CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Brad

I decided to host the syndicate’s weekly meetings at the casino rather than Club 11. In due time, Warren’s new den of iniquity will be the only convergence of business, so acclimatisation is the exactness of what The Brotherhood required, dusty surfaces and rumbustious contractors be-damned.

Alternating between buildings to attend a closed-door conclave is tiresomely convoluted. It perplexed the men and fuelled oversimplification. Now, they have somewhere permanent to operate from, relax between shifts, and no excuses for tardiness. I am sick of postponing or delaying assignments because half of the men are disorientated, directionless and losing marbles of coordination on the other side of town.

“Has Mrs Warren legally registered a business name change at Companies House?” Nate examined the casino’s gambling licence. “Andino’s name is still on the front door. Also, we cannot open for business until safety regulators and hygiene agencies accredit sanitation and security. I can handle the liquor licence.”

“Not to my knowledge.” Picking up the cafetière, I poured black coffee into a white mug. “Did Warren mention a suitable company name when taking ownership of the casino?”

“No.” Josh looked fresh-faced in his royal blue timeless suit and ice diamonds this morning. “I did, however, find business plans in his office the day we conveyed his belongings to the Manor’s underground garage.”

I sipped delectable coffee. “What kind of business plans?”

“Regulatory information regarding the hospitality industry.” A pen twirled in his pinched fingers. “Not a franchise. From scratch.”

I shared a surprised look with Nate.

“Warren never mentioned interest in hospitality before.” Nate removed the black-framed reading glasses from his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Josh twisted from side to side in the leather seat. “He was looking for a new investment.”

“Well, the ignorant son of bitch is not satisfied with the casino, club, restaurant, and illicit trade wheeling underground. He might as well throw in a few measly hotel chains and a stadium to grow illegal crops whilst he’s at it.” Yes, I am salty, and it shows. “Who is this man? I feel like I don’t know him anymore. What, with all these bastard secrets. Fuck the casino. Torch it for all I care. He doesn’t deserve any of it.”

Nate is entertained. “Have you finished?”

No, I had barely scratched the surface. “Not until I shiv the fucker and run.”

“Must you always be so fatalistic?” Vincent wore an all-black two-piece suit today, dress shirt included. “It is pessimistic, is it not?”

I am ecstatic beyond measure. “I do not like your brand of sarcasm.”

Vincent looked at me strangely.

“Anyway, back to the casino.” Nate tossed the gambling licence onto the pop-up table. “Do we have a company name?”

“Let’s come back to that after I speak to Alexa,” I said, watching our armed, tailored men pile into the room. “Step lively. It is a beautiful morning, and you gammy bunch of tossers look pill-fucked. What have I missed?”

“Not much.” Eddie, one of the guards, pulled out the chair next to Vincent, albeit nervous about being so close to the younger Warren brother. “We had a drink last night.”

I eyed the ashen-faced men. “All of you?”

“Mostly,” Eddie confirmed. “It was unplanned but well-overdue. Paying for it now, though.” He arranged bottled water and packets of pain relief on the table. “My head is in half.”

His allies snickered.

“Will last night’s intoxication levels affect today’s performance?” Vincent swivelled in the chair to level with Eddie. “I should hope not.”

Eddie’s throat cleared. “No.”

Vincent hummed in disbelief.

“Right.” My hands rubbed together. “What do you have for me?”

“I have a copy of Nikolai Vasiliev’s routine.” Cole, the blond Ukrainian—his motherland said very loosely—sent a file across the table like a frisbee. “I follow him, morning, noon and night. Every requisition is in the folder: business meetings, favourite hobbies, entertainment and so forth. I even made a note of his close friends, where he prefers to drink on the weekend and which supermarket delivers groceries on Sundays.”

Nate flipped open the folder to read the gathered evidence.

Impressed by Cole’s studiousness, I turned to Eli.

“I worked alongside Terrence.” Eli flashed me a toothy smile. “We demolished three establishments belonging to Saverio Bosqui. I sent the link to your email.”

Eli’s bumptiousness chiselled under my skin.

“Sadly, there were a few casualties.” Terrence’s gaze skittered between the men. “But we took care of it. The institution will not receive any backlash.”

It’s too soon to be excitable. After all, I am unsure if the three Ukrainians are trustworthy. “How did you know that Bosqui owned the buildings?”

“Bosqui registers companies in family members’ names.” Eli’s strong accent was thinly coated in cockiness. “The rest was pretty self-explanatory.”

I studied his apathetic face.

It was time to take him down a peg or two. “Casualties?”

“Twelve men.” His tongue pushed against his teeth. “Two females.”

I clicked the top of a pen. “Names?”

“Names?” He pulled a perplexed face. “I don’t think we took any names.”

Pausing with the nib on the paper, I glared at him beneath furrowed eyebrows, not liking his lackadaisical approach toward the job. “You either know their names, or you don’t.”

“No names, Sir.”

I coughed.

Eli blew out a wearisome breath. “Command.”

Honestly, it would be too easy to tear this man to shreds. He is not as impenetrable as he portrayed. “Where did you put the bodies?”

“We buried them further afield,” he answered with a click of the tongue. “Command.”

I almost smiled at his sarcasm. “Location?”

“I will have to double-check.”

“Did you inform Reginald?”

Terrence stepped in. “Who is Reginald?”

It is imperative to inform the superintendent of murders and crimes carried out by the syndicate because he is the person to hide or bury any evidence or paper trails. “You said the institution will not receive any backlash. But if you did not inform Reginald, the syndicate’s predominant official, how can you sit before the panel and promise impunity?”

“No one will uncover the bodies.” Terrence glanced around the room. “You asked for results, and we delivered. Still, it is not good enough for you.”

The pen snapped in my fingers.

“Mind your manners.” Vincent pinned him with a scathing glare. “Brad Jones is a senior member of The Brotherhood and the syndicate’s underboss. Even if my brother were sitting in his chair right now, presiding over the meeting, you’d have no jurisdiction to question the authority or challenge the judgement of his right-hand man. You want respect. Earn it. It will take more than a few pointless deaths and torched buildings to win over the brothers’ trust and approval.”

Thank you, Vincy Boy.

I have been divinely favoured.

“I apologise for stepping out of line.” Terrence appeared to be regretful. “I can assure you it will not happen again.”

“Not unless you like the smell of burning flesh.” Nate slapped a hand on Terrence’s shoulder, gripping his skin for extra measure. “I am the proud owner of a crematorium. If you disrespect Command again? I’ll toss you in one of the furnaces. And don’t think I’m playing. They don’t call me Dr Death for nothing.”

Everyone busted out laughing, knowing Nate was joking—somewhat—but the Ukrainian trio were less than amused. If anything, they became cautious of the brothers’ unpredictableness for the first time since amalgamating with Warren Enterprise.

Eli’s gaze came to me.

I winked.

“I have updates on Bleu Murphy.” Vincent raised an empty mug to one of the men for a coffee refill. “I took it upon myself to visit her previous employers.”

“Yeah?” A toothpick wedged between my teeth. “What did they have to say?”

“Well, the manager at the library spoke very highly of Miss Murphy. Her co-worker, Arabella, however, spoke rather unfavourably. She divulged indelicately.” Vincent eyed me over the coffee cup’s rim. “Bolshy opinionated, if you ask me. I had better luck with the bar owner.”

The suspense killed me. “Get to the point, Vincy Boy.”

“According to the employees at the bar, Miss Murphy was not a co-worker. She was a regular customer who visited most nights to drink alone. Oftentimes, she left with male conquests.” He set the mug aside. “Employees at the diner had the same information. Bleu swung by every evening to eat alone and never tipped. It seems that our thief might be a tad psychotic. Pseudologia fantastica comes to mind.”

“Do not underestimate our Doña,” I said, and everyone quietened down to listen. “Bleu Murphy may suffer from mythomania, but she is deceptively calculated. She has escaped the institution on more than one occasion and continues to chiack from the shadows. Forget about the robbery for one second. Is she a genuine threat or an opportunist? If she is dangerous to us, then nobody sleeps until she is pushing up the daisies from a shallow grave. But if she is someone on the hunt for personal gain who happened to stumble across the club and its riches, by chance, cut your losses and move on.”

Vincent’s lips curled into a sneer. “Bad blood, Jones.” The idea of dropping Bleu Murphy’s case enraged him. “I do not take kindly to those who so brazenly burn my hand. Threat or not, I want what’s rightfully mine. Bleu owes me money, and I will not rest until every pound is returned.”

Christ, Vincent is the spitting image of Warren. He even sounded like his brother when angry. “Warren’s exoneration is more important,” I reminded him. “As stated in the past, we have bigger fish to fry.”

His glare was piercing. “I will not yield.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Tampering down frustration, I closed one of the folders. “And here I thought I was an egotistical motherfucker.”

Vincent smiled proudly. “I shall take that as a compliment.”

***

My phone vibrated.

I did not recognise the caller identification on the car’s audio display.

Driving one-handedly down the road, I dropped into second gear and hit the answer feature. “Jones.”

“Yeah, it’s Ben,” the dude said, and I shot the auto display a double-take. “Emma’s brother? The guy from the cafe.”

This better not be a warning call to stay away from his sister because I might just vomit from second-hand embarrassment. Besides, I am a wind-up merchant. If he tells me to run in the opposite direction, I will pursue the woman just to piss him off.

“Benjamin.” Popping a bright pink chewing gum bubble, I rolled down the window to let some cold, fresh air into the vehicle. “What can I do for you?”

“Is she there?” he asked as I steered into the next lane like a dickhead driver who undercuts and overtakes just because I can. “Emma, I mean.”

Assuming that’s what she must have told him, I acted cluelessly. “Did Emma say she was with me?”

“Yes.” He sighed into the receiver. “Via text message.”

Why did Emma lie to her brother? Still, I decided to cover for the woman until she touched base. “Then, she is with me.”

He sighed once more. “Can I speak to her?”

I glanced at the empty passenger seat. “Emma is sleeping.”

“Jones,” he grated out. “Look, if she is with you, that’s fine. I will get over it. But if she’s not, I need to know because…”

My fingers strummed the steering wheel. “Because?”

“I don’t know how much she has told you about us.” His tone was cautiously low. “But we come with a shit ton of baggage and one helluva past. I worry about her safety all the time.”

Discerning the seriousness in his voice, I turned off the main road to park near the curbside, earning rounds of car horns in the process, left the car in neutral and took the phone call seriously.

“It’s not like Emma to stay out all night,” he continued to blether. “I called her phone eight times this morning, and every call went to her voicemail. So, she’s either taking advantage of the fact Carter is over Quinn’s—which is cool because I will be here when he comes home—or something bad happened, and she needs help.”

Whilst he chewed off my damn ear, I sent her a text message.

Me: Can you talk?

Message delivered.

“Jones, I know we do not see eye to eye…” His hesitant silence made the conversation awkward. “But we have something in common, right? We both care about her.”

“You see, I wasn’t aware that we both shared a difference of opinions. I have barely said two words to you in weeks because it is pretty damn obvious that you don’t like me as a person, never mind as a friend to your sister. It’s ironic, really. You treat me like shit under your boot for breathing the same air as you, and now you call and ask for my help.”

He was quiet for an extended period of time. “Look, I do not hate you. I just want more for my sister, that is all. Surely, you can understand my concerns?”

I grew irritated. “Concerns?”

“You are a criminal,” he said, and I never denied it. “Your lifestyle will have a negative impact on her life—on Carter’s life. What kind of brother would I be if I never had concerns?”

I appreciated his honesty. “You are right. You should be worried. I am not a good person.”

His breath shuddered. “So, is she with you or has she mentioned anyone else? I mean, she dated Hugo for a while, right? Could she be with him?”

I felt a surge of jealousy. Emma’s not with Hughie, is she? “How the fuck should I know?”

“I thought you were both friends,” he said warily. “Don’t friends tell each other everything?”

I think it is safe to say that we are more than friends. “You mentioned that something bad could have happened to her.”

“Emma bumped into an old enemy recently and…” He is too anxious to open up without her approval. “I am scared that he came back.”

I tried to reassure him. “Emma told me about Jace and the others. I am clued in. Now, do you think Jace has something to do with Emma not being home? If so, I will go around there right now. I know the guy.”

“Yes—no.” He was inside his own head. “I don’t know for sure. Wait. How do you know him?”

Eying the wing mirrors for oncoming vehicles, I shifted into first gear, towed the accelerator and sped onto the main road. “Take five to calm down. I will call you back.”

I ended the call.

Jace lived relatively close. Within sixteen minutes, I was parking outside of Pierced and Inked. Rising from the Bentley, slamming the driver’s side door behind me, I strode toward the entrance. It was a full house inside the parlour. I had to push through the queue to reach the front desk, where the pink-haired female gobbed off to one of her co-workers.

Their boss was nowhere to be seen, though.

“Hey,” I called out, and the dude with short blond hair and too many ear piercings looked up from the cash register. “Where is he?”

“Who?” the woman asked, not giving the guy a chance to use his voice. “And you can’t jump the queue. Go to the back and wait like everybody else—”

“It’s okay, Harl.” Jace, troubled by the fact I walked through the door, appeared behind the desk. “I can take it from here. You deal with the others.” His eyebrows raised in greeting. “Come through the back, Brad. We can talk in my office.”

I followed him to the office, the matte black walls and high-gloss black furniture aesthetically pleasant alongside the chrome ornaments.

Calm and collected, I sat on the chair opposite his desk. “How did you do it?” I wondered aloud, watching him ease onto the leather wingback chair through squinted eyes. “Alexa, I mean. You befriended her one day, earned her trust, then what? Did you knock her out? Throw her in the boot of your car and drive onto a ferry to the Isle of Man to keep her chained in some dilapidated old cliff house. Did she protest? Did she fight you? Did she make life easier for you? What went through your head when you deepened the knife of betrayal in her back?”

Jace stared at me wordlessly.

I tapped my brow. “Is she responsible?”

Tracing his scarred eyebrow with the pad of his thumb, he slumped back in the chair with a rueful smile. “I assumed Alexa had told everyone what happened between us?”

I made a noncommittal sound at the back of my throat. “I think Alexa spared details for your benefit.”

“Why does it matter? Alexa forgave me. It is in the past.” He gave me an odd look. “Is that why you are here? You wish to discuss our time together?”

My pulse quickened. “You kidnapped her.”

“Brad…” He exhaled through his nose. “I just wanted to protect my daughter. Must we do this? Seriously? I thought everyone…”

To Warren’s dismay, I liked Jace. It was hard to hate the geezer. “What about Emma?” I asked, and his pallid glare sharpened. “What would be the reason to take her against her will?”

“What?” His anger built. “What the fuck are you talking about? I ain’t seen Emma since the day she showed up outside the shop. Is that what this unexpected visit is about? You think I did something to her.”

Truthfully, I believed Jace, and that’s why I entered the parlour poised and unarmed. He might have answers, though. “Her brother, Benjamin, is worried. She never came home last night. He said it’s unlike her to stay out and ignore his calls.”

Jace’s face crumpled. “I am not the best person to discuss the Hughes family. I want to ask how you know them, but it is none of my business. Just know that it’s best for everyone if I stay out of the picture.”

Exasperated oozed from every pore. “Yeah, that’s not going to work for me.”

He stared, long and contemplative, then hunted the desk drawer for something. A small bottle of vodka appeared on the table. “We used to be friends back when we were kids. We fell out and moved on with our lives. When I saw her in London, I freaked out. I had no intentions of hurting her, though, even before your text message. But you cannot force me to like her or even tolerate her. You understand loyalty. You signed your life away to Warren. Well, I am loyal to the people she betrayed.”

“And these people you speak of, are they capable of harming Emma?” I asked, and his gaze narrowed. “Come on, Jace. I really don’t want to hurt you, but if you continue to waste my time, I will lose this practised calmness and throw you out of the window by your fucking ear.”

Jace seemed puzzled. “Tommy wants a relationship with his nephew. I know that much. He’d never hurt Emma, though. At least, not like that.”

I suddenly became aware that my knee was bopping. “Like what?”

“I mean, he’d never turn up and take her somewhere if that’s where this conversation is going.” He scratched the nape of his neck. “Not unless she agreed to leave with him. Fuck, I don’t know. Let me call him and ask. I can’t answer shit that I don’t know.”

Indignation sluiced through my veins. Extracting the box of toothpicks from my trouser pocket, I slipped one between my lips and let the sharp point nick the end of my tongue.

Jace dialled Tommy’s number. He waited for the other man to answer but to no avail. “I’ll text him.” His thumbs tapped the phone screen. “He usually replies within a few minutes.”

Yet, the phone never vibrated once during our thirty minutes of silence.

My head cocked. “I am bored.”

He studied the phone on the desk.

“Why is Emma scared of you?” I rasped, and his stare flickered to the rain-splattered window to avoid conversation. “What did you do to her?”

“Does Emma hate me?” He chuckled once. “Sure. Would she laugh if someone set my arse on fire? Absolutely. Is she scared of me? Hell no.”

I tasted blood on my tongue. “Yet, Emma panicked when she saw you.”

“Emma panicked because I am part of her past. Whether you like it or not, I have a very close relationship with the O’Shea family, and she is their number one enemy. Now, ask me if she is scared of Quintin, and I will tell you that she is fucking terrified of the man and rightfully so. But he’s not a problem anymore. He is rotting in prison. When he is released, Tommy will be waiting for him. There is no life for him outside of those walls, not anymore. Can we move on now?”

I needed more information. “You never answered the question.”

He dabbed sweat from his brow. “Emma accused Tommy’s younger brother of rape. It was seriously fucked up. They were best friends. Plus, he was, like, ridiculously in love with her. He’d never…” His hardened expression softened. “I don’t even fucking know anymore.”

It was glaringly obvious that Jace was confused. Perhaps, in the past, he believed Emma had falsely accused the younger O’Shea brother, whereas now, in the present, he could not differentiate the truth from lies. Age and maturity will do that to a person. It’s not black and white anymore. There are multiple perspectives to consider. “Let me ask you one question,” I said quietly. “Was it out of character? Emma’s past behaviour?”

His jaw shifted as he nodded.

“Someone once told me that the eyes never lie.” My boss often spoke such words when reading people. “If someone has something to hide, their pupils dilate, or their lashes flicker subconsciously. However, when someone is honest with you, their eyes are like gateways to their souls. They let you see everything in those teary depths. So, when Emma told me that someone had hurt her, I experienced the pain she felt as she stared back at me. I never doubted her, not even for one second, because I know she still suffers from his betrayal even now, all these years later.”

Jace downed vodka straight from the bottle. “I tormented her for a few weeks. Tommy, too,” he admitted, and my rigid fingers gripped the armrests. “We just wanted an admittance out of her so that we could clear Killian’s name. She never buckled. She stood her ground.” He licked the moisture from his lips. “Next thing I know, she packed up and left with her brother, Benjamin.”

Inhale, exhale. “How did you torment her?”

“We followed her home a few times,” he spoke candidly. “We cornered her in the street and spray-painted her house. It was juvenile shit. Nothing worked, though.”

I licked the toothpick to the corner of my lips. “Who set her house on fire? Who jumped her brother? Who chased her from one town to the next? You? Tommy?”

“No,” Jace answered defensively. “Listen, I don’t know what the fuck she told you, but we never took it further than name-calling and idle threats. I never put my hands on any of them. And I most certainly never chased them from town to town. I had a girl at home and a baby on the way. My priorities were in check.”

I glanced at his phone on the desk. “Tommy?”

“Tommy never forgave Emma. He blames her for Killian’s suicide. But he learnt to live with it and tried to lead a normal life. I don’t see him often, but when I do, he mentions his brother’s kid. He’d love to have a relationship with Carter. Why do you think I feel so guilty right now? I know the boy’s whereabouts, and I haven’t told him…” His mouth stuttered open. “Ah, shit.”

My eyes searched his face. “What?”

“I forced Emma to text him.” He shot to his feet so quickly that the chair flipped back and crashed on the floor. “I know how to find her.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Emma

When I was younger, following the unanimous rejection of the Hughes family, the members of The Church of Jesus Christ of The Latter-day Saints and the traveller community, Ben moved us to a nearby town and declared homelessness to the council, which eventuated emergency housing and local welfare assistance.

It was the most emotional experience of my life. I cried until it hurt to see and speak. But Ben, so strong and selfless, promised a better future, even though he had no sense of direction or a strategic plan, and I held onto every word because I never doubted him.

We sat on the makeshift bed in our impermanent flat, eating chicken noodles purchased from the local convenience store, and he talked for hours about the baby, the issue I never wanted to acknowledge, let alone discuss. He told colourful stories of how the small human blossoming in my stomach would be the only reason I breathed.

Someday, maybe not today or tomorrow, the baby will be the cynosure of life.

And Ben was right. Carter Hughes is the be-all and end-all of existence. How he became is not important. His father’s blood no longer mattered. He is my son, my blessing, my second chance at redemption, and I loved him with all one’s effort and desire.

Every choice I made revolved around him.

So, when Tommy, his eyes raw, red and puffy, re-entered the caravan this evening to pick up where we left off, went to one knee before me and put his head on my thigh, I touched his shoulder and expressed forgiveness.

I am older now.

I understand.

Tommy’s only crime is defending his baby brother. He is not a horrible person, not to the core, unlike his father, Quintin, and Killian, the root of all evil. He made mistakes and wished to rectify them.

Am I bitter enough to stand in the way of atonement?

Can I forgive and forget for the sake of my son?

Yes, I can let-bygones-be-bygones and accept a sobbing man’s apology because I healed a very long time ago.

I am at peace with our tragic past.

It was not easy to develop physical strength, spiritual growth and inner peace, but with the help of my brother and the unconditional love of my son, I found a place in the world where I felt free and unburdened. I learnt to appreciate and focus on good days and happy memories rather than sad times and avoidable mistakes.

Will I be the person I was supposed to be?

No, I doubt I will ever meet the woman I should have been before Killian.

Trauma meddled with fate.

But I can love the woman left in my abuser’s wake and protect the little girl within.

Tommy’s rough palms came to my cheeks as he searched for something in my eyes.

What is he looking for?

I remember when his smile alone dipped my stomach and lurched my heart. He had so much power over me. I’d have left everyone behind to run away with him. It’s what we planned, after all. On my sixteenth birthday, he’d come to the house like a knight in shining armour for us to ride off into the sunset. We’d be free of our families’ nonsensical expectations and stringent rules. He’d buy our very first motor home, and we’d travel the world, just the two of us, living our best life, happy and in love.

Yet, when his soft lips, the titanium lip piercing, pressed to my mouth, there were no fluttering butterflies or all-consuming emotions. My regular heart rate never accelerated to dangerous, adrenalised heights or threatened to plunge out of my chest. I was unresponsive, impassive, a million miles away from here, thinking of another man who, somewhere down the line, wormed his way into my world and turned it upside down.

Big Guy.

I loved the idea of him, the thought of us. I never even considered dating. I was in a state of peaceful happiness before he came into my life with his innocent flirtatiousness and vainglorious handsomeness.

I practically forced him to be my friend, not realising how hard I’d fall if he accepted an olive branch after I ruined his beloved leather shoes.

But he did. He hung around for coffee and actually listened to the gibberish spewing out of my mouth when nervous. He maintained eye contact when we conversed and seemed genuinely interested in me and what my life entailed.

We are from different worlds. He resided in lavishness, drove personalised vehicles and modelled designer clothes. I lived in the borough, towed cheap, rusty wheels and pranced around in sale fabrics because it was all I could afford.

Yet, he overlooked the dissimilarities between us. Our newfound closeness never bothered him or embarrassed him. He chose to spend time with me when he could have gone anywhere else in London. He chose to lay in bed with me that night, kissing and touching, and he only left because he respected me too much to take advantage of the situation.

A sigh escaped my lips.

Brad Jones is what my heart desired.

Only I could emotionally invest in a man who will someday be the reason for heartbreak.

I’d be stupid to think otherwise.

“Even when I hated ye, I loved ye.” Tommy’s fingers tousled my hair. “It used to mess with my head. How can I still care about ye, after everythin’ that happened with my brother? It was a mind-fuck, Emma. Tell me, ye understand.”

I do understand Tommy’s mental battle. I had always carried a torch for him, and it was maddening. How can I care, even in the smallest of measures, when he abandoned me in the throes of tribulation? How can I consider him romantically when he stood back and watched his father’s unlawful stalwarts take baseball bats to my brother?

Who knows what could have been before Killian?

Maybe we’d be married now.

Perhaps we’d be divorced.

Happy.

Content.

Sad.

Discontent.

Ultimately, it does not matter.

Everything happens for a reason.

Carter would cease to exist if life stayed on track.

My head turned to reject Tommy.

His thumb swept the tear from my cheek. “It should have ended with us.”

“But it never happened that way,” I whispered, prying his hands down from my cheeks. “We moved worlds apart and walked separate journeys. Even if I still loved you, it could never work between us. You have a responsibility as the Gyspy King. Your community depends on you. I do not belong on your arm. We both know it.”

He nodded.

“I have a responsibility as a mother and a sister. I could never break faith with my brother after all he suffered. He gave up so much to protect me. It would be the ultimate betrayal if I went back down memory lane. And Carter, all he needs is love and stability. I owe it to him as a mother to give him the best life. I am not going anywhere. I will be in his corner until my last breath. There is room for more love, though. If you want to have a relationship with your nephew, I will not stand in the way. Yes, it will take time for us to trust one another. You must get to know him. You must respect that Ben, aside from his mother, is the only family he’s ever known. But his love is available if you come with good intentions.”

Unquenchable thirst thickened my throat. I stood from the sofa to pour chilled orange juice at the kitchen counter.

“It’s what I have wanted for a lon’ time.” He followed me to the living room’s adjacent kitchen. “To meet Carter. I want to be there for him.”

I downed juice in three mouthfuls. “You need to give me time. I have to sit with Ben first. I will not blindside him with your return.”

Tommy gave me a curt nod.

“And I have no interest in your family or your community. That’s not Carter’s life. If you want to travel to London once a month to see him, I will open the door for you. Do not force extended family members onto my son, though. That ship sailed a long time ago.”

“I am with Sheila Ayres.” He stared, expressionless. “Will she be a problem? If I trek to London all the time, she’ll want to come with me.”

No, Sheila is not an issue. If anything, she is a lovely person and will most definitely be a good influence on Carter. “Are you married yet?”

“No.” His face darkened. “I changed the rules once Quintin left.”

But they stayed together as promised by poppa O’Shea. “Do you love her?”

“Almost.” He laughed breathlessly. “Somethin’ was holdin’ me back, though.”

Feeling guilty for their lack of commitment, I looked elsewhere. “Unfinished business?”

“Closure,” he rasped, and I smiled sadly. “I needed closure.”

My throat dried.

“Emma…” His hand went to the small of my back. “I am sorry Killian did that to ye. If I could go back in time, I’d have stopped ye from followin’ him that night. I’d have prevented all of this.”

I believed him. “Carter is here for a reason.”

“Ye.” He stepped back, focusing on the utensil holder’s random objects. “So, what’s he like, then?” He fumbled with the stainless-steel ladle. “Is he a bruiser or what?”

“No, he is a little sweetheart.” My chest swelled with pride. “Sure, he’s found a bit of an attitude recently, and he’s got Ben wrapped around his little finger, but he’s such a good kid. I am very lucky to be his mother.”

“He is a handsome bugger. I saw pictures of him on your phone.” He winced, uprooted the phone from his pocket and placed it on the counter. “You should reply to messages. Everyone is worried about ye.”

Leaving the empty glass in the sink, I unlocked the phone.

I had missed calls and text messages from Ben, Quinn and Brad.

Ben: I called Jones. You are not with him. Either you lied to me, or something is wrong.

Huh? I never lied to him.

Realisation dawned on me.

Tommy went through my phone. He sent my brother a bogus text message to keep the police away from the site.

Ben: Emma, please. I am seconds away from calling the police.

Quinn: What happened? I took Carter home, and Ben was freaking out. He said you didn’t come home last night.

Quinn: Girl, message me.

Ben: Jones said you are okay. Is that right? Or is he trying to keep nerves in check?

I clicked on Brad’s message thread.

Big Guy: Can you talk?

Big Guy: I am with Jace. He reckons you are at Stable Way with Tommy.

Big Guy: Is that right?

Big Guy: It doesn’t matter. I will drive over there.

Thumb hovering over the call button, I paced the narrow kitchen. “Tommy, I need to go home before…” Bright headlights skittered through the Venetian blinds as someone’s car mounted the grassy knoll outside. “Shit. Let me do all the talking.”

“What’s wron’?” Tommy went to the window, finger tilting the horizontal slat, and peered outside. “Did you message someone to come here?”

Tommy never hung around for my response. Unlocking the door, he stepped onto the caravan’s wrap-around veranda, stood underneath the dark, starless skies, and watched as Brad and Jace rose from the parked Bentley. “Jace? What the Hell are ye doin’ here?”

“Dude…” Jace’s pace quickened so that he could be in front of Brad. “Why are you in London?”

“Or, here is a better question.” Brad’s heavy footsteps bounded up the wooden stairs. “Why the fuck is Emma Hughes inside that caravan?”

His voice had never sounded so dark.

I had to intervene before Hell broke loose.

“I am okay.” Stepping out from behind Tommy, I stood in the centre of three tense men, pathetically short in comparison, and adopted unruffled demureness. “This is all a big misunderstanding.”

I know Brad can defend himself, but he never stood a chance against the traveller community. If he takes a shot at Tommy, the Irish lads, silently observing from the crackling campfire, will be on him in a heartbeat.

Brad’s head tilted. His suspicious gaze went from me to the watchful men in the distance. Ever so slowly, he smiled at Tommy. “You don’t come here and throw your fucking weight.”

“Ye are outnumbered, Jones.” Tommy knows he is the recipient of animosity. “I’d leave the gun if I were ye.”

“You think they will touch me?” Brad squared up to Tommy, nose to nose, and outstretched his arms. “This is Warren territory. They will not defend you. It is not worth upheaval.”

Jace glared knowingly at his friend. They spoke mutely to each other, yet I knew how the conversation unfolded. Pick your battles.

Jace’s worried expression took me aback. Surely, he did not fear the Warren organisation more than the traveller community.

“I have the power to uproot this entire site.” Brad’s fingers clicked in Tommy’s face. “Just like that. One phone call and every van goes up in smoke.” His pearly whites flashed cockily. “Ask them if you doubt me.”

For a moment, I did doubt Brad’s gallantry. Then, I studied the constellation of Irish men. They did not want any trouble. They were happy here, and something about Brad’s arrival threatened to tip the scales. Rather than join Tommy, they turned the other way, albeit red-faced and apologetic, opting for peace.

“Come on, man.” Jace clasped Tommy’s shoulder. “You’re not in Liverpool. Your rules don’t apply here.”

Tommy side-eyed his childhood friend but said nothing.

Silas, I think Tommy called him, ascended the wooden steps. “This is a no-violence zone, Jones.” His joke fell on deaf ears. “Can we take this inside and laugh over a bottle of rum? We got little ones in bed.”

It was a stalemate.

Tommy never blinked.

Brad never blinked.

If one or the other stepped out of line, it would trigger a full-blown brawl.

“I don’t want any beef with Warren.” Silas, whispering so that the other travellers never overheard, levelled with both men. “This is our home, Tommy. Ye are always welcome here, ye know that, but we don’t operate like Quintin. This ain’t Leeds. It’s a different community, and we respect our neighbours, alright?”

Brad frowned under screwed up eyebrows. When his eyes returned to me, they were dark and soulless, almost black, and something terrifyingly unreadable passed between us.

I heard Tommy’s irritable voice, Jace’s worried voice, Silas’ feigned humour, but I paid no heed. I rushed to Brad’s side, pushed off the tips of my toes and palmed his stubbled jaw. His gaze was on my face, but his mind appeared to be preoccupied because he never spoke or reciprocated concern.

Silas led Tommy and Jace into the caravan to avoid warfare.

Bystanders returned to their seats around the campfire, imbibing bottled beer and ingesting barbeque food. Their late-night cookout reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and my stomach began to protest.

“Big guy,” I murmured, and he blinked rapidly. “Where did you go?”

He glimpsed to the right, where Silas once stood. “Why are you here?”

With the night’s cold breeze in my hair, I interlocked our fingers, coaxing him toward the Bentley for privacy. You can hear everything inside the caravan, and the others had no business in our conversation.

Taking the keys out of Brad’s trouser pocket, I unlocked the vehicle and climbed behind the wheel. He never asked why I elected myself to drive his car or started the engine when he collapsed in the passenger seat. He opened the glove compartment, placed a firearm inside, and relaxed against the leather chair.

My gaze fixated on the road ahead as I steered to the site’s entrance, but I could not shake the fact he had just brandished a weapon in front of me. “Did you plan to use it?”

He sat there so casually. His thighs parted and his arms crossed over his chest. “Do you want me to lie?”

I felt a trickle of sweat at the nape of my neck.

“I have never fired a gun in my life.” He played our little game. “I could never kill someone, especially a man who dared to hide you…” His chilling stare homed in on me. “If he hurt you…”

“Tommy never touched me,” I reassured him, not that I was convinced he believed me. “He wanted closure and asked about Carter. He handled our encounter foolishly, but I think his heart was in the right place.”

Why does it sound like I am defending him?

“Did he get it? Closure, I mean.” Brad sounded hesitant and oddly delicate. “Did you both reach an accord?”

Driving to the nearest street, I parked up, killed the engine and adjusted the seat for comfort. Turning at the waist to face him fully, I took in the side of his clenched profile.

What is the look on his face?

Anger? Disappointment? Jealousy?

“Well?” His scathing glare slid over me in accusation. “Did you?”

I flinched at the acidity in his voice. “Why are you upset?”

“I am not upset.” He laughed under his breath. “Although, I am starting to think coming here was a complete waste of time. You are no damsel. You clearly wanted to be there with him. Benjamin is off his fucking rocker for nothing.”

“Tommy has one shot to prove he can be a good uncle to my son.” Deciding to take matters into my own hands, I re-started the engine, foot relaxing on the accelerator, and sped down the road to find somewhere for us to talk properly. “If he cannot put differences aside for Carter’s benefit, I will put the blocks on their relationship. I do not have the time, patience or tolerance for bullshit, especially where my little boy is concerned.”

There was a pregnant pause. “Where the fuck are you going?”

“I don’t know,” I retorted, threading the steering wheel through my hands. “Away from there to be with you.”

His face burnt with anger. “Pull over.”

I shook my head.

“Damn it, Emma.” His hand shot out to latch onto the steering wheel. “Pull over or calm the fuck down. You are driving like a madwoman.”

Oh, shit. He is right.

Inhaling a deep breath, I decelerated to reduce speed, the touch of his large, warm hand on mine pacifying the urge to lose myself in a moment of madness.

His thumb traced my knuckles, soft and unhurried, reassuring me that everything was good between us, irrespective of tonight’s uncertainties.

Anticipating Brad’s disapproval, I steered into the car park of a three-star hotel. I bet he stayed at five-star accommodation, but affordability stretched to average amenities only.

I sent my brother a text message.

Me: Hey, I have so much to tell you. You were right to be worried. Tommy happened. Do not panic, though. Brad is here. I am safe. I will be home early in the morning to tell you everything.

Me: Thank you for trusting your gut. I am so lucky to have you in my life.

Me: I love you.

Message read.

Three dots danced on the screen.

Ben: Thank fuck.

Ben: I thought I might lose you.

Me: You could never get rid of me that easily.

Ben: Good.

Ben: Tell Jones I appreciate him.

Ben: And ditto.

Locking the phone, I stuffed it in my pocket and jumped out of the car.

I never waited for Brad to follow.

The hotel’s double doors slid open when detecting movement. I spoke to the female receptionist at the main desk, used Apple Pay to book a basic room, and purchased an essentials bag. It cost twenty pounds for personal toiletries, including shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, a toothbrush, a bar of soap and sanitary products that I did not need.

The room was nothing special. It was small, unadorned and smelt a little fusty, but the bathroom had a decent shower. I could not wait to wash and brush my teeth.

Brad closed the room door behind us.

I finally breathed.

Not meeting his curious gaze, I grabbed the folded towel on the end of the double bed, tucked the bag of toiletries under my arm and locked myself in the bathroom.

It took thirty minutes for me to face the man in the other room. I spent too long under the hot spray, pondering how to approach him without making a fool of myself.

Satisfied with my appearance, the taste of mint on my breath, I knotted a towel around my waist, teetering into the bedroom.

Brad has yet to make himself comfortable. He is by the floral-curtained window, hands in his trouser pockets, marking my every move. “There are clean T-shirts in the gym bag.”

Lifting his black gym bag onto the wooden desk, I selected an oversized T-shirt and, letting the towel drop to the floor, drew the soft material over my head. I just gave him front row seats to my naked body, but he never expressed appreciation or approval. His emotionlessness made me feel somewhat dejected.

“You see naked women all the time, right?” I mused, knowing that if he is Warren’s close friend, he had twenty-four-hour access to Club 11 and all its erotic glamour. “You must be immune to female body parts.”

His lip twitched in amusement. “Female body parts?”

Right, I sounded like an idiot.

“Emma.” His hand caught mine as I walked past. “Why are we here?”

I gave him a weak smile. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Brad’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. Hand thrusting through lustrous, blond hair, he disrobed before my very eyes, the clothes folded into a neat pile on the upholstered chair, and he stood in nothing but black Philipp Plein boxer briefs.

It was a magnificent sight. He was so broad-shouldered, muscle-bound and masculine, everything I did not deserve. Still, I reached for the waistband of his boxers, detecting his sharp inhale of breath. His washboard abs and honed V-line felt good under my fingertips. I could touch him for hours and never get bored.

His lips tickled my ear when he said, “How do we do this?”

Frowning at the question, I smoothed my palms along his broad shoulders and defined chest. I don’t know how to answer that question. We discussed sexual positions in the past because people with equally tortured souls should never merge for a night of passion. Yet, here we stand, in breathless proximity, the air of possibilities sizzling between us.

Brad lowered our joint hands to his lower stomach, directing my thumbs to a small, faded scar below his navel.

My lips parted to ask why he felt the need to show me when the seriousness of his scarred abdomen laced my tongue in bile. He was covered in what could only be old, self-inflicted cuts. My fingers travelled to his muscular thighs, examining the silver asymmetrical lines on his tanned skin. I lost count after three minutes of trying to understand why. “Big Guy?”

His jaw tightened.

Tugging me closer, he slid his palms around my neck, holding the weight of my head in his hands, and his delectable lips, steady to mine, sought a bruising kiss. He breathed me in, his lips overpowering, his tongue flicking lazily into my mouth.

It was the type of kiss that buckled women at the knees. I melted in his embrace, never wanting the passion between us to end.

His countenance twisted in what could only be perceived as shamefaced. “I want to lie and say that I can sit on the chair for you to straddle me, or that we can climb into bed, and I can make…” The pad of his thumbs outlined my lips as he stared deep into my eyes. “But if I have an episode, I will never forgive myself.”

If he continues to look at me like that, I might become enamoured.

Perhaps he will never be ready to instil complete trust in a woman. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he said sharply, and I dropped the matter instantly. “You will never be satisfied with me, Emma.”

There was someone so profoundly vulnerable beneath this strong, intimidating wall of muscle. I knew better than to believe I could be the one to change him, but something unexplainable told me to be patient with this man. “You won’t hurt me, Big Guy.”

His cheek muscle pulsed. “You don’t know that.”

I smiled against his lips. “Then, what are we doing?”

“Getting to know each other.” He spoke directly to my lips as his investigatory fingers toured the length of my spine. “Can that be enough for now?”

I will take anything he can give me because I know he is worth the risk.

My rapid heartbeat made breathing difficult. “Yes.”

I stepped back, pulled the T-shirt over my head and bared myself to him.

His hungry gaze inventoried the shape of my body as he made small strides toward me.

The back of my knees hit the bed. I fell to my backside on the mattress, rolled onto my side and tapped the space beside me.

With a look of perplexity, he crawled across the duvet, propped onto one elbow, facing me, and stretched out his legs. His eyes, the colour of distilled whiskey, foraged as if he hadn’t eaten in days, and I was his next meal.

Brad’s belated appreciation fuelled confidence. I inched closer but never gave in to the temptation of touching him. I will not push or probe against his wishes. I will wait for him to decide how two broken individuals come together as one without the need to hide from each other.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Brad

Why do I make life difficult for myself? I have become intensely infatuated with someone carrying a proverbial backpack of emotional baggage, and the bastard irony is not lost on me.

Emma Hughes.

If I were a different man, If I had a different past, I could help her unpack, offload and overcome.

But that’s not the case.

I have more psychological luggage than the two of us combined.

It’s a deadly combination.

For us to work, one or the other has to address barriers.

I will never, not as long as I have a hole in my arse, face the demons of my past. I shut the door and threw away the key a very long time ago. I torched the walls and watched life, as I once knew it, go up in flames with only Warren as my witness.

A little boy died that night.

I left him behind because I was not strong enough to take him with me.

Now, he only exists if I allow it.

I never allow it.

Emma had fallen asleep fifteen minutes ago. I laid beside her for a while, listening to her soft, shallow breathing, admiring the shape of her body, the sleek curve of her legs, and the visible silver streaks on her abdomen. I have detail-orientated tendencies when it comes to the job, but fixating on small details—the intricate, white-print nail art on her toenails, the silver, multi-layered necklace on her neck and the delicate constellation of piercings in her left ear—where a woman is concerned is unusual for me.

I marshalled the uniqueness of her beauty and strength with unfamiliar admiration.

What’s that nervous, physical sensation in my stomach? It is somewhat anxiety-provoking. I have never experienced anything quite like it.

Draping the threadbare throw blanket over her curled-up body, I whisper a kiss on her cheek and take a position by the window.

I unzipped the black holdall, gathering essentials: Jameson, paper, envelope and pen.

Alcohol went down a treat.

I sipped from the bottle, studying the beautiful woman on the bed. I craved her in more ways than one. If she were someone else, anyone else, I’d have thrown her down and fucked her senseless by now. But that’s not what she wants—what she needs. Her expectations were higher. Her standards were uncharted.

Christ, I could be the best fuck of her life if she bowed to me, but that would make her no different to any other woman I have slept with. Part of me wished that she never told me about her past because her trauma is now at the uppermost of my thoughts, which means I overemphasise, overanalyse, overthink and overstress.

Sex is much easier and far less complicated when both participants don’t reflect deeply and take life too seriously.

So, how do I do this? How do I control the voice in my head long enough to give her what she deserves? I had no answer. I have never done ‘serious’ before, not even with Tiffany, and that’s probably why she jumped into bed with my best friend, Brian. All she ever wanted was a man to make her feel good, special and loved. I did the exact opposite. I made her feel worthless, unloved and un-special.

I was full of broken promises.

I just need more time.

I am working on it.

I can be a better man.

Everything I said was a lie.

If I wanted to fix myself, I’d have done it by now.

You don’t need fixing.

Warren’s stern voice invaded my thoughts.

He always had the answers.

He always knew what to say.

Bossman,

This is the last letter I am sending you.

My ego cannot handle the ignorance on your part.

Normally, I’d bore you to death with unnecessary details of the job, the syndicate, the companies, the cryptic reports of occurrences or eventualities, but omnipresent omniscience is beyond me, right? You know everything, with or without the use of your most trusted, because every fat-cat in your back pocket is responsible for reporting back to you (yes, I know about the Governor).

I should have known better.

You have everyone eating out of the palm of your hand.

You pull the strings, even behind prison walls.

Then, what is my purpose?

Why am I Command?

What are your expectations of me?

You will not meet to resolve situations, and I cannot for the life of me understand why. I want to write it down, pour my heart and soul onto this page, express how I feel into words, but some jobsworth is probably reading this letter right now, scanning for keywords, in the hope I incriminate myself, or you, in the process (better luck next time, tosser).

Anyway, I met someone.

Her name is Emma.

And Emma is a mother.

Foolish, right?

I might like her.

Scratch that.

I really fucking like her.

You told me this day would come, that I’d meet someone worth fighting for, that Tiffany was just a setback, that I would learn from past mistakes and be a better man, but do you truly believe I can change?

People are set in their ways.

Take you and Alexa, for example. You toned it down to be a loyal, doting husband, but you are the same man I met all those years ago. You never changed, not for love or money. Your personality is set in stone, and honestly, I love that about you. Which brings me back to the original question: do you truly believe I can change?

What if I fall harder than ever before?

What if I trust her and she hurts me?

What if blackout and do the unspeakable?

Will she be another Tiffany?

You said ‘the past is too varied to repeat itself.’

How can you be so sure?

Do you trust me that much?

We both know the answer.

I am a liability.

I fear that I will lose myself without you.

No one understands.

But you do.

You met the shadows.

You effaced them.

Lately, the part of myself that lies hidden threatens to emerge. And I know it is because I am in my own head. I know, deep down, everything I experience is phycological, but that does not make it less real or disturbing.

If I want a fighting chance at normalcy, I need help.

I need you.

Quit being a fucking prick and reach out already, or I will take a leaf out of your book and set fire to Belmarsh (it is a joke, jobsworth. Do not come at me), and your sorry arse will be embers in the ashes.

As mentioned above, I will not write anymore.

Truthfully, I miss you too much, and continual rejection hurts.

Rule number forty-eight: Family is not defined by blood.

Your brother,

Brad.

Tearing the page out of the notepad, I folded it in half, tucked it into an envelope and licked the seal. It felt surreal but final, knowing this would be the last time I reached out. I had to honour his wishes. He never responded for a reason, so now I had to give him space and, in the background, work out why.

Mr Liam Warren

#D58110

HMP Belmarsh

Western Way

Thamesmead

London

SE28 0EB

Hiding the envelope in the holdall, I poured Jameson down my throat, savouring its exceptional taste. I am tempted to roll a blunt, knock myself out for a couple of hours, but the earthy scent may trigger the temperamental smoke alarms.

Jace’s name lit up the phone screen.

I clicked on the notification.

Jace: Where are you?

I thumbed a response.

Me: Hotel. Do you need a ride?

Jace: I pinched wheels from Silas.

Me: Are you good to get home, then?

Jace: Yeah, I am leaving soon.

“Why did you let me fall asleep?” Emma sat upright, holding the blanket to her chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even realise I was tired.” Her stomach grumbled. “Yeah, I might be hungry.”

I could eat. “Pizza?”

“Please.” Finding the discarded T-shirt on the floor, she yanked it over her head, the material burying her small frame, and sat cross-legged on the bed. “I can pay.”

Loading an app on the phone, I ordered a large mozzarella pizza for us to share. “You are not paying for anything.” In fact, I will transfer the money for the hotel room. “I have a responsibility as a chivalrous man to take care of you.”

Emma smiled at my flirtatious undertone.

Whilst waiting for the pizza to be delivered, I drew on a pair of grey jogging bottoms and stretched across the bed.

Emma is in the bathroom.

I swiped her camera on the small nightstand and browsed through images. You can find all styles of photography in her world: adventure, black and white, boudoir, cityscape, landscape, lifestyle, wildlife, portrait, event, fashion, art, food and glamour. Taking shots in secret is her preference, though. She has captured fascinating images of people totally unaware of the lens.

“What are you doing?” Her face twisted with a mix of displeasure and nervousness. “I could have naked pictures on there, for all you know.”

I gave her a low smirk. “I am banking on it.”

Thumping me over the head with a pillow, she climbed onto the bed, resting on her haunches, and tried to reclaim the camera. “Give it back.”

“Why?” Mirroring her position, I continued to click through images. “Is this even legal? How can you take people’s photos without consent?”

“I told you before. It’s a hobby.” Her hand covered the screen to hide the next photo. “Big Guy.”

I already saw it.

It’s a picture of me in the alleyway.

“These are good,” I whispered, swiping through shots. “I swear I was a model in a previous life.”

“Those are favourites. You are one big mystery to me. You look so happy, untroubled and free of life’s hardship…” Her guarded gaze lowered to messy sheets between us. “You know what? It’s never too late to be a model. I could see you advertising men’s underwear.”

Why did she drop the subject?

When Emma reached for the camera, I never stopped her. I put my back to the frayed, faux leather headboard, watching her take pictures of me. For every three shots, she double-checked the image quality and then snapped a few more.

My arms crossed. “Why not be a professional photographer?”

“No, I am needed at the cafe.” Her left arm slid over my shoulder as she leaned in to steal a photo of us together. “I will not let Ben’s talent go to waste. He will be a great chef someday. I want to be there when it happens.”

My lips peppered her jaw. “That’s very poetic.” Hand latching onto the camera, I lowered it to the bed, tilted her chin and forced her to look at me. “What about your passion, though? Is it not just as important?”

Emma’s arms folded in her lap. “Yes, but Ben—”

“You are not beholden to your brother,” I cut in before she went off on a tangent. “He can live his life, and you can live yours. Nobody has to go without.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” She tugged her earlobe. “You have to prioritise where I come from. Money does not grow on trees. Opportunities do not fall in your lap. You have to take each day as it comes and be grateful for every chance you get. Whether you agree or not, Ben left what could have been a great life behind to be there for me. I want him to live up to his full potential before I even consider possibilities.”

I rotated the ring on my pointer finger. “What’s the end game?”

Her eyebrows met in the middle.

“For Benjamin?” My eyes focused on the beauty spot by her lips. “What’s his ultimate goal in life?”

Her pride-filled eyes drifted as she contemplated the question. “To be a Michelin star chef.”

I put that piece of information at the back of my mind until later.

A knock on the door.

Legs swinging off the bed, I extracted a bluey out of my wallet to tip the delivery guy, thanking him for the pizza. Flipping open the box on the dresser, I delved in for a slice. Tomatoes and mozzarella melted on my tongue. I should have ordered extra because I could smash three of these bad boys in my face and make room for sides.

“Thank you.” Emma tucked in, folding the pizza slice in half. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

I paused with the second slice by my lips. I better not have another Alexa on my hands. Her eating disorder is enough to contend with. “Why?”

Her shoulder jerked. “Tommy is not the most hospitable host.”

I should have pummelled the fucker. “Why did you go to Stable Way?”

“Well, I never exactly agreed to go with him.” Sucking tomato sauce off her thumb, she chewed morsels of pizza dough. “We never got around to discussing his actions, to be honest. The arsewipe used chloroform and drove me to the site whilst I snored in the backseat.”

My blood simmered. “And you got in between us because…?”

“You have enough on your plate.” Helping herself to a swig of Jameson, she wiped her hands on paper napkins. “I don’t want to be another reason.”

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

I lost my appetite. “Another reason for what?”

“For stressing you out.” More Jameson went down her throat. “Look, I am fine. I was not overly ecstatic to see him, but I am not sorry it happened. If Tommy is true to his word, I don’t have to live in fear anymore or walk around with the constant urge to look over my shoulder. It’s a good day. Well, it’s night-time, but you know what I mean.”

Pinching the hem of her T-shirt, I pulled her in, head dipping low to place a kiss on her upper lip. “Even if Tommy is not true to his word, you will never fear anyone again. I am in the picture now, and I will not let anything bad happen to you.”

She was breathless. “You can’t promise that.”

“Yes, I can.” My thumb parted her lips. “We could part ways tomorrow, but I will still ensure your safety. I am one call away, sweetheart.”

“So,” she whispered, “I can have you on speed dial?”

Yes, if she knocks on my door, despite the day, time or circumstance, I will be there for her. If she is in peril, I will put life on hold for her. It’s as simple as that.

My phone vibrated.

Biting the woman’s shoulder, I left her by the dresser, flustered with bated breath, to check the message on my phone.

Cherry: Will you be at the club tomorrow?

I’ll reply in the morning. “We should get some sleep.”

Emma made another trip to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She, too, had a notification on her phone—a short message from Tommy to see if she got home safely.

The bathroom door opened.

“Tommy is from Liverpool, right?” Chucking her phone on the chair, I searched for a spare toothbrush in the holdall. “Only, I was confused because Silas mentioned Leeds, too.”

“Tommy relocated to Liverpool.” Sorting the untidy coverlets, she punched the pillows to plump them up. “But he was born and raised in Leeds. Don’t ask when he moved because I couldn’t tell you.”

I hummed in thought. “And how did you meet?”

“Neighbours, I guess.” She scratched the back of her head. “Well, he is a traveller, so he lived further afield.”

Fixing the twisted chain around my neck, I fumbled with the military tags, the old, scratched engraving uneven under my thumb. “In Liverpool?”

“No.” She laughed lightly. “In Leeds.”

My heart palpitated.

Surely, life is not that cruel.

“Leeds, huh?” My back rested on the windowsill. “I bet you lived in one of those big houses in Alwoodley, right?”

“God, I wish.” Throwing herself under the covers, she snuggled into the pillow. “I lived in Mostyn Avenue. It’s a dump. At least, it was the last time I checked.”

I choked back nausea.

What if I told you, you could never leave this place?

They are always staring.

I see them in the bedroom.

Why do they torment us?

Why do they watch us sleep?

“You won’t show them.” She elevated the duvet above our heads like a secret fortress, the metal torch flickering on and off. “It is not safe for us out there. Be afraid. Be very afraid, Bradley.”

Get out of my head.

Covering my ears, I tapped the side of my head, the sharp thud causing a ringing sensation in my ears.

“Big Guy?” Emma slowly sat up on the bed. “Are you okay?”

Number eight, Mostyn Avenue.

Stay away from number eight.

Do not talk to the people at number eight.

Bad things happen at number eight.

A woman with crazy thoughts lives at number eight.

I live at number eight.

“Can you see them?” Her frail body shivered as she peeked from behind the curtain. “They are watching us again.”

People only watch the house because they know she is looking at them.

“What did you say to him?” Her attention is on Brian. He is outside, playing football with the other kids. “Why is he pointing? What does he want?”

Brian wants me to come out and play, but he will never knock on the door. Nobody steps foot in our garden, not since dad left.

Biting her fingernails, she looked at the wall, speaking to her reflection in the cracked mirror. “I bet he is the one stealing our groceries at night. He comes in here. I know it. I hear him laughing.” Her canned sobs slithered down the walls. “Why do they laugh at me?”

No one is stealing our food.

No one is laughing at her.

It is all in her head.

I cannot remember the last time she even went shopping.

“And her,” she seethed, and I knew her anger was aimed at Mary. “Look at her, playing with all those boys. She’ll be pregnant next. Her mother ought to be ashamed.”

I liked Mary.

I don’t think she will get pregnant.

“Oh, why did he leave us?” Her whimpers overcame her shaking body. “It is not safe for us here anymore, Bradley.”

She is right.

I never felt safe in this house.

Rubbing her eyes, she smeared watery mascara across her pale cheeks. “It is late. You should go to bed.”

It was sunny outside.

“You don’t want to be sick again.” Taking me by the elbow, she forced me toward the bed. “Come along. If we sleep, it will be better tomorrow.”

I am not sleepy.

“Here.” Her long, rigid fingers unpackaged a small box of white tablets. “This will help. You will feel like a new boy in the morning.”

I swallowed two tablets.

“Move over.” Lifting the blanket, she climbed into the single bed, and I had to block out the smell of alcohol on her breath. “You will keep us safe, won’t you, Bradley? You won’t let them hurt us.”

I nodded.

Her unfocused eyes toured the ceiling.

I did not want her in my bed.

I did not want her to hold my hand.

I did not want…

“Big Guy?” Emma’s hands cupped my face. “What’s wrong? Did I do something? I never—”

“Don’t touch me!” Thrusting her in the chest, I staggered sideways to generate space between us, knocking over the side table’s lamp and potpourri bowl. Dried flowers scattered on the floor, crushed under my feet. “Do not fucking touch me.”

Tripping over her feet, Emma’s hands raised in surrender.

I dripped in sweat.

Clutching the back of my head, I faced the wall to get a handle on erratic breathing. My chest ached with each inhale. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, but she never replied. “I am so fucking sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said to assuage me. “Do you need a drink? I can pour you a glass of water.”

How is this possible?

Mostyn Avenue.

Number eight.

What if she remembers?

What if she knew Her?

“Yolanda Kelleher,” I said my mother’s name for the first time in over a decade. “Did you know her?”

“Um…” Emma looked like she’d seen a ghost, her face sickly pale. “Why?”

Tears pricked the back of my eyes.

Lips pressing into a firm line, I nodded knowingly.

She took one step. “Brad…”

My eyes squeezed shut. “Just don’t.”

Life is one cruel fucking game.

Warren is my only confidante.

He is the person I trust.

He never judged me.

He never looked at me differently.

Thanks to him, I can be whoever I want to be.

And I’d like to keep it that way.

Our relationship, Emma’s and mine, if you can even call it a relationship, is over before it even starts. I left that part of my life behind for a reason. I will not hark back to forgotten memories. I will not let this woman see me in a different light.

Life is blissful.

I am Brad Jones, selfish, egotistical, confident and arrogant because I want to be.

I am not Him, sad, scared, timid and weak.

Changing into the suit haphazardly, I texted Jace the hotel’s address with orders to collect Emma. “I am not supposed to be here.”

“Okay.” Of course, she called bullshit. “I will get dressed.”

I could not look at her. “Jace will drive you home.”

Her frantic movements froze.

“I am not cut out for this, sweetheart.” My back was to her, yet I felt the intensity of her stare. “My boss is rotting in a prison cell. You’d think I’d prioritise his exoneration. Instead, I am cooped up in some squalid hotel room with a woman I barely know. I should be out there,” I gestured to the window aimlessly, “with a fucking garrotte to our enemies’ necks.”

Her wide, horror-stricken eyes watered.

“Because that’s my job as a senior member of the syndicate. I am a trained killer. I am paid to murder people in cold blood.” My heartbeat pulsated in my ears. “And I wouldn’t fucking change it for the world.”

“Big Guy…” Her lips quivered. “Why are you trying to push me away?”

Too close to home, too close for comfort.

“You want to know why I can’t be the man you deserve…” A single tear slid down my cheek. “Intimacy repulses me. I am not open to your pleasure. I am not interested in foreplay. You want eye contact? I can’t give it to you.”

Emma licked tears from her lips.

My lip curled into a sardonic smirk. “I don’t need romance or feelings or passion to come.” Seizing her wrists, I put her hands to my neck, dragging her sharp fingernails down my throat, tearing at my skin. “I need pain. I need focus. I need anything but a reminder of what I fucking hate.”

Sickened by the sight of me, she withdrew her arms, holding them to her chest.

“I will never, ever be at someone’s mercy again.” My teeth clattered as I suppressed vexation. “This is my body. I am in control. No one else. Me. So, unless you want to bend the fuck over and let me use you at my disposal?” My throat was too tight to swallow. “Walk away, thank your lucky stars and move the fuck on before I ruin you.”

I heard her muffled sobs as I walked away.

Fresh air had never felt so good.

Inhaling a deep, shuddering breath, I bridged the gap between the hotel and the parked Bentley. Hurling the holdall on the passenger side, I slid into the driver’s seat, breathed in, breathed out. “Fuck.” Punching the steering wheel once, twice, three times, I pounded at the leather with the heel of my hand. “Fucking Christ.”

Warren’s letter.

Yanking open the holdall, I snatched the envelope and, breathing too heavily for it to be considered normal, stared at the black font. I tore it in half, in quarters, then threw fragments of inked paper out of the window.

A top of the range Land Rover steered into a parking spot.

Jace appeared.

Emma is safe.

I drove to the club.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Bleu

Dominic is settled for the night. I crept away from the crib and into the hall like a thief in the night to ensure his restful slumber was maintained. When he rested, I pushed the reset button and rejuvenated. I scheduled time for uninterrupted personal care, and deservingly so. I seldom left the Jones’ estate for fresh air, much less for entertainment purposes.

I hit the home gym for forty-five minutes, worked up a sweat, took the longest shower known to humankind, and then beautified myself in the bedroom: facial, body exfoliation and freshly shaved legs.

Relaxation certainly boosted self-love.

I ordered dye online yesterday morning to disguise new hair growth. Snapping on a pair of disposable gloves, I followed the instructions on the back of the box, applying colourant to my hair in sections.

Leaving the baby monitor on the closed toilet seat, I emptied essentials onto the luxuriously soft shower mat.

With the application set in motion, scalp irritatingly itchy, I sat on the edge of the bath, painting my toenails with an iridescent blue shade.

I missed the long, waist-length hair, the varicoloured blues and feathered layers. If nothing else, the nail varnish will be a small reminder of who I used to be.

People talked in the garden.

Recapping the nail polish, I cracked open the bathroom window, searching the dark grounds for signs of movement. Thanks to the series of LED lights, I located loud-mouthed contractors by the weather-worn barn.

Who hired builders for night work?

Is it not easier to work in the morning when the sun is out?

And what could they possibly be doing to the old, unused stables?

Rinsing the dye out of my hair, I wrapped a towel around my head, cleaned the mess on the floor, and returned to the bedroom.

A concrete mixer rotated like a bad dream outdoors.

I swear, if those inconsiderate idiots disturb the baby, I will stone them to death.

Hurling the wet towel into the laundry hamper, I headed downstairs, hair still dripping, and hunted the halls for the domestic cleaners.

I found them in the boarding house, enjoying a three-course meal, courtesy of our head chef, Gilbert.

“Good evening,” I said politely, taking a short moment to appreciate their living conditions. They dined in a spacious room, the long-stretched wooden table adorned in the finest flatware, crystal glassware and luxury crockery. An old-fashioned fireplace, flanked by deep alcoves and wooden beams, dominated the room. Built-in shelves with books, ornaments, and artificial plants added nice, homely touches. “Is there enough room for everyone?”

“This is the dining room.” Lilith stood by the table in pink and white pinstripe pyjamas. “There is a huge kitchen down the hall and an entertainment room upstairs.”

“Separate bedrooms.” Iris scooped buttery mash onto a white plate. “Plus, Mr Jones said it’s okay for us to use the main house to do laundry and stuff.” She smiled with rubicund cheeks. “He is very generous.”

I wonder if the others know that she is sleeping with our boss.

Grey-haired Edith is yet to smile or greet.

I suppose the same could be said for cantankerous Gilbert.

Instead of welcoming the other member of staff into their humble abode with open arms, they ate braised lamb shank in complete and utter silence.

Looking for the gardener, I sucked my bottom lip. “Where is Jonah?”

“He only swings by the estate to clean the pools or mow the lawn once a week.” Iris sat down to eat. “Do you want to join us? There is plenty of food.”

“I decline.” Although, it was nice of her to offer, as the others seem inhospitable. “I came here out of curiosity. Why are their builders outside? I fear their obstreperous behaviour might distress young Dominic.”

“Dominic has to get used to environmental noises.” Edith’s pronounced lisp irritated her upper lip. “As for the contractors, I think they have done a tremendous job under the circumstances. It’s been a miserable day. Wet conditions must be a hindrance.”

Yes, but why are they here?

Gilbert must have read my mind. “Apparently, Mr Jones is not satisfied with the estate’s underground tunnels.”

“Really?” Lilith stared at him inquiringly. “I love the ancient tunnels. Do you not think that the underground gives the place historical character?”

Gilbert’s eyes were on me. “I am sure Mr Jones has his reasons.”

Ah, so I am not the only eagle-eyed person to roam the estate. I will have to keep an eye on him in the future.

I rotated the ring on my finger. “I concur.”

He grumpily expressed dissatisfaction.

“Well, I am more curious about the Renaissance ballroom.” Iris nibbled tender stem broccoli. “Have any of you looked inside? It is truly magnificent. I bet the original owner hosted many formal parties back in the day.”

Lilith sighed. “It’s a fairytale come true.”

“Frescoes, antiques, tapestries and orchestras.” Iris nodded with ruminative slowness. “I am such a hopeless romantic. I’d love to see the boss happy and settled. God knows he deserves happiness after Dominic’s mother. Her exit was so tragic.”

I happen to think Chloe’s exit was selfish. She was a mother first. Poor Dominic will grow up someday, asking uncomfortable questions. Just imagine the guilt he will carry when learning that his mother’s overburdened life abetted suicide, that he was not enough for her to exist.

“If anyone can convince Mr Jones into reopening the banquet hall, it is Mrs Warren.” Edith sprinkled freshly chopped mint leaves onto her plate. “Perhaps I can run the idea past her when she next visits. We all know that she loves a good party.”

“I am more than happy to silver service.” Iris is mentally picking out her uniform. “Hopefully, Mr Jones will hire male servers, too.”

All three ladies giggled.

“You mentioned an orchestra,” I said, and their cheerfulness subsided. “Does that mean there are musical instruments abandoned by the previous owner, too?”

“Oh, yes.” Lilith refilled their empty wine glasses. “Strings, woodwinds and brass. It’s all there collecting dust.”

My fingers twitched anxiously. “What about percussion?”

They are equally flummoxed.

“Piano,” I educated them, and they sighed in delayed comprehension. “It is a tuned instrument, after all.”

“I cannot be too sure.” Edith cleaned the specs of her half-moon glasses with a frayed dust cloth. “You could always take a look for yourself.”

I could hardly contain exhilaration.

***

I imagined the splendacious ballroom bedecked in magical elegance with glamorously attired attendees, smiling faces and twinkling candles, but even with dust-covered furniture, absent waitresses and eerie silence, the gold-gilded domed ceiling and traditional hardwood floor allowed visualisation.

My eyes closed.

Immersed in imaginative grandeur, I walked to the middle of the room, hearing dancing strides, inhaling ambrosial dishes, tasting flavoursome champagne and feeling like the only woman in the room with her resplendent dress and shoes.

Reality became distasteful.

I could dance for hours on this very floor.

Eyes squinting open, I studied the prodigious, unaired room, the opulent floor to ceiling drapes and scintillating crystal chandeliers. Housekeeping might be onto something. Mr Jones’ ballroom is undoubtedly the heart of the estate.

Climbing onto the proscenium stage, I paused by the ebony-finished grand piano, the dust sheet hanging precariously over the heavy lid. “Without music, I have nothing.” My finger touched the key once. “It’s the only thing I am good at.”

With a delightful smile, I sat on the padded stool and, one note at a time, swept my fingers across the keys with depressing virtuosity. I let the music take control until muteness became too much to bear. “Lately, when I look into your eyes,” I whispered, prickles skittering along my arms. “Baby, I fly. You are the only one I need in my life. I just don’t know how to describe how lovely you make me feel inside.”

My fingers stilled on the keys.

“You give me butterflies.” My voice raised as a chill danced down my spine. “Have me flying so high in the sky. I can’t control these butterflies. You can give me something I just can’t deny…”

I sensed eyes on me.

Hands disappearing from the keyboard, I rose to my feet with guarded alertness. It will not come as a surprise if someone is lurking because there are eyes and ears everywhere in the estate.

Alice Montgomery is not a professional pianist.

What possessed me to come down here?

I could have exposed myself.

Sealing the ballroom doors behind me, I strode down the dark hallway toward the lobby. I passed numerous guards on the way, but none of them noticed. Dominic is the only person to care if I show up. Everyone else barely offered a glance. I bet they don’t even know my name.

I reached the top of the stairs.

Mr Jones is home. His bedroom door is ajar, the light is bright, and some unusual activity is going on. I should mind my own business. Still, I drifted down the hall in curiosity. It’s unlike him to show face at this hour. I have often wondered if he owned another property for rest. Either that or he functions without sleep because his bed saw little action.

Tapping my knuckles on the door, I peeked into the room, wary of what I might uncover. He is grumpy on a good day, so imagine the temper tantrum if disturbed without authorisation. “Mr Jones?”

The master bedroom is spectacular, so spacious and modernised. In the en-suite, the irritating sound of clattering echoed.

With one final sweep of the dark furnishings, I tiptoed across the room, dodging the discarded suit on the floor, and peered into the bathroom. I saw very little through the gap, but the droplets of fresh blood on the marble floor kindled panic. I threw the door open, not knowing what I’d find, and prepared for the worst.

“Mr Jones…” My breathing soothed the second I clapped eyes on him. He is half-dressed, hands holding onto the basin, where fragments of glass had fallen from the broken wall mirror. “I am so sorry. I thought something was wrong…”

He never bothered to look up.

“What happened to the mirror?” It was a stupid question. His knuckles were cracked and bloody. “Would you like me to call someone?”

“Have you ever wanted something you can’t have?” he asked, and I frowned in bewilderment. “It’s painful, isn’t it? It hurts in here.” He touched his chest with the palm of his hand, and I belatedly discerned his raw, gashed skin. “My heart…” He kicked an empty bottle of Jameson aside. “My heart beats for…”

Okay, how much has this man had to drink?

It smelt like a brewery in the bathroom.

His body emitted alcohol from every pore.

“Your hand,” I pointed out, but he was unfazed by the long, deep wound. “Would you like me to grab a first aid kit? Or does it necessitate sutures?”

He examined the palm of his hand, incessant blood spilling down his wrist and forearm. “It’s fine.” He unravelled toilet paper to conceal the aftermath of his drunken outburst with careless laziness. “That’ll staunch the bleeding.”

I stepped forward. “I really think you should reconsider.”

“Well, I don’t care what you think.” The tissues are doused in blood within seconds, peeling from his fingers and sloshing onto the floor in clumps. “Fuck off already.” He is talking to himself, not me. “Why is it not working?”

It is most likely that you need stitches or glue or some sort of medical assistance. Plus, how did he manage to slice his palm open by punching the mirror? Both instances do not correlate. And then I see it, the jagged piece of glass on the floor. I am no shrink or doctor, but it did not take a medical professional to summarise tonight’s events. He cut himself and got caught.

In case he got any suicidal ideas, I began to clear the glass on the floor. “Would you like me to turn on the shower for you?”

“Why?” He watched me through bloodshot eyes. “Are you saying I smell?”

Well, he reeked of alcohol, but I would not consider him unhygienic.

“I shower three times a day.” His finger pointed in my face. “Sometimes, I shower throughout the night because, well, I wake up, and I sweat…” His unfocused stare landed on my mouth. “Do you like to fuck?”

I shot him a double-take. “I beg your pardon.”

“What?” His hand smoothed down his chiselled chest, leaving streaks of crimson on his tanned skin. “Do I have something on my face? Why are you looking at me like that?”

I tossed the broken glass in the bin. “Most people never understand what it’s like to be different,” I whispered, and he blinked owlishly. “I tend to embrace strangeness. It hasn’t failed me yet.”

He grimaced sourly. “I am not strange.”

I disagree.

Respecting his internal struggle, I traced the waistband of his boxer briefs with covetous fingers.

If Iris and Lilith can lure this man into intoxicating amorousness, why can’t I?

Ever so cautiously, I lowered to my knees, peeling the boxer briefs down his tense, muscular legs with me, and waited in anticipation for his large, heavy cock to spring free. It was thick, veiny and mouth-watering.

I hadn’t gone down on a man since Eugene.

His head dropped back when I cupped his balls, his eyes to the ceiling, and I swept my tongue on the underside, teasing him with painstaking licks. But I knew I had lost his attention within a nanosecond because his cock never throbbed, leaked, or hardened. He looked sad, depressed and reluctant.

My eyes implored him to feed his cock into my mouth, make me choke on him, swallow every drop he had to offer.

Give me anything, I thought.

No, I am not what he wants or needs.

I took umbrage to his disclination.

What does Iris have that I do not?

Is Lilith wilder in bed?

Don’t tell me he is fucking Edith?

Pushing to my feet, I ripped the T-shirt over my head, exposing my breasts clad in pale pink lace, unbuttoned the jeans restricting movements and set the baby monitor on the vanity table.

He watched me disrobe yet expressed nothing, not an ounce of appreciation or excitement.

I walked into the master bedroom as naked as the day I was born. Emptying the black holdall on the floor, I found another bottle of Jameson, his poison, and poured it down my throat.

Brad appeared by the doorway, his flaccid shaft hanging between his legs. “What the fuck are you doing, Alice?”

“Take me,” I said, shoving the bottle in his hands. “Do whatever you want. I don’t care. Just make sure that I feel it.”

He glanced at the unlit phone on the floor. Putting the bottle rim to his lips, he gulped alcohol thirstily, dropped it on the floor, amber liquid spilling on the expensive rug, and prowled toward me.

Excitement tingled the tips of my fingers when his naked body pressed up against me. We fell onto the bed, and I bucked beneath his weight.

Teeth sinking into my neck, he fell back on his haunches, rolled me onto my stomach and, slapping my arse, sent a burning sensation through my body.

“Open the drawer,” he instructed, and I leaned over the pillows to yank the bedside drawer open. “Give it to me.”

My fingers curled around a small clear bag of white substance. “Can I share?”

“No.” Pouring cocaine into his wounded hand, he licked enough to feel alive, tossed the rest over his shoulder and palmed himself. “Arse up.”

Listening to instruction, I watched him make lazy strokes to himself over one shoulder. When he was hard, ready, he lined himself up at my entrance and slammed home.

I gasped at the invasion, having been unprepared for his harshness, his thickness and toe-curling fullness. He was well-endowed, and it was side-shattering.

God, I was enraptured by him. It was on the tip of my tongue to remind him about condoms, but he felt too good to interrupt. I offered myself to him, so now I will deliver as promised.

Burning from the inside, I kept my mouth shut, grappling the sheet as he drove into me from behind, hitting the perfect spot, driving me wild.

I wanted him to go fast and hard.

I wanted to wake up in the morning and feel him everywhere.

His fingers tightened around my hips.

My knees threatened to buckle against his onslaught, but I would never give him the satisfaction. I matched his punishing thrusts, the feel of him buried deep, hitting me in the lower stomach.

His hips rolled against my backside. I reached between my legs to touch our joined place, and sticky wetness coated my fingers.

Keening in rapture, I brought my hand to my mouth, sucking the taste of us on my fingertips.

He is more than I could have imagined.

I was so undecided.

What is better?

Him, emptying inside me, or him, spilling down my throat?

Perhaps he will grant both.

He impaled me, and my entire body shuddered. My stance widened, giving him more room, more access, and his firm hands on my arse cheeks flexed. I wanted to peer over and catch him in the moment, him staring at my puckered, forbidden hole in wonderment.

My breasts jerked rapidly as he pummelled. I grasped my ample mound and tweaked my taut nipple, wishing his rough hands would explore my body.

A molten heat ignited within as arousal warmed my blood. He spread me wide for his taking, and I cried out in ecstasy, having missed the closeness, the attention from a strong, worthy male.

Holding onto the sheet with knuckle-white urgency, I waded through the pleasurable waves between us. I was so turned on I could combust, but I forced myself to hold on, enjoy every second of him, and relish and savour the moment.

My breath released in strained exhales. Hips rearing back in desperation, I engulfed him from the base, wiggling despairingly for more. He had slowed down to a maddening pace. My walls clenched around him, silently begging for more.

“Christ,” he groaned, and I suddenly felt empty as his cock eased out of me. “I can’t keep it up.”

I don’t know if I am more humiliated for myself or the man’s unabashed erectile dysfunction. “Flaccidness is nothing to brag about.”

Chuckling dryly, he caressed himself from root to tip, thumb sweeping pre-ejaculate over his swollen crown. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

His drunkenness is a huge turn-off.

Wincing at the ache between my thighs, I repositioned onto my knees to face him. He warranted reprimand for that pathetic performance, but the meekness in his red-rimmed eyes told me to simmer down.

“Has he ever let you down before?” I had to know for my own sanity. “Is it me? Do you think I am unattractive?”

He released the firm grip on his shaft and slumped onto his back with a heavy, defeated sigh. “Mental turmoil,” he rasped, licking his dry lips. “It’ll pass.”

Oh, so I will just wait here until he comes back to life—note the sarcasm.

“I need more alcohol.” I salvaged the half-emptied bottle on the floor, the rug soaked and ruined. “Do you want some?”

He blinked at the ceiling. “Where is my son?”

Dominic is asleep, safe and sound. “You should not go to him in your condition.”

“I never asked for your bastard permission,” he snapped, but he made no effort to move, so that’s a bonus. “I promised to do better. Yet, half of the time, I forget he even exists.”

That’s something we can both agree on.

“What kind of father does that make me?” His face scrunched up in disgust. “I know. I am the product of my dad. I am Arlo’s son, everything I swore I’d never be.” Snatching the bottle out of my hand, he sat on the end of the bed, downing liquor like water. “I bet he’d be so fucking proud of the man I am.”

The air turned blue. I picked up a T-shirt on the floor, stuffed my head through the neckline, and slumped on the bed next to him. “If it’s any consolation, I think my dad would be pretty ashamed of me, too.”

My boss hummed.

“He’d also tell me never to give up.” My father’s face flashed in the back of my mind. “And to never doubt him or his love—”

Brad staggered to his feet in abrupt haste

“Are you okay?” I recoiled slightly. “You won’t be sick or anything, will you?”

The bottleneck slipped between his fingers, thumping on the floor. “I am never sick.” His eyes were wide, wild and distorted. “Son of a bitch.”

He tugged on a pair of clean boxer briefs and disappeared down the hall.

And I thought I had issues.

I followed him downstairs.

Inside the masculine office, he is arranging bottles of Macallan on the desk in an orderly fashion. Reading each label, the gold letters, he scribbled something down on a torn piece of paper and tossed the pen to the side with a shit-eating grin.

Plucking up the burner phone on the desk, he dialled someone’s number. “Alexa,” he said the second the call connected, rubbing his stubble jaw with twitchy fingers. “Were you asleep? It doesn’t matter. I know who sent the bottles.” Her muffled voice made him wince. “Because it is important. Yes, I worked it out.”

Why is he so distressed by the superabundant bottle supply? It is a gift, is it not? I would be less troubled and more grateful.

Intrigued by the entire ordeal, I observed the irascible yet beautiful man.

“‘Do you doubt me’?” He was trembling with adrenaline. “Right? I could fucking cry. I am that excited.”

Alexa talked for a moment.

“Warren is not ignoring us.” His hand clutched the phone as he paced back and forth behind the desk. “He is trying to protect us.”

I digested their telephone conversation.

“I don’t know the answer to that, but I know someone who can help—I am sober.” He listened to the woman harp on. “You are pregnant…” His eyes rolled heavenward. “Fine. Keep your bastard knickers on. I will drive over to the Manor. Do not leave without me.”

He ended the call.

When our eyes collided, his were ablaze with regret. “Listen, Alice. What happened upstairs? It cannot happen again. You understand that, right?”

My chin raised in defiance.

“I am your boss…A boss who is suffering from impotence, apparently.” He is still unbothered by the fact he failed the assignment. “Not that the functionality of my cock is relevant. You are an employee. You are my son’s nanny. We overstepped boundaries. It is unprofessional on both sides.”

My face heated with embarrassment. “Am I that hideous?”

“What?” Cords of muscle strained his squared shoulders. “No, this conversation has nothing to do with attraction. You are a pretty woman.”

I sensed a clause. “But?”

“But, as aforementioned, it is unprofessional to engage sexually.” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “It would be a shame to terminate your employment contract early.”

Oh, what a little swine. How dare he use scaremongering tactics to silence me? To fob me off like an annoying pest.

Masking indignation, I nodded obsequiously.

“Good.” He grasped the nape of his neck. “You are dismissed.”

I am dismissed.

He sent me away like a pitiful pariah.

My stomach churned.

Grabbing the baby monitor from the master bedroom’s en-suite bathroom, I stepped over clothes on the floor, noticing a flickering light out the corner of my eye.

I picked up the boss’s phone on the ground, seeing a woman’s name flash on the screen.

Hitting the answer button, I placed the phone to my ear, unsmiling, unbreathing, anticipating her voice.

“I don’t know what happened tonight or what I did to upset you…” She sounded so sad and helpless. “I have wracked my brain continuously since I got home, rethinking our conversation and what I must have said to make you lash out. But honestly, for the life of me, I don’t know where I went wrong. I am confused.”

Well, that makes two of us.

“Oh, shit.” Muttering a curse under her breath, she snivelled something about being mortified. “I mean, your words, they hurt. I won’t lie. I am not immune to vitriol. I want to understand, though.”

On the edge of no return, I shook from head to toe, praying the boss did not walk in.

“Don’t say it is too late for us. Don’t turn your back on me.” Now, she is coming across as very clingy and desperate. “I really like you, Big Guy.”

In fear of getting caught, I rechecked the open door. Mr Jones has yet to re-emerge from the office.

“How can I not like you? You are incredible,” she added, and I fought the urge to gag. “Am I embarrassing myself? Will you say something? Anything. Just…let me know that you are okay. I won’t stop worrying about you otherwise.”

I held the phone tighter.

Respiring a shuddering breath, she sighed into the receiver. “Please, don’t force me to forget about you.”

I had to put the poor cow out of her misery. “I think he forgot about you the moment he climbed into my bed,” I said quietly, and she inhaled, short and sharp. “Emma, isn’t it? Listen, I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, but he’s not worth your tears. We fucked, like, fifteen minutes ago. You should raise the bar.”

Emma never responded.

“I’d hate for you to humiliate yourself over some guy,” I prattled on. “He is a manwhore. I could give you the names of the women he beds right now. You are not special. I mean, there is Iris and Lilith, and I am almost sure that he is into Edith, the old—”

“Please. stop,” she choked out. “I don’t need a rundown of his sex life. We are not together. He owes me nothing.”

I scowled at her pathetic excuse. “Then, why do you sound so upset?”

When she never replied, I lowered the phone and stared at the blank screen.

The cheeky mare hung up on me.

Muttering to myself, I dropped the phone on the floor and, inside my bedroom, locked the door behind me.

Placing the baby monitor on the desk, I marvelled at my reflection in the free-standing mirror. It’s no good. I loathed the woman staring back at me. And, judging by tonight’s performance, Mr Jones disapproved also.

Is it my short hair?

Is it the colour of my eyes?

No, it is Emma, the woman who visited the estate once, the woman he snuck off to see at the hospital when he should have been with his son. She is the reason behind his erectile dysfunction earlier. He wanted her in bed, not me.

For some unfathomable reason, I had to know more about their uncommitted relationship.

Silly me. I thought Iris was the problem.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Brad

I secured the gold, half-face masquerade mask over my eyes and stepped out from the shadows in a timeless suit explicitly purchased for this occasion. Descending the undulated marble bifurcated stairs, I swiped Dom Pérignon served in a champagne flute from the confident, debonair server and sipped effervescence to the sound of instrumental ensembles.

A true sybarite avoided mediocrity.

I loved grandiloquent celebrations, extravagance and pretentiousness. I’d rather eat caviar with pompous tossers than scavenge leftovers with a bunch of moochers. I lived that life for too long, back-to-back shifts, relying on tips, second-hand goods and dashed hopes.

How the times have changed.

There were moments when I never understood my purpose in life. I was young, wet behind the ears, vacillating between the past and the present, sitting on many steps, waiting for something drastically monumental to happen. Often with a cold beer, cheap street food, the stars above, the voices in my head.

At least I had a place to call my own with Tiffany and Brian, two people I indubitably cared about. Yet, I was lonely, lost and left behind. I hoped my father would remember me, come looking for me, save me from myself. He’d return once he’d learnt I’d escaped Yolanda.

Arlo never showed up. He might as well be a figment of my imagination. Perhaps that’s the only thing my mother never lied about, his selfishness, drunkenness, and predilection for other women.

Finding Tiffany and Brian in bed together was the final breaking point. I’d have killed myself, right there in the bathroom, metres away from their dead bodies. I’d have snapped the razor, put the blade to my skin, and relieved myself from pain, but it would have been less about solace and more about fatality.

I was ready to leave the world, end it all, sleep for eternity and never come back.

Warren is an archangel. He is drawn to those ostracised by society. He could have killed me in Jerry’s bar. He could have walked away the night I murdered the only people I considered family. But he took a chance on me, not that I deserved it, and he opened my eyes to a world I never knew existed.

Warren might bear the burden of cold, authoritativeness, but he is the voice of reasoning, the glue that holds everything together, the bond in our ties. We are here, the brothers and I, living and breathing, because of him. We got a second chance in life, fulfilment and gratification, all because of him.

My story revolved around him.

I saw his leather shoes first. He stood over me, assessing the shameful situation, and then he crouched down to level with me. “Look at me.”

Breathing harshly to soothe the erratic thump of my heartbeat, I peered up to meet his sharp, piercing eyes.

“You will not harm yourself. Negative emotions do not belong in our world. If you, for any reason, seek discomfort to alleviate emotional pain, I want you to come to me.” He opened my clenched fist, one stiff finger at a time, to extract the blood-stained blade from my hand. “Why this arrant nonsense?”

It’s an addictive outlet when I am at my lowest. If I feel like a failure, if anxiety peaks, if my heart races too fast and life becomes too unendurable, I look for a sense of release, and I go to great lengths to keep it a secret. But tonight, I got caught. And it’s mortifying. I can handle disapproval from anyone else, but the disappointment in his eyes turned me inside out.

“You sent another woman away from your bed.” He glanced at the pristine, untouched double bed in the middle of the room. He paid for the suite, alcohol and drugs. All I had to do was deliver. “Now, you sit on the cold floor with thigh abrasions.”

I made two cuts. It’s not as bad as it looks.

“You could always divulge.” Hiding the blade in his trouser pocket, he moved to the panoramic window to admire the views at night. “I happen to be an excellent listener.”

I hid behind my hands. “I am ashamed.”

“Why?” His deep, husky voice echoed in the back of my mind. “You were only a child.”

Catching my breath, I chanced to look at him. He kept a careful eye on me, his smile flat but knowing. I wiped the tears under my eyes, forced myself to stand, and put us shoulder-to-shoulder. “You know,” I croaked, and he never confirmed nor denied. “Then, fix me.”

“You don’t need fixing.” His mouth curled at the corner. “You need to face the reality of your past and learn to live with it.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” My throat was thick and raw from the pathetic minutes of continual tears. “You never walked in my shoes. Your pain is not my pain.”

He mulled over that last comment. “Affirmative,” he said with an agreeable nod. “I found myself a long time ago. I know my worth, and I’ll be fucking damned if I let the monsters of my past define my future.”

I am not as strong as you, though.

“A man once said to me, ‘the world is not ready for you, Warren. They won’t even see you coming.’” He chuckled at the memory. “Crazy, old fool. He probably overindulged in cider that afternoon. He had such a philosophical outlook on life and gave me far too much credit.”

If I ever had the privilege of meeting this man, I’d shake his hand. He spoke facts. My boss is ahead of time. He is everything I hoped to be someday.

“Or perhaps he was not crazy but wise. Maybe he looked at me and thought there is something special about this young man.” His steely gaze came to me. “After all, anyone who lives to talk about anguish is worthy of admiration. It is an accomplishment.”

I am not worth anything. You gave me a new life, and I don’t understand why. I am not cut out for this lifestyle. I don’t even know how to fire a gun. Yet, you trust me with illegal firearms, knuckle dusters and folding knives, and you drive me to the barracks to train alongside skilled soldiers.

I’m sorry, Bossman.

But It’s very likely that I will get killed in the foreseeable future.

“You are embarrassed. You feel like a failure because you cannot lie down with a woman or endure mental stress without relapse.” His empath abilities never failed to render me speechless. “You overemphasise the insignificance of particular struggles rather than use them to your advantage.”

You see, I give myself mental pep talks. I hold a woman’s hand, lead her someplace quiet and undress (she is nothing short of stunning, flawless, perfection), but she lies down and smiles, fucking smiles, her eyes inviting me over, and I just stand there like a bastard pillock, a spare part, a virgin reborn, because I cannot think of anything worse than holding her in my arms and receiving passionate advocacy.

He gripped me by the nape. “Does he want a conclusion?”

I understood the question, but I will never empty the skeletons in my closet. “No.”

“You are Brad Jones. You are part of the most notorious organised crime group in the history of London. You can be whoever you want to be,” he added, and I fixated on every word. “Fear women or embrace them. Be a slave to the voices inside your head or control them. You decide.”

I stared at him. “How can I be someone that I am not?”

“According to whom?” He looked around the room with mock inquisitiveness. “I am the only person who knows your deepest, darkest secrets. Have I implied that I’ll go outside with a fucking placard to expose you? Do you even think I am capable of such nonsensical behaviour? And for what purpose? Your greatest fear is the unsolicited opinion of others. You dread the day an unimportant individual will judge you for someone else’s wrongdoing. Let that sink in for a moment.” His teeth bared as he spoke. “Close your eyes.”

I knew better than to argue the matter.

He held my head. “You remember that night.”

Evoked by his words alone, I travelled back to the past, pausing by the rickety garden gate. If I turned around, I’d see the house, the place I once called home. “What about it?”

“You ran,” he whispered, and I swallowed acidic bile down my throat. “You ran away because you were scared. But you had nothing to fear. You got what you wanted. You took control.”

I can still feel the fire’s heat on my face.

His thumbs pressed into my temples. “You must detach yourself.”

In the back of my mind, I slowly turned and lowered my gaze to the short, scrawny boy standing in the middle of the pathway, the hot, blazing fire billowing behind him. His feet were dirty, and his hair was too short, but his unsightliness was not what made me sad. It’s his pale face. He is teary-eyed, hopeless and confused. I wanted to put my arms around him, hold him and protect him.

I am his voice.

“No,” the boss warned, his thumbs to the side of my head, pressing down harder. “You must leave him behind. He has to go down with the fire.”

How am I supposed to let go?

My throat swelled. “You want me to silence him.”

“Unless you are ready to avenge him, walk away and don’t look back.” He spoke directly into my ear. “Whatever you decide, I am here to get you through it.”

I hesitated, looking guiltily at the boy.

I was in no rush to open my eyes.

I remember being young, imagining how it would feel to pass the other houses without the humiliation of being my mother’s son. I used to pretend I could be one of those kids, playing innocently in the street, tag, British bulldogs, hide and seek, not having to sneak over to Brian’s house to hide from reality.

“He had a tire swing, Brian, I mean,” I said with a smile. “When Yolanda slept, I’d creep next door to play on it. Ten minutes, if I were lucky. It’s one of my favourite childhood memories.” It’s the only time I got to see Mary. “Parents told their kids to stay away from me. Brian was rebellious, though. He never cared what his mother said. He always found a way for us to spend time together.”

I opened my eyes.

My boss is close, his hands on my shoulders, listening intently, because to him, I mattered. I was important.

“There was this girl across the street.” She had golden hair, kissable lips, sun-kissed skin and eyes the colour of jade stones. “I was so fucking obsessed. I had convinced myself that she was the one, that we’d run away together someday and be in love. Her name was Mary. I often wonder where she ended up in life.”

He curbed a smile. “I have the resources to track her down.”

I’d have accepted if he’d offered thirty minutes ago, but I had other ideas after that emotional trip into my past. “Well, I would, but with the whole limp dick predicament…” It was a stupid joke to lighten the mood. “Fucking Christ.”

He smirked a bit. “Erectile dysfunction aside, women love you.”

“No?” Grasping the back of my neck, I pulled an unsure face. “Really?”

His gaze revisited the window. “I know someone that can help you get over the hurdle. I trust her to be professional both inside and outside of the bedroom. Your issues,” he enunciated, “will not leave the room with her. She will do whatever is necessary for you to overcome. In the meantime, I want you to work on mental strength.”

A box of unopened toothpicks landed on my palm.

“You like those. You often have one tucked in your mouth.” His jaw muscle flexed as he unpackaged the box in my hand. “If it’s self-medication you crave in the darkest of hours, let this be a pacifying distraction. I will not tolerate marred skin any longer.” A toothpick slid between my fingers. “Understand?”

I nodded.

“You mentioned privation as a child. Deprivation is something our younger selves have in common. I, too, begged and borrowed to survive.” He handed over a Coutts card. “Do your worst. I am feeling generous.”

I was too discombobulated to watch him leave the room.

Tapping the card on the palm of my hand, I sat on the edge of the chesterfield sofa, wondering if his generosity was a trick. He’d given me too much already.

“Wait,” I called, chasing him into the hallway, where armed, suited men awaited his return. “I…”

Warren turned to me, slow and somewhat anticipatory, hands in his trouser pockets, two leggy blondes in bejewelled attire and death-trap heels stood on either side of him.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” My sudden abhor is for the rubicund, bald male currently scrutinising the cuts on my thigh. “Your nose has no business in my shit.”

My boss stifled amusement. With his eyes alone, he ordered everyone to give us privacy. I waited until his entourage headed toward the elevator. “So,” I said, shifting from one foot to the other, “I might buy some new suits.”

He gave me a curt nod.

“And I love shoes,” I told him. “Always fancied a pair of Salvatore Ferragamo. A belt or three, perhaps.”

He was impassive. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, I might treat myself to some gold…” I searched for a cinch in his expression, but he gave nothing away. “What? That’s it? I can buy whatever I want? It won’t cost me in the future.”

He inhaled through his nostrils. “I expect loyalty in return.”

“Loyalty?” True allegiance is hardly expectant. I already swore fealty to this man. “You demanded that already and I agreed. I want more, though.”

“More?” His eyebrow arched. “Do elaborate.”

“If I am forced to be in your proximity,” I stepped closer, “I want something more personal—an organisation. You can be in charge, of course. But I can be a founding member.”

“As opposed to what?” His head tilted as he eyed me from head to toe. “The syndicate?”

I ignored his punctuated sarcasm. “It can be, like, a pledged union alongside Warren Enterprise.” My arms folded in deliberation. “An organisation of like-minded people who have each other’s backs in all winds and weathers. A family.” My eyes danced with wild excitement. “The Brotherhood.”

He hummed in reverie.

“With you, I feel like I belong,” I whispered for only him to hear. “It is early days, and I bet you have been let down numerous times, but I promise to be in your corner indefinitely. Although, It is highly unlikely that you will ever need me in return. You’re Warren, for fuck’s sake. You’re the last person anyone wants to fuck with.”

“Brad,” he said, impatient. “Get to the point.”

“I will always defend your honour.” I held up a hand between us, and he glared at it. “Blood does not define family, right?”

He stared with an air of mysterious aloofness.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, and he gave me a flat smile. “You have no idea how grateful I am. I won’t let you down. I promise.” Clearing my throat, I decided to take his advice on board by adopting new personality traits. “Also, whilst we share a moment, who is this woman you mentioned? Will I like her? Is she good enough for me? I know I fucked up with the last bird, but look at my face? I am beautiful. If she isn’t packing first-class pussy, I don’t want her.”

His blue eyes rounded a fraction. “Are you quite finished?”

I laughed nervously.

“Bianca is a very close friend of mine.” He stroked his chin. “Her position at the club was the beginning of something extraordinary. I had a vision of scantily clad women and stripteasers, deep-pocketed barons, magnates, tycoons and moguls. What better than erotic dancers with their thirst for money to get influential individuals through to door? In my back pocket.” His gaze swept over me. “Bianca found the women, I paid their wages, and the rest was history.”

I was intrigued. “Who is Bianca?”

“You might know her as Cherry.”

I had a soft spot for the red-head. Sometimes, I see her at the club, tending to customers, entertaining clients, and lording it over the other women. I am too shy and awkward, so I barely mustered a grunt when she passed on by. “Cherry is her stripper name, right? Do we call her Bianca after hours?”

“No.” He glimpsed at his wristwatch. “Bianca no longer exists.”

That’s a shame. “Why?”

“You ask too many questions.” His stare went to the two bodacious women waiting for him by the elevators. “Bianca was a hooker. She roamed the streets, unaccompanied, unprotected, risking her safety for chump change, then her pimp, Calvin, took a percentage of her earnings, leaving her with nothing. It was no life for a young woman, sex with random strangers, dirty needles and heroin. I decided to intervene. He disappeared. She came to work for me.”

So, she opted for glamorised prostitution instead. “What’s the difference between working the streets and performing at a whorehouse?”

“Well, there are hygiene guidelines for sex workers, which most nightwalkers fail to follow. I have a responsibility as their boss to provide safety, protection, vaccinations and frequent visits to health clinics. My women are clean, content and looked after. My clients sign contracts and non-disclosure agreements and pay before receiving. It beats verbal abuse, domestic violence, sexual harassment, rape, coercion, brutalisation and unpaid services.”

I was slack-jawed. “Cherry lived rough, huh?”

“Indeed.” He exhaled harshly. “Calvin was not the friendliest. I did her a favour.” Then, as if remembering my previous gesture of mutual commitment, he clasped my hand, firm and tight, sealing our bond. “Do you doubt me?”

Tapping his shoulder, I upheld eye contact. “Never.”

I never expected him to take my hand.

But he did.

He locked our fingers, love and loyalty, not knowing the meaningfulness behind my words. I have never betrayed him, not once in all these years, and there will be no deception in the future because he was my salvation. He deserved respect and devotion. Even if money was not available and there was no syndicate or buried secrets, I’d still sit across the table from him, enjoying a bottle of bargain-bought whiskey, thanking whatever gravitational force brought us together.

I loved him.

I lived for him.

I put my life on the line for him.

Tonight is the beginning of a new era. I am here because I am damn good at my job. I earned my stripes, war wounds and high-rank status. I have given blood, sweat and tears to the institution, and I will continue to do so because that’s the code of The Brotherhood. We are family, and, in the end, we can only depend on each other. He is waiting for us to return the favour.

It’s time to bring him home.

Removing the toothpick from my lips, I set my sights on the beautiful blonde. Her blue eyes, adorned in black lace and twinkling diamonds, captured mine as she waded through the occupied dancefloor. She sought my attention with slow, seductive strides until we met in the juxtaposition of masqueraded men and women.

Our fingers threaded.

Raising her hand to my lips, I kissed her iced knuckles. “Victoria.”

“Jones.” As Sade’s “Smooth Operator” segued in the background, her one arm slid around my shoulders. “I didn’t know you could dance.”

Chin resting on the top of her head, I slid an arm around her back, hand firm to her lower spine, and moved us to the instrumentals, the train of her red dress stealing the show. “I am a man of many talents.”

“So, I have heard.” Her delicate fingers clung to my shoulders as we danced, her unrivalled beauty capturing the watchfulness of nearby, besuited men. “Your charm is ineffectual, though. I am a happily married woman.”

I buried my nose in her hair to hide the smile on my face. “Your husband should keep you on a tighter leash.”

“Oh, he’s tried.” Her movements were lithe and elegant. “But I am too wild at heart to live in a cage.”

I traced the curve of her hip with investigatory fingertips. Her pregnancy bump is tucked away nicely in the dress, but there is no denying that she’d put on some weight. Her face is no longer gaunt, her collarbones honed yet feminine, her physique slender but healthy. “I am proud of you,” I whispered, and she smiled slightly. “Bean will be the making of you.”

“I am counting down the hours until I meet him.” Her stare drifted over my shoulder with keen alertness. “He has arrived.”

Rotating with her in my arms, I located Nikolai Vasiliev by the grand bar, circled by security and close friends. He ordered a drink with a click of his fingers, the pretty brunette on his arm, smiling politely at other guests.

“I hate luring men with dates,” she said under her breath. “Other women complicate the assignment.”

“Just stick to the programme,” I advised, twirling her in my arms. “Order sparkling water with ice, lemon and cherries before you advance. He will think it’s a cocktail.”

We released each other.

Touching the pear-drop diamond dangling from her ear, she disappeared into the crowd.

Furtively treading the outskirts of the dancefloor, I watched her order a drink at the furthest end of the bar before she deliberately pinched a stool near the parliamentary team.

In true Victoria fashion, she stole the Russian’s interest within seconds. He introduced himself with a firm handshake, sipped alcohol whilst she talked politics and nodded in wonderment as she ensnared him with innocent smiles.

I clicked my earpiece. “She’s in.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Brad

I fear our involvement with the Russians might be counterproductive, much like our egregious error with the Italians, but Nikolai Vasiliev, in particular, is the only link I had to Warren. He is the answer to unsolved problems and unresolved issues, and at some undetermined time in the future, he will possess the power, authority and jurisdiction to exonerate wrongly convicted criminals.

Once bitten, twice shy.

You are reluctant to trust outsiders once bruised by unpleasant experiences. Warren Enterprise has encountered its fair share of unpleasantries in the past. Alberto Moretti was not the first rival, nor Flamur Bajramovic or the crazy Olsen twins. We have battled snakes for as long as I can remember (opposition comes with the territory); however, losing to the Italians was unprecedentedly large by historical standards, and it changed the syndicate’s dynamics momentously.

Now, everyone is a suspect with an ulterior motive, thanks to Moretti, the lying, two-faced, opportunistic tosser and his entourage of preponderantly disloyal ilks.

By all accounts, Nikolai is in London for one purpose, to protect his younger brother, Lyov, who is doing a stint in Belmarsh for a crime unbeknownst to the general public.

How mysteriously convenient?

The first task for this evening: Ask the pale-faced politician why he abused his power to the highest degree to conceal the truth behind his brother’s crime.

According to Alessio, the other Russian halfwit, Warren offered to shelter Lyov in prison for the reduced sentence of ten years.

You see, I hate everything about the above.

Warren prided himself on retained independence and spurned indebtedness, yet he negotiated with dishonourable politicians in outright desperation.

Do I see the logic in the boss’s commitment? Absolutely. Ten years imprisonment is better than a life sentence. Is a debt of gratitude worth a decade of dependability, though? Most certainly not.

I will dethrone Nikolai Vasiliev for Warren to regain sovereign power.

Warren can lay down the law, with or without restraints. He can take control of his future, contrary to the Russian’s will. He will not fall into line for another man’s satisfaction and contentment.

Exiting the venue through the gold revolving doors, I stepped onto the red carpet flanked by solid stanchions and velvet barrier ropes and headed to the black Mulsanne grand limousine parked down the street. It’s one of many chauffeur-driven vehicles stored in the underground car park at Club 11, but we only use them for special occasions.

Ducking into the back passenger compartment, I slid across the heated leather seat, closing the door behind me. “I am Hank fucking Marvin.”

Vincent smoked a blunt by the tinted window. His dismissive grunt told me that he was less than impressed by tonight’s plan of action. He studied the venue’s entrance with hawk-eyed restlessness, the whiskey-filled crystal glass resting on the seat between his parted thighs, an afterthought, by all accounts.

I eyed the other man in the limousine.

Jace is too engrossed with the laptop to pay attention to his surroundings. His primary focus was Alexa’s safety, and rightfully so. His inked, ring-laden fingers tapped the keyboard as her voice sounded in his ear. When his lip twitched, I knew she had something to humour him. “Behave,” he whispered, and Vincent’s head cocked to listen. “He’s in the car.”

I unmuted the earpiece. “Are you worried about me, sugar tits?”

“You wish.” Alexa sounded like a tight-lipped ventriloquist. “I could never be a politician’s wife. I might die from boredom.”

I removed the gold, half-face masquerade mask and popped a pre-rolled blunt between my lips. “Will you be much longer?”

Alexa sighed. “He is friendly, albeit flirty, but devoted to his wife.”

Yet, he arrived at the party with a bodacious woman on his arm. “What about the brunette?”

“Personal assistant,” she confirmed. “Their relationship is platonic and professional. In fact, I think she might be friends with his wife.”

Jace’s green eyes appeared over the trim of the laptop. “Ask if you can borrow his phone to make an important call.”

I pulled a face. “Right, because that’s not suspicious at all.”

“Who cares if it’s suspicious?” the pierced buffoon countered. “Alexa, it’ll take ten seconds to bug the phone. You can do it discreetly whilst he’s in conversation. He will only be suspicious if you walk away.”

“You want me to bug his phone in a room full of people.” Now, she came across irritated. “I need vodka.”

“My sister had alcohol foetal syndrome.” Vincent respired smoke in halos. “Do not be so cruel.”

“I am not your mother.” Alexa scoffed, and if he was offended by her curtness, he did not show it. “I won’t pour alcohol down my throat, hence the ridiculous mocktail, but I can say that I miss liquid courage when under pressure.”

Matching a flame, I lit the end of the blunt and inhaled kush with unhurried drags.

“Excuse me,” Alexa said in a sweet, polite voice. “May I borrow your phone to make a quick call? My battery died.”

There was a breath-holding pause.

“Of course.” Nikolai’s deep voice played in our ears. “Is everything okay?”

“My date is a no-show,” she lied to him. “My driver is nearby. I might pinch a doggy bag and head home.”

My brow lifted. “What’s a doggy bag?

Jace plugged a flash drive into the laptop. “Leftover food.”

Oh, what an unbecoming sight, the boss’s wife, drooling as tailored servers moseyed along with platters of finger foods. “Alexa, do not be such a scavenger.”

“Thank you,” she is speaking to the Russian. “I will make it quick.”

“I mean it.” My mouth was still wide-open in disgust. “I will hack off your fingers if you come back with a plastic bag of leftover food.”

“I won’t steal the food,” she said, her voice strained in exasperation. “I don’t even know why I said that, so get out of my head. It is distracting.”

Jace’s laptop screen brightened.

“I need a ride,” she said to the imaginary chauffeur driver. “My feet are swollen. And my date let me down. Well, come to think of it, the man is an arrogant, selfish arsehole, so I don’t know why I thought he’d be a decent human and show up.”

I shared a puzzled look with Vincent.

“It’s not like he fell in love with me or anything,” she hissed, and I scratched my arched brow in bewilderment. “It’s fine. Ignore me. That’s what you are good at.”

My throat cleared. “You know Warren cannot hear you, right?”

“Obviously,” she whisper-shouts, and I smothered laughter. “But it’s okay to be mad every once in a while, especially when reminded how goddamn lonely I am. I mean, look at me. I am wearing a stupid dress, drinking stupid mocktails with stupid people at a stupid party instead of putting the world to rights with my stupid non-existent husband.”

Vincent’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Must we analyse the stupidity between pontification and melodrama?”

“Shut up, Vincent.” Alexa is not amused by the man’s witty sarcasm. “God, it is warm here. I might pass out.”

Jace typed a combination of codes into the laptop. “Can we pass out after the assignment?”

“And I am shaking like a leaf.” Her breath came in short, panicked bursts. “He is not an idiot, by the way. He is talking to a member of parliament, but his eyes are on me. How am I supposed to open the sim tray with him watching me?”

Jace is becoming concerned.

“Angel,” Vincent intervened before she could blow her cover. “Are you close to the bar?”

She exhaled with anxiousness. “Yes.”

Forearms draping over his thighs, he weaved his iced fingers together. “And where is Nikolai?”

Alexa paused, seemingly to look around. “He is by the mayoral table.”

Vincent’s brows furrowed in deep rumination. “Turn your back, elbows to the bar, and make the switch. He will come to you the second his phone is out of view, so do not procrastinate. You have less than ten seconds to attach the microchip.”

“Dear, God.” Alexa’s distress was enough to encourage me back to the venue, but Vincent gripped my wrist and assured me that she’d pull this out of the bag. “I am scared to look over my shoulder.”

Jace studied the laptop screen in closed-mouthed anticipation.

My backside returned to the leather seat.

“I just stabbed myself in the finger with the bloody earring,” she muttered as a green light flickered on the laptop screen. “Yes, I will be outside in a few minutes.”

Jace’s hands rubbed together. “We’re in.”

“Well done, Angel,” Vincent commended the woman, then he turned to me. “Will someone meet her at the entrance?”

“Thank you, Nikolai.” Alexa’s feigned politeness thickened. “It was a pleasure meeting you, but I must leave.”

“No,” I answered the man’s previous question. “Alexa, the driver is parked down the street.”

“You owe me a gallon of ice cream.” Her heels clicked along the marble floor as she fled the venue. “I am partial to lemon flavoured as of late.”

I will buy whatever her heart desires.

“I have synchronised Nikolai’s phone.” Jace tossed an iPhone onto my lap. “And transferred the data across. Now, every time he is on a call, etcetera, it automatically enables the iPhone. You can access the cloud, too.”

The limousine door flew open.

Alexa crawled into the back, the ridiculous layers of her dress taking up too much space. “I need help,” she said, and everyone leaned forward to gather the inexhaustible material. “Can someone detach the mile-long train?” Huffing out in defeat, she kneeled on the floor, disappearing from view as the dress swallowed her into a metaphorical hole. “I am not good at pregnancy.”

Vincent unclipped additional layers and helped her stand out of the pool of silken waves. “You did well to hide the bump.”

Left in a short, spaghetti strap dress, she helped herself to chilled bottled water and collapsed onto the leather seat next to me. “I felt him move tonight.” She palmed her stomach. “He is so strong already.”

Jace gave her a weak smile. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

Yet, the thought of Alexa having a baby seemed to trouble him—evoke forgotten memories, perhaps. I imagine the loss of his daughter, Summer, will forever haunt him. But he can pretend to be okay. That’s the right thing to do, smile for others, even if it hurts inside.

Sliding an arm behind Alexa’s neck, I kissed the side of her head. “You made us proud tonight, Mrs Warren.”

“I know,” she said with a triumphant smile. “Jace, did you tap into Nikolai’s phone?”

Jace closed the laptop and buried it at the bottom of the holdall. “It’s all sorted.”

“So, now what?” Her hazel-coloured eyes flecked in gold hues bounced between everyone. “Nate had access to Nikolai’s phone records, right? Why the microchip?”

I unlocked the iPhone. “I want to know why his younger brother is in prison.”

Her lips puckered. “Aren’t there enough resources online to obtain his criminal record?”

“We believe Nikolai expunged Lyov’s rap sheet.” Vincent remembered the glass of whiskey between his thighs. He put the rim to his lips for a short swig. “Think about it. He plans to be The Mayor of London. If the press gets a whiff of his brother’s crime, it will ruin his political career.”

I typed Lyov’s name into the phone, and an array of hidden folders appeared. I clicked on the first file: Madison Chambers accepted one million in exchange for silence.

“Have you asked Donny?” Alexa pulled the blonde wig off her head and hurled it somewhere behind us. “Reginald might know something.”

Drowning out their conversation, I thumbed through conversations between Nikolai and Alessio, the smile on my face stretching to my ears. “Well, I’ll be fucking damned.”

Vincent glared at me over the whiskey glass’s circumference. “What is it?”

“Lyov is in prison for rape,” I tell them, and Alexa twisted at her waist to look at the phone screen. “Thirteen-year-old Madison Chambers. She pressed charges but received hush money to keep it from the press.” I scanned Lyov’s medical records. “By all accounts, the lad is brutally sodomised in nick.”

Alexa laughed once. “Good.”

I proceeded to read the file. “Warren promised to protect Lyov from vultures throughout the duration of their sentence.” It is here, in black and white, his agreement with the Russian brothers. “He has hospitalised three inmates in the last month alone.”

“Hang on.” Alexa’s hand raised to silence everyone. “My husband is taking care of a rapist.”

Jace winced as he considered the situation. “I mean, it’s none of my business, but can you blame him? If Nikolai is true to his word? Warren will only do ten years. He can come home, Alexa.”

“Yes…” Alexa looked crestfallen. “But Lyov is a sexual predator. He hurt a thirteen-year-old little girl. He does not deserve protection.”

I completely agree. Lyov is the scum of the earth and warranted a one-way ticket to hell. In saying that, If I were in Warren’s shoes, I’d take the deal even if it is morally unjust.

“Lyov will do time for his crime. Justice was served. Madison accepted hush money.” My shoulders hiked on a deep inhalation of breath. “Jace is right. Bossman can come home. Call me selfish. But I don’t hate it.”

“Ten years is still too long.” Alexa’s red-painted lips twisted ruefully. “I want him to come home now.”

Everyone fell silent.

I glanced at the venue.

Nikolai is by the main doors, talking to the uniformed male valet. I am not supposed to expose myself tonight, but with the knowledge of his brother’s crime, I am back in a powerful position. “I’ll be right back.”

Before they could ask questions, I pushed open the door, stepped onto the pavement and stalked toward the Russian.

Nikolai spotted me instantly. Not wanting a dispute in public, he detached himself from the small crowd of politicians, descended the concrete steps in a hurry and met me halfway. “Jones,” he said quietly, fixing his skewed bowtie. “You cannot be here.”

“I don’t play by your rules.” I stopped walking the moment the tips of our leather shoes touched. “You wanted my attention. Well, here I am.”

He cracked a boyish smirk. “This is about Warren.”

“Well, I am not here in any other official capacity.”

“You must understand the seriousness of your foolish actions.” His slithered eyes drifted to the parked Mulsanne. “Of course, I was deceived.”

I followed his line of vision to where Alexa stood by the vehicle.

His jaw was like granite. “I am not allowed within ten miles of that woman. Warren will quite literally put a bounty on my head for even breathing the same air as his wife.”

“Oh, don’t be so soft.” Her airy voice travelled across the expanse of the road. “I am hardly frangible.”

Nikolai’s nostrils flared. “Arson is a severe criminal offence.” Ever so slowly, his accusing stare homed in on me. “You tried to kill me.”

Blowing smoke in his face, I dropped the half-smoked blunt on the floor and put it out under my shoe. “Good-humoured raillery.”

Nikolai stared knowingly. “I could have you arrested.”

He’d have done it by now if he wanted to press charges. “You will not detain an asset.”

“An asset?” He chuckled through the tension. “Under no circumstances must I involve the syndicate.”

Funny. Alessio had a different attitude. He visited Club 11 against his brother’s wishes and practically begged for our service. “According to whom?”

“Your boss.” Nikolai talked behind his hand to ensure friends and associates did not lip read. “You must leave before someone sees us together.”

“Yeah, I am not one to do as I am told. Besides,” I leaned in to whisper in his ear, “I am displeased by recent events. My boss has given everyone the silent treatment. Except for you.” My pointer finger jabbed him in the chest. “Quite fucking frankly, it puts my nose out of joint.”

He looked reluctant to converse. “You will have to discuss the matter with him.”

If I could pin the boss down for a conversation, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Alas, the ignorant yet heroic tosser had other ideas. I am not privy to details. All I know is he excluded us for a reason and that I had to trust him. “No, I want to discuss it with you.”

Nikolai rasped a gravelly exhale. “You are shit out of luck.”

“Am I, though?” I pretended to ponder. “As you know, the syndicate is under my wise sagaciousness. It is my job to worm-out any parasites.”

He was straight-faced. “I can assure you. I have no ill intentions.”

“Oh, I believe you.” My voice was low yet firm. “After all, you have too much to lose. It would be career suicide to get on my bad side.”

Anger burnt in his eyes. “Jones…”

“You will never be The Mayor of London.” My smile was unapologetic. “Not if I expose Lyov to the press.”

His grin disappeared. “I see you did your homework.”

“Well, it’s not like you stepped on my toes first.” My voice dripped with haughty disdain. “Now, this is where I am confused. You conspired with Warren so that Lyov could evade brutal anal bashing in prison.” Yes, I am tactless because I can be. “But does Warren know that you bribed jurors during his trial?”

“What?” Nikolai glimpsed toward his friends, then back to me. “I did nothing of the sort.”

I ignored the man’s growing anxiousness.

“This is madness.” He glared at me with incredulous repulsion. “Are you not embarrassed by tonight’s course of action?”

“My pride won’t allow abashment.” Taking him by the elbow, I led him across the road. “So, which is it, Nicky Boy. Did you trick my boss into accepting a deal after finalising his life imprisonment?”

“You are out of your mind.” He lost all sense of calmness. “I did not blackmail the jurors. I only attended the trial to witness the outcome.”

I wanted to believe him. Only Helga, the deceased juror, mentioned that sartorially tailored men cornered her and the other jurors throughout the Warren Trial. “Well, a little birdy told me you offered her money to give a guilty verdict.”

“You have me confused with someone else.” He spoke with an air of confidence. “Whether you believe it or not, we are on the same side.” When he reached the vehicle, he shot Alexa a disparaging glare. “Wilfulness is not a polite way to get my attention, darling.”

Mrs Warren is unfazed.

“Alexa? Wilful?” Snorting at the absurdity, I slapped a hand on top of his head and shoved him into the back of the limousine. “If she were to be contumacious, she’d ignore the guards and shoot everyone in a cold-blooded massacre.”

“This is an ambush.” Nikolai slumped on the leather seat opposite Vincent. “I could have each and every one of you arrested.”

“Ambush?” Slumping on the seat closest to the tinted window, I locked the door. “We are only passing through to infringe on your privacy and, I don’t know, ruffle up some Russian feathers.”

“Nikolai.” Vincent’s eyes rounded with a mixture of cynicism and mischievousness. “I don’t believe we have officially met. Vincent Warren.” He shook the man’s hand. “Shall we get down to business?”

Alexa had to squeeze onto the chair between Vincent and Jace. She had no desire to be near the Russian for longer than necessary.

My finger flicked the Russian’s earlobe. “One, if you so much as breathe on the boss’s wife—your words—the rapist brother is face-down in the dirt, and your arse is sure to follow.” I enjoyed making the man squirm. “Two, a sexual affair with a convict’s wife is an inescapable bounty on your head. Again, your words. I’m merely giving you a friendly reminder.”

“This is crazy.” Nikolai’s sights were on Alexa. “I was amiable at best. I never so much as looked at you inappropriately.”

“In your opinion.” Alexa popped a cherry in her mouth. “I can lie like the best of them. And you can bet your arse Liam will believe his wife.” She sucked juice off her thumb. “It’s simple maths. You do as instructed by Command, or we will ruin you.”

God, I fucking loved the vixen. “Three,” I chucked a folder onto the man’s lap, “election manipulation or interference with the process of election to favour you, as a candidate, for a seat at the House of Commons is illegal.”

Jace joined in. “Electoral fraud is one hefty prison sentence.”

“I haven’t even run for office yet.” Nikolai’s fingers bent the folder. “I will not bow to criminal sovereignty.”

“Are you taking the piss?” I am not interested in fathomless politics, but I humoured him. “There is not enough bleach in Asda to neutralise the bastard stench of political corruption in that building.”

Nikolai licked the seam of his lips.

“Would you risk your political career with such exploitive Machiavellianism?” I pointed to the folder. “I am not playing with you, Russian. Either come to the table, or I will expose you and your rapist brother to the people of London right before I dig a mass grave for everyone you love.”

His eyes grew progressively wilder. “You are serious.”

I winked. “Deadly.”

“Right.” Tucking the folder under his arm, he ran a hand down his face. “What do you want?”

“Warren is not beholden to you. Not anymore. Every decision you make has to be authorised by the syndicate. Or, to put it bluntly, if I fucking say so.” Extracting another folder out of the holdall, I dropped it on the man’s lap. “You are already a member of the Cabinet, so that’s happy days. You wait for an opportunity for a leadership contest.”

“I beg your pardon.” Nikolai was trapped in everyone’s judgmental gaze. “What is it that you ask of me? An opportunity for a leadership contest? You realise I can only seize said opportunities if our current Prime Minister dies, retires or resigns. And even if one of the above mentioned transpired, it would mean I had an interest in the decision making of Her Majesty’s Government, which I do not.”

I picked up where I left off. “Our current Prime Minister will be dead by the end of the calendar month. Be the leader of your party.” Tapping the file on his lap, I encouraged him to read the highlights. “You will win based on an election rigged with bogus votes. No surprise here. You planned that part with Warren already.”

He spluttered a curse.

“Run an effective campaign and win.” My hand clasped his tense shoulder for a supportive squeeze. “Don’t look so sad, Nicky Boy. You have us in your corner.” Meanwhile, we can use the dirt on Nikolai’s politician friends to buy their silence in the months leading up to Warren’s release. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Is the mayor’s office not enough?” He was on the verge of collapse. “My home is in Moscow. This is too big of a commitment for a sojourn.”

“And ten years imprisonment is not good enough,” I said in a low, uncompromising voice. “You will be one of the most powerful men in the United Kingdom. Fuck your ten-year game plan. You will serve our country with a smile on your face and reform the criminal justice system to prevent future injustices and free the wrongly convicted as promised.”

He studied the sea of besuited men by the venue’s entrance. “It will take time.”

I appreciate that. “Five years.”

“What? No, that’s not okay.” Alexa’s acrimoniousness rocketed. “Five years is still too long. I want him to release my husband the second he wins the election.”

“Be reasonable, Angel.” Vincent smoothed the unruly strand of hair off his brow. “Nikolai must take the methodical approach to circumvent political scandals.”

“And incarceration.” Nikolai was honest about his innermost fears. “I can only promise effort and endurance. The outcome is uncertain.”

His willpower is the most I can demand. “I have faith in you.”

Returning the folders, Nikolai tidied his appearance and unlocked the car door. “Please refrain from visiting in the future. If you require my attention, be less conspicuous.”

The door slammed behind him.

“Well, that went better than expected.” My tongue caressed every syllable. “He must really love his brother.”

Alexa blew loose strands of hair out of her face. “My child will be in school by the time he meets his father.”

“We are doing our best,” I said, and she nodded in agreement. “Warren is supposed to die in prison. I just got him out in five years.”

“Yes,” she whispered, blinking back tears. “I’m sorry, Brad. I’m just sad, that’s all.”

Vincent knocked the partition, and the driver roared the vehicle to life.

With one assignment ticked for the night, I pulled out my phone and worked on the second one.

Me: Can we talk?

Message delivered.

I waited with bated breath.

Message read.

Emma: I have nothing to say to you.

I expected her to be cold after the hotel fiasco.

Me: I fucked up.

Emma: I am really not interested.

My scowl hardened.

Okay, I know I freaked out, said some pretty mean shit and bounced, but the dispute was not unfixable, right?

Me: Help me out, sweetheart.

Me: I am not good at this.

Three dots danced on the screen.

Emma: At what?

Me: At women.

Emma: LOL!

Emma: You could have fooled me, Casanova.

Right, because I am renowned for compulsive womanising. Yet, I have been on my best behaviour since Warren’s trial. I am not a saint. I have played the field. But I cannot, for the life of me, recall any recent endeavours. Uma happened a lifetime ago. The broad at the restaurant? That only lasted twenty minutes. I haven’t so much as pulled a wank (not completely out of the ordinary; I am not one to masturbate).

Since Emma, I barely even notice other females.

Because I cared about her.

And then, subconsciously, I liked her.

Now, she is all I consider.

Me: Obviously, I am not shy with women.

Me: You know that’s not what I meant, though.

Me: Look, I am trying here.

Emma: I am not having this conversation.

Me: Fine.

Emma: Fine.

Pulse thrumming in my veins, I glared at the phone screen with the urge to shatter it. I am not good at patching up differences, especially where women are concerned. It’s been too long since I felt anything other than sexual attraction.

My heartbeat thumped.

Clicking onto the music app, I typed “Missing You” by Case, copied the link and pasted it to our message thread.

Message delivered.

Me: I don’t know how else to express myself.

Message read.

“Can we stop by the Grape and Vine?” Alexa is complaining about starvation again. “I haven’t eaten in aeons.” When I never replied, she poked me in the knee. “Brad?”

“Sure.” My eyes never strayed from the screen. “Tell the driver.”

My phone vibrated.

Emma: Why would you send me that?

Right, I messed up. I thought she’d appreciate the song. She loved music. Maybe I should have sent something by Ne-Yo. He’s one of her favourite artists. But the song I chose was meaningful. I listened to it in the gym the other morning to thoughts of her.

Me: Damn it. I think about you.

You’ll need to do better than that, Jones.

Me: I miss you.

Emma: Not enough, apparently.

What does that even mean?

Me: ?

Emma: Where did you go?

I frowned at the random question.

Emma: When you left me at the hotel the other night.

I drove to Club 11, imbibed whiskey, snorted cocaine, went home on two wheels, locked myself in the bathroom and had a scrap with my reflection.

Alice’s raffish seduction techniques pushed to the forefront of my mind like a horrific reel of disturbing movie clips.

The nanny thought I was trying to hurt myself. I saw the accusation in her eyes as she assessed the blood, the fragments of glass in the sink, the wounded hand trickling with blood. But I was not suicidal or on a mission to self-harm. That’s not my life anymore. She just caught me in a moment of weakness. I cut myself whilst cleaning the mess I caused when enraged. Then, she is naked, on her knees, lapping at my cock.

And I threw her down on the bed and fucked her.

Correction. I flopped.

And regretted it.

Regretted her.

I did not want or need sex with another woman to feel good about myself.

I craved the infuriating boho chick from the cafe more than any other woman I have stumbled across.

A wave of nausea hit me like a train.

Emma would never forgive me.

She took off her clothes, exposed and vulnerable, and offered herself to me. And I turned her down. I tried to be respectful, patient, and thoughtful. I did not want to be less than she deserved.

Christ, Emma has been abstinent from sex because of Killian. The least I could give her was my full attention, a meaningful kiss, passionate sex, the insatiable urge to be fucking present.

Instead, I chose cowardice.

I ran away from my problems and fell into bed with another woman, coked-up and inebriated.

Me: I drove home and passed out.

Message read.

Emma: If you say so, Big Guy.

Me: Why don’t I come over later?

Me: I want to talk.

Message failed.

Emma blocked my number.

And damn if that didn’t hurt like a fucking bitch.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Emma

Benjamin accompanied Ethan and Wyatt to the movie theatre last night. It’s not unusual for him to hang out with the guys after work, but it’s odd that he’d watch four films and waste money on sugary junk food within a matter of days. He preferred to be downstairs in the kitchen, night after night, without company, tapping into his creativity to whip up new recipes.

Even Carter noticed his uncle’s recent disinclination to be home. He asked if something bad had happened. I assured him that Ben was fine, a little bit stressed, but perfectly fine.

My son believed me.

He had no reason to doubt his mother.

Yet, I lied.

Ben is not fine. His sister fell short of expectations, and he is disappointed. He left everything behind, life as he once knew it, family, friends, dreams and ambitions, all to start afresh with me and honesty, loyalty, and the truth are all he asked for in return.

We pinkie-promised.

Twingenuity.

When Jace dropped me home, Benjamin lost it. Years of burdensome indignation, utmost bitterness and deep-festered resentment resurfaced. He wanted to beat seven shades of shit out of him for the past, the present, the unknown.

I went missing, so Jace must be responsible.

That’s Ben’s logic.

I had to calm him down, his body trembling with feverish rage, and coax him indoors to diffuse the situation. Even then, he trashed the cafe in a burst of blind rage. It was out of character for him to be explosively violent.

Jace’s return was the final breaking point, the catalyst of harrowing memories.

Luckily, Jace had matured in the years we spent apart. He is not the arrogant, hot-tempered arsewipe he used to be. If anything, he looked regretful and apologetic when Ben’s anger spun out of control. He chose non-confrontational silence. He’d have talked to Ben and explained the situation if my brother had been less belligerent, but he removed himself instead.

Jace never mentioned Tommy, Killian or Brad on the ride home. He was genuinely curious about Carter, Ben, the rest of our siblings and Ben’s cafe. He laughed about fatherhood, how it kicked his arse until his daughter’s death, and how he’d give anything to go back in time to see her again, listen to her wild storytelling, and witness the beautiful smile on her face whilst she painted his fingernails.

My old friend is not in a good frame of mind. He lived with guilt, the pain of losing a child, a void in the chest no other could fill. There was no room for unnecessary drama or avoidable tragedy. His only wish is to survive.

It would be sacrilegious to admit I might not hate Jace. It would be further scandalous to say Tommy is not so bad, either. They were just a couple of kids defending someone they loved. They played a small part in my traumatic past. Back then, it felt like the ultimate betrayal, but they never took torments too far (not that public admonishment or the filth sprayed on my old family home is inexcusable).

Everyone deserves a second chance to redeem themselves. And if it were not for Carter, I’d have locked away tragic memories and thrown away the key. But Carter is here for a reason. He is half-Irish. He is related to the O’Sheas’ and the traveller community. Tommy is family, whether we like it or not, and he is not going anywhere without a fight.

Ben is privy to the night I roused in Silas’ trailer. I told him every unpleasant detail, excluding the hotel visit with Brad (I have yet to wrap my head around the ordeal), and he was seconds away from calling the police to file charges.

I stopped him. I gave a compelling argument to defend Tommy, and my brother looked completely and utterly soul-destroyed. I don’t think I had ever seen such disenchantment in his sad eyes.

My twin has avoided me ever since.

We lived in the same flat, walked down the same halls and worked in the same building, but he goes about his day, and I go about mine.

Tommy: Does Carter like plush toys?

Me: He is a bit old for teddies.

Tommy: Shite.

Tommy: I wanted to buy him a gift.

Me: He loves model cars.

Tommy: I will get him the best wheels in Harrods.

Sending him the “thumbs up” emoji, I tucked the phone into my back pocket and descended the stairs to our flat. It was still early, so I had an hour or two to kill before employees arrived. I can unpackage the delivery boxes from yesterday.

It was dark in the cafe. Damaged furniture and shattered tableware collected dust in the corner. My brother had the decency to clean up the mess he’d caused, but there won’t be replacements any time soon. It’s not like we can afford upgrades on the best of days.

Does it matter, though?

Who cared if we lacked furniture? We are losing customers to the new restaurant down the street. We laid off two employees to save money. I am working for free. Ben’s Cafe is in too much debt and is due to sink.

I unsealed the first box, flicked void fill chips out of the way, and stared at the stoneware dinner plates that exuded style and impeccable taste. Then I noticed the sale stickers.

Ben found a bargain.

Holding one of the plates, I skulked to the kitchen with tentative steps and used the dinnerware as an excuse to break the awkward silence between us.

My brother is in the process of garnishing colourful delicacies. His green eyes, the same colour as mine, jerked up as the door creaked open. With a twitch in the cheek, his gaze steered elsewhere, dismissing me, and he spooned horseradish onto the porcelain side plate.

“You bought new dinnerware. I love the glazed trim. It will complement the decor.” I came across as uncharacteristically timid. “Can we afford it, though?”

Whipping a tea towel over one shoulder, he arranged discs of beetroot onto the broiled salmon, then he added orange segments and preserved lemon juice.

I dawdled to the stainless-steel counter. “What are you making?”

He scattered pea shoots onto the dish with artistic finality.

“It smells divine.” Inhaling the aromatic scent in the air, I made idle small-talk. “Perhaps, someday, you will serve these dishes to the customers.”

Sprinkling rock salt and sprigs of thyme onto the crispy layered potatoes, he set the dirty saucepan aside and headed for the fire exit.

“Seriously?” My booming voice faltered his footsteps. “What? That’s it? You are going to ignore me.”

His back was to me.

“Ben, I hate it when you are upset.” My eyes dampened in despair. “Please, can we talk about it? Your coldness is tearing me apart.”

Then, grudgingly, he faced me. His upper body was tense, stretched tight, and his eyes, devoid of emotion, stared into nothingness. “What do you want me to say?”

I set the new plate on the counter. “Anything.”

“I am not okay,” he said with furious steps closer. “Tommy O’Shea is the lowest of low. I do not want him anywhere near my nephew. But what the fuck does that matter, huh? My opinion is not relevant.”

“That’s not true,” I argued, and he snort-laughed, looking away with a sharp click of the tongue. “Ben, I love you. You are quite literally my favourite person in the whole world.” My voice broke into a hoarse whisper. “You will always matter. Hell, I choose you every single time.”

His dark eyes came to me. “But?”

“We must learn to put differences aside for Carter’s sake,” I stressed, knowing everything I said fell on deaf ears. “Tommy is not here to make our lives more difficult. He just wants a relationship with his nephew.”

My brother fumed. “He is a violent waste of space.”

“He is not accountable for his father’s wrongdoings.” My hands grasped the top of his arms. “He asked for one chance to prove himself. I promise you, if he screws this up, I will be the first person to kick his arse to the curb. But we got to see this through for Carter.”

Ben fake-laughed to quell awkwardness. “Is it selfish that I don’t want to share him?” He was teary-eyed. “That little guy is my sidekick, Em.”

“Nobody is going to take that bond away from you.” My palms flattened on his cheeks. “You have been more than an uncle to him. You are literally the only father figure he has ever known. He loves you so much, Ben.”

He nodded sullenly.

“Can we make friends?” I half-joked and ensconced myself within the safety of his arms. His hold was tight and filled with love. “I love you.”

“Ditto.” His chin rested on the top of my head. “Will there be ground rules?”

I understood the question. “Tommy will come over for the next few months. I will discuss unsupervised visits in the future.” I had to be reasonable. Tommy and Carter will have playdates without me if all goes well. “His community is not included in our plans.”

Ben released me, then stepped back. “Quintin?”

“Tommy has no relationship with his father.” It wouldn’t have made a difference, anyway. Quintin is not allowed within fifty miles of my son. The door will never be open for him. “It’s just Tommy and Sheila.”

“Today is the day, huh?” he mused, and I nodded. “Don’t force him on me, alright? I need some time to come to terms with his involvement.”

I would never force my brother to be friends with Tommy. Tolerance is the most I can expect. “So, the new plates?”

“I ordered them online.” He gave me a half-smile. “You’re right. We can’t afford it. But I won’t serve food on paper plates.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to mention the debt collector letters he’d hidden behind the microwave upstairs. “You got this.”

“Yeah.” His stare skittered across the gourmet dishes. “So, what do you think?” He shoved a fork in my hand. “Try the potatoes first.”

Breakfast was overrated. I settled for early morning salmon because it put a smile on my brother’s face. “Your ego-inflated head won’t be able to fit through the door at this rate.” So many flavours burst on my tongue as I delved in for a second mouthful of beetroot. I know I say it all the time, but his talent is wasted at the cafe.

Ben watched me eat in what could only be perceived as fascination. It was a big deal, people tasting his dishes. He wanted feedback and constructive criticism to improve recipes, not that improvement is necessary.

“Well?” His curious eyes travelled over my face. “What do you think?”

“Too much salt in the potatoes,” I lied, and the colour drained from his face. “The salmon is a little dry and the lemon juice? Very overpowering.”

He fisted the back of his hair. “Shit.”

“I am kidding.” I shoved his shoulder. “Your food is awesome. You’d give those chefs down the street a run for their money.” Leaving the fork on the edge of the plate, I poured a glass of ice-cold water. “Do you want some?”

“No, I am good.” Ben was loading the dishwasher when Carter, sleepy-eyed and bedraggled, appeared by the kitchen door. “Where is your pyjama top?”

My son scratched his bare chest. “I got sweaty.”

“Sit down.” I tapped the stool. “I will knock together some breakfast.”

“What did you make, Uncle Ben.” Pulling himself onto the stool, Carter stared at the half-eaten salmon dish, open-mouthed and practically drooling. “Screw toast. I want the potatoes.”

“Hey,” I scolded lightly. “No curse words.”

His nose crinkled. “I never cursed!”

“So…” Ben slid the plate of potatoes into my son’s possession. “Can we have a big boy conversation?”

Carter’s eyes brightened. “Are we taking the scrambler for a spin?”

“What?” Ben took a quick intake of breath. “No. You are not allowed to ride a motorcycle. Ever.”

“Why?” Carter asked between morsels of food. “You ride a bike.”

“Yeah, but…” My brother gave me a pointed look. “Help me out.”

I summoned courage. “Carter, do you remember the day we talked about your daddy?” At the mention of his father, I gained his full, undivided attention. “And I told you about his brother, Tommy.”

“My uncle?” He looked at Ben for a few seconds. “Sure. I remember.”

I fumbled with my fingers nervously. “Well, Tommy is in London to see you.”

He stared at me for a torturous moment.

“Is that okay?” I probed, and he shot Ben another cursory glance. “I thought that maybe he could come over and sit in the living room. You can show him your cars and tell him about school.”

“I…” His cheeks reddened. “What about you, Uncle Ben?”

Ben tried to smile. “What about me?”

“Will you be okay if I see my other uncle?”

“Yeah,” he responded, then his throat cleared as he squeezed his nephew’s shoulder. “You’re kidding, right? I think it’s pretty damn awesome that you get to see Tommy. Hey, maybe he can work out how to get the Hylian Shield on Zelda because I am all out of ideas.”

“Really?” Carter’s face lit up with excitement. “We definitely need the shield.”

Ben smiled to mask uneasiness.

“Okay, I want to see him.” My son jumped down from the stool. “Do I need to shower first?′

“Yes.” Ben tousled the boy’s hair. “You stink.”

“You stink,” Carter replied as he jogged toward the kitchen door. “You stink more than mum!”

“Hey!” My hands threw up in the air. “Why am I the target? I never mentioned your stench!” Listening to his retreating footsteps, the excitable thump of his feet going up the stairs, I turned to my brother, who had yet to deviate his eyes from the closed door. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“I know.” He found comfort in that. “Fuck, I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. I am too emotional. I think I need to get laid.”

“Why do you insist on torturing me?” Water poured down my throat to eliminate sudden dryness. “Besides, I heard Stephanie upstairs the other night. You are not sexually deprived.”

Why am I discussing my brother’s sex life?

“Can you save this conversation for when Ethan and Wyatt arrive? I know we are close, but I don’t need a visual of what happens in your bedroom. I mean, how would you like it if I—”

“No,” he cut me off instantly. “Get out before I throw you out.”

I bellied amusement. “But I never got to the good part!”

He pointed at the door. “Goodbye, Emma.”

***

Tommy arrived midday. He sat in the cafe with me for thirty minutes before I led him upstairs to meet Carter. My son was nervous, shy and hesitant, but once his uncle brandished gifts and new clothes, he lost the bashfulness and sat on the living room floor to unwrap two model cars. He was ecstatic beyond measure, the presents being the highlight of his year.

I went to the kitchen to drink a mug of strong coffee. It was difficult leaving them unattended, but I wanted their relationship to grow naturally, organically, which would be impossible If I stood in the background, watching, listening, making a certain individual uncomfortable.

Carter’s laughter echoed down the hallway.

My phone jittered on the table.

Quinn: Your guy is here.

My frown held as I typed a response.

Me: Huh?

Message read.

Quinn: The community service guy!

I felt sick.

Me: You’re lying.

Quinn: Why would I lie? He just walked in and asked to see you.

My stomach twisted into knots.

Me: Tell him I went to the supermarket.

Quinn: Yeah, I already confirmed that you are upstairs.

I heard the front door open.

Me: I am going to kill you!

Quinn: It’s not my fault!

Me: Why did you let him through the back?

Quinn: He never asked for permission!

Chucking the phone on the kitchen counter, I rushed down the hall like a crazy woman.

Brad emerged simultaneously at the top of the stairs. His handsomeness took me aback, which is crazy because I know he is handsome.

Yet, I was unprepared for everything that was him.

He stood close enough to touch in a bespoke suit that screamed timeless expensiveness. His whiskey-coloured eyes, sliced beneath furrowed eyebrows, looked me up and down as his leather shoes stepped onto the wooden landing.

Butterflies fluttered to my throat.

He held a gold-wrapped parcel adorned in a thick, floppy red bow. He placed it on the nearby sideboard, stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked back on the heels of his shoes.

I was suddenly aware of my disastrous appearance.

Why do I even care?

Impressing him is not important.

Still, I hated the foolish choice to throw on a pair of leggings and a huge, off-the-shoulder jumper that did absolutely nothing flattering for my figure.

At least I had bothered to do my hair.

“Hey,” he said after a short beat. “You blocked my number.”

Yes, I removed you from my life because you are a lying arsewipe. “You shouldn’t be here.” When Carter chuckled, I gripped the man’s elbow and forced him downstairs to avoid any possible hostilities between him and Tommy. “My son is in the next room.”

“I am not leaving until we talk.” He spun around to face me, taking ownership of my wrist. “I won’t upset your kid.”

Chest-to-chest, we stood, breathing in the same air. Even when he moved two steps down, he towered above me.

He was determined. “We can go outside.”

His fingers on my skin ruptured goosebumps across my flesh. I whacked his hand away, slipped past him on the stairs, and headed for the exit.

In order to get outside, I had to pass Ben and the other chefs.

Pans and utensils clattered together as I strode through the steamed-up kitchen. I felt eyes on me, on us, but steadfast refusal to acknowledge anyone helped my feet to cross the threshold.

Thrusting open the fire door, I stepped into the back alley, nerves abound, looking for anything but him to focus on.

Brad was right behind me. His stare flickered from me to the open door with nonchalant calmness. His blond, windswept hair had recently seen the barber. It was slightly shorter, falling just beneath his sharp jawline.

I was too anxious to breathe. “What do you want, Big Guy?”

“You,” he said, not that I was in the mood for wisecracks. “Christ, Emma. I fucked up, okay? I got in my own head, and I took my frustration out on you…” He reached for something in his pocket. “Listen, I don’t know how to be that guy for you. I want to be that guy for you, so I thought…”

My arms folded. “I made a fool out of myself.”

His eyes reacquainted with mine.

“I threw myself at you,” I said angrily, and his Adam’s apple bopped. “I removed my clothes and practically begged you to sleep with me.”

He shifted restlessly on the spot.

“You never even looked at me.” Most people might consider his restraint in the hotel room respectful. To me, it was disclination. He is accustomed to naked women, so what I had to offer did nothing for him. “I stood there, naked, desperate, and you looked away and turned me down. You had the gall to say I deserved better. For your information, no woman wants to hear that cliche crap.”

He shoved a hand through his hair. “I meant what I said, sweetheart. You can do so much better than me.”

Yet, he is here. “Then what’s the point in this conversation?”

His lips twisted wryly. “I never said I was selfless.”

“Why did you leave if you are such a selfish man? Why not stay in the room and fuck me? Oh, that’s right. You refused to touch me. I am too complicated for you, right? Sex with me is too complicated.”

“I can fuck, Emma.” He was becoming irate as he squared up to me. “That’s not the issue here.”

My irritation mirrored his own. “Then, explain it to me.”

He laughed dryly. “You want something I struggle to deliver.”

“Is it because I won’t bend over?” I hate the thought of someone pushing my head down and using my body like I am worthless. “Fine. I will bend over and take it.”

“Missionary is not the problem. Sex is not a fucking problem.” His jaw muscles ticked as he ground down on his teeth. “You want intimacy. I have issues with being intimate.”

Of course, I crave intimacy after Killian. I never want to experience that level of detachment again.

Is it wrong to want to be present?

Is it wrong to want to feel safe in a man’s arms?

“You want me to look you in the eye whilst I make love to you.” He’d forgotten the item in his pocket. “Do you honestly think you are the first woman to believe she can change me?”

My blood froze over. “That’s the opposite of what I want.”

He scoffed in disbelief.

“It’s true.” You are perfect, too perfect for someone like me. “Big Guy, I think you are incredible.”

“And I care about you.” He cupped my cheeks. “I care so fucking much. I’d have thrown you down the first night I climbed into your bed if you meant nothing to me. I tried to be different. I wanted to be a better man for you. It’s not about disclination.”

I was lost in his eyes.

“Captivation has never felt so blissful.” His lips curled into a low smirk. “Beauty has never looked so unparalleled.”

My heart thumped loudly. “How can I understand when you refuse to tell me?”

He studied me closely. Then, sweeping the pad of his thumb over my lips, he lowered his mouth to my ear. “I have strangled pushy women in bed,” he rasped, and a chill slithered down my spine. “I don’t even know I am doing it. I have blackouts that are so dark. I get lost between the past and the present.” His forehead touched mine, but his eyes were closed now, his expression pained. “When I come back, I am not the man you see in front of you today, sweetheart.”

My lips parted to speak, but no words came out.

“I am not sorry for protecting you from myself.” His mouth tickled the shell of my ear. “I don’t care how much I love the idea of us. I won’t be the reason you hurt.”

I almost buckled. I almost threw myself into his arms and promised him everything would be okay, and then I recalled the telephone conversation with the woman who answered his phone. “And it took another woman for you to come over and admit this to me?”

“What?” His head lifted, and he stared for a long, reflective moment. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I called you,” I whispered, prying his hands down from my face, which was effortless because he never fought me. “I called you because I was worried. A woman answered your phone. You lied to me. You never went home to bed. You left me in the hotel room to sleep with someone else.”

His expression greyed.

Stepping back to put space between us, he glared at me through dark, hooded eyes and slipped a toothpick between his tightly pinched lips. “Someone answered my phone?”

Is that the only detail he picked up?

I bit my tongue until the taste of blood filled my mouth. “And she is one of many, right?” My eyes dared him to lie to me. “You have all these females just waiting for you to fill their heads with empty promises. Hell, I never stood a chance.”

His head tilted until the bones in his neck clicked.

“Am I allowed to be mad? No, not really. You are not my boyfriend. We made no commitments. But I won’t lie to you this time, Big Guy.” Tears saturated my eyes, and I wanted to kick myself for showing emotion in front of him. “You turned me down for someone else, and I am sad. I was stupid enough to believe something could happen between us.”

He crumpled what sounded like paper in his trouser pocket.

“I might be smitten,” I added, and his head inched back in surprise. “But I am not an idiot. I have self-respect.” I am not your experiment. “I will not give you my heart if you plan to break in return.”

Brad never replied. He wanted to be sure I had finished before he defended himself. “Emma…” He inhaled a deep breath as if to control his thoughts and actions. “You’re right. I did lie.”

My chest caved.

For some ridiculous reason, I had told myself it never happened. I had hoped that he’d give me a reasonable explanation, expunge the vileness of the woman’s spiteful voice.

“I drove to Club 11 and got off my fucking rocker. It’s what I do best.” He gestured to himself. “If times are hard, I self-destruct. I was going to fuck one of the dancers. I bottled it and went home. I never lied about that part. And you,” he said with a flick of the hand. “You were in my head. I was mad at myself for being such a fuck up.”

My stare dropped to the ground.

“It was the nanny.” His admittance was unexpected. “I was in the bathroom, breaking shit, and she came in to help me. I don’t even know how it happened or why. Her irritating voice…I flopped. I never finished. I was out as quick as I was in…” He winced at the choice of tactless words. “I’m going to fucking murder this bitch.”

“Seriously?” I caught the sleeve of his suit jacket to forestall his onslaught. “What angers you the most? That it happened? That you lied to me? That you got caught? You cannot be upset with someone who told the truth because you were too selfish to be upfront with me.”

“She had no fucking right.” His eyes were wide and ablaze with furiousness. “That was my shit. Mine. It was on me to fucking tell you.”

“Would you have told me, though?” I challenged, and his mouth stuttered. “I didn’t think so.”

“Why would I tell you?” He countered, and rightly so. “You said it yourself. We are not in a relationship. What I do in my spare time is nobody’s business—and vice versa. But to deliberately cause trouble? Why? It’s fucking bullshit.” His contentiousness escalated. “And then you blindside me. I came to you with good intentions. I never slept last night because I wanted this conversation to be perfect.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault.” My brows flew to my hairline. “I am not allowed to question anything or be upset because you decided to pick up where you left off!”

“That’s not what this is!” His face was puce with rage. “You ram words down my fucking throat.”

My hand on his chest pushed him back gingerly. “Do not scream in my face.”

“You know what? Fuck this.” He scrunched up whatever was in his pocket and lunged it at the nearby skip. “I am out.”

“Big Guy…” I watched him walk away. “Shit.”

Brad’s head stayed down as he turned the corner. I slumped against the brick wall on the verge of tears. It was never supposed to hurt this much. But it did hurt. I wanted to chase behind him and start the conversation all over again.

Wiping the moisture beneath my eyes, I dragged my feet to the skip and crouched down to grab the balled-up paper. Ironing out the creases on my thigh, I unfolded the pamphlet.

The Courage to Heal.

Treatment.

Improvement.

Protocols.

A self-help guide to survivors of rape, sexual assault, child molestation and incest.

My eyes darted to the end of the alleyway in confusion. A gnawing feeling festered in my stomach, and I had to swallow down the acidic bile forcing its way up my throat.

Is the pamphlet for me or him?

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Emma

Ben, Ethan and Wyatt, three brazen-faced snoopers with their ears perked up by the fire exit door, made a run for it the second our eyes collided. They had the decency to hide nosiness (one returned to the vegetable station, one sprayed the stainless-steel counter with disinfectant, the other pretended to check a message on his phone), but I had caught them red-handed, eavesdropping on a private conversation.

Nosy bastards.

It would be hypocritical to lecture or chastise the trio. I have planted an ear on Benjamin’s bedroom door more times than I can count when he’s arguing with Stephanie, the blonde, sharp-tongued barista.

Ethan dated a pretty bank manager once, who used to swing by for coffee every morning. He ended their toxic, three-month relationship during a volatile telephone conversation in the alleyway, and I hung out of the bathroom window upstairs, digesting their bitter break-up whilst relaying everything back to Quinn via text message.

Wyatt proposed to his childhood sweetheart, Kirsty, in the backseat of an old pickup truck when attending their first drive-in cinema. It was all unicorns and rainbows until she left him for someone else.

The poor bugger moved in, short-term, camping on the sofa, drinking alcohol every night to numb the pain, the betrayal.

He swore he’d never fall in love again.

Ben spent many sleepless nights nursing his friend back to health, and I made avoidable trips to the kitchen to pour mugs of sweet tea so that I could tune in to their late-night chitchats.

Thus, I cannot be mad.

We are all as bad as each other.

Inquisitorial.

Meddlesome.

Defensive for one another.

I folded the pamphlet before their wandering eyes pried.

“Are you hungry?” Ben conveyed pan-crisped sausages to the centre island. “Or, I can make coffee and take an early break.”

My brother is asking me, without actually asking me, if I need to talk. I have a dilemma, but Ben is not the right person to give advice. Firstly, he is not fond of Brad or his criminal lifestyle. Secondly, he wore a permanent pair of biased goggles. I am his sister. Therefore, I am inculpable, never wrong or blameworthy.

The opinion of an impartial mind is obligatory.

“No, I should get back upstairs.” I had left Carter unattended for too long already, not that I doubted Tommy. I genuinely believe he is here to rectify the past. “Maybe later?”

Ben gave me a curt nod.

I practically flew up the stairs.

My eyes homed in on the parcel in the hallway.

Touching the regal bow with curious fingers, I carried it to the kitchen and placed it on the table. I daren’t unravel the ribbon. The box looked more expensive than my entire wardrobe combined.

I stared long and hard, dying to know what lies beneath.

No, I had no right to look inside after the argument.

A set of footsteps sounded in the hall.

Quinn waltzed into the kitchen like a breath of fresh air on pale, mile-long legs and black, low-heeled ankle boots. “So, it blew up, huh?” She fussed with her long-sleeved shirt, tucking the hem into the waistband of her knee-high skirt. “Even the customers twigged. Shit, I think the whole neighbourhood heard.”

Well, it’s not like we tried to be quiet. Brad lost his cool. I lost my cool. I think we parted ways as unlikely friends.

Her piercing eyes softened. “Who is to blame?”

“That’s the thing,” I said despondently. “I am not convinced either of us is to blame.” There is so much I want to get off my chest, but it is not my place. “We have separate issues. Dual-trauma, if you may. And it’s like a major obstacle preventing us from…” My fingernails dug into the palm of my hand. “Let’s just say it is a very unusual circumstance.”

Quinn read between the lines. “You have to take care of yourself first.”

My shoulders slumped. “I know.”

“And you have come such a long way,” she stressed, referring to the past, where I used to bawl my eyes out because of Killian’s betrayal, and she’d be there for me, like the best friend she is, to comfort me, reassure me, promising positive change in the future. “I mean, is he worth it? I don’t know much about this guy. You haven’t been overly forthcoming.”

I toyed with the crystal pendant dangling from my neck.

“If you think he is worth it,” she continued with a ragged breath of uncertainty. “You can be there for him, listen to him, validate his feelings, be emotionally supportive, but ultimately, it’s on him to seek help.”

I waited patiently.

“I don’t know the full story. All I can say is no relationship can work with underlying issues. Past trauma will impact both of you, whether you like it or not.”

I know she is right. “It’s hardly a relationship.”

She blinked twice. “Sex?”

My head shook.

“What?” Her jaw hit the floor. “All those sparks, and you haven’t even had sex yet.”

I felt a sharp twinge in my chest. “What sparks?”

“Girl, the entire cafe experienced the vicariousness of your sexual chemistry.” She gestured down the hall aimlessly. “You can’t force that shit. It is primal. I bet he’s fucked you no end of time in his head.”

I daren’t tell her the man is preoccupied.

“Damn.” She is mind-blown. “You need to get on that before I do.”

It’s not by lack of trying. I have never wanted a man so much in my life. “Maybe someday.”

She spotted the parcel on the table and sucked in a tight breath. “That’s Armani.”

My brows snapped together. “How do you know?”

“Well, it says Giorgio Armani on the bow,” she pointed out the obvious. “Bloody Hell, Emma. Why haven’t you opened it already? I need to see what’s inside.”

“Brad brought it for me before we fell out,” I said, and her lips pouted sulkily. “It would be wrong to assume I can keep it.”

“I suppose.” Her white-varnished fingernails tapped the box. “We can peek, though. He won’t even know. You can return it later.”

No, I’d rather not.

“Come on, Em.” She lifted the box to her ear, shook its contents, and rounded her eyes for dramatic effect. “It smells expensive.”

I gave her a look. “You cannot smell anything.”

“Yes, I can. I bet the sales assistant wrapped everything in scented paper.” Her fingers teased the bow. “Just one tiny peek.”

I am keen to see what’s inside. “Fine.”

Quinn squealed, thrusting the parcel into my waiting hands. “Be gentle.”

I unknotted the bow, unclasped the lid and smelt the softest hint of fragrance. “You might be right.” The mysterious, intoxicating power of jasmine, tuberose and orange blossom permeated the air. “Oh, shit.”

Her lips parted as she inched in to examine the dress.

Holding the spaghetti straps with the tips of my fingers, I put the emerald gown with a deep-cut V-neck, open back and thigh-high split to my chest. The satin fabric is regal and slippery to touch. “How much do you think he paid for the dress?”

“I wouldn’t like to know.” She exhibited Tom Ford’s signature gold, elegantly pointed, padlocked heels. “You should accessorise with subtle gold jewellery.”

No, I had to return the gift. “I am not keeping the dress—or the shoes.”

“I think he’d want you to keep both.” She hugged the shoes to her chest. “Plus, I have never seen you in a dress before.”

I haven’t worn revealing dresses since Killian.

“Do you think the colour is a coincidence?” She placed the shoes back in the box with precision. “I think he considered your eyes.”

“No, I doubt men pay that much attention to detail.” The material’s vivid colour would bring out my eyes, though. “I…” Heavy footsteps beat along the floorboards. “Anyway.”

“Yeah, I should get back to work.” She was halfway through the doorway when Tommy appeared. “Hey, dickhead. You better be on your best behaviour.” Her teeth flashed. “I bite.”

He watched her stroll down the hall. “Feisty.”

Oh, you have no idea.

Quinn is thick-skinned, quarrelsome and never one to back down from a fight. She can split someone in two with her words alone. Hell, I think she’s perfect. And she is secretly in love with my brother. If only he’d drop the blonde currently offending customers with her lousy attitude downstairs. I’d take the red-head as a sister-in-law any day of the week.

“Carter went downstairs to show Benjamin his new trainers.” A slight smile sliced across his face. “He’s a good lad. You did a fab job, Emma.”

I swallowed appreciation.

“So, I have to drive back to Liverpool tonight.” Yet, he seemed in no rush to leave. “I wish I could stay longer. Time flies when ye havin’ fun, huh?”

I understand his mental conflict. He had to make up for time lost.

“Maybe I can come back in a week or two,” he suggested, and I agreed with a silent nod. “I won’t brin’ Sheila yet. It might be too soon for the lad.”

I concurred.

“Also, I’d like to sit down with Benjamin the next time I visit.” He braced himself for disagreements, but I remained demure, tight-lipped and unforthcoming. “Hey, I come in peace. I don’t want any trouble with your brother. I’d like to wipe the slate clean if possible.”

I had to give him a heads-up. “Ben is not your biggest fan.”

“Because of the graffiti?” His face contortions as he pulled out a chair and became seated. “That was child’s play. I made mistakes, and I paid for them. I ain’t had no relationship with my nephew. Shite, I’ll never get that time back.”

“No one cares about the graffiti.” Although, I was mortified when neighbours stood in their gardens, gossiping and pointing at our house. “Bullies jumped my brother on the way home from work. This happened on more than one occasion.”

Tommy was trapped in my judgmental gaze.

“He was hospitalised before we relocated to London. You, Quintin, the others, chucked him in the boot of a vehicle, drove him to the middle of nowhere, beat him within an inch of his life and left him for dead.” My eyes watered at the memory, but I kept tears at bay. “I almost lost him. He did not deserve any of those punishments. He was a good person. He is still a good person.”

Tommy allowed me to finish.

“What you did to him was unforgivable.” My jaw was so tight. I feared a tooth would crack. “So, if he is not willing to meet you halfway? Get over it. He owes you nothing but tolerance in Carter’s presence.”

A string of silence unrolled between us.

He stood, his fingers gripping the back of the chair, and levelled me with a pointed look. “Although capable, I never laid one finger on your brother.” He was cool, calm, but unsmiling. “Quintin is an entirely different matter. Ye know, more than anyone, what I went through with him. His behaviour was excessive and unpardonable in every aspect of life.” He paused indecisively. “I am not responsible nor liable for his cruelty.”

I chewed my inner cheek.

“Ma put his arse in the slammer.” His inked fingers clicked as he palmed his knuckles. “He beat her so badly. I thought she was dead.”

Brigid endured beatings from Quintin throughout their entire marriage. I used to feel sorry for her, knowing what she went through, but I cannot sympathise with a mother who did nothing to prevent her husband’s tyranny. He belted his sons, abused them physically and emotionally, and turned a blind eye. “Well, I am glad he’s in prison.”

He let out a deep sigh. “He got his comeuppance. He ain’t a problem for anyone.”

“Quintin threatened to take Carter away from me,” I told him, and for a second, he looked nonplussed. “He meant it, Tommy. He would do it out of spite. He is not, nor will he ever be, allowed to have a relationship with my son.”

“He will have to go through me first,” he promised, and I offered a grateful smile. “Ain’t nobody taking Carter away from his mother. I’ll make damn sure of it.”

Let’s hope Tommy’s attitude doesn’t change subsequent to Quintin’s release date—whenever that may be. I should probably do some research. “Well, I am glad the visit went okay.”

“And that’s my cue to fuck off,” he joked, and I laughed lightly. “I’ll give ye a text in a couple of days.”

I never walked him to the door.

Repackaging the shoes and the dress, I resealed the lid and snuck into Benjamin’s bedroom to borrow the laptop.

I could hear Carter’s raucousness from the kitchen as I set up a quiet space in my bedroom. Plonking onto the bed, plugging in the laptop, I unfolded the creased pamphlet and loaded the Google search engine. Then, I glared at the screen in bafflement.

What am I supposed to type?

I wanted to know how to understand Brad’s struggle better before I went to him. He came here with gifts, well-intentioned calmness and information about therapy.

Do I need to see a therapist?

Is that what he’d hoped to achieve?

I am not overwhelmed by life.

I am not more emotional than usual.

My eyes closed as I travelled back to the hotel room.

I have replayed the night repeatedly since we parted.

Mentally, I flicked through the series of events.

He got comfortable on the bed.

He viewed the images on my camera.

He let me take photos of him.

He gave me advice on my future.

He ordered pizza for us to share.

He asked questions about Tommy.

Tommy is from Liverpool, right?

My eyes opened wide.

I tapped the keyboard.

Brad Jones, London.

Liam Warren’s trial flooded the screen. After a moment’s hesitation, I browsed recent news headlines with detailed images.

Prosecutors Reveal Warren “Enslaved” and “Raped” Jessica Pearce During the Final Days of Her Captivity.

Man Charged with Possession of Illegal Firearm.

Defendant Appeared in Court for Drug Trafficking Allegations.

A Crime Lord’s Crumbling Empire.

Warren Involved in the Procurement of Underage Girls.

Crown Versus Warren in Pimping and Pandering Scandal.

Family and Friends of Criminal Liam Warren Attend Her Majesty’s Court to Show Unanimous Support in the Hours Leading up to the Jury’s Verdict.

Liam Warren Found Guilty on All Counts of the Indictment and Sentenced to Life in Prison Without Parole.

It felt like an invasion of Brad’s privacy. If I wanted to know the details of his boss’s incarceration, I only had to ask, and then it was on him whether or not he wished to tell me.

I returned to the Google search bar.

Brad seemed oddly interested in Tommy’s location. I am likely off base, but I typed the first thought that sprung to mind.

Brad Jones, Liverpool.

Articles about the Premier League crammed news headlines.

My fingers hovered above the keyboard.

Only, I was confused because Silas mentioned Leeds, too.

That’s what he had said to me. “You did look confused, but why?”

Brad Jones, Leeds.

There is only information on housing development.

I nearly lunged the laptop across the room in frustration, but the determination to succeed prevented relinquishment.

Yolanda Kelleher. Did you know her?

Brad’s question played on repeat inside my head. I don’t think anyone knows the real Yolanda. My mother claimed she was the neighbour from Hell. She was nosey and harassed everyone, including the mailman, the milkman, and the kids in our area. She threatened blue murder if you even stepped foot near her garden gate.

Yolanda Kelleher, Mostyn Avenue, Leeds.

Woman Found Dead at Home in Leeds and Man Arrested as Cops Launch Murder Probe.

Woman Tried to Fend off Her Attacker with a Baseball Bat.

Residents of Mostyn Avenue Left Traumatised After the Cold-Blooded Murder of Yolanda Kelleher.

Man Charged with Leeds Murder.

Yolanda Kelleher, the unhinged neighbour from my hometown, is dead. I was too discombobulated to think clearly. I scrolled down the page, reading articles with a lump in my throat. From what I remember, Yolanda was mentally unstable, a possible threat to herself and others, but to be killed in cold blood?

Mother Issues Emotional Appeal for Information About Her Missing Son, Bradley Kelleher, from Leeds.

My face inched closer to the screen as I loaded the page and enlarged the photograph. His familiar smile, boyish yet sad, tugged on my heartstrings.

A Fifteen-Year-Old Boy from Leeds has been Missing for Almost Two Weeks. He is described as tall, of medium build, with short, blond hair and last seen leaving school in uniform.

Cops Search Woods for Missing Boy.

Urgent Police Appeal to Find Missing Teenager.

Neighbours Astounded as Police Search Properties for Clues in the Twenty-Four-Month Case of Missing Boy.

Brad Jones is Yolanda Kelleher’s missing son. It is an unexpected revelation. I wasn’t aware that she had a child. Moreover, the man who had successfully taken ownership of my heart used to live in the street I grew up in. I could see his house from my old bedroom window.

I closed the laptop so quickly that dust particles flew out. “Holy shit.”

Throwing my legs off the bed, I hastily sprinted downstairs, eager to speak to Benjamin. I checked on Carter first. In the cafe with Quinn, he played on the tablet and drank hot chocolate.

Toppling into the kitchen, red-faced and panting, I bypassed the other chefs to steal my brother. “Can you take that break now?”

Ben cracked a free-range egg into the frying pan. “I’m a bit busy, Em.”

I lowered my voice, so the others did not hear. “Do you remember Yolanda Kelleher?”

His forehead crinkled as he pondered briefly. “Nope.”

“She used to live across the street in Mostyn Avenue,” I said, hoping to jog his memory. “The old, Victorian-style house? Overgrown garden? Boarded up windows?” His silence never helped. “She used to scream nasty shit from the letterbox. Everyone was scared of her.”

“Yeah.” He uncapped two tins of beans. “What about her?”

This man is impossible. “Oh, so you do remember.”

Wiping his hands in a tea towel, he grabbed a serrated knife and sliced through a freshly baked bloomer loaf. “She was a fucking lunatic. She threatened to beat me once. I shit myself.”

My mouth was agape. “Why?”

“I kicked a football into her front garden.” He shrugged uncaringly. “I jumped over the wall to get it back. The next thing I knew, the front door was open, and she was screaming at me.” He laughed at the memory. “I bricked it. Fuck the football. She could keep it. I’d rather salvage my backside. She meant business with that broom.”

Yolanda was the talk of the town. One of the neighbours caught her stealing from their bins one night, rummaging for leftover food and discarded linen, so she earned the degrading title of “The Bag Lady” for over five years. “Dad liked her.”

Ben shot me a look. “Don’t start.”

My lips straightened. “Well, he used to go there at midnight.”

“According to whom?” Before I could answer, he added, “Mary? Fuck her. She is a compulsive liar. And you know it.”

Mary did tell tales in the past, but I understand why. She was rebellious, and our dad was strict. Their personalities clashed. “Whatever. I am not getting into that today.”

“Then, why the inquisition?” He double-checked Quinn’s customer orders and spat out a slew of expletives. “Popeye’s pig volmlet with shrooms?”

I read my friend’s untidy handwriting. “Ham and mushroom omelette with spinach.”

He selected another piece of torn paper. “Baloney pony and short stacks with tree sauce?”

Quinn is determined to age him. “Bacon with pancakes and golden syrup.”

He slapped a note onto my palm. “Benedict Cumberbitch?”

“Eggs-Benedict,” I filled in the gaps. “Why are you mad? We both know you love her, really.”

“Don’t start rumours.” An unavoidable blush crept up his neck. “Quinn is lucky she still has a job. She is the worst employee I have ever hired.”

Ben is such a drama queen. Quinn is a fantastic friend, the best non-related family member to Carter, and she is hard-working, unlike the lazy, slothful, sluggish barista, who gets preferential treatment for warming the boss’s bed.

I will not name and shame.

Her name is Stephanie.

Did I say that out loud?

“Yes,” Ben confirmed, and I grinned unapologetically. “Why can’t you be nice? Steph is scared of you.”

She didn’t half rub me up the wrong way for someone scared to be in my proximity. “I’m team, Quinn.”

His face showed no surprise. “It’s never going to happen.”

That’s a shame. “Why not?”

He dragged his body around the kitchen to grab ingredients from the commercial refrigerator. “We are not compatible.”

“Oh, it’s not because you date the barista.”

His corded neck got redder. “And that.”

Dealing with incompatibility is more fun. “You used to be compatible,” I reminded him with a point of the finger. “Those were the good ol’ days.”

Ben stared down his nose at me. “Are you finished?”

My brows danced mischievously. “Twin telepathy.”

“You only believe in dual insight when it suits you.”

How can I argue the truth?

“Look, Quinn is a good friend.” He whisked a bowl of eggs. “We had a moment and lost it. It’s no biggie. Now, stop meddling.”

Ethan leaned over me to grab the rack of seasonings. “I will happily date Quinn.”

Ethan was not serious, but I studied Ben for a reaction. “Have you asked if she is dateable?”

“Not yet.” Ethan winked in my direction, tossing chicken strips into pan-fried potatoes. “You cool with that, man?”

“Sure,” Ben fibbed, and I buried the urge to laugh. “That’s if she is interested. I can’t see it somehow—”

“See what?” Quinn’s voice startled everyone. “Wyatt, the cheesy skillet with hash browns and eggs? Earned a decent tip. I left it in the jar for you.”

“Thank you,” Wyatt replied. “And Emma is trying to set you up with Ethan.”

He is such a snitch. “That’s not what happened,” I countered, and the fool chortled. “Ethan asked if you were dateable.”

Ethan squirmed on the spot. He looked at Ben, then me, to Quinn. “Yeah, I mean, if you are interested…” All this drama because I had to get under my brother’s skin. “Are you interested?”

Quinn was speechless, the half-opened door, balancing on her jutted-out hip. “I thought I irritated you.”

“You do.” Ethan flung me a murderous glance. “In the best kind of way.”

“This is ridiculous,” Ben murmured under his breath. “And awkward.”

It’s far from awkward. Everyone had a good relationship inside and outside of work. Quinn and Ethan meet for drinks all the time, platonically, and they’ll laugh about this conversation in the future.

Ben, however uncomfortable, hated the fact Quinn’s and Ethan’s friendship could progress romantically.

“Yeah, no…” Quinn turned Ethan down gently. “Thank you, though.”

“No problem.” Ethan’s shoulder clipped mine as he passed. “Karma is a bitch.”

I burst out laughing. “I quiver with fear.”

Wyatt itched his brow. “Did you just quote The Lion King?”

“Proudly.” It’s my favourite Disney movie. “I have a son. Don’t judge me.”

“Can everyone get back to work,” Ben instructed, and everyone murmured in unison. “I don’t pay you to chinwag.”

Everyone went back to their stations, except for me. I had to restock the chillers and finalise tomorrow’s delivery, but I had more questions for my brother. “Did Yolanda have children?”

“Not that I remember.” He unboxed fresh produce. “Why?”

Still, I talked whispery to respect Big Guy’s privacy. “I read an old article online. Yolanda issued an emotional appeal about her missing son.”

Ben’s patience frayed. “Then, there is your answer.”

“But do you remember ever seeing him there?” Someone had to know something. “The boy, I mean.”

His gaze visited the ceiling as he searched for recollection. “Nope.”

It was like drawing blood from a stone.

Unlocking my phone, I loaded the article I had read upstairs and showed it to my brother. “He was fifteen when he disappeared.”

Ben read the header. “Which would have made us what? Toddlers? In nappies? I don’t know, Em.” He brushed past me to finish customer orders. “It was a long time ago. I have slept since then.”

Deflated, I locked my phone. “Is Carter okay to stay here whilst I pop out?”

“Why?” He leaned a hip against the counter. “Where are you going?”

I won’t lie. “You heard the argument, right?”

His cool expression gave nothing away.

“I need to fix this,” I said evasively. “There is so much we need to say to each other now that I know…” My head pounded at the temples. “He is very misunderstood.”

“That’s one helluva punishment.” He was intrigued but respectful. “Do what you got to do, Em.”

I better not regret this.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Bleu

Bradley owned a panoply of designer suits: slim-fit, classic-fit, modern-fit, single-breasted, double-breasted, two-piece, three-piece, five-piece, navy blue, royal blue, charcoal grey, medium grey, light grey and black. Fashionable ironed shirts, colour coordinated, lined the wardrobe. Hermès neckties, rarely worn, are organised in drawers. Bottega Veneta, Philipp Plein and Versace boxer briefs with emblazoned waistbands in the monochromatic shades of black and white folded in an orderly manner.

Menswear is never tasteless or minimalistic with my boss. Whether formal or informal, the enviably good-looking man boasted impeccable tailoring and well-chosen accessories to hone his image. He had a penchant for style, unrivalled confidence, allure and elegance.

I unlocked the wristwatch display cabinet: Patek Philippe, Rolex, Richard Mille, Vacheron Constantin, Breguet and Jaeger-LeCoultre.

Everything was so shiny, sparkly, scintillating with ice diamonds, black diamonds, exclusively handcrafted in solid gold, palladium or platinum.

He is the proud possessor of an impressive, high-priced, rare line of rings, necklaces and bracelets, yet he wore old, scratched, worn-down, cheap-looking military tags daily.

How bizarre.

What is the value of his watch collection?

What is the man’s net worth?

Selecting the one engraved Bvlgari, I admired the ultra-complicated functionality, testing its weight on my wrist.

I could only dream of possessing such magnificence.

He showcased colognes in excess.

I uncapped the Creed bottle and paid homage to its wild, sea breeze scent. It smelt like him. It must be a favourite.

Each uniquely bottled fragrance had a pungent aroma.

When was the last time I treated myself to perfume? Jewellery? Clothes? I refused to consider the unsightly knitted wearables Alice Montgomery is expected to wear around the estate.

I left the walk-in wardrobe, the heavy doors sealing automatically in my wake, and dawdled in the master bedroom. The huge bed was the focal point, so strikingly bereft of femininity, bedecked in rich, luxurious fabrics.

Remembering our time together, I fingered the sheet with covetousness. He was rough yet soft, confident yet humble. I bore the bruises on my hip bones proudly and studied them in the mirror before going to bed each night.

We never kissed, though.

Perhaps he needed additional encouragement.

Housekeeping cleaned the room this morning, but they forgot to put away the clean, folded clothes on the foot of the bed. I picked up the pile, ready to place in the wardrobe when the sight of denim halted movements. I unfolded all three items: shorts, a hoodie and a black cotton thong.

My insides curdled.

Who is the owner?

Edith?

Iris?

Lilith?

How can the boss like something so basic? So unmentionable?

Where is the lace? Embroidery? Satin? Temptation?

Even the teenage version of myself would have mocked such monstrosities. I would not be seen dead in these items, mainly the child-like thong this woman had the gall to call sexy underwear.

I should burn the offensive fabrics.

Placing the clothes in the wardrobe with great reluctance, I returned to the master bedroom. Jealousy is deafening. Erratic thoughts stabbed me in the ears as I remade the bed, not a crease in the cover, fluffing up the pillows.

Bradley’s private domain emanated masculinity to perfection. Yet, it lacked personal touches. I uncovered no photo frames, treasured keepsakes or miscellaneous items. The ambience was dark and depressing, apt in personality, but required some colour to make the place less impersonal.

I will buy artificial potted cactus plants for the empty shelves in the corner.

Well, empty if I exclude the familiar box.

Blue Murphy’s keepsakes.

Taking the box down from the shelf, I sat on the ground, relaxed and unperturbed, and erased the thick layer of dust-woven gossamer. I don’t know why he’d store it here. He won’t find anything valuable or evidential.

Chucking the lid on the floor, I studied the remnants of my old life with existential dread: paper tickets, keychains, trip souvenirs, holiday mementoes, romantic letters belonging to my mother and my father, rolled up certificates and awards, a smelly stuffed animal.

My fingers curled around the voice recorder.

Hitting the playback button, I listened to saved songs, ones I sang at my lowest, back to back recordings, crackling the speaker.

I pressed record mid-song. “In the night, I lay awake. A shadow danced across my face. A silver line that I could trace. The memories I kept and stole, trapped inside my heavy soul.” My sad tone of voice, croaking hoarsely, smoothed into a faint undertone as I covered “Ghost” by Wildes. “Together, we bleed. But I won’t heal so. Say you’ll always haunt me.”

Nate is here.

His irritation dispersed throughout the estate.

I put the box and its contents back on the shelf, at a slight angle, to see if Bradley noticed.

Carefully, mindfully, I opened the door and peered down the regal hall, primed for security or any other unwelcome visitors. Nate’s full-throttled rant reverberated from one of the guest bedrooms. I assumed, because of the wide-open door, it was the room opposite the bifurcated stairs.

Nate said: “Don’t fucking test me.”

The nameless woman replied: “You are sick. All of you. How can you do this to me? To us? I am the mother of your unborn child!”

Nate chortled: “I thought Warren fathered your kid?”

The distressed woman paused: “Stress can increase the chances of a premature baby. Is that what you want? Do you want me to lose the baby, Nathaniel? Would that make you happy? You motherfucker!”

“You got it so tough, huh?” He spoke with overt detestation. “Look at you, slumming it. You’d never think the estate was worth millions, that you slept in sheer luxury and ate like a fucking princess. You ungrateful bitch. Everyone is taking care of you, not that you deserve it. Go back to your corner and wallow in silence. I ain’t got time for this bullshit.”

The theatrics were popcorn worthy.

“Taking care of me?” she repeated incredulously. “Fuck you, Nathaniel. Don’t act like anyone is doing me any favours. You plan to kill me the second I deliver the baby! Screw the begrudged meals-on-wheels. I’d rather starve myself to death. I will not roll over like some dutiful lapdog. Get out and do not come back.” Her breathlessness seemed to heighten. “Your face is repulsive. I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”

My lips puckered at the woman’s brutal, verbal attack.

“Aw, did I hurt your feelings?” Her ridicule went up a gear. “You’re not still caught up in the past, right? Oh, God. You were that invested. Why? I treated you like shit—I still treat you like shit. Get a backbone already. It’s pathetic.”

Nate never denied her accusation or defended himself.

“You cannot lock me up,” she yelled at him. “Holding someone against their will is illegal, you son of a whore. I will have you hanged for this. Just wait and see. Do you think the Met isn’t out there, looking for me? You dumb bitch. They put me into witness protection. Of course, they are looking for me!” Her hand claps echoed. “This shit will escalate when the SWAT team arrives. You should probably hide the weapons.”

Nate cooed at her. “You looking out for me, babe?”

“Do not patronise me!”

He laughed, loud and mirthful.

“David is coming for you,” she threatened. “He is coming for all of you. You might want to tell Alexa to watch her back.”

“Is that right?” His hurried footsteps beat against the marble floor. “Where is the rat? Pussy-ass bitch ain’t shown face since the trial.”

“You will never find him.” She cackled as they blasted one another. “Not until it’s too late.”

The sudden quietness was utterly absorbing. I wondered if he’d snapped, lost his cool, and caused death by strangulation.

Moments later, he stepped into the hallway, locking her bedroom door, chain and padlock. His head drooped between hunched over shoulders as his large, inked hands rested on the wall. He looked beat, troubled, guilt-stricken, but the pregnant woman’s harrowing cries were not enough to elicit compassion or regret.

Nate stayed by the door until the woman, condemned to inescapable death, settled down. He leaned over the bannister, phone to ear, and conversed with the person responsible for his white, even smile. “I’m at work.” Every muscle in his face was drawn tight. “Just teaching some kid how to use the weights.”

A frown crossed my brow.

“No, I get off later.” He stood there, his upper body rigid. “I can drive over if you want.”

Twigging, I picked my fingernails.

“Yeah,” he said, low and breathless. “Alright, I’ll see you, then.”

When Nate ended the call, I moved out of view. I have invaded Mr Jones’ privacy, the offence is punishable, and I have overheard not one but two conversations with two separate individuals (another female?), which, again, is deserving of punishment. I will hide in the shadows for a while longer, just to be safe, and once he is downstairs, making one of those damn protein shakes he loves to drink, I will hurry to the nursery.

Dominic’s baby monitor weighed next to nothing in my back pocket. He took advantage of this afternoon’s nap, sleeping the entire day away. His slumber put lunch on the back burner. I will provide extra for his evening meal, additional vegetable sticks and warm milk.

Nate made himself scarce.

I walked down the hallway, stopping by the woman’s door with perked up ears. Her quietude rippled grave concern.

My heart shrivelled slightly.

Nate must have sedated her.

Dominic’s eyes, whiskey brown, the mirror-like image of his father, peeked through the cot slats. He chomped on the blue pacifier and hurled it overboard for no apparent reason.

Hoisting him into my arms, I laid him down on the padded baby changer, discarded the wet nappy, wiped and powdered his bottom, and changed him into new clothes.

It still amazed me, the excessiveness of his designer wardrobe. He wore brand new sleepsuits, smart outfits, socks and vests every day of the week. An inexhaustible supply of clothes, I should add. I bet Mr Jones hired a personal shopper to restock the wardrobe each month.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Bradley’s furious anger travelled upstairs.

Honestly, the boss will have a self-inflicted heart attack in the foreseeable future. His temper will make damn sure of it.

Plonking the impeccably garbed baby on the colourful rug, I tiptoed to the hallway. I thought one of the guards had stepped out of line or spoke out of term until the man himself emerged at the top of the stairs. Bradley was smooth-faced to conceal emotions, but there was no hiding the enrage in his demanding eyes. I knew, without asking questions, that he was angry with me.

Is it about Bleu? Emma? I wasn’t too sure.

“Mr Jones.” My pulse skipped as adrenaline spiked. “Is everything okay?”

He was in front of me within six casual strides.

It was a bold move, deathly even, but I splayed my fingers on his well-defined chest, feeling the thunderous belt of his heartbeat beneath my palm. My fingertips almost stroked his stubbled jaw when my wrist became trapped in his inexorable grip. His ringed fingers, pinching my skin, promising to leave abrasions, tugged me in, close enough for our noses to graze.

“Are you fearless?” His lips whispered against mine. “Or just plain fucking stupid?”

I did not understand the question. “You wanted me the other night, so I thought…”

“You thought what?” He never so much as blinked. “You’d pick up where you left off? I’d blame the drugs and alcohol, but I never cared, even when sententiously sober, who I fucked. Debauchee is my middle name. You are not special, Alice.”

My face scorched red. “You don’t know what you are saying.”

“I speak coherently.” He was unapologetically spiteful. “Do you want to know a little secret?”

I was too affronted to reply.

“I wished you were someone else the entire time,” he said cruelly, and my eyes welled up. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

“Get to the point.” My fingers twitched to rearrange his smug-looking face. “You clearly have something to get off your chest.”

“Did you answer my phone?” he asked without hesitation. “Did you speak to Emma the other night? Did you tell her about us? About other women?”

I feigned gauche cluelessness. “Who?”

“Do not play smart with me,” he warned, and I knew to take him seriously. “You fucked up whatever chance I had with her, and I want to know why.”

“Oh, Emma.” My mouth formed a circle. “Yes, I remember now. She did call, and she sounded distraught. I felt bad for her. There she is, on the phone, professing to be the love of your life, and you were downstairs, talking crazily, smelling like animalistic sex after fucking the nanny raw.” His hand on my wrist tightened, not that I winced or showed an ounce of discomfort. “She deserved to know the truth. It’s not my fault you cheated on her. Take responsibility for your actions and release me at once.”

He was shocked beyond belief. “I made no commitments.”

Then, why is he so upset?

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I really fucking like this woman.” His candour felt like a knife to the heart. “And the thought of her never speaking to me again? It’s got my back up.”

His unspoken threat was easily interpretable.

I tried to step back, but his vice-like grip on my wrist never alleviated. If anything, he held me tighter, keeping me there, locked in his cold stare.

Not knowing what else to do to escape him, I brought my knee up, aiming between his legs, and he blocked the attack, his hand curling around my knee in one fluent movement.

Losing balance, I landed on the floor with a heavy thud, the unexpected clip to the back of my head sending a sharp, shooting pain down my spine, a piercing, mind-numbing shrill in my ears.

I blinked through sudden fogginess.

Bradley moved in what felt like a funeral pace, revealing a gun, fumbling with a silencer. He was detached from the world and its distinction between right and wrong.

Through numb ears, I heard his ominous yet indistinct voice. Hot moisture trickled down my neck as I rolled onto my stomach, the blow to my head leaving me in a state of temporary semi-unconsciousness, mild confusion and extreme paranoia.

He will kill me, right here, in the hallway, and for something so silly. Yes, I answered the phone and ruined his chance with the other woman, but nothing I did warranted death. A severe chastisement, perhaps. Not departure from life.

Nonsensical laughter died in my throat.

To think Bleu Murphy outsmarted this man and his closest allies repeatedly, and she never got caught, never paid the price for ongoing transgressions. Yet, Alice made one bad call, one lapse in judgement, and she’d suffer the harshest, deadliest consequence.

I was mid-crawl when the barrel of the gun, the silencer colder than ice, pressed to the nape of my neck. “Get up and face me,” he demanded, but I would never be brave enough to accept death. “You got five seconds, bitch.”

Unable to swallow, I pushed onto my feet and uncurled my spine. “Is this the best you could come up with?” My motormouth never knew when to quit. “A quick bullet to the head? It’s not very creative.”

His smirk was spine-chilling. “You don’t want to see me get dark.”

Not true. I always fancied a dark fairytale.

I espied Dominic. He teetered toward the nursery’s doorway, dummy in one hand, stuffed elephant in the other hand.

“What about your son?” I dared to use reverse psychology on the man, not that his stoic expression cinched. “He will never forgive you.”

Bradley cocked the Glock. “You’ll be a forgotten memory by the end of the week.”

“My death will invade his nightmares forever,” I said calmly, although I was the complete opposite. I trembled inwardly, having no desire to leave the world behind. “He will remember this moment for the rest of his life. You, his own father, killing the person he loves in cold blood, and for another woman, someone he has never met and may never have a relationship with. You understand how illogical that sounds, don’t you?” My neck craned as I glared into his dark, soulless eyes. “Don’t make him loathe you any more than he does.”

His nostrils flared.

In blind foolhardiness, I whacked the gun out of his hand, the cold metal skittering across the marble floor, and dashed past him. I only took three steps before my hair, snatched in the unforgivable grasp of his hand, ripped painfully at the scalp. He hauled me back, his arm wrapping around my neck, and I fought with everything I had, kicking, thrashing, screaming, yelling.

I don’t know which one of us lost our footing, but one minute we are wrestling for dominance, and then the next minute, we are falling into a heap on the floor.

His massive body crushed mine.

My hips bucked beneath him to evade the onslaught. Then, in decided finality, he seized my throat with two hands and strangled whimpered pleas out of my throat.

I reached up, doing my utmost to scratch his beautiful face, and gauge his blackened eyes, but he was too far gone. He’d never let me live, not now, not ever, and I had less than thirty seconds to come to terms with this knowledge.

Dominic’s inconsolable tears sounded like music to my ears.

His father’s hands twitched and flexed around my neck, reducing the pain marginally. I felt the tremor in his fingertips as he slowly withdrew.

I coughed, spluttering for oxygen.

Bradley never moved off my lower body. He sat astride my lower waist, staring at me through unforgiving eyes.

My arms sagged against the floor on either side of my head. Then, the baby, so beautiful, caring and loving, crawled onto my chest. His head burrowed into the groove of my neck, and I felt his tears on my flushed skin. He was sad, scared, and needed to be comforted. Yet, I feared the boss’s reaction if I put an arm around his son.

“It’s okay,” I whispered, rubbing the little boy’s back. “We were only playing.”

Dominic sniffled, using a tiny, curled-up fist to rub his tired, red, puffy eyes.

“Get off my estate,” Bradley said in a deceivingly cool and collected voice. “You do not belong here. You never fucking did.”

His hurtful words ripped my heart into pieces.

Bradley ignored Dominic’s hitched sobs as he stood. Lifting his son into his protective arms, he cradled him, whispering soothing, somewhat loving words in his ear.

It was a rare moment between father and son. I wanted to bear witness forever. Instead, albeit shaken to the core, I stood on unsteady legs, feeling the aftermath of his callousness all over. “May I collect my belongings first.”

“No.” His large hand braced the back of Dominic’s head. “You should be dead. Leave respectfully and gratefully.”

My bottom lip quivered.

Wiping the tears from my eyes, I glanced at the baby, already missing him, and gravitated toward the stairs.

Each step was laborious. I had grown to love it here, and now I had nowhere else to go. No friends to welcome me. No family members to make it right.

I paused on the bottom step.

Alexa and Nate had overheard the commotion. They waited in the foyer, poised and expressionless, but never intervened when the man upstairs threatened to take my life. “He almost killed me,” I said, and neither flinched nor voiced their innermost thoughts. “He put a gun to my head.”

“You signed a non-disclosure agreement,” Nate, the unsympathetic fool, reminded me. “Warren Enterprise has a very close relationship with the metropolitan police department. You might want to remember that before you file a complaint.”

These people are not humans.

They are cold, ruthless monsters.

I gave them an assessing look. “You condone his behaviour.”

“Honestly, I thought you’d be dead already.” Alexa studied her fingernails with a bored expression. “Brad must be feeling generous.”

No, If it were not for Dominic, he’d have strangled me. Maybe there is hope for the little boy after all. I had started to doubt his father’s capabilities—assured he was incapable of loving anyone other than himself.

“I never meant to cause any trouble,” I said, which is mostly true. “If it is any consolation, I think the world of Dominic and I care about his father.”

Nate, holding open the front door, flipped a hand to the scary, directionless world beyond the thrall of those concrete walls outside. “Leave.”

Suppressing impossible indignation, I exited the only place that felt like home. My foot barely greeted the front step when Alexa’s hand latched onto my upper arm. “Brad is the brother I never had,” she said fiercely, and I mentally prepared for a lengthy harangue. “If you do anything to damage him or his character, I will hunt you down and quite literally dismantle your head.”

Good luck trying to find me. “Message received.”

Her sharp fingernails dented my flesh as she shoved me aside with unnecessary force.

Rubbing the bitter chill from my arms, I shied away from the judgemental watchfulness of loyal friends and armed guards. They were difficult to ignore, though. With each stumbled step, I felt their eyes on me, the silence unnervingly powerful.

My journey to the front gates lasted a lifetime. I had to walk the never-ending road of shame, the expanse of the tree-lined garden, in the cold winds and frosty weather.

The electronic gates parted for me to leave. I watched them separate, the metal scraping noisily, with the unshakable urge to run back and beg for forgiveness.

Only I could fall and scrape my knees on the pavement in further humiliation. My hands braced the drop. I crouched in the middle of the street, pitifully worthless and embarrassingly helpless, when the hacking sound of an old vehicle advanced, and bright headlights flickered over my form.

I peered up, spotting an old, rusty car mounting the curbside. When the reason for my ruined life appeared, I had to lower my head to hide my inexplainable furiousness.

“Shit.” Emma, jangling keys in her right hand, hurried toward me. “What happened? Are you okay?” Her palm arrived on the small of my back as she squatted next to me. “You are bleeding.”

I touched the wet spot behind my ear.

Blood coated my fingers.

“Does it hurt?” Her round, worried eyes examined every inch of my folded body. “Should I get someone to help?” When she glanced at the locked gates, I had to taper down soaring jealousy and resentment. “Is Brad home? Maybe I should call him.”

I gripped the phone in her hand before she could unblock his number. “I ran away,” I whimpered, and her eyebrows incurved. “Bradley tried to kill me. He put a gun to my head and threatened to end it all.”

Emma’s mouth stammered.

“I am so scared,” I cried, and she shoved the phone into her back pocket to help me stand on wobbly knees. “I know he is a violent man, but I have never seen him behave so cruelly. Poor Dominic. His father is not in a good place.”

Her stare revisited the gates. “I hope Dominic is okay.”

“No,” I said, and she paled to a ghostly white. “You should have seen how Bradley treated that little boy just because he was angry at me. I am scared to leave. How can a father be so heavy-handed with his son?”

Her stunned stare went to the marks that I knew were red, Inflamed and painful-looking on my neck.

“It’s a good job his voice of reasoning is there. Alexa, I mean.” I dabbed the unpreventable tears on my cheek. “She is the only woman that can calm him down. God knows what’ll happen once her husband is released, though. A small, rather selfish part of me hopes that she will choose them instead.”

“Choose them?” she repeated, and I nodded. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, they have become embroiled in a sticky affair,” I explained, inching toward her parked vehicle. “According to Nate, Bradley’s close friend, the pair have been in bed together for months.”

She looked nauseous and on the pitiful brink of tears. “Yeah, I mean, okay. That’s their business, I guess.” Her bottom lip rolled between her teeth. “I don’t know what to do. It feels wrong to leave if Dominic is in danger.”

“There is nothing we can do,” I told her, but she was unconvinced. “You have no idea who that man really is, do you?”

Her cheeks blushed a deep scarlet. “I thought I did.”

“Oh, Emma.” I intertwined our fingers. “You are dealing with dangerous, corrupt, irredeemable criminals here. Do not let the designer clothes and friendly smiles fool you. We are nothing but small fish in a sea of sharks. Everyone, who is anyone, is on their side. If we contact the police to raise awareness? To report that man’s abusive behaviour toward his son? Kiss your arse goodbye. They’ll come for you and everyone you love. Take that from someone who has witnessed their nefariousness first-hand. I have seen the unimaginable take place behind those closed doors.”

A slither of goosebumps sprouted on her ruddy chest.

“There is a pregnant woman locked up inside the estate,” I spilt secrets with a thin yet sad smile. “Nate Alzaim is waiting for her to give birth to their child before he kills her. He promised as much this morning.”

Emma bit the corner of her lip.

“They had another victim caged underground a few weeks ago.” Tears flooded my cheeks. “I think she was Italian. I don’t know. But she was a mother, and she begged for mercy. My boss killed her and buried her in the garden.”

The weak, pathetic woman made a choking sound.

“You must be selfish,” I stressed, rubbing her arms sympathetically. “Do not be another victim to that man’s villainous ways. Leave whilst you have the chance.”

I walked away.

“Wait,” she called, and I stopped walking. “What about you? It’s starting to rain, and you have nothing on your feet.” I discreetly caught her wiping a tear from under her eye when I turned. “I can drive you somewhere safe.”

It was kind of her to offer. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position.”

“No, it’s fine.” Yet, she looked at the gates through glassy, despondent eyes. “I’ll worry about you all night otherwise.”

I waited for her to unlock the car doors.

“Okay.” Mist formed beyond her lips as she respired. “Let’s get out of here.”

We collapsed on the frayed chairs in unison.

“I can drive you to the hospital.” Adjusting the seat, she moved closer to the steering wheel and inserted the key in the ignition. “You might need stitches.”

Elijah will fix everything.

“No.” My indecision was apparent. “It is not safe for me there.”

“Right.” Emma glimpsed in the rear-view mirror (no sign of any on-coming cars), and then she steered onto the main road. “So, do you have somewhere safe to stay?”

I doubt the doctor will turn me away. I reeled off his address by memory. “Do you need navigation?”

“No, I know the address.” The steering wheel threaded through her hands. “Sorry, I am a little jittery. I was not expecting any of this.”

My eyes nearly rolled. “Any of what?”

“Big Guy is…” Her cheeks hollowed. “I am surprised, I guess. I feel delusional and stupid. He seemed like a decent guy…”

“Well, that’s because he wanted to get laid.” My face remained impassive. “Mr Jones was a true gentleman before I agreed to sleep with him, and look how that backfired.” I gestured to the fresh, weeping cuts on my knees. “He’s an animal. He chucks you aside with the rest of the half-mauled females once he’s had a taste.”

She swerved from behind a vehicle to get into the next lane.

With bated breath, I asked, “Thank the Lord that you haven’t slept with him yet, right?”

“Right,” she confirmed after a long pause of consideration, and I felt an exhilarating rush of relief. “My brother tried to warn me about him, and I didn’t listen.” Her disappointment came pouring out. “What was I thinking? I introduced that man to my son.”

My interest skyrocketed. “You do not want someone like Bradley Jones around your little boy, Emma.”

She nodded, disconcerted by the entire ordeal. “I can’t stop thinking about Dominic. I knew Brad had a few issues, but I never pegged him as an abusive father. I have to do something. Tell someone.” She rubbed her left temple with two therapeutic fingers. “I will never forgive myself if something bad happens to that little guy.”

Great. Emma is hellbent on making waves. “Try not to worry too much,” I said, patting her bobbing knee. “Alexa is very maternal and is doing everything to help. Bradley agreed to anger management. He will do anything to make her happy.”

She studied the silver, boho-style rings on her fingers. “I thought he loved his boss,” she said quietly. “Sleeping with the man’s wife is the ultimate betrayal.”

“Yes,” I agreed, wishing she’d drive faster. “Anyway, we should speak of this to no one. Word travels fast. I’d like to avoid unnecessary drama.”

“Of course.” She turned into Elijah’s street, and I became anxious. It has been a while since I visited my father. “Will you be okay after what happened?”

I unfastened the seat belt. “Yes.”

“Do you want me to come inside and help?” Her eyes zoned in on Elijah’s front door. “I am concerned about the cut on your head.”

Why is this woman so meddlesome?

“No, I got it.” Thrusting open the car door, I stepped onto the pavement. “I’m sorry about the phone call,” I added, my hand lingering on the top of the vehicle. “I was only trying to help.”

Her gaze lowered to her lap.

“You should never let a man take advantage of you, especially someone who doesn’t deserve you.” Tapping the roof of the car, I closed the door and ebbed back. “Thanks for the ride. I will see you around.”

Eager to get away from the woman, I sprinted down the garden path and rapt my knuckles on the front door. Even now, after I told her to leave, she is parked by the driveway like a nosy neighbour.

Elijah never answered.

Bending down to look under the welcome home mat, I plucked up the spare key, unlocked the front door and welcomed myself inside.

Only when concealed from prying eyes did I hear the car engine hum back to life.

Tossing the spare key onto the coffee table, I did a quick eye-sweep of the house, knowing the man must be here somewhere. I located him in the main bedroom. He was asleep on top of the grey duvet, bare-chested and breathing evenly.

I admired him for a few minutes.

He was lean but not too muscular. His pecs, dusted in dark strands of fine hair, beckoned the intrigued touch of my fingertips. Cotton pyjama bottoms hung low on his hips, where his impressive abdominal V and seriously sculpted washboard abs had me salivating at the mouth.

Backing away from the door, I moved across the hall and crept into the guest bedroom. My frail, old father slept in bed with an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

“Daddy,” I whispered, reaching for his lifeless hand on the comforter. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to stay away for so long.”

His body never moved.

His eyes never opened.

He is just trapped in someone else’s body and mind.

Tears resurfaced.

Lowering one knee to the carpet, I kissed his knuckles and prayed for the first time in a very long time. I swore to never put him out of his misery, not even in his darkest of hours, but I had to spare him from the repercussions of Bleu Murphy’s recklessness, of Alice Montgomery’s selfishness.

It’s the ultimate reason for me being here.

“My first love,” I sang quietly, removing the oxygen mask from his blue-tinted lips. “You’re every breath that I take. You’re every step I make.”

Holding the spare pillow in hesitant hands, I placed it over his face and, in pained, heartbroken despair, smothered him. His unmoving hands suddenly came to life, his weak, fragile fingers spasming as he sought breath.

“And I,” I said in a soft, somniferous voice. “I want to share all my love with you. No one else will do.” Fresh tears rippled down my cheeks as his futile struggle writhed beneath me. “And your eyes. They tell me how much you care.”

He fought for oxygen, for life, and I was selflessly accommodating, knowing he’d want me to show compassion, free him from a life of medication and solitary, to unburden the ones forced to take care of him.

“Oh, yes. You will always be.” Keeping the pillow over his face, I put my head to his chest, listening to his dying heartbeat. “My endless love.”

Seconds and minutes passed before his body, without a life or a soul, laid on the bed. His heart, I could not hear it. He was gone. I felt it deep within my gut.

The pillow landed on the floor as I cupped his gaunt cheeks in my hand. His lips, blue and parted, respired nothing.

“I’m sorry.” Kissing the translucent skin beneath his eyes, I refixed the oxygen mask over his mouth, so Elijah would not be suspicious. “I love you so much, daddy.”

I made sure everything looked the same, untouched and normal, then I left the bedroom and went to Elijah’s side. He never stirred when I crawled onto the blanket, but he flinched when my cheek nuzzled against his chest.

“Bleu?” Elijah’s sleepy voice curled my toes. “How did you get in? What time is it?” He shoved the black-framed glasses over his eyes to look at the time on his phone. “You need to get up so that I can check on your dad.”

“Can you hold me?” I practically begged, and he never moved a muscle. “Please, Elijah. It’s been a very long day.”

His arm came around my waist. “This is unprofessional.”

I did not care.

“You haven’t replied to any of my text messages. I am risking my medical licence to help you and your father.” He glared at the ceiling. “The least you can do is check in every once and a while.” He tossed the phone onto the bedside table and tucked an arm behind his head. “How long will you stay?”

For a few days, I hope. “I lost my job.”

Elijah’s brows raised. “That’s good, right?”

No, the estate is my home now. “All because I wouldn’t have sex with Mr Jones.”

“What?” His expression morphed into sickening disgust. “Are you serious?”

Nodding, I thumbed the faded ink on his pec. “Who is Gemma?”

“An ex-girlfriend.” His grunt told me that he no longer cared for this woman. “I should cover it. Never mind that. I’m still reeling from Jones’ unprofessional behaviour. If he were anyone else, I’d advise you to take legal action.”

No, I did not want to cause any trouble for Bradley. “I told him I had feelings for someone else.” When he glared, quiet and unblinking, I traced his mouth with the tip of my finger. “You are all I think about.”

“Since when?” Elijah is understandably perplexed. “Bleu, I don’t look at you like that. And, if you were honest, you don’t care much for me, either.”

“That’s not true,” I retorted, cocking a leg over his waist to be seated on his unaroused cock clad in cotton. “It can be our secret.”

“No.” He rubbed his eyes under the glasses. “We really shouldn’t go there. It’s not right. Plus, your dad is in the next room.”

My father is dead. “Why does everyone hate me?”

“I don’t hate you.” Regret danced across his ruddy countenance. “I barely even know you.”

Hence, we should get to know each other, right here, in bed. It’s the best way to escape reality, raw, passionate, unbridled sex.

“Listen, why don’t we go downstairs for coffee? You are distressed and not thinking…clearly.” Rationally is what he’d wanted to say. “We can talk.”

I had nowhere else to go. “Sure.”

“Okay.” He tapped my thigh, and I climbed off him in defeat. Then, with his back to me, he sat on the edge of the bed, the muscles in his back stretched too tight. I smoothed two hands up his spine and held onto his tense shoulders without permission. “Bleu…”

“We are both adults.” Licking the shell of his ear, I teased the column of his neck, and he groaned involuntarily, his hands curling up into fists. “Consensual adults, I might add.”

He was tempted in the best possible way. “I don’t know…”

I moved onto his lap, straddling him, and enveloped his neck. With our eyes connected, I revealed my breasts to him, hurling the expensive item of distasteful fabric somewhere behind me.

Determined seduction always worked.

Once a man looked at my full, lustrous breasts, the glittering amorousness in my inviting eyes, the seductive bite of my lip, they found me too irresistible to ignore.

My lips, mere inches away from an intoxicating kiss, tickled the corner of his mouth with titillating flicks of the tongue. His large, demanding hand snatched a handful of my backside, and I stifled victory. He will fuck me now, enjoy it, then regret it, but he is too chivalrous to throw me out of his bed. He will insist that we cannot overstep boundaries again, and then he will uncover my father’s dead body and console me in the wake of his death.

Pity. I hated the word. I was unlovable and pitied by many. But sympathy guaranteed a roof over my head, so beggars can’t be choosers.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Emma

Inclement weather conditions coalesced into tempestuous winds, dark thunderclouds and jagged blades of lightning danced overhead. Rain splattered the windshield as the long, worn wiper blades seesawed efficiently to clear the obstruction. I drove down the street, the road free of vehicles, the pavement empty of pedestrians, and decelerated sharply outside the parlour. Jumping out of the driver’s seat, I hesitated to second-guess rationality. Incorrect vehicle position seemed to be a daily occurrence lately. It’s almost as if I have forgotten the basics of parking in a straight line: forgetfulness or sheer laziness. I have yet to differentiate.

I digressed from mental ramblings.

One, how I parked is not important.

Yet, I am still standing here, pondering the repercussions if I don’t park elsewhere.

Two, I have better things to do with my time.

Rain sprinkled in my eyes, tickling my lashes, as I knocked on the front door. Blinking swiftly for unobstructed vision, I stared at the building’s unlighted windows for signs of movement.

Perhaps I should have called or texted first.

A bright light came on upstairs, then a tall silhouette in the landing window, which disappeared just as quickly. Within no time, footsteps closed in on the other side of the door.

Feeling someone’s eyes on me, I glanced at the peephole. “It’s Emma.”

Keys rattled as the person disengaged the lock. When the front door finally swung open, the swift force blowing strands of wet hair off my face, off my eyes, I was relieved to see Jace and not another tenant.

He was discountenanced by the unexpected arrival of an old friend, an old enemy, a present uncertainty. He stood there, dressed simply in a long-sleeved tee, ripped jeans and ankle-height boots, brown hair slicked back, styled to perfection.

Our eyes held a protracted war of like and dislike, respect and disrespect, familiarity and unfamiliarity. It is uncanny, somewhat otherworldly, our nearness. Neither could have predicted our unforeseen reconnection. I should imagine, much like myself, he thought we’d never see each other again. Yet, here we stand, fresh air between us, entangled in the predicaments of life.

My tongue was heavy and cumbersome. “Hey.”

“Emma.” He blew out a sharp breath. “You keep showing up.”

“Yes,” I said with a pertinent smile. “May I come in?”

Jace’s gaze went up and down the street to rule out any other unwanted visitors, and then he stepped aside for me to join him inside. He locked the door behind us, leaving the key in the keyhole, and motioned for me to follow him upstairs.

He led me to the spacious room at the end of the hall on the second floor. In my peripheral vision, I saw three other people, two men, one woman, friends or roommates, relaxing on the leather sofas with an array of snacks scattered on their laps, watching an action movie on the wall-mounted television.

“Do you want a drink?” Jace strode to the adjacent kitchenette, opened the fridge and stuck his head inside. “Vodka, beer, cider or some curdled milk.”

Tugging the sleeve of my jumper, I lingered by the living room door like a spare part. “I will take whatever’s on offer.”

“There is plenty on offer.” The raven-haired male with lip piercings held back a cheeky smile, all while I died from the embarrassment of his sexual innuendo. “Who are you, and why have I never seen you before?”

“Emma,” I introduced myself, feeling pathetically small and stupid in their proximity. “And I am an old friend.”

The other woman in the room, nestled between two sinewy males, stared for longer than necessary. Her assessing eyes travelled to my feet, then slowly returned to my face. “Old friend, huh?” Her pink hair cascaded over slender shoulders in silken waves. “Are you here for a sleepover?”

“Shut up, Harl,” Jace berated, and her striking eyes blazed with mischief. “Always out to cause fucking shit.”

“Hey, I am only trying to make her feel comfortable.” She gave me a furtive wink. “I’m Harlyn. Jared.” Her finger aimed at the male with inky black hair, to the handsome gent whose yet to open his mouth. “Shane.”

Shane, too, eyed me from head to toe. “Jace has never mentioned you before.”

“My business is not your business.” Jace handed me a cold, uncapped beer bottle. “You can watch the movie without me. I will be in my bedroom. And no, I don’t need anyone to join me.”

Jared is doing his utmost to stifle amusement. He had a mischievous twinkle in his wild eyes like he wanted to get under his friend’s skin for shits and giggles. “I thought you had a girlfriend.” His feet kicked onto the low coffee table. “Don’t worry, though. Your secret is safe with me.”

I soured with disbelief.

Jared’s disapproving, accusatory finger pointed in my direction. He thinks I am a homewrecker, a boyfriend-snatcher, an unprincipled concubine.

I should probably defend myself and Jace, actually, because I am the last person he’d want to sleep with. Hell, I could be the only woman left on the planet after an apocalypse wiped out the female population, and he’d rather toss me over a cliff and spend the remainder of his existence alone.

Where am I going with these thoughts?

I am clearly nervous, out of my depth, and under the extreme pressure of scrutiny. “I am not a homewrecker. I would never sleep with anyone, man or woman, in a committed relationship.”

Why did I say that? I don’t even like women.

“Not that I am a lesbian,” I stuttered, and the pink-haired female popped an eyebrow. “And I don’t have anything against lesbians, either. You’re safe around me.”

Shane’s chin hit the deck. “Did you just stereotype?”

I will faint. “I don’t even know.”

“Harlyn is not lesbian.” Jared’s smirk reached his eyes. “Although, I have imagined her and other women many a time—” She elbowed him in the ribs. “What? I can’t help it. You are too sexy for your own good.”

I wish Jace would save me from myself.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, withering under their intense glares. “I kept digging myself a deeper hole. I wanted to clarify that I wasn’t a lesbian, then I panicked because I didn’t want you to think I had an issue with lesbians. I mean, for all I know, you are one, and I just blurted and offended you.”

“Emma, chill out.” Harlyn scarfed down a handful of popcorn kernels. “Jared is harmless. Shane is too stoned to give a crap, and I know what you meant. No harm done. For clarity,” she added with a humoured smile, “I love dick. Preferably beefcake’s beside you.”

“What the fuck, Harl?” Jace’s jaw muscles pulsed. “Jared, don’t fucking encourage her.”

Jared’s head threw back as laughter burst out of his chest. He doubled over on the sofa, knocking the bowl of popcorn all over the floor.

“See?” Harlyn’s shoulders lifted. “Harmless.”

My jaw is still on the floor.

With his hand on my lower back, Jace coaxed me down the dark hall, welcoming me into the private space of all-black, high-gloss furniture, heavy velvet curtains, marbled tiled floor, thick shaggy rug and an onyx chandelier. The masculine bedroom fitted his personality, dark and depressing.

I dropped into the modern chesterfield armchair. “Friends?”

“Roommates.” He perched on the foot of the bed. “Employees, too.”

I gave him a pointed look.

“And I fuck my female roommate,” he said with a curse, and I pointed out that Jared mentioned a girlfriend. “Don’t go shooting your mouth off, Emma. It’s my business.”

Even now, through the wall, I can hear Jared laughing at his own witticism. “Well, I don’t want them to get the wrong idea, especially Harlyn.”

What am I saying?

Harlyn is the mistress.

Jace had a girlfriend.

“Tommy visited Carter, huh?” He switched topics. “I’m happy for him. Shit, I’m happy for everyone. You both had to achieve a common goal at some point, right?”

Yes, I suppose.

“But you are not here to discuss Tommy.” He raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Look, if this is about Jones? Don’t bother. You won’t get any information from me.”

I was unprepared for Jace’s harsh tone of decisiveness.

Picking the bottle’s label, I got to my feet, pacing the space between the king-size bed and the double wardrobe. “Can you hear me out first?”

Jace never replied.

“I really like Brad,” I admitted, and his critical eyes sharpened. “I am not here to cause the man any trouble. I am here because you know him, the real him, and honestly, I need some advice.”

He said nothing.

I licked the roof of my mouth. “The rational, responsible voice says to walk away and never look back.” Brad is everything I should avoid and fear. “The irrational, irresponsible voice says to slow down, trust the process and learn what it takes to be him.”

Still, he said nothing.

“Will he break my heart, Jace?” I futzed with pound coins on the sideboard. “Will he get bored and leave for other women? Is he an unabashed womaniser? Is he capable of extremely violent misogyny? Will I be another notch on his bedpost? Will I die at the hands of a renowned criminal? Please, I need an impartial person to be honest with me.”

“Slow down,” he said with a slight laugh. “Look, I am the worst person to give advice. You and Jones? It’s a conflict of interest. His boss’s wife, Alexa, is my ride or die. I won’t say or do anything that may or may not cause drama.”

Alice’s admission about Brad’s affair slammed into me like a breath-snatching tsunami. “Are they in bed together?” I asked, and his brows drew tighter. “Alexa and Brad. I am given reason to believe they are embroiled in a sticky affair. No judgement. I am merely curious.”

Jace snort-laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

I was straight-faced.

“Hell, no.” Jace scowled with unrestrained seriousness and overt defensiveness. “Alexa is completely, insanely, unconditionally and irrevocably in love with Warren.”

I thought that type of love only existed in fairytales.

“Their souls paired long before fate decided.” Jace watched me wander around the bedroom. “There is no other, not for him, not for her.” He stroked faded, uneven scars along his cheek. “Take that from someone who has been on the receiving end of that man’s wrath.”

I sat next to him on the bed. “What did he do?”

“He keyed me.” His head turned for me to get a more detailed look at the scars on his cheek. “Repeatedly punctured the skin. The son of a bitch got an iron fist. I won’t lie. It fucking hurt.”

“Why?” It was an intrusive question. “Did you deserve it?”

He considered the question. “No.”

I had many questions.

“We slept together, Alexa and me. It was during their break up and Summer’s death.” He pulled a swing of his beer. “We escaped reality for one night. Do I regret it? No. I am grateful. Alexa was there for me when I was at my lowest, and I forgot everything for the first time in weeks. My daughter…” His lips puckered as he collected himself. “I was in a very bad place. I never deserved Alexa’s love or friendship, but she did something really special for me that night. She helped me breathe again.” He stared off into space. “I have so much love and respect for that woman.”

I could hear the admiration in his voice. “How did Warren find out?”

“Warren doesn’t handle jealousy too well.” He gave me his best smile. “I’ll leave it at that. Now, back to Jones. He is Liam Warren’s right-hand man, second in command. There is no way he is doing the dirty on his boss in this life or the next. Plus, my girl is not like that. She got more respect for herself, and she’d never intentionally cause a rift between brothers. Your source is out to cause shit. You want brutal honesty. Fine. Jones is a notorious womaniser.” His eyes roved over my face for a reaction. “But I have never seen him spend quality time with one woman before. Have you even fucked yet?”

“No.” It was an innocuous question, yet my stomach knotted. “I haven’t slept with anyone since Tommy and…” It was too soon to mention Killian. “I concentrated on Carter, being a good mother, travelling from one city to the next to make a home. I never had time for dating.”

Even if I did have time to date, I made excuses and turned down decent guys. I had to heal—that much was ineludible—and prioritise mental health post-trauma.

Hugo is the first man I agreed to date, not that he’s reached out and asked for a second date since our picnic at the park.

Brad is the first man to give me butterflies since Tommy O’Shea.

I am ready now. I have accepted the past, healed physically, mentally and spiritually, and Big Guy, for whatever reason, is responsible for recent happiness. But he also comes with a long list of complications. “Why did I fall for a serious manwhore?”

“Manwhore?” Jace scratched the smile off his face. “Yeah, I mean, he is a bit of a flirt.”

A bit of a flirt? That’s an understatement. The man had a magical way with women. I could be angry with him, ready to lunge coffee in his face, and he’d manage to turn my frown upside down with his cheeky smile alone. I don’t know how he does it. But it’s impossible to stay mad at him.

“I’m no saint. It would be wrong of me to judge him.” Jace was back to staring at space. “Just be…enough for him.”

My face scrunched up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t fucking know.” He is a bundle of nerves. “I told you. I have to be careful. I won’t cause any shit for them.”

No, there is more to this story. “What is it?”

He went quiet, and then he let out a dramatic sigh. “I think, even if he likes you, there is room for improvement. He is not a one-woman man. Fuckfest comes to mind. And don’t throw me to the wolves after this conversation. I only told you to give you a heads-up.”

My fingernails tapped the bottle. “You seem to know a lot about his sex life.”

“Well, maybe I do.” His eyes searched mine. “I joined him for a wild party once. I was too pie-eyed to consider the consequence of indiscriminate sexual behaviour. And no, before you ask, we did not touch each other. But he fucked those bitches like a drill sergeant. I couldn’t keep up.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “This conversation is very anticlimactic.”

His shoulders quaked with light laughter.

“I cannot compete with that,” I concluded, and he side-eyed me dubiously. “I am boring in bed.” At least, I think I might be. I certainly have nothing on a drill sergeant. “And I will never, and I mean ever, engage with multiple partners. Plus, I have jealous traits. I will skull-drag a woman for looking at my guy inappropriately—whoever my guy is at that point.” After all, Brad is not mine, and by the sound of it, he never will be. “I came here for clarity. I will leave vaguer than I started.”

“Jones went to Stable Way with the intent to kill.” Jace sprawled across the bed and propped onto one elbow to face me. “He’d have torched the entire site and its occupants for you. I am speaking literally, not figuratively. What does that tell you?”

I mirrored his position, stretching across the bed on my side. “Am I supposed to believe I am special?”

“Yeah,” he said airily. “It’s safe to assume that he thinks you are pretty fucking special.”

A shuddered breath escaped my lips.

Jace was on a roll. “He’s an abstruse person. But he’s also a decent guy. Fuck the rumours. Fuck his past behaviour. Give him a chance to prove himself. If he steps out of line and disrespects you with other women, you know what to do. Throw his arse through the door.” His finger tilted my chin, forcing me to look at him. “What else bothers you?”

Jace’s kindness was noted.

Remembering the fate of Brad’s ex-girlfriend, I ingurgitate beer to slake the dryness in my throat. “I value my life,” I said, quiet and subdued. “I don’t want to end up in some dumpster, hacked and dismembered, when he’s bored or inconsolably irate. I have a son to consider.”

His green eyes were pensive. “Tell him to vouch for you.”

“Vouch for me?” I shot him a cool look. “What do you mean?”

“Ask him to be your bondsman.” His head cocked when discernible perplexity held in my sliced eyes. “You are clueless.”

Of course, I am clueless. I never questioned or interrogated Brad. I have respected his privacy, given him the floor to share secrets if and when he chooses and put faith in his honesty.

“Shit.” Jace grabbed a sketchpad and pencil from the bedside table. He flipped to the back of the pad, a clean page, nib to paper. “Warren is the highest member of The Brotherhood.” He wrote the man’s name in the top box. “Think of it as a family tree. Beneath him is the underboss—that would be your guy—and the advisor, Nate Alzaim, alongside the elite, Vincent—he is Warren’s younger brother, by the way—Joshua and so forth.” He pencilled straight lines across the page. “Drop down to the next level, and you have the low ranked soldiers. Go down another flight to see the errand boys, allies and informants.”

I memorised the hierarchical model of organised criminals.

“Now, the superior comrades earn privileges.” He circled the names of the elite on the second row. “Top of the range vehicles with personalised licence plates, premium travel and lifestyle benefits, twenty-four-hour access to certain buildings, vehicles, weapons and computer systems, spending without limitations, protection inside and outside of the workplace and, last but not least, the right to one surety bond. For example, Warren vouched for Alexa, which granted sovereign immunity. She is exempt from punishment unless she betrays her bondsman.”

I had entered a parallel universe.

“You’d be under the protection of the entire Warren syndicate if Jones swore fealty to you.” He made a tsking sound. “Having Warren on your side is a big deal in London.”

I was utterly engrossed. “Did Alexa vouch for you?”

“No.” He closed the sketchpad. “She is not authorised to do so.”

My heart pitter-pattered in my chest. “Why not?”

“Alexa is Warren’s wife.” He downed a mouthful of beer. “She is not an active member of The Brotherhood. At least, it’s not something we discussed. I’m still breathing, so that has to count for something.”

“This is crazy.” I sat up, cross-legged, with the bottle clenched between my hands. “How are you still alive?”

“They were not together at that point. You know what? It doesn’t matter. Warren gave me a second chance to appease Alexa.” His fingers grazed the scars on his cheek with absentminded nods. “Trust me. If I piss him off at any point in the future, he will seize the opportunity to snap my neck. I am his least favourite person.” His arm sagged across his waist. “Unfortunately for him, I love that woman. She is my best friend. I would never intentionally hurt her, so he is shit out of luck.”

Alexa is a very lucky woman. Men, who would quite literally sacrifice themselves in the name of loyalty and love, surrounded her.

I finished the rest of the beer. “I should go.”

Jace climbed off the bed. He binned the empty beer bottles, walked me downstairs and unlocked the front door. “You can come back.”

Convinced I’d misheard, I paused on the step. “I am scared of needles.”

“Who mentioned ink?” His shoulder leaned on the doorframe. “I want to leave the past in the past, Emma.”

His olive branch was the closest I’d get to an apology.

Rain hammered against the streets of London, which is a concern because the heavy downpour often flooded the cafe. “Thank you for the chat,” I said, and I meant it. “I appreciate it.”