CHAPTER ELEVEN

Brad

Nate presented himself with practised standoffishness. He knew, deep down, that tonight was not the right time to make introductions. It was about Alexa and the baby. And he is delusional to believe an audience would forestall judgement or controversy.

“Hey, I would like to introduce everyone to a friend of mine.” Nate’s hand stayed on the woman’s back. “Celine, this is Alexa.”

“Hello.” Alexa shook Celine’s hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Celine said with a nervous smile. “And you must be Bradley-”

“Brad,” Nate corrected as I reluctantly clasped her hand for a quick squeeze. “This is Josh, the baby of the family.”

“I am all man,” Josh flirted innocently. “It’s great to put a name on the face.”

“Vincent Warren,” Vincent said, without extending an invitation to symbolise greeting. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Alexa’s eyebrows incurved.

“Vincent is our boss’s brother,” I said, and the bubble of tension expanded. “Did you like the cake?”

Celine cast a sidelong glance to Nate for support. “Yes,” she answered when realising he had nothing to say. “The macarons win, though. I am a sucker for vanilla buttercream.”

“Plain by extension,” Vincent hummed, and I had to look away to stifle amusement. “I am a red velvet fan myself.”

“Red velvet is too rich for my tastebuds,” she said conversationally, and my eyes closed in vicarious embarrassment. “And I tend to avoid artificial colourings.”

“Anyhow.” Nate’s wide, furious eyes centred on the younger Warren brother. “Glad to see you finally showed up. How long do you plan to hang around this time?”

“Long enough to leave an impression.” Vincent looked bored. “How did you two meet?”

“Nathaniel is my gym instructor.” Celine was genuinely smitten, tapping her lover’s chest with loving hands. Then, almost inaudibly, she purred in his ear, “Isn’t that right,Monsieur.”

Josh squealed out a laugh. “Monsieur.”

“Shut up, Sailor,” Nate chastised ineffectively. “You are in no position to judge anyone, you toe-licking freak.”

“I do not have a foot fetish. Why does everyone keep saying that?” Josh looked disparagingly at me. “Nice one, Brad.”

“Hey, why the fuck am I in the firing line?” My chest expanded on a deep inhalation. “I never called you a toe licker.”

“You told them about that night.” He shook his head morosely. “You promised not to breathe a word, but you let one slip the moment I turned my back.”

Alexa sipped fake alcohol. “I am so lost.”

“No, I never said shit to anyone,” I argued my case, but when perceiving Josh’s discomfort, I decided to back down. “Listen, it’s an inside joke. I call him Sailor because he had two female friends over, and that’s what they moaned whilst rolling in the hay. He was busy throwing up in the sink. And I almost puked with him. The joys of being a sympathetic puker. He does not have a sexual interest in feet. Nate is just grasping at straws to make himself look better.”

“I knew this was a bad idea.” Nate rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know why I associate with any of you.”

“Associating with fellow comrades is part of the job.” Vincent, ever so casually, rotated a green apple in his hand. “You are paid good money to operate alongside these men.”

I winced.

Nate looked like he’d seen a ghost. “Celine, I think we should go.”

“Do not leave on my account.” Vincent’s accusing eyes landed on the Junoesque blonde. “Take no notice of me, love. The brothers are used to my-shall we call it-combative tendencies.”

“Troublemaker is more apt.” Nate’s knuckle-white fists clenched tightly at his sides. “Warren is not here to protect you, Vincent.”

A shadow of uneasiness crossed Celine’s features.

“Whom do I need protection from? You?” Vincent gave him a wolfish smirk. “You underestimate me. I might not be an active member of the institution, but I am no less competent. By all means, test that theory and see how far it gets you. Although, I should warn you. It will not be me ensanguined with the blood of defeat.”

Nate was only unforthcoming for Celine’s benefit. “Always one to be the life and soul of the party.” He sipped from a glass of clear liquid. “If I merk anyone tonight, it will be you.”

“I can’t tell whether you two are joking or serious.” Celine chuckled to mask discombobulation. “Your conversation is strange and ambiguous. I mean, what is the institution? The Brotherhood? It sounds like a crazy cult.”

“Well, it’s an organisation governed by the most dangerous mobsters of the criminal underworld.” Vincent’s teeth sank into a waxy green apple as he scrutinised the pale-faced woman. “You are not surprised.”

“Vincent, I will fuck you up.” Nate slid in front of Celine to shield her from everyone. “You are cruising.”

“You continue to jeopardise the safety of my brother’s men. You threaten the security of his empire. Is it not enough that he lives in chains for the bad decisions you made?” Vincent left the half-eaten apple on the bar top and stepped up to Nate. “Has your new flame met Miss Pearce yet? If not, I will happily do the introductions.”

“I will burn you alive.” Nate fisted the lapels of Vincent’s suit jacket. “Consequences be damned.”

“Subjective interpretation.” Vincent pried Nate’s hands down. “You and your incessant miscalculations pose a threat to everyone you claim to love. You bring an outsider to this house under false pretences. You have not entrusted her with the reality of truth, so how can you expect us to lend credence to the unknown?”

“Can we kill each other another time?” Alexa sidled up next to the men, one hand on Vincent’s shoulder, the other on Nate’s shoulder. “I have never had a surprise party before. I want to enjoy it without a bloodbath. Please and thank you.”

Celine is on the brink of tears. “I should go.”

“If you must,” Vincent said, and Alexa elbowed him in the ribs subtly. “What? I was polite.”

“Babe…” Nate, undeniably crushed, watched the woman leave with hurried footsteps. “Fuck’s sake. You just couldn’t keep your damn mouth shut. You had to fucking ruin it for me.”

Vincent demanded a whiskey refill at the bar. “Do not hold me accountable for your mistakes.”

Understanding tonight was important to Alexa, I linked our arms, separated her from the commotion and strolled toward the family and friends’ table. “That was eventful. You can take a seat.” Drawing out a chair next to Jace, I gestured for her to sit down. “I will find out what’s happening in the kitchen.”

Five minutes later, I am running at a suicide pace, dashing in and out of hired kitchen units to pin down Benjamin. I was panting and sweating by the time I found him. He was by the serving zone, surrounded by industrious chefs, approving and polishing dishes ready for the guests.

“Can we take this up a notch?” I asked as he placed a quenelle of pâté onto baked sourdough slices. “That looks fancy.”

“I am nervous.” He garnished each dish with fresh dill and edible flowers. “What if Mrs Warren hates the food?”

“Hey, I am the one you have to impress, not the boss’s wife,” I reminded him, and he suppressed apprehensiveness. “Seriously, can we get these dishes out to the guests or what?”

“Yes.” With one final look at the first course, Ben called in the waiters and waitresses. “Do not drop them-and start with the main table.”

“Good luck.” Tapping him on the back, I dropped a lie to skyrocket his anxieties. “Alexa is hard to impress.”

Ben paled.

I returned to the ballroom to the sweet sound of soulful instrumental music. Doffing the suit jacket, hanging it on the back of a chair, I pulled up to the table simultaneously to dishes landing.

Alexa is not the most enthusiastic eater, finicky when distracted, so when the waiter placed the starter in front of her, and she continued her conversation with Jace, I never batted an eyelid. I knew she’d delve in eventually. Now, I, on the other hand, delved in like a moreish champ. I did not eat the food; I inhaled the food and washed down every morsel with Irish whiskey.

“Alexa.” Camilla tasted the pickled cucumber. “Will you open gifts tonight or tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, if that’s okay.” Alexa glimpsed at the table by the main doors, where heaps of wrapped parcels beckoned exhibition. “It’s a lot to get through.” She bit into the sourdough slice, but nothing about her expression suggested approval. “Is there any more fake champagne going around?”

Vincent clicked down the sommelier. The man’s shoulders hunched forward as he leaned down for Vincent to relay orders.

“You can open this one early.” Logan slid the small, mysterious gift across the table. “It’s not amazing. But I thought you’d like it.”

“Oh, you didn’t need to buy me anything.” Not able to contain her excitement, Alexa picked up the perfectly wrapped present. “I lied. I’d have killed you.”

A chorus of laughter travelled across the table.

Tearing into the wrapping paper, Alexa unpackaged the leather box emblazoned withCartierand pried open the gold clasp. As I sat next to her, I could see the gift clearly: a platinum cushion-cut diamond ring withMy Personengraved on the band.

Her lips separated in speechless surprise as she removed the ring from the velvet bed. “Logan,” she croaked, her eyes saturating with tears. “Oh, God. I am going to cry again.”

The women around the table cooed and comforted, but Alexa paid them no heed. Her only focus was Logan, and in their quiet bubble, where nobody else existed, something unreadable passed between them. Love, perhaps.

“You have been a better mother to me than the woman who gave birth to me,” Logan said hoarsely, and Alexa wiped a stray tear from her cheek. “We found each other late in life, so I am not an unassuming little kid, and you are not an older, experienced mother, but what I feel for you, what we feel for each other, is real, pure and everything I ever wanted growing up. I am not your son, not by blood, but I am your person and you are mine. Soon, a new person will join our family, and I want you to know I will protect that person as a big brother should.”

Alexa bottom lip wobbled.

“I will show this baby the same love you have shown me.” He leaned across the table, took the ring out of her hand and slipped it on her finger. “I know I have been acting up a bit lately, and I want to apologise for that.” His thumb traced her knuckles. “It’s not because I feel differently about you. I love you just as much as I did the first day we met. No matter what happens, I never want you to think that I don’t want to be here with you or the baby-or with the rest of these assholes,” he joked, and the men chuckled. “And with Liam, when he comes home. There is nowhere else I’d rather be than with this chosen family.”

“Oh, Logan.” Camilla dabbed her cheeks with a napkin. “What a fine young man you have turned out to be. Alexa, he is a credit to this family.”

“I know,” Alexa said in a strained voice. “I am very lucky.”

The waiters and waitresses reappeared to remove dishes.

A butterfly salad ensued, sous vide fillet of beef close after, and, last but not least, passion fruit delice or a trio of chocolate desserts.

All I could think about was Emma as I tucked in. Initially, I felt her appraisal of Ben’s cooking skills stemmed from loyalty as the twin sister; however, having tasted and compared each portion with specialities served at The Grape and Vine and five-star restaurants alike, I had to agree with her. Ben is too good to slum it in a back-alley cafe. He deserved to be up there, with top chefs, sharing his passion with the world.

However, Alexa had only eaten half of the main course and consumed one mouthful of dessert.

In the back of my mind, I had considered Benjamin Hughes for the head chef position at the casino, but without Alexa’s favourable vote, I’d have to bury the possibility.

I was listening to Josh and Tony’s conversation when Alexa summoned the waiter to our table. His ear lowered to her mouth as she spoke indistinctly. Then, she reclaimed the champagne flute, sipped generously, and turned her back to me to pick up where she left off with Jace.

Tiredness began to creep in. I’d need a line or two to get through the rest of the party.

Excusing myself from the table, I soared to my feet, ready for a sneaky trip to the bathroom to snort cocaine, when Reginald Burton, suit jacket bedizened with medals of honour and gallantry, stepped out before me.

“Jones.” He gave me a firm handshake. “I have been trying to pin you down all night. How is fatherhood treating you?”

Ben entered the ballroom sans apron.

“Good.” Dominic is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. “He is a terror.”

“Much like his father.” Reginald nursed a glass of bourbon.” I received a promotion at work. You are looking at the new Deputy Chief Constable.”

“Congratulations. You are barking up the wrong tree for a pay rise.” Ben crouched by Quinn’s table, and her eyes brightened. “Warren pays enough for your services.”

“I am not asking for a pay rise,” Reginald clipped as I observed the seemingly lovesick couple. “A pat on the back, that is all.”

I patted the man’s back.

“You are impossible.” Still, the geezer hacked up organs, chortling in hysterical glee. “Have you spoken to Warren?”

I stayed silent.

“I have never met a more stubborn man.” He placed the empty glass on the table. “I need another drink. Do you want one?”

I declined.

Benjamin gravitated toward the main table. At first, I presumed he’d invited himself over, but when Alexa stood to greet him, I dropped back and watched the pair introduce themselves.

“Thank you for coming over,” Alexa said, and honestly, the poor fucker could only nod, wholly star-struck. “Alexa Warren.”

“I know who you are,” he stuttered, and I cringed. “I mean, I have heard a lot about you.”

“All good, I hope,” she said, and again, he nodded vigorously. “Well, I had to thank you for tonight’s beautiful dinner service. You have an award-worthy talent.”

Ben’s cheeks pinkened. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

“Brad,” Alexa touched my arm tenderly, “mentioned that you were Emma’s brother. How is she?”

“I couldn’t tell you.” His eyes filled with sadness. “I haven’t seen nor heard from my sister in months. Truthfully, it’s tearing me up inside.”

Alexa studied him. “You raised young Carter like a son.”

Ben looked away.

“I lost my first child,” she divulged, which caught me by surprise. “A close friend of mine hosted an opening night for his tattoo parlour.”

Ben was incapable of hiding disgust. Naturally, his gaze sliced to Jace, who sat quietly at the table, observing the situation beneath furrowed eyebrows.

“Yes, Jace.” Alexa looked between them. “He is like a brother to me.”

I predicted another public argument.

“It was still early but dark out,” she said, overlooking the bitterness amongst men. “I went outside, and the door locked behind me.”

Ben listened.

“I was attacked, stabbed multiple times and blacked out. My next memory is rousing in a hospital bed in the wake of surgery. The attacker had cut the baby out of my stomach.” Her strong, fierce voice suggested she had come to terms with what happened that night. “I don’t know what she did with the baby. All I know is that I had lost my unborn child and had scars in replacement. I was not myself,” she added, and he seemed to latch onto every word. “God, I was sad, pained, angry, bitter and resentful. I locked myself away from the world, hid in the bedroom, slept to forget, cried until tears dried, and worse, I hurt the ones closest to me. My husband tolerated blame, continual rejection and undeserving coldness. I never sat back at any point and thought, is he okay? How is he handling the loss of our child? Did he need comfort? Reassurance? Love?”

Ben’s arms folded.

“Rightly or wrongly, I had to be on my own to cope with grief. That’s not to say that I wanted my husband to walk away and leave me. In fact, I needed him to be there when I came back. I loved him more than I thought possible for putting up with me.”

He smiled slightly.

“And eventually, I recognised his suffering.” Her hand descended to the bottom of my spine as she talked. “I found my way back to him and acknowledged how, although inadvertent, I had selfishly disregarded the person I loved more than anyone else in this world.”

I curled a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Emma has reached stage four of her grief: depression. Believe it or not, she is only one step away from acceptance.” Alexa glanced at Ben. “She will not forget about Carter, nor will you.” Then, she looked at me. “But she is almost ready to function to the best of her ability. And see what she has to look forward to? The most wonderful men to welcome her home.”

“I am her brother. I am not going anywhere without her.” Ben’s chin jerked in my direction. “What about you? You have hung around, but you haven’t told me why. Are you hoping my sister will make an honest man out of you someday? Am I invested or not?”

Alexa, too, wanted the answer to that question. Her gaze cast to the floor as she feigned lack of interest, but her tilted head meant she was all ears.

“I am here if Emma wants me. If she texted me right now, I’d drive to her place and accept whatever she’d be willing to offer.” Honesty is the best policy. “I am not in love with your sister, Ben,” I admitted, and he frowned sharply. “But if anyone is capable of stealing my heart, it is that woman. And for a man like me, that means something.”

Alexa’s expression softened.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Quinn joined our small circle. “It’s just that I am starting to feel a little lonely over there. I have been by myself all night.”

“Fuck, I am sorry.” Ben whispered a quick kiss to the column of her neck. “We should get back to the others, anyway. It was nice to meet you, Alexa. And Brad?” We fist bumped. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Alexa waited until they were out of earshot. “Ben is a nice guy. Emma is blessed to have a brother like him.”

I concurred. “You know…” I never finished my sentence because Eddie, head of tonight’s security detail, stalked over, his strides long and panicked. “What is it?”

“We have a huge problem,” he said in a calm yet concerned voice. “Blaire is in labour.”

“What?” My entire body stiffened. “But she is not even due yet.”

He shrugged.

“Christ, where is Nate?” Taking out my phone, I typed a short message to him. “Alexa, I will have to shut down the party.”

“That’s fine.” Alexa sounded in control, but her demeanour was anything but sangfroid. “It’s happening.”

“What’s happening?” Josh, sober as a judge, came to see what all the fuss was about. “What did I miss?”

“Blaire is in labour.” Alexa assessed the dance floor, where guests partied, clueless to inconveniences. “Does Nate have a midwifery team on speed dial?”

I nodded.

“Okay, let’s get this baby out.” Tucking her chair beneath the table, Alexa grabbed her clutch purse and fixed her hair. “Then we can be done with this bitch.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Brad

In preparation for the birth of Nate’s potential son, the team of certified midwives in blue uniforms with white piping and disposable aprons descended on the estate. In the office, they sat ramrod on the sofa, taciturn and sombre, as I submitted fountain pens and non-disclosure agreements for them to sign.

Having borrowed and changed into one of my tracksuits, Alexa pulled herself onto the desk and tuned into the meeting.

“Sign.” Turning down the volume of my thoughts, I went to the minbar. “You have a duty not to share sensitive information protected by the confidentiality agreement with an unauthorised party.”

The midwives signed away morals and principles with the scrape of a pen.

“I will not sue you for violation or breaching the confidentiality agreement.” Pouring Jameson into a Norlan whiskey glass, I screwed down the bottle lid. “I will kill you.”

A slight unpleasantness silenced the room.

If the midwives were affected by the direct threat of death, I would not know. I stood with my back to them, enjoying the flavoursome taste of alcohol.

Punching the code to the safe, I fished out four envelopes, the seams wide open, tossed hush money into their clutches and eased into the leather chair behind the desk. “You accept money in exchange for clandestine childbirth and complete silence.”

They listened.

Whiskey over-moisturised my lips as the fusion of malt and enthusiasm poured down my throat. “Is there anything you wish to discuss before Eddie escorts you to the room?”

One middle-aged female had a question. “Is the room prepared?”

Placing the glass on the desk, I picked up the folder provided by Nate and skimmed bullet points. “A bed with clean linen, dry towels, sterile gloves and aprons, a container for sharps disposal and temperature management for the baby.”

“Is there a resuscitaire infant warmer?” Her legs are crossed at the knees. “Effective warming therapy is crucial for the baby.”

I dumped the folder. “Temperature management covered it.”

“There is no mention of expressed breast milk.” She had the look of an honest soul. “May I advise syringe feeding small amounts of colostrum post birth? You can even store breast milk in the fridge until formula milk is delivered.”

I am not equipped to help the pregnant lady produce milk.

“I came prepared.” Unzipping the leather side bag, the midwife brandished an unboxed pack of sterile colostrum collectors. “Disposable syringes. Remember to sanitise your hands before feeding to protect the baby from infections.” Ripping the wrapper, she demonstrated how to extract milk from her uniform-clad breast before hurling everything in the bin. “Place small amounts into the baby’s mouth. Either onto the gum, cheek or tongue. Do not allow him to suck or squeeze milk into his mouth.”

Alexa paid attention.

I was too tired to give a shit.

“What about the mother?” the youngest-looking midwife asked whilst reading the non-disclosure agreement. “What if she encounters problems or complications during labour and delivery? She might need to go to the hospital.”

I grunted non-committedly. “Blaire can bleed out, for all I care.”

“No,” Alexa spoke with graceful confidence. “Nate is uncertified but experienced. He can manage any setbacks if complications happen to arise. You cannot let her die,” she stressed the importance of an undeserving woman’s survival. “Her admittance is imperative.”

Heedless of the scrutinisation in the room, I ordered the midwives to leave us alone, and collectively, after stacking the signed non-disclosure agreements on the desk, they exited the office.

“If compelling evidence comes to light, Liam can apply for a retrial.” Alexa sat cross-legged on the desk. “He can be retried for the offence.”

“A false rape allegation is an imprisonable offence. Under different circumstances, I’d agree with you. I’d demand a retrial to clear Warren’s name and send the bitch to prison in replacement. But you forget, rape is not the only charged offence. He was sentenced to awhole life orderformultiplecriminal offences. Imprisonment without parole.”

Her jaw clenched.

“Blaire’s admittance will not make a dent in his sentence. A measly stint for her participation in the court will not cut it. I will not relax until she is dead. Tonight, she will breathe her last breath, whether it be labour or to the end of a gun.”

“Look at the life-changing effects my husband has faced. Public disdain and ridicule. Defamation and the besmirching of his name. Online mugshots and identity charges. Blaire’s admittance might not shorten Liam’s sentence, but hertruthcan sway the public. Herhonestycan vindicate him. His reputation will not be disgraced. He will not be defined by rape.” Keeping one hand on her stomach, she slipped down from the desk, came to my side and laid a palm on my shoulder. “I do not ask for mercy. I ask for more time.”

“To err on the side of caution, I made an agreement with Blaire.” Imbibing a tipple of whiskey, I kicked my feet onto the visitors’ chair, legs stretching out for comfort. “You remember.”

“Yes, when she first arrived at the estate. You promised no harm would come to her baby if she recorded a video of herself, declaring Liam innocent of the crimes she falsely accused.” Her backside returned to the desk. “For her to tell the world she lied in the court of law.”

“And she said, ‘Nobody will believe this nonsense. It is obvious I am distressed and held against my will.’”

“Vincent called her acting ’Oscar-worthy.’” Alexa smiled with her eyes. “He is not wrong. Her tears were believable. Did she ever agree to do the video in exchange for her son’s safety?”

I never sought definitiveness. I knew, threat or not, she would never accede to the request. “For the sake of argument, let’s say the labour goes well and, to my dismay, she does not bleed to death. How can I pressurise a deranged woman to do us a favour? If you think she will do the recording, admit fault, and hold herself accountable with good grace, you are crazier than you look. If anything, her situation will scream coercion, especially if she winds up dead. I do not need additional stress or inconvenience on my doorstep because the bitch beseeched on a live stream prior to her disappearance.”

“Why not a pre-recorded video?”

“Live streams are more authentic,” I said, and her shoulders slumped. “You want the public to believe in Warren’s innocence. That means unanimous sympathy votes.” I left the glass on the desk. “Listen, I want to clear his name as much as you do, but I have zero faith in that woman. Her voice could do more damage.”

Alexa relinquished dejectedly.

In view of frantic activity in the foyer, I emptied my trouser pocket, unsealed a small, resealable bag, poured cocaine onto the desk and, with pardoned lethargy, cut two lines. “I have a headache.” Slow and tedious, I dragged a credit card through white substance. “I cannot endure Blaire’s irritating mouth any longer.” Her screams reverberated throughout the estate, wading into every hall, bouncing off every ceiling. “My son is in bed. Mabel is probably distraught.” And Alexa looked like she was going to be sick. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, God.” Her hazel eyes radiated irrational fear. “Is this what a human slaughterhouse sounds like?”

“Let me get back to you after mass extermination,” I replied dryly. “If I recall correctly, I do not own a human slaughterhouse.”

In meditative mode, she drew imaginary images on the desk with her pointer finger. “You would think she was trapped in a room with a psychotic lumberjack.”

Then, a minute or so later, Blaire shrieked violently, and Alexa, too aware of the impending birth of her own child, drew the hoodie’s hood over her head and disappeared into its thick cotton textures.

“Are you alright in there?” Rolling up a fifty-pound note, I dipped my head, snorted a line and sank back in the chair. “Why are you hiding?”

“I changed my mind.” Her eyes appeared above the hoodie’s tightly gripped drawstrings secured over her nose. “I do not want a baby.”

“A bit late for that.” Tapping her pregnant bump, I knuckled irritation from my nose and chucked the fifty-pound note aside. “Bean, by force of circumstance, has to come out.”

Blaire screamed at the top of her lungs, a long, harrowing scream that seemed to rattle every object in the estate.

Alexa stared through the rigid gaps of her fingers. “Then, I have the right to caesarean birth. I will not mutilate my vagina for the mere purpose of natural childbirth.”

“You are amillionairess.” In painful boredom, I picked my fingernails. “Pay for private healthcare and demand a C-section.”

“I bloody will.” Alexa yanked the hood off her head, her sophisticated style of loose waves in tatters of tousled sweat. “I will demand local anaesthesia as well.”

“Good for you.” Immersed in the euphoric effects of insensibility, I rubbed powder into my gums. “Live a little. Go raggo.” When I felt her unsubtle scrutiny, I forced a smile to my lips and looked up. “Can I help you?”

Her eyes swam with unmistakable dread. “I am not in the mood for your sarcasm.”

“I cannot help it.” My brows wiggled with blissful impishness. “I come in many forms of infinitude.”

She looked askance at me. “You should authorise the use of pain relief.”

It took my brain ten seconds to catch up. “No.”

Insurmountable anguish and lachrymose hysteria were like music to my ears. Blaire has to suffer for what she did to Warren and, in essence, Nate, as both men concurrently, albeit in two different places, paid the price for her silent rage. Her passive-aggressiveness, emotional manipulation, fake tears, flagrant melodrama and unsympathetic bullshit.

Feast your eyes on the syndicate’s toughest assignment to date: Blaire, an irredeemably scorned female with the personality traits of a seductress archetype whose only purpose in life is to wreak havoc for the indulgence of her own desires.

“Why should I be lenient?” My eyes shifted to the lines of cocaine on the uncluttered desk in contemplation. “I do not sympathise with that woman.”

Blaire’s uncontrollable jealousy cost us greatly.

Warren is gone.

Josh is unpredictable.

Vincent is still an enigma.

Nate is half the man he used to be.

I am here to reshuffle the deck of ruination.

“Her inconsolability might distress the baby.” Alexa, with an uncontended sigh, has the right to an opinion. “I, too, loathe her for what she did to this family. I can put differences aside for one night to make certain of the baby’s safe arrival, though.” Her lashes fluttered lightly. “He is all that matters.”

“Sycophant,” I called her out, and her lips puckered guiltily. “Is that how you got the Warren brothers wrapped around your little finger?” My eyelashes flapped in sardonic impersonation. “I am immune to feigned ingeniousness. I know a beguiling woman when I see one. You, Mrs Warren, are the epitome of bewitchment.”

“What?” She gave way to perplexity. “I do not have both brothers wrapped around my little finger. Have you met Vincent? He is a solitary man: disobedient, noncompliant andintransigentlyindependent. I cannot force him to do anything he doesn’t want to.”

“Vincent is a carbon copy of his older brother, who, ironically, is also under your thumb.” I flashed a self-satisfied smirk. “Your arse must be made of gold. I should say I wouldn’t know, but I have seen it a time or two.”

“You are such an asshole. You were notsupposedto walk in that day.” She brushed tresses of hair out of her flushed face. “It wassupposedto be a private moment between husband and wife.”

“Oh, I meant the night at Club 11, when you went completely starkers to piss off my boss,” I replied, jovial yet expressionless. “Not the candlelit dinner and twinkling sphincter device.”

Her face was red. “I told you to erase it from your memory.”

I did until she reminded me.

“Anyway!” Alexa threw herself off the desk to pace back and forth. “You have distracted me from the main subject. Blaire needs pain relief.”

I resisted stubbornly. “Nope.”

“Brad.” Her hands flattened on the desk as she levelled me with a serious look. “What if he is Nate’s son? You will never forgive yourself if something happens to him because stubbornness got in the way of good judgement. Listen to her.” Flinging a hand toward the foyer, she highlighted the severity of the woman’s immense agony. “You are risking complications after birth. Allow her to calm down.”

It did sound like someone was ripping her guts out.

“Please,” she breathed, and my resistance started to splinter. “Can you do this one little thing for me?”

I blinked.

She blinked.

“Fine.” Yanking the desk drawer open with infuriated force, I retrieved a box: pethidine solution for injection. “You owe me big time for this one.”

***

The she-devil-rolling on the bed like a possessed maniac and sobbing through violent bursts of vomit-screamed for the emotionally detached midwives to help her.

I handed over the goods.

Unpackaging pain relief, Nate sat on the edge of the bed, took hold of Blaire’s leg and injected pethidine straight into the tautened muscle of her thigh.

“Nathaniel,” Blaire implored, and his head shook in refusal. “You promised. You said if I disclosed David’s whereabouts, you’d get me out of here.”

“We both made promises.” Nate chucked the gloves and empty box into the bin. “And we both broke those promises.”

“I never meant to hurt you. It was never about you. What I felt for you was real, all of it.” Her feverish eyes pleaded with him, but he had hardened to her clever manipulations. He overcame his fascination with her the day she betrayed us all. “I don’t wantherhere.”

“Too bad.” Alexa took a seat by the curtain-drawn window. “I am here for them, not you.”

Blaire’s teary eyes were savage. “I hate you.”

Suddenly, Nate’s closed-up fist slammed down on the bedside table. “And, therein lies the fucking problem. Your extreme hatred toward Alexa. Yourobsessionwith Warren.” He got to his feet, towering over the bed, the muscles in his upper back coiled tightly. “I was good to you. Shit, I almost lost the brothers to protect you. And what did I get in return, huh? Lies and deceit. You played me.” His lips twisted with a combination of woefulness, disappointment and acceptance. “I loved you.”

Alexa and I shared a sympathetic look.

“Ireallyloved you,” he repeated, rubbing the prominent lines of his jaw. “What a fool I turned out to be.”

Still, Blaire’s sole focus was the other woman in the room. “What will you do when the paternity results fall on your husband’s lap?” she goaded, not that Alexa bit. “Will you welcome Liam’s child with open arms? Raise him as your own? It’s pathetic.Youare pathetic.”

Nate’s head continued to shake imperceptibly, and then he dissolved into laughter, wiping tears of stupefaction from his eyes. “You cannot reason with crazy.”

“Exactly,” I agreed, and the pregnant lady snarled at me in disdain. “Don’t worry, brother. Celine is an upgrade. You got lucky with that one.”

“Yeah.” Nate understood the assignment, playing along, even though he knew I had reservations. “Wifey material.”

“Is Celine your new bitch?” Blaire’s pain morphed into relaxed sedation as the drugs started to effectuate. “I wonder how long it will take for you to bore her to death.”

My jaw muscles ticked.

“I hate to break it to you,” Blaire murmured with a churlish pout. “But you are not a good catch. You are needy, desperate and lousy in bed. I faked it with you. Every kiss, every smile, every orgasm, Ifaked. Your voice irritated me. Your touch repulsed me. Even now, having to look at you makes me want to hurl over and puke.”

Nate’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.

“I imagined someone else every single time. So, take your reverse psychology elsewhere. I am not jealous of some bitch. She is welcome to have you.” Blaire’s head turned into the pillow, right to left, left to right, as she breathed through a teeth-gnawing contraction. “You are laughable. Even the people you call family take pity on you.”

“How dare you?” Alexa jumped to her feet, so abruptly enraged that no one had time to prepare for her verbal onslaught. “How fucking dare you? You lie in a bed of sweat and urination and belittle the only person who has ever cared about you. Does that make you feel good inside? Satisfied? Successful?” Her hands, knuckles white and strained, latched onto the bed’s footboard. “You do not humiliate him. You humiliate yourself. You are a disgrace to women and an embarrassment to victims alike. Your behaviour spoils the reputation of other survivors. How can we share the same demons yet be so different? We should understand each other, but I do not understand you at all, not even a little bit. You should be thanking these men. They freed you from sexual slavery and gave you a new life. Instead, you have done everything in your power to tear them apart. And for what? Jealousy? You threw away your only chance at happiness because one man turned you down. And you have the gall to call other people desperate and pathetic. You need to check yourself.”

Blaire’s hands turned into fists.

“You had one of the most amazing men I have ever met on your arm,” Alexa stated in disbelief. “He’d have replaced bad memories with good ones and given the world to you. All you had to do was appreciate him.”

Nate, undoubtedly speechless, studied Alexa with the intensity of a lost boy. He nodded once, as if to gather his thoughts, then whispered, “Thank you.”

“You do not have to thank me for speaking the truth.” Alexa held onto his forearm as she glared at Blaire with murderous intent. “Remember, words can never hurt you, especially when hissed from such vileness.”

“Does it drive you mad?” Blaire gave her a cruel smirk. “The fact your husband craved me in ways you can’t even possibly imagine. Have you ever considered that I might be telling the truth?” Her hands smoothed her swollen stomach. “Do you not wonder why he was so lenient and forgiving? I have done enough to warrant punishment, but here I am, under your skin. Thanks to the man you claim to love.”

“I do love him,” Alexa said angrily. “And I trust him implicitly. Do not get it twisted. You are here because my husband is a man of his word. He tolerated you by virtue of The Brotherhood. He granted immunity for the sake of your bondsman.” She smiled up at Nate. “He did it for you.”

A midwife strapped a cuff to Blaire’s upper arm to check her blood pressure.

Blaire whacked medical gimmicks away. “Get away from me,” she snapped, and the lady stepped back. “You realise they plan to kill me once the baby is born, right? And you do nothing to help. How much are they paying you for silence, huh? You are disgusting pigs-all of you. Andyou,” she snarled at Alexa. “You think you are untouchable. I can rip your heart to shreds. I know what makes you tick.”

Alexa dismissed Blaire, turning her back and walking to the chair by the window.

“Kathy,” Blaire cooed, and Alexa’s footsteps stalled. “Did I ever tell you she and I met?”

“Ignore her,” I instructed, but Blaire had already enthralled her. “She is a compulsive liar.”

“Am I?” Blaire laughed breathlessly. “Did Alexa get dragged up concrete stairs into a private room to be fucked by her captor? Did he whisper how much he loved her, how much he favoured her to the others? He showered her affectionately, forced her to her knees and shoved his cock in her-”

“Stop,” Alexa warned with a tremor in her voice, and a satisfied smile played across the bitch’s lips. “You did not hear that from my sister. You heard it from Bajramovic.”

“No, Kathy was very informative. She heard and saweverything,” Blaire said smugly, and Alexa’s eyebrows welded. “How else did Kathy know about you and Flamur? It’s not like you spent time with her in captivity, right? He kept her away from you-Ah!” she cried out, her knees hiking to her chest as a painful contraction slammed into her. “Make it stop! Please, make it stop!”

Alexa glanced at me, sadness and confusion in her eyes.

I gave her a sharp, pointed look, removing any seeds of doubt she had.

“It doesn’t matter,” Alexa lied, tugging on the hoodie’s sleeves. “All in the past.”

“Blaire,” the young midwife said as she warily lingered by the bed. “I need to examine your cervix to see if labour is progressing.” Her fingers wriggled into sterile gloves. “Do you think you could relax for me?”

I moved away from the ordeal, having no business in whatever was going on between that woman’s thighs.

“Hey.” Nudging Alexa’s chin with my knuckles, I grabbed her hand and forced her to sit on the two-seater sofa with me. “You good?”

“Blaire is lying.” Alexa gazed into space. “Kathy was locked up, too. There is no way she could have seen…” Her bottom lip rolled between her teeth. “I mean, she would have tried to stop him if she knew. I know it. My sister loved me.”

I never commented on Kathy Pearl. I had nothing nice to say about her.

“She also sunbathed and baked cakes,” she said, dazed. “And sat on the other side of my door, singing our mother’s song. I guess she did have more leeway.”

“Blaire never met Kathy. The Albanian was her source.” My arm stretched across the sofa’s rear. “You are not seriously considering her vitriolic attack.”

“No.No,” she said with more conviction. “Ignore me. It has been a long day, that is all.”

“Get this thing out of me!” Blaire roared, and when Alexa’s head raised to look, I shifted slightly to block the view. “Please, I can’t do this anymore! Just get it out!”

“I reckon I’d smash childbirth out of the park,” I fibbed, and Alexa’s face scrunched-up. “Seriously, I have been beaten to a pulp, shot, shanked and bottled. What’s a little push in comparison?”

“It’s more than a little push,” she deadpanned. “Our vaginas have to, quite literally, expand to squeeze out a watermelon.”

Yeah, that does sound pretty painful.

Alexa is unreachable at this point. “Blaire is ten centimetres,” she said, and I gave up on trying to distract her. “This is worse than One Born Every Minute.”

“Christ.” I will never understand women. “Why would you watch that whilst pregnant?”

“To torture myself,” she groaned behind her hands. “I don’t know. The closer I get to my due date, the more obsessed I am with labour. I am scared.”

“I can’t do it! I am not ready!” Blaire prattled on in the background. “Nathaniel, please come here and hold my hand. I can’t do this alone.”

Nate never moved from his position by the door.

“You can do it,” one of the midwives said, and Blaire bellowed profanities, grunting and thrashing on the bed. “Come on. Let’s take a nice deep breath and work together.”

“Brad.” Alexa’s head fell on my arm. “Liam won’t be here for the birth. I have to do labour by myself,” she whispered, her fingers wringing on her hiked-up knees. “That’s not how I pictured becoming a mother.”

“You don’t have to be by yourself,” I assured her, and her face came to me. “I will go in with you.”

“You will?” Her eyes toured the planes of my face. “Why would you elect yourself for such an onerous task?”

“There is nothing onerous about supporting you.” Then, watching Nate leave the room, sickly pale and overcome with emotions, I grasped Alexa’s shoulder, brought her to my side, and kissed her temple. “Do you think Nate is the father?”

“Well done,” the midwife praised behind us. “Nice deep breath and one big push.”

Alexa made an unsure face.

“You are hurting me!” Blaire yelled at the midwives, her feet kicking the footboard, her spine anchoring off the soaked mattress. “Get your hands off me! I don’t want you touching me!”

“That woman is nothing short of evil.” Alexa peered over my head to see if the baby was close to making an appearance. “Oh, God.” Her thighs slammed together. “I can see the head.”

I chuckled, raw and throaty. “You really are a glutton for punishment.”

“If I survive labour,” she said sternly, not that I believed her, “I am never having sex again.”

It would be thirteen minutes later when the wondrous cries of a newborn baby transitioned to our world.

Blaire’s hoarse screams and idle threats could not overshadow the veracity of genetic structure, the pigmentation of the baby’s light brown skin, the soft black hair on his head and the faint Mongolian birthmark on his lower back.

I stood by the resuscitaire infant warmer, arms crossed rigidly over my chest, staring down at the tiny human, contemplating Nate’s future.

“His lesion is prominent but will regress over the next year. It will more than likely disappear by early childhood.” The midwife examined the baby’s skin for any rashes or dryness. “Do we have a name?”

Nate is in the doorway, chewing his thumbnail. His worried gaze met mine, searching for an opinion. But I had nothing comforting or reassuring to say.

“Can I see him?” Blaire’s one hand is cuffed to the headboard. “Please, let me see him, let me hold him.”

Assessing the baby, I mentally inscribed the facial similarities between him and Nate and bellied disappointment. For peace of mind and pinpoint accuracy, I held my hand out, and thepotentialfather-to-be curled his fingers around the two DNA test tubes.

“Brad.” Blaire sat upright in a bath of sweat and blood, keeping a towel between her slackened thighs, where blood and gore bespattered the once crisp white bed sheets. “He is my son.Mine. I want to see him.”

Nate snapped on a pair of sterile gloves, uncapped one test tube and swabbed the inside of his cheek for twenty seconds. Once he’d sealed the sample, he unscrewed the second tube and grabbed the baby’s face. With the gentleness of a harmless giant, he slipped the swab into the boy’s mouth, gathered saliva and epithelial cells, secured the sample and excused himself from the room. He will drive straight to the laboratory for analysis. Only then, with confirmation that he is the biological father, will he accept responsibility.

“Where is Nate going?” Blaire asked whilst the quietest midwife extracted the placenta, dropping it into a metal bucket of blood clots, bloodied rags and discarded medical equipment. “Why is no one answering me? Why did he leave?”

“You can go to the kitchen,” I said to the team of midwives. “Make yourselves tea or coffee and recuperate.”

Two out of three midwives exited the room, whilst the oldest midwife wrapped the baby in warm blankets. “Let the mother shower and change so I can come back and extract milk for the baby.” Gingerly, she transferred the boy into my arms. “I won’t be too long.”

“No, don’t leave me here.” Blaire’s legs wobbled as she stood to follow the midwife, but the handcuff limited her movements. “I will not shower. I will not do anything you ask of me unless you hand over the baby.”

Alexa gestured to the baby. “Give him to me.”

“No.” Blaire’s body trembled with fury. “Get away from my son. I do not want that disgusting cunt anywhere near him.”

I put the baby in Alexa’s loving arms.

“No!” Blaire snarled, spittle trickling down her chin. “Get that ugly fucking bitch away from my son!”

Alexa strolled to the door.

“Please,” Blaire whimpered, her strained voice stopping Alexa. “Please, just let me hold him. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

“I will walk away and never look back,” Alexa said without turning. “You will never see this little boy.”

“Please, I beg you.” With one hand shackled to the headboard, Blaire slumped to the floor, her knees digging into the carpet, her face buried in the sullied mattress. “Give me back my baby.”

“Address the city of London,” Alexa retorted, and slowly, with sweat-slicked bangs framing her face, Blaire lifted her piercing eyes. “Admit fault. Take responsibility.” Turning on her heel with the baby held to her chest protectively, she made small, unhurried steps toward the bed until she stood over the woman, collapsed in a devastated heap on the floor. “Clear Liam’s name.”

Blaire stared, long and hard, and then laughed wickedly. “I will not.”

“Then, I will show your son the same mercy you showed my husband.” Alexa looked the woman up and down. “See you in Hell,Jessica.”

“You wouldn’t do anything to him.” Blaire staggered to her feet, blood trickling between her thighs. “Where are you going?”

Alexa’s feet dragged over the threshold, and then she was gone.

“No.” Blaire’s worried tone slithered into the halls. “Brad, what is she doing? Tell her to come back with him! He is innocent!”

“For once in your fucking life, do the right thing,” I fired back, squaring up to her, and she recoiled, her lower body crashing into the bedside table. “If you want to keep the baby out of harm’s way, tell the world what you did-and do so believingly, or stand back and watch as your firstborn is sacrificed for your sins.”

She spat on my leather shoe. “Fuck you.”

“Yeah?” Innately furious, I snatched her by the throat, and a small, pitiful whimper escaped her lips. “Well, would you look at that?” Fingers sinking into the tender flesh of her neck, I thrust her body into the bedside table, knocking random objects onto the floor, the wall taking the brunt of her head. “It’s just you and me now. And Blaire, I have waited a long time for this moment.”

“Brad…” Her free hand, fingernails begrimed with dry blood, clutched my wrist. “I can’t breathe…”

“And I don’t care,” I whispered in her ear as a sadistic smile curled my lips. “You have left me with no other choice.”

“Get off me!” She squealed, kicking and wiggling.

“No, I quite like this scenario.” Removing the switchblade from my trouser pocket, I clicked open the sharp knife. “This tongue got you in a lot of trouble.” Teasing the column of her neck with the sharpest point, I traced the lines of her parted lips. “I think it needs to come out.”

“I’ll do it,” she blurted out, and I paused with the knife on the tip of her tongue. “I will tell the world the truth.” Her breaths came in short, hot pants. “I will clear his name.”

Our eyes locked, whiskey to hazel, as I hunted for a trace of deceit or trickery in her soulless depths. Then I saw it, something far more satisfying, the flicker of desperation, the fear of what could happen to her son if she did not acquiesce.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Impulsively, I pinned her hand to the wall and, in unforgiving indignation, speared the knife into the hollow flesh of her palm.

Blaire screeched, jaw slackening in agony, as tears of pain and misery ricochetted throughout. Her fingers flexed, rivulets of blood descending her forearm.

“I am not fucking about.” Ripping the knife out of her hand, I wiped the blood-dripping blade across her chapped lips, smearing an artistic palette of crimson on her pale cheek. “Enjoy your last night of freedom.” I winked at her. “You will die tomorrow.”

“My son…” Her lips trembled, but she spoke with strength. “Spare my son.”

“That decision is out of my hand,” I lied with blissful pleasure. “Looks like you need to get on Mrs Warren’s good side.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Bleu

Impenetrable hazy grey fog and atmospheric droplets of condensation enshrouded the dark woodland forest, where nocturnal birds, aflutter in the distance, hooted predatorily, and shrubs, laden with hoar frost, rustled as omnivorous mammals foraged the wilted vegetation in pursuit of edible plants or, by chance, wild rabbits. A long-tailed red fox, with pointy, upright ears and a sharp, upturned snout, sat on the leaf-strewn floor. Her attentive eyes, with an intense, super reflective green glow, followed the cigarette’s ribbon of smoke whilst her cubs rolled playfully in the mud.

I breathed through my teeth, whistling a tune of contemplative ominousness.

The fox’s ears twitched to the unfamiliar sound. Her startled cubs, hesitant yet fearful, dispersed into the cold night. Then, just as frightened, submissive, on agile feet, the mother fox vanished, leaving me in the profundity of melancholic desolation.

My lips pinched the cigarette butt, taking a long drag.

A full moon graced the night sky, wondrously bright and silently impassive, bereft of judgement and divulgence. Its tireless energy shone faint light on the walkway to perpetration, tempting the voice in my head to finish what she started.

Exhaling smoke through my nostrils, I tossed the cancer stick on the floor in a pothole of rainwater, rounded the vehicle and unlocked the boot.

“I am worried about you.” Lynette, quick on her feet, closed the car boot with an aggressive slam. “You should have never dragged me into this mess. What if we get caught? Do you want to spend the rest of your life in prison? An asylum? I certainly do not. I am not mentally equipped to survive isolation. Neither are you.”

I studied Lynette with prolonged intenseness. Her beauty, albeit maturely aged and imperceptibly wizened, is rare and unprecedented. She is the most graceful and exquisite female I have ever met. I almost envied her proportioned slenderness and attractive tallness. Her crystal blue eyes, short, ash-blonde hair, heart-shaped lips and prominent cheekbones accentuated prettiness. Honest, patient, kind, forgiving, compassionate and sagacious is a fair characterisation: a white blouse, denim jeans, ankle boots and boring accessories.

In the beginning, I did not like Lynette. I had wanted to be alone to wallow about the patheticness that is my life when this middle-aged woman, vivacious and full of life, out of nowhere, slipped onto the padded bar stool next to mine and ordered a gin and tonic. Then, as if her attendance had not irritated me nearly enough, she talked to me,acknowledgedme, and asked questions of trivial importance: thoughts on the pub’s not-so-posh grub, the live, energetic show and the collection of memorabilia.

I did respond, having discerned she’d never leave without an answer. I hated rock music with a passion. It is not musical or harmonious; it is too loud, too repetitive, too jarring and downright meaningless. I loathed wall-mounted collectables like something chronic. It is not impressive nor interesting; it is cheap, tacky, old-fashioned and utterly valueless.

Lynette laughed, which is not what I was going for, and then she ordered a round of tequila shots and a basket of seasoned fries for us to share.

We got irresponsibly drunk, squandered money on alcohol and greasy food, danced the night away, found each other male company, and parted ways as unlikely friends. I considered her once that night, much later, when sipping sweet tea in the rocking chair on the rustic veranda of some random guy’s colonial-style house (He was nice, fun in the sheets, but sadly, less-endowed. His dexterous hands and expert mouth counterbalanced penile averageness, though). Then, I pushed the entire night and all its attendees, including the random woman, to the furthest region of my mind and forgot about them.

They never existed.

Farewell.

I went on to vacillate between Elijah Smith and Brad Jones for another day. It is an all-important decision, choosing the right guy. Both men are equally consequential matters, and, as shocking as it may seem, I am not about the monogamy lifestyle-too territorial, perhaps. I had to walk down the right lane to secure my future. The stakes are high for everyone involved. I am not at risk, but one of them will get hurt, which is the opposite of what I wanted.

Elijah is a good person, handsome, stylish, educated and smart. He is funny, thoughtful, respectful and charitable. He opened the door to his home and put a roof over my head when I required support and guidance.

Brad is a more complex individual but not less incredible. His brooding handsomeness is unmatched, unrivalled by any other competitor, and his flirtatious charm kept women on their toes. He outclassed the pedagogies of male fashion. He is wealthy, successful, influential, powerful and reliable rolled into one. I would be crazy to turn him down.

But then, I would be equivalently insane for turning my back on the gorgeous, high-paid doctor.

I never thought I’d see Lynette again, but one week later, when at the same bar, gazing into an empty glass, depressed and pessimistic, I hearkened to the overfamiliar tone of vivaciousness. There, sitting in a tattered booth near the stage of performers, is the forgotten drinking buddy I had met prior, and she is smiling, waving for me to come over, gesturing to the table of potential hook-ups, inexhaustible alcohol pitchers and guaranteed a good night on the town.

We have been inseparable ever since, which is annoying because I do not like people very much, specifically females, as they tend to project internalised misandry, but she is impossible to shake, a thorn in my side, a pebble in my shoe, a source of trouble-andseeminglydelusional.

“Are you serious?” I asked, and her sunken cheeks blanched. “I did not drag you anywhere. This wasyouridea, and now you have second thoughts. Well, it’s too late. What’s done cannot beundone.”

“Oh, bugger.” Her warm breath expelled a cloud of mist. “I am a bad influence on you.”

I smiled flatly.

“But I was intoxicated.” She is breathing rapidly, shaking cobwebs from her head. “I don’t remember anything from last night, never mind concocting an insidious plan to make problems disappear.”

“Right,” I said, sharp and short. “Yet, here we are, in the middle of nowhere, finalising theinsidious plan to make problems disappear. So, you can either help me complete the assignment or leave me to pick up the pieces of your insanity. Regardless of remorsefulness, I have to dispose of the aftermath.”

“How can you be so calm?” she whisper-shouted with a look of pure trepidation. “I will never enjoy a night’s sleep after what we did.” Her white blouse, flecked with dry blood, hung loosely on her shoulders. “After whatyoudid.”

I ignored her sour remark. “I will repeat. It wasyouridea.”

“I didn’t think you’dactuallygo through with it,” she whined, and I had the urge to drive away and leave her by the dirt path. “Lord, what are we going to do?” Her round eyes, imbued with dews of regret, inspected the outskirts of the forest. “I am frightened. It is not safe out here for two women.”

I visited the forest often and mostly at night. “I like it here,” I said, unlocking the boot of the car. “Normal people steer clear of the rugged terrain and unsafe cliff edges, so it’s peaceful and devoid of observation.”

“This entire crusade to weed out the problem is cataclysmically awful.” She gave me the death stare, hands on her hips, elbows turned outwards, as her foot tapped the floor. “And where did you get the car? I know it does not belong to you.”

“I borrowed it from Elijah.” My eyes dropped into the vehicle’s main storage compartment. I had exiguous materials, scarce tools and cleaning equipment, but I suppose the trenchant knife, long handle shovel and blood-stained bed linen will have to do. “I should have packed rope.”

“Rope?” Her open-mouthed face is a conveyance of incredulous disbelief. “Indulge me for a moment, as I am fascinated. What, pray tell, is the purpose of rope?”

“To facilitate the process of transporting impedimenta,” I replied, and she slapped a hand over her mouth. “Okay. Now you’re just being dramatic. Are you going to stand around and do nothing all night, or are you going to grab a shovel and be more productive?”

“Bleu…” She paced nervously. “There will be negative consequences as a result. It is never too late to right a wrong of our mistake. Let’s go to the police station, apologise for what we did and plead insanity.”

From that moment, I started to question her motives. “I will not hand myself in. You know my situation, so how can you ask that of me?”

Her pale, fine-boned face did nothing to dispel the sudden mistrust I felt.

“Fine.” My subdued voice quivered as I relocked the car boot. “You are right. I will behave appropriately and admit fault. Maybe The Crown Prosecution Service will be sympathetic, acknowledge existing barriers and take mercy on us.”

“Wait.” Her arm shot out before I walked past. “Now I feel guilty.”

As she should. “It’s okay. I understand.”

“It is not okay,” she punctuated each syllable. “You were right. I concocted this ridiculous plan. You should not have to suffer for being ill-advised.”

I strongly agreed.

“Let’s get this done before I change my mind.” Swiping the car key out of my hand, she unlocked the boot and grabbed a shovel, the sharp-edged blade dragging along the leafy floor as she skirted the perimeters. “In all seriousness, it might be late, but anyone could be out there, jogging or walking their dogs. What happens if they catch us in the act?”

“No one is getting caught.” I stuffed a knife into the back pocket of my jeans. “If I carry the weight of his upper body, can you help with his legs?”

“If I must.” She chewed her bottom lip. “But what about her?”

I glanced at the disjointed dead woman in the boot, her body haphazardly wrapped in bloodied sheets and torn bin liners. “We can come back for her once he is dead and buried.”

***

I did not lay flowers in the garden of remembrance as winter’s inexorable frostiness destroyed the sea of bluebells and sprigs of wild thyme I had once utilised to honour Mr Murphy’s burial ground. In lieu of inadequately expressed sorrow, I raked frozen leaves, frigid twigs and loose soil across the rime-covered rock formation until nature’s rejected elements blanketed the unmarked graves of sacrificed souls.

Lynette had little to say when I drove to Hamlets Way. I pulled up outside the high-rise block of flats, a walk away from Mile End Station and directly opposite Tower Hamlets Cemetery Park Nature Reserve, one of London’s Magnificent Seven cemeteries.

“I could never live here.” I pointed at the acres of flat graves and granite headstones. “That is an environmental hoard of airborne contaminants. Bacterial pathogens are a thing, by the way. Imagine all the infections and diseases-”

“Oh, shut up,” she berated, and the unexpected harshness had my heart plunging to my feet. “How can you be so insensitive? So detached from the real world! You sit there, calm and composed, talking about an inconceivable contamination risk, when, to cut a long story short, we just killed twoinnocentpeople-and buried them next to your beloved father,” she enunciated each word through gritted teeth during the final part of her red-faced rant. “Look at your hands.”

I had blood on my hands.

“And your hoodie.” She yanked on my sleeve. “Look at it, Bleu.”

Looking is not necessary.

I knew I had blood on my clothes, too.

“Your face is covered in mud.” Unhooking the seatbelt, she kicked the passenger side door open. “And you have dry leaves in your hair. You might want to clean yourself up before driving to Elijah’s house. He will call the police if you rock up like a bloody killer.”

The car door slammed.

Lynette stormed down the footpath.

Jamming the car into reverse with infuriated stiffness, I steered backwards, did an aggressive U-Turn in the middle of the street and floored the accelerator. I bet Lynette loitered in the foyer to watch through the window as I peeled away.

“I had no other choice,” I whispered to myself, the steering wheel threading through my hands. “I had to protect myself.”

I made an obligatory pit stop at the local supermarket: new clothes, facial wipes, bargain-priced cosmetics and hair products.

It was six o’clock in the morning when I parked on a random street to check into a nearby bed-and-breakfast. I snatched the carrier bag from the backseat, shouldered the driver’s side door and stepped onto the pavement. I suppose the insalubrious hotel with standard three-star accommodation will suffice.

It cost seventy-five pounds to rent a room, and grudgingly, I paid on Elijah’s credit card, swiped the electronic room key out of the receptionist’s hand and climbed the stairs to the top floor.

In the en-suite, complete with over-dried towels and complimentary toiletries, I stripped down to my underwear, emptied supplies into the sink and shoved my hands into disposable gloves.

I detached two bin liners, tied one around my shoulders (the spare bin can store belongings and rubbish), applied a thin coat of petroleum jelly to my hairline and combined the dye and the developer.

Shaking the applicator vigorously, I squeezed colourant onto my hair in messy sections, fingers combing through the ends, and showered fifty minutes later.

I had imagined myself as a natural brunette when selecting the hair dye, but I resembled Pretty In Pink’s Molly Ringwald. Well, I had the same red hair, not the cardigan power or the six inches of locks. At the very least, I am left with armpit-length tresses.

Everything went into a knotted black bag: empty boxes, half-used make-up and price tags.

In seamless activewear, I pulled the rim of the ball cap over my eyes and exited the hotel as quickly as I had entered.

I dumped any trace of evidence into the communal bin outside, sparked a pre-rolled blunt and fell into the driver’s seat of Elijah’s car. He hated the smell of weed and complained when I smoked it, but I will be sure to spray air freshener inside the vehicle before he goes to work later.

“To Be Free” by Emiliana Torrini played on the car radio. Music is part of my soul. I listened to it when elated, incensed, miserable or worried. I often needed lyrics to cope with challenging situations or endure hard days. But mostly, I loved to sing until people heard me.

I drove toward Elijah’s house, thinking of how to explain last night’s absence, when something-or should I say, someone-froze me in my tracks. The automatically operated coloured traffic lights could flash amber or green, and the vehicle would stay neutral whilst I, the stationary driver, spied on the identifiable face of an early morning jogger.

Emma Hughes.

Lowering the music volume, I pressed down on the accelerator and tailgated the woman as she ran away from her problems-or is she running toward something? Her cushioned feet hit the pavement. Her arms, paralysed at her sides, shortened her stride but improved momentum. Determination is what pushed her forward. Longing and hunger.

She collided with another jogger, and the pair spun around to face each other simultaneously, with apologetic smiles and knowing expressions. He is stoically attractive: tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, lean but muscular. And he is not in a rush to leave. He wiped the sweat off his brow, introduced himself with a firm handshake and primed himself for a friendly conversation.

Swerving into the nearest parking space, I adjusted the rear-view mirror and watched their interaction with the vehemence of a very protective woman. I had no claim to Mr Jones, but that did not stop me from growing restless on his behalf. How can she toy with this guy’s emotions when she had a perfect man at home? I wanted to swing the car door open and rebuke her.

I blow out a veil of marijuana-infused smoke.

Emma frowned at him with a subtle shake of the head.

I’d have given anything to hear what he said to her.

The man whacked a hand on his chest.

And her head shook more unrestrainedly.

He gave her a two-finger salute and jogged on.

She sprinted in the opposite direction.

Yes, I am guilty of following her attentively, with sweaty hands glued to the steering wheel, until she slowed down to buy something inside the corner store.

When she reappeared, juggling a phone, purse, debit card, set of keys and sugary purchases, I lowered in the seat and trailed her movements to the bus stop. I had to shadow the damn bus for nearly an hour pending disembarkment.

The oblivious woman led me to an apartment complex. I parked between two cars across the street and, with unobtrusive steps, skulked into the building.

Emma’s slow, sluggish footsteps echoed as she clambered the stairs.

Holding onto the guardrail, I climbed each concrete block with unrushed keenness.

One level below, my ears perked to hear the front door close behind her, and then I scurried to thewelcome matto see if, by some miracle, she’d left a spare key.

Too trusting, I thought as my clenched fist tightened around the passage to her livelihood, the key’s segregated edge cutting into the palm of my hand.

Getting out of there as fast as my legs carried me, I mulled overpossibilitieson the journey to Elijah’s house. When Emma left for another jog or set off to work, I had every intention of returning, but I had no clue what I might uncover. All I know is I could not pass up on such a great opportunity.

Thrilled to return the car in one piece, I glanced at the driveway and, to my disappointment, descried the recently purchased Mini Cooper, which belonged to Mrs Gill. I know, for a fact, the two of them are in the kitchen fucking each other’s brains out whilst the roommate is “asleep” upstairs. It’s what they do when I am out of the picture, steal passionate moments together. You’d never think she had a husband or that the doctor crawled into my bed in-between their secret meetings.

Let’s see how this turns out.

As predicted, Elijah and Celeste, half-naked and shamelessly raunchy, fucked against the kitchen counter.

I could not look away.

There is something very erotic and highly arousing about someone else’s pleasure. The heels of Celeste’s feet dug into the back of Elijah’s thighs as she held on for the ride. He gripped her thrusting derrière with painstaking hands, his hips pounding roughly between her slackened thighs. Sweat dripped down his back, where her orange-painted fingernails clawed at cords of muscle-and shit, I wanted to trade places. I know how it feels to have the man’s glorious cock buried inside me.

I cleared my throat.

Suddenly, they ripped away from each other like a couple of naughty teenagers. Elijah tripped over the jogging bottoms gathered at his ankles, whereas Celeste got her feet caught in frilly knickers, but ultimately, both of them fell in awkward positions on the floor.

“Calm down.” Biting back the desire to laugh at the frenetic display, I watched them crawl, scamper and curse, picking up clothes and the fragments of a torn condom wrapper. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Elijah held a T-shirt over his manhood, tearing off the condom in privacy. With a painful-sounding snap, he hurled it in the bin. “You have no shame.”

“I have no shame?” I repeated in bewilderment. “I am not the one sneaking off to have sex in the kitchen every morning-and near the bread bin. I hope you both clean those counters. I butter toast on that chopping board.”

“Be quiet.” Celeste thrust her arms into the sleeves of a bright orange blazer whilst her feet wiggled into three-inch heels. “You could have stayed in your room until we finished.”

I scoffed. “I am not a child.”

“As a common courtesy.” She buttoned up her silk blouse, whipping locks of hair out of her face. “You decided to embarrass us as an alternative. Mission accomplished. I am positively mortified.”

“Oh, get over yourself.” By the kitchen table, I plonked onto the wooden chair. “You will not get an apology out of me.”

“Elijah…” Celeste is too angry to formulate a sentence. “You know what? Just forget it. I will call you later.” Her heeled feet stomped into the living room toward the exit. “Always a pleasure, Miss Murphy.”

Accustomed to her sarcasm, I ransacked the fruit bowl and popped a red grape in my mouth. “Celeste is mega pissed,” I told him as the front door crashed on its hinges. “You might want to send her flowers later.” The man chose muteness, so my gaze flickered to him. “What?” He is piqued, judging by the red-stained cheeks and hardened jawline, but something about the way he looked at me sent anxieties into a great disturbance. “Am I not allowed to eat the grapes?”

“Your hair.” His hands sat on his hips. “You are not blonde anymore.”

“I know.” I leaned back in the chair and crossed one leg over the opposite knee. “Do you like it?” My face heated when he never replied. “You are rude, by the way. You continue to sleep with a married woman. Yet, I am in the bedroom next door. Do I repulse you? Do you regret me afterwards? Help me to understand.”

“Celeste and I were involved before you came along,” Elijah said for the umpteenth time this month. “You were never supposed to happen. You know this because I stress it.” He became seated on the other chair. “You do not repulse me. I think you are beautiful, but I am not interested in anything serious.”

My tongue clicked. “You fucked me two days ago.”

“Because you fucking throw yourself at me,” he snapped, and I cringed. “Shit, Bleu. I am sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. It’s just you don’t really take no for an answer. I pull away with good intentions, and you…” He scrubbed a hand up and down his face. “You make it extremely difficult to walk away sometimes.”

“You’d rather be a yes-man to some stuck-up wench? Married women do not leave their husbands for their paramours. You are merely someone to pass the time with-someone to scratch an itch whilst her partner is out of town. Have some respect for yourself.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” he fired back, and after fifteen seconds of icy glares, I had to break eye contact. “You climb into my bed every other day, even when I have asked you not to, to get what you want.”

“Yet, he still throws me down and fucks me like I am hisfavouritewhore,” I muttered under my breath. “I am always second best.”

His shoulders tensed.

“To every guy I have ever met,” I whispered as a series of upsetting flash cards flickered in my head. “There is always another woman to take my place.”

“Bleu…” He reached for my hand, and I snatched it away. “Look, I don’t want to upset you. I care about you. I really do.”

“Prove it,” I challenged, and his eyes narrowed. “Kick Celeste to the curb and chooseme. Letmebe the first choice.”

Elijah’s eyes closed with a strangled curse.

I died a bit more inside.

“Can we slow down for one second?” he asked, but I was already darting out of the kitchen and headed to the bedroom upstairs. “Why do you run away in the middle of arguments?” He chased behind me. “How can anything be resolved when you behave like a child?”

I shut the bedroom door in his face and locked it.

“Bleu?” He knocked on the door with an urgent fist. “You are being ridiculous. Open the door and come back downstairs for us to sort this out.”

“I will not.”

“You behave irrationally.”

“And you are a hurtful jackass.”

“Bleu…” He heaved out a breath. “Open the door for me. I won’t be able to concentrate at work tonight if I have this dark cloud hanging over my head.”

“I want to be alone.” Landing on the single bed, I stretched across the mattress, holding the fluffy throw blanket to my chest. “Please, Elijah.” My face was afire, too hot to touch. “I am embarrassed enough.”

The floorboard creaked as he pondered whether to stay or go and then the shadow beneath the door retreated slowly.

I heard the front door slam seconds later.

My heart felt lighter. “You just made the decision easier for me.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Brad

Overgrown hedges clipped the Bentley’s exterior as I swerved onto the grassy knoll next to the dilapidated timber chapel. Nate mentioned renovations during the last visit, but the corroded crucifix and stained-glass windows were still in mother nature’s destruction of vegetation. I suppose contractors were the last thing on his mind. He had to prioritise the outcome of his crazy ex-girlfriend and the livelihood of his potential son.

Yanking on a grey beanie hat, I tucked flyaway hair underneath the woollen brim and stepped onto muddy cobbles. A torch came in handy for the late-night stroll. Listening to the rustle of woodland, I pointed illumination at overgrown shrubs and deciduous trees and wondered if the new boneyard was easily accessible. I hadn’t had the pleasure of venturing that far yet.

My hand drummed on the enclosed space at the back of the car. “Are you still alive?”

Blaire whimpered an almost inaudible sob.

“Let’s go for a walk.” Unlocking the car boot, I splashed light inside, right in the wide-eyed woman’s face, and yanked her into the present by the full-body harness. “Mind your step.”

“I hate you.” Her bare feet slipped in the mud, fighting for the perfect posture, to not fall face-first in the dirt, where she belonged. “You rip me out of bed in the middle of the night and expect compliance.”

“I expect nothing from you.” With a steady, prolonged stare, I took in her bedraggled appearance. A fluffy dressing gown hung limply on her shoulders. Satin pyjamas with lace trim, too big for a woman of her size, buried her slender frame. Dirty, unwashed hair dangled in scraggly tresses. “Of course, I would love to say otherwise, but you are persistently undependable. So,” I grabbed her elbow, leading her toward the spooky-most likely haunted-chapel, “I have a better idea.”

“Oh, yeah?” Her footsteps stumbled as I forced her to move along, her outstretched arms flapping to balance long strides. “You can forget about the video. I refuse to do it-and you can thank Alexa for that. If only she’d have stayed away from me. I might have made better decisions.”

“See, this is why I dislike you so much. You are sly and manipulative. You play mind games to get what you want.” Stopping shy of the chapel, I fished out the spare key to unlock the door. “Well, I am smarter, Blaire. And two steps ahead of you. Pleading with you is pointless. You will never do the video to clear the boss’s name. His tarnished reputation is the only means of leverage you have.” My hands landed on her stiff, bony shoulders with necessary exertion. “We could argue that the baby is enough to get those lips moving, protect his future and whatnot, but let’s cut to the chase. You only care about yourself. You are not interested in the kid’s health, happiness or fortune. It’s all about you, what you want, what you need, and what you can get out of the situation. The burden of anger, jealousy and bitterness outweighs cognitive rationality. Even now, after everything you have done, you cannot admit failing or culpability. It’s everyone else’s fault.”

“I never mentionedotherpeople. I blamed Alexa only,” she snarled in disgust because, apparently, Alexa is the reason behind Warren’s incarceration, not the crazy bitch spitting vitriol. “Everything was fine until she came back. I wish she’d have died the night Flamur’s men snatched her off the street.” Her cold, unempathetic face left a bad taste in my mouth. “What does she have that I do not?”

“A personality.” Entering the chapel’s unspacious foyer, I covered my nose to smother the stench of death. “A heart and a pretty face, to name a few.”

“How did she earn his love?” She dodged the cracked, lichen-covered floor tiles. “I resemble her, the same eyes, the same hair and the same smile. We both equally suffered in captivity. Yet, he looked at me as though I repulsed him. I never quite understood.”

“Well, you are repulsive, so who can hardly blame him?” I flashed the torch in her face, blinding her vision, and she winced, hiding behind one gangly arm. “Why are you so obsessed with Warren? He was cold, hurtful and unkind.Disinterested. He never gave you false hope or made any promises. Your devotion toward the man is incomprehensible. He tolerated you at the beginning and overlooked you at the end. Purely for Nate’s benefit. If it were not for your bondsman, he’d have killed you on his wedding night. Get it into your thick skull. Heneverwanted you.”

A mile passed as she considered a reasonable response.

“What’s more confusing is the trial,” I picked up where I left off. “You sent an innocent man to prison to make waves in his marriage, to create a wedge between him and his wife. Can you not see the insanity here? You will let him die in prison out of spite. Why? Because you are one angry, jealous, bitter woman. Envy reared its ugly head. You passively waited for an opportunity to destroy what you could not have because anything is better than looking at yourself in the mirror and admitting defeat. Well, kudos to you. You divided and conquered. Warren is in the slammer. Alexa is alone and depressed. Bravo. Congratulations. Take a bow.” My forehead lowered to hers as I leaned in to stare her down. “Live it up whilst you can. Your arse is mine tonight.”

An intrusive fearlessness suffused her sliced eyes. “You should be on my side,” she said, as delusional as ever. “We understand each other. We both know how it feels to be second best.”

I am everyone’s first choice. “I am immune to psychological tactics.”

She gave me an arrogant look of contempt. “You live in Warren’s shadow.”

Ah, the aggressor’s manipulativeness failed, so she changed direction. Let’s disempower and demoralise instead. I am almost impressed. “I could say the same to you about Alexa.”

“Marvellous.” She clapped her hands with a toothy smile. “Then, you see my point.”

“I have never heard foolishness quite like it.”

“Don’t you see it?” Her grimacing face demanded eye contact. “If it were not for Warren, you would have a fighting chance at being with Alexa.”

My smug expression vanished sharply.

A fighting chance at being with Alexa? What is this woman smoking? I do not want to be with the boss’s wife in any shape or form. I would never risk losing Alexa’s friendship, irrespective of how loyal I am to Warren. I valued her. I cherished our moments together. I loved the little vixen like a sister.

“And, if it were not for her, I would be the apple of his eye.” Her face was an impassive mask. “Their marriage is odd, senselessly mismatched. I am not the only one to think so. The brothers talked openly behind closed doors. To put it bluntly, none of them approved of her.”

“Firstly, I do not look at Alexa romantically. We respect each other, regardless of everyone else’s views. Secondly, Warren would never choose you, even if there were no Alexa. You do not meet standards. Thirdly, if the brothers talk shit in secret, that’s their prerogative. But if I catch them in the act? I will happily snitch to Bossman the second he is unshackled-right after I rip out their tongues,” I purred the last part to get under her skin. “Glossectomy will be the least of their worries, though. He will dismantle their heads.” My dimples flashed gloatingly. “Perhaps that’s in store for you.”

Her hand flew to her throat. “You would decapitate?”

“I have an entire catalogue of capital punishment methods; however, the practice of tongue mutilation is one of many favourites. I believe, for compulsive liars, it is rather fitting.” Inside the main room of the odoriferous chapel, I effaced dust on the rectangular wooden pulpit. “Nate’s new business venture. Personally, I think it’s quite morbid, but each to their own.”

“Why?” Her nose crinkled in disapproval as she eyed the damaged pews, peeled wallpaper and antique pipe organ. “Has he found God?”

“No, he found common sense.” Owning a crematorium had never occurred to the syndicate. Hurling bodies in the Thames or random plots worked until everyone got too comfortable. When you get away with murder, quite literally, for such a long period of time, the purification of clues and evidence is an afterthought. You develop new traits: complacency, laziness, carelessness and imprudence. You become one of those “It will never happen to me” people when, in reality,it can happen to anyone.It is a sobering truth. Warren got locked up because the carelessness among men and loved ones precipitated a series of blameless crimes. Thus, the crematorium. Now, we burn bodies and evidence to evade the judgment and command of a lawful court. “Do you like toasted marshmallows?”

Blaire stood frozen between crumbling pews with slack-jawed dumbfoundedness.

“I have never tried one myself.” At least, not to my knowledge. “I should have bought a packet or two. We could have made s’mores around the incinerator.” My fingers clicked before I signalled to the side door. “Shall we proceed?”

The reluctant woman only followed because she had no other choice. I unlocked the church-style door, which opened straight into the dark, frigid night, where fog crawled around our feet and shadows clambered trees. I stopped by the old shed, disengaged the heavy-duty lock sheathed in gossamer and selected a rusty-looking shovel.

“What will you do?” Blaire, paler than she was five minutes ago, studied the steel taper shover. “Hit me over the head with it.”

“Oh, that’s cute. Even for you.” I thrust the tool into her hands. “I am to find a prime rock to park my arse upon. You, however, will dig a nice, warm grave for yourself. If you want my advice, pick the spooky specimen.” I meant the blossomless tree with gnarled branches. It is the ghastly centrepiece of unmarked graves. “Don’t mind those.” Her eyes flickered over mounds of upturned soil. “Italian stock.”

Her fingers tightened on the shovel’s handle. “You want me to bury myself next to a bunch of dead Italian men.”

“It’s either buried alive or burnt alive.” Not that I had the time nor patience to execute the assignment. I had bigger fish to fry. Her death is non-negotiable, though. She had to go-tonight. “I am not fussy.”

“Fine.” She feigned submissiveness. “I will dig a hole for myself.”

“Go ahead.” Rolling a well-needed blunt, I sat on a moss-covered boulder. “I will be right here, waiting for you to try and run.” Licking the well-packed rizla seam, I placed the Glock on my thigh, a warning in my eyes. “Just know I will shoot you the second you down tools.”

She vociferated angrily. “I only gave birth yesterday!”

“You say that like I give a fuck.”

Blaire shovelled her way into the earth with the idleness of an old lady whilst my mind adjusted to the blunt’s mind-numbing compounds. In thirty minutes, she had made no progress, with barely a heap of topsoil on the grass. It was comical to watch her suffer in silence.

Marijuana bestowed euphoria. In a relaxed state, I stretched out on the boulder, arms folded at my chest, legs crossed at the ankles, and gazed into the star-lit sky, the moon faint behind transparent clouds. “Are you familiar with the classical writer Aesop?”

Blaire mopped sweat from her forehead. “No.”

“Legend has it that he was a Greek fabulist and slave who earned freedom through storytelling. Anthropomorphic bedtime stories creatively centre around moralisation.” Reaching into the inner pocket of my suit jacket, I brandished the frayed book I found at the local library. “Fables are humorous yet impactful tales about right and wrong, highlighting personal characteristics, good or bad, advantageous or unadventurous, to teach a life lesson.”

“I understand fables.” She picked dirt out of her fingernails. “They are designed to help and engage with children, but children do not learn anything from stories subsumed in parallel universes and overlapping fantasies as they are too distracted by mystical illusions.”

My brow raised. “Pessimist.”

“I am a realist.” Her tear-stained cheeks and rubicund visage morphed into unshakable determination. “I cannot be swayed by idealism.”

“Interesting,” I said whispery, our eyes holding from across the boneyard. “You believe fables do more damage than good.”

Her shovelling continued. “I believe independent people do what’s necessary regardless of didactic lectures.”

“Independent?” My tone was crisply sarcastic. “How about selfish, vindictive, inconsiderate, opportunistic people who trample over others to get what they want, notwithstanding moral standards? You wouldn’t happen to know someone like that, would you?”

“We have established that you do not like me.” Pressing the shovel into the ground, she dug up mud, soil and rocks and tossed rubble aside in a sweaty strop. “If we could get on with it, I’d be eternally grateful.”

“I have one for you.” Licking my thumb, I swiped through stained pages until one specific title caught my eye. “The Scaremonger,” I said with a mischievous smile. “A young herdsman supervised the master’s sheep in the pastoral meadow, close to the little village and oak forest. It was an easy task, shepherding, leading the sheep to green pastures and shallow water. However, on this particular morning, the young herdsman was ineffably bored and feeling rather mischievous. He wondered if wild wolves lived in the forest and, if so, would they suddenly emerge, and if they did so happen to show themselves in the light of day, would he call for help?”

She silenced heavy breathing with closed-mouthed willpower.

“To amuse himself, the young herdsman cried wolf, alerting the master and the villagers and, as envisaged, everyone appeared, rushing to the fragrant meadow to protect the sheep. But when they finally arrived, they found the young herdsman unharmed, the flock of sheep unscathed, and shortly identified the practice of deception. The young herdsman, delighted by the successful act of trickery, decided to scare the master and the villagers once more, several days later, when he cried wolf again.”

“I know how the story ends,” she said, unable to look at me. “The master and the villagers reappeared, discovered no wolf and realised the young herdsman had lied. Infuriated by the boy’s somewhat impressive legerdemain, the people returned to the village and deemed him unfit, unreliable and untrustworthy.”

I turned the page. “Then, much later, when the sanguine glare of sunset was upon the young herdsman, he watched the sleeping sheep and espied the yellow eyes of a dew-clawed wolf. He screamed for help as the wolf, with the deft verisimilitude of a blood-thirsty predator, killed the sheep, but the master and the villagers, disbelieving the boy’s imploration, did not come to assistance.” Closing the book, I threw it into a nearby bush. “I prefer the alternate ending.”

“Right.” Her pyjamas, bespattered in sludge, grass stains and perspiration, sagged loosely at her waist. “What’s the alternate ending?”

I smiled like the unhinged killer that I am. “The wolf killed the young herdsman, too.”

She released a shaky breath.

My head cocked. “What’s the moral of the story?”

“It leaves a deep imprint on the mind.” Shivering from the icy cold, she rubbed her arms. “Liars are unrewarded.”

“Correct.” Then, flipping open a switchblade, I flirted with the pointed edge, outlining the honed weapon with the tip of my thumb. “Even when a liar tells the truth, no one believes them.”

Her nostrils flared. “I did not lie.”

“Incorrect.” Standing with the knife gripped tightly in my hand, I closed the gap between us and loomed above her, towering and intimidating. “I know what’s in accordance with reality.”

“You were not there that night in the penthouse when the boss came to my bed and took me raw. You, an absentee, have no right to defend the undefendable.” Her hands braced my chest as I squared up to her, the loose soil beneath our feet dispersing into a pool of particles. “You were not there, Brad!”

“You are right. I was not there to witness the alleged incident because it did not happen. Nate, however, slept on the sofa that night. He is a testament to the reality of sexual victimisation.” I levelled the knife with her nose. “You performed a non-consensual act of outercourse. Warren, uncharacteristically, pardoned sexual perversion. I blame misjudgement on Alexa’s absence. So that you know, I’d have asphyxiated for less. You were never, ever worthy of clemency. Christ, if it were up to me, you’d have stayed in the cottage that night. I’d have stood back and watched you burn.”

Tears falling down her cheeks, she croaked, “You never liked me.”

“Something we can agree on.”

“You never gave me a chance.”

My eyes danced wildly. “Perks of superb brilliance.”

She wiped tears away. “You are hardly praiseworthy.”

“Do not criticise. I have the ability to conclude someone’s motive accurately, and when you walked into our lives with submissive coyness and fake nervousness, I had this nagging, unpleasant feeling in my gut that something wasn’t right.” My face twisted into a scowl. “Your eyes lacked rectitude. Your heart was impure. I was bang on fucking point.”

“And now?” she wondered in a murmured lugubriousness. “When you look at me, what do you see?”

An unholy adherence to the devil. “Evil.”

Foolishly, with a sneer of detestation, she raised the shovel-as if she had a fighting chance at survival-and swung it at me. I caught the shaft mid-swing, crushed her fingers in the process, and flung her only source of retaliation across the boneyard. Then, to her ear, I whispered provokingly, “What will you do in the face of desperation?”

She laughed, short and bitter. “I have been in peril many times.”

“And you have lived to talk about them until now.” My hand snatched her throat quicker than she could blink and lifted her feet off the ground, her legs kicking, untamed, anxious and frantic. Teasing her lips with the knife’s sharpest edge, I squeezed her windpipe, depleting her oxygen supply. “A solution for unwanted nuisances.”

“Brad.” Her large, bulbous eyes pleaded with me. “Please, don’t do this to me. I can make it right. I will do the video. I will go onto a live stream and tell the truth.”

My mouth tickled the shell of her ear. “I do not believe you.” Forcing the blade through her tightly pressed lips, beyond the wall of survival, I severed the bulk of muscle until her rendered tongue slithered down her chin in raw, bloody chunks. Her eyes, watery and vacant, locked with mine. Her wrestling fingers tore at my forearms as the sickening sound of blood and saliva dribbled from the corner of her lips. “Laws of karma.” Releasing her abraded throat, I stepped back whilst her knees simultaneously collided with the ground. Her shoulders were hunched forward, her fingers grappling at the mud. “Your livelihood depended on rules of conduct.” Wiping the bloody blade on the front of my trousers, I kicked remnants of her tongue aside. “All actions have consequences.”

With gargled sobs, she reached for her mouth, where the darkest shade of red intermixed with inconsolable tears surged. Her lips, cracked and painted crimson, parted to speak, but there were no words. Her voice quite literally died on her tongue.

“You can’t argue with its effectiveness.” Folding the switchblade, I put it away, crouching with laced fingers to make us eye-level. “You will bleed to death or choke on the blood clogging up your throat.” An indistinct mumble was her imploration for mercy. “You cried wolf. Now, with thetruthin your eyes, when youreallyneed help, no one is here to save you.”

***

Blaire died approximately five minutes after the glossectomy. I smoked another blunt in the wake of her parting to ensure she never rose from the ashes. I listened for breathing, checked her pulse and examined her unresponsive pupils, and then excavated a large hole in hallowed grounds to bury her body.

I was overworked, suffice it to say, in the boneyard (which is below my pay grade) to complete the assignment. Her departure was bittersweet. I am relieved that she is gone and incapable of causing further damage to the syndicate, to Warren and to Nate, but the cause of death is nowhere near satisfying. Perhaps if life were less stressful, I’d have taken my time and tortured her from one month to the next, perpetuating her pain, misery and suffering. But life isstressful, burdensome and exhaustive without the worry of her impending demise.

I was a bag of mud and sweat as I veered between parked vehicles on the estate. In no rush to leave, I killed the engine and sat behind the steering wheel in complete silence, the house brightly lit in the background.

For too long, I studied the email on my phone (the laboratory test results) with a nauseating, dizzying mix of emotions powering through me.

Spitting out a slew of curses, I pushed the phone into my trouser pocket and soared from the Bentley. Fringed by the watchfulness of security, I gravitated toward the house, leaving muddy footprints along the driveway, and welcomed the warm, inviting surroundings of my home.

I showered first, then changed into a brand-new suit straight off the hanger with the price tags.

Alexa is asleep on the king-size bed in the master bedroom, curled onto her side, with a faux fur blanket draped over her legs. The baby was close, in eye view, dreaming peacefully in the velvet grey bassinet.

Grabbing the hand sanitiser on the bedside table, I squirted a dollop into my hands and rubbed them together, then leaned down to embrace the newborn. He groaned, his full lips pursed, as his cheek rested on my shoulder.

Holding a cotton blanket on his back, I exited the room, leaving the door open slightly, and trekked downstairs to the office. And that’s where I stayed until five o’clock in the morning, the baby in my arms, sleeping undisturbed, whilst I relaxed on the leather sofa, the fire crackling embers, an empty bottle of breast milk on the coffee table.

I heard the front door open, followed by impatient footsteps, then a rapid blur asheshot through the foyer and ran up the stairs. I know why he is here. He had to fulfil a duty, tie up loose ends and eliminate the problem.

Two minutes later, he is downstairs, in the doorway, a look of sheer puzzlement on his face. His green eyes went from me to the baby, then back to me. “Where is she?” He wore all black, including nitrile gloves, beanie hat, trench coat, chest holster and Glock. “Where is Blaire?” His worried voice echoed. “And why do you have him? I thought Alexa stepped in until the laboratory got back to us.”

My thumb whispered across the baby’s closed-up fist. “Water used to be one of my greatest fears. I would sweat and panic at the thought of drowning or being held beneath the surface.” Rising to my feet, I secured the baby’s weightless body in my arms. “And then Dominic happened.”

Nate frowned confusedly.

“Perhaps water isn’t as scary as I thought. Falling in love with a small human, the miniature version of myself, knowing that someday, he will grow up and wonder about his mother is far more terrifying. What do I tell him? I know. I was there that night. I planned to kill her.” Evoked by memories of her hopeless tears, I swallowed acidic bile. “She beat me to it, but son, I never stopped her.”

His frown held.

“I will experience true fear when faced with my son’s reproval. All I can do is hope that he will forgive me someday.” Smoothing the corner of the blanket over the baby’s cheek, I placed him into Nate’s arms. He stiffened and started protesting, but the second he heard the baby’s suppressed whimper, something possessive ignited. He held on, not too tight, just enough to protect the syndicate’s new arrival. “You won’t have that conversation with your boy,” I promised, and his eyes snapped up. “I made sure of it.”

“What?” He snivelled, breathing out stutteringly. “Brad…”

“He is your son.” My backside fell into the chair behind my desk in exhaustion. “And his mother is not your concern.”

“But I had to prove myself…” He stepped forward with furious strides, the baby sleeping on his chest. “I have to kill her. It has to be me or else Warren-”

“Fuck Warren,” I snapped, and he flinched in surprise. “Warren is not here. He doesn’t get to decide. I am Command. I made a fucking call, therightcall. You came here this morning with the intent to kill. That’s all I needed to see. You are loyal to the syndicate, to Warren, to me. I don’t need blood on your hands for confirmation.”

Belatedly remembering the baby, he peered down at the small bundle in his arms. “He’s mine?” he asked for further verification, and I gave him a sharp nod. “Shit, I ain’t ready.”

“He is all you have ever wanted,” I said assuredly, and he slipped me a bewildered glance. “You have craved family and love for as long as I can remember. You were just looking in the wrong places. You do not need a woman to be happy, not with him by your side.”

A tear fell down his nose onto the cotton blanket between him and his son. “Sometimes, Ireallyhate you.” He wiped the moisture from his eyes. “But sometimes, Ireallyfucking love you.”

“Hey, that’s what brothers are all about, right?” Uncapping a bottle of Jameson, I poured myself a nice glass of whiskey to celebrate, kicking my feet onto the desk. “We fight. We argue. But we love hard and find our way back to each other. That’s all that matters.”

Nate looked at me differently this morning. It was the same look he gave me when we first met, awe and respect. It’s been a while since he regarded me with anything but exasperation. “Kade,” he said, and I scowled in puzzlement. “That’s the name his mother wanted.Kade.”

I am surprised he paid attention. “Is that whatyouwant?”

“It’s the only part of him I will let her have.” Kissing the top of the baby’s head, he smiled proudly. “Kade Alzaim. My little soldier.”

“I could murder both of you.”

My stare shot to the doorway.

Alexa, yawning and stretching, invited herself into my office. “I woke up and had a heart attack. I thought that crazy bitch swiped the baby whilst I slept.” She assessed Nate and Kade together, long and pensive, and realisation flashed in her tired eyes. “Oh, God. He is yours?”

Nate’s head dipped.

“This is fantastic news, right? It’s what you wanted.” With a firm hand to her mouth, she glanced at the ceiling to blink back tears. “Sorry, I don’t know why I am so emotional. You both look amazing together. Father and son. I am so happy for you, Nate.”

“Mrs Warren,” Nate said with a slight chuckle. “Those hormones are kicking your ass, huh?”

“Yes.” Her fingers swiped the tears from beneath her eyes. “I cry all of the time. I even sobbed at Nemo the other day. Alfie thinks I am having a midlife crisis.”

I smiled into the whiskey glass. “You are having a midlifesomething.”

Alexa’s middle finger saluted.

“I suppose paternity leave is mandatory.” My fingers played the piano against the whiskey glass. “You can take two consecutive weeks’ leave to settle in with Kade.”

“And I am happy to be of assistance if necessary.” Alexa lowered to the sofa, her pregnant bump taking up too much space. “All you have to do is call, and I will be right over. I need all the practice I can get.”

“You might want to hire a nanny as well,” I suggested, and an objection glimmered in his narrowed eyes. “Or not. You could always strap the baby to your chest and take him on drug runs with you.”

“I’ll think about the nanny,” he said after a short pause. “And Alexa, I will definitely call.”

Alexa’s eyes brightened with excitement. “I am happy to be of service.”

“You know, I ain’t prepared for the baby.” Nate scratched the nape of his neck. “I got nothing assembled at the apartment. He needs furniture, right? A pram and a car seat and stuff. And how long is the milk in the fridge going to last?”

“We had formula milk delivered to the estate.” Alexa’s sleepy eyes roved over the man’s large form. “Hey, don’t stress. I am here to save the day. I love shopping. I will order the essentials and have them delivered to your place. How does that sound?”

Nate was grateful. “That works for me.”

My body ached from head to toe. “I have to be up in a few hours.” Draining the last drop of whiskey, I left the empty glass on the desk. “You can both stay or leave. I don’t care. But I have to get some beauty sleep.”

Not waiting for their response, I took the bifurcated staircase two steps at a time, dragged my feet to the west wing and locked myself in the master bedroom.

Everything landed in the laundry basket for Edith: shirt, trousers, socks, suit jacket and boxer briefs. I stripped down to nothing, went to the en-suite and showered until my skin could no longer sustain the heat.

Feeling clean and fresh with a towel wrapped around my waist, I walked soapy footsteps into the bedroom, dried acceptably and collapsed face first onto the bed, completely starkers, just the way I liked it.

I was exhausted and in much need of a rest, but my wide eyes seemed to have other ideas. I stared at the bedside table, the wall-mounted television I never watched, the rug I forgot I owned, and the interconnecting door to the walk-in wardrobe.

Rolling onto my back, I unlocked the phone, loaded the internet browser and ticked another assignment off the list: affirmation therapy, as told by numerous quotemasters online.

I am the greatest version of myself.

I learn more about myself each day.

I am ready to face challenges head-on.

I know I am okay.

I trust my decisions.

I can overcome life’s difficulties.

I have a reason to smile.

I make the healing process a priority.

I do my best every single day.

I celebrate accomplishments.

I prioritise people who bring me peace.

I am confident that nothing can hold me back from living.

I am creating a peaceful environment for myself.

I am continually recreating myself for the better.

I deserve abundance and prosperity.

I will trust the process and celebrate the progress.

I align myself with people who support and love me.

I have many good qualities.

I am stronger than my anxieties.

I have lived, lost, hurt and made mistakes, but most of all, I have learned.

My eyes rolled the back of my bastard head.

Well, that taught me absolutely nothing.

I studied the empty spot beside me and touched the cold sheet with curious fingertips. Loneliness soon crept to the forefront of my mind. I scrolled through contacts on the phone, clicked on her name and typed a short message.

Me: Are you awake?

Message delivered.

I could punch myself.

Obviously, she is not awake.

Normal people sleep at unsociable hours.

Nocturnal people come alive at night.

Message read.

Three dots bounced on the screen.

Emma: Yes, I wanted a quick shower before I went for a run. I woke up like a sweaty mess.

Emma: Ignore the last part. I don’t know why I told you that.

I smiled to myself.

Me: Where are you running to, sweetheart?

Emma: I switch it up, depending on my mood. I might hit Hyde Park.

My eyes slid to the walk-in wardrobe, where a section of leisurewear collected dust.

Me: Hyde Park, huh?

Emma: Just a brisk one-mile jog.

Emma: Or two.

Me: Sounds fun.

I am already out of bed, rummaging for workout gear.

Emma: Wait. Why are you up so early?

Me: I don’t sleep much.

Emma: How do you function?

Drugs and caffeine.

Emma: Don’t answer that.

Me: I wasn’t going to.

Emma: Thanks for checking in. I appreciate it.

Me: I wasn’t checking in.

Emma: Then why did you text me?

Me: Because I miss you.

Message read.

Emma: Big Guy…

Me: I got to go. I have a date this morning.

She had read the message three minutes ago.

My phone vibrated with a notification.

Emma: Oh, that sounds nice.

Emma: Have a nice time.

A smile danced on my lips.

Me: I plan to have aniceday.

Message delivered.

With one final glance in the mirror, I tied my hair into a messy top knot, grabbed my phone, car key and wallet and headed out for this morning’s gruelling running route.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Emma

It is hard to re-establish relationships with friends and family when I haven’t spoken to them in months. I had to acknowledge my absence, validate their feelings and let them know that I still think of them, of the sweet, irreplaceable memories shared and the future instances that have yet to come. Yet, I cannot bring myself to rectify the breakdown in our onceunbreakablefamily.

I am helpless to self-isolation and long-standing reservedness and unable to function in social situations. Like the guy at the hotdog stand yesterday. He only asked if I wanted ketchup on my order, and my tongue tripped. I forgot how to speak, how to use manners and how to pay for purchases. I found myself considering other customers with inane anxiousness. I bet procrastination frustrated them, bothered them and irritated them. That’s what I told myself whilst searching for my voice. That’s all I could hear in my head in the eyes of judgement, evaluation and scrutinisation because, for an illogical reason, the opinions of others suddenly mattered.

My life is none of their business.

But it is part of human nature to care about what other people think.

Icaredif the couple by the bus stop glanced at me for a second too long.

Icaredif the woman in the store stared right through me whilst purchasing weekly groceries.

Icaredif the people I loved bore bitterness and resentment for all of the selfish decisions I had made.

My unapproachable behaviour alienated loved ones and possibly caused accidental damage. I owed them explanations, Benjamin and Quinn, Ethan and Wyatt. They did not deserve silence or the insensitiveness on my part. Yes, I lost my son, my little human, my favourite person in the whole world, and I am allowed to hurt and cry and plead with a higher power to bring him back to me, but they lost an important person that day, too. My friends had to grieve the disappearance of their chosen nephew. My brother had to live without his shadow and sidekick. He had to exist in a world where the boy he raised, like a son, no longer held his hand to get him through dark days. There are no more early morning breakfast fiascos in the kitchen: pancakes, waffles, fruit, smiles and laughter. Or late-night gaming sessions: pizza, popcorn, duvets, Zelda and Gohma. We have an empty void in replacement, where the echoing cries of our reality condemn us to a life of physiological torture.

Explanations might be perceived as implausible excuses. Thinking about knocking on their front door or picking up the phone to call them rattled me with nerves. I feared their anger and rejection, namely Benjamin, whose incessant text messages and voicemails ceased as an automatic result of ignorance.

If you exclude Hugo’s uncanniness to materialise out of thin air and coerce attention with the neediest of smiles and Sade’s resoluteness in entertaining miserable co-workers, Quinn is the only patient one left, the last one to yell through the letterbox and sit on the cold floor in the foyer, drinking drive-through coffee and telling engaging stories. And I sat on the other side of that door, happy to hear her voice, sad to watch her leave, mentally talkative yet physically untalkative.

Quinn always, without fail, left a sealed, takeaway coffee cup on the step before she walked away. It was usually lukewarm by the time I sipped it, and she never forgot to scribble something motivational or inspirational on the bottom.

It will get easier.

It is okay to be sad.

No one else can do it for you.

One foot in front of the other.

You are stronger than you think.

I wish you’d find your way back to us, Emma.

With the crisp morning air in my lungs, I jogged through the magnificent old trees of Hyde Park, the fallen, brittle leaves crepitating beneath purposeful footsteps, the cold morning breeze in my hair. It was still dark outside, with the occasional jogger in sight and passerine birds tweeting and flapping in the gnarled branches of sycamores.

Music pounded in my ears.

Lured into the scenic trail of common ash trees, I jogged with brutal, unsparing swiftness, dripping in sweat, until a spot of damp land braced my fall. Perhaps I tripped over my feet. Maybe I blacked out from exhaustion. All I know is I had a mouthful of dry leaves and unexplainable tears streaming down my cheeks. Still, if I cried, I did so in silence. Thoroughly defeated and more emotional than I would like, I threw the headphones across the grass, muted the music on my phone and rolled onto my back. It is said that song lyrics are good tools to cope with grief and loss, but sad music is a maladaptive strategy and nostalgically triggering. I responded to depressing music with goosebumps and provoked feelings of unhappiness. I listened to sedative tempos and weakened chords because the idiot inside me became the victim of unpleasant tasks. And that is why the headphones can stay in the dirt for all I care. I don’t want them. I don’t need them. I will delete the playlist on my phone.

Languid from physical exertion and emotional exhaustion, I gazed at the miserable sky with an acute sense of observation as another female jogger continued her journey along the path. It had bothered her, the crazy woman keeled over in the middle of the park, seemingly in the throes of a mental breakdown, because she slowed down considerably to insert the point of espial, but there were not enough obstacles in London to divert or distract attention. Her need to complete her keep-fit session outweighed her concern for a stranger. Her cautious steps developed into vigorous strides as she powered through the lengthy trail of picturesqueness.

I, however, had no desire or energy to finish what I had started. I would rather stay here, in a bed of leaves, basking in the alacrity of wretchedness, than force myself to exist in such a cold, evil world without purpose.

My role as a mother, as a human being, gradually dissipated. I ran to stay focused, worked to pay bills, slept to rejuvenate and ate to survive, but without the expectations of everyday life, the pressure to get up in the morning and put one foot in front of the other, I had nothing to live for, not anymore.

A ragged breath escaped my lips.

Wiping the tears from my eyes, I willed myself to stand, brushing brown foliage off my clothes and pulling fragile sprigs out of my hair. I traipsed through trees that had somehow curved inwards to create an archway for the footpath. I espied a tall, shadowy figure running steadily toward me. It was a determined-looking man garbed in sportswear. A regular, I thought, as I catalogued the fine bone structure of his jaw and the turbulence of emotions in his deep-set eyes. He spoke to me once when I piledrived into him in the midst of an unfocused run. I did not know his name. He did not know my name. Yet, I felt a sense of familiarity with him whenever he and I stumbled upon each other.

Maybe acquaintanceship is not the worst-case scenario. It is better to be out here, surrounded by recognisable faces rather than unrecognisable faces. It dispelled irrational anxieties and made me feel less alone in the world.

Too aware of my pathetic, sodden appearance, I averted my gaze to the floor, pretending not to notice him. He drifted into the distance with a mere glance.

And then, with every atom in my body radiating in wonder, I felt an inexplicable surge in my chest, where my heart beat unsteadily, and a gravitational force to explore the sudden calmness of mind. It washed over me in gentle showers, relief and rain.

My head dropped back to experience the sheer unexpectedness of the downpour on my skin.

I laughed senselessly. Apparently, that is what lost people did when standing in the rain: laughed or cried. I had yet to determine which physical reaction inspired strangeness.

Despite intense feelings of bereavement, I braved the storm with a smile on my face. It was the first time in months that I felt awake, alive and, oddly, closer to my son.

My upturned hands caught droplets as the heavens opened and whispered remorse.

Then, my short-lived happiness waned into broken-heartedness. It did not matter where I went, what I did, or who I spoke to. I could not pretend to enjoy or value life. I had no satisfactory answers, cognitive closure or finality of my son’s death, yet days had rolled into weeks, weeks had rolled into months, and I still chased the memories of him, praying that, by some miracle, he’d be waiting for me at the end of the road.

“Some people believe raindrops are tears of compassionate angels,” I said, knowing who stood behind me without turning to look. “Other people think raindrops belonged to the deceased.”

Brad never came closer. “What do you believe?”

“I believe in hope.” Thunder cracked and rolled in the sky. “Just envisioning a better future makes me feel better.” In the shadows, I noticed the serried rows of security detail. “Does it bother you? Having eyes on you at every corner.”

“I am used to it,” he said airily. “Besides, I am technically one of them. It is my job to protect the boss. The only time I completely switched off was when he dragged his arse to bed. Other than that, I stood on the sideline, ensuring his safety.”

I watched the men group together for a brief conflab.

“Ignore them.” Brad came into my direct line of vision, and once more, I averted my eyes. He removed his grey hoodie, pulled it over my head and swept wet locks of hair out of my face. “Do you normally roll around in the mud, or is it a new habit?”

My face was extremely hot.

I shoved my arms through the hoodie sleeves.

“It was a joke.” He used the bottom of his T-shirt to wipe his face, and I caught a slither of chiselled abdominal muscles. “Hey, if it’s any consolation, I think the whole wet-and-wild looks good on you.”

“What are you doing here?” I am too short for such a large item of clothing. The oversized hoodie fell past my knees. “I thought you had a date this morning?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I might have exaggerated.”

“Really?” Against my better judgement, I came across as jealous, which, for all intents and purposes, I was jealous. I knew he’d entertain other women now that whatever we had tried to build flatlined. But I did not need a visual. Or details and insight into how muchfunthey’d have together. “You sounded pretty certain to me.”

“Well, I am still working on it,” he said raspily, and the ache in my chest intensified. “She is hard to pin down lately.”

It took my brain a minute to catch up. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” He gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Oh.”

I concealed satisfaction. “Why?”

“What’s the question?”

“Why are you holding out for me, Big Guy?”

Brad chose not to answer.

“I’m sorry.” It was a sincere apology, but I knew anything I had to say would come across as insincere. “I’m sorry for pushing you away, distancing myself and making everything about me. You were a friend first. I know you valued that friendship, and I ripped it to pieces.” My hands curled and uncurled. “I am trying to do better.”

He studied me intently. “I am not asking you to do better,” he replied after a long, nerve-wracking pause. “I am asking to work out with you before breakfast and coffee.”

Taken aback by his unfazed demeanour, I gestured to the sheets of rain. “It’s hammering down.”

“You seemed to love it five minutes ago.” His eyes squinted, withstanding the impact of momentary vision impairment as the rain crashed against his handsome face. “Although, I should warn you. I will probably lodge a complaint with the park’s office rangers for damages. They should have issued a weather warning or something.” Large droplets of water trickled down his forehead. “My hair and rainwater? It doesn’t mix very well. And it’s a bastard mood kill.”

I stared, wide-eyed yet amused. “You are crazy.”

He drew the hoodie’s hood over my head, shielding my face from the cold, wet weather. “I’d rather be crazy than normal.”

My heart swelled.

“So, what do you say?” He rubbed his hands together. “Do you fancy arealworkout with one of London’s most eligible bachelors? I don’t know whether you noticed, but one is standing right in front of you.”

“Asswipe.” Ignoring the sexual innuendo, I pushed him in the shoulder and, stepping around him in a surreptitious manner, broke into a fast sprint. “You wouldn’t know arealworkout if it slapped you in the face!” Unbothered by the vigilance of suited men in the shadows, I made a run for it, my footsteps pounding on the footpath. “And you need to work on your ego! Not every woman finds you desirable!”

“What?” He broke into a sprint and ran toward me. “You are wrong!”

I laughed from the depths of my stomach, kicking up dirt as I chased the high of amusement.

“Admit it.” Within no time, he’d fallen into step next to me. If anything, with minimal effort, he could probably outsprint me. I don’t know how I felt about that, given that I trained hard every damn day. “I am a good catch.”

My lips are sealed.

“Husband material.” At this point in our light-hearted debate, he is talking to himself. “I am gorgeous, smart, funny and rich. I could make any woman happy.” Then, he jogged backwards, facing me with a knowing smirk. “You just don’t know what’s good for you.”

My sprint slowed. “Why does this feel like an interview for a future spouse?”

“I don’t know, but did I pass?” His breathing was controlled. “Surely, I earned points for wealth.”

“Look at me,” I said, and his gaze raked over me lazily. “Do I look like a woman who can easily be swayed by money? My idea of excitement is finding a bargain at the local flea market.”

“Street markets and second-hand goods?” He was appalled by the utter direness of previously owned goods. “You haven’t lived, sweetheart.”

“I could say the same about you.” My feet took me down countless routes. “It’s not just about scoring bargains. You can line your stomach with food vendors and baked goods and luxuriate in live entertainment. Heaven forbid, you allowed yourself to have fun with normal, everyday people.”

He frowned at me. “As opposed to what?”

“Extortionately priced alcohol and supercilious rich folks.”

“Hey,” he scolded offendedly. “Not all wealthy people have a supercilious outlook on life. I don’t think I am better than others.”

“Really?” My brows jumped to my hairline. “Then, why are street markets and second-hand goods beneath you?”

Brad lost his voice.

“See!” I let out a small laugh. “Supercilious.”

“You got it wrong.” He came back to the position beside me as we followed the perimeter. “I do not think I am better than people who live frugally or within their means.”

My calves started to burn.

“You know, I never had it easy growing up.” He opened up, and it would be a good time to mention that I also lived on Mostyn Avenue, but something told me not to go there. “My childhood home was a shit hole. I am talking about rodents, empty kitchen cupboards, uncarpeted floors, mouldy walls and broken furniture. I wore clothes and shoes that were two sizes too small. I ate leftovers at the neighbours’ house because my mother barely bought groceries, and if she did remember to buy something to knock a meal together, it usually ended up on the floor during one of her many crazy meltdowns.”

It took everything in me not to express sympathy.

“My mother was not the most domesticated person on the planet.” He raised an eyebrow to add humour to the conversation. “Christ, I fucking hated my childhood. I knew from a young age that I wanted to be better. It’s not like surpassing her piss-poor efforts would be difficult. A bottle of bleach and a mop bucket? I am already in a different league.”

I wish I had known him back then. But I was young and, to my knowledge, Yolanda Kelleher never had any children.

“So, I like to live the high life.” His expression was unreadable, his face blank and devoid of emotion. But when I looked beyond the impassive facade and into the soulful recess of the man’s eyes, I saw the vulnerability of a little boy who still harboured feelings of pain, anger, hatred and resentment. “Is it wrong to want more out of this world after living in squalor?”

“No.” You deserved a breakthrough, I thought. “It’s not wrong, Big Guy.”

His cheek muscles throbbed.

“Moreover, as much as I love the grey tracksuit and the white trainers…” Gucci trainers, I might add, because the man donned low-top leather with gold thread-embroidered bees just to work up a sweat in the park. “I don’t know. I guess there is something pretty spectacular about you in a three-piece suit.”

He gave me a knowing smirk.

My eyes rolled. “Alight, Lothario. Humble yourself.”

“I will fake humbleness if it makes you feel better. Just know that, inwardly, I am gratified beyond measure.” He puffed out a misty breath. “Shit, do you seriously do this every day? I am bored already.” I must have pulled an insulted face because he quickly added, “I am not bored with the company. I like spending time with you.” His hand latched onto my elbow, bringing me to a stop. “Cardiorespiratory training is my least favourite exercise. I can hit the treadmill for that. I prefer resistance training. Add that with some music, and I am a happy man.”

I inventoried the man’s tall, muscular physique. “Well, I like running.”

“From what?” he asked, and I frowned at the straightforwardness. “What are you running from?” His eyes bounced from one length of the park to the other. “Or, better yet, what are you looking for?”

I shook my head, refusing to go there.

“Fair enough,” he said with growing irascibility. “I don’t like it, though. It’s dark, cold and unsafe. Anything could happen to you.” He bit his lower lip, lost in brief rumination. “I’d feel better if you went to a local gym.”

My head shook again.

“Emma.” He glared at me for several seconds. “What you seek is not here. You want to run yourself out every day. Fine. Whatever works for you. But do it somewhere safe or expect an assigned bodyguard.”

“What?” My eyes almost fell out of my head. “You cannot do that. That’s an invasion of privacy. I did not ask for company, and I most certainly did not ask for protection. You do not get to waltz back into my life and throw demands in my face.”

“How can I waltz back into your life?” His hand reached up to extract a leaf from my hair. “I never left. You did.”

I nodded because I could not argue with the truth.

“Christ.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Did I ruin the date before it even started?”

“I think I ruined it by not accepting your hand in marriage,” I joked, and he chuckled throatily. “At least the rain dried up. You might have time to fit in a salon visit.”

Brad hummed as if he were listening, but he looked too tired to concentrate. His eyes had dulled, his face had paled, and the only thing he could seem to focus on was the time on his wristwatch.

“Are you okay?” My hand touched his lower back. “You don’t look so good, Big Guy.”

“I am good.” He suppressed a big yawn. “A bit knackered, but nothing I can’t handle. Let’s get this workout over with, so I can throw some caffeine down my throat.”

I had a better idea. “Do you want to come over to my place?”

He did a double take. “You’re inviting me over on the first date?” A smug smile found its way to his lips. “I am glad to see I haven’t lost my touch.”

“For juice and yoga-and maybe a dose of meditation,” I said, wary, and his entire face scrunched up. “What? You said you were tired.”

“Hence coffee.” The irritable man intentionally deadpanned. “Not straight-backed breathing exercises and the downward facing dog…On second thought. I will happily help you to get into that pose.” He grabbed my hand. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Emma

Brad drove to the nearest supermarket and paid for breakfast essentials before I directed him to the apartment complex. Not that a navigational system was necessary. He already knew where I lived and, without shame, boasted as he parked the Bentley.

I have yet to give him an extended tour of my two-bedroom flat. As soon as he walked through the front door, a shower, dry towels, and a hairdryer took precedence. I left him in the main bedroom, rain-soaked and windswept, to busy myself in the kitchen.

Him, in the flat, naked, showering, is the focal point of cogitation as I juiced an antioxidant powerhouse: blackberries, strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, pomegranate arils, watermelon and fresh mint. Brad is a friend, not a stranger, and I liked that he was here, but appreciation did nothing to sway self-reproach. Ben and Quinn have every right to be upset if they find out about the unplanned visit. I do not answer the phone if they ring or open the door if they knock. Yet, without hesitation, I welcomed someone I had only known for a strawberry pip season into the protective wall I built around myself.

Passing the puree through the strainer, ready to be poured into two glasses, I popped a grape in my mouth.

Maybe I am being too hard on myself. I did not make this easy for Brad. He called, texted, left sweet voicemails and sent thoughtful lyrics. I ignored him (mostly) to prioritise mental health.

He must have caught me on a good day. Or, I stood back long enough to realise there was more to life than self-absorption. He needed a friend, someone to recognise his struggles and take the reins for five minutes. And that is what I planned to do, reduce his stress levels and put his needs first.

The energising effect of power fruit is what his immune system demanded. Not coffee, alcohol and drugs. Undisturbed rest might go a long way, too. That is, if he will be kind to himself.

I prepared juice: two plates, two glasses and two pieces of buttered toast. Two of everything, the way it should be. And an empty mug on the counter for the beverage my brother will not drink. Benjamin rarely had time for breakfast when we lived above the cafe. He only drank coffee in the morning unless Carter guilt-tripped him into making pancakes.

Going to the sink, I turned on the tap, splashed my face with cold water and expunged nostalgic idealisation with a scrub of the tea towel.

Cleo devoured chicken-flavoured cat food. I had recently bought her a pink collar with a bejewelled cat tag, which she loathed with a passion because the constant tintinnabulation of silvery bells irritated her. I think she looked cute. I cannot speak on behalf of her owners, but if I were them, I’d be grateful. I treated her like royalty.

Cleo had a bundle of interactive toys, ping pong balls and electronic mice to encourage exercise. I hated to say it, but Cleo, the grumpy tabby cat, is on the obese side of the scale.

It worried me far more than it should have.

I looked upobesity in catsonline and read discomforting articles. She is at risk of developing all sorts of health problems. I am gradually transitioning her with a new diet plan: physical activity and portion control. Or, I am trying, to say the least. But she does not make it easy for me. Interactive toys gathered dust under the kitchen table because she would gouge my eyes out before rolling out of bed for anything but food and cuddles. Meal time is the trickiest. She is unsatisfied with smaller portions.

I toe the rainbow-coloured ball across the kitchen floor with a bedevilled glint in my eyes.

Cleo purred in her silk-furred dominance, blinked sleepily, and then collapsed into a food coma.

“Don’t you want to play?” I kicked the ball to her side, and she glared at it like it posed the greatest of threats. “Come on, Cleo. It will be fun. I promise.”

Her eyes closed.

“Fine.” Picking up the dusty toys, I chucked them inside the wicker basket I bought for her and left it on the two-seater table until later. “But tomorrow, I expect better results. My anxiety about your health is not normal-”

“Are you talking to the dead cat?”

Brad’s smooth voice shivered my flesh with goosebumps. I veered around to look at him and wished I hadn’t because he stood there, bare-chested and dangerously ripped, with a towel hanging on his waist. I might have died and gone to Heaven.

“Did you manage to dry my jogging bottoms?” He entered the kitchen, and I had to distract myself with the magnets on the fridge whilst he opened the tumble dryer and inspected damp clothes. “I normally have spare in the car…” He pondered between wearing half-dry clothes or staying in the towel. “Does Benjamin have any clothes lying around?”

“No,” I answered, guilt burrowing deeper. “I still haven’t seen my brother.”

He did not look surprised.

“You can borrow a pair of my leggings.” Although, I highly doubt I had anything that would fit him. “Leggings are quite stretchy. Sure, you will look like a danseur but covering up is what counts.”

“Have you seen the size of me?” He motioned to his upper body, where the engraved military tags hung between the solid planes of pecs. His body was like a sculptured work of art, with chiselled muscles and hard abs. My disobedient eyes went south to the outline of his towel-clad bulge. It really is unnecessary to be that well-endowed. “My face is up here, sweetheart.”

“You need to buy an athletic supporter or something.” My words came out embarrassingly stuttered. “I am serious, Big Guy. I said it before.” I pointed to his nether region. “That is not normal. I feel sorry for the women you take to bed,” I added, and he frowned narrowly. “It must be more painful than pleasurable.”

“I will give you the same response as last time.” He came closer, a serious expression on his face. “I get no complaints,” he whispered tormentingly, our eyes locking as he searched for a reaction. “They are big girls. They can handle it.”

“How can you be so sure?” My back hit the wall as he closed in on me. “What if they think they can handle it but change their mind once it goes in?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Is that a serious question?”

I nodded.

“I don’t need to force a woman to have sex with me, Emma.” A flash of disbelief in his eyes. “Not every woman is dissuaded by the largeness of a man. In fact, some women think it is an important factor in male attractiveness.”

“Like height,” I said with a playful smile. “I am a dot compared to you.”

“I have noticed.” He fixed a slanted magnet on the fridge. “You have nothing to say.”

I acted like a clueless idiot. “What’s the question?”

“Not really a question.” His shoulder muscles gathered. “I just think it is weird that you are so invested in my sex life.”

I could not care less what happened in his bed after midnight, especially when it concerned other women. “A few innocuous questions is hardly an investment.”

He looked at me with deep, deliberative eyes. “Does it bother you?”

“You with other women,” I mused, and he waited with bated breath. “How many are there?”

Damn it. Why did I go there? I shouldn’t have gone there.

“Not as many as you might think.” He re-adjusted the fridge magnet. “Enough to put your nose out of joint.”

I envied every woman he had taken to bed. “Are you asking if I am jealous?”

“Are you?” he probed, and I refused to dignify the question with an answer. “It would bother me.”

Yes, itbotheredme, but I had no right to be angry or upset. He wanted me, and I pushed him away. I am the reason we drifted apart. “What would bother you?”

“If you were in bed with another man,” he said, straight to the point. “But you are not interested in anyone else, so I am not concerned.”

“You really are a cocky son of a bitch.” I slid theberryliciousjuice across the counter for him. “I might be interested in other people. For all you know, I have an entire catalogue of hot men on speed dial.”

He chuckled, taking a sip of juice. “I don’t see them anywhere.”

“Your arrogance is unreal.” Honestly, he is the only person I have met that can brazenly insult someone and make it seem like a harmless joke. “You sure know how to make a woman feel loved and special.”

His brows rose. “Why are you mad?”

“You make it seem like I am not worthy of male attention. Is it so hard to believe that other men might find me attractive?”

“Christ.” His arms folded over his chest. “You need to unwedge the thong in your arse.”

“I am not wearing a thong. I am wearing high-waisted knickers to keep everything tucked away.” Yes, I said that out loud. “And that is probably why I only have a handful of hot men on speed dial. So let’s drop the subject before I embarrass myself further.”

Scratching the back of his head, he gazed into space contemplatively. “High-waisted?”

My eyes narrowed. “Are you fantasising about how I look in cotton knickers?”

“Cotton,” he said, unimpressed. “Yeah, that changes everything.”

I nearly laughed. “How so?”

“Cotton knickers.” He looked distraught. “Not even a bit of lace?”

“Floral,” I lied, omitting the cut-out at the front and the back with sequin embellishment. “Big pink flowers and sage-coloured leaves.”

“Fucking hell.” He itched his chin. “If I were a good friend, I would tell you to burn those. But I will not make you sexier for all the imaginary men you have on speed dial.”

Sexier.

The comparative form of sexy.

Big Guy thinks I am sexy, with or without the fabrication of floral underwear.

“Right, because you think I am incapable of seducing other men,” I repeated, and his eyes briefly visited the ceiling. “So tell me,friend. Is it my looks or my personality? What must I improve?”

“Neither,” he said unhesitatingly. “I think you are the closest I have seen to perfection.”

“You can’t say that to me.” Or, I might do something dangerous like fall in love with you. “Perfection does not exist.”

His eyes fixated on me. “It’s your personality.”

“What’s wrong with my personality?”

“You are not the promiscuous type.” He sipped juice with reluctance. “That’s how I know there are no otherhotmen on speed dial.”

“Well, it’s lucky that you do not know me very well.” I started to fold dry tea towels. “I am unashamedly promiscuous, so get over it.”

“Right,” he played along. “Miss I-am-characterised-by-multiple-sexual-partners, where is this never-ending line of competition? Know that I will kick them into the afterlife without a second thought.”

“They are not stupid. They value their lives and know better than to come here with all that testosterone in the street.” Hell, I bet the neighbours’ curtains are twitching every five minutes whilst spying on the man’s security detail parked out front. “But don’t worry. Once you have left the building, they will be falling over each other to get inside.” A silly smile brightened my face as I double-checked the tumble dryer to see if his grey jogging bottoms were closer to being dry. “Okay. A little damp, but I think it can work.”

“Thank you.” With one quick sip of berry juice, he placed the glass on the kitchen counter, took the joggers out of my hand and dropped his towel straight to the floor, unabashed and unembarrassed. I almost lost an eye, face whipping to the window, looking at anything other than the well-endowed man in my kitchen. “What? Why do you blush? It’s not like you haven’t seen my cock before.”

“A little touch and feel in the dark? It does not count.” The memory of us in bed together flooded the present, his possessive, breathtaking kisses, his rough palms grazing my thighs, his low, raspy moans in my ear, the tantalising speed of his fingers as he coaxed me to orgasm with the masterliness of a sex God. “Did you like the juice?”

“Not really.” Adjusting his manhood beneath the restricting cotton of his grey jogging bottoms, he withdrew his arm, the waistband snapping against his washboard abs, and knotted the drawstring half-heartedly. “For you, I will drink it.”

That should not have made me smile, but I did smile, and it was the most genuine of smiles that made my heart inconceivably happy, with thoughts and feelings I had neglected and the burning desires I had ignored. And then, I looked at my fuzzy reflection in the window, the elation in my eyes. And then, the overwhelming emotions I felt faded. The guilt snaked back to the surface. What decent mother smiles in the absence of her little boy?

“Is the cat dead or what?” Brad crouched by the pink-collared cat, poking and prodding until she woke up. “You might want to chuck her on the treadmill. Look at the state of it.” Raising one of her legs, he examined her rotund stomach. “She would fuck me up if she weren’t too lazy to get up and move.” Smoothing her lustrous fur, he massaged the spot behind her ear. “Maybe she is pregnant.”

“No,” I said, unsure. “At least, I don’t think she is pregnant.” Then again, she did have the tendency to wander off before midnight to do whatever it is felines do. “Oh, shit. You might be right. I better take her to the vet.”

Cleo purred, relishing in her early morning massage.

Brad was overtired. His eyes shut as he rubbed his temples, but he was too stubborn for his own good. He braved the difficulties of fatigue and tension by convincing himself that life waited for no one.

“You can borrow my bed for a few hours if you want,” I offered, and he considered it. “You are exhausted. If you drop where you stand, I won’t be able to pick you up.” My humour fell on deaf ears. “Or you can go home. You are not obligated to be here.”

“No, I agreed to yoga.” His hands clasped the back of his head, the muscles in his arms, chest and lower stomach stretching. “Go ahead. Get in the living room and show me what you got.”

Inside the living room, I tilted the blinds to create a relaxing atmosphere and, for metaphysical purposes, debated between coconut-scented or coffee-scented incense sticks.

Brad once said not to touch him in the dark, which suggested that he was prone to consistent nightmares, so I lit two coffee-scented sticks to cleanse negative energy. Hopefully, the somniferous scent will lure him to sleep.

“Okay.” I lowered myself to the floor and tapped the space in front of me. “I only have one exercise mat, and you are too big for it anyway. But I am generous. I will compromise with the rug. Let’s start with meditation.”

“Fuck’s sake.” He sat on the rug opposite me. “You better not tell anyone about this. The brothers will chew my arse inside out if they find out.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” I said with a hearty laugh. “I am relatively new to this, so bear with me. Loosely cross your legs.” My hands navigated his stiff, awkward legs until he sat cross-legged in a high-backed position. Then I mirrored his pose. “Left foot on the floor below your right thigh. Right foot over to your left calf.”

“This is stupid,” he complained, his legs refusing to cooperate, his feet falling clumsily on the floor. “How is this meditational? I am stressed out to the max.” His sceptical eyes flew open, and I knew what he wanted, what heneeded. If cocaine is what he craved to get him through the next few hours, he will have to say it out loud. No back doors. “Emma, I need a little pick-me-up, or I will face-plant the floor.”

I acted dumb. “What, like, an espresso?”

His hands smoothed along his shins and knees. “You are not going to make this easy on me, are you?”

I stared, then blinked.

“Fine.” His throat cleared as he wriggled into the Gyan Mudra hand positions, the end of his thumbs pressing into his index fingers. “Are we allowed to talk whilst meditating?”

“It’s not prohibited.” My eyelashes fluttered shut. “However, to find inner peace and calmness, I think we should be quiet.”

I primed myself for the man’s relentless protests, but seconds clicked and minutes ticked, and he never uttered a word. His silence was purposeful. His breathing was controlled and relaxed. I was too focused on his mental well-being to consider mine. I wondered about his musings, what he saw, where he travelled and who he visited.

My eyelids peeled open.

Brad was in a deep state of relaxation.

Thirty minutes.

Thirty-five minutes.

Forty minutes.

I wanted him to stay in the bubble forever, where it was safe, peaceful and non-judgmental. “You can open your eyes now,” I whispered, and with a squint of his lashes, he brought himself back to the present. “I thought I lost you for a moment.”

He blinked rapidly, with a gravelly moan, as if to clear the fog in his head.

“Okay, the next one is a corpse pose.” Reaching for two scatter cushions on the sofa, I handed him one. “Lie down, plop the pillow under your head and relax.”

Stretching across the rug, he tucked the pillow under his head. “Am I allowed to talk now?”

“Nope,” I fibbed, lying on my back next to him. “Close your eyes.”

“What happened to the downward-facing dog?” His eyelashes fanned his cheeks as he settled into restful darkness. “Please say it is still on the agenda.”

I ignored him.

“I bet you look good in that pose,” he said sleepily. “That and your granny knickers.”

My lips pressed together to prevent laughter. He is so shameless, unapologetically flirtatious and refreshingly confident. I kind of loved that about him.

Brad’s breathing became heavier.

I turned my head to look at him. Sure enough, his eyelids were gently closed, and his lips were parted slightly. He is almost there, I thought, as I traced the sharp furrow of his eyebrows.

It would be precisely thirteen minutes later when he completely nodded off. I know the floor must be uncomfortable, but I had zero chance of getting him into bed. I grabbed the throw blanket on the arm of the sofa, draped it over his body, careful, mindful, not wanting to disturb him, and tiptoed out of the living room.

Inside the bedroom, I shut the door, tore the bobble out of my hair and chucked my uniform onto the bed, ready for work.

Brad’s belongings sat on the wooden dresser, and as I extracted underwear out of the drawer, I noticed a notification on his phone.

Cherry: I am on shift until midnight. Do you want to come over? I will make your favourite.

My heart did not like it.

I will make your favourite.

I assumed she meant food.

Still, I had no place in his personal life or his private business.

Throwing a towel over my shoulder, I went to the bathroom, stripped out of the workout gear, stepped into the bath and drew the plastic curtain aside.

I turned on the shower, a cold blast spraying onto my head. Soon, warmth replaced coldness. I squirted body wash onto a loofah, scrubbed every inch of skin and rushed the razor over my legs. I was in the process of washing the conditioner out of my hair when heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway.

“Emma?” Brad knocked on the bathroom door. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You must have needed it,” I hinted, wishing he’d slept for longer. “You better not be spying on me.”

“What the hell do you take me for?” he asked with a hint of humour. “Of course, I am spying on you. I would be crazy not to.”

I am never going to survive this man. “I will kick your ass!”

A pause. “I might like it.”

Turning off the shower, I peeked around the curtain to check if the coast was clear.

The door is closed.

I stepped out of the bath, feet sinking into the fluffy mat, wrapped a towel around my body and swung the door open.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Emma

Brad’s hands latched onto the door frame above his head in a performative gesture. His body took up the space, the escape route, and he knew as much, which is why he did not move. His brows lifted daringly, almost as if to challenge the inner vixen in me. Then, slowly but surely, his eyes lowered to the exposed skin of my neck and shoulders.

I felt too hot under his intense scrutiny. “What is your favourite colour?”

“It used to be blue.” He looked at my mouth like he wanted to go there. “Royal blue to pair with tan accessories.” His attention shifted to my eyes. “Nowadays, I prefer green.”

I cannot breathe. “Music?”

“That’s a hard one.” Still, he thought about the question. “The eighties were the best decade for music. I love that era.”

A droplet of water trickled down my neck. “What’s your favourite food?”

“I am a proud gastronomist.” His mouth twitched like he was privy to something I wasn’t. “I will eat pretty much anything.”

“You do not have a favourite? Food, I mean.”

He stared for a second. “No, I do not.”

I breathed a little, relieved for an unfathomable reason. But then our eyes reconnected–whiskey-coloured hues to curious greens–and oxygen became no more. I completely forgot how to inhale and exhale. He looked at me like he wanted to throw me down and devour me, which scared the ever-living daylight out of me.

“I did not miss you, Emma.” His voice was a deep whisper. “Not even a little bit.”

“Likewise,” I lied, the air in the room too stuffy. “Not at all.”

“I could go the rest of my life without seeing you.” He took a deep breath and released it raggedly. “I would never think about you-or us, or what we could be.”

I had lost the ability to swallow. “Ditto.”

Then, with the confident movements of an unwavering man, he released the door frame, one arm at a time, and bridged the gap between us, slow yet predatory. “I did not miss this face,” he said hoarsely, his fingers tracing the delicate place along my collarbone as he backed me up against the hand basin. “Or these eyes.” His thumb outlined my parted lips. “Or these lips.”

I held onto the towel by my chest.

“Or this kiss.” His lips were on mine before I could catch my breath, soft yet desperate, tasting the memories of us on my tongue. Pulling my arms around his neck, he lifted me onto the hand basin, directing my legs around his waist. “Christ, I fucking missed you.”

My hands clung to the nape of his neck as our tongues reacquainted themselves. I was lost in him, consumed by him, and helplessly besotted with him.

Brad kissed the column of my throat, teeth sinking into my flushed skin, tongue tracing the indents he had placed there, and then his mouth, hungry for more, revisited mine for our tongues to dance.

I breathed no more.

His hands crept underneath the towel to grasp the swells of my derrière with painstaking strokes of his fingers. I trembled at the contact, having forgotten what it felt like to be aroused, to be this turned on. He reawakened something inside me, and I never wanted it to end. I wanted to forget, to lose myself in the moment, to feel anything but the sadness in my heart. And he delivered. He untied the towel, letting it fall to my waist. My breasts were exposed to the cold, to his eyes and to his touch, but he did not rush. His one palm flattened on the bottom of my back, fingertips whispering along the stature of my spine, while the other hand grazed my hip bone, thumb massaging lazily.

My eyes invited him to come closer, thighs slackening widely, and he moved in, standing between my legs. His thumbs brushed over my peaked nipples with investigatory circles, explored the curve of my breasts, the valley between them, and then, painfully slow, his fingertip drew a line down my stomach.

“Your beauty is incomparable,” he spoke into my ear as his teeth nipped my earlobe. “Let me have you.” His hand disappeared between my legs, touching methere, rough to smooth, and my hips rolled involuntarily. “Christ, Emma. Let us have each other.”

My feet dipped under the waistband of his jogging bottoms concurrently with my hands freeing his erection. He fell into my hand, long, thick and heavy.

He took my face into his hands and stole another kiss, his lips firm, his tongue demanding. “Don’t stop,” he begged, his entire body trembling. “Put me out of my fucking misery, sweetheart.”

My hand tightened around the base of him. In one fluent upstroke, I brought the man to his knees, controlling every moan that hissed through his lips.

He throbbed in my hand. My thumb swiped pre-ejaculation on the swollen crown, the fingers between my legs twitching restlessly. His eagerness to make me come undone had slowed into the occasional swipe through my soaked folds. Understandably confused, I peered up to see if everything was okay-if he was still into it-and caught distorted dullness in his eyes. He was not looking at me. He wasfrowning, staring down at the place between us, where my hand stroked up and down on his length, and the more I controlled him, the more he became uncomfortable, tense all over and undoubtedly displeased. He did not want me to touch him. He was forcing himself to enjoy it.

I almost pulled away, breaking contact.

“No.” His fingers locked around my wrist, silently asking me to continue. “I want you.”

“You were not with me,” I said, mildly irritated. “You can’t even look at me. You have quite literally softened in my hand.”

“No.” Grabbing my jaw, he sought my eyes. “I am looking at you.”

His watery eyes suggested otherwise. “I don’t think we are ready.”

“Don’t say that.Don’t fucking say that,” he said angrily, his palm striking the wall above my head. “Emma, just don’t.” His forehead nudged my temple, once, twice, and then he kissed me there lovingly. “I am trying, too, sweetheart.”

“We are both trying and failing.” I tightened the towel around my body. “It’s not our time, Big Guy.”

With a tick of the jaw, he stepped back, tucking himself away.

“I mean, who are we trying to fool? You are damaged. I am damaged.” Feet touching the floor, I walked past him into the hallway. “We are in too much pain to make each other happy. You know that I am right.”

Brad followed me to the bedroom.

“I am too fragile,” I said in a cracked voice. “My heart is broken. I am not strong enough to survive you, too.” Tears for my son were hard enough. I could not survive the same vicious cycle; I could not lose this man on top of everything else. “You will tire of me when I cannot be the woman you need me to be.” Pulling an old T-shirt over my head, I shimmied into underwear. “Sex has to be a certain way, right? To stay hard, to fuck and enjoy it.”

He groaned, tormented. “I am willing to try.”

“Okay,” I entertained him. “So, I am willing to try, too. I will bend over and let you have your way with me. I will make it hurt so you can climax in exchange for the occasional night of impetuous passion.” When his face heated with embarrassment, I felt impossibly guilty. “Big Guy, I am sorry. I am not trying to degrade you. It’s just that our incompatibility is so apparent. I want your focus, love and desire. It’s all I have ever craved since Killian. For a man to come along and show me what real love looks and feels like.”

His expression darkened.

“If I were mentally stronger, I would take a chance on us. But I am not. If anything, I am the weakest I have ever been. So, where does that leave us? Do we ignore the elephant in the room and hope for the best just because we are attracted to each other?”

He never replied.

“A break-up is inevitable,” I said, hating the truth but owning it. “You will be in bed with someone who knows how to make it good for you. I will be here, regretting you and punishing myself. And I will blame myself because I knew what it took to date you and went there regardless.”

“How can you say this to me? I am right here.Right here.” He slapped a hand on his bare chest. “I laid down with you, with thoughts of you only. I did everything within my power to make you feel what I feel when I look at you-what I crave when I am not around you. Do not tell me that I am in too much pain to make you happy because making you happy is all I think about every single fucking day when I am on one side of the city and you are on the other. I might be damaged, but I am prepared to take myself to the end of the earth and back to fix myself for you. Not for me. Not for any other woman I have encountered. You, Emma Hughes. I am doing whatever it takes to have a shot at normality withyou.”

My eyes filled with tears.

“You want to talk about boredom?” Snatching the snow globe on the dresser, he lunged it across the room, the explosion of shattering glass echoing throughout. “What the fuck do you think I have been doing for over ten years, huh?”

A tear fell down my cheek.

“You think meaningless sex with nameless women is what invigorates me? What gets me off?” He got in my face, and I never moved a muscle. “I use them to forget how fucked up I am, to convince myself that I am in control.” His mouth twisted into a pained grimace. “When, in reality, I have never been in control.”

I wiped my cheeks.

“And then I met you. And with you,” he reached up to cup my cheeks, “I think I can find myself. All you have to do is show me how.”

I tasted salt on my lips. “I am not an experiment, Big Guy.”

“I know that.” His forehead touched mine. “This is not an experiment. What I feel for you is real. I would not be here if I did not want us to be together. I am not perfect. I will get it wrong before I get it right. But I believe in myself. I believe in us.” He kissed the frown between my brows. “Do you want me to beg? Is that what this is?”

“I lost my son.” My hands pushed his chest, not that he moved or budged. “Unlike everyone else, I cannot pretend to be okay. I miss him. I miss him every day. He is on my mind from the moment I wake up to the moment I fall asleep. I do not have the mental capacity to help you, not when I can’t even help myself.”

Furious, he let go of me, fisting the hair at the back of his head.

“You can sleep with me to forget. I can sleep with you to forget. But when it is all said and done, I will remember, and so will you. That is the definition of facilitation. I refuse to be an enabler.” My eyes started to burn from all the silent tears I had wept. “What about you?”

“You are giving up on us.” He gave me an imperceptible shake of the head. “Just like that. It does not matter.Wedo not matter.”

“Being with someone is not supposed to be this complicated.”

“You talk as though you have experience,” he said, harshly accurate. “You obviously didn’t get the memo, so let me explain it to you. You have never been in a serious relationship. Like it or not, I do have experience. Take it from a man who wasted five years of his life trying to please someone unworthy of commitment. I did that for her, Tiffany. I did it because I thought it was the right thing to do, even though I never felt half as much admiration as I do for you. So, repeat it for me. Tell me I do not have what it takes to be committed to you. Only you. My favourite person. No one else.” His face was puce with anger. “Say it.”

I stared at him, wordless.

“I know when something is worth fighting for. I know because I have been waiting my entire adult life to feel this connection I have with you.” He touched his chest where his heart was beating. “You are the first woman to make me want to be a better man. In my dark world, where someone as innocent as you has no business, that means something. I am too selfish to let the only chance I have at happiness slip through my fingers.”

With his words in my head, I glanced at the photo frame of my son on the coffee table. It was one of my favourite pictures-his first day in reception class. I remember how adorable he looked in his uniform, so grown up, and how nervous he was to meet new friends. I told him that everyone would want to be hisbest friend.And he cried when I picked him up because nobody played with him. It was one of many occasions where I had said the wrong thing as a mother whilst convincing him that there was not a single person in the world that could not like nor love him. He forgave me pretty quickly: a carton of milk, a chocolate bar and a cuddle later. I would giveeverythingandanythingjust to hear his voice down the hall, to hold him for the longest of hugs.

“You are the type of man any lucky woman could fall in love with. It’s not like you make it easy for us not to.” With a snivel, I wiped my eyes and cheeks and braved the intenseness of his stare. “I am half the woman I once was. I willneverbe happy, not until he comes home. I will not give you false hope or string you along. You deserve someone who will be there for you unreservedly.”

“What if I waited for you?” he asked under his breath. “Would it make a difference?”

I am not selfish enough to demand that. “You mean other women.”

He jerked one shoulder as if the conversation made him uncomfortable.

“No.” It’s too unfair to expect that from him. “No, it will not make a difference, and I will not change my mind.” My eyes welled up, but I blinked tears away. “Just go. Live your life. Forget about me.”

Brad lost the will to argue. He went to the kitchen to grab the hoodie and T-shirt from the tumble dryer and dressed swiftly to escape the awkwardness between us.

He was in the middle of pulling socks on his feet when his phone vibrated in the bedroom. I wondered if Cherry had messaged again, and those unasked questions soon resurfaced jealousy when he retrieved the phone and texted somebody. “I will continue to look for him.” His socked feet stomped into white trainers. “I will find him, even if it is the last thing I do.”

I bit my bottom lip to stifle trembles. “You do not have to do that for me.”

“I am not doing it for you.” He had emotionally detached himself from me. His voice was cold and apathetic. “I am doing it for him.” Hands to his hips, he glared at the ceiling. “It has to be me.”

I did not understand. “What has to be you?”

“It has to be me that saves him.” He yanked the hoodie over his head. “I was not big enough.”

My face contorted in perplexity.

“Now,” he made his way to the hallway, “I am too big for any motherfucker to handle.”

“Wait,” I called, rushing behind the man’s hurried footsteps. “What did you mean by that?” He headed to the front door with furious strides. “Big Guy, I asked you to wait.”

He paused by the door.

“Tell me.” My heart raced painfully. “You have to be the one that saves my son. Why does it need to be you? Do you know something?” I asked, fearing the worst. “What are you not telling me? Does it have anything to do with the syndicate?”

Brad, with sliced eyes, turned to face me. “What?”

“Why does it need to be you?” I asked with the fierceness of an overprotective mother. “Bradley, you better start talking-”

“Do not fucking call me that.” Infuriated, he stormed into my breathing space, and I backed up four steps. “To you, I am Brad. I am your Big Guy. I am not that pathetic little boy.” Throat cracking, he grabbed my jaw with one hand, fingers denting my cheeks, forcing me to look at him. “You got it?”

Numbly, I nodded.

Brad turned for the door.

“You avoided my question,” I pushed, and his hand stilled on the door handle. “Why does it have to be you that saves my son?”

His head lowered, the keys in his hand jangling, as he considered lying to me. “I could not save myself,” he said, slicing through the harrowing silence with a mere whisper. “Now, I am big enough. I can be that person, Emma.”

My stomach was in bits. “I still do not understand.”

“I was molested,” he spat in vexation, and a wave of nausea slammed into me. “I was lost and vulnerable. All I needed was one person to walk through the door and save me. Just one person.”

I cupped my mouth.

“No one came for me.” He stared blankly at the front door. “I thought if I ran away, it would be over. I can be free and happy to live my life. But that was wishful thinking. It never leaves you. The past controls the present. Always has.”

“Big Guy,” I whispered.

“I have tried everything to leavehimbehind. But he calls for me. He asks me questions. He cries when I am not listening. He consumes every facet of my mind,” he snarled, tapping the side of his head with a shaky hand. “He lives in me.”

My vision was too blurry to see. My heart hurt too much to speak.

“I cannot save him. He is stuck between the past and the present. And that’s okay. I can live with that.” A single tear crept out of the corner of his eye and descended his cheek. “Carter, I can fix. I can fix it for him. And Iwillfix it because I am determined.” I reached for him, but he pushed my hands away. “I do not want your fucking pity.” He looked repulsed by the nearness of me. “It’s done now. You wanted to know the truth. Well, there you have it. My dirty secret. Do with it what you will.”

“Your pain is not a dirty secret.”

He scoffed.

“I am serious,” I argued ineffectively. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. You were a child…” A thought filtered through my mind. I did not breach the subject, though. It was not my place to ask who had touched him. “This is why you struggle to focus during intimacy.”

His eyes conveyed so much pain and humiliation.

“I wish you’d have told me.” This time, when I warily grasped his hand, he allowed it. “It would have helped me to understand better.”

“As I said, I do not want pity.” His wet eyes dimmed to a frighteningly dark shade as he snatched his hand out of mine. “This is exactly why I did not want to tell you. You practically dumped me in there.” He pointed to the living room. “You finished whatever the fuck we tried to build because you did not have themental capacityto deal with my problems.”

“Big Guy,” I said weakly. “That is unfair.”

“No, I will tell you what is fucking unfair. You, looking at me like I am suddenly worthy of your patience. Why? Because I have a good excuse for being the fucked-up man that I am. Everything I said before now was not good enough. You did not have faith in me. You did not take me at face value. You did not believe in me.” His disappointment seared into me with venomous disgust. “You did not believe in us.”

“Why is life punishing us?” I cried, throat hoarse, and he moved for the door again. “Brad, please do not walk out on me like this. I meant what I said. I am not strong enough for any more heartache.I am not fucking strong enough!”

He stared, round-eyed and speechless.

“Do not be another reason for me to hurt,” I said, licking tears off my lips. “Please.”

“Don’t worry.” Opening the door, he stormed into the foyer. “I am the last personyouneed to worry about.”

Listening to the abrupt sound of his retreating footsteps, I looked at the neighbour’s door across the hall in complete and utter devastation. So much, I wanted to chase him, to fix this, to do whatever it took to put everything right in his world, in my world, but I meant what I said earlier. He is not ready for me, and I am not ready for him. I can only hope that I find him in the future.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Brad

I entered the casino’s heavily garrisoned underground conference room, where the low-ranked soldiers, soignée, fresh-faced and armed, awaited this week’s closed-door conclave.

Everyone helped themselves to strong coffee and warm pastries delivered by the ubiquitous java shop and gathered around the long-stretched negotiation table to converse with zestful panache.

I had the lassitude of a moribund pensioner. I could barely walk in a straight line, let alone hold a conversation because the mountain of stress I had endured had finally taken its toll on me.

The cachinnation of cheerfulness in the smoke-filled room grated on my last nerve. I picked up the cafetière, pouring black coffee into a white mug with a perceptible tremble in my hands.

Sleep deprivation precipitated error-prone absentmindedness. My body is not at optimum performance. I am not in the right frame of mind to preside over the syndicate.

Tomorrow, perhaps, with recharged batteries, I can submit the assignments. Or, I can get my arse into gear and leave self-pity at the door.

A short, caustic laugh fell out of my mouth.

Yeah, right. I will simply pretend to be unaffected by the problems and quandaries of life. I have tackled hardship before. It is easy enough, with the right dose of debauchery and ignorance.

But I did not want to pretend this time. I wanted the unattainable-an emotionally unavailable woman who has consumed me for the better.

I truly believed that all would be right in the world with Emma in my bed. I would be happier seeing her face every morning or hearing her voice every night.

If only she had reciprocated my good intentions and my romantic feelings.

God is punishing me for years of compulsive womanising. I have used, shamed, mistreated and disrespected women since the moment I embarked on the dangerous terrain of criminal soil.

Of course, he put an unreachable love interest in my peripheral as punishment, the sadistic fucker.

Well, fuck you, giver of torment.

He who claims to be high and fucking mighty can choke on the puniness of his godly dick.

I do not bow to his command.

If I want to sin, covet and lust after a woman determined to keep me at arm’s length, then so help me, creator-and-ruler of the universe, I will do it with the rebelliousness of a blissful villain.

What is the worst that can happen?

I won’t get the girl.

And I really don’t want to accept that fact.

I amworthyof her attention.

I amworthyof her smiles.

I amworthyof her laughter.

I amworthyof her love.

Oh, fuck off, Fern. These affirmations are stupid. You were supposed to fix me, not turn me into a sentimental piece of shit.

“Bradley,” someone tormented in the darkest recess of my mind, and I mustered pitiful energy to grunt. “Are you okay?”

Having a mental conversation with an ethereal voice is the opposite of feeling safe and well. It is a manifestation of insanity. I have experienced auditory hallucinations for the vast majority of my adulthood.

Ambiguous.

Never positive.

Always negative.

And impossible to differentiate.

I cannot separate the voices in my head to hear my own thoughts.

Tonight is different, though.

An overindulgence in narcotics is solely my fault. I might have swallowed a cocktail of psychedelic drugs when my long-term friend, Charlie, refused to cooperate, and now there is a phantasmagoria of uninvited faces in every corner of the bastard conference room.

I may be scared, a bit freaked out and, beyond any doubt, as mad as a fucking hatter.

I don’t know what’s worse: to not know if the shadows are real or if the goliath bird-eater on the ceiling is going to eat me.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked, and the room’s vociferousness died down. “It is a serious question. Anyone is welcome to answer.”

Terrence eyeballed the brothers, probing for interaction. When no one volunteered to engage, he dabbed his mouth with a disposable napkin, slid the half-eaten blueberry muffin out of his reach and elected himself for a conversation. “Your question is open to more than one interpretation. Do I believe in ghosts?” His lips parted in a half-smile. “Yeah, I guess it would be ignorant to assume mankind dominated the universe. Am I bothered by the potentiality of apparitions? No, I am not.”

“What about negative energy?” I listened to unrepeatable words of salacity in my ear, the hissing tongue like sandpaper to my skin. “Do you believe the dead can haunt the living?” I had to harness every bit of willpower to restrain from snapping the otherworldly hand slithering up my chest. “If so, why?”

“Unfinished business.” Cole’s overmuch aftershave reeked of leather and bergamot. It is an abomination to the cologne industry. I wouldn’t even wear it to my funeral. “Evil entities have purpose-driven immoralities. They want revenge on those responsible for their execution.”

Great. I am Carl Bruner in the movie Ghost, just twiddling my thumbs until the shadowy demons come and drag me to premature death.

“What if their dastardliness catalysed the expiry of life?” Side-stepping the mystical creature, I contemplated whether to add a shot of whiskey to the coffee mug. “Does that not change the narrative?”

“Isn’t that matter of perspective, though?” Terrence relaxed in the denseness of an oversized puffer jacket. “You might think they deserved death, but we might think differently.”

“Do you challenge the sagacity of Command?” That shifty Ukrainian better hold his tongue. He is not a founding member of The Brotherhood. We are not bound by loyalty. I would throw him into a moving vehicle with pleasure. “And why do you speak on behalf of the brothers?” My eyes dared all in attendance to remonstrate with any member of the elite, that’s if they think it’ll be worth their while. “Are they incapable of independent decision-making?”

“I trust your decision,” Cole said, and I slid him a suspicious glance. “Warren chose you for a reason. Who are we to undermine the boss’s authority?”

“You are not acquainted with Warren.” He has never seen the man in the flesh. “He could be a fucking brain-dead pillock, for all you know. His name above the door is not a good enough reason to have faith in me or my capabilities.”

Cole’s face pinkened.

“Bunch of tossers.” Attacked by horripilation, I went in for a second helping of coffee, the eight-legged spider scuttling along the marble worktop. I swallowed a scream. “You do not have a brain cell between you.”

Do I want breakfast?

I am not overly hungry.

“I hear congratulations are in order.” Eli tonged two almond-flavoured croissants onto a side plate. “Nate is a father.” His stormy grey eyes set on me. “Or did I receive the wrong information?”

“Warren Enterprise is becoming a bastard daycare centre,” I joked, and he chuckled mirthlessly. “Did you and Cole complete the assignment?”

“Yes.” He walked alongside me, plated goods in one hand, black coffee in the other. “Tommy O’Shea is not our guy.”

Bypassing the boss’s chair at the head of the conference table, I pulled out my usual seat of woe is me. “Talk me through it.”

“We shadowed O’Shea’s every movement.” Eli sat in the chair directly opposite me. “He does not venture very far. He only left the site twice, for quiet time, it seemed. He played pool in a nearby snooker hall, drove to the store, bought random groceries to keep the mother off his back, and spent the better part of his evening around a campfire.” He chucked a sizeable brown envelope onto the table between us. “O’Shea ingested too much beer, chain-smoked before bed and woke up at the crack of dawn. In regard to the girlfriend, Sheila Ayres, I am undecided.”

My nose twitched at the sudden stench of what smelt like disturbed mould and charcoal smoke. “What is that smell?”

“Huh?” Eli looked around the room in overt befuddlement. “Coffee?”

“No.” It very much resembled a miasma of scorched flesh. “It smells like something is burning.”

Eli focused on the sweat on my forehead, the pupil dilation and redness in my eyes, and then his arms leaned onto the table with a knowing twitch of his lips. “Do you need some water?”

Christ, I am the only person that can detect decomposition. I was under the influence of hallucinogens and derangement.

“No,” I said quietly, extracting photographic evidence from the envelope. “Sheila Ayres. Go on.”

“I am not sure what to make of Sheila.” Eli’s accent thickened when he was engaged in a serious conversation. “O’Shea is crestfallen. I know when a man is depressed. Carter Hughes’ disappearance has affected him. You would assume his long-term girlfriend would also be sad or discouraged. Instead, she behaved like a spoiled brat, picking fights and demanding attention. They argued morning, noon and night, especially if he did not go to bed on time.”

Flipping through photos, I studied the woman in question. Sheila Ayres is a slim, beautiful brunette with glossy waist-length hair and legs for days. “But is she a suspect?”

“I would not write her off.” Eli stuffed morsels of flaky pastry into his mouth. “You waste time and resources on O’Shea. I cannot confidently say the same for her. If it were up to me, I would send someone back to Liverpool to keep an eye on her.”

I considered the man’s advice. If Sheila is connected to Carter’s disappearance, I have to reshuffle the deck of possibilities and put another plan in motion.

“I made a note of early morning departures.” Eli tossed a small black notepad onto the envelope of print-out images. “Sheila drove out of the site at five a.m. on Sunday morning and never returned until nine p.m. that night.”

Reading the scribbled-down notes, I sipped coffee to get me through the meeting. “Do you know where she went?”

“Birmingham.” Cole regarded me with stony eyes. “My brother had to monitor Tommy O’Shea, so I followed her. She met with a shady-looking man for lunch at a dingy café.” Another envelope of photos came into my possession. “Initially, I thought the pair had become embroiled in an affair.”

I skimmed the images of Sheila Ayres and John Doe.

“But they do not like each other,” Cole said with a twist of his lips. “After coffee, they came outside of the cafe and argued in the street. He was angry and aggressive. I believe he made threats.”

“Why did they argue?” I asked, and his shoulders lifted in lack of interest. “What do we know about him?”

“Nothing.” Eli’s necklace is strung with gold rings. “That could, however, change on your command. I will drive to Birmingham and track him down.”

“Doe might alert Sheila of our advances. O’Shea is a conflict of interest.” He is Carter’s uncle. I will not harm him without good reason. “I need concrete evidence that the traveller community is linked to Carter’s disappearance before I pursue an investigation.”

Eli gave my sweat-slicked forehead a cursory glance. “Then allow me to, secretly, obtain information until further notice. My intuition does not mislead. I trust my gut.” His pointer finger jabbed the image of Sheila Ayres and John Doe. “They know something. I feel it.”

Eli spoke like an experienced member of the institution. I was impressed but unforthcoming. I did not want to get too excited by his efforts to avoid the risk of disappointment. He might turn out like his younger brother, useless and replaceable.

Someone-or something-whispered in my ear.

Jerking back on instinct, I placed both hands over my ears, rubbing up and down to weed out irritants. “If you think a second visit to Birmingham is worthwhile, do it at your own discretion.”

“Are you sure everything is alright?” Eli’s concerned gaze locked on me. “You don’t look so good.”

What’s wrong with you, Bradley?

Feeling intolerably queasy, I thrust a hand through my hair.

Long hair is for girls, Bradley.

I flinched, nearly falling back on the chair.

Remember what happened the last time you were silly, Bradley?

My heart got trapped in my throat.

Herhandis in my pyjama bottoms.

Herheadis between my legs.

Hermouthis around my cock.

My sweet baby.

“Water.” Powerless to the inquisitiveness of Warren’s men, I licked my dry lips. “Just shut the fuck up and get me a bottle of water!” A glass of water magically appeared, like it fell from the sky and floated in front of me, and when I peered up, Cole, with the attentiveness of an empath, smiled sympathetically at me. “Thank you.”

Cole returned to his seat. “No problem.”

My hand shook as I reached for the glass.

I am never taking drugs again.

“Good morning, fellas!” Josh joined the meeting, wearing a royal blue timeless suit, ice diamonds and a wide smile. “So, I heard through the grapevine that Nate is the father to Blaire’s baby. We should arrange a night out to wet his little head.” He fist-bumped a couple of the lads. “Any excuse for a night on the town.”

It is not the worst idea. I cannot remember the last time the lads got together for non-work-related downtime.

“What have I missed?” Josh placed a mug of steamy coffee onto the table, popped open the button of his suit jacket and folded into the chair between Cole and Terrence, the unsmiling Ukrainians. Then, with the observance of a good friend, he stared at me for a second or two. “You good?”

My head dipped.

His eyes bore into me. “You sure?”

My throat cleared.

“Okay.” Josh did not believe me, but he moved on. “Where is Vincent?”

Vincent is busy doingVincent.

“Eli,” I said, clicking the top of a pen. “Follow your gut. Find John Doe and put a portfolio together.” The man stood, buttoning up his suit jacket. “Your brother can go with you.” Cole got to his feet. “Do not come back without answers. I want to know everything there is to know about Sheila Ayres’ secret meetings.”

The brothers exited the office.

“Terrence, I want you to team up with Sailor,” I gave orders, and Josh huffed out a displeased sigh. “Nate is out of the office pending further instructions, which means I am without one of the syndicate’s most skilled and resourceful men. I need you both to be on your best performance. Josh, can I trust you with Gateway?” He nodded, so I amended the rota. “Let’s do a quick recap on the Russians. Nikolai is in the backseat at The House of Commons. His party is already in power, which is an advantage but does not solve current problems.” Warren is yet to be exonerated. “What is the update on our current prime minister?”

“He is still breathing,” someone said as I read through the documents. “That will change at your request.”

“I have waited long enough.” Writing notes on the page, I worked out time frames. “I want Nikolai’s leadership opportunity to be brought forward. He must win the contest for us to proceed. Pay a visit to members of his party and active unionists. Achieve a unanimous vote. Once he is selected, make our current prime minister disappear from the face of the earth. Nikolai will have a winning chance at elections. Do not get it twisted, though. We still need him to be appointed by the Monarch. However, I can work on that at a later date.” Turning the page, I inspected the collected evidence. “Regarding the man’s private life, have we uncovered anything useful during telephone and internet-based conversations?”

“There has been no communication with Belmarsh,” Josh informed the brothers. “Nikolai speaks to his brother, Alessio, most evenings, but that’s about it. As of yet, I have nothing major to report.”

I added Josh’s review to Nate’s notes with a scrape of the pen. “Is there anything else to report before I continue?”

“Actually, I wish to raise a few concerns.” Eddie is nervous. I can hear the shallowness of his breath from across the table. “We ran into a few issues with distribution last night. I did call, text and email. I presume you were off-duty.”

“I am never off-duty.” But I have been preoccupied lately. Blaire’s death and Nate’s son had the advantage. Emma is what I would like to call enjoyment. Aside from Dominic, she is the only source of pleasure I have, and even that is far and few between because she refused to see me until recently when I forced my way back into her life, and she threw the mental health act in my face. “What is the issue?”

“Alzaim dropped off the cranes, but they were mostly empty,” Eddie explained, and the hallucinatory face by the coffee stand cackled at my expense. “Eighty pallets of bananas. That’s it. No guns. No ammunition. Nothing. A purposeless conveyance of unprofitable goods.”

Perplexed, I leaned back in the chair, rubbing my eyes until black and gold specs replaced crazy images. “Mostly empty?”

“Yes, Sir,” Eddie confirmed for the sake of my sanity. “No stock.”

“A purposeless conveyance of unprofitable goods,” I repeated, apprehension eating at the lining of my stomach. “There should have been twenty-five kilos of cocaine.”

Eddie nodded once.

I did a quick calculation in my head. “That’s a street value of 2.5 million.”

He nodded twice.

“And there should have been firearms and ammunition.”

He nodded thrice.

“With an additional estimation of 1.2 million.”

He nodded fourfold.

“Either the importer forgot to post the goods, which is unprecedented in itself, or there is approximately 3.7 million worth of contraband missing.”

He nodded fivefold.

“Stop nodding like a fucking bobblehead.” My heart smashed against my ribs. “Use your words.”

Eddie froze mid-nod. “I apologise, Sir.”

Urging myself to breathe and think clearly, I muttered gutturally to myself. “This does not explain the eighty pallets of bananas.” I glanced at Josh for input. “What are your thoughts?”

“A possible mix-up at the port.” Josh twirled a pen with listless fingers. “Perhaps quay cranes are still in landside operations.”

That has never happened before. “Get Nate on the phone.”

Josh dialled Nate’s number and placed the call on the loudspeaker.

Two missed calls later, Nate answered gruffly, “Josh.”

“You are on speaker,” Josh told him. “Brad has a question for you.”

“What happened at Gateway?” I asked, and his silence suggested confusion. “Chaplin Jefferson?” Chaplin is London Gateway’s quay crane foreman, terminal controller and, clandestinely, long-term business associate to Warren Enterprise. “Well, which one of you fucked up? Where is the stock?”

“What are you talking about?” Nate is baffled. That makes two of us. “Jefferson was on shift. He pointed me in the right direction and distracted himself whilst I cleared out. A few of the guys drove the stock to East London. I came back to the estate, as you know, to finish the job.” He meant Blaire. “Why? What’s the problem?”

I tapped the pen on the table. “Did you check inside the cranes?”

Nate paused. “No.”

“You fucking idiot.” Anger pumped heated blood through my veins. “What am I supposed to do with empty containers?”

“Give me a break,” he argued, and I hurled the pen across the table in frustration. “I got one pair of hands, Brad. How can you expect me to juggle all this shit by myself? So, I made a mistake. I apologise. But let’s not forget that I was running around ragged yesterday. I had a baby to consider.”

“Over three million,” I retorted, and he cursed into the phone. “Three fucking million, and you want compassion. Fuck you, Nate.”

Nate sighed audibly. “Shit.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Do you want to write this down for the boss, or should I?”

“No, don’t do that.” Nate did not want to disappoint the boss any more than he had. “Let me handle it. I will call Jefferson to locate the crates.”

“No, you will take care of the kid whilst I fix this mess.” My hand flicked, and Josh ended the call. “It’s no big deal-just a misunderstanding. Josh is right. The stock is probably in landside operations.” Rubbing the ache from my temples, I read The Grape and Vine’s low inventory turnover: failed to meet consumer demand. “What is this?” A figment of my imagination, I hoped. “Who spoke to Will?”

“I did.” Terrence’s elbows rested on the table. “William, too, had concerns this week. The restaurant had no wine deliveries. He called an emergency meeting with employees to be sure nobody sold the vintage bottles in the cellar. He also mentioned a decline in customers due to insufficient stock.”

I shot him an icy glare. “Is someone fucking with me? Are there any other issues I need to deal with?” I opened the folder submitted by Vincent to check the profit margin at Club 11. Everything appeared to be normal. “Of course, I can rely on Vincent.” Closing the folder with uncontrollable indignation, I flung it across the table, sheets of paper fluttering in the air between us. “Vincent knows how to get shit done!”

The paucity of common sense in this room left me in a state of profound discombobulation. I pondered how to undo the damage and came unstuck. I had to rest, regroup and rethink, but until then, I could reach out to Warren’s business partner in France. He forgot to ship the goods is an acceptable explanation. Or he shipped the goods-and I am royally fucking screwed.

Hands lowering from my face, I rose to my feet, stepped over the strewn paper and searched through contacts on my phone. “I am sick to the back teeth of everyone’s carelessness. If it is not one excuse, it is another. So, I am going to hit you where it hurts. You will not be paid this month.”

A round of complaints resounded animatedly as the men lunged to their feet, chair legs scraping on the floor, to throw hands in the air.

“Every time you step on my shoes, I will step on yours. If you are incapable of sticking to the program? See yourselves out. Warren Enterprise is not beholden to you. You are replaceable. Good riddance.” My mood is entirely combative. “If you want to be here, I suggest a change in performance. I will not suffer the consequences of your actions.”

One by one, the men returned to their seats, albeit reluctantly.

“I want explanations.” Pouring myself another beverage, I swigged three mouthfuls of delectable coffee. “The restaurant is without stock. Why? It is your job to repair and maintain. Contact the suppliers and ask questions. I will assume that it is a transit issue. If so, I can move along. If not, I need to know why the suppliers have stopped doing business with us. The same applies to Gateway. No shipment equals no drugs. What does that mean for us? No money. And money is the sole fucking purpose.” My hands pressed onto the table. “Warren had allies in Germany and Belgium. He closed the accounts to trade with France. It might be an idea to get in contact with former business partners.”

Josh looked worried. “Do you think France is preparing to cut ties?”

“Yes.” The thought had crossed my mind. “It is logistically feasible.”

“Fuck.” Josh fell back in the chair, hands clasping the back of his head. “They have been in business with Warren for over a decade. Why would they do this? And without reason.”

I never voiced incomprehensibilities.

“And the restaurant,” Josh prattled on. “That’s not a coincidence. Losing control over the cocaine and heroin trade is bad enough. But The Grape and Vine is Warren’s goldmine. He is sitting on millions in wine bottles alone…” My murderous glare told him to watch his mouth. “I mean, that’s an over-exaggeration. He can survive without the cellar.”

“I agree.” Terrence’s eyes flickered around the table. “Someone is trying to drive Warren Enterprise out of business.”

That’s exactly what I thought.

Josh went through another folder. “Italy is our biggest wine supplier. Perhaps that’s why The Grape and Vine took a beating this week. This whole situation is a fetor of Italian blood.” He closed the folder and dumped it on the pile of assignments. “Prepare for the worst, lads. This is a personal attack on our resources.”

“French renegades will not damage business. Italian rivals will not put a cinch in our armour,” I spoke confidently, but inwardly, I feared the worst. “The dissociation of mobsters per se does not work, as those separated can easily be replaced with competitors. Afghanistan retains almost eighty-five percent of the world’s heroin. We all know that Colombia is unrivalled when it comes to cocaine.” My brain tripped over indecipherable emotions. “The global market for illicit drugs is there for the taking.”

“What about firearms? Eastern Europe smuggles contraband to France.” Terrance’s lips rolled over his teeth. “We need the French on our side.”

France will not hold us over a barrel. “Not if we cut out the middle man.”

“How?” Eddie gave me a strange look. “France is quite literally the centre of international trade.”

“Port of Algeciras Bay.” It is the best I can come up with until I connect with France, but even then, I am not holding my breath because I genuinely believed the French had fucked us over. “Spain.”

Terrance’s fingers threaded together, knuckles clicking. “Spain?”

“Yes, Spain.” If I can persuade Spain, Columbia and Afghanistan to do business with Warren Enterprise, I can distribute illicit trade to low-ranked errand boys and keep affected companies afloat. “Vincent’s second home.”

“Oh, I like it. I like it a lot.” Josh’s eyes glittered in triumph. “Vincent is also in bed with the Port of Southampton, right?”

Yes, the man boasted about connections with the south coast of England at breakfast once (when Warren chased Alexa to Newquay, Cornwall). I went along for the ride and the food. And the alcohol. And the hot chicks bedecked in Hawaiian costumes.

Christ, I loved that trip. I could have stayed out there forever, all sun, sand and sex and naughty parties at the cliffside cabin with a pair of hot blondes and Jace, the likeable enemy. “I wonder what happened to Bear.”

Josh’s head tilted. “Who?”

“My unicorn.” It was big, fluffy and sparkly. “Technically, I gave him to Alexa, but the cheeky bitch abandoned him to the tide. I found him on the beach hours later.” He was partly buried, alcohol-strained and missing one eye. “Then, I lost him again.”

“Right…” Josh scratched the sharp line of his jaw. “About the Port of Southampton. It will put Gateway on the back burner…” His eyes were prying slits. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“No,” I said, watching the tiniest leprechaun dance on his shoulder. “I think I am having a mental breakdown. Just stop!” I snapped, and the mischievous sprite let go of Josh’s ear. “I have never experienced anything like this in my life.”

“Brad…” Josh’s chair legs scratched the floor as he stood to come around the table. “What the fuck did you do?” Grabbing my face, he examined my eyes. “Ah, shit. Everyone get out.”

The room emptied, unhurried footsteps pitter-pattering down the hall. I bet the men are relieved. I am not in the most hospitable of moods.

Josh shut the door behind them, securing our privacy, and then he returned with a water bottle.

I drank it, willingly and thirstily, the cold liquid like heaven on my tongue.

He binned the empty water bottle. “What have you taken?”

“Cocaine.” My eyes got distracted by the melting walls and cracks in the ceiling. “LSD.”

“You are mad.” Unfolding a silk handkerchief, he mopped the sweat on my forehead. “And you had the nerve to call me an addict.”

“You are an addict.” My throat hurt too much to swallow. “I am just having a bad day. Month. Year,” I spat, head lolling on the back of the chair. “Is my phone actually ringing, or am I hallucinating again?”

Josh reached into my trouser pocket, grabbed my phone and checked the caller’s identification. “You have three missed calls.”

“Emma?” I asked, snatching the phone out of his hand to see Cherry’s name on the screen. “I have a stalker.”

He glimpsed the screen’s thread of notifications. “That crazy redhead is obsessed with you.”

“Yes,” I said with a wicked smile. “She is a cock hungry bitch.”

“You know she is in love with you, right?” His face was hard and serious. “She has the lovesickness of an eighteen-year-old virgin.”

“Oh, she is definitely not a virgin,” I said nonsensically, and he nodded, an all-knowing glint in his eyes. “But you know that already because you fucked her six ways from Sunday.”

“And you sound jealous.”

“Have a day off.” I am not jealous of another man’s unwanted goods. “You can rail her in for all I care.”

“If she revolts you so much, why do you go there?” He looked me up and down. “Are there not plenty of other women at the club to entertain?”

I go there because she makes it easy for me. “You might find this hard to believe, but I don’t hate her. I respect and appreciate her more than I let on.”

He smirked wittingly. “I gathered.”

“Alright, knower of all.” My veins thrummed. I had to get up and move around. “Keep your ego in check.”

“Another missed call,” he said, staring at the phone’s flashing screen. “I will never understand you two. Take it to the next level already.”

My stomach churned. “Never.”

“Why not?” He chuckled. “You are like an old married couple anyway.”

I disagreed. “I used to be ridiculously attracted to her. And then I walked into a suite one night and caught her with another man’s cock in her mouth. I lost interest instantly. I associated her with prostitution and learnt rather quickly that I was not special. I was a client.”

“But you never paid for her services.”

“You say that like it means something. The dancers are allowed to engage in sexual activity with the syndicate men as per mutual consent. I am not the only member of The Brotherhood she has taken to bed. Does she not get on her knees for you?” I asked, and his lips thinned. “Exactly. And you are one of many. How can I develop feelings for someone who has fucked more men than a porn star? It’s not like she chose me over the job. Money is her main priority.” My shoulders lifted insouciantly. “It’s not selfish to look out for your own interest in our world.”

He nodded agreeably.

My phone vibrated. “I have to go.”

“Go?” His hand thrust my chest, and I collapsed in the seat. “Where are you going? You are in no condition to get behind the wheel. You should stay here and sleep until the comedown subsides.”

“Sleep? I am coked-up and tripped-up to the fucking hills and back. Overstimulation is kicking my arse-that and Yolanda’s face in the corner.” Jumping to my feet, I slid two hands over my head to neaten my appearance. “I need you to step in for a couple of hours. I trust that you will do the job efficiently.”

“Why?” He followed me into the hallway. “Where are you going?”

“To fuck everything out of my system.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Brad

I had consumed a surfeit of drugs with regretful superabundance. Cocaine is procedural to function when enervated or under pressure, but acute intoxication by the component of lysergic acid diethylamide is an acknowledged mistake on my part.

Powerful hallucinogens are not a laughing matter. It is downright terrifying. If you see imaginary people, hear disembodied voices, feel the cold touch of the dead and experience sensory distortion, or worse, collide with the pain-filled flashbacks of your past, then it is time for a long, hard look in the mirror and some censorious self-reflection.

Muscle weakness and impermanent paralysis ensued whilst I slept. I cracked one eye open, evaluating the current situation. I am on someone’s double bed, with arms and legs outstretched, spread-eagled, stark naked and temporarily disorientated.

My head pounded.

My limbs ached.

It felt like I had been hit by a bus.

I recognised the leopard print shell-backed chair in the corner.

“Christ.” My face burrowed into the pillow. “Why do I do this to myself?”

I am a glutton for punishment.

Animal print inspired the decor. Teal-coloured sofas and gold pouffes matched the bed. Potted trees sat on the acrylic tables, and brightly coloured cushions littered the mustard sheepskin rug on the hardwood floor. The maximalist design stretched throughout. Even the bathroom had pink neon heart lights on gilded shelves. Everything, from the walls to the ornaments, is vibrant, quirky and edged with chaos, just like the owner’s personality.

It would seem that I paid an exploratory visit to Cherry’s apartment, which came as no surprise because the melange of wild grotesqueries is the home away from home recently.

“Hey, you,” Cherry said with a hint of accismus as her arrowhead fingernails drew patterns on my back. “How are you feeling?”

My face turned.

Cherry, who has been at Club 11 since its inception, is sprawled out on the bed next to me, her bright red hair fanned across the pillow, her naked body twisted in satin sheets.

“I know that look.” Her face was clear of makeup. “Confusion.”

Self-chastisement is more apt.

“Well?” Her blue eyes were softer and prettier without false eyelashes and layers of mascara. “Jesus, Brad. You are scaring me.”

I glanced at the curtained window, where the faintest flicker of light shone into the dark bedroom. “What time is it?”

“Six a.m.,” she confirmed the worst, and I forced myself to sit up. “Hey, where are you going? I thought you wanted to sleep for an eternity?”

I checked the time and date on my phone. “Shit.”

“What?” Holding the sheet to her chest, she propped up onto one elbow. “Did something happen?”

“I have slept for over sixteen hours.” Reaching for the watch on the bedside dresser, I strapped it to my wrist. “And my head is no better.”

“Technically, you slept for thirteen hours,” she said with a flirtatious undertone. “Unadulterated fucking occupied three hours.” Her eyebrow curved. “Or were you too coked-up to remember?”

“I remember.” My shoulders had sore fingernail dents to prove it. “You left a key under the mat for me.” I drove here straight after the casino’s closed-door conclave, raided her cupboards, took a shower and nose-dived on the bed in extreme tiredness. “And I forgot to pick you up.”

“You also helped yourself to the casserole in the fridge.” Her finger outlined deep scratch marks on my back. “I must say, coming home to find you asleep in my bed was a really nice surprise.” The egregious creature drew what very much resembled a love heart on the nape of my neck. “You are myfavouritebedmate.”

Right, because she preferred to have a private audience with the boss’s second-in-command over the rapaciousness of other syndicate men. “Let’s not pretend that I am special.”

“I reserve preferential treatment for you,” she said as I stood to pick up discarded clothes on the floor. “You know it is true. I am hardly available to the others. For you, I drop everything to accommodate.”

“I know.” My backside landed on the nearest chair. “I appreciate it.”

“You appreciate it. That’s it?” She searched my eyes for an elusive answer. “You could at least pretend to be grateful.”

I rolled on a pair of socks. “Did I not express gratitude merely three seconds ago?”

Throwing the sheet off her naked body, she climbed out of bed and walked confidently across the room to grab lace underwear in the drawer. “You can’t even look at me.”

I wish people would stop saying that. “I am looking at you.”

“You stare at the floor to avoid me,” she said, and my eyes lifted to argue to the contrary. “What did I do to upset you this time?”

“Nothing,” I answered honestly. “You have donenothingwrong.”

“Then, why do you look disgusted by me?” Her back leaned against the acrylic chest of drawers. “Brad, if you do not start communicating with me, I am going to rip your dick off.”

“Yeah, right.” My body relaxed in the chair. “You love this big cock too much to put it out of business.”

“Conduct yourself,” she said, cool and calm. “You are notthatbig.”

“I will take your word for it,” I replied dismissively, and her covetous stare fell to my flaccid cock. “The novelty of being carnal attraction decreased a long time ago.”

Her eyes rolled.

“You can roll your eyes all you want.” I glared at her, decidedly miffed. “Having a problematically large cock is becoming a real fucking issue for me.”

“Since when?” Her stare sharpened. “I have never complained. In fact, I love feeling sore after we fuck. The pain is a constant reminder of you.”

I eyed the red marks on her throat and chest, the bruises on her hips and the teeth indents on her shoulders. “It’s not supposed to hurt, Cher.”

“What?” Her whole face scrunched up. “Are you still high? Do I need to call Nate?”

“Did I ask you to call Nate?” I snapped, and she cringed. “No, I did not. I am trying to have a serious conversation with you, and you are not taking me seriously.”

“Okay.” With the sudden nervousness of a delicate wallflower, she sat on the coffee table in front of me and, interlacing our fingers, placed our joint hands on her bruised thighs. “I do not want to make a habit of bickering. We have never struggled to talk.” She peered at me from underneath choppy bangs. “I am your friend first. Let me try and help as I have always done.”

I decided to be brutally honest. “There is no emotional component to sex.”

“For you, perhaps.” Her eyes twinkled in discomfort. “However, for me, I do feel an emotional connection with you during sex. But you know that already. I have never been shy about what I want.”

My thumb swept over her knuckles. “I want to do things differently.”

“What do you mean?” Her hands twitched restlessly. “Is this about him?” She nodded at my manhood. “Or, is this about our arrangement? I am not sure that I follow.”

“Both, I guess.” My body was painfully tense, as were the words that I spoke. “Look, I cannot do anything about the size of an erection. It is what it is. I want to be more mindful about how I use it in the future, though.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek.

“I am getting older, Cher,” I whispered, and she listened intently. “I know there is more to sex than hardcore fucking and sexual affairs with numerous women for the prevalence of self-gratification. What type of example am I setting for those who look up to me? I have a son to consider.”

“Dominic.” Her face flushed. “Will I meet him someday?”

No, I will never invite this woman into my son’s life.

Cherry let go of my hands as if the closeness between us suddenly sickened her. “What the fuck is going on?”

“I have started therapy,” I told her, and her lips twisted. “I am addressing issues once and for all. I asked the therapist to help me to achieve certain goals in life. And Cher, I make progress…and then I fall into old habits with you.”

“Excuse me?” She rose to her feet with a glare of contempt. “Is that all I am to you? An old habit?”

“Do not act like I have never been direct and honest with you. You have always known where I have stood in this situation. I never lied,” I spat, and she scoffed. “Why are you upset?”

“Who is she?” she asked, and I masked uneasiness. “Who is the other woman?”

I had no intention of hurting this woman. “There is no one else.”

“You are a bold-faced liar,” she snarled, and I bit back annoyance. “I knew something was wrong. I could feel the disconnect when you fucked me last night. You didn’t want to be here…” Her eyes filled with tears as the realisation dawned on her. “You bastard.”

I looked away.

“You dare to sit there and open up to me with the intent of pleasing someone else,” she said angrily, throwing a sequined cushion at me. “What’s next, huh? You want me to get into bed with you and demonstrate how to make a woman feel good inside? How to make her feel loved and special!”

My jaw clenched.

“That’s all I have ever been to you, isn’t it?” She shoved me around the bedroom as I attempted to get dressed. “An unappreciated fucking sex coach for the grown-ass man with mummy issues!”

“Fuck you.” Too angry to withdraw, I hurled her kicking, screaming body onto the bed. “And people have the nerve to say that I am a heartless cunt.” The crazy bitch was on the attack. “Fuck you, Cher. Fuck. You.”

“No, fuck you!” Shrieking profanities for every damn neighbour within the apartment complex to overhear, she lashed out, the heels of her feet clipping my shins. ” I hate you, Brad Jones!” Her face was iron-hot red. “I fucking hate you!”

“Stop.” In an attempt to calm her down, I wrestled for space between her thighs and crawled on top of her. “Bianca,” I growled, pinning her arms above her head, and she stiffened beneath me, ramrod and unblinking. “End this madness.”

“Brad,” she croaked, and, unable to meet her longing gaze, I studied the constellation of beauty spots on her cheek. “Please don’t do this to me.”

Releasing her wrists, I listened to the hitch of her shallow breathing.

“I love you.” Her anger broke into guttural cries. “It has always been you.”

Feeling like a complete and utter prick, I lowered my forehead to her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I rasped in her ear. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Her hands struck my back in vexation, once, twice, three times before her fingernails dug into my skin, clinging to me as raw, throaty sobs wracked through her body.

I let her hurt me, hold me. It was the only thing I could do to be sympathetic and understanding.

Her tears soaked my cheek.

Her pain pierced my ear.

With one hand pressed to the mattress above her head, I slid an arm under her back, keeping her locked in my embrace tightly, for as long as she needed, for the pain I had caused.

“Why?” Her soft hand smoothed along my arm. “Why can’t it be me? I have stood by you since the very beginning.”

“And, for that, I will forever hold you in high regard.” My lips touched the shell of her ear. “But I can’t pretend to be happy, Cher. Not when I am so fucking miserable.”

“I can make you happy.” Fingernail drawing shapes on my back, she snivelled quietly. “If you will allow it.”

Happiness is not with her. “I really don’t want to hurt you.”

“I need you to be straight with me.” Breathing in deeply, she braced herself for the truth. “Have you met someone?”

My Adam’s apple shifted.

“You have, haven’t you?” Hot tears streamed down her blotchy cheeks. “What makes her so special, huh? Why does she get to reap the rewards of all my hard work?”

I ignored the barrage of questions.

Then, without warning, her palm struck my cheek, short and sharp.

My head whipped to the side on impact. Yes, it hurt, but I will give her that one. If she does it again, I won’t be held accountable for my actions.

“Get off me,” she said furiously, and I did so with pleasure. “You are not welcome here anymore. Do you hear me?” She could not see beyond incandescent rage. “My door is closed to you. I don’t want to speak to you ever again.”

I finished getting dressed, head down, cheek sore.

“Even at the club!” Her one-way argument was futile because I had no intention of prolonging the inevitability of our separation. “If I am on shift, you better walk in the opposite direction. In fact, I would prefer it if you never came to Club 11 ever again.”

“This is a pointless conversation.” Sitting on the edge of the sofa, I laced the leather shoes onto my socked feet. “You know I cannot walk away from the club. I work for Warren.”

Dressed haphazardly to drive home, I grabbed my phone, keys and wallet from the bedside table and headed for the front door.

Cherry’s footsteps crashed against the floor behind me. “Wait,” she sobbed, her arms wrapping around my middle section, her hands reaching up to splay across my chest. “How many times will you break my heart?”

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

“Why did you sleep with me?” Her face buried into my back. “I have never felt so used, dirty and unwanted.”

“I told you. I am susceptible to old habits.” Instead of driving home and sleeping until the drugs wore off, I came here, where I felt safe and invulnerable. “Do not make this harder than it already is. For the first time since I met you, I am trying to do right by you. You will thank me someday. Now that I have walked away and told you where I stand, you can prioritise yourself, as you should. You can put whatever we had behind you and find a man that will treat you better than I ever have because you will meet someone, and he will be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Her head shook vehemently.

Prying her hands down, I turned to face her and cupped her cheeks, whispering a gentle kiss on the frown between her brows. “Bianca,” I said, and her glassy eyes brightened. “You like it when I say your real name.”

“Yes.” She rubbed tears from her eyes. “It’s the only part of my old life that you and Warren refuse to let me forget.” Her raspy laughter is short-lived. “The boss says it when he is angry at me, though. You have only ever said it to pacify me when I am not feeling like myself.”

“If I ever come back, it will be for the wrong reasons.” My thumbs wiped tears on her cheeks. “Do yourself a favour. Slam the door in my face and tell me to fuck off. You must not be a doormat for me any longer. Got it?”

She expelled a shaky breath. “Okay.”

***

Dominic was beside himself when I waltzed into the playroom this afternoon. He abandoned Mabel and the array of interactive toys on the floor to rush into my arms.

Damn, if I never got to my knees to catch him. I might have held him for the longest of hugs whilst he babbled and tugged on my ear. I had missed him, and that moment of embracement was what I needed after a long couple of days juggling work and personal issues.

My phone had multiple notifications, missed calls and text messages, but I responded to no one. It was father and son time in the cinema room, with duvets, pillows, snacks and Monsters Inc on the big screen.

Mabel decided to join us about twenty minutes ago. She is reclined on the other sofa, fast asleep and snoring like a wild boar.

Dominic enjoyed the movie in intervals. His attention did not stretch for the entire viewing because using his father as a climbing frame was far more fun.

“You are impossible,” I groaned, his bare feet bouncing on my hip. “I did not stretch out and relax for you to snap bones. Go and climb on Mabel instead.”

“Mum!” Snatching a handful of my hair, he chomped on his fist. “Babba-mum.”

I heaved a deep breath.

Mike called Boo a killing machine on the screen.

“Boo!” Dominic’s hands clapped, the blue dummy in his mouth plummeting to the bed of duvets beneath us. “Boo, boo, boo, boo.” Then, as if the sharp stomps to the side of my body were not funny enough, he struck the middle of my forehead with the underside of his hand. “Boo!”

“Ah,” I complained, whacking the evil kid’s hand away. “You little shit. That hurt.”

Dominic blew raspberries.

“Hit me again, I dare you,” I warned, and he giggled into the groove of my neck.“I am not joking. The violence has to stop. I still have bruises on my leg from the last time you booted the shit out of me.”

He sprawled across my chest, his arms and legs dangling, his ear listening to my regular heartbeat.

“Dominic.” I poked him in the back, and his eyes, the same colour hues as his father, peered up at me. “I love you, son.”

“Babba,” he babbled, his fingers playing with the end of my hair.

My cheek rested on the top of his head.

I could stay like this forever.

Father and son.

Just the two of us against the world.

His unconditional love is more than enough.

“Dadda,” he said, and an overwhelming sense of pride came to me as I kissed the side of his head. “Babba-dad.”

“I told you.” Mabel’s thick, croaky voice cracked with boastful triumph. “He is always calling you. It’s just that you work so much. You don’t get to see him often.”

I could have sworn the crazy old bint fell asleep. “I am trying.” My hand tapped the baby’s back alongside the movie’s gentle beat in the background. “I will continue to try until I am better for everyone.”

A guard, coy and apologetic, appeared by the door.

“This better be important,” I said in a harsh tone of decisiveness. “I am spending quality time with my son.”

“Yes.” His worried gaze briefly settled on Dominic. “Only, there is an ex-employee at the gate demanding to see you. Apparently, it cannot wait.”

“I do not see the importance of an ex-employee.” I scowled disapprovingly. “Send his arse packing.”

“She,” he enunciated. “I believe she once held the position of Dominic’s full-time nanny.”

Alice Montgomery.

Mabel looked concerned.

“Do not worry yourself.” With one final kiss on Dominic’s forehead, I carried him to the old mare. “Your position is not jeopardised.”

Dominic started to cry when he saw his father leave the room.

Shutting the door behind me, I followed the guard upstairs and told him to unlock the main gates for the unexpected visitor.

Then, whilst I waited for her to arrive, I went to the office, prepared myself a stiff drink and sat behind the uncluttered desk.

I waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Perhaps the little blonde got lost on her travels.

I almost stood to call the guard when the svelte female in question materialised in the doorway. Only, she did not look like the woman I remembered. I had to do a double take. Her silken red hair sat just above her shoulders. Her crystal blue eyes, framed with thick black eyelashes, matched the colour of her jumper dress. She had contoured her face with warm shades to accentuate her profile.

“Miss Montgomery.” I gestured to the chair opposite my desk. “Sit.”

“Alice is fine,” she said, soft and oddly rehearsed. “It is good to see you.”

“I wish I could say the same about you.” My eyes marked her every movement. “I thought I told you to get off my estate.”

“I did.” Her body eased into the chair with elegant grace. “I listened. I walked away and never looked back.”

“Yet, here you are, poking the bear.” My fingers strummed along the whiskey glass. “I almost killed you. You were lucky to leave freely. You probably should have left it that way. Now, I am tempted to finish what I started and send you out of the estate in a body bag.”

Her face scorched red. “I am sorry for coming between you and Emma.”

I felt a twinge in my chest.

“I had no business answering your phone that night. It was completely unacceptable. I take full responsibility.” Her hands folded on her lap. “I do hope that you both found a way around it. I imagine everything is well between the two of you now that I have left the estate.”

Grunting into the glass, I sipped whisky to slake the dryness in my throat. “What do you want, Alice?”

Her tense shoulders rolled until she relaxed. “You look well.”

I gave her an impatient look.

“How is Dominic?” She smiled to hide her downheartedness. “I have missed him very much.”

I scowled with unrestrained seriousness. “My son is not your concern.”

“I still care about him,” she said in a gentle voice. “I think about him often.”

I remained straight-faced.

“Very well.” Unzipping the leather handbag, she uprooted an envelope and placed it on the desk between us. “I come bearing gifts.”

“What is it?” I asked, and she simply watched me with mute indifference. “Let me guess. You wish to sue an ex-employer for being a naughty boss.”

“Not at all.” She gazed at me with soft, unblinking eyes. “It is good news, I hope.”

Okay, that last comment unsettled me.

Reaching for the envelope, I tore the seam and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Photographic paper, to be exact. An ultrasound image. I studied it long and hard, reading the date, the hospital’s reference number and the mother’s name.

“I am pregnant,” she confirmed, and I glimpsed at the small-almost unnoticeable-bump of her middle section with soaring dread. “And it is yours.”

I laughed, low and gravelly. “You are a liar.”

“I can assure you that I am not.” Her strong, fierce demeanour struck every bone in my body. “Trust me, Mr Jones. I wish I could say that someone else fathered my child. You are not exactly the perfect candidate to raise children, not in the dangerous world you choose to live in. But that would be a bare-faced lie. You were the only man I slept with during the time I conceived.”

“That kid could belong to anyone,” I said with uncontrollable indignation. “We were not in a relationship. I do not know where you travelled or who you bedded. You could have fucked your way to Shantytown and back for all I know.”

“You can attest to the fact I never left the estate whilst I worked here.” She circled her palm with a manicured fingernail. “If I did leave, it was on the rarest of occasions, and I always returned before dark. Unless you are accusing one of your men of impregnating me, who else, except you, could be responsible for the baby growing inside my stomach?”

I felt the warm blood in my body freeze over. “I can’t be the child’s father.”

“Can’t or won’t?” she challenged, and I swallowed the taste of acidic bile in my throat. “If you are so anxious, do a paternity test once the baby is born. I have nothing to hide.”

Her smug-faced confidence had my heart racing at a dangerous speed.

“Alice, I have only just bonded with my son after the last baby mother screwed me over,” I said whispery. “Do not be another reason for me to suffer.” Not when I am closer than I have ever been to a life of love and normalcy. “I fear that I will break if faced with any more pain or hardship.”

“Am I supposed to care?” Her chin raised in defiance. “Who are you to talk about pain and hardship after all the suffering you have inflicted on others? You wrapped your hands around my throat and tried to kill me,” she whisper-shouted, her face pink and furious. “Yet, here I am, with the courage of a moral citizen, giving you the chance to be in the baby’s life. I trust you will do right by him, irrespective of our differences.”

I could not breathe.

“Dominic’s mother robbed you of all his firsts,” she reminded me, cold and impassive. “You probably deserve the same treatment from me. However, I am willing to give you a shot at redemption if you can keep death threats to the bare minimum.”

Downing a shot of whiskey, I uncapped the bottle and refilled the glass. “I do not like you.”

“That is something we can agree on.”

I gave her a pointed look. “I regret the night I fucked you.”

“Again,” she clipped, “I am in complete agreement.”

My temples hurt. “I wore a condom.”

“The condom split,” she said, and I had nothing to respond. I don’t even remember much from that night. It is mostly sporadic. “You complained about it while flushing it down the toilet.”

“I flopped.” My eyes sliced in suspicion. “I never even finished.”

She scratched the tip of her nose. “Do I need to school you on how pre-ejaculation works?”

I have never liked this woman or her sarcasm. “I am not uneducated.”

Alice glared, straight-backed and risibly snobbish.

“Look me in the eye,” I instructed, and she did, without so much as a crack in her self-assured expression. “Tell me the child is mine.” My stare dared her to walk the road of deception. “Say it, Alice.”

“You are the baby’s father,” she said with an air of assertiveness. “Positively.”

My heart thumped erratic beats in my ears. I was one the verge of throwing up, emptying the contents of this afternoon’s snack time all over the bastard floor.

“Why do you look so distraught?” The corner of her red-painted lips curled up. “It’s not like I am asking for you to marry me. I am simply offering you the chance to be in the baby’s life.”

Infuriated with myself for even throwing her down on the bed and fucking her in the first place, I thumbed a bead of sweat from my brow.

“Right,” she said tightly, reclaiming the ultrasound image and tucking it into her purse. “Well, I apologise for the inconvenience. I suppose I better be on my way. I don’t want to hold you up more than I have.”

Alice stood.

“Where do you live?” I wondered aloud, and she chose not to answer. “If-and this is a big fucking if-that baby is mine, I need to know where his mother is staying. A healthy pregnancy is important to me.”

“Oh.” Her spine straightened. “I have been sleeping at a hotel since I left the estate. It was easier than looking for a place at such short notice.”

“Are you working?” I asked, and she shook her head. “Then, how can you afford five-star accommodation?”

“A three-star hotel,” she tweaked, and I openly disapproved. “What? Not everyone can afford a life of luxury, Mr Jones. I have to live within my means in order to survive. Plus, I have to save every penny for when the baby arrives. You understand the cost of raising a child.”

Yes, I have spent a fortune on Dominic.

“I am sorry for unsettling you.” She sounded genuine, but her eyes expressed great delight. “If you want nothing to do with him, I will understand. I do not want to force or pressurise you into being involved in his life.”

“Will you stop speaking on my behalf?” My hands flattened on the desk as I pushed to my feet. “I am not capable of making logical decisions right now. It’s not as though you have given me time to come to terms or mentally process the news. In case you haven’t noticed, I am stunned, speechless. The last thing I expected today was a visit from my son’s former nanny, telling me that she is with child. I need to think, so let me fucking think.”

A long pause stretched between us.

“I’m sorry, Mr Jones.” Her round, horrified eyes watered. “I should go.”

I watched as she hurried toward the door. “Wait,” I called, and her footsteps faltered. “I am not comfortable with you leaving when upset. Can you take a seat whilst I figure this out?”

“I do not want to be here.” She snivelled into the palm of her hand. “I am always scared in your presence. You frighten me like something chronic. Not to mention that you are unapologetically hurtful,” she cried, and I scrubbed a hand down my face. I seem to be breaking hearts everywhere today. “All I have ever done is try to help you and little Dominic. Yes, I made one bad decision and paid the ultimate price, but must you so cruelly berate me? Have I not shown respect and remorse for past behaviours? Why must you continuously hold me in contempt?”

I thought for a nanosecond. “I apologise for upsetting you.” A thousand concerns went through my mind as I considered my next step. “Are you impoverished? Do you have plans for dinner this evening?”

“I am a little destitute, but that is not why I came here.” Her hand clung to the strap of the leather handbag. “No, I do not have dinner plans. I hope to catch breakfast in the morning.”

“You can stay,” I offered, and she made a disgusted face. “Why be disrespectful? You sleep in a seedy three-star hotel and scrounge for free food. I am willing to provide free accommodation in a luxurious estate and twenty-four-hour access to the kitchen. You should be thanking me.”

“Why?” She walked toward me with slow, wary footsteps. “I am not your responsibility.”

I am not convinced the baby is mine. However, I had enough regrets to contend with. I missed the most important stages of Chloe’s pregnancy, the labour and the initial steps of my son’s development and progression because she thought I was unapproachable and unworthy of fathering her son.

History will not repeat itself.

I have the chance to rewrite past mistakes.

If Alice is true to her word, I will be true to mine. I will be there for her and the baby. But I refuse to form a bond until I have the paternity test results in my hand.

“Imightbe the father of your child,” I enunciated one particular word. “It is within my best interest to ensure he is safe and healthy. Therefore, I am offering you an opportunity to live at the estate. If you accept, I will have one of the men drive you to the hotel. You can collect your belongings and return for a comfortable night’s rest. We can discuss ground rules and boundaries in the morning.”

Alice nibbled her lower lip. “I don’t want to impose.”

Waiting for the right response, I sat on the ledge of the desk.

“If I stay, will you do your utmost not to shout at me?” Her meekness was unsurprising, given the circumstance. “I have been sensitive lately.”

I gave her a curt nod.

“Okay,” she agreed to stay here for the baby’s sake. “Shall I inform the guard at the door? He will not drive me anywhere without your permission.”

Unlocking my phone, I sent the guard a short message to authorise her chauffeured transportation. “Sorted.”

“Right.” She walked to the door with eager strides. “I guess I will see you later this evening.”

Alice slipped out of the office.

Thrusting a hand through my hair, I dragged myself to the sofa and collapsed on the cold leather. I did not want to share the estate with Alice again. I barely stomached her when she lived here. Now, I had to tolerate her and pretend to like her, all for the interest of a baby that might not even belong to me.

My phone vibrated.

Emma: Can you talk?

I almost deleted the message.

Me: There is nothing left to say.

Message read.

Emma: I deserve your coldness.

I disagreed.

Emma: Look, you have every right to be angry, hurt and upset. You have tried so hard to be there for me, and I have repeatedly slammed the door in your face.

That’s an understatement.

Emma: I stand by what I said.

Then, why is she texting me?

Emma: I cannot get over the pain in your eyes when you told me about the past. Yes, I had wondered if someone had hurt you because of the leaflet (the one you threw in the alleyway before). Yet, I was still unprepared for the truth when you spoke of it. I did not handle it with care or thought. My motherly instincts kicked in. I had the urge to wrap you in my arms and tell you everything would be okay.

I chewed on the end of a toothpick.

Emma: But that’s not what you wanted or needed. You looked for understanding. And Big Guy, I understand more than most because I am a victim of rape and sexual assault. I know what you are going through and how lonely it feels to be in that dark place by yourself.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

Emma: I want to make it right.

Me: You needn’t worry. I am stronger than I look.

I sent a wink emoji.

Emma: You are not mad?

Me: Mad at you? Never.

Emma: I think I just breathed for the first time since you left.

Me: I have that effect on people, especially women.

I inserted an aubergine emoji.

Emma: You have a talent for survival.

Me: How so?

Emma: I am stunned that a woman hasn’t killed you yet.

Me: LOL!

Me: My boss loves that abbreviation.

Message read.

Emma: So, can we be friends again?

The question felt like a knife to the throat.

Me: I am not normally friends with women I want to bed.

Licking the toothpick to the corner of my lips, I typed another message.

Me: Well, I am at the behest of this friendship until you fall in love with me.

Emma: Your confidence is staggering.

Me: My confidence hasneverfailed me.

Emma: I have to get back to work.

My chest tightened.

Emma: I can make time for you either way.

Her indecisiveness sent my emotions into a riot.

Me: What do you want from me, Emma? I came to you. I fought for you. You told me, under no circumstance, that you had the mental strength to deal with me. So, why did you reach out? You don’t have to stay in contact. I am not a petulant teenager that needs an ego stroke. I might not like it, but I can handle rejection. And you have rejected me time and time again.

Me: If this is an act of pity, I will re-break your other wrist. No joke.

Message read.

Emma: I reached out because I can’t stop thinking about you. Last night, when I lay alone in bed, I only wanted to crawl to your side and snuggle into your chest. I fell asleep missing you. I woke up missing you.

Emma: And I know how awful I sound. My son is missing, and here I am, fighting for another chance to see you again. But Brad, I don’t want to feel this emptiness anymore. I want to smile again if you are willing.

I studied the message thread with bated breath. Emma is not selfish for leaning on people for support, for needing someone in her hour if need. I appreciate that she is without the love of her son, but she did not deserve to be lonely and punished unmercifully. Even when times are hard, painful and grief-stricken, she is allowed to smile and be surrounded by the people who care about her, if only she’d lower those damn defensive walls.

Me: I asked you a simple question.

Emma: I answered.

Me: No, Emma.

Me: What do you want?

Emma: You.

Me: I am already yours. I made that quite clear.

Emma: Fine.

Me: Fine.

Emma: Would you like to go on a date with me?

A smile danced on my lips.

Me: I will have to check my diary.

Emma: You have a diary?

Me: No.

Emma: Brad!

Me: How does tomorrow sound?

Emma: Can I make one small request?

Me: Yes.

Emma: Can we go somewhere quiet?

Me: Why? Are you ashamed to be seen with me?

Emma: Of course not.

Me: Then, what’s the problem?

Emma: I am not ready for hectic, that is all.

Fair enough.

Me: Allow me to take care of you.

Emma: I trust you.

Locking the phone, I chucked it on the coffee table and shoved my face into the leather display cushion.

I had to tell Emma about Alice.

Just not yet.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Emma

Jacqueline is a bereaved parent facilitator. I found her details online when looking for local help centres. I liked her already. Her natural, upbeat demeanour, friendly smile and animated hand gestures made the next stages of my life easier than I had initially thought. I had a vision of walking into a room full of quiet, watchful people and then running back out.

Instead of drawing attention to me in front of a group of people, Jacqueline continued to engage with others, telling them about her weekend antics, and placed a spare chair in their formulated circle for me to become seated.

Sliding the handbag strap down my arm, I sat down on the plastic chair, stiff and nervous, and tuned into ongoing conversations.

“Archie was my youngest grandchild.” An older woman with short, jet-black hair, red-framed glasses and a multicoloured scarf spoke to the inner circle. “Archie was so happy and content for a baby. He rarely cried or fussed. He loved his sleep, warm cuddles and the sound of his mother’s laugh. His face would light up whenever his father leaned into the crib to pick him up or if the other children danced around in the background.”

Everyone had photo frames on their laps, as advised on Jacquline’s website. I glanced at each picture to put a face to the deceased. They were too young to be gone, babies, toddlers, teenagers and young adults.

“My daughter had called in the middle of the night. It was the most terrifying call I had ever received. God, I will never forget the pain and fear in her voice as she cried. She found little Archie in the cot, unbreathing and unresponsive.”

My heart squeezed.

“Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. He went to sleep and never woke up.” The older woman used scrunched-up tissues to dab tears underneath her eyes. “Never in a million years did I think something like this could happen to one of my grandchildren.”

Jacqueline nodded, listening to the woman’s heart-breaking story. I, however, had to look at the ceiling to blink back tears. I don’t know how people do this without falling apart. It is far too emotional for fragile hearts.

“I have to be strong for my daughter and Archie’s older brother and sister. I visit daily to help around the house: cooking, cleaning, laundry, and school runs. It is not unusual to see my daughter in bed, having stayed up all night, crying or vomiting, or to see an empty driveway because my son-in-law had to leave again. It’s too much for him, her pain, his pain, the children’s pain. He wanders off to think, I imagine.”

An older man snivelled.

“Even now, at forty-one years of age, my daughter needs me to come into her world and make everything okay, just like I did when she was a little girl. And I do it with a loving smile on my face and with words of encouragement because that’s what she is looking for: her mother’s reassurance and love. Little does she know, I go home every night and cry for poor little Archie and for the family he left behind.”

Jacqueline tapped the woman’s knee comfortingly and asked if anyone else would like to share their story.

“Hallie was twelve years old when she was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukaemia.” A middle-aged woman with straw-like blonde hair spoke up. “I don’t remember the moments after her death. It’s one big blur. I remember the anger I felt, though. I was so angry.” Her mouth opened and closed as she searched for the right words. “Why me? Why my child? Why did this have to be my life?”

I asked myself the same questions every day. I did not wish this crippling anguish on any parent, but why did it have to be my son? Why did it have to be Carter?

“Everything changed overnight.” Her lips wobbled as unpreventable tears trickled down her cheeks. “I had no reason to exist anymore. Yes, I had work to do and errands to run, but there were no after-school activities to tend to or specific groceries to buy at the supermarket. Hallie loved wine gums.” A husky cry slipped through her lips. “Why do I still buy them for her?”

The same reason I continued to buy smarties for my little human: unacceptance.

“I have one small pile of laundry to sort, one bed to make, one plate of food to prepare. I have no one to watch movies with at night. I eat alone in the evenings. The house is too quiet, too cold and too empty. I sit at the bottom of the stairs in the hallway, like I often did when she was upstairs, rushing around with a phone to her ear whilst talking to friends, and I wait…I just wait to hear my daughter’s voice.” Her glazed-over eyes stared into space. “But it never comes. Hallie is not there anymore. I am left with a cold, empty house in replacement.” She motioned to the photo frame on her lap. “That’s my Hallie. Didn’t she have the most beautiful smile?”

Jacqueline spoke to everyone in the circle before an older gent in denim jeans and a cream cable knit jumper asked if he could tell everyone about the loss of his son, James.

“My son was nineteen years old when he died in a fatal car accident. I was at work when I received the call.” His pale face and red-brimmed eyes tugged on my heartstrings. “Like many others, I do not remember leaving the office or driving to the emergency unit. But I remember the tight pain in my chest when medical staff wheeled James to the hospital’s mortuary. I thought I had a heart attack. My legs gave out, and I collapsed where I stood.”

I knuckled a tear from under my eye.

“Jame’s funeral almost killed me. I had to say goodbye, and I was not ready. I watched the casket throughout the entire service, like a small, unrealistic part of me hoped it was a bad dream. I will wake up soon. James will be downstairs in the kitchen, preparing protein shakes before college. He wanted to be a pharmaceutical scientist,” he added with a sad smile. “It was not a bad dream. My son was dead, and I was going to lay him to rest.”

A younger woman wept into soaked tissues.

“How is this possible?” James’ father looked soul-destroyed. “James had holidays booked with friends and weekend trips organised with his girlfriend. I was taking him to Ireland to visit his grandparents.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I go to the garage every night and sit on the old leather sofa, where I always relaxed whilst he worked out on the treadmill or the spin-bike. James loved the gym equipment. Sometimes, I can hear our conversations in the background.” Then, with shaky hands, he turned the picture frame and showed everyone a picture of James. He had the largest smile, big brown eyes and a thick mop of dark hair. “James’ death changed the trajectory of my life for the worst. He was not just my son. He was my best friend, and I miss him dearly.”

“Losing a loved one, especially a child, is the worst loss any mother, father, relative or friend can experience,” Jacqueline spoke with airy professionalism. “You do not need to suffer alone or in silence. You can come here and share your stories. You can cry and talk about the people you have lost because that is all part of the healing process.” Her eyes came to me. “What about you?” She did not know my name. “Is there anything you’d like to add to the meeting?”

Everyone waited in mute apprehension.

“Hello.” My tongue felt heavy and cumbersome. “I am here today to, hopefully, take strength and support from everyone. I, um, lost my son almost three months ago. His name is Carter Hughes, and he is ten years old.”

People turned in their seats to listen.

“You might have seen the case on the news stations. Carter was abducted outside of his school, and a missing person investigation ensued as a result. He was never found, though. I don’t know who took him, where they went, or if he is dead or alive. All I know is there is an empty bedroom down the hall…” Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. “Carter had a rough childhood. I had to travel a lot, which disturbed his routine, disrupted his life, and made it impossible for him to make friends. He was pulled out of most after-school activities, like swimming, for example, because I had to leave for reasons I wish to keep private.”

I had no reason to trek down memory lane. What happened with the traveller community is in the past. I had found peace and reconnected with Tommy O’Shea.

“London was the last chance saloon for us to settle. We never had much. My brother, Benjamin, got us a three-bedroom flat to live in, and he started working in the cafe downstairs. It was a nice flat, small but comfortable. I liked living there…” My eyes filled up with blinding tears. “It was just the three of us. I had no friends. Ben had no friends. Carter had no friends. We had each other. That’s all that mattered.”

Willing myself to take a deep breath, I inhaled, held it, and then released it in airy intervals.

“But then, things started to look up for us. Ben was promoted to the head chef position and hired new employees.” Employers that later became our friends. “Carter settled in a new school and met a great group of kids. I had no real goals or ambitions, but I was okay with that. I was happy being a good mother and a good sister. It’s the least I could do after everything that happened…” After the stress and inconvenience, I had caused them. “I think we all forgot how it felt to enjoy life until London. It’s like the city was meant for us. A home I never knew I needed for us to be safe.”

I wiped tears from my cheeks.

“I was only a teenager when I had my son. I am ashamed to admit that I struggled to love him postpartum. I did not know how to be a mother or how to take care of this tiny human without doing it wrong.” Every time I tried to hold my little boy, I remembered what Killian did to me. “A mother’s love for her child is instinctual, though. I soon learnt how to overlook his reason for being with me because he wouldn’t have it any other way. He was here to stay, and I better get used to it,” I added with a tear-filled laugh. “I don’t recall the exact moment the emotions I felt changed. But somewhere along the way, I had become completely and utterly in love with him. He was sent to me for a reason. I know that now.”

Jacqueline smiled sympathetically.

“I listen for signs of him at night whilst I lay in bed, looking into the hallway, expecting him to appear. I still purchase national geographic magazines and store them in his bedroom. I put money in his savings jar. If I go to the corner store, I buy two of everything for us. His untouched favourites are in the fridge. I have tried to prepare meals without him. It’s too soon.”

Jame’s father nodded.

“I hate eating alone. His plated meal goes on the table until the food is cold and dumped in the bin. I re-fold his clothes, re-make his bed and re-organise his model cars. His bedroom door is always open. I don’t want him to think I shut him out of my life. I might not be able to see him, but his presence is omnipresent in our home. I will continue to love and provide for him. It’s not as though I can lay him to rest.”

I love you, Carter Hughes. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. No matter what happens, I will never give up hope. I will pray until the day you somehow find your way back to me.

Baby boy, Mummy is tired now. She has to take care of herself, or you might not have a mother to come back to. But this is not Mummy saying goodbye. She loves you too much to forget about someone as special as you. She will dry her eyes and say goodnight instead because somewhere between her dreams and reality, she will wake up and see you standing there, whether in life or death, as a little boy or as a young man. And you better give her the biggest hug. She really misses your hugs.

“My name is Emma Hughes.” Turning the photo frame, I showed the group a picture of my son. “And this is the first day of acceptance.”

***

Cleo is hiding from me. I have searched the entire flat, every nook and cranny, under the beds and inside cupboards, but I cannot locate the fluffy troublemaker. I know she is here somewhere because I left her on the sofa this morning before I headed to the bereavement drop-in centre.

Although inconceivable, the cat might have squeezed through a window to relax outside. I unlocked the kitchen door, stepped onto the balcony and squatted by the mosaic bistro table. I was almost sure I would find Cleo on the chair, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Leaning onto the metal balustrade, I peered down the communicable garden. I bet the wild feline is in that old wooden shed again. “Cleo,” I called, quiet and unobtrusive, just in case I alerted her real owners. “Come on, girl. Where are you? I made chicken.” My last attempt at persuasion got lost in the strong wind. “If you come back, I will give you an extra fillet. I know how much you love your food.”

My cat did not appear.

“Please, I have plans tonight,” I said hopelessly. “I cannot leave the flat until you are back inside.” A woman, smoking a cigarette, relaxed in a rainbow-coloured deckchair on the balcony opposite mine. “Have you seen my cat?”

“You mean, Kirk’s pet,” she said knowingly, and a guilty blush attacked my cheeks as I glanced at the bottom floor flat where Kirk, the old, wrinkled pervert, liked to watch everyone through his bathroom window. “It’s okay. Your secret is safe with me. I haven’t seen the cat since this morning, though. You took her into the kitchen after she ransacked everyone’s bins.”

Cleo had a predilection for dumpster diving.

“Maybe she snuck out of the window.” The woman flicked cigarette ash into an ashtray. “That’s if she can fit with all those rolls hanging off the back of her legs.”

Rolling my eyes, I walked into the kitchen, slamming the door behind me. This is why I keep myself-to-myself around here. My neighbours were either judgmental or voyeuristic. I haven’t encountered one pleasant individual since I moved in.

I went to the bedroom to choose an outfit for tonight. It wasn’t an easy task, though. I had no concept of where Brad planned to take me. Do I wear casual clothes? Jeans? A jumper? What if he does the opposite of what I requested and rocks up at a five-star restaurant?

Flicking through coat hangers of shapeless clothes, I closed the wardrobe doors and slumped onto the bed in deep dejection. I should have bought something versatile, an outfit that can be worn during the day and at night.

Unlocking my phone, I clicked on contacts and sent a text message.

Me: I don’t know what to wear.

Message delivered.

Brad never replied, which intensified innermost thoughts and dread. I needed some idea of our plans in order to choose appropriate attire. Not that cognisance will improve the wardrobe malfunction.

My phone vibrated.

Big Guy: Open your wardrobe and look.

Me: I did that already.

Big Guy: And you found nothing?

Me: Exactly.

Brad read the message but did not reply.

Me: It might help if you tell me the location.

Big Guy: Nice try.

Me: What? Is it supposed to be a surprise?

Big Guy: No.

Me: Then, why can’t you tell me?

Message read.

I waited fifteen minutes for a reply that never came.

Leaving a heap of mismatched clothes on the bed, I grabbed a towel from the airing cupboard and hauled myself to the bathroom.

Self-love and self-care have taken a backseat in the last few months. I tweezed stray hairs from my eyebrows to the best of myinaestheticcapabilities, then plugged the bath and turned on both taps.

I had no intention of having sex tonight, but once I had stripped down to my birthday suit, I somehow found a reason to lather my legs in shaving cream, balanced one foot on the bath’s ledge and shaved until every inch of skin was silky smooth. I mean, I had to make a bit of an effort, right? It will cheer me up if nothing else.

Repeating the process on the other leg, I eliminated hair, using the sink’s cold tap to wash suds down the drain, and stacked everything back in the wall-mounted cupboard for next time. That’s if there is a “next time.” Brad might not enjoy himself tonight and never contact me again.

Easing into a bath of bubbles, I lay back, turned the taps off with my big toe and luxuriated in the warm ambience of relaxation. There is something oddly satisfying about a bath when overwrought or stressed.

Thirty minutes later, I am walking soapy footsteps down the hallway, on the hunt for appropriate unmentionables. I did lack in the underwear department because I had gotten too comfortable over the years and seldom purchased lace or satin, but that’s not to say that I never ventured into lingerie stores whilst shopping with Quinn. I had a couple of flirtatious bras and thongs.

Towel wrapped tightly around my body, I pulled out the cabinet’s top drawer with an image of myself in white lace and fossicked through underwear. Then, when delving deep into the drawer, I felt something wet on my fingers. I lifted my hand to investigate. For the life of me, I could not decipher the crimson colour on my fingertips. It was sticky and stomach-churning.

My eyebrows fused.

Yanking the drawer out altogether to explore further, I emptied the contents in a heart-pounding race to differentiate between what was real and what was in my head, and that is when the unimaginable splattered onto the floor.

My heart sank to my stomach.

Cleo, the beautiful, grey-haired tabby cat, carelessly disembowelled and unmercifully dismembered, laid in the remnants of her blood and bones at my feet.

I screamed, loud and guttural. I managed one step back, tripped over myself and crumbled into a spasmodic heap on the floor. It is not real. My cat is missing. She was not slaughtered, disjointed, stuffed in a drawer and hidden beneath the underwear. I did not drop her on the ground with the uncaringness of a neglectful owner. No, I refuse to believe it.

In terrified hastiness, I scuttled backwards, back crashing into the wall, and drew my knees to my chest. A twisted mass of intestines intermixed with flayed skin, matted fur and cotton textiles scattered the floor. I had to do something, help her, hold her, but the fragments of her body made effacement impossible.

My body shook violently.

How can someone be so cruel?

What kind of sick monster breaks into someone’s home to slaughter their cat?

It hit me like a freight train.

An intruder came into my flat and, in an inhumane act of violence, killed the only source of consistent love and comfort I had. What is even more alarming is that I did not know whether the unknown person had visited prior to Cleo’s death. If so, when? How often? Did he wait until I left for work? Did he come inside when I was on the other side of London, jogging in the park? What about when I went to bed? Did he stand in the doorway, watching me sleep?

I burst into tears.

Huge, raw sobs ripped out of my throat as I crawled on my hands and knees toward her. Tears pouring down my cheeks, I swept underwear aside with trembling fingers and collected the pieces of her unsuccessfully. It was no use. I dry-heaved, turned to the side and vomited until emptiness replaced the sick sensation in my stomach.

I managed to climb onto my feet without the failure of limbs and snatched the phone.

Me: I need you.

Forty-eight minutes later, I unlocked the front door and collapsed in Brad’s arms. I had never been so relieved to see him, to be with someone that would right the wrongs in my life.

Brad entered the bedroom with two suited men I did not recognise to assess the situation whilst I stayed in the living room. I had no business in the bedroom. I will never be able to look at the chest of drawers again. It can go on the skip, for all I care, alongside the blood-stained rug and tarnished items of underwear.

Brad reappeared by the doorway, hands in his trouser pockets, an expressionless mask securely in place. Then, for us to be alone, he closed the door, blocking the activity in the hallway. In six purposeful strides, he towered above me in all his dominance.

I felt too small and too weak in his proximity. My neck craned as I peered up at him, but the strain in my throat did not last very long. He crouched down to put us at eye level. “Hey,” he rasped, and I gave him a sad smile. “You good?” He had the most beautiful eyes. I could look into those warm depths forever. “I checked the door. The lock hasn’t been tampered. Does anyone have a spare key?”

I had been forgetful lately, leaving my purse at work or forgetting to grab my phone before venturing outdoors, so I slipped a spare key under the mat to avoid locking myself out.

“Why would you leave a key somewhere for any random person to rock up and welcome themselves inside?” He looked disappointed in me. “Have you learnt nothing in the last three months?”

I am too numb to acknowledge the man’s furiousness.

“I have called a locksmith.” His concerned stare roved over my face. “I want the locks on every window and every door changed throughout. It is non-negotiable. Your safety is the utmost priority.”

I nodded.

“Do you know who might have done this to you?” His large hands, fingers laden in gold and diamond, rested on my knees. “Emma, I need you to look at me.”

My stare raised.

“How can I help you if you don’t talk to me?” His lips met in a tight line. “Have you noticed anything strange over the last few weeks? Perhaps with the neighbours or when travelling into central London to jog? What about at work? Are there customers or co-workers who have paid you an uncomfortable amount of interest?”

“No,” I said, thinking of possibilities and coming unstuck. “I have barely spoken to anybody in months.”

He was sceptical. “Are you sure?”

“Well, I mean, there is Sade, the woman I work with,” I told him, and he started typing notes on his phone. “Hugo swings by sometimes…” His thumbs paused above the screen. “At work. He comes to my work to see if I need a ride home. That is all. I haven’t invited him inside.”

“Right,” he said tightly, slipping the phone into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “Are there any otherfriendsI should know about?”

My head shook.

“The men will collect everything as evidence and drive to the underground to run some tests. They might be able to find out who killed the cat.” It is spine-chilling how casual he spoke as if the savagery of a butchered animal is a matter of indifference. “I am more worried about you, though. You cannot stay here by yourself.”

No, I had to be here for when Carter came home. “I am not leaving.”

“Someone killed Cleo to send a message.” His piercing eyes bore into me. “Normal people do not break into homes and hack up pets for entertainment purposes. Whoever did this is trying to get inside your head. He wants to scare and torment you until he gets what he wants.”

My scowl hardened. “You don’t know the person’s motives.”

“Yes, I do. I know exactly what this person is capable of because we are cut from the same cloth. It is my job to carry out death sentences. Tormenting people before tossing them in unmarked graves is the mindset of a serial killer. The mind fuck is one big game to them. And Emma, that is what I am. A killer,” he punctuated each word, and I uncurled my spine slowly. “And killers always, without fail, play with their victims before they pounce. This guy, whoever the fuck he is, wants your head on the chopping block. I will be fucking damned if I sit back and allow that to happen.”

“I have to stay,” I whispered, the knot in my throat swelling. “My son’s bedroom is down the hall. It is the only part of him that I have left.”

He sighed in defeat.

“But I will agree to security when you are not around,” I promised, and relief etched across his handsome features. “I trust you, Big Guy.”

“You are crazy to trust a man like me,” he joked as his coarse hands slid around my neck. “I will reschedule our plans for this evening.”

“No, that’s not fair.” My head inched back to look at him. “I asked you out on a date. It is not your fault someone hurt Cleo.”

“I said I would reschedule. I am not going anywhere, though.” His fingers massaged the nape of my neck. “How about this? I will drive home to pack an overnight bag and stay here for the night. We can order takeout and watch old movies. If you are lucky, I might give you a kiss goodnight. How does that sound?”

I felt an array of flutters in my chest. “Sure.

He kissed my forehead. “Do you have a laptop?”

There might be an old one lying around here somewhere.

“I will bring mine.” Interlacing our fingers, he helped me to stand, and when the towel on my body loosened slightly, he secured the knot. “We are going to do some online shopping. And don’t give me any shit. I am allowed to treat my girl to a new wardrobe.”

“No, Big Guy. I am not comfortable with you spending money on me.” I drew in a lungful of air. “I get paid in a few weeks, anyway. I can buy myself a few outfits.”

“Emma, I am upgrading your wardrobe.” He is on the phone again, replying to someone’s text message. “You won’t have an excuse for the rest of our dates if I plough fashion into your life.”

“One outfit,” I said, and he agreed for the benefit of silence. “You are not going to make this easy on me, are you?” He smiled, and we both laughed. “Fine. I will let you spoil me, but this is a one-off. I am not someone you need to pamper. I like to stand on my own two feet.” My eyes briefly flickered to the door. “I need to change…”

He understood. “I had everything removed.”

I breathed out a relieved sigh.

“Go ahead and get dressed.” He collapsed on the sofa and kicked his feet onto the low coffee table. “You can come with me.”

“What?” Assured I had heard incorrectly, I paused mid-step. “Where are we going?”

He slipped a toothpick between his lips. “To get supplies for our sleepover.”

I gave him a distrustful look. “What kind of supplies?”

“Hurry up and get dressed, and you will find out.” He watched me as I watched him. “You know, I am starting to think you want to stay in a towel to seduce me.”

Against my better judgement, I smiled like a lovesick idiot. I would never say this out loud, but I was really looking forward to camping out with Big Guy.