CHAPTER ELEVEN

Alexa

To stay in bed until the next sunrise sounded marvellous. Deriving pleasure from the island on our last day countermanded bed confinement, though. Deep-sea fishing betided. We journeyed across the oceanic whitecaps for three hours to catch one combative yellow-fin tuna. Well, Liam cast a line and conversed with fellow fisherman; I cemented to guard rail and hid from bloodthirsty sharks.

We ate a light lunch: pre-packed sushi rolls soused in soy sauce, another unfavourably uneatable tang to offend and traumatise the taste buds. It’s pretty tragic. It’s only just acquired how much of a squeamish, picky eater I am. Whereas Liam devours anything in sight, I have an insatiable sweet-tooth, a taste for unhealthy, greasy or calorific deliciousness and basic, bland, uncrazy French fries (at least, I am a cheap date).

Presently, I throne a white-clothed table between Liam and the occupied piazza. Warm, white sand homed the soles of my feet, and a gentle sea breeze coasted the sinuous crystalline ocean. It’s a beautiful night. Tall, bamboo-style candles flickered sporadically amid the beach. Sad yet moving instrumental music sounded in the background; the sommelier bought us bottled Lafontan Armagnac 1990 from the impressive wine cellar.

Liam’s onto the main course: grilled pork loin, sauerkraut and Parma ham. Devoid of hunger, I forked exotic mushrooms around the patterned rim of the risotto plate and glanced beyond my date’s head to see Zack and Julia seated at a private table.

Numerous guests inhabited the beach this evening, talkative and cheerful, dressed in casual, pastel-coloured linens. They all seemed to know the tree huggers from villa eight, which, as a consequence of Liam’s disinterest for the environment and inexcusable rampage the night the four of us dined together, plonked us on the pariah outskirts. Not that he batted an eyelid. Disgruntled glares were unperceived by him. I, however, felt like an impounded extra-terrestrial.

Julia looked up. I expected her to throw the bird. She smiled an apologetic smile, and I raised a hand to wiggle four fingers in acknowledgement. Understanding transpired. We both married dogmatically quarrelsome males, and their behaviour had caused a rift, but for us, we can bear no malice, leave the island and part ways as unlikely friends yet unforgettable honeymooners.

“Eat,” Liam ordered, and I complied. “You’ll get mango sorbet next.”

“I don’t want sorbet.”

His deep-set eyes focused on my red-stained lips. “What do you want?”

I smiled wickedly at him. “You.”

Fifteen minutes later, after prompt peregrination through the airless, tropical forest, we reached the villa, stumbled over the threshold concurrently tearing at each other’s clothes and crashed into the lounge’s table. His mouth welded to mine, Liam blindly swept the day-old fruit salad and juice carafes onto the floor, which caused a shattering clamour, and hoisted me up onto the wooden ledge to stand between my thighs. The ripped material of my fishtail dress bunched at the waist, he palmed my exposed breasts, circled the areolas of my nipples, pinched them.

My mouth devouring his, I locked an arm around his neck, fell to my back and dragged him with me. The buttons of his shirt open, hanging off his arms, he trapped my hair in a fist, yanked my head back to lengthen the stretch of my neck and sank his teeth into the very place I struggled to swallow. His muscular chest flexed under the touch of my palm, and when our tongues reacquainted, he groaned, deep and husky. Two fingers pulled my lace underwear aside before I felt the weight of his cock, freed from restricting boxer briefs, hard at the entrance of my sensitively intimate sex, the engorged head teasing my soaked cleft. I opened my legs, spread them wide as if to silently encourage him to take me, and he did, brutally hard, impaling me once to then drag back and thrust forward.

The sound of his unclasped belt buckle graced my ears, clanked against my inner thighs when our hips bumped until the limiting material fell to the floor. His thickness filled me, and technically, as it was still my Born Day for another seventeen minutes, I laid there and relished his overworked body and the sensations of his sharp movements, making a mental note to repay his sexual generosity.

Breathing harshly against each other’s lips, our movements segued from slow to fast, the sound of our slapping bodies ricocheted throughout. His one hand steadied on the table above my head, he crept his knuckles up my chest, amid the gap of my breasts and snatched my throat. Our foreheads touched. He watched me as I watched him, his lips parting on a sibilant hitch.

One rough hand clutched my waist as he pounded into me with unrestrained vigour. Back and forth, he moved between my thighs, persisting the earth-shattering eminence of my pinnacle.

Engulfing his punishing length, I held on for the ride. My arm hung low and perilously from his neck in a bid not to crash and fall. I was hot, burning up from the inside out and already glistening in sweat and each brutal slap of his hips made holding on more and more difficult. My legs wrapped around him in a pathetic endeavour to sustain his passionate onslaught. Perceiving the determination in my low-lidded eyes, he straightened his spine, stood taller, caged the swells of my thrusting derrière in his hands and helped me slide up and down this elongated cock.

His mouth consumed mine, stealing an erotic moan straight from my lips. I suddenly felt something smooth against my back. “Fuck, you mess with my head,” he grated out, trapping me between him and the wooden wall. “You’re killing me.”

“Returning the favour,” I joked, biting down on his earlobe. “For all the times you messed with mine.”

“Touché.” Pushing us away from the wall, Liam carried me outdoors and descended the wooden stairs to the Sala. It was typically humid out in the open, even at night with the full moon and interspersed stars above. Bypassing the seating accommodation, he stepped down into the round infinity pool. The water’s crispness was a striking contrast to the muggy night air.

“I could live inside you,” he said in a scratchy voice. His hands to my backside were like a sling, keeping me from going under the surface. “Do you love me?”

“Yes.” My fingernails stroked the nape of his neck. “I love you.”

He resettled on the in-pool seat and assisted me into an astraddle position one leg at a time. Intentionally tightening around his cock, I held onto his angular shoulders and sank to the root of his shaft. He had lost the trousers, the boxer briefs, but the unbuttoned shirt adhered to his skin. My fit-for-the-bin dress, which floated from the waist, drifted along the water in tattered shreds, the straps completely snapped, the see-through material frayed.

“Get rid of the dress,” he said as if reading my thoughts. His fingers spread my ass cheeks, prompting me to ride him. Stabilised on my knees, I eased back, grabbed the dress by the middle section and destroyed the final stitch. It slid from my hands. Neither of us watched it wander. Locked in love, we were too transfixed to look anywhere else—his eyes on me, mine on him. “I love you, too,” he said hoarsely, licking the seam of my lips, commanding entrance. “Don’t deny me.”

My lips widened into a smile. Positioned above Liam, rocking my hips, I rolled on his length, kissed the corner of his mouth and heeded his command. Our eyes aligned as our tongues stroked, soft, gentle and unhurried. Tilting my head, I swept into his mouth, tasting a night of whiskey-infused cocktails. Painfully full, I clung to him, rode him at a controlled pace, worked him long and deep, backside hitting his thighs, the pressurised air generating ripple-like waves around us.

Strands of inky black hair irritated Liam’s brows, accentuating his serious yet transfixing gaze. Draping his arms across the pool’s rear, he relaxed for me to do the work, his head lolled, baring the throbbing vein in his neck. I licked him there, skimmed my tongue back to his mouth and enticed him for another kiss.

His large, coarse hand cupped my face as he controlled our erotically dancing tongues. I was too lost in him to reopen my eyes, but when his arm embosomed the dip of my spine, keeping me in the thrall of his protection, my eyelashes fluttered open in time to witness the love and veneration in his ice-blue eyes.

Even to this day, I will never understand how I gained his awareness. Liam Warren had options, the pick of the bunch. He could have whoever he wanted, yet he chose me. And before, I’d consider myself unworthy, and a small fragment of my subconsciousness insists I will never be acceptable, but I am learning to ignore reservations, to override cruel voices and accept that I am more than enough—if not the perfect soul for this man.

“What’s that look?” he asked, oblivious to reflective musings. “Don’t get lost on me, baby.”

And what’s more, Liam reserves this kind, passionate, loving, warm-hearted affectionateness for me. Such free-flowing emotions and feelings are a rarity for the likes of others. I am the only fortunate human to see this side of him, and that in itself is an unspoken certitude of significance.

Liam’s fingers played the piano down my spine and horripilation sprouted goosebumps. My legs trembling, I rode his pumping cock, dropped my head to his shoulder and drank the cologne-suffused dews on his skin.

Our slow, synchronised breathing heated the small space between us. Crashing against a wave of intoxicating diversion, I experienced involuntary combustion and came apart in his arms. I felt him swell and throb inside me. He needed more to tip him over the edge, and, although sensitive and reeling from a mind-blowing orgasm, I accelerated the rhythm until a throaty groan broke from his lips.

His arms tightening around me, he held me to the lowest part of his pulsing shaft and emptied himself in warm spurts.

Aquiver with lust, I was temporarily deaf and blurry-eyed. Even if I wanted to move, I couldn’t.

I lifted my head to look at Liam. Steadying his breathing, he licked his lips and swallowed the strain in his throat. We didn’t talk. We had nothing to say.

Laying a kiss on my cheek, he veered around with me in his arms and sprawled me over the poolside.

My back bedded by the floor, I slackened my legs for Liam to kiss the wet thong that concealed my most intimate area. By the underside of my thighs, he opened me wider and inhaled our mixed scent. He peeled the sodden shirt from off his body, his teeth teasing me over the delicate lace layer, he pulled the material through my folds, which intensified the sensitiveness of my clit, and he sucked each outer lip, tauntingly slow. When the tip of his tongue slipped under the barrier and made contact with my responsive bud, a violent tremor coursed through my body. My spine anchored off the floor, and he seized my uplifted waist to sustain the position. Bowed for him, I stared at the dark, cloudless sky and slowly came undone to his skilful mouth.

Powerless and willingly at Liam’s mercy, I eagerly rocked my pussy against his mouth, tempting him to deliver. He ate me out adeptly, ravenously, suckling tenderness, squelching arousal. Stars distorted above. Biting the side of my hand to muffle cries, I came on his tongue.

His knee met the floor between my thighs, and he crawled up my body to deliver a heartfelt kiss. I tasted myself as our tongues connected. “Can you give me another?” he asked in a scratchy voice, lining his erect cock to my pulsing core. “I so fucking obsessed with you.”

He buried himself to the hilt, and my breath caught.

I definitely had more to give.

***

“That’s not true,” I argued light-heartedly, stealing chocolate-coated peanuts from our shared bowl of randomness. “I am an exceptional dancer.”

“Baby?” Wincing, Liam made a disagreeing face. “I love you. And it pains me to tell you this, but you don’t fit the criteria.”

My cheek nuzzling on his bare chest, I cocked a leg around his waist and sucked chocolate from off my thumb.

Liam’s right. I am an awful dancer; however, after this fault-finding conversation, I had a determined urge to prove him wrong. When I return to London, I will hunt down the first dance studio and perfect the art of pole dancing, even if it’s the last thing I do. Hell, I don’t know what I plan to do with this conceivably new-fangled pastime. I might purchase a pole online, have one of the Suits assemble it inside the master bedroom and rehearse in between studio trips. If the women at Club 11 can master the skill, I am sure more than capable…Shit, the last time I practised erotic dancing, I became best friends with the pavement. I mean, who does that? Me, apparently. Only I could stroll out of my flat, claim a sticky, graffitied lamppost and think it’s normal to give it a lap dance whilst neighbours walked on by. Pat on the back for effort, though. I looked ridiculously stupid, yet I persisted long enough to learn how to fall on my back instead of my face.

Our Venezuelan style hammock swayed almost imperceptibly from two dense palm trees. The warm-hued sunrise breached the expansive ocean, awakening exotic birds. “I can’t be good at everything,” I said conversationally, putting a chopped strawberry to his lips. He parted his lips, letting me feed him. “Can your talented club dancers handle a Glock as good as your wife?” When he hesitated, I pinched his nipple mercilessly. “Liam!”

“Fucking hell,” I growled, rubbing his sore pec. “Alright, baby. You win.” His arm slid behind my back as he helped me sprawl across his naked body. “My woman is a badass with a gun.”

I smiled triumphantly. “Thank you.”

“A mutual agreement is a misconception if you must pressurise a change of opinion.” His fingernails grazed my shoulder. “Correct?”

Repositioning to the knees, I saddled Liam’s waist and let the creased sheet slip from my shoulders. Unabashedly displayed, I reached behind my back, gathering unruly hair and knotted it atop my head. His heavy stare descended to my presented breasts, and his arousal stirred beneath me. I don’t know who moved first, him or me, but we met for a passionate kiss gravitationally. “Even if you could dance,” he groaned between indulged kisses, “it would be for my eyes only.”

In a daze-like trance, I nodded, kissing him with breathless irrevocability. “We should stop,” I whispered, but I hardly retreated. “We need to pack.”

“Soon.” He palmed his cock and stoked once. “Ride me.”

I’m not convinced the hammock can manage amorous disruptiveness. “What if we fall?”

His one hand splayed over my backside as he eased his fully erect cock into me. Still dripping from a night of sex, I slid down his length frictionlessly. Bottom lip trapped between my teeth, I glided upwards, downwards, gaining momentum when a predicted yet unexpected snap befell.

Triggered into action, Liam bolted upright, preparing to flee the disintegration, but the overbalanced hammock snapped from the trees, overturned and sent us into a heap on the sand.

In all fairness, Liam tried to save the fall, but flailing limbs encumbered, and somehow, he managed to land straight on top of me.

Winded by the weight of him, I gasped for breath, coughed a laugh and used pathetic strength to shove his shoulders. “You are squishing me.”

“Fuck,” he spat, rolling off my stretched-out body to sit on the sand beside me. He speared an exasperated hand through his wind-swept hair. “Are you okay?”

My cheeks ached from smiling. “I am more stunned by the survival of your penis.”

“My what?” As if reassurance was vital, he clutched himself between the legs. “Fuck’s sake.”

“I almost died with you inside me.” Blowing out a stuttered breath, I propped onto the elbows and stared ahead. “We should apply for the Guinness World Record.”

“Behave.” He tousled sand from his hair. “Well,” he clipped, biting back frustration, “that killed the fucking mood.”

Yes, even if we attempt sex after that disaster, I fear sand might travel to unforbidden areas. “We could always join the mile high club?” I hinted, knowing there’s plentiful space on our impending private jet. “This is humiliating, but I think sand invaded my ass.”

Liam soared to his feet, grabbed my hand and helped me stand. Checking my naked backside, he carefully dusted grains from my sore skin, reobtained the crumpled sheet on the ground and draped it across my shoulders. “What about you?” I asked as we walked back to the villa. “Be careful, Liam. If the birds get sight of your swinging manhood, they might mistake it for staple and devein.”

His lips twisted at the dire thought.

Ascending the few wooden steps to the villa’s garden, Liam stormed ahead, ignoring the chuckles spewing from my mouth. Despite irritation, he waited for me at the top of the stairs, albeit he refused to look at me. When something came into view, I had a brainwave. I quickened the pace, keeping up with his long strides, waited for a prime opportunity and took him off-guard by shoving him towards the pool. Not expecting the act of childishness, he staggered to the side and strived to catch his bearings, but the wet slope worked in my favour. He contortioned into the water, and a tsunami bounced through the air, drenching me in the process. “What the fuck?” he roared the second he jumped to the surface, wiping furiously at his face. “I almost broke my fucking neck.”

Doubling over at the waist, I laughed tears, the sheet clenched in a tight fist. “Please stop,” I said, my merriment oscillating from snorts to wheezes. “Liam, if I could have recorded that—” My teasing switched to a shrilling scream when I went from land to water in a matter of milliseconds. Headfirst, I dived. God knows what happened to the sheet. Not able to breathe or see, I flopped and squirmed like a fish until oxygen regenerated lung capacity. Spluttering, coughing up water, I slapped my hands onto the poolside and blinked droplets from fluttering eyelashes. “I can’t even be angry,” I stuttered, wiping dampness from off my quivering lips. “At least the sand’s gone.”

Liam’s arms sheathed mine. He put his chest to my back and trailed open-mouthed kisses along my shoulder. Lacing our fingers together, he held my clenched fists and pulled our joint arms to my stomach as if he needed to hug me in that instance.

I freed myself to face him and, at the sight of his handsome vulnerability, fell in love all over again. Curving my arms and legs around him, I dig the heels of my feet into his backside, and that’s all it took to exhort this man.

His mouth came down to my lips and stole the oxygen I breathe. Gripping the back of my thighs, he plunged himself deep, hitting the perfect spot. With no time for slow lovemaking, he hammered into me, hard and fast. Noises like never before ripped from my throat. His fingers bruising my ass was excruciating, yet I moaned his name like a mantra, which only urged the man to fuck me ten times harder.

The water impeded Liam’s movements, so within minutes, I am lead out on the cold poolside with him above me. My legs were stretched wide to accommodate his pounding hips. I let out a small whimper, groaned into the nook of his neck as his strokes increased. On the brink of orgasm, I shook with each thrust, the sound of his low, guttural moans and vulgar undertones unravelling whatever control I had left.

Our kiss was primal and desperate. It was evident that neither of us wanted our honeymoon to come to an end. You would never think we lived together or that we shared a bed at night. It’s as though we both knew life would somehow get in the way, so we grappled this final moment of undisturbed privacy.

Everything came to a standstill the second our eyes locked, not our movements, but the air around us—the world beyond us. Liam’s hand latched onto my jaw, his fingers squeezing, leaving a dull ache to my hollowed cheeks. Thrusting his hips, he dipped his head, our foreheads touching and planted a chaste kiss to the tip of my nose. Our closeness compromised breathing space. We shared the same air, panting and heaving for release, and came apart in each other’s arms. My skin was on fire. I closed my walls around his shaft as he emptied himself, sagged my head on the floor and regained consciousness.

For one of the quickest sex sessions ever encountered, I had never experienced passion quite like it.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Alexa

I arrived at Inseparable Youths fresh-faced, imposingly glamourous and ready to face obstreperous teenage carnage. Unlocking the hub’s main door, I disarmed the security alarm and, bearing various takeaway coffees and a selection of warm pastries, headed to the unoccupied staffroom.

After a gratifying leave of absence, industrious punctuality and reliability seemed fair. I had to make up for time lost, prove to Matthew and the others how much I cared to be here, which should be effortlessly authentic and relatively straightforward. No other profession appealed despite limitless opportunities. I may sound a shade egotistical, but I married a well-connected man, and for that purpose alone, I had endless career options and choices. If I desired to start a fashion line or cook up a business venture, Liam had the capital and influential power to effectuate. I am uninterested in entrepreneurship or managing employees, though. I genuinely enjoy getting my hands dirty, working for minimum wage alongside like-minded people and, if nothing else, keeping myself grounded. It’s too easy for high-net-worth individuals to forget where they came from, especially parvenus and nouveau riche people like me.

I arranged beverages onto the kitchen counter, selected a two-sugared latte, snagged the magnetic clipboard from off the fridge freezer and read this month’s schedule to bring me up to speed.

• Sports day.

• Be creative.

• Bookclub.

• Mentoring.

• Cake decorating.

• Team building.

• Sponsored hike.

• Spring fair.

• Issue based activities.

• Parent’s evening.

• Restore the environment.

• Universal resources.

• Apprenticeship program (16+ only).

Well, that’s certainly an eventful calendar.

“Afternoon.” Eating a sugar-glazed doughnut, Matthew, impeccably stylish, entered the staff room. “I received your email last night but didn’t expect you in until sometime next week.” He cherry-picked Americano, popped the lid off and blew over the rim. When he dunked said doughnut into the coffee, sopping sweet dough, I gulped acidic vomit. “Jet lag?”

I shake my head. “No.”

Once we met the Suits in Mahé and boarded the private jet at Seychelles international airport, I slept for our flight duration. Liam, the disappointing sod, refused to wake me up. Not even for aircraft lavatory sex—so much for joining the mile-high club.

It was nearing nine p.m. when we landed in London, Heathrow, last night. The Manor welcomed our safe return. We didn’t converse, eat, unpack or bathe. We fell into bed, fully clothed, and kept our heads down without disturbance until the crack of dawn.

We did, however, shower together this morning, which, of course, led to earth-shattering orgasms. You’d think, after weeks of sex, I’d require respite.

I am in holiday mode.

Our honeymoon ignited carnal insatiableness. In fact, I might text Liam a naughty picture later to see how long he takes to stumble into the bedroom and eat—

Matthew cleared his throat. “You might want to keep lustful thoughts to yourself.”

The horrible reality of soliloquising dismayed me. “Who wanders into someone’s inner dialogue, uninvitedly?”

“Technically, you invited me.” He sipped coffee. “You can be descriptively expressive, by the way. Hey, it would help if you hosted next week’s book club. In age-appropriate terms, though.”

Great. He thinks I am a sex fiend. “I am not here to poison the minds of imperishable teenagers with sexual explicitness.” Hiding self-conscious discomfort, I dumped the rest of my coffee down the sink. “To be honest, I was leaning more towards cake decorating.”

“Tricia and Dave hosted that one. You missed out,” he added, and I perceptibly deflated. “What about the sponsored hike?” Taking the clipboard, he briefly read notes to jog his memory. “Someone from the environmental resources group comes in next week, too. Why don’t I pair you with Trudy? You guys can attend the meeting to get a better understanding of their integrating acquisitions.”

Oh, God. Kill me. I can’t imagine anything worse than Zack’s duplicate. “I’ll pass.”

Narked by my lack of interest, Matthew dropped the clipboard on the counter and folded his arms. “Is there an issue?”

I pushed my tongue in my cheek. “Why would there be an issue?”

“Is it Trudy?” he asked, his voice suspiciously low. “You received an email. Didn’t you?”

“I did?” I scratched my head in confusion. “Was it the same email she sent you?”

“Shit,” he whispered, double-checking the door to be sure nobody stood there. “I thought I was the only one. Did you respond? I’m still rather speechless. I don’t know whether I am elated or offended.”

I am digging a dangerously deep hole. “Why would you be offended?”

“I am not into dogging.” He scoffed. “Are you? Ignore that. It is highly unprofessional to ask personal questions. It’s none of my business.”

Well, after that statement, I felt it necessary to defend myself or, if nothing else, curtail a slandering gossip train. “I don’t think she sent us the same email.” For crying out loud, Alexa. You didn’t even receive an email from Trudy. “Oh, Lord. Who knew?” I mean, Trudy seems so boring. And that’s fine. Boring works for some people. But dogging? I never pegged her as an exhibitionist. “So, she wanted you to do what exactly?”

“She asked if I had a friend,” he articulated, consciously raising his eyebrows. “If she drove to Tesco’s car park in the early hours, would I meet her there and bring said friend so that she could watch us do it, I guess.”

“In Tesco’s car park,” I whispered in utter astonishment. “It’s a twenty-four supermarket.”

“I know.” He was appalled. “I haven’t looked at her the same way since. This conversation took place outside of work, but she overstepped. Now I feel uncomfortable in her proximity.”

My lips pressed together. “Are there anti-fraternisation policies for Inseparable Youths?”

He gave me a stiff head shake.

“So, how do you deal with employees’ misconduct outside of work?”

“I have never encountered a problem until now.”

“Trudy’s nice.” I picked imaginary lint off my blouse. “Maybe she had one too many that night and made a poor decision. I wouldn’t lose sleep over it. If it’s genuinely bothered you, though, sit her down for a private meeting and address the matter. What’s the worst that can happen? She’ll apologise, eat her weight in comfort food and avoid speaking to you for the next few months. It’s a win-win—”

“Hello,” Trudy boomed, and I jumped on the spot. “Sorry, Alexa. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Flipping sleek auburn hair over one shoulder, she struts into the staffroom, opened the fridge and selected a bottled smoothie. “How was the honeymoon? You look incredible. Glowing.”

I touched my skin-peeled nose instinctively. “Liam has a gorgeous tan,” I tell them. “I am all skin-and-blistered.”

“A phenomenal wedding,” she said, shaking her smoothie bottle. “You looked so happy.”

I hadn’t invited them to the wedding, nor the reception. Perhaps if I’d known them longer, I might have. “Did you attend?”

“Tatler’s magazine,” she explained. “There was a four-page article on your hubby.”

“Yeah.” Matthew scratched his jaw. “One page just for his suit.”

I laughed once. “You’d think they’d have something better to write about.”

“Will he ever do an interview?” she asked, and I didn’t answer. “I’d love more insight on the man.”

“Why?” I asked, feeling a surge of paranoia. “Liam’s a successful business tycoon. That’s all there is to it.”

“Yes, I understand that. But what about the mystery behind Warren’s success? From one avid Tatler reader to another—”

“I am not an invested Tatler reader,” I interrupted before she got carried away. “Besides, Liam’s a private man. He’s not interested in gossip magazines.”

“That’s a shame.” She downed the smoothie in one. “Matthew, what’s on the agenda?”

“Preparations for the spring fair and parents’ evening,” he confirmed, popping a chewing gum in his mouth. “Take your pick.”

Trudy made a beeline for the door. “I’ll help Jesminder.”

“Great,” he mumbled, claiming a second coffee. “You’re a good people’s person, right?”

“I love party planning…” When he jutted out his bottom lip, I sighed. “Fine. I’ll meet and greet.”

***

I hate parents.

Mostly selfish parents who’d rather be anywhere else other than Inseparable Youths. Is it wrong to assume learning of their kids’ progress would thrill them?

“Where can I have a fag?”

Biting my lip in vexation, I point to the door that leads to the courtyard. “Around the back of the building.”

“Why can’t I smoke by the door?” Her brown straw-like hair bounced alongside her disproportionately sized head. “A big place like this, and you don’t have a smoking room.”

“The government banned smoking in public places years ago.” Using the key fob, I unlocked the back door and gestured for her to go outside. “When you need to get back inside, speak to Andrew. He’s on the football court.”

Her upper lip curled. “Who’s Andrew?”

I forced a gracious smile. “Our health and wellness coach.”

“Why is he outside?” she asked in a loud, scratchy voice, and the stench of stale cigarettes wafted from the back of her throat. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Alexa,” I said politely, extending my arm to shake her hand. “And you are?”

“Tammy.” Holding a tattered leather handbag close to her chest, she glared at my outstretched hand and looked the other way. “Tammy Ashworth.”

Samuel Ashworth’s mother. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you.”

Cigarette clinging to her bottom lip, Tammy grunted something indecipherable and stumbled out into the night. Lighting a cigarette right by the door, she gave me a look of contempt and blew foggy halos in my direction. It was an act of churlish defiance.

Tammy’s disrespectable behaviour and impoliteness went over my head. I closed the door in her face, dusted off my hands and meandered through occupied pop-up tables to offer teas and coffees to seated parents.

While relaying beverage orders to Tricia and Dave, the kitchen staff, I put my back to the serving hatch and inspected the busy room in search of Samuel. I located him at the pool table, laughing and joking among friends. He’s the loudest, most dominant person in attendance. His lewd comments and unnecessary profanity reached every alcove. Potting a red ball, he throws a curled-up fist in the air and thrusts his hips towards Christie, his on-and-off-again girlfriend. “Come at me,” he boomed, and the girl, blushing and fluttering her eyelashes flirtatiously, giggled. “Bathroom?”

I can overlook uncivilised disruptiveness and vile profanities. It is absolutely reprehensible to turn a blind eye to Samuel and Christie taking part in underaged sex in a public restroom, though.

Hand-in-hand, they stumbled past me, eager for some alone time. Unfortunately for them, the seedy lavatory was off-limits. “Samuel,” I called, quiet yet authoritative. “Come here, please.”

Samuel glanced from me to the door. “What’s up?”

I waved him in.

Eyes rolling to the back of his head, he released the iron grip on Christie’s hand and jogged over. “Yeah?” We were eye-level, yet he struggled to look at me. His glassy, blood-shot eyes bounced from left to right in a concerningly outpaced velocity. “Haines, I need a piss.”

Suddenly, I had this devastating motherly impulse to bring him in for a protective hug. “Christie, do you require a bathroom break?”

Twirling a blonde strand around her pointer finger, she dipped her head.

“Hurry along,” I authorised, and she slid a questioning scow at him. “Samuel can go when you come back.”

Knowing I had cottoned on to their scheming, Christie huffed out a dramatic sigh. It’s liable she hated me for ruining their unsupervised, limited time together, but she stomped away somewhat respectfully. Samuel’s bleak, dilated eyes slithered, and I knew if we were anywhere else, he wouldn’t think twice about kicking me to the curbside. “Fucking cockblocker,” he mumbled, rubbing the irritation from his eyes.

I am married to a man renowned for taking drugs, yet intoxicants and side-effects stupefied me into gauche cluelessness. “Come with me. Right now.” Snatching him by the hoodie, I dragged him away from the energetic hall, ventured across the hallway and threw him inside the empty staff room. I closed the door, hesitating with my hand on the handle. Am I allowed to shut the door? What if someone saw us come in here and presumes the worst? “Shit,” I whispered, cracking the door, leaving it ajar.

“You didn’t need to drag my ass, Miss Haines,” Samuel chimed smugly behind me. “If you wanted me? All you had to do was ask.”

What a delusional young man?

I faced him. “Warren,” I corrected, and his large, arrogant smirk disintegrated. “Mrs Warren.” Flashing him the wedding band, I added, “Hence the absence. I was on my honeymoon.”

Samuel rolled his shoulders back. “What, like, as in Liam Warren?”

Nodding, I sat on the fabric blue sofa. To maintain a safe, unquestionable gap, I pointed to the chair furthest from me. “Sit.”

“Look, I don’t owe Warren shit.” He slouched on the seat. “I ain’t no errant bitch.” Even though he came across brazen, unfazed and confident, the nose snivel and constant knee-bopping indicated otherwise. “So?”

Speaking to Samuel had nothing to do with Liam. “Matthew’s given you several warnings, verbal and written, yet you continue to disrespect him. Antagonism, bullying, violence,” I counted on wiggled fingers, “anti-social behaviour and now drugs.”

His eyes widened a fraction. “I don’t take drugs.”

“You are as high as a kite,” I said calmly, and he sank into the chair. “If I asked you to empty your pockets, what will I uncover?”

“Nothing.”

My brow curved. “Nothing?”

“Nope,” he said, popping the P. “Drugs are dirty. Mamma taught me that one.”

“It’s funny you should say that.” Arms on the armrest, I draped a leg over the opposite knee. “I just met your mother.”

Samuel blinked owlishly. “What, she’s here?”

“Yes,” I confirmed, and his chest rose with a stuttered inhalation. “She’s due to talk to Matthew any moment.”

“Great stuff.” He snorted. “I’ll get my ass beat tonight, then.”

It wasn’t fear in his voice but demoralisation. For a reason I cannot quite fathom, he didn’t want to disappoint his mother. “I’m surprised you care.”

“About what?”

“Being a disappointment.”

His jaw ticked. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.” I may lose my job for this… “I could put in a good word for you. A quiet chat with Matthew for a better report.” Blackmailing him for the drugs was worth it. “All I want is for you to be honest with me.”

Cocking his head, he leaned forward and parked his elbows on the knees. “Why would you do that? You hate me.”

No, I dislike the choices you make. “There are very few people I hate in this world. You are not one of them.” Samuel’s love for his mother gave me hope. Yes, he’s directionless and undisciplined. He has an alarmingly questionable road ahead of him, so naturally, I worry about his future. But he’s just a kid. He’s someone’s son. I’d like to think if I had a child, one I was incapable of giving direction to, that somebody, whether it be a friend or stranger, had the sense to interpose. “What are you good at?”

His cheeks reddened. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” I droned, and he lifted a shoulder idly. “You must be good at something.”

“Nope.” Outstretching his legs, he crossed them at the ankles together with arms. “Can I go now?”

My fingernails strummed on the armrest. “Will your father attend this evening?” At the mention of his old man, Samuel turned his neck to break eye contact. I watched his Adam’s apple shift in a slow, almost painful-looking swallow. “Well?”

“Nope,” he said, only this time, that P was a mere whisper.

“Why not?”

“He’s dead.”

I felt a sharp twinge in my chest. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s life for you.” Zoning out, he licked his teeth. “Can’t change it.”

Sadness permeated the air. He was abnormally quiet and pensive. Lost in memories, I imagine. “What did he do best?”

Samuel knuckled a tear from the corner of his eye, a surreptitious sweep. “Pop’s was an artist.”

“Impressive,” I said sincerely, and a proud smile nearly touched his eyes. “What type of artist?”

“He was more of an amateur.” He downplayed the significance of his father’s aptitude for drawing. “Sketches and whatever.”

I delved deeper. “Did you inherit his talent?”

“I can hold a pencil.” Knuckled-white, he gripped his knees. “My work ain’t got shit on his, though.”

Now was the perfect chance to strike. “I’d like you to hand over the drugs.” Before he could lie to my face, I held out my hand. “If you do so, I will refrain from exposing you to Matthew—unless you want to risk instant expulsion?” No, he loved the youth centre. “Use this fair act of leniency as an opportunity to better yourself. In addition, I will ask Matthew to go easy on tonight’s report.”

Samuel stared deep into my eyes. Blowing out his cheeks in defeat, he stuffed a hand in his pocket, uprooted a small, clear packet and slapped it on my palm. “Happy?”

“Very.” I followed him to the door. “Samuel?” He lingered at the threshold. “Pencil something for me this week. It’s non-negotiable.”

Eyeing me up and down, he threw open the door and strode back to the hall.

Uncurling my fist, I inspected the white powder, moved to the staff bathroom and flushed it down the toilet—it whirlpools into whispery nothingness. The sight ought to satisfy me, but I cannot shake the nagging thought that he’ll only go out tonight and buy more.

Tricia transported beverages to querulously delayed parents and guardians on my behalf. I was in the process of arranging files when Matthew, red-faced and flustered, fell to my side. “I am behind schedule. Can I trust you to handle whoever walks in next, so I can catch up?” He mopped the perspiration from his forehead. “We deserve a pint after this lot.”

“Go ahead.” It’s not like I had anything better to do. “I have read none of these case files, though.”

Matthew slapped a random folder onto my chest. “Read as you go along. Don’t,” he said sternly, “let the parents catch sight of private documents. Those are for our eyes only. Got it?”

Well, that piqued inquisitiveness. “Sure—wait.” My fingernails caged his elbow. “Tammy Ashworth. Have you sat her down yet?”

“No.” His shoulders went back. “Why?”

“Can I make a suggestion? Mrs Ashmore’s likely expecting a negative report for Samuel. For someone as problematic as her son, I think, alternatively, if you bent the rules just once and gave his mother a stellar report, it might motivate him to work and try harder.” His eyes rounded, so I sweet-talked. “Put yourself in his shoes for a minute. If everyone and their dogs only see the worst in you, deserving or not, you may as well live up to the title as good behaviour is unrewarded, anyway.”

My idea distraught him. “You want me to lie?”

“I want you to bend the truth. Reverse psychology can be effective.” When he persisted mulishly, I became dejected. “Until darkness creeps in, I see potential in everyone.”

Matthew gave my suggestion some thought. “Okay,” he agreed, and a short, shocked laugh flew from me. “I am only doing this once. You better hope Samuel appreciates it.”

Nodding in a daze, I watched Matthew stalk across the hall to greet Mrs Ashmore, who was sandwiched between two larger women on the bench. Leading Tammy to the first available table, he pulled out a chair for her to sit down, retrieved her son’s file and sat directly opposite. His mouth moved as he read notes. Whatever discussed unsuccessfully reduced the tension in her rigid shoulders.

Doing a quick eye-sweep around the hall, I pinpoint Samuel standing by the tuckshop corner with all his friends. He’s disconnected from their raucousness, though. His worried gaze settled on his mother. Nervous yet elated laughter soon echoed. I didn’t need to witness Tammy’s tearful happiness. I saw all I needed to see in the eyes of her relieved son.

Good deed of the day—check.

Rearranging folders in alphabetical order, I glimpsed at the wall-mounted clock to check the time. I suspect no more parents will appear with only fifteen minutes left, so I seal the containers, secure the locks, and busy myself with cleaning.

Twenty minutes later, with two recycling bags in hand, I nudge the courtyard door open, skirt behind the building and dump everything inside the hub’s waste skip. I had acclimatised to the island’s hot temperatures, so the cold, chilly night felt like shards of glass to my skin.

Beneath the court’s floodlights, I spot a silhouette dash across the asphalt tarmacadam. Immediate excitement bubbled inside me. Treading carefully on my heels, I paced to the all-encompassing enclosure and grasped the woven wire fencing. Confidently dribbling an orange basketball up and down the court, Logan played alone, made shot after shot. Lifting his T-shirt to dab sweat off his brow, he recaptured the ball, coordinated and dodged imaginary opponents, shot right-handed and dropped back to his feet. His eyes were on the floor when he said, “You went away.”

I walked alongside the enclosure to the entryway. “Honeymoon.”

He bounced the ball once. “Nice.”

“Did you receive a good report?” I asked conversationally.

“Fuck knows.” Moving with swiftness, he ducked under pretend obstacles, spun on the back of his trainer and shot the ball straight through the net. It crashed against the ground and thumped, thumped, thumped to the sideline. “My mother doesn’t care about this kinda stuff.” And then, ever so quietly, he whispered, “No one does.”

Logan didn’t think I heard that. “I’ll be right back.”

Everything and everyone faded into the background. I rushed inside the youth centre, took determined strides to the case files, unlocked all three and spent fifteen maddening minutes to find what I was looking for. Tucking the folder into the nook of my arm, I returned to the court and stood before him.

He stared down at the file. “What are you doing?”

“Logan Broderick,” I began to read Matthew’s notes. “I have…” I have noticed unexpected changes in Logan’s personality. He has withdrawn himself from others, including team officials and has become uncharacteristically aggressive towards certain teen members. He doesn’t necessarily lack social skills; however, he has few friends, if any. He’s unpunctual, often irritable, wears the same two-day clothes and steals sustenance from the canteen. I am aware of his pilfering habits; however, I am disinclined to submit formal complaints or expulsion as I worry pocketed comestibles are his only food source.

Pulse drumming in my ears, I turned the page.

Logan shows classic signs of abuse and neglect.

• Poor peer relationships.

• Behavioural problems.

• Avoidance of recreational activity.

• Unsuitable clothing.

• Repeated injuries.

• Unexplained bruises.

• Unusual wariness of physical contact.

I have identified that Logan omits facts and lies by omission, commission and avoidance as a way to maintain privacy and to protect the exposure of questionable family members. I have yet to establish honest communication with Logan, which left me no other choice than to discuss prospective facilitation and improvement with our local authority child’s protection team.

With a slight tremor in my hand, I turned to a blank page. “Logan never comes to the centre on time,” I pretend to read. “He’s always late, never interacts or partakes in social activities—”

Logan laughed dryly. “Matthew’s always busting my balls.”

“However,” I continued, “lateness is better than non-attendance.” I peered up from beneath my eyelashes to see him frown. “Although Logan secludes himself, he’s proven to be friendly and talkative when pushed.”

“Forced,” he corrected with a point of the finger. “Sound familiar?”

“You spoke to me first.”

Shrugging, Logan bounced the ball and took a shot from where we stood. “Did he say anything else?”

“That you are exceptionally skilled at basketball,” I spoke freely. “He believes you have a bright future ahead of you.”

“For real?” He scratched the nape of his neck. “Matthew said all that?”

“Yes,” I lied, oblivious to his performance report until informed.

Logan regarded me with smug knowingness. “Liar.”

My chin hit the floor. “I am not lying.”

“Matthew hates basketball.” He was disappointed in me. “He’d never encourage it.”

“So?” I pulled a face. “Matthew can still commend you, whether it’s his favourite sport or not.” His moroseness tugged on my heartstrings. “Logan?”

His blue eyes lifted. “Yeah?”

One look from this boy and my chest ached.

Stepping out of my hoes, kicking them to the side, I pulled the bobble off my wrist, dragged my hair back into a ponytail and tied it out of my face. “Fancy a challenge?”

“You want to play?” His lip tipped up at the corner. “I won’t go easy on you.”

As if I expected any less. “Ladies first.” He hurled the ball at me, and it almost rebounded off my chest. “So, dribble, dodge and take a shot?” One nod. “Okay.” Rolling the ball in my hands, I bounced it once, caught it, gave him a sharp glance and then ran in the opposite direction.

“That’s cheating!” he yelled, running hot on my heels. “You can’t just run with it. Dribble.” Inches away from the net, I lifted my arms to make a throw and then his hand shot out, blocking the ball. “Alexa.”

I missed the net, listened to the ball thump across the floor. “Yes?”

“What kinda game are you playing?” Sweeping up the ball, he put himself in front of me, bent his knees slightly and used one hand to dribble on the spot. “See?” He demonstrated, or rather, simplified. “Nothing strategic. Nice and easy. If you capture it? Throw it. Don’t do that until you reach the net. Here.” I take ownership of the ball. “Let’s work on your target skills first.”

I listened to his every word and still missed the shot.

But that’s irrelevant.

Logan’s smile mattered.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Alexa

“Initially, I thought, it’s no wonder Samuel’s unmanageably disobedient. His mother’s not a good role model or leading by example.” Spacing twelve freshly baked vanilla cupcakes onto the kitchen’s marble island, I spooned white icing into a piping bag and spiralled frosting. “I pre-judged. Mrs Ashworth loves her son,” I swapped the white icing for green, “but she’s exhausted. Haggard. You can see she hasn’t had an easy life.”

Liam’s the cynosure of tonight’s bake-off. He’s unhelpful in the decorating department but companionably at my side, sampling flavoursome buttercream. “I prefer the chocolate,” he praised, sucking decedent caramel cream cheese off his thumb. “Not a fan of this one.”

“I like caramel.” Spooning a dollop to my mouth, I savoured the taste for an honest review and frowned. “Is it supposed to be that salty?”

His lip twitched. “No.”

“Oh.” Setting the caramel glaze aside, I picked up the yellow piping bag and squeezed small flowers onto the iced-grass cupcake. “Well, I don’t need mud, anyway.” It’s hard to concentrate when the man’s scrutinising every mishap. Freshly showered with imposing muscularity, he’s bare-chested and wears low-hanging slouch pants, a photo-worthy specimen. “You need to put a T-shirt on.”

Folding his strapping arms, Liam put his back to the counter. “Why?” He did not attempt to conceal his vainglorious smirk. “Do you not approve?”

Heat flooded my cheeks. “It’s distracting.”

My aroused awkwardness amused him. “I would love to say the same about you.” His fingers effaced something from my cheek. “The facial flour shelves approbation, though.”

“Trendsetting means nothing in the kitchen.” I laughed, spraying edible gold glitter across decorated creations. “If you exclude the heels, of course.”

“Of course,” he imitated in a hollow whisper, inspecting the black six-inch Stuart Weitzman shoes on my feet. “So, this Samuel kid. You think he’s one of our errand confrères?”

“Would you recognise him if I showed you a picture?”

“Doubtful. Nate manages street underlings. I merely authorise transactions.” When I proffered the phone to show him an image of Samuel on the Inseperable Youths’ website, he zoomed in on the screen. “Even if I knew of this boy, what do you require? Preferential treatment? Safeguarding?”

If Samuel’s embroiled in the syndicate, even if his involvement is that of a small-scale, I want Liam to consent to his instant dismissal. Samuel’s better than opioid addiction and the life of organised crime. “Give him the boot. Eliminate his drug supply.”

Liam set my phone on the counter. “I will inquire,” he said, texting someone on his phone. “I can’t promise anything.” He eyed me then, quiet and reflective. “I assigned you a new bodyguard. Alfie. He’s part of Club 11’s elite security team. I trust him to do right by you.”

Yes, I remember standoffish Alfie. He usually guards the door to Liam’s office. “Why do you always allocate temperamentally disinclined Suits? I am a talkative person. If you insist on forced companions, the least you can do is give me somebody conversational.” A thought occurred. “Can I keep Josh?” Josh is the brother I never had. We are like two peas in a pod, unrelated twins separated from birth, a bunch of diabolical busy-bodies who understand one another. Life’s fun when he’s around, and he’s the most entertaining driving instructor. “Please?”

“No,” Liam said resolutely, and my shoulders sagged. “Don’t give me that face. I need Josh with the brothers.”

I suppose. “Will Alfie teach me how to drive instead?”

“Josh can proceed with lessons.”

Somewhat relieved, I glanced at the cupcakes and felt the blood run cold in my veins. Icing thawed and lost their colourful identities. “What’s happening?” I watched in sheer horror as the once thick frosting melted down my fingers. “Liam?”

“I am not a profession pâtissier,” he half-joked, eyeing the liquified mess, “but shouldn’t you wait for the cakes to cool down before icing them?” With a half-cocked smile, he snatched my wrist, brought the ruined cupcake to his mouth and sank his teeth into its crumbling destruction. “Artistically clinquant and delightfully appetising.” He slowly licked buttercream from his upper lip. “I admire your work.”

And I appreciate his white lie. “Can I ask you something?”

Liam used a paper towel to wipe his mouth. “Go ahead.”

“A teenager’s abused by his parents. Would you gather additional information and report it or coax him into an admittance?”

“If parents victimise their child, then both scenarios significantly correspond,” he answered vaguely. “Why?”

“There’s this boy.” Gathering dirty bowls, I loaded the dishwasher. “I worry about him.”

He watched me intently. “Do you believe he’s in peril of his life?”

“Yes—no. No,” I said firmly, unsure of the words I speak. “I don’t know, Liam. I’m new to this stuff.”

“This stuff,” he repeated, extracting a whiskey bottle from the cupboard. “Yet, you of all people comprehend the accuracy of child abuse. You lived it.” He poured himself a glass of strong liquor. “If anyone can help this lad? It’s you.”

I inhaled through my nose. “How do I get him to talk?”

“Easy.” He downed whiskey in one mouthful. “Don’t shield him from the truth.”

His response was ambiguously enigmatic. “What does that even mean?” I asked, and he chose not to answer. “How would you handle this situation? Would you rough him up for some harsh truths?”

His eyes were scarily dark and Rhadamanthine. “No, I’d simply eliminate the problem.”

Cold shivers slithered up my spine. “By throwing the rule book out of the window.”

“I am not a law-abiding citizen,” he reminded me, refiling the glass. “If guardians abuse their power to oppress and mistreat the young and vulnerable, they warrant far more than incarceration.”

I wilted under his unsmiling watchfulness. “Do you suggest I kill his parents? Free him from their contemptible sins?”

“I would never encourage my wife to commit murder.” The neanderthal yanked me in by the elbow, caged me in a tight, inescapable hug and peppered kisses along my jawline. “I am, however, offering my services for a small price.”

“What does his lordship require?” My arms enveloped his broad shoulders. “I thought you were above bribery?”

“One kiss from you,” he whispered against my lips, and I could almost taste the whiskey on his tongue, “and they’ll be dead before sunrise.”

“No, Liam.” His seriousness caused my heart to stutter. “We cannot murder his parents. It’s unforgivable.” If we killed them, Logan may uncover the truth and hate me. “Leave them unscathed. Meanwhile, I’ll do whatever I can to earn his trust.”

For an extended period, we stared at each other, both silent, wordless. He broke eye contact first, turning his head away from mine to reach for the whiskey glass. “What’s the lad’s name?” he asked casually, sipping a generous amount of alcohol. “Presuming he has one.”

I recognised that look. Cold, deadly, threatening. “I’ll check the file tomorrow.” I cannot trust Liam with Logan’s personal information. He’s mentally equipped to intercede, act on my behalf and unburden Logan with or without an agreement. “I can text you,” I lied once again, hoping he’ll forget our conversation by tomorrow. “So, the cakes?”

“Yes, the cakes.” He nabbed the ugliest cupcake and held it between us. “Why must we bake again?”

I missed out on cake decorating at the youth centre. “I baked. You unhelpfully stood back and stared at my ass all night.”

“I did.” He takes a large bite, talking with a mouthful. “You have a great ass.”

Nowadays, I have nothing to flaunt. But again, I appreciate his white lie. “If I ordered a new batch online, do you think Matthew will notice? I can arrange them in a container and pretend I knocked them together.”

“Who cares if Matthew believes you?” he clipped, repulsed by thoughts of me working so close to a male. “You don’t belong in a place like the centre. Come back to the club and work beside me.”

No, I am too jealous. If I see one naked, promiscuous dancer make a pass on him, I’ll throw her over the glass balcony to her unstoppable death. “I don’t want to work at Club 11.”

“Why?” he asked sharply. “I will pay double.”

“It’s not about the money.” We share wealth anyway. “I like it there. It’s refreshing. Rewarding.”

Giving me a meaningful look, Liam put the half-eaten cake to my lips, tempting me to taste. I opened my mouth to sample the goods, but he tossed it on the counter and snatched a kiss from me instead. Tasting chocolate on his tongue, I pulled myself into his awaiting arms, felt the cold marble suddenly on my backside and spread my thighs for him. Kissing me hungrily, fiercely, he stood between my thighs. “We don’t need these.” He knocked the disastrous cakes and decoration supplies onto the floor. “Or these.” Hiking my dress to the waist, he tugged the lace thong down my legs while simultaneously freeing his hard shaft. “Moan for me,” he ordered, right before his thick fulness rammed into me.

So much for a great British bake-off.

Josh had a set of keys to the Manor. He never knocks on the front door or informs me of his presence. Every morning, I find the sticky-fingered ghost inside the kitchen, foraging the fridge freezer, scavenging fruit punnets and cartons of orange juice. On the sly, he overindulges carbohydrates and saturated fat: buttered toast, bacon sarnies, whole milk and jelly gumdrops. His unquenchable gluttonousness originates from Nate’s strict, uncompromising fitness regime. When left unattended, the poor sod craved everything in sight. “Not a word,” the secret binge-eater warned, scarfing down everything but the kitchen sink. “Nate can’t know, Alexa. He’ll grill my ass for weeks. And you know what? I am sick of late-night track and sprints. I hate running—I just hate this fucking diet.”

“Hey, if it’s any consolation,” I motioned to his muscular transformation, “Nate’s proficient. I mean, look at these arms.” Curling my hand around his bicep, I gave his tense muscles an investigatory squeeze. “See? You used to be lean and sylphlike—”

“Sylphlike?” he barked, raising his shirt to examine his washboard abs. “I have never possessed a feminine waistline.” His deadpan eyes drilled into me. “I could bench one hundred and thirty-five pounds with those lissom arms, so what are you saying?”

“Impressive,” I mocked. “How much can you bench press now? You know, since Nate’s gruelling training sessions?”

Josh’s lips puckered. “Three hundred?” he deliberated, biting into a slab of mature cheddar. “Bit more on a good day.”

My brow raised. “I rest my case.”

Although Alfie, the cheerful, green-eyed, auburn-haired Suit who’s unpredictably loquacious, accompanies me from house to errand to work, Josh continues to coach me behind the wheel. Venturing to unoccupied car parks to drive around in monotonous circles for an hour ceased to exist. I am confident enough to steer the Bentley onto main roads and ease towards traffic lights without running through a red light. I stalled on six occasions Monday, three times the day after and only once this morning. Music and pedestrians no longer distracted me. Josh’s carping dwindled. Liam promised new wheels if I pass my test.

“It’s in three days,” I said, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Come on, Jace. I need you.” Conveying boxed arts and crafts to the youth centre’s grand hall, I used my hip to shove open the main door and flinched at the ear-piercing sound of teenage rowdiness. “Please?”

Jace’s weary breath sounded in the receiver. “Am I there as your friend or as a temporarily hired sports coach?”

Why did I tell him Andrew broke his ankle on the field last night? Now he suspects an ulterior motive. “Friend?”

“You sound unsure.”

“Well, I want to see my best friend. If you cannot assist the young, sad and demoralised teens in winning what might possibly be the centre’s first championship in over fifteen years, I won’t hold it against you.”

“Fine,” he relinquished after a beat, and I bellied relief. “Text me the details—wait. Did you get the email from Grayson?”

Gray invited me to attend happy hour at a local cocktail bar next weekend. “Yes, I haven’t replied yet.”

“I’ll go if you go,” Jace said as I dropped the heavy box onto a random table. “I can drop you home if Warren’s cool with it. It’ll give you a break from security.”

I doubt Liam will agree. “I’ll mention it to him tonight.”

“Sure. I’ll message you later.”

“Love you.” Ending the call, I stuffed the phone in my jeans pocket, flipped open the box and rearranged supplies: colourful paint pots, crepe paper, glitter and confetti. Stumbling across unopened spray cans, I pondered experimental utilisation, but nothing sprang to mind, so I set them to the side.

“Do you need any help?” someone asked in a shy yet manly voice. In my peripheral, Logan appeared at my side to read tinned labels. “I’m not good with a paintbrush. I can hang shit.” He scratched the back of his neck. “You don’t have to climb on the ladder and all.”

Logan’s always the last teen to arrive and the last teen to leave. Locking up scattered, puzzling thoughts, I played it cool. It’s completely normal, him being here, offering to assist. “Unfold the tables,” I said aloofly. “Come back to me once you finish.”

Nodding once, Logan retreated, and I espied him near the back door, clicking table legs into place. Assured I had hallucinated or mentally fabricated the entire conversation, I blinked rapidly, left him to assemble visitors’ chairs and carried the paint pots to Jesminder. She’s in the process of creating a Greek island-inspired background for the teens’ Mamma Mia concert. “Here.” Setting supplies on the wooden floor, I peered up at the spectacular floor-to-ceiling scenery. “Who’s our Sophie?”

“It’s between Christie and Ashley.” Wiping her grubby hands in an apron, she climbed down the metal ladder and chose brilliant white silk. “Do you need a paintbrush?”

“No.” I backed away from the crazy lady. “Don’t trust me anywhere near your art, Jes. I will ruin it.”

Jesminder waved me off. “Good riddance then.”

I stepped off the stage and ran straight into a dismayed Matthew. “Alexa?” His hand on my lower back, he steered me towards the craft table. “Notice anything unusual?”

God, I am popular today. “Unusual?” My eyes roamed over his tight, suspicious features. “You grew a beard.” The man prefers to be clean-shaven. “Fancied a change?” No, he visited the barbers. They cut his brown hair short at the sides. “I don’t know, Matt. Help me out.”

“Logan,” he whispered, throwing a thumb over one shoulder. “He’s early.”

“Oh,” I extended exaggeratedly. “Yes, he offered to help.”

“It’s odd.” Matthew rubbed his chin. “The sun’s out. Logan only comes here at night.”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” I advised, having noticed Logan keeping a close eye on our tête-à-tête. “What I have learnt, in my short time working for you, is that all our teens are stubborn by default. You tell them to go left, and they’ll go right and so forth. They hate people advising or telling them what to do. I am in the preliminary test stage of practising imperceptible persuasion.”

Matthew’s brows shot to his hairline. “I like it.”

“Good.” I smiled at his commendation. “Also, a friend of mine offered to stand in for Andrew. I figured you could use the extra muscle for the football championship.”

“Great.” He sighted Trudy wandering somewhere behind me and visibly shivered. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

The teenagers attributed to Inseparable Youths’ imminent fair. With a helpful hand from team members, they basked in fun-based activities and transformed the hall into a splendid theatre.

I paired Logan and Christie, which could be disastrous. If the duo decides to kill one another by the end of the night, I will not be surprised. Whilst they argue over the recently delivered candy floss machine, I unpack boxes of multi-coloured bunting flags. “Miss Haines—I mean, Mrs Warren.” Lifting his ball cap to smooth a hand over dishevelled hair, Samuel trudges alongside me, dodging strewn boxes on the floor. “I, uh, I did that thing you said.” In his rigid hand, a creased sheet of paper. “It’s that, uh, you know. That thing.”

“The drawing?” I asked, and he nodded. “Let me see it.”

Coughing into a tight fist, he submitted the sketch. “It’s shit.” A shade of blushed red glided up his neck and sweat dripped from his temple in beads. “Actually—”

I turned in time to dodge his hand, unfolded the paper and studied his work. He’d vibrantly chalked patterns and designs, but not in the typical sense. It was graffiti art on a smaller, restricted scale. “Samuel…” The spray paint beckoned consideration. “It’s incredible.”

“Yeah?” He looked sceptical. “I added black to outline and smooth the surface.”

The centre, he’d scrawled. Dream big.

With a microphone in hand, he’d drawn a young, black male, who very much resembled his friend, Tre. Behind Tre, the back of another young boy, Samuel. They stood close yet to the side of the others: music notes, aesthetic sports logos and hidden messages.

“Come with me.” Lifting a box and heading outside, I walked past the occupied benches and engaged courts with Samuel near, set supplies onto the grass and pointed to the dominating brick wall. “Do you know who did this?”

He glanced at the faded graffiti. “No.”

Uncapping a spray can, I handed it to him. “I want you to cover this wall with your art. Recreate the drawing on a large canvas. Leave nothing out.” I placed the drawing by his feet. “Not even the cryptic symbols.”

Testing the weight of the can, Samuel sprayed a long white line across the shambolic display. “What about Matthew?” He pulled the grey hoodie off over his head, fixed his cap backwards, swapped the white spray for brown and squirted the brick. “He’ll expel me for vandalising.”

“Let me handle Matthew.” As I walked away, he whispered something under his breath. “What was that?”

Samuel looked at me and understanding stretched between us. “Thank you,” he said respectfully. “For what you did with my Ma.”

I offered him a pleased smile. “You didn’t get an ass-whooping then.”

“No, Ma’am. I got a McDonald’s, though.” With flushed cheeks, he sprayed curves and bends onto the wall. “We don’t get those much.”

My chest caved. “Maybe if you behaved more…?”

“Nope.” His puckered lips made a tsking sound. “Ma works three jobs, and we still struggle. You know, that’s why I like to help with money and stuff.”

An admittance sat on the tip of his tongue—dealing drugs. “Get the wall finished.” Leaving Samuel to his own devices, I returned to the hall to finish the buntings. Upon arrival, in heart-stopping slow-motion, a marshal of nonchalant, tailored men, one by one, came through the central door in an orderly fashion. Everyone stopped to stare at the unexpected visitors, the youth workers, the kitchen staff, the atypically subdued teenagers. Speculative, brooding silence descended. I, however, with a small degree of uneasiness, fell into action before my husband made himself known. Ignoring Liam’s deplorably intimidating men, I slipped through the increasing throng, ducked into the crammed, dimmed hallway and collided straight into someone’s chest. I knew it was him. I recognised his pungent cologne, the ringed fingers adhered to my waistline, the overwhelming imperiousness limiting our breathing space.

Craning my neck to meet his intense blue eyes, I stared in reverence, in bemused speechlessness. “You can’t be here,” I whispered, and as I tried to move him away from the curious hall, he seized my wrist, thwarting non-literal defenestration. “Liam, people fear you.”

“I am not here for them,” he said, the fury in his gravelled voice strengthening innermost anxieties. “We need to get you out of here.”

“What?” I struggled to disengage from his tenacious grip. “Liam, what the hell? Quit manhandling me.” Opening the centre’s front door, he stepped out into the frosty night with me shielded behind him. “What’s going on?” Black Bentleys crammed either side of the road. From one parked vehicle, Alfie soared from the driver’s side to nudge Brad’s knuckles. “Why so many men?”

Frolicsomeness danced in Brad’s eyes. “What’s happening, Boo?” He licked a toothpick to the comer of his mouth. “Causing trouble again?”

“Liam?” Not understanding Brad’s equivocal raillery, I withdrew my arm from Liam and rubbed the soreness he inflicted from my wrist. “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

“Counterfeit license plates.” Ignoring my existence, Alfie addressed his boss, showing him captured images on his phone. “Four vehicles. Armed men. Early twenties, perhaps. They drove down,” he motions to the road, “stopped right outside the building and waited—kept the engines running, too.”

Incapable of hiding anger, Liam flicked through the photos. His thumb and forefinger enlarged a shot. “I can’t see their faces.” He gave the phone back. “Gun activity.”

“Christ,” Brad growled, toothpick wedged between gritted teeth. “Impending drive-by?”

“I reckon,” Alfie concurred, and the severity of their conversation dawned on me.

Brad rested his back to the parked vehicle. “Why didn’t they hang around?”

“Warren merchandise.” Alfie motioned to his personalised licence plate. “Those docile delinquents might pose a threat, but they know better. If Alexa has a bounty on her head? They’ll get the job done. Incognito. No mishaps or opponents.”

Since when did I have a bounty on my head? “But they outnumbered you,” I stated the obvious. “Why not kill you and then take a hit on me?” No, something doesn’t add up. I have never noticed strange activity here, nor have I felt threatened or endangered.

Disorderliness echoed from the centre behind us. While the men debated, I glanced across the road to see Samuel exit the building alongside Tre and the others. Paying no heed to the imposing Suits and humming vehicles, they gaited down the street, loud and leary.

Chewing my thumbnail in contemplative numbness, I half-listened to Liam relay orders when harrowing probabilities sprouted to mind. “It’s not me,” I whispered, tugging on Liam’s suit sleeve. “They weren’t here for me. They came for Samuel.” He disregarded me, so I pulled harder. “Liam, listen to me—”

“What?” he snapped, thrusting a hand through his hair. “I need a fucking minute to think, Alexa.”

“It’s not me,” I stressed, and his brows met in bafflement. “They want him.”

Liam’s confused gaze drifted over my head to watch Samuel and his friends turn the street corner. “We can’t be sure.” Pertinaciously refusing to consider possibilities, he opened the Bentleys passenger door and gestured for me to climb in. “You’ll stay home until I figure this out.”

I stood my ground. “It’s the centre’s fair this weekend. I must be here.”

“No, you will stay at Manor, where it’s safe.” He dismissed his men with an arrogant click of the finger. “Don’t fight me on this, baby,” he growled, putting us nose-to-nose. “You will lose.”

“I can tolerate your overbearing dominance in the bedroom but not outside.” Feeling impossibly enraged, I shut the door and put my back to it. “Liam, I married you for love. I did not marry you to live inside a cage for the rest of my life.”

His nostrils flared. “I am trying to protect you.”

“By shielding me from life?”

“By keeping you alive!” he spat, cutting his murderous scowl across the street where his men awaited. “Why must you be so difficult?” Rage, determination and heat emanated from him. He snatched my jaw. “I won’t risk losing you.”

Trapped in his hold, I reached for his other hand and placed it to the Eagle hidden beneath the waistband of my jeans. “I am armed,” I enlightened, licking my suddenly dry lips. “If at any point I fear for my life, know that I will not hesitate.”

Our lips brushed lightly as he laid down the law. “It’s not enough.”

“We don’t hide, Liam. You taught me that.”

Liam’s lips grazed my ear. “I will assign additional security,” he said, and I breathed out a thank you. “Inflexible arrangements. If you insist on being disobediently problematic, do it dexterously and with the syndicate in your corner.” His soft lips teased mine. “I should feed you.” If I leave, I worry he’ll prevent me from coming back. “Alexa, I will not intervene if you agree to work beside me, not against me.”

It’s a fair compromise. “I can return tomorrow as normal?” I asked, and he gave me a curt nod of agreement. “And I will assist Matthew and the others at the fair this weekend?”

“Done.” He uprooted a set of keys from his pocket. “Come.” We walked to his Bentley. “I’ll text Will to prepare us a table at the restaurant.”

“I need to collect my bag first.”

Liam held the passenger side door open. “Alfie can retrieve belongings.”

“Okay.” I slipped onto the seat and buckled up. As Liam rounded the car to fall behind the wheel, Logan, gym bag draped from one shoulder, pushed through the youth centre’s front door. Unlike Samuel, he reduced fast strides to extinguish curiosity, to observe the never-ending line of Bentleys. Drivers roared the vehicles to life and sped down the street. His narrowed eyes went from the departing wheels to our car in puzzlement. Black tinted windows obscured, yet I shied away from his searching glare.

“Who’s that?” Liam asked, the tyres shrieking as he spun the car around. “He looked lost.”

Via the rear-view mirror, my eyes followed Logan as he sprinted in the opposite direction. “Just a troubled youth.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Alexa

It was a scorcher of a day, the sun crested the blue, cloudless sky and the hot, humid outdoor air provided a summerlike ambience, which, at Inseparable Youths, enticed the young female assemblage to wear skimpy clothing and half framed sunglasses. In their low-hung football shorts and rearward facing snapbacks, the rumbustious lads boasted topless. Even team members wore loose-fitted clothing to bask in the afternoon rays. The males sported denim jeans and white polo shirts, and Trudy, much like the rest of us, flouted in vintage style summer dresses and flat sandals. Well, they trudged in flats. I no longer felt comfortable in what most deemed sensible footwear, so black ruffled stilettos heightened the spring in my step.

Mamma Mia launched concurrently with the fair. Much to Christie’s dismay, she didn’t get the leading role. Ashely performs as Sophie, her surprisingly good vocals impressing the audience. As I am not a huge fan of theatrical productions, I nominated myself as the outdoor stall manager. Hell, I am not even sure if that’s a thing, but I snagged a clipboard regardless.

Sun-faded buntings weaved hired stands: Hook a Duck, Hoopla, Tin Can Alley, Cross Bow Shootout, Coconut Shy and Ball in a Bucket. Lovingly restored old-fashioned fairground rides clustered the green field. Mobile food trucks and fixed price beer dispensers (for the visiting adults) lined the temporarily non-functioning basketball court. Paid operators managed the amusements, and dependable volunteers helped staff at the bric-a-brac tables.

Watching the teens come together was a rivetingly wistful sight. Younger Alexa often imagined innocent moments like these, living a life of perfect insouciance and confident foolhardiness. An independent daredevil with not a care in the world. Wild yet harmless. Sleepovers with girlfriends. First high-school crush, the uppermost of her mind, sneaking out of her bedroom window at night. Stealing alcohol from her father’s liquor cabinet to meet with friends at neighbourhood house parties, or, akin to today, visit summer carnivals to immerse herself in thrill-seeking rides, ingurgitate candy floss and cause a ruckus with her girls in tow.

Youthful throngs part for me to pass. I listened to their publicised tales and unabashed habit to speak reprehensibly inappropriate vulgar. Inexcusable explicitness was something, under normal circumstances, I hoped the younger Alexa would not have entertained. It’s entirely unnecessary, repulsively crass…and as I conceptually jargon, I can’t help but wonder how someone as easily squirmed as myself aligned with foul-mouthed Suits.

Come on, Alexa. I don’t hear any complaints when Liam’s whispering crudeness in your ear at night. The man’s dominating rawness, dare you to admit, turns you on. You live for those bitemarks, the blemishes he leaves on your skin, the bruises on your hips and the suckles to your neck. When he promises—and delivers—primitive fucking, you become a mentally questionable nymphomaniac who craves the sinful nature of unbridled sex.

“Hey—”

“Shit,” I shrieked, lunging the clipboard heavenward.

Jace’s eyes, like slits of honed emeralds, narrowed further. “What the fuck was that about?”

“What?” I asked defensively, retrieving the clipboard from the ground. “I was in a world of my own, and you came from nowhere.”

His smile stretched. “Am I responsible for the blushing, too?”

I palmed my cheek. Heated diffused beneath my palm. “I am not blushing.”

“You look red-faced and anxious.” His muscular arms crossed. “And you were talking to yourself.”

Of course, I was. I can’t go five minutes without culpable humiliation. “Well, then, you comprehend your friend’s illogicality.” I fixed the overturned sheets of paper. “No, seriously. Is this a problem? Half of the time, I don’t even realise the extent of soliloquising. Mostly, when caught, I play it off like it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal, right? I mean, should I see a doctor? A therapist? Maybe I need medication or something…” An older couple slipped between us, and I lowered my voice. “Why do I speak in third-person?”

“You’re an illeist,” Jace said matter-of-factly. “Alexa don’t overthink it. It’s just your way of compartmentalising mixed emotions and stuff. You don’t need happy pills to put a break on your thought process. Fuck, if it makes you feel better. I talk aloud too sometimes.”

A sense of relief gripped me. “You do?”

“Yeah,” he said in an unconvincing attempt to mollify me. “Every morning, in the bathroom mirror, I tell myself how fucking blessed I am to have a face like this.”

“Asshole.” Laughing airily, I shoved his shoulder. “The men in my life transcend what’s commonly egomaniacal.”

He flashed me a proud smirk. “I can dig that.”

I rolled my eyes. “Shouldn’t you be on the football field?” We stopped near the food truck to buy two hot dogs and a portion of dirty fries to share. “Or is it half-time or something?”

Jace paid for the goods and then moved to the beer truck. “Kick-off starts in an hour.” Carlsberg in hand, he downed half in one session, licking wispy foam off his upper lip. “So, what’s the deal with you and Matthew?”

I paused with the hot dog at my lips. “What do you mean?”

He gave me a long, suspicious look. “Don’t play dumb, Alexa.”

“Play dumb?” I sucked mustard off my thumb. “What am I missing? Matt’s a nice guy. He’s friendly, Sociable. Not the unapproachable, tyrannical type of management we normally see in today’s world.” Like Liam, I thought. “I mean, what’s the question?”

Jace stepped aside to block my view. “Okay, don’t make it obvious,” he said, and my interrogative eyes immediately scoured our surroundings. “Alexa, what did I just say?”

“Sorry,” I muttered sarcastically, sinking my teeth into the hotdog. “And why are you whispering?”

“Subtly,” he spoke behind an inked hand, “glance over my shoulder. Tell me what you see.”

Eyebrow bending in puzzlement, I subtly peered over his shoulder. I saw occupied stalls, sporadically flashing funfair rides, mobs of chin-wagging parents and appointed entertainers capering in fancy dress. “Jace, you might need to help me out.”

“Picnic tables.”

Fixing my sunglasses, I peered to the crowded picnic tables. In the juxtaposition of social smokers and conversational drinkers, I locate our team table, where Trudy, Jesminder, Dave, and Matthew soak up the afternoon sun. “And?”

Hands clasping to the back of his head, he asked, “Where’s Matthew’s attention?”

Huffing out an exasperated breath, I glanced once more to see Matthew’s sole focus was Jace’s back. “He’s looking at you.”

“No.” Jace chuckled dryly. “He’s watching you.”

I desist from laughing. “What’s the implication?”

“Your boss fancies the ass off you.”

“No, he doesn’t.” Surely, I’d have noticed if Matthew found me attractive. “Jace, you have only been here five minutes. Stop spreading rumours.”

“Hey, I’m not about to scream it for the whole centre, Alexa. But what kinda friend would I be if I didn’t tell you?”

I barely managed to hide my scowl. “Did Matthew admit to harbouring feelings?”

His calm demeanour betrayed the amusement in his eyes. “Not exactly.”

“Then, how can you be so sure?”

“If you as the topic of conversation wasn’t enough of an indication, then I’m pretty sure his raging boner gave it away.”

A knot tightened in my stomach. “Raging boner?”

“Yeah, one glance from you and that dickhead’s hard. And don’t call bullshit, Alexa. He’s hardly shy in the libidinous department.”

“Really?” My nose creased. “Now that’s tactless.”

“I prefer the term ‘honest.’”

Losing my appetite, I tossed the hotdog in the first available trash can. “How can you tell if someone’s aroused? Stared at his crotch?”

“Not exactly.”

“For crying out loud. If you insist on making the workplace unbearably uncomfortable for me, the least you can do is string a response that consists of more than four syllables.”

“Alright, tiger.” His arm draped across my shoulders. “It’s just obvious. When I first arrived, I went to Matt’s office to sign some non-disclosure shit, and our entire conversation involved you. So,” he imitated Matt’s velvety voice, “how long have you known Alexa? Do you both see each other regularly? Has she mentioned me at all?” He smirked knowingly. “Dare I continue?”

“None of the above suggest fondness.”

“The guy wants to fuck you,” he said, blunt and sharp. “His conscience-stricken countenance gives it away.”

I frowned at that. “Gives what away?”

“The fact he has a tug here and there while imagining said fucking.”

“Nice, Jace.” My head shook in disgust. “Thanks for the irremovable image. Now I won’t be able to look at him again without gagging.”

“Alexa?” Matthew called, and I side-eyed the chortling buffoon to my right. “Are you busy?” Before the hub manager stumbled into my peripheral, I slapped on a fake smile. “I could use some help on the Coconut Shy.”

If Matthew did think of me as more than an employee, he most certainly masked such feelings. Not once did his eyes dip for an unsatisfactory glimpse of my small mounds. I wore a black and red floral spaghetti dress, which, when the wind blew, revealed far too much leg. Now would be the perfect opportunity for him to catalogue openly. Today’s choice of attire contradicts the skin-tight dresses I wear outside of work, but he’s never there to testify. He’s used to knee-high pencil skirts. Lantern sleeve belted frocks and peplum jackets.

“Alexa?” Matthew pried, and I arch my neck to look up at him. “Can you help?”

“Sure,” I resigned, ignoring the snorting ass beside me.

“Thank you.” Matthew handed Jace an identification lanyard. “We could use someone like you supervising the Cross Bow Shootout. Let’s say,” he glimpsed at his wristwatch, “for twenty minutes? While the stall worker takes his break.”

“I can do that.” Jace dropped the blue lanyard over his head. “Real arrows?”

“No, rubber tips.” Matthew gestured for me to walk ahead. “Thank you for volunteering, Mr Williams. Inseparable Youths appreciate your willingness.”

Jace refrained from telling Matthew that I emotionally blackmailed him. “No problem.”

I spent the next hour collecting wooden balls off the ground. The traditional side stall game was a bit of an anti-climax for the teens. If they knocked any coconuts off the podiums, the grand prize? Dislodged coconuts. Half of the time, even if the lads won, they walked away empty-handed. They came here to swank strength, blow their own trumpet, and flex invisible muscles to their female supporters; they didn’t come here to boast dried drupes.

Matthew behaved accordingly and professionally. At no point did I get the impression he secretly lusted or fawned. For the duration of us working together, he discussed Trudy, or rather, asked for advice. Trudy sent him another email. It was an apologetic email, which alleviated his apprehensions until this afternoon when she entered his office to invite him to dinner next Friday.

Call me wickedly cruel, but I laughed. Matthew’s extreme diffidence and awkwardness regarding his admirer, Trudy, steamed up divertissement. His ever-present flushed cheeks and stuttered words provided a grateful diversion. I completely forgot Jace’s friendly warning.

At my request, Alfie and the newly assigned security detail wore casual clothes. I felt eyes on me at every turned corner, yet I had no knowledge of where Liam’s watchful men stationed. Blending into the crowd prevented wariness from visitors. If the men insisted on trailing my every move, they could do it secretly.

I had sent Mrs Ashworth an email last night to invite her to the fair. More to the point, I wanted her to see Samuel’s artwork. He added finishing touches to the kaleidoscopic graffiti art this morning. Sprayed his signature on the daubed brick wall while his friend, Tre, snapped selfies for their social media page. Matthew expressed warm approval, which Samuel ate up in unpretentious boastfulness. Sadly, his mother’s yet to make an appearance.

“I got you something,” Logan said, and I felt a strange sense of elation.

“You did?” Hands to the hips, I turned to face him. “Whatever for?”

Logan looked refreshingly handsome in his grey jogging bottoms and a black fitted T-shirt, ball cap flipped backwards. Backpack on his shoulders. A cheap silver curb necklace around his neck. “It’s nothing special,” he quickly asserted. “I kinda stumbled across it down Croydon Market and thought, you know, Alexa might like that.” Yanking the bag over his shoulder, he unzipped, found what he was looking for and slapped a small paper bag on my hand. “Don’t get too excited. It’s only worth a fiver.”

Accepting gifts from the teens may be frowned upon, but uncertainty didn’t stop me from opening the thin seal. A fake gold keychain fell onto my palm: two rustic looking keys and a red feather.

A lump lodged in my throat.

“I figured red’s your favourite colour,” he said obliviously. “If you don’t wear a red dress, or shoes, or whatever, you got that red lipstick on, right?”

Tears threatened to spill as I thumbed the delicate feather. “My mother used to make dreamcatchers,” I told him, coughing to clear my windpipe. “She’d buy feathers like this one, add beads and string to the calamus and hang it from the webbed hoop.” I fished out my keys from my handbag and attached the keychain. “Thank you, Logan. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Logan took the empty wrapper from my hand and stuffed it in his backpack. “Are you watching the football game?” He hovered in my footsteps. “I don’t like football much, but I got nothing better to do.” His gaze averted to check out a group of girls. “Where’s Dave and Tricia?”

I was momentarily confused by his random question. Dave and Tricia enjoy a round of beers at the picnic tables. We hired food trucks, so we didn’t need their assistance in the kitchen. What Logan’s really asking is if he’s free to ransack the fridge freezer. “I’m not sure,” I lied, abruptly diverting to the burger van. “I’ll watch the football game.” Uprooting my purse, I slide out a twenty-pound note and wait in the queue. “I’m starving. Do you want something?”

Logan’s shoulders pushed back. “No, I’m good.”

So stubborn, I thought. “Well, you can’t let me eat alone like a gluttonous pig.” I pointed to the chalkboard menu. “Come on. It’s my treat.”

Squeezing the back of his neck, he eyed the list of burgers. “You sure?”

I nodded.

“I’ll grab the plain burger,” he said, selecting the cheapest order on the menu. “Thanks, Alexa.”

My lips pursed in frustration.

“What can I get you?” the man flipping patties asked.

“Two cokes,” I ordered, waiting for the guy to place two plastic tumblers of ice coke on the ledge before ordering food. “Logan, carry those to the benchers. I’ll be over in a minute.”

Logan grabbed our drinks and, while sipping from one, wandered towards the hectic benchers, where spectators gathered in preparation for kick-off. I was nowhere near hungry, but if I wanted Logan to ingest something heavy to line his stomach, I had to force myself to eat. “Can I get two portions of fries, please? One quarter-pounder with salad. And one half-pounder with cheese.” I handed over the cash. “Add a bag of glazed doughnuts, too.”

He sprayed oil onto the griddle. “Sure thing, Lady.”

Ten minutes later, I convey a tray of unhealthy fodder to the benches to sit with Logan. “You missed the whistle,” he said, moving over for me to squeeze between him and another gentleman. “I put your coke under the bench.”

“Here.” Tray balancing on my knees, I unravelled his burger and passed him the fries. “Knock yourself out.”

“I didn’t order this.” He stared at the giant burger, a look of sheer satisfaction on his face. “Did you want to share?”

God, no. I had to figure out a way to dismantle the child-size burger in my hand. “No, I got a small stomach,” I said lightly, dipping a fry into ketchup. “I couldn’t eat that much if I tried.”

Logan’s teeth sank into the seeded bun. Savouring the meaty flavours on his tongue, he chewed in silence, watching the field as Tre makes a beeline for the goalpost. “Check the size of that monster,” he said in bafflement. “Who the fuck hired him?”

I ignored his profanity slur. “I did,” I admitted proudly, admiring Jace as he ran down the sideline, gesticulating wildly from Samuel to the team. “His name’s Jace. And he’s my best friend.”

His eyes slid in my direction. “Your best friends with a dude,” he deadpanned. “Because that’s normal.”

“What’s wrong with having male friends?” I asked defensively. “I happen to prefer males to females these days.”

Logan curbed incredulousness. “If you say so.” I hurled a fry at him. He ducked his head, evading the childish attack. “Don’t waste the food.”

I took one final bite of my burger. “I can’t eat anymore.” Placing the tray on his lap, I reached under the bench to retrieve the coke and downed an unquenchable amount of effervesces. “Knock yourself out.” When the crowd raised their vociferous voices, we glanced back to the field to see Samuel and a boy from the opposing team squaring up to each other, outstretching their arms, chest-to-chest, yelling offensiveness. “Shit,” I whispered under my breath. Geared up for a fight, Samuel threw the first punch, and that’s all it took for the other lad to tackle him to the ground. They managed numerous jabs before Jace and Matthew ripped them apart. I wasn’t privy to Matthew’s hangarage. Judging by Samuel’s furiousness and long, angry strides as he stormed off the pitch, it was a lambasting to remember. “I’ll be right back.”

Leaving Logan unattended, I squeezed through seated spectators, dodged pints on the floor and chased Samuel towards the youth centre. The fire exit door slammed into the brick wall from the force of him entering. “Samuel,” I called, paying no attention to the Mamma Mia audience. “Wait.” He exited the dimmed main hall into the foyer, his on-and-off girlfriend, Christie, chasing behind him. I was doubling-over at the waist by the time I caught up to him. He lingered out front, by the electric gates, arguing with the distressed blonde. “Hey!” Two pairs of eyes flung in my direction. “Christie, go inside while I talk to Samuel.”

Christie looked up to Samuel, for what, I wasn’t sure. His disapproval, maybe. His protest. “Okay,” she whispered, resigned and defeated. “Call me if you need me.”

“I won’t,” he spat, the vein in his neck throbbing as he unclenched his jaw. “Go on. Fuck off—”

“That’s enough,” I berated, and his dramatic eye-roll visited the sky. “You do not speak to a woman like that. If you have nothing nice to say to Christie, then don’t say nothing at all.” I shoved myself in front of him. “I met your mother, Samuel. I know she hasn’t had it easy, but I very much doubt she raised you to be disrespectful—”

“You don’t know my Ma,” he argued, his face twisted in arrogant disdain. “You met her once, so now you think you know shit. Fuck you, Mrs Warren,” he added in sardonic revulsion. “Fuck you and everything you stand for, Bitch—”

“Get out of her face.” Logan’s unexpected arrival snatched the air from my lungs. “You want to come here and throw your weight, Ashworth?’ He slapped his hands on Samuel’s chest, and immediate panic zapped through me. “Come on. Let’s go—”

“Logan, stop.” When I tried to grip his T-shirt, he ripped it off, slung it aside and goaded Samuel to fight. “If either of you throws a punch, I will…” Samuel’s T-shirt joined Logan’s on the floor. “Alfie!” I didn’t stand a chance against these two. They are not your average-sized teenage boys. Both were far too tall, too intimidatingly strong and what’s worse? Neither of them cared for consequences. “Please don’t—” Samuel landed the first punch, which briefly staggered Logan. “I am calling your parents!”

Ignoring everything I said, the two boys brawled violently, shoving each other against the fence, the metal clanking in coincide with their determined sequence of jabs. It was a brutal sight of dominance, an awfully troublesome display that someone like me should be accustomed to as I have seen my fair share of blood, tasted it on the lips of the very man I love, but it’s impossible to stand back or disregard such ghastliness when it involves young boys who seemingly fight for bloodshed.

One of Liam’s besuited men wrapped his arms around my waist, lifting my feet off the ground as he dragged me away from their unstoppable fistfight. Through blurry eyes, I see an approaching vehicle, heard muffled arguments: Alfie’s voice and Samuel’s combative insults. Pulse thumping in my ears, I watched the car windows slowly descend for the passengers to aim fire.

With all-consuming trepidation, I elbowed my handler in the ribs, which gave me a small window to slip out of his hold. Knees crashing against the ground, I snatched the Eagle from my thigh strap, pushed myself onto my feet and, in what felt like funeral pace, took aim. One bullet clicked from the chamber, the late counterattack shaking me to the core. Belts of unremitting gunfire echoed rapidly through the street, shrapnel pinging off everything in sight. Even though the trained Suits knew how to handle adversaries, their sole purpose for being here was the safety of their boss’ wife. Alfie’s body soon became an inescapable shield. He tore us to the ground, his heaviness suffocating me into submission, yet I prematurely sobbed for the defenceless boys, screamed for someone to protect them. No one listened. No one cared. It was my life or theirs, which sickened me with loathing and immense grief.

Windows fragmented as a result of sharpshooter Alfie. I waited for the sound of shrieking tyres to follow. Nothing. Not a frightening slam of acceleration from the fleeing gunmen. Sweat-slicked hair adhering to my face, I peered up from the ground and saw very little through hankered gun smoke, except one bloodied arm hanging listlessly from the driver’s side window.

“Warren,” Alife said, and I caught Liam’s almost undetectable voice through the phone receiver. “Yes.” I shifted, and Alfie rolled off me. “Of course, sir.”

Wiping dirt across my cheek, I snatched the discarded Eagle off the ground before someone saw it, tucked it into the thigh strap and fixed the train of my dress. It’s busier now. People from the centre spewed out of the exit, disordered and confused. Intrusive neighbours cracked their front doors open to see what caused the commotion. The distant sound of sirens wailed and ululated.

Benumbed by the air of distress, I held up my hand, stopping Alfie from handing me his phone and stared at the humming car, the bullet holes and chipped paint, the lifeless bodies of five young males. I blinked to regain consciousness, which I regretted the second I identify Samuel’s gunned down body sprawled across the ground.

“We need to get you out of here,” Alfie advised, seizing my elbow. “Alexa, the police will take you in for questioning. We’re armed.”

“Leave,” I ordered, knowing Liam will be here any moment. “Go with the others, Alfie. I am not in danger.”

Raking a hand over his head, he spat out a curse, discreetly obtained the gun from my thigh and ran down the street to catch up with security. Purposefully drowning out the heartbroken cries, I kneeled beside Samuel’s limp body, held back a sob and closed his eyelids with trembling fingers. Blood pooled beneath him. Not a breath detected from his busted lips.

“Dear, God.” His eyes rounding in complete terror, Matthew staggered to a stop and flailed his arms, instructing people to get back, to give us some space, to show respect.

Teary-eyed, I looked up to find Logan slumped against the youth centre’s wall. Ashen white and tearful, he stared back at me. I don’t know what gave it away—the guilt in his ice-blues, the quiver in his bottom lip or his whispered regret. With a limp in his step, he walked straight past me, the material of his jogging bottoms grazing my bare shoulder. “Where’s my son?” I heard amidst the weeping crowd. “Matthew, have you seen him? What happened out here? Where’s my baby?”

An inked hand fell to my shoulder. Jace reached behind him to pull the T-shirt off from over his head, covering Samuel’s face to preserve Mrs Ashmore’s memory. He, more than anyone, understands the gut-wrenching pain of losing a child, and I know, if he could change one thing from the night that we found Summer, it would be him not entering the basement and avoiding bereavement hallucinations.

“Matthew?” Mrs Ashmore’s voice was hitched and breathless. “What happened? Why can’t I find my son?”

Dusting the embedded gravel off my knees, I stood, holding Jace’s forearm for support. Flashing blue beacons gyrated, the parked emergency vehicles mounted the curbside and blocked the road.

“Mrs Ashmore.” On the verge of shock-stricken tears, Matthew gripped Samuel’s mother’s arms in an endeavour to lead her indoors to his office. “Can you come with me?”

It was the first time I got to witness a mother’s intuition. Overwhelming sadness and despair sprang unshed tears to her searching eyes. It’s almost as if she knew—as if she felt it—deep down, in her gut, something irreversibly devastating had happened. Traumatism. It exhausted the colour from her sunken cheeks. And then, unable to hold herself upright, her knees gave way, collapsed beneath her. Matthew stood in front of her, yet he was unprepared for folding. Jace knew, though. I didn’t realise he had left my side until he broke the woman’s fall. Two strong arms caged her convulsing body. His chest contained the shrillness of her piercing cries. Screaming at the top of her lungs, she kicked and fought against him, extending an arm to reach for Samuel’s concealed body on the ground. Pained whimpers expelled from her slackened mouth. Tears rolled down her cheeks as her rigid fingers sought to touch her son’s head.

With gauche steps, I swaggered backwards, needing to catch my breath, to expunge broken-heartedness from my memory. I pushed my way through paramedics, the sound of my heels scraping across the concrete, and paused on the curbside to swallow acidic bile. It’s unpreventable. Hands to the knees, I vomited violently, relieving the sick sensation for all of three seconds before another burst splattered onto the road.

Reginald Burton offered a grim smile as he sauntered past. Silent acknowledgement exchanged in our stoic gazes, but neither of us addressed each other. Not in the eyes of law enforcement.

When a black Bentley swerved around the street corner, I righted myself, wiped the saliva from my lips and stuck my arm out to wave the driver down. As I said, I am all too familiar with bloodshed and final exits, but there’s something eerily shattering when death involves a child.

Vehicle screeching to a halt, the Suit threw the door open. Only it wasn’t a Suit. I recognised the Hermès leather shoe as it graced the pavement. Fixing the button of his suit jacket, Liam stood beside the open door, waiting for me to go to him. At the behest of his beckoning eyes, I ran into his arms and buried my head on his chest. “Samuel’s dead,” I whispered, and he nodded stiffly. “He got caught in the crossfire, Liam.”

His hands smoothed up my arms. “Alfie insisted you were not the target.”

Logan’s silent plea for help reiterated inside my head. “They came for Logan.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Liam

Unlit blunt perched on my bottom lip, I watched her from the comfortable leather armchair, Blaire. In the kitchen, half-dressed, an oversized hoodie, she pranced around barefoot, put a bowl of cornflakes on the stonework counter. Two heaped sugars dusted the cereal. Almond flavoured milk. On the wooden chopping board, peppered salami, sliced gorgonzola and arranged cream crackers. Meat cleaver in hand, she stabbed oven-baked ciabatta with the sharpest point, licked the taste of gourmandise from her lips and dusted counter crumbs to the tiled floor.

I put myself in Nate’s shoes in order to commiserate his devoted fondness for the stray girl. I suppose I am partly to blame. Bajramovic wounded Blaire. Rather than leave her to rot, I helped her escape the monstrosities of captivity and gave her a room at the penthouse. In times’ bygone, inscrutable compulsion forced my hand. I found a young, timorously helpless victim whose distressing circumstances resembled the woman I had lost. Blaire’s emaciated body, sickly-looking appearance and dank, uninhabitable living conditions elicited vivid, agonising memories of when I discovered unspeakable photographs in Alexa’s bedroom. Of course, Alexa had been much younger in those photos. Bajramovic introduced her to a dark, odious world that no child should ever witness nor experience; however, age difference aside, both girls, two victims of sexual slavery, suffered unspeakable trials and difficulties and for that reason alone, in the wake of Alexa’s “death”, in a moment of weakness and emotional distress, I made an illogical decision to welcome an enigmatic outsider. Oversentimentality precipitated present quandaries. Prior foolishness consolidated the relationship between Nate and Blaire. I should have sent the girl packing. Instead, blinded by grief and acute misery, I allowed one of the brothers to console her with affection, to vouch for immunity as her bondsman, which leaves me in quite the predicament. I do not care for the girl. I can live without the omnipresence of her pestiferous voice, but, despite the syndicate’s disapprobation, I cannot harm one hair on her feebleminded head unless someone provides verifiable deception.

Blaire killed the kitchen light. Opaque darkness enshrouded the living quarters, including the man who lent an ear to her controlled movements. Leather grated as she sat on the corner sofa. Crooning nonsense, she masticated snacks and quaffed milk. And then, purposeful noiselessness.

With a low, wolfish smirk on my face, I flamed a match, lit the joint, took three tokes and permeated the air with haze. “Nyctophilia,” I said hoarsely. “Immersion of caliginosity. The one who seeks easement in ungodly domains. Is it assuaging? Evocative? Does it act as a shield or provide an air of prominence?” I sensed the wickedness in her exultant smile. “Perhaps it feels like home.”

Blaire tapped what sounded like a spoon against the bowl. “It’s familiar.”

“What are the positives and negatives regarding familiarity?” When she remained uncommunicative, I added, “Convenient comfortableness verses hindered progression. How can one overcome historical hardship if resolved to inadequate acceptance?”

“I am not a frightened girl anymore, Warren,” she said curtly. “I have overcome far more than most. Being a lover of remote darkness does not determine one’s sanity, nor does it mean I am caught between the past and the present. I can still progress in life without changing small, pleasurable needs. Why do I prefer to sit alone in the dark? It allows me to think clearly. Is it because I crave reminiscences of captivity? No.”

Her eerie surroundings suggest otherwise. “You answer to the sobriquet ‘Blaire’, but that’s not your real name,” I segued into a new topic. “You were disinclined to share your birth name. Why?”

Dim light suddenly cast shadows on Blaire’s face. Her hand on the lamp, she stared back at me. Her eyes were wide and searching. “Vincent’s a troublemaker.”

A surge of defensiveness tightened my fists. “Careful,” I warned, expelling a veil of smoke. “You are in no position to question a senior member of the syndicate.”

“Oh?” Her mouth formed a circle. “I wasn’t aware that Vincent scaled the promotion ladder.”

Vincent’s bullshit designation was an extemporaneous comeback. “Perks of being a Warren.”

Blaire set the half-eaten cereal onto the side table. “I never missed them,” she began, sitting cross-legged on the sofa. “My parents. Not at any point during captivity did I yearn for their rescue. In actual fact, I’d have chosen death before parental salvation. Vincent had a valid argument. Why did the priggish rich girl choose incognito in lieu of family and prosperity? It is not always about good riches, not if it makes you miserable. I had no siblings to entertain. Father prohibited socialising and friendships. Mother was too busy fucking the pool guy to remember she had a daughter. I was never good enough,” she added bitterly. “Why can’t you be more like Shannon’s daughter? Why can’t you wear a dress like Shannon’s daughter? Why can’t you better your grades like Shannon’s daughter? You should dye your hair blonde,” her head tilted, “like Shannon’s daughter.”

I put a fist to my mouth to conceal an amused smirk.

“I lived in this big old house. It was neither quiet nor empty, yet I felt so alone. Invisible.” With a look of despondency, she wrangled her fingers. “It was my father’s birthday. Mother orchestrated an impressive all-white dinner party. Everyone was invited. I was told to stay in my room. And like an obedient pillock, I listened. I stayed inside the bedroom whilst everyone celebrated.” Her lip ticked at the corner. “That’s when I heard them. Mother and twenty-one-year-old Fabio-the-pool-cleaner,” she accentuated mockingly, “having sex in the guestroom. It was repulsive. Her affair was the final straw. I scribbled a bogus suicide note, packed a bag, stole thirty-five quid out of my dad’s office and never looked back.” Drinking from a glass of milk, she said, “I hitchhiked a lift from Zamira an hour later—the rest is history. So, to clear any uncertainties in regard to motives, I am not a threat to you, Nathaniel or the syndicate. I am just a bitter woman who’d likely kill her godforsaken parents if the event should so happen to arise.”

When I soared from the armchair to sit beside Blaire on the sofa, I could almost hear the proliferation of her unsteady heartbeat. “Do you want some?” I offered the blunt, and she declined. “I will ask you once and once only. If you care for Nate to the extent that you profess, why did you participate in flirtatious text messages with your boss?”

“You are mistaken.” Restless by our nearness, she changed position, knees to her chest, arms clutched to the shins, an undeniable bid to pave space between us. “Platonic messages. I never got the impression that you and I flirted.”

Head lolling against the sofa’s rear, I ran the pad of my finger along Blaire’s sharp clavicle. It sent goose pimples to her bare arms. “You agreed to alleviate stress, did you not? A shoulder to lean on when marriage becomes stressfully tiresome and taxing.” Our heads turned in tandem. Her brown eyes to my blues. Lips close enough to kiss. “I might take you up on that offer.”

Blaire paled in bewilderment. “You are married.”

Wrong answer. “I can keep a secret,” I said in a smooth voice, inching closer to lick the honeyed perfume from the arch of her reddened neck to feel her pulse on my lips. “What do you say?”

“I…” Scampering off the sofa, Blaire tugged down the hiked hoodie to cover her creamy thighs. “Mr Warren, I am flattered.” Cheeks hollowed, she drew in a spluttered breath. “And it’s truly upsetting that you solicit an extramarital affair so soon in your marriage, but I am in a relationship. I love Nathaniel.” Her impassioned lecture fell on heeded ears. “I could never hurt him like that.”

Smoke curling from my lips, I looked impassively at the restive woman. In pursuit of deceitfulness, I searched for contradiction in her inexpressive eyes. I unburied nothing, not a glimpse of underhandedness.

I speak on behalf of myself and my wife; jealousy affects logical judgment. Our love for each other runs core deep and, while it pains me to admit it, we delude ourselves into believing the opposite-sex poses a threat. If a man looks at Alexa the wrong way, I presume desirousness, and if a woman dares to address me in an amicable conversation, Alexa swears to exterminate the female population.

Blaire moved to the floor to ceiling window and peeled back the black suede curtain to look outside. Worry and anxiousness dulled her aura as she anticipated Nate’s return. I don’t like the girl, I don’t understand what Nate sees in the girl, but I believed she cared for him. There was no indication that she had feelings for another. “He’ll be here soon.” Leaning forward, I put the blunt out in the frosted ashtray and left it on the glass coffee table. “What’s on the menu?”

Lingering near the window, Blaire hugged herself. “Thai.”

In all the years I have known Nate, he’s never invited anyone to his private home. He lives in a three-bedroom apartment with enviable views. Adequate habitation. Unflashy and unpretentious. Not what I expected. “I have a job for you.” Redoing the button of my suit jacket, I stood. “I am to arrange a meeting with Alberto Moretti. Before I agree to gather for the conclave, I’d like for you to follow him around. Unobtrusively, of course. Nate will supply investigatory surveillance equipment.” Hands in my trouser pockets, I slowly gravitated towards her. “I want to know of his alliances. Where does he eat? Where does he sleep? Do his children attend public or private school? Is his wife faithful? What of his criminal activities?” Hearing the front door close, I levelled her with dark eyes. “You are not the most reliable or credible citizen. Hearsay has no probative value. I require conclusive documentation only.” Footsteps faltered behind me. Poised, I turned to face him. “Nate.”

In an unzipped Bobbi Parka coat and ribbed beanie hat, Nate looked from me to the girl, consternation greying his protruding eyes. “Sir?” Restlessness grated his baritone voice. “Is everything okay? I didn’t know—”

“I returned to London.” Intentionally distant and cold, I gave him a tight-lipped smile. “How could you be cognisant? I authorised your leave of absence, did I not?”

His shoulders tensed at the detection of sarcastic acerbity.

Blaire’s itching to leave. “I should wait in the bedroom—”

“You should sit,” I spoke brusquely, and she slid onto the sofa, acquiescent and dismayed. Knowing chastisement neared, Nate set the carrier bag of Thai cuisine on the coffee table, slipped out of his black coat and rolled his shirt sleeves to the elbows. His blue gaze landed on the floor to escape his boss’ disappointment. “What’s the deal with you and Brad?”

Jaw steeled, he fixed his nose ring. “We don’t see eye to eye.”

“You two bicker like a married couple. It is old news, your puerile squabbles. Brad nettles. You play into disputatiousness. It’s how it’s always been; you both quarrel, fight and laugh about it later. Uninteresting for an onlooker. Entertainment for the brainless entrants. Now, you tell me, after years of having to deal with this fucking nonsense, that you and Brad fail to see eye to eye.” Blaire chewed her thumbnail. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Her head shook. “Overnight, Nate’s too superior for the likes of Brad Jones. Need I remind you,” I husked in a voice of condescension, “Brad’s second-in-command. If I had to dismiss one of you from the syndicate, it would not be him.”

Nate lowered his chin and cussed out. “Sir.”

“You left Josh unaccompanied at Gateway.”

“Sir,” he drawled, “I am punctual. I keep everything noted on my phone. The night in question, I had no reminders for Gateway.” His lips wired in a grimace of regret, he gripped the nape of his neck. “I love Josh. I would never put him in harm’s way. But I fucked up. I must have forgotten to switch the days over…” He sounded tentative and unconfident. “It won’t happen again.”

“Leave us,” I ordered, and the skittish girl, lunging onto her feet in haste, rushed down the hallway. “Prove your worth.”

Nate waited for the bedroom door to slam behind Blaire. “What do you need from me?”

“I walk out of this room to kill your distraction.” Shoulder to shoulder, we stood. “How do you proceed?”

Brooding wretchedness laboured his breathing. “I would reiterate the rules of camaraderie and appeal for clemency prior to Blaire’s death.”

“How,” I snarled impatiently, and he pulled a conflicted face, “do you proceed?”

“I stand by The Brotherhood indefinitely.” His inked hand latched onto my shoulder. “I would prepare the disposing of her body.”

I held his gaze for longer than necessary. “Good answer.”

With a sharp intake of breath, Nate lowered his defences. “How was the honeymoon, sir?”

“It was everything and more.” Following him into the kitchen, I rested a shoulder on the doorframe. He paused by the kitchen island to assess Blaire’s chopping board of unpalatable miscellaneousness. “I had fun,” I said with a bemused smile. “I missed London; however, Alexa’s contentment made the extended trip worthwhile.”

“Now that you are married, will Alexa attend weekly conclaves?” Nate set two crystal glasses onto the counter. “A female’s perspective can only strengthen the institution.”

It was an innocuous question. “Alexa’s attendance is non-compulsory,” I said after a beat. “If I require her participation, I am sure she will happily assist.” He poured one glass of neat Jameson, one glass of Gordon’s dry gin. “I want you at the club tonight.” Knocking back a warm shot, I let the burn pour down my throat. “Assist Cherry for a few hours and then sit with Brad. Quash your differences cordially. Attend early breakfast together, gym together, train together. When you both come to the office tomorrow night, I expect to see two well-disposed brothers. Understand?”

He dipped his head.

“Good.” I set the glass down for him to refill. “It’s serious then. You and Blaire.”

Recapping the whiskey bottle, Nate slid the amber filled glass over. “She’s good for me.”

I disagree. “How so?”

“Club whores.” He swallowed gin. “You fuck them once, fuck them again, and then it’s nothing you ain’t seen before. I get the hype. Our girls, they entice. Now, I ain’t dissing Brad or the others. If they want to fool around with different chicks day in and day out, that’s on them, and there’s no judgment on my end, but I ain’t about that. I am over it. I want a good girl to come home to—someone to chill with. Someone to share my bed at night, tell me how good the future looks. I long for true love. Does that make me weak? Gullible? Downright fucking stupid? Probably.” His shoulder jerked. “Nonetheless, I stand by what I said.”

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I ignored it.

“Blaire,” he brushed a thumb across his twitched lips, “she was unexpected. An encumbering assignment.” A faint blush tinted his cheeks. “What changed? I don’t know. It felt good to come home to a spruced appartement. Food in the oven. Ironed suits in the wardrobe. A pretty woman sat on the sofa, watching the television, waiting for me. I started to think, well, she’s not so bad. We talked a lot. It surprised me how much she and I had in common.” Chucking rizla paper on the counter, he opened the kitchen drawer, pulled out weed and began to grind. “We fucked one night, and I ain’t looked back.” He prepared the deck, licked the rizla seam and secured the roach. “I think she’s the one.”

I remained stone-faced. Nate opts for a monogamous relationship, which put his recent philandering indisposition into perspective. When he initially became a member of the syndicate, he was insatiably deviant. He slept with a multitudinous assemblage of women, one or two favourites, here and there, and then overnight, he lacked interest. While Brad, the irredeemably libidinous womaniser, exploited his sexual appetite, this man right here, he unconsciously settled for frequent spurts of celibacy.

I had many questions. “Do you respect Alexa?”

Nate turned on the gas stove, pinched the blunt between his lips and lent down to let the blue flames burn the tip. Cloaked in puffs of smoke, he wafted fumes from his face and put his back to the counter. “I love her,” he admitted. “You could leave Alexa tomorrow, and I’d still want her in my life.”

“If you disliked her, would you tell me?”

He considered a response. “No.”

I accepted the blunt from him. “Why?”

Slowly respiring smoke, he glued his eyes to me. “Alexa’s your choice.” His gaze drifted to the wedding band on my fourth finger. “Who am I to piss on your parade?”

“Touché.” I rolled blunt over the ashtray’s brim, decreasing smouldering ash. “I am less polite. Blaire, she’s not your end game. The love that you seek, you will not find it with her. Get what you can out of this situation, and then move on. Find someone worthy of your devoted affections.”

Nate knew better than to dispute. “I appreciate your advice, sir.”

“Good.” Phone vibrating in my pocket, I pulled it out to check the caller identification and answered, “Alfie?”

“Warren,” he barked, and I stood taller. “Shootdown at the youth centre—”

“Is Alexa safe?” My hand crushed the phone. “Target?”

“Alexa’s unharmed. She was not the target,” he said breathlessly, and oxygen inflated my lungs. “Successful conquest.”

“I am on my way.” With a final toke, I passed the blunt to Nate. “Do not leave her side.”

“Of course, sir.”

Ending the call, I tucked the phone in my pocket. “Go to the club,” I left Nate in the kitchen, “and fix this fucking headache with Brad.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Liam

I dropped into second gear, veered the Bentley round a sharp corner and accelerated back into third. Tall trees and shimmering streetlights alternately spanned the street—unprepossessing public housing units to the left. Heedlessly unambitious street kids loiter in the shadows of the vast park to the right, tippling around a burning litter bin. The borough is the seabed for crime, poverty and deprivation, Inseparable Youths being the focal point for unwanted attention, and Alexa, temerarious and negligent, placed herself in jeopardy. I don’t like it. The protective part of me wants to forbid her return, but the compromising voice in the back of my head insists that she lives without restriction, in spite of opposition.

Emergency vehicles, the first response team, flashing police cars and two ambulances cordoned off the road. Pedestrians assemble to inquire impertinently. Deeply distressed teenagers dispersed in tears. I applied pressure to the accelerator in defiance of street blockage, ready to overtake scattered vehicles, when I spotted Alexa. I slammed on the brake, the high-pitched squeal from the tyres permeating an odour of burning rubber. Shoving open the driver’s door, I stepped onto the pavement and waited for Alexa.

Belatedly identifying the Bentleys driver, Alexa withdrew her outstretched hand and ran straight into my arms. Her bare arms were cold to touch. Unshed tears beaded her lower lashes.

“It’s okay.” Observing the commotion unfold behind her, I kept an arm around her shoulders. My lips to her forehead, I kissed her there. “I got you.”

“Samuel is dead,” she whispered, and I jerked my chin. “He got caught in the crossfire, Liam.”

My hands rubbed the surfaced goose-pimples from her arms. “Alfie insisted you were not the target.”

“They weren’t here for Samuel.” Her breathing came in restrictedly heavy. “They wanted Logan.”

I had no recollection of the boy. “Who?”

Rubbing her blotchy cheeks, Alexa stepped away from me. “He comes here.” Devastation quieted her voice. “I don’t…” Broken-heartedness dampened her eyes. “Oh, God. I am so fucking angry,” she spat out, mascara-stained tears streaming down her cheeks. “Why do bad things happen to good people, Liam? Fuck what is written in the stars. What unmerciful God has the power to foreordain the death of an innocent child? Why do we exist in a world so cruel?” She watched three paramedics as they wheeled Samuel’s body into the ambulance’s rear. “His poor mother,” she whimpered, and before her inconsolable grief allured inquisitiveness, I caged her in my arms, her face buried on my chest, her muffled wailing soaking my shirt.

“Get it out,” I said throatily, my hand cupping her by the nape. A familiar face appeared by the centre’s entrance. Unlike the blue coats, DCI Donny Stevens wore Italians finest. Impressively tailored, he spoke to the hub manager, nodding on occasion, and then gravitated in our direction. “Compose yourself.”

Alexa wiped her tears and adopted a demure expression.

“Warren.” Donny proffered his hand for me to shake, which I declined with a head turn. “Mrs Warren, I didn’t think I would see you again, not after our last encounter.” Insinuation clipped his authoritative voice. “Were you not tempted to flee?”

I never left room for Alexa to respond. “She had no reason to flee the country.” A twinge of mild annoyance curled my upper lip. “Rohan Wallace. Did you ever find the real killer?”

He gave me a knowing smirk. “Someone confessed.”

Donny knows Alexa is guilty of Rohan’s death. His loyalty to Vincent attributed to her being discharged from police custody, so why the good cop, bad cop façade?

“Can you tell me what happened?” Flipping open a worn leather notepad, he clicked the top of a pen and scribbled something down. “Did Samuel Ashworth brandish an illegal firearm?”

Tiredness etched her colourless face. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” he probed, tapping the pen on the page. “You would know if you saw a young lad wielding a weapon, Mrs Warren.”

“It all happened so fast,” she said in feigned meekness. “Samuel was fighting—”

“Fighting?” He wrote down. “With whom?”

Her bottom lip rolled between her teeth. “Another teenager.”

“What’s the name of the other lad?”

When Alexa held back, I furtively nudged her elbow. “Logan,” she said in sheer reluctance. “Logan Broderick.”

“Do you know why they fought?”

“Are these questions relevant?”

“Yes,” he clipped, the scribbling of the pen continuing. “It is relevant to know the essential facts.”

“I don’t know why they came to blows,” she said sternly, and I could tell she lied. “As I said, it all happened so fast. One moment they were talking, then they were attacking each other. I tried to stop them, but they are big kids…” Realising her mistake, she corrected herself. “Samuel was a big boy much like Logan. For someone of my size, it was impossible to get between them.”

“And then what happened?”

“I heard gunfire,” she continued, kneading her chest. “A car came from nowhere and aimed fire. On instinct, I dropped to the ground. I was scared. It felt like I had entered a parallel universe—”

“Coexisting in an unconventional world is considered normal for people like you,” he interjected, his all-knowing eyes drilling into me. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr Warren?”

I was seconds away from ripping out his throat. “Is Alexa a suspect?”

“Witness.” Donny’s brows drew into a frown. “Perhaps your wife can explain why our coroners transfer six dead bodies to the morgue. Is it plausible that a fifteen-year-old, unequipped boy shot down five armed hoodlums? I don’t believe so. Am I wrong to presume gunmen fled the crime scene?” He eyed Alexa’s bloodied knees. “If I frisked you, would I find an illegal firearm, Mrs Warren?”

Preserving rage fired heated my blood. Abruptly snatching Donny’s throat, I yanked him close. “You don’t want to fuck with a man like me,” I said coldly. He lurched his head back to separate us, which only urged me to tighten my grip, fingers penetrating his throat, slowly depriving him of air. “I give zero fucks about your alliance with Vincent. Insult my wife again, and I will tear you limb from fucking limb.”

Gasping for breath, Donny kept a hand on my chest. “Warren—”

“When will you distressful motherfuckers realise that I run shit around here.” With necessary strength and mockery, I shoved him to the floor. Embarrassingly red-faced and dishevelled, he scuttled onto his backside. “Your badge means nothing to me, detective.” Unlocking the Bentley, I motioned for Alexa to climb in. “Unless you do not value your life, I suggest you stay away from me.”

***

Chief superintendent Reginald Burton divulged. He underhandedly confiscated security footage from Matthew, Inseparable Youths’ hub manager, for evidential purposes. He swore to discard photographic evidence that could potentially incarcerate Alfie and the others and hinted at the idea of someone making a false confession. His unlawful innuendo led the syndicate to a fifty-three-year-old homeless man named Barnaby. Recently released from prison after doing a stint of twenty years for killing his wife in the act of great violence, Barnaby, with no friends or family to welcome him, took ownership of an unoccupied building three blocks away from the youth centre.

“Are you sure he is the right fit?” I asked Brad.

He whistled into the phone receiver. “If we recompense for his imprisonment, he will confess to the murders.”

“Give him a burner phone.” Driving down a dark alleyway, I pulled over near the communal skip and turned off the engine. “Tell him to call the emergency services to confess to his crimes. Be sure to leave Alfie’s gun behind.”

“No problem.” He popped a chewing gum bubble. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” I said, watching Alexa change out of her dress via the rear-view mirror. “Make it look like a suicide.”

“Done.”

I ended the call.

Using facial wipes to efface dried blood from her knees, Alexa rummages inside a large holdall to find something to wear. Flinging the ruined dress onto the backseat, she selected black jogging bottoms and an oversized hoodie. “Do you need help?” I asked as she changed. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she lied, hair knotted atop her head. “If the guy agreed to confess, why kill him?”

“Tying up loose ends.” My fingers strummed the steering wheel. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” Shimmying into comfortable bottoms, she picked up the strappy high heels and attached them to her feet. “Disastrous trendsetting.” Gripping the passenger’s headrest, she climbed back in front and plonked onto the leather seat. “What do you think?” Gracefully extending her leg, she exhibited the designer stiletto. “I am a glorified chav.”

We chuckled together. “You could wear a black bag and still look beautiful,” I whispered, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “What do you need?”

Extracting a clean wipe, she removed streaky mascara from her cheeks. “I want the youth centre to raise money for Samuel’s mother. It’s a good way for them to be involved. The teens, I mean. They need a distraction.” Snivelling behind her hand, she blinked back tears and blew out a long, calming breath. “I will donate money to Mrs Ashworth to cover her son’s funeral cost and to the centre on behalf of the Warren Enterprise.”

“I can write the cheques,” I assured, and she gave me a sad smile. “Although I must ask, why fund the youth centre?”

“It is supposed to be a safe, loving environment for our teens.” She wiped the condensation off the window. “I want to eliminate safety hazards: strengthen enclosures, install shatterproof glass and replace the cheap security systems. If the council cannot allocate caretakers, then surely, we can afford to assign extra measures.” She considered unspoken assent as authorisation. “Thank you, Liam.”

“Don’t ever thank me for doing right by you.” Her smooth, kissable lips widened a fraction. “Come.” Exiting the Bentley into the belly of the alleyway, I closed the door, reached for Alexa’s hand and headed to Arcana’s postern door.

Bouncers watched our advance, the smallest of three recognising me from the last visit. “Warren.” Waving his colleges aside, he unlocked the steel door. “Pay upstairs.”

Alexa clung to my hand as we entered. “What is this place?” she asked, ascending the narrow staircase. When I bypassed the middle-aged woman, who sat behind the cash register, she tugged my suit sleeve. “You forgot to pay.”

I swung open the club’s door and sensual music amplified. Soft purple lights transitioned into a deep, trance-like silver. Tailored men occupied the chesterfield seating accommodation opposite the centre stage, tiered leather couches bordered active dancefloors, chandeliers scintillated above, where airborne cigar smoke hung in the humid air, and top-heavy, half-naked women wandered and tended to tables. I passed the glass pavilion to the private, guarded door with Alexa close to my side, nodded to security, and slipped into the back. Red dressing room doors lined the hallway. Togged up in eyelet lace-ups, rhinestone tassels and extreme crystal and transparent platforms, the naked dancers, vocally communicating from separate stations, rehearsed and reapplied makeup in preparation for tonight’s show.

“Okay, I thought Club 11 was bad.” Alexa eyeballed the panoply of voluptuous breasts. “Husband, do you come here often?”

“I do not,” I said humouredly, drawing a crushed red velvet curtain back for us to enter a private room. “Arcana serves no purpose.”

“I should think so,” she said, her lips pouted in petulance. “I mean, why would men shower themselves in gorgeous nakedness?” She quickly scoured our luxuriously quiet surroundings. “I bet half of those men are married.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

Heels clicking against the black marble floor, Alexa slumped onto an upholstered crimson coloured sofa and kicked her feet up onto the glass trestle table. With a bored expression, she studied her red-painted manicure. “Well?”

It took great restraint not to smile. “Well, what?”

Blowing a strand of hair from off her arched eyebrow, she glared at me. “Why do married men impertinently lack self-control? They chose fidelity and commitment, so why do they seek extramarital pleasure?”

I held her prying stare. “How can I answer on behalf of another?”

“Do you think those women are attractive, husband?”

“Wife,” I joshed, “I lose sexual stimuli in such environments.”

Unconvinced, Alexa dropped her legs and put her crossed arms on her thighs. “You find no pleasure in gentleman bars?”

“Customary anhedonia,” I said smugly, and her eyes slithered into sceptical slits. “I see naked women daily. Why the interrogation? Do you wish to know if I am immune to Junoesque temptation? Is that it?” Hands in my trouser pockets, I rested my back to the quilted wall and crossed my legs at the ankle. “You would put me in the same category as those drunken, unchaste men? I am happily,” I added for emphasis, “married. I took vows for you. I bare a ring for you. You could threaten me with divorce papers tomorrow, and I would still walk around with your name on my chest. I had my fun.” Moving to the unoccupied bar, I snatched a bottle of Macallan and poured a large, quenchable shot. “Before I met you, I had my fair share of women. Do I miss the single life? Categorically fucking not.” Knocking back whiskey, I refilled the glass. “Can I give credence to bodacious women? Yes. Does acknowledgement mean I want to cheat on my wife? No.”

Alexa is beside me now, helping herself to bottled Cîroc. “I believe you,” she said without looking at me. “Ignore me, Liam. My mind tends to wander.”

“You refuse to believe how perfect you are.” I put an elbow on the glass countertop. “Insecurity? It’s dangerous. You pledged empowerment.”

“In my defence, I just rocked up to a strip club wearing a man’s tracksuit and six-inch heels,” she muttered into the glass. “I cannot help but feel envious towards the bouncing titties in this place, especially with my husband present.”

“Bouncing titties,” I reiterated whispery. “I suppose it is a step-up from boobs.”

Alexa burst out laughing. “I happen to love my boobs.”

Jaw aching from smiling, I dipped my head to kiss her cheek. “I will spend the rest of my life assuring you of your beauty if you promise to believe me.”

Alexa peered up at me from beneath her eyelashes. “I must exhaust you.”

“You invigorate me.” Sensing the presence of execrable haughtiness, I descried a tall, motionless silhouette against the curtained alcove. “Gratuitously voyeuristic, Vincent. I find your idiosyncratic skulking offensive.”

“What don’t you deem offensive, brother?” Hand juggling a green apple, he emerged from the shadows, the faint glow from aloft lights contouring his pale features. “What of this unexpected visit?” He relaxed in the chaise lounge. “I assume you paid for that.”

I set the glass onto the counter.

“You can be quite relentless.” Teeth sinking into the apple, he licked trickling juice from his lips. “I stayed away for a reason. My life does not revolve around you, Liam. I got my own shit to deal with.”

Alexa scoffed but refrained from reprimand.

Vincent ineffectually provoked. “What do you think of the women, Alexa?” he mused, chewing another bite of the apple. “They make Cherry look like an old hag, correct?” When she stayed quiet, he proceeded with purposeful fanfaronade. “The tan looks good on you, brother. Perhaps you should invest in a sunbed.”

“You should invest in a fucking muzzle.” I edged forward, and Alexa seized my elbow. “Choke on your bastard grandiloquence, Vincent. Your self-obsessed arrogance does not impress me. You think I give a shit about your counterfeit whiskey.” Snatching the fake Macallan bottle, I shattered it across the floor. “Or your rancid strip club and Brunello Cuccinelli.” Tearing a chair in front of him, I sat down, put us nose-to-nose and grappled said suit in a tight fist. “Come back to me when you can vaunt Dormeuil Vanquish.”

He chuckled darkly. “Are we in competition?”

“Vehemently enunciating the levels of hierarchy. You infiltrated every aspect of my life until I opened the door to acceptance. I welcomed you, and you spat it back in my face. You want a relationship with me, yet you lie dormant to evade the veracity of those who created us.” His fingers curled around my wrist. “While you visited Alexa, I stood outside the church waiting for you. You repeatedly disappoint me, Vincent.”

His eyes darkened. “Your sovereignty holds no value here.”

Hand curling into a fist, I brought my arm back and jawed him square in the face. “Liam,” Alexa berated, but not even her voice had the power to stop me. Vincent’s head whipped to the side. Not leaving room for retaliation, I bolted off the chair, snatched him by the shirt and lunged him across the floor.

I doffed the suit jacket, chucked it on the sofa and prowled towards him.

“Liam!” Alexa gripped my arm to calm me down, but I shirked off her intercession. “Liam, stop! Don’t do this—”

“Get up, Vincent.” Grasping him by the hair, I dragged him onto his feet and thrust his back to the wall. “You want a rise out of me,” I barked, keeping a hand around his throat. “Go ahead. Show me who’s boss.”

Blood veiled Vincent’s shit-eating smirk. “Must it always end in violence?”

I was going to kill him. I felt it deep in my gut, the urgency to rip out the very heart that thudded within him. Irascibility worsened. Extracting the switchblade from my trouser pocket, I flipped open the honed blade and pressed the sharpest point to his cheek. It nicked his skin. Eyes deadly cold, he placed a hand over mine, a useless effort of avoiding further abrasions. “No,” Alexa scolded, ducking under my arms to station herself in the middle. “You cannot behave like this. You are brothers. Brothers do not try to kill each other.”

“A true brother would not lie by omission,” I spat, and her fingers splayed against my chest. “You hide from me, Vincent. Why?”

“Liam…” Alexa coaxed the knife out of my hand. “Shall we calm down? Take a breather.”

Releasing Vincent’s throat, I stepped back, letting the blade slip through my fingers. Alexa spun around to examine his cheek, which he discarded, ebbing away from our nearness as he fixed his tousled hair. Pulling the paisley silk napkin out of his double-breasted pocket, he dabbed his cheek, the half-eaten apple on the floor kicked to the other side of the room.

I collapsed on the sofa, marking his every move.

With feigned ignorance, Alexa went behind the bar and prepared two crystal glasses of amber liquid. Vodka bottle tucked under her arm, she carried our glasses to the table, kissed the throb from my temple and snuggled beside me. Her one knee hiked up, she guzzled vodka thirstily, as if needing alcohol to withstand.

Vincent dropped onto the armchair opposite.

“Let’s take five minutes to de-stress,” Alexa advised, and the two of us acquiesced with grudging respect. “We can discuss something lighter.”

I had a question. “Why sell counterfeits?”

“I don’t know why I bother.” Alexa expressed defeatism. “You can gauge each other’s eyes out for all I care.”

“Cost minimisation,” Vincent elucidated, fixing his skewed tie. “Profit maximisation. I keep the good stuff in my office. Punters can’t tell the difference. It’s a win-win situation. For me, of course.”

I had never considered illegally produced alcohol.

Unwrapping a cigarette packet, Vincent tossed one onto my lap and then popped one in his mouth. “I like the outfit, Ang—Alexa.” He cleared his throat. “Very Lady Sovereign.”

“See?” she threw her hands up in mock horror. “I look like a chav.”

My hand squeezed her knee. “Why do you hide from me?”

“Solitude is where I think best.” He lifted his gaze. “It’s a choice, brother.”

The zippo lighter came alive in my hand. Igniting the flame, I lit the end of the cigarette and dragged a lungful. “You gifted garrotte wire to my wife.”

He stared at Alexa quizzically, looking somewhat betrayed. “Is that an issue?”

“Why didn’t you consult with me first?”

“Pardon my error,” he said scathingly. “I tried to be nice. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Alexa’s shoulders sagged. “Vincent—”

“Do not mollycoddle him.” I delved straight into business. “What of Alberto Moretti?”

“Quiet,” he tells me. “Not a peep from the Italian. I imagine Alberto awaits your call.”

“I met him on our wedding night.” Alexa perused her curiousness. “You evasively spoke of perfect paragons. Can you disclose information, or is this syndicate business?”

My dutiful fingers massaged the nape of her neck. “If you wish to know something, all you have to do is ask.”

“Really?” Alexa’s face brightened. “Well, what’s a perfect paragon?”

When I vacillated, Vincent intervened. “We can’t be sure,” he lied, and she bought it. “We will know more once we sit with him.”

Alexa’s restlessness heightened. “Will it be some kind of business transaction?”

“If it’s advantageous to the institution.” Vincent snubbed the cigarette in the ceramic ashtray. “We cannot predict how it’ll pan out. We can only play it by ear.”

“I thought we didn’t trust outsiders.” She laughed at her own apprehensiveness. “I don’t know, guys. I have dealt with men like Moretti before. He’s dark.”

I concur. “Aren’t we all?”

“Yes.” She looked dubious. “But that level of darkness takes you to other dimensions.”

The three of us ruminate as we spoke. “I can deal with Moretti,” I said cockily, snatching her earlobe with my teeth. “What did you see in Raymond’s will?” My lidded eyes sought Vincent. “I’d like to see it.”

“Ah,” he crooned, relaxing in his seat. “So that’s the reason behind the uninvited disturbance. Well, you shall be disappointed. I read nothing noteworthy.”

I didn’t believe him. “You are lying.”

“You are unsatisfied with my response because you want significance.”

“I want the fucking truth,” I retorted, and Alexa shifted closer, cocking her leg across my thighs. “What did you see in our father’s will, Vincent?”

Vincent’s close-lipped in musing. “You killed Evelyn Warren. The deceased cannot be a personal representative. Raymond knew the chances of him and his wife dying together was quite literally impossible, but he appointed another woman to administer his estate.” He clicked his tongue. “Just in case.”

“Another woman?” Murderous rage palpitated my heart. “What woman? Where can we find her?”

“Her name’s Valerie,” he informed, and I waited for elaboration. “Find her, we cannot. She is dead.”

Even in death, the old man successfully crawled under my skin. “The no-good son of cunt left everything to his fucking sidepiece,” I said furiously, and he lifted a non-committal shoulder. “It has taken you this long to tell me?”

“I was going to disclose everything,” he argued, spearing a hand through his hair. “You are too impatient, Liam. I wanted to gather information before I brought this to your attention.”

“Fuck,” I cursed, rubbing a hand down my weary features. “If he weren’t already dead, I’d burn him alive. As for his appointed mistress, did she spend every last dime? Leave anything to offspring?”

“Valerie never birthed any children.” He poured himself a drink. “She died lonely and broke.”

I am unsatisfied with his response, so I made a mental note to revisit the subject of Valerie with Nate. “It’s either I get shit-faced or kill some motherfucker.”

Alexa smiled mischievously. “Who would we kill?”

“You,” I stole the vodka bottle, “will not be killing anyone.”

“I will slaughter,” she reclaimed her lifeline, “whoever upsets my husband.” Her faux disapproval slid to Vincent. “Comprende?”

When Alexa stood to waltz to the bar, I sat back and admired. Even in clothes that drenched her body, she looked mesmerisingly beautiful. My woman has many images—glamorousness being her personal favourite—and I loved every look, the ironed hair, the unruly hair, the just-got-out-of-bed hair. She could wear skin-tight dresses, yoga pants, or a man’s tracksuit with fuck-me heels, and I’d still idolise the mere ground she walks on.

“It has been a rough couple of hours.” Alexa arranged fake Grey Goose and Cognac onto the table. “I lost one of my teens tonight.” Handing out filled shot glasses, she raised one and whispered, “To Samuel.” A lump jived in her throat. “I hope you find peace with your father.”

Why did it sound like she was speaking to me?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Alexa

Floral tributes poured onto the road. Teddy bears, old photographs and bereavement notes adhered to the metal fence, and the gleaming flames of pillar candles bordered Insuperable Youths’ perimeters. In honour of Samuel’s memory, the entire community gathered to pay their respects, to offer sincere commiseration to his mother, Tammy, and to write sympathy letters in the book of condolence.

Nursing a steaming mug of coffee, I watched grief-stricken teenagers in quiet imperturbability. With consistent industriousness, they door-knocked nearby homes to collect donations, prepared hot beverages for visitors and assisted Tricia and Dave in the kitchen, where our tireless cooks rustled up warm meals and baked goods.

“Tre?” I called, and the downcast boy came to a stop. He couldn’t look at me. His puffy, blood-shot eyes glued to the floor. Dry, chapped lips slightly parted, he inhaled hitched breaths and thumbed a stray tear from his cheek. “I know how hard this must be for you. You and Samuel were more than friends. You were like brothers.”

He mustered an almost imperceptible nod.

My heart ached for him. “How much have you raised so far?”

“I don’t know,” he croaked, shaking coins in the handheld donation box. “Thirty quid, I think.”

“Mrs Ashworth is too distraught to care about funeral costs right now.” Unzipping my handbag, I took out the folded cheque from Liam and tucked it into the plastic slit. “But in a few days, when she sits down and sees how hard you guys worked to help, she’ll be grateful.”

He followed suit, dropping pound coins inside. “How much did you give?”

Liam contributed twenty thousand. “Two hundred.”

“Wow,” he said appreciatively. “Thank you, Mrs Warren.”

I offered Tre a subdued smile, squeezed his shoulder and left him to converse with friends. Inside the youth centre, I alternated between occupied tables of disconsolateness, kindly asking everyone to sign the condolence book for Mrs Ashworth.

It would be two hours of uninterrupted sympathy messages, inside jokes and scrawled signatures before I slipped into Matthew’s office for a breather.

He sat on the timeworn leather chair, elbows to the desk, fingers clasped in front of his grim face. “How’s it going out there?” he asked despondently, studying his half-filled mug. “The council advised us to continue as normal, but opening to the public so soon after Samuel’s death feels disrespectful.”

I understand Matt’s predicament. “I agree with the council.”

“Do you?” He rubbed his tired eyes. “What about Mrs Ashworth?”

“A sense of normality is exactly what the teens need.” I placed the signed book on his desk. “I am sure Tammy will understand.”

Matthew stood to peer through the Venetian blinds, monitoring the distraught assemblage. Hands in his trouser pockets, he rocked back on the heels of his heavy-duty boots. His countenance was that of a vacant depressive, the growth of stubble dusting his jaw, somewhat diverting the attention from the dark circles around his eyes.

I moved to stand beside him, keeping an arm around my waist. “I have something for you.” Sliding the envelope onto his desk, I swallowed to moisture the dryness from my throat. “The Warren Enterprise made a contribution to the youth centre.”

Matthew tore the seal, and upon seeing Liam’s signature, his jaw slackened. “Fifty-grand?” he said in disbelief. “Why?”

“We thought it might help with new safety procedures.” I felt too weak, physically and emotionally. “Perhaps we can raise the fence and install shatterproof windows.” Extracting the print outs from my handbag, I sprawled them across the desk. “I took it upon myself to browse possible wardens.” No, Liam proffered supremely skilled guards. It’s now in Matthew’s hands, whether or not he chooses to accept. “Also, I spoke to the council. Due to Samuel’s death, they were happy to fund the security team. I hope I haven’t overstepped,” I added, thinking I might have. “Your hands are full at the moment, so I wanted to help.”

He picked up a sheet to analyse prospects. “It is necessary,” he said wistfully. “I dread the thought of something like this happening again.” Coughing thickness from his throat, he opened the desk drawer and locked the documents inside. “Thank you, Alexa.”

We walked into the hallway. Matthew locked the office door behind us and gestured for me to lead the way. Everyone had relocated to the street by the time we emerged. Matthew and I shared a confused look, then returned our attention to the amassed teenagers stood in the middle of the road. A sea of heads and unsmiling faces packed the pavements on either side. Parked cars mounted the curbside out of respect. And then, one, faint, glimmering light transformed into hundreds as traditional lanterns floated to the night sky like a constellation of stars. It felt so final for everyone, Samuel’s death.

Tears hung to my lower lashes while I listened to the distant sobs and snivelling noses. With an old, damaged teddy bear grasped tightly to her chest, Tammy Ashworth craned her neck to watch the lights dance above. Her heartbreak, cascading tears and numb expression ripped my heart in two, the destroyed look in her eyes evoking painful memories of when Jace had to say goodbye to his baby girl.

Tammy was broken beyond repair. I wanted so much to put my arms around her, but that woman, although broken-hearted, she’s a tough one. You don’t console someone so hardened. You let them grieve in silence until they are ready for acceptance.

I saw movement out the corner of my eye. With a hood pulled over his head, the boy near the fence clipped something in place, a note, and stayed there to read messages. Isolated from the crowd, he crouched to the floor, took something out of his pocket and placed it on the ground. He lit a tealight candle, the small flame quivering against the soft breeze. He didn’t look back when he walked away, yet I had to watch his departure until he disappeared into the night.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Matthew, wading through people to reach the fence. Being careful not to trample on any flowers or tributes, I combed through the sentimental cards, hoping to find the one he had left behind when I saw a crumpled, torn piece of paper.

I am sorry.

The air felt like it had been sucked out of me. Licking rain droplets off my lips, I stepped onto the road, and before I could talk myself out of it, I picked up the pace, the heels of my shoes scraping along the floor, and ran beneath the dim streetlights. Headlights came to life behind me. Security will be hot on my heels any moment. Turning the street corner, breaking into a fast sprint, I ran straight into the unknown, head whipping from either side, tendrils of damp hair sticking to my cheeks, the thudding heart inside my chest, working double time.

I bolted across the busy road, flippantly waving off deafening car horns and shrieking tyres. Commuters spewed profanity as I rudely bumped into them. Shoppers almost lunged their bags in the air to evade collision. I saw the boy in the grey tracksuit ahead. Bag pack in one hand, dragging on the floor, he walked with devastating sadness in his long strides.

Torrential rain began to beat against the streets of London, and I worried for the lanterns. If Matthew had any sense, he’d coerce people indoors in time for them to miss the falling lights.

People dispersed in search of shelter, which helped to clear the hectic pavement. By the corner store, I see the boy pause to read signs in the shop window. Blurred by the violent wind-driven rain, he pulled his hood back to feel the downpour on his face, to let the coldness wash over him.

I had caught up but kept a respectable distance. Wandering alone, lost in the drifting mist and cold showers, reminded me of the time where I first introduced myself. He had been stubborn, argumentative and quite patronising, yet I wanted nothing more than to take him under my wing, to protect him from whatever dark force he ran away from and promise him light. It’s as gravitational now as it was back then, the urge to intervene, to make a difference in his life.

He heard laughter across the road and turned his neck to look.

My insides churned.

He’d landed himself a black eye. It looked sore, swollen and had almost sealed. From Samuel, perhaps. Then, why did I get this nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach? How did he get those bruises around his neck? Unmercifully purple from prolonged straining.

Two half-cut females stumbled out of the bar, and he smiled. He seemed fascinated by their loud, unmelodious singing and outlandish need to dance in the rain. Drawing the backpack strap over his shoulder, he kicked himself away from the shop’s wall and trudged forward.

Rubbing the chill from my arms, I followed wordlessly, knowing security steered nearby. They must think I am senile, opting to walk in hellacious, bad weather, but Alfie and the others, they knew better than Bundy. If I sought their interference, I’d give them a sign, wave the signal. Their consideration meant a lot to me; I respected them more for granting some level of privacy.

It is quieter now, and the alleyway was cold but free from liveliness. “Logan,” I called, and he came to an abrupt stop. His back to me, he tilted his head to listen. “Talk to me.”

Unease emitting off his coiled-up body, he scraped gavel under his trainer. “About what?”

“Anything,” I said, hopeful and optimistic. “Who’s your favourite band?”

Scoffing at the random question, he faced me, judgment in his squinted eyes. “My favourite band?”

I wrangled my fingers. “You told me that you liked music.”

He stared at me like I was an alien. “Linkin Park.”

A slither of success bubbled inside me. “What’s your favourite food?”

“Seriously, Alexa?” He snorted, preparing to leave. “Quit stalking me.”

“Logan,” I said authoritatively, and once more, he paused to listen. “What’s your favourite food?”

Too long, he stood there, and I was confident he’d disregard our trivial conversation. “I love a mean curry,” he said throatily, palming moisture across his face. “I can’t recall the last time I ate one…” His eyes drifted past my head, so I knew one of the Suits lingered close. “Alexa,” he prowled towards me and gripped my hand, “there’s some guy hanging around back there. Walk with me—”

“He’s not here to hurt me,” I stressed, grasping the front of his hoodie. “Logan, he’s a friend. Ignore him.”

He blinked rapidly. “You got friends who follow you around?” Distrust greyed his pale features. “That’s not weird.”

Even if I tried to explain, he wouldn’t understand. “What do you hate most?”

Rain dews beaded on his eyelashes. “What kinda question is that?”

“I hate anything pink,” I tell him. “Black coffee and sushi. Running or some form of exercise. Obeying orders or listening to any advice. Trance music and happy people.”

His brow raised. “You hate happy people?”

“I loathe them,” I fibbed, and we both managed a chuckle. “How dare they laugh like hyenas while I mope around about everything that is wrong in the world.” Seriousness settled among us. “I hate sad songs and depressing movies. Family disputes and broken friendships. Tall, unkempt grass and wild daisies. And, as of recently, I hate born days.”

He bore an expression of reverence as we talked. “What’s wrong with birthdays?”

“Some people hate the age reminder,” I said evasively, humoured by Liam’s nonsensical outlook. “What about you?”

Frowning slightly, Logan licked his blue-tinted lips. “Football,” he opened up, and I led him under the alley’s metal staircase, which served as a decent shelter. “Gaming, board games and books.”

“What’s wrong with board games?”

“They are not so fun for an only child.” He watched Alfie, who smokes a cigarette at the mouth of the alleyway, from beneath knitted eyebrows. “I hate creepy guys like that one,” he joked. “Broccoli, spinach, swede, green beans, cabbage, carrots, parsnip, sprouts…”

My cheeks heated from the cold. “So basically, you hate anything that’s a vegetable.”

“Especially sprouts. I don’t mind peas, though.” He propped his foot up on the wall behind us. “I hate liars.” His Adam’s apple shifted. “Disappointment. Unrealistic ambitions and high expectations.” When I stayed quiet, he peered down at me. “How did you get that scar under your eye?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “How did you get those bruises around your throat?”

“You were there.” Logan reached behind him to pull the hood over his head. “You know what happened.”

I bit back exasperation. “Samuel is not responsible for those strangulation marks, Logan.”

Logan’s warm breath condensed into mist. “I need to go home.” His trainers stomped through potholes of rainwater. “Go to your creepy friend, Alexa.”

“Logan!” I shouted, and he ignored me. “Do not walk away from your demons. You have to face them head-on.” In his shadow, I snatched him by the elbow. “Logan—”

“What?” he barked, and when I saw Alfie gearing up to get involved, I raised a hand, ordering him to stand down. “Stop barbing my brain, Alexa. You don’t know shit.”

“Samuel’s dead,” I argued, and if looks could kill, I’d be on my knees with my heart ripped out. “He’s dead, Logan. He cannot defend himself. He cannot speak for himself. Don’t you dare put culpability on his shoulders. Who are you to tarnish his memory? To let him take the fall for someone else’s bad behaviour.”

With a crippling look of regret, he trapped his trembling, bottom lip between his teeth. “Yeah,” he rasped, nodding in agreement. “And you blame me for that, right? I saw it.” Tears broke through the dam. Mixed with rainwater, they rolled down his grazed cheeks. “The look in your eyes. The disappointment,” he cried, choked up inside. “I hate the look of disappointment—”

“No,” I whispered, a lump stuck in my throat. “Logan, I am not disappointed in you. I am terrified for you.” My hands clung to his elbows. “It was fear that you saw in my eyes.” My heart fractured. “They came for you, didn’t they?” Undecidedness and mistrust weighed him down. “Didn’t they, Logan?”

A whispery sigh fell from his lips. “What do you want from me, Alexa?”

I want him to let me in. “I want the truth.”

“Yeah? Where has the truth ever gotten me?” Inconsolable tears falling from his eyes, he laughed bitterly. “Just fuck off, Alexa.” His shoulder rammed into me as I stomped past me. “Don’t pretend to understand me.”

Don’t shield him from the truth.

Liam’s advice repeated inside my head.

My throat dried.

I didn’t have the right or wrong answer, but I did have empathy. I understood pain better than anyone. “When I sat on the floor of my cage,” I said, and our eyes collided, “the guy who held me against my will, he lost his cool. Trashed the living room and lunged furniture. In the process, he hurled a mug across the room in absolute temper, and it shattered into pieces. A chunk of ceramic rebounded from somewhere and caught me here.” I touched the small, silver scar beneath my eye. “It hurt for a while, and when it started to heal, I knew it would scar. I hated him for that. For adding yet another imperfection.”

His face turned three shades of discomposure.

“These,” I lifted my blouse marginally to show him the divergence of discolourations on my stomach, “scars are the result of a brutal knife attack. I lost count after four.” His eyes were round and tearful in horror. “I was the product of child abduction until I was twelve years old. I lost my childhood and the people I once called family. I buried the two most important women in my life. I have been abused physically, emotionally and sexually. I had my child ripped out of my stomach in a vicious act of vengeance.” Three steps, and I was before him. “I was not brought up with a silver spoon in my mouth,” I reiterated his very words fiercely, fighting back unshed tears. “So, don’t pretend to understand me, Logan, because you don’t know shit.”

His glassy eyes held mine. Ashen-faced and rendered speechless, he rubbed spatters of rain from his cheeks and made a painful sound in the back of his throat. “For real?” he asked, and I nodded, belatedly feeling teardrops on my jawline. “How did you survive all that?”

“I had a lot of people help me along the way,” I said cagily, which he accepted as an appropriate answer. “I have good days and bad days. But mostly, I feel proud of myself for being able to walk around with my head held high.” He listened intently as if every word I spoke solved his problems. “How did you get those bruises on your throat, Logan?”

Lost in reverie, Logan gently traced the purple blemishes with his fingertips. “Cyril,” he croaked, and my spine straightened. “He gets a little heavy when he’s drunk.”

Keep calm, Alexa. “Is Cyril your dad?”

“Stepfather.” Aware that he’s already said too much, he hiked the bag strap higher and retreated. “I’ll see you around.”

“Wait!” Rushing in front of him, I held my hands out. “Where’s your dad?”

“Fuck knows.” Swiping the sadness from his face, he shrugged like his father’s absence was no big deal. “I don’t know him.”

“Does your mother know Cyril hurts you?” Questions attacked me from different angles. “Have you told anyone else? Is there someone you can trust? A family member perhaps?” Tucking hair behind my ears, I stared at the floor hopelessly. “Logan—”

“Alexa, stop meddling,” he spat out, clutching the back of his head. “I don’t even know why I told you that. Just go home and forget I said anything.”

“I can’t do that,” I said determinedly, and he shot me a murderous glare. “What kind of woman would I be to leave you in a dangerous environment?”

“See!” he yelled, throwing up his hands. “This is why I don’t talk to people! You manipulate the truth and twist it with lies—”

“No,” I retorted, and he jerked back at the fierceness in my voice. “The only one twisting the truth is you. What scares you the most, Logan? Speaking up for yourself or being on the receiving end of that man’s fist? Let me tell you something a wise man once told me: fear nothing but your own capabilities.” My hand fisted the front of his hoodie. “And then,” I added, tasting salty tears as I smiled, “you can conquer everything and anything.” We stared stonily at each other. “If I can rise from the ashes of despair, anyone can.”

Black cumulonimbus clouds crackled above. Forked lightning suddenly brightened the sky, reflecting light down the alleyway, and the loud, crashing sound caused Logan to flinch and shy away from thunderclaps.

“He hates thunder but loves the rain,” I whispered with an air of dissimulation, curling a dark strand of hair behind his ear. “Or is startle-reflex your defence mechanism?”

He gave me a wry smile. “Go home, Alexa.”

When Logan walked away, I stayed behind. Anger flared up inside me. He would not see another beating, not on my watch. I will do whatever it takes to get him away from those volatile parents, and I know just the right person to help.

Brushing wet hair aside, I uprooted the phone from my bag, typed the business name into google and dialled the number. Three rings later, a crotchety man answered. “Yeah?”

“I need to speak to your boss.” Peering over my shoulder, I held out two fingers to Alfie. “Tell him it’s Alexa Warren.”

“Uh, yeah,” the guy stuttered. “One second, Mrs Warren.”

Opus number one sounded the second he put me on hold. Holding the phone with rigid fingers, I blew out a slow, comforting breath to compose myself. The music ended within fifteen seconds. I waited for his voice, but when he said nothing, I adopted boldness. “I need you to do me a favour.” His silence had me on the edge of my nerves. “With the intention of repayment, of course.”

I heard him exhale smoke. “What can I do for you, Angel?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Alexa

Driving forward to re-adjust, I double-checked the mirrors to be sure no one crept up from nowhere, straightened the steering wheel and reversed. Leaving no room for doubt, I cracked open the door to verify success and saw that I parked within the white lines. “See?” I flashed a triumphant grin. “I am Stirling Moss reincarnated.”

Josh wore his trademark deadpan. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Oh, come on.” My hands smoothed the steering wheel’s leather finish. “Give me some credit, Josh. I reverse parked.”

His expression that of a condescending gobshite, he checked the mirrors from left to right. “With no cars parked on either side.”

“Do not devalue one’s achievements, Josh. I will lamp you over the head with my shoe.” Pulling up the handbrake, I turned off the engine. “Would it kill you to praise or commend every once and a while?” He spurned the faded ink on his knuckles. “Josh!”

“What?” he groaned, rubbing both palms up and down his face in irritation. “Fine. You parked a car without killing someone. Can we go now?”

“Soon,” I said, grabbing my handbag off the backseat. “I need to do some shopping first.”

“No,” he groused, pulling an ugly face. “Alexa, spare me the torture. I hate shopping.” His petulant growl had me in a fit of giggles. “Why the fuck are you laughing? This is a mug’s game. Do you see any other guys waltzing around London to buy stilettos?” He sees a tall, handsome, crisply suited male, without a female companion, enter Larizia. “They sell men’s footwear in there, right?”

“No.” Flipping open a compact mirror, I reapplied fierce red to my lips. “They do, however, stock exquisite Alexander McQueen shoulder bags.”

“Insanity.” He shuddered. “I’ll wait in the car—”

“No, I need you to help me with something.”

“I will decline your ungenerous offer.” Shoving sunglasses over his eyes, he folded his arms and reclined the chair to steal a nap. “Call me if someone tries to rob your purse.”

“Josh, please,” I begged, jutting out my bottom lip. “I need your opinion on lingerie.”

Josh lifted the shades to his forehead and stared at me beneath close-set brows. “Say what?”

“It’s Liam’s birthday, so I need something that has the wow factor.”

“The wow factor?” He snorted. “Buy yourself a G-string. He’ll love it.”

When Josh snuggled against the reclined leather for comfort, I knew what I had to do. “It sucks not having female friends,” I whispered in despondent disheartenment. “I have nobody to talk to when I’m down. When It’s that time of the month, and only romantic movies and popcorn can manipulate impossible hormones, I have no girlfriends knocking at the manor for slumber nights on the sofa to take my mind off suffering.” Faking a snivel, I dabbed my nose. “Nobody wants to shop with me, not willingly. I am surrounded by so many people, yet I feel…” I blinked three times for theatrical effect. “I feel so lonely.”

“Ah, fuck,” Josh cursed, slipping an arm over my shoulder. “Don’t cry, Alexa.”

“Who wants to promenade by themselves?” I wiped bogus tears from under my eyes. “Or eat lunch alone while the ladies to the right, express mirth over bottled wine and Caesar salads.”

“You don’t have to eat lunch alone. Look, I am ravenous.” Opening the passenger side door, he stepped out, and I jumped on the bandwagon, locking the Bentley door behind us. “Let’s go and buy you some lingerie, and then we can eat al fresco at the Dorchester Rooftop. Their oyster buckwheat?” He puckered a chef’s kiss. “Divine.”

I felt nauseous just thinking about oyster consumption. “Great.” We walked side by side down the busy street. Puritanical spendthrifts disrelished Josh’s marijuana scent while he smoked. If he noticed their displeasure, he didn’t show it. He made a point of checking out their arses as their hips swayed, though. “Behave,” I scolded lightly. “You might be easy on the eye, Josh, but extreme drooling? It’s unattractive.”

Looking blankly inscrutable, he caught me by the elbow. “Those tears dried up pretty quickly.”

I pushed the lump down my throat. “I know, right?”

“Did you fake-cry?” he asked with an accusatory point of the finger. “I’m on to you, Alexa.”

“What? Moi?” With feigned inability, I gestured to myself. “I would never.”

“You fucking wench,” he berated, and perambulating busy-bodies shortened their retail experience to comprehend the dramatised controversy. “You lied to me. I bet you’re not even riding the rag, huh?”

“Oh, God.” I face-palmed. “I was speaking figuratively, Josh. Not literally.” My cheeks were bright red in mortification. “It’s not that time of the month,” I told the random couple to our right. “He’s recently deinstitutionalised.”

“I was not institutionalised,” he said angrily, and I started to cry real, happy tears. “She wants to make fun of me.” Dragging my chortling ass to the nearest shop, he swung the door open, and the bell above chimed. “We’ll soon see who’s laughing when I throw Donaldo in her face.”

“Who?” I stumbled into the abyss of lustre black walls, diamanté encrusted furnishings and fuchsia display cabinets. Lubricants, condoms, aphrodisiacs and stimulants hoarded the end bay shelving. Hooked on the room-length rail: Babydolls, Camis, Corsets, Basques and Waspies. Tiles sparkled. Chandeliers scintillated. Mannequins modelled bondage. “This is not Victoria’s Secret.”

“Alexa requires nymphomation,” he yelled unnecessarily, and the assistant smiled from behind the cash register. “Where’s your sex toys?”

I died. “I am not staying here—”

“Oh, but you are.” His hands falling to my shoulders, he forced me to walk down the well-stocked aisle. “Welcome to the wild side,” he read the store’s logo. “Sensational play.” Checking the weight of a two-ended feather tickler, he stabbed the delicate plume in my face, irritating the tip of my nose. “How did that make you feel?”

This man’s certifiable. “Like I wanted to sneeze.” I price-checked the nipple tassels out of boredom. “I like this one.” Elevating the rose gold hanger, I admired the floor-length maxi robe. “What do you think?”

“Great!” Snatching the fine silk from my covetous hands, he flung it onto a random stand. “If you want to look like Morticia Addams.”

I rolled my eyes.

“So, what’s your preference?” He picked up what I thought resembled a flashlight and wielded the box above his head. “What does this do?”

“Fleshlight,” said the pixie-haired brunette. “It’s a male masturbator to help with stamina.”

I gave him a lop-sided smirk. “You should definitely get one of those.”

“There is nothing wrong with my stamina,” Josh defended his honour. “I will have you know,” he glared at the woman, “that I can fuck—”

“Good for you.” Dipping the newspaper to get a better look, the assistant raked her eyes over—me. “Hi.” Her evident approval, flirtatious lip lick and unveiled suggestiveness sent my anxieties into a frenzied tangle. “You good?”

Repugnance elicited instantaneous action. “Give me Donaldo.” Sweeping boxed dildos and vibrators off the shelves, I wedged a packet of chocolate willies in my mouth.

Josh watched in pure discombobulation. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Accentuating how much I like dick,” I whisper-mumbled, hiding behind the human-sized cardboard handcuffs. “Where is she?”

Levelling us with his eyes, he tugged the edibles out of my mouth. “Who?”

“Kristen Stewart,” I said as he tears through the penis-shaped after-dinner chocolates. “I hope you buy those.” He rammed one in my mouth, and I shot it in his face. “Asshole!”

“Did you just spit a cock at me?” Wrapping an arm around my shoulders, he caged me to his chest, crushing the unpurchased sex toys, and tried to stuff more chocolate down my throat. “Quit biting me!”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” With herculean vigour, I wriggled free. “Joshua!”

“Whoa.” He put his hands in the air, the packet nose-diving to the ground in the throes of surrender. “She means business.”

I espied the state of my reflection in the freestanding mirror. “Jesus, I look like someone dragged me through a bush.”

One by one, Josh extracted the sex toys from my grasp and restocked the shelves. “All seriousness, what did you have in mind for Warren?” Hands in his trouser pockets, he followed me into the next aisle. “What about this?” He pointed to the black satin chemise. “It’s sexy.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “but it’s also standard. I want something that’ll blow his mind.”

“Suspenders and crotchless lace.” He side-eyed nothing while thinking deeply. “A lilac plunge bra and bow-back tights.”

I scowled. “Did you mentally revisit sexual encounters?” I asked, and he nodded proudly. “Nice.”

He rummaged through the discount container. “Liberated thong.” Lace dangled from his finger. “This and heels, what more can a guy ask for?”

Josh’s recommendation had an undesirable effect. “It’s boring.”

“Not if you include one of these.” He reached behind me to grab something unmentionable off the unit. “I dare you to be a sinner.”

I examined the jewelled butt plug. “You want me to practice sodomy?”

“Sodomy?” He jerked back as if I had slapped him. “Firstly, homosexuality was decriminalised. Secondly, sodomy laws were declared unconstitutional somewhere in the 1960s. It’s the twenty-first century, Alexa. Anal,” he corrected. “Anal sex. Glorified fucking. Carnal savagery. And it feels good for both participants. In case you require further validation, I highly recommend it.” A bottle of lubricant landed on the package. “Use some lube to relax the pucker-ness.”

I nibbled my upper lip. “Liam will quite literally tear me a new one.”

“Overshare.” Josh’s face screwed up. “Look, you want to blow the boss’ mind?” Everything fell into my possession. “Start stretching.”

***

Exploring new sexual territory, I stand in front of the floor to ceiling mirror, inspecting the inserted jewel decorating my derrière. Silicone-based lubricant simplified the invasion, that and two hours of inspirational pep talks alongside Jessica O’Reilly’s online sex bible.

Non-prescription, black-framed glasses sit on the bridge of my nose. Hair iron straight to my lower back, I get comfortable in the chaise lounge in the master bedroom, open the boxed So Kate, Christian Louboutin high heels and slip them over my feet.

I stood, clenched my butt and regretted it. “I am going to die tonight.” Emptying the cosmetic bag onto the vanity table, I dusted highlighter over my cheekbones, added another layer of mascara and painted my lips a devilish red. “Death by anal.”

Unclasping my bra, freeing my breasts, I pulled on the lace, crotchless thong and Liam’s crisp, white shirt, leaving the buttons open, and knotted his black tie around my neck loosely. He never wears ties, so it’s high time someone utilises them.

“Inner Self, wish me luck.” Skin oiled in rose-scented moisturiser, I tied a white, fluffy dressing gown around my body and vacated the bedroom. As I journeyed down the hallway, I heard raised voices from inside the billiard room. Hand to the gilded rail, I descended the bifurcated staircase and drifted towards raucous, boisterousness. “Alfie?” I called upon arrival, and from the pool table, where he’s preparing to pot a red ball, he looked up, and his eyebrows sprung to his hairline. “Do you have a minute?” Eight members of security enjoyed glassed scotch and whiskey, keeping their heads down. Billowed cigar smoke invaded my lungs, and jazz music played softly in the background. “Well?”

“Sorry, Ma’am.” Alfie uncurled his spine and passed his cue to the nearest Suit. “Is everything alright?”

“I wonder,” I retraced my steps to the grand foyer, “can you make yourself scarce for the evening?”

He scratched his jaw. “I am not permitted to leave you defenceless.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that, so I came with a backup plan.” My heels clicked against the undulated marble floor. “Follow me to the kitchen.” Motion sensor lights came to life the second we entered, illuminating the stonework island, where a sumptuous feast awaits. “I ordered everything on the Ritz menu, including an inexhaustible supply of champagne. Be a darling and tell your men to convey such generosities to the pool house. You can all stay there until the morning.”

Alfie lifted the silver-plated Couche: steak, greens, salt and pepper chips. “Are you trying to bribe me with food?”

I considered lying. “Is it working?”

“No,” he said in a bored tone, and I shifted on my heels. “Not without Warren’s authorisation.”

“I am in the safety of my own home,” I reminded him. “It is hardly necessary for overbearing brutes to breathe down my neck.” He stayed remarkably sangfroid. “It’s my husband’s birthday.” I hand him the champagne bottle. “I plan to fuck his brains out, so take a hike.”

He huffed out a breathy laugh. “No.”

Red-hot rage built up. “I will snitch.”

“You would put me on trial?”

“In a heartbeat.” I pinched an asparagus stick and chewed. “You are cockblocking your boss.”

His phone appeared. “Let me text him first—”

“Do not contact him,” I stuttered in panic. “Liam’s clueless. I wanted to surprise him.” Strumming my red-polished fingernails on the counter, I stared at the monstrous temptation, which he declined stubbornly. “If you and the others do not accept the ordered banquet and relocate to the pool house in the next fifteen minutes, I will set Brad on you.” Unlocking the patio doors, I stood back for them to slide open. “Get out so I can fuck my husband in peace.”

His chest inflated. “Ma’am—”

“Now, Alfie.” I take a deep breath. “Thank you.” Giving myself an imaginary tap on the back, I left the kitchen in time for the other’s to join Alfie. In my absence, they talked amongst themselves, and the clinking sound of cutlery and plates softened as they absconded the manor.

I went to the dining room, held the two gilded door handles and shut myself away from the world. It was too light in here, the evening sun seeping through the windows. I alternately lowered the regal red curtains until all ten windows shaded and privatised the room. Upholstered armchairs lined the walls on either side; the one closest had the box of essentials I placed there earlier.

Sixteen chairs trimmed the marble table. I selected the two closest to the ballroom style doors and arranged dinnerware: plates, cutlery, napkins, flutes and white wine. Gold baroque style candelabra set in place, I added six candlesticks and used a match to light the wicks.

Sprinkling fresh rose petals on the table, I checked the time on my phone, uncorked the bottle and poured a glass of wine. Bubbles danced on my tongue. I savoured the rich, fruity flavours.

Liam hates age reminders, so I purchased a white card that had two umbrellas on the front. I clicked the top of the pen and scribbled eight words.

Happy born day, Liam.

I love you. Always.

Sliding the card into an unsigned envelope, I propped it against his unfilled wine glass.

What do you buy a wealthy man for a special occasion when he possesses everything in abundance? Gold? Diamonds? A new sports car? A private jet or a first-class unlimited airline pass? It’s impossible to purchase the perfect gift. I considered something sentimental, thoughtful or idealistic, but he’s not the saccharine type. I likely overemphasised celebrations with the romantic dinner for two.

Black Russian cigarettes with gold filters and The Macallan red collection, I decided. Liam can enjoy both alongside the company of his men. I left the oak presentation box on the table, the Sobranie Black Russians beside it, and sipped wine in silent musing.

I pre-ordered dinner from a fancy Italian restaurant after retail therapy with Josh. Meals on wheels will arrive shortly: capesante and costate di agnello.

Meanwhile, I lose the dressing down, kick it under the table and down alcohol for buck courage. I clenched my buttocks again to ensure the plug’s intact, pulled the chair out to a slight angle, facing the closed doors, and became seated.

“Okay,” I prattled, nervousness and shakiness awakening apprehensiveness. “I should remove the tie.” Unknotting the tie, I draped it on the back of my chair and flipped open the shirt, intentionally exposing my breasts.

Legs crossing elegantly, I rolled my shoulders back a few times to release tension. “I should keep the tie.” Tugging off the shirt, hiding it under the table with the dressing gown, I thumbed the satin tie, and a wicked smile played on my lips. “I’ll save you for later.”

With a new plan set in motion, I paced the room to stretch my legs, guzzling wine like no tomorrow. I had to own this moment, yet the thought of seducing him in such a risqué manner had my stomach in bits.

Why am I nervous?

It’s Liam, Alexa. He’d never judge you. You look hot—do I look hot?

I set the glass aside to cup my breasts. Too small, I thought, wiping sweat from my brow. “I need a boob job.” Snatching my phone off the table, I googled plastic surgeons within the vicinity. “Breast augmentation.” On the first website, I read testimonials, filled in the personal details section and requested a free quote. “Areola reduction?” I glanced at my taut nipples and pinched one. “What in the world?”

I heard the front door slam.

“Shit.” Tossing the phone into the box, collapsing on the chair, I sat ramrod straight, crossed one leg over the opposite knee and blinked behind the fake reading glasses. “This is stupid,” I muttered into nothingness, sagging in the seat. I removed the specs, spear a hand through my silky straight hair and gazed at the wine bottle in dejection. I look and feel ridiculous—“No.” Mentally chastising myself, I slid the glasses over my eyes, kicked my feet onto Liam’s chair and sipped wine with self-assured confidence.

I had no reason to doubt myself, to doubt Liam. He’ll love this newfound provocativeness. Hell, if he doesn’t bend me over the table the second he finds me, I will sell my favourite Jimmy Choo shoes.

Footsteps resounded outside.

Heart beating wildly against my breast bone, I waited in quiet nonchalance and counted inside my head.

Three. Two. One.

“Alexa?” Liam called in a gravelly voice that melted me into submission. “Did you order from Satoria?” The ballroom doors groaned as they slowly opened. In an exquisite three-piece suit, his lordship entered accompanied by a whistling Brad. “The guy…” Liam caught me in his sights, and his eyes protruded. “Alexa—”

“Holy shit.” Lunging the flute heavenward, I staggered off the chair to the fragmenting clamour of broken glass, frantically in search of the shirt.

“Turn around,” Liam ordered, and Brad stifled laughter. “Alexa, what the fuck?”

I lost my voice. Tongue glued to the roof of my mouth, I scrambled for coverage, and, in a foolishly unladylike fashion, I bent over to grab the shirt off the ground.

“Alexa!” Innate furiousness triggered the harshness in Liam’s intolerant voice. He snatched my arm, his fingers pinching the hollow skin around my elbow, and dropped his suit jacket over my shoulders. “Alexa—”

“Do not reprimand me for living freely inside my house.” Ripping my arm out of his tight grip, I collected myself and shot Brad a disparaging glare. “I swear, if you mention this to anyone, I will take a staple gun to your cock.”

“Brutal.” Hands concealing his amused face, Brad peeked through rigid fingers. “I can’t unsee it, though.”

“Shut up, Brad,” Liam objurgated behind a curled-up fist. “Why the fuck are you still stood there? Get out.”

Brad outstretched his arms to hold the door handles and walked backwards, his naughty smirk replaying inside my head even after granted privacy.

With steadfast embarrassment, I stared at the marble floor, the crushed glass and wine spillage. I let the mask slip over my eyes, braved lividness and faced the problem. “Happy born day, Husband.”

Liam’s nostrils flared. “A fucking heads-up next time—”

“It’s my house,” I interrupted, and his eyebrows snapped together. “If I want to roam around bollock naked twenty-four seven, then so help me, I will do it.” Overlooking the mess on the floor and the aura of dilapidation, I sat on the chair, arms folded on my lap, and waited for him to join me.

Stroking his sharp jaw with gold and ice ringed fingers, Liam unbuttoned his shirt sleeves, rolled them up to the elbows and relaxed in the chair beside mine. “I thought we dealt with birthday matters.”

“It’s a romantic dinner with your wife, so leave jollification outside,” I said in light-hearted jest. “You mentioned Satoria.”

“Yes.” Liam stared at me for the first time since Brad left. His mouth opened to elaborate, but something prevented him from doing so. He inched in, our faces close, our lips almost touching, and palmed my cheek. Sweeping his thumb over my lips, he kissed the crease between my brows. “You look beautiful.”

Gripping his wrist, I turned my cheek slightly and pressed a kiss to his palm. “Open your card.”

Expelling a heavy, frustrated sigh, Liam reached for the envelope and displayed the card. “Umbrellas?”

“It’s based on the boy-meets-girl short story. He sets his sights on the lovely red, and the rest is history,” I recapped the shop assistant’s point of view. “In our case, I stalked you, but let’s pretend that didn’t happen.” He just sat there, looking at me. “It’s stupid. Forget the card.”

Liam placed the card in front of the candelabra. “I can’t think clearly.”

“Why not?”

“My wife sits beside me with the intent of anal-play,” he rasped, and scorching heat climbed to my cheeks. “You bent over, baby. It was hard to miss.”

I buried awkwardness. “Are you hungry?”

Liam tucked the front of his shoe behind the leg of my chair and dragged me closer. “Starving.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Liam

Although predictable restlessness trembled her movements, Alexa had a fierce, determined look in her transfixing, hazel-coloured eyes. Beneath the suit jacket, she sat mere inches from me, and even then, the slight distance was too much to bear. Her long, lustrously straight hair falling over one shoulder, she placed the fashionable, clear lens glasses on the table, losing interest in sexual roleplay. Lips the sensual colour of red, she gave me a coy smile, her cheeks beautifully blushed.

On many occasions, I hinted at the idea of anal sex, and she swore, in resolute strictness, that she would never be open-minded or willing to explore possibilities. Yet here she sits, awaiting instruction and guidance in hushed anticipation.

I parted the suit jacket to reveal Alexa’s right breast, knuckles skimming her stiff nipple, and cupped the small mound. We kissed once, a soft, chaste kiss to the lips until our tongues met in an insatiable dance of feral desperation. Twisting her fingers through my hair, she tilted her head to accommodate the demanding strokes of my tongue. Surged by carnal desire, she overpowered the fierce onslaught, pushing against me, climbing onto my lap to sit astride. Her backside in my palms, I squeezed her silken flesh, and an erotic moan fell from her lips to mine. Fuck, she can kiss. Her perilous insatiableness brought me to my knees and set my soul alight. Biting down on my bottom lip, she drew a low, savage growl from my throat and rocked her neediness on the hard, painful bulge in my pants.

My hands raked down Alexa’s body to hold her slender waist, to tour her smooth middle section. Feeling the proliferation of her irregular heartbeat underneath my palm, I grabbed her by the throat, deepening the kiss, and peeled the material off her body. It fell to the floor, pooled at her feet, to where the shattered glass laid. “No,” I said breathlessly. “I won’t fuck you like this.”

Alexa’s chest rises and falls in delirium. Licking the taste of me from her puffy lips, she soared to her feet, gathered items off the table and sauntered past. I tilted my head to watch her walk away, wondering why she had moved towards the vestibule door instead of the main entrance. “Theatre room,” she suggested impishly. “Double chaise lounge?”

And to her calling, I went.

Kissing the sweet-tasting skin of Alexa’s shoulder, I wrapped an arm around her waist as we descended the three-quarter turn staircase underground. Beautiful from head to toe, she was my favourite drug—intoxicatingly flawless.

Drinking straight from the bottle, she came off the final step, her feet graced by untrodden carpet. “Should I put a movie on in the background?” she asked, and I shook my head. “Do you need a drink or anything? There might be popcorn inside the cabinetry. That’s if Brad’s hasn’t eaten everything.” Nibbling her bottom lip, she watched me remove the shirt, the shoes and socks. Her heavy-lidded eyes settled on my chest. “I should get more wine.”

I kissed the corner of her mouth whilst unbuckling my belt. “Don’t be nervous.” Metal clanked as the trousers dropped. “Put the alcohol away. I want you level-headed,” I brushed my hand across her behind, copping a feel of the jewel, “when I fuck you here.”

Alexa gulped. “Of course.”

My erection straining, restricted by my boxer briefs, I backed her up against the double chaise lounge. When the back of her knees met the bespoke furniture, she fell gracefully to her backside and peered up at me from beneath her eyelashes. “Spread yourself,” I said hoarsely, and she sprawled onto her back. “Good girl.”

“I put the lubricant on the table,” she said, and my brow curved. “You will not take me without it.”

I had never used it in the past. “Let’s worry about that later.” My hands caressing the apex of her silky thighs, I knelt on the carpet before her and rested my head on her lower stomach. Her muscles tensed when I kissed her just below her navel. “You smell so fucking sinful.” Inhaling her scent, I closed my mouth around her lace-clad sex and flattened my tongue, which caused her back to anchor in rapture. “Relax,” I said, my voice low and strained.

Pulling the thong down her legs, I tossed it over my shoulder and widened her thighs to expose her clean-shaven cunt. Her cleft dripping with sin, I used my thumbs to part her plump folds, circled her aching clit with the tip of my tongue, sucking and lapping to loosen every muscle inside her. I couldn’t wait to remove the plug and replace it with my cock, but she has to come first, loosen up.

My mouth created a suction over her sensitive nub, the suckling friction drawing out long, aroused moans from her beautiful lips. Nibbling her tender flesh, savouring every second, I ate her out with adept ravenousness, her sensual flavour glazing my mouth.

“Oh, shit,” she keened, propping onto her elbows to watch me devour. “Liam, it’s your Born Day, not mine. We need to switch positions.”

“I can wait.” Easing two fingers into her hole, I moved them in and out, curving and bending, slow at first, finding her G-spot. Her cries, raw and guttural, had pre-cum dripping out of my cock in beads.

Gripping the back of my neck, Alexa churned needily, implicitly demanding that I let her come.

Fingers pushing deep into her wetness, I bit her inner thigh, sank my teeth, blemishing her velvety skin.

With impassioned allure, she rocked her pussy against my mouth restlessly, so I knew she was close to losing it.

Perspiration sheened the valley of her small breasts. Her erect nipples yearned to be sucked. Incapable of disconnecting from our heated stare, I ran my tongue up her slit and latched onto her bundle of nerves, prolonging the intensity of her oversensitive torture.

Fingers drilling into her at a punishing pace, I felt her walls clench and withdrew in time to watch her gush. Her legs trembled with intense spasms, and I caught them, flipped her onto her stomach and spread her ass cheeks to see the jewel. “Wait,” she gasped, grappling the chair. “What about you? I need to go down—”

“No, you don’t.” I have envisioned taking her anally many a time, and nothing, not even enraptured head, could delay this zeal of urgency. “On your knees.” She repositioned in acquiescence. “Palms flat. Head down.”

Her body dusted in goosebumps, she released a stuttered breath, pressed her cheek to the fabric and splayed her fingers on either side of her head.

I doffed the boxers. My cock, hard and bobbing, slapped my inner thighs. Kneeling between her enticingly parted legs, I ran my hands along Alexa’s waist, pausing at the hips. Her spine bowed, the angel wings inked to her skin, beckoning the touch of my fingers. Tracing the intricate feathers, the dip of her spine, I eyed the lubricant bottle on the side table, leaned over to grab it and noted the fear in her unfocused eyes.

Fuck, I wanted her, raw, fast, hard, but it’s her first time—with me.

Acidic bile gathered at the back of my throat.

Did Bajramovic… “It’s not a requirement, Alexa.”

Minutes seemed to pass before Alexa rolled over to look at me. “I’m ready.”

“You look terrified.” I wrenched her slender legs around my waist, nestling between her thighs, and positioned my fisted hands above her head. “What’s the point in any of this if you don’t truly want it?”

“I trust you,” she whispered, securing her legs around my waist. “It’s uncharted territory, I guess.”

Relieved by her admission, I caged her beneath me, kissing the elegant line of her jaw. “I might really enjoy this.”

I felt her lips stretch into a smile against my cheek. “That’s the plan.”

“You might enjoy it, too.” Gritted teeth tugging her earlobe, I palmed her breast, thumb tracing her nipple. “I’ll take it slow.”

“Wait!” Building an impenetrable barrier between us, Alexa thrust her hands on my chest. “What if I don’t enjoy it?”

I gave her a cocky smirk. “You will.”

“Okay.” Her unconvinced tone bothered me. “Go ahead. Put him in.”

“Put him in,” I repeated whispery, hiding my face on her clavicle. “Can we not talk for five minutes?” Her discomfiture began to soften my cock. “It’s distracting.”

“Yes.” Craning her neck to see my eyes, she held onto my back. “Continue.”

Licking the column of her neck, I kissed and sucked her rubicund cheek, blindly reaching out to reclaim the lubricant bottle. My thumb outlined the lid to break the seal, which she’d already snapped, and I popped the cap off. Readily opened, I leave it aside for my fingers to journey the length of her body, to skim her creamy folds. “Hike those knees for me,” I croaked, and she listened, albeit hastily. “Good girl.”

Locating the protuberant jewel, I rotated it, and her body stiffened. “Relax,” I murmured, but she’s too trepidatious. Bottle in hand, I repositioned to my knees, squirted lube on my fingers and touched her sex. At the contact, her neck elongated, her spine curved, and her thighs slackened. Strumming her into a state of semi-unconsciousness, I unobtrusively removed the plug, slathered her opening in moisture, and gave myself a long, satisfying stroke. She was stretched and ready to take my cock. Smearing lube up and down my eager shaft, I lined myself up at her hole, the wide crown easing forward. Belatedly registering the minor penetration, she inhaled a sharp breath and clenched around the tip. “You’re good,” I assured, with barely an inch inside her. “Baby, you’re good.” Keeping ahold of myself, I braced one hand by her shoulder and dipped my head to steal a kiss. “Touch me,” I coaxed, licking the seam of her lips. “I want to feel you.”

With shaky hands, Alexa held my neck. “Please tell me it’s in.” Her breathless foreboding shouldn’t arouse me, yet my cock jerked. Sliding an arm under her neck, I pushed deeper, and her ass clammed tight, which almost squeezed me back out. “Liam,” she complained, her face contorted into colourless perturbation. “Liam, I can’t do it.”

I snatched her jaw and distracted her with a long, passionate kiss. Sweeping my tongue inside her mouth, I gave her a lazy stroke. “I’m in love with you.” Easing past the ring of muscles, I sank to the point of no return, and the sensational tightness raked horripilation across my flesh. “Fucking hell.”

“Shit.” Alexa moaned out in pain. Her coiled up body shifted, and her thighs oscillated in discomfort. “You need to get out. It hurts.”

I tasted salt on her wet cheek. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No, I don’t want you to stop,” she murmured, her fingernails digging into my shoulders as I rolled my hips. “Take it easy on me.”

Nodding in a daze, I rolled once more, allowing her to adjust to the intrusion, the thickness and fullness of me sliding back and forth. Slow, at first, as promised. I worked her with deep, meaningful strokes until she relaxed. Biting her lower lip, she dropped her head back and began to meet my thrusts. “You need to lead this one, baby,” I said, grounding my hips against hers. “It’s taking everything in me not to fuck you.”

Alexa’s eyes fluttered open. “It’s good.”

“Yeah?” Resting back on my haunches, I grasped her waist and watched myself disappearing inside her. “Fuck.” Her ass was made for me. Stretching to accommodate, she engulfed every inch, and the sight was staggering. “You’re killing me.”

Her hips wound in circles as if to goad me. Wrapping her arms and legs around me, she pressed the heels of her feet into my backside and hauled me to her chest, not wanting any space between us. She whispered in my ear, and tremors rippled through my body. We moved sensuously together, our hips smacking rhythmically. I found a steady pace, hands coasting to her inner thighs, holding them further apart.

“Oh, God,” she whimpered, and I had to hollow my cheeks for a concentrated breather. “Liam, I want more.”

Not leaving room for Alexa to change her mind, I slipped out, rolled her over and waited for her to get into position. Knees apart, chest and face to the cushion, she fought for air as I thrust the head of my cock through her puckered hole. My fingers bruising her waist, I sank deeper and deeper, buried myself to the hilt. Pinning her to the base of my shaft, I fucked her with piston pace until I could no longer endure her reserved moans. I had to see her unfold—hear her break and come undone.

Sweat trickling down my spine, I bracketed behind her, knees keeping those legs apart, and fucked her ass. Crying out with abandon, she held the cushion with knuckle-white force, jutting out her rippling cheeks. Hands to her derrière, I spread them to get the perfect view of her taking me. I increased my thrusts, and she writhed, her cries becoming sensual moans of pleasure.

“Come here.” Fisting Alexa’s hair by the nape, I yanked her upright, her back to my chest, and trailed open-mouthed kisses to her neck.

Alexa’s head fell on my shoulder. “Liam.” Her parted lips and lust-filled eyes drew my balls high. “Shit.”

My chest expanding on a deep breath, I snaked an arm around her, slid my fingers through her slit and gathered arousal to circle her clit, caressing her need. “Fuck,” I growled, grasping her jaw. “Fuck, if you don’t make me weak.”

Consumed by Alexa’s glassy eyes, I fucked hard, my balls slapping her skin, and her eyelids dropped in response to violent combustion. Juices soaked my working fingers. Her ass gripped my cock, and I hissed, hanging back for her to ride out her orgasm. “Liam,” she mewled, and I was a fucking goner.

I depleted, emptied in four, spine-tingling spurts. I had never come so hard in my life. Panting heavily in her ear, I raised my coated fingers to her mouth, and she sucked them clean. Her hands crept between us so that she could hold her cheeks for me to slide out. Blowing out a steady breath, I kissed her shoulder blade, feeling my length slap on my thigh. “Tell me that we can do that again.”

“If I recover,” she half-joked. “I could do with some of that wine right now.”

***

We shared a warm shower, washed each other and carped about acute famishment. Reheated Italian cuisine ensued. Julia Roberts glamorised prostitution on the big screen. Slouch pants hanging low on my waist, I crawled onto the double chaise lounge beside Alexa and collapsed amidst her ridiculous cushion and blanket arrangement.

Alexa’s long, wet hair soaked the pillow. “Was there any ice cream?”

Propping onto my elbow, I placed the popcorn bowl on the comforter, bottled water and chocolate flavoured ice cream. “I can’t watch this shit.”

She put the half-eaten Italian on the side table and snuggled closer. “Why not?”

Chewing toffee-flavoured kernels, I watched Richard Gere sprawl Julia across the piano. “It gives me a headache.”

“It’s romantic.” Delving into the ice cream, she spooned melted brownie pieces into her mouth. “Wait until the finale. He finally acknowledges how much she means to him and scales the steps with a rose in his mouth.”

My chewing ceased. “Was that an implication?”

“Oh, yes.” She chuckled around the spoon. “I can see it now. Liam Warren in a timeless suit, prancing around London with flowers.”

“Behave,” I scolded, which amplified her laughter. “You won’t catch me doing that.” Plucking up the universal tablet, I muted the movie, and she protested. “We either watch something more productive, or I kill the movie.”

Alexa tapped the ice cream tub. “Fine.”

“Fine?” My eyes roamed her face. “So, we can pick something else?”

“Nope.” Recapping the ice cream, she put our munch on the carpet and stretched herself above me. Her chin on my chest, she combed strands off my brow and held my curious glare. “Did I deliver for Born Day?”

“I am overdue many missed days,” I hinted suggestively. “Perhaps you can make up for the lost time.” Thoughts of Alexa bent over surged my cock back to life. “You should get off me.”

“No.” Her hand snuck under my pillow. “We have thirty-three minutes left until midnight.” A silk tie unravelled between us. “And I still owe you a blowjob.”

I swallowed hard. “Alexa, I am to attend a meeting soon,” I told her, and she frowned. “I didn’t mention it earlier for obvious reasons.” My thumbs massaged her hip bones. “Moretti.”

Worry lines formed on her forehead. “Who am I to meddle?” She pouted, and I kissed her lips. “Promise you will be careful, Liam. I don’t trust his intentions.”

“Do you not have any faith in me, baby? I am not made of glass.” We shared the same breathing space. “I can handle the Italians.”

Alexa’s unappeased but refrains from lectures. “I didn’t say it earlier.”

My fingers played the piano up her spine. “Say what?”

“How much I love you,” she whispered, placing the tie over my eyes, locking me in the dark. “How much you empower me.” Knotting the silk behind my head, she licked the shell of my ear. “How much you inspire me to be a better woman.”

Blackness obscured vision. “Where are you going?”

Her lips paid attention to my chest. I felt her warm tongue flick my nipple. “To suck my man’s cock.”

“Fucking hell,” I growled, my hand aimlessly seeking her hair, which she swats away. “Give me something to grab onto.”

“No touching,” she teased, and I bit my bottom lip. “Just enjoy it.”

Tucking my arms beneath my head, I laid back and felt everything, her kisses to my stomach, her investigatory fingertips on my taut abs and the teasing lash of her flattened tongue going south.

Freeing me from restraint, she tugged my joggers mid-thigh and stroked the length of my semi-hard cock. It pulsed in her hand, pre-ejaculate leaked from the swell. All senses were heightened. I listened intently with bated breath, and even the softest of kisses to my inner thigh felt incredible.

Licking my suddenly dry lips, I anticipated her next move, her wicked mouth and naughty tongue. Her hand curled around the base, and a shiver washed over me. “I need to touch you.” I exhaled harshly, and she rubbed me from root to tip. “Fuck, baby.”

Her tongue fluttered along my length, and my knees buckled. “Keep still.”

“I can’t,” I growled, my arms itching to reach out. “Baby—fuck.” Sucking me to the back of her throat, she bobbed up and down, and I saw fucking stars. “Don’t stop.”

I was at Alexa’s mercy, laid vulnerable and defenceless. My pulsing erection met her throat, and she gagged, breathing through her nose to keep me there. Her tongue lined the veins, the swollen head, and she drew me in, ripping a guttural groan from my lips. Jacking me while she sucked, she swirled her tongue around the crest and lapped pre-cum, her muffled moan of delight driving me round the bend.

“Alexa, I want you.” I couldn’t bear it, her down there, me visually impaired. “Ride me.”

My shaft slipped from her mouth with a wet pop. “You didn’t like it?”

“Yes,” I said through gritted teeth. “Too much. Now, climb on and fuck me.” I heard movements. “What are you doing?” She removed my bottoms, and then I felt her straddling my waist. “Fuck this.” Tearing the blindfold off my eyes, I sat upright in time for her to sink down my length, seized her waist and helped her ride. Her tits jerked in my face, her nipples salivating my mouth. Grasping one harshly, I leaned in and bit her jawline. “I hope you enjoyed that moment because I will never take my eyes off you again.”

Alexa rested her hands on my shoulders and bounced with a mischievous smile, her ass cheeks smashing on my thighs. Riding me into capitulation, she quickened the pace, and I fell back to let her own me. And own me, she fucking did. I couldn’t see straight or think clearly. I had a beautiful woman atop me, who quite literally had me by the balls.

My hand holding her ass idly, I succumbed to compliance and lost myself to the sound of her hoarse moans. Her hips working me with fervid mercilessness, I fused my head to cushion and licked misted sweat off my lips. “You’re making me cum.” I held her still, kept her in place. “Fuck, Alexa.” My hands fixing to her thighs, I released inside her. “Just…fuck.”

I had a meeting in less than an hour and couldn’t bastard move.

Alexa collapsed on my chest. “Happy Born Day, Liam.”

My eyes opened.

I stared at her dark, unruly hair and parted strands to see her face. She was looking into space, her eyes blinking slowly. “You didn’t orgasm.”

“I’m fine.” Her pussy squeezed my softened cock, as if to milk every last drop that I had to offer. “Can we stay like this for five more minutes?”

Alexa’s request felt like a punch to the stomach. I appreciate how much she yearns to get pregnant, but it cannot be the focal point of our sex life. It’s not the first time she has demanded that I laid motionless while, to my chagrin, she gathers whatever fucking semen intermixes between us.

“I need to shower.” Burying exasperation, I pulled my shaft out and rolled her to the side. “You should go to bed.”

“Liam?” She scrambled to her knees. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Stomping into my jogging bottoms, I passed her the discarded T-shirt. “Meeting?”

“Of course,” she said, a touch concerned. “Will you be home before sunrise?”

“Yes.” Cupping her cheeks, I savoured our long, passionate kiss. “Don’t wait up for me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Liam

I entered Club 11′s underground conference room at the appointed time, where the men, meticulously besuited and soignée, throned behind the long-stretched negotiation table. Aromatised herbs smoke-filled the air, and variegated vodka, gin, rum and whiskey brands stockpiled the mahogany corner bar. Straight-faced security garrisoned the meeting, unreservedly equipped for precautionary measures.

Pulling out a chair at the head of the table, I popped open my suit jacket button and became seated. “Vincent?”

“He’s talking to the doorman.” Nate decreased his earpiece volume. “I assigned thirty armed men to the club’s perimeters. If Moretti tries to pull a fast one, he’ll be shot down before he can even get his foot off the ground.” He placed a folder on the table. “Blaire located his family home, as requested, but she ain’t got much else. Perhaps by next week, I’ll have more intel.”

I hand the folder to one of the men stationed by the back wall. “Take that to my office.”

He dipped his head. “Sir.”

In skin-tight leather trousers and ultra-high heeled platforms, Cherry conveys a tray of mixed shots to the table, the rhinestone crop top scarcely containing her voluptuous breasts. Her bright, waist-length red ponytail extension skims Brad’s shoulder as she alternately distributes alcohol. “Looking a bit tempting tonight, Cher,” said Brad, and her eyes squinched at his light raillery. “You know I am a sucker for those heels.”

Cherry put the empty tray to her chest. “I didn’t wear them for you.”

“No?” He licked a toothpick to the corner of his mouth. “Got your claws in someone else, huh?”

She sent Josh a come-hither smirk. “Maybe.”

“We banged once, Brad.” Josh stretched his legs under the table and crossed his arms. “Keep your knickers on.”

Brad masked enviousness. “Look at that fanny magnet,” he pilloried. “All grown up with his man balls.”

“Here he goes.” Josh raked a hand down his face. “Don’t be a knob jockey.”

“I’ll knob-jockey-cunt you right through fucking wall in a minute,” Brad threatened, the toothpick wedged between his teeth. “Whatever happened to the good old bro-code, Joshy Boy?”

“Fellas,” Cherry chimed, sliding a hand to her hip. “There’s plenty of me to go around.”

“Keep your bastard clam packet.” Brad tossed rizla paper down on the table. “You won’t find me within ten foot of your pussy after you let that nonce fuck it.”

“Nonce?” Josh slammed his fist down on the table. “I will fuck you up!”

“Enough.” My commanding voice ricocheted through the room, and everyone reined their necks in. “We are minutes away from the closed-door conclave, and you bunch of fucking wankers can’t get your shit together. Children,” I ridiculed, clicking down Cherry for refills, “should be seen and not heard, so wire your goddamn mouths shut.”

Cherry splashed cognac in the glass. “Anything else, sir?”

I snatched her wrist and yanked her ear to my mouth. “Do not play games,” I warned quietly. “I couldn’t care less who you bed at night but keep disputes away from my club.”

“Sir,” she whispered, her throat bobbing on a tight swallow.

Brad licked the rizla seam, pinched the deck between his fingers and rolled. “Will Cherry attend the meeting?”

Cherry’s here to preoccupy attendees while I construe uncommunicated feelings via body language. “Yes.” I light a cigarette. “Distraction.”

“I asked…” Cherry’s voice drifted upon Cora’s arrival. “Speak of the vixen, and she shall appear.”

“Hey, girl.” Cora’s purple burlesque style corset and black tulle skirt had eyebrows elevating. “Mr Warren, I come with talent.”

Brad’s brows waggled. “Many talents.”

“So much for fucking bro-code,” Josh muttered into his whiskey glass.

With a flippant eye-roll, Cora laid a hand on my shoulder, the lights above coruscating her iced fingers. “Where do you need me, sir?”

“In the background.” I blew out smoke halos. “Your act of inconspicuousness will disconcert.”

Tousling her black corkscrew hair, Cora relocated to the bar and gossiped with Cherry. Nate’s sitting beside me now, his gold ringed fingers fisted on the table, a shade of frustration sharpening his jaw. He failed to ignore Cora’s presence. Her soft laughter, long, sleek legs and fishnet tights discomposed him.

“You good, Nate?” Brad proffered the blunt. “Looking a bit pale over there, buddy.”

“Yeah.” Nate took a drag. “Got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

Nate’s wholeheartedly invested in another woman, yet the proximity of an old flame had his knee bopping under the table. Clamping a hand around it to control jittery movements, he passed the blunt to Josh, uprooted his phone and distracted himself with text messages. Texting Blaire, I imagine.

“How was the birthday shenanigans, Bossman?” Brad picked imaginary lint off his suit jacket. “Or should I ask if Alexa’s backside held up?”

I felt oddly calm. “Do you want to die?”

Josh chortled. “What did I miss?”

“I think Alexa gave Warren a memorable B-day.”

Hot rage built up. “I think you should shut your fucking mouth.”

“Oh-oh.” Josh over dramatised, and Nate, wordlessly nonplussed, looked back and forth for answers. “Alexa’s gone rogue.”

“Gone rogue?” Adjusting his nose ring, Nate smirked knowingly. “Minx.”

I inhaled, exhaled. “Do we need to discuss the time where one of you caught the clap?”

Brad’s jaw unhinged. “Who caught the clap?”

No one. I lied to get them off my back. “Confidentiality.”

Nate and Josh exchanged quizzical glances.

“Twenty on Brad,” Nate drawled.

“Are you having a laugh?” Brad’s affronted. “I always wear a johnny. If anyone is contagious? It’s Josh.”

“Me?” Josh’s mouth dropped open. “I’m smarter than that.”

Whilst the men bickered, I typed Alexa a text message.

Me: I had the best night.

When she never replied, I sent another.

Me: I’ll make it up to you.

Alexa: What do you mean?

Me: I ran out on you.

Bubbles waved on the screen.

Alexa: It’s business, Liam. I understand.

Fuck, she’s perfect.

Me: I hit the jackpot when I married you.

Alexa: You did.

I smiled to myself.

Me: Presumptuous.

Alexa: You taught me how.

I sensed someone’s eyes on me.

Peeling a waxy green apple with a switchblade, Vincent stands in the doorway, his ice-blue eyes boring into me. Dormeuil Vanquish fashioned his tall, broad-shouldered frame. Bolvaint leather shoes. Maintaining an attitude of superciliousness, he strode into the room and settled onto the chair next to Brad.

The son of a bitch.

“Brother.” Vincent’s imposing appearance roused immediate observation from all in attendance. “You had me frisked. I am unarmed, thanks to your dutiful doormen.”

I had underlying ambivalence towards the unwanted half-brother. Part of me wanted to understand him, and the other, more vicious part of me wished to see his cloven heart on the floor after I stamped all over it. “Procedure,” I said calmly, leaning back in the chair. “You are under suspicion until you authenticate otherwise.” I eyed his two-piece. “Nice suit.”

“Yes.” He fixed the silk tie. “I raised the standard to vaunt.” Our buxom redhead set glassed whiskey on the table. Her chest practically fell onto his lap, and he never batted an eyelid. “Is there a problem, Josh?”

Josh looked bewildered. “Are you gay?”

Interesting question.

“Why?” Vincent chewed apple peel off the blade. “Do you fancy me?”

The lad’s face blanched. “I’d rather watch two ants fornicate.”

I snubbed the cigarette in the ashtray.

Previously, Vincent had spoken openly about his affairs. Molly and Greer brown were two of many alongside paying cougars. He owns a gentleman’s bar and a secret whorehouse, which I have yet to visit, known as Eyes Wide Shut. Indeed, if he batted for the other team, he’d have indicated as much by now. And if he did have a predilection for males, why the Don Juan façade?

Vincent stared Josh down. “Do you have an issue with homosexuals?”

“No one here cares what type of hole you like to poke and prod,” Brad railed, the legs of his chair scraping as he ebbed. “Just keep your eyes off my chopper.”

“I shouldn’t have to justify myself.” Vincent’s bored of the theatrics. “However, to put ignorance to bed, I will speak candidly. I like women. If you wish to know why I paid no interest in the unflattering barmaid, then I will tell you, she’s unattractively haggard and that I have high standards.”

Cherry scoffed. “Sir, may I have permission to defend myself?”

“You are here to look busy, not eavesdrop.” With a torpid smile, I rested my elbows on the table. “Perhaps he’s bisexual.” Yet again, it occurred to me that the man remained uncharacterised. I don’t know him. He’s a quagmire of mysteries I had never wished to solve until recently. “Well?”

“Who knows?” Vincent’s an inveterate whiskey drinker. He’s in the process of knocking back his third shot when the furious redhead accidentally spilt Jameson on his suit sleeve. With sublime alacrity, he usurped her throat, thwarting her effrontery. “Naughty kitten.”

“Get off me, you piece of shit.” Cherry’s fingernails mauled his wrist. “Sir—”

“Is there not a better purpose for this disrespectful mouth?” Vincent gave her a prolonged, disdainful look. “How do you deal with such tawdry insolence, brother? Her ransacked pussy is not worth a fucking dime.” He forced her knees to the ground. “Sit.”

I was oddly fascinated. “She’s not your plaything, Vincent.”

“She lacks rectitude.” He laid a hand on her head. “Give her to me for two weeks. I’ll whip her ass into shape.”

Holding a tray of shots, an open-mouthed Cora stood behind Nate. She frantically arranged refilled glasses for the men and then ducked behind the bar. Her manifest trepidations bothered Nate. He sent her a flat, reassuring smile, which she reciprocated with watery-eyed meekness.

I rolled a pen between my fingers. “Where’s Blaire?”

Nate looked at me. “She’s back at the apartment, sir.”

Blaire plays house while he lauds the dancer—I give their relationship two months.

“Incoming.” Nate muted his earpiece. “He’s not alone.”

Hearing raised, conversational voices in the hallway, I relaxed against the leather. “Of course, he’s not.”

“Warren.” Moretti’s by the door moments later, accompanied by his suited men. His allies were mostly grey-haired, barbered and evenly tanned. “Johnny Cazale.” Moretti gestured to the short, pot-bellied man. “Saverio Bosqui,” he introduced the Amazonian tall, personable and modish guy who’s becoming seated to his right. “Our youngest,” he pointed to the baby-faced lad, “Anthony Costello.”

Costello espied Cherry knelt at Vincent’s feet. “What is this?” he wondered aloud in his accented Italian. “Do I get preferential treatment, Warren?”

“Sta ’zitto.” Moretti sent him a harsh reprimand. “Associates.” He tossed a thumb over his shoulder, indicating to the confluence of stone-faced allies. “Protection against a possible eventuality.”

Irritation disseminated through my body. “Care for a drink?” I clicked my fingers, and Cherry scampered to her feet in sycophancy. “Cosset.”

Cherry’s sultriness was the cynosure of all eyes. Preparing distilled whiskey behind the bar, she giggled at whatever bullshit Cora whispered in her ear, and when their gazes aligned in concupiscence, everyone marvelled.

Inconspicuously, Nate slid an arm beneath the table to turn on the secured camcorder.

“For you.” Cherry lent between Moretti and Bosqui to place their drinks down. “Can I get you anything else?”

Puffing a lit cigar, Moretti turned the chair to get a better look at her breasts. “Grazie.” Smoke gyrated above his head. “Warren, I thank you for agreeing to do business with me.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet.” I accepted a pre-rolled joint from Brad. “What’s the proposition?”

“What did I tell you?” He grinned at Cazale. “Warren’s straight from the shoulder.” Someone handed him two folders, which he then proceeded to slide down the table. “Hatton Garden offers unique amenities. For example, subterranean vaults.”

We are only two minutes into the meeting, and I am unsatisfied. “I am not sending my men into what we know is unconquerable territory.” I kept a hand on the folder. “Opportunists have already tried and failed. Those idiots currently rot in prison cells.”

“The safe deposit burglary happened many years ago.” Bosqui cleaned his gold-framed reading glasses. “Their amateurish behaviour and unsystematic management precipitated incarceration.”

“Safe Deposit Limited?” Nate loaded his laptop. Black-framed bifocals in place, he tapped the keyboard, entered servers and tilted the screen for me to see. “We can only enter the building via access card. Then a two-story descend underground to a guard-controlled gate. Further combinations and an additional access key. Magnetically sealed doors. Motion infrared and light detectors.” His head shook. “Even the tunnels detect seismic sensors. You ain’t looting a place like this without consequences.”

“Who said I wanted to raid the Deposit?” Moretti’s gold tooth sparkled. “What if someone had connections at Gateway? Who cares for custom-cleared containers? All we need is a reliable informant to point us in the right direction.”

Anthony opened the folder. “Are you familiar with The London Diamond Bourse?”

“Where’s this conversation headed?” I asked. “What’s the connection between London Gateway and the Bourse?”

“We know that Gateway receives monthly trade on behalf of the Bourse.” Anthony exhibited stolen emails, confirming periodic commerce. “We do not, however, know when, how, or where.”

“Thus far,” Moretti interjected, “we have concluded that Russia transmits the goods. Someone from Gateway secures the goods, and then John Doe from the Bourse accepts the goods before distribution.”

“So, let me get this right in my head. You don’t want to tunnel your way through Hatton Gardens,” I said, and Alberto listened intently. “You want to swipe the goods directly from Gateway? Approximately, how many containers?”

Anthony glanced at the printed email. “Twenty. Max.”

“It’s an impossible task.” Matching a flame, I lit the end of the joint and held smoke behind my tongue. “We could never get that many cranes out without exposure.”

Vincent extracted the folder from beneath my hand and spread prospects across the table. “Unless we rob the bastard’s blind while in transit.”

“Uomo intelligente.” Moretti’s cigar smouldered between pinched fingers. “What do you say, Warren? Can we make this happen?”

I studied the printed executive committee. “Why do we need the Bourse?”

“Smart locks?” Nate mused, and Moretti nodded. “It’s likely these cranes will have facial recognition systems. We could convey goods to a different destination and crack them open with power tools, but there’s bound to be GPS fleet tracking inside those bitches.” He thumbed through print outs. “There are other options. Decryption is computationally doable. I can gain access to a Bourse members account, but advanced encryption algorithms protect their networks. It will take months to break through firewalls.”

“What if we can buy the complicity of one committee member?” Alberto pointed at the prospects. “Who would you select?”

I picked one up: Phillip Henry, Honorary life president. If anyone has access to those containers, it’s this guy. “So, we bribe him? Beat him?” Everyone listened closely. “Surgically cut off his face for identification purposes?” Laughter vibrated in my chest. “This entire proposition is absurd. We will get caught. I don’t know about you,” I eyed every one of my men, “but I quite enjoy life outside of prison walls.”

“If we can encroach Phillip’s encrypted email server,” Cazale piped in, “then we can uncover pending trade. Once we have a date, you can contact Gateway to find out what time the transits deport. Meanwhile, we hang fire and wait for the signal. Once we know the avenues, we blindside the drivers and gain possession.”

“Even if that worked,” Brad intervened, “Phillip Henry will sail our arses up the damn river. We can hold him at gunpoint, force him to unlock those crates, but he’ll sing like a fucking canary when blue coasts swarm. And then what? We face life imprisonment.”

“Exterminate.” Anthony sipped whiskey. “Phillip cannot sing if he’s face down in the dirt.”

I locked eyes with Brad. “Would you touch this?”

He slowly shook his head. “No.”

I closed the folder. “This meeting is over.”

“Brother.” Vincent addressed me in an unusually polite voice. “May I ask a few questions?”

I nod.

“We assume the cranes are inaccessible without facial recognition. What if we can unlatch the smart locks through the utility of fingertips?”

“Do you suggest that we amputate Phillip’s hand?”

“Alzaim, can you replicate fingerprints to unlock biometric sensors?”

“If given enough time?” Nate considered his question. “Probably. But it doesn’t change the fact I cannot break through the Bourse’s firewalls overnight. I’d need a minimum of six months.”

“Six months?” Moretti sighed in exasperation. “Do it in one month.”

“Listen, old man,” Nate barked. “I might be good, but ain’t that good. I can’t shit-out a fucking miracle.”

Having an Einstein moment, Brad’s spine straightened. “What if we know someone who could?” Everyone paid attention. “Jace?”

“No.” I’d sell my ass first. “I don’t want that motherfucker anywhere near this.”

“Bossman, he’s good.” Brad slipped a new toothpick to the corner of his mouth. “He broke through our systems once.”

“Yeah,” Josh agreed, rubbing his chin. “I don’t know how that guy did it, but he had no problem screwing over those politicians at Westminster, either.”

“Jace had an accomplice,” Vincent said, slowly rocking his chair from side to side.

“Ah, yes.” Flashing an impish smirk, Brad reopened Phillip’s file. “What do we know about this man? Is he in a relationship? Does he have children? What does he do in his spare time?” He reads notes. “Married. His wife’s disabled. No offspring. Friday night frolicsomeness at The Ice Bar.” The page turned. “Bingo.”

I snatched the paper. “What?”

“Phillip plays Romeo on weekends.” Brad clicked his tongue. “We can nail the bastard. So, here’s an idea for you bunch of tossers. We set a date for next Friday. If he’s a true Casanova, we will locate him at the said bar that night. The chances are that some bird’s already stolen his attention. It’s cool, though. We got a stellar plan. We send in a decoy—our blonde vixen comes to mind—and get him to play an exchange. From his perspective, he sees a sexy broad by the bar and last year’s fuck buddy takes a back seat.”

My blood heated with every passing second. “No.”

“Come on, Bossman.” Brad’s irritable voice chiselled under my skin. “If you want the goods? You need them on board.” When I remained tight-lipped, he continued, “Victoria lures Phillip back to his hotel room while Jace concurrently spouts orders in her ear.”

I will never agree. “No.”

“Nate supplies the tranquiliser. Victoria knocks his lights out. Jace swarms in to save the day.” Brad’s arms folded at his chest. “I am not tech-savvy, so someone else can fill in the blanks.”

Cherry and Cora replaced the empty glasses. With the exception of Anthony, Moretti and his men never looked sideways. I presented distractions, and they rebuffed the bait. If any under-the-table hand-action transpired, I would soon see on the recording; however, on the face of it, they haven’t given me any reason to distrust them. If a man shies away from eye contact when upholding a serious conversation, it indicates lies and deception. Yet they gave me head-on.

“Jace uses Phillip’s server details to hack the Bourse,” Nate picked up where Brad left off. “If successful, I can replicate Phillip’s fingerprints while he’s comatose.”

Relighting the smouldered joint, I took a long hit. “No.”

“Warren?” Moretti’s on his feet now, striding to my side. “Perhaps these can be of persuasion?” Opening a red velvet pouch, he poured scintillating diamonds onto a silk napkin and left them on the table in front of me. His warm breath fanned my cheek when he whispered, “I am talking billions.”

I rolled one between my thumb and forefinger.

Nate stared at the diamonds in astonishment. “If we can pull this off, it will be the greatest diamond heist in history.”

“You expect me to send my most prized possession into the lion’s den?” My men sat mutely. It doesn’t matter how much they might want this. If I disagree, they’ll back down without a fight. “I will never, ever put her harm’s way.”

Moretti’s hand grasped the back of my chair. “Who’s Victoria?” I respired through my nose. “My wife.”