies; therefore, I have a constant target on my back, as do the people I care about most. My son will never be accepted for sovereign immunity because the underworld is the evilest perpetrator of mankind. They will try and hurt him to get to me.” My stare flickered to Dominic’s security detail once more. “The men are not investors, Mabel. They are camouflaged killers pretending to be normal individuals so you and Dominic can leave the estate and enjoy everyday life without drawing unwanted attention to yourselves.”

Mabel had a quick grin and a steady gaze, but a shadow of queasiness crossed her wizened features.

“I have three hours spare until I meet Nate.” He had texted earlier, asking if I wanted to check out a new designer store on King’s Road, Chelsea. Of course, I agreed to meet him. I absolutely love retail therapy. Nothing is more rewarding than treating yourself to tailored suits and leather shoes. A belt or two. Fuck it. I might buy everything in sight just because I am a rich prick, and I can. “Is that enough time to satiate hunger, My Fair Lady?”

“Oh, yes.” Mabel toyed with the string of fake pearls around her neck. “And I am positively starving. I skipped breakfast for this spontaneous dinner date. You sure know how to make someone feel special, Mr Jones.”

Holding the door open like a true gentleman, I gestured for Mabel to go inside with the pushchair and prepared myself for Edomae-style sushi.

One can hope that raw fish slapped on a bed of cooked rice tasted better than it looked.

The chef patron presided over the plain cypress wood counter and working surface alongside his team of assistants in the Edo period-inspired restaurant.

It might be Mabel’s birthday, a good excuse for the old bird to celebrate, but I declined the short wine list and opted for ice water on her behalf. Dominic could wake up any moment for a bottle of warm milk, and she had to be on hand.

Once the two of us had become seated, I wheeled Dominic’s pushchair between our stools and fell into casual and frequent chit-chat with the chef.

Mabel observed with rapt attention as the team constructed miniature hand-crafted masterpieces of raw fish with utmost precision and colourful inventiveness.

“You can go first.” I slid the china bowl of seafood broth mixed with strands of yuzu to the old bird. “Let me know when it is safe to indulge.”

“I am sure every dish is a taste of Heaven.” Mabel delved into the broth with gusto and moaned approvingly when rich flavours lathered her tongue. “So…” With a quick napkin dab of the lips, she sipped water to wash down the first mouthful. “Emma is nice.”

Not falling for that premeditated conversation starter, I thanked the chef for the plate of tuna tartare in soy sauce with shavings of white truffle.

“You are very talented.” Mabel’s admiration was for the team and the well-constructed sushi rolls. “I heard about the abduction of her little boy,” she said, subdued and thoughtful. “The poor woman must be heartbroken.”

Sucking soy sauce off my thumb, I sampled a panoply of appetisers.

“It is a troubling thought,” she prattled on whilst I consumed exquisite edomae-style sushi in silence. “Imagine what she is going through. Every mother’s worst nightmare.”

My huff came out forced, loud and irritated. In other words, take the hint. I never signed up for all that is Emma Hughes.

“Oh, it does not bear consideration.” Mabel popped a morsel of squid with golden almas caviar into her mouth. “I wish I hadn’t seen it on the news and could erase the lad’s smile from my head. Monsters, I tell you. Whoever took him, I hope they burn in the pit of Hell. Children are so innocent. How could you hurt them? And for sexual gratification, I bet.”

I would rather not consider the possibility of someone hurting the boy for their own pleasure.

As a survivor of child sexual abuse, I am fully aware of what paedophilia entails and how children suffer as a consequence.

I know from experience the harmful effects of post-traumatic stress can, in most cases, make the despicable act of sexual abuse seem less significant. A life sentence I would not wish on my worst enemy, never mind the young and innocent.

My chest tightened.

I don’t want that painful burden for Carter Hughes, the secrets, the nightmares, the flashbacks, the voices…Anything but the constant reminder of what evil did to you.

“You should check in on her more.” Mabel swindled another helping of sushi rolls off the chef. “Emma, I mean. Life after losing a child can be very lonely. Perhaps you could invite her to the estate more. A nice, quiet, romantic dinner for two. Gilbert on standby…”

“Will you desist?” If I never liked the nosey bint, I’d lay the bastard head on her. “You are not cupid. Do not involve yourself with my romantic affairs. Your job is to take care of my son.”

“And I am an excellent Nanny, thank you very much. Master Dominic does not want anything with a woman like me around. It’s just…” Her voice wavered. “Mr Jones, I have never seen a smile quite like it. Surely, you must see what is in front of you.”

“Mabel…” My patience is wearing thin. “A woman’s smile is not enough reason to meddle.”

“Who mentioned Emma’s smile?” Her eyebrow was canted. “Mr Jones, I was referring to you.”

I gave her the death stare.

“Emma’s presence made you happy.” Thanking the chef for the meal, she wiped her lips with a napkin and downed water in one gulp. “Think about it. When was the last time you came home and had a lie-in? I will answer for you: never. You never make the time to rest and sleep. You are up at the crack of dawn and out of the estate before the birds can fly. But when Emma stayed the night, you slept like a baby. You wanted to be home with the family.”

This woman is getting on my nerves. “I go to the kitchen every morning to enjoy breakfast with you and Dominic.”

“Oh, for goodness sake. You have a quick coffee and see yourself out. You know I am right.” Mabel fussed with my son’s blanket. “I like her. Dominic likes her. You,” she stressed, “more than like her.”

“Mabel,” I said, rude and brusque. “I will chuck your birthday present in the bin if you do not shut the fuck up. I am not mentally equipped to talk about Emma.”

The Nanny is not bothered by idle threats. “Why so aggressive?”

“Why so meddlesome?”

“I am a woman,” she stated the obvious. “Meddling is what we do. When the men in our world don’t know what’s good for them, wise old women interfere for the greater good.”

Yes, well, this wise old woman is about to see a different side of me if she does not drop the subject of Emma Hughes.

Having lost my appetite, I dumped the blue gift box on the wooden counter. “For you, you undeserving wench.”

“For me?” Mabel asked, her hands shaking frantically to unbox the gift, and I sighed out loud to make it known that the crazy world she lived in had exhausted me enough for one day. “Right, of course. I am the lucky birthday girl.”

Dominic stirred in the pushchair. He groaned in discomfort, kicking the blanket away from his chunky legs.

“Mr Jones…” Mabel gawked at the Tiffany Victoria® necklace in platinum with timeless freshwater pearls and classic, superlative diamonds to match the tennis bracelet and elegant earrings. “Are the pearls real?”

Yes, the impeccable jewellery set boasted high-quality pearls and cost just over eighty grand. The gift was neither costly nor begrudged but an investment.

Mabel is a good, old-school Nanny and the perfect addition to the family. If I am good to her and show how much I appreciate her, she will stay for the duration of my son’s childhood.

Smiling fractionally, I gestured to the box. “Allow me.”

“Oh, I could bawl my blood eyes out.” Mabel turned on the stool, her back to me, unclipped her fake pearl necklace and threw it in her handbag. “Perhaps, I should keep them for a special occasion.”

“Nonsense.” My hands went over her head to drape the sophisticated necklace around her neck, the timeless pearls and brilliant diamonds sparkling like fragments of ice. “Every day is a special occasion in our world.”

“You never cease to amaze me.” Mabel slid down from the stool to unstrap Dominic. He was round-eyed, with red cheeks and messy hair, when she lifted him into her arms. “Look who is here to see you,” she cooed, and he spat the dummy out and extended his arms to come to me. “You should spend quality time with him, Mr Jones. I don’t think you realise how much he misses you.”

“I am trying my best.” Taking Dominic from Mabel’s arms, I nuzzled his cheek with a spatter of raspberry kisses. “Do I need to put you on a diet or what? You weigh a tonne.” My son giggled, his palms attacking my beautiful face. “Why does he insist on hitting me? Moreover, why does the sadistic bugger find it funny?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” Mabel admired her pearl-adorned reflection in an encrusted compact mirror. “He is his father’s son.”

***

When Nate offered an all-expenses-paid-shopping-trip to King’s Road, Chelsea, I pictured some drab, gloomy boutique or dieted brand, not over five thousand square feet of three-dimensional architecture, twenty-first-century furniture, highly decorative surfaces, broken baccarat crystal vitrines and light-hued wooden parquet flooring.

I am in my bastard element.

The decor was mismatched but seemed to work. I admired the business suits hung from the suspended steel beams, the faceless chrome mannequins, the baroque distressed wall mirrors and the steel spiral staircase with a glass balustrade leading to the second floor.

A cream bouclé curved sofa, which exuded luxurious decadence, situated beneath the prominent diamond-shaped light fixture, captured my fall as I wilted into the blissful ambience of warm cosiness before the materialisation of Tweedle Dee and Tweddle Dumb. Nate and Josh will look for me to encourage a successful fashion show in the fitting rooms.

A notification pinged on my phone.

Terrence: Miss Emma got her job back.

Me: Good for her.

Terrence: Laurence gave her two weeks to get her head straight beforehand.

Me: Who?

Terrence: Miss Emma’s boss.

Me: Happy days.

Terrence: I will drive Miss Emma into town to buy a gift for her brother, Mr Benjamin.

Me: Great stuff.

Terrence: Much later, I will escort Miss Emma to her sister’s place for an evening meal. Mr Benjamin will be present.

Sister? I nearly asked for details…

Me: Terry Boy, with the exception of an emergency and/or information regarding Carter, I do not require further updates on Emma Hughes.

Terrence: You have, for the sake of clarity, cancelled the detailed itinerary of Miss Emma’s weekly plans and journeys.

Me: Correct.

Terrence: May I ask why?

Me: No, you may not.

Terrence: Consider it done.

“Speak of the Devil, and he shall appear.” Nate’s distinctive voice echoed from somewhere. “Thou shall not covet the two-piece gold suit with jewelled capelet.”

Arching an eyebrow, I slipped the phone into my pocket and craned at the neck to find him and came unstuck.

“Thou shall not try on the black fido fedora,” Josh chimed in, the dozy twat. “And steal it!”

My head lifted scarcely to glimpse over the sofa’s rear. I saw many shoppers, all of whom were stoic males, but I could not locate the pair of arse-licking numpties for the life of me.

“Thou shall not envision the murder of best friends,” Nate drawled, and I swiped the Ascot classic top hat on the display table and used it to cover my face as my body relaxed on the sofa. “And enjoy it!”

Two lines of cocaine ineffectively quashed extreme exhaustion. I could fall asleep on my nose.

“You took your time.” Josh snaffled the hat off my face, adjusted it on his head and flashed me a naughty wink. “You missed all the fun.”

“You call the mockery of commandments and shopping trips to eccentric clothing stores fun?” I stared, with arms folded and legs stretched out. “You need to get out more, Sailor.” My eyes went to Nate. “Where is the kid? And what the fuck are you wearing? That’s something my grandmother would wear.”

“You don’t have a grandma.” Nate paired the wide-leg tweed suit with a sheer ruffled shirt and a paisley top hat. “Celine is taking care of Kade.”

“Take your tweed-wearing arse back to the fitting room.” Feeling sick by simply looking at him, I swung my legs over the sofa and got to my feet. “Your ugliness might rub off on me. I would not be seen dead in any of that shit you dare to call fashion.”

“Who pissed on you?” Josh is in front of the free-standing mirror now, thinking highly of his reflection. “So, what do you think?” His arm muscles flexed and rippled as he posed for absolutely no one but himself. And I thought I was the vainest of them all. “The colour works wonders with my eyes, huh?”

“Are you fucking high?” He must be colour-blind. “It’s orange. It belongs in the dumpster, not on your back.”

“It’s salmon.” Josh fixed silver cufflinks to the sleeves of the monstrous snake print shirt. “What’s not to like?”

“Everything.” Gravitating to the horizontal beams displaying classic-style suits, I flicked through clothes hangers with a frown above my brows. “What happened to less is more? Even the simpler dress shirts have metallic cuffs and sequinned breast pockets. I prefer formal button-down shirts.”

“Bask in the wackiness. I know I am.” Trading the paisley hat for a patchwork bucket hat, Nate shoved Josh to the side and took ownership of the mirror. “Now that’s what I am talking about. Simon Basset ain’t got shit on me.”

My eyes rolled.

The suit jackets are extortionately priced-daylight robbery comes to mind. If the odd abstract pattern and awful bright colours did not spin me the fuck out, I would gladly stump up the cash and buy everything in sight. You could not pay me to model silk and glitter.

“Fuck this shit. I am going to sleep.” Toppling onto the sofa, I land facedown on the soft, somniferous cushions. “Wake me up when you decide to get your balls back.”

“Brad, remove the stick from your ass and try on one of these damn shirts.” Attempting to get a rise out of me, Nate hurled something velvet and revolting on my back. “I could see you in lime green.”

Ready to lose my cool, I counted to ten inside my head. “Nate, I will murder you.”

“Why? I thought you’d like the shirt.”

“No, you thought you’d piss me off.”

“Well, I figured you’d at least try it on.”

“No, you figured you’d laugh at my expense.”

“What about the cool, celebratory garment that can be worn in a multitude of ways?” Nate put an offer forward, and I peeked at the dusty rose infinity dress. “You got nice legs, so…” His lips began to pucker. “I will take the stunned silence as a big no…”

“You need to get back in the office full-time. All this time off from work is eating away at your intelligence.” My feet braced the weight of another stand. I rounded the sofa, ripped the hanger out of his hand and dumped it on a nearby display table. “Make jokes about me wearing a dress again, and I will strangle you with it.” Christ, I was rubicund, unsmiling and deadly serious. “We never did the whole heart-to-heart malarkey because we clicked from the get-go and concentrated on being brothers and friends, instead of busybodies with an agenda, but I know, with you at the pinnacle of Warren Enterprise, you got all the sordid details on the boss’s employees-including me. You know damn well not to hit a brother where it might fucking hurt.”

“Brad…” Nate’s lips grimaced in confusion. “I mean, yeah, sure, I can read between the lines where the brothers are concerned. I have known everyone long enough. And I do have access to everyone’s files…” He stared with hard eyes. “Not your file, though. I have never seen it.”

Perplexed, I was frozen in time. “How is that possible?”

“Only Warren can answer that question.” Nate switched the patchwork bucket hat for a flat canvas cap. “The Elite are kept under lock and key in the boss’s vault. He never told me the location.”

Warren’s vault is a mystery to me. I have never seen nor heard of it, and I want to know why. “What about Sailor? Have you read his file?”

“I have.” Nate sent Josh an apologetic smile. “The same rule applies, though. Sailor is part of The Elite. His file is in the vault.”

“The Elite…” My mind raced with questions. “Are the details as thorough as the files belonging to the low-ranked brothers?”

Nate gave me a curt nod. “Down to copies of our birth certificates.”

“Would I see the names of people from my past if I obtained my file?” I asked with a degree of wariness, and Nate’s head dipped again. “Let’s say, an estranged family member?”

“You already know the answer to that question,” Nate said, straight to the point. “What you should ask yourself is do you care enough to find out.”

My father’s whereabouts could be in the vault. Does that mean anything to me? I am not so sure anymore.

“Why dwell on it, though?” Nate rummaged through hangers of female suit jackets. Come to think of it, that’s the only rack in the entire store with clothes designed for women. “Warren kept the vault away from us for a reason. He doesn’t want us to have access to it.”

No, I do not buy that one bit. Still, I placed the information in the back of my mind for a rainy day. I had other things to worry about like the silk, fuchsia trouser suit bespattered with sequins.

“That suit takes the absolute piss.” Snapping the glitzy trousers off the rack, I held them between us. “If my bird flounced around in shit like this, I’d put her in the dog pound. In fact, I wouldn’t use this to wipe the shit from my arse-”

“Excuse me?” A woman’s infuriated voice ricocheted throughout the expanse of the store, the three of us flinging eyeballs in multiple directions to identify her. “That shit-wiping material will sell for two grand! You are getting your filthy hands all over it! Your disregard toward fashion is insulting!”

I marked the source: a tall, svelte blonde woman in a regal violet suit complimenting the suede courts and the black polo neck jumper, descending the staircase with one hand sliding down the guard rail.

“Hermès.” My hands gesticulated to the suit I boasted with style and confidence. “I know all about fashion, and this place is not where it’s at. You might want to get in touch with the manager to fire the designer behind these grotesque garments.”

Nate snorted behind me.

The woman blinked, flickering those long, black eyelashes. “I am the designer and the owner of this retail store. If you do not like or appreciate my work,” she flung a finger to the entrance as she prowled toward me like a madwoman on a mission to kill, “I will lock the door behind you.”

“I do not like it when menials tell me what to do.” I grabbed a random pile of clothes off the rail without breaking eye contact. “Now, I will stay here longer for the cheek and buy this disgusting fabric just to throw in the skip later.”

Her green eyes homed in on the bundle of balled-up material in my arms. “Are you in the right department? I never pegged you as a man with an appetite for women’s clothes.”

Forcing the clothes into Sailor’s hands, I swallowed to moisturise my dry throat. “Josh becomes Joslynn at night.” My face was hot. “I mean, look at him, all decked out in fucking salmon.”

“Joslynn?” Josh pinned me with a scowl. “Seriously, Brad? What the fuck did I do to you in a previous life?”

My eyes alone told him to take one for the team. Christ, I had damaged this woman’s confidence in less than five minutes. If I say or do one more thing out of term, she will flip the switch and attack me or burst into tears and run for the hills.

“Look, we never meant to cause any problems.” Nate, the mediator, intervened before I insulted this woman further. “Brad’s overworked, that is all. And he is grouchy when he is hungry.”

I am the opposite of hungry.

“Wait! Oh, my God!” The woman’s wide eyes boomeranged on me. “Brad Kelleher, I thought I recognised you!” Her hands latched onto my forearms as she jumped excitedly on the spot, the crazy bimbo. “It’s me!” Her smile stretched from ear to ear whilst I waited for the penny to drop. “It’s Mary.”

Josh sighed in reverie. “Why don’t I have a Mary?”

“You don’t recognise me…” Mary gazed into my eyes hopelessly. “I used to live across the street?” Her lips thinned. “The Three Musketeers?” A scratch to the side of the head.” We smoked cigarettes together?”

Why is the universe determined to fuck me in arse? I wanted to die a slow and painful death.

“Brian built a den in the woods…” Her entire face soared with heat. “You were my best friend.”

“Brad, say hello to your best friend.” Josh shriek-laughed in amusement. “Mary, it is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Josh, not Joslynn, and I do not dress up in women’s clothes when the curtains are closed. This is Nate.” His hands slapped onto Nate’s shoulders. “But you can call him Dr Death.”

Nate shot Josh an irritated look. “Nice to meet you, Brad Kelleher’s friend.”

I hated everything about my life.

“So, you two know each other?” Nate pried, whipping an inked finger between us. “You used to hang out back when you were kids?”

“It seems that our memories differ,” she said lightly to reduce the awkwardness between us. “But yes. He lived in number eight, the big Victorian house that everyone secretly envied. It was quite literally the biggest house on the street. My home was slightly smaller, but I could see him from my bedroom window. He and Brian are the reason my childhood was more bearable.”

No, this cannot be happening to me. I might shoot myself in the head.

“Where did you go?” Mary asked, forgetting about the other two for a minute. “Everyone thought a child predator drove past and snatched the pair of you, but I knew different because of what the three of us talked about. You wanted to get out, remember?”

Luckily for Mary, I am too shell-shocked to lash out, even though the younger version of myself is screaming to cut out her tongue to stop her from talking.

“I looked for you,” she whispered, and all I could do was stare in numb quietude. “I moved to Edinburgh to be with you and Brian. But you both seemed to vanish off the face of the earth.” She blew a fallen strand of hair out of her face. “In the end, I gave up trying to find you.”

Clearing the lump in my throat, I loosened the collar of my shirt, the popped open button generating cool air and breathing space.

“Josh…” Nate sensed that I was uncomfortable. “Let’s get back into our suits. We can meet Brad later.”

Honestly, I am grateful. I did not want to have this conversation with the men present.

I waited for them to fade into the background, then placed a hand on Mary’s back, leading her toward the unoccupied shoe section.

“I left that boy behind,” I said, quiet and reserved, and her unimpressed gaze settled on my face. “I am Brad Jones. Mostyn Avenue is not even on my radar.”

“Oh?” Mary’s lips formed a small circle. “Well, I apologise. My intention was never to upset you. I got over-excited.” She glimpsed at her wristwatch. “There is a bar down the street. Colour me crazy, but I would love to catch up with you. I am wary about letting you go. You might disappear again.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” My mind had barely processed her marching back into my life, uninvited, as if the memories we share are important to me. “Besides, the store is not going to run itself.”

“I have employees to step in for me to step out,” she half-joked, not that I smiled or responded or did anything but torture myself with embarrassing thoughts of how I used to be obsessed with this woman. “Come on. It can be for old times’ sake. I will pay for the first round and treat you to salad niçoise.”

I have eaten enough tuna to last a lifetime.

“Please.” Her hands pressed together, with fingers pointing up, as a gesture of prayer. “You know, I never imagined our first encounter-after years and years of absence-would be so unbearably tense. I thought you’d be thrilled to see me…” Her shoulders limped in dejection. “Did I do something to upset you back then? If I did, I am sorry. I wanted to come with you guys, but you remember what my dad was like. He never let me leave the house long enough to plan great escapes.”

Craving a cocktail of drugs and alcohol, I rubbed a hand down my face and pondered how to get out of the situation.

“Brad, I hated childhood, too.” Mary read my thoughts, trying to reassure me. “I only want to catch up. We can avoid trips down memory lane. I promise.”

I will need a whole bottle of Macallan for this unexpected visit to the bar.

Why I considered the idea of us in the same room together after years without contact was beyond me.

Nonetheless, I allowed curiosity to get the better of me and mustered up the courage to sit down with her in private.

“Okay,” I surrendered to defeat, and she shrieked happily, throwing her arms around my waist for a short-lived hug. “But if you mention that fucking street once, I will be out of my seat quicker than you can blink.”

Mary did the sign of the cross over her chest.

“Go ahead.” My hand signalled to the door. “Lead the way.”