CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Alexa

Thunderstorms hit this afternoon. Torrential rain hammered the hotel windows, flooded the streets and low-lying areas and leaked through the cracked, smoke-stained ceiling in driblets. I had emptied the room’s dead plant in the dwarf-like bath and placed it beneath the porous crevice to capture rainwater.

Due to bad weather conditions, mechanics within our vicinage declined the drudgery of breakdown service, even though Nate offered to pay additional charges. Moreover, the hotel manager only had one room available, which meant four people and a baby had to spend the night together. As an overnight stay was unpredictable, I accepted the room incontestably.

That was a wrong move, Alexa.

Insufficient beds were the least of my worries. Josh and Chloe might kill each other if left unattended for too long.

Three hours into our insalubrious shelter, Josh, leaving trivial matters behind, wandered downstairs to smoke, which, thankfully, allowed Chloe to bathe Dominic in peace. Her husband, Harold, calls every ten minutes. I can hear his undisciplined vituperative threats through the en-suite door. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered, and I had to bite my tongue. “You are right. It is my fault. I should have called you earlier.”

As if Chloe’s and Harrold’s argument wasn’t bad enough, Nate, who changed into grey jogging bottoms whilst his suit dries on the radiator, has Blaire in his ear. And she is tearing him a new asshole. “What do you want me to say?” he barked, and for the first time, in a long time, I inwardly commended him for standing his ground. “Yes, I have to share a room—I don’t care!” His irritability increased rapidly. “I refuse to dignify that with a response—because it’s fucking ridiculous. I. Love. You,” he punctuated each syllable, and a small, minuscule part of me felt sorry for him. “How can that mean nothing to you?”

I sat on the threadbare armchair and sent Liam a text message.

Me: Hey, I am not sure if Nate touched base, but I wanted to let you know I am safe and possibly staying in a hotel until tomorrow. Depending on the weather, we should be back on the road by midday.

Reginald’s letter weighed heavily on my shoulders. I want to be there for Liam, but I can only sit tight until he’s open to conversation.

Me: I hope you are okay.

Me: I love you, Liam. X

“You need to take a long, hard look in the mirror.” Nate’s elbows rested on his knees. “I ain’t playing that game no more.” His hand crushed the phone. “No, Blaire. This ain’t me. It’s you. It’s your issue. Your insecurities—” Her high-pitched voice interjected. “Do you want me to put her on the goddamn phone?”

Oh, hand me the phone. It would be my honour, Nate.

“Didn’t think so.” His shoulders are stiff and tense, the intricate tattoos on his defined back and arms bunched up as he clicked his neck from side to side to release tension. “Whatever.” Humour replaced sourness. “Fucking bitch,” he muttered, hanging up the phone. “Go ahead. Lay it on thick. You all tried to warn me, right?”

I stared out of the window. “Are you okay?”

“Not really.” He stood then, stomping his feet into stark white trainers. “I don’t think I can do it anymore.” His sad green eyes sought mine as if looking for comprehension. “Help me out, Alexa. How can I fix this?” Unzipping his black gym back, he rummaged for a spare T-shirt. “Blaire is the perfect housewife. When I come home at night, everything is in order: clean, tidy, food in the fridge. She’ll be on the sofa, watching her favourite programmes or asleep in bed. Every morning, without fail, she’s showered and ready for the day.” He pulled the T-shirt over his head and pushed his arms through the sleeves. “She forces herself to wake up early just to give me a kiss in the morning. I have no issues until it concerns you guys. She hates Brad. Loathes Josh.” His tongue slid over his upper teeth. “She despises you.”

A thought occurred. “Liam?”

“I don’t know.” Nate shrugged one shoulder. “Blaire knows better than to bad-mouth the boss.” The muscles in his jaw flexed. “I am starting to understand why Brad is hell-bent on bachelorhood.” He grabbed his wallet. “I’ll go to the service station next door to buy supplies.” We both glimpsed at the bathroom when Dominic cried. “What do I buy the baby?”

I unbuckled the changing bag. “Well, she has plenty of baby formula. If they sell bottles, grab a box. And nappies. And wipes.” I re-zipped the bag. “Maybe sleepsuits.”

Nate exited the room.

I sent another text message.

Me: Where are you?

Logan: Manor.

Logan: What’s up?

Me: I won’t be home until tomorrow.

Me: Is Brad with you?

Logan: He is in the billiard room with the others.

Me: Liam?

Logan: No.

My stomach tightened.

Me: Have you eaten?

Logan: Brad cooked earlier.

Logan: Alexa, stop worrying. I just got out of the swimming pool after forty-five minutes in the gym, and I have snacks ready for the theatre room.

Logan: I am fine.

I smiled.

Me: What movie?

Logan: Hellraiser.

My smile vanished.

Me: Good luck with that one.

When Logan never replied, I tossed my phone on the floral-patterned double bed and knocked on the bathroom door. “Chloe?” I called softly, detecting muffled snivels. “Can I come in?”

The door handle jerked up and down in evident struggle. Embarrassed by her maladroitness, Chloe managed to unlock the door. Her cheeks were speckled in bright red blush, and with the baby wrapped in a towel and tucked into her side, she stepped back for me to enter.

I closed the toilet seat lid and sat down. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know, Hon.” Her lips wobbled. “I am tired of the constant battle. Harold…” Dominic began to urinate, so she held him outright to salvage her trousers. “Is there a kettle in the room? I have to clean the bottles and prepare his next feed.”

“Yes, it’s on the dresser.” I won’t mention Nate’s shopping list in case he returns empty-handed. “Do you want me to mind him for half an hour while you take a shower?”

Her eyes brightened. “Are you sure? I don’t want to put too much on you, Alexa.”

“Of course.” My child-like voice rematerialised as I wiggle my fingers in Dominic’s direction. “Hand over the goods. You are entitled to five minutes headspace.”

“Thank you.” Kissing her son’s head, she gently transferred him to my arms, then emptied the two-inch bathwater. “I won’t be too long.”

“Take your time,” I assured, closing the bathroom door behind me. “Let’s get you nice and warm.” Settling him onto the bed, I snagged the changing bag and laid out essentials. With one nappy left, I tucked it under his bottom and secured the adhesive strips. “Your legs are so strong.” Nuzzling the soles of his little feet, I dressed him in a soft, white vest and matching Babygro, working my way around the mind-boggling buttons. “What is going on? Where is the other button?”

“Are you talking to yourself?” Josh shut the room door. “You know he can’t talk, right?”

I undid all the buttons. “Obviously.”

Peeling off his dripping shirt, Josh hung it on the back of the chair, leaving himself bare-chested. “It’s easier if you start from the bottom.” His knees met the cord carpet. “Move over.” His shoulder nudged mine, but I cemented myself to the ground. “Or don’t.” With deft, ringed fingers, he found the silver button between Dominic’s kicking legs. “Where is Mother Dearest?”

Here we bloody go. “In the shower.”

“Can she stay there all night?”

I pinched the back of his arm, and he shrieked. “Enough, Josh.”

“That better not bruise,” he groused, finalising the top button. “See? Who needs women, Dom? Us men, we’ve got it goin’ on for years.” His Backstreet boys’ impersonation ripped laughter from my chest. “Well, would you look at that?”

I tapped his back in approbation. “There is hope for you, after all.”

Josh lifted the baby above his head. “I am a legend.” Dominic’s cheeks puffed, and vomit splurged from his mouth, slapping Josh in the face, the thick, creamy consistency dribbling down his nose. “Take him before I throw him out of the window.”

Unable to contain mirth, I lowered my head to the bed and, fisting the foul-smelling comforter, chuckled into tears.

“Alexa!” Josh plonked Dominic on the bed and stole the wipes from Chloe’s bag. “That’s disgusting. It smells like curdled cheese.”

I giggled between snorts. “It’s your fault.”

He gawked at me. “How is it my fault?”

“You bully his mother.” I propped the baby in my arms and effaced the foam on his puckered lips. “Dominic seeks revenge.” His tiny fists latched onto my necklace. I wrestled the delicate chain from his fingers. “What’s the sleeping arrangement?”

Josh’s hands fell to his hips. “Chloe can have the bed with Dominic.” His eyes bounced from the two-seater sofa to the carpet. “I guess I am on the floor with Nate.” Goosebumps sprouted on his arms. “I will be flea-bitten tonight.” Swinging open the wardrobe doors, he selected coverless duvets and created our makeshift beds. “Where’s Nate?”

I peppered kisses on the baby’s chubby cheek. “He popped next door to buy supplies.”

“To smoke a blunt,” Josh corrected, haphazardly scattering flat pillows on the ground. “I will sleep until this nightmare is over.”

I checked my phone once more to see if Liam had replied to my text message. He’s yet to respond. His whereabouts intensified apprehensions. I feared his visit to Valerie might precipitate self-destruction.

Liam is impassively steadfast to the outside world, and to a certain degree, I would happen to agree, but my husband has several unspoken weaknesses. His love for his wife. His loyalty to his brothers. And, most importantly, his undying rancorousness towards his mother and father. It’s the personification of hard-faced resentment. He will never come to terms with their betrayal. His pain is deep-rooted. Manifest. It’s an emotional encumberment he will carry for the rest of his life.

Liam murdered Raymond Warren. He will kill Valerie Wentworth.

Retribution is bittersweet because it won’t provide closure. Liam will never understand why they abandoned him yet produced more children or why his mother donated blood to save him yet exited the hospital without so much as a regretful glance.

Nate reappeared. He emptied baby essentials onto the bed for Chloe, which she was most appreciative of, and then excused himself to the bathroom. Once everyone showered and settled for the night, I pinched a T-shirt from Nate’s holdall and stayed under the warm sprays until my skin wrinkled and the cold water depleted.

It was dark in the bedroom. Hair dripping down my back, I knotted the towel around my body, stepped over the men on the floor and tucked into the chair by the window.

Me: Please don’t do something stupid.

Liam never replied.

I fell asleep to the sound of depressing weather with Nate’s T-shirt in hand.

***

“I have never worn a suit for two days in a row.” Josh scrubbed the tomato ketchup stain on his white shirt. “This is ludicrous. If you insist on visiting Pettish Pearl, the least you can do is let us purchase new clothes. I am going commando.” He chucked the balled-up wipes through the open car window. “And I don’t like it. I am too big to be flailing about.”

“Aw.” Chloe faked sympathy. “Is your naughty penis misbehaving?”

“My cock,” he enunciated, “is rubbing me up the wrong way. I will give you that.” His teeth bared. “I need to tuck him in, Alexa. Tell Nate to swing by the designer outlet, or I’ll steal your knickers.”

I am not wearing lace.

“We should get a Starbucks.” Josh stroked his chin. “Iced coffee for me.”

Chloe’s head hit the headrest in frustration.

“I’m still hungry.” Absently rubbing his middle section, Josh watched trees pass in a blur. “I wouldn’t mind a berry crunch.”

I typed a message on my phone.

Me: Did you see Liam this morning?

Logan: I don’t think he came home last night.

“Can we pull over for five?” Josh balanced an unlit joint on his ear. “I need to piss—”

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Nate gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled urgency. “Yadda, yadda, yadda. All fucking day in my ear. Just…” He inhaled through his nose. “Be quiet.”

“Alright,” Josh muttered sarcastically. “No need to swear in front of the baby.”

Nate drove down a never-ending road. In fact, at this point, I feel like he might be lost. “Where are we?” The eerie, low-hanging fog in the distance had the hairs on my neck stood to attention. “We passed those trees earlier.”

“It’s a long drive.” Nate whistled to the radio. “You ain’t been to Saddleworth Moors before?”

I will kill them. “You hid my sister in the Moors.”

Josh’s head appeared between the headrests. “What’s wrong with the Moors?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Josh.” My arms folded. “Why would I want my sister in the same place, where sadistic killers, Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, buried their victims?”

He flashed me a toothy grin.

My glare sharpened.

“Who just bottom-burped?” Josh’s nose quivered. “Christ, that’s rank.”

Chloe winced. “I need to change Dominic’s nappy.”

“Oh, Hell no.” Nate covered his nose. “Where’s my scarf?”

“He doesn’t smell that bad.” Chloe laid Dominic across her knees, and Josh, disturbed by the display, glued himself to the car door. “Really?”

“The little shit puked on my face.” He pointed an accusatory finger at the baby. “I won’t be burnt twice.”

Clueless to his surroundings, Dominic, chomping on his curled-up fist, babbled excitedly in his impenetrable bubble.

Rolling down the driver’s side window, Nate shifted into a lower gear and meandered steeply downhill.

“Wait until he’s back in the car seat.” Chloe rushed to secure the baby. Dirty nappy knotted in a fragranced bag, she held it while searching for somewhere stash-appropriate. “I need a bin.”

Gasping and choking theatrically, Josh’s eyes watered. “Chuck it out of the window.”

“No,” she protested. “I see a bench down the road. I’ll find a bin.”

As the drive continued, Nate grew restless. Tall, dense trees obscured the rain marginally, which facilitated the unevenness of the road. “I’ll keep the engine running,” he said while steering off-road to park on the fallen leaves. “Loose battery connections.” He chewed over the mechanic’s discovery. “It’s unusual for brand new vehicles.”

I am inexperienced in the car department.

“Climb over the fence,” Nate instructed as I gathered my handbag. “Go uphill, take a sharp right and go through the rough terrain. Follow the nature trail to the cloven valley. Holme Clough is to the left.” His empathetic eyes held mine. “Hackberry tree.”

I leaned in to hug Nate. His strong arm wound around my back. We held each other, and a sense of relief softened taut muscles.

While the men stayed in the car, I collected the flowers with Chloe and, in uncommunicative silence, we clambered the rickety fence, hiked the precipitous hill and navigated to Nate’s directions.

Eventually, our discernible path disappeared. We utilised the slippery rocks to cross the narrow stream, which resulted in water-filled shoes.

I saw the tree’s twisted stems and droopy leaves and stopped walking.

“Hey.” Chloe nudged my elbow. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t think I can do this…” My stomach was in knots. “Why is she here, Chloe? I hate this place.”

“You must,” she insisted, rubbing my arms. “You won’t forgive yourself if you walk away.” Tilting my chin, she fostered bravery and encouraged me to breathe. “It’s time to say goodbye to your sister, Alexa.” Her glassy eyes blinked. “For good.” Placing her flowers on top of mine, she hugged herself, the unceasing drizzles irritating her face. “You should go alone. I’ll wait here until you are ready.”

Inhale, exhale.

I raked hair out of my eyes, held the elaborate bouquets and trudged to the tree, the heels of my shoes sinking in the mud with each laborious step. I reached the point of no return and stared at the shards of wet grass. No memorial headstone. No fresh flowers. No solar lights or waterproof verses.

Just emptiness.

Kneeling on the wet floor, I eliminated weeds from her graveside, unravelled the beribboned stems and individually arranged flowers on the imperceptible mound. “I have so much to say, yet I don’t know where to begin.” I dug my fingers into the mud to create a small hole. “I will start with the night you attacked me. I did not recognise you. Even to this day, I refuse to believe you, the person I love so much, tried to kill me.

“You were possessed, unwell and brainwashed. You lost yourself to the voices inside your head. I understand. You were confused, and everything hurt. Your past controlled your present and finalised your demise.

“You fell in love with our captor. You loved him so much that you feared life without him. I could sit here and say what you felt for him wasn’t real, but deep down, although it sickens me, I think you did love him. And in a strange sense, I think he loved you, too.

“Our mother failed you,” I whispered through tears. “She was supposed to protect you, Kathy. I struggle with her negligence the most.

“When I look back, I feel sad and helpless. I was too young to know why she cried so much or why you disappeared for days on end.

“But I am older now.” I unclipped my mother’s bracelet on my wrist. “You were silently pleading for help. She was too busy covering her bruises and swallowing pain relief to know what transpired in her daughter’s bedroom. She could have left him, but she chose to stay until it was too late. Her cowardice cost you gravely.

“Is it any wonder you mentally detached?” Burying the antique jewellery, I raked mud across to conceal it from the world. “You suffered so much. Adaline Haines hurt you. Patrick Haines broke you. Flamur Bajramovic ruined you. In the end, everyone, including your sister, failed you.

“How many times did you lie awake at night? How many times did you cry yourself to sleep? How many times did you contemplate suicide?” My jaw steeled. “I was too absorbed in my trauma to notice.

“You were not born evil. You were someone’s daughter.” My mouth dried. “You were my sister, my keeper, my best friend.

“It was you who held me when our mother cried. It was you who took me to the attic to show me the stars. You taught me how to hide. You taught me how to reach for the birds and how to fly.” Flashbacks of us running through the field, hand in hand, danced behind my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Kathy jumped onto the dirt path. “Faster, Alexa.”

“Wait!” I stumbled behind her. “My legs are too little!”

“You can do it!” Her arms flapped as she spun in circles. “I know you can!”

Holding the material of my dress, I turned around, just like my big sister.

“I will never forget those girls.” I slowly plucked petals from the rosebud. “I shall cherish our memories forever.”

I burst into tears.

I don’t know when Josh arrived, but I certainly appreciated his closeness when his comforting arms captured me for a long, well-needed hug.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Liam

I am gluttonous for narcotised languorousness. You can abuse illicit drugs to quash the magnitude of underlying introspectiveness and pretend life before inebriated indifference was equivalently unruffled. Numbing liquor, intoxicating cocaine and immobilising kush: three fundamental ingredients for complete detachment. I don’t want to think or feel. I want to go back in time for an easier existence.

Carlos Marin sings in rich baritone alongside classical group members: Urs Bühler, Sébastien Izambard and David Miller. Si Tú Me Amas is a personal favourite. It has been too long since I listened to vinyl records in solitary.

Within the serenity of Club 11′s four walls, I lounged on the Italian leather sectional sofa in the office, one arm draped over my eyes, a nursed glass of distilled whiskey in hand. Macallan and sedatives filtered through relaxed muscles. In benumbed imperturbability, I hearkened to the almost undetectable footfalls of an uninvited visitor.

I recognised her sweet-scented perfume. “What do you want?”

“I am looking for Nathaniel.” Blaire picked up the Macallan bottle on the high gloss coffee table and read the label. “Can you send me in the right direction?”

Black leather sheathed her body like a second skin. Knee-high boots elevated her elegant posture. Her long, dark hair, pulled back into a sleek ponytail, falls down her back, and the light coruscates through her overly large statement earrings.

I swallowed exasperation. “Leave.”

Blaire swigged from the bottle. “You look like shit.”

“Did I ask for your opinion?” I gave her a scathing glare. “Get out, or I’ll bury you beneath the very floor you stand upon.”

“Actually, there is something I wish to discuss with you, Sir.” Her backside grazed my thigh as she became seated on the sofa. “It’s about Nathaniel. I am worried about him.”

Blaire’s concern for Nate captured my full attention. Swinging my outstretched legs from behind her back, I sat upright, snagged the bottle from her covetous hands and splashed more whiskey into the crystal glass. “Proceed.”

“Oh, shit.” Her fingers fumbled nervously on her lap. “I feel guilty.”

I scowled. “Guilty?” Blaire’s two eyes seemed to morph into one. “Why?”

“Talking to you betrays his trust.” When she tucked hair behind her ear, I caught indistinct bruising on her upper cheek. “He needs help.”

I blinked rapidly to regain clear-sightedness. “What happened to your face?”

Blaire stifled sniffles. “Nathaniel.” Her inconsolable tears began to grey the room. “He loses his temper. He wasn’t always this aggressive. Lately, his violence is too frequent to ignore. I know he doesn’t mean to hurt me,” she’s quick to reassure. “But I fear if I don’t seek help—”

“Blaire,” I interjected with a raised hand. “Your relationship is none of my business.” Unable to lose the disbelieving expression, I staggered to my feet, nearly tripping over the coffee table, and floated to my desk. “Close the door on your way out.” I collapsed on the leather chair. Vibrations hummed in my veins. I leaned forward, plucked up the black card and separated lines. “Why are you still here?”

In front of the desk, Blaire stands. I glared at her from beneath harshly knitted eyebrows and later perceived the voluptuousness of her swollen breasts. I don’t recall the woman having big tits, not that I ever cared to notice, but I am almost certain she modelled less than a handful.

Why am I pondering the imponderable?

I am uninterested in Blaire or any other woman for that matter.

Everything I need waits for me at home.

Rolling a fifty-pound note, I placed the end to my nose, dipped my head and snorted two lines. “You…” Blaire revealed her perfectly augmented breasts. Through compromised vision, I could vaguely see pink areolas and peaked nipples. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I understand, Liam.” Her voice lowered into a sultry whisper as she moved across the desk. “You crave illicitness and relational transgressions. I can help you.” She brazenly crawled onto my lap. “You don’t have to be the perfect husband with me. You can do whatever you want with whoever you want.” Her fingers smeared cocaine across my lips. “With me, you can stay true to yourself—”

I should listen to Alexa more often. “You are one crazy fucking bitch.”

Her red-painted lips twitched with a kittenish purr. “I am what I am.”

“I love my wife,” I rasped, and she rolled her hips to tempt me into sin. “Even if there were no Alexa Warren, I’d acquiesce to asexuality. You, Jessica Pearce, committed treason. You betrayed your bondsman.” I lifted my arms from the armrests to snap her neck, but something akin to manacles restrained movements. “Impressive.”

Blaire stood between my slackened thighs. “I had a feeling you’d get all sentimental on me.” Sitting cross-legged on the desk, she sparked a lighter flame and lit the pre-rolled blunt. “Your soft side is disappointing. I prefer your viciousness.”

I smirked wolfishly. “By all means, unlock the handcuffs for me to fulfil such desires.”

“I don’t love him,” she admitted unsympathetically. “I can barely even stomach him. He’s overbearingly needy, expectant and all the lovey-dovey crap?” She stuck two fingers in her mouth. “Gross. I tried for the sake of normalcy. I figured if you saw us together, you would…” She redid her halter neck top to conceal her breasts. “I thought you’d come back for me. I thought you’d remember what we shared and stake your claim.” Respiring a veil of smoke towards the ceiling, she slid off the desk and helped herself to stacked cash. “But you don’t care. It’s all about Alexa and what she wants and what she needs.” Bitterness iced her tone. “Truthfully, I cannot fathom your devotion. Beautiful, flawless women surround you, yet you choose to lie down with someone so repulsively beneath you.”

“I hit the jackpot when I married Alexa Warren.” My face was inexpressive. “You don’t need to understand.” I twisted my wrists to alleviate the tightness. “You cannot escape the inevitable. Your tongue will be the first extraction.”

Stealing packaged drugs, bounded cash and bottled liquor, Blaire bid me farewell and strolled to the door. “Give Nathaniel my kind regards.”

I grew defensive for my brother. “Why?”

Blaire twisted on her heel to flutter her lashes at me. “What’s the question?”

“Why did you delude him?”

“Nathaniel’s desperation made it easy.” Her lips puckered in deliberation. “If it makes you feel better, I thought of you every time he and I fucked. It made fake orgasms more believable. I don’t think he suspects anything.” Brandishing a silver key, she hurled it across the floor. “Look, he’s a nice guy. I am sure he’ll find another woman he can bore to death.” She yanked the door open, and the slumped guard fell onto his back. “He’s not dead. I stabbed him with one of those vitals Nathaniel stores in his gym bag.” Stepping over the man’s comatose body, she exited the office. “Oh, before I go.” I felt the intensity of her eyes on me as I narrowed my stare to sharpen her blurred figure. “What I feel for you is real. You will never reciprocate, but I do love you, Liam. You need to remember that.”

Blaire’s footsteps faded into the distance.

Breathing through my nose, I lolled in the chair and listened to classical music. If Blaire hadn’t handcuffed me to the chair, I’d throw myself in the shower to thaw frozen paralysation.

My iPhone vibrated on the desk. I clipped it with the tip of my shoe. It crashed to the floor. “Fuck’s sake.”

Nate, I thought, squeezing my eyes shut. He’s a fool in love. How do I tell him Blaire is a heartless, Machiavellian bitch? Do I explain everything or omit unnecessary details? Perhaps I can inform him of her theft only and spare his heartbreak.

“What a quandary?”

My eyelids cracked open.

One hand inside his trouser pocket, Vincent, tailored, radiant and surprisingly healthy-looking, bent down to collect the key on the ground. “Dare I ask?”

“It’s good to have you back.” My heart rate went into overdrive. “Brother.”

His eyes were ablaze with innate mischievousness. “Indeed.” Weaving the key between ice-ringed fingers, he came to my side, disengaged the handcuffs and, one wrist at a time, thumbed the light, painless abrasions. “I signed myself out of the hospital. After all, I am no good to anyone if I am detained in bed.” He spurned the assortment of strewn drugs on the desk. “Is Valerie responsible for self-immolation?”

I took the Jameson bottle from his investigatory hands and drank thirstily. “Did you see Blaire on your travels?”

“Miss Pearce?” Vincent mused while chewing into a green apple. “I might have seen the little damsel.”

I felt swelteringly hot. “You let her walk away.”

He smirked impishly. “Well, you see, the last time I did my utmost to warn everyone, I was villainously slandered.” His stare toured my features. “I come bearing gifts,” he said airily, tossing a folder onto the desk. “Donny uncovered Johnny Cazale’s secret whore house. Perhaps we can visit him.” Apple juice coated his lips. “Once you shower and remove the toxins from your blood, of course.”

***

Alexa

A hot bubble bath was the first port of call when I entered the Manor. Hell, I luxuriated in heavenly effervesces while the champagne bottle chilled on ice. I swathed a towel around my head, stepped onto the thick bath mat, emptied the water and, tucking the alcohol under my arm, took my naked behind to the master bedroom.

I had several worries.

Logan’s friendless despondency.

Nate’s relationship dilemma.

Chloe’s marital problems.

Liam’s not-so-dead mother.

“Kill me.” Lying on the chesterfield chaise lounge, I propped my head on the bolster cushion, locked my legs at the ankles and drank champagne from the bottle.

“Sugar tits?” Brad knocked on the bedroom door. “Are you decent?”

I thanked my lucky stars. If it weren’t for Brad’s usual eccentricities, I’d have lost the will to live. “No, I am completely naked.”

“Really?” He sounded amused. “What does Alexa roaming around starkers look like?”

I scrutinised myself. “She’s looked better.”

Brad sighed. “Are you decent yet?”

“Why?”

“I want to come in.”

“Give me a second.” Inside the walk-in wardrobe, I selected an oversized T-shirt, rolled socks to the knees and prepared to call Brad when the impatient asshole bobbed his head around the doorframe. “You seriously need to learn the definition of privacy.”

He descended the three marble steps into our spacious wardrobe and flopped onto the long-stretched sofa, which sent decorative cushions overboard. “Share the love.”

I hand him the champagne.

One arm tucking behind his head, he got comfortable, legs extended, white shirt unbuttoned, the bottle to his lips. “How was the trip?”

“Exhausting.” I lifted myself onto the vanity table. “Blaire persistently hounded Nate. Harold had Chloe in tears every five seconds. And Josh, well, Josh kept me sane, to be honest.”

Brad loved to gossip. “Why did Blaire hound?”

“Is that a serious question?” I gave him a pointed look. “Nate had to stay in a hotel room with yours truly.”

“She is one flew over the cuckoo’s nest.” His head shook subtly. “Everyone knows you are certifiably obsessed with Bossman,” he joshed, highlighting his deep-cut dimples. “Right?”

I ignored his light-hearted teasing.

“What’s the deal with Harold Stone?” He peeled the champagne bottle’s label, not making eye contact. “That guy is a right fucking tosser.”

I reclaimed the bottle and took a tensive sip. “How do you know him?”

“I know everything.” His tongue flicked a toothpick to the corner of his mouth. “And everyone who may or may not pose a threat.”

“Well, Harold’s not a threat to syndicate; however, I do believe Chloe’s in a loveless, possibly abusive marriage.” Having lost interest in our conversation, Brad adjusted the gold curb bracelets on his wrist. “Any update from Liam?”

“Nope.” He swung his legs over the sofa and stood. “I will head to the club for answers. I am sure someone can help us find our stowaway.” His finger flicked my chin. “I put leftover pasta in the fridge. Eat. You look like a bag of bones. It is bastard unbecoming.”

I scoffed at his audacity. “Thanks, Brad.”

He winked. “No problem.”

***

Nate is on babysitting duties until Liam has replaced Alfie, which I plan to overrule once my husband decides to come home. I need my bodyguard back safe and sound.

I will not relent until Alfie’s in the kitchen, frying pancakes and blending fruit smoothies after a long session in the gym.

Plus, I owe him an apology.

If it weren’t for the meddlesomeness of his overbearing official, he’d be in the garden waiting for Jax (his possible lover?), the quiet Suit who patrols miserably by the pool house.

I spy on Jax. He’s on his feet by five a.m. for a morning jog before he hits the gym for forty-five minutes. Once he’s burnt enough calories to condone his unhealthy diet, he showers, changes into a black suit and safeguards the Manor’s perimeters.

“Ma’am?” Tattooed fingers parted the shrubs, and molten grey eyes assessed the inexplicable situation. “Are you okay in there?”

Relieved to be sporting bug-eyed sunglasses, I stuffed the binoculars behind my back. “I am weeding unwanted plants.”

Jax scratched his strong, angular jaw. “Do you want me to call a gardener?”

God, no. Tony will faint if someone tampers with his flower beds. “No, I can manage.”

I am an appalling private investigator. If I want to track down Alfie, that’s if he’s even in contact with Jax, I have to find a new strategy.

Grey-eyed Suit resisted the temptation to ask questions the day he caught me spying on him, but now he’s cautious about my motives. If I enter a room, he runs to the exit. If I water dead plants in the garden, he hides in the pool house.

“Who lives there?” Nate turned the leather-like steering wheel. “I don’t recognise the address.”

I filed my fingernails into arrowheads. “Why must the music be so loud?”

He lowered the car radio. “Well?”

“Well, what?” I answered dumbly. “Do you like the colour? I painted them black for a change.”

“Alexa, I ain’t interested in your talons.” He slurped the passion fruit smoothie through a green straw. “Quit acting dumb.”

I pouted. “I quite like razor-sharp fingernails.” His arm shot out in front of me, which I found most incomprehensible because of the red traffic light and our stationary vehicle. “What the Hell, Nate? You are not even driving—”

“Stop talking.” Increasing the radio’s volume, Nate all but shrieked in exhilaration. “Remix.” His hand bashed the steering wheel. “Dench.”

My eyes protruded. “Why are you shouting?”

“You might see me in a Lambo, ” he sings. “Camo snapback, Rambo. Five hundred horses, Django.” Poking his head through the window, he glared at the guy in the Mondeo. “Two, two, chicken, Nando.”

Mortified, I yanked his elbow. “Nate,” I hissed, my cheeks scalding under the scrutiny of other drivers. “What is wrong with you?” People lingered on the pavement to assess the raucous commotion. “Please drive.”

“You might see me in a Rari. Old school fella, Atari. It’s a new dance, no tango.” His foot eased onto the accelerator. “Anywhere I go, I make the gang go.”

Stealing Nate’s black ball cap, I slapped it on my head and sank down the heated leather seat to hide. Pulling my blouse up to my nose, I pretended the guy to my right was not singing at the top of his lungs or driving no-hands down the road or dancing like a deranged madman.

“They salute me on the roads and tell me well done. If I ever tell you what your girl done. I can’t even tell you what your girl done.” Nate smirked suggestively at me. “Anywhere I go, I let your girl come.”

I watched him through splayed fingers. “Please stop.”

“Come on.” At the next set of traffic lights, he hit the brakes, and, of course, everyone within our proximity leered at the thunderous sounding vehicle. “Don’t bust my balls.”

My sight has malfunctioned until further notice. Well, until uncalled nosiness rematerialised. I peeked from the corners when he sent Blaire a text message. He’s contacted his lover numerous times, and she has yet to get in touch or put his mind at ease.

Nate’s sudden gloominess felt like a knife in the chest.

I am not privy to their relationship problems, but I know broken-heartedness when I see it. “Don’t call me cuz, we ain’t fam though,” I joined Chip’s verse. “Clean every day, Mavado.” Nate shot me a double-take. “I bring the vibe in my verses. A cemetery full of features that I murdered. It’s a new dance. Start skanking.” My shoulders bounced, and his face blanched. “Chippy on the remix, mad ting.”

Green-eyed Suit burst out laughing. “What the fuck did I just witness?” He demonstrated the bizarre dance craze faultlessly from his seat. “Nice and slow, Alexa. Do it like the Vossi Bop.”

I synchronised his movements, right hand on my chest, left arm extended like I am ready to fly.

“Lean forward slightly,” he instructed, and I copied. “Good. Feel the groove.” We bopped for all too bare witness, the all-encompassing drivers and their passengers, the promenading tourists and bemused commuters. “Good. Bounce over. Anticlockwise.” My snickers segued into pig-like snorts. “Contraclockwise. It’s a new dance like Azonto.”

To my right, the man in the Sedan stares in wide-eyed wonder. “I cannot face the guy in the next lane. I am officially demented.”

“Fuck the haters.” A car horn blared behind us, so Nate raised his middle finger, switched into first gear and drove leisurely. “You might see me in a Lizzy tee. Porsche got me screwing flatheads in the Philippines. On point, now she wants a Wretch that could stick it in.”

“Trying to stand her ground, make her knees cave in. That ring says she must be married,” I sang along. “When I was banging her to drake, she said—”

“Trust me, daddy!” Nate hollered behind his hand, and mirthful tears leaked from my eyes.

“Hey!” Too freakishly tall to drive a Ford Ka screeched to an unexpected stop to lambast Nate. “Move forward, Jackass! You are blocking the road—”

“Fuck you,” Nate spat as I fumbled to turn down the music. “You crater-face looking motherfucker.”

I died. “Nate…”

“Fucking nut job.” His jaw flexed. “Can you believe that shit?”

Yes, actually. “In his defence, the green light flashed, and we continued to dance.”

“Alexa?”

“Yeah.”

“You know I love you, right?”

I side-eyed him. “Right.”

“But you dance like a white girl.”

“I am a white girl!”

“It was painful to watch. You need to work on your swag.” He squeezed my shoulder. “These were detached from your body. I mean, they had a mind of their own.”

“Well,” I studied his hand on my shoulder, “It’s not as though I can purchase new arms. Maybe you can teach me how to dance.”

“Yeah.” Pulling a face, he snorted. “No.”

I tore open packaged strawberry laces.

“You lack confidence,” he said reflectively. “You worry too much about other people. Are they looking? Are they judging? Do they think I am senile?” His pierced brow bent. “Who cares what they think?”

I chewed liquorice in silence.

“Let people envy your boldness.” He steered the Audi down a long, country road. “They only judge because they ain’t got the balls to do it themselves.”

Throughout the remainder of our journey, Nate alternated between navigations and sending text messages. He’s troubled by Blaire’s unresponsiveness. I should ask if he’s okay or if he needs someone to talk to, but I must tackle Liam’s whereabouts first. Alfie’s location. Chloe’s wellbeing. Besides, Nate’s stubborn. He’ll offload if and when he is ready.

Nate parked on the grassy knoll. “So, who are we visiting?”

I had to confront Valerie Wentworth alone. “An old, harmless woman.” Jerking open the car door, I collected my handbag. “Can you wait in the car?”

He briefly examined our barren surroundings. “Where’s your phone?”

I brandished the cracked iPhone Jace found in the alleyway the night Angelo tried to lock me in his car. “I won’t be too long.” Avoiding the waterlogged grass, I stepped onto the uneven road, faux fur coat buttoned to my chin, unlocked the garden gate and strolled down the pathway. I almost knocked on the cottage’s front door when the drenched clothes on the rotary line tugged on my conscience. “Shit.”

Retracting my footsteps, I unpegged the wet shirts, draped them over my arm and rapped my knuckles on the door. I peered through the frosted glass panels to see oscillating movements in the hallway. “Hello,” I called, and the figure stilled. “I can see you.”

Valerie’s shadow darkened as she approached. With clumsy fingers, she cracked the door ajar, keeping the feeble chain in pace. “Yes,” she said timidly. “Can I help you?”

I am in no mood for mind games.

Abruptly shoving my arm through the half-open door, I blindly reached for the rusty chain ad tugged downward. It fractured effortlessly, which panicked Valerie. “What on earth are you doing?” Her flustered voice pierced my ears. “You cannot come in here—” I pushed the door open, and she stumbled backwards. “I will call the police.”

“No, you won’t.” Conveying the washing into the outmoded kitchen, I hung my handbag on the back of an old, wobbly chair, helped myself to the empty laundry basket and began to fold the sopping wet shirts. “They smell. You will have to rewash them.”

Valerie’s quite literally backed into the corner.

At the hospital, I was too distressed to pay attention to the woman’s features. I mean, why would I?

I believed her nurse persona.

Valerie is beautiful—hardened but beautiful. Except for silvery roots, long, silken jet-black hair separated into two braids trailed down sylphlike shoulders, and her eyes, framed in thick lashes, the colour of winter grey on a stormy day, dazzled as she watched over me.

I imagined Valerie stood between her son’s and weighed their disparities. Her bohemian image against their besuited fashion. Her short frame against their towering imperiousness.

Valerie reached for two cups. “I assume you want tea.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” I clipped, and her hands withdrew from the wooden mug tree. “Where is my husband? Judging by the bruise on your cheek, he paid a visit.”

“It’s what I deserved.” Setting an ashtray on the kitchen counter, she extracted two cigarettes and pinched one between her lips. “Do you smoke?” I shook my head, so she discarded the spare. “What do you want, Alexa?”

I folded the last shirt. “I am worried about Liam.”

“My son is angry,” she said sharply, and my eyes jerked up. “Liam just found out that his mother’s alive. He needs time to process everything. You cannot mollycoddle—”

“Excuse me,” I sliced through her rant before it escalated. “Do not tell me how to handle my husband.”

“I am sure Liam will come home when he’s good and ready.” She lit the cigarette. “Don’t make this about you.”

“How can I make this about me?” My voice raised a touch. “It’s about you. Your betrayal. Your neglect. Your bad decisions. I merely came here to pick up the pieces.”

Valerie wafted smoke out of her face. “Well, I don’t know where he is, so please leave.”

I tapered down all-consuming frustration. “Why did you abandon him?”

“I already explained everything to Liam.” Tears gathered on her lower lashes. “I was an unfit mother,” she admitted regretfully. “I chose drugs.”

My head shook imperceptibly. “You prevailed hardship for Vincent.” Slinging the handbag over my shoulder, I beelined the nearest exit. “I hope you rot in Hell.”

“You surprised me,” she said, and I hesitated by the kitchen door. “You are very judgmental for someone who lived in darkness.”

I stared at the wall-mounted photos in the hallway.

“You, of all people, should understand the world is not defined in black and white.”

I faced her head-on. “I cannot sympathise with the woman responsible for my husband’s pain.”

“And I will die knowing he never forgave me.” Her tight smile touched a nerve. “I never raised my son. I had to watch him from afar. I had to love him from afar,” she added as I lowered myself to the chair. “Rehabilitation was not for Vincent. I sobered for Liam.” She pointed to the kettle, and I nodded. “It turns out, once your child goes into the system, it is not so easy to get him back.” Preparing two coffees, she grabbed green-lidded milk from the fridge. “Liam and Vincent have their father’s eyes.” I couldn’t see her face, but at the mention of Raymond Warren, her spine straightened. “You know, for a long time, I resented Vincent. He was my second chance at motherhood, yet I couldn’t look at him without tasting vomit in my throat.”

I felt a sudden chill.

“Bad blood.” She poured milk into our mugs. “When I looked into my son’s eyes, I saw the man who raped me.” Upholding her stone-faced expression, she placed our coffees on the round table and sat opposite me. “Raymond’s wife, Evelyn, threatened divorce for whatever reason. He turned up on my doorstep, recklessly drunk, asking to stay the night.” She blew over the surface of her steamy mug. “I agreed for one night only. I was even stupid enough to prepare him a bed on the sofa. I told him to make himself scarce before sunrise…” Her miserable stare studied the fallen petals on the placemat. “It was paralysing. I thought it was a nightmare until I opened my eyes and felt the weight of him on top of me.”

I had empathy. “I know the feeling.”

“Yes, you do.” She suppressed sniffles. “Although, I would never compare situations. You were a child.”

“Pain is pain no matter the trauma.” I cocked my head in contemplation. “Does Vincent know?”

“No, I would never burden him.” The question pained her. “Vincent is apathetic toward his father. I’d like you to keep it that way.”

“Of course,” I said in conversation. “Do you know how Raymond died?”

“I do.” She snubbed the cigarette. “Did it make him feel better?”

I feigned cluelessness. “Who?”

“Liam?” she asked, setting the ashtray aside.

My eyes closed while searching for the right words.

“Well, I hope it gave him a semblance of closure.” When I sat tight-lipped, she smiled in a way that suggested knowingness. “You are very loyal. How did you meet?”

“I stalked him.” I looked at the now lukewarm coffee. “The rest is history.”

Valerie had more questions. So much, she wanted to pick and probe, to know everything and anything about her son, significant or insignificant, yet she simmered down, exhaling a defeated breath instead.

I had to find Liam. “I should go.” Rising from the chair, I poured the coffee down the sink. “I don’t think he hates you,” I whispered, and she held onto my every word in desperation. “Goodbye, Valerie.”

I let myself out.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Liam

I presided over the assemblage of syndicate men in Club 11’s underground conference room to plan a comprehensive manoeuvre against the Italians. Anthony Costello’s dead and buried, pushing up the daisies, and Johnny Cazale, the disreputable nightclub owner, undergoes systematic torture in the chambers. Taking Cazale into custody went better than expected. I anticipated an Italian brigade of biddable minions and a fusillade of gunfire. Cazale was defenceless. He enjoyed neat scotch and orgasmic sex before I shot the female riding his cock, and Vincent knocked him into unconsciousness with his gun handle.

Cazale’s excruciating screams echoed down the hall.

I stared at the unclosed door, wondering which torture method Nate used to amplify the man’s accentuated beseeching.

“What of Alberto’s cousin, Bernardo Russo?”

I answered Josh’s question. “I want his beating heart in the palm of my hand.”

Brad revised notes. “I don’t believe Russo’s in Sicily.” Chewing a toothpick, he closed the folder and slid it across the table to Josh. “Permission to put an idea forward.” I blinked once, and he continued, “If Cazale takes Moretti’s location to the grave, send a group of female decoys to Russo’s Billiard House. Keep it short and sweet. A game of pool, a round of shots, and the occasional flirting with punters. If Russo’s in the building, he’ll rear his ugly head and introduce himself. Meanwhile,” he watched the buxom redhead arrange delivered beverages and premade deli sandwiches on the table, “Cherry can give us the heads up when he arrives. I’ll be on standby with Josh.”

Cherry stood ramrod straight. “You want to send me?”

“Accomplishable.” Vincent uncapped coffee to let it cool. “You should make an entrance, though.” He leaned back in his chair and goaded me with challenging eyes. “You have loyal, dedicated men keen to fight on your behalf. However, desperate times call for desperate measures. Bernardo’s had you on a wild goose chase for long enough. Who better to knee-cap the bastard in his natural habitat than you?”

“Affirmative.” I then addressed the only female in the room. “Do you associate with friends outside of work?”

She risked a glance at Brad. “Yes.”

“Two will suffice. Invite them here to attend a confidential meeting with Brad. He can explain what I expect from them. And yourself, of course.” I selected a black coffee and removed the plastic lid. “Preferably in the next few days.”

Brad’s pensive as he looked from one person to the other. “Thoughts on Angelo’s lover, Diego?”

“Funny you should ask. I did a little bit of research with the information you provided.” Josh chewed into a peanut butter protein bar. “Diego Serafini. He’s the youngest of seven. All boys. Left his family home at the age of sixteen.”

My second in command glared daggers. “Who is the reliable source?”

“Pamina Serafini.” Unclipping a ring binder, Josh strewed printed documents around the table for everyone. “His mother.”

“Alright, Einstein.” Brad ignored the paperwork. “How did you get in touch with his mother?”

“Well, I used my due diligence, typed names into Google and called possible leads until satisfied.” His lips twisted into a sardonic grin. “Any other questions?”

“Diego’s mother is a homophobic bigot.” Vincent’s still reading the man’s file. “She alienated her son for being gay.”

“Yeah, Pamina’s a vitriolic blabbermouth,” Josh said. “In fact, she was vociferously informative. Diego calls his older brother biweekly with updates on his whereabouts and whatnot. I jotted down two locations and some names. Get this. Angelo has a daughter.” He provided copies of birth certificates. “Milana D’Agostino. Her mother, Ingrid, filed her abduction in Treviso, Vento last year. Is it possible Angelo kidnapped Milana, and she’s someplace in London?”

“Perhaps.” I pondered his question. “Why so many family secrets?”

“According to Pamina, Angelo’s mentally unbalanced. He dishonoured his family on several occasions, which explains why Moretti’s reluctant to have a relationship with him.”

“Alberto’s ashamed of his first-born son,” Vincent carried on the conversation. “Surely, Diego informed Alberto of Angelo’s disappearance. Why hasn’t the old man made contact?”

Brad licked a toothpick to the corner of his mouth. “Maybe he’s glad to see the back of him.”

“I have an eventful week planned and many people to visit.” I sipped coffee. “Let’s start with Bernardo Russo. In the meantime, hunt down Diego Serafini. I’d like to sit with him.” My chin jerked to Josh. “Proceed.”

Josh clicked the top of a pen. “Are you familiar with the name Leighton Lynch?”

His name rang zero bells. “No.”

“He’s one of your errand boys in Hackney.” Josh leant over the table to hand me the printout. “We haven’t received one payment from him in over six months, yet he continues to sell and profit. Nate cut off his drug supply and cornered him three weeks ago. He promised to clear his outstanding balance but failed to deliver. We can arrange a meeting for you to speak with him directly or tie up loose ends ourselves.”

I paid scarce attention to details. “I want you and Nate to recover what is rightfully mine to clear Lynch’s arrears: money, jewellery, vehicles and so forth. He will argue his case in craven opportunism.” My lips broke into a slow smirk. “But I am not feeling very forgiving right now.” Scrunching the sheet into a ball, I tossed it in the bin behind me. “Bury him.”

Josh’s head dipped. “Alexa authorised additional security while you were in the hospital.” He gave us the names of the syndicate’s new security detail. “Nate said they are ready to leave the army barracks.” He pushed off the chair and came to my side, placing the contract on the table for me to sign. “Brad designated them strategically. Unless you disagree with the system, I need you to finalise details before they arrive.”

With the pen pinched between my fingers, I signed with cursive handwriting. “Cherry?” I returned the contract. “Tell Nate I need to speak with him before you head back to the kitchen.”

Her blue eyes dazzled in curiosity. “Sir.”

I eyed the stationed men in the room. “Leave,” I ordered, and the low-ranked individuals dispersed down the hall. “Where are you going?”

Vincent paused by the door. “I am to attend a lunch date.”

“A lunch date?” Brad tucked into a colourful salad. “Is she dog-ugly?”

My brother wore a bored expression. “Is that a serious question, Jones?”

“I don’t know, Vinny Boy.” He reached for bottled water. “I am trying to understand how someone so plain-looking pegged a hot date. Unless, of course, she’s buck-toothed and sporting a poxy monobrow.”

Vincent frowned over the rim of his coffee cup. “I would love to put you in a room with misandrist feminists.”

“Do it.” Brad accepted the challenge. “Who better than Brad fucking Jones to corrupt all those rug-munching cock haters.”

Josh choked on his coffee.

My right-hand man’s quirkiness exhausted Vincent. He blinked to mask baffled speechlessness and exited the conference room.

I accepted a pre-rolled blunt from Brad and smoked in reverie. Nate’s due to join us any moment. Before I left him in the chambers, he asked if his lover, Blaire, had made an appearance. I disregarded his question, which carved a permanent frown across his face. He knows something is wrong. Even now, as he enters the room, his white apron, bespattered in Cazale’s blood, I can see he’s on edge and dreading the worst.

“Sir.” Nate became seated between Brad and Josh. “Did you kill her?”

“Since when were you authorised to ask me questions?” Rotating the blunt in the ashtray, I minimised the smouldered ash. “All night, I considered how to approach this situation. You are a founding member of The Brotherhood. You are fanatically loyal and irreplaceably valuable to the syndicate. Above all, you are someone I respect, admire and love.”

Brad and Josh exchanged confused glances.

“Lately, though, I am inclined to question your allegiance to the brothers and your pusillanimous behaviour. You allowed a woman to come between you and your confrères. This same woman insulted my wife and caused an unnecessary strain on my marriage.”

Nate’s eyes closed.

“Blaire fired a gun on my wedding night to kill fabricated mice. Do you comprehend the ridiculousness of her statement?” I asked, and he nodded. “Yet you defended her honour. If truth be told, you often pardon her insubordinate conduct, and I fail to understand why. Is your love for our skittish runaway so profound?”

Tapping a pen on the table, Brad, oblivious to recent events, assessed the meeting closely.

I blew out two smoke halos. “Do you believe she loves you?”

“Yes,” Nate said positively. “Blaire’s past trauma haunts her present, but she is stable—”

“She is unstable.” I went for the jugular. “Neither is she in love with you. Let me ask you another question. Do you beat or manhandle your partner?”

“What?” The question offended him. “No, I would never—”

“Blaire suggested that you require help. I will recite from the horse’s mouth. Nathaniel loses his temper. He wasn’t always aggressive. His violence is too frequent to ignore.” Although empathetic, I acted insensitive and cruel. “Your lover proceeded to expose her newly augmented breasts.”

Nate sagged in the chair, the muscle in his jaw pulsing.

“I lowered my guard. I imbibed alcohol and drugs to…” My tongue felt heavy. “Blaire successfully handcuffed me to the chair, stole commodities before my very eyes, insulted my marriage further and then stressed how much she loved me.” I sipped coffee to moisten the dryness in my throat. “Do you question my authority?”

Nate looked soul-destroyed. “No, Sir.”

“You know what’s expected of you,” I said calmly, and he rubbed irritation from his left eye. “Am I right to assume she went off the grid?”

He nodded in sullen silence.

“Blaire, Jessica Pearce, whatever the fuck you wish to call her, is your responsibility. You will find her,” I ordered as everyone stood. “You will be viciously unforgiving. I want her dead and buried. Understand?”

His trembling hands cupped the back of his head. “Of course, Sir.”

I pointed to the door, and Nate seized the opportunity to leave. “Go with him,” I told Josh, and the lad, concerned for his brother, obeyed. “Is there something you wish to get off your chest?”

Brad’s owl-eyed in stupefaction. “Blaire had a tit job?”

My unimpressed glare honed.

“Christ, how did they look?” His hands bounced imaginary breasts. “I can’t imagine her with killer nipples. Not that I want to,” he’s eager to add. “Out of curiosity, did you tell Alexa about Blaire’s sexual advances? If not, I want to be there when you do.”

“Not a word to Alexa.” If Alexa hears of Blaire’s coquettishness, she will be on the warpath until the woman’s blood has tarnished her hands, which, under different circumstances, I would encourage because there is nothing more riveting than my scorned wife. It has to be Nate, though. I have never questioned his loyalty, and it would be a shameful dereliction of duty, but if he fails to deliver, I am compelled to dismiss his position. “I am serious, Brad. Keep Alexa out of this.”

I went to the dank chambers to see the aftermath of Nate’s viciousness. He used corroded nails (one in each palm and six for the feet) to hammer Johnny Cazale’s body to the wooden workbench. I stood over the man’s naked form to examine the punctures in his legs, the dark, purple bruising on his ribcage and the trickling blood in his right ear. “Infection.” I pointed to his lacerated thigh, oozing with thick, yellow discharge and clotted blood. “Put him on a short course of antibiotics. I need him alive.”

Brad unzipped Nate’s holdall and took out a box of antibiotics.

If Cazale’s awake, I wouldn’t know as he wears an eye mask. His shallow yet controlled breathing soon gave away feigned sleeping, though. “Are you ready to talk?”

Cazale bristled.

“Get these down you.” Brad held the man’s jaw and forced two pills into his squirming mouth. “Good doggy.” Uncapping bottled water with his teeth, he spat the lid on the floor and poured fluids down his throat, which caused him to writhe and choke. “Bossman asked you a question.”

“I am no rat.” Thrashing his head from side to side, he spat water on his chest. “Kill me.”

An unrecognisable number flashed across my phone screen. “Warren,” I answered, using a stained towel to cover the man’s flaccid member.

“Good afternoon, Mr Warren. It is Cassandra Young, the secretary from Governor High School.” Her tone sweetened. “I tried Mrs Warren’s number but to no avail. Is it possible for you to attend a meeting with the headmaster, Mr Hewitt, to avoid Logan’s exclusion?”

My face contorted. “Exclusion?”

“Physical violence and aggressive behavioural patterns,” she elucidated. “He spends more time in isolation than any other pupil.”

I glimpsed at my wristwatch. “You will not address this matter until I arrive.”

Mrs Young paused and then replied, “We look forward to meeting you, Mr Warren.”

I cannot express the same enthusiasm.

Ending the call, I tucked the phone in my trouser pocket and fished out the Bentley keys. “Aggressive behavioural patterns,” I explained, and Brad’s eyes rolled. “I’ll believe it when I fucking see it.”

***

I am sitting in the headmaster’s office, listening to the man’s humdrum voice as he harped on about Logan’s disruptive behaviour in class, which often leads to uncontainable aggressiveness and/or physical violence with other pupils. Hewitt’s an older gent with rimless glasses, a receding hairline and underarm sweat patches. He’s also an ignorant fool with an unfashionable taste for tawdriness.

How am I supposed to take him seriously?

“I understand your parents fled the country recently,” Hewitt spoke to Logan directly. “However, abandonment aside, I will not condone bullying in my school, young man.”

Logan’s slumped in the chair beside me, his arms crossed, an impenetrable scowl. I inspected his angry, bedraggled image: torn polo shirt, dishevelled hair, split eyebrow, busted lip and cheek scrapes.

I tapped my fist on the armrest. “From where I am sitting, Logan drew the short straw. Intrigue me, Hewitt. The boy he so violently pulverised, is he equally scathed?” The man did not appreciate my ill-mannered boldness. “Logan, you are old enough to speak for yourself. Did you gratuitously accost the boy in question?”

Logan first looked at Brad, who is standing by the closed door, and then veered his attention to me. “Archie hit me first—”

“You are not authorised to mention his name in the meeting,” Hewitt scolded, and I saw red. “He is not in attendance to defend himself.”

“You see the brass letter opener on your cluttered desk,” I said, and his searching eyes lowered to said object. “It is an improvised weapon. I strongly recommend that you place in the drawer.” His face blanched. “Heaven forbid I slip and ram it down your throat.” Head tilting to the side, I hunched forward and weaved my fingers. “I do not believe Logan is capable of confrontation unjustifiably. I do, however, believe he is an easy target for certain tormentors, and you, Hewitt, turn a blind eye for whatever purpose I care not about.”

“With all due respect, Mr Warren, Logan is blameworthy for most scuffles. Even his mother attested to his belligerence. You cannot excuse his misbehaviour just because he is living under your roof.”

“Quite frankly, Roxanne Bowen’s neglect is not my problem. Logan is no longer an impressionable teenager who lives on a council estate with drug-abusing parents. He resides in the Warren Manor on billionaire’s row. His guardians are high-net-worth individuals who can afford academic education in London,” I spoke condescendingly. “He is eligible for Westminster.”

Hewitt’s jowls jiggled as his head reared back.

“To end this meeting on a lighter note,” I soared to my feet, and Logan followed suit, “I am removing Logan from your underperforming state school as I fear your risible stupidity might influence him.” Fixing my diamond cufflinks, I stared at him imperiously. “And for the record. If your beloved son, Archie, comes within ten miles of Logan again, I will snap his fucking neck. You might not condone violence, Hewitt.” I opened the door, and the lad exited the office with Brad. “But I kill for sport.”

I walked away before the man responded.

Logan’s hot on my heels. “Holy shit—”

“Watch your mouth.” I strolled down the corridor towards the exit. “You will not sit at home all day, twiddling your thumbs. You can go to a different school, or I will hire a tutor. Either way, I need an answer by the end of the week.” Brad caught the Bentley keys and sprinted across the car park to bring the vehicle around while I lit a cigarette near the entrance. “Well,” I prompted. “What’s the real reason behind your conflict with Archie?”

His cheeks pinkened. “He called me a pufta.”

I stared at him. “Are you?”

“No,” he said indignantly.

I slipped Cartier shades over my eyes. “I am not here to judge you.”

“I like girls.” He is red-cheeked and abashed. “Look, I got a crush on Christie. A pretty blonde girl,” he enunciated slowly, “who goes to the youth centre.” He gestured to the approaching Bentley. “I’m not very good at…flirting.”

“Howdy motherfuckers.” Brad rolled down the car window, sunglasses parked on the bridge of his nose. “I am Hank fucking Marvin. Let’s go somewhere so that I can smash a burger in my face.” Logan chucked his backpack in the car boot before climbing into the backseat. “What crawled up his arse?”

“Logan wants Christie.” I relaxed in the passenger seat. “He’s too unconfident to pursue, though.”

“What?” Brad drove through the car park, checked for oncoming traffic, and sped onto the main road. “It’s not hard. If you like the bird, take her to the bathroom—”

“Brad,” I cautioned as he stuck his arm through the window to wave pedestrians across the zebra crossing. “He’s fifteen.”

“What lad ignores his cock at fifteen?” Drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, he searched the street for a decent restaurant. “You know I am right, Bossman. How old were you when you did the dirty?”

I watched Logan’s face turn three shades of red in the wing mirror. “Irrelevant.”

“I bet you were a right toe-rag.” He whipped through cars to claim a space between two parked vehicles and braked in the middle of the road. “Christ, If I bump into the Merc, I will fuck up its owner.” Grasping my headrest, he peered over one shoulder and reversed into the tight spot. “I can’t see anything with his big head.”

Audibly huffing, Logan pushed open the car door and slammed it with the deliberate force of a petulant child.

Brad’s mouth puckered. “What’s his problem?”

My eyes landed on the restaurant’s rustic-looking sign. “Wetherspoons?”

“I love their Mexican burgers.”

Logan dawdled whilst I asked the waiter for a private table. He placed us by the windows, provided laminated menus and returned moments later with our drinks. “Where are you going?” Brad asked, and the dumbfounded waiter paused. “I want to order.”

“You order meals at the bar.”

“The fucking liberty.” Brad’s jaw slackened. “And you wonder why folks dine in Ramsay’s instead.”

Taken aback, the man tweaked his name badge. “I have never given Ramsay’s a second’s thought—”

“Don’t try and justify yourself. I stopped listening half an hour ago.” Knocking back distilled whiskey, Brad gathered the menus and headed for the bar. “Go back to work, Oliver.”

Oliver made a face. “That’s not my name.”

Logan is texting someone on his phone.

“I thought you were friendless.”

“It’s Alexa.” He tilted the screen away from curious eyes. “She wants me to meet her at the youth centre.”

At the mention of my wife, I curled my thumb under my palm to rotate my wedding band. “What time?”

“Half five.”

I ought to drive Logan to Inseparable Youths. If I avoid Alexa for much longer, she will show her face at the club and scream blue murder. It’s not as though she is responsible for recent vexation. I am entirely culpable. I let Valerie Wentworth’s admittance weave its way inside my head to resprout the seeds of doubt I spent years uprooting.

Hitting the brakes on rumination, I rubbed my tired eyes and exhaled to rid the thoughts of my mother.

Why did I agree to dinner?

Why am I playing happy families with Logan?

I should be in the chambers torturing Cazale.

No, I need intoxicants. It’s the only time I can resist nostalgia.

“Sorted.” Brad draped his suit jacket over the chair and took a seat. “Oliver gave us free beer-battered onion rings. It feels like I haven’t eaten in aeons, so the chef needs to deliver, or I’ll write a formal complaint letter to their corporate head office, starting with the rude, obnoxious waiter.” The pair confabbed briefly, and then, teamed with senseless ideas, Brad advised, “Invite her to the Warren Manor. Privacy, soundproof walls and Egyptian cotton.” His brows waggled. “Infallible.”

Oliver sent a different waiter to our table to distribute meals.

Logan raised the bun to sneer at the garnished patties. “I wanted a normal cheeseburger.”

“Well, you got brie and smoky chilli jam instead.” Squirting ketchup on the blue patterned plate, Brad seasoned the chunky chips. “Don’t be ungrateful.” His teeth sank into the bun. “So, back to Christie. What must we do tonight?”

Logan’s cheeks hollowed. “Invite her to the bathroom—”

“No. You do not coax the girl into the restroom.” I sent Brad the death glare, and his broad shoulders hiked. “If you like Christie, ignore her but show interest in everyone else.”

“How do I do that?” Logan sucked ketchup off his thumb. “I don’t know how to talk to people.”

“Really?” I curved a sarcastic brow. “You have done nothing but run your fucking mouth since I met you.”

“It’s different with you,” he said almost inaudibly. “I have Alexa in my corner.”

“Nice.” Brad popped a cherry tomato in his mouth. “Only Alexa can’t be there to hold your hand every day.”

Enough of this nonsense. “You need to lose this emotional timidness, or you won’t last two minutes in our world. You wear designer clothes and live like royalty.” I unclasped the gold and encrusted diamond curb bracelet on my wrist and slid it across the table. “Add ice, and you are good to go. Eyes up,” I instructed, and his blue gaze lifted to my face. “Always uphold eye contact. Never lose your voice. Remember that, and you won’t go far wrong in life.”

Brad nodded in agreement. “People will thrive on your fear,” he breathed out. “You have been a doormat for long enough. You’re not here for other’s to wipe their third-class shoes on you.”

He listened. “So, what’s the advice?”

“Superiority,” I said in light conversation. “Play basketball. Make friends. Give Christie the cold shoulder.”

Logan chewed his inner cheek.

Brad, noticing the boy’s nervousness, flung the burger on his plate and speared a hand through his hair. “I will come with you.”

“What?” Logan’s forehead wrinkled. “Why?”

Typing a quick message on his phone, Brad polished off the remainder of his drink. “To show those holier-than-thou hoodlums who they’ll deal with if they so much as look at you in the wrong way.” His phone jittered, and he rubbed his palms together. “There you go. Nate and Josh. I’d ask good old Alfred, but he’s useless with one hand.”

“What’s happening?” the lad asked.

“I need to learn how to play basketball.” Brad sucked his upper teeth. “Fast.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Alexa

Nate had to run errands today, so a youngish, unidentified man deputised for his absence. He hasn’t said two words to me since arriving at the Manor. He did, however, on the drive to Inseparable Youths, proffer chewing gum and flavoured water. Nameless Suit’s spiky yet modern cut hairstyle twined medium blond highlights, and his skin fade flaunted what reminded me of unartistic prison tattoos. His dark liquid eyes and full beard made him look somewhat older, but no amount of facial coverage can hide his fresh-looking innocence.

I wore old gym clothes to work, seamless leggings, a knot-hem tee and athletic trainers, not that I plan to run or exercise. The last time I went for an early morning sprint, I almost keeled over and died. I elected myself to paint the foyer, so discardable togs surpassed the emulsion spattered designer.

Matthew offered to gloss the doors once Andrew arrived, which should have been forty-eight minutes ago.

Thanks to Andrew, the unpunctual disappointment conveniently late for work, Matthew is held up in the function room with foul-mouthed teenagers, and Logan, who promised to whitewash the ceiling via text message, has yet to make an appearance.

I climbed down the ladder, rested the wet paintbrush on strewn plastic and crept to the staffroom for a sneaky coffee break.

Trudy’s on the two-seater sofa, a cup of tea in hand, reading gossip magazines. Her downcast eyes bounced between Closer and Heat articles. “How’s it going?” she asked, turning the page. “I made macarons if you want to try one.”

Presented on the granite effect countertops, trays of multicoloured macarons dried on baking sheets. “You made these yourself?”

Where do I go wrong?

If I attempted to produce such irresistible edibles, I’d either burn them to a crisp or set the kitchen on fire.

“Oh, it’s a simple recipe,” she said, not giving herself enough credit. “I will make miniature lemon meringue pies next time.” A small v formed between her brows. “Or perhaps key lime pie. I haven’t decided yet. I can pretty much knock anything together.”

Alright, braggart. I got the picture.

You are the next Mary Berry.

I am the worst chef on the planet.

Popping the kettle on, I grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge and prepared coffee. “Would you like another cuppa?”

“No.” She glimpsed at her wristwatch. “I should get back to work. Jesminder has me on kitchen duties with Tricia and Dave before I play tennis with the girls.” Her eyes rolled heavenward. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.” Pouring hot water into the mug, I waited for Trudy to leave the staffroom, dried my hands in a tea towel and selected a dusty lilac macaron. I snapped the confection to examine the emulsified ganache. “I will master you.” Talking to the delicate cookie before sampling its sweet-tasting delicacies, I moaned in approval. “Why must it taste so good?”

“Should I leave you and the biscuit alone?”

I jumped back like a naughty little girl whose mother had caught her stealing cookies from the forbidden treats jar. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

Brad waltzed into the staffroom like he owned the place. He opened the fridge, stole someone’s flavoured water and stuffed three of Trudy’s macarons in his gob. “Christ. Did you make these?”

“Ha! I wish.” Licking crumbs from my lips, I breathed out a choppy breath, which futilely calmed erratic breathlessness, and stirred cubed sugar into the coffee mug. “What are you doing here?” His casual attire did not go unnoticed. “What’s with the grey tracksuit?” And bright white trainers. “I thought Nike was beneath you.”

Stealing the bobble on my wrist, Brad top-knotted his blond hair, leaving loose strands behind his ears. “Well, I can’t play basketball in Ferragamo shoes.”

“Basketball,” I deadpanned. “You?” His affronted expression condemned me to the eternal fires of Hell. “Oh, God. You are serious.”

His nose wrinkled. “Why is it so hard to believe?”

I whispered a feeble apology.

Brad fathomed the bogusness of my regretful acknowledgement. “Alexa!”

“What?” His earnestness sent me into hysterical laughter. “Come on, Brad. You have to admit it is a little bit funny.” When his aloofness persisted, I ceased the good-humoured remarks. “Okay. Can I watch?”

“No.” His whitened teeth flashed. “You can go back to painting.” He picked the dry emulsion on my cheek. “Alone.”

He shut the door on departure.

I should paint.

Brad Jones falling on his ass outweighed decorating, though.

***

Bare-chested alpha males dominated the outdoor basketball court, which had our open-mouthed teenage girls impossibly red-faced, flustered and hormonally excitable. I mean, they are used to sinewy, baby-faced boys, not tall, muscular men sporting chiselled washboard abs, puffed-out pecs and ink for days.

I squeezed through spectating throngs to get front row seats when Logan gripped my wrist. “I want you on my team.” He lost the T-shirt to blend in with the men, and honestly, I was so speechless by his oozing confidence, I could hardly deliver a nod of agreement. “We need another two players. I—”

“What the hell happened to your face?” My black-painted fingernails dented his cheeks as I inspected his raw, sore-looking injuries. “Logan?”

“Nothing.” He pried my hand away from his jaw. “Look, I got into it with a kid at school. It’s no biggie, though. Warren straightened shit out.”

Liam fixed the problem.

Why am I not privy to the above mentioned?

“He did?” I asked dubiously.

“Yeah.” Logan tongue-swiped his cracked yet puffy lips. “He ridiculed the headmaster and said I am eligible for Westminster High.”

I hummed in annoyance.

“Warren reckons I got a chance with the big leagues. I have two choices now. I can attend private school or get a tutor until college. You know I hate school, so I think tutoring might work.”

“Yes,” I agreed to some extent. “But home-schooling can be lonely, Logan. What about friends?”

“Well, I can make friends in college,” he suggested with a hopeful shrug. “It’ll be great. I can pick a place where nobody knows who I am. It will be like a fresh start or something. At least I won’t be known as Roxanne Bowen’s bastard son or the kid with junkie parents anymore. I can be whoever I want in college.” His radiant smile told me to tone down the pessimism. “Hey, I might even bag a girlfriend.”

My poor heart. “Come here.” I opened my arms, inviting him for a hug, and he did, sliding his hands down my back, his chin resting on my shoulder. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” he breathed in my ear. “I got you, remember?”

I hope it’s forever.

“Alexa.” Brad jogged towards us. “Go and be a girl and sit down,” he ordered offensively. “Pick two guys instead, Logan. I want to win.”

“Hey.” I jabbed him in the ribs, and he wheezed in theatrical torment. “Implying that you cannot win without men is sexist. Besides,” I nabbed the ball from his hands, “I happen to be pretty good. Logan is the best teacher.”

“Alexa cheats.” Turning his ball cap the other way around, Logan caught the orange ball and bounced it between his Jordan-clad feet. “That might work in our favour.”

I see Josh and Nate on the other side of the court; three teenage boys selected to play alongside them. “Where’s Liam?” It’s a stupid question. My husband can barely tolerate Logan, so he’d never involve himself in the boy’s activities. Not willingly.

“Bossman’s on the job.” Brad shilly-shallied to avoid inaccurate information. “Quit scheming, Nate. I can hear your bastard failing methods all the way down here,” he yelled across the court. “Logan?” His voice lowered into a devious whisper. “We got this, right?”

“Just don’t let Nate get his hands on the ball.” Logan tucked his white T-shirt into the waistband of his black jogging bottoms. “He can play.”

“I can play,” Brad lied, flicking a toothpick to the sideline. “Never underestimate the underdog.” He spotted Andrew, Trudy and Susanne enjoying tea and coffee by the wooden picnic benches and waved them over. “Can I steal two of you?”

Trudy was appalled by the idea.

Susanne looked ready to flee the building.

Andrew, however, got to his feet. He removed the lanyard from his neck, stuffed it into his pocket and, with purposeful strides, gravitated toward the basketball court.

“Hey, Andy,” one of our teen girls cooed, and her friends’ supportive snickers crescendoed. “Nice ass.”

I felt bad for Andrew. He loved his job but gained unwanted attention from particular youngsters, which often left him discomforted by their rude innuendos.

“Come on,” Brad coaxed, and Trudy’s head disappeared behind Jesminder. “I don’t bite.” Both women declined his offer to play basketball. “We need one more player.”

“Well, this is an unexpected surprise.” Andrew fist-bumped Brad. “Brad Jones, right?”

“The one and only.” He aimed a finger at the man’s footwear. “What the fuck are those?”

“Huh?” Andrew scratched the nape of his neck. “Knitted lace-ups. I bought them for a fiver…”

Brad stepped back. “You should upgrade.”

My face burnt bright red. “I can take him anywhere twice.” Laughing to hide mortification, I stuttered, “The second time to apologise.”

“Is that Atolyestone?” Brad admired Andrew’s beaded bracelet. “I purchased the kyanite macrame last weekend. It looks stellar with the navy three-piece.”

“Really?” Andrew conversed in wonderment. “I had to settle for the essential range.”

While the men got to know one another, I hunted the boisterous bystanders for a fifth player. It is then that I spot Tre by the fence. His former group of friends stand on the other side of the court, laughing and smiling. Before Samuel’s death, Tre and Sam wreaked havoc in the youth centre, their devoted friendship circle accompanying. Today, though, he walked alone, and the loyal friends of his past didn’t even notice.

I had a twinge in my chest. “Tre?” I called, and the young boy, his fingers grasped to the galvanised chain link fence, lifted his doleful eyes. “Can you come here?” Logan let out a slew of expletives. “Please.”

Tre briefly eyed his former friends, pushed away from the fence and lugged his feet onto the court. “Yeah?” His stare roamed Logan from head to toe. “What’s your problem?”

Logan sucked in his cheeks. “I don’t want him on our team.”

“Who said I wanted to play?” Tre fired back, and Logan’s shoulders squared. “Joker—”

“Be nice,” I said, and then, a warning glare to Logan. “Both of you.” Our opponents ran sprint-like drills to warm up. “We could really do with another player.”

Tre’s focus was on the youth centre’s graffitied wall. “I don’t play anymore.”

“What if I incentivise?”

His attention returned. “How?”

“If you help us win…” What does he get in return? “I will buy two box tickets for the London Lions game next weekend.” Tre and Logan had a tempted glint in their eyes as they stared at each other. “Do we have a deal?”

“For real?” Tre asked, and I stuck my hand out. “Oh, it’s on.” He squeezed my hand, doffed the hoodie, the T-shirt, and chucked both over the fence. “Point guard?”

Logan’s head dipped. “I’ll fluctuate between centre and shooter.”

I gestured to myself. “Where do I go?”

“Just…” My blue-eyed boy meshed his lips. “Dribble and pass, Alexa.”

Logan abandoned painting duties to play ball, but I forgave him the second he selected yours truly to be on his team. What started as light-hearted fun turned into competitive significance. Logan was right. Nate can play. No, Nate can more than play. He is probably the second-best shooter on the court.

Nate gave Logan a run for his money. On occasion, though, I sensed he restrained from scoring baskets, which had me questioning Brad for cognisance.

According to Blond Suit, the men never came to Inseparable Youths to win. They came to help Logan achieve positive attention, to stand out from the crowd and form friendships.

Their tactic worked. Everyone supported Logan. People screamed loudly and supportively from the sideline whenever he nailed the net and the girls, the same pretty yet judgmental girls he feared talking to, seemed to see him in a different light.

Watching Tre and Logan interact warmed my chest the most. They put their differences aside and demonstrated true sportsmanship to get those Lion tickets.

So much so, I wanted other teenagers to see Logan’s wonderfulness, but Tre, I belatedly discerned, the boy who lost his best friend, Samuel, also required attention.

“Fuck, yes!” Tre jumped on Logan’s back the second he slammed the ball through the net. “You killed it, Logs.”

I smiled at them.

Nate accidentally-on-purpose stomped on Brad’s foot.

“Ah, you fat bastard.” Brad shoved the man in the shoulder. “You broke my toe.”

Jogging backwards, Nate raised his middle fingers. “Payback’s a bitch.”

Huffing sweat-slicked hair out of my face, I doubled over at the waist. “I might pass out.”

Andrew mirrored my stance. “Same.” Grasping his knees, he lifted his head and blew out a tired breath. “I am the one with a fitness management degree, yet I cannot rival their physicality.” His breathing thickened as he watched Nate, Brad and Josh. “How do they do it?”

Gruelling training sessions, early morning workouts at the gym and bona fide warfare. “I don’t know.”

“Come on, Alexa.” Logan’s excitable voice tugged a smile to my lips. “Two more minutes.”

I caught the ball for the first time since the game began and locked eyes with our opponents. Yeah, I am not running between Nate and Josh. I passed the ball to Brad. He dribbled down the court and gave Tre possession concurrently with Josh’s intentional tackle.

Both men speared across the ground.

“You fucking idiot!” Brad thrashed beneath Josh’s sprawled out body. “You toasted my ass.” Hurling Josh to the side in a heap, he shot to his feet, lowered his jogging bottoms marginally to see the damage and became red-complexioned. “Look what you did.” What resembled carpet burns blemished one, rather white, sculpted butt cheek. “If my bird thinks I got impetigo because of your stupidity, I will fuck you up.”

Josh flung him a dirty look. “What bird?”

“Whatever bird I pick up tonight.”

I looked good at doing nothing while the testosterone-fuelled basketball game commenced.

Left wide-open, Logan caught the ball, right-handedly dribbled down the court, aimed for the basket and lost possession to Nate.

Nate launched the ball down the court to Josh, who missed, and Tre, playing a thrilling game, dribbled, dodged, dribbled, and finalised our win with a one-legged slam dunk.

The crowd, which had doubled in size, jumped to their feet to celebrate Tre’s goal.

I was proud of them, Logan and Tre. If anything stemmed from this evening’s game, it’s their newfound amity.

Andrew gave me a towel.

“Thank you.” Towel-dabbing the sweat on my chest, I exited the court, parked my backside on an empty chair and guzzled water.

“I think I am in love.”

“Same.”

“I might talk to Tre.”

“Same.”

“Yeah,” someone said. “Who’s that other guy?”

“I think they called him Josh.”

“I like Josh.”

“Same.”

“Who knew Logan could play like that?”

“Right?”

“You mean, who knew Logan had a lickable six-pack?”

Increased female giggles happened.

Fighting the urge to laugh, I bite the inside of my cheek.

“Christie,” one playfully scolded.

“What?” Christie replied.

“No,” her friend whispered. “Logan’s a Deanroy.”

My smile faded.

“Yeah, I know,” Christie stumbled over her words. “I was kidding. Like I would ever touch that munter.”

I hate people.

It took everything inside of me not to chastise those girls.

Logan is not an underclass estate chav. If I were to be technical, Logan is the wealthiest teenager attending Inseparable Youths.

Someday, they will eat their hurtful ridicules.

Logan is beautiful, intelligent, funny and caring. He’ll grow to be an outstandingly handsome man and, with me by his side, financially successful. I cannot wait for the tables to turn, to see all who doubted him, craning their necks to regard him, to see the girls who called him unprepossessing, witnessing striking women on his arm.

“And who is that?”

“Right?” Another swooned. “I am so pregnant.”

Brad’s shadow fell over me. “You good, sugar tits?”

The girls snickered.

I raised my brows at him. “Only you.”

Pretending not to hear their lecherous remarks, Brad scratched the shit-eating grin on his face and stared into space.

Christie fluttered her eyelashes. “Where did you come from?”

“Where did I come from?” Brad’s fingers splayed on his chest. “Well, I am no expert in the female reproductive system, but somewhere in the past, my abominable parents—” Josh nudged his shoulder. “What?” Nate’s eyes told him to stop talking. “Christ. Sorry I was born.”

“So, who are you, like, to him?” the shortest of girls asked.

“Who? This geezer?” Brad’s arm wrapped around Logan’s neck before he could disappear into the abyss. “He’s our nephew. Isn’t that right, Logan?”

Logan’s eyes found me, and I mouthed, just go along with it. “Yeah.” His cheeks became rosy under Christie’s close inspection. If she didn’t know he harboured admiration before, she did now. “I guess.”

“Hey, Tre.” The shapely brunette jutted out her hip and waved. “Do fancy hitting the pier with us? It’s been forever since you came to hang.” Tre’s eyebrows burrowed inwards. “Come on. It’ll be fun.” Her invite was for him only. Not Logan. “You know you want to.”

Their bitchy pettiness reminded me of all the reasons why I hated high school.

I intervened. “Actually, I need to borrow Tre and Logan for the foyer.” Ignoring the girls’ sulkiness, I gestured for the loveable rogues to follow. “Well, pick up your feet if you want those tickets.”

“Mrs Warren,” Tre said with a friendly smile. “You played us. We won those already.”

My footsteps faltered.

Why does it feel like I am blackmailing Tre to be Logan’s friend?

I stopped shy of the centre’s back door. “You know what? It’s fine. You lot go ahead. I can finish the painting—”

“No, I don’t mind helping.” Logan opened the door and waited for me to go inside first. “Where do you want me? The ceiling, right?”

Tre’s head pushed through the neckline of his T-shirt. “I will paint the doors.”

“I’ll grab us a drink,” said Logan.

“I got two bottles in my bag.” Untying his rucksack, Tre passed bottled coke to Logan, then uncapped one for himself. “I can’t believe we beat those guys. Did you see the size of them?” He ogled Nate, who is unmindful of his veneration. “I swear he’s on steroids.”

“No, Nate trains hard.” Changing into a clean white T-shirt, Logan picked up the long-handled roller. “He hits the gym at five a.m.”

“I could do with bulking up.” Tre’s arms flexed. “Do you train?”

Logan nodded. “Nate’s a good instructor.”

“What, you train with him? How?”

“You know I live with the Warrens, right? Well, they got a home-gym underground.”

“Shit. For real?” Tre’s impressed. “I mean, like, maybe I can come and hang with you sometime. I need to work on these arms.”

“Yeah…” Logan sounded unsure. “Sure, I guess. Alexa’s cool. I’ll ask her later.”

I am composed yet exhilarated by their conversation. “Josh?” I called, and he hesitated by the entrance, slinging a towel over his shoulder. “Are you leaving?”

“Got a job tonight,” he informed warily. “I’ll swing by the Manor later.”

Nate fished the Bentley keys out of his pocket. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Don’t leave without security.” Brad’s arm enveloped my waist as he pecked my cheek. “What are you making for tea?”

“I am not cooking.” Reclaiming the paintbrush, I dipped the bristles into the paint tub. “I will order everyone some pizza.”

My three favourite Suits left the building.

Logan and Tre bonded over a tub of emulsion and bottled cola.

Feeling unshakably happy, I slapped the paintbrush on the wall.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Alexa

I triggered the motion sensor lights as I entered the Manor’s kitchen. Opening the under-counter cabinet, I extracted a bottle of vodka and poured myself a neat drink.

Heavy-hearted unhappiness manifested. I had an enjoyable evening at work, yet the second I came home and faced the harsh reality of loneliness, the burn in my chest intensified.

Torn between calling Liam and drowning in alcohol, I resolved to both: vodka to abate discomfort, the phone to enable apprehension.

“Hey, I am getting worried. You haven’t returned my calls or text messages. Did I do something wrong? It’s unlike you to ignore me unless I did something wrong…Well, at least, I don’t remember doing something wrong…” Liam cannot answer, Alexa. You are speaking to his voicemail box. “Okay, I will hang up now.”

I ended the call.

“I’m ordering pizza.” Logan’s head popped around the door frame, and then Tre’s inventorying eyes. “Do you want anything?”

I shook my head.

“Is it cool if we hit the theatre?”

I gave them the thumbs-up.

“Alright.” Logan ebbed from the door, a quizzical glint in his sliced eyes. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

Awe-inspired by the luxuriousness of our surroundings, Tre, nervous about being near any ornaments or furniture, wrangled his T-shirt. “I love your house, Mrs Warren.”

“Thank you, Tre.”

His finger aimed at the eye-catching chandelier in the hallway. “Is that real gold?”

Hand-cut crystals and gold-gilt. “No.”

“Logan must love it here,” he said with an air of befuddlement. “You can’t swing a cat in my gaff.” His foot gingerly tapped the polished marble floor. “I could get used to living like this.”

I forced a smile. “Strive for a well-paid job. Anything is possible.”

“Exactly.” Tre gave me a two-finger salute and chased Logan down the hall. “Yo, I can’t believe you live with Liam Warren.”

I never heard Logan’s response.

Stuffing the vodka bottle into my handbag, I went to the master bedroom, star-fished the bed and stared at Liam’s spot miserably.

I missed him.

Why hasn’t he returned my calls?

Why have my text messages delivered but remain unread?

Lethargically rolling onto my back, I dialled Brad’s number and put the phone to my ear. He answered after five rings, but the club music and vociferous men and women made it difficult to catch what he’d said. “What happened to pizza?” I asked, and he laughed at someone in the background. “I called at a bad time, huh?”

“What?” His voice increased in volume, yet he still struggled to hear me through the omnipresent rowdiness. “Alexa, can I call you back?”

I hung up and chucked the phone on the rug before I lunged it at the wall in exasperation.

Peeling the paint-stained clothes off my body, I went to the en-suite bathroom to take a shower and scrubbed every inch of my body.

I towel dried haphazardly, relocated to the walk-in wardrobe and sat before the vanity mirror, the vodka bottle a depressing companion.

“I am not a trophy wife,” I muttered morosely, slathering my face in moisturising skincare. I did not agree to be the perfect, domesticated wife, nor did I agree to stay at home every night. Alone. “I did not sign up for this.”

I blow-dried and ran the straightening irons over unruly curls until my waist-length hair fell poker-straight down my back. It’s a look I seldom model. Tonight, though, I fancied a change from the demure spinelessness. I wanted brazen-faced unpredictableness instead. Alexa, in her pyjamas by ten p.m., eating ice cream unaccompanied in bed, is a gutless coward, whereas the woman currently spraying lacquer on her hair demands respect, the consequences be damned.

Guzzling vodka straight from the bottle, I emptied cosmetics onto the dresser and applied makeup to my face. I opened the drawers, selected black lace lingerie, clipped the bra in place and shimmied into the flimsiest G-string.

I pondered between the red and the black dress. I am royally peeved, so the black satin number ticked all the boxes. It certainly befitted its owner’s execrable mood.

Red-bottomed heels graced my feet.

With essentials packed into the virtus studded clutch, I draped the gold chain over my shoulder, turned off the bedroom light and went to the theatre room to let Logan know I had plans.

Fast and Furious played on the wall’s television screen. Soft ceiling lights, which paralleled clustered stars in the night sky, contributed to the cinematic ambience.

Lounging on separate recliner chairs, Logan and Tre, tucking into popcorn and sherbet straws, watched cars skydiving, the jarring engine sounds ricocheting throughout.

“Hey,” I interrupted, and Logan, handling the control tablet clumsily, paused the scene. “I need to pop out for a few hours.”

“Damn, Mrs Warren.” Tre’s protuberant eyes peered over the rear of his chair as he chomped down popcorn kernels. “You look peng.”

“Dude,” Logan chided. “Not cool.”

“Liam’s friends,” I chose my words carefully, “are playing pool in the billiard room. If you need anything, speak to Jax. He’s the one with—”

“I know him.” Logan tore into strawberry laces. “Alexa, stop worrying so much. Go and have a nice night.”

I love him. “Tre, what time does your mother expect you home?”

Tre snorted. “She ain’t expecting nothing.”

“Oh,” I said softly. “Well, it’s late. You can always stay here. I am sure Logan can fix one of the guest bedrooms for you.”

Tre looked at Logan for reassurance. “Yeah?”

“Sure.” He yawned. “Tre can fix the room, though. I am not his slave.”

“Sweet,” Tre said over a mouthful of jelly beans. “Nice one, Mrs Warren.”

“Text your mother first.” If I were Tre’s mother, and he never came home, I’d be losing my mind with worry. “Just let her know you are safe and that she can call me if concerned.”

Tre stuck a thumb in the air.

I started to shut the door. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” they mumbled in unison.

Nameless Suit did the honours (Yes, I refuse to learn his name because every time I befriend the bodyguards, they either sell me out to Liam’s enemies, or they face a meat cleaver due to my husband’s short-temper, so it’s easier, safer, and less complicated if I maintain a professional distance). He escorted me to Club 11 and had the courtesy to join me indoors while I searched for Liam.

To avoid the loud, jam-packed nightclub, I sweet-talked the head bouncer into unlocking the vestibule by the main doors. Nonetheless, Kendrick Lemar’s Radioactive collaboration rattled every brick in the building.

Two members of security traipsed in my shadow. “Mrs Warren.” The man covered in facial scars tapped my shoulder. “Does Warren know his wife’s in the building?”

“Is there a valid reason why his wife should not be in the building?” I fronted their concerned expressions. “Well?”

“No,” the pierced-lipped male said. “Where is your bodyguard?”

I pointed over my shoulder. “He is holding the door open for me like a true gent.” Both men glanced over my head. “That will be all.”

Exchanging disgruntled glares, the two bouncers waved flippant hands and returned to the main doors to welcome impatient customers into a dangerous world of inebriated feverishness.

In order to locate Liam, I had to find Brad, and where better to find Brad than in the prestige suite, surrounded by alcohol, drugs and half-naked women.

Blond Suit stands by the bar, suavely tailored, flirting with a bodacious, large-bosomed dancer. Nate is nowhere in sight, nor Josh, actually. I do spot Vincent, though, which had me by the tongue. I thought the man was still comatose in a hospital bed.

Brad brushed past me, oblivious, not a whisper of a glance. I mean, it is not as though their boss’ better half is disobediently unpredictable. No, Alexa Warren is tucked-up in bed, obeying orders, the perfect quintessential housewife.

I should think not.

Do they take me for a fool?

Why should I stay indoors, suffocated by iron-handed hired guns, while everyone else leads a normal life?

“Vodka,” I tell the fashionably dressed barman. “Make it a double.”

Handling the vodka like a skilful mixologist, he does some fancy bottle-twist between his fingers, drops four ice-cubes into the glass and splashes them in clear liquid. “Ma’am.”

“Thank you.” I am not a massive fan of ice-filled drinks, the cold irritates my teeth, but I found a way around obstacles, sipping quietly from a dark corner, where I claimed the sofa to catch up on all the fun.

Ogling fake-breasts and twerking arses outweighed house arrest, right?

I might even join the dark side, sniff cocaine and pop whatever pills laid on the high gloss coffee table over there to blend in with the crowd. Toking blunts while a naked woman danced on your lap looked fun.

I scoffed into the glass.

When I worked for Grayson at the Coffee House, I missed Club 11′s nightlife. I still do at times. But I could never miss the VIP suites. Men book the rooms for privatised debaucheries. They care not for their wives and children. It’s all about clandestine sex, inexhaustible alcohol and illegal drugs. If I wandered the halls and checked the other rooms, I would uncover the unspeakable. Men of power. Married politicians, tycoons and moguls, living their best life.

The prestige suite is exclusively reserved for the syndicate. It’s a place for the Suits to relax and unwind and enjoy free narcotics amid beautiful women and upbeat mood music. You can exit onto the balcony (which also leads to the walk-on glass floor, where flawless women, at present, striptease and pole dance for their audience) for grandstand views of the energetic nightlife below.

My stare revisited Vincent. His unbuttoned suit jacket revealed a fitted black shirt and a slither of his defined chest. Kneeled between his parted thighs, a beautiful brunette, her fingers splaying over his shoulders as she climbed onto his lap.

Lost in her transfixing hip-rotations, Vincent eyed her over his whiskey glass. Not once did his hands wander or grope her circling derrière, nor did his controlled stare lower to her voluptuous breasts. He’s far too calm, poised and unaffected by her wantonness.

I watched in fascination.

He mouthed something in her ear, and then, as her fingertips grazed his sharp jawline, his eyes closed in what looked like euphoric bliss. He savoured her touch—craved it. My head tilted to see his hand, no longer clutching the armrest, ascend her spine. Pausing between her shoulder blades, he uncurled his ring-laden fingers and, erotically unrushed, drew imaginary patterns on her skin.

Vicarious goosebumps rose on my arms, and heat attacked my cheeks. I had no right to watch their intimate exchange.

“You bastard wish.” Brad’s good-humoured voice drew me back from prying. “I…”

I mentally silenced everyone the moment I felt him. Liam’s nearness was all-consuming. You know when he’s arrived because something changes in the air. His omnipotence had everyone on edge. The Suits stood taller to regard him while the dancers worked harder to impress him. I, however, had to stop myself from lunging the vodka glass in his direction. He wore a dishevelled suit. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused.

Inebriation was the least of my worries, though. Cherry, the club’s leech, stood at Liam’s side. In fact, they entered the suite together. Her big-breasted, impeccable figure rioted innermost anxieties. My mind raced with jealous thoughts and coasted unimaginable scenarios of them inside his office.

I downed vodka.

Liam collapsed on the sofa beside his brother, and with his eyes alone, ordered Vincent’s friend to leave. Yet, Cherry stayed. Her tall, slender legs, in direct view of the Warren brothers.

Smoke rolled in Vincent’s mouth. His arms stretched across the sofa’s rear as he conversed with the vibrant redhead. Liam listened to their conversation until the statuesque young woman lured his attention to the stage. Her hands grasped the pole above her head before she slid into an open-thighed squat, exhibiting the delicate white lace between her legs.

Liam’s head slouched against his brother’s outstretched arm. Beneath deeply gathered brows, he observed the provocative display, declining the blunt from Vincent.

I crushed the glass. It fragmented, nicked skin, trickled blood, yet I felt no pain or soreness. Nothing overpowered my heart’s discomfort. The sensual atmosphere evoked distressing memories. I came here one Christmas and humiliated myself due to uncontrollable jealousy.

Dusting broken glass off my lap, I soared to my full height and beelined the door. “Filthy” by JT snatched me by the spine.

I side-eyed the stage, the glass doors, the erotic dancers.

Jaw locked in place, I chucked the purse on the sofa, lost the faux fur coat and headed for the balcony like a woman on a mission.

Ascending the stage’s few steps, I reached behind my back, unzipped my dress, let the material fall to my feet and pushed through the glass doors.

Women togged up in bejewelled bralettes, diamante thongs, and bedecked platform stilettos dominated the area until, one by one, they discerned their boss’ wife.

“Get off,” I ordered, and bouncing breasts dispersed in multiple directions.

I went straight for the centre platform.

All eyes on me.

If someone said to me twelve months ago that I was going to snatch a pole in front of hundreds of people, I’d have laughed in their face.

Alexa Haines would never draw attention to herself.

But I am not that meek, unconfident girl anymore.

You do not need any experience to look and feel sexy.

Self-assurance facilitated the process. I gripped the pole, left second thoughts at the door and moved to the music. I have seen the dancers strut enough times to conquer. As long as I don’t fall on my ass, I can walk out of here with my head held high.

Working the pole is not the end goal, though.

I had bigger plans.

Forgetting the watchfulness from all-encompassing balconies, I lifted myself onto the pole, locked my legs around it and twirled.

Adrenaline pumped in my veins.

Men rose from their seats to lean onto the glass balustrades. Enticing them was easier than I initially thought. All I had to do was summon my inner vixen.

I twisted onto my feet, grasped the pole from behind and lowered in time to see a familiar face in the crowd. Brad, curiously studying the assemblage of men, appeared from the prestige suite. He squeezed through throngs and lent onto the barrier.

Our eyes collided.

His teeth uncaged the toothpick.

It landed on the floor.

I slid down the pole, slackened my thighs, exposed the black lace between my legs and twisted back into stance.

Biting my lower lip, I stepped down the stairs, lowered to my knees and crawled toward him.

Music encouraged sensual movements. I outstretched my arms, flipped my long hair back and fell on my haunches.

Brad, watching through parted fingers, shook his head.

Obstinate boldness ensued. I snaked onto my back and, fingers tousled in my hair, bowed my spine. Unhurried yet determined, I gave the audience a seductive glance, returned to my knees to unclasp the bra when Vincent emerged from the mob.

My heart rate accelerated.

Vincent spoke into Brad’s ear and visibly stiffened. His stoicalness rattled me to the bone. Resting his elbows on the barrier, he unabashedly inventoried every inch of my body, lingering on my chest, and then those dark, amused eyes taunted from afar. He didn’t think I’d doff the bra. His low, devilish smirk nearly played off. In growing dread, I hesitated for a millisecond, felt the clasp unlock in my pinched fingers and, refusing to over analyse the fact I lacked in the chest department, revealed myself.

I flung the bra to Brad.

Pushing on the six-inch heels and catching up to the music, I dipped my fingers beneath the thread of my G-string and stared at the younger Warren brother impishly. In Brad’s defence, he never gave into temptation. His focus stayed on my face. Vincent, however, openly marvelled. He looked impressed, though. His eyes were lust-filled and flecked in approval. Adam’s apple jiving in his throat, he found my gaze and something indescribably heated passed between us.

I had every intention of returning to the pole to finish the song until Liam’s handsome face came into my peripheral. He, too, wore a confused expression. His dancers were nowhere to be seen, his customers abandoned suites to throw money on the floor, and his men retreated like embarrassed teenagers whose parents caught them red-handed with porn magazines.

Liam sought his right-hand man for cognisance, but Brad, pleading the fifth, tapped his boss’ back and got the hell out of dodge.

What have I missed? I read on Liam’s lips as everyone, except Vincent, fearing their boss’ reaction, fled the scene.

The G-string slid down my legs.

Liam’s brother loves to antagonise, so it came to no surprise when Vincent’s heavy-lidded stare homed in on my most intimate area.

Parking one arm on the railing, Liam followed Vincent’s line of vision and the son of a bitch, too drunk and coked-up to recognise his wife, had the audacity to admire my legs.

Everything turned red.

I bent over, picked up the discarded lace and marched straight to the man himself.

Liam’s ice blues lazily toured the length of my body, but at the clear sight of my naked chest, realisation jerked him back, and the glass, fracturing between rigid fingers, crashed to the ground. His impassiveness morphed from ashen-white biliousness to red-faced outrage. In what resembled slow motion, the man scaled the waist-high balustrade, his leather shoes hitting the glass floor, and, with murderous strides, he removed his suit jacket. “Alexa—”

I slapped him clean across the jaw, the impromptu hit sending a burning sensation through my fingers. “How fucking dare you?” I screamed as he tried to cover me up. “Don’t fucking touch me. Get off me—” He snatched me by the legs and threw me over one shoulder. “Liam!” Sudden light-headedness disordered vision. “Put me down right now, or I swear to God.”

Bright lights suddenly blinded my eyes.

Multiple doors slammed.

Liam tossed me on the leather sofa inside one of the private rooms, and I scampered to my feet instantly. “Liam—”

“You are my fucking wife!” he roared, his fist smashing into the wall beside my head. “You are not a whore!” He punched the wall again, struck the cracked brick with his palms and put us nose-to-nose. “You better start fucking talking, Alexa. I am seconds away from…” He sank his teeth into his ruptured knuckles.

“From what?” I argued, and his nostrils flared. “Go ahead, Liam. Threaten me all you want. I—” His hand caged my jaw, and my lips stretched into a pitiful smile. “You will not disrespect our marriage.”

“Like you just did,” he snarled, his fingers on my skin trembling from adrenalised vexation. “You let everyone see what belongs to me—” I shoved him in the chest. “Alexa—” In a trice, I slapped him twice in the same cheek, and his hand on my jaw slid to fist the hair at the nape of my neck. “What the fuck do you want from me?!”

“I will not stay at home like a cowardly lapdog while you spend your nights here, sniffing cocaine and doing God knows what with other women….” His throaty laughter threw me into momentary silence. “How is this funny?”

“It’s always about women,” he whispered, his mouth teasing my earlobe. “Am I supposed to pretend they don’t exist?”

His disdainful smirk uncaged demons.

I attacked him.

At that furious moment, I actually hated him.

Liam Warren terrified the streets of London.

He did not, however, instil the fear of God in me.

“Alexa!” His arms flinched as he blocked the sequence of open-palmed slaps I delivered to his face. “What the fuck have I told you about hitting me?”

I had completely lost it.

We both had.

Liam stumbled into the well-stocked minibar, expensive bottles fragmenting across the floor, and then, having lost his patience, he gripped me by the wrists and lunged me to the side. I collided into the wall, the hard brick against my head precipitating dizziness, and collapsed to my backside—shards of broken glass embedded in the back of my thighs. I was still undressed, belatedly shame-faced and downright disappointed with the two of us.

I touched the tender point behind my ear. Blood coloured my fingertips.

Liam stood frozen, ghostly white and wide-eyed. “Baby…”

“It’s not your fault.” I pulled myself up, unlatched the dancers’ costume trunk, nabbed the satin robe and concealed myself.

I headed for the exit.

“Alexa, wait.” His rough palms tried to hold my cheeks. “Your head. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I don’t care about the fight, Liam.” Tears sat on my lower eyelashes. “You promised,” I whispered, and his forehead cinched. “In Seychelles. You promised to come home to me even if it’s late, even in the early hours of the morning. I hate waking up alone.” His red, squinty eyes strained to focus. “Instead, you stay here. You chose drugs and other women yet again. I am not okay with it,” I retorted. “I am your wife. Either respect our vows, or I will file for a fucking divorce.”

“Never.” His lips grimaced. “I will never let you walk away from me.”

“At this rate, you will have no choice.”

“I touch no one but you.” He seized my hand before I could grab the door handle. “I don’t see them.”

I glared at the door. “Yes, you do.”

His lips paid homage to the nape of my neck. “Baby,” he rasped, and for the first time since knowing this man, I squirmed from his touch. “Alexa?”

“I apologise for my behaviour tonight,” I said robotically. “But I can’t be around you right now. I will not be that woman.” I faced him. “Why must I suffer when life knocks you down?”

Liam’s pained eyes seared right through me.

“Everyone else gets the best of you,” I continued. “Well, I am not okay with it anymore.”

I cracked the door open when he whispered, “Please don’t leave me.” His hoarse voice crushed my chest. “I would never survive life without you.”

I am in love with this man.

But I will not stand for his insensitiveness any longer. “Goodnight, Liam.”

“Alexa…” I stormed out of the suite, and he chased behind me. “Baby, don’t do this. I never fucking touched them.”

“It’s not just about them,” I spat, flinging a hand towards two passing dancers. “You drink yourself into oblivion. You sniff cocaine until you can’t think straight. I am not a priority for you.” He clutched the back of his head. “Shit, Liam. I am not an overbearing wife. I accepted your lifestyle from the very beginning, but I draw the line at ignorance. You ignore my calls and text messages. You stay at the office to avoid coming home. I had to humiliate myself tonight just to get your attention.” Cherry and Cora snickered at my expense by the changing room door, and anger like never before detonated. “Mock me again,” I said, and I meant it. “And I will smash your face into every wall, you ugly fucking bitch.”

“Excuse me?” Cherry geared up to squabble. “Alannah—”

“You will not disrespect my wife,” Liam said threateningly, and Cherry simmered down. ”Bianca.” Her round eyes saturated. “Apologise. Now.”

Cherry’s lips puckered. “Sorry, Alexa.”

“No.” Liam’s ire heightened. “Try again.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Mrs Warren.”

I still wanted to rearrange her face.

Cora coaxed Cherry into the fitting room and closed the door behind them.

Liam’s jaw steeled. “I will come home more.”

My eyes rolled.

“What?” he asked almost despairingly. “Baby, I’m trying.”

“It’s not enough.” I walked to the fire exit, knowing he’d follow. “Liam, go back upstairs.”

He grabbed my elbow. “Let me fix it.”

If I fight him, I will lose. “How?”

“I’ll lock the office,” he said, somewhat breathless. “Let me get the Bentley keys. I will drive somewhere. Just you and me, baby.”

The man could barely see straight. I am not encouraging him to drive. “Okay,” I lied, and his eyelashes briefly fluttered shut. “I’ll wait here for you.”

“Fuck, I love you.” He kissed my cheek, lingered there, and then stepped back. “Stay right here. I’ll dismiss Eddie.”

Nameless Suit has a name.

Fixing his dishevelled hair, he kissed me on the lips, once, twice, and retreated, often looking over one shoulder. “Give me two minutes.”

Liam turned the corner.

I unlocked the fire exit door and walked down the unlit alleyway. When I reached the busy street, I double-checked for oncoming vehicles, crossed the road and flagged down the first taxi.

I left my belongings inside the club.

“I lost my purse,” I said through the opened window. “If I give you this,” I begin to remove a bracelet, “can you drive me someplace? I need somewhere to stay overnight. A quiet bed and breakfast, perhaps.”

The driver, an older man wearing gold-framed glasses, studied the item of jewellery. “I will not take your gold.” Leaning over the centre console, he unlocked the door and gestured for me to get in. “I can drive you. It’s no problem.” I climbed inside, and he examined the cuts on my legs, the satin robe and the blood trickling down the side of my neck. “I can take you to the hospital,” he suggested. “Are you okay?”

No, I am not.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Alexa

I checked in for an overnight stay at a three-star bed and breakfast. The kind, generous taxi driver covered the bill and, on my behalf, asked the innkeeper for spare clothes.

Vintage motif patterns papered the four walls. Historic artefacts sat on rustic furniture. Fringed rugs ineffectively covered the slate floor, and allegorical tapestries bedecked the single bed beside the single-hung window, which overlooked the overgrown garden and the old, corrugated iron Anderson shelter.

Between the temperamental central heating and the compromised single-glazed window, I doubt I’ll warm up anytime soon. I laid the proprietor’s white cotton nightdress over the old-fashioned rocking chair, searched the bathroom cabinet for the first aid kit and used sterile wipes to clean the encrusted blood behind my ear. It hurt to touch, but it’s not severe enough for stitches.

I clocked the moss-coloured wall tiles, the sage, mosaic effect floor and mildewed splattered ceiling. If it weren’t for the tiny, cast iron roll top bath and unhygienic conditions, I’d be indulging in hot bubbles by now.

Everything could wait until the morning.

I binned the gaudy robe to put on the ankle-length bedgown—the frill tie neck and lace cuffed sleeves akin to garments worn by possessed women in demonic horror movies—and crawled under the duvet for well-needed shut-eye.

My eyes closed.

And opened.

I stared at the paper-peeled wall.

It’s no use.

My heart’s under attack.

Tears impaired eyesight.

I cried myself to sleep.

***

The innkeeper provided the key to the lost-and-found cupboard: bright pink neon leggings, a too-cool-for-school T-shirt, an acid-washed denim jacket and odd socks.

I looked and felt stupid.

Nonetheless, I thanked the attentive woman for the colourful clothes and the “restful” accommodation, even though squeaking pipes, creaking floorboards, and ghost-like silhouettes hindered relaxation. I spent all night warding off non-existing spectres and imaginary wardrobe inhabitants.

Using the twenty-pound note the taxi driver forced into my hand last night, I booked an Addison Lee and travelled to Pierced & Inked.

My Louboutin heels snipped the black floor tiles as I entered the building’s side entrance. Before I knocked on Jace’s office door, I stopped to listen to his raised voice alongside Jared’s and Shane’s enraged undertones, wondering if an unannounced visit was a bad idea.

Jace sensed eavesdropping.

The office door flew open.

My best friend glared accusingly. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Is that any way to greet your friend?” He yanked me inside the office. “Hey!” I chastised him, then smiled awkwardly at Jared and Shane. “Did I miss something?”

Shane blinked once. “You owe me a new wardrobe.”

“A new wardrobe,” I repeated in befuddlement. “How is your bedroom furniture my responsibility?”

“You bounced.” Jace stuck an inked finger in my face. “You ran away from Warren and didn’t think to fucking warn me.”

I felt the blood drain from my body. “Did Liam come here?”

“Obviously!” His teeth bared. “Do you have any idea how it feels to be asleep and have someone lunge you out of bed by the fucking ankles?”

“Jace, I am so sorry,” I said sadly. “I wasn’t thinking clearly last night. I just had to get away from him.”

He said nothing.

“It was quite dramatic.” Jared played candy crush on his phone. “I think everyone thought that we hid you beneath the floorboards or something.”

A shade of red attacked my cheeks.

Jace side-eyed the two jovial men.

“Well,” Jared said, noting his boss’ tetchiness. “I could eat.”

“Yeah,” Shane agreed as they both rose from the two-seater sofa. “Toasted sandwiches? Coffee?”

“Whatever.” Jace sagged into the seat behind the desk.

I waited for the two men to leave the room, then met Jace’s steely eyes. “Did he hurt you?”

“Surprisingly, no.” He lent back in the chair. “Warren’s goons trashed the flat while looking for you, though. Brad quite literally gave Harlyn an asthma attack.”

I winced. “I will cover any damages.”

“Fuck the broken furniture, Alexa,” he said in a snide voice. “I was worried about you.” His jaw tensed. “What happened?”

My breathing evened out. “It’s a long, boring story.”

Jace opened the desk drawer to pull out bottled vodka. “I’m not going anywhere.”

***

I laid on the bed with my feet plastered to the wall above the black headboard. Jace chilled beside me, his legs hanging off the foot of the bed. We both stared at the ceiling.

“I am actually fucking speechless.” He moved onto his side, propped onto an elbow and stared down at me. “So, everything came off?”

I turned my head to look at him. “Except the shoes.”

“Of course.” The corners of his lips twitched. “Shit, Alexa. No wonder Warren flipped. If my wife stripped in front of aroused men, I’d slam her with divorce papers.”

I drew in a sharp breath. “I was angry.”

“I get it.” He fixed my twisted chain. “Warren ignored you because he’s struggling with his emotions?” he rechecked, and I nodded. “So, you go to his workplace to demand answers?”

I pondered his question and shrugged.

“But when you get there, he’s drugged-up and cheating on you.”

“What?” I gave him a scratching glare. “No, I didn’t see him in the act, Jace. He openly ogled, though.”

“Right,” he said tightly. “But naked women are ubiquitous at Club 11. You know that, right?”

I breathed out a tired breath.

“Has Warren ever cheated on you?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Then, what’s happening here?”

“I have insecurity issues,” I admitted in a sullen voice. “I wear his ring, but I don’t understand why. Jace, those women, I mean,” I gestured to myself, “look at me.” His unreadable eyes roamed over my stretched-out body. “I—”

“Just don’t,” he berated, his voice low and throaty. “Are you for real right now, or are you fishing for compliments?”

My eyes watered.

“You are so clueless.” He chuckled at the ridiculousness. “When Warren shoved me against the wall last night, do you know what I saw? Fear. He was terrified. Shit, I thought he feared nothing. But the thought of losing you? It crippled him.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“Warren is a cold-hearted son of a bitch, but he fucking loves you. I don’t think you realise how much you mean to him.” He leaned over me to grab his phone on the bedside table. “Here.” He showed me the screen. “More text messages since this morning.”

Warren: I will come back.

Jace: Fine by me.

Warren: If you lied to me…

Jace: I didn’t lie. I have not seen Alexa.

Jace: If I do, you will be the first person to know.

Thirty minutes later.

Warren: Well?

Warren: Jace.

Nine missed calls.

Warren: I need to know she is safe.

One hour later.

Warren: Anything?

Two missed calls.

Warren: Answer the fucking phone!

One missed call.

Warren: You are on your last legs.

One missed call.

Warren: Jace, I love her.

“What’s there not to love?” Jace asked as I slid an arm across my eyes. “Alexa, talk to me. Help me to understand.”

“Liam said he’d spend the rest of his life calling me beautiful if I promised to believe him,” I whimpered, and he tried to pull me closer. “I don’t feel it, Jace. When I look in the mirror, I don’t recognise the woman staring back at me. It’s so easy to love everyone else, but self-love has exacerbated.” Tears flooded my cheeks. “This is so humiliating.”

Irritation etched his features. “Alexa…”

Wiping my eyes, I pulled myself up and put my back to him. “Yes, the dancers are ever-present at Club 11. Maybe he doesn’t look at them in the way I accuse…” I hated how stupid I felt. “All I want is for him to come home more.”

“You are right to demand that.” He sat next to me on the edge of the bed. “Warren’s a family man. Emotional stress or not, he should be with you.”

My heart felt lighter.

Jace inhaled a deep breath as if necessitating additional oxygen to continue. “It’s okay to need help, Alexa.” His hand touched my lower back. “After everything you have been through, who could blame you? You don’t need to pretend all the time. I can sit here all night, convincing you of your worth. Warren can stick to his promise and call you beautiful every day. But it’s only believable when you see it, too.”

I shivered slightly.

His massaging hand scaled my spine, breaking at the nape of my neck to uncoil tenseness. “What do you love about yourself?”

I hiked one leg. “My shoes.” When his scarred eyebrow quirked, I delved into brooding introspectiveness. “I love my hair.”

He nodded in agreement. “What else?”

My cheeks puffed. “I don’t know, Jace.”

“Okay, I have a better question.” His finger curled a strand of hair behind my ear as he whispered, “What do you hate about yourself?”

“My chest,” I answered honestly. “I hate visible and indelible scars. But mostly, I hate my small frame. I am too thin, and everything sticks out…” I hugged my middle section. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”

Jace’s thumb touched the silver scar beneath my eye. “The solution to putting on weight is eating more.”

“I am always eating,” I said defensively, and scepticism nipped his eyes. “What?”

“Jared bought you a burrito earlier, and you took one bite.” His complexion whitened. “Alexa, I think you might have an eating dis—”

“No, I do not. I have been struggling with weight gain since…” You put me on a strict porridge diet. “Forget I said anything.”

“Listen, if you need someone to…” His phone vibrated. “Fuck. Warren’s calling.”

“Let me talk to him,” I said, and he placed the phone on my waiting hand. “Hey,” I answered.

Jace slipped out of the room to give me a moment’s privacy.

“Alexa?” Relief husked Liam’s voice. “Baby, what happened? I came back, and you left. I haven’t slept because I…”

I laid back on the bed. “What?”

“I thought I might lose you,” he said throatily.

Chewing my thumbnail, I blinked to suppress tears.

“Can we talk?” he asked with an edge of vulnerability. “I can reserve a table. Let me pick you up.”

“No,” I declined, and he went silent. “I am not ready to face you.” The string of silence lengthened. “I can’t be with someone who prioritises illicit dissipation over his marriage. I meant what I said, Liam. I demand more from you.”

“There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” His breath caught. “Alexa, I want you to come home.”

“Home?” I laughed bitterly. “Why, Liam? To lay in bed alone at night?”

“Alexa—”

“I will not step foot inside the Manor,” I cut him off. “I will not sit on the outskirts any longer while you come and go as you please. All you had to do was call me,” I added, and he listened. “If you had to stay at the office, or if you wanted to stay out with the men, I’d have understood. But every night is not okay. And what hurts the most is that your employees see more of you than I do. I mean, would it be so bad if I joined you? Do I not matter?”

“You are my wife. You do not require an invite to come here,” he said, confirming he’s at the club. “That door is always open for you.”

I felt like a martyr. “You had fun without me.”

“No, I was fucking miserable,” he argued, and I almost hung up. “I want to have this conversation in person. There is too much to say over the phone.” When I remained mute, his breath shuddered. “Don’t make me beg.”

“Answer one question. If I said to terminate Cherry’s employment, would you?”

“I’d kill her in a heartbeat,” he said without hesitation.

I asked another. “Why do you take drugs?”

He considered. “Do you want me to stop?”

Did I? I love Liam. Flaws included. “That’s not why I asked.”

“Then, why did you ask?”

“For comprehension, I guess.”

“To feel nothing.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “Why do you avoid me?”

“Always the impatient one.” He let out a ragged breath. “We really should talk in person.”

I waited for his response.

“Alexa, when I am with you, I feel everything. And, rightly or wrongly, that’s not what I need right now.”

“What do you need?”

“To erase difficulties,” he said instantly. “To be back in Seychelles with you. To kill Moretti the day he stared me in the eye while conspiring against the syndicate.” His regrets poured through the phone. “To expunge Valerie Wentworth from my memory.”

His strained voice crushed my heart. “You did not acquire the city of vice by feeling sorry for yourself,” I said, having to be cruel to be kind. “Put the drugs away. Pour the whiskey down the sink. Get out of the chair and do what you do best.” I inhaled a calming breath. “Do not call me. When I am ready to see you, I will get in touch.”

“Baby,” he whispered.

My eyes squeezed shut. “Goodbye, Liam.”

I ended the call and buried my head on the pillow.

Jace reappeared seconds later, having listened to the telephone call from behind the door. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.” He fossicked the chest of drawers. “It’s movie night. Do you want to hang with us? I’ll even buy some ice cream.”

I lifted the pillow off my face. “Actually, I was hoping to stay for a while. If you can tolerate me, of course.”

“As if I’d turn my back on you.” He peeled off the black T-shirt in exchange for a duplicate. “You can have my room.”

I met his eyes. “I am not taking your room. I can sleep on the sofa.”

“No.” Displeasure tightened his jaw. “You are not sleeping on the sofa. It’s Jared’s layover for one-night stands.”

“Lovely.” A cold shiver washed over me. “Well, does Harlyn have a double bed?”

Jace glanced to the wall separating their bedrooms and nodded nonverbally.

“Is she home?”

He hiked a non-committal shoulder.

“Have you lost your voice?”

“No,” he said, short and sharp. “Look, If you want to stay with Harlyn? I’m cool. Just…” His uneasiness intensified. “I am not her favourite person. If you can avoid any ‘Jace’ topics, I will be grateful.”

I had to shower, remove the ostentatious clothing and, sooner rather than later, get some vodka in my system, but a conversation concerning Jace’s entanglement took precedence. “What did you do?”

His jaw flexed in irritation. “What makes you think I did something wrong?”

My pulse thrummed in judgmental musing. “I never said you did.”

“I can hear the acidity in your voice,” he said dryly. “Go ahead. Give it to me straight.”

I closed the ajar door. “Are you still juggling two women?”

“I was never juggling more than my girlfriend.” He shot me an impatient look. “I made one bad decision, Alexa.”

“Well, why is Harlyn upset with you?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

Men are so bloody clueless. “Maybe she is upset.”

“Never.” He snorted. “What gave you that impression?”

I lobbed a pillow at him. “Curb the sarcasm, asshole.”

He stayed silent.

“Perhaps she likes you…?”

His arms folded. “Did you miss the part where I am not her favourite person right now?”

“You slept together.” My voice lowered in case the roomies loitered nearby. “Maybe it meant something to her.”

Jace’s eyes revisited the wall dividing their bedrooms. “I highly fucking doubt it. Have you met Harlyn?” He gave a short, sharp laugh. “The girl hates my guts.” Dejection momentarily raged his eyes, but he masked low spirits just as quickly. “Listen, Charlotte’s on her way. I don’t want her to find out about this.”

“I despise cheaters,” I said, and his head hung in shame. “If you love Charlotte, why did you let another woman into your bed?”

“I don’t love…” His eyes held mine and understanding transpired. “Harlyn was sad. I felt bad for her, Alexa.”

My blood fired hot. “So, it was a pity-fuck.”

“What? No—I don’t know.” He glared for several seconds. “It felt good. But it’s not reality. I am…” The words died on his tongue. “Charlotte is the whole package. She is beautiful, smart and career-driven. Dating her is easy. It makes sense.”

Who is he trying to convince?

Me or himself.

“Not that Harlyn gives a flying fuck about me,” he added quietly. “But even if she did, it’s too complicated. She is walking chaos. I don’t need any more turmoil. I need a shot at normality, okay?”

My backside returned to the bed. “It’s not supposed to be easy.”

For someone who cared very little for Harlyn, Jace stared pensively at the wall. “Can we talk about something else?”

My eyes lowered to the floor. “Like what?”

“Like your ridiculous T-shirt.” He gave me a thin smile. “Or those blinding leggings.”

A smirk teased at the edge of my mouth. “I wore a floor-length nightdress to bed last night.”

Jace looked horrified.

“Which reminds me, I need to borrow some clothes.” I’ll take a quick shower before movie night. “Maybe I should eat something.”

“Maybe.” He grabbed two towels from the wardrobe, a folded black tracksuit and Phillip Plein boxer briefs, which still had the price label. “I’ll order in.” Our fingers interlaced as he tugged me onto my feet. “I love you.” He kissed the gap between my eyebrows. “If you don’t start taking care of yourself, I might worry too much.”

My head dropped on his chest. “You’re my best friend.”

“Ditto.” His firm, muscular arms enveloped my upper body. “You can stay for as long as you want. Just keep Warren in the loop, alright?”

I nodded to the sound of advancing footsteps.

“Jace…” Charlotte’s chipper voice faded upon arrival. “Alexa. Hey, I didn’t know…”

Her anxiousness stirred regret.

I backed away from Jace like someone caught stealing. “Hey.” Adopting cheerfulness, I faced the sickly pale blonde and waved. “I…”

“Alexa and Warren had a fight,” Jace intervened as she cagily entered the room. “I said she could stay here until it blows over.”

Charlotte’s glassy eyes darted between us. “Oh, okay.” Her voice stammered. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Well, Jace mentioned movie night.” I walked into the hallway, and then, pausing to continue our strained conversation, I aimed for mutual respect or possible friendship. “Why don’t we take charge of cocktails? I hear the white Russian is to die for.”

Her fingers wrangled.

“There is a liquor store down the street,” I prattled on. “I think it’ll be fun.”

When Charlotte lost her voice, Jace stepped in. “I like it.” His apologetic smile uncoiled tight muscles. “Caipiroska for me.” He threw his wallet, and I caught it. “Grab some ice, too.”

Charlotte eyed the wallet in my hand before questioning Jace. “Are you paying for everyone?”

“Oh, I lost my purse last night.” Technically, I left it at the club. “I can pay him back—”

“No.” Jace waved a dismissive hand. “Alexa, take that shower.”

Nodding, I fled to his neighbour.

I read the fuck off sign on her door. “Is anyone home?”

“What do you want?” Harlyn’s voice came from behind, and I flinched at the unexpectedness. “Alexa?”

Bright pink hair knotted atop her head. For someone who, as far as I can tell, just rolled out of bed, she wore a full face of makeup. Her crinkled pyjamas exposed eye-catching nipples and the striped cotton shorts teased her rear end. “I think I could be a lesbian for you.”

Her nose wrinkled. “What?”

“Every time I see you, I can’t help but check you out.” My hands parked on my hips. “I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Thanks.” Keeping a hold of the washing basket, she unlocked her bedroom door. “I guess.” Plonking the fresh-smelling laundry onto the black dresser, she welcomed me inside. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m sorry about last night.” Fuchsia painted the four walls. “Brad, I mean. He can be a little scary.”

“It’s okay,” she excused his high-handed behaviour. “Are you lost? Jace is next door.”

“I love your sanctuary.” A black, rococo, hand-carved bed bespangled in glittering fabrics dominated the room, which complimented the coal-black furniture and medieval-style ceiling light pendant. “Is your bed big enough for the two of us?”

Harlyn’s tongue bar sliced between her teeth. “Why do you want to share my bed?”

“I am taking a break from my marriage.” My heart felt heavy. Again. “Jace said I could stay here. He offered to sleep on the sofa so that I could use his bedroom, but I am not comfortable…”

“I get it.” Charlotte laughed next door, and Harlyn’s gaze flickered to the wall. “You can sleep in here.”

“Thank you.” Jace’s loud laughter ensued. “Are they always this loud?”

How can she stomach it?

Does she hear them having sex?

Harlyn began to put the laundry into drawers. “When they started dating,” she whispered, “I heard everything.”

Great. I spoke aloud.

I recalled Jace’s pornographic orgy in Newquay and paled. “I bet that’s deafening.”

“It’s fine,” she lied. “Charlotte doesn’t stay as much as she used to, so I can sleep without earplugs.”

I am so nosey. “Why?”

Harlyn shrugged.

“I am heading to the liquor store once showered—”

“You can use mine.” She pointed to the en-suite. “Lock the other door, though.”

I entered the Jack and Jill bathroom. “You and Jace share?” I locked Jace’s ajar door, muffling Charlotte’s giggles, and selected male products from the glass shelves. “How does that work?”

“It’s bearable.” Harlyn took Jace’s shower gel out of my hand, swapping it for jasmine scented toiletries. “Go easy on the shampoo. I don’t get paid until next week.”

Harlyn left me alone in the en-suite.

I slid down the tiled wall and collected scattered thoughts.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Liam

I chucked the phone on my desk, rubbed the sweat from my brow and grappled my hair by the root. Electronic dance music thundered from the main room, juddering the mini bar’s whiskey collection, which successfully irritated every bone in my body.

If I said to terminate Cherry’s employment, would you?

I turned on the surveillance and watched Cherry flirt with risqué customers in the Diamond Suite.

Why do you take drugs?

Heaped cocaine dirtied the desk.

What do you need?

Alexa. Always.

When I’m ready to see you, I will get in touch.

Goodbye, Liam.

No, it’s never goodbye for us.

I lit a cigarette, and smoke rolled down my throat.

“Fuck,” I spat, swiping the cocaine across the room.

Ice-cold fury flooded my veins. I rounded the desk, dragging faint white footsteps across the hardwood floor, and exited the office simultaneously as our red-haired working girl appeared. “Mr Warren.” Cherry brandished wads of hard-earned cash. “I made the rounds—”

My palm struck her cheek.

Cherry legs collapsed beneath her weight, and she nose-dived to the floor. Stunned into stark horror, she scuttled until her back hit the wall. “Sir…” Round, wet eyes peered up at me. “What did I do?”

Stepping over strewn fifty-pound notes, I crouched to place us eye-level. “Have you forgotten your place?”

Cherry’s lips quivered. “I…” Her mouth opened and closed. “If this is about—” My hand snatched her throat. “Sir, please.” Thrashing against the invasion, she clawed my wrist as I heaved her body up the wall. “It hurts…”

“You were nothing but a junkie fucking bitch when I took you off the streets,” I snarled, my fingers crushing her neck, restricting her air supply. “I can throw you back in the gutter.” Our noses touched. “Just one merciless phone call, and you’ll be the worthless possession of yardies once more. Bianca.”

“Please don’t,” she whimpered, hot tears streaming from her crystal blue eyes. “I want to be here.”

“If you upset my wife one more time,” I said with a deathly promise, and her nodding became vigorously desperate. “I will watch while they punish you and still sleep peacefully at night. Have I made myself abundantly fucking clear?”

“Yes,” she cried.

I threw Cherry aside. Her body rolled across the shiny, leather shoes of stationed security. “Put the money on my desk,” I ordered, listening to her short, whooping cough. “Do not make an enemy of me, Cherry. I will ruin you.”

***

Cazale suffered blunt-force trauma to the head, which caused severe internal bleeding. He died, taking Moretti’s location to the grave with him. Nate apologised for medical negligence before he transported the man’s dead body to an old, abandoned warehouse, where he plans to set the corpse’s soul alight.

I laid in bed all night until the sun shed light across the horizon. Sleep is unachievable without Alexa by my side. My head rested on her pillow, and I palmed the cold, empty sheet. Her sweet-scented fragrance lasted in the dimly lit room, which rekindled the nostalgic pain in my chest.

I went to our shared walk-in wardrobe, unfastened the McQueen travel bag and packed lingerie, pyjamas, cosmetics, including makeup and hair products, casual and formal clothing.

Opening the dresser drawer, I selected knee-high socks, perched them on top of the folded towels, rezipped the case and grabbed her phone from the clutch purse she discarded at Club 11.

Showered and besuited for a long day at the office, I carried the travel bag to the kitchen, poured black coffee into a mug and sent Eddie a text message.

Me: Where is Alexa?

Eddie: Mrs Warren went to the store last night with two women and returned to Pierced & Inked ten minutes later with alcohol.

Eddie: Mrs Warren has not left the building since.

Me: Jax will drive over and give you Alexa’s bag. Be sure that she has it before nine o’clock.

Eddie: Of course, Sir.

Detecting heavy footsteps, I stuffed the phone in my trouser pocket, put my back to the counter and, with cataloguing eyes, scrutinised Logan’s navy Jordan tracksuit, high top trainers and reverse facing snapback. His brows bounced to his hairline in silent acknowledgement. Hurling the gym bag onto a stool, he pulled open the fridge door, dwelled on orange or apple juice, settled for full-fat milk and ripped into a cereal bar.

I forgot to hire a tutor. “What are your plans?”

Logan licked the milk from his upper lip. “I’m meeting Tre.”

“I should think not,” I said, and he frowned. “You will stay in the dining room all day and study until I pay someone to educate you.”

He binned breakfast wrappers. “Actually, I arranged to meet Tre because we attend the same high school.”

I stared at him with hardened eyes. “You enrolled in a new high school?”

“No.” He scratched his jaw, exhibiting the ice-gold bracelet on his wrist. “Look, Tre’s cool. He’s got a shit-ton of friends and invited me to hang with them. That’s good, right?”

“I suppose your argument is somewhat pragmatic.”

“Exactly,” he supported his case. “Besides, I can’t go through life hiding from my problems. If I run away from something as stupid as school bullies, I am setting myself up for a fall. By choosing the easy option, I am destined for a lifetime of cowardice.”

I respected his dauntlessness. “Impressive.”

Logan’s face reddened as he smiled. “Is Alexa home?” he asked, and my chest constricted. “I texted her last night to see if she needed me at the youth centre later…” He noticed the sudden change in my demeanour. “Never mind.”

“Alexa is staying with a friend,” I said evasively. “I will have her phone returned shortly. I am sure she will respond.”

He collected the gym bag. “Do you need someone to talk to?”

I gave a bitter laugh. “You are fifteen, Logan. I have nothing to share with you.”

“Alright.” Boldness masked his agitation. “No need to be a dick.”

“Watch your mouth,” I chastised, and his eyes journeyed the ceiling. “If you do not visit Inseparable Youths, I expect you home by eight p.m. Understood?”

“Are you babysitting?” Derision grated his tone of voice. “If Alexa’s not home, who will cook my tea?”

“You are cruising for a slap,” I scolded him for the babysitting comment, and he stifled amusement. “What does Alexa cook for you?”

He considered the question. “Roast beef dinner.”

“Roast beef dinner?” Alexa can barely cook a chicken. “Frozen, I presume.”

“From scratch,” he said, and I raised an eyebrow. “Proper roast potatoes. Fresh vegetables. And her gravy?” His eyes rolled to the back of his head theatrically. “Best I ever tasted.”

I cannot remember the last time I ate a full roast. “Interesting.”

His lips thinned. “You like that word.”

I overlooked his snark. “I will be home to cook.”

“Can I invite Tre?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Fair enough.” He ebbed toward the kitchen door. “I guess I’ll catch you later.”

I anticipated the slam of the Manor’s front door on Logan’s departure and then sent another text message.

Me: I have to cook tea for the boy. Buy essentials and leave them at the Manor before you drive to the club.

Nate: Anything specific?

Me: Beef roast.

He sent a confused emoji.

Me: I am doing it for Alexa.

Nate: Is she home?

Me: No.

Nate: You are feeding the kid to get in her good book, huh?

Me: Have you located Blaire?

Nate: Not yet.

I deleted Nate’s message thread and thumbed a quick question to Jace.

Me: Is she okay?

It was delivered.

He read the text.

Three dots danced on the screen.

Jace: I think she’s still asleep.

I sent another message.

Me: Meet me at Live Bar.

Vincent: Did you text the wrong person?

Me: No.

Vincent. Well, in that case, I do not march to your drum, brother. If you wish to see me, request a meeting.

I inhaled. Exhaled.

Me: It’s important.

He read the message and responded precisely five minutes later.

Vincent: Enumerate the entirety of the meeting.

I had to count to ten before replying.

Me: I will not beg for your time, Vincent. Meet me at the Live bar, or I will trash the paperwork.

Vincent: What time suits you?

Me: Be there at ten p.m.

Vincent: Very well.

***

Melodic jazz music uplifted low spirits. Regal pinewood chairs tucked beneath red-covered tables. Majestic curtains, drawn yet draped, adorned the floor-to-ceiling windows and artificial vines clambered the stone walls. I sat in the corner booth, half-filled coffee in hand, Joe Henderson’s ‘Lazy Afternoon’ playing almost inaudibly from the old jukebox. Tailored men tended tables, delivering full English breakfasts, brewed tea and warm pastries: miniature jam jars and one-sided toast.

Vincent appeared, blocking my view. “Are you depressed?” He popped open the button of his slate grey suit jacket, pinched a chair from the empty table to our right and became seated. “Well, you called. I came running.” He clicked down a waitress and ordered Americano. “What is the urgency of this meeting?”

I slid the document across the table.

His fingers teased the stapled paper. “Deed poll,” he read the bold black font. “What is your request?”

“You’re an intelligent man, Vincent.” I placed a parker pen atop the document. “Elucidation is hardly necessary.”

He picked up the pen; it twitched between his fingers. “Valerie will remonstrate.”

“The fragility of our birth mother’s heart means nothing to me,” I said savagely. “This is not about them, Valerie and Raymond. It involves two brothers amalgamating for the greater good.” I tossed the business partnership agreement contract on top of the deed poll. “Do not expect another peace offering if you decline.”

Vincent scanned the contract. “How will it work?”

“I plan to relocate the office,” I said, keeping minor details to myself. “You will work from Club 11 full-time.”

He hummed. “You want me to change my surname.”

“It’s your birthright. Raymond Warren, to my dismay, is our biological father. Legally validate the commitment with a signature If you wish to join forces.”

Vincent was oddly quiet, and then, rotating the pen to expose the delicate nib, he signed across the dotted line. “When do you relocate?”

“Soon.” I rubbed the tension pounding at my temples. “Do we have an agreement?”

“If I sign to co-own Club 11, you must accept profit-sharing and collaborative decision making. I will not—nor will I ever be—your hired help. Excluding the syndicate, of course.”

I gave him a sharp nod. “You have my word.”

Vincent rolled his neck until bones clicked. “Okay.” He scribbled a signature. “I suppose we should celebrate. Macallan?”

“Unfortunately, I must decline.” At least until I discuss recent quandaries with Alexa. “Another time, perhaps.”

His eyes were probing. “Is everything peachy at home?”

I cracked a wolfish smirk. “Define peachy?”

Interest dilated his pupils. “Is Alexa misbehaving?”

“Quite the contrary. I overstepped. Alexa’s pertinacious and rightly so.”

His fingers drummed along the contract. “Your wife is the reason behind new business ventures.”

“Alexa’s happiness outweighs everything.” I swallowed the remainder of the cold coffee. “Do not cast judgement, Vincent. It’s only a new office.”

“I am a sympathiser,” he said, calm and collected. “I support your decision indefinitely. Although, I must ask, what did you do so catastrophically wrong?”

My tongue swept my lower lip. “My wife demanded prioritisation. I failed.”

“Alexa’s predominantly good-natured.” He utilised a steak knife to peel a granny smith apple. “What are her requirements?”

“Not to arise alone in the morning,” I said, and he listened intently. “The occasional date night. Respect. Faithfulness.”

“Tell me you didn’t fail all of the abovementioned.” His glare honed. “You took vows.”

“Why does everyone presume the worst?” I asked, waving down the waitress for another coffee. “So, I played the field once upon a time. I left philandering behind the second I met Alexa, yet I am forever judged for the sexual encounters of my past. I never claimed to be a fucking saint. I have an unchangeable life story that I cannot pardon.”

Vincent, unfazed by my feverishness, chewed apple peel.

“I am devoted to my wife.” My heart rate began to decelerate. “I can be in a room full of naked women, but I do not see them. It will always be Alexa.”

His expression sharpened. “I see,” he said, absorbed in thought. “Alexa stipulated scant attention. Her desires are no different to any other woman. You provided an anomalous honeymoon, which tells me you can be quite the romantic. Fortnightly, date your wife. Is she deserving?” he asked, and I nodded. “Business can wait for one night, brother. Love cannot.”

“Have you ever been in love, Vincent?” I wondered aloud.

He clenched his jaw. “Yes.”

My interest piqued. “Go on.”

Dry laughter rattled his throat. “It’s not relevant.”

“Perhaps you will invite her to dinner someday.” The waitress arranged fresh coffees onto the table. “I am sure Alexa would be elated for some female company.”

Vincent slapped the apple stump onto the waitress’ hand, and she studied the juice trickling between her bending fingers in utter disgust. “Be a darling,” he said broodingly. “Discard. I might even leave a decent tip.”

“Right,” she clipped. “No problem.”

He watched her saunter behind the quiet bar. “You stare.” He fixed his satin tie. “Maybe that’s your problem.”

I blinked in puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

“Your eyes wander in the presence of other women. Noteworthy for future reference.”

Naturally, my eyes directed to the female in question. Her fair hair weaved into a braid down her back, and she wore black trousers and a white fitted shirt.

His chair creaked as he leaned back. “Well?”

“Until your accusation, I never paid attention,” I defended myself. “I was more concerned with the apple in her hand.”

“Not a forceful assertion,” he said tamely. “Awareness for unmindful scrutiny.”

Feelings of guilt clawed at my insides.

Is that what Alexa noted? Perfunctory glances?

“Marking my surroundings and everyone within my proximity is second nature. I can assure you that I mean no harm.” My eyes dazzled with fake merriment. “Unless I feel threatened.”

My phone vibrated on the table.

I checked the notification, and my heart squeezed upon seeing Alexa’s name.

Alexa: Thank you for packing a bag. I appreciate it.

I replied instantly.

Me: It’s not what I want, but I respect your decision.

I held the phone so tightly that my knuckles whitened.

Alexa: Hmm.

“What is that?” I asked, and my brother eyed me over the coffee mug’s rim. “Hmm, Alexa responded. How to interpret?”

Vincent laughed out loud. “I am not able to speak for your wife.”

“For the life of me, I cannot understand women.” My stare fixated on the screen. “How do I reply to such flippancy?”

“You don’t,” he advised, and with great reluctance, I placed the phone back onto the table. “Am I right to assume you agreed to momentary separation?”

“How did your overactive brain conjure separation?” My head cocked to the side. “When did I insinuate as much?”

A dark, guarded veil fell over his troubled countenance. “Give her space,” he proceeded to lecture. “Allow her heart to ache in your absence.”

My phone screen brightened.

Logan: Alexa called in sick. I will be home early.

Logan: Please, can I invite Tre over? We have to watch the latest Fast and Furious movie.

Fingers twitching to question my wife, I swiped the phone and replied to the lad’s message.

Me: Fine.

Logan: You’re a legend.

Logan: Is it cool if Amber chills, too?

My skin pricked with heat.

Me: Who the fuck is Amber?

Logan: Tre’s friend.

Logan: And mine, I guess.

Me: No.

Logan: Why not?

Me: Because I fucking said so, that’s why.

Logan: Seriously, I wouldn’t nag, but it’s my birthday in two weeks. I want to hang out with them as much as I can before I have to say goodbye.

I sat back against the booth’s leather padding.

Logan: Actually, don’t worry. I should be grateful, not ungrateful.

Me: You can invite Tre. No girls until you and I have a chat.

Logan: What kinda chat?

Me: Don’t play smart.

A gif of Joey Tribbiani shrugging his shoulders appeared on my screen.

Me: Logan…

Logan: We’re talking about sex, aren’t we?

Me: If you have sex before the legal age of eighteen, you will obtain knob rot.

Logan. WTF!

Logan: Not to be technical, but the legal requirement is sixteen.

Logan: And I don’t even think about sex.

Logan: I lied. Obviously, I think about sex. I mean, of course, I want to lose the V card. But I haven’t done the deed yet, so don’t stress—no need to talk me through the birds and the bees.

Vincent paid the bill and rose to his feet.

“Where are you going?”

“To bore someone else into ignorance,” he said, his tone clipped and sarcastic. “Is there any other paperwork to sign, or can I be excused?”

Vincent walked away before I responded.

I collected the documents, fished the Bentley keys out of my trouser pocket and drove to the Manor to prepare Logan’s roast dinner.

***

Brad’s topless, bare-foot and following me around the kitchen like an annoying puppy. “So, cooking for Logan equals brownie points from your wife.” He swiped a Yorkshire pudding and rammed it in his mouth. “You conniving bugger,” he mumbled, pinching plated roasties. “Fuck.” I witnessed unchewed fodder strain down his throat. “I forgot how good your food tasted.”

Yes, back in the day, many years before Alexa, if not unhealthy takeaway, I cooked at the penthouse, and Brad, who owned a luxurious apartment in central London yet never slept there, often sampled dishes, or, from time to time, he took the reins and knocked recipes together.

“I forgot how much I despised cooking.” Whipping the tea towel over my shoulder, I stirred the panned gravy, lowered the heat and admired my hard work: shredded cabbage, carrot batons, petit pois, green beans, cauliflower cheese, boiled potatoes, mash for the nit-pickers, perfect roast beef and homemade gravy. “Pour me a glass of orange juice.”

Brad’s disbelieving eyes stabbed me. “I’m sorry, what?”

I glared wordlessly.

“Orange juice.” He was suddenly serious. “Are you for real?”

My arms crossed.

“Fucking hell.” He extracted the juice carton from the fridge. “Sobriety is boring. Your wise words.” He slid the rim-filled glass across the counter. “I squeezed those freshly picked oranges by hand. Enjoy.”

I downed the entire glass, quenching thirstiness.

His disgusted scowl toured my features. “Are you fighting unspoken alcoholism or something?”

“No, I do not require alcohol to function. However, recent intoxication upset Alexa.” And her sanity, I thought. “From now on, I will drink wisely. As for drugs, I would be lying if I vowed never to smoke again, but I am done with cocaine.”

Brad’s jaw slackened. “I happen to enjoy cocaine and sex, so don’t expect me to jump on the bandwagon. You can sail that uneventful voyage alone.”

“Relax.” In the kitchen’s adjacent dining room, I arranged cutlery on the table. “I don’t need anyone to hold my hand.”

He carried serving trays into the dining room. “So, are we feeding the five thousand? We have enough food to cater a homeless shelter.” Male laughter echoed in the hall, and he looked towards the door. “You are late,” he lied, and Logan’s footsteps stumbled. “You must be Tre.” Every muscle in his upper body deliberately flexed as his arms crossed. “Well, don’t just stand there, gawk-eyed and panting. Thank the boss for cooking and tuck in.”

Exchanging mystified glances, Logan and Tre, casting their gym bags aside, sat at the long-stretched table.

“It smells so good.” Logan scooped heaped vegetables onto his plate. “It’s been too long since I smashed one of these bad boys.”

I paused with the gravy boat. “I thought Alexa provided roast dinners.”

Logan snorted. “Alexa never cooks. If she does…” He perceived the defensiveness in my eyes and recoiled. “I love her toasted pancakes.”

“Toasted pancakes?” Brad stole the gravy boat and doused his mashed potato. “Do explain.”

“Yeah, well, like, she tears open the package…” Logan watched as I pulled a chair back and sat directly opposite him. “I mean, she heats them on the frying pan and then sprinkles fresh fruit and dollops of yoghurt.”

Tre’s eyebrows snapped inwards.

Brad’s smile stretched. “I fucking love your wife.”

I forked sliced beef onto my plate.

“Tre,” Brad prepared for battle, “Bossman mentioned your newfound friendship with Logan. Is that since the basketball game?”

Tre nodded.

“Nice.” He chewed carrots. “Who’s Amber?”

I felt Logan’s questioning eyes but paid him no heed. His foot nudged my shin under the table.

“Brad’s second-in-command,” I said uncaringly. “We discuss everything.”

Tre’s protruding eyes rallied from one head to another. “Amber is, like, my girlfriend?”

“You sound unsure.” Brad poured Jameson into a crystal glass. “Must I differentiate between girlfriends and hookups?”

“No, I think I got it.”

“Do you have sex with, like, your girlfriend?” Brad ridiculed.

Tre blanched. “Sometimes.”

I flung Logan a look of disappointment.

“What?” The lad’s hands shot up. “Hey, just because he’s getting laid, it doesn’t mean I am.”

“If I find out that you are having sex, specifically unprotected sex,” I warned, pointing the fork in his direction, “I will beat the fucking shit out of you.”

Logan’s jaw muscles ticked. “Duly fucking noted.”

“Watch your mouth.” My teeth gritted. “Now, eat your dinner.”

He let go of the cutlery and stood so abruptly the chair legs scraped across the floor. “Fuck dinner.”

“Logan,” I snapped, and he slowly turned to face me. “I did this for you.”

“No, you did it for Alexa,” he said, and my shoulders pushed back. “It’s cool. I won’t tell her you embarrassed me in front of my friend.” He uprooted his phone and tapped a quick message. “Done. I had a fun night with Liam. He even cooked for me. Happy?”

His footsteps stomped into the hallway.

My released fork clattered against the plate.

Brad’s lips puckered. “Well, that went well.”

Tre rose from the chair. “Should I…?”

Brad stared through him. “Fuck off.”

I would never admit this out loud, but I only want to protect the boy from chaos. Logan wasn’t brought up. He was dragged up. Late or not, he needs guidance. Underage sex and teenage pregnancy cannot happen.

Not on my watch.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Liam

Bernardo Russo’s incongruous Billiard House nestled amid multi-level apartment blocks and low-rise commercial buildings.

Brad’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “Incoming.”

Cherry emerged from the main doors, leaving her two friends inside. With a quick, serendipitous glance toward the parked Bentley, she gave the doorman a faux-smile and lit a cigarette.

I clicked my earpiece. “Tap once if you can hear me.”

Her silver stiletto tapped the floor.

“If negative, tap twice,” I instructed. “If positive, once.”

Tucking a glittering purse under the nook of her arm, she gazed to the sky full of stars and awaited prompt questioning.

“From the outside looking in, the place seems quiet. Correct?”

Her foot tapped twice.

“Less than fifty people?”

Another two taps.

“More than fifty people?”

One tap to the floor.

“Fuck’s sake,” I breathed out. “Are your friends sober?”

Her shoe subtly struck the floor.

“Good. Are you in a position to dismiss them yet?”

Cherry looked conflicted, and then, her foot tapped the floor.

The head bouncer, a middle-aged, broad-shouldered man, pointed to Cherry’s animal print dress. He complimented her vibrant red hair and dazzling blue eyes. If repulsed by his fawning, she did well to hide it. In actuality, she embraced his sweet-talk and cajoled him into gossiping inadvertently. “Yeah, it’s decent,” he said, fixated on her toned buxomness. “Eighteen quid an hour. I can’t complain.”

Listening to their conversation, I inquired, “Ask if he knows the owner.”

“Yes.” Cherry handed him a cigarette. “Do you know the owner?”

“Russo?” he mused, and she waited. “Yeah, I know him. Why?”

“Curious.” She blew out smoke. “Is he the dude sitting behind the bar?”

My forehead wrinkled.

“Nah, that’s Diego,” he said, and Brad, tuned into their conversation, amplified the volume of his earpiece. “He left, right?”

Cherry pulled an unsure face.

“Yeah, I think he went home early,” the bouncer talked openly. “Why do you ask?”

“About Diego?” she wondered, and his head shook. “Oh, the owner? I’m just curious. It’s my sister’s birthday next week, so I wanted to ask if the club provided party packages.”

“Minx,” Brad rasped, and her cheeks flared pink.

“No.” He sounded uncertain. “At least, I haven’t heard of any party packages. Why don’t you ask him? He’s due to arrive any moment.”

“You are so helpful,” she crooned, and he flashed two dimples. “Shall I wait here then?”

“Nah.” He waved a languid hand. “Russo comes in around the back. You are better off waiting inside.”

“Sort your tits out,” Brad said, and I slid him a side-long glance. “He’s leering.”

Cherry adjusted her support cups, concealing her ample breasts to a certain degree. “Well, I better get back,” she said, opening the club’s door. “Thanks for the company.”

His lust-filled eyes surveyed her backside as she strolled indoors. “No problem.”

“Sir, can you hear me?” Cherry whispered the second she escaped him. “Sir?”

“Yes,” I confirmed, rejecting Brad’s offer to smoke a blunt.

“Do you want me to ask for Russo at the bar in fifteen minutes?”

“Yes,” I authorised, selecting a Desert Eagle magazine from the Bentleys glove compartment. “If comfortable, keep him by the bar.”

I assume Cherry entered the central room because the music volume crescendoed.

“Has Vincent arrived?”

“No,” Nate answered from his position, which is in the next street. “Josh is here, though.”

“Josh,” I said, and he mumbled in my ear. “I want you to wait in the car.”

Brad muted his earpiece. “Do you want a boiled mint?”

“No,” I declined, yet a clear-wrapped mint landed on my lap. “Have you spoken to Alexa?”

“Nope.” His bag of sweets rustled. “Have you?”

“No.” I check my phone continuously in the hope she might have. “Eddie messaged, though. He hasn’t seen her in two days.”

“Tell Eddie to grow a pair of balls and knock on Jace’s door.”

“He tried. Alexa refused to meet and greet. Jace had to send him away.”

Brad’s jaw clenched. “Get Josh to drive over. Alexa won’t turn him away.”

“Nate,” I said into the earpiece. “Forge ahead. Josh, drive to Pierced and Inked. Stay with Alexa for the evening.”

“No problem, Boss.”

Minutes later, Josh’s black Bentley sped down the street and skidded around the corner. Nate strolled by the Billiard House’s entrance, stopped by the bouncer, and asked for directions. He pretends to be lost, his hands gesturing from one apartment to another, and the doorman, miffed by the tediousness, rubbed exasperation from his rolling eyes.

“Russo’s here,” Cherry mumbled. “I sent the ladies out. I need five minutes.”

Two decoys exited the building. “Hey,” the shortest female sang. “It’s so hot inside. And I am so hungry.” Her feigned drunkenness and unsteady movements did the trick. “I—whoops!” Grasping the bouncer’s arms, she stabilised her feet on the step and, with an actorly display of dizziness, collapsed on the ground with a resounding thump.

Brad’s toothpick balanced on his lower lip. “Christ.”

Our second decoy gesticulated from the comatose girl on the floor to the wooden bench. “Well, don’t just stand there.” Her frenzied voice filtered through Nate’s earpiece. “Help her!”

“You are very touchy-feely,” Cherry’s unimpressed tone clipped in my ear. “Palming my backside. You haven’t even bought me a drink yet.”

“Two minutes,” Brad replied, and Cherry huffed in our ears. “Just keep Russo sweet. It’s not like you can’t handle a little rubber dubbin.”

“I hate you, Brad,” Cherry lied.

The bouncer’s arms slipped beneath the woman’s slothful body, but her extra body weight complicated the relocation. His face purple, he gritted his teeth, upraised her into his overworked arms and, displaying her pale, ungarbed arse, conveyed her to the bench—Nate tasered him in the back of the neck. He went down, face-planted the concrete, and the woman, unprepared for the fall, catapulted across the pavement. “Seriously?” Rubbing her head, she sat upright. “You could have waited for him to put me down.”

Nate went to one knee, stabbed a syringe into the bouncer’s neck and, with effortless ease, dumped his unconscious body inside a communal wheelie bin. “You can leave.”

Both ladies stormed past the apartment block, the larger of two, tugging down the too-tight dress in a futile attempt of hiding her wobbling derrière.

“Cherry, I want your friend’s number.” Brad’s hooded gaze followed her rotund backside. “I love a bit of lard-arse.”

I muted my earpiece. “Why must you provoke her?” I asked, and he silenced Cherry’s muffled revilement. “She’s in love with you.”

“I know.” A bright blue chewing gum bubble popped under his tongue. “How is that my problem?”

I thrust the car door open.

Smoothing two hands over my head, I tidied my image, crossed the road and ventured into uncharted territory. As previously instructed, Nate stayed by the front door in case Russo absquatulates. Brad’s close behind, whistling to the club’s instrumental music.

Efren Reyes’ portraits amassed the rustic green walls. Redwood furniture matched the well-stocked corner bar where Cherry, entertaining the man in question, enjoyed rounds of shots.

People grouped near the raised pool area to support billiard players. In the corner, an unoccupied, slate bed pool table beckoned interest. I brushed a palm over the royal blue finish and eyed the honey-coloured wall-mounted cue rack.

Brad hand-picked a striped pool ball. “Nice.” Guesstimating the distance between Russo and us, he brought his arm back and hurled the ball across the room. It socked the man in the side of the head. He bellowed in shock. The glass in his hand crashed to the floor. His eyes, wide and vengeful, bounced from pillar to post in search of the culprit.

Cherry collected her purse on the bar top, dodged the fragmented glass on the floor, and beelined the door. Russo, not quite finished with his conquest, snatched her by the elbow.

“Get rid of everyone.” I draped my suit jacket onto the back of a chair and closed in.

Russo’s spittle bespeckled Cherry’s face as he promised a night of passionless sex, but his large, predatory eyes were on me.

“Bernardo Russo?” I asked, and he jerked Cherry behind him as if to shield her from possible danger. “Can I interest you in a game of pool? A friendly drink, perhaps?”

“Warren.” Blood rivulets from his brow. “What an unpleasant surprise.”

Displeased people began to exit the building.

“I requested a meeting.” My stare found Cherry over his shoulder, and she gave me a tight yet reassuring smile. “What is the reason behind refusal?”

“Busy,” he said matter-of-factly.

My glare lowered to the hand currently pawing Cherry’s rear end. “Not busy enough for unsolicited touching, though.”

“I am told,” he accentuated, “that you seek revenge. You see, Warren, I am not responsible for Alberto. Mio cugino è imprevedibile.” He stroked his neat goatee. “Moretti non è un mio problema. Lui è il tuo problema. Ti chiedo di andartene. Come puoi vedere, sono impegnato.”

“I am not bilingual,” I said, and his teeth bared. “However, I am intuitive, and even with our language barrier, I can ascertain the derision in your voice.”

The corners of his lips lifted.

My right eye twitched. “Well,” I said calmly, accepting a steel phoenix cue from Brad. “Shall we?”

Bernardo studied as I rolled up my shirt sleeves. “You are senile.”

“I have been called far worse.” My open palm signalled to the nearest pool table. “Ladies first.”

“Do not move,” he told the redhead, forcing her to sit on the stool. “You are not welcome here.” I thought he meant Brad until Nate appeared in the doorway. “Get out.” His eyes blazed with molten fury. “Your kind brings too much trouble.”

My teeth gritted. “His kind?”

“Bastardo nero.” Russo positioned a ball-filled triangle onto the green pool table. “Are you deaf?”

Nate’s shoulder rested on the doorframe. “Ignorant.”

“Then, why do you not listen to me?” He coated the end of his stick with cue chalk. “Esci prima che ti spari.”

I was enraged by Russo’s lack of respect.

He never saw it coming.

I swung the pool cue and snapped it across his head. Fractured wood dispersed. His knees struck the ground first, his palms next, but I left no time for his counterattack. I snatched his black, greasy, shoulder-length hair and used the table leg to disfigure his face. Bones cracked. Blood spritzed. I hauled him onto the playfield, his loud, pained screams like music to my ears, and beat seven shades of shit out of him.

“Stop,” he cried, his arms flinching to block the blows. “Warren—”

“You disrespectful cunt,” I spat, my hand pinning his bloodied face to the green felt. “You couldn’t walk a fucking mile in his shoes.”

Brad unzipped Nate’s holdall and emptied tools onto the table.

Russo focussed on the pliers.

“Yes, I plan to utilise those,” I taunted, and his eyes squeezed shut. “You may want to keep them open. Admire your establishment, Russo. It’ll be up in smoke by the time I am through with you.”

“Per favore,” he whimpered. “I am not alone.”

Cherry poured herself a neat gin behind the bar.

“Miliana.” Tears leaked from Russo’s apologetic eyes. “È solo una bambina.”

I hesitated with the pliers. “Miliana D’Agostino?”

His lips flattened. “Sì.”

“Angelo Moretti’s daughter?” I required further validation.

“Upstairs.” His fearful glare marked Brad’s every movement. “Lei è con sua Nonna.”

“Restrain him,” I ordered, and Nate stepped forward. “If I find out you fucking lied to me, I will tear you limb from limb.” I regarded one of my most trusted. “Here.” Nate caught the pliers. “Extract.”

“No!” Foam surged from Bernardo’s mouth. “No, I beg you—ah!” Nate gripped the man’s jaw and extracted his incisor. “Please,” he cried as I walked away. “What did I ever do to you?!”

I pushed through the private door at the back of the hall.

Darkness. Quietness.

My leather shoes struck the hardwood floor until I located the narrow stairs. Grabbing onto the handrail, I ascended the steps to the ajar steel door. It creaked open by the barrel of my gun. I peered down the unlit hallway, anticipating beggars or foes. “Miliana,” I said quietly, locking the door behind me.

Nothing.

I almost walked past the small bedroom when a form tempted inquisitiveness. An older woman laid asleep on the single bed, the curtains drawn, the muted television on the wall, casting shadows on the paper-peeled walls. I retreated two steps, glanced into the dark bathroom opposite, and then proceeded to the living room. I saw plentiful furnishings, strewn books and empty beer cans. I did not, however, find a little girl…

The smallest of Peyton shoes poked out from beneath the wooden coffee table. Frilly white socks adorned her ankles. “If I were a child,” I said, and her tiny feet disappeared, “where would I hide? Behind the curtain?” I yanked the curtain aside, and the streetlamp outside spilt meagre light into the dank room. “In the cupboard.” Tucking the eagle into the waistband of my trousers, I crouched to the floor and weaved my fingers together. “Perhaps I would hide under the table.”

Miliana stopped breathing.

Dolls and accessories disorganised the rug. I picked up the blonde-haired barbie. “Which is your favourite?”

A brunette in odd tights and colourful glamour landed near my shoes. “Does she have a name?” Miliana stayed quiet until Russo screamed downstairs. Her sniffles did something to my chest. “Do not be alarmed. Bernardo is playing.” I pressed my palms to the floor and, not wanting to terrify the girl, extended an open palm, a small, unassuming gesture. If she wished to accept, I could help her stand. “I do not wish to frighten you,” I assured, purposefully elevating my chin so that our eyes do not clash. “Miliana.”

Her timid voice came after a long pause. “What if you are the bad guy?”

I am a bad guy. Not the worst of our kind, though.

“Will you hurt me?” Her voice, so soft and angelic. “You don’t look scary.”

My lips pinched.

I heard scuffling behind me.

When I glimpsed over my shoulder, I spotted a silhouette behind the curtain. Blindsided by Miliana’s unobtrusive relocation, I looked under the table to uncover nothing, pushed onto my feet and stood to my full height. “How did you do that?”

Miliana giggled.

“I am impressed,” I praised, and two small hands appeared, gripping the curtain’s thick material on either side. “Are you at ease, Miliana?”

Her soft laughter diminished. “How do you know my name?”

“I know everything.”

“You are big,” she said, and one ear revealed. “When I grow up, I want to be tall just like you.” Her sigh filled the room. “I don’t like it here. I want to go home.”

“With your father?”

“No,” she groused. “Mia madre.”

“Yes, of course.” My teeth contained my lower lip. “Ingrid D’Agostino?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice excited. “Did you talk to her? Is she coming back?”

“You believe she left you.”

“Mio padre ha detto che mia madre non mi voleva più.” Her sadness radiated. “But I don’t understand. Mia mamma mi ama.”

“Miliana,” I said, calm and collected. “Can you come out for me?”

Another long pause. “Will you promise not to hurt me?”

My heart palpitated. “I promise.”

“Okay,” she said softly, and then, one Peyton shoe at a time, the little girl, fiercely brave, appeared in the dim light. “Hi.”

Her pink, princess style dress rustled as she grappled the puffy train. Her skin was soft to the eye, tanned in complexion, and her hair, dark and tightly curled, bounced above her shoulders, where glittering voiles and bejewelled earrings coruscated.

“You look like a princess.”

Her downcast face raised and eyes akin to kyanite glittered in prideful appreciation. “Thank you,” she said sweetly.

I struggled to breathe. “You don’t belong in squalor,” I whispered, and her rosy lips puckered. “You belong in a castle.”

Miliana came forward, and I stepped back. “I am not scary,” she said, courageous yet hesitant. “We promised not to hurt each other.” Her fingertips touched the ice-gold rings on my fingers. “You have big hands.”

Apprehensiveness precipitated mutism.

When she tugged my hand, I descended to one knee before her. “Hi.” Her smooth, investigative palms grazed my cheeks. “We have the same eyes.”

“Yours are much prettier,” I said hoarsely, and her dark, thick eyelashes fluttered cheekily. “Who is the woman next door?”

“Mia Nonna,” she confirmed. “Why?”

“Will you help Nonna pack and leave this place?” I asked, and her eyebrows almost connected. “Tell me, Miliana. Is Nonna related to Ingrid? Will she call your mother and return you to Italy?”

Miliana thought for a few seconds. “I don’t know.”

Angelo is dead. She had no reason to stay here. “Listen carefully,” I gripped her delicate wrists, “I want you to leave London. You must pack now while I speak with Nonna.”

Her tongue poked out to gloss her lips. “Vedrò di nuovo mia madre?”

My thumbs circled her palms. “I don’t understand.”

“I have to stay away from the bad man,” she informed me, but I was clueless. “Nonna made me promise.”

“Who?” I probed in perplexity. “Bernardo?”

Miliana’s head shook. “Shall I wake her for you?”

“I am sure I can manage.”

“What is your name?”

My brow quirked. “Does it matter?”

Her tongue pushed into her cheek. “I think so.”

“Liam.” I tucked a curl behind her ear. “My name’s Liam.”

“Liam,” she said, testing the name with a breathy whisper. “Okay, I will help Nonna pack.” On the coffee table, she picked up an old, lop-eared bunny. “There is tea in the kitchen—”

“Tu chi sei?” Nonna’s in the doorway. “Miliana, allontanati da quell’uomo.” Her tired, red-rimmed eyes protruded in acute fear. “Cosa vuoi?”

I stuffed my hands into my trouser pockets. “Do you speak English?”

Nonna’s stare sharpened.

“I mean no harm,” I assured, but she hid the little girl behind her back. “You cannot stay here. Bernardo is dead. Dust will replace his establishment. I want you to pack a light case and return Miliana to Italy. If you fail to reunite a mother and daughter, I will unleash hell on earth. Do you understand the words that I speak?”

“Sì.” Nonna ceded her safe haven. “I have to protect Miliana.” Her frail hands hugged the little girl’s shoulders. “How do I leave? Non ho passaporto. Non ho soldi.” Her low, husky cries ensued. “Sono molto stanco.”

I looked at Miliana. “Why is she crying?”

“Nonna is tired,” she tells me. “She has no money or passport.”

“I can provide both.” I opened my wallet, licked my thumb and swiped through fifty-pound notes. “I will leave money for you to stay in a hotel. Tomorrow, I will send someone over with passports. Do we have an agreement?”

“Sì.” Nonna stared longingly at the cash. “Grazie. Sei troppo gentile.”

I placed the money on the mantelpiece. “Five minutes. Leave before the building reduces to ashes.”

Nonna’s soft fingers grasped mine, and then, whispering overt gratefulness, her lips venerated my knuckles.

I watched Nonna take Miliana’s hand, and the little girl, keeping a tight hold of her bunny, smiled until they vanished down the hallway.

Bernardo Russo died tonight. He had no location for Alberto Moretti, but he vomited Diego Serafini’s hideout before Nate ripped through his larynx. “It’s better than nothing,” he drawled, the flesh-like object crushed in his inflexible fist. “I can visit. You decide.”

Russo’s blood saturated the green felt. His lifeless body and soulless eyes, the precision of savageness. “Wait,” I said authoritatively, detecting a creaking door in the background. “Cover her eyes.”

Cherry unknotted her leopard print hair scarf. To the hallway, she scurried, her low, child-like voice high-pitched for Miliana. “There,” the redhead fussed. “No peeking.”

“Okay,” Miliana agreed, keeping hold of Nonna’s hand as she strolled across the pool room. Her faux fur coat irritated her chin. “Are you still here, Liam?”

A small smile tugged my lips. “Yes.”

Her feet cemented to the floor, and Nonna, unready for the little girl’s dithering, uncaged her tiny hand. “Non scappare, Miliana,” the older woman implored. “Non guardare.”

Miliana’s head tilted back. “I can’t see,” she whined, her nose crinkled up while striving to peek under the improvised eye mask. “I just want to say goodbye.”

Brad’s sucking on a lollipop. “Go ahead.” Uncapping a bottle of whiskey, he doused Russo’s dead body. “I can handle the rest.”

I stuffed my arms into the suit jacket, tossed the lighter to Brad and coaxed the girl outdoors. “You must behave for Nonna,” I said, and her fingers curled around mine. “Nate is a friend.” Nonna eyed Nate warily. “He will drive you to the hotel.”

Nate jangled his car keys. “I can help—” Nonna flinched when he offered to take her suitcase. “Or not,” he clipped, his jaw harder than granite. “Instruction?”

“I will message you.” I undo Miliana’s eye mask. Her eyelashes blinked rapidly to adjust. Blue hues peered up at me. “Goodbye, princess.”

Her cheeks dusted pink.

Miliana walked alongside Nonna, waving until they turned the street corner, yet I couldn’t look away, even after she’d left.

“Fuck you, Brad,” Cherry snapped, and I glanced to the stars in frustration. “You really are a worthless piece of shit.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” He joined my side for a nanosecond before the feisty woman shoved his back, jolting him onto the road. “What the fuck, Cher?”

“Quit being a jackass,” she argued, sparking a cigarette. “Don’t come knocking on my door tonight. I am closed.”

Brad snorted. “You say the same shit every week.”

Her chin jutted in defiance. “I mean it this time.”

He licked the smug smile off his lips. “You meant it last time, but I still got a blowjob.”

“Yeah?” Her brow hiked in a challenge. “If you even think of putting that thing near my mouth again, I’ll bite it off.”

His laughter drifted. “Right,” he mocked. “Is that before or after you beg for me to stay the night?”

Cherry’s eyes watered. “I am so done.”

He shrugged.

“Sir.” A knot grated her through. “Permission to leave?”

I slipped fifty quid in her hand. “Grab a cab.”

Cherry stuffed the money in her bra. “I am fucking Nate,” she admitted, and Brad masked emotions. “I thought you should know.”

His cheeks hollowed. “Good for you.”

Triumph unleashed her tongue. “And he’s bigger.”

Brad grinned like a Cheshire cat. “I highly fucking doubt it.”

***

I sent security to bed upon entering the Manor. Inside the kitchen, I poured myself a coffee and studied the phone. No missed calls or text messages. Well, I had many of both, but not from the person I desired most.

Me: Did Alexa invite you inside?

He replied fifteen minutes later.

Josh: Yeah. Everyone is drinking in the studio.

Me: Alexa?

Josh. Somewhat. She’s had the same drink all night. I don’t think she’s in the mood to party with the others.

Me: Has she mentioned me?

Josh: Here and there. She asked where you were and if you left the club at all.

Me: Am I in a position to text her?

Josh: Yeah, I reckon. She’s watching Jared get his nipple pierced.

I clicked on Alexa’s name.

Me: Hey.

It was delivered.

It is marked read.

My breath held.

Three dots took shape.

Alexa: Hey.

I went to the adjacent dining room, killed the lights and collapsed on the sofa.

Me: Are you okay?

Alexa: Yes.

How do I reply to curtness?

Me: Is Josh behaving?

Alexa: Josh is Josh.

Me: Can we talk?

Alexa: I am not ready.

Me: Well, can we text?

Alexa: Isn’t that what this is?

Me: Brusqueness.

Alexa: Really?

Me: I miss you.

Alexa: It’s horrible, isn’t it?

Me: You are punishing me.

Alexa: You deserve it.

Me: I know. It still hurts, though.

When she never replied, I sent another one.

Me: I would give anything to take you to bed.

She read the text.

Alexa: Of course, you miss sex.

Me: No, I want to hold my wife.

Message received and read.

Alexa: Liam, I love you.

My eyes briefly closed in relief.

Alexa: But I don’t like you right now.

Me: Come home.

Alexa: Where is home, Liam?

Me: With you.

Message unread.

Me: Alexa?

Message unread.

I flung the phone aside and slumped back against the sofa. I hate Alexa’s coldness. It’s taking everything inside me not to drive to Pierced & Inked. Instead, I breathed, inhaled, exhaled, and gave her space.

Leaving the coffee mug on the side, I removed the bloodied shirt, the cufflinks and suit jacket and headed upstairs to shower. I’ll sleep until this nightmare is over.

I reached the top of the stairs and took one step toward the master bedroom when deep, muffled groaning raked goosebumps across my bare chest. If that motherfucker has a chick in the Manor, I will string him from the ceiling by his fucking balls.

Mentally prepared for an argument, I powered to the lad’s bedroom and raised a tight-knuckled fist to belt on the door, when through the crack, I saw only one person in bed.

Realisation smacked me in the jaw.

Convinced Logan is masturbating, I ebbed away until distinguished whimpers and throaty sobs began to echo in the room. “Logan?” Pushing the door fully open, I strode across the room and stood over his bed. Perspiration misted his chest, arms and forehead. His brows furrowed as he flinched and jerked in his sleep. “Logan?”

“Stop,” he whispered, and my hands paused above him. “No.” His shrilling cries sliced through the humidity. “I don’t…” His voice drifted peacefully, and, grateful, I almost walked away. “Stop hurting me!”

“Logan.” Turning on the bedside lamp, I braced my knee on the mattress, grasped his damp shoulders and shook him violently. “Wake up.”

“Don’t touch me—don’t touch me.” His head thrashed from side to side, and his sweat-slicked hair drenched the pillow. “Please—”

“Wake up,” I barked, and his hands abruptly latched onto my throat, tight yet hesitant. “You don’t want to do that.”

Logan’s wide, glassy eyes adjusted to the light. “I…” His fingers loosened, but when his arms slackened, I seized his wrists. “I’m sorry,” he croaked. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay.” When he tried to sit taller, I noticed his trembling limbs, and my arm enveloped his back. “Breathe.” Snatching his discarded T-shirt on the carpet, I effaced the sweat on his forehead. “Breathe, Logan.”

The lad’s breath stuttered. “It’s just a bad dream,” he tells himself. “Only a bad dream…” His lips wobbled. “Liam….”

“I got you.” Keeping him close to my side, I held him tightly. His head fell to my chest. I stiffened, released a long, calming breath and rubbed his back. “Do you need me to listen?”

His tears soaked my skin. “No.”

I relaxed my arms. “Can you go back to sleep?”

“No.” He recoiled, scrubbing the tears from his eyes. “No, I don’t want to go back there.”

Back where? I thought. “It’s late,” I said, and he nodded sullenly. “Did you eat?”

“No, I fell asleep early.” He checked a message on his phone, and I wondered if Alexa had contacted him. “It’s Alexa.” He texted a reply and set the phone on the bedside table. “I might hit the gym.” His breathing evened. “Fancy hitting the bag with me?”

I could release some pent-up frustration. “Of course.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Liam

Logan is a conscientious young boy. He’s innately strong, determined and hungry for growth. Difficulties embolden his thirst for accomplishment. If the treadmill affected physical or mental activity, he introduced weight lifting, and when muscular fitness fatigued, he put the gloves back on and laid into the punching bag.

“Do not underestimate the power of legs.” Fixing the peeling tape on my knuckles, I wiped the dampness from my brow and, fingers curled inwards, encouraged him closer. “Your fighting stance is fundamental for movement extremity. If someone throws a jab,” I demonstrated, “and your position is unbalanced or unstable, prepare for a finishing blow.” He listened to instruction, legs in position, balled up fists shielding his face. “You have a strong right hook. It’s dangerously effective. Remember that in the future.”

Logan powered through a sequence of punches. I ducked, blocked, but refrained from retaliation. Even if I did throw a fist, I practised control, never once connecting or inflicting pain.

“Good.” We trained on the blue mat, slow and methodical, while he mastered new fighting techniques. “Your opponent’s capabilities are more consequential than yours. You are not in control of his movements, but you can learn his range to outmanoeuvre.”

“How?” Logan sucked sweat from his upper lip. “By the time I work him out, I’ll be on my fucking ass.”

I fought the urge to upbraid him for the constant curses. “In a fight, anger reveals defence in less than ten seconds. His first move will be his strongest. If he comes in with an overhand right, mark it, block it, avoid it. If you miscalculate, he will prevail.”

Sweat greased his upper body. “So basically, his first move will be his last.”

“It’s all he’s got.” I used my teeth to unravel the tape from my knuckles. “Evade his technique until you gain victory.”

Logan towel-dried his chest. “Shit,” he muttered, and I bit my tongue. “It’s almost seven-thirty, and I haven’t slept.” He stared for a quiet moment. “Is it all about guns?”

I steeled myself. “What’s the question?”

“I mean, is your fight as good as your aim?” He guzzled bottled Evian. “Do you need weapons to win?”

Logan’s interest was innocuous.

I evaded. “What do you think?”

He drew in a rattled breath. “I don’t know.”

My brows pinched. “I can hold my own.”

“I see,” Brad chimed from the gym’s doorway. “Bonding without me.”

I binned the torn tape. “Shut up, Brad.” Logan gave me a pointed look. “What?”

“Nothing,” he stuttered.

“Get ready for school,” I ordered, and his feet dragged across the spacious room. “How will you travel?”

“I’ll get the tube with Tre,” he said, not looking behind. “Are you cooking tonight?”

“No.” I sat on the training bench and uncapped bottled water. “You can order.”

Logan gave me a two-finger salute.

Brad is showered and suited in a royal blue three-piece, ready for a day at the office. “You look like shit.”

I tousled my messy hair. “What happened to your face?”

“Cherry.” His fingers peppered four deep claw marks on his cheek. “She quite literally attacked me last night.”

Their love/hate relationship exhausted everyone. “Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He passed me a mug of coffee before sipping his own. “I flirted with another woman at the club.”

I licked water across my dry lips.

“I am not going there anymore.” He sounded convincing, but it’s not the first time he swore to ditch the redhead. “In fact, I am over club whores.”

Although it’s a rarity, Brad has engaged with women beyond Club 11. Bad habits chained him to convenience, though. Our dancers love him, so sex is on tap. It’s uncomplicated, effortless. He can get laid without the worry of expectations, whereas refined, career-minded females desire more. “Are you prepared to date?”

Brad’s hard expression froze. “No.”

Cherry will be on his cock by next week.

“No,” he said with more conviction. “I love sex. I want wild, unrestrained sex with like-minded women. I do not want a scorned, angry bitch laying down the law because I fancy myself a blonde or whatever.” His gaze cast to the floor. “I never lied, Bossman. After Tiffany, I…”

I nodded.

“Never again,” he said, wilfully obstinate. “I tried. I failed. I am okay with that.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” I assured him, and he gave me a thin yet grateful smile. “I can deal with Cherry on one condition. You do not seek her company while amorous. Understood?”

“Boss,” he said whispery.

I palmed my phone and sent a message.

Me: Update?

He replied within seconds.

Nate: I checked them into the Ritz hotel. Nonna was anxious upon separation. I promised to provide passports before sunset.

Me: Where are you?

Nate: HMPO.

I sent another.

Me: Morning, Beautiful.

I never waited for Alexa’s response.

I knew she’d ignore me.

***

Two common wood pigeons land onto the tree’s low, sweeping branch to steal shade and temporary respite. In reverie, I heard and smelt everything, the cool breeze on my skin, the crisp, susurrus leaves and pleasant-smelling oven-baked cuisine from indoors. It’s not often I appreciate solace, the pleasure of senses and nature’s immeasurable picturesqueness.

I blame dearth tranquillity on mental chaos and resurfaced memories.

Why do I feel lost?

I am not my past. I am the future. I breathe and exist in a world I created, where life is good, love is reciprocated, and fulfilment is inevitable.

Yet, I am at war with myself.

The daisy twirled in my pinched fingers. I plucked the delicate white petals. “Will you stand there all evening?” Only the yellow central disc remained. “It is your garden, after all.” From the corner of my eye, two pale pink slippers adorned in symbolic crucifixes entered my peripheral. “Do you attend church?”

Valerie sat on the concrete step, her thigh pressed against mine. “Every Sunday.”

Solar lentigines speckled her translucent hands. “Why?”

“To engage in worship,” she said as if that even made an iota of sense. “Confession allows reconciliation. God’s mercy helps me sleep at night.”

I snapped the daisy stem, so brittle and frail. “God’s mercy.” My thick voice aired disbelief. “Do you express remorse and contrition for transgressions?”

“Yes.” Her fingers toyed with the religious chain around her neck. “I seek God’s forgiveness.”

“At what point did you wrong him?”

“Adultery, theft,” she said, her face screwed up in self-loathing.

It ached to breathe. “You have a distorted perception of reality. How can you kneel and repent before a presumed deity yet unsympathetically avoid those deserving of consideration? Three decades and you do not come to me and beg forgiveness. I am your son,” I said throatily. “Where is the infinite penitence?” Distressed by my seethed loathing, she lumbered with the cigarette packet. “You brought me into the world and left me to rot. I deserve answers.”

“You will not be satisfied either way.” Her hands shook as she lit a cigarette. “I explained before. It’s not enough.”

“When asked direct questions, you tergiversate,” I highlighted, and she never dared to deny it. “Everything is cryptic. Nothing makes logistical sense. You lost me to the system. You signed into a rehabilitation centre for rigorous abstention from intoxicants. With newfound sobriety, you sought legal counsel and appealed for custody. Correct?”

Valerie expelled smoke.

“The judge denied your appeal and terminated parental rights,” I continued. “In the meantime, you lead a normal life. You birthed another son. His father, Raymond, the very person who drove you to self-destruction, refused to acknowledge his firstborn.” The wood pigeon foraged to nest. “Did he not hold me once?”

Her breathing thickened. “No.”

I nodded in acceptance. “You found me years later. I walked right past you, yet you said nothing.”

“I explained my reasoning,” she defended herself. “You looked happy—”

“How could you know what I felt? I was a stranger,” I snapped, and her teary eyes, brimmed in guilt, settled on the ground. “Go ahead. Ask me.”

Valerie flicked cigarette ash onto the step. “I am not sure I understand.” When I waited, her chest expanded. “Were you happy?”

“I was so fucking lonely,” I said, and her surprised gaze jerked up. “I resided in a filthy, inhabitable bedsit. I only trained at Rex’s for company.”

Her lips quivered.

“Back then, I didn’t know the meaning of happiness. The morning sun,” I recalled the heat on my face as I traversed through cities, “was my only witness.” Her hand gingerly grazed my elbow. Bristling from her affections, I hissed through gritted teeth. “I’d have sold my soul to the devil to have you knock on my door.”

Valerie’s head hung low in despondency.

I extracted the folder from under my leg and tossed it on her thighs. “You are a coward.”

Her fingers trembled as she skimmed pages.

“How can you approach your long lost son, huh?” Popping a cigarette in the corner of my lips, I matched a flame and lit the end. “How do you explain to a fifteen-year-old boy that life was simply better without him?”

Valerie read the report. “Liam—”

“Warren,” I spat, and she grimaced. “You do not address me informally. We are not equals. You are inferior.” My fingers seized her jaw, and her almond-shaped eyes, filled with regretful devastation, bore into me. “I am unequalled.”

She stared at me like I was a monster. “If you will let me explain—”

“You lied to me. There is no evidence to support the assertion that you fought for me.” My fingers pinched her sunken cheeks. “There was no legal counsel or terminated parental rights. You moved on and never looked back.”

Her fingers curled around my wrist.

“People wonder why I am fucked up.” My lips twisted in disdain. “I am angry. Bitter. You and Raymond,” I flipped open a Stanley knife, “have a lot to answer for.”

“No,” she whimpered, recoiling from the blunt blade. “I made mistakes, but I never stopped loving you—”

“You forgot about me.” The blade nicked her skin. “Now, you will always remember what I did to you.” I sliced a deep, crescent-shaped mark down her cheek, and the pain, too much to endure, ripped a loud, husky scream from her throat. The Stanley knife dropped to the concrete between us for my thumb to staunch the blood leaking from her open-fleshed laceration. “Unconditional love?” My teeth trapped my bottom lip. “It does not exist.”

Her blood began to dilute from tears. “Yes, it does,” she croaked, her fingernails cutting into my wrist. “Every time I face my reflection, I will see the scar and ache for the man forced to seek justice. You might be in touch with reality, but you are not a parent. You will never understand love with no limitations until it is your son in pursuit of retribution. You are destined to fail, Liam. He, too, will turn his back on you, but you will continue to love him from afar.” Her snivelling increased. “Much like I do with my baby.”

“You wish for the children of my future to loathe all that I am.” My thumb swept wet crimson across her lips. “You really are an irredeemable fucking bitch.” I shoved her head to the side and stood while redoing the button of my suit jacket. “You might want to thank your beloved Vincent for my handiwork. If it weren’t for him, I’d have ripped you from the inside out and left you to rot in the gutter.”

Valerie’s bloodied fingers pressed to the gash. “What I told Alexa,” she said, and my footsteps slowed. “Please, for his sake, take it to the grave.”

I pinned her with a haughty glare. “Come again.”

“Vincent.” Ignoring the pain, the blood, she sparked another cigarette. “He was born of rape. I shared as much with Alexa when she visited and knew she’d tell you. I do not ask for selfish reasons.” Smoke escaped her trembling lips. “Please do not burden him.”

Why did Alexa come here?

When did Alexa come here?

“Your wife didn’t tell you,” she said, her skin greying in colour. “Please—”

“Do you honestly think I’d bury your lies?” I sneered, and premature devastation saturated her eyes. “My brother is not weak. If Vincent was conceived by rape, then he deserves to know.”

“How can you say that?” she argued, pushing to her feet. “Don’t be cruel. Spare him from Raymond’s atrocities.”

“It is your lies that brought us here.” My heart bled for him. “I am not afraid of the truth. Unlike you.”

Sheer panic had her mouth blubbering. “Then, let me be the one to tell him.”

“You had over twenty fucking years to tell him,” I said angrily. “You put a wedge between brothers for long enough. You can no longer hide him from me, Valerie.” She was pale in dread. “By the time I am finished, he’ll want nothing to do with you.”

***

I strolled through the inactive reggae bar, lost the suit jacket and perched onto the metal stool. “I thought I’d find you here.”

Vincent stared into an empty whiskey glass. “Brother.” He turned to me, his blood-shot eyes to mine. “What can I do for you?” He wore a tight, sombre expression on his face. “Well?”

Pungent whiskey emitted from his body. “I think you have had enough.” I reached for the bottle, and he snatched it away. “Vincent…”

“Valerie called,” he slurred, pointing at me with the bottleneck in hand. “But you knew that already. Go ahead.” He almost slipped off the stool. “Rub it in.” Guzzling whiskey from the bottle, he pulled it back too soon, and the brown liquid trickled down his chin. “Liam Warren knows best. I should have listened.” He went quiet. “I feel it now,” he rambled on. “I suppose that enthrals you.”

I sat mutely.

“Now, I am in your shoes.” His mumbling revisited the unfilled glass as he shook droplets onto his tongue. “Now, I want to unearth the man I once called father and destroy his remains. Happy? I’m not. Well, I can’t explain how I feel.” He licked his top teeth. “Definitely not happy.”

The stool legs shrieked across the floor as he staggered to his full height. He towered over me, the glass in one hand, the bottle in the other.

I placed a hand on his squared chest. “Vincent, I am not the problem.”

“No?” His brows jumped to his hairline while his eyes danced wildly. “You have resented me since the moment I aired our bloodline.” The old yet hardened man behind the bar furtively listened to our conversation. “Why do you look at him? He is an employee. He is not a threat, you fucking—”

“That’s enough.” I bolted to my feet and put us nose-to-nose. “You foolish drunk—”

His hand crashed into my chest and, although our glares never faltered, I knew he’d released the bottle because glass shattered. “Vincent—” He threw a punch. I captured his fist before his knuckles connected with my jaw. “You can fight me. But you will lose.”

Vincent’s fist twitched beneath my fingers. “We are an abomination.” His arm slackened to his side. “We are no better than the people who gave us life.”

“Do not associate us with them.” My palms cupped his cheeks, and he fought to turn his head, but I held tighter, forcing him to face me. “Look me in the eyes,” I ordered, and his lachrymose gaze lifted. “I got you.”

He pried my hands down. “I feel like my entire life is a lie.”

“It is,” I said candidly, which he expected. “I felt the same when I sat on our mother’s porch. Can you believe, after everything she has done, I still care? I still walked away because killing her was not an option.” He listened closely. “I even wanted her to fight for me. How pathetic?”

Vincent’s lip ticked at the corner. “Very poetic.”

I laughed under my breath. “Poetic indeed.”

Fragmented whiskey pooled beneath our feet. He studied the spillage. “Where do I go from here?” he asked, but the question was for himself.

“You go wherever I go,” I said, and our eyes aligned. “We are brothers, Vincent. Their web of lies cannot take that from us. Not anymore.” I grabbed our discarded suit jackets and gestured to the door. “Walk with me.”

He hauled his weight from the side of the bar and, steadying his feet, stumbled in front of me. I reached the door beforehand, held it open, and exited behind his unsteady footsteps.

“Where are we going?” He tugged on the suit jacket, fixing the buttons incorrectly. “Another drink?”

I kept a close eye on him. “No.”

Vincent stopped walking.

I stopped walking.

His head tilted back to tour the stars. “How did you survive?”

Fuck, is this how I behave when intoxicated? “Survive what?”

His hands signalled aimlessly. “Living on the streets.”

I was unprepared for the question. “Why?”

“I often wonder.” He sagged onto the first available bench, patting the wood for me to join him. “Well?”

I sat beside him. “Lucky, I guess.”

His eyes rolled.

“I met this eccentric Jamaican,” I began, and his arms stretched across the bench rear to get comfortable. “He loved Bob Marley. He sang like him, too. His love for music, that’s how I found him. I would sit on a bench and listen to him play the guitar for hours.” I was suddenly suffocated by nostalgia. “When he first approached me, I barely understood a word he said. He knew I was alone, so he took me under his wing and made me feel important.” His raw, disembodied tone of voice husked in my ears. “I loved him.”

Vincent’s bewildered stare intensified. “What’s his name?”

I cleared my throat. “Bill.”

He gave me a long, prolonged look. “He died.”

My cheek muscle throbbed.

His hand squeezed the nape of my neck.

Burying the memories, I released the breath I was holding. “Your turn.”

“I’m an open book.” A cigarette balanced on his lower lip. “It’s you that carry secrets.”

“Let’s agree to disagree.” Arms resting on my thighs, I turned my neck and, from under heavy brows, watched him respire smoke towards the heavens. “I love you, Vincent. Truly.”

Taken aback, he lowered his forearms to his knees. “I know,” he said smugly. “I feel it.” Thick black strands of hair irritated the bridge of his nose. “I love you, too.” His shoulder nudged mine. “Truly.”

“You are here for a reason. Do not let Valerie’s revelation make you think otherwise. Tomorrow is a new day.”

“I quite like this brotherly side of you.” He blew out a slew of smoke. “If getting pissed guarantees your attention, I might do it more often.”

Low, throaty laughter fell from my lips. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He gave me a boyish smile.

My phone vibrated.

I fished it out of my pocket.

Nate: They are not here.

Me: What?

Nate: Nonna and Miliana.

Nate: It’s my third visit to their hotel room.

My thumbs tapped the screen.

Me: Did you get their passports?

Nate: Yes.

Me: And Nonna’s case is still in the room?

Nate: Yes, Sir.

Vincent glanced at the screen. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course,” I said, albeit unsure. “Shall we eat?”

Chucking the cigarette on the floor, he stumped it under his shoe. “Yes.”

Me: Speak to the hotel manager. He may know something.

Nate: No problem.

I sent another message.

Me: Goodnight, Beautiful.

Message delivered.

Message read.

Alexa never replied.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Liam

Everything looked right yet felt wrong. Untouched bed. Unopened suitcase. Unconsumed snacks. Locked en-suite. Eerie Immaculateness. I stood in the middle of the room, the floor to ceiling windows adorned in regal curtains to my left, the untampered door to my right.

“Maybe Nonna contacted Alberto,” Nate thought, his gloved hands unzipping the small leather trinket box. On the foam padding: NovoRapid and Levemir. “Insulin. Nonna’s diabetic.”

I picked up the floppy-eared bunny. “What did the manager have to say?”

“Not much.” Nate’s uneasiness portrayed how I felt. “According to hotel staff, Nonna never left the room.”

I placed the stuffed animal on the pillow. “Did you check the surveillance?”

“Yes, Sir,” he drawled in that deep, London accent.

“What about the ventilation shaft?” Brad climbed onto the bed and, hands raised to the ceiling, examined the vent’s four, fixed screws. “It’s loose. Is Nonna small enough to climb through?”

Nonna is short, trim and, on the eye, healthy. “Plausible.”

“She left her medication.” Nate chucked the woman’s reusable pens and prefilled insulin cartridges into the holdall. “I don’t think she came out of this room willingly.”

Brad slumped onto the bed, the bunny in hand, and toyed with its floppy ears. “Nonna’s Italian. What’s the difference between misdirection and misleading? Nada. I bet she planned everything out strategically—put the teddy on the chair, leave the bags on the floor, forget the supplemented insulin—knowing you’d come in here and think the worst. Meanwhile, Nonna is on a bus somewhere, riding off into the sunset. Little Miss Miliana in tow.”

“He has a point.” Nate’s inked hand clasped his chin. “Perhaps Nonna’s en route to Moretti. Irrelevant to the strained relationship between him and Angelo, Miliana is still his granddaughter.”

No, I trust my gut. Nonna feared me, but she feared the bad guy more. When I offered to send them back to Italy, she voiced bona fide gratitude. “Perhaps.”

“Listen, Bossman.” Brad’s legs swung off the bed. “You got enough on your plate. Angelo’s kid? She’s not our problem. Let it go.”

Nate nodded in concord. “Besides, I got a location for Diego, remember?” He stared with amusement. “If anyone can help us track down Alberto, it’s Angelo’s gay lover.”

Brad bore a conflicted expression. “Diego and Moretti may be in cahoots, though.”

“No,” I disagreed. “Moretti acknowledged three children. Angelo was not one of them. Perhaps he shares the same anachronistic values as Diego’s mother, Pamina Serafini. If Moretti opposed his son’s bisexuality, he’d disregard Angelo’s lover out of spite.”

“Surely, Diego wants answers,” Brad said in thought. “Alexa claimed the men were in love. What if we allowed him to believe Moretti’s behind Angelo’s disappearance? Vengeance may encourage negotiation.”

I remained indifferent. “Indeed.”

***



I am parked on the quartz worktop, tucking into an overflowing bowl of cereal when Josh, bare-chested, dressed in Jace’s low hung jogging bottoms, enters the kitchen’s adjacent living room.

Last night, Josh broke into the shared apartment, joined the gang downstairs for music and alcohol, and then refused to leave when I called it a night.

Josh crashed on the leather sofa until midday, helped himself to Jace’s shower, manscape products and comfortable clothes, including socks, and then, just to be a complete and utter asshole, he unlocked Harlyn’s bedroom door, pounced on the bed and, after scaring the living crap out of me, bounced me senseless onto the floor.

I am not his friend until further notice.

“Normal people eat cereal for breakfast,” Josh tells me as if I weren’t already aware. “It is teatime. Make normal food, woman. I am hungry.”

“Why are you still here?” I chewed crunchy nut flakes. “Do you not have something more productive to do, like, I don’t know, hunt people down and gut them like a fish?” Unable to find decent food in the fridge, he slammed the door in a huff and eyed my bowl with greedy interest. “Don’t you dare—” He snatched my wrist and, invigorated by my struggle, spooned milk-doused cereal into his mouth. “Josh!”

“Heaven.” He groaned with gusto. “Please share.”

I pointed to the top of the fridge, where a variety of boxed cereals awaited. “Make your own.” His lower lip jutted out, and, of course, I mothered him. “Fine.” I hand over the goods. “Knock yourself out.”

Josh put his back to the counter, his hips nestled between my parted thighs. “I love you.”

My chin rested on his shoulder. “Ditto.”

While slurping milk from the spoon, Josh’s head wiggled, silently asking me to play with his hair. “Please.”

He can get stuffed. “No.”

“Go on.” His head dropped back to look up at me, and those soft, chocolate brown puppy dog eyes melted my heart. “Tickle my scalp. I will return the favour by sucking your toes.”

My brow puckered in disgust. “Are you sure you don’t have a secret foot fetish?”

Josh considered my question. “I don’t know.” The possibility humoured him. “I guess I should find out.” He went for my toes, so I stuffed my legs behind his back. “Quit being a fucking ball ache.”

“Well, keep your paws off my feet,” I half-joked as he drank milk from the bowl. “Have you seen Jace?”

Josh leaned over me to place the empty bowl in the sink. “He’s downstairs inking some girl’s arse.” His hands played the drum on my thighs. “An incredible arse, I must add. Phat. Juicy. Lickable”

Accustomed to his lewdness, I slipped off the counter to pop the kettle on and veered from edible bottoms. “Charlotte?”

“I think she’s in Jace’s bedroom.” He arranged mugs on the bespeckled granite chopping board. “I might get a sleeve.” His arm flexed. “Something to tie in with the skull.”

I marvelled at his inked fist.

He drank milk from the carton. “Have you messaged Warren back?”

No, and it’s killing me. I don’t want to ignore my husband, but silent treatment is necessary for a brighter future.

“He’s worried,” Josh picked up where he left out. “He has texted non-stop since I arrived, asking for updates.” A steamy mug of coffee landed in my hand. “Just put him out of his misery.”

“I’ll message Liam later,” I lied to get him off my back.

Jared came into the living room. “How’s the head?”

“Fine.” I barely touched a drop of alcohol last night. “Are you done for the day?”

“Yes.” Kicking off his black combat boots, Jared stabilised an unlit cigarette behind his ear and stole the coffee in my hand. “It was unusually quiet. I did one portrait and two tragus piercings.”

“Book me in for a sleeve,” Josh pretty much demanded. “Tomorrow. Nice and early.”

“Sure,” Jared’s keen. “What design?”

Josh pondered briefly. “I quite like the whole good versus evil.”

Jared’s unblinking, vacant eyes stared into space as he mentally sketched designs. “I’ll get on the thermal fax later to make stencils.” And then, rubbing his stomach, he added, “I fancy barbeque food.”

Josh’s eyes lit up. “Are we talking a few measly burgers or the whole shebang?”

“If you cook, I can buy a disposable grill.” Jared unlocked his phone to google stores within our vicinity that sell throw away charcoal trays. “You know, the weather is decent. Rooftop cookout?”

“I am in.” Josh’s palms smoothed together. “Alexa can prepare the salad. Don’t let her beat the meat.”

I met his taunting eyes. “Asshole.”

“I’ll wait for Shane to finish downstairs.” Jared tucked his phone inside his jean’s pocket. “Any preferences?”

Unzipping his wallet, Josh stuffed notes into Jared’s hand. “Potato salad, portobello mushrooms, coleslaw, spicy rice, chicken wings and prime steaks. Buy spuds, too. And some lamb kofta. Cheese and pineapple sticks.”

I gave him a look of disbelief. “You can’t have cheese and pineapple sticks on a barbecue.”

Josh was primed for debate. “Why?”

I didn’t have the energy to argue with him.

“I want the cheese and pineapple,” Josh stressed, pointing at Jared. “Right?”

Jared blinked twice. “Right.”

“Don’t forget the burgers and baps.” Josh handed over another twenty-pound note. “I might drink beer.”

“Beer?” I mused, and his dimple dented. “That’s new.”

“It’s beer garden weather.” Josh’s wallet landed on the counter. “All we need now is some decent birds.” With that, Harlyn floated into the living room, black, skin-tight jeans, a thin-strapped vest, a bright blue hoodie wrapped around her waist. “Never mind. I quite like that one.”

Harlyn’s blind to Josh’s approbation. “What are you whispering about?” When she sat on the edge of the sofa, her full, ample breasts pushed together, giving everyone a glorious view of her cleavage. “Guys?”

I chewed my inner cheek.

Josh had a toothy smile. “Barbeque food and gorgeous views.”

His unsubtle innuendo had her by the tongue.

I grabbed the spare coffee and excused myself from the room. Down the hall I went, knocking on Jace’s bedroom door. I peered inside, locating Charlotte on the floor, doing stomach crunches. “Josh made coffee.” Setting the mug on the dresser, I slumped onto the upholstered armchair and hiked my knees to my chest. “How’s the hangover?”

“Oh, I never drink.” She breathed through sets of sit-up exercises. “So, Jared mentioned a barbeque.”

I frowned. “You heard that, huh?”

“It’s hard not to.” Rolling onto her stomach, she positioned her hands to the ground and pushed into a press-up. “Thin walls.”

Yes, I am privy to the not-so-soundproof walls. Try sleeping through a lover’s spat, I thought, remembering Charlotte’s and Jace’s failed attempt to privatise their maniacal controversy last night. I heard everything. And I mean everything. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Charlotte towel-dried sweat dripping down her neck. “Maybe we can decorate,” she suggested. “I bought outdoor string lights for the summer, but we could use them tonight.” She had a drawer in Jace’s bedroom. And space in his wardrobe. “We can arrange duvets and pillows.”

“Sure.” Her enthusiasm brushed off on me. “I mean, why not? It’ll be fun.”

Her cheeks puffed as she regarded me. “I have a confession to make.”

Charlotte’s apprehensive about our friendship, Jace’s and mine. Another snippet of information I caught with my fingers buried in my ears last night. But Alexa is not so bad, she told him. Now that I have gotten to know her, I hate myself for being so rude all the time.

Do you think she noticed?

Yes, I had noticed, Charlotte. For Jace’s sake, I pretended not to notice. But you like me now, so all is right in the world.

Note the sarcasm.

“I really love him,” she said somewhat sadly. “Jace, I mean. He’s it for me, Alexa.”

I faked a supportive smile. “I am happy for you.”

“I felt blindsided.” Her fingers weaved nervously. “Threatened even. Jace never mentioned a female best friend before I met you. It took me off guard. And it didn’t help that you were so pretty,” she whispered, a tad meek. “If at any point I offended you, I am sorry. You are important to him, which makes you important to me. I guess what I am trying to say is, can we start over? Like, wipe the slate clean.”

My smile widened. “Sure.”

“Oh, thank God.” Her elated breath flew out. “Jace will be so happy.” I must have pulled a face because she stuttered, “No, it’s not just about Jace. I want us to be friends regardless of our relationship with him.”

“Charlotte,” I held up two hands, “please calm down. I am not upset or offended, or piqued. It’s all good.” However, I might join Josh for that beer. “Well, enjoy your workout. I am going to take a shower before Jared’s rooftop cookout.”

“It will be fun.” Her hands clapped. “Oh, shall I head upstairs to do the lights, or should I wait for you?”

“You do the lights,” I said, and she kneeled on the floor to extract boxes from under Jace’s bed. “I’ll be up soon with blankets.”

I closed the bedroom door behind me, rested my back on the wall and expelled a tired breath.

Maybe Charlotte isn’t a bad choice for Jace, after all.

***



I have misplaced Bill’s gloves. Nate provided black latex gloves as an alternative, but I felt indisposed without the old, frayed leather. Inhaling cigarette smoke, I wiggled my fingers into the rubbery texture.

“Boss?” Brad watched as my fingers uncurled. “You can afford new gloves.”

Of course, I can afford new gloves. I could walk into Harrods tomorrow and purchase Salvatore Ferragamo if need be. I want the old, frayed leather, though. I want the priceless pair that hold sentimental value, the ones worn by the very man I cherished.

I flicked the cigarette on the pavement.

Nate, adjusting his upturned beanie hat, led us down a gully, the untameable weeds snaking into the overgrown gardens on either side.

“Any update on Blaire?” Brad asked, and the corded muscle in Nate’s back wrung tighter. “Just curious.” My right-hand man raised two hands in mock surrender. “No need to envision my death, Nathaniel.”

“Fuck you, Brad.” Nate turned right down the gully, and we followed. “Ridicule me another night. We got shit to do.”

“I am a man of many talents,” Brad chimed. “Multitasking is one of them. When you find the traitor, how do you plan to make her suffer? Knife? Gun? A harsh spanking over your knee.”

Nate spun around to glare at Brad across my shoulder. “Blaire used me,” he said, quiet yet enraged. “All this time, I had her back, lost the brothers’ respect. Risked syndicate dissociation.” Embarrassment cast shade on his cheeks. “Am I mad? Hell yeah, I am fucking mad. Go ahead, Brad. Laugh it up. You tried to warn me, and I was too pussy whipped to listen. Satisfied? Good. You were right. I was wrong. So, can you get off my fucking dick for one night, or is it the goal to humiliate me further?”

Brad’s hilarity diminished. “I am an offensive person,” he said, sounding regretful. “You know I am all bark with the brothers. I mean no harm.” His eyes softened. “Listen, if it’s any consolation, I am not judging. I wish it were different for you. I know how much you want to settle.”

“Yeah.” Nate broke eye contact first. “It is what it is, though.”

I ran a hand down my face. “Now that everyone’s kissed and made up, I’d like to proceed.”

“Boss,” they said in unison.

Diego Serafini lived in a small, three-bedroom council house. His back garden was easily accessible due to the vandalised fence. I squeezed between broken slats, stepped straight into overhead grass and, unable to see through the thick green blades, blindly headed north.

Nate reached the back door, picked the lock, and moved aside for me to enter first. It smelt pleasant on arrival, and the clean, bohemian decor seemed to match throughout. The men started inside the box-sized kitchen, hunting the drawers for invaluable information, while I inspected the living room. Leather shoes sat on the fringed rug. An empty plate on the coffee table. A wine bottle, two glasses.

Floorboards complained overhead.

I went upstairs.

“Diego.” His shadow stilled behind the bedroom door at the end of the unlit hall. “Why do you hide from me?” My hands tucked into my trouser pockets. “Well?”

The door opened, and light filtered into the hall. Diego’s dark, petrified eyes peeked around the frame. “I am not a faggot.”

Another unhinged Italian. “I never asked.”

“I am not a faggot,” he whimpered, his pink polished fingernails splaying across his orange-painted lips. “Non sono un frocio.”

I stepped forward.

“No,” he squealed, throwing the door in my face.

I counted to ten inside my head. “Must we play games?” Seizing the brass doorknob, I piledrive into his flamboyantly decorated bedroom. “Diego…” I am not rendered speechless often, but when faced with sultry looking mannequins and ominous music thumping from the Bluetooth speaker, it’s hard to find your voice. “Do you need a moment?” Sarcasm dripped from my tongue. “My time is not that valuable.”

Diego’s floral skirt fell to the knees. His bra, filled with lace underwear, hung from his broad, muscular shoulders. “I am not a faggot!” He ripped the blonde wig off his head to reveal dark brown locks. “Just go home.”

I gave him a wolfish smirk. “I can’t do that.”

Diego shrieked again, slapping two palms on the zebra print wall. Bang. Bang. Bang. His head shook from side to side as if to remove the contemptuous voices in his ears.

I laughed genuine laughter. “You are fucking mad.”

“Sei un fottuto sciocco,” he said vehemently, his spittle airborne between us. “What do you want, Warren? Have you not broken me enough, huh?” He began to cry, and as he wiped his faux-lashed eyes, mascara smudged across his sharp, glittering cheekbones. “Look at me. I am in pain.” He snivelled. “Cosa hai fatto ad Angelo? Where did you take him? I want him back.”

My brow incurved. “Angelo?”

Ripping tissue out of the chrome holder, he blew his nose, and phlegm rattled. “Sì.”

“Why do you care?” I provoked him because I could. “I thought you weren’t a faggot.”

“I am not a faggot!” His voice pitched to acidic repulsion. “Lo amo come un fratello!”

Yes, and I was born yesterday. “I have no reason to harm Angelo,” I said stoically. “Why do you presume I am responsible for his disappearance?”

Bright blue contact lenses irritated his narrowing eyes. “Is he not in your care?”

I simply stared.

“Bastardo,” he growled under his breath. “Suo padre. Alberto?”

“Yes, or so I was told.” My foot propped against the wall behind me. “Moretti. Where is he?”

Diego’s tears dried up. Merriment replaced his frown. “Why?”

What an eccentrically strange young man.

“He stole something from me,” I said, and he winced. “I want it back.”

“Ah,” he cooed in a feminine voice. “Vuoi i diamanti. Well, I am of no help to you, Warren. I, too, want the diamonds. But I don’t always get what I want, do I? You see,” he gestured to the messy double bed and, while he rambled on about missing his friend, Angelo, I unobtrusively scrutinised the pillow he had used to conceal the fresh blood on the white sheet. “Do we have a deal?”

“A deal,” I repeated in a whispery undertone. “Are you injured?”

“Injured? No.” Diego’s neck sunk into his hiked shoulders. “Well, what do you say? If I help you find Alberto, will you help me recover Angelo?”

I looked down the dark hall to the other bedroom. “Do you have company?” Before he could answer, I strode across the hallway, shouldered into the locked door and found Nonna’s pale, lifeless body on the floor. Purple bruised her neck. Dry blood caked the apex of her thighs, where her cotton underwear—torn to shreds, ripped down her legs in a vicious assault—abraded her skin. I fell into the bedside table, knocking over the lamp, the wax burner spilling pink, mouldable substance on the cord carpet. “Diego…” Dread snatched my heart, threatened to crush it. “No.” On idle legs, I rushed back to his room. He stared, long and searching. Not once did he blink. His blood-curdling smile and menacing eyes craving attention. “You killed her,” I whispered, and his lips pursed. “You sick motherfucker.”

“How dare you judge me?” His roar ricocheted. “You have no regard for human life. Do not stand there and pick on me.”

“Where is she?” My trembling hand obtained the Eagle. His eyes protruded in panic. “Where is the girl, Diego?”

“I…” He dashed toward the door.

I snatched his greasy hair, and he screamed, thrashing his arms and legs. Lunging him across the room, I captured him by the neck, smashed his cheek into the wall and thrust the cold barrel under his jittering chin. “What did you do?” I uncapped the Eagle’s safety lock. “What the fuck did you do?”

“I am not a faggot; I am not a faggot,” he repeated the mantra in denial. “I am not—”

“Shut the fuck up!” My body quivered with rage. “Where is she? You better fucking tell me, Diego. I will kill you. So help me fucking God, I will ruin you.”

“I don’t know,” he cried, and I could not determine the truth from lies. “Nonna came here to kill me. I had to hurt her; I had to; I had to; I had to.” And then, ever so subtly, his terror-filled eyes flicked to the en-suite door. “If you help me—” I punched him in the face, the blow shattering his nose. His body toppled into the vanity table, his weight crushing bottled fragrances and beauty cosmetics. “No.” His scream accelerated. “Warren! Don’t go in there—”

I booted the bathroom door open, crossed the small space and, unprepared, drew the dirty shower curtain aside. Bloodied water stained the bath to the rim. Floral underwear that belonged to a child floated on the surface.

I was suddenly cold.

No, I was terrified.

Dropping to one knee, I stuck one arm into the water, felt something—no, someone—immersed in gore, and a guttural groan ripped from my lips.
My forearm elevated the person’s head, and when blue eyes appeared, I snatched my arm back, the red water splashing onto the tiled floor in waves, loud and final.

Wrestling for oxygen, I fell on my backside in hysteria.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” Diego sobbed regrets somewhere in the back of my mind. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

Acidulous bile breached my throat. I whacked open the toilet seat and vomited. I choked through each violent interval, the sharp, unescapable pain in my chest, unlike anything I had ever experienced before.

Diego’s heeled feet dashed down the hallway.

A dark, predatory veil fell over my eyes.

I snatched the Eagle off the floor, pushed to my feet and chased behind him. By the time I got to the stairs, his tall, gangly legs had reached the bottom step. I aimed fire, right in the thigh. He bellowed, crashed into the front door and, eyeballing me over one shoulder, dragged himself into the living room, leaving a long, meandering trail of blood across the ground.

Towering the pathetic man, I stomped my foot onto his back, speared my fingers into his ruptured thigh and, increasing his anguish, ignoring his pitiful beseeching, wriggled them to locate the bullet. “And I thought I was a monster,” I said through snarled teeth. “Did you touch her?” My erratic heartbeat deceived my composure. “Did you fucking touch her, Diego?”

“Please,” he cried like a little boy, his cheek squished to the floor. “I didn’t mean to do it—”

My knee replaced my foot on his lower back. I clutched the nape of his neck, purposefully digging my fingers into his skin, and put my mouth to his ear. “Did you touch her?” Brad, not confused by my anger but curious by my upset, emerged from the kitchen. “I asked you a fucking question!”

“Yes.” Spit dribbled down his chin. “Yes, I did. I did what you accuse. Please don’t hurt me; I didn’t mean to do it; I didn’t mean to—”

His words twisted the knife in my chest. I hurled the extracted bullet at the wall and forced myself to retreat. “I will kill him.” My voice hitched. “I will fucking kill him, Brad.”

Diego tried to stand. Brad booted him under the chin, sending his body into a heap across the rug. “I can deal with him.” Brad selected an iron poker from the old-fashioned fireplace and exposed the man’s backside. “I promise to take my time.”

Nodding numbly, I ascended the stairs to the sound of Diego’s piercing screams, returned to the bathroom and swallowed the vomit determined to rupture my throat.

Removing my suit jacket, I kneeled by the bath, unbuttoned my shirt and spread the cotton material on the floor. I momentarily closed my eyes, delved my arms under the water and, with careful consideration, dragged Miliana’s small, naked body onto my lap. “I’m sorry, princess,” I whispered, counting the wall tiles while I covered her with my shirt. Too small. Too precious. Her soaked curls adhered to my chest. Her legs slacked over my thighs. “I’m so sorry.”

I sensed Nate behind us.

“Shit,” he extended lowly. “Ah, fuck. Is that? No.” His heavy footsteps drifted down the hall. “Brad…”

I took out my phone, dialled Reginald’s number and set the phone to my ear.

“Reginald,” he answered after two rings.

“Miliana D’Agostino.” A warm tear rolled down my cheek. “I want her body returned to her mother, Ingrid D’Agostino. Italy.”

Reginald was quiet, and then, he asked, “What happened?”

It hurt to talk. “Brad will call you back.”

I ended the call and chanced to look down.

Miliana’s round, soulless blue eyes stared back at me. “I failed you.” Her blue-tinted lips were a stark contrast to her pale, cold to touch the skin. “Your death will forever haunt me.”

***



Plush duvets and embroidered pillows tessellated the concrete floor beneath varicoloured solar lights, the fine string, skirting the rooftop’s contemporary shelter, and the nearby barbeque, griddled pitta bread for Josh’s kebab.

Background music played. Jared, Shane and Jace, engrossed in conversation, nursed bottled beers while overseeing the panoramic views of London at night.

I am sprawled across the blankets, picking at the beer bottle’s label. “Is she asleep?”

Harlyn’s head stayed on the pillow. “I have no idea.”

Shifting closer to the pouting blonde, I poked her arm, nothing, then gently tapped her polka dot eye mask. “Hey.” I nudged her once more. “Are you awake?”

Charlotte’s light snores ensued.

I stared at the snoring blonde, somewhat fascinated. “How did she do that?”

Harlyn deliberately huffed out an exasperated sigh.

My fingertips traced the duvet’s sequined pattern. “She was talking my ear off less than five seconds ago.”

Pink-haired and peevish muttered something inaudible.

Right, I am in no mood for cranky females.

“Okay.” I moved away from the crazy lazy. “Enjoy your dark corner.” Jesus, Harlyn. I like you, but you are one helluva buzz kill tonight. “I will see if the guys want to watch paint dry.”

“Do you want a burger?” Josh asked as I sauntered toward the rattan seating area. “A large, wobbly sausage, perhaps.”

I stopped, looked at him. “What?”

His biting tongs aimed at the chargrilled frankfurters. “Mustard?” With a naughty twinkle in his eye, his teeth ploughed into a brioche bun. “Creamy, squirting mayo?”

My hands went to my hips. “Dripping tomato ketchup.”

You’d think I slapped him the way he cringed. “Gross. What the fuck?”

“No ketchup?” I asked in musing. “But you love anything red and watery.”

“Not that,” he spurned, and I had to nip my lip to stall mirth. “Thanks for ruining my favourite sauce, Alexa. You can take a hike with that ghastly visual.”

“Really? You put mayonnaise and seminal fluid in the same context and have the nerve to say I ruined your favourite sauce. I will never lick mayo again without thinking of you-know-what.”

Josh stared at me like I was an alien. “Seminal fluid?”

I raised one hand. “Don’t go there.”

“What the fuck am I listening to?” Jace barked from the shadows. “Alexa, come here.”

I threw my hands up. “Gladly.”

When I reached the others, Jace, using the front of his boot, hauled a spare chair over. “You good?”

“Yes.” I sat tall, crossing one leg over the opposite knee. “It’s nice up here. You should do more, though. In the corner, I think an outdoor bar with stools and actual beer kegs and pumps. Hey, you could even open the side entrance to the public and charge entry fees at the door. Rooftop jamboree.” I adopted a french accent. “Late-night al fresco.”

Jared piped in. “Yes, I want it.”

“No.” Jace kicked his feet onto the wooden crane utilised as a low table. “I got my hands full with the studio.” His icy green eyes zoned past my head to Josh. The Suit stood there in his half-naked glory, flirting with Harlyn. Well, Jace did not like it. “Yeah, I got my hands full with the studio.”

I slid a puzzled glance to Shane.

He shrugged in response.

“That’s cool, man,” Jared resigned. “What about an outdoor swimming pool?”

Jace’s jaw honed. “I got my hands full with the studio.”

I stared at Jace’s untouched beer. “Are you drunk?”

His angry eyes came back to me. “What?”

“Why are you repeating yourself?” My brows scrunched into a frown. “Your hands are full. Duly noted.”

“What?” It took him a while to answer the question. “Right. Yeah. Thanks.”

“Dude, where is your head right now?’ Jared snorted amusedly. “He’s been in la-la-land ever since he got back from the wedding. Ain’t that right?”

Jace chose not to answer.

I watched him subtly.

Jared accompanied Shane to the barbeque to reload their paper plates. Rather than sit with us, they stretched out on the blankets to eavesdrop on Josh’s and Harlyn’s conversation.

My best friend looked pained.

“Jace,” I whispered, placing my upturned hand on his denim-clad thigh. His callus-tipped fingers threaded through mine. “Talk to me.”

“I can’t be in a relationship,” he said in a low, strained voice. “I can’t do it, Alexa.”

I nodded slowly.

“I miss it.” He’s angry with himself. “I miss that feeling.”

My thumb swept over his knuckles. “Love?”

“Love,” he agreed. “Intimacy. Passion. I crave it more than ever, but it’s not right with…”

I braved a particular topic. “Because of Lucy?”

He mulled over the question. “No,” he said after a short while, and I masked surprise. “Maybe. Fuck, I don’t even know anymore.”

“Jace,” I said as our eyes aligned. “She’s in love with you.” I meant Charlotte, but his gaze automatically sought Harlyn. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Jace, tugging his collar irritably, leaned in. “Do you feel sick or something?”

Why would I feel sick?

“Jace,” I approached with caution. “I am your best friend. You know that, right?”

He gave me a stiff nod.

“You can tell me anything. I would never judge you.”

His stare roamed my face. “I know.”

“Odds and ends, remember?”

A smirk dented his lips.

“Are you in love with your roommate?” I dared to say, and, for a moment, he looked nonplussed. “Is that why Charlotte’s not right for you?”

“I don’t love anyone,” he said, and I believed him. “Ask me if I can’t stop thinking about Harl?”
He paused. “Alright. You got me.” His head fell into his hands. “I am confused. Before we attended that stupid wedding, I could barely tolerate Harlyn. Now, I lie in bed with my girlfriend at night, thinking of the girl next door. I feel like a fucking sleaze.”

My hand rubbed his back. “Jace, you can’t have both.”

“I know,” he said gruffly.

“And it’s unfair to string someone along if you plan to—”

“No, I will never touch Harlyn again.” He guzzled the rest of his beer. “One of us has to leave. Since I own the building,” his face twisted in discomfort, “I guess it should be her.”

Josh sprayed water in Harlyn’s face, so she threatened to dismantle his manhood.

“Stop.” Jace pushed to his feet to disconnect my hand from his back. “I don’t deserve anyone’s sympathy.”

My friend headed inside.

“Pumpkin,” Josh quipped, and I snagged one of the men’s hoodies from the chair to cover my face. “Ah, don’t be like that. Come over here for hot dogs.”

I might call it a night.

“Alexa,” he crooned, and I peeked under the material. “Come on, Dollface. I miss you.”

He’s acting as though I watch the cookout from across the street. “I am right here, Josh.”

“So close,” he mocked, spritzing water in Charlotte’s face. “Yet so far.”

“Hey!” Charlotte, awakened from the land of the dead, shot upright. “Watch the shoes.”

“Calm your fucking tits.” Wedging a burger in his mouth, Josh, holding metal tongs, faffed with the chicken wings on the grill. “Don’t get all snarky over a pair of cheap daps.”

Charlotte’s face turned beet-red.

“Actually,” I interjected, “McQueen white trainers are quite pricey.”

“Yes.” Charlotte’s middle finger shot up to offend him. “So, sit on this.”

***

I awakened to Josh fidgeting beside me. I stared at the starlit sky, the annoying, muttering sod to my right, talking about his misplaced phone. I had fallen asleep a few hours earlier, too comfortable on the makeshift bed to go inside with the others, and Josh, who promised chivalry wasn’t dead, spurned the sofa for outdoor slumber with his boss’ wife.

Josh rubbed his tired eyes, squinting at the dark skies. “I need my phone,” he groused, hurling display cushions in every direction. “Alexa, help me find it.”

“Does it matter?” I mumbled, nuzzling my cheek to the pillow. “Go back to sleep, Josh.”

“Alexa.” He jerked my shoulder, and my eyes flew back open. “It’s my work phone. And it’s ringing.”

Loud banging downstairs shook some sense into me. I sat up, letting the thin, cotton sheet fall to my waist. “Josh?”

He found the phone. “Fuck.” Tripping over an empty beer bottle, he stood, yanked the white discarded T-shirt over his head and sprinted to the rooftop’s door.

I went to the wall, saw the Bentley parked across the street and equipped myself for Liam’s onslaught.

Inhale. Exhale.

I’ll go downstairs and speak to him…

I took one step when the man appeared in the doorway.

Liam is shirtless, dusted in sweat, splattered in dry blood, but his eyes, wet and soul-destroyed, and his expression, unsmiling and pale, brought the protectiveness out of me.

“What happened?” I went to him, fast and determined, cupped his jaw and searched his void countenance. “Liam, talk to me.”

To my voice, his teary gaze came to me. “Baby,” he whispered almost confusedly. “Hate me again tomorrow. But tonight, I need you.” His lips twisted as he buried his head on my shoulder. “Please don’t turn me away.”

I could barely hold him upright, his body slumped like dead weight, so when I stumbled slightly, he snaked two arms around my back, holding me captive in his protective arms.

There is nothing more devastating than a broken man.

I didn’t need him to tell me how much it hurt. I felt his pain, his sadness, his heartbreak.

Josh emerged from the shadows. He put something heavy by the fire door to prevent us from being locked out and vanished just as quickly.

“Liam.” Interlacing our fingers together, I coaxed him toward the makeshift bed. “Come and lie down with me.”

I rearranged the cushions, stretching onto my back, and invited him to lay next to me.

He collapsed on the duvet, wrapped his arms around my waist and laid his head on my chest. His thumping heartbeat, I could feel it. “I love you,” he said, his voice wretched. “I love you so fucking much.”

I brought his hand to my lips and brushed a kiss across his fingertips. “I love you, too.”

Liam fell asleep on a relieved exhalation.

———————————————————

I will come back to finish the update. ♥️

Thoughts on the chapter?

—Liam?

—Brad?

—Nate?

—Josh?

—Alexa?

—Jace?

—Harlyn?

—Charlotte?

—Jared?

—Shane?

—Diego?

—Nonna?

—Miliana? (Sorry for this one ❤️).

Also, I include all the names of characters present in the chapter in case someone wants to discuss them. That doesn’t mean you necessarily have to. ♥️

If you enjoyed the update, please don’t forget to comment. ⭐️